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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #short
My great-great grandfather and I were best of friends, although we never met. Fire and shipwreck orphan us – 140 years apart. We escape to imagination to survive our fate. There, midst flights of whimsy we find one another. Companionship quells our loneliness. We create fables and tales, shields against a harsh existence. We must battle animals and humans of prey. Together, he, the future abolitionist-publisher James Thaddeus ‘Blackjack’ Fiction, and I vault from glory-laden adventures to tragedy and then to triumph. I am Raji Singh and this is my story. ↗
#fiction #humor #satire #short-story #whimsey
That, too, was in the air itself -- a whisper of apology when the smell of the soil carried. There should be pumpkins in the fields, or sunflowers, or the peppers you saw up north. Instead, it was the smell of old earth that the breezes caught, sometimes a tinge of death. Too hard to forget. ↗
For the source of the short story is usually lyrical. And all writers speak from, and speak to, emotions eternally the same in all of us: love, pity, terror do not show favorites or leave any of us out. ↗
A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph; a novel is a film. ↗
I love short stories because I believe they are the way we live. They are what our friends tell us, in their pain and joy, their passion and rage, their yearning and their cry against injustice. ↗
On the Writing Process: "When in doubt, take it out., ↗
#children-s-books #mystery #picture-books #short-stories #writing-advice
Now, years later, he had been commissioned to fashion pictures with sugar water and dyes, a holiday mural. He had risen into something he could do, he had been recognized, and those years spent enduring his father's impatience seemed far away. He would do it for number 98,761,580, his love whose hand he held, cold as it was, who had lain beside him in the tunnels, in the filth. What had haunted him was the thought of her lovely body wasting away. It had torn at his eyes, his throat. It had taken away his faith. He painted a band of sugar on the walls of the hotel, the mural reflecting the city back to itself - the deep green park, the holiday windows, lovers under golden angels, flowers spilling out of markets in December, a resurrected skyscraper, a choir of variegated faces singing in front of a red door of a dark church, the homeless - not swept away, not forgotten - their realities on their faces, hands, hair. It was not a Rockwell. There were a few artists, subcontractors, who kept trying to abscond with the project, to make it what it wasn't for the sake of something they likened to a good make-believe before bed. -- 'A Potter's Field ↗
I live in different worlds. One world where I perform my duty as a part of society. My favorite is my world. The writing's world. ↗
Remember this above all else: Never, ever appear like you once were, not to anyone. You have entered a new phase, but you must forgive yourself to enter. And you have to remember new lessons of restraint, for they will always apply. You are now always your own private garden. You are now always the only one responsible for nourishing the soil and replenishing the seed. You alone tend you, you alone water. This is what I say for the tending of the sweet, resplendent places. - Waiting: Instructions in Texts and Pictures ↗
