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the name Fat Charlie clung to him, like chewing gum to the sole of a tennis shoe.
his roving eye and equally as adventurous fingers,
chomping down on them as if each nut was a twenty-year-old indignity that could never be erased.
Mrs. Dunwiddy smelled of violet water and beneath the violets she smelled of very old woman indeed.
high strung bundle of barely thought-through prejudices,
Fat Charlie thought it highly likely that Rosie’s mum went out at night in bat form to suck the blood from sleeping innocents.
“I won’t live forever,” sniffed her mother, in a way that implied that she had every intention of living forever, getting harder and thinner and more stonelike as she went,
rubicund barristers
collapse in on himself like a problematic soufflé.
Clouds roiled across the sour milk sky.
Spider was used to being able to push reality around a little, just a little but that was always enough.
Grahame Coats smiled at her in exactly the same way that striking cobras tend not to.
it’s easier to lie to yourself when you say things out loud.
as a small girl she had been unable to envision a God who disliked anyone enough to sentence them to an eternity of torture in Hell, mostly for not believing in Him properly,
Grahame Coats did not go for walks; he had people to do that for him.
People take on the shapes of the songs and the stories that surround them, especially if they don’t have their own song.
You could buy guns pretty easily on Saint Andrews, it was that sort of island. Most people didn’t bother with buying guns though, it was that sort of island too.
content of the song was unraveling like a dream in the morning.
“Neither of us can leave until Anansi’s child forgets we’re here.