All your life you’re told you’re unique. An individual. That no one on the planet is just like you. It’s humanity’s anthem. But that isn’t true for me anymore.
Time is what keeps everything from happening at once. —RAY CUMMINGS
Perfection was a surface thing. The epidermis. Cut a few layers deep, you begin to see some darker shades.
Of course it’s for you. But it’s also so those little diseased children don’t become dracula snacks. We need to get them safe so they can be sick and die in peace.
Is it safe?
In high school, in college, she was encouraged again and again to find her passion-a reason to get out of bed and breathe. In her experience, few people ever found that raison d'etre. What teachers an...
If memory is unreliable, if the past and the present can simply change without warning, then fact and truth will cease to exist. How do we live in a world like that?
I paint my life with words.
How did one carry on in the face of such knowledge?
Her smile reminded Theresa of a movie star smile—toothy and wide, and if you stared too hard at it, not quite real.
Held it up to the peephole, Theresa felt something break inside her. It was a photo of Ethan lying on a steel operating table, naked under clinical blue light.
He worries she’s going to ask what happened. Why he isn’t dead. It’s a question he’s been dreading and preparing for all day.
He thought of all the quaint Victorian houses in Wayward Pines and of all the families who lived inside them. How many residents—inmates—kept up a strong, carefree countenance during the day, but then...
He reaches into his greatcoat, pulls out a tin of Star Navy.
He reached in, grabbed a bag of carrots and a small loaf of bread, crammed them down into the side pockets of his jeans.
Have five seconds before we open fire. Jack opened his door and stepped out into the highway.
Hadn’t the poet Carl Sandburg written about this very thing? Ethan couldn’t recall the verse verbatim, knew only that it had something to do with the voice of the last cricket across the frost. A spli...
Following a tragedy, grief comes in waves, each bigger than the previous, each carrying a new component of pain.
Do you know how a gun works? They hurt you. They can. I shot a bullet into the back of Molly’s head so she wouldn’t be sick or sad anymore. Did it hurt her?
Wonder, Is this what God feels? The rush that comes from having literally spoken a world into existence? And yes, this world already existed, but I connected us to it.