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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Just in case you decide not to watch the news tonight, I thought I’d let you know that the Pope is still dead.
What’s the problem, is that what you’re asking me, because if you are, the problem is that sentences are nothing more then foot soldiers, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll realize the need to march a few of them off to their death; now get over yourself and do your job.
Harry Potter remembered the dreadful day Dumbledore had told him he must either kill Voldemort, or be killed; however, over the years, the lack of a timeframe for this showdown had stretched his fear into a kind of rubbery anxiety, so that often he could not recall exactly what was worrying him.
I don’t understand why everything about religion has to be so complicated; for instance, the guys and I are thinking about driving up for the Pope’s funeral, but if we call it a roadtrip, will it sound like goofing off; and can we drink beer on the way?
Scott awoke to an overwhelming feeling of relief and cheerful optimism when he realized that he had not murdered his family, burnt the house down and lept to his death off the golden gate bridge.
In the face of overwhelming odds, remember this my friends -- the outcome of every battle was decided long before the first heated word was cast or the glimmer of the first-drawn blade shined down upon your enemy; fate waits for every man at the end of the day, you and me alike, so rush towards him with a glad heart and embrace, because here, in this place of death, he alone will be your own true friend; remember, it is kings who march us into battle, but fate who marches us out, every single one of us, both the living and the dead.
If there was a law stating that everyone was required to be buried directly beneath the spot where they dropped over dead, I think people would tend to get out a little more; I also think nursing homes would try a lot harder, and that highway fatalities would drop, because of all the new speed bumps.
Capture it before it goes, the wind, his thoughts, his smile, the moment, the memory, the last time she ever spoke your name, the way she kissed you and held your face, capture it before it’s gone, before you say goodbye.
I took a hold of her near the neck and rear leg, trying to avoid stepping in blood that had pooled around her, then slid her to the side of the road before another car could drive by, hoping that her intestines weren’t stringing out behind her, wondering what I would do if they had, and worrying, most of all, about how to break the news to the boy.
The next time I see the tall guy with the scythe, I’m gonna take to him with a baseball bat.
Babbette started writing plaintive poetry on the subject of death and aimed at consoling her neighbors using the materials in her front yard, though she was stumped when it came to the bright green garden hose.
It occurred to me just now that death, which usually fills me with a bit of dread, should be enjoyed for its tax-free real estate benefit.
The day they develop the technology to tell you the precise day you’ll expire is also the day they’ll start putting Prozac directly into the water.
The room was beauty and light, full of energy and some sort of unheard happy laughter, photos and hats lined the walls and the easel and desk were covered with paintings that led you to another world; it was back to being just a room.
She buried her last twenty next to the driveway, and though she didn’t survive the winter, her neighbors were overjoyed to find that the seedling bore abundant quarters the following fall.
What if before ever reaching that last breath something simply snapped, and the line from here to there no longer mattered and we just floated off, all the old familiar struggle, the heaps of memory, the cuts and the blood, the blurred vision and confusion and silence just slipping through our fingertips until it was no more?
The realization that death was but a step in attaining a higher state of being was, of course, great comfort for most, but Bob often found himself materializing along the edges of the collective, so that he could secretly long for the touch of bare, smooth skin, held tightly against his body that had now also become nothing more than memory.
By the age of 12, Peter was well-ahead of his peers when it came to finding dead bodies (most hadn’t found any, or even seen one, for that matter): two by the age of five, another (an old uncle who fell off a ladder and broke his neck) by the time he was seven, three more (the Anderson Murders) during his sixth grade year in elementary, then later that same year the half a dozen teenagers who were burned in a car wreck along the edge of town, which had brought the number of dead bodies Peter had discovered to the alarmingly, unnaturally high number of twelve, an even dozen, but even then no one really seemed to think much of it (other then the newspapers which labeled Peter as “The Dead Boy” and “Dead Peter”, which the kids at school quickly shortened to “Deter”), and the whole thing might have simply disappeared somehow, the way that even amazing and unbelievable and remarkable things can disappear without so much as a second glance, forgotten by the rest of the world as it moves on to the next amazing and unbelievable thing (because really, there seems to be no end to them), if it hadn’t been for Peter’s discovery of yet his thirteenth and fourteenth dead bodies, this time his own parents, and this time, one of them not quite dead, and who after two and a half weeks in a coma, awakened, and was able to weakly point a scared and shaking finger at her own son, who simply sat quietly in a chair across the room, thankful that it was finally over.
It’s not fog that comes on little cat feet; it’s Death.
I suppose I’ll get the hang of it, just like everyone else.
Miss Jane whirled about suddenly, spraying blood as she went, and shouted “alright you bastards, you will leave me, my family, my friends and their family alone, or it’s a pickaxe to the head for you!”
Jacob had big dreams of exploring a new cave and becoming famous but failed to the notice the strangely formed rocks, the slight smell of decayed flesh and the stalactite shaped like a uvula.
Jim, having read the latest study which proved that every minute spent walking adds one minute to your life, experienced a great epiphany about this fountain of youth, got up off the couch, tied on his sneakers and headed down the street, feeling good, feeling strong, hearing the chirp of the birds, smiling at the first tulips of spring, his step light and full of hope; he never saw the bus.
These pockets of individuality and creativity, these people and places that have not been stamped out of the mass-moulding machine of homogenisation, they leave us, but we never know where they go; do they become hollow and cease to exist, or have they found another world, full of like-minded, but, of course, so very not alike people, a place we’ll never find, a place now only in our hearts.
When it’s all said and done, I’ll miss these mornings drifting in and out of sleep and dreams, the house perfectly quiet, birds singing just outside and the fresh, cool, early spring air blowing in through the open window just over my head.
“Pass the obits, please.”
We call our clothes dryer Thunderdome, because two socks enter, one sock leaves.
His wife’s name was “Flippy,” a name that played a large part in her eventual demise.
As I rescued a baby rabbit from the grips of my cats mouth and sent the seemingly unharmed creature on its way, I can’t help but wonder if being brought to the brink of death by a being greater than yourself only to be let go and probably die of fright later anyway is covered in the Geneva Conventions.
Still, dogs must die; and in the end, When he is past caressing, We’ll mourn him like some human friend Whose presence was a blessing.
Henry’s defense to the charges—which would result in death by decapitation if he was found guilty—were primarily a plea for clemency because he would have no place to hang his many hats in the afterlife and besides, he had recently gotten a haircut that he liked very much.
As she fought her way into the inner sanctum, smoke and flames followed her into the room and, bathed in a glowing red haze, she readied her spiked baseball bat for the thwacking of its short, short life.
Just when I start hoping I’ll die of old age some day, a letter arrives to remind me that the cause will be banking complications.
I would like to die peacefully and, of course, quietly in a library, but considering I don’t want to die, I may never be able to visit a library again.
She watched the forensic pathologist at work; A.L. Mond extracting the bits of evidence from the corpse, surely this victim had run out of thyme.
Dr. Leo believed that tornadoes were largely the result of indecisive souls going round and round, and that if all the pre-death turmoil of organized religion could be done away with, things would be much calmer.
Evel Knieval lit the fuse on the rocket pack strapped to his bed and grinned at death as they both began their final leap over the cavernous abyss
It’s times like this that I wish I had held on to my Evel Knieval stunt cycle and the pack of illegal bottle rockets I purchased on the Indian Reservation.
The sensation of the Grim Reaper tapping gently on Murphy’s shoulder felt exactly like that funny muscle tic he’d had just a few days before, and so, not knowing his time had come, Murphy ignored the whole thing and continued to work until Death was forced to leave for other appointments.
Today I had to have my bunny Oscar put down which was a little distressing - he had a full bunny life and was an old man - but I wish I could just slip a duplicate bunny in and hope the cat doesn’t realise there’s anything is up as I’m not looking forward to the backlash that comes with a feline in mourning.
He sped past them on the narrow road, nearly colliding with a much smaller car and haphazardly swerving back into his own lane: Careless…reckless…possibly crazy…apparently intoxicated…“Haha, he must be more drunk than us!” As quickly as he passed, he was gone, the tail lights of the old Silvardo fading into the distance…“Where did he go!?” Neither was sure, but as it goes, everything is fine until you can prove different….But there, aproximately one mile from the foolish display of demonstration, the white truck sat smoking…It was then, they knew as they approached, it was more than probable that he was dead, but neither wanted to voice that… neither wanted to put their suspicions into truth: But he wasn’t gone, he was struggling: Broken legs, bleeding head, but ALIVE: No doubt the shots of Jaeger and the LIT’s consumed in pure haste, in the name of socialization, through fleeting feelings of immortality had numbed his body…The alcohol had allowed him to escape shock, to escape an premature fate: The other man, barely able to form proper words in his own language, let alone theirs, said, “Mi nombre es Camilo…Llama por favor, mi esposa…Mi Esposa, por favor…” And that was it, it was over…Nothing more fell from his lips as he sat trapped behind the cold, uncaring, hard steel of his own means of life, transportation, and career: The red and blue lights cast ominous shadows over the lifeless body of an innocent victim, while the catalyst, the reaper, groaned and fidgeted in his own smoking truck, “My leg, oh, I broke my leg…GET ME OUT…” And as she watched those lights, blue, red, blue, red, she came to the realization that it could have been them, tonight, tommorrow, yesterday…(I’m sorry. This is a true story to which I was unfortunate enough to play a part in tonight. If I join the Bent Rules Club tonight, so be it. R.I.P. Camilo…I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you before the events of tonight, but I have no doubt, someone will miss you…Think before you drink and drive…I know that my sister and I will from this day on…)
The troubled life of a woman at sea was long and hair-raising, but it would have been a damn sight longer if only she’d seen the iceberg coming.
“Two kinds of trouble in this world: living; dying.”
On seeing the new format for her long beloved game, boot started throwing tiles in the air, burning old boards and vowing unutterable, horrible death to every one involved.* or, in other 8 rack, 12 point Q and 2 point M lettered words, nooooooooooooooooooo!
Do the living haunt the dead?
Watching her die, even just in a dream, was much harder than I expected.
Was a good man with a heart fit for ten men and a sense of humour that will outlast his beautiful, long life.
She’s been dead for so many years that you’d think I’d stop arranging meeting times with her in my sleep.
We scooped around that dead fly, but we felt its presence in our very bones, and in all of our awkward movements, ever asking the same question, “she’s in heaven, right?"
Grasp happiness wherever you can and revel in it at every turn.
Death is a beautiful woman in an evening gown.
Thomas T. found that repeating the thought that the coroner was a woman helped very little.
Sometimes I would lie on his grave and gaze out at the lake, feeling a little guilty about appreciating all the beauty while he was under so much earth, but then the mosquitoes would arrive, proving that grandpa was always a step ahead.
Fizz of white noise, flickering sizzle of the empty waves, the ocean swells - some big band tune skulking in the dank summer evening air pounces with a crack of life in trumpet solo, conjured there, made real by the radio knob, then, as quickly as it came, fades back into the surf, and say we become the static on the am dial, bleating big band brass for mouths, roaring tympani for blood in our veins, and we dwindle off into the sea because our god(s) are looking for the game in the fourteen hundreds.
You don’t mess with Schrödinger; He’ll straight up kill you like a cat, maybe.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t being hit by a train doing sixty that killed him, but was instead an epileptic seizure brought on by his life flashing before his eyes, because he had seen far too many sunny days.
A dead tomato seedling is not a metaphor or a dark omen, it’s just a dead plant.
I imagine being a baby was a lot like being piss-drunk, stumbling around, and minced words, stretches of time you have no recollection of, always building towards the mental sobriety of adulthood, only with sobriety comes the headaches, and the want to take care of those “younger” than you.
Her eyes haunted him for the rest of his days.
Even when faced with the reality of a sudden and awful death of another, if there’s a touch of inconvenience included…
Even before I knew the house was a probate sale I could sense that people had died on that shag carpet.
The ‘magic’ of Christmas feels like a cruel joke, sometimes.
After all these millennia, how is it that death is still news?
‘Fatalism be damned’, thought Carl as he fought the transformation with all his might, desperately clinging to any lasting tendril of caterpillar being.
His daughter’s kiss on his dying lips reminded him of the warmth of his departed wife’s kisses, and with that last thought, his soul departed with a sigh.
To me, successful mediation always feels like death.
I've tried all day, but no matter what angle I come at it, there is just no good way to describe the ghastly beauty of that impossible place.
I like to think that somewhere there's a graveyard filled only with writers, and that all of the graves are crooked or slanted or even bent, so that all of the dearly departed can enjoy an eternity of plot twists.
Just think how rich I'll be once I'm granted my patent on death.
Like all of my marketing ideas, my patent on death idea backfired when no one paid up and just went on living forever until there were so many people crowding the planet that they all filed a class action suit against me for overcrowding.
To foil the devious plans of any would-be grave robbers, the late Henry Von Somethingorother was buried inside an electrically charged coffin, and his headstone clearly warned any and all who happened by that this was serious business and that they best move on if they knew what was best for them, which of course, only attracted the interest of a young Goth couple, who discovered that having sex on top of this particular grave site not only gave them an extra tingly feeling, but somehow managed to charge their cellphones, but this only lasted for a couple of weeks, at which time both Henry and his electric coffin were officially dead, irritating the young couple just enough that instead of having sex one night, they brought shovels to the cemetery, dug up the grave and stole Von Somethingorother's skull, which they immediately spray painted black and used as a macabre candlestick, which no doubt, was exactly the sort of thing Henry Von Stomethingorother had been trying to avoid happening to him in the first place.
The earth will inherit the meek.
There's a certain tipping point when friends, neighbors and ex-lovers start dying on a regular basis where the need for a fast, red sports car clearly outweighs the need for a positive balance in the ol' bank account.
The little girl's excitement over finding the dead snake reminded the Chief of the dead woman he'd recently discovered, but he kept this to himself, sensing that engaging in one-upsmanship with a seven year old was somehow a mistake he'd regret.
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