I was arrested in Eno’s diner. At twelve o’clock. I was eating eggs and drinking coffee.
Charlie’s ugly Crocs stuck to the mats on the floor behind the bar, making a sticky, squelching sound.
Jun Chu stood on the deck of a three-masted junk given the auspicious name Silken Dragon.
Cristabel picks up the stick. It fits well in her hand. She is in the garden, waiting with the rest of the household for her father to return with her new mother.
In darkness, the trireme struck the beach at the speed of a running man, knifing through shingle in a hissing roar. A second followed, almost the shadow of the first. One after the other, they came to a halt and leaned.
Lisa arrived in Southbend in mid-November on a day of gathering storms, when the air dripped with humidity and the huge grey-white cumulus clouds were piled like soapsuds above the line of timber fronting the banks of the Rainsford River.
My writing career unofficially began at McLean Hospital, the psychiatric affiliate of Harvard Medical School in Belmont, Massachusetts.
The pool is located deep underground, in a large cavernous chamber many feet beneath the streets of our town.
The day she turned eleven was the day Zadie Ma discovered her superpower.
They chose Valentine’s Day 2005 as the date to release the engagement news and Camilla’s new title of HRH The Duchess of Cornwall bestowed by the Queen.
Cindy Thomas was working at the dining table she’d bought at a tag sale down the block.
I didn’t keep a journal during the most traumatic parts of my life because, let’s face it, I didn’t want to remember that shit.
Samantha watched the girls as they filed into the event hall, tilting their heads back to stare at the ornate vaulted ceiling with its oversized chandeliers dripping silver and blue crystals.
The woman was crying. Tears ran like rivers down her face, dripping off her chin and soaking her tunic. She had to stay silent. No one could learn of her sorrow. Because no one would understand.
Malcolm ran. One hand curled against his chest, the wrist swollen and aching, the fingers numb and almost black in the sickly yellow streetlight.
When books are your life – or in my case, your job – you get pretty good at guessing where a story is going.
It happened, like so many other things didn’t, during the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic.
We find ourselves at a time in history when, in Western democracies, what was seen as the natural order is being challenged in a way it never has been before.