“There are three rules of survival in the Walled City: Run fast. Trust no one. Always carry your knife.”
Jin is living off the streets and her own speed while searching for the sister her father sold into slavery.
Dai tries to escape his past even if that means running drugs for the ruthless kingpin who holds the city in sway.
Mei Yee has been trapped in a brothel for two years, until freedom is nothing more than a dangerous dream.
It isn’t a new idea. It isn’t revolutionary.
But it bears repeating.
As Christians, we should not sit down to create the next great Christian piece of art, be it a book or painting or movie. It’s a terrible idea and if that’s all we have to go on it will end up stilted, cringy, and dull as a rusted coin that’s lain in a gutter all winter.
“Time flies when you’re plundering history.”
Or when you’re reading Invictus. I haven’t read many time travel stories. But most of the ones I have read (or, in this case, watched) are fun but always leave me poking at plot holes.
Have you ever read a book that claws through the foundation of everything you ever thought you knew about fiction?
And when the ground finally gives way, you find yourself falling through the abyss of space and you can’t breathe but at least you’ve never seen stars like these before. Then you realize they aren’t stars at all but flaming wreckage hurtling silently toward you and there’s nothing you can do but hope that something will survive the storm. Continue reading
I have to admit. I’m biased.
I absolutely adored Leigh Bardugo’s previous duology, so when I got my hands on her new one this year, I couldn’t put it down. Continue reading
Josan clutched the doorframe, doubling over with a ragged cough. Smoke pricked his eyes with a hundred tiny daggers. He gagged, pressing his face into the crook of his arm.
Orange flickers laced the opposite side of the great hall, wreathing ornate tapestries in smoke. Josan’s guard gripped his shoulder from behind. As if Seris could defend against this siege.
He’d almost forgotten what they looked like.
The old soldier gripped his rifle strap tighter as if the canvas cutting against calloused skin could hold off the dull ache in his chest.
Pianos, they used to call them. Continue reading
I remember when I was a child. Strange, the things one thinks about as they are dying.
I catch the doorframe of the castle gate with a painful gasp. Each breath burns in my chest as poison races through my veins. I clench one bloody fist against my ribs. It’s only a shallow cut, but it’s enough when poison is involved. Continue reading
Words are powerful. Pictures are even more so.
Each mask hides another,
Veil on tear-stained veil.
Each tattered page of my heart
Inked and stamped and sealed
In the shadows of my mind.