23
" I'd been making desicions for days.
I picked out the dress Bailey would wear forever-
a black slinky one- innapropriate- that she loved.
I chose a sweater to go over it, earrings, bracelet, necklace,
her most beloved strappy sandals.
I collected her makeup to give to the funeral director with a recent photo-
I thought it would be me that would dress her;
I didn't think a strange man should see her naked
touch her body
shave her legs
apply her lipstick
but that's what happened all the same.
I helped Gram pick out the casket,
the plot at the cemetery.
I changed a few lines
in the obituary that Big composed.
I wrote on a piece of paper what I thought
should go on the headstone.
I did all this without uttering a word.
Not one word, for days,
until I saw Bailey before the funeral
and lost my mind.
I hadn't realized that when people say so-and-so
snapped
that's what actually happens-
I started shaking her-
I thought I could wake her up
and get her the hell out of that box.
When she didn't wake,
I screamed: Talk to me.
Big swooped me up in his arms,
carried me out of the room, the church,
into the slamming rain,
and down to the creek
where we sobbed together
under the black coat he held over our heads
to protect us from the weather. "
― Jandy Nelson , The Sky Is Everywhere
25
" Walking into my room, I turned and caught his gaze, “But you’re good at walking away, so you obviously haven’t changed.” Pointing to my chin, I indicated, “Except this,” meaning his goatee, “this is new, but you being an asshole, yep- still there. Oh well.” I took a step back and flicked the door, slamming it. -Trice "
― M.R. Field , Fragments (Running On Empty, #1)
28
" ... We would be foolish to say of Miss Moss, for example, that the words female and store owner and tall and thirtyish and kindly an unmarried describe much of real substance about her, isn't that so? A great deal of who she really is are stories we do not know, stories she may or may not share, stories perhaps even she does not know the meaning and shape of quite yet. People are stories aren't they? And their stories keep changing and opening and closing and braiding and weaving and stitching and slamming to a halt and finding new doors and windows through which to tell themselves, isn't that so? Isn't that what happens to you all the time? It used to be when you were little that other people told you stories about yourself and where you came from, but then you begin to tell your own story, and you find that your story keeps changing in thrilling and painful ways and it's never in one place. Maybe each of us is a sort of village with lots of different beings living together under one head of hair, around the river of your pulse, the crossroads of who you were and who you wish to be. "
― Brian Doyle , Martin Marten
33
" And at night the river flows, it bears pale stars on the holy water, some sink like veils, some show like fish, the great moon that once was rose now high like a blazing milk flails its white reflection vertical and deep in the dark surgey mass wall river's grinding bed push. As in a sad dream, under the streetlamp, by pocky unpaved holes in dirt, the father James Cassidy comes home with lunchpail and lantern, limping, redfaced, and turns in for supper and sleep.
Now a door slams. The kids have rushed out for the last play, the mothers are planning and slamming in kitchens, you can hear it out in swish leaf orchards, on popcorn swings, in the million-foliaged sweet wafted night of sighs, songs, shushes. A thousand things up and down the street, deep, lovely, dangerous, aureating, breathing, throbbing like stars; a whistle, a faint yell; the flow of Lowell over rooftops beyond; the bark on the river, the wild goose of the night yakking, ducking in the sand and sparkle; the ululating lap and purl and lovely mystery on the shore, dark, always dark the river's cunning unseen lips, murmuring kisses, eating night, stealing sand, sneaky.
'Mag-gie!' the kids are calling under the railroad bridge where they've been swimming. The freight train still rumbles over a hundred cars long, the engine threw the flare on little white bathers, little Picasso horses of the night as dense and tragic in the gloom comes my soul looking for what was there that disappeared and left, lost, down a path--the gloom of love. Maggie, the girl I loved. "
― Jack Kerouac , Maggie Cassidy
36
" I understand Mrs. Donovan is a free woman, Mr. Dardano. It’s all for a good cause after all, isn’t it?”
“Fifty thousand dollars,” Alessandro countered, deadly calm though inside he was fairly trembling with rage.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Hadley countered, getting to his feet, appearing to enjoy the spectacle of all eyes being on the two of them now.
Alessandro stood, his fists clenched tight at his sides. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,”
Bree was staring at them both, her mouth open.
Kevin smiled at him. “Three hundred thousand dollars,”
“One million dollars,” Alessandro shot back, his eyes clouding with rage. So help him, if the son of a bitch opened his mouth, Alessandro was gonna shove his fist down his throat.
The entire ballroom was dead silent. Holding its breath.
“Uh…Going once?” Alex announced.
Kevin met Alessandro’s gaze, smirking.
“Going twice?”
Kevin lifted his hands in surrender. “The best man won. I hope you get more than a dance, my friend,”
“Sold,” Alex announced, slamming the little gavel down.
Alessandro felt a rush of both victory and relief as he stared at Brianna. He walked up to her and extended his hand. “Darling? "
― E. Jamie , The Vendetta (Blood Vows, #1)
37
" He took a step back and stared down at her, and she watched the cold mask slowly slip back over his face. “So…that’s it? You just decide I’m not good enough to be with and-“
“Oh, Alessandro no! You know that’s not-“
“Well, let me tell you something, if you think you’re going to keep me away from my baby-“
“No,” Bree promised. “You can see him anytime you want…at my apartment.”
He laughed bitterly and sniffled. “You know something ironic, Brianna? You’re probably the only woman who could have turned me into that man that you deem worthy of your love,” Alessandro walked towards the door and opened it.
“Daddy?” a small voice called out.
Both Alessandro and Bree turned to Will wearing identically stunned expressions.
“Can you stay wif me ‘till I go sleep ‘gain?”
Alessandro choked on a sob and left the room, slamming the door behind him. "
― E. Jamie , The Vendetta (Blood Vows, #1)
39
" She had opened the refrigerator door and was looking at her supply of frozen microwave dinners with an expression of distaste when the doorman buzzed. Deciding to forget about dinner, something she'd done too often lately, she depressed the switch. " Yes, Dennis?" " Mr. Payne and Mr. McCoy are here to see you, Ms. Granger," Dennis said smoothly. " From the FBI." " What?" Jay asked, startled, sure she'd misunderstood. Dennis repeated the message, but the words remained the same. She was totally dumbfounded. " Send them up," she said, because she didn't know what else to do. FBI? What on earth? Unless slamming your apartment door was somehow against federal law, the worst she could be accused of was tearing the tags off her mattress and pillows. Well, why not? This was a perfectly rotten end to a perfectly rotten day. "