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But it was like a dance across a field strewn with razors, and I bled with every step I took.

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
Across
Dance
Step
Fields
Bled
Took
Strewn
Steps
Razors
Every
Like
Field

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I’m as forgiving as the wall you hit at two hundred kilometers an hour.
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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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I so enjoy it when people assume I'm stupid. Not that, just very focused on killing.
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We're broken in complementary ways, thus rendering our damage comprehensible to each other.
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A curve of silver hung amid the brighter specks it looked to me like a curved dagger, pretty but deadly, as if it might slice the sky in two.
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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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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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I always have someplace else I’d rather be, even if I don’t know where that is, yet.
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Did he die well? No, I thought. Nobody did. They just died.
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It's only a sure defeat when you stop trying.
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It’s easy to do right when everything goes right. But let everything go wrong, and see how difficult it becomes.
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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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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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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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Love sounded terrible if it made you so weak, you couldn't survive with out it.
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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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Nobility and self-sacrifice sound wonderful in theory, but now he’s seen how it feels. A dead hero is still dead at the end of the day, and you’re still alone.
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With a polite smile, I decided she was insane.
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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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This is the way we win over our enemies, not with bigger weapons, or faster ships, but with human courage, ingenuity, and sacrifice. Don't lose hope. We've faced the darkness before-it has nothing new to teach us. As we go about our lives, let us remember the example Dr. Navarro set for us. At the right time, anyone can be a hero.
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