Why is it that no matter how much I read, I end up sounding like an international gutter punk? Lestat de Lioncourt, Blood Canticle (via miralain)

Augury (at childhood’s end)

Something covered his face, a flash of green, of something grotesque— something cartoon bright and monstrous, like a grinning snake or sharp-chinned goblin. The screen door's springs screeched, rusty. The hard slam sang out a full acre, calling rise to the cricket and frog songs from the marshland nearby. Fresh windrows were long, thin slashes between the house and … Continue reading Augury (at childhood’s end)