We already saw 2014′s “Sexiest Man Alive,” but what about the ones who aren’t alive? Let’s go over the fictional, historical, and imaginary picks! More
INT. WHITE ROOM
MARY (a serene-looking woman of about 40)
faces the camera.
This is Christina.
A picture of CHRISTINE (young, smiling woman)
fills the screen.
Three years ago, Christina was
diagnosed with a rare form of
blood cancer. Doctors gave her
only months to live. Then she
found St. James Hospital.
A picture of an impressively modern hospital. Sleek. More
Once there was a girl who lived alone, but she was not as alone as she wanted to be. She lived in the heart of a city, a middling city, a city of no great importance by the sea, and every day she walked through crowds and against crowds and around crowds, and heard the people’s conversations, and smelled their trash, and saw their children, and waited politely for their cars to pass before crossing the street.
So she took herself and she moved further west in the city, where the streets flattened out and the sun took its time setting in the evening and there was room for her. This was better, but she was still almost never alone. There was always someone coming around the next corner, always a car idling down the street, always someone’s voice echoing from a few houses over. Someone always needed something, someone always wanted something.
The moment had come, as moments like these often did, when he had considered himself the safest from it, sitting as he was at the kitchen table (well, under the kitchen table, really, since it was a lot easier to develop his kundalini in a womblike space and the Spanish tile didn’t feel very womblike) in the dozing, half-shuttered light of the Malibu afternoon. Camila had just padded into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and smiling from a nap. He felt very centered. She was looking at a coconut. Things were perfect. Then:
“I heard from my mother’s placental shaman last night,” she announced, and his heart tightened. Not in the usual way it tightened after spending four hours inverted under the kitchen table. A bad way. More
They were small-minded fools, was the long and short of it. Babbling, small-minded idiots, holed up in their rabbit-warren offices, buried in books, learning the simplest of languages in piecemeal. Swallowing knowledge in thick chunks, like baby food, regurgitating most of the useful bits in the process. Pelicans, that’s all they were. They’d heave whatever glistening scrap looked most useful into their undiscriminating gullets and choke it down. More
Charles put his fine-lipped crystal whiskey glass down on his mirrored side table and sighed. The Vermont-milled whiskey stones sat slowly defrosting in the empty glass, staring accusingly up at him.
How many personal leather-bound shaving kits did a man with only one face need, he wondered. Was thirty enough? Forty? More
The elf is on the shelf. The elf is in a slightly different position on the shelf. No, the elf isn’t moving or looking at you. What an idea. Go to sleep.
The elf on the shelf is listening and learning. More
And then the little letter-writer went out from her garden, and took the road to the foaming whirlpools, behind which lived the sorceress Dear Prudence – though who would call her dear, no one living knew. She had never been that way before: neither flowers nor grass grew there; nothing but bare, gray, sandy ground stretched out to the whirlpool, where the water, like foaming mill-wheels, whirled round everything that it seized, and cast it into the fathomless deep. More
With apologies to Richard Connell.
“Off to the right–somewhere–is a large island,” said Whitney. “It’s rather a mystery–”
“What island is it?” Renee asked.
“The old charts call it `Authoress Island,”‘ Whitney replied.” A suggestive name, isn’t it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don’t know why. Some superstition–” More
I was suspicious, at first, when the work-from-home mother who makes $1000 a week appeared at my doorstep that rainy winter evening. More
The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that moment.
“Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,’ said Channing, looking intently at People‘s robe, but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?”
“It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,” was People‘s sorrowful reply. “Look here.” More
“Anyhow, Denise and I swore we’d never go back, and we really haven’t,” Trisha said. “You really should have been there, it was so funny – Danny? Dan?” Trisha looked over to where not one minute before her best friend … More
To: All employees
Subject: Human skin is not appropriate outerwear More