Surprisingly enjoying this even though it's a little slow and full of a lot of facts. I've been on a true crime kick since watching the new season of Mindhunter.
17 likes
Surprisingly enjoying this even though it's a little slow and full of a lot of facts. I've been on a true crime kick since watching the new season of Mindhunter.
"I am one of billions. I am stardust gathered fleetingly into form. I will be ungathered. The stardust will go on to be other things someday and I will be free."
A sunny summer day spent reading outside. I'm really loving this series, but I hate the covers 😂
We are stardust brought to life, then empowered by the universe to figure itself out --and we have only just begun.
bailedI couldn't even finish it. It was slow, and boring and it just feels like a cheap remake of a good fantasy story. Wasn't super into it. The main character was pretty bad ass and deserved a better story. Wouldn't recommend.
I no longer wanted to suffer quietly. I no longer wanted to be controlled by my story. I wanted to tell my story instead.
I started carrying my stories beneath my rib cage in a physical manifestation that was somewhat like grief-a constant fluttering hummingbirds heart.
That little girl is you as a child. Go to her. Hug her. Treat that child version of yourself with the kindness that you would have for any child. Hug her like a loving mother would hug her and picture the walls of the tower collapsing.
I never loved you anymore than I do, right this second. And I'll never love you any less than I do, right this second.
Bram was right: people really are like houses with vast rooms and tiny windows. And maybe it's a good thing, the way we never stop surprising each other.
Reading Tower of Dawn and admiring my new engagement ring, finally found my Rhys/Rowan ❤
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.
She would never let go of it-the rage. Even when she sank into that burning sea within her, even when she sang to the darkness and flame, the rage guided her.
The dead are watching, whether or not we choose to listen to their stories
Embedded deep in the idea of home ownership-the Holy Grail of American middle-class life-is the idea that we don't, in fact, own the land we've just bought. Time and time again in these stories, perfectly average, innocent American families are confronted by ghosts who have persevered for centuries, who remain vengeful for the damage done.
There's nowhere in this nation that wasn't already inhabited before Europeans arrived, and there's no town, no house, that doesn't sit atop someone else's former home.
Spooky read for the spooky season 👻☠💀
Our country's ghost stories are themselves the dreams (or nightmares) of a nation, the Freudian slips of whole communities: uncomfortable and unbidden expressions of things we'd assumed were long past and no longer important.
According to one poll, 45 percent of Americans say they believe in ghosts, and almost 30 percent say they've witnessed them first-hand. Though this belief lies outside the ways we normally explain the world-contradicting science and complicating religion- it's a difficult belief to shake.
Evil is more than a vague notion. It is an entity, and it is manifest on the earth. It had reflexes and intuition, senses vulnerability, and changes it's form to adapt to it's surroundings. Those who do not believe the Devil walks this earth have not yet seen the things that I have seen.
Here's why I don't like these stories: They highlight that I am vulnerable. No matter how careful I am, eventually I'll make another misstep. I am weak. I am fragile. I am mortal.
I hate that most of all.
Grief is different. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life.
When Adam kissed him, it was every mile per hour Ronan had ever gone over the speed limit. It was every window-down, goose-bumps-on-skin, teeth-chattering-cold night drive. It was Adam's ribs under Ronan's hands and Adam's mouth on his mouth, again and again and again. It was stubble on his lips and Ronan having to stop, to get his breath, to restart his heart.
His feelings for Adam were an oil spill; he'd let them overflow and now there wasn't a damn place in the ocean that wouldn't catch fire if he dropped a match.
But if one squinted into Cabeswater long enough, in the right way, one could see secrets dart between the trees. The shadows of horned animals that never appeared. The winking lights of another summer's fireflies. The rushing sound of many wings, the sound of a massive flock always out of sight.
Magic.
Rowan has not possessed an army of his own to give to Aelin. To give to Terrasen. So he had won an army for her. Through the only things Aelin has claimed were all she wanted from him.
His heart. His loyalty. His friendship.
"I love you. There is not limit to what I can give you, no time I need. Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you. "
Her heart strained, and she pulled back to lift a hand to his face. Rowan read the softness in her eyes, her body, and his own inherent fierceness slipped into a gentleness that so few would ever see. Her throat ached with the effort of keeping the words in.
She'd been in love with him for awhile now. Longer than she wanted to admit.
I spent centuries wandering the world, from empires to kingdoms to wastelands, never settling, never stopping-not for one moment. I was always looking towards the horizon, always wondering what waited across the next ocean, over the next mountain. But I think...I think that whole time, all those centuries, I was just looking for you.
They had walked out of darkness and pain and despair together. They were still walkimg out of it. So that smile...it struck him stupid every time he saw it and realized it was for him.
"Blue," she whispered. "My blood runs blue."
"Good choice, witchling," Manon said, and the word was a challenge and an order. She turned away, but glanced over her shoulder. "Welcome to the Blackbeaks."
Witchling. Elide stared after her. She had likely just made the biggest mistake of her life, but...it was strange.
Strange, the feeling of belonging.
She was fire, and light, and ash, and embers. She was Aelin Fireheart, and she bowed for no one and nothing, save the crown that was hers by blood and survival and triumph.
I was here. I exist. I'm alive, because I bleed.
Blue was perfectly aware that it was possible to have a friendship that wasn't all-encompassing, that wasn't blinding, deafening, maddening, quickening. It was just that now that she'd had this kind, she didn't want the other.
New summer read, can't wait to be back in my favorite fictional town in Virginia 😀
"You wanted a demonstration," Celaena said quietly. Sweat trickled down her back, but she gripped the magic with everything she had. "One thought from me, and your city will burn."
"It is stone," Maeve snapped.
Celaena smiled. "Your people aren't."
She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.
When the final note finished, the conductor turned to the crowd, the musicians standing with him. As one they looked to the boxes, to all those jewels bought with the blood of a continent. And without a word, without a bow or another gesture, they walked off the stage.
The next morning, by royal decree, the theater was shut down.
No one saw those musicians or their conductor again.
To be honest, this series is finally picking up, I was losing hope that I would find it to be any where close to as good as her ACOTAR series, but this book is giving me hope. So far, this is the best book I've read in this series.
Perhaps they would never get out of it, perhaps they would never be whole again, but..."Together," she said, and took his outstretched hand.
And somewhere far and deep inside her, an ember began to glow.
HIS MATE?!?! ARE U KIDDING ME SHE KILLED OFF HIS MATE?? POOR ROWAN...
"I am... so sorry, " she started, but he held up a hand.
"You do not apologize," he said, "for defending the people you care about. "
Her mother had called her Fireheart.
But to her court, to her people, she would one day be Queen. To them, she was the heir to two mighty bloodlines, and to a tremendous power that would keep them safe and raise their kingdom to even greater heights. A power that was a gift- or a weapon.
Each of the scars, the chipped teeth and broken claws, the mutilated tail- they weren't the markings of a victim. Oh, no. They were the trophies of a survivor. Abraxos was a warrior who'd had all the odds stacked against him and survived. Learned from it. Triumphed.
Aelin would come back from Wendlyn, no matter what the captain believed. Aelin would come back, and when she did...With every breath, Aedion felt that lingering scent wrapping tighter around his heart and soul. When she came back, he was never letting her go.
So Celaena turned away from the stars, nestling under the threadbare blanket against the frigid cold, and closed her eyes, trying to dream of a different world.
A world where she was no one at all.
