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.
I see how they look at each other when they think I am not watching.
In the summer of 1990, the curators of a new exhibit at the Royal National Theatre in London discovered something odd and unexpected.
Blades of grass whipped around the solemn ceremony with ease, the blustery winds not towing the line for anyone.
Vernon Seymour watched Tillsonburg, Ontario shrink in his rear-view mirror.