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Lucy Gould Biography

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“A strangled, sobbing gasp choked Wendy as the world started to spin around her. She tried to breathe, to break through whatever hold this memory still had on her, but it was all she could do not to let herself go completely. Every piece of her was trapped in that day, silently screaming for her younger self not to abandon her mother in her last moments.”

“Dressing like that creates the wrong idea.” “Oh really?” Wendy narrowed her eyes; John was moving into dangerous territory. “I wasn’t aware that wearing the same shirt you’re wearing was revolutionary.” “It’s a man’s shirt, Wendy.” Wendy scoffed. “Surprisingly, I’m aware of that. This was all I could find, so unless you want me to go to dinner naked, I suggest you come to terms with my shirt.”

“The garden was always so beautiful this time of year. The flowers were beginning to bloom, and despite her minor allergy to pollen, the garden was Wendy’s favorite place to write. The grass was vivid green, the kind of color that Wendy had only seen described in books. The kind of green that made you take a step back and widen your eyes at its vibrance and boldness. The flowers were a symphony, each flower complimenting another, moving in perfect harmony.”

“I love you like the ocean loves the sand; I will always come back for you no matter what. I love you like the wind loves the trees; it might not seem like it, but I’m always there to support you. I love you like the moon loves the sun; I would die every day just to let you shine. I love you more than words can describe, and I always will.”

“Oh dear. Wendy regretted lighting the lamps the moment the room was cast in light. The man had fluffy chocolate-brown hair and honey-colored eyes. His face was boyish but rugged. He looked to be about the same age as John. Could it…no. It can’t really be him. He’s imaginary, Wendy. Pull yourself together. But even so, common sense could not leash her hope. “Peter Pan?” she whispered.”