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Crooked Kingdom
“What did she say?” asked Matthias.
Nina coughed and took his arm, leading him away. “She said you’re a very nice fellow, and a credit to the Fjerdan race. Ooh, look, blini! I haven’t had proper blini in forever.”
“That word she used:
babink
,” he said. “You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?”
Nina directed her attention to a stack of paper-thin buttered pancakes. “It means sweetie pie.”
“Nina—”
“Barbarian.”
“I was just asking, there’s no need to name-call.”
“No,
babink
means barbarian.” Matthias’ gaze snapped back to the old woman, his glower returning to full force. Nina grabbed his arm. It was like trying to hold on to a boulder. “She wasn’t insulting you! I swear!”
“Barbarian isn’t an insult?” he asked, voice rising.
“No. Well, yes. But not in this context. She wanted to know if you’d like to play Princess and Barbarian.”
“It’s a game?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what is it?”
Nina couldn’t believe she was actually going to attempt to explain this. As they continued up the street, she said, “In Ravka, there’s a popular series of stories about, um, a brave Fjerdan warrior—”
“Really?” Matthias asked. “He’s the hero?”
“In a manner of speaking. He kidnaps a Ravkan princess—”
“That would never happen.”
“In the story it does, and”—she cleared her throat—“they spend a long time getting to know each other. In his cave.”
“He lives in a cave?”
“It’s a very nice cave. Furs. Jeweled cups. Mead.”
“Ah,” he said approvingly. “A treasure hoard like Ansgar the Mighty. They become allies, then?”
Nina picked up a pair of embroidered gloves from another stand. “Do you like these? Maybe we could get Kaz to wear something with flowers. Liven up his look.”
“How does the story end? Do they fight battles?”
Nina tossed the gloves back on the pile in defeat. “They get to know each other
intimately
.”
Matthias’ jaw dropped. “In the cave?”
“You see, he’s very brooding, very manly,” Nina hurried on. “But he falls in love with the Ravkan princess and that allows her to civilize him—”
“To civilize him?”
“Yes, but that’s not until the third book.”
“There are three?”
“Matthias, do you need to sit down?”
“This culture is disgusting. The idea that a Ravkan could civilize a Fjerdan—”
“Calm down, Matthias.”
“Perhaps I’ll write a story about insatiable Ravkans who like to get drunk and take their clothes off and make unseemly advances toward hapless Fjerdans.”
“Now
that
sounds like a party.” Matthias shook his head, but she could see a smile tugging at his lips. She decided to push the advantage. “
We
could play,” she murmured, quietly enough so that no one around them could hear.
“We most certainly could not.”
“At one point he bathes her.”
Matthias’ steps faltered. “Why would he—”
“She’s tied up, so he has to.”
“Be silent.”
“Already giving orders. That’s very barbarian of you. Or we could mix it up. I’ll be the barbarian and you can be the princess. But you’ll have to do a lot more sighing and trembling and biting your lip.”
“How about I bite
your
lip?”
“Now you’re getting the hang of it, Helvar.”
Matthias Helvar
Nina Zenik
Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation
“The punishment imposed on us for claiming true self can never be worse than the punishment we impose on ourselves by failing to make that claim. And the converse is true as well: no reward anyone might give us could possibly be greater than the reward that comes from living by our own best lights.”
Authenticity
Punishment
True Self
Best Light
Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation
“Today I understand vocation quite differently-
not as a goal to be achieved but as a gift to be received. Discovering vocation does not mean scrambling toward some prize just beyond my reach but accepting the treasure of true self I already possess. Vocation does not come from a voice "out there" calling me to become something I am not. It comes from a voice "in here" calling me to be the person I was born to be, to fulfill the original selfhood given me at birth by God,”
Acceptance
Treasure
Purpose
Calling
Vocation
Selfhood
The Gift Of Self
“No, don't speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories - memories of things that made me love you - memories of words that made me love you - memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest, without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived. And now - oh, when I think that I made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life!”
Love
An Ideal Husband
Women, Voice, and Writing: How to define, develop, and strengthen your writing voice
“About play: Play is an important part of finding voice, because it allows us to try on new selves, like costumes, with sanctuary. We can pretend to be, pretend to write as if, without committing. And often play allows us to discover our authentic self. [p. 48]”
Play
Writing Process
Authentic Self
Writing Quotes Writing Life
Writing Voice
Finding Voice
Women, Voice, and Writing: How to define, develop, and strengthen your writing voice
“Inherited voice: Our inherited voice is handed down with the family furniture. [p 39]”
Writing Process
Writing Quotes
Writing Voice
Inherited Voice
Inspirational Voice
Women, Voice, and Writing: How to define, develop, and strengthen your writing voice
“On silence: Silence is an important language. Not speaking can be an intensely relational act.
… Repression is a kind of silence, and also shapes voice. [p. 23]
The silencer has power. The dominant culture defines what is spoken about, what is repressed. The effect on the non-dominant culture (in this case women or girls) is to learn the language of camouflage. She learns to disassociate from her own knowing and her own voice.[p. 50] from WOMEN VOICE AND WRITING”
Silence
Power Of Words
Voice
Writing Voice
“On choice: In any given situation there are three basic choices: Exit, Loyalty or voice. [p. 86] from WOMEN VOICE AND WRITING”
Inspirational
Choice
Loyalty
Voice
Choosing
Choosing Your Path In Life
Loyalty And Disloyalty Quotes
Hard Times
“The factory-bells had need to ring their loudest that morning to disperse the groups of workers who stood in the tardy daybreak, collected round the placards [wanted posters], devouring them with eager eyes. Not the least eager of the eyes assembled, were the eyes of those who could not read. These people, as they listened to the friendly voice that read aloud--there was always some such ready to help them--stared at the characters which meant so much with a vague awe and respect that would have been half ludicrous, if any aspect of public ignorance could ever be otherwise than threatening and full of evil.”
Reading
Ignorance
Violence
Crowd
Literacy
Mob Mentality
Ignorance Of People
Wrong Planet - Searching for your Tribe
“We invariably have an internalised personal code of honour, an inner voice that embodies us with a sincere, strong sense of decency that surpasses Rag, Tag & Bobtail’s acquiescence to law and ethics. Think Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, Terry McCann from Minder or the heroic English folklore outlaw, Robin Hood.”
Decency
Ethics And Moral Philosophy
Robin Hood
Ethics And Morality
Code Of Honor
Captain Jack Sparrow
Pearls Before Swine
“To suggest that LGBTI protests against any proposal to amend the Constitution to remove sexual orientation or gender protections are 'pointless' due to a perception that there are enough voices of reason in all parties to oppose it, is counter-productive – because as we can see in the USA as a good current example – THERE ARE, UNTIL THERE AREN'T.”
Of
Constitution
Lgbti
A Perception
Any Proposal
Gender Protections
To Remove
The Tyrant’s Tomb
“I keeled over sideways.
The world turned fluffy, bleached of all color. Nothing hurt anymore.
I was dimly aware of Diana’s face hovering over me, Meg and Hazel peering over the goddess’s shoulders.
“He’s almost gone,” Diana said.
Then I was gone. My mind slipped into a pool of cold, slimy darkness.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” My sister’s voice woke me rudely.
I’d been so comfortable, so nonexistent.
Life surged back into me—cold, sharp, and unfairly painful. Diana’s face came into focus. She looked annoyed, which seemed on-brand for her.
As for me, I felt surprisingly good. The pain in my gut was gone. My muscles didn’t burn. I could breathe without difficulty. I must have slept for decades.
“H-how long was I out?” I croaked.
“Roughly three seconds,” she said. “Now, get up, drama queen.”
She helped me to my feet. I felt a bit unsteady, but I was delighted to find that my legs had any strength at all. My skin was no longer gray. The lines of infection were gone. The Arrow of Dodona was still in my hand, though he had gone silent, perhaps in awe of the goddess’s presence. Or perhaps he was still trying to get the taste of “Sweet Caroline” out of his imaginary mouth.
I beamed at my sister. It was so good to see her disapproving I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-brother frown again. “I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion.
She blinked, clearly unsure what to do with this information. “You really have changed.”
“I missed you!”
“Y-yes, well. I’m here now. Even Dad couldn’t argue with a Sibylline invocation from Temple Hill.”
“It worked, then!” I grinned at Hazel and Meg. “It worked!”
“Yeah,” Meg said wearily. “Hi, Artemis.”
“Diana,” my sister corrected. “But hello, Meg.” For her, my sister had a smile. “You’ve done well, young warrior.”
Meg blushed. She kicked at the scattered zombie dust on the floor and shrugged. “Eh.”
I checked my stomach, which was easy, since my shirt was in tatters. The bandages had vanished, along with the festering wound. Only a thin white scar remained. “So…I’m healed?” My flab told me she hadn’t restored me to my godly self. Nah, that would have been too much to expect.
Diana raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the goddess of healing, but I’m still a goddess. I think I can take care of my little brother’s boo-boos.”
“Little brother?”
She smirked.”
Siblings
Apollo
Hazel Levesque
Diana
Meg Mccaffrey
Lester Papadopoulos
Boo Boo
The Arrow Of Dodona
The Tyrant’s Tomb
“Meg slashed through the last of Tarquin’s minions. That was a good thing, I thought distantly. I didn’t want her to die, too. Hazel stabbed Tarquin in the chest. The Roman king fell, howling in pain, ripping the sword hilt from Hazel’s grip. He collapsed against the information desk, clutching the blade with his skeletal hands.
Hazel stepped back, waiting for the zombie king to dissolve. Instead, Tarquin struggled to his feet, purple gas flickering weakly in his eye sockets.
“I have lived for millennia,” he snarled. “You could not kill me with a thousand tons of stone, Hazel Levesque. You will not kill me with a sword.”
I thought Hazel might fly at him and rip his skull off with her bare hands. Her rage was so palpable I could smell it like an approaching storm. Wait…I did smell an approaching storm, along with other forest scents: pine needles, morning dew on wildflowers, the breath of hunting dogs.
A large silver wolf licked my face. Lupa? A hallucination? No…a whole pack of the beasts had trotted into the store and were now sniffing the bookshelves and the piles of zombie dust.
Behind them, in the doorway, stood a girl who looked about twelve, her eyes silver-yellow, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed for the hunt in a shimmering gray frock and leggings, a white bow in her hand. Her face was beautiful, serene, and as cold as the winter moon.
She nocked a silver arrow and met Hazel’s eyes, asking permission to finish her kill. Hazel nodded and stepped aside. The young girl aimed at Tarquin.
“Foul undead thing,” she said, her voice hard and bright with power. “When a good woman puts you down, you had best stay down.”
Her arrow lodged in the center of Tarquin’s forehead, splitting his frontal bone. The king stiffened. The tendrils of purple gas sputtered and dissipated. From the arrow’s point of entry, a ripple of fire the color of Christmas tinsel spread across Tarquin’s skull and down his body, disintegrating him utterly. His gold crown, the silver arrow, and Hazel’s sword all dropped to the floor.
I grinned at the newcomer. “Hey, Sis.”
Apollo
Hazel Levesque
Diana
Meg Mccaffrey
Tarquin
Lester Papadopoulos
The Tyrant’s Tomb
“Reyna said, swinging her sword again. “Something they’ll hate worse than Apollo.” Her eyes lit up. “Apollo, sing for them!”
She might as well have kicked me in the face again. “My voice isn’t that bad!”
“But you’re the—You used to be the god of music, right? If you can charm a crowd, you should be able to repulse one. Pick a song these birds will hate!”
Great. Not only had Reyna laughed in my face and busted my nose, now I was her go-to guy for repulsiveness.”
Apollo
Reyna Avila Ramírez Arellano
Lester Papadopoulos
Dead Toad Scrolls
“The mythic resonance gleaned from stories exploring the infinite permutations of the human condition saturates the universal stream of consciousness, creating an interlinked constellation of our imbued voices trilling the full range of human feeling and experience.”
Story
Memoir
Storytelling
Writers On Writing
Story Teller
Memoir Writing
Essayist
Writing Memoir
Writers On Writing Books
A Better Man
“I see." Gamache lowered his voice, though all could still hear the words. "When I was Chief Superintendent, I had a framed poster in my office. On it were the last words of a favorite poet, Seamus Heaney. Noli timere. It's Latin. Do you know what it means?"
He looked around the room.
"Neither did I," he admitted when no one spoke. "I had to look it up. It means 'Be Not Afraid.' His eyes returned to the unhappy young agent. "In this job you'll have to do things that scare you. You might be afraid, but you must be brave. When I ask you to do something, you must trust there's a good reason. And I need to trust that you will do it. D'accord?”
Gamache
Noli Timere
Voices from Chernobyl: The Oral History of a Nuclear Disaster
“Entonces, ¿para qué recuerda la gente? ¿Para reestablecer la verdad? ¿La justicia? ¿Para liberarse y olvidar? ¿Por qué comprenden que han participado en un acontecimiento grandioso? ¿O porque buscan en el pasado alguna protección? Y todo eso, a sabiendas de que los recuerdos son algo frágil, efímero; no se trata de conocimientos precisos, sino de conjeturas sobre uno mismo. No son aún conocimientos, son solo sentimientos. Lo que siento.”
Sentimientos
Recuerdos
The Wallflower Wager
“A masquerade is supposed to be a chance to put on a different face, isn't it? An opportunity to be someone else for a few hours. Yet I can't seem to manage it. I'm still me, beneath the mask."
"I know what you mean." Gabe was still himself beneath the armor, too. An interloper among the aristocrats. Unwelcome. Inadequate. "We are who we are, I suppose."
"We are who we are," she agreed.
Gabe despised the defeated note in her voice. He
liked
who she was, beneath the mask. And when he was in her company, he almost liked who he was, too. The idea that anyone would overlook her made him vaguely furious.”
Penelope And Gabriel
We Are Who We Are
The Wallflower Wager
“She had a big, beautiful man at her mercy, and she wasn't going to relinquish control. Oh, she was under no illusions that she had him physically overpowered. He could have flipped their places at any instant.
She hadn't
taken
the reins. He'd
given
her the reins. And that made it all the better.
She decided how to begin, when to stop. Whether to tease them both with grazing friction or grind her hips. She set the pace. It was hers to grant or deny him mercy when he pleaded in a whisper. "
Faster
."
With every motion- slow or quick, form or gentle- her pleasure spiraled higher. Her breathing grew uneven, and she flushed with heat.
She fell forward to kiss him, searching his mouth. Exploring. As their tongues tangled, his whiskers scraped her lips and chin. Her nipples puckered to knots, exquisitely sensitive. With every movement, they kissed the hard planes of his chest.
Bliss rushed at her from all sides, propelling her toward that distant promise of satisfaction. Her rhythm lost all elegance. Her hips jerked and bounced as her urgency grew.
"Yes." His voice was strained. "Hold nothing back. I want to feel you come against me. I want to hear the sounds you make."
His words of encouragement had the opposite effect. For the first time, she felt a moment's trepidation. She'd never climaxed with another person. It had taken her years to feel comfortable with herself, let alone a man. When the pleasure broke, she would be bared to him. More naked than naked.”
Penelope And Gabriel
Friction Between Partners
Dead Toad Scrolls
“Self-evaluation proved to be distasteful business. The refraction of light created from an undulating wave of critical self-observation passing through a tarnished lens produces its own morose, self-negating fixations that can result in a dangerous downward spiral. Unless timely arrested, murderous bouts of self-hatred can destroy a person. A person must use self-detestation exclusively as a means to pry oneself away from the haunting specter created courtesy of the clamor, filth, and grunginess of their prior anarchism. Kick starting a stranded person’s emotional motors through reflective contemplation and thoughtful rumination acts to prod loose remote memories seared in the unspoken silence of a person’s unconscious memory bank. Self-discovery is also an uplifting affair. Contemplation helps one confront their streaked presence and realign their inner voice with the sanguine spirits of their ancestors that preceded one in the walk through time.”
Self Discovery
Inner Voice
Self Hatred
Self Criticism
Self Evaluation
Self Evolution
Self Critic
Self Observation
Self Critical
Mind Chatter
Dead Toad Scrolls
“The tug of self-destruction and the desire to defy mortality by creating an everlasting mark upon this world are uneasy acquaintances. The strident edginess behind a writer’s searchlight voice is a product of the natural tension that engenders when an apathetic writer believes death could arrive tonight. Stunned by fear of a hard deadline, the writer is jolted from their state of laziness and mental neglect that trolling inertia dampens their aptitude to love life.”
Memoir
Writers On Writing
Writers Block
Self Destruction
Writers Quotes
Memoir Writing
Essayist
Personal Essays
Writing Memoir
Writers Voice
No One Tells You This
“She leaned in and placed her hand reassuringly on mine. "And don't worry, dear," she said conspiratorially. "I know it will still happen for you. There's still time."
There it was.
...But much to my surprise, I didn't need to lean on my collective self to navigate around this nice woman who thought she was providing me comfort by assuring me that, despite my age, I appeared to be someone to whom things could still happen...For a minute I felt all the old defense mechanisms go up, like metal toward a magnet. I took a deep breath and prepared to deliver my well-rehearsed responses...all the things I was used to saying to get out of this conversation and make the other person feel more comfortable. Instead, I found myself resisting the urge to laugh. Not at her. At the suddenly absurd idea that I was running out of time. I was no longer running, I realized. I was off the clock.
"I have to tell you," I said, making sure there was not one ounce of defensiveness in my voice, "I think it's going to be pretty great even if it doesn't happen.”
Feminism
Single
Single Life
Looking For Love
Ageism
Forty
Biological Clock
Well Meaning And Failing
No Kids
The Social History of Art: Volume 4: Naturalism, Impressionism, The Film Age
“Picasso’s eclecticism signifies the deliberate destruction of the unity of the personality; his imitations are protests against the cult of originality; his deformation of reality, which is always clothing itself in new forms, in order the more forcibly to demonstrate their arbitrariness, is intended, above all, to confirm the thesis that ‘nature and art are two entirely dissimilar phenomena’. Picasso turns himself into a conjurer, a juggler, a parodist, out of opposition to the romantic with his ‘inner voice’, his ‘take it or leave it’, his self-esteem and self-worship. And he disavows not only romanticism, but even the Renaissance, which, with its concept of genius and its idea of the unity of work and style, anticipates romanticism to some extent. He represents a complete break with individualism and subjectivism, the absolute denial of art as the expression of an unmistakable personality. His works are notes and commentaries on reality; they make no claim to be regarded as a picture of a world and a totality, as a synthesis and epitome of existence. Picasso compromises the artistic means of expression by his indiscriminate use of the different artistic styles just as thoroughly and wilfully as do the surrealists by their renunciation of traditional forms.”
Picasso
Expressionism
Deformation
The Minimalist Way: Minimalism Strategies to Declutter Your Life and Make Room for Joy
“Too many of us are over-committing to others and under-committing to ourselves. Let’s stop living at a frantic pace if our hearts are pulling us to a slower, more focused way of life. Let’s start honoring our own needs for rest, self-care, and balance. Let’s recommit to our own vision and finally listen to the voice inside.”
Simplicity
Lifestyle
Minimalism
Simplicity In Life
Lifestyle Quotes
Decluttering
Declutter Your Mind
This Crumbling Pageant
“You’d best pray it’s the Darkness that has driven you mad, boy, because if it’s not, you’ll pay for these bruises with some of your own!” He pinned the boy to the ground with one hand braced on a shoulder and continued, “I’m not going to hurt you. Just calm down and let’s see if we can relieve you.”
The boy relaxed, calming except for his heaving chest as he fought for air.
Robin’s mind raced through his options, coming up blank.
“Cat-mint…” the boy muttered. “Tincture of angelica. Blue chalcedony, jet, bronzite, amber—do you have any on you?”
“No,” Robin said, confused.
The boy moaned. “Trifolium, then. There’s bound to be trifolium…” The boy’s head fell back into the dirt.
“Trifolium? I don’t know…”
“Clover,” the boy ordered, scorn dripping from his voice. “I’m speaking of clover.”
Robin paced along the road looking for a clump of clover, unsure whether to laugh or snarl.
“Do you at least know your Greek sigils?” the boy muttered weakly. “The banishing sigil performed with clover…”
Greek, he thought resentfully rubbing his jaw. “I know sigils,” he said, amending silently, if I can remember the Greek ones from the schoolroom.
If he got the scamp past this spell of poisoning, he was going to thrash him. And where had he got into such Darkness in the first place?
Burroughs, Patricia. This Crumbling Pageant (The Fury Triad Book 1) (pp. 23-24). Story Spring Publishing, LLC. Kindle Edition.”
Dark Magic
Bluestocking Girl
Girl Masquerading As Boy
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