You broke the law today. And you’ll probably get away with it.
Purely from a geologist’s viewpoint, it isn’t much.
Seven days is but a fraction of your year.
You’re feeling rattlesnake-mean and madder than a wild bull.
The invitations started arriving about a month ago.
Once you’ve left home, can you ever go back?
You’re running out of room for your collection, and you need more places to put things.
Stepping back, squinting, you can imagine the tombstones as jagged teeth in the maw of green that is the cemetery.
Much to your spouse’s chagrin, you can’t remember your anniversary
The Bookworm By Terri Schlichenmeyer Either you had it, or you didn’t. If you had it, you moved across the floor as if your feet were greased, graceful, in unison with the thump-thump-thump reverberating in your stomach. If you didn’t have it, your legs tangled like cheap rubber bands, which sorta made you sick to…