I felt beautiful but also interrupted. I wasn't used to being so complicated.

Don't turn over the rocks if you don't want to see the pale creatures who live under them.

She would buy magic every day of the week. Love me, that face said. I'm so lonely, so desperate. I'll give you whatever you want.

She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.

Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.

In a train...smash. In his arm her last...breath.' He had loved her. But he hated himself more. Such suffering, so much pain. And he thought it made him hateful. As if suffering was shameful, disgusting, as if pain were a crime. Who can judge another man's suffering?

Appealing to the five senses is the feature that will always set writing apart from the visual media. A good writer will tell us what the world smells like, what the textures are, what the sounds are, what the light looks like, what the weather is.