This is where hope goes to die.
A thick fog covered Dull-on-Sea, lazily rolling off the moonless ocean.
James Fulton is sweating like a sinner in church.
When I First met you, that stupid-hot day last September when you jumped into my car and slid down in the passenger seat and told me to drive, you were bleached blond.
For as long as she could remember, Emmeline Widget had been sure her parents were trying to kill her.
The first time Ginny Woodland spoke to me, I vomited all over her Reeboks.
I’m holding my breath, hovering between wavering sunlight and deep, dark blue, arms twirling while my feet kick up and down, slow as tides.
Spring renewal comes with many things – the annual Sheffield Family Lawn Game Tournament, my part-time job at the Talbot plant nursery, an inexplicable increase in dick drawings on the outside of my locker.
I have been unhappy for many years now.
Dusty, empty shoe boxes, stacked taller and wider than her slim body, wobbled as she pressed her back against them, tucking her bony knees into her chest.