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The Luminaries
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The Widow Tree by Nicole Lundrigan
The Widow Tree
by Nicole Lundrigan (Goodreads Author)
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Saga, Volume 4 by Brian K. Vaughan
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Wet Moon Volume 5 by Ross  Campbell
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Sally Heathcote by Mary M. Talbot
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Breath of Bones by Steve Niles
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Wolf Children by Mamoru Hosoda
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Witchcraft Works, Volume 1 by Ryū Mizunagi
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Black Rose Alice, Tome 1 by Setona Mizushiro
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In Clothes Called Fat by Moyoco Anno
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Almost English by Charlotte Mendelson
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Paul Murray
“And in the village the wind sets the lids of the wheelie bins chomping at nothing, and in the cinema Hulk bounces and swings his fists, and in the video-game shop the Christmas games are in, and in Ed’s there’s a special offer, two boxes of doughnuts for the price of one, someone says it’s because of what happened but someone else says no, actually they’re doing it in all the branches. It doesn’t matter where you go through, nowhere feels big enough to contain you, even if you’re right in the middle of the mall it still somehow seems too shallow, like when you were younger and you tried to make your Transformers visit your Lego town, and they were just out of scale, it didn’t work -- it’s like that, or maybe it isn’t, because you also feel really tinily small, you feel like a lump in somebody’s throat, or actually who cares what you feel, and everywhere you go you encounter other grey-clad boys from your year, looming up like hateful reflections -- Gary Toolan, John Keating, Maurice Wall, Vincent Bailey and all of the others that are the pinnacle of the evolution that began so many years ago with that one depressed fish that if you met him now you’d tell him to stay in the sea -- there they are, pale-faced but smirking, sleeves rolled up, and though it’s sad, it’s sadder than a three-legged dog, it’s also flat, it make you angry, so when someone says Skippy was a homo you’re almost glad because you can fight them, and they’re glad too, so you fight, until someone gets his jumper ripped or the security guard chases you out of the mall, and you’ve already been kicked out of the other mall, and it’s too cold to go to the park, and you think it must be almost time to go to bed but it’s not, it’s only just time for dinner, which is car-tyre with phlegm sauce and which you leave mostly uneaten, and privately you’re thinking Skippy is a homo too, you’re thinking, Fuck you Skippy, though you’re also thinking, Hey, where’s Skippy? or Skippy, did you borrow my -- and then you think, Oh fuck, and everything shakes around the edges again and you have to hold on tight to your lucky condom or your Tupac keyring or your actual live shotgun bullet, or if you don’t have one of those things, wedge your hands deeper in your pockets or throw a stone at a seagull or shout after a knacker in the village how his mother was in excellent form last night and run for it, and dream of being Hulk, or a Transformer in a Lego town going smash! bash! crash! stomping the whole city to the ground, incinerating the little yellow-headed Lego people with your laser eyes till the smiles melt right off their faces.

And in the schoolyard the lisp of a last fallen leaf skating around the tarmac is the only sound, everywhere else is totally silent, even when people are talking, it’s like someone’s thrown a switch and reversed the polarity of everything so that being alive now is like being dead, like zombies, grey bodies shuffling loose-limbed through he perpetual gloaming, or like universes, same difference, matter or energy adrift in nothingness, descending, like veils, through the darkness.”
Paul Murray, Skippy Dies

Ray Bradbury
“Oh God, midnight’s not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two’s not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there’s hope, for dawn’s just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body’s at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You’re the nearest to dead you’ll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you’d slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that’s burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It’s a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead – And wasn’t it true, had he read somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. than at any other time...”
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

“Lovely and unremarkable, the clutter
of mugs and books, the almost-empty Fig
Newtons box, thick dishes in a big
tin tray, the knife still standing in the butter,
change like the color of river water
in the delicate shift to day. Thin fog
veils the hedges, where a neighbor dog
makes rounds. 'Go to bed. It doesn't matter
about the washing-up. Take this book along.'
Whatever it was we said that night is gone,
framed like a photograph nobody took.
Stretched out on a camp cot with the book,
I think that we will talk all night again,
there, or another where, but I am wrong.”
Marilyn Hacker, Winter Numbers: Poems

Venedikt Erofeev
“Everything should take place slowly and incorrectly so that man doesn't get a chance to start feeling proud, so that man is sad and perplexed.”
Venedikt Erofeev, Moscow to the End of the Line

Sharon Creech
“Over and over, I prayed the same thing. I prayed to trees. This was easier than praying directly to God. There was nearly always a tree nearby.”
Sharon Creech

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