“The first thing you must remember,” Polly tells the Levensons, “is that every penny you spend on your guests is that much less you can spend on your horses.”

When Jimmy – and Frank and John and all the rest – joined up, it all seemed a big lark. Little Mary – she can’t have been more than about five years old – was dead proud her Dad was going off to fight the Germans. I doubt she really knew who the

The moon bulges with meticulous sick amber fire while first night’s chest heaves and sputters free infantine monstrosity from plague-wormed hovels, din mold choked grottos, and stale metal-cast labyrinth catacombs.

...swallowed like a radiant yolk by an epicurean barracuda.

“Forever you will be mine” she said to me, and of course I did not believe her. She was a romantic and so was I, and such words habitually dripped out of her lovely mouth like honey from the comb, in a never-ending flow of flattery which I am ashamed to s

Don’t get me wrong. Maria Shriver is hot, but her angled face makes me think a knife thrower is out to get me.

The woman tapped a dark plastic stirrer on the tabletop in front of her to emphasize something she was saying.

Frank was about to take the first bite of a chicken salad sandwich.

The blind can be a little bit Angry now and then Trying to be independent They don’t want or need your help Usually. They’re a little like bees You have to learn to leave them alone But I remember one day when I Guided the fingers of Bli

We exist to facilitate/ successful conclusions of hopeless lives.

Now that Spring has sprung I am reminded about the day a former neighbour complained about my squirrel collection. I love to feed the black squirrels that gather in my yard and she became convinced I had trained several ninja squirrels to enter her garden

He was a Jack Russell terrier hanging like a baby in a carrier strapped to my chest He had all four legs wrapped around me and was licking me with his long tongue I asked him what his name was, and in a real low voice he said Min

They can’t help Seeing a child even there In the crude brushstrokes. They say it is me.

You are nothing but a generic white man with average looks and intelligence, trapped in an indie romantic comedy. You sit in your overstuffed coffeeshop chair, drinking an impossibly befoamed cappuccino, the sleeves of your flannel rolled up to your elbows, mellow synth…

Liking up with the Joneses...