All we had was her room, her stories, and the quiet that settled in as we tried in vain to spread ourselves out and fill the space she’d left behind.

The weather was clear and still, and the countless stars opened above them, seeming like brilliant cold fruits that Maerad could simply pick out of the sky.

MYTH: Beautiful Writing Trumps AllREALITY: Storytelling Trumps Beautiful Writing, Every Time

From the earth, from the air, sustaining forces pour into us–mostly from the earth. To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long...

..if you could forget mortality… You could really believe that time is circular, and not linear and progressive as our culture is bent on proving. Seen in geological perspective, we are fossils in the making,...

Make each day a beautiful day of your life.

Each instant brought them, more momentous than the explosion of Krakatoa. It was only that no one noticed. We are to accustomed to the absurdity of existence. The loss of a universe is not worth...

She ached: oh, how she ached. Her soul was like one big bruise.

But monsters are.” She opened her mouth wide and showed Azhar the wildflowers sitting on her tongue.