Marsha > Recent Status Updates

Valerie had managed to hire two hundred umbrellas from Harrods Wedding Boutique to be delivered on the 20th should the three day weather forecast suggest rain or snow, but the long term forecast still looked hopeful. The High Tower kept five hundred blankets in-house anyway, along with other emergency relief stores, on behalf of the Coastal Community Foundation.

How did the Tennyson go? Primary school, Standard 6. 'And I would that my tongue could utter' - oh indeed, would that I had a tongue! - 'the thoughts that arise in me.' How does it go on? I try and make the connections, but fail. I have what I can only describe in my present state as the floppiest kind of mind. I have to catch these thoughts as they fly. Never any peace.

Tons more pictures hang on the wall next to the shelves. Look, there's Mamma and me with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Here I am with cousin Gussie and we're in matching dresses. Bridesmaids, I guess? Whose wedding? Cousin Lydia? Oh, this one's cute. Look at that little girl with her hoodie and her hair in her face. How do I know an adorable little lesbian? Yay, diversity!

'You won't bloody react, I give up. Nurse, darling, sweetheart, any way you can get me out of this hell hole and into an NHS nursing home? Anywhere where the rules of common sanity apply? Why am I kept here? I don't understand it. Dr. Lezzer calls, I have an injection, I sign a document shoved under my nose, you take my fingerprints, the Monster herself appears weeping crocodile tears down her travesty of a face.'

In Good Omens, Gaiman's description of War is vastly different. She (not he) is known as Scarlett, who has made a killing by selling arms to various (and typically, all) sides of conflicts worldwide; later (after getting bored of her profession) she is known as Carmine "Red" Zuigiber, the most successful war correspondent there was, who has an uncanny talent of going where wars will be. She still wears red.

According to Death, here's how her first day of mortality ended: After the first day I was alive, when I met me, I turned to me and I told me I was a cold-hearted, stuck-up, frigid bitch. Only I didn't say it anywhere as nicely. And I got the message. You see, when someone's died, mostly they're a bit shaken, or hurt, or angry, or worse. And all they need is a kind word, and a friendly face. (Vertigo: Winter's Edge)

Ignoring the way Tanvir watched him, knowing the other male had likely heard most if not all of what he'd said to Evelayn, Lorcan stood and gathered the wood one final time, arranging it to start the fire. It took only a small blast of shadowflame and the timber caught. Within moments their little grouping was lit by the firelight, and the warmth spread to ward off some of the chill of the night.

Evelayn's jaw tightened, the only sign she still didn't have total control, but then she responded, "And yet, I refuse to show such weakness ever again. My subjects will be looking to me for strength. To somehow save them." Tanvir's stomach twisted at the thought of her bearing up the weight of what was now coming to rest on her shoulders. But what else could he have done? At least he'd saved her this morning.

"Success!" I took off down the street and got about five miles away from my house before my super cute car died. I dropped my head against the steering wheel, banged it a few times, and felt around the passenger seat for my cell phone. "Of course, you forgot it, Jenna. And the camera! Dammit! Bridget's gonna be pissed!" I slouched down in my seat, smashing the puffiness of my dress, and silently cried for my mommy.

The hotel was dark and quiet. Murmuring voices echoed from somewhere below. Stella felt uneasy. She crept along to the main staircase, leaned over cautiously, and looked down. Mr. Blenkinsop was at his desk, talking to one of the night footmen in a low voice. He pointed toward the front door, and the footman walked over to it and checked the lock. Stella ducked behind the banister and retreated to the back staircase.

"What are your aptitudes? Your talents?" His talents...he could hold his liquor, beat a man at billiards or cards, seduce a woman. He was a crack shot and an excellent rider. Then Christopher thought of the thing in his life he had most been lauded for, and showered with praise and medals. "I have one talent," he said. He looked down into her round eyes. "I'm good at killing."

Prudence handed her the letter. "Read it for yourself." "But Pru," Beatrix protested as the small, neat pages were pushed into her hands. "Captain Phelan may have written something personal." "I should be so fortunate! It's utterly gloomy. Nothing but battles and bad news." She couldn't help pointing out, "He is away fighting in the Crimea, Pru. I'm not sure there are many pleasant things to write about in wartime."

"We got a call from your brother's doctor," said Timothy's mother. "They feel that he's been stabilized enough to transport him to a base in Maryland. He's on his way there right now." Timothy grabbed on to the banister at the base of the stairs to steady himself. "Is he awake?" "Not yet," she said. "But there's hope. I'm flying down first thing tomorrow."

"Any chance we could get in there and look at his stuff? Because, you're right, the way to attack this thing is to understand it as a fungal organism, not as a brain disease. If I could see his notes, maybe examine some of his cultures, it could go a long way. Shortcut anything I could do myself." "Paul's been missing for days," I said. "The university hasn't seen him."

He pulled a torn piece of paper out of his wallet, and I dialed the number that had been written on it in a rounded, feminine hand. I heard the phone ringing on the other end. "Yes, I was hoping to reach Maisie Berquist," Paul said. I slipped out into the hallway to give him some privacy. With nothing else to do, I visited the bathroom. When I returned, I was surprised to see that he was already off the phone.

"It was just because, I don't know, he was nice and you weren't around that first time he called,a nd I had just gotten off the phone with my mom, and she told me all this stuff about how I might be spending next summer with just her at Grampy's house, and I don't know, it was just...easy." "I know about slipping into easy," I say. "Sometimes it fits pretty nice."

The Summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on the quiet church.

Once from the river that was their home, three little fishes saw him and marvelled at his mein, nor were they surprised, but frightened only when he fell among them. Log on the surface of the water lay he, finless and immobile, till he was retrieved by "two strong men," was set by their hands upon the dyke. And, as he stood there, a poor cascade of water, the three fishes swam to the water's surface, mocking him.

From first single office, Timen have come to bulge to bursting six floors of spiked, shiny Chrysler Building, occupy 150 rooms, eat daily, many at famed Cloud Club, over 1,000 eggs, 500 cups of coffee, much bicarbonate of soda. Other offices: Cinemarch, 10th Avenue at 54th Street; Radiomarch, Columbia Broadcasting Building.

YOU are old, Father William," the young man cried;
"The few locks which are left you are gray;
You are hale, Father William--a hearty old man:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remember that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigor at first,
That I never might need them at last."

THIS IS my last and best and true and only meal, thought Mr. Perley as he descended at noon and swung east on the beat-up sidewalk of Forty-fifth Street. Just ahead of him was the girl from the reception desk. I am a little fleshed up around the crook of the elbow, thought Perley, but I commute good. He quickened his step to overtake her and felt the pain again. What a stinking trade it is, he thought.

The trouble was that in Browning's company he seemed practically to have abandoned the use of prose too. When, moreover, he did speak, it was always in a sense contrary to that of our host. The Risorgimento was a theme always very near to the great heart of Browning, and on this occasion he hymned it with more than his usual animation and resource (if indeed that were possible).

The meal began, Emily carving. The main thought of a man less infatuated than Albert Grapp would have been "This girl can't cook. And she'll never learn to." The beef, instead of being red and brown, was pink and white. Uneatable beef! And yet he relished it more than anything he had ever tasted. This beef was her own handiwork. Thus it was because she had made it so...

There wasn't a "bally" glimmer of a side-light, heaven help him, that he could throw. He hadn't the beginning of a notion--since it had been a point of pride with him, as well as of urbanity, not to ask--who the fellow, the so presumably illustrious and deserving chap in question was. This omission so loomed for him that he was to be conscious, as he came to the end of the great moist avenue, of a felt doubt.

Then came hurried scramblings in the coat-closet for overshoes. There were the rasping sounds made by cross parents when putting wraps on children. There were insincere exhortations to "come and see us soon" and to "get together for lunch some time." And, finally, there were slammings of doors and the silence of utter exhaustion, while Mrs. Gummidge went about picking up stray sheets of wrapping paper.

In a dim Titanic tomb,
For my gaunt and gloomy soul
Ponders o'er the penal scroll,
O'er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place,--out of time,--
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,
(Oh, the fifty!)
And the days have passed, the three,
Over me!
And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!

WE remained but a few days after our Marriage, in the Vale of Uske. After taking an affecting Farewell of my Father, my Mother and my Isabel, I accompanied Edward to his Aunts' in Middlesex. Philippa received us both with every expression of affectionate Love.

“Please don’t tell the señor,” Justiniana begged her, in fear and trembling. “He’d be very angry and might give him a thrashing. Fonchito doesn’t have the least idea he’s doing something bad. I give you my word he doesn’t. He’s like a little angel; he doesn’t know good from evil.” “I can’t tell Rigoberto, no, of course not,” Doña Lucrecia agreed, thinking aloud. “But this foolishness must be brought to an end.”

After 3,000 years of healthy expansion, during which time it adapted to and helped accelerate technological and cultural advances, the bookstore seemed to be in sudden decline during the 1990s. The larger bookstore chains expanded with vigor in these years, but independent stores seemed to be evaporating.

The girls...they longed. The run completed approximately one hour later, back at Oaklawn Ends. Not all the team members finished. Some had hitched a ride in one of the many cars lining the cul-de-sac. Coach Laden lovingly leaned in to Fat Angie and said, "Never quit." She gave the not-so-plump Angie her sister's basketball jersey. "Exceptional people just don't."