Where was the child promised who would lead them in the coming war?

The end was the beginning was the end before she wrote the middle.

Debonaire to the end Douglass died attempting to climb a rickety ivy-covered trellis to woo a young woman whose bedroom window was a tad too high.

We were living within the pages of a dystopian novel but were unwilling to concede the fact.

Driving through DC got him thinking about the difference between psychopaths and sociopaths.

Christy's life choices were questioned by everyone but her.

We laughed until the guns emerged.

Jane, who was nearly trampled to death at a Black Friday sale five years before and considered it a badge of honor, was shocked at how lackluster the younger shoppers now were.

Time was a fast-talking used car salesman who promised one thing but delivered something else entirely.

His joy at the good news was tempered by the knowledge that bad things happened all the time.

The wind whipped across the valley carrying the smell of smoke with it.

As she lay in the dark cell a short poem written more than eight hundred years ago that began "Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence" repeated in her head and helped keep her alive.

Dan could dance around race issues with the mental equivalent of Fred Astaire's fancy footwork. 

That night the wine flowed instead of the tears we should have shed but couldn't.

The wonder of it all, the great and terrible, the ridiculous and sublime, kept Katherine from slipping into oblivion.

Through the pain he saw the light.

Dick's wife and kids never listened to him so he got a dog but it quickly acclimated to the home and soon stopped listening too.

Although her heart continued to beat it no longer beat for him.

That summer we lived poolside subsisting on vodka and pills stolen from your parents.

He was old enough to see the continual recycling of popular culture but continued to buy into it anyway.

The dogs of war slept restlessly at his feet.

Adele wondered if her lack of success as an adult stemmed from her picture-perfect childhood.

The wine flowed at the table laden with a simple, hearty meal and soon the strangers weren't strangers any longer.

The sunset—a riot of reds, golden yellow, and plum purple—slayed my foul mood.

If these truly were the end days, she wondered, than what was the point of doing homework.

As the tension built almost to breaking the night sounds suddenly stopped and with a rustle and a snap the killing was over.

The perfect comeback died on his lips.

There was something about blustery days and sad music that Alice deeply loved.

The twist of the knife was a twist of fate that left her twisting in the wind.

They shoved the Halloween junk into the storage room and cranked up "Jingle Bells" on the store's sound system.