Isaac Marion
Isaac Marion
Isaac Marion is an American writer. He is best known as the best-selling author of the "zombie romance" novel Warm Bodies...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionWriter
CountryUnited States of America
eye shadow hue
The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. "There's nothing left worth saying.
hurt distance eye
I think for a minute. Watching my wife fade into the distance, I put a hand on my heart. "Dead." I wave a hand toward my wife. "Dead." My eyes drift toward the sky and lose their focus. "Want it...to hurt. But...doesn't." Julie looks at me like she's waiting for more, and I wonder if I've expressed anything at all with my halting, mumbled soliloquy. Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting? I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.
eye skeletons giving
But I'm not afraid of the skeletons in Julie's closet. I look forward to meeting the rest of them, looking them hard in the eye, giving them firm, bone-crunching handshakes.
eye opposites world
Now I’m just standing here on the conveyor. Along for the ride. I reach the end, turn around, and go back the other way. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few hours of this, I notice a female on the opposite conveyor. She doesn’t lurch or groan like most of us. Her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her. That she doesn’t lurch or groan. I catch her eye and stare at her.
eye long pieces
Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.
becoming ended personal
'Warm Bodies' ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.
what-matters next matter
We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.
waiting world up-to-you
There is no ideal world for you to wait around for. The world is always just what it is now, and it's up to you how you respond to it.
memories communication writing
Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
hard
It's hard to take your life so seriously when you can see it all at once.
mistake responsibility judgement
One mistake, one brief lapse of my new found judgement-that's all it took to unravel everything. What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature.
stupid rawness want
I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
winter lasts firsts
Last winter, when so many Living joined the Dead and our prey became scarce, I watched some of my friends become full-dead. The transition was undramatic. They just slowed down, then stopped, and after a while I realised they were corpses. It disquieted me at first, but it’s against etiquette to notice when one of us dies. I distracted myself with some groaning.
heart hug necks
She hugs me. It's tentative at first, a little scared, and yes, a little repulsed, but then she melts into it. She rests her head against my cold neck and embraces me. Unable to believer what's happening, I put my arm around her and just hold her. I almost swear I can feel my heart thumping. But it must just be hers, pressed tightly against my chest.