Best 281 quotes in «short story quotes» category

Vieron al anciano atravesar los raíles del tranvía; con pasos torpes, como si tropezara, encaminarse al parterre del centro de la plaza. Atravesó la primera hilera de coches detenidos y se adentró en la zona despejada. Súbitamente cayó de bruces, como si le hubieran dado un empujón. Pero, aparte de él, en la plaza no se veía un alma. Se oyó el impacto. Quedó tendido en el asfalto con los brazos extendidos y la cara contra el suelo. De lejos parecía una gigantesca cucaracha aplastada.

We did not go about this bride thing right. I do not think women are still used to being stolen as they once were.” “Some adjustment is to be expected.” “It is more than that. She keeps asking for things that I do not have—her Earth clothes and something called a cheeseburger, which I recall from the mini shows as being a giant food that women enjoy eating half naked very slowly.” Kyran thought of Eve’s beautiful legs. He would very much enjoy getting her a cheeseburger

We leave such a trail of bodies through our teens and twenties that it's hard to tell which one is us. How many versions do we abandon over the years

Well why don't you lean over this counter a little more and give me your best kiss, and then I'll tell you if I want you to take me out to dinner.

Well, how did you die, then?” the old man finally asked. “Die?” Matthew threw back. “Are you crazy? I’m not dead. I’m just very late.

We made the choice, right there in our local coffee shop, that we were going to do things differently. We were going to put the story first, no matter where that led us. We’d open ourselves up to all genres, all forms. We’d publish works that stayed with us in an intangible way, long after that last page is turned.

We pick the people who populate our personal lives as much for who they make us as for who they are. I chose Anna for the person I became in her presence, and in this respect, my love for her was a more selfish one

What we often take to be the new is simply the old under some novel form.

Why ruin my sister's birthday simply because the entire planet was going to hell in a hand basket?

While I AM sure of what I want, I'm equally unsure of how to attain it.

When I watch a movie or read a book, be it a melodrama or horror, I always hate the female character... Well, most of the time I do. Why? Because she is always dumb. I shit you not. For example in this one chick-flick movie, "Serendipity", Sara tells that Jonathan guy that she won't give him her number because if they are meant to meet again, they will. Seriously? Romantic movie my ass, there's not anything romantic in letting go of someone when you can grab them with both of your hands. That is not romantic, THAT is stupid. In another movie the girl storms out, never hearing the guy out, just like in that one book I've been reading recently, "Tangled". Now this is an issue with most of the books and chick-flicks. Like why? Why won't you stop a minute, take a deep breath, count to ten and listen to the guy. Only after that, for God's sake, say ‘fuck you’ then ‘Namaste’ and then walk away while swaying your hips like there is no tomorrow? Let them know what they will be missing for the rest of their lives. In some other movies I hate the main female character because of the scriptwriters. The girl somehow always appears in front of the guy out of nowhere. Like he can be walking down the street and then boom! ABRACADABRA! The main girl bumps into him in NYC out of all places. They make it seem like whatever they do their steps always bring them back to each other. Dumb, I know.

You are the only thing I've ever needed. The only treasure that matters. - Seamus Tierney

Without warning, David was visited by an exact vision of death: a long hole in the ground, no wider than your body, down which you are drawn while the white faces above recede. You try to reach them but your arms are pinned. Shovels put dirt into your face. There you will be forever, in an upright position, blind and silent, and in time no one will remember you, and you will never be called by any angel. As strata of rock shift, your fingers elongate, and your teeth are distended sideways in a great underground grimace indistinguishable from a strip of chalk. And the earth tumbles on, and the sun expires, and unaltering darkness reigns where once there were stars.

Writing Skinny Chris was a very odd process – it felt like I had brought back to life a dead man and then killed him again.

Yes, the saint was underrated quite a bit, then, mostly by people who didn’t like things that were ineffable… …a lot of people don’t like things that are unearthly, the things of this earth are good enough for them, and they don’t mind telling you so. “If he’d just go out and get a job, like everybody else, then he could be saintly all day long…” —from “The Temptations of St. Anthony,” by Donald Barthelme

Without pride, man becomes a parasite – and there are already too many parasites.

Without direction, the respiratory technician goes to the head of the bed. She takes the tubing, attaches it to the oxygen, and turns it on as high as it will go. She provides a seal with her hand cupped over the plastic mask, over the nose and mouth of the toddler, and methodically provides oxygenated air. Doyle’s tiny chest rises and falls while I listen with my stethoscope. I am reaching for another breathing tube. “Fib!” Dr. Pedras feels for a pulse while another places gelled pads on her chest.

words rarely mean much when it comes to trust.

Writing a story is like going on a date—you will spoil it if you aren't living in the moment.

Yield, and I'll eat your little pussy... first.

Yet he received this love with joy, surrendered himself to it, and cherished it with all the strength of his being; for he knew that love made one vital and rich, and he longed to be vital and rich, far more than he did to work tranquilly on anything to give it permanent form.

You are a more powerful person than you might have ever imagined.” Maxwell D. Kalist.

I love the short story for being round, suggestive, insinuating, microcosmic. The story has both the inconvenience and the fascination of new beginnings.

You gently lift my chin with one finger and stare deep into my eyes. Automatically I drop my gaze to avoid eye contact with you, but not before I see the debauchery loaded in your expression. “Whose slut are you?” you ask, “and you have permission to look at me whilst you reply.” I glance up at you quickly and take a moment to absorb your beautiful face before you deprive me of it again. “I am your slut, Master – only yours.” Your eyes burn into mine and you too pause to relish your utter possession of me.

Youth is marked by a breathtaking novelty that diminishes with each year of age - until life becomes a delusive struggle to break routines, escape the ordinary, and rediscover the joy of discovery.

You will get exactly what you deserve Polly,” comes the firm reply, “you can trust me on that… But if you do – trust me I mean – I promise you an unparalleled climax.” She pauses, gazing deep into my frightened green eyes. “It’s your call Polly, all yours.” I allow my aching body to decide for me . “Punish me please, mistress,” I say in a very small voice.

I guess the freedom - poetic freedom - because the poetic part of short story form is an attempt to say something that's unsayable about one's incarcerated existence, and it's fun to come up with words to represent that condition, and it's fun to pull the tail of absurdity and rile it up, where you giggle at what you do or you get enthralled and in the short story.

You land a second strike, this time just on my left cheek. It feels hard already and stings like hell. I imagine the red mark it has left on my behind as I thank you. As the belt catches my right buttock, I squeeze my eyes shut. I know my tears are close. You strike me again and again. You vary the location and the intensity; somehow never letting me settle into a pattern with the pain. I try to keep count in mind, but after fifteen I am lost in the hot, stinging sensation of my behind.

You sit beside the sorcerer, your love, and unzip your ribs. Tucked under your heart is a small oak box, plain and unvarnished. You offer it to the sorcerer. 'I brought this for you.

I'm very happy - if I can do even a little bit of work to get the short story out more, I'm thrilled.

I prefer short stories, but publishers would, of course, rather that writers produce novels, since novels are still more commercially viable.

In short stories it is better to say not enough than to say too much, because, because--I don't know why.

Short stories are fiction's R & D department, and failed or less-than-conclusive experiments are not just to be expected but to be hoped for.

My favorite short-story writer is John Cheever

The great thing about a short story is that it doesn't have to trawl through someone's whole life; it can come in glancingly from the side.

The more original a short-story writer, the odder looking the assortment of things he or she puts together for a story.

And I feel certain that you will, because I've come to take it away. I'm from the furniture shop, and the bed isn't paid for.

Absently, Quinn reached for the sheet to replace it over the aged mirror, but the back of his hand brushed against the cold surface and a strange shiver ran up his arm and down his spine. ~ "The Mirror

A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul.

With short stories, the story-teller must have a story to tell, not merely some sweet prose to take out for a walk

A gossip spread a rumor, and became notorious from the deed. The gossip then started a fire beyond their control, and when it spread, the gossip spread the word around, but people just ran away. The gossip died in the fire they started, longing for warmth they could not find or keep when they did. And no one spread the word, about the gossips' death.

A mermaid who somehow shared this woman’s face and name had betrayed him once. But this was not the same woman. And he was not the same man.

And just as I'm about to lay on the Yi-Wang-Smooth, I see Lay #1 and Lay #3 show up to our table and take the two empty seats nearby. From: "My Worst Valentine's Day.Ever: a Short Story

...And on my fourth morning in Naples, I woke up alone. There was a note on the table with the breakfast that Cinzia had quietly prepared for me. It read, "It could never be. But that's why it will always be - perfectly divine. Cinzia" City Solipsism: A Short Story

And that’s all magic was: displacement.

And yet it was also true that the tumor could not be removed by our doctor, and as a result of that a strange medication had been given him that enabled my brother to become even more of an enigma than he was before, and as a result of that there came to exist not only the machine and the inertia that came with it, but a change of perspective among the townsfolk that was a result of their interactions with the various phases of my brother. And so it was that when the flood began to rear its terrible head, not only was there the inertia that we all had to deal with, but a sense of the sublime that we had begun to feel for the waters which had roared upon the horizon.

[Anger] gave him the soul to keep fighting no matter how many times the world seemed bent on destroying him. He may be a broken young man, but he would never be a defeated one

Apalah gunanya impian bila tidak diwujudkan?

An intense longing builds inside me, and I fight the urge to propel myself forward and grab her into my arms.

A novel is just a story that hasn't yet discovered a way to be brief.