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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.

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
Like
Territory
Holding
Fairs
Fair
Spreads
Spread
Square
Fingers
Squares
Hard
Fought
Heart
Belongs

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If the world breaks a million and one promises, can you trust the million and second?
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When the moment comes to stop running from your past, to turn around and face the thing you thought you could not face--the moment when your life teeters between giving up and getting up--when that moment comes, and it always comes, if you can't get up and you can't give up either, here's what you do: Crawl.
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I am the one, Not Running, Not Staying, But FACING
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Yes, my dear child, monsters are real. I happen to have one hanging in my basement.
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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.
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He asks me what happened to my leg. I told him I was shot by a shark. He doesn't react. Doesn't seem confused or amused or anything. Like getting shot by a shark is a perfectly natural thing in the aftermath of the arrival.
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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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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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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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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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I didn't show up here to give your life purpose now that your life's over. That's up to you to figure out.
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I don't care what the stars say about how small we are. One, even the smallest, weakest, most insignificant one, matters.
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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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His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield.
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You know how sometimes you tell yourself that you have a choice, but really you don't have a choice? Just because there are alternatives doesn't mean they apply to you.
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In case you're an alien and you're reading this: BITE ME.
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Dr. Warthrop chopped off my finger with a butcher knife.
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The minute we decide that one person doesn´t matter anymore, they´ve won.
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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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