#Suspense Fiction
Quotes about suspense-fiction
Suspense fiction is a captivating genre that masterfully intertwines tension, uncertainty, and anticipation, keeping readers on the edge of their seats. This genre is characterized by its ability to evoke a sense of thrill and excitement, as it often involves intricate plots, unexpected twists, and a looming sense of danger. The allure of suspense fiction lies in its power to engage the imagination, inviting readers to become detectives in their own right, piecing together clues and predicting outcomes.
People are drawn to quotes about suspense fiction because they encapsulate the essence of this exhilarating genre in just a few words. These quotes often highlight the intensity and emotional rollercoaster that suspense fiction offers, resonating with those who crave the adrenaline rush of a well-crafted mystery. They serve as a reminder of the genre's ability to transport us into worlds where every shadow holds a secret and every turn of the page could lead to a revelation. Whether it's the thrill of the chase or the satisfaction of solving a puzzle, suspense fiction quotes capture the heart-pounding excitement that keeps readers coming back for more.
A movement made a hundred times before, a thousand times before, except this time, instead of muscle and nerve performing their everyday miracle of coordination, I tilted to the right and started to fall.
She realized that she no longer believed her husband: it was as if the certainty that he’d betrayed her had settled into her bones like the chill of a damp day.
I doubt you are a martyr, but should you decide to risk your own life, I can assure you that, as well as killing you, I will hunt down your family and I will kill them, and then I will find your friends and I will kill them too.
I walk over to see what it is: it’s a paperweight with a dandelion clock perfectly preserved inside. I hold it in my hand. It’s smooth and heavy. It would be just right for my husband. I can imagine it sitting on his desk: a single, solitary objet d’art in the midst of that smooth expanse of wood. As I pay for it, I start to blush, a blush that grows stronger and deeper, flaring over my chest and making my ears burn. I’m buying a present for my husband while I’m with my lover.
His eyes, staring out at her from the photograph, looked – she searched for another word to describe them and failed – he looked evil. There was a blankness to him, as if the normal human emotions that you took for granted in everyone you met had been excised. It was the kind of stare you might see in a wolf or a shark; a creature who did not care how kind you were, what your story was, the dreams you had for your child.
I wonder if that is what he really feels; if he’s accidentally hit on the words that will set off small explosions in my mind – trigger- phrases like risk and safety, danger and security, love and loss, and the other ones, the ones that I never say.
It’s as if we’ve stepped into a Constable painting, a bucolic vision of England. There’s a single oak ahead of us in the heart of the valley; the grass is lime-green and the steep sides of the Cotswold escarpment are covered in dense woodland.
I go downstairs to my bedroom and get out my diary from where I’ve hidden it in the wardrobe under my jumpers. I write, ‘My mother has a secret.
I sure as hell don’t want to be dragged round a mansion by an over-excited single parent downloading bollocks about the Victorians on 4G.
What’s going to happen when they find out what they’re really like? And they have to spend the rest of their lives married to each other?