Clearwater Quotes

Nudity was an inconvenient but unavoidable part of pack life. We’d all thought nothing of it before Leah came along. Then it got awkward.

Jesper shrugged again. He adjusted the buttons on his shirt, touched his thumbs to his revolvers. When he felt like this, mad and scattered, it was as if his hands had a life of their own. His whole body itched. He needed to get out of this room. Wylan laid his hand on Jesper’s shoulder. “Stop.” Jesper didn’t know if he wanted to jerk away or pull him closer. “Just stop,” Wylan said. “Breathe.” Wylan’s gaze was steady. Jesper couldn’t look away from that clear-water blue. He forced himself to still, inhaled, exhaled. “Again,” Wylan said, and when Jesper opened his mouth to take another breath, Wylan leaned forward and kissed him. Jesper’s mind emptied. He wasn’t thinking of what had happened before or what might happen next. There was only the reality of Wylan’s mouth, the press of his lips, then the fine bones of his neck, the silky feel of his curls as Jesper cupped his nape and drew him nearer. This was the kiss he’d been waiting for. It was a gunshot. It was prairie fire. It was the spin of Makker’s Wheel. Jesper felt the pounding of his heart—or was it Wylan’s?—like a stampede in his chest, and the only thought in his head was a happy, startled, Oh. Slowly, inevitably, they broke apart. “Wylan,” Jesper said, looking into the wide blue sky of his eyes, “I really hope we don’t die.

I never knew true fear until I met pure evil. He wore a smile and a bow tie.

Oh, that,' said Ginny, giggling. 'Well-Percy's got a girlfriend.' Fred dropped a stack of books on George's head. 'What?' 'It's that Ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater,' said Ginny. 'That's who he was writing to all last summer. He's been meeting her all over the school in secret. I walked in on them kissing in an empty classroom one day. He was so upset when she was-you know-attacked. You won't tease him, will you?' she added anxiously. 'Wouldn't dream of it,' said Fred, who was looking like his birthday had come early.

When you start walking on egg shells around people, that’s when you know that those are people you don’t need to be around. Life’s too short to pretend to be anyone else.

I may be a lot of things, Doc. A criminal. Sure. A very good dresser. Absolutely. A man with a huge cock. Fuck, yes.” His face grew serious. “But I’m no fucking liar.

Because my name is Samuel Clearwater, and I take orders from no one. Not even death.

Across the dying fire, Seth Clearwater - his eyes wide with adulation for the fraternity of tribal protectors- nodded his agreement.

This is making me sick, Jacob. Can you imagine what this feels like to me? I don’t even like Bella Swan. And you’ve got me grieving over this leech-lover like I’m in love with her, too. Can you see where that might be a little confusing? I dreamed about kissing her last night! What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Above all else, I felt his love. He’d said he couldn’t keep me. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t always be his.

I want to know, have you ever seen rain comin down on a sunny day?

She was the girl I was in love with. The girl I would always be in love with. Until my very last breath.

The funny thing about life is that even though something entirely earth-shattering rocks you to your core, something that shakes you off your axis, the world around you somehow doesn’t feel the impact.

Hey Doc?” he asked, searching my eyes. His laugh quieted and his smile fell. My stomach flipped. “Yeah?” “This time…I’m gonna keep you.

Because pancakes.” ****

Listen, life isn’t about what happened to you in your past, it’s about where you are now and where you’re going. Onward and upward and all that jazz.” “That’s

The saying that blood was thicker than water didn’t mean jack shit to me because I knew who my family was and blood was something we spilled for one another, not shared.

I wanted to see her sad. Taste her tears. I wanted to know what she sounded like when she cried. In pain, in pleasure, in both.

I have nightmares all the time. You know what’s the only thing that makes them go away?” He placed his hand over mine. “You. You silence the world when it’s too fucking loud. You make me feel less broken.

You want to be high? You can be high on me. You want to take the edge off? I’m gonna do just that, baby.

What if the stains are too great?” “No, you’ll see. It’s the stains that make us human,

He'd said he couldn't keep me. That didn't mean I wouldn't always be his .

There are times when a lie can’t be helped. Honesty is a fickle bitch like that. I don’t believe in filtering, though. When you start walking on egg shells around people, that’s when you know that those are people you don’t need to be around. Life’s too short to pretend to be anyone else. I’m just me. I say what I want to fucking say. I do what I want to do and I don’t fucking apologize for it.

You killed him." I held up my index finger and my thumb, slowly closing the gap between them, peering over at Dre through the tiny slit that remained. "Little bit." "I don't think you can kill someone a little bit." "Oh, well then, a lot bit. I killed him a lot bit.

Take me to unexplored paradise & one of your best islands, I want to cross the pacific ocean and make a great memory. Let's go to the eastern coast of the Philippines where the waves meet the sky. You know where it is!

The first stirring of any kind of desire in over a year comes courtesy of the devil in a bow tie. Man, I was really fucked up.

Challenge accepted. We were over well before we had a chance to get started, but we were about to go out with a bang.

We gotta seize the day. Carpe the diem while we still have diem’s to carpe and all that shit.

Why do you have a gun?” I asked, without thinking of how stupid my question really was. Maybe, if he ever put his god dammed shirt back on, my case of stupid would turn back off. “Why do I have a gun?” he repeated, like it was the ridiculous question that it was. “’Cause throwing bullets by hand isn’t exactly effective.

I don’t give two fucks what happens to me. I don’t even know who I am to care about so how the fuck am I supposed to take care of you?” “Samuel Clearwater, I might have needed you to take care of me once and you did. You saved my life. But I’m not that girl anymore. I can take care of myself. I can save myself if I need saving and if you need me to then I can save you too.

You look good, Clearwater. Been working out?' Danie teased. 'He does, doesn't he?'Janelle agreed. 'This will totally work.' James' eyes darted back and forth between the girls, his head spinning. 'Wait, what will work?

Us southern boys can pretty much make a grill out of anything,” Preppy said, plating the last burger. “I’m like a redneck MacGyver.

Oh, motherfucking holy shit of fucking fucks.

Life’s too short to pretend to be anyone else. I’m just me. I say what I want to fucking say. I do what I want to do and I don’t fucking apologize for it.

The best kind of people are the ones that come into your life and make you see the sun where you once saw clouds.   The people that believe in you so much, you start to believe in you too.   The people that love you simply for being you.   The once in a lifetime kind of people.

My strength had always been in my amazing ability to be completely and brutally honest. Of course, the gift of honesty was in addition to my sense of humor, wit, charm, character, striking good looks, phenomenal – yet classic – sense of style, and last but not least, the tribungus slab of man meat dangling between my legs. But I motherfucking digress.

Name’s Samuel Clearwater. What’s yours?” I stopped and turned to him. He extended his hand to me and I uncrossed my arms and shook it. For a gangly kid who was the same age as I was, he dressed and spoke like a foul-mouthed grandfather, someone too old to give a shit about filtering his words. And what eleven year old shook hands?

I'm serious, baby. The Doors are the only western rock band that really gets the heart and soul of Japan. A samurai knows that he can die at any time. That's what makes life precious. And don't even talk to me about lame hippie whiners like John Fogerty and Creedence Clearwater revival. Jim Morrison . . . samurai! John Fogerty . . . ham on rye!

Preppy leans back on the siding and hooks his thumbs under his suspenders, stretching and releasing them several times before he speaks. “Sooo…I hate to be the bearer of interesting news, but you’re looking at her like you want to eat her. Stalk much?” “No, I’m fucking not,” I snap defensively. Too defensively. Preppy releases his suspenders and holds up his hands like he’s on the receiving end of a hold-up. “Whoa, whoa. Don’t go getting your panties in a twist, little brother. I didn’t say stalking was a bad thing. In fact, if you need some pointers, I’d be happy to enrol you in Preppy’s How To Stalk Like a Mofo 101.

I don’t kiss him back.

This wasn’t going to be some sort of warm and fuzzy reunion. No, it was a fucking relapse.

Because, baby girl. If hurt is what you want, hurt is what I can do.” “What…what

I came to Logan’s Beach for closure. Instead, I was leaving the same way I left the first time. With a broken heart.

But I was saved by someone. I wouldn’t call him a guardian angel exactly. More like a devil with good timing.

One scorching hug stood out from all the others—Seth Clearwater had braved the throng of vampires to stand in for my lost werewolf friend.

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Do you always talk this much?” he asks, his hard stare shifts gears to slightly amused. I swallow hard. “Yep. I have anxiety. The need to fill the silence with word vomit is one of the sexier side-effects. You don’t like it? I’ll be happy to be on my merry, babbling way.

There ain’t many people out there who have my respect. Respect needs to be earned. Preppy’s got mine. The man might have a case of verbal diarrhea there ain’t no cure for, but he’s been through hell and back. He’s been tortured and brutalized the likes of which most folks can’t begin to imagine. Most men, the strongest of men, in both body and spirit would’ve caved after that. Not Preppy. Not Samuel Motherfucking Clearwater.

There we stood, in the middle of the living room, hugging it out, each trying to hold back our tears until our need to cry outweighed our need to be the manly fucking men we were and we were no longer able to hold in the tears. “I’m not fucking crying,” Bear sobbed. “Me either, you fucking pussy,” I sobbed back as my old friend held me tighter and we hugged and punched each other hard on the backs until I was sure we were going to give each other bruises, and if it went on much longer, probably some broken ribs. When he finally let go of me we quickly wiped our eyes and noses on our t-shirts, because real men don’t fucking cry.

Samuel Clearwater, I promise I’ll never leave you,” I whispered, my voice as shaky as my limbs. “I love you.” Preppy closed his eyes. A lazy, satisfied smile appeared on his face. He dropped his head back onto my chest. “Love doesn’t even begin to cover it, Doc.

One, she didn’t need to be saved. Two, I was in no fucking shape to be anyone’s knight.

Jake looked at me as if I’d sprouted a dick on the middle of my forehead. “Long story. I’ll tell you all about it over a body sometime.

You should know by now, Doc, that even death can't keep a motherfucker down," Preppy said with a devilish smile.

Because you are the light in all of my dark,” I said, reciting a line from the letter he’d written me. Preppy

but the saying that blood was thicker than water didn’t mean jack shit to me because I knew who my family was and blood was something we spilled for one another, not shared.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. The way back will be paved with blood.

Taming Preppy would be like trying to put a leash on the wind. However,

You should know by now, Doc, that even death can’t keep a motherfucker down,” preppy said with a devilish smile.

I’m a man who knows it’s time to stop running away and start running toward and I’m choosing to run to you, Doc. Forever.

You are as sexy as fuck and as your equally sexy as fuck husband, it’s my job as the alpha to make sure everyone knows you’re mine.

The second I spotted him in the crows I knew this wasn't going to be some sort of warm and fuzzy reunion. No, it was a fucking relapse.

nice of him to offer.” I nod. “He says it’s no big deal because the shop’s on his way home.” Jodi’s mouth twitches at this, but she says nothing. I finish my breakfast and we head

Tucker Ingram

We all bloom to wilt.

Stalking is such a strong word. I prefer tracking with interest

You’re never leaving me. Say it. You’re never fucking leaving me,” Preppy ground out. I wanted to say the words back, but I was literally being fucked senseless. I began to see stars. Brief flashes of white light as he fucked the words into my heart the same way he was fucking my pussy. Passionate. Relentless. Rough. Frenzied. We were all of that and more. So much more.

The funny thing about life is that even though something entirely earth-shattering rocks you to your core, something that shakes you off your axis, the world around you somehow doesn’t feel the impact. Or

Ummm…what the hell is that?” Kevin asked, looking at the table in the trailer. “Manure,” I answered. “Really?” “No. Not really,” I sighed. “It’s a body-shaped plastic bag, Kevin. What the fuck do you think it is?

All right. It’s been decided.” I reached out and squeezed Bear’s hand like Grace had squeezed mine, and he retracted it like I’d given him a severe case of the cooties. “We are just gonna have to get gay-married.” “Shut

Preppy is capable of both cruelty and mercy, of both murder and salvation. He’s been the victim, the villain, and the hero. What I don’t think he’ll ever realize is that this gives him a power most men would dare not aspire to.

I may not have found Bo, but I did find someone else. An old friend of mine I didn’t even know I missed. And his name was Revenge. “Reunited and it feels so goooooood,” I sang out the open truck window as we flew over The Causeway.

That’s one of the reasons I’m here. In town. For closure. I’ve made so many mistakes. So freaking many.” “Did you find it?” Preppy asked. “Your closure?” I looked over to the dark corner and felt his eyes on me when I whispered, “Not even close.

in such a rush that I tripped over Mirna’s pet pig in the hallway. Oscar grunted and oinked, and even in the darkness I saw the disapproving glare in his piggy eyes. “Fuck you, Oscar, don’t be all judgey,” I whispered. More grunting. “One more look like that and I’ll tell Mirna how you like to dry hump her teddy bear collection during her afternoon nap.” The oinking stopped and he backed away into the bathroom, where I’d set up the giant dog bed he slept on. I flashed him a smug winning look and flipped him off. I

Ginny – what did you see Percy doing, that he didn’t want you to tell anyone?’ ‘Oh, that,’ said Ginny, giggling. ‘Well – Percy’s got a girlfriend.’ Fred dropped a stack of books on George’s head. ‘What?’ ‘It’s that Ravenclaw Prefect, Penelope Clearwater,’ said Ginny. ‘That’s who he was writing to all last summer. He’s been meeting her all over the school in secret. I walked in on them kissing in an empty classroom one day. He was so upset when she was –you know – attacked. You won’t tease him, will you?’ she added anxiously.

Hear me when I say that you are more than one thing. A person can be both sensitive and heartless. Both selfish and selfless. Quiet and loud. Fearful and bold. Jealous and proud. A killer and a savior. Flawed, yet perfect. We can love and hate in equal measure. We can be crazy sometimes and sane in the next.

It should be illegal to want to fuck you so bad,” Preppy murmured, reaching over and brushing the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. I leaned into his touch. I gave his thumb a kiss. “And what if it were illegal?” I teased. “It wouldn’t matter.” He lowered his voice. “’Cause baby, I was born to break the law.

There is a place where light and dark meet in the sky when the sun's setting where it's not quite day and not quite night. A grayish mist among the black and yellow. I like to think of it as a place where right and wrong, black and white, life and death aren't finite. I call that place 'the in-between' and to me that's where you and I will always exist. Together.

That's bullshit, buddy. And you know it. The trouble was, he DIDN'T know it. He had come face to face with something Susannah had found out for herself after shooting the bear: he could TALK about how he didn't want to be a gunslinger, how he didn't want to be tramping around this crazy world where the three of them seemed to be the only human life, that what he really wanted more than anything else was to be standing on the corner of Broadway and Forty-second Street, popping his fingers, munching a chili-dog, and listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival blast out of his Walkman earphones as he watched the girls go by, those ultimately sexy New York girls with their pouty go-to-hell mouths and their long legs in short skirts. He could talk about those things until he was blue in the face, but his heart knew other things. It knew that he had ENJOYED blowing the electronic menagerie back to glory, at least while the game was on and Roland's gun was his own private handheld thunderstorm. He had ENJOYED kicking the robot rat, even though it had hurt his foot and even though he had been scared shitless. In some weird way, that part--the being scared part--actually seemed to add to the enjoyment. All that was bad enough, but his heart knew something even worse: that if a door leading back to New York appeared in front of him right now, he might not walk through it. Not, at least, until he had seen the Dark Tower for himself. He was beginning to believe that Roland's illness was a communicable disease.

The grille of the Caddie plunged right into the middle of the bonfire, scattering smoke and flames and bones to the wind. The Cadillac finally bounced and jolted to a stop among a rain of burning human skulls. The voice of John Fogerty garbled and died. The driver's door opened and John flung himself out, clutching a sawed-off shotgun. He screamed, 'DID SOMEBODY ORDER SOME FUCKING PRISON BREAK WITH A SIDE OF SHOTGUN?

Every web began with a single thread that connected everything. He thought about the spider as patient and persistent, picking its way along delicate threads around the world. And he knew well what happened when you tried to forget about that connection or try to inflict your own will too much. You just got tangled in the spiderweb. He’d had his years of fighting the world, and that had landed him in juvie and back to drinking. You think you’re punching at the world but all you’re doing is knocking yourself out.

Dude, you’re creeping me out,” Kevin said, reaching for his shorts. Before he could pull them back on I dropped the hose and bee-lined toward him, wrapping him in a bear hug. “You really are my brother.” “Huh?” Kevin asked, standing still as a statue. “Shhh…just let me love you.” “What exactly is going on out here?” Dre asked from the porch, flipping on the light. I still didn’t let go. “He’s my brother. I’m sure of it now,” I informed her. “I Have no idea what’s going on,” Kevin said, wigging from my grip. “Oh yeah? … How are you so sure?” I stepped back and pointed down to Kevin’s massive cock. “Because of that!

With a crooked smile on his face, he leaned down so his lips brushed my ear. “No doesn’t mean shit to me, baby girl.” He followed his words with a sharp bite to my earlobe that sent a jolt of pleasure pulsing through my body, tightening my nipples which rubbed painfully against my shirt. A tightening sensation ripped through my lower stomach and I felt a flushing from my core. Preppy abruptly pulled his hand from inside my shorts, obviously aware and probably repulsed at whatever had just happened down there. My face reddened when he held up his glistening fingers and stared at it in wonderment, shocking me even further when he licked his palm slowly, from wrist to fingertip, closing his eyes and groaning. “That was the best NO I’ve ever fucking tasted,” he said, and without another word he was yanking down my shorts and underwear in one move, before climbing back up my body so we were again eye to eye, his hand back between my legs.

Like, on one hand, I’m pissed because my kid broke into my safe and brought me a bag of my good coke, but on the other hand…” His eyes gloss over, but he doesn’t look upset. He looks…proud? “He knows what good coke is.

Great Gatsby was, and I quote, ‘a light, ineffectual novel with a clunky religious allegory shoved down reader’s throats.

Long as I remember, the rain has been comin' downClouds of mystery pourin' confusion on the groundwood men through the ages tryin' to find the sun, and I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain?" -John Fogerty, Credence Clearwater Revival, 1970

If we dig deep enough, we can find a way to blame ourselves for anything.

My mother is dead. Obviously I know that; I was at the funeral. Still, the thought stabs me just like it did when I first found out. It’s like remembering something from a dream: One second, you are thinking about what to eat for lunch and then it hits you so hard you see stars.

I lock my fingers behind his neck and pull his face down to mine, my lips finally sure of what to do.

As the newest Creedence Clearwater Revival tune faded out,

sometimes

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Se um dia, eu acabar ficando com um homem, vai ser o cara mais extraordinário que eu tiver conhecido.

Because David’s mother, Loretta, refused to sign up for that, she and Ron agreed to divorce. She continued in Scientology, rising to the summit as an OT VIII. She worked as an accountant for the law firm of Greta Van Susteren, the television commentator, and her husband, John Coale, both Scientologists, who maintain a mansion on Clearwater Beach.

Alec is sitting deep in the saddle, holding the mare firmly between hand and leg, not letting her get away from him. After a couple of quick circles, she steadies her stride and gets into a proper rhythm, moving with ease and grace across the turf, turning easily and responding to Alec’s light aids. There’s not much muscle on her light frame, her neck is thin and held high, giving a slightly giraffe-like impression, and her unease shows in the slight roll of her eye. But I can see now, so easily, the pony she could be. I can imagine myself cantering her into the ring, her copper coat glistening in the sun and neatly pulled mane ruffling in the light breeze, her slender legs dancing across the grassy turf. I can feel my own legs against her sides, the thickness of rubber reins taut between my fingers. I hear the sound of the jostling crowd and know that all eyes are on us as we canter around the ring. We hold their attention and admiration as they watch us jump easily over the highest obstacles. In my mind, the chestnut pony’s neck is arched, tail proudly aloft, her dark eyes bright and full of life and enthusiasm.

It may never get easier, but it’s a good reminder of why you are here and why you can never go back.

Don’t blame me. When you walk by the family dog and pat him behind the ears he’s going to lift his head for attention.

The SUV’s engine revs, but it doesn’t turn over.

nails

WGHB started as a Clearwater, Florida radio station in 1925. By 1927, its call letters changed to WFLA and it moved to 590 AM. WFLA inaugurated its broadcasting in the Tampa area on February 14, 1955. During those early years WFLA had had several music formats including middle-of-the-road and adult contemporary music before switching to news/talk in 1986. The most popular music you heard in the Tampa Bay Area was referred to as “good music” by the retirees and although big bands were at their zenith during and right after World War II, by 1947 most music critics knew that their time had passed. Although, Benny Goodman was only 46 in 1955, Tommy Dorsey was 49 and Count Basie was 51, in many quarters they were still popular and perhaps their music always will be. I for one had my Hi-Fidelity 33 1/3 rpm multi stacked record player and a stash of vinyl long play recordings shipped to West Africa. For me time stood still as I listened and entertained my friends. Some years later I actually met Harry James at the Crystal Ballroom in Disneyland. Wow, those were the days….

Dawn is breaking, sending pale fingers of cold light across the hills that surround the Harrisons’ farmyard. Jess is being difficult, rearing and trying to bolt away from the truck, and we’ve been at it for some time when Liam comes out of the house and sees our predicament. He marches across the yard, picks up a piece of cut-off hosepipe and walks up behind the pony. I see the look on Alec’s face as his dad approaches, and he’s not happy. Liam tells his son to “walk her up” and then cracks the mare around the rump with the piece of pipe when she plants her feet. The sound of the pipe hitting the pony echoes across the hills and rings in my ears. Jess starts to rear but earns another whack around the backside, so scrambles up the ramp and stands trembling in the truck. Alec quickly ties her up, his expression unreadable.

The pony is mad. She can go from a relaxed walk to a flat out gallop in seconds if something spooks her, and she won’t stop until she practically crashes into something. I’ve seen her buck, rear and spin around in circles. She’s completely unpredictable and I don’t even trust her on the ground. As far as I’m concerned, Alec’s welcome to her, and he relishes the challenge. For some reason, he loves that pony most of all. Perhaps it’s because no-one else would give her a chance, that they’d written her off as crazy, mean, dangerous. Alec admires her independent spirit, I think, and maybe he likes that she still has that strength of spirit, that she still challenges him every time he rides her. He can’t completely dominate her, and he doesn’t try. He wants a partnership with her. And slowly, slowly, his father is taking that away from him, bullying the mare and his son at the same time, seeking to fit them into the same mould, the only one he knows. The strong succeed while the weak fall behind.

It’s a beautiful morning that’s promising to be stinking hot by the afternoon. We ride the ponies down to the warm-up ring, surrounded by horses and ponies of all shapes and sizes, Alec calling out greetings to people he knows. I love everything about the atmosphere of a horse show. The smell of crushed grass, the drum of hoofbeats across the ground, the clatter of the poles coming down, the scattered applause from spectators.

The fleabitten grey mare's short legs are slightly over at the knee, she has a Roman nose and a neck of solid muscle well-practiced at pulling her rider out of the saddle. Her head is up and a layer of sweat darkens her pale shoulders, but Alec’s holding his reins tight and he’s maintaining control. All the riders who have gone before on beautifully turned out, well-schooled ponies were merely passengers as their ponies jumped. Alec has harnessed the raw talent of his mare, her power barely held in check as the bell rings and he canters her around towards the first jump. Jess strains against the martingale as she charges towards the first fence and with one strong push off her hocks, flies over the jump with her knees tucked into her chest.

He’s probably never ridden a horse in his life. He’s likely never experienced that moment of euphoria when you and an animal move completely as one, the indescribable sensation of grace and power running through your bones and settling forever in your heart. He probably won’t have felt a pony’s warm breath on his neck on a cold winter’s morning, or run his hand proudly across the soft sheen of a well-groomed coat. And he’s surely never rested his head against a pony’s warm neck, wrapped his arms around it and closed his eyes, and held on tightly to the one thing in his life that would stay solid and constant and true. So he couldn’t understand, not really, but I did.

It’s the show jumpers that I find the most interesting to watch. Small kids being taken around low courses by calm, professional ponies. Teenage riders on fit ponies with their show jackets slung over the front of their saddles and their feet dangling out of their stirrups, who call out greetings to Tabby as they ride past. All different shapes and sizes of horses, because all that really matters in show jumping is their ability to clear a jump. Thoroughbreds with weedy necks and tight martingales, clunky Roman-nosed horses that look like they’ll never be able to lift themselves off the ground, big Warmbloods being held back in gag bits, their shoulders slick with sweat.

While their drive is to get a clear round, to jump the highest, turn the tightest, beat the clock and win the class, it’s their horses who are the real stars. They have to be quick and clever and able to get themselves out of trouble, so that if they come in on the wrong stride and scramble over a fence nearly unseated, or if their horse knocks the back rail and it bounces in the cups but doesn’t hit the ground, they can still win. The excitement, the gasping of the crowd, the exhilaration of knowing that anything can happen on the day because every horse is only as good as the round they’ve just jumped. There’s no biased judging here, they either jump clean or they don’t. And nothing beats the exhilaration of a clear round in the jump-off. Riding against the clock, turning as tight as they possibly can around the course without knocking a single fence, then racing for the flags, urging their horses on, nosing through the finish, knowing that every moment counts. They bring the horse slowly back to a walk, straining their ears to hear the announcer tell everyone that theirs is now the time to beat, and then wait through the impossibly long minutes as the rest of the class jumps. Friends become the opposition, and they watch them go, desperately hoping they will take out a rail or miss their striding, anything that will ensure that they take home the win today. I want to join their ranks, to become part of that world. I just need the pony to take me there.

I clung to the dream like a lifeline, the only thing worth keeping going for. That was why I had agreed to come here. I'd always said I would sell my soul for a pony of my own.

Dad diagnoses me as having a stomach bug, claiming that there’s a nasty one going around, but I’m fairly certain it’s the chicken he cooked last night, which was a bit squishy and pink in places. I’d barely eaten any and Dad had scoffed a whole plate of it down, which is why he says it can’t have been the cause, but he has a cast iron stomach, probably from years of inadvertently poisoning himself.

Everything around me goes suddenly silent, even the cicadas in the trees pausing in their incessant whirring, momentarily stunned into stillness. For a long moment I hear nothing at all, but stand frozen in a silent grey world.

Finally found my paradise...on a beach in Clearwater. When I die ring the bells and bury me at sea...a few steps from my home!

Either way, his argument resonates with me. “I agree with Owen.” He smiles at me as Mrs. Stanton announces

I read from the Gospels, about the disciples.  They reminded me of us.  They had Jesus right there, like we have His words, and they still said and did stupid things.  But Jesus loved them.  After he was raised from the dead, one morning he made them breakfast, because they’d been out all night fishing.  That story amazed me.  You’d think dying on a Roman cross was enough,

Lexie has her tablet on her lap and the two of them had their eyes on the screen, but I don’t bother asking what they were doing.

That’s why Bridget and I were messing with you that day in history. You know, the wind in your hair, the pencil falling off the desk. I figured if we could get you frustrated enough, something might happen.” She rubs at the back of her neck. “I didn’t expect the whole shaking building thing.” “So

Creedence Clearwater Revival

But when she reaches her full height, she sways slightly, her hand going to the shelf behind her for support. I reach for my aunt. “Are you okay?” She smiles, pressing her hand to her forehead. “Yeah, just stood up too fast. I’m fine.” She shoos us with her hand. “You guys go have fun.” The group waves and turns toward the door, but I bite my lower lip. Is it the lighting in this area of the store, or does Jodi look pale?

I'm just me. Samuel Clearwater. I was born in this shit hole town. My favourite word is any variation of FUCK. I like my whiskey with a side of blow and maybe a little weed. I have a running theme song in my head for pretty much every occasion and I like to sing it at the top of my lungs, regardless of who is around or where I am. One of my most favorite things to do in this life is to give my friend Bear shit 'cause the look on his face is fucking priceless. I love all kinds of movies and I cried like a little bitch during the entire two hours of PS I Love You. I dig all kinds music. Countrey. Folk. Pop. Blues. Rap. Everything from Tupac to Taylor Swift. I have an unnatural obsession with making perfect pancakes.

I'm everything you shouldn't want for your daughter. Loud. Rude. Crude. I'm sure this is the part where I'm supposed to confess to you that I've done things I'm not proud of, but that's the thing, I'm pretty fucking proud of everything I've done. The good. The bad. The bloody. The only thing I ever did that I regretted was pushing Dre away and now I'm regretting bringing her back to this town because then maybe she wouldn't be here right now.

Hatred is easy. It's love that's hard.

– Don’t worry, Doc. I’ve seen like three episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, so i’m practically a licensed doctor. Now, be a good girl and bend over, show Dr. Preppy that ass.

It’s Latin for Love Saves.

eon

You didn’t have musical common ground with anybody in your family? The one thing my dad and I could agree on was Creedence Clearwater Revival. My dad loved Creedence. And I love Creedence. Guess what? Earthlings like Creedence! Everybody likes Creedence! Young, old, black, white, brown, Muslim! Everybody loves Creedence. They could play Creedence at the VFW hall and everybody would be happy.

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Does Crystal really know something about what happened in history class?

People cry, not because they're weak. It's because they've been strong for too long." -Johnny Depp

Eu vou arriscar, se é isso o que eu preciso fazer pra ficar com você,

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Qingxin's own name is even more impossible. clear-water heart, or heart like clear water. "When our heart is quiet and clear," her mother, who practiced Chan, told her "we don't feel pain. We want no more, no less, just this moment as we breathe.

We’ve also bought three billboards, one over near the Bay Pines VA hospital, the other on I-75, north of the first Tampa exit, and the third on U.S. 19 in Clearwater.

the train, the better,” he said. “At least I can get away from Percy at Hogwarts. Now he’s accusing me of dripping tea on his photo of Penelope Clearwater. You know,” Ron grimaced, “his girlfriend. She’s hidden her face under the frame because her nose has gone all blotchy. . . .” “I’ve got something to tell you,” Harry began, but they were interrupted by

Michaels takes a step back, takes in the woman’s remaining eye. Within it dwells lost photons, the last flashes of forty-eight hours ago. If only he could harvest that dead light, wind time backward, and look out at whoever did this. To tell them, Justice is coming.

Carruthers doesn’t doubt Kembo’s recollection. The mind is a malleable thing, an organ constantly reconstructing reality.

For music, she chose Top 40 hits by popular groups like Creedence Clearwater Revival and Neil Diamond. There was no choreography—she told her students to simply follow her lead as she led them through very basic steps. Let me be your mirror, she said. Once the class started, she shouted a constant stream of Looking good, ladies!

THIS HAPPPENED, not in 312 A.D., but in August, 1971. A retired bank vice-president named Harry Breitfeller, who lived in a comfortable duplex in Santa Monica with his wife and other relatives, stepped out on the cement porch a little after nine one morning to pick up the mail. There were half a dozen envelopes, mostly bills, in the mailbox, and a whacking big cardboard carton on the porch under it. Breitfeller picked up the carton, thinking it must be something his wife had ordered, but saw that his own name was on the label. There was no return address. According to the postmark, the box had been mailed late the previous afternoon in Clear-water, which is about 34 miles northeast of Los Angeles.

Howard knew that a strong enemy makes an opposing commander look good, and a great opposing general makes the victorious general look even better. Every time he had been called into the Plateau country, it had somehow involved an issue with Joseph. He had heard the man’s eloquence and seen the way that the other nontreaty chiefs had deferred to him on matters concerning the Wallowa. So he erroneously assumed that this imposing, charismatic, formidable chief was also the energetic, charismatic, formidable military leader of all the nontreaty bands. As a result, in his reports and in the dispatches from his friend, Sutherland, his military campaign was depicted as a struggle with the masterful war chief, Joseph, whose brilliant leadership and field strategies and tactics only served to make Howard’s victory seem even greater. Taking Howard’s lead, Sutherland referred to the Nez Perce as “Joseph’s people” and soon adopted the military shorthand of making observations such as “Joseph is in full retreat.” In the public’s mind, the Nez Perce were rapidly becoming “Joseph’s people,” and every military action was becoming an engagement between the Civil War general, Howard, and Joseph, the Nez Perce general and leader of the Nez Perce people. Meanwhile, the Nez Perce were anything but Joseph’s people. They were not even united among themselves. It had been all the chiefs could do to get everyone moving in a single direction. Even questions of allegiance still had not been sorted out. Many families included members who lived among the treaty factions as well as among the nontreaty bands. This had never presented a problem because all knew that a person or family could cross back and forth between sides if they decided that the Christian way or the traditional way was better. But now, with bullets flying, lines were hardening. In fact, in the Clearwater skirmish, one of the treaty Nez Perce fighting for the soldiers and even wearing a blue soldier’s jacket learned that his father had been killed while fighting on the nontreaty side, so he raced across the ground between the two factions, enduring fire from both camps, threw off his coat, and led a charge of the nontreaties against the soldiers he had just abandoned.

And these were just the main-stem dams. As they were going up, the Columbia tributaries were also being chinked full of dams. Libby Dam on the Kootenai River. Albeni Falls and Boundary dams on the Pend Oreille. Cabinet Gorge and Noxon Rapids dams on the Clark Fork. Kerr and Hungry Horse on the Flathead. Chandler and Roza dams on the Yakima. Ice Harbor Dam, Lower Monumental Dam, Little Goose Dam, Lower Granite Dam, Oxbow Dam, Hells Canyon Dam, Brownlee Dam, and Palisades Dam on the Snake. Dworshak Dam on the North Fork of the Clearwater. Anderson Ranch Dam on the South Fork of the Boise. Pelton and Round Butte dams on the Deschutes. Big Cliff, Foster, Green Peter, and Detroit dams on the three forks of the Santiam River. Cougar Dam on the South Fork of the McKenzie. Dexter, Lookout Point, and Hills Creek dams on the Willamette. Merwin Dam, Yale Dam, and Swift Dam on the Lewis River. Layfield and Mossyrock dams on the Cowlitz. Thirty-six great dams on one river and its tributaries—a dam a year. The Age of Dams.

I look through the sliding glass doors and catch a glimpse of Lenny’s long brown hair ... A feeling inside me more powerful than any drug I’ve ever sampled takes hold. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine to protect. Mine to… I don’t even have to finish the thought. I have my answer. “Yeah, she’s mine.” King looks into the house, a grin spread across his face. “The question is, does she know that?” … “No,” I stand and toss my beer in the trash. “but she’s going to find out.

This thing between us, connecting us, is far from a romance. It’s a crash. A fucking freefall.

I thought I was broken before, but the more time I spend with Poe, the more I realize that I have no idea what broken is. Because when all of this is over, I know without a doubt that one way or another, she’ll be the one who truly breaks me

This, with Nine, is downright nuclear. And any second, we’re both going to fucking explode.

It’s not like she can wash away her natural beauty like some girls wash away makeup.

If you fuck it, let it go. If it comes back to you… you can fuck it again.” Samuel Clearwater a.k.a. Preppy

We were ready to rock out and we waited and waited and finally it was our turn ... there were a half million people asleep. These people were out. It was sort of like a painting of a Dante scene, just bodies from hell, all intertwined and asleep, covered with mud. And this is the moment I will never forget as long as I live: A quarter mile away in the darkness, on the other edge of this bowl, there was some guy flicking his Bic, and in the night I hear, "Don't worry about it, John. We're with you." I played the rest of the show for that guy. —John Fogerty recalling Creedence Clearwater Revival's 3:30 a.m. start time at Woodstock.

I know the result of not hearing what he might have to say has a high chance of haunting me for the rest of my life and cause me many agonizing nights of sleeplessness. But then again, so did the ending of Game of Thrones.

Guess who? I’ll give you a hinty-hint. I’m as handsome as a supermodel, and as devilish as, well, the devil. I get a hard-on for both pussy and pancakes. I like my blow with a side of blow, and my man meat is enormous. That’s right! It’s me, Samuel Motherfucking Clearwater.

He thinks I’m lying.

And just now, I’ve chosen to trust someone who named his daughters after fucking pop stars and whose son is the youngest on record to be on the FBI watch list. There ain’t many people out there who have my respect. Respect needs to be earned. Preppy’s got mine. The man might have a case of verbal diarrhea there ain’t no cure for, but he’s been through hell and back. He’s been tortured and brutalized the likes of which most folks can’t begin to imagine. Most men, the strongest of men, in both body and spirit, would’ve caved after that. Not Preppy. Not Samuel Motherfucking Clearwater.

No point on dwelling on the past. It’s not something that can be fixed. Besides, it brought me here. To my brother. My friends. You. I can’t say certain shit don’t make me angry when I think about it, but a life worth living doesn’t come without trials. It’s what makes us who we are.

The Palm Pavilion was a beachfront restaurant famous for its grouper sandwich and live music at sunset. The pretty blue and white building sat on the end of a boardwalk looking out languidly at the Gulf of Mexico and the sugar white sands of Clearwater Beach. It was the perfect sunset spot if you could take the late afternoon heat.

The officer unlocks a chain-link gate and leads Brad into the heart of the lot. An abattoir of metal, a cemetery for the American dream. Moldering jalopies share space with low riders and Teslas. Trump-stickered pickups rust beside Priuses decorated with Bernie for President. In this way, the impound is more egalitarian than the community it serves.

These are his tools: his eyes and his mind. He sucks in the world in spastic strokes of his pen. This is his mantra when it comes to his writing: size, shape, distinguishing characteristics. Size: three hundred feet of old cobbled road. Shape: lumpy stones and ivy-draped brick. Distinguishing characteristics: these warm honey lamps.

Michaels has stood on both sides of this one-way mirror. There, in the interview room, listening to subjects. And here, on this side, conferring with scientists. Dead now, so many dead. But not her. Temporary lights dot the walls, cold orbs taped to concrete. Dim illumination, but it doesn’t matter to the woman on the gurney.

Caitlyn feels the shift as the tablet leaves the tray table and an inflight phone is lifted from its receiver. The airplane buzzes with voices, motion, excitement. Beyond the black curtain that has come to separate her from colors and shapes, only a few hundred miles away and closing, there is a monster. And beyond the curtain there is also a promise. Justice, moving swiftly, turning her sword and blind eyes upon Boston, where a man of shadows plies the night.

Inside now, combat glide, smooth and fast where the kitchen staff clears a path. Kevlar and carbines rattling past boiling pots. Cuban hip-hop from a wireless speaker. For a few curious seconds, the beat matches the pounding boots.

Do you think everyone has a beautiful adventure waiting on the other side of everything they’ve ever known?” She stopped her nervous cleaning and stood with her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes filled with hope. I took in a slow, even breath through my nose. I wanted to get my reply just right. “Jenna, I have come to believe the bounty that awaits us in the next season of our life is what we plant in this season.

There are over one hundred thousand miles of myelin-sheathed neurons in the brain, one hundred trillion synaptic connections. When Teddy understands Caitlyn’s words, his alpha motor neurons—the fastest neurons in a human body—fire in rapid succession, tearing him back across fifteen hundred miles of America. Across the great swaths of violet-bloom desert he had wandered in his dreams. Over the Salt Lake. Through Ogden, its brown brick buildings and suburban sprawls. Past winding freeways where cars and trucks ply the pavement like the electrical signals in his mind, from the axon tips, across the synaptic gap, to the dendrites of the next neuron, a dance from node to node, state to state, memory to memory.

I can’t afford to lose myself in Wilder Clearwater. He’d take everything from me and leave me with nothing.

In February 1950, Clearwater was a town of mythical status in Philly. Everyone that Ben knew was crazy about the Phillies, but no one he knew had been to Clearwater. To them, it was a city, perhaps like Brigadoon, that didn’t really exist, or maybe it did but only for one day every hundred years.

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Oh, you have made yourself clear,” Anna purred as she backed the taller woman into the wall. “But you’ve made one slight miscalculation: that I’d give two farthings for your threats. You see, if I don’t care what you say about me, well then you have nothing to hold over me, now, do you, Mrs. Clearwater?

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Apparently, even though we experience time minute by minute, second by second, it might not really exist that way. All time occurs right now. It’s just we can only see it unfolding in one direction.