"As we gather around this table, let us pause to cherish the gifts before us—the nourishment of the food, the warmth of the family beside us, and the invisible threads of love that bind us together. May this moment remind us that the simplest blessings are often the greatest: shared meals, shared stories, and shared lives. 'Bless the food before us, the family beside us, and the love between us.' Let gratitude be our silent prayer, and kindness our daily practice. Amen."

The neon lights bled crimson in the damp alleyway as Dicey Mama leaned against the peeling plaster, a cigarette dangling between her fingers, its ash curling like a dying serpent. Her left eye sparkled with cheap glitter, while the right one sat dark and hollow, a dried-up well. The ghost of a blackjack table flickered across her collarbone—men who lost to her always swore her heartbeat was colder than rolling dice.

She rides at the edge of the storm, her silhouette a blade against the bruised sky. The horse’s hooves kick up dust that doesn’t settle—it hangs in the air like a held breath, like the pause before a gunshot. Her braids whip wild, threaded with silver beads that chime like distant bullets. They say she once rode through a wildfire and came out the other side with her skin untouched, her dreadlocks smelling of burnt sage and defiance.