Fiona McKay

Sissy rolls her rock up the garden path, again, again, again. Always dawn. Crepuscular light creeping through ivy falling like fringes over the eyes of the house. The ivy keeps gawpers out. Keeps us in. Sometimes, I catch my reflection in the dank glass, no more than an outline, a wave of particles taking shape. […]

I walked the foggy woods early, the moisture making pearls on every spider web that stretches across the shrubby undergrowth and anchors foliage to the ground. You didn’t know I’d left the cottage. I didn’t ask if I could go.   It was the perfect time for mushroom picking in the damp and coldly-humid air

  Everything is fading, fast. The sunlight is weak and doesn’t quite reach the back of the room; instead, it gathers near the window and around the dining table – a square of rich, deep russet wood, so frequently polished over the years that it’s almost possible to see shallow dips like well-scrubbed steps where