Stavanger Bay shiver down my backbone

was she sorry? val grinned, dubious. dwin had a history of keeping him on his toes -- the innocence in her voice did not quite match the impishness of her gaze.

it was true that now that dwin was nearing full adulthood, val did not feel so much older. he mused how time worked: it was not a linear thing - youth and geriatrics had this in common, where a few months made a big difference. but when you were in the middle, years meant very little.

parsley patch or not, val's dark face bloomed again in a wide grin. i skipped the parsley patch and went straight to seventeen billion kids.

as for whether the lovelorn searching the garden rows were pathetic, val mused aloud: maybe you have not found the right parsley patch yet. he winked - for he was confident anyone would be lucky to call dwin their parsley-bedding compatriot.

he was sorry to hear the great adventure did not match expectations. val recalled encountering a similar truth in his youth and young manhood, and it was as if an idol had been toppled. he simply nodded, wondering if sylvie had dwin's same unquenchable thirst for romps and escapades.

life has been fine. truthfully, too. val's life was boring; it was up to wolves like ceridwin to cast appealing light to it. i have not drowned yet. what stories have you and sylvie learned of? and what do you think of the moonpacks?