Author: Daniel D. Watkins

On a Wednesday afternoon in June 1967, my mother fell asleep on a sun lounger parked under the bone dry of a Californian cobalt heaven that domed over our back yard, vaulted over our rented house on Pasea Laredo, soared creaselessly over the neighbourhood of La Jolla, bowed over the vast Pacific, arched to Earth…

Nigel twitched the nets behind the green chintz curtains. He peered down into the road. The suburban sporadic swoosh of cars was barely audible through the double glazing. “What is it? Come to bed Nigel. Turn the main light off, as you’re up.” “That van’s parked there again.” He lingered to peer a little more,…

I saw Moldir Shirinova again in the Kempinksi Palace Hotel, Abu Dhabi. She was sitting in the lobby fiddling with her phone oblivious as I walked across. Only when I stood over her did she glance up into the golden world and clock me.  “Oh. Mr. Nicholas. I’m sorry.” She rose and I stepped back…