Combat Boots Quotes

My parents probably wanted a girl who would sit in the pews wearing pretty florals and a soft smile. They got combat boots and a mouth silent until it’s sharp as an island machete.

I hate the way you talk to me And the way you cut your hair I hate the way you drive my car I hate it when you stare I hate your big dumb combat boots And the way you read my mind I hate you so much, that it makes me sick And even makes me rhyme I hate the way you're always right I hate it when you lie I hate it when you make me laugh Even worse when you make me cry I hate it when you not around And the fact that you didn't call But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you Not even close Not even a little bit Not even at all

The next morning-at least, I assumed it was morning, since we were all waking up- I felt like one of those twelve dancing princesses, who danced all night, wore holes in their shoes, and had to sleep it off the next day. Except, oh yeah: a)I'm not a princess; b)sleeping in a subway tunnel and having another brain attack aren't that much like dancing all night; and c) my combat boots were still in good shape. Other than that, it was exactly the same.

My sister, with her ratty red-highlighted hair and her linen pajamas and her combat boots—how could she possibly worry about being possessed by a goddess? What goddess would want her, except the goddess of chewing gum?

Last night, Dixon had suggested combat boots in place of Carrow’s own—her two-thousand-dollar, gathered-leather, over-the-knee boots. “Do you want me to go in as an enchantress or a warrior?” Carrow had asked testily. “Pick a caste, any caste, mortal. I myself think I have the best chance as an enchantress. And fuck-me boots are standard-issue.

What Vera doesn’t know is: I’d kill to be a pickle on her Big Mac—ground to relish between her perfect white teeth. I’d kill to be a bug she squishes with her holey Army-issue combat boot. But she’s too good for me. She always was.

He could do this. He'd survived boot camp. He'd survived combat and the harsh weather of Afghanistan. He could survive broccoli. Probably.

Well, I’ve been a musician my whole life. When I was two, I would sing the theme from Star Wars in my crib; my mom taped it for proof. Then, when I was five, I asked for a violin. No one knew why I would want one, but my wish was granted and I ended up a classically trained fiddler by age 12. The only problem with that was, when you’re a classical violinist, everybody expects you to be satisfied with playing Tchaikovsky for the rest of your life, and saying you want to play jazz, rock, write songs, sing your songs, hook up your fiddle to a guitar amp, sleep with your 4-track recorder, mess around with synths, dress like Tinkerbell in combat boots, AND play Tchaikovsky is equivalent to spitting on the Pope.

Looking mighty fine, if I do say so myself: red v-neck, dark denim, designer combat boots, and enough testosterone rolling off me to satisfy Nicki Minaj. Pow!

Because she’s Jade fucking Daniels. And a thousand men like you can’t even reach up to touch her combat boots.

And what was to become of what he had taken from her? He had dashed her heart to the ground and danced on it with combat boots. Did he sit in that seditious palace day after day and not even bother to scrape it off of his soles with a passing thought of her?

As for Sadie, she didn’t appear interested in strategy. She leaped from puddle to puddle in her combat boots. She hummed to herself, twirled like a little kid and occasionally pulled random things out of her backpack: wax animal figurines, some string, a piece of chalk, a bright yellow bag of candy. She reminded me of someone … Then it occurred to me. She looked like a younger version of Annabeth, but her fidgeting and hyperness reminded me of … well, me. If Annabeth and I ever had a daughter, she might be a lot like Sadie. Whoa. It’s not like I’d never dreamed about kids before. I mean, you date someone for over a year, the idea is going to be in the back of your mind somewhere, right? But still – I’m barely seventeen. I’m not ready to think too seriously about stuff like that. Also, I’m a demigod. On a day-to-day basis, I’m busy just trying to stay alive. Yet, looking at Sadie, I could imagine that someday maybe I’d have a little girl who looked like Annabeth and acted like me – a cute little hellion of a demigod, stomping through puddles and flattening monsters with magic camels.

We make the things that matter, matter.

You can't judge a book by its steel-toed combat boots.

And NONE of you noticed?” The Ares campers developed a sudden interest in their combat boots.

Her long platinum blond hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, with a few black peekaboo strands. She wore a black minidress and combat boots.

For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Hogwarts. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.

Nobody messes with a girl in combat boots, particularly when she's also a vegetarian.

The writer is an infantryman. He knows that progress is measured in yards of dirt extracted from the enemy one day, one hour, one minute at a time and paid for in blood. The artist wears combat boots.

Her décor style matches her schizophrenic personality to perfection. A combination of Barbie meets Marilyn Manson. She’s the only person I know who can pull off pink combat boots, black nail polish, and dark black smoky eyeliner with a pink sundress and have it look adorably sexy.

Postfeminism, as a term, suggests that women have made plenty of progress because of feminism, but that feminism is now irrelevant and even undesirable because it supposedly made millions of women unhappy, unfeminine, childless, hairy, lonely, bitter and prompted them to fill their closets with combat boots and really bad India print skirts. Supposedly women have gotten all they could out of feminism, are now "equal," and so can, by choice, embrace things we used to see as sexist, like a TV show in which some self-satisfied lunk samples the wares of twenty-five women before rejecting twenty-four and keeping the one he likes best, or like the notion that mothers should have primary responsibility for raising the kids. Postfeminism means that you can now work outside the home even in jobs previously restricted to men, go to graduate school, pump iron, and pump your own gas, as long as you remain fashion conscious, slim, nurturing, deferential to men, and become a doting, selfless mother.

If people are going to single me out, I might as well give them something to stare at. Red stripes in my hair? Why not! Combat boots with the school uniform? Absolutely. Headmaster says, “I’ll have to call your parents, young lady.” I say, “Good luck.

Hike up your combat boots, let your mind run loose

For some, a hero wears a spandex suit and a cape. My heroes wear flak jackets, flight suits, and combat boots.

but the combination of colorful tights and black combat boots was something I couldn’t resist.

Instead, when I pull it back, there's a man sitting on a red chaise lounge, leaning back and smiling wickedly at me. Around his neck, there's a tag that says DRINK ME. “Oh, heeeell no,” I say, backing up suddenly, until my feet crunch over the shards of broken glass. Thank God I decided to wear combat boots instead of the awful heels my sister'd picked out for me. “What's the matter?” the boy asks, tilting his head to the side and letting the corner of his lip twist up in a smirk. “You're not thirsty?

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

Some guys have a thing for cheerleaders,” he says, his voice easy. I roll my eyes as I start tossing socks into the bag. “Let me guess. You want to know if I still have my old uniform.” He sets the picture back on the nightstand and moves toward the door. “Nah. Not my thing. But I think I could develop a thing for girls in combat boots.” I spin around in surprise, wanting to see his face, wanting to know if he means what I think he means. But he’s already gone.

I eat gaijin for breakfast…" His words trailed off as Jilly came out of the house, in her pseudo-frock, her combat boots, her spiky hair and her young, young face. He just stared at her, motionless, as if someone had clubbed him over the head with a mallet. Jilly froze where she was, staring back at the exotic creature in black leather and bright red hair who'd invaded the garden.

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme! I hate it, I hate the way you’re always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call. But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

I could feel the warmth of the dog through my nightgown; I must have gotten hot during the night and thrown off the sheet. I drowsily patted the animal's head and began to stroke his fur, my fingers running idly through the thick hair. He wriggled even closer, sniffed my face, put his arm around me. His *arm*? I was off the bed and shrieking in one move. In my bed, Sam propped himself on his elbows, sunny side up, and looked at me with some amusement. "Oh, ohmyGod! Sam, how'd you get here? What are you doing? Where's Dean?" I covered my face with my hands and turned back, but I'd certainly seen all there was to see of Sam. "Woof," said Sam, from a human throat, and the truth stomped over me in combat boots. I whirled back to face him, so angry I felt like I was going to blow a gasket. "You watched me undress last night, you ... you ... damn dog!

The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati turn their trusting faces to the sun say to me care for us nurture us in my dreams I shudder and I run. I am six in a playground of white children Darkie, sing us an Indian song! Eight in a roomful of elders all mock my broken Gujarati English girl! Twelve, I tunnel into books forge an armor of English words. Eighteen, shaved head combat boots - shamed by masis in white saris neon judgments singe my western head. Mother tongue. Matrubhasha tongue of the mother I murder in myself. Through the years I watch Gujarati swell the swaggering egos of men mirror them over and over at twice their natural size. Through the years I watch Gujarati dissolve bones and teeth of women, break them on anvils of duty and service, burn them to skeletal ash. Words that don't exist in Gujarati : Self-expression. Individual. Lesbian. English rises in my throat rapier flashed at yuppie boys who claim their people “civilized” mine. Thunderbolt hurled at cab drivers yelling Dirty black bastard! Force-field against teenage hoods hissing F****ing Paki bitch! Their tongue - or mine? Have I become the enemy? Listen: my father speaks Urdu language of dancing peacocks rosewater fountains even its curses are beautiful. He speaks Hindi suave and melodic earthy Punjabi salty rich as saag paneer coastal Kiswahili laced with Arabic, he speaks Gujarati solid ancestral pride. Five languages five different worlds yet English shrinks him down before white men who think their flat cold spiky words make the only reality. Words that don't exist in English: Najjar Garba Arati. If we cannot name it does it exist? When we lose language does culture die? What happens to a tongue of milk-heavy cows, earthen pots jingling anklets, temple bells, when its children grow up in Silicon Valley to become programmers? Then there's American: Kin'uh get some service? Dontcha have ice? Not: May I have please? Ben, mane madhath karso? Tafadhali nipe rafiki Donnez-moi, s'il vous plait Puedo tener….. Hello, I said can I get some service?! Like, where's the line for Ay-mericans in this goddamn airport? Words that atomized two hundred thousand Iraqis: Didja see how we kicked some major ass in the Gulf? Lit up Bagdad like the fourth a' July! Whupped those sand-niggers into a parking lot! The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati bright as butter succulent cherries sounds I can paint on the air with my breath dance through like a Sufi mystic words I can weep and howl and devour words I can kiss and taste and dream this tongue I take back.

I let all that anger and worry go because they don't belong to me any more than the future does. And I don't wanna feel them anyhow, because the truth is, whatever happens when this war ends, here and now, far from Richmond County, I'm freer than I've ever been.

When it comes to war, if you’re going to pick up a gun, you cannot have an imbalance of commitment. You have to be ready to go, ready to fight, and ready to die.

Ninety percent of people want the direction of their life to change, but they forget they’re the ones driving the car. You have to turn the wheel.

I could perform ballet in combat boots more gracefully than that, George said. But then, so could an elephant, so that's not really saying much, now is it?

life will deceive us with relative predictability for long periods until, at the moments when we begin to feel the most comfortable, it unfolds, reminding us how powerless we all are.

Yoo Joonghyuk then powerfully threw Kim Dokja forward, but also stepped onto the latter's back – and they began scything past the storm as if he was surfing the waves. When I regained my wits, I found myself being trampled by his feet. "I told you not to throw me!!" He must've found stepping on my back rather unsanitary, because he began lightly dusting his combat boots.

I like shoes,” Erin argued over her enchiladas, There was a massive margarita in front of her. “No,” Phoebe shot back with a grin. “You like boots, and not the cute kind. You like combat boots. The salesperson at Nordstrom nearly cried when she saw what you’re wearing.

It was a bright day, but cold, and the whores had emerged, working the Combat Zone, looking cold and bizarre in their miniskirts, boots, and blond wigs. Being seductive at twenty degrees was heavy going, I thought. Being horny at twenty degrees wasn’t all that easy either.

Charlie Bourdel stood five foot nothing without his combat boots. His long, black, curly hair was caught up in a high ponytail that reached the middle of his back. He kept a switchblade in his right combat boot and a .45 in his guitar case and could and would willingly hurt anybody who made the mistake of messing with him. Between the badass attitude and the fifty-pound chip on his shoulder you’d think he had a fatal case of little man syndrome; you’d be dead wrong. He was one hundred and thirty pounds sopping wet of swagger and confidence.

I still can’t unsee Tommy’s outfit: nighttime sunglasses, a dark blazer as loose and baggy as rain gear, sand-colored cargo pants with pockets filled to capacity (was he smuggling potatoes?), a white tank top, clunky Frankenstein combat boots, and two belts. Yes, two belts.

Though he risked his life, Ransone sat down to pull off the galoshes, which he tossed aside as he regained his feet. There was little to commend the leather soles of his combat boots over the rubber soles of the galoshes, but he had given up all other options. He struggled on until lack of sleep

More than any other nation, the United States has been almost constantly involved in armed conflict and, through military alliances, has used war as a means of resolving international and local disputes. Since the birth of the United Nations, we have seen American forces involved in combat in Afghanistan, Bosnia, Cambodia, the Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Greece, Grenada, Haiti, Iraq, Korea, Kosovo, Kuwait, Laos, Lebanon, Libya, Nicaragua, Panama, Serbia, Somalia, and Vietnam, and more recently with lethal attacks in Pakistan, Somalia, Yemen, and other sovereign nations. There were no “boots on the ground” in some of these countries; instead we have used high-altitude bombers or remote-control drones. In these cases we rarely acknowledge the tremendous loss of life and prolonged suffering among people in the combat zones, even after our involvement in the conflict is ended.

They can’t comprehend what it means to live a life in the service of others.

the numbers of service members we’ve lost to suicide is far greater than the number of service members killed by the enemy.

You aren’t going barefoot?” she asked. “In a combat situation, you never remove your boots.” “It’s at least three miles to the compound buildings.” “I’ve hiked farther in wet boots.

The writer is an infantryman. He knows that progress is measured in yards of dirt extracted from the enemy one day, one hour, one minute at a time and paid for in blood. The artist wears combat boots. He looks in the mirror and sees GI Joe. Remember, the Muse favors working stiffs. She hates prima donnas. To the gods the supreme sin is not rape or murder, but pride.

In the Orwellian language of the far right, someone who wants to combat Russian aggression is a “Russian propagandist,” whereas someone who echoes Russian propaganda is putting “America first.”4

True story: Some homeowner’s burning a yard pile just like this one. And he goes inside for lemonade and opens the cabinet under the sink to toss something in the trash, and this rat’s down in the bottom, gnawing a chicken bone. The rat had been driving the guy crazy for months, living in the walls and scampering through the attic at night like it had combat boots. So the guy grabs a rolling pin and beats it to death. Then he takes it outside and throws it on the burning pile.” “Good story,” said Coleman. “What’s the problem?” “The rat’s not dead. The heat wakes him up. It jumps off the pile and makes a beeline for the house. Except now its fur’s on fire. The homeowner tries to intercept, but it zips between his legs, runs back inside and gets in the walls. Ignited the insulation. Whole place burned down.

We start talking about current events. I ask him, “What’s the story about weapons of mass destruction?” “I wanted them.” “Did you get them?” “No.” “So why did you kind of lead everybody on that you had weapons of mass destruction?

The woman wins who calls herself beautiful and challenges the world to change to truly see her. A woman wins by giving herself and other women permission - to eat; to be sexual; to age; to wear overalls, a paste tiara, a Balenciaga gown, a second-hand opera cloak, or combat boots; to cover up to to go practically naked; to do whatever we choose in following - or ignoring - our own aesthetic. A woman wins when she feels that what each woman does with her own body - unforced, uncoerced - is her own business.

Astrid turned, slowly and deliberately, toward Reyna. She looked her up and down, and then frowned, as if she couldn't quite place her. "Reyna? I didn't recognize you without the emo girl costume. Still not quite the goddess of light and beauty, are you? Big heels to fill. It'll take a while to grow into them." She looked Reyna over again. "Maybe a long while." "Oh, I fit my shoes just fine. Today, they're a sweet pair of combat boots, because today, I'm playing a different aspect of Freya. Goddess of kick-your-butt-if-you-mess-with-me. Or mess with anyone else.

This is just one version of how the world of successful people actually works. But social capital is all around us. Those who tap into it and use it prosper. Those who don’t are running life’s race with a major handicap. This is a serious problem for kids like me. Here’s a non-exhaustive list of things I didn’t know when I got to Yale Law School: That you needed to wear a suit to a job interview. That wearing a suit large enough to fit a silverback gorilla was inappropriate. That a butter knife wasn’t just decorative (after all, anything that requires a butter knife can be done better with a spoon or an index finger). That pleather and leather were different substances. That your shoes and belt should match. That certain cities and states had better job prospects. That going to a nicer college brought benefits outside of bragging rights. That finance was an industry that people worked in. Mamaw always resented the hillbilly stereotype—the idea that our people were a bunch of slobbering morons. But the fact is that I was remarkably ignorant of how to get ahead. Not knowing things that many others do often has serious economic consequences. It cost me a job in college (apparently Marine Corps combat boots and khaki pants aren’t proper interview attire) and could have cost me a lot more in law school if I hadn’t had a few people helping me every step of the way.

I know what I want to hear. I want to hear the "Believe it or Not" song. I want to play that shit loud. Really belt out the "Should have been somebody eeeeeelse" part, with a little bit of Zack de la Rocha venom. That would be pretty awesome right about now. But the other part of me, the part that wanted to be cool, knew that it was a much better idea to say, "Let's play the fucking Misfits." Because that's what you say to the cool guy in the combat boots who wants to smoke in your house. Because he's going to snarl-smile at you and say, "Fuck yeah!" And you're feel cool by association. "Let's play the fucking Misfits," I said. John snarl-smiled and saluted me with rock horns. "Fuck yeah." Told you.

What I was able to share with people was how I learned that we all need to serve something bigger than ourselves. And if we want to inspire, we need to make ourselves small, not large. Like mothers, for example. Moms can be exhausted and hungry, even injured, but they’re wiping our butts throughout the night. Her success, though, is also our success. If we can all be servant leaders, then our teams will thrive and prevail.

I walked through the cemetery holding a bouquet of yellow and red flowers with brown combat boots, feeling grateful and bitter the sun was shining so brightly. I felt an urge to run, as well as a magnet to reach the group of people surrounding you. I wanted to be wearing white. I wanted to be walking down an isle with flowers and for this to be a different ceremony. I wanted to curl up beside the earth that held you, the pink and yellow petals, strings of ground hanging loosely in the wind and be beside you. I was angry you were buried, I resented the earth falling upon you. Each scoop felt heavy and indefinite. I'm not ready to know this is definite. I watched your chest, in a white linen shirt last night wishing for your chest to rise. But when I kissed your forehead it was cold. And when I held your hands it wasn't you. It was a shell. It was a vessel. It was empty. The first time I heard your new music it was by accident and your voice drove me from your home into hysterics. But when I entered your home and it played with your casket it was welcome. I read your letter with your mom and dad out loud beside you, and halfway through "spelunking in your soul" started to play. That was a gift, thank you. Today walking back from the funeral a green and black beetle landed in my hair and crawled onto my finger. I just had a bad moment with a woman in your life and I felt you in the little beetle. I'm writing something to be read at your celebration of life. It's not going to be read by me. I have a wedding in Joshua tree. But I will celebrate you in the desert there. I wanted to read the poem "sex and wine for breakfast" I wrote about you but figured I would go less steamy. I love you.

The first battle in Fallujah happens three months later, in April. Some Blackwater guys riding in an up-armored Chevy Suburban stop on a road by the bridge at the entrance to the gates of Fallujah when they’re approached by a group of kids selling gum, candy, soda, and fake Rolexes. A guy rolls down the window to buy some candy, and a kid drops a frag grenade into the Suburban. The burned, charred bodies of four Americans are dragged from the wreckage and strung up by the bridge. The insurgents declare an all-out war against the Americans in Iraq.

he’s disastrously hot, wearing a goddamn corset vest. The satiny black vest has vertical ribs that taper his chest into his waist in the very definition of a perfect V. I want nothing more than to drop to my knees and weep, good lord how I have never seen a corset vest before—I mean, I’ve seen one, but I’ve never seen one, not on someone whose body looks physically sculpted to fill out this apex of human fashion. He’s got the only pop of color in the entire group, a scarlet silk button-up under the vest, the color such a deep red that there’s no question it’s meant to symbolize gore and darkness rather than Christmas’s cherry brightness. Tight black pants taper into calf-high combat boots and the tips of his black hair now brush his shoulders, half the strands pulled behind his head, showing—displaying—the blade-edge sharpness of his jaw and cheekbones and the array of piercings up the shell of his left ear. Wide, observant dark eyes rimmed with black liner go from the floor up to my dad and Iris, no emotion at all on his face, but that lack of emotion is reaction enough—I get the distinct feeling he’s pissed to be here. His hands hang at his sides, loosely clenched in fists, most of his fingers set with thick silver rings. “The royal house of Halloween,” an announcer bellows. “King Ichabod Hallow. Queen Carina Hallow. And their son Prince Hex Hallow.

I’m Ghost 1 on the comms. Garcia is 2, Horn is 3, Fitz is 4, Rico is 5, and Tank is 6. When we land, we stay in close combat intervals. Fitz has point, Tank you’re on rear guard. Keep low to the ground. You spot anything, you signal it. And keep your distance. The juveniles can shoot their venom up to thirty feet. You are not to engage unless it’s a last resort. If you see them, we use our R49 grenades first. Complete radio discipline as soon as our boots hit dirt unless you’re about to get your arms ripped off. Understood?” Beckham spoke in a calm yet authoritative voice. It was a tone everyone respected. The members of Team Ghost all dipped their helmets. Apollo even wagged his tail.

form of Banks. “I’m not a dog, Banks. My name’s Sophia.” Craig Banks, head guard and all-around asshole, grinned as his eyes traveled the length of her. Sophia fought the shiver running down her spine as the six-foot-one guard puffed out his broad chest, trying to impress her. The man could be dressed in the finest wool suit instead of the camo pants, blank t-shirt, and combat boots he was wearing, and she’d still want to throw up at the sight of him. The man enjoyed hurting others. Last month when he’d tortured that poor bear shifter for information, Banks had been cracking jokes the entire time. “No, cupcake, you’re certainly not a dog, not with that body and that gorgeous face.” Banks ran his fingers across her bruised cheek. She flinched, but not from the pain of her cheek. “And that’s a compliment. I don’t usually go for brunettes, but you’re the exception.” Lucky me. For once, she was glad for all the people still hanging out talking nearby. Banks wouldn’t touch her here, well, no more than he had already. Her eyes started to drift in the direction of the prison, but she caught herself. Ironic how the shifter felt trapped in there and she felt trapped out here. Right now, she’d gladly switch places with him. “I’m still waiting for that walk in the woods you promised me,” Banks added, letting his hand slide down her neck to the top of her blouse. Resisting the urge to bite his hand, Sophia subtly stepped out of his reach.

First, I assessed their combat skills. Aeneas performed surprisingly well for a son of Aphrodite; I expected him to be a lover, not a fighter, and yet he actually knew how to use his sword as a sword rather than as a fashion accessory. The other demigods had some work to do. Atalanta seemed to think all training matches had to be fought to the death. She also referred to her classmates as dirty, stupid men, which made team-building difficult. Achilles spent his entire time in combat defending his right heel, an unusual manoeuvre that baffled me until I found out about his childhood dip in the River Styx. I tried to tell the boy to wear iron-shod boots rather than sandals, but he simply wouldn’t listen. As for Asclepius, in one-on-one melees he had an off-putting habit of darting in and feeling his opponent’s forehead for signs of fever.

You have to have approached a place from all four cardinal points if you want to take it in, and what’s more, you also have to have left it from all these points. Otherwise it will quite unexpectedly cross your path three or four times before you are prepared to discover it. One stage further, and you seek it out, you orient your-self by it. The same thing with houses. It is only after having crept along a series of them in search of a very specific one that you come to learn what they contain. From the arches of gates, on the frames of house doors, in letters of varying size, black, blue, yellow, red, in the shape of arrows or in the image of boots or freshly-ironed laundry or a word stoop or a stairway’s solid landing, the life leaps out at you, combative, determined, mute. You have to have traveled the streets by streetcar to realize how this running battle con-tinues up along the various stories and finally reaches its decisive pitch on the roofs.

Knightmare. Breezeo’s archenemy. Where Breezeo is light, a breath of fresh air, the nice breeze on a warm summer day, Knightmare is the storm that rolls in and takes it all away. Darkness, thick and suffocating, the shadows you can’t escape in the night in back alleyways. Black leather framed with dark armor, head to toe, from the combat boots the whole way up to the oversized black hood with a metal mask covering part of the face, rendering him unrecognizable. I’ve always been envious of the costume. Beats the damn pseudo-spandex, that’s for sure. “I, uh, wow.” Kennedy stands in the doorway of her apartment with a look of awe as her eyes scan the costume. “That’s just… wow.” “Wow, huh?” I glance down. “Good or bad?” “It’s just, uh, you know…” “Wow?” I guess. She nods, fighting off a smile. “Wow.” I smirk. “It’s the original.” “Seriously?” “Straight from the second movie,” I say, touching an armored chest plate with a fingerless glove-clad hand. “Well, except for these gloves. The real ones wouldn’t fit because of the cast, so I had to improvise.” “It’s, uh…” “Wow?” “Nice,” she says, touching the costume, fingertips grazing the armor. “Kind of weird seeing you like this, but still, it’s nice.” “Thanks,” I say as she steps aside for me to come in the apartment. “I talked them into letting me borrow it. Might not give it back, though. I’m kind of enjoying it.” “You should keep it,” she says, her eyes still scanning me as she closes the door. “It’s, uh…” “Nice?” “Wow.” She smiles playfully as she walks away. “I need to finish getting ready for work. Maddie, you've got a visitor!” A moment after Kennedy disappears, Madison runs in. She skids to a stop when she spots me, eyes wide, mouth popping open. “Whoa.” I push the hood off, shoving the mask up, her expression changing when she sees it’s me, face lighting up. She runs right at me, slamming into me so hard I stumble. I laugh as she hugs me. “Hey, pretty girl.” She looks up at me. “You think I’m pretty?” “What? Of course.” I kneel next to her, grinning as I press a finger to the tip of her nose. “You look like your mom.” “You think Mommy’s pretty, too?” “I think she's the most beautiful woman in the world.” Her expression shifts rapidly when I say that before her eyes widen. “Even more beautifuler than Maryanne?” I lean closer, whispering, repeating her words. “Even more beautifuler than Maryanne.” “Whoa

Misss Scott shows the class photographs of a burned, naked girl running, crying down a dirt road of people climbing, screaming. desperate to get on the last helicopter out of Saigon of skeletal refugees, crammed aboard a sinking fishing boat, reaching up to the heavens for help of mounds of combat boots abandoned by soldiers of the loosing side. She's telling the class Where I'm from. She should have shown something about papayas and Tet. No one would believe me but at times I would choose wartime in Saigon over peacetime in Alabama.

Ode to Bees Multitude of bees! in and out of the crimson, the blue, the yellow, of the softest softness in the world; you tumble headlong into a corolla to conduct your business, and emerge wearing a golden suit and quantities of yellow boots. The waist, perfect, the abdomen striped with dark bars, the tiny, ever-busy head, the wings, newly made of water; you enter every sweet-scented window, open silken doors, penetrate the bridal chamber of the most fragrant love, discover a drop of diamond dew, and from every house you visit you remove honey, mysterious, rich and heavy honey, thick aroma, liquid, guttering light, until you return to your communal palace and on its gothic parapets deposit the product of flower and flight, the seraphic and secret nuptial sun! Multitude of bees! Sacred elevation of unity, seething schoolhouse. Buzzing, noisy workers process the nectar, swiftly exchanging drops of ambrosia; it is summer siesta in the green solitudes of Osorno. High above, the sun casts its spears into the snow, volcanoes glisten, land stretches endless as the sea, space is blue, but something trembles, it is the fiery, heart of summer, the honeyed heart multiplied, the buzzing bee, the crackling honeycomb of flight and gold! Bees, purest laborers, ogival workers fine, flashing proletariat, perfect, daring militia that in combat attack with suicidal sting; buzz, buzz above the earth's endowments, family of gold, multitude of the wind, shake the fire from the flowers, thirst from the stamens, the sharp, aromatic thread that stitches together the days, and propagate honey, passing over humid continents, the most distant islands of the western sky. Yes: let the wax erect green statues, let honey spill in infinite tongues, let the ocean be a beehive, the earth tower and tunic of flowers, and the world a waterfall, a comet's tail, a never-ending wealth of honeycombs! Pablo Neruda, Odes to Common Things. (Bulfinch; Illustrated edition, May 1, 1994)

The military had taught him to be a creature of habit, to develop personal systems that allowed him to function at optimal efficiency. He always slept with his rifle to the left side of his body. The boots were also at the left, at chest level. One boot held his Beretta M9 and the other held an unsheathed Cold Steel combat knife. Both the pistol and the knife were ready to grab and fight if it came to that. It was a gray day outside and dim light filtered

Any other girl at La Brea High would have been flattered to have him pursue her. They found his laid-back scruffy look irresistible, even with his bad reputation as a heartbreaker. Serena had caught him staring at her in English class and had wondered what he wanted with her. She wasn't the glam type of girl he normally dated, not with her combat boots, black fishnet hose, and graffiti-painted nails. But it didn't take much to realize he had a huge crush on her. He always seemed to show up where she was. At first Serena had been impressed that he wasn't the kind of guy who judged a girl by the way she dressed. She might have even dated him if she hadn't discovered the truth. He lied about the girls he had gone out with. It wasn't as if Serena didn't know guys did that. She knew they exaggerated sometimes, but Jerome did more. She couldn't confront him or even tell others what she knew, though, because no one would believe her.

There was nothing accidental about this accident. It was a deliberate, planned attack... on me. Heavy footsteps crunched on broken glass somewhere nearby, and I held my breath on reflex. I was already belly down on the pavement; all I needed to do was shimmy under the car for protection. But what if it caught fire or something? Then... fuck. It was already too late. A pair of black combat boots rounded the smashed-up hood of Bree's car, and I looked up, locking eyes with the stranger. And his gun.

My combat boots are fantastic, but they’re not exactly prime no-slip material.

I knew it was you! Only you could turn Main Street into your own fashion runway.” Alana Castillo, one of my high school classmates, waves. Of all the people from my past I could have run into, Alana is the best option. Not only is she nice, but we actually got along pretty well in high school despite being part of different friend groups. Her dark hair shines under the sun, bringing out the different brown tones. A tall, handsome, blond man beside her whispers something in her ear before taking off toward the Pink Tutu with her daughter, who is dressed in a leotard, neon green ballet skirt, and combat boots.

Even in combat boots feminine form is hounded by the historical legacy of sex discrimination in everyday social practice, by the history and control of woman's "appropriate" imaging, and by the effects which that appropriation [...] has had upon women's lives.

He had a pale complexion, tousled black hair, and rich brown eyes like melted chocolate. He was dressed in black jeans, combat boots (like mine!), a ripped T-shirt, and a black leather jacket that suited him quite nicely. He was long and lean like a jackal. His ears, like a jackal’s, stuck out a bit (which I found cute), and he wore a gold chain around his neck.

Even in her heeled ankle boots, she was six inches shorter than me. Her? She’s the big threat?! I glanced down at my combat gear, feeling ridiculous. I lowered the shotgun and took out a set of handcuffs. She looked at them and raised one perfect eyebrow. “My safeword is Cincinnati.

One of these men was a guy who loved cyberpunk and post-apocalyptic fiction. (It was San Francisco, after all, and my childhood sci-fi obsessions had transformed me into a dystopian dream girl.) We wrote each other stories and went shopping for survivalist supplies at REI and did an apocalypse photo shoot with combat boots and machetes among the rubble at Albany Bulb. I shaved half my head because he said it would be hot. Less than a year into our relationship, he took me to a gun range for the first time, and I was delighted to find I was a great shot: All of my bullets traveled right through the head of the paper man-shaped target. A week later, the guy dumped me. He said it was because I was too intimidating; he was afraid that one day, I’d wake up and shoot him in the head, too.

Saint stands immediately, and in a surprising move, pulls me up and off the bed, shoving me behind him. I peer around his arm to see those piercing hazel eyes beneath the black mask, Aero’s shirtless form covered in those endless marks and scars. Mound of muscle that look tense and taut, as if he’s had a hard time restraining himself, are dressed in nothing but the black pants and combat boots he was wearing earlier. His lengthy frame grows on us with every abominable step he takes. Saint holds me back, his chest heaving in terror at the presence of an unknown man lurking in the corners of my room. “It’s him,” he whispers to himself. Aero’s uneven smirk pulls at his lips through the mouth hole of the mask.

Nobody messes with a girl in combat boots, particularly when she’s also a vegetarian.

The first day I walked into Frank’s kitchen, I was sporting a long ponytail, mascara, and combat boots. By the time I left, I had cut my hair short and wore my chef’s coat with pride. I didn’t adorn myself with anything else. I shed any notion of an adolescent identity and started from scratch.

Where does a young lady in Wakefield, Connecticut, purchase combat boots?” “Goodwill,” she said. “You’re wearing Goodwill combat boots?” “Yes.” “Congratulations, Eleanor. Your footwear has achieved irony.” Before

The writer is an infantryman. He knows that progress is measured in yards of dirt extracted from the enemy one day, one hour, one minute at a time and paid for in blood. The artist wears combat boots. He looks in the mirror and sees GI Joe. Remember, the Muse favors working stiffs. She hates prima donnas. To the gods the supreme sin is not rape or murder, but pride. To think of yourself as a mercenary, a gun for hire, implants the proper humility. It purges pride and preciousness.

Empathy "Walk a mile in an others shoes." What shoes? Baby shoes? Gym shoes? Combat boots? Sandals? Flip flops? Shoes that are too big? Shoes that are too small? What if the persons never wore shoes? Enough with the shoes. Empathy " Feel the burdens and woes from an others head to their toes.

He said something that vaguely resembled “Driver’s license please.” She grabbed her bag and eventually found her license. Her hands were shaking as she gave him the card. He took it and pulled it almost to his nose, as if visually impaired. She finally looked at him; other impairments were obvious. His uniform was a mismatched ensemble of frayed and stained khaki pants, a faded brown shirt covered with all manner of insignia, unpolished black combat boots, and a Smokey the Bear trooper’s hat at least two sizes too big and resting on his oversized ears. Unruly black hair crept from under the hat. “New York?” he said. His diction was far from crisp but his belligerent tone was clear.

Even today, a decade later, I still can’t unsee Tommy’s outfit: nighttime sunglasses, a dark blazer as loose and baggy as rain gear, sand-colored cargo pants with pockets filled to capacity (was he smuggling potatoes?), a white tank top, clunky Frankenstein combat boots, and two belts. Yes, two belts. The first belt was at home in its loops; the second draped down in back to cup Tommy’s backside, which was, he always claimed, the point: “It keeps my ass up. Plus it feels good.

Wow, Callie! I bet Finn could pick you up." Callie could feel the heat coming up the back of her neck, but she couldn't stop it. Soldiers didn't blush. They were mean and tough and could take out snakes, spiders, and even enemy combatants. But a visual of her hanging over Finn's back with her butt so close to his lips that he could kiss it --- well, hell's belles, that would make the devil himself blush.

Sean didn’t think it was going too badly…until Emma set a steaming glass dish on a trivet in the middle of the table. It was a casserole. One with tufts of little green trees sticking up out of some kind of sauce. Broccoli. He hated broccoli. Loathed it. “Chicken Divan,” Emma said, and only an idiot could have missed the note of pride in her voice as she put her hands on her hips, oven mitts and all. “It’s my best dish—okay, my only real baked dish—so I made it as a welcome-home meal.” Cat smiled and Sean forced his lips to move into what he hoped was a similar expression. A woman who was sleeping with and living with and planning a future with a man would know he didn’t like broccoli. And it was his own damn fault for laughing off her suggestion he write an owner’s manual of his own. She served him first, maybe because he was the fake man of the house, plopping in front of him a steaming pile of perfectly good chicken and cheese ruined by the green vegetables. He smiled at her—or maybe grimaced—and took a sip of iced tea. He could do this. He’d survived boot camp. He’d survived combat and the harsh weather of Afghanistan. He could survive broccoli. Probably.

combat boots and helmets. The breeze rose and he walked crabwise, trying to give

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

feet, wearing a black rubber gas mask that obscured his face. His chest was bare, covered in dried blood. All he wore was stained white underwear, and combat boots, their laces untied.

After a parting eyebrow arch into the mirror, I drift into my room and spend a second staring longingly at a an oversized gray hoodie picturing the cover of one of my favorite books, My Antonia, before tossing it aside and grabbing a boring, cream sweater that hits me about mid-thigh. I have these ridiculously awesome Prada combat boots that would breathe some life into this bleh, but I don’t want to draw that kind of attention tonight, so I settle on a pair of brown Tory Burch riding boots that would only look expensive to the most discerning eye. I shake my head around a few more times, letting my armpit-length auburn waves cascade around my face, before I fasten my hair into a casual French braid. Then I grab my backpack purse, my adorable bear keychain, and my phone out of the Bose dock, and sprint toward the garage door:

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

Jon had spent most of his career gathering intelligence, providing security, rescuing hostages, and, one way or another, in direct, boots-on-the-ground combat with individuals identified as terrorists by the United Nations, the United States government, and the civilized world. This being Nigeria, Jon knew the people responsible for the bombing would be members of Boko Haram, an Islamist militant group with ties to al-Qaeda, or a Boko Haram splinter group known as Ansaru. Both were big on suicide bombings, and often employed women and children as their designated suicides. Neither group had claimed responsibility, but Jon knew this meant little. So many dipshits with ties to al-Qaeda were running around that part of the world, you couldn’t keep track with a scorecard. The shot caller who ordered the bombing would probably never be known, and was likely already dead. More’s

Another division was even tougher in its views. ‘We have never been benefited by treating prisoners well . . . We are here to Kill Germans, not to baby them.’ Some soldiers in the 30th Division exacted their own revenge when they captured Germans wearing American combat boots taken from the dead. They forced them at gunpoint to remove them and walk barefoot along the icy roads.

eventually I started hanging out at a specific Old Town bar that was known as a leather-and-Levi’s kind of place. You get the picture—jeans, leather vests, uniforms, and combat boots. Think the Village People without the Indian. The first time that I went there, I was scared to death. I knew I was attracted physically to the men and the way that they dressed, but I wasn’t sure exactly what they were into. A huge bear of a man in leather pants and a cop hat can be a bit intimidating to a newbie. But as I worked my way into the crowd and began to hear snippets of conversations, I realized, “These guys are talking about recipes!” Suddenly,

The Supreme Court could have said, You’re just these fringe women in combat boots. But they didn’t.

On another day, when he was on inspection duty, Trump came upon fellow student Ted Levine’s unmade bed. Trump ripped the sheets off and threw them on the floor. Levine, a foot shorter than Trump, threw a combat boot at Donald, then hit him with a broomstick. Infuriated, Trump grabbed Levine and tried to push him out a second-floor window, Levine recalled. Two other cadets intervened to prevent Levine from falling.

Name: Alya Fall Storm Age: 18 Gender: Female DOB: September 13 Sexuality: Straight Description: Black hair and dark blue eyes - the hidden beauty you have to discover Long Brown hair, navy blue eyes. Fair skin, 5'6. Has a small scar at the top of her left cheek from an incident in training. Style: Wears mostly black and combat boots because she is a knight and always needs to be ready. When she's off duty she wears leggings and fitted t-shirts and a flannel around her waist. Always wears tennis shoes or her fuzzy socks. Personality/ history: She's fierce and has the hard outside personality of a guard as she was trained to. But under the knight exterior she misses the family that she never had and the reason she became a knight was so that she could prevent others from getting hurt like she was when she was kicked out of the orphanage at the age of 12. She began her training at 14 and graduated at 16. She doesn't have many friends she keeps to herself spending her free time reading, drawing, or training. Likes: Reading, drawing, running, puppies, horses, riding, cheesecake, sugar cookies. Dislikes: Green beans, being underestimated. Fears: Snakes Occupation: Knight

Name: Alya Fall Storm Age: 16 Gender: Female DOB: September 13 Sexuality: Straight Description: Black hair and blue eyes - the hidden beauty you have to discover Long Brown hair, navy blue eyes. Fair skin, 5'6. Has a small scar at the top of her left cheek from an incident in training. Style: Wears mostly black and combat boots because she is a knight and always needs to be ready. When she's off duty she wears leggings and fitted t-shirts and a flannel around her waist. Always wears tennis shoes or her fuzzy socks. Personality/ history: She's fierce and has the hard outside personality of a guard as she was trained to. But under the knight exterior she misses the family that she never had and the reason she became a knight was so that she could prevent others from getting hurt like she was when she was kicked out of the orphanage at the age of 12. She began her training at 14 and graduated at 16. She doesn't have many friends she keeps to herself spending her free time reading, drawing, or training. Likes: Reading, drawing, running, puppies, horses, riding, cheesecake, sugar cookies. Dislikes: Green beans, being underestimated. Fears: Snakes Occupation: Knight

Name: Alya Fall Storm Age: 16 Gender: Female DOB: September 13 Sexuality: Straight Description: Black hair and dark blue eyes - the hidden beauty you have to discover Long Brown hair, navy blue eyes. Fair skin, 5'6. Has a small scar at the top of her left cheek from an incident in training. Style: Wears mostly black and combat boots because she is a knight and always needs to be ready. When she's off duty she wears leggings and fitted t-shirts and a flannel around her waist. Always wears tennis shoes or her fuzzy socks. Personality/ history: She's fierce and has the hard outside personality of a guard as she was trained to. But under the knight exterior she misses the family that she never had and the reason she became a knight was so that she could prevent others from getting hurt like she was when she was kicked out of the orphanage at the age of 12. She began her training at 14 and graduated at 16. She doesn't have many friends she keeps to herself spending her free time reading, drawing, or training. Likes: Reading, drawing, running, puppies, horses, riding, cheesecake, sugar cookies. Dislikes: Green beans, being underestimated. Fears: Snakes Occupation: Knight

anything. A helmet require 5 pieces of material, a chestplate requires 8, trousers require 7 and boots require only 4. Helmet Recipe

Even their leather combat boots looked ferocious with their iron cleats, great for marching through mud or stomping on faces.