Tumgik
Text
I carried their stories with me - Mary Ellen and Ann, Julia, Rachel and Mandy. They were less of a weight and more a reminder that the truth could be hard to hear, but was the only thing that brought us together.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
The landscape remembers. Pain stays on in places like this.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
Belief was a fraying rope bridge over a stormy sea. Strand by silver strand, I unraveled.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
There are things in life you hold, and there are things that hold you.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
"Do you think we carry them with us?" I asked. "All the stories of the past?"
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
We do whatever we can to survive.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
This is what a curse does: It takes a truth and twists it. It punishes those who don't conform. It sets parameters of conformity so narrow that few can actually stick to them... We are all bad apples, Deena, plucked before we were ripe and ready, right off the family tree.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
You won't see us in the photographs. The history books. But the landscape remembers.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
1 note · View note
Text
"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts?" I asked him. "Not during daylight, I don't," Finn said. "Not at school, like, or at home. Not when we're watching some crappy horror film." Cale scratched a match to flame and my candle's wick caught. "But here?" Finn's voice went up about an octave. "In some old ruined cottage at twilight in the middle of fucking Sligo with you looking all possessed or some shit? Yeah. Yeah, I fucking believe in ghosts."
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
1 note · View note
Text
Ida was clearly somebody whose father had taught her from the moment she showed up on his doorstep that she deserved respect. Somebody who could speak out, speak her truth without repercussions. Somebody not accustomed to secrets, or to shame. She might look like Mandy, but there was something straightforward about her that put her in direct contrast to her mother.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
To me, Mary Ellen's revenge on Gerald made sense. She knew she couldn't hold him to account, couldn't tell his family the truth. She knew it would be her word against his, and that he held all the power. So instead she did the only thing she knew would really hurt him. She couldn't have known that by destroying his prized possession, his precious apple tree sapling, she had cursed the lot of us.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
Ida heard the words "I'm sorry for your loss" so many times that the sentence was stripped of meaning.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
You know the kind. You'd know them a mile away. The ones who don't look like the others, don't act like the others. The ones who don't conform, don't follow the rules, don't go to church on Sunday. The ones who run away, make their own lives. The ones who drink too much, talk too much, don't work enough or at the right things. The ones who dress differently, love differently, think differently. Our family tree protects its good seeds, keeps them safe. But the bad apples get shown the door. Shunned, ignored, talked about in hushed whispers. They get pushed off the tree, breaking every branch on their way down. And once they've fallen, once they've been cast off the family tree, that's when the curse comes to them.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
1 note · View note
Text
Bad apples don't have history. They don't have roots. They just sit in the grass where they fell, rotting alone.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
0 notes
Text
I never understood why nerves were described as butterflies in your stomach. This was more like a prolonged electric shock.
Moïra Fowley-Doyle, All the Bad Apples
1 note · View note
Text
I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read you feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in
F.W.
Jane Austen, Persuasion
1 note · View note
Text
You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.
Jane Austen, Persuasion
3 notes · View notes