He had an intrusive gaze and quietly confident manner, that seemed to strip away the layers of protective deception Scott would usually adopt around strangers.
R.D. RonaldMots clés philosophical-musings
The owner of the Post Office was called Maurice. A sixtyish-year-old with a large red nose that was pebble-dashed with broken capillaries, and a smooth bald head with a fuzz of grey hair around the side like the tide mark on a dirty bath. He had a gruff manner, distrusting eyes and a cough like kicked gravel.
R.D. RonaldMots clés visual-moments descriptive-prose
The craggy lines that made up the character in his face now seemed like scars of defeat, inflicted on him over time.
R.D. RonaldMots clés defeated philosophical-reflection
Fair enough, that's what most people look for to begin with, but money can be a sliding scale, the more you have, the more you want, the more you need,' McBlane said as he sharpened the ash on the tip of his cigar into a point against the rim of the ashtray. It gave him the appearance of wielding a dagger as he gestured with his cigar holding hand.
R.D. RonaldMots clés visual-moments
Sometimes truths are what we run from, and sometimes they are what we seek.
R.D. RonaldMots clés reflection philosophical-musings
Scott's mind was racing, struggling to comprehend the events unfolding around him. They were talking about disposing of Twinkle like he was a rusty old bike that no-one rode anymore.
R.D. RonaldScott could feel the contents of his stomach flip over and over on themselves. He turned to the side and retched, frothy yellow bile spilled out onto the newspaper covered floor, filling the room with the putrid stench of previously ingested alcohol.
'Look's like someone can't hold their drink,' McBlane said, and Dominic and Shugg laughed.
Scott was still staring at the steam rising from his evacuated stomach contents as he heard the hammer fall. The dull crack of bone splintering under its weight.
Mots clés murder prose visual-moments
He had done nothing on Christmas day, just wandered around outside in the frozen woods. Hard ground, chill winds and bare branches that looked like they'd been dipped in sugar. None of it seemed real, like walking around in a desolate dream, but one he didn't want to wake up from.
R.D. RonaldMots clés melancholy reflection alone
The city centre was still crawling with Christmas shoppers looking to add to their already burgeoning piles of gifts. To Scott they were like ants at a picnic, teeming from store to store, trailing oversized carrier bags and infants behind them as they went. Scott felt alien in this environment; pulling up his hood he hurried through the crowds, dodging pushchairs, lit cigarettes and charity collection tins.
R.D. RonaldMots clés youth christmas resentment
Solitude led to retrospective thinking, and if the past is what you are trying to get away from, then constant distractions in the present are needed.
R.D. RonaldMots clés life philosophical philosophical-musings
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