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...I do have to wonder what sort of childhood the Grimm brothers endured. They are not a merry bunch of storytellers, what with their children roasted by witches, maidens poisoned by old crones, and whatnot.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Brothers
Storytellers
Bunch
Witches
Childhood
Poisoned
Brother
Maidens
Sort
Endured
Wonder
Merry
Roasted
Children
Storyteller
Whatnot
Witch
Grimm

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Mawah meenon ne le plus poohlala, I say with an affected bow.
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The hand you hold the longest is your own.
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She wished she were as inconsequential as the ghosts in her dreams.
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Im a techno moron. I need help just to plug in my video camera.
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Retribution is a dog chasing its tail.
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They kept the lie going, and the people loved it.
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What you want can be yours. But you must first know what it is you want.
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I invited myself. Thought this table needed some class.
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I've been poked and prodded in places I'd always prided myself on keeping untouched for that one special doctor who gives me a ring and a promise someday.
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She loved attention. It was like a glass of the best champagne—bubbly and intoxicating—and as with champagne, she always wanted more of it. Still, she didn’t want to seem like an easy mark. “If you must know, I’ve come to join a convent,” Evie said, testing him.
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My personal motto is: WWWWD?: What Would Wonder Woman Do?
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Petra turned to her. Everybody lies about who they are. Name one person here who isn't doing that and I will drop out right now! Shanti felt that snake of truth coil around her legs, threatening to squeeze. I didn't mean... No one ever does. Petra said, shoving the baton back at Shanti.
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A gentle breeze catches in the branches then and I hear it, soft and low, a murmured prayer--Gem-ma, Gem-ma--and then the leaves bend down and trail delicate fingers across my cold cheeks.
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I change the world, the world changes me.
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Evie didn’t mind yelling, but she hated feeling judged. It got under her skin and made her feel small and ugly and unfixable.
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If this were a movie, I would bust a secret move so fierce the entire place would be razed to the ground. I'd finish with something snappy like And don't forget my soda, punk while I strolled off into the night.
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I had thought Felicity dangerous a moment ago, when she felt powerful. I was wrong. Wounded and powerless, she is more dangerous than I could imagine.
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On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes.
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The trouble with morning is that it comes well before noon.
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These are hard times. The world hurts. We live in fear and forget to walk with hope. But hope has not forgotten you. So ask it to dinner. It's probably hungry and would appreciate the invitation.
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