Bird Box

A grisly story, but one whose notoriety Malorie attributes to the seemingly senseless way the Internet has of making random occurrences famous.

believe that it’s better to face madness with a plan than to sit still and let it take you in pieces. The

Bunu kendimize yapan biziz. BUNU KEND?M?ZE YAPAN B?Z?Z. Di?er bir deyi?le (ki bu laf?m? sak?n unutma!): ?NSANO?LU ASLINDA KORKTU?U YARATI?IN TA KEND?S?D?R.

dedication Sometimes I wish I were an architect, so that I could dedicate a building to a person; a superstructure that broke the clouds and continued up into the abyss. And if Bird Box were made of bricks instead of letters, I’d host a ceremony, invite every shadowy memory I have, and cut the ribbon with an axe, letting everyone see for the first time that building’s name. It’d be called the Debbie. Mom, Bird Box is for you.

How can she expect her children to dream as big as the stars if they can't lift their heads to gaze upon them?

In a world where you can’t open your eyes, isn’t a blindfold all you could ever hope for?

Is he friendly?” Tom says quietly. “I’ve discovered,” Jules says, “that a dog will become fast friends with the people who feed him.

It's better to face madness with a plan than to sit still and let it take you in pieces.

it’s better to face madness with a plan than to sit still and let it take you in pieces. The

Malorie watches them close their eyes, then she does the same. In her private darkness, her heart beats louder. “Good

Only a box of birds, Malorie thinks. Yet, it does feel like progress.

Robin was a great kid. Smarter than her father at eight years old. She liked the oddest things. Like the instructions for a toy more than the toy itself. The credits of a movie instead of the movie. The way something was written. An expression on my face. Once she told me I looked like the sun to her, because of my hair. I asked her if I shined like the sun, and she told me, ‘No, Daddy, you shine more like the moon, when it’s dark outside.

The children have never seen the world outside their home. Not even through the windows. And Malorie hasn’t looked in more than four years. Four years.

This,’ Malorie says, placing a bloodied hand on the Girl’s head, ‘this is Olympia.’ The Girl looks at Malorie quickly. She blushes. She smiles. She likes it. ‘And this,’ Malorie says, pressing the Boy to her body, ‘is Tom.’ He grins, shy and happy.

We left because some people choose to wait for news and others make their own.

You can smell it, too. Death. Dying. Decay. The sky is falling, the sky is dying, the sky is dead.

Your baby is smarter than you think.