My favourite things have always been stuck in a state of in-between.
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.
A gravity well pulsed behind Hugh as he led the small convoy of builders across the divide.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession.”