Beacon 23

by Hugh Howey

Sometimes the real looks fake, especially when you’ve looked at the fake for so long.

Well, someone should explain to these clowns that borders aren’t forever either, and neither are their theories. It all goes.

I just kept getting promoted through attrition.

Sometimes, you’ve just gotta laugh. You just gotta hug your shins, rock back and forth, and laugh.

I guess that’s the strange torment I suffer: dying for company, for someone to talk to, but it’s never the right someone who shows. And an unwelcome presence is far worse than miserable silence.

most of them half-full of a myriad shades of amber.

“Look, it’s not my favorite day this week,” I tell the two bounty hunters. “And yesterday, I cleaned the shitter.”

This made me laugh!

For some reason, I’ve always felt the urge to go out of my way for those who ask for the least, rather than those who ask the loudest.

Sometimes you want the good guys to get their man. Sometimes you can’t tell who the good guys are.

There was no hate in their eyes, only pity. Sadness. Knowledge that I might be necessary, but that we shouldn’t be proud that I was necessary.

The dangerous phase is when that’s happening and you can’t see it. When you think you’re sane, so the crazy is all invisible.

Two words that I used to choke on when I was younger, that I only now know the value of, the true worth, and how good they feel to say.

In the army, tears made everyone else afraid. You didn’t want to spread the weakness. Tears are contagious things.