I’m politically inclined towards the left, but I don’t like to be in anyone’s gang; I’m a bit of a loose cannon.
But I have always been different. Perhaps that’s why I find it easier to cross the narrow boundaries between one tribe and the next. To belong so often means to exclude; to think in terms of us and them – two little words that, juxtaposed, so often lead to conflict.
Oh, she understood wine, my mother. She understood the sweetening process, the fermentation, the seething and mellowing of life in the bottle, the darkening, the slow transformations, the birth of a new vintage in a bouquet of aromas like a magician’s bunch of paper flowers. If only she had had time and patience enough for us. A child is not a fruit tree. She understood that too late. There is no recipe to take a child into sweet, safe adulthood. She should have known that.
The road to adulthood is filled with contradictions, and I was still young enough to half believe the lies with which that road is paved.
Clever folk aren’t popular, by and large. They arouse suspicion. They don’t fit in.
Well, that’s history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue, and for the most part written by folk who weren’t even there.
All words have power, of course, but names are the most potent of all, which is why the gods had so many.
Odin’s empire was built on bluff and the knowledge that no one dared to strike, but our enemies were like wolves around a bonfire: at bay, but let them scent blood, just once, and they’d be on us before we knew it.
I guessed he’d never experienced revenge, a threesome, or Sigyn’s jam tarts.
I’ll be your handmaid, Thor,” I said. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your thunder. You’ll make a gorgeous bride.” Thor growled.
See, this is the thing about history. His story. That’s all it is. The Old Man’s version of events, which basically the rest of us are supposed to accept as the undisputed truth. Well, call me cynical, but I’ve never been one to take things on trust, and I happen to know that history is nothing but spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.
I’ll let you take your pick,” he said. “But on one condition. We’ll stand all our eligible men behind a screen, with only their feet on display. Then you’ll choose. You’ll choose your husband by his feet. Agreed?” I stared at him. I mean, really. His feet? What new perversion was this?
I knew that Freyja was shallow, but until that moment I hadn’t been sure how far she would go for the sake of personal adornment. Well, folks, she went all the way, every way – and not just once, but four times, with four uncouth and demanding men who hadn’t had a woman in years.
But with power comes responsibility. And with responsibility comes fear. And with fear comes violence. And with violence comes Chaos...
After all, words are what remain when all the deeds have been done. Words can shatter faith; start a war; change the course of history.
Weed and wheat cannot grow together in peace.
A devil doesn’t act through evil, but through weakness...
A yielding shepherd could end up with a disobedient, rebellious herd.
Joe often gave out little charms – goodwill charms, he called them – to visitors, and Jay began to do the same: tiny bunches of lavender or mint or pineapple sage, tied with ribbons of different colours – red for protection, white for luck, blue for healing.
People are reserved, pretending indifference though inwardly they burn with curiosity.
A tiny chuckle emerged from the bottle’s throat as the wine filled the glass.