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Terry a O'Neal

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“She glanced down at the triangle of three dots tattooed on the fleshy web between her index finger and thumb. The day she got jumped into Ninth Street, Veto had tattooed the dots into her skin using ink and a pin. Later, he had tattooed the teardrop under her right eye when she got out of Youth Authority Camp. The second teardrop was for her second stay in Youth Authority. She would have gone back a third time for firing a gun, if a lenient judge hadn't sentenced her to do community service work instead. She had fired the gun in frustration when she couldn't stop her homegirls from doing a throw-down. The cops had caught her, but she wouldn't turn rata. She was willing to go back to camp to protect her homegirls. That was the code. But the judge had seen something different in her eyes this time and let her off with community service. Jimena had known about her destiny by then, and she had changed. It amazed her even now, if she thought about it. Who would have thought she was meant for something so important?”

Community ServiceTattoosBackstoryJimena Castillo
Book:Night Shade
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“If your audience has a negative story about you or your product or business, you’d better confront it. As famed author Salman Rushdie once said, “Those who do not have power over the story that dominates their lives, the power to retell it, rethink it, deconstruct it, joke about it, and change it as times change, truly are powerless, because they cannot think new thoughts.” Once you lose control of your own story, you’ll need double the muscle to get that power back.”

StoryBackstory
Book:Tell to Win: Connect, Persuade, and Triumph with the Hidden Power of Story
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“Chocolate chip cookies have always held a special place for me. But then again, what honorable American doesn't have a special softness for these classic baked goods that were the result of an accident? An accident! Imagine if Ruth Wakefield, owner of the Toll House Inn in Whitman, Massachusetts, circa 1930, had never knocked the Nestlé chocolate bar into her industrial mixer, as folklore has her doing? Would someone else eventually have had the brilliant idea of adding rich chocolate chunks to smooth and creamy dough? Or would the chocolate chip cookie never have existed? I shudder to think not.”

BackstoryChocolate Chip CookieAccidental Harmony
Book:Paris, My Sweet: A Year in the City of Light
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“Rhys smiled a bit, but the amusement died as he said, 'Tamlin was younger than me- born when the War started. But after the War, when he'd matured, we got to know each other at various court functions. He...' Rhys clenched his jaw. 'He seemed decent for a High Lord's son. Better than Beron's brood at the Autumn Court. Tamlin's brothers were equally as bad, though. Worse. And they knew Tamlin would take the title one day. And to a half-breed Illyrian who'd have to prove himself, defend his power, I saw what Tamlin went through... I befriended him. Sought him out whenever I was able to get away from the war camps or court. Maybe it was pity, but... I taught him some Illyrian techniques.' 'Did anyone know?' ... 'Cassian and Azriel knew,' Rhys went on. 'My family knew. And disapproved.' His eyes were chips of ice. 'But Tamlin's father was threatened by it. By me. And because he was weaker than both me and Tamlin, he wanted to prove to the world that he wasn't. My mother and sister were to travel to the Illyrian war-camp to see me. I was supposed to meet them halfway, but I was busy training a new unit and decided to stay.' My stomach turned over and over and over, and I wished I had something to lean against as Rhys said, 'Tamlin's father, brothers, and Tamlin himself set out into the Illyrian wilderness, having heard from Tamlin- from me- where my mother and sister would be, that I had plans to see them. I was supposed to be there. I wasn't. And they slaughtered my mother and sister anyway.' I began shaking my head, eyes burning. I didn't know what I was trying to deny, or erase, or condemn. 'It should have been me,' he said, and I understood- understood what he'd said that day I'd wept before Cassian in the training pit. 'They put their heads in boxes and sent them down the river- to the nearest camp. Tamlin's father kept their wings as trophies. I'm surprised you didn't see them pinned in the study.' I was going to vomit; I was going to fall to my knees and weep. ... Rhys merely continued. 'When I heard, when my father heard... I wasn't wholly truthful to you when I told you Under the Mountain that my father killed Tamlin's father and brothers, I went with him. Helped him. We winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court that night, then went the rest of the way on foot- tot he manor. I slew Tamlin's brothers on sight. I held their minds, and rendered them helpless while I cut them into pieces, then melted their brains inside their skulls. And when I got to the High Lord's bedroom- he was dead. And my father... my father had killed Tamlin's mother as well.' I couldn't stop shaking my head. 'My father had promised not to touch her. That we weren't the kind of males who would do that. But he lied to me, and he did it, anyway. And then he went for Tamlin's room.' I couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe as Rhys said, 'I tried to stop him. He didn't listen. He was going to kill him, too. And I couldn't... After all the death, I was done. I didn't care that Tamlin had been there, had allowed them to kill my mother and sister, that he'd come to kill me because he didn't want to risk standing against them. I was done with death. So I stopped my father before the door. He tried to go through me. Tamlin opened the door, saw us- smelled the blood already leaking into the hallway. And I didn't even get to say a word before Tamlin killed my father in one blow.' 'I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord- and then I ran.' He'd murdered Rhysand's family. The High Lord I'd loved- he'd murdered his friend's family, and when I'd asked how his family died, he'd merely told me a rival court had done it. Rhysand had done it, and- 'He didn't tell you any of that.”

MurderSarah J MaasFeyreFeyre ArcheronRhysandRhysA Court Of Mist And FuryTamlinRivalryBackstory
Book:A Court of Mist and Fury
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“What I inherited from my father is the need to drink. But not regular alcohol of course. I developed a taste for a very special wine called hatred." Jarley takes his glass of wine as he explains. "It's a bitter wine. So bitter in fact, that the uninitiated will spit it out or feel physically ill from drinking it. But some who partake in it will find little nuances to the flavor. The tangy aftertaste of indulging in violent fantasies against the object of your hatred." He shakes the glass as he speaks. "The warm buzzed feeling from acts of spite and violence towards what you hate." He savors the smell of the wine. "It keeps getting more noticeable the more you drink. You keep going and going, drinking and drinking, you pick apart all the layers of taste until you finally find it." He takes a sip. "There's a hint of sweetness in the wine. You've found a sort of warm joy and comfort in the compulsion to detest the object of your hatred. Once that happens, there's no going back. You'll be hooked on the drink for life.”

PhilosophyDramaticVillainOld WestBackstoryMonologue
Book:Reaper's Dice
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“Honestly, no wonder men and women have difficulty communicating. Just because a woman says something, it doesn’t mean she actually means it. If that were the case, when a man asks a woman what’s wrong and she says ‘nothing’, she would actually mean nothing, and not, in fact, that she is furious with him for a variety of reasons.”

LoveLifeFortySingleUnmarriedConfessionsAlexandra Potter
Book:Confessions of a Forty-Something F**k Up
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