Cooler Heads Quotes

I think what I want is for someone to know me. Really know me. Know me better than anyone else and maybe even me. Isn’t that why we commit to another? It’s not for sex. If it were for sex, we wouldn’t marry one person. We’d just keep finding new partners. We commit for many reasons, I know, but the more I think about it, the more I think long-term relationships are for getting to know someone. I want someone to know me, really know me, almost like that person could get into my head. What would that feel like? To have access, to know what it’s like in someone else’s head. To rely on someone else, have him rely on you. That’s not a biological connection like the one between parents and children. This kind of relationship would be chosen. It would be something cooler, harder to achieve than one built on biology and shared genetics. I think that’s it. Maybe that’s how we know when a relationship is real. When someone else previously unconnected to us knows us in a way we never thought or believed possible.

Actually, I'm possessed, only I'm possessed by something so much older and cooler than Satan.

I'm really feeling more like a Harry Potter to your Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger." "Harry Potter? Someone is awful full of themselves." "And this way Charlie can be always-loyal and cooler than cool Neville Longbottom, and Liam gets to be Sirius." Jase shook his head. "Sirius dies." "Lupin?" "Also dies." "A Weasley twin?" "Liam isn't that funny, and Fred dies." I searched over the entire cast of Harry Potter. "All the cool people die.

Gary Noesner notes that we could all learn from the successes and failures of hostage negotiation.7 At the beginning of such situations, emotions run high. Efforts to speed matters along often lead to disaster. Staving off natural desires to react aggressively to emotional provocations allows time for the molecules of emotion to gradually dissipate. The resulting cooler heads save lives.

He is a strange, resolute, repulsive, iron-willed, inexorable old man, [possessing] a firey nature and a cold temper, and a cooler head--a volcano beneath a covering of snow.

Welcome to Crystal Palace,” Ray said. “That’s the EDA’s code name for this place.” “Why?” I asked. He shook his head. “Because it’s easier to say than ‘Earth Defense Alliance Strategic Command Post Number Fourteen,’ ” he said. “Sounds cooler, too.

Johnny-boy shook his head. Maybe he thought I wanted him to drink from the bottle. Hell, I have more class than that. There are paper cups over by the water cooler.

When two men quarrel, who owns the cooler head is the more to blame.” “Из двух ссорящихся более виноват тот, кто умнее” (in Russian)

I think what I want is for someone to know me. Really know me. Know me better than anyone else and maybe even me. Isn't that why we commit to another? It's not for sex. If it were for sex, we wouldn't marry one person. We'd just keep finding new partners. We commit for many reasons, I know, but the more I think about it, the more I think long-term relationships are for getting to know someone. I want someone to know me, really know me, almost like that person could get into my head. What would that feel like? To rely on someone else, have him rely on you. That's not a biological connection like the one between parents and children. This kind of relationship would be chosen. It would be something cooler, harder to achieve than one built on biology and shared genetics.

Couldn’t we camp down by the lakes?” Nynaeve asked, patting her face with her kerchief. “It must be cooler down by the water.” “Light,” Mat said, “I’d just like to stick my head in one of them. I might never take it out.” Just then something roiled the waters of the nearest lake, the dark water phosphorescing as a huge body rolled beneath the surface. Length on man-thick length sent ripples spreading, rolling on and on until at last a tail rose, waving a point like a wasp’s stinger for an instant in the twilight, at least five spans into the air. All along that length fat tentacles writhed like monstrous worms, as many as a centipede’s legs. It slid slowly beneath the surface and was gone, only the fading ripples to say it had ever been. Rand closed his mouth and exchanged a look with Perrin. Perrin’s yellow eyes were as disbelieving as he knew his own must be. Nothing that big could live in a lake that size. Those couldn’t have been hands on those tentacles. They couldn’t have been. “On second thought,” Mat said faintly, “I like it right here just fine.

I’ve taken control of your suit, creeper,” said Marie. “Well, I’m going to take control of your face,” said Carl. “What does that even mean?” said Marie. “I’m not sure,” said Carl. “It sounded a lot cooler in my head.

I think what I want is for someone to know me. Really know me. Know me better than anyone else and maybe even me. Isn't that why we commit to another? It's not for sex. if it were for sex, we wouldn't marry one person. We'd just keep finding new partners. We commit for many reasons, I know, but the more I think about it, the more I think long-term relationships are for getting to know someone. I want someone to know me, really know me, almost like that person could get into my head. What would that feel like? To have access, to know what it's like in someone else's head. To rely on someone else, have him rely on you. That's not a biological connection like the one between parents and children. This kind of relationship would be chosen. It would be something cooler, harder to achieve than one built on biology and shared genetics.

must have been a book—way down there in the slush pile of manuscripts—that somehow slipped out of the final draft of the Bible. That would have been the chapter that dealt with how we’re supposed to recover from the criticism session in the Garden, and discover a sense that we’re still welcome on the planet. There are moments in Scripture when we hear that God delights in people, and I am incredulous. But they are few and far between. Perhaps cooler heads determined that too much welcome would make sissies out of us all, and chose instead accounts of the ever popular slaughter, exile, and shame.

Most people picture my dog with three heads, but that is wrong, wrong, wrong. He is way cooler than that. Some poets claimed he had fifty heads and some poets called him the "hundred-headed" beast. Others described him with not only multiple heads, but with a serpent's tail, a mane of snakes, and lion's paws. Whatever. I call him awesome.

The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione were gone: There was only Ron, standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock. Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue; they were also wet. Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had pierced the glass in both windows: Riddle’s eyes were gone, and the stained silk lining of the locket was smoking slightly. The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had vanished; torturing Ron had been its final act. The sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to his knees, his head in his arms. He was shaking, but not, Harry realized, from cold. Harry crammed the broken locket into his pocket, knelt down beside Ron, and placed a hand cautiously on his shoulder. He took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off. “After you left,” he said in a low voice, grateful for the fact that Ron’s face was hidden, “she cried for a week. Probably longer, only she didn’t want me to see. There were loads of nights when we never even spoke to each other. With you gone…” He could not finish; it was only now that Ron was here again that Harry fully realized how much his absence had cost them. “She’s like my sister,” he went on. “I love her like a sister and I reckon she feels the same way about me. It’s always been like that. I thought you knew.” Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from Harry and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve. Harry got to his feet again and walked to where Ron’s enormous rucksack lay yards away, discarded as Ron had run toward the pool to save Harry from drowning. He hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to Ron, who clambered to his feet as Harry approached, eyes bloodshot but otherwise composed. “I’m sorry,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m sorry I left. I know I was a--a--” He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop down upon him and claim him. “You’ve sort of made up for it tonight,” said Harry. “Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving my life.” “That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,” Ron mumbled. “Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was,” said Harry. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.” Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged, Harry gripping the still-sopping back of Ron’s jacket. “And now,” said Harry as they broke apart, “all we’ve got to do is find the tent again.

As soon as she releases me, Galen grabs my hand and I don’t even have time to gasp before he snatches me to the surface and pulls me toward shore, only pausing to dislodge his pair of swimming trunks from under his favorite rock, where he had just moments before taken the time to hide them. I know the routine and turn away so he can change, but it seems like no time before he hauls me onto the beach and drags me to the sand dunes in front of my house. “What are we doing?” I ask. His legs are longer than mine so for every two of his strides I have to take three, which feels a lot like running. He stops us in between the dunes. “I’m doing something that is none of anyone else’s business.” Then he jerks me up against him and crushes his mouth on mine. And I see why he didn’t want an audience for this kiss. I wouldn’t want an audience for this kiss, either, especially if the audience included my mother. This is our first kiss after he announced that he wanted me for his mate. This kiss holds promises of things to come. When he pulls away I feel drunk and excited and nervous and filled with a craving that I’m not sure can ever be satisfied. And Galen looks startled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “That makes it about fifty times harder to leave, I think.” He tucks my head under his chin and I wrap my arms around him until both our breathing returns to normal. I take the time to soak in his scent, his warmth, the hard contours of his-well, his everything. It’s really not fair that he has to leave when he’s only just gotten back. We didn’t have much time to talk on the way back home. We haven’t had much time for anything. “Emma,” he murmurs. “The water isn’t safe for you right now. Please don’t get in it. Please.” “I won’t.” I really won’t. He said please, after all. He lifts my chin with the crook of his finger. His eyes hold all the gentleness and love in the world, with a pinch of mischief. “And take good notes in calculus, or I’ll be forced to cheat off you and for some weird reason that makes me feel guilty.” I wonder what Grom the Triton king would think of that. That Galen basically just stated his intention to keep doing human things. Galen pushes his lips against my forehead, then disentangles himself from me and leads me back toward the water. My body feels ten degrees cooler when his arms fall, and it’s got nothing to do with the temperature outside. We reach the others just in time to see Rayna all but throw herself at Toraf. I can’t help but smile as they kiss. It’s like watching Beauty and the Beast. And Toraf’s not the Beast.

Any other orders?" "No,but an observation." "I'm fascinated." "No,you're irritated again,but I'll tell you anyway.Your mouth's more appealing naked as it is now than when it's painted as it was this morning." "So you don't approve of lipstick?" "Not at all.Some women need it.You don't, so it's just a distraction." Baffled,nearly amused,she shook her head. "Thanks so much for the advice." She started for the house-where she'd been going to change into something cooler in the first place. "Keeley." She stopped,but instead of turning merely glanced over her shoulder to where he stood,thumbs in the pockets of ancient jeans. "Yes?" "It's nothing.I just wanted to try out your name.I like it." "So do I.Isn't that handy?" This time he blew out a breath as she strode off-long legs in tight pants and tall boots. He lifted her soft drink, took a deep sip.Playing with fire with that one,Donnelly,he warned himself. Since he was damned sure singed fingers wouldn't be all he would get if he risked a touch,it was best to back away before the heat became too tempting to resist.

Do you have any cheese preferences?” Jack asked. “All cheese is good cheese, Lend said. “True dat.” I nodded solemnly. “You did not just say ‘true dat,’” Arianna said, walking into the kitchen. “Because if you think you have any ability whatsoever to pull that off, we are going to have to have a long, long talk.” “Can I at least use it ironically? Or ‘dude.’ Can I use ‘dude?’ Because I really want to be able to use ‘dude.’” “No. No, you cannot, but thank you for asking. Besides, ironic use always segues into non-ironic use, and unless you suddenly become far cooler or far more actually Californian than you are now, I simply cannot allow it.” “But on Easton Heights—” “You are not going to bring up Cary’s cousin Trevyn’s multiepisode arc where he’s sent there as punishment for his pot-smoking surf-bum ways, are you? Because that arc sucked, and he wasn’t even very hot. Also, what’s the lunatic doing?” She jerked her head toward Jack. He flipped a gorgeous looking omelet onto a plate and placed it with a flourish in front of Lend. “I am providing insurance against frying pan boy deciding to enact all the very painful fantasies he’s no doubt entertained about me for the last few weeks. An omelet this good should rule out any dismemberment vengeance.” “Have you been reading his diary?” I asked. “Because I’ll bet he got really creative with the violence ideas.” “No, I only ever read yours. But let me tell you, one more exclamation mark dotted with a heart while talking about how good a kisser Lend is and I was about ready to do myself in. You’re rather single-minded when it comes to adoring him.” “True dat,” Arianna said, nodding. “How come you can use ‘true dat’ if I can’t?” I asked, rightfully outraged. “Because I’m dead, and none of the rules apply anymore.” Lend ate his omelet, refusing to answer Jack’s questions about just how delicious it was on a scale from cutting off limbs to just breaking his nose. I gave Jack full points for flavor but noted the texture was slightly off, exempting him from name-calling but not from dirty looks. Arianna lounged against the counter, and when I finished first we debated the usage rules of “dude,” “true dat,” and my favorite, “for serious.” “I kind of wish they’d shut up,” Jack said. “Dude, true dat,” Lend answered. Jack nodded solemnly. “For serious.

At her feet, a luminous path lit the way through the grassy field. It was made entirely from glow sticks; each of the radiant lights had been painstakingly set into the ground at perfect intervals, tracing a curved trail that shone through the darkness. Apparently, Jay had been busy. Near the water’s edge, at the end of the iridescent pathway and beneath a stand of trees, Jay had set up more than just a picnic. He had created a retreat, an oasis for the two of them. Violet shook her head, unable to find the words to speak. He led her closer, and Violet followed, amazed. Jay had hung more of the luminous glow sticks from the low-hanging branches, so they dangled overhead. They drifted and swayed in the breeze that blew up from the lake. Beneath the natural canopy of limbs, he had set up two folding lounge chairs and covered them with pillows and blankets. “I’d planned to use candles, but the wind would’ve blown ‘em out, so I had to improvise.” “Seriously, Jay? This is amazing.” Violet felt awed. She couldn’t imagine how long it must have taken him. “I’m glad you like it.” He led her to one of the chairs and drew her down until she was sitting before he started unpacking the cooler. She half-expected him to pull out a jar of Beluga caviar, some fancy French cheeses, and Dom Perignon champagne. Maybe even a cluster of grapes to feed to her…one at a time. So when he started laying out their picnic, Violet laughed. Instead of expensive fish eggs and stinky cheeses, Jay had packed Daritos and chicken soft tacos-Violet’s favorites. And instead of grapes, he brought Oreos. He knew her way too well. Violet grinned as he pulled out two clear plastic cups and a bottle of sparkling cider. She giggled. “What? No champagne?” He shrugged, pouring a little of the bubbling apple juice into each of the flimsy cups. “I sorta thought that a DUI might ruin the mood.” He lifted his cup and clinked-or rather, tapped-it against hers. “Cheers.” He watched her closely as she took a sip. For several moments, they were silent. The lights swayed above them, creating shadows that danced over them. The park was peaceful, asleep, as the lake’s waters lapped the shore. Across from them, lights from the houses along the water’s edge cast rippling reflections on the shuddering surface. All of these things transformed the ordinary park into a romantic winter rendezvous.

must have been a book—way down there in the slush pile of manuscripts—that somehow slipped out of the final draft of the Bible. That would have been the chapter that dealt with how we’re supposed to recover from the criticism session in the Garden, and discover a sense that we’re still welcome on the planet. There are moments in Scripture when we hear that God delights in people, and I am incredulous. But they are few and far between. Perhaps cooler heads determined that too much welcome would make sissies out of us all, and chose instead accounts of the ever popular slaughter, exile, and shame. The welcome book would have taught us that power and signs of status can’t save us, that welcome—both offering and receiving—is our source of safety. Various chapters and verses of this book would remind us that we are wanted and even occasionally delighted in, despite the unfortunate truth that we are greedy-grabby, self-referential, indulgent, overly judgmental, and often hysterical. Somehow that book “went missing.” Or when the editorial board of bishops pored over the canonical lists from Jerusalem and Alexandria, they arbitrarily nixed the book that states unequivocally that you are wanted, even rejoiced in. We have to write that book ourselves.

Despite the many cheerful photographs suggesting otherwise, I did not love lunch on the beach when the kids were little. They were so committed, it seemed, to getting sand in the cooler, sand in the chip bag, sand in the cherry bag, the cookies, the pretzels. They dropped their sandwiches into the sand, spilled my iced tea into the sand, poured sand over their own sweaty heads for no reason and cried. They stuffed their sandy baby fingers into my nostrils. They groped me with their sandy palms. They tracked sand over the towels and through my psyche. All I wanted was two unsandy seconds to swallow down their peanut butter and jelly crusts and call it a meal.

Your charming charm is a super sexy mega power that is simply impossible to overcome. Sweetest gourmet, I adore your gorgeous body, when I see you, only one word sounds in my head: yum, I will give myself completely to you. I will always love only you unconsciously, unconsciously, your gently erotic image sat in the depths of my mind completely. From your amazingly contagious beauty, your mouth opens and speechless is lost. Dizzyingly, stunningly beautiful, you are like a giant tornado, from which everything attracts you. And the heart and soul yearn all the time only for you. It doesn't matter if you love me or not, the main thing is that I still love you, and in my subconscious mind, I will only love you forever. Your luxurious appearance of the highest quality, this is a workshop, the filigree work of Mother Nature, this is just a masterpiece that constitutes a unique example of true beauty, you have no equal, you are a girl of high caliber. You are absolutely beautiful to such an extent, so beautiful, so exotic, erotic, and your image sounds poetic like very beautiful music of love, that I’m just afraid and shy to come to you, I’m afraid to talk to you, as if standing next to a goddess, or with a super mega star, a world scale model that even aliens probably know. My heart beats more often, I can’t talk normally, from excitement, goosebumps all over my body, and it just shakes. All these are symptoms of true love for you, well, simply: oh), wow). To be your boyfriend and husband is the greatest honor in the world, he knelt before you with flowers in his hands. Your appearance is perfect just like Barbie. You are so beautiful that only you want to have sex forever, countless, infinite number of times. You are unattainable, you are like a star whose light of the soul, like a searchlight, illuminates me in the deep darkness of solitude. In love with you thorough. You are simply amazingly beautiful. You are the best of the best. Goddess of all goddesses, empress of all empresses, queen of all queens. More beautiful you just can not imagine a girl. Sexier than you just can not be anything. Beautiful soul just is not found. There was nothing more perfect than you and never will be, simply because I think so. Laponka, I'm your faithful fan, you are my only idol, idol, icon of beauty. It doesn't matter who you are, I will accept you any. Because in any case I am eager to be only with you. You have a sexy smile, and your sensual look is just awesome. And from your voice and look a pleasant shiver all over your body. You are special, the best that is in all worlds, universes and dimensions. You're just a sight for sore eyes. To you I feel the most powerful, love and sexual inclination. You're cooler than any Viagra and afrodosiak. From your beauty just cling to the constraints and embarrassment.

In A Hole" Grass grows greener On the other side Corn grows sweeter On the other side And I watch, and I watch, and I watch And I see too much And I broke my face and my head Grows too much God spits on my soul There's something dead inside my hole In my hole, in my hole, in my hole I step crueler But less defined Striped cats cooler But so refine And I want to see What I want to be And I see me on a toxic screen And I'm dancing to a scream God spits on my soul There's something dead inside my hole In my hole, in my hole, in my hole How can something crawl within My rubber holy baked bean tin It's God to me, it's God to me This is heart and soul Oh, heart and soul Yeah, heart and soul Oh, heart and soul Oh, heart, heart, heart, heart and soul Heart and fucking soul My heart and soul My heart and soul My heart and soul Heart and soul Heart and soul Yeah, heart and soul Yeah, heart and soul Yeah, heart, heart, heart Heart, heart, heart, heart, heart

I walk into the water and it’s ten degrees cooler than the air, absolutely freezing freezing cold, it makes my breath come all fast and I can only take in little gulps of air. I feel the sting of the cut on my leg as the salt gets in it. And I push further into it, so that the water comes up to my chest, then my shoulders and now I really can’t breathe properly, like I’m wearing a corset. I feel tiny fireworks explode in my head and on the surface of my skin and all the bad thoughts loosen, so I can look at them more easily. I put my head under, shaking it to encourage the bad thoughts to float away. A wave comes, and the water fills my mouth. It’s so salty it makes me gag and when I gag I swallow more water and don’t manage to breathe and more water goes in, and it’s in my nose too and each time I open my mouth for air more water comes in instead, great big salty gulps of it. I can feel the movement of the water under my feet and it feels like it’s tugging me somewhere, trying to take me with it. It’s like my body knows something I don’t because it’s fighting for me, my arms and legs thrashing out. I wonder if this is a bit what drowning is like. Then I wonder if I am drowning.

Sure.” I looked over to my pet pen, but Lucky and Porky were both gone. The only one there in the pen was Ace, but he was much too big to drag around with me. “Ah, nevermind. Let’s roll,” I said to Larry. As we made our way over to the workshop, I looked up at the sky and saw that it was mid-afternoon. Then I remembered about the grand opening of the arena that Abeer told me about. I gasped as I said, “Oh, no, I hope I don’t miss the grand opening of the arena.” “Are you planning to go to that repulsive event?” Larry asked. “Repulsive?” “Oh, sorry, you must enjoy the fighting since you are a great combatant.” “You disapprove of the arena?” “It’s senseless fighting for entertainment purposes. If you didn’t know, we scientist-types abhor meaningless violence.” I nodded. “I see…” “Anyway, if you were planning to attend the grand opening, you should immediately head over there after the demonstration.” “Gotcha.” We arrived at the front of the workshop. All of Cole’s helpers and the other scientists were standing outside, and they were all surrounding Bob.   “Ah, perfect timing,” Cole said as he saw me. “Steve’s here, everyone.” I rolled up to Bob. “Whoa… your arm! It looks even cooler now!” Bob grinned. “I know, right? I can’t wait to test it out.” Bob’s upgraded arm included a redstone gem inserted

You have the most beautiful smile,” Rio said. His eyes had gone deeply blue, his irises spreading to blot out the white. “You are putting thoughts into my head again.” “No, darlin’. You’re putting them there all by yourself.” “You are making me want to obey you.” “Maybe giving you a little nudge.” Nella wet her lips, which were so dry for some reason. “What exactly would you want me to do?” Rio came closer, and she could smell the leather of his clothes, the musk of his body, feel the heat of his fingers before he even touched her. “Anything I can think of to make you do.” His temperature seemed higher than that of a normal human, as she’d observed before. Humans were actually a little cooler on Bor Narga, she’d learned— an adaptation against living in an extreme desert climate— but Shareem skin was hot. Especially Rio’s, especially now. “And if I refuse to obey? You punish me?” “Maybe. I’m not like some Doms, who reach for the whip every time their ladies disobey.” He leaned to her, his voice velvet smooth, his breath hot spice. “Punishment is so much sweeter when it’s begged for.” Nella tried to draw a normal breath and couldn’t. She hadn’t felt normal since she woke up here. “I would never ask to be punished.” “Beg, I said. And you will.” He touched the swirl of hair above her ear. “You will, sweet darling. I guarantee it.

They seemed so right together-both of them sophisticated, dark-haired, and striking; no doubt they had much in common, she thought a little dismally as she picked up her knife and fork and went to work on her lobster. Beside her, Lord Howard leaned close and teased, “It’s dead, you know.” Elizabeth glanced blankly at him, and he nodded to the lobster she was still sawing needlessly upon. “It’s dead,” he repeated. “There’s no need to try to kill it twice.” Mortified, Elizabeth smiled and sighed and thereafter made an all-out effort to ingratiate herself with the rest of the party at their table. As Lord Howard had forewarned the gentlemen, who by now had all seen or heard about her escapade in the card room, were noticeably cooler, and so Elizabeth tried ever harder to be her most engaging self. It was only the second time in her life she’d actually used the feminine wiles she was born with-the first time being her first encounter with Ian Thornton in the garden-and she was a little amazed by her easy success. One by one the men at the table unbent enough to talk and laugh with her. During that long, trying hour Elizabeth repeatedly had the strange feeling that Ian was watching her, and toward the end, when she could endure it no longer, she did glance at the place where he was seated. His narrowed amber eyes were leveled on her face, and Elizabeth couldn’t tell whether he disapproved of this flirtatious side of her or whether he was puzzled by it. “Would you permit me to offer to stand in for my cousin tomorrow,” Lord Howard said as the endless meal came to an end and the guests began to arise, “and escort you to the village?” It was the moment of reckoning, the moment when Elizabeth had to decide whether she was going to meet Ian at the cottage or not. Actually, there was no real decision to make, and she knew it. With a bright, artificial smile Elizabeth said, “Thank you.” “We’re to leave at half past ten, and I understand there are to be the usual entertainments-sopping and a late luncheon at the local inn, followed by a ride to enjoy the various prospects of the local countryside.” It sounded horribly dull to Elizabeth at that moment. “It sounds lovely,” she exclaimed with such fervor that Lord Howard shot her a startled look. “Are you feeling well?” he asked, his worried gaze taking in her flushed cheeks and overbright eyes. “I’ve never felt better,” she said, her mind on getting away-upstairs to the sanity and quiet of her bedchamber. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have the headache and should like to retire,” she said, leaving behind her a baffled Lord Howard. She was partway up the stairs before it dawned on her what she’d actually said. She stopped in midstep, then gave her head a shake and slowly continued on. She didn’t particularly care what Lord Howard-her fiance’s own cousin-thought. And she was too miserable to stop and consider how very odd that was.

Karimi ordered that the missiles self-destruct, if the mechanism still functioned on the downed missiles. He knew Israel would strike back, the only question was when? He would stay underground facility until the threat was over. When he was able to leave, he would have all of these engineers executed for failing him. He would not tolerate failure. Messengers relayed the news of what was happening top-side. He read the recent document prepared for him by the Iranian news service, which said, “Israel has officially condemned our attempt at nuking their cities, and has said its own response will be forthcoming soon. The United Nations, as always, has asked our two nations to let cooler heads prevail, and said that if Israel escalates the hostility, war could break out, quite possibly dragging the rest of the world into it. Meanwhile, Iraq has declared Mosul a radioactive wasteland. They’re demanding your head, Supreme Ayatollah, and they are vowing to exact revenge for this insult to all Iraqis. There has been no response from Washington.

demanded that Israel pay for this crime against humanity, and began demanding that the United Nations place sanctions on the country , blockade its ports, and close the borders. Israel’s defense forces went on high alert and began to wait for a possible attack. The Secretary General of the United Nations, who was from Pakistan, held a press conference. “I am calling for an emergency meeting of the Security Council. I’m asking for the leaders of those countries, who are members of the Council, to come to New York to discuss the situation. I ask the countries affected by Israel’s questionable decision to launch nuclear weapons to hold off on any action that may lead to a war that could possibly drag the whole world in. Please, like I said earlier, let cooler heads prevail, and also know that justice will be done.

Actually I have an enemy commander’s head in a cooler.” Miya had a toothy grin. The chief wrinkled her nose. “That’s great, Big Cat, but I’d have been happy with a small tissue sample.

Among these little affairs was one which we called “Company K’s Skirmish,” because it brought out the fact that this company, which was composed entirely of South Carolina men, and had never shone in drill or discipline, stood near the head of the regiment for coolness and courage,—the defect of discipline showing itself only in their extreme unwillingness to halt when once let loose. It was at this time that the small comedy of the Goose occurred,—an anecdote which Wendell Phillips5 has since made his own. One of the advancing line of skirmishers, usually an active fellow enough, was observed to move clumsily and irregularly. It soon appeared that he had encountered a fine specimen of the domestic goose, which had surrendered at discretion. Not wishing to lose it, he could yet find no way to hold it but between his legs; and so he went on, loading, firing, advancing, halting, always with the goose writhing and struggling and hissing in this natural pair of stocks. Both happily came off unwounded, and retired in good order at the signal, or some time after it; but I have hardly a cooler thing to put on record.

the United States no longer was a Constitutional Republic, but was now a totalitarian regime. Then news came up about Iran’s attempt to nuke Israel: “Israel has officially condemned the attempt by Iran to nuke Israeli cities, and has said its own response will be forthcoming soon. The United Nations, as always, has asked the two nations to let cooler heads prevail, and said that if Israel escalates the hostility, war could break out, quite possibly dragging the rest of the world into it. Meanwhile, Iraq has declared Mosul a radioactive wasteland, demanded the head of Supreme Ayatollah Karimi, and vowed to exact revenge for this insult to all Iraqis. Karimi has officially disavowed any knowledge of an Iranian nuclear missile destroying an Iraqi city, and claims that the Iraqis made it up so that they could drag their American masters into another conflict.

is July 2009. We step off our respective planes and lug our gear into the sweltering Vegas sun. Our taxis creep through downtown tourist traffic, swing around the airport, and unceremoniously drop us off in a giant, industrial-looking parking lot. The Las Vegas Sports Center sulks unimpressively in the heat, but under the sounds of arriving planes, there’s also a low hum and periodic whistles. Inside, the air is cooler and smells vaguely of . . . what is that smell? Sweat? Feet? Happiness? And when our eyes adjust to the light, we see skaters from every corner of the world—their helmets whiz by in every direction looking as if they are floating on air. On their feet are skates—black skates, white skates, blue skates, camouflage skates—propelled by a rainbow of wheels. On the sport floor, coaches with names like Carmen Getsome and Miss Fortune are drilling a centipede line of skaters in the fine art of knocking each other’s asses to the ground. Refs and skaters gear up for the mixed league, multination, battle du jour: Team Australia vs. Team Canada. Someone hobbles by with an ice pack strapped to her knee, still smiling. We smile too. Across town, nearly one thousand other skaters throng the casino and head to seminars in the meeting halls of the Imperial Palace Hotel, with nothing but roller derby on their minds. This is the fifth annual derby convention known as RollerCon.

Growing up with an exterminator as a father was always slightly embarrassing for Anna and her brother, Kevin. “I remember,” Tommy begins, “one year when Anna was about eight, and it was ‘bring your daughter to work day.’ That was a big thing back in the eighties,” he chuckles. “Well, I remember Anna came down to breakfast that morning and told me she didn’t want to come.” Tommy half smiles, but shakes his head slightly and closes his eyes for a second. “ ‘Dad-dyyy, bugs are nasty. Why can’t you be a pilot or a doctor or something cool like that?’ I didn’t even argue with her, I just let her go to school.” Tommy sighs, “I told her I was sorry I didn’t have a cooler job.

Before the Internet, cooler heads might have prevailed. (Insiders knew this was hardly Turner and Sponsel’s first attempt to pick at the big dog Chagnon.) Instead Turner and Sponsel’s juicy “tell all” letter wound up circulated all over the world virtually overnight, and of course the press didn’t dare sit on such a hot story long enough to find out what was true, much less learn the backstory. Most reporters simply reiterated the charges. A headline in The Guardian screamed, SCIENTIST “KILLED AMAZON INDIANS TO TEST RACE THEORY.” The quotation marks likely would be lost on much of the public.

The four men exchanged glances and shifted into a tighter group, making sure that the open back of the van and the cooler of blood were hidden; then Lucern echoed, “What we’re doing?” “Oh, like it isn’t obvious,” she snorted. “Sneaking out here, crowding around the van.” She shook her head and gave them a condescending look. “I may have been raised in Nebraska, but I’ve lived in New York long enough to be savvy about you artist types.” Now the looks the men exchanged were bewildered. Artist types? Lucern was a writer, Etienne a program developer, Bastien a businessman and Greg was a therapist. Artist types? And what did she think artist types did anyway? The only way to find out was to ask. Lucern did. “What is it exactly that you think we are doing out here?” She gave a resigned sigh. “You’re smoking pot-joints.” She said it as one word. The men all gaped at her; then Etienne released a disbelieving laugh. “What?” Kate tsked with exasperation. “Pot. Marijuana. You guys snuck out here for a debbie.” “Er…I believe it’s called a doobie,” Greg interjected. “Whatever. That’s what you were doing, right?” “Er…” Lucern began. Then he, Bastien, Etienne and Greg shared a grin. “Yes. You caught us. We were smoking a debbie,” Etienne agreed. “Doobie,” Greg corrected. “Yes.” Bastien nodded. “We’d offer you some, but we…er…” “Smoked it all up,” Etienne finished. The two men sounded disgustingly apologetic to Lucern’s mind. Good Lord. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t smoke anything.” She smiled crookedly, then added, “Besides, dinner is about to be served. I think that’s why Rachel was looking for you.” “Well then, we should go in.” Stepping forward, Lucern took Kate’s arm firmly and turned her toward the building. They’d barely taken two steps when he heard the van doors closing and the other men fell into step behind them. Smoking debbies. Good Lord.

Inside was a wonder. The ceiling was entirely obscured by bunches of herbs, flowers, and sweet rushes hanging to dry. Shelves lined every spare inch of wall, filled with bottles of potions, salves, and powders of all colors. A friendly fire blazed out of a flagstone hearth. Farthest away from this, in the back where it was cooler, was a dairy pantry filled with cheese, milk, and butter. All goat, probably. Growing through a window was a healthy spray of roses that looked like a neighbor poking her head in for news and a good gossip.

Cooler heads? My brother had violent lust for me. He tried to sell off my sister. How could anything be calm?

The voices counseling peace usually win out for one simple reason: war is ruinous. It massacres soldiers, ravages civilians, starves cities, plunders stores, disrupts trade, demolishes industry, and bankrupts governments. About 2,500 years ago, the Chinese general Sun Tzu put it aptly in The Art of War: “There is no instance of a country having benefited from prolonged warfare.” Even the bitterest of enemies foresee the consequences of fighting. These costs are terrible. That is why adversaries strive for an arrangement that avoids risk and destruction. One-off killings and skirmishes take place in the heat of the moment. Then cooler heads prevail.

My imagination was having a field day comparing Anderson to anything evil. The Hitler of Hydration. The Napoleon of Ice Coolers. I kept my head high, chin out, and stride strong. I was scheduled for my lunch break, and I was starving, but I needed to win the war.

Yvonne turned to leave, when a tall black man in a sleek gray suit suddenly blocked the doorway. “Mr. Greene?” Yep, right out of GQ. The suit didn’t look so much tailored as birthed, created, cultivated for him and only him. It fit like some tight superhero suit or like a second skin. His build was rock solid. He sported a shaved head and perfectly trimmed facial hair and big hands and everything about the guy just screamed “cooler than you.

For example, Kagan found that babies who later showed this trait also had cooler foreheads on the right side of their head, which indicates greater activity on the right side of the brain. (The blood is drawn away from the surface toward the activity.)

Incredibly beautiful, especially at nightfall. Everything, that is living, has some sort of glowing feel. The brightest coolers you have ever seen. Trees bigger than skyscrapers, Trans that float as the race by. All kinds of floating glass homes, connected by vines that glimmer with cascading waterfalls, incredible stone structures are arching all over that connect the one floating island to the next. Star covered the skies with many big moons. Vie has these humanoid people called La-Marie's, they look so much like us it’s daunting. Their skin is so much more transparent than what we have, their body’s completely hairless (every earth girl’s dream right.) Yet they have long hair on the head that lights up, in a wispy way, every pulse of their heartbeat there a flash of light within their body, most of them have blue eyes that glow at night. Their vans light up at night, also bright indigo.

Cooler heads prevailed, and we attempted to call off the session. However, this was the salesperson’s first big opportunity, it was a marquee account, and we had a new VP of sales. Over the objections of the technical team, we sprinted down the path of the “dash to demo” and were instructed to perform the demo. This was totally contrary to our well-established sales process and caused severe conflict within the sales team. The SE on the account, being a true professional, decided to make the best of it and spent hours preparing with only limited information.

No, I'll mostly be watching you, anyway.’ His fingers traced patterns across the skin of my arm, raising goosebumps. ‘Will you cry?’ ‘Probably,’ I admitted, ‘if I'm paying attention.’ ‘I won't distract you then.’ But I felt his lips on my hair, and it was very distracting. The movie eventually captured my interest, thanks in large part to Marcel whispering Romeo's lines in my ear-his irresistible, velvet voice made the actor's voice sound week and coarse by comparison. And I did cry, to his amusement, when Juliet woke and found her new husband dead. ‘I'll admit, I do sort of envy him here, ‘Marcel said, drying the tears with a lock of my hair. ‘She's very pretty.’ He made a disgusted sound. ‘I don't envy him the girl-just the ease of the suicide,’ he clarified in a teasing tone. ‘You humans have it so easy! All you have to do is throw down one tiny vial of plant extracts…’ ‘What?’ I gasped. ‘It's something I had to think about once, and I knew from Chiaz's experience that it wouldn't be simple. I'm not even sure how many ways Chiaz tried to kill himself in the beginning… after he realized what he'd become…’ His voice, which had grown serious, turned light again. ‘And he's still in excellent health.’ I twisted around so that I could read his face. ‘What are you talking about?’ I demanded. ‘What do you mean, this something you had to think about once?’ ‘Last spring, when you were… nearly killed…’ He paused to take a deep breath, snuggling to return to his teasing tone. ‘Of course, I was trying to focus on finding you alive, but part of my mind was making contingency plans. As I said, it's not as easy for me as it is for a human.’ For one second, the memory of my last trip to Phoenix washed over my head and made me feel dizzy. I could see it all so clearly-the the blinding sun, the heat waves coming off the concrete as I ran with desperate haste to find the sadistic angel who wanted to torture me to death. James, waiting in the mirrored room with my mother as his hostage-or so I'd thought. I hadn't known it was all a ruse. Just as James hadn't known that Marcel was racing to save me; Marcel made it in time, but it had been a close one. Unthinkingly, my fingers traced the crescent-shaped scar on my hand that was always just a few degrees cooler than the rest of my skin. I shook my head as if I could shake away the bad memories and tried to grasp what Marcel meant. My stomach plunged uncomfortably. ‘Contingency plans?’ I repeated. ‘Well, I wasn't going to live without you.’ He rolled his eyes as if that fact were childishly obvious. ‘But I wasn't sure how to do it- I knew Emmah and Joh would never help… so I was thinking maybe I would go to Italy and do something to provoke the Ministry.’ I didn't want to believe he was serious, but his golden eyes were brooding, focused on something far away in the distance as he contemplated ways to end his own life. Abruptly, I was furious. ‘What is Vulture?’ I demanded. ‘The Ministry is a family,’ he explained, his eyes still remote. ‘A very old, very powerful family of our kind. They are the closest thing our world has to a royal family, I suppose. Chiaz lived with them briefly in his early years, in Italy, before he settled in America-do you remember the story?’ ‘Of course, I remember.

The water harmed him. Soon after Anyanwu had revealed herself, he began to grow ill. He became dizzy. His head hurt him. He said he thought he would vomit if he did not leave the confinement of the small room. Anyanwu took him out on deck where the air was fresh and cooler. But even there, the gentle rocking of the ship seemed to bother him— and began to bother her. She began to feel ill. She seized on the feeling at once, examining it. There was drowsiness, dizziness, and a sudden cold sweat. She closed her eyes, and while Okoye vomited into the water, she went over her body carefully. She discovered that there was a wrongness, a kind of imbalance deep within her ears. It was a tiny disturbance, but she knew her body well enough to notice the smallest change. For a moment, she observed this change with interest. Clearly, if she did nothing to correct it, her sickness would grow worse; she would join Okoye, vomiting over the rail. But no. She focused on her inner ears and remembered perfection there, remembered organs and fluids and pressures in balance, their wrongness righted. Remembering and correcting were one gesture; balance was restored. It had taken her much practice— and much pain— to learn such ease of control. Every change she made in her body had to be understood and visualized. If she was sick or injured, she could not simply wish to be well. She could be killed as easily as anyone else if her body was damaged in some way she could not understand quickly enough to repair. Thus, she had spent much of her long life learning the diseases, disorders, and injuries that she could suffer— learning them often by inflicting mild versions of them on herself, then slowly, painfully, by trial and error, coming to understand exactly what was wrong and how to impress healing. Thus, when her enemies came to kill her, she knew more about surviving than they did about killing.

I spent the morning on Baileys, Bloody Marys in the afternoon, small amounts of controlled, intentional poisoning. “I’m facing my darkest period head-on,” Laura said when she’d wandered into the kitchen for her cigarettes, “no drugs, no alcohol.” At that point I was deep into the wine coolers, mashing cream cheese and mayonnaise and sharp cheddar together to form a cheese ball, which I ate half of all by myself, then couldn’t shit till New Year’s.

The award-winning American TV series Breaking Bad has a scene in its second season set in the murder capital of Ciudad Juárez. In this episode, American and Mexican agents are lured to a patch of desert just south of the border looking for an informant. They discover the informant’s head has been cut off and stuck on the body of a giant turtle. But as they approach, the severed cranium, turned into an IED, explodes, killing agents. The episode was released in 2009. I thought it was unrealistic, a bit fantastic. Until July 15, 2010. In the real Ciudad Juárez on that day, gangsters kidnapped a man, dressed him in a police uniform, shot him, and dumped him bleeding on a downtown street. A cameraman filmed what happened after federal police and paramedics got close. The video shows medics bent over the dumped man, checking for vital signs. Suddenly a bang rings out, and the image shakes vigorously as the cameraman runs for his life. Gangsters had used a cell phone to detonate twenty-two pounds of explosives packed into a nearby car. A minute later, the camera turns back around to reveal the burning car pouring smoke over screaming victims. A medic lies on the ground, covered in blood but still moving, a stunned look on his face. Panicked officers are scared to go near him. The medic dies minutes later along with a federal agent and a civilian. I’m not suggesting that Breaking Bad inspired the murders. TV shows don’t kill people. Car bombs kill people. The point of the story is that the Mexican Drug War is saturated with stranger-than-fiction violence. Mexican writer Alejandro Almazán suffered from a similar dilemma. As he was writing his novel Among Dogs, he envisioned a scene in which thugs decapitate a man and stick a hound’s head on his corpse. It seemed pretty out there. But then in real life some gangsters did exactly that, only with a pig’s head. It is just hard to compete with the sanguine criminal imagination. Cartel thugs have put a severed head in a cooler and delivered it to a newspaper; they have dressed up a murdered policeman in a comedy sombrero and carved a smile on his cheeks; and they have even sewn a human face onto a soccer ball.

Whoever had painted this had talent, capturing the somber expressions of Ione, Rhahar, and then Rhain, the God of Common Men and Endings often depicted in Atlantia. The red hair of Aios, the Goddess of Love, Fertility, and Beauty, was as vibrant as fire, not having faded in the years since the ceiling was painted. Penellaphe, the Goddess of Wisdom, Loyalty, and Duty, appeared peaceful and serene, while Bele, the Goddess of the Hunt, looked as I imagined she would if awake: like she was about to whack someone across the head with her bow. Even the different shades of skin, from the rich-brown-hued Theon, the God of Accord and War, and his twin, Lailah, the Goddess of Peace and Vengeance, to the deeper, cooler black skin of Saion, the God of Sky and Soil, were rendered with exquisite detail.

I have old friends at Buckkeep. I can borrow the money for your apprenticeship fee.” My heart lurched at the thought of what the form of the interest on such a loan might take, but I steeled myself. I would go to Chade first, and if what he asked of me in return was too dear, I would seek out the Fool. It would not be easy to humbly ask to borrow money, but—” “You’d do that? For me? But I’m not even really your son.” Hap looked incredulous. I gripped his hand. “I would do that. Because you’re as close to a son as I’m ever likely to get.” “I’ll help you pay the debt, I swear.” “No you won’t. It will be my debt, taken on freely. I’ll expect you to pay close attention to your master and devote yourself to learning your trade well.” “I will, Tom. I will. And I swear, in your old age, you shall lack for nothing.” He spoke with the words with the devout ardency of guileless youth. I took them as he intended them, and ignored the glowing amusement in Nighteyes’ gaze. See how edifying it is when someone sees you as tottering toward death? I never said you were at your grave’s edge. No. You treat me as if u were brittle as old chicken bones. Aren’t you? No. My strength returns. Wait for the falling of the leaves and cooler weather. I’ll be able to walk until you drop. Just as I always have. But what if I have to journey before then? The wolf lowered his head to his outstretched forepaws with a sigh. And what if you jump for a buck’s throat and miss? There’s no point to worrying about it until it happens. “Are you thinking what I am?” Hap anxiously broke the seemingly silence of the room. I met his worried gaze. “Perhaps. What were you thinking?” He spoke hesitantly. “That the sooner you speak to your friends at Buckkeep, the sooner we will know what to expect for the winter.” I replied slowly. “Another winter here would not suit you, would it?” “No.” His natural honesty made him reply quickly. Then he softened it with, “It isn’t that I don’t like it here with you and Nighteyes. It’s just that…” He floundered for a moment. “Have you ever felt as if you could actually feel time flowing away from you? As if life were passing you by and you were caught in a backwater with the dead fish and old sticks?” You can be the dead fish. I’ll be the old stick.

There is another world under this, and it is like ours in everything—animals, plants, and people—save that the seasons are different. The streams that come down from the mountains are the trails by which we reach this underworld, and the springs at their heads are the doorways by which we enter it, but to do this one must fast and go to water and have one of the underground people for a guide. We know that the seasons in the underworld are different from ours, because the water in the springs is always warmer in winter and cooler in summer than the outer air.

The ship was charging hard northward, having cut through the choke point of Bab el Mandeb, or the Gate of Tears, that separated Yemen from the African nation of Djibouti. They were in the Red Sea, and Cabrillo had already called in enough favors with Atlas Marine Services, the Egyptian company that ran the Suez Canal, to see that his ship would be part of the next morning’s only northbound convoy. It would take eleven hours to transit the one hundred and one miles from Suez to Port Said, but once they were clear their final destination was only a day away. With the number of vessels heading into and out of the Suez Canal, the shipping lanes in the Red Sea were heavily congested. So as not to arouse undue suspicion from passing ships, Juan had posted a watch on the bridge, even though the Oregon was being piloted from the Op Center belowdecks. He was on the bridge now, overseeing preparations for taking on a canal pilot in the morning. Sandstorms raged in the western sky over Africa. The sun setting through burnt sienna clouds cast the bridge in an otherworldly glow. The temperature remained near eighty degrees, and wouldn’t get much cooler when the sun did finally settle over the horizon. “What

On our way back to Los Angeles, we drove down through Grapevine Canyon on the northern end of Death Valley. This is where Scotty’s Castle is located, with its cooling system and power provided by an underground spring. Everything was so different from anything I had known back East, and very interesting. We continued through Death Valley, with water bags hanging from the car’s front bumper and a water cooler tightly clamped into a window on the passenger side. There were no rest areas in the desert, so we had to make stops alongside the road. Out in the open, in the middle of the day, this was the way to get back to nature! We hadn’t seen a car in hours, so there was no problem regarding modesty. In those days, cars were not as reliable as now. Driving through Death Valley at high noon in the middle of summer wasn’t the brightest idea, but it was an adventure! It was so hot that I watched my urine sizzle and instantly evaporate off the pavement of Badwater Road, which runs the length of the valley. At Stovepipe Wells we turned west on SR 190, heading towards Keeler and Dolomite. On this stretch of road we could look ahead and see Mount Whitney with its summit being 14,505 feet above sea level. It was exciting to see the highest mountain in front of us and look back to the lowest point in the United States at 282 feet below sea level. At that time, Alaska and Hawaii were not yet in the Union. Now Mount McKinley in Alaska tops Mount Whitney by 5,732 feet, being 20,237 feet high.

There's some girl bent over a large cooler located at the back of the bar. Her shiny dark hair cascades down her back, but I'm too focused on the way her perfect little ass looks in the skirt she's wearing to notice much else. She leans down even further and I feel myself lean with her as I notice her skirt rising higher...hoping to be rewarded with a glimpse of her cheeks. I look over and Ricardo bites his knuckle. “Fuck me that's hot.” Tyrone shakes his head and looks down. “My dick belongs to Shelby. This is Shelby's dick,” he chants to himself. Ricardo and I burst out laughing.

Some writers have tried to cast Steve’s obsessiveness, and his hunger for the spotlight and success, as a Freudian attempt to bring down the birth parents who “rejected” him by letting him be adopted. It always struck me, however, that at his childish worst Steve was really nothing more than a spoiled brat. Brilliant, precocious, and meticulous, he had always gotten his way with his parents, and had brayed like an injured donkey when things didn’t turn out as he planned. As a grown-up he could behave exactly the same way, sometimes exploding in a temper tantrum. At NeXT there was no one to keep that side of him in check. While more grounded and cooler-headed folks like Lewin and Barnes would disagree with him and weigh in with advice, he ignored them with impunity and, often, scorn. Talking

You’re a wonder, Kerry McCrae,” he said, dipping his head, kissing each warm cheek, her nose, then her mouth. The first kisses were sweet, the last one utterly carnal. He did that to her. Made her feel cherished one moment and utterly desirable the next. She might have been breathing just a bit unevenly when he lifted his head, a gleam of an entirely different sort in his eyes now. “I’d ask when I could see you again, but I suppose I need to let Fergus have at least a bit of your time. And I don’t want to press.” She barked out a short laugh at that. “You? Press? No,” she said in mock surprise. He chuckled, too, his grin not remotely sheepish, then leaned down to scoop up hamper and cooler, leaving the lighter laundry bundle for her to grab. They stopped at his car first, stowing his load in the trunk. “I’m happy to take the laundry,” he said. “I’m sure I can find somewhere to--” “No, I’ll take care of it,” she said, maybe too quickly, just imagining Delia and Grace’s faces when he asked them where he could find a good Laundromat. The gossip mill would get all this juicy new grist soon enough but no need to willingly feed it. “Well, I’ll be happy to return them to Thomas, spare you the trip.” “The walk of shame, you mean?” she said, then laughed as they paused by the passenger’s side of her truck so she could stow the laundry bundle on the front seat. “Actually, I plan to get them washed and back on the boat before he comes to move it tomorrow.” Cooper considered that, then nodded. “Sound plan.” He smiled. “Need a ride? Maybe a sunrise breakfast?” Smiling, she nudged him as they walked around to the driver’s side. “Look at you, making it a whole five minutes before pressing.” She wiped a pretend tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m so proud.” Chuckling, he snatched her up close to him and kissed her senseless before she knew what was happening, turning her squeal of surprise into a soft moan of need in a matter of seconds. “You forget,” he said moments later, his voice a bit gruff, too, “I know how to handle that saucy lip of yours now.” “I should be so affronted by your smug machismo,” she scolded, then let him pull her in for a nice, tight hug as she rested her cheek on his shoulder. “And yet…” She sighed, smiled, and slid her arms around his waist. “And yet indeed,” he said quietly, rubbing her back. “We’re a pair, we are, Starfish.

Several months earlier Shara and I had bought a home together. Well, to be more accurate it was a barge, moored on the Thames in central London. Neil had spotted it for us, and we looked around it straight away. I instantly loved it. We had previously been quite close to putting in an offer on a tiny, poky studio flat in London--but deep down I was concerned. For a start, I couldn’t really afford it. Dad had offered to help me secure a mortgage if I could make the repayments, but I knew it would be a stretch to make those every month. The barge, on the other hand, was less than half the price--and way cooler. It was pretty sparse, cold, and damp when we looked around it, and Shara and her family were definitely a little tentative at first. But I got to work on the PR front. “Hey, it will be fun. We can do it up together--it will be a challenge. We can then make it all cozy and a home.” Shara tilted her head at me in her way. “I’m a little nervous about the ‘challenge’ bit. Can we focus on the homely and cozy part of the plan instead, sweetheart?” she replied, still looking concerned. (Sure enough, she totally changed after we got to live on our barge for a while, and nowadays, wild horses couldn’t force her to sell the boat. I love that in her. Shara always takes such a lot of convincing, and then once she makes something “hers,” it is hers forever. Me included.)

We go back to our silent fishing, but I'm smiling the whole time. The tension has dimmed. Well, until Blake shoves Graham into the river. A gasp leaves me, my mouth hanging open as I watch my roommate sputter to the surface of the dirty water. I drop my fishing pole, frozen in place. My dad mutters, “What the hell?” Blake throws his head back and laughs like I have never seen nor heard him laugh before. The loud and hearty sound is cut off short when Graham comes barreling out of the water, his body aimed straight for him, his eyes daggers of retribution. He lunges for his brother, wrapping his arms around his stomach and heaving him toward the water. Blake stumbles back, landing on his rear just inside the water. The sound of jeans smacking into water is sharp. He swipes water out of his eyes as Graham smirks at him. “What is wrong with you two?” I demand, more annoyed than worried. They seem to be getting along, even if they are being brutish about it. Suddenly I have the attention of two wet men, twin calculating gleams in their eyes. Graham is closest, his steps slow and purposeful as he approaches me. “Don't even think about it.” I put my hands out in front of me to ward him off. His grin deepens as he reaches me. Water drips from his hair down his face to become one with his soggy clothes. “Don't think about what?” A glance over my shoulder tells me a tree, the first form of cover I think of, is too far away. Not one to give up, I move for it anyway, but a wet, strong hand grabs the back of my shirt and pulls me away from where I want to go until I am flush with a cold chest. Cold clothes; warm body, I should say. His skin is burning through the dampness of his shirt. “Graham, I swear, if you throw me in that water, I will never speak to you again.” His voice is low and close as he says, “You make it sound like that wouldn't be a good thing.” I haven't even finished my sound of incredulity before I am gathered into his arms, my arms unconsciously going around his neck to anchor me to him. His touch is gentle, his eyes are smiling. “I mean it. This won't be good for you.” “Oh, I don't know about that.” His arms swing out, and I tighten my hold on him, threatening him even as he is laughing at me. He does it again as we move closer to the water and I glare all my irk at him. “If I go, you go.” He tilts his head as he studies me. His voice is unnaturally sober as he tells me, “That's fine with me.” I don't have time to process that before he lets go of me. I hit the water, refusing to let go of his neck, and we both go under. Lucky for me, the water is only a couple feet deep. Unlucky for Graham, I twist around until I am straddling him, keeping him down with my weight so the only thing above water is his head. I give him a sweet smile. He doesn't return it. “Hi,” I purr. He grunts in response. “Fancy meeting you here.” “What can I say? Where you go, I follow.” I pat his cheek. “That's so sweet.” “I'm a sweet guy.” “So sweet,” I agree. “Hey! You're scaring the fish away.” This from Blake, who is now standing near my father. “The fish love me!” I declare, sweeping my arms out wide and losing my balance. I splash into the water, first laughing, and then choking as water goes down my throat. Graham lifts me out of the water by my shirt. “The weight of your arrogance obviously tipped you over.” “It was more like the air couldn't handle all my splendor.” Half of his mouth lifts. “Something like that.” “Fishing with the three of you is impossible,” Dad grumbles and stomps to the cooler, opening a can of soda and gulping it down

He would be the first but not the last. Within a few hours, the town, from the tiniest children to the elders, had been taken ill, and within a few days, they were gone. The neighboring villages packed their belongings and headed into the hills, where it was cooler, but Plague traveled with them, killing rapturously, killing indiscriminately, killing hungrily, and those who were well shut their doors to the sick, and those who were sick ran through the streets in search of comfort, throwing themselves into wells and springs, spreading their disease. Townspeople became terrified of one another, fighting their neighbors for food and space, fighting their friends, fighting their families, and dying all the while. The Slaughterer’s mouth stretched into a tight, fanged smile. It fed its mistress, and this was a new and vulnerable country, with no understanding of the goddess and her ways. There had once been protective spells, but the world knew nothing of such things now. The Slaughterer traveled, streaking through the

Despite the gaps between the two sides’ positions, Sadat’s trip was nonetheless of monumental importance. For the first time, Israelis saw an Arab leader who was charming, well dressed, soft-spoken, clearly wanted peace, and was willing to risk life and limb for it. Perceptions in Egypt changed as well. The people had been impressed by the welcome extended their leader by the Israelis. The Arab press refrained from traditional demonizations of the Zionist enemy and began analyzing the situation with a cooler head.

There is the standing prime rib roast, which I salted three days ago and have left uncovered in the extra fridge to dry out. I place the roast in a large Ziploc bag and put it in the bottom of the first rolling cooler, and then the tray of twice-baked potatoes enriched with cream, butter, sour cream, cheddar cheese, bacon bits, and chives, and topped with a combination of more shredded cheese and crispy fried shallots. My coolers have been retrofitted with dowels in the corners so that I can put thin sheets of melamine on them to create a second level of storage; that way items on the bottom don't get crushed. On the top layer of this cooler I placed the tray of stuffed tomatoes, bursting with a filling of tomato pudding, a sweet-and-sour bread pudding made with tomato paste and orange juice and lots of butter and brown sugar, mixed with toasted bread cubes. I add a couple of frozen packs, and close the top. "That is all looking amazing," Shawn says. "Why, thank you. Can you grab me that second cooler over there, please?" He salutes and rolls it over. I pull the creamed spinach out of the fridge, already stored in the slow cooker container, and put it in the bottom of the cooler, and then add three large heads of iceberg lettuce, the tub of homemade ranch dressing and another tub of crispy bacon bits, and a larger tub of popover batter. I made the pie at Lawrence's house yesterday morning before heading to the airport- it was just easier than trying to transport it- and I'll make the whipped cream topping and shower it with shards of shaved chocolate just before serving. I also dropped off three large bags of homemade salt-and-pepper potato chips, figuring that Lawrence can't eat all of them in one day and that there will hopefully be at least two bags still there when we arrive. Lawrence insisted that he would pick up the oysters himself.

Churchill took a much cooler view. ‘Trying to maintain good relations with a Communist is like wooing a crocodile,’ he told Sir Alan Brooke. ‘You do not know whether to tickle it under the chin or to beat it over the head. When it opens its mouth you cannot tell whether it is trying to smile or preparing to eat you up.

you do find yourself getting incensed by their response, stick to your reasons without becoming too aggressive. And if things do fail, just say something like, “I respect your views, and I think it’s best that we stop here,” and ask them if they want to do this again later on. Perhaps cooler heads will prevail next time.

sun is just coming up as he exits the lobby and heads outside, the desert morning air far cooler than he expected. Sprints or

In most cases homeport for the sailor is the port where he feels most at ease. It’s the place he longs to be and normally where his sweetheart lives. Monrovia has none of these characteristics, but like a fungus it begins to grow on you! Day after day the fungus spreads and so it was with me. As I grew accustomed to the heat and incessant rain I found that I actually enjoyed sleeping in a hammock strung under the awning on the port side of the upper deck behind the stack. On the starboards side was the lifeboat which sheltered me some from the wind and driving rain. It was comfortable and cooler than my cabin below. You might say that I was as snug as a bug in a rug. Speaking of which; the mosquitos were usually blown away when the breeze was onshore, however the prevailing winds were easterlies off the continent which still wasn’t too bad but woe was me when they stopped blowing and the atmosphere became heavy hot and humid, laden with the insect that carried the dread parasite that caused malaria. My life was carefree, the food was good and for the most part I was the master not only of the MV Farmington but also of my destiny. When the cargo was secure and I had the time I would fire up my motor scooter and head into town. Life was good and although I missed my girlfriend Nora, the laid-back atmosphere of this nearly forgotten part of the world suited me. In time I joined the ranks of Monrovia’s cadre of transient misfits, backwater sailors, and ‘Typical Tropical Tramps’ or “TTT’s” as we proudly called ourselves. It wasn’t anything I wished for, but slowly although incessantly it happened. Like the black fungus on every building in this decrepit tropical capital city, it grew on me as it did on everyone else.

Ritual characterizes every aspect of life here, and even mundane, daily activities take on an ageless quality. The daily rhythm begins at dawn, as the fishermen launch boats from countless harbors, an event that has taken place for centuries. The women go to market, exchanging greetings and comments. Ritual rules the care and time taken with every detail of the midday meal, from the hearty seafood appetizers to the strong, syrupy coffee that marks the end of the feast. The day winds down with the evening stroll, a tradition thoroughly ingrained in the culture of the Greek Isles. In villages and towns throughout the islands, sunset brings cooler air and draws people from their homes and the beaches for an enjoyable evening walk through town squares, portside promenades, and narrow streets. Ancient crafts still flourish in the artisans’ studios and in tidy homes of countless mountain villages and ports. Embroidery--traditionally the province of Greek women--is created by hand to adorn the regional costumes worn during festivals. Artists craft delicate silver utensils, engraved gems, blown glass, and gold jewelry. Potters create ceramic pieces featuring some of the same decorative patterns and mythological subjects that captured their ancestors’ imagination. Weddings, festivals, saints’ days. And other celebrations with family and friends provide a backdrop for grave and energetic Greek dancing. For centuries--probably ever since people have lived on the islands--Greek islanders have seized every opportunity to play music, sing, and dance. Dancing in Greece is always a group activity, a way to create and reinforce bonds among families, friends, and communities, and island men have been dancing circle dances like the Kalamatianos and the Tsamikos since antiquity. Musicians accompany revelers on stringed instruments like the bouzouki--the modern equivalent of the lyre. While traditional attire is reserved mainly for festive occasions, on some islands people still sport these garments daily. On Lefkada and Crete, it is not unusual to find men wearing vraka, or baggy trousers, and vests, along with the high boots known as stivania. Women wear long, dark, pleated skirts woven on a traditional loom, and long silk scarves or kerchiefs adorn their heads. All the garments are ornamented by hand with rich brocades and elaborate embroidery. All over the Greek Isles, Orthodox priests dress in long black robes, their shadowy figures contrasting with the bright whites, blues, and greens of Greek village architecture.

She pops her head into a bare-looking kitchen and has a little wander round it. Here, she reads, Emily would sometimes make bread with her right hand while holding a book of German verse in her left. Well, OK, Yuki thinks, now you're talking. Because she applauds any woman who is unashamed of her intelligence. Also, what a great little trick. Over dinner last night the Elders were discussing Branwell, the dissolute Bronte brother, and someone mentioned a little party-piece he was said to have performed at the local pub in which he'd write a line of Latin with his right hand while writing the same thing in Greek with his left. So now Yuki's wondering if the Bronte kids weren't, in fact, exceptionally gifted linguists - or whether having your hands do different things simultaneously wasn't just about as wild an evening as you were likely to have back then. She heads up the stairs, where it's a little cooler - and more dismal, if that's possible - and stands on the landing, consulting her leaflet, where she learns that there were, in fact, another two Bronte girls, who died when they were still children. Two invisible, extra Brontes no one's ever heard of, since neither lived long enough to lift a pen. The first bedroom she enters, it seems, is where the mother passed away, knowing that all her children would have to go on, motherless. With just their crazy father to look after them. And this really is just about too much for poor Yukiko. She's tempted to throw herself onto the old bed and have a good long cry about it, and might have done so if she didn't suspect that the bed, bedroom floor and the entire Bronte house would likely to collapse around her, which would only mean her being dragged off to the local jailhouse, to be beaten about the body with copies of 'Wuthering Heights'.

One of those outrages, presumably, was Joseph Smith’s vocal opposition to slavery, and the governor’s executive order was the culmination of years of anti-Mormon sentiment, spurred by what were perceived as Joseph Smith’s designs on taking over American civil society. A manifesto written and signed by hundreds of Missourians, including elected officials, had preceded the extermination order, calling Mormons “a pretended religious sect,” and “deluded fanatics.” Mormons, then, have had foundational and horrifying experience with some of these worst impulses of mankind and became both refugees and immigrants in our own land. And so when someone starts talking of religious tests and religious bans, we know better. Because we have seen this all before. When we say “No Muslims” or “No Mexicans,” we may as well say “No Mormons.” Because it is no different. That kind of talk is a dagger in the heart of Mormons. It is a dagger in my heart. Because we know firsthand that America was made great not by giving in to these impulses but by fighting them, and defeating them. Governor Boggs’s Mormon ban was officially on the books in Missouri for 138 years. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed long before it was officially rescinded in 1976.

Cooler heads prevail while things spin completely out of control.

Cade applied the cool vinegar water to Lily's head when the fever grew stronger. When she began to sweat and toss restlessly, he peeled her gown from her shoulders and bathed her shoulders and breasts. She quieted with his touch, and he continued the soothing motion until she felt cooler again. When he was certain that she slept peacefully, Cade stripped off his clothes and joined her beneath the covers. They hadn't been together like this for so long. He pulled her into the curve of his body and rested his hand protectively on her swelling belly. His child grew there, and he protected what was his. He had so very little, he would fight for what he had. Exhausted,

Mei sat down at her desk in the lab and booted her computer. The room was quiet but for the whir of the case fans and coolers of the computer. The mechanical platters buzzed softly as the tiny magnetic head leapt around to access her hard drive, the platters spinning an upwards of 10,000 times per minute. She loved the sounds of the machinery, could diagnose a sick computer just by the sounds. She

in the afternoon. In the cooler mountains there were lush forests to explore, verdant tea plantations to visit and spectacular train rides to take. Sri Lanka even laid claim to the world’s oldest living tree. We knew it was going to be an action-packed, interesting trip. Colombo Airport was much like the Indian airports we had visited but smaller. It was hectic but not chaotic. Every airport in the developing world appeared to be the same. They were all full of people drawn there hoping to make a fast buck from the newly arrived foreigners. We made our way quickly out the front of the terminal to the taxi rank, politely declining the people who tried to help with our bags or lure us to their hotels and resorts. We had already chosen where we were going. The most popular beach resorts on the south-west of the teardrop-shaped island were Galle and Matara, but rather than stay in the built-up towns we decided to make our way slowly down the coast, staying in the less developed, more authentic, traditional villages. We hired a driver with a small minibus after haggling a price, loaded our bags on board, piled in and headed straight out through the city. The journey out of town took us through streets filled with

Hitler was seen as a type of ‘political instructor’. He could whip up the feelings of the masses like no one else. But beyond that he had no clear idea of the mechanics of attaining power. Cooler heads were needed for that.

Drop jewels from the top of these clouds, a drop top John F. Kennedy head shot. It's secrecy hidden in sight of these bars in hip-hop. A compass and square ruler, the pencil is the fueler, 33 degrees below and my mind is fire that keeps me cooler. It's a building of mind, a freezing of time, reverse history back to the garden, the story of the first Atom to be divine.

I can move,” I said to Ali in a hushed whisper. Ali shook her head. But her expression made it obvious how she felt. She wasn’t at all pleased. Liam didn’t seem to notice. He chatted to both Ethan and I as we took part in the sing-along that the counselors had started. I tried to act as if nothing was going on, but it proved difficult. Especially when Liam continued to bump my arm, trying to encourage me to sing more with the group. Secretly, I was enjoying having him beside me. But I kept my feelings hidden away. To please both him and my sister, I sang in a low voice and smiled, while also not appearing too eager. Eventually, Ali participated. Though there was an edge to her and I didn’t look forward to sharing a tent with her later that night. When we were all instructed to go back to our tents, I was the first to leave. If Ali wanted to talk to Liam, I wasn’t going to get in the way. The air temperature away from the campfire was much cooler, and after changing quickly into my pajamas, I zipped myself into my sleeping bag, shivering and waiting for my body to warm up. Ali came into the tent a few seconds later. I was facing the opposite direction and waited for her to say something.

Guess what I got in the trunk? An Igloo cooler. And guess what's in the cooler? A human head.' Shad violently expelled the cigar out the window. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his camo jacket. 'No joke,' Garcia said. 'Property of one Francisco Goyo, deceased. I can't begin to tell you how much gas I've wasted on the case. The fat prick got dumped in a dozen different zip codes.' 'Why,' Shad asked, 'do you got his head in an Igloo?' 'So it won't stink up the car.

If these care webs are going to keep working, a paradigm shift needs to occur in those friends’ heads. They need to see the disabled people they’ve blanked out on listening to for years when we’ve been trying to talk about access or our lives. (An apology might be cool, too.) They need to understand that their friend isn’t a special cripple, cooler than the rest—that the problems they’re facing aren’t individual ones but systemic struggles that face all crips and need collective solutions. They need to ask themselves why they have systematically refused to value or take in what disabled folks around them have been and are saying. They need to listen and learn from the care work and skills disability communities have been doing for years—and maybe offer some compensation for that knowledge. Or at least say thank you.

He’d spread out several quilts and a couple of pillows. A cooler was in the far corner. I crawled to the middle and sat down. Beau stood at the tailgate, watching me. The shadows from the moonlight shaded his eyes, so I couldn’t be sure what he was thinking. “Are you coming?” I asked, almost scared of his answer. “Yeah, I got a little sidetracked by the view,” he replied. A shiver of anticipation ran through me as he crawled onto the truck bed. Kneeling in front of me, he reached out to take my right foot and lay it against his jean-clad thigh. Fascinated, I watched him as he undid my sandal and placed it beside the cooler. He placed my foot back down on the blanket then reached for my left foot, and with the same slow careful attention, he removed my other sandal. Once both my feet were bare, he lifted his gaze to meet mine. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I like your pink toenails,” he replied, glancing back down at my feet. My silly heart thumped wildly in my chest, and I let out a nervous laugh. “It’s cotton candy. The color is, I mean.” I couldn’t even form coherent sentences. “I like cotton candy. Those toes of yours just may be sweeter, though.” As he moved to sit down beside me, his warm hand squeezed my foot closest to him. Neither of us spoke as we stared out over the still water. I’d never been so nervous in my life. Beau shifted beside me and then lay back on the pillows behind us. I turned slightly to peer down at him. Did he want me to lie down too? Tucking one arm behind his head and stretching the other out beside him, Beau grinned up at me as if he could read my mind. “Come here,” he said. I quickly scooted over and curled up next to him, resting my head on his chest. There was a peace in his arms I’d never experienced with Sawyer. It was as if I’d come home after years of searching.

Some writers have tried to cast Steve’s obsessiveness, and his hunger for the spotlight and success, as a Freudian attempt to bring down the birth parents who “rejected” him by letting him be adopted. It always struck me, however, that at his childish worst Steve was really nothing more than a spoiled brat. Brilliant, precocious, and meticulous, he had always gotten his way with his parents, and had brayed like an injured donkey when things didn’t turn out as he planned. As a grown-up he could behave exactly the same way, sometimes exploding in a temper tantrum. At NeXT there was no one to keep that side of him in check. While more grounded and cooler-headed folks like Lewin and Barnes would disagree with him and weigh in with advice, he ignored them with impunity and, often, scorn. Talking about the days after the historic introduction of the Mac, Steve had told Joe Nocera, “I think I know what it must be like to watch the birth of your child.” Unfortunately for the team at NeXT, in many ways Steve himself was still the child, rather than the more mature and supportive parent.