Bod quite liked crows. He thought they were funny and he liked the way they helped to keep the graveyard tidy.
Bod quite liked crows. He thought they were funny and he liked the way they helped to keep the graveyard tidy.
The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod's feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.
You're brave. You are the bravest person I know, and you are my friend. I don't care if you are imaginary.
Bod was thrilled. He imagined a future in which he could read everything, in which all stories could be opened and discovered.
The man Jack was, above all things, a professional, or so he told himself,
Fear is contagious. You can catch it. Sometimes all it takes is for someone to say that they're scared for the fear to become real. Mo was terrified, and now Nick was too.
The moonlight was enough. It would do.
He was standing on the pavement outside Nick Farthing's house, his face damp from the thick night mist.
The tongue is the most remarkable. For we use it both to taste out sweet wine and bitter poison, thus also do we utter words both sweet and sout with the same tongue.
He would go somewhere no one knew him, and he would sit in a library all day and read books and listen to people breathing.
There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.
I think I've got Fear down, but how do I take it all the way up to Terror?
There were people you could hug, and then there was Silas.
If he didn't care about you, you couldn't upset him.
There's an expression, deja vu, that means that you feel like you've been somewhere before, that you've somehow already dreamed it or experienced it in your mind.
If I come back, it will be a place, but it won't be a home any longer.
Things bloosom in their time. They bud and bloom, blossom and fade. Everything in its time.
I'll find you. Don't worry. Just be on your own and I'll find you.
Truly, life is wasted on the living, Nobody Owens. For one of us is too foolish to live, and it is not I.
It is neither fair nor unfair, Nobody Owens. It simply is
We who make stories know that we tell lies for a living. But they are good lies that say true things, and we owe it to our readers to build them as best we can. Because somewhere out there is someone who needs that story. Someone who will grow up with a different landscape, who without that story will be a different person. And who with that story may have hope, or wisdom, or kindness, or comfort. And that is why we write.
It's just harder out there in the world of the living, and we cannot protect you out there as easily. I wanted to keep you perfectly safe...But there is only one perfectly safe place for your kind, and you will not reach it until all your adventures are over and none of them matter any longer.
Wherever you go, you take yourself with you.
Not gay, just never met the right woman.
You are obvious, boy. You are difficult to miss. If you came to me in company with a purple lion, a green elephant, and a scarlet unicorn astride which was the King of England in his Royal Robes, I do believe that it is you and you alone that people would stare at, dismissing the others as minor irrelevancies.
People want to forget the impossible. It makes their world safer.
You can't trust other people. If it's important, you have to do it yourself.
Rain in the graveyard, and the world puddled into blurred reflections.
You're alive, Bod. That means you have infinite potential. You can do anything, make anything, dream anything. If you can change the world, the world will change. Potential. Once you're dead, it's gone. Over. You've made what you've made, dreamed your dream, written your name. You may be buried here, you may even walk. But that potential is finished.
And he waited. It was only for a few seconds, but it felt like a small forever.
Really, he thought, if you couldn't trust a poet to offer sensible advice, who could you trust?
You're alive...That means you have infinite potential. You can do anything, make anything, dream anything. If you change the world, the world will change. Potential. Once you're dead, it's gone. Over. You've made what you've made, dreamed your dream, written your name.
Because there are mysteries. Because there are things that people are forbidden to speak about. Because there are things they do not remember.
Sometimes. Mostly, no. It's like the people who believe they'll be happy if they go and live somewhere else, but who learn it doesn't work that way. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. If you see what I mean.
You're always you, and that don't change, and you're always changing, and there's nothing you can do about it.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories