Some crimes,” I quote Ryodan stiffly, “are so personal, blood-vengeance belongs only to the one who suffered them.
Long gold hair, eyes so light they looked silvery, and golden skin, the man was blindingly beautiful. Every hair on my body lifted, all over, in unison. And I got the strangest thought: He’s not human.
Criminally young, he charged, and I can’t argue. But I can change.
I can either give in to fear and give up – or refuse to let it touch me and go on.
Omission or commission – the end result is the same.
Kahlil Gibran says Your joy can fill you only as deeply your sorrow has carved you.
I didn’t say I didn’t like you. ‘Like’ is such a puerile word. Mediocre people like things. The only question of any significant emotive content is: Can you live without it?
There aren’t many crimes in my book. Not many sins either. But top on both of those lists is killing time. Have fun with it, make something cool, play video games, work hard if you feel like it, but do something. Killed time is an abortion, life that never gets lived, gone, just gone.
The bottom line is we choose our epitaphs.
The currency of life is passion, and as with any coin, it has two sides: pleasure, pain, joy, sorrow. Impossible to slip a single side of that coin into your pocket. You take all or nothing.
We take care of each other like two monkeys picking each other’s nits. Folks underestimate a good nit-pick.
Pushy, that’s what brunettes are. Even the dainty, fragile-looking ones.
All myths contain a grain of truth, Ms. Lane. I’ve handled books and artifacts that will never find their way into a museum or library, things no archaeologist or historian could ever make sense of. There are many realities pocketed away in the one we call our own. Most go blindly about their lives and never see beyond the ends of their noses. Some of us do.
Caveat: what you fear most will destroy you.
How could a peacock lust for a lion?
Sometimes when all hell’s breaking loose the only thing to do is to break more hell loose.
After an eternity of grief and regret, he held the only thing he’d ever wanted as much as he wanted to be God. A second chance.
Vampires? Eew. Dead. Enough said. Time-travel? Ha, give me creature comforts over a hulking highlander with the manners of a caveman any day. Werewolves? Oh please, just plain stupid. Who wants to get it on with a man who’s ruled by his inner dog? As if all men aren’t anyway, even without the lycanthrope gene.
Flirtation doesn’t have to go somewhere; it certainly doesn’t need to end up in bed. I like to think of it as a little friendlier than a handshake, a little less intimate than a kiss. It’s a way of saying hi, you look great, have a wonderful day.
I’m not a woman who often looks back. I measure actions by results, and peering into the past rarely yields any.