Debbie Irwin

I know you are thinking I’m making excuses. I’m not. I am merely explaining how I could go from what I was to what I am now.

Was the pain supposed to be sharp, or dull, to count? Was there supposed to be a complete absence of pain?

Why I should feel that way when it was you that acted the pig is beyond me, but still I feel ashamed for trusting you.

He was a contemptible child. I admit it.

She was the meanest one of the bunch. To tell the truth, I was a might bit embarassed at how easy she cowed down, and it unnerved me something fierce.

He smiled into her eyes even as he had to adjust his steps to keep her off his feet. Raising her hand for a spin, he tested the fit of the ring. It slid to the knuckle

He was known for his temper, but usually when he got into his brawls, he was doing it for a reason.

Parchment? I wasn’t sure. I had never seen parchment before. I decided it must be. Rich and soft to the touch. My fingers lingered over the feel of those pages with a delight at my new treasure.

I looked for bruises. I’m the suspicious type, and couldn’t help myself. I never saw any. At least, not on her surface. That’s what occured to me later. I should have seen her damaged soul.

After about fifteen minutes of frustrated groping on my part, it was apparent by the way she kept slapping my hands that more than one dream was getting squashed that day.

She would like that, he thought, growing angrier by the minute. Get a job and make some money.

He moved a bit more, the pain becoming unbearable, then settled back into position.

He seemed to shrink a little more as he held his hand out and took it back, sliding it back into the only pocket he had on his prison-issue white shirt.

Mud and leaves stuck to her pants, and she knew her hair was tangled from the way it hung around her face.

He reached for the note, a sigh escaping his lips, and unfolded it as the wiper flipped back against the glass with a thud and a cloud of dust.