Sister Perpetua held the helmet for a long time, her hands shaking slightly and then handed it back to the rider and said in a whisper, “Who are you?”
Standing before her was a woman—not that the Lord can’t be a woman, Perpetua knew. But why did her face look so familiar?
My Life Coach Terry gave me a personal challenge. “Get a pet,” he said. “Become a pack leader.”
You try not falling in love with a spy. They know everything about you without any of the small talk. They’ve seen your dossier, they’ve tapped your phone, they’ve killed and impersonated your best friend for two years to learn everything they possibly can about you from beneath a very convincing rubber mask. […]
Hiking through numerous minefields in the annexed Golan Heights of Israel but never stepping on any mines. This’ll be near death experience No. 6.
You run away like the usual shadow of my southbound train. / Again: bird tracks in ice & I mistook them / for your tiny feet / —but I would know you, wouldn’t I, my / casualty / among all the world’s sighs.
Only Perpetua understood what happened to the hog. The deafening rumble of the Harley disturbed the quiet contemplation of the nuns in the Benedictine convent house. Sister Perpetua alone embraced the hog. She knew it seemed wrong to ignore part of her monastic vocation—to revere silence. Instead, she cherished the motorbike’s chanting cadence, the thrill that burned through her body.