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Her fury, her hurt, her fear and shame was pure focus. She dug deeper into her legs. The blood began to run down her thighs, soaking through her dress and forming a small puddle in the pew.
Self begins exactly like that paragraph ended … with a question, an inevitably shifting question and outcome.
The chimps on mics catch up with thoughts on 9/11, the fear of AI, the inconvenience of the TSA, and stuff they’re writing.
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There was no thunder, no glowing doorway, no mysterious wind blowing through the apartment, and no choir of angels politely alerting me that physics had submitted its resignation.
The deck simply felt heavier.