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A rat called Possible New Strain was sitting under a spaghetti strainer held down with a pile of journalism textbooks, saying rude things in rat-speak.
Scott Westerfeld
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Scott Westerfeld
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: May 5
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Dallas
Texas
Scott David Westerfeld
Sitting
Spaghetti
Saying
Textbooks
Called
Pile
Possible
Rats
Speak
Strain
Things
Rude
Journalism
Held
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Do you love him? Deryn swallowed, then pointed at the screen. He makes me feel like that. Like flying.
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Becoming pretty doesn't just change the way you look, she said. No, David said. It changes the way you think.
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Dude, I just watched you climb up a f*cking building!-Lace
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But it's always taking a risk, when you ... kiss someone new.
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I love my virginity to the apocalypse.
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you dont see me, now you do, but only if i want you to
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Lilt pulled away. I saw what he was doing, so I cleared a path for him. I helped him do it... She shook her head, tears tracking the dust off her face, and turned to stare at the fallen tower. Have we all gone mad to want this?
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What you do, the way you think, makes you beautiful.
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She couldn't disappoint the whole village. There were no wallscreens here, no newsfeeds or satellites bands, and touring soccer teams were no doubt few and far between. (...), that made stories a valuable commodity, and it probably wasn't very often that a stranger dropped in from the sky.
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And here in America rival newspapermen attack each other on sight?
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Everyone in the world was programmed by the place they were born, hemmed in by their beliefs, but you had to at least try to grow your own brain.
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That letter was your whole future, you daft prince. It was my past. I lost that the night my parents died. But I found you, Deryn. Maybe I wasn't meant to end the war, but I was meant to find you. I know that. You've saved me from having any reason to keep going. We save each other. That's how it works.
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History would indicate that the majority of people have always been sheep.
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She thought of the orchids spreading across the plains below, choking the life out of other plants, out of the soil itself, selfish and unstoppable. Tally Youngblood was a weed. And, unlike the orchids, she wasn't even a pretty one.
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Shay sometimes talked in a mysterious way, like she was quoting the lyrics of some band no one else listened to.
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It's just been a long week, that's all. It's monday night, Jess. My point exactly.
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Once we turn, it’s new pretty, middle pretty, late pretty.” Shay dropped her arms, and her board stopped drifting. “Then dead pretty.
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Most men's awareness doesn't extend past their dinner plates.
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The lie took form as she spoke, pulling on as many strands of truth as it could reach.
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