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On the first night, we slaughter animals for the winter.

I walk behind my father carrying a shallow bowl of blood. Mother and I drained it from one of the chickens moments ago and it’s still warm.
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My fingers were numb and tight in the cold night air, but I held the rope and leaned back with all my weight. Up at the top of the stone wall, Cy
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My father is called the Giant King. Not because he is particularly large, or because he rules over a people of great stature. It is because he defeated them.
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I've been thinking a lot about blood, lately. Thinking about WHY it's in so many of my stories ( Read more... )

“The trick,” I told the kid, “is to remember it isn’t alive ( Read more... )