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I will teach you to love death. I will empty you of grief and guilt and self-pity and fill you up with hate and cunning and the spirit of vengeance. I will make my final stand here, Benjamin Thomas Parish.

Rick Yancey

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Rick Yancey
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: November 4
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Miami
Florida
Richard Yancey
William James Henry
Will Henry
Stand
Cunning
Teach
Fill
Hate
Final
Death
Finals
Spirit
Pity
Benjamin
Self
Guilt
Parish
Make
Grief
Thomas
Love
Empty
Vengeance

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In case you're an alien and you're reading this: BITE ME.
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There's the bullshit you know that you know the bullshit you don't know and know you don't know and the bullshit you just think you know but really don't.
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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.
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Afterward I told his widow, Your husband is dead, but at least he died laughing.' I think she took some comfort in that. It is the second-best way to die, Will Henry. He did not say what the best way was.
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I was a slave to something he believed to be silly and superstitious: the idea that all life was worth defending and that nothing justified surrender to the forces of destruction.
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Human beings are remarkably resilient. When you think about it, our species has been teetering upon the edge of the existential cliff since Hiroshima. In short, we endure.
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Prayers and promises. The one his sister made to him. The unspoken one I made to my sister. Prayers are promises, too, and these are the days of broken promises.
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That's what you do when the curtain is falling--you give the line that the audience wants to hear.
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And if humanity is the last war, then I am the battlefield.
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Dr. Warthrop chopped off my finger with a butcher knife.
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Are you okay? I (Cassie) call up to him. Um. Define okay. (Ben) Okay means you're not bleeding to death. I'm okay.
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You are the nest. You are the hatchling. You are the chrysalis. You are the progeny. You are the rot that falls from stars. You may not understand what I mean. You will.
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A man lies upon the floor, spreads his arms, and transforms himself into a ship of a thousand sails.
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I am a shark, Cassie, he says slowly, drawing the words out, as if he might be speaking to me for the last time. Looking into my eyes with tears in his, as if he's seeing me for the last time. A shark who dreamed he was a man.
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When I wake up the next morning, there's a Hershey's Kiss sitting on the table beside me.
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Perhaps God waits for us to be empty, so he may fill us with himself.
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Some things you don't have to promise. You just do.
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What boy my age didn’t dream of fleeing the well-tended lawn and lamp-lit street for the untamed wilderness, where grand adventure awaited on the other side of the horizon, where the stars burned undimmed in the velvet sky above his head and the virgin ground lay untrodden beneath his feet?
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Could there be irony crueler than this? How, upon his rescue, the truth had brought him here, to a house for the mad, for only a madman believes what every child knows to be true: There are monsters that lie in wait under our beds.
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I don't move. I wait behind my log, terrified. Over the past ten minutes, it's become such a dear friend, I consider naming it: Howard, my pet log.
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