Miranda could see the spider’s web as she walked up to the workshop she’d been constructing. Sunlight was sparkling through some of the drops left on the web from the morning’s heavy dew. She had never seen such an enormous spider.
They took the words out of her, imprisoned behind scars and threats. They told her she was wrong, that she might be crazy, when she told them the … Continue reading They
The stories are living and breathing. The stories are in dreams.
. . .I was always young. Demure, but sprightly, ready to dance gaily if the fifes and drums, or the fiddle struck up a springtime dance. . . .