I'm a writer. I'm a wife and a mom. I'm a human.
Destroyer of Warmbloods
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Greeog the Terrible, Destroyer of Warmbloods, issued a stream of white-hot flame from between his curved fangs. Less than a snout’s length away, the bars of his cell glowed amber with the heat. The bars were thicker by half than Greeog’s foreleg, and he had only a few more heartbeats between Varaya’s next looping stroll past the prisoners. If she saw the damage on the bars, Greeog would be forced into a new cage again. He’d have to start formulating yet another scheme to escape, which would throw all of his plans off kilter. He might be a bringer of chaos, only barely shy of being a very god of flame, but he grew quite displeased when his plots were interrupted. Varaya and her ilk owned every dragon in the Evey Valley. For now.
The Foulness of Baby Macbeth
To begin with, it should be stated that while most people like babies, nobody likes poop. Personally, I quite like babies; I always have. I have consistently been excited for the arrival of new life, have cooed over young children, have squealed “cute!” in the faces of human offspring who would probably have preferred a less aggressive greeting. I’m a baby person. I am not, nor have I ever been, what I guess you would call “a poop person.”
Dear Grandma, When you were a teenager, your house burned to the ground. And in the midst of the inferno, in the hot, bright chaos, you struggled to pull your unconscious mother to safety, such as it was. And then, with courage that I can only attribute to your inner light, you ran back into the flaming building to save a baby brother—step-brother—who would never fulfill all of your hope for him. Your mother died anyway, died within days from the poison of smoke from a fire that you did not start. That you should not have paid for. Your step dad sent you to live with your father, your father who believed that children should be seen and not heard. You must have been–oh!–so very alone.
The notebook’s small and faded. The little thing is speckled with dust and the spine is bent to a near-ninety-degree angle except where it’s belted shut with a shoelace. I shouldn’t care; there are real books in the yard sale, books that aren’t falling apart. But I’m curious. Why bother to keep basically scraps?