Sharleen Malcom

“From "Grimm: Bad Teeth (#2.1)" (2012)
Monroe: Yeah, no, totally. I mean, family reunions can be brutal. Our last one, we lost two cousins and a sheep dog.
Rosalee Calvert: Okay.
Monroe: No one missed the cousins, you know.”
― Grimm

“An interesting note to this novel is the fact that not only are a number
of the experiences related herein ones to which I am intimately familiar,
one is particularly unusual.
I wracked my brain for quite some time to come up with a suitable
near-death experience to use in the opening scene. As it turns out I had
an “AHA” moment, or more appropriately a “DUH” moment when it
occurred to me that I had actually survived the perfect experience to use.
As a result, the first scene and the near-death experience described here
was drawn, almost in its entirety from my OWN life, and I still retain
the scar.
I guess sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction.”
― Jody Summers, The Mayan Legacy

“Winston, how’s she going b’y?” asked Herb in the familiar Newfoundland greeting.
Windflower gave the appropriate response. “She’s going good, b’y.”
― Mike Martin, Too Close For Comfort

“I walked past Malison, up Lower Main to Main and across the road. I didn’t need to look to know he was behind me. I entered Royal Wood, went a short way along a path and waited. It was cool and dim beneath the trees. When Malison entered the Wood, I continued eastward. 
I wanted to place his body in hallowed ground. He was born a Mearan. The least I could do was send him to Loric. The distance between us closed until he was on my heels. He chose to come, I told myself, as if that lessened the crime I planned. He chose what I have to offer.
We were almost to the cemetery before he asked where we were going. I answered with another question. “Do you like living in the High Lord’s kitchens?”
He, of course, replied, “No.”
“Well, we’re going to a better place.”
When we reached the edge of the Wood, I pushed aside a branch to see the Temple of Loric and Calec’s cottage. No smoke was coming from the chimney, and I assumed the old man was yet abed. His pony was grazing in the field of graves. The sun hid behind a bank of clouds.
Malison moved beside me. “It’s a graveyard.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked.
“My father’s a ghost,” he whispered.
I asked if he wanted to learn how to throw a knife. He said, “Yes,” as I knew he would.  He untucked his shirt, withdrew the knife he had stolen and gave it to me. It was a thick-bladed, single-edged knife, better suited for dicing celery than slitting a young throat. But it would serve my purpose. That I also knew. I’d spent all night projecting how the morning would unfold and, except for indulging in the tea, it had happened as I had imagined. 
Damut kissed her son farewell. Malison followed me of his own free will. Without fear, he placed the instrument of his death into my hand. We were at the appointed place, at the appointed time. The stolen knife was warm from the heat of his body. I had only to use it. Yet I hesitated, and again prayed for Sythene to show me a different path.
“Aren’t you going to show me?” Malison prompted, as if to echo my prayer.”
― K. Ritz, Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master