Anyone who grew up near the water knows the wild, untethered dance of water, knocking you down, spinning your ankles skyward and sending you tumbling, churning, seeking breath as sand scratches, burning against your back.
The bags are packed. Correction–the bags are more or less packed.
This week I read The Simple Wild by K.A Tucker. A story about Calla. – young millennial who travels to remote Alaska to reunite with her estranged father, meeting handsome and hardheaded Jonah along the way.
We look at abuse and neglect in a very narrow black and white way, there’s good touch and then there’s bad touch. We want to believe that where’s there’s love there can’t be harm. And where there’s harm, love isn’t possible. But Greenwood’s novel depicts the opposite for us, showing us where love cuts through the cracks of very dark and damaged places.
A relaxing oasis of a hotel in the heart of Waikiki, Oahu, Hawaii.
I’ve been called aggressive.
This is probably the worst thing you can call a woman. Besides Cunt
can’t tell you how fucking stressful this is. To look at your sensitive fiddle leaf fig with scissors hidden behind your back. To them, it is just another day staring at the sun, but you know in your heart what’s about to happen.