The Twisted Ones

by T. Kingfisher

They were good solid work gloves, men’s size medium, not the crappy little floral-print things they try to sell to women.

This feels like sort of chatty book I wish I could write!

Books on World War II appear spontaneously in any house that contains a man over a certain age. I believe that’s science.

It is an immutable law of the universe that whenever you listen to NPR in a strange place, it will be Pledge Week.

Bongo’s nose is far more intelligent than the rest of him, and I believe it uses his brain primarily as a counterweight).

“It’s a mint julep,” she said. “Want one?” “I don’t see any mint,” I said. “Yeah, we ran out.” “Doesn’t that make it just a julep?” “No,” said a gray-haired man stepping out onto the porch behind her, “because she doesn’t put any simple syrup in it either.” Foxy grinned. “Aw, but mint juleps are so classy. Just straight bourbon over ice makes it sound like I’m a lush.”