The rod of the pool cue glided back and forth between Martin’s slim fingers as he surveyed the field before him: the odds were not in his favor.
I was married, once. She was French. Her names was Inès, and I suppose I should have known that any woman whose name means “chaste” (especially if she’s French) is destined to live ironically.
It was on that first night in August when Lily Böhn tip-toed across the cobbles of Isola Bella to the Pier in her pink ballet slippers that she heard the gospel truth from Harvey Whittaker.
#FictionFriday: "Arliss stood on a rocky precipice above the abyss, the gelid white falls roaring beside him. He took a deep breath and coughed, the frigid air irritating his lungs. The weather was unseasonably cold – barely above freezing, in mid-September – and in direct correlation, he believed, to the disastrous event of that afternoon."