For the fifth time on the back nine, my caddy, John Abate, pulls his green military-issue binoculars from the side pouch...
There was one other Arab onboard the ship to Marseille. His name was Faruq al-Azmeh, and the day after leaving port in Alexandria he approached Midhat at breakfast, with a plate of toast in one hand and a string of amber prayer beads in the other.
I never would have done what they say I’ve done, to Madame, because I loved her. Yet they say I must be put to death for it, and they want me to confess. But how can I confess what I don’t believe I’ve done?
It was religious yearning granted hope, it was the holy grail of science. Our ambitions ran high and low – for a creation myth made real, for a monstrous act of self-love.
“We’ve found a house for you, sir.”
If I’d known I was about to meet the man who’d shatter me like bone china on terra-cotta, I would have slept in. Instead, I roused our florist, Mr. Sitwell, from his bed to make a boutonnière. My first consulate gala was no time to stand on ceremony.
I only put the centipede in Eliza’s slipper since I thought she was stealing my sister Sofya from me. I was eight years old and had just lost my mother. I couldn’t lose Sofya, too.
And there’s the Ark Royal, keeping a good distance from the enemy...There were a couple of quiet explosions – pop-pop-pop.
I’m fascinated by the current vogue for posthumous books, and I’m thinking of writing a fake one that could appear to be “posthumous” and “unfinished” when it would, in fact, be perfectly complete.
The point of life had been preying on the Mayor’s mind. Why was he on earth? Other than greatness, what was required of him?
‘So, it’s been a year since The Tin Man opened?’ the journalist asked, checking her notes. She was young and shiny and chirpy, which gave Gabby hope the article would be a correspondingly positive one.
The noose tightened around his neck, and the oxygen deprivation spun his head into a splendid mix of euphoria and panic.
Hi! My name is Junior Justice, but you can call me JJ. I'm glad you received my secret directions to this warehouse for our meeting.
Simon sat on a bench in Central Park—in Strawberry Fields, to be more precise—and felt his heart shatter.
I have been hiding in the wardrobe for eleven and a half min¬utes. I’ve done ten and a half minutes of deep breathing and a bit of meditation and still I don’t trust myself to come out.
I know within thirty-three seconds of entering the front door that my home is empty and my husband and daughter are missing.
Carl said I was absolutely the right person for this job. I think he meant it. He didn’t actually say it was a job for a woman, but I could tell that’s what he thought.
The night they decided to leave London Bea had a dream. Dreams are like silent films; guns are fired without shots, people talk without voices.
Daisy Jones was born in 1951 and grew up in the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles, California.
Caro pulled her jersey over her knees knowing she should just be sensible and have an early night.