Dennis Vickers Quotes

Faded like morning fog in the rising sun, sports team logo on a cheap T-shirt, ninety-nine dollar paint job on a Chevy.

Ditched like an unwanted cat, worn-out tire, ugly blind date.

Hung in the air like fart gas in an elevator, insecurity in a prom ballroom, guilt around a police lineup.

Respect the world and it takes care of you; disrespect her and she kicks your ass.

Her hair burst from her head like a fireworks shell erupting, framing her face in spray of red-blond energy.

Deep ridges crossed his forehead like terraces in a Thai hillside, tucks in a leather cushion, troughs across a bloodhound's jowls.

Words are harsh mistresses, to be sure. Like petulant divas, they want only those parts that play to their talents and mask their blemishes, and only when complete companies of players who love their parts are assembled will they sing in harmony. I am your director for this stage production and will employ my best wiles to create a performance both truthful, and beautiful. I know that words are tricksters who show one face to you and another to me, so I am never certain you'll hear in your head what I hear in my head. Since I deliver even this little truth with words, I acknowledge the irony.

Marci took a copy of Cosmopolitan from her desk drawer, lifted her butt from her chair, and leaned far over her desk to pass it to William, watching his eyes carefully as she did. If they went to her gaping blouse, she'd know there was a spark to kindle; if not, then he was gay and she needn't waste any further effort. At least he'd appreciate the Cosmo. "It's August's," she whispered hopefully.

Could be an amazing product, sell like condoms at a high school prom, donuts at a police convention, sunscreen on a Caribbean crush ship.

Her eyes beamed over the top of the cup like Peterbilt high beams coming over a hillcrest, full moon rising over a mountain lake with its reflected partner, 747 landing lights coming down onto a runway.

Breathed like a contestant in a polka marathon, sit-up contest, stationary bike race.

Washed-out like last year's swimsuit.

If I sneezed, writers' vitals would spew out my nose like bats from a cave mouth, fiery balls from a roman candle, water from an open fire hydrant.

Only locks in life are what you think you know, but don't. Accept your ignorance and try something new.

Your mother's chili was onions, hamburger, tomato soup, kidney beans, no chili powder, no peppers. Mexican flags flew at half staff every time she made it.

Suddenly, she emitted a loud, long fart, like air escaping a beach ball, exhaust pipe of a Model T, tire-inflating hose at the service station, and this without any forewarning borborygmus.

She looked at the ceiling, eyelashes batting like hummingbird wings.

Smiled like a homecoming queen, Pit Bull Terrier with a new collar, actress on the Letterman show.

Carmen blinked and shuddered like someone chewing a lemon ring, enduring a throat culture, challenging a habanero mano-a- mano. "Unbelievable." She spat the word out.

Now I felt exposed, on display like a puppy in a pet store window, strip steak in a butcher case, burglar caught in a flashlight beam, in a word, naked.

Like a summer storm, the ferment quickly passed,moving from explosive turmoil to exhausted calm in a few seconds.

Sometimes, like a shaft of sunlight suddenly showing itself from an overcast sky, an insight that has waited behind the curtain for its moment on stage appears suddenly. Perhaps such insights, like crust on toast, egg white turning milky, are transformations of what is already there, brought out by the heat, or perhaps they simply appear from unknown places like swallows of spring.

Studied all year and wrote in my journal like a nun works a Rosary, dog with a new bone, bee in his hive's back room.

Alliteration is not a prostitute to be sold to every sailor who visits the port. This fine lady is a valuable literary diva one should ask to sing her aria only for special occasions.

He yawned like a black bear coming out of hibernation.

High-pitched squeal like a beauty pageant contestant found best in show, Oprah audience member given a new Chevy, rookie actress surprised with an unlikely Oscar.

Since these words went into William's fermenting little brain not as word memories, but as circuitry for storing word memories, bricks used to build the kiln for firing bricks, he has no recollection of the rhyme, yet the ideas in it are axioms of his mental geometry.

When one speaks of sex with midgets, one must speak French.

Followed like a goat on a halter, hungry dog closing on his just-filled dinner bowl, water-bottle and towel carrier behind the tuba section of a marching band.

Squeal like a cheerleader named prom queen, aging retiree placing the game-winning bingo button, frenzied fan finding Johnny Depp in her supermarket.

Thighs spread out on the seat like water balloons, frying eggs, spilled syrup.

Our stories are phantoms of fleeting moments reflected in mirrors.

The world of literature is a sacred mirror that shows not the reality around us but the dreams and fears that reality stimulates: It's not where we live, but life itself.

Legs pinched together like bread loafs in a shared pan, linebackers in adjacent seats flying coach fare, chubby cats eating from a single dish.

Panting like a marathon runner at mile twenty, overheated bloodhound, steam engine crawling up the Continental Divide.

The email appeared sometime during the night, like alcohol-induced depression, dreams of old lovers, porn on TV.

Disappeared like fog in a stiff morning breeze, teen revilers when a squad car creeps up the driveway, roaches when the kitchen light comes on.

Wrinkles appeared and disappeared as he squinted his eyes and relaxed them, like someone peering into a strobe light, police car-top beacon, flashing neon beer sign.

Vanished like inhibitions at a bachelorette party.

Your eyes flash like Fourth-of-July sparklers, headlights on a mountain road, sparks in a short-circuited toaster.

She had been skeptical about change since Obama's first presidential campaign, when it seemed everyone was eager to change. She knew then, and has know all along, that most people hate to change though they're happy to see others do it.

The flesh of her butt jiggled like water-filled beach balls, oil drops dangling from a soupspoon, oversized Jell-O dessert cups.

Our reality may be fabled, but surely will be fleeting, because when the storyteller looks away, the story collapses. In the end, we vanish like mist in the morning sun.

Flipped through memories like old copies of National Geographic, pages in a yellowing high-school year book, cable-television channels looking for a baseball game.

Abandoned like an empty beer bottle, cigarette butt, worn-out shoe.

Fluorescent lights on the ceiling lit up the white Formica top of her desk like an operating table, white-sand beach at high noon, French fries under the heat lamp at McDonald's.

Change for its own sake doesn't make life more interesting; it only makes it different.

She pinched her lips tight together, like someone considering a foul smell, three-legged dog, ugly baby.

The physical world exists, but that's only the paint and canvas; that's only the instrument we use to make music; that's only the stage where the play is performed.

Gasps erupted from his nostrils like grouse from a thicket, schoolboys onto a recess yard, grease spatters from frying bacon.

Poetry comes out of you like a pot of oatmeal boiling over.