“Gerald, did you know I was top of my class at law school?”
“Oh yes, sir, you have it on your business card.” The boatman held up Vincent’s card that he’d given him earlier that day. A fit man in his late fifties, Gerald’s bushy red beard was only just starting to betray a few gray whiskers.
Every year, King Hearthsward hosted a grand Midsummer Feast at our royal court. There were games and challenges, boasts and feats of strength, and people traveled from many lands to partake in the celebrations. Even our enemies visited our table, emboldened by the oath of peace during festival-time. If you brought no trouble, none would find you.
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Sketchbook in hand, I leaned over the watchtower’s edge. Dark shadows crept across the hills toward us.
Below me, a dozen farmers added sweeping strokes to the canvas in the center square. Hard to believe these men’s artistic experiences once extended only as far as the furrows their plows carved into the earth.
The summer I first traveled to America, my father wore a red shirt so I could spot him in the crowds. Let’s just say that system doesn’t work if other people are wearing red shirts and you’re a five-year-old who can’t see above anyone’s butt.
As soon as we joined the mob in front of JFK to catch a cab, I got separated from Dad.
On the evening of June 20, the president sat alone in the Oval Office, reviewing intelligence reports. The peace talks in Paris were going well—at least enough to silence the protesters at home. His reelection committee had hit a minor snag, but they were managing it. As long as he could distract the public…
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