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“Sometimes the art of fiction isn’t in how intellectual it is, but how well it makes you actually forget the world around you. Sometimes, binge reading to escape reality can save a person’s life.”
Because even though I told my wife some of the truth, a fact oversharpened often functioned like a lie.
“You can be the greatest peach, and someone will still be offended by peaches,”
It's JUICIEST peach and there will always be someone who just doesn't like peaches!
One of the guests was dead. Not just dead—murdered. And not the one I wanted.
Sealing a cast of guilty characters in a house and forcing them to fight for their lives is a brilliant way to discover who has changed, and who hasn’t.
I opened the window, just a smidge, and filled my lungs with the sweet scent of rain-touched earth. Petrichor. Lovely word.
“Why do they deserve death?” I finally asked my watch. “What could they possibly have done that justified murder?” The response came nearly instantly. They took a life. In some cases physically, in others, symbolically, and as a result forfeited their own. It is justice. Just not the pretty kind.
“I think in everyone’s life,” I started slowly, “you get an event that cuts everything in two. Like an axe splitting wood. And there becomes a before and an after.” “A who I was and a who I became,”
Sometimes we hide things from ourselves, telling ourselves they’re healed. When they’re not.
My last advice is not to run from pain, nor the people who have caused it. In fact, I highly recommend you keep a little anti-acknowledgments list, as it were, of people you’d love to thank for making life difficult. For making you who you are, whether by spite, defamation, negligence, or indiscretion. What better way to give life to your words, than drawing on your experience?
