“I am a true sea-dog with balls the size of cantaloupes!” Diedrich shouted, slashing at a snowy tree branch with a cutlass made from a broken broom handle.
She felt him long before she saw him. He had to be godborn.
My name is Sheila Rafferty, and I am the great-niece of Bess Houdini.
Wednesday through Sunday, work days, things are good. But Mondays and Tuesdays, my days off, alone in a furnished studio, I cry.
From a cool vantage the man watched the boy use his weapon in heat of summer day. “Look at him go,” he said to no one, his voice a fragile thing.