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...wings—-vast shimmering wings, their reach so great they swept the walls on either side of the alley, each feather like the wind-tugged lick of a candle flame.
Laini Taylor
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Laini Taylor
Age: 52
Born: 1971
Born: December 11
Author
Novelist
Writer
Chico
California
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Wings
Alleys
Reach
Swept
Wall
Feathers
Wind
Flame
Tugged
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Candle
Shimmering
Either
Walls
Lick
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Alley
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Feather
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Zuzana arched an eyebrow. She was a master of the eyebrow arch, and Karou envied her for it. Her own eyebrows did not function independently of each other, which handicapped her expressions of suspicion and disdain.
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The main thing I've learned is that we all have to learn to work with - and appreciate - the brain we've been given, and not waste time wishing things were easier.
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Anyway, since when are you shy? Just talk to him already!' ' 'And say what? Nice fiddling, handsome man?' 'Absolutely.
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If he does he's a fool, said Hazael. The message is clear. Please enjoy this lovely fruit while contemplating all the ways we might kill you in your sleep.
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Kizzy wanted it all so bad her soul leaned half out of her body hungering after it, and that was what drove the goblins wild, her soul hanging out there like an untucked shirt.
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She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox’s tongue. She tastes like hope.
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The goblins want girls who dream so hard about being pretty their yearning leaves a palpable trail, a scent goblins can follow like sharks on a soft bloom of blood. The girls with hungry eyes who pray each night to wake up as someone else. Urgent, unkissed, wishful girls. Like Kizzy.
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I shudder to think. I might wear lace collars and laugh flower petals and pearls. People might try to pat me. I see them think it. My height triggers the puppy-kitten reflex- Must touch-and I've found that since you can't electrify yourself like a fence, the next best thing is to have murderer's eyes.
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Jael returned the lazy smile. You're not my type. Well, you're not anybody's type, said Hazael. No, wait. I take it back. My sword says she'd like to know you better.
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Once upon a time, there were two moons, who were sisters. Nitid was the goddess of tears and life, and the sky was hers. No one worshipped Ellai but secret lovers.
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With the infinite patience of one who has learned to live broken, he awaited her return.
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It's all a quilt of fairy tales with a patch here and there of truth.
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It was as if she had emitted a pulse of radiation that reached him even where he stood, and it bathed him and it burned him.
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I'm going to be the scariest grandma in the world.
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My tiny scary friend is coming
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And they were quiet but their blood and nerves and butterflies were not—they were rampantly alive, rushing and thrumming in a wild and perfect melody, matched note for note.
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Bitter, bitter, this desolation of angels.
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This is the story of the curse and the kiss, the demon and the girl. It's a love story with dancing and death in it, and singing and souls and shadows reeled out on kite strings.
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Dialogue is the place that books are most alive and forge the most direct connection with readers. It is also where we as writers discover our characters and allow them to become real.
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Oh, gross. Your stomach is full of butterfly barf!
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