I Leapt Eagerly Into Books.

I Looked Down At The Little Pink Face In The Bundle. A Newborn. The Child Had Been Alive Only Minutes But Was Already Considered A Criminal By The Soviets.

Sometimes There Is Such Beauty In Awkwardness. There's Love And Emotion Trying To Express Itself, But At The Time, It Just Ends Up Being Awkward.

Some Things Just Won’t Go Away, No Matter How Hard You Scrub.

Charlie Marlowe Never Wrote Horror, But Somehow Horror Was Writing Charlie Marlowe.

My Breathing Slowed. I Shaded Her Thick Chestnut Hair Resting In A Smooth Curve Against Her Face, A Large Bruise Blazing Across Her Cheek. I Paused, Looking Over My Shoulder To Make Certain I Was Alone. I Drew Her Eye Makeup, Smudged By Tears. In Her Watery Eyes I Drew The Reflection Of The Commander, Standing In Front Of Her, His Fist Clenched. I Continued To Sketch, Exhaled, And Shook Out My Hands.