scream

Most nightmares are caged in their realm by implausibilities. The sleeper slogs through quicksand in a fun house of frightening nonsense and disjointed mumbo jumbo. But everything__ all better once the bedside lamp is back on, because reality, even when it__ bad, is easily distinguished from night terror. Except for the trying-to-scream dream. That one__ pretty much spot-on.

It's not the dead even. They're gone. Nothing you can do about that. It's what's left behind - the echo. These woods you're walking through. There are some old timers who think a sound echoes here forever. Makes sense when you think about it. That Billingham kid. I'm sure he screamed. He screams, it echoes, just bounces back and forth, the sound getting smaller and smaller, but never entirely disappearing. Like a part of his is still calling out, even now.

In every motions to put colors on my canvas, I feel like I am screaming, "I AM HERE"... To whom?.. To where?... Where am I going to...?

I can still hear the screams. They wake me in the night. Terrible, gut wrenching, painful screams; screams that can only come from the deepest and darkest recesses of the mind. These were not screams of pain. These were screams of years of sorrow and despair. These were screams that made your skin crawl. These were the worst screams I have ever heard. I cannot get them out of my head. Perhaps, they will be with me forever. I shouldn't be so lucky.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you.Scream, and everyone ignores you.

I screeched with frustration, which in hindsight is never okay when there are people trying to kill you.

There was a sad fellow over on a bar stool talking to the bartender, who was polishing a glass and listening with that plastic smile people wear when they are trying not to scream.

Your only problem, perhaps, is that you scream without letting yourself cry.

If you need to scream, find a safe place, then scream.

In this landI have made myself sick with silenceIn this landI have wandered, lostIn this landI hunkered down to seeWhat will become of me.In this landI held myself tightSo as not to scream.-But I did scream, so loudThat this land howled back at meAs hideouslyAs it builds its houses.In this landI have been sownOnly my head sticksDefiant, out of the earthBut one day it too will be mownMaking me, finallyOf this land.-Charlie's poem

Silence is the most powerful scream.

Honestly, Bob: how do you carve a scream?

It was the kind of scream that would be in a horror movie right before someone got chopped up into little bitty pieces.

In the dark behind the glare of the television, like a mannequin behind it, I could see a silhouette and it wasn__ moving. It was maybe six foot high with its shoulders hunched and I blinked to make sure it was real. The TV fuzzed grey and white and black and I had a lump in my throat that I couldn__ swallow away. __ory_ I whispered. Clawing out gently beneath the duvet cover, reaching for his hand. But I couldn__ find it. And he didn__ answer.

Jo's whimper rose slightly but the scream she yearned for wouldn't materialise. Instead, as she looked at her hand, she began to make a gurgling, gagging noise, more animal than human.