There Are Worse Ways To Die Than

Books Are Dead Men Talking.

Drifting Snowflakes Brushed Her Face As Light As Lover’s Kisses, And Melted On Her Cheeks. At The Center Of The Garden, Beside The Statue Of The Weeping Woman That Lay Broken And Half-buried On The Ground, She Turned Her Face Up To The Sky And Closed Her Eyes. She Could Feel The Snow On Her Lashes, Taste It On Her Lips. It Was The Taste Of Winterfell. The Taste Of Innocence. The Taste Of Dreams.

Some Allies Are More Dangerous Than Enemies.

I Was A Journalism Major, And I Would Take Creative Writing Classes As Part Of That, But I Would Also Look For Opportunities To Write Stories For Some Of My Other Classes. So For My Course In Scandinavian History, I Asked If I Could Write Historical Fiction Instead Of Term Papers. Sometimes They’d Say Yes.

The Man Who Never Reads Lives Only One.