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Rachel A. Marks
Goodreads author profile
gender
female
website
twitter username
genre
influences
member since
December 2010
Rachel A. Marks hasn't written any blog posts yet.
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Winter Rose
  4.08 avg rating — 39 ratings
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published
2011
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3 editions
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My rating:
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Sorrow's Shroud
 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings
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published
2006
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My rating:
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Distant Passages - Volume 2: More of the Best Short Stories and Poetry from Double-Edged Publishing
by Selena Thomason , Mirta Ana Schultz, Chris Mikesell  4.50 avg rating — 2 ratings
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published
2007
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My rating:
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Rachel Marks said:
"Amazing, stunning, and just as addicting as the first two books! I am in love with Ness and his writing!!! I really hope his work gets the attention it deserves. The man's a genius.
"
Rachel's Recent Updates
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Rachel Marks
and 13 other people
liked Juliet Marillier's blog post:
An early review of Shadowfell and a giveaway
"The link below takes you to a blog called Raiding Bookshelves. There you'll find an early review of Shadowfell (pretty much spoiler free) and an opportunity to win a signed copy of the Australian e..."
...read it »
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"
Absolutely beautiful!
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"
Argh. Ness and his innovative genre-bending ingeniousness. WHY CAN'T ALL YA BE LIKE THIS.
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Rachel Marks
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"Everyone is so obsessed with themselves nowadays that they have no time for me."
—
Louise Rennison
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“He couldn’t look back at the children. He couldn’t think of it. All he could do was watch the eyes of his wife.
He pulled her to him, her body soft, her skin warm. She was life, she was his. He took her lips and tasted his freedom once more. The subtle tenderness. The hope hidden in joined breath. He took it into himself. Soaking in the peace that came with it.
And even as the rustling began he felt still, he felt calm. Scratching and scrapping within the stones, and the rustle of wings. But all Eli knew was the nature of love.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Distant Passages - Volume 2: More of the Best Short Stories and Poetry from Double-Edged Publishing
He pulled her to him, her body soft, her skin warm. She was life, she was his. He took her lips and tasted his freedom once more. The subtle tenderness. The hope hidden in joined breath. He took it into himself. Soaking in the peace that came with it.
And even as the rustling began he felt still, he felt calm. Scratching and scrapping within the stones, and the rustle of wings. But all Eli knew was the nature of love.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Distant Passages - Volume 2: More of the Best Short Stories and Poetry from Double-Edged Publishing
“The men stop coming after Hunt goes missing. We learned from the last brave soul to visit that they whispered all sorts of stories to answer his disappearance. My favorite is that we ate him. We cooked him up with our whore-earned corn, a dozen rats’ eyes, and a bat wing.
Even I couldn’t have thought of anything more perfect.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Winter Rose
Even I couldn’t have thought of anything more perfect.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Winter Rose
“I drag the body out into the snowdrifts, as far away from our shack as I can muster. I put her in a thicket of trees, where the green seems to still have a voice in the branches, and try not to think about the beasts that’ll soon be gathering. There’s no way of burying her; the ground is a solid rock of ice beneath us.
I kneel beside her and want desperately to weep. My throat tightens and my head aches. Everything hurts inside. But I have no way of releasing it. I’m locked up and hard as stone.
“I’m sorry, Mamma,” I whisper to the shell in front of me. I take her hand. It could belong to a glass doll. There’s no life there anymore.
So I gather rocks, one by one, and set them over her, trying my best to protect her from the birds, the beasts, keep her safe as much as I can now. I pile the dark stones gently on her stomach, her arms, and over her face, until she becomes one with the mountain.
I stand and study my work, feeling like the rocks are on me instead, then I leave the body for the forest and ice.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Winter Rose
I kneel beside her and want desperately to weep. My throat tightens and my head aches. Everything hurts inside. But I have no way of releasing it. I’m locked up and hard as stone.
“I’m sorry, Mamma,” I whisper to the shell in front of me. I take her hand. It could belong to a glass doll. There’s no life there anymore.
So I gather rocks, one by one, and set them over her, trying my best to protect her from the birds, the beasts, keep her safe as much as I can now. I pile the dark stones gently on her stomach, her arms, and over her face, until she becomes one with the mountain.
I stand and study my work, feeling like the rocks are on me instead, then I leave the body for the forest and ice.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Winter Rose
“It's not that you should never love something so much that it can control you.
It's that you need to love something that much so you can never be controlled.
It's not a weakness.
It's your best strength.”
― Patrick Ness, The Ask and the Answer
It's that you need to love something that much so you can never be controlled.
It's not a weakness.
It's your best strength.”
― Patrick Ness, The Ask and the Answer
“He couldn’t look back at the children. He couldn’t think of it. All he could do was watch the eyes of his wife.
He pulled her to him, her body soft, her skin warm. She was life, she was his. He took her lips and tasted his freedom once more. The subtle tenderness. The hope hidden in joined breath. He took it into himself. Soaking in the peace that came with it.
And even as the rustling began he felt still, he felt calm. Scratching and scrapping within the stones, and the rustle of wings. But all Eli knew was the nature of love.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Distant Passages - Volume 2: More of the Best Short Stories and Poetry from Double-Edged Publishing
He pulled her to him, her body soft, her skin warm. She was life, she was his. He took her lips and tasted his freedom once more. The subtle tenderness. The hope hidden in joined breath. He took it into himself. Soaking in the peace that came with it.
And even as the rustling began he felt still, he felt calm. Scratching and scrapping within the stones, and the rustle of wings. But all Eli knew was the nature of love.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Distant Passages - Volume 2: More of the Best Short Stories and Poetry from Double-Edged Publishing
“The men stop coming after Hunt goes missing. We learned from the last brave soul to visit that they whispered all sorts of stories to answer his disappearance. My favorite is that we ate him. We cooked him up with our whore-earned corn, a dozen rats’ eyes, and a bat wing.
Even I couldn’t have thought of anything more perfect.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Winter Rose
Even I couldn’t have thought of anything more perfect.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Winter Rose
“I drag the body out into the snowdrifts, as far away from our shack as I can muster. I put her in a thicket of trees, where the green seems to still have a voice in the branches, and try not to think about the beasts that’ll soon be gathering. There’s no way of burying her; the ground is a solid rock of ice beneath us.
I kneel beside her and want desperately to weep. My throat tightens and my head aches. Everything hurts inside. But I have no way of releasing it. I’m locked up and hard as stone.
“I’m sorry, Mamma,” I whisper to the shell in front of me. I take her hand. It could belong to a glass doll. There’s no life there anymore.
So I gather rocks, one by one, and set them over her, trying my best to protect her from the birds, the beasts, keep her safe as much as I can now. I pile the dark stones gently on her stomach, her arms, and over her face, until she becomes one with the mountain.
I stand and study my work, feeling like the rocks are on me instead, then I leave the body for the forest and ice.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Winter Rose
I kneel beside her and want desperately to weep. My throat tightens and my head aches. Everything hurts inside. But I have no way of releasing it. I’m locked up and hard as stone.
“I’m sorry, Mamma,” I whisper to the shell in front of me. I take her hand. It could belong to a glass doll. There’s no life there anymore.
So I gather rocks, one by one, and set them over her, trying my best to protect her from the birds, the beasts, keep her safe as much as I can now. I pile the dark stones gently on her stomach, her arms, and over her face, until she becomes one with the mountain.
I stand and study my work, feeling like the rocks are on me instead, then I leave the body for the forest and ice.”
― Rachel A. Marks, Winter Rose
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