The following is what my brain comes up with when I happen to ignore the metaphor of the glass ceiling in Rachel Platten’s “Broken Glass.”
Kit’s phone buzzed in the pocket of his gear jacket. Really? Well, if it were something important, whoever it was would leave a message. He was kind of busy battling demons at the moment. One of them was creeping up on him, but he jumped back and sliced through its tentacles like butter.
I was messing around with the “Pages” app on my new phone, and somehow, I deleted the fanfic I’d been working on.
The shot discharged with a cloud of smoke. Jamie gasped and winced with pain. That was the last straw. She had a lot of nerve just showing up, but she wouldn’t get very far. “Ian,” Claire said, “help him inside and wait for me.” “Of course, Auntie.” Once both of them were out of sight,… Continue reading Eighteenth Century WWE
If I had to choose between writing my own blog and reading others, I don’t think I could.