John T. Fuller > Quotes

“Archer tries not to think of his own state of purity, physically unsullied, yet now spiritually beyond redemption, his thoughts plagued by lithe limbs and brilliant blue eyes. Doctor Archer has never really understood women, nor has he ever had time for courtship; this is a sacrifice he has willingly made for his career. He thought - believed - for most of his adult life that his vocation was to tend the sick of mind. Romance was a frivolity, carnal urges something he successfully sublimated, resisting the drive to spoil himself. Now, in the overbearing loneliness of his 4am bed he touches himself in secret, panting and hungry and stunned by shame”
― John T. Fuller

“You know this is wrong."

It isn't a question. When he turns, White is still wrapped snug in the counterpane, motionless, just his gaze pursuing the doctor about the room. "I am wrong to do this." The doctor says it as if instructing himself. White says nothing. With a sigh, Archer sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing White's curls back from his forehead. "Do you know what we did last night?" To admit it, to speak out loud, seems in itself a terrible affront. It might be his imagination, but the doctor fancies he sees a slight lowering of black lashes, the tiniest quirk of a shy smile. He says, wearily but not without affection, "No, I don't suppose you do.”
― John T. Fuller

“Hello." The doctor speaks softly, nervously. Mr White doesn't respond, not even the slightest change of expression. Dr Archer has been thinking. Mulling it over in his head, endlessly, driving himself more insane he thinks than any unfortunate in his care, crazy with this longing. He is afraid of spiders, he watches the clouds, he held up two fingers; he is lucid. He came to me of his own free will; he shares these terrible feelings.”
― John T. Fuller

“He forces himself to meet Manny’s gaze. “I’m sorry I can’t stay.”
“OK. Go get some sleep then.” He doesn’t look happy about it, that cute little crease cutting into the edge of each eyebrow. “Come back tomorrow. You promised.”
“I did.” Chant says, feeling faint. The air between them is warmer than the balmy night, their little private bubble back again, keeping the world outside.”
― John T. Fuller, Fresh Ink - Mild Spice Edition

“Santa Ines is, on first impression, not the best, but not anywhere approaching the worst city Chant has found himself in. He’s seen it all. Palaces and slums, wide, sunlit marble boulevards flanked by ornamental gardens, and shanty towns drowning in mud and despair. This place is, at first glance, the same as any other West Coast city he’s ever drifted through. A twisted core of skyscrapers, apartments and office-blocks, wound round with freeways and dwindling out to cinder block suburbs with repeating fenced yards, bikes on the paths and barbecues in the back, not affluent but not dangerous, either. To the other side of the city, the buildings slope down to the seafront, built lower towards the ocean front as if the nearer they get to the beach, the more they want to get down on their knees and dig. Chant laughs under his breath at the thought: weird. Digging for, what, pirate treasure? Maybe. It’s an old beach town, after all. Zinging with life, thriving, but with that hidden current eddying in the shadows at the edge of the ever-present sunshine, ready to drag down the unwise into secret depths. Here, in Santa Ines, it feels like it goes deeper, somehow, but Chant doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough for that to be a problem. And anyway - he’s not new. Not as if anything like that can touch him, let alone hold him.”
― John T. Fuller, Fresh Ink - High Spice Edition