The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 3

by Beth Brower

In one unexpected sweep of emotion, Archibald embodied both pride and defeat.

I am not beyond being moved by the pathetic, and Cousin Archibald is nothing if not that.

Bunching his face into the semblance of a sad prune, Cousin Archibald fought only a moment before accepting his fate.

Be a pirate, if you must, but do not try to do so as a ginger.

“I will be in church, Cousin Archibald, and then I intend to spend the remainder of the day in a solemn introspection of my own soul,” stated I. “Do not get lost in the black mire you will find there,” snarled he.

It was death in a glass. Misery and gutter, followed by a kick of pepper, black liquorice, and who knows what else.

“I think I’ve been trammelled by a train.”

There are times in one’s life when one knows they are exactly where they are meant to be, and a chorus of angels in the expanse of eternity cheers. This was one of those moments.

“What else is life but a string of outcomes beyond our control?”

“It’s messier than we ever imagined it to be as children,” he said. “What?” “Life.”

“Your helping me felt like…home.” “That elusive shore,” he said quietly. “Aye.”

The feeling that home isn’t just a place, but also people.

I watched from the doorway as Young Hawkes took the chair, moved it to the window, sat, pulled a book from his pocket, opened it up, and then ignored the book while he looked with concerned eyes towards the slumbering demon in the bed. It looked, for a moment, as if he cared.

The door swung open—goodness, that man can swing a door almost as well as he can throw open a curtain.

The Tenant always has a degree of the haunt about him, his eyes more mirage than stone.

confiding in a man who, while not a complete stranger, is still an unknown country.

I learned a long time ago that my happiness has to be separate from the things beyond my control.”

“It isn’t my nature to choose sadness if I can help it,”

Life never fails you in this one thing: There is always an unexpected sleight of hand.

“Does he read?” “Oh, I expect not. How else would one remain so incredibly stupid?

Me calling him stupid was less a reflection of his ability and more of the state in which he exists.”

So, as we supposedly abide in grace, Mr. Flat abides in stupidity?” It was s...

“I believe he abides in grace and stupidity. I imagine it’s not an unco...

Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.

Touch has a memory.

Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from the highest point of view.

“Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of your principles.”

Thinks it our British duty to look sickly.”

Their response was one of nonverbal pity.

On the floor was the war where he died.

Is three years of grief enough payment? Does the heart not always have to wear black?

She wore orange and she deserved it.

The Dalliance Books of the New, Slightly Used, & Abominably Treated Yet Resurrected Variety

She shone with the joy of ten thousand suns.

And all I could think of to say was, “I was closing a door.”

I can hear judgement in every step.

we both began reading through the rest of his newspaper, talking lightly of nothing as the afternoon walked by.

I didn’t wish to stand out before I knew what I was standing in.

Agnes helped with my unruly hair. While not tame, it did not appear feral, so three cheers for that.

“He’s the man we would all be if we weren’t fantastically happy being ourselves,”