Thornhedge by T. Kingfisher
Toads are capable of sarcasm, but their blood runs too cold for hysteria.
Alone with You in the Ether by Olivie Blake
...art is tragedy. Art is loss. It's the fleeting breath of a foregone moment, the intimacy of things undone, the summer season that passes. It's the peeled lemon and bony fish in the corner of a Dutch still life, rotten and dead and gone. It's him lying next to you, legs tangled with yours, only to know he'll be specter in your thoughts by next month, next week, ten minutes from now. This is what makes it art, Charlotte, and you've always understood that. You've always understood, above everything, that what makes beauty is pain. Every time you love, pieces of you break off and get replaced by something you steal from someone else. It seems like it's the right shape but it's slightly different every time, so that eventually, very very quietly and over days and days and days, you are tranasformed into something unrecognizable, and it happens so slowly you don't even notice, like shedding scales and making new ones. What an appropriate passage t...
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