#mel

Stigmata of Love A light which lives on what the flames devour, a grey landscape surrounding me with scorch, a crucifixion by a single wound, a sky and earth that darken by each hour, a sob of blood whose red ribbon adorns a lyre without a pulse, and oils the torch, a tide which stuns and strands me on the reef, a scorpion scrambling, stinging in my chest-- this is the wreath of love, this bed of thorns is where I dream of you stealing my rest, haunting these sunken ribs cargoed with grief. I sought the peak of prudence, but I found the hemlock-brimming valley of your heart, and my own thirst for bitter truth and art. ↗

— Federico García Lorca

#melancholy #pain #art

Underwater, bubbles erupted before my eyes as a swift hand snatched my arm and pulled me to the surface. I gasped for air, coughing and gagging at the amount of water I sucked into my lungs by pure shock. What was up with me and breathing in water? I needed to grow some gills or something. ↗

— Laura Kreitzer

#fiction #funny #gills #humor #kreitzer

It’s complicated,” I said in defense, hands going up to show surrender. “Talk slowly,” Jenna retorted derisively. “Okay, I deserved that,” I admitted. ↗

— Laura Kreitzer

#fantasy #fiction #funny #humor #jenna-moretti

It was six hours to Hosannah Beach and he didn't glance at the silver coin that Dad had given him, not even once. All the way he clutched it tight in the palm of his hand and fel the bevelled edge bite into his skin. [...] Waiting in the car while Yvonne unlocked the house, he brought his hand up to his face and opened it. His sweat had the bitter smell of hot metal, hot and bitter, this was what leaving home would always smell like. ↗

— Rupert Thomson

#smells #home

Waspish tongues often go with plain faces. ↗

— Margaret Pargeter

#plain #home

Sounds like you've got it all planned out." "Honey, I've got more plans than Wes has ugly shoes." "And that's a lot." I laugh. "It sure is," she says with a sigh. ↗

— Laurie Faria Stolarz

#humor #kimmie #humor

Oh, I almost forgot. In case that anyone besides big-headed Near or the deluded murderer is reading these notes, then I shall at least perform the basic courtesy of introducing myself, here at the end of the prologue, I am your narrator, your navigator, your storyteller. For anyone else but those two, my identity may be of no interest to you, but I am the world's runner-up, the best dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl. I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name, but that was a long time ago. Good memories and nightmares. ↗

— NisiOisiN

#death-note #mello #death

This morning, Tegus welcomed me again with an arm clasp and cheek touch. I wasn't startled this time, and I breathed in at his neck. How can I describe the scent of his skin? He smells something like cinnamon-- brown and dry and sweet and warm. Ancestors, is it wrong for me to imagine laying my head on his chest and closing my eyes and breathing in his smell? ↗

— Shannon Hale

#smell #imagination

Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Cato," he says. “Then you shoot me," I say furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!" And as I say it, I know death right here, right now would be the easier of the two. ↗

— Suzanne Collins

#peeta-mellark #the-hunger-games #death

I´ve read that it´s the smell some carnivores use to find their prey. Imagine the trembling victim trying to hide, but knowing that the smell of its own fear will kill it. ↗

— Jo Nesbø

#harry-hole #jo-nesbø #prey #smell #the-snowman