“Doran?” Michaela says. “I don’t like you.”
When I opened the window this morning, three parrots were perched in a tree hanging over a deserted beach of pure white sand that stretched towards a dazzling horizon.
The call comes in the evening, though it’s morning on the other side of the world.
How many steps can a person take until the course of events becomes irreversible—fifty?
I used to think my mother had me by accident.
The walls of the city shuddered under cannon fire and smoldered with flames.