My kid’s first essay and I am so freaking proud! “Mama, I wrote the entire thing.”

Cross your fingers she gets the scholarship to violin camp!

My kid’s first essay and I am so freaking proud! “Mama, I wrote the entire thing.”

Cross your fingers she gets the scholarship to violin camp!

Other things related to BEWARE THE WILD

andimjulie:

obviouslyparker:

This seems a good time to mention the blurbs I’ve received for BEWARE THE WILD. Or you could just read them.

“Unique, haunting, and filled with characters who steal your heart, you’ll be just as intrigued by the rural, small-town world that Parker builds as you will by the magic she weaves in…

"So good you’ll want to paper mache the pages all over your body." - Julie Murphy, World Class Blurber

I’m going to paper mâché the words to the trees so they don’t come after me.

Also, Julie is Empress of Blurbs.

(via lorimlee)

8-GIF: Quotes from THE CHANCE YOU WON'T RETURN by Annie Cardi

hanginggardenstories:

When I told my mother I was the worst student in driver’s ed, I wasn’t lying.

image

"If I decide to run away, I’ll bring you with me."

image

I hadn’t exactly thought past that point, but then he started kissing me back and we were pressed together and his arms were around me, and I never wanted to…

catagator:

pickeringtonlibrary:

Some new books to add to your 2014 TBR piles…

It’s still a great year for series, both new and ongoing, but if you’re in the mood for a story that begins and ends with one book, here are a few of the novels for (most of) the latter half of the year - ranging from science fiction and fantasy to paranormal to realistic contemporary - that have us intrigued. And of course they’re not the only ones on our radar - visit us on Goodreads to find many, many more! 

Follow the links to find copies of available books in our catalog:

Free to Fall, Lauren Miller

Everything Leads to You, Nina Lacour

Inland, Kat Rosenfield

Say What You Will, Cammie McGovern

Complicit, Stephanie Kuehn

Conversion, Katherine Howe

Fiendish, Brenna Yovanoff

(Don’t You) Forget About Me, Kate Karyus Quinn

Servants of the Storm, Delilah Dawson

Beware the Wild, Natalie Parker

Illusions of Fate, Kiersten White

Belzhar, Meg Wolitzer

Stitching Snow, R.C. Lewis

Afterworlds, Scott Westerfeld

Falling into Place, Amy Zhang

Kiss of Broken Glass, Madeline Kuderick

Bleed Like Me, Christa Desir

This is a GREAT resource. 

Natalie and Christa!

(via teenlibrariantoolbox)

thewinterwidow:

pierogi-jarskie:

smithsonian:

Protip: This is a really bad question to ask when visiting the National Mall. We have 8 buildings surrounding the Mall, and a total of 19 museums, 9 research centers and the National Zoo. A S.H.I.E.L.D agent should know better! 

(We think she means the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History in this case.)  

I love that this is on the Smithsonian’s tumblr

#i was about to get annoyed about someone taking this too seriously but then i saw who posted it

(Source: runakvaed, via isqueeatstuff)

ekjohnston:

redbrunja:

I haven’t Armitaged jediemma in a while.

Or me. But I forgive you. And DAMN this moment. I can hear it in my soul.

(Source: armitagedaily)

http://shannonhale.tumblr.com/post/83427262134/it-is-easier-to-write-neutral-characters-white

shannonhale:

It is easier to write Neutral characters (white, straight, able-bodied, non-religious, mostly male). Less controversial, strangely. If the major characters of all your books resemble the cast of Friends, you’ll get occasional questions as to why but no major protestations. Because we’re all…

OneFourKidLit Book Releases - Week of April 22

onefourkidlit:

imageimage

THE CHANCE YOU WON’T RETURN by Annie Cardi

When your mom thinks she’s Amelia Earhart, navigating high school, first love, and family secrets is like flying solo without a map.

Driver’s ed and a first crush should be what Alex Winchester is stressed out about in high school - and…

hanginggardenstories:

La Vie en Rose
Clara Worthington had never seen anything quite like Nice. The wind was warm and salty, and the buildings were the soft golden color of fresh bread. For the first time in her life, she was grateful for her bonnet’s wide brim and, as she scrambled over the rocky beach, for her strong ankles.
            With one eye on the sea and one scanning the pebbles for bits of shell or glass, she didn’t notice the figure approaching her from the promenade until he was directly beside her.
            “Mademoiselle,” said a deep voice.
            She looked up to find a young man in a blue velvet jacket with matching cap. Thick black hair curled over his ears, and dark, wide-set eyes peered at her with an open expression that defied the brightness of the sun.
            “Oui?”
            He held up a pair of ivory lace gloves. “Are those yours?” he asked, in French.
            She held out her own hands, encased in linen. “They are lovely, but no, they’re not mine,” she replied in French.
            “You are English?” He tucked the lace gloves into his jacket pocket.
            “Oui,” she said with a sigh.
            “You are not happy to be English?” he asked, in English.
            “Oh, I am. I am not happy with my accent.”
            “You have not perhaps had a good tutor.” He was grinning, and she was taken with his straight teeth. “I will teach you.”
            She swallowed. “Excuse me, but have we met?”
            “Clara!” Her parents were further ahead along the beach, and her mother was calling to her.
            “Not yet, I think,” and then he tipped his cap at her and walked away.
They met at the shore the next two mornings, always when her parents were far ahead. He would appear from whichever direction she was not looking, even though she scanned the promenade and the shore, hoping to catch his approach.
            “Clara Worthington,” he would say, and she would turn to find him smiling and holding out a tiny shell, pinched between his fingers. She would take the shell, her cheeks would blush as soon as their fingertips touched, and then she’d say,
            “Enrico de Vence.”
The fourth day she went to the beach early, hoping to catch Enrico’s approach. She had begged her mother to let her go alone, promising (and lying) that she would speak to no one. She was scanning the stairs jutting down from the promenade when he said her name behind her.
            “Clara Worthington.” She turned and saw him pointing up along the beach. “Your parents, they are gone?”
            She swallowed, finding her throat thick. “They are not here yet.”
            “Come with me?”
            “To where?”
            “To meet my mother.” He offered her his arm, and she took it. While they stepped away from the shore, she looked over her shoulder, hoping no one who knew her would see, and wincing at the thought that her parents would be livid when she returned in the afternoon.
The village of Vence was an hours’ ride from Nice, deeper into the foothills of the alps and away from salt-tinged air of the coast. Vence glowed from atop its hill, reflecting light throughout the scrabbly, sharp-edged valley. The stone buildings squished together leaving barely enough room for the alleys to breathe, but Clara did not care one whit. She followed Enrico as he wound deeper into the village, pausing often to look back at her.
            “I am sorry it is too narrow for the carriage,” he said, “but my mother prefers to live in quiet places.”
            Dodging a youth who was running down the steps, she wondered where this quiet place was. It was as loud as Birmingham, despite the lack of horses.
            A minute later, they stopped and Enrico pointed at a church with stone spires bleached from reaching for the sun.
            “Welcome to my house.”
            “That’s a church.”
            “It used to be,” he said with a nod. “It has been in the family for centuries, and my mother decided she’d like to live there, in the back.” Gently, he took her gloved hand in his and led her across an oddly empty square to the front door. It was wide, arched, and painted cherry-red. Rose bushes, heavy with blossoms, dotted the gravel beneath the stained-glass windows.
            He rapped once on the red door and twisted the bronze handle.
Enrico’s mother was thin-lipped, bright-eyed, and well-heeled. She swallowed loudly while she poured the tea, and then smiled with all but her eyes as she handed over the cup.
            “Welcome to Vence,” she said. “I hope the drive was not too long?” Her skin was a rich olive and her hair was thick and dark, as though she’d frightened the gray away in a lengthy Italian curse.
            “It was lovely,” Clara said. She flicked her eyes to her cup.
            Enrico’s mother pushed a China bowl across the lace-topped table. “Sugar?” Then she took a sip of milk tea and waved in Enrico’s direction. “Enrico, this girl deserves some roses, don’t you think? Go and get some from the garden.”
            “But—“
            She raised an eyebrow.
            “Clara, will you be alright?” he asked, avoiding his mother’s gaze.
            “Of course,” she said. She dropped a spoonful of sugar into her cup, stirred, and took a sip. “This is lovely tea.”
            Enrico frowned at his mother, but left the room anyway.
            “Now that we are alone we can speak frankly,” the older woman said.
            Clara’s hand shook. “Yes?”
            “What do you want from my son?”
            “I…I do not know what you mean.”
            With a great sigh, Enrico’s mother leaned back in her upholstered chair. “He has never been convinced to bring a girl home to meet me before. What sort of creature are you?”
            “Excuse me? I…I…” The teacup was heavy in Clara’s hand, and the tea was turning an odd green color.
            Then her vision turned black.

“Clara, darling, you can wake up now.”
            She blinked until Enrico wasn’t blurry anymore.
            “What happened?” Her voice was raspy.
            “She’s gone.” He grinned. “She’s finally gone. I woke you as soon as I was sure.”
            “Who…” She rubbed at her neck and yawned, then realized Enrico—a man—was bent over her prone figure and she pushed herself up onto her elbows and inched away.
            “My mother.”
            “Why was I asleep? What time is it?”
            She was lying on a narrow bed set low to the floor in a room lit by a few cracks in a boarded up window. Sheets draped over lumps of furniture and crates, and they matched the dusty one pulled back from her face.
            “She’s dead,” he said. He pulled the rest of the sheet away and held out his hands. She took them and he pulled her up onto her feet. “Careful now,” he said just as she noticed her feet were tingling.
            “She’s dead?”
            “Yes. I think the war did her in.”
            “The war?” Nothing he was saying made any sense. Why was he cradling her? Why was she not strong enough to push him away?
            “Clara, the sugar my mother gave you was poisoned.”
            “But I’m not dead.” She tried to shake away the soggy thoughts in her head. She knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. “Instead, she is.”
            “It only made you sleep.” He turned his head and fingered the hem of the sheet, which she now saw was embroidered in roses and long strands of bramble. “For a very long time.”
            “How—how long?” Why was her throat so tight?
            “It’s been a hundred and seven years since I brought you here.”
            She lost all strength in her legs.
            “I’m so sorry, Clara,” he said to her hair, and she noticed his accent had hardened.
He came to her hourly asking if she was any better. He brought her newspapers, novels, and a variety of food and drink.
            It didn’t matter because everyone she’d ever known was dead. And, according to the newspapers, so was all of Europe. A great war had ravaged the continent. London had been broken by bombs that fell from the sky.
            The fifth time, when she still wasn’t speaking to him, he stopped by the door on his way out.
            “She told me you’d left when I went to get flowers. I ran over every street out there. I searched the hillside. You disappeared. Then, two days ago, she told me what she’d done. That she’d ‘preserved’ you.”
            Clara looked up. His silhouette was outlined by the light from the hallway, and bits of dust swirled around his halo of hair.
            “She said she didn’t want you to live and die out when you were not yet needed, since I had her. So she kept you for me, for this moment.”
            Clara finally spoke. “What sort of creatures are you?”
            “The worst sort.” He hung his head and left the room.
She changed rooms, choosing one with a wide window from which she watched him climb into his “automobile” every day at noon. She studied him. She studied the car.
            A fortnight later, she walked out at dusk and drove away.
            There wasn’t a love that could bear a century of being tucked away in storage.
            

hanginggardenstories:

La Vie en Rose

Clara Worthington had never seen anything quite like Nice. The wind was warm and salty, and the buildings were the soft golden color of fresh bread. For the first time in her life, she was grateful for her bonnet’s wide brim and, as she scrambled over the rocky beach, for her strong ankles.

            With one eye on the sea and one scanning the pebbles for bits of shell or glass, she didn’t notice the figure approaching her from the promenade until he was directly beside her.

            “Mademoiselle,” said a deep voice.

            She looked up to find a young man in a blue velvet jacket with matching cap. Thick black hair curled over his ears, and dark, wide-set eyes peered at her with an open expression that defied the brightness of the sun.

            “Oui?”

            He held up a pair of ivory lace gloves. “Are those yours?” he asked, in French.

            She held out her own hands, encased in linen. “They are lovely, but no, they’re not mine,” she replied in French.

            “You are English?” He tucked the lace gloves into his jacket pocket.

            “Oui,” she said with a sigh.

            “You are not happy to be English?” he asked, in English.

            “Oh, I am. I am not happy with my accent.”

            “You have not perhaps had a good tutor.” He was grinning, and she was taken with his straight teeth. “I will teach you.”

            She swallowed. “Excuse me, but have we met?”

            “Clara!” Her parents were further ahead along the beach, and her mother was calling to her.

            “Not yet, I think,” and then he tipped his cap at her and walked away.

They met at the shore the next two mornings, always when her parents were far ahead. He would appear from whichever direction she was not looking, even though she scanned the promenade and the shore, hoping to catch his approach.

            “Clara Worthington,” he would say, and she would turn to find him smiling and holding out a tiny shell, pinched between his fingers. She would take the shell, her cheeks would blush as soon as their fingertips touched, and then she’d say,

            “Enrico de Vence.”

The fourth day she went to the beach early, hoping to catch Enrico’s approach. She had begged her mother to let her go alone, promising (and lying) that she would speak to no one. She was scanning the stairs jutting down from the promenade when he said her name behind her.

            “Clara Worthington.” She turned and saw him pointing up along the beach. “Your parents, they are gone?”

            She swallowed, finding her throat thick. “They are not here yet.”

            “Come with me?”

            “To where?”

            “To meet my mother.” He offered her his arm, and she took it. While they stepped away from the shore, she looked over her shoulder, hoping no one who knew her would see, and wincing at the thought that her parents would be livid when she returned in the afternoon.

The village of Vence was an hours’ ride from Nice, deeper into the foothills of the alps and away from salt-tinged air of the coast. Vence glowed from atop its hill, reflecting light throughout the scrabbly, sharp-edged valley. The stone buildings squished together leaving barely enough room for the alleys to breathe, but Clara did not care one whit. She followed Enrico as he wound deeper into the village, pausing often to look back at her.

            “I am sorry it is too narrow for the carriage,” he said, “but my mother prefers to live in quiet places.”

            Dodging a youth who was running down the steps, she wondered where this quiet place was. It was as loud as Birmingham, despite the lack of horses.

            A minute later, they stopped and Enrico pointed at a church with stone spires bleached from reaching for the sun.

            “Welcome to my house.”

            “That’s a church.”

            “It used to be,” he said with a nod. “It has been in the family for centuries, and my mother decided she’d like to live there, in the back.” Gently, he took her gloved hand in his and led her across an oddly empty square to the front door. It was wide, arched, and painted cherry-red. Rose bushes, heavy with blossoms, dotted the gravel beneath the stained-glass windows.

            He rapped once on the red door and twisted the bronze handle.

Enrico’s mother was thin-lipped, bright-eyed, and well-heeled. She swallowed loudly while she poured the tea, and then smiled with all but her eyes as she handed over the cup.

            “Welcome to Vence,” she said. “I hope the drive was not too long?” Her skin was a rich olive and her hair was thick and dark, as though she’d frightened the gray away in a lengthy Italian curse.

            “It was lovely,” Clara said. She flicked her eyes to her cup.

            Enrico’s mother pushed a China bowl across the lace-topped table. “Sugar?” Then she took a sip of milk tea and waved in Enrico’s direction. “Enrico, this girl deserves some roses, don’t you think? Go and get some from the garden.”

            “But—“

            She raised an eyebrow.

            “Clara, will you be alright?” he asked, avoiding his mother’s gaze.

            “Of course,” she said. She dropped a spoonful of sugar into her cup, stirred, and took a sip. “This is lovely tea.”

            Enrico frowned at his mother, but left the room anyway.

            “Now that we are alone we can speak frankly,” the older woman said.

            Clara’s hand shook. “Yes?”

            “What do you want from my son?”

            “I…I do not know what you mean.”

            With a great sigh, Enrico’s mother leaned back in her upholstered chair. “He has never been convinced to bring a girl home to meet me before. What sort of creature are you?”

            “Excuse me? I…I…” The teacup was heavy in Clara’s hand, and the tea was turning an odd green color.

            Then her vision turned black.

“Clara, darling, you can wake up now.”

            She blinked until Enrico wasn’t blurry anymore.

            “What happened?” Her voice was raspy.

            “She’s gone.” He grinned. “She’s finally gone. I woke you as soon as I was sure.”

            “Who…” She rubbed at her neck and yawned, then realized Enrico—a man—was bent over her prone figure and she pushed herself up onto her elbows and inched away.

            “My mother.”

            “Why was I asleep? What time is it?”

            She was lying on a narrow bed set low to the floor in a room lit by a few cracks in a boarded up window. Sheets draped over lumps of furniture and crates, and they matched the dusty one pulled back from her face.

            “She’s dead,” he said. He pulled the rest of the sheet away and held out his hands. She took them and he pulled her up onto her feet. “Careful now,” he said just as she noticed her feet were tingling.

            “She’s dead?”

            “Yes. I think the war did her in.”

            “The war?” Nothing he was saying made any sense. Why was he cradling her? Why was she not strong enough to push him away?

            “Clara, the sugar my mother gave you was poisoned.”

            “But I’m not dead.” She tried to shake away the soggy thoughts in her head. She knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. “Instead, she is.”

            “It only made you sleep.” He turned his head and fingered the hem of the sheet, which she now saw was embroidered in roses and long strands of bramble. “For a very long time.”

            “How—how long?” Why was her throat so tight?

            “It’s been a hundred and seven years since I brought you here.”

            She lost all strength in her legs.

            “I’m so sorry, Clara,” he said to her hair, and she noticed his accent had hardened.

He came to her hourly asking if she was any better. He brought her newspapers, novels, and a variety of food and drink.

            It didn’t matter because everyone she’d ever known was dead. And, according to the newspapers, so was all of Europe. A great war had ravaged the continent. London had been broken by bombs that fell from the sky.

            The fifth time, when she still wasn’t speaking to him, he stopped by the door on his way out.

            “She told me you’d left when I went to get flowers. I ran over every street out there. I searched the hillside. You disappeared. Then, two days ago, she told me what she’d done. That she’d ‘preserved’ you.”

            Clara looked up. His silhouette was outlined by the light from the hallway, and bits of dust swirled around his halo of hair.

            “She said she didn’t want you to live and die out when you were not yet needed, since I had her. So she kept you for me, for this moment.”

            Clara finally spoke. “What sort of creatures are you?”

            “The worst sort.” He hung his head and left the room.

She changed rooms, choosing one with a wide window from which she watched him climb into his “automobile” every day at noon. She studied him. She studied the car.

            A fortnight later, she walked out at dusk and drove away.

            There wasn’t a love that could bear a century of being tucked away in storage.

            

"It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams."

Gabriel García Márquez (RIP April 17, 2014)

(Source: scienceisbeauty)