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Beyond, the unknown lay before us once more, and another impossible task. The four of us emerged from the earth and turned our steps west, toward the last hope for Salvation.

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
Another
Toward
Emerged
Earth
Beyond
Unknown
Steps
Task
Impossible
Lays
Four
Salvation
Lasts
Tasks
Last
Turned
Hope
West

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I don’t like anyone knowing anything about me that I didn’t choose to tell them.
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Possessiveness isn’t love. I’m not even sure it qualifies as an emotion.
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He's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.
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I know you have bad news,” I say softly. “I’m ready for it.” But that’s not true. One is never ready. You just lie and say you are and hope you can take the hit on the chin without going down.
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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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My skill didn't lie in planning battles, only in fighting them.
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This is not a love story. It is my life, and as such, there is love, loss, war, death, and sacrifice. It's about things that needed to be done and choices made. I regret nothing.
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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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But it was like a dance across a field strewn with razors, and I bled with every step I took.
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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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You could miss someone, but it did no good to fixate on loss. I wished I had the ready words of a Breeder or the ability to comfort with a soft touch. I didn't. Instead I had daggers and determination. That would have to do.
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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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The whole world is like Whitewall's razors I burst out. It cuts us, and we bleed but there's no purpose to it.
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There’s a hollow where he used to be, and it echoes with self-imposed loss.
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Just . . . love me, and let tomorrow look after itself.
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I always have someplace else I’d rather be, even if I don’t know where that is, yet.
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Maybe I was just one of those people who couldn't rest easy unless things went catastrophically wrong.
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