Short Daisy Quotes

There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams -- not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

She liked being reminded of butterflies. She remembered being six or seven and crying over the fates of the butterflies in her yard after learning that they lived for only a few days. Her mother had comforted her and told her not to be sad for the butterflies, that just because their lives were short didn't mean they were tragic. Watching them flying in the warm sun among the daisies in their garden, her mother had said to her, see, they have a beautiful life. Alice liked remembering that.

I'm not short," Daisy muttered. "Short women are never mysterious, or elegant, or pursued by handsome men. And they're always treated like children. I refuse to be short.

Because one minute you're just trying to nurse a wound. And the next, you're desperately trying to hide the fact that you're now a jury-rigged, taped-up, short-cutted mess of a person and the wound you were nursing has become an abscess.

They are hopelessly vulgar. Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being 'bad' is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough.

I was struck with a bolt of distilled horror like I have never known before. Far worse than suddenly finding yourself walking through a prison cafeteria wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a Jane Fonda headband.

There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams -- not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion.

When you know you can’t make long-term plans, it’s easy to let yourself make short-term mistakes.

Life is short, and life is beautiful, and everything is lovely. Love it, embrace it, smell the lilacs, play with the dog, and love endlessly and fiercely with everything you've got. Live without regret.

As I went over to say good-by I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby's face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams-not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart

My inner-movie director has me standing at the grave site holding fresh-picked daisies -Tabby’s favorite- in the rain, like always, and I want to punch him in his stupid fucking face.

I like ’em feisty. Especially with that twangy accent you got going on. I’d give my last UFC check to see you in a pair of Daisy Duke shorts. With those long legs, I bet they’d look amazing.

Your name is Do Kyungsoo. You have short-term memory loss, antesomething amnesia, so you won’t remember what happened last night. But let me help you out. Last night I put my head on this pillow and my arms around your waist. My name’s Kim Jongin. I call you hyung. Yesterday you loved me. Today you’ll love me again. This is where you undressed me. This is where I undressed you. And here I pushed you up against the wall and kissed you really hard (approximately, it was kind of dark) and we thought we should have sex. Here you sat, dangling your legs. I put my palm on your kneecap and you bent forward and kissed me first. We talked about ballet. You hummed a tune and my fingers did an arabresque here, grand jeté onto the floor, fouetté en tourant and then sissonne on the back of your hand. Pas de valse fast up your arm and you smiled. I leaned on this and read your green sticky notes while you went around cleaning up invisible messes. It came to me that all the green looks like grass, and grass is boring without daisies. So I hope you like yellow? And here’s Kim Jongin. Say hello to me?

What is it they say? The days are long but the years are short? Whoever said that was a mom with three kids under the age of three. Tired and cranky on an hourly basis, bursting with joy when you put your head on the pillow. Raising kids is hard work. It was something I was happy to do, though.

There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

I went in - after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of pushing over the stove - but I don't believe they heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy's face was smeared with tears, and when I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room.

But of course, it’s not easy at all, either. Because one minute you’re just trying to nurse a wound. And the next, you’re desperately trying to hide the fact that you’re not a jury-rigged, taped-up, short-cutted mess of a person and the wound you were nursing had become an abscess. But I was skinny and pretty so who cared, right?

The days are long but the years are short.

Big brown eyes. I'm a sucker for brown eyes. She was short and he liked that.

What is it they say? The days are long but the years are short?

Summer, when apple blossoms bloom, roses rise, lilacs lie, dandelions are dandy, and daisies are doozies, a time when flies fly, bugs bug, bees be, swallows swallow, and ducks duck.

There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything.

And in the incendiary wake of Michael Brown’s and Eric Garner’s deaths at the hands of white police officers in the summer of 2014, a conventional production of Driving Miss Daisy that in no way subverts the text now seems nothing short of obscene. There

She stood there looking, consciously and rather seriously, at Mr. Ransom; a smile of exceeding faintness played about her lips—it was just perceptible enough to light up the native gravity of her face. It might have been likened to a thin ray of moonlight resting upon the wall of a prison.

Camila: What is it they say? The days are long but the years are short? Whoever said that was a mom with three kids under the age of three. Tired and cranky on an hourly basis, bursting with joy when you put your head on the pillow. Raising kids is hard work. It was work I was happy to do, though. Everybody is good at something. I was good at motherhood.

Liam had just gotten comfortable on the couch when Daisy walked in wearing a tiny pair of worn shorts and a Marvel superheroes T-shirt cut low to reveal the crescents of her breasts. Liam's mouth went dry and he choked on his pastry. No, she definitely wasn't a little girl anymore, and the things he was thinking were definitely not appropriate for Mr. Patel's worn couch.

Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

We won! We won!" Daisy jumped up and down and threw her arms around Liam, nearly knocking him over as she pressed her lips to his in a delighted kiss. Her lips were soft and warm and sweet with chocolate. The shock of them short-circuited his brain and for a moment he couldn't breathe. And then he was pressing her lips apart, hungry for her, desperate for more. She softened against him, sighed. He braced himself for her to retreat, but instead, she tightened her arms around him and kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his as she explored his mouth. "Pizza!" She pulled away, leaving him floundering, his brain struggling to understand why someone was shoving a box in his face when all he wanted was her sweet lips and her soft body and her sigh of surrender. "Pizza selfie." Daisy held up her phone and took a picture of them with the pizza box angled in the corner. She laughed when she showed him the screen. This time he was the one who looked dazed.

we try looking there?” “Good idea,” Rachel said, walking toward it. “Oh, aren’t the trees beautiful with all their blossoms?” The others agreed. Delicate sprays of pinky-white flowers lined the branches of the apple trees. “And that one is even prettier than the others,” Kirsty said, pointing out a tree a short distance away. It was covered in blossoms. “I wonder why it’s flowering so well?” A thought struck her and she stopped. Kirsty looked excitedly at Tia. “You don’t think it has anything to do with your petal’s magic powers, do you?” Tia’s eyes lit up.

What about you, Mr. Shaw?" she asked. "Are your affections engaged by someone back home?" He shook his head at once. "I'm afraid that I share McKenna's rather skeptical view of the benefits of marriage." "I think you will fall in love someday." "Doubtful. I'm afraid that particular emotion is unknown to me..." Suddenly his voice faded into silence. He set his cup down as he stared off into the distance with sudden alertness. "Mr. Shaw?" As Aline followed his gaze, she realized what he had seen- Livia, wearing a pastel flower-printed walking dress as she headed to one of the forest trails leading away from the manor. A straw bonnet adorned with a sprig of fresh daisies swung from her fingers as she held it by the ribbons. Gideon Shaw stood so quickly that his chair threatened to topple backward. "Pardon," he said to Aline, tossing his napkin to the table. "The figment of my imagination has reappeared- and I'm going to catch her." "Of course," Aline said, struggling not to laugh. "Good luck, Mr. Shaw." "Thanks." He was gone in a flash, descending one side of the U-shaped stone staircase with the ease of a cat. Once he reached the terraced gardens, he cut across the lawn with long, ground-eating strides, just short of breaking into a run. Standing to better her view of his progress, Aline couldn't suppress a mocking grin. "Why, Mr. Shaw... I thought there was nothing in life you wanted badly enough to chase after it.

There is nothing, though, in “An International Episode” or “Daisy Miller,” fine as they are, that prepares us for the subtle psychological realism of James’s depictions of the elusiveness of self-knowledge and the terrors of confronting one’s concealed motivations in the three premier stories of this volume, “The Aspern Papers,” “The Turn of the Screw,” and “The Beast in the Jungle.” Beginning in the 1880s with Portrait of a Lady (1881), which literary historians tend to think of as James’s breakthrough novel, the fate of Americans in Europe and the interaction between European sophistication and American innocence became more a matter of the heart and psyche than one of manners, social relations, and cultural differences.

Hmm,” Lillian said, observing the gathering. “We have competition.” Daisy recognized the three women her sister was referring to: Miss Cassandra Leighton, Lady Miranda Dowden, and Elspeth Higginson. “I would have preferred not to invite any unmarried women to Hampshire,” Lillian said, “but Westcliff said that would be too obvious. Fortunately you’re prettier than all of them. Even if you are short.” “I’m not short,” Daisy protested. “Petite, then.” “I don’t like that word any better. It makes me sound trivial.” “It’s better than stunted,” Lillian said, “which is the only other word I can come up with to describe your lack of stature.” She grinned at Daisy’s scowl. “Don’t make faces, dear. I’m taking you to a buffet of bachelors

Her nerves crackled with expectant heat as he reached for the sketchbook in her hand. Without thinking, she let him take it. His eyes narrowed as he looked down at the book, which was open to her sketch of Llandrindon. “Why did you draw him with a beard?” he asked. “That’s not a beard,” Daisy said shortly. “It’s shadowing.” “It looks as if he hasn’t shaved in three months.” “I didn’t ask for your opinion on my artwork,” she snapped. She grabbed the sketchbook, but he refused to release it. “Let go,” she demanded, tugging with all her might, “or I’ll…” “You’ll what? Draw a portrait of me?” He released the book with a suddenness that caused her to stumble back a few steps. He held up his hands defensively. “No. Anything but that.” Daisy rushed at him and whacked his chest with the book.

It turns out that the eastern U.S. founder crops were four plants domesticated in the period 2500–1500 B.C., a full 6,000 years after wheat and barley domestication in the Fertile Crescent. A local species of squash provided small containers, as well as yielding edible seeds. The remaining three founders were grown solely for their edible seeds (sunflower, a daisy relative called sumpweed, and a distant relative of spinach called goosefoot). But four seed crops and a container fall far short of a complete food production package. For 2,000 years those founder crops served only as minor dietary supplements while eastern U.S. Native Americans continued to depend mainly on wild foods, especially wild mammals and waterbirds, fish, shellfish, and nuts. Farming did not supply a major part of their diet until the period 500–200 B.C., after three more seed crops (knotweed, maygrass, and little barley) had been brought into cultivation. A

I jumped then. It seemed I heard a child laugh. My imagination, of course. And then, when I should have known better, I headed for the closet and the high and narrow door at the very back end and the steep and narrow dark stairs. A million times I’d ascended these stairs. A million times in the dark, without a candle, or a flashlight. Up into the dark, eerie, gigantic attic, and only when I was there did I feel around for the place where Chris and I had hidden our candles and matches. Still there. Time did stand still in this place. We’d had several candle holders, all of pewter with small handles to grasp. Holders we’d found in an old trunk along with boxes and boxes of short, stubby, clumsily made candles. We’d always presumed them to be homemade candles, for they had smelled so rank and old when they burned. My breath caught! Oh! It was the same! The paper flowers still dangled down, mobiles to sway in the drafts, and the giant flowers were still on the walls. Only all the colors had faded to indistinct gray—ghost flowers. The sparkling gem centers we’d glued on had loosened, and now only a few daisies had sequins, or gleaming stones, for centers. Carrie’s purple worm was there only now he too was a nothing color. Cory’s epileptic snail didn’t appear a bright, lopsided beach ball now, it was more a tepid, half-rotten squashy orange. The BEWARE signs Chris and I had painted in red were still on the walls, and the swings still dangled down from the attic rafters. Over near the record player was the barre Chris had fashioned, then nailed to the wall so I could practice my ballet positions. Even my outgrown costumes hung limply from nails, dozens of them with matching leotards and worn out pointe shoes, all faded and dusty, rotten smelling. As in an unhappy dream I was committed to, I drifted aimlessly toward the distant schoolroom, with the candelight flickering. Ghosts were unsettled, memories and specters followed me as things began to wake up, yawn and whisper. No, I told myself, it was only the floating panels of my long chiffon wings . . . that was all. The spotted rocking-horse loomed up, scary and threatening, and my hand rose to my throat as I held back a scream. The rusty red wagon seemed to move by unseen hands pushing it, so my eyes took flight to the blackboard where I’d printed my enigmatic farewell message to those who came in the future. How was I to know it would be me? We lived in the attic, Christopher, Cory, Carrie and me— Now there are only three. Behind the small desk that had been Cory’s I scrunched down, and tried to fit my legs under. I wanted to put myself into a deep reverie that would call up Cory’s spirit that would tell me where he lay.

Delbert was the only Bumpus kid in my grade, but they infested Warren G. Harding like termites in an outhouse. There was Ima Jean, short and muscular, who was in the sixth grade, when she showed up, but spent most of her time hanging around the poolroom. There was a lanky, blue-jowled customer they called Jamie, who ran the still and was the only one who ever wore shoes. He and his brother Ace, who wore a brown fedora and blue work shirts, sat on the front steps at home on the Fourth of July, sucking at a jug and pretending to light sticks of dynamite with their cigars when little old ladies walked by. There were also several red-faced girls who spent most of their time dumping dishwater out of windows. Babies of various sizes and sexes crawled about the back yard, fraternizing indiscriminately with the livestock. They all wore limp, battleship-gray T-shirts and nothing else. They cried day and night. We thought that was all of them—until one day a truck stopped in front of the house and out stepped a girl who made Daisy Mae look like Little Orphan Annie. My father was sprinkling the lawn at the time; he wound up watering the windows. Ace and Emil came running out onto the porch, whooping and hollering. The girl carried a cardboard suitcase—in which she must have kept all her underwear, if she owned any—and wore her blonde hair piled high on her head; it gleamed in the midday sun. Her short muslin dress strained and bulged. The truck roared off. Ace rushed out to greet her, bellowing over his shoulder as he ran: “MAH GAWD! HEY, MAW, IT’S CASSIE! SHE’S HOME FROM THE REFORMATORY!” Emil

As I went over to say good-bye I saw that an expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams – not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed – that voice was a deathless song.

but many others who were silenced by the White House and by Black male leaders of the civil rights movement. Like… Black women. Daisy Bates read a short vow, a pledge on behalf of women working within the movement. But Dorothy Height, a powerful leader who helped organize the event and was the only woman to stand on the platform with Dr. King, was not invited to speak. Nor was Rosa Parks. Or so many other Black women whose work had fueled the movement. Black LGBTQ+ leaders. Bayard Rustin, a key adviser to Dr. King and an organizer of the event, was not invited to speak. Nor was James Baldwin, a Black novelist who, through his writings, had become a brilliant and bold political voice. Malcolm X. He attended the event but was not invited to speak.

Bluster and ego aside, Hunter did have talent behind the camera.  Frankly, that was the only thing he had going for him at this point.  If he were a hack director, he would have definitely been replaced by now.  Hunter’s calling card was a visually dazzling short film he directed in school.

May I sit down, please?” she asked mildly. “I’m tired of standing.” “There’s no place to sit.” “Yes there is.” Breaking away from him, Daisy went to the four-poster bed and tried to climb onto it. Unfortunately the bed was an antique Sheraton, built high to avoid winter drafts and allow for a trundle below. The top of the mattress was level with her breasts. Hoisting herself upward, she tried to lever her hips onto the mattress. Gravity defeated her. “Usually,” Daisy said, struggling and squirming with her feet dangling, “there’s a stair-step provided—” She grabbed handfuls of the counterpane. “— for beds this tall.” Straining to hook a knee over the edge of the mattress, she continued, “Good God… if someone fell out of this bed at night… it would be fatal.” She felt Matthew’s hands clamp around her waist. “The bed’s not that tall,” he said. Picking her up as if she were a child, he deposited her on the mattress. “It’s just that you’re short.” “I’m not short. I’m… vertically disadvantaged.” “Fine. Sit up.” His weight depressed the mattress behind her and his hands returned to the back of her dress.

With Matthew at her side, Daisy browsed the row of wooden stalls that had been erected along High Street, filled with fabrics, toys, millinery, silver jewelry, and glassware. She was determined to see and do as much as possible in a short time, for Westcliff had strongly advised them to return to the manor well before midnight. “The later the hour, the more unrestrained the merrymaking tends to become,” the earl had said meaningfully. “Under the influence of wine—and behind the concealment of masks—people tend to do things they would never think of doing in the light of day.” “Oh, what’s a little fertility ritual here or there?” Daisy had scoffed cheerfully. “I’m not so innocent that I—” “We’ll be back early,” Matthew had told the earl.

am ten years old and dress my Barbie doll in Daisy Duke shorts and a halter top, and do the best I can to position her and Ken’s straight and stiff joints to hug and make out with each other. My mother sees

This time, Chantelle noticed a cheerful yellow bouquet of daisies and a small scar below Tom's soft, red lips that she'd never seen before.

It was worse than she’d expected. “None?” she asked. “No fresh boot prints anywhere around the perimeter of the house,” Sheriff Coughlin confirmed. “It was windy last night. Maybe the drifting snow filled in the prints?” Even before she finished speaking, the sheriff was shaking his head. “With the warm temperatures we’ve been having, the snow is either frozen or wet and heavy. If someone had walked through that yard last night, there would’ve been prints.” Daisy hid her wince at his words, even though they hit as hard as an elbow to the gut, and struggled to keep her voice firm. “There was someone walking around the outside of that house last night, Sheriff. I don’t know why there aren’t any boot prints, but I definitely saw someone.” He was giving her that look again, but it was worse, because she saw a thread of pity mixed in with the condescension. “Have you given more thought to starting therapy again?” The question surprised her. “Not really. What does that have to do…?” As comprehension dawned, a surge of rage shoved out her bewilderment. “I didn’t imagine that I saw someone last night. There really was a person there, looking in the side window.” All her protest did was increase the pity in his expression. “It must get lonely here by yourself.” “I’m not making things up to get attention!” Her voice had gotten shrill, so she took a deep breath. “I even said there was no need for you to get involved. I only suggested one of the on-duty deputies drive past to scare away the kid.” “Ms. Little.” His tone made it clear that impatience had drowned out any feelings of sympathy. “Physical evidence doesn’t lie. No one was in that yard last night.” “I know what I saw.” The sheriff took a step closer. Daisy hated how she had to crane her neck back to look at him. It made her feel so small and vulnerable. “Do you really?” he asked. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Even people without your issues misinterpret what they see all the time. The brain is a tricky thing.” Daisy set her jaw as she stared back at the sheriff, fighting the urge to step back, to retreat from the man looming over her. There had been someone there, footprints or no footprints. She couldn’t start doubting what she’d witnessed the night before. If she did, then that meant she’d gone from mildly, can’t-leave-the-house crazy, to the kind of crazy that involved hallucinations, medications, and institutionalization. There had to be some other explanation, because she wasn’t going to accept that. Not when her life was getting so much better. She could tell by looking at his expression that she wasn’t going to convince Coughlin of anything. “Thank you for checking on it, Sheriff. I promise not to bother you again.” Although he kept his face impassive, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you…see anything else, Ms. Little, please call me.” That wasn’t going to happen, especially when he put that meaningful pause in front of “see” that just screamed “delusional.” Trying to mask her true feelings, she plastered on a smile and turned her body toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint for him to leave. “Of course.” Apparently, she needed some lessons in deception, since the sheriff frowned, unconvinced. Daisy met his eyes with as much calmness as she could muster, dropping the fake smile because she could feel it shifting into manic territory. She’d lost enough credibility with the sheriff as it was. The silence stretched until Daisy wanted to run away and hide in a closet, but she managed to continue holding his gaze. The memory of Chris telling her about the sheriff using his “going to confession” stare-down on suspects helped her to stay quiet. Finally, Coughlin turned toward the door. Daisy barely managed to keep her sigh of relief silent. “Ms. Little,” he said with a short nod, which she returned. “Sheriff.” Only when he was through the doorway with the door locked behind him did Daisy’s knees start to shake.

If you dislike Michigan winters so much,” Connell said, “why did you move here? Why didn’t you stay in New York?” At least there she’d be away from wild lumber camps and towns. The sunshine in her face disappeared. She took a longer drink of coffee before looking at him. The heartache in her expression socked him in the stomach. “I wish we could have stayed. Then maybe Daisy wouldn’t have gotten herself into this predicament.” Her voice was soft. “If you find her, do you think you’ll move back?” “There’s nothing left for us there. No one who wants us. No one who ever did.” She spoke so low, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. And he couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the rest of her family and how she had ended up with the cranky old photographer. “When I find Daisy—not if,” she said, her voice growing louder and ringing with the passion he’d heard before. “When I find her, I’ll never let her go. And I’ll give her the kind of home she deserves—finally.” He took a slurp of coffee, not quite sure how to answer her. If he did the math, he could come up with the slim percentage she had of finding her sister, especially alive. But he didn’t think she’d be too happy with the statistic. “I’m old enough now that I’ll be able to get a job and find a place for the two of us,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes, as if somehow she could convince him. “I’ll take care of her. We’ll make it this time.” He prayed she was right. But he had the gut feeling she was in for far more challenges than she expected. But who was he to contradict her and discourage her plans? He hardly knew her. In a few short weeks, she’d move on with Oren to another town and Connell would likely never see her again. And yet, down in the dark depths of her eyes, there was a spark that drew him in, a flicker of loneliness and longing, and it tugged on him, pulling him deeper. . . . And he was afraid

In the dim light he could see tears shimmering on her pale cheeks. He bent his head to catch their saltiness with the tip of his tongue. “Ah, Blue Eyes, ka taikay, ka taikay, don’t cry. Has my hand upon you ever brought pain?” “No,” she whispered brokenly. Determined to finish what he had begun, Hunter swept her slender body into his arms and strode to the bed. Lowering her gently onto the fur, he stretched out beside her and gathered her close, his manhood throbbing with urgency against the confining leather of his pants. He half expected her to struggle, and perhaps if she had, he could have continued, his one thought to consummate their marriage, to put her fears behind them and ease the ache in his loins. But instead of fighting him, she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and clung to him, so rigid with fear that she felt brittle, her limbs quivering almost uncontrollably. In a voice thick with tears, she said, “Hunter--would you do one thing for me? Just one small thing. Please?” He splayed a hand on her back and felt the wild hammering of her heart. “What thing, Blue Eyes?” “Would you get it over with quickly? Please? I won’t ever ask again, I swear it. Just this time, please?” Hunter buried a smile in her hair and closed his eyes, tightening his arms around her. His father’s voice whispered. Fear is not like dust on a leaf that can be washed away by a gentle rain. The words no sooner came to him than a dozen forgotten memories did as well. For an instant the years rolled away, and Hunter saw himself running hand in hand with Willow by the Stream through a meadow of red daisies, their laughter ringing across the windswept grass, their eyes shining with love as they drank in the sight of one another. He remembered so many things in that instant--the love, yes, but mostly he remembered the friendship he and Willow had shared, the trust, the silliness, the laughter. Ah, yes, the laughter…He and his little blue-eyes had laughed together so few times that Hunter had difficulty recalling when they had. Suddenly he knew that without the laughter, their loving would fall far short of what it should be. Especially for her. In a voice that rasped with frustration as well as tender amusement, Hunter said, “You have such a great want for me that we must hurry, yes?

He thought how easy it would be to write an entire book on Johannesburg violence. The strike leader Pickaxe Mary, after whom Mary Fitzgerald Square was named, who attacked her enemies with a pickaxe handle. The trenches dug into the streets of Fordsburg during the 1922 miners’ strike. The cannons of the government aimed at the poor whites of Vrededorp. The murdered woman in the 1960s whose head was found in the Zoo Lake and whose torso was discovered in a suitcase in Wemmer Pan. Jan Smuts, who wanted to bomb striking workers with aeroplanes. The countless schoolchildren shot during the 1976 uprising. The fifty-three supporters who were shot down in the street outside Shell House, the ANC headquarters. The huge bomb that went off shortly before the first democratic election and made a whole row of shops kneel down on the pavements of Bree Street. The commuters, in the early 1990s, killed by pangas or who jumped to their deaths from moving trains to escape their Portuguese-speaking attackers. The murderess Daisy de Melker, whose third husband survived only because she was caught in time. The violent home invasions, rapes and hijackings he read about in the newspapers every day.

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A roller coaster is all about fast thrills and wild, whiplashing movements. They can be a lot of fun, but they aren’t a good model for effective product management. Investors and executives like to see immediate results, and when those results don’t materialize right away, they can be tempted to pivot suddenly, resulting in whiplash for the product team. This problem comes from setting a time horizon that is too short. For startups, a lack of patience is often the result of having a very short runway. They have to get something up and running fast so they can raise the next round of funding, or they need to start producing revenue right away. Of course, everyone wants to make fast and efficient progress, but providing insufficient opportunity for success will result in false negatives that can lead product managers astray. When an otherwise healthy “fail-fast” mentality is taken to the extreme, it can stifle innovation. “We think this new feature is a good idea,” a product manager might say. “To avoid overinvesting, we’ll first launch a lackluster version of it. If it doesn’t get overwhelmingly positive results immediately, then we’ll know it’s not the right direction for our product.” Daisy-chained together, these false negatives result in a headache-inducing roller coaster ride for product development that ends up in exactly the same place it started.

The poems in this collection were short and terse except for the last one, about his father’s death, which spanned nearly seven pages. I read it quickly, my eyes tripping over the page, gulping it down so fast it stuck in my throat. When I finished, I read it again, slowly, trying to see how he had done it, captured something so ineffable, that moment when you pass from one state to another. But also how he had managed to describe the terror and ugliness of death so beautifully. It seemed impossible and yet he had done it. His words brought me back to my mother’s last moments, the hospital room, the incessant beeping of machines, the smells appalling and vile. My mother terrified and desperate and out of her mind with pain. “This isn’t supposed to happen,” Abe kept saying as though he had a say in things, as though the world made sense. Toward the end of the poem, Connelly wondered if his father would have wanted his son to witness his body making its final, horrifying turn against itself and if it would be wrong to leave. He wrote about wanting so desperately for it all to be over and then, when it was, his shame at having wished it. It was exactly how I had felt when my mother died, but I’d never told anyone because it felt wrong. How could you not want to spend every last second you could with someone you loved? But here Connelly was, not just talking about it but writing it. It was true what he told us in class: you could write anything, say anything. There were no rules. This poem was proof. I’d once read that writing is a conversation you have with an invisible reader and that is exactly how it felt to read his poem. It was as if he had written it so I might read it one day, sitting on the floor of a library in New Hampshire, as if he had moved across time and space and spoken directly to me.

You could fire me and send me away. Then where would I be? You know what happens to girls like me, who have no home to speak of? We end up riding the trains westward, picking up work at brothels, being worthless women in the eyes of society. Castle Moreau is a terrifying place, Mr. Tremblay. Your grandmother is horrific, and you, sir, are nothing short of a beast behind a desk ready to spring on me. So no, I do not speak my mind. I bite my tongue to stay alive, stay employed, and stay free of the defiling way of life many women in my shoes find themselves." She bit her tongue, contrary to what she'd just said, and everything inside of Daisy quivered at the realization. Perhaps her red hair did hide a smart wit after all, but a smart wit didn't imply a smart mouth, and she'd shown little wisdom in allowing Lincoln Tremblay to goad her into an honest outburst.

May I sit down, please?” she asked mildly. “I’m tired of standing.” “There’s no place to sit.” “Yes there is.” Breaking away from him, Daisy went to the four-poster bed and tried to climb onto it. Unfortunately the bed was an antique Sheraton, built high to avoid winter drafts and allow for a trundle below. The top of the mattress was level with her breasts. Hoisting herself upward, she tried to lever her h*ps onto the mattress. Gravity defeated her. “Usually,” Daisy said, struggling and squirming with her feet dangling, “there’s a stair-step provided—” She grabbed handfuls of the counterpane. “—for beds this tall.” Straining to hook a knee over the edge of the mattress, she continued, “Good God…if someone fell out of this bed at night…it would be fatal.” She felt Matthew’s hands clamp around her waist. “The bed’s not that tall,” he said. Picking her up as if she were a child, he deposited her on the mattress. “It’s just that you’re short.” “I’m not short. I’m…vertically disadvantaged.

The trouble with arriving at airports is it’s really hard not to jump up and down! Even if you’ve got your seat belt on! Arriving at airports is so exciting! All the buildings are big and square and made out of concrete. And all the lights are really bright. Plus there are absolutely loads of people everywhere. Plus if you look up in the sky, you can see actual planes coming in to land and other ones that are taking off! You should see how big aeroplanes look when they are close up! I thought one was going to land on our head! When we got out of our taxi, there were people pushing trolleys into the airport and people pushing trolleys out of the airport all over the place! All the people going in had long trousers on but some of the people coming out were wearing shorts! And flip-flops! And they had suntans and everything! Mum said the people coming out of the airport had been on their holidays and the people going in were about to start their holidays. Just like us! After Mum had paid the taxi man, we went and got a trolley all of our own! The trouble with trolleys all of your own is they make you want to have a ride on them. Mum said you aren’t really meant to ride on trolleys at the airport in case you fall off, but once we’d put our suitcases on, she let me climb on top! It was brilliant!!!!

Afancy party on the Fourth of July feels un-American. We should be gathered around a grill or open fire, wearing shorts and tekkies, toasting weenies and drinking beers from cans. A proper South African braai would feel more patriotic. My reflex is to tighten my bun or pull my hair out and redo it. It’s a nervous habit I’ve had

Next to You is a standalone Romantic Comedy/New Adult Romance about a rugby player and an heiress in Aspen. Stan and his man bun first appeared in the Modern Love Story Short, Take for Granted. This is a full-length novel told in dual POVs.

You’re going to let me drive the Rover? You sure you didn’t hit your head?” “I’ll be in the backseat, watching and judging your every move.” I open the back passenger door and awkwardly hop inside, trying to not knock my ankle against anything. The tightness of my boot tells me my ankle is swelling rapidly. Landon drives like an old woman while Easley gives him shit as his co-pilot. Every turn and bump in the road on the short drive from Buttermilk

And as I sat in a field of daisies I realised that I’d hand deliver this girl the sun and the moon if she asked for it.