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Ray Robinson
Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ Author
Born
Northallerton, The United Kingdom
Website
Genre
Member Since
October 2007
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Ray Robinson
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Electricity
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published
2006
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14 editions
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Forgetting Zoë
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published
2010
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5 editions
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Jawbone Lake
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published
2013
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7 editions
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The Man Without
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published
2008
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7 editions
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CUT
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published
2012
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Lily
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“ANTONY REMEMBERED Val’s kids being taken away, one after the other.
Mikey, Barry, Lily.
Lily was the last to go. She was only a few years older than Antony, but when he screwed his eyes up tight and tried to remember her face, he couldn’t. He remembered the nickname she’d given him though: Spug. Because he loved birds so much.
Her scratchy voice, full of wires and string. Her screams before she started to fit, that cacophony of vowels and white noise. Little Spuggy. Sparrow boy. Lily. Feral fitting girl. The pissy smell of her. He remembered how terrifying it was seeing her hurly-burly. That unmistakeable sound, a liquid hollow sound, of a human skull hitting the concrete. Her body churning, shambling, gyrating � how life would take a sudden detour. Like there was some enormous struggle going on inside her body and she always lost the fight.
She didn’t have epilepsy; it had her.
� Little Spug.
The day she was taken away. The jealousy he felt.
Lily had escaped.”
― The Man Without
Mikey, Barry, Lily.
Lily was the last to go. She was only a few years older than Antony, but when he screwed his eyes up tight and tried to remember her face, he couldn’t. He remembered the nickname she’d given him though: Spug. Because he loved birds so much.
Her scratchy voice, full of wires and string. Her screams before she started to fit, that cacophony of vowels and white noise. Little Spuggy. Sparrow boy. Lily. Feral fitting girl. The pissy smell of her. He remembered how terrifying it was seeing her hurly-burly. That unmistakeable sound, a liquid hollow sound, of a human skull hitting the concrete. Her body churning, shambling, gyrating � how life would take a sudden detour. Like there was some enormous struggle going on inside her body and she always lost the fight.
She didn’t have epilepsy; it had her.
� Little Spug.
The day she was taken away. The jealousy he felt.
Lily had escaped.”
― The Man Without
“She opened the window and peered out, the town on Klibo softly illuminated on the distant headland. She eyed the black stretch of water separating the islands and wondered whether her father was hunting out there below the waves.
Later, a summer storm raged against the island and it felt like the cottage was at sea, an east wind goldering around the clapboard houses like a gang of vandals carrying blades. It tore through the harbor, smashing and riving, flinging doors hundreds of feet into the air. Zoë heard it wolf-whistling between the eaves and imagined Ingrid and Einar embracing.”
― Forgetting Zoë
Later, a summer storm raged against the island and it felt like the cottage was at sea, an east wind goldering around the clapboard houses like a gang of vandals carrying blades. It tore through the harbor, smashing and riving, flinging doors hundreds of feet into the air. Zoë heard it wolf-whistling between the eaves and imagined Ingrid and Einar embracing.”
― Forgetting Zoë
Topics Mentioning This Author
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| Books2Movies Club: 2014 - Currently Across the World | 15 | 112 | Dec 10, 2014 12:36PM |
“ANTONY REMEMBERED Val’s kids being taken away, one after the other.
Mikey, Barry, Lily.
Lily was the last to go. She was only a few years older than Antony, but when he screwed his eyes up tight and tried to remember her face, he couldn’t. He remembered the nickname she’d given him though: Spug. Because he loved birds so much.
Her scratchy voice, full of wires and string. Her screams before she started to fit, that cacophony of vowels and white noise. Little Spuggy. Sparrow boy. Lily. Feral fitting girl. The pissy smell of her. He remembered how terrifying it was seeing her hurly-burly. That unmistakeable sound, a liquid hollow sound, of a human skull hitting the concrete. Her body churning, shambling, gyrating � how life would take a sudden detour. Like there was some enormous struggle going on inside her body and she always lost the fight.
She didn’t have epilepsy; it had her.
� Little Spug.
The day she was taken away. The jealousy he felt.
Lily had escaped.”
― The Man Without
Mikey, Barry, Lily.
Lily was the last to go. She was only a few years older than Antony, but when he screwed his eyes up tight and tried to remember her face, he couldn’t. He remembered the nickname she’d given him though: Spug. Because he loved birds so much.
Her scratchy voice, full of wires and string. Her screams before she started to fit, that cacophony of vowels and white noise. Little Spuggy. Sparrow boy. Lily. Feral fitting girl. The pissy smell of her. He remembered how terrifying it was seeing her hurly-burly. That unmistakeable sound, a liquid hollow sound, of a human skull hitting the concrete. Her body churning, shambling, gyrating � how life would take a sudden detour. Like there was some enormous struggle going on inside her body and she always lost the fight.
She didn’t have epilepsy; it had her.
� Little Spug.
The day she was taken away. The jealousy he felt.
Lily had escaped.”
― The Man Without
“It pleases him how Spell is how the word is made but also, in the hands of the magician, how the world is changed. One letter separates Word from World, and that letter is like the number one, or an 'I', or a shaft of light between almost closed curtains. There is an old letter called a thorn, which jags and tears at the throat as it's uttered. Later he learns that Grammar and Glamour share the same deeper root, which is further magic, and there can be neither magic without that root, nor plant. He's lost in it like Chid in Child, or God reversed into Dog. Somewhere inside him is a colon. A sentence can last for life.”
― With a Zero at its Heart
― With a Zero at its Heart
“She opened the window and peered out, the town on Klibo softly illuminated on the distant headland. She eyed the black stretch of water separating the islands and wondered whether her father was hunting out there below the waves.
Later, a summer storm raged against the island and it felt like the cottage was at sea, an east wind goldering around the clapboard houses like a gang of vandals carrying blades. It tore through the harbor, smashing and riving, flinging doors hundreds of feet into the air. Zoë heard it wolf-whistling between the eaves and imagined Ingrid and Einar embracing.”
― Forgetting Zoë
Later, a summer storm raged against the island and it felt like the cottage was at sea, an east wind goldering around the clapboard houses like a gang of vandals carrying blades. It tore through the harbor, smashing and riving, flinging doors hundreds of feet into the air. Zoë heard it wolf-whistling between the eaves and imagined Ingrid and Einar embracing.”
― Forgetting Zoë
