We had sex, he took my blood. Positive ions, positive feedback loops. The cycle perpetuates itself.
I’m in California now, where bees die in the light. Where everybody dies first, then lives forever.
I look at the baby doll abandoned on the floor next to its ripped box, its unblinking blue eyes staring back at me. One of its fat cloth legs has been ripped off in the fight.
Tamberlyn fell on the pavement, hard. Her body slapped against it. It sounded like someone dropped a lot of meat.
What Westra does is this brilliant magic trick: he takes these simple sentences, with their insouciant humor, and stacks them like bricks.
The window over the bathroom sink, up high and pointing out, the only window in the whole house where all you see is sky.
Catastrophe, he thinks. Couldn’t have gone worse.