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sharry-arry-odd · 24 days
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@neil-gaiman did that actually happen to you? Pretty funny nevertheless
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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Elysium Book Nook
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made by hand from paper and floral wire set in a laser cut wooden box inspired by the Elysium scenic overlook from Hades
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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Her ears closed upon the sound of Eleanor's voice assuring her that once again they would manage their escape together, somehow: nothing, no one, would prevent them.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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The longer they lived together, the stronger became their resentment of the outside world, a shared sentiment that bound them even closer. They believed the world continued to be silently critical of them; to them, expressed cordiality covered a malignant curiosity.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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'I see here that a Sussex woman purports to lay eggs.' 'Oh what foolishness,' said Sarah. 'Is it more foolish, do you think, than to claim to have born a child without a father?' Sarah was aghast at the comparison: Our Lady who bore Our Lord and a mad vixen of a woman who claimed to be–a hen? She could not speak.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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'We might of course buy fewer books,' Sarah says. Eleanor looks at her unbelievingly and says nothing.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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'Eleanor, my love: do you still scorn the idea of God?' 'Tush, yes. That God my mother worshipped is a father I prefer not to think is real.' 'Do you not believe He made us . . . as we are? So that it is then all right to be as we are?' Eleanor now understood how necessary this theological justification of their was to Sarah. She hesitated a moment, and then she said: 'It may be so, my love. He made us as we are. We are God's superior architecture.'
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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Her attraction to heights accompanied her fear that she might be tempted to leap. Each time, she went grimly aloft to experience the possibility of a fall.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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True, it was strange that they were both without husbands: Were they spinster sisters, or congenial cousins? she wondered. But they clearly intended to be domiciled together, nonetheless, or they would not have inquired about the cottage. She acknowledged to herself that surely none of this concerned her.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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The Ladies rested, leaning upon the decaying broken stones, alone together in the silent courtyard of the abbey, in the shadow of the steep hill that rose above the monastery remains. The sentimental hearts of the two women were prone to emotional responses to ancient buildings in ruins, if not to the religious aura of the place. They kissed, a long, loving kiss, and then stood apart and looked at each other. They walked back along the abbey road, their arms upon each other, moved by having witnessed the half-destroyed Gothic aspirations of monks.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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Sarah goes on: 'What shall we do about the world outside?' Eleanor, ponderously: 'Eschew it and all its vanities. Those effeminate softnesses are not for us.' Sarah: 'We shall not go out into society?' Eleanor: 'No, we shall wait for society, if it so wishes, to come to us.'
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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Mary-Caryll had no family, so her move to Woodstock was easily accomplished. Her arms were as broad and strong as a ploughman's. Her chambermaid's duties seemed too light, too easy to her. But she went about them willingly and was especially devoted to the care of the person and room of small, quiet Sarah Ponsonby, whose plight in the house she sensed was not unlike that of the barmaid she had so staunchly defended. Her fidelities had always been simple, direct, and on behalf of the weak: a deserted cat, her overworked mother, who died in her arms after a fire that destroyed their cottage, the homeless thirteen-year-old barmaid who slept on a shelf behind the bar of the Sheepshead Inn, and now the orphaned and threatened Miss Ponsonby.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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It was clear now to her: 'If I do not allow my hair to grow I will never be a girl,' she told herself. 'If I refuse to wear dresses as ladies do, I will always be a boy.' As for the other, less well-defined differences, her fine flat chest and the bare opening between her legs for her necessary occasions: surely these places could make no differences. They would be well hidden from public view by her shirts and knickers. She would be a boy, and then a man. She saw no difficulty at all.
The Ladies, by Doris Grumbach
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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One of the figures–the so-called last of the humans–pointed and said, "Look." Off to their right, swirling in a thin ray of sunlight filtering in through the canopy, a kaleidoscope of butterflies–at least a dozen, monarchs all–dancing among the trees, a slow, silent tornado. And then the machine spoke. "B-butterfly wings are d-delicate. Touching one might c-cause the colors to fade, l-leaving the butterfly open to predators. It will not k-kill it immediately, but you are sentencing it to d-death regardless." "Yes," came the reply. "Yes. That's . . . that's what Nurse Ratched said when . . ." Memory, ever-present, a reminder of what was and what could be, if only one was brave enough to reach for it. "Vic?" He looked over at his friend beside him. Hap kissed him tentatively, sweetly. A single point of contact, and he tasted of metal. "What was that for?" Vic asked after he pulled away, touching his lips in wonder. "I w-wanted to," Hap said simply. He looked back at the kaleidoscope and smiled. "Nice. P-pretty. I l-like them." "I know," Vic said as he took Hap's hand in his. "You could . . . you can do that again. If you want." Hap rolled his eyes. "Oh, c-can I? G-good to know." But then he kissed the side of Vic's head, lingering. Be it man or machine, Victor thought, to love something meant loving the ghost inside, to be haunted by it. Humanity–that nebulous concept he didn't always understand–had lived and died by its creations. Perhaps Victor would too, one day, a final lesson in what it meant to exist. But that day was not today. As the butterflies danced, a human and machine looked on, their hearts beating as one.
In The Lives of Puppets, by TJ Klune
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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"I a-am H-hap." "Why?" Dad asked. "Why do you want to be Hap?" Hap said, "In my head. Words. Whispers." "And what do they whisper?" "Victor," Hap said. "Nurse Ratched. Rambo." And: "Hysterically Angry Puppet." Three words not uttered since they'd returned from the City of Electric Dreams. "Do you know me?" Vic asked. Hap said "no" and "yes" and "You are human, you have human blood and human thoughts" and "I dreamed. I dreamed you kissed me in a room of screens and butterfly wings. You're a ghost in my head. I want to know why. I want to know you." With a bittersweet ache in his heart, Vic said, "Hap. It's a good name. I like it. Fits you." Though it was faint, Hap smiled.
In The Lives of Puppets, by TJ Klune
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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That night, when sleep was elusive, Vic told his father, "I've never been more human." "Why?" Dad asked. "Because I breathe, but I can't catch my breath."
In The Lives of Puppets, by TJ Klune
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sharry-arry-odd · 1 month
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He climbed onto the table next to Hap, curling against him, making himself as small as he could. Hap was cold, skin like ice, but Vic didn't mind. He pulled the sheet back over them and lay his head on Hap's shoulder. "I walked through the woods today," he whispered. "And I turned to point out a bird in the trees, but you weren't there." Hap didn't reply. Vic stayed there until morning when the winter sun began rising as it always did.
In The Lives of Puppets, by TJ Klune
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