Opal Book Quotes

He…he kisses like he’s dying of thirst, and I’m water.” I smacked my hands over my hot face. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud.” Lesa giggled. “Sounds like one of those romance books you read.” “It does.” I started giggling. “But, oh Lordie Lord, it’s true. I’m like a puddle of mush when he kisses me. It’s embarrassing. I’m so, like, ‘Thank you, can I have another?’ Sad.

A smell of burned hair and cotton wafted into the air as I spun toward my desk. There was a low whine from the desk and then smoke billowed out of my closed laptop. I gaped. My precious, perfectly brand new laptop I cherished like one would a small child. Son of a mother… Friend or not, it was so on

Daemon snatched the yellow packages from my hands. “Oh! Books! You have books!” I laughed as several people waiting in line looked over their shoulders. “Hand them over.” He clutched them to his chest, making moony eyes. “My life is now complete.” “My life would be complete if I could actually post a review on something other than the school library computers.” I did that about twice a week since my latest laptop went to the big computer heaven in the sky.

For once, I agree with Blake." Daemon met my shocked stare. "We can't, Kitten. Not now." I wasn't okay with this, but I couldn't run down the hall, letting people free. We didn't plan for that and we only had a set amount of time. It sucked-sucked worse than people who pirated books, sucked more than a year for the next book in a beloved series, and sucked more than a brutal cliffhanger ending.

It always felt good typing up a review on a book I enjoyed and I went all out, finding bizarre pictures to emphasis the wow factor. I preffered ones with cute kittens and llamas. And Dean Winchester. Hitting 'publish post' cracked a smile.

Daemon was sprawled on his back, one arm stretched across the space beside him and the other rested across his bare stomach. Sheets were twisted around his narrow hips. His face was almost angelic in sleep, chiselled lines softened and lips relaxed. Thick lashes fanned the top of his cheeks. He looked so much younger at rest but, in a weird way, he was even more out of my league. His kind of masculine beauty was otherworldly and intimidating. Something that existed in between the pages of the books I read. Sometimes I had a hard time convincing myself he was real.

This isn't a book. This isn't a paranormal fantasy or whatever the hell it is you read. There is no set plot or clear idea of where any of this is going. The enemies aren't obvious. There are no guaranteed happy endings.

More books." His eyes went wide. "You have, like, then books you just said you haven't read." "Doesn't mean I won't get more books." I smiled at is incredulous expression. "I haven't been able to read a lot lately, but I will, and then I won't be out of anything new to read.

Lesa giggled. "Sounds like one of those romance books you read." "It does," I started giggling. "But, oh Lordie Lord, it's true. I'm like a puddle of mush when he kisses me. It's embarrassing. I'm so, like, 'Thank you, can I have another?' Sad.

It sucked – sucked worse than people who pirated books, sucked more than waiting a year for the next book in a beloved series, and sucked more than a brutal cliffhanger ending.

Don’t pretend that you’ve never wanted to be railed by some human eating, dark entity that has a skull for a face – you saw the cover, you knew what you were getting yourself into, and you still chose to open this book and read it.

Giddy, I hit record and shrieked, “I have a MacBook Air!” Daemon laughed as he buried his head in my hair. “You dork.

No free man needs a God; but was I free? How fully I felt nature glued to me And how my childish palate loved the taste Half-fish, half-honey, of that golden paste! My picture book was at an early age The painted parchment papering our cage: Mauve rings around the moon; blood-orange sun; Twinned Iris; and that rare phenomenon The iridule - when, beautiful and strange, In a bright sky above a mountain range One opal cloudlet in an oval form Reflects the rainbow of a thunderstorm Which in a distant valley has been staged - For we are most artistically caged.

Daemon snatched the yellow packages from my hands. “Oh! Books! You have books!” I laughed as several people waiting in line looked over their shoulders. “Hand them over.” He clutched them to his chest, making moony eyes. “My life is now complete.

The books were never the same book. They were fat and brick-shaped and the fronts always bore images of men who didn’t seem to have any shirts or other possessions. Sometimes all they seemed to have was another man or sometimes a lady or sometimes both, who they held tightly.

To all the MonsterFuckers out there, This book is for you. Don’t pretend that you’ve never wanted to be railed by some human eating, dark entity that has a skull for a face – you saw the cover, you knew what you were getting yourself into, and you still chose to open this book and read it.

But I’m not one to read a book backwards.

Don’t you let nothing stop you from shining the way you supposed to! That be your job, every tick of the clock, just like them stars, until God himself tells you otherwise.

Miranda slept in the orchard, lying in a long chair beneath the apple tree. Her book had fallen into the grass, and her finger still seemed to point at the sentence 'Ce pays est vraiment un des coins du monde oui le rire des filles elate le mieux … ' as if she had fallen asleep just there. The opals on her finger flushed green, flushed rosy, and again flushed orange as the sun, oozing through the apple-trees, filled them. Then, when the breeze blew, her purple dress rippled like a flower attached to a stalk; the grasses nodded; and the white butterfly came blowing this way and that just above her face.

When it had all become too much for the pixie, her brain had simply shut down, all except the most vital functions. She still breathed, and occasionally the monitors registered a dream spike in her brainwaves. But other than that, for all intents and purposes, Opal Koboi was no more.

But as time went by, fewer camera crews turned up at the gates each morning. After all, how many hours of drooling can an audience be expected to sit through? Gradually the LEP crews were downsized from a dozen to six and finally to a single officer per shift. Where could Opal Koboi go? the

Operation Diamond would neutralize antiwar protesters with mugging squads and kidnapping teams; Operation Coal would funnel cash to Rep. Shirley Chisholm, a black congresswoman from Brooklyn seeking the Democratic presidential nomination, in an effort to sow racial and gender discord in the party; Operation Opal would use electronic surveillance against various targets, including the headquarters of Democratic presidential candidates Edmund Muskie and George McGovern; Operation Sapphire would station prostitutes on a yacht, wired for sound, off Miami Beach during the Democratic National Convention.

The real writer, the fellow who sends planets spinning and models a man asleep and eagerly tampers with the sleeper's rib, that kind of author has no given values at his disposal: he must create them himself. The art of writing is a very futile business if it does not imply first of all the art of seeing the world as the potentiality of fiction. The material of this world may be real enough (as far as reality goes) but it does not exist at all as an accepted entirety: it is chaos, and to this chaos the author says "go!" allowing the world to flicker and to fuse. It is now recombined in its very atoms, not merely in its visible and superficial parts. The writer is the first man to map it and to name the natural objects it contains. Those berries are edible. That speckled creature that bolted across my path might be tamed. That lake between those trees will be called Lake Opal or, more artistically, Dishwater Lake. That mist is a mountain--and that mountain must be conquered. Up a trackless slope climbs the master artist, and at the top, on a windy ridge, whom do you think he meets? The panting and happy reader, and there they spontaneously embrace and are linked forever if the book lasts forever.

The sound of stumbling made him spin around. She had tripped on a root and was on her hands and knees in the leaves. A muffled cry came from behind her curtain of silvery blond hair. He ran to her. Rejection be damned, he wasn’t about to let a lass weep on the ground if he had strength to carry her. And what man worth his salt wouldn’t have the strength to carry such a delicate thing? He sheathed his sword and lifted her slight weight. Och, did she have to feel so warm and soft against his chest? Did the sight of Gunn blood on her woolen have to tug at him so? Damn his contrary cock for stirring at the feel of her petite, lushly curved body so close to his. Gritting his teeth, he practically ran for Archie’s cart. He made the mistake of glancing down at her face. Smooth and fair as a polished opal, it would have been glorious as the sun itself if it hadn’t been so troubled and smudged with mud. Mud he’d pushed her into in his haste to protect her from the Gunn. No tears marred her cheeks, but her trembling lower lip, full as a rose bursting to bloom, hinted that she was trying not to weep. Was it so awful for her to be this near to him? He quickened his pace so he could relieve her of his unwelcome touch as soon as possible. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and uniquely accented with a delicate drawl. He nodded tightly. “Dinna fash. Soon, now, and I shall leave ye be.

Charles grumbled, a

tricky if you’re not aware. You have to be

you see something new, or at least you see it in a different way. I’ve heard people say this land haunts you, and I’ve begun to believe it.” “Well, it must be a pretty well-kept secret, when you think how few people live here.” “Look over there. What’s that?” Just as Opal asked, they heard a whistle. “Prairie dogs, small ground-dwelling mammals. They live in colonies—people call them prairie-dog towns. That whistle was the lookout telling the others that danger is near and to hide back in their burrows. If we had time to sit here and not move, they’d pop out of their holes again. They eat grasses and seeds, so they make their area pretty barren. You try running a horse through a prairie-dog town and, sure enough, he’ll step in a hole and break a leg. You got to be careful about things like that.” “I hope I can come back here sometime,” Opal said, all the while gazing at the place the prairie dog had disappeared from. Ruby could hear Opal’s unspoken wish for soon. If only horses weren’t so expensive to both buy and feed. If Opal had a horse, she would have a friend indeed.

Opal's most famous advantage was, however, that it turned pale in the presence of poison. Its lights also died out in the neighborhood of its owner's enemy, while it blushed, as if with joy, when his friend was nearby. It has the concentrated glories of morning, it is like a tear fallen from the moon, it is a rainbow veiled in vapor, it is as the stars of many colors shining.

Primrose acquired a copy of Sir Walter Scott's novel Anne of Geierstein. The story tells of an enchanted princess who wore an opal that changed colors with her moods. Primrose became convinced Menge's stone was an opal. In the novel a few drops of holy water extinguish the stone's magic fire and the princess is reduced to ashes. As was my poor Primrose." The hairs on Stefan's forearms stood to attention. How ridiculous! Bishop would have him believing this fictional nonsense before long. Only a year after the publication of Scott's book people began associating opals with bad luck until Queen Victoria became totally enamored with the gemstones and the demand rebounded to such an extent the Hungarian mines as good as dried up. But none of that was relevant.

She trusts me to take care of myself, even when she doesn’t want to. I can’t be like a normal consort; I’ll just cause trouble. Look what I did at Opal Night, and I wasn’t even trying.

Daemon snatched the yellow packages from my hands. “Oh! Books! You have books!

Sean stood up and stepped toward me, ostensibly to show me the book. He was definitely invading my personal space, as I had learned in a Human Evolution class last summer, and I instinctively backed up till my legs hit the chair I had been sitting in. That just made him move in closer, until the grommets in the leather embossed the backs of my knees, and he finally tilted the book toward me.

The stone eater at the core of the obelisk floats before her. It’s her first time being close to one. All the books say that stone eaters are neither male nor female, but this one resembles a slender young man formed of white-veined black marble, clothed in smooth robes of iridescent opal. Its—his?—limbs, marbled and polished, splay as if frozen in mid-fall. His head is flung back, his hair loose and curling behind him in a splash of translucence. The cracks spread over his skin and the stiff illusion of his clothing, into him, through him. Are you alright? she wonders, and she has no idea why she wonders it, even as she herself cracks apart. His flesh is so terribly fissured; she wants to hold her breath, lest she damage him further. But that is irrational, because she isn’t here and this isn’t real. She is on a street about to die, but this stone eater has been dead for an age of the world. The stone eater closes his mouth, opens his eyes, and lowers his head to look at her. “I’m fine,” he says. “Thank you for asking.” And then the obelisk shatters.

Were he to paint the murals in the Enchanted Hunters, the motel where he first raped her, he tells us, he would have painted a lake, an arbor in flames and finally there would have been “a fire opal dissolving within a ripple-ringed pool, a last throb, a last dab of color, stinging red, smarting pink, a sigh, a wincing child.” (Child, please remember, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, although this child, had she lived in the Islamic Republic, would have been long ripe for marriage to men older than Humbert.)

Even now, where most kings would be dressed simply for travel, Lemuel Torrien was dressed in robes of greenish-blue silk jacquard, braided golden cord and sewn pearls—hand-selected patterns and colours for his eyes, and the inky black hair flowing over his shoulders like water. Atop the robes, he wore a brocade cape with sleeves billowing all the way to his wrists, where the fabric was tightly bound under cuffs of pure gold. Rings adorned his fingers—diamond and emerald and black opal. The sight of the excess incensed Nara. How had they enjoyed luxury as their allies faced such strife? As their son’s family faltered?

The room is a hundred shades of white. The enormous desk is the color of sand dollar beer foam with a plush cotton eggshell chair behind it. To its side, a tall shaving cream topped Swiss coffee lamp with a mozzarella sour cream lampshade. Official certificates the color of chalky whitecaps in limestone glacier frames hang on the frosted beluga whale wall. The wall is covered with rice powder cloud bookcases, full of books the color of moonstone jasmine, opal daffodil, quartz daisy, and polar bear hibiscus. The books are being tended by a man with his back to me, dressed in a milky, baking soda suit in seagull bone shoes, riding a rolling ladder the color of marshmallow tofu glue.

He then took the rectangular opal out of the box and took my hand in his, gently placing it right in the middle of my palm. It felt wrong somehow. This was exactly the same kind of a godstone that Shade had in his back, and it felt wrong to be doing this without him.

On the godstone that was pulsating with all the lights of the rainbow now, alive in my hand like I’d never seen an opal do before. It was breathing, or so it felt to me until… It broke.

Even now, where most kings would be dressed simply for travel, Lemuel Torrien was dressed in robes of greenish-blue silk jacquard, braided golden cord and sewn pearls—hand-selected patterns and colours for his eyes, and the inky black hair flowing over his shoulders like water. Atop the robes, he wore a brocade cape with sleeves billowing all the way to his wrists, where the fabric was tightly bound under cuffs of pure gold. Rings adorned his fingers—star sapphire and emerald and black opal. The sight of the excess incensed Nara. How had they enjoyed luxury as their allies faced such strife? As their son’s family faltered?

Also by Michael Siemsen: The Dig (Book 1 of the Matt Turner Series) The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Return (Book 3 of the Matt Turner Series Exigency A Warm Place to Call Home (a demon’s story) The Many Lives of Samuel Beauchamp (a demon’s story)

Let me see,” Opal said. She quickly slurped up the rest of her lunch and then took the collar. She examined it very closely. Sure enough, she could see bits of evergreen fur pinched along the buckle strap. As she looked closer, she noticed something else. Several pieces of black onyx were sewn into the back of the collar, and they started glowing. “Well look at that,” Jack said. “Somebody’s put a spider in this biscuit.

between the two men, as if they