“Nine years ago I was alive. Nine years ago Jessica Anne Porter was fifteen years old.” — Joan Frances Turner Copy Share Image
“So am I dead? How many kinds of living and dead and living dead and dead living had I been in just these few… — Joan Frances Turner Copy Share Image
“Nine years ago I was alive. Nine years ago Jessica Anne Porter was fifteen years old.” — Joan Frances Turner Copy Share Image
“The whole right side of his face was smashed in, concave forehead and crushed cheekbone and one eye bugging precariously from a broken socket. He was purplish-black, and dirty white: Maggots seethed from every pore and crawled across him in excited wriggly piles, blowflies waving and blooming and wilting, the bits of bone they'd scraped clean glinting like tiny mosaic… — Joan Frances Turner Copy Share
“No, we wern't telling Teresa. Because she had that same smell on her skin too, that dead hoocow's awful sterile rot, and until I… — Joan Frances Turner Copy Share Image
“Be nice to her,” I muttered under my breath. “She’s my sister; she got sick. She lost her kid. For all I know, she… — Joan Frances Turner Copy Share Image
“Isn't it wonderful when people do that, when you put all your faith in their being selfish and self -centered and not giving a… — Joan Frances Turner Copy Share Image
