Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: religious-spiritual‎ (35)

He shook his head. “Poor little rich girl,” he mumbled.
“I am not a poor little rich girl,” she shot back, frustration turning into anger. “I am bei

He shook his head. “Poor little rich girl,” he mumbled.
“I am not a poor little rich girl,” she shot back, frustration turning into anger. “I am being sold [into marriage] and used, and I don’t like it.”
“But you are still free,” he insisted.

Lucia was sure that the white-haired gentleman reclining on the dining couch before her would make a delightful grandfather. As a future husband, though, he left a great deal to be desired.

The patrician untied his filigreed, embroidered belt and began shrugging out of his tunic. Tag noticed how carefully he protected his oiled curls as he pulled the tunic over his head. Gods, the other gladiators were going to eat him alive.

“Lucia. Did you really bring me out here so that you could lecture me on how you marrying a rich man is like me being a slave?”

“Look, I don’t have the luxury of having a philosophical discussion about the nature of freedom. As a slave, it means only one thing to me — no longer being owned by another human being.”

"Liv...it’s a name, a verb, a command. A notion of mortality. That’s a name ripe for some epic poetry. If I could write, I’d write you one, a poem.

"Liv...it’s a name, a verb, a command. A notion of mortality. That’s a name ripe for some epic poetry. If I could write, I’d write you one, a poem.”

“I appreciate the effort, man, but let it go,” Gabe said, sincerely. “You know what’s most important right now: to learn the truth and bring justice. For her.”

My grades certainly didn’t get me into Wickham Hall. I assumed it was my portfolio.

They dressed the same. Their hair was almost identical. Their skin was milky with the occasional bout of freckles. Their noses even turned up in the same way. But mostly, they all talked the same.

That’s when I noticed him. He was standing next to the headmaster, still looking at me even though the others had turned away. Our eyes met, and I quickly looked away. But I could feel his gaze linger. I desperately willed my face not to flush, my lips not to purse. Suddenly I was aware of every single muscle in my face.

I looked up, mouth full of bread, to see what had happened and...he was there.
He stood in front of me and asked, “May I have this dance?”

He was skittish and intense, but his brown eyes were gentle. Still, I wanted to keep at least three feet away. He was almost exactly how I’d always pictured Vincent Van Gogh—in other words, pretty crazy.

Malcolm let go of my hand and took out his iPod. He clicked it on and then handed it to me. A playlist called Liv, Forever was cued up.
“I made it for you. Obviously.”

And we walked along a sun-dappled path, comfortable like two people who’d known each other forever.
I looked out over the terrain. Lush and seemingly endless. And we walked right into it, serenaded by the Beatles’s “I’m Looking Through You.”

He turned to me. “Draw on me.”
“What?”
“Draw on me.""
After he said that, he took his shirt off. His body was perfect.

My head whipped back from its force. And that’s when everything went black.

My body was cold and dull. Plump with death. I looked almost serene. My dark hair spread around my head, kind of like that famous painting of Ophelia floating in the river. Funny, I’d made so many self-portraits and yet I’d never really looked at myself and realized I was actually kind of pretty.

He kneeled on the ground next to my body and kissed my cheek.

I was separate from the world. I had become the star, hadn’t I? That tragic, lonely thing.

I imagined myself an angel. I kind of was, wasn’t I?

I waited and waited until there was enough condensation for me to write a single sentence. It took every ounce of willpower to ignore the pain in my fingertip. But I did it.
I will hold u again, I wrote on the glass.

It was mid-afternoon so there were no stars, of course, but the leaves were every possible orange and the clouds were perfect puffs.

A self-portrait. Almost all my drawings are self-portraits. They don’t necessarily look like me—in fact, they rarely do—but they represent me.

“You are so talented. Do you understand? Your skill is exceptional. If you unleash and add true emotion to your work, it will sing, Olivia! It will fly!”

“I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
“It must’ve been a pretty boring life.”
“It was. Then I met you.”

But then images started to emerge from the darkness around us. At first they were pleasant: a Titian cherub, a Chagall angel. But then one of Bosch’s devils appeared. And Munch’s screaming terror. Francis Bacon’s agonizing Pope. And one of Basquiat’s jagged skulls.

There was an opening in the canopy of trees where we could see the brilliant moon. And stars. Hundreds of them. He took my hand. He held it strongly—with commitment. We lay there silently for a long while until he spoke.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

I was dying inside. Brain exploding like a Pollock. Heart melting like one of Dalí’s clocks.

And he cried. He didn’t have that embarrassed look guys usually have when they cry, like the way my dad had struggled against his tears. Malcolm let go, without shame.

“You know what I wish?” he asked.
What?
“That I could just see you one last time—hear your voice. Hold you.”

“Be reasonable. If I leave you here, you will most likely die, and Guy de Molay wins. Come with me, and you get your chance at retribution. Which option appeals to you more?”

Junaid did not smile back. His eyes were hard. “I cannot teach you if you are afraid. Faithful Ones are chosen not only because of strength of mind and body, but also strength of character. You will be expelled at the slightest sign of weakness, and I will take you back to the sheepherder’s shed so that you may finish what I interrupted.”

“I speak for many of us when I say this,” Bashar continued, ignoring her. “We do not think she belongs here. She will only cause us trouble. Furthermore, it has come to our attention that she is currently unclean.” He watched Zayn’s jaw drop with relish. “We strongly believe she should abstain from handling holy texts and training with us until she is clean again.”

“Your anger,” he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. Like his eyes. “She says your passion burns brightly in your face, Zayn. How will you deceive a Frank, a lady, a knight, when your hatred for them is so clearly written in your eyes?”

You are ruined, and no man will ever love you.

Its domes, spires, and minarets shimmered white in the sun, contrasting brightly with the aquamarine water. Ships from Venice and Genoa and even farther away crowded the harbor, a forest of galleys and pinnaces, all laden with goods. A caravan of bedouin camels traipsed through the dust, carrying bolts of silk and bales of spices.

Beggars pulled at her skirts, stretching their disfigured hands out to her in supplication. Blind, legless, leprous—they were all there, hiding in the shade. A one-eyed woman, cradling a tiny baby, peered up at her from within a worn, sun-beaten face. Zayn tossed down her coins and tried to shut the woman—all of them—from her mind. She had never seen such human suffering. And this in the holiest of cities.

I’m damaged. I’m afraid to trust men. I don’t know how to cope with my feelings for you.
I’m afraid to love you.

She hated herself, the curves of her body, the hairless skin of her face, her childlike eyes and lips…everything that made her female and feminine.

She detested men and their lust, and she loathed herself for inspiring it in them.

Filth. Nothing but filth.

But there was something else, too…something that maddened her with its simplicity, with its validity: Earic Goodwin. His presence had shattered her focus.

"Not everyone is created equal.”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t think I’m special.”
Roth looked at me again. “But you are. You’re a half demon that is al

"Not everyone is created equal.”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t think I’m special.”
Roth looked at me again. “But you are. You’re a half demon that is also half Warden."

...the Wardens went public ten years ago. The Alphas had ordered the Wardens to come out of the shadows. To humans, Wardens had come out of their stone shells. After all, the gargoyles adorning many churches and buildings had been carved to resemble a Warden in his true skin.

Zayne said I looked like the long-lost sister of the elf in Lord of the Rings. That was a huge confidence booster. Sigh.

No—not a mass, but a huge freaking snake at least ten feet long and as wide as I was.
The thing spun toward me, rising halfway up. Its eyes burned an unholy red.
“Don’t be scared of Bambi,” the demon said. “She’s only curious and maybe a little bit hungry.”
The thing was named Bambi?

“You don’t? I was following you.”
“Oh, so you’re a demon and a stalker?” I swallowed hard. “Because that’s not creepy or anything.”

He leaned in again, his lips brushing the curve of my cheek. “Let me suggest more appropriate places. I have this piercing—”

Roth let out a low breath. “Your mother was known by many names...And because of that, you’re on Hell’s Most Wanted List.”

Zayne’s grip relaxed. “Shut up.”
Roth came to his feet fluidly. “I don’t think I like your tone.”
“And I don’t like your face,” Zayne returned.
The amount of testosterone the two were throwing off was ridiculous.

Stacey only blinked, looking like she was coming out of some kind of bizarre trance. I scribbled hobag across her notes. She laughed and wrote virgin ice princess across mine.

Stacey started to tug her shirt up as a shield, but must’ve realized there wasn’t enough material there.

Stacey was saying as she threw herself into her seat. “I didn’t sneak out of the house dressed like this for no good reason.”
“No doubt.” I eyed her short skirt and then her cleavage. “We wouldn’t want your boobs to go to waste.”

“Great!” Stacey chirped, backing off and gesturing wildly behind Roth. She was doing something with her hand and mouth that I knew Roth would be oh so down for.

I dumped the stuff in the garbage can, shoulders stiff. “I’m not going to jump on you and suck out your soul, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Danika gasped. “That’s not what I meant—not at all. It’s just that you look like you need something and I want to help.”

Every so often the Church of God’s Children held a rally against the Wardens and then made headlines. They’d been doing it ever since the public had found out about the Wardens’ existence.

The world would descend into chaos if humans knew demons were ordering their morning coffee right alongside them.

Zayne’s eyes flicked up. They seemed brighter than usual. “You’re...perfect just the way you are.”

“Wow, he is so checking you out.”
“Huh?” I looked at Stacey. “Who?”
She glanced over her shoulder as she pulled me closer. “The guy you almost plowed into—Gareth Richmond. He’s still checking you out."

The line of his jaw hardened. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong? I told you to stop and you wouldn’t—”
“You were being a tease.” His voice dropped low. “And since when do demons really get a say in anything?”

“I...” I didn’t know. I loved Zayne, but I didn’t know what kind of love that was, and Roth... I thought I could be in love with him, if given time. Or maybe I already was, in a little way. “I don’t know.”

I consider the many tools at my disposal, eyeing his large blood-splattered frame, and settle on my weapon of choice – one so infrequently used I need to dust it off first.
My eyes fill with tears. “Wha–” I swallow hard “– what were those things?”
“Demons.” Thanks, Einstein. I got that part. I let a tear trickle over.
He hurries to reassure me. “Don’t cry – I’ll protect you.”
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

Cue innocence! My sweet lashes flutter against my helpless cheeks, my useless hands wring the edge of my guiltless, blood-soaked nightgown. My lovely lips quiver over my pearly white teeth.
Jo isn’t buying...Damn, that gimp bitch is a hard sell.

I’m ashamed of my wickedness – when I’m not reveling in it.

“I just get so mad sometimes. I’m never going to be a Crusader, never get married, never do anything. But who do I get to be angry at? The demons? They’re constantly trying to destroy mankind and, if at all possible, Heaven too. There’s enough reasons to be angry at them – my leg’s superfluous. The other students, the Crusaders for how they treat me? They’re not trying to be cruel, I am damaged. They’re so very kind, so full of pity. I’d rather they hate me than feel sorry for me.”

“You don’t deserve to be a Crusader – and it isn’t because you don’t have the legs, but because you don’t have the heart.”

The new attendee, a man, crouches in the doorway. Well, not really a man, a human teenager. One of God’s most misbegotten creatures – big like grown-ups and yet dumb like children. Selfish, moody, reckless, with a tendency to sleep too much and complain too often.

“ ‘You’re the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.’ ” I finished with a direct quote, just to drive the nail deep.

I figured this was how Nicholas Nickleby felt when he was forced to work at Squeer’s squalid Yorkshire School. That was a dark, horrific place, where Mr. Squeer beat life and hope from his students. And those few months beat the life from me too. Hope had died long before.

It struck me that racing him might earn me some respect.
“And stop discriminating. You think because you’re a boy or because you’re black that you can beat me? You can’t.” I poked my finger into his chest.

“I see no passion in your writing. Only technique. It’s good, but it’s empty.”
“‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess...,’ but I am working hard.”

“‘I beg your pardon. Excuse my interference. It was kindly meant.’” I cringed.
“Caroline Bingley? Really?” Alex paused.

“That’s it?” I sat back. “You’re worse than Austen. You might as well say that his sentiments had ‘undergone so material a change’ or that ‘his affections and wishes’ were unchanged.”
Hannah flushed red. “Don’t...compare my proposal from my real fiancé to one of your books. This is my life and I’m inviting you into it. Don’t belittle it by quoting fiction.”
“‘I wish you all imaginable happiness,’ Hannah.” I was mad, and I threw that out just to spite her.
“Forget it, Sam. I don’t know who you’re quoting, but I can tell you are. I thought you’d enjoy my story and I wanted to share it with you, but you aren’t even here. I don’t know why I bother.

I saw you on a monitor for the first time months ago. When I was being taught about Karm, and how I must know all that is going on in my kingdom, I saw you.”

“I chose you the first moment I saw you.”

"I’ve done nothing—am no one.”
His eyes are hard on mine. “You were to be the key.”

Camelot.
He’s constructed his entire realm after King Arthur’s beloved city, trusting its citizens to recreate the peaceful and picture-perfect utopia.

Deep blue and silver tapestries drape the walls. Large pillars reach toward the steepled ceiling, and dark veins in the stone walls separate the swirls of gold, silver, and amber. Castle Karm is something constructed right out of one of the antique books my father used to sneak to me.

...the girl’s body twisted and rocked, her legs flailing helplessly as the rope strangled her.

...she had been found guilty and rolled down a steep hill in a barrel filled with iron spikes.

...her wasted body had been engulfed in a white-hot wall of flame. The wind shifted, and now the unmistakable stench of roasting flesh blew across our faces.

I would make sure Blanche was a little clumsier than usual, once spilling the bowl of heated water for the princess’s morning ablutions. Another time, Blanche tripped over some invisible obstacle, the clean linen in her arms ending up on the dirty rushes, much to Elizabeth’s annoyance.

...something about Eli was decidedly wrong. He was like one of those pictures full of small errors, the kind you could only pick out by searching the image from every angle, and even then, a few always slipped by. On the surface, Eli seemed perfectly normal, but now and then Victor would catch a crack, a sideways glance, a moment when his roommate’s face and his words, his look and his meaning, would not line up. Those fleeting slices fascinated Victor. It was like watching two people, one hiding in the other’s skin. And their skin was always too dry, on the verge of cracking and showing the color of the thing beneath.

Victor was out. Victor was free.
And Victor was coming for Eli—just as he’d promised he would.
He sunk the shovel into the cold earth with a satisfying thud.

“What gives you the right to play judge and jury and executioner?”
“God.”

"Who was the real Jamie MacCrae? A ruthless ruler or a puckish prince?"

"Who was the real Jamie MacCrae? A ruthless ruler or a puckish prince?"

“If I may, signori? It is a gigante mystery.” He illustrated his point by holding his hands wide apart and giving them a shake for emphasis. “As a young man, I was called to Doon from Napoli in 1915, during the last Centennial. I met la mia moglie---my future wife. Since then, I marry, make seven bambinis---babies..."

Of course, leaving [Doon] was preferable to death, but I wasn’t ready to give up on this place...or on him.

"[Jamie] smiled a sad, sweet smile. “I said, [your father]’s an idiot and he has no idea what an amazing daughter he has.” He said the words simply and with such sincerity that they washed over me like absolution. I closed my eyes, but the tears flowed hot over my cheeks anyway. How was it possible he knew the exact right thing to say? The words I’d secretly longed to hear, but hadn’t realized it until they came out of his mouth?

Jamie’s hot and cold act was draining. Every time he started to warm, to let me in the tiniest bit, he’d turn around and shut me out even harder. And why? What had I done? Except be nice to him and adore his kingdom.

“The story is beloved by the Amish for its example of faithfulness and servitude to God. For perseverance in the face of overwhelming odds.”

“The only thing that can save her from poison is to be full of the Holy Spirit. We have to pray.”

He grabbed my elbow. He tore the white bonnet off my head, stuffed it into his pocket.
I snatched at the strings. “Don’t...”
“This thing makes you a target. I could see you from all the way back there.” He stabbed a thumb at Ginger’s retreating figure on horseback, melting into the grass. “It shines like a beacon.”
I lifted my chin. “Ja. Maybe it should.”
This was an argument we repeated often. Though the end of the world had come, I adhered to the old ways. I was born Amish, and I would die Amish.

I closed my eyes and prayed in the darkness, prayed that Alex would survive, even though he had turned his back on God’s plan for his human form.
I was pretty sure that even if he did survive, God would not accept him into heaven, no matter how much he might repent for it later. The only lifetime he would have was this one, here on earth.

I swallowed, stared out the kitchen window at the scrawny animals in their enclosures. “We can’t leave them out there.”
“They’ll eat us alive if we let them go now,” Ginger said.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “We can’t. I can’t, and I won’t.”

"Silence grew between us, intercepted only by the sounds of the celebrations that raged across the observation deck, and the bustle of the hatchery beyond—the shouts of the workers, the cries of new children. I didn’t look my father in the eye as he stared at me, but I didn’t move, either. I couldn’t speak or breathe. I didn’t want to risk inciting his wrath even further."

"I should have just accepted it—believed him, believed that it would all be okay. But I couldn’t. I’d spent my whole childhood trying to tiptoe around my father, afraid to even breathe wrong. I didn’t want to spend my marriage like that too."

Names have power; to name something is to domesticate it, or to try. Naming a tornado would be like naming a shadow. What ha

Names have power; to name something is to domesticate it, or to try. Naming a tornado would be like naming a shadow. What happened in Oleander that day was simply the storm. A cloud that faded back into sky before it had a chance to enjoy what it had wrought.

...Oleander’s era of democracy had drawn to a close.
This was how she learned of the town’s rampant “disorderly conduct,” law and order giving way to anarchy: people walking off their jobs, crimes committed in broad daylight, an armed pied piper herding packs of feral children into the woods, their parents not much seeming to care.

In blood as in drought or in poverty or in flame, Oleander was Oleander, and there were still crops to be sown and meth to be harvested, pies to be baked and pigs to be prized, bargains to be hunted and farms to be foreclosed, cherries to be popped and hearts to be broken, worship to be offered and sinners to be shamed.

The new Oleander bustled and shone, its determined noise drowning out any echoes of the past. Grass and flowers and trees sprang from fallow ground. The scents of corn and life drove out the lingering smoke, and finally, the fire and its carpet of bones could be safely buried in the past and allowed to slip through the cracks of collective memory. But the earth had memory of its own.

“You look beautiful,” Alodia says.
I startle at the compliment. Then I smile. “I’m beautiful to the one person who matters.”
She nods. “Hector’s mouth will drop open when he sees you.”
“I hope so. But I meant me. I’m beautiful to me.”

“Are you the commander?” Mula asks, squatting down near his head. He manages a nod as his eyes are drifting closed. “I’m Mula, but that’s just my name for now. Did you know that Elisa is the queen? She has a sparkle stone. She healed me because I’m her best slave. Want to see my feet?”

Don’t focus on the edge. Stay inside the tracks. Stay in this little place where awful things happen, but where beauty hides in beams of sun

Don’t focus on the edge. Stay inside the tracks. Stay in this little place where awful things happen, but where beauty hides in beams of sunlight, in the green grass and the gentle lapping of the lake forming and destroying watery shapes. Ignore the men in uniforms that stand at length, sullying the image. They’ll be gone soon. Everything will go back to normal.

She looks at me, and her eyes are full of so much pain that it astounds me.
“It’s only going to get worse,” she says.

"...she asked if I had thoughts about the edge. I lied, Basil. I told her that of course I didn’t think about the edge. But I do. I dream about it. I want to know what will happen if I cross the tracks. I don’t want to jump; I just want to look down. I want to see what’s down there with my own eyes, not through a scope.”
“What if I’m lured the way Lex was lured?” I say. “What if one day I can’t stop myself and I walk right over the edge?”

I rest my head on his shoulder. His collarbone presses into my cheek, and I breathe in the sharp linen of his uniform and something faintly spicy-sweet. Up until last year, he smelled only of soap, if anything at all.

“Morgan.” He takes my hands. “Whatever you decide, I want you to know that I’ll stand behind it. I said I’d follow you off the edge, and I meant it. I’d jump into the sky with you. Wherever you go, you won’t have to go alone.”

There are tens of thousands of people, all around you, maybe hundreds of thousands, who at some point have experienced somet

There are tens of thousands of people, all around you, maybe hundreds of thousands, who at some point have experienced something that they can’t explain. And these people are silent. They are ashamed. They are afraid. They are convinced that they are the only ones, and so they say nothing. That is the real reason the Pax Arcana is so powerful. Rationality is king, and your emperor isn’t wearing any clothes.

That’s one of the things that sucks about magic: it moves molecules around; and when molecules move, electrons shift; and when electrons shift, the air becomes electromagnetically charged. This is why all of those reality shows about ghost hunters basically amount to a bunch of guys with science degrees getting excited while they talk about energy readings, and you’re just sitting there bored watching a TV screen fill up with fuzz and static before the cameras go off-line.

“I’m involved with somebody else.”
Of course she was. All the good Valkyries are taken.
“OK, but you maybe saved my life, and you’ve seen me naked,” I said. “In some countries we just got married. Can I at least know what name you go by?”

The woman set Sig’s chocolate orgy out in front of her and deposited my steak on the table.
“Y’all must work out,” the waitress observed a little sourly. She apparently did not.
“I’m going to throw this up later,” Sig said expressionlessly.
“I have a tapeworm,” I said cheerfully.

“I can’t really be bothered by something if I don’t know that it exists. I like where I live and how I live. The smaller your world is, the safer it is, you know? I may not know about every kind of junk food or movie or book, but I don’t have to worry about someone taking someone that I love, or eating something that might ultimately kill me, or wondering every morning if someone will come to my school with a gun and shoot me or my friends, or if a group of terrorists will come and blow up the building where my parents work. The world can be a pretty scary place to live. It’s a lot less scary when there isn’t so much of it open to you."

“Truthfully? I don’t know. I mean, you’re not exactly like any other girls I know. And you might be fairly cute, which helps...But I think mostly it’s because you sort of intrigue me. You’re more smothered by your parents and your situation than I’ve ever been by mine, and yet you don’t seem to notice that much...or even really mind. I don’t get it.”
“I guess I want to figure you out.”