The opening sequence of Anuk Arudpragasam's debut novel, in which a six-year-old child with a shrapnel-shredded arm is brought to an open-air operating theatre, feels horribly timely.
Nests in the wild are constructed of shredded bark.
Decades of pounding the essential som tam ingredients — chili and shredded green papaya — wore out her arms, and she recently passed the pestle on to her daughter.
Silhouettes filled most of the office windows that could not open, and smiles, waving arms and overturned boxes of shredded paper popped out of the ones that could.
I love you! Later, as her son blissfully dreamt of nothing, Mom lay bloody under the arm of her attacker, wide awake and in the same shredded clothing that Scott, in what would be his last gesture of dominance towards her, refused to let her change out of.
I love you!" Later, as her son blissfully dreamt of nothing, Mom lay bloody under the arm of her attacker, wide awake and in the same shredded clothing that Scott, in what would be his last gesture of dominance towards her, refused to let her change out of.
Wearing layered black tops and shredded skirts by Madeleine Walach, the dancers cross the stage with skittish steps and slicing arms, trying excessively hard to appear more animal than human.
Shredded politics tastes like.
Garnish with some shredded coriander.
The shredded garment falls off.
