stalking

Dorcas wasn't a fast walker. It was difficult for me to keep behind her. I tried to let others, joggers, and bicyclists, come between us. I followed her past a field where girls were playing soccer, and into the woods bordering Catamount Creek. The smell of pine needles underfoot was sharp, pungent. I seemed to know that I would always associate that smell with this afternoon, and with Dorcas.

We had, I felt, bared small pieces of our symmetrical souls to each other, fast, as if playing one of those breathless card games, and I had pretended to be as moved as I had been the first time I uncovered it all myself, back in East Hampton.

I ate a lot of candy and engaged in light stalking: I prowled Blythe__ Instagram and Twitter, I read her reviews, considered photos of her baked goods and watched from a distance as she got on her soapbox _ at one point bragging she was the only person she knew who used her real name and profession online. As my fascination mounted, and my self-loathing deepened, I reminded myself that there are worse things than rabid bloggers (cancer, for instance) and that people suffer greater degradations than becoming writers. But still, I wanted to respond.

Your name. That__ all I want._ I debate on whether or not I should explain to him that my name isn't going to help him in his stalking endeavours.

The Arab poet Silm Al Khaser wrote __e who watches people dies of worry_ and his words have never been more potent than in today__ world where all people do is watch others and cater to them in return.

The knives of jealousy are honed on details.

Simon leveled the gun at Will again. 'Now,' he said casually, 'someone's gonna die here in the next minute.'On the other side of the two-way mirror, Sammy took aim.'That's exactly right,' she whispered.

Death. It is a strange stalker, one that we spend our whole lives running from, some more successful than others.

If you choose to be fearless, then be fearlessly authentic not an imitation of someone you envy.

We don't have dealings. He just stalks me. I'm popular like that.

What are you going to do? Are you going to live in the dark, locked in here? Afraid to look out, answer the door, leave? Yes, he's out there, and he's clearly not going to leave you alone until one of three things happens: he hurts you and gets arrested, or he makes a mistake and gets arrested, or you stop him.

Oh, I forgot to mention it: My brother is the kind of man whom women stalk. In cooperative packs.

You're giving me fucking consent to stalk you? Oh, slave...

I didn't look over my shoulder; there wasn't a sound behind me on the pavement, but I knew he was coming slowly after me. The crawl of the skin up and down my back told me. Little needles of warning that gathered at the back of my skull told me. I'd never known until then that the jungles aren't so very far behind us, after all, and tails, and four feet instead of two. Where else did those symptoms come from?("Don't Wait Up For Me, Tonight")

Don't play his game. Play yours.

There are vampires. They are real, they are of our time, and they are here, close by, stalking us as we sleep...

Often a woman that doesn__ have any business being in a fight is there because their ego thinks it can mend what other people can__. It__ either superiority or a second chance to heal a wound they have, by meddling on your battlefield.

If Jarod Kintz was a cat, he'd stalk people silently and deadly. Right now, all he does is bark at them for no good reason, like all the good people do.