It is a beautiful day to get arrested: not too hot, not too cold, and a crisp breeze coming off of the waterfront.
Not every thirteen-year-old girl is accused of murder, brought to trial, and found guilty. But I was just such a girl, and my story is worth relating even if it did happen years ago.
Someone must have been telling lies about Josef K., he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested.
People disappear all the time. Ask any policeman. Better yet, ask a journalist. Disappearances are bread-and-butter to journalists.
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
You won’t get the satisfaction
Get a rise from my reaction
You’ll never hear your name at all
In my pretty melody
[Foreword:] Please spare Mockingbird an introduction. As a reader I loathe introductions.
Watch your step. Keep your wits about you; you will need them. This city I am bringing you to is vast and intricate, and you have not been here before.
There are people who can be happy anywhere. I am not one of them.
It’s a new elevator, freshly pressed to the rails, and it’s not built to fall this fast.
Rain drain my play away
Sun gun me down and burn me
Nature hates me today
My head distorts reality
Air-conditioned, odorless, illuminated by buzzing flourescent tubes, the American supermarket doesn’t present itself as having very much to do with Nature. And yet what is this place if not a landscape (man-made, it’s true) teeming with plants and animals?
As I see the first hint of sunlight, the death march begins.
“You’re lower than pond scum,” said my new boss, leading me through the boardroom of LF Rothschild for the first time. “You got a problem with that, Jordan?”
“No,” I replied, “no problem.”
They shoot the white girl first. With the rest they can take their time. No need to hurry out here.
It is cold at 6:40 in the morning of a March day in Paris, and seems even colder when a man is about to be executed by firing squad.
Every Sunday I perform the sabbathday ritual. First I scan the top ten films at the weekend box office to count how many have female protagonists. Then I count how many are written, directed or produced by women.
It’s a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful.
We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall. It was surprising there were so many of us left to die.
I write this with a baseball bat by the bed. A weapon that will do more damage than you can bring yourself to inflict is useless; last time I made the wrong choice.
You’ve sworn never to write a piece in Second Person. You ask yourself why.
Mum says, “Don’t come creeping into our room at night.” They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs. She says, “Don’t startle us when we’re sleeping.”
Robin Williams was an airman, a doctor, a genie, a nanny, a president, a professor, a bangarang Peter Pan, and everything in between. But he was one of a kind.
It’s another Iraqi town, nameless to the Marines racing down the main drag in Humvees, blowing it to pieces.
If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book.