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They’d teach their children this ever-so-important rule: salt and silver halt the killer. An acceptable little poem, if you’re the sort of barbarian who enjoys slant rhymes.
This young man was around the same age as Charlie, but he was six and a half feet tall and had a jaw so straight it made other men question if they were.
She felt less like a mere human being, and more like a human who was merely being.
I’m not going to ask you to remember them all. Mostly because I don’t remember them all. Therefore, for ease of both narrative and our collective sanity, I’m going to name only the more important members of the Crow’s Song. The rest, regardless of gender, I’ll call “Doug.” You’d be surprised how common the name is across worlds. Oh, some spell it “Dug” or “Duhg,” but it’s always around. Regardless of local linguistics, parents eventually start naming their kids Doug. I once spent ten years on a planet where the only sapient life was a group of pancakelike beings that expressed themselves
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Fort wasn’t large like, “Hey, eat a salad” or even large like, “Hey, do you play sports?” He was large like, “Hey, how did you get through the door?”
It had a bunk on one end that was pure luxury to Tress, with a blanket, a mattress, and a pillow. Sure, the mattress looked lumpy, the pillow was small, and the blanket likely hadn’t been washed since the invention of vowels. But when you’ve been sleeping on the deck, you learn to grade on a curve.
Worry has weight, and is an infinitely renewable resource.
You can’t taste a memory without tainting it with who you have become.
Memory may not be the heart of what makes us human, but it’s at least a vital organ.
Enjoy memories, yes, but don’t be a slave to who you wish you once had been. Those memories aren’t alive. You are.
