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Quote by Michelle Painchaud

“The microwave clock spills over into midnight, and the marionette girl walks up the stairs to sleep in her puppet bed in the puppet house, filled with not-puppet people. They are made of flesh and blood, and she is made of wood and lies.”

Quote by Michelle Painchaud

Book:Dans La Peau D'Erica
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Dans La Peau D'Erica

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Michelle Painchaud

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“You must make a choice,” the Goddess said. “Is that my only choice – to choose between men?” I asked. “I want what Mother had!” “Your mother chose two men,” she said with light laughter. “No! She chose independence for her country. She chose power and freedom,” I yelled. Almost as if in response, a pulsating energy moved up from the ground into my bare feet. It thrummed up my body and radiated out in a bright light, first from my toes, then from my fingertips, then the top of my head. “I choose power,” I said. “I choose freedom.”

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“I especially treasured my glimpses of Mother, Queen Cleopatra VII. She sat on a golden throne, looking as resplendent as one of the giant marble statues guarding the tombs of the Old Ones. Diamonds twinkled in a jungle of black braids on her ceremonial wig. She wore a diadem with three rearing snakes and a golden broad collar, shining with lapis lazuli, carnelian, and emeralds, over her golden, form-fitting pleated gown. In one hand, she held a golden ankh of life, while the other clasped the striped crook and flail of her divine rulership. Her stillness radiated power, like a lioness pausing before the pounce. It left me breathless with awe.”

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Book:Cleopatra's Moon
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“Penguins are Antarctica's Pekin duck, and Admiral Byrd just sent me a telegram telling me he wants me to come down there and teach him how to ice fish. The trick is not gluing the bananas to your wetsuit, and keeping the volume of The Golden Girls set at 33.”

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Book:Music is fluid, and my saxophone overflows when my ducks slosh in the sounds I make in elevators.
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“She knew why she had Gerry on her mind, why she was spotting his likeness in the faces of strange little boys. They'd been close once, the pair of them, but things had changed when he was seventeen. He'd come to stay with Laurel in London on his way up to Cambridge (a full scholarship, as Laurel told everyone she knew, sometimes those she didn't), and they'd had fun- they always did. A daytime session of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and then dinner from the curry house down the road. Later, riding a delectable tikka masala high, the two of them had climbed out through the bathroom window, dragging pillows and a blanket after them, and shared a joint on Laurel's roof. The night was especially clear- stars, more stars than usual, surely?- and down on the street, the distant easy warmth of other people's revelry. Smoking made Gerry unusually garrulous, which was fine with Laurel because it made her wondrous. He'd been trying to explain the origins of everything, pointing to star clusters and galaxies and making explosion gestures with his delicate, febrile hands, and Laurel had been squinting and making the stars blur and bend, letting his words run together like water. She'd been lost in a current of nebulas and penumbras and supernovas and hadn't realized his monologue was ended until she heard him say, "Lol," in that pointed way people have when they've already said the word more than once.”

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Book:The Secret Keeper
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