Marie Aitchison
Goodreads Author
Born
in Sacramento, The United States
Genre
Influences
Stephen King, A24 movies, Edgar Allan Poe, Neil Gaiman, Thomas Harris,
...more
Member Since
April 2018
URL
https://www.goodreads.com/topshelfbookreviewsbymarie
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Marie Aitchison
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Marie’s Recent Updates
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I was so upset she didn't know who Stu Macher was 😂
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"after 22 my darling husbands, 22 Jilly beans, 11 creaky-not-creepy houses, 5 bride of frankenstein/frankenstein references and 4 Just don't invite any crazy, knife-wielding lunatics into your houses i'm glad to be done with this book.
my biggest issu" Read more of this review » |
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Marie Aitchison
rated a book it was ok
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| This book had such a strong start! I was ready to buckle up and looking forward for what's to come. I think calling it "Barbie meets Scream" messed with my expectations but it didn't really deliver that for me. It was a campy slasher, though and fans ...more | |
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Marie Aitchison
rated a book really liked it
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Ours is a Tale of Murder is a clever thriller. It was like standing on the shoreline at the ocean and having the waves pull the sand from beneath your feet. It subtly shifts from under you, and you have to adapt. I had so much fun with it. Read if yo ...more |
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Marie Aitchison
rated a book liked it
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Marie Aitchison
rated a book liked it
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Marie Aitchison
rated a book liked it
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Marie Aitchison
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Marie Aitchison
finished reading
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Marie Aitchison
rated a book it was amazing
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This was the best thriller I've read all year. 5/5 stars 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 This has action, adventure, claustrophobia, so many sharp twists, and kept me fully immersed until the satisfying final turn of the page. The story begins when two best friends decide to ...more |
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“Before sitting down, I light a pumpkin candle, because ‘tis the season, and all that. It isn’t lost on me that I’m delving into a mystery involving murderous witches a mere week before Halloween.”
― Dyer Lane
― Dyer Lane
“I think we don’t matter anymore unless there’re people alive who still value our memories. Our entire existence just seems meaningless if not for the imprints we leave behind.” I shrug, “I guess I’m in a nihilist mood tonight.”
― Dyer Lane
― Dyer Lane
Topics Mentioning This Author
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| The Lost Challenges: Fall Flavors | 79 | 67 | Dec 31, 2024 10:15AM | |
| The Lost Challenges: Autumn Cocktails | 85 | 59 | Jan 02, 2025 09:15AM | |
| The Challenge Fac...: Reporter's Challenge 2024 | 40 | 105 | Jan 02, 2025 11:16AM | |
| The Lost Challenges: Burgers Please | 73 | 77 | Jan 24, 2025 02:12AM | |
| The Lost Challenges: OPI Pinks | 90 | 76 | Feb 02, 2025 08:58AM |
“Oh you cut your hair! What happened? Are you going through a breakup or something?"
"My favorite character died.”
―
"My favorite character died.”
―
“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.”
―
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.”
―
“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”
― A Game of Thrones
― A Game of Thrones
“Oh, my sweet summer child," Old Nan said quietly, "what do you know of fear?
Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet
deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long
night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children
are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and
hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods”
― A Game of Thrones
Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet
deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long
night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children
are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and
hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods”
― A Game of Thrones
“LOSS COMES IN every moment. Second by second our lives are stolen from us. What is past will never come again.”
― This Tender Land
― This Tender Land
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