Pete held the bundle of white cloth and in it, the rifle.
Fiction
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.
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.
