Marsha > Recent Status Updates

We were in what had been East Germany, shooting this film, so there were examples of Communist-era architecture all around us--and also in Czechoslovakia. There were buildings from that time period that were intact and also buildings that had been modified in that period, so you kind of could get comfortable with this style of Brutalist renovation, for lack of a better term.

His lips quivered into a smile. "Do you mean Erce?"
"Perhaps the villagers are right and she's real." I was starting to believe it. It could be Erce taking care of me. Maybe she had sent me the blackberries. I hoped it was her, not Kendra. Eldred's witch wanted something, or Eldred would not have sent me to her.
"I find it difficult to believe Erce exists," said Kenway.

I cannot understand the philosophy of the man who, looked up to as a model citizen, loses sight of the morality of politics when it comes to casting his ballot. Why, it's nothing but a question of morality. And I know lots of men who will throw aside all considerations of morality when they go to the polls, and will vote for the man nominated by his party irrespective of his personal fitness for the place.

The world was changing. He could smell it on the wind. The old ways of doing things wouldn't last forever, just as powdered wigs and knee breeches had lost their place at court. Finding a wife, inheriting the estate, shoring up the Abbey for another decade or two--what was it for? It wasn't as if he would have a son of his own to carry on after he was dead. None of that was important anyway, Christopher knew.

If things had gone as they should have, Christopher would have been allowed to wear the clothes he liked and live the way he wanted from the very start, regardless of his shape. As it stood, he had been shoved into petticoats and taught to work on his embroidery with clumsy fingers for the bulk of his childhood. That was behind him now.

Just yesterday Stonewood sent me a fat folder of forms and releases and bewildering orientation brochures. One of them showed a group of boys rowing a strange, flat boat, their uniforms perfectly ironed, their hair sandy and sideswept. There was a confidence to them, a vitality that I both hated and craved. I tried to picture Jasper sitting among them--brown. gangling, asthmatic--and felt the first breath of unease.

"Do you have anything on the Starlings? Local history stuff?"
I'm expecting her to faint with joy--she's been working on a history of Eden for years now and spends her weekends looking at microfilm and photographing old gravestones--but a pair if creases appears around her mouth. "Why?"
"Bev told me a story about it and I just got curious." I do a casual shrug. Her eyes follow the expensive lines of Arthur's coat.

I peer into the room. Within is a restless dark, lit by a scattering of dying candles, the obscure silhouettes of furniture forming odd, crooked angles. This must be the sitting room--Rothbarte works at a writing desk, hunched over a heavy book and muttering to himself. The Couronne gleams in his hair.
As I watch, he raises his hand to take it off and then freezes, his fingers just inches from the golden circlet.

Reality slinks back to me like a kicked dog, trembling and blearily hesitant. Everything aches--I feel ancient, as though my joints are wrought of iron and being chewed on by rust. When I shift, I half expect to hear arthritic creaking. An undignified moan escapes me, and distantly I think I hear a gentle "shhh," as though I'm a child waking from a nightmare. I realize there are fingers carding through my hair.

I try not to look too closely at the bloodstains on my brother's shirt. Try to ignore the way my chest twists in pain, seeing him like this. Try to tell myself there's nothing more I can do right now without arousing suspicion. I know I have to try and free him. But I can't bring myself to tell him that. Perhaps it's because a cruel part of me wants to watch him squirm, in revenge for abandoning me five years ago.

Floor-length, it fits like a glove--before having it delivered to the palace, Rothbarte had enchanted it to adjust to the wearer's shape. It's done in the most recent of fashion, the front adorned only with a strip of metallic black lace. The neckline is low, exposing my shoulders and collarbones, and the sleeves end at my elbows in lacy pleats. It's a striking design, guaranteed to make an impression.

To all my subjects, good, bad, or otherwise: Henceforward and forever after, until I change my mind, I proclaim the following to be false, that is to say, true.
Bad is the new bad. But it is still the old bad. therefore, since the old bad was good, good is still bad. In other words, all is bad in Bad.
Left is the new right. Right is the new wrong. Blue is the new red. Red is the new yellow. Yellow is the new hello.

I remember the dream I had of Jamie. Of him kissing me. I shove it down and try to focus. Jamie grabs a pillow and holds it to his chest. After about half an hour, Rebecca enters the room and tells us that she and Mike are going to bed.
"Okay, night!" says Jamie.
Rebecca lingers for a moment, like she wants to say something else, but then she retreats out of the room. I glance at Jamie, who has started blushing.

If I've learned anything in my time being a prince, it's that if a king asks you to do something, you better do it.
Not that I wouldn't want to otherwise. I've always liked Alexander, even if my interactions with him have been brief. I'm more than happy to go along with whatever it is he wants from me.
"It's this way," says Alexander, taking us down a hallway. As we walk, I notice that Jamie keeps looking around.

"Did your teaching help him improve?"
"No. He was hopeless."
"But you kept 'teaching' him anyway, didn't you?"
Tynthanal fell silent, his body going still.
It was a telling silence.
"Why keep teaching him if it wasn't doing any good?" she pressed, feeling more than a twinge of disappointment. She did not like to think of her husband as a bully and she had rarely seen him as anything but kind.

"What a good puppy," he slurs. "Do I smell like tequila, Morocco?"
"She's going to get drunk off your breath," I tell him. Honestly, I can't talk. Thomas and I didn't have any luck conspiring against Hunter and we got plastered in the process. The room spins as I lean to untie my shoes. "What time's your flight leave tomorrow?"
Matty is now lying on the floor with his arms spread out while Morocco paws at his face.

She smiles at me, but I can hardly look at her, I'm so ashamed. Both of Jacob's parents have been nothing but supportive of him. They've poured buckets of money into his career and have flown all over the world to cheer him on at his races. But he's never, ever told them he's bisexual. The few times I asked him about it, he got irritated or changed the topic.

Sophie felt something. Only a few feet away from this boy.
She couldn't name the feeling right away, for she didn't recognize it. She hadn't known it in a very long time.
Not since her mother had sung her to sleep. Not since her father had held her in his strong arms, pointing out the stars, telling her their names.
But as sleep pulled her under, she remembered.
For the first time in a long time, Sophie felt safe.

Does she think I don't deserve this? That I'm too messed up to play? Is she jealous? The negative thoughts swirl through my mind. She's supposed to be on my side.
Sadie remains silent and the rest of our walk to Doc's house is uncomfortable. Unease worms itself through me. What is she's plotting against me? She said she won't go to Mom and Dad, but what if our fight this morning makes her change her mind?

I walked in a daze through the neighborhood, hearing little and seeing less.
What if Pearl was a prisoner somewhere? Trapped? Being tortured? What if, even now, she was in mortal danger?
Or maybe she was find. The not knowing was enough to drive you to despair.
Some rescuer I was. It occurred to me that this was my entire Salvation Army experience in a nutshell. A flop of a rescue mission.

"You may use these rooms," Miss Stella explained. "There may be nightshirts in the bureau or in the closet."
"Thank you," I said. "We'll make do."
"We passed the washroom," continued our hostess. "There's hot water if you want baths. Towels, too. I think."
A bath was the furthest thing from my mind, but Cora's face lit up at the word.
"And now I shall bid you good night," said Miss Stella.

'I just want you to ask the Count if I can marry his daughter.'
'You're out of your senses!' answered the old man.
'Nothing venture, nothing have!' said the Master-Thief.
'You can't be right in the head if you can talk such silly nonsense!' answered his father. 'You just keep clear of the Count, or he's sure to find out all about the life you've led and then it would be his job to get you hanged for a thief!'

In one of the greatest coups of my life, Stacy wrote down her number (her cell, not her home phone), and told me to call her, that she thought I was hilarious and would love to hang out with me.
And in perhaps one of the biggest disappointments of my life, at some point later that night, I lost Stacy's number. I couldn't leave my apartment for three days after; I was that upset.
Then I got drunk again and moved on.

Whore1 "Who does Tucker Max think he is??"
Whore2 "What's wrong with him?"
Girl "What's wrong with your friend?"
Whore1 "He thinks just because he wrote some book, he can do anything he wants."
Girl "Your friend started this acting like a douchebag."
Whore2 "Welcome to Austin, bitch!" [she really said that, and this one makes no sense for them to say--their friend was the one who got KTFO.]

You almost got in a fight with a guy who was supposed to be the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol. He walked out on the deck and you yell out, 'GET YOUR BALOONS OUT OF MY PARTY, YOU DON'T BRING BALLOONS WITHOUT MY PERSMISSION." He acted like a dick to you, so you continued, "WELL, here's ANOTHER person who thinks he's BETTER'N me." I think he threw something at you or pushed you or something juvenile like that.

Using all the strength in her legs, our robot launched herself high into the air and she clamped onto the side of a building. Frightened faces peered out from a window. But Roz didn't want to frighten anyone! She just wanted to go home! The robot launched herself up and across the alley and clamped onto the opposite building. Back and forth she went, leaping between the buildings, climbing higher and higher.

"Blue suits you," the jewel-eyed woman says to me on her way out of Chan's Fabrics.
"Oh...thank you," I reply, a little surprised. She winks as the door shuts behind her with a tinkling bell.
I look around my family's old store in quiet awe. "Fabric store" doesn't really do it justice. It's more like a jungle gym of cloths, trims and knickknacks. Open chests showcase a riot of textures.

"Giles, can I ask you a question?" I finally say.
"Sure," he says.
"Howdidyouknowyourwerequeer?" The words spill out, climbing over each other like eager puppies.
"Oh," he says, his mouth staying open. He looks up at the sky.
I hear a drum. It's my own heartbeat, so deafening that there's no way Giles can't hear it.
"Ummm..." Giles starts, looking upward. "I don't know...but I do know it was never a choice for me."

I was nervous, but only slightly. I find there is something comforting about a mild flutter of nerves; it shows that I am focused. We had been working on this for four and a half months. I had outgrown Gagmez's program, as heretofore I had the Hofbräukeller beer hall where I first addressed a small audience of the Volk; I had moved into a studio for my very own show, as heretofore I had into the Circus Krone.

"Do we have to do anything?" Sawatzki said in a sober voice.
"I agree with you, Herr Sawatzki," I said. "Or I would agree if this was just about me. But if I do nothing those around me will be affected even more. It may not do Herr Sensenbrink any harm," I said, "but I cannot expect you and the company to put up with it."
"I would always expect us as a company to put up with it, but not our shareholders."