One day during breakfast, the usual silence broke.
The recipe for a perfect crème brûlée starts like this: Step 1: Pick a ripe and fair-skinned mademoiselle […]
Like the trees we gained more rings, and found ourselves at the park.
Lynn looks desperately for things to love; she looks desperately to see truth in all the arguments Anne has ever given her. Again, she fails to completely love herself.
We meet for dinner every Monday night and lately I’ve come to hate it.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear- I’m sorry. What’s your name again?”
Cameron Bethan, in all of her seven years of journalism and her twenty-nine years of life, had never had a worse case of the dreaded blank page.