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7,436 books
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16,278 voters
“Gabe suffers from survivor’s remorse. He won’t admit it because he doesn’t see it. Can’t recognize it in himself. He overcompensates for coming back alive, when so many didn’t. He’s got issues. You’ve got issues. Everyone has issues. But issues are a part of life. And whether we like it or not, even bad things happen for a reason.”
― Gabriel's Fire
― Gabriel's Fire
“Serving” is assisting your fellow man, the how-to, practical way to thrust your life into the spiritual wall to make the
tunnel bigger. Will God suddenly appear? Does
washing stacks of pots and pans bring salvation?
Can pulling weeds reclaim your brain? Will mopping the floor make you equal to the richest of men?”
― Digging for God
Can pulling weeds reclaim your brain? Will mopping the floor make you equal to the richest of men?”
― Digging for God
“5. Then on a rainy day in early July the words she was copying from one of Martha the Benevolent’s ancient sayings spoke to her:
Birds fly free until they are put in a cage, but the cage does not bind their wings
When the cage is opened, the wings spread out, and the bird flies free again
So the poor are trapped in a cage by the avarice of the rich
Not in a cage made of gold, but one of hunger, despair and need
So the prisoner dreams of the wide open spaces
Wind in her hair, breathing in the freedom, beyond the four walls of her cell
Our mission is to free the prisoner, to help the poor to spread their wings
To open the door of the oppressor’s cage, to find a way to a fairer age.”
― The Empress
Birds fly free until they are put in a cage, but the cage does not bind their wings
When the cage is opened, the wings spread out, and the bird flies free again
So the poor are trapped in a cage by the avarice of the rich
Not in a cage made of gold, but one of hunger, despair and need
So the prisoner dreams of the wide open spaces
Wind in her hair, breathing in the freedom, beyond the four walls of her cell
Our mission is to free the prisoner, to help the poor to spread their wings
To open the door of the oppressor’s cage, to find a way to a fairer age.”
― The Empress
“Maybe not to us, but to humans. And Sonia… She is something entirely different now, and we have no idea how much power she controls or what she means to do with it.”
― To Be a Fae Queen
― To Be a Fae Queen
“I walked past Malison, up Lower Main to Main and across the road. I didn’t need to look to know he was behind me. I entered Royal Wood, went a short way along a path and waited. It was cool and dim beneath the trees. When Malison entered the Wood, I continued eastward.
I wanted to place his body in hallowed ground. He was born a Mearan. The least I could do was send him to Loric. The distance between us closed until he was on my heels. He chose to come, I told myself, as if that lessened the crime I planned. He chose what I have to offer.
We were almost to the cemetery before he asked where we were going. I answered with another question. “Do you like living in the High Lord’s kitchens?”
He, of course, replied, “No.”
“Well, we’re going to a better place.”
When we reached the edge of the Wood, I pushed aside a branch to see the Temple of Loric and Calec’s cottage. No smoke was coming from the chimney, and I assumed the old man was yet abed. His pony was grazing in the field of graves. The sun hid behind a bank of clouds.
Malison moved beside me. “It’s a graveyard.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked.
“My father’s a ghost,” he whispered.
I asked if he wanted to learn how to throw a knife. He said, “Yes,” as I knew he would. He untucked his shirt, withdrew the knife he had stolen and gave it to me. It was a thick-bladed, single-edged knife, better suited for dicing celery than slitting a young throat. But it would serve my purpose. That I also knew. I’d spent all night projecting how the morning would unfold and, except for indulging in the tea, it had happened as I had imagined.
Damut kissed her son farewell. Malison followed me of his own free will. Without fear, he placed the instrument of his death into my hand. We were at the appointed place, at the appointed time. The stolen knife was warm from the heat of his body. I had only to use it. Yet I hesitated, and again prayed for Sythene to show me a different path.
“Aren’t you going to show me?” Malison prompted, as if to echo my prayer.”
― Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
I wanted to place his body in hallowed ground. He was born a Mearan. The least I could do was send him to Loric. The distance between us closed until he was on my heels. He chose to come, I told myself, as if that lessened the crime I planned. He chose what I have to offer.
We were almost to the cemetery before he asked where we were going. I answered with another question. “Do you like living in the High Lord’s kitchens?”
He, of course, replied, “No.”
“Well, we’re going to a better place.”
When we reached the edge of the Wood, I pushed aside a branch to see the Temple of Loric and Calec’s cottage. No smoke was coming from the chimney, and I assumed the old man was yet abed. His pony was grazing in the field of graves. The sun hid behind a bank of clouds.
Malison moved beside me. “It’s a graveyard.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked.
“My father’s a ghost,” he whispered.
I asked if he wanted to learn how to throw a knife. He said, “Yes,” as I knew he would. He untucked his shirt, withdrew the knife he had stolen and gave it to me. It was a thick-bladed, single-edged knife, better suited for dicing celery than slitting a young throat. But it would serve my purpose. That I also knew. I’d spent all night projecting how the morning would unfold and, except for indulging in the tea, it had happened as I had imagined.
Damut kissed her son farewell. Malison followed me of his own free will. Without fear, he placed the instrument of his death into my hand. We were at the appointed place, at the appointed time. The stolen knife was warm from the heat of his body. I had only to use it. Yet I hesitated, and again prayed for Sythene to show me a different path.
“Aren’t you going to show me?” Malison prompted, as if to echo my prayer.”
― Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
Joycelyn’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Joycelyn’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
175 books
|
20 friends
115 books
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17 friends
195 books
|
25 friends
261 books
|
34 friends
83 books
|
29 friends
3 books
|
9 friends
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