And the sun on the wall of her room, the block of sun with all the tiny flying things in it. When she was little she thought they were the souls of dead insects, still buzzing in the light.
Just take me with you. Please. I cant. Please, Papa. I cant. I cant hold my son dead in my arms. I thought I could but I cant.
I don’t have any inkling what to do with all the ink in this digital age. Maybe I’ll write a bunch of love letters to a dead author. Who moved my mayonnaise?
I celebrate my birthday in ways not seen this side of the Old Testament. I celebrate my life like the Dead Sea, and my party is a BYOP (bring your own plague) event.
I’m hypoglycemic and squeamish and liable to pass out at the first sign of blood. That happened this morning. I came into the kitchen and found blood on the floor, right next to a few dead hookers.
Hadrian leapt to his feet. Royce was already up. “Don’t bother,” Esrahaddon told them. “She’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do. The monster cannot be harmed by your weapons. It—” The two were out the door.
Drifting on the black, rippling surface were fingers. Thumbs. Dozens of them. Hundreds, floating like dead fish in a dynamited pond. I saw part of an ear. The lights went out.
The worst is, I remain so stone cold. Does this war make you an 'alive-dead person'? Is it not possible to remain yourself in this chaos? How long still?
And starward drifts the stricken world, Lone in unalterable gloom Dead, with a universe for tomb, Dark, and to vaster darkness whirled. (“The Testimony of the Suns”)
One! two! and through and through The vorpal blade went snickersnack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
You can still be cool when you’re dead. In fact, it’s much easier, because you aren’t getting old and fat and losing your hair.
A few Paris blocks away I led a completely normal life with my sister & grandparents. And here I was sword fighting with dead guys.
...and it's ridiculous that anyone would praise a child for standing with arms spread out on a wooden cross, as if she were Jesus's dead sister wearing a checkerboard tablecloth.
We'd better get. But y'all have a nice night,' I say. Apparently, fear turns me Texan. A startling personality insight that I'll jot down later if I'm not dead in a ditch.
I can kill a bad guy, but I can't save anyone. I'm not a hero. All I am is a killer. A dead killer who shit his pants.
In the West, of course, God has been dead for some time. What remains is religion as social belief, which is at best a moral code and at worst social etiquette.
For the first time, a whole generation had the economic & educational opportunity to turn their backs on the dead end factory jobs of their parents, who, traumatized by two world wars, had responded by creating a safety blanket of conformity.
He is not coming back." And it hurt.It hurt until she was a mass of pain,worse than it had been when she thought he was dead. More all consuming. Ravaging her insides.
The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.
It's the living that turn and chase the dead. The long bones and skulls are tumbled from their shrouds, and words like stones thrust into their rattling mouths: we edit their writings, we rewrite their lives.
This lot won't suffer you forever.I wouldn't see you dead by their knives; I see a fine man within you Wit." "Yes, He tasted quite delicious.
