Quotessence
Home / Authors / Jonathan Dunne

Jonathan Dunne Quotes

Author

Filter quotes by topic

Famous Jonathan Dunne Quotes

“It rises from the funeral pyre of rubble, ash, and scorched memories to stare Max in the eyeballs, stand right over him in his lonely bed and whisper a hissing, fire-branding warning in his dreams, ‘Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust…’ over and over again, so close to his face he can feel the heat emanating from the fiery lick of its tongue. Fireman is trying to tell him something he already knows, but Max doesn’t know it yet. Wake up, damn you! It’s staring you in the face…”

“The drunk watched it come from between the man’s lips, a small nebulous cloud that kind of looked like the foreigner was blowing a bubble of fog in his unconscious state. The shroud floated silently from his lips and hovered over his chest, almost sitting on his sternum. In the adjacent cell, Connie forgot to breathe when he saw a face — a woman’s face — manifest in the cloud, looking about the cell in slow motion. The long lank hair, albino white, hung about her doughy pale face in wet strands. The closed mouth was too wide for the face and didn’t appear to have lips, just a thin line curving into a vague amphibious Mona Lisa smile which took Connie back five decades to his childhood pet frog, Leap. The black eyes moved slowly about the room, left and right. That nightmarish countenance turned to Connie and held him in its vacant gaze. He saw how the mouth opened and closed, almost like a fish…or was she saying something to him? The eyes weren’t completely black. Connie made out a fine ring of white around the rims of those hallucinogenic pupils. Her eyes were two solar eclipses.”

“The rhythmic creak of quiet footsteps came from the other side of the door. Ruth paused before bowing down to peer through the same keyhole her son had looked through. There was nothing in there except an empty room in worse condition than theirs, peeling walls, mould, grime, no bed, no nothing, save for an undeniable draught of melancholy blowing through the keyhole.”

“And for a very brief moment, the boy thought he was the audience at a strange black light theatre play, where the daemonic hand puppets come up out of the ground from screaming Hell far below. If they were the hand puppets of brooding horror, then the 14-year-old could only imagine the demon’s hands up inside them, working their innards.”

“Big Tom Daly didn’t regard himself as squeamish, but in that infinitesimal moment, Big Tom did indeed scream as an eight-year-old boy might. Never had he felt more alive as he landed on that soft-limbed bed of death. He let out a helpless rollicking wail before rolling off his uncomfortably comfortable rigour Mortis mattress with prickling fear and repulsion.”