Brace Land Quotes

Butch nodded, finding as comfortable a bite as he could on the leather. He braced himself as V lifted an arm. Except when his roommate's palm landed on his bare chest all he felt was a warm weight. Butch frowned. This was it? This was fucking it? Scaring the shit out of Marissa for no good- He looked down, pissed off. Oh, wrong hand.

Happy was my adopted country, not my native land. I was still bracing to be expelled without warning.

So she steeled herself. “I have never told anyone this story. No one in the world knows it. But it's mine,” she said, blinking past the burning in her eyes, “and it's time for me to tell it.” Rowan leaned back on the rock, bracing his palms behind him. “Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom . . . very much.” And then she told him of the princess whose heart had burned with wildfire, of the mighty kingdom in the north, of its downfall and of the sacrifice of Lady Marion.

On a clear day the Oregon coast is the most beautiful place on earth—clear and crisp and clean, a rich green in the land and a bright blue in the sky, the air fat and salty and bracing, the ocean spreading like a grin. Brown pelicans rise and fall in their chorus lines in the wells of the waves, cormorants arrow, an eagle kingly queenly floats south high above the water line.

We're free agents. We can do what we want." Free agents. When my mother used those words she'd wave her keys. "We're like two bachelorettes," she'd say as we backed out of the drive. The road she took was always by the sea. Floods never put her off. "It'll pass" she'd say when I braced myself in the seat. If a wave hit the car, she'd drive on, floating sometimes for seconds. The wipers could clear off the sand and small stones. Seaweed was the problem. Not the one with poppers. That landed with a thud and rolled like a body off the windscreens. No, the problem was the smaller stuff, bright green and fine that wrapped itself like a feather boa around the side mirror. Usually, with one hand, she could throw it off. But sometimes, it took both her hands as if it were a scarf around Isadora Duncan's neck.

Go on," Kell told him without taking his eyes from Lila. " Get some rest." Hastra shifted. "I can't, sir," he said. "I'm to escort Miss Bard--" "I'll take that charge," cut in Kell. Hastra bit his lip and retreated several steps. Lila let her forehead come to rest against his, her face so close the features blurred. And yet, that fractured eye shone with frightening clarity. "You never told me," he whispered. "You never noticed," she answered. And then, "Alucard did." The blow landed, and Kell started to pull away when Lila's eyelids fluttered and she swayed dangerously. He braced her. "Come on," he said gently. "I have a room upstairs. Why don't we--" A sleepy flicker of amusement. "Trying to get me into bed?" Kell mustered a smile. "It's only fair. I've spent enough time in yours." "If I remember correctly," she said, her voice dreamy with fatigue, "you were on top of the bed the entire time." "And tied to it," observed Kell. Her words were soft at the edges. "Those were the days..." she said, right before she fell forward. It happened so fast Kell could do nothing but throw his arms around her. "Lila?" he asked, first gently, and then more urgently. "Lila?" She murmured against his front, something about sharp knives and soft corners, but didn't rouse, and Kell shot a glance at Hastra, who was still standing there, looking thoroughly embarrassed. "What have you done?" demanded Kell. "It was just a tonic, sir," he fumbled, "something for sleep." "You drugged her?" "It was Tieren's order," said Hastra, chastised. "He said she was mad and stubborn and no use to us dead." Hastra lowered his voice when he said this, mimicking Tieren's tone with startling accuracy. "And what do you plan to do when she wakes back up?" Hastra shrank back. "Apologize?" Kell made an exasperated sound as Lila nuzzled-- actually nuzzled-- his shoulder. "I suggest," he snapped at the young man, "you think of something better. Like an escape route." Hastra paled, and Kell swept Lila up into his arms, amazed at her lightness... Kell swept through the halls until he reached his room and lowered Lila onto the couch. Hastra handed him a blanket. "Shouldn't you take off her knives?" "There's not enough tonic in the world to risk it," said Kell.

Once upon a time, there was a prince. From a young age, he knew he was destined for greatness for he knew that one day, he would inherit the kingdom from his father. But the prince also had a secret. He was scared of failure. Terrified of it. So completely frightened of not being as good a king as his father, that he would stay up every night braced with the fear of mediocrity. And so, the prince took a medicine to calm his anxiety and he slew trolls! And he took more, and he slew dragons! But one day, he took too much and nearly lost everything. So he was banished. The kingdom would not have him. He was the talk of the countryside, an embarrassment to his family and more important, a disappointment to the king. But the prince would concoct a plan. He would venture back to the land of the queen. There, he would reclaim greatness and thereby gain entrance to the kingdom. And all was going well until of course, this little shit came along.

Now Kino lay in the cave entrance, his chin braced on his crossed arms, and he watched the blue shadow of the mountain move out across the brushy desert below until it reached the Gulf, and the long twilight of the shadow was over the land.

Here, if nowhere else in the land, the sense of satiety is unknown; and it is to this mental tonic, even more than to the bracing air of the heights, that we owe the unwearied spirit which nerves us to walk more leagues upon the mountains than we could walk miles upon the plain. For in the lowlands we walk with the body only; in the highlands we walk with the mind

The moment was so beautiful and perfect-Ella and the ice cream and the sun. But it didn't feel like it belonged to me, not in any permanent sense. Happy was my adopted country, not my native land. I was still bracing to be expelled without warning.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

When you’ve lost, it’s better to brace for landing than to grasp at strands of air, hoping for a parachute that isn’t coming. Not enough people know how to lose.

but it didn't feel like it belonged to me ... not in any permanent sense , happy was my adopted country , not my native land . I was still bracing to be expelled without warning .

He looks up. Our eyes lock,and he breaks into a slow smile. My heart beats faster and faster. Almost there.He sets down his book and stands.And then this-the moment he calls my name-is the real moment everything changes. He is no longer St. Clair, everyone's pal, everyone's friend. He is Etienne. Etienne,like the night we met. He is Etienne,he is my friend. He is so much more. Etienne.My feet trip in three syllables. E-ti-enne. E-ti-enne, E-ti-enne. His name coats my tongue like melting chocolate. He is so beautiful, so perfect. My throat catches as he opens his arms and wraps me in a hug.My heart pounds furiously,and I'm embarrassed,because I know he feels it. We break apart, and I stagger backward. He catches me before I fall down the stairs. "Whoa," he says. But I don't think he means me falling. I blush and blame it on clumsiness. "Yeesh,that could've been bad." Phew.A steady voice. He looks dazed. "Are you all right?" I realize his hands are still on my shoulders,and my entire body stiffens underneath his touch. "Yeah.Great. Super!" "Hey,Anna. How was your break?" John.I forget he was here.Etienne lets go of me carefully as I acknowledge Josh,but the whole time we're chatting, I wish he'd return to drawing and leave us alone. After a minute, he glances behind me-to where Etienne is standing-and gets a funny expression on hs face. His speech trails off,and he buries his nose in his sketchbook. I look back, but Etienne's own face has been wiped blank. We sit on the steps together. I haven't been this nervous around him since the first week of school. My mind is tangled, my tongue tied,my stomach in knots. "Well," he says, after an excruciating minute. "Did we use up all our conversation over the holiday?" The pressure inside me eases enough to speak. "Guess I'll go back to the dorm." I pretend to stand, and he laughs. "I have something for you." He pulls me back down by my sleeve. "A late Christmas present." "For me? But I didn't get you anything!" He reaches into a coat pocket and brings out his hand in a fist, closed around something very small. "It's not much,so don't get excited." "Ooo,what is it?" "I saw it when I was out with Mum, and it made me think of you-" "Etienne! Come on!" He blinks at hearing his first name. My face turns red, and I'm filled with the overwhelming sensation that he knows exactly what I'm thinking. His expression turns to amazement as he says, "Close your eyes and hold out your hand." Still blushing,I hold one out. His fingers brush against my palm, and my hand jerks back as if he were electrified. Something goes flying and lands with a faith dink behind us. I open my eyes. He's staring at me, equally stunned. "Whoops," I say. He tilts his head at me. "I think...I think it landed back here." I scramble to my feet, but I don't even know what I'm looking for. I never felt what he placed in my hands. I only felt him. "I don't see anything! Just pebbles and pigeon droppings," I add,trying to act normal. Where is it? What is it? "Here." He plucks something tiny and yellow from the steps above him. I fumble back and hold out my hand again, bracing myself for the contact. Etienne pauses and then drops it from a few inches above my hand.As if he's avoiding me,too. It's a glass bead.A banana. He clears his throat. "I know you said Bridgette was the only one who could call you "Banana," but Mum was feeling better last weekend,so I took her to her favorite bead shop. I saw that and thought of you.I hope you don't mind someone else adding to your collection. Especially since you and Bridgette...you know..." I close my hand around the bead. "Thank you." "Mum wondered why I wanted it." "What did you tell her?" "That it was for you,of course." He says this like, duh. I beam.The bead is so lightweight I hardly feel it, except for the teeny cold patch it leaves in my palm.

Ready?” she asked. Nina clutched the rope. “To be lowered like a sack of flour into the heart of witchhunter power?” “This was your idea. We can still turn around.” “Do not second-guess the sack of flour. The sack of flour is wise beyond her years.” Hanne rolled her eyes and braced her feet against the edge of the roof, and Nina stepped out into nothing. Hanne released a grunt, but the rope stayed steady. Slowly, she lowered Nina down. The first two windows she tried were locked tight, but the third gave way and she wiggled inside, landing on the carpeted floor with a thud. She was in a stairway. For a moment, she couldn’t orient herself, but she descended another story, and soon she was at the door to Brum’s office. This time, she didn’t have a key. It had been too risky to steal it again, so she would have to pick the lock. It took an embarrassingly long time. She could almost hear Kaz laughing at her. Shut up, Brekker. Talk to me when you’ve done something about that terrible haircut. Maybe he had by now. She hoped so for Inej’s sake.

Vitali Fedorovich,” Scherbitsky began, and Sklyarov braced himself. It was always a bad sign when the First Secretary used your patronymic. “You need to go there yourself.” Sklyarov, who had almost no interest in seeing a blazing nuclear plant at close quarters, tried to object. “The station is under the supervision of Moscow. It doesn’t belong to us,” he said. “The station might not be Ukrainian,” Scherbitsky replied, “but the land and the people are.

She had dearly missed the northern world during her time in the South Seas. She had missed the change of seasons, and the hard, bright, bracing sunlight of winter. She had missed the rigors of a cold climate, and the rigors of the mind, as well. She was simply not made for the tropics--neither in complexion or disposition. There were those who loved Tahiti because it felt to them like Eden--like the beginning of history; she wished to live within humanity's most recent moment, at the cusp of invention and progress. She did not wish to inhabit a land of spirits and ghosts; she desired a world of telegraphs, trains, improvements, theories, and science, where things changed by the day.

What's that sound?" Fran said. Then something as big as a vulture flapped heavily down from one of the trees and landed just in front of the car.It shook itself.It turned its long neck toward the car, raised its head, and regarded us. "Goddamn it," I said.I sat there with my hands on the wheel and stared at the thing. "Can you believe it?" Fran said."I never saw a real one before." We both knew it was a peacock, sure,but we didn't say the word out loud.We just watched it.The bird turned its head up in the air and made this harsh cry again.It had fluffed itself out and looked about twice the size it'd been when it landed. "Goddamn," I said again. We stayed where we were in the front seat. The bird moved forward a little.Then it turned its head to the side and braced itself.It kept its bright, wild eye right on us.Its tail was raised, and it was like a big fan folding in and out. There was every color in the rainbow shining from that tail. "My God," Fran said quietly.She moved her hand over to my knee. "Goddamn," I said. There was nothing else to say. The bird made this strange wailing sound once more. "May- awe, may-awe!" it went.If it'd been something I was hearing late at night and for the first time, I'd have thought it was somebody dying, or else something wild and dangerous.

My bottom is itchy so I stop in the middle of the landing and scratch it lightly. The fiddling merely tantalises the itch, and it becomes more aggressive. I respond in kind, dragging my fingernails across my fundament in a frenzied jerking motion. With one hand braced against the wall, I’m now grabbing and clawing at the angry aperture, slashing and scraping in a bid to ease the sensation. It’s a delicious relief but I know it’s merely stoking the irritation. And so after a final flurry – scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit – I stop scratching. My backside pleads with me to continue but I resist, and in a few seconds the itch subsides on its own, as I knew it would.10 I

The admiration of the whole country was given to London, and all the other great cities in the land braced themselves to take their bit as and when it came and not to be outdone. Indeed, many persons seemed envious of London’s distinction, and quite a number came up from the country in order to spend a night or two in town, share the risk, and “see the fun”. We had to check this tendency for administrative reasons. ***

You’re a trigger finger dug into the starting gun, the smack as it fires, the tense stroke of hooves pressing into a fresh track. You’re the curiosity of a flashbulb nibbling air, tricky camera lens grabbing a mane as it quivers back. I’m a rising overture of thighs. I’m dirt exploding midair —sand fireworks. I’m the impulse to grab hold: the jockey’s knees clenching as he rocks above the heaving saddle. You’re the bit I can’t keep from tasting, and I, the clench of jaws, willing to split in two for the shiver of collision, tooth on tooth. Darling, you’re a wager: the whole wad riding on one last leap, but then you’re abrupt: an ankle’s vomity pop. And I’m the entire crowd grunting to its feet. You’re one blossoming moment of unstoppable collapse: the bracing limbs, the beveling slide, the shriek of submission to gravity, a hard landing. From the stands, I’m a hush: hand to mouth. I’m needles of heat, a gut sinking over a lost life savings. You’re someone else’s carnation wreath, red as a bitemark necklace.

Here comes the penalty which a land pays when it stifles free speech and free discussion and turns itself over entirely to propaganda. It does not make any difference if at the time the things advocated are absolutely right, the nation nevertheless becomes morally emasculated and mentally hog-tied, and cannot evolve that healthy difference of opinion which leads to the discovery of truth under changing conditions. -- W.E.B. DuBois, Black Reconstruction in America (Harcourt Brace & Company, New York, 1935, first edition), page 144

She saw the different times at sea—calm blue days, raw pea-green ones, others when the skies turned black and thunderbolts blasted the masts, and the galloping waves. The ship then leaned this way, another way, seeming to want to throw herself right over and upside down. Had Art ever been frightened? Maybe only once. One of the earliest memories, this. Molly standing braced, holding Art, two or three years old, in her arms. ‘What a spectacle!’ cried Molly. ‘Look—how beautiful it is!’ And then, ‘Don’t ever be afraid of the sea. She’s the best friend out kind have got. Better than any land, however fair. Respect the sea, yes, but don’t ever think what the sea does is cruel or unjust. People are that. The sea is only herself. And this ship—she’s lucky. She’s friends with this sea. They know how to behave with each other.’ Exactly then, a great green salt wave swamped the decks. Canvas was being hauled in, Molly’s crew clutching and swinging like monkeys along the masts. Art and Molly, soaked, and Molly saying, ‘And even if we went down, don’t fear that either. Those that the sea keeps sleep among mermaids and pearls and sunken kingdoms. You wouldn’t mind that, would you, love?

As I pictured it all, Marlboro Man led me back down the hallway, past the landing again, and toward the other bedrooms in the house. “There are two other bedrooms,” Marlboro Man said, stepping over a pile of debris. “They’re in pretty good shape, too.” I couldn’t help but grin. As I walked into one of the two bedrooms and looked around, I snickered and teased, “So much for that whole ‘seven kids’ thing, huh?” I giggled smugly and kept looking around at the empty spaces of the room. Undeterred, Marlboro Man looked at me slyly. “Ever heard of bunk beds?” I gulped and braced myself, even as my ovaries cheered triumphantly.

The rules that apply to line on dry land no longer apply. You're immersed in water, a substance which has the potential to drown you. If you're not accustomed to swimming every instinct tells you to yell in terror and grab the rail at hte side of the pool, but in fact this isn't the way to deal with the problem. You have to make the problem no longer a problem by embracing it--you have to let go of the rail and launch yourself out on the water because once you're swimming...you find the water's stimulating, bracing, even welcoming. So by embracing the chaos instead of shunning it you've opened up a whole new dimension of reality. Father Lewis Hall

Fir, cedar, pines, oaks, and maples densely timbered this section. But it was the redwoods that never failed to fill him with awe. Their feathery-looking needles and reddish bark. The way they stretched up to incredible heights and the sheer magnitude of their circumferences. How long ago had God planted their seeds? Hundreds of years? Thousands? As he stood amongst those mighty giants, he realized the land wasn’t his at all. It was God’s. God had formed and planted the seeds. He’d tended the soil and caused it to rain. He’d needed no man. Least of all Joe. Yet over and over Joe had thought of this as his own. My land. My logging camp. My house. My woman. My everything. Picking up his ax, he returned to his work. But in his mind, he reviewed a list of men in the Bible who’d left everything they held dear for parts unknown. Abraham. Jacob. Joseph. Moses. Even a woman. Esther. In every case, their circumstances were much more severe than his. God hadn’t commanded Joe to leave his land, though he’d prayed for guidance. Fasted. Read his Bible. But God had remained silent. Joe simply assumed God was letting him choose. But no matter what he chose, none of it was really his. It was all God’s. And God was sharing it with him. So which did he want? Both. Like a spoiled child, he definitely wanted both. But if he could only have one, wouldn’t he still be a man blessed? Yes. And he’d praise God and thank Him. But that didn’t immediately make the grief shrivel up and blow away. Eyeing where he wanted the tree to fall, he adjusted his stance. I want Anna, Lord. I choose Anna. Yet as long as he lived, he’d always miss this land. He’d miss the Territory. He’d miss the logging. He’d miss his friends. The cypress began to pop and splinter. Jumping away, he braced his feet, threw back his head, and shouted with everything he had. “Timber-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!” The tree wavered, then crashed to the forest floor. Noise resounded through the copse. The ground shook. Debris flew. Before any of it settled, Joe fell to his knees, doubled over, and sobbed.

Rora played along, saying the right words, smiling the right smile, and nodding, but her mind wasn't in it. Not really. She was outside herself. Her heart grew calm and steady and quiet-- the kind of quiet that came before the Rage season. As if the whole land was bracing itself for the battle to come. All the nerves and the confusing emotions melted away, and she was nothing more than a series of actions cobbled together by instinct alone. That was what happened to an animal when it was cornered. When the danger was high and adrenaline took over. Reason disappeared then, and the only thing left was an instinct older than blood and bones. And her instinct? It told her two things. To lie. And to run.

The Capitalist Class knows that what brings on the increased supply is not immigration so much, but the improved and ever improving machinery, held as private property. For every immigrant by whom the labor market is overstocked, it is overstocked by ten workingmen in the country whom privately owned machinery displaces. The Capitalist Class is full well aware that if this fact be known the conclusion would leap to sight ; to wit, that the solution oi" the Labor Problem is simply the public ownership of the machine. If fifty men, working ten hours a day, can, with improved machinery, produce as much as one hundred did before without such improved machinery, the publicly owned machine would not, as the privately owned machine does, throw out fifty men; it would throw out five of the former ten hours of work. It is clear as day to the Capitalist Class that it must raise dust over this fact so as to conceal it; and no better means to this end is offered than the fomenting of the plausible delusion that the evil lies in immigration. Anti-immigration laws are the fruit of these two purpose. Such laws kill two flies with one slap ; they draw attention away from the nerve that aches, and simultaneously they help to set the workers of the land in racial and creed hostility against the newcomers, who, of course, the Capitalist Class itself sees to shall not be lacking. Obviously, it is in the interest of the Working Class that this brace of fatal delusions be dispelled from their minds. What does the Labor Leader do? He helps nurse both delusions.

Whenever I got out of bed I had to wear a big metal brace that was strapped around me. I felt like an invalid. I was an invalid. This was crazy. I’m screwed. You stupid, stupid idiot, Bear. You could have landed that canopy if you hadn’t panicked, or you should have cut it away and pulled that reserve early. As it was, I had done the worst of both worlds: I had neither gone for the reserve straight away nor had I managed to land the canopy with any degree of skill. I felt I could have avoided this accident if I had been smarter, faster, clearer-headed. I had messed up, and I knew it. I vowed that I would never fall short in those areas again. I would learn from this, and go on to become the fastest, clearest-thinking dude on the planet. But for now, the tears kept coming.

March 10 MORNING “In my prosperity I said I shall never be moved.” — Psalm 30:6 “MOAB is settled on his lees, he hath not been emptied from vessel to vessel.” Give a man wealth; let his ships bring home continually rich freights; let the winds and waves appear to be his servants to bear his vessels across the bosom of the mighty deep; let his lands yield abundantly: let the weather be propitious to his crops; let uninterrupted success attend him; let him stand among men as a successful merchant; let him enjoy continued health; allow him with braced nerve and brilliant eye to march through the world, and live happily; give him the buoyant spirit; let him have the song perpetually on his lips; let his eye be ever sparkling with joy — and the natural consequence of such an easy state to any man, let him be the best Christian who ever breathed, will be presumption; even David said, “I shall never be moved;” and we are not better than David, nor half so good. Brother, beware of the smooth places of the way; if you are treading them, or if the way be rough, thank God for it. If God should always rock us in the cradle of prosperity; if we were always dandled on the knees of fortune; if we had not some stain on the alabaster pillar; if there were not a few clouds in the sky; if we had not some bitter drops in the wine of this life, we should become intoxicated with pleasure, we should dream “we stand;” and stand we should, but it would be upon a pinnacle; like the man asleep upon the mast, each moment we should be in jeopardy. We bless God, then, for our afflictions; we thank Him for our changes; we extol His name for losses of property; for we feel that had He not chastened us thus, we might have become too secure. Continued worldly prosperity is a fiery trial. “Afflictions, though they seem severe, In mercy oft are sent.

And as they did so, a calm began to creep into my bones. Who knew how many women, right at that moment, were struggling to do as I did? All of us straining and grunting to bear our babies to safety. I pictured them in my mind as each wave squeezed my belly. Instead of floundering, I tried to ride each wave to its end and catch my breath in the moments of quiet between. I saw the women of the world—on wide, soft couches in golden palaces, in shaded tents on desert sands, in huts built of mud or stone, in lands that ranged to the ends of the earth—and as I braced upon my hands and knees, I felt that we surged in synchrony with one another. Like a vast constellation of stars pinpricking the night sky, I could feel us all strive together to each bring new sparks of light into the universe. I thought I could feel their support, their hands upon my back and their words of encouragement spilling into my ears as, with a final, mighty effort, my son was born.

I landed on my side, my hip taking the brunt of the fall. It burned and stung from the hit, but I ignored it and struggled to sit up quickly. There really was no point in hurrying so no one would see. Everyone already saw A pair of jean-clad legs appeared before me, and my suitcase and all my other stuff was dropped nearby. "Whatcha doing down there?" Romeo drawled, his hands on his hips as he stared down at me with dancing blue eyes. "Making a snow angel," I quipped. I glanced down at my hands, which were covered with wet snow and bits of salt (to keep the pavement from getting icy). Clearly, ice wasn't required for me to fall. A small group of girls just "happened by", and by that I mean they'd been staring at Romeo with puppy dog eyes and giving me the stink eye. When I fell, they took it as an opportunity to descend like buzzards stalking the dead. Their leader was the girl who approached me the very first day I'd worn Romeo's hoodie around campus and told me he'd get bored. As they stalked closer, looking like clones from the movie Mean Girls, I caught the calculating look in her eyes. This wasn't going to be good. I pushed up off the ground so I wouldn't feel so vulnerable, but the new snow was slick and my hand slid right out from under me and I fell back again. Romeo was there immediately, the teasing light in his eyes gone as he slid his hand around my back and started to pull me up. "Careful, babe." he said gently. The girls were behind him so I knew he hadn't seen them approach. They stopped as one unit, and I braced myself for whatever their leader was about to say. She was wearing painted-on skinny jeans (I mean, really, how did she sit down and still breathe?) and some designer coat with a monogrammed scarf draped fashionably around her neck. Her boots were high-heeled, made of suede and laced up the back with contrasting ribbon. "Wow," she said, opening her perfectly painted pink lips. "I saw that from way over there. That sure looked like it hurt." She said it fairly amicably, but anyone who could see the twist to her mouth as she said it would know better. Romeo paused in lifting me to my feet. I felt his eyes on me. Then his lips thinned as he turned and looked over his shoulder. "Ladies," he said like he was greeting a group of welcomed friends. Annoyance prickled my stomach like tiny needles stabbing me. It's not that I wanted him to be rude, but did he have to sound so welcoming? "Romeo," Cruella DeBarbie (I don't know her real name, but this one fit) purred. "Haven't you grown bored of this clumsy mule yet?" Unable to stop myself, I gasped and jumped up to my feet. If she wanted to call me a mule, I'd show her just how much of an ass I could be. Romeo brought his arm out and stopped me from marching past. I collided into him, and if his fingers hadn't knowingly grabbed hold to steady me, I'd have fallen again. "Actually," Romeo said, his voice calm, "I am pretty bored." Three smirks were sent my way. What a bunch of idiots. "The view from where I'm standing sure leaves a lot to be desired." One by one, their eyes rounded when they realized the view he referenced was them. Without another word, he pivoted around and looked down at me, his gaze going soft. "No need to make snow angels, baby," he said loud enough for the slack-jawed buzzards to hear. "You already look like one standing here with all that snow in your hair." Before I could say a word, he picked me up and fastened his mouth to mine. My legs wound around his waist without thought, and I kissed him back as gentle snow fell against our faces.

Twas brillig, and a mortal's tones Did stretch a day beyond the braced; A princess slain, dead to her bones, A word distraught, a knight disgraced. Portentia, Queen of Wonderland, A crown of grief upon her soul, Vowed to repay the world of man, With mother's tears and pain untold. Addison, keeper of the realm, Now plagued with guilt from duties failed, Swears to uphold his Lady's whelms, Unyielding faith, but conscience veiled. And so, they two a war will wage, The Black Queen and her trusted Knight, For all to know a mother's rage And all to feel her daughter's plight, While sibling girls of white and red align against their mother's will. They share her pain, their sister dead, But they would not innocents kill. The Queen's defeat is at their hands. They strip her of her powers black, then bind her to the Nightmares' lands and split her crown and all it lacks. Behold the Heart! Behold the Eye! For here the Black Queen's power sleeps. Leave them to rest, and by and by The world will mend the broken deep. For if these artifacts awake, Surely then, too, the Queen shall rise. And all will suffer in her wake Beneath the blood-soaked screaming skies. Beware the Heart! Beware the Eye! Beware the Blade so Black! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

Archer arrived early the next morning. Grey was still asleep on the sofa in his study when he heard tapping on the window. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it as the sharp light of day pierced his brain. Squinting, he tried to focus on his brother, since he already knew who his visitor was. Only one person ever announced himself so annoyingly. “Open the bloody window, Grey!” Grumbling, Grey slowly rose into a full sitting position. His back and neck were stiff and his head felt as though someone had kicked it repeatedly from all sides. And his mouth! Christ, he didn’t want to even think about what might have died inside it. He staggered to the window, unlatched it and swung it open. “What the hell do you want?” Wide-eyed, Archer made a tsking noise. “Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?” “You’re not my favorite,” Grey scowled. Unaffected, Archer easily adapted. “Is that any way to greet your second-favorite brother?” Grey grinned, he couldn’t help it. Archer had always had a knack for making him smile, just as he had a knack for pissing him off as well. “I’m hung over and feel like shite. What do you want?” “You look like shite. What’s this I hear about you making an appearance at Saint’s Row last night?” “Rose tell you that?” “She did. I’m surprised you took such a risk just to see her.” Grey thought of her in that teal gown, the lights illuminating the luster of her skin. “It was worth it.” “Worth it, eh? So worth it you immediately came home and got sloshed.” “Something like that. And then Rose came home and I got even more sloshed.” Archer’s expression turned to concern as he leaned against the window frame. “What happened?” Grey shrugged. He’d already revealed more than he’d wanted. “Suffice it to say she now knows what kind of man I am.” His brother snorted. “That girl has always known exactly what kind of man you are.” The words were plain enough, but there was a cryptic edge to them that had Grey puzzled. “What the hell does that mean?” Arch shook his head. “Come to the stables with me. I want to show you something.” He looked down at himself. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn last night and he was wrinkled beyond hope. Not to mention that he smelled like a distillery-an unwashed one at that. And his mask was up in his room. What if someone happened by and saw him… He wasn’t a coward. He just didn’t wish to be seen looking less than his best. An oath punctuated the early morning air. Grey was grabbed by the front of the shirt and yanked-hard. His only course of action was to brace one booted foot on the bottom sill to keep from falling. Of course, that action only succeeded in making it easier for Archer to haul him completely out onto the lawn. He landed hard on both feet, the impact going straight to his ready-to-implode skull. “What the hell?” Fist cocked, Grey punched his brother in the shoulder. “Jesus, man! What are you about?” Archer punched him back. It hurt, and oddly enough it seemed to wake him up-clear the fog and some of the pressure surrounding his brain. “I’m trying to help you, you bugger.” “To do what?” Grey demanded. “Die?

He adopted his standard mocking approach. “Having trouble getting out of the pool, Lily? There’s a ladder on the side for the old ladies who come and do aqua aerobics.” Everything inside her stilled. That condescending wretch. She felt him come closer, and was careful not to stir an inch, not even a hair. “You should get out of the pool and take a long hot shower. It’ll make you feel better,” he suggested, not ungently. His brow furrowed with worry. She ignored the thread of concern in his voice and concentrated on not moving too suddenly. Slowly, as if in unbearable agony, she lifted her head. He was dressed once more in his khakis and shirt, his sneakers were in one hand, his gear bag in the other. Good. She let her face crumble, her expression slip into wretchedness. Her lower lip trembled, a special added effect. “I—I’m not sure I can even make it to the ladder,” she confessed haltingly. “My whole body’s shot.” Damn, she must be hurting worse than he’d imagined. Trying not to stare at her lush lower lip quivering helplessly, Sean dropped his gear bag and stepped forward. “Here,” he said, leaning over, stretching out his hand. “Grab my hand. I’ll pull you out.” She’d braced her feet against the wall of the pool, knowing she’d have to strike fast. They grasped hands. The second his tightened about her forearm, she jerked backward with all her strength. Physics were on her side. Caught off balance, Sean somersaulted through the air, with only enough time to yell, “Shit!” before he landed with a cannonball-sized splash. Lily braced her arms on the pool deck. She’d intended to jump out and make a mad dash for the ladies’ locker room but her efforts were hampered by her convulsive laughter. A surprised “Oof!” flew from her lips. Sean’s arm had snaked out and wrapped around her waist, dumping her backward into the water. She pushed to the surface to find Sean glowering menacingly. He was sopping wet and just as furious. Lily’s laughter redoubled, then died away when his hands took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. Mere inches separated their bodies. “What are you doing?” Her voice came out an alarmed squeak. Her eyes flew to his. They sparkled with green and gold lights. “Payback time, Lily. You’ve pushed me once too often. I had my cell phone in my pocket. I don’t think it’s waterproof. My leather wallet is in my rear pocket, crammed with pictures of my adorable niece and nephew. Basically, Banyon, you owe me. Big time.” His tanned face, with drops of water still clinging to its chiseled planes, descended. He was going to kiss her, she realized, panic-stricken at the thought. “Don’t, Sean, don’t!” “I think I have to. It’s been a long time coming. Oh, by the way, I like lots of tongue.” Indignant, her mouth opened, ready to skewer him. But Sean was quicker. He shut Lily up the way he’d been dreaming of for so long. For years she’d driven him mad, made him crazed with desire. Now, by God, he was going to taste her. The passion and frustration inside him erupted. He seized her mouth, molding her lips to his own. Carnal fantasies gave way to a reality a thousand times sweeter. Starved for her, Sean’s lips plundered, boldly claiming her as his.

Develop a rapid cadence. Ideal running requires a cadence that may be much quicker than you’re used to. Shoot for 180 footfalls per minute. Developing the proper cadence will help you achieve more speed because it increases the number of push-offs per minute. It will also help prevent injury, as you avoid overstriding and placing impact force on your heel. To practice, get an electronic metronome (or download an app for this), set it for 90+ beats per minute, and time the pull of your left foot to the chirp of the metronome. Develop a proper forward lean. With core muscles slightly engaged to generate a bracing effect, the runner leans forward—from the ankles, not from the waist. Land underneath your center of gravity. MacKenzie drills his athletes to make contact with the ground as their midfoot or forefoot passes directly under their center of gravity, rather than having their heels strike out in front of the body. When runners become proficient at this, the pounding stops, and the movement of their legs begins to more closely resemble that of a spinning wheel. Keep contact time brief. “The runner skims over the ground with a slithering motion that does not make the pounding noise heard by the plodder who runs at one speed,” the legendary coach Percy Cerutty once said.7 MacKenzie drills runners to practice a foot pull that spends as little time as possible on the ground. His runners aim to touch down with a light sort of tap that creates little or no sound. The theory is that with less time spent on the ground, the foot has less time to get into the kind of trouble caused by the sheering forces of excessive inward foot rolling, known as “overpronation.” Pull with the hamstring. To create a rapid, piston-like running form, the CFE runner, after the light, quick impact of the foot, pulls the ankle and foot up with the hamstring. Imagine that you had to confine your running stride to the space of a phone booth—you would naturally develop an extremely quick, compact form to gain optimal efficiency. Practice this skill by standing barefoot and raising one leg by sliding your ankle up along the opposite leg. Perform up to 20 repetitions on each leg. Maintain proper posture and position. Proper posture, MacKenzie says, shifts the impact stress of running from the knees to larger muscles in the trunk, namely, the hips and hamstrings. The runner’s head remains up and the eyes focused down the road. With the core muscles engaged, power flows from the larger muscles through to the extremities. Practice proper position by standing with your body weight balanced on the ball of one foot. Keep the knee of your planted leg slightly bent and your lifted foot relaxed as you hold your ankle directly below your hip. In this position, your body is in proper alignment. Practice holding this position for up to 1 minute on each leg. Be patient. Choose one day a week for practicing form drills and technique. MacKenzie recommends wearing minimalist shoes to encourage proper form, but not without taking care of the other necessary work. A quick changeover from motion-control shoes to minimalist shoes is a recipe for tendon problems. Instead of making a rapid transition, ease into minimalist shoes by wearing them just one day per week, during skill work. Then slowly integrate them into your training runs as your feet and legs adapt. Your patience will pay off.

Listen," he whispered. As the thrumming of her own heart quieted, Beatrix heard music. Not instruments, but human voices joined in harmony. Bemused, she went to the window and looked out. A smile lit her face. A small group of officers from Christopher's regiment, still in uniform, were standing in a row and singing a slow, haunting ballad. Were I laid on Greenland's coast, And in my arms embrac'd my lass; Warm amidst eternal frost, Too soon the half year's night would pass. And I would love you all the day. Ev'ry night would kiss and play, If with me you'd fondly stray. Over the hills and far away... "Our song," Beatrix whispered, as the sweet strains floated up to them. "Yes." Beatrix lowered to the floor and braced her folded arms on the windowsill... the same place where she had lit so many candles for a soldier fighting in a faraway land.

But I learned from these new books that Southerners think we are really rather sad. They have an idea of a people dwelling on a mountain, inbred, lonely, mysterious; that we ritually climb and descend, and make sacrifices, and burn eternal flames, and send bridal parties from village to village in the spring so men like Daila can impregnate women like me, all in order to placate something implacable. They see our culture as rich, in the same way perhaps that a seam of ancient ore is rich — because of compression and repression. They imagine that we drink a lot, even more than we do (and it is a thing I learned from the bar, that they drink as much as we, that every culture that’s discovered alcohol drinks too much) and that we are poorer than we are because only a few of us sell anything to them. A melancholy drunken land, a land of storytellers, a land of sly jokes, an Asam-hating land, and nothing like the land I remembered. It was as if someone had constructed a scaffolding around us, and then removed us and written only about the scaffolding. The more I read, the more the materials of the scaffolding — splintered wood, narrow pipes of metal — slid into the hollows of my bones. I knew that the next time I went to the mountain, I would have a stranger’s mind in mine. Though I walked in streets I had known since girlhood, I would never again be able to step upon them without an erudite word in my head and a bracing of metal in my marrow.

38 Then the Lord spoke to Job out of the storm. He said: 2 “Who is this that obscures my plans with words without knowledge? 3 Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me. 4 “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me, if you understand. 5 Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it? 6 On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone— 7 while the morning stars sang together and all the angels[a] shouted for joy? 8 “Who shut up the sea behind doors when it burst forth from the womb, 9 when I made the clouds its garment and wrapped it in thick darkness, 10 when I fixed limits for it and set its doors and bars in place, 11 when I said, ‘This far you may come and no farther; here is where your proud waves halt’? 12 “Have you ever given orders to the morning, or shown the dawn its place, 13 that it might take the earth by the edges and shake the wicked out of it? 14 The earth takes shape like clay under a seal; its features stand out like those of a garment. 15 The wicked are denied their light, and their upraised arm is broken. 16 “Have you journeyed to the springs of the sea or walked in the recesses of the deep? 17 Have the gates of death been shown to you? Have you seen the gates of the deepest darkness? 18 Have you comprehended the vast expanses of the earth? Tell me, if you know all this. 19 “What is the way to the abode of light? And where does darkness reside? 20 Can you take them to their places? Do you know the paths to their dwellings? 21 Surely you know, for you were already born! You have lived so many years! 22 “Have you entered the storehouses of the snow or seen the storehouses of the hail, 23 which I reserve for times of trouble, for days of war and battle? 24 What is the way to the place where the lightning is dispersed, or the place where the east winds are scattered over the earth? 25 Who cuts a channel for the torrents of rain, and a path for the thunderstorm, 26 to water a land where no one lives, an uninhabited desert, 27 to satisfy a desolate wasteland and make it sprout with grass? 28 Does the rain have a father? Who fathers the drops of dew? 29 From whose womb comes the ice? Who gives birth to the frost from the heavens 30 when the waters become hard as stone, when the surface of the deep is frozen? 31 “Can you bind the chains[b] of the Pleiades? Can you loosen Orion’s belt? 32 Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons[c] or lead out the Bear[d] with its cubs? 33 Do you know the laws of the heavens? Can you set up God’s[e] dominion over the earth? 34 “Can you raise your voice to the clouds and cover yourself with a flood of water? 35 Do you send the lightning bolts on their way? Do they report to you, ‘Here we are’? 36 Who gives the ibis wisdom[f] or gives the rooster understanding?[g] 37 Who has the wisdom to count the clouds? Who can tip over the water jars of the heavens 38 when the dust becomes hard and the clods of earth stick together? 39 “Do you hunt the prey for the lioness and satisfy the hunger of the lions 40 when they crouch in their dens or lie in wait in a thicket? 41 Who provides food for the raven when its young cry out to God and wander about for lack of food?

the presence of an old salt aboard the Elizabeth Seaman was profoundly reassuring. “Iron men in wooden boats,” they were called, as opposed to the wooden men in iron boats of today, like Kittredge, Farmingdale, and Eddie himself. Old salts partook of an origin myth, being close to the root of all things, including language. Eddie had never noticed how much of his own speech derived from the sea, from “keeled over” to “learning the ropes” to “catching the drift” to “freeloader” to “gripe” to “brace up” to “taken aback” to “leeway” to “low profile” to “the bitter end,” or the very last link on a chain. Using these expressions in a practical way made him feel close to something fundamental—a deeper truth whose contours he believed he’d sensed, allegorically, even while still on land. Being at sea had brought Eddie nearer that truth. And the old salts were nearer still.

When we are man and wife you will do as I say. You will never speak of this again!” Samuel came forward and loomed over her, his thick breath clouding the air in front of her face. “When you are mine, you will obey me.” “I will not be your wife. I refuse to marry a man who is dishonest.” “I have never been dishonest with you.” Fresh malice boiled in Eliza’s belly. “You said you would not harm Thomas if I promised to return here and marry you, did you not?” “I did.” “So why did you tell Donaldson to burn Thomas’s property after we were married? I refuse to be your wife, since you have rescinded on our agreement.” A monster unleashed before her. Samuel shoved Eliza against Father’s rows of books, their hard covers stabbing into her back just as Samuel’s eyes stabbed into her chest. “If you do not marry me, not only will his house burn, but Thomas will as well.” Eliza’s blood escaped her face and she braced herself as the room twisted around her. “You wouldn’t.” Samuel’s eyes narrowed into small black slits. “I would.” Her bones wanted to crack under the weight of his words and her voice refused to work, but somehow she found her ability to speak. “If I find that you have done anything to him after we are married I will do everything in my power to leave you, make no mistake.” Samuel relaxed his numbing grip, a wicked laugh rumbling in his chest. “You can’t leave me, Eliza. Not after everything I’ve done for you.” “I can, and I will!” Samuel roared and without warning slapped her across the face, causing her to tumble sideways. She hit Father’s chair and landed in a rough heap on the floor. He rushed to her, panic lighting his features, as if it had been someone else who had struck her. “Eliza, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Are you hurt?” A trickle of warm liquid ran down her cheek. He tried to touch her face, but she slapped his hand away. “Don’t you dare touch me.” His face drained of all color and he sputtered as he spoke, his voice quiet. “I’m so sorry, Eliza, I—” “Thomas would have never dreamed of hitting me, Samuel.” She straightened to her full height, breathing in deep heaves. “He lets me speak my mind and ask questions. He believes that what I think matters. He loves me!” Samuel lowered his brow and his tone rumbled in his chest as he shook her shoulders. “You will never speak of Thomas again. Today we will be married, and you will be mine forever and you will love me! As far as you are concerned, Thomas never existed.” The finality of his statement sluiced over her, causing her knees to buckle. She gripped the row of books behind her to steady her stance. “So be it, Samuel Martin,” she said, filling her voice with razors. “But know this, there is only one man that I will ever love—dead or alive. And it will never be you!

Vogt spent ten months in Mexico, much of it with Juana, at the behest of the Mexican agricultural ministry, writing a guide to conservation for Mexican schoolchildren, and struggling with his cane and braces through twenty-six national parks. Although statistics showed that the country was Latin America’s wealthiest, its landscapes were enshrouded by suffering: impoverished subsistence farmers, scratching at depleted soils, taking down the last stands of timber for their cookstoves. “Unless land-use patterns are radically altered,” Vogt said, “most of Mexico will be virtually desert within a hundred years.

He stopped abruptly, and Luz braced for it. The list of the many ways the colonies had benefited from having the Brits and the Spaniards ravage their people and their land. How they should be grateful for the language and the religion imposed on them. How fortunate they were to be allowed on British soil despite their...inadequacy

India is much of a strange land; it is perhaps the only place in the world that exists in so many differing yet synchronous forms. First, there is India of your imagination—the one cultivated by the stories you’ve heard, the books you have read, the dreams your inner eye has seen. Second, there is India you will actually witness, the perpetual kiss of opposites—India the magnificent and the lamentable, India the intimate and the daunting, India the modern and the chaotic. And then, there is India at its rough core; the one so paradoxical and complex, so raw and self-standing, that it has inevitably slipped the grip of the hearts and the minds of innumerable poets, hermits, philosophers, historians, warriors, and of course, politicians. I have heard, many times, that this land is like a mirror, one that reflects, or rather throws back at you—with such a stern congruity—your current state of mind. But make no mistake—even if you brace yourself with all the psychological, philosophical and spiritual tools at your disposal, you can never be prepared for what awaits you. India is a manifold of beauty and of ugliness, and of million shades in-between, all of which exist in a continuum. India is like its gods and goddesses endowed with multitude of faces and plentitude of limbs, gorgeous and terrible, but absolutely complete.

I have often had a fancy for writing a romance about an English yachtsman who slightly miscalculated his course and discovered England under the impression that it was a new island in the South Seas. I always find, however, that I am either too busy or too lazy to write this fine work, so I may as well give it away for the purposes of philosophical illustration. There will probably be a general impression that the man who landed (armed to the teeth and talking by signs) to plant the British flag on that barbaric temple which turned out to be the Pavilion at Brighton, felt rather a fool. I am not here concerned to deny that he looked a fool. But if you imagine that he felt a fool, or at any rate that the sense of folly was his sole or his dominant emotion, then you have not studied with sufficient delicacy the rich romantic nature of the hero of this tale. His mistake was really a most enviable mistake; and he knew it, if he was the man I take him for. What could be more delightful than to have in the same few minutes all the fascinating terrors of going abroad combined with all the humane security of coming home again? What could be better than to have all the fun of discovering South Africa without the disgusting necessity of landing there? What could be more glorious than to brace one’s self up to discover New South Wales and then realize, with a gush of happy tears, that it was really old South Wales. This at least seems to me the main problem for philosophers, and is in a manner the main problem of this book. How can we contrive to be at once astonished at the world and yet at home in it? How can this queer cosmic town, with its many-legged citizens, with its monstrous and ancient lamps, how can this world give us at once the fascination of a strange town and the comfort and honour of being our own town?

Tisaanah.” My name was a ragged sigh of relief on Max’s lips, so low it took me a moment to recognize it. He pressed his forehead against mine and said it again, as if he didn’t realize he was speaking aloud. For a moment, the sheer horror of what I had almost done paralyzed me. Gods, I had almost — that blade had been so close, so close, to his neck. We were both shaking. I braced my palm against his face with my good hand, then my eyes landed on his throat — the one trickle of blood beneath his jaw. And then, three odd, gruesome purple-black finger marks at his shoulder. What was that? A burn? I pushed back the torn fabric of his shirt, prompting a sharp breath through his teeth. No, not a burn, not quite…

The Blue One will live to see the Caterpillar rut everything they walk on—seacliff buckwheat cleared, relentless ice plant to replace it, the wild fields bisected by the scenic highway, canyons covered with cul-de-sacs, gas stations, comfortable homes, the whole habitat along this coastal stretch endangered, everything, everyone, everywhere in it danger as well— but now they're logging the one stilling hawk Smith sights, the conspiring grasses' shh shhhh ssh, the coreopsis Mattoni's boot barely spares, and, netted, a solitary blue butterfly. Smith ahead of him chasing the stream, Mattoni wonders if he plans to swim again. Just like that the spell breaks. It's years later, Mattoni lecturing on his struggling butterfly. How fragile. • If his daughter spooled out the fabric she's chosen for her wedding gown, raw taffeta, burled, a bright hued tan, perhaps Mattoni would remember how those dunes looked from a distance, the fabric, balanced between her arms, making valleys in the valley, the fan above her mimicking the breeze. He and his friend loved everything softly undulating under the coyest wind, and the rough truth as they walked through the land's scratch and scrabble and no one was there, then, besides Mattoni and his friend, walking along Dolan's Creek, in that part of California they hated to share. The ocean, a mile or so off, anything but passive so that even there, in the canyon, they sometimes heard it smack and pull well-braced rocks. The breeze, basic: salty, bitter, sour, sweet. Smith trying to identify the scent, tearing leaves of manzanita, yelling: "This is it. Here! This is it!" his hand to his nose, his eyes, having finally seen the source of his pleasure, alive. • In the lab, after the accident, he remembered it, the butterfly. How good a swimmer Smith had been, how rough the currents there at Half Moon Bay, his friend alone with reel and rod—Mattoni back at school early that year, his summer finished too soon— then all of them together in the sneaker wave, and before that the ridge, congregations of pinking blossoms, and one of them bowing, scaring up the living, the frail and flighty beast too beautiful to never be pinned, those nights Mattoni worked without his friend, he remembered too. He called the butterfly Smith's Blue

Danes, Norse... all were from the northlands in the eyes of her people. To their fright-frozen minds, Hakan was another of the dreaded Norse, sweeping over the land like a plague and leaving little in the wake. But summer had yielded a different crop for her: not all Norse were vicious raiders out for death and plunder. Hakan braced one foot on a rock. "And now the Norse wolf brings you safely home."... "Aye," she said.

Listen,” he whispered. As the thrumming of her own heart quieted, Beatrix heard music. Not instruments, but human voices joined in harmony. Bemused, she went to the window and looked out. A smile lit her face. A small group of officers from Christopher’s regiment, still in uniform, were standing in a row and singing a slow, haunting ballad. Were I laid on Greenland’s coast, And in my arms embrac’d my lass; Warm amidst eternal frost, Too soon the half year’s night would pass. And I would love you all the day. Ev’ry night would kiss and play, If with me you’d fondly stray. Over the hills and far away… “Our song,” Beatrix whispered, as the sweet strains floated up to them. “Yes.” Beatrix lowered to the floor and braced her folded arms on the windowsill…the same place where she had lit so many candles for a soldier fighting in a faraway land. Christopher joined her at the window, kneeling with his arms braced around her. At the conclusion of the song, Beatrix blew the officers a kiss. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she called down to them. “I will treasure this memory always.” One of them volunteered, “Perhaps you’re not aware of it, Mrs. Phelan, but according to Rifle Brigade wedding tradition, every man on the groom’s honor guard gets to kiss the bride on her wedding night.” “What rot,” Christopher retorted amiably. “The only Rifles wedding tradition I know of is to avoid getting married in the first place.” “Well, you bungled that one, old fellow.” The group chortled. “Can’t say as I blame him,” one of them added. “You are a vision, Mrs. Phelan.” “As fair as moonlight,” another said. “Thank you,” Christopher said. “Now stop wooing my wife, and take your leave.” “We started the job,” one of the officers said. “It’s left to you to finish it, Phelan.” And with cheerful catcalls and well wishes, the Rifles departed. “They’re taking the horse with them,” Christopher said, a smile in his voice. “You’re well and truly stranded with me now.

I waited until I was five months pregnant to tell my mother that I was having a baby. "I'm calling with some news," I said. "God, what?" she responded, sounding hopeful for something juicy and terrible. She could be counted on to be sober and in good spirits until late afternoon, and I timed my calls accordingly but always braced myself. The death of her parents and of her brother, my uncle Mike, who had been gone for almost five years now, and the sale of the land had left her in a raw and scattered state that I still hoped she would recover from, eventually. She seemed to want to talk only about tragedies and bad news and would complain to me that my sister never called her and that nobody ever told her anything, or included her in any of their lives. I cut her off as she began to tell me something I did not want to hear. "I'm calling with good news," I said, starting again as though she might not recognize it as such. "What?" she said, her tone urgent, almost desperate. "I'm going to have a baby," I told her. She let out an exhale, then, sounding exhausted from the three seconds of suspense and relived but not happy, she said, "Well, it's nice to hear some good news, because I've been following this massacre? In Arizona? With the congresswoman who was shot in the head by that lunatic? It's just god-awful." I forced myself to give her a few details calmly, including the due date, then got off the phone as quickly as I could. She sent me an email the next day that said, simply, "I don't have any advice for you. Everything is different now than when I had you. I hope that you'll let me see my grandchild sometime. Your sister won't let me see her kids." I spent that whole day in bed, with a hand on my stomach, terrified.

Sean swung around and crossed the hall in one long stride. He pushed open the door and they moved into her bedroom, lit only by the warm glow of her bedside lamp. The next thing Evie knew, she was flat on her back on her king-size bed with a fierce-eyed warrior braced over her. "Your're not wearing any underwear, are you?" She giggled. "There's only one way to find out for sure." "Don't have to ask me twice." He pushed the hem of her dress up her thighs. Instant heat rushed to her sex. It was those damn hands of his, their size and power and gentleness. They made her melt just by landing on her body.

cat’s steps skirted the doctor’s chair, and Vincenzo braced himself as he heard his pet leap. Rajah’s weight landed

Like Breccan was known to do, he pushed the angry Gwarda a bit more. "It's settled then. She's mine." He cleared his throat and braced himself for the punch he knew would come. Darius's fist came fast, landing hard against Breccan's jaw.

So saying, she managed to straighten- which left her facing the house, looking directly at the blank bow windows of the downstairs parlor. With the storm darkening the skies, the windows were reflective. They reflected the image of a man standing directly behind her. With a gasp, Patience whirled. Her gaze collided with the man's- his eyes were hard, crystalline gray, pale in the weak light. They were focused, intently, on her, their expression one she couldn't fathom. He stood no more than three feet away, large, elegant and oddly forbidding. In the instant her brain registered those facts, Patience felt her heels sink, and sink- into the soft soil of the flower bed. The edge crumbled beneath her feet. Her eyes flew wide- her lips formed a helpless "Oh." Arms flailing, she started to topple back- The man reacted so swiftly his movement was a blur- he gripped her upper arms and hauled her forward. She landed against him, breast to chest, hips to hard thighs. The breath was knocked out of her, leaving her gasping, mentally as well as physically. Hard hands held her upright, long fingers iron shackles about her arms. His chest was a wall of rock against her breasts; the rest of his body, the long thighs that held them braced, felt as resilient as tensile steel. She was helpless. Utterly, completely, and absolutely helpless. Patience looked up and met the stranger's hooded gaze. As she watched, his grey eyes darkened. The expression they contained- intensely concentrated- sent a most peculiar thrill through her. She blinked; her gaze fell- to the man's lips. Long, thin yet beautifully proportioned, they'd been sculpted with a view to fascination. They certainly fascinated her; she couldn't drag her gaze away. The mesmerizing contours shifted, almost imperceptibly softening; her own lips tingled. She swallowed, and dragged in a desperately needed breath. Her breasts rose, shifting against the stranger's coat, pressing more definitely against his chest. Sensation streaked through her, from unexpectedly tight nipples all the way to her toes. She caught another breath and tensed- but couldn't stop the quiver that raced through her. The stranger's lips thinned; the austere planes of his face hardened. His fingers tightened about her arms. To Patience's stunned amazement, he lifted her- easily- and carefully set her down two feet away.

There they came, forty Comanches, all whooping and hollering, lances raised, a frightening spectacle indeed. Forgetting for the moment that she must guard what she said, she cried, “They aren’t attacking. He promised.” “Then what the hell are they doin’? Get outa my way!” Henry shoved her aside and resighted his rifle. “He promised? She’s touched, Rachel! They messed her up in the head, keepin’ her all this time.” Loretta ran for the door. “He isn’t attacking! I know he isn’t. Please, don’t shoot!” The bar stuck as she tried to lift it. Her heart began to slam as she wrestled with it. A vision of Hunter lying dead in the yard flashed through her head. This was exactly what she had dreaded might happen, what she’d tried to explain to him last night. “Please, Uncle Henry--he promised me. And he wouldn’t make a lie of it, he wouldn’t, I know he wouldn’t!” The bar finally came free. “Don’t shoot him, don’t!” Throwing the door wide, Loretta ran out onto the porch. The Comanches were circling the house. She ran to the end of the porch and saw a lance embedded in the dirt fifteen feet away. Hi, hites, hello, my friend. Her knees went weak with relief. “Uncle Henry,” she cried over her shoulder, “they’re marking the property. Protecting us! Don’t shoot or you’ll cause a bloodbath for sure!” She ran to the window and peered in the crack at her uncle. “Did you hear me? If they were wanting to murder somebody, I’d be dead.” She turned back to watch as the Comanches widened their circle to mark the outer perimeters of Henry’s land. Tears stung her eyes. Hunter was leaving a message to every Indian in the whole territory: those at this farm were not to be attacked. Within minutes the braves had driven all forty willow lances into the dirt and ridden to the crest of the hill. Loretta shaded her brow, trying to find Hunter in the swarm. Recognizing him from the rest at this distance was impossible. Then they disappeared over the rise. Loretta stared at the empty knoll, her chest aching, her knees still shaking. “Good-bye, my friend,” she whispered. As if he had heard her, Hunter reappeared alone on the rise. Bringing his stallion to a halt, he straightened and lifted his head, forming a dark silhouette, his quiver and arrows jutting up above his shoulder, his shield braced on his thigh, his long hair drifting in the wind. Forgetting all about her family watching her, Loretta stumbled down the steps and out into the yard to be sure Hunter could see her. Then she waved. In answer, he raised his right arm high in a salute. He remained there for several seconds, and she stood rooted, memorizing how he looked. When he wheeled his horse and disappeared, she stared after him for a long while. I will know the song your heart sings, eh? And you will know mine.

Do you sleep?” Warrior asked. Hunter jerked and peered at his brother through the silvery gloom. “No, tah-mah, I do not sleep.” Warrior spread his buffalo robe and sat down, bracing his arms on his bent knees. Contemplating the darkness, he said, “You are no longer one with us.” Something hard and cold turned over in Hunter’s stomach. Was his turmoil so apparent? “I love the People, Warrior.” “I know that. But you are no longer one with us.” Warrior toyed with the fringe on his moccasin. “Perhaps that is not a bad thing. The People will soon go the way of the wind.” He sighed and grew pensive. “We’re outnumbered, Hunter. Though we fight with all our strength, we’ll never win. When the war between the tosi tivo ends, their soldiers will return and drive us back into the wastelands. Hundreds and hundreds will be killed, until only a few of us remain.” Hunter knew what Warrior said was true, but admitting it wasn’t easy. “For now, Warrior, the People prevail.” “For now.” Warrior swallowed and lowered his gaze. “I have great love for you, tah-mah. If you leave me, my heart will be laid upon the ground. But it is time that you fulfill the last part of the prophecy.” Hunter’s mouth went dry. He fixed his attention on the stars. “Someone must preserve the ways of the People,” Warrior rasped, “someone who will sing our songs and teach our ways. Unless you do that, all that we are will be lost. You must go get your woman and take her far away into the west lands where this war does not reach.” Warrior’s voice shook with emotion. “To a new place, Hunter. You know the words of the song.

up the pathway to the front door.  She’d called and left him a message, letting him know that she was coming, and that she’d leave the documents with the housekeeper if he wasn’t there.  Ringing the doorbell, she couldn’t stop the blush that stole up her cheeks as she remembered the last time she’d been here.  Had it really been only two days ago?  It seemed like a lot longer.  Did he still have those stockings?  Surely he’d tossed them out by now.  And no, she hadn’t dared to purchase another pair.  Not after the last debacle.  When the door opened, she was bracing herself to face Hunter once again.  Her plan was to congratulate him, just as she would any other client, hand him the champagne and the closing documents, and then leave as quickly as possible.  Just as she would all of her other clients.  They were all trying to unpack, overwhelmed with the process but excited about their new purchase.  She very seriously doubted if anything overwhelmed Hunter, but she was going to go through her routine anyway.  All of her clients deserved the same treatment, and she shouldn’t slack off with Hunter simply because…well, because he could make her feel things that… “Goodness, come in out of the heat, my dear!” the housekeeper urged, waving Kara into the cool interior.  “Mr. West is out back in the pool, but he said he was expecting you and that you’d know the way.  If he needs anything at all,” she said, as she hefted a purse onto her shoulder that Kara suspected could substitute for a suitcase, “just tell him to give me a ring.” Kara opened her mouth to stop the woman as the two of them exchanged places, the housekeeper moving to the outside even as Kara was nudged inside.  Kara went so far as to lift her hand, trying to indicate that she wanted to say something, but the efficient woman bustled out of the house, closing the front door in the process.  Kara stared at the closed door for several long moments, wondering how that had just happened.  Her plan had been simple.  Just hand over the bottle and documents, convey her congratulations and head back.  What had just happened?  Kara turned around.  It felt strange to be standing here, alone, in Hunter’s house.  She’d been here two days ago, but the house hadn’t been his.  The man now owned the house, all the furniture, and the acres of land and waterfront.  It felt much more intimate now for some reason.  Looking around, she wished that she could just leave the documents on the kitchen counter or the rough, wooden coffee table that looked perfect next to the white sofas.  Everything felt and looked clean and comfortable, exactly as she would have decorated this area.  The pops of green were vibrant and exhilarating, a perfect accompaniment to the fresh, white furniture.  With a sigh, she turned away from the alluring great room décor and searched out the man of the moment.  As she stepped past the sofas, she saw him.  In the pool.  Without any clothes on! Oh goodness, she thought with a strangled breath.  It took her several moments to realize that she needed to inhale, her breath caught in her throat as she watched the man’s bare skin, and all the muscles, and…well, all of him!  Okay, so he wasn’t naked, he was wearing a bathing suit but his broad, muscular back and those arms…they were even more ridged with muscles than she’d thought.  He was spectacular!  Never in her wildest imaginings had she pictured him that buff, but there

You have never accepted anything in your life,” Rowan snarled, shooting to his feet and bracing his hands on the table. “And now you are suddenly willing to do so?” “What am I supposed to do, Rowan?” “You damn it all to hell!” He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “You say to hell with their plans, their prophecies, and fates, and you make your own! You do anything but accept this!” “The people of Erilea have spoken.” “To hell with that, too,” he growled. “You can start your free world after this war. Let them vote for their own damned kings and queens, if they want to.” She let out a growl of her own. “I do not want this burden for one second longer. I do not want to choose and learn I made the wrong choice in delaying it.” “So you would have voted against it, then. You would have gone to Terrasen.” “Does it matter?” She shot to her feet. “The votes weren’t in my favor anyway. Hearing that I wanted to go to Orynth, to fight one last time, would have only swayed them.” “You’re the one who’s about to die. I’d say you get to have a voice in it.” She bared her teeth. “This is my fate. Elena tried to get me out of it. And look where it landed her—with a cabal of vengeful gods swearing to end her eternal soul. When the Lock is forged, when I close the gate, I will be destroying another life alongside my own.” “Elena had a thousand years of existence, either living or as a spirit. Forgive me if I don’t give a shit that her time has now come to an end, when you only received twenty years.” “I got to twenty years because of her.” Rowan began pacing, his stalking steps eating up the carpet. “This mess is because of her, too. Why should you bear its weight alone?” “Because it was always mine to begin with.” “Bullshit. It could have as easily been Dorian. He’s willing to do it.” Aelin blinked. “Elena and Nehemia said Dorian wasn’t ready.” “Dorian walked into and out of Morath, went toe to toe with Maeve, and brought the whole damn place crashing down. I’d say he’s as ready as you are.” “I won’t allow him to sacrifice himself in my stead.” “Why?” “Because he is my friend. Because I won’t be able to live with myself from the honors he endured.” “And you aren’t?” Rowan challenged, wholly unfazed. “He’s a grown man. He can make his own choices—we can make choices without you lording over them.

Looking back at my previous research, I see that the scene had been set for Trump’s rise, like kindling before a match is lit. Three elements had come together. Since 1980, virtually all those I talked with felt on shaky economic ground, a fact that made them brace at the very idea of “redistribution.” They also felt culturally marginalized: their views about abortion, gay marriage, gender roles, race, guns, and the Confederate flag all were held up to ridicule in the national media as backward. And they felt part of a demographic decline; “there are fewer and fewer white Christians like us,” Madonna had told me. They’d begun to feel like a besieged minority. And to these feelings they added the cultural tendency—described by W.J. Cash in The Mind of the South, though shared in milder form outside the South—to identify “up” the social ladder with the planter, the oil magnate, and to feel detached from those further down the ladder. All this was part of the “deep story.” In that story, strangers step ahead of you in line, making you anxious, resentful, and afraid. A president allies with the line cutters, making you feel distrustful, betrayed. A person ahead of you in line insults you as an ignorant redneck, making you feel humiliated and mad. Economically, culturally, demographically, politically, you are suddenly a stranger in your own land. The whole context of Louisiana—its companies, its government, its church and media—reinforces that deep story. So this—the deep story—was in place before the match was struck.

Pale lights illuminate The Seven’s inner chamber. Once bright, the lamps are overgrown, dimmed by a sheet of stone. The room is octagonal, one side for the supplicant, unadorned. Six others each house a figure, statue-like, covered from head to toe in a thick layer of rock. All appear human shaped, with discernible wings, their postures neutral, dead. The seventh alcove lies empty. The Vagrant holds the sword up, letting it hum, calling, calling. As if returning from a dream, The Seven respond, slowly, sonorously. Splitting the shells that cover them, yawning into life. One by one, they catch the call and return it, till the harmony swells, reverberating from the walls and leaping up, vanishing into the fathomless, ceilingless dark above. Beautiful sounds mature, becoming words, musical, passed from one to the other, filling the chamber and the Vagrant’s ears. ‘Mourning has become morning, and we rejoice …’ ‘We rejoice in the proximity of your flame once more …’ ‘Once more we are Seven …’ ‘Are Seven together, come …’ ‘Come and join with us …’ ‘Join with us your light, diminished but still bright.’ Six arms drift out, gesturing to the last alcove, inviting. Neither Vagrant nor sword move. An eye studies the chamber, pausing at each alcove, noting the blades housed there, buried beneath layers of stone, useless. Rage simmers between sword and Vagrant. He takes a lock of hair from an inner pocket, throws it down on the floor between them. The sword lowers to point at it, then sweeps across the figures, then makes a hard stab towards the doors. Six faces freeze as the joyous echoes of song die out. The Vagrant swallows in a throat suddenly dry. Vesper dares a quick peek from behind the Vagrant’s coat. Alpha, of The Seven, sings out. The note begins wondrous but imperfect, the others soon match him. ‘We see now your pain, most furious …’ ‘Most furious you are and desperate to fight …’ ‘To fight once more, your desire …’ ‘Your desire we grant, go forth, take a second flame to our enemies …’ Voices come together, their force rocking the Vagrant backwards until he is pinned to the wall. Vesper holds his hand tightly, little feet rising from the floor. ‘Do not stop …’ ‘Stop when the cancer …’ ‘Cancer is cut …’ ‘Cut from the bones …’ ‘Bones and flesh …’ ‘Flesh of the land …’ ‘Land is clean!’ The Vagrant closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. He braces himself against the sound, pulling Vesper behind him raising the sword in front. Silvered wings unfurl protectively, shielding his face. An eye widens, blazing with indignation. ‘Then …’ ‘Then, then and only then …’ ‘Only then will you be free …’ ‘Be free to return to us …’ ‘Return to us and rejoice …’ ‘Rejoice for true, complete again. Immaculate.’ Six go quiet, demands echoing after. Vesper’s feet touch floor again and she wraps herself around a comforting leg. In the Vagrant’s hand, the sword trembles, humming dangerously. He takes a deep breath. From the depths of his stomach something is forged, travelling inevitably, gaining force as it goes, following tubes behind ribs, up through the chest, into the throat, teeth parting, allowing it outside. The Vagrant opens his eyes, they are full of weariness, disgust, conviction. ‘No.

She looked over her shoulder at the ship’s bow. The smallest and highest section of the deck at the front of the vessel, the forecastle, had but one lone figure standing atop it. The flying jib front sail billowed above and ahead of him, stretching out into the endless blue of the sea and sky. Gavin stood with his hands braced on the railing, his tall figure displaying his broad shoulders and narrow waist while showing off his powerful thighs. The glint of a short sword shimmered at his hip. Excitement flared within her again.

She looked over her shoulder at the ship’s bow. The smallest and highest section of the deck at the front of the vessel, the forecastle, had but one lone figure standing atop it. The flying jib front sail billowed above and ahead of him, stretching out into the endless blue of the sea and sky. Gavin stood with his hands braced on the railing, his tall figure displaying his broad shoulders and narrow waist while showing off his powerful thighs. The glint of a short sword shimmered at his hip. Excitement flared within her again. “My pirate,” she whispered with a dreamy smile. My lover, she silently added with a blush.

senator decided that he didn’t want to be the bad guy in the story. He spent Saturday huddling with West, sketching out a fresh offer for a climate bill, assembling a compromise he deemed worthy. When West passed along the document to Petrella and Deese, he told them that some fine-tuning might be required, but he thought it was a fair deal that Schumer and the White House could accept. As Petrella scanned the offer, he braced himself for the worst. But as he read, he absorbed the reality that Manchin had confounded his expectations. The plan was actually ambitious, not that far from the substance of their negotiations. Manchin had his demands, to be sure. They had covered most of this ground before. He wanted approval of the Mountain Valley Pipeline, which would transport natural gas from wells in north-central West Virginia, turning his state into a major player in that energy market. He asked for the Democratic leadership’s support for a separate bill reforming the process for permitting new energy infrastructure so that it could be built without having to surmount so many bureaucratic impediments. And he needed hundreds of millions of dollars set aside for deficit reduction, to assuage his centrist conscience. But that was just horse trading. The only thing that truly mattered was his proposing more than $300 billion in tax credits that would incentivize the nation to rapidly embrace clean energy. If Congress passed his proposal, carbon emissions would fall by 40 percent of the 2005 levels by 2030. Petrella, who felt at once elated and frustrated by Manchin’s wild swings, told West, “Lance, I’ve been sticking my neck out, defending you guys, saying that you were going to fucking do something here, for a year. I’m willing to do it one more time, but it’s got to be before the August recess, and this has got to be it. This is the deal. We’re locking arms.” West told Petrella that the document in his hands was the “flight plan.” They were going to finally land the plane. —

If America stands today as a free country, it's because of those Americans who sacrificed their lives fighting against the redcoats. But there is another side of American history which is not taught in schools. And it's the bitter side of the story, so brace for it. The only reason the country called America even exists is because the native americans who were living in the land for a long time before the pilgrims arrived here from Europe, couldn't organize a large and strong enough uprising to fight them away from their land. This is more reason for each person of this sweet land of liberty to practice assimilation not segregation - this is more reason for each of us to come to the aid of the oppressed and segregated - this is more reason for each of us to stand upright against discrimination, narcissism, prejudice and sectarianism.

Pearls Of Thoughts * Without the state, exists no nation. * The honest officials and fair system create a route of welfare in society. * Transparent justice and equality build unity. * No one can hold the gun and fun in the hands at a time in a democratic system. * The parliament constitutes the constitution, and that constitution outlines and describes responsibilities and limits. * The Armed Forces brace and dress the weapons after the professional training to defend its land; conversely, the politicians perform trickery fun of politics after a long experience to boost trade and welfare for the peoples, and diplomatic relations with other countries.

A smell of strawberries on her breath, so enticing I could crawl into her mouth. Bubblegum visible through her clicky-clacky cheerleader teeth, no braces like Clondine, a mouthful of colourful metal.

Five years that she had been taking care of her sisters and the land. Five years where she’d dedicated everything to training for a supposed event that might or might not occur. How many of her ancestors had done the same thing? How many others had watched the years pass them by as they held to their believes with such certainty that they died for it? More importantly, did she want to be a casualty to this... whatever it was? “What do I do?” she asked the air. She threw out her arms and lifted her face to the sky. “What do I do?!” Her arms fell to her sides as she lowered her head. How could she have been so certain of things for so long, and now doubt everything? “What do you do about what?” The sound of the male voice startled her, causing her jerk around. She found him with one leg braced on the summit as he paused on the trail, a black brow quirked. Ettie opened her mouth, but there were no words as she took in the sight of him. He was...beautiful in a rugged, untamed way that made her heart race and her stomach quiver. It became impossible to breathe as she drank in the cut of his jaw and square chin. She tried not to stare at his mouth and thick bottom lip, but all she could think about was what it would be like to kiss him. Then she looked into his eyes. They were molten silver, dark and enigmatic like mercury. Those gorgeous eyes framed with long, black lashes watched her with the concentration of a hawk. Layers of thick ebony hair fell nearly to his shoulders with the top half of it pulled away from his face. He wore only a denim shirt and a cream tee beneath it along with faded jeans and black boots. She didn’t know how he was up there without a coat. His lips slowly pulled into a smile, and she realized she’d been ogling him. Ettie glanced away, but her gaze returned immediately. She laughed nervously, still unable to find words. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said as he took the last step to the top. “I assumed since you shouted your question you might want an answer.” His Irish brogue was deep, throaty, and absolutely sexy. It was slightly different than anything she’d heard before, and she wanted more.

That’s it,” I snapped. “Stop the truck.” “What?” Victor gave me an incredulous look and kept driving. “Why the hell would I do that?” “Because I’m leaving.” I fumbled for the handle on the unfamiliar door. “How do you open this damn thing, anyway?” Falling out of the speeding truck wouldn’t be a picnic but I was a vampire—I would heal. Of course, my body was in pretty bad shape because of the enforced starvation I’d endured recently so it might take a while. But even a slow and painful recovery was better than taking any more of the were’s abuse. The handle clicked and suddenly the door flew open. The truck took a sharp curve and I felt myself slipping sideways at an alarming rate. Oh my God! I braced for the fall but just as I started to slide out of the cab a big hand reached out and grabbed me by the arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Victor brought the truck to a screeching halt and dragged me back across the seat. “I told you—leaving. So let me go.” “I don’t think so,” he snarled. “We’re blood-bound—you’re not going anywhere.” “So I’ll find a way to break the bond,” I snapped, yanking at his seemingly unbreakable grip. “Anything to get away from you.” “You can’t break the bond unless you’re willing to go down some pretty dark roads and find a witch that deals in the Shadow Lands. You want that?” Victor demanded. “Because I sure as hell don’t. Like it or not, we’re stuck together, sweetheart.

There’s this…gunk on the floor,” she muttered, pushing even harder with the mop. “It’s gross, so be sure you don’t step in it or bring in more…” I took a step sideways. Katie looked up at me with a horrified glance. “Look out!” I jumped. When I landed, I felt something rubbery and squishy beneath one foot. Swallowing heavily, I carefully looked down to see what I was standing in. “Gross!” I yelled, jumping away from the horrible puddle of muck on the floor. “I think someone threw up,” I stammered. “And they threw up a lot.” Katie’s laughter echoed around the cabin. After a moment, the others began to join in. Everyone in the cabin was laughing except me. I was still staring in horror at the stuff on the floor. Katie dropped the mop she was holding with a clatter and moved toward me. When she reached me, she bent over and picked up the gross puddle. “Look, rubber vomit. Isn’t it great?” she asked, giggling. “Don’t you love it?” I felt my mouth drop open. I bet I looked like one of the fish in my fish tank as I stared at Katie and her puddle of rubber vomit. But then I looked at Katie’s face and I couldn’t help it. I had to smile, too. She looked so happy that I’d fallen for her joke. Her green eyes twinkled happily. “This is the best joke I’ve played in ages!” Katie announced. Then she threw her free arm around my shoulders and gave me a big squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re in our cabin! I’ve been wanting to use this for a long time. Denni is no fun to play tricks on. She’s too grumpy! And Ariel doesn’t get my jokes half the time.” Katie giggled again and I noticed that she had a mouthful of braces. “I thought you guys would never come inside! It seemed like I’d been pushing on that mop for hours!

She laced up her shoes and put on her coat, bracing herself as she got ready to leave, trying to find that feeling of freedom which, like an intoxication, can sometimes turn walking into a dance, reminding herself that now and again one lands on small islands of joy. Of course they would get somewhere, not just Liesel, but herself too. It was already something of a feat not to be lying becalmed in quite the wrong place--and after all, this was life, life itself, irreplaceable.

It wanted but a little while of sunset, when the sailor and his young comrade had finished flensing the shark. The raft now exhibited quite an altered appearance. Between the two upright oars several pieces of rope had been stretched transversely, and from these hung suspended the broad thin flitches of the shark’s flesh, that at a distance might have been mistaken for some sort of a sail. Indeed, they acted as such; for their united discs presented a considerable breadth of surface to the breeze, which had sprung up as the evening approached, and the raft by this means moved through the water with considerable rapidity. There was no effort made to steer it. The idea of reaching land was entirely out of the question. Their only hope of salvation lay in their being seen from a ship; and as a ship was as likely to come from one direction as another, it mattered not to which of the thirty-two points of the compass their raft might be drifting. Yes, it did matter. So thought Ben Brace, on reflection. It might be of serious consequence, should the raft make way to the westward. Somewhere in that direction—how far neither could guess—that greater raft, with its crew of desperate ruffians,—those drunken would-be cannibals,—must be drifting about, like themselves, at the mercy of winds and waves: perhaps more than themselves suffering the dire extreme of thirst and hunger.

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