The child finds the balloon entrancing. The dog backs away from it with a growl.
He's young but speaks like a savvy consumer, confident of what's a quality product and what isn't.
I've bumped into them, careened off of them, and have no particular desire to see them again.
When you speak with him, he'll look past your shoulder at the next prospect. I feel like I'm standing outside a vacated building, talking at it.
She will only be satisfied when she breaks me. Of course, she doesn't see it that way. She sees it as helping me.
He makes it a point, wherever he goes, to wear a hat covered in political pins, with additional pins on his lapel and the front of his jacket. His appearance is more an endorsement for the other party than for his own.
Sometimes I find it difficult to believe that he can look at us all and really believe in what he says. His words come up against the harsh reality of who we are.
Faded jeans, fallen leaves, and dirty sneakers are all a part of the season for me.
I'm inspired by some people's interpretation of the text, more than the text itself.
They remind themselves they're alive by drinking, shrieking, and posing for selfies.
They sunk so much money into the windows, but the view is a row of small stores on a dingy street.
How many cigarettes has he flicked over his balcony railing?
The lights are off in the library upstairs. In the afternoon lull, two women have fallen asleep over their books. No one looks for them.
Apples so crisp and red I think they're flush with poison.