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But wishes were empty thoughts, cast down a dark hole. They didn't come true unless you worked for them. I'd learned that about the world, if nothing more.

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
Dark
Holes
Wish
Cast
True
Casts
Didn
Worked
Come
Empty
Nothing
Thoughts
Horde
World
Unless
Hole
Learned
Wishes

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I’d never known it was possible to love as he did— with complete devotion yet devoid of promises.
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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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I'm not sick, Deuce. You don't know your own charm. My charm? I hadn't been aware I had any. It must be the dress, I thought.
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I have had passionate kisses and fierce ones, kisses so sweet they tasted like pure honey and kisses that cut like knives, but until this moment, I’ve never had one that said both hello and good-bye.
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We find heroes, not on battlefields, but in hospitals that tend the injured. Sometimes I think it’s easier to fight than it is to heal.
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Brown bird welcomes white wave. Wander no more, dear traveler.
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Don't worry he tells me tenderly. It doesn't matter who you've been, who you are, or who you become. I'm with you every step of the way.
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Men always want to be remembered whereas women realize that requires being dead.
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There’s a hollow where he used to be, and it echoes with self-imposed loss.
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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.
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More than most, I know the pain of surviving.
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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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With a polite smile, I decided she was insane.
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Men can be very stupid. We cease to value what we have until it's gone, and only then do we realize the gold we glimpsed in distant hills pales as dross compared to treasure we had in hand.
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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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There are quiet ways to die where the body just doesn’t notice that the heart is gone.
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I know just how he feels that it’s come to this. Sometimes, love isn’t enough, even when it’s all you have.
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I shake my head, but I can’t change this. I can only bear the scars, as I have always done, as I ever do.
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I think my head's a minefield strewn with triggers, and maybe if I survive each explosion, what emerges from the wreckage will be me, really, truly me.
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Just . . . love me, and let tomorrow look after itself.
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