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.
The summer I turned ten was filled with church bells and local choirs singing the town’s sorrows.
Tom has been waking up the last few days with a sense of dread.