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I imagine the ones we’ve lost as ghosts who prowl about the edges of the light, waiting for us to join them. Sometimes that’s terrifying, and sometimes it’s reassuring, a promise of homecoming.

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
Waiting
Ghosts
Lost
Terrifying
Light
Join
Sometimes
Ghost
Edges
Promise
Prowl
Ones
Homecoming
Imagine
Reassuring

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People grew lazy. They knew too many blessings, and so lost the ability to appreciate what they had
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After people have gone, you forget their faults, and you recall the ideal more than the person.
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Like most, I was a mix of good and bad, anger and protectiveness, kindness and pride. But right now, I had only strangled fear and the promise of revenge.
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Don’t let them see you weak.
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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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A good huntress respected her partners instincts, even if he was socially ignorant.
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Stalkers lips curled into a sneer. You won't make a move without him, huh? That's embarrassing. No, I said softly. It just hurts because you wish it was you.
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Life…never gave me a chance to be soft.
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There are quiet ways to die where the body just doesn’t notice that the heart is gone.
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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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Most people can’t stomach silence it provides too much opportunity to think about things they prefer to avoid.
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We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his they share a joint sound—that of glass breaking—until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.
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Because it takes more courage to heal the world's hurts than to inflict them.
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It’s what you do that counts, not what you consider doing.
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You don’t know what it’s like to be alone until you’ve had someone inside your head.
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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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I’m sick of asking questions everyone else already knows the answers to.
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Men always want to be remembered whereas women realize that requires being dead.
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I wanted proof, not promises.
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