Writer's block' is just a fancy way of saying 'I don't feel like doing any work today.
~ Meagan Spooner
I heard her voice, her stories, her softness as she spoke of her family, and her iron as she spoke of me - I heard her scream, and I moved without thought.
She moves like beauty, she whispers to us of wind and forest—and she tells us stories, such stories that we wake in the night, dreaming dreams of a life long past. she reminds us of what we used to be.She reminds us of what we could be.
None of this was what held Yeva's gaze. Because in the bottom of the valley, straddling the river nestled in the foothills, was a castle.
I would have kept you safe,' he said.I closed my eyes, forcing the tears down my cheek to break against the dam of his fingers. 'I know.
All of it—for this. Leading us to a door we can't open, a password we don't have.
Fire cannot hurt us. And yet, when we light her a lantern, there is a moment as we watch the wick flare in the darkness-a moment in which I want to touch the flame. Just to see if I can still be burned.
She remembered perching on the sill of her bedroom window with the pane opened a crack so she could let the winter in, and she remembered letting it sting her nose and wash over her until she was shivering and blue.
We're inches apart yet worlds away.
