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agirlandherquill · 21 days
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the emancipation of a lie
I had never known a killer. Never looked one in the eye. Never heard of one. Because such things did not exist. Not until the morning of last, at 6:33am. The exact time our Leader died. No, I think died is perhaps the wrong word for the manner in which his death came about. Silently slaughtered. That about covers it.  And the man responsible sits before me now. A killer watches me. But this time it is I who hold someone’s life in my hands - his. My judgement will determine his fate. The world knows he did it. What they do not know, is why. The why is my job, my question, my investigation. A why is dangerous. A why is unpredictable. A why is everything. Motive can be a very potent thing.  And it is up to me to see between the lies.
~ Between The Lies
and so the gods of writing have struck again, here's the opening for another novel i'm starting - totally out of my comfort zone, it's going to be dystopia, psychological and told in a dracula-esque style which im very excited about
(yes this does mark 3 novels in progress at the possibly busiest time of my life, but as usual I will juggle because this is so worth it :) )
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bobbie-robron · 7 months
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toribookworm22 · 8 months
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Y'all ready for this?
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Reprogrammed is Out Now! 💙💙💙
Available on Amazon! Up on Goodreads!
And coming soon to Kindle!
For more stuff, visit my website.
Thank you for all of your continued support! Love you guys!
~ toribookworm ♥️
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outstanding-quotes · 2 months
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My mother used to say that spirits are as lost as we are. She believed in accidental ghosts. One might show up at your door, needing assistance in crossing over, yet not knowing themselves what they needed, or how to let go or even ask for help.
Justin Torres, Blackouts
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minutiaewriter · 5 months
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🌟Hera Part II Title Reveal below the cut🌟
Hera: To Touch the Heavens
coming spring 2024
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hatterpillar-author · 5 months
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Prologue
Four bodies. Four bodies was a pretty good starting line. Grandad could name every British and American politician under the sun, he could even dabble in the French government from time to time, but disappointingly he wasn’t smart enough to notice his peppermint tea tasted just a little bit like poison. Mother could cook a delicious feast for the entire village in a single afternoon, three courses and all,  yet confusingly didn’t spot that one of her expensive Japanese knives had gone missing, not until it turned up in her carotid artery at least, spewing blood all over her newly polished floors - a shame, truly. Father could recite every verse from the Bible by heart and would willingly do so every chance he got; over dinner, on a hike, once even in the shower. It’s fitting, really, that he died by the crucifix just like his saviour, even if it wasn’t quite by way of the same method. I’m sure Jesus would understand that a brass effigy of his crucifixion driven straight through the eye and into the brain was the best a boy could do, given the resources. Older brothers are trickier, sly, they always seem to see things coming. Incredibly annoying, except, of course, when said brother ever so clumsily takes the wrong medication. He never even noticed when the small, round, white pills our parents don’t know he takes every night turned into little yellowish capsules. Poor thing was too busy stuffing them down his throat and waiting for the brain-altering clarity of his school mate’s Ritalin to seep in so he could perform at his best. I did him a favour, honestly, he’s lucky to have me. 
So you see, Arlo, my family's carelessness with their lives was never my fault. Their need to force me into a cage and morph my brain and body into something unrecognisably horrific made them ugly and hostile. They saw who I was, they got their jaws around me and they bit. They ate away at me until there was nothing left. And what do you do with old dogs who bite?
You put them down. 
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inrumford · 2 years
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“I don’t think there is some way to prepare for death,” says Alicia in Stella Maris. “There’s no evolutionary advantage to being good at dying. Who would you leave it to? The thing you are dealing with – time – is immalleable. Except that the more you harbor it the less of it you have. The liquor of being is leaking out onto the ground. You need to hurry. But the haste itself is consuming what you wish to preserve. You can’t deal with what you’ve been sent to deal with.
Cormac McCarthy
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1-1-s1ay-2-2 · 2 years
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Pug | 2022 | Pug the Pure~Heart 💜
Pug the Pure~Heart! She must go where no girl has gone before! Are you ready for an epic adventure? #teampug #teamslay
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an-magrittwne · 5 months
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🌹- Nothern Light, has never been so strong, so far south in Scandinavia. This is South of Norway, & Lawer part of Denmark. The last part is quite unusual.
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bimbo-graphic-novel · 4 months
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(a/n: thank you to everyone for the condolences and the kind words during this time of pain. right now i am not living, I’m simply existing. it will stay this way for the foreseeable future, as I have lost someone so dear to me, words cannot describe my grief. updates will be slightly irregular but will continue nonetheless. Enjoy this newest part and thank you for your support. )
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agirlandherquill · 3 months
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so i'm starting this blog with the first page of my new novel. the first blank page to me is always the start of potential, an idea, a thought with the power to burn bright or wreak absolute chaos, perhaps both, perhaps in the end, that is what a novel is meant to do; either way the match has been struck, let the chaos begin
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linavloger · 3 months
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Hey
New novel coming out!
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Wanna check out the friendship between 2 girls that leads to many misadventures?
Well...."Megami and Grace" will be for you!
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kbrooksauthor · 11 months
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In the long-awaited sequel to the Spark That Left Us, we return to the shattered world of Adeline Byrne and the scraps of a life left behind after battling the collectors and the supernatural force of Levina.
However, the world of soul collectors and psychic assassins can not leave them alone —as the group becomes haunted by their dead and the choices they made.
Can they finally close the door on the souls that were lost, or will they forever be tormented by the past?
Together, they will fight to bring an end to the selling of souls, but who will be left to save theirs?
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jdslaytontheauthor · 1 year
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foundlings-novel · 1 month
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There is an insatiable yearning that comes with growing up. With boyhood and all the mud that cakes to your skin with it. It asks for recognition and bee-lining in a way that  boys so rarely get. They hide their earnest curiosity and their disarming vulnerability beneath layers of bravado and sly posturing that shows clear on stage, the tragicomic theater of youth. 
Breathing in a space of heavy muddled air, begging to be inhaled. They stand there, steadfast, taking it all in, then, they are pushed from the platform of observation and are forced to face the infinite, yet finite potential of their life as an acrobat swinging from the trapeze of awkwardness to a high beam of bravado, forever teetering on the precipice of self-discovery, all while the world watches on.
They land and forget to bend their knees and find themselves lost again in the labyrinth of feeling that they refuse to see, borne back ceaselessly against the current of what’s to come, no guiding light in sight. 
And then there’s more. There’s the kids who find the same kind of tumult in the way of their trajectory forward, and they breathe and stutter and push through their lungs collapsing. Sometimes they find themselves too, on the way through the darkness and they learn what they need. 
They see themselves as something else and grow to fill the shape they’ve always been meant to take, rather than fighting the mold fit around them by force. So they begin to shape their sides like clay, and draw a needle back with the fluids that are sure to change them. 
In the sterile ambiance of their bedroom, their bathroom, their quiet space, they pull and breathe and embark on the starkly intimate ritual of injecting testosterone into their tummy, or their thighs. Pulling back the skin and squeezing, fighting to keep it all in. The syringe, a surreal implement of transformation, piercing the flesh ushering in a chemical metamorphosis that blurs the lines between who they were and who they are. Who they have come to be. 
Drawing the needle back once more, there is release and a tiny drop of blood spills out with a hint of clear, viscous liquid that spins new stories with each passing week. Encouraging the dance of the hormones in their blood, those minuscule marionettes writing a new story with every step along the way. 
Each pinch, a reminder that there is power in the self and that all it takes is a small tug to begin unraveling the tapestry that is there everyday. That it only takes a little bit of liquid to further sculpt their identity into what they want it to be. To make change in a world evermore characterized by the collision of the mundane and the profound, where the quest for authenticity collides with the strange paradox that is self-creation. 
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