They sat quietly together for a few minutes, Joe holding Fiona's hand, Fiona sniffling. No flowery words, no platitudes passed between them. Joe would have done anything to ease her suffering, but he knew nothing he might do, or say, could. Her grief would run its course, like a fever, and release her when it was spent. He would not shush her or tell her it was God's will and that her da was better off. That was rubbish and they both knew it. When something hurt as bad as this, you had to let it hurt. There were no shortcuts.
She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine.
Make them care, Mattie,' she said softly. 'And don't you ever be sorry.' -Emily Wilcox
Sometimes, when you catch someone unaware at just the right time and in just the right light, you can catch sight of what they will be.
A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping.
There is a ghost here. A lonely, heartbroken spirit. The ghost of everything that could've been and never was.
Voice is not just the sound that comes from your throat, but the feelings that come from your words.
For the first time, I saw what was in his heart, and I wondered if he might ever want to look deep enough to see mine.
The more obscure our tastes, the greater the proof of our genius.
The guitar's still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness. Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please
You are a ghost, Andi," she says. "Almost gone." I look at her. I want to say something but I can't get the words out. She squeezes my hands. "Come back to us," she says. And she's gone.
The rain comes down harder as I write. It sheets off the roof in torrents. I wish it would pound against me. Pound the life from my body. The flesh from my bones. The pain from my heart.
They leave things behind sometimes, the guests. A bottle of scent. A crumpled handkerchief. A pearl button that fell off a dress and rolled under a bed. And sometimes they leave other sorts of things. Things you can't see. A sigh trapped in a corner. Memories tangled in the curtains. A sob fluttering against the windowpane like a bird that flew in and can't get back out. I can feel these things. They dart and crouch and whisper.
History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.
For the first time in a long time, he didn't think of the past. And of all the things he'd lost. He thought only of the present, and what he had. And how it was so much more than he deserved. And he prayed then that he would never, ever lose it.
I love you, too... I won't ever leave you again. I promise. I kept that promise. For love him I did. For nearly two years I spent almost every waking hour with him. Until he was taken from me. But I never left him. And I never will.
Because just for a few seconds, someone else hurts, too. For just a few seconds, I'm not alone.
The King walks. He nods. His glance is like God's touch - under it all things spring to life. A wave of his hand and a hundred musicians tear into the Handel, making a sound you've never heard before, and never will again. A sound that goes through you, through flesh and bone, and reorders the very beat of your heart.
I listened as the words became sentences and the sentences became pages and the pages became feelings and voices and places and people.
It's another sin. Worse than all the other ones, which are immediate, violent and hot...It's the eighth deadly sin. The one God left out, Hope.
Cripes Miss Wilcox, they're not guns,' I said. No, they're not Mattie, they're books. And a hundred times more dangerous.
Yeah. Sure. My brother's dead. My mother's insame. Hey, let's have a crepe.
My father had put these things on the table. I looked at him standing by the sink. He was washing his hands, splashing water on his face. My mamma left us. My brother, too. And now my feckless, reckless uncle had as well. My pa stayed, though. My pa always stayed. I looked at him. And saw the sweat stains on his shirt. And his big, scarred hands. And his dirty, weary face. I remembered how, lying in my bed a few nights before, I had looked forward to showing him my uncle's money. To telling him I was leaving. And I was so ashamed.
I just love historical fiction.
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