Illiterarty.com Book reviews and blogs by Bridget

Mad Meg’s what they call her, and I can see why.

The park was windy and desolate, as the dark grass struggled through deciduous muck and the trees rattled skeletally, their colourful autumn ballgowns discarded for a naked death.

He turns his face up toward the sun, and lets the warmth cascade down him like water, getting deep into the wrinkles that cut up his skin.

She’s calling me. I can hear her, like a bell. I know that people talk of bells tolling and voices being clear as a bell, and it’s something of a cliché, but I can hear her voice like a bell because that’s how it sounds when she laughs.