"I am so sorry I'm late." My red woolly hair flopped onto my face and I huff, throwing my bag on the chair to put it up. I haven't noticed the prisoner yet as I pull down my black pencil skirt that stuck to my hips a little too tight due to the shrinkage in the washing machine. "This. . . is my therapist?" A deep mock...
What are we without flesh and blood? Are we nothing but a beating heart in a ribcage, a marching soul inevitably leading to our demise? Or are we here as a test of loyalty to our God, a God we do not know but must trust? And without this trust, we will be punished indefinitely for questioning his divinity. And what...