The fields have been drained, and it is only a matter of time now until the fields can dry no more and are ready for harvest.
I close my eyes and pinch my nose closed as I take the sardine between my teeth. There is a wet squoshing sound, like a muddy boot tracking on carpet, as I grind the unfortunate specimen between my back molars, doing my best to guide its wet flesh away from my taste buds.
Lily didn’t breathe much anymore. I tried bringing a few hearts to class once, maybe to make her feel better, but it didn’t work very well; it was just messy. I painted her many times in her frozen mind but I couldn’t get the tongue to move quite right or the shadows in the cleft
Mila Rosenthal sat in the kitchen of her apartment a week before the first air raid of her city: Berlin. Her son, Peter, was still asleep in his room. Mila set the kettle on the stove top and walked around aimlessly, humming to herself. As the water began to boil, she watched the steam rise.