Howling dogs, Hobbits, and bowl cut hair. What the heck is going on in the apartment downstairs?

Olly Rice had given his life to literature, but what had literature given him? A wound in the head that oozed something worse than blood or brain matter.

Shepherd's family made money by being outlaws. Well, outlaws in the governments' eyes.

At 10 o’clock on a warm August morning, an old but immaculate big blue Buick slowly pulled up and parked by the front gate of the largest section in Serenity Springs Cemetery, Azalea Falls’ oldest, biggest burial ground.

The 40-Year-Old Marigolds” is a personal essay that ties gardening in childhood to the present day. It has themes of family ties, nature, nostalgia, and the bridge of place and time.

A lone sedan entered the parking lot of the processing plant and went dark. A tenebrous figure emerged from the shadows, sheathed in tactical garb and gripping an M-4 carbine. He loaded a magazine and charged the weapon.

Emma nervously entered the classroom and found an empty desk while she felt the burning power of a hundred sets of eyes staring. She expected the teasing and giggles, but she didn’t expect silence.

Paulo’s muted tongue was as dry as the arctic air, and his heart just as cold. The blood from the knife dripped carelessly onto the pavement.

Knowing the day, you will die is strange. It filled me with a sort of anxious expectance until today. Now I just want it to be over with.

With her degrees in neuroscience and engineering, and her specializations in prosthetics and robotics, she was more than capable of producing a pair of mechanical ears that would replicate the abilities of true human ones.

Jack Scrimshaw. Born 22/05/1991. Collected over the course of 10 years at Dartmoor Prison and Correction facility. The following entries were deemed pertinent to these proceedings.

While most of the musicians dream of West End gigs, trumpet player Joel only wants to play jazz.

“So.” she began. “The thing is. You’re a shadoweater. From a long line of shadoweaters. Me, your nan, her mum, stretching all the way back as far as anyone can go ...”

An expansive absence of colour fills my view. A single, naked bulb – pure, cold – blurs into my opening eyes. This is not my flat. The realisation rocks me like a shot of tequila.

Three o’clock on a Thursday was an odd time for a visit, but it was the only downtime between my part-time jobs that suited Jo. More unusual than the time was the prospect of a one-to-one rendezvous in my bedsit with someone about my age and attractive.