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There were different kinds of strength. I knew that now. It didn't always come from a knife or a willingness to fight. Sometimes it came from endurance, where the well ran deep and quiet. Sometimes it came from compassion and forgiveness.

Ann Aguirre

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Ann Aguirre
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: August 27
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
the United States of America
Ellen Connor
Ava Gray
Different
Knew
Willingness
Kind
Came
Forgiveness
Always
Fighting
Kinds
Didn
Compassion
Wells
Quiet
Knife
Come
Deep
Endurance
Well
Strength
Knives
Sometimes
Fight
Ran

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It’s what you do that counts, not what you consider doing.
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Sometimes the past needed to stay buried it was the only way you could move on. And sometimes you had to dig it up, because that too was the only way.
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But the world moves on, even when you don't want it to, even when change feels like the end of everything. It never stops.
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As I dive between the legs of a big Gunnar, I see Mair wind up and slam her shockstick hard as she can between the V of another guy’s thighs. Falling, he makes a noise that I can’t say I’ve heard a human utter before, sort of like I imagine a puppy would sound being put through a juicer.
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His lashes, fluttered like butterfly wings. I could've made you happy, dove. You did, I whispered
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Time is fluid, so the moments where everything feels perfect pass in a wink, and those where you're on your knees in despair drag on like the death of a thousand cuts.
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I’m sick of asking questions everyone else already knows the answers to.
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Not just when its easy. All the time.
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But it was like a dance across a field strewn with razors, and I bled with every step I took.
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He’s worth fighting for, but I won’t change who I am for any man. No more than he should alter himself to suit me.
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His face held a certain impassivity you see it in all waiters and valets. They might want to jam a knife through your left eye socket, but you'd never know it from their expression. Working retail, I've acquired a similar look myself.
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Each love is unique. Special. Giving to one never takes away from another.
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They say funerals are not for the dead but for the living. Those rites are what permit you to move on, so if you don't deal with the remains, you can never deal with the memories. That might be true we may have walked in their dust down on Venice Minor, but it's not the same as a proper good-bye.
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My skill didn't lie in planning battles, only in fighting them.
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What was the good of having such a fine home if you weren't willing to fight for it?
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My heart shifted a little in my chest it seemed to swell and beat against my bones until I couldn't hear.
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I'll always want him. Until every sun goes dark in every sky, until I am nothing more than long-forgotten cosmic dust, I will want him. And even then I suspect my particles will long for his.
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Possessiveness isn’t love. I’m not even sure it qualifies as an emotion.
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I admired Stalkers style. He was incredibly fast using two small blades strapped to the backs of his hands. Slash slash slash. Fighting him you wouldn’t die of one great wound but instead bleed out slowly surprised to find yourself weak and dying after a thousand cuts.
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No matter how interminable something feels, there is always, always an ending. Sometimes that's good, and sometimes it's bad sometimes it's a matter of indifference, and sometimes it's heartbreaking, and your life is never the same thereafter.
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