“Well if it isn’t the commander of the British invasion,” spoke Fern Stalin softly to Lichen Roosevelt at the bar, receiving a small chuckle. Lichen was usually the witty one, surprising her. “This should be fun,” she said back, watching Alysha continue to walk toward still reading Bartholomew.
“Hi. Finished yet?”
“Last paragraph, *ugh*.”
—–
“We’re going to leave them all in; remove the cross outs instead. *They’re* the mistakes, starting with Carumba.”
“I… understand.”
“Is the soup good? I made it myself.”
“I….. love.”
Sunklands 