Quill Quotes

You stole my heart before I could give it to you. ~ Luke Taylor

Is there any way to check and see if Nick and Daisy were ever at Hecate? They must have had different names or you'd remember them."
I don't know why I was holding out hope that Dad would be all, "Why, yes, let me check the Hecate Enrollment Roster 9000 computer database." Those lists were probably written on pieces of parchment with quill feathers. ~ Rachel Hawkins

I still use quill and parchment. I do e-mails, and I write, but I don't go around surfing too much. ~ Oscar Nunez

Darcy rolled the quill between his fingers and looked with benign pity upon his cousin. "You should, you know. It's a wonderful feeling to be the head of your home, with a wife who adores you and whom you adore in return."

Fitzwilliam whipped out his pocket watch. "Oh, look at that. I have to run."
Ignoring him, Darcy turned his face to the fire, a besotted look in his eyes and a smile on his lips. "It's a good feeling to care for your family and their well-being. It makes you finally grow up, I can tell you." He sighed deeply and began attacking his figures once more, his mind filled with unlimited love and joy, thinking on his upcoming paternal responsibilities. "I myself find women to be unbelievably wonderful creations."

"I suppose you will continue with this treacle even as I beg you to stop."

"Well, think about it…" Darcy continued, looking up from his work.

Fitzwilliam groaned.

"They give back to you double and triple whatever little you hand them."

"I think I'm going to be ill, Darcy. Please stop."

"You hand them disparate items of food, and they give you back a wonderful meal. You provide them with four walls and a floor, and they give you back a loving home. You give them your seed," Darcy's eyes misted, his voice choked with emotion. "You give them your seed, and they give you back the most precious thing of all - a child…" They sat in silence together.

"And God help you if ~ Karen V. Wasylowski

As Harry and Ron rounded the clump of trees behind which Harry had first heard the dragons roar, a witch leapt out from behind them.
It was Rita Skeeter. She was wearing acid-green robes today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blended perfectly against them.
"Congratulations, Harry!' she said beaming at him. "I wonder if you could give me a quick word? How you felt facing that dragon? How do you feel now about the fairness of the scoring?"
"Yeah, you can have a word," said Harry savagely. "Goodbye! ~ J.K. Rowling

The first of a thousand lies. Truth flowed to Micah Quill, was sucked in and disappeared, and emerged again looking ever so much like it used to, but changed subtly, at the edges, where none would notice, so that simple truth became a complicated fabric indeed, one that could wrap you up so tightly and close you off from the air until you suffocated in it. ~ Orson Scott Card

Author:
A common gadabout who freely wanders over the landscape with wanton disregard. His days are spent picking up all the stray free words he can handle and squirreling them away for later use.
Subsequently, (days, months or years later) working by candlelight and hidden away in his dank, musty secluded lair, the rogue simply rearranges the collected words on yellowed bond with a sharpened quill ink pen fashioned from the tail feather of a bald-headed vulture.
Once finished, the dastardly cur audaciously attempts to sell those assembled pages for fleeting fame and profit. ~ Leopold Throckmorton

Craig inscribed something in the journal and Bob walked over to study the entry. "Does the name Bob Ford mean anything to you?

Craig dipped his quill in the ink bottle and scripted cursively on a brown blotter. "Is that your actual name or your alias?"

"Actual," said Bob, and he grinned with delight when he saw the name recorded in Craig's elegant calligraphy. "Pretty soon all of America will know who Bob Ford is. ~ Ron Hansen

DI Cartwright: The cat is booby trapped? DI Quill: Welcome to my world. ~ Paul Cornell

The hand that once wielded both sword and axe now aches after an evening of the quill. When I wipe the tip of one clean, I often wonder how many buckets of ink I have used in a lifetime. How many words have I set down on paper or vellum, thinking to trap the truth thereby? And of those words, how many have I myself consigned to the flames as worthless and wrong? I do as I have done so many times. I write, I sand the wet ink, I consider my own words. Then I burn them. Perhaps when I do so, the truth goes up the chimney as smoke. Is it destroyed, or set free in the world? I do not know. I ~ Robin Hobb

Think of all that hard work our founding fathers put in - the revolutionizing, the three-fifths compromising, having to write the entire Constitution with a quill - and yet they neglected to include the right to vote. ~ Mo Rocca

I use a quill pen dipped in India ink. I also like Faber-Castell brush pens and Pigma Micron pens. And I work on Duo-Shade board. ~ Steve Breen

The word processor is a better tool than a quill pen because you can do so much more with it, but on the other hand, what you have to say and how you say it is the ultimate determination. ~ Walter Murch

Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?"
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest though bold Robin Hood
Would, wit his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can
"I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. ~ John Keats

Our doubts are traitors and make us
lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt. In other words, a
wish is a good place to start but then you have to get off your butt and make it
happen. You have to pick up a quill and write your own damn story. (Mimi Wallingford) ~ Suzanne Selfors

You're wrong," Lord Dudley said. "You've always been a fool."
"The fool thinks he is wise," G retorted. "But the wise man knows himself to be a fool."
That was a great line, he thought. He tried to remember where he'd stashed the quill and paper. ~ Cynthia Hand

There is no remedy for this poison,' Sudhakar said. 'You must live with the consequences, as must I.'
'Then why did you let her have it?' Quill said savagely. 'You knew she was impulsive. You should have guessed she might take it herself!'
Sudhakar looked at him. 'Now, why would that occur to me? I saw a young woman consumed with anxiety for her husband, prepared to ruin her marriage in order to save him from further suffering. I saw nothing self-destructive about her.'
'She thought it was harmless,' Quill whispered harshly. 'She had no idea. You shouldn't have given it to her.'
'Do you think she is a child? She is a grown woman. Her rash actions are her own.'
It was only when Quill fixed him with a brutal gaze that he realized that Sudhakar was also suffering. ~ Eloisa James

The sparkling smile became enormous. 'Do you think she has a dagger there? Do you? Ask her, M. Francis? For,' said the most noble and most powerful Princess Mary Stewart, Queen of Scotland, delving furiously under all the stiff red velvet, showing shift, hose and garters, shoes, knees and a long ribboned end of something recently torn loose, and emerging therefrom with a fist closed tight on an object short and hard and glittering, 'for I have!' And breathlessly, flinging back her head, with the little knife offered like a quill, 'Try to stab me!' she encouraged her visitor. There was a queer silence, during which the eyes of Oonagh O'Dwyer and her love of one night met and locked like magnet and iron. The child, waiting a moment, offered again, the ringing, joyful defiance still in her voice. 'Try to stab me! … Go on, and I'll kill you all dead!'

Her throat dry, Oonagh spoke. 'Save your steel for those you trust. They are the ones who will carry your bier; the men who cannot hate, nor can they know love. Send away the cold servants.' The red mouth had opened a little; the knife hung forgotten in her hand.

'I would,' said Mary, surprised. 'But I do not know any.' And, anxiously demonstrating her point, she caught Lymond by the hand. ~ Dorothy Dunnett

If it please you, the lady's name again? says Reginald. His quill is poised. If God had come to Reginald and not to Moses in the burning bush, he would have asked him how to spell the great I AM so he'd be sure he had it right. ~ Frederick Buechner

Maine should be pleased that its animal is not a waverer, and rather than fight, lets the primed quill fall. Shallow oppressor, intruder, insister, you have found a resister. ~ Marianne Moore

Coo, coo." Constable Quill looked, for a moment, like a man regretting his choice of profession, but he plowed onward. "And you say you heard someone cooing in your back garden on Sunday night? ~ Julie Berry

I don't use any fance quill pens or pads, because I can't read my own handwriting. I just use whatever computer is laying around, and start writing. ~ Mitch Albom

laid out the quill, ink, sand, and paper. ~ Susan Martins Miller

I suppose this is your way of telling me that you are outrageously happy?'
Quill nodded. 'Of course.'
'Living with you is an act of interpretation, do you know that?'
'Living with you is ... bliss. Did you know that? ~ Eloisa James

I think the perfect pen name is Quill McSeagull. Especially for writing flights of fancy - and nothing has more feathers than a love poem. ~ Jarod Kintz

But the boy was not cheated by her ignorance. He was not intensely interested in answers, the things themselves were enough. So he ran on, holding the leaf by its twig, or feather by its quill, and whereas his mother thought mostly of arriving, discovery kept him in a state of endless being. ~ Patrick White

Unable and crippled I am
As I gaze into the vastness
The vastness that harbors your praise
And glories of the best of creation ...
If I tried to spell..
A drop of ink from your love
Ma quill would burn in shame
for your love match no words ... ya rasoolullah! ~ Anila Aboo

Once she had thrown a square of birch bark into the fire when her father came in the door. He might then have asked her why her quill pen had shaped a row of straight and crooked question marks and after each one an exclamation point
in rows of ten, perhaps forty running along
?! ?! ?! ?!
arranged in pairs or couples. If he had asked her what is this folderol and what can this nonsense mean she would have said the same she said when shaping them with her pen, one pair, one couple after another. Each question mark stands for my ignorance and asks if I may learn and know the answer. And each exclamation point stands for my surprise at how little I know, my amazement at my vast ignorance, my utter astonishment at how much there is for me to learn. ~ Carl Sandburg

Graveyards were usually, in his team's experience, a bad idea. This one was full of greenish lights that danced between the graves, and there were a couple of swaying figures, one an emaciated husk with glowing eyes who had taken to ... yes, there he was again this morning, like every morning.
Quill tiredly raised his hand to return the wave. ~ Paul Cornell

Just because you've got the emotional rang of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have,' said Hermione nastily, picking up her quill again. ~ J.K. Rowling

Two dozen
and yet you killed all but one?" The provost arched a brow and set her quill down again as if unwilling to record a falsehood.
"Dear lady, I killed them from youngest child to oldest woman, and when I was done I blunted three axes dismembering their corpses. I am Jorg of Ancrath
I burned ten thousand in Gelleth and didn't think it too many. ~ Mark Lawrence

Now I protest to thee, gentle reader, that I entirely dissent from Francisco de Ubeda in this matter, and hold it the most useful quality of my pen, that it can speedily change from grave to gay, and from description and dialogue to narrative and character. So that if my quill displays no other properties of its mother-goose than her mutability, truly I shall be well pleased; and I conceive that you, my worthy friend, will have no occasion for discontent. From ~ Walter Scott

To mix the brew that wakes Death sleep
Fill one spread hand with silver deep.
In hungry pool moons raise their heads:
Pluck one and add the tears it sheds.
Stir slowly with new fighter's quill,
Three times, no more, and let it still.
Add venom from your greatest fear--
One drop--and then the truth is clear. ~ Emily Rodda

All I ask, is the privilege for my masculine part the poet in me ... If I must not, because of my sex, have this freedom ... I lay down my quill and you shall hear no more of me. ~ Aphra Behn

Do not shout at me, Mr. Quill," said John [Adams]. "Justice may be blind, but she is not deaf. ~ Orson Scott Card

Speaking of debutantes," Jake continued cautiously when Ian remained silent, "what about the one upstairs? Do you dislike her especially, or just on general principle?"
Ian walked over to the table and poured some Scotch into a glass. He took a swallow, shrugged, and said, "Miss Cameron was more inventive than some of her vapid little friends. She accosted me in a garden at a party."
"I can see how bothersome that musta been," Jake joked, "having someone like her, with a face that men dream about, tryin' to seduce you, usin' feminine wiles on you. Did they work?"
Slamming the glass down on the table, Ian said curtly, "They worked." Coldly dismissing Elizabeth from his mind, he opened the deerskin case on the table, removed some papers he needed to review, and sat down in front of the fire.
Trying to suppress his avid curiosity, Jake waited a few minutes before asking, "Then what happened?"
Already engrossed in reading the documents in his hand, Ian said absently and without looking up, "I asked her to marry me; she sent me a note inviting me to meet her in the greenhouse; I went there; her brother barged in on us and informed me she was a countess, and that she was already betrothed."
The topic thrust from his mind, Ian reached for the quill lying on the small table beside his chair and made a note in the margin of the contract.
"And?" Jake demanded avidly.
"And what?"
"And then what happened-after the brother barged in?"
"He ~ Judith McNaught

The brown earth, the torn, blasted earth, with a greasy shine under the sun's rays; the earth is the background of this restless, gloomy world of automatons, our gasping is the scratching of a quill, our lips are dry, our heads are debauched with stupor - thus we stagger forward, and into our pierced and shattered souls bores the torturing image of the brown earth with the greasy sun and the convulsed and dead soldiers, who lie there - it can't be helped - who cry and clutch at our legs as we spring away over them. We have lost all feeling for one another. We can hardly control ourselves when our glance lights on the form of some other man. We are insensible, dead men, who through some trick, some dreadful magic, are still able to run and to kill. ~ Erich Maria Remarque

Usually, Shakespeare gives me goose bumps. The guy knows everything. Like some ancient angel quill-ing out blueprints life. Hiding it in fiction. And usually I love the sound of the words, the way they dance on the page. Today, they fall flat. My attention bobbing in the cosmos. All free brain-space is marinating in gap month fizz. I chew my pen, candy-cane style. The million possibilities ahead make it hard to care about right now. I write my answers slowly, each letter carved in stone not ballpoint. I'm going to explore the world, find my passion, try everything! The fizz shoots up my spine and a smile sprouts. ~ Jolene Stockman

He was rowed down from the north in a leather skiff manned by a crew of trolls. His fur cape was caked with candle wax, his brow stained blue by wine - though the latter was seldom noticed due to the fox mask he wore at-all times. A quill in his teeth, a solitary teardrop a-squirm in his palm, he was the young poet prince of Montreal, handsome, immaculate, searching for sturdier doors to nail his poignant verses on.
In Manhattan, grit drifted into his ink bottle. In Vienna, his spice box exploded. On the Greek island of Hydra, Orpheus came to him at dawn astride a transparent donkey and restrung his cheap guitar. From that moment on, he shamelessly and willingly exposed himself to the contagion of music. To the secretly religious curiosity of the traveler was added the openly foolhardy dignity of the troubadour. By the time he returned to America, songs were working in him like bees in an attic. Connoisseurs developed cravings for his nocturnal honey, despite the fact that hearts were occasionally stung.

Now, thirty years later, as society staggers towards the millennium - nailing and screeching at the while, like an orangutan with a steak knife in its side - Leonard Cohen, his vision, his gift, his perseverance, are finally getting their due. It may be because he speaks to this wounded zeitgeist with particular eloquence and accuracy, it may be merely cultural time-lag, another example of the slow-to-catch-on many opening their ears belatedly to what the fe ~ Tom Robbins

Xenophon wrote with a swan's quill, Plato with a pen of gold, and Thucydides with a brazen stylus. ~ Joseph Joubert

Words, words, word. Once, I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay. Love that overthrows empire. Love that binds two hearts together, come hellfire & brimstone. For sixpence a line, I could cause a riot in a nunnery. But now
I have lost my gift. It's as if my quill is broken, as if the organ of my imagination has dried up, as if the proud -illegible word- of my genius has collapsed. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides

I feel as if I can think only when I see the words flowing from the nib of my quill, that my thoughts make sense only when they are black ink on cream paper. I love the sensation of a thought in my head and the vision of the word on the page. ~ Philippa Gregory

A wish is a good place to start but then you have to get off your butt and make it happen. You have to pick up a quill and write your own damn story. ~ Suzanne Selfors

You haven't given me any ink," he said.
"Oh, you won't need ink," said Professor Umbridge with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice.
Harry placed the point of the quill on the paper and wrote: I must not tell lies.
He let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on the parchment in what appeared to be shining red ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the back of Harry's right hand, cut into his skin as though traced there by a scalpel - yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth.
Harry looked around at Umbridge. She was watching him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile.
"Yes?"
"Nothing," said Harry quietly. ~ J.K. Rowling

The man quoted Confucius? How unfair that a man such as he could be so clever, dangerous, rich, powerful, and well read. Farah stifled a sigh, then, alarmed by her reaction to him, straightened her spine and took up her quill, ready to swipe the efficient shorthand across her paper. ~ Kerrigan Byrne

The Deer don't dineWhen a Wolf's about,And the PorcupineSticks his quill-points out. ~ Arthur Guiterman

Will Peter be joining us for tea, do you think?'
'I doubt it. Peter rarely returns home before late in the evening.'
'Oh.'
Quill felt as if he had told a baby chick that his favorite dish was roast fowl. ~ Eloisa James

I've seen a lot in my years, Aerlyn. And when I look at you, I see a rose, not a thistle."
Her heart caught in her throat and she nearly snorted.
"You see what you want to see."
Quill chuckled to himself. At the thorns in her voice.
"As do you, Thistle. Can you tell me what I can see any more than I can tell you want you see?"
"No."
"Then let me see what I want to see." He said, turning to face her, and she jabbed her midnight gaze at him before twisting her head to see the many sorrows sleeping beneath his own lake blue eyes. "Because I see what no one else sees. ~ Luke Taylor

With a goose-quill and a few sheets of paper, I mock myself of the universe. They say I am the son of a courtesan; it may be so, but I have the heart of a King. I live free, I enjoy myself, I can call myself happy. ~ Pietro Aretino

He got up and walked out to the road. The black shape of it running from dark to dark. Then the distant low rumble. Not thunder. You could feel it under your feet. A sound without cognate and so without description. Something imponderable shifting out there in the dark. The earth itself contracting with the cold. It did not come again. What time of year? What age the child? He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt. ~ Cormac McCarthy

Jemmy dipped the quill in beet juice and continued scribbling. "I'll tell him you've got reserved seats in Hell."
"Aye! That's the ticket! ~ Sid Fleischman

Can a split quill write fair script?
Can a blunt axe cut wood for the fire?
Can a cripple please a lady? ~ Juliet Marillier

A fine gentleman like that, they said, had no need of books. Let him leave books, they said, to the palsied or the dying. But worse was to come. For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the inkpot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing. And while this is bad enough in a poor man, whose only property is a chair and a table set beneath a leaky roof--for he has not much to lose, after all--the plight of a rich man, who has houses and cattle, maidservants, asses and linen, and yet writes books, is pitiable in the extreme. ~ Virginia Woolf

You know, it's hard work to write a book. I can't tell you how many times I really get going on an idea, then my quill breaks. Or I spill ink all over my writing tunic. ~ Ellen DeGeneres

The quill has pricked my soul and each word bleeds onto the parchment of my life. My freedom is in my words, therefore, I write.

~ Mona Bethke

I was starting to wonder if the sort of memorization practiced by mental athletes was not something like the peacock's tail: impressive not for its utility, but for its profound lack of utility. Were these ancient techniques anything more than "intellectual fossils," as the historian Paulo Rossi once put it, fascinating for what they tell us about the minds of a bygone era, but as out of place in our modern world as quill pens and papyrus scrolls? ~ Joshua Foer

As the sun rose I could see Etna, a truncated cone with a plume of smoke over it like the quill of a pen stuck in a pewter inkpot, rising out of the haze to the north of where I was treading water. ~ Eric Newby

Sometimes, the thing you've been looking for your whole life is right there beside you all along. ~ Peter Quill

The thought hath good leggs, and the quill a good tongue. ~ George Herbert

Quill: An instrument of torture yielded by a goose and commonly weilded by as ass. ~ Ambrose Bierce

Thoth, Hermes, the stylus,
the palette, the pen, the quill endure,
though our books are a floor
of smouldering ash under our feet. ~ Hilda Doolittle

What followed were instructions for casting the spell itself and a diagram for laying the components out. Altin didn't like the secrecy thing, but a quick glance at the spell Greater Common Tongue showed that it was forty-three pages long. He didn't think he had that kind of time or expertise, so he decided to stick with the six-page version for now. He realized that getting cuttings of their hair was likely going to be an interesting trick as well. And he needed his quill pen, parchment and pot of ink, which meant he had to go back to the tower. He wondered how they were going to take his making another trip into the waterfall-pot room so soon, but he had little other choice. ~ John Daulton

While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me - drawing on my skin - not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings. ~ Margaret Atwood

The trouble with reading is it goes to your head. Read too many books and you get savvy. You begin to think you know which kind of story you're in. Then some stupid git with a cosmic quill fucks you over. ~ A.J. Hackwith

He dipped the quill into the inkpot, leaned over the first parchment, paused, looked up. "Would you prefer me to sing Yollo or Hugor Hill?"

Brown Ben crinkled up his eyes. "Would you prefer to be returned to Yezzan's heirs or just beheaded?"

The dwarf laughed and signed the parchment, Tyrion of House Lannister. ~ George R R Martin

How d'you spell 'belligerent'?" said Ron, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. "It can't be B - U - M - "
"No, it isn't," said Hermione. "And 'augury' doesn't begin O - R - G either. ~ J.K. Rowling

The funny thing about writing is I think a lot of people assume that you're sitting in a garret with a quill pen for hour after hour. ~ Lincoln Child

Bismilahir-rahmanir-rahim!
I call to witness the ink, the quill, and the script,
which flows from the quill;
I call to witness the faltering shadows of the sinking evening,
the night and all she enlivens;
I call to witness the moon when she waxes, and the sunrise when it dawns.
I call to witness the Resurrection Day and the soul that accuses itself;
I call to witness time, the beginning and end of all things - to witness that every man always suffers loss. ~ Mesa Selimovic

One often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject, though it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of this Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard capitals. Give me a condor's quill! Give me Vesuvius' crater for an inkstand! Friends, hold my arms! For in the mere act of penning my thoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their out-reaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and mastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding its suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and liberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it. ~ Herman Melville

The surgeons like to bleed a man, to let ill humours out, so that he may face the world anew. Perhaps they should just hand him a quill and let the poisons spill from him whilst he keeps his blood for its intended purpose. ~ Mark Lawrence

For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing. ~ Virginia Woolf

Peter Quill: [dances] Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier. Ooh child, things will get brighter. You listen to these words. Ooh child, things are gonna get easier. Ooh child things'll get brighter. Then bring it down hard! Someday... ~ -Peter Quill

I need to buy some postcards to send to Mom and Dad,' said Ian, heading up the steas to the Captain's Quill Bookshop. 'I also want to send some funny ones to Jackson and some of my other friends.'
'I'll get one for my mom,' said Zoe.
But as she sorted through the postcards, she remembered her mom was travling all summer without a fixed address, and email was a no-go because Granddad didn't own a computer. She didn't have the addresses of any of her friends with her, either-not that she had many friends. ~ Christine Brodien-Jones

Free speech has remained a quintessential American ideal, even as our society has moved from the ink quill to the touch screen. ~ Marvin Ammori

After the three of them got back to the Portakabin, while Quill and Ross started to add the details from the manuscript pages to the Ops Board, Sefton got out his special notebook and checked through everything he'd written down about his encounter with ... whatever Brutus had been. I was proceeding in a mystical direction when I encountered a six-foot-two Roman male, with whom I shared a certain sexual tension. ~ Paul Cornell

A torpid heart in agony needs a pen to bleed ~ Munia Khan

Dwarves are sequential hermaphroditic parthenogens," Ruby said, anticipating his question.

"What?"

"They can change back and forth from male to female and are capable of fertilizing themselves to make more dwarves. They exhibit what we regard as male characteristics, typically, but some favor a more feminine approach."

Durham sat with his mouth hanging open. Ruby poked him in the tongue with her quill feather making him gag and sputter.

"So, Ginny is, what, short for Regina? Virginia?"

"I rather think it's long to 'Gin'," Ruby answered. "She's head of hazard team and Thud's second."

"So, the changing sex thing. How does that work? Does it take a while or is it the sort of thing that might happen in the middle of a conversation?"

"Hard to say," Ruby said. "Does she need to clear her throat or did she just become a male? Is he just pausing for thought or did he just impregnate himself mid-sentence?" She shrugged. "Dwarf physiology isn't really my field."

"Is there an easy way to tell?"

"Which sex a dwarf is at the moment? Not that I'm aware of but I haven't managed to think of a situation where it would matter, either, so I've not dwelt on it much. ~ Jeffery Russell

Be circumspect how you offend schollers, for knowe, a serpent tooth bites not so ill, as dooth a schollers angrie quill. ~ John Florio

That's very cool. Absolutely! You want to know where this guy came from, but you also want to know about the relationship between him and Quill, and how they ended up living together, for the last 18 or 19 years, without killing one another. He's a strong young man, and it's because of Yondu. ~ Michael Rooker

I know what you're thinking, Gray," O'Shea's brogue lilted down through the skylight one warm morning, while Sophia was hard at work.
Mr. Grayson responded, a raw longing in his voice. "Aye. It would be so easy to take her."
Sophia nearly dropped her quill.
"We've the advantage of the wind," O'Shea said.
"And a faster ship," Gray replied. "We'd be on her stern in no time."
Ships. Sophia breathed again. They were speaking of ships.
"Those were the days." O'Shea gave a low whistle. "One cannonball to the rudder…"
"Wouldn't even need that. She'd accept our terms with little more than a signal shot and a smile."
She could hear that smile in his voice.
He continued, "Cannons are for amateurs. Seizing a ship intact…it's all in the approach. From the moment that sail appears on the horizon, you act as though it's already yours. All that remains is to inform the other captain. ~ Tessa Dare

Then there is the tamarind. I thought tamarinds were made to eat, but that was probably not the idea. I ate several, and it seemed to me that they were rather sour that year. They pursed up my lips, till they resembled the stem-end of a tomato, and I had to take my sustenance through a quill for twenty-four hours. They sharpened my teeth till I could have shaved with them, and gave them a "wire edge" that I was afraid would stay; but a citizen said no, it will come off when the enamel does" - which was comforting, at any rate. I found, afterward, that only strangers eat tamarinds - but they only eat them once. ~ Mark Twain

I scared a little porcupine
and caught a quill in my behind.
It hurt so badly in my tail,
but tugging on it made me yell.
The porcupine was still around,
so I complained. He simply frowned
and said, Stop whining! Look and see
how many quills are stuck on me! ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl - a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl - a long quill, and a roll of parchment. ~ J.K. Rowling

Were you acquainted with me, you would know that my failings are equal to my victories. On my own, I am no more than a pauper. It is the Prince for whom I live and for whom I fight. He raised me from the mire and made me a son. I will aspire to serve Him to the utmost, and perhaps my duty to Him will be fulfilled more as a herald than as a warrior, for if my quill and ink capture your attention and cause you to ponder the chronicles of this great kingdom and the story of the Prince, then I am content. ~ Chuck Black

The note in the quill was intended for the girl, and it read, 'Yes and yes and yes.' Yes I love you, yes I miss you, and yes I know and remember that you do, too. For in her last missive she had written 'No and no.' That is to say, No I do not want anyone other than you, and no I do not manage to sleep at night. ~ Meir Shalev

She'll need a code name of her own."
Quinn tapped his quill on the table as he read over Mouse's notes for the tenth time. They were like a flock of gabbling birds, these ladies, following the lead of the one in front. "Starling."
Cass nodded as he opened the door. "Starlings are smart birds."
"I know. Annoying as hell, too. ~ Erin Beaty

If I had me a nice goose quill and a pot o' maester's ink, I could write down that me member was long and thick as me arm, wouldn't make it so. ~ George R R Martin

Troy sighed with frustration. "Let me get this straight. We're stuck in the story of Romeo and Juliet and we can't get home without a magic charm from Shakespeare's quill, which doesn't exist in this world. However, we might be able to get home when the story ends, but if Romeo and Juliet don't meet, then we don't have a story. More important, we don't have an ending."
Friar Laurence tsk tsked. He placed his speckled hand on Troy's forehead. "Bless you, my son, but a fever has muddled your mind. ~ Suzanne Selfors

The old days of an inner circle of like-minded souls communicating with parchment and quill pens are gone. Sooner or later most things will be revealed. ~ Robert Harris

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,/ In the dawn clouds flying,/ How good to go, light into light, and still/ Giving light, dying. ~ Sara Teasdale

My murdered poets drew from deep wells, even if they were presently hidden from me. They spoke the same words as the monks, as the Conquistadores, as our Dictator General, but coaxed a language anew from the charred bones they'd been tossed. I had taken comfort that we had been lying for millennia, erasing whole races of writers, executing texts with aplomb. It wasn't new. And someone had always been pressing hidden words from quill to parchment backed by stone. Whispering them into someone's ear. Even if the parchment was burned and the hand chopped off and thrown into the same fire, the stone remained. Only there were the words legible. ~ Gabrielle Lucille Fuentes

So, what is it, woman?" She raised one delicate eyebrow and he felt as if she'd dug down into his very soul.
"I have word of Annwyl of the Dark Plains."
Brastias stood quickly, grasping the woman by the arms; she stood almost as tall as he. "Tell me, witch. Where is she?"
She stared at him. "Remove your hands, or I'll make sure you don't have any." Brastias took a deep breath and released her. "She is safe and alive. But she is healing. She won't be back for another fortnight."
Brastias heaved a sigh of overwhelming relief as he sat heavily in his chair. "Thank the gods. I thought we'd lost her."
"You almost had. But the girl must have the gods smiling down on her."
"Can I see her?"
The woman watched him carefully. "No. But I will get any messages you may have to her."
"Give me a few moments, I need to write something." He grabbed quill and paper and wrote Annwyl a brief-but-to-the-point letter. He folded it, affixed his seal, and handed it to the witch. "Give her this and my love."
"You are her man then?" she asked cautiously.
Brastias laughed. He did like his head securely attached to his shoulders. Becoming Annwyl's man risked that.
"Annwyl has no man because there is no man worthy of her. That includes me. So she has become the sister I lost many years ago in Lorcan's dungeons."
The woman nodded and walked back to the entrance of Brastias's tent. She stopped before leaving. "She asks," the witch spoke softly with ~ G.A. Aiken

A girl who is a writer…
A girl who is a writer. She's a woman who lives in her head because the voices of the characters who reside there are ever present demanding their voices be heard.
A girl who is a writer. She's the girl with a cup of coffee and a plate of food that has gotten cold because she couldn't stop telling the story.
A girl who is a writer. She's the one who lives in a coffee stained flannel shirt but you won't mind because it's you who brings her the addiction that fuels her word count.
A girl who is a writer. You'll share her with the world and they will see parts of her naked soul, but you won't mind because it's who she is, not what she does.
A girl who is a writer. She's the one who dips her quill in the blood stains of her pain and splatters it on the world's wall of graffiti filled artists. Her voice will stand out because she is a girl who is a writer.
© Suzanne Steele ~ Suzanne Steele

In the spring of 1990 I flew to Aspen, Colorado, to cover a summit meeting between Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and President George Herbert Walker Bush. This fairly routine political event took on sudden significance when, on the evening before the talks were scheduled to begin, Saddam Hussein announced that the independent state of Kuwait had, by virtue of a massive deployment of military force, become a part of Iraq. We were not to know that this act - and the name Saddam Hussein - would dominate international politics for the next decade and more, but it was still possible to witness something extraordinary: the sight of Mrs. Thatcher publicly inserting quantities of lead into George Bush's pencil. The spattering quill of a Ralph Steadman would be necessary to do justice to such a macabre yet impressive scene. ~ Christopher Hitchens

Still, Antwerp, the parties, my husband's talks--all of it fed my mind. I'd hardly set down my quill before I took it up again, writing stories unconnected--of a pimp, a virgin, a rogue--strung up like pearls on a thread. ... 'I am very ambitious, yet 'tis neither for Beauty, Wit, Titles, Wealth, or Power, but as they are steps to raise me to Fames Tower.'

O minor victory! O small delight! My star began to rise. ~ Danielle Dutton

He writes so well he makes me feel like putting my quill back in my goose. ~ Fred Allen

Her laugh did something to him, Quill realized. Touched some part of him that admired her indefatigable spirit. Despite her discomfort and distress at being drenched, she was in possession of the sort of temperament that did not allow the petty annoyances of life to dampen her spirit. ~ Manda Collins

But the way to wealth through the quill seems long ... ~ Elizabeth Charles