crash-land

For every nanosecond that I miraculously lift off the ground, I land with an inordinately loud thud.

Father Joel Román Salazar died in a car crash in 2013; his death was ruled an accident, but the suspicion of foul play persists.

So I drove around the corner to the trailhead of the logging road that led back to the crash site.

Instead, the man and woman in the truck wanted to know where the crash site was and whether would I show them.

There is the smell here of an indecent rush for scapegoats, even before we know what really caused this crash.

Then with your victorious legions you can march south and help drive the Yankee invaders from the land.

Another crash, which nearly shut up his spine like a telescope, told him that there were no wings.

It is a lofty and richly-decorated pile of the fourteenth century; and tells of the labours and the wealth of a foreign land.

Worst danger zone, the open sea, now traversed, but on land not yet out of the wood.

It was more like the boarding of a ship than any land fight I had ever seen or imagined.