Image: Pixabay.com

Fumblesomemore and Hogsports

The moon’s silver shafts shone down on the bed.

Harry Hogg, who wished he had been born Harry Potter, was dreaming, tossing, and turning until he woke with a start. Light from the streetlamp outside shone through the small bedroom window. Harry was sweating. Nightmares, it seemed, always came in summer, not just those about his parents dying, but of Steve, his friend, and his death at the end of a lance while…

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I was born in London, adopted, lived my youth on an island off the coast of Scotland. Now living between Colorado, Missouri, California. I write to be loved

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