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Without turning on the light, I went to my bed and lay down, my arm thrown across the mattress, my hand aching because Grace wasn't underneath it

Maggie Stiefvater

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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 43
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Without
Across
Mattress
Arms
Mattresses
Grace
Aching
Wasn
Underneath
Went
Turning
Hand
Thrown
Hands
Lays
Light
Bed

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here we were again , always saying good-bye
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Strange what love taught you about your faults.
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I was against felonies when a misdemeanor would do.
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I folded myself against her body, breathing in the smell of my new life and matching my heartbeat to hers Sam, Linger
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Some days seem to fit together like a stained glass window. A hundred little pieces of different color and mood that, when combined, create a complete picture.
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It seemed like the best weapons in my life had always been the most innocuous: empty plastic bins, a blank CD, an unmarked syringe, my smile in a dark room.
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Hello, Grace's parents. I'm Grace's boyfriend. Please notice the chaste distance between us. I am very responsible and have never had my tongue in your daughter's mouth.
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He smiled tolerantly at her. Rubbing his smooth chin its recently assassinated chin hairs, he studied her. She barely came up to Ronan's shoulder, but she was every bit as big as he, every bit as present.
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This is about as comforting as a cold brick when you're lonely.
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Ronan's smile was sharp and hooked as one of the creature's claws. 'A sword is never a killer it is a tool in the killer's hand'. I can't believe Noah didn't stick around to help. Sure you can. Never trust the dead.
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It was a strangely disorienting feeling, to have something you'd relied on for so long start to change, like finding out that gravity no longer worked on Mondays.
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I walk through the seasons and always the birds are singing and screaming and keening for love When you're with me it seems so absurd that I should be jealous of the jay and the dove.
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I'm pleased to see that the cab is cluttered with cough drop wrappers and empty milk bottles and bits of mud-smeared newspapers made brittle by age. Neatness makes me feel like I have to be on my best behavior. Clutter is my natural habitat.
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Would we be so enamored with dystopian fiction if we lived in a culture where violent death was a major concern? It wouldn't be escapism.
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I don't think I ever believed in love, not really. Just though it was something James Bond made up, a long time ago, to get laid.
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Adam wasn't certain what came first with Blue--her treating the boys as friends, or them all becoming friends. It seemed to Adam that this circular way to build relationships required a healthy amount of self-confidence to undertake. And it was a strange sort of magic that it felt like she'd always been hunting for Glendower with them.
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I don't think I'd like to argue with you, I say. I think it would be a very dissatisfying pastime.
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