Could You Repeat That? 152
Ancillary Mercy, Ann Leckie
Kalr Eight was with Translator Zeiat at a manufactory down by the water, watching a slithering, silver mass of dead fish tumble into a wide, deep vat, while a visibly terrified worker explained how fish sauce was made. "So, why do the fish do this?" asked Translator Zeiat, when the worker stopped for breath.
"They...they don't have much choice in the matter, Translator."
Translator Zeiat thought about that a moment, and then asked, "Do you think fish sauce would be good in tea?"
Dreaming Spies, Laurie R King
The countess looked expensive, but the money had been well spent. My estimation of the earl went up a notch: this was not the wife a complete fool would choose.
A Rising Thunder, David Weber
"It's nothing personal," Rabenstrange told her with a reassuring smile, "but no one can be accomplished at everything. It's just that you've been too busy learning how to blow up starships and things like that to master the difficult arts of duplicity and chicanery as well." He reached out to pat her on the arm. "Don't take it too hard."
Every Heart a Doorway, Seanan McGuire
Her parents loved her, there was no question of that, but their love was the sort that filled her suitcase with colors and kept trying to set her up on dates with local boys. Their love wanted to fix her, and refused to see that she wasn't broken.
Work & Days (poetry), Tess Taylor
I stood there, the whole day wrapped around me.
I stood there, crying, smelling vine.
The Do-Over (poetry), Kathleen Ossip
I would lie down on my side and die and green vines and leaves would sprout from every part of me, toes calf knee thigh hipbones crotch navel breasts fingers elbows shoulders neck lips nostrils eye sockets ears and brain. The vines and leaves would grow quickly and abundantly.
Jerusalem: A Cookbook, Yotam Ottolenghi & Sami Tamimi
In fact, Jerusalem is our home almost against our wills. It is our home because it defines us, whether we like it or not.
The Blue Hour (poetry), Jennifer Whitaker
Delicately,
like a slowly flooding room, it will dawn
on them: no one ever survives you.
The Nature of the Beast, Louise Penny
Fraser stared at Gamache, the words sliding off her expressionless face to drop into silence. It took effort for an intelligent person to look that vacant, and Gamache suspected she was working very, very hard at that moment.
An Ecology of Elsewhere (poetry), Sandra Meek
What survives is made visible
most for what scars it
Blues Triumphant (poetry), Jonterri Gadson
I still want to be held. Hold me
like sound--in your throat,
with your breath, on your tongue.
I'll be a river on purpose.
V is for Vengeance, Sue Grafton
Grief is as contagious as a yawn.
That Winter the Wolf Came (poetry), Juliana Spahr
The song reflects and refracts the oil in ways both
relevant and trivial in how it tells about what happens when one lets
love go, when one gives up the tongue. It might be that only through
the minor we can feel enormity.
Our Lady of the Crossword (poetry), Rigoberto Gonzalez
No matter what direction I take, I walk toward the sound of your voice.
Rise, Mira Grant
"Do you have Kevlar that we can borrow, or were you just planning to let us flush out the zombies with our soft, delicious bodies?"
After Birth, Elisa Albert
It's always that way with periods of crisis: people you expect and want to be there for you are incapable and/or unwilling, and others you never imagined would be there for you show up with exactly what you need, exactly how you need it. And there is almost no way, alas, no way at all, to predict which people will be which.
The Murder of Mary Russell, Laurie R King
"Her name isn't Clarissa," I said automatically.
"It was."
I looked at his face, his stance, searching for delusion.
All I saw there was the truth.
The Girl with All the Gifts, MR Carey
And maybe asking the question will change what happens. Maybe if they all pretend not to notice, Liam and Marcia will be wheeled in one day and it will be like they never went away. But if anyone asks, "Where did they go to?" then they'll really be gone and she'll never see them again.
Kalr Eight was with Translator Zeiat at a manufactory down by the water, watching a slithering, silver mass of dead fish tumble into a wide, deep vat, while a visibly terrified worker explained how fish sauce was made. "So, why do the fish do this?" asked Translator Zeiat, when the worker stopped for breath.
"They...they don't have much choice in the matter, Translator."
Translator Zeiat thought about that a moment, and then asked, "Do you think fish sauce would be good in tea?"
Dreaming Spies, Laurie R King
The countess looked expensive, but the money had been well spent. My estimation of the earl went up a notch: this was not the wife a complete fool would choose.
A Rising Thunder, David Weber
"It's nothing personal," Rabenstrange told her with a reassuring smile, "but no one can be accomplished at everything. It's just that you've been too busy learning how to blow up starships and things like that to master the difficult arts of duplicity and chicanery as well." He reached out to pat her on the arm. "Don't take it too hard."
Every Heart a Doorway, Seanan McGuire
Her parents loved her, there was no question of that, but their love was the sort that filled her suitcase with colors and kept trying to set her up on dates with local boys. Their love wanted to fix her, and refused to see that she wasn't broken.
Work & Days (poetry), Tess Taylor
I stood there, the whole day wrapped around me.
I stood there, crying, smelling vine.
The Do-Over (poetry), Kathleen Ossip
I would lie down on my side and die and green vines and leaves would sprout from every part of me, toes calf knee thigh hipbones crotch navel breasts fingers elbows shoulders neck lips nostrils eye sockets ears and brain. The vines and leaves would grow quickly and abundantly.
Jerusalem: A Cookbook, Yotam Ottolenghi & Sami Tamimi
In fact, Jerusalem is our home almost against our wills. It is our home because it defines us, whether we like it or not.
The Blue Hour (poetry), Jennifer Whitaker
Delicately,
like a slowly flooding room, it will dawn
on them: no one ever survives you.
The Nature of the Beast, Louise Penny
Fraser stared at Gamache, the words sliding off her expressionless face to drop into silence. It took effort for an intelligent person to look that vacant, and Gamache suspected she was working very, very hard at that moment.
An Ecology of Elsewhere (poetry), Sandra Meek
What survives is made visible
most for what scars it
Blues Triumphant (poetry), Jonterri Gadson
I still want to be held. Hold me
like sound--in your throat,
with your breath, on your tongue.
I'll be a river on purpose.
V is for Vengeance, Sue Grafton
Grief is as contagious as a yawn.
That Winter the Wolf Came (poetry), Juliana Spahr
The song reflects and refracts the oil in ways both
relevant and trivial in how it tells about what happens when one lets
love go, when one gives up the tongue. It might be that only through
the minor we can feel enormity.
Our Lady of the Crossword (poetry), Rigoberto Gonzalez
No matter what direction I take, I walk toward the sound of your voice.
Rise, Mira Grant
"Do you have Kevlar that we can borrow, or were you just planning to let us flush out the zombies with our soft, delicious bodies?"
After Birth, Elisa Albert
It's always that way with periods of crisis: people you expect and want to be there for you are incapable and/or unwilling, and others you never imagined would be there for you show up with exactly what you need, exactly how you need it. And there is almost no way, alas, no way at all, to predict which people will be which.
The Murder of Mary Russell, Laurie R King
"Her name isn't Clarissa," I said automatically.
"It was."
I looked at his face, his stance, searching for delusion.
All I saw there was the truth.
The Girl with All the Gifts, MR Carey
And maybe asking the question will change what happens. Maybe if they all pretend not to notice, Liam and Marcia will be wheeled in one day and it will be like they never went away. But if anyone asks, "Where did they go to?" then they'll really be gone and she'll never see them again.