Annabelle Quotes

you're Shane, right?'He inched away from her and managed a quick nod as he twisted the rag he held in his fingers. 'Heidi sad you were willing to teach me how to ride.' Her expression shifted from entertained to confused, as if she was wondering why no one had mentioned he was a can or two shy of a six-pack. 'A horse,' he clarified, then wanted to kick himself. What else but a horse? Did he think she was here to learn to ride his mother's elephant? One corner of Annabelle's perfect, full mouth twitched. 'A horse would be good. You seem to have several.'He wanted to remind himself that he was usually fine around women. Smooth even. He was intelligent, funny and could, on occasion, be charming. Just not now, with his blood pumping and his brain doing nothing more than shouting "it's her, it's her" over and over again. Chemistry, he thought grimly. It could turn the smartest man into a drooling idiot. Here he was, proving the theory true.

Susan Mallery

You’re angry at me,” she says.I stop crying at once. My whole body goes cold and still. She squats down beside me, and even though I’m careful not to look up, not to look at her at all, I can feel her, can smell the sweat from her skin and hear the ragged pattern of her breathing.“You’re angry at me,” she repeats, and her voice hitches a little. “You think I don’t care.”Her voice is the same. For years I used to imagine that voice lilting over those forbidden words: I love you. Remember. They cannot take it. Her last words to me before she went away.She shuffles forward and squats next to me. She hesitates, then reaches out and places her palm against my cheek, and turns my head toward hers so I’m forced to look at her. I can feel the calluses on her fingers.In her eyes, I see myself reflected in miniature, and I tunnel back to a time before she left, before I believed she was gone forever, when her eyes welcomed me into every day and shepherded me, every night, into sleep.“You turned out even more beautiful than I’d imagined,” she whispers. She, too, is crying.The hard casement inside me breaks.“Why?” is the only word that comes. Without intending to or even thinking about it, I allow her to draw me against her chest, let her wrap her arms around me. I cry into the space between her collarbones, inhaling the still-familiar smell of her skin.There are so many things I need to ask her: What happened to you in the Crypts? How could you let them take you away? Where did you go? But all I can say is: “Why didn’t you come for me? After all those years—all that time—why didn’t you come?” Then I can’t speak at all; my sobs become shudders.“Shhh.” She presses her lips to my forehead, strokes my hair, just like she used to when I was a child. I am a baby once again in her arms—helpless and needy. “I’m here now.”She rubs my back while I cry. Slowly, I feel the darkness drain out of me, as though pulled away by the motion of her hand. Finally I can breathe again. My eyes are burning, and my throat feels raw and sore. I draw away from her, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand, not even caring that my nose is running. I’m suddenly exhausted—too tired to be hurt, too tired to be angry. I want to sleep, and sleep.“I never stopped thinking about you,” my mother says. “I thought of you every day—you and Rachel.

Lauren Oliver

Though it pained me, I gave in. Why was it that I repeatedly succumbed to the first whisper of a promised maybe? How did the enticer, hope, always find my heart unguarded? There was no such thing as hope. Not for me. Why was it so hard to accept that?

Richelle E. Goodrich

The interruption did nothing but earn her a similar slap, as I’m sure she knew it would. Sometimes I wondered if my mother spoke up at the wrong time on purpose. As often as we endured my father’s abuse, she had to be aware that it wouldn’t save me from a beating but simply earn her one as well. Or was it that sharing my fate made her feel less guilt-ridden about those things that happened to me?

Richelle E. Goodrich

Have you ever felt as if your dreams were more memorable, more alive, than what you knew to be reality? Have your dreams ever seemed so tangible as to make you question upon waking if you’d truly only dreamt them? Have they at times been addictive enough to consume your waking hours; blurring actuality and pretend together until your wishes and passions stare back at you with open

Richelle E. Goodrich

He panted over me, winded by his own absurd lecture. The stench of his alcoholic breath stung my nose. Again I didn’t answer. I hoped he’d tire out and end his speech and hobble back to the living room without touching me. Such hopes were unlikely, as was the case this time. t“Answer me, you good-for-nuthin’ wench!” tThe pain bit instantly as his hand connected with my cheek. I shook my head in answer to his crazy questions, feeling a rise of warm tears.

Richelle E. Goodrich

My fingers combed through my dark hair, short and straight, landing in choppy, uneven ends nearly level with my chin. The color reminded me of every evil character in any fairytale. It seemed all were characteristically black; black hair, black eyes, black clothing, black demeanors, and black intent. I never thought I was truly a villainous character, not like I knew my father to be, but I was his offspring and devoid of any princess-like characteristics, so that left only the wicked side of the story to play. In my dreams, though, I imagined myself more like Snow White―wavy, raven hair, a perfectly fair complexion, bathed in rose scents, and exhibiting a natural feminine grace that would dance musical circles around both Ginger and Elizabeth. No, I never hoped for such a thing to be real, but I dared to pretend it with perfect clarity in my dreams.

Richelle E. Goodrich

When the girl didn’t move, Gavin summoned her near with his fingers. His heart thrummed as she obeyed, stepping up close to him. Her young stature was much shorter than his tall, wiry form. Gavin regarded her prettiness - pale cheeks, pink lips, inquisitive eyes. Fascinated by her, he longed to know her name.t“Who are you?” he asked. He heard the girl utter the same question at the same time.tCocking his head, he claimed, “I asked you first.”t“No you didn’t,” she protested, shaking her red-hooded head, “I asked you at the same time you asked me.”tGavin grinned at her insistence. It was hard for him not to chuckle. “Well, then, I suppose we’ll have to go with ‘girls first’.” His grin widened into a white smile.tThe girl gestured to herself. “I’m Little Red Riding Hood.”tHe recognized the name of a fairytale character, and groaned under his breath at not having discovered this dreamer’s real name.t“Actually,” she confessed almost immediately, “I’m not really Red Riding Hood. My name is Annabelle, but I’m pretending to be her because……well……because this is my dream and that’s what I wish to dream abo

Richelle E. Goodrich

Dare to imagine. Dare to be. Books are the seeds. Dreams are the soil. The fruit of the harvest, a world reborn.

Richelle E. Goodrich

Gavin stood within the trees, observing her from the shadows. He watched the basket rise to her nose as she closed her eyes to sniff at its contents. A smile told him it smelled delicious, but she didn’t open the container to pinch off a sample. Instead, the basket lowered to swing at her side as it had previously done.tAll at once the air was filled with soft singing--a sweet, merry tune comprised of ludicrous lyrics. It was impossible not to grin at the

Richelle E. Goodrich

The fact is, the man who’d begotten me didn’t want me. In his eyes I should never have been born. And perhaps that would’ve been best. As it was, my existence had proven to be nothing more than a nuisance for everyone. I angered my father, brought strife upon my mother, irritated my teachers, and annoyed the other children who were forced to interact with me in school. All by simply being. tWhen you aren’t loved, you aren’t real. Life is cold, like the stone against my palm.

Richelle E. Goodrich

Real? Real depends upon your perspective, Annabelle. People never see life exactly the same way. The world is what you think it is.

Richelle E. Goodrich

Gregory?” I called. I couldn’t help myself. It was irrational, but I was scared to see him run from me. He turned my direction, his feet pivoting in the dirt. Warily, I crossed into the light for a moment.t“Do you, um…” I inhaled deeply. “Do you think you’ll still want to be my friend tomorrow?” I held my breath and waited for his answer.tAlthough I could feel the sunshine perceptibly tingle every inch of exposed skin, the way Gregory smiled at me produced a swell of warmth unmatchable even for the sun. t“I’ll always want to be your friend, Annabelle. Do you want to be mine?”tMy head nodded like mad, ecstatic, all on its own. I disappeared among the shadows again and watched my new friend until he stepped around the Hopkins’ house. Then I waited until his car drove off -- Gregory and his mother headed for home. tI was on a high like no other, but I’d not lost my grasp on reality entirely. I knew that the real test would come Monday. It was one thing to befriend an outcast in the privacy of the woods, but quite another to risk ridicule and reputation when surrounded by peers. This was true even for those with the biggest of hearts, which I now believed Gregory Hill to have.

Richelle E. Goodrich

May God have mercy on your soul! from Annabelle, as far as now the film reminds for Chucky.

Deyth Banger

Annabelle Quotes

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