You know the kind of crying where you’re crying over one thing and then you think about a slightly less upsetting thing and it makes you cry even more?
I wake up the same way I fell asleep: knife in hand, boots for a pillow, and Nameless.
It was night when Pog heard weeping in the forest.
Clara’s secret weighed heavy in the pocket of her pinafore apron, as her boots crunched down the gravel path to Gardener’s Cottage.
You’ve got to say this for desperation: It makes you much more open-minded.
Winter in East Evansburg, and just after dusk, five people in a beat-up old Subaru peeled out of town in a snowstorm.
Pandora (“Pandy” for short) was a purebred Siamese and could only be described – although this phrase wasn’t in common use twenty years ago – a hot mess.
Hope had abandoned them to the wrath of all the waters.
Elizabeth Somers hopped from the bus’s stairs into ankle-high snow and was halfway to the door of the tiny, brick station when a shock of certainty made her stop: Someone is looking for me.
Nell is a dingy yoga mat; the sweaty barrier between total chillstatus and my shit reality (aka, my annoying stepmom and ruiner of all moments)(trust me on this).