Gil Liane

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Gil Liane

Goodreads Author


Born
Australia
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Member Since
January 2015


I love storytelling in every form (having worked as a freelance writer and stylist for years). Some of my stories are technically science fiction/speculative fiction; others are probably best described as strange fiction. Most days I just write.. and write... and write.

Average rating: 4.0 · 6 ratings · 3 reviews · 3 distinct works
Sound

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 5 ratings — published 2014
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Optimate

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 2011 — 2 editions
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Otherplace (The Place Serie...

0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings — published 2016
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Gil Liane shared a quote
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“That was diverse.” Poppy looks surprised as she slides down the wall like a bird that’s forgotten how to fly, landing in a crumpled heap on the curb.
“Positively Dionysian,” I manage to slur. The world is a crazed kaleidoscope. Colors fight for space, desperate to steal each other’s names. “They’re just labels!” I yell at the untidy bundle of shades and bones near my foot.
“Are you talking to me?” Patterns birthed by multiple reflections coalesce into Poppy’s face.
“Maybe. I think other people’s musical chi has saturated my cells.” Myriad venues and tonal flavors are scattered through my memory, like broken harmonies. “Why did I feed on so many tunes?”
“You wanted filtered sounds to rain down and seep clean through, beyond blood, to the soul.” A lone streetlight flickers behind her and for a few alienating seconds she shimmers in and out of existence.
“Too much.” My stomach turns over, but I manage to keep everything down. If I throw up now, nothing will come out but music.
“Tonight’s o
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Gil Liane
Gil Liane shared a quote
Sound by Gil Liane
“The girl in the doorway is tiny and ethereal. So thin, veins press against the surface of her body, like faint blue fairy lights buried under the skin. A wispy halo of white-blond hair frames her alabaster complexion. The effect would be disturbingly achromatic if it weren’t for an unsettling pale blue gaze, reminiscent of a tiger’s, or a snake’s.”
Gil Liane
More of Gil's books…
“That was diverse.” Poppy looks surprised as she slides down the wall like a bird that’s forgotten how to fly, landing in a crumpled heap on the curb.
“Positively Dionysian,” I manage to slur. The world is a crazed kaleidoscope. Colors fight for space, desperate to steal each other’s names. “They’re just labels!” I yell at the untidy bundle of shades and bones near my foot.
“Are you talking to me?” Patterns birthed by multiple reflections coalesce into Poppy’s face.
“Maybe. I think other people’s musical chi has saturated my cells.” Myriad venues and tonal flavors are scattered through my memory, like broken harmonies. “Why did I feed on so many tunes?”
“You wanted filtered sounds to rain down and seep clean through, beyond blood, to the soul.” A lone streetlight flickers behind her and for a few alienating seconds she shimmers in and out of existence.
“Too much.” My stomach turns over, but I manage to keep everything down. If I throw up now, nothing will come out but music.
“Tonight’s orgy of sound has left us in a pure, concentrated haze of other people’s emotions,” Poppy announces proudly, unperturbed by the fact I’m squatting in a gutter. She holds out her arms to me, palms turned up. “Look, I’m full of music.”
I stare at the small woman, posed like a crazed Messiah. The cat mask is still caught in her hair. A cracking sound fills the air and her face starts to fracture into pieces, like shards of a broken mirror. Closing my eyes, I take deep breaths till my head calms down. When I open them again, Poppy is gone.”
Gil Liane

“The girl in the doorway is tiny and ethereal. So thin, veins press against the surface of her body, like faint blue fairy lights buried under the skin. A wispy halo of white-blond hair frames her alabaster complexion. The effect would be disturbingly achromatic if it weren’t for an unsettling pale blue gaze, reminiscent of a tiger’s, or a snake’s.”
Gil Liane, Sound

“The girl in the doorway is tiny and ethereal. So thin, veins press against the surface of her body, like faint blue fairy lights buried under the skin. A wispy halo of white-blond hair frames her alabaster complexion. The effect would be disturbingly achromatic if it weren’t for an unsettling pale blue gaze, reminiscent of a tiger’s, or a snake’s.”
Gil Liane, Sound

“That was diverse.” Poppy looks surprised as she slides down the wall like a bird that’s forgotten how to fly, landing in a crumpled heap on the curb.
“Positively Dionysian,” I manage to slur. The world is a crazed kaleidoscope. Colors fight for space, desperate to steal each other’s names. “They’re just labels!” I yell at the untidy bundle of shades and bones near my foot.
“Are you talking to me?” Patterns birthed by multiple reflections coalesce into Poppy’s face.
“Maybe. I think other people’s musical chi has saturated my cells.” Myriad venues and tonal flavors are scattered through my memory, like broken harmonies. “Why did I feed on so many tunes?”
“You wanted filtered sounds to rain down and seep clean through, beyond blood, to the soul.” A lone streetlight flickers behind her and for a few alienating seconds she shimmers in and out of existence.
“Too much.” My stomach turns over, but I manage to keep everything down. If I throw up now, nothing will come out but music.
“Tonight’s orgy of sound has left us in a pure, concentrated haze of other people’s emotions,” Poppy announces proudly, unperturbed by the fact I’m squatting in a gutter. She holds out her arms to me, palms turned up. “Look, I’m full of music.”
I stare at the small woman, posed like a crazed Messiah. The cat mask is still caught in her hair. A cracking sound fills the air and her face starts to fracture into pieces, like shards of a broken mirror. Closing my eyes, I take deep breaths till my head calms down. When I open them again, Poppy is gone.”
Gil Liane




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