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Tag Archives: Hannah Stone
There’s always stew on the menu, cobbled together from donated veg, and – today – plenty of bread. Bank holidays fuck with your benefits, so the visitor’s hungry, will consume whatever’s put in front of him. Voracious for a listener … Continue reading
He insisted on owning the best of everything. Pure woollen carpets. First growth claret. Hardback copies of books. All twenty-nine volumes of The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians still squat on a shelf in his office. He would … Continue reading
For months after Keats died the friend who’d nursed him visited the Cimetero Acattolico. Grass grew through the bones of his grief. Once, he disturbed a shepherd sleeping with his head on the gravestone. There are police sirens not pan … Continue reading
It’s one of those languages where you have only a passive understanding, when you can translate out of but not into a foreign tongue. They offer rationales for why, this time, you should let go of the float clamped in … Continue reading
Each evening the sunset tours depart, fishing skiffs scuffing the flaming sea. The hills across the estuary melt into the sky. We see them from the picture window five floors above the doorway where skunk passes from hand to hand. … Continue reading