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She was a gloomy person. She didn’t have the gift of happiness; somewhere along the way, someone had neglected to give it to her, and now she made everyone else suffer for her lack of it.
Sometimes he felt he was the only one of them who knew how to move through the world.
They both knew who she was, how she’d rather be with the group, doing something she didn’t like, than alone, doing something she enjoyed.
“If you’re not careful, you can reach a point where you’ve made choices without thinking. Without planning. You can end up not living the life you’d meant to. Maybe one you deserve, but not one you intended.” Here he wagged his finger again. “Make sure you think,” he said. “Make sure you plan.”
There were so many rules to remember. No wonder people ended up in places they’d never chosen to be.
He liked drama, conflict, the rush and tumble of other people’s emotions.
This book in a nutshell.
From this distance, with the rise of the hill partly blocking their view, it was hard to tell what it was. Stacy thought it looked like a kite, trapped in the flowering vines, but of course a tent made more sense. Before anyone could speak, while they were still peering up the hill, squinting against the sun, there came an odd noise from the jungle.
It was a tent. Eric could see it clearly now as they climbed higher, a bright traffic-cone orange, looking a little worse for wear. It must’ve been there for quite some time, because the vines had already managed to grow up its aluminum poles, using them like a trellis. A four-person tent, Eric guessed. Its doorway was facing away from them.
They were close enough now that they could hear the breeze tugging at the tent, a flapping noise, like a sail might make. But there was nothing else, no sound at all, nor any sign of people.
If that isn't a red flag than I don't know what is
The vines covered everything but the path and the tent’s orange fabric. In some places, they grew thinly enough that Eric could glimpse the soil underneath—rockier than he would’ve expected, dry, almost desertlike—but in others, they seemed to fold back upon themselves, piling layer upon layer, forming waist-high mounds, tangled knoll-like profusions of green. And everywhere, hanging like bells from the vines, were those brilliant bloodred flowers.
Despite this evidence of occupation, it was clear that no one had been here for quite some time. The musty air would’ve been evidence enough, but even more striking was the flowering vine. Somehow it had gotten inside the sealed tent and had taken root, growing on some things, leaving others untouched. The hiking boots were nearly covered in it. One of the backpacks was hanging open and the vine was spilling out of it.
The vine was growing on some of the objects: thin green tendrils of it, with tiny pale red flowers, almost pink.
A part of me what to have this, talking as a plant person.
The sun was beginning its implacable slippage toward the west.
She wasn’t frightened, she’d explained; it was just so dark down there in the hole, and she needed some sort of contact,
The moon had risen, finally, but it was tiny, a faint silver sliver hanging just above the horizon. It didn’t give off much light;
He tried to bend it, but his leg wouldn’t move; it was as if something were sitting upon it, holding it to the floor of the tent. He lifted his head to look, and was startled to see that the vine had grown dramatically in the night, reaching out from the pile of supplies at the rear of the tent to spread across his left leg, up his left side, almost to his waist.
Stacy didn’t move. She was too stunned. She sat and stared. The vine was inside him, under his skin. Was it moving?
Wow, this book is getting underneath my skin so much more than the movie
because his legs were completely covered by the flowering vine, covered so thickly that it almost looked as if he’d pulled on a pair of pants made of the stuff. Not an inch of skin was visible from his waist to his feet.
I know I am not supposed to laugh but I did when i read this.
It hesitated there, as if sniffing at the muck, before sliding into it, folding itself into a loose coil. Then, audibly, it began to suck up the liquid, using its leaves, it seemed. They flattened across the surface of the puddle, siphoning it dry.
Well, this make felt ill
he said, and he reached up to his collar, plucked a third button from the shirt, threw it out into the vines. Nothing happened. “See?” He smiled at them. There was that sense of pride again; he couldn’t seem to help himself. “It learns,” he said. “It thinks.”
There was always something odd to feel if only you stopped and searched for it.
My life in a nutshell
Mathias laughed, incredulous. “A torch?” “With rags—we could soak them in tequila.” “You see?” Mathias asked. “How German you are?”
Stacy wasn’t certain; she’d never bothered to pay attention to details like that, and was always regretting it, the half knowing, which felt worse than not knowing at all, the constant sense that she had things partly right, but not right enough to make a difference.
Funny since there where so many warning sign that you should've out together
“It will be whatever it is, no? Nothing, something—our believing one thing or another will matter not at all in the end.”
