Ear Buds Quotes

I brought music." I pull my iPhone and ear buds out of my bra and plug them in my ears. "What else do you have in there?

Because memory…is everything. Physically speaking, a memory is nothing but a specific combination of neurons firing together—a symphony of neural activity. But in actuality, it’s the filter between us and reality. You think you’re tasting this wine, hearing the words I’m saying, in the present, but there’s no such thing. The neural impulses from your taste buds and your ears get transmitted to your brain, which processes them and dumps them into working memory—so by the time you know you’re experiencing something, it’s already in the past. Already a memory.

From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom…It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again. What? How? Why? This singing she heard that had nothing to do with her ears. The rose of the world was breathing out smell. It followed her through all her waking moments and caressed her in her sleep.

You don't take music seriously if you wear your left ear bud in your right ear and your right ear bud in your left ear.

How nice for you. Now I want you to promise me that if I move, you won't do something stupid." Macey was just starting to protest when Hale stopped and brought his hand to his ear. "Besides, there's someone who wants to talk to you." He held out the extra earbud, whispering softly in the too quiet room. "It goes in your ear and---" But before he could finish, Macey rolled her eyes and placed the bud in her ear. "This is peacock," she whispered. She watched Hale's eyes go wide as she heard a very familiar voice say, "You're not getting extra credit for this. Now"---Macey's teacher took a long, easy breath---"whats going on in there?

From p. 40 of Signet Edition of Thomas Wolfe's _You Can't Go Home Again_ (1940): Some things will never change. Some things will always be the same. Lean down your ear upon the earth and listen. The voice of forest water in the night, a woman's laughter in the dark, the clean, hard rattle of raked gravel, the cricketing stitch of midday in hot meadows, the delicate web of children's voices in bright air--these things will never change. The glitter of sunlight on roughened water, the glory of the stars, the innocence of morning, the smell of the sea in harbors, the feathery blur and smoky buddings of young boughs, and something there that comes and goes and never can be captured, the thorn of spring, the sharp and tongueless cry--these things will always be the same. All things belonging to the earth will never change--the leaf, the blade, the flower, the wind that cries and sleeps and wakes again, the trees whose stiff arms clash and tremble in the dark, and the dust of lovers long since buried in the earth--all things proceeding from the earth to seasons, all things that lapse and change and come again upon the earth--these things will always be the same, for they come up from the earth that never changes, they go back into the earth that lasts forever. Only the earth endures, but it endures forever. The tarantula, the adder, and the asp will also never change. Pain and death will always be the same. But under the pavements trembling like a pulse, under the buildings trembling like a cry, under the waste of time, under the hoof of the beast above the broken bones of cities, there will be something growing like a flower, something bursting from the earth again, forever deathless, faithful, coming into life again like April.

What’s the reach on these ear buds?” Zane asked. He refused to slow down, and for once Nick was glad for the man’s stubbornness. “You got to be in a mile range of the hand unit,” Digger answered. “If Ty’s got his unit on him, we should be able to hear him and he should be able to hear us.” “So we can’t hear him, that means he dropped his radio?” Owen asked. “Or his ear bud. Or he went into the drink. Or he’s underground. Or he’s behind lots of concrete. Or somewhere the signal’s getting jacked.” “Digger!” “What? They ain’t military grade. Damn.

I plugged my ear buds into my phone and put Keane on shuffle. Those boys always knew how to speak to my mind.

Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower's half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor.

Janie had spent most of the day under a blossoming pear tree in the back-yard. She had been spending every minute that she could steal from her chores under that tree for the last three days. That was to say, ever since the first tiny bloom had opened. It had called her to come and gaze on a mystery. From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom. It stirred her tremendously. How? Why? It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again. What? How? Why? This singing she heard that had nothing to do with her ears.

We imagine always when we speak that it is our own ears, our own mind, that are listening. The truth which one puts into one's words does not carve out a direct path for itself, it is not irresistibly self-evident. A considerable time must elapse before a truth of the same order can take shape in them.

He gave us taste buds, then filled the world with incredible flavors like chocolate and cinnamon and all the other spices. He gave us eyes to perceive color and then filled the world with a rainbow of shades. He gave us sensitive ears and then filled the world with rhythms and music. Your capacity for enjoyment is evidence of God's love for you. He could have made the world tasteless, colorless, and silent. The Bible says that God "richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment." He didn't have to do it, but he did, because He loves us.

It's okay not to love us. " I kept my face buried in my pillow, yet my ears were on full alert. "And I'm not going to say that I love you, because I haven't known you long enough to feel that way. I like you very much and I want you to be my daughter forever, but love is something that grows with shared experiences. I feel the buds of love growing, but it hasn't blossomed yet." I could not believe she was being so honest. She took a long breath. "There is nothing we can say to make you believe we'll be here for you. You'll only learn it by living with us year after year.

The trees are budding their new leaves and a thought comes into my head. They have a kind of rhythm in their upright trunks and their branches that start thick and then divide and get narrower and lighter and faster till they quiver in the air like breath past a clarionet reed. That is a rhythm you can see, not hear. Perhaps music happens elsewhere than in ears.

Her attention was drawn to a movement in the woods in the direction of the river. The trees were slowly coming back into bud, but they were still bare enough that she could make out a shape. "Moose," she said, almost in a whisper. "Moose. Moose." She tugged Nate's sleeve. "Moose," she repeated. The object moved away, out of sight. Stevie blinked. It had just been there, the massive antlers moving through the trees. "My moose," she said in a low voice. "I finally got it. The universe paid me in moose." With one backward glance at the magical spot, Stevie Bell resumed walking toward her class. Anatomy was still ahead of her. Lots of things were ahead of her, but this one was the closest. "That wasn't a moose, was it?" Janelle said when Stevie was out of earshot. "That's a branch, right? It moved in the wind?" "It's a branch," Nate replied. "Like, that's obviously a branch," Vi said. "Should we tell her? She seems really invested in this." "Definitely not," Nate said as Stevie vanished in the direction of the classroom buildings, earbuds already in her ears. "Let her have her moose.

God speed fair Helena! whither away? HELENA Call you me fair? that fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching: O, were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I'd give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart. HERMIA I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HELENA O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HERMIA I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HELENA O that my prayers could such affection move! HERMIA The more I hate, the more he follows me. HELENA The more I love, the more he hateth me. HERMIA His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HELENA None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

Because memory…is everything. Physically speaking, a memory is nothing but a specific combination of neurons firing together—a symphony of neural activity. But in actuality, it’s the filter between us and reality. You think you’re tasting this wine, hearing the words I’m saying, in the present, but there’s no such thing. The neural impulses from your taste buds and your ears get transmitted to your brain, which processes them and dumps them into working memory—so by the time you know you’re experiencing something, it’s already in the past. Already a memory.” Helena leans forward, snaps her fingers. “Just what your brain does to interpret a simple stimulus like that is incredible. The visual and auditory information arrive at your eyes and ears at different speeds, and then are processed by your brain at different speeds. Your brain waits for the slowest bit of stimulus to be processed, then reorders the neural inputs correctly, and lets you experience them together, as a simultaneous event—about half a second after what actually happened. We think we’re perceiving the world directly and immediately, but everything we experience is this carefully edited, tape-delayed reconstruction.

I'm fine. I'm fine, he says, and fine, fine repeats in his head as he escapes back into the chill. Around him, a spin of bodies in dark coats, tapping thumbs on pads, pressing phones to heads, settling buds into ear canals, projecting an invisible shield of music as they move through the crowd, digital companionship warmer than the bodies around them. Every soul on the street is sunk within its body. Sometimes Bit imagines that he, alone, bears witness to the world.

Patrice leaned to one side and put her ear to the trunk of a birch tree. She could hear the humming rush of the tree drinking from the earth. She closed her eyes, went through the bark like water, and was sucked up off the bud tips into a cloud.

In our part of the country, spring passes quickly. If you haven't been out for five days, you find the trees in bud. If you don't see the trees for another five days, you discover that they've put out leaves. In another five days, they're so green you wouldn't recognize them. It makes you wonder: Can these be the same trees I saw a few days before? And you answer yourself: Of course they are. That's how fast spring goes by. You can almost see it. From far away it comes racing toward you. And when it reaches you it whispers in your ear, 'I'm here,' and then runs swiftly on. Spring - what a rush it's in. Every place seems to be urging it to come. If it delays its arrival a bit, the sunlight fades and the earth turns to stone. Trees especially can't endure any delay. Let spring dally even briefly on the way, and many lives are lost. ("Spring In A Small Town")

You know those people, just so fucking happy to be alive, bouncing down the street, buds in their ears and faces repulsive with pleasure as they belt out the lyrics to some noxious Motown classic. I’ve gotten bold, bumping them with my enormous bag as I pass by, savoring their outraged “Hey!” behind me. No one gets to be that happy.

Innocence isn't something you should discard like an old shoe. It has a physical value—a passionate value—all its own." His frown deepening, he kept his gaze fixed on his leader's ears. "Innocence shouldn't be tarnished, it shouldn't be crushed. It should be made to bloom. I know." Those last two words were as much realization as assurance. "Getting innocence to bloom takes time, takes care and attention and expertise." His voice deepened. "It takes passion and desire, commitment and devotion to coax innocence from bud to bloom, to encourage it to unfurl into full flower without a single petal bruised.

The Drunken Gnat You are the soul of the soul, a door that opens into existence. When separation makes us angry, you strike with a sword. When union becomes vague, you feed it with a vast nothing. Old civilizations start to flourish again. The March sun warms the world with singing. Tambourine and harp, branches covered with buds. Is anyone sober enough to speak with the king? No one. All right. Remember how a gnat once got drunk and walked into the ear of a terrible tyrant, then from there into his brain and killed him? Grape-wine can do that to a gnat. What will the wine of infinity do for us? A cave dog watched over the sleepers. If a dog can be a shepherd, what could the spirit-lion of a human being become? Sparks from a fire lift in the sky and turn to stars. Shams is now a depth of truth that rises every morning in the east.

Our ears are built for a quiet world. Evolution did not foresee that one day humans would insert plastic buds in their ears and subject their eardrums to a hundred decibels of melodic roar across a span of millimeters.

You’re beautiful.” Blake said hello as he’d said goodbye. “You said that already,” Livia mouthed over the banging music. Blake just shrugged. He flashed Livia a shy smile and held out the pink napkin to her. He’d turned it into a beautiful, perfect rose bud with a single leaf. Livia took the rose from his hand and turned it over carefully. He’d pinched tiny thorns into the paper stem. Livia put it to her nose as if to smell it. She realized he was waiting. “You’re beautiful,” Livia mouthed. She would have hugged the rose if it weren’t so delicate. She hugged him instead. With her ear so close, Blake was able to murmur into it. “May I have this dance?

things were created by God and for God, no exceptions. Every note of music. Every color on the palette. Every flavor that tingles the taste buds. Arnold Summerfield, the German physicist and pianist, observed that a single hydrogen atom, which emits one hundred frequencies, is more musical than a grand piano, which only emits eighty-eight frequencies. Every single atom is a unique expression of God’s creative genius. And that means every atom is a unique expression of worship. According to composer Leonard Bernstein, the best translation of Genesis 1:3 and several other verses in Genesis 1 is not “and God said.” He believed a better translation is “and God sang.” The Almighty sang every atom into existence, and every atom echoes that original melody sung in three-part harmony by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Did you know that the electron shell of the carbon atom produces the same harmonic scale as the Gregorian chant? Or that whale songs can travel thousands of miles underwater? Or that meadowlarks have a range of three hundred notes? But the songs we can hear audibly are only one instrument in the symphony orchestra called creation. Research in the field of bioacoustics has revealed that we are surrounded by millions of ultrasonic songs. Supersensitive sound instruments have discovered that even earthworms make faint staccato sounds! Lewis Thomas put it this way: “If we had better hearing, and could discern the descants [singing] of sea birds, the rhythmic tympani [drumming] of schools of mollusks, or even the distant harmonics of midges [flies] hanging over meadows in the sun, the combined sound might lift us off our feet.” Someday the sound will lift us off our feet. Glorified eardrums will reveal millions of songs previously inaudible to the human ear.

Billy leaned back in the chair. After a while he threw up one hand. I cant believe my goddamn ears. I think I’m the one that’s gone crazy. I’m a son of a bitch if I dont. Have you lost your rabbit-assed mind? I’m an absolute son of a bitch, bud. I never in my goddamn life heard the equal of this.

Just ignore him.” Theo elbows me and mumbles, “You know he’s trying to throw you off.” “You’re smart for a baby, Theo.” He smiles and elbows me a little harder. His dad, a world-famous bull rider from Brazil, was my mentor, until a bull took him from us. So, I’ve taken Theo under my wing, and I make it my business to see him succeed. To give him all the support his old man gave to me once upon a time. “Ready, old man?” He removes his ear buds and comes to stand in front of me. He pulls me up and then we’re off, walking through the staging area toward the din of the crowd and the flashing lights in the ring.

right, time to get this shit over with. Club 24 was an up and coming chain and I needed a new gym anyway. I used to go to the gym with my ex, Travis, or as Ryan liked to call him now, TravAss. I really hoped that I would never have to see him again, so thankfully this gym opened over a month ago and was close to work and home. The gym was packed with the usual after-work crowd, but there were two treadmills open next to each other. Claiming one of them for myself, I popped in my iPod ear buds and started to walk briskly for my warm-up. Listening to music while running always seemed to clear my head and right now I needed to let my mind go numb. After running for five minutes,

The Valley Weeps Weep softly o mother, the walls have ears you know... The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him any more. The streets are awash o mother with blood and tears, pellets and screams. that silently remain locked in the air, while they lock us souless inside. The guns are out o mother, while our boys go armed with stones, I cannot go looking for him o mother, I have no courage to face what i will find. They fill the air o mother, The fragrance of plastic flowers I will place them beside your grave if i ever do survive, flowers that have no soul. and would never fade with time, The sun shines glorious o mother The water sparkles so fine The buds are closed in terror and birds have gone silent with fear There is poison in our heaven o mother I dread for what more is in store. They came for him o mother, yesterday as you slept inside, He went marching o mother with all the others beside. I never told you o mother, I do not know if he would ever return. The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him any more. Weep softly o mother, the walls have ears you know... If your old blind eyes can see, You will want to see again no more. Our men have lost their spirit Our women have lost their smile, Our children have lost their laughter, The valley has lost its shine, Weep softly O mother For, we still have our pride. 17/07/2016

Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower’s half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor.

All the expressions that are possible crossed its face, as if its thoughts were wise and limitless one moment, daft and animal the next. And Liga too was pulled towards awe, that this little girl-thing gave off such an air of being entitled, and then towards pity at its abjectness and its frailty and-how soft it was, the surface of it, and so warm! She could not believe the tiny makings of its mouth, or its perfected eyelashes, its ears like uncrumpling buds, all down and tenderness. She was full of the joy of her father being gone-that she could sit like this all night if she wanted, not bothered or harangued, without a remark from any other person, and watch this creature busy with its morsel of life, its scrap of sleep, its breaths light as moth-wings lifting its narrow red chest.

The Garden of Proserpine" Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.

The brain is connected to the sense organs—eyes, ears, taste-buds, etc.—by means of cables called sensory nerves. The workings of the sensory systems are particularly baffling, because they can achieve far more sophisticated feats of pattern-recognition than the best and most expensive man-made machines; if this were not so, all typists would be redundant, superseded by speech-recognizing machines, or machines for reading handwriting. Human typists will be needed for many decades yet.

Well, well, well, what have we here?” he asks. My mouth falls open. Tucker leans in the window, grinning from ear to ear. Oh yes, it can get more humiliating. “Hey, Carrots,” he says. “Jeff.” He nods to my brother like the two are best buds. Jeffrey nods back. Mum smiles up at him. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says. “I’m Maggie Gardner.” “Tucker Avery,” he says. “You’re Wendy’s brother.” “Yes, ma’am.” “We could really use some help,” she says sweetly as I slump down in the seat and wish I was dead. “Sure thing. Just sit tight.

I thumped her on the back, picked her up and dropped her on top of her dungarees. “Put them pants on,” I said, “and be a man.” She did, but she cried quietly until I shook her and said gently, “Stop it now. I didn’t carry on like that when I was a little girl.” I got into my clothes and dumped her into the bow of the canoe and shoved off. All the way back to the cabin I forced her to play one of our pet games. I would say something—anything—and she would try to say something that rhymed with it. Then it would be her turn. She had an extraordinary rhythmic sense, and an excellent ear. I started off with “We’ll go home and eat our dinners.” “An’ Lord have mercy on us sinners,” she cried. Then, “Let’s see you find a rhyme for ‘month’!” “I bet I’ll do it … jutht thith onthe,” I replied. “I guess I did it then, by cracky.” “Course you did, but then you’re wacky. Top that, mister funny-lookin’!” I pretended I couldn’t, mainly because I couldn’t, and she soundly kicked my shin as a penance. By the time we reached the cabin she was her usual self, and I found myself envying the resilience of youth. And she earned my undying respect by saying nothing to Anjy about the afternoon’s events, even when Anjy looked us over and said, “Just look at you two filthy kids! What have you been doing—swimming in the bayou?” “Daddy splashed me,” said Patty promptly. “And you had to splash him back. Why did he splash you?” “ ’Cause I spit mud through my teeth at him to make him mad,” said my outrageous child. “Patty!” “Mea culpa,” I said, hanging my head. “ ’Twas I who spit the mud.” Anjy threw up her hands. “Heaven knows what sort of a woman Patty’s going to grow up to be,” she said, half angrily. “A broad-minded and forgiving one like her lovely mother,” I said quickly. “Nice work, bud,” said Patty. Anjy laughed. “Outnumbered again. Come in and feed the face.

Stalker The light so thick nothing’s visible, cognoscenti I knew them, stupid apes. Real apes know more Before we said apes. I know how to be you bet- ter — a stupid voice. You must find a mind to respect — why? There was someone with ear buds, speaking gibberish who wouldn’t stop walking beside me; freckle-spattered. I had to ask the métro attendant for help; she extricated him from me ... I respect his chaotic speech, mild adhesive force because it makes no sense. I am back on the alley, discovering adults are un- trustworthy: someone’s lying ... about a fight between a teenage girl and boy — he pushed her hard — first she badly scratched him, she’s worse, his mother says. I’m back at pre-beginning, I don’t want to go through that again. There is no sexuality in chaos, there’s no style, nor hope. I want style — apes have style, people have machines. Show me something to respect This bleuet growing out of a wall on rue d’Hauteville. I picked it and pressed it in a diary. Every once in a while I respect a moment. I am back at pre-beginning: I don’t want to care beyond this ... sudden hue in the sand, yellow or spotted with an hallucinated iridescence. The one who is stalking me ... there has often been someone stalk- ing me. My destiny. He’s gone, stay here in this, I can’t be harmed if I’m the only one who’s thought of being here. Aren’t you lonely? I don’t know.

eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue’s sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching: O, were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I’d give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart. Hermia I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. Helena O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! Hermia I give him curses, yet he gives me love. Helena O that my prayers could such affection move! Hermia

I couldn't stop picturing you naked and wet." "If you knew the things you've done in my imagination..." "I touched myself while thinking of you." He groaned against her lips. "Jesus Christ, that's one of them." She whimpered in protest as his fingers withdrew from her body. He slid his hands to her bottom and lifted her off her feet, carrying her across the room, to where a floor-length mirror in a thick gilded frame stood propped against the wall. It must have been too heavy to move. He spun her to face it, positioning himself behind her. Their gazes locked in the mirrored reflection. His eyes were dark, fierce, demanding. "Show me." He yanked her skirts to her waist- frock, petticoat, chemise, and all- exposing her completely. "Show me how you touched yourself." Penny's heartbeat stalled. The gruff command both scandalized and excited her. With a rough flex of his arms, he hauled her to him. His erection throbbed against the small of her back. "Show me." Penny stared into the mirror. A bolder, naughtier version of herself gazed back. She placed a hand on her belly and eased it downward, until her fingertips disappeared into a thatch of amber curls. She hesitated, holding her breath. "More," he demanded. "I want to see you." His gruffness aroused her, but she wasn't intimidated. With him, she knew she was safe. She raised her free arm above her head, clasping his neck for balance and resting her head against his chest. He wrapped his arm about her torso, holding her tight and pinning her lifted skirts at the waist. Her joints softened, and her thighs fell slightly apart. "That's it. Spread yourself for me. Let me see." The woman in the mirror did as she was told, sending her fingers downward to part the pink, swollen folds of her sex. A single fingertip settled over the sensitive bud at the crest, circling gently. His ragged breath warmed her ear. "God, you're beautiful." She stared at the reflection, transfixed by the eroticism of the image within. She felt like a woman in a boudoir painting, flushed with desire and unashamed of her body's curves and shadows. Aware of the power she held, even in her vulnerable, naked state. As her excitement mounted, she strummed faster. She was panting, arching her back.

In the Thriving Season In memory of my mother Now as she catches fistfuls of sun riding down dust and air to her crib, my first child in her first spring stretches bare hands back to your darkness and heals your silence, the vast hurt of your deaf ear and mute tongue with doves hatched in her young throat. Now ghost-begotten infancies are the marrow of trees and pools and blue uprisings in the woods spread revolution to the mind, I can believe birth is fathered by death, believe that she was quick when you forgave pain and terror and shook the fever from your blood Now in the thriving season of love when the bud relents into flower, your love turned absence has turned once more, and if my comforts fall soft as rain on her flutters, it is because love grows by what it remembers of love.

Tobias emerges from a door hidden behind a length of white cloth. He flicks the cloth out of the way irritably before coming toward us and sitting beside me at the table in the Gathering Place. “Kang is going to meet with a representative of Jeanine Matthews at seven in the morning,” he says. “A representative?” Zeke says. “She’s not going herself?” “Yeah, and stand out in the open where a bunch of angry people with guns can take aim?” Uriah smirks a little. “I’d like to see her try. No, really, I would.” “Is Kang the Brilliant taking a Dauntless escort, at least?” Lynn says. “Yes,” Tobias says. “Some of the older members volunteered. Bud said he would keep his ears open and report back.” I frown at him. How does he know all this information? And why, after two years of avoiding becoming a Dauntless leader at all costs, is he suddenly acting like one? “So I guess the real question is,” says Zeke, folding his hands on the table, “if you were Erudite, what would you say at this meeting?” They all look at me. Expectantly. “What?” I say. “You’re Divergent,” Zeke replies. “So is Tobias.” “Yeah, but he doesn’t have aptitude for Erudite.” “And how do you know I do?” Zeke lifts his shoulder. “Seems likely. Doesn’t it seem likely?” Uriah and Lynn nod. Tobias’s mouth twitches, as if in a smile, but if that’s what it is, he suppresses it. I feel like a stone just dropped into my stomach. “You all have functional brains, last time I checked,” I say. “You can think like the Erudite, too.” “But we don’t have special Divergent brains!” says Marlene. She touches her fingertips to my scalp and squeezes lightly. “Come on, do your magic.” “There’s no such thing as Divergent magic, Mar,” says Lynn.

His tousled hair glittered like pagan gold as he pressed her to her back and dragged his open mouth over her flat stomach. Evie shook her head with groggy denial even as he bent her knees and pushed them upward. "Too tired," she said thickly, "I---wait, Sebastian---" His tongue searched her salty-damp flesh with assuaging licks, persisting until her protests died away. The gentle ministrations of his mouth lulled her into peace, her heartbeat slowing to measured beats. After long, patient minutes, he drew the swollen bud of her clitoris in his mouth and began to suckle and nibble. She jerked at the delicate aggression of his mouth. He drove her higher, his tongue flicking and swirling in a deliberate pattern, his arms clamping around her thighs. It seemed her body was no longer her own, that she existed only to receive this torment of pleasure. Sebastian... she could not voice his name, and yet he seemed to hear her silent plea, and in response he did something with his mouth that launched her into a series of incandescent climaxes. Every time she thought it was over, another ripple of sensation went through her until she was so exhausted that she begged him to stop. Sebastian rose over her, his eyes glittering in his shadowed face. She moved to welcome him, opening her legs, sliding her arms around the powerful length of his back. He nudged inside her swollen flesh, filling her completely. As his mouth came to her ear, she could hardly hear his whisper over the thumping of her heart. "Evie," came his dark voice, "I want something from you... I want you to come one more time." "No," she said weakly. "Yes. I need to feel you come around me." Her head rolled in a slow, negative shake across the pillow. "I can't... I can't..." "Yes, you can. I'll help you." His hand drifted along her body to the place where they were joined. "Let me deeper inside you... deeper..." She moaned helplessly as she felt his fingertips on her sex, skillfully manipulating her spent nerves. Suddenly she felt him sliding even farther as her excited body opened to accept him. "Mmm..." he crooned. "Yes, that's it... ah, love, you're so sweet..." He settled between her bent knees, into the cradle of her hips, driving hard and sure inside her. She encompassed him with her arms and legs, and buried her face in his hot throat, and cried out one last time, her flesh pulsing and tightening to bring him to shattering fulfillment. He shook in her arms, and clenched his hands into the warm spill of her hair as he gave himself over to her completely, worshipping her with every part of his body and spirit.

Again burst out that chant McKay had heard as he had floated through the mists upon the lake. Now, as then, despite his opened ears, he could distinguish no words, but clearly he understood its mingled themes - the joy of Spring's awakening, rebirth, with the green life streaming singing up through every bough, swelling the buds, burgeoning with tender leaves the branches; the dance of the trees in the scented winds of Spring; the drums of the jubilant rain on leafy hoods; passion of Summer sun pouring its golden flood down upon the trees; the moon passing with stately step and slow and green hands stretching up to her and drawing from her breast milk of silver fire; riot of wild gay winds with their mad pipings and strummings; - soft interlacing of boughs, the kiss of amorous leaves - all these and more, much more that McKay could not understand for it dealt with hidden, secret things for which man has no images. ("The Women Of The Woods")

Once I’m marked as the Hunter’s daughter, what man will ever love me? I won’t dare have children for fear they might turn out like him. No one will ever want me—ever!” “That’s not true!” Bud yelled. “I want you! I’ve always wanted you.” Holly choked, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Her pulse was roaring in her ears. Had she really heard that, or was it just her imagination? Bud groaned. Now he’d done it, but by God, he wasn’t taking any of it back. When she didn’t answer, he knew she was shocked. “Are you going to cry all night?” “No,” Holly said, then winced. She sounded like a damn mouse, squeaking in the dark. “Good. So keep your sweet ass in one piece and come home as soon as you can. Do you hear me?” “Yes.” “Good. Talk to you later.” Holly shivered. “Later.” The dial tone was suddenly buzzing in her ear. She dropped her phone and then covered her mouth with both hands, muffling her words. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, he did not just say that.” She bolted out of bed, dashed into the bathroom and flipped on the light. What she saw in the mirror made her wince. She looked like hell, with her hair all over the place, her eyes red and puffy, and her lips all swollen. “Bud Tate loves me,” she whispered. It was her best dream come true.

Ione III. TO-DAY my skies are bare and ashen, And bend on me without a beam. Since love is held the master-passion, Its loss must be the pain supreme — And grinning Fate has wrecked my dream. But pardon, dear departed Guest, I will not rant, I will not rail; For good the grain must feel the flail; There are whom love has never blessed. I had and have a younger brother, One whom I loved and love to-day As never fond and doting mother Adored the babe who found its way From heavenly scenes into her day. Oh, he was full of youth's new wine, — A man on life's ascending slope, Flushed with ambition, full of hope; And every wish of his was mine. A kingly youth; the way before him Was thronged with victories to be won; so joyous, too, the heavens o'er him Were bright with an unchanging sun, — His days with rhyme were overrun. Toil had not taught him Nature's prose, Tears had not dimmed his brilliant eyes, And sorrow had not made him wise; His life was in the budding rose. I know not how I came to waken, Some instinct pricked my soul to sight; My heart by some vague thrill was shaken, — A thrill so true and yet so slight, I hardly deemed I read aright. As when a sleeper, ign'rant why, Not knowing what mysterious hand Has called him out of slumberland, Starts up to find some danger nigh. Love is a guest that comes, unbidden, But, having come, asserts his right; He will not be repressed nor hidden. And so my brother's dawning plight Became uncovered to my sight. Some sound-mote in his passing tone Caught in the meshes of my ear; Some little glance, a shade too dear, Betrayed the love he bore Ione. What could I do? He was my brother, And young, and full of hope and trust; I could not, dared not try to smother His flame, and turn his heart to dust. I knew how oft life gives a crust To starving men who cry for bread; But he was young, so few his days, He had not learned the great world's ways, Nor Disappointment's volumes read. However fair and rich the booty, I could not make his loss my gain. For love is dear, but dearer, duty, And here my way was clear and plain. I saw how I could save him pain. And so, with all my day grown dim, That this loved brother's sun might shine, I joined his suit, gave over mine, And sought Ione, to plead for him. I found her in an eastern bower, Where all day long the am'rous sun Lay by to woo a timid flower. This day his course was well-nigh run, But still with lingering art he spun Gold fancies on the shadowed wall. The vines waved soft and green above, And there where one might tell his love, I told my griefs — I told her all! I told her all, and as she hearkened, A tear-drop fell upon her dress. With grief her flushing brow was darkened; One sob that she could not repress Betrayed the depths of her distress. Upon her grief my sorrow fed, And I was bowed with unlived years, My heart swelled with a sea of tears, The tears my manhood could not shed. The world is Rome, and Fate is Nero, Disporting in the hour of doom. God made us men; times make the hero — But in that awful space of gloom I gave no thought but sorrow's room. All — all was dim within that bower, What time the sun divorced the day; And all the shadows, glooming gray, Proclaimed the sadness of the hour. She could not speak — no word was needed; Her look, half strength and half despair, Told me I had not vainly pleaded, That she would not ignore my prayer. And so she turned and left me there, And as she went, so passed my bliss; She loved me, I could not mistake — But for her own and my love's sake, Her womanhood could rise to this! My wounded heart fled swift to cover, And life at times seemed very drear. My brother proved an ardent lover — What had so young a man to fear? He wed Ione within the year. No shadow clouds her tranquil brow, Men speak her husband's name with pride, While she sits honored at his side —

Melinda Pratt rides city bus number twelve to her cello lesson, wearing her mother's jean jacket and only one sock. Hallo, world, says Minna. Minna often addresses the world, sometimes silently, sometimes out loud. Bus number twelve is her favorite place for watching, inside and out. The bus passes cars and bicycles and people walking dogs. It passes store windows, and every so often Minna sees her face reflection, two dark eyes in a face as pale as a winter dawn. There are fourteen people on the bus today. Minna stands up to count them. She likes to count people, telephone poles, hats, umbrellas, and, lately, earrings. One girl, sitting directly in front of Minna, has seven earrings, five in one ear. She has wisps of dyed green hair that lie like forsythia buds against her neck. There are, Minna knows, a king, a past president of the United States, and a beauty queen on the bus. Minna can tell by looking. The king yawns and scratches his ear with his little finger. Scratches, not picks. The beauty queen sleeps, her mouth open, her hair the color of tomatoes not yet ripe. The past preside of the United States reads Teen Love and Body Builder's Annual. Next to Minna, leaning against the seat, is her cello in its zippered canvas case. Next to her cello is her younger brother, McGrew, who is humming. McGrew always hums. Sometimes he hums sentences, though most often it comes out like singing. McGrew's teachers do not enjoy McGrew answering questions in hums or song. Neither does the school principal, Mr. Ripley. McGrew spends lots of time sitting on the bench outside Mr. Ripley's office, humming. Today McGrew is humming the newspaper. First the headlines, then the sports section, then the comics. McGrew only laughs at the headlines. Minna smiles at her brother. He is small and stocky and compact like a suitcase. Minna loves him. McGrew always tells the truth, even when he shouldn't. He is kind. And he lends Minna money from the coffee jar he keeps beneath his mattress. Minna looks out the bus window and thinks about her life. Her one life. She likes artichokes and blue fingernail polish and Mozart played too fast. She loves baseball, and the month of March because no one else much likes March, and every shade of brown she has ever seen. But this is only one life. Someday, she knows, she will have another life. A better one. McGrew knows this, too. McGrew is ten years old. He knows nearly everything. He knows, for instance, that his older sister, Minna Pratt, age eleven, is sitting patiently next to her cello waiting to be a woman.

Feeling like a displaced person Laura struggles with being defined by her status as a widow. “Distracted by the word widow, which had taken root, budded and bloomed in her mind like a weed in a vacant lot, Laura opened the dictionary on her desk. Flipping past thousands of words, she used in every-day communication with family, friends, and acquaintances – those little black letters, symbols to express thoughts for the ear to hear and the heart to feel – she wondered, What words gave expression to her pain? What words described the sense of something lurking inside her, or the dark shadows stalking her mind? Widow: a five-letter word, preceded by words like wide, and widget and followed by words like widow’s peak, widow’s weeds, and widower. This little word – widow- in small case, had no business masquerading as a noun: a person, place or thing. In contrast, - widget, a small mechanical object, not a feeling thing, just an object – seemed an honest noun. Widow is not an object, she thought. “It’s a word so thin as to be nothing but a wisp of breath passing through one’s vocal cords and disappearing almost imperceptibly between one’s lips. It has no life of its own. It’s a mere label, and it could just as well be a piece of paper saying, chocolate cookies or best before date.

With a single, delicious thrust, he was inside her, and she belatedly realized that there was no pain, no discomfort as there had been the first time, but only a rich, welcome fullness that made her feel utterly complete. He stopped, seated to the hilt. "Are you all right, lovely?" "Yes, I'm quite wonderful," she said, her tone a mix of pleasure and awe. She shifted beneath him, and he groaned, moving against her several times before retreating until nothing but the very tip of him remained inside her, and she thought the loss of him might make her mad. "Gabriel," she sighed. "Please." He rewarded her, filling her again, pushing her further, higher, shifting and moving until the angle of his movements was perfect, and she cried out. He stopped, whispering in her ear teasingly, "Careful, Empress... you'll get us caught." Her eyes widened at his words, and he smiled. "It makes it even better, doesn't it... the threat of discovery?" As if to test her willpower, his fingers stroked just above where they were joined, skillfully playing in the nest of curls, finding the tight bud of pleasure there and stroking it until she was biting her lower lip to keep silent. And then he was moving again, building the sweet friction between them, coaxing her into abandon while whispering heated reminders to stay quiet. She couldn't stop herself, and he captured her mouth in a soul-stealing kiss to keep her from calling out as she shattered beneath him, pulsing around him, giving him a taste of heaven. And when she tore her lips from his to whisper "I love you," over and over like a litany, he was lost, too, barely controlling his own cries of pleasure as he spilled inside of her.

My greatest desire is to be human. In Islam, it is taught we are born man but we must evolve to be Human. To be human is to know compassion for others. to understand Ethics and morality, all of which we are born with but still must learn in practice.Our intellect does not make us human. Intelligence as shown that we separate ourselves more from humanity through our evolution of inventiveness than we have ever before. We depend on our gadgets to tell us to think and what to think. We have become servants of I-Phones and pads and computers and slaves to clocks that have now become our task master. We answer to alarms and "Tweets" and " FB Notifications like pavlovian dogs wagging our tails at each blip of a cybernetic announcement. We are further losing ourselves to technology that we thought would make our lives easier but has simply made it more complicated and filled it with less time for interaction with our fellow man because we have lost sight of verbal communication. Of being in eye contact with each other because our heads are leaning down into video screens and our ears are covered with sound buds.. We have become an extension of our devises when we should be an extension of each other in a real physical world and not the matrix of AI and computer stimuli we have become sadly slaves to. I want to be human and see the true smile of my friends and hear the real voice of their ideas and not typed words of color on a screen. I want to experience the knowledge of seeing my fellow men and woman talking verbally to each other and espousing real IDEAS and not merely replaying sound bytes hey have heard from the latest PROGRAMMING. I want to be HUMAN and know the Humanity of my brotherhood of HUMANS!

Wind in a Box" —after Lorca I want to always sleep beneath a bright red blanket of leaves. I want to never wear a coat of ice. I want to learn to walk without blinking. I want to outlive the turtle and the turtle’s father, the stone. I want a mouth full of permissions and a pink glistening bud. If the wildflower and ant hill can return after sleeping each season, I want to walk out of this house wearing nothing but wind. I want to greet you, I want to wait for the bus with you weighing less than a chill. I want to fight off the bolts of gray lighting the alcoves and winding paths of your hair. I want to fight off the damp nudgings of snow. I want to fight off the wind. I want to be the wind and I want to fight off the wind with its sagging banner of isolation, its swinging screen doors, its gilded boxes, and neatly folded pamphlets of noise. I want to fight off the dull straight lines of two by fours and endings, your disapprovals, your doubts and regulations, your carbon copies. If the locust can abandon its suit, I want a brand new name. I want the pepper’s fury and the salt’s tenderness. I want the virtue of the evening rain, but not its gossip. I want the moon’s intuition, but not its questions. I want the malice of nothing on earth. I want to enter every room in a strange electrified city and find you there. I want your lips around the bell of flesh at the bottom of my ear. I want to be the mirror, but not the nightstand. I do not want to be the light switch. I do not want to be the yellow photograph or book of poems. When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song. Terrance Hayes, Wind in a Box (Penguin, 2006) When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song

Cassie,” I growl at the young brunette. “How’s the sobriety?” Alex brought the submissive to us. She’s an addict that he councils at Transcend. I don’t want to be mean to her right now, especially since my best friend brought her here, but I’m furious and she’s an outlet. She can’t strike back. “Ninety days sober,” she says with pride. “That’s awesome,” I say enthusiastically and smile at her. “I love how we have to give fuck ups a medal when they behave. I would think it should go to those who never fuck up. What’s the incentive to behave if all you have to do is get shit-faced and steal shit for years and then ninety days on the straight-and-narrow we have to pat you on the back for being a good girl,” I say in a saccharine voice. She gazes at me with huge, glassy brown eyes. I can see the tears forming. Cassie worries her full bottom lip between her teeth and tries not to blink. “But hey, what do I know. It just seems like the system is flawed. The good little boys and girls just don’t get the recognition that a crack-whore thief gets,” I shrug. Cassie blinks and the surface of her tears breaks and they finally slide down her cheeks in shame. “But go you!” I shout sarcastically. I give her a thumbs up and walk down the hall. “Cold… that was just cold, dude,” Alex chuckles at me. That was so bad that I have to laugh or I’d puke. I shake my head as my belly contracts from laughter. “Score on my newest asshattery?” I ask my partner in crime. If I didn’t have him I’d scream. I’ll owe Master Marcus forever. He stripped me bare until Font was naked in the impact room at Brownstone I trained in. Alex walked in and shook my hand- instant best friend. “Ah…” He taps his chin in thought and the bastard tucks his black hair behind his ear. I growl at him because he did it on purpose. He knows how much I miss the feel of my hair swinging at my jawline. Alex arches a perfect brow above his aqua eye and smirks. He runs his hands through his hair and groans in pleasure. “8.5. It was a decent attempt, but you pulled your hit. You’re too soft. I bet you were scared you’d make her relapse.” “Yeah,” I say bashfully. “Not happening, bud. I’m just that fucking good. I better go do some damage control. Don’t hurt any more subs. Pick on the big bastards. They may bite back, but their egos are delicate.

He bent to kiss her stomach, so low that his chin brushed the triangle of curls. The tip of his tongue touched her skin, painting a delicate pattern. Her hips undulated, trying in vain to coax him lower, her entire body begging, Please down there down there. She felt as helpless as a jointed doll. Different parts of her were quivering, tensing, trembling, while her insides closed frantically on emptiness. He changed their positions with a quiet grunt of discomfort, until they were both lying on their sides, his head toward her feet. She felt him pull her top leg up and across, and then he relaxed with what sounded like a purr. As she felt him breathing between her thighs, she moaned, panted, licked her dry lips, wanting to say his name but afraid she might scream it. She tensed at the touch of his fingers, stroking lightly across the wet entrance of her body. All her consciousness focused on what he was doing, the fingertip that dipped very slightly into the pulsing cove. A teasing finger slid all the way inside and began to thrust in the slowest, gentlest rhythm possible, while her intimate muscles clenched and squeezed at the invasion, and her belly writhed. His breath rushed against the hard, tender bud of her clitoris in feathery tickles. It was heaven. It was torture. She wanted to kill him. He was the meanest, wickedest man who'd ever lived, the devil himself, and she would have told him so if she'd had the breath to spare. He added another finger, and a deep glow began at her core. The feeling spread through every limb and swept upward, until it burned in her face and throat, even at the lobes of her ears. It was beneath her arms, between her toes, at the backs of her knees, a radiant heat that kept climbing. His fingers curved gently inside and held her like that, and then, finally, she felt his mouth at her sex, his tongue stroking in catlike laps. It sent her into a climax unlike anything she'd ever felt, pure ecstasy without a precise beginning or end, a long open spasm that went on and on. A new surge of wetness emerged when his fingers finally withdrew. His tongue was strong and eager as he hunted for the taste of her, making her writhe. Her head came to rest close to his groin, her cheek brushing the satiny skin of his aroused flesh. Languidly she rubbed her parted lips along the rigid length, making him jolt as if he'd received an electric shock. Encouraged by his response, she took hold of the shaft with one hand and drew her tongue along it. When she reached the tip, she fastened her lips over the silkiness and salt taste, and sucked lightly. He groaned between her thighs. With his fingers, he spread her furrow wider, and nibbled at the taut, full center, flicked at it. She moaned, vibrating around the head of his shaft.

(Summer of 2010) Chiaz Natherth- It was just going to be a typical summer day. I am at the local watering hole with my bud Melvin Shezor; we were just there to gaze at the girl gaze, sitting on lawn chairs. I had warm lemonade in my right hand at the time. I am looking around at all the bodies that are bobbing in the water; they all just seem to blend. The lifeguard is blowing her whistle while screaming at the little kids that are running around. Some stunning bodies are smacking the cold blue water with great speed, from the high dive. But- there is no more perfect figure there than hers. Everyone else seems to fade away out of my vision, along with all the ear-shattering noises. Bryan Adams ‘Heaven’ is playing in the background, and it seemed to be pronounced to my senses. When I am looking at her, it is like she is moving in slow motion, swimming across the pool. She climbed up the ladder and out of the pool. Her body dripping with water… what a moment, there is even water dripping down her chest. She looks amazing in that petite pink bikini. I was thinking to myself, that is a very cute looking camel-toe you got showing there Nevaeh! I never knew that she had a heart-shaped belly button piercing, when did that happen? Also, I could tell that her swimsuit was made by her, just like most of the sun-dresses she wears in the summertime too. Because it was not like any others I have ever seen around, it is cute, somewhat skimpy, and tailored to her perfect body. The fabric was not meant to get wet, it was somewhat see-through, yet she did not know, though it looks very good what can I say. She is walking towards me while running her fingers through her long brown hair. ‘I was thinking this is too good to be for real.’ She walked by and said ‘hi!’ and I was at loss for words. She was already gone, but I still babbled something like ‘Ahh-he-oll-o.’ At that point, into the changing room, she went, and I just sat there trying to fathom what had just happened. Melvin Shezor- ‘Chiaz! Ah, Chiaz! Hello, earth to Chiaz, snap out of its dude.’ Chiaz Naztherth- ‘She is so fine! I would not mind having her on my arm.’ Melvin Shezor- ‘Yah, the man she is not bad. But- isn’t she into girls though. So, do you like Nevaeh?’ Chiaz Naztherth- ‘I do not think that she is, and well… Yes, did you see her in that swimsuit? She is adorable in every way.’ Melvin Shezor- ‘Really is that so? Go talk to her!’ Chiaz Naztherth- ‘No way!’ Melvin Shezor- ‘Why not, you pussy!’ Chiaz Naztherth- ‘If Alissa finds out that I like her, or even looked at her I am going to die.’ Melvin Shezor- ‘Ha, it sucks to be you man.’ Chiaz Natherth- ‘Hey, I will see you later, I got to go.’ (Text messages are going off… like crazy) Melvin Shezor- ‘Pu-ss-y!’ (Shouting as Chiaz Natherth is walking out the exit gate.) (Chiaz- He just waved it off, with the finger that is not supposed to be used in public, and does not think any more about it from that point on.) Chiaz Naztherth- Summer is over! Yet she is with him… he is so unconfident in himself that he has to follow me around. He gives me vain advice on what to do, and how to do it, yet I would have to say I need to stand up for myself more than what I do, yet I do not because of her. He attempts to belittle me, with his words of temperament to her. These results lead to her having breakdowns, where she is feeling miserable because she is stuck in the middle. She does not know what to do! She doesn't know how to feel! She does not want to hurt anyone's feelings, yet she is the one that is left to choke on her tears. Yes, I will save you long before you drowned!

Brisbane had arrived! I had not seen him for nearly two months, and I was not prepared to wait a minute more. I fairly flew down the long drive, heedless of the stones cutting through my thin slippers. I had intended to walk to the village, but no sooner had I passed through the gates of the Abbey than I spied him crossing a field of young wheat, his hand brushing the top of the budding ears. I stopped, my heart rushing so quickly I thought it would fly right out of my chest. I opened my mouth, and found I could not speak. I could only stare at this magnificent figure of a man—a man who loved me just as I was, for all my foibles and faults, and I nearly choked with gratitude. There was something holy in that moment, and this is not a word I use lightly. I do not look for God within stone walls or listen for him in spoken scripture. But in that moment, some divine kindness settled over us, and it was that moment that I felt truly married to him. I stepped forward and opened my mouth again, but before I could call his name he jerked his head up, looking straight at me. I do not know if it was his second sight that told him I was there—the legacy of his Gypsy mother—but he looked at me and I saw him catch his breath before a smile stole over his face and he broke into a run. He caught me hard against him and the kiss we shared would have shamed the devil. When we spoke it was quickly, words tumbling over each other as we clung together. “I missed you,” I told him, and one ebony brow quirked up in response. “Really? I did not notice,” he said, casually removing my hand from inside his shirt. “I do not much care for your gadding about without me,” I told him. “I didn’t even know where you were.” “Paris,” he said promptly. “Wrapping up a counterfeiting case.” “To your satisfaction?” “Entirely, although it is not half as satisfying as this,” he added, applying himself to a demonstration of his affections. We broke apart, breathless and disheveled after a moment. “God, I have missed you,” he said, his voice rough in my ear.

I could see into the shadows, where the very blades of grass and the leaves and buds of plants were sharply defined though it was a dark night. I was acutely aware of my ears, hot, pulsing, and humming. Now fragrance took command, and I was struck with the scents of the evening. Unable to resist, I rolled on the ground, breathing in the wet tang of dewy grass and the musk of the mud in which it grew. I glided my muzzle through the blades, letting each soft edge tickle my nose. When I lifted it, I caught the delicate fragrance of wildflowers and the powdery sweetness of red clover. The aromas permeated my body as if I could smell with my eyes, my toes, and my tail. I detected the essence of living fowl on the feathers of a fallen bird, but was quickly distracted by the blood-warm effluvia of rabbits and voles wafting up from a small hole in the ground. The air carried the scent of wet leaves after a forest rain. My senses were torn in two, with one thing calling my attention into the air and another, even more compelling, back down to the earth. The miasma of fetid earth, God's creatures, and the aromatic night air swirled in my head and through my body, competing with a cacophony of noises that grew louder and louder. The muffled sound of my paws as they made contact with the ground resonated in my ears. I felt in my body the vibration of all things touching the earth- animals small and large, as they interacted with the same soil that I was treading. The rustle of leaves in the trees, the screech of the wind blowing the hairs on my face, the fluttering of bees' wings, the distant cry of an owl- I heard each as a distinct, sharp sound. My senses were in control of my body. I was a living machine that processed sights, smells, and sounds.

The latest bugs could be a tiny dot one might not notice on a credit card, and anyone could be placed as a cashier to have access to his card or ID. He’d know if someone stuck something up his ass or in his ear, though.

Applying nail polish is an art. You need non-shaky hands. And a calm and Zen-like nature. I am not calm and have but a nodding acquaintance with Zen. At the best of times, I’m not great at applying nail polish, and if anyone has attempted to apply nail polish when they are in a rush, they will understand the difficulties involved. Your hands will shake. Your hands will take the nail polish beyond the boundaries of your nail and onto the surrounding skin, you will carefully loop it off your skin with a handy ear bud, only to realise you have now got it onto your fingernails, which were also pale pink to begin with, but will now have to be made post-box red—you could never live down the indignity of mottled red and pink nail polish that looks like the visage of a rabid dog, and will spend the entire evening holding your hand petulantly behind your back and refusing to extend it even when you are being introduced to folk you cannot air-kiss and must shake hands with, aka senior corporate types.

Sherry sidles up next to me, whispering in my ear, “You’re chumming the water with your arrogance there, bud. Might wanna bring it down a notch.

Fun times. I’m on my bed, flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling. I’m not even pretending to scroll through my iPod library anymore. I popped the ear buds in with the intention

When man was in the world a wide-eyed boy, And clouds of sorrow crossed his sky of joy To scatter dewdrops on the buds of May. Then could he work and love and fight and pray, Nor heartsick grow in fortune's long employ. Mighty to build and ruthless to destroy He lived, while masked death unquestioned lay. Now ponder we the ruins of the years, And groan beneath the weight of boasted gain; No unsung bacchanal can charm our ears And lead our dances to the woodland fane, No hope of heaven sweeten our few tears And hush the importunity of pain.

Floyd hopped up on the loveseat next to me. "Hi, pal," I said, feeling a little drained. "Your mom should be back soon." His meow sounded like a whine. "I know the feeling. But maybe I can help you out?" When I went to the kitchen and cut up a scallop, he meowed again and went up on his hind legs, begging. "Did you just twirl?" I said, astonished. I sat back down on the sofa and put my hand out, and he became a little furry seafood vacuum. "I didn't know you could purr as you ate. That's kind of amazing." He headbutted my empty hand, and I took a hint and ran it through his silky fur. I dug my fingertips around his ears and chin, and he closed his eyes and purred even more loudly. "Such a good boy," I said, feeling a little better. "You like that? Is that, oof!" His big back feet drove the air out of me while he climbed onto my chest. "Jesus, cat, at least buy me a drink first." He ignored my smartass comment and stretched out from my thighs to my shoulders. "I guess this is me now. Your throne, forever." Green-gold eyes blinked slowly. "Are you smiling?" He rested his head under my chin and sighed. We hadn't had animals when I was a kid. Too messy, Mom said. Too needy, Dad said. But maybe this was the upside of being needed. Quiet, sweet moments like this one. "OK," I told him. "Just for a little bit." Ellie Was Kieran crooning? Maybe the wall of the cottage was distorting his voice? "That feels so good, doesn't it, bud? Such a big, nice cat. Yes, you are." Yes, he was. He rubbed Floyd's cheeks and my cat melted for him like fluffy butter.

A sudden blast rang through the air, vibrating the glass windows. A flock of black starlings burst from the maples lining the road. I flinched, sucking in a sharp breath of cold air and resisted the urge to drop to the cracked sidewalk. Surprise faded quickly and guilt churned deep within my gut. A sickening shame that was almost unbearable. So much regret. Angry at myself, I shoved the feeling aside. Emotions would only weaken me. A woman with gray hair who was walking her poodle next to me froze, her gaze pinned to the café. “My God, I think they’re being robbed!” I didn’t respond but continued down the sidewalk, forced my feet forward as she fumbled with her cell phone. Taking in a deep breath, I slipped the ear buds of my iPod into my ears. Home. I had to make it home before I was late, before nerves got the better of me and I

Headphones are to an introvert what the cloak of invisibility is to Harry Potter. Slipping them on is a way of becoming invisible. The bigger the headphones, the better. As a rule I’m against ear buds. The message they send is ambiguous: “I’m sort of listening to something, but you can still talk to me.” Give me headphones big enough for Dumbo, cans that say, “Don’t you dare try to talk to me right now.” You can tell how big an introvert someone is by how big their headphones are. At least you should be able to.

Give and share knowledge to the young and brave, For knowledge in this world comes for free, All you need is to keep your ears open, senses unbroken, taste buds ringing and keen eyes to see, Learn and help them learn in your lifetime too, So that like me in peace to the world you might say Adieu.

He found the hard bud of her clit with his thumb and began rubbing in a circle. “Is that what you like?” he whispered in her ear. “A slow rub on that pretty little button? Or do you want my fingers, pumping in and out of your pussy?

Stone’s voice came in Pike’s ear. “Movement.” They were on cell phones, each with a Bluetooth bud in his ear. They had satellite phones, but the regular cells were easier so long as they had a signal and military-grade GPS units. “No joy.” Meaning Pike didn’t see the vehicles. Stone had a better view, and was using binos. “Van’s backing out—” The dingy van crept into Pike’s sight line as Stone said it. Pike started the Jeep, and nosed toward the street. “Got’m. Cole on board?” “Affirm. Man, you gotta check the driver. This is one ugly fucker.” The

He wasn’t laughing now. When Zack lifted his eyes to Brody’s, he was hit with the full intensity of stormy gray. Not filled with amusement anymore but with something else. It sent heat down Zack’s spine and into his shoes. He wasn’t even listening to the beats, just frozen in place with the buds in his ears, fingers still pressed to Brody’s chest as they stared at each other. The humor of the moment fell away as Brody continued to stare, arms still folded behind his head, mouth set into a straight line.

Her eyes were closed to the sunlight flickering past the window, her ears plugged with tiny white buds, slender fingers tapping a steady moderato beat at odds with the easy sway in her shoulders. I couldn't hear the music, but as I watched, her body coiled around a deep breath, and the rhythm accelerated through the flat of her hand, and then her hips rocked to four powerful chords, and her head dropped loose on her shoulders, and she squeezed her knees together and drew in her feet, her calf muscles tautening and her ankle bones turning and then tendons in the back of her hand thumping time and the cords of her neck pulling the skin tight over her collarbones as her body snaked through what I heard in my head as Hugh Burns's guitar solo in "Baker Street" clear as day. And though confined to her seat, she danced unselfconsciously and without restraint, and every small movement in every small part of her—the life in her—was the most beautiful thing I thought I'd ever seen. I wanted to cup her gently in my hands and carry her home and keep her forever but, mindful of the probability that she might have other ideas, instead I closed my eyes and turned up the music in my head and, in spirit if not quite in body, danced with her instead.

life. For the Indians living inside the Rocky Mountain Range in the far North of Canada, the successful nutrition for nine months of the year was largely limited to wild game, chiefly moose and caribou. During the summer months the Indians were able to use growing plants. During the winter some use was made of bark and buds of trees. I found the Indians putting great emphasis upon the eating of the organs of the animals, including the wall of parts of the digestive tract. Much of the muscle meat of the animals was fed to the dogs. It is important that skeletons are rarely found where large game animals have been slaughtered by the Indians of the North. The skeletal remains are found as piles of finely broken bone chips or splinters that have been cracked up to obtain as much as possible of the marrow and nutritive qualities of the bones. These Indians obtain their fat-soluble vitamins and also most of their minerals from the organs of the animals. An important part of the nutrition of the children consisted in various preparations of bone marrow, both as a substitute for milk and as a special dietary ration. In the various archipelagos of the South Pacific and in the islands north of Australia, the natives depended greatly on shell fish and various scale fish from adjacent seas. These were eaten with an assortment of plant roots and fruits, raw and cooked. Taro was an important factor in the nutrition of most of these groups. It is the root of a species of lily similar to "elephant ears" used for garden decorations in America because of its large leaves. In several of the islands the tender young leaves of this plant were eaten with coconut cream baked in the leaf of the tia plant. In the Hawaiian group of islands the taro plant is cooked and dried and pounded into powder and then mixed with water and allowed to ferment for twenty-four hours, more or less, in accordance with the stiffness of the product desired. This is called poi

I reached over and grabbed my ear buds off the nightstand, crammed them into my ears, and connected them to my cellphone. The D-Bags blasted through my head. Kellan’s voice always soothed me. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the lyrics.

How’s your hand?” she asked, as she opened the driver’s side door. Bud tweaked her ear. “You are such a mother hen.” Holly grinned. “So shoot me. I’m practicing for the real thing.” Bud stumbled. The thought of someone else being the father of her children was physically painful. Holly grabbed his elbow, then slipped an arm around his waist to steady him. “See? You do need a keeper.” Bud gritted his teeth to keep from sweeping her into his arms. “As long as it was you, I guess I wouldn’t mind.

The Old Testament is the Gospel in the bud, the New Testament is the Gospel in full flower. The Old Testament is the Gospel in the blade; the New Testament is the Gospel in full ear.

February 2 The Constraint of the Call Woe is unto me, if I preach not the gospel! 1 Corinthians 9:16 Beware of stopping your ears to the call of God. Everyone who is saved is called to testify to the fact; but that is not the call to preach, it is merely an illustration in preaching. Paul is referring to the pangs produced in him by the constraint to preach the Gospel. Never apply what Paul says in this connection to souls coming in contact with God for salvation. There is nothing easier than getting saved because it is God’s sovereign work—“Come unto Me and I will save you.” Our Lord never lays down the conditions of discipleship as the conditions of salvation. We are condemned to salvation through the Cross of Jesus Christ. Discipleship has an option with it—“IF any man . . .” Paul’s words have to do with being made a servant of Jesus Christ, and our permission is never asked as to what we will do or where we will go. God makes us broken bread and poured-out wine to please Himself. To be “separated unto the gospel” means to hear the call of God; and when a man begins to overhear that call, then begins agony that is worthy of the name. Every ambition is nipped in the bud, every desire of life quenched, every outlook completely extinguished and blotted out, saving one thing only—“separated unto the gospel.” Woe be to the soul who tries to put his foot in any other direction when once that call has come to him. This College exists to see whether God has any man or woman here who cares about proclaiming His Gospel; to see whether God grips you. And beware of competitors when God does grip you.

Ears that listens can stand the terror in the wild caves

Harmon wasn’t a polished Ivy Leaguer like Cahill. He was tall, built like a brick shithouse, and he didn’t attend fancy parties. He usually drank alone in the decrepit back-alley bars of some of the worst hellholes in the world. He was a rough man with few attachments and only one purpose. When someone somewhere pushed the panic button, Harmon was what showed up. He had decided to meet the asset in Hong Kong. It made more sense than Shanghai and was much safer than Beijing, especially for a white guy. Harmon had chosen the coffee shop. A Starbucks knockoff. It was busy, with the right mix of Chinese and Anglos. People chatted on cell phones and pecked away at keyboards. They had buds in their ears and listened to music or watched videos on their devices. Whatever happened to a cup of coffee and a newspaper? Hell, he thought, whatever happened to newspapers?

They went at it. Their mouths a frantic, searching quest. As though they were trying to make up for thirty years of longing in this one kiss. He bit her lower lip and she raked her nails down his back. They tumbled to the bed, and his body was finally, deliciously covering hers. She arched. He surged. They rocked. She dug her nails into the base of his back. His hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb stroking over the nipple. She cried out, and he caught the sound with his lips. He ripped away from her, slid down her body, and captured her nipple with his lips, while his free hand snaked down into her yoga pants. He licked at the hard bud. Sucked. Her hips arched off the bed as he tugged harder and harder. When his teeth scraped over her oversensitive flesh, she keened and she couldn't stop the words from falling from her lips. "Jack. God. Jack. Yes. More." He groaned, the sound vibrating over her skin. He pulled her deeper into his mouth. His fingers slid down her waistband and into her panties. Her legs parted. His fingers brushed her clit. She bowed off the bed. He circled the bundle of nerves and lifted his head. "So damn wet." She could feel how wet she was, how slippery. "More." He pushed one long finger inside her, and kissed her, brushing his mouth over her lips. "You feel like heaven." She arched into his touch as his thumb relentlessly circled her clit. Around and around. Over and over. Until she thought she'd go mad with sheer need. "Jack. Please." He plunged two fingers inside her, hooking on a spot so good she lost focus. "Please what, Chlo?" His voice, oh God, his voice. Achingly familiar and yet strange all at once. He swiped over her flesh and she keened again as her body tightened. "Stop." Her head rolled back. "I'm going to come." He increased his pressure and whispered against the shell of her ear, "Then come.

The Under-Informed… I saw this continuously when I was a job seeker. I’d call a friend working for a great company and make the mistake of asking him, “Do you know of any good job opportunities at your company?” He responded, “Oh no, they’ve been eliminating jobs for years.” After hanging up, I went to his employer’s career site and found page upon page of good jobs, many of which I could apply for. When you worked for your last employer, did you know anything about open positions outside of your department? Unless you worked in HR or were actively looking for a new position there, you knew nothing. It’s easy to think, “They work there, and they’re closer to it than I am, so they should know.” In reality, they rarely know more than you. If they do know more, it’s rarely a full picture of all of the opportunities. TAKEAWAY 1. Don’t ask people who don’t know. 2. Don’t listen to people who don’t know. Believe me, everyone and their brother, cousin, great aunt (you get the idea) will be only too happy to give you their opinions. So, after you’ve read the resume section and created your resume, and one of these people tells you, “You’ve done it all wrong,” ask that person, “When was the last time you hired someone? When was the last time you interviewed someone?” If you don’t feel inclined to pose these questions, make a beeline for the door or turn up the volume on your ear buds. A few years ago when I was in between roles, I messaged a former co-worker and made the mistake of asking her about jobs in the Tampa Bay area. She replied, “There are no jobs in Tampa Bay.” She was obviously misinformed or at least under-informed, because I had a phone interview for a position in Tampa Bay the next day. In short, don’t be quick to assume that the people you’re communicating with are the best source of information. Do you really want to make what could be life-impacting decisions based on people whose knowledge is limited?

Let’s not tell her, then. It can be our secret. Think how surprised she’ll be when she sees you walking on four paws again.” Cinderpaw didn’t speak, but Jaypaw could detect a small flower of hope budding in her mind. “Okay,” she agreed at last. “We’ll start tomorrow.” Jaypaw felt jubilant. “You’ll be better in no time.” Cinderpaw flicked his ear with her tail. “If I don’t drown first.

People chatted on cell phones and pecked away at keyboards. They had buds in their ears and listened to music or watched videos on their devices. Whatever happened to a cup of coffee and a newspaper? Hell, he thought, whatever happened to newspapers?

To a Lady Reading" The whipsaw beloved noise of someone whispering right in your ear. That and the sudden small hillside of your left breast in your open hand. A caress so tender it makes the earth break under your feet. These sting the underneath of my tongue and though they are only words I love how they suggest a reality just outside the separate ordinary saying of them. How shy they appear exposed slowly on the page. How you might watch them. How you might actually pull your breasts out and over the silk cups and let them hang there now as you read, one hand holding my book. That image took me a half hour to write. This sentence especially moves tentatively as a fingertip. And this one is even slower lower softer and takes all day to go this little way. If you want me to, I’ll look. Or else turn away quietly and tell you how the night’s fat pulley creaks while the moon is hoisted up with rope. How dreams turn. How want burns. How tonight I just came up here and started to write not knowing where it would lead. Not knowing for sure if you ever reach late in the day and touch yourself and rock back a little in your chair and look out the window while the Tree of Desire buds blurry like a fire. Or ever think of me pulling your dress up over your head slowly from far away. From simple longing and sway.

I've counselled patients in discomfort. It's like talking to someone wearing ear buds. They're listening to a different conversation. When it gets bad, that other conversation floods their senses.

You think you’re tasting this wine, hearing the words I’m saying, in the present, but there’s no such thing. The neural impulses from your taste buds and your ears get transmitted to your brain, which processes them and dumps them into working memory—so by the time you know you’re experiencing something, it’s already in the past. Already a memory.

So Pike and his guys set up, dug in, and waited, night-vision goggles, commo buds in their ears, weapons locked and hot, good to go.

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Whether the class is large or small, lecture or seminar, onsite or online, it can be a challenge to get students to engage. Whether we are simply attempting to get students to show up or take out their ear buds, or alternately, trying to challenge students to use higher-order thinking, we are all facing the same question:

I didn't just feel it; I recorded each and every sensation. I can replicate each one. I will. I'll play it back plus ten for the pastardthat caused my love to fall. And before they go down, I'll wet the concrete with their brain mattter. I'll explode their marrow out of their bones and make a mess of their capillaries. I'll make a paste of their eyes, Yasmine, I promise. I'll make them bleed from their ears and turn their digestive system against them. They'll digest their own organs. I'll increase their pain receptors so that their clothes feel like sandpaper. I'll make their own breath soun d like a DC-10 is landing in their chest. I'll fill their longs with every excessive fluid in their body I can find. I'll make a decomposing mess of them, I swear I will. They'll pray to gods they don't belive in for the pain to end before I explode each taste bud in their mough and inflame their genitals with the stray parasites they immune system usually fights off.

Candy for your taste buds AND your earbuds! Music to your ears AND your taste buds! Sounds delicious! Now kids can finally play with their food! The only instrument you can eat! Now you just need the rest of the band! Chew to the tune! Hits the spot and the right note! It really plays! The musical treat! Music for your mouth! Chew in harmony! Candy never sounded so delicious! Tap your feet to the beat of this delicious treat! A new tune in every bite! Taste the tune! Play it and eat it! Music you can eat! It’s a melody in your mouth! Taste the music! A tune you love to chew to! The candy that strikes a chord! Such sweet music! A symphony of sweetness! It makes your taste buds sing! Play with your food! Sounds as good as it tastes! Tastes as good as it sounds! Bring harmony to the whole family! Play your troubles away, then eat them! Sounds great, tastes even better!