I start to unbutton his shirt. "Got to get these clothes off," I mutter. "You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that." Smile. Lopsided. Sexy.
And if humanity is the last war, then I am the battlefield.
Oh, Will Henry. After all we have been through, how could I send you away now, at our most critical hour? You are indispensable to me.
In case you're an alien and you're reading this: BITE ME.
In every creepy movie ever made, the barn is the prime nesting ground for the things you don't know you're looking for and always regret finding.
We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.
When I wake up the next morning, there's a Hershey's Kiss sitting on the table beside me.
And then Evan Walker kisses me.
Some things you don't have to promise. You just do.
I don't care what the stars say about how small we are. One, even the smallest, weakest, most insignificant one, matters.
It was the price of survival. The cost of his people's last, desperate gamble: To rid his new home of humanity, he had to become human. And being human, he had to overcome his humanity.
Still, you tend to believe what you always believed, think what you always thought, expect what you always expected
I'm not encouraged by the silence. I can think of no benign reason for it. I'm afraid we may expect something closer to Christopher Columbus's arrival in the Americas than a scene from Close Encounters, and we all know how that turned out for the Native Americans.
It's like a cockroach working up a plan to defeat the shoe on its way down to crush it.
Poets never die, I thought. They just fail in the end.
To hell with monsters and to hell with men. There is no difference to me.
Sci-Fi is the genre that explored both possibilities: the end of our existential crisis and the end of our existence. My novel, The 5th Wave, explores the latter scenario, because, frankly, I believe it represents the likeliest outcome of an extraterrestrial encounter. In short, if they're out there, we better hope they never find us.
But we fall only that we might rise, Alfred. All of us fall; all of us, as you say, screw up. Falling is not important. It is how we get up after the fall that's important.
I do not mean to mock or ridicule your life's work, for in one way at least it mimics my own: We have dedicated our lives to the pursuit of phantoms. The difference is the nature of those phantoms. Mine exist between other men's ears; yours live solely between your own.
That's a stupid question,' said Malachi. 'Because he didn't warn him. He didn't warn anyone.' 'No, it's a philosophical question,' Kearns corrected him. 'Which makes it useless, not stupid.
Miss Marks, you see, makes her living by...entertaining young, and not so young, sailors...or any other members of the armed forced, or civilians, who enjoy...being entertained by ladies who...entertain.
She hated him and loved him, longed for him and loathed him, and cursed herself for feeling anything at all
Yes, my dear child, monsters are real. I happen to have one hanging in my basement.
Then I strip the pants away from each leg, like peeling a banana. That's it, the perfect metaphor: peeling a banana.
When I woke up in you, Cassie. I wasn't fully human until I saw myself in your eyes." And then there are real human tears in his real human eyes, and it's my turn to hold him while his heart breaks. My turn to see myself in his eyes.
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