Twenty-three stories up and all I could see out the windows was grey smog. They could call it the City of the Angels if they wanted to, but if there were angels out there, they had to be flying blind.

I've been writing stories since I was 12. 'Writer's Digest' was one of my writing teachers, actually.

Larry had brought me blue jeans, a red polo shirt, jogging socks, my white Nikes, an extra cross from my suitcase, the silver knives, the Firestar complete with inner pants holster, and the Browning and its shoulder holster. He'd forgotten a bra, but hey, except for that it was perfect.

There had to be a circle of Hell where you were eternally fourteen, eternally in junior high. One of the lower circles.

Sometimes the greatest wounds are the ones we try the hardest not to inflict.

I so wanted out of this conversation, but it was like a car accident: Once you started spinning, you could only wait and see what you hit.

I'm pro-choice because I've never been a fourteen-year-old incest victim pregnant by her father, or a woman who's going to die if the pregnancy continues, or a rape victim, or even a teenager who made a mistake. I want women to have choices, but I also believe that it's a life, especially once it's big enough to live outside the womb.