There was one particular tree…with branches that curled like sharp claws looking for skin to scrape. All the townsfolk had avoided that tree, for it wasn’t right that a tree seemed to whisper and stare and reach out when a person passed by.
I love you, Gretchen Lang. You are my reflection and my shadow and I will not let you go. We are bound together forever and ever! Until Halley’s Comet comes around again. I love you dearly and I love you queerly and no demon is bigger than this!
-If I were a monster, I would have let you drown back in the swamps. -And that’s the difference between us. You think one act of kindness, even self-serving, is enough to not make you one.
It is not in my nature to be interested in the living. But there are many things, I have found, that defy nature.
There was a song in this forest, too, but it was a savage song, whispering of madness and tearing and rage.
No wonder men did not want women to wear bloomers. What could women accomplish if they did not have to continually mind their skirts, keep them from dragging in the mud or getting trampled on the steps of an omnibus? If they had pockets! With pockets, women could conquer the world!
Mr. Rochester grunted. “Miss Eyre, listen to me. I believe there is a string below your rib, and it stretches across class and age to me, and it is attached beneath my rib. And if you find another suitable position, and leave me, you will pull it out. And I will bleed.
When you predict the future, when you do so strongly and you cling to it, how much of that future do you then cause to happen?
That’s the duty of the old,’ said the Librarian, ‘to be anxious on the behalf of the young. And the duty of the young is to scorn the anxiety of the old.’ They sat for a while longer, and then parted, for it was late, and they were old and anxious.
Stories have a way of changing faces. They are unruly things, undisciplined, given to delinquency and the throwing of erasers. This is why we must close them up into thick, solid books, so they cannot get out and cause trouble.
Ethel took her hand. ‘You’re a good friend Alvie. Even without all the magic.’ Alvie squeezed back. ’You are too, Ethel. Even without the arm.’ The older woman’s eyes watered just a bit. ‘I think that, today that’s something I needed to hear’.
Jane, as we mentioned earlier, loved books. There was nothing she relished more than the weight of a hefty tome in her hands, each beautiful volume of knowledge as rare and wonderful and fascinating as the last.
Any decent human being, witch or otherwise, has the capacity to do good in this world. It’s merely a case of whether one chooses to do so.
I was introduced to Jessica Spotswood through her first anthology project A Tyranny of Petticoats, which featured 15 stories about badass women. I don’t remember much of it, but I know I gave it a 3/5 rating because the stories were good, but nothing special or memorable for me.
That’s the secret to performance: conviction. The right note played tentatively still misses its mark, but play boldly and no one will question you. If one believes there is truth in art – and I do – then it’s troubling how similar the skill of performing is to lying. Maybe lying is itself a kind of art.