Maybe in the morning, sunlight would to turn him back into a statue; then I could take Stone out to the forest where he could frolic among the ferns, gurgle at streams, and make friends with the other interesting rocks.

Let go of the past, of the things I wanted, of the people I loved, and move forward.

I don’t know what’s happened to you. You used to be such a nice girl. Now you’ve gone all stabby and whatnot.

... he was sunset against the mountains, strong, vibrant, dangerous, and yet somehow sheltering, protective. And married. Picnic, meet rain.

I don’t know how to explain it.” “Try words. If that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to interpretive dance.

Don't know about my knives, but my gun's made of pain.

He was like an undead boomerang. A zomberang.