Scribble safflower petals around the sun, dye the moon a neon egg. Color curly-cues into the meadows so the scars and dust of flame and heartache might one day melt into art.
They found Nick in the backyard, curled under a blanket behind the tree. Tara pressed next to her sister in the window, looking where she pointed. The reedy tree trunk wasn’t even wide enough to conceal him. “Did either of you hear him? When he snuck away?” Quinn asked, pressed against Tamy’s other side. TaraContinue reading “Tara’s Story: clipped voice in the dark void”