Marsha > Recent Status Updates

Diasaster struck that very night. Faleigh sat down on the bed. He said, "I think I'll call Jasper and see how things are going." While Farleigh dialed, Dennis casually ambled into the suite's adjoining room, then carefully picked up the extension onthe suite's desk. If Farleigh was going to speak to Jasper, he needed to listen; the tone of a single "I miss you" would be enough to tell how tough a road he had ahead.

The next day the world dared him to be frightened or unhappy. The chorus of car alarms that began at six o'clock each morning today sounded almost musical as they roused him from his sleep, the delirious whoop-whoop-whoop of one twining like a braid with the staccato ri-ri-ri-ri-ri of another---and the steady, shrill whine of yet a third providing an unearthly, strangely beautiful bass line.

I am one gasping wreck after a couple of hours' tussling. Utterly done done. So finally it's three in the morning and I got to boot her the hell out of there. But she lives in Newark. I'm bloody, I ache, but she wants me to drive to Newark! Either that or she stays, she says. But I know if I drive her to Newark there'll be a smashup. She'll attack me at the toll booth or inside the Lincoln Tunnel.

"I see you've arrived as expected, though perhaps not as dry as one might wish. I'll let you into your room. You can change out of those wet clothes and meanwhile can tell me what you learned at the library." "If you please, I was hoping to join the others in the drawing room. It sounds like they're having tremendous fun." "I'm afraid you can't join the activity in such a state. You're a sodden mess."

Turning to the lamp, Nicholas unscrewed the good lightbulb and replaced it with a dead one. If the Spiders [a trio of bullies] were going to wait for him here, they might as well do so in darkness. Later Nicholas would report the dead lightbulb to Mr. Collum and request a new one. Then he could keep the extra bulb hidden away, to use whenever he wished.

"Are you one of those girls who won't date someone who's shorter than she is? If so i'll just stop right here." Though this message is almost its own animal, I am categorizing it here because clearly this guy has been burned by tall girls before, and it couldn't have less to do with me if it tried. Why would I want to respond to someone who has already prepared himself to resent me and my snobby, exclusive height?

Tiny Fey once said that she was 24 when she had sex for the first time because she "couldn't give it away." I was 22 when she told that story, and I worshipped Tina Fey then as I do now. So I held that deadline out in front of me and I only worried about how old I'd be when it happened until the day I turned 24 without it having happened. I will definitely be even older than Tina Fey was.

After a couple of hours of this exercise in unfulfilled pre-sexual tension, I was forced to leave the wedding reception by my paretns. They told my brothers and me that it ws time to go, but I asked if we could stay a little longer. When they asked why, I think I just told them I was "having fun." They weren't buying it because I was a child at a middle-aged person's wedding, so we got our things and headed out.

The snow covering softened some of the usual harshness of the scene, and yes, it could be almost magical during a snowfall, the kind when sleepy flakes came drifting down, but it was still hard to imagine the city holding anything even remotely as enchanting as Jilly's stories of gemmin, which were a kind of earth spirit that lived in abandoned cars, or Angela's mysterious goatman--even if such things were possible.

It was a fluke we ever found our way in, it was that well hidden. But why was it hidden? Because the building couldn't be salvaged, so cover it up, make it safe? Or because of that room? That room. Was it to lock something in? Or keep something out? Did our going into it make it be one or the other? Or was it the story we found in its stone confines?

He doesn't physically throw me out, but it's close. Truth is, he looks so freaked about what he's doing that I'm happy to put as much distance as I can between us. I end up hauling the sword down to the street to where I parked my car. It won't fit in the trunk, so I put it on the backseat.

Devon spins around just as the dragon's 20-foot-long body morphs into the scaly green skin of a lizard, its massive batlike wings expanding with a whisk of air from either side of its muscular shoulders. "Holy sh**!" Devon scrambles down the stairs as he passes the beast without so much as a backward glance at me. Of course I wanted him to leave so he wasn't killed. But still. What a gentleman!

"Aunt Penny?" "My favorite niece!" she yells. "What's up, girlie? One sec. Vodka tonic. No, I said vodka tonic! Thanks. Ugh, the bartenders are deaf here. So what's up?" Before I can answer, she erupts into laughter.

'I've thought of you more often than you've thought of me. I heard of your marriage, Cathy, not long since, and, while waiting, I meditated my plan. I just wanted one glimpse of your face and then afterward, I was going to settle my score with Hindley and then kill myself so the law didn't have to. But now that I've seen you and you've welcomed me this way, my plan will have to be altered. You really did miss me?'

"I like your name" Lucy said to Orsino. "It's from Twelfth Night, right?" Orsino nodded. "Indeed it is. My mother was a professor of literature. She adored Shakespeare. I've never read it," Orsino told her. "Really?" Jane said, shocked. Orsino laughed. "The truth is, I haven't read it because I fear I won't like my namesake. How awful to go through life named after someone you don't care for."

I'm terrified. Jude takes my hand--I feel the memories start. They jolt through my fingers. Flashes of childhood--falling off bicycles, catching lizards in a woodpile, being switched for coming home after dark. His hand runs up my arm, but I can't appreciate it. I want the memories to stop; I don't want to see Jude this way again. It isn't fair. Then before I know it, his lips are on mine. And the memories stop.

LOGIC The principle governing human intellection. Its nature may be deduced from examining the two following propositions, both of which are held by human beings to be true and often by the same people: "I can't so you mustn't," and "I can but you mustn't."

"I didn't see how a broken-down hole-in-corner place like Beninia could be as good as he claimed. I still don't see how! All I know is this--here's a place where there aren't any murders, there aren't any muckers, there aren't any tempers lost, there aren't any tribal squabbles, there aren't any riots. Yet your people are poor, sometimes hungry, often sick, living in leaky huts."

Something had happened to him that felt as though it repaid the hard work, the loss of sleep and even the indigestion he had suffered. But the aftermath of outfacing GT had left him no energy to work out what that might be. The one thing which was clear undermined the sense of elation: he was now going to be pitchforked into the middle of Beninia while he still regarded himself as being inadequately prepared.

"Wanted to be burned alive in protest against the draft but the directors of the company decided it was interfering in politics and not in accordance with their coporation charter so he tried to do it by himself and they put him out before he'd done more than sustain third-degree burns. Going to jail for ten years, I gather. Evasion."

"You're beginning to amaze me, and I'm not joking." Norman looked uncomfortable. "To be frank, it was one of the ideas my roomie and I were tossing around. If I hadn't heard it from yourself, though, I'd never have credited it." "Why not? GT's annual profit is almost fifty times the GNC of Beninia; they could buy and sell many of the underdeveloped countries." "Yes, but what is there in Beninia that GT might want?"

In the case of the American negro slave this possibility was not inherent in the system. The slave had the same human rights as a head of cattle--nil. A good master might conceivably manumit a slave who'd done him a good turn, or pension him off with his freedom as a favourite horse would be put out to pasture to spend his declining years. But a bad one might decide to maim the man, brand him or flog him to death.

"I could do that," I said, as one guy performed some complicated move that ended up with his starry-eyed partner bent backward over his knee. "If I wanted to." Nonetheless, I was suddenly very glad that my own escort was likely to disembowel me if I suggested we take a spin around the floor. "Bloody show-offs."

In 1885 Rimbaud quit his job and became an independent merchant. He signed a contract with a certain Pierre Labutut to organize a caravan to deliver guns to Menelik, the 43-year-old king of Shewa. Menelik was consolidating various regions, expanding the territory of Abyssinia. He was intent on conquering Harar; the town would give him access tot he Red Sea and preclude the need for crossing the vast desert.

The next two years, 1877 and 1878, are among the most mysterious in Rimbaud's life. He had sought employment in America but failed to find a position. He traveled to Copenhagen and Stockholm, where he sold tickets for a French circus. Then he was off to Marseille, where he boarded a ship bound for Alexandria but had to be put ashore in Italy because he'd fallen ill with a gastrointestinal fever.

What's a merely "good" editor? That's nothing to sniff at, either. Good editors will also be well educated and observant in your native tongue, and they'll have a reasonable familiarity with your subject and general style. You'll find that they make lots of great corrections and suggestions, but they will also make other comments that fall short, or don't quite match the way you would put things.

Love Would Have Warranted a Trip to Guantanamo
Middle-aged woman: Whatever happened to that guy you were in love with?
Young woman: We weren't in love, just seriously in like.
Middle-aged woman: So, what happened to him?
Young woman: I had him deported --64th & Broadway

My "experimental" career started when I was nineteen and got it into my head that I wanted to join an improvisational theater group. When I heard that I had to autidion with a monolog to get into the "experimental" group, I was bewildered. If it was "improv," I wondered, why did we have to memorize and deliver a prepared subject? But I still wanted to get in.

Actually, He's His Daughter
Yuppie: Is Freddie prinze Jr. Harry Connick Jr.'s son?--Midtown

Whatever its color, sexual ecstasy is a powerful experience, and at least a momentary flight to the unconscious. It's that departure from the ordinary--the disappearing act of the sexual unconscious--that is so intimidating for writers to articulate. Orgasm is called "le petit mort", and writing the orgasm is much like writing a death scene, where characters teeter between the world as we know it and the beyond.