The Killer's Tears Quotes

It's not the bad memories that tear a person apart. It's the good ones.

By dint of waiting, he hoped his heart would wear out and stop beating. What other way was there to stop loving someone?

I cursed him then, not because his tears were fake, but because they were real. I cursed him for showing me, with every tear and every smile and every sincere emotion he had, that I was the real freak.

It’s human nature to tear one another apart. Be glad you come from such a successful line of killers.

Suddenly in the line of solders, she saw him. The boy who had killed Morris. She knew he was Morris’ killer. There was no mistake.

If there was one thing that life has taught me, it’s to accept the most foolish and unthinkable happiness.

Something was going on. Something big, like the dreams that brought her sisters together. But this time, it wasn't a theater bringing them together. It was a killer tearing them apart.

Love is pain. Real love – the one not spewed in poetry – is agony. It tears at your soul, strips you bare, drives you mad and demands the veracity of our existence. Love is madness.

I kiss her long and deep and hard until I feel like I’m running on the fringes of my emotions; they’re tearing away at me like hands in Hell reaching out for me as I leap over the flames, trying to pull me down with them into sin, and as hard as I try to get away, a part of me wants them to take me. I want to sin. I want to kiss her. And so I do. And I don’t stop.

And Jazz snapped. He didn't snap the way a normal person might snap. A normal person would fling his arms around and stomp his feet and rant at the top of his lungs, bellowing to the sky. There might be tears, from a normal person. Jazz went quiet. He darted out one hand and grabbed the wrist of the paramedic who had been trying to cuff him and pulled the man close, holding his gaze. In a moment, he channeled every last drop of (his father). "Who am I? I'll tell you. I'm the local psychopath, and if you don't save my best friend's life, I will hunt down everyone you've ever cared about in your life and make you watch while I do things to them that will have you begging me to kill them. That's who I am.

Chase stooped to inspect it. Angelo handed him a latex glove, which took Chase three attempts to pull on before tearing it. He had never had a good relationship with latex. He tried two more, tearing each one of those too.

As parents, guardians, teachers, school administrators, and higher authorities, we have to tear down the wall of bullying. We have to hold the silent killer responsible for its actions. We are a powerful force and if we all can come together, we will put an end to the silent killer once and for all.

You are a most effective killer, Michel. Is it true you wept like a child when they killed your sister? That you cried out in agony as if the sword had pierced your own heart? Such compassion. Does your handiwork not bring you to tears as well?

Doctor Doom was exactly the sort of bastard who would have armed al-Qaeda with death rays and killer robots if he thought for one second it would piss off the hated Reed Richards and the rest of his mortal enemies in the Fantastic Four, but here he was sobbing with the best of them, as representative not of evil, but of Marvel Comics' collective shock, struck dumb and moved to hand-drawn tears by the thought that anyone could hate America and its people enough to do this.

We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away.

You’re not a killer,”Calvert said. “No…” I replied. I couldn’t see, so I screwed my eyes closed, felt the moisture of tears threatening to spill forth. I took in a deep breath. “…But I suppose, in a roundabout way, you made me into one,” I finished. I aimed the gun and fired.

To restate an old law - when a man bites a fish, that's good, but when a fish bites a man, that's bad. This is one way of saying it's all right if man kills an animal, but if an animal attacks man, the act is reprehensible. The animal is labelled "killer," something to be feared, hated, shunned, punished, even killed by man. How dangerous are those sea animals with bad reputations? A few actually kill. A few maim. Some are poisonous when eaten by man. Most sting, stab,or poison and cause mild to severe discomfort to man. Yet man is one of the larger beings that sea creatures encounter, and these poisons usually can't kill him. Very often these poisons are used defensively against predators and offensively in food gathering. There are a few animals that have won themselves a bad reputation even though they have little or no effect on man. They have won their rating through man's interpretation of their attitude towards lower animals. These animals have been seen feeding in what appears to be a savage manner. But this behavior may perhaps be comparable to a man tearing the flesh off a chicken leg with his teeth.

I'll wave no more flags for home. No tears for Mother. Nobody ever died for apple pie.

And yet, they hesitated. The knowledge that they might never see each other again, that some of them—maybe all of them—might not survive this night hung heavy in the air. A gambler, a convict, a wayward son, a lost Grisha, a Suli girl who had become a killer, a boy from the Barrel who had become something worse. Inej looked at her strange crew, barefoot and shivering in their soot-stained prison uniforms, their features limned by the golden light of the dome, softened by the mist that hung in the air. What bound them together? Greed? Desperation? Was it just the knowledge that if one or all of them disappeared tonight, no one would come looking? Inej’s mother and father might still shed tears for the daughter they’d lost, but if Inej died tonight, there would be no one to grieve for the girl she was now. She had no family, no parents or siblings, only people to fight beside. Maybe that was something to be grateful for, too. It was Jesper who spoke first. “No mourners,” he said with a grin. “No funerals,” they replied in unison. Even Matthias muttered the words softly.

Sometimes I can't tell the difference between living and dead. Sometimes I look at a pretty little girlie and I think to myself, Is she a living, breathing thing? Or is she just a doll? Are those actualy tears she's crying? Are those real creams coming out of her mouth? And it's like a fog in my mind, like I get all confused and frustrated and mixed up, so I start doing things. Start small at first, like maybe with the ears or the lips or the toes. And then move on to the bigger things, and there's blood, so I keeping going and my hands are wet and my mouth is warm and I keep going and then something magical happens, Jasper. It's real magical and special and beautiful. See, they stop moving. They stop struggiling. All the fight just goes away and that's when it's all clear to me: She's dead. And if she's dead, then that means that she used to be alive. So then I know: This was a living one, a real one. And I feel good after that 'cause I figured it out.

Sometimes the fog in his eyes would clear, that fog caused by the pain and the killers of pain, and when it cleared, I saw regret and fear in those eyes swimming with tears and I was convinced that this was it, this was the end, this was surely the end.

Your people, your guards-- they're nothing more than killers, rapists and thieves. The only difference between them and criminals is the uniform they wear." She pulls herself to her feet and palms the tears from her eyes. "Fool yourself all you want, little prince, but don't feign innocence with me. I won't let your father get away with what he's done. I won't let your ignorance silence my pain.

No pain, no death, is more terrible to a wild creature than its fear of man. A red-throated diver, sodden and obscene with oil, able to move only its head, will push itself out from the sea-wall with its bill if you reach down to it as it floats like a log in the tide. A poisoned crow, gaping and helplessly floundering in the grass, bright yellow foam bubbling from its throat, will dash itself up again and again on to the descending wall of air, if you try to catch it. A rabbit, inflated and foul with myxomatosis, just a twitching pulse beating in a bladder of bones and fur, will feel the vibration of your footstep and will look for you with bulging, sightless eyes. Then it will drag itself away into a bush, trembling with fear. We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away.

Then I remembered something. I was Lark freaking Inukai. I sat up, swiping my tears away. I defanged killers. I defused their aggression. I found out their weaknesses and exploited them ruthlessly. You don’t know me, Death. Every

the crunch too much too little too fat too thin or nobody. laughter or tears haters lovers strangers with faces like the backs of thumb tacks armies running through streets of blood waving winebottles bayoneting and fucking virgins. or an old guy in a cheap room with a photograph of M. Monroe. there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. people so tired mutilated either by love or no love. people just are not good to each other one on one. the rich are not good to the rich the poor are not good to the poor. we are afraid. our educational system tells us that we can all be big-ass winners. it hasn’t told us about the gutters or the suicides. or the terror of one person aching in one place alone untouched unspoken to watering a plant. people are not good to each other. people are not good to each other. people are not good to each other. I suppose they never will be. I don’t ask them to be. but sometimes I think about it. the beads will swing the clouds will cloud and the killer will behead the child like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone. too much too little too fat too thin or nobody more haters than lovers. people are not good to each other. perhaps if they were our deaths would not be so sad. meanwhile I look at young girls stems flowers of chance. there must be a way. surely there must be a way we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say “no.

Marie felt a sudden urge to smash the glass, break down the door, pull down the building. She wanted to tear apart the world. Mather would have never treated a white student that badly, nor would he have shut the door in the face of a man. At that moment, she wanted Dr. Mather to disappear. She wanted every white man to disappear. She wanted to burn them all down to ash and feast on their smoke. Hateful, powerful thoughts. She wondered what those hateful, powerful thoughts could create.

Tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be romantic enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have too little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. So he thought over various plans for relief, and finally hit pon that of professing to be fond of Pain-killer. He asked for it so often that he became a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had no misgivings to alloy her delight; but since it was Tom, she watched the bottle clandestinely. She found that the medicine did really diminish, but it did not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a crack in the sitting-room floor with it. One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, eying the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste. Tom said: "Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter." But Peter signified that he did want it. "You better make sure." Peter was sure. "Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you, because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame anybody but your own self." Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. The old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter.

His love is forged in tears.

Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time to

One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, eyeing the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste. Tom said: "Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter." But Peter signified that he did want it. "You better make sure." Peter was sure. "Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you, because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame anybody but your own self." Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. The old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter. "Tom, what on earth ails that cat?" "I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy. "Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?

I think that after a revolution a man needs a few years to get used to the new era. I knew from my limited and worthless experience that those who tear down and destroy one era cannot build another. Just as weapons can't suddenly become flowers, a killer can't suddenly turn gardener. Hasan-i Tofan, an earlier killer and member of "The Finishing-Off Sports Club

I think that after a revolution a man needs a few years to get used to the new era. I knew from my limited and worthless experience that those who tear down and destroy one era cannot build another. Just as weapons can't suddenly become flowers, a killer can't suddenly turn gardener. Hasan-i Tofan, an earlier killer and member of "The Finishing-Off Sports Club

She knows her life is on the line but, believe it or not, she's never been so excited! Her husband's a serial killer, and her bodice is wet with tears, but there's a chance her brothers will show up like winning lottery numbers. Which does she want more - her hair wound in the maniac's hands and her white white throat bared, or the sound of boots on marble stairs?

Carter: "Dude, I don't know why it works, it just does. [...] Just pretend you're not into 'em and then ask a question. What's the worst that could happen?" EJ makes eye contact with the smallest one, off to the side. [...] She looks up at EJ and gives him the nicest smile. He pulls the trigger and yells, "You think you're hot stuff, don't you?" What the...? Where are you going with this? "Excuse me?" she replies, kind of sweetly. EJ asks, "You think you're cool, don't you? Where did you get that shirt, the Salvation Army? What the hell is with your hair? My eyes are as big as basketballs as he fires one mean-ass question after another at her. "You don't have a boyfriend, do you?" he continues. It's like he's armed with self-esteem killer. "Did your parents have any kids that lived?" EJ asks. The girls starts to buckle, and tears are on the way. "Are these your friends, or are they like, counselors here to observe you?" EJ shouts. [...] He asks, "Does your grandma know you borrowed her shoes?" as I drag him away. The girl is crying pretty hard, and her friends are trying to console her. [...] "Man, that didn't do very well. What do you think I did wrong?" EJ asks. "Are you serious?" I ask "I was just doing what you told me to," he replies. "I-I-I told you to go up to that girl and start abusing her?" I ask. "You said to ask her questions and pretend I didn't like her!" he yells back. "Pretend YOU'RE NOT INTO HER!" I clarify. "Not that you hate her and wish she would die! Good God, that girl thought she was gonna get a boyfriend when you walked up, not years of therapy." "Do you think I still have a shot?" he asks "NO, I don't!" I bark

When the wife was found alive, the victim of a horrible car accident that might not have been discovered in time were it not for the husband's persistence, I was shocked to find myself actually tearing up. It was cathartic, the relief that she was okay after all--- something true crime programming rarely gave you. But there was more to it than that. Somehow, Sam had sanded down my cynical edges. I'd built up this armor for so long, and I'd always worried I wouldn't recognize myself without it. But it turned out that I liked who I was with Sam.

The poet is asking the tiger who made him, and how,” said Crowley, his chin buried deep under his collar. “ ‘What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain?’ ” Only his eyes were visible, black pits reflecting the dancing fire. “He wrote two poems like that, you know—‘The Lamb’ and ‘The Tiger.’ One was made of sweetness and love, and one was forged from terror and death.” Crowley looked at me, his eyes dark and heavy. “ ‘When the stars threw down their spears and watered heaven with their tears—did he smile, his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee?

You can have that life,” he told her. “It’s right there for you to take.” “I love you,” Eve quickly countered. “Loving me hurts you, doesn’t it?” Beckett asked, looking down. “No, you don’t have to tell me. I know. I can smell it. I can smell the pain coming off of you,” he said, looking at the floor. “You had love before and a future. What does loving me get you, Eve? What does it get you?” He stood, angry with himself. “I don’t need to get anything from you. It’s the way it is. There’s no changing that.” She gripped the porch railing. Beckett stepped close to Eve and tenderly tucked a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “You’re saying goodbye,” she said, her eyes full of questions. “Do you know there are other little girls out there like that one? I lived with a few of them. They would sell their souls for a mother like you.” At the word mother Eve’s chin crumpled. She tried to hold back the tears, but they wouldn’t obey. “See that? It’s what you need. You need that—a little kid calling you Mom.” Beckett put his arms around her as she shattered. The pain she kept hidden surfaced from where it had been smoldering. When he felt her knees weaken, he hugged her harder. “That’s right. It’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby. You want normal.” He guided her to the chair he’d vacated. “There’s a guy out there who’ll hold your hand. There’s a little girl out there. She’s waiting for you. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” He knelt in front of her and rubbed her arms. She slapped at his hands, letting outrage carry her words. “I don’t want another man. I want you. I’ve killed for you. I’ve protected you. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you honestly think these hands that kill can hold a child?” She held her fingers in front of her face. “Yes. Absolutely. Don’t you know, gorgeous? Mothers are some of the most vicious killers out there, if their kids are threatened. You just have more practice.” He took her hands and kissed them. “I’ve lost too much. I can’t lose you. Don’t make me. Please. I’ll beg you if I have to.” She watched his lips on her palms. He shook his head and used her own words against her. “The hardest part of loving someone is not being with them when you want to be.” He stood, and she mirrored his motion,already shaking her head. “Don’t say it.” Beckett ignored her; he knew what he had to do. He had to set beautiful Eve free to find that soft, touchable woman he’d seen her become with the little girl.

She was suddenly self-conscious of the fact that she and Jay were on the bed together, even though they'd been there, together like that, hundreds, maybe even thousands, of times before. And it had never bothered her then, when they were still just friends; but somehow with her father just a few feet away, especially right after they'd been making out, she felt like they were doing something wrong. "We're fine, Dad!" she called back, trying to sound cool and composed. And then she glared at Jay for his part in making her shout to begin with. They listened to the sound of her father walking away, and Violet noticed that even his footsteps were soft and unobtrusive. There was a long silence once they were alone again. Words that needed to be said, and maybe some that didn't, were like invisible fireworks exploding in the empty space between them. Jay was the first to give in. He reached out and took her hand, wrapping it tightly in both of his. "Look, Vi, I don't know exactly how to say this, but I don't want anything bad to happen to you. I don't think I could handle it if something, or someone, hurt you." The tone of his voice was still immovable and stubborn, despite the sweet sentiment lurking behind it. He squeezed her hand, though...firmly, as if emphasizing his point. "I know it's selfish, and I don't really care if it is, but I'm not gonna stand by and let you put yourself in danger, even if it is to catch a killer." He eased up on her throbbing fingers, and his voice got all husky and rough again. "I can't lose you," he explained, shrugging as if those weren't the most wonderful words she'd ever heard before. "Not now that I finally have you." She felt tears prickling in her eyes, and she blinked hard to try to stop them from coming. She was completely overwhelmed by what she'd just figured out...she'd realized it even before he'd finished talking. She knew what it was that he wasn't saying while he lectured her about safety. He loved her. Jay Heaton, her best friend since childhood, was in love with her. He didn't say it, but she knew that it was true. And the part that really freaked her out, the part of it that caught her completely off guard, was that he wasn't in it alone. Because even though she'd been denying it for a long long time, it had always been there...waiting just beneath the surface of their friendship. And now that it was out, there was no going back. And it was so weird to even be thinking it, but... ...she was in love with him too.

Do you know anyone who would be willing to die to save those five-thousand serial killers?” “No. Everyone I know is too smart for that!” “Yet Someone did die to save all of the serial killers, and all of the old women, and all of the soldiers, and all of the babies that the world has ever known. That one is Jesus Christ. He died for you and for me. He died for everyone, because in this world our sin has condemned us to death, and the only way that we can be saved was for someone who was Himself without sin to be willing to die in our place.” Molly was silent. Her bright smile had faded, and she felt tears well up in her eyes.

She glanced at the bathroom door once more, her cheeks growing warm as the glass door slid open and Kane emerged from the steamy shower stall. Naked. She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from his nude, dripping-wet body. He had the kind of rock-hard physique that would make other women drool. His broad chest tapered to a trim waist, and his legs were thick and dusted with golden hair. He was lean, not bulky, with perfectly sculpted muscles that looked like they'd been carved out of marble. He was hard. Everywhere. "I'm afraid it's too late for you to join me in the shower," he said in a silky voice. "Though we could still make good use of the bed.

Today is going to be the real thing. I have a hard time breathing. My heart races, I can feel my palms start to sweat. And I think so many things at once, my head begins to hurt and I hear someone groan and it confuses me until I realize it is myself. Her smile, her sweet, sweet smile. The way she looks at me, as if I’m ten feet tall, as if I can hold the world in the palm of my hand. And then, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “No, no, no. Please, Aidan, stop. No …” The cops will come for me. Sooner or later. Two of them, three of them, an entire SWAT team, converging upon my doorstep. That’s why guys like me exist. Because every community has gotta have a villain, and no amount of pretend normal is ever gonna change that. Gotta think. Gotta plan. Gotta get the fuck out of here. To where? For how long? I don’t have that kind of cash…. I try to get my breathing under control. Find some sort of comfort. Tell myself it’s gonna be all right. I’m keeping with the program.

The school regime refused to make it easy for us on the dress side of things, and it dictated that even if we wanted to walk into the neighboring town of Windsor, then we had to wear a blazer and tie. This made us prime targets for the many locals who seemed to enjoy an afternoon of beating up the Eton “toffs.” On one occasion, I was having a pee in the loos of the Windsor McDonald’s, which were tucked away downstairs at the back of the fast-food joint. I was just leaving the Gents when the door swung open, and in walked three aggressive-looking lads. They looked as if they had struck gold on discovering this weedy, blazer-wearing Eton squirt, and I knew deep down that I was in trouble and alone. (Meanwhile, my friends were waiting for me upstairs. Some use they were being.) I tried to squeeze past these hoodies, but they threw me back against the wall and laughed. They then proceeded to debate what they were going to do to me. “Flush his head down the toilet,” was an early suggestion. (Well, I had had that done to me many times already at Eton, I thought to myself.) I was okay so far. Then they suggested defecating in the loo first. Now I was getting worried. Then came the killer blow: “Let’s shave his pubes!” Now, there is no greater embarrassment for a young teenager than being discovered to not have any pubes. And I didn’t. That was it. I charged at them, threw one of them against the wall, barged the other aside, squeezed through the door, and bolted. They chased after me, but once I reached the main floor of the McDonald’s I knew I was safe. I waited with my friends inside until we were sure the thugs had all left, then cautiously slunk back across the bridge to school. (I think we actually waited more than two hours, to be safe. Fear teaches great patience.)

What are you doing here?” He wasn’t annoyed, exactly. He just seemed to find my presence unexpected, the way you might be surprised to discover your dog in the living room instead of in its crate. A different young staffer would have handled the situation gracefully. Perhaps they might have tried a high-minded approach: “I’m here to serve my country.” Or they might have kept things simple: “I’m hoping to catch typos.” Here is what I did instead. First, in a misguided effort to appear casual, I gave the leader of the free world a smile reminiscent of a serial killer who knows the jig is up. Then I said the following: “Oh, I’m just watching.” POTUS took a shallow breath through his nose. He raised his eyebrows, looked at our cameraman, and sighed. “It always makes me nervous when Litt’s around.” I’m 90 percent sure President Obama was half joking. Still, two months later, on my final POTUS trip, my stomach full of arugula and Brie, I was careful to avoid his eyes. Backstage in Detroit, POTUS went through his usual prespeech routine, shaking hands with the prompter operators and joking with personal aides. Then he stepped onstage to remind a roomful of autoworkers about the time he saved their industry seven years before. I had written plenty of auto speeches for President Obama. There was nothing especially new in this one. But as POTUS reached his closing paragraph, my eyes filled with tears. I had tried to prepare myself for each milestone: my last set of remarks for the president, my last ride in the motorcade, my last flight on Air Force One. Still, the nostalgia left me reeling. I fled the staff viewing area and found a men’s room. With my left hand, I steadied myself against the sink. With my right, I held all but the first page of my speech. You’re supposed to be an adult, I reminded myself. And adults don’t cry in front of their boss’s boss.

In the meantime, I tried my best to acclimate to my new life in the middle of nowhere. I had to get used to the fact that I lived twenty miles from the nearest grocery store. That I couldn’t just run next door when I ran out of eggs. That there was no such thing as sushi. Not that it would matter, anyway. No cowboy on the ranch would touch it. That’s bait, they’d say, laughing at any city person who would convince themselves that such a food was tasty. And the trash truck: there wasn’t one. In this strange new land, there was no infrastructure for dealing with trash. There were cows in my yard, and they pooped everywhere--on the porch, in the yard, even on my car if they happened to be walking near it when they dropped a load. There wasn’t a yard crew to clean it up. I wanted to hire people, but there were no people. The reality of my situation grew more crystal clear every day. One morning, after I choked down a bowl of cereal, I looked outside the window and saw a mountain lion siting on the hood of my car, licking his paws--likely, I imagined, after tearing a neighboring rancher’s wife from limb to limb and eating her for breakfast. I darted to the phone and called Marlboro Man, telling him there was a mountain lion sitting on my car. My heart beat inside my chest. I had no idea mountain lions were indigenous to the area. “It’s probably just a bobcat,” Marlboro Man reassured me. I didn’t believe him. “No way--it’s huge,” I cried. “It’s seriously got to be a mountain lion!” “I’ve gotta go,” he said. Cows mooed in the background. I hung up the phone, incredulous at Marlboro Man’s lack of concern, and banged on the window with the palm of my hand, hoping to scare the wild cat away. But it only looked up and stared at me through the window, imagining me on a plate with a side of pureed trout. My courtship with Marlboro Man, filled with fizzy romance, hadn’t prepared me for any of this; not the mice I heard scratching in the wall next to my bed, not the flat tires I got from driving my car up and down the jagged gravel roads. Before I got married, I didn’t know how to use a jack or a crowbar…and I didn’t want to have to learn now. I didn’t want to know that the smell in the laundry room was a dead rodent. I’d never smelled a dead rodent in my life: why, when I was supposed to be a young, euphoric newlywed, was I being forced to smell one now? During the day, I was cranky. At night, I was a mess. I hadn’t slept through the night once since we returned from our honeymoon. Besides the nausea, whose second evil wave typically hit right at bedtime, I was downright spooked. As I lay next to Marlboro Man, who slept like a baby every night, I thought of monsters and serial killers: Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers, Ted Bundy and Charles Manson. In the utter silence of the country, every tiny sound was amplified; I was certain if I let myself go to sleep, the murderer outside our window would get me.

a serious contender for my book of year. I can't believe I only discovered Chris Carter a year ago and I now consider him to be one of my favourite crime authors of all time. For that reason this is a difficult review to write because I really want to show just how fantastic this book is. It's a huge departure from what we are used to from Chris, this book is very different from the books that came before. That said it could not have been more successful in my opinion. After five books of Hunter trying to capture a serial killer it makes sense to shake things up a bit and Chris has done that in best possible way. By allowing us to get inside the head of one of the most evil characters I've ever read about. It is also the first book based on real facts and events from Chris's criminal psychology days and that makes it all the more shocking and fascinating. Chris Carter's imagination knows no bounds and I love it. The scenes, the characters, whatever he comes up with is both original and mind blowing and that has never been more so than with this book. I feel like I can't even mention the plot even just a little bit. This is a book that should be read in the same way that I read it: with my heart in my mouth, my eyes unblinking and in a state of complete obliviousness to the world around me while I was well and truly hooked on this book. This is addictive reading at its absolute best and I was devastated when I turned the very last page. Robert Hunter, after the events of the last few books is looking forward to a much needed break in Hawaii. Before he can escape however his Captain calls him to her office. Arriving, Hunter recognises someone - one of the most senior members of the FBI who needs his help. They have in custody one of the strangest individuals they have ever come across, a man who is more machine than human and who for days has uttered not a single word. Until one morning he utters seven: 'I will only speak to Robert Hunter'. The man is Hunter's roommate and best friend from college, Lucien Folter, and found in the boot of his car are two severed and mutilated heads. Lucien cries innocence and Hunter, a man incredibly difficult to read or surprise is played just as much as the reader is by Lucien. There are a million and one things I want to say but I just can't. You really have to discover how this story unfolds for yourself. In this book we learn so much more about Hunter and get inside his head even further than we have before. There's a chapter that almost brought me to tears such is the talent of Chris to connect the reader with Hunter. This is a character like no other and he is now one of my favourite detectives of all time. We go back in time and learn more about Hunter when he was younger, and also when he was in college with Lucien. Lucien is evil. The scenes depicted in this book are some of the most graphic I've ever read and you know what, I loved it. After five books of some of the scariest and goriest scenes I've ever read I wondered whether Chris could come up with something even worse (in a good way), but trust me, he does. This book is horrifying, terrifying and near impossible to put down until you reach its conclusion. I spent my days like a zombie and my nights practically giving myself paper cuts turning the pages. If when reading this book you think you have an idea of where it will go, prepare to be wrong. I've learnt never to underestimate Chris, keeping readers on their toes he takes them on an absolute rollercoaster of a ride with the twistiest of turns and the biggest of drops you will finish this book reeling. I am on a serious book hangover, what book can I read next that can even compare to this? I have no idea but if you are planning on reading An Evil Mind I cannot reccommend it enough. Not only is this probably my book of the year it is probably the best crime fiction book I have ever read. An exaggeration you might say but my opinion is my own and this real

Tears cascaded down the big man's face and Black felt sorry for him, but honestly he didn't give a damn about what L's sexuality was. He knew L was a killer and that was all he cared about. Black

As the heat of passion left her, Caroline de Brunner began to sob uncontrollably. Her whole body shook with the spasms, and she buried her face against his chest, scraping her cheek along the matted hair. "You bastard," she moaned. "Oh, you bastard. Oh God, why did you have to do that?" "Because you wanted it, and I wanted it," he said. "And that's a good enough reason for any couple." "Damn you, I wanted to forget you, Klin." She raised herself up, and looked at him through tear-filled eyes. "It always happens the same way. I vowed I'd never take another husband.

Same way a serial killer chooses his weapons, only Aaron was the serial killer of souls.

[A] clear picture came into John's mind. He could see Jesus hanging on the cross: stripped, beaten, mocked, despised, nails tearing through his flesh, and a crown of thorns on his head. And John could hear Jesus cry, from within the pain, "Forgive!" John realized his message was for him and for his fellow Rwandans. He understood that neither he, nor they, could wait until the pain was over in order to forgive. Jesus had cried out for the forgiveness of his killers when he was still in the midst of the pain.

killer aren’t his to judge. ‘Ah, come on, Ed, help us out,’ says Parnell, all

Mirroring his earlier motions, Daisy searches around the room to verify they are alone and whispers with a hint of destruction, “I’m going to crush the male species into oblivion, one sale at a time. Then fill a pool with their tears and swan dive off the fucking high board.

You're going to die." I tell her this not to be cruel, but out of compassion. It's the uncertainty of things that tears our souls apart. She still thinks this is a dream, but her eyes are focused now. My words are working their way through her broken mind.

Insulting your intelligence. Not making you feel special and appreciated . All the times I continued to do things when you asked me to stop. Using the silent treatment to get what I wanted. Choosing to ignore you until you said you were sorry when we had a fight . Expecting sex whenever I wanted it but not giving it when you did . Not meeting your emotional needs and driving you to get them from another man . Not recognizing just how strong of a person you are . Making you wear a bathing suit when you were pregnant so I could make fun of you. All of the times that I didn't do things around the house because I knew you would do them eventually. Not doing more upkeep on our house. Having so many hobbies and interest and not simply appreciating you, the kids, our home, and our life. Always finding something to criticize about you. Not nurturing you . Not building you up but always tearing you down. Not complimenting you more. Taking you for granted. Not taking care of my body more to give you something pleasing to look at. Not letting go . All the emails. Expecting my needs to be the first priority of the family because I was the head of the household . Not knowing the true meaning of being the head of the household . Not reading more with you . Getting mad at you about something 3 or 4 times a week, maybe more . Not learning to enjoy your hobbies with you . Not working in the yard with you more . Interrupting you when you talk . Always acting like the victim . Limiting your spending money by giving you an allowance . Being unhappy so many days of my life . Ingraining in you and the kids "Is dad mad?". Getting mad and not staying overnight at the marriage seminar a few years ago . All the 1000's of more times I’m not remembering of "being mad because ______”. Yelling at you 1000's of times. Not providing the means for you to fix up the house the way you wanted to. Destroying your dreams. Always having to struggle for money . Not going to kids events with you . Defending myself whenever you'd point out something I was doing to upset you or the kids. You being married to a man who was still a child in his emotional development. Not recognizing how hurt you were . Being verbally abusive . Taking my misery out on you and the kids . My ego and my pride . Putting you first instead of God . Making you feel as if you never measured up . Crushing the tender flower in you . Not building the children up spiritually . Always thinking your issues were no big deal . All the tax problems . Not paying all our bills . Being lazy . Thinking I always had all the answers . Never apologizing . Never backing down. Telling you why you shouldn't feel the way you felt about things . Not learning the true meaning of a godly man and godly marriage. Having to make you suffer because of my fear of abandonment . Asking you to do things during sex that you didn’t like or were not comfortable doing . Any event(s) that are strong in your mind that I have failed to recognize in this list that was ever hurtful, disrespectful or disappointing to you. Making you have to divorce me. There was no other way for me to wake up and realize exactly the person I have been and how I was in our marriage. I am waking up.

These ceremonials in honor of white supremacy, performed from babyhood, slip from the conscious mind down deep into muscles . . . and become difficult to tear out. — LILLIAN SMITH , Killers of the Dream (1949)

Cat sat in a rocking recliner, her foot pushing the chair into motion steadily. She looked up when he came down the stairs but didn’t say anything. Harper felt like a royal ass when he saw her tear-stained cheeks and the tissues clutched in her hand. Cat was a strong woman. It took a lot to see her cry. The fact that she was crying now made him feel like the lowest kind of scum. Crossing the room, he knelt down in front of her, stopping the chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond to you. I’m kind of in shock. When I fell in love with you I just always thought it was forever. Even though my lifestyle didn’t create stability, you did, Cat. You were always my stability. Walking away was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But I did it in the hopes that I could make myself better. It’s not like a damned driving test where if I mark a wrong answer I get to take the test over again. I’m a trained killer. If I had screwed up in our house you or the kids were going to pay for it, possibly with your lives. I couldn’t chance that.” Fresh tears rolled down her face and her expression crumpled. “I know. I knew that was why you left. Or at least that was what I had hoped. But it’s been eighteen damn months—a year and a half—with you not letting us have any contact. If you had talked to us, or wrote…just something to let us know that we weren’t all alone.” Cat sobbed and it broke his heart. Pulling her into his arms then down onto his lap, he held her as she let all her emotions out. Tears choked his own throat as he cradled her to him. “If I had called I would not have been able to stay away.” And that was the gist of his angst. God, yes, he wanted to be with them, but he was willing to give up his own happiness if it kept them safe. Cat’s arms wrapped around his neck and she looked up at him. “I have always had more faith in you than you have yourself. Always.” Nuzzling his face into her damp hair, he nodded. “I know that. Without a doubt. And whether you were with me or not your faith kept me going.” Relaxing into his hold, Cat’s tears began to slow. “I love you, Cat.” Her arms tightened around his neck till he thought something was going to pop. “I love you too, damn it.

What did he say to you?” he demanded, when they were alone in Chloe’s study, with the doors closed. Emma rubbed her eyes. “Who?” she replied, stalling. Steven only looked at her, his expression wry, his jawline tight. A headache pounded at the base of her skull and she sighed, wishing she could go to her room and lie down with a cold cloth on her head. They both knew Steven was talking about Macon, but Emma didn’t dare admit the man had threatened her again. Steven would get furious, maybe violent, and he might insist on leaving her in Whitneyville until the trial was over, or sending her to Chicago. “He only wanted to dance,” she said, avoiding her husband’s eyes. Steven caught her chin in a rough but painless grasp. “Once and for all, Emma,” he breathed, “don’t lie to me. I won’t tolerate it, not even from you.” Tears gathered in Emma’s lashes. “He said—he said he’d have to teach me n-not to spread my l-legs for killers, once you were gone.” Steven’s face contorted with rage, and he whirled away from Emma and stormed toward the door. She ran after him and caught hold of his arm. “One murder trial is enough,” she cried. “Please, Steven—let it pass!” She watched as a variety of ferocious emotions moved across his face. Finally, Steven shoved the splayed fingers of his right hand through his hair and said, “I want to kill him.” He folded that same hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. “I want to kill him.” “I know,” Emma said gently. “But it wouldn’t be worth sacrificing all the years ahead, Steven.” He drew her close and held her, and his lips moved in her hair. “When I’m acquitted of killing Mary, the first thing I’m going to do is make love to you. The second thing is beat the hell out of Macon.” Emma smiled up at him. “When I get through with you,” she promised, full of bravado and hope, “you won’t have the strength to beat the hell out of anybody.” Steven chuckled hoarsely. “Is that so?” he retorted. “Well, maybe I’d better take you upstairs right now, Mrs. Fairfax, and find out if you’re bluffing.” “You’ll just have to wait until evening, Mr. Fairfax,” Emma responded airily. “I intend to enjoy our wedding party.” “That was exactly what I had in mind.” Steven grinned. Emma laughed and shook her head, her fears lost again, at least temporarily, in the boundless love she bore this man. Joellen

I think that after a revolution a man needs a few years to get used to the new era. I knew from my limited and worthless experience that those who tear down and destroy one era cannot build another. Just as weapons can't suddenly become flowers, a killer can't suddenly turn gardener. Hasan-i Tofan, a killer and an earlier member of "The Finishing-Off Sports Club

Leaving the Connecticut River March 8, 1704 Temperature 40 degrees Thou shalt not kill. Ruth lay down and inched forward until she could look over the edge of the cliff to see what had happened. The force of Otter’s fall had brought snow and rock down upon him. One hand stuck out, and part of his face. But I say unto you which hear. Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you…And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other. What could Jesus have been thinking when he said that? This enemy was the murderer and slaughterer of innocent women and children. Ruth was not going to love him, she would never do anything good unto him, and certainly she was not going to offer him yet another chance to strike her in the face. She rejoiced that this enemy had no choice about living or dying, any more than her father and brother had had a choice about living or dying. She thought of her mother, giving water to the wounded French officer, and for that gesture, being left behind. She wondered how Mother felt now, alone in a world where her men had died to save her while she helped their enemies. The savage was alive, trying with that one hand to dig himself free. A rim of ice fell like knives upon him. Ruth cried out. The Indian made no sound. Ruth scuttled backward, out of his sight. She could go get help. Or let him die. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t supposed to be Ruth who had to love the enemy. That was just a verse you repeated in meeting. She was not going to take it seriously, loving her enemy. But it was the Word of the Lord. The Twenty-third Psalm moved through her mind, as warm and sure as summer wind. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. If she broke the commandment and failed to love her enemy, she would never lie down in green pastures. Not on earth, not in her heart, and not in death. Ruth worked her way through tangles of thin saplings and around boulders. She slid down rock faces. Sweating and sobbing over terrain that could not have been made by God, only by devils, she reached Otter at last. Her bad lungs sounded like sand rubbed on floors. She dug him out, not carefully. She might have to save him but she would not spare him pain. He was bleeding where ice had sliced him and by now her mittens were shredded, and their blood mingled, flecked scarlet on white snow. When he was finally on his feet, she said, “It’s not because I wanted to, you know.” Otter took a short careful step and paused in pain, Ruth thought, though pain did not show on his face. “It’s so I won’t be a killer like you,” she said. He snapped a branch in his strong hands to use as a cane. Laboriously, they made their way up the cliff, crawling part of the way. “Actually, I hate you,” said Ruth. Huge hot tears fell from her eyes and she knew that hate was not as simple as that. Nor were the commandments.

I can’t believe it.’ I whispered. ‘You can’t let him lure you back in, Felicia. He’s wrong. He’s wrong!’ Vanian pleaded, I could feel the quiver of his magic, the wisps that were fighting against the iron burning into his wrists, I could feel the crackle as it fought in the air, against his emotions, against his pain. I shook my head, was about to speak but Adam grabbed him by the front of his shirt; as if a few more tears and shreds couldn’t go amiss. The tightness of his grip paled the Faerie’s cheeks, caused the blood to trickle down faster, dropping to the floor. ‘My wife.’ He yelled, ‘She’s my wife, silverblood.’ With each growl of a syllable he accented it with a punch to Vanian’s face. I couldn’t take much more. I jumped over and pulled at Adam’s shoulders, fingertips driving into the nook of his collarbone, pressing down with as much as I had in me, anything to break his hold. He recoiled and rose his hand to me, at first I flinched but I stopped. He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t.

Compassion, forgiveness, a willingness to help, pity, love—that’s what they look for, and they use them against you. But those traits are not weaknesses. They’re strengths, and don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise.” She shook her head. “Kevin’s an idiot. He can barely read. All my intelligence, and someone like him completely fooled me.” “You see the best in people. You can’t blame yourself for that.” She wiped the last of her tears away. “Then you can’t either.” Yardley looked at Tara, and then she took her daughter’s hand and held it as they drove.

Almost as soon as he was inaugurated, Jackson waged war against the Cherokee people with such savagery (he recommended, amongst other things, that Cherokee women and children should be killed as part of policy of extermination) that he was given the nickname “Indian Killer” in the U.S. administration. His policy proved popular with the American people, and he was re-elected to serve a second term as president in 1832.

Everyone reading this must believe me when I say Prince possessed genius. Unprecedented genius. Think back to Elvis, the cat some folk say invented rock and roll. Elvis was cool. Elvis had a look. He sang. Worked his pelvis. Drove the girls crazy. Would never dis Elvis for borrowing from black music 'cause he publicly acknowledged his masters. He loved him some B.B. King. He respected Ray Charles. He covered Ray's songs. But if they call Elvis the King, they're gonna have to call Prince the World Emperor. I say that cause, unlike Prince, Elvis did not write. Elvis did not arrange. Elvis did not play killer guitar. And when I say that Prince wrote and arranged, I mean he wrote and arranged literally thousands of songs under so many different names that he forgot half of them. And when I say Prince played guitar, I mean he blended the styles of all the guitar gurus and then added a fantastic flair all his own. He did more than arrange. He created a sound that, nearly half a century later, sounds as fresh as it did when Grand Central was tearing the roofs of every school auditorium in the Twin Cities.

But it was impossible to share my feelings of grief with Peggy, because most of the time it was impossible to feel them. My sadness was overwhelmed by fear and visceral disgust and rage, rage so consuming and aimless that sometimes I was afraid of myself. I was convinced that the killer's fury had entered me, and would never leave. I knew that Peggy, my soft-bodied former babysitter, with her houseful of Precious Moments figurines, was not interested in hearing about my rage. She wanted to wipe away the tears of the cute little blond girl she had known. She didn't know what to do with my fear and rage, so she tried to will them to disappear, in favor of a gentler, more manageable sadness.

strong athletic body, and his brown hair combed nice and straight. He’d even cleaned his fingernails and washed his neck and ears, which I knew he didn’t like to do. There he was, sitting up straight and listening with shining eyes, in spite of knowing that as soon as the meeting was over he’d have to go home to a weathered old house with poor furniture and worn-out rugs on the floor and a swearing, drinking father who didn’t like him. I remembered the time about a month ago when Circus’s dad had been drunk on the same night they had a new baby at their house. Circus had stayed all night at my house. He and I were upstairs undressing, and he got tears in his eyes and doubled up his fists and looked terribly fierce because he was so mad at the people who made and sold beer and whiskey. That was the night he had said, his voice all trembly, “I wish they’d just once take a picture of my dad when he’s drunk and put that in their

My gaze dropped to his mouth, almost hesitant, as if asking for permission. When I looked back up, his blue eyes were a definite yes. They were his sexy bedroom eyes, dark and hungry, but there was more behind them than just sex. There was more to his yes than just this moment. My hand still on his chest, I slanted my mouth over his in a slow, deep kiss. The corners of my lips were damp from the tears, and Sam licked away the salt with his tongue, his hands sliding up under my shirt like we were two teenagers making out after school. Which was a little how it felt, being with him like this in my childhood bedroom, the same quilt still on my bed from when I was fifteen. Maybe Sam felt that, too, because his hands under my shirt were working maddeningly slow for someone who'd already seen me naked multiple times before. They slid up my rib cage, brushed against the sensitive skin under my breasts, flicked once against my nipples, which were taut and aching under my bra. But then he skimmed back down my sides and gave my leggings-clad thighs a squeeze, leaving me hungry to feel his hands on my bare skin. "What do you want to feel?" he murmured, his breath warm against my cheek. Everything. But instead, what came out was, "Taken care of.

She could understand why some of the women inside loved those true-crime books. The ones with pictures of blank-faced killers staring out of the pages. There was something compulsive about the sadism. The sexual violence. She remembered again Jason’s words, his hard laughter and his scorn at her tears. The books the women read were all about pain and humiliation.

Fucking tear me apart, Alex. Show me what a bad man you really are.

He was probably right. Barti loved him just because. Not expecting him to love her in return. She knew that he was flirting around with too many people even before she proposed to him. She knew what she was getting herself into. She had no right to complain now. And so they were stuck in a love triangle. Barti's vision blurred with tears reminiscing about all the intimate moments she spent with Haby, foolishly thinking he was hers. It felt wrong. Awfully wrong.

The article reported that sheriffs recovered Louder’s nude body two days after her disappearance and her husband’s tearful pleas for her safe return. Her death was not immediately connected to the earlier double homicide, and her husband had been falsely convicted for her murder. Even when a forest ranger, Drew Henderson, had been found butchered in his vehicle with a length of cord on his wrist, matching the one tied to Louder, the connection was not made to Louder or the earlier unsolved homicides. Only after Arleen’s confession was Louder’s husband released from prison, his sentence overturned.

I feel like I could tear apart whole cities until I find her.
My inner beast, the monster, is making all decisions for me. Normally after I kill, it’s gone for a while. But he’s here constantly now, working on a loop, and I know he’s not going anywhere until I have her back. Until every man that laid a hand on her is dead.


The man’s screams are busting my fucking eardrums and that irritates me to unbearable levels. “Mike,” I cut in. “Let him talk.” 
“Oh, he’s gonna talk,” he says assuringly. “Or I’m getting started on tearing the flesh from his puny dick.”
 Wow, okay.

I shan’t shed a tear. Life is full of shocks of all descriptions and they have to be faced.

With two of my fingers, I pulled her head closer, and I dipped mine, pressing my lips to the spot between her eyes. And I held them there for the longest time; my eyes, closed tightly, began to sting and water; that strange lump had formed in my throat again, but this time I could not swallow it down and it was choking me. And as I slid the blade across Artemis’s throat, I whispered against her ear with tears in my voice, “I am unable to have children, Artemis Stone.

CHARLIE SAT ON a rock in what was once a great city.  Charred towers of steel, cracked concrete, and broken glass reached up to tear at the clouds passing low through the sky.  Fires burned from a thousand places, some close, most far.  Cars, an airplane, trucks—all the machinery of a human economy—lay dead in the streets.  The buildings, too weak to stand against a phased quantum burst, lay in rubble.  Bodies of people and simulants alike lay broken in the ruins. Charlie scanned the gray sky, at least what he could see of it between the buildings and the rising smoke.  Something unseen buzzed up there, or lots of somethings, deep-throated and mean, gargling fuel and choking out smoke.  How many?  He couldn’t guess.  His thoughts weren’t lining up in his head.  Math things weren’t clicking.  Logic was bending wrong. The drones did this to me. Murderous things.  Killers and destroyers. Were more coming? Charlie had some time.  He thought he was sure.  Some moments.  Maybe?

War and ceasefire There was a war followed by a ceasefire, Swaths of land lay covered in ashes and dead men and women, Beside them lay still unfilled dreams and many a desire, Wherever one looked there appeared no end to them then, Because a country defeated in war, Enters into the state of passive spirit, Where to the victor, spirited men and women of the defeated country appear too few and too far, And they rush to assume this is it, their end, and the end of it! Followed by two immediate actions, Repatriation by the winning side, And reparation by the losing side while dealing with endless sanctions, And behind them their lost spirits hide, But as years pass by and time grows older, The defeated side realises the losses it suffered, The men it lost, and the women who fought in ways bolder, And the living ones, the paying ones, look at their spirits battered, And they hear echoes from the past, Few calling a mother, few a father, many a brother, a sister and a lost lover, And then the ship of agony and pain hoists its broad mast, And the left one, the still and forever paying one, is forced to become an avenger, Because he/she misses the person to whom these echoes belong, He/she struggles to deal with the past that haunts him/her in the present, And to deal with this belligerent self, he/she hums the firebird’s song, And finally with hatred and lament he/she is pregnant, And when the feeling is born, The defeated spirit rises from the ashes, And begins to sew together the feelings that lie scattered on the ground, mutilated and torn, With these feelings of hatred and vengeance now his/her spirit gushes, The silent ground that had been the graveyard of dreams and desires, Suddenly turns into a war zone once again, So those who say peace can be brokered are cynical liars, Because one who is dead can never be brought back again, And thus the battle between revenge and avenging deaths enters a new phase, Where the defeated side now fearlessly marches forth, Because it has nothing to lose now it has no more ghosts to chase, And thus is born the one who loves romancing the sun, the killer moth, And it stings all alike, and it flies freely everywhere, Until both sides accept defeat, Then they begin to dig graves to bury a hope here, a wish there, and someone’s desire somewhere, And somewhere lies the lover who his/her beloved could not meet, And then is born the curse of unfulfilled wishes, desires, hopes and life’s darling affairs, Now both sides lie in ruin because there is no ground left to bury the dead, And the sound of echoes keeps growing and the ground turns wet with tears, It is then the spirit forsakes them all, because genuine valour does not reside in places where courage on death is fed, And as time grows older there are no more bold men and women left, Because it is a diabolic ground where only echoes from the past haunt all, Where all are victims of a different kind of theft, That of humanity’s actual fall!

War and ceasefire There was a war followed by a ceasefire, Land covered in ash, dead men and women, Beside the dead were unfulfilled dreams and many a desire, This is how it is now and this is how it was then, Because a country defeated in war, Enters into the state of passive spirit, To the victor, spirited men and women of the defeated country appear too few and too far, So, they rush to assume this is it, the end of it! To be followed by two immediate actions, Repatriation by the winning side, And reparation by the losing side while dealing with endless sanctions, Behind which their broken spirits hide, But as years pass by and time grows older, The defeated side realises the losses it suffered, The men it lost, and the women who fought in ways bolder, And the living ones, the paying ones, look at their spirits battered, And they hear echoes from the past, Few calling a mother, few a father, many a brother, a sister and someone a lost lover, And then the ship of agony and pain hoists its broad mast, And the left one, the still and forever paying one, is forced to become an avenger, Because he/she misses the person to whom these echoes belong, He/she struggles to deal with the past that haunts him/her in the present, And to deal with this belligerent self, he/she hums the firebird’s song, And finally with hatred and lament he/she is pregnant, Finally when the feeling is born, The defeated spirit rises from the ashes, And begins to sew together the feelings that lie scattered on the ground, mutilated and torn, With these feelings of hatred and vengeance now his/her spirit gushes, The silent ground that had been the graveyard of dreams and desires, Suddenly turns into a war zone once again, So, those who say peace can be brokered are cynical liars, Because one who is dead can never be brought back again, And thus the battle between revenge and avenging deaths enters a new phase, Where the defeated side now fearlessly marches forth, Because it has nothing to lose and it has no more ghosts to chase, And thus is born the one who loves romancing the sun, the killer moth, It stings all, and it flies freely everywhere, Until both sides accept defeat, Then they begin to dig graves to bury a hope here, a wish there, and someone’s desire somewhere, And somewhere lies the lover who his/her beloved could not meet, And then is born the curse of unfulfilled wishes, desires, hopes and life’s darling affairs, Now both sides lie in ruin because there is no ground left to bury the dead, And the sound of echoes keeps getting louder and the ground turns wet with tears, It is then the spirit forsakes them all, because genuine valour does not reside in places where courage on death is fed, And as time grows older there are no more bold men and women left, Because it is a diabolic ground where only echoes from the past haunt all, Where all are victims of a different kind of theft, That of humanity’s innocence that actually was the cause of great fall!

But just as life in America has a way of killing the soul with vapid pleasures, life in Africa broke the heart through random brutality. Austin closed his eyes and choked back a tear as he saw a parade of smiling faces of those who lived in the village. Many of those people were in the clinic, and he had been carrying out buckets of their fluids all day. Their eyes were desperate with pain. They knew they were dying. Few of them had any hope. Ebola was that kind of killer.

On one occasion, after a particularly long spell away from home, I got Shara to fly into the mountains we were filming in. “Bring the boys, my love, I miss you.” That night, I hitched a lift with the crew, jumped into the helicopter that was extracting them back to base, and went to the lodge they were staying in. Shara was there, waiting. I spent the night in my family’s arms and went back to film the next day. Reckless, I know. But the press got wind of it, as they do, and they went for the jugular. It made for a killer headline. I totally understood. But who hasn’t made the odd mistake? In hindsight, it was more than reckless--it was an error, and it opened a can of worms for the papers to feed on. But, for the record, it had been total heaven to see Shara and the boys. So which do I value more--being a hero or being a father? There’s a third option, Bear. It is called patience. I know. It is never my strong point. So this was another moment that could have sunk the show, but Channel 4 and Discovery backed me. They knew all too well how hard I work and the risks I take every day. And the best response to the critics was the show’s subsequent runaway success.

We were eighteen thousand vertical feet above sea level, in the mouth of Everest’s killer jaws. I noticed my hand was shaking as I fumbled with the ropes through thick mittens. It was pure fatigue. An hour later, it felt like we were still no closer to base camp, and it was starting to get late. I glanced nervously around the icefall. We should be meeting back up with Nima somewhere around here, as arranged. I scanned around but couldn’t see him. I dug my crampons into the snow, leaned back against the face to get my breath back, and waited for Mick behind me. He was still ten yards away, stepping carefully across the broken blocks of ice. We had been in this crevasse-ridden frozen death trap for more than nine hours, and we were both moving very laboriously. Watching him, I knew that if the mighty Mick was moving this slowly then we were indeed on a big mountain. I stood up and took a few more careful steps, testing the ice with each movement. I reached the end of one length of rope, unclipped, breathed hard, and grabbed the next rope. I held it loosely in my hand, looked around, took another deep breath, then clipped my karabiner into the line. Then all of a sudden, I felt the ground beneath me twitch. I looked down and saw a crack in the ice shoot between my feet, with a quiet, slicing sound. I didn’t dare move. The world seemed to stand still. The ice cracked once more behind me, then with no warning, it just dropped away beneath me, and I was falling. Falling down this lethal black scar in the glacier that had no visible bottom. Suddenly I smashed against the gray wall of the crevasse. The force threw me to the other side, crushing my shoulder and arm against the ice. Then I jerked to a halt as the thin rope that I had just clipped into held me. I am spinning round and round in free air. The tips of my crampons catch the edge of the crevasse wall. I can hear my screams echoing in the darkness below. Shards of ice keep raining down on me, and one larger bit smashes into my skull, jerking my head backward. I lose consciousness for a few precious seconds. I blink back into life to see the last of the ice falling away beneath me into the darkness. My body gently swings around on the end of the rope, and all is suddenly eerily silent. Adrenaline is coursing through my body, and I find myself shaking in waves of convulsions. I scream up at Mick, and the sound echoes around the walls. I looked up to the ray of light above, then down to the abyss below. I clutch frantically for the wall, but it is glassy smooth. I swing my ice axe at it wildly, but it doesn’t hold, and my crampons just screech across the ice. In desperation I cling to the rope above me and look up. I am twenty-three years old and about to die. Again.

The one standing closest to Candice, who reintroduced himself as Mason, had arms so massive, I swear the sleeves of his shirt were about to tear from how much they were stretching against the bulging muscles. To be honest, they were kind of frightening. He had tribal tattoos coming down both arms, stopping halfway down; a killer smile; and dominating eyes. But then he picked me up in a big bear hug, and all freaky thoughts of him melted away. Massive teddy bear. I

Twitching fingers tap out beats of eight on my thighs. I’m dying to open the door and ask him if he’s okay, but I can’t. I pick idly at a new scab on the top of my leg. Anxiety has created a million reasons why I can’t. My heart is fighting back, but failing miserably. Open the door. He looks so sad, like a kid lost in a crowd. Do not open that door. It could be a ruse. There is no one awake to hear you scream. Open the door. Are those tears in his eyes? Serial killers don’t have sweet smiles. Do not open the door. Remember the story of the homicidal maniac who used his not-so-broken leg to lure victims? Better to be safe than sorry. This argument rages inside my head until I can taste fire, and smoke starts pouring out of my ears. When, at last, common sense kicks in, I could spit. Worry is such a drama queen. It takes the smallest thing, makes it so big and bulky that you can’t see the obvious any more. I don’t have to open the door to ask him if he’s okay.

I hope they will have the strength to bear the inevitable difficulties and disappointments and griefs of life.  Bear them with dignity and without self-pity knowing that tragedies befall everyone and that, although one may seem singled out for special sorrows, worse things have happened many times to others in the world, and it is not tears but determination that makes pain bearable.

Nerissa,” he called after the retreating pair. She turned and looked at him, her eyes wounded, the tears still wet upon her face. “It is bad enough that you would marry a man so far beneath you,” he said. “It is bad enough that you would marry a man that your family does not accept, a man for whom you have thrown away your birthright, heritage and country, a man who will never be able to keep you in the comfort and luxury in which you’ve been raised and to which you’ve been accustomed.” He waited for his words to sink in, and then he dropped the killing blow. “But for you to knowingly walk off with an accused killer, a man who murdered his very best friend….” Bang. He saw the fatal shot hit home as the blood drained from the Parasite’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nerissa said uncertainly, and tried to continue on. “Don’t you? Do you mean this vermin you’ve wed hasn’t told you?” Lucien’s smile was coldly triumphant. “Josiah Brown. A duel, 1776. You shot him, didn’t you, O’ Devir? Your very best friend in the world, and all over a woman you both purported to love.” The blows he’d dealt the Irishman during the fight were nothing compared to the damage his words now caused, and Lucien felt a dark and savage satisfaction as he watched stunned denial and fear, yes fear, steal the color from that rascal’s hated face. “Dolores Foley was the wench’s name, wasn’t it? And she’s dead now, too.” The Irishman looked as though he’d been stabbed through the heart with a knitting needle. “I didn’t kill her.” “Of course you didn’t,” Lucien said loftily, and gave a dramatic sigh. “You didn’t need to. But you did kill Brown, you were convicted and sentenced to hang, and it was only your friend John Adams’s brilliance that got you out of the noose in an appeal that should never have been made.” O’ Devir flushed with rage. “Ye know nothin’ of what happened.” “Oh, I know all of it. Have you told my sister about this particular little… tidbit of your past?” By the dawning horror in Nerissa’s face, he had not. “I think we’ve all heard enough,” Brendan said, nodding for his wife to join him as he took the duke by the elbow and tried to force him away. “Some things are over and done with, and that’s one of them.” “Ah, well… always best to know everything there is to know about a person before you marry them,” Lucien murmured. His smile was pitiless and cold. “You’re correct, Merrick. It is time to leave.

as the school bully for long enough to know when insults were being flung around. She blocked them all out. This was the happiest day of her life and if some piece of shit out-of-towners couldn’t be happy for her then what the hell did she care. It was her day. Her’s and David’s. In a state of advanced inebriation, the two of them made their way back to David’s company-issued apartment to consummate their new union. Katherine was always enthusiastic, but on their wedding night, she was practically ecstatic, tearing David’s clothes off and rushing him through to the bedroom so fast that they forgot to lock the door behind them. They had sex three times in quick succession, with Katherine coaxing David

Your testimony is nothing. Why draw caution from a girl in tears?" "Perhaps, one day, someone will see you for more than this." (The world never does) A woman receives no justice.

We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away.

Harry did not say “James.” He said “Kill me like you killed him.” They were speaking of James, but “him” could also mean killing Dumbledore, the act that is tearing apart Snape’s soul, the act that turned him from being the traitor responsible for James and Lily’s deaths into an actual killer. Snape’s guilt over the deaths of Lily and James has distorted his perceptions of Harry every day for the past six years, and now, minutes after killing Dumbledore, Harry’s words slam him with a renewed realization of the enormity of that guilt. “DON’T

man of stark passions. This woman knows exactly how to incite them… and how to calm them down. The King goes from barely reserved to ravenously passionate. I dare a quick glimpse at Dagan. He’s watching the display with complete apathy. But I cannot help but feel the stirring of some very bad, very unwanted emotions in my gut. I tear my eye away from the heavily muscled vampire. If anybody even suspected my secret… Quickly, I stem those thoughts. Better not entertain the horrendous possibilities. Eventually the King lets his woman go. He yanks her to his side and openly gropes her ass. Some of the rage has flowed out of him. “You should not chastise poor Riyu so,” Beatrice says sweetly. “If the fault lies with anyone, it is with me. Yes, I let both your lieutenant and his trusted under servant assume the command came from you. I take the blame.” Her voice turns sultry. “So punish me, if you’re going to punish anyone.” A growl of deep desire comes from the King’s throat. I don’t know the sort of bedroom games they play, nor do I want to. “Later,” he promises. “When we are in a more suitable space.” “The King can do as he pleases anywhere,” Beatrice reminds him. “Dismiss all these men, and have me now.” A trickle of discomfort goes down my spine. “I would, but I am not done with them.” “Then tell them what you want. But be quick about it. My recent activities have given me quite the appetite for…” She leans in and whispers the final word in his ear. It sounds a lot like “lock.” The atmosphere in the room shifts. Few know exactly the sort of experiments Beatrice runs underground. But all have heard the agonizing screams, the shrieks for mercy, which occasionally drift up from her “laboratories.” Vampires are ruthless killers. None of us shy away from a little blood. But what Beatrice