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World Hopping

A few minutes ago, the rain started outside the window, waking me into this world, so I ran out to fetch the hammock off its poles and haul it to the back porch where it can rest on the rocking chair and stay dry.  My daughter’s reading beside me on the couch, and my husband’s making lunch in the kitchen.  I’ll join him soon.

In my novel, a girl sits on the bathroom floor, out of line from the cameras, skimming through images on the itablet she stole.  She sees a decapitated chicken, with its beady eye and bright smear of red blood, and an old woman’s hands in blue light, and the green tobacco fields under their miles of fabric shade.

In the book I’m reading, Angie feels her seventeenth summer ending and wonders how she’ll endure missing Jack when she moves away to college.  She looks at the stars and smells the water and longs for the unknown.  She puzzles me, this innocent girl in a book with only the most gentle sort of conflict.  I wonder what I’m missing.

I do know which one is the real world.  I do.  I just have to remember sometimes.

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Caragh's Latest Favorite Reads

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
Every Day
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Until It Hurts to Stop


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Book Trailer for Promised