The Seven Chinese Sisters

“Why didn’t the dragon just take what he came for? Doesn’t the soup look more delicious than the baby sister?”

McCormick beams.


June lays her hand on the page, her fingers spreading, pink, blue, pink. Julie let her get them done.

“The dragon’s tears run down the mountain and they are the river.”

McCormick’s eyes go salty. Somehow this world earned June. He closes the book for bedtime though sunset is just underway.

She climbs the back of the chair, looks into the courtyard. The neighbor’s tulips. The magical light. “They would be more pretty if they were really ours.”

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