and Enid Taylor!!!
Hopefully your signed samplers of Once Every Never should arrive in the next 3-4 weeks, thanks for entering!
No Hope for Gomez! is his fiction debut:
Boy meets girl.
Boy stalks girl.
Girl already has a stalker. Boy becomes her stalker-stalker.
Cassie: Magnus and ...? mid-book, about Will.
“He’s Nephilim,” said his companion. “And you’ve never cared for them. How much did he pay you?”
“Nothing,” said Magnus, and now he was not seeing anything that was there, not the river, not Will, only a wash of memories: eyes, faces, lips, receding into memory, love that he could no longer put a name to. “He did me a favor. One he doesn’t even remember.”
“He’s very pretty. For a human.”
“He’s very broken,” said Magnus. “Like a lovely vase that someone has smashed. Only luck and skill can put it back together the way it was before.”
“They’re not hideous,” said Tessa.
Will blinked at her. “What?”
“Gideon and Gabriel,” said Tessa. “They’re really quite good-looking, not hideous at all.”
“I spoke,” said Will, in sepulchral tones, “of the pitch-black inner depths of their souls.”
Tessa snorted. “And what color do you suppose the inner depths of your soul are, Will Herondale?”
“Mauve,” said Will.
Will and Jem, mid-book. Victorian bromance!
Will's voice dropped. “Everyone makes mistakes, Jem.”
“Yes,” said Jem. “You just make more of them than most people.”
“You hurt everyone,” said Jem. “Everyone whose life you touch.”
“Not you,” Will whispered. “I hurt everyone but you. I never meant to hurt you.”
Jem put his hands up, pressing his palms against his eyes. “Will —”
“You can’t never forgive me,” Will said in disbelief, hearing the panic tinging his own voice. “I’d be -”
“Alone?” Jem lowered his hand, but he was smiling now, crookedly. “And whose fault is that?”
|Cheddar tries out being a book|
|Thurman tosses Brokenhearted aside and heads straight for Hostage.|
A mysterious outbreak of typhoid fever is sweeping New York.
Rule #4: Carry a Picture of a Kitten in Your WalletSeeing as I do have four cats, and I tend to bring them up in conversation with alarming regularity, then it seemed unbelievably apropos.
You’re at a room party at a convention and find yourself in a totally indefensible position, surrounded by unyielding fantasy experts perseverating on Anne McCaffrey. They all want to know what you think of Rengades of Pern. You begin to sweat. Should you jump off the hotel balcony or punch one in the face and jet down the hall? Then you remember the picture of the kitten in your wallet. It’s a tabby covered in spaghetti. You whip it out and they all go “aww.” Every one of them has at least four cats at home. It’s going to be OK.