Random House: Bringing You the Best in Fiction, Nonfiction, and Children's Books
Newletters and Alerts

Buy now from Random House

  • Ghosts in the Snow
  • Written by Tamara Siler Jones
  • Format: Paperback | ISBN: 9780553587098
  • Our Price: $7.99
  • Quantity:
See more online stores - Ghosts in the Snow

Buy now from Random House

  • Ghosts in the Snow
  • Written by Tamara Siler Jones
  • Format: eBook | ISBN: 9780553900750
  • Our Price: $7.99
  • Quantity:
See more online stores - Ghosts in the Snow

Ghosts in the Snow

    Select a Format:
  • Book
  • eBook

Written by Tamara Siler JonesAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Tamara Siler Jones


List Price: $7.99


On Sale: October 26, 2004
Pages: | ISBN: 978-0-553-90075-0
Published by : Bantam Bantam Dell
Ghosts in the Snow Cover

Share & Shelve:

  • Add This - Ghosts in the Snow
  • Email this page - Ghosts in the Snow
  • Print this page - Ghosts in the Snow
Tags for this book (powered by Library Thing)
fantasy (59) mystery (30) fiction (27) ghosts (10) crime (5) historical (4) medieval (4)
fantasy (59) mystery (30) fiction (27) ghosts (10) crime (5)
» see more tags
» hide


Where does the fever of illusion stop...
and the cold truth begin?

This unique debut thriller combines forensics, fantasy, and edge-of-your-seat suspense like never before. In a world where sorcery is illegal, someone is murdering young women in ways that defy all reason—and all detection. Only one man knows how to track such an untraceable killer, a man called to deliver justice by an onslaught of…

For Dubric Bryerly, head of security at Castle Faldorrah, saving lives has become a matter of saving his sanity. A silent killer is afoot, savagely mutilating servant girls and leaving behind no clues and no witnesses—except the gruesome ghosts of the victims. Ghosts that only Dubric can see.

Caught in the eye of the grisly storm is Nella, a linen maid working to free herself from a dark past—if she can survive an invisible killer’s rampage. But with the death toll rising and Nella under the protective wing of a man who may be a prime suspect, Dubric must resort to unconventional methods. With the future of Faldorrah and countless lives at stake, including his own, he can’t afford to be wrong. And if he’s right, the entire kingdom could be thrust into war.


Chapter One

Dubric Byerly, Castellan of Faldorrah, sat alone at a small table in the castle kitchen, his mangled breakfast congealing before him. He sipped his tea and frowned as he poked a chunk of sausage with his fork. Having spent the past half bell toying with the food on his plate, he worried he had wasted too much time pretending to eat. The beginning of an inquiry always seemed disjointed to him. Finding the first clue, the first mistake, the first hint of guilt.

Responsible for the safety and well-being of Lord Brushgar's demesne, Dubric tried to make his presence felt on a regular basis in all areas of the castle. But as he glanced up from his plate, he wondered if he had eaten too many breakfasts alone in the kitchen. The staff gave him a wide and respectful berth as they hurried through their labors, but none gave him a second glance. Could they be too used to him? Was that the problem? Maybe so, but he had to start somewhere.

Dubric contemplated the uneaten food on his plate, he watched the kitchen staff, and he glanced out the window at the blossoming dawn. He looked anywhere but at the ghost that stared at him, silently wailing.

He had woken before dawn to find the slashed horror of a scullery maid's corpse standing beside his bed. Her gaping spirit still stood before him in a uniform drenched and dripping with blood. He could not recall her name and had no idea where her body might be. He only knew that she had been murdered, in his castle, and that he would see her pained and tortured apparition until he put the matter to rest. Cursed by the Goddess Malanna after his wife's murder forty-three summers before, Dubric had long struggled to ignore the horrid images of wrongful death.

The ghosts came to him in the darkest part of night, in the brightest days of high summer, whenever they happened to die. The ghosts would stare at him, their glazed eyes pleading, knowing he alone saw them, saw their torment, and would do his best to avenge them. A praying man would thank the Goddess that he saw only those murdered within the range of his responsibility and no others. But Dubric had denounced religion the day Oriana died and had never looked back.

The scullery maid was his fourteenth ghost, and he had ultimately solved all of their deaths, except one. He thought of his one failure for a moment, then pushed the guilt away. She had been dead for so long, more than thirty summers, and her ghost would likely walk the castle halls for all eternity.

Dubric sighed and toyed with his eggs, the fork clutched in his burn-scarred hand. In his sixty-eight summers he had found most murders to be violent yet simple affairs. Drunken fights gone awry. Spouses who erred in judgment. Lapses of reason while in the throes of extreme anger. Revenge. Uncomplicated crimes of passion, hate, or greed. Hundreds of people lived in and around the castle and occasional bloodshed was to be expected. He had solved the murders quickly, brought the killers to face justice, and continued with happier aspects of his work. But he hated the ghosts. He often wondered if he solved their murders to find justice for their deaths, or merely to get the spirits out of his sight. He hoped it was for justice, insisted in his heart it was for justice, but on this blustery morning in late winter he was far from certain.

He watched the kitchen bustle with activity as scores of folks scurried through their work. A butcher lugged in the third freshly slaughtered ewe of the morning. The herbmonger from the village argued over the price of his spices. Servitors grabbed breakfast trays and dashed away in their hurry to feed their masters. Cooks stirred, fried, and chopped. Scullery maids scrubbed. Bakers baked. Dubric watched them all for signs of stress, of nervousness, of someone stealing glances his way. None did. All seemed as oblivious to him and the scullery maid's demise as they were to her ghost.

He glanced at the ghost and wondered what to try next. She had been murdered, that much was obvious, but was not missing. Yet. He did not want to appear crazy, paranoid, or-King forbid-guilty, so ordering a castlewide search was out of the question until someone noticed her absence. Besides, for all he knew, her body had been dumped in a privy or destroyed. She was a scullery maid, he was certain of that, and logically his search should begin in the kitchen. If no one from the kitchen was to blame, then who?

The thought died in an instant and he paused, his fork poised over mangled eggs, as a sharp, cold pain behind his eyes signaled the arrival of a new responsibility. Another ghost, this one a milkmaid, flickered into view beside the scullery maid. Both screamed at him in silent terror. Oh no, not two. He swallowed and tightened his fist around the fork to keep it from trembling as he looked at the new arrival. The second ghost was Elli Cunliffe, an orphan who had been left on the stoop fifteen summers before.

He set his fork beside his plate and wiped his mouth with a fine linen napkin. What a mess.

"Leavin' already, m'lord?" Pitta, the herald's wife and morning kitchen master, looked at him with eyes as soft as her plump body.

He forced what he hoped was a calm smile. "That I am. I have much to do today."

She gathered up his mess and smiled as well. "You've never been one to shirk, sir. Hope you have a pleasant day."

"As do I," he said, knowing it was impossible. He took one last sip of his tea. The dairy barns were on the other side of the castle, outside the west tower. If he hurried, and had any luck at all, the other milkmaids would have overslept and Elli's killer might still be there with the scullery maid tucked under his arm.

Keep on dreaming, you old goat. About as much chance of that as the cows becoming excellent witnesses.

He set aside his tea, straightened his tunic, and tried not to appear to hurry across the kitchen.

He walked past the butcher, dodged a lackey carrying a sack of potatoes, and paused near the baker's ovens to allow a trio of scullery maids to hurry by with trays of dirty dishes. "Mornin', sir!" a voice called from beside him.

Dubric turned and hid the cringe he felt at the delay. Everyone knew the baker's assistant loved to chat while he kneaded bread. But he was a decent fellow. What could a greeting hurt? "Good morning, Bacstair. How are you this fine day?"

"Doing fine, sir," he said as he raised his forearm to wipe a sheen of sweat from his brow. The mound of dough flexed, stretched, and rolled under Bacstair's expert pounding. "Otlee tells me you've passed him in history and mathematics. He's hoping to make senior page soon."

Dubric's ghosts looked on as he replied. "He is a smart boy, but he is only twelve summers. He will be a senior page soon enough. Tell him to be patient. It will happen in its own time."

Bacstair massaged the dough with his fingers. "Tis what I tell him, sir, but he works so hard at his studies."

Dubric said, "His marks are excellent."

Bacstair smiled proudly and sifted a handful of flour over the dough. "Thank you, sir. The missus and I were talkin' about it just the other day. Neither of us had a lick of education past the primers. We can write our names, read the signs in the village, not much more . . ."

Dubric nodded despite his urge to hurry. Basic education was available, and encouraged, for the common folk of Faldorrah. Few continued past the primers, though; their families desired income more than knowledge. Even with the certain realization that wisdom had freed the people from the dark's oppression, children were rarely educated beyond their eighth or ninth summer.

". . . but Otlee, sir, he was always eager to learn." Bacstair chuckled and shook his head. " 'Scuse my blabberin', sir, but we know you had'ta stick your neck out to get Lord Brushgar to approve his posting. Us bein' commoners and all."

"It was no hardship, Bacstair. Really. He is a smart boy. That is all that mattered to me."

Bacstair lifted the dough and slammed it down. A billow of flour coughed into the air around him, dusting his arms and his apron. "You've given our boy a grand gift. In a summer or two he'll make senior page. When he's sixteen summers he can squire. At twenty he can be knighted, become a noble. Maybe he'll even be a lord someday. You've opened the world to him, sir." He flipped the dough over itself, pummeling it with his fists.

Dubric chuckled and shook his head as he remembered. The youngest knighting of a squire had happened nearly fifty summers ago. Tunkek Romlin, the man who would later become King, had led a group of squires and pages, including Dubric, to wrestle the land from the dark mages. All had returned to Waterford alive. If anyone had ever deserved to be knighted, Tunkek had. Dubric's hand fell to the hilt of his soldier's sword and his fingertips traced along the pommel. Despite the horror, his sharpest memories of the War of Shadows were good ones. They had been so young then. Seven friends, all squires or pages, on a noble quest to save the world. But after Tunkek's knighthood, after summers of slogging through blood and death and fire as if they were immune to it all, his friends had begun to die.

Dubric pulled his hand from his sword. Certainly they had been young. Young, idealistic, and stupid. But that was then, times had changed, and the world had moved on. Otlee might be young and idealistic, but he was far from stupid. His knighthood would reasonably wait until his midtwenties, or later. With luck, Otlee would never have to test his mettle in war or watch someone he loved die on a battlefield. "Twenty is a long way from twelve," Dubric said. "Tell him to enjoy where he is right now and not worry so much about the future."

The head baker rushed past, tapping Bacstair on the back of the head. "Bacstair, quit jabbering with his lordship! Ye've got work to do!"

Bacstair dropped his eyes, his exuberance gone like smoke on a bitter wind. He selected a long thin dough knife and sliced the mound of dough into sections, braving a glance at Dubric. "I will tell him that, sir. But thank you. Thank you for what you've done for my boy. For my family."

Dubric tilted his head in a friendly bow despite the dreadful stares from the pair of ghosts. "You are quite welcome. He is a good lad and does a fine job."

Bacstair rolled the sections into neat balls. "Thank you again, sir, but I'd best be gettin' back to work."

Dubric turned to go. His ghosts followed as he pushed through the crowded kitchen.

Moments later, a sharp-eyed, blond-haired senior page ran into the kitchen, scattering the workers like dandelion seeds. Dubric smiled at the sight of him. The son of a neighboring lord, Lars was a vital member of Dubric's personal staff, and the only page to ever achieve that questionable honor. Although jarring to the workflow in the kitchen, Lars's sudden arrival brought Dubric hope. Perhaps a body had been found.

Dubric brushed past a lackey dragging a sack of flour and hurried across the kitchen while his ghosts trailed behind him. Lars tilted his head toward the door and slipped out to the hall. Dubric followed a moment later.

The service hall was crowded with serving girls carrying trays of hot food to the great hall and scullery maids lugging dirty dishes back to the kitchen. They looked hot, sweaty, and tired. Their hair had plastered to their damp brows and their uniforms hung stained and limp from their sagging shoulders. Food-spattered lackeys dodged among them with other supplies and tools. Past the congestion of the kitchen staff, Lars waited in a side hall that led to the kitchen storage rooms. Dubric saw the pale shine of his hair in the torchlight and he pushed through to the relative quiet of the hall.

They walked a few steps away, out of earshot. A moon or two shy of fifteen summers, Lars had nearly reached Dubric's height and he leaned close as he delivered his news. "We've found a milkmaid, sir, outside of the west tower. Murdered."

Praise the King! Elli had been found. He had one fewer body to worry about this morning. Dubric smoothed his tunic and hid his relief behind the urgency in his voice. "Fetch my cloak and meet me there."

"Yes, sir!" Lars said, and hurried to the great hall. Dubric followed close behind as the kitchen workers tried to make room. Lars slipped between a pair of scullery maids and disappeared into the breakfast crowd milling in the great hall. Above them all, as if separate from the noise and rabble, flags of the Lands of Lagiern hung from the beams; their colors gleamed bright in the golden light of dawn. Faldorrah's flag, white sheep and golden grain on a field of rich, vivid green, shone brightest of all. Brighter even than the King's purple standard. Dubric looked to the flags and smiled despite himself.

Dubric closed his eyes for a moment. Murder had come to his castle. He would do everything within his power to bring justice back, ghosts be damned. He ignored the hungry crowd and turned to the left, toward the carved bulk of the main castle doors, and opened them to light snow and a beautiful sunrise. Both ghosts followed him.


The news of the murder drifted through the castle like a swirl of falling snow. Before Dubric arrived, at least fifteen people had touched the body or contaminated evidence, damaging his chance to track Elli's killer. He guessed the actual number of gawkers to be close to forty, if the crowd the pages held at bay was any indication, and fresh footprints ran hither and yon in the mud and snow. He stood beside the corpse, his heart thumping in his chest from his early morning run across the courtyard, and he wanted to scream. Elli had been rolled onto her back and her dress trampled into the mud until it tattered. Some caring, idiotic soul had wiped the worst of the muck from her face and had covered her body with a rough wool blanket, as if to protect her from the snow. Every likely clue had either been trodden into the mud or cleaned off the body. He was cold, wet, well on his way to infuriated, and had forgotten about his love of the Faldorrahn flag.

"Watch it, you fool!" someone in the crowd behind him yelled, and Dubric snapped his head back to glare at the complainer.

Lars shoved through the crowd, a heavy wool cloak in his hands, and the bellyacher, a groundskeeper named Ord, mumbled his apologies and stepped aside. Six more onlookers burst from the west tower as Lars ran to Dubric.
Tamara Siler Jones|Author Q&A

About Tamara Siler Jones

Tamara Siler Jones - Ghosts in the Snow
Tamara Siler Jones lives in Iowa with her family. An avid mystery reader, this is her third novel, continuing the series that began with Ghosts in the Snow, and its main sleuth Dubric Byerly.

Author Q&A

Interview between Marc Giller and Tamara Siler Jones

SPECTRA PULSE asked newcomers Tamara Siler Jones (Threads of Malice) and Marc Giller (Hammerjack) to interview each other, in their own words.

Tamara Siler Jones: I've noticed that your writing is very visual yet not description-heavy. Did your experience writing screenplays help with that? Do you see your stories like movies in your head?

Marc Giller: Screenplays are a really different animal, because–unlike novels–the story is carried entirely by dialogue and action.  This forces you, as a writer, to be more economical and distill the story down to its basic elements.  I think that influence shows in my novels, which tend to be quite visual and follow the same three-act structure of a screenplay–but novels are a lot more fun, because you have a bigger playground to run around in.  It’s easier to get inside your characters’ thoughts and emotions, and the vision is uniquely your own.

I’ve always pictured my stuff on a big silver screen in my imagination–but as an author, you get to be writer, producer, director and production designer all rolled into one.  Not a bad job, really.

TSJ: In Hammerjack you mention the evolution of man and machine and natural selection. Why did you choose to explore this scientific premise along with the religious themes of ascension? What sorts of catalysts brought you to this type of story?

MG: I’ve always been fascinated by the line between science and religion, and how much that line has blurred in a modern age.  People usually think of religion in terms of some unseen deity–but these days, religion can be based on just about anything:  political affiliation, environmentalism, economics, you name it.  All have their own initiation, dogma and sacred rites–and many have their own forms of extremism as well.  Hammerjack takes that to the next logical extent, where technology becomes the focus of a new religion and mankind its own messiah.

TSJ: You have two small children (and a wife and a dog).  How do you juggle writing time with family responsibilities?

MG: Nothing happens until the kids are in bed!  That’s really the only way I can work, because everything is just so crazy the rest of the time.  My wife is a dedicated mom, and her commitment is what makes everything possible.  Without her, I’d be tapping out stream-of-consciousness books in a padded room somewhere.

TSJ: Tell us about your fans - the best part and the drawbacks.

MG: I’ve been lucky enough to hear from several people who have read and enjoyed Hammerjack.  They’ve just been fabulous, along with the rest of the science-fiction community.  A writer couldn’t ask for a more passionate group of readers, or a smarter one for that matter.  As for drawbacks–well, nobody’s offered to buy me a beer yet.  Maybe at the next Worldcon…

TSJ: You work in IT, and you write at home. How do you manage all that computer time?

MG: A RAM upgrade might help.  Or a faster hard drive.  The real problem is parsing out network bandwidth to relieve the bottlenecks from all those requests to the SQL server.

Ummm. . .what was the question again?

TSJ: What does your wife think of this writing job?  Your extended family?

MG: Everybody in the family is really jazzed about it.  Since I’ve been trying to get published for so long, I imagine one or two might have thought, “Well, it’s about time!

Seriously, though–unless you’re a hermit, you’re not going to succeed in this business without support on the home front.  My wife, my in-laws and especially my parents have shown unwavering faith over the years–and that makes all the difference in the world.

TSJ: What draws you to modern Science Fiction? What facets do you think it's lacking?

MG: I enjoy technology–but I’m also concerned that technology is developing faster than our culture’s ability to handle the implications.  Science-fiction is a perfect medium to ask some of those tough questions, not to mention work out vicarious fears about the uncertainties we face today.  The “modern” mold was a good fit, because it gave me the dark and gritty setting I needed to convey my story–not a dystopian world, but rather one that straddled the line between order and chaos.

Since I’m the new guy on the block, though, I won’t presume to criticize other authors.

TSJ: Who is your favorite author and why?

MG: I can’t really pin that down, because it all depends on what I’m in the mood to read.  A few of the names that come to mind, for various different reasons:  Stephen King, Michael Crichton, Tom Wolfe, Mark Bowen, Richard Morgan, Carl Hiaasen–the list goes on and on.

All have influenced me in one way or the other.  That’s the magic of reading! 

TSJ: What came as the biggest surprise when you became published?

MG: Getting the phone call that my book sold.  And pretty much everything since.

TSJ: All published writers have a writing horror story. What's yours?

MG: Sitting in a room full of producers trying to pitch ideas for Star Trek:  The Next Generation without having a heart attack.  I brought five different stories with me, and when it became clear they weren’t buying any of those I just started blurting out whatever popped into my head.

Funny aside:  One of those stories was about a society that cloned people for body parts, which ended up being the premise for that Michael Bay flick The Island.  Maybe I was on to something. . .or not.

What are your long term plans as a writer?

MG: To write full-time one of these days.

TSJ: What do you do in your spare time?

MG: Spare time?  What’s that?

TSJ: When at an ice cream shop, and no one's there to roll their eyes or remind you of your diet, what do you order?

MG: Whatever I want.  When you’re in the ice cream shop, all bets are off.

That said, I love the chocolate peanut-butter waffle cone.


Marc Giller: A lot of people imagine writers of dark fiction as tormented, possessed figures trying to exorcise their inner demons.  How do your readers react when they find out that you’re a happily married wife and mother with a cheerful Midwestern charm?

Tamara Siler Jones: Some react well. Others… not so well, but I enjoy playing with the dichotomy. In fact, I encourage it. For example, there are a group of folks dissecting my work who think I’m an atheist. I’m not, far from it, but if writing about a religion hating old man encourages that belief, that’s great! I do write to exorcise my demons. I also make these amazing chocolate chip caramel cookie bars. It’s an incredible thing to see the look on people’s faces when I talk about the art of decapitation then give away a quilt.  I love dichotomy. It’s just too cool!
MG: Have you ever written something so horrifying that you scared yourself?  Or something so twisted that you couldn’t bring yourself to let anyone read it?

TSJ: Nope, never scared myself. What I write barely scratches the dark rancid meat beneath the chipper surface. I do, however, forbid my daughter to read my work. I don’t think she needs to see such graphic depravity written by her own mother. Otherwise, I’ve never had a problem with people reading anything I’ve written.
MG: What draws you to mystery/mayhem in the stories you write?  And why do you think readers are fascinated with such subjects?

TSJ: I write them because that’s how I’m wired, but I think people are fascinated with the darker tales because of our primitive lizard brains, that little instinctual piece that remains. It’s the same reason people rubberneck at car accidents and are riveted to horrifying news stories. There’s something visceral and compelling about horrific images and situations — especially if they’re happening to someone else. And to then figure out how and why? That taps into our innate curiosity as well.

MG: Forensic fantasy is an incredibly unique concept.  When you started writing Ghosts in the Snow, was that what you set out to create–or did the story kind of lead you in the direction it wanted to go?

TSJ: Actually, I didn’t set out to do anything other than tell a good story. Ghosts in the Snow happened all on its own and I just sort of fell into this forensic fantasy niche afterwards. It’s my editor’s fault, actually. Ghosts in the Snow started as the beginning of an epic fantasy with mystery undertones. She read the manuscript, saw that shining nugget, and had me re-write nearly the whole thing. She’s great!
MG: How do you view the role of violence in a book, particularly of the graphic variety?

TSJ: Oh boy. It depends. Sometimes it’s appropriate, sometimes it’s gratuitous. I am not a good judge of where that line is. Really. I’m delighted to have lots of Texas Chainsaw Massacre moments in my narrative and I’m very thankful that smarter, calmer people can confidently tell me when I’ve gone too far. Personally, I have yet to read anything that was too much for me and I have some pretty gruesome reading material. It’s all a matter of context. Thomas Harris is a master of gore and Lecter wouldn’t be the same without the viciousness, but to have Miss Marple stare down an axe-wielding psycho is just wrong. Cool, but wrong.
MG: Have you ever imagined yourself as any one of your characters?  How would you feel about living (or vacationing) in the world you’ve created?

TSJ: Heh. I might be crazy, but I’m not that crazy.  No, I’ve never imagined I was a character. I do dream about them, yes, but always watching them. As for vacationing there… I’m not that crazy either.
MG: How does your writing routine work?  And how do you handle the temptation to procrastinate?

TSJ: I’m a stay-at-home wife and mom, so my days are spent doing wife/mom stuff along with research, internet socializing, story planning, marketing, coming up with something for the blog… things like that. Supper’s ready when the hubby gets home. After supper we run errands, handle homework… whatever. Then, after things settle down, I write. I write almost entirely at night, from about 8:00 pm until I get the quota, usually somewhere between midnight and 3:00 am. I’m generally up around 7:30 am. Who needs sleep?

Procrastination is a constant battle for me. Especially chatting. I know it’s trouble, but I love it so.
MG: Writing a novel is often a solitary experience, but publishing a novel involves some heavy collaboration.  What are your thoughts on the editor-author relationship, and how do they compare to your expectations before your first book sold?

TSJ: Pre Publication: I heard zillions of horror stories about those nasty people known as editors. They’re mean! They rip you to shreds! They shove storylines down your throat and take away your good bits and won’t let you use your own titles! Fear the Red Pen of Death!! Editors are eeeeevil!!
Post Sale:  Wow! This is pretty cool! She cuts right to the heart of it and… wow!

Post Publication: Thank God for my editor!

I can’t say enough great things about my editor. All my writer buddies are insanely jealous at how happy I am. I think, though, that a lot of the relationship is what you bring to it. I’m trying to craft the best book I can. She is too. She’s not my enemy, she’s my ally, and she knows what’s selling, what works, and what’s not. I think authors often get too wrapped into the “It’s my baby! How dare you say it has ugly hair!” syndrome. To me, it’s a story, a product, and she can see its failings much better than I can. So far, with two books under our belts, it’s been a blast.

MG: Notice any difference in the way people see you now that you’re a published author?  Have you had a “celebrity moment”?

TSJ: Yeah. First and foremost, people equate published author with incredibly rich.  Um, no. We actually have less money now since I quit work to do this full time. There have been several people who never used to give me the time of day but now hang on every word. That bothers me. A lot.

The strangest celebrity moment was this past summer at the grocery store. I live in a fairly rural area near a smallish town and one day, while the bagger kid is tossing sacks in the truck, he asked me what I did for a living.

“I’m a writer,” I said as I grab the next thing in the cart.

He stops, stares, and says, “Oh my God. That’s you?!? Science fiction, right? I heard we had a sci-fi writer out here.”

“Um, actually it’s fantasy mysteries.”

“Oh. My. God.”

I thought he was gonna faint.  He took 5 bookmarks, though.
MG: What’s the best date movie–a horror flick or a romantic comedy?

TSJ: Neither, because my date won’t go to them. Action flicks and Jackie Chan are the top picks.



Your E-Mail Address
send me a copy

Recipient's E-Mail Address
(multiple addresses may be separated by commas)

A personal message: