There's nothing more aggravating in the world than the midnight sniffling of the person you've decided to hate.

I’ve always believed that as an author, I do 50% of the work of storytelling, and the reader does the other 50%. There’s no way I can control the story you tell yourself from my book. Your own experiences, preferences, prejudices, mood at the moment, current events in your life, needs and wants influence how you read my every word.

She wore white heirloom lace about her throat And in her hair a bright golden feather A pearl like a plum hung ripe from her neck But her smile fetched ten gold together

No small thing, a bee's sting When it enters the heart Not so benign, the growing vine When it tears stone apart

Her eyes were distant, and she seemed to be listening to that voice that first told her the story, a mother, sister, or aunt. Then her voice, like her singing, cut through the crickets and crackling fire.

Razo knew he was best at nothing, except maybe cramming two cherries into a single nostril.

I’m sorry, my lady,” said Geric, rubbing his arm. “But I failed to force an apology out of the offending goose.