Lecia Ohlsen

“Each moment embrace or more so cherish. As gentle the wind blows,” “wrap yourself within its flow.”
― Sherman Kennon, Whisk Of Dust: Too Unseen Distance

“When Val opened the door Jeremy almost had to catch his breath. She
was in a quintessential “little black dress”. This particular one left one
shoulder bare and with her hair swept to the opposite side, the geometry
of it gave the sensation of her being much more exposed than she actually
was. Still, it wasn’t even the flattering attire that nearly left Jeremy
breathless. It was the look in her eyes. That sparkle of joy at seeing him
was unmistakable, and truly the only clue Jeremy typically got of her
feelings for him.
It was said that in ancient Egyptian times the peddlers in the market
could determine a customer’s interest in their wares by the eyes. When
the eye beholds something it desires, the pupils dilate. On some level
everyone knows this, but in the case of the peddlers, if the pupils dilated,
the prices went up. And whether Jeremy knew it consciously or not, her
pupils dilated as she beheld him. All he knew for sure was that that look
told him Valerie was very glad to see him.
Then he saw her eyes slip down to his neck”
― Jody Summers, The Mayan Legacy

“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.”
― K. Ritz, Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master

“How do we keep it?” asked Princess Sophie. “How do we keep the spirit of Christmas?”
“That’s the real magic,” said Lady Ariana. “If we love something so much, we have to give it away. When we do that, we get to keep it ourselves, too.”
― Mike Martin, Princess Sophie and the Christmas Elixir