Twist. Turn. Dart Jump. I will wait for you. Wait for you to tire. Because you will drag me and my little boat all the way to Heaven before I let go this line. Soaked with salt and sweat and blood from my stinging palm.
And we dance, you and I, like sweet Rosa, mother of my starving daughter Consuelo. And you will drag me to Heaven before I let go. My harpoon is waiting like the hunger of my child for that first taste of blood. And though it cuts my hand, I will not let you go. Not...
He couldn't see through the rain. The rain covered everything in sight, like a thick veil of mosquito netting had been thrown over the city.
It was a dilemma. The once wished-for, prayed-for, blessed rains that the Americans had provided for the desert nation had turned into a curse. They washed away everything, buildings crumbling on what had been sturdy foundations in the desert. While the crops suddenly flourished, the cities were dying. The culture was dying. The people were dying.
Now the americans were threatening to take the rains away.