Double Chin Quotes

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until you can hardly bear to look at it. A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts it will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

Gabe scratched his double chin. "Maybe if you hurry with the seven-layer dip...And maybe if the kid apologizes for interrupting my poker game." Maybe if I kick you in your soft spot, I thought. And make you sing Soprano for a week.

Provided that any of those neighbours sing out of tune or have boots that squeak, or double chins, or odd clothes, the patient will quite easily believe that their religion must therefore be somehow ridiculous.

There is no better people-watching than at the airport: the whole world packed into such a tight space, moving fast with all their essentials in their rolling bags. And what caught my attention, as I took a few breaths and lay my eyes on the crowds, were all the imperfections. Everybody had them. Every single person that walked past me had some kind of flaw. Bushy eyebrows, moles, flared nostrils, crooked teeth, crows'-feet, hunched backs, dowagers' humps, double chins, floppy earlobes, nose hairs, potbellies, scars, nicotine stains, upper arm fat, trick knees, saddlebags, collapsed arches, bruises, warts, puffy eyes, pimples. Nobody was perfect. Not even close. And everybody had wrinkles from smiling and squinting and craning their necks. Everybody had marks on their bodies from years of living - a trail of life left on them, evidence of all the adventures and sleepless nights and practical jokes and heartbreaks that had made them who they were. In that moment, I suddenly loved us all the more for our flaws, for being broken and human, for being embarrassed and lonely, for being hopeful or tired or disappointed or sick or brave or angry. For being who we were, for making the world interesting. It was a good reminder that the human condition is imperfection. And that's how it's supposed to be.

Bramble's lips were tight. Her fists still shook. "Take it back," she said. She gazed at the floor, but the words whipped. "We don't want the picture. We don't want your charity. Take it back!" Teddie drew himself up to his full, towering taffy height. "N-dash it-O!" he said. "It's not charity and I won't take it back! It's a gift! A gift, dash it all! Because I liked your mum! And I like your sisters! And you, Bramble! I love you!" The words echoed. Everyone's hands clasped over their mouths, and they stared at Lord Teddie, who panted but kept a tight chin up. Bramble's lips were still pursed. They were white. "Young man," said the King gently. "Your ship leaves soon?" Azalea guessed that, with the fiasco of everything, the King had annulled any arrangements between Bramble and Lord Teddie. Lord Teddie's entire taffylike form slumped. He turned to go, all bounciness dissolved. "Do you mean it?" Lord Teddie turned quickly. Bramble's lips remained tight, but her gaze was up, blazing yellow. "Gad, yes," said Lord Teddie. "I love you so much, my fingers hurt!" "Oh!" Bramble slapped he hand over her mouth and doubled over. "Oh-oh-oh-oh!" She shook. It was hard to tell if she was crying, or coughing, or ill. "Oh!" In a billow of skirts, Bramble leaped. It was a grand jete worthy of the Delchastrian prima ballerina. She landed right on Lord Teddie, who had no choice but to catch her, and threw her arms around his neck. Then, to everyone's shock, she pressed her lips full on his. "Oh...my," said Clover. No one seemed more surprised than Lord Teddie who stumbled back under Bramble's assault.

She merely beamed a fatty beam. She was almost ponderous, and pink, with a tendency to a double chin.

Don't you know that I passionately dote on every chin on his face?

The Frays had never been a religiously observant family, but Clary loved Fifth Avenue at Christmas time. The air smelled like sweet roasted chestnuts, and the window displays sparkled with silver and blue, green and red. This year there were fat round crystal snowflakes attached to each lamppost, sending back the winter sunlight in shafts of gold. Not to mention the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It threw its shadow across them as she and Simon draped themselves over the gate at the side of the skating rink, watching tourists fall down as they tried to navigate the ice. Clary had a hot chocolate wrapped in her hands, the warmth spreading through her body. She felt almost normal—this, coming to Fifth to see the window displays and the tree, had been a winter tradition for her and Simon for as long as she could remember. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” he said, echoing her thoughts as he propped his chin on his folded arms. She chanced a sideways look at him. He was wearing a black topcoat and scarf that emphasized the winter pallor of his skin. His eyes were shadowed, indicating that he hadn’t fed on blood recently. He looked like what he was—a hungry, tired vampire. Well, she thought. Almost like old times. “More people to buy presents for,” she said. “Plus, the always traumatic what-to-buy-someone-for-the-first-Christmas-after-you’ve-started-dating question.” “What to get the Shadowhunter who has everything,” Simon said with a grin. “Jace mostly likes weapons,” Clary sighed. “He likes books, but they have a huge library at the Institute. He likes classical music …” She brightened. Simon was a musician; even though his band was terrible, and was always changing their name—currently they were Lethal Soufflé—he did have training. “What would you give someone who likes to play the piano?” “A piano.” “Simon.” “A really huge metronome that could also double as a weapon?” Clary sighed, exasperated. “Sheet music. Rachmaninoff is tough stuff, but he likes a challenge.” “Now you’re talking. I’m going to see if there’s a music store around here.” Clary, done with her hot chocolate, tossed the cup into a nearby trash can and pulled her phone out. “What about you? What are you giving Isabelle?” “I have absolutely no idea,” Simon said. They had started heading toward the avenue, where a steady stream of pedestrians gawking at the windows clogged the streets. “Oh, come on. Isabelle’s easy.” “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” Simon’s brows drew together. “I think. I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it. The relationship, I mean.” “You really have to DTR, Simon.” “What?” “Define the relationship. What it is, where it’s going. Are you boyfriend and girlfriend, just having fun, ‘it’s complicated,’ or what? When’s she going to tell her parents? Are you allowed to see other people?” Simon blanched. “What? Seriously?” “Seriously. In the meantime—perfume!” Clary grabbed Simon by the back of his coat and hauled him into a cosmetics store that had once been a bank. It was massive on the inside, with rows of gleaming bottles everywhere. “And something unusual,” she said, heading for the fragrance area. “Isabelle isn’t going to want to smell like everyone else. She’s going to want to smell like figs, or vetiver, or—” “Figs? Figs have a smell?” Simon looked horrified; Clary was about to laugh at him when her phone buzzed. It was her mother. where are you? It’s an emergency.

A child, thought Carl, is not the only result of childbirth. A mother, too, is born. You see them every day--nondescript women with a bulge just above the groin, slightly double-chinned. Perpetually forty. Someone's mother, you think. There is a child somewhere who has made this woman into a mother, and for the sake of the child she has altered her appearance to better play the part.

Mr. Johnson's character was not much more exceptional than his double chin.

Mrs. Van Diemen is considering a face-lift. “What’s the plastic surgeon supposed to do with all the extra double chins?” Evert asked straight-faced.

He takes my right hand and places it palm down on his chest. Then he traces around it with the pen, craning his neck to see, giving himself double chins. 'What are you doing?' He shifts my hand away and starts scratching out letters on his skin. 'I worked out a tattoo - if I had one.' I look at what he's done. He's got the outline of my hand over his heart and in it he's written, Her.

What on earth did you want with an early Christian sarcophagus, Elliot?" "To put myself in it, my dear fellow. It was of very good design, and I thought it would balance the font on the other side of the entrance, but those early Christians were stumpy little fellows and I shouldn't have fitted in. I wasn't going to lie there till the Last Trump with my knees doubled up to my chin like a foetus. Most uncomfortable.

Ash has a huge customized Barbie collection. Aside from Horror Movie Barbie (head lopped halfway off, torn and bloody clothes), Commando Barbie (camouflage bandana, pistol-whipping Ken with toy guns stolen from Josh), there is my personal favorite, Fat Barbie (dressed in a muumuu, sporting extra body girth and a double chin, thanks to the discreet placement of Silly Putty), I think Fat Barbie is genius but Nancy flipped out when she saw her. Our mother, whose statuesque blond Minnesouda beauty makes her look like a Barbie, is a size four on her bloated days.

I scroll through iPhone photos and see that if I delete pictures of myself with a double chin, I will erase all proof of my glorious life.

If you want respect, you must take your medicine like a brave aristocrat," he said. "Think of the French nobles who walked to the guillotine, double chins aloft.

The Queen was dreadfully fat and had a double chin and a fat, powdered face—which isn't a very nice thing at the best of times, and of course looks much worse when it is ten times too big.

Jase had seen me, restless, walking, organizing supplies that were already ordered. Everyone else was asleep on their bedrolls. He came up behind me, his hands circling my waist. "I can't sleep either," he said. His lips grazed my neck, and he whispered, "Tell me a riddle, Kazi." We laid out a blanket on a bed of grass, the stars of Hetisha's Chariot, Eagle's Nest, and Thieves' Gold lighting our way, far from everyone else. I settled in next to him, laying my head in the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapping around me, pulling me close. "Listen carefully now, Jase Ballenger. I won't repeat myself." "I'm a good listener." I know you are. I've known that since our first night together. That's what makes you dangerous. You make me want to share everything with you. I cleared my throat, signaling I was ready to begin. "If I were a color, I'd be red as a rose, I make your blood rush, and tingle your toes, I taste of honey and spring, and a good bit of trouble, But I make the birds sing, and all the stars double. I can be quick, a mere peck, or slow and divine, And that is probably, the very best kind." "Hmm..." he said, as if stumped. "Let me think for a minute..." He rolled up on one elbow, looking down at me, the stars dusting his cheekbones. "Honey?" He kissed my forehead. "Spring?" He kissed my chin. "You are a good bit of trouble, Kazi of Brightmist." "I try my best." "I may have to take this one slowly..." His hand traveled leisurely from my waist, across my ribs, to my neck, until he was cupping my cheek. My blood rushed; the stars blurred. "Very slowly...to figure it all out." And then his lips pressed, warm and demanding onto mine, and I hoped it would take him an eternity to solve the riddle.

Just when the selfie seemed to be as vainglorious as it could get, crafty marketers added the attachable pole to give iPhone photographers a better angle on their double chins. No wonder it has been dubbed the “narcissistick.

The Everlasting Staircase" Jeffrey McDaniel When the call came, saying twenty-four hours to live, my first thought was: can't she postpone her exit from this planet for a week? I've got places to do, people to be. Then grief hit between the ribs, said disappear or reappear more fully. so I boarded a red eyeball and shot across America, hoping the nurses had enough quarters to keep the jukebox of Grandma's heart playing. She grew up poor in Appalachia. And while world war II functioned like Prozac for the Great Depression, she believed poverty was a double feature, that the comfort of her adult years was merely an intermission, that hunger would hobble back, hurl its prosthetic leg through her window, so she clipped, clipped, clipped -- became the Jacques Cousteau of the bargain bin, her wetsuit stuffed with coupons. And now --pupils fixed, chin dangling like the boots of a hanged man -- I press my ear to her lampshade-thin chest and listen to that little soldier march toward whatever plateau, or simply exhaust his arsenal of beats. I hate when people ask if she even knew I was there. The point is I knew, holding the one-sided conversation of her hand. Once I believed the heart was like a bar of soap -- the more you use it, the smaller it gets; care too much and it'll snap off in your grasp. But when Grandma's last breath waltzed from that room, my heart opened wide like a parachute, and I realized she didn't die. She simply found a silence she could call her own.

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts, they will shine out of your face like sunbeams, and you will always look lovely.

Her aunt is a pompous and proud and fat old lady. She is a type even to the point of a double chin and lorgnettes. She is dressed pretentiously, as if afraid her face alone would never indicate her position in life. MILDRED is dressed all in white.

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.’ – ROALD DAHL

Azariel didn't know what to say. Most Frenchmen preferred voluptuous women - whose ample breasts proved how well the next generation would be nurtured, between whose thighs they would take their pleasure. Women, in turn, dressed to appear as plump and fruitful as possible. Some even wore neckbands that, when pulled tight, made their chins look doubled. What kind of man wouldn't want a full-figured wife?

He appears close to my age. The left half of his face stands out beneath the hood: one side of plump lips, one squared angle of a chin. Two coppery-colored eyes look back at me – bright and metallic. The sight makes me do a double take. As far as he is from the car, I shouldn’t be able to make out the color, yet they glimmer in the shadow of his cape, like pennies catching a flashlight’s glare in a deep well.

And that,' said Mrs Gowan, shaking her despondent head, 'that's all. That,' repeated Mrs Gowan, furling her green fan for the moment, and tapping her chin with it (it was on the way to being a double chin; might be called a chin and a half at present), 'that's all! On the death of the old people, I suppose there will be more to come; but how it may be restricted or locked up, I don't know. And as to that, they may live for ever. My dear, they are just the kind of people to do it.' Now, Mrs Merdle, who really knew her friend Society pretty well, and who knew what

The immense accretion of flesh which had descended on her in middle life like a flood of lava on a doomed city had changed her from a plump active little woman with a neatly-turned foot and ankle into something as vast and august as a natural phenomenon. She had accepted this submergence as philosophically as all her other trials, and now, in extreme old age, was rewarded by presenting to her mirror an almost unwrinkled expanse of firm pink and white flesh, in the centre of which the traces of a small face survived as if awaiting excavation. A flight of smooth double chins led down to the dizzy depths of a still-snowy bosom veiled in snowy muslins that were held in place by a miniature portrait of the late Mr. Mingott; and around and below, wave after wave of black silk surged away over the edges of a capacious armchair, with two tiny white hands poised like gulls on the surface of the billows.

The white saucer like some full moon descends At last from the clouds of the table above; She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows, Transfigured with love. She nestles over the shining rim, Buries her chin in the creamy sea; Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw Is doubled under each bending knee. A long, dim ecstasy holds her life; Her world is an infinite shapeless white, Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop, Then she sinks back into the night, Draws and dips her body to heap Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair, Lies defeated and buried deep Three or four hours unconscious there.

For Nature, if she once endows man or woman with romance, gives them so rich a store of it as shall last them, life through, unto the end. In sickness or health, in poverty or riches, through middle age and old age, through loss of hair and loss of teeth, under wrinkled face and gouty limbs, under crow’s-feet and double chins, under all the least romantic and most sordid malaisances of life, romance endures to the end. Its price is altogether above rubies; it can never be taken away from those that have it, and those that have it not, can never acquire it for money, nor by the most utter toil—no, nor ever arrive at the very faintest comprehension of it.

Dr. Finch clenched his hands and tucked them under his chin. “Human birth is most unpleasant. It’s messy, it’s extremely painful, sometimes it’s a risky thing. It is always bloody. So is it with civilization. The South’s in its last agonizing birth pain. It’s bringing forth something new and I’m not sure I like it, but I won’t be here to see it. You will. Men like me and my brother are obsolete and we’ve got to go, but it’s a pity we’ll carry with us the meaningful things of this society—there were some good things in it.” “Stop woolgathering and answer me!” Dr. Finch stood up, leaned on the table, and looked at her. The lines from his nose sprang to his mouth and made a harsh trapezoid. His eyes blazed, but his voice was still quiet: “Jean Louise, when a man’s looking down the double barrel of a shotgun, he picks up the first weapon he can find to defend himself, be it a stone or a stick of stovewood or a citizens’ council.

He takes my right hand and places it palm down on his chest. Then he traces around it with the pen, craning his neck to see, giving himself double chins. 'What are you doing?' He shifts my hand away and starts scratching out letters on his skin. 'I worked out a tattoo - if I had one.' I look at what he's done. He's got the outline of my hand over his heart and in it he's written, Her.

If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until it gets so ugly you can hardly bear to look at it. A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

You ladies who are everything to your husbands, save a girl from the dream of youth, have you never known that double-chinned industrious man laugh suddenly in a reverie and start up, as if he fancied he were being hailed from far away?

Do not, cherie, ever think you cannot measure up to my expectations." "You might get tired teaching me things." His hand spanned the slim column of her throat so that her pulse was beating into the center of his palm. "Never. It will never happen. And I have much to learn from you.There has been no laughter in my life.You have brought that to me.There are many things you have brought to my life-feelings and emotions I could never experience without you." He bent to brush her mouth with his. "Can you not feel that I speak the truth?" Savannah closed her eyes as his mouth took possession of hers, as his mind merged firmly with hers. There was such an intimacy in sharing his thoughts and feelings. Gregori was intense in his hunger and need. There were no doubts in him, no hesitation. He knew they would always be together; he would accept nothing else.If something ever changed that,he would choose to follow her into the dawn. Gregori released her slowly, almost reluctantly. She stood very still, looking up at him, her blue eyes studying his face. "We can do this Savannah," he encouraged her softly. "Do not get frightened and try to run from your fate. Stay with me and fight." A small smile touched her mouth. "Fate. Interesting word to use. You make it sound like I've been sentenced to prison." She took a deep breath and made herself relax. "You're bad, but not quite that bad," she teased him. His white teeth gleamed, his predator's smile. "I am very bad, ma petite. Do not forget that if you wish to be safe." She shrugged casually, but her heart leapt in response. "Safety is not a concept I strictly adhere to," she ansered, her chin up. "That is a double-edged sword for me." Savannah burst out laughing, her natural sense of humor bubbling up. "You bet it is. I don't intend to make things easy for you. You've had your way for far too long.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I looked around the empty lot. I wavered on getting out when a giant lightning bolt painted a jagged streak across the rainy lavender-gray sky. Minutes passed and still he didn’t come out of the Three Hundreds’ building. Damn it. Before I could talk myself out of it, I jumped out of the car, cursing at myself for not carrying an umbrella for about the billionth time and for not having waterproof shoes, and ran through the parking lot, straight through the double doors. As I stomped my feet on the mat, I looked around the lobby for the big guy. A woman behind the front desk raised her eyebrows at me curiously. “Can I help you with something?” she asked. “Have you seen Aiden?” “Aiden?” Were there really that many Aidens? “Graves.” “Can I ask what you need him for?” I bit the inside of my cheek and smiled at the woman who didn’t know me and, therefore, didn’t have an idea that I knew Aiden. “I’m here to pick him up.” It was obvious she didn’t know what to make of me. I didn’t exactly look like pro-football player girlfriend material in that moment, much less anything else. I’d opted not to put on any makeup since I hadn’t planned on leaving the house. Or real pants. Or even a shirt with the sleeves intact. I had cut-off shorts and a baggy T-shirt with sleeves that I’d taken scissors to. Plus the rain outside hadn’t done my hair any justice. It looked like a cloud of teal. Then there was the whole we-don’t-look-anything-alike thing going on, so there was no way we could pass as siblings. Just as I opened my mouth, the doors that connected the front area with the rest of the training facility swung open. The man I was looking for came out with his bag over his shoulder, imposing, massive, and sweaty. Definitely surly too, which really only meant he looked the way he always did. I couldn’t help but crack a little smile at his grumpiness. “Ready?” He did his form of a nod, a tip of his chin. I could feel the receptionist’s eyes on us as he approached, but I was too busy taking in Grumpy Pants to bother looking at anyone else. Those brown eyes shifted to me for a second, and that time, I smirked uncontrollably. He glared down at me. “What are you smiling at?” I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, trying to give him an innocent look. “Oh, nothing, sunshine.” He mouthed ‘sunshine’ as his gaze strayed to the ceiling. We ran out of the building side by side toward my car. Throwing the doors open, I pretty much jumped inside and shivered, turning the car and the heater on. Aiden slid in a lot more gracefully than I had, wet but not nearly as soaked. He eyed me as he buckled in, and I slanted him a look. “What?” With a shake of his head, he unzipped his duffel, which was sitting on his lap, and pulled out that infamous off-black hoodie he always wore. Then he held it out. All I could do was stare at it for a second. His beloved, no-name brand, extra-extra-large hoodie. He was offering it to me. When I first started working for Aiden, I remembered him specifically giving me instructions on how he wanted it washed and dried. On gentle and hung to dry. He loved that thing. He could own a thousand just like it, but he didn’t. He had one black hoodie that he wore all the time and a blue one he occasionally donned. “For me?” I asked like an idiot. He shook it, rolling his eyes. “Yes for you. Put it on before you get sick. I would rather not have to take care of you if you get pneumonia.” Yeah, I was going to ignore his put-out tone and focus on the ‘rather not’ as I took it from him and slipped it on without another word. His hoodie was like holding a gold medal in my hands. Like being given something cherished, a family relic. Aiden’s precious.

Well,all she had to do was ask," one offended male replied. "I hope you're satisfied!" Lauren whispered furiously. "I'm not," Nick chuckled in her ear. "But I'm going to be." Fully intending to leave him to take his own notes, Lauren slammed her notebook closed and tried to shove her chair back. Nick's body blocked the chair. She twisted her head around to say something scathing, and his lips captured hers in a kiss that forced her head against the back of the chair, tripled her pulse rate and robbed her of thought. When he took his mouth away, she was too shaken to do anything except stare at him. "What do you think,Nick?" a voice asked over the speaker. "I think it gets better every time," he answered huskily. When the call was finally over, Nick pressed a button on the desk, and Lauren saw the door leading into Mary's office swing shut electronically. He grasped her arms and drew her out of the chair, turning her toward him. His mouth came closer to hers,and Lauren felt herself being helplessly drawn into his magnetic spell. "Don't!" she pleaded. "Please don't do this to me." His hands tightened on her arms. "Why can't you just admit you want me and enjoy the consequences?" "All right," she said wretchedly, "You win. I want you...I admit it." She saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes, and her chin lifted. "When I was eight years old, I also wanted a monkey I saw in a pet store." The triumph faded. "And?" he sighed irritably,letting go of her. "And unfortunately I got him," Lauren said. "Daisy bit me,and I had to have twelve stitches in my leg." Nick looked as if he was torn between laughter and anger. "I imagine he bit you for naming him Daisy." Lauren ignored his mockery. "And when I was thirteen, I wanted sisters and brothers. My father obliged me by remarrying, and I got a stepsister who stole my clothes and my boyfriends, and a stepbrother who stole my allowances." "What the hell does that have to do with us?" "Everything!

Andrew Hale was a ruddy man with a big gray moustache and a stubbly double-chin unconstrained by a collar; but his scrupulously clean shirt was always fastened by a small diamond stud. This display of opulence was misleading, for though he did a fairly good business it was known that his easygoing habits and the demands of his large family frequently kept him what Starkfield called "behind.

Cletus Byron Winston, you are being rude.” I might have my own less than glowing thoughts about my father, but he was my father. He opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut and did a double take, his eyes narrowing on me. “First of all, how do you know my middle name?” “Your momma used to use it when you were naughty, when you boys would help her shelve books in the library. ‘Cletus Byron! Stop stuffing Astrophysics Monthly down your pants!’” Cletus grinned. Then he chuckled. His eyes lost some of their zealous focus as he pushed away from the tree and strolled closer. “Oh yeah. She did, didn’t she?” “I felt sorry for Billy, though.” I scooched to one side as he sat down. “His name always confused everyone, like your momma was trying to talk to Shakespeare’s ghost. ‘William Shakespeare, would you please stop Beauford from pulling down his pants in front of the girls?’” Cletus laughed harder, leaning backward and holding his stomach. “I remember that. How old was Beau?” “He was ten. He was trying to show us his new Tarzan underwear. I don’t think he meant any harm.” “He sure did love that underwear.” Cletus nodded and he scratched his beard. “I’m going to have to find him some Tarzanunderwear in adult size.” “So you can torture him about it?” He pretended to be shocked by my accusation. “Certainly not. I don’t torture my siblings.” “Yeah, right.” I gave him my side-eye. “You forget, I’m a people watcher. I know you sell embarrassing pictures of them onstock photo sites. Jethro was griping about it after church over the summer. If it’s not torture, what do you call it then?” He lifted his chin proudly. “I offer invaluable character building opportunities. I help them reach their true potential through suffering.” “Oh, please

I'll tell you if you tell me," I say, washing my hands of maturity. I'm tired of the double standard-she keeps secrets, but I'm not allowed. Also, I'm tired, period. I need sleep. Which means I need answers. "What do you mean? Tell you what?" "I'll tell you what we were really doing out there. After you tell me who my real parents are." There, I opened it. A chunky can of wiggling worms. She laughs, just like I expect her to. "Are you serious?" I nod. "I know I'm adopted. I want to know how. Why. When." She laughs again, but there's something false in it, as if it wasn't her first reaction. "So that's what this is about? You're rebelling because you think you're adopted? Why on earth would you think that?" I fold my hands in front of me on the table. "Look at me. We both know I'm different. I don't look like you or Dad." "That's not true. You have my chin and mouth. And there's no disinheriting the McIntosh nose.

Firmly, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger,Nick turned her face up to his, forcing her to look into his teasing gray eyes. "If I'm so beautiful, why won't you look at me?" "That was a silly thing for me to tell you," Lauren apologized with quiet dignity, "and..." "It was definitely a gross exaggeration-" he smiled, taking his hand away from her chin "-but I liked it.And, in case you're interested," he added, his voice turning husky, "no one has ever told me that before.

What did she say?" Lauren breathed. "She told me to check the oil," Nick replied imperturbably. Despite his outward attitude of total indifference, Lauren couldn't believe that as a younger man he'd been so vulnerable. Surely having his own mother treat him as if he didn't exist must have hurt him terribly. "Is that all she said?" she asked tightly. Unaware that Lauren was not sharing his ironic humor in the story,he said, "No-I think she asked me to check the air in her tires too." Lauren had kept her voice neutral, but inwardly she felt ill. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned her face up to the purpling sky to hide them,pretending to watch the lacy clouds drifting over the moon. "Lauren?" His voice sounded curt. "Hmmmm?" she asked,staring steadfastly at the moon. Leaning forward,he caught her chin and turned her face toward his. He looked at her brimming eyes in stunned disbelief. "You're crying!" he said incredulously. Lauren waved a dismissing hand at him. "Don't pay any attention to that-I cry at movies too.

Noon. In the middle of Knoll Road. In it up to your waist, wearing your father’s old reindeer sweater, your mother’s fur-lined gloves. Squinting across an infinite ocean of white. Shivering. Breathing. Listening. To nothing. There are no cars, no mailboxes, no traffic islands, no sound. The triple-deckers are now double-deckers and everything’s muffled and buried and gone. You yell and you are the only one yelling. The only one breathing. The only one there. The faint chime of a city plow in the distance. The wail of one of Schoerner’s penned-up hounds. But no one is with you. No one to contradict you. And you dare to close your eyes and fill up your lungs with winter, your destiny before you like a map of the world. And the wind seems to whisper promises, and you, with arms outstretched and chin to the heavens, swear oaths back to the wind - little things, like fulfilling prophecies and charting new courses and going forth from this time and this place to do great and wondrous things. But first, of course, it will be necessary to get high.

I’ve heard rumors that writing can feel glamorous. But only glamorous, I’d guess, in the way a stretch limo might feel glamorous. No matter the pomp, one still has to crouch inside. Like skulking through a low-lit leather tunnel. An uncooperative space. Writing is awkward work and it’s become clearer to me why friends of mine have relinquished their desks and write instead from the comfort of their beds. Not in bed. From bed. Like sea otters floating on their backs, double-chinned and banging their front paws on a keyboard.

So . . . for some reason we thought you were the guys assigned to Ms. Lynde’s surveillance. Guess we were mistaken?” “Nope, you got it right,” Kamin said. “We do the night shift. Nice girl. We talk a lot on the way to the gym.” “Oh. Then I guess Agent Wilkins and I are just curious why you two are here instead of with her.” Kamin waved this off. “It’s cool. We did a switcheroo with another cop, see?” “A switcheroo . . . right. Remind me again how that works?” Jack asked. “It’s because she’s got this big date tonight,” Kamin explained. Jack cocked his head. “A date?” Phelps chimed in. “Yeah, you know—with Max-the-investment-banker-she-met-on-the-Bloomingdales-escalator.” “I must’ve missed that one.” “Oh, it’s a great story,” Kamin assured him. “She crashed into him coming off the escalator and when her shopping bag spilled open, he told her he liked her shoes.” “Ah . . . the Meet Cute,” Wilkins said with a grin. Jack threw him a sharp look. “What did you just say?” “You know, the Meet Cute.” Wilkins explained. “In romantic comedies, that’s what they call the moment when the man and woman first meet.” He rubbed his chin, thinking this over. “I don’t know, Jack . . . if she’s had her Meet Cute with another man that does not bode well for you.” Jack nearly did a double take as he tried to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean. Phelps shook his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t go that far. She’s still on the fence about this guy. He’s got problems keeping his job from intruding on his personal life. But she’s feeling a lot of pressure with Amy’s wedding—she’s only got about ten days left to get a date.” “She’s the maid of honor, see?” Kamin said. Jack stared at all three of them. Their lips were moving and sound was coming out, but it was like they were speaking a different language. Kamin turned to Phelps. “Frankly, I think she should just go with Collin, since he and Richard broke up.” “Yeah, but you heard what she said. She and Collin need to stop using each other as a crutch. It’s starting to interfere with their other relationships.” Unbelievable. Jack ran a hand through his hair, tempted to tear it out. But then he’d have a bald spot to thank Cameron Lynde for, and that would piss him off even more. “Can we get back to the switcheroo part?” “Right, sorry. It was Slonsky’s suggestion. 

That will be $22.95." He held out a hand, and this time she laughed, the full, delightful belly chuckle he remembered from the past. "How about I buy you dinner when we get to the Shark Tank instead?" she offered. "I don't believe that's on our dating plan, Ms. Patel." He pulled out his phone. "Let me see... Hmm. It appears that we've already crossed off the dinner option." Daisy shrugged. "If you don't like their roast beef sandwiches..." "With horseradish?" "And beer." Liam stroked his chin as if considering. "Double order of fries?" "Each." "And for dessert?" he asked. "Fried Oreos, of course." He tucked away his phone. "For you, I'm willing to go 'off plan.

When Lauren returned from lunch there were two dozen breathtakingly gorgeous red roses in a vase on her desk. She removed the card from its envelope and stared at it in blank amazement. On it was written "Thank you, sweetheart," followed by the initial J. When Lauren looked up,Nick was standing in the doorway,his shoulder casually propped against the frame. But there was nothing casual about the rigid set of his jaw or the freezing look in his gray eyes. "From a secret admirer?" he asked sarcastically. It was the first personal comment he had addressed to her in four days. "Not a secret admirer exactly," she hedged. "Who is he?" Lauren tensed. He seemed so angry she didn't think it would be wise to mention Jim's name. "I'm not absolutely certain." "You aren't absolutely certain?" he bit out. "How many men with the inital J are you seeing? How many of them think you're worth more than a hundred dollars in roses as a way of saying thank you?" "A hundred dollars?" Lauren repeated, so appalled at the expense that she completely overlooked the fact that Nick had obviously opened the envelope and read the card. "You must be getting better at it," he mocked crudely. Inwardly Lauren flinched, but she lifted her chin. "I have much better teachers now!" With an icy glance that raked her from head to toe,Nick turned on his heel and strode back into his office. For the rest of the day he left her completely alone.

You can sit,” Maggot said in a small, shy voice. Mia did as she was bid, holding her throbbing hand to her chest. Maggot toddled across the room, fishing about in a series of chests. She returned with a handful of wooden splints and a ball of woven brown cotton. “Hold out your hand,” the girl commanded. Mia’s shadow swelled, Mister Kindly drinking her fear at the thought of what was to come. Maggot looked her digits over, stroking her chin. And gentle as falling leaves, she took hold of Mia’s smallest finger. “It won’t hurt,” she promised. “I’m very good at this.” “All riiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAGHH!” Mia howled as Maggot popped her finger back into place, quick as silver. She rose from the slab and bent double, clutching her hand. “That HURT!” she yelled. Maggot gave a solemn nod. “Yes.” “You promised it wouldn’t!” “And you believed me.” The girl smiled sweet as sugarfloss. “I told you, I’m very good at this.” She motioned to the slab again. “Sit back down.” Mia blinked back hot tears, hand throbbing in agony. But looking at her finger, she could see Maggot had worked it right, popping the dislocated joint back into place neat as could be. Breathing deep, she sat back down and dutifully proffered her hand. The little girl took hold of Mia’s ring finger, looked up at her with big, dark eyes. “I’m going to count three,” she said. “All riiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaFUCK!” Mia roared as Maggot snapped the joint back into place. She rose and half-danced, half-hopped about the room, wounded hand between her legs. “Shit cock twat fucking fuckitall!” “You swear an awful lot,” Maggot frowned. “You said you were going to count three!” Maggot nodded sadly. “You believed me again, didn’t you?” Mia winced, teeth gritted, looking the girl up and down. “ . . . You are very good at this,” she realized. Maggot smiled, patted the bench. “Last one.” Sighing, Mia sat back down, hand shaking with pain as Maggot gently took hold of her middle finger. She looked at Mia solemnly. “Now this one is really going to hurt,” she warned. “Wa—” The Blade flinched as Maggot popped the finger back in. Mia blinked. “Ow?” she said. “All done,” Maggot smiled. “But that was the easiest of the lot?” Mia protested. “I know,” Maggot replied. “I’m—” “—very good at this,” they both finished. Maggot began splinting Mia’s fingers, binding them tight to limit their movement. The three circles branded into the little girl’s cheek weren’t so much of a mystery anymore . . .

My neck was slender and long and I could bend it nearly all the way about to take in my body: also slender, also shining. I was a dragon of gold, as if Jesse had touched me and transmuted me but not taken my life. I was sinuous and covered in lustrous golden scales, all the way almost to the tip of my tail, until they faded into purple. I had a mane, too, mapping a line down my back. It looked like a ruff of silk or cut velvet. I folded my neck around almost double so that I could rub my chin on it. Silken, yes, but also jagged. Combing my chin through it sent quivers of pleasure down my spine. Then I saw my wings. They were folded against my back, metallic. Without knowing how I did it, I opened them, using muscles I didn't even have as a person. ... I slashed my tail through the rain and realized that it was barbed when it hit an oak tree and I got stuck. No problem. I pulled it out and danced around, delighted at the fresh, gaping hole in the trunk. ... If the shark-hunters or lance-bearers came for me, I'd chew them to chum.

Good morning, I’m Anne Ryan,” she said, producing the driver’s license. The receptionist stood up, nodding. She was wearing latex gloves. And before the woman formerly known as Myfanwy Thomas could say a word, the receptionist wound up and punched her in the face. She flew backward, the pain in her eyes flaring, and shrieked like a train whistle. Through the stars floating in her vision, she could see three men entering the room and shutting the doors behind them. They surrounded her, and one of the men leaned over her with a hypodermic needle in one hand. Filled with a sudden rage, she swung her leg up and kicked him hard between the legs. Squealing, he doubled over, and she lashed out with a fist, catching him hard on the chin. He staggered back onto one of the other men, and she swung herself up, teeth bared, panic rising as she realized that she had no idea how to fight. Still, certain things were obvious. She shoved the man she’d kicked hard, sending him and his friend against the wall. The remaining man and the woman stood back, seeming almost hesitant to touch her. She noticed that the men were also wearing latex gloves. The woman flicked a questioning look to the standing man.

At first it seemed to be no more than a chance ray of light beamed into the vestibule by the shifting of a tree-bough between house and street lamp, but as we kept our eyes glued to it we saw that it was a form - a tall, attenuated, skeletally-thin form moving stealthily in the shadow. Slowly the thing emerged from the gloom of the doorway, and despite the warning I had had, I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck just above my collar, and a feeling as of sudden chill ran through my forearms. It was tall, as we had been told, fully six feet from its bare-boned feet to hairless, parchment-covered skull; and the articulation of its skeleton could be seen plainly through the leathery skin that clung to the gaunt, staring bones. The nose was large, high-bridged and haughty, like the beak of a falcon or eagle, and the chin was prominent beneath the brownish sheath of skin that stretched drum-tight across it. The eyes were closed and showed only as twin depressions in the skull-like countenance, but the mummified lips had retracted to show a double line of teeth in a mirthless grin. Its movements were irregular and stiff, like the movements of some monstrous mechanical doll or, as Edina Laurace had expressed it, like a marionette worked by unseen wires. But once it had emerged from the doorway it moved with shocking quickness. Jerkily, and with exaggeratedly high knee-action, it crossed the lawn, came to the sidewalk, turned on its parchment-soled feet as if on a pivot, and started after de Grandin. ("The Man In Crescent Terrace")

I’ll fill a tray for Mr. Thornton,” she offered, eager for any excuse to check up on the man and judge the severity of his injuries for herself, “and take it to the workshop.” “That won’t be necessary, Miss Greyson, but thank you.” Nicole spun toward the doorway. “Dar—Mr. Thornton!” She raked her gaze over his tall form. He moved a bit gingerly as he entered the kitchen, but that was to be expected after the abuse his body had taken that afternoon. No bandages in evidence, at least none that she could see. She supposed it was possible he had a wound concealed beneath his dark trousers, but she gauged his movements as he ambled to the table and didn’t detect a limp or any hitch in his stride. “Do I pass inspection?” The amusement in his voice brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. “That depends,” she brazened, lifting her chin. “Are there any hidden injuries I should be concerned about?” He made his way around the table, running his fingers along the back of each chair. “Such a personal question, Miss Greyson.” A teasing gleam lit his eyes as he steadily approached. Nicole dropped the bread knife and turned to face him fully, reaching behind herself to grip the cabinet top for support. “But you can put your mind at ease.” He didn’t stop when he rounded the table. He kept coming. Nicole’s pulse fluttered, and her grip on the cabinet doubled. “Except for a pile of bruises and some overheated skin, I’m fine.” He ceased his advance. Finally. She had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze, though, so close had he come. “I’m glad to hear it. Sir.” She added the last to try to force some distance between them. With him standing so close, all she could think about was that unexpected kiss they’d shared. Not the healthiest train of thought for a young woman who planned to leave as soon as monetarily possible. He was her employer. That was all.

i almost choked on my double chin

Dauna marched her tasty 包子 and 餃 (which were far superior to the dumplings served at the Double Chins Cafe) into the waiting room." — Shark Fin Soup 2015

You ready?” Matt asked, looking her up and down. “Oh hey, Xena. You tagging along?” “Yeah, just today.” “Hmm,” he stared at me a bit, then turned towards Penelope. “Love, is this your doing?” Love? Penelope immediately put her head down in shame. Matt was standing right next to her, right inside the door. The very alcove, Xavier and I had many disputes that turned into sex, orgasms, and spankings. Matt lifted her chin with his long forefinger. “Is this you?” “Matt, I just wanted to share some of my…” “No, Xena. Talking to her.” Well, excuse me. He tilted her head so she was looking at him. Then she mouthed, “Yes.” “Look. If this is going to work, you gonna need to grow a pair. I don’t bite and I ain’t looking for nothing from you. Okay? A friend,” he waved his hand my way,” asked me to help you out. So, that’s what I’m doing. That’s all I’m doing. We’re about to look at a bunch of apartments and houses. I’m going to need you to dig deep, grab a pair of balls, and speak the fuck up. Okay? Where you live is one of the most important decisions you’ll ever make. So, am I clear?” “Ma…” I started to call him because that was awfully harsh, but she cut me off. I swore her eyes squinted into a glare and she said, “Crystal clear.” Penelope turned from him, grabbed her purse off the table and left out the apartment, holding the door for us to follow. Well, damn. She had spunk. I knew it.

Doug Crowley leaned against my tree, looking a little too casual, as if he was trying to learn this position but wasn’t quite sure he’d gotten it right yet, and his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses seemed a little too wide to be really nonchalant. He was a man of about my age, with a square, slightly soft-looking body, and the stubble of a trimmed-short beard on his face that was probably supposed to hide a weak chin, but didn’t quite. And somehow, in spite of his size, he had snuck up behind me silently and I had not heard him, and I found that almost as irritating as his chummy good cheer.

Perhaps you know of her? Lauren Jakes?” The effect on Xairn couldn’t have been more profound if Lock had shoved a double barreled shotgun into his gut and pulled the trigger. “Lauren? You’re looking for Lauren?” He looked shocked at first, but then his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl and he seemed to grow bigger somehow. It reminded Kat of how Sylvan had looked when he went into rage while protecting Sophie. “Lauren is mine. She’s mine,” Xairn snarled. “And I do not intend to surrender her to anyone.” “So you do have her.” Lock’s voice was mild but his eyes were hard. “You bastard.” Deep glared at the Scourge. “What have you done to the poor girl? Or maybe I should ask if there’s anything you haven’t done. Is she even still alive?” Xairn’s red-on-black eyes flashed crimson. “Of course she is! Do you think me some kind of a monster?” “Actually, we do,” Deep said. “We know exactly how you Scourge treat your females.” Xairn lifted his chin. “Not me. I have never touched a female in anger—this I swear.” “What about lust?” Deep raised an eyebrow. “Ever touched a female that way?” Xairn looked suddenly ill at ease. “I…do not act on those emotions. I do not engage in the practices of my father and the rest of my people.” “We’ll believe it when we see it.” Deep’s black eyes narrowed. “Where is Lauren now?” Xairn bristled. “Someplace safe.” “Can we see her?” Kat asked. “I mean, can I see her? I’m no threat,” she went on softly, meeting his strange, burning eyes. “And I think if we could hear from Lauren herself that you haven’t hurt her, it would make it a lot easier for us to trust you.” Xairn looked at her appraisingly. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to let another female speak to Lauren. But I will not tolerate another male near her.” He glared at Deep and Lock and then nodded at Kat. “Come with me.” She

But she stopped, leaned against the wall, and started to son. Horrible, silent cries that made her bend double, curling around her stomach, as though it hurt to weep like that. Lowering herself to the floor, she crouched down, almost soundless. Tears ran over her cheeks and dropped off her chin as she rocked back and forth. Hazel never cried. She was forged from iron;she never broke. No one was tougher than his sister. The worst part was how quietly she wept, as if she's taught herself how, as if she was so used to doing it that it had just become the way she cried.

My relationship with the Internet was like the one I had with the :). I hated the :) and hated to be the object of other people’s :), their :-) and their :>. I hated :-)) the most because it reminded me of my double chin. Then there was :( and :-( and ;-) as well as ;) and *-), which I didn’t even understand, although it was not as mystifying as D:< or >:O or :-&. These simplifications of speech, designed by idiots, resulted in hieroglyphics of such compounded complexity that they flew far above my intelligence.

She takes advantage of the commotion to unhook her bra. It rises quickly to cup her chin, which is nearly a double anyway so the extra support won't do any harm.

One evening, they stopped in a plump, comfortable town where even the beggars had double chins and the mice waddled.

Dumpling is the kind of dog that makes people on the street do double- and triple-takes and ask in astonished voices, "What kind of dog IS that?!" His head is way too small for his thick, solid body, and his legs are too spindly. His eyes point away from each other like a chameleon. One side of his mouth curls up a little, half-Elvis, half palsy-victim, and his tongue has a tendency to stick out just a smidgen on that side. He was found as a puppy running down the median of a local highway, and I adopted him from PAWS five years ago, after he had been there for nearly a year. He is, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to me. My girlfriend Bennie says it looks like he was assembled by a disgruntled committee. Barry calls him a random collection of dog bits. My mom, in a classic ESL moment, asked upon meeting him, "He has the Jack Daniels in him, leetle bit, no?' I was going to correct her and say Jack Russell, but when you look at him, he does look a little bit like he has the Jack Daniels in him. My oldest nephew, Alex, who watches too much Family Guy and idolizes Stewie, took one look, and then turned to me in all seriousness and said in that weird almost-British accent, "Aunt Alana, precisely what brand of dog is that?" I replied, equally seriously, that he was a purebred Westphalian Stoat Hound. When the kid learns how to Google, I'm going to lose major cool aunt points. Dumpling tilts his head back and licks the underside of my chin, wallowing in love. "Dog, you are going to be the death of me. You have got to let me sleep sometime." These words are barely out of my mouth, when he leaps up and starts barking, in a powerful growly baritone that belies his small stature.

Let me get this straight. One four-hex to thirty billion, in one year.” “I’ll do it in six months.” Richard said. “You wish to wager?” Roland grinned. “Usual terms?” “Usual. Double the term, or swap now.” Roland tapped the ebony table. “One condition.” “Name it,” Richard snapped. “I get to pick the bum.” It was raining, which was not exactly uncommon for the southern part of Texatron City, and it was nighttime, which occurred roughly once every day. Neon-clad shops lined one half of the main boulevard, while the ramshackle favela perched on the other. Above those precarious dwellings, jutting out of the hillside like challenging chins, luxurious villas that housed the favela’s bosses boasted panoramic glass infinity pools and helipads. Upon the very peak of the great hill, above even those villas, a single, sprawling building sat, lost to the smog-laden rain. Terisco dwelled there, and Terisco was death, plain and simple. Fortunately, there was very little reason for Jayden to ever cross paths with Terisco or any of his lieutenants. He kept his head down. He did his job. He paid his dues. Jayden had a very good chance of living a hard, skinny, but quiet life. That was unless fate meddled, or luck gave him a sharp kick in the

I scroll through iPhone photos and see that if I delete pictures of myself with a double chin, I will erase all proof of my glorious life. I fix myself a hot chocolate because it is a gateway drug to reading. I think I couldn't love my husband more, and then he vacuums all the glitter.

Adulthood was just a mask that people wore, the mask made up of a thick jowl and double chin and diamond earrings, or a green sporting shirt, but within it a man kept up the nonsense of his infancy, worse now for being without the innocence and the pure joy. Only the values of commerce gave this state a gloss of importance and urgency.

i am having a difficult time right now comparing myself to other people i am stretching myself thin trying to be them making fun of my face like my father calling it ugly starving out this premature double chin before it melts into my shoulders like candle wax fixing the bags under my eyes that carry the rape bookmarking surgical procedures for my nose there is so much that needs tending to can you point me in the right direction i want to take this body off which way back to the womb like the rainbow after the rain joy will reveal itself after sorrow

To many, what happened to Chin represented a double tragedy: the murder of a young man with a promising future and a criminal justice system that failed to adequately punish the killers... Suddenly, people who had endured a lifetime of degrading treatment were wondering if their capacity to suffer in silence might no longer be a virtue.

She [Mother Legge] was a vast, dusky, double-chinned mountain of a woman, with astute, little grey eyes; eyes that seemed rather to aim at not seeing what she wanted to avoid, than at seeing what she wanted to see.

At 1 o’clock all were assembled for dinner, which generally consisted of three courses—soup, meat, and dessert; or, soup, fish, and meat; or, fish, meat, and dessert; or sometimes only fish and meat. With the meat we always had potatoes, and either green vegetables or macaroni. I think we were all agreed that the fare was good; it would hardly have been better at home; for some of us it would perhaps have been worse. And we looked like fatted pigs; one or two even began to cultivate a double chin and a corporation. As

She looked nice, he thought, when she was being enthusiastic and cheering him up, she looked young herself. It was when her face was discontented that she developed the pouting, double-chinned look of her mother—a woman who had been born disagreeable and lived to make life disagreeable for everyone round her until last year when she got a coronary right in the middle of complaining that she hadn’t got enough presents for her seventieth birthday.

I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier,” Delia said in a whisper loud enough to be heard…well, almost two stories up on a rope ladder anyway, making Kerry wince a little. “We really do like him. We’re happy for you.” Kerry wanted to hiss who’s we? but refrained. As far as she could tell, Cooper had spent the past three days befriending every man, woman, and lobster in Blueberry Cove. And every single one of them had managed to find a moment to tell her so. She was happy--truly--that everyone liked him but not surprised. He was a likeable guy. And she was equally happy folks were happy for her. Now she just wished they’d butt out and let her get on with being happy with Cooper. She managed to give Delia a little salute with half of one hand while still clutching the rope, and Delia gave her another enthusiastic wave, eyes sparkling. Kerry waited until Delia had scooted on back toward the café before turning her attention to the trapdoor. And almost had her second heart attack when she looked up, only to find Cooper staring down at her, his chin propped on folded arms, meaning he was lying flat on the balcony deck. He smiled and lifted his fingers in a little wave. “Nice of you to drop up,” he said, a smile curving his lips but the glittering light in his blue eyes telling a different story. His voice was deep and just a shade rough, which made her skin tingle in delicious anticipation. “I got waylaid by another of your throng of supporters and well-wishers so you only have yourself to blame.” “So I heard,” he said. “I’ll be sure to thank her later and tip double the usual when we order breakfast in tomorrow morning.” “Awfully sure of yourself, mister.” “Finish climbing that ladder and I’ll be happy to explain the source of my confidence.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Or, better yet, I’ll show you.” “Well, if I’d known there was going to be show and tell, I’d have gotten up here sooner.

Now, I regarded my opponent carefully, as if we were sitting across from each other over a chessboard. Zagaev had a round head, a double chin that his beard obscured pretty well and bristly hair that couldn’t decide to be gray or less gray. His age, duBois had reported, was only forty-three. His head was large, his pallor anemic. He nervously gripped and ungripped his hands every few seconds. I knew this only because I heard the tinkle of cuffs behind his back. He wore a thick gold chain around his neck and an amulet on which was an unlikely icon. I was pretty sure it was Tsar Alexander II, who I knew from my studies was a moderate reformer—by absolute-ruler standards—in mid-nineteenth-century Russia. Still, it was curious that a Chechnyan would choose this particular image. Zagaev’s clothes were expensive, more than I could afford, more than I wanted to. His suit was cut from vibrant blue silk, the color of the sky in a child’s fantasy book. His snakeskin shoes glittered in the jarring overhead light. His sweat was repulsive; I could smell body odor and onions from across the table. I

Specific body parts, “problem areas,” also get labels—fupa, gunt, cankles, thunder thighs, Hi Susans, wings, cottage cheese thighs, hail damage, muffin tops, side boob, back fat, love handles, saddlebags, spare tires, double chins, gocks, man boobs, beer bellies.

The longer I gazed, the more familiar he seemed: the brow, the full lips, the double chin. I saw it most in the expression itself, in that particular stamp of an inescapable fate. Some essence of my father was embedded in the painting, beholding me and seemingly on the verge of speech, the words already formed in the figure’s slightly open mouth. I was listening as much as looking now. The utterance wasn’t coming from any motion of the image, filmlike, but directly from him into me. He and I were together again, the facts, at last, irrelevant: that we hadn’t saved him, that he hadn’t saved us. He knew that it hadn’t ended, that he still lived in Michael. I could say nothing in return. His presence was all there was.

So I loved you because I thought you would be fat. I thought you would increase, multiply, develop a big belly, double cheeks, triple chins, dimpled knees. I thought there would be more of you. You'd stand out in a crowd, flaunt fashion. We'd have to buy clothes in stores catering to the big fellow. In your hands birds would nest. On your knees children would perch. You would rock marvelously— better than any rocking chair, better than any row boat. You would conjure up the sound and feel of water, the expanse of sea—its waves and calms, its storms under control. In your arms I would be sailing without the bother of shipwreck. All our gardens would grow if you dropped the seeds. Pumpkins would explode for fullness. Tomatoes so heavy would collapse their vines. Cauliflowers sprouting the size of streetlights. Your voice would fill the house— raise the ceilings, flood the windows. I'd hear you in every room. Over storms your voice would carry, lightning would not diminish you. What happened? You are no larger than me. Our voices fill the same small space. No soft flesh to press my fingers into deeply before I hit the road of your body. Your bones are as clear to find as mine, neither distinct nor hidden. They are simply the usual set— they suffice. They hold us together with no genius. The self you offer me is not unlike my self— no great dimensions, no extraordinary appetite. I don't live in the tower of your sound. Trees are outside our human scale and birds belong more properly in them. The only nest we can build is a nest for ourselves. In short, my dear you are my equal. We can only grow what every other can grow— the seeds we have been given.

Your friends aren’t afraid of that little scrap of mist, are they?” Reece asked with a sly smile.   “We’re Trateri,” Buck said, jutting his chin out and giving the other man a crazy grin. “We’re afraid of nothing.”   Eamon grunted, his expression even more severe than usual.   Reece’s lips twisted. “Then, you’re stupider than you look. Only a fool feels no fear in the face of that.”   He jerked his head toward the mist that waved at them with smoky tendrils.   “Doesn’t look too bad to me. No worse than the last time, at any rate.” Buck clapped a hand on Shea’s shoulder and tugged her in front of him. “And you forget, we have this one on our side. She wouldn’t lead us astray.”   A crafty expression dawned on Buck’s face. “Or is it that you’re the one afraid and you’re hoping for a little solidarity on this side?” His face turned understanding. “It’s okay. Not everyone can be as great as us. We understand and will console your pitiful fears.”   He held his arms out and gestured for Reece to come and give him a hug.   Reece looked at her friend like he thought he’d lost his mind. An apt reaction given Buck’s nature. Shea had to conceal a smile or else risk tipping Reece off to the game. It was rare for her cousin to be out-Reece’d, but it looked like Buck was more than capable of matching him.   “Go on,” Eamon rumbled. “His hugs are miraculous. They’ll soothe your mind.”   Reece got an odd expression on his face, and he slowly started backing away from the three of them. This time Shea’s mouth trembled with the need to laugh. She got her face under control and gave her cousin a sympathetic look, her eyes big.   “Yes, cousin. They’ll change your life.” Her voice sounded slightly strangled by the end.   Trenton snorted from where he leaned against the cliff.   Reece gave them a disgusted look and he stalked off without responding. Shea’s laugh burst from her before he’d even gone a few feet. It came from deep inside and nearly doubled her over.   Buck watched her with exasperation. “What was that face at the end? You looked like you were trying not to shit yourself. I’ve told you before that you have to fully commit or you’ll never be convincing.”   “You’re ridiculous,” Shea said, her laughter finally petering off. “Trying to make him hug you. What were you thinking?”   Buck shrugged and gave her a cat-like smile. “I was thinking his face irritated me and I wanted him to go away.”   Eamon lips tilted up as he watched the two of them with amusement. It was the equivalent of a laugh in the normally serious man.   “Pretty impressive stronghold if this is the only way into it,” Trenton said. “I assume few ever breech it.”   “Nothing human anyway,” Shea agreed. 

The handshake: They grab hands, shake, shake, slide, finger grip, shake, shake. Then point to themselves, double fist bump, throw a peace sign beside each of their right ears, point to each other, slap their individual fingertips together, rub the air as if they were holding a ball—bigger than the one in Kenzi’s bag—then they thumb their chins and shake their heads at each other before ending it with a big hug.

WORKOUT #1 1. Double arm swing to warm up. –x20 2. Military press (strict). –x10 3. Clean and push press. –x10 4. Cleans. –x10 5. One arm side press. –x5 (each side) 6. Overhead one arm squats. –x10 7. Lunges. –x20 8. Sumo deadlifts. –x20-50 9. Wrestler’s bridge press. –x10 10. Turkish get ups. –x5 (each side) 11. Janda or Ab Pavelizer situps. 12. Chin up ladders. –alternate with a partner. The circuit is done with no rest between exercises for one set of the above repetitions with kettlebells that weight about 23.6 kilograms or 52 pounds each. The workout is under 15.00 and I attempt to lessen the time every workout. Zack and Steve Maxwell are ready to take on their kettlebells.

Juniper lifts her chin, looks down her crooked nose at Agnes. “I’m not working on some factory. I already told you: I’m signing up with the suffrage ladies. I’m going to find that tower. Fight for something.” It’s such a youngest-sister thing to say that Agnes wants to slap her. In the witch-tales it’s always the youngest who is the best-beloved, the most-worthy, the one bound for some grander destiny than her sisters. The other two are too ugly or too selfish or boring to get fairy godmothers or even beastly husbands. The stories never mentioned boarding house rent or laundry or aching knuckles from a double-shift at the mill. They never mentioned babies that needed feeding or choices that needed making. Agnes swallows all those horseshit stories. “That’s all well and good but causes don’t pay much, I heard. They don’t feed you or give you a place to sleep.

she was going straight into Hollywood Station. 9 Ballard kept all her work suits in her locker at the station and dressed for her shifts after arriving each night. She had four different suits that followed the same cut and style but differed in color and pattern. She dry-cleaned them two at a time so that she always had a suit and a backup available. After arriving nearly eight hours early for her shift, Ballard changed into the gray suit that was her favorite. She accompanied it with a white blouse. She kept four white blouses and one navy in her locker as well. It was Friday and that meant Ballard was scheduled to work solo. She and Jenkins had to cover seven shifts a week, so Ballard took Tuesday to Saturday and Jenkins covered Sunday to Thursday, giving them three overlap days. When they took vacation time, their slots usually went unfilled. If a detective in the division was needed during the early-morning hours, then someone had to be called in from home. Working solo suited Ballard because she didn’t have to run decisions by her partner. On this day, if he had known what Ballard’s plan was, Jenkins would have put the kibosh on it. But because it was Friday, they would not be working together again until the following Tuesday, and she was clear to make her own moves. After suiting up, Ballard checked herself in the mirror over the locker room sinks. She combed her sun-streaked hair with her fingers. That was all she usually had to do. Constant immersion in salt water and exposure to the sun over years had left her with broken, flyaway hair that she kept no longer than chin length out of necessity. It went well with her tan and gave off a slightly butch look that reduced advances from other officers. Olivas had been an exception. Ballard squeezed some Visine drops into her eyes, which were red from the salt water. After that she was good to go. She went into the break room to brew a double-shot espresso on the Keurig. She would be operating now and through the night on less than three hours of sleep. She needed to start stacking caffeine. She kept her eye on the wall clock because she wanted to time her arrival in the detective bureau at shortly before four p.m., when she knew the lead detective in the CAPs unit would also be watching the clock, getting ready to split for the weekend. She had at least fifteen minutes to kill, so she went upstairs to the offices of the buy-bust team next to the vice unit. Major Narcotics was located downtown but each division operated

Grose was lazy and corpulent, with stunned-fish eyes and a prodigious double chin that suggested somewhere in heaven a cherub was desperately searching for its missing buttocks.

Ange has a boyfriend, a boyfriend called Craig. Strange, the simple sentence doesn't appal me, doesn't even surprise me that much. I imagine insurance man Craig, a lumpy face, the color of porridge, pulling his double chin away from the collar of a cheap polyester suit and I hope he'll succeed where I failed again and again. I wonder if he'll be able to make Ange happy, lift a life full of disappointment. I wonder if he can make Ange's mouth so often pursed as a tight knot finally loosen into a long-lost smile. I hope so. I'd like to think she could be happy; it would be good for Lucy to see her mum happy.

as we could tell by the washing of the water over our heads, and the heavy breaking of the seas against her bows, (with a sound as though she were striking against a rock,) only the thickness of the plank from our heads, as we lay in our berths, which are directly against the bows. At eight bells, the watch was called, and we came on deck, one hand going aft to take the wheel, and another going to the galley to get the grub for dinner. I stood on the forecastle, looking at the seas, which were rolling high, as far as the eye could reach, their tops white with foam, and the body of them of a deep indigo blue, reflecting the bright rays of the sun. Our ship rose slowly over a few of the largest of them, until one immense fellow came rolling on, threatening to cover her, and which I was sailor enough to know, by “the feeling of her” under my feet, she would not rise over. I sprang upon the knight-heads, and seizing hold of the fore-stay with my hands, drew myself upon it. My feet were just off the stanchion, when she struck fairly into the middle of the sea, and it washed her fore and aft, burying her in the water. As soon as she rose out of it, I looked aft, and everything forward of the main-mast, except the long-boat, which was griped and double-lashed down to the ring-bolts, was swept off clear. The galley, the pig-sty, the hen-coop, and a large sheep-pen which had been built upon the forehatch, were all gone, in the twinkling of an eye-leaving the deck as clean as a chin new reaped—and not a stick left, to show where they had stood. In the scuppers lay the galley, bottom up, and a few boards floating about, the wreck of the sheep-pen,—and half a dozen miserable sheep floating among them, wet through, and not a little frightened at the sudden change that had come upon them.

Mmm. I just can’t decide how I’m going to eat you. If I’m going to spread you out on the bed and bury my face between your legs.” A drag of my scruff. “Or push you against the wall and get down on my knees.” A rub of my chin against her cheek. “Draping one leg over your shoulder,” Chase adds, getting into the seductive rhythm of the image I’m painting. “Or get on my back and tell you to sit on my face,” I muse with one more brush of my stubble against her.

He stood for a while in the doorway. When I looked at him, I saw double: the man in front of me, and the boy he evoked. He was tall now, and he wore his dark hair longer, swept behind his ears. His face had filled out, softening the sharp angles of his cheekbones and chin. I’d remembered that in summer he used to have freckles—a scattering of them across his nose, like the first handful of dust thrown onto a coffin. There was no sign of them now, his skin only a few degrees less pale than my own cell-blanched flesh. He stepped in and locked the door behind him, slipping the keys into his pocket.

I know this was a scare for you today, but your wife and babies are doing just fine.” From the corner of his eye, Gabe saw Nic grimace. Why would she … His heart began to pound and his eyes flew open wide. “Excuse me? Did you just say …?” The doctor pursed her lips in dismay. Looking at Nic, she asked, “Did I speak out of turn?” “He just got here a few minutes ago.” Gabe cleared his throat. “Nic?” She tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort at best. “I had a sonogram today.” She held up the pictures. “Gabe, we’re having twins.” He exhaled as if she’d punched him in the gut and closed his eyes. Twins. He dropped his chin to his chest. Twins. He leaned over, propped his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. Twins. His stomach rolled and his skin grew clammy. Without saying a word to the women, he rose and walked into the room’s bathroom, where he turned on the cold water, leaned over, and splashed his face for a full minute. Then he shut off the water, gave his head a shake, and looked up, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He was as white as the snow atop Sinner’s Prayer Pass. “Twins,” he murmured. “You’re not going to faint, are you, Mr. Callahan?” Dr. Marshall asked from the doorway. “We don’t want you to bang your head today, too.” “I’m fine,” he lied, grabbing a white hand towel off a towel bar and wiping his face. He replaced the towel, took a bracing breath, and exited the bathroom. Nic watched him with an anxious expression, her hands clasped and resting protectively over her stomach. Was she worried he’d be upset? Angry? Maybe he would get angry later—at fate, not at Nic—but right now he was too numb for that. Twins. Double the risk. Double the responsibility. Double the potential loss. Great. Just great. He

Melinda, what are you doing?” he asked, unzipping his jeans to take them off and take a shower of his own. “Nothing,” she said, averting her eyes. He frowned and stepped toward her. He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Were you covering up? In front of me?” he asked, astonished. “Jack, I’m going to pot,” she said, cinching the towel tighter. “What?” he asked, laughter in his voice. “What are you talking about?” She took a deep breath. “My boobs are drooping, my butt fell into my thighs, I have a potbelly, and if that’s not bad enough, I’m so covered with stretch marks, I look like a deflated balloon.” She put a hand against his rock-hard chest. “You’re eight years older than I am and you’re in perfect shape.” He started to laugh. “I thought you were trying to cover a tattoo or something. Mel, I didn’t have two children, a year apart. Emma’s only a few months old. Give yourself a little time, huh?” “I can’t help it. I miss my old body.” “Oh-oh,” he said, putting his arms around her. “If you’re thinking like that, I’m not doing my job.” “But it’s true,” she said, laying her head against the soft mat of hair on his chest. “Mel, you are more beautiful every day. I love your body.” “It’s not what it was…” “Hmm. But it’s better,” he said. He tugged at the towel and she hung on. “Come on,” he said. She let go and he pulled it away. “Ah,” he said, smiling down at her. “This body is amazing to me—incredible. More lush and irresistible every day.” “You can’t mean that,” she said. “But I do.” He leaned down and touched her lips with his, one hand on her breast, the other moving smoothly down her back and over her bottom. “This body has given me so much—I worship this body.” He lifted her breast slightly. “Look,” he said. “I can’t bear it,” she complained. “Look, Mel. Look in the mirror. Sometimes when I see you like this, uncovered, I can’t breathe. Every small change just makes you better, more delicious to me. You can’t think I’d have anything but complete admiration for the body that gave me my children. You give me so much pleasure, sometimes I think I might be losing my mind. Baby, you’re perfect.” “I’m twenty pounds heavier than when you met me,” she said. He laughed at her. “What are you now? A size four?” “You don’t know anything. It’s much more than a four. We’re headed for double digits…” “God above,” he said. “Twenty more pounds for me to gobble up.” “What if I just keep getting fatter and fatter?” “Will you still be in there? Because it’s you I love. I love your body, Mel, because it’s you. You understand that, right?” “But…” “If I had an accident that blew my legs off, would you stop loving me, wanting me?” “Of course not! That’s not the same thing!” “We’re not our bodies. We’ve been lucky with our bodies, but we’re more than that.” “It was my butt in a pair of jeans that got your attention….” “My love for you is a lot deeper than that, and you know it. However—” he grinned “—you still knock me out in those jeans. If you’ve gained twenty pounds, it went to all the right places.” “I’m thinking—tummy tuck,” she said. “What nonsense,” he said, leaning down to cover her mouth in a bold and serious kiss.

The kid working—Grace’s use of the term working being overly generous here—behind the counter had a white fuzz pellet under his chin, hair dyed a color that’d intimidate Crayola, and enough piercings to double as a wind instrument. One of those wrap-around-low headphones snaked around the back of his neck. The music was so loud that Grace could feel it in her chest. He had tattoos, lots of them. One read STONE. Another read KILLJOY. Grace thought that a third should read SLACKER.

Vern was a large man, broad shouldered and big bellied, with a double chin, bushy eyebrows, and thinning brown hair slicked flat in one piece with mousse across his beach-ball head. Hannah imagined that if one were able to get a fingernail delicately under an edge of the stiffened hair, it would lift off the top of his head like the lid on a tin of ship’s biscuits.

Conscience renders one as unfit for the revolution as a double chin. Conscience eats through the brain like a cancer, until the whole of the grey matter is devoured.

Unlike juicy fruits and berries, which invite you to eat them right away before they spoil, nuts protect themselves with a hard, almost stony shell and a green, leathery husk. The tree does not mean for you to eat them right away with juice dripping down your chin. They are designed to be food for winter, when you need fat and protein, heavy calories to keep you warm. They are safety for hard times, the embryo of survival. So rich is the reward that the contents are protected in a vault, double locked, a box inside a box.

In B-3 section, Haffenden may have commanded over one hundred investigators from the New York District Attorney’s Office, FBI agents, and cops who had joined the war effort, but Haffenden himself was never a member of law enforcement of any kind. He had been a good-looking man in his youth, with a poise and cunning in his eyes, but now he wasn’t sleeping, and he wasn’t placing much emphasis on keeping himself in shape and healthy. He was now completely devoted to his job. His dark hair was mostly gone. His waistline was expanding, he had a double chin, and his only exercise was a weekly golf game. His face still lit up, as he always found energy in leadership. He gave off an infectious enthusiasm, and exuded confidence well beyond his abilities. He was also creative, and equipped with an imagination that was so extravagant that at times it had to be reined in by his superiors. At other times, it manifested into strokes of pure genius.

It caught Ike in the solar plexus, and he felt a spasm ripple through his midsection like he’d been tased. He fell back against the truck. Light-Skinned had recovered somewhat and was advancing on him from the left. Acting purely on instinct honed from hundreds of throwdowns, inside and on the street, Ike grabbed the passenger door, opened it with deft fingers, and slammed it into Light-Skinned. The bottom of the door caught him in the shin, and he immediately dropped to one knee like he was about to propose. Mini-Afro caught Ike in the chin with a two-piece combo. Black stars twinkled in front of Ike’s eyes. Grunting, he launched himself at Mini-Afro. They collided like a pair of mountain goats. Ike hooked the other man’s leg with his own as he executed a tangled pirouette. They fell to the ground in a twisted conflagration of arms and legs and fists. Light-Skinned was back to his feet, and this time he was holding a collapsible baton. Ike ended up on top of Mini-Afro. Ike hit him with a right cross, then a right elbow strike. Mini-Afro’s nose flattened against his face like a jellyfish. Blood flowed unfettered from both his nostrils and into his mouth. Ike doubled up on him. Two fast brutal punches that closed the man’s left eye like a curtain. Then Ike’s world exploded in a nuclear flash of white light and searing pain so intense he thought he was going to vomit.