Boardwalk Quotes

Remember that summer you liked that girl who worked at the boardwalk? Angie?” “No,” he said, but I knew he was lying. “What about her?” “Did you ever hook up with her?” Conrad finally lifted his head up from the couch. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe you.” “I tried, once. But she socked me in the head and said she wasn’t that kind of girl.I think she was a Jehovah’s Witness or something.

When Springsteen meets a future girlfriend on the boardwalk in Asbury Park, he delivers this electric introduction: “She was Italian, funny, a beatific tomboy, with just the hint of a lazy eye, and wore a pair of glasses that made me think of the wonders of the library.

There was a pier filled with thousands of people, men and women, fathers and mothers and children--so many children--children from the past and the present, children who had not yet been born, side by side, hand in hand, in caps, in short pants, filling the boardwalk and the rides and the wooden platforms, sitting on each other's shoulders, sitting in each other's laps. They were there, or would be there, becuause of the simple mundane things [he] had done in his life, the accidents he had prevented, the rides he had kept safe, the unnoticed turns he had affected every day. And while their lips did not move, [he] heard their voices, more voices then he could have imagined, and a peace came upon him that he had never known before.

Hooves clomping over the whitewashed planks, Doren sprinted along the boardwalk after Rondus, a portly satyr with butterscotch fur and horns that curved away from each other. Puffing hard, Rondus cut through a gazebo and started down the stairs to the field. Only a few steps behind, Doren went airborne and slammed into the heavyset satyr. Together they pitched violently forward into the grass, staining their skin green.

Sometimes when he was dealing with people, he felt like he was operating one of those claw machines on a boardwalk, those shovel things where you tried to scoop up a prize but the controls were too unwieldy and you worked at too great a remove.

It’s never too late to change the road that you’re on.

Mrs. Nightwing glances at the box in my hands. She clears her throat."I understand you've decided against Mr. Middleton."... It's best to be sure, through and through," she says, keeping her eyes steadfastly on the girls running and playing on the lawn. "Else you could find yourself one day coming home to an empty house, save for a note: I've gone out. You could wait all night for him to return. Nights turn into weeks, to years. It's horrible, the waiting. You can scarcely bear it. And perhaps years later on holiday in Brighton, you see him, walking along the boardwalk as if out of some dream. No longer lost. Your heartbeat quickens. You must call out to him. Someone else calls first. A pretty young woman with a child. He stops and bends to lift the child into his arms. His child. He gives a furtive kiss to his young wife. He hands her a box of candy, which you know to be Chollier's chocolates. He and his family stroll on. Something in you falls away. You will never be as you were. What is left to you is the chance to become something new and unsure. But at least the waiting is over.

life is like a game of Monopoly. You may own hotels on Boardwalk or you may be renting on Baltic Avenue. But in the end, it all goes back in the box. The next generation will be getting out all your stuff and playing with it or fighting over it.

Maybe it’s time to grow the fuck up and live the life I want.

Magic is the first sip of good wine that makes the edges of your vision blur. Magic is the cool breeze of the boardwalk at night and organ music in the air. Magic is landing a grand jeté and nearly going deaf with hate crowd's applause. Magic is the low flicker of tavern lights and the girl your courting leaning close so you can kiss.

I don't get it?" she asked "I don't get it? Let me tell you something about what I get. You think you're so smart? I spent three years on a full academic scholarship at the best college-prep school in the country. And when they kicked me out I had to petition-petition!-to keep them from wiping out my four-point-oh transcript." Daniel moved away, but Luce pursued him, taking a step forward for every wide-eyed step he took back. Probably freaking him out, but so what? He'd been asking for it every time he condescended to her. "I know Latin and French, and in middle school, I won the science fair three years in a row." She had backed him up against the railing of the boardwalk and was trying to restrain herself from poking him in the chest with her finger. She wasn't finished. "I also do the Sunday crossword puzzle, sometimes in under an hour. I have an unerringly good sense of direction... though not always when it comes to guys." She swallowed and took a moment to catch her breath. "And someday, I'm going to be a psychiatrist who actually listens to her patients and helps people. Okay? So don't keep talking to me like I'm stupid and don't tell me I don't understand just because I can't decode your erratic, flaky, hot-one-minute-cold-the-next, frankly"-she looked up at him, letting out her breath-"really hurtful behavior." She brushed a tear away, angry with herself for getting so worked up.

There would be people on the boardwalk, but even if they suspected something was wrong, he doubt they’d get involved. If there was one thing to be counted on, it was how eagerly the mortals ignored what they didn’t want to see. The truth passed right by, and never once did they open their eyes.

Right now you can cry and let your image dissolve on the windshields of cars parked along the Boardwalk. But you can't lose yourself.

One day we ran all the way to Jones Beach, and if Mrs. Sidman hadn't sent a bus after us, I think we would have collapsed on the boardwalk and died.

It tugs at me, filling me with the kind of seasick nostalgia that can hit you in the gut when you find an old concert ticket in your purse or an old coin machine ring you got down at the boardwalk on a day when you went searching for mermaids in the surf with your best friend. That punch of nostalgia hits me now and I start to sink down on the sky-coloured quilt, feeling the nubby fabric under my fingers, familiar as the topography of my hand.

I’m in this for the long haul, Doc. I was before you walked into my bar tonight, but now, after the best fucking sex of my life, after how wild that was, there’s no way I’m letting you walk out of here without me.

Don’t leave me … I just found you.

You’ve made your mark. You made your mark on me. No matter what happens between us now or in the future, I will never forget you. You’re inside me. Always will be.

The man I thought I might have been waiting for my whole life. All this time he’d been standing right in front of me, wearing a suit and a sexy-ass smile.

I stared up at him. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. It scares the living daylights out of me.” He grinned. Huge. A boyish, wicked grin that made me feel like my heart might burst out of my chest. “Welcome to my world.

But he told me that most of the time he stayed on the boardwalk, facing the water, just the way we were sitting now even when it got cold and he had to wear his newspapers after he read them. And I asked him why. Why didn't he go to one of the shelters? Why didn't he check himself into the hospital for detox? And he just stared out at the ocean and said, "Look at the view, young lady. Look at the view.

Take me into my room, Vaughn. Take control so I don’t have to. I want you to. I want you to lay me down on that bed and take what you want. You want to right?” I looked deep into his hard eyes and shivered at the heat I found in them. “I bet you’ve thought about it. Fucking the hostile Princess of the Boardwalk into submission.

People can do extraordinary things to save the ones they love.

We were two people who were attracted to each other and didn’t want to be. Of course there was going to be hostility. And here I thought he was just a dick.

I can’t lose you, babe. You’d take my soul with you.

I’ll wait forever for you, Michael Sullivan.” He shook his head. “No waiting required. I’ve been yours since day one.

I come from a boardwalk town where almost everything is tinged with a bit of fraud. So am I.

I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I’ve fought it. I’ve hidden it. I’ve tried to cast them aside. But since our night together I haven’t been able to hold my feelings down ... I want to be with you. I want to see where this could go.

But from within the carton, Morty's American flag - which I know is folded there, at the very bottom, in the official way - tells me, "It's against some Jewish law," and so, on into the car he went with the carton, and then he drove it down to the beach, to the boardwalk, which was no longer there. The boardwalk was gone. Good-bye, boardwalk. The ocean had finally carried it away. The Atlantic is a powerful ocean. Death is a terrible thing. That's a doctor I never heard of. Remarkable. Yes, that's the word for it. It was all remarkable. Good-bye, remarkable. Egypt and Greece good-bye, and good-bye, Rome!

That's the real excellent scary part, that feeling, and that feeling won't come if the lady from next door is there and your mom won't ride the ride, because what brings on that feeling most is when your mom rides wedged in tight with you and your brother on nights like this, when your mom will scream the excellent scream, the scream that people you see in snatches on the boardwalk stop and stare for, the scream that stops the ride next door, the scream that tells us to our hearts the bolts have finally broken.

I didn’t want to want you.” “I didn’t want to want you, either, but I did.” Vaughn stepped closer to me. “you are everything I’ve never known, I fell in love with you a long time ago, princess. I’ve tried to fight it, but I can’t, and I don’t want to anymore.

Cabel felt the familiar nostalgic excitement of the endless possibilities encapsulated in a summers' night at Silver Beach. He smiled at himself as a boy and, more ruefully, at the man who now stood on the worn planks of the boardwalk. This night held no possibilities for him, though it was pleasant to remember a time when it did.

Venice appeared to me as in a recurring dream, a place once visited and now fixed in memory like images on a photographer’s plates so that my return was akin to turning the leaves of a portfolio: a scene of the gondolas moored by the railway station; the Grand Canal in twilight; the Rialto bridge; the Piazza San Marco; the shimmering, rippling wonderland; the bustling water traffic; the fish market; the Lido beach and boardwalk; Teeny in the launch; the singing, gesturing gondoliers; the bourgeois tourists drinking coffee at Florian’s; the importunate beggars; the drowned girl’s ghost haunting the Bridge of Sighs; the pigeons, mosquitoes and fetor of decay.

In the meantime, though my kiss-stung face has returned to normal, my heart and all working body parts are absolutely not normal. Because every time Porter so much as even walks within ten feet of me at work, I have the same reaction. Four knocks on Hotbox door? I flush. Scent of coconut in the break room? I flush. Sound of Porter cracking jokes with Pangborn in the hallway? I flush. And every time this happens, Grace is there like some taunting Greek chorus, making a little mmm-hmmnoise of confirmation. Even Pangborn notices. “Are you ill, Miss Rydell?” “Yes,” I tell him in the break room one day before work. “I’m apparently very ill in the worst way. And I want you to know that I didn’t plan for this to happen. This was not part of my plan at all. If you want to know the truth, I had other plans for the summer!” I think of my boardwalk map, lying folded and abandoned in my purse. Pangborn nods slowly. “I have no idea what you mean, but I support it completely.” “Thank you,” I tell him as he walks away, whistling. Half a minute later, Porter pulls me into a dark corner of the hallway, checks around the corner, and kisses the bejesus out of me. “That’s me, destroying all your other plans,” he says wickedly. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he sounds jealous. Then he walks away, leaving me all hot and bothered. I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.

Jessica Huntington was lying to herself. Cooper didn’t know why, but he was going to find out. By then the doc would be in his bed. Right where they both knew she belonged.

Taking my hands in his, Vaughn leaned down to whisper across my lips. “I’ll give you anything, Bailey Hartwell, anything you want.

I’ll never stop fighting for you, Liv. Love of my fucking life.” He swiped away my tears. “We’ll make this right.

Sometimes a story is only an important part of a bigger story

I was wondering.” “What?” “If it’s uncomfortable.” “If what’s uncomfortable?” “Having your head that far up your ass.” “You’re a real comedian today, Lawson.” “You’re making it easy for me.

I smack into him as if shoved from behind. He doesn't budge, not an inch. Just holds my shoulders and waits. Maybe he's waiting for me to find my balance. Maybe he's waiting for me to gather my pride. I hope he's got all day. I hear people passing on the boardwalk and imagine them staring. Best-case scenario, they think I know this guy, that we're hugging. Worst-case scenario, they saw me totter like an intoxicated walrus into this complete stranger because I was looking down for a place to park our beach stuff. Either way, he knows what happened. He knows why my cheek is plastered to his bare chest. And there is definite humiliation waiting when I get around to looking up at him. Options skim through my head like a flip book. Option One: Run away as fast as my dollar-store flip flops can take me. Thing is, tripping over them is partly responsible for my current dilemma. In fact, one of them is missing, probably caught in a crack of the boardwalk. I'm getting Cinderella didn't feel this foolish, but then again, Cinderella wasn't as clumsy as an intoxicated walrus. Option two: Pretend I've fainted. Go limp and everything. Drool, even. But I know this won't work because my eyes flutter too much to fake it, and besides, people don't blush while unconscious. Option Three: Pray for a lightning bolt. A deadly one that you feel in advance because the air gets all atingle and your skin crawls-or so the science books say. It might kill us both, but really, he should have been paying more attention to me when he saw that I wasn't paying attention at all. For a shaved second, I think my prayers are answered because I go get tingly all over; goose bumps sprout everywhere, and my pulse feels like electricity. Then I realize, it's coming from my shoulders. From his hands. Option Last: For the love of God, peel my cheek off his chest and apologize for the casual assault. Then hobble away on my one flip-flop before I faint. With my luck, the lightning would only maim me, and he would feel obligated to carry me somewhere anyway. Also, do it now. I ease away from him and peer up. The fire on my cheeks has nothing to do with the fact that it's sweaty-eight degrees in the Florida sun and everything to do with the fact that I just tripped into the most attractive guy on the planet. Fan-flipping-tastic. "Are-are you all right?" he says, incredulous. I think I can see the shape of my cheek indented on his chest. I nod. "I'm fine. I'm used to it. Sorry." I shrug off his hands when he doesn't let go. The tingling stays behind, as if he left some of himself on me. "Jeez, Emma, are you okay?" Chloe calls from behind. The calm fwopping of my best friend's sandals suggests she's not as concerned as she sounds. Track star that she is, she would already be at my side if she thought I was hurt. I groan and face her, not surprised that she's grinning wide as the equator. She holds out my flip-flop, which I try not to snatch from her hand. "I'm fine. Everybody's fine," I say. I turn back to the guy, who seems to get more gorgeous by the second. "You're fine, right? No broken bones or anything?" He blinks, gives a slight nod. Chloe setts her surfboard against the rail of the boardwalk and extends her hand to him. He accepts it without taking his eyes off me. "I'm Chloe and this is Emma," she says. "We usually bring her helmet with us, but we left it back in the hotel room this time.

You left me.” His words caught like stinging cuts on my lips. “You left me and I was so in love with you. I didn’t want to find you because you broke my heart, Dahlia. You broke my fuckin’ heart.

I know a fantastic kiss when I share one with someone.” My insides went mushy at the compliment. I was glad he’d felt the zinging between us, too. No! I wasn’t. Damn it. I scowled. “It was pleasant enough.” Cooper threw his head back in laughter. “Right. You keep telling yourself that, Doc

You realize you've never walked in another person's shoes. Never have. Never will. The same is true in adoption. There are three sets of adoption shoes sitting at the end of the boardwalk. The adoptees...the birth parents'...and the adoptive parents'. Each is unique and each has a story to tell.

Stephanie had been raped, beaten and left for dead on the Atlantic City Boardwalk several times. You'd think she would have hit rock bottom after those experiences. But no. None of that made her quit. It just made her want to use even more drugs, to forget her miserable life. As long as she could get high, she didn't care if she was being raped in a dark alley. At this point in her life, a lethal overdose probably would have felt like her salvation.

t smells in. Let the smell of hot tarmac in the summer remind you of a meal you ate the first time you landed in a hot place, when the ground smelled like it was melting. Let the smell of salt remind you of a paper basket of fried clams you ate once, squeezing them with lemon as you walked on a boardwalk. Let it reach your deeper interest. When you smell the sea, and remember the basket of hot fried clams, and the sound of skee-balls knocking against each other, let it help you love what food can do, which is to tie this moment to that one. Then something about the wind off the sea will have settled in your mind, and carried the fried clams and squeeze of a lemon with it.

This isn’t over, Doc.

Tears spilled won my cheeks as I felt renewed disappointment. “You keep hurting me.” He had the decency to look guilty. “I don’t mean to.

Word,” said Jamal. “But you can jive on up to the taco hut on the boardwalk if you hungry, dig?

my brother, gave me my first cigarette there, smoked under the boardwalk, nothing but the taste of freedom between us and our fingertips.

The one copy of anything by Swift in the store, Gulliver’s Travels, finally couldn’t stand the indignity of living at Boardwalk anymore, and burst into righteous flames.

On Fire Island everyone was in a Speedo pulling a wagon of groceries across the bumpy boardwalk; you couldn’t tell the houseboys from the bankers.

I’d wanted to work in a true, old-fashioned bookshop, crammed with the mingled smells of literature and Pittsburgh blowing in through the open door. Instead I’d got myself hired by Boardwalk Books.

Night. The beach and the sea are in darkness. A dog passes, going toward the sea wall. No one walks on the boardwalk, but, on the benches lining it, people sit. They relax. Are silent. Separated from one another. They do not speak. The traveler passes. He walks slowly, he goes in the same direction as the dog. He stops. Returns. He seems to be out for a walk. He starts off again. His face is no longer visible. The sea is calm. No wind. The traveler returns. The dog does not return. The sea begins to rise, it seems. Its sounds getting closer. Muffled thudding coming from the river’s many mouths. Somber sky.

Two days later we were at the boardwalk. She ran straight into the waves with all her clothes on. I did too, dunking my head under water so she wouldn’t notice my tears. I felt like she gave me the ocean. Like all of it was ours.

you were last seen walking through a field of pianos. no. a museum of mouths. in the kitchen of a bustling restaurant, cracking eggs and releasing doves. no. eating glow worms and waltzing past my bedroom. last seen riding the subway, literally, straddling its metal back, clutching electrical cables as reins. you were wearing a dress made out of envelopes and stamps, this was how you travelled. i was the mannequin in the storefront window you could have sworn moved. the library card in the book you were reading until that dog trotted up and licked your face. the cookie with two fortunes. the one jamming herself through the paper shredder, afraid to talk to you. the beggar, hat outstretched bumming for more minutes. the phone number on the bathroom stall with no agenda other than a good time. the good time is a picnic on water, or a movie theatre that only plays your childhood home videos and no one hushes when you talk through them. when they play my videos i throw milk duds at the screen during the scenes i watch myself letting you go – lost to the other side of an elevator – your face switching to someone else’s with the swish of a geisha’s fan. my father could have been a travelling salesman. i could have been born on any doorstep. there are 2,469,501 cities in this world, and a lot of doorsteps. meet me on the boardwalk. i’ll be sure to wear my eyes. do not forget your face. i could never.

And yet it was not authentic, of course, because no real boardwalk of 1910 had been this perfect. It was like a fondly remembered nostalgic confection, a past sanitized of its imperfections, buttressed by an arsenal of hidden technology.

boardwalks and the neon boulevards, and wordlessly, the habituees of the arcade swivelled their attention from the pool to the pinball, for the magic had shifted to a new discipline, and cigarette smoke hung blue in the air, and it twisted as they turned.

Taylor and I are going to go to the boardwalk tonight. Will one of you guys drop us off?” Before my mother or Susannah could answer, Jeremiah said, “Ooh, the boardwalk. I think we should go to the boardwalk too.” Turning to Conrad and Steven, he added, “Right, guys?” Normally I would have been thrilled that any of them wanted to go somewhere I was going, but not this time. I knew it wasn’t for me. I looked at Taylor, who was suddenly busy cutting up her scallops into tiny bite-size pieces. She knew it was for her too. “The boardwalk sucks,” said Steven. Conrad said, “Not interested.” “Who invited you guys anyway?” I said. Steven rolled his eyes. “No one invites anyone to the boardwalk. You just go. It’s a free country.” “Is it a free country?” my mother mused. “I want you to really think about that statement, Steven. What about our civil liberties? Are we really free if-“ “Laurel, please,” Susannah said, shaking her head. “Let’s not talk politics at the dinner table.” “I don’t know of a better time for political discourse,” my mother said calmly.

She remembered the days when she and her best friend would draw hearts on the beach, the waves erasing their ephemeral creations. Those carefree moments seemed like a distant dream now—afternoons at the arcade, junk food on the boardwalk. She couldn’t recall the last time she did anything so wonderfully silly.

By the way, don’t thank me for saving you, thank the lifeguards. If it was up to me, I would’ve just carried you off to the building by the boardwalk that said SURGERY. I’m sorry, but there’s a big difference between a family doctor treating you for the sniffles, and a guy who actually owns and knows how to use an operating table.

The person you love is supposed to be the one place where you can relax. Where you can completely be yourself without being judged or pressured. Loving someone, committing to someone, means giving them a break, taking care of them more than they take care of you because if both people are doing that, then it’s marriage at its best.

Come on. I'll race you." Before I can respond, she takes off toward the boardwalk. I can't believe she managed to make me feel better. I watch her run, her ponytail bobbing behind her. I know with my freakishly long legs I could easily overtake her, even with her head start. But I don't. Because that's what best friends do for each other.

If she believed the boardwalk T-shirts, a woman was a ball or chain, someone stupid you’re with, someone to lie to so a man can drink beer. If she believed television fathers, women were a constant pain, wanting red roses or a nice dinner out. If she learned how to be a girl from songs, it was worse. If she learned from other girls, worse still.

I took an involuntary step toward him. “Michael?” His eyes were shadowed with a million emotions. “Sorry I took so long. Uprooting your life takes longer than you’d think.” I shook my head, completely discombobulated. “What are you talking about?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You left me again. But this time I’m not letting you go.

You take ordinary things and turn them rainbow bright. It's what makes you so special.

businessmen learned quickly that working-class tourists had money to spend, too. What they lacked in sophistication they made up for in numbers.

Marriages are not perfect because people aren’t perfect. But we’ve recognized our wrongs and we can make this work again.

By the end of this vacation you’ll never doubt my love for you again.

She wasn’t a hugger by nature—something she’d had to deal with since meeting Mikki, who hugged nearly as much as she breathed. She braced herself for impact and stepped close.

Marriage is more than a tradition. It’s an economic necessity. In societies where there are more married couples, there are fewer children in poverty, and less violence.

If you’re feeling anything but levelheaded, don’t do something that can’t be undone.

Grief is natural, but when left alone it grows into something bigger. Something that steals hope. You shut down and no one gets in. The walls get bigger.

But he also said that hope is the mistress of limbo, and many a life has been wasted because of it. Sometimes hope hurts more than it helps. You and me, we’re a case of sometimes.” For

As they walked through the hotel lobby to reach the beach-access boardwalk, Gabe watched three different men give Nic the once-over. Whether it was the clichéd pregnancy glow or the easing of her fears of the future or simply the effect of a good vacation, his new wife glowed. She was as relaxed and carefree as he had ever seen her—beautiful, vivacious, and sparkling. He

Trust me, dahlin’, I appreciate the good things in life, and I’m more grateful than I can say when I come across special. Just never thought I’d come across goddamn extraordinary in my life.

For who has not wondered whether everything in this world might be alive? Though it be made of stone or wood or metal, there might be life in it, or opinion or, worst of all, resentment. The hewn boards of any boardwalk, did they recall the bite of the saw? Does memory linger in them? Perhaps the forge’s fire still dreams in each nail. A building might be made entirely of injured and brooding things.

Everything seemed bright and different after so long in the darkness. Even though most of the businesses were closed, there was one neon sign lit in the window of a narrow storefront. COFFEE AND PIE, it read. Two bikes were parked just outside. On the boardwalk, in the thrown light of the neon sign, his head dipped down as I pulled my fingers through his hair. The night still in progress, with daylight hours away.

As I crossed the lobby to the boardwalk, all I could think was that regardless of the performance I'd just witnessed, it didn't make you noble to step away from something that wasn't working, even if you thought you were the reason for the malfunction. Especially then. It just made you a quitter. Because if you were the problem, chances were you could also be the solution. The only way to find out was to take another shot.

On the boardwalk the arcade jukebox plays all night surrounded by teenagers--sometimes twenty bodies deep, bare-skinned and full of energy for the music, for one another, for life, for the little bit of freedom they taste in the salt air and their skin. My father finds his place in this crowd. They are a force together. They don't do drugs. They don't drink. But they do music, and their power comes from their numbers and the thrill of being young on the beach at night.

Some cities in Europe are using every available bit of space to create native gardens meant to feed bees, roadsides and medians, on top of bus stops.” She sighed. “I wish we’d do something like that here. We have plenty of unused corners of land to help bees.

It seemed that Trump couldn’t spend fast enough. In 1988, he had paid $365 million to buy airplanes and routes from Eastern Airlines, which he turned into a Northeastern shuttle service. And he shelled out $407 million for the Plaza Hotel, the iconic château-style building across from Manhattan’s Central Park. In both cases, he borrowed most of the money, and analysts said he overpaid. The purchases loaded him up with debt at the same time he was ramping up his gambling empire by the boardwalk, and both moves would come to haunt him. To

The Widening Sky I am so small walking on the beach at night under the widening sky. The wet sand quickens beneath my feet and the waves thunder against the shore. I am moving away from the boardwalk with its colorful streamers of people and the hotels with their blinking lights. The wind sighs for hundreds of miles. I am disappearing so far into the dark I have vanished from sight. I am a tiny seashell that has secretly drifted ashore and carries the sound of the ocean surging through its body. I am so small now no one can see me. How can I be filled with such a vast love?

Where did he go?” “That’s just it. No one ever heard from him again. The strain was obviously too much for him,” he said sarcastically. “What strain?” “Fatherhood. Good-for-nothing slacker. Never willing to grow up and take responsibility.” Mr. Beeston looked away. “What he did — it was despicable,” he said, his voice becoming raspy. “I will never forgive him.” He got up from the bench, his face hard and set. “Never,” he repeated. Something about the way he said it made me hope I’d never get on his wrong side. I followed him as we carried on along the boardwalk. “Didn’t anybody try to find him?” “Find him?” Mr. Beeston looked at me,

I saw a girl bike by on the boardwalk. She has long hair to her ass and was wearing a tiny black skirt and a hot pink crop top with her stomach showing. I thought to myself, You little slut. I didn't think it in a mean way but as a celebratory thing. I wanted to be her in that moment. She seemed like such an independent slut. I bet she never waited for texts, just fucked guys like Garrett all the time, casually. Surfer boys who looked like Theo the swimmer too, probably. I bet she never got attached. I wanted to be like this girl, not dependent on anyone else to be okay. Slutty, but an island.She wasn't pretending to be content without anything while secretly wallowing in misery. She genuinely didn't give a fuck.

She had fun with Louise, and they planned activities and trips together and occasionally went away for weekends, to see an art exhibit in Rome or an opera in Vienna, or to attend some cultural event in London or Madrid, or to walk on the boardwalk in Deauville. Gaëlle still managed to lead an interesting life, more so at times even than her younger friends. She walked with a firm step, as she headed toward Louise’s home on the rue de Varenne, with Josephine on her leash, trotting along beside her. Gaëlle always liked the idea of a new year, and said it gave her much to look forward to. She had a positive attitude about life, and lived in the present rather than the past. She saw no benefit in dwelling on what lay behind her and preferred to look ahead.

The neon orange orb sat low in the sky, slowly breaking free of the horizon like the waking memory of a dream. The salty air smelled faintly of fish, and was thick with humidity and hung like a cloak over my body. The lavender sky at the horizon faded into cerulean above and behind me. The soft breeze whispered past my face, teasing my hair on its way to tickle the sawgrass that swayed in gratitude as if laughing like a child.
 I sat on the top plank of the boardwalk rail, the wood heavy with atmosphere and was damp and cool under my left palm. The surprising warmth of the winter air and the cool of the wood reminded me that yes, I am alive! Yes, I am grateful for this morning! And yes, I am glad to be here!
 The paper in my notebook as I wrote this began to feel sticky and moist within a few minutes. The ink from my pen seemed to grip the paper faster and firmer as if to say, I’m here, I’m happy, and I don’t want to lose this moment. Like my ink, I too wanted to cling to this morning.
 The sky started turning a peachy orange at the bottom and the ocean was sea foam green. The waves were breaking quietly, as if to give my thoughts amplitude so I could record and rejoice in the sea’s majesty. 
 The sand was gray and silky like a freshly pressed pair of slacks. The smooth beach seemed paved with sunlight. A jogger ran by, his knees probably grateful for the even stride the flat surface provided. 
 Chunks of sea foam lay strewn on the beach like remnants of Poseidon’s nightly bubble bath. A seagull circled low in the air, gliding in the sky with its streamlined body as the sun lit its white wings up like an angel’s halo.

I’ve been thinking about what this would be like, too. Ever since that night I almost kissed you on the beach back in June. Say you’re right. Say I can have any woman I want. The woman I want is you. Because you’re perky and fun. Because you’re adorable and you make me laugh all the time. And because you’re far more beautiful than you give yourself credit for. I want you, Trina. You’ve got adaptability and smarts that can’t be measured by essays and bubbled answer sheets. I don’t want a distraction. I don’t want a random hook-up. I want you.

He arranged the ceremony for two o'clock in the afternoon a week before she was to leave. The exam had gone well and she was almost certain that she would qualify. Because other couples to be married came with family and friends, their ceremony seemed brisk and over quickly and caused much curiosity among those waiting because they had come alone. On their journey to Coney Island on the train that afternoon Tony raised the question for the first time of when they might marry in church and live together. 'I have money saved,' he said, 'so we could get an apartment and then move to the house when it's ready.' 'I don't mind,' she said. 'I wish we were going home together now.' He touched her hand. 'So do I,' he said. 'And the ring looks great on your finger.' She looked down at the ring. 'I'd better remember to take it off before Mrs Kehoe sees it.' The ocean was rough and grey and the wind blew white billowing clouds quickly across the sky. They moved slowly along the boardwalk and down the pier, where they stood watching the fishermen. As they walked back and sat eating hot dogs at Nathan's, Eilis spotted someone at the next table checking out her wedding ring. She smiled at herself. 'Will we ever tell our children that we did this?' she asked.

I'm anxious for you to meet my new boarder," Miriam said as they headed down the street. "He's such a handsome, well-mannered young man. I think you would like each other." Willow stopped short. "Wait a minute . You aren't thinking of doing some matchmaking, are you? Criminey, all I need is another man to take care of. Listen, if I wanted a beau that bad, I could hook one easy all on my own." "Oh? Then why haven't you?" "I just told you why. I don't need another man to do for. All a miner wants is a hard-working woman to slave for 'im while he chases dreams of gold and silver. Gamblers ain't much different, 'cept they're smoother talkers. They want a pretty mistress, one who don't mind working on her backside when her man's down on his luck." After a whole afternoon in Willow's company, Miriam was becoming shockproof. She merely raised a disapproving brow at this last statement. "I see your point, Willow, but has a real gentleman ever asked to court you?" "I suppose that depends on your definition of a gentleman." "Humph! I thought as much." Miriam sashayed on down the boardwalk. "You never did anwer my question," Willow reminded her, hurrying to catch up. "Are you matchmaking?" "Oh,look, we're here at the ice-cream parlor already. What flavor are you going to have?

For me, grief is alive. She’s a cold, unforgiving bitch who lurks in the shadows. When I’m tired or stressed, she’s always ready to pounce, to make me feel weak and incapable. Sometimes she frightens me with how big she is, but with help, I’m learning to beat her back, and now when she attacks, she’s a little smaller than the last time. Healing is a choice. I made the decision to heal. It wasn’t easy or pleasant or anything I wanted to do but the alternative was to continue to live in pain and I just couldn’t do that anymore. The pain sucks me dry and I was at risk of shriveling up and blowing away. So every morning I decide to be a little bit better. Sure, there are days I screw up completely, but then I start again. I initiated a hug with a friend. No big deal for most people, but for me it was an act of courage. Tiny steps add up. At least that’s the plan.

You're a taffy-puller." "I'm a what?" "A taffy-puller. They hypnotize me. Didn't you ever see one? " I don't think so," she breathed. " But - " " You see them on the boardwalk. Beautifully machined little rigs, all chrome-plated eccentrics and cams. There are two cranks set near each other so that the 'handle' of each passes the axle of the other. They stick a big mass of taffy on one `handle' and start the machine. Before that sticky, homogeneous mass has a chance to droop and drip off, the other crank has swung up and taken most of it. As the crank handles move away from each other the taffy is pulled out, and then as they move together again it loops and sags; and at the last possible moment the loop is shoved together. The taffy welds itself and is pulled apart again." Robin's eyes were shining and his voice was rapt. "Underneath the taffy is a stainless steel tray. There isn't a speck of taffy on it, not a drop, not a smidgen. You stand there, and you look at it, and you wait for that lump of guff to slap itself all over those roller bearings and burnished cam rods, but it never does. You wait for it to get tired of thar fantastic juggling, and it never does. Sometimes gooey little bubbles get in the taffy and get carried around and squashed flat, and when they break they do it slowly, leaving little soft craters that take a long time to fill up; and they're being mauled around the way the bubbles were." He sighed. "There's almost too much contrast - that competent, beautiful machinist's dream handling - what? Taffy - no definition, no boundaries, no predictable tensile strength. I feel somehow as if there ought to be an intermediate stage somewhere. I'd feel better if the machine handled one of Dali's limp watches, and the watch handled the mud. But that doesn't matter. How I feel, I mean. The taffy gets pulled. You're a taffy-puller. You've never done a wasteful or incompetent thing in your life, no matter what you were working with.

Sorry,’ he said with a cautious dip of the head. The stranger’s eyes flicked down to the badge pinned on his vest, came back up to his face almost at once. He muttered an apology of his own in a low, stuttery kind of voice, then turned and hurried off up the boardwalk, the tails of his greatcoat flapping about his legs, his longish black hair fanning out beneath his sweaty gray hat. Cord watched him go, suddenly feeling curious and uneasy, though he couldn’t really say why. There had just been something about the man and his manner ... He had seemed edgy, agitated by something. What? Cord followed his progress through troubled eyes. The stranger had an odd, long-stepping gait, he noticed, as if he found it hard to coordinate his movements. He hurried on up the street, glanced back over his shoulder twice. What had he been up to in that black-as-pitch dogtrot? On impulse, Cord decided to find out. The dark air stank of garbage and cat-pee. Tufted grass whispered underfoot as he headed for the far end. To his

When you live in Jersey a beach isn’t enough. People have energy in Jersey. They need things to do. They need a beach with a boardwalk. And the boardwalk has to be filled with rides and games and crappy food. Add some miniature golf. Throw in a bunch of stores selling T-shirts with offensive pictures. Life doesn’t get much better than this. And the best part is the smell. I’ve been told there are places where the ocean smells wild and briny. In Jersey the ocean smells of coconut-scented suntan lotion and Italian sausage smothered in fried onions and peppers. It smells like deep-fried zeppoles and chili hot dogs. The scent is intoxicating and exotic as it expands in the heat rising from crowds of sun-baked bodies strolling the boardwalk. Surf surges onto the beach and the sound is mingled with the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of the spinning game wheels and the highpitched Eeeeeeee of thrill seekers being hurtled down the log flume. Rock stars, pickpockets, homies, pimps, pushers, pregnant women in bikinis, future astronauts, politicians, geeks, ghouls, and droves of families who buy American and eat Italian all come to the Jersey shore.

They then interviewed us, asking about our love of Qingdao, how we met, why we came. Having learned quickly what they wanted to hear, we answered with the obligatory enthusiasm. Patrick, in especially fine form, waxed the kind of cheesy poetic that put yen-signs in the eyes of the producers. On a seaside boardwalk, for example, they asked him a simple question about the appeal of Qingdao to which he replied with a philosophical metaphor on what he lovingly dubbed, “The Qingdao Mist,” a euphemism for the constant polluted haze that enveloped the city. He compared it to the dreamlike state of early love, when all landscapes are a pleasant blur of fuzzy details. I, trying not to laugh, vented my amusement in a wide, photographic smile.

I try things and fail at them all the time. It's called living with no regrets.

If you try, you've got a chance at succeeding. Failure isn't guaranteed. If you don't even try at all, you've already failed.

A shore town without a boardwalk is like an ice-cream cone without sprinkles.

There is a boat ride at Epcot across the World Showcase Lagoon and some could argue this is an attraction. However, there is a boat ride from the International Gateway at Epcot that goes all the way to Disney’s Hollywood Studios. The ride consists of stops at Epcot, Disney’s Boardwalk, Yacht and Beach Club, Swan and Dolphin Hotel, and Disney’s Hollywood Studios. It’s a lovely cruise that connects the two theme parks. Most folks who are not staying in the resorts have no idea this 30-minute ride even exists. It is a fun way to see the different parts of the resort and it gives everyone an idea of how close Epcot and Disney’s Hollywood Studios really is (if you don’t have to drive.) For those adventurous types, there is a walkway too and along the way you could check out the interesting architecture of the buildings.

How was I supposed to know it was going to turn on Halsted? Are you trying to pick a fight?” “Maybe.” “Why?” “Because this area is full of dissipation and refuse and disease,” he said. “And, like it or not, you’re a female and he’s a babe. The cable car provides protection and the both of you should stay on it for as long as possible.” Tightening her hold on the infant, she stepped into the street and wove between traffic. “Ah, but we have with us a big Texas Ranger and his ominous-looking gun.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you baiting me?” “Maybe.” “Why?” “Because, like it or not, you’re an overbearing male who thinks I’m made out of porcelain.” Reaching the boardwalk on the other side, she squared up to him. “Well, I’m not made of porcelain or crystal or any other fragile material.

It was L.A. after all; storefronts advertised the availability of Botox at the beach. There were also storefronts that advertised the doctor was in and ready to see to your medical marijuana card. I didn’t see the need. Just walking the boardwalk got you a contact high.