Boots Funny Quotes

You won't even take your bow? Are you planning to throttle a moose with your bare hands, then?" "I've a knife in my boot," she said, and then wondered, for a moment, if she could throttle a moose with her bare hands.

A forty-foot worm?" Will muttered to Jem as they moved through the Italian garden, their boots - thanks to a pair of Soundless runes - making no noise on the gravel. "Think of the size of the fish we could catch." Jem's lips twitched. "It's not funny, you know." "It is a bit.

If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.” She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried. And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.” But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it. I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away. You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. “Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.” Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

Shoes are funny beasts. You think they’re just clothes, but really, they’re alive. They want things. Fancy ones with gems want to go to balls, big boots want to go to work, slippers want to dance. Or sleep. Shoes make the path you’re on. Change your shoes, change your path.

No one wears buckles anymore, and I decided to get him some real boots next winter solstice.Some sexy guy boots. Yeah.

There was a small wooden gazebo built out over the water; Isabelle was sitting in it, staring out across the lake. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting at the top of her tower for someone to ride up and rescue her. Not that traditional princess behavior was like Isabelle at all. Isabelle with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time.

She rolled over and sat up as he bent, tearing off his boots. "Whatcha doing?" "Getting naked." "I like that.

Fuck," Ranger said. Ranger didn't often curse and he rarely raised his voice. The fuck has been entirely conversational. Like he was now midly inconvenienced. He put his Bates boot to the door and the door popped open..

They say the path of true love never runs smooth. Well, Luke and my true love's path didn't run at all, it limped along in new boots that were chafing its heels. Blistered and cut, red and raw, every hopping, lopsided step, a little slice of agony.

We passed by a few workers, who did double takes as we ran past. I supposed that the image of a hairless cat in a sweater being followed by a stressed-looking chick in stiletto boots could have been funny. I was too anxious to get the hell out of there to see any humor in it.

When I entered and shut the door, the Darkling gave me a small bow. “How are you, Alina?” “I’m fine,” I managed. “She’s fine!” hooted Baghra. “She’s fine! She cannot light a hallway, but she’s fine.” I winced and wished I could disappear into my boots. To my surprise, the Darkling said, “Leave her be.” Baghra’s eyes narrowed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The Darkling sighed and ran his hands through his dark hair in exasperation. When he looked at me, there was a rueful smile on his lips, and his hair was going every which way. “Baghra has her own way of doing things,” he said. “Don’t patronize me, boy!” Her voice cracked out like a whip. To my amazement, I saw the Darkling stand up straighter and then scowl as if he’d caught himself. “Don’t chide me, old woman,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.

I'm taller than my father, and taller than two of the stones at Ban Drochaid." "I meant in feet," she clarified. Speaking of the mundane gave her a measure of calm. He eyed his boots a moment and appeared to be doing some rapid calculations.

And she looks at me with her eyes open wide and a face that says: Oh my God, I'm muckin' around in my sexy Jesus-boots, in my crazy dreamworld, and I've opened the door and let you in on my crazy dreamworld and that's so embarrassing but, actually, who cares? because it's funny.

I was just so excited,” Isaak said. He pulled off his left boot and watched it spill what looked like half a lake onto the carpet. “Finally something went wrong and I had nothing to do with it.

don't make me throw my boot at you, because I will, you grumpy high testosterone driven male

Being bigheaded can be as irritating and as dangerous as being small-minded.

I was on a mission. I had to learn to comfort myself, to see what others saw in me and believe it. I needed to discover what the hell made me happy other than being in love. Mission impossible. When did figuring out what makes you happy become work? How had I let myself get to this point, where I had to learn me..? It was embarrassing. In my college psychology class, I had studied theories of adult development and learned that our twenties are for experimenting, exploring different jobs, and discovering what fulfills us. My professor warned against graduate school, asserting, "You're not fully formed yet. You don't know if it's what you really want to do with your life because you haven't tried enough things." Oh, no, not me.." And if you rush into something you're unsure about, you might awake midlife with a crisis on your hands," he had lectured it. Hi. Try waking up a whole lot sooner with a pre-thirty predicament worm dangling from your early bird mouth. "Well to begin," Phone Therapist responded, "you have to learn to take care of yourself. To nurture and comfort that little girl inside you, to realize you are quite capable of relying on yourself. I want you to try to remember what brought you comfort when you were younger." Bowls of cereal after school, coated in a pool of orange-blossom honey. Dragging my finger along the edge of a plate of mashed potatoes. I knew I should have thought "tea" or "bath," but I didn't. Did she want me to answer aloud? "Grilled cheese?" I said hesitantly. "Okay, good. What else?" I thought of marionette shows where I'd held my mother's hand and looked at her after a funny part to see if she was delighted, of brisket sandwiches with ketchup, like my dad ordered. Sliding barn doors, baskets of brown eggs, steamed windows, doubled socks, cupcake paper, and rolled sweater collars. Cookouts where the fathers handled the meat, licking wobbly batter off wire beaters, Christmas ornaments in their boxes, peanut butter on apple slices, the sounds and light beneath an overturned canoe, the pine needle path to the ocean near my mother's house, the crunch of snow beneath my red winter boots, bedtime stories. "My parents," I said. Damn. I felt like she made me say the secret word and just won extra points on the Psychology Game Network. It always comes down to our parents in therapy.

When the world began, there were no such things as monsters. Demons were just fallen angels who, booted out of Heaven and bored with Hell, wandered the Earth sticking little girls’ pigtails in inkwells and sinking the occasional continent.

You were at the party on Friday night, weren't you?" I didn't mentioned I'd followed him into the woods. He leaned back in his chair, his legs sprawled out. His boots nudged the bottom ruffle of my skirt. "Aye." Aye? Seriously? Could he be any hotter? Unless he had been looking for his girlfriend at the party. Not hot. "I was supposed to meet my cousin," he elaborated, "but I didn't find her," Hot again.

Valkyrie? Well, well, aren’t you full of surprises? Not just another blonde bimbo. You’re like a collector’s edition Barbie, with your gold accessories and rather snazzy boots.

I confess that the idea of taking off one's boots in a howling squall to safeguard fossils that had survived since the Precambrian had its funny side.

Halfway home, the sky goes from dark gray to almost black and a loud thunder snap accompanies the first few raindrops that fall. Heavy, warm, big drops, they drench me in seconds, like an overturned bucket from the sky dumping just on my head. I reach my hands up and out, as if that can stop my getting wetter, and open my mouth, trying to swallow the downpour, till it finally hits me how funny it is, my trying to stop the rain. This is so funny to me, I laugh and laugh, as loud and free as I want. Instead of hurrying to higher ground, I jump lower, down off the curb, splashing through the puddles, playing and laughing all the way home. In all my life till now, rain has meant staying inside and not being able to go out to play. But now for the first time I realize that rain doesn't have to be bad. And what's more, I understand, sadness doesn't have to be bad, either. Come to think of it, I figure you need sadness, just as you need the rain. Thoughts and ideas pour through my awareness. It feels to me that happiness is almost scary, like how I imagine being drunk might feel - real silly and not caring what anybody else says. Plus, that happy feeling always leaves so fast, and you know it's going to go before it even does. Sadness lasts longer, making it more familiar, and more comfortable. But maybe, I wonder, there's a way to find some happiness in the sadness. After all, it's like the rain, something you can't avoid. And so, it seems to me, if you're caught in it, you might as well try to make the best of it. Getting caught in the warm, wet deluge that particular day in that terrible summer full of wars and fires that made no sense was a wonderful thing to have happen. It taught me to understand rain, not to dread it. There were going to be days, I knew, when it would pour without warning, days when I'd find myself without an umbrella. But my understanding would act as my all-purpose slicker and rubber boots. It was preparing me for stormy weather, arming me with the knowledge that no matter how hard it seemed, it couldn't rain forever. At some point, I knew, it would come to an end.

That may be so, but his faerie had suffered too much and he had had more than enough. If anybody so much as looked at her funny, he was going to come down hard on them with both size fourteen steel-toed boots. Then he would consider seriously the merits of evisceration.

he commences to laugh. Nobody can tell exactly why he laughs; there’s nothing funny going on. But it’s not the way that Public Relation laughs, it’s free and loud and it comes out of his wide grinning mouth and spreads in rings bigger and bigger till it’s lapping against the walls all over the ward. Not like that fat Public Relation laugh. This sounds real. I realize all of a sudden it’s the first laugh I’ve heard in years. He stands looking at us, rocking back in his boots, and he laughs and laughs. He laces his fingers

If I get killed, put my boots back on me.

We’ve reached Vlad’s first day at Thomas Jeff. August 30, 2010 Town of Michigan Infiltration of Thomas Jefferson school successful. The child is here. I can taste her. . . . Why is this woman still talking? If she thinks that I am going to stop wearing my pointed boots, she is sadly mistaken. I let out a loud snort and then turn the page quickly, feeling guilty at being amused by Vlad’s ramblings.

Jacks reclined in a throne of ice as he glared down at a fox that looked more corporeal than ghost- all fluffy white fur, save for a circle of tawny surrounding one of its coal-dark eyes. He appeared horrified by the animal, as if it's adorableness might somehow soften some of his nasty edges. Evangeline wished it would as she stood back a little to watch, enjoying that for once, Jacks was the one in the uncomfortable position. He flinched when the creature nuzzled his scuffed boots. She laughed, finally drawing his attention. 'I think it likes you.' 'I don't know why,' Jacks scowled at the beast. It responded by affectionately licking the buckle at his ankle. Evangeline continued to smile. 'You should name it.' 'If I do that, it will think it's a pet.' Jacks words dripped with disgust, which only further convinced Evangeline this fox might be the best thing that had ever happened to this Fate. 'How about I name her for you? What do you think of Princess of the Fluffikins?' 'Don't ever say that again.

Okay, time to get serious. I let my smile fade slowly and lowered my pitch, as no human woman could have. “I’m not joking this time. If I see it, it’s mine, and you won’t get it back at the end of the school year.” I growled, deep and long, savoring the feel of the vibrations in my throat, as if the sound alone could save me. It wasn’t quite a cat’s growl but it was damn close. And it was his last warning. Miguel dismissed my threat with an easy smile, and my stomach clenched. Oh, yeah, Faythe. You have Puss shaking in his boots, all right.

The next morning I told Mom I couldn't go to school again. She asked what was wrong. I told her, “The same thing that’s always wrong.” “You’re sick?” “I'm sad.” “About Dad?” “About everything.” She sat down on the bed next to me, even though I knew she was in a hurry. “What's everything?” I started counting on my fingers: “The meat and dairy products in our refrigerator, fistfights, car accidents, Larry–” “Who's Larry?” “The homeless guy in front of the Museum of Natural History who always says ‘I promise it’s for food’ after he asks for money.” She turned around and I zipped her dress while I kept counting. “How you don’t know who Larry is, even though you probably see him all the time, how Buckminster just sleeps and eats and goes to the bathroom and has no ‘raison d’etre’, the short ugly guy with no neck who takes tickets at the IMAX theater, how the sun is going to explode one day, how every birthday I always get at least one thing I already have, poor people who get fat because they eat junk food because it’s cheaper…” That was when I ran out of fingers, but my list was just getting started, and I wanted it to be long, because I knew she wouldn't leave while I was still going. “…domesticated animals, how I have a domesticated animal, nightmares, Microsoft Windows, old people who sit around all day because no one remembers to spend time with them and they’re embarrassed to ask people to spend time with them, secrets, dial phones, how Chinese waitresses smile even when there’s nothing funny or happy, and also how Chinese people own Mexican restaurants but Mexican people never own Chinese restaurants, mirrors, tape decks, my unpopularity in school, Grandma’s coupons, storage facilities, people who don’t know what the Internet is, bad handwriting, beautiful songs, how there won’t be humans in fifty years–” “Who said there won't be humans in fifty years?” I asked her, “Are you an optimist or a pessimist?” She looked at her watch and said, “I'm optimistic.” “Then I have some bed news for you, because humans are going to destroy each other as soon as it becomes easy enough to, which will be very soon.” “Why do beautiful songs make you sad?” “Because they aren't true.” “Never?” “Nothing is beautiful and true.

if I was gay, I’d… I’d be mesmerized by you. I’d listen to every word that fell out of your mouth like it was diamonds made of sound waves. I’d memorize the pattern of freckles on your back and spend months taking cooking classes just to find something you’d eat. You are kind, and you are funny, and you are brave, and any man who has you needs to see all that or he just isn’t worth the laces in your combat boots, you hear me

I thought you'd be gone by now." Velkan "Hardly, I have to much to do." Esperetta "Such as?" Velkan "Apologize to you." Esperetta "Why would you do that?" Velkan "Because I'm stupid and pigheaded. Judgmental. Unforgiving. Mistrustful--you can stop me at anytime, you know?" Esperetta "Why should i? You're on quite a roll. Besides, you missed the worst flaw." Velkan "And that is?" Esperetta "Hotheaded." Velkan "I learned that one from you." Esperetta "How so?" Velkan "Remember that time you threw your boots into the fire because you had trouble getting them off?" "I never did that." Velkan "Yes, you did. You also gave your favorite saddle to the stable master because it scratched your leg as you dismounted and told him he could have it but, personally, you'd burn it, too." Esperetta

Why,' she asked Bryce, 'is Hunt Athalar your roommate?' 'He was booted from the 33rd for his questionable fashion sense,' she said munching on the croissant. 'I told him his boring black clothes don't bother me, and let him stay here.

The situation was absurd. He wore riding boots with spurs. Her hair tumbled about her like a shaggy pony's. They were in the schoolroom with the furniture pushed about higgledy-piggledy. But in that instant, she would have danced a fandango with a rose in her teeth if Lochinvar had asked her to.

We didn't have time to get you an actual haircut," she said. "Seriously, did you do it yourself? Maybe without a mirror?" I put a hand up to my head self-consciously and said, "I had some help from the General. And, hey, I didn't say anything about your man-shoes." "They're steel-toed," she said calmly. "In case I need to plant them in anyone's ass as a result of him calling them man-shoes. And seriously, you let Toot help you with your hair?

Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.

Says O'Sullivan to me, "Mr. Fay, I'll have a word wid yeh?" "Certainly," says I; "what can I do for you?" "Sell me your sea- boots, Mr. Fay," says O'Sullivan, polite as can be. "But what will you be wantin' of them?" says I. "'Twill be a great favour," says O'Sullivan. "But it's my only pair," says I; "and you have a pair of your own," says I. "Mr. Fay, I'll be needin' me own in bad weather," says O'Sullivan. "Besides," says I, "you have no money." "I'll pay for them when we pay off in Seattle," says O'Sullivan. "I'll not do it," says I; "besides, you're not tellin' me what you'll be doin' with them." "But I will tell yeh," says O'Sullivan; "I'm wantin' to throw 'em over the side." And with that I turns to walk away, but O'Sullivan says, very polite and seducin'-like, still a-stroppin' the razor, "Mr. Fay," says he, "will you kindly step this way an' have your throat cut?" And with that I knew my life was in danger, and I have come to make report to you, sir, that the man is a violent lunatic.

I went to a foot specialist recently and she said: "You've broken a bone, it's healed funny." "What can you do?" "Not much." She strapped me up though and that's the reason my foot is hurting, because the strapping gave me cramp. When I'm about to die I'm going to head ti a swamp so I topple in when the time comes. In 50,000 years when they dig me up, pretty well preserved, the scientists will have to work out what sort of life I led from my bone structure, teeth and whatnot. Maybe I'll be clutching a Felt record or something to give them a clue. They'll look at my foot and say: "This man broke a bone and it's healed funny." And they'll look at the Felt record, analysing the grooves with a Groove Analyser and they'll say: "He was obviously in an indie band and one day the pressure got too much, and he booted a wall." And they wouldn't be far from the truth, those crazy scientists.

What the hell are those?" Zach pushed at my foot with his finger. "My boots." "It looks like your foot's being attacked by a Muppet.

Funny when you're the only pair of boots in a sandals town.

Goldilocks: Who told you this? Puss in Boots: I know a siamese who dated a tabby who sells royal secrets in exchange for sardines. Goldilocks: You expect me to believe someone who commits treason for fish?

Leaving his hair, I sink to my knees before him. 'Violet-' 'I'm just taking off your boots.' A smirk plays at my lips as I unlace one, then the other, taking them off. I rise and carry his boots towards the armoire.

Who," coughed Zvonok, "do you think broke your favorite teacup last fall? The one with the cherries on the handle?" "I was careless, Comrade Zvonok. I left the window open and a storm blew through." "Incorrect! I broke it because you left me no cream and no dry biscuits, and when your old boots wore through, you burned them up for heat instead of giving them to me!" "Hear, hear!" the table erupted in approval once more. "Well done, well done!" "I'm surely very sorry--" "So is your teacup.

August takes note after note and finds it almost funny—that all the fighting only conspired to make Jane gentle. Fearsome and flirty and full of bad jokes, an incorrigible sweet tooth and a steel-toe boot as a last resort. That, August is learning, is Jane.

I am going to give you orders.' 'Oh, indeed,' he said. On his brow, the gold crown of Elfhame caught the light of the sunset. I took a breath and began. 'You're never to deny me an audience or give an order to keep me from your side.' 'Whysoever would I want you to leave my side?' he asked, voice dry. 'And you may never order me arrested or imprisoned or killed,' I said, ignoring him. 'Not hurt. Not even detained.' 'What about asking a servant to put a very sharp pebble in your boot?' he asked, expression annoyingly serious.

He laughed with a mix of amusement and surprised appreciation. She couldn’t win. She had to know that. Yet still she fought. He hadn’t known there was a Summerlander alive still willing to confront him with such spirited defiance. Entire armies had fallen before him, yet this slight wisp of a girl dared to grapple, barehanded and defenseless, with the Winter King, a man who could slay with a glance. He dodged a fist meant to break his nose and laughed again, enjoying himself for the first time in a very long while. How lucky for him so few of Verdan’s soldiers had possessed such raw, reckless courage! A thousand like her in their ranks, and the war might have ended quite differently. His humor apparently didn’t sit well with her. She snarled and aimed another blow at his chin, which he blocked, as well as a vicious kick to his groin. He managed to block that, too—barely—but the hard toe of her boot still came close enough, with enough force, that his balls tingled from the near miss. He quit laughing. There were some things a man just didn’t find funny.

Doris loves Superman as well.unfortunately, she got knocked down by a van last year, and it was a big, long recovery for her, really. It took about six months, didn't it, before she was fully back to normal. She never gone back to normal. She's got a bionic leg now, which made her twice as fast and twice as stupid. You know, but she's just such good fun. But anyway,like she had a bit of a low point, you know, when she got really fed up, you know, with those stupid lampshade collars, you know, that they have on their head. Ugh, bumping into everything, she was walking about sighing. Ugh, like that, you know, and if you've ever been known or been with the terriers, but that ball of energy,you know, and she wasn't allowed to be for a walk or anything. It was awful. So to cheer her up, I bought her a little Superman outfit for dogs. When you get home, you look online. They are absolutely brilliant. You can get Wonder Woman and Darth Vader, all sorts. They're the funniest thing I have ever seen in my. The front paws, the front legs go in Super man's legs, you know, and it like covers up the paw with these little, red boot things on the bottom. And it comes up and ties around the neck, and there's tube stuff down from the front. So from the front, it's like a tiny, little Superman with a dog's head. And then, on the back there's this cape. So when she trots around, it looks like she's flying! Ah, it's brilliant! And she loves it. I couldn't get it off for about a week. It's honestly, they're absolutely brilliant, you must check it out. So anyway, tonight this is for Doris.

It was astonishing how loudly one laughed at tales of gruesome things, of war’s brutality-I with the rest of them. I think at the bottom of it was a sense of the ironical contrast between the normal ways of civilian life and this hark-back to the caveman code. It made all our old philosophy of life monstrously ridiculous. It played the “hat trick” with the gentility of modern manners. Men who had been brought up to Christian virtues, who had prattled their little prayers at mothers’ knees, who had grown up to a love of poetry, painting, music, the gentle arts, over-sensitized to the subtleties of half-tones, delicate scales of emotion, fastidious in their choice of words, in their sense of beauty, found themselves compelled to live and act like ape-men; and it was abominably funny. They laughed at the most frightful episodes, which revealed this contrast between civilized ethics and the old beast law. The more revolting it was the more, sometimes, they shouted with laughter, especially in reminiscence, when the tale was told in the gilded salon of a French chateau, or at a mess-table. It was, I think, the laughter of mortals at the trick which had been played on them by an ironical fate. They had been taught to believe that the whole object of life was to reach out to beauty and love, and that mankind, in its progress to perfection, had killed the beast instinct, cruelty, blood-lust, the primitive, savage law of survival by tooth and claw and club and ax. All poetry, all art, all religion had preached this gospel and this promise. Now that ideal had broken like a china vase dashed to hard ground. The contrast between That and This was devastating. It was, in an enormous world-shaking way, like a highly dignified man in a silk hat, morning coat, creased trousers, spats, and patent boots suddenly slipping on a piece of orange-peel and sitting, all of a heap, with silk hat flying, in a filthy gutter. The war-time humor of the soul roared with mirth at the sight of all that dignity and elegance despoiled. So we laughed merrily, I remember, when a military chaplain (Eton, Christ Church, and Christian service) described how an English sergeant stood round the traverse of a German trench, in a night raid, and as the Germans came his way, thinking to escape, he cleft one skull after another with a steel-studded bludgeon a weapon which he had made with loving craftsmanship on the model of Blunderbore’s club in the pictures of a fairy-tale. So we laughed at the adventures of a young barrister (a brilliant fellow in the Oxford “Union”) whose pleasure it was to creep out o’ nights into No Man’s Land and lie doggo in a shell-hole close to the enemy’s barbed wire, until presently, after an hour’s waiting or two, a German soldier would crawl out to fetch in a corpse. The English barrister lay with his rifle ready. Where there had been one corpse there were two. Each night he made a notch on his rifle three notches one night to check the number of his victims. Then he came back to breakfast in his dugout with a hearty appetite.

Why did you break in Mrs. Casnoff’s desk for?” Information on Archer. After he left. “Ah. You’re welcome, by the way?” For what? She jiggled the nail harder. “For putting him in his place the other night. Working with The Eye,” she scoffed. “Yeah, that’s a brilliant plan.” He’s just trying to think of something,” I said automatically. I wasn’t sure why I was defending him when I’d basically said that idea was the stupidest thing ever to have stupided, but I didn’t like the scorn in her voice. Well, my voice, her words. Elodie paused in trying to open the desk drawer and shoved my hair back with both hands. “What’s it going to take for you to realize that Archer Cross is bad news? He’s an Eye. He’s a liar and a jerk, and he’s not nearly as funny as he thinks he is. And you’re betrothed to Cal. Boys who can heal all wounds and are super hot, to boot? Don’t exactly come around every day.” I don’t think about Cal like that. Pressing the point of the nail back into the lock, Elodie snorted. “Um, hi, I’ve been in your head. You totally think about him like that.” Look,, this isn’t a slumber party, I snapped. Can you please get back to work? “Fine,” she muttered. “Don’t listen to me. But I’m telling you, Cal is the way to go. Heck, if I had a body, I wouldn’t mind-“ I’m going to need you to stop right there. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she wasn’t going to stop right there, but before she could say anything else, the lock on the drawer gave way.

THAT DAY, while we were in school, four men in a jeep came to visit Ghosh. They took him away as if he were a common criminal, his hands jacked up behind his back. They slapped him when he tried to protest. Hema learned this from W. W. Gonad, who told the men they were surely mistaken in taking away Missing’s surgeon. For his impertinence W.W. got a boot in his stomach. Hema refused to believe Ghosh was gone. She ran home, certain that she’d find him sunk into his armchair, his sockless feet up on the stool, reading a book. In anticipation of seeing him, in the certainty that he would be there, she was already furious with him. She burst through the front door of our bungalow. “Do you see how dangerous it is for us to associate with the General? What have I been telling you? You could get us all killed!” Whenever she came at him like that, all her cylinders firing, it was Ghosh’s habit to flourish an imaginary cape like a matador facing a charging bull. We found it funny, even if Hema never did. But the house was quiet. No matador. She went from room to room, the jingle of her anklets echoing in the hallways. She imagined Ghosh with his arm twisted behind his back, being punched in the face,

The parlour is as I remember it from Council meetings. It carries the scent of smoke and verbena and clover. Cardan himself lounges, his booted feet resting on a stone table carved in the shape of a griffin, claws raised to strike. He gives me a quicksilver conspiratorial grin that seems completely at odds with the way he spoke to me from the throne. 'Well,' he says, patting the couch beside him. 'Didn't you get my letters?' 'What?' I am confused enough that the word comes out like a croak. 'You never replied to a one,' he goes on. 'I began to wonder if you'd misplaced your ambition in the mortal world.' This must be a test. This must be a trap. 'Your Majesty,' I say stiffly. 'I thought you brought me here to assure yourself I had neither charm nor amulet.' A single eyebrow rises, and his smile deepens. 'I will if you like. Shall I command you to remove your clothes? I don't mind.' 'What are you doing?' I say finally, desperately. 'What are you playing at?' He's looking at me as though somehow I am the one who's behaving strangely. 'Jude, you can't really think I don't know it's you. I knew you from the moment you walked into the brugh.' I shake my head, reeling. 'That's not possible.

I reach out and squeeze her hand, and remember everything we’ve lived through together. The normal things we endured as we grew from girls to women. The days in school where boys would line us up in order of our fuckability. The parties where it was normal to lie on top of a semi-conscious girl, do things to her, then call her a slut afterwards. A Christmas number-one song about a pregnant woman being stuffed into the boot of a car and driven off a bridge. Laughing when your male friends made rape jokes. Opening a newspaper and seeing the breasts of a girl who had only just turned legal, dressed in school uniform to make her look underage. Of the childhood films we grew up on, and loved, and knew all the words to, where, at the end, a girl would always get chosen for looking the prettiest compared to all the others. Reading magazines that told you to mirror men’s body language, and hum on their dick when you went down on them, that turned into books about how to get them to commit by not being yourself. Of size zero, and Atkins, and Five-Two, and cabbage soup, and juice cleanses and eat clean. Of pole-dancing lessons as a great way to get fit, and actually, if you want to be really cool, come to the actual strip club too. Of being sexually assaulted when you kissed someone on a dance floor and not thinking about it properly until you are twenty-seven and read a book about how maybe it was wrong. Of being jealous of your friend who got assaulted on the dance floor because why didn’t he pick you to assault? Boys not wanting to be with you unless you fuck them quickly. Boys not wanting to be with you because you fucked them too quickly. Being terrified to walk anywhere in the dark in case the worst thing happens to you, and so your male friend walks you home to keep you safe, and then comes into your bedroom and does the worst thing to you, and now, when you look him up online, he’s engaged to a woman who wears a feminist T-shirt and isn’t going to change her name when they get married. Of learning to have no pubic hair, and how liberating it is to pay thirty-five pounds a month to rip this from your body and lurch up in agony. Rings around famous women’s bodies saying ‘look at this cellulite’, oh, by the way, here is a twenty-quid cream so you don’t get

Things can get out of hand quickly, especially with Sid around. I also decide never to wear heels again when I'm out with him. I go to Holt's in Camden Town and buy a pair of black Dr Martens. (You can get them in black, brown or maroon, the skinhead boys at school used to buy the brown ones and polish them with Kiwi Oxblood shoe polish — this gives them a deep reddish brown colour, much subtler than the flat red of the originals. They also keep them pristinely clean and polished at all times.) I wear my new boots with everything — dresses, tutus — it’s a great feeling to be able to run again. No other girl wears DMs with dresses, so I get a lot of funny looks. (Skinhead girls only wear DMs with Sta-Prest trousers. With their boring grey skirts, they west plain white or holey ecru tights and black patent brogues.) Bit I wear them all the time to clubs and pubs, it eventually catches on with other girls and I don’t look so odd.

Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out, "Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead. "What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly. "Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober. "Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy. March never had any stamina," was the cheerful reply. "Ha, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!" squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear. "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you'd better go at once. It isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a rattlepated boy like . . ." "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the `rattlepated' boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.

You know, Micah, that first night, when I saw you on Bridge Street, I wanted to kill you. I wanted to cut your throat and watch your blood soak into the dirt. I wanted to wrap a strangle cord around your neck and throttle you while you kicked and messed yourself." "I'm shaking in my boots," Micah said, looking Han dead in the eyes. Han stood and took a step toward him. "I'm what's hiding in the side street when you walk home from The Four Horses," he said. "I'm the shadow in Greystone Alley when you go out to take a piss. I'm the foot pad in the corridor when you visit the girlie at Grievous Hall." Micah's eyes narrowed, his self-assurance wilting a bit. Han could tell he was going back over a hundred suspicious sights and sounds. "You've been following me?" "I can come and go from your room, any time I want," Han said. "I can tell you what you say when you talk in your sleep. I know what your down low girlie whispers in your ear." He laughed... Michah licked his lips. "Perhaps you take some kind of perverse pleasure in stalking me...

Good morning.' Cassian's fingers idly smoothed her hair. 'Good morning to you, too.' He glanced toward the mantel- the small wooden clock in its centre, then lurched up. 'Shit.' Nesta frowned. 'You have somewhere to be?' He was already hopping into his pants, scanning the floor for the rest of his clothes. Nesta silently pointed to the other side of the bed, where his shirt lay atop her dress. 'Snowball fight. I'll be late.' Nesta had to unload every word of his statement. But she could only ask. 'What?' 'Annual tradition, with Rhys and Az. We go up tot he mountain cabin- remind me to take you there one day- and... Well, it's a long story, but we've done it pretty much every year for centuries, and I haven't won in years. If I don't win this year, I will never hear the end of it.' All of this was said while shoving himself into his shirt, leather jacket, and boots. Nesta just laughed. 'You three- the most feared warriors in all the land- have an annual snowball fight?' Cassian reached the door, throwing her a wicked grin. 'Did I mention we take a steam in the birchin attached to the cabin afterward?' From that wicked grin, she knew he meant completely naked.

build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar--except a small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole. When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else. When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at. Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke. It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly. Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the

What does one wear to a ranch early in the morning? I wondered. I was stumped. I had enough good sense, thank God, to know my spiked black boots--the same boots I’d worn on basically every date with Marlboro Man thus far--were out of the question. I wouldn’t want them to get dirty, and besides that, people might look at me funny. I had a good selection of jeans, yes, but would I go for the dark, straight-leg Anne Kleins? Or the faded, boot-cut Gaps with contrast stitching? And what on earth would I wear on top? This could get dicey. I had a couple of nice, wholesome sweater sets, but the weather was turning warmer and the style didn’t exactly scream “ranch” to me. Then there was the long, flax-colored linen tunic from Banana Republic--one I loved to pair with a chunky turquoise necklace and sandals. But that was more Texas Evening Barbecue than Oklahoma Early-Morning Cattle Gathering. Then there were the myriad wild prints with sparkles and stones and other obnoxious adornments. But the last thing I wanted to do was spook the cattle and cause a stampede. I’d seen it happen in City Slickers when Billy Crystal fired up his cordless coffee grinder, and the results weren’t the least bit pretty. I considered cancelling. I had absolutely nothing to wear. Every pair of shoes I owned was black, except for a bright yellow pair of pumps I’d bought on a whim in Westwood one California day. Those wouldn’t exactly work, either. And I didn’t own a single shirt that wouldn’t loudly broadcast *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* I wanted to crawl under my covers and hide.

Violet’s not getting out of our sight,” Arion adds. There’s a moment of just staring…like everyone is trying to silently argue. “No one naked in my car,” Mom states when I just stand in my spot, waiting on them to hurry through the push and pull. You really can tell how thick the air is when too many alphas are in the room at one time, but weirdly it never feels this way when it’s just the four of them. Unless punches are thrown. Then it gets a little heavier than normal. Arion pulls on his clothes, and threads whir in the air as I quickly fashion Emit a lopsided toga that lands on his body. Everyone’s gaze swings to him like it’s weird for him and normal for me to be in a toga. Awesome. Damien muffles a sound, Emit arches an eyebrow at me, and Arion remains rigid, staying close to me but never touching me. All of us squeezing into a car together while most of them hate each other…should be fun. The storm finally stops before we board the elevator, and it’s one of those super awkward elevator moments where no one is looking at anyone or saying anything, and everyone is trying to stay in-the-moment serious. We stop on the floor just under us, after the longest thirty-five seconds ever. The doors open, and two men glance around at Emit and I in our matching togas, even though his is the fitted sheet and riding up in some funny places. He looks like a caveman who accidentally bleached and shrank his wardrobe. I palm my face, embarrassed for him. The next couple of floors are super awkward with the addition of the two new, notably uncomfortable men. Worst seventy-nine seconds ever. Math doesn’t add up? Yeah. I’m upset about those extra nine seconds as well. Poor Emit has to duck out of the unusually small elevator, and the bottom of his ass cheek plays peek-a-boo on one side. Damien finally snorts, and even Mom struggles to keep a straight face. That really pisses her off. “You’re seeing him on an off day,” I tell the two guys, who stare at my red boots for a second. I feel the need to defend Emit a little, especially since I now know he overheard all that gibberish Tiara was saying… I can’t remember all I said, and it’s worrying me now that my mind has gone off on this stupid tangent. I trip over the hem of my toga, and Arion snags me before I hit the floor, righting me and showing his hands to my mother with a quick grin. “Can’t just let her fall,” he says unapologetically. “You’re going to have to learn to deal with that,” she bites out. She has a very good point. I don’t trip very often, but things and people usually knock me around a good bit of my life. The two guys look like they want to run, so I hurry to fix this. “Really, it’s a long story, but I swear Emit—the tallest one in the fitted-sheet-toga—generally wears pants…er…I guess you guys call them trousers over here. Anyway, we had some plane problems,” I carry on, and then realize I have to account for the fact we’re both missing clothing. “Then there was a fire that miraculously only burned our clothes, because Emit put all my flames out by smothering me with his body,” I state like that’s exactly what happened. Why do they look so scared? I’m not telling a scary lie. At this point, I’ve just made it worse, and fortunately Damien takes mercy, clamping his hand over my mouth as he starts steering me toward the door before I can make it…whatever comes after worse but before the worst. “Thank you,” sounds more like “Mmdi ooooo,” against his hand, but he gets the gist, as he grins. Mom makes a frustrated sound. “Another minute, and she’d be bragging about his penis size in quest to save his dignity. Did you really want to hear that?” Damien asks her, forcing me to groan against his hand.

A splash of light snuck beneath the a dressing room door. He heard a groan. A shuffle. A bump. A heavy sigh. "Uh, too tight." He walked toward the back, stopping outside the dressing room. The door was cracked a fraction. He rested a shoulder against the wall, and glanced inside. Grace as Catwoman blew his mind. A feline fantasy. The three-way mirror tripled his pleasure. He viewed her from every angle. Hot, sleek, fierce. The lady could fight Batman in her skintight black leather catsuit and come out the winner. After a moment she scrunched her nose, slapped her palms against her thighs. Stuck out her tongue at her reflection in the mirrors. He saw what had her so frustrated. Sympathized with her disappointment. Her costume didn't fit. The front zipper hadn't fully cleared her cleavage, which was deep and visible. She wore no bra. She gave a little hop, and her breasts bounced. Full and plump. He felt a tug at his groin. Superhero lust. He cleared his throat and made his presence known. She caught his image in the corner of the glass, and reached for the fitting room chair, positioning it between them. Like that would keep him from her. He should've looked away, but couldn't. He sensed her embarrassment. Her panic. Flight? She had nowhere to go. He blocked the door. He wasn't leaving until they'd talked. "Archibald's going to love your costume," he initiated. She didn't find him funny. Her gaze narrowed behind the molded cat-eye mask with attached ears. Her fingers clenched in her elbow-length gloves. Inspired by the movie The Dark Knight, she'd added a whip and a gun holster. Her thigh-high stiletto boots were killer, adding five inches to her height. Her image would stick with him forever. She backed against the center mirror, and nervously fingered the open flaps over her breasts. A yank on the zipper broke the tab. The metal teeth parted, and the gap widened, revealing the round inner curves of her breasts. A hint of her nipples. Dusky pink. All the way down to the dent of her navel.

she had dark chestnut hair, a heart-shaped face, large wide eyes, full lips…and appeared about as miserable as he’d ever seen a young woman, a state he suspected had something to do with the older woman at her side. His gaze slid over the matron. Well-rounded with dark hair, she was pretty despite the bloom of youth being gone—or she would be if she weren’t wearing a pursed, dissatisfied expression as she surveyed the activity in the ballroom. Adrian glanced back to the girl. “First season?” he queried, his curiosity piqued. “Yes.” Reg looked amused. “Why is no one dancing with her?” A beauty such as this should have had a full card. “No one dares ask her—and you will not either, if you value your feet.” Adrian’s eyebrows rose, his gaze turning reluctantly from the young woman to the man at his side. “She is blind as a bat and dangerous to boot,” Reg announced, nodding when Adrian looked disbelieving. “Truly, she cannot dance a step without stomping on your toes and falling about. She cannot even walk without bumping into things.” He paused, cocking one eyebrow in response to Adrian’s expression. “I know you do not believe it. I did not either…much to my own folly.” Reginald turned to glare at the girl and continued: “I was warned, but ignored it and took her in to dinner….” He glanced back at Adrian. “I was wearing dark brown trousers that night, unfortunately. She mistook my lap for a table, and set her tea on me. Or rather, she tried to. It overset and…” Reg paused, shifting uncomfortably at the memory. “Damn me if she did not burn my piffle.” Adrian stared at his cousin and then burst into laughter. Reginald looked startled, then smiled wryly. “Yes, laugh. But if I never sire another child—legitimate or not—I shall blame it solely on Lady Clarissa Crambray.” Shaking his head, Adrian laughed even harder, and it felt so good. It had been many years since he’d found anything the least bit funny. But the image of the delicate little flower along the wall mistaking Reg’s lap for a table and oversetting a cup of tea on him was priceless. “What did you do?” he got out at last. Reg shook his head and raised his hands helplessly. “What could I do? I pretended it had not happened, stayed where I was, and tried not to cry with the pain. ‘A gentleman never deigns to notice, or draw attention in any way to, a lady’s public faux pas,’” he quoted dryly, then glanced back at the girl with a sigh. “Truth to tell, I do not think she even realized what she’d done. Rumor has it she can see fine with spectacles, but she is too vain to wear them.” Still smiling, Adrian followed Reg’s gaze to the girl. Carefully taking in her wretched expression, he shook his head. “No. Not vain,” he announced, watching as the older woman beside Lady Clarissa murmured something, stood, and moved away. “Well,” Reg began, but paused when, ignoring him, Adrian moved toward the girl. Shaking his head, he muttered, “I warned you.” -Adrian & Reg

Sunday's Best Times are tough for English babies Send the army and the navy Beat up strangers who talk funny Take their greasy foreign money Skin shop, red leather, hot line Be prepared for the engaged sign Bridal books, engagement rings And other wicked little things Chorus: Standing in your socks and vest Better get it off your chest Every day is just like the rest But Sunday's best Stylish slacks to suit your pocket Back supports and picture lockets Sleepy towns and sleeper trains To the dogs and down the drains Major roads and ladies smalls Hearts of oak and long trunk calls Continental interference At death's door with life insurance Chorus Sunday's best, Sunday's finest When your money's in the minus And you suffer from your shyness You can listen to us whiners Don't look now under the bed An arm, a leg and a severed head Read about the private lives The songs of praise, the readers' wives Listen to the decent people Though you treat them just like sheep Put them all in boots and khaki Blame it all upon the darkies

Some of the men were dressed like Peter and wore red plaid hunting jackets or bulky tan Carhartt jackets or lined flannel shirts, and all of those men were wearing jeans and work boots. Some of the men wore ski jackets and hiking boots and the sort of many-pocketed army green pants that made you want to get out of your seat and rappel. Some of the men wore wide-wale corduroy pants and duck boots and cable0knit sweaters and scarves. It was a regular United Nations of white American manhood. But all the men, no matter what they were wearing, were slouching in their chairs, with their legs so wide open that it seemed as though there must be something severely wrong with their testicles.

What are you doing?” Sophie jumped at his harsh tone and whacked her thumb. “Ow!” She grabbed her finger and looked at it for a minute, then stuffed the tip into her mouth and glared at him. Clay forgot his temper and chuckled at the sight. “There is nothing funny about me smashing myself with a hammer!” she growled around her thumb. “You look like Laura sucking her thumb. It’s cute.” Clay smiled at his wife. Her hair was bedraggled. She had on her stained work dress. She was wearing boots five sizes too big for her, and she was wildly irritated. He thought about how pretty she was and wondered if he could tease a kiss out of her. “Cute?” Sophie withdrew her thumb, scowled, and bent over to go back to work on the board. Clay remembered why he’d hollered at her to begin with. His amusement faded. “I’ll do that. You wouldn’t have hurt your thumb if you’d been doing the work God intends for a woman to do. Get back in the house!

You never see positive portrayals of black cats on TV. Orange cats are used to sell cat food. And when an orange cat steals lasagna, it’s sweet and funny. Orange cats are cute little guys who wear boots. But black cats? We’re always demons and witches! That’s some racist BS.

A weathered black and silver Dodge pickup towing a small motorboat pulled up behind us, and Alex circled back to greet the driver. I couldn’t see who sat behind the crusted and dirty windshield, but Alex stood at the driver’s window and pointed down the block where the boulevard disappeared into floodwater. The truck pulled ahead, maneuvered a deft U-turn, and backed toward the water. Alex motioned for me to follow. By the time I lurched my way to the truck, he and the pickup driver were sliding the boat down the trailer ramp. Sweat trickled down my neck, and if I hadn’t been afraid of being poisoned by toxic sludge, I’d have made like a pig and wallowed in the mud to cool off. I kicked at a fire hydrant, trying to jolt some of the heaviest sludge off my boots, and heard a soft laugh behind me. With a final kick that sent a spray of brown gunk flying, I turned to see what was so funny. I needed a laugh. A man leaned against the side of the pickup with his arms crossed. He was a few inches shorter than Alex, maybe just shy of six feet, with sun-streaked blond hair that reached his collar and a sleeveless blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. His tanned legs between the bottom of the shorts and the top of sturdy black shrimp boots were scored with scars, bad ones, as if whatever made them meant to do serious damage. He’d been grinning when I turned around, flashing a heart-stopping set of dimples, but when he saw my eyes linger on his legs, the grin eased into something more wary.

Jesus,” he muttered then he rolled until I was on my back, his weight was on me, his hips between my legs then he said, “you’re not real fast, are you?” If he’d said this in an angry or sarcastic way, rather than a resigned and a tad bit amused way, I would have lost my mind. Instead, I said honestly, “I’m not usually this clueless. But when my brother is murdered; I’m waiting for the next crazy gift to be delivered to my door which might cause my head to explode; I fall in love with a man and he moves in; and I have a future that includes another kid and I need to figure out how I’m gonna tell my daughters they might have a brother or sister sometime in the future, I get a little out of it. In my defense, most women would.” “What?” Joe asked when I stopped talking and I realized his body had gone tense again, so tense it felt like even his cells had stopped moving he had that tight a rein. I put a hand to his face and answered, “I thought you said you wanted a kid.” “Before that.” I thought for a second and asked, “My head exploding?” His body moved but only to press mine deeper into the bed. “After that, Vi,” he growled and I was getting confused again because he was sounding impatient again, very impatient, close to losing it impatient. “I’m in love with you?” I asked quietly. “Yeah, baby, that.” “What about it?” “What about it?” he repeated. “Yeah, um… do you… uh…” Shit! He wasn’t ready for that. Now what did I say? “Is that too much for you? Should I have –?” He cut me off by roaring with laughter. Roaring. So loud I was pretty sure he’d wake the girls (and Mooch). “What’s funny?” I asked him and he shoved his face in my neck but his hands started roaming. “You think maybe you might have wanted to tell me that?” “Tell you what?” His head came up. “Honey, keep up with me because this is pretty fuckin’ important.” I felt my temperature increase as my anger elevated and I did my best to lock it down. “I’m not following you, Joe. Maybe you could explain?” His mouth came to mine and he whispered, “You’re in love with me.” “Well, yeah.” “Didn’t you think maybe you should share that with me?” “Um… I thought I did.” He kissed me lightly then his mouth went away but not far away when he said, “Woulda remembered that, buddy.” “But, I gave up Mike and you’re moved in.” “Yeah. So?” “With me and the girls.” He didn’t say, “Yeah. So?” again, he let his silence say it. “Doesn’t that say it all?” I asked. “I mean, I wouldn’t let just any guy move in with me and the girls. I’m not like that. He’d have to mean something to me, like you do.” I felt his body relax into mine before he asked quietly, “When did you know?” “What?” “That you loved me, when did you know?” I felt my temperature decrease and my hand slid up his back and into his hair. “I don’t know. I just knew,” I answered softly. “Vi –” he said my name on a gentle warning. Quickly, to get it out because, being Joe he wasn’t going to let it go and when I said it, it was going to make me sound stupid, I told him. “When you said, ‘Baby, you aren’t wearing any shoes’ that second night we were together at your house.” Immediately, he replied, “I knew you were the one when you were standin’ in my living room, wearing those stupid-ass boots, your nightie and that ratty robe.” “That was the night we first met.” “Yep.” I was the one for Joe and he knew it the first night we met. He knew I was the one. The one. The one. And he knew it the first night we met.

See, Juliet? Your daughter thinks it's funny. Now, Charlotte, if we can only get your mama to laugh, too. I mean really laugh. She's so pretty when she smiles, don't you think?" Juliet blushed. "Oh, do stop trying to flatter me, Gareth." "Flatter you? I'm merely telling the truth." "And stop grinning at me like that." "Why?" "Because —" she hugged herself and looked away — "it's making me all the more annoyed with you." "You're not annoyed with me, Juliet."  He climbed onto the bed, tugged off his boots, and, still in his stockings, lay back against the pillows, his long legs bent at the knee. Throwing one knee over the other, he placed Charlotte on his chest and grinned lazily up at Juliet. "At least, not anymore." Her

I have only touched one other computer at my friend Marissa's house, and found the experience disconcerting. There was something sinister about the green letters and numbers that flashed on the screen as the computer booted up, and I hated the way Marissa stopped answering questions or noticing me the second it was turned on.

Chad?” “Yes?” “Can you turn around please?” He’d been still before, but now it was if he were frozen in time. For several long seconds she didn’t even hear him breathe. But then he swiveled on one boot heel to face her. Lora sank down into the water until only her shoulders were exposed. His gaze traveled over her as if he could see more, though. “Would you join me?” Lora actually heard him swallow from several feet away and it gave her courage that he was nervous. “I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.” “Please?” He took a step forward across the deck, then a few more, until he stood at the side of the tub. “I’ll have to take the prosthetic off,” he admitted. Lora hadn’t even thought about that. “Okay.” She was struck with something and she grinned. “Want me to turn around?” She thought she’d been funny but he gave her the strangest look. “If you keep giving me smiles like that, you can look at anything you want.” Her

One hand went to that lovely organ of his, stroking slowly, gently, and the other untied his combat boots, sliding them off his feet one by one, leaving his socks on because sex in socks is funny. I mean, think about it: a dude, no matter how hot, is just inherently funnier if he’s wearing nothing but a pair of socks. Bonus-funny if they’re white, and knee high, like Nick’s were.

The crescent kick is one of the most difficult kicks to master in Tae Kwon Do, but when executed properly, it is one of the most dangerous.  Detective Sergeant Jamie Johansson had been practising it for nearly six years, and despite being only five-foot-six, she could comfortably slam her heel into the ear of someone that was over six feet. And now she had it down to a science. She knew she couldn’t do enough damage with a punch to put someone down if she had to, but a well-executed crescent kick would do the job. Especially from her lightweight trail boots. Her partner made fun of her for wearing them — said that detectives shouldn’t be wearing hiking boots, especially not in the city, but they were tough and she was as fast in them as she was in her trainers. Which she thought made them a lot more suited to tracking down scumbags than Roper’s black leather Chelsea boots.  He disagreed. She didn’t really care.  Smoking thirty a day meant that he wasn’t going to be doing much running anyway. ‘Come on,’ Cake said, jerking the pad. ‘Again. Like you mean it.’ She flicked her head, throwing sweat onto the matt, wound up, lifted her leg, snapped her knee back, and then lashed out. Her shin smashed into the training pad with a dull thwap and she sank into her knees, panting.  Cake clapped them together and grinned with wide, crooked teeth. ‘Good job,’ he said. ‘You’re really getting some power into those, now. But make sure to ice that foot, yeah?’ She caught her breath quickly and stood up, nodding, strands of ash-blonde hair sticking to her forehead, the thick plait running between her lithe shoulders coming loose. ‘Sure,’ she said, measuring her trainer. Cake was six-two and twice her weight. He was Windrush, in his fifties, and ran a mixed martial arts gym just near Duckett’s Green. He was a retired boxer turned trainer that scored his nickname after winning a fight in the late nineties on his birthday. When the commentator asked what he was going to do to celebrate, he said that he was going to eat a birthday cake. Everyone thought that was funny, and it stuck. He had a pretty bad concussion at the time, which probably contributed to the answer. But there was no getting away from it now.  He pulled the pads off his forearms and rubbed his eyes. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, looking over at the clock on the wall. It was just before seven.  He yawned and stretched, cracking his spine. The gym wouldn’t open until midday to the public, but he lived upstairs in a tiny studio, and he and Jamie had an arrangement. It kept him fit and active, and she could train one-on-one. Just how she liked it. She paid her dues of course, slid him extra on top of the monthly for his time. But he said that

Peppa. If you jump in muddy puddles, you must wear your boots.

The Soviet period was a disaster, not least because supply lines were so long and so corrupt that little was left by the time goods reached the Russian Far East except things nobody wanted, such as the fabled ten thousand left-foot gumboots. (On that occasion, transport planning failed to the extent that the 10,000 left boots went in the opposite direction to the same number of right boots, heading nobody knew where).

I led the men inside and though I was allowed to pass unscathed, both Sir Fhirell and Drudvis received a thorough scolding for stepping past the threshold in their boots. Both men obediently removed their footwear before going to wash up for the meal. I wasn’t sure why, but it warmed me to see this average-sized woman barking out orders to a giant and a Knight, only to have them both do as they were told without argument.

It wasn’t about me anymore. I had a child. A husband who needed me to be there for him in the midst of what was turning out to be a terrible time to be making a living in agriculture. I didn’t have time to get mired in the angst of my own circumstances anymore. I didn’t have time for the past. My family--my new family--was all that mattered to me. My child. And always and forever, Marlboro Man. And then he appeared--walking down the basement steps in his Wranglers and rain-drenched boots. He stepped into the basement, a warm, gentle smile on his face. It was Marlboro Man. He was there. “Hey, Mama…,” he called. “It’s all fine.” The storm had passed us by, the funnel cloud dissipating before it could do any damage. “Hey, Daddy,” I answered. It was the first time I’d ever called him that. Looking on the ground at the water bottles and granola bars, he asked, “What’s all this for?” I shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how long I’d be down here.” He laughed. “You’re funny,” he said as he scooped our sleeping baby from my arms and threw the blanket over his shoulder. “Let’s go eat. I’m hungry.” We walked across the yard to our cozy little white house, where we ate pot roast with mashed potatoes and watched The Big Country with Gregory Peck…and spent the night listening to a blessed September thunderstorm send rain falling from the sky.

I have the reports from Gemson and Boyd,” Syn replied. His boots were up on the corner of his desk as he reclined back in his chair, skimming the contents of the file. “How are they?” God asked. He removed his leather coat and draped it over the back of his chair. “Detailed. Good,” Syn answered. He brought his feet down and gave God a pointed look. The big man shook his head, already knowing what Syn wanted. He wanted everything they knew about this case. Now. “Alright Syn. Chill out. We’re not used to you yet. But we know what it means to have a Sergeant on our team. You’re the team's go to, and have just as much command and input regarding decision making as we do,” Day responded as God stared. Day chuckled. “Tito was just as important as the other Jacksons.” Syn threw a pen at Day, which he dodged easily. Syn couldn’t help but laugh at Day’s fucked up comparison. “I’m no fucking Tito, shithead.

I’m ninety-nine percent sure Libby’s going to say yes, but that one percent margin of error is apparently enough to give me a raging case of hyperhidrosis. That’s the name of the medical condition that makes your hands sweat too much. I know this because Libby used it to beat me at Scrabble a few weeks ago. She is not only beautiful, sexy, generous, funny, and thoughtful, but crazy smart to boot.

Is the weather nice?” “Yeah, we’re in Austin. Got here about an hour ago. It’s probably 80 degrees.” “Wish I could say the same for here.” I sigh. “Get this: it snowed last night. Like real, motherfucking snowflakes.” I’m trying to act pissed, but I can’t bring myself to it because I’m so happy to be talking to Gus right now. I know I don’t have long, so I need to make the most of it. He laughs. “No way?” “Yeah, it’s October. Isn’t snow against the rules or something until at least December?” “You’re asking the wrong dude that question. Is it cold?” “Yeah, I had to buy a winter coat today. Though for the locals this is probably still T-shirt weather. I swear Minnesotans have some sort of mutant gene that makes them immune to hot and cold. It’s freaky.” He laughs again but then turns serious. “What about boots? Did you buy some boots? You’ll need boots.” It’s funny when he acts parental. I over-exaggerate a full body shiver. “Stop. Buying the coat was bad enough. I don’t want to give in to the snow boots yet. I need time to work up to that. Maybe next month, or the one after that.” The truth is, I’ll need to buy the boots new, because used shoes skeeve me out, and I need to save up for them. That will take a while. “You’re right, you’d better pace yourself.” He’s teasing me. I tease him right back. “Need I remind you that you’re touring the United States this winter? That includes the northern frigid states. You’re going to need to buy a winter coat too, you know.” He exhales through gritted teeth. “I know. I’m still in cold-weather denial.” “It’s a nice place to visit, denial, but you can’t live there forever, dude.” Maybe I should take my own advice. “Bright Side, are you quoting Confucius or JFK? That sounds so familiar.” I know without seeing him that he’s wearing this dumb, mocking expression that makes me laughevery time. “Dude, I think it was Yoda, in The Empire Strikes Back. It was part of Luke’s Jedi training or something.

Can we ever really know to what extent this man [Mark Twain] or his book [Adventures of Huckleberry Finn] was, or is, racist? When we identify racism in the book, aren't we really just identifying racism in the culture out of which it came? Is it fair to expect Twain to have vaulted himself out of his own time and place and arrive, clean-booted and upright, in our own? Isn't the book still funny and deep? Aren't I actually enjoying it? How does one do the complicated math of Ultimate Racism: If we determine that, relative to our own time, Twain was a 40 percent racist, while relative to his own, he was only a 12 percent racist, or was in fact a 0 percent racist--what do we know, really?

she listened to Thom play his harp, singing love songs like “The First Rose of Summer” and “The Wind That Shakes the Willow,” and funny songs like “Only One Boot” and “The Old Gray Goose.” His

Monza remembered Sazine displaying the money to the new boys, all laid out in sparkling stacks. "If the walls fall, a thousand scales to the first man on the battlements, a hundred each to the next ten who follow him." "Provided they survive to collect the bounty," Cosca added. "If the task's impossible, they'll never collect, and if they do, well, you achieved the impossible for two thousand scales. It ensures a steady flow of willing bodies up the ladders, and has the added benefit of weeding the bravest men out of the company to boot." Shivers looked even more baffled. "Why would you want to do that?" "'Bravery is the dead man's virtue.'" Monza muttered. "'The wise commander never trusts it.'" "Verturio!" Cosca slapped on leg. "I do love an author who can make death funny! Brave men have their uses but they're damned unpredictable. Worrying to the herd. Dangerous to bystanders." "Not to mention potential rivals for command." "Altogether safest to cream them off," Cosca mimed the action with a careless flick of two fingers. "The moderately cowardly make infinitely better soldiers.

I'd opted for my Illyrian leather pants and a loose, white shirt- and a pair of embroidered slippers that Cassian kept snorting at as we flew. When he did so for the third time in two minutes, I pinched his arm and said, 'It's hot. Those boots are stuffy.' His brows rose, the portrait of innocence. 'I didn't say anything.' 'You grunted. Again.' 'I've been living with Mor for five hundred years. I've learned the hard way not to question shoe choices.' He smirked. 'However stupid they may be.' 'It's dinner. Unless there's some battle planned afterward.' 'Your sister will be there- I'd say that's battle aplenty.

You brought weapons to Solstice?' I asked, leaning against the door frame. ... Cassian shrugged, plopping onto the bed, which was better suited to a child than an Illyrian warrior. 'Some might be gifts.' 'And the rest?' Cassian toed off his boots and leaned against the headboard, folding his arms behind his head as his wings draped to the floor. 'The females bring their jewelry. I bring my weapons.' 'I know a few females in this house who might take offense to that.' Cassian offered me a wicked grin in response.

If I were wearing boots I’d be shaking in them.

Sitting comfortably on an old vehicle uniframe in scuffed up boots and a long hoodie so holey it should take up religion.

You know, I’ve never understood that. How being named for a woman’s nethers is somehow more grievous than any other insult. Seems to me calling someone after a man’s privates is worse. I mean, what do you picture when you hear a fellow called a cock?” Tric shrugged, befuddled at the strange turn in conversation. “You imagine an oaf, don’t you?” Mia continued. “Someone so full of wank there’s no room for wits. A slow-minded bastard who struts about full of spunk and piss, completely ignorant of how he looks to others.” An exhalation of clove-sweet grey into the air between them. “Cock is just another word for ‘fool’. But you call someone a cunt, well …” The girl smiled. “You’re implying a sense of malice there. An intent. Malevolent and self-aware. Don’t think I name Consul Scaeva a cunt to gift him insult. Cunts have brains, Don Tric. Cunts have teeth. Someone calls you a cunt, you take it as a compliment. As a sign that folk believe you’re not to be lightly fucked with.” A shrug. “I think they call that irony.” Mia sniffed, staring at the wastes laid out below them. “Truth is, there’s no difference between your nethers and mine. Aside from the obvious, of course. But one doesn’t carry any more weight than the other. Why should what’s between my legs be considered any smarter or stupider, any worse or better? It’s all just meat, Don Tric. In the end, it’s all just food for worms. Just like Duomo, Remus, and Scaeva will be.” One last drag, long and deep, as if drawing the very life from her smoke. “But I’d still rather be called a cunt than a cock any turn.” The girl sighed grey, crushed her cigarillo out with her boot heel. Spat into the wind. And just like that, young Tric was in love.

Doesn't count when you use your hands to do most of the work.' Nesta schooled her face into utter disdain, even as a hiss rose inside her. 'I bet that isn't what you've been telling yourself at night.' Azriel's shoulders shook with silent laughter as Cassian set down his fork, his eyes gleaming with challenge. Cassian's voice dropped an octave. 'Is that what those smutty books teach you? That it's only at night?' It took a heartbeat for the words to settle. And she couldn't stop it, the heat that sprang to her face, her glance at his powerful hands. Even with Azriel now biting his lip to keep from laughing, she couldn't stop herself. Cassian said with a wicked smile, 'It could be anytime- dawn's first light, or when I'm bathing, or even after a long, hard day of practice.' She didn't miss the slight emphasis he put on long, hard. Nesta couldn't stop her toes from curling in her boots. But she said with a silent smile, striding for the doorway, refusing to let one bit of the discomfort in her sore legs show, 'Sounds like you have a lot of time on your hands, Cassian.

This outfit makes me want to get my nose pierced and spend some time at the tattoo parlor,” I said, frowning at the clothing. “Hey, we can make that happen,” Nessa, joked. “That’s very funny, Nessa,” I said as I pulled out the knee high black combat boots and black fishnet stockings to match. “It is better than the plaid cowboy shirt and Wranglers they got me,” Noah said, as he held up the outfit complete with worn leather cowboy boots. “Oh, Nessa, we will pay you back dearly for this,” I said sarcastically.

You should take your boots off. Stick your feet in the water.” “Why?” I don’t understand why she’s so excited to get her feet wet. She laughs. “Because it’s fun.” She taps my thigh. “Take them off.” I shake my head. She tilts her head at me like an inquisitive puppy. “Please,” she says. “Don’t make me sit here and feel funny being the only one with naked feet.” I groan and pull my foot up, then tug my boot off. Then I repeat it with the other one and set the boots on the dock behind me with my socks stuffed inside. “In the water,” she says with a fierce jab of her finger. I hesitantly stick my feet in, and she laughs at the wounded look on my face when I realize how cold it is. “Quit being such a baby,” she scolds with a laugh. I gently palm the side of her head and give it a playful push. “Did you seriously just call me a baby?” “That might have to be your nickname for the rest of our lives.

It was funny in a way, that a man who could forget how huge the world was could still recognize good boots.

Calling me when he was downstairs, I locked the door and slipped into the driver’s seat. The first thing Niko did when I got in the car was look down at my feet. Judging by the frown on his face he didn’t approve of my pick for tonight’s adventure. “What?” “I know you got flyer shit than that in your closet.” “What’s wrong with my boots?” “For starter’s they’re ugly as fuck.” “Uggs are not ugly and they’re comfortable. They make them in men’s too, I can get you a pair.” Niko didn’t seem like the Uggs for men type but the look on his face was hilarious when I said. What wasn’t funny was him slamming on the damn breaks like he was about to hit a dog. “What is wrong with you?” “You and them Uggs about to be getting out of my whip if you ever say some crazy shit like that again.

I’m shaking in boots.