family-saga

I don__ know. She didn__ exactly say she didn__ want me. Shit. You__e making me sound like an ass._ __ww. You__e not an ass. You__e just a confused man. That__ why God gave you a sister.

The magic of a jewel and the mystery of a book never end!

It seemed to me that Mr. Forrester would approve of a woman who could follow him in conversation and not be baffled by ledgers and currency conversions. I had grossly overestimated him.

Oil and Water, Daddy calls us. At four years younger than me, Katie is only fourteen and she already has half the boys in town eating from her pretty little hand. She tells me I am too tall and too wicked looking to capture the heart of any sensible young man.

Are you all right,_ he whispered, his lips brushing the tips of my spiky hair. Granted, I knew he was only being discreet so as to save poor Hillary from being reamed again, but my knees didn__ know the difference. They betrayed me, buckling under his hot breath on my ear and the deep whisper that tickled my senses.

We ran on the fuel of youth and hormones and ignorant arrogance, imagining we had the whole world and the workings thereof figured out.

Live today. You never know when tomorrow will be a day too late.

Tragic tales rarely do make sense.

What would you like for your own life, Kate, if you could choose?___nything?___f course anything.___hat__ really easy, Aunty Ivy.___o on then.___ straw hat...with a bright scarlet ribbon tied around the top and a bow at the back. A tea-dress like girls used to wear, with big red poppies all over the fabric. A pair of flat, white pumps, comfortable but really pretty. A bicycle with a basket on the front. In the basket is a loaf of fresh bread, cheese, fruit oh...and a bottle of sparkly wine, you know, like posh people drink. ____ cycling down a lane. There are no lorries or cars or bicycles. No people _ just me. The sun is shining through the trees, making patterns on the ground. At the end of the lane is a gate, sort of hidden between the bushes and trees. I stop at the gate, get off the bike and wheel it into the garden.__n the garden there are flowers of all kinds, especially roses. They__e my favourite. I walk down the little path to a cottage. It__ not big, just big enough. The front door needs painting and has a little stained glass window at the top. I take the food out of the basket and go through the door. __nside, everything is clean, pretty and bright. There are vases of flowers on every surface and it smells sweet, like lemon cake. At the end of the room are French windows. They need painting too, but it doesn__ matter. I go through the French windows into a beautiful garden. Even more flowers there...and a veranda. On the veranda is an old rocking chair with patchwork cushions and next to it a little table that has an oriental tablecloth with gold tassels. I put the food on the table and pour the wine into a glass. I__ sit in the rocking chair and close my eyes and think to myself... this is my place.__rom A DISH OF STONES

Breathe, Emma. Now is not the time to swoon.

He was not a likeable figure but then when you are a part of a family, you cannot wish to see someone wither away even when you dislike him. He is a part of your blood, he and all his idiosyncrasies. There is always a tinge of warmth in the corner of your heart, reminiscent of the good times spent together. Then there are always those moments, when you wonder why everything turned out so different. When you wonder what possibly could hold people together, if not the fact that they come from the same blood? Or are we just not born to be that way? Craving to be something that we cannot be, each with our own false ceilings to hide our true selves?

Next to God, Family is the best thing.

Life is never just in your own hands ...

Simple survival is never as ordinary as it seems!

Tethered to the universe by tendrils of history, with threads of continuity descending to God knows where, I see that I'm more than the dust I'll become." This quote is from my novel, "Whispers from St. Mary's Well." Many readers have said that, like the fictional narrator of the story, Carrie Rose Stillwell, they felt a deep connection to the universe through past, present, and future experiences, after reading the story of a child who communicates with future generations.

God not da faddah, he just the spoiled moody child, but you got to go t'rough him to get to da real power, his mama, Mot'er God. She da real Almighty! She run da heavens alone. Original single parent. When somethin' bad happen, usually mean she let God try his hand, and he screw up plenny. You need something important, you go directly Mot'er God. Jesus, Mary, Joseph? Dey just small potatoes, part of the chorus, neh?

Sometimes opposites attract, or so they say, but Paloma and Rocío were like arroz and mangú: they didn__ really mix well.

What a happy woman I am, living in a garden, with books, babies, birds and flowers, and plenty of leisure to enjoy them. Sometimes I feel as if I were blest above all my fellows in being able to find happiness so ea