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Quote by J.M. Darhower

“He bowed jokingly, and everyone laughed as Mrs.Anderson shook her head. "Did you even read the material?" "of course I did." "Who was the leader of the North?" "Lincoln." "No, he was the president." "Yes, which means he was the fucking leader of everyone." -- Carmine”

Quote by J.M. Darhower

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J.M. Darhower

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“I’m surprised she hasn’t started cursing yet from hearing me.” “Oh, but she has,” Vincent said. “I overheard her.” Carmine turned to Haven. “What did you say?” She didn’t respond, and he sighed. “Come on, you can say it. Was it fuck? Because I say fuck a lot. Motherfucker? Shit? Asshole?” “I think that’s plenty,” Vincent said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The word doesn’t matter, but if you insist on knowing, she said ‘damn’.” "Oh, just damn? Not even goddamn?”

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“Before visiting Staten Island, I'd never met a day laborer. To me, a city girl who knew undocumented men mostly as restaurant workers, day laborers seemed like an almost mythical archetype, groups of brown men huddled at the crack of dawn on street corners next to truck rental lots and hardware superstores and lumberyards. Historically, legislators and immigration advocates have parted the sea of the undocumented with a splintered staff—working brown men and women on one side and academically achieving young brown people on the other, one a parasitic blight, the other heroic dreamers.”

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“Autumn Dancer flutters among the flowers, chasing the last rays of sunlight until her haven is swallowed up by the night. Her sisters are asleep now, hidden under the fronds, but she doesn't care. She dances alone in the twilight, embracing the warmth of the golden hour, her wings sweeping past silky petals of the late summer blooms. In the safe cocoon of her garden, she dares believe that no harm will ever enter the gates. This is her world of beauty and peace, of sweet nectar and life, completely unspoiled by the footsteps of danger or the silent mockery of time.”

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Book:Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor
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“The hill between the manor and forest displayed layers of Lady Croft's prized gardens. Paved pathways wove through a formal Italian garden, rose garden, water garden, lily pond, and a tulip garden built around Roman ruins. Maggie stood beside a statue of the goddess Hemera and a row of yew bushes that had been neatly pruned into a wall to form the perimeter of the Croft family maze. Walter sat nearby on a picnic blanket as she scanned the hillside above the maze to see if she could find Libby's copper-streaked hair among the immaculate gardens and all the people dressed in their finest for this entree into Ladenbrooke's gardens. The Croft family opened the front gate to the public once each summer. Hundreds of people from around the Cotswolds came to peruse Lady Croft's magnificent displays- the golden heather, purple dahlias, peach lilies floating on the pond.”

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“Soft moonlight enveloped her path, guiding her toward the gate like creamy white petals leading a bride to the altar. Walter didn't understand- she needed to be in these gardens. The beauty breathed life into her. Filled her very soul. She pushed down the latch, testing it slowly to see if it was locked on the opposite side. Her heart leapt when it opened. The lady left her gardens every autumn now when the flowers began to die, and Mummy didn't seem to care if she visited the gardens when the lady was gone. But in the summer, when the flowers were blooming, when the air smelled sweet and the butterflies danced in the breeze, Mummy and Walter didn't want her to explore. Yet this was her sustenance. Her magic. She needed to be here as much as the butterflies needed their nectar to fly. Quietly she closed the gate and hurried across the brick path until she reached the circular rose garden. In the center of the roses was the most lush carpet of grass. She tossed her shoes into the air, the soft grass tickling her toes. Then she stretched out her arms and twirled in the moonlight. Some people thought the rays of the moon were cool, like the rays of the sun were warm, but they were wrong. The light from the moon was as warm as the sun, a lovely, golden warmth that electrified her from the inside.”

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“Eyes closed, she imagined the butterflies soaring over the petals, riding the tail of the breeze. She imagined a fairy leading their dance, her wings shimmering in the sun. Then one of the butterflies seemed to come alive in her mind, like a character on the silver screen. Twirling in the sunlight that spilled through the window. She was pale blue, laced with gold, and Libby could see her, inside and out, every detail on her slender body, every color on her wardrobe of wings. Libby released her legs and sprung down onto the rug on her floor. Under her bed was a box with her old sketchbook and colored pencils. She hadn't wanted to draw in a long time. She'd only wanted to be among the flowers and butterflies. But if she couldn't be with her friends, perhaps she could entertain them in her room. The sketchbook in hand, she hopped back on the bed and began drawing the blue butterfly who'd twirled in the lamplight, but her butterfly looked so dull on the paper. Nothing like the butterfly she'd seen moments before. She- Libby Doyle- was a creator, and her creation begged her for more. Rushing to the bathroom, she filled a paper cup with water. In her parents' bedroom were tubes of special paint. And a brush. Mummy once told her she'd kept the paints to remember her father- Libby's granddad- but what better way to remember him than to use his paints to birth another life? 'Life.' She wanted to breathe light and color and life into her friends.”

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