She comes to me in dreams, half-remembered hazy images of green and gold, the colors of forest, the cool breeze of morning rain. She walks in shaded boughs, her face a mystery. Of course it is. Of course she does. This is how she has lived, how she has survived, through stealth and guile, deception and misdirection. She is craft come alive, wisdom applied to reality, the sharp spear and steady shield.

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The Twice Portlander

I thought of that title driving home from the bar. Oh, that’s bad. It’s bad, right? Well you can’t prove anything so we’re just going to ignore that first sentence. Pretend it’s fiction.

It’s so bad.

No, I mean to say that I thought of the title coming home from my friend’s birthday party over in Montavilla, a part of town I’ve only recently begun to explore.

That’s not right either.

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