I Was Anastasia

by Ariel Lawhon

Each minute seemed to stretch like taffy softened in the sun, pulled to its thinnest, most tender strand.

I don’t often write something and think, Yes! That is perfect! But this sentence is a rare exception. After writing this I leaned back in my chair absolutely pleased—or, as the British say, chuffed—with my words. I still am, to be honest. I love that sentence.