The Trojans never stood a chance. It wasn’t guile and deceit that won the Greeks the war. It was attrition.
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Sorry, Sam, a kiss is more than just lip syncing.
When the kids were growing up, my favourite time of day was suppertime. You could always count on it rolling in as the sun bowed out. If you missed it, you did so voluntarily. Because making time for supper is a conscious choice.
I should have known by my third Cinzano a power failure was going to be my only hope of ducking out of dancing. I’m not proud of it, but I’d have been equally fine with an earthquake or an alien invasion.
As parents, we all go through that spell when our kids feel they know everything, and realize you don’t. You’ve been laid bare, defrocked of your cape, stripped of your superpowers.
I can count on my barber’s door always being open. If only because it doesn’t close properly.
It’s Easter morning, and I’m reminded of my father’s skin. He had terrific skin, the kind that could sink the skincare industry.
When you’re an only child, sometimes the arc of creativity bends toward mischief.
For the sound of the page within.