Sometimes in my tent, late at night, I think I can hear the stars scraping against the sky.
I am the one, Not Running, Not Staying, But FACING
Why did they come billions of miles just to stare at us? It's rude.
Could there be irony crueler than this? How, upon his rescue, the truth had brought him here, to a house for the mad, for only a madman believes what every child knows to be true: There are monsters that lie in wait under our beds.
Hold on tight, Sam." He puts me in a choke hold. "Ahhh," I gasp. "Not that tight.
A child has little defense against the sight of a parent laid low. Parents, like the earth beneath our feet and the sun above our heads, are immutable objects, eternal and reliable. If one should fall, who might vouch the sun itself won't fall, burning, into the sea?