To her, the man standing in the center of her flower shop resembled a brightly painted piñata.
She could barely make him out. He—she was certain the figure was a he—was a fleck, a disturbance on the horizon, and—this was another certainty—he was coming her way.
Jack slowed the orange VDOT truck, lurching to a stop in front of the carcass on the side of Route 603.
Reina was six years old when her father took her up the long winding mountain road to see the dying Giant.
We started with the little things: scraps of junk, things of no import or stuff we could do without.