maloufy for literature.

A sharp, cold wind hit the sides of their faces, raw and exposed like the sides of mountains, or the sand dunes which flowed through the desert, shaped and molded over the passage of time by the constant work of elemental forces. Though the two girls knew that such a force was not one to be reckoned with, that it was bigger, older, more rudimentary than anything they had within their power to control, they had found, within themselves, and within the grey-green slow suburban park, a refuge. It was carefully pocketed on a small island, reachable only by a small jump across the slow flowing creek where fat ducks drifted and stale bread sank. It was a small leap to get there – perhaps only the length of a schoolroom ruler – but yet so few attempted it that the two young girls were able to feel as though this place – this small, insignificant place – could be all their own. They would often, on days like these, wrapped up in coats and scarves with only the outermost parts of them exposed to the elements, escape the anger of misled parents or the burden of unknown sadness or the fate of forced thousands, miles away but inescapable to their young minds, and find sanctuary within this place. They crawled underneath Their Tree, maternal in the way it hugged the edges of where they sat, protecting them from wind, water, fear, and huddled there. A slow drizzle descended, and it was warm there.