Bailey White Quotes

I believe in grey...Some things aren't straightforward. Not everything is true or false, real or imaginary, black or white. It's not that simple.

I'm tired of being set upon by crazed Christians one minute and unbridled libertines the next. Girls, I'm going camping.

The Marquis sighed. "I thought it was just a legend," he said. "Like the alligators in the sewers of New York City." Old Bailey nodded, sagely: "What, the big white buggers? They're down there. I had a friend lost a head to one of them." A moment of silence. Old Naeiley handed the statue back to the Marquis. Then he raised his hand, and snapped it, like a crocodile hand, at the Carabas. "It was OK," gurned Old Bailey with a grin that was most terrible to behold. "He had another.

When Mama starts to move across a room, people pay attention. You can never be sure she's not going to grab you by the top of the head to steady herself. And she's pretty free with that walking stick, too.

It was no mean trick doing the wiring with those mittens on. But I managed it and crawled out, batting spiders into the shadows. I could hear a thud as they hit the floor joists, then a scuttling sound, then, worst of all, the silence of spiders.

We settled Mama into the wheelchair and loaded her down with both our pocketbooks and a vase of flowers I had picked to present to our host in hopes of softening the effects of any opinions Mama might vent during the evening.

Her blood-curdling snoring, with its gargling and squawking and its terrifying pauses is like the sound the devil might make if he were alternately relishing and strangling on a pound of human flesh.

When I got started again, I drove slower and felt smaller. I think it does us all good to get looked at like that now and then by a wild animal.

Are you still wearing those flimsy white panties?” “Yes,” Story breathed. “Good. I need you to reach inside and pet your clit for me. Gently, like I do it.

This womens skin is shimmering and pale, her long black hair is tied with dozens of silver ribbons that fall over her shoulders. Her gown is white, covered in what to Bailey looks like looping black embroidery, but as he walks closer he sees that the black marks are actually words written across the fabric. When he is near enough to read parts of the gown, he realizes that they are love letters, inscribed in handwritten text. Words of desire and longing wrapping around her waist, flowing down the train of her gown as it spills over the platform. The statue herself is still, but her hand is held out and only then does Bailey notice the young woman with a red scarf standing in front of her, offering the love letter-clad statue a sungle crimson rose. The movement is so subtle that it is almost undetectable, but slowly, very, very slowly, the statue reaches to accept the rose. Her fingers open, and the young woman with the rose waits patiently as the statue gradually closes her hand around the stem, releasing it only when it is secure. ....The statue is lifting the rose, gradually, to her face. Her eye lids slowly close.

For what is a disciple? He is one who seeks to learn a new rhythm, to enter a new field of experience, and to follow the steps of that advanced humanity who have trodden ahead of him the path, leading from darkness to light, from the unreal to the real.

Everything was insane. She was forcing him to consider light and shadows, when he’d only ever dealt in black and white. And she was the light. Shining bright enough to flay him

There was a most revealing rule: Slaves were to remain illiterate. In the antebellum South, whites who taught a slave to read were severely punished. “[To] make a contented slave,” Bailey later wrote, “it is necessary to make a thoughtless one. It is necessary to darken his moral and mental vision, and, as far as possible, to annihilate the power of reason.” This is why the slaveholders must control what slaves hear and see and think. This is why reading and critical thinking are dangerous, indeed subversive, in an unjust society.

Let the lowest white man count for more than the highest negro.

Everybody's a little crazy if you get to know them good enough.

The road looked as if no one had traveled on it in months. "It's not much farther," the grandmother said and just as she said it, a horrible thought came to her. The thought was so embarrassing that she turned red in the face and her eyes dilated and her feet jumped up, upsetting her valise in the corner. The instant the valise moved, the newspaper top she had over the basket under it rose with a snarl and Pitty Sing, the cat, sprang onto Bailey's shoulder. The children were thrown to the floor and their mother, clutching the baby, was thrown out the door onto the ground; the old lady was thrown into the front seat. The car turned over once and landed right-side-up in a gulch off the side of the road. Bailey remained in the driver's seat with the cat gray-striped with a broad white face and an orange nose clinging to his neck like a caterpillar. As soon as the children saw they could move their arms and legs, they scrambled out of the car, shouting, "We've had an ACCIDENT!" The grandmother was curled up under the dashboard, hoping she was injured so that Bailey's wrath would not come down on her all at once. The horrible thought she had had before the accident was that the house she had remembered so vividly was not in Georgia but in Tennessee.

Methodically, like a tested surgeon, Helen took Melvin through his experience as a coroner, going over his expertise in determining the cause and time of death in thousands of cases. After establishing his acumen in forensics,

The song continued and in the mists of the strange grove, a woman appeared. Her skin was as dark as the rich harvest earth, and white hair floated around her like a soft cloud in a clear winter sky. She wore a dress made of ice woven with the new blossoms of the first warm days of spring. Her eyes blazed as green as the fair golden days of summer, then turned gold like ripe fields of wheat. They glowed in the dim light as she watched him from her place atop a throne carved fro stone and the roots of a living tree.

I have the sick fantasy that whatever I see at the movies is going to happen to me at home. My bladder capacity increased tenfold after I saw "The Shining" because I was sure that if I went into the bathroom late at night, there would be a dead woman in the bathtub.

I wanted to try dainty Italian fare, and bought spicy Bologna sausage, pink papery hams, hard white bread, and chalky cheeses. I also bought the makings of a Mackeroni Pie I had seen made at an inn, and a new sort of green stuff named brockerly that proved a great deal tastier than cabbage.

Every cook knows it's a rare day when you have all the parts of the perfect dish. But that day back at Mawton I had everything I needed: white fleshed pippins, pink quince, and a cinnamon stick that smelled like a breeze from the Indies. My flour was clean, my butter as yellow as a buttercup.

Then she laughed out loud and hugged him tight with both arms. She smelled like pine trees and lichens and hot sand. How odd, thought Roger, that after all, this is what it took - not a flock of scarlet ibises or golden-crowned kinglets, but just the names of chicken, hovering in the air like the sulpher butterflies at the dump.

This woman's skin is shimmering and pale, her long black hair is tied with dozens of silver ribbons that fall over her shoulders. Her gown is white, covered in what to Bailey looks like looping black embroidery, but as he walks closer he sees that the black marks are actually words written across the fabric. When he is near enough to read parts of the gown, he realizes that they are love letters, inscribed in handwritten text. Words of desire and longing wrapping around her waist, flowing down the train of her gown as it spills over the platform. The statue herself is still, but her hand is held out, and only then does Bailey notice the young woman with a red scarf standing in front of her, offering the love-letter clad statue a single crimson rose.

A plain, brown paper-wrapped package came in the mail recently. Upon opening it, I saw that it was a patchwork quilt about four feet by five feet. Many little scraps of cloth, carefully joined by loving hands. Two squares have suggestions of a black cassock and Roman white collar. The maker of the quilt states, “In its variety, I feel it denotes confusion and the world “mixed” up. There are dark spots for the dark times and bright squares, so, hopefully, some good and brightness will come in the future. The other pieces of cloth were of happy times, mothers and children, peaceful settings, happy things.” A note inside stated that she felt we were “scraps,”—the “scraps” that the abusive priests treated us like. They would use us as a scrap is used and then simply toss us aside. I was moved to tears. Holding it in my hands, I could almost feel others' pain and suffering, as I touched each panel. It is a magnificent work, worthy of a prize. I was deeply humbled by the receipt of the quilt. This woman got it; she really got it. This woman got it; she really got it. She has a deeper understanding of what we have gone through. It is rare.

Save for the accident of her low birth, Peg might have been a person of fashion; a vibrant beauty, painted by an academician in oils. Intending to make a quick end to it, I started mixing the lily green I had made especially from crushed flowers, hoping exactly to tint her eyes, rattling my tiny brush in the jar. Then I subjected her to my closest gaze. "Your eyes," I said, musingly. "They are a very unusual green; in different lights they reflect brown and blue. Do they perhaps reflect whatever light falls on them?" Peg replied that she couldn't say. "Do, please, sit very still." I looked very hard, then used my green with a wash of yellow ochre to tint the iris, and a ring of burnt umber. A pinprick of white titanium gave them startling life. I was happy with them; surely even Peg would admire her lively cat-like eyes.

Then Revered Thomas would being. "Blessed Father, we thank you this morning..." and on and on and on. I'd stop listening after a while until Bailey kicked me and then I cracked my lids to see what had promised to be a meal that would make any Sunday proud. But as the Reverend droned on and on and on to a God who I though must be bored to hear the same things over and over again, I saw that the ham grease had turned white on the tomatoes.

Jess Pepper's review of the Avalon Strings: 'In a land so very civilized and modern as ours, it is unpopular to suggest that the mystical isle of Avalon ever truly existed. But I believe I have found proof of it right here in Manhattan. To understand my reasoning, you must recall first that enchanting tale of a mist-enshrouded isle where medieval women--descended from the gods--spawned heroic men. Most notable among these was the young King Arthur. In their most secret confessions, these mystic heroes acknowledged Avalon, and particularly the music of its maidens, as the source of their power. Many a school boy has wept reading of Young King Arthur standing silent on the shore as the magical isle disappears from view, shrouded in mist. The boy longs as Arthur did to leap the bank and pilot his canoe to the distant, singing atoll. To rejoin nymphs who guard in the depths of their water caves the meaning of life. To feel again the power that burns within. But knowledge fades and memory dims, and schoolboys grow up. As the legend goes, the way became unknown to mortal man. Only woman could navigate the treacherous blanket of white that dipped and swirled at the surface of the water. And with its fading went also the music of the fabled isle. Harps and strings that heralded the dawn and incited robed maidens to dance evaporated into the mists of time, and silence ruled. But I tell you, Kind Reader, that the music of Avalon lives. The spirit that enchanted knights in chain mail long eons ago is reborn in our fair city, in our own small band of fair maids who tap that legendary spirit to make music as the Avalon Strings. Theirs is no common gift. Theirs is no ordinary sound. It is driven by a fire from within, borne on fingers bloodied by repetition. Minds tormented by a thirst for perfection. And most startling of all is the voice that rises above, the stunning virtuoso whose example leads her small company to higher planes. Could any other collection of musicians achieve the heights of this illustrious few? I think not. I believe, Friends of the City, that when we witnes their performance, as we may almost nightly at the Warwick Hotel, we witness history's gift to this moment in time. And for a few brief moments in the presence of these maids, we witness the fiery spirit that endured and escaped the obliterating mists of Avalon.

Now this is grand, she thought, the white linen well-pressed, the warm light glimmering from a score of candles, the silver plate polished like mirrors. It was a feast in a picture book, a queen's banquet in a fairy castle. At the centre rose a vast Desert Island molded from sugar-paste, just as Aunt Charlotte had used to make it. A stockade of licorice crowned the peak, and a pathway of pink sugar sand stretched to the shore. The whole was surrounded by a sea of broken jelly, swimming with candied fish. First off, she ate the two tiny sugar castaways from the lookout on her island- very sweet and crisp they were, too. She stood to make a toast. "To you, Jack, my own true love," and took a long draught. Sugarplums next; a whole pyramid to herself, of every color: raspberry, orange, violet, pistachio. She was eating dinner back to front, and she recommended it heartily. Next, her teeth sank into a sticky mass of moonshine jelly- it was good, very good.

Mon frère, Claude,' urged Florence, leading me to a youth just like herself in broad shape and countenance. He talked rapidly with Florence, all the while tending a tiny copper saucepan. Then breaking off his talk, he reached for a teaspoon, and with all the worshipfulness of a priest at an altar, Claude tasted the shining stock, his face blank to all but his sense of taste. 'Quintessence,' whispered Florence, sniffing in awe at the rising steam. 'For many days the meat is reduced to create the soul of the sauce.' Then with measured care he reached for a lemon and squeezed in four steady drops. The name of the dish was souffle, as the French write it. I wrote the particulars down, as it was a most magical dish. Who would have guessed that egg whites fraught for a long while could make a dish rise like a cloud? Once it had risen in a hot oven, Claude dressed the souffle with a ring of honeyed quintessence. It quivered on a pretty porcelain plate like a gently steaming puffball.

She sent a serving girl out to fetch some food. A beef pie, bread and butter and plenty of the sweet stuff that she loved. She devoured a treacle pudding, closing her eyes to savor every sticky crumb. Sugar. How she had craved the stuff. Though her belly was full, still she helped herself from a paper bag of sugarplums, globes of candied fruits that made her cheeks bulge. Was this happiness, she wondered? She was full of food again, and as sleepy as a suckled child. She pictured a well-stocked larder, and the chance to make all the delights in Mother Eve's Secrets. She would help herself to the best, of course, for she who stirs the pot never starves. A comfortable future lay before her, all for the taking. Mrs. Quin bustled back into the room and began to dress her face. Gone were the worst of the bran-specks and flaking red sores. Instead, she had the prettiness of a portrait on an enameled tin; a smudgy confection of pink and cream. "A rosy blush," Mrs. Quin said benignly, "is the fashion nowadays." While Mrs. Quin deposited her half a crown in a locked trunk, Mary slipped a bottle of Pear's Almond Bloom and a tin of White Imperial Powder into her skirts.

back. She knew she was lucky to have a job but she didn’t feel lucky. She felt depressed. Sad. Tired. And most of all, confused. She knew this was the week of Ruth Ann’s trial. There hadn’t been any press coverage yet, but she remembered the date. She had wanted to call Rick and wish him luck. In fact, she had picked up the phone several times and started to dial the number, but she just couldn’t go through with it. Not after all the things they had said to each other. She opened the back door to the office and stepped out into the night. The parking lot was barren except for her white Mustang, and the only sounds she heard were the passing of cars on Greensboro a few blocks up. She shut the door behind her, putting the key in the dead bolt and twisting it. “Kinda late for a pretty girl like you to be out.” Dawn turned to the sound of the voice, her stomach tightening into a knot. The lot was sparsely lit, and for a moment she didn’t see him. Then, standing by her Mustang, she saw a tall man dressed in khaki pants and a golf shirt. As he stepped toward her, she noticed that his hair was sandy blond and he had a patch of stubble on his face. “Can I help you?” Dawn asked, her voice shaky. She reached into her pocket for her cell phone but then remembered that the battery was dead. Damn, damn, damn. The man was in front of her now. He had continued to approach as if his appearance were completely natural.

Two organisations spawned by Alice Bailey’s work, the Lucis Trust (formerly the Lucifer Trust) and the World Goodwill Organisation, are both staunch promoters of the United Nations. They are almost UN ‘groupies’, such is their devotion. It is interesting to see how the New Age has inherited ‘truths’ over the decades in the same way that conventional religion has done over the centuries. As the followers of Christianity have inherited the manipulated version of Jesus, so New Agers have inherited the Masters. There is too little checking of origins, too much acceptance of inherited belief, I think. Certainly there is with the Masters and Blavatsky’s Great White Brotherhood because she admitted in correspondence with her sister, that she had made up their names by using the nicknames of the Rosicrucians and Freemasons who were funding her. Yet today all over the world there are hundreds of thousands (at least) of New Age ‘channellers’ who claim to be communicating with these Masters and with the Archangel Michael who is an ancient deity of the Phoenicians. If the New Age isn’t careful, it will be Christianity revisited. It is already becoming so. I believe that the concept of Masters can be a means through which those who have rejected the status quo of religion and science can still have their minds controlled.

growth is limited by their fanaticism. They belong mostly to the

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I had read another book, called Chromophobia, by David Batchelor, around this time, and he described how the modernist design aesthetic - the white kitchen, white floors, white walls - is a denial of our humanity. The reason bathrooms are white, too, is not only so you know that they are clean, but also so you know that they are not what's inside of us.

Though I couldn’t see it, I knew the Atlantic was behind the buildings on the other side of the street. Everything seemed so alien that it was hard to believe I was only a few miles from Manhattan.

with signs in Russian.

I was gazing at: Brighton Beach Avenue, a four-lane road below the elevated train, was lined with endless storefronts—delis, hair salons, bookstores, dentists, funeral homes, palm readers—

B train for Brighton Beach. Though the subway trip may have been shorter than going by car, it still seemed interminable, and just when I thought I couldn’t take one more second, the train rocketed out of the tunnel and up onto an elevated track. I should have realized part of the trip would be aboveground, but I hadn’t been expecting it. We rattled along the track, past endless grim, grimy red-brick buildings. A few seconds later, we pulled into

You never wanted to appear out of your element in New York. It made you vulnerable.

The keynote of the new yoga will be synthesis: its objective will be conscious development of the intuitive faculty. This development will fall into two categories: first, the development of the intuition and of true spiritual perception, and secondly, the trained utilization of the mind as an interpreting agent.” Treatise on White Magic, pg. 429

I’d been to Chelsea Piers a few times over the years. It’s a series of buildings constructed on four adjoining piers where the West 20s meet the Hudson River. Back in the early part of the twentieth century, it had been a thriving part of the riverfront, where some of the great ships docked in between their transatlantic crossings. In fact, according to a sign posted there, the Titanic had been destined to dock at

Bo had opened his law practice in September 1985, just a few months after graduating from the University of Alabama School of Law, and three weeks after his marriage to the lovely Jasmine Desiree Henderson. He’d done well in school,

Tom let his eyes drift to the gallery, which was again filled to capacity. He noticed that for the third straight day, Jasmine Haynes had attached an orange corsage to her dress just above her heart. Curious, Tom had asked Jazz about the garnish this morning. “When the Klan marched in 1989 with the Aryan Nation, the people here protested by putting orange wreaths and ribbons on all the business doors,” she had explained. “Orange is the international color of brotherhood. Bo and I were part of that protest, and I guess I’m . . . trying to send a message.

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Bullies are people whose goal in life is to keep you or other folks down. They’re so stupid and insecure in who they are, their whole identity comes from the suppression of others.” She

Preston Bailey is the be-all, end-all." Mary Ellen sighed. "He is the top celebrity and Saudi royal-family wedding planner, and people pay him millions of dollars just to plan an event. He's like the Baz Luhrmann of weddings---he creates the most transportive, gorgeous fantasy worlds." She pulled a coffee-table book from the top shelf above her desk, ignoring Abigail as usual. At least the indifference was mutual. Claire and I drooled over every picture in the book about Bailey's events. There was a twelve-foot Arc de Triomphe made entirely of rose heads, massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling hanging from the ceiling dripping in white phalaenopsis orchids and crystals, every kind of animal you could imagine made completely out of roses, and that was just the first chapter.

This here is Miz Nellie Ward," Dane started. "Until about an hour ago, she was the owner of one of the finest brothels in Dodge City.” He smiled at the woman and continued. “The place burned to the ground and all her girls left to work for another house.” “What the hell is this about, Marshal?” Mindy said. “If you think I’m going to work for Nellie you’re crazy.” She nodded at the woman. “No offense, Nellie. It’s just that I ain’t got a hankering for spending my time flat on my back. That about killed my mama.” “None taken,” Nellie said, her lips twitching. “Although that’s not why Nellie is here, missy, you might not be so quick to dismiss a job,” the marshal said. “Stuart stopped me on the way over here so I could tell you to turn in your dress, cause you’ve been fired.” “Well, hell. Ain’t that like a man? Takes the mayor’s side in this, without even hearing what really happened.” “Forget it, girl. What I have to say to you—” his eyes swept over the other three women behind bars. “All of you—is I have a proposal.” He paused, making sure he had all their attention. “Nellie’s place burned down, and she has nowhere to go. All of you are a burr under my saddle. I can’t have women in my jail, but none of you have a job or a place to stay.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “So, this is the deal. There’s a wagon train right now at Fort Dodge from Independence that’s headed to Santa Fe, New Mexico territory. Now I happen to know there are plenty of men down that way looking for wives.” One of the women gasped. “Marshal, surely you’re not suggesting . . .” “Yes, ma’am I am suggesting. You gals will either get on that wagon train with Nellie here as your chaperone or wait until the circuit judge comes around when he sobers up. He’ll be so blasted hung over, he’s liable to send y’all off to the state prison.” “That’s outrageous. You can’t force us to marry strangers.” Another young, pretty girl clutched the cell bars, her knuckles white. “No, ma’am, you’re probably right. I can’t do that. But what I can do is leave you sitting here until old Judge Bailey makes his appearance. Sometimes we don’t see him for six months.” “I’m willing.” The girl curled up on her cot said, her voice barely above a whisper. From Prisoners of Love: Nellie, A Christmas to Remember

If I hadn’t converted my unused, fluffy white wedding dress into a zombie bride Halloween costume a couple of years earlier, I wouldn’t have put it past Mama to suggest that I wear that.

Ku Klux Klan” was chosen as the name, because it came from the Greek word kyklos, meaning circle of brothers.

This is one insidious outcome of a system that has been built from its very inception by White people and on the backs of the Black community. Simply put, Whites have amassed wealth and Blacks have not. That’s not liberal bullshit. It’s the truth.

The door opens on its own, like I was told it would, and I steel my shoulders before walking over. There is a small staircase heading down into warm light, and I walk down the steps, surprised to see a meadow of blue and white flowers and waterfalls that pour down every wall, and it’s a breathtaking place to stand in. The cavern glitters with its own magic, and I can taste the magic in the air, along with the scent of the water and flowers. This place is old but familiar, and I wonder if Persephone ever stood where I did. The door shuts at the top of the stairs behind me, and I glance up at the dim lights on the ceiling, which are cut into star shapes to look like real stars in a night sky. It’s not too bright in here, just dim enough, but I don’t have to hear the door opening to sense them walking in. I head to the bottom of the stone steps, digging my toes into the thick grass. It must be some form of magic, and it certainly feels that way as my alphas walk together down the steps, in their wolf forms, and it takes my breath away to see them like this. Their wolves are large and black-furred, and red magic bounces off into the shadows with every step. It doesn’t seem real that we are finally going to be together, bonded in a way only death can stop. I’ve waited since I was a child to be their mate. Even when I couldn’t remember them, they were my entire heart. I’ve fallen for them more than once, and I fall even more with every second I spend in their arms. My alphas are mine, and I’m theirs. They are my mates. I turn and walk into the meadow, knowing they will follow me over, and they do.

The town of Destin was a slice of heaven on the panhandle of Florida’s Gulf Coast. Originally a small fishing village, the area’s white beaches and emerald-green waters made it one of the most popular vacation spots in the United States, attracting families and tourists from all over.

backbone has

A mental image came to her of a good submarine--painted white, perhaps, with a crew that eschewed swearing (at sea) and hard liquor (when ashore), engaged in heroic acts, never used, as most submarines were, to intimidate others. But there were no such submarines--not in the world we knew. There were only dark prowlers bristling with weapons. One nuclear submarine, armed with its Trident missiles, could destroy our planet as we knew it. One submarine, she thought; one. In such a world, what chance did a good submarine have?

The line between the Rebel and Union element in Georgetown was so marked that it led to divisions even in the churches. There were churches in that part of Ohio where treason was preached regularly, and where, to secure membership, hostility to the government, to the war and to the liberation of the slaves, was far more essential than a belief in the authenticity or credibility of the Bible. There were men in Georgetown who filled all the requirements for membership in these churches. Yet this far-off western village, with a population, including old and young, male and female, of about one thousand—about enough for the organization of a single regiment if all had been men capable of bearing arms—furnished the Union army four general officers and one colonel, West Point graduates, and nine generals and field officers of Volunteers, that I can think of. Of the graduates from West Point, all had citizenship elsewhere at the breaking out of the rebellion, except possibly General A. V. Kautz, who had remained in the army from his graduation. Two of the colonels also entered the service from other localities. The other seven, General McGroierty, Colonels White, Fyffe, Loudon and Marshall, Majors King and Bailey, were all residents of Georgetown when the war broke out, and all of them, who were alive at the close, returned there. Major Bailey was the cadet who had preceded me at West Point. He was killed in West Virginia, in his first engagement. As far as I know, every boy who has entered West Point from that village since my time has been graduated.

My brother hated Connor, and he always said that ‘birds of a feather, flock together.’ He told me that if that ‘white nigga’ hangs around racist mothafuckas, then he was racist too and there was nothing that I could say to change his mind. Honestly, Connor has never said anything racist around me; even when he has been angry as hell at me, nothing of the sort came out of his mouth. Also, he would tell me to keep my scars covered, which was one of my biggest insecurities. That is one of the reasons why I wore a lot of makeup and never wore my arms or

She's a mystery. She's truth. She's black, white, and gray. She's mine.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions,

I don’t know,” Triple J says with a sigh from a few rows up. “If I got married, I’d want to help plan the whole thing. Little pigs in blankets, an arch made of white roses, and those centerpieces on the tables with floating candles…” He trails off as the entire bus breaks into peals of howling laughter. Up at the front, in the bus’s rearview mirror, I see that even Coach Torres’ mouth is twitching.

He’d gone rigidly hard when she’d sunk her white teeth into the lollipop. Not only because her spirit turned him on like hell but because it had felt like a transgression. She’d gone against his long-indulged wishes, and his dominant instincts made him want to chasten her for it, have that fierce spirit at his command. Not her. Not yet, anyway. “See, that was unwise. Now I’m just picturing you in a bustier.

According to the old black and white sci-fi films he'd loved as a child, the only reason that aliens would come to earth was to warn them that humanity's warlike intentions would one day threaten the other planets. He was almost sure he'd seen the scene in some classic film.

The whole roaring crowd was gathered in the long room to give my boar's head fulsome applause when it was carried aloft on a platter. And my goodness, those old folk's eyes were as round as marbles when they saw the tables piled as high as Balthazar's Feast. Plum pottage, minced pies, roast beef, turkey with sage and red wine sauce- and that were just the first course. I was mostly pleased with the second course, for alongside the tongues, brawn, collared eels, ducks and mutton I'd put some pretty snowballs made of apples iced in white sugar, all taken from a dish in Lady Maria's hand in 'The Cook's Jewel.

Possibly, he’d been right in waiting to go any further. Because tomorrow, inevitably, she would look back on tonight and regret letting him order her around, arouse her to the point that she’d begged. But right now, she felt depleted. A foreign sense of contentment that should have alarmed her, but she couldn’t find the strength to battle with. She felt…conquered. If she’d stopped to ponder an hour ago whether or not she’d enjoy being dominated in bed, she would have laughed until her ribs ached. Now? If she had a tiny, white flag in her hand, she would be waving it in the air in surrender.

Bullies are only scared of two things. People who aren’t scared of them . . . and people who won’t tolerate them.

They’re so stupid and insecure in who they are, their whole identity comes from the suppression of others.” She had paused then, creasing her eyebrows and looking over Tom’s shoulder with an expression that reeked of disgust. “And there’s only one way to deal with them.” “You fight them,” Tom had volunteered, trying to be helpful, but his mother’s eyebrows had creased even further, and she brought both fists down on the table. “No. You fought the other day when you came home with a shiner.” “So . . . the stick.” She nodded. “Bullies always slant the field in their direction. They don’t play by the rules, so the rules of fairness don’t apply. It doesn’t matter how big and strong a bully is if you bring a stick to the fight.” Then she’d said something he’d never forgotten. “Bullies are only scared of two things. People who aren’t scared of them . . . and people who won’t tolerate them.

She’d pulled the very top part of her long strawberry blond hair into a tiny ponytail, making her look like a Yorky.

And as I’m leaving, my mother has the housekeeper hand me a shopping bag of food. I could win a bloody Oscar for a film someday, and my mother would still be asking me if I had enough clean clothes for the week.

About the same as if someone had just backed over me with their SUV. Honestly, it was this god-awful mix of unrequited love and raw humiliation over the fact that he hadn’t called me. If they could only harvest that feeling, it would make a perfect weapon of mass destruction.

Banana Cabanas To make two banana cabanas, put 1/2 cup Coco Lopez into a blender. Add 1/2 cup Baileys Irish Cream, 2 ripe bananas, 2 cups ice cubes, and, if you like, 2 ounces white rum. It’s great with or without the rum. Blend on high speed until smooth and creamy.

This story is not at all an uncommon one in tech circles, including gaming. The popular notion is that women who get ahead must be engaging in something underhanded to do so, because tech is a white man’s world (even as they will then describe it as a meritocracy of the best kind). Any successful woman can expect to be accused of sleeping her way to the top.

Bullies are only scared of two things. People who aren’t scared of them . . . and people who won’t tolerate them.” Tom

I guess I believe in grey. Not everything is true or false, real or imaginary, black or white. It's not that simple" -Lachlan

It’s a terrible painting,” said Della, backing away from it with distaste. “There’s definitely something wrong with the mayonnaise,” said Lucy. “It looks almost curdled, as if she added the oil too quickly.” “I don’t know anything about mayonnaise,” said Della. “It’s just a terrible painting. I don’t blame Dr. Vanlandingham.” “But I like the idea of it, said Roger. “A portrait of a sandwich.

Today’s Children, The Woman in White, and The Guiding Light crossed over and interchanged in respective storylines.) June 2, 1947–June 29, 1956, CBS. 15m weekdays at 1:45. Procter & Gamble’s Duz Detergent. CAST: 1937 to mid-1940s: Arthur Peterson as the Rev. John Ruthledge of Five Points, the serial’s first protagonist. Mercedes McCambridge as Mary Ruthledge, his daughter; Sarajane Wells later as Mary. Ed Prentiss as Ned Holden, who was abandoned by his mother as a child and taken in by the Ruthledges; Ned LeFevre and John Hodiak also as Ned. Ruth Bailey as Rose Kransky; Charlotte Manson also as Rose. Mignon Schrieber as Mrs. Kransky. Seymour Young as Jacob Kransky, Rose’s brother. Sam Wanamaker as Ellis Smith, the enigmatic “Nobody from Nowhere”; Phil Dakin and Raymond Edward Johnson also as Ellis. Henrietta Tedro as Ellen, the housekeeper. Margaret Fuller and Muriel Bremner as Fredrika Lang. Gladys Heen as Torchy Reynolds. Bill Bouchey as Charles Cunningham. Lesley Woods and Carolyn McKay as Celeste, his wife. Laurette Fillbrandt as Nancy Stewart. Frank Behrens as the Rev. Tom Bannion, Ruthledge’s assistant. The Greenman family, early characters: Eloise Kummer as Norma; Reese Taylor and Ken Griffin as Ed; Norma Jean Ross as Ronnie, their daughter. Transition from clergy to medical background, mid-1940s: John Barclay as Dr. Richard Gaylord. Jane Webb as Peggy Gaylord. Hugh Studebaker as Dr. Charles Matthews. Willard Waterman as Roger Barton (alias Ray Brandon). Betty Lou Gerson as Charlotte Wilson. Ned LeFevre as Ned Holden. Tom Holland as Eddie Bingham. Mary Lansing as Julie Collins. 1950s: Jone Allison as Meta Bauer. Lyle Sudrow as Bill Bauer. Charita Bauer as Bert, Bill’s wife, a role she would carry into television and play for three decades. Laurette Fillbrandt as Trudy Bauer. Glenn Walken as little Michael. Theo Goetz as Papa Bauer. James Lipton as Dr. Dick Grant. Lynn Rogers as Marie Wallace, the artist.

I didn’t understand it, and I wasn’t sure I ever would. But the undeniable truth was that even when my mind fought it, my body belonged to Thorn completely, and I held no power over myself when he was close to me.

It might help a bit,” said Merch, standing with his arms crossed, “if you were to show us how it’s done.” “I believe I already have,” Brandegan replied; “several times.” “All you did was tell us what to do,” Merch retorted. “The only thing you’ve showed us so far is how to hold and draw. We’ve yet to see you shoot.” Brandegan raised an eyebrow. “And if I were to stand where you just did, draw my bow and fire an arrow ringed with white flames that sailed over forty leagues into the north and cracked the eastern crest of Baulon, how would that help you to enhance your own scanty skills?” Merch blinked.

Spend a few years of your childhood hungry, and a person gains an appreciation for the almighty dollar and its importance in life.

White soup, Roast Meat in Crumbs, Mutton Ragoo, Yorkshire Pudding, Chicken Pie, Mint Sauce, Apple Sauce, Bread Sauce, Marigold Tart

their heads popping up prairie-dog style from their cubes.