by Robert Nordstrom
He never has either but he doesn’t tell her that. He pulls his own bathing suit down and guides her hand. She just holds it. They look at each other, then quickly away, to their mothers at the top of the bluff.
by Roger Pincus
She’d make it to the grassy island in the middle of the road just before the vehicle sped by. She had been playing this game more often lately, including at night. She challenged her timing more each time, cutting things closer and closer.
by Sharon Erby
Then she dreamed she was in the yard again, and the wind swept across it and blew down a rain that grew the grass as quick and high as buckwheat, and bowed it low.
by M.E. McMullen
RC kicked back with an Iron City Beer, listened to all this hog talk from beneath his mop of ratty hair. His eyes never settled and were always peering in from just outside the local time.
by Julie Britt
“He ain’t no doll. I keep on telling you GI Joe ain't no doll. I don’t play with dolls. That'd make me some kind of sissy, like you, always talking about kissing and reading and stuff.”
by Sheila Thorne
I look around at the solid glass wall, cathedral ceiling, Oriental rugs, squishy soft sofas, and wonder whether Enedina, who lives in this house eight hours a day, is under the impression that me and George live in similar surroundings. If she were to know what kind of place we really live in, would she ever consent to letting us have her baby?
by Tom Birner
He could hear her breath faintly and feel it on his cheek as she slept: the flesh-and-coffee smell, the sweet, approachable susurrus not unlike the violent tranquility, so visceral yet so narcotic, of the morning's rain; he was drowning in flowers.
by Boris Tsessarsky
It didn't even matter; he was going to fly. He got in his car, turned on the radio to the classical music station and sped home to a bouncy symphony.
by Rachel Howard
Julie had a thing for cemeteries. Her father died when she was a girl, in a sudden and god-awful way, which had always explained a lot about her.
by Eric Maroney
Ben-Zion watch the village, waiting for a wave of the hand, a twitch of his lips, the murmur of an order, some kind of prognostication of coming danger or relative security.