So I drive until first light and only stop when the plain turns black and there’s nothing between us and the horizon but clinkers and ash.
On the first day of the rest of his life, Oliver Wormwood was up, dressed and out of the house before the balefire lamps on Wizard’s Way had been switched off.
Later, when the storm has passed, everyone will talk about the destruction it left behind, though no one, not even the king himself, will remember that it all began with a single raindrop.
I never asked for visions, I was one. In my future, I see myself regal and glorious, luminescent with the glow of my god.
When I talk with parents of adolescents, the conversation often turns to smartphones, social media, and video games.
Jane Saville's gasp conveyed her shock as her mother's words landed like small blows.
God’s sake, why did everything have to be such a sodding . . . trial?
Rachel Sherrill, thirty years old in a few days, master’s degree from Stanford in conservation biology, rising star in her world, still thought of herself as the smartest kid in the class.
“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.”
When Woodrow Wilson entered the lavish dining room aboard the presidential yacht . . .
Myron Bolitar was on the phone with his eighty-year-old father when the two FBI agents arrived to question him about the murder.
I understood that furtive expression. After twenty-five years of marriage I could tell when Curtis had misplaced something, and from the way he kept feeling his pockets and glancing around, I knew that whatever was lost was important.
There’s more to this story than the clickbait headlines, but yes, in simple terms, I had a dream life – then I took a flamethrower to it.
I dreamed that I dreamed about the musty grey soil of the island and the sweet perfume it emits after rainfall, a double remove from a place I will never visit again