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Antimony sometimes thought that if she were to total up the amount of time she spent upside down—between her work with the family and taking the occasional header during roller derby—she’d probably be able to qualify as an honorary bat.
I’ve never seen a skeleton army, but if they exist, I’m absolutely positive they’d be marching on Ohio. There’s nothing else to do in Ohio. It’s just corn, corn, skeleton army, possibly evil corn maze, football, corn.
Sam Taylor, the boy—the man—who’d put an end to my longstanding “dating is a waste of time” policy, through sheer dint of being such an asshole that my options boiled down to kissing or killing, and you know what? Kissing was way more fun.
The crossroads speak. They offer things. Mary explains why taking those things would be a bad idea. She offers alternatives. The alternatives are usually “don’t do this, death would be better, you will be sorry forever if you do this.”
“Now can we start this over, or do we need to spend some more time riding the roller coaster of shame around the recrimination mountains?
“Did you buy the whole grocery store, or only the parts that looked interesting?” I asked.
“A cat can have kittens in an oven, but that doesn’t make them muffins,” said Sam.
About half the shops were the sort of thing designed to appeal to my hypothetical tourists—one selling just candles, another selling nothing but maple syrup and maple syrup accessories, and a third selling the kind of fancy cupcakes that probably cost three dollars and required the eater to spend an hour brushing their teeth.
You could be spectacular with the right hand to guide you. Warriors do better when they have scholars standing behind them and pointing at the target. You’d never have to think again. All you’d need to do was move. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
I would believe this sentence more with "politicians" than "scholars."
“Is Stephen King really writing fiction?” I asked. “Or is he just a small-town historian who somehow got filed in the wrong part of the bookstore?”
I don’t date Covenant men. The genocide never scrubs off of them.”
“Mary lied to me all the time when I was a kid.” “And she’s still your friend?” asked Sam. “She was my babysitter, and my parents wanted me to have a few years where I thought Santa wasn’t real.” “You mean where you thought Santa was real,” said James. “I meant what I said,” I replied. Cylia shuddered. “Gift-giving asshole,” she said.
Sometimes I wish I were more comfortable with firearms. And then I remember that I spend most of my time either on roller skates or hanging from a trapeze, and consider how easy it would be to shoot myself, and that reconfirms my desire to be the girl with all the knives, rather than the girl with the sucking chest wound.
“Is necromancy real? Annie, is necromancy real?” “I don’t know, I don’t want to know, and if people are raising the dead for recreational reasons, they need to stay way the hell away from me.”
“I have friends who have very, very good reasons to hate you, and since you’re pretty proud of those reasons, I don’t think you have the moral authority to get angry at them,” I said. “You have a lot of blood on your hands.”
“Your father dropped by.” James scowled. “I assure you, whatever he told you, it wasn’t on my behalf.” “I figured, since he started off by telling me not to have any further contact with you. I thought about telling him you were in the boathouse, naked, waiting for me to show up with the maple syrup and the handcuffs, but I was afraid he’d take me seriously and go storming out there to make you put your pants back on.”
(Honestly, it’s sort of a terrifying miracle that no sorcerers have decided to go into physics. It takes someone who really understands gravity to figure out how best to turn it off. Then again, maybe that’s why it hasn’t happened. No one with the sense God gave the little green apples is going to want to combine the peanut butter of physics with the strawberry jam of sorcery into one big, delicious sandwich of ending reality as we know it.)
“Kid, I have gone out of my way for most of my life to have as little intimate contact as possible with humans. I play roller derby because everybody needs a social life, and nobody’s going to report you for being weird when you spend all your time with women who call themselves ‘Elmira Street’ and ‘Princess Leia-You-Out.’ I do administrative work when I need a paying job. Just me, a computer, and a bunch of big, important people trying to pretend they couldn’t be paying me more to deal with their bullshit. Annie here is the first human I’ve ever allowed in my car, much less in my house.”
When I’d first shown up at the West Columbus Zoo, management had allowed me to bring an assistant. I had chosen Dee—Deanna Lynn Taylor de Rodriguez—both because she had excellent credentials, and because she was the only nonhuman applicant for the position. Since “species” isn’t a protected class, I had been pretty sure none of the other hopefuls were going to sue me,
“I want to be less fragile now,” she said. “I want to be able to walk in the world and not worry that I’ll pass someone who’s thinking about doing a crossword puzzle and wind up stuck for hours wondering what three down was supposed to be. It isn’t fair.”
Unexpected downsides of telepathy.
Also, I want to tell my parents the second you’re comfortable with it, because otherwise, they’re going to find out from the mice.” “From the mice?” Shelby laughed. “How?” “The mice have email,” I said darkly.
How do they type?
