He would have to settle for an unmarked grave, if you could call it that, and his bleached white bones, stripped clean by wild dogs in a dry riverbed on the outskirts of Kabul, not unlike the one he ... [+]
My hands used to create magic. I think with the increasing demands of adulthood, they've had their spark pulled right out of them. My little sister's hands still glisten with it, but I fear her hunger to be seen as an adult will soon take her magic as well. Growing up with ten older siblings, she thinks eating two pieces of cake after dinnertime and eating Mike-and-Ikes when she poops in the potty is what defines maturity. Although she has a vocabulary and imagination that would put Tolkien to shame, my sister is too small for that much dessert and is also still in diapers.Thus trapped in her
