Jan. 15th, 2017

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listen, there is absolutely nothing that gets me going like mutual seemingly unrequited pining like? i live for both people losing their minds over the other person in bitter silence. savoring every single accidental brush of their fingers, elbows, thighs, every stray glance, memorizing every gesture or expression they catch while the other isn’t looking, all while being absolutely convinced that it’s one-sided only to finally!! finally find out it wasn’t in a triumphant moment of bliss after years and years of delicious, soul-rending, torturous, heart-wrenching pining. i literally don’t care about the fact that this trope is predictable af and always plays out the same way i will still go wild over it every single time like they’ll be doing the same reveal scene i have seen a million times and i’m still on the edge of my seat gasping “are they gonna kiss???”
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Our current game is “Snake Detective” and I love that job title so much I’m going to put it on my resume.
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The Harbors of the Sun is the last novel in the Books of the Raksura series, and is coming out on July 4, 2017. Cover art is by Yukari Masuike. It’s up for preorder in hardcover and ebook: http://ift.tt/2jlrWjqExcerpt
Sleeping in swamps was always difficult. The brackish mud was too cool against Moon’s scales to be comfortable, and every time he managed to doze off, something crawled over him. The clouds of insects sheltering in the tall grass weren’t much interested in Raksura, but the ugly little things that looked like fish with legs had sharp teeth and were annoyingly persistent. Moon had always found sleeping in his scaled form awkward and not restful, but the distractions made it nearly impossible.
Fortunately for his temper, the sky was finally darkening toward evening. Moon shoved himself up out of the mud and slid through the sharp grass blades and over to a much larger puddle. He found a knot of driftwood near the edge and chunked it in. “Stone, wake up.”
Bubbles broke the muddy surface, then a big dark scaled tail whipped up and took a swing at Moon. He dodged and went to find a less muddy place to clean off in.
He waded through the waist-deep grass out to one of the pools where the sea entered the wetlands. Sitting on his heels in the cool saltwater, he scrubbed the sticky mud off his scales with handfuls of sand. The empty sea stretched out, the evening sky was indigo and purple, and the quarter moon gleamed on the water. The breeze held saltwater and the intense green scent of the wetland grasses, leavened with various flowers and laced with bird scat and dead fish. All the groundling shipping that he had spotted throughout the afternoon, both surface sailing ships and flying boats, had already made port.
Moon glanced around again out of habit, even though nothing could see him except for a few tall spindly shore birds striding away through the shallows. Then he shifted.
His wings, tail, spines, and black scales flowed away into his soft-skinned form. Anyone watching would now see a tall lean groundling, with dark bronze skin and dark hair. He was dressed in light pants cut off at the knee and a loose brown shirt, the kind of clothes some groundlings wore for sailing or other work. It wouldn’t draw attention in most of the groundling ports Moon had visited, but this wasn’t exactly a groundling port. He felt the wind lift his hair and scratched at the back of his neck where he hadn’t managed to get all the mud out of his spines.
With no warning, Stone stepped out of the grass. Moon twitched in spite of himself. Stone was in his groundling form now too, with gray skin and hair, in battered clothes much like Moon’s, and a pack slung across his shoulder. He was somehow already dry and mostly clean, despite having been buried in a mud wallow for most of the afternoon. Clearly not in any better a mood than Moon was, he said, “What’s taking you so long?”
“I’m waiting for you.” Moon hissed at him and followed him back through the grass.
Keep reading
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“I always assume that a good book is more intelligent than its author. It can say things that the writer is not aware of.”
- Interview with Umberto Eco (The Art of Fiction, No. 197). (via the-library-and-step-on-it)
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100 years old, a US Army-issue Colt .45 revolver gifted (legally, with permit arrangements) to my dad by a collector who saw him at a Veterans Day presentation in his WWI uniform. Very cool piece in excellent condition and not as scary to shoot as I’d expected.
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We used up this bottle of tequila from our parents’ cupboard for today’s family festivities, and it’s possible Mom brought it with her to the marriage, which would make the bottle 40 years old. Note, however, the crow– which, duh, that’s what cuervo means– which the current branding for this stuff doesn’t acknowledge at all. How funny!
(The margaritas were fine.)



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