Riding the Bullet

by Stephen King

There are so many more shadows at night, have you ever noticed that? Even with a light on there are so many shadows. The long ones could be the shadows of anything, you think. Anything at all.

When someone calls and tells you your mother’s been taken from work to the hospital in an ambulance, how else are you supposed to feel?

The way I looked at the world changed that night, changed quite a lot, and nothing in my philosophy textbook seemed to fit the changes. I came to understand that there are things underneath, you see—underneath—and no book can explain what they are. I think that sometimes it’s best to just forget those things are there. If you can, that is.

If you stick around, son, all your works start fallin apart. God kicks your ass in the end, let me tell you.

fun is fun and done is done,

“Nice to meet you, Hector,” he said. “I’m George Staub.”

whattttttttt

The smell on top was pine. The smell underneath was some chemical, probably formaldehyde. I was riding with a dead man.

I know something now that I didn’t before—the worst stories are the ones you’ve heard your whole life. Those are the real nightmares.

Time would blunt the edges and round the corners, but not for awhile.

You wait in line and listen to them screaming—they pay to be terrified, and on the Bullet they always get their money’s worth. Maybe when it’s your turn you ride; maybe you run. Either way it comes to the same, I think. There ought to be more to it, but there’s really not—fun is fun and done is done. Take your button and get out of here.