I had imagined Peace a woman. Tall and cold, marble-refined slender hands held in elegant lap, an expression of uncompromised calm…
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Ghosts, I am told, like to surprise the living with smells sometimes cloyingly sweet lavender, honeysuckle, rose. At other times it’s rotting leaves. The stench of ectoplasm they can’t control that seeps…
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“A man only needs three things to be a hero: a sword, a story and a girl.” Mark rolls his eyes. “Not every hero fights for love, you know.”
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The world doesn't stop when someone dies. You want it to. You damned well pray it will. But it doesn't. It just keeps going.
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