Marsha > Recent Status Updates

In the nervous bending of her fingers, Fat Angie had unconsciously revealed her scars, peeking out beneath the Casio calculator watchband. KC's attention to them made Fat Angie even more nervous, if that were possible. "No worries...about the etching. Things get dark sometimes," KC said. The scars burned, itched, and felt embarrassingly alive on Fat Angie's wrist.

"This is Mac," John says, scooting over to make room for him. "Nice to meet you," he says, extending a hand across the table. I shake it, but weakly. The name rolls around like a marble, pinging with familiarity in my head. Let's see. There's the Big Mac at McDonald's. Mac computers. MAC makeup. He looks about my age, with wavy brown hair to his shoulders and not an ounce of stubble on his face.

She marched over to a tree and stood there looking stern. "Yes, Miss Tick?" said Tiffany. "Did you...do anything?" said Miss Tick. "You haven't been summoning things, have you?" "No! Anyway, I don't know how to!" said Tiffany. "It's not your little men then, is it?" said Miss Tick doubtfully. "They're not mine, Miss Tick. And they don't do that sort of thing. They just shout 'Crivens!" and then start kicking people."

Jeanne's mother's voice came from the front of the house. "Well? Is it back there?" "Oh!" her father exclaimed. "My hoe! Today's my day on the demesne. Can't find my hoe." This was not surprising. Jeanne's father could rarely find anything. The family owned no more than ten objects--two pots, three bowls, a hoe, a cow, some chickens--and a good five of them were regularly lost, thanks to her father.

Fentriss sat up in his chair in the garden in the middle of a fine autumn and listened. The drink in his hand remained unsipped, his friend Black unspoken to, the fine house unnoticed, the very weather itself neglected, for there was a veritable fountain of sound in the air above them. "My God," he said. "Do you hear?" "What, the birds?" asked his friend Black, doing just the opposite, sipping his drink.

RAMONDA barely remembered running out onto the royal balcony overlooking the tournament arena. All her concentration was focused inward, trying to control the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. As she stared down at the thousands gathered underneath the enormous Panther statue, half of her soul beamed with overwhelming pride while the other half felt frozen with mind-numbing fear.

True, she had just spent what had to be most amazing night of her life with Hans. And true, it felt like they were in perfect sync. And true, he was funny and handsome. And true, he seemed to be a great listener with a big heart. But there was a smaller part of her that was whispering, "Think about what you are doing, Anna! You've just met this boy. Maybe you should take the time to get to know him."

"Okay, hon, here you go." Finally, Melba rang him up and Spencer tucked his purchases into his messenger bag and headed back to his building. But as he passed the trendy boutique located int he lobby, he paused. The place sold a lot of club wear for all genders--tight pants, little tops with painfully ironic slogans, and lots of black and silver.

The small farm is not dead; it's just lost touch with you, the consumer. It is going to take time, money, flexible farmers, and determined carnivores, but we can turn this ship around. buy small. buy local. buy sustainable and organic, urge conventional farmers to get with the program. Watch the transformation begin.

AS YOU MAY have gathered, I love meat. I grew up eating meat at every meal. For me, meat has always been the main course; everything else is just a side dish. A meal without meat is hollow, like the Tin Man's chest without a heart. The vegetables and bread and salad seem lost and alone, like soldiers who've lost their leader, like the spokes of a wheel that's missing its hub.

As part of the prosecution's efforts to portray Ron as fanatical but utterly sane, at one point Assistant Attorney General Michael Wims asked Dr. Noel Gardner to compare Ron to schizophrenics he had examined. Gardner was adamant that Ron bore little resemblance to such seriously ill individuals. "You can't interview Mr. Lafferty without sensing the vibrancy and intensity of his affect," he testified.

He failed to kill, because Lucius spun sidewise and sucked in his guts till they hugged his backbone. Before Ravan could recover, Jones stepped inside his guard and took his head off with a two-handed blow. The head bounced at my feet, like the green man's. Unlike Bercilak, though, Don Rodrigo didn't recover it. His body collapsed, spewing blood all over the floor, and stayed still as only the dead can.

They'd used their fleeting moments in Cartagena to purchase entirely new outfits--Charlie, you might be happy to know, had given his war-scarred tuxedo a proper send-off into a street-side garbage can; Amir had even said a few words in memoriam. Amir was wearing a fresh pair of khaki shorts, a pink collared shirt, and some knockoff Ray-Bans.

Chinese babies do without diapers, wearing instead these strange little pants with a slit in the rear. When a child has to go, its parents direct it toward the curb or, if they're indoors, to a spot they think of as "curby." "Last month I saw a kid shit in the produce aisle of our Chengdu Walmart," a young man told me. So desensitized was I that my first response was "You have a Walmart?"

Now for the traveling American there's less of a need for phrase books. Not only do we expect everyone to speak our language; we expect everyone to be fluent. I rarely hear an American vacationer say to a waiter or shopkeeper in Europe, "Your English is so good." Rather, we act as if it were part of his job, like carrying a tray or making change.

The black clouds swallowed the last piece of the sky, and all at once it was wholly dark. Wen caught her hand in his. She could feel his pulse in his wrist, nervous, quick. A wave crashed over the side of the ship. Lightning flared to the north. Thunder crashed, so loud and close it seemed to shake the world. She'd run out of time. Oh gods, she'd run out of time!

The nausea didn't go away, but I learned to hide it. I vomited in the shower every morning until the drain started to clog. After that, I didn't shower, racing to my car before Grant got up, blaming Renata and an impossible summer wedding schedule. The feeling followed me throughout the day. The scent of the flowers at work made it worse, but the coolness of the walk-in brought relief.

The flower vendor was bent over,unloading bushels of lilies, roses, and ranunculus into white plastic tubs. He didn't see me approach. I took advantage of the time to return the unabashed stare he had released on my body the first day we met, scanning from the back of his neck down to his muddy work boots. He wore the same black hooded sweatshirt he had the first day we met.

Turrey's face contorts into an expression resembling a crinkled paper bag. "Whatever happened, you can't fix it by ignoring it. They're giving you a chance people like me don't get. You need to take it." I nod. I do understand. To change the subject, I go in big. "So, how do you know Martin?" Turrey laughs. "Haven't heard anyone other than a teacher call him that in, like, ten years."

WELL, I ask you! Just imagine what it's like! It really is enough to drive you out of your mind. I mean, to be completely unable to find out which of these two people is mad--this Signora Frola we're talking about, or Signor Ponza, her son-in-law. It's the sort of thing that could only happen in a place like Valdana. Valdana's an unlucky town, with a fatal attraction for all sorts of queer folk.

They drank. Once again their faces twisted into those grimaces of disgust. They were trying hard to smile, of course. They exchanged glances of commiseration. Cambie resumed: 'You're very young. And you really look pretty knocked up! These gut-twisting confidences I'm going to share with you will do you a great deal more good than this foul water here!'

'Oh, I-- Oh, I see! Forgive me for askin this, but I suppose you'd spotted what was happening long before I did, h'm? You saw that he was falling desperately in love with Signora Garzia?' 'I? Why, no. That is--well, you know Tullio Vidoni as well as I do. The most ridiculous man who ever trod the face of the earth! As you know, he's an acute case of Dongiovannitis.'

'Where does he live?' asked Miss Max. 'Oh--a--it is very stupid, but I really totally forget the name of the place,' said Doctor Malkin. 'How far away?' persisted Miss Medwin. 'How far away? I am the worst guesser of a distance int he world,' says the doctor, looking up to the cornice, as if in search of an inspiration.

They've radioed ahead to tell the NPPD to arrest Graywytch, but if the highways and towns I've been flying over are any indication, downtown New Port will be such a mess it will be amazing if the cops can even get to Legion Tower on foot, much less with enough firepower to do anything about this. I reach the southern outskirts of the New Port metro area, and it's worse than I expected.

Dad must have seen how I was about to cry. He took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry to have to tell you all this, Wren. But you need to know. Things are bad all over. And now the university's going through all kinds of cuts. They're not going to renew my contract. Already I was down to one class this term. They're canceling my class next semester. So that's another piece of income lost."

I put the moonman in the rumble seat and started to pack him down. He'd fit fine. I just might not be able to get it closed, unless I mashed his melon a little. the dead moonman's body was skinny-kid size, and only four foot or so all, but his noggin was large economy size-shaped a little like a lightbulb, with big almond eyes that were glossy black.

“Don’t call him Mao, call him Ho. Mao is a nickname. Not a flattering one.” “Why, what’s it mean?” “It means ‘cat,’ but the full nickname is Gao Mao Yow.” “So what does that mean?” “‘Cat fucker.’” “You’re kidding.” “No. It’s why he’s shunned by the family.” “Someone caught him—” “My father. Yes.” “And that’s not allowed?” “No! They were going to eat that cat.” “Oh, well that makes sense then.”

"You could've been hurt," he said, like an actor guessing his lines. Tamar calmly patted his back on her way to the kitchen, then poured herself a Coke. Leaving me with his hot, nervous breath, his blinky, frightened face. He regarded me across the living room, his upset trailing off. Everything that had happened--I was unafraid of this, my father's neutered anger. What could he do to me? What could he take away?

"You can crash in my room if you want," Suzanne said. Her voice gave away nothing. "But you have to actually be here, if you're going to be here. Get it?" Suzanne was asking me something else. Like those fairy tales where goblins can enter a house only if invited by its inhabitants. The moment of crossing the threshold, the careful way Suzanne constructed her statements--she wanted me to say it.

Toulouse-Lautrec took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Why is it so hot in here?" "It's a bakery. Henry, I'm afraid of the painting." "I know," said Toulouse-Lautrec, his head bowed, nodding somberly in sympathy. "It's the penis, isn't it?" "There's no penis!" "I know, I was just trying to lighten your mood."