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She didn’t know people could stop loving you. She’d thought friendship was permanent, like matter.
Looks mattered. Hello? What could be more obvious than this?
Stories of people whose sadness makes them go invisible, of girls born with wings that fall off, of whole towns that wake up blind, of bolts of lightning that become boys, of mothers and daughters, who, when they hold hands, freeze over like glaciers. Not to mention the shadow-man who leaves gifts in the night, the sad drunk giant who takes apart the world looking for his lost love, and finally, the singing dead woman who lures women into The Silent World next door.
These actually are creepy
She says she wants me to speak up, but really, she only wants me to speak up about things she wants to hear.
“All women write stories. It’s just that only some transcribe them.” “And men?” “Who cares!”
