The rocks would live on, layers of sand and water gradually inching their way toward the sky long after we had passed through and left this earth for good.
As I dipped my coffee mug into a plastic bin of rainwater, the boys corralled the littles into three groups and divvied up the apples, slicing them thin and drizzling salad dressing over each slice.
My mother lived in fear of being found, she had to learn a new language and culture; she sacrificed seeing her children grow to give them a better future, but she wasn’t chased and persecuted like a criminal.
Still, hidden beneath the surface is an angry subcurrent who believes that Narnia’s mystical past will return, that it’s in the blood, that the true spirit of that enchanted land will one day rise again and stomp out the interlopers.
I actually laughed. I couldn't help it. Even at the edge of annihilation, Ravn still managed to smirk. ‘I’m not the villain you think I am,’ he spat. ‘I took what I wanted because this world only respects theft. That’s how kings are made. That’s how gods are born.’
I cover my baby up in a torn, fuzzy blanket, I protect from the elements much greater, for us such fanciful specs on the expansive oceans, beneath the ceaseless skies, the wind’s ferocity, I breathe and struggle blanketing my tiny tot.
“Ever think of making A Sardine on Vacation an audio book? It has lots of dialogues.” I would have, but publishers are keen on their audio products following large hard copy sales. “You said you were against audio books,” Joe T. breaks in. Against listening to them.
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