At night she would try to dig her way out, and I would pull my stitches tighter, snipping off the tips of her fingers.
Fiction
I once mistook loving a story for loving a person.
They were no longer comrades, but post-conflict combatants. The war is over, he said, a phrase he would keep repeating throughout the day without emotion. It’s over.
Today I heard five Shakespearean insults walking along the corridor, and if I hear one more, it will be a good day, an even day.
Random was what life did best, Bea thought. It conferred cancer on the virtuous, drunk drivers on the unsuspecting, it matched noble wives to unfinished men, wickedness to wealth, weakness to power.
Beck didn’t believe in an afterlife, but he was starting to think that this was what people meant by ghosts. There was something there, he craned his mind toward it: something about ghosts.
You know, Lady, I ain’t trying to start nothing, but a bunch of people’s saying you’re the best thing breathing.
Starting at 1:47 a.m., BC emergency dispatch started receiving 911 calls about an older, ruby-red Ford Taurus with no licence plate being driven erratically on Highway 16, headed east toward Prince George.
Pagination
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