Robinson's Wake

Originally published in The Wells Street Journal, Issue 12, Winter 2019. A response to Patrick Keiller’s 1994 film London, in which Robinson and his companion drift around the city in search of the mysterious ‘problem of London’. Here, Calderón and his companion take up the mantle 25 years on, not aiming to find the solution, … Continue reading Robinson's Wake

Mr Wood Goes Visiting

Originally published in The Wells Street Journal, Issue 11, Spring 2019. Gloucester Terrace. Or Westbourne Terrace. Or Craven Terrace. Well, one or any of those streets leading north from Hyde Park, they’re all the same at any rate. All five stories of regency stucco flanking either side, which appeared to Mr Wood at the time … Continue reading Mr Wood Goes Visiting

Lulworth, Part Three: Child

I wonder what possessed me to come here today. I have so many other, more important things to be doing today besides standing halfway up a hill on an irritatingly windswept Sunday afternoon. The stunning vistas? Well, maybe. The breathtaking sea air? Not so likely. The geographical value? Almost certainly not. No, it’s probably the … Continue reading Lulworth, Part Three: Child

Lulworth, Part Two: Woman

She has seen him do this before, but she can’t shake the feeling that this is the last time. Finally, and with an excruciating sweetness, he stumbles down the steps and finds the door. He faces the other way, so she can’t make out his face, but she is pleased to imagine a smile, not … Continue reading Lulworth, Part Two: Woman

Lulworth, Part One: Man

All he does is watch the endless timid advances and hasty retreats of the English Channel washing over the rocks of the bay which stand stalwart against the slow invasion of a liquid oppressor. He is keen to find solace in the waves’ repeated motion; he looks to the rocks for something which remains solid … Continue reading Lulworth, Part One: Man

On the 22:43

As I stand at the platform edge, reflecting on the night’s events, I am struck by a wave of despair, or perhaps it is simply a wave of grit-filled wind battering against my face, which still wears a paralysed veil of shock. Perhaps both. How could I have done this? I think to myself in … Continue reading On the 22:43