A House With Good Bones

by T. Kingfisher

There aren’t many social advantages to being fat, but I’ll give it this, nobody ever thinks you’re a cat burglar.

I also thought it looked very generic Suburban White People Chic, but I kept that to myself.

If there was an Olympic sport for worrying, Mom would win the gold and then give it to the silver medalist because she was afraid that they might feel bad for losing.

(Forget maggots; I am convinced that boxes of coat hangers are the real proof of spontaneous generation.)

I accepted this fiction politely.

He obviously went to the same tailor as Rasputin too: Dusty Black Suits “R” Us.

It’s why they pay me the meager academic bucks.

Waffle House at four in the morning is a liminal space occupied by long-haul truckers, bleary-eyed shift workers, and teenagers so high they can smell God’s breath.

Real or not, monsters don’t bother you while you’re peeing. (This is one of the lesser-known laws.)