Christopher Bean

Vigil For A Mother (for Michael McDowell)

The last time I was a mother, I was waving Darnley off in his dinghy. Polished mahogany flashed under an…

5 years ago

You’ll Find Me In The Tall Wheat

The raft is not the vessel I'd hoped for. For a time I had company in the form of terns,…

5 years ago

The Rise of Woman

Nobody could recall an actual date when the island appeared off the coast of Lyme Regis, why it should have,…

5 years ago

MIBs

Harriet rolled her eyes at her brother’s petulant bleating. She supposed this was about her beating him at real tennis…

5 years ago

Suffer the Children

Pigger pulled on his clothes like a zombie. These days he didn’t care what he wore; not since Ne—, not…

5 years ago

Return of the Women

Olenus waited as patient as time. Up and down the November beach was barren save for the stacks of mossy…

5 years ago

The Release of Wonderful Things

Yes, I remember Luxor… Not the Luxor of limestone cliffs baked almost to glass, where summer nights are filled with…

5 years ago

Dead on Seven

Dead on seven o’clock, the curtains to the theatre rise. The orchestra’s bows await their cue in pregnant stillness. Marek…

5 years ago

Beachcomber

Old Tom, hunched over in a seafront shelter of baby blue wood and stippled white concrete, stared over the salty…

5 years ago

Breaking the Seal

As Provost, I found myself in that agreeable position rare of antiquarian scholars in that my summer was unplanned. I…

5 years ago