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He had a dashing smile. It nearly dashed right off his face.

Shannon Hale

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Shannon Hale
Age: 50
Born: 1974
Born: January 26
Author
Fantasy Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Salt Lake City
Utah
Dashing
Nearly
Smile
Face
Faces
Right
Dashed

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Throwing herself into learning helped Miri ignore the painful chill of solitude around her.
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For one thing, everyone there is so clever. Do they think me dull? Perhaps I should assure them that our goats enjoyed listening to me for hours on end. I am certain their bleats meant Do go on, Miri, darling. You are immensely entertaining. Your immensely entertaining sister, Miri
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You've been quiet lately...but it's not so much the quiet as something inside the quiet.
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The woman gestured to a seat and put on a patient face. An impatient sort of patient face, like an impatient face dressing up as a patient one for Halloween.
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He smiled in a way that made me want to kiss him right on the spot. Or the lips. Whichever was closer.
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Ani told them all...telling more than needed telling, the stories clarifying and unifying themselves in her mind as she let them spill out of her mouth.
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The snow was too light to stay, the ground too warm to keep it. And the strange spring snow fell only in that golden moment of dawn, the turning of the page between night and day.
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Her eyes were distant, and she seemed to be listening to that voice that first told her the story, a mother, sister, or aunt. Then her voice, like her singing, cut through the crickets and crackling fire.
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I keep thinking about a tale my nurse used to read to me about a bird whose wings are pinned to the ground. In the end, when he finally frees himself, he flies so high he becomes a star. My nurse said the story was about how we all have something that keeps us down.
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Her smile was peculiar - it made her nose wrinkle, not as though she smelled something unpleasant, but more that she was so amused, her whole face wanted to be a part of the smile.
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Ah, now, don't cry over lost years and forgetfulness. The tales tell what they can. The rest is for us to learn.
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Truth is when your mind and your gut agree.
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They weren't nice words he said. He could've lived a good life and died never having made a person feel rubbed down to bones and too sad to hold together.
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Razo knew he was best at nothing, except maybe cramming two cherries into a single nostril.
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Geric, she called. He turned back around. What kind of flowers were they? I don't rightly know, he said. He made faltering gestures with his hands, forming their size and shape from the air. They were yellow, and smallish, and had lots of petals. Thank you, she said. They were beautiful.
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And Isi always listened, never told Enna she had been foolish, never said hollow things like 'You'll be all right.' . . . Isi saw Enna's struggle and her sadness, and she understood.
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I am not sure I am ready to know what I think about that, so I dare not write it out.
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Her nightmare clung to her like the smell of smoke to cloth.
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Smell is the voice of the soul.
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Even the jerks earn some of our affection. We can be glad they're gone and yet still mourn the good parts.
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