Of course. Remember, I’ve seen you in her. And it’s wonderful.
It’s always what may not be shown that shows the most. Forbidden words are always the most eloquent.
This is the state of the beast,′ it said, ’to eat and be eaten.
You still love her, don’t you?” Pie said, once they were out and walking. “Of course I love her,” Estabrook said. “That’s why I want her dead.” “There’s no resurrection, Mr. Estabrook. Not for you, at least.” “It’s not me who’s dying,” he said. “I think it is,” came the.
Meaning is always a latecomer. Beauty and music seduce us first; later ashamed of our own sensuality, we insist on meaning.
You opened their eyes to another world, darling. They’ll never forgive you for that.
Its face crinkled up grotesquely, the eyes narrowing like those of a laughing Buddha, the lips peeling back to expose a sickle of brilliant teeth.
Suzanna had argued with zealots before – her brother had been born again at twenty-three, and given his life to Christ – she knew from experience there was no gainsaying the bigotry of faith.
Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself. So August gave way to September and there were few complaints.
Fear gripped Harry, like some old dope-pusher promising a terrible high.
She was so beautiful, you see. Not in any two-dimensional sense: she wasn’t young, she wasn’t innocent, she didn’t have that pristine symmetry so favored by ad-men and photographers. Her face was plainly that of a woman in her early forties: it had been used to laugh and cry, and usage leaves its marks. But she had a power to transform herself, in the subtlest way, making that face as various as the sky.
When, finally, she did sleep, it was the slumber of a watcher and waiter. Light, and full of sighs.
Her mother had always said that women, being more at peace with themselves than men, needed fewer distractions from their hurts.
The wind was not invisible. It had a texture, as though it carried a weight of dust, the motes steadily gumming up her eyes and sealing her nose, finding its way into her underwear and up into her body by those routes too.
The Monastery of the Cenobitical Order was a large-walled compound built seven hundred thousand years ago on a damned-made hill of stone and cement.
No. No, I’m not.” Then she said: “I’m somebody else. I just don’t know who that somebody else is yet.” “Well that’s what journeys are for,” Diamanda Murkitt said.
Yes, fantastic fiction can be intricately woven into the texture of our daily lives, addressing important issues in fabulist form. But it also serves to release us for a time from the definitions that confine our daily selves; to unplug us from a world that wounds and disappoints us, allowing us to venture into places of magic and transformation.
I don’t plot or outline, though I may take a few notes here and there, instead I let my dream world fill up each night with a segment of the story. I do this without worrying about it, or trying to force it, and when I wake up the dream bag is full, and I can go to my writing desk, and dream all over the page.
He wouldn’t be remembered well.
I decided that I would do my best to be the worst thing Hell ever vomited forth.