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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.
Laini Taylor
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Laini Taylor
Age: 52
Born: 1971
Born: December 11
Author
Novelist
Writer
Chico
California
Awful
Died
Armpit
Gave
Armpits
Deep
Stabbed
Away
Sword
Thought
Boldness
Feels
Trembling
Like
Dropped
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What does true even mean when it comes to a face? Only souls are true, and when you spill them to the air they melt away.
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I was going to say the beginning is the good part, when it's all sparks and sparkles, before they are inevitably unmasked as assholes.
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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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Mercy, she had discovered, made mad alchemy: a drop of it could dilute a lake of hate.
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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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The sooner you learn to finish things, and as a matter of course finish your creative endeavors, the better. It took me a long time to learn that.
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What can a soldier do when mercy is treason, and he is alone in it?
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What a lovely display of personhood. He's like a good book cover that grabs your gaze. Read me. I'm fun but smart. You won't be able to put me down.
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We are the beginning ... We always have been. This time, let it be more than a beginning.
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We only get to be one person we don't even get to choose that person. By the time we get ahold of ourselves, we are pieces already in play.
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...they cupped their wings around their happiness and called it a world, though they both knew it was not a world, only a hiding place, which is a very different thing.
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It didn't escape Karou's notice that he found subtle ways of touching her.
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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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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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Oh, gross. Your stomach is full of butterfly barf!
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It was funny, she thought, but her smile turned wistful because she had nobody to tell.
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