flash-bulb-innocence

Call me Anna, she says, hoping they'll get the vague reference, but they never do, mainly because it's too obtuse, and partly because nobody really reads Moby Dick these days. But it matters not, nothing ever does. She wears her hair swept up and her mind swept away. There are the remains of a meal speckled upon her collar and down the front of her top, but people make sure not to comment. It wouldn't be right, but that's for later. First, call her Anna. Heroines always had such exciting names, she mourned, drowning in jealousy that she instantly hated them all. She embraced the plain out of spite, and insisted that people called her by her

. Scalding bathes for Lolita shake her body up. And arsenic drinks, the coroner thinks, were responsible for the scars. Now little mother spanish and stoic papa cry. Mourning and lamenting, sister Nola dies - of suicide, they say. Two children in a day. Another wake, funeral cake, now everyone\'s asking why. A week goes by and Lorelai, their sitter in arrears, confesses all: \"When those children called I wished that they would die! So I bathed the youngest quiet, after tepid poisoned tea, and strung her sister, Nola Whistler, up on the willow tree.\" .

Eliot talked of a man - who was not quite. Of a man leaving through the tip of his umbrella, exiting on that deepburied day,  all openings are one-way. He'd never told them that. Spoke Alice of her looking glass - not a demure lobotomized Liddell, but that staring girl, hair, black-shock, wild,  and done up like a beggar-child - "What did you do with Dodgson?" Here's a girl to set a story to, sitting on un-marked leaves fallen to yellow upon the ground a cold wish of their's was found: they did not let their larynx... come friendly blondes and cut your throats, they are - "'T peroxide 's been here with me since nineteen