I confess it again and again.
The collective standing of forty civil servants in unison either signals lunch or end of day.
She had just started washing the cutlery when the phone rang.
The carols, decorations, and glitter drove Marko to anger.
Pete held the bundle of white cloth and in it, the rifle.
His ears buzzed—sound was returning to him.
After ten months of writing it was done. My first novella. I read through it twice, and thought it was pretty good.