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The truth, she found, felt smooth, like a skipping stone in the palm of your hand.

Laini Taylor

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Laini Taylor
Age: 52
Born: 1971
Born: December 11
Author
Novelist
Writer
Chico
California
Like
Smooth
Stone
Stones
Hand
Felt
Found
Skipping
Hands
Palm
Truth
Palms

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It's all a quilt of fairy tales with a patch here and there of truth.
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The two of them were stoic and stone-faced and ten feet apart, currently not even looking at each other, but Zuzana had the impression of a pair of magnets pretending not to be magnets. Which, you know, only works until it doesn't.
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I miss sunrise even more. The green scent of dawn in the forest? The color blushing back into the world, different every day.
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She had been innocent once, a little girl playing with feathers on the floor of a devil's lair. She wasn't innocent now, but she didn't know what to do about it. This was her life: magic and shame and secrets and teeth and a deep, nagging hollow at the center of herself where something was most certainly missing.
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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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Ziri's soul felt like the high roaming wind of the Adelphas Mountains and the beat of stormhunters' wings, like the beautiful, mournful, eternal song of the wind flutes that had filled their caves with music he could not possibly remember. It felt like home.
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It seemed she was in a cathedral—if, that is, the earth itself were to dream a cathedral into being over thousands of years of water weeping through stone.
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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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Better to be the cat gazing coolly down from a high wall, its expression inscrutable. The cat that shunned petting, that needed no one. Why couldn't she be that cat?
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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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A wave of weariness took him. How could life be so unrelentingly ugly?
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Icon of Prague, the medieval bridge crossed the Vltava between Old Town and the Little Quarter. Gothic bridge towers rose on both sides, and the whole span — pedestrian-only — was lined by monumental statues of saints.
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Love is a luxury. No. Love is an element. An element. Like air to breathe, earth to stand on.
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Stars got tangled in her hair whenever she played in the sky.
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...and she felt the words come from some iron place within her that hadn't existed an hour ago. She didn't speak loudly, but there was such a change in her voice. Coming from that iron place, it was heavy and true it wasn't persuasive, or desperate, or antagonistic. It just was.
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The choice I mean is to protect our own innocents from the seraphim, instead of slaughtering theirs. There are no innocent seraphim, said the wolf. That's what they say when they kill our children.
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Like attracts like, beauty finds beauty, and freaks look on from the smoking section, aching.
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She stabbed him in the armpit, deep, and he dropped his sword. And died. So that's what is feels like, she thought as her boldness gave away to trembling. It feels awful.
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You almost hold up your piece of paper and say, ‘The girl I like just gave me a treasure map to herself.’ But you don’t. You just don’t.
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Where am I and doing what? You might well ask. Freaky chick, you say? You can't imagine. I am priestess of a sandcastle in a land of dust and starlight.
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