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This is from A Prairie Chicken Kill by Bill Crider. It was a typical Sunday afternoon in spring on the Texas coast, warm and only slightly muggy. There was a breeze from the gulf stirring the oleander leaves and pushing along the puffy flat-bottomed clouds overhead. It's not so bad, I said. Maybe not, but I need a place to sit down. It wasn't that he needed a place to sit any more than it was the heat. It was just that Dino was never comfortable unless he was inside, and he was only marginally comfortable inside unless he was in his own house. I stuck the book under my arm and stood up. You read some funny stuff, Dino said. I bet there's nobody else in the whole country reading that book right now. He was probably right. Not too many people cared about Erskine Caldwell these days. Maybe that was why I was reading the book. It was considered pretty hot stuff at one time, I said. We went inside and nameless followed in hopes that someone might give him something to eat. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd eaten only ten minutes before. He was always ready to eat again if he got the chance. You want a big red? I asked Dino. Is that all you have? Jesus, true! Don't you know that stuff will kill you? I know this guy who works for the distributor, and he tells me they never keep it around the warehouse for very long after it goes in the can. He said it eats right through the aluminum. If my stomach were lined with aluminum, I'd be worried. I've got ginger ale, though, if you want it.
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From a Time to Stand The Epic of the Alamo by Walter Lord The clear, warm dawn of March 5th brought more bad news for the garrison. During the night the Mexican battery on the north had been pushed still closer. It was now only two hundred yards from the fort. Brisk fire again pounded the crumbling walls, and the defenders again huddled behind whatever protection they found. By now they were pretty good at dodging enemy cannonballs. Miraculously, not a man had yet been killed. The Mexican fire tapered off sharply in the late afternoon, and at five p.m. the Texans puzzled over the sight of several columns of troops filing out of town. As the heavy firing stopped, the defenders emerged from shelter and began cooking supper on open fires in front of the church. Mrs. Dickinson persuaded a grimy Jim Bonham to have a cup of tea. The lull meant more than tea to Colonel Travis. Shaking off what must have been an overwhelming desire to relax, he suddenly summoned the whole garrison to assemble in the open plaza. The men wearily ambled over, and Mrs. Dickinson hovered in the rear as the colonel addressed his men.
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From My Wife Thinks I'm an Idiot by Mike Greenberg Today, my wife told me we're going to have a baby. Unlike Ricky, I was not shocked by the news. Not after we went off the pill three months ago, visited three obstetricians and a pediatrician, pinpointed the optimal instant of ovulation, became unprecedentedly intimate with a thermometer, had sex when I didn't feel like it, a first, and spent hundreds of dollars on books, everything from prenatal diet tips to the benefits of communication with a fetus. Like everything else in my life, this transaction was carefully budgeted, programmed by a computer, dissected on a spreadsheet, discussed via email, and scheduled in my BlackBerry long before any rabbit died. The first thing I learned is that my role in all of this is negligible. My wife's obstetrician made that abundantly clear when I made the catastrophic mistake of attending an appointment. What I found is that my contribution to anything beyond insemination is purely optional. There was not a single question I asked to which the reply was not, it doesn't matter.
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Jack in the Green, The Hunt for Jack Reacher series, book five, by Diane Capri. He'd been here on special assignments when he was in the Army, and once or twice since he had been assigned to the FBI's Miami field office. He hoped today's arrest would go more smoothly than his last one here. It's a simple question, Chico, Otto said. Wish I had a simple answer. He took in the view through the glass again—right, left, front, and in the rearview mirror, seeking any unfamiliar additions to the geography. The base consumed every inch of the small peninsula jutting out into Tampa Bay. The last time he had been here, it was to attend a retirement dinner in the Officer's Club, which had since been demolished. Nothing abnormal in that. When new facilities were required, it generally meant old stuff was demolished and replaced.
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From, More Than Life Itself, by Joseph Nassis She doesn't have to die. The phrase was spoken so matter-of-factly that at first Sam was uncertain if he had heard the man correctly. His steps faltered, then stopped, as he tried to puzzle it out. The voice came again, and this time it was no mistaking what was said. She doesn't have to die. Sam turned, looked back. The man now stood upright, his arms at his sides. His face was angled away from Sam, still looking at the rising sun, and the falling waves of his hair kept his features obscured, but there was no question to whom he was speaking. "'Excuse me?' Sam asked. "'Your daughter. She doesn't have to die.' As he spoke, the man slowly turned to look at Sam, revealing two empty sockets where his eyes should have been.
