Let me get this straight. Your table ran away because you polished it with Windex?

Hades raised an eyebrow. When he sat forward in his throne, shadowy faces appeared in the folds of his black robes, faces of torment,as if the garment was stitched of trapped souls from the Fields of Punishment, trying to get out. The ADHD part of me wondered, off-task, whether the rest of his clothes were made the same way. What horrible things would you have to do in your life to get woven into Hades' underwear?

Doesn't miss many meals, does he?" Zeus muttered. "Tyson, for your bravery in the war, and for leading the Cyclopes, you are appointed a general I. The armies of Olympus. You shall henceforth lead you breathren into war whenever required by the gods. And you shall have a new...um...what kind of weapon would you like? A sword? An axe?" "Stick!" Tyson said, showing his broken club. "Very well," Zeus said. "We will grant you a new, er, stick. The best stick that may be found." "Hooray!

Tyson! Thank the gods, Annabeth is hurt!" "You thank the gods that she is hurt?" he asked, puzzled.

Whasthat!" "Um ... those are the toilets.

Pizza! Hockey! Destroy!" -Cal

Anubis frowned. He locked his very nice eyes with mine. “You’re not dead.” “No,” I said. “Though we’re trying awfully hard.