I have hated my mother for most of my life but it is her face I see as I drown.
New Zealand was greener than Emilia could ever have imagined.
The dining table was set for a feast, but all the carving knives had been hidden.
As Lou widened her eyes with mischievous pleasure and blew him a kiss over the heads of other customers in the gelato bar, Jack smiled at her delight.
When we opened Sherlock Tomes people warned us that we’d made a terrible mistake. People warned us that e-readers were taking over. People warned us that we’d never compete with Amazon. The one thing they didn’t warn us about was the murders.
There is a framed photograph on Lila’s bedside table that she hasn’t yet had the energy, or perhaps the inclination, to get rid of.
When I was twelve years old, I was buried alive within the grounds of a construction site.
The idiot box: my first hazy television-related memory, bathed in the blue-tinged glow of a cathode-ray tube, hails from when I was about three and therefore a complete idiot myself.
If I close my eyes, I can still experience it through the mind of the 26-year-old I was on my third tour with the Black Caps, when I felt hopelessly lost off the field and was not yet wanted on it.
No matter what your talent, or how hard you work, there’s an element of chance in everything that happens.
This is the story of Bob Burgess, a tall, heavyset man who lives in the town of Crosby, Maine, and he is sixty-five years old at the time that we are speaking of him.
In the chastening chill of a dazzling October morning, James Becker stands on the footbridge, hip hitched against the handrail, rolling a cigarette.