218 Quotes About Dystopian-fiction

The vehicle screeched away. A pair of black tire-tracks scorched the asphalt in its wake, as if the ground had sprouted its own set of horns.

His chuckles rumbled, devoid of humor, as if mirth was a kidney stone that had gotten stuck somewhere in the intestinal mess of the phone lines.

She bit her lip, forcing the truth deeper inside until it caved her. She hunched over like a woman protecting her illegitimate unborn child. She brandished forks and knives and set them on the table, each fork crossed over each knife like a coat of arms, a pattern of X's.

Pappou did not look at Lexi. He scratched his nose and swung his komboloi in one hand so that the worry beads clacked against each other like tiny firecrackers, as if he hoped the clicking of them would snap the world back to its senses, knowing also that they couldn't.

There were fairies at the bottom of my garden and they were torturing someone.Technically they weren’t Fae. My people didn’t like to bloody their hands, they preferred to use sadistic bastards like Spriggans. They’d come for me. Finally. After centuries of waiting, my people had demonstrated how long they could hold a grudge.

I stared into the darkness and thought how it mirrored what was inside me, how it hid the demon others called Puck.

Love. It was the only explanation. That was what love did to you. It wormed its way inside you and leeched you of your courage. It made you weak, reliant on other people's opinions and expectations. It paralyzed you.

The bus rumbled away, its gleaming yellow body disappearing around a bend in the road, consumed by veiny crimson leaves that shrouded the trees like sweaters threaded with blood

Beeswax, with its subtle undertones of smoke and honey. The smell of ink on wet paper, the sickly-sweet smell of decay. The sweat of clean bodies, the scent of burnt gloves. She loved the crackle of the fire and the clang of the tools. She loved the magic of sweat-streaked alchemists who blew down metal pipes and created bubbles within molten glass. She loved the flawless final chapter, the glistening undulations as smooth as ice.