Libba Bray
Libba Bray
Libba Brayis an American writer of young adult novels including the Gemma Doyle Trilogy, Going Bovine, and The Diviners...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionYoung Adult Author
Date of Birth11 March 1964
CityMontgomery, AL
CountryUnited States of America
character path different
There is a time in every life when paths are chosen, character is forged. I could have chosen a different path. But I didn’t. I failed myself.
night wind secret
The night's chilly breath tickles up my neck and finds my ear, whispering secrets only the wind knows.
magic stories good-story
We sit and listen and are enthralled anew, for good stories, it seems, never lose their magic.
moving dark axes
Felicity and I watch the dancers moving as one. They spin about like the earth on it's axis, enduring the dark, waiting for the sun.
girl ambition glasses
No one asks how or what I am doing. They could not care less. We’re all looking glasses, we girls, existing only to reflect their images back to them as they’d like to be seen. Hollow vessels of girls to be rinsed of our own ambitions, wants, and opinions, just waiting to be filled with the cool, tepid water of gracious compliance. A fissure forms in the vessel. I’m cracking open.
life running giving
I run after her, not really giving chase. I’m running because I can, because I must. Because I want to see how far I can go before I have to stop.
acting cholera
My cholera's acting up again.
keys
The key holds the truth
arms ankles obscene
How can my ankles and arms be obscene?
pain hero guitar
You are working up to Mr. Fantastic Fiction levels of Zombie Expert, which is like playing Guitar Hero on some level that actually melts the guitar controller, burning your fingers with searing hot plastic till you scream in pain. Only with words. And zombies.
choices what-if trying
What happens if your choice is misguided, You must try to correct it But what if it’s too late? What if you can’t? Then you must find a way to live with it.
secret way want
Why is it that some secrets can drown you while some pull you close to others in a way you never want to lose?
prayer branches down-and
A gentle breeze catches in the branches then and I hear it, soft and low, a murmured prayer--Gem-ma, Gem-ma--and then the leaves bend down and trail delicate fingers across my cold cheeks.
memories home dark
What frightens you? What makes the hair on your arms rise, your palms sweat, the breath catch in your chest like a wild thing caged? Is it the dark? A fleeting memory of a bedtime story, ghosts and goblins and witches hiding in the shadows? Is it the way the wind picks up just before a storm, the hint of wet in the air that makes you want to scurry home to the safety of your fire? Or is it something deeper, something much more frightening, a monster deep inside that you've glimpsed only in pieces, the vast unknown of your own soul where secrets gather with a terrible power, the dark inside?