Chrysten McNiel

“But he fought to save himself, right? Put his hand out to you, to fall free of the machine? So we finish that fight for him. Move!”
― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

“enough ahead that Letha can sniffle, say after sneaking a look back, “How am I going to tell her?” Her chin’s pruning up again, her lips in kind of pre-quiver mode. I think this is kind of where she’s going to be living, the next year, year and a half. At least. Every slack moment between this and that, she’s going to be falling back into Banner not being around anymore. I step in by her, take her by the back of her left arm to make sure she doesn’t stumble.”
― Stephen Graham Jones, The Angel of Indian Lake

“Why weep at strangers dead by the road? They resemble friends unseen in forty years. Why laugh when clowns are hit by pies? We taste custard, we taste life. Why love the woman who is your wife? Her nose breathes in the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience. Billions of prickling textures. Cut one sense away, cut part of life away. Cut two senses; life halves itself on the instant. We love what we know, we love what we are. Common cause, common cause, common cause of mouth, eye, ear, tongue, hand, nose, flesh, heart, and soul.
But...how to say it?
“Look,” he tried, “put two men in a rail car, one a soldier, the other a farmer. One talks war, the other wheat; and bore each other to sleep. But let one spell long-distance running, and if the other once ran the mile, why, those men will run all night like boys, sparking a friendship up from memory.”
― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

“But hell! You saw the mirrors! And the mirrors shoved me half in, half out the grave. Showed me all wrinkles and rot! Blackmailed me! Blackmailed Miss Foley so she joined the grand march Nowhere, joined the fools who wanted everything! Idiot thing to want: everything. Poor damned fools. So wound up with nothing like, the dumb dog who dropped his bone to go after the reflection of the bone in the pond.”
― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes