Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it’s wrong. No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.
Bill Door considered his options. The chicken had focused one beady eye on him. Chickens are a lot more stupid than humans, and don’t have the sophisticated mental filters that prevent them seeing what is truly there. It knew where it was and who was looking at it.
He looked into its small and simple life and saw the last few seconds pouring away.
He’d never killed. He’d taken life, but only when it was finished with. There was a difference between theft and stealing by finding.
NOT THE CLEAVER, he said wearily. GIVE ME THE CHICKEN.
He turned his back for a moment, then handed the limp body to Miss Flitworth.
“Well done.” she said, and went back to the kitchen.
Belief is one of the most powerful organic forces in the multiverse. It may not be able to move mountains, exactly. But it can create someone who can.
JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE REAL.
And it suddenly dawned on the late Windle Poons that there was no such thing as somebody else’s problem, and that just when you thought the world had pushed you aside it turned out to be full of strangeness. He knew from experience that the living never found out half of what was really happening, because they were too busy being the living. The onlooker sees most of the game, he told himself.
It was the living who ignored the strange and wonderful, because life was too full of the boring and mundane.
The late Windle Poons
Lord, we know there is no good order except that which we create…
There is no hope but us. There is no mercy but us. There is no justice. There is just us.
All things that are, are ours. But we must care. For if we do not care, we do not exist. If we do not exist, then there is nothing but blind oblivion.
And even oblivion must end one day. Lord, will you grant me just a little time? For the proper balance of things. To return what was given. For the sake of prisoners and the flight of birds.
Lord, what can the harvest hope for, if not the care of the reaper man?