Timothy Collyer

The courier handed me Marlene with a receipt to sign, like delivering takeaway. I slid her into a cobalt-blue jar with a silver lid. We’d had eight years, three flats, two broken hearts—mine early, hers eventually. She left twice before it stuck.   The funeral home said scatter her somewhere meaningful. But Marlene never stayed. […]

The morning I stopped ageing, the sea began to speak—to me alone. I listened.   Margaret found me ankle-deep in tide pools off Kilmore Quay, sketching coastlines that shouldn’t exist. I’d mapped this stretch for decades—every dune shift, every storm bite.   Today, the sea whispered coordinates I’d never drawn—ghostly inlets, forgotten harbours.   “You’re