(no subject)
He could rememeber the smell of peat; his mother humming happier than she'd ever been; dragonflies from the bog; a bouquet of flowers crumpled in the bin; Nihongo inscriptions; water dripping from cut stalks; ink running illegible.
'Yes!' hissed Denver, her wild grin packed with teeth. 'I knew it would work!'
He gawped at her. 'What?'
'Because you were ignoring what was in the back of your head. And this is how I spend time in the back of my head, by doing things like this.'
He looked at her in admiration: 'How did you get to be so brave, Den?'
She shrugged. 'Shit happens, Dad says.' She stood up and adjusted a bauble on the tree. 'I don't think there is being brave, anyway. I used to not tread in puddles in case I fell in them and died like Mummy did. But then in the autumn when it flooded I got stuck and had to splash through one. It didn't feel safer or worser. I just had to splash through it or wait until the sun came up and it all dried out.'
- The Girl With Glass Feet, Ali Shaw