Felicia stood at the base of the driveway looking up at the shattered windows. The front door was partly open. She felt it like a wound.
I’ve become more obsessive, lately, toward subtle prose. Unobtrusive prose. Prose on the 9-to-5 office worker side of the Autism spectrum. And how it makes the pointed moments even better. This book isn’t poetry. Far from it. It owns a handful of sentences that ought to get its editor exiled into a desert. But those are few and far between, much less easily noticed than the beautiful lines, and I’ve recommended it to a half dozen people. And not only because I was halfway finished before realizing it was a zombie novel. Easy addition to the long list of my favorite books of 2014.