Mummy Boy Quotes

They took a baseball bat and whacked open his head. Mummy Boy fell to the ground; he finally was dead. Inside of his head were no candy or prizes, just a few stray beetles of various sizes.

A mother gives you a life, a mother-in-law gives you her life.

And when our kids grow up and ask about the story of Mummy and Daddy – how we met and how the Might Storm came to be – I’ll sit them down and tell them the story of how, once upon a long time ago, in Manchester, a girl moved next door to a boy.

Alone and rejected, Mummy Boy wept, then went to the cabinet where the snack food was kept.

Mummy and Daddy want him to be an evil genius, but he has his heart set on Latin verse. Don’t you, Pill?” The boy gave his sister a nasty stare. “Pillover is terribly bad at being bad, if you take my meaning. Our daddy is a founding member of the Death Weasel Confederacy, and Mummy is a kitchen chemist with questionable intent, but poor Pillover can’t even bring himself to murder ants with his Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification. Can you, Pill?

...the Beatles were hard men too. Brian Epstein cleaned them up for mass consumption, but they were anything but sissies. They were from Liverpool, which is like Hamburg or Norfolk, Virginia--a hard, sea-farin' town, all these dockers and sailors around all the time who would beat the piss out of you if you so much as winked at them. Ringo's from the Dingle, which is like the f***ing Bronx. The Rolling Stones were the mummy's boys--they were all college students from the outskirts of London. They went to starve in London, but it was by choice, to give themselves some sort of aura of disrespectability. I did like the Stones, but they were never anywhere near the Beatles--not for humour, not for originality, not for songs, not for presentation. All they had was Mick Jagger dancing about. Fair enough, the Stones made great records, but they were always s**t on stage, whereas the Beatles were the gear.

When I was younger, my brother told me that he had the power to shrink me to the size of an ant. In fact, he said, he used to have another sister, but he shrank her down and stepped on her. He also told me that when you became a grown-up, you were admitted into a private party that was full of monsters and horror movie characters. There was Chucky, drinking a cup of coffee. And the mummy on the cover of the Hardy Boys book that used to freak me out, except he was doing the twist while Jason from 'Friday the 13th' played the alto sax. He told me you stayed at the party as long as you had to, making conversation with these creatures, and that was why adults were never afraid of anything. I used to believe everything my brother told me, because he was older and I figured he knew more about the world. But as it turns out, being a grown-up doesn't mean you're fearless. It just means you fear different things.

But, stop and think. What does the word ‘witch’ truly mean?” “Why—” said Tom, and was stymied. “Wits,” said Moundshroud. “Intelligence. That’s all it means. Knowledge. So any man, or woman, with half a brain and with inclinations toward learning had his wits about him, eh? And so, anyone too smart, who didn’t watch out, was called—” “A witch!” said everyone. “And some of the smart ones, the ones with wits, pretended at magic, or dreamed themselves with ghosts and dead shufflers and ambling mummies. And if enemies dropped dead by coincidence, they took credit for it. They liked to believe they had power, but they had none, boys, none, sad and sorry, ’tis true. But

Mummy can we keep him?" Madeleine asked with the wide eyes of a burgeoning crush. "Darling, little boys make terrible pets," Mrs. Masterson offered with a wink. "That's not true at all, Mummy. They're hypoallergenic, much easier than dogs," Madeleine said cheekily, "and they almost never have fleas.

I remember the mounds of flowers all around us. I remember feeling unspeakable sorrow and yet being unfailingly polite. I remember old ladies saying: Oh, my, how polite, the poor boy! I remember muttering thanks, over and over, thank you for coming, thank you for saying that, thank you for camping out here for several days. I remember consoling several folks who were prostrate, overcome, as if they knew Mummy, but also thinking: You didn’t, though. You act as if you did…but you didn’t know her.

I don't think their mummy and daddy told them they were little sunbeams for Jesus.

Vespers Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed, Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers. God bless Mummy. I know that's right. Wasn't it fun in the bath tonight? The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot. Oh! God bless Daddy -- I quite forgot. If I open my fingers a little bit more, I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door. It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood. Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good. Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed, And pull the hood right over my head, And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small, And nobody knows that I'm there at all. Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day. And what was the other I had to say? I said "Bless Daddy," so what can it be? Oh! Now I remember. God bless Me. Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed. Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.

In the silence that followed, the boy's voice could be clearly heard, I want my mummy, but the words were articulated without expression, like some automatic and repeater mechanism that had previously left a phrase suspended and was blurting it out now, at the wrong time.

...As a child he had gone out for Halloween as a mummy, a vampire, a blue-and-green-swolen drowned boy, all kinds of sufferings and mutilations and perversions represented by his costumes; and looking around him he saw witches and Frankenstein monsters and scarred warty masks of all the kids running around asking for candy in the dark; and he wondered: Why must we hurt ourselves and drive stakes through our hearts and drown ourselves in order to get candy? Why couldn't we just go out and ask for it?

LITTLE BOY. Oh, what has happened? Mummy has gone away,   And left me and will not come back any more! Father, I shall be lonely all the day….   Look! Look! Her eyes … and her arms not like before,     How they lie …   Mother! Oh, speak a word! Answer me, answer me, Mother! It is I.   I am touching your face. It is I, your little bird. ADMETUS (recovering himself and going to the Child). She hears us not, she sees us not. We lie Under a heavy grief, child, thou and I. LITTLE BOY. I am so little, Father, and lonely and cold   Here without Mother. It is too hard…. And you,     Poor little sister, too.         Oh, Father! Such a little time we had her. She might have stayed   On till we all were old…. Everything is spoiled when Mother is dead.

Janie ran to my side, where she tugged at the book eagerly as though she'd seen it before. "Flower book," she said, pointing to the cover. "Where did you find Mummy's book?" Katherine asked, hovering near me. Cautiously, I revealed the book as I sat on the sofa. "Would you like to look at it with me?" I said, avoiding the question. Katherine nodded and the boys gathered round as I cracked the spine and thumbed through page after page of beautiful camellias, pressed and glued onto each page, with handwritten notes next to each. On the page that featured the 'Camellia reticulata,' a large, salmon-colored flower, she had written: 'Edward had this one brought in from China. It's fragile. I've given it the garden's best shade.' On the next page, near the 'Camellia sasanqua,' she wrote: 'A christmas gift from Edward and the children. This one will need extra love. It hardly survived the passage from Japan. I will spend the spring nursing it back to health.' On each page, there were meticulous notes about the care and feeding of the camellias- when she planted them, how often they were watered, fertilized, and pruned. In the right-hand corner of some pages, I noticed an unusual series of numbers. "What does that mean?" I asked the children. Nicholas shrugged. "This one was Mummy's favorite," he said, flipping to the last page in the book. I marveled at the pink-tipped white blossoms as my heart began to beat faster. The Middlebury Pink.

Dear Kitty, Another birthday has gone by, so now I’m fifteen. I received quite a lot of presents. All five parts of Sprenger’s History of Art, a set of underwear, a handkerchief, two bottles of yoghurt, a pot of jam, a spiced gingerbread cake, and a book on botany from Mummy and Daddy, a double bracelet from Margot, a book from the Van Daans, sweet peas from Dussel, sweets and exercise books from Miep and Elli and, the high spot of all, the book Maria Theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Kraler. A lovely bunch of peonies from Peter, the poor boy took a lot of trouble to try and find something, but didn’t have any luck. There’s still excellent news of the invasion, in spite of the wretched weather, countless gales, heavy rains, and high seas. Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower, and Arnold visited French villages which have been conquered and liberated. The torpedo boat that Churchill was in shelled the coast. He appears, like so many men, not to know what fear is—makes me envious! It’s difficult for us to judge from our secret redoubt how people outside have reacted to the news. Undoubtedly people are pleased that the idle (?) English have rolled up their sleeves and are doing something at last. Any Dutch people who still look down on the English, scoff at England and her government of old gentlemen, call the English cowards, and yet hate the Germans deserve a good shaking. Perhaps it would put some sense into their woolly brains. I hadn’t had a period for over two months, but it finally started again on Saturday. Still, in spite of all the unpleasantness and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t failed me any longer. Yours, Anne

So when they reached the checkout Will was excited and happy because they’d nearly won. And when his mother couldn’t find her purse, that was part of the game too, even when she said the enemies must have stolen it; but Will was getting tired by this time, and hungry too, and Mummy wasn’t so happy anymore. She was really frightened, and they went around and around putting things back on the shelves, but this time they had to be extra careful because the enemies were tracking them down by means of her credit card numbers, which they knew because they had her purse.… And Will got more and more frightened himself. He realized how clever his mother had been to make this real danger into a game so that he wouldn’t be alarmed, and how, now that he knew the truth, he had to pretend not to be frightened, so as to reassure her. So the little boy pretended it was a game still, so she didn’t have to worry that he was frightened, and they went home without any shopping, but safe from the enemies; and then Will found the purse on the hall table anyway. On Monday they went to the bank and closed her account, and opened another somewhere else, just to be sure. Thus the danger passed. But sometime during the next few months, Will realized slowly and unwillingly that those enemies of his mother’s were not in the world out there, but in her mind. That made them no less real, no less frightening and dangerous; it just meant he had to protect her even more carefully. And from the moment in the supermarket when he had realized he must pretend in order not to worry his mother, part of Will’s mind was always alert to her anxieties. He loved her so much he would have died to protect her.

There was once a little girl who wanted to play ball with the boys, but they wouldn’t let her.” She made sure she had his full attention before continuing. “So she went home and cut all her hair off.” “Why would she do that?” “So she could pretend to be a boy.” Jay stood up and grabbed a ball to bounce. “She then played and won the tournament for them.” “Did they find out?” He let the ball bounce away to stare at her. “Yes,” Amisha said. “And she was no longer allowed to play. The team struggled to win another tournament, and that’s when they realized they should change the rules.” “But, Mummy, girls still can’t play sports,” Jay said, his young mind confused. “No, they can’t, but if they’re not allowed to do things, we’ll never find out what they can do.” She tapped him on the nose to lighten the mood. “I am so lucky to have three smart sons.” She set the strap of his satchel over his young shoulder. “Maybe one of you will help to change our world. What do you think?

The cultural code of the stiff upper lip is not for her boys. She is teaching them that it is not “sissy” to show their feelings to others. When she took Prince William to watch the German tennis star Steffi Graff win the women’s singles final at Wimbledon last year they left the royal box to go backstage and congratulate her on her victory. As Graff walked off court down the dimly lit corridor to the dressing room, royal mother and son thought Steffi looked so alone and vulnerable out of the spotlight. So first Diana, then William gave her a kiss and an affectionate hug. The way the Princess introduced her boys to her dying friend, Adrian Ward-Jackson, was a practical lesson in seeing the reality of life and death. When Diana told her eldest son that Adrian had died, his instinctive response revealed his maturity. “Now he’s out of pain at last and really happy.” At the same time the Princess is acutely aware of the added burdens of rearing two boys who are popularly known as “the heir and the spare.” Self-discipline is part of the training. Every night at six o’clock the boys sit down and write thank-you notes or letters to friends and family. It is a discipline which Diana’s father instilled in her, so much so that if she returns from a dinner party at midnight she will not sleep easily unless she has penned a letter of thanks. William and Harry, now ten and nearly eight respectively, are now aware of their destiny. On one occasion the boys were discussing their futures with Diana. “When I grow up I want to be a policeman and look after you mummy,” said William lovingly. Quick as a flash Harry replied, with a note of triumph in his voice, “Oh no you can’t, you’ve got to be king.

Yesterday, after he had gone, they emerged into the verandah fresh from Moses and bursting with eagerness to tell me all about it. "Herr Schenk told us to-day about Moses," began the April baby, making a rush at me. "Oh?" "Yes, and a boser, boser Konig who said every boy must be deaded, and Moses was the allerliebster." "Talk English, my dear baby, and not such a dreadful mixture," I besought. "He wasn't a cat." "A cat?" "Yes, he wasn't a cat, that Moses—a boy was he." "But of course he wasn't a cat," I said with some severity; "no one ever supposed he was." "Yes, but mummy," she explained eagerly, with much appropriate hand- action, "the cook's Moses is a cat." "Oh, I see. Well?" "And he was put in a basket in the water, and that did swim. And then one time they comed, and she said—" "Who came? And who said?" "Why, the ladies; and the Konigstochter said, 'Ach hormal, da schreit so etwas.'" "In German?" "Yes, and then they went near, and one must take off her shoes and stockings and go in the water and fetch that tiny basket, and then they made it open, and that Kind did cry and cry and strampel so"—here both the babies gave such a vivid illustration of the strampeln that the verandah shook—"and see! it is a tiny baby. And they fetched somebody to give it to eat, and the Konigstochter can keep that boy, and further it doesn't go." "Do you love Moses, mummy?" asked the May baby, jumping into my lap, and taking my face in both her hands—one of the many pretty, caressing little ways of a very pretty, caressing little creature. "Yes," I replied bravely, "I love him." "Then I too!" they cried with simultaneous gladness, the seal having thus been affixed to the legitimacy of their regard for him.

The man who had him pinned kicked him over again and pointed down at the tire. "Stay down, you little bastard, or we'll rape your mum and skin her alive." Chris clamped his hands over Michael's ears. When Dean edged the truck forwards, Tommy's eyes jumped from his face. "Mum! Mummy! Help me, Mummy! Mum!" The engine bellowed, Tommy cried, Marie screamed, Frank roared, and Chris' pulse thumped in his ears. Locked in a maniacal fit, Dean cackled at the sky, his pointy nose and gaunt face making him look like a satanic Mr. Punch. He edged forward again. As Michael fought against Chris' restraint, he eased off a little. Should he just let him go? Were the images in his mind worse than those outside? When the truck moved forward again, the thick treads of the huge tires biting into the back of Tommy's head, he squeezed tightly once more. No mind could create anything worse than that. Chris looked away too.  Tommy's scream was so shrill Chris thought all of the glass in the cul-de-sac would crack, and he fought harder against his thrashing son to keep him restrained. When he felt like he couldn't fight the boy's will any more, he let go.  Instead of looking outside, Michael fell to the floor in a ball, scuttled beneath some blankets, and covered his ears. From beneath the sheets, Chris heard his small voice singing, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Nudging his boy, Chris waited for him to resurface and put a finger to his lips again. They couldn't afford for the looters to hear them no matter how much it took his son away from their dark reality. The sound of a beeping horn was accompanied by Dean howling and laughing, the vehicle's engine releasing a war cry under the weight of his heavy foot. The cacophony of chaos outside got louder. Frank wailed, Marie let out louder screams, the engine roared, the horn beeped, Dean laughed, and Tommy shrieked. Looking outside again, Chris kept his eyes away from Tommy. Instead, he watched George. If there was anyone who would save them, it was him.  Crunch! Crash!  The truck dropped by six inches. Tommy stopped screaming.  When Dean cut the engine, silence settled over the cul-de-sac, spreading outwards like the thick pool of blood from Tommy's crushed head. Marie's face was locked in a silent scream. Frank slumped further and shook with inaudible sobs. The men, even the weasel with the tennis racket, stood frozen. None of them looked at the dead boy.  Turning away from the murder, Chris looked down to find Michael staring back at him. What could he say to him? Tommy was his best friend. Then, starting low like a distant air-raid siren, Marie began to wail.  After rapidly increasing in volume, it turned into a sustained and brutal cry as if she was being torn in two. Chilled

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I still remember the little boy who shouted with astonished joy when I told him I was leaving my job at EMF. "Are you going to be a Real Mummy now?" he asked. Had I not been a real mummy to him while I worked?

She laughs. We laugh. Laugh and laugh like I’ve never seen my Mummy laugh before. I’m a good boy. She makes my heart hurt happy. My Mummy loves me. We don’t say that in our house either.

Without a single word, Logan meets my eyes. His strength and devotion pour into me, the warmth in my chest expanding and chasing out the darkness. Standing by our mother’s side, I take comfort in the knowledge that she isn’t alone. He’s waiting to catch her on the other side, where peace awaits. “I’m sorry, Mummy.” Her lips move in a silent message. I want to see my boy again. Let go, Brooke.

It is my watch, I must go,” Zhou said, a lump of fear and sadness in his throat. His hand cupped his wife's soft cheek. “Stay indoors and bolt the doors. I will be back later.” This was the third day since the cattle had shown up and the siege had begun. The second time he had said goodbye to the people he loved most. He picked up his boy and, being careful of the metal plates on his armour, squeezed him tightly. “Daddy, brave,” said his son. “Yes, Daddy brave.” He looked over the boy’s head at his wife, “Look after Mummy for me while I am out. I’ll see you later. I love you, both of you.

and down. “You must be my mummy, at least until dark.” Lady Bowen did not have the heart to refuse the boy’s touching request, even though she had experienced little of what a “happy family” was herself, so she smiled and nodded her head. “All right, so what do we do first?

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. I mentioned I’d been in contact with her mother. “Oh crikey, that sounds dangerous!” “She’s a feisty woman, isn’t she?” William giggled. “Granny’s great fun after a few gin and tonics.” “Sh, William,” Diana said, giggling too. “My mother’s been a tremendous source of support to me. She never talks publicly; she’s just there for me.” “And what about William’s other granny?” “I have enormous respect for the Queen; she has been so supportive, you know. People don’t see that side of her, but I do all the time. She’s an amazing person.” “Has she been good over the divorce?” “Yes, very. I just want it over now so I can get on with my life. I’m worried about the attacks I will get afterward.” “What attacks?” “I just worry that people will try and knock me down once I am out on my own.” This seemed unduly paranoid. People adored her. I asked William how he was enjoying Eton. “Oh, it’s great, thanks.” “Do you think the press bother you much?” “Not the British press, actually. Though the European media can be quite annoying. They sit on the riverbank watching me rowing with their cameras, waiting for me to fall in! There are photographers everywhere if I go out. Normally loads of Japanese tourists taking pictures. All saying “Where’s Prince William?’ when I’m standing right next to them.” “How are the other boys with you?” “Very nice. Though a boy was expelled this week for taking ecstasy and snuff. Drugs are everywhere, and I think they’re stupid. I never get tempted.” “Does matron take any?” laughed Diana. “No, Mummy, it gives her hallucinations.” “What, like imagining you’re going to be king?” I said. They both giggled again. “Is it true you’ve got Pamela Anderson posters on your bedroom wall?” “No! And not Cindy Crawford, either. They did both come to tea at the palace, though, and were very nice.” William had been photographed the previous week at a party at the Hammersmith Palais, where he was mobbed by young girls. I asked him if he’d had fun. “Everyone in the press said I was snogging these girls, but I wasn’t,” he insisted. Diana laughed. “One said you stuck your tongue down her throat, William. Did you?” “No, I did not. Stop it, Mummy, please. It’s embarrassing.” He’d gone puce. It was a very funny exchange, with a flushed William finally insisting: “I won’t go to any more public parties; it was crazy. People wouldn’t leave me alone.” Diana laughed again. “All the girls love a nice prince.” I turned to more serious matters. “Do you think Charles will become king one day?” “I think he thinks he will,” replied Diana, “but I think he would be happier living in Tuscany or Provence, to be honest.” “And how are you these days--someone told me you’ve stopped seeing therapists?” “I have, yes. I stopped when I realized they needed more therapy than I did. I feel stronger now, but I am under so much pressure all the time. People don’t know what it’s like to be in the public eye, they really don’t.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. William arrived at 1 p.m., age thirteen and a half, with braces on his teeth. Tall, shy, and clearly rather bemused to be here, he nodded, rather embarrassed, in my direction. “Hello, sir,” I said, totally unsure of what to call him. “Hello,” he replied, preferring not to call me anything. Jane Atkinson made up the four. We went through to a small but very pleasant little dining room to eat. William asked Diana if she’d seen the portrait of the Queen in yesterday’s papers. “Her hands looked like she’d been in the garden all day; they were all big and dirty,” he laughed. Diana giggled instinctively, then stopped herself. “William, please, don’t say that.” “Sorry, Mummy, but it’s true: Granny did look really funny.” Granny. How odd it sounded. “Can I have some wine, Mummy?” “No, William! Whatever are you thinking?” “But Mummy, I drink it all the time.” “Erm, no, you don’t actually, and, well, you can’t have any.” “Yes, I can,” he replied with a mischievous but determined grin. And he did. A small but interesting piece of power play to observe. William knew what he wanted, and Diana was a soft touch with her boys. Both facts seemed quite good news to me.

He's very impressionable right now," said Mummy. "He's suffering. Thinking about the future. You're the first grandchild." "Johnny's only three weeks younger." "That's my point. Johnny's a boy and he's only three weeks younger. So write the letter." I did as she asked.

William asked Diana if she’d seen the portrait of the Queen in yesterday’s papers. “Her hands looked like she’d been in the garden all day; they were all big and dirty,” he laughed. Diana giggled instinctively, then stopped herself. “William, please, don’t say that.” “Sorry, Mummy, but it’s true: Granny did look really funny.” Granny. How odd it sounded. “Can I have some wine, Mummy?” “No, William! Whatever are you thinking?” “But Mummy, I drink it all the time.” “Erm, no, you don’t actually, and, well, you can’t have any.” “Yes, I can,” he replied with a mischievous but determined grin. And he did. A small but interesting piece of power play to observe. William knew what he wanted, and Diana was a soft touch with her boys. —Piers Morgan

We were barely out of earshot when Caroline exclaimed, “Mummy, she’s so beautiful and so nice. She’s just perfect. What a jerk Charles must be!” Pat and I burst out laughing at Caroline’s blunt and irreverent assessment. Then we asked about the children’s visit with Prince Harry. Caroline reported first. “It didn’t look like a prince’s room at all, Mom. It looked just like ours. You know, full of books and toys and stuffed animals.” I reminded Caroline that Diana wanted her boys to have a normal upbringing. The only bit of conversation either of them could recall was Harry asking them quite seriously, “Do you two ever fight with each other?” Patrick and Caroline had laughed and said they certainly did. Harry seemed greatly relieved. “Good,” he said, “because my brother and I fight all the time.” I couldn’t coax any more details out of them. We had enjoyed a wonderful, really unforgettable afternoon with Diana. I had been relieved to see her confident, healthy, and realistic--ready to move on to the next stage of her life. She had made an indelible and stunning impression on all of us. Pat and Caroline will certainly never forget their only close contact with the radiant and lovely Princess of Wales. Patrick adored seeing his princess again.

Modern art is a waste of time. When the zombies show up, you can't worry about art. Art is for people who aren't worried about zombies. Besides zombies and icebergs, there are other things that Soap has been thinking about. Tsunamis, earthquakes, Nazi dentists, killer bees, army ants, black plague, old people, divorce lawyers, sorority girls, Jimmy Carter, giant quids, rabid foxes, strange dogs, new anchors, child actors, fascists, narcissists, psychologists, ax murderers, unrequited love, footnotes, zeppelins, the Holy Ghost, Catholic priests, John Lennon, chemistry teachers, redheaded men with British accents, librarians, spiders, nature books with photographs of spiders in them, darkness, teachers, swimming pools, smart girls, pretty girls, rich girls, angry girls, tall girls, nice girls, girls with superpowers, giant lizards, blind dates who turn out to have narcolepsy, angry monkeys, feminine hygiene commercials, sitcoms about aliens, things under the bed, contact lenses, ninjas, performances artists, mummies, spontaneous combustion, Soap has been afraid of all of these things at one time or another, Ever since he went to prison, he's realized that he doesn't have to be afraid. All he has to do is come up with a plan. Be prepared. It's just like the Boy Scouts, except you have to be even more prepared. You have to prepare for everything that the Boy Scouts didn't prepare you for, which is pretty much everything.

The dentist followed the children’s gaze and fixed her eyes on Alfie. “Oh yes, I thought it might be you…” Miss Root’s long, thin, gnarled finger pointed straight at him. “You, boy. Come to Mummy…” When Alfie’s shaking legs finally propelled him to the front of the hall, he looked into the dentist’s eyes for the first time. Miss Root’s eyes were black. Blacker than oil. Blacker than coal. Blacker than the blackest black.

Ah, the mummy of Seqenenre,” I said. “Have you got as far as that?” From the small figure on the cot came a reflective voice. “It appeaws to me that he was muwduwed.” “What?” said Emerson, baffled by the last word. “Murdered,” I interpreted. “I would have to agree, Ramses; a man whose skull has been smashed by repeated blows did not die a natural death.” Sarcasm is wasted on Ramses. “I mean,” he insisted, “that it was a domestic cwime.” “Out of the question,” Emerson exclaimed. “Petrie has also put forth that absurd idea; it is impossible because—” “Enough,” I said. “It is late and Ramses should be asleep. Cook will be furious if we do not go down at once.” “Oh, very well.” Emerson bent over the cot. “Good night, my boy.” “Good night, Papa. One of the ladies of the hawem did it, I think.

Walt had arrived. He ripped through the enemy line with his bare hands—throwing one rebel magician down the hallway with inhuman strength, touching another and instantly encasing the man in mummy linen. He grabbed the staff of a third rebel, and it crumbled to dust. Finally he swept his hand toward the remaining enemies, and they shrank to the size of dolls. Canopic jars—the sort used to bury a mummy’s internal organs—sprang up around each of the tiny magicians, sealing them in with lids shaped like animal heads. The poor magicians yelled desperately, banging on the clay containers and wobbling about like a line of very unhappy bowling pins. Walt turned to our friends. “Is everyone all right?” He looked like normal old Walt—tall and muscular with a confident face, soft brown eyes, and strong hands. But his clothes had changed. He wore jeans, a dark Dead Weather T-shirt, and a black leather jacket—Anubis’s outfit, sized up to fit Walt’s physique. All I had to do was lower my vision into the Duat, just a bit, and I saw Anubis standing there in all his usual annoying gorgeousness. Both of them—occupying the same space. “Get ready,” Walt told our troops. “They’ve sealed the doors, but I can—” Then he noticed me, and his voice faltered. “Sadie,” he said. “I—” “Something about opening the doors?” I demanded. He nodded mutely. “Amos is in there?” I asked. “Fighting Kwai and Jacobi and who knows what else?” He nodded again. “Then stop staring at me and open the doors, you annoying boy!” I was talking to both of them. It felt quite natural. And it felt good to let my anger out. I’d deal with those two—that one—whatever he was—later. Right now, my uncle needed me. Walt/Anubis had the nerve to smile. He put his hand on the doors. Gray ash spread across the surface. The bronze crumbled to dust.

I look at her and am filled with maternal love. I fell for her when I fell for Simon. He’d lost his wife, Sophie her mother. She was only seven and so lost and bewildered. I’ll never forget the first time we met and she looked up at me and asked ‘are you going to be my mummy now?’And in that moment I melted and knew I could love this child like my own. She needed me and I like to think that once I was in her life I made the world okay for her again. I can never replace her mother, but we’re close –it’s just been difficult since I had the boys to give her the time and attention she needs. I feel guilty about that. She adores her half- brothers, but they fill our lives with their boisterousness and noisy demands and I worry Sophie may feel a little pushed out sometimes.

Just as big a coward as ever,” I taunted. I circled the sword forward and backward in my grip as I moved towards him, warming up my wrist. “What a shame you never had a mother. You’d have made a perfect mummy’s boy.”   He frowned in confusion, apparently realizing he’d been insulted, but not how.

Do not worry, Mummy. Jesus loves me as I am.” I imagine that the little boy thought: Jesus loves me as I am. I do not have to be different from what I am. I do not have to be what my uncle wants me to be. I do not have to be what mummy would have wanted me to be. I do not even have to be what I would have liked to be. Jesus does not care about my disability.

Boy, how can you think it wise to truck with this culture of death?" Even at ten I knew the correct answer to that cataclysmic catechism: "Right you are, Father. Much better to stick with the life-embracing imagery of a cult that worships a bleeding corpse nailed to bits of wood." ... Egypt was not — I must repeat for Readers who still do not know it — a culture of death, for all the mummies and bottled lungs, the jackal-men and cobra-queens. The Egyptians were the inventors of immortality, the first men who saw they could live forever.

And when our kids grow up and ask about the story of Mummy and Daddy—how we met and how the Mighty Storm came to be—I’ll sit them down and tell them the story of how, once upon a long time ago, in Manchester, a girl moved next door to a boy…

Christmas Town is ruled by a terrible king. His arms are thick as tree trunks. His voice is deep as the mud at the bottom of the lake.” “Ooh,” Mummy Boy said with a shiver. Jack grinned as he strode into the audience. Now he had them. All it took was a little Pumpkin King flair, and at that he had no rival. As he poked the Melting Man in his gooey nose, Jack said, “The Christmas King flies through the night not on a broom but on a cart pulled by horned beasts, and casts a reign of terror upon boys and girls on December twenty-fifth!” He turned to Behemoth and pulled out his long tongue. “He dresses in bloodred garments!” “Who is he, Jack?” the smaller of the witch sisters cried. Both witches clutched their green hands together, enthralled by the idea of a dashingly wicked king who shared their love of flying. “His name,” Jack announced dramatically as he returned to the stage, “is Sandy Claws.