The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.

Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.

There are two magic acts I want to pull off when I write. One is creating a feeling that when you're inside a book, you believe everything you're reading even when you know it's not true. And the second is an extension of that, which is you know it's not true, you know it's not real, but you believe it anyway. And it's that believing of the story that isn't real that attracted me to writing and storytelling in general.

My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging onto her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.

A small fact: You are going to die....does this worry you?