I’m an author--one that's as likely to write poetry as pornography. And people said I'd never get to use my Bachelor's in English. For me, writing is therapeutic: a complicated form of self-talk. That, more than any other reason, is why I do it full-time. Also, I love you.
Pears. Hard little green ones. The high whine of golf carts, which you could hear for yards and yards off before they came crashing through the high weeds and rolling crunchily over the dead leaves. That's how I remember it. The Great Pear Fight of 2003.
He was whistling Dixie from here to home when he got flattened by Sadie’s truck and her trunkful of apples went skittering all over the place, sending children out into the street to take some of them for themselves.
There is nothing so beautiful as a man vacuuming like there's nothing he'd rather be doing.
When Suzanne's was built, the bathroom was just about the last room to be finished. Orange-tiled floor, mirror over the sink, and a sturdy toilet that almost never needed plunging.
The Tsars of Za: Russian Pizza Done Right (TM) had competed with Zippy's House of Za, the place one block over, since Vasily had opened Tsars in 2003. Vasily calls in take-out orders from Zippy’s three times a week and never, ever picks them up.