Best 281 quotes in «short story quotes» category

If certain aspect needs to be inconsistent, it must better be consistently inconsistent throughout the story.

If David Luís had known what the future had in store for his son, he would've named him anything else—anything.

I fell in love with her suddenly, deeply, in the most all-consuming way.

I feel myself collapse inside as if the life force has been sucked out of me.

If I could do all of that on February 14th, it would be a personal best for me. Something to share with my crew for the glory and the laughs, or to cheer up the next buddy of mine to get dumped or cheated on. From "My Worst Valentine's Day.Ever: A Short Story

If I knew this is your final goodbye; I'd have told you that still I've a lot of things to say. I'd have told you how you changed my life, how you made me close to Me, how you made me realize the beauty of the world. If only I knew, this is your final goodbye... I'd have never let you say it...

If I were reincarnated, I wouldn’t mind coming back as an undiscovered seahorse.

If you are a singer, you must sing. If you are a dancer, you must dance. If you are a writer, you must write. Don’t suffocate your heart.

I gulped, mesmerized by his hypnotic eyes and charming, spearmint smile, and uttered something intelligent like,"Uh, huh." ~ from Dragon Flight

If you think there is no time to write now, there will never be.

I had always been an atheist until I met Lenny. He was too wonderously complex and good for there to be no benevolent and intelligent force behind our marvelous cosmos. Lenny gave me the actual proof my fiercely skeptical mind had always demanded. Not some logical, 37-step proof of God's existence. It was a personal proof. And it was irrefutable.

I'm not just the sum of how I look although that seems to be a popular opinion, and it infuriates me.

I hate this night. I hate that it makes me a person so truly removed from the real me; this man who sits in silence in his parlor – purposely quarantined from his family – is not who I want to be. But on Halloween night, this awful impostor wafts over me like morning fog, and I know there’s no resisting him. Like one anticipates the common cold brought on by a harsh winter, I know this broken and terrified man will soon be visiting when the evening of October 31st falls upon us. And on this yearly autumn night, he will sit and drink. And remember.

I have nothing I want to ask you, and if I did, you would probably lie anyway.” “I’m drunk. Drunk people tell the truth.” “Like hell they do. Besides you’re not that drunk.” “Then dare me something.” I snorted. “No, because I’m not that drunk, or stupid.

I'm either on the cusp of greatness or the edge of insanity.

I'm following hot on her heels, smarting from her latest rebuttal, and I can't contain my temper as the flood of rejection washes over me, tossing me precariously close to the edge.

I’m mistaken…. for thinking you were someone with a heart worth breaking.

i’m super, it’s like my favourite meal and a birthday blowjob from Christina Hendricks in here.

I’m warning you because you’re young and vulnerable. He’s a dirty, lying, conniving piece of shit and he’s dangerous.” Gottfried Baumauer.

I knew a girl and she felt like art. Sometimes colorful, sometimes dull, Sometimes with bright, hopeful eyes, Sometimes only black and white, But she was always a piece of exquisite art.

I’m an old man, now. I’ve been alone since my 17th birthday. I’d wanted to marry, have a bunch of kids, and maybe be a grandpa. The big family around the Thanksgiving table, laughing and pouring wine and cracking jokes and harmlessly teasing the missus—I wanted that. I wanted to do something good with my life—something right. I didn’t want what happened to Danny, my best childhood friend, to be the only mark I’d ever make in this world. But I thought it best not to fancy such hopes and dreams: a family, love. I’d been cursed by my best friend, and I thought it right not to inflict that curse on anyone who’d be foolish enough to love me.

I’m supposed to feel like it’s such a great apartment, but I don’t. It’s the right price, there are no bugs and it’s got a great view, but it’s the lair of Satan...--Nil Caveat

In all nature there seemed to be a feeling of hopelessness and pain. The earth, like a ruined woman sitting alone in a dark room and trying not to think of the past, was brooding over memories of spring and summer and apathetically waiting for the inevitable winter. Wherever one looked, on all sides, nature seemed like a dark, infinitely deep, cold pit from which neither Kirilov nor Abogin nor the red half-moon could escape....

Inside a wool jacket the man had made a pocket for the treasure and from time to time he would jiggle the pocket, just to make sure that it was still there. And when on the train he rode to work he would jiggle it there also, but he would disguise his jiggling of the treasure on the train by devising a distraction. For example, the man would pretend to be profoundly interested in something outside the train, such as the little girl who seemed to be jumping high up on a trampoline, just high enough so that she could spy the man on the train, and in this way he really did become quite interested in what occurred outside the train, although he would still jiggle the treasure, if only out of habit. Also on the train he'd do a crossword puzzle and check his watch by rolling up his sleeve; when he did so he almost fell asleep. Antoine often felt his life to be more tedious with this treasure, because in order not to be overly noticed he had deemed it wise to fall into as much a routine as possible and do everything as casually as possible, and so, as a consequence, despite the fact that he hated his wife and daughter, he didn't leave them, he came home to them every night and he ate the creamed chicken that his wife would prepare for him, he would accept the large, fleshy hand that would push him around while he sat around in his house in an attempt to read or watch the weather, he took out the trash, he got up on time every morning and took a quick, cold shower, he shaved, he accepted the cold eggs and orange juice and coffee, he picked the newspaper off the patio and took it inside with him to read her the top headlines, and of course he went to the job.

I need to master the art of talking to her before I can even contemplate anything else.

In high school, she’d been the loner fat girl and I’d been the asshole jock. There had always been something between us; we had gotten on so easily. I remember being both confused and upset that when I’d finally experienced that thing everyone called chemistry, it had been with her of all people.

Inside the room there sat a rocker, which she sat on, and which had rocked her while she sipped the beer, because in spite of herself she had become so giddy to have so quickly relieved her heart that she allowed herself to lean backwards while in the rocker, which had made it possible for the rocker to rock her, although it was not her intention to be so rocked. Also there stood an ironing board with a still hot iron on it that was burning a yellow shift, and there was, among several items that were not as noticeable to the woman, and yet were noticeable enough to at least bear mention, a fake man. "I hope you don't mind me asking," said the woman who lived in the room, but then while in her chair she nodded off.

In some mystical way, Lenny seemed to ennoble work more than anyone I had ever met" Also in "Stories and Scripts:an Anthology

In her hand was a necklace with a small oval pendant, a half of a locket engraved with one of the same symbols from the mirror frame—what Quinn saw as rolling waves. ~ "The Mirror

In the beginning we start with roses. The king’s flower right? Only they wilt in less than a day, especially when exposed to the elements. But Carnations? Oh, what a beautiful flower. They come in every color. True, some are painted, but that doesn’t mean they are less beautiful, and they never wilt.

I saw sunrises fade and burn among fleets of sparks. The moon blossomed like a lily carved of bone... The Death of the Astronaut, page 390.

I once read a story by this guy named Harlan Ellison ending: That night it rained, everywhere in the known universe. I was never too sure what the ending meant in terms of Ellison's story, but anyone who sits alone in a motel room for hours, watching the rain wash the world away, begins to understand. Knows what it feels like.

I said say my name, daughter, or I’ll slit your throat before cutting my children from your womb.

Isn’t it funny that if God were to reveal and explain Himself, the majority of the world would necessarily be disappointed?

I told you. I’ve been watching.” She twirled, her arms outstretched. “Watching, watching, watching.

It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

It rubs against me, dipping between my hot lips and makes me whimper with yearning. You remove it dramatically and raise it up, out of my eye line, although I imagine that you are inspecting it. “Yes, definitely a slut, aren’t you?” “Yes, sir.” I reply instantly. My voice sounds needy – already.

It’s late and most of the clerks are at home in their beds, dreaming of swimming in pools filled with real money.

It’s amazing how much easier it is to bake a cake when you’ve got an eternity to get it right.

It's the only light we've got in all this darkness

It's the first instance where I believe that it might actually be wrong, the first time I feel like a bit of a creep.

I will not die on Totem Lake.

I’ve never been a believer in fate. I like to think I’m in control, that my life hasn’t been plotted out ahead of time. Sometimes all it takes is one wild thought, one brave decision to change everything. This must be one of those times.

I wait, you play. You speak, I cave. I promise, you break. You game me, daily, you play me.

It's unexpectedly painful to have become a pronoun.

It takes both sides to build a bridge.

It was 911 calling me. If you can believe it. Them calling me.

I want to feel like I'm making a difference in this world. And I want some time for living rather than just working. Life is for living, isn't it? It can't be all just for working

Just how good are you?” He kissed her. “I’ll let you be the judge of that.

Junk?” Gram gasped. “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure, you know.” “Yeah, well, maybe it’s time to let another man have it, you think?” he teased. ~ "The Mirror