I had a vague memory of being that ridiculous at one time. Let he who hath never worn parachute pants cast the first stone.

There is a primal reassurance in being touched, in knowing that someone else, someone close to you, wants to be touching you. There is a bone-deep security that goes with the brush of a human hand, a silent, reflex-level affirmation that someone is near, that someone cares.

Isana felt her throat tighten. "We failed." Serai lifted her chin and patted Isana's arm firmly. "We have not yet succeeded. There is a difference.

All of those faeries and duels and mad queens and so on, and no one quoted old Billy Shakespeare. Not even once.

We are not going to die." Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. "We're not?" No. And do you know why?" He shook his head. "Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I'm too stubborn to die." I hauled on the shirt even harder. "And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.

There was a sound like a human yawn, and then the skull turned slightly toward me and asked, "What's up, boss?" "Evil's afoot." "Well, sure," Bob said, "because it refuses to learn the metric system. Otherwise it'd be up to a meter by now.

Time after time, history demonstrates that when people don't want to believe something, they have enormous skills of ignoring it altogether.