Emma Stone Quotes

You're only human. You live once and life is wonderful so eat the damn red velvet cupcake!

So let me help you out. My favorite color is-hell, I don't know. I've never cared enough to think about it. My favorite movie is-what else-ZOMBIELAND. But not because the good guys win in the end, though that's a plus, but because Emma Stone is hot." I snorted. He was SUCH a guy. "My favorite band is-" "Let me guess," I interjected. "White Zombie? Slayer?" "Red. And no, not just because I want zombies to bleed.What about you? Who do you like? Because honestly, I'm surprised you know White Z and Slayer." "I like Red,too, but I'm partial to Skillet. Used to listen to them with my sister. But why wouldn't I know the other bands?" "You look so angelic." "And do you think angels are hot?" I asked primly, trying to play it cool so that I wouldn't reveal what a mess I was on the inside. All this time, he'd wanted to get to know me and date me. What craziness! "The hottest.

His hands came up to my head, around my cheek and under my hair. His handsome face was no longer chiseled in stone, but open and naked and raw. “I love you. I’m in love with you and I will be for the rest of my life.

Light bounced off the cut glass and illuminated the checkerboard floor: alternating squares of darker and lighter wood. If you climbed to the chandelier and looked down, they revealed themselves as the shape of the Angelic Power rune. Not that Emma would admit she’d done that. Though one did get an excellent view of the massive stone chair of the Institute’s head from that angle.

The worn soles of Daffy's boots skidded on the icy stones. He'd been saving up for a new pair for Christmas, but then he'd come across an encyclopaedia in ten volumes, going cheap. Boots might last ten years, at best, but knowledge was eternal.

He picked up the sketchbook, turning it so she could see his work - a gorgeous rendition of a stone bridge they'd passed, surrounded by the drooping boughs of oak trees. "You could sketch me," said Emma. She flung herself down onto her seat, leaning her head on her hand. "Draw me like one of your french girls.

Jules: Emma? You haven't said anything since we left the church. Emma: You're in love with me. Still. Jules: What are you talking about? Emma: I thought you didn't love me anymore. But that isn't true, is it? Jules: Why are you saying that? Why now? Emma: Because of the church. Because of what happened. We burned a church down, Julian, we melted stone. Jules: What does that have to do with anyhing? Emma: It has everything to do with. You don't understand. You can't. Jules: You're right. I don't understand. I don't understand any of it, Emma. I don't understand why you suddenly decided you didn't want me, you wanted Mark, and then you decided you didn't wnat him either and you dropped him like he was nothing, in fron of everyone. What the hell were you thinking ... Emma: What do you care? What do you care how I feel about Mark? Jules: Because I needed you to love him. Because if you threw me away and everything we had, it had better be for something that meant more to you, it had better be for something real, but maybe none of this is ever real to you ... Emma: Not real to me? You don't know what you're talking about, Julian Blackthron! You don't know what I've given up, what my reasons are for anything, you don't know what I'm trying to do ... Jules: What you're trying to do? How about you did do? How about breaking my heart and breaking Cameron's and breaking Mark's? What, am I missing someone else, some other person whose life you want to wreck forever? Emma: Your life isn't wrecked. You're still alive. You can have a good life! You kissed that faerie girl... Jules: She was a leanansidhe! A shape-shifter! I thought se was you! Emma: Oh. Oh. Jules: Yes, oh. You really think I'm going to fall in love with someon else? You think I get to do that? I'm not you, I don't geet to fall in love every week with someone different. I wish it wasn't you, Emma, but it is, it'll always be you, so don't tell me life isn't wrecked when you don't know the first thing about it!

He picked up the sketchbook, turning it so she could see his work - a gorgeous rendition of a stone bridge they'd passed, surrounded by the drooping boughs of oak trees. "You could sketch me," said Emma. She flung herself down onto her seat, leaning her head on her hand. "Draw me like one of your french girls,

I gazed up at the sky and let my eyes flicker from one constellation to another, to another, jumping between stepping stones. I thought of the heavenly bodies throwing down their narrow ropes to hook us. I’ve never believed the future was inscribed for each of us the day we were born. If anything were written in the stars, it was we who joined those dots, and our lives were the writing. But baby Garrett, born dead yesterday, and all those whose stories were over before they began, and those who opened their eyes and found they were living in a long nightmare, like Bridie and baby White, who decreed that, I wondered, or at least allowed it?

Had she put turned back then, she would have seen that which would have made her own sufferings seem but light and easy to bear-a strong man, overwhelmed with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last, obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly, blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footstep had died away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, were her tiny hand had rested last.

Life is mostly froth and bubbles, Two things stand like stone, Kindness in another’s trouble, Courage in your own. Well,

The trees leaned over the stone walls like neighbors sharing sugar,

What sets you apart can sometimes feel like a burden, and it’s not. And a lot of the time, it’s what makes you great.” —Emma Stone

You may be practical, but I am not foolish. Only a woman testing a man tells him not to bother.” His eyes glinted. “It’s a trap—to see if I’m stupid enough to believe your shameless lies.

Daffy had stopped talking, without her noticing. It was if he'd run out of words. He did a peculiar thing, then; he reached out and touched Mary's cheekbone; lightly, as if he was brushing away a speck of coal dust. She thought of Doll, that first morning, wiping mud out of the lost child's eyes. Her throat hurt, all at once, as if she were swallowing a stone. She wished the two of them could stay forever frozen in this moment, hidden in the grass, as the setting sun slid across the fields of Monmouth. Before any asking, any refusal. While this strange, tame young man was still looking at her as is she were worth any price.

I assume the gargoyle does not require refreshments?” “I don’t think so. Should it?” “I imagine not, sir, being of a stone constitution, but I find it best to never assume anything when it comes to matters of unnatural animation.

The main roadway is nearly deserted and there’s not a single person in front of the dimly lit library. As I follow Mick up the ivory stone steps, for a moment I wonder, is this stalker territory? Does it cross a line? A boundary? But then—fuck it, I’m a prince, we don’t have boundaries—it’s one of the perks. Anyone who says otherwise is doing it wrong.

They say I am a brave girl I'm a hailstorm for the rain I'm a volcano for the mountain I'm a diamond for the stone And I wonder if I can be real me. I see the crowd I hear the noise I keep my patience. But inside I want to scream Yes I want to scream like hell. And when she call me on phone, I wonder how she knows it. I wonder how she hears those silent words.. How she sees those forbidden tears... I wonder how she knows I am missing somewhere...

I always thought it's way more important to be funny or to be honest than to look any certain way

Every time I kiss you, I taste the rest of my life. I wont stop fighting for you until you taste yours, too." Aaron Stone

I can’t think of any better representation of beauty than someone who is unafraid to be herself.

When somebody does wrong, Emma, we must remember that that person is still a human being like the rest of us. We must not rush to throw the first stone. We must remind ourselves that all of us do wrong from time to time, unless we're saints, which we aren't.

They will come, Alexander this is going to take some time. Did you notice how unhappy Emma is? She’s a perfect choice”. “Oh, I don’t know Antoinette; she is young and might just be confused”. “No, I read her thoughts she is genuinely unhappy, miserable is a better description and she’s recently been thinking about killing herself”.

They’re not worthy to rule. None of them. I will go and get the Half-Breed and prove to you just how untrustworthy they are. All of them know about her. Every last one. I challenge Prince Galen to deny it.” Galen locks eyes with Toraf. How could he do this to me? How could he do this to Emma? Now everyone present knows of her existence. She won’t be safe anywhere, not with Jagen in control. Especially because Toraf, the best Tracker in Syrena history, has just vowed to find her and bring her here. Which will be excessively easy, since he knows exactly where she is. She trusts him. Rachel trusts him. It will be so simple for him. And I have no way of warning her, of getting to her. All I can do is protect her when she gets here. Tandel quiets the crowd, one of his primary duties as of late. When he has achieved control, he turns to Galen. “Your Highness, would you like to address these accusations against you?” Galen swims to the center stone without taking his eyes off Toraf. “If something happens to her because of you,” he whispers to his one-time friend, his voice raw with hurt, “your death will be my priority.” Toraf opens his mouth to say something, but Galen cuts him off to address the crowd. There is nothing Toraf can say to him that will make this right. There is nothing Toraf can say to him that will hurt him more. “I have nothing at all to say to these accusations.” Tandel sighs. “Very well, Highness. Thank you.” Galen swims to the Trackers who hold his sister. His sister who now sobs uncontrollably. “Come on, minnow,” he says. “He’s not worth your tears.” “Yes, he is,” she wails. The Trackers release her to her brother. They’re distressed with the task of comforting a hysterical female. Galen squeezes her to him, but won’t let her turn around and look at Toraf. “He isn’t. In time you’ll see that.” “Why would he bring Emma here, Galen? Why would he do this to us?” Galen swallows the vomit creeping its way into his throat. “I don’t know, minnow. I don’t know.

They say I am a brave girl I'm a hailstorm for the rain I'm a volcano for the mountain I'm a diamond for the stone And I wonder if I can be real me. I see the crowd I hear the noice I keep my patience. But inside I want to scream Yes I want to scream like hell. And when she call me on phone, I wonder how she knows it. I wonder how she hears those silent words.. How she sees those forbidden tears... I wonder how she knows I am missing somewhere...

Away from Lev, she craves his need for her. When with him, it enervates. Why is that? She cannot help it. Nothing to be done. Only with her sister is she unfettered. Tasha never makes her think about it, the terrible stature of love. Its shape, size, weight, the long shadows it casts. With Tasha she never goes cold as stones in a river, as Lev will accuse. You are suddenly so cold! Cold as stones in a river! What have I done wrong? he complains. Nothing. Nothing, my darling.

From the lip of the Ravine I could see the Deeps on the other side, hard gray and brown brick on wood on the nearest structures, shading further in to rose, bronze, black pearl, and verdigris in spires of stone, metals, and brilliant glass. The empress of it all, rising from the center, was Ego, the tallest building in the City, whose reflective flanks had no color of their own, but worse the sky instead--relentless, cloudless blue today. The towers of the Deeps, rising in angles or curves, were made more poignant by the occasional shattered forms of their ruined kin.

For you, I would bring down the stars, wreath their fire around your neck like diamonds, and watch them pulse to the beat of your heart For you, I would capture the candlelight in the palm of my hand Give my breath to give it life A whisper, 'My love' So that it may grow Bright and hot And burn me For you, I would drink the salted oceans Until their depths Were swallowed into the depth of me How deep it is, this life This love, for you I cannot touch bottom I never will For you, I would mine the stony earth Until it relinquished The secrets of time Cracks in the stone wrinkles of the Earth As she turns her face to another new day And so I wish to live Every one of mine With you For you, I would be myself At long last I would live in my skin And breathe my words in my own voice Tinged with the accent Of a child calling to a car that will never stop And in the fading echo Nothing remains but the truth of me that is the love of you I have loved you with both Hands tied behind my back Bound with pen and ink Paper and words Sealed with someone else's name until this moment in which I am nothing but a man who loves a woman. There is nothing left to say Except to give all of my heart For you

Heather squinted as Emma passed ahead of them into sunlight. She followed carefully over the threshold and into a vision of green, gold, and white. The persistent mist hung about the edges of a green hillside, lit with glittering sunlight. There was a surprisingly wide, mostly flat area, but this soon gave way to the ever-tilting hillside. Around the rim of the village green, the hillside slanted up into stony outcroppings, ending in the mountain peaks that showed about the ring of Cloud Mountain. It looked like a broken bowl, with the green being the bowl’s inside bottom. Heather saw row upon row of vegetables of every kind—cabbage and corn, potatoes and turnips. Her mouth watered, and she felt a little lightheaded. After the confining corridors of stone, it was unsettling to be out in the open like this.

Suggested Reading Nuha al-Radi, Baghdad Diaries Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin Jane Austen, Emma, Mansfield Park, and Pride and Prejudice Saul Bellow, The Dean’s December and More Die of Heartbreak Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Joseph Conrad, Under Western Eyes Henry Fielding, Shamela and Tom Jones Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank Henry James, The Ambassadors, Daisy Miller, and Washington Square Franz Kafka, In the Penal Colony and The Trial Katherine Kressman Taylor, Address Unknown Herman Melville, The Confidence Man Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita, Invitation to a Beheading, and Pnin Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs Iraj Pezeshkzad, My Uncle Napoleon Diane Ravitch, The Language Police Julie Salamon, The Net of Dreams Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis Scheherazade, A Thousand and One Nights F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby W. G. Sebald, The Emigrants Carol Shields, The Stone Diaries Joseph Skvorecky, The Engineer of Human Souls Muriel Spark, Loitering with Intent and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie Italo Svevo, Confessions of Zeno Peter Taylor, A Summons to Memphis Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Anne Tyler, Back When We Were Grownups and St. Maybe Mario Vargas Llosa, Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter Reading

Flowers. Lots of women say they don’t want them. But every woman is happy when they get them. Which is why I’ve arranged to have them delivered to Kate’s office, every hour on the hour. Seven dozen at a time. That’s one dozen for every day we were apart. Romantic, right? I thought so too. And although I know Kate’s favorite are white daisies, I specifically told the florist to avoid them. Instead, I’ve chosen exotics—bouquets with brightly colored petals and strange shapes. The kinds of flowers Kate has probably never seen in her life, from places she’s never been. Places I want to take her to. At first I kept the notes simple and generic. Take a look: Kate, I'm sorry. Drew Kate, Let me make it up to you. Drew Kate, I miss you. Please forgive me. Drew. But after a few hours I figured I needed to step it up a notch. Get more creative. What do you think? Kate, You're turning me into a stalker. Drew Kate, Go out with me on Saturday and I'll give you all of my clients. Every. Single. One. Drew Kate, If I throw myself in front of a bus, will you come visit me at the hospital? Drew PS - Try not to feel too guilty if I don't survive. Really. That last batch was delivered forty-five minutes ago. Now I’m just sitting at my desk, waiting. Waiting for what, you ask? You’ll see. Kate may be stubborn, but she’s not made of stone. My office door slams open, leaving a dent in the drywall. Here we go. “You are driving me crazy!” Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing’s fast, and she’s got murder in her eyes. Beautiful. I raise my brows hopefully. “Crazy? Like you want to rip my shirt open again?” “No. Crazy like the itch of a yeast infection that just won’t go away.” I flinch. Can’t help it. I mean—Christ. Kate steps toward my desk. “I am trying to work. I need to focus. And you’ve got Manny, Moe, and Jack playing every cheesy eighties song ever written outside my office door!” “Cheesy? Really? Huh. I so had you pegged for an eighties kind of girl.” Well, you live and learn.

Why should I side with you? Why should I care if you win?” The phouka raked fingers through his hair. “You have seen one of them, one of their forms. That is what seeks domination over every natural thing in this place. We of the Seelie Court are capricious, and not always well-disposed toward humankind. But would you hand this city over to the likes of what you saw tonight? That is the Unseelie Court. If we fall, every park, every boulevard tree, every grassy lawn would be their dwelling place.” Eddi sighed. “It’s not just for you, it’s for the entire seven-country metro area. Couldn’t we just let them have St. Paul?” The phouka made a disgusted noise. “All right. What if they did take over? Would we all be eaten in our beds?” He shook his head. “There are places,” he began slowly, “that belong to them. Have you ever passed through some small town, surrounded by fertile country and fed by commerce, that seemed to be rotting away even as you watched? Where the houses and the people were faded, and all the storefronts stood empty?” Eddi remembered a few. “Or a city whose new buildings looked tawdry, whose old ones were ramshackle, where the streets were grimy and the wind was never fresh, where money passed from hand to hand yet benefited no one?” His words were quicker now. “This city is alive with the best magic of mortal folk. The very light off the skyscrapers and the lakes vibrate with it. If the Unseelie Court takes up residence here, this will be a place where people fear their neighbors, where life drains the living until art and wit are luxuries, where any pleasant thing must be imported and soon loses its savor.” He fell silent, as if embarrassed by his own eloquence. Eddi rubbed her hands over her face, trying to rub away her confusion, her anger, her fear. Finally she asked the only question she had left. “Can’t you get somebody else?” The phouka began to laugh weakly. “Oh, go to bed, Eddi McCandry. You could befuddle a stone. Go to bed, and sleep soundly, and tempt me not into some foolish flap of the tongue.

Why so sad?" Zach queries in fairy-tale tones. "Rachel?" "O my brother Ivanushka," she recites. "A heavy stone is round my throat, silken grass grows through my fingers, yellow sand lies on my breast." "That's perishing gloomy," Zach remarks. "It ends happily though. Gracious! Everything sounds depressing this morning," adds Rachel. "There's a teacher at my school, she's very young, but she goes, Gracious! Just like a dowager. Makes me laugh. Except this morning. I can't help it. I am too depressed. I hate those voices so much. In the Gardens." "Stop listening," Zach scolds and put his hands in her hair—silken grass grows through his fingers.

Emma Stone clearly emerges as a favourite of the studio, and when Pascal emails to ask what she would like to do following the end of the Spiderman franchise, she makes it clear that she is tired of playing quirky, charming love interests, and replies: 'I want to play a crazy person or a bitch or something extreme really different and fun.

If you want a flower to thrive, you don’t put it in a stone box.

The photograph had to be reasonably interesting. Country Life girls did not simply sit for the camera against some featureless backdrop but were pictured striking a pose in surroundings that gave an indication of their normal social milieu or talents. The daughters of major gentry—those with stately homes—might be photographed leaning against a stone pillar, the clear inference being that this was just one of the many stone pillars owned by her father; those who had no stone pillars but who had, say, a small ornamental lake, would be photographed standing in front of this. Those who worked with horses—and this was a large group—might have a hunter in the background, or at least a saddle. Dogs were a popular accoutrement, usually Labradors, who would be at the young woman’s side, ready to retrieve or flush birds, enthusiasts all, and given the same appraising scrutiny by the readers, in many cases, as the young woman herself.

Why Joseph’s magical treasure quests began to take on a religious context is open to reasonable speculation. His family’s dire financial circumstances, his trouble with the law for searching for treasure, his confrontation with Isaac Hale over Emma, and other circumstances are individually and collectively plausible explanations. But, in context, and along with all the other evidence, the explanation put forward by the church and various Mormon apologists—that Joseph Smith was a prophet called by God, even if that calling was gradually revealed through Joseph’s immediate cultural context—is just not believable. If it were, it would be the story Mormon missionaries teach openly and outright to prospective converts, and people would be converting and bearing testimony about the realities of the powers of magical stones. But it is not. And it was not the foundation on which my testimonial experience had been premised.

It was a line that became a wall as time passed, a stone wall like the ones that snaked through the forests around her childhood Vermont home, relics from a time before the trees had reclaimed the fields and the walls were divisions between properties, between families.

hurt

He'd spent the majority of his life in this house and until recently had felt he'd known it in the same alert, instinctive way he knew his own body; knew its coldest stones and softest sofas, knew the best place to find midafternoon sun, knew which rooms the staff cleaned at which hours and which rooms were rarely cleaned at all, knew every hallway, every painting. Turning a corner was like bending and elbow. Opening a door like blinking an eye.

mat a few steps from Emma. “Change is always difficult. And you may not have asked for it, but if you greet change as if you have, you can affect the transition and maybe gain some peace from your new circumstances.

I silently, secretly say prayers over him. I am saying goodbye. Just in case. Sadness, coldness, darkness settles in my heart and dries it up like a stone.

They’d stopped in front of a pool much larger than the rest. Unlike the others, the surface of this one was not covered in lilies and other water plants, and Emma spied a set of shallow stone steps leading down into it. “Oh! A bathing pool!” she exclaimed in delight. “How wonderful!” “Yes. The heat of the water is extremely effective in relaxing the body. Feel free to make use of it yourself. It is a wonderful feeling, to float about in the steam.

Were you in love with Emma?" I ask. "I was hard-core obsessed," he says without thinking about it. "Not in love." "What's the difference?" He's about to throw a stone at ta yard light but stops. "Prison," he says, and puts the stone in his pocket.

Life is mostly froth and bubbles, Two things stand like stone, Kindness in another’s trouble, Courage in your own.

but Kailigh preferred her daughters enjoy their childhood to the fullest before sampling the responsibilities of motherhood and running a household. And a man.

I hear Chloe is keeping a man in the house,” he said stiffly. “Now, Emma, you know I don’t mind about Big John Lenahan stopping by every now and again, but I draw the line—” “It isn’t your house, Fulton,” Emma put in reasonably. Fulton was so startled at the interruption that he went red at the ears. “Be that as it may, I don’t care for the idea of my fiancée sleeping under the same roof with somebody who’d stoop to drinking in the Yellow Belly Saloon.” Emma went to the door and began picking up the returned books. She was careful to hide her smile. “I’m not your fiancée, Fulton,” she reminded him sweetly. “Who is he? What’s his name?” Some instinct made Emma reticent about Steven’s identity. “Just a drifter,” she said, carrying the books to her desk and beginning to sort through them. “He’ll be gone soon.” “Well, I certainly hope so.” Emma changed the subject. “Daisy wanted to know if you planned on coming to supper tonight.” “You know I wouldn’t go out on a Tuesday.” Emma sighed, staring off into the distance. He’d gone out on a Monday, but she didn’t want to take the trouble to point that out. “Yes,” she said, and she was thinking of the man she’d washed and read to the night before. She wondered if he was awake, drinking the coffee Emma had left for him, though it would be stone-cold by now, or swearing because no one would give him back his .45. “What are you smiling about?” Fulton demanded. Emma went right on sorting books. “Nothing,” she lied. “Nothing at all.

You live here in Copper Creek, Miss Ashford?” She dipped a fresh cloth in the water and washed the bullet wound in the patient’s shoulder as best she could. “I do now. We arrived today.” She paused and straightened, the muscles in her back in spasms from bending over the table, and from too much riding on trains and coaches and wagons. She thought of Janie waiting at home, watching for her, and hoped she wasn’t worrying. Robert’s only concern would be that she’d left him overlong with people he didn’t know. He hated making chitchat. She just hoped he wasn’t acting sullen and stone-faced with Vince, Janie, and Emma, like he so often did with her. Hearing a clock ticking somewhere behind her, she rethreaded the needle and focused again on her task. Suturing a man was different from suturing a horse, and very definitely different from sewing saddles. Yet something about the repetition of the act felt similar, which made her wonder if she was doing it right. “We?” Finishing the third suture in the man’s shoulder, she peered up at Caradon, the needle poised between her right thumb and forefinger. “I beg your pardon?” “You said ‘we arrived today.’” Not wanting to talk, she tied off a fourth suture, and a fifth, aware of him watching her. “My brother and I.” “Where did you move from?” She raised her head to find him leaning close, their faces inches apart. “If you don’t mind, Marshal Caradon, could we . . . not talk right now?” The tanned lines at the corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly. “Not much on that, are you, ma’am? Talking, I mean.” Though his expression denied it, she heard a smile in his voice, yet she held back from responding to it. Outwardly anyway. Someone like Wyatt Caradon was the last person she, or Robert, needed in their lives right now. “I don’t mind talking, Marshal. When I’m not exhausted, famished, and stitching up a gunshot wound.” Catching his grin before she looked away, she finished suturing and bandaging the wound.

Where in the world did she find him? This was Manhattan and definitely not the Stone Age. I rushed to the front, huffing and puffing as if I were the wolf in “The Three Little Pigs,” but of course Emma already had her puppy eyes set, ready for a battle we both knew I was going to lose.

If I’d known we were just going to sit around and watch the plants grow today, I would have brought my book.” Emma jerked her attention from the columbine plants she’d been checking on and back to Sean. “Sorry. Zoned out for a minute. Did you get the weed blocker done?” “Yeah. I don’t get why they want the pathway to the beach done in white stone. Don’t you usually walk back from the water barefoot?” “Not this couple. It doesn’t matter how practical it is. All that matters is how it looks.” “Whatever. It’s going to take the rest of the day to get all that stone down, so stop mentally tiptoeing through the tulips and let’s go.” Emma wanted to tell him to shove his attitude up his ass, because she was the boss, or at least flip him the bird behind his back, but she didn’t have the energy. Living a fake life was a lot more exhausting than she’d anticipated. She didn’t even want to think about what it was like trying to sleep every night with her boxer-brief-clad roommate sprawled across the bed only ten feet away, so she thought about Gram instead. Gram, who was, at that very moment, on her way into town. The town that had heard the rumors of her engagement, but never actually seen her fiancé. If Gram returned from town still believing Emma and Sean were headed to the altar, it would be a miracle.

They say I am a brave girl I'm a hailstorm for the rain I'm a volcano for the mountain I'm a diamond for the stone And I wonder I can be real me. I see the crowd I hear the notice I keep my patience. But inside I want to scream Yes I want to scream like hell. And when she call me on phone, I wonder how she knows it. I wonder how she hears those silent words.. How she sees those forbidden tears... I wonder how she knows I am missing somewhere...

That was one thing about dating a warrior, she supposed. He wouldn’t get mad if she wanted to beat him up for not putting the toilet seat down. He’d just consider it practice

How did he show her how he felt? That seemed like an impossible ask from a woman who should have known just from his body language. Daios wasn’t good at telling anyone anything. He’d never been a talker, even when he was just a boy. His mother used to say that he was as stoic as a stone wall, immovable, and sometimes a little cold. He didn’t see the value in chatting with people when he could show them what he wanted. Of course, that hadn’t gotten him very far with women. And it would not get him very far with his little achromo. After all, Anya had settled in rather nicely.

It touched something deep within him, like she’d cast a stone upon the still lake of his soul and now he was feeling the ripples of her presence

having her in his home? It touched something deep within him, like she’d cast a stone upon the still lake of his soul and now he was feeling the ripples of her presence

bullets.” Emma pulled back

have had a detailed plan of attack laid out before anyone set so much as a toe on the damn property. Autumn reminded herself that detailed planning required the one thing that Molly and Jake did not have. Time. She, Emma, and Winter had busted into action at a moment’s notice for one very good reason. Just keep the dialogue active. Keep Brooke talking. “You seem pretty pissed.” Autumn’s method of verbal attack was to punch the woman’s hot button. Men. “Usually, people only get that angry because they care. A lot. Did you love Adam? Did he break your heart?” Brooke made a noise of disgust deep in her throat. A sentiment that Autumn could agree with. “No one will ever love that revolting

She didn’t know how long she sat before she saw the shadow in the kelp forest. It was very long, and a different shape than anything she’d seen thus far. But she wasn’t going to move. Nothing so far had been dangerous. Then the shadow lunged out of the kelp, so quickly it was hard for her to even get an idea of what it was before it struck her. Her ribs screamed in pain, but the water seemed to cushion her wild slide before she hit rocks. Shark, her mind screamed. There’s a shark and there is nowhere for you to hide. She grabbed onto the stones with her hands, shoving herself farther away from the creature and kicking her feet. But she wasn’t a fast enough swimmer, not even slightly. Black water bubbled around her, and she didn’t have time to wonder where all the ink was coming from. Perhaps it was an octopus trying to help hide her. She didn’t care. Again it struck her, shoving her into the kelp forest and away from the safety of the bells. Away from Byte. Away from anywhere Arges would find her. Panic swirled, making it hard to focus on anything but the terror that ran through her veins and the way her mind screamed to hide. She turned her body in the water, forcing herself to look, even though that was the last thing she wanted to do. She didn’t want to see the giant shark, the sharp teeth, or the nightmare that likely waited for her. But when she turned, she saw nothing. Not even the dark shadow before she bumped into something equally hard.

Don’t laugh though.” “What do you mean?” said Emma. Biff didn’t say anything. He reached into his inventory and pulled out his bed and tossed it on the floor. I’m sorry, but I had to laugh. Emma laughed too. The bed had a blanket with a chicken face on it. His pillow case had the picture of a bunny rabbit on it. “Stop laughing! My mom got me the blanket and the pillowcase when I was little. Hurrr, I just never got around to replacing them.” I was still laughing and said, “No worries, Bro. Looks comfortable.” Emma, who had stopped laughing, yawned. It was contagious. Biff and I both yawned. “Okay, guys, I’m going to sleep. Good night,” said Emma. Biff and I both wished her good night and we each got into our beds and went to sleep. * * * I suppose it will come as no surprise to you that I was visited in my dreams that evening. One of the visitors I had almost expected. But the other…. The visitor I was more or less expecting to show up was, of course, the Rainbow Creeper. It appeared without any attempt to conceal itself in a mysterious form or behind a cloud of dream smoke. You know, the typical weird dream-type stuff. It spoke with the strange lilting voice that had been created when Claire had been joined to it. “Jimmy. I understand that you have rescued Emma from the witch.” “Yes, RC, I did. If Claire still has any independent memory, I hope she’s relieved.” There was a pause for a moment and then the Creeper said, “Yes, she is.” There was another brief pause and then the Rainbow Creeper changed the subject. “Have you had any luck locating Entity 303’s piece in Baby Zeke’s dimension?” I shook my head. “No, but this dimension’s Ender King, Herobrine, and Notch are working on ways to find it. We are going to establish a search party tomorrow using volunteers. It may take a while, but we will leave no stone unturned.” “Excellent,” said the Rainbow Creeper. “I’m sure Entity 303 will not be able to escape your reconnaissance.” “How are things going in my native dimension?” “They are still searching as well. No news.” The Rainbow Creeper was beginning to fade from my dream when I remembered. “Creeper? Wait a minute. Something else happened.” The Creeper’s form solidified again and it looked at me, its expressionless

Why were those horrid boys throwing stones at you?’ ‘Because I am a Jew.’ Emma was not actually sure what a Jew was but, always reluctant to display her ignorance on any matter, she chose to disregard his explanation, repeating again, ‘But why would that make them want to throw stones at you?’ The man returned her questioning look steadily. ‘Because people are always afraid of what they do not know, what they do not understand, the unfamiliar or the different

Why were those horrid boys throwing stones at you?’ ‘Because I am a Jew.’ Emma was not actually sure what a Jew was but, always reluctant to display her ignorance on any matter, she chose to disregard his explanation, repeating again, ‘But why would that make them want to throw stones at you?’ The man returned her questioning look steadily. ‘Because people are always afraid of what they do not know, what they do not understand, the unfamiliar or the different, and that fear invariably turns to hate. Unreasoned hatred that makes no sense. In these parts the Jews are hated and defiled.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah, the human condition is strange, is it not? There are some people who hate for no reason at all. They just simply hate. They do not realize that their unjustified hatred inevitably turns inward to destroy them. Yes, it is self-destructive in the long run.

Emma Thompson, ca. Sense and Sensibility: You must cease and desist all such lustful thoughts, you beast. Emma Stone, ca. Zombieland: Over your dead body. Julia Roberts, ca. Pretty Woman: Big mistake. Huge. Cardi B, in any situation: Bitch, please. All of those worked. Unfortunately, what was more likely to come out of her mouth was straight-up Jennifer Lawrence: I volunteer as tribute.

I could not care less about you, Emma. I am not the slightest bit interested in your mundane life, annoying kids, husband or your next-door neighbour’s cat. I lied, I deceived and pretended to like you so I could see your value and, to your credit, I found some useful qualities I could use. ‘It was immediately clear to me that you were easily led and eager to serve. You are so used to looking after people on the outside. A fine quality in your home life and a totally exploitable trait for me.

Change is always difficult. And you may not have asked for it, but if you greet change as if you have, you can affect the transition and maybe gain some peace from your new circumstances.

The day dawned blue and blurry. A light frost on the grass, a pale, clear morning. It was the first of November, and the sluagh were gone. The light trickled over the island slowly. It brushed against the ruined church spire and dripped down to the memorial, reaching into the crevices of the names writ therein. It poked through curtains and shutters to creep along countertops and kiss sleeping foreheads. It ran along the high street, knocked on the door, danced over the boats in the harbour, and made a sprint up the hill away from the village. It ricocheted through the fields and through the trees, paused reverently at the standing stones, rocketed up to the ancient cathedral where the seagulls swooped, keening.

Wait. Entity 303 cut you open?!?” said my mother. “The creation stone was inside you this entire time?” asked my dad. My mom put her hand across her mouth. “And Claire is now part of the Rainbow Creeper?” “And Emma is enslaved?!?” gasped my dad. Didn’t I just tell them all of that?

She had memorized a couple speeches from movies, including a comedic piece from the teen classic Clueless.

The Partridge experience was not a total loss, however. Through connections to the show, Emily eventually met Doug Wald, who became her manager.

Stone rarely had a break from the camera. The pressure made her increasingly, almost unbearably, anxious. She could hardly sleep, and she also developed horrible acne. Makeup wasn't enough to hide it. Instead, the film editors had to do some special-effect video airbrushing to make her face appear flawless on film.

she hadn't chiselled the fact that she didn't want kids into stone; she cam to it naturally, gradually. It was just something that made sense for her as she lived her life. Sometimes we don't 'know' for sure, and maybe we never will, but we just have to live each day in the way that feels most natural to us.

In order to get Otis and Bob up to speed about what had happened in my dimension, we traveled on foot for the first fifteen minutes of our journey toward the swamp.  Baby Zeke told them all about how he was pulled into another dimension during the blending and what we all had to do – and sacrifice – in order to stop the blending, save the Rainbow Creeper, and put a stop to Entity 303’s evil plan. “Yeah, that blending nonsense was crazy,” said Otis. “I thought you and Harold were dead for sure. I mean, one minute Bob and I are riding next to you and Harold, and the next minute you are missing and there is a giant pool of lava right in front of me. And, I was engulfed in a strange flash of yellow light!” “Yeah, I’m just glad I appeared near Jimmy and could contribute to the struggle against Entity 303 and the preservation of the Rainbow Creeper.” “This Rainbow Creeper thing sounds bizarre,” said Bob. “Is it really the shape of a creeper with a bunch of colors on its skin?” “It sure is,” said Baby Zeke. Otis looked at me and asked, “And your friend Claire was joined with the Rainbow Creeper when she grabbed the creation stone?” I took a deep breath and sighed. “Yes, she was.” I paused and wiped a tear from my eye. “But, at least she’s alive … hurrr ... in some manner. That’s why we need to save my friend Emma. I can’t lose another friend.” Otis thumped his chest. “A good friend is hard to find. I vow on my life that we will save your friend Emma. Saving people is what I do, even if I have to kill a thousand others to achieve it.” Weird flex, but ... okay. I guess the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many in Otis’ worldview. I must say, Baby Zeke had really captured Otis

It was then I saw on the side of the box – a name, a date: ‘Marcus Epstein: Frankfurt, March 2nd 1940’. It was today’s date, a year ago. And, at the bottom, a specific time. 2:10 p.m. ‘Romantic’, Mrs. Henderson had called Queenie’s clocks; but to me, realising what it probably meant, it made my throat thicken with tears. No wonder Mum had understood what a stopped clock might mean. Something must’ve happened to Marcus Epstein that day, at that time. Something terrible that made Queenie’s life stop dead. My brain tried to fill in the gaps. Perhaps Marcus was a Jew. Perhaps this was why she was so set on helping Hewish people, and had such guts when it came to standing up for what was decent. I didn’t know. In many ways it didn’t matter. It was Queenie’s private business. She was the person who’d thrown stones at German aircraft, and yet protected the injured pilot from more harm. She fought for people, that was what Queenie did. Beneath our race, our religion, we were all human beings. We all hurt in the same ways. Upstairs in front of the hall mirror, I could hear her now repinning her hair and fastening her coat. ‘Right, Olive, I’m ready,’ she called down. I went to join her, taking in her smooth, tearless face, the newly tidied hair. You’d never know from looking at her that her heart was still breaking. But that was the awful thing: life did go on, and so did that horrible empty ache you felt when someone wasn’t there any more.

I'll play with you later, okay, Em?" Michael said. "But I have a shirt. And you said..." Michael looked at Joe. "Maybe we could put her in the field. With Weasel. Just for a couple of outs?" "Have you ever seen a girl play?" Joe said. "They can't catch. They scream when they see a fly ball coming. And they can't throw. They've got arms like chicken wings." Joe flapped his elbows and squawked. Emma stared at her sneakers. "She's not that bad," Michael said. "And they're bad luck," Joe said. "Everybody knows that. I'm not playing on any team with some dumb girl. And it's my bat, remember? So beat it, Pee-wee!" He shouldered the equipment bag and turned away. "I guess you'd better go home," Michael said. Emma went slowly back up the walk to the house. It wasn't fair. She knew she threw better than a chicken. She threw almost as well as Joe and a lot better than Weasel Malloy. Why hadn't Michael told Joe that? He should have made Joe let her play. He'd promised. He should have stood up for her. She kicked a stone into the flower bed. Then she sat down on the front steps with her chin in her hands. She wished the sun would stop shining. She wished a big black thundercloud would zap right over the Bombers' heads and rain their stupid ball game out.

I look down at Emma, at the back of her neck, at the way she reaches up to rub bloody tears from her cheeks. I am a gargoyle. I have the ability to turn to stone, but I'm definitely not made from rock.

We are the same, she and I, he thought. Cut from the same stone.

Whether the oddments of superstition my mother told us when we were young were believed by her or were meant as a kind of amusement for us, like the Easter Bunny, Moss Babies and the Tooth Fairy, I am undecided; possibly something of both. She wouldn’t wear green (but that was due to family history: Great-Aunt Emma had an emerald green dress and her fiancé had perished at sea); Christmas decorations had to be totally removed by Twelfth Night as witches could get into the least scrap of tinsel or coloured paper. The snippets of lore were varied: never bring into the house bones, peacock feathers or may blossom; never mix red and white flowers in a vase (death ensued if you did); don’t look at the moon through glass; don’t put shoes on a table (surely just hygienic advice); sing before morning and you’ll cry before night; if you meet a piebald horse, make a cross in the dust on your shoe.