Skies torn open, earth cracked and dry, sun burning everything . . . . Civilization had died, but the ghost of humanity still clung to the edges. Not quite dead. Not yet.
The Judge enters the . . . courtroom through his special door, but no one pays him any mind. Everyone is too preoccupied with their garbled squabbling . . .
It was a prize for a game well played. A turn of luck . . . . a few risky gambles and particularly skilled gambits led to me winning an entire eon . . .
People were laughing and talking . . . I could practically see every tidal wave the music was making. The stench of alcohol, sweat and sex was starting to take over.
It wasn’t until he laid on his deathbed that I learned about this place, and he made me promise I would someday come and give this cabin the old Lazarus effect . . .
The fall air, full of superstition . . . flowed through this old, simple town in a quiet dance, performing a pirouette to a preoccupied audience. Perhaps it was a cry. . .
The nun in charge walks up and down . . . Her stern face softens with a small smile. “Pray the Our Father,” she commands. . . . [W]e begin to pray. . .
This is not my daughter. [She] was in this crib last night, but the little thing crying there this morning is not mine. Its eyes are redder, its skin less soft, its heart less pure. . .
Blair watched as the . . . loafers, sneakers, and boots passed her by. She seemed to be invisible lying on the cold pavement. No one . . . glance in her direction.
She holds her chin up with a relaxed expression, figure still as she holds for each camera shutter. Each shift in movement is familiar and practiced . . . .
