The Ocean in DecemberRunner-Up in The Fantasy Prologue
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.
I feel the same slow, sly smile spread across my face that never fails to come out of hiding when I think about the Valley. The Valley, where the giant golden hills look like Midas himself ran his fingertips over each blade of yeast-colored grass. The Valley, where sailboats with masts so tall it’s shocking they don’t scrape the sky churn and slice through the rough river’s water. The Valley, where at the mouth of the river she boasts her teeth in sword-shaped bursts of white foaming water to greet the start of the ocean. She is angry and angsty, roaring her siren’s call to everyone stupid and in love with her enough to try to set sails on her waters.