Apparently "a professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit" (Richard Bach). In that sense I mig...
The paved floor outside glistened from the retched rain that had somehow managed to make Lindsays bones feel damp. Her teeth chattered from the biting cold as she made her way up the cobbled walkway to her mothers house. All around her, tree’s swayed in unison causing their leaves to rustle in the wind.
Diana, Lindsay’s beloved newborn baby, seemed to not care about the icy cold weather. She lay in Lindsays arms, fast asleep and unaware of the possible danger . . .
