Seethed. Peppered. Slumped. Nuked. Plunked. Teetered. Hoisted. Drifted. Flinched. Billowed. Quivered. Inventoried. Craned. Veered.
Her kitchen was stacked to the ceiling with black walnut fudge, candied orange peel, Linzertorte, sugar cookies in shape, pfeffernuss, gingerbread people, spingerle, brandy snaps, heavenly hash, popcorn balls, glazed chestnuts, and some fifty pounds of peanut brittle rolled out on a marble top from one of her front room tables.
“You smell funny, preacher’s kid,” said another voice from on high. And he should talk. “What’s that you smell like?”“Shellac,” I said in a puny voice. “I’ve been shellacking a pew.”“Pew. You can say that again,” said another voice, and they all did a lot of hee-haw laughing (p. 19)
Brad and I were at the back, flanking the door when it banged open. Wind blew in. Candles blew out. People jumped. Brad and I fell back. An enormous figure filled the door—bear big. “Hit the lights,” it said (p. 153).
“Without a funeral, you ain’t got a chance in—““The world,” Mrs. Wilcox said (p. 71).
“I’m sick to death of all this fussin’ and fumin’ about restless spirits and floatin’ princesses and such horse—““Feathers,” Mrs. Wilcox said (p. 72).
“Who, honey?” Dad said.“You know who, Daddy. S-A-N-T-A,” Ruth Ann spelled, “C-L-A-U-S” (p. 132).
She pointed past us at Phyllis, growing smaller on the settee. “She’s had one too many.”
Silence fell hard. The mantlepiece clock ticked off several slow seconds (p. 97).