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Now that’s true poetic irony. I rush into battle to defend the fair name of Rose Larkin, and what does she do but fetch Robert to stop me.

Franny Billingsley

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Franny Billingsley
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: July 3
Author
Writer
Stop
Poetic
Names
Irony
True
Defend
Doe
Fairs
Fair
Larkin
Rose
Fetch
Battle
Robert
Name
Rush

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My own mask stayed just where it ought. I’ve had lots of practice.
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The boy shall have a proper beating,' said Cecil. 'But I beat him already,' I said, 'and don't tell me I didn't do it properly. I'm touchy about these things.
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You don’t mind when he stares at you.” Cecil jerked his head toward Eldric. He doesn’t stare,” I said. “He looks.
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A poem doesn’t come out and tell you what it has to say. It circles back on itself, eating its own tail and making you guess what it means.
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I don't mean to be ungrateful but if someone's out there answering prayers, mine's not at the top of the list
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Did I kill him?” I said. “No, miss,” said Robert. “Pity.
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Boxing’s not that straightforward,” said Eldric. “You can practice and practice, but the real experience will always be different. Lots of things are like that, actually.
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If you don't argue, you can't give in.
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Father’s silence is not merely the absence of sound. It’s a creature with a life of its own. It chokes you. It pinches you small as a grain of rice. It twists in your gut like a worm. Silence clawed at my throat. It left a taste of burnt matches.
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There are no preconditions for jealousy. You don't have to be right, you don't have to be reasonable. Take Othello. He was neither right nor reasonable, and Desdemona ended up dead. I wouldn't mind Leanne ending up dead. I wouldn't mind exploding her into fireworks of peacock and pearl.
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Yes, I'm shallow, I don't mind admitting it. Perhaps I should admit that there's no end to the depths of my shallowness.
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Let’s hope she’s like the others, who look only at the surface. Let’s hope she’d never think that a girl with black-velvet eyes and cut-glass cheekbones could be a witch.
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Secrets press inside a person. They press the way water presses at a dam. The secrets and the water, they both want to get out.
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Imagine a world without shadows. You cannot touch a shadow, but a world without them is a hard world, and flat.
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Life and stories are alike in one way: They are full of hollows. The king and queen have no children: They have a child hollow. The girl has a wicked stepmother: She has a mother hollow. In a story, a baby comes along to fill the child hollow. But in life, the hollows continue empty.
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You could at least complain,” I say. “I adore complaining. It calms the nerves.
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People think me a sort of Florence Nightingale, but I have no heroic qualities. I simply don’t feel very much.
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It's one thing to keep secrets. It's quite another to lie.
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Our English monarchs are so unimaginative,” said Eldric. “They execute people in such tediously conventional ways.
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