No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Xiao Fan looked up as the words were severed in the air. The scythe was no longer in his hand. Instead it was arcing downwards automatically, except not automatically, because it had been taken deftly from his grip by his elderly father who now slashed at their assailant in blind fury.
Thirty years earlier it never would have occurred. In my day, boys and girls had separate hockey teams. However, the rules changed. Today every team must have at least six girls on the bench for the peewee and bantam age groups.
The game hasn't suffered. Until hormones strike, the girls are just as fast, strong and aggressive. It does m
They moved over to the plaid couches. Art and Deb sat next to each other, Dan sat across from them, the accused and the executioner. Deb set the urn on the coffee table between them.
“Start at the beginning,” Dan suggested.
“Biracial, I think.”
Luciana glanced up into the mirror to see who had said it, but it was impossible to tell; the chatter of thirty-one, day-tripping blue hairs and silver tops muddled any trace of its origin.
Truth wasn’t one of my strong points. I believed that the more intelligent were adroit liars, able to manipulate the truth for their own purposes, ...
She and Dante took a flat in Chatham. They weren’t married. She could never invite her sister for a visit. When Dante’s family paid a call, she hid in the bedroom. Even Dante’s friends were ignorant of their living arrangement.