Soft Thorns Quotes

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There are those who seek me a lifetime but never we meet, And those I kiss but who trample me beneath ungrateful feet. At times I seem to favor the clever and the fair, But I bless all those who are brave enough to dare. By large, my ministrations are soft-handed and sweet, But scorned, I become a difficult beast to defeat. For though each of my strikes lands a powerful blow, When I kill, I do it slow...
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
He tugged on the hood, and I savored the shadows and menace and wings. Death on swift wings. That's what I'd call the painting. He said softly, "I love it when you look at me like that." The purr in his voice heated my blood. "Like what?" "Like my power isn't something to run from. Like you see me.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
Shyness takes so many different forms. Some people are shy and soft. Some, shy and hard. Or in Josh’s case, shy, and wrapped in military-grade armor. “Josh,
Sally Thorne (The Hating Game)
I believe everything happens for a reason. Whether it is decided by the Mother, or the Cauldron, or some sort of tapestry of Fate, I don't know. I don't really care. But I am grateful for it, whatever it is. Grateful that it brought you all into my life. If it hadn't... I might have become as awful as that prick we're going to face today. If I had not met an Illyrian warrior-in-training," he said to Cassian, "I would not have known the true depths of strength, of resilience, of honor and loyalty." Cassian's eyes gleamed bright. Rhys said to Azriel, "If I had not met a shadowsinger, I would not have known that it is the family you make, not the one you are born into, that matters. I would not have known what it is to truly hope, even when the world tells you to despair." Azriel bowed his head in thanks. Mor was already crying when Rhys spoke to her. "If I had not met my cousin, I would neer have learned that light can be found in even the darkest of hells. That kidness can thrive even amongst cruelty." She wiped away her teas as she nodded. I waited for Amren to offer a retort. But she was only waiting. Rhys bowed his head to her. "If I had not met a tiny monster who hoards jewels more fiercely than a firedrake..." A quite laugh from all of us at that. Rhys smiled softly. "My own power would have consumed me long ago." Rhys squeezed my hand as he looked to me at last. "And if I had not met my mate..." His words failed him as silver lined his eyes. He said down the bond, I would have waited five hundred more years for you. A thousand years. And if this was all the time we were allowed to have... The wait was worth it. He wiped away the tears sliding down my face. "I believe that everything happened, exactly the way it had to... so I could find you." He kissed another tear away.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Wings and Ruin (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3))
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
James Joyce (Dubliners)
So I said, "He is lucky to have all of you." "No," she said softly—more gently than I'd ever heard. "We are lucky to have him, Feyre." I turned from the door. "I have known many High Lord," Amren continued, studying her paper. "Cruel ones, cunning ones, weak ones, powerful ones. But never one that dreamed. Not as he does." "Dreams of what?" I breathed. "Of peace. Of freedom. Of a world united, a world thriving, Of something better—for all of us.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
Rhys gave no warning as he gripped my arm, snarling softly, and tore off my glove. His touch was like a brand, and I flinched, yielding a step, but he held firm until he'd gotten both gloves off. " I heard you begging someone, anyone, to rescue you, to get you out. I heard you say no." "I didn't say anything." He turned my bare hand over, his hold tightening as he examined the eye he'd tattooed. He tapped the pupil. Once. Twice. " I heard it loud and clear.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
For someone with a heart of stone, yours is certainly soft these days.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
And all around us, as if the world itself were indeed falling apart, stars rained down. Bits of stardust glowed on his lips as he pulled away, as I stared up at him, breathless, while he smiled. The smile the world would likely never see, the smile he’d given up for the sake of his people, his lands. He said softly, “I am … very glad I met you, Feyre.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
There are those who seek me a lifetime but never we meet, And those i kiss but who trample me beneath ungrateful feet. At times i seem to favor the clever and the fair, But i bless all those who are brave enough to dare. By large, my ministrations are soft-handed and sweet, But scorned, i become a difficult beast to defeat. For though my strikes lands a powerful blow, When i kill, I do it slow....
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
Preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms - bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers.
Anne Brontë (The Tenant of Wildfell Hall)
The past is a tricky thing. Sometimes it's etched in stone. And other times, it's rendered in soft memories. But if you meddle too long in deep, dark things... Who knows what monsters you'll awaken?
Emily Thorne
How You Doing, Little Lucy?” His bright tone and mild expression indicates we’re playing a game we almost never play. It’s a game called How You Doing? and it basically starts off like we don’t hate each other. We act like normal colleagues who don’t want to swirl their hands in each other’s blood. It’s disturbing. “Great, thanks, Big Josh. How You Doing?” “Super. Gonna go get coffee. Can I get you some tea?” He has his heavy black mug in his hand. I hate his mug. I look down; my hand is already holding my red polka-dot mug. He’d spit in anything he made me. Does he think I’m crazy? “I think I’ll join you.” We march purposefully toward the kitchen with identical footfalls, left, right, left, right, like prosecutors walking toward the camera in the opening credits of Law & Order. It requires me to almost double my stride. Colleagues break off conversations and look at us with speculative expressions. Joshua and I look at each other and bare our teeth. Time to act civil. Like executives. “Ah-ha-ha,” we say to each other genially at some pretend joke. “Ah-ha-ha.” We sweep around a corner. Annabelle turns from the photocopier and almost drops her papers. “What’s happening?” Joshua and I nod at her and continue striding, unified in our endless game of one-upmanship. My short striped dress flaps from the g-force. “Mommy and Daddy love you very much, kids,” Joshua says quietly so only I can hear him. To the casual onlooker he is politely chatting. A few meerkat heads have popped up over cubicle walls. It seems we’re the stuff of legend. “Sometimes we get excited and argue. But don’t be scared. Even when we’re arguing, it’s not your fault.” “It’s just grown-up stuff,” I softly explain to the apprehensive faces we pass. “Sometimes Daddy sleeps on the couch, but it’s okay. We still love you.
Sally Thorne (The Hating Game)
Rhysand laughed—a lover’s laugh, low and soft and intimate. “Is that any way to speak to a High Lord of Prythian?” My
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
If you don't feel the pointed things in life, you'll soon take the soft ones for granted.
John Everson (Cage of Bones & Other Deadly Obsessions)
lust rushes but love waits
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
chemistry between people is the strangest science of all
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
He hesitated for a moment. Then he said softly, "I love you, Mother." He took my hand and kissed it, and folded my fingers round the stem of the rose. He had stripped it of its thorns.
Elizabeth Peters (He Shall Thunder in the Sky (Amelia Peabody, #12))
Learn from your past and shut the door behind to live in present.Our past is just like a dry rose which was once a rose with all colors of life, with sweet fragrance, with soft petal, with thorns but now it is left with only thorns which could still hurt.
ideaswar
All I know of Inviernos is bloodshed and cruelty and rage and..." Her voice trails off as tears fill her eyes. "And me," Storm says softly. "You know me.
Rae Carson (The Bitter Kingdom (Fire and Thorns, #3))
I lifted a hand toward that darkness, and met with a soft, silky material—his wing, cocooning and warming me. I traced my finger along it, and he shuddered, his arms tightening around me. “Your finger … is very cold,” he gritted out, the words hot on my neck. I tried not to smile, even as I tilted my neck a bit more, hoping the heat of his breath might caress it again. I dragged my finger along his wing, the nail scraping gently against the smooth surface. Rhys tensed, his hand splaying across my stomach. “You cruel, wicked thing,” he purred, his nose grazing the exposed bit of neck I’d arched beneath him. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
maybe we fall in love with sad eyes because we see our souls reflected in them
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
you fell in love with my fire so why are you trying to put out my flame
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
The others nodded, and Nesta dared a look at Cassian, who gave her a soft smile. Like in saying the few words she'd managed to get out, she'd somehow done something... worthy.
Sarah J. Maas (A ​Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #4))
scars may fade but they last forever.
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
James Joyce (The Dead (A Novella))
The room behind me was dark. 'Thief,' intoned a lovely voice in the blackness... 'You have seen my twin,' the Weaver hissed softly-- with a hint of wonder. 'I smell him on you.'... Somewhere deep in the room, I FELT her move. Felt her stand. And take a step toward me. 'What are you,' the Weaver breathed.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Wings and Ruin (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3))
you never have to remind someone to love you
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
I don't know the pain she's speaking from, but I know it's deep. It makes her hard and yet so terribly soft. It's her thorns and it's her hand reaching out from the thicket.
Isaac Marion (Warm Bodies (Warm Bodies, #1))
making love with you feels like a reunion in another lifetime we have definitely done this before
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
Brown-eyed sublime being. She of soft, deep cardigan pockets. Bubble-bath taker. Pool jumper. Cheese provider. Sunset glower. Heaven sent.
Sally Thorne (Second First Impressions)
No," I said softly, feeling all the energy run out of me. I was tired. So, so tired. "I don't want a war. I...I can't unleash something like that." Then, for the first time so far, Dorian spoke. "I can," he said.
Richelle Mead (Thorn Queen (Dark Swan, #2))
His laugh rumbled against me. Eyes closed, the wind roaring like a wild animal, I adjusted my position, gripping him tighter. My knuckles brushed one of his wings- smooth and cool like silk, but hard as stone with it stretched taut. Fascinating. I blindly reached again... and dared to run a fingertip along some inner edge. Rhysand shuddered, a soft groan slipping past my ear. "That," he said tightly, "is very sensitive". I snatched my finger back, pulling away far enough to see his face. With the wind, I had to squint, and my braided hair ripped this way and that, but- he was entirely focused on the montains around us. "Does it tickle?" He flicked his gaze to me, then on the snow and pine that went on forever. "It feels like this," he said, and learned in so close that his lips brushed the shell of my ear as he sent a gentle breath into it. My back arched on instinct, my chin tipping up at the carees of that breath. "Oh", I managed to say. I felt him smile against my ear and pull away.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
The trouble is, when you gift a girl with flowers your choice can be construed so many different ways. A man might give you a rose because he feels you are beautiful, or because he fancies their shade or shape or softness similar to your lips. Roses are expensive, and perhaps he wishes to show through a valuable gift that you are valuable to him. When a man gives you a rose what you see may not be what he intends. You may think he sees you as delicate or frail. Perhaps you dislike a suitor who considers you sweet and nothing else. Perhaps the stem is thorn, and you assume he thinks you likely to hurt a hand too quick to touch. But if he trims the thorns you might think he has no liking for a thing that can defend itself with sharpness. There's so many ways a thing can be interpreted.
Patrick Rothfuss (The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #1))
we feel so alone because there are whole universes inside our minds that no one will ever truyl get to experience
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
sometimes we fall in love with ideas not people
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
Do we have to confess our loves to everyone?" asked Thorne softly. "Can we not keep some secrets?
Anne Rice
What sort of things do you paint?” My question was soft as the snow falling past us. Ressina smiled slightly. “The things that need telling.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3.1))
goodbye is easy everything after is the hard part
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns)
He chuckled, leaning his brow against hers. Nesta closed her eyes, breathing in his scent. "You are my mate, Cassian," she said against his lips, and kissed him softly. "And you're mine," he said, kissing her in turn.
Sarah J. Maas (A ​Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #4))
i was born with wide eyes and a fragile heart that never learned to say no
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
like a drug i crave you even though i know you will destroy me
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
there is an unspoken truth between us that both our hearts weigh far too heavy to keep up on their own
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
i'm just happy you're someone else's problem now.
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
Feyre," he said--softly enough that I faced him again. "Why?" He tilted his head to the side. "You dislike our kind on a good day. And after Andras . . ." Even in the darkened hallway, his usual bright eyes were shadowed. "So why?" I took a step closer to him, my blood-covered feet sticking to the rug. I glanced down the stairs to where I could still see the prone form of the faerie and the stumps of his wings. "Because I wouldn't want to die alone," I said, and my voice wobbled as I looked at Tamlin again, forcing myself to meet his stare. "Because I'd want someone to hold my hand until the end, and awhile after that. That's something everyone deserves, human or faerie." I swallowed hard, my throat painfully tight. "I regret what I did to Andras," I said, the words so strangled they were no more than a whisper. "I regret that there was . . . such hate in my heart. I wish I could undo it--and . . . I'm sorry. So very sorry.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
Then, Mother above, Nesta shifted her attention to Cassian, noticing that gleam—what it meant. She snarled softly, “What are you looking at?” Cassian’s brows rose—little amusement to be found now. “Someone who let her youngest sister risk her life every day in the woods while she did nothing. Someone who let a fourteen-year-old child go out into that forest, so close to the wall.” My face began heating, and I opened my mouth. To say what, I didn’t know. “Your sister died—died to save my people. She is willing to do so again to protect you from war. So don’t expect me to sit here with my mouth shut while you sneer at her for a choice she did not get to make —and insult my people in the process.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
To the stars who listen, Feyre. I brushed a hand over his cheek to wipe away the last of his tears, his skin warm and soft, and we turned down the street that would lead us home. Toward our future—and all that waited within it. To the dreams that are answered, Rhys.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3.1))
sometimes healing hurts more than the injury itself
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
i don't remember love as a child my only teacher being magazines and movie screens so i spent my life searching for fantasies
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
Beneath it all I know you are made of soft wind and calm flowing water but on days when you become strong wind and crashing waves be rest assured you did not become less of you do not become the woman apologizing for days when she has thorns from the harshness of the world.
Ijeoma Umebinyuo (Questions for Ada)
He hesitated for a moment. Then he said softly, 'I love you, Mother.' He took my hand and kissed it, and folded my fingers round the stem of the rose. He had stripped it of its thorns. I was too moved to speak. But maternal affection was not the only emotion that prevented utterance; as I watched him walk away, his head high and his step firm, anger boiled within me. I knew I had to conquer it before I saw Nefret again, or I would take her by the shoulders and shake her, and demand that she love my son!
Elizabeth Peters (He Shall Thunder in the Sky (Amelia Peabody, #12))
I feel nothing, Nesta said silently. Only the sight of Feyre on Death’s threshold kept her from forgetting why she was here, what she needed to do. Is that not what you wanted? To feel nothing? I thought that was what I wanted. Nesta surveyed the people around her. Her sisters. Cassian, who had been willing to plunge a dagger into his heart rather than harm her. But no longer. When the female voice didn’t press her, Nesta went on, I want to feel everything. I want to embrace it with my whole heart. Even the things that hurt and hunt you? Only curiosity laced the question. Nesta allowed herself a breath to ponder it, stilling her mind once more. We need those things in order to appreciate the good. Some days might be more difficult than others, but … I want to experience all of it, live through all of it. With them. That wise, soft voice whispered, So live, Nesta Archeron.
Sarah J. Maas (A ​Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #4))
The sky turns even blacker still around them. 'Expecto Patronum!' SNAPE sends forward a Patronus, and it's a beautiful white shape of a doe. SCORPIUS: A doe? Lily's Patronus. SNAPE: Strange, isn't it? What comes from within. You need to run. I will keep them at bay for as long as I can. SCORPIUS: Thank you for being my light in the darkness. SNAPE looks at him, every inch a hero, he softly smiles.
John Tiffany
Grom-gil-Gorm," she said softly as she rode between Laithlin and Yarvi. "Breaker of Swords." Mother Isriun's horse shied back out of her way. "Maker of Orphans." Thorn reined in beside him, his frowning face lit red by the blazing light of her elf-bangle, and she leaned from her saddle to whisper. "Your death comes.
Joe Abercrombie (Half the World (Shattered Sea, #2))
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND YOU When I hold a rose, I see the soft, velvety petals and smile, because tucked between those precious petals is a special gift - the one of a fragrance, pure and sweet. When you hold a rose, you see the thorns along the stem, and you frown because those thorns can bring you pain and cause you to bleed. I see the gift. You see the tragedy. More and more I fear that one of these days someone will hand me a rose and all I will see are thorns. Talk about tragedy.
Lisa Schroeder (Falling For You)
Now that we’ve settled that,” Rhys drawled from behind me, “can we please eat? I’m famished.” Amren opened her mouth with a wry smile, but he added, “Do not say what you were going to say, Amren.” Rhys gave Cassian a sharp look. Both of them were still bruised—but healing fast. “Unless you want to have it out on the roof.” Amren clicked her tongue and instead jerked her chin at me. “I heard you grew fangs in the forest and killed some Hybern beasts. Good for you, girl.” “She saved his sorry ass is more like it,” Mor said, filling her glass of wine. “Poor little Rhys got himself in a bind.” I held out my own glass for Mor to fill. “He does need unusual amounts of coddling.” Azriel choked on his wine, and I met his gaze—warm for once. Soft, even. I felt Rhys tense beside me and quickly looked away from the spymaster
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
The cactus of the high desert is a small grubby, obscure and humble vegetable associated with cattle dung and overgrazing, interesting only when you tangle with it the wrong way. Yet from this nest of thorns, this snare of hooks and fiery spines, is born once each year a splendid flower. It is unpluckable and except to an insect almost unapproachable, yet soft, lovely, sweet, desirable, exemplifying better than the rose among thorns the unity of opposites
Edward Abbey
Slowly, as if giving me time to pull away, he brushed his lips against my cheek. Soft and warm and heartbreakingly gentle. It was hardly more than a caress before he straightened. I hadn’t moved from the moment his mouth had met my skin.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
and now i can't decide what's worse to live without you or with a ghost of you
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
we're only haunted by the things we refuse to accept
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
you'll never know all the days i died for you
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
i know i'm not perfect but i felt pretty damn close when i was in your arms
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
i love your scars they give my fingertips a story to trace
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
hearts break when people change but feelings stay the same
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
Birds of prey and fierce piranha enter not into Nirvana, where are neither thorns nor nettles, only soft and fragrant petals.
John Biccard
There’s something brittle in me that will break before it bends. Something sharp that puts an edge on all the soft words I once owned.
Mark Lawrence (Prince of Thorns (The Broken Empire, #1))
you're the one who reminded me i have a pulse
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
you've already fallen in love with my angels so how could you ever love my demons?
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
I hear a husky, soft laugh, nothing like Mr. Bexley’s donkey bray.
Sally Thorne (The Hating Game)
For between us, faint and soft, hidden so none might find it... between us lay a whisper of color, and joy, of light and shadow- a whisper of her. Our bond.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
Before I could elbow him, Rhys kissed me again, breathless and swift. To the starts who listen, Feyre. I brushed a hand over his cheek to wipe away the last of his tears, his skin warm and soft, and we turned down the street that would lead us home. Toward our future- and all that waited within it. To the dreams that are answered, Rhys.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3.1))
Cassian was sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that I could only interpret as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent. Then, Mother above, Nesta shifted her attention to Cassian, noticing that gleam—what it meant. She snarled softly, “What are you looking at?
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
And Belen?" "Yes, Your Majesty?" Maybe I do want to talk about him. A little. "Humberto would be proud of you, too. He always believed you'd come back to us." Saying his name aloud doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would. Humberto, I practice silently. Humberto. A soft catch of breath. Then: "He had a way of believing in people long before they believed in themselves, didn't he?" The entrance to my tent flaps closes, and he is gone.
Rae Carson (The Crown of Embers (Fire and Thorns, #2))
every time you're happy you remember their smile amd every time you're sad you remember why they're gone you stomach will drop every time your phone rings and disappointment will become a ritual when you realize it's never them
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
Like a garden rose she has the delicate fragility of velvety petals, soft to touch, layered, but easily plucked. Yet, I need to be careful because one wrong move and the sharp thorns that protect the truth of her have the ability to make a person bleed, to fucking shred the skin. Like she’s shredding mine now.
Bea Paige (Steps (Finding Their Muse, #1))
Sunlight streamed in a steady flow, casting flecks of gold onto the floor, bathing my skin. I inhaled deeply. Already, the air inside my bedroom had been perfumed with nature. A breeze whispered softly and breathed carefully onto my skin.
Erica Sehyun Song (Thorns in the Shadow)
She wasn’t soft or pretty; she was hard-edged and cold, like one of those cold bronze statues surrounded by high fences and crowned in razor wire. Don’t touch me, such defenses said, but it wasn’t enough to halt a breach, no. She had thought people only picked the soft-petaled, sweet-smelling flowers, but some people took thorns as a challenge.
Nenia Campbell (Escape (Horrorscape, #4))
He sighed and grabbed my left arm, examining the tattoo. “What were you thinking? Didn’t you know I’d come as soon as I could?” I yanked my arm from him. “I was dying! I had a fever—I was barely able to keep conscious! How was I supposed to know you’d come? That you even understood how quickly humans can die of that sort of thing? You told me you hesitated that time with the naga.” “I swore an oath to Tamlin—” “I had no other choice! You think I’m going to trust you after everything you said to me at the manor?” “I risked my neck for you during your task. Was that not enough?” His metal eye whirred softly. “You offered up your name for me—after all that I said to you, all I did, you still offered up your name. Didn’t you realize I would help you after that? Oath or no oath?” I hadn’t realized it would mean anything to him at all. “I had no other choice,” I said again, breathing hard. “Don’t you understand what Rhys is?” “I do!” I barked, then sighed. “I do,” I repeated, and glared at the eye in my palm. “It’s done with. So you needn’t hold to whatever oath you swore to Tamlin to protect me—or feel like you owe me anything for saving you from Amarantha. I would have done it just to wipe the smirk off your brothers’ faces.” Lucien clicked his tongue, but his remaining russet eye shone. “I’m glad to see you didn’t sell your lively human spirit or stubbornness to Rhys.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
it’s amazing how love can change the way we view the world and most importantly ourselves
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
is it too much to ask for someone to simply be excited that they get to spend time with me?
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
the more weight i lost the more i shrank into myself and out of the world's reach i'm safer here i told myself starving do death
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
we have this divine bond divine in the way that it's certainly not from this lifetime
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
chemistry is the science of making everyone else but us disappear
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
Oh, sweetheart,” he said softly, looking over his shoulder, the annoying dimple winking at me. “You were always the little one, not me.
Ella Maise (To Love Jason Thorn)
two feet tall, the crimson-budded roses, their young thorns tender in the soft spring rain
Shiki Masaoka
Thorns with rose petals, beauty with imperfection, softness of insensibility, pain of love; duality of human nature
Val Uchendu
I said, “He is lucky to have all of you.” “No,” she said softly—more gently than I’d ever heard. “We are lucky to have him, Feyre.” I turned from the door. “I have known many High Lords,” Amren continued, studying her paper. “Cruel ones, cunning ones, weak ones, powerful ones. But never one that dreamed. Not as he does.” “Dreams of what?” I breathed. “Of peace. Of freedom. Of a world united, a world thriving. Of something better—for all of us.” “He thinks he’ll be remembered as the villain in the story.” She snorted. “But I forgot to tell him,” I said quietly, opening the door, “that the villain is usually the person who locks up the maiden and throws away the key.” “Oh?” I shrugged. “He was the one who let me out.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
You are like a rose Soft, glowing and evolving It’s time for you To let go of the deadly thorns Never trust The guy who claims He misses you but never puts In effort to actually Set plans with you Fall in love With someone Who helps you to fly high And not with someone Who cannot lift you up When you crash down You are like a rose Soft, glowing and evolving It’s time for you To let go of the deadly thorns
Jyoti Patel
When a traveller gets a thorn in his foot,’ Mbejane went on softly, ‘and he is wise he plucks it out – and he is a fool who leaves it and says “I will keep this thorn to prick me so that I will always remember the road upon which I have travelled.” Nkosi, it is better to remember with pleasure than with pain.
Wilbur Smith (When the Lion Feeds (Courtney, #1))
The look he gives me makes me wonder if I’m in trouble. “I thought you were going out.” “I wanted to come back and say I’m sorry,” I tell him, and I put my arms around his waist and hug. “You shut the door in a way that made me sad, and I wanted to tell you that I’m going to do better.” “Do better at what? How’d I shut the door?” His other arm wraps around my shoulders. He crosses his feet behind my heels, and now his entire body is hugging me. Warm, soft, hard. I thought my mattress was heaven, but that’s before I laid myself on this person. How am I going to ever peel myself off? I inhale his birthday-candle pheromones. I want to know what his goddamn bones smell like. Let me start down in his DNA structure and work my way back out. I speak into his muscles. “You shut the door like you’ve just accepted that I don’t come back. I’m going to start being like you. Completely, one hundred percent honest.” I hover on the precipice and decide to try. “This is the best hug of my life.
Sally Thorne (99 Percent Mine)
The room behind me was dark. "Thief," intoned a lovely voice in the blackness. "You do know," Ianthe tittered from outside the cottage, her steps slowing into a walk, "that we'll have to kill whoever is inside there with you. Selfish of you, Feyre." I panted, holding the door open, making sure they couldn't see me on the other side. "You have seen my twin," the Weaver hissed softly- with a hint of wonder. "I smell him on you." Outside, Ianthe and the guard grew closer. Closer and closer. Somewhere deep in the room, I felt her move. Felt her stand. And take a step toward me. "What are you," the Weaver breathed. "Feyre, you can be quite tedious," Ianthe said. Right outside. I could barely make out her pale robes through the crack between the door and the threshold. "Do you think you can ambush us in there? I saw your shield. You're drained. And I do not think your glowing trick will help." The Weaver's dress rustled as she crept closer in the gloom. "Who did you bring, little wolf? Who did you bring to me?" Ianthe and her two guards stepped over the threshold. Then another step. Past the open door. They didn't see me in the shadows behind it. "Dinner," I said to the Weaver, whirling around the door- to it's outside face. And let go of the handle. Just as the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the cottage, I saw the ball of faelight that Ianthe lifted to illuminate the room. Saw the horrible face of the Weaver, that mouth of stumped teeth opening wide with delight and unholy hunger. A death-god of old- starved for life. With a beautiful priestess before her. I was already hurtling for the trees when the guards and Ianthe began screaming.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Wings and Ruin (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3))
You will feel that way every day for the rest of your life,” Rhysand said. This close, I could smell the sweat on him, the sea-and-citrus scent beneath it. His eyes were soft. I tried to look away, but he held my chin firm. “And I know this because I have felt that way every day since my mother and sister were slaughtered and I had to bury them myself, and even retribution didn’t fix it.” He wiped away the tears on one cheek, then another. “You can either let it wreck you, let it get you killed like it nearly did with the Weaver, or you can learn to live with it.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
SNAPE: Strange, isn't it? What comes from within. You need to run. I will keep them at bay for as long as I can. SCORPIUS: Thank you for being my light in the darkness. SNAPE looks at him, every inch a hero, he softly smiles.
Jack Thorne (Harry Potter and the Cursed Child: Parts One and Two (Harry Potter, #8))
The Devil's Rose You would never take a rose from a beast. If his callous hand were to hold out a scarlet flower, his grip unaffected by pricking thorns, you would shrink from the gift and refuse it. I know that is what you would do. But the cunning beast will have his beauty. He hunts not in hopeless pursuit, for fear would have you sprint all the day long. Thus, he turns toward the shadows and clutches the rosebud, crunching and twisting until every delicate petal is detached. One falls not far from your feet, and you notice the red spot in the snow. The color sparkles in the sunlight, catching your curious eye. No beast stands in sight; there is nothing to fear, so you dare retrieve the lone petal. The touch of temptation is velvet against your thumb. It carries a scent you bring to your nose, and both eyes close to float on a cloud of perfume. As your lashes lift, another scarlet drop stains the snow at a near distance. A glance around perceives no danger, and so your footprints scar the snowflakes to retrieve another rosy leaflet as soft and sweet as the first. Your eyes shine with flecks of golden greed at the discovery of more discarded petals, and you blame the wind for scattering them mere footprints apart. All you want is a few, so you step and snatch, step and snatch, step and snatch. Soon, there is enough velvet to rub against your cheek like a silken kerchief. Your collection of one-plus-one-more reeks of floral essence. Distracted, you jump at the sight of the beast in your path. He stands before his lair, grinning without love. His callous hands grip at thorns on a single naked stem, and you look down at your own hands that now cup his rose. But how can it be? You would never take a rose from a beast. You would shrink from the gift and refuse it. He knows that is what you would do.
Richelle E. Goodrich (Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year)
Ah. The Suriel told you nothing important, did it?” That smile of his sparked something bold in my chest. “He also said that you like being brushed, and if I’m a clever girl, I might train you with treats.” Tamlin tipped his head to the sky and roared with laughter. Despite myself, I let out a soft laugh. “I might die of surprise,” Lucien said behind me. “You made a joke, Feyre.” I turned to look at him with a cool smile. “You don’t want to know what the Suriel said about you.” I flicked my brows up, and Lucien lifted his hands in defeat.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
The most favourite food of goats is a plant which has thorns all over it. But they munch on it so softly and artfully that thorns just add to the taste just as heat adds to the taste of coffee. That is the only way to win over duality: Drink life sip by sip, one moment at a time.
Shunya
Why Roses Crave Thorns" Petals detach from a wilting bud—a single stem plucked before fully blossomed. They descend in hesitant swirls, too soft and limp to shatter like teardrops. One by one they light to blanket a single shadow below. She is a rose, young and innocent, with beauty incomparable to shame all others. She has flowered enough to stop the observer in his tracks, awestruck. He is compelled to reach out and touch. The petals delight at a silken caress, her bud everything desirable but defenseless—without a sharp edge to make an admirer pause, to warn the intrusive hand. ‘Stay back! Stay back!’ His fingers curl around the stem to tug, and suddenly the rose craves a thorn. It is madness not to want her and yet madness to cut her down. Let the flower thrive and blush to someday flaunt layers of silken favors! But the world will not have it. A single stem is severed in a selfish moment of desire—a yearning to hold and possess. Alone and forgotten her petals cry, raining in hesitant swirls where they accumulate to blanket her shadow below. Dry, withered, craving the thorns. Beautiful no more.
Richelle E. Goodrich (Smile Anyway: Quotes, Verse, and Grumblings for Every Day of the Year)
Then don’t leave me, Abby. Never leave me. That’s the only thing that will kill me. You’re my life. My reason to keep fighting. I’d lose everything if I lost you.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “Do you understand me? I’d cease to exist if I lost you. There is no me without you.
Lacey Thorn (Waking the Beast (Awakening Pride, #1))
He draws asparagus and cabbages, but he's obsessed with artichokes. He draws them more than any other vegetable. Why artichokes?" George drained his glass. "The artichoke is a sexy beast. Thorns to cut you, leaves to peel, lighter and lighter as you strip away the outer layers, until you reach the soft heart's core.
Allegra Goodman (The Cookbook Collector)
Is that so hard to believe? My mother claimed I was so withdrawn and strange because I was born on the longest night of the year. She tried one year to have my birthday on another day, but forgot to do it the next time—there was probably a more advantageous party she had to plan.” “Now I know where Nesta gets it. Honestly, it’s a shame we can’t stay longer—if only to see who’ll be left standing: her or Cassian.” “My money’s on Nesta.” A soft chuckle that snaked along my bones—a reminder that he’d once bet on me. Had been the only one Under the Mountain who had put money on me defeating the Middengard Wyrm. He said, “So’s mine.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
To Hope Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes! How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn! For me wilt thou renew the wither’d rose, And clear my painful path of pointed thorn? Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest, Like the young hours that lead the tender year, Enchantress! come, and charm my cares to rest:— Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear! A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain, Must I a sad existence still deplore? Lo!—the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain, 'For me the vernal garland blooms no more.' Come then, 'pale Misery’s love!' be thou my cure, And I will bless thee, who, tho’ slow, art sure.
Charlotte Turner Smith (The Poems of Charlotte Smith)
It's hard to do nothing totally. Even just sitting here, like this, our bodies are churning, our minds are chattering. There's a whole commotion going on inside us." "That's bad?" I said. "It's bad if we want to know what's going on outside ourselves." "Don't we have eyes and ears for that?" She nodded. "They're okay most of the time. But sometimes they just get in the way. The earth is speaking to us, but we can't hear because of all the racket our senses are shaking. Sometimes we need to erase them, erase our senses. Then-maybe- the earth will touch us. The universe will speak. The stars will whisper." The sun was glowing orange now, clipping the mountains' purple crests. "So how do I become this nothing?" "I'm not sure,"she said "There's no one answer to that. You have to find your own way. Sometimes I try to erase myself. I imagine a big pink soft soap eraser, and it's going back and forth, back and forth, and it starts down at my toes, back and forth, back and forth, and there they go-poof!-my toes are gone. And then my feet. And then my ankles. But that's the easy part. The hard part is erasing my senses-my eyes,my ears,my nose, my tongue. And last to go is my brain. My thoughts, memories, all the voices inside my head. That's the hardest, erasing my thoughts." She chuckled faintly. "My pumpkin. And then, if I've done a good job, I'm erased. I'm gone. I'm nothing. And then the world is free to flow into me like water into and empty bowl." "And?" I said. "And I see. I hear. But not with eyes and ears. I'm not outside my world anymore, and I'm not really inside it either. The thing is, there's no difference anymore between me and the universe. The boundary is gone. I am it and it is me. I am a stone, a cactus thorn. I am rain." She smiled dreamily. "I like that most of all, being rain.
Jerry Spinelli (Stargirl (Stargirl, #1))
In the long ago, in the gentle days, Brother Grumlow carved wood, worked with saw and chisel. When hard times come carpenters are apt to get nailed to crosses. Grumlow took up the knife and learned to carve men. He looks soft, my brother of the blade, slight in build, light in colour, weak chin, sad eyes, all of him drooping like the moustache that hangs off his lip. Yet he has fast hands and no fear of a sharp edge. Come against him with just a dagger for company and he will cut you a new opinion.
Mark Lawrence (King of Thorns (The Broken Empire, #2))
What think you? Can beauty be taken from a man? If he could not touch, taste, smell, hear, see . . . what if all he knew was pain? Has that man had beauty taken from him?” “I . . .” What did this have to do with anything? “Does the pain change day by day?” “Let us say it does,” the messenger said. “Then beauty, to that person, would be the times when the pain lessens. Why are you telling me this story?” The messenger smiled. “To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way. Tell me, what is the most beautiful thing you can imagine?” .... “I see,” the messenger said softly. “You do not yet understand the nature of lies. I had that trouble myself, long ago. The Shards here are very strict. You will have to see the truth, child, before you can expand upon it. Just as a man should know the law before he breaks it.
Brandon Sanderson (Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive, #2))
i’m crying not because i’m losing what we have now but because i’m losing what we could have been
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
because even though it wasn’t real and even though you never asked my love for you got me through some of the most difficult moments of my past
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
you never loved me you just wanted to fuck me
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
so much more was said in the unsaid
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
we choose to stay numb because we think it keeps us safe but the most dangerous thing we can do is forget how to feel
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
like a drug i crave you even though i know you will destroy me
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
I'll thank you now, Kathel," Keirah whispered. Placing a simple, soft kiss on Kathel's lips, she turned and walked away toward her cabin, leaving both men stunned in her wake.
Madison Thorne Grey (Magnificence (Gwarda Warriors #1))
That soft seduction of need and want, an equation of dependence that eases under the skin, so slow and sweet, only to lay a man open at the very time he most needs his strength.
Mark Lawrence (Prince of Thorns (The Broken Empire, #1))
Softly he says, “My life has ever been yours, Elisa.” My
Rae Carson (The Crown of Embers (Fire and Thorns, #2))
Nothing like a night of whoring to turn a man soft.
Mark Lawrence (Prince of Thorns (The Broken Empire, #1))
someone once told me they were scared of the truth in my eyes so i learned to live my life blind
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
Let you be my wild rose, bristling with thorns and red as blood, but also the soft flower, delicate under my touch and easily plucked between my fingers.
Giana Darling (Good Gone Bad (The Fallen Men, #3))
our deepest scars are the ones hidden so nobody knows we have them
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
i want to love you back together to brush away the cobwebs and show you the beauty of your neglected soul
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
The snail was on the wing and the lark on the thorn - or, rather, the other way around - and God was in His heaven and all right with the world. And presently the eyes closed, the muscles relaxed, the breathing became soft and regular, and sleep, which does something which has slipped my mind to the something sleeve of care, poured over me in a healing wave.
P.G. Wodehouse (The Code of the Woosters (Jeeves, #7))
It is a stubble field, where a black rain is falling. It is a brown tree, that stands alone. It is a hissing wind, that encircles empty houses. How melancholy the evening is. A while later, The soft orphan garners the sparse ears of corn. Her eyes graze, round and golden, in the twilight And her womb awaits the heavenly bridegroom. On the way home The shepherd found the sweet body Decayed in a bush of thorns. I am a shadow far from darkening villages. I drank the silence of God Out of the stream in the trees. Cold metal walks on my forehead. Spiders search for my heart. It is a light that goes out in my mouth. At night, I found myself on a pasture, Covered with rubbish and the dust of stars. In a hazel thicket Angels of crystal rang out once more.
Georg Trakl
your heart is a library filled with novels about the people you love and even if they’re no longer in your life the love you once felt can be found within these pages available for you to reread on a rainy afternoon when you need their warm embrace part of loving someone is letting them go while letting them know they forever have a space in your heart’s library bookmarked for their return
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
my mother used to tell me that it hurts to be beautiful I was sold the belief that beauty came packaged in thorns and don't be surprised if your hands come away bloody smear it on your lips and smile
Shelby Eileen (Soft in the Middle)
I couldn’t talk about it, about them—not yet. So I breathed “Later” and hooked my feet around his legs, drawing him closer. I placed my hands on his chest, feeling the heart beating beneath. This—I needed this right now. It wouldn’t wash away what I’d done, but … I needed him near, needed to smell and taste him, remind myself that he was real—this was real. “Later,” he echoed, and leaned down to kiss me. It was soft, tentative—nothing like the wild, hard kisses we’d shared in the hall of throne room. He brushed his lips against mine again. I didn’t want apologies, didn’t want sympathy or coddling. I gripped the front of his tunic, tugging him closer as I opened my mouth to him. He let out a low growl, and the sound of it sent a wildfire blazing through me, pooling and burning in my core. I let it burn through that hole in my chest, my soul. Let it raze through the wave of black that was starting to press around me, let it consume the phantom blood I could still feel on my hands. I gave myself to that fire, to him, as his hands roved across me, unbuttoning as he went. I pulled back, breaking the kiss to look into his face. His eyes were bright—hungry—but his hands had stopped their exploring and rested firmly on my hips. With a predator’s stillness, he waited and watched as I traced the contours of his face, as I kissed every place I touched. His ragged breathing was the only sound—and his hands soon began roaming across my back and sides, caressing and teasing and baring me to him. When my traveling fingers reached his mouth, he bit down on one, sucking it into his mouth. It didn’t hurt, but the bite was hard enough for me to meet his eyes again. To realize that he was done waiting—and so was I. He eased me onto the bed, murmuring my name against my neck, the shell of my ear, the tips of my fingers. I urged him—faster, harder. His mouth explored the curve of my breast, the inside of my thigh. A kiss for each day we’d spent apart, a kiss for every wound and terror, a kiss for the ink etched into my flesh, and for all the days we would be together after this. Days, perhaps, that I no longer deserved. But I gave myself again to that fire, threw myself into it, into him, and let myself burn.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
They smiled too much, were quick to compliment and support, but behind the stretched lips and soft words was a judgment. No one was ever good enough—at least not until they were dead. The dead were exemplary.
Michael J. Sullivan (The Rose and the Thorn (The Riyria Chronicles, #2))
But Amarantha rolled her eyes and slouched in her throne. “Shatter him, Rhysand.” She flicked a hand at the High Lord of the Summer Court. “You may do what you want with the body afterward.” The High Lord of the Summer Court bowed—as if he’d been given a gift—and looked to his subject, who had gone still and calm on the floor, hugging his knees. The male faerie was ready—relieved. Rhys slipped a hand out of his pocket, and it dangled at his side. I could have sworn phantom talons flickered there as his fingers curled slightly. “I’m growing bored, Rhysand,” Amarantha said with a sigh, again fiddling with that bone. She hadn’t looked at me once, too focused on her current prey. Rhysand’s fingers curled into a fist. The faerie male’s eyes went wide—then glazed as he slumped to the side in the puddle of his own waste. Blood leaked from his nose, from his ears, pooling on the floor. That fast—that easily, that irrevocably … he was dead. “I said shatter his mind, not his brain,” Amarantha snapped. The crowd murmured around me, stirring. I wanted nothing more than to fade back into it—to crawl back into my cell and burn this from my mind. Tamlin hadn’t flinched—not a muscle. What horrors had he witnessed in his long life if this hadn’t broken that distant expression, that control? Rhysand shrugged, his hand sliding back into his pocket. “Apologies, my queen.” He turned away without being dismissed, and didn’t look at me as he strode for the back of the throne room. I fell into step beside him, reining in my trembling, trying not to think about the body sprawled behind us, or about Clare—still nailed to the wall. The crowd stayed far, far back as we walked through it. “Whore,” some of them softly hissed at him, out of her earshot; “Amarantha’s whore.” But many offered tentative, appreciative smiles and words—“Good that you killed him; good that you killed the traitor.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
Quit touching me. I can’t think straight.” I tug my arm. “I can’t seem to stop now I’ve started.” He gathers me closer and dips his mouth down to my ear. “Are you this soft all over?” “What do you think?” “I want to know.
Sally Thorne
Going somewhere?” Tamlin asked. His voice was not entirely of this world. I suppressed a shudder. “Midnight snack,” I said, and I was keenly aware of every movement, every breath I took as I neared him. His bare chest was painted with whorls of dark blue woad, and from the smudges in the paint, I knew exactly where he’d been touched. I tried not to notice that they descended past his muscled midriff. I was about to pass him when he grabbed me, so fast that I didn’t see anything until he had me pinned against the wall. The cookie dropped from my hand as he grasped my wrists. “I smelled you,” he breathed, his painted chest rising and falling so close to mine. “I searched for you, and you weren’t there.” He reeked of magic. When I looked into his eyes, remnants of power flickered there. No kindness, none of the wry humor and gentle reprimands. The Tamlin I knew was gone. “Let go,” I said as evenly as I could, but his claws punched out, imbedding in the wood above my hands. Still riding the magic, he was half-wild. “You drove me mad,” he growled, and the sound trembled down my neck, along my breasts until they ached. “I searched for you, and you weren’t there. When I didn’t find you,” he said, bringing his face closer to mine, until we shared breath, “it made me pick another.” I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to. “She asked me not to be gentle with her, either,” he snarled, his teeth bright in the moonlight. He brought his lips to my ear. “I would have been gentle with you, though.” I shuddered as I closed my eyes. Every inch of my body went taut as his words echoed through me. “I would have had you moaning my name throughout it all. And I would have taken a very, very long time, Feyre.” He said my name like a caress, and his hot breath tickled my ear. My back arched slightly. He ripped his claws free from the wall, and my knees buckled as he let go. I grasped the wall to keep from sinking to the floor, to keep from grabbing him—to strike or caress, I didn’t know. I opened my eyes. He still smiled—smiled like an animal. “Why should I want someone’s leftovers?” I said, making to push him away. He grabbed my hands again and bit my neck. I cried out as his teeth clamped onto the tender spot where my neck met my shoulder. I couldn’t move—couldn’t think, and my world narrowed to the feeling of his lips and teeth against my skin. He didn’t pierce my flesh, but rather bit to keep me pinned. The push of his body against mine, the hard and the soft, made me see red—see lightning, made me grind my hips against his. I should hate him—hate him for his stupid ritual, for the female he’d been with tonight … His bite lightened, and his tongue caressed the places his teeth had been. He didn’t move—he just remained in that spot, kissing my neck. Intently, territorially, lazily. Heat pounded between my legs, and as he ground his body against me, against every aching spot, a moan slipped past my lips. He jerked away. The air was bitingly cold against my freed skin, and I panted as he stared at me. “Don’t ever disobey me again,” he said, his voice a deep purr that ricocheted through me, awakening everything and lulling it into complicity.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
Everything comes from everything and nothing escapes commonality. I am building a house already built, you are bearing a child already born. Everything comes from everything: a single cell out of another single cell; the cherry tree blossoms from the boughs; the hunter's aim from his arm; the rivers from tributaries from streams from falls from springs from wells; the Christ thorns out of the honey locust; a word from an ancient word, this book from many books; the tiny black bears out of their durable mothers tumbling from dark lairs; eightieth-generation wild crab abloom again and again and again; your hand out of your father's; firstborn out of firstborn out of firstborn out of; the weeping willows and the heart leaf, the Carolina, the silky, the upland, the sandbar willows; every tart berry; our work, which disappears; our mothers' whispers, which disappear; every Thoroughbred; every violet; every kindling twig, bone out of bone; also the heat lightborne, the pollen airborne, the rabbits soft and crickets all angles and the glossy snakes from their slithering, inexhaustible mothers, freshly terrible. When you die, you will contribute your bones like alms. More and more is the only law.
C.E. Morgan (The Sport of Kings)
You let me eat up all papa’s anger so it wouldn’t poison you. you didn’t mind that he ruined me as long as you were unspoiled and safe. If you ever loved me, it was because I was a soft thing you threw down into the bottom of a pit to break your fall.
Ava Reid (Juniper & Thorn)
I think I might like to grow thorns. Tough spines that barb anyone who grabs at me, tries to take from me, moves toward me any way other than delicately. Or thick boney horns I can point in front of me to shield the soft, sensitive parts. Not cruel, protected.
Heather Durham (Going Feral: Field Notes on Wonder and Wanderlust)
I reached up to touch his mask. It was so cold, despite how flushed his skin was just beyond it. My hand shook, and my breathing became shallow as I grazed the skin of his jaw. It was smooth—and hot. He wet his lips, his breathing as uneven as my own. His fingers contracted against the plane of my lower back, and I let him tug me closer to him—until our bodies were touching, and the warmth of him seeped into me. I had to tilt my head back to see his face. His mouth was caught somewhere between a smile and a wince. “What?” I asked, and put a hand on his chest, preparing to shove myself back. But his other hand slipped under my hair, resting at the base of my neck. “I’m thinking I might kiss you,” he said quietly, intently. “Then do it.” I blushed at my own boldness. But Tamlin only gave that breathy laugh, and leaned in. His lips brushed mine—testing, soft and warm. He pulled back a little. He was still staring at me, and I stared right back as he kissed me again, harder, but nothing like the way he’d kissed my neck. He withdrew more fully this time and watched me. “That’s it?” I demanded, and he laughed and kissed me fiercely. My hands went around his neck, pulling him closer, crushing myself against him. His hands roved my back, playing in my hair, grasping my waist, as if he couldn’t touch enough of me at once.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
O wind, songs have ye in her name? Plucked her did ye from midnight blasted millyard winds and made her renown ring in stone and brick and ice? Hard implacable bridges of iron cross her milk of brows? God bent from his steel arc welded her a hammer of honey and of balm? The rutted mud of hardrock Time . . . was it wetted, springified, greened, blossomied for me to grow in nameless bloodied lutey naming of her? Wood on cold trees would her coffin bare? Keys of stone rippled by icy streaks would ope my needy warm interiors and make her eat the soft sin of me? No iron bend or melt to make my rocky travail ease--I was all alone, my fate was banged behind an iron door, I'd come like butter looking for Hot Metals to love, I'd raise my feeble orgone bones and let them be rove and split the half and goop the big sad eyes to see it and say nothing. The laurel wreath is made of iron, and thorns of nails; acid spit, impossible mountains, and incomprehensible satires of blank humanity--congeal, cark, sink and seal my blood--
Jack Kerouac (Maggie Cassidy)
Morning poem Every morning The world Is created. Under the orange Sticks of the sun The heaped Ashes of the night Turn into leaves again And fasten themselves to the high branches- And the ponds appear Like black cloth On which are painted islands Of summer lilies. If it is your nature To be happy You will swim away along the soft trails For hours, your imagination Alighting everywhere. And if your spirit Carries within it The thorn That is heavier than lead- If it’s all you can do To keep on trudging- There is still somewhere deep within you a beast shouting that the earth is exactly what it wanted- each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer heard and answered lavishly, every morning, whether or not you have ever dared to be happy, whether or not you have ever dared to pray.
Mary Oliver
Shortcake.” I ignore him. “Shortcake.” “I do not know anyone by that name.” “Play with me for a minute,” he says it softly, right in my ear. I turn my face to his and try to regulate my breathing. “HR,” I manage. His face is so close to mine I can taste his breath, hot mint sweetness. I can see the tiny stripes in his irises, tiny unexpected sparks of yellow and green. There are so many blues I think of galaxies. Little stars.
Sally Thorne (The Hating Game)
A moth flying into the flame says with its wingfire, 'Try this.' The wick with its knotted neck broken, tells you the same. A candle as it diminishes explains, 'Gathering more and more is not the way. Burn, become light and heat and help. Melt.' The ocean sits in the sand letting its lap fill with pearls and shells, then empty. A bittersalt taste hums, 'This.' The phoenix gives up on good-and-bad, flies to rest on Mt. Qaf, no more burning and rising from ash. It sends out one message. The rose purifies its face, drops the soft petals, shows its thorn, and points. Wine abandons thousands of famous names, the vintage years and delightful bouquets, to run wild and anonymous through your brain. The flute closes its eyes and gives its lips to Hamza’s emptiness. Everything begs with the silent rocks for you to be flung out like light over this plain, the presence of Shams.
Rumi (The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems)
How did you find me?” He unclenched his jaw to answer. “When Wheatgerm returned to the stables, I followed her tracks until they disappeared. And then I heard someone bellowing nonsense, and I knew it must be you.” “Who the blazes is Wheatgerm?” “The horse you stole from the abbey,” he said as if talking to a simpleton. “You mean Butter. And I didn’t steal her. I borrowed her. I take it she’s safe?” “Cold and tired, but safe in the stables eating like she’s half starved. Which she probably is, thanks to you. And her name isn’t Butter.” “It is now.” “She’s not yours to name.” “She’s mine in spirit now that we’ve had an adventure together. And her name suits her. She’s soft and yellow, like butter.” He made a disgusted sound. “If we all had names to suit us, you’d be called Thorn in My Backside. Or Plague of the Gods.” I prickled at his scathing tone. “And you’d be Miserable Blockhead.” “Is that the best you can do?” “Give me time. I’m half frozen.
Elly Blake (Frostblood (Frostblood Saga, #1))
RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER: Why then I do but dream on sovereignty, Like one that stands upon a promontory And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, Saying, he'll lade it dry to have his way: So do I wish the crown, being so far off, And so I chide the means that keeps me from it, And so, I say, I'll cut the causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities, My eye's too quick, my hear o'erweens too much, Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard; What other pleasure can the world afford? I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap, And deck my body in gay ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable thought! and more unlikely Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns! Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb; And for I should not deal in her soft laws, She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe, To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub, To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits deformity to mock my body; To shape my legs of an unequal size, To disproportion me in every part, Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp That carries no impression like the dam. And am I then a man to be belov'd? O monstrous fault, to harbor such a thought! Then since this earth affords no joy to me But to command, to check, to o'erbear such As are of better person than myself, I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown, And whiles I live, t' account this world but hell, Until my misshap'd trunk that bears this head Be round impaled with a glorious crown. And yet I know not how to get the crown, For many lives stand between me and home; And I - like one lost in a thorny wood, That rents the thorns, and is rent with the thorns, Seeking a way, and straying from the way, Not knowing how to find the open air, But toiling desperately to find it out - Torment myself to catch the English crown; And from that torment I will free myself, Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. Why, I can smile, and murther whiles I smile, And cry "Content" to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions. I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall, I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk, I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, And like a Simon, take another Troy. I can add colors to the chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, And set the murtherous Machevil to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.
William Shakespeare (King Henry VI, Part 3)
Yet when God entered time and became a man, he who was boundless became bound. Imprisoned in flesh. Restricted by weary-prone muscles and eyelids. For more than three decades, his once limitless reach would be limited to the stretch of an arm, his speed checked to the pace of human feet. I wonder, was he ever tempted to regain his boundlessness? In the middle of a long trip, did he ever consider transporting himself to the next city? When the rain chilled his bones, was he tempted to change the weather? When the heat parched his lips, did he give thought to popping over to the Caribbean for some refreshment? If he ever entertained such thoughts, he never gave into them. Not once. Stop and think about this. Not once did Christ use his supernatural powers for personal comfort. With one word, he could've transformed the hard earth into a soft bed, but he didn't. With a wave of his hands, he could've boomeranged the spit of his accusers back into their faces, but he didn't. With an arch of his brow, he could've paralyzed the hand of the soldier as he braided the crown of thorns. But he didn't.
Max Lucado (He Chose the Nails: What God Did to Win Your Heart)
I adored your fluttering touches and effervescent kisses nestled among great roots. The sunlight dappling your shoulders. Vines curling in your hair. Our cheeks burning. Wandering through hidden places. A secret love skirting the shadows. The water and wind sang for us. The trees danced with us. The beetles whispered their blessings. We ate the plump wild-berries. I soon found my mouth bitter and stained. Your petal-soft love turned to thorns. The mist faded in the bright morning but left me cold and damp. The mossy ground charred. My lips starved and bleeding.
Keelie Breanna
Your Eminence, it doesn’t matter,” said Dane softly. “What you say doesn’t make you any less my conception of the perfect priest. I think you don’t understand what I mean, that’s all. I don’t mean an inhuman automaton, above the weaknesses of the flesh. I mean that you’ve suffered, and grown. Do I sound presumptuous? I don’t intend to, truly. If I’ve offended you, I beg your pardon. It’s just that it’s so hard to express my thoughts! What I mean is that becoming a perfect priest must take years, terrible pain, and all the time keeping before you an ideal, and Our Lord.
Colleen McCullough (The Thorn Birds)
Not forever,” he said onto my mouth. And though I knew it was a lie, I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. He pulled me onto his lap, holding me tightly against him as his lips parted mine. I became aware of every pore in my body when his tongue entered my mouth. Though the horror of Rhysand’s magic still tore at me, I pushed Tamlin onto the bed, straddling him, pinning him as if it would somehow keep me from leaving, as if it would make time stop entirely. His hands rested on my hips, and their heat singed me through the thin silk of my nightgown. My hair fell around our faces like a curtain. I couldn’t kiss him fast enough, hard enough to express the rushing need within me. He growled softly and deftly flipped us over, spreading me beneath him as he wrenched his lips from my mouth and made a trail of kisses down my neck. My entire world constricted to the touch of his lips on my skin. Everything beyond them, beyond him, was a void of darkness and moonlight. My back arched as he reached the spot he’d once bitten, and I dragged my hands through his hair, savoring the silken smoothness. He traced the arc of my hipbones, lingering at the edge of my undergarments. My nightgown had become hitched around my waist, but I didn’t care. I hooked my bare legs around his, running my feet down the hard muscles of his calves. He breathed my name onto my chest, one of his hands exploring the plane of my torso, rising up to the slope of my breast. I trembled, anticipating the feel of his hand there, and his mouth found mine again as his fingers stopped just below. His kissing was slower this time—gentler. The fingertips of his other hand slipped beneath the waist of my undergarment, and I sucked in a breath. He hesitated at the sound, pulling back slightly. But I bit his lip in a silent command that had him growling into my mouth. With one long claw, he shredded through silk and lace, and my undergarment fell away in pieces. The claw retracted, and his kiss deepened as his fingers slid between my legs, coaxing and teasing. I ground against his hand, yielding completely to the writhing wildness that had roared alive inside me, and breathed his name onto his skin. He paused again—his fingers retracting—but I grabbed him, pulling him farther on top of me. I wanted him now—I wanted the barriers of our clothing to vanish, I wanted to taste his sweat, wanted to become full of him.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
Valentina stopped it, freezing the screen as Gavriel bent toward her. “He does it, too. Bites all of them, drinks a ton of blood, and then staggers out. Leaves them alive, every one. They’re saying that’s the Thorn of Istra.” “He is,” said Tana softly. Valentina looked at her, surprised. “Wasn’t his job to stop the spread of infection? Stop outbreaks by killing new vampires?” Tana couldn’t seem to stop staring at the frozen screen, at the greedy expression on Gavriel’s face. Then she gave Valentina a lopsided grin. “I guess he quit. I mean, that’s like a Coney Island–style hot dog–eating contest.
Holly Black (The Coldest Girl in Coldtown)
Kosson threw me a hurt look, for a moment a child with his enthusiasm dashed. “Yes, but see who we have here!” We edged around the invisible glass surrounding the man. That was how it felt. Slick glass, cold to touch, the edge of time where hours and minutes die to nothing. “See?” Kosson pointed to a white rectangle attached to the man’s chest, to the left. It looked to be a piece of plasteek and bore the legend “CUSTODIAN” in black. “That means he’s the guardian, the protector. The guard archivists have books that tell the meanings of ancient words.” “He looks soft to me.” Weak, white, fear in his eyes. “The
Mark Lawrence (Emperor of Thorns (The Broken Empire, #3))
He buried his head in the lawn, letting his smooth cheeks feel the softness of the earth and be tickled by the short blunt spears of grass. Suddenly he wanted to do something heroic and brutal. He pulled handfuls of grass out of its roots, experiencing a crazy satisfaction at the ugly grating sound it produced like a limb being torn from limb! He dug his nails into the soft, wet earth, wanting suddenly to break it up, to disfigure it, to wreck his vengeful will upon it! He picked a rose from a bush nearby and plucked its petals one by one, letting them fall in a crumpled heap. He got his finger pricked by a thorn but when he sucked at the injured spot, the blood, his own blood, tasted bitter - and good - on his tongue. Then he retired to his room exhausted yet strangely satisfied. But he was pursued by someone even in his sleep. It was the same "other woman" of his childhood dreams and she was still screaming, "I am Woman, the daughter of Woman. Thou shalt not escape me." But when she came near, Anwar saw that she had an oval face, framed by a halo of dark curly hair, with big black innocent eyes! Next morning, as he looked into the mirror to comb his hair, Anwar saw the downy growth of hair, the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks and chin.
Khwaja Ahmad Abbas (Inqilab)
Stop,” Jesse said. I stared up at him, almost panting with fear. “Stop, beloved,” he said more gently, and took up my clenched fist with both hands. “I’ve upset you, and I shouldn’t have. I don’t want you to dread yourself. I don’t want you to dread what is to come. Like I said, you’re exceptional, so there may be nothing to worry about at all. But whatever happens, whatever you face, I’ll face it with you. Do you hear?” “How can you say it? It nearly happened on the roof today. You can’t know-“ “I will be with you. We’re together now, and the universe knows I won’t let you make your sacrifice alone. Dragon protects star. Star adores dragon. An age-old axiom. Simple as that.” I looked down at our hands, both of his curled over mine. I unclenched my fist. Blood from the thorn smeared my skin. “The universe,” I muttered. “The same universe that has produced the Kaiser and bedbugs and Chloe Pemington. How reassuring.” With the same absolute concentration he might have shown for turning flowers into gold, Jesse Holms smoothed out my fingers between his, wiping away the blood. He turned my hand over and lifted it to his lips. His next words fell soft as velvet into the heart of my palm. “Those nights, in the sweetest dark, we shared our dreams. That’s you answer. I was stitched into yours, and you were stitched into mind, and that was real, I promise you.” I felt his lips curve into a smile. The unbelievably sensual, ticklish scuff of his whiskers. “Very good dreams they were, too,” he added. It was no use trying to cling to mortification or fear. He was holding my hand. He was smiling at me past the cup of my fingers, and although I couldn’t see it, the shape of it against my skin was beyond tantalizing, rough and masculine. I was a creature gone hot and cold and light-headed with pleasure. I wanted to snatch back my hand and I wanted him to go on touching me like this forever. I wanted to walk with him back to his cottage, to his bed, and to hell with the Germans and school and all the rest of the world. But he looked up suddenly. “They’re searching for you,” he said, releasing me at once, moving away. They were. I heard my name being called by a variety of voices in a variety of tones, all of them still inside the castle, none of them sounding happy. “Go on.” With a few quick steps, Jesse was less than a shadow, retreating into the black wall of the woods. “Don’t get into trouble. And, Lora?” “Yes?” There was hushed laughter in his voice. “Until we can see each other again, do us both a favor. Keep away from rooftops.
Shana Abe (The Sweetest Dark (The Sweetest Dark, #1))
Abby.” His eyes flashed brown, yellow, brown, yellow. His shoulders twitched as he rolled his neck as if fighting to keep control. “I don’t know what’s going on or why I feel like you plan to run. But I promise you, if you run, I will hunt you and find you. I will find you and do whatever I need to, to make sure you never leave me again.” Her eyes widened. How had he sensed that? “I don’t want to be the reason you die,” she whispered. “Then don’t leave me, Abby. Never leave me. That’s the only thing that will kill me. You’re my life. My reason to keep fighting. I’d lose everything if I lost you.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “Do you understand me? I’d cease to exist if I lost you. There is no me without you.
Lacey Thorn (Waking the Beast (Awakening Pride, #1))
Using a cactus thorn, they “pricked the skin in small regular rows on our chins with a very sharp stick,” Olive wrote, “until they bled freely. They then dipped these same sticks in the juice of a certain weed that grew on the banks of the river, and then in the powder of a blue stone that was to be found in low water.” The stone was burned, then pulverized, then applied to the pinprick patterns that had been etched into their faces.29 The procedure took a few hours, but it was most painful during the healing process of the next three days, when they could eat only soft foods like roasted pumpkin so the wounds would not open. Because the Mohaves prized broad faces, tattoo patterns were designed to create or enhance this impression
Margot Mifflin (The Blue Tattoo: The Life of Olive Oatman (Women in the West))
A LITTLE while, a little while, The weary task is put away, And I can sing and I can smile, Alike, while I have holiday. Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart-- What thought, what scene invites thee now What spot, or near or far apart, Has rest for thee, my weary brow? There is a spot, 'mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain; But, if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again. The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome; But what on earth is half so dear-- So longed for--as the hearth of home? The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them--how I love them all! Still, as I mused, the naked room, The alien firelight died away; And from the midst of cheerless gloom, I passed to bright, unclouded day. A little and a lone green lane That opened on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain Of mountains circling every side. A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dream-like charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere. THAT was the scene, I knew it well; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep, That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep. Could I have lingered but an hour, It well had paid a week of toil; But Truth has banished Fancy's power: Restraint and heavy task recoil. Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, My hour of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care.
Emily Brontë
Maybe sometimes you have to tell a story crossways, because to tell it straight would ongly [sic] mean that it go straight by the person's ears who it intend for. For consider the words of Jesus when the blessed Savior go up on the mountain him did decide to speak in parables. He never just tell them that all of them was heathens, and that not a one of them could reach Heaven without him. Instead he talk bout hard ground and soft ground and ground that was full of macka and thorns; . . . him talk bout a lost sheep who finally make him way home. And maybe it afterwards, when you gather all of these crossway stories, and you put them together, that you finally see a line had been running through all of them. Sometimes you have to tell a story the way you dream a dream, and everyone know that dreams don't walk straight." (251)
Kei Miller
They reached the eastern outskirts of the Dimmerskog on the afternoon of the next day. Although the forest was covered in a thick blanket of white snow, it nevertheless seemed, as Binabik had named it, a place of shadows. The company did not pass beneath its eaves, and might have chosen not to even had their path lain that way, so thick with foreboding was the wood’s atmosphere. The trees, despite their size—and some of them were huge indeed—seemed dwarfish and twisted, as though they squirmed bitterly beneath their burden of needled branches and snow. The open spaces between the contorted trunks seemed to bend away crazily like tunnels dug by some huge and drunken mole, leading at last to dangerous, secretive depths. Passing in near silence, his horse’s hooves crunching softly in the snow, Simon imagined following the gaping pathways into the bark-pillared, white-roofed halls of Dimmerskog, coming at last to—who could guess? Perhaps to the dark, malicious heart of the forest, a place where the trees breathed together and passed endless rumors with the scaly rub of branch on branch, or the malicious exhalation of wind through twigs and frozen leaves. They camped that night in the open again, even though the Dimmerskog crouched only a short distance away like a sleeping animal. None of them wanted to spend a night beneath the forest’s branches—especially Sludig, who had been raised on stories of the ghastly things that stalked the wood’s pale corridors. The Sithi did not seem to care, but Jiriki spent part of the evening oiling his dark witchwood sword. Again the company huddled around a naked fire, and the east wind razored past them all the long evening, sending great powdery spouts of snow whirling all around, and sporting among the Dimmerskog’s upper reaches. When they lay down that night to sleep it was to the sound of the forest creaking, and the wind-ridden branches sawing one against the other.
Tad Williams (The Dragonbone Chair (Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn, #1))
Bram stared into a pair of wide, dark eyes. Eyes that reflected a surprising glimmer of intelligence. This might be the rare female a man could reason with. “Now, then,” he said. “We can do this the easy way, or we can make things difficult.” With a soft snort, she turned her head. It was as if he’d ceased to exist. Bram shifted his weight to his good leg, feeling the stab to his pride. He was a lieutenant colonel in the British army, and at over six feet tall, he was said to cut an imposing figure. Typically, a pointed glance from his quarter would quell the slightest hint of disobedience. He was not accustomed to being ignored. “Listen sharp now.” He gave her ear a rough tweak and sank his voice to a low threat. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as I say.” Though she spoke not a word, her reply was clear: You can kiss my great woolly arse. Confounded sheep. “Ah, the English countryside. So charming. So…fragrant.” Colin approached, stripped of his London-best topcoat, wading hip-deep through the river of wool. Blotting the sheen of perspiration from his brow with his sleeve, he asked, “I don’t suppose this means we can simply turn back?” Ahead of them, a boy pushing a handcart had overturned his cargo, strewing corn all over the road. It was an open buffet, and every ram and ewe in Sussex appeared to have answered the invitation. A vast throng of sheep bustled and bleated around the unfortunate youth, gorging themselves on the spilled grain-and completely obstructing Bram’s wagons. “Can we walk the teams in reverse?” Colin asked. “Perhaps we can go around, find another road.” Bram gestured at the surrounding landscape. “There is no other road.” They stood in the middle of the rutted dirt lane, which occupied a kind of narrow, winding valley. A steep bank of gorse rose up on one side, and on the other, some dozen yards of heath separated the road from dramatic bluffs. And below those-far below those-lay the sparkling turquoise sea. If the air was seasonably dry and clear, and Bram squinted hard at that thin indigo line of the horizon, he might even glimpse the northern coast of France. So close. He’d get there. Not today, but soon. He had a task to accomplish here, and the sooner he completed it, the sooner he could rejoin his regiment. He wasn’t stopping for anything. Except sheep. Blast it. It would seem they were stopping for sheep. A rough voice said, “I’ll take care of them.” Thorne joined their group. Bram flicked his gaze to the side and spied his hulking mountain of a corporal shouldering a flintlock rifle. “We can’t simply shoot them, Thorne.” Obedient as ever, Thorne lowered his gun. “Then I’ve a cutlass. Just sharpened the blade last night.” “We can’t butcher them, either.” Thorne shrugged. “I’m hungry.” Yes, that was Thorne-straightforward, practical. Ruthless. “We’re all hungry.” Bram’s stomach rumbled in support of the statement. “But clearing the way is our aim at the moment, and a dead sheep’s harder to move than a live one. We’ll just have to nudge them along.” Thorne lowered the hammer of his rifle, disarming it, then flipped the weapon with an agile motion and rammed the butt end against a woolly flank. “Move on, you bleeding beast.
Tessa Dare (A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove, #1))
we are the book and the world is reading us there’s beauty living within our pages that we can’t see so we must trust others to read it for us
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
It means nothing," she said. "Nothing, Emma." And he bent down to catch with his lips the tear that slipped over her temple. Her face turned a little toward his. He kissed her softly on the mouth. No hedge of thorns had ever grown so thick as the cold with which she surrounded herself. With his lips and tongue he willed it to melt. Wake up, Emma. Sleep no longer.
Meredith Duran
Cassian grunted in pain, but lifted his bloodied hands—to cup her face. “I have no regrets in my life, but this.” His voice shook with every word. “That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta.” She didn’t stop him as he leaned up and kissed her—lightly. As much as he could manage. Cassian said softly, brushing away the tear that streaked down her face, “I will find you again in the next world—the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.” The King of Hybern stepped into that clearing,
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Wings and Ruin (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3))
I think thorns grow where the roses are because they’re starved for softness. They’re hungry for all the soft, fragile things after living a sharp, prickly life. A thorn needs the softness of a rose. And I think that’s why a rose is so soft in the first place. Because a thorn needs it to be.
Saffron A. Kent (These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary's Rebels #3))
Because I don’t ever want to feel powerless again,” Gwyn said softly, and all those easy smiles and bright laughs were gone. Only stark, pained honesty shone in her remarkable eyes. Nesta swallowed, and though instinct told her to pull away, she said quietly, “Me too.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #4))
Venus was rising, holding her own in the sky that was beginning to brighten. As I left the docks and warehouses behind, I came to a marshy shoreline, thick with water reeds. Though the sky above was clear, the water's surface swirled with little mists. I began to sing a song to Isis, made up on the spot, which caught the rhythm of the oars. A breeze sprang up and the reeds sang with me. Then as the first rays of sun dimmed the stars, birds everywhere lifted their voices and rose in line after line into the sky. On the outskirts of the city, I came to what looked like it might have been an abandoned villa or farmstead. I decided to sit down and watch the lake changing colors with the light. That's when I heard it. Not the soft lapping of the water against the shore, but the sound of flowing water. I looked and in the glowing light, I saw a small stream, eally just a trickle washing down a pebbly incline towards the lake. Something prompted me to follow the stream inland. I made my way though brambly thickets of brambling roses. The way seemed to open for me, the thorns all but retracting so as not to catch my cloak or scratch my arms and legs. At the source, I knelt down and parted the thicket, and there it was. The spring at the base of the hill so steep, it was almost a cliff. The water bubbled up from the darkness of earth, giving back the brightness of sky. Like all springs, a way between worlds. I was no stranger to sacred springs and magic wells. I was raised to revere them. I had first glimpsed my beloved on the well of wisdom on Tir n mBan. But this spring. I closed my eyes to listen to its sound, and I knew I had heard it before. The wind picked up, washing over me, scented with fish and roses. When it quieted again, I opened my eyes and gazed at the clear surface of the pool, and for an instant, I saw a tower, and the dawn sky, and the two people standing there. Then the image vanished, but I had seen all I needed to see. Alright, I said to myself, my goddess, to Miriam's know it all angels, Magala is is. And by the way, I added, my name is Maeve.
Elizabeth Cunningham (The Passion of Mary Magdalen (Maeve Chronicles, #2))
scars may fade but they last forever
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
i was born with wide eyes and a fragile heart that never learned to say no
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
we have this divine bond divine in the way that it's certainly not from this lifetime
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
we can't even do cute things like watch movies or hold hands our magnetism is so strong we always end up as one
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
People end up using their relationships to hide their thorns. If you care for each other, you are expected to adjust your behavior to avoid bumping into each other’s soft spots. This is what people do. They let the fear of their inner thorns affect their behavior. They end up limiting their lives just like someone living with an external thorn. Ultimately, if there is something disturbing inside of you, you have to make a choice. You can compensate for the disturbance by going outside in an attempt to avoid feeling it, or you can simply remove the thorn and not focus your life around it. Do not doubt your ability to remove the root cause of the disturbance inside of you. It really can go away. You can look deep within yourself, to the core of your being, and decide that you don’t want the weakest part of you running your life. You want to be free of this.
Michael A. Singer (The Untethered Soul: The Journey Beyond Yourself)
Let's keep the lights on I trust you to still love me
bridgett devoue (soft thorns)
I believe everything happens for a reason. Whether it is decided by the Mother, or the Cauldron, or some sort of tapestry of Fate, I don’t know. I don’t really care. But I am grateful for it, whatever it is. Grateful that it brought you all into my life. If it hadn’t … I might have become as awful as that prick we’re going to face today. If I had not met an Illyrian warrior-in-training,” he said to Cassian, “I would not have known the true depths of strength, of resilience, of honor and loyalty.” Cassian’s eyes gleamed bright. Rhys said to Azriel, “If I had not met a shadowsinger, I would not have known that it is the family you make, not the one you are born into, that matters. I would not have known what it is to truly hope, even when the world tells you to despair.” Azriel bowed his head in thanks. Mor was already crying when Rhys spoke to her. “If I had not met my cousin, I would never have learned that light can be found in even the darkest of hells. That kindness can thrive even amongst cruelty.” She wiped away her tears as she nodded. I waited for Amren to offer a retort. But she was only waiting. Rhys bowed his head to her. “If I had not met a tiny monster who hoards jewels more fiercely than a firedrake …” A quiet laugh from all of us at that. Rhys smiled softly. “My own power would have consumed me long ago.” Rhys squeezed my hand as he looked to me at last. “And if I had not met my mate …” His words failed him as silver lined his eyes. He said down the bond, I would have waited five hundred more years for you. A thousand years. And if this was all the time we were allowed to have … The wait was worth it. He wiped away the tears sliding down my face.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Wings and Ruin (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3))
Song" Listen: there was a goat’s head hanging by ropes in a tree. All night it hung there and sang. And those who heard it Felt a hurt in their hearts and thought they were hearing The song of a night bird. They sat up in their beds, and then They lay back down again. In the night wind, the goat’s head Swayed back and forth, and from far off it shone faintly The way the moonlight shone on the train track miles away Beside which the goat’s headless body lay. Some boys Had hacked its head off. It was harder work than they had imagined. The goat cried like a man and struggled hard. But they Finished the job. They hung the bleeding head by the school And then ran off into the darkness that seems to hide everything. The head hung in the tree. The body lay by the tracks. The head called to the body. The body to the head. They missed each other. The missing grew large between them, Until it pulled the heart right out of the body, until The drawn heart flew toward the head, flew as a bird flies Back to its cage and the familiar perch from which it trills. Then the heart sang in the head, softly at first and then louder, Sang long and low until the morning light came up over The school and over the tree, and then the singing stopped…. The goat had belonged to a small girl. She named The goat Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry, named it after The night’s bush of stars, because the goat’s silky hair Was dark as well water, because it had eyes like wild fruit. The girl lived near a high railroad track. At night She heard the trains passing, the sweet sound of the train’s horn Pouring softly over her bed, and each morning she woke To give the bleating goat his pail of warm milk. She sang Him songs about girls with ropes and cooks in boats. She brushed him with a stiff brush. She dreamed daily That he grew bigger, and he did. She thought her dreaming Made it so. But one night the girl didn’t hear the train’s horn, And the next morning she woke to an empty yard. The goat Was gone. Everything looked strange. It was as if a storm Had passed through while she slept, wind and stones, rain Stripping the branches of fruit. She knew that someone Had stolen the goat and that he had come to harm. She called To him. All morning and into the afternoon, she called And called. She walked and walked. In her chest a bad feeling Like the feeling of the stones gouging the soft undersides Of her bare feet. Then somebody found the goat’s body By the high tracks, the flies already filling their soft bottles At the goat’s torn neck. Then somebody found the head Hanging in a tree by the school. They hurried to take These things away so that the girl would not see them. They hurried to raise money to buy the girl another goat. They hurried to find the boys who had done this, to hear Them say it was a joke, a joke, it was nothing but a joke…. But listen: here is the point. The boys thought to have Their fun and be done with it. It was harder work than they Had imagined, this silly sacrifice, but they finished the job, Whistling as they washed their large hands in the dark. What they didn’t know was that the goat’s head was already Singing behind them in the tree. What they didn’t know Was that the goat’s head would go on singing, just for them, Long after the ropes were down, and that they would learn to listen, Pail after pail, stroke after patient stroke. They would Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder. There Would be a whistle, a hum, a high murmur, and, at last, a song, The low song a lost boy sings remembering his mother’s call. Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song Is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness. Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Song. (• BOA Editions; 1st edition 1995)
Brigit Pegeen Kelly (Song)
If it is your nature to be happy you will swim away along the soft trails for hours, your imagination alighting everywhere. And if your spirit carries within it the thorn that is heavier than lead — if it’s all you can do to keep on trudging — there is still somewhere deep within you a beast shouting that the earth is exactly what it wanted — each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer heard and answered lavishly, every morning, whether or not you have ever dared to be happy, whether or not you have ever dared to pray.
Mary Oliver (Dream Work)
You know why that is, Bronwyn? Why it’s going to fucking burn and sting when I touch you?” “Why?” He inches ever so closer then, his eyes boring into mine, his scent drugging my brain even more. “Because you’re a flower. A wallflower. And every inch of you is soft. Every inch of you is fragile and velvet. And I’m a thorn. Every inch of me is sharp and hard. And fucking angry. Because you make it so. You make me angry. You make me so fucking angry, Bronwyn, you push me so fucking much that I’ll spin you around, grab the back of your pretty little neck and pin you to that tree so you can’t get away. And then I’ll flip your pleated skirt up and smack that tight fucking ass so hard and so many times that your skin really will turn pink like in your goddamn dreams. As pink as your favorite pen. As pink as the roses you keep drawing on your thighs.
Saffron A. Kent (These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary's Rebels #3))
The Bexleys are hard geometrics, the Gamins are soft scribbles. Bexleys move in shark packs, talking figures and constantly hogging the conference rooms for their ominous Planning Sessions. Plotting sessions, more like. Gamins huddle in their cubicles, gentle doves in clock towers, poring over manuscripts, searching for the next literary sensation. The air surrounding them is perfumed with jasmine tea and paper.
Sally Thorne (The Hating Game)
we never know how fragile someone is until they break
bridgett devoue (Soft Thorns Vol. II)
He said softly, "I love it when you look at me like that." The purr in his voice heated my blood. "Like what?" "Like my power isn't something to run from. Like you see me.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2))
It isn’t the thorns that make a rose.” “It’s what protects them, though,” I argued. “It’s the contrast, the duality of hard and soft, dangerous and beautiful that make it covetable, Rosie.
Giana Darling (Good Gone Bad (The Fallen Men, #3))
Now I know what you truly are,” he says. “And what is that?” “Tsundere.” “What?” “It means someone who’s hot and cold. Violent on the outside, despite being soft on the inside.
Rina Kent (Red Thorns (Thorns Duet, #1))
Her shudder turned into a shiver as a urry of snowakes whirled past. She squinted upward, astonished to see that the sky, which had been blue just minutes ago, was now lling with soft winter clouds. White akes spiraled downward, spinning past the Royal Library’s dome, swirling around the bronze pegasus atop its spire, which she was convinced now reared in a slightly different position than before. Nathaniel had also stopped to take in the view. “Do you remember the last time it snowed in Hemlock Park?” “Of course.” Blood rushed to her cheeks at the look he was giving her. How could she forget? The frost and the candlelight, the way time had seemed to stop when they kissed, and how he had parted her dressing gown so carefully, with only one hand— She wasn’t sure which of them leaned in first. For a moment nothing existed outside the brush of their lips, tentative at rst, and then the heat of their mouths, all-consuming. “I seem to recall,” Nathaniel murmured as she twined a hand into his hair, “that this”—another kiss —“is a public street.” “The street wouldn’t exist without us,” she replied. “The public wouldn’t, either.” The kiss went on, blissful, until someone whistled nearby.
Margaret Rogerson, Sorcery of Thorns
Silas!” Nathaniel exclaimed. “Do you have my—augh! What is that?” “That is Elisabeth Scrivener, master.” Nathaniel stiffened, taking in the sight of her. Emotions flashed across his face too quickly to follow. For a moment, shock prevailed. His gaze skipped over “her bruised skin and filthy clothes. Then he withdrew inward, his expression hardening. “This is a surprise,” he observed in a clipped tone, descending the rest of the stairs at a measured pace. “Why is she here? I thought I told you that I—” He cut himself off with a quick glance back at Elisabeth, his lips pressed to a thin line. “She requires a place to stay,” Silas said. “And you thought it would be an excellent idea to bring her here, of all places?” “Look at her. She is ill. She has nowhere else to go. When I found her, she was being pursued by criminals.” Nathaniel’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “I suppose next you’ll be rescuing orphans and helping elderly widows across the street. This is absurd.” His knuckles had turned white on the banister. “Since when do you care about the welfare of a human being?” “I am not the one who cares,” Silas said softly. “What is that supposed to mean?” “You care about her, master, more than I have seen you care about anything in years. Don’t attempt to deny it,” he added when Nathaniel opened his mouth.
Margaret Rogerson, Sorcery of Thorns
People end up using their relationships to hide their thorns. If you care for each other, you are expected to adjust your behavior to avoid bumping into each other’s soft spots.
Michael A. Singer (The Untethered Soul: The Journey Beyond Yourself)
What are they?” “Will-o’-the-wisps—spirits of air and light,” he said softly. “Come to celebrate the solstice.” “They’re beautiful.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
I heard the scrape of a soft shoe and then the curtain was lifted by a single hand. I saw the long slim arm and the dark shape of the body, a tumble of loose hair that fell about him like a frayed cloak. He brought a breeze with him that warmed the flame of the lamp, and sent shadows of laughter across the face of the goddess.
Storm Constantine (The Thorn Boy)
The vines are beautiful, making the bricks look soft, a padded perimeter for the modern day castle. I’ve never been close enough to see if they have thorns. Never gone close enough to the edge to be cut.
Skye Warren (Who Will Save Your Soul: And Other Dangerous Bedtime Stories)
They forget that those tiny little hands in the manger, those tiny little hands embraced by Simeon, those hands were made so that nails might be driven through them.  Those baby feet, not yet able to walk, they were made to walk up Golgotha to be nailed to the cross.  The head of baby Jesus was made so that someday wicked men would press down a crown of thorns into it, drawing his precious blood.  This baby’s soft tummy would someday be violently ripped open by a spear.  So many forget that the manger leads to the cross.  Jesus was born to die and when we speak about that, we find rejection by so many.  When we speak about why he had to die, when we speak about our sin and the wrath of God, people turn off and tune out.   When you see the Messiah in the big picture of our salvation, he is a divisive figure.  He divides people into two groups:  unbelievers and believers.  It was that way in his day and still is today.
Anonymous
P. C. Bhattacharya was the first non-ICS man to be appointed to the job and he had a soft ride. But in what would cause a major uproar today in Parliament and in the media, when the rupee was devalued by a huge 36 per cent in 1966, he was merely informed. The decision had been taken by Indira Gandhi in March that year when she visited the United States and met the representatives of the World Bank and IMF. But she kept it to herself till June. Even the finance minister didn’t know, let alone the poor RBI governor.
T.C.A. Srinivasa Raghavan (A Crown of Thorns: The Governors of the RBI)
We don’t believe in nothing,” Runajo said mildly. “We have our own sages. I suppose they would say it’s monyai. It means both ‘dust’ and ‘river.’” She paused, trying to think how to explain it to someone who had not grown up with the words of the sages, or the hundred and eight poems they had saved from the Ruining. “The Sisters of Thorn will tell you that all things move by the blood of the gods. This is false.” Runajo’s voice was soft, yet it echoed among the shelves and the scrolls. “The sages of our people tell a different story. They say that everything in all the world is made of particles like motes of dust. They spin and cling and part, and we are formed of their patterns.” Runajo’s throat tightened. She remembered her mother telling her this long ago, before any illness had touched their family. Before she had known what it meant for things to vanish forever. She drew a breath and went on. “Like a river, the particles are ever-moving, ever-changing; we are the ripples in the river, that vanish in a moment and never return. But while we are here, we are like dust motes caught in the afternoon sunlight, dazzling before we fall into the darkness.
Rosamund Hodge (Bright Smoke, Cold Fire (Bright Smoke, Cold Fire, #1))
I cannot get over my dislike to Lady Lowborough. It is not founded on mere personal pique; it is the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly disapprove of her. I always avoid her company as much as I can without violating the laws of hospitality; but when we do speak or converse together, it is with the utmost civility - even apparent cordiality on her part; but preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms - bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers.
Anne Brontë (The Tenant of Wildfell Hall)
There is something brittle in me that will break before it bends. Something sharp that puts an edge on all the soft words I once owned.
Mark Lawrence
The Black Raven and a Crimson Rose. The Raven, darkness yet leading me to the light. The Rose beautiful but with thorns that draw blood. Where do you draw the line between the darkness and the light. You cannot for one does not exist without the other. You must control both or be overtaken by both losing who and what you are. The harsh reality of the Ravens message that so many never see or want to hear. The softness of the Rose petal seemingly innocent but drawing you closer to its thorny underside. It is your choice and how you approach both decides the outcome of many things. Do not get lost in the fear of the Raven and do not get deceived by the beauty of the Rose.
Mark Collins
It seems terror is a companion in the soft years when everything is new, and returns to us with age, as we acquire things to lose.
Mark Lawrence (King of Thorns (The Broken Empire, #2))
She rose from the log and walked to a thicket of gooseberry bushes heavy with green-striped berries. “We should pick these. Britta might make you a pie.” “I hate the thorns, and with one of your arms out of commission, there is no ‘we’ in the picking part.” “A little hard labor won’t hurt you. You’re getting soft sitting in Daddy’s chair.” “Am I now?” He joined her at the bush. “I bet I can pick more than you.” She propped her free fist on her hip. “You’ve got two hands.” “I’ll only use one.” She plucked a large, ripe berry. “You’re on.
Lorna Seilstad (A Great Catch)
His rejection of the church was not entirely funded by his paternal feud; church people had a strange way about them. They smiled too much, were quick to compliment and support, but behind the stretched lips and soft words was a judgment. No one was ever good enough—at least not until they were dead. The dead were exemplary.
Michael J. Sullivan (The Rose and the Thorn (The Riyria Chronicles, #2))
it started to hurt too much, picking flowers for you when all the stems grew thorns so big and menacing cutting myself on them was not the good kind of compromise it was like burning a forest to the ground just to see the smoke just to darken something that was once glowing
Shelby Eileen (Soft in the Middle)
Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
James Joyce (Dubliners)
It’s already ended badly. Now it’s just a matter of deciding how we meet the consequences.” “Wisely said,” Mor offered, smiling softly at Elain.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Wings and Ruin (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3))
She was upside-down, clinging to a horizontal stem of wild rose by her feet which pointed to heaven. Her head was deep in dried grass. Her abdomen was swollen like a smashed finger; it tapered to a fleshy tip out of which bubbled a wet, whipped froth. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I lay on the hill this way and that, my knees in thorns and my cheeks in clay, trying to see as well as I could. I poked near the female’s head with a grass; she was clearly undisturbed, so I settled my nose an inch from that pulsing abdomen. It puffed like a concertina, it throbbed like a bellows; it roved, pumping, over the glistening, clabbered surface of the egg case testing and patting, thrusting and smoothing. It seemed to act so independently that I forgot the panting brown stick at the other end. The bubble creature seemed to have two eyes, a frantic little brain, and two busy, soft hands. It looked like a hideous, harried mother slicking up a fat daughter for a beauty pageant, touching her up, slobbering over her, patting and hemming and brushing and stroking.
Annie Dillard (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)
Abigail Crowne had the sharpest thorns and the softest petals. Maybe that’s why I was so addicted to bleeding by her, it made her soft touches, looks, and kisses all the more intoxicating.
Mary Catharine Gebhard
The late Anglican pastor John Stott argued that he could never believe in God were it not for the cross. As he put it, in a world of such horrors—burned children and battered women and concentration camps and genocides—how could one believe in a God who was agnostic of all of that? Stott wrote that he had visited temples in Asia in which he stood before the statues of a placid, remote-looking Buddha, with arms crossed, eyes closed, softly smiling. His imagination was forced to turn away and to turn instead “to that lonely, twisted, tortured figure on the cross, nails through hands and feet, back lacerated, limbs wrenched, brow bleeding from thorn-pricks, mouth dry and intolerably thirsty, plunged in God-forsaken darkness. That is the God for me!
Russell D. Moore (The Storm-Tossed Family: How the Cross Reshapes the Home)
Sam scrutinized Mr. Khadir’s face. It expressed kindliness and gentleness, as well as mischievousness and fierceness. He stood about five feet ten inches with a pale-skinned complexion. His long softly curly hair, slightly graying at the temples, was parted in the middle, and went to the bottom of his neck. He had a hooked nose over which rose a prominent brow ridge. His eyes wee penetrating like an eagle’s. He held a sing rose in his hand. Although, Sam couldn’t se it, a drop of green blood lay on his hand where one of the thorns had pierced his skin. A hint of a smile was on his face and he seemed restless. He said nothing but looked at Sam expectantly. ‘I’m tired of seeking. My life is empty, and that’s just fine with me,’ Sam declared emphatically. ‘If you feel with all your being that you are empty, then I advise you to try once more,’ Mr. Khadir gently replied. ‘Mr. Khadir wore a jewel around his neck, a large emerald. It was remarkably similar to a jewel Sam’s mother used to wear. Something about the sight of the emerald touched Sam deeply within his soul. Sam took it as a sign that he should take Mr. Khadir up on his invitation. Sam knew there was no such thing as coincidence. Finally, the homeless man answered his enigmatic visitor, ‘I will follow you if you will teach me the Right Way.’ ‘You will not be able to bear patiently with me, for how can you experience true patience concerning events about which you lack full knowledge?’ Mr. Khadir answered turning away. The panic Sam felt that the stranger might leave him behind surprised him. He was already following Khadir toward the service road as he replied, ‘You will find me, if God wills, patient and obedient to your mystic teaching.’ Mr. Khadir said softly, ‘Then yes, I will teach you. When your poverty is complete, you will be God. But I must warn you: even if you see me doing strange things, acting foolishly, childishly – you must bear with me and attend to it all. Woe to you if you turn away.’ ‘Where are we going?’ Same wanted to know. ‘Allah knows best,’ Mr. Khadir replied.
Laurence Galian (The Sun At Midnight: The Revealed Mysteries Of The Ahlul Bayt Sufis)
Some day!" Ah, all the waiting ones of earth have taken solace from the sound. Some day wet eyes shall shine, but not with tears, and quivering lips shall smile again. Some day the deep lines shall be smoothed from every careworn face, and the knotted, roughened hands made soft once more. Thorns that lie deep in tender hearts shall be drawn away and precious herbs shall bring their healing sweetness to the wound. Some day each hungry soul shall find its mate and they two shall comfort one another with the gentle ministry of love. The lost violets shall come again and make the aisles of springtime scented purple ways. Icebound streams shall chant the summer song and the sleeping forests away to life once more. For this is the eternal law. For every hour of suffering we are paid with abundant joy; for every surge of our helpless, finite passion there is a returning flow. For every swelling of the heart comes a moment of rest; for every hour of the night there is one of sun. And all who weep may dry their tears with this, for as truly as morning dawns the light shall come. And even in our sorrow we are not alone.
Myrtle Reed (Later Love Letters of a Musician)
Dandelions represent the easy way. You pick up a dandelion and it's so soft, and it's so easy and even fun sometimes to blow the seeds everywhere. And you don't even realize what you're doing. Nothing happens right then, except you get a pretty little show in the breeze. It's not until later, sometimes, a long time later, that you look out in your garden and realize what you did. It's easy, love, to pull back, to hide in yourself, to run and say you're just taking some time, to keep all of your emotions inside, maybe even to think you're protecting me from something. It would be easier still for me to let you do that. To watch you blow those dandelion seeds everywhere, and pretend it won't damage anything. To pretend we won't wake up one summer morning to discover we've allowed a huge patch of weeds to grow between us, opening up cracks in the foundation of our marriage. Thorns, on the other hand... they're not easy. They hurt. They make you want to give up on the whole plant sometimes. But if you don't give up, love, if you fight through it, allow yourself to be hurt - the result is beautiful and strong. And it will last forever if you care for it.
Breeana Puttroff
Because I was human, and I would grow old and—I didn’t let myself get that far as he came closer still. Slowly, as if giving me time to pull away, he brushed his lips against my cheek. Soft and warm and heartbreakingly gentle. It was hardly more than a caress before he straightened. I hadn’t moved from the moment his mouth had met my skin.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
In a hole, in a hole.” Skodi piped, “. . . in the ground, in a hole, where the wet-nosed mole sings a song of cold stone, and of mud and gray bone, a quiet, small song all the chill, dark night long as he digs in the deep, where the white worms creep, and the dead all sleep, with their eyes full of earth where the beetles give birth, laying little white eggs, and their brittle black legs go scrape, scrape, scrape, and the dark, like a cape, covers all just the same, darkness hiding their shame as it covered their names, the names of the dead, all gone, all fled, empty winds, empty heads, Above grass grows on stone, fields lie fallow, unsown all is gone that they’ve known so they wail in the deep, crying out in their sleep, without eyes, still they weep, calling out for what’s lost, in the darkness they toss, under pitweed and moss in the deeps of the grave, neither master or slave, has now feature or fame, needs knowledge or name, but they long to come back, and they stare through the cracks at the dim sun above, and they curse cruel love, and the peace lost in life, think of worry and strife, ruined child or wife, all the troubles that burned, dreadful lessons unlearned, still they long to return, to return, to return, they long to return. Return! In a hole, in the ground, under old barrow-mound, where skin, bone, and blood turn to jelly-soft mud, and the rotting world sings . . .
Tad Williams (Stone of Farewell (Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn, #2))
As he turned around, he discovered Miss Tempest, her back to him, caught in a tangle of rose canes. A rose trapped by thorns. If the front of Miss Tempest was enticing, her backside was even more so. It showed a decidedly feminine figure, with curves and soft angles that could tease a man into believing the lady was just as pliable. And any man who thought that, Pierson reminded himself, would be a fool.
Elizabeth Boyle (The Viscount Who Lived Down the Lane (Rhymes With Love, #4))
church people had a strange way about them. They smiled too much, were quick to compliment and support, but behind the stretched lips and soft words was a judgment. No one was ever good enough—at least not until they were dead. The dead were exemplary. Saldur
Michael J. Sullivan (The Rose and the Thorn (The Riyria Chronicles, #2))