By Mona Bapat The cool breeze strokes his face and engulfs his entire being like a hug. Stepping onto the cool grass with his bare…
Where Writing Shines
He ran his thumb over the ridged handle of his father’s pocketknife in slow, even movements as the fingers of his other hand searched idly…
Sweat beads formed, sticking my curly locks stick to my brow. I moved away from the old man, but my brain hung on his words.…
The abandoned Spanish mission was exactly where the old man at the tavern in Port Royal had marked on his map. The ceilings had collapsed…