Release date: 4 April 2022
Six stories written during April of 2020, April Showers draws together the fantastic made ordinary, and the fantastic in the ordinary. These rainy-day stories celebrate moments of peace amid chaos, the value of family, and the extraordinary adaptability of the human spirit. Collection contains:
Crystalline And Bright
Love In The Time Of Corona
Moon And Morning, Offer Scorning
As Time Whirls Slowly Past
Across A Corpse-Like City
More Than Mushrooms
CRYSTALLINE AND BRIGHT
I stood, staring down into the teal-blue river water, ignoring the chatter behind my back. Snow covered the ground around me, hiding bumps and ridges, soothing out sharp edges. To my right, the dark stone shadow of the bridge stood like a guardian, watchful, alert. Snow rimmed its edges; every so often some shifted in a sudden breeze and landed in the quiet river below with a gentle splash.
The willows on the far bank slept quietly under their snow blanket, their green sappy smell hidden by the cold, sharp scent of the snow.
Stop.
Start again.
It wasn’t actually winter. It was early spring, with the grass green and new, the sound of a lawnmower buzzing in the distance and the scent of cut grass drifting on the wind. Moss covered the shadowed side of the old stone bridge, and willows stretched their fingers to the slow-moving, drowsy little river that bordered the grounds of the school.
A butterfly flittered past, white wings speckled with black like soot.
The world felt fresh, and green, and full of promise.
I was still ignoring the chattering behind me.
Stop.
Start again.
It’s summer, and the air is swelteringly hot. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, pools under my arms, under my awkward breasts. The river in front of me is milky-blue, gentle, quiet, and I long to strip off my shirt and jeans and throw myself into the water.
It’s not just the breathtakingly sharp cold of the icemelt I’m craving; it’s the feeling of being clean.
The air stinks of a fish that Lander left out on the bank near the bridge, rotting to pieces in the high temperatures.
I’m still ignoring the chatter.
Stop.
Let’s try once more.
It’s autumn—of course—and the willows have turned yellow, their little leaves dropping into the milk-water, eddying slowly away from the shadow of the bridge.
Behind me, the emerald lawn of the old school buildings is ringed with gem-toned maples, butter-leafed poplars, silver-and-gold birches. Occasionally, the wind catches stray leaves and flings them into the pond.
I can still hear the voices behind me.