The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.
The room is never anything o’clock.
Minutes slip through it like a thief in gloves. Hours fail even to raise the dust. Outside, deadlines expire. Buzzers erupt. Deals build to their frenzied conclusions. But in this chamber, now and forever combine.
I survived the desperate toll dark depression takes.
I may not break even, but babe I’ll never break.
When you first disappeared, your mother warned me that finding out exactly what had happened to you would be worse than never knowing. We argued about this constantly because arguing was the only thing that held us together at the time.
I am running.
I am running through moonlit woods, with branches ripping at my clothes and my feet catching in the snow-bowed bracken.
Brambles slash at my hands. My breath tears in my throat. It hurts. Everything hurts.
One of the most surreal experiences about spending time in a country that is at its core still a military dictatorship is sitting down to read the morning paper.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past fifteen years, it’s this: that murder is really no big deal. It’s just a boundary, meaningless and arbitrary as all others—a line drawn in the dirt.
Just because I own slaves doesn’t mean I’m racist.
Going back to South Chicago has always felt to me like a return to death. The people I loved most, those fierce first attachments of childhood, had all died in this abandoned neighborhood on the city’s southeast edge.
It’s 3:35 a.m. in the morning. I am standing in an open doorway, peering into a dark wood, wearing only a pair of thermal long johns. Snow is drifting onto my face from a moonlit sky. My heart is pounding. And I am holding an axe.
Our story opens where countless stories have ended in the last twenty-six years: with an idiot—in this case, my brother Shaun—deciding it would be a good idea to go out and poke a zombie with a stick to see what happens.
The moon blew up without warning and for no apparent reason.
I believe just about anyone can kill in the right circumstances, given enough motivation. The question is, am I there yet? I think I must be.
Well sometimes the sun shines on
Other people’s houses and not mine.
Some days the clouds paint the sky all gray
And it takes away my summertime.
One day, my father walked into his Back Bay apartment to find a blond woman asleep on his couch. Nine months later, I appeared on his doorstep. One year later, my aunts succeeded in getting him committed to a psychiatric hospital.
This is a true story but I can’t believe it’s really happening. It’s a murder story, too, I can’t believe my luck.
The first thing you need to know is that drowning is usually a quiet thing.
“You infernal scoundrel,” Crawford shook his cane menacingly at the president. James Monroe reached for the tongs of the fireplace to defend himself, as Navy Secretary Samuel Southard leaped from his seat and intercepted Crawford, pushing him away from the president’s desk and out the door. It was a terrifying scene: the president—the presidency itself—under attack for the first time in American history.
I’ve hardly been outside my room in days
Cause I don’t feel that I deserve the sunshine’s rays.
On Thursday, a man comes into the store and asks me how to kill his wife. I know, because it’s my business to know, that what he really wants to ask is how to kill his wife and not get caught.
It’s true: the war is rolling toward Berlin. What was yesterday a distant rumble has now become a constant roar.
On September 10, 1976, during an evening flight from New York to Chicago, a bearded passenger handed a sealed envelope to an attendant. The note began: “One, this plane is hijacked.”
They had endured years of waking up alone, making their kids breakfast, taking them to school and picking them up, fixing dinner and kissing them good night, promising that Daddy was thinking of them all the time.