novel

He shook his head and thought about it for a second. __aybe I'm not straight? Can I still be straight when I'm sitting here looking into your eyes?_ he asked. Maybe it was the alcohol talking or maybe he wasn't as straight as he thought he was.__es. Absolutely._ Cormag nodded and watched him closely.__ven when I think they're so pretty? They are, you know. So many different shades of brown_and a little green. Just a touch; not a lot. So pretty._ He sighed happily, watching those dark eyes staring back at him in surprise. He lay his head on his arms, smiling at the way Cormag flushed in embarrassment and turned his full attention onto his bottle of beer.__ow, you are super drunk.

I'm Tiny And My Reach Is Limited. I Can Give YOU Only What I Have And Surely When I Give, I Don't Keep Anything For Me. To YOU, It's Nothing Probably As YOU've Got Everything. My Everything Would Be Unnoticed. It Seems Like "A Rain Drop To The Ocean".... (From The Romantic Story "Reflection of The Rainbow")....

Lachlan frowned as he misjudged the distance and his forehead hit Cormag's head with a bump. He wrapped his arms around his neck to steady himself, two big hands reaching up to hold onto his arms as if to offer extra support. __ou,_ he began, talking quietly into his ear, __re so beautiful,_ he confessed, resting his heavy skull against Cormag's for a moment.He meant it as well. Cormag was stunning. He was taller and broader than he was, very much the fine figure of hotness. His dark hair was well kept, but a little messy, he had amazing bone structure; the type that made him look more like a model than a museum manager. A chiselled jaw, nicely defined cheekbones and a rugged quality thatmade him so appealing. He had never noticed how handsome a male face could be until those eyes drew him in.__nd so are you,_ his companion chuckled, __ut we discussed this_I've ruined every relationship I've ever had. I get needy, possessive and my baggage gets in the way.Besides,_ he lowered his voice to a whisper and brushed his hand over his upper arm, __ou're not gay,_ he protested, reminding him yet again that they were different.__ope. Not gay,_ he agreed with that, nodding his head as he pulled back a little to see him better. __ut that doesn't make you any less beautiful. Why is it wrong that I can see how special you are?_ he asked, having difficulty understanding why part of his brainwas telling him he was being a drunken idiot and that the man before him wasn'tattractive. But the rest of his brain _ about ninety-eight percent of it _ was telling him that he was the most attractive person he'd ever seen.__t's not, Lachlan. It really isn't.___ut it's somehow wrong for me to tell you?_ Lachlan wondered, glancing across the bar to see Matteo smiling at him. He didn't know what it meant.Cormag cupped his face, capturing his undivided attention again. __o. Not thateither. But it makes it hard for me to keep my distance. You're stunning. Inside and out,_ he claimed, with chocolatey eyes that said he meant every word.

Cormag caught his hand and pulled him back until they were facing each other. __ think you're amazing,_ he said, blurting the words out.Lachlan smiled, completely shocked and thrilled by how captivating he found him.He had never thought this could happen to him, that he would be attracted to another boy.He thought he knew himself so well.__ think you're smart, sexy, funny as hell. You have hidden depths, Lachlan. You only need the right person to coax you out of your protective shell,_ he claimed.__re you the right person?_ Lachlan wondered, as he took a half step forward.Cormag took a deep breath and brushed at a strand of hair that was sticking out at a funny angle from behind the top of his ear. He tugged at his short hair every time he talked about his recent break up. He was such a dork.

It used to be that a novel would put you among people, tell you a story or stories, give you some sense of what it might be like to see a different cut-out and perspective of the world: as a schoolteacher, an adulteress, the wife of a member of Parliament, an officer, a cockroach.

Houses are like books: so many of them around you, yet you only look at a few and visit or reside in fewer still.

In order that life should be a story or romance to us, it is necessary that a great part of it, at any rate, should be settled for us without our permission. If we wish life to be a system, this may be a nuiseance; but if we wish it to be a drama, it is an essential. It may often happen, no doubt, that a drama may be written by somebody else which we like very little. But we should like it still less if the author came before the curtain every hour or so, and forced on us the whole trouble of inventing the next act. A man has control over many things in his life; he has control over enough things to be the hero of a novel. But if he had control over everything, there would be so much hero that there would be no novel.

We__e novel worthy, day walking, blood sucking, tortured souls trapped in a body that can__ die for all eternity with no feelings, no emotions and no heart. - Elaine White, Runaway Girl

Death doesn__ always want your eternal sleep. Sometimes Death just wants your eternity.

I can taste fear, and lies, on a man's skin, Cavrax." The Master Priest whispered, watching the large pulse on the cleric's neck beat like a caged thing begging for release. "You're lying to me.

Traveled so far, and not yet have they come across anything of interest, he mused, except, of course, for that nest of goblins I managed to stir up. Indeed, his brother had always been a valiant fool; why not give him some excitement?He always did possess a love for a good fight, and who am I to deny him?The glass sphere, responding to his thoughts, zoomed in on the mountain nearby where Shrukian camped, and by putting both his hands on the sphere's sides and closing his eyes, Pharun could all but smell the power that radiated from its depths. He could taste it on the back of his tongue, and it awake all sorts of things inside of him. The power tasted of death and ash, and it was scalding hot, pouring down his throat like blood of the freshly dead. He did not need further searching to know what kind of power he was sampling.He smiled to himself, and it came out a satisfied smirk.

You__e lied to me. You__e hid things from me. How dare you talk to me like we__e still friends, like we ever mattered to you at all?--Sydney Field

The Loon CharmTo A Life Filled with A Love Whose Voice Always Calls You Home

It's strange but as I grow older, I find myself developing more optimism. I keep inching toward the point where I believe that it's more difficult to have hope than it is to embrace cynicism. In the deep dark end, there's no point unless we have at least a modicum of hope. We trawl our way through the darkness hoping to find a pinpoint of light. But isn't it remarkable that the cynics of this world__he politicians, the corporations, the squinty-eyed critics__eem to think that they have a claim on intelligence? They seem to think that it's cooler, more intellectually engaging, to be miserable, that there's some sort of moral heft in cynicism. But I think a good novel can be a doorstop to despair. I also think the real bravery comes with those who are prepared to go through that door and look at the world in all its grime and torment, and still find something of value, no matter how small.

Those who perpetrate stories must act cruelly.

Vane grabbed me. __uLac, let__ chat._ British-speak for __tand still while I yell at you.

WEST SALEM ~ October 2011A sudden vision, fraught with malevolence and darkness, obscured her sight. The face of a menacing figure turned from the shadows of his grisly handiwork and stared at Sorcha.Her muscles tensed. By the Goddess, could he see her?Please! No!She wanted to scream, to run, but the vision ensnared her into the horrific moment like a fly in a spider's web.

Monk worked on his remaining Intertect cases at his dining table while I tried to hone my detecting instincts by reading the Murder, She Wrote novel he bought in Mill Valley.I can't say that I learned much about investigative procedure but I discovered that you should stay far away from Cabot Cove. That tiny New England village is deadlier than Beirut, South Central Los Angeles, and the darkest back alley in Juarez combined. Even though every killer eventually gets caught by Jessica Fletcher, I still wouldn't feel safe there. I'm surprised the old biddy walks around town unarmed.