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The dead guy looked at me with wide eyes. “I can’t move my legs.” I snorted. “You can’t move your arms either, or your feet or your freaking eyelids. You’re dead.

Darynda Jones

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Darynda Jones
Age: 59
Author
Novelist
Writer
Friona
Texas
Either
Eyelids
Eyes
Legs
Wide
Guy
Looked
Eye
Arms
Moving
Move
Dead
Snorted
Feet
Freaking

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After a geological epoch passed in which single-celled organisms evolved into talk show hosts, Mr. Coffee was still holding out on me.
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Paperwork wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for all the paper. And the work.
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He said you sparkle like a newborn galaxy and have more attitude than a rich kid with his daddy's Porsche.
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Nobody wants to look like a fool. Nine times out of ten, that reason alone keeps people from allowing themselves to believe.
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I was white. Chalk had more color than I did. And quite possibly more personality.
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She blinked at me, then realized I was panicking. Honestly, it was like admitting to murder before being interrogated. “Ms. Davidson,” she began, but I decided to trip her up, to throw her off the trail of blood I’d left like an injured animal. “I don’t speak English.
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I'd never taken to four foot creatures who had the uncanny ability to point out all my flaws in thirty second flat. And just for the record, I can too read without moving my lips.
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Okay, I'll strip. I'll tap dance. I'll sing 'La Cucaracha' in C minor.
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Have they even seen the Winchester boys? Sammy and Dean's existence proves there is a god and she is a woman.
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Cookie had taken her daughter amber to school then walked the thirty-something feet to work earlier. Our business was on the second floor of Calamity's, my dad's bar, which sat right in front of our apartment building. The short commute was nice and rarely invloved rabid raccoons.
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God I loved Sammy. I’d considered marrying him, but his wife got upset when I asked for his hand.
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He seemed determines, his resolve unwavering. This would take tact. Prudence. Possible Milk Duds.
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Surely my macking on some guy in an insane asylum wouldn't hurt him. He'd been living with his stalker, for heaven's sake.
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I was just passing by. Saw the commotion. Figured you were involved.
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Reyes leaned back against the bar, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied me from beneath those same ridiculously long lashes. Men and their freaking lashes. It was so unfair. Like the exorbitant cost of designer shoes. Or world hunger.
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If it weren’t for physics and law enforcement, I’d be unstoppable.
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Dead people I could handle. They were usually beyond hysteria. This was the people-left behind part. The hard part.
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I pointed in the general vicinity of my left ovary, This is Beam Me Up. Then to my right. And this is Scotty. Garret chuckled and buried his face in his hands. He asked.
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There is nothing to fear but fear itself. And spiders. ~Bumper sticker~
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But, you're his son, I said, trying really hard to hate him. You're the son of Satan. Literally. And you are the stepdaughter of Denise Davidson. Wow. That was a bit harsh, but, Okay, point taken.
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