I had my first panic attack on a quiet sunny morning in Berlin. It was mid-summer.
Josie's start is unexpected. She lies afloat and asleep in a tank of nutrient broth, when one billion volts split the sky.
Like turning your hand over, things could go either way with the weather.
You have to wonder what goes through the mind of a man like Micah Mortimer.
Today is the first of September, the first day of spring, and it's been sixty four days since I last saw Sophie Abercrombie.
I start wearing the family dog, a mini-sheltie, a little Lassie, in an unbleached cotton baby sling across the front of my body like a messenger bag, a few weeks shy of fall.
Heat shimmered in waves across the Valley of the Kings as the merciless sun baked the desert sands into clay.
Cindy Thomas was tuned in to her police scanner as she drove through the Friday-morning rush to her job at the San Francisco Chronicle.
In one of the most bizarre cases in recent history, a wild-haired young boy, estimated to be between six and eight years old, was discovered living on his own in the Ramapo Mountain State Forest near the suburb of Westville.
Fourteen-year-old Vicki sat up in bed, her heart racing.
A young man is taking a shortcut home from the railway station through fields, as he does every day of the week.
It had been three days since my friend disappeared and I was starting to think the worst might have happened.
The industrial sliding doors heaved open to a burst of bitter alpine air, a dizzying flurry of snow, and a barrage of hoarse cries
People ask me, ‘What was she like?’ and I try to figure out if they mean as a normal person: what was she like in her slippers, eating toast and marmalade, or what was she like as a mother, or what she was like as an actress – we did not use the word star
When they file back into the room, I’m no longer in the chair. Instead, I’m sitting on the table, bare legs swinging.
She sleeps. A pale girl in a white room. Machines surround her. Mechanical guardians, they tether the sleeping girl to the land of the living, stopping her from drifting away on an eternal, dark tide.
Johnny Casey launched into a fit of energetic coughing – a bit of bread down the wrong way.
There they go, at the beginning of it all, their younger selves, walking through the dark, winter streets of Sheffield: Daniel Lawrence and Alison Connor.
There’s a body on the Gurney Street tracks. Female, age unclear, probable overdose, says the dispatcher.
“Since death is certain, but the time of death is uncertain, what is the most important thing?” — PEMA CHÖDRÖN
Amma is walking along the promenade of the waterway that bisects her city, a few early morning barges cruise slowly by to her left is the nautical-themed footbridge with its deck-like walkway and sailing mast pylons
In the early afternoon on a Saturday in June, Jack Kennison put on his sunglasses, got into his sports car with the top down, strapped the seatbelt over his shoulder and across his large stomach, and drove to Portland.
Back in his den with the cocoa he settles into the beanbag chair bequeathed to him by a departing student the year before.