Laura Whitcomb
- A Certain Slant of Light
The library smells like old books - a thousand leather doorways into other worlds. I hear silence, like the mind of God. I feel a presence in the empty chair beside me. The librarian watches me suspiciously. But the library is a sacred place, and I sit with the patron saint of readers. Pulsing goddess light moves through me for one moment like a glimpse of eternity instantly forgotten. She is gone. I smell mold, I hear the clock ticking, I see an empty chair. Ask me now and I'll say this is just.
Wyndreth Berginsdottir
- My Mother's Savage Daughter
I am my mother's savage daughter. The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. I am my mother's savage daughter. I will not cut my hair. I will not lower my voice. My mother's child is a savage. She looks for her omens in the colors of stones, in the faces of cats, in the falling of feathers, in the dancing of fire, in the curves of old bones. I am my mother's savage daughter.
