The following sentence is from a story in today's Chicago Tribune about weather:
By 10 a.m., the winter storm was lashing Chicago with stinging sleet. It scoured exposed faces and coated flat surfaces. Wind whistling through skyscrapers pried off flakes of ice the size of drink coasters that hit sidewalks below with soft popping sounds.
That sentence sounds straight out of a novel. And for now, I'm soo happy that it's just that for me: descriptive fiction.
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