Writing

Articles

Writing on transition, direction, and the space between leaving and arriving.

There Is No Trail

The fire has burned down to a thin orange line. Behind us, two tents pitched between birch trees. The Swedish sky holds its last light at eleven p.m., a blue that refuses to go dark...

The Long Way Around

Alex's kitchen. Nine months out. The coffee machine clicks off at six-forty, same as every morning. He stands at the counter in a t-shirt and boxers, watching the dark liquid fill the cup...

The rocks are warm under our hands. Late September on the Atlantic coast, and the tide has pulled back far enough to expose the lower shelf — dark stone slick with algae, and between the cracks, pools of saltwater so still they hold the sky like glass...

The Hand Still Goes

The fire burned down to embers. It's the fourth evening of the week, and something has shifted. We talk less. We listen differently...

The Olive Jacket

It's Saturday, just after eight, and the first thing you notice is the light. That cool, clear autumn light seeping through the narrow curtains, turning the wall...

The Second Chair

It's Tuesday. A completely ordinary morning in Berlin, Prenzlauer Berg. Outside, traffic traces its lines across the intersection. You're sitting at the table, scrolling through messages. A small pressure appears, barely noticeable...

The Cessna

The airfield sits at the edge of the lake. Wanaka, South Island, early morning. March light — low, gold, the kind that makes the mountains look like they're breathing...

Before the World Starts

The walk starts before you're ready. No podcast. No phone call. Just feet on ground, cold air, and what becomes audible when the noise drops. Two questions. And what they change.

The Quiet No

The apartment smells like someone else's coffee. Alex bought the same brand the previous tenant left behind — a Portuguese dark roast in a yellow bag — because starting with an unfamiliar kitchen was enough friction for one week...

The Open Door

Five forty-five. The beach at My Khe stretches south in a long pale curve. Fishing boats sit tilted on the sand, nets draped over their hulls like wet hair...