Shannon > Recent Status Updates

I could hear the quiet in Tiger Lily's heart. I had never heard it so soft, so at peace, as I did that evening, as she sat with Peter and watched those horses, and dreamed for a moment that she would never have to lose him, or herself.

: (

I am only a faerie. I don't have grand ideas, or grand dreams, or long for grand freedoms like people do. But I wanted to be part of their dream too, even if I was only a flea riding on their tails. To run and run and never worry—that was what they wanted, and I wanted to go with them.

She memorized the tiny constellation of freckles to the left of his nose, and the scars on his knuckles, the fan of his eyelashes, the many expressions of his face. I knew them almost as well as she did, because watching him love Tiger Lily was better than not watching him at all.

How can I describe Peter's face...Sometimes he looked completely at Tiger Lily, as if she were the point on which all the universe revolved, as if she were the biggest mystery of life, or as if she were a flame and he couldn't not look even though he was scared. And sometimes it would all disappear into carelessness, confidence, amusement, as if he didn't need anyone or anything on this earth to feel happy and alive.

I'm enjoying this a lot. Tiger Lily is a badass and I've always had a crush on Peter. I had no idea that Tinker Bell was the narrator, but it's really a fantastic point of view.

Our hearts are too small to love more than one person in a lifetime. Aside from rare instances, like in the case of my father, we are built to mate for life. I went back to the burrow many nights, and watched Peter. I tried to talk sense into my hard little heart. But it had landed on Peter, a creature two hundred times my size and barely aware of me, and there was no prying it loose.

"W-what do you hunt, sir?" Reginald asked.
"Not sir. Just Hook." The stranger smiled, friendly. "I used to hunt ships. But recently I've switched. Now I hunt boys."

She stumbled through the woods, and she didn't hear him behind her until he had his arm around her waist. She bucked. They slammed against a tree. She kicked and kicked. But it was too late.
Peter Pan dragged her into the bushes.

Before he ran out on me and my mother for a twinkly-eyed nymph named Belladonna, my father told me a few things. He said rotten logs were the best places for mosquitoes. He told me humans weren't to be trusted. And he warned me to stay clear of Peter Pan.

Let me tell you something straight off. This is a love story, but not like any you've heard. The boy and the girl are far from innocent. Dear lives are lost. And good doesn't win. In some places, there is something ultimately good about endings. In Neverland, that is not the case.

Only she and I are different. Every month or so she comes here and stares toward the ocean, and all the village children whisper about her, even her own. It has become such a ritual.
And when she surfaces from her dream, she calls me by my old name, though no one uses it anymore. And she turns to me, her eyelashes fluttering in the glare that surrounds me, and whispers to me in one short syllable.
Tink.

Reading this one with a few friends ...

"I don't think," he said, "that a vicar is supposed to beat a bishop to death, or even back to death."
Mr. Berkeley looked down upon the remains of Bishop Bernard.
"If anyone asks, we'll say he fell over," he said. "Lots of times."

Lowering her gaze, Lea saw the ragged flesh of the woman's other leg trapped beneath the pile of debris. A white bone poked up from the torn skin.
No. Oh no.
The other leg. We left it behind. It's torn off. I pulled it off. I pulled her leg off!
Blood showered the ground from the open tear in the woman's body.
"My leg! My leg! My leg! My leg! My leg!"

I don't think this was supposed to be funny.

Everybody, you need to write-in Seraphina for YA Fantasy for the Choice Awards.

This is so boring.

Nurd had been something of a bother to five different demonic entities: Schwell, the Demon of Uncomfortable Shoes; Ick, the Demon of Unpleasant Things Discovered in Plug Holes During Cleaning; Graham, the Demon of Stale Biscuits and Crackers; Mavis, the Demon of Inappropriate Names for Men; and last, and quite possibly the least, Erics', the Demon of Bad Punctuation.

That last one hurts, doesn't it?

Whenever someone uses the word "glitch," which means a fault of some kind in a system, you should immediately be suspicious, because it means that they don't know what it is. A technician who uses the term "glitch" is like a doctor who tells you you're suffering from a "thingy," except the doctor won't tell you to go home and try turning yourself on and off again.

Takes place a few days before Halloween so I thought it'd be fun to read now ...

All teachers were required to play the accordion—it had been her final test before graduation. It was often called the "people's instrument" since it was portable enough to carry along on a march to a construction site or for a day of voluntary hard labor in the fields—nothing like a rousing march played on accordion to motivate workers in the field or on the construction site.

That's cruel and unusual punishment.

This fell apart a bit in the end and felt rushed and also like this was just the setup for the rest of the series, but I enjoyed the story for the most part.

Floating down into a deep slumber, I was oblivious to the creak of my garden gate, the howl of my next-door neighbor's dog and the eyes that gleamed with madness peering in through my bedroom window as I slept.

O__O

I got lost on youtube watching NK documentaries the other night (the ones by Vice are good, it's surreal how much of NK shown to foreigners is fake) so I read a bit more. Some of this is so difficult to understand - not paying for food/clothes, "dating" someone for 3 years and only holding hands, a "black market" where grandmas sell vegetables. Crazy.

Why am I reading a ghost story just before bed? o__o

Well, damn.

Yeah, I figured out what was going on with Angela a loooong time ago. Some investigative reporter you are, Kami.

An old live oak guarded the darkest corner of the garden, and a swing hung like a childhood memory from one of the gnarled branches.
It swayed gently, as if someone had just gotten out of the wooden seat. Back and forth...back and forth...back and forth...
The creak of the rusted chains lifted the hairs on the back of my neck.

You and me both, girl.

As I got up to check the windows, I heard the soft tinkle of the wind chimes on the patio.
Strange, because there wasn't a breeze.
Alarmed, I reached back and closed my laptop.
I stood shivering in the dark, gazing past my reflection in the glass to the patio and garden beyond.

Something that gives me the creeps is looking at mirrors or out windows at night. This just did a good job of freaking me out.