Big Beacon Quotes

It's a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these lines which run high and allow you to look down upon the houses like this." I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid enough, but he soon explained himself. "Look at those big, isolated clumps of buildings rising up above the slates, like brick islands in a lead-coloured sea." "The board-schools." "Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules with hundreds of bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring the wiser, better England of the future.

Graceful. Lean. Coordinated as she whirls, though how she knows what dancing is, [her grandfather] could never guess. The song plays on. He lets it go too long. The antenna is still up, probably dimly visible against the sky, the whole attic might as well shine like a beacon. But in the candlelight, in the sweet rush of a concerto, Marie-Laure bites her lower lip, and her face gives off a secondary glow, reminding him of the marshes beyond the town walls, in those winter dusks when the sun has set but isn't fully swallowed, and big patches of red pools of light burn - places he used to go with his brother, in what seems like lifetimes ago.

The chewy meat center of their big ol’ spacesicle.

What happened to your arm?" she asked me one night in the Gentleman Loser, the three of us drinking at a small table in a corner. Hang-gliding," I said, "accident." Hang-gliding over a wheatfield," said Bobby, "place called Kiev. Our Jack's just hanging there in the dark, under a Nightwing parafoil, with fifty kilos of radar jammed between his legs, and some Russian asshole accidentally burns his arm off with a laser." I don't remember how I changed the subject, but I did. I was still telling myself that it wasn't Rikki who getting to me, but what Bobby was doing with her. I'd known him for a long time, since the end of the war, and I knew he used women as counters in a game, Bobby Quine versus fortune, versus time and the night of cities. And Rikki had turned up just when he needed something to get him going, something to aim for. So he'd set her up as a symbol for everything he wanted and couldn't have, everything he'd had and couldn't keep. I didn't like having to listen to him tell me how much he loved her, and knowing he believed it only made it worse. He was a past master at the hard fall and the rapid recovery, and I'd seen it happen a dozen times before. He might as well have had next printed across his sunglasses in green Day-Glo capitals, ready to flash out at the first interesting face that flowed past the tables in the Gentleman Loser. I knew what he did to them. He turned them into emblems, sigils on the map of his hustler' s life, navigation beacons he could follow through a sea of bars and neon. What else did he have to steer by? He didn't love money, in and of itself , not enough to follow its lights. He wouldn't work for power over other people; he hated the responsibility it brings. He had some basic pride in his skill, but that was never enough to keep him pushing. So he made do with women. When Rikki showed up, he needed one in the worst way. He was fading fast, and smart money was already whispering that the edge was off his game. He needed that one big score, and soon, because he didn't know any other kind of life, and all his clocks were set for hustler's time, calibrated in risk and adrenaline and that supernal dawn calm that comes when every move's proved right and a sweet lump of someone else's credit clicks into your own account.

And there was the moon. A warm and visible greeting, a beacon of relief. Full, unshrouded, its edges crisp. It looked like an airy wafer- what were those crackers that came in the big green tin? She stared at the moon and thought about the fact that she was breathing. Fact of breathing, fact of life. This she could control: slow down and speed up her breathing, despite the pain in her throat. She'd never really looked at the moon, never really seen how intricate the etchings on its yellowy silver surface. Bowl of a spoon in candlelight. When she'd looked a long time- I see the moon, and the moon sees me- a glimmering ring like a rainbow materialized at the rim. In the memory she still retained, as clear as a framed snapshot, a portrait worn in a locket, Saga stared at the moon that way for hours, and it kept her company, it kept her sane, it kept her in one piece, it kept her alive. It was proof, fact, patience, faith.

before he went back to helping the boy. Missing from the Warrior tent were Kalona and Aurox. For obvious reasons, Thanatos had decided the Tulsa community wasn’t ready to meet either of them. I agreed with her. I wasn’t ready for … I mentally shook myself. No, I wasn’t going to think about the Aurox/Heath situation now. Instead I turned my attention to the second of the big tents. Lenobia was there, keeping a sharp eye on the people who clustered like buzzing bees around Mujaji and the big Percheron mare, Bonnie. Travis was with her. Travis was always with her, which made my heart feel good. It was awesome to see Lenobia in love. The Horse Mistress was like a bright, shining beacon of joy, and with all the Darkness I’d seen lately, that was rain in my desert. “Oh, for shit’s sake, where did I put my wine? Has anyone seen my Queenies cup? As the bumpkin reminded me, my parents are here somewhere, and I’m going to need fortification by the time they circle around and find me.” Aphrodite was muttering and pawing through the boxes of unsold cookies, searching for the big purple plastic cup I’d seen her drinking from earlier. “You have wine in that Queenies to go cup?” Stevie Rae was shaking her head at Aphrodite. “And you’ve been drinkin’ it through a straw?” Shaunee joined Stevie Rae in a head shake. “Isn’t that nasty?” “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Aphrodite quipped. “There are too many nuns lurking around to drink openly without hearing a boring lecture.” Aphrodite cut her eyes to the right of us where Street Cats had set up a half-moon display of cages filled with adoptable cats and bins of catnip-filled toys for sale. The Street Cats had their own miniature version of the silver and white tents, and I could see Damien sitting inside busily handling the cash register, but except for him, running every aspect of the feline area were the habit-wearing Benedictine nuns who had made Street Cats their own. One of the nuns looked my way and I waved and grinned at the Abbess. Sister Mary Angela waved back before returning to the conversation she was having with a family who were obviously falling in love with a cute white cat that looked like a giant cottonball. “Aphrodite, the nuns are cool,” I reminded her. “And they look too busy to pay any attention to you,” Stevie Rae said. “Imagine that—you may not be the center of everyone’s attention,” Shaylin said with mock surprise. Stevie Rae covered her giggle with a cough. Before Aphrodite could say something hateful, Grandma limped up to us. Other than the limp and being pale, Grandma looked healthy and happy. It had only been a little over a week since Neferet had kidnapped and tried to kill her, but she’d recovered with amazing quickness. Thanatos had told us that was because she was in unusually good shape for a woman of her age. I knew it was because of something else—something we both shared—a special bond with a goddess who believed in giving her children free choice, along with gifting them with special abilities. Grandma was beloved of the Great Mother,

Simon laughs when I audibly exhale. “Relieved she’s not here yet?” I roll my suitcase into one of the barren bedrooms and then plunk down on the rock-hard, hideous orange sofa in the lounge. Simon takes a swivel chair from my room and slides it in front of me, where he then plants himself. “Why are you so worried?” I cross my arms and look around the concrete room. “I’m not worried at all. She’s probably very nice. I’m sure we’ll become soul mates, and she’ll braid my hair, and we’ll have pillow fights while scantily clad and fall into a deep lesbian love affair.” I squint my eyes at a cobweb and assume there are spider eggs preparing to hatch and invade the room. “Allison?” Simon waits until I look at him. “You can’t do that. You can’t become a lesbian.” “Why not?” “Because then everyone will say that your adoptive gay father magically made you gay, and it’ll be a big thing, and we’ll have to hear about nature versus nurture, and it’ll be soooooo boring.” “You have a point.” I wait for spider eggs to fall from the sky. “Then I’ll go with assuming she’s just a really sweet, normal person with whom I do not want to engage in sexual relations.” “Better,” he concedes. “I’m sure she’ll be nice. This kind of strong liberal arts college attracts quality students. There’re good people here.” He’s trying to reassure me, but it’s not working. “Totally,” I say. My fingers run across the nubby burned-orange fabric covering the couch, which is clearly composed of rock slabs. “Simon?” “Yes, Allison?” I sigh and take a few breaths while I play with the hideous couch threads. “She probably has horns.” He shrugged. “I think that’s unlikely.” Simon pauses. “Although . . .” “Although what?” I ask with horror. There’s a long silence that makes me nervous. Finally, he says very slowly, “She might have one horn.” I jerk my head and stare at him. Simon claps his hands together and tries to coax a smile out of me. “Like a unicorn! Ohmigod! Your roommate might be a unicorn!” “Or a rhinoceros,” I point out. “A beastly, murderous rhino.” “There is that,” he concedes. I sigh. “In good news, if I ever need a back scratcher, I have this entire couch.” I slump back against the rough fabric and hold out my hands before he can protest. “I know. I’m a beacon of positivity.” “That’s not news to me.

45 Mercy Street In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone, my real dream, I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill searching for a street sign - namely MERCY STREET. Not there. I try the Back Bay. Not there. Not there. And yet I know the number. 45 Mercy Street. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. I know it well. Not there. Where did you go? 45 Mercy Street, with great-grandmother kneeling in her whale-bone corset and praying gently but fiercely to the wash basin, at five A.M. at noon dozing in her wiggy rocker, grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower on her forehead to cover the curl of when she was good and when she was... And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I walk. I walk. I hold matches at street signs for it is dark, as dark as the leathery dead and I have lost my green Ford, my house in the suburbs, two little kids sucked up like pollen by the bee in me and a husband who has wiped off his eyes in order not to see my inside out and I am walking and looking and this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime. Pull the shades down - I don't care! Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? Not there. I open my pocketbook, as women do, and fish swim back and forth between the dollars and the lipstick. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.

In a matter of sixty short minutes, that thing could whisk Neil away to civilization, I thought. Hmm. My goodness, that was a beautiful prospect. Somehow I had to get on that chopper with him. I packed in thirty seconds flat, everything from the past three months. I taped a white cross onto my sleeve, and raced out to where Neil was sat waiting. One chance. What the heck. Neil shook his head at me, smiling. “God, you push it, Bear, don’t you?” he shouted over the noise of the rotors. “You’re going to need a decent medic on the flight,” I replied, with a smile. “And I’m your man.” (There was at least some element of truth in this: I was a medic and I was his buddy--and yes, he did need help. But essentially I was trying to pull a bit of a fast one.) The pilot shouted that two people would be too heavy. “I have to accompany him at all times,” I shouted back over the engine noise. “His feet might fall off at any moment,” I added quietly. The pilot looked back at me, then at the white cross on my sleeve. He agreed to drop Neil somewhere down at a lower altitude, and then come back for me. “Perfect. Go. I’ll be here.” I shook his hand firmly. Let’s just get this done before anyone thinks too much about it, I mumbled to myself. And with that the pilot took off and disappeared from view. Mick and Henry were laughing. “If you pull this one off, Bear, I will eat my socks. You just love to push it, don’t you?” Mick said, smiling. “Yep, good try, but you aren’t going to see him again, I guarantee you,” Henry added. Thanks to the pilot’s big balls, he was wrong. The heli returned empty, I leapt aboard, and with the rotors whirring at full power to get some grip in the thin air, the bird slowly lifted into the air. The stall warning light kept buzzing away as we fought against gravity, but then the nose dipped and soon we were skimming over the rocks, away from base camp and down the glacier. I was out of there--and Mick was busy taking his socks off. As we descended, I spotted, far beneath us, this lone figure sat on a rock in the middle of a giant boulder field. Neil’s two white “beacons” shining bright. I love it. I smiled. We picked Neil up, and in an instant we were flying together through the huge Himalayan valleys like an eagle freed. Neil and I sat back in the helicopter, faces pressed against the glass, and watched our life for the past three months become a shimmer in the distance. The great mountain faded into a haze, hidden from sight. I leaned against Neil’s shoulder and closed my eyes. Everest was gone.

Yesterday on Boston Common I saw a young man on a skateboard collide with a child. The skateboarder was racing down the promenade and smashed into the child with full force. I saw this happen from a considerable distance. It happened without a sound. It happened in dead silence. The cry of the terrified child as she darted to avoid the skateboard and the scream of the child’s mother at the moment of impact were absorbed by the gray wool of the November day. The child’s body simply lifted up into the air and, in slow motion, as if in a dream, floated above the promenade, bounced twice like a rubber ball, and lay still. All of this happened in perfect silence. It was as if I were watching the tragedy through a telescope. It was as if the tragedy were happening on another planet. I have seen stars exploding in space, colossal, planet-shattering, distanced by light-years, framed in the cold glass of a telescope, utterly silent. It was like that. During the time the child was in the air, the spinning Earth carried her half a mile to the east. The motion of the Earth about the sun carried her back again forty miles westward. The drift of the solar system among the stars of the Milky Way bore her silently twenty miles toward the star Vega. The turning pinwheel of the Milky Way Galaxy carried her 300 miles in a great circle about the galactic center. After that huge flight through space she hit the ground and bounced like a rubber ball. She lifted up into the air and flew across the Galaxy and bounced on the pavement. It is a thin membrane that separates us from chaos. The child sent flying by the skateboarder bounced in slow motion and lay still. There was a long pause. Pigeons froze against the gray sky. Promenaders turned to stone. Traffic stopped on Beacon Street. The child’s body lay inert on the asphalt like a piece of crumpled newspaper. The mother’s cry was lost in the space between the stars. How are we to understand the silence of the universe? They say that certain meteorites, upon entering the Earth’s atmosphere, disintegrate with noticeable sound, but beyond the Earth’s skin of air the sky is silent. There are no voices in the burning bush of the Galaxy. The Milky Way flows across the dark shoals of the summer sky without an audible ripple. Stars blow themselves to smithereens; we hear nothing. Millions of solar systems are sucked into black holes at the centers of the galaxies; they fall like feathers. The universe fattens and swells in a Big Bang, a fireball of Creation exploding from a pinprick of infinite energy, the ultimate firecracker; there is no soundtrack. The membrane is ruptured, a child flies through the air, and the universe is silent.

life, Meeker continued on to New York, where he scuffled with police who wouldn’t allow him to run his oxen down Fifth Avenue. In Washington, D.C., he ran his rig onto the White House lawn and enlisted President Theodore Roosevelt to help him preserve the trail. Meeker was a big, visionary thinker. Not content with merely preserving the trail, he advocated the creation of a national commercial and military road across the West, linking growing cities like Denver and Salt Lake with the East, and spur roads that would connect with the vast national parks that had been created during the Progressive Era. Swimming and fishing facilities, hotels, and even towers with navigational beacons for passing airmail planes were all part of Meeker’s plan. None of this was built during his lifetime, and Meeker would receive no credit for his elaborate transportation dreams. But the national parks system built during the New Deal, and the interstate highways paved in the 1950s, eventually created a network of concrete and open spaces remarkably similar to Meeker’s original scheme. Meeker

Children got it—man, they really did. For such small creatures, they could really see the big picture. Darc was like a beacon in a stormy night. A battered, torn, and damaged beacon, which made him an even more trusted beacon. Why? Because Darc would never run away. He’d seen some stuff. He’d lived through a hell most others wouldn’t want to imagine, yet here he was, getting battered again. The

Hello there,” I say, trying to pitch my voice into the matter-of-fact tone that Rachel uses so well. “Can I help you with anything?” “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” he says, sounding as old as he looks. “Whatcha doin’ in these parts on your own?” I ignore the compliment. I don’t like it, but there’s a good chance he means well. I don’t consider myself a “pretty little thing.” I’m thirty-three, and I suppose I’m attractive enough, but I’m not nearly as pretty as some of my friends. Rachel. Olivia. Layne. They’re all genuinely beautiful. There’s nothing in the world wrong with the way I look. I’m medium height with a fit, curvy figure. My eyes are a nice blue, and Mack used to say that my smile was like the sun coming out. My hair is long and curly, but at the moment it’s braided tightly and wound around my head to keep it out of the way. And I’m wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a slightly too-big jacket that hides any hint of my figure. So his words don’t ring true to me. They raise the hair on the back of my neck. I give him a polite smile and keep my distance. “I’ve got somewhere to be, so if you’re all right, I’ll be on my way. Have a nice day.” No use to be unnecessarily confrontational. Not everyone is mean and violent, although a much larger percentage of people are than I ever would have believed before Impact. Back then, it was only my husband who might hit me.

I’m still scrubbing when I’m suddenly aware of Mack’s presence in the door from the kitchen. I sense him rather than see or hear him. It feels like he’s standing there watching me silently. I keep scrubbing, leaning over the arm of the chair to reach the stained spot. Then I hear him walking toward me. Feel him pressing up against my back as I straighten. “You’re mad at me,” he says in a low, gruff voice. “Why do you say that?” “Because you won’t look at me. I don’t like when you’re mad at me.” “I don’t like it either.” I love the feel of his big, warm body at my back. I’m dying to turn around and cuddle against him, but I don’t. “You never used to get mad at me.” “Because you never used to treat me the way you did just now.” He makes a soft, rough sound. “I know. I’m sorry.” “Are you?” “Yes. I am. I was an ass to you, and I’m sorry. It felt like you were… prying.

Eventually it’s time for bed, so Mack and I walk back to the farmhouse. We don’t say much, but he reaches over to squeeze my hand at one point. I’m not sure why, but I don’t let his go, so we’re holding hands for the rest of the walk back. By the time we reach our pretty guestroom, I’m feeling closer to him than I’ve ever felt to anyone in my entire life. And I’m also holding back tears because it feels so much like I’m about to lose him. He’ll leave in the morning, and I’ll risk my life in this attack. There’s a chance we’ll never see each other again, and even if we do, it won’t be like it’s been in these past two months. Tonight might be our last. Maybe Mack is experiencing something similar. He’s subdued when he finally releases my hand as we stand in our bedroom. They don’t have showers here. They have to pump water manually to fill tubs, and most of the time they use a basin and pitcher of water in rooms to wash up the way they do at New Haven. We get as clean as we can and get ready for bed. I change into a simple knit nightgown while Mack takes off all his clothes. We switch off the lantern on the bedside table and climb into bed. Mack still hasn’t said anything as he pulls me closer and rolls on top. He stares down at me in the dark for a minute before he finally lowers his head so he can kiss me. I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around him and softening my lips. He slides his tongue into my mouth. As our kiss deepens, I move my hands over his body, stroking his smooth scalp, caressing my way down his back, running my fingers over his large frame, his developed muscles, his tight skin. Every part of him is big and strong and solid and warm. Every part of him is perfect for me, exactly what I want to feel under my hands. We kiss for a really long time. His body slowly tenses up, and eventually his erection is poking into me. But he doesn’t rush to the main event. He seems to need this—this intimate, needy kiss—as much as anything else. I need it too. I’m hotly aroused and filled with so much more in my heart when he finally breaks his mouth away, gasping and ducking his head to suck on the pulse in my throat. “Mack!” His name on my lips is a whispered gasp. He makes a guttural sound as he pushes up my nightgown so he can get his mouth on my breasts. He teases and sucks until I’m squirming. I hold on to his head until I can’t take any more. “Mack!” I’m still keeping my voice soft so no one can hear us through the walls. We aren’t in our little cabin right now where it doesn’t matter how loud we get.

For the next hour, I sit on the porch step and watch the sky through the surrounding trees get darker and darker. I feel like crying, but I don’t. I used to cry all the time. When my husband, Josh, lashed out at me. When I would make plans for finally getting away from him but then be too scared to do it. When the asteroid hit and the world fell apart. When so many of my former students died in the first few years after Impact. When I was trying desperately to learn how to stand on my own and defend myself. When my life became scrambling frantically to survive. Mack has held me so often while I cried. I can still feel the strength of his big arms and the solidity of his broad chest. The beat of his heart against my ear. Comfort like that from Mack is a thing of the past, and I know it’s for the best. I might still want it for me, but it’s no longer fair to let him give it to me. I don’t expect him to dry my tears anymore.

It’s only a matter of seconds before I wrap my mind around the situation and start aiming my gun, but it’s too late by then. The men are faceless to me. Two are big, and one is small. They all have untrimmed beards and shaggy hair. They don’t look like the ruffians who populate the border. Instead, they look like they’ve barely dragged themselves out of the Stone Age. They don’t even have weapons, but one of them grabs my arm before I can get my gun leveled. He squeezes so hard I gasp and buckle, and my pistol falls to the ground. They’re talking to each other now, but all I can hear is a piercing ringing inside my head. It’s deafening me. Blurring my vision. The pain from my arm and the absolute panic. I’m struggling in the grip of the man who grabbed me, but he’s got to be almost a foot taller than me and twice as broad. It’s been a long time—years—since I’ve lived with the fear that every man I encounter might try to rape me. For the first few years after Impact, in the chaos of so many catastrophes, one right after another, that was reality. There was genuinely as much of a chance of an unknown man assaulting you as not. But our region has been stabilized for four years now, and with the stability came more personal security. I know there are dangerous people around—even in my home in the heart of Kentucky—but it’s not like it used to be. It’s not like this.

There’s no way in the world I’m going to survive this. They’re going to take turns and then probably kill me. And if they don’t, they’ll drag me with them to whatever cave they crawled out of and will keep using me until there’s nothing left. I know it for sure. No question. I tried so hard to learn how to be strong, but I’ll never be strong enough. That’s my last thought before I hear the gunshots. Gunshots. Out of nowhere. And not from my pistol. These shots are louder. Bigger. And they’re moving closer. I still can’t see anything but the ground I’ve been pushed into, but I can hear the gunshots. One. Two. Three. Four. A pause. Then one more. Something heavy falls on top of me then. Right across my back. Then it’s lifted off and dropped to the right of me. I hear the thump when it falls. And I’m paralyzed. Prostrate on the ground. Until I hear a gruff voice saying, “Anna.” I know that voice. I’ll always know it. No matter how far he tries to run. “Mack,” I choke out, suddenly capable of moving again. I start to push myself up, but I don’t have to. Big hands reach down to grab my waist and haul me to my feet. Then they turn me around. My legs won’t hold me. My knees buckle immediately. Mack has to grab me again and pull me forward toward his chest. I’m choking again. Maybe coughing or maybe crying against his shirt. Whatever they are, they wrack my whole body in the attempt to clear my throat with each spasm. “Shit,” he rasps, wrapping both arms around me. “Goddamn fucking shit. What did they do to you?” “I’m—” I’m strangling on the words, but I keep trying until I can get it out. “I’m… okay.” He makes a weird guttural sound and tightens his arms. I need them even tighter. I push against his chest as I wheeze and sob like I’m trying to crawl all the way inside him.

The next day doesn’t improve Mack’s mood. He’s chopping wood outside when I get up, so I make breakfast—grilled sandwiches with the last of the bread and cheese from my pack and a couple of slices of ham I find in the refrigerator. When he comes back inside, he eats the sandwich in big, hungry bites, and he doesn’t say anything until he’s finished. “I’m going fishing this morning.” I understand he does this to supplement the prepper food stocked up in the cabin and not for recreation. “Okay. That’s a good idea.” He leaves the kitchen to wash up and put on clean clothes, so I go to a supply closet where I saw a small fishing rod that almost certainly belonged to Chloe. It will work fine for me. I put on my boots and jacket and am waiting for Mack on the porch when he comes out with his larger rod. He jerks to a stop when he sees me. “What are you doing?” “I’m coming with you.” “There’s no need. You should rest your knee.” “My knee is fine for a fairly short walk, and I don’t want to spend another day sleeping.

After I shower, I put on Mack’s T-shirt since my clothes are feeling dirty again. I gather up my jeans, tops, panties, and socks and carry the armful to the washer. I accidentally drop my panties into the crack between the washer and the wall. With a groan, I bend over and edge my arm into the small crevice, reaching until I feel the fabric with my fingertips. I’ve got them halfway out of the crack when a voice startles me. “What the hell are you doing?” I straighten up with a jerk, bringing my underwear with me. “I dropped them next to the washer.” My cheeks have warmed. I’m wearing nothing but his T-shirt. It’s big on me, coming well past my hips, but I can only imagine what he saw while I was bent over at the waist like that. I’m not wearing underwear because I wanted to wash all three pairs I have with me. I pull down the bottom of the T-shirt, making sure it fully covers my bottom. Then I put my panties into the washer, add detergent, and turn it on. When I turn around, Mack is still standing in the middle of the kitchen, completely motionless. He’s breathing heavily, and he’s staring at me with an unnerving intensity. “What’s the matter?” I ask, forcing away the embarrassment. “I thought you were in your cave for the afternoon. Did you need something?” He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t move. His eyes are moving up and down my body from my messy hair to my bare feet. They linger on my chest, where my breasts are pushing out against the fabric of the shirt. Then his eyes lower to the hem of the shirt. Back to my nipples and then all the way down my legs.

His breathing picks up until it feels loud in the otherwise silent room. A curl of need tightens below my belly at his greedy gaze, sending out signals to the rest of my body. My breathing turns into fast pants. My skin flushes hot. I shift from foot to foot as my pussy starts to ache. Now my eyes are crawling all over Mack’s big body. The muscles in his neck and shoulders have tensed. His jaw is clenched, causing a muscle to flutter near his ear. He’s changed into sweatpants, and I can see the outline of his growing erection through the loose fabric. “Mack?” My voice is soft. Too throaty. I suddenly want to fuck him more than I’ve ever wanted anything, but he’s very purposefully been holding me at arm’s length. He’s not going to have sex with me out of the blue like that. He takes a step closer, sucking in air through his teeth. “Take the shirt off.” The terse, gruff demand provokes a startling reaction in me. I’m hit with the most intense wave of lust I’ve ever experienced. My ears, my nipples, my pussy throb with raw need. I don’t move—not because I don’t want to do what he says but because I’m momentarily incapable of processing this strong an impulse. “I said take it off,” he bites out, advancing another step toward me. This time I’m able to respond. I grab the T-shirt and yank it over my head, tossing it on the floor before I grab for him.

the other, I whimper as my pussy pulses with growing arousal. I stroke his smooth head, barely able to keep on my feet. When he withdraws, we stare at each other for several long seconds. Then I know exactly what to do. Somehow Mack must have read my mind because he helps guide me down to my knees in front of him. I reach over to undo his trousers and pull his cock out of his underwear. He’s already fully erect. I swipe a drop of liquid off the tip with my thumb. When he’s scooted a few inches closer to the edge of the mattress, he reaches over to remove the clip from my bun so my hair falls loose down my back. He takes my head in both his big hands and guides it forward toward his groin. I hold him steady with my fingers around the base of his hard shaft, giving him a few teasing licks that make his breath hitch. Then I slide my mouth around him until my lips meet my hand. I suck hard. His whole body twitches as he gasps out, “Fuck!” Thrilling with excitement from his responsiveness, I take a minute to coordinate a rhythm of sucking and squeezing with my hand. The muscles of his thighs on either side of me are tensing up as I work. He’s taking long, loud, thick breaths. When I’ve gotten comfortable, I speed up my rhythm and apply harder suction with my mouth. “Oh fuck, Anna.” He’s still holding my head in position with both hands, and they tighten in my hair, like he’s fisting handfuls of it. “That’s right. That’s good. Just like that.

To her surprise, Linc was waiting around the first curve on the road, listening to the radio. She could see his hand tapping a beat on the back of the other seat. Kenzie slowed her car to a stop when their windows lined up. He rolled his down. “Hey. How’d it go?” “No big deal. I handed the papers to his temp assistant. What the hell are you doing here?” Linc studied her face. “I wanted to see if the beacon I put on your car was working.” She should have known. “Is that necessary?” “The readout is on this.” He tapped the face of his watch. “I can’t see. And I don’t believe you.” Kenzie put her car into park, got out, and walked around. He turned his wrist to show her. “Check it out. Your dot merged into my dot.” “Isn’t that sweet.” He grinned. “It’s not a problem to remove the beacon if you don’t like it.” “No. It’s all right. You’re the only person who knows where I am most of the time now.” That didn’t seem to have occurred to him. “Really?” She nodded. “So where are you off to?” Kenzie shot him a mocking look. “You don’t have to ask, do you?” Linc laughed. “The beacon can’t read your mind.” She rolled her eyes. “Thank God for that. If you want to know, I was heading to the drugstore to print out some of the photos for Mrs. Corelli. Where are you going?” “Just running errands,” he said. “Need anything from the electronics store?” “I don’t think so.” “Okay. I’m just picking up a couple of components.” Kenzie gave a little yelp. “Yikes--that reminds me. Yesterday my boss asked me to pick something up for him out in the boondocks. I forgot until you said that. So if my dot falls off your watch, you’ll know why.” He smiled at her warmly as he bent his arm and rested it on the bottom of the window frame. The bicep under the flannel rounded up very nicely as he lifted a hand and chucked her gently under the chin. “Funny.” The friendly touch was unexpectedly intimate. In fact, it triggered a dangerous sensation of giving in. She smiled at him, feeling weak. His brown eyes were dark and warm. She felt herself blush under his steady gaze. Linc was the real deal. Maybe she didn’t have to be so tough all the time. It was okay to be protected. More than okay. Back when she’d had Tex at her side, she’d actually liked the feeling. Like all military working dogs, he’d been trained to maintain an invisible six-foot circle around her, and woe to anyone who crossed into it without her permission. Including guys she was dating. “Kenzie?” She snapped out of it. “Sorry. You knocked on my stupid spot.” “I’ll have to remember that.” She shook her head in mock dismay. “Please don’t. Let’s touch base around four or five o’clock.” He nodded and turned the key in the ignition. “Works for me.” His gaze stayed on her a moment longer. “Call me if you need anything.” “I will. Thanks.” She glanced back at the gray monolith a little distance behind them and her mouth tightened. But when her green gaze met Linc’s brown eyes, she managed a quick smile. He raised his left hand in a quick good-bye wave and eased his car ahead of hers, rolling up the window again. She watched him go, then got back into hers and drove on, turning off on the road to the firing range.

To her surprise, Linc was waiting around the first curve on the road, listening to the radio. She could see his hand tapping a beat on the back of the other seat. Kenzie slowed her car to a stop when their windows lined up. He rolled his down. “Hey. How’d it go?” “No big deal. I handed the papers to his temp assistant. What the hell are you doing here?” Linc studied her face. “I wanted to see if the beacon I put on your car was working.” She should have known. “Is that necessary?” “The readout is on this.” He tapped the face of his watch. “I can’t see. And I don’t believe you.” Kenzie put her car into park, got out, and walked around. He turned his wrist to show her. “Check it out. Your dot merged into my dot.” “Isn’t that sweet.” He grinned. “It’s not a problem to remove the beacon if you don’t like it.” “No. It’s all right. You’re the only person who knows where I am most of the time now.” That didn’t seem to have occurred to him. “Really?” She nodded. “So where are you off to?” Kenzie shot him a mocking look. “You don’t have to ask, do you?” Linc laughed. “The beacon can’t read your mind.” She rolled her eyes. “Thank God for that.

There was another whole bunch of hopefuls. They would diminish down at a startling rate. We had seen it happen before. This time, though, we were there as the “old hands.” And it helped. We knew what to expect; the mystique had gone, and the prize was up for grabs. That was empowering. It was now wintertime, and winter Selection is always considered the tougher course, because of the mountain conditions. I tried not to think about this. Instead of the blistering heat and midges, our enemies would be the freezing, driving sleet, the high winds, and the short daylight hours. These made Trucker and me look back on the summer Selection days as quite balmy and pleasant! It is strange how accustomed you become to hardship, and how what once seemed horrific can soon become mundane. The DS had often told us: “If it ain’t raining, it ain’t training.” And it rains a lot in the Brecon Beacons. Trust me. (I recently overheard our middle boy, Marmaduke, tell one of his friends this SAS mantra. The other child was complaining that he couldn’t go outside because it was raining. Marmaduke, age four, put him straight. Priceless.) The first few weekends progressed, and we both shone. We were fitter, stronger, and more confident than many of the other recruits, but the winter conditions were very real. We had to contend with winds that, on one weekend exercise, were so strong on the high ridges that I saw one gust literally blow a whole line of soldiers off their feet--including the DS. Our first night march saw one recruit go down with hypothermia. Like everyone else, he was wet and cold, but in the wind and whiteout he had lost that will to look after himself, and to take action early. He had forgotten the golden rule of cold, which the DS had told us over and over: “Don’t let yourself get cold. Act early, while you still have your senses and mobility. Add a layer, make shelter, get moving faster--whatever your solution us, just do it.” Instead, this recruit had just sat down in the middle of the boggy moon grass and stopped. He could hardly talk and couldn’t stand. We all gathered round him, forming what little shelter we could. We gave him some food and put an extra layer of clothing on him. We then helped him stagger off the mountain to where he could be picked up by Land Rover and taken to base camp, where the medics could help him. For him, that would be his last exercise with 21 SAS, and a harsh reminder that the struggles of Selection go beyond the demons in your head. You also have to be able to survive the mountains, and in winter that isn’t always easy. One of the other big struggles of winter Selection was trying to get warm in the few hours between the marches. In the summer it didn’t really matter if you were cold and wet--it was just unpleasant rather than life-threatening. But in winter, if you didn’t sort yourself out, you would quickly end up with hypothermia, and then one of two things would happen: you would either fail Selection, or you would die. Both options were bad.

Your husband wants to be big in your eyes, edify him and lift him up and he will become what he sees in your eyes. He needs to feel the love of the Holy Spirit and see what God can do for him. Love him as Christ loves you with an unconditional love. Step aside so that he might see the miracles as you see them and his heart will be totally changed. You are not your husband’s Holy Spirit, let Jesus do His job. Your husband will come to a place where he loves Jesus with an unfailing love. God has called you to be a woman of excellence, don’t settle for anything less. Sometimes this means humbling yourself and stepping aside so your husband may shine. You came out of the darkness and into the light; you are a beacon on a hill, a lighthouse for many. Love your husband, lift him up, be love to him. When his heart is fully God’s you will have what you seek.

IT WAS FULL DARK OUT NOW AND THE FIRST RUSH OF THE FREE night air roared into my lungs and out through my veins, calling my name with a thundering whisper of welcome and urging me on into the purring darkness, and we hurried to the car to ride away to happiness. But as we opened the car door and put one foot in, some small acid niggle twitched at our coattails and we paused; something was not right, and the frigid glee of our purpose slid off our back and onto the pavement like old snakeskin. Something was not right. I looked around me in the hot and humid Miami night. The neighborhood was just as it had always been; no sudden threat had sprung from the row of one-story houses with their toy-littered yards. There was nothing moving on our street, no one lurking in the shadows of the hedge, no rogue helicopter swooping down to strafe me—nothing. But still I heard that nagging trill of doubt. I took in a slow lungful of air through my nose. There was nothing to smell beyond the mingled odors of cooking, the tang of distant rainfall, the whiff of rotting vegetation that always lurked in the South Florida night. So what was wrong? What had set the tinny little alarm bells to clattering when I was finally out the door and free? I saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing—but I had learned to trust the pesky whisper of warning, and I stood there unmoving, unbreathing, straining for an answer. And then a low row of dark clouds rumbled open overhead and revealed a small slice of silvery moon—a tiny, inadequate moon, a moon of no consequence at all, and we breathed out all the doubt. Of course—we were used to riding out into the wicked gleam of a full and bloated moon, slicing and slashing to the open-throated sound track of a big round choir in the sky. There was no such beacon overhead tonight, and it didn’t seem right somehow to gallop off into glee without it. But tonight was a special session, an impromptu raid into a mostly moonless evening, and in any case it must be done, would be done—but done as a solo cantata this time, a cascade of single notes without a backup singer. This small and wimpish quarter-moon was far too young to warble, but we could do very well without it, just this once. And

He nods, evidently accepting my answer as believable and appropriate. “Someone has taken my daughter.” “What?” I’m genuinely surprised and appalled, and I sound that way. He’s got startlingly intelligent blue eyes. They’re focused on me without wavering. “She’s been kidnapped. Her guard was killed. We’re checking for anyone who might have seen something.” “I haven’t seen any little girls. How old is she? What does she look like?” “She’s eight. This high.” He makes a gesture with his hand to indicate her height. “Brown hair and blue eyes. She always carries a doll with a pink dress.” “I’m so sorry she’s missing. I’ll keep my eye out. I really hope you find her.” He gives a brief nod. “I’ll find her. If you see anything, you can tell anyone. Everyone around here knows how to get me a message.” He pauses and then adds as if as an afterthought, “I’m Logan.” He turns and walks away before I can get any sort of response out. As soon as he and his men have left the clearing, Mack returns to me with his big package of provisions. “Did he bother you?” he asks, sounding as bristly as he looks. “No. Not at all. His daughter is missing, and he was asking about her.

Then he'd received the call from Eagle's Nest and his brain had seized the idea, as if someone had thrown him a lifeline. A small town where everyone knew everyone else. A town where people looked out for their neighbors and didn't set their significant others on fire. It became a beacon of change in his mind. A city where he wouldn't deal with gangs or excessive homelessness. A town where he could be a person, not a uniform, who helped. "Shitty people are everywhere," the psychiatrist had told Truman when they'd discussed his job offer. "Small towns, big cities, African villages. You can't run away from it.

Your goal should reflect your team’s principles and aspirations. Don’t worry about overreaching. The sprint process will help you find a good place to start and make real progress toward even the biggest goal. Once you’ve settled on a long-term goal, write it at the top of the whiteboard. It’ll stay there throughout the sprint as a beacon to keep everyone moving in the same direction. • • • Okay, time for an attitude adjustment. While writing your long-term goal, you were optimistic. You imagined a perfect future. Now it’s time to get pessimistic. Imagine you’ve gone forward in time one year, and your project was a disaster. What caused it to fail? How did your goal go wrong? Lurking beneath every goal are dangerous assumptions. The longer those assumptions remain unexamined, the greater the risk. In your sprint, you have a golden opportunity to ferret out assumptions, turn them into questions, and find some answers. Savioke assumed their Relay robot would create a better guest experience. But they were smart enough to imagine a future where they were wrong, and the robot was awkward or confusing. They had three big questions: Can we make a smooth delivery? (the answer was yes). Will guests find the robot awkward? (the answer was no, except for the sluggish touch screen). And the long shot: Will guests come to the hotel just for the robot? (surprisingly, some people said they would). Just like the goal, these questions guide the solutions and decisions throughout the sprint. They provide a quasi-checklist that you can refer to throughout the week and evaluate after Friday’s test.

In the deepest shadows of despair, where akathisia whispers its darkest tales, we discover not the end but the beginning of our most profound resilience. Although isolated and battered by storms, it is here, in this pit of suffering, that we discover an unwavering strength to overcome the seemingly impossible. Even amidst the relentless disruption of our nightmares, hope survives, a beacon calling us to rise. We are the evidence that even in the face of Akathisia's cruel grip, the human spirit remains indomitable, forever pushing forward towards renewal and growth.

In the deepest shadows of despair, where Akathisia whispers its darkest tales, we discover not the end but the beginning of our most profound resilience. Although isolated and battered by storms, it is here, in this pit of suffering, that we discover an unwavering strength to overcome the seemingly impossible. Even amidst the relentless disruption of our nightmares, hope survives, a beacon calling us to rise. We are the evidence that even in the face of Akathisia cruel grip, the human spirit remains indomitable, forever pushing forward towards renewal and growth.

Texas Metals and Contracting, based in the Sulphur Springs area of Texas, is a trustworthy name in metal building construction. Established in 1993 and family-owned, they specialize in crafting steel buildings, workshops, and providing concrete contractor services. Their dedication to quality ensures that no job is too big or too small. With a rich history of delivering top-notch projects, Texas Metals and Contracting stands as a beacon of excellence in the metal and contracting business.

Put simply, big things express big joy. They function as a nucleus for the festivities, a beacon that draws people in. It’s easy to underestimate the importance of this.

things. The Washington Post published a column The Clinton Team Is Following Reporters to the Bathroom: Here’s Why That Matters. The Free Beacon called for one of The Guys, ironically the most decent and professional of the cohort, to “stick his big obnoxious head in the toilet and ‘Flush for Good.’” That didn’t help matters. Until then, I hadn’t fully grasped the impact of a Times story in the viral news era. Bathroomgate was discussed on the Today show, CNN, MSNBC, NPR, and ad nauseam on Twitter. I declined every interview request. I just wanted it to go away.

Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men's blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans; aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will never die, but long after we are gone will be a living thing asserting itself with ever growing insistency. Remember that our sons and grandsons are going to do things that would stagger us. Let your watchword be order and your beacon beauty.

Let's renounce our weapons and become a beacon of hope and hatelessness in the vastness of our universe. If any extraterrestrial race is observing us, let them know that the little blue dot may be tiny in size, but it holds unimaginable potential for greatness and glory. As the saying goes, big things come in small packages. Let them know, the tiny blue dot in a corner of the Milky Way, doesn't just hold intelligent life, it holds the life that knows the value of life.

I forced myself to sit in my easy chair and I held myself in, feeling the Need roll over me and leave behind a high tide of readiness. Each breath felt like a blast of cold air sweeping through me and pumping me up bigger and brighter until I was like an enormous invincible beacon of steel ready to slash through the now-dark city. And then my chair became a stupid little thing, a hiding place for mice, and only the night was big enough.

AS I GREW UP, this smiling kid with a weird name was paying attention, and making assumptions. I absorbed lessons and language and took them as truth. If you were a suburban kid like me, you probably grew up in a school system that wants you to go to college and choose a major and go straight into a job and a marriage and a mortgage. It gives you rungs of achievement: a degree, a wife, a house, kids, golf—whatever—and makes you think these things give life meaning. “Collect them all and win!” But the big fancy adults preach the opposite as well. They say, “fall in line” and then, in the same breath, “think different, take risks!” We are told, “follow your passion” and “stay hungry,” at every commencement and graduation speech. This mixture of school and risk is the holy cocktail of American ideals, and for those rare beacons of exceptional success, it turns their life stories into fables. But for ordinary folks, it is a difficult road to walk. Be sensible, but be wild. Be ordered, but be free. Be responsible, but take risks.

Forever in awe of Big Satya. A leader, a visionary, a beacon of empathy in the cold steel of enterprise. In this life and the next, i will follow.