Small Realities

Inside the mind of Lance Schonberg

Thorvald’s Wyrd 125

“Rise, my son.”

The All Father pulled Thorvald to his feet by the power of his voice alone.  Only when he stood tall again did Sunna let free his hand and step into the embrace of a man both older than the hills and younger than her rescuer.  White hair and beard meant nothing against well-defined muscles beneath the loose, white robes.  Beyond doubt, he witnessed a reunion of father and daughter.  Another man, pale and beardless, placed a hand on Sunna’s shoulder as she faced Thorvald.

“My eternal gratitude, Saviour.”  She brightened and began to rise into the sky.


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