The ancient Cessna has rusty holes where rivets should be and vibrates worryingly as we ascend over cornfields.
The ancient Cessna has rusty holes where rivets should be and vibrates worryingly as we ascend over cornfields.
I celebrated that your spell was broken, then you sent me a photo of you in Budapest.
The aroma of maple burning came sweet to me with unexpected warmth one subzero December night.
I don’t want to get up. If I get up, I have to get ready.
In the school's parking lot, I'm a bull in a china shop.
After years of failed attempts to conceive, Ling adopted the baby her relative didn’t want.
The Ridge Street bus to Nichols Junior High halted abruptly, sending those of us perched on seats sideways to the floor.
They flocked to the clinic after Saving Private Ryan, grizzled veterans awash in fifty-year-old memories.
We were heading north on I-95 in my little green Fiesta, Dad’s head grazing the passenger-seat ceiling.
“On your mark . . . set . . . BANG!”
I started rehab the same week my husband had to be out of town for his new job.
I can't tell the difference between poplar and beech but I do know they both burn and that's all that I need for them to do.
Every time Chad walks past the conference room he yells to me, “Amber is out to lunch!”
I'm an ant, or smaller, like a dot.
The clock ticks as my IV drips, interrupted by the whirs of an inflating blood pressure cuff.
After work, my toddler and I perform our daily ritual.
I had only been looking for an empty box.
Ahead, a wide road of surging behemoths. KFC stands tall opposite.
Yeller doesn’t come out often but when he does, I can hear him coming.
I wait with bated breath when the head crowns; there’s no going back now.