Em Waves Quotes

Ronald Reagan has a stack of three-by-five cards in his lap. He skids up a new one: "What advice do you, as the youngest American fighting man ever to win both the Navy Cross and the Silver Star, have for any young marines on their way to Guadalcanal?" Shaftoe doesn't have to think very long. The memories are still as fresh as last night's eleventh nighmare: ten plucky Nips in Suicide Charge! "Just kill the one with the sword first." "Ah," Reagan says, raising his waxed and penciled eyebrows, and cocking his pompadour in Shaftoe's direction. "Smarrrt--you target them because they're the officers, right?" "No, fuckhead!" Shaftoe yells. "You kill 'em because they've got fucking swords! You ever had anyone running at you waving a fucking sword?

George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her. Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called 'Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!' The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett, who stood brown against the view.

The Waves is an extraordinary achievement ... It is trembling on the edge. A little less - and it would lose its poetry. A little more - and it would be over into the abyss, and be dull and arty. It is her greatest book.

When we pulled in, the customs officer looked in the back. The back of the wagon was filled with cases stenciled PINK FLOYD--LONDON. 'Got Pink Floyd in the back of the car, do you?' he asked. 'Righto, mate. We shrunk 'em and stuck 'em in fookin' boxes, we did,' said Nigel. Amazingly, the customs officer laughed and waved us through.

Eccolo!” he exclaimed. At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end. “Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above. “Courage and love.” She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view, and violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems, collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth. Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man. But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone. George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her…

I hate to go mincing through life, afraid to take a single long step for fear somebody is watching. I want to "wave my wild tail and walk by my wild lone." There wasn't a bit of real harm in my opening that window and talking to Perry. There wasn't even any harm in his trying to kiss me. He just did it to tease me. Oh, I hate conventions. As you say, hang consequences.' 'But we can't hang 'em, Pussy - that's just the trouble. They're more likely to hang us.

She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second time. Paul and his mother, ripple and great wave, had flowed into her life and ebbed out of it forever. The ripple had left no traces behind: the wave had strewn at her feet fragments torn from the unknown. A curious seeker, she stood for a while at the verge of the sea that tells so little, but tells a little, and watched the outgoing of this last tremendous tide.

He waved away the whiskeybottle with a smile. In this tall room, the cracked plaster sootstreaked with the shapes of laths beneath, this barrenness, this fellowship of the doomed. Where life pulsed obscenely fecund. In the drift of voices and the laughter and the reek of stale beer the Sunday loneliness seeped away. Aint that right Suttree? What's that? About there bein caves all in under the city. That's right. What all's down there in em? Blind slime. As above, so it is below. Suttree shrugged. Nothing that I know of, he said. They're just some caves.

Ya live your life like it's a coma So won't you tell me why we'd wanna With all the reasons you give it's It's kinda hard to believe But who am I to tell you that I've Seen any reason why you should stay Matbe we'd be better off Without you anyway You got a one way ticket On your last chance ride Gotta one way ticket To your suicide Gotta one way ticket An there's no way out alive An all this crass communication That has left you in the cold Isn't much for consolation When you feel so weak and old But is home is where the heart is Then there's stories to be told No you don't need a doctor No one else can heal your soul Got your mind in submission Got your life on the line But nobody pulled the trigger They just stepped aside They be down by the water While you watch 'em waving goodbye They be callin' in the morning They be hangin' on the phone They be waiting for an answer When you know nobody's home And when the bell's stopped ringing It was nobody's fault but your own There were always ample warnings There were always subtle signs And you would have seen it comin' But we gave you too much time And when you said That no one's listening Why'd your best friend drop a dime Sometimes we get so tired of waiting For a way to spend our time An "It's so easy" to be social "It's so easy" to be cool Yeah it's easy to be hungry When you ain't got shit to lose And I wish that I could help you With what you hope to find But I'm still out here waiting Watching reruns of my life When you reach the point of breaking Know it's gonna take some time To heal the broken memories That another man would need Just to survive Guns N’ Roses, “Coma” (1991)

The entrance to the natural EM senses is now guarded by artificially monstrous EM waves carrying every kind of pattern irrelevant to nature, from TV sitcoms to defense radar broadcasts. It is as though we have covered the whole surface of the globe with a slum of slovenly, impalpable constructions during the past eighty years or so since Marconi. They are literally skyscrapers in as much as they touch the ionosphere and are reflected from it. They are tenements full of the disorderly displays of sitcoms and the sterile reflections of military radar.

The beauty ideal is always a youthful one. This is partly simple realism. The young are beautiful. The whole lot of ’em. The older I get, the more clearly I see that and enjoy it. But it gets harder and harder to enjoy facing the mirror. Who is that old lady? Where is her waist? I got resigned, sort of, to losing my dark hair and getting all this limp grey stuff instead, but now am I going to lose even that and end up all pink scalp? I mean, enough already. Is that another mole or am I turning into an Appaloosa? How large can a knuckle get before it becomes a kneejoint? I don’t want to see, I don’t want to know. And yet I look at men and women my age and older, and their scalps and knuckles and spots and bulges, though various and interesting, don’t affect what I think of them. Some of these people I consider to be very beautiful, and others I don’t. For old people, beauty doesn’t come free with the hormones, the way it does for the young. It has to do with bones. It has to do with who the person is. More and more clearly it has to do with what shines through those gnarly faces and bodies.

Frankie stayed off the stage for once, even when Daniel abandoned it for food. "I know when to sit it out," Frankie said, waving a chicken-laden fork first in his brother's direction and then toward the room. "Tonight I will let 'em watch and yearn.

We come up against beauty here — for the first time in our enquiry: beauty at which a novelist should never aim though he fails if he does not achieve it. I will conduct beauty to her proper place later on. Meanwhile please accept her as part of a completed plot. She looks a little surprised at being there, but beauty ought to look a little surprised: it is the emotion that best suits her face, as Botticelli knew when he painted her risen from the waves, between the winds and the flowers. The beauty who does not look surprised, who accepts her position as her due—she reminds us too much of a prima donna.

But this is something quite new!" said Mrs. Munt, who collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts, and was especially attracted by those that are portable. "New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it for years. You and I and the Wilcoxes stand upon money as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that we forget its very existence. It's only when we see someone near us tottering that we realize all that an independent income means. Last night, when we were talking up here round the fire, I began to think that the very soul of the world is economic, and that the lowest abyss is not the absence of love, but the absence of coin." "I call that rather cynical." "So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember, when we are tempted to criticize others, that we are standing on these islands, and that most of the others are down below the surface of the sea. The poor cannot always reach those whom they want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people and could not invoke railways and motor-cars to part them." "That's more like Socialism," said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. "Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one's hand spread open on the table. I'm tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed—from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don't want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them, and do steal them sometimes, and that what's a joke up here is down there reality—

I gave my children the kind of dreams they could live by, but dreams are like oceans, Mr. McGill. If they’re worth a damn they’re bigger than the dreamer, and sometimes, when the one dreaming wants to be as big as what they imagine, the wave pulls’em down.

Não acredito em separações. Não somos seres individuais. Para mais, tenho vontade de alargar a minha colecção de observações valiosas a respeito da verdadeira natureza humana. Por certo que a minha obra constará de muitos volumes e abrangerá de todos os tipos conhecidos de homens e mulheres.

Someone was listening outside his door. Mark closed his eyes and in his mind the monstrous waves soared high above their sails. He sang to soothe the water, but mostly he sang for the sailor who listened, and Laura, and Gale, and the ship. He could think of no greater honor than to sing in this place, where nothing lasted and everything mattered.

That’s Hades. He sometimes forgets basic manners.” “Don’t need ‘em where I live.” Razr snorted. “Don’t believe him. His mate keeps him in line. “Pfft.” Hades waved his hand in dismissal. “She knows who rules the roost.” Lilliana laughed. “Cat does.” Hades’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah.” Suddenly, he grinned and waggled his brows. “But she has sex with me, so it’s all good.

She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. “If Wilcoxes hadn’t worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn’t sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No — perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it.

The poor cannot always reach those whom they want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June, if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people, and couldn't invoke railways and motor-cars to part them." "That's more like Socialism," said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. "Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one's hand spread open on the table. I'm tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed--from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don't want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them and do steal them sometimes, and that what's a joke up here is down there reality.

Slowly, his hands coasted down to my hips, tracing my panties before he tugged them down. He looked up at me, even as his hand eased between my thighs. Ice-green eyes burned bright. "I've never wanted anyone as much as I want you." The calloused tips of his fingers slid along my swollen, slick sex. "Now that I have you, I don't know where to start." My lids fluttered, hands clutching at his shoulders as he rubbed back and forth. "Right there works for me." His smile was sin and promise. "You like that, honey?" "Yes." He toyed with the entrance to my sex, pausing there to push just enough for me to feel it, to want it. "How about here?" "There is..." My breath caught. He pushed in, long strong fingers filling me. "Is what?" he murmured darkly, those talented fingers slowly fucking me, as though he had all the time in the world. The blunt end of his thumb found my puffy clit and circled it. I whimpered again, falling against him, my arms wrapping around his neck. "So fucking good." He made a noise, possessive and greedy, his mouth finding my nipple, his long fingers pushing up into me. "God, you're perfect. So perfect for me." The slight curl of his fingers hit a spot, and that was it. I came in waves, shaking with it, heat swamping me. His eyes held mine as he coaxed me along, drawing my pleasure out. With a groan that sounded almost pained, Lucian slid to the floor, his wide shoulders edging between my legs. He palmed my thighs in his big hands to hold me steady. And then, with an impatient grunt, he leaned in and kissed my throbbing clit. Kissed it like he kissed my mouth, greedy and deep, licking and sucking, nibbling with firm lips. I cried out again, my knees so weak he had to hold me up. He ate me like a dessert, lapping at my slit before thrusting his tongue inside me. I couldn't take it. It was too much. I came again, writhing against his mouth. "That's it," he said between frantic kisses. "That's it, Em. Work that sweet pussy on my mouth." Oh, hell. I crumpled, dislodging myself before falling onto his lap. I cupped the thick column of his nape and kissed him, drawing in his breath as he groaned and devoured me.

At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end. “Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above. “Courage and love.” She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view, and violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems, collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth. Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man. But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone. George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.

I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realised dimly enough that she might take some momentous steps. She has taken it. She has learned — you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely — she has learned what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.’ It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. ‘She has learned through you,’ and if his voice was still not clerical, it was now also sincere; ‘let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.

Jim Adkins: ...There was a girl who wrote us, explaining how she felt like an outsider at her school because the punk rock kids wouldn't accept her, even though she liked us and a lot of the really obscure bands we toured with. And I just thought 'It's not worth your time to trip on this. Punk rock is and should be inclusive. That's the one thing I know. No matter what your definition of punk is, everyone would say that it's inclusive, it welcomes outsiders. Freak flags welcome. Wave 'em around. These chicks don't get it at all, don't waste your time trying to get their approval.' That's where the main idea for the lyrics to 'The Middle' came from.

Não sei de tudo o que lhe aconteceu entre esse dia no ginásio e agora, mas sei que os Outros conseguiram separar os fracos dos fortes. Os fracos foram levados. É essa a falha no plano-mestre do Vosch: se não nos matarem a todos de uma vez, não vão ser os fracos a sobrar no fim. Serão os fortes a sobreviver, os que vergaram mas não quebraram, tal como as barras de ferro que davam firmeza a todo este cimento. Cheias, incêndios, tremores de terra, doença, fome, traição, isolação, assassínio. O que não nos mata torna-nos mais astutos. Endurece-nos. Ensina-nos. Estás a transformar relhas em espadas, Vosch. Estás a refazer-nos. Nós somos o barro e tu és o Miguel Ângelo. E nós vamos ser a tua obra-prima.

The hot crown of his cock notched against my sex, and we both stopped, our gazes clashing. "Em." I knew what he meant. This felt different. This felt more like than sex. He didn't look away as he slowly pushed into me, all that hot girth making itself at home. I moaned and spread my legs wider, working with him. He was big. And there. And it felt so good I could barely breathe through it all. Lucian dipped his head, trembling with effort to go slow. "God. God. You feel..." He broke off with a tortured groan and a hard thrust, filling me completely. I closed my eyes, my hands smoothing over his damp back. "So good, Lucian. So good." That was all he needed. Moving like liquid, he rocked into me, kissing my mouth, whispering how much he wanted me. I grew incandescent with it, heat licking through me in waves. Lucian fucked like he did most everything, with perfect finesse and fierce determination. With swagger. Soon we were both panting, moving faster, reaching for that peak yet wanting to prolong it. "I don't want it to end," he said against my mouth. But then he canted his hips, hitting that spot that lit me up and made me scream. There was no more finesse, no more drawing it out. Just basic rutting, fucking each other like we might die and not get another chance. And when he came, I stared up at him, at those muscles straining, his wintergreen eyes gleaming in lust and surprise, as though he couldn't quite believe how good it was. Neither could I. Because it had never been like this.

Y’see, I know what ‘training in arms’ means, Ronald. There hasn’t been a real war in ages. So it’s all prancing around wearing padded waistcoats and waving swords with knobs on the end so no one’ll really get hurt, isn’t it? But down in the Shades no one’s had any training in arms either. Wouldn’t know an épée from a sabre. No, what they’re good at is a broken bottle in one hand and a length of four-by-two in the other and when you face ’em, Ronnie, you know you aren’t going off for a laugh and a jolly drink afterward, ’cos they want you dead. They want to kill you, you see, Ron? And by the time you’ve swung your nice shiny broadsword they’ve carved their name and address on your stomach. And that’s where I got my training in arms. Well . . . fists and knees and teeth and elbows, mostly.

Gentle hands, soft lips, and hot little breaths down my stomach. Pleasure, a thick syrup pouring over my limbs. My cock rose, growing heavy with desire. We were so new together, by all accounts, I should be panting madly, trying to take over. But I was slowly heating wax molding to her will. Emma palmed me through my briefs, and I grunted. I wanted them off, no barriers between us. As if she heard the silent demand, she kissed my nipple and slowly eased the briefs down. I lifted my butt to help her. My dick slapped against my belly as it was freed. Emma made a noise of appreciation and then wrapped her clever fingers around me. "Please," I whispered. My body was weak, but my need grew stronger, drowning out everything else. She complied, stroking, her lips on my lower abs, teasing along the V leading to my hips. "Em..." My plea broke off into a groan as her hot mouth enveloped me. There were no more words. I let her have me, do as she willed, and I was thankful for it. And it felt so good I could only lie there and take it, try not to thrust into her mouth like an animal. But she pulled free with a lewd pop and gazed up at me. Panting lightly, I stared back at her, ready to promise her anything, when she kissed my pulsing tip. "Go ahead," she said. "Fuck my mouth." I almost spilled right there. She sucked me deep once more, and a sound tore out of me that was part pained, part "Oh God, please don't ever stop." The woman was dismantling me in the best of ways. Waves of heat licked up over my skin as I pumped gently into her mouth, keeping my moves light because I didn't want to hurt her, and because denying myself was outright torture. Apparently, I was into that. She sucked me like I was dessert----all the while, her hand stroking steady circles on the tight, sensitive skin of my lower abs. It was that touch, the knowledge that she was doing this because she wanted to take care of me, that rushed me straight to the edge. My trembling hand touched the crown of her head. "Em. Baby, I'm gonna..." I gasped as she did something truly inspired with her tongue. "I'm gonna..." She pulled free with one last suck and surged up to kiss me, her hand wrapping around my aching dick and stroking it. Panting into her mouth, my kiss frantic and sloppy, I came with a shudder of pleasure. And all the tension, all the pain, dissolved like a sugar cube dropped into hot tea.

Lucian's thick, long finger slid into me, and I groaned----a pained sound. "That's it," he rasped, fingering me with agonizingly slow pushes. "Fuck, that's it." I gasped, my head light, my thighs clamping around his hand, as though I could hold in the sensation. "Spread your legs a little wider, honey. Let me in. Good girl." He cupped my neck with his free hand, his forehead pressed to mine. "One day soon, I'm going to work myself into this tight sweet honey box, fuck you for hours." My thighs trembled, heat swimming me as my lower belly clenched. "Lucian." I wiggled my hips. He added another finger, fucking them up into me at an angle that had me keening in pleasure. "Right here, Em. Right here is where I'm aching to be." I wanted him there so badly. My body moved with him, rocking against his hand. "Right here is where I'll worship." He kissed me gently, a simple meeting of mouths, as his thumb snaked out and found my clit. He pressed down, rougher now that I was worked up and at the edge. Just how I liked. White-hot head sparked and lit, and I came in a rushing wave that had me straining against him. "Say my name." He rubbed my slippery sex, fingers deep inside me. "Lucian." I sobbed. "Lucian." His grip on my nape was warm, reassuring as he kissed me. "That's my girl," he said as I came down from my high, my body trembling. "My girl." My focus came back as he slipped free from my panties. He lifted his hand to his mouth and, holding my eyes with his crystalline-green eyes, sucked his wet fingers clean. A wicked smile curved his lush mouth as his voice rolled over me like warm honey. "Delicious.

Paul and his mother, ripple and great wave, had flowed into her life and ebbed out of it for ever. The ripple had left no traces behind; the wave had strewn at her feet fragments torn from the unknown. A curious seeker, she stood for a while at the verge of the sea that tells so little, but tells a little, and watched the outgoing of this last tremendous tide. Her friend had vanished in agony, but not, she believed, in degradation. Her withdrawal had hinted at other things besides disease and pain. Some leave our life with tears, others with an insane frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the middle course, which only rarer natures can pursue. She had kept proportion. She had told a little of her grim secret to her friends, but not too much; she had shut up her heart--almost, but not entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule, that we ought to die--neither as victim nor as fanatic, but as the seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the deep that he is entering, and the shore that he must leave.

What’s insane about this—other than the fact we’ve never talked about it, not even once—is that I’m not nervous in any way. Just excited. We already feel like a married couple, and I say that in the best, non-boring way possible. He is stability and love. Security and confidence. I’m his tide, and he’s my anchor. Or maybe the sand itself. “Edie Van Der Zee, I want to dip my toes in the waves you make every single day for the rest of my miserable life. I want to fuck you—just you, only you, no one else—and a lot. Every. Single. Day. I want to live with you. I want to parade that fucked-up thing we have that keeps people raising eyebrows and thinking I’m a cradle-snatching douchebag, because fuck ’em, they’ll never have what we have. Will you marry me? I don’t ask for a lot. Not for kids, not for dinner, not for anything to be done in the house. I don’t ask you for anything other than what you’re willing to give me.” Luna peeks from the door, smiling. I turn my body to her, smiling. I expect her to sign me something. Something like “aw, gross,” or “Daddy is being silly again”. But she doesn’t. Instead, she arches one eyebrow, opens her lips, and lets the words fall out, awarding her father with the best present he could ever have. “Say yes.

With the introduction of radio, we now had a superfast. convenient, and wireless way of communicating over long distances. Historically, the lack of a fast and reliable communication system was one of the great obstacles to the march of history. (In 490 BCE, after the Battle of Marathon between the Greeks and the Persians, a poor runner was ordered to spread the news of the Greek victory as fast as he could. Bravely, he ran 26 miles to Athens after previously running 147 miles to Sparta, and then, according to legend, dropped dead of sheer exhaustion. His heroism, in the age before telecommunication, is now celebrated in the modern marathon.) Today, we take for granted that we can send messages and information effortlessly across the globe, utilizing the fact that energy can be transformed in many ways. For example, when speaking on a cell phone, the energy of the sound of your voice converts to mechanical energy in a vibrating diaphragm. The diaphragm is attached to a magnet that relies on the interchangeability of electricity and magnetism to create an electrical impulse, the kind that can be transported and read by a computer. This electrical impulse is then translated into electromagnetic waves that are picked up by a nearby microwave tower. There, the message is amplified and sent across the globe. But Maxwell's equations not only gave us nearly instantaneous communication via radio, cell phone, and fiber-optic cables, they also opened up the entire electromagnetic spectrum, of which visible light and radio were just two members. In the 166os, Newton had shown that white light, when sent through a prism, can be broken up into the colors of the rainbow. In 1800, William Herschel had asked himself a simple question: What lies beyond the colors of the rainbow, which extend from red to violet? He took a prism, which created a rainbow in his lab, and placed a thermometer below the color red, where there was no color at all. Much to his surprise, the temperature of this blank area began to rise. In other words, there was a "color" below red that was invisible to the naked eye but contained energy. It was called infrared light. Today, we realize that there is an entire spectrum of electromagnetic radiation, most of which is invisible, and each has a distinct wavelength. The wavelength of radio and TV, for example, is longer than that of visible light. The wavelength of the colors of the rainbow, in turn, is longer than that of ultraviolet and X-rays. This also meant that the reality we see all around us is only the tiniest sliver of the complete EM spectrum, the smallest approximation of a much larger universe

— Arranquei do calendário os dias de Maio e de Junho, disse Susan, e vinte e dois dias de Julho. Arranquei-os e amarfanhei-os, e por isso já só existem como um peso no meu coração. São dias mutilados, como borboletas nocturnas com as asas arrancadas, incapazes de voar. Já só faltam oito dias. Dentro de oito dias, descerei do comboio e ficarei parada no cais às seis e vinte e cinco. A minha liberdade vai então desabrochar, fazendo estalar todas as obrigações que me tolhem e diminuem — os horários, a ordem, a disciplina, o ter de estar aqui e ali a horas certas. O dia explodirá de brilho quando eu abrir a porta e vir o meu pai com o seu velho chapéu e as polainas. Vou tremer. Romper em lágrimas. Depois, na manhã seguinte, levanto-me de madrugada. Saio pela porta da cozinha. Irei pelo paul, ouvindo trovejar atrás de mim os grandes cavalos montados por fantasmas que de súbito se detêm. Verei a andorinha roçando a erva. Vou atirar-me para um banco junto ao rio e ficar a ver os peixes deslizando entre os juncos. Terei nas palmas das mãos as marcas das agulhas dos pinheiros. Então poderei desdobrar e examinar com atenção tudo o que aqui nasceu em mim, qualquer coisa de duro. Porque alguma coisa cresceu dentro de mim, através do Inverno e do Verão, dos dormitórios e escadarias. Ao contrário de Jinny não quero ser admirada. Não quero que as pessoas ergam os olhos de admiração quando entro. Quero dar e receber e quero a solidão onde possa desdobrar em paz tudo o que possuo.

Whatever comes,” she said, “cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it. There was Marie Antoinette when she was in prison and her throne was gone and she had only a black gown on, and her hair was white, and they insulted her and called her Widow Capet. She was a great deal more like a queen then than when she was so gay and everything was so grand. I like her best then. Those howling mobs of people did not frighten her. She was stronger than they were, even when they cut her head off.” This was not a new thought, but quite an old one, by this time. It had consoled her through many a bitter day, and she had gone about the house with an expression in her face which Miss Minchin could not understand and which was a source of great annoyance to her, as it seemed as if the child were mentally living a life which held her above the rest of the world. It was as if she scarcely heard the rude and acid things said to her; or, if she heard them, did not care for them at all. Sometimes, when she was in the midst of some harsh, domineering speech, Miss Minchin would find the still, unchildish eyes fixed upon her with something like a proud smile in them. At such times she did not know that Sara was saying to herself: “You don’t know that you are saying these things to a princess, and that if I chose I could wave my hand and order you to execution. I only spare you because I am a princess, and you are a poor, stupid, unkind, vulgar old thing, and don’t know any better.” This used to interest and amuse her more than anything else; and queer and fanciful as it was, she found comfort in it and it was a good thing for her. While the thought held possession of her, she could not be made rude and malicious by the rudeness and malice of those about her. “A princess must be polite,” she said to herself. And so when the servants, taking their tone from their mistress, were insolent and ordered her about, she would hold her head erect and reply to them with a quaint civility which often made them stare at her. “She’s got more airs and graces than if she come from Buckingham Palace, that young one,” said the cook, chuckling a little sometimes. “I lose my temper with her often enough, but I will say she never forgets her manners. ‘If you please, cook’; ‘Will you be so kind, cook?’ ‘I beg your pardon, cook’; ‘May I trouble you, cook?’ She drops ’em about the kitchen as if they was nothing.

The Robot With Human Hair Pt2" Said it's the coming of man And I forget when you went away Like a kick to the face Not winning the race (Lion, I've seen you from afar) I've seen her in the car Knowing that you deserve such more Deserved to know you're free Leave, I'm the director Agree to the role of the pilot inspector Breathe, pilot inspector Feed off the role of the radar detector Leave, I'm the director Agree to the role of the pilot inspector Breathe, pilot inspector Feed off the role of the radar detector Well, then, you said you could do this on your own I'm sorry baby, I can't aid you (And then you say, hands down, right now, I'll let this go) You... Well, now it's up to god to save you Save you from all of those bruised, bruised and battered wounds (Wave right with a gun in his hand wave right) Can you taste this blood Dripping sweeter than...? And over your eyes And I, and I fall to both knees Not to beg for your forgiveness But to hate the word And you speak Take a right off these cliffs The ground is staring at your wounded weapons Wounded weapons (And I can't believe that you're right) You can bank the night on this its round And glaring at your well I get hyphy Tell 'em I get hyphy And this is where it ends Well, then, you said you could do this on your own I'm sorry baby, I can't aid you (And then you say, hands down, right now, I'll let this go) You... Well, now it's up to god to save you Save you, save you Save you, save you I can't believe these long words Come from many national absurd This is a line cut across Hope, defeat, the line, the loss I can never be this lone wolf You can never see me across this earth This will be a light that I run from You thought you were so strong You pleaded to never be wrong (Brace yourself, fasten belts) Well, now that you go (Close the hatch, flip the latch) I sit here and wonder (They're not dead, speed ahead) Times have changed It's like we've been trashing silos (Well, now that you go) In the time bomb aisle (I sit here and wonder) Maybe they'll dodge the spill Oil kills, sure it will And I can't breathe the air (Hide your daughter 'cause I'm coming over) To reach for this light (You know I'm not lying about) (Trashing silos in the time bomb aisle) And you can't breathe the air (About trashing silos in the time bomb aisle) Not leaving her to reach The line, the work, the rope, the love And I have seen such worse for you It's a no, I'm not coming back It's a no, I'm not coming back It's a no, I'm not coming back And now you see the sky has turned black Why do think everyone has turned back? It's cause he's gone And now you see the sky has turned black Why do think everyone has turned back? It's cause he's gone And now you see the sky has turned black Why do think everyone has turned back? It's cause he's gone

Can't Hold Us Down" (feat. Lil' Kim) So what am I not supposed to have an opinion Should I be quiet just because I'm a woman Call me a bitch cos I speak what's on my mind Guess it's easier for you to swallow if I sat and smiled When a female fires back Suddenly big talker don't know how to act So he does what any little boy would do Making up a few false rumors or two That for sure is not a man to me Slanderin' names for popularity It's sad you only get your fame through controversy But now it's time for me to come and give you more to say This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Shout out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave them proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down Nobody can hold us down Nobody can hold us down Nobody can hold us down Never can, never will So what am I not supposed to say what I'm saying Are you offended by the message I'm bringing Call me whatever cos your words don't mean a thing Guess you ain't even a man enough to handle what I sing If you look back in history It's a common double standard of society The guy gets all the glory the more he can score While the girl can do the same and yet you call her a whore I don't understand why it's okay The guy can get away with it & the girl gets named All my ladies come together and make a change Start a new beginning for us everybody sing This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard What do we do girls? Shout Out Loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down [Lil' Kim:] Check it - Here's something I just can't understand If the guy have three girls then he's the man He can either give us some head, sex a roar If the girl do the same, then she's a whore But the table's about to turn I'll bet my fame on it Cats take my ideas and put their name on it It's airight though, you can't hold me down I got to keep on movin' To all my girls with a man who be tryin to mack Do it right back to him and let that be that You need to let him know that his game is whack And Lil' Kim and Christina Aguilera got your back But you're just a little boy Think you're so cute, so coy You must talk so big To make up for smaller things So you're just a little boy All you'll do is annoy You must talk so big To make up for smaller things This is for my girls... This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Shout out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Should out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down Spread the word, can't hold us down

So, what did you want to watch?’ ‘Thought we might play a game instead,’ he said, holding up a familiar dark green box. ‘Found this on the bottom shelf of your DVD cupboard … if you tilt the glass, the champagne won’t froth like that.’ Neve finished pouring champagne into the 50p champagne flutes she’d got from the discount store and waited until Max had drunk a good half of his in two swift swallows. ‘The thing is, you might find it hard to believe but I can be very competitive and I have an astonishing vocabulary from years spent having no life and reading a lot – and well, if you play Scrabble with me, I’ll totally kick your arse.’ Max was about to eat his first bite of molten mug cake but he paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘You’re gonna kick my arse?’ ‘Until it’s black and blue and you won’t be able to sit down for a week.’ That sounded very arrogant. ‘Really, Max, Mum stopped me from playing when I was thirteen after I got a score of four hundred and twenty-seven, and when I was at Oxford, I used to play with two Linguistics post-grads and an English don.’ ‘Well, my little pancake girlfriend, I played Scrabble against Carol Vorderman for a Guardian feature and I kicked her arse because Scrabble has got nothing to do with vocabulary; it’s logic and tactics,’ Max informed her loftily, taking a huge bite of the cake. For a second, Neve hoped that it was as foul-tasting as she suspected just to get Max back for that snide little speech, but he just licked the back of the spoon thoughtfully. ‘This is surprisingly more-ish, do you want some?’ ‘I think I’ll pass.’ ‘Well, you’re not getting out of Scrabble that easily.’ Max leaned back against the cushions, the mug cradled to his chest, and propped his feet up on the table so he could poke the Scrabble box nearer to Neve. ‘Come on, set ’em up. Unless you’re too scared.’ ‘Max, I have all the two-letter words memorised, and as for Carol Vorderman – well, she might be good at maths but there was a reason why she wasn’t in Dictionary Corner on Countdown so I’m not surprised you beat her at Scrabble.’ ‘Fighting talk.’ Max rapped his knuckles gently against Neve’s head, which made her furious. ‘I’ll remind you of that little speech once I’m done making you eat every single one of those high-scoring words you seem to think you’re so good at.’ ‘Right, that does it.’ Neve snatched up the box and practically tore off the lid, so she could bang the board down on the coffee table. ‘You can’t be that good at Scrabble if you keep your letters in a crumpled paper bag,’ Max noted, actually daring to nudge her arm with his foot. Neve knew he was only doing it to get a rise out of her, but God, it was working. ‘Game on, Pancake Boy,’ she snarled, throwing a letter rack at Max, which just made him laugh. ‘And don’t think I’m going to let you win just because it’s your birthday.’ It was the most fun Neve had ever had playing Scrabble. It might even have been the most fun she had ever had. For every obscure word she tried to play in the highest scoring place, Max would put down three tiles to make three different words and block off huge sections of the board. Every time she tried to flounce or throw a strop because ‘you’re going against the whole spirit of the game’, Max would pop another Quality Street into her mouth because, as he said, ‘It is Treat Sunday and you only had one roast potato.’ When there were no more Quality Street left and they’d drunk all the champagne, he stopped each one of her snits with a slow, devastating kiss so there were long pauses between each round. It was a point of honour to Neve that she won in the most satisfying way possible; finally getting to use her ‘q’ on a triple word score by turning Max’s ‘hogs’ into ‘quahogs’ and waving the Oxford English Dictionary in his face when he dared to challenge her.

I told you not to bother coming. Scott or Travis would have shown up eventually, and now you’re all here,” she grumbles. I see my dad’s head pop into the doorway opening. “Did Lloyd make it?” he asks, searching the driveway with his eyes. My car is actually my dad’s old car from when he was a teenager. He kept it all this time, first giving it to Scott, and then when Scott upgraded to a dependable Toyota he gave the little hatchback to me. I can’t afford to get a new car, but even if I could choose, I would still choose Lloyd. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl and we talk about Lloyd more than is probably healthy. It drives my mother crazy. “Was there any doubt?” I say. “It’s going to take more than a little snow to keep that bad boy down.” Though a heat wave will do it from a cracked radiator, but we both choose not to mention it. My mother rolls her eyes. “Make yourself comfortable you two,” I say. “You’re in for a treat today.” My mother raises her eyebrows at my excited tone. “We’re racing to clear the driveway,” I say with a grin. “Etty, why do you do this to yourself? When have you ever won?” My mother shakes her head and gives me a pitying look. “I’m stronger than I look!” I argue. “I know honey,” she says. “But those boys double you in weight andstrength.” “I’m quicker,” I say, though with not as much conviction as before. She might have a point here. My dad looks amused by the whole thing. “I’ll go boil the kettle, get you some warm water for your tongue,” she offers before going back into the house. “Give ’em hell, honey,” Dad says, winking before closing the door.

I don’t believe you guys,” she said. “What did I do this time?” “You got Finn grounded,” Ian said finally. “Yeah, and he was gonna teach me how to get past the second level on Halo 2,” Caleb groused. Megan laughed. “You have to be kidding me.” Still, no one would look at her. No one was laughing. Suddenly Megan felt a rush of something hot and bilious. Her giddiness was washed away by a wave of anger so fierce it completely took over. “Are you guys going to blame me for everything that happens in this house from here on out?” she asked. “Finn couldn’t covet your cookies if you weren’t here shovin’ ’em in his face, could he?” Doug said. “Omigod! Is that what you think happened?” Megan asked. “I seduced him or something? Well, here’s a little news flash, Gangsta Boy, he kissed me, all right?

You’re a good person, Rachel. You think about everyone, all the time. But you gotta learn to say screw ’em. Someone says your disease isn’t real? Screw ’em. Someone says you’re a bad Jew and a disappointment to the Goldblatt family name? Screw ’em. Someone hates your Christmas romance novel, or Hanukkah novel, or robot-octopus erotica—” “Wait, what?” “Just something I’ve been reading lately,” Mickey explained, waving away her question. “The point is...screw ’em! For God’s sake, Rachel, you’re nearly thirty years old. Live your damn life already.

I don’t know,’ Jack whispered, before kneeling beside a young woman, her blonde locks matted with dried blood. He could see that she had been shot in the side of her head, the back of her skull blown open by the bullet. ‘Their hands are tied,’ Jack said, as he looked down and saw that the woman’s arms had been bound behind her back with a length of rope. ‘They’ve been executed,’ Reg said, his face white as he looked at the bodies that had been laid out neatly on the floor. ‘A whole bloody family lined up and...’ He shook his head. A cry echoed from the street and Jack turned to where a window overlooked the road. He looked outside and saw a soldier stood in a doorway, the man waving his arm as he called out to where Fred was stood beside a shop. ‘What’s going on?’ the sergeant asked. ‘You’d best come and have a look,’ the man replied. Jack glanced down the street, his eyes staring at the deserted houses that lined the road. He felt a cold chill creep up his spine as he looked at the empty windows from which no lights shone. ‘Wait here,’ Jack said, before making his way out onto the road. He turned as a door swung open, his hand reaching for his rifle, before relaxing as Little stepped out onto the pavement, the corporal’s face a mask of wild anger. ‘The fucking pigs,’ he cursed, before kicking the wall in frustration. ‘Wait until I get my hands on ‘em.’ Jack glanced into the house that Little had searched, his throat catching as he saw the body of a woman on the floor. Beside her a baby lay on the hearth, the child motionless as it lay wrapped in a blanket. ‘The fucking animals,’ Little hissed, as he looked at the deserted houses. ‘Who could do such a thing?’ Ivor asked, his cheeks ashen as he stepped from the house. Jack shook his head, his eyes staring along the road as the men searched the buildings; the cry of alarm echoing along the street. ‘A whole bloody village.’ Jack turned and saw Fred pacing along the road, the battle hardened sergeant shaking his head in confusion as he looked at the houses as if unable to understand what he had seen. ‘What are we going to do?’ Jack asked. ‘Do?’ Little asked, his face possessed with rage. ‘I’m going to kill every fucking one of the evil bastards I can get my hands on.’ The men murmured in agreement, their eyes dark with anger. Jack stood in the street and watched as the first light of a new day shone above the rooftops, the sun casting a gentle warmth over the dead village as the men prepared to move once more.

Puck makes clear a particular point of etiquette, nonetheless. He objects to the word ‘fairy’ and always says ‘People of the Hills.’ “That's how I feel about saying- that word that I don't say. Besides, what you call them are made-up things the People of the Hills have never heard of- little buzzflies with butterfly wings and gauze petticoats, and shiny stars in their hair, and a wand like a schoolteacher's cane for punishing bad boys and rewarding good ones. I know 'em!... Can you wonder that the People of the Hills don't care to be confused with that painty-winged, wand-waving, sugar-and-shake-your-head set of impostors? Butterfly wings, indeed!... Butterfly-wings! It was Magic- Magic as black as Merlin could make it… That was how it was in the old days!

Where are your pajamas?” she asks us. “Um. Wearing em,” I say, pointing down at the ridiculous pants. “You’re supposed to wear the whole ensemble,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Now you don’t look like Santa, just…” she chews on her lip as her eyes roam over the four of us. “Just what, angel?” Conor asks. “Just four super hot…” She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. I can work with it,” she adds with a soft sigh. “But what the hell are you wearing, baby?” my twin asks as she walks toward the four of us. “I’m Mrs. Claus,” she whispers.

No stage pirate, no bandit of Southern Europe, was ever half so formidable in appearance as this terrible personage. He stood motionless as a pillar of stone, but his little red eyes, quick and shrewd, roved from one to another of our faces, as if he were making a mental estimate of each one of us—like the ogre who selected his fattest prisoner to grace his pot-pie. I own that I shuddered as his glance fell upon me; and we were all more or less disquieted by our rough seizure and the uncertainty of the fate that awaited us. This man—the red giant—was undoubtedly the leader of the outlaw band, for having pulled our boat upon the beach and dragged Bryonia to a position beside it, all eyes were turned enquiringly upon him. He strode forward a few steps, fixed his eyes firmly upon Uncle Naboth, and said: “Did you leave anyone aboard the ship?” I gave a start of surprise. The voice of the huge bandit was as gentle and soft as that of a woman. “No,” said my uncle. “I guess, Major, we’ve got ’em all now,” remarked one of the men. The giant nodded and turned again to Uncle Naboth. “You must pardon us, sir, for our seeming rudeness,” said he, with a politeness that seemed absolutely incongruous, coming from his coarse, hairy lips. “My men and I are in desperate straights, and only desperate remedies will avail to save us. I beg you all to believe that we have no personal enmity toward you whatever.” Then he turned to his men, and with a wave of his hand added: “Bring them along.

By the by,” I continued, “I can’t have these colours, Mr. Hands; and by your leave, I’ll strike ’em. Better none than these.” And again dodging the boom, I ran to the colour lines, handed down their cursed black flag, and chucked it overboard. “God save the king!” said I, waving my cap. “And there’s an end to Captain Silver!

Ah,” Reagan says, raising his waxed and penciled eyebrows, and cocking his pompadour in Shaftoe’s direction. “Smarrrt—you target them because they’re the officers, right?” “No, fuckhead!” Shaftoe yells. “You kill ’em because they’ve got fucking swords! You ever had anyone running at you waving a fucking sword?

Show that good old team spirit. Wave the flag, give ’em hell, and all that.

The me inside this shell is still me. What defines me? Skin? You know you can change that with the wave of a laser. Muscle? EMS can build that. Fat? It can fade away with freezing. I hope I'm more than that. Than this. That I am what I think, what I believe. What I feel.

Dr. Adam Clarke, in his autobiography, records that when Mr. Wesley was returning to England by ship, considerable delay was caused by contrary winds. Wesley was reading, when he became aware of some confusion on board, and asking what was the matter, he was informed that the wind was contrary. “Then,” was his reply, “let us go to prayer.” After Dr. Clarke had prayed, Wesley broke out into fervent supplication which seemed to be more the offering of faith than of mere desire. “Almighty and everlasting God,” he prayed. “Thou hast sway everywhere, and all things serve the purpose of Thy will, Thou holdest the winds in Thy fists and sittest upon the water floods, and reignest a King for ever. Command these winds and these waves that they obey Thee, and take us speedily and safely to the haven whither we would go.” The power of this petition was felt by all. Wesley rose from his knees, made no remark, but took up his book and continued reading. Dr. Clarke went on deck, and to his surprise found the vessel under sail, standing on her right course. Nor did she change till she was safely at anchor. On the sudden and favourable change of wind, Wesley made no remark; so fully did he expect to be heard that he took it for granted that he was heard.

Buffalo chips!” Amy grumbled. “Fine way to spend the mornin’, gatherin’ pooh for fires. Why us?” “Because we aren’t so old we get crinks in our backs or so young we’ll get lost.” Loretta bent over, picked up a dried pie, and stowed it in her gunnysack. Since their ordeal at the Bartletts’ last night, Amy hadn’t once smiled. Loretta couldn’t help being concerned. “You never complained in Hunter’s village.” “That was different. You expect to do things like gathering Buffalo pooh when you live with Indians.” She sighed. “It’s flat as a flapjack out here. Who could get lost? We’ve walked a mile and can still see our buckboard.” “There’s one high spot over yonder.” “Only one. A body could walk for miles and use it for a landmark.” Loretta found another pie. In the hopes of teasing a smile out of Amy, she grinned and waved the chip under the child’s nose. “Wanna rub a little in our hair?” “Lands, no!” No smile. Poor Amy didn’t have much to be lighthearted about these days. Keeping up the banter, Loretta said, “That’s what you told me once, remember? That Comanche women rubbed dung in their hair.” “Maybe they do.” Clearly determined to stay in a foul mood, Amy frowned and picked up a pie, adding it to her bag. “Probably in winter. We ain’t never been around ’em then.

And with a movement like a tennis serve, she heaved another enormous crystal sphere from her bag, waved her wand through the air, and caused the ball to speed across the hall and smash through a window. At the same moment, the heavy wooden front doors burst open, and more of the gigantic spiders forced their way into the entrance hall. Screams of terror rent the air: The fighters scattered, Death Eaters and Hogwartians alike, and red and green jets of light flew into the midst of the oncoming monsters, which shuddered and reared, more terrifying than ever. “How do we get out?” yelled Ron over all the screaming, but before either Harry or Hermione could answer they were bowled aside: Hagrid had come thundering down the stairs, brandishing his flowery pink umbrella. “Don’t hurt ’em, don’t hurt ’em!” he yelled. “HAGRID, NO!” Harry forgot everything else: He sprinted out from under the Cloak, running bent double to avoid the curses illuminating the whole hall. “HAGRID, COME BACK!” But he was not even halfway to Hagrid when he saw it happen: Hagrid vanished amongst the spiders, and with a great scurrying, a foul swarming movement, they retreated under the onslaught of spells, Hagrid buried in their midst. “HAGRID!

Look, suppose you ever change your mind about this, or that you ever end up feeling unsure of unsafe around him--” I stiffened. “Agenor.” “Yes, yes,” he impatiently cut in, waving my interruption aside, “you love him and he’s perfect and you’re going to make him a flock of tiny demon babies – it’s all good, Em.

dreams are like oceans, Mr. McGill. If they’re worth a damn they’re bigger than the dreamer, and sometimes, when the one dreaming wants to be as big as what they imagine, the wave pulls’em down.

Oh, I hate the Eldren, Jean,” Locke gasped as they lay in the bottom of the tossing boat, lashed by waves and rain. “I hate ‘em. I hate whatever they did, I hate the shit they left behind, I hate the way none of their mysteries ever turn out to be pleasant and fucking good-neighborly!” “Pretty lights,” muttered Jean. “Yeah, pretty lights,” Locke spat. “Friendly sailors, the Amathel has it all.

Maybe we should change plans. I feel a fever coming on.” She looked over at him. “Oh really?” He nodded and gave her a serious look. “Yes. I think I need to call and tell them I’ll be in bed for a week. It’s bad. Want to play nurse?” She pulled her hand free and pinched his arm. “Stop. There’s no going back now. We’re doing this. Plus, you’re going to be fine. I’m here to run interference. They’ll be much more likely to take jabs at me than you.” His expression darkened. “I’m not going to let them insult you, Liv. That’s a deal breaker.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Let ’em. After the week I had, I can deal with whatever they throw at me.” He lowered the radio. “You do seem oddly calm about all this. You remember my dad, right?” “Vividly.” “So is it just the sex relaxing you or something else?” He sent her a look of mock concern. “Have you been drinking? Eating mushrooms? Dropping acid?” “Not exactly.” She took a breath and looked forward. “Worse.” “Worse than dropping acid? I’m not even sure what that would be. Meth? Toad licking?” She grimaced. “Ew, gross. Not as bad as licking toads.” “Well, that’s a relief. We did just kiss.” “I quit my job.” “You—” The car jerked to a halt, the tires screeching as he almost missed a stop sign. “What?” She bit her lip and glanced his way. “Yes. That look on your face. That’s basically what I’ve been feeling inside since I walked out of work last night.” He stared at her, green eyes searching. “You’re just telling me this now? Liv…” She shrugged. “I was going to lead with that, but then you had to go and be all hot and seductive. I just quit my job is kind of a mood killer. Plus, I’m…okay about it.

In space warfare, nuclear bombs may be low-efficiency weapons, since nuclear explosions produce no shock wave in the vacuum of space and only negligible pressure from the light they generate, so they don’t produce the mechanical impact found in explosions in the atmosphere. All their energy is released in the form of radiation and electromagnetic pulses, and, at least for humans, radiation and EM shielding on spacecraft is a fairly mature technology.

All of these states of “flux” in a polarity-aligned EM field could cause a parasitic flow of electrons in a nearby wire that is not connected physically (only electromagnetically) to the parent EM circuit. Something equivalent to a diode could then block the shifting electrons from moving backwards in the circuit when the EM force is fluxed to ratchet another batch of electrons down the wire. The diode acts like a one-way valve. That is how voltage transformers and radio devices work. Alternating current changes (fluxes) the magnetic field many times a second, propelling photons in waves across a gap that push electrons incrementally in waves down a wire in a physically separate parasitic circuit. Radio waves can only propagate and induce a feeble current in a distant wire (antenna) because of EM flux. Without the flux, they would not propagate. Radio waves are electromagnetic (EM) waves that are generated in an alternating polarity-switching back-and-forth AC fashion. They are coherent waves of photons;

air gap without the flux which creates a repeating series of EM waves moving through the atmosphere which push the electrons incrementally through the conductors in the receiving radio’s antenna and circuitry. Radio receivers also have diodes / rectifiers to make the alternating current directional in the receiver circuitry. This current-inducing EM flux has not been demonstrated in a nuclear EMP. A directional electrical force cannot be induced in wires from photons arriving from high-altitude (after a nuclear burst) without EM flux or something to inhibit backwards flow

Hmm,” said Tammy, “and once more your naive optimism regarding the human species reveals its hopeless disconnect with reality. While it was well-established that prior to the Great EM Pulse following the Benefactors’ arrival in Earth orbit, virtually every human being on the planet had already become a drooling automaton with bloodshot eyes glued to a pixelated screen, even as the world melted around them in a toxic stew of air pollution, water pollution, vehicles pouring out carcinogenic waste gases, and leaking gas pipelines springing up everywhere along with earthquake-inducing fracking and oil spills in the oceans and landslides due to deforestation and heat waves due to global warming and ice caps melting and islands and coastlines drowning and forests dying and idiots building giant walls and—” “All right, whatever!” Hadrian snapped. “But don’t you see? This is the future!” “Yeah, that statement makes sense.” “The future from then, I mean. Now is their future, even if it’s our now, or will be, I mean—oh fuck it. The point is, Tammy, we’re supposed to have matured as a species, as a civilization. We’re supposed to have united globally in a warm gush of integrity, ethical comportment, and peace and love as our next stage of universal consciousness bursts forth like a blinding light to engulf us all in a golden age of enlightenment and postscarcity well-being.” “Hahahaha,” Tammy laughed and then coughed and choked. “Stop! You’re killing me!” Beta spoke. “I am attempting to compute said golden age, Captain. Alas, my Eternally Needful Consumer Index is redlining and descending into a cursive loop of existential panic. All efforts to reset parameters yield the Bluescreen of Incomprehension. Life without mindless purchase? Without pointless want? Without ephemeral endorphin spurts? Without gaming-induced frontal lobe permanent degradation resulting in short-tempered antisocial short-attention-span psychological generational profiles? Impossible.” “The EMP should have given us the breathing space to pause and reevaluate our value system,” said Hadrian. “Instead, it was universal panic. Riots in Discount Super Stores, millions trampled—they barely noticed the lights going out, for crying out loud.

The acceleration of gravity g is a measure of cumulative change in energy density per odd frequency mode summed over the gravitational frequency bandwidth. Modification of the naturally occurring spectral energy density profile enables a change in the local acceleration of gravity. Acceleration is proportional to the frequency differential which is a function of the gradient in EM energy density. Overlapping the EM frequency bands generated over a selected frequency range analogous to a paired Shepard-Rissett-glissando multiple frequency tone sequence provides a continuous frequency differential. Overlay interlacing of paired frequency bands prevents accelerative jumps lessening inertial stresses and strains.

The acceleration of gravity g is a measure of cumulative effect of change in energy density per odd frequency mode summed over the gravitational frequency bandwidth. Modification of the naturally occurring spectral energy density profile enables a change in the local acceleration of gravity. Acceleration is proportional to the frequency differential which is a function of the gradient in EM energy density.

Raising Hands Raising Hell Raise ’Em High”—The Wind & The Wave “Jailhouse Rock”—Elvis Presley “My Girl”— The Temptations “Burnin’ Love”—Elvis Presley “Ticking Bomb”— Aloe Blacc “Lovers in a Dangerous Time”— Barenaked Ladies “Sail”—Awolnation “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked”—Cage the Elephant