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His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield.

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
Heart
Battlefield
Battlefields
Face
Faces
War

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Because promises matter. They matter now more than ever.
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When you look death in the eye and death blinks first, nothing seems impossible.
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It's hard to plan for what comes next when what comes next is not something you planned for.
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I stare at her. I've always known that it's impossible to argue with Belinda, not because she's particularly good at it, but because she's so bad at it- that there is no common ground to work from. She simply sees the world she wants to see it and no amount of logic can change her mind.
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The minute we decide that one person doesn´t matter anymore, they´ve won.
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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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He spreads his fingers over my heart, like he’s holding it, like it belongs to him, the hard-fought-for territory he’s won fair and square.
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Miss Marks, you see, makes her living by...entertaining young, and not so young, sailors...or any other members of the armed forced, or civilians, who enjoy...being entertained by ladies who...entertain.
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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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When I woke up in you, Cassie. I wasn't fully human until I saw myself in your eyes. And then there are real human tears in his real human eyes, and it's my turn to hold him while his heart breaks. My turn to see myself in his eyes.
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You can’t force yourself to trust. So you put all your doubts in a little box and bury it deep and then try to forget where you buried it
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I brought Sammy inside and put him to bed. Said his prayer with him. “‘Now I lay me down to sleep…’” To me, just random noise. Gibberish. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but I felt that, when it came to God, there was a broken promise in there somewhere.
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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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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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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 had it all wrong, he says. Before I found you, I thought the only way to hold on was to find something to live for. It isn't. To hold on, you have to find something you're willing to die for.
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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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There are things that are too terrible to remember, and there are things that are almost too wonderful to recall.
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In every creepy movie ever made, the barn is the prime nesting ground for the things you don't know you're looking for and always regret finding.
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It isn't up to me to break his heart that's time's job.
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