“I would not go any closer,” said Mastkevich. “I do not know how you are even alive.”
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The show has won me over, because it’s actually puling off something great: It’s constantly recontextualizing itself so you never actually get comfortable.
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Darkness in the light, I thought. An inch at a time. My Anna. She’d been a prophet all along. It had just taken some time.
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It’s chaos. It’s failure. It’s fiddling while everything burns. Everything burns. Everything burns – he actually wrote that three times.
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Does no one in this fictional universe question the suit? I mean, not one superpowered person is like, no, thanks, I’m comfy in these sweats?
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“You must get a lot of invitations,” Meyer said, sounding anything but near death. “Parties and dinners and shit, right? I mean, your social skills and all that.”
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They’re in such a rush to get to the reveal they don’t bother to develop the antagonist, which makes the whole thing feel like a joke.
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“I’m sorry,” the robot said. “You’re already dying. The field has been expanding. A few hundred feet every year.”
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“Green means go,” he said. “Yellow means slow. Red means dead.”
He was grinning.
“Actually,” a voice sounded out from behind us, all treble and static. “It's the other way around.”
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My own Villain Origin Story is when I pretended to run away from home when I was nine years old and my parents didn’t notice.
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He shuffled forward, an astronaut in full gravity. “Fuck that,” he said, his voice muffled and breathless. “You think I'm going to risk running into those psychopaths? The only way out is forward.”
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I’m here to complain about an annoying, lazy writing trick you find in a lot of action films: The Paper Thin Tragedy What Haunts The Tough People.
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If I was lapping at the edge of a pool of poisonous radiation, the world wasn't giving me any hints.
No fatal damage, I thought. An inch at a time.
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“I’m going to kill them all,” she whispered into my ear. “I’m going to kill everybody. All of them.”
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The number of actions I take on a daily basis that I cannot explain or justify is reaching alarming levels, actually.
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He’d expected vengeance. He hadn’t expected her sister. One lone girl with skinny legs and a stolen gun and murder in her eyes.
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You can tell the precise moment they just gave up, because they resort to The Skip.
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I walked, and she told me her life story, whispering in my ear.
It was split into two chapters, like everyone’s. Before London, and After London.
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He nodded and then, incredibly, held out his hand. “Good luck, Burning Man.”
I hesitated, then took his hand and gave it one firm pump. His hand was bigger than mine and strong, crushing mine, dry and warm. “Fuck you,” I said.
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Same. Is my unwillingness to murder what’s keeping me poor? Don’t answer that.
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The No Pants Cocktail Hour Episode 92: Author Jeff Somers drinks some a custom bottle of Macallan 12 and reads a deleted chapter from his newest novel, FIVE FUNERALS.
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“So if you break a leg, if you get lost, if fucking mutant birds the size of breadtrucks swoop down and pick you up like a piece of cattle, we can’t help, right?”
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Those initial, silent fifteen minutes tell us everything we really need to know about the man: He’s obsessed with building wealth, he’s solitary in nature, he’s physically tough, and he does not particularly like other people.
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I stared northwards. I knew, somehow, I would survive the walk, because I survived everything. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t cook. I wanted to die. I didn’t want to become broken and ravaged, in pain, forever.
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“I don’t mean to interrupt your first date or nothing, but y’all seen our friend Meyer?”
I looked around with night-blind eyes. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Shit,” Jenks said heavily. “No fucking honor in this world no more.”
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Then again, I was also obsessed with Microleague Baseball so you know I was essentially a shut-in as a child.
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The No Pants Cocktail Hour Episode 92: Author Jeff Somers drinks some a custom bottle of Macallan 12 and reads a deleted chapter from his newest novel, FIVE FUNERALS.
open.spotify.com/epi...
ruadanbooks.com/prod...
#Writing #WritingWithoutRules
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We sat in silence for a moment. As two people who had beaten, handcuffed, and betrayed each other it felt surprisingly companionable.
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This is a season that is largely avoiding the typical dip found in second seasons (and second books): It’s flashing something big so you’ll overlook something small.
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The No Pants Cocktail Hour Episode 92: Author Jeff Somers drinks some a custom bottle of Macallan 12 and reads a deleted chapter from his newest novel, FIVE FUNERALS.
open.spotify.com/epi...
ruadanbooks.com/prod...
#Writing #WritingWithoutRules
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