Chance looked down at his hands. They were weathered and well-used before he woke up in the care of the Al-Izzes - who, at the time, also had to cross the border to Destrea to escape the cruelty in Úda - so there wasn’t a way he could be an aristocrat. No, Caislín was dead wrong about him.
“Nevertheless,” he mumbled to himself, now locked in a jail cell until the morning. “Sleep is what I need.”
She only had her mind set on transporting the milk.
“This is the last time I ask for your help, Tesni,” Wynne growled as she hobbled from the dairy stables to the kitchen door under the weight of the two large pails, both filled to the brim with fresh, warm milk. They wouldn’t stay filled unless she got help- quick. She had accidentally splashed out more than usual.
“Chance? Chance, wake up!”
He was roused by Nóe’s panicked whisper. “Wh- Nóe, what’s up?” Chance launched himself off of his travel matt and scanned the clearing. No one was there, and the fire was doused in a hurry. Breixo must have taken Arlo away while Nóe waited up for Chance.
The night was dark and only the dim crimson embers gave off light. The canopy was just dense enough to choke out the stars and the moon.
Caislín fingered her father’s crown.
The funeral was held yesterday. She was officially the queen of Destrea. Instead of sapphire coronation banners, black and purple streamers danced in the whistling wind to mourn the loss of a monarch. She was given word that Sa’di had been implicated with the band of terrorists and had since disappeared, thus proving their points.
Like an oasis to feet sore from the road,
The city appears - like a wraith - the city so worn and old.
His Majesty nurtured it like an eagle ready for flight.
His Majesty protected it with his strength and his might.
My home stands tall like a jewel from afar.
It’s Rome! As constant as the Northern Star
Is its road and its streets - SPQR!
It has been a long journey,
My heart is set on home.
And I have nothing to fear,
For all roads lead to Rome.
Looking back on days gone by
On carefree days of youth
On summer days of simple pleasures
And winter days of snow
Barefoot days in glorious pastures
Berry pails at my knee
Picking yellow wildflowers
Clenched in an eight-year-old fist.
Dreams filled my brunette head
With fantasy and tales
They swept me far to days ahead
Of my life that God would give.
Dreams of future, ambitious goals
I was certain I’d attain
Dreams of wealth and high applause
Respectful fear and awe.
Sometimes my brain has run out of dreams
I’m useless, spent, worn out
I must have been a big mistake
My life—an empty tale.
Living on the edge of a mountain
It looks too dark to move
The goals I fancied as my dreams
Lie chained on the other side.
I cannot free them, let them fly
This mountain blocks my way
It darkens the path before, behind
Hopelessness closes in.
Dreams have spilled out through the holes
In the pottery of my life
I’m a broken vessel—what can I do
A bitter wind blows its warning breath,
thunder rolls in angry protest,
I taste the dread; the tempest that is to come.
It feels like a meeting,
a date if you will, with the doomed sky.
Clouds suddenly are torn asunder,
grey visages weeping,
keeping unsteady time with their tears.
Lightning strikes and all is hushed;
for a moment, time stands still.
The clouds begin weeping again,
a silent lament to the inevitable,
waiting for the sun to once again
dry their tears.
June 3rd, 2009
Dear Journal,
David Spencer looked down into Claudia's face.
"Yow seem extra happy today, Miss Claudia. May I take the liberty to ask why?"
"Yes, you may!" Claudia laughingly replied. "My dear friend from back at my old home is coming on September thirty-first to spend a whole month with me, and I can't wait! I have missed her so much since we moved, and am so pleased that she will be able to make it for a visit."
"I am very happy for you, Miss Claudia! What is your friend like?"