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Have you heard of the legends of sleeping kings? The legends that heroes like Llewellyn and Glendower and Arthur aren’t really dead, but are instead sleeping in tombs, waiting to be woken?

Maggie Stiefvater

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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 43
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Instead
Tombs
Dead
Arthur
Sleep
Legends
Heard
Sleeping
Waiting
Heroes
Really
Kings
Like
Hero
Aren
Woken

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Did you know you get one happy day for every one you catch?... One happy day for every falling leaf you catch -sam
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You'll have to go commando. Is there any other way?
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No, you used nouns and verbs together in a pleasing but illogical format.
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I could still smell her on my fur. It clung to me, a memory of another world. I was drunk with it, with the scent of her. I'd got too close. The smell of summer on her skin, the half-recalled cadence of her voice, the sensation of her fingers on my fur. Every bit of me sang with the memory of her closeness. Too close. I couldn't stay away.
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Where are Sam and Grace? Ringo left in his car a few hours ago. He must've taken Grace with him. I don't know where they went. You didn't ask? We're not married Cole said, and added, in a more humble tone, yet.
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When I was a child, I was one of the kids who wore black all the time, and when the kids asked me why I wore black, I said things like, 'I'm mourning the death of modern society.' I mean, I was a riot.
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I've always loved reading fantasy. I used to pick out all the books in the library that had the little unicorn sticker on the side to show that they were fantasy.
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How do you feel about helicopters? There was a long pause. How do you mean? Ethically? As a mode of transportation. Faster than camels, but less sustainable.
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Again and Again, however, we know the language of love, and the little churchyard with its lamenting names and the staggeringly secret abyss in which others find their end: again and again the two of us go out under the ancient trees, make our bed again and again between the flowers, face to face with the skies
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The walls of the arch are covered with blood-red jellies that wink and glisten at me by the light of the moon. My father told me they were completely harmless. I don't believe him. Nothing is completely harmless.
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I didn't say I would start a yard. You didn't have to. I'll come back next year and you'll have a nest of horses outside your window and Puck Connolly in your bed and I'll buy from you instead of Malvern. That's your future for you.
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I'm having a psychic moment. It involves you and me. Distracted, Gansey glanced up from the computer screen. Were you talking to me or Ronan? Either. I'm flexible. Blue made a small, terrible noise. I would appreciate if you'd turn your inner eye towards the water.
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I said uselessly, Sam, don't go. Sam cupped my face in his hands and looked me in the eyes. His eyes were yellow, sad, wolf, mine. These stay the same. Remember that when you look at me. Remember it's me. Please.
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If you never saw the stars, candles were enough.
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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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He's a pit bull, Adam said. I know some really nice pit bulls. He's the kind of pit that makes the evening news. Gansey's trying to restrain him. How noble.
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