...It makes the heart a farmstead, re-homes its well-worn furniture in the pain of emptied rooms, hiding cracks with anaglypta, threadbare Christmas tinsel and sentimental cards; it clings to everything that it remembers, setting down its carriage clock upon the mantelpiece, with all its pictures hooked askew and wartime music on the pianola, proud that it refused the golden handshake.

Under the Fogbell

Here is a wreckage on a dark ocean bed, where pearls hide in soft oyster flesh and salt-rusted anchors lay buried in sand, tethered to ghost ships and air.

Arbiter Deputy