Door Entry Quotes

A panda walks into a cafe. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air. "Why?" asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife annual and tosses it over his shoulder. "I'm a panda," he says, at the door. "Look it up." The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds an explanation. Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.

One door away from heaven And the key is ours to lose. One door away from heaven But oh, the entry dues.

Professor, why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old colleague's house?' 'Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door,' said Dumbledore. 'Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry.

I thought I told you to stop doing that," he snapped. A thin-lipped mouth opened; the jutting chin and nose knocked together indignantly. "Do what?" "Taking on such a hideous appearance. I've just had my breakfast." A section of brow lifted, allowing an eyeball to roll forward with a squelching sound.The face looked unapologetic."Sorry, mate," it said. "It's just my job." "Your job is to destroy anyone entering my study without authority. No more, no less." The door guard considered. "True. But I seek to preempt entry by scaring trespassers away. To my way of thinking, deterrence is more aesthetically satisfying than punishment." Mr. Mandrake snorted. "Trespassers apart, you'll likely frighten Ms. Piper here to death." The face shook from side to side, a process that caused the nose to wobble alarmingly. "Not so. When she comes alone, I moderate my features. I reserve the full horror for those I consider morally vicious." "But you just looked that way to me!" "The contradiction being...?

In office buildings and retail premises in which entry is through double doors and one of those doors is locked for no reason, the door must bear a large sign saying: “This Door Is Locked for No Reason.

And we are still here walking in this maze of perplexing entries and problematic exits. No words exchanged. Even our eyes seldom throw some letters of compassion or contempt on each other. I believe you, and I do so. I know only you may show the final door to enter with no exit that follows.

There was a time when I experienced architecture without thinking about it. Sometimes I can almost feel a particular door handle in my hand, a piece of metal shaped like the back of a spoon. I used to take hold of it when I went into my aunt's garden. That door handle still seems to me like a special sign of entry into a world of different moods and smells. I remember the sound of the gravel under my feet, the soft gleam of the waxed oak staircase, I can hear the heavy front door closing behind me as I walk along the dark corridor and enter the kitchen, the only really brightly lit room in the house.

Have you ever noticed that books are shaped like doors?” I asked. “And windows.” “Both are entries.” “That open to new realms,” Marcelle said. “And to new friends.

What are these?” Meg looked at the rings of keys in Nate’s hand, deliberately furrowed her brow. “Those would be keys.” “Why do you need so many keys?” “Because there are so many locks? Is this a quiz?” He jingled them in his palm while she continued to give him a sunny, innocent smile. “Meg, you don’t even lock your doors half the time. What are all these keys about?” “Well… There are times a person needs to get into a place, and hey, that place is locked. Then she would need a key.” “And this place that, hey, is locked, wouldn’t be the property of that person. Would that be correct?” “Techincally. But no man is an island, and it takes a village, and so on. We’re all one in the Zen universe.” “So these would be Zen keys?” “Exactly. Give them back.” “I don’t think so.” He closed his fist around them. “You see, even in the Zen universe I’d hate to arrest my wife for unlawful entry.” “I’m not your wife yet, buddy. Did you have a search warrant for those?” “They were in plain sight. No warrant necessary.” “Gestapo.” “Delinquent.

Behind every no entry sign there's a door.

The shortcomings of economics are not original error but uncorrected obsolescence. The obsolescence has occurred because what is convenient has become sacrosanct. Anyone who attacks such ideas must seem to be a trifle self-confident and even aggressive. The man who makes his entry by leaning against an infirm door gets an unjustified reputation for violence. Something is to be attributed to the poor state of the door.

Daily her tactics grew more sly and underhanded. Last night the audacious wench had picked the lock to his chamber! Because he'd had the foresight to barricade the door with a heavy armoire, she'd then gone to his door in the corridor and picked that lock. He'd been forced to escape out the window. Halfway down he'd slipped, crashed the last fifteen feet to the ground, and landed in a prickly bush. Since he'd not had time to don his trews, his manly parts had taken the brunt of his abrupt entry into the bush, putting him in a foul mood indeed. The wench sought to unman him before his long-anticipated wedding night.

This is how it starts, among the closed circles of the marooned, the shipwrecked, the besieged: jealousy, dissention, a breach in the groupthink walls. Then the entry of the foe, the murderer, the shadow slipping in through the door we forgot to lock because we were distracted by our darker selves: nursing our minor hatreds, indulging our petty resentments, yelling at one another, tossing the crockery.

What are you looking for?” he asked. A car alarm was going off in the distance, and he cringed as if the sound were deafening. “A ride,” she answered. Some of the cars were too new, others too old. She finally stopped in front of a black sedan, nice enough, but not one of the models with fancy security and keyless entry. “Break that for me,” she said, nodding at the driver’s side door. “The window?” asked August, and she gave him a look that said yes, obviously the window, and he gave her a look that said I don’t commit petty crimes very often before he slammed his elbow into the glass to shatter it.

Kelsier rapped lightly on the door, and Dockson strolled over, pulling it open. "And he makes his stunning entry!" Kelsier announced, sweeping into the room, throwing back his mistcloak. Dockson snorted, shutting the doors. "You're truly a wonder to behold, Kell. Particularly the soot stains on your knees.

Victor wants his children to become physicians, lawyers, accountants, executives, and so on. But in so encouraging them, Victor essentially discourages his children from becoming entrepreneurs. He unknowingly encourages them to postpone their entry into the labor market. And, of course, he encourages them to reject his lifestyle of thrift and a self-imposed environment of scarcity.

Dear Daniel, How do you break up with your boyfriend in a way that tells him, "I don't want to sleep with you on a regular basis anymore, but please be available for late night booty calls if I run out of other options"? Lily Charlotte, NC Dear Lily, The story's so old you can't tell it anymore without everyone groaning, even your oldest friends with the last of their drinks shivering around the ice in their dirty glasses. The music playing is the same album everyone has. Those shoes, everybody has the same shoes on. It looked a little like rain so on person brought an umbrella, useless now in the starstruck clouded sky, forgotten on the way home, which is how the umbrella ended up in her place anyway. Everyone gets older on nights like this. And still it's a fresh slap in the face of everything you had going, that precarious shelf in the shallow closet that will certainly, certainly fall someday. Photographs slipping into a crack to be found by the next tenant, that one squinter third from the left laughing at something your roommate said, the coaster from that place in the city you used to live in, gone now. A letter that seemed important for reasons you can't remember, throw it out, the entry in the address book you won't erase but won't keep when you get a new phone, let it pass and don't worry about it. You don't think about them; "I haven't thought about them in forever," you would say if anybody brought it up, and nobody does." You think about them all the time. Close the book but forget to turn off the light, just sit staring in bed until you blink and you're out of it, some noise on the other side of the wall reminding you you're still here. That's it, that's everything. There's no statue in the town square with an inscription with words to live by. The actor got slapped this morning by someone she loved, slapped right across the face, but there's no trace of it on any channel no matter how late you watch. How many people--really, count them up--know where you are? How many will look after you when you don't show up? The churches and train stations are creaky and the street signs, the menus, the writing on the wall, it all feels like the wrong language. Nobody, nobody knows what you're thinking of when you lean your head against the wall. Put a sweater on when you get cold. Remind yourself, this is the night, because it is. You're free to sing what you want as you walk there, the trees rustling spookily and certainly and quietly and inimitably. Whatever shoes you want, fuck it, you're comfortable. Don't trust anyone's directions. Write what you might forget on the back of your hand, and slam down the cheap stuff and never mind the bad music from the window three floors up or what the boys shouted from the car nine years ago that keeps rattling around in your head, because you're here, you are, for the warmth of someone's wrists where the sleeve stops and the glove doesn't quite begin, and the slant of the voice on the punch line of the joke and the reflection of the moon in the water on the street as you stand still for a moment and gather your courage and take a breath before stealing away through the door. Look at it there. Take a good look. It looks like rain. Love, Daniel Handler

In front of the law there is a doorkeeper. A man from the countryside comes up to the door and asks for entry. But the doorkeeper says he can't let him in to the law right now. The man thinks about this, and then he asks if he'll be able to go in later on. "That's possible," says the doorkeeper, "but not now". The gateway to the law is open as it always is, and the doorkeeper has stepped to one side, so the man bends over to try and see in. When the doorkeeper notices this he laughs and says, "If you're tempted give it a try, try and go in even though I say you can't. Careful though: I'm powerful. And I'm only the lowliest of all the doormen. But there’s a doorkeeper for each of the rooms and each of them is more powerful than the last. It's more than I can stand just to look at the third one.

If you excessively concentrate on a closed door, you may miss the alternative easy entries!

But who will bang on their doors demanding entry?

Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain-storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection.

Ms. Terwilliger didn’t have a chance to respond to my geological ramblings because someone knocked on the door. I slipped the rocks into my pocket and tried to look studious as she called an entry. I figured Zoe had tracked me down, but surprisingly, Angeline walked in. "Did you know," she said, "that it’s a lot harder to put organs back in the body than it is to get them out?" I closed my eyes and silently counted to five before opening them again. “Please tell me you haven’t eviscerated someone.” She shook her head. “No, no. I left my biology homework in Miss Wentworth’s room, but when I went back to get it, she’d already left and locked the door. But it’s due tomorrow, and I’m already in trouble in there, so I had to get it. So, I went around outside, and her window lock wasn’t that hard to open, and I—” "Wait," I interrupted. "You broke into a classroom?" "Yeah, but that’s not the problem." Behind me, I heard a choking laugh from Ms. Terwilliger’s desk. "Go on," I said wearily. "Well, when I climbed through, I didn’t realize there was a bunch of stuff in the way, and I crashed into those plastic models of the human body she has. You know, the life size ones with all the parts inside? And bam!" Angeline held up her arms for effect. "Organs everywhere." She paused and looked at me expectantly. "So what are we going to do? I can’t get in trouble with her." "We?" I exclaimed. "Here," said Ms. Terwilliger. I turned around, and she tossed me a set of keys. From the look on her face, it was taking every ounce of self-control not to burst out laughing. "That square one’s a master. I know for a fact she has yoga and won’t be back for the rest of the day. I imagine you can repair the damage—and retrieve the homework—before anyone’s the wiser.” I knew that the “you” in “you can repair” meant me. With a sigh, I stood up and packed up my things. “Thanks,” I said. As Angeline and I walked down to the science wing, I told her, “You know, the next time you’ve got a problem, maybe come to me before it becomes an even bigger problem.” "Oh no," she said nobly. "I didn’t want to be an inconvenience." Her description of the scene was pretty accurate: organs everywhere. Miss Wentworth had two models, male and female, with carved out torsos that cleverly held removable parts of the body that could be examined in greater detail. Wisely, she had purchased models that were only waist-high. That was still more than enough of a mess for us, especially since it was hard to tell which model the various organs belonged to. I had a pretty good sense of anatomy but still opened up a textbook for reference as I began sorting. Angeline, realizing her uselessness here, perched on a far counter and swing her legs as she watched me. I’d started reassembling the male when I heard a voice behind me. "Melbourne, I always knew you’d need to learn about this kind of thing. I’d just kind of hoped you’d learn it on a real guy." I glanced back at Trey, as he leaned in the doorway with a smug expression. “Ha, ha. If you were a real friend, you’d come help me.” I pointed to the female model. “Let’s see some of your alleged expertise in action.” "Alleged?" He sounded indignant but strolled in anyways. I hadn’t really thought much about asking him for help. Mostly I was thinking this was taking much longer than it should, and I had more important things to do with my time. It was only when he came to a sudden halt that I realized my mistake. "Oh," he said, seeing Angeline. "Hi." Her swinging feet stopped, and her eyes were as wide as his. “Um, hi.” The tension ramped up from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, and everyone seemed at a loss for words. Angeline jerked her head toward the models and blurted out. “I had an accident.” That seemed to snap Trey from his daze, and a smile curved his lips. Whereas Angeline’s antics made me want to pull out my hair sometimes, he found them endearing.

The sage does not walk toward a goal. They walk through a question. A destination invites expectation. But a door invites presence. The medicine does not care what outcome you hoped for. It responds to how honestly you name your entry point.

If you are a millionaire beset by blackmailers or anyone else to whose comfort the best legal advice is essential, and have decided to put your affairs in the hands of the ablest and discreetest firm in London, you proceed through a dark and grimy entry and up a dark and grimy flight of stairs; and, having felt your way along a dark and grimy passage, you come at length to a dark and grimy door. There is plenty of dirt in other parts of Ridgeway's Inn, but nowhere is it so plentiful, so rich in alluvial deposits, as on the exterior of the offices of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow and Appleby. As you tap on the topmost of the geological strata concealing the ground-glass of the door, a sense of relief and security floods your being. For in London grubbiness is the gauge of a lawyer's respectability.

When I was done raking and bagging, I banged on the door and demanded entry /...let me in by the hair on your chinny, chin-chin/ (a fairytale moment there) Dick opened it and in his posthest voice, said that before he could possibly consider letting me re-cross the threshold he needed to ask me whether I was a good f*cking fairy or a bad f*cking fairy? Grinning, I told him that I was very wicked fairy and if he had a wand about his person that I could have lend of, I would prove it. He said that was the right answer and promptly yanked me inside where he located and presented me with his wand, breathily ordering the sorcerer's apprentice to perform magic with it. Judging by the look on his face afterwards, I knew I'd impressed him with my oral sorcery and I was more than happy with the short-lifting sorcery Shane performed on me as the same time.

We rounded the corner to the door of the building, and I came to a dead stop. Lounging on a bench beside the main entry to the Psychology building was Holden.

... If there are twenty identical doors in the corridor and you need somebody to enter one of them, what would you do? That’s right, put „No entry“ sign on the right door. Visit is guaranteed

For every man, there is a way to happiness in every point of his life! The door to happiness is always open; there is no such a thing to miss the entry! All points are entry points to happiness!

The front door of the Flippant Witch gave a series of loud clicks and swung inward. Renard Lambert, his blue-and-purple finery resembling a plum in the twitching lanterns, practically hurled himself through the open doorway “Widdershins!” he called loudly, cape flowing behind him, “I—gaaack!” He ducked, barely in time to avoid the carafe that shattered loudly against the wall just behind his head. The tinkling of broken glass, a dangerous entry chime indeed, sounded around him. “Oh,” Genevieve said, her tone only vaguely contrite. “It's just your friend. Sorry, Renard.” “Sorry? Sorry?! What the hell were you—ah. Um, hello, ah, Widdershins." Widdershins, who had lurched to her feet as the door opened, was suddenly and forcibly reminded by Renard's stunned stare that Genevieve had disrobed her in order to get at the rapier wound. Blushing as furiously as a nun in a brothel, she ducked behind her blonde-haired friend and groped desperately for her shirt. “Didn't mean to take your head off, Renard,” Genevieve said, mainly to distract him. “But you rather startled us.” “Quite understandable,” the popinjay responded absently, his eyes flickering madly as he fought to locate some safe place to put them.

Since I was a small girl, I have lived inside this cottage, shelted by its roof and walls. I have known of people suffering—I have not been blind to them in the way that privilege allows, the way my own husband and now my daughter are blind. It is a statement of fact and not a judgement to say Charlie and Ella’s minds aren’t oriented in that direction; in a way, it absolves them, whereas the unlucky have knocked on the door of my consciousness, they have emerged from the forest and knocked many times over the course of my life, and I have only occasionally allowed them entry. I’ve done more than nothing and much less than I could have. I have laid inside, beneath a quilt on a comfortable couch, in a kind of reverie, and when I heard the unlucky outside my cottage, sometimes I passed them coins or scraps of food, and sometimes I ignored them altogether; if I ignored them, they had no choice but to walk back into the woods, and when they grew weak or got lost or were circled by wolves, I pretended I couldn’t hear them calling my name.

Finding a taxi, she felt like a child pressing her nose to the window of a candy store as she watched the changing vista pass by while the twilight descended and the capital became bathed in a translucent misty lavender glow. Entering the city from that airport was truly unique. Charles de Gaulle, built nineteen miles north of the bustling metropolis, ensured that the final point of destination was veiled from the eyes of the traveller as they descended. No doubt, the officials scrupulously planned the airport’s location to prevent the incessant air traffic and roaring engines from visibly or audibly polluting the ambience of their beloved capital, and apparently, they succeeded. If one flew over during the summer months, the visitor would be visibly presented with beautifully managed quilt-like fields of alternating gold and green appearing as though they were tilled and clipped with the mathematical precision of a slide rule. The countryside was dotted with quaint villages and towns that were obviously under meticulous planning control. When the aircraft began to descend, this prevailing sense of exactitude and order made the visitor long for an aerial view of the capital city and its famous wonders, hoping they could see as many landmarks as they could before they touched ground, as was the usual case with other major international airports, but from this point of entry, one was denied a glimpse of the city below. Green fields, villages, more fields, the ground grew closer and closer, a runway appeared, a slight bump or two was felt as the craft landed, and they were surrounded by the steel and glass buildings of the airport. Slightly disappointed with this mysterious game of hide-and-seek, the voyager must continue on and collect their baggage, consoled by the reflection that they will see the metropolis as they make their way into town. For those travelling by road, the concrete motorway with its blue road signs, the underpasses and the typical traffic-logged hubbub of industrial areas were the first landmarks to greet the eye, without a doubt, it was a disheartening first impression. Then, the real introduction began. Quietly, and almost imperceptibly, the modern confusion of steel and asphalt was effaced little by little as the exquisite timelessness of Parisian heritage architecture was gradually unveiled. Popping up like mushrooms were cream sandstone edifices filigreed with curled, swirling carvings, gently sloping mansard roofs, elegant ironwork lanterns and wood doors that charmed the eye, until finally, the traveller was completely submerged in the glory of the Second Empire ala Baron Haussmann’s master plan of city design, the iconic grand mansions, tree-lined boulevards and avenues, the quaint gardens, the majestic churches with their towers and spires, the shops and cafés with their colourful awnings, all crowded and nestled together like jewels encrusted on a gold setting.

She lost too much blood. I couldn’t stop it. I’m a damn Healer and I couldn’t even save her. I buried her in the backyard with our baby. She was right. It was a girl. My heart stops. Time slows. “I buried her in the backyard with our baby.” I shake my head, ignoring the hand Kai places on my knee. “I… I don’t understand. Father said she died of illness when I was a baby but…” I trail off, tearing through the pages until I find the next entry. I wasn’t planning on writing in here after Alice. I wasn’t even planning on having an “after Alice,” but I woke to a bang on my door last night. Yet when I opened the door, no one was there. That is, until I looked down. And there she was. A baby girl. Someone left her on my doorstep. She can’t be more than a few weeks old with a head full of silver hair and deep blue eyes. She’s beautiful. Alice would tear up at the sight of her. I’m going to be a father. This is what Alice would have wanted. She already had a name picked out anyway. A tear splatters onto the parchment, drowning the ink. I think Kai might be saying something, but I can hear nothing past the ringing in my ears. My head is spinning, heart pounding, breath catching in my throat because I can’t seem to swallow it. I can’t breathe. I can’t—

A remarkably large number of Renaissance artists were illegitimate, including Alberti and Ghiberti. For them, as for Leonardo, this was both a curse and a blessing. Had he been born "legitimately," Leonardo would likely have followed in his father's footsteps and become a notary or a lawyer. But those professions' guilds refused entry to illegitimate children. Leonardo couldn't become a doctor or a pharmacist, nor could he attend university. By age thirteen, most doors were already closed to him.

Their conversation ceased abruptly with the entry of an oddly-shaped man whose body resembled a certain vegetable. He was a thickset fellow with calloused and jaundiced skin and a patch of brown hair, a frizzy upheaval. We will call him Bell Pepper. Bell Pepper sidled up beside The Drippy Man and looked at the grilled cheese in his hand. The Drippy Man, a bit uncomfortable at the heaviness of the gaze, politely apologized and asked Bell Pepper if he would like one. “Why is one of your legs fatter than the other?” asked Bell Pepper. The Drippy Man realized Bell Pepper was not looking at his sandwich but towards the inconsistency of his leg sizes. “You always get your kicks pointing out defects?” retorted The Drippy Man. “Just curious. Never seen anything like it before.” “I was raised not to feel shame and hide my legs in baggy pants.” “So you flaunt your deformity by wearing short shorts?” “Like you flaunt your pockmarks by not wearing a mask?” Bell Pepper backed away, kicking wide the screen door, making an exit to a porch over hanging a dune of sand that curved into a jagged upward jab of rock. “He is quite sensitive,” commented The Dry Advisor. “Who is he?” “A fellow who once manipulated the money in your wallet but now curses the fellow who does.

Very few people know where they will die, But I do; in a brick-faced hospital, Divided, not unlike Caesarean Gaul, Into three parts; the Dean Memorial Wing, in the classic cast of 1910, Green-grated in unglazed, Aeolian Embrasures; the Maud Wiggin Building, which Commemorates a dog-jawed Boston bitch Who fought the brass down to their whipcord knees In World War I, and won enlisted men Some decent hospitals, and, being rich, Donated her own granite monument; The Mandeville Pavilion, pink-brick tent With marble piping, flying snapping flags Above the entry where our bloody rags Are rolled in to be sponged and sewn again. Today is fair; tomorrow, scourging rain (If only my own tears) will see me in Those jaundiced and distempered corridors Off which the five-foot-wide doors slowly close. White as my skimpy chiton, I will cringe Before the pinpoint of the least syringe; Before the buttered catheter goes in; Before the I.V.’s lisp and drip begins Inside my skin; before the rubber hand Upon the lancet takes aim and descends To lay me open, and upon its thumb Retracts the trouble, a malignant plum; And finally, I’ll quail before the hour When the authorities shut off the power In that vast hospital, and in my bed I’ll feel my blood go thin, go white, the red, The rose all leached away, and I’ll go dead. Then will the business of life resume: The muffled trolley wheeled into my room, The off-white blanket blanking off my face, The stealing secret, private, largo race Down halls and elevators to the place I’ll be consigned to for transshipment, cased In artificial air and light: the ward That’s underground; the terminal; the morgue. Then one fine day when all the smart flags flap, A booted man in black with a peaked cap Will call for me and troll me down the hall And slot me into his black car. That’s all.

Mr. Grey.” I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide. “Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele.” He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he’s referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I blush.

Real shadow work does not leave us intact; it is not some neat and tidy process, but rather an inherently messy one, as vital and unpredictably alive as birth. The ass it kicks is the one upon which we are sitting; the pain it brings up is the pain we’ve been fleeing most of our life; the psychoemotional breakdowns it catalyzes are the precursors to hugely relevant breakthroughs; the doors it opens are doors that have shown up year after year in our dreams, awaiting our entry. Real shadow work not only breaks us down, but breaks us open.

Too many of us still tend to regard Africa as a country. It may come as a brutal shock to realize that the African landmass is three times the size of Europe and four times that of the United States. Madagascar, which is a part of Africa, is the fourth-largest island in the world. Too many folk still talk about people speaking African, ignoring the fact that over 1,000 different languages are spoken on this continent that comprises many worlds...It is a continent with many doors, many different points of entry into a world that is wondrous and strange.

The sixth of January, 1482, is not, however, a day of which history has preserved the memory. There was nothing notable in the event which thus set the bells and the bourgeois of Paris in a ferment from early morning. It was neither an assault by the Picards nor the Burgundians, nor a hunt led along in procession, nor a revolt of scholars in the town of Laas, nor an entry of “our much dread lord, monsieur the king,” nor even a pretty hanging of male and female thieves by the courts of Paris. Neither was it the arrival, so frequent in the fifteenth century, of some plumed and bedizened embassy. It was barely two days since the last cavalcade of that nature, that of the Flemish ambassadors charged with concluding the marriage between the dauphin and Marguerite of Flanders, had made its entry into Paris, to the great annoyance of M. lé Cardinal de Bourbon, who, for the sake of pleasing the king, had been obliged to assume an amiable mien towards this whole rustic rabble of Flemish burgomasters, and to regale them at his Hôtel de Bourbon, with a very “pretty morality, allegorical satire, and farce,” while a driving rain drenched the magnificent tapestries at his door.

That did it. Mackenzie was seething. Someone suggested that mercenaries be sent over to the Howard barn to forcibly haul Smith into the office. Setting that popular idea aside, the stewards fired the leg-weary Greenberg back to the barn again, bearing yet another message. “Seabiscuit will either be a positive starter tomorrow, or we will refuse his entry entirely.” A few minutes later, Greenberg dragged himself back to the offices with Smith’s counterdemand: No one was to show up at his barn asking to examine the horse. The stewards complied, and Greenberg stumbled back to the Howard barn. In late morning, the administrative office door swung open. The officials looked up, expecting to see Greenberg. It was Smith. The stewards sat blinking at him. “All right,” Smith said. “Take the ‘doubtful starter’ off the blank. Seabiscuit will run all right.” Back at the barn, resting his sore legs, Greenberg saw Smith laughing. “The madder they got, the better he liked it,” Greenberg remembered. “He just done that for bein’ onery.” On July 16 a record sixty thousand people pressed into Hollywood Park to see Seabiscuit try for the Gold Cup, while millions more crowded around radio sets to hear NBC’s national

One door away from Heaven, We live each day and hour. One door away from Heaven, But it lies beyond our power To open the door to Heaven And enter when we choose. One door away from Heaven, And the key is ours to lose. One door away from Heaven, But, oh, the entry dues. —The Book of Counted Sorrows

The music surged down the stairs like a flashing stream—it gathered in the corridor and burst like a waterfall through the wide entry doors. It splashed over a small, lonely figure crouching on the lowest step, dark and colorless like an un-moving lump of black, a little hillock with mad, unresting eyes. It was the old man who had freed himself with such difficulty from the unrelenting window. He crouched in the corner, lost and done for, with bowed shoulders and knees drawn high, as though he would never rise again—and over him, and away in gay and flashing cascades, the music splashed and danced, strong, pitiless, unceasing as life itself.

One of the initiatives that we introduced was an entry interview. Instead of waiting to ask employees for ideas on their way out, managers hold meetings to learn about new hires’ ideas when they first join the organization. It’s easier to start a relationship with the door open than to pry open a door that’s already been slammed shut.

Again this is an image of what has been achieved through Jesus. As we saw earlier, the veil of the temple was torn when Jesus died. This was to show the world that all people could come into the presence of the living God. There are no more barriers of entry for God’s priesthood. We are all given the same open door to come into His presence.

He delayed entry for a brief period, pressing the edge of the door against his head, the other side of which touched the wall: rigid, as if imprisoned in a cruel trap specially designed to catch him and his like: some ingenious snare, savage in mechanism, though at the same time calculated to preserve from injury the skin of such rare creatures.

Effie's brow lifted. Miss Corvus never received any of the girls in her private rooms. Not even the teachers. At least, she hadn't during Effie's tenure. Miss Corvus's rooms had always been sealed off, as impenetrable as a tomb, behind an impassable set of tall, iron-banded wooden doors. Not even the canniest members of the Academy had dared attempt entry.

Each extra lock on the entry door in response to successive rumours of foreign-looking criminals in cloaks full of daggers and each next revision of the diet in response to a successive ‘food panic’ makes the world look more treacherous and fearsome, and prompts more defensive actions – that will, alas, add more vigour to the self-propagating capacity of fear.

Soon after my husband and I started living together, he learned to make noise before coming into my writing space. He learned to do this because if he didn’t I would get startled and scream. That would startle him and he would scream. It was ‘Night of the Living Dead’ meets Edvard Munch till we worked things out. When I write, especially when the writing takes off, I fall into a trancelike state in which I dream with my eyes open. This is why I write. It is the opium I crave, this entry into another state of consciousness. I used to think it meant I was a great writer, that it was proof of my 'genius.' I also used to think it meant I was a nut who zapped into hallucination as soon as her husband shut the door – ‘Diary of a Mad Housewife’ with computer. I now realize it merely means I am writing.

Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset, There must be one (which, I am not sure) That I by now have walked for the last time Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws, Sets up a secret and unwavering scale for all the shadows, dreams, and forms Woven into the texture of this life. If there is a limit to all things and a measure And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness, Who will tell us to whom in this house We without knowing it have said farewell? Through the dawning window night withdraws And among the stacked books which throw Irregular shadows on the dim table, There must be one which I will never read. There is in the South more than one worn gate, With its cement urns and planted cactus, Which is already forbidden to my entry, Inaccessible, as in a lithograph. There is a door you have closed forever And some mirror is expecting you in vain; To you the crossroads seem wide open, Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus. There is among all your memories one Which has now been lost beyond recall. You will not be seen going down to that fountain Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon. You will never recapture what the Persian Said in his language woven with birds and roses, When, in the sunset, before the light disperses, You wish to give words to unforgettable things. And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake, All that vast yesterday over which today I bend? They will be as lost as Carthage, Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt. At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent Murmur of crowds milling and fading away; They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by; Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.

They made their way past the heavy carved doors and his eyes imme-diately examined the room. He surveyed the perfectly preserved books lining the wall furthest from the entry, the dark amaranth desk and chair covered with large stacks of papers and the box of photobooks beside it on the floor. He inspected the glass on the coffee table and could just make out their fat cat Butter slowly making his way towards his feet to demand his daily massage.

Her apartment is up on the second floor, and she pauses with her key in the lock. "It might be a little messy right now," she says apologetically. "I've been going though everything to pull donations." "Is there a clear path?" "Yes." "Are there bugs?" "No," she says more slowly, giving me a sideways stink-eye. "Is anything growing?" "No!" "Then we're good." "You have depressingly low standards," she sighs, and pushes the door open to flick on the entry light.

If you had to explain why the four major services could never work together,” Fleming said, “it’s because they all speak a different language. For example, if you needed to secure a building, the Navy would turn off the lights and lock the doors. The Air Force would sign a long-term lease or buy it outright. The Army would occupy the building and forbid entry to anyone else. And the Marines would assault the building and defend it to the death with suppressing fire and artillery support.

Thanks to Casey Ashcraft Honebrink! The book includes my winning "IN HIDING" as a short story along with 23 other winning entries from talented members of WRITERS ASSEMBLED. The anthology, THE BEST OF WRITERS ASSEMBLED 2017: BEHIND CLOSED DOORS is a mixed-genre collection. It really has a little something for everyone : action, suspense, humor, romance, fantasy, supernatural, science fiction, drama, poetry, and personal stories. You can find it on Amazon, get your copy today! Thanks for recognizing and supporting our group!

Horne Fisher had in him something of the aristocrat, which is very near to the anarchist. It was characteristic of him that he turned into this dark and irregular entry as casually as into his own front door, merely thinking that it would be a short cut to the house. He made his way through the dim wood for some distance and with some difficulty, until there began to shine through the trees a level light, in lines of silver, which he did not at first understand. The next moment he had come out into the daylight at the top of a steep bank, at the bottom of which a path ran round the rim of a large ornamental lake.

If the front door is opened," Barris said, "during our absence, my cassette tape recorder starts recording. It's under the couch. It has a two-hour tape. I placed three omnidirectional Sony mikes at three different--" "You should have told me," Arctor said. "What if they come in through the windows?" Luckman said. "Or the back door?" "To increase the chances of their making their entry via the front door," Barris continued, "rather than in other less usual ways, I providentially left the front door unlocked." After a pause, Luckman began to snigger. "Suppose they don't know it's unlocked?" Arctor said. "I put a note on it," Barris said.

Megan Meade’s Guide to the McGowan Boys Entry One Observation #1: When they’re beautiful, they know they’re beautiful. Like the second-to-oldest one, Evan. He’s a senior. He is perfection personified. And he knows it. You can tell because he just sort of smiles knowingly when you gape at him. Not that I’ve been gaping at him. Not at all. Anyway, too soon yet to tell if it negatively affects his behavior. (Like Mike Blukowsi and his Astrodome-sized ego problem.) Observation #2: They like skin. Especially skin they think they’re not necessarily supposed to be seeing. Like the space between your belly tee and your waistband. Observation #3: They have no problem bringing up events that would mortify me into shamed silence if the roles were reversed. Like Evan totally brought up the wiffleball bat incident, when if that had happened to me, I’d be wishing on every one of my birthday cakes for everyone to forget it. Observation #4: They gossip. Can you believe it? I overheard Finn and Doug in the backyard talking about some girl named Dawn who blew off some guy named Simon for some other guy named Rick for like TWENTY MINUTES! They sounded like those old mole-hair ladies at Sal’s Milkshakes. ‘Member the ones who lectured us for a whole hour that day about how young women shouldn’t wear shorts? Wait, okay, I got sidetracked. Observation #5: The older ones are so cute with the younger ones. They were playing ultimate Frisbee when I first got here and Evan totally let Caleb and Ian tackle him. It was soooooo cute. **sigh.** Observation #6: They’re cliquey. I mean, eye-rolling, secret-handshake, don’t-talk-to-us-unless-you’ve-got-an-X-and-a-Y cliquey. Very schooled in the art of the freeze-out. Observation #7: They have no sense of personal space. I need a lock on my door. STAT. Observation #8: Boys are icky. Do not even get me started on the state of the bathroom. I’m thinking of calling in a haz-mat team. Seriously. Observation #9: They have really freaky things going on down there. Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready to elaborate on that one yet. Observation #10: They know how to make enemies. Big time.

Cassandra continued her obstacle course along the wall, hoping to find a gate or a door, anything permitting entry. The sun was rising in the sky and the birds had relaxed their singing. The air was heavy with the sweet, swooning perfume of a climbing rose. Although it was autumn, Cassandra was becoming hot. To think she had once imagined England a cold country to which the sun was a stranger. She stopped to wipe sweat from her brow and bumped her head on something low-hanging. The gnarled bough of a tree reached armlike over the wall. An apple tree, Cassandra realized, when she saw that the branch bore fruit- shiny, golden apples. They were so ripe, so deliciously fragrant, that she couldn't resist picking one.

The Forgiveness Castle remains open all day and all night, and the best thing is that there are so many entrances, usually found where you'd never thing to look: behind potted plants, in crayon drawings, and on old birthday cards. I have it on good authority that one entrance is through a tree fort. Many of the Forgiveness Castle's entry points remain secret, which is why you hunt around, press the blue walls gently, and wait. Sometimes saying the most obvious words, 'I'm sorry', opens a hidden door right where there seemed not possibility." He looks away. "You're welcome to visit this castle to wait for a friend, to sit in one of its orange and yellow gardens, or to find your own reflection in the polished blue rock and whisper, 'Please.Come home.

Money has always tried to break through these barriers, like water seeping through cracks in a dam. Parents have been reduced to selling some of their children into slavery in order to buy food for the others. Devout Christians have murdered, stolen and cheated – and later used their spoils to buy forgiveness from the church. Ambitious knights auctioned their allegiance to the highest bidder, while securing the loyalty of their own followers by cash payments. Tribal lands were sold to foreigners from the other side of the world in order to purchase an entry ticket into the global economy. Money has an even darker side. For although money builds universal trust between strangers, this trust is invested not in humans, communities or sacred values, but in money itself and in the impersonal systems that back it. We do not trust the stranger, or the next-door neighbour – we trust the coin they hold. If they run out of

Very few entities are powerful enough to create Patinas, and those that can guard them closely. The library is here. But Arriane’s right. We’ll need to figure out the way in.” “I heard you need an Announcer to get through one,” Arriane said. “Cosmic legend.” Annabelle shook her head. “Every Patina is different. Access is entirely up to the creator. They program the code.” “I once heard Cam tell a story at a party about how he accessed a Patina,” Rolan said. “Or was that a story about a party that he threw in a Patina?” “Luce!” Daniel said suddenly, making all of them startle in midair. “It’s you. It was always you.” Luce shrugged. “Always me what?” “You’re the one who always rang the bell. You’re the one who had entry to the library. You just need to ring the bell.” Luce looked at the empty street, the fog tinting everything around them brown. “What are you talking about? What bell?” “Close your eyes,” Daniel said. “Remember it. Pass into the past and find the bellpull-“ Luce was already there, back at the library the last time she’d been in Vienna with Daniel. Her feet were firmly on the ground. It was raining and her hair splayed all across her face. Her crimson hair ribbons were soaked, but she didn’t care. She was looking for something. There was a short path up the courtyard, then a dark alcove outside the library. It had been cold outside, and a fire blazed within. There, in the musty corner near the door, was a woven cord embroidered with white peonies hanging from a substantial silver bell. She reached into the air and pulled. The angels gasped. Luce opened her eyes. There, in the center of the north side of the street, the row of contemporary town houses was interrupted at its midpoint by a single small brown house. A curl of smoke rose from its chimney. The only light-aside from the angel’s wings-was the dim yellow glow of a lamp on the sill of the house’s front window. The angels landed softly on the empty street and Daniel’s grip around Luce softened. He kissed her hand. “You remembered. Well done.

He threw up his hands and said, "And you know I fucking love you. So?" I looked into his right eye, then his left, back and forth. "Why do you love me?" I knew what I wanted, but on his side, I didn't want it to be because I could be so bad for him. I didn't want to be a pretty fist that he could bang himself into. I leaned against the wall, my head right by the keypad. "If we're going to take a run at this, it has to be more than good sex and your masochism." I wasn't sure he was going to answer. I wasn't sure he had a reason, and he could be so hard to read. But then he smiled. "Because everyone on this shithole planet says a lot of pretty words to make themselves look good while they do awful things", he said. "You're the opposite." It was a good answer. A good thing to say. I peered from one eye to the other, back and forth, harder than I had looked into Clark's eyes or the gun's. Birdwine's left one was rimmed in black and violet, still swollen. I watched his pupils expand as I leaned up. There was a fair amount of crazy present, sure, but in the darkness of his eyes I saw myself reflected clearly. I was real to him. He saw me all the way down to the bottom and knew every awful thing I'd done. More - he knew all that I was capable of doing, and yet, he looked at me like I was something worthy and good. "Come upstairs," I said. There was a promise in the words that spoke to more than sex. I thought it was implicit. But he only waited, silent. He didn't even blink, until my own eyes felt dry and itchy on his behalf. Finally I added, "Yes. Okay. Yes. I fucking love you." "Oh yeah," he said, and punched the entry code in for my door.

No-knock entries are dangerous for everyone involved—cops, suspects, bystanders. The raids usually occur before dawn; the residents are usually asleep, and then disoriented by the sudden intrusion. There is no warning, and sleepy residents may not always understand that the men breaking down their door are police. At the same time, police procedures allow terribly little room for error. Stan Goff, a retired Special Forces sergeant and SWAT trainer, says that he teaches cops to “Look at hands. If there’s a weapon in their hands during a dynamic entry, it does not matter what that weapon is doing. If there’s a weapon in their hands, that person dies. It’s automatic.” On September 13, 2000, the DEA, FBI, and local police conducted a series of raids throughout Modesto, California. By the end of the day, they had shot and killed an eleven-year-old boy, Alberto Sepulveda, as he was lying facedown on the floor with his arms outstretched, as ordered by police. In January 2011, police in Farmington, Massachusetts similarly shot Eurie Stamp, a sixty-eight-year-old grandfather, as he lay motionless on the floor according to police instructions. In the course of a May 2014 raid in Cornelia, Georgia, a flash-bang grenade landed in the crib of a nineteen-month-old infant. The explosion blew a hole in the face and chest of Bounkham Phonesavanh (“Baby Bou Bou”), covering his body with third degree burns, and exposing part of his ribcage. No guns or drugs were found in the house, and no arrests were made. Sometimes these raids go wrong before they even begin. Walter and Rose Martin, a perfectly innocent couple, both in their eighties, had their home raided by New York Police more than fifty times between 2002 and 2010. It turned out that their address had been entered as the default in the police database.

Violent Storm" Those who have chosen to pass the night Entertaining friends And intimate ideas in the bright, Commodious rooms of dreams Will not feel the slightest tremor Or be wakened by what seems Only a quirk in the dry run Of conventional weather. For them, The long night sweeping over these trees And houses will have been no more than one In a series whose end Only the nervous or morbid consider. But for us, the wide-awake, who tend To believe the worst is always waiting Around the next corner or hiding in the dry, Unsteady branch of a sick tree, debating Whether or not to fell the passerby, It has a sinister air. How we wish we were sunning ourselves In a world of familiar views And fixed conditions, confined By what we know, and able to refuse Entry to the unaccounted for. For now, Deeper and darker than ever, the night unveils Its dubious plans, and the rain Beats down in gales Against the roof. We sit behind Closed windows, bolted doors, Unsure and ill at ease While the loose, untidy wind, Making an almost human sound, pours Through the open chambers of the trees. We cannot take ourselves or what belongs To us for granted. No longer the exclusive, Last resorts in which we could unwind, Lounging in easy chairs, Recalling the various wrongs We had been done or spared, our rooms Seem suddenly mixed up in our affairs. We do not feel protected By the walls, nor can we hide Before the duplicating presence Of their mirrors, pretending we are the ones who stare From the other side, collected In the glassy air. A cold we never knew invades our bones. We shake as though the storm were going to hurl us down Against the flat stones Of our lives. All other nights Seem pale compared to this, and the brilliant rise Of morning after morning seems unthinkable. Already now the lights That shared our wakefulness are dimming And the dark brushes against our eyes.

Tim bid us good-bye after helping us carry in my three-hundred-pound suitcase, and Marlboro Man and I looked around our quiet house, which was spick-and-span and smelled of fresh paint and leather cowboy boots, which lined the wall near the front door. The entry glowed with the light of the setting sun coming in the window, and I reached down to grab one of my bags so I could carry it to the bedroom. But before my hand made it to the handle, Marlboro Man grabbed me tightly around the waist and carried me over to the leather sofa, where we fell together in a tired heap of jet lag, emotional exhaustion, and--ironically, given the week we’d just endured--a sudden burst of lust. “Welcome home,” he said, nuzzling his face into my neck. Mmmm. This was a familiar feeling. “Thank you,” I said, closing my eyes and savoring every second. As his lips made their way across my neck, I could hear the sweet and reassuring sound of cows in the pasture east of our house. We were home. “You feel so good,” he said, moving his hands to the zipper of my casual black jacket. “You do, too,” I said, stroking the back of his closely cut hair as his arms wrapped more and more tightly around my waist. “But…uh…” I paused. My black jacket was by now on the floor. “I…uh…,” I continued. “I think I need to take a shower.” And I did. I couldn’t do the precise calculation of what it had meant for my hygiene to cross back over the international date line, but as far as I was concerned, I hadn’t showered in a decade. I couldn’t imagine christening our house in such a state. I needed to smell like lilac and lavender and Dove soap on the first night in our little house together. Not airline fuel. Not airports. Not clothes I’d worn for two days straight. Marlboro Man chuckled--the first one I’d heard in many days--and as he’d done so many times during our months of courtship, he touched his forehead to mine. “I need one, too,” he said, a hint of mischief in his voice. And with that, we accompanied each other to the shower, where, with a mix of herbal potions, rural water, and determination, we washed our honeymoon down the drain.

Miraculously, thirty minutes later I found Marlboro Man’s brother’s house. As I pulled up, I saw Marlboro Man’s familiar white pickup parked next to a very large, imposing semi. He and his brother were sitting inside the cab. Looking up and smiling, Marlboro Man motioned for me to join them. I waved, getting out of my car and obnoxiously taking my purse with me. To add insult to injury, I pressed the button on my keyless entry to lock my doors and turn on my car alarm, not realizing how out of place the dreadful chirp! chirp! must have sounded amidst all the bucolic silence. As I made my way toward the monster truck to meet my new love’s only brother, I reflected that not only had I never in my life been inside the cab of a semi, but also I wasn’t sure I’d ever been within a hundred feet of one. My armpits were suddenly clammy and moist, my body trembling nervously at the prospect of not only meeting Tim but also climbing into a vehicle nine times the size of my Toyota Camry, which, at the time, was the largest car I’d ever owned. I was nervous. What would I do in there? Marlboro Man opened the passenger door, and I grabbed the large handlebar on the side of the cab, hoisting myself up onto the spiked metal steps of the semi. “Come on in,” he said as he ushered me into the cab. Tim was in the driver’s seat. “Ree, this is my brother, Tim.” Tim was handsome. Rugged. Slightly dusty, as if he’d just finished working. I could see a slight resemblance to Marlboro Man, a familiar twinkle in his eye. Tim extended his hand, leaving the other on the steering wheel of what I would learn was a brand-spanking-new cattle truck, just hours old. “So, how do you like this vehicle?” Tim asked, smiling widely. He looked like a kid in a candy shop. “It’s nice,” I replied, looking around the cab. There were lots of gauges. Lots of controls. I wanted to crawl into the back and see what the sleeping quarters were like, and whether there was a TV. Or a Jacuzzi. “Want to take it for a spin?” Tim asked. I wanted to appear capable, strong, prepared for anything. “Sure!” I responded, shrugging my shoulders. I got ready to take the wheel. Marlboro Man chuckled, and Tim remained in his seat, saying, “Oh, maybe you’d better not. You might break a fingernail.” I looked down at my fresh manicure. It was nice of him to notice. “Plus,” he continued, “I don’t think you’d be able to shift gears.” Was he making fun of me? My armpits were drenched. Thank God I’d work black that night. After ten more minutes of slightly uncomfortable small talk, Marlboro Man saved my by announcing, “Well, I think we’ll head out, Slim.” “Okay, Slim,” Tim replied. “Nice meeting you, Ree.” He flashed his nice, familiar smile. He was definitely cute. He was definitely Marlboro Man’s brother. But he was nothing like the real thing.

Maybe tangled will be a spectacular rump. maybe i will adore it: it could happen. But one thing is for sure: tangled will not be rapunzel. And thats too bad , because rapunzel is an specially layered and relevant fairytale, less about the love between a man and a woman than the misguided attempts of a mother trying to protect her daughter from (what she perceives ) as the worlds evils. The tale, you may recall, begins with a mother-to-bes yearning for the taste of rapunzel, a salad green she spies growing in the garden of the sorceress who happens to live next door. The womans craving becomes so intense , she tells her husband that if he doesn't fetch her some, she and their unborn baby will die. So he steals into the baby's yard, wraps his hands around a plant, and, just as he pulls... she appears in a fury. The two eventually strike a bargain: the mans wife can have as much of the plant as she wants- if she turns over her baby to the witch upon its birth. `i will take care for it like a mother,` the sorceress croons (as if that makes it all right). Then again , who would you rather have as a mom: the woman who would do anything for you or the one who would swap you in a New York minute for a bowl of lettuce? Rapunzel grows up, her hair grows down, and when she is twelve-note that age-Old Mother Gothel , as she calls the witch. leads her into the woods, locking her in a high tower which offers no escape and no entry except by scaling the girls flowing tresses. One day, a prince passes by and , on overhearing Rapunzel singing, falls immediately in love (that makes Rapunzel the inverse of Ariel- she is loved sight unseen because of her voice) . He shinnies up her hair to say hello and , depending on the version you read, they have a chaste little chat or get busy conceiving twins. Either way, when their tryst is discovered, Old Mother Gothel cries, `you wicked child! i thought i had separated you from the world, and yet you deceived me!` There you have it : the Grimm`s warning to parents , centuries before psychologists would come along with their studies and measurements, against undue restriction . Interestingly the prince cant save Rapuzel from her foster mothers wrath. When he sees the witch at the top of the now-severed braids, he jumps back in surprise and is blinded by the bramble that breaks his fall. He wanders the countryside for an unspecified time, living on roots and berries, until he accidentally stumbles upon his love. She weeps into his sightless eyes, restoring his vision , and - voila!- they rescue each other . `Rapunzel` then, wins the prize for the most egalitarian romance, but that its not its only distinction: it is the only well-known tale in which the villain is neither maimed nor killed. No red-hot shoes are welded to the witch`s feet . Her eyes are not pecked out. Her limbs are not lashed to four horses who speed off in different directions. She is not burned at the stake. Why such leniency? perhaps because she is not, in the end, really evil- she simply loves too much. What mother has not, from time to time, felt the urge to protect her daughter by locking her in a tower? Who among us doesn't have a tiny bit of trouble letting our children go? if the hazel branch is the mother i aspire to be, then Old Mother Gothel is my cautionary tale: she reminds us that our role is not to keep the world at bay but to prepare our daughters so they can thrive within it. That involves staying close but not crowding them, standing firm in one`s values while remaining flexible. The path to womanhood is strewn with enchantment , but it also rifle with thickets and thorns and a big bad culture that threatens to consume them even as they consume it. The good news is the choices we make for our toodles can influence how they navigate it as teens. I`m not saying that we can, or will, do everything `right,` only that there is power-magic-in awareness.

But listen, actually I love what I'm doing. And making parts for doors - I think it's the most important job a man can have." She started to laugh but he raised a hand to stop her. "I'm not joking. Think about it. What would civilization be without a door? Think of what a closed door can hide - tears, intimate relations, scandals, murders, mysteries, family secrets, national secrets. Countries spend millions trying to get behind each other's closed doors, no? So do lovers, Conversely, think of what an open door symbolizes - an invitation into someone's home, someone's heart, an entry into a kitchen, a dining room, a bank vault, even" - here his voice dripped a notch - "a bedroom. And what is it that makes it possible to have all those doors opening and shutting?" He paused, looking at her expectantly. Tehmina felt dizzy under the spell of Ruston's words. "What?" she said stupidly. "Hinges," he yelled triumphantly. "It's the humble hinge that lets one decide whether to lock the world out or to let it in. See why what I do is so important?

Speak no ill of the successful black male sellout, for he has achieved the goal of the community that has produced him: he has “made it,” used his skills to attain the status that would be denied him, earned entry at the door of the big house of prosperity. His only flaw is that he agreed to leave the community, its hopes, customs, aspirations, on the porch behind him. It is a matter of expedience as much as morality.

You can't change people's minds: most minds harden before encountering diverse ideas. After their minds are ossified, people spend the rest of their lives seeking corroboration of their opinions: the mind's doors are closed and bolted from inside. Like a house that allows entry only to known guests, the mind welcomes only concepts that validate the conclusions and opinions it has already formed.

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Just like a city, parts of the Archives teemed with activity. The Scriptorium held rows of desks where scrivs toiled over translations or copied faded texts into new books with fresh, dark ink. The Sorting Hall buzzed with activity as scrivs sifted and reshelved books. The Buggery was not at all what I expected, thank goodness. Instead, it proved to be the place where new books were decontaminated before being added to the collection. Apparently all manner of creatures love books, some devouring parchment and leather, others with a taste for paper or glue. Bookworms were the least of them, and after listening to a few of Wilem’s stories I wanted nothing more than to wash my hands. Cataloger’s Mew, the Bindery, Bolts, Palimpsest, all of them were busy as beehives, full of quiet, industrious scrivs. But other parts of the Archives were quite the opposite of busy. The acquisitions office, for example, was tiny and perpetually dark. Through the window I could see that one entire wall of the office was nothing but a huge map with cities and roads marked in such detail that it looked like a snarled loom. The map was covered in a layer of clear alchemical lacquer, and there were notes written at various points in red grease pencil, detailing rumors of desirable books and the last known positions of the various acquisition teams. Tomes was like a great public garden. Any student was free to come and read the books shelved there. Or they could submit a request to the scrivs, who would grudgingly head off into the Stacks to find if not the exact book you wanted, then at least something closely related. But the Stacks comprised the vast majority of the Archives. That was where the books actually lived. And just like in any city, there were good neighborhoods and bad. In the good neighborhoods everything was properly organized and cataloged. In these places a ledger-entry would lead you to a book as simply as a pointing finger. Then there were the bad neighborhoods. Sections of the Archives that were forgotten, or neglected, or simply too troublesome to deal with at the moment. These were places where books were organized under old catalogs, or under no catalog at all. There were walls of shelves like mouths with missing teeth, where longgone scrivs had cannibalized an old catalog to bring books into whatever system was fashionable at the time. Thirty years ago two entire floors had gone from good neighborhood to bad when the Larkin ledger-books were burned by a rival faction of scrivs. And, of course, there was the four-plate door. The secret at the heart of the city. It was nice to go strolling in the good neighborhoods. It was pleasant to go looking for a book and find it exactly where it should be. It was easy. Comforting. Quick. But the bad neighborhoods were fascinating. The books there were dusty and disused. When you opened one, you might read words no eyes had touched for hundreds of years. There was treasure there, among the dross. It was in those places I searched for the Chandrian.

She stared out the window, taking in the large trees that blocked any ray of light brave enough to attempt entry. God, she hated this place.

And now I shall tell you what Tilte and I have discovered one must do: one must reach inside and feel. The moment the shock kicks in there’s this very unusual, very special feeling inside and all around you, and that is what you must reach into and feel. It is there just before the tears come, and the despair, and the customary depression, and the giving up, and the decision that if Karl can get up at four in the morning, then you can get up at three or two, or even not go to bed at all so as to be sure of getting there first. During that brief moment when your normal instincts are gone and new ones have yet to appear, at that moment there is an entry. This I remember on Blågårds Plads, and I listen inside and sense that the shock has caused the door to open.

Many members of the Assembly were disappointed with the numerous exceptions which had been created against each of the freedoms set out in the right to freedom, including the right to free speech. For instance, K.T. Shah said that 'what is given by one right hand seems to be taken away by three or four or five left hands, and therefore the article is rendered nugatory in my opinion.' Lakshmi Narayan Sahi cited an Oriya proverb which translates as follows: 'It is no use making a house with so small entrance that one's entry into the house is rendered difficult without striking his head against the door frame.

Eye Hate U" U have just accessed the Hate Experience Do U wish 2 change your entry? Very well, please enjoy your experience I never thought that U would be the one After all the things that we've been through U gave your body 2 another in the name of fun I hope U had some baby, if not, boo hoo It's so sad but I hate U like a day without sunshine It's so bad but I hate U cuz U're all that's ever on my mind Honey, I hate U - Now everyday would be a waste of time Cuz I hate U I never thought that I could feel this way 2 fall in love was a table reserved 4 fools Say U're sorry if U wanna but it's all in vain I'm out the door sweet baby, that's right, we're through It's so sad but I hate U like a day without sunshine It's so bad but I hate U cuz U're all that's ever on my mind Honey, I hate U - Now everyday would be a waste of time Cuz I hate U This court is now in session Would the defendant please rise? State your name 4 the court Never mind (Billy Jack Bitch) U're being charged with one 2 many counts of heartbreaking In the 1st degree I don't give a damn about the others My main concern is U and me Your honor, may I call 2 the stand my one and only witness? A girl that know damn well she didn't have no damn business I know what U did, how U did it and uh.. who U did it with So U might as well plead guilty cuz U sure can't plead the 5th Now raise your right hand Do U swear 2 tell the whole truth Not the half truth like U used 2 so help U God? Nod your head one time if U hear me If U don't, I'll have 2 use the rod Anything 2 make U see that uh.. U're gonna miss me Yeah, U're gonna miss me Uh, uh, uh, oh! If it please the court I'd like 2 have the defendant place her hands behind her back So I can tie her up tight and get into the act The act of showing her how good it used 2 be I want it 2 be so good she falls back in love with me Close your eyes I'm gonna cover your ass with this sheet And I want U 2 pump your hips like U used 2 And, baby, U better stay on the beat Did U do 2 your other man the same things that U did 2 me? Right now I hate U so much I wanna make love until U see That it's killin' me, baby, 2 be without U Cuz all I ever wanted 2 do was 2 be with U ... ow! I hate U (I hate U) Because I love U (Because I love U) But I can't love U (I can't love U) Because I hate U (I hate U) Prince, The Gold Experience (1995)

And they, too, must be serviced by a coterie of specialists. The shooting galleries—vacant or near-vacant rowhouses, battered by the constant traffic, emptied of all valuables—are manned by a service industry all their own. The keepers of the inn guard the door, charging a buck or two for entry, maybe less if a fiend is willing to share some of the hype. For the price of admission, you get a patch of solid floor, a choice of bottle caps, a pint or so of communal water, and if you’re lucky, a book of dry matches or a shared candle. You bring your own spike, but if you don’t have one, there will likely be someone else at or near the gallery selling works for a couple bucks.

Postmodern man will not easily be evangelized with a propositional tract; we must gain entry by another door. Move his heart with an encounter with real beauty and he may just ask, “Where did you get this from?” After that will be the time to haul out our didactic propositions.27 And then the truth will set him free.

Canadian Permanent Residency, Australia Permanent Residency, and Germany Permanent Residency: Your Path to a Better Future At ESSE India, we understand that securing Permanent Residency (PR) in countries like Canada, Australia, and Germany can open doors to unparalleled opportunities. Whether you are a skilled professional, student, or family looking for a brighter future, these countries offer exceptional immigration programs tailored to various needs. With pathways like Canada’s Express Entry, Australia’s Global Talent Stream, and Germany’s EU Blue Card, understanding the right PR process is key to your success. 1. Canadian Permanent Residency (PR) Why Choose Canada for Permanent Residency? Canada’s welcoming policies and strong support for skilled workers and international students make it a top destination for those seeking PR. The Express Entry system is the most sought-after route, ensuring faster processing and a smooth transition to Canadian life. How the Express Entry System Works Canada’s Express Entry system manages three main immigration programs: • Federal Skilled Worker Program (FSWP) • Federal Skilled Trades Program (FSTP) • Canadian Experience Class (CEC) Applicants are assessed using the Comprehensive Ranking System (CRS), where points are assigned for factors like age, education, work experience, and language skills. If you want to increase your chances of getting an Invitation to Apply (ITA), you can apply through Provincial Nominee Programs (PNP) like BCPNP, MPNP, or NBPNP. These programs can boost your CRS score by an additional 600 points. Latest Express Entry Updates Recent draws show the competitive nature of Express Entry: • September 19, 2024: 4,000 ITAs were issued for CEC candidates with a minimum CRS of 509. • August 27, 2024: 3,300 ITAs were issued for CEC candidates with a minimum CRS of 507. Canada Immigration Consultants in India Our Canada immigration consultants in India provide expert guidance on navigating the complex Canada PR process. With our personalized approach, we ensure that your documents meet the stringent requirements, paving the way for a successful PR application. 2. Australia Permanent Residency (PR) Why Choose Australia for Permanent Residency? Australia’s booming economy and need for skilled professionals make it an attractive option for PR. Through the General Skilled Migration (GSM) program, Australia offers several visa categories, ensuring that you find the perfect pathway to PR. General Skilled Migration (GSM) Pathways Australia’s PR process offers various visa options, including: • Skilled Independent Visa (Subclass 189) • Skilled Nominated Visa (Subclass 190) • Skilled Work Regional Visa (Subclass 491) The GSM system is points-based, with applicants scoring higher points in areas such as qualifications and work experience having better chances. Australia’s Global Talent Stream is also available for fast-tracking PR in high-demand sectors such as IT, engineering, and healthcare. Australia Immigration Consultants in India At ESSE India, our Australia immigration consultants provide comprehensive support to Indian applicants throughout the Australia PR process. Whether it’s improving your points score or handling your visa application, we ensure a seamless process. 3. Germany Permanent Residency (PR) Why Choose Germany for Permanent Residency? Germany, with its strong economy and demand for skilled workers, is an excellent option for PR. The EU Blue Card offers an efficient route for qualified professionals to live and work in Germany. After 21-33 months, Blue Card holders are eligible for permanent residency. Global Talent Stream in Germany Germany’s Global Talent Stream attracts highly skilled professionals, especially in fields like technology and engineering, helping you achieve PR faster.

Reciprocity keeps doors you once entered continually opened for future entry, either for you or someone close to you, whenever the need arises.

The door of entry into this castle is prayer and meditation. If a person does not realize Whom he is addressing, and understand what he is asking for, and who it is that is asking and of Whom he is asking it, he is not praying at all even though he is constantly moving his lips. Souls without prayer are like people whose bodies or limbs are paralyzed: they possess feet and hands but they cannot control them. In the same way, there are souls so infirm and so accustomed to busying themselves with outside affairs that nothing can be done for them, and it seems as though they are incapable of entering within themselves at all.

Benefits of high rise apartments High rise flats have been on high demand for a very long time because of the invaluable benefits which are related to them. All evidence level to the truth that a better majority of tenants desire to stay in these sorts of residences regardless that only some could possibly afford them. This pattern is nevertheless altering due to the low price high rise apartments that are mushrooming. A number of the advantages are as outlined under. Conventionally, excessive rise flats are usually positioned in decent, fascinating urban centers with a purpose to meet the ever rising demand. The urban setting of those residences provides the tenants with limitless and quick access to quite a lot of life-style features together with however not limited to handy public transport, shopping as well as nightlife. There are lots of facilities located round excessive rise apartments. These include services comparable to fitness centers, swimming pools, rooftop decks, a door particular person, safety techniques, managed entry and 24-hour maintenance. Some high rise residences even present visitors with free drinks saving them the money spent on morning tea or coffee. Other kinds of flats do charge for utility services. Dwelling in Excessive Rises does end in lowered utility costs. Due to the bulk services, the rates which might be paid scale back. Even when every particular person pays their very own rates, the ultimate costs are comparatively lower. Most of the flats provide free Wi-Fi companies and for those who plan to use web extra regularly, then it signifies that you will have something to save. Moreover dwelling in High Rise flats makes one feel some sense of community particularly once you understand nicely all your neighbors. This makes someone really feel at a house away from home.

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gliadin-initiated conditions such as celiac disease, thyroid disease, joint diseases, and asthma. Gliadin wheat proteins are akin to being able to pick the lock on any door, allowing unwanted intruders to gain entry into places they don’t belong.

Good evening, all.” The warm room was empty. Only the crackling fire and waiting furniture greeted him. His perfect posture dropped half an inch. So much for a triumphal entry.  He closed the door and removed his hat. “Did you all hear I was coming and decide to hide?” “Good evening, Nathaniel.” Kitty stepped into the parlor from the kitchen, removing her striped apron to reveal a yellow, rose-dotted dress that molded to her curves in a way Nathaniel hadn’t thought possible. Simple ringlets bobbed at her neck and an alluring grin threatened to topple his well-placed line of defense.  “Good evening, lovely lady.” Extinguishing every spark of emotion with the skill of a perfect marksman, Nathaniel draped himself in his cloak of dramatic charm and bowed deeply. He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. “Aw, Kitty, you have done it again. All I must do is savor that aroma to know this evening’s meal will very likely be the best I’ve ever tasted.” If he stayed jocular he wouldn’t be at risk of succumbing to the emotions that toyed with him so carelessly. Kitty rolled her eyes and started toward the fire. “Oh, Nathaniel. You’re always full of exaggerated compliments, though I thank you just the same.” The grin behind her eyes toyed with his humor. “Are you calling me a liar, Miss Campbell?” He stepped forward. Her lips twitched as if she held back a smile that yearned for exposure. “Should I be?” Before

Strange Angels, we will become more and more numb to life. We will remain unchanged. If we allow the Angels entry, we will open the door to change and evolution.

All in all, The Sutra of the Teaching ofAksayamati lists eight criteria that distinguish expedient and definitive meaning: i) The expedient meaning assists entry onto the path, while the definitive meaning guides disciples to engage in the fruition. a) The expedient meaning deals with the seeming, while the definitive meaning deals with the ultimate. 3) The expedient meaning teaches about afflicted phenomena, and the definitive meaning teaches about purified phenomena. 4) The expedient meaning teaches how to engage in proper actions, and the definitive meaning shows how karma and afflictions become exhausted. S) The expedient meaning causes weariness with cyclic existence, while the definitive meaning demonstrates that cyclic existence and nirvana are undifferentiable. 6) The expedient meaning teaches a variety of terms and definitions, whereas the definitive meaning teaches the profound, true reality that is difficult to see and realize. 7) The expedient meaning gives detailed explanations in accordance with worldly conduct, while the definitive meaning focuses on concise and pithy instructions for cultivating meditative concentration. 8) The expedient meaning teaches about sentient beings, persons, a self, and so on, while the definitive meaning teaches about the three doors to complete liberation, nonapplication, nonorigination, nonarising, nonentity, identitylessness, and such.

Suppose boredom is a backstairs to liberation — insignificant, and so often overlooked. No one who has not known its higher degrees can claim to have lived. Not the Relative Boredom of long waiting at junctions for railway connections on the way to visit friends—or the rashly accepted week-end with acquaintances—the reviewing of a dull book. In such Relative Boredom the "wasting-of-time"-feeling only heightens the enjoyment of the coming escape, the anticipation of which sustains us meanwhile. Absolute Boredom is rather the pain of nausea, it is the loss of one's livelihood as for the pianist who loses his hands, the unsatiable desire for what we know makes us sick, it is the Great Drought, the "Carnal physic for the sick soul", the Dark Night of the Soul after the climbing of Mount Carmel, it is the pillar of salt, the exile from the land which is no more, the Sin against the Holy Ghost, the break-up of patterns, the horror that waits alone in the night, the entry into the desert where Death mocks by serving one one's daily food and one cannot bear hut to keep the darkness of one's own shadow before one for the very brightness of the light that reveals the universal emptiness. Do not try to turn back now — here in the desert perhaps there are doors open—in the cool woods they are overgrown, and in the busy cities they have built over them.

Mid-June 2012 …Do you remember the arrogant male model who came to the Bahriji School to give a grooming course to us students when we were there? An evening after my return to London, while staying at Uncle James’ home, I visited one of the London sex clubs. Uncle James was in Hong Kong and I had his town house to myself before I moved to my own lodgings in Ladbroke Grove, recommended by the Nottinghill Methodist Church housing project. I was terribly lonely and needed company desperately. I ventured to “Heavens” located Under the Arches on Villiers Street, Charing Cross, a little before midnight. In 1972, this establishment was located in a large warehouse. For the uninitiated, the entrance was nondescript. It was dimly lit from the outside, and when a patron wished to gain entry, he pressed an obscure doorbell by the side of a huge aluminum sliding door. A pair of eyes would look through a peephole, checking to make sure that it was neither a police raid nor an underage client. If the patron was handsome and dressed like a macho gay man, he’d be asked for identification. Once approved, the green door would slide open to allow entry. Inside “Heavens” was a different world. Throngs of leather and denim-clad patrons checked their belongings in the tiny cloakroom next to the cashier’s booth. A small safety deposit box was then allocated upon request for each visitor to deposit his wallet or important documents for safekeeping. The safety deposit box key, attached to an elastic band together with the clothing claim tag, would then be handed to the patron to wear around his wrist or ankle. Most patrons were shirtless except for their jeans and leather pants. The uninhibited would strip down to their jock straps or sports undergarments. Their naked buttocks were ready to be in service for a night of unbridled debauchery.

He’d kept it shut with his foot, having broken the lock to gain entry. He pulled it open with his left hand and stepped into the hallway. In front of him the first man was slumped on the floor, propped up against the door frame of Victor’s room, head hung forward, blood running from the mouth and collecting into a pool on the carpet. Apart from a twitching left foot he made no movement. The other was still alive, lying face down on the floor, making a quiet gurgling noise. He’d been hit several times — in the gut, chest, and neck where the ruptured carotid artery sprayed the wall with long crimson arcs. He was trying to crawl away, his mouth open as if screaming for help but making no sound

More immigrants came into the United States in 1907 alone then entered during the next quarter century. Madison Grant was thrilled. “[This is] one of the greatest steps forward in the history of this country,” he said. “We have closed the doors just in time to prevent our Nordic population from being overrun by the lower races.” The director of Ellis Island, the entry point for most European immigrants, commented that immigrants were now starting to look more like Americans.

Probably (for we are not yet certain) it interferes with the enzyme system that regulates cerebral functioning. By doing so it lowers the efficiency of the brain as an instrument for focusing the mind on the problems of life on the surface of our planet. This lowering of what may be called the biological efficiency of the brain seems to permit the entry into consciousness of certain classes of mental events, which are normally excluded, because they possess no survival value.

There may not be time.’ Strax said, ‘to conduct a full surveillance regime according to prescribed regulations in order to formulate a coherent strategy of the best method to effect entry.’ ‘That’s true,’ Madame Vastra agreed. ‘So I suggest you simply break down this door.

Twenty feet above was Fort Scout, set in a tangle of tree limbs. It was the most elaborate tree fort he had ever seen. It had a roof, two doors, and four windows. It had three points of entry: a ladder, a rope, and a spiral staircase that circled the trunk and ended at a hole in the floor. Long rope bridges connected the fort to far-off trees.

carried the Makarov outside to watch the fireworks. Thirty yards beyond the spot where Brendan Magill lay dead was a rock wall running on a north-south axis. Gabriel took cover behind it after a 7.62x39mm round shredded the air a few inches from his right ear. Keller hit the ground next to him as rounds exploded against the stones of the wall, sending sparks and fragments flying. The source of the fire was silenced, so Gabriel had only a vague idea of the direction from which it was coming. He poked his head above the wall to search for a muzzle flash, but another burst of rounds drove him downward. Keller was now crawling northward along the base of the wall. Gabriel followed after him, but stopped when Keller suddenly opened up with the dead man’s AK-47. A distant scream indicated that Keller’s rounds had found their mark, but in an instant they were taking fire from several directions. Gabriel flattened himself on the ground at Keller’s side, the Glock in one hand, the dead man’s phone in the other. After a few seconds he realized it was pulsing with an incoming text. The text was apparently from Eamon Quinn. It read KILL THE GIRL . . . 79 CROSSMAGLEN, SOUTH ARMAGH A MID THE HEAP OF BROKEN and dismembered farm implements in Jimmy Fagan’s shed, Katerina had found a scythe, rusted and caked in mud, a museum piece, perhaps the last scythe in the whole of Ireland, north or south. She held it tightly in her hands and listened to the sound of men pounding up the track at a sprint. Two men, she thought, perhaps three. She positioned herself against the shed’s sliding door. Madeline was at the opposite end of the space, hooded, hands bound, her back to the bales of hay. She was the first and only thing the men would see upon entry. The latch gave way, the door slid open, a gun intruded. Katerina recognized its silhouette: an AK-47 with a suppressor attached to the barrel. She knew it well. It was the first weapon she had ever fired at the camp. The great AK-47! Liberator of the oppressed! The gun was pointed upward at a forty-five-degree angle. Katerina had no choice but to wait until the barrel sank toward Madeline. Then she raised the scythe and swung it with every ounce of strength she had left in her body. Two hundred yards away, crouched behind a stone wall at the western edge of Jimmy Fagan’s property, Gabriel showed the text message to Christopher Keller. Keller immediately poked his head above the wall and saw muzzle flashes in the doorway of the shed. Four flashes, four shots, more than enough to obliterate two lives. A burst of AK-47 fire drove him downward again. Eyes wild, he grabbed Gabriel savagely by the front of his coat and shouted, “Stay here!” Keller hauled himself over the wall and vanished from sight. Gabriel lay there for a few seconds as the rounds rained down on his position. Then suddenly he was on his feet and running across the darkened pasture. Running toward a car in a snowy square in Vienna. Running toward death. The blow that Katerina delivered to the neck of the man holding the AK-47 resulted in a partial decapitation. Even so, he had managed to squeeze off a shot before she wrenched the gun from his grasp—a shot that struck the hay bales a few inches from Madeline’s head. Katerina shoved the dying man aside and quickly fired two shots into the chest of the second man. The fourth shot she fired into the partially decapitated creature twitching at her feet. In the lexicon of the SVR, it was a control shot. It was also a shot of

You listened for the rapping on the door, which might come in the early hours of the morning, and tried to think if there was anything you had missed. You went upstairs again and checked the shelves and made sure that any entries in the telephone book had been scratched out. It was impossible to live without leaving clues. Suddenly, as if a knife was buried in you up to the hilt, you yearned for life in an ordinary country, ordinary happiness and unhappiness.

Yet Jesus Christ says he is standing knocking at the door of our lives, waiting. Notice that he is standing at the door, not pushing it; speaking to us, not shouting. This is all the more remarkable when we reflect that the house is his in any case. He is the architect; he designed it. He is the builder; he made it. He is the landlord; he bought it with his own blood. So it is his by right of plan, construction, and purchase. We are only tenants in a house that does not belong to us. He could put his shoulder to the door; he prefers to put his hand on the knocker. He could command us to open to him; instead, he merely invites us to do so. He will not force an entry to anybody's life. He says (verse 18) 'I counsel you.' He could issue orders; he is content to give advice. This is the nature of his humility and the extent of the freedom he has given us.

But this morning would be anything but quiet and routine. At 6:22—soon after I returned to my quarters/office, which I shared with Lt. Col. Harry Slacum, to review the daily schedule and reports—a massive explosion rocked our headquarters, followed by enormous shock waves. Shards of glass from blown-out windows, equipment, manuals, and papers flew across my office. Fortunately, we had put duct tape on all the windows for such an eventuality, but a large section of the sandbag wall, built on the outside ledge, was blasted away. The entry door to my office, which was on the far side away from the explosion, had been blown off its hinges, and the door frame was bent. The force of the blast had cracked the reinforced concrete foundation of my headquarters. Other than superficial cuts, neither Harry nor I was injured. With

They drove on, through pretty Schwabisch villages. Every one of them had its Christbaum, a tall evergreen in the center of town, with candles lit as darkness fell, and a star on top. There were also candles in every window, and red-berried holly weaths hung on the doors. By the side of the road, at the entry to each village, stood a sign attacking the Jews. This was, Mercier thought, a kind of competition, for none of the signs were the same. Juden dirfen nicht bleiben - 'Jews must not stay here' - was followed by Wer die Juden unterstuzt fordert den Kommunissmus, 'Who helps the Jews helps communism,' then the dramatic 'This flat-footed stranger, with kinky hair and hooked nose, he shall not our land enjoy, he must leave, he must leave.

Sun Tzu's definition of speed is often misconstrued and shown through quick responses such as; doors being immediately kicked in upon arrival. You see knee jerk reactions to the report of a single gunshot and immediate entry made without knowing anymore than the fact that a gun went off. You see it in tactical responses and approaches to various calls for service where the possibility of danger exists.

Can you see the entry?” “Yes.” “Watch.” “It’s only two o’clock. Will be hours before he come.” “Watch.” He expected her to fidget or try to make conversation, but she didn’t. She sat behind him, a second presence in the car, quiet and still, watching. They watched for an hour and ten minutes, silent, as people came and went around them, parking, backing out, pushing buggies filled high with groceries. Rina did not move or speak for the entire time, but then she suddenly pulled herself forward, and pointed past his chin. “That window on the top floor, on the side there away from the freeway. That was mine.” Then she settled back and said nothing more. Pike studied her in the rearview, but only for a moment. He didn’t want her to catch him staring. An hour and twenty minutes later, she abruptly pulled herself forward again. “That girl. She is one of the girls there. In the green.” A young woman in black spandex shorts and a lime green top came around the corner and went to the glass door. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and a large gym bag was slung over her shoulder. On her way back from the gym. She was lean and fit, but her breasts were too large to be natural. She looked very young. Rina said, “You see? I know this girl when they bring her here. They make her waitress, and then she dance.” “Stripper.” “Yes. And this.” The girl let herself into the lobby, then pushed a button for the elevator. Fifteen minutes later, Rina pulled forward again. “There. In the black car.” A black BMW convertible turned off Sepulveda and crept past the building as if looking for a parking place. The driver was a white male in his twenties with a thick neck and long, limp hair. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, a day-old beard, and mirrored sunglasses. Pike

The front door was a standard wood entry, stained dark to match the house. A Master deadbolt was set in the frame above the knob lock. Cole pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves, selected a pick and a tension wrench from his pick kit, and went to work. Two minutes for the deadbolt, one for the knob. On-the-job training courtesy of the United States Army. Cole

How is Single-Person CQB Different? Single-person CQB tactics are different from tactics developed for teams and multiple teams. The reason for this is the increased risk associated with operating alone. Even if you are very experienced in team-level operations, it may still take time for you to master the specific skills and movements needed for single-person operations. Team-level CQB is generally divided into “immediate entry” and “delayed entry” tactics. Immediate entry methods call for offensive, aggressive movement and were developed by elite military special operations forces for hostage rescue situations. Delayed entry tactics are more common in the law enforcement community and are designed to minimize your exposure and maximize the benefits of cover and concealment. For single-person operations, delayed entry is generally a safer option than immediate entry. If you have a team behind you, it is possible to aggressively rush through a door to dominate a room. However, if you are operating alone with no support, it is dangerous to rush into a fight when the odds might not be in your favor. By employing delayed entry tactics you clear as much of a room or hallway as possible from the outside, before you actually make entry. The tactics in this book are primarily delayed entry tactics. Team-level CQB can also be divided into “deliberate” tactics and “emergency” tactics. The difference has less to do with speed and more to do with the level of care and attention applied to the clearing process. It is possible to execute deliberate tactics very quickly, as long as you are careful to clear each room and danger area completely. Essentially, when conducting a deliberate clear, you will not take any shortcuts.

Josie's favorite spot on the farm was the big red hip roof barn. Eighty years old, it greeted Josie each morning with its broad red face. Its nose the hayloft door, its eyes the widely spaced upper windows, and its mouth the entry large enough to drive a truck through. The barn smelled of sun-warmed sweet hay and tractor oil. It smelled of dust motes and goats. Josie filled the wooden feed bunks that ran down the center of the barn with feed. Josie filled a small bucket with pellets while Becky ran from corner to corner, searching for the mama cat and her kittens. They were squirreled away somewhere, nowhere to be found. Josie and Becky walked back outside to where the barn opened up into a fenced area where the thirty-odd goats spent the day. When they heard the bucket bumping against her leg, the goats came running on their spindly legs. Josie and Becky reached into the bucket for the pellets and slid their hands through the fence, their palms laid flat. Becky laughed at their black caterpillar-shaped eyes and humanlike bellows.

Shift from exit interviews to entry interviews. Instead of waiting to ask for ideas until employees are on their way out the door, start seeking their insights when they first arrive.

Mark Gasson, from the School of Systems Engineering at the University of Reading in the United Kingdom, intentionally contaminated an implanted microchip in his hand that allows him biometric entry through security doors and that also communicates with his cell phone and other external devices. In the experiment, Dr. Gasson (who agrees that the next step in human evolution is the transhuman vision of altered human biology integrated with machines) was able to show how the computer virus he infected

Mor shook her head, still not looking anywhere but at Rhys. 'If Amarantha were alive...' The word slithered through the room, darkening the corners. 'If she were alive and I offered to work with her- even if it was to save us all- how would you feel?' Never- they had never come this close to discussing what had happened to him. I approached Rhys's side, brushing my fingers against his. His own curled around mine. 'If Amarantha offered us a slim shot at survival,' Rhys said, his gaze unflinching, 'then I would not give a shit that she made me fuck her for all those years.' Cassian flinched. The entire room flinched. 'If Amarantha showed up at that door right now,' Rhys snarled, pointing toward the foyer entry, 'and said she could buy us a chance at defeating Hybern, at keeping all f you alive, I would thank the fucking Cauldron.' Mor shok her head, tears slipping free again. 'You don't mean that.' 'I do.' Rhys. But the bond, the bridge between us... it was a howling void. A raging, dark tempest. Too far- this was pushing them both too far. I tried to catch Cassian's gaze, but he was monitoring them closely, his golden-brown skin unnaturally pale. Azriel's shadows gathered close, half veiling him from view. And Amren- Amren stepped between Rhys and Mor. They both towered over her. 'I kept this unit from breaking for forty-nine years,' Amren said, eyes flaring bright as lightning. 'I am not going to let you rip it to shreds now.' She faced Mor. 'Working with Keir and Eris is not forgiving them. and when this war is over, I will hunt them down and butcher them with you, if that is what you wish.

Viv saw it with the big stable doors thrown wide, perhaps a few tables there in the entry to catch the breeze and the sun.

Then, without warning, the tunnel ended. The cumbrous door blocking their way was a thick wall of riveted iron. Even by the last flickers of his torch, Langdon could see that the portal was perfectly smooth—no handles, no knobs, no keyholes, no hinges. No entry. He felt a surge of panic. In architect-speak, this rare kind of door was called a senza chiave—a one-way portal, used for security, and only operable from one side—the other side.

Chloe knew a bit about fear. Fear stemmed from hurt, and he’d hurt her before. Fear was not easy to banish; telling herself she should not feel it was an exercise in futility. It knocked at her door because it knew it could have easy entry. She’d never been able to bar it fully from her life, only to cordon it off with lists and plans.

Well, here we go. The White House itself!” She pulled open the doors with a triumphant “Bum da da bum!” I entered the most famous home in America for the very first time. It was a complete letdown. I had expected a grand entry foyer, with marble pillars and fancy carpets and portraits of famous Americans. Instead, we were in what appeared to be a regular office building, and an outdated one at that.

The idea is to try to become as precise as possible; the clearer you are on what is and isn’t working for you, the better you can set your wayfinding direction. For instance…What you initially logged as “Staff Mtg—Enjoyed it for once today!” might, after you’ve looked at it again, be more accurately restated as “Staff Mtg—Felt great when I rephrased what Jon said and everyone went ‘Ooooh—exactly!’ ” This more precise version tells a much more useful story about what specific activity or behavior engages you. And it opens the door to developing even greater self-awareness. When your entries have that kind of detail in them, your reflections can be more insightful. When journaling your reflection on the log entry about that staff meeting, you might ask yourself, “Was I more engaged by artfully rephrasing Jon’s comment (getting the articulation dialed in just right) or by facilitating consensus among the staff (being the guy who made the group’s ‘Now we get it!’ unifying moment happen)?” If you conclude that artful articulation was the real sweet spot of that staff meeting moment for you, that important insight can help you be on the lookout for content-creation opportunities over group facilitation opportunities. Take this sort of observation and reflection as far as you find helpful (and no further—you don’t want to get stuck in your journal).

NEVER install carpet at the front door. Always put some kind of entry foyer–like tile or vinyl planks for folks to stomp and wipe their feet on when entering your rental house.

If you could sit on the exam table, that would be great. And you can be anywhere you’d like, sir.” The Shadow chose the seat right across from the entry, staring at the door as if he were daring somebody, anybody to come through it. With another smile, Beth had to wonder what the nurse would think if she knew he was prepared to jump anyone he didn’t like the looks of. And kill them. Maybe cut them up and put them into a stew. God, she hoped it really had been chicken in that soup. . . .

I jogged down the corridor, but when I got to the other end, no one was there. I opened a door and found myself back in the main entry hall. I had gone full circle. I didn’t see Dr Thorn anywhere, but there on the opposite side of the room were the di

Hire not on cultural fit, but on cultural contribution. When leaders prize cultural fit, they end up hiring people who think in similar ways. Originality comes not from people who match the culture, but from those who enrich it. Before interviews, identify the diverse backgrounds, skill sets, and personality traits that are currently missing from your culture. Then place a premium on those attributes in the hiring process. 7. Shift from exit interviews to entry interviews. Instead of waiting to ask for ideas until employees are on their way out the door, start seeking their insights when they first arrive. By sitting down with new hires during onboarding,

Right after my own breakfast today—a not ignoble soft scramble—in the course of looking up something in Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient, I came across the titular patient’s notebook entries about winds: There is a whirlwind in southern Morocco, the aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. There is the africo, which has at times reached into the city of Rome. The alm, a fall wind out of Yugoslavia. The arifi, also christened aref or rifi, which scorches with numerous tongues. These are permanent winds that live in the present tense. There are other, less constant winds that change direction, that can knock down horse and rider and realign themselves anticlockwise. The bist roz leaps into Afghanistan for 170 days—burying villages. Literature is not a packed nightclub operating a one-in, one-out door policy but I am conscious that a VIP like this (with the P standing for ‘passage’), while scoring well on a Beaufort scale of quality, no longer commands the easy admission to my affections that it once did. It’s been bounced to the margins of my tonal receptiveness by Eve Babitz, who knows the winds of Southern California ‘the way Eskimos know their

Outside, the heavy snow came. At first the snow was white and it made the crumbling neighborhood we lived in nice and clean. Even the dying, diseased trees looked dressed up in the white spread across their peeling limbs. The line of lilac bushes between our house and the abandoned house next door became a magical entry into another world. We made tunnels in the snow. It was great for the first month or so

+1-(866)-228-4467--Termite Control Agency in La Palma, California (CA): Your First Line of Defense Against Termite Damage Termites are one of the most destructive pests facing homeowners and property managers across California, and the city of La Palma is no exception. These wood-eating insects can silently cause thousands of dollars in structural damage before they are even noticed. That’s why partnering with a reliable termite control agency in La Palma, California (CA) is critical for protecting your property and peace of mind. The Importance of Termite Control in La Palma La Palma's warm, dry climate provides the perfect breeding ground for termites, particularly subterranean termites and drywood termites. These pests feed on wood, compromising the structural integrity of homes, businesses, and other buildings. Because termites often remain hidden until serious damage has occurred, proactive inspections and timely treatments are essential. Signs You Need a Termite Control Agency While termites can go undetected for a long time, there are warning signs that indicate a potential infestation: Hollow or damaged wood that sounds papery when tapped Discarded wings near windows or entry points Mud tubes along walls or foundations (typical of subterranean termites) Tiny holes in wood or visible frass (termite droppings) Sagging floors or doors that no longer close properly If you notice any of these signs in your La Palma home or building, it's time to call a professional termite control agency. What a Termite Control Agency Offers Hiring a licensed termite control agency in La Palma offers several key advantages: Expert Inspections: Professional technicians can detect hidden termite activity using specialized tools and experience, even in hard-to-reach areas. Targeted Treatment Plans: Depending on the type and severity of the infestation, agencies may use spot treatments, fumigation, or bait systems to eliminate termites effectively. Preventative Services: Many agencies offer long-term protection plans, including barrier treatments and regular inspections, to ensure termites don’t return. Safe, Certified Solutions: Reputable companies use environmentally responsible, family-safe products that meet California’s pest control regulations. Choosing the Right Agency in La Palma When selecting a termite control agency in La Palma, CA, keep these tips in mind: Ensure the company is licensed and insured in California. Look for local experience and positive customer reviews. Ask if they offer a free inspection and written estimate. Choose an agency that provides warranties or service guarantees for added peace of mind. Conclusion Termite infestations can cause extensive and costly damage, but with the help of a trusted termite control agency in La Palma, California, you can protect your property before the damage becomes severe. Don’t wait until it’s too late—schedule an inspection today and let the professionals handle the problem with proven, effective solutions.

Part of what makes credit cards work is that they simplify transactions for both buyers and sellers. Concentrating on just a few cards further simplifies matters on both sides of the market. Thus ever since the big shakeout, no new credit cards have joined the ranks of the majors; the barrier to market entry has proved to be too great. That said, in recent years the Internet revolution has opened the door to competition from wholly new directions—including new kinds of payment services, such as PayPal; an international network of automatic teller machines to challenge old standbys such as traveler’s checks; and maybe even new types of “virtual money” such as Bitcoin. As I write this in 2014, Apple has announced a new payment system on the latest iPhones, and we can reasonably expect that it and/or other new payment systems that make use of mobile devices will become commonplace.

You scared the crap out of me,” I shove his bare chest with a growl. “Was that you at the front door?” “Ya think?” He fires back with a raise of his eyebrows, taking hold of my arm again, as he practically drags me back toward the front entry. “Did it occur to you to say something?” I shoot back with a scowl. “I thought you were some kind of psychopath.” My frown deepens, as I consider whether he might in fact be a psychopath.

I heard a noise from my bedroom and jumped, almost knocking over the goblet intended for Narian, and spilling some of the sleep-inducing drug London had given me. I brushed it over the mantel’s edge and into the barren fireplace where it would not be seen, reminding myself to behave normally. “Are you all right?” Narian had entered the parlor and was scrutinizing me from across the room. “Of course,” I said, forcing a cheerful tone. His eyes darted around the room’s perimeter. “You just…look pale.” “There’s hardly any light. So how can you tell--am I glowing?” He smiled, relaxing a little. “Sit down and have some wine with me,” I invited, moving to the sofa. He joined me, and I offered him the tainted drink, which he accepted with a puzzled expression. “You’re shaking, Alera.” “I’m cold.” “It’s quite warm.” “But the evening temperatures drop quickly now that summer’s sultriness has passed. The wine helps.” I took a sip from my goblet, deliberately stilling my hand. “So would a quilt,” he pointed out. “You detest wine.” I laughed uncomfortably, trying not to recoil at the flavor of the drink. Narian was taking his time. Did he suspect there was something wrong? He knew there was something wrong with me, yes, but perhaps the wine smelled off and it had alerted him. London had given me an abundance of the herb, whatever it was, and I had used it all. Narian let go of his reservations and lifted the goblet to his lips, and nausea hit me full force. London believed Narian to be nothing more than a dangerous weapon, one that would fight against us, and he was right that I was the only one around whom Narian would lower his guard. Would London, thinking of the greater good, be willing to use me to poison and kill his enemy? “Stop!” I cried, reaching out to grab the goblet and spilling wine all over the rug. Narian leaped to his feet, tensed for a fight, and I burst into tears. “Alera, what is it?” he asked, not sympathetic, but demanding and urgent. I was gasping, unable to catch my breath and feeling like I might vomit. “It’s London. He asked me to drug you. He said I had to do it, for Hytanica.” “Where is he?” “I don’t know. He left. He said their plan was to kill the sentries on the wall and close the city. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I wasn’t sure to whom I was apologizing, or even for what exactly, but the guilt was close to unbearable. I put my hands over my face, my heart splintering at the thought of every one of the night’s possible outcomes. Narian ran to the door, and I summoned the strength to follow him. We flew down the Grand Staircase, where he snapped orders to the Cokyrian guards at the doors. “Rouse Rava and alert the soldiers on duty to monitor the city walls. There is a rebel party waiting to strike and I want them caught, now. Bring them here alive.” The guards left to carry out his instructions, and Narian turned to me. “Alera, I will do everything I can to protect the people you care about, you know that. But I will not be focused unless I know you are safe. Please, stay here.” I nodded, despite my desire to do anything except stay put, and he kissed me deeply right in the middle of the Grand Entry Hall, without a care for secrecy. “Be safe,” I murmured, watching him go.

The morning following Shaselle’s arrest and release, I descended the Grand Staircase to the entry hall below and was drawn toward the antechamber by raised voices. I entered to find one of my worst nightmares unfolding--Steldor and Narian were in heated argument, both seeming to have discounted where they were and who might overhear. They stood opposite one another across the room from me, Steldor likely having come from Cannan’s office, while Narian had probably been passing through on his way to the Hearing Hall. I stared transfixed, not knowing what they were arguing about, but certain they would not appreciate my interference. “What business have you in the Bastion?” my betrothed demanded. “Business that is not yours, Cokyrian,” Steldor spat. Narian glowered at the former King. “Much as you might detest the thought, Steldor, I am no longer your enemy.” “These scars on my back argue differently.” “I was merciful in leaving you alive. You asked for execution and I ordered a lashing. If not for your ridiculous pride, you’d acknowledge that.” Steldor laughed mirthlessly. “I owe you nothing after all you’ve taken from me.” “Alera is not a possession,” Narian astutely shot back. “Alera hadn’t entered my mind.” The curl in Steldor’s lip revealed the lie, and the hostility he exuded would have made most men run in the other direction. But Narian wasn’t most men. “And yet I see you around this Bastion, her home, more than any soldier or son need be. You yearn for any chance glimpse of her.” “I come to the palace on business, you mongrel pup.” “Then pray tell, what business is that?” I stood miserably by, for it was apparent neither of them was aware of my presence. Still, the argument had come full circle, and I prayed it would soon be over. “I don’t have to tell you anything,” Steldor seethed. “You are not my superior.” His dark eyes glinted malevolently, a look he had once or twice directed at me during our unfortunate marriage. “True enough. But you are nonetheless one of my subjects.” Steldor’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, telling me how close he was to unleashing his hellish temper. Before I could intervene, he threw a right cross at Narian’s chin, which the commander adroitly dodged, stepping back and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I suggest you walk away, Steldor,” he said, unnervingly calm. “I did so once,” my former husband retorted. “I don’t intend to do so again.” Narian perused his opponent, judging his strengths and weaknesses, then struck Steldor in the middle of his chest with the heel of his palm, sending him staggering backward. In a flash, a dagger appeared in Steldor’s hand, and panic seized me. Would they spill each other’s blood right here, right now? “Stop!” I cried. “Both of you!” They straightened warily at the sound of my voice, and I hurried to stand between them, so distraught my hands were shaking. “I don’t know what this is about,” I beseeched, hoping Cannan would hear and lend assistance. “But please, for my sake, leave things be.” They glared at each other over the top of my head, then Steldor moved away, his eyes on Narian until he could place a hand on the door leading into the Grand Entry. “Queen Alera,” he pointedly acknowledged me. “I humbly honor your request.” With a disdainful smirk for Narian, he tossed the knife onto the floor, then exited, pulling the door firmly closed behind him. Narian crossed to snatch up the weapon, examining it carefully before showing it to me. “Do you plan to tell me that you recognize this blade?” he asked, and I stared at him, dumbfounded. With a stiff nod, he strode through the same door Steldor had used, leaving me alone.

The lord of the house is not at home, Your Majesty,” she informed me. “Is there anything I can do for you?” “I actually came to see Lord Steldor, if you would escort me to his room.” Now she seemed intrigued, for the reasons behind the annulment of my marriage to the former King had been kept quiet. I could read on her face her desire to eavesdrop. “Certainly, although I don’t know if His Majesty has risen.” “He has,” I said without thought. Not once during our marriage had I woken before him, and I doubted his sleep patterns had changed. With a puzzled glance, she led me up the stairs and into a hallway, stopping before the second door. She knocked on my behalf, and gave another small curtsey when Steldor’s voice invited entry. I opened the door, waiting for her to return to the first floor before entering, catching her regretful glance that she could not dally. Steldor was sitting up on the bed across the room, his legs swung over the side, pulling a shirt carefully over his head. “Should you be doing that so soon?” I asked, for it had only been a week since the lashing. The garment fell over his muscular chest, and he ran a hand through his dark hair. He came to his feet with the hint of a wince. “Making sure I’m cared for is no longer your worry. I’m not certain it ever was.” His mood was a bit dark, and I wondered if I should have given him more time to recover before paying him this visit. “Perhaps what you need is someone to keep you from coming to harm in the first place.” He smirked, turning his back to me to idly straighten his bed coverings. “What is it--did you come here to coddle me or lecture me?” “Both, I suppose.” I was frowning, amazed at how swiftly we had fallen into our old patterns. “I’ve come to talk--and to give you this.” He swiveled to face me as I removed his silver wolf’s head talisman from the pocket of my cloak. “I never expected to see that again,” he said, sounding awed. “Did you face the bitch yourself or get it from Narian?” I smiled at his word choice. “I approached Rava myself--I’ve been known to face down a bitch or two.” He stepped forward to take the pendant from my hand and immediately slipped the chain over his head. “Thank you. I feel better already.” “If you don’t mind my asking, what is the significance of the talisman? When I reclaimed it from Rava, she remarked that it might provide power and protection, and that started me thinking about its purpose.” He chuckled ruefully. “I hate to admit it, but Rava’s right. The wolf brings strength and protection. Depending on the mix of herbs and flowers put inside the talisman, other properties can be added, such as health and healing. The captain gave the pendant to me when I was four, following the death of Terek, at the time I was sent to live with Baelic and Lania. He didn’t want me to think he’d abandoned me or that I was in danger. It was originally his, and his father’s before him. I’ve worn it ever since.” “Then I’m very glad I was able to secure its return.” His eyes met mine, and the color rose in my cheeks, for I was still affected to some degree by his handsome features and soldier’s build. “I suppose that concludes the coddling,” he finally said, crossing his arms and watching me expectantly. “Yes, I suppose it does.

Just as he had before, Steldor glanced at me over and over again on our journey home, until I finally addressed his conduct. “Really, Steldor, I know I’m in a fine dress, but I can’t possibly look that different.” Since I had opened the conversation, he said what was on his mind. “Are you all right? You didn’t seem…yourself…when we left Lord Landru’s, although I never heard you scream.” For once, I didn’t feel like I was lying when I said, “I’m all right, I truly am. In fact, I’m better than I’ve been in a long time.” “Well, judging from your conversation, you and Grayden are made for each other.” I gave him a shove on the shoulder, and he laughed. “I don’t suppose you noticed all the horses? I hear Grayden is very good with them. Although he might lack Baelic’s way with people, I think he may have your father’s way with horses.” “I did notice,” I said with a smile, thinking it had turned into quite a beautiful day. When we arrived at my house, Steldor escorted me to the front entry and came inside to bid a cheery “Good day” to my family. With a wink for me, he departed, closing the door to leave me in my mother’s care. “How was lunch?” she asked, watching me bound up the stairs. “The soup was excellent,” I called over my shoulder, knowing she wasn’t inquiring about the food, but not yet ready to talk about Grayden.

Type 2 diabetes, previously known as adult-onset diabetes, accounts for 90–95 percent of diabetes cases.8 In type 2 diabetes, the pancreas can make insulin, but it doesn’t work as well. The accumulation of fat inside the cells of your muscles and liver interferes with the action of insulin.9 If insulin is the key that unlocks the doors to your cells, saturated fat is what appears to gum up the locks. With glucose denied entry into your muscles, the primary consumer of such fuel, sugar levels can rise to damaging levels in your blood. The fat inside these muscle cells can come from the fat you eat or the fat you wear (i.e., your body fat). The prevention, treatment, and reversal of type 2 diabetes therefore depends on diet and lifestyle.

The upside potential was so high—you could get a good payday with just one thirty-two-bar hit song—and the barrier to entry so low. Anyone could offer his wares—that is, anyone who could handle the indignity of knocking on door after door and being summarily rejected time and again.

The questions that tormented him, the late hour, Eugenie’s constant visits, and the palpable tension in the apartment prevented him from really concentrating on the list. His head was full of shadows. Sharko sighed. He finished his mint tea, staring into space. The military, medicine, filmmaking, this business about Syndrome E…The cop knew he was involved in a case that went far beyond the standard manhunt. Something monstrous, the likes of which he’d never seen. And yet he’d confronted his share of monstrosities, more than he could count on both hands. In the dead of night, his keen senses suddenly focused on the entry door.

In the dead of night, his keen senses suddenly focused on the entry door. An infinitesimal sound of metal pierced the silence in the hallway. Immediately, Sharko turned off the light and grabbed up his Sig. Here they were. Beneath his door, he saw, very briefly, the beam of a flashlight, before everything went black again. His jaw set, he slowly got up from his chair and crept toward the living room. On the other side, the linoleum floor creaked slightly. Sharko felt the edge of his sofa and crouched down, his gun aimed blindly in front of him. He could have attacked from the front, by surprise, but he didn’t know how many there were. One thing was for sure: they rarely went out alone.

We can instantly map the usage of the word 'raven' across the United States, in works of narrative poetry, written by men in their thirties. but only up to 1923. When it comes to the last century, save if new law affords entry, then the lawyer - dark-robed sentry - who is ever at our door, will yet whisper, "Nevermore!

He took the form of mist. In the heavy fog it was unnoticeable, and he could easily seep beneath her unsecured window. He watched her as she sank onto the bed. Her face was pale, her eyes haunted. She swept her mane of hair back, touching his mark as if it ached. It took her a few minutes to kick off her shoes, as if the task was too great. Mikhail waited until she had flung herself facedown, fully clothed on the bed. You will sleep. He gave the order forcefully, expected her compliance as he slipped inside the room. Mikhail. His name echoed in his head, soft, drowsy, with a hint of amusement. Somehow I knew you would just have to have your way. She didn’t fight it, but went under willingly, a smile curving her soft mouth. Mikhail undressed her and slid her slender body beneath the covers. He safeguarded the door, a powerful spell guaranteed to keep even the strongest of his own people out, let alone pathetic mortal assassins. He secured the windows and provided the same guards at every possible entry point. Very gently he brushed his lips across her forehead, and then reached down to touch his brand on her neck before leaving her.

Stroll around Liberty Square taking note of the doors, which all have a two-digit number on them. They are designed to look like a street address, but if you put “18” in front of the number, you have the year that style of house would have been popular. The date over the entry door to the Hall of Presidents is the year the United States Constitution was ratified.

After I had been at my university for a year, the foreign lecturers were suddenly kicked out over our spring holiday. We returned to classes to find only the local teachers were left. We were never told the reason the lecturers went, but I could no longer study there because all my language teachers had gone. But when God shuts a window, He opens a door! My dream now was to go to the College for International Relations. The College for International Relations was the top university in our country, and I thought it was completely out of my reach. I still had the financial backing of the Bible teacher, but I had yet to pass the entry exam. I made an appointment to see the president of the university and boldly told him I wanted to study international relations. I asked if it would be possible to take the exam. I had ambitions to work as a diplomat, a peacemaker.

What this means is that if you are angry and sin because of it, or let a new day begin while still angry, then in this you are also choosing to give space, a room, to the devil, or his demons. People may not realize it when they do this, but these actions are all parts of one whole. And in this people give a room to the devil, and a room could be in a person’s house, and it could be a demon that works for Satan who goes into that room, and stays there. This is a description of how demonization can begin. And this describes that in being angry and sinning, staying angry, a person actually in this is choosing to open up the door of their house, forsake their guard and armor, and give a demon room for entry. And once a demon gets inside, overpowering the person who has let their guard down, then that demon will try to take away all their armor, take their possessions, and will come to consider the house to be their own, as Jesus described.

To set the scene: Madzy Brender à Brandis was a young mother with two small children, trying to survive through years of hardship and danger – and some unexpected pleasures. In May 1942, after her husband was suddenly taken prisoner and sent to a German camp, she began writing a diary to record the details of her life – for her husband to read when he returned, if he returned. She called it “this faithful book.” Here are some passages: 28 October 1944 [when the electricity was cut off because of lack of fuel for the generating plants]: “We have to use the daylight to its utmost, and we figure this out already in the morning. [At the end of the afternoon] We flew faster and faster to use the last bits of daylight, lay the table, lay everything ready so that at 5:30 we could eat in the dusk until we couldn’t find our mouths any more. Blackout and one candle, finished eating and washed the dishes. Read to children in pyjamas and then they to bed. Then unraveled a knitted baby blanket [so that the yarn could be used to knit other things] and at 9:00 blew out the candle and continued by moonlight. But now I’m going to bed, tired but satisfied with my efforts, though very sad about all the misery.” 1 November 1944 [after a threat of having the house demolished]: “Well, our house is still standing. I filled a laundry bag with many things, and everything is standing ready [in case there was a need to evacuate]. Because there is much flying again. At one moment an Allied fighter plane flew over very low; just then three German soldiers were walking past our house and one, “as a joke,” shot his gun at the plane. Tje! What a scare we had!” 24 December 1944 [addressing her husband, still in the camp]: “The whole house is in wonderful peace and I’m sitting by the fire, which gives me just enough light to write this. [The upper door of the small heater, when opened, gave a bit of light.] My Dicks, I don’t have to tell you how very much I miss you on this evening. It is a gnawing sense of longing. But beyond that there is a sorrow in me, a despair about everything, that pervades my whole being. Besides that, however, I’ve already for days seen the light of Christ coming closer and in these days that gives me hope. So does the waxing moon, the hard frost, the bright sun – in a word, all the light in nature after that endless series of misty, rainy, dark days. And so I sit close to my unsteady little light, that constantly abandons me, and think of you. It’s as though you are very close to me. I’m so grateful for everything that I have: your love, the two children, and everything around me.” 12 February 1945 [during the “Hunger Winter” of 1944-45, after one of her trips to forage for food]: “Today I went to Rika in Renswoude: 1¼ hours cycling there, 2½ hours walking back pushing a broken-down bicycle and with 25 pounds of rye [the whole grain, not flour] through streaming rain, while there was constant booming of artillery and bombing in the distance.

Tria questioned the morality of even that type of illicit entry. But her need and the enthusiasm of Rehanne and Lina persuaded her to agree to the attempt, despite her strong mistrust of spells. The room door was locked, the

Prior to my first voyage at sea, my father advised me to always get to know the cooks. Sometimes I’d step in and wash pots and pans or help lift a heavy case of something. It worked on my first voyage and still did now. Many times I’d help carry boxes of food and store their contents in the pantry. So after dropping a few hints, the cooks did me a favor and put out a box containing milk, butter, cocoa, sugar and flour. This acquisition was for the rich chocolate brownies that Ann would make for me to bring back to the ship. They must have been the most delicious brownies since everyone, including the cooks, expected me to bring them some. When I got to the galley, I could see the box they had prepared for me sitting on a counter, but I was looking through a heavy wire mesh securing the area, and the only access door had one of the big brass government locks on it. For a fleeting moment, I thought that I would not be able to get the precious ingredients that were so near and yet inaccessible, but it didn’t take long for me to figure out that I could climb over the top where a section of the mesh was missing. It took some gymnastics, but I was young and agile enough to get in and out with the box, without leaving any evidence of the entry. When I think of some of the chances I took for the most ridiculous reasons, I’m surprised that I ever made it to graduation, but everyone counted on me to deliver the brownies and I wasn’t about to let them down. I later found out that the cooks purposely left the galley unlocked for me, but then someone on the security watch took it upon themselves to lock it. Who knows?

Visual reminders of creation and Eden could be found throughout this meeting point between heaven, earth and the world below. Carvings on the entry pillars, doors and walls depicted palm trees, sacred floral designs and cherubim (1Ki 6:29). These were all motifs from the garden, whose story had always factored into the theology of Israel.

8 1 Doth not wisdom cry? and understanding put forth her voice? 2 She standeth in the top of high places, by the way in the places of the paths. 3 She crieth at the gates, at the entry of the city, at the coming in at the doors. 4 Unto you, O men, I call; and my voice is to the sons of man. 5 O ye simple, understand wisdom: and, ye fools, be ye of an understanding heart. 6 Hear; for I will speak of excellent things; and the opening of my lips shall be right things. 7 For my mouth shall speak truth; and wickedness is an abomination to my lips. 8 All the words of my mouth are in righteousness; there is nothing froward or perverse in them. 9 They are all plain to him that understandeth, and right to them that find knowledge. 10 Receive my instruction, and not silver; and knowledge rather than choice gold. 11 For wisdom is better than rubies; and all the things that may be desired are not to be compared to it. 12 I wisdom dwell with prudence, and find out knowledge of witty inventions. 13 The fear of the Lord is to hate evil: pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth, do I hate. 14 Counsel is mine, and sound wisdom: I am understanding; I have strength. 15 By me kings reign, and princes decree justice. 16 By me princes rule, and nobles, even all the judges of the earth. 17 I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me. 18 Riches and honour are with me; yea, durable riches and righteousness. 19 My fruit is better than gold, yea, than fine gold; and my revenue than choice silver. 20 I lead in the way of righteousness, in the midst of the paths of judgment: 21 That I may cause those that love me to inherit substance; and I will fill their treasures. 22 The Lord possessed me in the beginning of his way, before his works of old. 23 I was set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth was. 24 When there were no depths, I was brought forth; when there were no fountains abounding with water. 25 Before the mountains were settled, before the hills was I brought forth: 26 While as yet he had not made the earth, nor the fields, nor the highest part of the dust of the world. 27 When he prepared the heavens, I was there: when he set a compass upon the face of the depth: 28 When he established the clouds above: when he strengthened the fountains of the deep: 29 When he gave to the sea his decree, that the waters should not pass his commandment: when he appointed the foundations of the earth: 30 Then I was by him, as one brought up with him: and I was daily his delight, rejoicing always before him; 31 Rejoicing in the habitable part of his earth; and my delights were with the sons of men. 32 Now therefore hearken unto me, O ye children: for blessed are they that keep my ways. 33 Hear instruction, and be wise, and refuse it not. 34 Blessed is the man that heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors. 35 For whoso findeth me findeth life, and shall obtain favour of the Lord. 36 But he that sinneth against me wrongeth his own soul: all they that hate me love death.

tip. I always try to catch a moment when I just stand back and quietly watch my family and friends enjoying themselves and each other. Let that moment wash over you so you can store it up for the times when life gets stressful. Those moments are like precious treasures we can pause to look at again and again. You might even keep a hospitality journal—a book to record the memories of your time together. Or, like we have, a guest book by the front door for our friends to sign so we remember our time together. Entries can be short and sweet, just enough to jog your memory: ice cream sandwiches on the patio with family and friends, game night with the grandparents, pizza party with the neighbors. You might write down what was on the menu, who attended, any details that you cherished—twinkly lights on the porch, the smell of homemade brownies baking, or jokes you laughed at, stories you shared. There

You said the god spoke to you. What did He say?" "That I was sent here, in answer to prayers, Illvin's among others, probably. The Bastard dared me, by my own son's god-neglected death, not to turn aside." She frowned fiercely in memory, and dy Cabon edged a little back from her. "I asked Him what the gods, having taken Teidez, could give me that I would trade spit for. He answered, Work. His blandishments were all decorated about with annoying endear merits that would have bought a human suitor a short trip to the nearest mud puddle by the hands of my servants. His kiss on my brow burned like a brand. His kiss on my mouth"—she hesitated, went on doggedly—"aroused me like a lover, which I most certainly am not." Dy Cabon edged farther back, smiling in anxious placation, and made little agreeing-denying motions, his hands like flippers. "Indeed not, Royina. No one could mistake you for such." She glowered at him, then went on. "Then He disappeared, leaving you holding the sack. So to speak. If this was prophecy, it bodes you ill, Learned." He signed himself. "Right, right. Um. If the first kiss was a spiritual gift, so ought the second to be. Yes, I quite see that." "Yes, but He didn't say what it was. Bastard. One of his little jokes, it seems." Dy Cabon glanced up as if trying to decide if that were prayer or expletive, guessed correctly, and took a breath, marshaling his thoughts. "All right. But He did say. He said, Work. If it sounds like a joke, it was probably quite serious." He added more cautiously, "It seems you are made saint again, will or nil." "Oh, I can still nil." She scowled. "That's what we all are, you know. Hybrids, of both matter and spirit. The gods' agents in the world of matter, to which they have no other entree. Doorways. He knocks on my door, demanding entry. He probes with his tongue like a lover, mimicking above what is desired below. Nothing so simple as a lover, he, yet he desires that I open myself and surrender as if to one. And let me tell you, I despise his choice of metaphors!" Dy Cabon flippered frantically at her again. It made her want to bite him. "You are a very fortress of a woman, it is true!" She stifled a growl, ashamed to have let her rage with his god spill over onto his humble head. "If you don't know the other half of the riddle, why were you put there?" "Royina, I know not!" He hesitated. "Maybe we should all sleep on it." He cringed at her blistering look, and tried again. "I will endeavor to think." "Do.

point out that it was a romantic gesture aimed at him and not the couple of overweight blokes smoking and playing cards whom she had glimpsed inside the Portakabin. Thanks,” he said, taking the sandwich off the plate and biting into it without even looking at it. Crystal spared another thought for the chickens. God only knows what they had gone through in order to keep Tommy Holroyd fed. Best not to think about it. Keep your mouth shut. “Anything else, babe?” she asked. “Nah. Close the door again on the way out, will you?” The entry phone buzzed while she was still in the hallway and Tommy shouted through the door, “Get that, will you?” When Crystal peered at the monitor next to the front door she could see a girl standing in front of the camera. She was so short that only the top half of her head showed. Crystal pressed the button on the microphone and said, “Hello?” The girl held up something, a wallet or a card, Crystal couldn’t make it out. “I’m DC Reggie Chase,” she said. “I’m here with my colleague DC Ronnie Dibicki.” She indicated someone else, out of sight of the camera. “We’d like to have a chat with Mr. Holroyd. Mr. Thomas Holroyd.” Detectives? “It’s a routine inquiry,” the detective said. “Nothing to be alarmed by.” Keep

Lileikis had been unanimously rejected for entry into America because he was “under the control of the Gestapo.” In fact, he had been investigated as a war criminal, his CIA file noted. As the CIA’s own notes made clear, Lileikis and people like him in power in Lithuania during the German occupation “were generally there because of their known Nazi sympathies.

For the second time in a matter of months, federal authorities were chasing an ex-Nazi who had worked for the CIA for years as a Cold War spy. But this one was worse. This time the target was a senior SS official much higher in rank than Soobzokov. If the CIA knew enough about Soobzokov’s true past with the Nazis to torpedo his deportation case, they knew even more about von Bolschwing’s ties to Hitler. Sure enough, his CIA handlers had helped get von Bolschwing into the country in 1954, whitewashing his record to clear his entry. And CIA officials had kept quiet six years later, in 1960, when a panicked von Bolschwing rushed back to them for help after Eichmann’s capture.

Conversations about politics are infrequent. [...] But they happen enough for me to know just how much of an outsider I am there-- how different my world is from theirs, and how my world exists within theirs-- and how this outsider status extends through the door to Paul's office; past the visitor lockers, urinals, and showers in the hallway leading to the gym's main entry; into the just-recemented parking lot; onto both the Fifth Avenue exit wrapped around the school's entrance and the Neville Street exit parked behind the gym; and wherever either of those paths take me. There is nowhere in America I can drive, walk, shit, write, scream, sleep, fuck, eat, sweat, lie, spit, die, conjure, see, touch, sit, dream, drink, run, jump, dunk, dribble, shoot, pass, steal, guard, catch, screen, block, lob, assist or win without a similar sense of estrangement.

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Actually’, said Tommy, who'd made a surprise appearance in the hallway outside Storm and Beck's cabin door, ‘as you know better than any-body, Storm, because you totally memorized the whole nautical-terminology entry on Wikipedia, ballast is something placed on a vessel to, um... what was it again?’ Storm couldn't help but fill in the blank for Tommy: ‘Provide desired stability.’ ‘Yeah, that's what I was gonna say. Ballast on, like, a balloon, can, um..’ Storm smiled a little. ‘Control the center of gravity.’ ‘Exactly,’ said Tommy. ‘You're our rock, Storm. In a good way. Not like, you know, gravel. Or a rock in your shoe.

She was clad in a tea-colored dress and white apron, and on her head was an enormous buttercup worn like a kerchief, two of the petals pinned together beneath her hair. Her face was very red, very shiny and very plump. She looked, I thought, a little like a lost doll, though not one mortal children would enjoy playing with; her eyes were the usual all black, and she appeared to be a type of faun, with large and intimidatingly sharp black horns that curved backwards out of her head, and legs that ended in hairy hooves. "A butter faerie," Niamh said. "The queen had several in her service--- this one, I am told, had the queen's particular affections due to the quality of her product." "Fascinating," I said, wishing I had time to make a sketch. My encyclopaedia's entry on butter faeries had been sorely lacking in detail. "I have never encountered one before." "They're quite rare," Niamh said. "A good thing, I've always thought. They are peevish, half-mad little things, particularly if you remove them from their creameries." "I did not know they were found in Ireland," I said. "Most of the tales of butter faeries are from Somerset, are they not?" "Ah!" Niamh said, her face alight with scholarly enthusiasm. "Indeed they are. But once upon a time, as you know, Where the Trees Have Eyes had several doors leading to British faerie realms. One of these, I'm told, led to a pretty corner of Somerset. I theorize that the creatures used to go to and fro before the door collapsed, trapping several of them in this realm.

The emancipation of labor and the concomitant emancipation of the laboring classes from oppression and exploitation certainly meant progress in the direction of non-violence. It is much less certain that it was also progress in the direction of freedom. No manexerted violence, except the violence used in torture, can match the natural force with which necessity itself compels ... The elevation of labor and the necessity inherent in the laboring metabolism with nature appear to be intimately connected with the downgrading of all activities which either spring directly from violence, as the use of force in human relations, or harbor an element of violence within themselves, which, as we shall see is the case for all workmanship. It is as though the growing elimination of violence throughout the modern age almost automatically opened the doors for the re-entry of necessity on its most elementary level.

It wasn't lost on him, the poetry, the symmetry of this last bite. Everything had begun with a taste of liver. Now it would end with one. Kostya reached inside himself, to the place in his gut that felt inevitable, an entry point, its emptiness like a door. He reached for his dad. For Frankie. For the other side. He could almost feel the hands of the Dead reaching out for him in turn. He placed the pufferfish liver onto his tongue. Wet, cold, slippery with blood. Toxic, exotic, a once-in-a-lifetime taste. He chewed hard, fast, before he lost his nerve. Fatty, mineral, metallic, cream. Bitter, in the back of his throat. Tears streamed down his face. Liquid fear. Like salt, he told Maura, instead of goodbye, and swallowed.

Remember the Tin Man" "There are locks on the doors And chains stretched across all the entries to the inside There's a gate and a fence And bars to protect from only God knows what lurks outside Who stole your heart, left you with a space? That no one and nothing can fill Who stole your heart, who took it away? Knowing that without it you can't live Who took away the part so essential to the whole? Left you a hollow body Skin and bone What robber, what thief Who stole your heart, and the key? Who stole your heart? The smile from your face? The innocence the light from your eyes? Who stole your heart, or did you give it away? And if so then when and why? Who took away the part, so essential to the whole? Left you a hollow body Skin and bone What robber, what thief Who stole your heart, and the key? Now all sentiment is gone Now you have no trust in no one Who stole your heart? Did you know but forget, the method and moment in time? Was it a trickster using mirrors and sleight of hand? A strong elixir or a potion that you drank Who hurt your heart? Bruised it in a place That no one and nothing can heal You've gone to wizards, princes and magic men You've gone to witches, the good, the bad, the indifferent But still all sentiment is gone But still you have no trust in no one If you can tear down the walls Throw your armor away, remove all roadblocks, barricades If you can forget there are bandits, and dragons to slay Don't forget that you defend an empty space And remember the tinman Found he had what he thought he lacked Remember the tinman Go find your heart and take it back Who stole your heart? Maybe no one can say One day you will find it I pray

A door is not just an entry—it’s the first impression of a space and the statement of your style.

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I started to close the door, but a large boot crossed the threshold, stopping me. “Aryella, wait. Please.” His deep, gruff voice stopped me in my tracks. I opened the door, and his sheer size crowded the entry. His handsome features were wrought with concern, the scar over his eye crinkling with his brow. “I need to apologize.” His thick throat bobbed as he forced a swallow and stepped into the room. “I was—am—a fool. A hot-tempered, overprotective fool. You are not a child. You are not a pet. You are not a frail princess to be subdued and coddled. You’re a warrior. A queen. A woman with choices, desires, and thoughts—beautiful, intuitive thoughts. And you are remarkable. You are… breathtaking.” A crack rippled through my heart at his trembling voice. “But it has been a very long time since something—someone—has truly mattered to me, so you will please forgive me if I often lack the control and discernment to treat you exactly as you deserve.