Quotes from Scott Nicholson

The rain fell like dead bullets.

Then on your tombstone, where you only get a little bit of space to sum up your life, some wax-faced creep chisels a set of meaningless numbers instead of poetry or a secret love or the name of your favorite candy. In the end, all you get is a few words.

Some artists are normal people who just happen to make things because we can't figure out how in the hell to communicate with people.

Can't wait to sit down for a while. This pretending to be brave and strong is getting old.

people never gave away their hearts, however willing or desperate or lonely they were. Hearts always had to be taken. By force or trickery. Love was murder, the infliction of death by cardiac theft, and the alternative was even worse.

What do we do when it gets dark?

But we're not a family.

That would be just dandy. All we'd have to do is sit back and wait for them to wipe each other out. But that doesn't explain the message written in blood. That's the mark of a seriously deranged mind. An intelligent mind, but one without a conscience.

Readers respond to authenticity, originality and excitement, even if it's not packaged in a way they expect.

Behold the power of bacon

The end was right up close and personal, different for each person, a kick in the rear and a joy-buzzer handshake from the Reaper himself. But

The end of the world had taught Rachel Wheeler many lessons, but the most recent one was this: Running for your life was a bitch when you only had one leg. She tightened the moist, stained bandana that kept the worst of the leaking to a minimum, then hobbled forward another ten feet. The wild dog that had bitten her could have inflicted any number of infections, but it wasn't like she could hobble into the ER and

Then he knew what hell was like. It wasn't a hot place where a pointy-tailed beast poked you with a pitchfork. Hell was inside your own head, where the doors were closed, where hope never knocked, where darkness and pain and self-pity were the only companions. Forever.

You put a weasel in a forty-dollar suit, and you get a forty-dollar weasel.

brittle air. Rachel slid her machete from its canvas sheath, but the crow veered wildly and then rejoined the broken formation heading south toward the distant city

fire. A blood-chilling caw cracked the brittle air. Rachel slid her machete from its canvas sheath, but the crow veered wildly and then rejoined the broken formation heading south toward the distant city of mutants.

What the hell is he talking about? Then he saw them, gathering in formation like tiny jets on a strafing run. He thought at first they were doves, but that made no sense, because doves didn't congregate in such coordinated patterns and they were too far inland to be seagulls. He couldn't judge their size or distance, so high and feathery was

I'm the government now," Sarge said. "Sure, there might be other bunkers like this one. Maybe even our beloved president is playing a hand of poker and drinking beer in one as we speak. I've heard rumors there are serious bunkers out in Colorado where they have entire armored divisions and even planes in shielded bunkers, where the electromagnetic pulse wouldn't have affected them. Maybe even the Russians and Chinese are already rolling this way.

Because there was something to be said for going through life in a fog. In the fog, you couldn't see the monsters coming.

good writing inspires me to write and bad writing provokes me to write.

Even the government couldn't have concocted such an obscene clusterfuck. So this one was on God or the universe, whichever way you wanted to assign the blame.

Ray-Ray had been on track for a golden-rule life of selfless service.

Like it or not, people say no more than they say "yes.

spine as she sneaked a look down the forested slope. The Blue Ridge Mountains were sheathed in October's mellow gold, but the leaves were steadily raining down in the breeze as the forest braced for winter's sleep.