Detailed Quotes

“The Slice and Dice Fanatic uses his sexual skills to lure his victims into his realm of fun.”
― RB Le `Deach, My Graphic Bipolar Fantasies: & Other Short Stories

“Eighty-year-old granny protects her right to vote with a shotgun.”
― RB Le `Deach, My Graphic Bipolar Fantasies: & Other Short Stories

“She finds herself, by some miraculous feat, no longer standing in the old nursery but returned to the clearing in the woods. It is the 'green cathedral', the place she first kissed Jack all those weeks ago. The place where they laid out the stunned sparrowhawk, then watched it spring miraculously back to life.
All around, the smooth, grey trunks of ancient beech trees rise up from the walls of the room to tower over her, spreading their branches across the ceiling in a fan of tangled branches and leaves, paint and gold leaf cleverly combined to create the shimmering effect of a leafy canopy at its most dense and opulent. And yet it is not the clearing, not in any real or grounded sense, because instead of leaves, the trees taper up to a canopy of extraordinary feathers shimmering and spreading out like a peacock's tail across the ceiling, a hundred green, gold and sapphire eyes gazing down upon her. Jack's startling embellishments twist an otherwise literal interpretation of their woodland glade into a fantastical, dreamlike version of itself. Their green cathedral, more spectacular and beautiful than she could have ever imagined.
She moves closer to one of the trees and stretches out a hand, feeling instead of rough bark the smooth, cool surface of a wall. She can't help but smile. The trompe-l'oeil effect is dazzling and disorienting in equal measure. Even the window shutters and cornicing have been painted to maintain the illusion of the trees, while high above her head the glass dome set into the roof spills light as if it were the sun itself, pouring through the canopy of eyes. The only other light falls from the glass windowpanes above the window seat, still flanked by the old green velvet curtains, which somehow appear to blend seamlessly with the painted scene. The whole effect is eerie and unsettling. Lillian feels unbalanced, no longer sure what is real and what is not. It is like that book she read to Albie once- the one where the boy walks through the wardrobe into another world. That's what it feels like, she realizes: as if she has stepped into another realm, a place both fantastical and otherworldly.
It's not just the peacock-feather eyes that are staring at her. Her gaze finds other details: a shy muntjac deer peering out from the undergrowth, a squirrel, sitting high up in a tree holding a green nut between its paws, small birds flitting here and there. The tiniest details have been captured by Jack's brush: a silver spider's web, a creeping ladybird, a puffy white toadstool. The only thing missing is the sound of the leaf canopy rustling and the soft scuttle of insects moving across the forest floor.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.”
― William Faulkner , A Rose for Emily

“As soon as the meeting was adjourned, Piper sprang eagerly from her seat and went over to look at the netsuke. Minute scales were precisely carved into a tiny coiled snake. Every whisker appeared on a sleeping calico. A writhing dragon licked flames with his jagged tongue. But the netsuke that fascinated Piper the most was a monkey perched on a rock as it wrestled and held down the tentacles of a small octopus. The hairs of the monkey and the expression on its face were equally detailed. Even the tiny suction cups on the octopus's tentacles could be seen.
"That's one of my favorites."
Piper looked up to see Cryder standing there.
"In the Japanese legend," he continued, "the octopus was a physician to the Dragon King of the Sea and prescribed a monkey's liver to heal the king's daughter. But the smart little monkey evaded capture.”
― Mary Jane Clark, Footprints in the Sand