Best 757 quotes in «suspense quotes» category

There are people in this world so rich that when it rains they simply fly away on private jets in search of sun.

The reason stories have dramatic tension is because LIFE has dramatic tension.

There is a distinct difference between "suspense" and "surprise," and yet many pictures continually confuse the two. I'll explain what I mean. We are now having a very innocent little chat. Let's suppose that there is a bomb underneath this table between us. Nothing happens, and then all of a sudden, "Boom!" There is an explosion. The public is surprised, but prior to this surprise, it has seen an absolutely ordinary scene, of no special consequence. Now, let us take a suspense situation. The bomb is underneath the table and the public knows it, probably because they have seen the anarchist place it there. The public is aware the bomb is going to explode at one o'clock and there is a clock in the decor. The public can see that it is a quarter to one. In these conditions, the same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: "You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!" In the first case we have given the public fifteen seconds of surprise at the moment of the explosion. In the second we have provided them with fifteen minutes of suspense. The conclusion is that whenever possible the public must be informed. Except when the surprise is a twist, that is, when the unexpected ending is, in itself, the highlight of the story.

There is always something behind patience and impatience! Be careful enough to understand these two things any time you meet anybody; the patience and impatience of the person!

There is life and there is death, but on the border, where one shades into the other, there is the In Between. "...[M]ost people go through life without even knowing that it's there.

There is good weird and good strange and bad weird and bad strange. Your Daddy is good weird and good strange.

There's no question how strong you are." Gabe rested his fingers on her shoulders and pressed into the tight muscles. She didn't push him away. "But being strong doesn't mean you have to be alone.

There was a gap of three metres between us at that point and it seemed as if neither of us dared to close it. I stared at her, she stared at me, and all of a sudden the world seemed too silent, too cold and too still for comfort.

THERE WAS ALWAYS a boy in your life that common sense and the prayers of parents told you to stay away from: fast talker, fast car, and fast hands. He was the boy your father kept a loaded shotgun by the door for and met on the front porch if he ever thought about venturing onto his property…let alone the threshold. He was the tall, dark, mysteriously handsome, and uncharacter-istically quiet one that made you wonder what was going on in his head, and that little voice in your head said it wasn’t always so honorable. He was the boy you broke all of the rules over because bad-boys equaled excitement and the rebel in you liked the ride.

There was a bright flash of brilliant white light, like the midday summer sun reflecting off of a freshly cleaned mirror. And then it was gone.

There was an infinitesimal pause while he watched her face, as though he half expected her to recognise it, before he went on, 'My friends call me Thorn,' and gave her a smile of such devastating charm that she blinked. Her hand clasped in his, her senses zinging from his touch and that stunning smile, she stared into his dark, handsome face until, realising that she was gawking at him like some overgrown schoolgirl, she withdrew her hand and asked quickly, 'What do your enemies call you?

There was no mistaking her daughter's handwriting. And the words... "If you're reading this, I'm already dead.

There was a spider…

There was one night in the past six months she had no recollection of. One night where she woke up the next morning covered in someone else's blood. One night she was most vulnerable.

There was something about him that made her feel alive and ready for anything, but there was another part that screamed danger. She wasn't sure she liked either half.

There were reasons she stayed behind her barriers, reasons she was the way she was. And she'd be damned if she risked it all for a scowling man behind a beard. She'd learned the hard way once before. Never again, she promised herself. Never again.

There was some violence a year ago. An important kid got shot during an attempted kidnapping while on spring break in Mexico. The Fortune 500 went security crazy. Now rich kids like Jack need a commando team to take a dump.

The right things often happen for the wrong reason.

There you are! Aren't you precious?

The Roar of the engine penetrated through Bertram's Hotel from the street outside. Colonel Luscombe perceived that Ladislaus Malinowski was one of Elvira's heroes. "Well," he thought to himself, "better than one of those pop singers or crooners or long-haired Beatles or whatever they called themselves." Luscombe was old-fashioned in his views of young men.

The shriek cut thinly though the drizzling dimness, holding for a long moment. At last it broadened and dropped to the old.

The slick concrete reflected the facades of the work weary - grey, cracked and old, but more importantly, trodden upon.

These were not the belongings of the past prisoner he had imagined. These were a lady’s things—hairpins and stockings and a glove. There were more clues waiting but William no longer felt certain he wanted to know the dark secrets of this cell.

The utter unbroken silence was more appalling than any ominous noise, than the loudest yells of anguish, than the most piercing screaming... Dead silence. Literally dead.

The sound of running footsteps made them all start. Then the refectory door opened and the round, freckled face of Sister Belinda appeared. She was breathing heavily, and her veil was crooked, showing short tufts of red hair sprouting around her glowing face like unruly weeds in a parched garden. “Excuse me, Mother, Sisters,” she said. “But there is a police car waiting at the gate and what looks like the Black Maria behind it. Also, another car approaching from the farm and a uniformed constable coming in via the beach path. It would appear that the filth have us surrounded.

The two of you can’t really be thinking about… not at a time like this.“ Poppy had to laugh. “Is there a better time?

The spell started to brush across my skin, tasting me, telling me what it wanted.... Nothing compared to power flowing through you, over you, around you. It was a alluring, sensual as it wound through my hair, cuddled with my skin. It wanted me to swirl the power, to tickle it with light and sound, and it sang to me of spells long lost.

The stiff night smells like the promise of coming rain, though its scent is doused by the strong odor of corn mash fermenting with yeast. Afar off a coyote howls, then a bit later a screech owl, and in between shivers and sighs of smaller night creatures.

The texture of her skin was phantom silk, not human., not blood-warm, but dizzyingly hot anyway.

The thing that hunts me now thrives on terror. My terror. I fear he will come for me. I fear he will come for anyone who knows me.

The trick to being smart is knowing when to play dumb.

The truth remains quiet inside us,floundering like a battered bird,desperately wanting to spread its wings and fly away. -TARA

The water. The lake. It flows through our veins, and there's nothing we can do about it… It's like venom.

The whirlwind in his brain—which had so many times tugged his pituitary in ways that made him TAKE instead of GIVE— subsided for the very first time. Tightness in his crotch usually corresponded with a tightness in his gut, making him want to CONTROL, to CHOKE, to SUBDUE... but not this time. Not ever again.

They were being poisoned.

They had pulled me from the hemorrhaging, dying body of my mother and turned me over to the care of the man who was not my father. He had taken me home to their tiny apartment above the old hardware store and done what little he knew to take care of me. It took less than six weeks for him to realize his mistake. Maybe even less than six hours, but he never abandoned me. He clung to me as though I was the last remnant of some great and powerful love. And that gave me hope that maybe my mother was really something else and not just some girl who got knocked up by a guy whose name she didn’t even know. She was something special, someone worthy of a man’s loyalty and devotion. --Rocky Evans

They shared a sensation that was as addictive as a needle full of heroin to a street junkie.

The Writers curse We have to write We have no choice We have stories to TELL

They stole you from me. They took you away for seven years. Your entire lifetime. A life sentence. The waiting has been endless. The watching. The planning. Now, finally, I’m almost ready. I’ve got a few things to take care of and then we can be reunited.

They were opposite in so many ways, but it was the kind of difference that was balancing-her softness with his steel, his instinct and her logic. He was teaching her by example to have courage in the face of fear, and she badly wanted to help him give voice to his grief and understand it was all right to feel pain.

Things'll get worse before they get better.

This is what Kirkus Reviews has to say about CW McCoy and PEAK SEASON: “CW is a great character. Widmer has a great sense of place; he easily brings the town of Spanish Point and its colorful cast of characters to life. An entertaining mystery romp.

This act would cost them. It was forbidden, in her world and his, but all he wanted was to hear her moan.

This was an urban legend that didn't make it on to Snopes.com

This much I know already: When Tommy and the Big Brains, in whispered, wry asides, talk about Project 88715, they call it something else. They call it the "Adam Project.

This wasn't the last of it. Now that Finia was carrying his baby, they would be together forever, whether she liked it or not.

This would become a lifelong pattern, sitting in my comfort zone high above the world in some sort of self-imposed exile.

This woman could make a saint sin.

Through the red haze of my blood I see a strange expression on his face. His eyes have come alive, and I don't like it at all. He's getting off on this now in a way he wasn't before. My first thought is that my honesty is feeding him in a bad, bad way and my second thought is not to question my gut. "These are going to be very good days," he says to me.

To much is given, much is received