Lay On My Shoulder Quotes

“So I might have to marry Alec when I'm grown," Illia was prattling across to Seregil. "I hope that won't hurt your feelings too much."
Seregil slapped a hand over his heart like a troubadour in a mural. "Ah, fair maiden, I shall slay a thousand evil dragons for you, and lay their steaming black livers at your dainty feet, if only you will restore me to your favor."
"Livers!" Illia buried her face against Alec's shoulder with an outraged giggle.
"You wouldn't bring me livers, would you, Alec?"
"Of course not," Alec scoffed. "What a disgusting present. I'd bring you the eyeballs for a necklace, and all their scaly pointed tongues to tie your braids with.”

— Lynn Flewelling

“When she reaches down to touch his shoulder-a gesture only a few species and a million or so years removed from lifting a leg and marking him as her territory with a stream of urine-enough bracelets and bangles to lay track across the Australian Outback slide down her arm and come to a jangling stop at her wrist.”

— Elle Lothlorien

“Leaning against my car after changing the oil,
I hold my black hands out and stare into them
as if they were the faces of my children looking
at the winter moon and thinking of the snow
that will erase everything before they wake.
In the garage, my wife comes behind me
and slides her hands beneath my soiled shirt.
Pressing her face between my shoulder blades,
she mumbles something, and soon we are laughing,
wrestling like children among piles of old rags,
towels that unravel endlessly, torn sheets,
work shirts from twenty years ago when I stood
in the door of a machine shop, grease blackened,
and Kansas lay before me blazing with new snow,
a future of flat land, white skies, and sunlight.
After making love, we lie on the abandoned
mattress and stare at our pale winter bodies
sprawling in the half-light. She touches her belly,
the scar of our last child, and the black prints
of my hand along her hips and thighs.”

— B.H. Fairchild

“Excerpted From Chapter Eighteen
Pacific Coast Highway ends with a sharp right turn onto Sepulveda. Approaching that intersection, I saw several cars pulled to the shoulder of the road and two fresh, black skid marks leading straight to the edge of the beach beyond Sepulveda. Halfway between the road and the water, a big red Caddy convertible lay upside down on the sand.
I parked and jogged to the wreckage. The windshield and the cloth top had collapsed, so the car was resting on its hood and trunk lid. A young man in swimming trunks and an older fellow in a suit were pulling at the driver's side door, trying to get it open. The twisted metal was resisting their efforts, but the door finally came loose just as I got there. Through the opening I could see Diana Dean sprawled across the shredded remains of her convertible top. From where I stood, she looked to be in about the same shape as her mangled red Caddy. Maybe worse.”

— H.P. Oliver

“When they reached her she stood on the path holding a pair of moths. Her eyes were wide with excitement , her cheeks pink, her red lips parted, and on the hand she held out to them clung a pair of delicate blue-green moths, with white bodies, and touches of lavender and straw colour. All about her lay flower-brocaded grasses, behind a deep green background of the forest, while the sun slowly sifted gold from heaven to burnish her hair. Mrs. Comstock heard a sharp breath behind her.
Oh, what a picture!" Exulted Ammon over sher shoulder. "She is absolutely and altogether lovely! Id give a small fortune for that faithfully set on canvas!”

— Gene Stratton-Porter

“What's she like?' Archie repeated softly. He put his hand on the trooper's shoulder and leaned forward, so his face was inched from his. Gretchen was a beautiful, sensual, charismatic, manipulative bitch, the object of Archie's sexual obsession, his torturer, and the person who knew him best in the world. 'She's a serial killer,' Archie said. He smiled and gave the trooper's shoulder an avuncular pat. 'If you ever lay eyes on her, shoot her.'
Archie turned to Henry. 'I'm ready to go back to the loony bin,' he said”

— Chelsea Cain

“... penny for your thoughts?" Gabe says as he sits down beside me on the cot, and joins me in watching the girls play. "Just a penny ... is that all? With what's on my mind, you could make a fortune." I say as I lay my head on his shoulder. "Well I somehow lost my wallet, but we could use kisses as a substitute. What do you think?”

— Amy Lunderman

“... that sour blend of loneliness and lust for recognition, shyness and extravagance, deep insecurity and self-intoxicated egomania, that drives poets and writers out of their rooms to seek each other out, to rub shoulders with one another, bully, joke, condescend, feel each other, lay a hand on a shoulder or an arm round a waist, to chat and argue with little nudges, to spy a little, sniff out what is cooking in other pots, flatter, disagree, collude, be right, take offence, apologise, make amends, avoid each other, and seek each other's company again.”

— Amos Oz

“After the sudden release of the laughter, he was trembling. All his body seemed growing weak. He felt, almost physically, more barriers breaking
those necessary barriers of defense, built up through the months of loneliness and desperation. He must touch another human being, and he put forward his hand in the old conventional gesture of the handshake. She took it, and doubtless as she noticed his trembling, she drew him toward a chair and almost pushed him into it. As he sat down, she patted his shoulder lightly.
She spoke again, once more neither questioning nor commanding: "I'll get you something to eat."
He did not protest, though he had just eaten heartily. But he knew that behind her quiet affirmation lay something more than any call of the body for food. There was need now for the symbolic eating together, that first common bond of human beings
the sitting at the same table, the sharing of bread and salt.”

— George R. Stewart

“But what was there to say?
Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons. Only that there was a snuffling in the hollows at the base of a lovely throat. Only that a hard honey-colored shoulder had a semicircle of teethmarks on it. Only that they held each other close, long after it was over. Only that what they shared that night was not happiness, but hideous grief.
Only that once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.”

— Arundhati Roy

“Which would be at about shoulder height. Apparently, in Pada's search for her path, the Saints needed to be sure that they had nothing important to say that lay toward either the ceiling or the floor, or she would render them mute.”

— Holly Lisle

“I'd killed my self-defense instructor. Shit.
I ran to where he lay and stumbled to a crouch at his side, touching his shoulder. "Craig?"
His eyelids fluttered. A few panicked heartbeats later, he opened them. Then he grinned.
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about! You gotta learn to hit people." He was breathing hard. He had to gasp the words out. I'd probably knocked the wind out of him. "Now, never do that to me again."
-Kitty and her self defense teacher”

— Carrie Vaughn

“Out of sorrow entire worlds have been built
out of longing great wonders have been willed
they're only little tears darling let them spill
and lay your head upon my shoulder.”

— Nick Cave

“I snuggled deep into the covers,adjusted my pillow until it was just right, then lay down until my head rested on Reyes's shoulder.”

— Darynda Jones

“He'd find out, he thought and nodded as he rose. " Are you worried about you? "
It surprised her, the gentleness in his voice, the light brush of his knuckles over her jaw. She could lean against him, she realized with a jolt. She could lay her head on that shoulder, close her eyes, and for a moment at least, everything would be all right.
She nearly stepped forward before she decided it would be foolish. " You're not going to be nice to me, are you? "
" Maybe. " It might have been the confusion in her eyes, or that sultry scent that wafted from her skin, but he needed to touch. He laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed while his eyes stayed on hers. " Do you need help?”

— Nora Roberts

“His words stayed with her for years. Each night as she lay waiting for sleep, she tried to re-create the evening in her mind - the tone of his voice, his hand on her shoulder. Soon the memory was worn as an old photograph, the edges fuzzy from frequent handling; she worried that she'd gotten the words wrong, forgotten some nuance of his face or voice. Finally she wondered if she'd made the whole thing up.”

— Jennifer Haigh

“You look pensive," he said quietly, holding his hand out from where he lay on the bed. He wore only his shirt and breeches. She went to him without protest. Why pretend when they really had so little time left together? He gathered her against him, her back to his front, and began plucking the pins from her coiffure. "Have I told you how much I admire your hair?" "It's just plain brown," she murmured. "Plain, lovely brown," he replied, raising a lock he'd freed to his face. "Are you smelling my hair?" she asked in amusement. "Yes." "Silly man," she said lightly. "Smitten man," he corrected, spreading her hair over her shoulders. "I've been watching you today." "In between escorting Miss Royle about the garden?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Yes. I'd rather it'd been you, but that wouldn't've been prudent." He frowned down at the strands of her hair caught between his fingers. "Or, perhaps, safe.”

— Elizabeth Hoyt

“I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I loved him very much - more than I could trust myself to say - more than words had power to express”

— Charlotte Brontë

“We reviewed the ways we had to bring customers: Method A, flying aerobatics at the edge of town. Method B, the parachute jump. Then we began experimenting with Method C. There is a principle that says if you lay out a lonely solitaire game in the center of the wilderness, someone will soon come along to look over your shoulder and tell you how to play your cards. This was the principle of Method C. We unrolled our sleeping bags and stretched out under the wing, completely uncaring.”

— Richard Bach

“Roger edged past the chief, only just avoiding pushing him with his shoulder. The yelling ceased, and Samneric lay looking up in quiet terror. Roger advanced upon them as one wielding a nameless authority.”

— William Golding

“Krampus's voice trailed off, he glanced at Jesse. Jesse's head lay on his shoulder, his eyes closed; there came no sign of breath.
"It appears I am talking to myself." Krampus crossed his arms atop his chest and grunted.”

— Brom

“While working at a sawmill, he slipped and fell against the whirring blade, which tore through his upper body at the shoulder, creating a hole so large that his internal organs were exposed-one witness claimed he could see the poor man's beating heart-and leaving his arm attached by just a few strands of glistening sinew. The millworkers bound the injuries as best they could and carried Lindbergh home, where he lay in silent agony for three days awaiting the arrival of a doctor from St. Cloud, forty miles away. When the doctor at last reached him, he took off the arm and sewed up the gaping cavity. It was said that Lindbergh made almost no sound. Remarkably, August Lindbergh recovered and lived another thirty years. Stoicism became the Lindbergh family's most cultivated trait.”

— Bill Bryson

“I sighed and rolled over, opening my arm to her. She put her cheek to my chest and I figured it was an opportune time to touch her since she was asking for it. I let my hand pull her closer and rubbed her arm. She was asleep in no time. My shoulder ached to lay on it, but I wasn't about to move for anything in this world. I”

— Shelly Crane

“You're mad, you missionaries,' ejaculated Tai Haruru angrily. 'What good do you think you do, crawling out to the extremities of all the different world's ends and dying there like lizards spiked on sticks?'
Brother Balaam jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the church behind him. 'Ye'll get no civilization worth havin' in a new country unless ye lay down a few martyrs' bones for a foundation,' he said. 'They generate. Slow but sure.”

— Elizabeth Goudge

“He and Anna lay facing each other, Staines lying on his left hip, and Anna, on her right, both of them with their knees drawn up to their chests, Staines with one hand tucked beneath his bandaged shoulder, Anna with one hand tucked beneath her cheek. She must have turned toward him, some time in the night: her left arm was flung outward, her fingers reaching, her palm turned down ...
Devlin came closer ... He looked down at Anna and Emery, their mirrored bodies, facing in. They were breathing in tandem.
So they are lovers, he thought, looking down at them. So they are lovers, after all. He knew it from the way that they were sleeping.”

— Eleanor Catton

“He did not turn. Embracing his sister, he stepped off the bank, onto the ice. He walked out into the centre, where the ice was thin. His sister's head lay on his shoulder. They stood there for a moment, as the ice groaned and cracked. Then it gave way.”

— Geraldine Brooks

“Svengal lay groaning on the turf. His thighs were sheer agony. His buttocks ached. His calf muscles were on fire. Now, afterhe had tumbled off the small pony he was riding and thudded heavily to the turf on the point of his shoulder, the shoulder would hurt too. He concentrated on trying to find one part of his body that wasn't a giant source of pain and failed miserably. He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the face of the elderly pony that he had been riding peered down at him.
Now what made you do a strange thing like that? The creature seemed to be asking.”

— John Flanagan

“She wouldn't leave him like this, in this cold, dark room.
She yanked out of Arobynn's grasp. Wordlessly, she unfastened her cloak and spread it over Sam, covering the damage that had been so carefully inflicted. She climbed onto the wooden table and lay out beside him, stretching an arm across his middle, holding him close.
The body still smelled faintly like Sam. And like the cheap soap she'd made him use, because she was so selfish that she couldn't let him have her lavender soap.
Celaena buried her face in his cold, stiff shoulder. There was a strange, musky scent all over him
a smell that was so distinctly not Sam that she almost vomited again. It clung to his golden-brown hair, to his torn, bluish lips.
She wouldn't leave him.
Footsteps heading toward the door
then the snick of it closing as Arobynn left.
Celaena closed her eyes. She wouldn't leave him.
She wouldn't leave him.”

— Sarah J. Maas

“The razor hung between his shoulder-blades from a loop of cotton string round his neck inside his shirt. The same motion of the hand which brought the razor forward over his shoulder flipped the blade open and freed it from the cord, the blade opening on until the back edge of it lay across the knuckles of his fist, his thumb pressing the handle into his closing fingers, so that in the second before the half-drawn pistol exploded he actually struck at the white man's throat not with the blade but with a sweeping blow of his fist, following through in the same motion so that not even the first jet of blood touched his hand or arm.”

— William Faulkner

“Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder. "Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade." "And you don't want your name to appear?" "Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous historian to lay out his foolscap once more
eh, Watson?”

— Arthur Conan Doyle

“Suddenly I realized she was asleep. Exhausted by her flight she had fallen asleep against my shoulder as so many times, in taxis, in buses, on a park-seat. I sat still and let her be. There was nothing to disturb her in the dark church. The candles napped around the virgin, and there was nobody else there. The slowly growing pain in my upper arm where her weight lay was the greatest pleasure I had ever known.”

— Graham Greene

“Was he bewitched by those beautiful eyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his shoulder only yesterday? He could not even shake off the recollection that she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once-if never again.”

— Elizabeth Gaskell

“Pritkin, it's a hotel room, not a death trap!" A glance over his shoulder showed him impatient blue eyes under a fall of messy blond curls. "Anyway, you're here."
"I can't protect you from everything," he forced himself to say, because it was true. It was also frankly terrifying in a way that his own mortality was not. He'd never had children, but he sometimes wondered if this was how parents felt when catching sight of a fearless toddler confidently heading toward a busy street. Not that his charge was a child, as he was all too uncomfortably aware. But the knowledge of just how many potentially lethal pitfalls lay in her path sometimes caused him that same heart-clenching terror.
And the same overwhelming need to throw her over his lap and spank the living daylights out of her, he thought grimly, when she suddenly popped out of existence. "Cassie!”

— Karen Chance

“He remembered that these imaginary conversations always began the same way, with the same phrase, the words he believed lay at the core of what any human being ever wants to hear from another, what affection is in its primary essence, what the bonds of friendship and family mean above all else. So he placed his hand gently on Bemm's shoulder and, softly, slowly, spoke the phrase, over and over again, as if it were a prayer, I am so glad you are here.”

— Toby Barlow

“Two hundred miles from the surface of the earth there is no gravity. The laws of motion are suspended. You could turn somersaults slowly slowly, weight into weightlessness, nowhere to fall. As you lay on your back paddling in space you might notice your feet had fled your head. You are stretching slowly slowly, getting longer, your joints are slipping away from their usual places. There is no connection between your shoulder and your arm. You will break up bone by bone, fractured from who you are, drifting away now, the centre cannot hold.”

— Jeanette Winterson

“Shuttered like a fan no-one suspects your shoulder blades of wings. While you lay on your belly I kneaded the hard edges of your flight. You are a fallen angel but still as the angels are; body light as a dragonfly, great gold wings cut across the sun.”

— Jeanette Winterson

“Here's a little nugget I've learned in life about the secret to being a good friend: when words won't suffice, lend an ear. When you can't march into a courtroom or a conference room or a classroom and lay the smack down, lend your shoulder to cry on. When you don't have money for expensive presents, offer your simple presence. And when you don't know what else to do for someone, pray for him or her. It does matter. It is enough. It will be remembered for years to come.”

— Mandy Hale

“Once upon a time ...
... as a fair maiden lay weeping upon a cold tombstone, her heartfelt desire was suddenly made real before her: tall, broad of shoulder, attired in gleaming silver and gold, her knight in shining armor had come to rescue his damsel in distress ...”

— Jude Deveraux

“That night, [Black Dog] lay beside Henry, and he stroked her sharp shoulder blades and scratched behind her ears. He did this late into the night as he listened to the low and terrible moans that swept through the hallways of the house and that were not from the lonely wind but from his lonely mother, who had lost her oldest child and would never have him back again.”

— Gary D. Schmidt

“The master of the palace had similar functions at the court of Judah. Announcing the promotion of Elyaqim, Isaiah 22:22 says: 'I lay the key of the house of David upon his shoulder, if he opens, none will shut; if he shuts, none will open.' The Egyptian vizier's instructions are described in a very similar fashion. Every morning 'the vizier will send someone to open the gates of the kings house, to admit those who have to enter, and to send out those who have to go out.' One is reminded of the Lord's words to Peter, the Vizier of the Kingdom of Heaven (Matthew 16:19).”

— Roland De Vaux