The next thing I knew, my face was kissing the counter and Thomas was bent over me, his hand at the base of my neck holding me there. I panicked. What was he going to do? Rape me? Slit my throat? Torture me? He’d seemed so…semi-normal. Hadn’t he?
it was like God saying, of course you can’t stop writing. No matter how much shit gets thrown at you. (I’m paraphrasing, of course.) And then He said, “I’ll help you shovel.”
What if you had an addiction to a substance for which there was no rehab? What if you couldn’t tell anyone about your addiction? In Tee Rutledge I may have created the ideal fictional addict, but there are many correlations to real life addiction. First of all, she has no…
Yesterday began with my brilliant idea to teach my husband to brew coffee. I suggested it would be nice if he occasionally had coffee ready when I came downstairs in the morning instead of waiting for me to make it. I’m pretty sure this somehow caused a tear in the…
A Barista Bemoans 1. “I wanted that iced.” Usually spoken at the hand-off counter by a customer who doesn’t know the difference between an iced drink and a hot one and didn’t order it iced so we assumed they wanted it hot. Also usually after you’ve created the perfect hot…
