fiction

The festive music died down and the granite pillars were replaced with rotted wooden beams as he continued down the alleyways. The scent of fresh flowers turned to mold, and the colorful mosiacs of honor and nobility were nonexistent. Run-down tenements were shadowed by its surrounding buildings, as if the capital itself wanted to conceal its existence.

You know, in everyone__ life you go through just trying to learn what one times one is__ne times one equals one.

Suddenly William loomed over him, scowling, snarling and bloody, his suit dirt-stained and ripped. __o you know. How many strands. Of hair I lost. On my way down?__hatever. __ath was never my thing, but I__ gonna say you lost_a lot.__lectric-blues glittered with menace. __ou are a cruel, sadistic bastard. My hair needs TLC and you_you_ Damn you! I__e gutted men for less.___ know. I__e watched you._ Paris lumbered to his feet and scanned the rocky bank they stood upon, the crimson ocean lapping and bubbling in every direction. The drawbridge was only a fifty-yard dash away. __on__ kill the messenger, but I__ thinking you should change your dating profile to balding.__asculine cheeks went scarlet as the big bad warrior struggled for a comeback._ __ne of these days you__e going to wake up,_ William finally said, __nd I will have shaved you. Everywhere.___on__ make a difference. Women will still want me. But you know what else? What I did to you wasn__ cruel, Willy._ He offered the warrior a white-flag grin. A trick. A lie. __his, however, is.__e grabbed William by the wrist, swung the man around and around before at last releasing him and hurling his body directly onto the bridge.

The type of mind that can understand good fiction is not necessarily the educated mind, but it is at all times the kind of mind that is willing to have its sense of mystery deepened by contact with reality, and its sense of reality deepened by contact with mystery.

(From the Author Note at the beginning of the book.) Dorothy L. Sayers used to say that mystery stories were the only moral fiction of the modern world--because in a mystery, you were guaranteed to see that the bad got punished, the good got rewarded and in the end all was made

Hate did not give way to heroism.

...there are books...which you can't tell people about, books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal.

I read nonfiction."She reared back as if offended.

The web is a dangerous place for a mind begging to slack off and be distracted by nonsense.

We can't change the world by shouting, but our words can have meaning if we give them enough respect.

People should know better than to be an ass in front of writers. We immortalize things. Lots of things. And we take liberties with character descriptions.

It's a good day to do great things!

For us, the playground of fiction is just as important as reality

I was murdered. Even though my heart continued to beat, I was very much deceased. All faded to black

But to be perfectly frank, this childish idea that the author of a novel has some special insight into the characters in the novel...it's ridiculous. That novel was composed of scratches on a page, dear. The characters inhabiting it have no life outside of those scratches. What happened to them? They all ceased to exist the moment the novel ended.

While parchment may burn and gold may be stained or melted down, the things that are truly important to us will never lose their value.

Where are you taking me?_ Andrew demanded, whirling on the Ferryman. His muscles tensed, hands curling in and out of fists.__o my master._ The voice was ghostly, whispers of black ash and death, words cold and detached.He had an idea who that was but asked anyway: __nd who is your master?__o answer came.Andrew__ insatiable rage rose up and swallowed his grief like a yawning ocean mouth, the darkest depths surging to the surface to form a mighty tidal wave. He closed the distance and seized the Ferryman__ gaunt wrist. There was no substance, no life beneath the cloak. The Ferryman slowly turned his hooded head, and Andrew found himself looking into the black hole of a self-contained night. The olfactory of decay was a punch in the face. Andrew released the Ferryman__ wrist and hastily stepped back, rocking the boat as he put distance between him and the unnatural wind spilling from the gaping orifice. Andrew shivered, the tiny hairs on his neck saluting. The cloaked head faced forward again, and the wind died away.

Let your dissent fuel you, your anger inspire you, your rage convey you, and your fury strike a chilling fear onto the spines of your enemies.