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He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens.

Jonathan Stroud

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Jonathan Stroud
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: October 27
Novelist
Writer
Jonathan Anthony Stroud
Realm
Chickens
Realms
Sight
Lord
Transfixed
Running
Demented
Like
Lords
Ladies

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There was a loud cough from the man on the stand. I replaced My Magic Mirror carefully on his tray, gave him a cheesy smile, and went my way.
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Can you define plan as a loose sequence of manifestly inadequate observations and conjectures, held together by panic, indecision, and ignorance? If so, it was a very good plan.
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I wanted to wake you straightaway, but I knew I had to wait several hours to ensure you were safely recovered. What! How long has it been? Five minutes. I got bored.
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Her clarity gave her purpose and her purpose gave her clarity.
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Hey, we've all got problems, chum. I'm overly talkative. You look like a field of buttercups in a suit.
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The afrit batted his eyelashes with a ostentatious lack of concern. Indeed? Have you a name? A name? I cried. I have MANY names! I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni! I am N'gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes! I paused dramatically. The young man looked blank. Nope never heard of you. Now if you'll just-
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The Hermit was known to be pretty sniffy about disciples who returned in failure. There was a wall of the institute layered with their skins- an ingenious display that encouraged vigor in his students, as well as nicely keeping out the drafts.
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I warn you, the boy went on. I am a magician of great power. I control many terrifying entities. This being you see before you - here I rolled my shoulders back and puffed my chest up menacingly - is but the meanest and least impressive of my slaves. Here I slumped my shoulders and stuck my stomach out.
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If anyone else asked that question, O He Who Is Terrible and Great, I would have said they were an ignorant fool in you it is a sign of the disarming simplicity which is the fount of all virtue.
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The mercenary finished his coffee in a single gulp, It must have been piping hot, too. Boy, he was tough.
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The column hung above the middle of the pentacle, bubbling ever upward against the ceiling like the cloud of an erupting volcanoe. There was a barely perceptible pause. Then two yellow staring eyes materialized in the heart of the smoke. Hey, it was his first time. I wanted to scare him. And it did, too.
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Did Lovelace's forces find you? Did Jabor break in? He spoke slowly through clenched teeth. I went to get a newspaper This is getting better and better! I shook my head regretfully. You should leave such a dangerous assignment to people better qualified: next time ask an old granny, or a toddler-
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Most traditional ghost stories feature rather hapless protagonists, who have nasty things happen to them.
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According to some, heroic deaths are admirable things. I've never been convinced by this argument, mainly because, no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly, or defiant you are, at the end of the day you're also dead. Which is a little too permanent for my liking.
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Jabor finally appeared at the top of the stairs, sparks of flame radiating from his body and igniting the fabric of the house around him. He caught sight of the boy, reached out his hand and stepped forward. And banged his head nicely on the low-slung attic door.
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Fiftey years isn't too bad. With luck you might see it happen when your a sweet,old granny,dandling big fat babies on your knee. Actully-he held up a hand,interrupting Kitty's cry of protest-no,that's wrong. My projection is incorrect. Good. You'll never be a sweet old granny. Let's say,'sad,lonely old biddy' instead.
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Zealots: Wild eyed persons afflicted with incurable certainty about the workings of the world, a certainty that can lead to violence when the world doesn't fit.
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That's a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland
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Oh, the boots were on the other eight feet now.
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