Author Archives: themetaphorgirl

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kivrinengle replied to your post: This series isn’t like the cliche vampire stories where they burn in the sun, this is actually a whole different kind of universe. But it’s reallly good, the authors always leave me wanting more. If you wanna read it check out the first book; Marked, by P.C and Kristin Cast.

ARGH ARGH ELSIE DINSMORE??? I thought I was the only one afflicted so. I HATED those books, and my mother kept making me read them before I could read anything of literary value.

ELSIE DINSMORE IS THE WORST LITERARY HEROINE OF ALL TIME.

OF ALL TIME.

SHE’S PROBABLY BELLA SWAN’S GREAT-GRANDMOTHER OR SOMETHING.

OR EDWARD’S MOM OR SOMETHING.

I WANTED TO PUNCH THAT GIRL IN THE FACE WITH HER OWN BIBLE.

THE PIANO SCENE. OH, DEAR MERCIFUL GOODNESS, MEG, DO YOU REMEMBER THE SCENE WITH THE PIANO?!?

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Gilbert Blythe wasn’t used to putting himself out to make a girl look at him and meeting with failure. She SHOULD look at him, that red-haired Shirley girl with the little pointed chin and the big eyes that weren’t like the eyes of any other girl in Avonlea school.

Gilbert reached across the aisle, picked up the end of Anne’s long red braid, held it out at arm’s length and said in a piercing whisper:

“Carrots! Carrots!”

Then Anne looked at him with a vengeance!

She did more than look. She sprang to her feet, her bright fancies fallen into cureless ruin. She flashed one indignant glance at Gilbert from eyes whose angry sparkle was swiftly quenched in equally angry tears.

“You mean, hateful boy!” she exclaimed passionately. “How dare you!”

And then—thwack! Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert’s head and cracked it—slate not head—clear across.

Avonlea school always enjoyed a scene. This was an especially enjoyable one. Everybody said “Oh” in horrified delight. Diana gasped. Ruby Gillis, who was inclined to be hysterical, began to cry. Tommy Sloane let his team of crickets escape him altogether while he stared open-mouthed at the tableau.

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I shall have to stay here forever then,” said Anne mournfully, “because I can’t tell Mrs. Lynde I’m sorry I said those things to her. How can I? I’m NOT sorry. I’m sorry I’ve vexed you; but I’m GLAD I told her just what I did. It was a great satisfaction. I can’t say I’m sorry when I’m not, can I? I can’t even IMAGINE I’m sorry.”

Anne Shirley is my spirit animal

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Anne sat long at her window that night companioned by a glad content. Her horizons had closed in since the night she had sat there after coming home from Queen’s; but if the path set before her feet was to be narrow she knew that flowers of quiet happiness would bloom along it. The joy of sincere work and worthy aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers; nothing could rob her of her birthright of fancy or her ideal world of dreams. And there was always the bend in the road! ‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,’ whispered Anne softly.

–Anne of Green Gables