nebroadwe has a doctorate in English literature and works in a library, which explains a lot.
Rubbing at a fading reminder of one such lesson on his left biceps, he hopes she appreciates what a formidable champion she’s gained.
She hadn't come to confront the sameness of him, but the difference — the nonconformity anyone could mark and everyone did...
She hasn't learned not to weep — only to weep without tears.
The lilacs would wither all too soon, but until then she intended to indulge herself, carrying the scent of home with her wherever she went.
Death overtook Hohenheim unexpectedly on the road to knowledge.
The question "Why learn?" always stops him; he cannot imagine not wanting to learn.
A false peace, rotten at the roots: he would dream for the rest of his life of the brother he could not touch and think those dreams his due.
She'd barely managed not to wail But it's Yoletide! and prove herself both spoiled brat and country bumpkin.
Words entrance her: the workaday prose of school texts as much as the skylark flights of lyric or the measured music of story.
But last night I dreamed of Teacher, standing in a brightness like sunlit mist, holding out her arms to me, smiling gently.
When dealing with the military, it always paid to look ready for inspection. Neatness counted; passion was suspect.
Surrounded by foes, he passed through them unseen, unheard, unmarked — one more gray ghost among the damned.
They wouldn't be leaving until well after sunset, trusting Al to guide them through the dense thicket of sassafras and witch hazel to the road.
There's nothing wrong with his legs, at least — a sidestep to the right and two paces back and he'd be out the door, if it weren't shut.
Water fills her ears without stopping them, just as grief does her mind, and she drums her fingers on the wooden slats in time to the litany of her failure.
She laughs readily, but no one else, he's sure, has ever seen the double-takes with which she greets his successful deadpan strikes.
Ed's arms swept out, taking in the street and the buildings, the grass and the trees and the sky -- "the world and our own minds to understand it! That's all!" Isn't that enough?
The cheap ink has blurred and run, but Ed's memorized the gist: Riesenbul needs help; come sort things out.