Special quotes that match with special events. Like Halloween: I will present to you some creepy, scary, spooky quotes.
Dear Genevieve,” she would say, “I love that you are full of finer feelings and insist upon protecting me from myself, but if you do not rodger me this instant, I may perish away for the lack.“
Although, did two ladies together call it rodgering? Or was there a proper, more feminine word? Gertruding, perhaps?
You know those horror movies where the silicon-inflated babe totters down the street in stilettos while a werewolf lopes after her at six thousand miles an hour? All I have to say to that is, “Bitch would have gotten away if she’d picked better shoes.
But the sounds behind me tell me why. I risk a glance and see so many Zs on our asses that I wonder if they’ve been doing pilates all this time to get in shape for the great Whispering Pines mad-dash marathon.
“Rory: “People are being serious.”
Jazza: “There’s a serial killer out there. Of course people are being serious.”
Rory: “Yeah, but what are the chances?”
Jazza: “I bet all of the victims thought that.”
Rory: “But still, what are the chances?”
Jazza: “Well, I imagine they are several million to one.”
Jerome: “Not that high. You’re only dealing with a small part of London. And while there might be a million or more people in that area, the Ripper is probably focusing on women, because all of the original victims were women. So halve that–”
Jazza: “You really need another hobby.”
The werewolf hit the exsanguination chamber in a vicious storm of fang and claw and began unceremoniously tearing everything apart. Including the scientists.
“Do not be such a baby,” he jeered, tugging my hands free.
“It hurts!” I howled.
“Of course it does.” He laughed. “It hurt me too. Did you think becoming a vampire was easy? Get used to the pain. Much of it lies ahead.”
The hand plunging through the glass. Nails rending flesh, blood rising hot and thick and smelling like copper. Mud and the stench of decay as she heaves herself across the glass barrier. Snarling, her upper lip curved, a tendril of yellow spittle dribbling down her chin. The slits of nostrils flaring as she catching her prey’s scent.
We forget that the rest of live can be just as dangerous. I think about how fragile we are here– like fish in a glass bowl with the darkness pressing in on every side.
Harvey wasn’t interested in the clothes, it was the masks that mesmerised him. They were like snowflakes: no two alike. Some were made of wood and of plastic; some of straw and cloth and papier-mâché. Some were as bright as parrots, others as pale as parchment. Some were so grotesque he was certain they’d been carved by crazy people; others so perfect they looked like the death masks of angels. There were masks of clowns and foxes, masks like skulls decorated with real teeth, and one with carved flames instead of hair.
To really be a nerd, she’d decided, you had to prefer fictional worlds to the real one.