Their laughter was like the stridulation of the ghosts of grasshoppers.
So--what's it like, being a vampire?""Aline!" Isabelle looked appalled. "You can't just go around asking people what's it like to be a vampire!""I don't see why," Aline said. "He hasn't been a vampire that long, has he? So he must still remember what it was like being a person." She turned back to Simon. "Does blood taste like blood to you? Or does it taste like something else now, like orange juice or something? Because I would think the taste of blood would-""It tastes like chicken," Simon said, just to shut her up."Really?" Aline looked astonished."He's making fun of you, Aline," said Sebastain
City of Glass
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So--what's it like, being a vampire?""Aline!" Isabelle looked appalled. "You can't just go around asking people what's it like to be a vampire!""I don't see why," Aline said. "He hasn't been a vampire that long, has he? So he must still remember what it was like being a person." She turned back to Simon. "Does blood taste like blood to you? Or does it taste like something else now, like orange juice or something? Because I would think the taste of blood would-""It tastes like chicken," Simon said, just to shut her up."Really?" Aline looked astonished."He's making fun of you, Aline," said Sebastain
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Just behind his jaw bones a tiny movement was perceptible, like the movement of gills in a fish.
Franklin Fletcher dreamed of luxury in the form of tiger-skins and beautiful women. He was prepared, at a pinch, to forgo the tiger-skins. Unfortunately the beautiful women seemed equally rare and inaccessible. At his office and at his boarding-house the girls were mere mice, or cattish, or kittenish, or had insufficiently read the advertisements.
How happy I might be, if only she was less greedy, better tempered, not addicted to raking up old grudges, more affectionate, with slightly yellower hair, slimmer, and about twenty years younger! But what is the good of expecting such a woman to reform?
There are some young almond tress, which ordinarily look as if drawn by a childish hand. Now, as the wind sets their weak branches gibbering, they seem like shamanistic scratches on the white bone of the brittle bright night.