The carols, decorations, and glitter drove Marko to anger.
Pete held the bundle of white cloth and in it, the rifle.
My eldest daughter lives in St. Mary’s Hospital psychiatric ward.
His ears buzzed—sound was returning to him.
As I write this passage in late September, there has been an unprecedented heatwave in Montreal for the last ten days.
After ten months of writing it was done. My first novella. I read through it twice, and thought it was pretty good.
When I was in seventh grade, I was introduced to The Beatles on a rainy day.