Cooling Fan Quotes

Wow I can't belive I won, This is awesome, Don't trip and fall, I'm gonna get to thank the fans, This is so cool, Oh kany'e west is here, Cool haircut, What are ya doing there... Ouch... I guess I'm not gonna get to thank the fans

Long hair will make thee look dreafully to thine enemies, and manly to thy friends: it is, in peace, an ornament; in war, a strong helmet; it... deadens the leaden thump of a bullet: in winter, it is a warm nightcap; in summer, a cooling fan of feathers.

I adore the way fan fiction writers engage with and critique source texts, by manipulating them and breaking their rules. Some of it is straight-up homage, but a lot of [fan fiction] is really aggressive towards the source text. One tends to think of it as written by total fanboys and fangirls as a kind of worshipful act, but a lot of times you’ll read these stories and it’ll be like ‘What if Star Trek had an openly gay character on the bridge?’ And of course the point is that they don’t, and they wouldn’t, because they don’t have the balls, or they are beholden to their advertisers, or whatever. There’s a powerful critique, almost punk-like anger, being expressed there—which I find fascinating and interesting and cool.

I've never been a fan of personality-conflict burgers and identity-crisis omelets with patchouli oil. I function very well on a diet that consists of Chicken Catastrophe and Eggs Overwhelming and a tall, cool Janitor-in-a-Drum. I like to walk out of a restaurant with enough gas to open a Mobil station.

... If the dead can come back to this earth and move unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or if the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

It was cool to see a bunch of new fans out there.

He stopped in the doorway and his eyes flicked to Sam whereupon he mumbled, “Dude, cool to meet you, big fan,” then he looked back at me and exploded, “Seriously, Kiakee, what… the… fuck?

While I was backstage before presenting the Best New Artist award, I talked to George Strait for a while. He's so incredibly cool. So down-to-earth and funny. I think it should be known that George Strait has an awesome, dry, subtle sense of humor. Then I went back out into the crowd and watched the rest of the show. Keith Urban's new song KILLS ME, it's so good. And when Brad Paisley ran down into the front row and kissed Kimberley's stomach (she's pregnant) before accepting his award, Kellie, my mom, and I all started crying. That's probably the sweetest thing I've ever seen. I thought Kellie NAILED her performance of the song we wrote together "The Best Days of Your Life". I was so proud of her. I thought Darius Rucker's performance RULED, and his vocals were incredible. I'm a huge fan. I love it when I find out that the people who make the music I love are wonderful people. I love Faith Hill and how she always makes everyone in the room feel special. I love Keith Urban, and how he told me he knows every word to "Love Story" (That made my night). I love Nicole Kidman, and her sweet, warm personality. I love how Kenny Chesney always has something hilarious or thoughtful to say. But the real moment that brought on this wave of gratitude was when Shania Twain HERSELF walked up and introduced herself to me. Shania Twain, as in.. The reason I wanted to do this in the first place. Shania Twain, as in.. the most impressive and independent and confident and successful female artist to ever hit country music. She walked up to me and said she wanted to meet me and tell me I was doing a great job. She was so beautiful, guys. She really IS that beautiful. All the while, I was completely star struck. After she walked away, I realized I didn't have my camera. Then I cried. You know, last night made me feel really great about being a country music fan in general. Country music is the place to find reality in music, and reality in the stars who make that music. There's kindness and goodness and....honesty in the people I look up to, and knowing that makes me smile. I'm proud to sing country music, and that has never wavered. The reason for the being.. nights like last night.

Here's an example: someone says, "Master, please hand me the knife," and he hands them the knife, blade first. "Please give me the other end," he says. And the master replies, "What would you do with the other end?" This is answering an everyday matter in terms of the metaphysical. When the question is, "Master, what is the fundamental principle of Buddhism?" Then he replies, "There is enough breeze in this fan to keep me cool." That is answering the metaphysical in terms of the everyday, and that is, more or less, the principle zen works on. The mundane and the sacred are one and the same.

Stop it. You are trusting. You love your fans. You're cool and funny and chill. You are Jennifer Lawerence."- Darian

I love you, I love you, my heart is a rose which your love has brought to bloom, my life is a desert fanned by the delicious breeze of your breath, and whose cool spring are your eyes; the imprint of your little feet makes valleys of shade for me, the odour of your hair is like myrrh, and wherever you go you exhale the perfumes of the cassia tree. Love me always, love me always. You have been the supreme, the perfect love of my life; there can be no other...

Bryson DeChambeau uses science in the true sense of the word to improve his golf game. He experiments and analyzes data to get better, and this separates golf fans, because those who think that's not cool use all of their brain capacity just breathing, like amoebas, but dumber.

Though he walked and breathed, and about him living leaves and flowers were stirred by the same cool wind as fanned his face, Frodo felt he was in a timeless land that did not fade or change or fall into forgetfulness. When he had gone and passed again into the outer world, still Frodo the wanderer from the Shire would walk there, upon the grass among elanor and niphredil in fair Lothlorien

Those porch girls had no idea they were going to sprawl on that couch until the weight of their adolescent bodies sank down into the pillows. They have no idea when they will get up off that couch. They have no plans for what will happen next. They only know their bodies touching as they try to keep cool. They only know that the coolest spot they can find is in front of that rotary fan. I want to lay up like that, to float unstructured, without ambition or anxiety. I want to inhibit my life like a porch.

She stood at the edge of a glassy river lined with impossibly tall trees, fanning out their wide emerald leaves among the puffy white clouds. Across the river, a row of crystal castles glittered in the sunlight in a way that would make Walt Disney want to throw rocks at his “Magic Kingdom.” To her right, a golden path led into a sprawling city, where the elaborate domed buildings seemed to be built from brick-size jewels—each structure a different color. Snowcapped mountains surrounded the lush valley, and the crisp, cool air smelled like cinnamon and chocolate and sunshine.

Bright flashes of memory sparked through Kaz’s mind. A cup of hot chocolate in his mittened hands, Jordie warning him to let it cool before he took a sip. Ink drying on the page as he’d signed the deed to the Crow Club. The first time he’d seen Inej at the Menagerie, in purple silk, her eyes lined with kohl. The bone-handled knife he’d given her. The sobs that had come from behind the door of her room at the Slat the night she’d made her first kill. The sobs he’d ignored. Kaz remembered her perched on the sill of his attic window, sometime during that first year after he’d brought her into the Dregs. She’d been feeding the crows that congregated on the roof. “You shouldn’t make friends with crows,” he’d told her. “Why not?” she asked. He’d looked up from his desk to answer, but whatever he’d been about to say had vanished on his tongue. The sun was out for once, and Inej had turned her face to it. Her eyes were shut, her oil-black lashes fanned over her cheeks. The harbor wind had lifted her dark hair, and for a moment Kaz was a boy again, sure that there was magic in this world. “Why not?” she’d repeated, eyes still closed. He said the first thing that popped into his head. “They don’t have any manners.” “Neither do you, Kaz.” She’d laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and gotten drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him.

His hot breath fanned her skin. “At this pace, you’re going to beg me to make you come in about five minutes or less.” His voice deepened. “I’ll stop long enough for your passion to cool and we’ll start again. I can do this for hours until you’re drenched in sweat and hurting so bad to come that you’ll tell me anything I want to know just to make the agony stop. It will turn into that.” “That’s mean.

The ballroom was empty of people but filled with round tables and chairs. It was set for a wedding party. White tablecloths with huge pink bows and pink and white artificial flower centerpieces, a two-foot riser with a long decorated table for the bridal party, a smaller round table next to the riser. The smaller table supported a massive wedding cake that was being cooled by a standing fan. “This is so romantic,” I said to Ranger. “Does it give you ideas?” He wrapped an arm around me, dragged me close against him, and kissed me on the forehead. “Yes, it gives me ideas, but not about marriage. Mostly about setting fire to this atrocity.

I don't dream of a ceiling fan which is always here spinning above my head. I dream of a cool weather

There are three ways to say, I love you, man. The first one is an announcement, said at full volume and often accompanied by a swear word. It’s sort of Thank you, sort of You’re cool, with a little And damn, you make me look good thrown in. This is how kellen said it. The second one is a diss, said with four and a half tons of sarcasm and most likely a reference to the father, son, or Holy Ghost. There’s no sort of about it. It means I hate you right now. The third one comes wrapped in caution tape. It is said quietly and on its own, without any adjectives. There’s no ‘sort of’ to this one, either, because you mean it. Like I did.

Wanting to give her the best fit I could, I sand the knowledge I had learned from Snow Flower. "Everyone needs clothing-no matter how cool it is in summer or how warm it is in winter-so make clothes for others without being asked. Even if the table is plentiful, let your in-laws eat first. Work hard and remember three things: Be god to your in-laws and always show respect, be good to your husband and always weave for him, be good to your children and always be a model of decorum to them. If you do these things, your new family will treat you kindly. In that fine home, be calm of heart.

Bunny Sue was nineteen. She had honey-bobbed hair and candid, near-insolent green eyes. She had a snub, delightful nose, a cool, regal, and tapering neck, a fine, intelligent mouth that covered teeth so startling they might have been cleansed by sun gods. Without any makeup save lipstick, her complexion was as milk flecked with butter, the odor she cast as wholesome as bread. On my first breathless vision of her, I wanted to bury my teeth, Dracula-like, into her flanks, knowing that she would bleed pure butterscotch.

Life is an open book. Time is an oscillating fan. I’ve had to learn to skim-read because before I can read more than a few paragraphs, That fucking airhead comes circling back, blowing pages like a medieval prostitute. The cool air feels nice, though. Sometimes, when my head aches, I let me eyes relax and I enjoy the breeze as the words blur.

So we're getting close to suggesting that camp is both the opposite of cool and a refinement of it. Camp and cool both have an element of not-caring, of disdain for the ordinary. The difference is that cool implies a lack of conscious effort, whereas camp is about putting everything you've got into it. Either you love something too much (much more than it's "worth", so the stereotypical anorak-wearing Doctor Who fan and the Barry Manilow cultist are both manifestations of this, at least to the outside world), or you're given to going over the top. Or you do both at once, in many cases. Both phenomena are examples of people fashioning an identity for themselves, and if you're reading this book then you must know people like that. Cool is not caring, camp is actively defiant.

There I saw again, but not yet pressed and dried like the Nautilus's specimens, some peacock's tails spread open like fans to stir up a cooling breeze, scarlet rosetangle, sea tangle stretching out their young and edible shoots, twisting strings of kelp from the genus Nereocystis that bloomed to a height of fifteen meters [...] Near one o'clock, Captain Nemo gave the signal to halt. Speaking for myself, I was glad to oblige, and we stretched out beneath an arbour of winged kelp, whose long thin tendrils stood up like arrows.

You will have noticed that I didn’t give this story a pat conclusion, and that’s deliberate. Katherine (my wife and frequent coauthor, K. A. Applegate) and I were among the earliest authors to encounter fan fiction via the internet. We’ve embraced it from the start. And some part of me hopes that fanfic writers will carry this story forward. Don’t ask me what happens to these characters next, because I don’t know. Will Dekka find love, perhaps with Simone? Will Cruz and Armo? How will Sam and Astrid do in this terrifying extension of earlier trauma? Maybe you have some ideas. I built the sandbox; if you want to bring your pails and shovels and play in it, cool. It’s one of the best things about writing for young people: you are my collaborators in imagination. If I leave blanks it’s because I know you’ll fill them.

It had been an evening in the empty dance hall when not even that depth of stone and the constant stirring of the ceiling fans could cool the stifling and humid night air, which had entered the Duckworth Club as heavily as a fog from the Arabian Sea. Even atheists, like Lowji, were praying for the monsoon rains. After

Residents of Niagara Falls, New York complained that bitcoin miners powerful cooling fans, necessary to keep the computers from overheating, were drowning out the sound of the area's massive waterfalls. China, not exactly known for its environmentalism, banned mining due to its massive energy use. Of course, it was welcomed by Texas.

A kind of northing is what I wish to accomplish, a single-minded trek towards that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky’s stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles. I seek a reduction, a shedding, a sloughing off. At the seashore you often see a shell, or fragment of a shell, that sharp sands and surf have thinned to a wisp. There is no way you can tell what kind of shell it had been, what creature it had housed; it could have been a whelk or a scallop, a cowrie, limpet, or conch. The animal is long since dissolved, and its blood spread and thinned in the general sea. All you hold in your hand is a cool shred of shell, an inch long, pared so thin that it passes a faint pink light. It is an essence, a smooth condensation of the air, a curve. I long for the North where unimpeded winds would hone me to such a pure slip of bone. But I’ll not go northing this year. I’ll stalk that floating pole and frigid air by waiting here. I wait on bridges; I wait, struck, on forest paths and meadow’s fringes, hilltops and banksides, day in and day out, and I receive a southing as a gift. The North washes down the mountains like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, and pours across the valley; it comes to me. It sweetens the persimmons and numbs the last of the crickets and hornets; it fans the flames of the forest maples, bows the meadow’s seeded grasses and pokes it chilling fingers under the leaf litter, thrusting the springtails and the earthworms deeper into the earth. The sun heaves to the south by day, and at night wild Orion emerges looming like the Specter over Dead Man Mountain. Something is already here, and more is coming.

Amelia crouched and set the cereal on the ground beside the box of rice. She thought of James’s sperm, fanning out, a slow-mo explosion, how cool it looked,

There was no doubt about it, I must soon enter this world, where on its surface fragrant ladies rocked slowly, fanned gently, and drank cool water.

I must soon enter this world, where on its surface fragrant ladies rocked slowly, fanned gently, and drank cool water.

A fan can be used as a listening device, pushing sound waves towards your ears, along with cool air. I listen harder than a hurricane, and that’s why I have a vacant and evacuated expression.

Oh my God. I knew it. I fucking knew they had it wrong. It had to be a woman. The Orb Weaver! Such a cool name. The intricate fishing line, the fucking eyeballs. Amazing. I’m such a huge fan.

Double Fine had found a fourth option: Kickstarter, a “crowdfunding” website that had launched in 2009. Using this website, creators could pitch directly to their fans: You give us money; we’ll give you something cool.

Did God really say you can't eat from any tree in the garden?" "Oh, no! We can eat from any tree but the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil." Woman explained. "But if we eat from that tree or even touch it, God will kill us!" That bastard! thought the snake and he spat, "Bullshit! This fruit will not kill you! God knows that if you eat from that tree you will open your eyes and become like gods and know the difference between good and evil!" Become like gods! Well, isn't that interesting... "Fuck God, eat all you want, learn all you can, write a goddamn encyclopedia, for Chrissake!" "Well," Woman thought, "It's a beautiful tree and the fruit looks delicious and who better to trust than a talking snake?" Abandoning all caution, she picked some forbidden fruit and shared it with Man. They each took a bite... Flash! Man, suddenly felt the cool breeze on his balls and looked frantically at Woman... She looked frantically at him... Holy Shit! We're buck fucking naked!

There was one old fan in the corner of our train car, the blades barely moving the hot dust around. To get cool, Chinese passengers thought nothing of stripping down to their underwear, and Hayes and Strasser thought this gave them license to do the same. If I live to be two hundred years old, I won’t forget the sight of those leviathans walking up and down the train car in their T-shirts and BVDs. Nor will any Chinese man or woman who was on the train that day. Before leaving China we had a final

She is the last of her kind, she thought. No wars had ever touched her, and she had lived through three; nothing had disturbed that world of hers, where gentlemen smoked on the porch or in hammocks, where ladies fanned themselves gently and drank cool water.

From the race’s conception, the press viewed it with skepticism. Sportswriters argued that the rich event was a farce arranged to pad Seabiscuit’s bankroll. Del Mar, conscious of the potential conflict of interest for the Howards and Smiths, barred public wagering on the race. But the press’s distrust and the absence of gambling did nothing to cool the enthusiasm of racing fans. On the sweltering race day, special trains and buses poured in from San Diego and Los Angeles, filling the track with well over twenty thousand people, many more than the track’s official capacity. Lin plastered a twenty-foot LIGAROTI sign on the wall behind the “I’m for Ligaroti” section, and scores of Crosby’s movie friends, including Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, Spencer Tracy and Ray Milland, took up their cerise and white pennants and filed in. “Is there anyone left in Hollywood?” wondered a spectator. Dave Butler led a chorus of Ligaroti cheers, and the crowd grew boisterous. Crosby perched on the roof with Oscar Otis, who would call the race for a national radio broadcast. In the jockeys’ room, Woolf suited up to man the helm on Seabiscuit while Richardson slipped on Ligaroti’s polka dots. Just before the race, Woolf and Richardson made a deal. No matter who won, they would “save,” or split, the purse between them.

the Yankees were playing my hometown Red Sox on TV and I lost my cool at a guy who was loudly dissing them. I yelled, “Derek Jeter is baseball’s Hitler!” This was in New York City. In a room full of Jewish sports fans. I don’t even really like baseball that much! I have problems.

Bezos is a fan of e-mail newsletters such as VSL.com, a daily assortment of cultural tidbits from the Web, and Cool Tools, a compendium of technology tips and product reviews written by Kevin Kelly, a founding editor of Wired. Both e-mails are short, well written, and informative.

I like the structure of the crime story, but most of all I like the ecosystem in which the genre flourishes: the festivals, the websites, the fans, the fact that you have your own special section of the bookshop. And crime is cool, too. It’s dark and edgy and funny and intelligent. I love it.

Okay, you found a good one.” I play it cool while on the inside I’m fanning myself. “Good one? Are you out of your mind? Look at him, that’s what a great fuck looks like.” “How could you possibly know that?” “Look at him, everything about him screams sex. Go. Talk to him.” She nudges my shoulder with her hand.

When we were choosing homes, Czar made it plain to choose something we’d be comfortable in. This has a temperature-controlled wine and cigar room.” She frowned up at him and then blinked, those long lashes fanning her cheeks. “Do you even drink wine? Do you smoke cigars?” He grinned down at her. “No. But that doesn’t matter. It’s just fuckin’ cool.

For the Love of Dying 
 The tortures of hell are stern, their fires burn fiercely. Yet vultures turn against the air more beautifully than seagulls float downwind in cool sunlight, or fans in asylums spin a loom of fate for hope which never ventured up so high as life’s deception, astride the vulture’s flight. If death can fly, just for the love of flying, what might not life do, for the love of dying?

Uh, now let me tell you about what's new. We found another set of drawings, always nice, AND A FOXY HEAD! Which we think could be authentic! Then again, it might just be another crappy cosplay. And we found a Desk fan, very old school, metal though, so watch the fingers! Uh, heh! Uhm, right now the place is basically just, you know, FLASHING LIGHTS and SPOOKY PROPS. I honestly thought we'd have more by now, uh so if we don't have anything really cool by next week, we may have to suit you up in a Freddy suit, and make you walk around saying: "BOOO!" Hehe. Uh, but you know like I said, were trying to track down, a good lead right now. Uh, some guy who helped design one of the buildings, said there was like, an extra room that got boarded up..? Or something like that.  So! Were gonna take a peak, and see what we can find. Uh, for now just get comfortable with the new

Have you ever thought about going into politics, Mr. Maxwell?” she asked archly as she snapped open her fan. She cooled herself in a manner that had no secret meaning that she knew of. Whoever invented the “language” of the fan should have been slapped. What if a lady simply wanted to cool herself and not send a message? “I fancy you’d be quite good at it.” Kellan only smiled, taking no offense. Obviously he was too pleased with himself to regret the remark.

It was weird to be with her in a group. I kept wanting to stop the conversation to make sure everybody had noticed what a cool thing she’d just said or done. It wasn’t because I was insecure or worried that they wouldn’t like her. I just wanted to have someone to share it all with, like that burst of excitement you get when you meet someone who likes the same obscure band or has the same favorite movie. I guess I was a Karen fan, and I wanted to start a fan club.

As she crossed the defence team, Indrani saw Sesha sitting in a chair with his legs crossed and looking cool and composed. Mythili, who was by his side, was offering him coffee from a flask. As if they were in a cinema house waiting for the movie to resume after intermission. When everything pointed to an adverse verdict, how could he be so relaxed? He was typing something into his cell phone; perhaps tweeting. He had a massive following on Twitter. It ranged from simple appreciation for his administrative prowess to absolute fetish over everything about him—his trademark cotton pants and shirt, which had become a rage among his female fans, his Santro car, which had become a symbol of simplicity and his frugal dietary habits, which somehow raised him to a sainthood and absolved him of anything wicked. The more the mainstream media like TV and newspapers worked against him, the stronger was the support he got from his Twitter followers.

Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress bids me wear them, warm them, until evening when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her, resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope. She's beautiful. I dream about her in my attic bed; picture her dancing with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent beneath her French perfume, her milky stones. I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot, watch the soft blush seep through her skin like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass my red lips part as though I want to speak. Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see her every movement in my head.... Undressing, taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way she always does.... And I lie here awake, knowing the pearls are cooling even now in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night I feel their absence and I burn.

There is one terrible weakness you can have if you amusedly and self-deprecatingly describe yourself as an artist and become famous. One letdown if you become loved by millions and your work is meaningful work and that is if some of the millions that know you and love you are teenage girls. There is nothing more shaming than to be loved by teenage girls. The love of teenage girls is not merely substandard or worthless it is an active mortification to an artist. Our language is full of how little we think of artists that are loved by teenage girls, we talk of mad fans and teenyboppers and little girls wetting their knickers. Ohh, you can take those girls' money and become elevated on their devotion and enjoy them putting you at number one. You can do all those things, no band ever refused them but you do not respect those girls, you do not want to talk to them or look them in the eye, or hang out with them or love them back. You do not talk about them unless it is to turn to your cool fans, the men, and mouth "Sorry, these mad girls have crushed the party. So embarrassing!" (...)Men are the right fans to have. This is why rock is cooler than pop, acid house is cooler than disco, prog is cooler than boy bands. Things boys love are cooler than things girls love. That is a simple fact. Boys love clever things cleverly, girls love foolish things foolishly. How awful it would be love bands like teenage girls do? How awful it would be to be the wrong kind of fan? A girl. How awful it would be to be a dumb, hysterical, screaming teenage girl? How amazing it is to be a dumb, hysterical, screaming teenage girl? ...

On especially hot days, when you’d like to murder whoever crosses you, or at least give him a good slap, drink lemonade instead. Go out and buy a first-rate ceiling fan. Make certain never to step on one of the crickets that may have taken refuge in a dark corner of your living room, or your luck will change for the worse. Avoid men who call you Baby, and women who have no friends, and dogs that scratch at their bellies and refuse to lie down at your feet. Wear dark glasses; bathe with lavender oil and cool, fresh water. Seek shelter from the sun at noon.

Rock stars have many of the same qualities as athletes—millions for doing what they love, fans, easy pussy, fame, status, the ability to do whatever they want when they want. While what they do is still cool, the main difference is that it’s less masculine. You connect with your fans in this intense, intimate, emotional way that is less about you and more about them, how you make them feel. When you’re an athlete, it’s all about you. They cheer you on. When you make music, you cheer them on, provide the soundtrack to their little lives, and all they do is cheer you back to say “Thanks.

They don’t know about the lonely nights in a strange, often dirty, bed in some fleabag hotel on the other side of the world. Lying there for hours on end staring at the rusty ceiling fan that barely moves the air, doing little more than collecting dust. The heat and humidity clog up my head and the sweat streams down my chest despite feeble attempts to cool off. Nights when I struggle to get the aging computer called my mind, a late ‘70s model, to process all the new events and information collected in its memory during the day. Appalling images are engraved on my soul, leaving permanent scars. The nights are spent fixated on the memories that never die, like maggots eating at my brain. I was striving hard for routine.

July 14, 1861 Camp Clark, Washington My very dear Sarah: The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days — perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more… I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing — perfectly willing — to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt… Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field. The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me — perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness… But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights … always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again…

As she lifted it, it caught the light and sent it out in a fan of intense colour. ‘Take this,’ Yollana said, and if there was a request in the two words, she hid it well. ‘Take this, and wear it. Travel this village, these lands. Speak to the people who make this your home. Visit your graves, your fields, your hills; find the shade in your forest, the cooling waters in your brook and small river.’ She let it fall; Ashaf gasped until she saw the glittering chain that stopped it from reaching the ground. A necklace or a pendant of some sort. She reached out an open palm, and Yollana carefully dropped the stone-for it was a stone, a clear one, like a diamond that would beggar even a Tyr-into her hand. At once, it flared with a deep, blue light; the light ran the length of her arm, shrouding it. Magic. ‘What-what does it do?’ Her voice was, momentarily, a girl’s voice-the girl that she had thought long gone. Dreamer. Seeker of wonder. ‘It is the Lady’s magic,’ Yollana replied, ‘not the Lord’s. It will not protect you; it will not defend you. Where a blade is raised or a spell is thrown, you will find no solace in it.’ Ashaf smiled wryly. ‘I did not ask you what it wasn’t. I asked you what it is.’ ‘It is a keeper’ Yollan said. ‘Of memory. Of affection. Of place. Wear it, as I have told you wear it, and it will take some of what you feel and hold it within depths that you cannot even imagine. Wear it, and you will feel exactly the peace or the joy or the quiet-yes, or the sorrow-that you felt when you donned it.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It is a piece of home,’ Yollana replied gravely. ‘Many of the Voyani women wear them, because the heart-our hearts-so seldom find a home, and when they do, we cannot remain there.

Guess what, Grandpa!” she says, not giving him time to guess before she continues. “I seen that Breezeo got sick in an accident, so Mommy told me I could draw him a picture!” My father’s eyes go wide as he shoots me a look. “I told her we’d find an address and mail it to him,” I explain. “You know, like fan mail.” “Makes sense.” “You wanna draw one, Grandpa?” Maddie asks. “I bet mine would be better, but you can try, too.” He scowls at her. “What makes you think yours would be better?” “ ‘Cuz I’m best at drawing,” she says. “You’re good, too, but Mommy can’t draw.” “Hey,” I say defensively. “I can draw some seriously cool stars.” Maddie dramatically rolls her eyes, making sure I see it, announcing, “That don’t count!” before making her way inside. “You heard the girl,” my father says, grinning and nudging me when I join him on the porch. “Your stars don’t count, kiddo.

[Hmmm…Do you know who I was named after?] I’d say Eva Perón. —Eva’s from Puerto Rico, Vincent, not Argentina. [I was named after a robot.] —That is interesting. —Oh yeah. You have his attention now. [I was born on the day of the parade when the EDC was created. My parents were the biggest geeks ever, huge science-fiction fans. Themis was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. They wanted to name me after her, but they somehow thought everyone would start naming their kid Themis, so they named me after another big robot.] A robot? [Yes. Eva’s a common name in Spanish, but apparently, it’s also the name of a giant robot, from a Japanese anime they really liked. It’s old. I never saw it.] —Eva is for Evangelion? That is so cool! —Of course, Vincent knows all about it. —Yeah! It’s awesome! But ours is bigger. —Eva, I think you have a fan now. —I…We have it on DVD, you know.

I end up leaning on my sword for a moment, after exerting almost the last of my energy to take down one of the weakest Vampyres. Must be nice to be a Van Helsing, who can carry on idle chit-chat, while fighting like it’s a day job. “I told you to feed more often—” “I don’t want to hear ‘I told you so’s’ right now, you smug prat. I want you to kiss me,” I tell him. “I’ll fucking die first,” he assures me, quickly knocking the head off the Vampyre, who damn near crept up on me. After Vance does some fancy sword skills, clearly showing off, five Vampyres lose their head, leaving only two. I stick behind Vance, shamelessly using the sword-happy Van Helsing as a shield. “Should we discuss the ghost fanning herself right now?” I ask, as Emily slides up next to us, moving with us toward the remaining Vampyres. “Pssst,” the ghost stage whispers. “The threat’s over. You can be cool again.” I step out from behind Vance, adjust my jacket, and ignore the fucking ghost who thinks I have pride or something.

When I finally calmed down, I saw how disappointed he was and how bad he felt. I decided to take a deep breath and try to think this thing through. “Maybe it’s not that bad,” I said. (I think I was trying to cheer myself up as much as I was trying to console Chip.) “If we fix up the interior and just get it to the point where we can get it onto the water, at least maybe then we can turn around, sell it, and get our money back.” Over the course of the next hour or so, I really started to come around. I took another walk through the boat and started to picture how we could make it livable--maybe even kind of cool. After all, we’d conquered worse. We tore a few things apart right then and there, and I grabbed some paper and sketched out a new layout for the tiny kitchen. I talked to him about potentially finishing an accent wall with shiplap--a kind of rough-textured pine paneling that fans of our show now know all too well. “Shiplap?” Chip laughed. “That seems a little ironic to use on a ship, doesn’t it?” “Ha-ha,” I replied. I was still not in the mood for his jokes, but this is how Chip backs me off the ledge--with his humor.

It did not seem possible that Wendy Wright had been born out of blood and internal organs like other people. In proximity to her he felt himself to be a squat, oily, sweating, uneducated nurt whose stomach rattled and whose breath wheezed. Near her he became aware of physical mechanisms which kept him alive; within him machinery, pipes and valves and gas-compressors and fan belts had to chug away at a losing task, a labor ultimately doomed. Seeing her face, he discovered that his own consisted of a garish mask; noticing her body made him feel like a low-class windup toy. All her colors possessed a subtle quality, indirectly lit. Her eyes, those green and tumbled stones, looked impassively at everything; he had never seen fear in them, or aversion, or contempt. What she saw she accepted. Generally she seemed calm. But more than that she struck him as being durable, untroubled and cool, not subject to wear, or to fatigue, or to physical illness and decline. Probably she was twenty-five or -six, but he could not imagine her looking younger, and certainly she would never look older. She had too much control over herself and outside reality for that.

She stood in the high pines along the eastern edge of the camp that ran downhill toward the river. She had a place there. A small clearing just above the riverbank where the earth was carpeted in brown pine needles, and the trees were very tall and very old, and there, in that same place, were some young pine saplings with their feathery, light green needles, fernlike in their delicacy, fanning out silently in the still cool air with the old alligator bark of the ancient trees behind them and the long golden river sliding over the rocks beyond. In this place, the black branch of one thick old tree reached out far over the river, and its smallest branches trailed along the surface like fingers, and the light fell and glittered wonderfully on the water, and she could feel her God there, inside of her, could be gentled and calmed by Him as she watched the sun pour down in long shafts and then splinter out across the the surface of the water like shards of a shattered mirror. She rested her hand against the rough trunk of the tree and then leaned her whole body against it, soaking in the silence, the curious comfort of leaning up against something so old, listening to the never-ending movement of the water.

He opened her door, grabbed a quilt from the back of the truck, and pulled her toward the beach. When he found a spot covered with thick sand, he stopped and spread out the blanket. “It’s a little early for sunbathing,” she said. “I don’t remember you being so grumpy in the morning,” he teased. “I didn’t have time for coffee.” He lowered himself to the blanket and pulled her down in front of him. She settled against his chest, his warmth driving away the chill in the air. “Madam . . .” He handed her a thermos she hadn’t noticed before. “Oh, bless you.” She poured the hot brew into the lid, took a sip, and shared with him. Much better. The smell of the brew mingled with the tangy scent of sea air. The cool breeze fanned her skin, pushing her hair from her face, and the water lapped the pebbled shore. The clouds on the horizon were beginning to brighten, the black fading to dark hues of blue. A couple months ago she’d mentioned that she’d never watched a sunrise. He seemed intent on being there for all her firsts. The first time she rented a house. The first time she opened her own bank account. The first time she swam in the ocean. She embraced her freedom, and Beau was there, supporting her however he could.

She finds herself, by some miraculous feat, no longer standing in the old nursery but returned to the clearing in the woods. It is the 'green cathedral', the place she first kissed Jack all those weeks ago. The place where they laid out the stunned sparrowhawk, then watched it spring miraculously back to life. All around, the smooth, grey trunks of ancient beech trees rise up from the walls of the room to tower over her, spreading their branches across the ceiling in a fan of tangled branches and leaves, paint and gold leaf cleverly combined to create the shimmering effect of a leafy canopy at its most dense and opulent. And yet it is not the clearing, not in any real or grounded sense, because instead of leaves, the trees taper up to a canopy of extraordinary feathers shimmering and spreading out like a peacock's tail across the ceiling, a hundred green, gold and sapphire eyes gazing down upon her. Jack's startling embellishments twist an otherwise literal interpretation of their woodland glade into a fantastical, dreamlike version of itself. Their green cathedral, more spectacular and beautiful than she could have ever imagined. She moves closer to one of the trees and stretches out a hand, feeling instead of rough bark the smooth, cool surface of a wall. She can't help but smile. The trompe-l'oeil effect is dazzling and disorienting in equal measure. Even the window shutters and cornicing have been painted to maintain the illusion of the trees, while high above her head the glass dome set into the roof spills light as if it were the sun itself, pouring through the canopy of eyes. The only other light falls from the glass windowpanes above the window seat, still flanked by the old green velvet curtains, which somehow appear to blend seamlessly with the painted scene. The whole effect is eerie and unsettling. Lillian feels unbalanced, no longer sure what is real and what is not. It is like that book she read to Albie once- the one where the boy walks through the wardrobe into another world. That's what it feels like, she realizes: as if she has stepped into another realm, a place both fantastical and otherworldly. It's not just the peacock-feather eyes that are staring at her. Her gaze finds other details: a shy muntjac deer peering out from the undergrowth, a squirrel, sitting high up in a tree holding a green nut between its paws, small birds flitting here and there. The tiniest details have been captured by Jack's brush: a silver spider's web, a creeping ladybird, a puffy white toadstool. The only thing missing is the sound of the leaf canopy rustling and the soft scuttle of insects moving across the forest floor.

Domestic If, when studying road atlases while taking, as you call it, your morning dump, you shout down to me names like Miami City, Franconia, Cancún, as places for you to take me to from here, can I help it if all I can think is things that are stupid, like he loves me he loves me not? I don’t think so. No more than, some mornings, waking to your hands around me, and remembering these are the fingers, the hands I’ve over and over given myself to, I can stop myself from wondering does that mean they’re the same I’ll grow old with. Yesterday, in the café I keep meaning to show you, I thought this is how I’ll die maybe, alone, somewhere too far away from wherever you are then, my heart racing from espresso and too many cigarettes, my head down on the table’s cool marble, and the ceiling fan turning slowly above me, like fortune, the part of fortune that’s half-wished- for only—it did not seem the worst way. I thought this is another of those things I’m always forgetting to tell you, or don’t choose to tell you, or I tell you but only in the same way, each morning, I keep myself from saying too loud I love you until the moment you flush the toilet, then I say it, when the rumble of water running down through the house could mean anything: flood, your feet descending the stairs any moment; any moment the whole world, all I want of the world, coming down.

it’s one of the great sunrises in all literature. Mark Twain: from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn . . . then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres—perfectly still—just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bull-frogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line—that was the woods on t’other side—you couldn’t make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, and warn’t black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along, ever so far away—trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks—rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled-up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by-and-by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there’s a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t’other side of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh, and sweet to smell, on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they’ve left dead fish laying around, gars, and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you’ve got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!

No matter how many times I read the novel, I am always moved by the scene in which the pastor empties the offering can in front of the congregation, begins to count the money, and tells them it is not enough. He reminds them that one of their own, Helen Robinson, needs help while her husband is in jail. He then closes the church doors and announces that no one will leave until they’ve collected ten dollars. I can honestly say I have never witnessed this in a church service, have never heard of it happening, and can’t even imagine it taking place in real life, but there is something so moving about the pastoral determination of the reverend. In the silence that follows, he begins to call out by name the churchgoers who have not contributed enough. Scout tells us that after several long and uncomfortable moments, the ten dollars are finally collected and the church doors are unlocked. How could you read this scene and not think that we need more pastors like Reverend Sykes of First Purchase Church? You can almost feel the discomfort of the closed door, the sweating, the heat of the room, the smell of perfume, the rhythm of people fanning themselves to stay cool, and Reverend Sykes’s eyes raking over each parishioner as he scans the sanctuary, determined to make sure that Helen Robinson can feed her family that week. Isn’t this the way church should work? Not a soul openly questions the reverend’s authority in this scene. They are set on caring for one another. This was the way the early church operated in caring for its own community: “And so it turned out that not a person among them was needy. Those who owned fields or houses sold them and brought the price of the sale to the apostles and made an offering of it. The apostles then distributed it according to each person’s need” (Acts 4:34–35 MSG).

During homeroom, before first period, I start a bucket list in one of my notebooks. First on the list? 1) Eat in the cafeteria. Sit with people. TALK TO THEM. 2) And…that’s all I can come up with for now. But this is good. One task to work on. No distractions. I can do this. When my lunch period rolls around, I forgo the safety of my bag lunch and the computer lab and slip into the pizza line, wielding my very own tray of semi-edible fare for the first time in years. “A truly remarkable sight.” Jensen cuts into line beside me, sliding his tray next to mine on the ledge in front of us. He lifts his hands and frames me with his fingers, like he’s shooting a movie. “In search of food, the elusive creature emerges from her den and tries her luck at the watering hole." I shake my head, smiling, moving down the line. “Wow, Peters. I never knew you were such a huge Animal Planet fan.” “I’m a fan of all things nature. Birds. Bees. The like.” He grabs two pudding cups and drops one on my tray. “Pandas?” I say. “How did you know? The panda is my spirit animal.” “Oh, good, because Gran has this great pattern for an embroidered panda cardigan. It would look amazing on you.” “Um, yeah, I know. It was on my Christmas list, but Santa totally stiffed me." I laugh as I grab a carton of milk. So does he. He leans in closer. “Come sit with me.” “At the jock table? Are you kidding?” I hand the cashier my lunch card. Jensen squints his eyes in the direction of his friends. “We’re skinny-ass basketball players, Wayfare. We don’t really scream jock.” “Meatheads, then?” “I believe the correct term is Athletic Types.” We step out from the line and scan the room. “So where were you planning on sitting?" “I was thinking Grady and Marco were my safest bet.” “The nerd table?” I gesture to myself, especially my glasses. “I figure my natural camouflage will help me blend, yo.” He laughs, his honey-blond hair falling in front of his eyes. “And hey,” I say, nudging him with my elbow, “last I heard, Peters was cool with nerdy.” He claps me gently on the back. “Good luck, Wayfare. I’m pulling for ya.

When I finally calmed down, I saw how disappointed he was and how bad he felt. I decided to take a deep breath and try to think this thing through. “Maybe it’s not that bad,” I said. (I think I was trying to cheer myself up as much as I was trying to console Chip.) “If we fix up the interior and just get it to the point where we can get it onto the water, at least maybe then we can turn around, sell it, and get our money back.” Over the course of the next hour or so, I really started to come around. I took another walk through the boat and started to picture how we could make it livable--maybe even kind of cool. After all, we’d conquered worse. We tore a few things apart right then and there, and I grabbed some paper and sketched out a new layout for the tiny kitchen. I talked to him about potentially finishing an accent wall with shiplap--a kind of rough-textured pine paneling that fans of our show now know all too well. “Shiplap?” Chip laughed. “That seems a little ironic to use on a ship, doesn’t it?” “Ha-ha,” I replied. I was still not in the mood for his jokes, but this is how Chip backs me off the ledge--with his humor. Then I asked him to help me lift something on the deck, and he said, “Aye, aye, matey!” in his best pirate voice, and slowly but surely I came around. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but by the end of that afternoon I was actually a little bit excited about taking on such a big challenge. Chip was still deflated that he’d allowed himself to get duped, but he put his arm around me as we started walking back to the truck. I put my head on his shoulder. And the camera captured the whole thing--just an average, roller-coaster afternoon in the lives of Chip and Joanna Gaines. The head cameraman came jogging over to us before we drove away. Chip rolled down his window and said sarcastically, “How’s that for reality TV?” We were both feeling embarrassed that this is how we had spent our last day of trying to get this stinkin’ television show. “Well,” the guy said, breaking into a great big smile, “if I do my job, you two just landed yourself a reality TV show.” What? We were floored. We couldn’t believe it. How was that a show? But lo and behold, he was right. That rotten houseboat turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

8:00am The sun is shining, the cows are mooing, and I am ready for the mines. I hope I find something awesome today. Steve has told me about some pretty crazy things I had no idea existed. According to him, I must find empty tombs in the desert. That’s where the real treasures are. For today, I will stick to regular mining. Who knows, maybe I will come across an abandoned mine shaft; could be my lucky day.   12:30pm I was forced to come home for lunch today because I had too much stuff to carry. I was getting low on my iron ore, gold, and lapis lazuli stocks before this mine trip. It’s amazing how quick lapis goes when you are busy enchanting everything but the kitchen sink. I’d enchant that too if I had one. I wonder what an enchanted kitchen sink would do. Would it do my dishes for me? That would be so cool.   I have plenty of both now. I can make some new armor and enchant it! I love mining.   Steve decided to join me for lunch and we ate a couple of pork chops and some cake. I love cake! We ate until no more food could fill us up. Then, Steve had the guts to brag about how, when he mines, he takes a horse with extra storage so he can stay down there all day long. Well fancy you, Steve.   He also went on to tell me about how well the crops are doing these days. He thinks it’s because he is looking after them half of the time. What he doesn’t know is I throw bone marrow on them when I am working. Makes my job faster and gives me more free time so whatever you need to tell yourself, Steve.   Life may be easier switching every day between mines and farming, but it still doesn’t make me his biggest fan. I just don’t think he needs to fall in a hole, either. At least… Not right now. I would consider us to be frienemies; Friendly enemies. Yes. At times we pretend to get along, but most of the time, we are happiest doing our own thing.   6:00pm Mining this afternoon was super fun… Not! I got attacked by a partially hidden skeleton guy. I couldn’t see him enough to strike back until half of my life hearts were gone. I must not have made the space bright enough. Those guys are nasty. They are hard to kill too. If you don’t have a bow and arrow you might as well surrender. Plus, they kind of smell like death. Yuck.   Note to self: Bring more torches on the next mining day.   On the other hand, I came back with an overshare of Redstone, too much iron for my own good, and oddly, quite a few diamonds. I won’t be sharing the diamonds with anyone. They are far too precious. They will go to some new diamond pickaxes, and maybe some armor. Hmm, I could enchant those too! The iron and Redstone though, I am thinking a trip to the village may be in order. See what those up-tight weirdos are willing to trade me.   For now, it’s bedtime.   6:10pm You can only sleep at night. You can only sleep at night. You can only sleep at night.   6:11pm That stupid rule gets me every time. Why can’t I decide when it’s bed time?   First, I will go eat a cookie, then I will go to sleep. Day Thirty-Three   3:00am I just dreamt that our world was made of cookies.

Eugenie Fonda sat on the balcony of her sixth-floor room, fanning her freshly painted toes and watching the sun melt like sorbet into the Gulf of Mexico. Her third Bacardi was sweating cool droplets that snaked down her bare tummy.

Victor and Melody Chen lived in the Mid-Levels, in an enormous white two-story house on May Road. There was a driveway, with potted plants lining the sides. Inside, there was the quiet, efficient buzz of a household staffed with plentiful servants. Claire had taken a bus, and when she arrived, she was perspiring after the walk from the road to the house. The amah had led her to a sitting room, where she found a fan blowing blessedly cool air. A houseboy adjusted the drapes so that she was properly shaded. Her blue linen skirt, just delivered from the tailor, was wrinkled, and she had on a white voile blouse that was splotched with moisture. She hoped the Chens would allow her some time to compose herself. She shifted, feeling a drop of perspiration trickle down her thigh.

Spiderman: Hey, Ms. Marvel, watch the wings! They're sharper than they -- Kid's Frozen. Probably Never Faced Anything Like This Before. Gotta Snap Her Out Of It. But How -- Ah. Got It. Spiderman: Hey! You know my "Slingshot" Maneuver? The one I've done with Captain Marvel a few times. Ms. Marvel: F-Fuh Four Times! All her fans love it! You did against the Spider-Slayer's insect army, and when you fought Terminus...that was SO cool! I made it my wallpaper! Spiderman: Great! 'Cause we're doing it now! Ms. Marvel: With ME? I-- I-- Ms. Marvel: I'm doing it! I'm totally doing the Captain Marvel Slingshot Maneuver! Ms. Marvel: This is the BEST DAY EVER!

Spider-Man: Gotcha! You okay kid? Ms. Marvel: Uh-- Uh-- Ms. Marvel: Oh my! GOSH! You're SPIDER-MAN! I'm in a SPIDER-MAN TEAM-UP! Spider-Man: Oy! Look, I put on my suit on one web at a time-- Ms. Marvel: Did you really date CAROL DANVERS?! Ms. Marvel: I TOTALLY ship SPIDER-MARVEL! I mean, WONDERMAN'S cute, but-- You have to tell me EVERYTHING! Is she always so cool? Does she do her own hair? What music does she like? Spider-Man: Man, that woman has some DIE-HARD fans. Spider-Man: Yes, there was a date. Let's leave it there, okay?

But unfortunately, vampires lost some of their cultural panache, partly because the romantic vampire genre has portrayed so many bloodsuckers as merely harmlessly eccentric. This isn't to dis the romantic vampire—it's a trope for a reason—but the trope started to occupy the majority of headspace in fans’ minds. People forgot that vampires, as cool and sexy as they might sometimes be, are monsters.

Love MINECRAFT? **Over 18,000 words of kid-friendly fun!** This high-quality fan fiction fantasy diary book is for kids, teens, and nerdy grown-ups who love to read epic stories about their favorite game! Meet the Skull Kids. They're three Minecraft players who hop from world to world, hunting zombies and searching for the elusive Herobrine--the ghost in the machine. Teleporting down into a new world, the group is surprised to find that the game has changed once again, rendering almost ALL of their technology and mods useless. And when two of the Skull Kids are starving and distracted by exploring a desert village on Day 1 of their new adventure, the whole group is in danger when the sun goes down. Will the Skull Kids survive? Thank you to all of you who are buying and reading my books and helping me grow as a writer. I put many hours into writing and preparing this for you. I love Minecraft, and writing about it is almost as much fun as playing it. It’s because of you, reader, that I’m able to keep writing these books for you and others to enjoy. This book is dedicated to you. Enjoy!! After you read this book, please take a minute to leave a simple review. I really appreciate the feedback from my readers, and love to read your reactions to my stories, good or bad. If you ever want to see your name/handle featured in one of my stories, leave a review and tell me about it in there! And if you ever want to ask me any questions, or tell me your idea for a cool Minecraft story, you can email me at steve@skeletonsteve.com. Are you on my Amazing Reader List? Find out at the end of the book! June 29th, 2016 Now I’m going to try something a little different. Tell me what you guys think! This ‘Players Series’ is going to be a continuing series of books following my new characters, the players Renzor51, Molly, and quantum_steve. Make sure to let me know if you like it or not! Would you still like to see more books about mobs? More books about Cth’ka the Creeper King? I’m planning on continuing that one. ;) Don’t forget to review, and please say hi and tell me your ideas! Thanks, Ryan Gallagher, for the ideas to continue the wolf pack book! Enjoy the story. P.S. - Have you joined the Skeleton Steve Club and my Mailing List?? You found one of my diaries!! This particular book is the continuing story of some Minecraft players—a trio of friends who leap from world to world, searching for the elusive Herobrine. They’re zombie hunters and planeswalkers. They call themselves “The Skull Kids”. Every time these Skull Kids hop into a new world, they start with nothing more than the clothes they’re wearing, and they end up dominating the realm where they decide to live. What you are about to read is the first collection of diary entries from Renzor51, the player and member of the Skull Kids who documents their adventures, from the day they landed on Diamodia and carved out their own little empire, and beyond. Be warned—this is an epic book! You’re going to care about these characters. You’ll be scared for them, feel good for them, and feel bad for them! It’s my hope that you’ll be sucked up into the story, and the adventure and danger will be so intense, you’ll forget we started this journey with a video game! With that, future readers, I present to you the tale of the Skull Kids, Book 1. The Skull Kids Ka-tet Renzor51 Renzor51 is the warrior-scribe of the group, and always documents the party’s adventures and excursions into game worlds. He’s a sneaky fighter, and often takes the role of a sniper, but can go head to head with the Skull Kids’ enemies when needed. A natural artist, Renzor51 tends to design and build many of the group’s fortresses and structures, and keeps things organized. He also focuses a lot on weapon-smithing and enchanting, always seeking out ways to improve his gear. Molly

I knew Laura wasn’t home this morning, so there was no possibility of her hearing the shot and rushing over to help, placing herself in mortal danger. Which she would have gladly done, because that’s who she was in real life, as well as on television; though her popular show was no longer on the air, her legions of fans adored her, and continued to watch her show in syndication. Like Laura, they believed in decency, the hereafter, hope and goodness. Laura’s fans were the quiet majority in America. They were the people networks, and society in general, did not want you to believe existed. They did not keep up with the Kardashians, had no interest in squabbles between little women in any city, abhorred the depths of depravity and graphic violence so endemic it seemed of every crime show being produced, were sickened by the shallow and inconsequential reality television shows, and would no sooner have spent an hour watching Style or E! than they would have planning an evening out with a convicted serial killer — even if television did portray one as being “cool” because he unrealistically helped catch others of his ilk. Sure, that crap got good ratings, but that was because decent people no longer watched much television. In our day, the Love Boat’s calm, happy seas of the ‘70s and ‘80s had become a sleazy, violent, often gender-bending cruise into politically correct waters so liberally tolerant of everything but religious faith, that anyone pointing out the iceberg just ahead in these foul-smelling and morally dark seas was immediately vilified.

The kids had already mangled the fruit plate, but the sashimi- fresh raw tuna- fanned out in cool pink glory next to makizushi sushi rolls. Marinated mochiko chicken still steamed, crispy fresh from the deep fryer, and Grandma's homemade pickled vegetables- takuwan and tsukemono- lay in small dishes next to it. "Oooh, one of the aunties made shrimp tempura." Trish piled hand-battered, deep-fried shrimp on a paper plate.

So now here I am, bouncing along in a truck with concrete shocks surrounded by a Hellion legion that smells like a fish-market Dumpster. I’m not usually the dragged-along-for-the-ride type. Usually, I’m the one doing the dragging, but I’m a little out of my depth here. Like Marianas Trench out of my depth. I fought in the arena long enough to know that sometimes the best strategy is to shut up, go along with the game, and make sure that someone is standing in front of me when the tentacles hit the fan. So far though, all my Cool Hand Luke plan has gotten me is a numb ass from sitting and a ringing in my ears from the engine noise. Worst of all, the unicorn is starting to smell good.

Matilde leads us into one of the apartment’s two bedrooms, obviously belonging to Bruno and Luca. Bunk beds are stacked in the corner and the walls are covered in soccer posters. “You can have the bottom bed, Pippa,” Chiara says. “You seem to have a problem with steps.” I snatch a pillow and whip it at her, but she ducks in time, the pillow knocking over a stack of sports magazines. “Girls same as boys.” Matilde laughs as she turns back to the living area. We pull fresh clothes out of our luggage and Chiara heads to the bathroom--the only one in the apartment--closing the door behind her and leaving me to change. I shed my shirt and freshen my deodorant, then fan my skin trying to cool off. I feel wet everywhere. I can still hear Chiara shuffling around in the bathroom, so I quickly change my shorts into ones that are more breathable, and then decide to sprinkle some baby powder down my bra. Just as a little cloud of powder hits my chest, a voice that is neither Chiara’s nor her aunt’s announces its presence in the now open doorway. “You are the American girl who is taking my bed.

Ew, he’s not my guy,” I said. “Fine, that guy you married that one time … Fred?” “George,” I said. “Weasley?” “Huh?” I looked up, confused. “Yikes, not a Harry Potter fan. You lose all cool points for that.” “I’m so confused. What are we even talking about?” Darius sighed.

First, they have small drops of moisture fall to dampen the dust of desire, and by opening the gateway of nirvana, fanning the wind of liberation, and ridding themselves of the heat of worldly passions, they bring about the cooling quality of the Dharma. Next, raining down the profound teaching of the twelve causes and conditions, pouring it on the ferocious, intense rays of suffering—ignorance, old age, illness, death, and so on—they pour out the unexcelled Great Vehicle, soak the good roots of all the living with it, scatter seeds of goodness over the field of blessings, and everywhere bring forth sprouts of awakening. With wisdom as bright as the sun and the moon, and timely use of skillful means, they make the enterprise of the Great Vehicle prosper and grow, and lead many to attain supreme awakening quickly. Always living in the blessedness of a reality that is fine and wonderful, with immeasurable great compassion, they save the living from suffering.

I pushed him off of me and he began to laugh even harder. Jah had been on planes numerous times is what he told me, so he sat there cool as a fan, eating a bag of Lay’s chips, while I was secretly praying that I didn’t piss my damn pants. “Jah, now you know that wasn’t right! Why would you tell her that?” Imani asked Jah. She and Rashard were sitting in the seats to the right of us, while Breesha and Dontae sat in front of us. I had told the girls before we got on the plane what Jah had told me, and they were trying their best to assure me that plane rides weren’t as bad as Jah made it seem, but that still wasn’t enough to convince me. “I was just playing with her scary ass. Y’all wasn’t there, man. This girl been talking about this damn trip every day, all day. Shit, I had to say something!” Jah said. Dontae and Rashard laughed at what he had said. This was my first time meeting the two men, and they were cool. I also adored their relationships with their women. It sucked that Shaniqua didn’t come, but she said that she didn’t want to be the only single one on the trip, while everyone else was “boo’d up”.  Shaniqua hadn’t dated ever since she was with that dude whose ass I caught Jah beating the first time we came into contact with each other. Shaniqua was so beautiful, and I was surprised that she wasn’t dating somebody after that. The pilot gave us the signal for everybody to put on their seatbelts, and within another ten minutes or so, I was squeezing the hell out of Jah’s hand when the plane began to move. “This how it’s going to be when you pushing out my baby, huh? You got a mean grip on my hand,” Jah said, laughing.

The months of June and July passed. The monsoons were tardy this year—the nights hinted rain constantly with an aroma in the air, a cooling on the skin, soundless lightning across skies. But when morning came, the sun rose strong again, mocking Agra and its inhabitants. And the days crawled by, brazenly hot, when every breath was an effort, every movement a struggle, every night sweat-stewed. In temples, incantations were offered, the muezzins called the faithful to prayers, their voices melodious and pleading, and the bells of the Jesuit churches chimed. But the gods seemed indifferent. The rice paddies lay ploughed after the pre-monsoon rains, awaiting the seedlings; too long a wait and the ground would grow hard again. A few people moved torpidly in the streets of Agra; only the direst of emergencies had called them from their cool, stone-flagged homes. Even the normally frantic pariah dogs lay panting on doorsteps, too exhausted to yelp when passing urchins pelted them with stones. The bazaars were barren too, shopfronts pulled down, shopkeepers too tired to haggle with buyers. Custom could wait for cooler times. The whole city seemed to have slowed to a halt. The imperial palaces and courtyards were hushed in the night, the corridors empty of footsteps. Slaves and eunuchs plied iridescent peacock feather fans, wiping their perspiring faces with one hand. The ladies of the harem slept under the intermittent breeze of the fans, goblets of cold sherbets flavoured with khus and ginger resting by their sides. Every now and then, a slave would refresh the goblet, bringing in another one filled with new shards of ice. When her mistress awoke, and wake she would many times during the night, her drink would be ready. The ice, carved in huge chunks from the Himalayan mountains, covered with gunnysacks and brought down to the plains in bullock carts, was a blessing for everyone, nobles and commoners alike. But in this heat, ice melted all too soon, disappearing into a puddle of warm water under sawdust and jute. In Emperor Jahangir’s apartments, music floated through the courtyard, stopping and tripping in the still night air as the musicians’ slick fingers slipped on the strings of the sitar.

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Our mission is super simple: to make the raddest, baddest online hangout for 90s toy lovers. Whether you’re a collector, a casual fan, or just someone who gets a kick out of nostalgia, we got your back! At My90sToys, you’ll find the most epic assortment of articles from the 90s, from action figures to video games and everything in between. We’re also all about building a fun-loving community where everyone can share their favorite toy stories, trivia, and even some cool throwback photos.

Was the instructor hot at least?” Anna asked as she plopped herself down on the bed beside me. “If you find a fifty-year-old man who smells like fish hot, then sure.” Anna grimaced. “Yeah, you lost me at smelling like fish.” “But you were cool with the fifty-year-old man part?” Cress asked. “Well, yeah. He could look like Lucius Malfoy.” She fanned a hand against her neck. “I could definitely be with an old dude if he looked like my favorite Death Eater.

Ingredients 5 balls stem ginger, chopped 45g fresh ginger, grated 5 pitted and chopped soft prunes 2 tsp dark marmalade 200g self-raising flour 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda 2 tbsp dried ginger 2 tsp cinnamon 2 tsp mace ½ tsp salt 115g butter or cooking margarine 115g dark brown sugar 115g black treacle 115g golden syrup 2 large eggs, lightly beaten 125ml milk Butter a deep 20cm square cake tin and line with baking paper. Pre-heat the oven at 180oc (165oc fan oven). Put the stem and fresh ginger in a small blender with the marmalade and prunes and blend until smooth. If it becomes too stiff, use a little of the milk to loosen. Mix the flour, bicarbonate of soda, dried ginger, cinnamon, mace and salt in a large bowl. Melt the butter, sugar, treacle and golden syrup in a small saucepan. When smooth, leave to cool. Mix the ginger and marmalade mixture into the dried ingredients, add the cooled butter mixture, the beaten eggs and milk. Stir until smooth. Pour into the cake tin and cook on the middle shelf for 50 mins to 1 hour. Leave in the tin to cool. Don’t worry if it’s sunken slightly in the middle, it’s all the better for it. Best eaten 24 hours after cooking and will keep for at least a week in an airtight tin. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Writing maybe a solo task, but writing and getting a book published is a team effort, and I can’t possibly go without thanking them for their help in bringing this book to life.

A couple of weeks after Mia’s bone graft surgery in January 2014, she received a letter from Congressman Trent Franks of Arizona on official United States congressional letterhead. Mia was so excited about the letter that she stood on the fireplace hearth (the living room stage) and proceeded to read it to the entire family. In the letter, Congressman Franks told Mia that he, too, was born with a cleft lip and palate and underwent many surgeries as a child. He told her he understood how she felt and told her not to get discouraged because he recognized how she is helping so many people. He invited her to Washington, DC, to receive an award from Congress for service to her community. As soon as she had finished reading it to us, she exclaimed, “Can we go?” Knowing how Jase puts little value on earthly awards and how he likes to travel even less, I responded with a phrase that most parents can understand and appreciate: “We’ll see.” Mia immediately ran upstairs and tacked the letter to her bulletin board, full of hope and optimism. How could Jase say no to this? Oh, she knew her daddy well. He couldn’t, and he didn’t. That summer, Mia, Jase, Reed, Cole, and I spent a few days together visiting monuments and historical sites in Washington before meeting Congressman Franks on July 8 in his office on Capitol Hill. Mia’s favorite monument was the Lincoln Memorial because she had learned about it in school, so it was cool to see it “for real.” It was really crowded there, and people were taking pictures of us while we were trying to read about the monument and take photographs ourselves. Getting Jase out of there took a while because of so many fans wanting pictures--he’s very accommodating. That’s why it surprised me that this was Mia’s favorite site. I’m glad she remembers the impact of the monument and didn’t allow the circus of activity from the fans to put a damper on her experience. Congressman Franks presented Mia with a Certificate of Special Congressional Recognition for “outstanding and invaluable service to the community” at a press conference held at the foot of the Capitol steps. Both he and Mia made speeches that day to numerous cameras and reporters. Hearing my ten-year-old daughter speak about her condition and how she hopes people will look to God to help them get through their own problems was an unbelievably proud moment for me, Jase, and her brothers. After the press conference, Congressman Franks took us into the House chamber where Congress was voting on a new bill. He took Mia down to the floor, introduced her to some of his colleagues, and let her push his voting button for him. When some of the other members of Congress saw this, they also asked her to push their voting buttons for them. Of course, Mia wasn’t going to push any buttons without quizzing these representatives about what exactly she was voting for. She needed to know what was in the bill before she pushed the buttons. Once she realized she agreed with the bill and saw that some members were voting “no,” she commented, “That’s just rude.” Mia was thrilled with the experience and told us all how she helped make history. Little does she know just how much history she has made and continues to make.

Maybe you saw this soft-drink commercial. The camera follows a pleasant-looking, college-age young man at a social event in a large house. It’s the holidays, and he is busy introducing you to his various friends and family, singing a song, and passing out soft drinks. There’s his mom, his sis, his brother, his “surprisingly cool stepmother,” and the two kids his stepmom had before meeting his dad, plus aunts, cousins, office mates, his best friend, his judo coach, his allergist, even his Twitter fans. It was the clearest example I have seen that the definition of the American family is changing. Rapidly. It

Lounging on his side, he tipped his head back. “So, you slept like a little baby Apollyon last night. I wonder why.” I glared at him. Seth had stayed the night again. “I loathe you.” He chuckled. “You reluctantly like me.” “Whatever. So are you going to tell me why you’re always with Lucian? Is he a part of your little fan club now?” “My fans love to hear my war stories.” He jumped to his feet, swinging at me. “They’re obsessed with me. What can I say? I’m that cool. And I’m not always with Lucian.

You don’t write such tripe to the women you hope to interest, do you?” “I should hope not,” he responded indignantly. “Good God, I have much more originality. These men clearly aren’t thinking about how best they can interest you.” “What does that mean?” “Quite simply, you’re not the type to be wooed with poetry or false compliments.” “I’m not?” Now she was interested. “But I like poetry.” His reply brooked no rebuttal. “No, you don’t. Not like this. They haven’t got it right at all.” “Enlighten me, Lord Blackmoor, how should I be wooed, as you put it? I am intrigued by your obvious expertise.” He was quick to respond, “You’re too vibrant for them. Too strong. You have a sharp mind and an exciting personality and an unexpected sense of humor. If these men were half the man you deserve, they would have already recognized all those things and they would be romancing you accordingly. They would be working to intrigue and amuse and inspire you—just as you do them. And they would know that only when they have won your mind will they even have a chance at winning your heart.” The room felt much warmer all of a sudden, and Alex resisted the urge to fan herself, trying to ignore the rapid increase in her pulse as color flooded her cheeks. In the silence that followed his impassioned speech, Gavin stood and walked over to her. A cocky grin spread across his face. “That’s how I write to the women I hope to interest, Alex.” She attempted a cool response. “Perhaps…” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, beginning anew. “Perhaps you should consider holding classes. I am acquainted with quite a few men who could do with some training. More than forty of them, it seems. Lord save me.” He

—That’s a decent amount of money, said Allan. —Let me out, you bastards, the young man shouted from inside the freezer. The young man was acting crazy in there; he yelled and kicked and yelled some more. Allan and Julius needed to collect their thoughts about the surprising turn of events, but they couldn’t do it with all that noise. In the end, Allan thought it was time to cool the young man’s temper a little, so he turned on the freezer fan.

But back in the fifties, cool-cat teens who greased their hair and snapped their fingers to Pat Boone’s versions of Little Richard songs didn't understand that they weren’t really that cool at all and were in fact their era’s version of Justin Bieber fans.  Had they known this, they might have developed a self-awareness that would have better prepared them for their eventual deaths in Vietnam.    It’s

Sesame Crackers We love crackers in my house, where they serve as both a tasty snack and a baby weaning tool! They are so easy to make, I just take a portion off my pizza dough when I’m getting ready to make pizza and roll out the cracker shapes. The boys love cutting the crackers into fun shapes and munching on them when they’re still warm. serves 4 for lunch ¼ quantity of pizza dough • 100g sesame seeds flour for sprinkling to serve cheese and sliced tomato or hummus or tabbouleh Method Preheat a fan oven to 210°C and line a baking tray with greaseproof paper. Sprinkle a clean, flat surface with flour. Roll out the dough as flat as you can get it. Sprinkle the sesame seeds on top and roll again so that they are embedded into the dough. Cut the dough into shapes and place on the lined baking tray. Bake in the oven until golden brown. The time it takes will depend on how thinly you roll your dough. Make sure your oven light is on and watch the baking tray closely. Mine take about 7 minutes to bake. Cool on a wire rack and then serve with your chosen topping. The crackers will keep in a dry airtight container for up to three days.

How can a basketball player stay cool? A: Sit next to a fan!

At least I didn’t have to go to the congressional offices. Electric fans were their sole official source of cooling; only the White House was fully air-conditioned. That had been one of Speaker Roosevelt’s decisions—that air conditioning would only make the Congress want to spend more time than was wise in Columbia.

the Apple III, whose footprint had to be small enough to leave lots of open room on an office desk, would be absolutely silent, which meant no internal cooling fan.

God is too cool to join any of his unauthorized fan clubs.

get him killed by … someone. Someone scary enough that the huntress doesn’t want to get involved. She whacks like seven-eight of their guys, but she doesn’t want to get into this. Stupidly, Alpha Male charges ahead where the Goddess of the Hunt fears to tread. Because my rallying cry is “MORONS FORWARD!” or something of that sort. Mercy. I say none of this to Dr. Perugini, because a) she’s not going to believe me, and b) none of this makes me look cool, especially the part where I’m not the Big Damn Hero doing the saving. Also, there are a lot of tourists around us and most of them speak English. Call me self-conscious, but I don’t want anyone thinking I’m crazy. There is still a widely accepted cult of skepticism about the existence of metahumans, even after the Minneapolis incident. We go through a corridor of tapestries, and one of them has a Jesus that the tour guide swears is watching. I picture someone behind the wall like in the old movies, eyeballs staring out, then dismiss that thought as utter nonsense. Then I move, and I swear the tapestry’s eyes move with me. No, I am not a fan of the “Jesus is watching” tapestry. It’s like he can sense my impure thoughts about Dr. Perugini and he is not pleased. Come on, man, your dad supposedly intelligently designed her. Like this wasn’t predictable.