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Molly Collier Books

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The Paragon

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“But she knew herself. Her body longed to feel pain, to exact it, but her mind feared it too much to allow herself the freedom to. Besides, her knuckles were already blistering from the beating they’d been taking for the better part of an hour. Without the gloves she’d have shattered a hand by now. Wouldn’t that be just like her. To fear pain so and yet stumble into it at every opportunity.”

“She’d have liked to say that she hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, but that wouldn’t have been quite truthful. She’d wanted to hurt everyone, to make them feel what she felt, or even just not to be alone in it. In the wake of her loss, she’d longed to throw away everything she’d worked for, just to undo the agonizing truth that she could not accept.”

“Gold had many admirers, though Doha himself was not one of them. Too many allowed it to occupy the space inside their chests. He didn’t understand it. For a metal, it was pretty weak and unimpressive. And as currency, he’d only ever longed for enough. His father had worked his body broken so that they might have it. Doha did not think excess was worth his father’s misery. Still, as he beheld how the light reflected on the surface, he simply couldn’t help but be taken with its simple beauty.”

“Though something within him raged at the need to drag his feet and slow down the progression of his discovery to accommodate her young mind, he endured so that she might be included. He consulted her on every decision, talked over the reasoning behind each choice he’d already made, and bounced ideas off her, often finding real value in her input.”

“A brilliant sunset of pink and orange painted the sky to his right as they escaped from the castle grounds. He noticed the absence of the deep red of blood in the lovely sky’s scenery. His familiarity with the color was unnatural. It was found nowhere else in nature, almost as if it had never been meant for humans to see. To his left, the impending dusk loomed, and Satya found comfort in its familiar embrace.”

“The pain of having his fingers relocated had been sudden, but not altogether unwelcome. It was as if his body knew that something was being righted. The pain of being put back together was not so bad as the pain of being taken apart. At least, that was the logic he clung to as each resounding pop reverberated in his ears and threatened to turn his stomach.”

“It was thought that decisions were made by the logic-front of the brain, while emotions were controlled by the feeling-back of the brain, the part deeper and closer to the heart. In their culture, it was the responsibility of the party still thinking with the logic brain to rebuke those overtaken by emotion, who intended to start silly arguments or cause harm to others. The logical person would bring shame and reason to their friend by striking the front of the head, and thus increasing blood flow to the area. The science of the practice was murky, but at its core, it was customary practice to smack someone who seemed in need of a good smack.”

“Seven days and seven nights; Isendjan! Isendjan! Seven ways to make it right; Isendjan! Isendjan! Pray and Pilgrimage and Rest, all of these a small request. Keep your shoes beneath your bed. Rejoice! But do not cover your head, Else will Babaroga hap To snatch your boots and bald your cap! Beware, beware, the Witch of Old. Forget not what has been foretold of Isendjan! Isendjan! Seven nights and seven days of Isendjan! Isendjan! The Mirror, the Hag, away aways!”

“Deep in the desert, o’er painted rock hill, Once was an ocean aplenty until The Devourer emerged, the water was scourged. What should never have emptied nevermore would fill. Deep in the desert, ‘neath painted rock hill, The thwarted one waits for the levee to fill. The witch drank it dries, the crow stole her eyes, so she usurped its body and took to the skies. Deep in the desert o’er painted rock hill, The crow hag thirsts when the stormclouds refill. The crow drinks them dry, the hag tarries by, but not a drop descends from the grey desert sky. Deep in the desert ‘neath painted rock hill, The crow plots its descent into the anthill. The ants–unawares–have forgotten their prayers. The Devourer remembers and hungers still.”