My first incarnation as a writer began in 1991, when I started work on a novel, but publishing success didn’t begin until 2018, when I finally figured out how to write a short story. These pieces were drafted in those early days and have recently been either revised or completely rewritten.
So I wrote six more songs about her and had one published as a poem in The Atlantic. Half a million copies, they told me.
The matter, he wrote in reply, would be turned over to the police unless I immediately refrained from watching or contacting his students or staff.
Hiking in Switzerland, she tripped, she fell, she landed in this grave, I say to myself, summing up the last chapter in Irene’s short life as her casket is lowered into the ground.
I work for the federal government. Federal. Government. I don’t know what that means.
On that sunny, summer afternoon when I should have died, I was eleven, almost twelve, and about to start seventh grade at junior high.
I always wanted to write the great Judean novel – a story so compelling it takes on living form and has the power to save lives. I never imagined my own life would be the first one saved.
Like a bottle rocket, my professor flared with brilliance as she hammered home a new philosophy: life was a quest for beauty.
Not even a faint orange glow emanated from the broiler.
Most people on scene find the song irritating under the best of circumstances. Those who like it are ashamed to catch themselves foot-tapping to the rhythm, in such close proximity to a cadaver.
Throwing someone into subzero waters was a foolish way to win a fight, since both parties usually landed in the freezing drink, but Tom was known for bad choices.