Clayton Smith > Quotes

“I’m hoping for a broadsword,” Patrick said, crossing his fingers. “We can go all Game of Thrones on Arkansas.” “I’ve always hated Arkansas,” Ben considered. “We all do, Ben. We all hate Arkansas.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“Ben nudged him gently. “Don’t piss them off, they wield the God-force,” he whispered. “I don’t think you know how religion works,” Patrick whispered back.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“Ben was waiting outside his door when he stepped into the hall. “Well don’t you just look like something out of a Stephen King novel!”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“waiting patiently for her to finish eating her coffee and drive it away into the night—out of Missouri, up through the plains, and into Saskatchewan, to Lenore’s place, where everything would be okay.”
― Clayton Smith, Anomaly Flats

“Once you go back to real life, nothing will ever be exciting anymore! Everything you do from now on will be routine and boring and not-at-all baffling or mysterious compared to Anomaly Flats!”
― Clayton Smith, Anomaly Flats

“Aloha,” Gray added, but it sounded way too forced, like when upper-middle class white people walk into a Mexican bakery and say, “Hola,” so he vowed to probably never say it again.”
― Clayton Smith, Na Akua

“bookish” need not always be confused with “literary”)”
― Clayton Smith, Pants on Fire: A Collection of Lies

“I believe my hands were guided by higher powers, yes,” Patrick said. “He’s in a better place now.” “Where?” “Not on this train. Thanks in part to your excellent fire-spelling abilities, I might add.” “Not that excellent,” Ben said. “What do you mean? You spelled ‘HELL’ beautifully.” “I was trying to spell ‘HELLO.’ I ran out of oil.” “Well,”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“Is this hell?” No. I don’t hear any ABBA. That, Ben decided, was infallible logic.”
― Clayton Smith, Post-Apocalypticon

“I was back home visiting when all the stuff happened. You know? That bombing?” “Yes, we’re familiar with the large-scale event that nearly extinguished life on the planet. Please continue.” “I need to go back to New York. I miss my goldfish.” Ben cleared his throat. “Patrick, can we sidebar for a second?” Patrick”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“The Walmart is having a sale on canned tuna this week, three cans for $2.49. The Walmart would like to remind you that the canned tuna is in Aisle 3, not in aisle 8, and it is perfectly safe there. Attention, Anomaly Flats: Do not go into aisle 8 in the Walmart. Do not go into the Walmart. Do not ever go into the Walmart.”
― Clayton Smith, Anomaly Flats

“Fucking hipsters,” Patrick said. “Fucking hipsters,” Ben agreed. “It’s amazing to me that they’ve survived this long.” “Not me,” said Ben. “Makes total sense. They don’t eat anything, they don’t get physical, and they always travel in herds.” “So you’re saying the hipster is the post-apocalyptic cockroach.” “I’m saying the hipster is every era’s cockroach.” “Fair.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“A feature story every time a new stamp was printed, fluff pieces on idiotic muscle head car shows on Coney Island, the occasional actual news coverage of a rare coin heist, God, at least those were engaging. The comic cons, ugh, they were the worst. All those fat nerds dressed up in latex and slobbering over Lucy Lawless.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“It was pretty crazy. He got shot by the ringleader. The fucking kid was trying to fire a warning shot in the air, but he was too damn lazy to lift the gun all the way.” Patrick scoffed. “Goddamn hipsters.” “Right?”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“Bloom looked on disinterestedly as Calico tightened his grip on his dagger and squatted down next to Patrick. “You owe us a train, boy. Guess I’ll take the payment out in pounds of flesh.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“Broken glass crunched underfoot at every step. Trash fires burned in barrels, some unmanned, others warming crude derelicts with long, dirt-matted hair and ripped clothes stained with their own waste. All in all, it was pretty much the Memphis he remembered. Just more so.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“She had apparated out of nowhere, and just like that, his heart was spinning again, reeling off a course that had already sent it hurtling out in the wrong direction, and was “apparate” even a real word, or did J. K. Rowling just invent it and make him believe it was an acceptable thing to think?”
― Clayton Smith, Na Akua

“It’s amazing to me that they’ve survived this long.” “Not me,” said Ben. “Makes total sense. They don’t eat anything, they don’t get physical, and they always travel in herds.” “So you’re saying the hipster is the post-apocalyptic cockroach.” “I’m saying the hipster is every era’s cockroach.” “Fair.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“I’d rather take my chances out there, in the unknown, than to die a miserable death at the hands of Cubs fans. Do you understand me, Ben? I will not die in Cubs territory.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“Routine and boring and not-at-all mysterious sounds like the perfect life.” Of”
― Clayton Smith, Anomaly Flats

“My hand feels empty without my machete.” “Your hand is empty without your machete,” Ben said. “So it’s not just me, then.” “We’ll”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“The Walmart is having a sale on canned tuna this week, three cans for $2.49. The Walmart would like to remind you that the canned tuna is in Aisle 3, not in aisle 8, and it is perfectly safe there. Attention, Anomaly Flats: Do not go into aisle 8 in the Walmart. Do not go into the Walmart. Do not ever go into the Walmart.” The”
― Clayton Smith, Anomaly Flats

“Well, hold tight, Patrick warned. There’s a ninety percent chance you get locked up in that hangar for at least thirty-seven days. Ben considered this. Well, a ten percent chance of success isn’t nothing, he decided. No, the other ten percent chance is that they kill you on sight.”
― Clayton Smith, Post-Apocalypticon

“My addiction to movies and television has left me entirely unprepared for the harsh realities of post-apocalyptic life.” “Which”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“Trash fires burned in barrels, some unmanned, others warming crude derelicts with long, dirt-matted hair and ripped clothes stained with their own waste. All in all, it was pretty much the Memphis he remembered. Just more so.”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“That wasn’t a kill shot. That was a body swing. She doesn’t want to kill you; she just wants to kneecap you.” “Great,” Ben said, growing testy. “Why would she want to kneecap me?” “Probably so you’ll stop running away so much,” Patrick shrugged. “That’s why I’d kneecap somebody.” “I don’t want to be kneecapped!” Ben wailed. “Well, I didn’t want John Tesh to get the satisfaction of going platinum, but we don’t always get what we want, now do we?”
― Clayton Smith, Post-Apocalypticon

“The Red Caps seem to like her,” he observed. “Who?” “The Red Caps.” “No, they seem to like who?” “Whom.” Patrick sighed. “They seem to like whom?” “Lindsay.” “Ah!” Patrick slapped his knees with his hands. “Yes. They do. You know why? Because she is a female who does not ignore them. That’s a Red Cap’s kryptonite.” Ben pondered this for a moment. “That sounds like my kryptonite,” he said. “It’s all men’s kryptonite,” Pat admitted. “If it looks like a woman, and smells like a woman, and talks like a woman, and is a woman, we like getting attention from it.” “Until we get too much attention from it,” Ben added. “Yes. There’s a fine line there. Not many women can walk it.” “I should date a tightrope walker,” Ben mused. “That would be stupid hot.” “Are you sure you’re not thinking about a contortionist?” Patrick asked, squinting into the fire. “That’s the hot kind of circus performer. Tightrope walkers are just regular people who can walk a straight line. They’re like sober versions of me. But contortionists! Ooo-wee!” “What do you think it would be like to date a fire eater?” Ben asked. “Do you think she would taste like gasoline?” Patrick squinted at his friend. “Why would she taste like gasoline?” “Because that’s what they put in their mouths. To spit fire.” “Wow, no, that is extremely wrong. Extremely wrong. Gasoline is definitely not what they use.” “Yes, it is,” Ben insisted. “It’s flammable.” “Yes, it is flammable. Highly flammable. If they put gasoline in their mouths and spit it onto fire, their heads would literally explode. They use paraffin.” “How do you know that?” “How do I know that?” he frowned. “Oh! I learned it!”
― Clayton Smith, Apocalypticon

“I’m Mrs. Roach,” the old woman said, writing Mallory’s name down in the book. “Oh! Ha. Roach Motel,” Mallory said, suddenly smiling. “That makes me feel better.” “It shouldn’t. The cockroaches are nicer than I am,” the old woman muttered, slamming the book shut. “Or so I’m told.”
― Clayton Smith, Anomaly Flats

“fingers curved down. Christ, she thought, it’s like guiding a forklift through a mirror.”
― Clayton Smith, Anomaly Flats