Empty Barrels Quotes

Civilized people must, I believe, satisfy the following criteria: 1) They respect human beings as individuals and are therefore always tolerant, gentle, courteous and amenable ... They do not create scenes over a hammer or a mislaid eraser; they do not make you feel they are conferring a great benefit on you when they live with you, and they don't make a scandal when they leave. (...) 2) They have compassion for other people besides beggars and cats. Their hearts suffer the pain of what is hidden to the naked eye. (...) 3) They respect other people's property, and therefore pay their debts. 4) They are not devious, and they fear lies as they fear fire. They don't tell lies even in the most trivial matters. To lie to someone is to insult them, and the liar is diminished in the eyes of the person he lies to. Civilized people don't put on airs; they behave in the street as they would at home, they don't show off to impress their juniors. (...) 5) They don't run themselves down in order to provoke the sympathy of others. They don't play on other people's heartstrings to be sighed over and cosseted ... that sort of thing is just cheap striving for effects, it's vulgar, old hat and false. (...) 6) They are not vain. They don't waste time with the fake jewellery of hobnobbing with celebrities, being permitted to shake the hand of a drunken [judicial orator], the exaggerated bonhomie of the first person they meet at the Salon, being the life and soul of the bar ... They regard prases like 'I am a representative of the Press!!' -- the sort of thing one only hears from [very minor journalists] -- as absurd. If they have done a brass farthing's work they don't pass it off as if it were 100 roubles' by swanking about with their portfolios, and they don't boast of being able to gain admission to places other people aren't allowed in (...) True talent always sits in the shade, mingles with the crowd, avoids the limelight ... As Krylov said, the empty barrel makes more noise than the full one. (...) 7) If they do possess talent, they value it ... They take pride in it ... they know they have a responsibility to exert a civilizing influence on [others] rather than aimlessly hanging out with them. And they are fastidious in their habits. (...) 8) They work at developing their aesthetic sensibility ... Civilized people don't simply obey their baser instincts ... they require mens sana in corpore sano. And so on. That's what civilized people are like ... Reading Pickwick and learning a speech from Faust by heart is not enough if your aim is to become a truly civilized person and not to sink below the level of your surroundings. [From a letter to Nikolay Chekhov, March 1886]

Black is the color that is no color at all. Black is the color of a child's still, empty bedroom. The heaviest hour of night-the one that traps you in your bunk, suffocating in another nightmare. It is a uniform stretched over the broad shoulders of an angry young man. Black is the mud, the lidless eye watching your every breath, the low vibrations of the fence that stretches up to tear at the sky. It is a road. A forgotten night sky broken up by faded stars. It is the barrel of a new gun, leveled at your heart. The color of Chubs's hair, Liam's bruises, Zu's eyes. Black is a promise of tomorrow, bled dry from lies and hate. Betrayal. I see it in the face of a broken compass, feel it in the numbing grip of grief. I run, but it is my shadow. Chasing, devouring, polluting. It is the button that should never have been pushed, the door that shouldn't have opened, the dried blood that couldn't be washed away. It is the charred remains of buildings. The car hidden in the forest, waiting. It is the smoke. It is the fire. The spark. Black is the color of memory. It is our color. The only one they'll use to tell our story.

The CIA currently has in custody two FBI agents and a Boston police detective who is demanding they pay for the damage to his boat." "He's okay?" Burns nodded. "Emptied a double-barreled shotgun at a couple of Company lackeys, and then they arrested him. He spent all night claiming he thought they were the Men in Black coming to scan his brain" Ty bit his lip so he wouldn't laugh. -- about Nick

Otis barreled towards them empty-handed, before apparently realizing that a) he was empty-handed and b) charging towards a large body of water to fight a son of Poseidon was maybe not a good idea.

Haskell whisked the pistol from his pocket and flipped open the barrel. It was empty. "You little--" Then Haskell barked a laugh and plucked the bullets from Kaz's hand, shaking his head. "You've got the devil's own blood in you, boy. Go get my money.

I gave him my Order smile: sweet grin, hard eyes, reached over to my passenger seat, and pulled out my submachine gun. About twenty-seven inches long, the HK was my favorite toy for close-quarters combat. The rider’s eyes went wide. “This is an HK UMP submachine gun. Renowned for its stopping power and reliability. Cyclic rate of fire: eight hundred rounds per minute. That means I can empty this thirty-round clip into you in less than three seconds. At this range, I’ll cut you in half.” It wasn’t strictly true but it sounded good. “You see what it says on the barrel?” On the barrel, pretty white letters spelled out PARTY STARTER.

Here on the head of an empty barrel stood on end were an ink-bottle, some old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and against the wall were pasted several large printed alphabets in several plain hands. "What are you doing here?" asked my guardian. "Trying to learn myself to read and write," said Krook.

When I was young, I thought it is thunder that kills people. But when I learnt physics in the high school, I discovered that it is rather the lightning that does the killing. The voice of the thunder itself is just a noise. The lightning is the poise!

it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down-stairs—where

Hey, dickhead!" one of the other drivers yelled. "Get off the road!" "This here is a Falcon Seven," the rider told him. "I can put a bolt through your windshield and pin you to your seat like a bug." A direct threat, huh? Okay. I pulled down my sunglasses a bit so the rider would see my eyes. "That's a nice crossbow." He glanced in my direction. He saw a friendly blond girl with a big smile and a light Texas accent and didn't get alarmed. "You've got what, a seventy-five-pound draw on it? Takes you about four seconds to reload?" "Three," he said. I gave him my Order smile: sweet grin, hard eyes, reached over to my passenger seat, and pulled out my submachine gun. About twenty-seven inches long, the HK was my favorite toy for close-quarters combat. The rider's eyes went wide. "This is an HK UMP submachine gun. Renowned for its stopping power and reliability. Cyclic rate of fire: eight hundred rounds per minute. That means I can empty this thirty-round clip into you in less than three seconds. At this range, I'll cut you in half." It wasn't strictly true but it sounded good. "You see what it says on the barrel?" On the barrel, pretty white letters spelled out PARTY STARTER. "You open your mouth again, and I'll get the party started." The rider clamped his jaws shut.

Guns aren't just history's props and agents: they're history itself, spinning alternate futures in their chamber, hurling the present from their barrel, casting aside the empty shells of past

The crowd swarmed together and followed him at a distance, talking excitedly and asking questions and finding out the facts. Finding out the facts and passing them on to others, with improvements-- improvements which soon enlarged the bowl of wine to a barrel, and made the one bottle hold it all and yet remain empty to the last.

Everybody has heard of the great Heidelberg Tun, and most people have seen it, no doubt. It is a wine-cask as big as a cottage, and some traditions say it holds eighteen hundred thousand bottles, and other traditions say it holds eighteen hundred million barrels. I think it likely that one of these statements is a mistake, and the other is a lie. However, the mere matter of capacity is a thing of no sort of consequence, since the cask is empty, and indeed has always been empty, history says. An empty cask the size of a cathedral could excite but little emotion in me. I do not see any wisdom in building a monster cask to hoard up emptiness in, when you can get a better quality, outside, any day, free of expense.

So begins their pursuit of beauty: leaves tumble into barrels of water and lye, the green tears of plants steamed to the clarity of human tears. Then, the same women take up Their pestles and pound the landscape Into pulp. Mashing daylight and daydreams into a pale cold mass. Only then will the men come to drown their fruits in water, dispersing the remnants of plants and the aches of tired white arms. And having dispersed them, they redeem with their fine-meshed nets the tissue of emptiness we now call paper.

..a lesson to you Ann, is that a man, however much he lives under the illusion, is never in control. A woman holds the whip that slaps the horse's rump, my dear. And here is another lesson for you to chew on. Men are like barrels of wine in Sir Hammersmith's basement. Strong, sturdy and inviting on the outside, whereas on the inside completely empty.

Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest-fst! it was as bright as glory and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about, away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs, where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know.

We are never done, then, with conscience. Make up your mind what to do with it, Brutus; make up your mind what to do with it, Cato. It is without end, being God. We throw into this bottomless pit a lifetime of labor, we throw into it our fortune, we throw into it our success, we throw into it our liberty or our country, we throw into it our well-being, we throw into it our repose, we throw into it our joy. More! More! More! Empty the vessel! Tip out the urn! We are forced in the end to throw in our hearts. Somewhere in the mists of the old underworld there is a barrel like that.

Ox Cart Man In October of the year, he counts potatoes dug from the brown field, counting the seed, counting the cellar's portion out, and bags the rest on the cart's floor. He packs wool sheared in April, honey in combs, linen, leather tanned from deerhide, and vinegar in a barrel hoped by hand at the forge's fire. He walks by his ox's head, ten days to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes, and the bag that carried potatoes, flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose feathers, yarn. When the cart is empty he sells the cart. When the cart is sold he sells the ox, harness and yoke, and walks home, his pockets heavy with the year's coin for salt and taxes, and at home by fire's light in November cold stitches new harness for next year's ox in the barn, and carves the yoke, and saws planks building the cart again.

I looked at her again. She lay still now, her face pale against the pillow, her eyes large and dark and empty as rain barrels in a drought. One of her small five-fingered thumbless hands picked at the cover restlessly. There was a vague glimmer of doubt starting to get born in her somewhere. She didn't know about it yet. It's so hard for women - even nice women - to realise that their bodies are not irresistible.

Never May the Fruit Be Plucked” Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough And gathered into barrels. He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs. Though the branches bend like reeds, Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree, He that would eat of love may bear away with him Only what his belly can hold, Nothing in the apron, Nothing in the pockets. Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough And harvested in barrels. The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins, In an orchard soft with rot.

The chamber was empty, except for a rotting barrel in one corner. Across from them, three identical archways opened to three identical rooms, small and dark. Where those led, Eragon could not see. The group stopped, and Eragon slowly straightened his back, wincing as his sore muscles stretched. “This would not have been part of Erst Graybeard’s plans,” said Arya. “Which path should we pick?” asked Wyrden. “Isn’t it obvious?” asked the herbalist. “The left one. It’s always the left one.” And she strode toward that selfsame arch even as she spoke. Eragon could not help himself. “Left according to which direction? If you were starting from the other side, left--” “Left would be right and right would be left, yes, yes,” said the herbalist. Her eyes narrowed. “Sometimes you’re too clever for your own good, Shadeslayer…Very well, we’ll try it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if we end up wandering around here for days on end.

In the moonlight Laura saw the behind of a little black Indian pony, and an Indian on its back. She saw a huddle of blanket and a naked head and a flutter of feathers above it, and moonlight on a gun barrel and then it was all gone. Nothing was there but empty prairie. Pa said he was durned if he knew what to make of it. He said that was the Osage who had tried to talk French to him. He asked, “What’s he doing, out at this hour riding hell bent for leather?” Nobody answered because nobody knew.

For those of you unfamiliar with barrel racing: a buzzer rings and a rider hangs on for dear life as a horse shoots off like a bat out of hell toward some big empty oil barrels placed strategically at one end of an arena and runs around them as fast as he can and then races back to the other end of the arena completely of his own free will while the rider tries not to fall off or cry because she thinks she broke her vagina and thank God the horse finally stopped and is that my pee? It's really fun.

On occasion, it is as if the latches in my mind have gone rusty and worn. The doors fall open and closed at will. A peek inside here. An empty space there. A dark place I’m afraid to peer into. I never know what I will find. There’s no predicting when a barrier will swing wide, or why. Triggers. That’s what the psychologists call them on TV shows. Triggers…as if the strike ignites gunpowder and sends a projectile spinning down a rifle barrel. It’s an appropriate metaphor. Her face triggers something.

In a low voice that only Eragon and Jörmundur could hear, Nasuada said, “If we can but gain their support…” “What will they want in return, though?” asked Jörmundur. “Our coffers are near empty, and our future uncertain.” Her lips barely moving, she said, “Perhaps they wish nothing more of us than a chance to strike back at Galbatorix.” She paused. “But if not, we shall have to find means other than gold to persuade them to join our ranks.” “You could offer them barrels of cream,” said Eragon, which elicited a chortle from Jörmundur and a soft laugh from Nasuada.

With Nicasia by his side, Cardan drew others to him until he formed a malicious little foursome who prowled the isles of Elfhame looking for trouble. They unravelled precious tapestries and set fire to part of the Crooked Forest. They made their instructors at the palace school weep and made courtiers terrified to cross them. Valerian, who loved cruelty the way some Folk loved poetry. Locke, who had a whole empty house for them to run amok in, along with an endless appetite for merriment. Nicasia, whose contempt for the land made her eager to have all of Elfhame kiss her slipper. And Cardan, who modelled himself on his eldest brother and learned how to use his status to make Folk scrape and grovel and bow and beg, who delighted in being a villain. Villains were wonderful. They got to be cruel and selfish, to preen in front of mirrors and poison apples, and trap girls on mountains of glass. They indulged all their worst impulses, revenged themselves for the least offense, and took every last thing they wanted. And sure, they wound up in barrels studded with nails, or dancing in iron shoes heated by fire, not just dead, but disgraced and screaming. But before they got what was coming to them, they got to be the fairest in the land.

But the officer did not think the spot suitable. He told the man to rise. He walked a yard or two and knelt down again. A soldier was detached from the squad and took up his position behind the prisoner, three feet from him perhaps; he raised his gun; the officer gave the word of command; he fired. The criminal fell forward and he moved a little, convulsively. The officer went up to him, and seeing that he was not quite dead emptied two barrels of his revolver into the body. Then he formed up his soldiers once more. The judge gave the vice-consul a smile, but it was a grimace rather than a smile; it distorted painfully that fat good-humoured face.

growing up we always had a pack of dogs, usually four held in prestige among many familiars them and a few cats we let indoors though we loved every bird, mouse, tadpole, crayfish froze in a spring frost we grew more conscious of weather wide skies read power lines hum dove coos the leaves turnt dirt melt change on the breeze creaks and rain the gravel trucks of spring full by slow then empties in summer barrelling too fast past our hillbilly stake mother threw potatoes later hard to explain to the police who got called in from a county over drove out to say, "ma'am, you can't throw potatoes at trucks" then all polite as we stood with our pack and stuck to our guns

Well, what am I supposed to do here?” He shrugged. “That’s none of my concern, just don’t leave the premises.” Amma placed her empty cup down then leaned a hip against the table. “Fine. I guess I can take Branson up on his offer.” Damien had turned but came to a stop, looking back. “What offer?” She tapped her lips in thought, eyes wide and blinking and as innocent as she could playact. “Oh, something about showing me how they manage to get all those massive cider barrels crammed into the really tight back room. I bet it’s fascinating.” Damien groaned, scratching at his smooth chin. “On second thought, your assistance may come in handy.” “Are you sure?” She bit her lip. “Because Branson seemed really interested in showing me how those barrels get filled.” He glared across the tavern at the man. “The only thing that barkeep is interested in filling, is you with Branson-son.” She gasped, too playful now to be convincing. “No! That can’t be what he meant. It’s got nothing to do with chickens.” “Chickens?” “He said if I went back there with him, he’d show me his massive co—” “Sanguinisui, go outside!

I worked and worked, and before I knew it, my collage was finished. Still damp from Elmer’s glue, the masterpiece included images of horses--courtesy, coincidentally, of Marlboro cigarette ads--and footballs. There were pictures of Ford pickups and green grass--anything I could find in my old magazines that even remotely hinted at country life. There was a rattlesnake: Marlboro Man hated snakes. And a photo of a dark, starry night: Marlboro Man was afraid of the dark as a child. There were Dr Pepper cans, a chocolate cake, and John Wayne, whose likeness did me a great favor by appearing in some ad in Golf Digest in the early 1980s. My collage would have to do, even though it was missing any images depicting the less tangible things--the real things--I knew about Marlboro Man. That he missed his brother Todd every day of his life. That he was shy in social settings. That he knew off-the-beaten-path Bible stories--not the typical Samson-and-Delilah and David-and-Goliath tales, but obscure, lesser-known stories that I, in a lifetime of skimming, would never have hoped to read. That he hid in an empty trash barrel during a game of hide-and-seek at the Fairgrounds when he was seven…and that he’d gotten stuck and had to be extricated by firefighters. That he hated long pasta noodles because they were too difficult to eat. That he was sweet. Caring. Serious. Strong. The collage was incomplete--sorely lacking vital information.

Calypso Blues" Wa oh oh, wa oh oh Wa oh wa oh wa oh way Wa oh oh, wa oh oh Wa oh wa oh wa oh way Sittin' by de ocean Me heart, she feel so sad, Sittin' by de ocean, Me heart, she feel so sad Don't got de money To take me back to Trinidad. Fine calypso woman, She cook me shrimp and rice, Fine calypso woman, She cook me shrimp and rice These Yankee hot dogs Don't treat me stomach very nice. In Trinidad, one dollar buy Papaya juice, banana pie, Six coconut, one female goat, An' plenty fish to fill de boat. One bushel bread, one barrel wine, An' all de town, she come to dine. But here is bad, one dollar buy Cup of coffee, ham on rye. Me throat she sick from necktie, Me feet hurt from shoes. Me pocket full of empty, I got Calypso blues. She need to, bubble like perculatah' She come from Trinidad so winin' in her nature Never can't I assess a reps until failure Tell her if she stops she needs fe fly Air Jamaica Anytime she land she nah go feel like no stranger Carry us beyond we similar in behavior Them no understand our customs and we flavor Need a natty dred to be the new care taker, lord! These Yankee girl give me big scare, Is black de root, is blond de hair. Her eyelash false, her face is paint, And pads are where de girl she ain't! She jitterbugs when she should waltz, I even think her name is false. But calypso girl is good a lot, Is what you see, is what she got. Sittin' by de ocean Me heart, she feel so sad, Don't got de money To take me back to Trinidad. Wa oh oh, wa oh oh Wa oh wa oh wa oh way Wa oh oh, wa oh oh Wa oh wa oh wa oh way She need to, she need to, she need to, bubble like perculatah' She come from Trinidad so winin' in her nature Never can't I assess a reps until failure Tell her if she stops she needs fe fly Air Jamaica Anytime she land she nah go feel like no stranger Carry us beyond we similar in behavior Them no understand our customs and we flavor Need a natty dred to be the new care taker, lord! Wa oh oh, wa oh oh Wa oh wa oh wa oh way Wa oh oh, wa oh oh Wa oh wa oh wa oh way

Again she heard that crackling hiss, and her nose filled with the smell of burning sugar. It was stronger this time, a sweet, dense cloud of perfume. Suddenly, she was back at the Menagerie, a thick hand grasping her wrist, demanding. Inej had gotten good at anticipating when a memory might seize her, bracing for it, but this time she wasn’t prepared. It came at her, more insistent than the wind on the wire, sending her mind sprawling. Though he smelled of vanilla, beneath it, she could smell garlic. She felt the slither of silk all around her as if the bed itself were a living thing. Inej didn’t remember all of them. As the nights at the Menagerie had strung together, she had become better at numbing herself, vanishing so completely that she almost didn’t care what was done to the body she left behind. She learned that the men who came to the house never looked too closely, never asked too many questions. They wanted an illusion, and they were willing to ignore anything to preserve that illusion. Tears, of course, were forbidden. She had cried the first night. Tante Heleen had used the switch on her, then the cane, then choked her until she’d passed out. The next time, Inej’s fear was greater than her sorrow. She learned to smile, to whisper, to arch her back and make the sounds Tante Heleen’s customers required. She still wept, but the tears were never shed. They filled the empty place inside her, a well of sadness where, each night, she sank like a stone. The Menagerie was one of the most expensive pleasure houses in the Barrel, but its customers were no kinder than those who frequented the dollar houses and alley girls. In some ways, Inej came to understand, they were worse. When a man spends that much coin, said the Kaelish girl, Caera, he thinks he’s earned the right to do whatever he wants. There were young men, old men, handsome men, ugly men. There was the man who cried and struck her when he could not perform. The man who wanted her to pretend it was their wedding night and tell him that she loved him. The man with sharp teeth like a kitten who had bitten at her breasts until she’d bled. Tante Heleen added the price of the blood-speckled sheets and the days of work Inej missed to her indenture. But he hadn’t been the worst.

What’s she going to do now?” Cooper dropped his empty into a nearby barrel and popped another top. “I mean, she’s holding onto the Tide, right? She’s not going to sell?

These were not idle threats. Suspected labor agents were arrested routinely whenever a trainload of African Americans left or when the fields were empty and there was no one to work the land.40 The Reverend D. W. Johnson, a black labor agent in Mississippi, barely escaped detection, the sting of the whip, or worse for handing out free railroad passes north to African Americans. “About twelve o’ clock,” he recounted:     that door swung open and there was two great big, three great big red-faced guys … Now they had a bullwhip on they shoulder and a rope and a gun in each of their hands. And those pistols, them barrels looked like shotguns, you know? They gonna kill every so-and-so Negro that they found had a pass. Well, so they searched us one by one and they searched me … Had they pulled off my shoe, that’d been it for me. Because they swo’ they was gonna kill the one who had it. Yeah, it was in the toe of my shoe.

growing, like a storm on the horizon, gathering, the echo of thunder distant but present. For whatever reason, it doesn’t affect me. I am certain that there is something out there, waiting for us. We press on, into the darkness, barreling at maximum speed, the three nuclear warheads on our ship armed and ready. I feel like Ahab hunting the white whale. I am a man possessed. When I launched into space aboard the Pax, my life was empty. I didn’t know Emma. My brother was a stranger to me. I had no family, no friends. Only Oscar. Now I have something to lose. Something to live for. Something to fight for. My time in space has changed me. When I left Earth the first time, I was still the rebel scientist the world had cast out. I felt like an outsider, a renegade. Now I have become a leader. I’ve learned to read people, to try to understand them. That was my mistake before. I trudged ahead with my vision of the world, believing the world would follow me. But the truth is, true leadership requires understanding those you lead, making the best choices for them, and most of all, convincing them when they don’t realize what’s best for them. Leadership is about moments like this, when the people you’re charged with protecting have doubts, when the odds are against you. Every morning, the crew gathers on the bridge. Oscar and Emma strap in on each side of me and we sit around the table and everyone gives their departmental updates. The ship is operating at peak efficiency. So is the crew. Except for the elephant in the room. “As you know,” I begin, “we are still on course for Ceres. We have not ordered the other ships in the Spartan fleet to alter course. The fact that the survey drones have found nothing, changes nothing. Our enemy is advanced. Sufficiently advanced to alter our drones and hide itself. With that said, we should discuss the possibility that there is, in fact, nothing out there on Ceres. We need to prepare for that eventuality.” Heinrich surveys the rest of the crew before speaking. “It could be a trap.” He’s always to the point. I like that about him. “Yes,” I reply, “it could be. The entity, or harvester, or whatever is out there, could be manufacturing the solar cells elsewhere—deeper in the solar system, or from another asteroid in the belt. It could be sending the solar cells to Ceres and then toward the sun, making them look as though they were manufactured on Ceres. There could be a massive bomb or attack drones waiting for us at Ceres.” “We could split our fleet,

The AR-57, also known as the AR Five Seven, is available as either an upper receiver for the AR-15/M16 rifle or a complete rifle, firing 5.7×28mm rounds from standard FN P90 magazines. It was designed by AR57 LLC and[3] was produced by AR57 of Kent, Washington, United States. The AR-57 PDW upper is a new design on AR-15/M16 rifles, blending the AR-15/M16 lower with a lightweight, monolithic upper receiver system chambered in FN 5.7×28mm. This model is also sold as a complete rifle, supplied with two 50-round P90 magazines.[1] The magazines mount horizontally on top of the front handguard, with brass ejecting through the magazine well. Hollow AR-15 magazines can be used to catch spent casings. Unlike the standard AR-15 configuration which uses a gas-tube system , the AR-57 cycles via straight blowback.[6] A fully automatic version exists and was marketed as a competitor to the P90 and other personal defense weapons.[7] Manufactured by the eponymous AR57 LLC, and chambered in 5.7x28mm, this upper is less powerful than the standard 5.56mm version, but it has certain tangible advantages, including reduced muzzle blast, a high practical rate of fire, nonexistent recoil, and the ability to use folding stocks. Since the buffer is located within the receiver, folding stocks may also be used for compact storage or carry. To load, place the base plate of a standard FN P90 magazine into the recess on the front of the upper, then press the feed lip side down on the catch located above and slightly back of the bolt. To charge, pull on the right-side nonreciprocating handle and release. The right-side charging hand placement makes it accessible for operation by the strong hand. Since it only has to be operated once every 50 shots, the time penalty for moving the hand off the pistol grip isn’t too great. Empties will eject downward through the nominal magazine well. Some people use a 20-round magazine body with the feed lips, spring and follower removed to act as a brass catcher. The magazine has no provision for activating the bolt lock when empty, but the bolt can be locked open using the catch on the lower. The upper runs very cleanly and reliably, requiring no maintenance after the first 500 shots. The AR57 comes with a medium fluted barrel, reasonable for a varmint rifle but excessive for a defensive carbine. Burning around six grains per shot, 5.7x28mm runs much cooler than 5.56mm, which burns four or more times as much. That yields much reduced muzzle blast and far greater heat endurance, of course at the cost of a roughly 40 percent slower bullet.

The critical question about these statues is, Why were they all made alike? You see them sitting there, like Diogenes in their barrels, looking at the sky with empty eye-sockets, and watching the sun and the stars go overhead without ever trying to understand them. When the Dutch discovered this island on Easter Sunday in 1722, they said that it had the makings of an earthly paradise. But it did not. An earthly paradise is not made by this empty repetition…These frozen faces, these frozen frames in a film that is running down, mark a civilization which failed to take the first step on the ascent of rational knowledge.

Ian spun and rushed up the stairs while surrounded by flickering firelight. He reached the top and raced past Revita. “Run!” They sped off toward the stables. Just before reaching an open stable bay, the two barrels of naphtha among the load delivered by Vic and Dennard ignited. The thump of an explosion hammered in Ian’s ears and echoed in his chest as his body was propelled forward. He landed a dozen feet away and tumbled into the empty stall. Darkness crashed in. The dark of night surrounded Vic and Dennard as they rode along the drive leading back to Bard’s Castle. Moonlight shone between the trees along the road, and stars dotted the evening sky. It was a peaceful scene soon to turn ugly. Anxiety left Vic’s armpits damp. Again, he reached behind the wagon seat to ensure his weapon remained where he had placed it. He then glanced backward, the contents of the wagon bed covered by white tarps. Two more wagons rode behind theirs, forming a train that wound its way around a switchback before rolling toward the castle gate. Torches mounted to the top of the wall wavered in the breeze while a pair of large lanterns burned just outside the closed gate. As before, eight men in black stood outside the portcullis while a few others loitered inside the castle

As he closed in on the mess tent, he could hear the first voices of the morning and gave a sigh of relief. The mess tent flap was closed, and he fancied he could hear the sounds of cooking, the clinking and clanking of metal, hisses of steam, from inside. His belly rolled again at the thought of food but he steeled himself, reached out a hand, lifted the flap, and stepped inside. The inside was empty of life but it was full of death. Bodies of Wubei men lay where they had collapsed dotted all around the interior. The smell of loosened bowels and vomit violated the sanctity of Zhou’s nose causing him to heave and retch. When he had regained control he forced himself to examine the scene, to make sense of it. There was food still on the table and open barrels of wine around the place but no sign of blood or struggle.

Breathing is not the process of being filled and emptied: breathing is the act of actually making love to the whole world, which is to say the world is your lover, which is to say love the whole world, in all sweaty folds and scabbed pockmarks, which is to say love your dirty corners, your stalk-like legs and barrel hips, love all the no and the no and the no that brought you rigth here, to this moment and love the yes. The yes: the breath that found its way to you, built a home in your blood cells, changed itself to better suit you and for it, tonight, you say: I was made to breathe and move and give, which is to say love. Love. I was made to love.

I only see people taking their pickup trucks to Cracker Barrel. My brother Mike, like many other pickup owners, never seems to be picking anything up with his pickup. I find this confusing. It's like walking around with a big empty piece of luggage: 'Are you about to travel somewhere?' 'No, but I'm the type of guy who would.

I was doing my best to keep my voice down, but when my orgasm finally barreled through me at warp speed, I shouted, “Fuck yes, beautiful!” We both froze and our eyes strayed to the baby monitor. After thirty seconds of silence, the sensations roared back and I pumped hard as I emptied myself into Aspen’s greedy pussy.

The short-barrel MP9 submachine gun released a cluster of silenced rounds that ran up Novakovich’s body, some of the bullets sparking off the case of the hard drive. Novakovich cried out and crumpled backward with a crash. The gunman pivoted sharply at the corner of the passage and turned the muzzle of the MP9 toward Marc. His night vision goggles would easily render the space visible, and there was no cover at all. Marc took the offensive and attacked as the weapon came toward him. With the Glock in his fist, he brought the heavy butt of the pistol across, smashing it into the lenses of the gunman’s NVG rig with such violence that broken shards were driven into the shooter’s cheek and eyes. The gunman jerked the MP9’s trigger, but the shots went wide, chugging into the wall and the ceiling of the corridor as the magazine emptied

Although Maomao wasn’t sure how much trouble she could really get into with the mild, juice-based alcohol. “I wouldn’t get drunk.” “I heard you emptied a barrel on the way here.” Who’d snitched on her? It had to be Jinshi or Basen. Maomao clicked her tongue.

smirk as I take a step forward, pressing that barrel right up against my temple with my hands still raised. His eyes widen fractionally, but he masks all other signs of surprise. “I’m the girl you sent your son to kill. I’d hoped you see the devil you loved through clearer eyes, but I guess you never did and never will.” Confusion only lights his eyes for the barest of moments before recognition slides over his face. “No,” he says in a rasp whisper. But then his eyes turn to ice, and the resonating sound of a dead click rattles around the room that is otherwise cloaked in silence. Fear replaces determination when I smile. And he pulls the trigger again, and again, and again…all while I take a step back. “Hope you don’t mind, Sheriff. I took the liberty of emptying all the bullets from every other gun in the house, sans your service weapon you left in the other room.

you never knew what lurked beneath the surface of a pretty face. That charming man at the coffee shop who struck up a conversation could be the bullet that got you. Every day, we spun the chamber, went out into the world, and pulled the trigger. A chat with your Uber driver. Ordering lunch in a small café. Picking up dry cleaning. Every interaction bore the potential to be catastrophic. Thankfully, the barrel was usually empty because most people, no matter how seemingly odd, were harmless. If that weren’t the case, we’d all be agoraphobics hiding in our homes. Instead, we greeted new acquaintances with a smile and hope in our hearts—even those of us who’d played the game and lost.

My legs a fucking trembling mess. I am not at my strongest. I’m too hurt and tired for that. My anger, though, makes up for a hell of a lot. I bring my knee up and push it into his dick with meaning as I put the end of his own gun between my chest and his, the barrel pointed right at his heart. “Get the fuck up,” I grit out. With blood pouring down his face, he slowly edges back and then gets to his feet. I follow, moving much slower because of all of the aches and pains. My hand, though, remains steady as I point the gun. “What are you going to do now?” he asks. His eyes are crystalline, like looking into an endless pool of water. Empty of flecks. His pupils are the only darkness I see. It’s unnerving.

Returning my attention to the bottom of the gray barrel, I saw all kinds of half-eaten nasty food, and felt sorry for the janitors at the school. People could at least empty their soda cans before tossing them out! I imagined, for a moment, the rise of the garbage cans in the future. One day, they’ll come to life and seek vengeance for all the gunk that people stuffed into them. Just remember this on the

Looking at this calendar, what are the worst two months of the year when the barrel would be completely empty—meaning everything is crap. Your answer is November and December. Would Aunt Bee ever consider moving in these months? Heck, NO! She is focused on holidays, baking, and hunkering down for the winter.

However, in an attempt to rouse the dejected spirits of the troops, he directed that a ration of whiskey be issued to all ranks. Somehow the barrels were brought up in the night and the distribution made next morning. The result, in several cases - for the officers poured liberally and the stuff went into empty stomachs - were spectacular. For example, rival regiments from Pennsylvania and Massachusetts promptly decided the time had come for them to settle a long-term feud, and when a Maine outfit stepped in to try and stop the scuffle, the result was the biggest three-sided fist fight in the history of the world.

People are so sad,” she said. “People are so hurt,” she said. “So please let us not be empty like empty barrels,” she said. All along, the ceiling light kept doing its thing. And together with Professor Pearls, we answered her, as if this had been planned, “Amen.

Scientific American had recorded the spectral testing of the Hampton Court portrait—with both X-ray and infrared light—back in 1937. These tests had been administered by a photographic expert named Charles Wisner Barrell, an early authorship-debate gadfly; yet when I contacted the Royal Collection I was informed that the picture’s conservation file was empty.

I didn’t want to tell him that when a barrel of fear explodes inside your chest – you scream with all the force you’ve ever had chained up inside, and the fear just gets worse when you realize you cannot stop. I didn’t want to tell him that at some point you completely empty yourself, like a burnt out battery, and collapse into unconsciousness because there’s simply no other alternative.

The railroad edge of Tokyo, where school children commute four hours a day between their cramped homes and distant schools while their parents work. Same sort of stuff as the rusting oil barrel fringe of Montana towns, the emptiness past the sprawl, but in Tokyo, it was a sanitized and crowded emptiness.

and knew she had to head away from it. She kept listening for gunshots or shouts, scanning for beams of torchlight or the gleam of some stray moonlight reflecting off the barrel of a gun, but the night and the trees remained undisturbed. She kept moving. When she saw the car she ducked behind the nearest tree before she had quite registered what she was even looking at. There had been no attempt to hide it, but in this kind of thick darkness it was almost unnecessary. She was less than two metres away when she noticed it. Her eyes went immediately to the windscreen, looking for the shapes of people inside, but it seemed empty. And familiar. A horrible swooping feeling in her stomach came with the recognition. Simon’s station wagon, abandoned in the trees. She gave herself a few more minutes until she was convinced there was no-one here, then she made her move, circling round and approaching the rear of the car. In a tiny snatch of starlight that pushed through the leaves and branches above, she saw something thick and glistening on the ground.

A Fool Stands at an akimbo, Head swollen disproportionately. Loquacious. Boastful. But he is an empty barrel That talks an infinite deal of nonsense. He is a fool. He is naked; But he discerns it not. He is shallow - Lacking depth and sound judgment. But he thinks he is full, complete. He is a fool. Wisdom makes a defining shout, But he hearkens not. Correction drums violently into his ears, But all he hears is an applause From an orchestra of his sycophants. He is a fool. He casts contemptuous glances at discretion. He sees with one eye, Tainted by arrogance. His only hearing ear Is fitted with impervious filter of pride. He is a fool.

Tch, look at this shameless ssagaji behavior,” Madame Jung spits in disbelief, packing away her stones. “This is why of all the things I do for ShinBi, marketing idols is my least favorite task. I have to convince the public that you kids are special, deserving of worship and adoration … when in reality, idols—and the trainees who desperately want to be idols—are the losers of this country. Bottom of the barrel, like my youngest son—I had to pull strings just to get him a junior-level job at this company. Most idols are just empty-headed losers who never had hope of scoring in the top percentile on the national university entrance exam.

Combat knives were sheathed in his both boots, but it was rare he got to use those. He brought them along nevertheless, remembering the old line, it was better to have and not need, than need and not have. He regarded the hospital’s main doors. Still nothing moved from the inside, but he doubted the place was empty. Game on, he thought. Gus shook his head, clearing it, and moved forward, the barrel of the shotgun wavering ever so slightly, like the dark head of a Doberman giving fair warning. If anything came

Grandpa had a gun and it ruined Mama's hearing. He was an angry man and he liked to celebrate it. He liked best to have Mama and her sisters dress up, line them all up, and make them stand close while he'd fire his shotgun off, the blast cracking through the air above their heads as sure and painful as if he'd emptied the barrel right into their bones. She still has dreams about it, gingham and butterfly-collar nightmares that scream through the house.

One man could manage an empty barrel but it took two to move a full one over uneven ground. The two brothers took the empty to the alehouse, with Brindle trotting behind. While they were paying Leaf, two passengers arrived for the ferry. Edgar recognized them as Odo and Adelaide, a husband-and-wife courier team from Cherbourg. They had passed through Dreng’s Ferry two weeks earlier on their way to Shiring, accompanied by two men-at-arms, carrying letters and money to Ragna. Edgar

For me, writing any piece of advertising is unnerving. You sit down with your partner and put your feet up. You read the strategist's brief, draw a square on a pad of paper, and you both stare at the damned thing. You stare at each other's shoes. You look at the square. You give up and go to lunch. You come back. The empty square is still there. Is the square gonna be a poster? Will it be a branded sitcom, a radio spot, a website? You don't know. All you know is the square's still empty. So you both go through the brand stories you find online, on the client's website, what people are saying in the Amazon reviews. You go through the reams of material the account team left in your office. You discover the bourbon you're working on is manufactured in a little town with a funny name. You point this out to your partner. Your partner keeps staring out the window at some speck in the distance. (Or is that a speck on the glass? Can't be sure.) He says, “Oh.” Down the hallway, a phone rings. Paging through an industry magazine, your partner points out that every few months the distillers rotate the aging barrels a quarter turn. You go, “Hmm.” On some blog, you read how moss on trees happens to grow faster on the sides that face a distillery's aging house. Now that's interesting. You feel the shapeless form of an idea begin to bubble up from the depths. You poise your pencil over the page…and it all comes out in a flash of creativity. (Whoa. Someone call 911. Report a fire on my drawing pad 'cause I am SMOKIN' hot.) You put your pencil down, smile, and read what you've written. It's complete rubbish. You call it a day and slink out to see a movie. This process continues for several days, even weeks, and then one day, completely without warning, an idea just shows up at your door, all nattied up like a Jehovah's Witness. You don't know where it comes from. It just shows up. That's how you come up with ideas. Sorry, there's no big secret. That's basically the drill.

You look but have no eyes, you listen but have deaf ears. Because divine love is not in you, you are like empty barrels—

The first rail connection reached Titusville in 1862, eventually superseding the artificial-freshet mêlée. In its first fourteen months, the new Oil Creek Rail Road carried away more than 430,000 barrels of oil and delivered more than 459,000 empty barrels to the oil well sites; sixty thousand passengers traveled in and out of the region by rail during the same period.8 The ultimate improvement would be pipelines to move the oil from the wellhead to the railroad. Those came in various gauges from two to six inches, the oil flowing by gravity or pumped by steam, beginning in 1863.

A poem is a windy city, has broad shoulders and insistent industry, barrels into your brain, sticking its steam-filled, swarmy head into the delicate, empty bird cages propped in the rooms of your imagination. A poem can be rude, downright ignorant of what you had been thinking about and holding onto for too much of the day. More than a city, a poem pushes its hemispheres against your thoughts, knocking them out of the windows of your ears. Every good poem screams, 'Read me because you're going to die someday!

By this time I was soaked, depressed, and very cold; but the Hallohan brothers and their ancient mother, who now appeared from a back room, went to work on me. They began by feeding me a vast plate of salt beef and turnips boiled with salt cod which in turn engendered within me a monumental thirst. At this juncture the brothers brought out a crock of Screech. Screech is a drink peculiar to Newfoundland. In times gone by it was made by pouring boiling water into empty rum barrels to dissolve whatever rummish remains might have lingered there. Molasses and yeast were added to the black, resultant fluid and this mixture was allowed to ferment for a decent length of time before it was distilled.