Snake-Eater

by T. Kingfisher

Then she stopped, because if you talked to yourself, you looked crazy—and even though she was crazy, she was still kind of hoping that nobody else would notice.

Her mother 22had been troublesome while she was alive, and it was depressing, if not surprising, to discover that she continued to be troublesome after her death.

“Some good you’ll be, when the serial killer shows up.” Copper wagged her tail, perhaps indicating that the serial killer would be welcome as long as he knew how to pet a dog properly.

Saying “You’re the one who gave my aunt the wildly tasteless toilet!” was right out.

I can’t be expected to deal with being insane. Nobody should be required to put up with that.

Therefore something was there, and Selena wasn’t any more insane than she thought she was. That was a trifle disappointing from one direction, but an enormous relief from the other one.

“The first commandment is ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before Me,’” he said gently. “It doesn’t say that there aren’t any others, or that you shouldn’t be polite when you meet them.

Grandma Billy didn’t seem like a good candidate for a cult, unless she was running it, and then it probably would be more about mojitos than squash.

It was harder when there was only one other person. She was never sure if she was making enough eye contact or not enough.

It wasn’t courage, but that didn’t matter. Love and terror could stand in for courage if need be.

Even hearing herself say it was insane—but apparently it was the world that was insane, not her. And that was an improvement.

She’s talking about a mobster witch. Oh god.

They really were monsters. I’m not crazy. It’s reality that ought to apologize.

I’m thinking about gloves while I’m pushing a load of possessed owl skins to the church. Of course I am.

“Ain’t no kill like overkill,” said Grandma Billy.

“It doesn’t work that way. You’d have to be a priest too.” “I could be.” “You could not.” “I’d be a great priest.” “You aren’t ordained.” “Can’t be that hard.” “You didn’t go to seminary.” 133 “School of hard knocks. Seminary of hard knocks. Whatever.” “Vow of celibacy.” “. . . damn.”

“That’s all right,” said Father Aguirre, smiling. “Fortunately, some things stay true whether we believe in them or not.”

And I do not believe in a God who would be more offended by jokes about crosses than by the system which has made them poor.”

It was profoundly absurd that being the assistant manager at a deli would prepare you to fight a god. But it was profoundly absurd that there were gods in her garden and that a roadrunner would turn out to be a frightening little dinosaur of a bird and that your best friends would turn out to be an elderly chicken lady and a Catholic priest.

“C’mon, Padre, didn’t the Lord promise something about floods?” “He promised not to destroy the world. Individuals are still expected to get to high ground.”

And he was risking the paint job of the truck that he clearly loved to help her. Also we might all die, but I think for him the paint job is the important bit.

You cannot stop others from loving you, you know, or from being noble about it.”

“It was a small kindness you did,” they said. “But you and I are both small creatures, are we not? So the kindnesses feel larger.”