What better day than the last day of April to finish my March wrap-up?
The Blight of Blackwings by Kevin Herne
I waved at Constable du Bartylyn, who was passing by and had absolutely no updates on my stolen furniture, save for a speculation that someone else must have farted on it by now, and if I thought about that long enough, it might make me feel a little bit better about never seeing it again.
He walked away, whistling, and I thought he was a singularly strange individual for trying to comfort me with thoughts of thieves tooting their foghorns on my property. But perhaps I should give him full Marks for innovative community policing.
“Have you ever heard of the lizards in Forn that can change the color of their skin to match their surroundings? They’re called chameleons.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of them. I’d love to actually see one someday.”
After witnessing that performance, I think grief can be thought of as a chameleon. It can change its color or pattern, but underneath it all it’s still an ugly lizard on a branch, waiting patiently for the right time to strike.”
“You realize that every time I’m sad from now on I’m going to think chameleons?”
A mob is not the best, though. It’s strange to be in one, to realize that, Hey, I’m part of a mob right now, and mobs are pretty famous for not doing anything nice to other people. No one sees a mob tearing down the street and thinks, Oh, neat! I wonder what kindness they will bestow upon our neighbors! No one wishes a mob would form outside their neighborhood.
Moonlight Mile by Dennis Lehane
It’s odd how fast a beautiful woman can turn a guy’s mind into lint storage. Just by being a beautiful woman.
I normally can’t stand vice-free people. They conflate a narcissistic instinct for self-preservation with moral superiority. Plus they suck the life right out of a party.
…I looked out the window and felt old. It was a feeling I’d had a lot lately. But not in a rueful way. If this is how twenty-somethings spent their twenties these days, they could have their twenties. Their thirties, too.
Dead Ground by MW. Craven
Poe had missed something. he didn’t know what, but his second brain, the one that ticked over in the background while his primary brain made rash decisions was working overtime. He recognized the signs, nervous energy and an inability to concentrate on anything.
Soul Taken by Patricia Briggs
“The thing that we thought might end up with Adam dead looks like it will work out okay,” I told her dryly as her feet hit the ground again. “We have another situation to replace it that might end up with Adam dead. Or me dead. Or maybe the whole pack. But at least we solved one deadly situation before we picked up another one.”
“Business as usual,” said Tad.
Heaven’s River by Dennis E. Taylor
All actions have risks. Most inactions even more so.
What it lacks in elegance, it makes up for with wads of unearned optimism. Let’s do it.
Sadly, it was like most political arguments. No one was willing to debate their base assumptions, or justify them, or compromise on them. The simple tactic being that if you repeated your assertion often enough, with enough emotion and volume, the opponents would somehow be forced to see things your way.
Podkin One-Ear by Kieran Larwood
“Stories belong to the teller,” says the bard. “At least half of them do. The other part belongs to the listeners. When a good story is told to a good listener, the pair of them own it together.”
(Image by DaModernDaVinci from Pixabay)
