Their laughter was like the stridulation of the ghosts of grasshoppers.
Deep down, Story Easton knew what would happen if she attempted to off herself__he would fail It was a matter of probability. This was not a new thing, failure. She was, had always been, a failure of fairy-tale proportion. Quitting wasn__ Story__ problem. She had tried, really tried, lots of things during different stages of her life__irl Scours, the viola, gardening, Tommy Andres from senior year American Lit__ut zero cookie sales, four broken strings, two withered azalea bushes, and one uniquely humiliating breakup later, Story still had not tasted success, and with a shriveled-up writing career as her latest disappointment, she realized no magic slippers or fairy dust was going to rescue her from her Anti-Midas Touch. No Happily Ever After was coming. So she had learned to find a certain comfort in failure. In addition to her own screw-ups, others_ mistakes became cozy blankets to cuddle, and she snuggled up to famous failures like most people embrace triumph. The Battle of Little Bighorn__ thing of beauty. The Bay of Pigs__elicious debacle. The Y2K Bug__orgeously disappointing fuck-up. Geraldo__ anti-climactic Al Capone exhumation__ops! Jaws III__eaven on film. Tattooed eyeliner__yelids everywhere, revolting. Really revolting. Fat-free potato chips__ood Lord, makes anyone feel successful.
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Deep down, Story Easton knew what would happen if she attempted to off herself__he would fail It was a matter of probability. This was not a new thing, failure. She was, had always been, a failure of fairy-tale proportion. Quitting wasn__ Story__ problem. She had tried, really tried, lots of things during different stages of her life__irl Scours, the viola, gardening, Tommy Andres from senior year American Lit__ut zero cookie sales, four broken strings, two withered azalea bushes, and one uniquely humiliating breakup later, Story still had not tasted success, and with a shriveled-up writing career as her latest disappointment, she realized no magic slippers or fairy dust was going to rescue her from her Anti-Midas Touch. No Happily Ever After was coming. So she had learned to find a certain comfort in failure. In addition to her own screw-ups, others_ mistakes became cozy blankets to cuddle, and she snuggled up to famous failures like most people embrace triumph. The Battle of Little Bighorn__ thing of beauty. The Bay of Pigs__elicious debacle. The Y2K Bug__orgeously disappointing fuck-up. Geraldo__ anti-climactic Al Capone exhumation__ops! Jaws III__eaven on film. Tattooed eyeliner__yelids everywhere, revolting. Really revolting. Fat-free potato chips__ood Lord, makes anyone feel successful.
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Just behind his jaw bones a tiny movement was perceptible, like the movement of gills in a fish.
Franklin Fletcher dreamed of luxury in the form of tiger-skins and beautiful women. He was prepared, at a pinch, to forgo the tiger-skins. Unfortunately the beautiful women seemed equally rare and inaccessible. At his office and at his boarding-house the girls were mere mice, or cattish, or kittenish, or had insufficiently read the advertisements.
How happy I might be, if only she was less greedy, better tempered, not addicted to raking up old grudges, more affectionate, with slightly yellower hair, slimmer, and about twenty years younger! But what is the good of expecting such a woman to reform?
There are some young almond tress, which ordinarily look as if drawn by a childish hand. Now, as the wind sets their weak branches gibbering, they seem like shamanistic scratches on the white bone of the brittle bright night.