Chill Guy Quotes

I am always chilled and astonished by the would-be writers who ask me for advice and admit, quite blithely, that they "don't have time to read." This is like a guy starting up Mount Everest saying that he didn't have time to buy any rope or pitons.

The world is like a ride in an amusement park, and when you choose to go on it you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. The ride goes up and down, around and around, it has thrills and chills, and it's very brightly colored, and it's very loud, and it's fun for a while. Many people have been on the ride a long time, and they begin to wonder, "Hey, is this real, or is this just a ride?" And other people have remembered, and they come back to us and say, "Hey, don't worry; don't be afraid, ever, because this is just a ride." And we … kill those people. "Shut him up! I've got a lot invested in this ride, shut him up! Look at my furrows of worry, look at my big bank account, and my family. This has to be real." It's just a ride. But we always kill the good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok … But it doesn't matter, because it's just a ride. And we can change it any time we want. It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings of money. Just a simple choice, right now, between fear and love. The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your doors, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love instead see all of us as one. Here's what we can do to change the world, right now, to a better ride. Take all that money we spend on weapons and defenses each year and instead spend it feeding and clothing and educating the poor of the world, which it would pay for many times over, not one human being excluded, and we could explore space, together, both inner and outer, forever, in peace.

The more I write stories for young people, and the more young readers I meet, the more I'm struck by how much kids long to see themselves in stories. To see their identities and perspectives—their avatars—on the page. Not as issues to be addressed or as icons for social commentary, but simply as people who get to do cool things in amazing worlds. Yes, all the “issue” books are great and have a place in literature, but it's a different and wildly joyous gift to find yourself on the pages of an entertainment, experiencing the thrills and chills of a world more adventurous than our own. And when you see that as a writer, you quickly realize that you don't want to be the jerk who says to a young reader, “Sorry, kid. You don't get to exist in story; you're too different.” You don't want to be part of our present dystopia that tells kids that if they just stopped being who they are they could have a story written about them, too. That's the role of the bad guy in the dystopian stories, right? Given a choice, I'd rather be the storyteller who says every kid can have a chance to star.

Do you know how many guys like to date the cute wild girl for a few weeks before expecting me to chill a little and become more Regular Girlfriend? [..] But at the end of the day, [..] being myself is enough. I’m enough.” She’s not saying it to convince me, or even herself; she’s already there.

There's one way. Only one. Mine." Balthazar stepped closer, using every inch he had on Lucas, who was tall but not that tall. "Charity is a person. The same as you, the same as me." "You and me aren't the same." Balthazar cocked his head. "Then let's say the same as Bianca. Will that make you listen?" "Bianca's no killer! She didn't have a choice about what she is." "Guys, don't do this," I pleaded, but they paid no attention. "A choice? You think we all get a choice?" Although Balthazar spoke softly, there was a roughness to his voice I'd never heard before. It sent chills down my spine. "Try being hunted down in the night. Try running as far and as fast as you can and finding out their faster. Try coming to in a stable, with your parents' dead bodies on the ground in front of you, your hands roped above your head and a dozen hungry vampires arguing with each other about who gets you next. See how much choice you have then." Lucas just stared at him. Obviously he'd never imagined anything like that; neither had I. Even more quietly, Balthazar continued, "Try watching your baby sister die, and then tell me that you wouldn't spend the rest of eternity trying to make up for it. When you've done all that, Lucas, then you can talk to me about choices. Until that time, tell me what I need to know and then shut your mouth.

The long flight from Georgia to England had been pretty uneventful. Except that Cal had sat next to me. Which was fine.Really. It wasn't like I'd been hyperware of his presence and jumped the three times his knee bumped mine. And after that third time, he definitely hadn't shot me a kind of disgusted look and said, "Chill out, will you?" And when Jenna gave us both a quizzical look,we hadn't snapped, in unison, "Nothing!" Because all of that would have been weird, and Cal and I weren't weird. We were cool. "You'll feel better soon," Dad said. For the first time since I'd met him, his eyes were bright and he actually looked relaxed. I guess being back in the motherland will do that to a guy.

Similarly, he forgot - or never really understood - that we live in a culture where men, as a group, have more power than women. This isn't a controversial statement, despite the protestations of guys who funnel their frustration that not all extremely young, conventionally attractive women want to sleep with them into and argument that women, as a group, have "all the power." (Bill Maher, repping for his fan base, famously jokes that men have to do all sorts of shit to get laid, but women only have to do "their hair.") The really great thing about this argument is how the patently nonsensical premise - that some young women's ability to manipulate certain men equals a greater degree of gendered power than say, owning the presidency for 220-odd years - obscures the most chilling part: in this mindset, "all the power" means, simply, the power to withhold consent. Let that sink in for a minute. If one believes women are more powerful that men because we own practically all of the vaginas, then women's power to withhold consent to sex is the greatest power there is. Which means the guy who can take away a woman's right to consent is basically a superhero. Right?

A humble life was all I craved. A chill one. Like that of a clam. Those guys were chill.

As with Jakobson, I queried Poston as to the source of Manson's philosophy. Scientology, the Bible, and the Beatles. These three were the only ones he knew. A peculiar triumvirate. Yet by now I was beginning to suspect the existence of at least a fourth influence. The old magazines I'd found at Barker, Gregg's mention that Charlie claimed to have read Nietzsche and that he believed in a master race, pus the emergence of a startling number of disturbing parallels between Manson and the leader of the Third Reich, led me to ask Poston: "Did Manson ever say anything about Hitler?" Poston's reply was short and incredibly chilling. A. "He said that Hitler was a tuned-in guy who had leveled the karma of the Jews.

The world is like a ride in an amusement park, and when you choose to go on it you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. The ride goes up and down, around and around, it has thrills and chills, and it's very brightly colored, and it's very loud, and it's fun for a while. Many people have been on the ride a long time, and they begin to wonder, "Hey, is this real, or is this just a ride?" And other people have remembered, and they come back to us and say, "Hey, don't worry; don't be afraid, ever, because this is just a ride." And we … kill those people. "Shut him up! I've got a lot invested in this ride, shut him up! Look at my furrows of worry, look at my big bank account, and my family. This has to be real." It's just a ride. But we always kill the good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok … But it doesn't matter, because it's just a ride. And we can change it any time we want. It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings of money. Just a simple choice, right now, between fear and love.

bored, the strikes almost lazy. The blades made an echoing clang that reverberated up her spine, sending tiny vibrations down the arches of her wings and trailing to the ends of her feathers. Ash pulled up short, ducked, and bumped into the wall. A picture came crashing down, shattering the glass. “Enough guys, I get it. But we do need to keep the walls intact, so if you could chill…” she called out.

What I couldn’t stand was being cold. Lying out on the beach in the surf, stripped down, freezing my ass off—that was the worst. I’d lock arms with the guys on either side of me and “jackhammer,” my body vibrating crazily with the chills. I prayed for someone to pee on me. Everybody did, I’m sure. Urine was about the only warm thing available at that point. If you happen to look out on the surf during a BUD/S class and see a bunch of guys huddled together, it’s because somebody out there is pissing and everybody is taking advantage of it.

I was in my room that night when Shay called me. Grateful for Missy’s absence, like always, I answered and leaned back in my chair. “What’s up, Coleman?” He paused a beat before laughing under his breath. “Coleman. Okay. I get it. We’re like chill buddies? Is that it?” Was there a better description for us? I shrugged to myself. “We kinda hate each other but still seek each other out. I figured it’s time to move on from calling you ‘That Guy I Hate’ in my head to a name. Last names seem fitting. You can keep calling me Clarke.” “I never know what I’m going to get with you

Project Princess Teeny feet rock layered double socks Popping side piping of many colored loose lace ups Racing toe keeps up with fancy free gear slick slide and just pressed recently weaved hair Jeans oversized belie her hips, back, thighs that have made guys sigh for milleni year Topped by an attractive jacket her suit’s not for flacking, flunkies, junkies or punk homies on the stroll. Her hands mobile thrones of today’s urban goddess Clinking rings link dragon fingers no need to be modest. One or two gap teeth coolin’ sport gold initials Doubt you get to her name just check from the side please chill. Multidimensional shrimp earrings frame her cinnamon face Crimson with a compliment if a comment hits the right place Don’t step to the plate with datelines from ‘88 Spare your simple, fragile feelings with the same sense that you came Color woman variation reworks the french twist with crinkle cut platinum frosted bangs from a spray can’s mist Never dissed, she insists: “No you can’t touch this.” And, if pissed, bedecked fists stop boys who must persist. She’s the one. Give her some. Under fire. Smoking gun. Of which songs are sung, raps are spun, bells are rung, rocked, pistols cocked, unwanted advances blocked, well stacked she’s jock. It’s all about you girl. You go on. Don’t you dare stop.

First and most important, our culture was a reflection of the man we served. Obama is at his core a really chill guy and I mean that in the most presidential way. He is a nice guy who expects his team to be nice to one another. This trait comes from how he was brought up. Obama may have been born in Hawaii, but he is “Midwestern Nice,” which comes from his grandparents and their Kansas roots. He engendered loyalty to him and our cause by being loyal to his team. There were many times in the campaign where people, including some of our top donors, wanted the lot of us fired and replaced by people with more “DC experience,” and every time, Obama stood by his team. We didn’t know if we were going to win or lose, but we were going to do it together. If the person at the top of any organization does not reflect the values you want in the culture of that organization, it won’t work.

Bird.” “Yeah?” He arches a brow and gives me this insanely sexy, chill-inducing look that has me locked in. “Next time you stay this late, the guys and I already discussed it… you’re ours for the entire night. It won’t be up for debate.

As I walked away, I heard the girl ask, “Is she your girlfriend?” I whirled around, and we both said “No!” at the same time. Confused, she said, “Well, is she your little sister?” like I wasn’t standing right there. Her perfume was heavy. It felt like it filled all the air around us, like we were breathing her in. “No, I’m not his little sister.” I hated this girl for being a witness to all this. It was humiliating. And she was pretty, in the same kind of way Taylor was pretty, which somehow made things worse. Conrad said, “Her mom is best friends with my mom.” So that was all I was to him? His mom’s friend’s daughter? I took a deep breath, and without even thinking, I said to the girl, “I’ve known Conrad my whole life. So let me be the one to tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree. Conrad will never love anyone as much as he loves himself, if you know what I mean-“ I lifted up my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Shut up, Belly,” Conrad warned. The tops of his ears were turning bright red. It was a low blow, but I didn’t care. He deserved it. Red Sox girl frowned. “What is she talking about, Conrad?” To her I blurted out, “Oh, I’m sorry, do you not know what the idiom ‘barking up the wrong tree’ means?” Her pretty face twisted. “You little skank,” she hissed. I could feel myself shrinking. I wished I could take it back. I’d never gotten into a fight with a girl before, or with anyone for that matter. Thankfully, Conrad broke in then and pointed to the bonfire. “Belly, go back over there, and wait for me to come get you,” he said harshly. That’s when Jeremiah ambled over. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?” he asked, smiling in his easy, goofy way. “Your brother is a jerk,” I said. “That’s what’s going on.” Jeremiah put his arm around me. He smelled like beer. “You guys play nice, you hear?” I shrugged out of his hold and said, “I am playing nice. Tell your brother to play nice.” “Wait, are you guys brother and sister too?” the girl asked. Conrad said, “Don’t even think about leaving with that guy.” “Con, chill out,” Jeremiah said. “She’s not leaving. Right, Belly?” He looked at me, and I pursed my lips and nodded. Then I gave Conrad the dirtiest look I could muster, and I shot one at the girl, too, when I was far enough away that she wouldn’t be able to reach out and grab me by the hair.

It starts before you can remember: you learn, as surely as you learn to walk and talk, the rules for being a girl... Put a little color on your face. Shave your legs. Don’t wear too much makeup. Don’t wear short skirts. Don’t distract the boys by wearing bodysuits or spaghetti straps or knee socks. Don’t distract the boys by having a body. Don’t distract the boys. Don’t be one of those girls who can’t eat pizza. You’re getting the milk shake too? Whoa. Have you gained weight? Don’t get so skinny your curves disappear. Don’t get so curvy you aren’t skinny. Don’t take up too much space. It’s just about your health. Be funny, but don’t hog the spotlight. Be smart, but you have a lot to learn. Don’t be a doormat, but God, don’t be bossy. Be chill. Be easygoing. Act like one of the guys. Don’t actually act like one of the guys. Be a feminist. Support the sisterhood. Wait, are you, like, gay? Maybe kiss a girl if he’s watching though—that’s hot. Put on a show. Don’t even think about putting on a show, that’s nasty. Don’t be easy. Don’t give it up. Don’t be a prude. Don’t be cold. Don’t put him in the friend zone. Don’t act desperate. Don’t let things go too far. Don’t give him the wrong idea. Don’t blame him for trying. Don’t walk alone at night. But calm down! Don’t worry so much. Smile! Remember, girl: It’s the best time in the history of the world to be you. You can do anything! You can do everything! You can be whatever you want to be! Just as long as you follow the rules.

The unemployment rate for young black men post-apartheid shot up, sometimes as high as 50 percent. What happens to a lot of guys is they finish high school and they can’t afford university, and even little retail jobs can be hard to come by when you’re from the hood and you look and talk a certain way. So, for many young men in South Africa’s townships, freedom looks like this: Every morning they wake up, maybe their parents go to work or maybe not. Then they go outside and chill on the corner the whole day, talking shit. They’re free, they’ve been taught how to fish, but no one will give them a fishing rod.

There’s a certain worth that can only be given to us by God. You see, if you think about it, worth has nothing to do with the object. Worth has everything to do with how much someone is willing to pay for the object. God paid for each and every one of us with His son’s life. That gives me chills. That makes us worth a lot.

A door behind the desk opened, and a short, wiry man entered. His short-sleeved dress shirt was shiny and unbuttoned down to the navel, revealing a host of gold chains and, uh, bling. His arms were knotted, ropy muscle. Have you ever seen someone who gave you the chills just by entering a room? This guy had that. Even the big bouncer, who had to be a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the short guy, took half a step back. A hush fell over us. The short, wiry man had the narrow face of a ferret and what I can only describe as psycho eyes. I know that you are not supposed to judge people by their looks, but a blind man would be able to see that this guy was serious bad news. “Hello

Another by-the-way she told me was her real name. Agnes. Some kids in first grade turned it around to tease her, and to shut them up she said she liked Angus better. Then decided she really did. Likewise, her daddy used to take her to every practice and game, sitting her up on his shoulders. Coach’s girl, in her tiny Generals jersey some lady made for her, riding high for all to see. Then in fifth grade he stopped letting her come to practices because it was no place for a young lady. She said fine, she hated football. Then decided she really did. And that’s the story on a motherless girl named Angus. Unbeatable. Coach was a big guy with big hands holding the world by its neck, with every game a win or else the world ends. Storm in a shot glass type of thing. And Angus was the opposite. A whole ocean, dark and chill.

A door behind the desk opened, and a short, wiry man entered. His short-sleeved dress shirt was shiny and unbuttoned down to the navel, revealing a host of gold chains and, uh, bling. His arms were knotted, ropy muscle. Have you ever seen someone who gave you the chills just by entering a room? This guy had that. Even the big bouncer, who had to be a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the short guy, took half a step back. A hush fell over us. The

Reggie, you’re hurting me.” His face is purpling with anger. “Don’t be a bitch. I invited you out, and I’m a cool guy, so you really need to just stop being so difficult and come where I tell you to—” This time, it’s Reggie’s voice that dies suddenly. Because another hand has joined the fray. A very big, very strong, very unfamiliar hand. It latches onto Reggie’s wrist and peels his fingers off of me one by one with terrifying strength. A voice accompanies it, deep and chilling. “She told you no.

I threw my binder of materials down on our apartment’s floral couch. “Seriously, pink is a neutral color! And what’s elegant about navy blue? No one ever says, ‘Hey, you know what’s elegant? The Navy!’” Arianna rolled her dead guys. “There is nothing neutral about pink. They need a color that looks good as a background to any shade of dress.” “What color clashes with pink?” “Orange?” “Well, if anyone shows up in an orange dress, she deserves to clash. Yuck.” “Chill out. You can do a lot with navy.” I sank down into the couch next to her. “I guess. I could do navy with silver accents. Stars?” “Yawn.” “Snowflakes?” “Gee, now you’re getting creative for a winter formal.” I ignored her tone, as usual. I was just glad she was here. She’d been gone a lot lately. “Hmm . . . maybe something softer. Like a water and mist theme?” I asked. “I . . . actually kind of like that.” “Wanna help me with the sketches?” She leaned forward and turned on Easton Heights. “Decorating a stupid dance is all yours. You’re the one who decided to be more involved in your ‘normal life.’ I’d prefer to be sleeping six feet under.” “This is probably a bad time to mention I also might have signed up to help with costumes for the spring play. And since I know nothing about sewing, I kind of maybe signed you up as a volunteer aide.” She sighed, running one glamoured corpse hand through her spiky red and black hair. “I am going to kill you in your sleep.” “As long as it doesn’t hurt.” We hummed along to the opening theme, which ended when the door banged open and my boyfriend walked through, shrugging out of his coat and beaming as he dropped a duffel bag. “Free! What did I miss?” Lend asked, his cheeks rosy from the cold and his smile lighting up his watery eyes beneath his dark glamour ones. “I lost the vote on color schemes for the dance, the last episode of Easton Heights before they go into reruns is back on in three minutes, and Arianna is going to murder me in my sleep.” “As long as it doesn’t hurt.” “That’s what I said!

I do love Oregon." My gaze wanders over the quiet, natural beauty surrounding us, which isn't limited to just this garden. "Being near the river, and the ocean, and the rocky mountains, and all this nature ... the weather." He chuckles. "I've never met anyone who actually loves rain. It's kind of weird. But cool, too," he adds quickly, as if afraid to offend me. "I just don't get it." I shrug. "It's not so much that I love rain. I just have a healthy respect for what if does. People hate it, but the world needs rain. It washes away dirt, dilutes the toxins in the air, feeds drought. It keeps everything around us alive." "Well, I have a healthy respect for what the sun does," he counters with a smile." "I'd rather have the sun after a good, hard rainfall." He just shakes his head at me but he's smiling. "The good with the bad?" "Isn't that life?" He frowns. "Why do I sense a metaphor behind that?" "Maybe there is a metaphor behind that." One I can't very well explain to him without describing the kinds of things I see every day in my life. The underbelly of society - where twisted morals reign and predators lurk, preying on the lost, the broken, the weak, the innocent. Where a thirteen-year-old sells her body rather than live under the same roof as her abusive parents, where punks gang-rape a drunk girl and then post pictures of it all over the internet so the world can relive it with her. Where a junkie mom's drug addiction is readily fed while her children sit back and watch. Where a father is murdered bacause he made the mistake of wanting a van for his family. In that world, it seems like it's raining all the time. A cold, hard rain that seeps into clothes, chills bones, and makes people feel utterly wretched. Many times, I see people on the worst day of their lives, when they feel like they're drowing. I don't enjoy seeing people suffer. I just know that if they make good choices, and accept the right help, they'll come out of it all the stronger for it. What I do enjoy comes after. Three months later, when I see that thirteen-year-old former prostitute pushing a mower across the front lawn of her foster home, a quiet smile on her face. Eight months later, when I see the girl who was raped walking home from school with a guy who wants nothing from her but to make her laugh. Two years later, when I see the junkie mom clean and sober and loading a shopping cart for the kids that the State finally gave back to her. Those people have seen the sun again after the harshest rain, and they appreciate it so much more.

I use my mom’s shampoo sometimes,” I blurt out. “I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s lady shampoo. But it smells better than mine, and I think my hair might like it better, and – but that doesn’t change the fact that that stuff, that’s for chicks. And, that, that’s probably gay, isn’t it? Like, at least a little.” “I don’t know whether—” “And I cried once listening to ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay. I don’t know, I was in sort of a lousy mood anyway, but it’s not like that excuses that stuff. Like, that was gay, wasn’t it? Guys don’t just sit around and cry over Coldplay.” “Howie—” “And I loved Mamma Mia. Like, loved it. Amber made me watch it with her on TV once, and I didn’t want to, and she wound up thinking it was this sentimental piece of crap, but I loved it. It was all sunny and happy and there was all that blue sky and blue ocean, and everyone was just, like, so chill, all bouncing and singing and being so happy, and I just wanted to, I don’t know, live there or something. Jump right into the screen and sing backup to Dancing Queen. That’s gay, right? That’s queeriest queerdom. There’s no way that’s not totally gay. It’s gay. It’s so gay. I’m … I …” “If I may,” Arthur says. I take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay.” “I don’t like any of those things,” Arthur says, “and I am gay. So maybe you’re just girly.” That? That’s his answer? “I’m not girly,” I say, affronted. “Just an observation,” Arthur replies innocently. “You didn’t like Mamma Mia?” I ask, feeling like I just got kicked. “I’m not even really sure what it is,” Arthur replies, frowning thoughtfully. Useless bastard.

Whoa, whoa, calm down, everyone!” I said. “Lemme try to talk to them and see what’s up?” “What’s up? Don’t you see what’s up?” said Devlin. “They’re about to fire on us!” “But they haven’t yet. Just chill and let me salvage this.” I stepped out in front of Devlin’s shield. “I said do not take one step further!” yelled the announcer. “Hey, hey, remember me?” I said. “It’s Steve.” “You! What’s the meaning of this?!” “Of what?” “This army! Why did you bring an army to our doorstep?!” yelled the announcer. “Uh, I’m here on business. Is the Skeleton King in? Can I speak to him?” I asked. “I speak for our king! Now tell me what’s the meaning of this army?! Is it war you want?!” “What?! No, no, not at all! I’m telling you, we’re here on business!” “What kind of business?! The hostile takeover business?!” “No, no, you got it all wrong!” “We were kind to your people. We took you in and this is how you repay us? With a hostile takeover?!” “No! I’m serious! We’re not here to overthrow you!” “Why else would you bring such a huge army?!” “They’re here for another fight!” “Yeah, right! You mean the fight that’s going to start right after we let you past our walls?!” “What?! No!” Then the announcer turned around and said, “Bring out the golem!” “The golem? Is he talking about Bob?” I said to Devlin. “Probably,” replied the paladin. Then Alex came up to me. “Steve, you need to deescalate this situation quickly before it gets out of hand.” I nodded. “You’re right, yeah.” Some skeleton guards brought out Bob to the front of the wall. He was all chained up. “Bob!” I yelled at the sight of my friend in bindings. “Steve! What’s going on?!” said Bob. “They think we’re here to fight them,” I said. “Now tell us the truth or we’ll beat this golem!” said the announcer. Bob chuckled. “Beat me? It’s not like you guys could hurt me.” “Bob, be quiet!” I yelled. “You’re not helping. Just let me deal with them.” “Quit your stalling and start explaining!” yelled the announcer.  “Dude! We’re not here to fight. We’re not here to take over your home. I’m telling you the truth! This is a huge misunderstanding,” I explained.  “Bring out the girl!” yelled the announcer. “The girl? Is he talking about Emily?” I said softly. “She’ll make him speak the truth!” Some skeleton guards dragged out Emily. She was kicking and screaming all over the place. Her arms were also tied behind her back like Bob’s. “Unhand me, you stupid skeletons!” yelled Emily. “Emily!” I yelled. “Steve!” “Let her go!” “Tell me the truth, or else she’s going to get it!” yelled the announcer as he drew out a stone sword and pointed it at Emily’s throat.

I'm too young to be anything. I'm just a guy figuring stuff out, and when I've lived enough, I can decide what I believe... I follow the Golden Rule. I am a nice guy. I don't do shitty things to people. I keep it chill. And I am not in a rush to pick a God for the rest of my life. Who knows how long we will live? Just think about it. When we were born, there was no Internet. Now we can't do anything without it. Maybe tomorrow or twenty years from now, half of us will be living on Mars, and then what is God? All I am saying is no one know's about tomorrow's gods. Not me. Not you. None of us. And I choose not to go backwards, forget the old gods, let's wait and see what comes next.

I’d never seen a Christmas tree so big in person. “Isn't she beautiful?” Deidra asked when she reached my side. I’d been so busy gawking I hadn't heard her approach. “It’s huge.” Again with the stating the obvious. “Where’d you get it?” “Gregory grows them at the edge of the property.” Sure, because getting a tree that big so far from the city was completely ludicrous. No wonder the entire house smelled of pine. “How’d you get it in here?” “Do you really want to know or do you want to help decorate it?” Deidra picked up my bags of presents and brought them toward the monster tree. They’d already wrapped it with white twinkle lights. “I think I saw a squirrel in there,” I teased, finally able to move. The closer I got the bigger the tree seemed.“Really?” one of the guys said, stopping mid-chorus while the others continued. A lock of gray hair fell over his forehead when he scanned the tree. “I could have sworn we’d checked to make sure none of the tenants were left over.” I chuckled at his consternation. “Chill. I didn't really see one.” Placing his hand at the center of his chest, he breathed a sigh of relief. Afterwards he rounded the tree, making sure the squirrel I’d joked about wasn't really there. Mental note:don’t tease the servants. They were way too dedicated.

Well, how come you didn’t just have Carl drop you off there?” I asked. Mike didn’t always take the most reasonable course. “Because I t-t-t-told him my sister would be glad to take me!” Mike replied. Mike liked to sign me up for things without my consent. I wasn’t budging, though; I wasn’t going to let Mike bully me. “Well, Mike,” I said, “I’ll take you to the mall in a little bit, but I’ve got to finish getting dressed. So just chill out, dude!” I loved telling Mike to chill out. Marlboro Man had been watching the whole exchange, clearly amused by the Ping-Pong match between Mike and me. He’d met Mike several times before; he “got” what Mike was about. And though he hadn’t quite figured out all the ins and outs of negotiating him, he seemed to enjoy his company. Suddenly, Mike turned to Marlboro Man and put his hand on his shoulder. “C-c-c-can you please take me to the mall?” Still grinning, Marlboro Man looked at me and nodded. “Sure, I’ll take you, Mike.” Mike was apoplectic. “Oh my gosh!” he said. “You will? R-r-r-really?” And with that he grabbed Marlboro Man in another warm embrace. “Okeydoke, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, breaking loose of Mike’s arms and shaking his hand instead. “One hug a day is enough for guys.” “Oh, okay,” Mike said, shaking Marlboro Man’s hand, apparently appreciating the tip. “I get it now.” “No, no, no! You don’t need to take him,” I intervened. “Mike, just hold your horses--I’ll be ready in a little bit!” But Marlboro Man continued. “I’ve gotta get back to the ranch anyway,” he said. “I don’t mind dropping him off.” “Yeah, Ree!” Mike said belligerently. He stood beside Marlboro Man in solidarity, as if he’d won some great battle. “M-m-m-mind your own beeswax!” I gave Mike the evil eye as the three of us walked downstairs to the front door. “Are we gonna take your white pickup?” Mike asked. He was about to burst with excitement. “Yep, Mike,” Marlboro Man answered. “Wanna go start it?” He dangled the keys in front of Mike’s face. “What?” Mike said, not even giving Marlboro Man a chance to answer. He snatched the keys from his hand and ran to the pickup, leaving Marlboro Man and me alone on our old familiar front step. “Well, uh,” I said playfully. “Thanks for taking my brother to the mall.” Mike fired up the diesel engine. “No problem,” Marlboro Man said, leaning in for a kiss. “I’ll see you tonight.” We had a standing date. “See you then.” Mike laid on the horn. Marlboro Man headed toward his pickup, then stopped midway and turned toward me once again. “Oh, hey--by the way,” he said, walking back toward the front step. “You wanna get married?” His hand reached into the pocket of his Wranglers. My heart skipped a beat.

I don’t know what to say.” My voice was raspy. “You don’t have to say anything. The medics already cleaned and took care of these.” “No,” I said, still holding on to his hand. “I don’t know how to thank you for saving my life. Again.” “Stop thanking me,” he ground out. “I have to,” I said, looking straight into his eyes. “If you hadn’t been there…” My sentence trailed away. We both knew what would’ve happened. “But I was,” he said softly. “About that…” I began, wetting my lips. “Why were you there?” “I needed to talk to you about something.” “What?” He withdrew his hand, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a folded piece of paper. “About this.” It was a plain white piece of paper, the kind that anyone would use in a printer. I unfolded it, noticing there was some kind of writing on the inside. When I got to the last fold, I glanced up at Holt who was wearing a very grim expression. Clearly, whatever this was wasn’t good. I pulled it open and stared down, my brain not really comprehending what it saw. I had to read the line over three times before I really got what it was saying. My stomach clenched. My hands trembled slightly. You should have let her die. “Where did you get this?” I finally asked. “It was on my truck when I left work earlier tonight.” The paper fluttered to the floor slowly, joining the towel by my feet. “So you got this before the fire tonight?” “Yes. It’s the reason I came looking for you.” “You didn’t say that.” “I figured you were dealing with enough at the moment.” “Did you tell the police?” He shook his head slowly. “But why?” “I wanted to talk to you first. See if you knew what it meant.” “It means someone wants me dead!” I shouted. My voice seemed to echo through the hallway. “You’re not going to die,” he growled. “I shouldn’t have come here,” I said, looking frantically around. “I need to go.” I spun around to rush into the living room, but the towel was tangled around my feet and I tripped, falling toward the floor. Holt caught me around the waist, pulling me back so I was up against the solid wall of his body. The heat of him was delicious and it radiated around my fear-chilled body. “You’re not going anywhere,” he rumbled in my ear. I struggled against him, but it was stupid. He outweighed me by a hundred pounds, easily, and was likely a foot taller than me. If he didn’t want to let me go, then I was pretty much stuck in his embrace. I slumped against him. “I’m putting you in danger by being here.” “You’re in more danger when I’m not around.” I couldn’t stop my snort. “There goes that ego of yours again.” His chuckle vibrated my ear. Chill bumps raced over my scalp. “All I’m saying is that clearly this guy is a pyro. My job is fire. You’re better off here than alone.” “But what about you?” “You let me worry about me.” I tried to wiggle out of his embrace so I could look at him. He only loosened his hold enough to allow me to spin in his arms. I had to tip my head back so I could stare up at him. “Do you have a death wish?” “I’m not going to die. Especially since life just got a hell of a lot more interesting.” His fingers flexed against my hip.

So now what do I do? Do I just approach and start slamming my palms on the window, demanding answers? That seemed somewhat logical. It also seemed kind of stupid. Do I sit here and wait? For how long? And what if the car drives off? Then what? I was still hunched behind the bush, trying to decide what to do, when the decision was made for me. The front passenger door opened and the bald guy stepped out. He still wore the dark suit, and despite the hour, he even had the sunglasses on. For a moment the man stood perfectly still, his back to the bush. Then he slowly turned his head and said, “Mickey.” Gulp. I had no idea how he had seen me, but it didn’t matter now. I stood up. He stared at me from behind those sunglasses, and in spite of the heat, I swear I felt a chill. “You have questions,” the bald man said to me. He spoke with one of those exaggerated British accents that almost sound phony. Like he’d gone to some fancy prep school and wanted to make sure you knew it. “But you’re not yet ready for the answers.” “What does that mean?” “It means,” he said, still with that accent, “just what it sounds like.” I frowned. “It sounds like something you’d read on a bad fortune cookie.” There was the hint of a smile on the bald man’s face. “Don’t tell anyone about us.” “Like who?” “Like anyone. Like your uncle.” “Myron? What would I tell him anyway? I don’t know anything. Who exactly are you? Or, as you put it, us?” “You’ll know,” he said, “when the time is right.” “And when will that be?” The man slid back into the car. He never seemed to hurry, but every moment was almost supernaturally fast and fluid. “Wait!” I shouted. I moved quickly, trying to reach the car door before it closed. “What were you doing in that house? Who are you?” But it was too late. He slammed the door shut. The car started up. Now, as I semi-planned earlier, I slapped the tinted windows with my palm. “Stop!” The

I had always felt that trust was the bedrock of any partnership, especially a business one. My associate and I had what I thought was a non-shakeable alliance. We would strategize; we would go to conferences about crypto and toast our wins with a glass of liquor. He was the only person I had trusted with my financial insight. Unfortunately, he was also the last person I should have trusted. WhatsApp info:+12723 328 343 I woke up one morning to the stuff of nightmares: I had absolutely no access to my Bitcoin wallet, holding $290,000. My password didn't work, my backup keys were useless, and my hardware wallet? Completely wiped. Panic set in as I tried to work out what was going on. Then, a chilling realization hit me. Only a week before, my ever-so-helpful colleague had made an offer to "optimize" my wallet security. I thought at that time, Wow, what a great guy. Well, it turns out he was great-at deception. The real gut punch? He had the audacity to sit across from me at work the next day, sipping coffee like nothing had happened. I confronted him, expecting some elaborate excuse, but he played dumb-so dumb it was insulting. That's when I knew what I needed were professionals, not empty denials. After hours of frantic research, I came across ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST. Their reputation in high-stakes crypto theft gave me hope. From the first conversation, they took my case seriously, breaking down the recovery process in a way that finally made sense. Their forensic team got to work tracking the stolen funds across multiple wallets. A few tense days later, I got the call: my money was back. Every single dollar. It turned out that my trusted colleague had tried to launder the funds through multiple transactions, but ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST untangled his mess with ease. The feeling of relief was overwhelming; I had prepared myself for the worst, yet I walked away victorious. My colleague probably had a pretty good inkling, because he quit before I could file any report. Typical. Some people just love to disappear rather than confront the music. Email info: Adware recovery specialist (@) auctioneer.net I emerged from that fiasco with my money still in one piece, and more painfully but preciously, with the lesson not to confuse control for kindness: you earn trust; you don't give it away freely-especially where money intervenes.

His shining skin drew my attention and I became enslaved to the need to explore every inch of his flesh. His body brought on an ache in me I hadn't known for a long time. Since my ex had dumped me after I'd given him my virginity, I hadn't done more than fool around with guys. The desire to go further had never really risen again. Not until Orion. And I had never, in all my life, wanted anyone like I wanted him. His beard had been trimmed even shorter for the party, revealing the powerful cut of his jaw and that divine dimple in his cheek. He'd brought me here, alone, cordoning me off from the world. And the blazing intensity in his gaze made me hope that maybe he was about to drop the teacher act for one night and admit he was drawn to me too. He glanced above us and his brow furrowed heavily. “Up there are a thousand reasons why we can't be together.” I swallowed thickly, goosebumps rushing along my skin in response to his words. I pressed my back to the cool tiles of the pool and the goosebumps spread deeper, evoking a shiver across my body. “I'm bound by so many rules I could waste the rest of your evening telling you them,” he said. “Skip them then, sir.” A smile played around my mouth as a thrill danced in my chest. He moved closer and rested his hands either side of me on the wall. “I think the time for sirs and professors is over, don't you?” No answer came from my lips, but my body gave it to him as I reached out and did the one thing I'd dreamed about the most since this all-consuming crush had first started. I brushed my fingers across the stubble on his jaw, resting my thumb over the dimple in his cheek, feeling the tiny rivet in his skin. The distance parting us suddenly felt like too much; the air was racing over my exposed flesh, chilling me to the core. I needed the heat of his hands, the red hot press of his stomach and chest. “Lance,” I breathed and his pupils dilated as I met his gaze. He devoured the space between us and I experienced pure sin as his mouth crushed against mine. It was gunpowder meeting fire and the result was an all-consuming blaze which burned me up from the inside out. A desperate noise escaped me that would have made me blush if I’d had any scrap of self-awareness left. But that was all it took for him to slam into me full force, hitching my legs up around his waist so fast it made my head spin. My hands finally got their deepest wish and roamed down the plains of all that gloriously golden skin. But it wasn't enough just to feel the flex of his muscles, I needed more and I took it by scratching against his beautiful shell, wanting to break beneath flesh and bone and burrow my way deeper. I need more. (Darcy)

Davy, ever the daring one, bought a jumbo peppermint milk shake and got fifty cents back. He talked me out of getting plain vanilla. “You can get plain vanilla anytime!” he said. “Try…” He scanned the chalkboard that listed all the flavors. “Try peanut butter!” I did. I have never been sorry, because it was the best milk shake I ever tasted, like a melted and frozen Reese’s cup. And then it happened. We were walking across the parking lot, under the burning sun, with our shakes freezing our hands in the big white paper cups that had Spinnin’ Wheel in red across the sides. A sound began: music, first from a few car radios and then others as teenaged fingers turned the dial to that station. The volume dials were cranked up, and the music flooded out from the tinny speakers into the bright summer air. In a few seconds the same song was being played from every radio on the lot, and as it played, some of the car engines started and revved up and young laughter flew like sparks. I stopped. Just couldn’t walk anymore. That music was unlike anything I’d ever heard: guys’ voices, intertwining, breaking apart, merging again in fantastic, otherworldly harmony. The voices soared up and up like happy birds, and underneath the harmony was a driving drumbeat and a twanging, gritty guitar that made cold chills skitter up and down my sunburned back. “What’s that, Davy?” I said. “What’s that song?” …Round…round…get around…wha wha wha-oooooo… “What’s that song?” I asked him, close to panic that I might never know. “Haven’t you heard that yet? All the high-school guys are singin’ it.” …Gettin’ bugged drivin’ up and down the same ol’ strip…I gotta find a new place where the kids are hip… “What’s the name of it?” I demanded, standing at the center of ecstasy. “It’s on the radio all the time. It’s called—” Right then the high-school kids in the lot started singing along with the music, some of them rocking their cars back and forth, and I stood with a peanut butter milk shake in my hand and the sun on my face and the clean chlorine smell of the swimming pool coming to me from across the street. “—by the Beach Boys,” Davy Ray finished. “What?” “The Beach Boys. That’s who’s singin’ it.” “Man!” I said. “That sounds…that sounds…” What would describe it? What word in the English language would speak of youth and hope and freedom and desire, of sweet wanderlust and burning blood? What word describes the brotherhood of buddies, and the feeling that as long as the music plays, you are part of that tough, rambling breed who will inherit the earth? “Cool,” Davy Ray supplied. It would have to do. …Yeah the bad guys know us and they leave us alone…I get arounnnnddddd… I was amazed. I was transported. Those soaring voices lifted me off the hot pavement, and I flew with them to a land unknown. I had never been to the beach before. I’d never seen the ocean, except for pictures in magazines and on TV and movies. The Beach Boys. Those harmonies thrilled my soul, and for a moment I wore a letter jacket and owned a red hotrod and had beautiful blondes begging for my attention and I got around.

Everyone laughs at one's own jokes. To be able to appreciate another's reveals who you really are - a chilled out guy, or just a stuck-up joke.

THE GREAT DEATH I stood at the back of the funeral room. Very still. Black dress. Black coat. It’s cold. Purposely alone. Ears closed. Not wanting to hear the tirade of sweet lies. Did they not know you were already dead? I think they did. They walk with the dignity of a funeral crowd into the tea room. I can see them chatting happily through the window. “What a fantastic guy he was. Cheese or meat sandwich?” I sit outside, next to you. No one can see. No one bothers to look. Sinking to fresh earth, I ask you why you did that to yourself. Why did you cling to that which fed you a slow poison? Why did you betray that which was guard to your soul? There is no reply. The words get taken by the chill wind. You cry in your sleep. The tears never see the light of day. The sadness is not this death. You are not even dead. You are just over there. The sadness is the other death – the death that doesn’t end. The one that follows behind, ever present with its grey, hollow touch. Walk a bit further. There is a different land not far away. The people in it have the magic to break the icy fingers of the great death. I heard that you don’t even have to pay. However, you have to find their door. It is only found by those who pay the other price.

Sinclair Crowe, necromancer, owner of Zombie Donuts and all-around amazing guy, would propose. To me.

Babe, chill. Operation Bag Nate isn’t a bust yet.” She takes a chug of her drink. “Black guys always leave their girlfriends for white girls when they go pro. He’s probably only with her because she’s easy. Look at her. She’s practically jerking your dad off.

Starlight flared from Theia as she snatched the sword and knife out of the air, the blades glowing with their own starlight. My mother returned that day with only Pelias and my father’s blades. As she had helped Make them, they answered to the call in her blood. To her very power. Bryce knew that call. Had been hearing it since she arrived in this world. A chill rippled down her spine. And then she took the Trove for herself. Theia sat, enthroned, the Harp and Horn beside her, the Mask in her lap, and the Crown atop her head. Unchecked, limitless power sat upon that throne. Bryce could barely get a breath down. The Theia who Aidas had spoken so highly of … she was a murdering tyrant? As if in answer, Silene said, Our people bowed—what other option did they have in the face of such power? And for a short span, she ruled. I cannot say whether the years were kind to my people—but there was no war. At least there was that. “Yeah,” Bryce seethed, more to Silene than the others, “at least you guys had that.

Coach was a big guy with big hands holding the world by its neck, with every game a win or else the world ends. Storm in a shot glass type of thing. And Angus was the opposite. A whole ocean, dark and chill.

of all is Felix Rivera … a brown-haired guy with a face so sharply cut and intense sanpaku hazel eyes so deeply sunken in that it does honor to his society’s name. Not a pretty boy, but a chilling boy.

Hayder growled. “Don’t be afraid.” “I’m not,” she lied. “Those guys won’t get close to you again. I’m sorry. I fucked up earlier. It won’t happen again.” “You’re apologizing?” Her mouth rounded into an O, and that easily, all her fear melted. How could she ever think Hayder would hurt her? He wasn’t Harry. He wasn’t like the men in her old pack. “You’re not the one who has to apologize. I am. For a moment, I forgot what you’d shown me so far and lumped you in with the jerks from my pack.” His lips tightened. “Don’t ever compare me to them. I am nothing like those honorless curs.” “I know, which is why I apologized. Next time you look that pissy, I’ll tell you to chill.” “Pissy? I was raging. Incensed. Nothing so emasculating as pissy.” “You are a very strange man, Hayder.” “It’s called fascinating, baby. Just think of all the cool levels of me you still get to learn about.” “I don’t suppose there is a modesty one in there somewhere?” She couldn’t help but tease, especially since his answering grin sent such a warm feeling through her. “Honesty is one of my virtues. No point in hiding the truth. I am awesome.

Simon kissed me and I just stood there like someone had cut the cord between my brain and my muscles. Finally, the connection caught and I did kiss him, but awkwardly, some part of me still holding back, my gut twisting, like I was doing something wrong, making a huge mistake, and— Simon stopped. For a moment, he hovered there, face above mine, until I had to look away. "Wrong guy, huh? he said, his voice so soft I barely caught it. "Wh-what?" He eased back, and his eyes went blank, unreadable. "There's someone else," he said. Not a question. A statement. "S-someone...? A boyfriend, you mean? From before? No. Never. I wouldn't—" "Go out with me if there was. I know." He took another step back, the heat of his body fading, the chill of night air moving in. "I don't mean a guy from before, Chloe. I mean one from now." I stared at him. Now? Who else...? There was only one other guy— "D-Derek? Y-you think—" I couldn't finish. I wanted to laugh. You think I like Derek? Are you kidding? But the laugh wouldn't come, just this thundering in my ears, breath catching like I'd been smacked in the chest. "Derek and I aren't—" "No, not yet. I know." "I—I don't—" Just say it. Please let me say it. "I don't like Derek." But I didn't. Couldn't.

Wrath bared his fangs. “John, as God is my fucking witness, I will cut you if you don’t—” “Easy, there, big guy,” V gritted out. “I’m going to translate. You want to hit the library where we can—” “No, I want to fucking know where my shellan is!” Wrath boomed. John started signing, and whereas most of the time people translated half sentences sequentially, V waited until he’d finished the whole report. A couple of the Brothers muttered in the background as they shook their heads. “In the library,” V ordered the King in a way John never could have. “You’re gonna wanna do this in the library.” Wrong thing to say. Wrath wheeled on the Brother and went for him with such speed and accuracy no one was prepared: One minute V was standing next to the King; the next he was defending himself against an attack that was as unprovoked as it was . . . well, vicious. And then things went shit-wild. Like Wrath knew he was on the thin edge of a bad ledge, he broke off from V, and went total wrecking ball on the billiards room. The first thing he ran into was the pool table Butch was chilling next to—and there was barely any time for the cop to get that ashtray up off the side rails: Wrath grabbed the gunnels and flipped the thing like it was nothing but a card table, the mahogany and slate-topped behemoth flying up so high, it wiped out the hanging light fixture above, its weight so great it splintered the marble floor beneath on landing. Without missing a breath, the King EF5’d into his next victim . . . the heavy leather sofa that Rhage had just leaped up off. Talk about your couch-icopters. The entire thing came at John at about five feet off the floor, the pair of ends trading places as it spun around and around, cushions flying in all directions. He didn’t take it personally—especially as its mate do-si-doed with the bar, smashing the top-shelf bottles, liquor splashing all over the walls, the floor, the fire that was crackling in the hearth. Wrath wasn’t finished. The King picked up a side table, hauled it overhead, and pitched it in the direction of the TV. It missed the plasma screen, but managed to shatter an old-fashioned mirror—although the Sony didn’t last. The coffee table that had been in between the two sofas did that deed, killing the muted image of the two Boston guys and the old man from Southie with the baseball bat shilling for DirectTV. The Brothers just let Wrath go. It wasn’t that they were afraid of getting hurt. Hell, Rhage stepped in and caught the first couch before it tore a hunk off of the archway’s molding. They just weren’t stupid. Wrath - Beth x Overnight = Psycho-hose Beast

That’s so sweet.” “So says the romance novel reader.” “You have something against romance, Callahan?” “Not at all. I have something against schmaltz.” “Schmaltz! That wasn’t schmaltz.” “Darlin’, that picnic was the epitome of schmaltz.” “All right then, Casanova. What should Harry have done to romance his lady?” Gabe stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. He linked his hands behind his head and considered the question. “The bouquet was way overdone. A single rose would be okay, or even better, whatever flower she considered her favorite. Hiring a violinist to ride behind the courting buggy ruined the whole thing.” “Now, why would you say that? It’s terribly romantic.” “You like threesomes, do you?” “What? No!” Gabe chuckled and continued, “A mountain meadow picnic was good, but a linen-draped table? Fine china? Roast duckling? No. Way too formal. Too stuffy. All you need for a romantic mountain meadow picnic is a quilt to spread on the grass and a picnic basket with finger foods. The champagne was a good idea, but it’d have been better if he’d put it to chill in the creek.” “That’s a good idea,” Nic agreed. “What about the poetry and the dancing?” “Depends on the woman, of course. If she’s into that, then yeah. Nothing’s wrong with poetry or dancing.” “What do you do for music if you’ve left the violinist back in town?” “If a guy can carry a tune at all, he can sing softly, or hum. You can dance to birdsong or music in your mind, as far as that goes.” She let that sit a minute, then said, “That’s not bad, Callahan. Not bad at all.” He

Rubbing her forehead Cat forced back a yawn, suddenly struck by tiredness. She’d been here twenty-four seven for the past couple days. “Why don’t you go back to your hotel and chill for a while?” Cat looked at him in surprise. Even unsighted he had the sharpest senses she’d ever seen. “I think I may. I’ll be back in the morning.” Then came the awkward point when she didn’t know how to say goodbye. Did she kiss him? Squeeze his hand? Fuck it. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to a clear spot on his cheek. “If you need anything the nurses have my number.” He nodded and clutched her hand. For a moment it felt like he wasn’t going to let her go, then, abruptly, he did. “I’ll be fine.” And she knew he would be. It was just so natural for her to worry about him. “I’ll stick around for a few hours.” Cat gave Duncan an appreciative look. “Thank you. I thought you might.” Chad stepped forward to take her hand. “I have to go back to Denver for a while, but I’ll be back in a few days if he’s still here.” “You people are talking about me as if I’m not even here. I don’t need babysitters.” Cat shared a wince with the other men. “Quit it,” Harper snapped. Cat laughed and turned to leave the room. “I’ll be back tomorrow, big guy.” Harper mumbled a goodbye. She

He dialed the number. It was picked up on the third ring. “Good afternoon, Mr. Goldberg!” Reason one for his hesitation: The guy’s voice gave him the heebie-jeebies. The man—he sounded really young—was unfailingly polite and spoke in exclamation points, as though he were trying out for an old-time musical. The sound chilled Goldberg. But there was more to it than that. There

Are you crazy?" "Good grief. I can't be stuck here with that crazy guy." - from CHILLS On the Appalachian Trail

The concierge was about 5’7” tall, blond hair, slightly balding, steely blue eyes, steel rimmed glasses, mid-forties and totally devoid of any apparent sense of humor.  If this guy wasn’t a former SS officer I’d never see one.  I greeted him and told him what I wanted to do.  He looked at me very sternly and said, “Zo you vish to go to Zermatt, eh?”      It was as if he was saying, “Are you papers in order?”  It almost gave me a chill.  As an American you’re born into freedom.   You can’t imagine some government jerk or army officer questioning your right to go anywhere.  It was just a brief flash for what it must have been like during the war and I didn’t like it one damn bit.  It was a realization and I let it go.

I nod. “Thanks. Molly was definitely right about one thing, you know.” A grin inches across his face. “That I’m gorgeous?” Yes, I think. “No,” I say. “I meant that you’re a really nice guy, but now it looks like you’re developing this huge ego problem . . .” I swat at him playfully and he catches my hand. “One more thing. When Deo is back safe and sound . . .” He stops and his shoulders slump. “What?” “Well . . . I was about to ask if you’d want to go to a movie or get dinner. But we’d probably have to worry about you picking up a ghost or me realizing the guy at the next table is about to punch his waiter. Maybe we could just watch Netflix and . . .” He stops again and closes his eyes. “I truly suck at this. I was not going to say chill, I swear to God. I was going to say watch Netflix and order takeout.” I lean forward and kiss him. It’s a quick kiss, just a featherlight brush of my lips against his. He looks surprised. I probably do too, because that wasn’t at all planned. It just seemed right. “I’d like that, Aaron. When all of this is over, I think I’d like that a lot.

kissed her, and Psyche’s insides melted into her My Little Pegasus footies. When he finally pulled away, she had to remember how to speak. “That was…wow. That…wow.” “Yeah,” he agreed. “So…” “Kiss me again, Husband.” She could almost feel him smiling. “You’re the boss,” he said. The next few weeks were great. Every day, Psyche chilled at the palace, enjoying her gardens and her indoor pool and her bowling alley. Every night, she couldn’t wait for her husband to get home. He was the kindest, funniest, most amazing guy she’d never seen. No way was he a monster. She’d touched his face. It felt like a perfectly normal human face—handsome, in fact. Very handsome. His arms were smooth and muscular. His…Well, you know what? I think that’s good enough. I’m doing my

I don't really get sad," Nick said, staring at the ceiling. "I'm just one of those cool, aloof guys who stays chilled at all times. You know the type. We're everywhere in fiction

Newgate was Hell enough for me!” said the Murderer. “That slow trudge through Birdcage Walk from the prison house to the scaffold, with the walls closing in on me with each step, the bars on the roof penning me in. The baying crowd outside, waiting for nothing but to see me die. And the damp- everywhere the damp, freezing my bones to their marrow. No earthly blanket can keep out that Old Bailey chill! So what was that, sir, if not a Hell on earth? And now the pain! It never leaves me…

I look over her shoulder and the guy is just chilling there fucking daydreaming, probably about plain white rice and unseasoned chicken.

Reacher was heading for the coffee shop. Rutherford was leaving it. Reacher didn’t pay him much attention at first. He was just a guy, small and unremarkable, holding his to-go cup, going about his business. Whatever that may be. But a moment later Reacher’s interest ratcheted all the way up. He felt a chill at the base of his neck. A signal from some ancient warning system hardwired into the back of his brain. An instinctive recognition. Pattern and movement. Predators circling. Moving in on their prey. Two men and a woman. Spread out. Carefully positioned. Coordinated. Ready to spring their trap.

There’s still a lingering afterglow here from the euphoria earlier. A feeling that maybe some great victory has been won and there is a reason to be optimistic. On the other hand, I see a guy tying a hangman’s noose when I get closer to the monument. He grins maniacally as he ties it. “Traitors get the rope,” he says in a hollow, emotionless voice that sends chills down my spine. “Hey man, you’re gonna do whatever you want to do, I’m not going to try to stop you. I’m just gonna say that I think that might backfire.” I say, pointing at the tied rope in his hands. “I think that if anyone in the media sees that they’re gonna say it’s racist. I think you’re running the risk of making your whole movement look bad. This isn’t my fight, but you might want to think about that. OK, I spoke my piece.” There is a pause, he stares at me, his expression unreadable. “Traitors get the rope,” he says in a hollow, emotionless voice that sends chills down my spine. It’s like he’s a recording. He just says the exact same thing, in the exact same way, every time anyone tries to talk to him. Why do I even care if these people make themselves look bad? They’re not my people. At least some of them look bad because they are bad; right? Do I really think the guy with the hangman’s noose is just misunderstood? In my travels, I’ve seen many instances where the media was unfair to Trump supporters, but I’ve also met some damn creepy mother-f*ckers, especially in the last few weeks. Maybe the old protester in me just hates to see all this effort go into an anti-government demonstration and have nothing good come out of it.

heard stories of political violence that sent chills down my spine. One guy nostalgically recalled how he crippled a man he considered a “Nazi,” first beating him into submission and then jumping on his spine, all based on unacceptable opinions the man had shared at a bar. A law student working his way up the Democratic Party told me that periodic beatings of opponents to spread fear in the population were key to any political victory. I tried to talk him out of it, tried to say the entire point of democracy was to have a nonviolent way to transfer power, but he just kept smiling and reminding me that he was already actively organizing campaigns and his candidates always won.

She palpated the edges of the wound. “So, I’m like you…werewolf—no, lycan? Am I some sort of science experiment?” He became utterly still, giving her a chance to see he wasn’t lying when he said this. “You’re not human. You have to remember this. I don’t know how one of us could ever believe otherwise, even if we lost our memory. Maybe if someone hypnotized you into believing yourself human, I could buy you not remembering. Knowing what you are is as basic as knowing how to walk. We are lycanthropes. Lycans.” No one said anything for several long moments of silence. Even Flynn seemed to have stopped breathing from wherever he stood behind them. Flynn was probably looking at her again. Why did that make him want to punch his brother, whom he trusted with his life? Skepticism laced her tone. “Can I change into a dog or something?” “No. That’s a human urban myth. We do change to become stronger when necessary, like I did in the hangar. In our feral form, we can do many superhuman things, but it’s not an ugly creature covered in hair like in the movies. You almost did the shift at the club. It’s why I distracted you both times. You can’t do that in public.” “You’re lycan, too, Flynn?” she asked. “Does that mean you both got bitten at the same time?” “What?” Flynn shot a shocked glance at Roman. “Bitten? What the actual hell?” “Chill. She’s got no clue,” Roman said in a calm tone. “Of course I’m lycan.” At her skeptical eyebrow raise, Flynn groaned theatrically and rolled his eyes. “It’s genetic, not something like in the movies where a bite will turn you. I was born this way. My parents were 100 percent lycan, as were theirs. And yours. It’s a different species than humans.” She asked, “Why do I believe so strongly I’m a person, that I’m human?” Roman shrugged
“Superspeed healing?” She touched her side.
“The older we get, the more rapidly we heal. That speed means you must be at least fifty, maybe older.” “How old are you?” “A lot older.” “You think I’m fifty? I look maybe early twenties.” She nibbled her lower lip. “How long do you…we live?” Roman shrugged. “Centuries. I don’t know any that died of natural causes.” “What about that spooky guy named Antonio? Is he like us?” Both Roman and Flynn exchanged glances. “You didn’t know what he was?” Flynn asked. Roman said, “He’s a vampire, not exactly a friend of our species.” They had yet to pin down if Antonio was involved with the dealer who peddled black magic artifacts like the vial. But every time they found something deadly like it, he lurked about. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t like him. Probably good I didn’t act on one of the five ways I envisioned he could die.” He was staring at her.
“Yeah, probably smart,” he muttered.

He would never have invited my wanna-be-thug ass to come chill with him in Kona luxury back in the day. He only reached out because I’d become somebody a rich guy like him wanted to know.

Ruth stayed in Los Angeles that evening, and, armed with articles in the Times and News, she went back to the jail Thursday morning with Arturo, Daniel, and Barraza, showed Richard the articles, and read him the details. He realized that Gallegos’s credibility had disappeared with the publication of his run-in with the prostitute. “No judge will respect this guy,” Ruth said, and the Hernandezes agreed. Like Gallegos, they said, they would work on the case with no money up front in exchange for the book and movie rights sales for payment. They insisted Richard fight the case and go to trial. “I haven’t seen anything substantially connecting you to the crimes,” Daniel said. Arturo agreed. “It’s all circumstantial. We can win this case!” “I agree with them,” Barraza added. “You really think you can win?” Richard asked. “We will win,” Daniel told him.

In February 1990, Ramirez was moved to the San Francisco County Jail, where he had access to a phone and a television and interacted with other inmates. Almost immediately, he got into a fight over the phones and beat up some guy who’d called him a punk. Richard knew he couldn’t let anyone abuse him in any way, for the abuse would surely get worse and more than likely end up as an assault against him. He was quick to let everyone in the jail know if you bothered him, you’d better be ready to fight to the end. This resulted in his being left alone and he could do his time without being bothered.

At this time actor Sean Penn had been sentenced to thirty-two days in the Los Angeles County Jail for punching out a photographer. Because of his celebrity status he had to be kept in protective custody and was lodged in the cell next to Ramirez. At the time he was still married to Madonna and when she came to visit Sean, she saw Ramirez as she stepped off the elevator. When Sean was brought to the visiting booth, the first thing she said to Sean was, “Who’s that good-looking guy?” Sitting down, smiling mischievously, Sean said, “That good-looking guy is the Night Stalker, ... wanna meet him?” “Gives me the goose bumps,” Madonna said—“but yeah, I’d like to meet him,” she joked. “I don’t think so,” he said, laughing

I’m serious. There’s nothing wrong with your face.” Her sadness morphs into a brutal chill. “Says the guy with the perfect face.

The whole platform was set up with pillows and soft blankets and illuminated by a dozen hurricane lamps with flickering candles inside. Exquisite arrangements of flowers complimented the candles, and near the pillows, a dessert tray was all set up for the four of us. There was even a bottle of Champagne chilling in an ice-bucket. They'd thought of everything. "Are you guys for real right now?" I gaped, holding onto the edge of the platform with my fingers.

Chance sat across from me, a bemused expression on his face. “You guys do this often?” “Do what?” He waved a hand. “Spontaneous, dangerous, gut-based midnight treks.” “Ah, those.” I scratched behind Coop’s ear. “Yes. Yes we do.” Chance snorted. “Must be exhausting. I hope they’re actually out there. I’ve got a meeting in the morning, and would hate to lose a night’s sleep over nothing.” That dampened my enthusiasm. What if the Trinity weren’t still on Loggerhead? Doubts crept in. Upon reflection, borrowed camping equipment wasn’t much to go on. Yet I’d cajoled my friends into a tiny boat speeding out to sea. We reached the midway point, where, ever so briefly, land dropped from sight in all directions. That moment always gave me a chill, but it went double tonight. I had a sudden jolt of perspective: how small our vessel was in the wide, wild Atlantic. This is necessary. We need to solve the problem. But misgivings had taken firm root. The Trinity weren’t even our biggest concern. Not anymore. My mind flashed to grim-faced men in dark suits, staring down from above.

My husband might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he can’t fail to miss that hint, and as he follows me inside the house, I decide to make a quick stop off in the kitchen to pick up the bottle of white wine that I know is chilling in the fridge. It’s a bottle I was saving for this evening, but that was before I suddenly saw the opportunity to let my hair down and de-stress a little earlier after recent events. As I retrieve the bottle, Guy is already on the same page, opening a cupboard to find a couple of wine glasses.

husband might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he can’t fail to miss that hint, and as he follows me inside the house, I decide to make a quick stop off in the kitchen to pick up the bottle of white wine that I know is chilling in the fridge. It’s a bottle I was saving for this evening, but that was before I suddenly saw the opportunity to let my hair down and de-stress a little earlier after recent events. As I retrieve the bottle, Guy is already on the same page, opening a cupboard to find a couple of wine glasses.

Jasper..." I opened my eyes to meet his gaze. "All of this started because you all thought I was Milo's sister. What if—what if we get blood work or a test done, and it turns out I'm not this Ivy you all love so much. What then?" "I have zero doubts that you're his sister." The ferocity of his belief seemed to echo with Rome's unfaltering faith. "But let's say for the sake of argument, you guys take a blood test, and it says you're not brother and sister." "Right." "I'd still love you," he told me simply and I swore a chill wrapped around me like an icy north wind. "Because you are the girl I've watched over from afar for years. You, Emersyn Sharpe. My swan. The fierce dancer who fights back with not only her body, but her mind. Who doesn't let anyone control her, no matter how right they might be or how much they may have her well being in mind. You are probably one of the toughest people I've ever met, and I adore you. It's really that simple.

It’s like, dude, I get it that you think all I really want to hear is how beautiful I am, but the thing is I already know that I have pleasingly symmetrical features and the whole flush-of-youth thing going for me, so it only shows your own failure of imagination when you fall for the evolutionary fitness mask when I’m right here beneath it and I’m so much more and if you weren’t busy bragging about my looks, you would’ve realized I am the best resource you could ever think to have.” Evan’s next bite of skewered fowl hovered a few inches from his plate. “Poor Colby.” “Right. Side with him.” Ruby gave Evan a little backhanded thwap with her knuckles, her easy affection disarming. “And they’re all like that.” I even tried one of those wholesome-ish dating apps, but I kept matching with guys named Caden who want to chill and hang but don’t have any money to go out. Great. Thanks, dating apps. Something to make males of the species more lazy and indecisive.” Her thumb flick-flick-flicked. “Arty Caden. Try-Hard Caden. Jock Caden.” She held the phone sideways. “At least Jock Caden is kinda cute.

The unemployment rate, technically speaking, was “lower” in South Africa during apartheid, which makes sense. There was slavery—that’s how everyone was employed. When democracy came, everyone had to be paid a minimum wage. The cost of labor went up, and suddenly millions of people were out of work. The unemployment rate for young black men post-apartheid shot up, sometimes as high as 50 percent. What happens to a lot of guys is they finish high school and they can’t afford university, and even little retail jobs can be hard to come by when you’re from the hood and you look and talk a certain way. So, for many young men in South Africa’s townships, freedom looks like this: Every morning they wake up, maybe their parents go to work or maybe not. Then they go outside and chill on the corner the whole day, talking shit. They’re free, they’ve been taught how to fish, but no one will give them a fishing rod.

The rider was a distance away, but Arya could make out the beat-up leather jacket and grey hair spouting out all sides of the man’s helmet. A cold chill went through her body. No one else noticed the sound or the man. For no particular reason, she decided to keep this sighting to herself, and continued walking with Zack and her parents. Perhaps later, she’d confide in Zack. Was this the guy? Is he watching me?

Rys’s gleeful laughter sends chills up and down my spine. He places one hand to his chest. “Is that how you greet your mate?” Not this garbage again. Seriously, I think this guy belongs in the asylum. It’s as clear a case of obsessive delusions as I’ve ever seen.

School started a few weeks ago. Hockey had, too. I made the final cut that morning. I was officially on the team. I wasn’t an excitable guy, but I admitted to myself that I was pleased. Pleased to be on the ice again after six long months of practicing and waiting. I missed the lights, the cold of the stadium, the chill cutting through the air.

Rayne heard Ghost open the door to the house and when he didn’t immediately appear, went looking for him. She found him standing in the laundry room, staring at what she saw was simply a load of dirty clothes she hadn’t yet put into the washer. Ever since she’d asked to borrow the car while he was at work for the last week or so, Ghost had been picked up by Fletch and dropped off after work by one of the other guys on the team. This was the first time she could remember him coming into the house through the garage, and thus through the small laundry room. “Ghost? What are you doing? Are you all right?” He looked up at her. “You’re doing our laundry.” “Yeah? So? It was dirty. You didn’t want to walk around in nasty, smelly clothes did you?” Rayne had no idea what his deal was. Ghost dropped his duffle back on the floor and came toward her. “You’re doing our laundry.” “Yeah, Ghost. I am,” she repeated. “Ours. Our laundry.” “Did you hit your head today? I’m seriously worried about you.” Ghost picked her up by her waist and set her down on top of the washing machine. “I fucking love coming home and walking into my house and seeing your panties mixed up with my boxers. To come home and know you’re here. Waiting for me. You have no idea. None.” Chills broke out on Rayne’s arms and legs at Ghost’s words, but he didn’t stop. “This is what we fight for. This is what we’re willing to die for.” “For me to wash your dirty clothes?” Rayne had no idea what he was getting at. She wasn’t trying to be snarky, her question was genuine. Ghost leaned his head against hers and closed his eyes. She could feel his hands squeeze her waist and move up under her T-shirt to her lower back, where he stroked. She knew he understood exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t absently caressing her; he was running his hands over her tattoo, over their tattoo.

That night, a guy I knew called Denny Laine sang a beautiful song called “Go Now” I was feeling really chilled until his girlfriend grabbed me and gave me a tongue sandwich. I was so shocked, but she was drunk, as we all were, and later became one of the Marquess of Bath’s wifelets, so I’m sure she didn’t fancy me. “A fantastic night to remember,” I wrote in my diary—and it wasn’t that kiss that had made it special.

Ted, my husband, asked me to introduce his story because I am the one who heard it first. We had been married for two years when his “gift” was given to us. It was about 4:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning. We were both asleep in our home in Tonkawa, Oklahoma, when he sat up in bed and said, “I know how I died!” I awoke to those words, astonished as he began to tell the end of his life in a different-sounding voice and using words and a dialect I had not heard before. After a few moments of an intense outpouring of emotional facts, places, names, and events, I knew I had to write “his story” down on paper. I climbed out of bed in the dark, found a legal-size yellow pad and pencil and began writing as fast as I could. He did not slow down to help me catch up; the tale just kept flowing from his mouth. The hairs on my arms stood on end and chills continued as he told in detail events that happened over one hundred years ago. My fingers began to cramp as I kept trying to keep up with him. The descriptions were so vivid that I could visualize what he was saying like a movie playing before my eyes. Eventually we hurried to the living room after I found a small tape recorder in our dresser drawer. Ted continued to talk in this unusual voice, causing me to laugh and cry as this true-to-life saga of the 1870s began to unravel. He told me how he died at about the age of sixty. Then he went to the beginning, when Tom Summers, who was sixteen years old, left home to join the Union Army. He lied about his age and was able to join the army and fight in the Civil War. The journey takes you into the war, on into Indian Territory and westward. Every day for Tom was an adventure, and Ted will share it with you. Anyone who meets Ted is drawn to him instantly. His manner is one of confidence: of a very genuine, honest, loveable guy. He will win you over with his “Just one more story” or a big bear hug if you are not careful. We met at a teen hop in the 1950s, when I was fifteen and he was seventeen. We dated in rural America for about a year. He was then leaving the farm to go to Oklahoma State University, and he asked me to marry him. We both married other people and raised our children. Forty-one years later, we discovered each other again. This time, I said, “Yes.” Join us on our fascinating journey into the Old West as seen through Tom Summers’s “beautiful blue eyes.

It starts before you can remember: you learn, as surely as you learn to walk and talk, the rules for being a girl. You are Princess. You are Daddy’s Little Girl. Are you ticklish? Give him a hug. You’re sweet, aren’t you? You’re a good little girl. You don’t remember those early days, but here’s what you do remember: You remember ballet class, the way your tummy stretched your pink leotard and your parents fretted over some future eating disorder, and then you were trying tap, or soccer, or what about a musical instrument? You remember “We just want you to be happy!” and you remember you said you were happy because you knew that’s what they wanted to hear. How long have you been saying what everyone else wants to hear? Time went on, and GIRLS CAN DO ANYTHING! So speak up, I can’t hear you! But also: Manners, young lady. A boy is bothering you at school? Stand up for yourself! A boy is bothering you at school? He’s just trying to get your attention. Do you like sparkles and unicorns and everything pink? Oh, that’s stupid now. Can you play in this game? Sorry, no girls allowed. Put a little color on your face. Shave your legs. Don’t wear too much makeup. Don’t wear short skirts. Don’t distract the boys by wearing bodysuits or spaghetti straps or kneesocks. Don’t distract the boys by having a body. Don’t distract the boys. Don’t be one of those girls who can’t eat pizza. You’re getting the milkshake too? Whoa. Have you gained weight? Don’t get so skinny your curves disappear. Don’t get so curvy you aren’t skinny. Don’t take up too much space. It’s just about your health. Be funny, but don’t hog the spotlight. Be smart, but you have a lot to learn. Don’t be a doormat, but God, don’t be bossy. Be chill. Be easygoing. Act like one of the guys. Don’t actually act like one of the guys. Be a feminist. Support the sisterhood. Wait, are you, like, gay? Maybe kiss a girl if he’s watching though—that’s hot. Put on a show. Don’t even think about putting on a show, that’s nasty. Don’t be easy. Don’t give it up. Don’t be a prude. Don’t be cold. Don’t put him in the friend zone. Don’t act desperate. Don’t let things go too far. Don’t give him the wrong idea. Don’t blame him for trying. Don’t walk alone at night. But calm down! Don’t worry so much. Smile! Remember, girl: It’s the best time in the history of the world to be you. You can do anything! You can do everything! You can be whatever you want to be! Just as long as you follow the rules. - Rules for Being a Girl

I- Karly takes their fingers in me when I masturbate, just thought you would like to know. Jenny and boy, we-we’s she takes them all, sometimes she has two going in the same whole, two boys in there rubbing their crap seem guy to me even if it’s a three-way. Maybe… all of this is not what I wanted to be remembered for. I guess what I am saying is, I wanted to be remembered for how I have- ‘Fallen to You!’ However, before I kicked the bucket… I did think of Ray, or anyone- or another boy. No one is other than my selfish self. The clueless girl I was, living for the now, and not the happily ever after! Hell no…! I did not think about that. I did not think about all the dangerous, shocking, and even offensive things I have done with my friends. I did not even think about my family, like if they would even care about me being or not being around. Nope, I was too busy sucking off chill dogs and running around silly doing honorable things. I did not even think about my adorable girly bedroom, and how the sun shined silky waves of light, in the window. Besides, how it woke me up as my days started. I did not think about the soft and cozy things in that room either, or the selfie photograph of me, and Ray kissing sitting on my night table. I did not think about how you can smell the rain rolling in on a spring day, as the window was open, or feel the chill in the air as I stood by it in the middle of December. ‘Oh, let the sun beat down on my face, and let the sounds caress my ears, I have been blind!’ I do not think about all the smells and feelings of food and family coming from down the steps or in the home at all. I completely ignored everything and it all just to be the cool girl. Instead, I thought of Jenny and Maddie back in the third grade how we used to play kickball and miss in our gym class. I also thought about that girl that no one liked too that no one wanted on the team including me. I think her name was Madilyn, I remember this because I was the last one to pick, and she looked so sad and I did not say anything as she sat crying in the grass picking yellow dandelions the whole class. I was such an ass for my friends. I guess that guilt gets you at some point. I member how they and I said she was too weird and disgusting to play with us, and that she could not see what she was doing, because of her blue-eyed four- eyes. Meaning her glass on the fragile flushed face. I guess I get to be friends with these girls because they were what I wanted to be. I was not always friends with them I remember from second grade and back. Yes, I was just like her before, I joined their team. I would have done anything to be one of them, which is what I did. ‘Look at the little freak over there sitting’ Jenny said, and we all giggled. ‘Let’s kick our balls in her face, so she runs off crying for her mommy again like before.’ And that is what we all did; the goal was to break her glass of her face. ‘Like she is not even going to try to move said Maddie.’ BAM smack one! BAM smack two…! Me- direct hit- BAM! Furthermore, she goes running away just the way we wanted! Jenny always found a way of making us snicker at the dumbest crap, like that. I- we- never forget that girl’s face! Red with pain, and dripping with her tears, dandelions in hand that she picked for us. Just so, we would like her! That all faded away from me. Just like the furry white ball of seeds that blows away as she rains inside. I can’t believe that is what, I remembered! This was more my beforehand death instant when I was theoretic Madilyn meant to be having some kind of vast revelation about my past. My moment froze like in time to the recollections of the slight of nail polish, and the squeak of my white dollar store flats as I walked on the waxed high school floor. The tightness of my skinny blue jeans, with one of my lacey junior’s nine-dollar Walmart thongs.

(Home) ‘This land is beautiful, but the people are horrible.’ The people took this beautiful land and raped it, and put up a bunch of ugly boxes, however, my home is in the Victorian-style and it is old and has a handcrafted personality. There is an ancient oak tree outside my window, sometimes I step out my window then onto the roof of the porch, and sit in the tree branch that hangs over, and watches all the stars as they appear to turn on and off. Yes, I have wished upon a shooting star, that things will change, and that the towers will be no more. Looking straight ahead, I can see all the lights that go on the horizon, some days the sunsets are blazing before the lights turn on. Then there are some days that the window is shut because it is cold windy while everything is chilled with the color of blue. (Frame of mind) My mood can change just like this and that it seems. Yes, just like all the summer turns into winter, and the winters turn into spring, and all of these thoughts running in my mind fall like the leaves through my brain, and they most likely do not mean a thing. I guess you could blame it on my ADD, ADHD, dyslexia, bipolar disorder, or OCD. I do not have any of these… I do not have anything wrong with me. But, if you are like one of the sisters or someone from my school, you would say my mood changes are because of my- STD’s, HIV, or being as they say GAY or BI, and LEZ-BO. They have also said, I am a pedophile and a child stocker, and I get moody if I do not get some from them. That is why I am so sober at times, or so they say. Whatever…! They also have said that I am a schizophrenic- psycho and that I could not even buy love. I would not try that anyways. I think that having money does not give you happiness; I am okay being a humble farm- girl, the guy that finds me… needs to be happy with that also. I am sure there are more things they say. However, those are just some of them that I can dredge up as of now, off the top of my head. They have murdered me and my life, in so many ways. So now, do you wonder as to why I am afraid of talking to people or even looking at them? You know you and they can try to destroy me, and my life. However, I do not have any of those listed either; none of these random arrangements of letters defines me as the person I truly am. (Sight) Looking out the windows, I can see the golden hayfields of ecstasy, I see the windmills that twist and tumble. I can see the abandoned railroad track that lies not far from my home. I can hear the cries of the swing as the wind gusts in spurts. But yet I am still in my room, but that is just okay with me. Because I know that there will someday soon be someone there for me. (Household) My room is a land of peace and tranquility without all the gloom, with a bed and a canopy overhead but still, I am not truly happy? There is nothing- like the sounds of the crickets speaking up often in the cool August night breeze. It is relaxing to me, however; it is a reminder to me of how the last glimmers of summer are ending. Besides the sounds slowly fade away, yes- I can hear this music from my bedroom window. It is just like in the spring the birds sing in the morning and leave in the cool gusts to come. It is just like the hummingbirds that flutter by, and then before I know it, all has changed; so, it seems by the time I walk out my bedroom door, to start my day. ‘Life goes in cycles of tunes it seems, and nature is its synchronization in its symphony you just have to listen.

I’m angry, possessed and out of my fucking mind. My knuckles land on his nose, shattering it with a chilling sound, and I follow it with another fist as I smash his mouth with a brutal blow. A tooth pops out and rolls on the grass. I hit him until all I see is blood. I hit him even though I know that he might be dead. I hit him for reasons that have nothing to do with him. I hit him because I’m an orphan, an ex-felon, a captor and a guy who’s in lust with a girl he cannot have. Because I’m a sad boy, a broken man and a lonely soul. A barbaric savage, a poet with a heart of gold and a nobody who is desperate to become somebody. And I hit him because I need him dead. Because I can’t chance him finding me again. But I don’t just kill him. No. I’m butchering him with my stone-cold heart. Because he’s not a person. He’s a symbol. Representing everything I hate. Everything I want to turn my back on. Everything that’s taking the only thing I was born with, other than this stupid beautiful face, and that still belongs to me. My peace.

My legs were shaking from more than the chill fog that was blowing gray eddies down Judah street.

Caponata This has an excellent flavor and makes a very nice presentation on a perfect leaf of lettuce, not that Robert and Sal ever gave a hoot about presentation. And it’s even quite low in calories, not that guys care about that, either. Serve this as a traditional antipasto with a good crusty Italian bread and a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio. Peel and dice an eggplant, toss with salt, put in a colander and drain for at least a half hour. Then heat up a heavy skillet and add 1/ 4 cup olive oil, a small onion, chopped, and a stick of celery, also chopped. Add the eggplant and sauté. Finally, add three chopped tomatoes, three minced anchovies, a pinch of sugar, 1/ 4 cup wine vinegar and a spoonful of capers (the best ones come from Pantelleria Island). If your family likes olives, add some of those, too, along with a pinch of red pepper flakes. Simmer for ten minutes. Cool, then store overnight in a glass container. For a smoother spreading consistency, you can whirl the mixture in the food processor, but don’t overdo it. Things that are too smooth lose their character.

I remember him the most, she will say later, when she’s older, and I know he was the first one. I remember the first one the most. We were doing it. I wasn’t really aware of how it was happening down there. I just felt someone on top of me and I knew it was sex. Next thing I remember is him rolling me over, so I’m on my stomach. Then there’s another guy on me and I hear him say, Oh no this is Abby’s little sister, I can’t do this. And he quit. Then there was a third guy, but my memory is awful by that point. I wasn’t fighting, that much I remember. I was just chill about it. I think I thought that I didn’t want to say no to anyone, that I wanted them to like me. I just didn’t want to give them any reason not to. Like me. The next day and all the days that follow the rumor is that Lina fucked three guys in one night.

Chiara,” Darren finally says. “Everything okay?” Greasy Guy looks Darren up and down with narrowed eyes and spits out what I’m guessing is a question. Darren responds, calmly, in Italian. It’s the most I’ve ever heard him say in Italian, and I can’t even tell if his accent’s right, but it’s seriously hot. They go back and forth a few times, Chiara chiming in once in a while. I pick out a word here and there, but I mostly make up what I think they could be talking about. My version sounds like this: Greasy Guy: “Who the bleep are you?” Darren: “A friend of Chiara’s.” Greasy Guy: “What kind of friend?” This is when he puffs up his chest to make himself look stronger. Chiara: “Not that kind of friend, so chill out. Besides, Pippa’s got dibs on him.” Darren: “Is there a problem?” Greasy Guy: “Yeah. You. How about you get out of my way?” Darren: “Chiara comes with us.” This is when Darren nods in my direction and I back up a hair. Greasy Guy: “You can’t have her. We’re not through here.” Chiara: “I should have cut ties with you years ago! You selfish piece of bleeping ble--” Greasy Guy: “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a dent in that pretty face of yours!” Chiara backs away and links her arm with mine, pulling me over to where Darren and I had stood. I turn my head to check on him. He’s right behind us. Greasy Guy takes off toward Manarola. Okay, so my version of their conversation must not have been accurate.

And of course, [Boris Johnson will] never get questioned like this over at the BBC while the political editor remains a fully paid-up member of the Boris Johnson Admiration Society. So how does he get away with it? Andrew points out that factory resets obviously weren't covered in the technology lessons that Boris Johnson received from Jennifer Arcuri. Again, it's a funny joke. It's a good line, but he was the Prime Minister, and everyone knew he was a liar. Is it all about that guy that rang in when Donald Trump was here. That I always remember saying ‘but you must know he's lying’. Donald Trump was giving a speech in London about the size of the crowds outside the building he was in. And we had a camera outside the building he was in. We were looking at no crowds. And that simple juxtaposition of rhetorical claim by a politician with observable reality was chilling. It was spine tingling. I can claim that there are huge crowds, huge crowds, the biggest crowds, the greatest crowds outside this building. And I said, ‘how does it work? How does that happen?’ And someone rang me and said, ‘I know he's a liar, but it really upsets people like you and Sadiq Khan.’ And at the time I laughed but maybe that's all there is. Maybe your life - and sorry this is going to sound quite rude - but maybe your life is so weird, and your personality is so twisted that you find the frustration of people who care about the truth the closest you ever get to feeling joy. Is that it? Nadine Dorries watches Boris Johnson lie and claims that he's the most trustworthy person on the planet. What is wrong with her? It's not really a question about what's wrong with him; what's wrong with her? Whatever transpires at this inquiry or whatever emerges during these hours of evidence, I can tell you this: there will be a significant number of people who think that Boris Johnson has done nothing wrong or that he is somehow the victim of another witch hunt. You remember? It was a witch hunt when he was caught banged to rights by a parliamentary committee containing a majority of conservatives after even Chris Bryant had stepped down to avoid any accusations or allegations - false allegations – really, of impartiality. And they still called it a witch hunt. It would have been a witch unless the committee consisted entirely of 14 Nadine Dorries clones. That's the only circumstances in which those people would have claimed that he could receive a fair trial. Where do you even begin today? Do you begin with the 5,000 WhatsApp messages that a man who was in charge of the nuclear code somehow doesn't understand and can't find? I don't know. So, what is your theory now because I don't think I've got one any more. I watch him now, and I feel something very new, very different to what I thought when he was in power because when he was in power there is an urgency to the situation. There is a desperate need to share with the population the awfulness that they apparently can't see. Just now that he's not in power any more, it's almost as if I've allowed the full horror of what he represents to bubble to the surface. It’s now that he can't actually break anything, it's a retrospective reflection upon the abject awfulness of him. I mean the unbelievable awfulness of this man, the things that he's done. You can begin with Brexit. The lies that he's told, the damage that he's done. The contempt in which he holds all the things we're raised to believe are important: rules, obligations, standards, behaviours, fidelity, honesty, kindness, friendship, loyalty, all of these things we teach our children matter. And Boris Johnson teaches us that you can become the most powerful person in the country by treating all of those things with absolute contempt.

He’d decided to confront Bella about me. Jessica swears they’re dating. Why? Why did he have to pick her? He didn’t recognize the real phenomenon—that she’d picked me. “So.” “So what?” she wondered. “You and Cullen, huh?” You and the freak. I guess, if a rich guy is that important to you… I gritted my teeth at his degrading assumption. “That’s none of your business, Mike.” Defensive. So it’s true. Crap. “I don’t like it.” “You don’t have to,” she snapped. Why can’t she see what a circus sideshow he is? Like they all are. The way he stares at her. It gives me chills to watch. “He looks at you like… like you’re something to eat.

I had always felt that trust was the bedrock of any partnership, especially a business one. My associate and I had what I thought was a non-shakeable alliance. We would strategize; we would go to conferences about crypto and toast our wins with a glass of liquor. He was the only person I had trusted with my financial insight. Unfortunately, he was also the last person I should have trusted. WhatsApp info:+12723 328 343 I woke up one morning to the stuff of nightmares: I had absolutely no access to my Bitcoin wallet, holding $290,000. My password didn't work, my backup keys were useless, and my hardware wallet? Completely wiped. Panic set in as I tried to work out what was going on. Then, a chilling realization hit me. Only a week before, my ever-so-helpful colleague had made an offer to "optimize" my wallet security. I thought at that time, Wow, what a great guy. Well, it turns out he was great-at deception. The real gut punch? He had the audacity to sit across from me at work the next day, sipping coffee like nothing had happened. I confronted him, expecting some elaborate excuse, but he played dumb-so dumb it was insulting. That's when I knew what I needed were professionals, not empty denials. After hours of frantic research, I came across ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST. Their reputation in high-stakes crypto theft gave me hope. From the first conversation, they took my case seriously, breaking down the recovery process in a way that finally made sense. Their forensic team got to work tracking the stolen funds across multiple wallets. A few tense days later, I got the call: my money was back. Every single dollar. It turned out that my trusted colleague had tried to launder the funds through multiple transactions, but ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST untangled his mess with ease. The feeling of relief was overwhelming; I had prepared myself for the worst, yet I walked away victorious. My colleague probably had a pretty good inkling, because he quit before I could file any report. Typical. Some people just love to disappear rather than confront the music. I emerged from that fiasco with my money still in one piece, and more painfully but preciously, with the lesson not to confuse control for kindness: you earn trust; you don't give it away freely-especially where money intervenes.

Sugar put her front legs on Sin’s knee. “More more more, food man.” We burst out laughing, and I nodded. “I think that’s exactly what he did. And I’m not sure the world is ready.” He looked at me in dismay. “Is that what she calls me? Food man? I have to admit, that’s a little disappointing.” I rolled my lips in to keep from laughing. “Well, that does kind of describe you, doughnut guy.

Fifty miles out of Prague, the halved carcass of a freshly killed hog hangs, still steaming in the cold, from what looks like a child’s swing set. It’s a wet, drizzling morning and your feet are sopping and you’ve been warming yourself against the chill by huddling around the small fire over which a pot of pig parts boils. The butcher’s family and friends are drinking slivovitz and beer, and though noon is still a few hours off, you’ve had quite a few of both. Someone calls you inside to the tiled workspace, where the butcher has mixed the pig’s blood with cooked onions and spices and crumbs of country bread, and he’s ready to fill the casings. Usually, they slip the casing over a metal tube, turn on the grinding machine, cram in the forcemeat or filling, and the sausages fill like magic. This guy does it differently. He chops everything by hand. A wet mesa of black filling covers his cutting board, barely retaining its shape—yet he grabs the casing in one hand, puts two fingers in one open end, makes the “V” sign, stretching it disturbingly, and reaches with the other—then buries both his hands in the mix. A whirlwind of movement as he squeezes with his right hand, using his palm like a funnel, somehow squirting the bloody, barely containable stuff straight into the opening. He does this again and again with breathtaking speed, mowing his way across the wooden table, like a thresher cutting a row through a cornfield, a long, plump, rapidly growing, glistening, fully filled length of sausage engorging to his left as he moves. It’s a dark, purplish color through the translucent membrane. An assistant pinches off links, pins them with broken bits of wooden skewer. In moments, they are done.