The first years of my life were exhausting.
Roger was seven when he died.
I never cared for hockey.
As I step out of the rusted station wagon, the unforgettable scents of Vancouver Island strike me — lilac, gravel, and salt.
Bonnie’s parents had said they would be back in five minutes.
At night, Misha dreamt of being a witch.
I push the ocular lenses into my tear ducts until I hear a faint click.
In a bar where a flickering cocktail sign lends respite to weary travellers, a man sits and he watches his world burn.
I was quickly regressing from professional to petulant teenager.
Josh wants nothing to do with my idea of digging up half the back lawn.