fiction

Isn__ antimatter what fuels the U.S.S.Enterprise?

I believe a family just isn__ complete without skeletons. My dearest momma clean bit off my daddy__ nose right around the time they divorced.

Time had taught him that whether his sins were pardoned or left unforgiven, they would remain committed. Tomorrow he would hopefully choose wiser, with a stronger measure of compassion.

You spill a lot of beans in historical fiction. Crime fiction is about spilling no beans at all. You spill the least beans you possibly can. So because I had already written historical fiction before I was really good at the spilling beans section, but the new skill I had to learn when I was writing Brighton Belle was difficult. I had to avoid the equivalent of shouting, "this character's a murderer! Look who did it!.

Homo Americanus is going to go on speaking and writing the way he always has, no matter what dictionary he owns.

A story has to break your heart or it's not worth telling.

Placing his suitcase on the seat next to him, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, loosened up his necktie and removed his fedora. He kept his custom eye wear on and made himself comfortable, looking more like a Wall Street accountant than the cold killer he'd become...

Here__ what happens when a single mom meets New York City__ hottest fireman__hen_seductively_as if he received instruction not from the FDNY__ training school but at Chippendale___he slowly inches each suspender off his bare shoulders.___ou must know that exhilarating feeling of a man__ body on top of yours, all that power and muscle pressing you into the bed, the glorious taste of his tongue in your mouth, the manly scent that washes over you and makes you want to melt underneath him.___et__ not forget about his nine inches of shapely fireman hose dangling so close in front of my face the scent launches me into a blissful fever.___very place he touches contradicts his chosen profession, because instead of putting out a fire he surely starts one._____ so darn helpless in the arms of this powerful, young, ripped personification of New York__ Bravest that I feel myself about to erupt in the most earth shattering explosion since Mount Vesuvius last announced her presence.___ wonder if he could be enticed to show us a few maneuvers on the brass pole.___e orchestrates his own personal opera, inspiring high notes with kisses and licks along my elongated nipples, and deep moans with hands that caress my belly.___e are drawn uncontrollably to each other and have no power to resist, only the tremendous desire to experience everything in its most intense form.

We all have scars. Just because mine are hidden doesn__ make them any less painful.

All of a sudden, life became too much to bear. Just like that, for no particular reason. Because there was a child__ corpse in the fridge on rue Parthenais. Because I had to start all over again from scratch, one more time. Because I had rolled my rock to the top of the hill and now it was rolling back down again. The times before, I__ always managed to put on a brave face. But there comes a time when you just don__ feel strong enough to look for another place to live and go shopping again for clothes and dishes and cutlery and scouring pads and toilet paper. This was one of those times. When I got back to the hotel, I asked the Barbie at reception for the key to the minibar. It burned in the palm of my hand. I slapped it back down on the counter and ran out. I had to find a meeting.

What?

The only way that America can protect its prosperity and political stability will be to depopulate the Third World? Should we be surprised that the AIDS virus showed up about 1975? Do you understand what the term "depopulate" means?

I loved the feeling of finally falling in love to someone who would love me back.

I knew that it was impossible for us to be kept apart for too long.

Brandon tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Unbelievable. He had his name. God had given it. Just like Reece said he would.

A friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same.

Kate stops grinding the knife and begins to pass it over the length of the stone. Turning her wrist, she pulls the blade, swiping one side after the other, honing it to a fine edge. She wipes it dry with an old cloth and picks up a long piece of dark leather. One end of the strop she ties to the knob on the back of her chair, then holds it taught with her left hand. She counts in her head as she passes the blade over the length of the leather, flipping it at the bottom and the top of each pass. When she gets to twenty, she releases her hold on the strop and looks closely at the knife blade. Even in the dim light of the room, it shines.

I watched her shadow merge with the darker colours of the deep sea.