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A charming lively plaza in el barrio de Gracia, behind a lone lit window on the third floor, a nineteen-year-old girl smokes a cigarette.
Despair is a form of certainty, certainty that the future will be a lot like the present or will decline from it; despair is a confident memory of the future.
Is history destiny that a fortune-teller can predict, or is it the spin of a gameshow’s wheel?
Ayanna opens her eyes and takes her hand away from the cold surface of the mirror. She stares in awe at her reflection and turns to walk away.
Woman runs. She is not an experienced runner. Her gait is an adult version of skipping.
They are tourists. Of a kind with money. How do I know? Wait…
The wooden handle, curved like a fish hook, is burnished with the nervous sweat of many girls. It is the last thing I will touch as a child.
I can take the bug bites, I can take anything but the return of the dog that ran away.
Wait for dark to fall. Sneak out of the camp and find our way to shore.
Shaw glanced over. There was nothing dead-looking about him; he was opaque, with no unearthly glow or pallor, and there was a blemish forming at his temple.
My left eye was sliding down the side of my face, drooping like an almond in a half-melted candy bar.
First, I reminded myself not to scream.
Barnabas is, of course, many things: hardworking, proactive, physically immortal, a team player. But he isn’t lucky. He wouldn’t get away with putting that on his CV.