East of a little town and down out past the hedges and burrows and scarlet-veined ivy there are two tobacco brown rivers that slit the soil and as they roll off into a backdrop of innumerable golden bushels of wheat and grain and pebbled soybeans there lies a treasured slice of triangulated land that sways rhythmically and sweet beneath the swarms of larks and teals and red breasted mergansers and they all funnel into a conflux where starlings swirl and trails amalgamate and muddy waters gurgle…
She don’t trust men who masquerade, men holier than thou, men who lead the pack. These men deceive. They are charlatans, these men without chaos.
Claire is misunderstood by all. She’s a black sheep, an outlaw, a high-heeled gunslinger.
The girl had never seen the sun set from this particular bend in the river. The way the bank was bent allowed the light to shine in such a way that it unrolled a golden carpet across the surface of the water.
I’ve encountered many books that I could not possibly part with; like strangers on the streets with gleaming eyes that reflect interesting and untold stories, a curiosity begs you to discover and explore those stories you are supposed to be a part of.