Writing does not exist unless there is someone to read it, and each reader will take something different from a novel, from a chapter, from a line.

Flora would have liked to ask her parents why the words ‘to father’ have such a different meaning from the words ‘to mother’.

In the middle, the river was a deep green, scattered with rocks poking their noses up for a breath. The water charged around them, creating eddies and whirlpools. Closer to the bank, the current dragged lengths of weed along with it so it seemed that long-haired women swam just under the surface, never coming up for air.