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GennaRose Nethercott Books

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Thistlefoot

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“It had been a good day. Most days were - if you set the intention for goodness. Fen held intention in high esteem. That was the role of the artist, after all: to see the world not only as it was, but as it could be. An empty stage . . . could become a forest inhabited by nine-headed birds and wise goats able to tell truth from lies. A canvas could become a lake, moony with magic toads, or a sky tangled with dragons. Surely, a day was the same. A blank page to fill with whatever made the imagination buzz. So yes, she _could_ have taken today as simply another long stretch of aching hours giving tours to sticky-fingered schoolchildren with short-tempered teachers. But what was the fun in that? No - today, she had led small, growing minds through a labyrinth of sounds and sights. She had planted tiny pipe organs in their chests that would oompah-pah in their dreams.”

ArtIntentional Living
Book:Thistlefoot
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“We refer to them only as "the War." This is because one experiencing war cannot fathom that anyone else in history has ever existed in such a heightened state as this. Though we know, through logic and reason and literary documentation, that we are not, in fact, singular--the heart disagrees. No war could be more sanguinary. More storied. Yes this is The War. The only war that ever has been or will be--because it is ours. In this way, war is like love.”

LoveWar
Book:Fifty Beasts to Break Your Heart: And Other Stories
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“If a story does its job, it doesn't ever end. Not really. But it can change. This is the nature of folktales. They shift to fit each teller. Take whatever form suits the bearer best. What begins as a story of sorrow can be acknowledged, held like a sweetheart to the chest, rocked and sung to. And then it can be set down to sleep. It can become an offering. A lantern. An ember to lead you through the dark.”

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Book:Thistlefoot
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“Truth traveled through her like a bullet. What kind of beast cultivates mobs out of common citizens, using fear as bait? In the real world, these weren’t the traits of monsters. They were the traits of men seeking power. Traits of war. . . .[the] weapon wasn’t a gun. . .it was a charming invitation, a toast to a better tomorrow. It was fear at your back. . .this dybbuk and his wraiths, he wasn’t a who, or an it - he’d told her this outright. He was a when. An event made manifest.”

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Book:Thistlefoot
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