“In writing, you must kill all your darlings.”
William Faulkner

“. . .  his sockless feet shoved hurriedly into shoes whose untied laces trailed off downstream like weeds in the current of his footsteps.”

“For a moment, all the other times he’d stood just here atop this hill shifted into alignment and memories played out across the land before him like the shadows of aimless clouds drifting with the wind.”

-The Making of the Sword

“The melody of the song had a slow and pendulous rhythm, and the words had an ancient power that drew out one’s consciousness, spun it into a pale gossamer thread and wound it slowly, irresistibly onto the whorl of sleep.”

– Gwythsian’s First Death

“She dreamed of swimming beside her mother, surfing the Nahvalr’s bow waves, her front flippers stroking like wings through the lead blue water that slipped between the speckled dark of her fur and the sleek dark of the long ship’s hull, of darting aside now and again to suck in a breath, swoop down through a rising shoal of cod or sprat, snatch one away and crunch it between her jaws, the slick oily taste of it sharp and cold on her tongue.  And as she dreamed, the van flew silently on through the dark, snow-swirling air.”

– Stopping for Supper on a Snowy Evening

“When Uryal opens the door, the cottage exhales the smell of cooking sausages.”

“The air in the room is a long-simmered broth of frankincense, wool, hot metal, and beeswax, ladled out into a stone bowl and left to sit until it is cold. ”

-Zorya Polunoka