Every story has two sides. And so does love…It was a love that required no words to express it, for it existed in everything as its source and therefore between things as its purpose. Love flourished in silence. Until the silence was broken.
The closer she would come to reaching the appropriate decibel and a plausible duration, the perfect balance of pitch and tone, a precise degree of backward head tilt and the occasional snort followed by an emergency “oops” and a graceful hand gesture covering her mouth just enough to display embarrassment but not regret, the more she would begin to believe her own laugh.
And they call us poor, Father, as if it were a curse.
His children didn’t notice the look in their father’s eyes that afternoon; the present is all they cared for.
Her father stood up from his seat slowly until he towered over the Mayor whose head now reached no higher than the Butcher’s paunch. And like the volcano that created their island, he erupted…