(via Doyce.) WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?Sort of; I think one of Dad’s ex-girlfriends was involved. Not Deanna Durbin. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?A week ago? DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?I used to; now it’s just my handwriting. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?Really good ham for a tomato, ham, and mayo on […]
Marina’s voice had faded years ago; for days at a time she was completely silent. She coughed, and the stranger, a dark man half-buried in shadows, glanced at her: the whites of his eyes flicked at her, flicked away. “The drawers are all full of books,” he said. “Where are the knives?” Marina lowered herself
pudibund (PYOO-di-buhnd) adjective Prudish. [From Latin pudere (to make or be ashamed).] -Anu Garg (words at wordsmith.org)
1 lb. angel food cake1 lb. strawberries1 1/2 c. blueberries (opt.)2 c. vanilla pudding or custard (recipe follows or use instant mix)2 T. sugar or flavored coffee syrupWhipped cream Slice the cake into 1-inch cubes and set aside. Rinse, hull, and slice the strawberries and mix with 2T sugar or (vanilla) flavored coffee syrup and
Marina’s library was organized by date. The date she had acquired the book, the date she had first read it, the date of the last time she read it, the date she had last lovingly run her fingers down its spine, wondering whether she’d have time to read it again before she died. As you
Jiggety jig. Got back yesterday. Not a bad trip…recommend both Phuket (foo-kate) for Thai (note: one of the guys ordered his meal Thai-hot. He says to avoid it unless you really mean it) and Tim’s Cajun Kitchen in Huntsville. Tim’s may not look like much, but it’s much. I didn’t make it to the Space
by Philip Reeve. Okay, I’m a child of the ’80s. When I see a good idea, it doesn’t really matter what setting it’s in. I mean, I grew up thinking He-Man* was a good idea. And Transformers.** And…well, I could go on for a while. So when I ran into this book, it really didn’t
With the echo of that statement still ringing back from old shields for miles around, Munin grandly picks up his left claw and half-lurches, half-flaps from the smeared old helm he’s been hogging toward a white spear (Hugin thinks) thrusting out of a pile of armor. “The bright helm to the…thigh bone!” Munin chants. The
In a strip mall in Colorado Springs, CO, in the middle of the new growth on the north end of town is a Cajun/Creole place named Culpeppers. There’s no ambiance to speak of: just bright yellow paint. And the waitresses are little white girls, for the most part. Skinny. But with time, they will become
