Rhona started leaving nearly every night after Aonghas was asleep, like she had the night The Silence had begun. There...
The mission of The Milk House is to introduce readers to those who write on rural subjects, and part of...
It was a wild summer. As soon as school closed, Wee Stevie went into hospital for surgery, and then his...
They lean. They sink down crumbling round-shouldered. The very air is eating them. Blithe colonies of lichen nibble the fretted...
Lisbon Wake to the bustle smell cinnamon – sound of an accordion played by a woman with sewn eyes; Square...
Dandelion Sun A child’s sun finds a dream in young eyes. In blinks of dandelion eclipses, refracted light reflects on...
Ode to Hannibal I was scrolling – wallowing – through the Netflix abyss, Avoiding Mister Darcys, Tall Dark and Handsomes....
Portrait of a deer To slide, my ruined mouth. An unlocked door. Burlesque: how stars react. At such a thought....
The Wood He wanted to see the wood one last time. So, they took him back to trees dripping and...
They say you never forget your first time. Mine was so painfully embarrassing that it’s difficult to write about. In...
Roger Conroy rolled up in his Volvo. Laura was on the swing beneath the dead tree reading a paperback Amish...
Graveyards are memory places. Rural graveyards, in particular, with their shades of grey and green. There is a mossy feel...