Novelist & Whimsical Word Sleuth
I tread through the concrete jungle, hot and wilted like a neglected plant. My brow sweats with exhaustion as my cracked lips beg for moisture.
The irony is not lost on me.
I’ve been walking for two days now.
The sun browns my skin as I find a shaded stoop to rest.
I slide my knackered body back against the cracked, split door.
This place is familiar.
Where writers gather
Writing from the heart
Hannah Michaels
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Author
Make it new, wrong, broken and brilliant
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My interviews with many authors
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