Under the Dome

by Stephen King

Above it, the stars spilled across the sky in their usual extravagant profusion, a never-ending cataract of energy that needed no generator to power it.

An idea is like a cold germ: sooner or later someone always catches it.

he had to do this now. That’s how it is with big ideas.

When dawn was still long hours away, bad thoughts took on flesh and began to walk. In the middle of the night thoughts became zombies.

The dead also do not see, unless they look from a brighter place than this darkling plain where ignorant armies clash by night.

“What’s the big deal? If she sees us, we’re just some kids goofing around on the town common. And know what? She probably wouldn’t see us if she looked right at us. Adults never see kids.” He considered this. “Unless they’re on skateboards.” “Or smoking,” Norrie added. They all glanced at their cigarettes.

because in a small town where big trouble’s almost a complete stranger, even the professionals are amateurs.

All they care about is who’s boss of the treehouse.

but now it was a clinical sorrow, safely stored inside its own Dome: you could see it, could appreciate its existence, but you couldn’t exactly get in there with it.

“I hope it don’t come to refighting the Alamo in an apple orchard,” Rommie said, “but I see your point.”

Sorrow for a wrong was better than nothing, Barbie supposed, but no amount of after-the-fact sorrow could ever atone for joy taken in destruction, whether it was burning ants or shooting prisoners.

They walked back into the world together, wearing the gift that had been given them: just life.

Pity was not love, Barbie reflected… but if you were a child, giving clothes to someone who was naked had to be a step in the right direction.