Ems Training Quotes

Don't exist. Live. Get out, explore. Thrive. Challenge authority. Challenge yourself. Evolve. Change forever. Become who you say you always will. Keep moving. Don't stop. Start the revolution. Become a freedom fighter. Become a superhero. Just because everyone doesn't know your name doesn't mean you dont matter. Are you happy? Have you ever been happy? What have you done today to matter? Did you exist or did you live? How did you thrive? Become a chameleon-fit in anywhere. Be a rockstar-stand out everywhere. Do nothing, do everything. Forget everything, remember everyone. Care, don't just pretend to. Listen to everyone. Love everyone and nothing at the same time. Its impossible to be everything,but you can't stop trying to do it all. All I know is that I have no idea where I am right now. I feel like I am in training for something, making progress with every step I take. I fear standing still. It is my greatest weakness. I talk big, but often don't follow through. That's my biggest problem. I don't even know what to think right now. It's about time I start to take a jump. Fuck starting to take. Just jump-over everything. Leap. It's time to be aggressive. You've started to speak your mind, now keep going with it, but not with the intention of sparking controversy or picking a germane fight. Get your gloves on, it's time for rebirth. There IS no room for the nice guys in the history books. THIS IS THE START OF A REVOLUTION. THE REVOLUTION IS YOUR LIFE. THE GOAL IS IMMORTALITY. LET'S LIVE, BABY. LET'S FEEL ALIVE AT ALL TIMES. TAKE NO PRISONERS. HOLD NO SOUL UNACCOUNTABLE, ESPECIALLY NOT YOUR OWN. IF SOMETHING DOESN'T HAPPEN, IT'S YOUR FAULT. Make this moment your reckoning. Your head has been held under water for too long and now it is time to rise up and take your first true breath. Do everything with exact calculation, nothing without meaning. Do not make careful your words, but make no excuses for what you say. Fuck em' all. Set a goal for everyday and never be tired.

Men cheat. They lie. They love porn. The don't respect you and don't care if they hurt you. It's the fucking breaks. Women divorce 'em 'cause we can't tame 'em or train 'em or control 'em like we do household pets. End of story.

Look, there's Billy Casper there wi' his pet hawk. I could shout at 'em; it's not a pet, Sir, hawks are not pets. Or when folks stop me and say, "Is it tame?" Is it heck tame, it's trained that's all. It's fierce, and it's wild, an' it's not bothered about anybody, not even about me right. And that's why it's great.

Poor things! I know what sort of treatment they have had. If they are timid, it makes them start or shy; if they are high-mettled, it makes them vicious or dangerous; their tempers are mostly made when they are young. Bless you! they are like children, train 'em up in the way they should go, as the good book says, and when they are old they will not depart from it, if they have a chance, that is.

When I rest my head on the couch I know that it's coming, coming like something in the mail, something sent away for. We know it is coming, but are not sure when--weeks? months? She is fifty one. I am twenty-one. My sister is twenty-three. My brothers are twenty-four and seven. We are ready. We are not ready. People know. Our house sits on a sinkhole. Our house is the one being swept up in the tornado, the little train-set model floating helplessly, pathetically around in the howling black funnel. We're weak and tiny. We're Grenada. There are men parachuting from the sky. We are waiting for everything to finally stop working--the organs and systems, one by one, throwing up their hands--"The jig is up," says the endocrine; "I did what I could," says the stomach, or what's left of it; "We'll get em next time," adds the heart, with a friendly punch to the shoulder.

They needed a word that meant, “I love you, I forgive you, it’s okay, and I’ll never leave” all rolled up in one. He settled for calling out, “Give ’em hell, Yuliya.

I wonder, for example, if the twins’ piano training had given them the Tomaini brand of dexterity with hand jobs? Could a non-musician learn it? Could I? Children stumble through these most critical acts with no real help from the elders who are so anxious to teach them everything else. We were given rules and taboos for the toilet, the sneeze, the eating of an artichoke. Papa taught us all a particular brush stroke for cleaning our teeth, a special angle for the pen in our hand, the exact words for greeting elders, with fine-tuned distinctions for male, female, show folk, customers, or tradesmen. The twins and Arty were taught to design an act, whether it lasted three minutes or thirty, to tease, coax, and startle a crowd, to build to crescendo and then disappear in the instant of climax. From what I have come to understand of life, this show skill, this talk-’em, sock-’em, knock-’em-flat information, is as close as we got to that ultimate mystery. I throw death aside. Death is not mysterious. We all understand death far too well and spend chunks of life resisting, ignoring, or explaining away that knowledge. But this real mystery I have never touched, never scratched. I’ve seen the tigers with their jaws wide, their fangs buried in each other’s throats, and their shadowed hides sizzling, tip to tip. I’ve seen the young norms tangled and gasping in the shadows between booths. I suspect that, even if I had begun as a norm, the saw-toothed yearning that whirls in me would bend me and spin me colorless, shrink me, scorch every hair from my body, and all invisibly so only my red eyes would blink out glimpses of the furnace thing inside. In fact, I smell the stench of longing so clearly in the streets that I’m surprised there are not hundreds exactly like me on every corner.

Or should I have said that I wanted to die, not in the sense of wanting to throw myself off of that train bridge over there, but more like wanting to be asleep forever because there isn’t any making up for killing women or even watching women get killed, or for that matter killing men and shooting them in the back and shooting them more times than necessary to actually kill them and it was like just trying to kill everything you saw sometimes because it felt like there was acid seeping down into your soul and then your soul is gone and knowing from being taught your whole life that there is no making up for what you are doing, you’re taught that your whole life, but then even your mother is so happy and proud because you lined up your sign posts and made people crumple and they were not getting up ever and yeah they might have been trying to kill you too, so you say, What are you goona do?, but really it doesn’t matter because by the end you failed at the one good thing you could have done, and the one person you promised would live is dead, and you have seen all things die in more manners than you’d like to recall and for a while the whole thing fucking ravaged your spirit like some deep-down shit, man, that you didn’t even realize you had until only the animals made you sad, the husks of dogs filled with explosives and old arty shells and the fucking guts of everything stinking like metal and burning garbage and you walk around and the smell is deep down into you now and you say, How can metal be so on fire? and Where is all this fucking trash coming from? and even back home you’re getting whiffs of it and then that thing you started to notice slipping away is gone and now it’s becoming inverted, like you have bottomed out in your spirit but yet a deeper hole is being dug because everybody is so fucking happy to see you, the murderer, the fucking accomplice, that at-bare-minimum bearer of some fucking responsibility, and everyone wants to slap you on the back and you start to want to burn the whole goddamn country down, you want to burn every yellow ribbon in sight, and you can’t explain it but it’s just, like, Fuck you, but then you signed up to go so it’s your fault, really, because you went on purpose, so you are in the end doubly fucked, so why not just find a spot and curl up and die and let’s make it as painless as possible because you are a coward and, really, cowardice got you into this mess because you wanted to be a man and people made fun of you and pushed you around in the cafeteria and the hallways in high school because you liked to read books and poems sometimes and they’d call you a fag and really deep down you know you went because you wanted to be a man and that’s never gonna happen now and you’re too much of a coward to be a man and get it over with so why not find a clean, dry place and wait it out with it hurting as little as possible and just wait to go to sleep and not wake up and fuck ‘em all.

Bella Swan: Jasper? Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help? Jasper Hale: Well just your presence alone, your scent, will distract the newborns. Their hunting instinct will take over, and drive 'em crazy. Bella Swan: Good, I'm glad. [Jasper nods and begins to walk away] Bella Swan: . Bella Swan: Hey, [Jasper turns around] Bella Swan: how do you know so much about this? Jasper Hale: I didn't have quite the same upbringing as my adopted siblings. [Rolls up sleeves and shows Bella his arms, which have bite marks on them] Jasper Hale: . Bella Swan: [Hops off Jeep] Those bites are like mine. Jasper Hale: Battle scars [smiles] Jasper Hale: . All the training the Confederate Army gave me was useless against the newborns, but still, I never lost a fight. Bella Swan: Hey, this - this happened during the Civil War? Jasper Hale: I was the youngest major in the Texas Calvary, all without having seen any real battle. Bella Swan: Until...? Jasper Hale: Till I met a certain immortal... Maria

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

We are the Overcomers, the Overmen, not the Last Men. The Last Men want a petty, trivial, comfortable world without any suffering. Fuck ‘em! The task is not to eliminate suffering, but to sublimate it. All people who accomplish anything great impose tremendous discipline, suffering, and hardship on themselves. They deny themselves an easy, hedonistic life. They train hard, study hard, try hard, make tremendous sacrifices. They’re certainly not in the Last Man game of removing suffering from their life. They don’t want to end suffering. They want to use suffering to develop.

Bullies! Yellowbellies! Come closer and Toothless'll fry you to a frazzle! Toothless'll drag yer guts out and play 'em on a harp! Toothless'll... Toothless'll... Toothless'll... well, you just better not come any closer, that's all...!" "Oh, very brave, Toothless," said Hiccup sarcastically. "If you shout louder they might even hear you.

With the first jolt he was in daylight; they had left the gateways of King’s Cross, and were under blue sky. Tunnels followed, and after each the sky grew bluer, and from the embankment at Finsbury Park he had his first sight of the sun. It rolled along behind the eastern smokes — a wheel, whose fellow was the descending moon — and as yet it seemed the servant of the blue sky, not its lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it was day. To the left fell the shadow of the embankment and its arches; to the right Leonard saw up into the Tewin Woods and towards the church, with its wild legend of immortality. Six forest trees — that is a fact — grow out of one of the graves in Tewin churchyard. The grave’s occupant — that is the legend — is an atheist, who declared that if God existed, six forest trees would grow out of her grave. These things in Hertfordshire; and farther afield lay the house of a hermit — Mrs. Wilcox had known him — who barred himself up, and wrote prophecies, and gave all he had to the poor. While, powdered in between, were the villas of business men, who saw life more steadily, though with the steadiness of the half-closed eye. Over all the sun was streaming, to all the birds were singing, to all the primroses were yellow, and the speedwell blue, and the country, however they interpreted her, was uttering her cry of “now. ” She did not free Leonard yet, and the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the train drew up at Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful.

I’ve seen hundreds of ’em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they’d get dismissed if they didn’t; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn’t be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world. Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays—fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well, the Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry.

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

Who’s teasing? I’m telling him the truth. He ain’t going to have it. Neither one of ‘em going to have it. And I’ll tell you something else you not going to have. You not going to have no private coach with four red velvet chairs that swivel around in one place whenever you want ‘em to. No. and you not going to have your own special toilet and your own special-made eight-foot bed either. And a valet and a cook and a secretary to travel with you and do everything you say. Everything: get the right temperature in your hot-water bottle and make sure the smoking tobacco in the silver humidor is fresh each and every day. There’s something else you not going to have. You ever have five thousand dollars of cold cash money in your pocket and walk into a bank and tell the bank man you want such and such a house on such and such a street and he sell it to you right then? Well, you won’t ever have it. And you not going to have a governor’s mansion, or eight thousand acres of timber to sell. And you not going to have no ship under your command to sail on, no train to run, and you can join the 332nd if you want to and shoot down a thousand German planes all by yourself and land in Hitler’s backyard and whip him with your own hands, but you never going to have four stars on your shirt front, or even three. And you not going to have no breakfast tray brought in to you early in the morning with a red rose on it and two warm croissants and a cup of hot chocolate. Nope. Never. And no pheasant buried in coconut leaves for twenty days and stuffed with wild rice and cooked over a wood fire so tender and delicate it make you cry. And no Rothschild ’29 or even Beaujolais to go with it.” A few men passing by stopped to listen to Tommy’s lecture. “What’s going on?” they asked Hospital Tommy. “Feather refused them a beer,” said. The men laughed. “And no baked Alaska!” Railroad Tommy went on. “None! You never going to have that.” “No baked Alaska?” Guitar opened his eyes wide with horror and grabbed his throat.” You breaking my heart!” “Well, now. That’s something you will have—a broken heart.” Railroad Tommy’s eyes softened, but the merriment in them died suddenly. “And folly. A whole lot of folly. You can count on it.” “Mr. Tommy, suh,” Guitar sang in mock humility, “we just wanted a bottle of beer is all.” “Yeah,” said Tommy. “Yeah, well, welcome aboard.

As they become known to and accepted by us, our feelings and the honest exploration of them become sanctuaries and spawning grounds for the most radical and daring of ideas. They become a safe-house for that difference so necessary to change and the conceptualization of any meaningful action. Right now, I could name at least ten ideas I would have found intolerable or incomprehensible and frightening, except as they ame after dreams and poems. This is not idle fantasy, but a disciplined attention to the true meaning of "it feels right to me." We can train ourselves to respect our feelings and to transpose em into a language so they can be shared.

I have no will. That is to say,’—he coloured a little,—‘ next to none that I can put in action now. Trained by main force; broken, not bent; heavily ironed with an object on which I was never consulted and which was never mine; shipped away to the other end of the world before I was of age, and exiled there until my father’s death there, a year ago; always grinding in a mill I always hated; what is to be expected from me in middle life? Will, purpose, hope? All those lights were extinguished before I could sound the words.’ ‘Light ’em up again!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Ah! Easily said. I am the son, Mr Meagles, of a hard father and mother. I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and priced everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured, and priced, had no existence.

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

Charlie Pop is 15 years old. He has 2 dogs: Bruno and Rex. He lives with his parents Kath and Ron. Today is the 22nd April 2025. Charlie and his friends have been going to the Landfawcett space bowling club all their lives. Charlie’s friends are called Harry Em, Eric Tweet, Paul Key, Robert Storm, Chris Leaf, Jay Laugh, Darren Rain and Tom Breeze. They all have short hair and dress casually especially Ben Steps and George Sing. Jake Train is the cleverest of them all. He has invented a secret waterproof wireless finger camera that takes photographs; it is attached to Charlie and his friend’s fingers. Rex and Bruno have a camera attached to the fur on their heads. Images are shared with each other from the app recording onto their phones and laptops. It is their space bowling tournament today.

You know that we have lost the sense of space. We say “space is annihilated”, but we have annihilated not space, but the sense thereof. We have lost a part of ourselves. I determined to recover it, and I began by walking up and down the platform of the railway outside my room. Up and down, until I was tired, and so did recapture the meaning of “Near” and “Far”. “Near” is a place to which I can get quickly on my feet, not a place to which the train or the air-ship will take me quickly. “Far” is a place to which I cannot get quickly on my feet; the vomitory is “far”, though I could be there in thirty-eight seconds by summoning the train. Man is the measure. That was my first lesson. Man's feet are the measure for distance, his hands are the measure for ownership, his body is the measure for all that is lovable and desirable and strong. ...Man is the measure.

Except when Yankees are around,” Moss said. “Then they’ll swear up and down that they didn’t know what was going on. Some prick will probably write a book that shows how they didn’t really massacre their Negroes after all.” “Oh, yeah? Then where’d the smokes go?” Goodman asked. “I mean, they were there before the war, and then they weren’t. So what happened?” “Well, we killed a bunch of ’em when we bombed Confederate cities.” Moss was a well-trained attorney; he could spin out an argument whether he believed in it or not. “Some died in the rebellion. Some went up to the USA. Some died of hunger and disease—there was a war on, you know. But a massacre? Nah. Never happened.” Barry Goodman’s mouth twisted. “That’s disgusting. That’d gag a maggot, damned if it wouldn’t.” “Bet your ass,” Moss said. “You think it won’t happen, though? Give it twenty years—thirty at the outside.” “Disgusting,

Here he comes,” Blake said. When Kaidan climbed the steps to the deck he came straight for me, his hair slicked back with sweat from running. He took my face in his hands, breathing hard, lips tight, eyes like blue blazes. “Don’t ever do that again,” he ground out. It took a second to process his words and remember what exactly I wasn’t supposed to do again. Then I recalled interfering. “I know it was dangerous,” I admitted, “but there were five of them—” “I can bloody well handle myself, Anna!” His hands flung away from my face. “Maybe if there were only a couple, but there were five pissed-off psychos with weapons! I couldn’t just stand there and watch!” Kaidan, exasperated, pivoted like he was going to walk away, raked his fingers through his hair, and turned to me again. “What did you think you could do?” he asked. “You got in a lucky shot when you racked him, but what if it hadn’t worked? As you saw today your mind powers don’t always work!” Ah. He had no idea what I was capable of now. I held a hand out. “Give me your knife.” His eyebrows went together. “What?” “Just give it to me.” I stepped closer, feeling edgy. “No, Anna, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but this is ridic—” My movements were fast as I went for him full force, using all my body weight and strength to hook a foot behind his knee and slam my palm into his shoulder. He landed on his back with a surprised oof and I crouched over him. “Give me your knife,” I said again. “Holy . . .” Blake let out a long whistle from where he watched at the rail. Kaidan lay there with a whimsical sort of look and said, “God, that was hot.” I held out my hand. This time he fished the knife from his waistband and placed the onyx handle in my palm. From my crouched position I momentarily eyed a wooden bird statue perched at the top of the deck rail twenty feet away, then let the cool metal fly from my fingers. It spun through the air with a sound like rapid wing beats, then a whump as it stuck into the side of the bird’s head. “Dude!” Blake yelled. Beneath me, where Kaidan lay, burst a vivid cloud of red so brief I wondered if I’d imagined it. I stared down at him in shock. “You showed your colors!” I said. “Did not.” He pushed himself up and we both stood. “You totally let ’em out, brah,” Blake told him with a grin. “Shut up.” When he peered down at me I said, “I’ve been training. I’m not completely helpless anymore.” “I can see that,” he murmured.

And I've got good news for you! This gospel of clean and aggressive strength is spreading everywhere in this country among the finest type of youth. Why today, in 1936, there's less than 7 per cent of collegiate institutions that do not have military-training units under discipline as rigorous as the Nazis, and where once it was forced upon them by the authorities, now it is the strong young men and women who themselves demand the right to be trained in warlike virtues and skill—for, mark you, the girls, with their instruction in nursing and the manufacture of gas masks and the like, are becoming every whit as zealous as their brothers. And all the really thinking type of professors are right with 'em! "Why, here, as recently as three years ago, a sickeningly big percentage of students were blatant pacifists, wanting to knife their own native land in the dark. But now, when the shameless fools and the advocates of Communism try to hold pacifist meetings—why, my friends, in the past five months, since January first, no less than seventy-six such exhibitionistic orgies have been raided by their fellow students, and no less than fifty-nine disloyal Red students have received their just deserts by being beaten up so severely that never again will they raise in this free country the bloodstained banner of anarchism! That, my friends, is NEWS!

What is it?” I asked, pasting a magazine photo of a football--found in an old Seventeen magazine spread--on my beloved’s collage. “Well, a bunch of cattle trucks just showed up,” he said, trying to talk over the symphonic mooing of cows all around him. “They were supposed to get here tomorrow night, but they showed up early…” “Oh, no…that’s a bummer,” I said, not quite sure what he was getting at. “So now I’ve got to work all these cattle tonight and get ’em shipped…and by the time I get done, the store in town will be closed,” he began. Our appointment with Father Johnson was at ten the next morning. “So I think I’m just going to have to come over there really early tomorrow morning and do the thing at your house,” Marlboro Man said. I could hardly hear him through the cattle. “Are you sure?” I asked. “What time were you thinking of coming over?” I braced myself for the worst. “I was thinking around six or so,” he said. “That would give me plenty of time to get it done before we go.” Six? In the morning? Ugh, I thought. I have only one more week of sleeping in. After we’re married, there’s no telling what time I’ll have to get out of bed. “Okay,” I said, my voice dripping with trepidation. “I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, and hey…if I don’t answer the door right away it probably means I’m doing some weight training or something.” “Gotcha,” Marlboro Man answered, humoring me. “And hey--don’t pull any muscles or strain yourself. We’re getting married in less than a week.” My stomach fluttered as I hung up the phone and resumed work on my collage.

Loth as one is to agree with CP Snow about almost anything, there are two cultures; and this is rather a problem. (Looking at who pass for public men in these days, one suspects there are now three cultures, in fact, as the professional politician appears to possess neither humane learning nor scientific training. They couldn’t possibly commit the manifold and manifest sins against logic that are their stock in trade, were they possessed of either quality.) … Bereft of a liberal education – ‘liberal’ in the true sense: befitting free men and training men to freedom – our Ever So Eminent Scientists nowadays are most of ’em simply technicians. Very skilled ones, commonly, yet technicians nonetheless. And technicians do get things wrong sometimes: a point that need hardly be laboured in the centenary year of the loss of RMS Titanic. Worse far is what the century of totalitarianism just past makes evident: technicians are fatefully and fatally easily led to totalitarian mindsets and totalitarian collaboration. … Aristotle was only the first of many to observe that men do not become dictators to keep warm: that there is a level at which power, influence, is interchangeable with money. Have enough of the one and you don’t want the other; indeed, you will find that you have the other. And of course, in a world of Eminent Scientists who are mere Technicians at heart, pig-ignorant of liberal (in the Classical sense) ideas, ideals, and even instincts, there is exerted upon them a forceful temptation towards totalitarianism – for the good of the rest of us, poor benighted, unwashed laymen as we are. The fact is that, just as original sin, as GKC noted, is the one Christian doctrine that can be confirmed as true by looking at any newspaper, the shading of one’s conclusions to fit one’s pay-packet, grants, politics, and peer pressure is precisely what anyone familiar with public choice economics should expect. And, as [James] Delingpole exhaustively demonstrates, is precisely what has occurred in the ‘Green’ movement and its scientific – or scientistic – auxiliary. They are watermelons: Green without and Red within. (A similar point was made of the SA by Willi Münzenberg, who referred to that shower as beefsteaks, Red within and Brown without.)

Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready. I’m getting ready. Mind you, it isn’t all of us that are made for wild beasts; and that’s what it’s got to be. That’s why I watched you. I had my doubts. You’re slender. I didn’t know that it was you, you see, or just how you’d been buried. All these—the sort of people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down that way—they’d be no good. They haven’t any spirit in them—no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn’t one or the other—Lord! What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to work—I’ve seen hundreds of ’em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they’d get dismissed if they didn’t; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn’t be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world. Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays—fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well, the Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they’ll come and be caught cheerful. They’ll be quite glad after a bit. They’ll wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar loafers, and mashers, and singers—I can imagine them. I can imagine them,” he said, with a sort of sombre gratification. “There’ll be any amount of sentiment and religion loose among them. There’s hundreds of things I saw with my eyes that I’ve only begun to see clearly these last few days. There’s lots will take things as they are—fat and stupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it’s all wrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things are so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always make for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you’ve seen the same thing. It’s energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those of a less simple sort will work in a bit of—what is it?—eroticism.

Ugh!” exclaimed the cow with a little shiver. “I know how that is! Nothing makes me more nervous than to have something watching me and not saying anything. I remember, when the rats used to live in our barn, that old Simon used to sit in his hole and just watch me without moving a whisker. Just did it to make me nervous. But excuse me, Freddy; I didn’t mean to mention the rats.” “Oh, that’s all right,” said the pig. “I don’t mind. Though I must confess I don’t know just what to do about them. It’s the only case so far that has given me much trouble.” “Nasty creatures!” exclaimed the cow. “If I could just get up in that loft, I’d show ’em!” “I wish you could,” said Freddy. “You could just pick the train up on one horn and walk off with it. But the stairs are too narrow. No, I’ve got to think out something else. Oh, I’ll get an idea sooner or later.” “That’s it,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “Ideas! You’ve got to have ’em to be a detective. And I can’t remember when I had my last one. But land sakes, there must be some way of getting the train. Couldn’t you tie a rope on it and pull it out?” “H’m,” said Freddy thoughtfully, “that’s an idea.” “An idea!” exclaimed the cow. “Gracious, Freddy, that isn’t an idea; it’s just something I thought of.” “It’s an idea all the same,” said the pig, “and a good one. But we’d have to do it quick, or they’d gnaw the rope in two. Come on, walk back to the barn with me and talk it over. I’d like to get at it tonight if I can.” So they strolled back, talking so earnestly that they never noticed that they were being rather clumsily shadowed by half a dozen animals of assorted sizes who dodged behind trees and darted across open places like Indians on the war-path. Mrs. Wiggins was so excited to find that she had really had an idea after all, and so flattered that Freddy was actually asking for her advice, that she hardly looked where she was going, and Alice remarked to Emma as they passed: “I’ve rarely seen Mrs. Wiggins so animated. She looks quite flushed.” “Humph!” replied Emma, who was a little upset that day because her Uncle Wesley had scolded her for eating minnows—“Humph! It always goes to her head when she gets a little attention!” Jinx was up in the loft where he spent much of his time now, though there was very little he could do there but watch the train make its periodic trips to the grain-box and back and listen to the insults and ribald songs that the rats shouted at him. He came down at once when Freddy called him, and went into conference with the pig and the cow. And when they finally separated to go to supper, they had decided on a plan. There was a door in the loft through which Mr.

I’d been proud of the parlor, over which I had spent a great deal of time. The ceiling had inlaid tiles in the same summer-sky blue that comprised the main color of the rugs and cushions and the tapestry on the wall opposite the newly glassed windows. Now I sneaked a look at the Marquis, dreading an expression of amusement or disdain. But his attention seemed to be reserved for the lady as he led her to the scattering of cushions before the fireplace, where she knelt down with a graceful sweeping of her skirts. Bran went over and opened the fire vents. “If I’d known of your arrival, it would have been warm in here.” Bran looked over his shoulder in surprise. “Well, where d’you spend your days? Not still in the kitchens?” “In the kitchens and the library and wherever else I’m needed,” I said; and though I tried to sound cheery, it came out sounding resentful. “I’ll be back after I see about food and drink.” Feeling very much like I was making a cowardly retreat, I ran down the long halls to the kitchen, cursing my bad luck as I went. There I found Julen, Oria, the new cook, and his assistant all standing in a knot talking at once. As soon as I appeared, the conversation stopped. Julen and Oria turned to face me--Oria on the verge of laughter. “The lady can have the new rose room, and the lord the corner suite next to your brother. But they’ve got an army of servants with them, Countess,” Julen said heavily. Whenever she called me Countess, it was a sure sign she was deeply disturbed over something. “Where’ll we house them? There’s no space in our wing, not till we finish the walls.” “And who’s to wait on whom?” Oria asked as she carefully brought my mother’s good silver trays out from the wall-shelves behind the new-woven coverings. “Glad we’ve kept these polished,” she added. “I’d say find out how many of those fancy palace servants are kitchen trained, and draft ‘em. And then see if some of the people from that new inn will come up, for extra wages. Bran can unpocket the extra pay,” I said darkly, “if he’s going to make a habit of disappearing for half a year and reappearing with armies of retainers. As for housing, well, the garrison does have a new roof, so they can all sleep there. We’ve got those new Fire Sticks to warm ‘em up with.” “What about meals for your guests?” Oria said, her eyes wide. I’d told Oria last summer that she could become steward of the house. While I’d been ordering books on trade, and world history, and governments, she had been doing research on how the great houses were currently run; and it was she who had hired Demnan, the new cook. We’d eaten well over the winter, thanks to his genius. I looked at Oria. “This is it. No longer just us, no longer practice, it’s time to dig out all your plans for running a fine house for a noble family. Bran and his two Court guests will need something now after their long journey, and I have no idea what’s proper to offer Court people.” “Well, I do,” Oria said, whirling around, hands on hips, her face flushed with pleasure. “We’ll make you proud, I promise.” I sighed. “Then…I guess I’d better go back.” As I ran to the parlor, pausing only to ditch my blanket in an empty room, I steeled myself to be polite and pleasant no matter how much my exasperating brother inadvertently provoked me--but when I pushed aside the tapestry at the door, they weren’t there. And why should they be? This was Branaric’s home, too.

K ka kangourou (kangaroo) L el miel (honey) M em mouton (sheep) N en nid (nest) O oh olivier (olive tree) P pay pélican (pelican) Q kew queue (tail) R air raton (raccoon) S es santé (health) T tay thé (tea) U ew univers (universe) V vay végétarien (vegetarian) W DO-bluh-vay wagon (train car) X eex xylophone (xylophone) Y e-GRECK yaourt (yogurt) Z zed zéro (zero)

The dead become more powerful as time goes by, you see, boy. What was just an unquiet ghost to your grandfather could be a full-fledged loa to your grandchildren. And I’ve learned to bend ’em, train ’em in certain directions like you would a vine. Farmer plant a seed in the ground and one day have a tree—I put a ghost in a bottle under running water and one day I have a loa.

I don’t name ‘em, I just train ‘em,” Swagger said,

In his interactions with the men he was training, Stillman didn’t bother to distinguish between the two. “Big or small, champ or bum, I treat ’em all the same—bad,” he once said, in what Budd Schulberg described as his “garbage disposal voice.” “If you treat them like humans, they’ll eat you alive.

Did I ever tell you, old boy,’ he said, chuckling round the stem of his pipe, ‘about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the old market-woman’s skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster of B.B.? Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of matches. Burned her quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But keen as mustard! That’s a first-rate training they give them in the Spies nowadays — better than in my day, even. What d’you think’s the latest thing they’ve served them out with? Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes! My little girl brought one home the other night — tried it out on our sitting-room door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much as with her ear to the hole. Of course it’s only a toy, mind you. Still, gives ’em the right idea, eh?

In Singin’ in the Rain, Lina Lamont provides both an effective “beard” for Don and Cosmo and a foil, representing both the reason for Don’s “unattached” state and the basis for their mutual contempt for women. Yet the signs are all there to be read for those interested in reading them: Cosmo and Don performing as a burlesque team, in which they sit on each other’s laps and play each other’s violins; Cosmo’s comment to Lina after the premiere of The Royal Rascal, “Yeah, Lina, you looked pretty good for a girl”;30 and their bullying, in “Moses Supposes,” of the fogyish diction coach, figuratively drawn out of his closet only to be ridiculed as an asexual “pansy” who can’t sing and dance (thus both confirming and denying homosexuality at the same time).31 On a broader scale, Kelly’s career as a dancer, offering a more masculinized style of athletic dance (in opposition especially to the stylized grace of Fred Astaire), represented a similar balancing act between, in this case, the feminized occupation of balletic dance and a strong claim of heterosexual masculinity. Significantly, the process of exclusion they use with the diction coach is precisely what Cosmo proposes they apply to Lina in converting The Dueling Cavalier into a musical: “It’s easy to work the numbers. All you have to do is dance around Lina and teach her how to take a bow.” But they also apply the strategy to Kathy, who is only just learning to “dance” in this sense (conveniently so, since Debbie Reynolds had had but little dance training, as noted).32 Early on, we see her dance competently in “All I Do Is Dream of You,” but she then seems extremely tentative in “You Were Meant for Me,” immobile for much of the number, not joining in the singing, and dancing only as Don draws her in (which is, of course, consistent with her character’s development at this point). With “Good Mornin’,” though, she seems to “arrive” as part of the Don-Cosmo team, even though for part of the number she serves as a kind of mannequin—much like the voice teacher in “Moses Supposes,” except that she sings the song proper while Don and Cosmo “improvise” tongue-twisting elaborations between the lines. As the number evolves, their emerging positions within the group become clear. Thus, during their solo clownish dance bits, using their raincoats as props, Kathy and Don present themselves as fetishized love objects, Kathy as an “Island girl” and Don as a matador, while Cosmo dances with a “dummy,” recalling his earlier solo turn in “Make ’em Laugh.

Em vão, in vain, had been one of Prado’s favorite phrases, Maria João had said. Gregorius said the words and repeated them, slowly, then faster, until the words merged into one another and with the tears.

On the train, he took out The Crack of the Bat and started looking over it. The book included one of Doyle’s most famous columns, about how growing up a Brooklyn Dodgers fan had been “training for liberalism”: It is the liberal’s nature not to be disappointed by human failures but to remain hopeful. Not for us the tragic view of life. “We’ll get ’em next year” is the liberal’s natural rallying cry.

All these — the sort of people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down that way — they’d be no good. They haven’t any spirit in them — no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn’t one or the other — Lord! What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to work — I’ve seen hundreds of ‘em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they’d get dismissed if they didn’t; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn’t be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted them,

Years ago, I represented a client, a firefighter/paramedic, in an administrative trial after he had been terminated for allegedly providing patient care that was below the department’s established standards. One central issue was the ongoing, on-the-job training firefighters/paramedics receive. Throughout the trial, senior officers of the department, including the Chief himself, preached and bloviated on and on about how the department is committed to providing only the best patient care and how their paramedics are held to a higher standard; how they are committed to serving the community with the highest level of blah, blah, blah. On cross examination, however, I asked each of them about how many hours a day each provider spends drilling or practicing firefighting technique and equipment. Each of them answered proudly that every firefighter/EMT and firefighter/paramedic, regardless of assignment, spends at least three hours each day practicing firefighting skills and/or rehearsing the use of various firefighting equipment; hoses, ladders, saws, and other firefighter equipment. Ok, that’s great. Through testimony, we determined that, based on a 10-shift work month, each firefighter/paramedic, regardless of assignment, spends at least 30 hours per month drilling, practicing, and/or rehearsing firefighting skills & equipment. That’s at a minimum of 360 hours per year of ongoing, on-the-job firefighter training. Outstanding. When the smoke is showing and the flames are roiling, they will be ready. They all displayed the same proud grin at how well trained their people are. For each of them, however, that smug grin quickly turned when I then asked about the number of hours per day each firefighter/paramedic spends drilling on or practicing patient care related techniques, skills, and tools. Every one of them squirmed as they responded with the truth that the department only offers three hours of patient care related education per month. That’s roughly a maximum of 36 hours of paramedic training for the entire year. It got worse when further testimony showed that patient care related calls account for more than 80 percent of their call volume and fire related calls less than 20 percent, I could see each of them deflate on the witness stand when I asked how they could truthfully say they were committed to providing the best patient care when barely 10 percent of their training addresses patient care, which constitutes over 80 percent of your department’s calls. The answers were more disjointed and nonsensical than a White House press briefing. Of course, across America the 10:1 ratio of ongoing firefighting training to EMS training is pretty consistent, which begs the question: Don’t they get it? Excellence is the product of practice. How can any rational person look at a 10:1 training ratio and declare themselves committed to the highest level of care? How can an agency neglect training on the most significant aspect of the business and then be surprised when issues of negligence and liability arise? Once again, it seems that old-school culture leaves EMS stuck in the mud and the law is not going to wait for agencies to figure out that living in the past compromises the future.

More and more, providers are being held to higher (legal) standards of care without the appropriate support from their employers. That is, medics are being investigated and sanctioned at a more aggressive rate than ever before over smaller and smaller clinical infractions. To get with the times, agencies need to spend much more of their allotted training time on skills like 12 lead EKG application and interpretation, assessment algorithms, and intubation or advanced parenteral route access, for example. The list of available and important topics is as long and diverse as the national, state, and local scopes of practice. On the other hand, agencies that resist this reality cannot be surprised to discover that their care is generally substandard, for which there can be grave legal consequences. They can’t throw their bottles on the floor and cry because they don’t have them. I predict that any agency that emphasizes drilling on patient care as much as or even more than firefighting will very quickly see a dramatic shift in the culture from EMS apathy to EMS advocacy. That culture shift should be a welcome bonus; the key benefit being finally providing the superior care about which they already brag. Yes, there will be some resistance at first and that is great. Resistance is the surest way to quickly identify those who are not committed, because they will whine and complain the most and they will require the most work. If they are not willing to do the work, then maybe they don’t belong.

Look it, Jack. While I appreciate the sentiment, we’re already pressed for time. You know our fundraiser’s just around the corner and getting her ready for sale’ll be a huge time zapper for us. And in the end, she’ll just be uprooted again.” “Let’s talk about this later. For now, let’s just get her settled in, fed and watered.” Mrs. M huffed slowly and rubbed her temple with the heel of her hand, as if already feeling the exhaustion of the job just by looking at the mare. “Okay, you girls, walk ’em both to the back barn and put ’em in the two empty stalls. Water them and throw them some hay. We’ll look at ’em later. When you’re done, can you finish cleaning the stalls in the main barn?” “Yes, ma’am.” Without even really thinking it through, a sense of urgency forced me to say, “Um, Mrs. M? If you wouldn’t mind, can I take her on as a project horse? You said she’d be a huge time zapper for you, time that you don’t have. I can take care of her, clean her up, as well as train her to ride and follow commands. Problem solved. Pretty please?” She sighed with her lips scrunched, hopefully seriously considering it. Even though I knew that was gonna be a monstrous job, I was so quick to volunteer because I honestly felt like I was the only one who truly got this horse and saw her potential. Everyone else just saw a headache and a big mess. She was counting on me, and I couldn’t let her down. “Maybe she’ll end up being an excellent addition to the program. You think?” “Oh, I really don’t think we can use her here, sweetie,” she mewed like I was so dumb and silly for even suggesting it.

Eddie Grace's buick Got four bullet holes in the side Charley Delisle is sittin' at the top Of an avocado tree Mrs Storm will stab you with a steak knife If you step on her lawn I got a half a pack of lucky strikes man So come along with me Let's fill our pockets With macadamia nuts And go over to Bobby Goodmanson's And jump off the roof Hilda plays strip poker When her mama's across the street Joey Navinsky says she put Her tongue in his mouth Dicky Faulkner's got a switchblade And some gooseneck risers That eucalyptus is a hunchback There's a wind down from the south So let me tie you up with kite string I'll show you the scabs on my knee Watch out for the broken glass Put your shoes and socks on And come along with me Let's follow that fire truck I think your house is burning down Then go down to the hobo jungle And kill some rattlesnakes with a trowel And we'll break all the windows In the old Anderson place We'll steal a bunch of boysenberrys And smear 'em on your face I'll get a dollar from my mama's purse Buy that skull and crossbones ring And you can wear it round your neck On an old piece of string Then we'll spit on Ronnie Arnold And flip him the bird Slash the tires on the school bus Now don't say a word I'll take a rusty nail Scratch your initials in my arm I'll show you how to sneak up on the roof Of the drugstore I'll take the spokes from your wheelchair And a magpie's wings And I'll tie 'em to your shoulders And your feet I'll steal a hacksaw from my dad Cut the braces off your legs And we'll bury them tonight Out in the cornfield Just put a church key in your pocket We'll hop that freight train in the hall We'll slide all the way down the drain To New Orleans in the fall

The Arizona spent the ensuing years of World War I deployed along the Atlantic coast, mostly on training missions. After the Armistice in November 1918, Arizona crossed the Atlantic to England and then joined the flotilla of warships escorting President Woodrow Wilson to peace talks in France. A second Atlantic voyage to France and across the Mediterranean followed. By 1921, Arizona had made its first transit of the Panama Canal and first crossing of the equator, and came to be home-ported in San Pedro, California, not yet engulfed by greater Los Angeles. High morale and esprit de corps are essential components in any military command, but particularly so aboard ships at sea. BB-39’s can-do motto quickly became “At ’em Arizona” and a newsletter with that name—at first crudely typed but increasingly polished as the years went by—was, as its masthead proudly proclaimed, “Published daily aboard the U.S.S. Arizona wherever she may be.”6

Ah. But you say that because you’re a linguist, and you can’t see why anyone wouldn’t want to wallow in the sheer beauty of language.” Szpindel harrumphed with mock pomposity. “Now me, I’m a biologist, so it makes perfect sense.” “Really. Then explain it to me, oh wise and powerful mutilator of frogs.” “Simple. Bloodsucker’s a transient, not a resident.” “What are— Oh, those are killer whales, right? Whistle dialects.” “I said forget the language. Think about the lifestyle. Residents are fish-eaters, eh? They hang out in big groups, don’t move around much, talk all the time.” I heard a whisper of motion, imagined Szpindel leaning in and laying a hand on Michelle’s arm. I imagined the sensors in his gloves telling him what she felt like. “Transients, now—they eat mammals. Seals, sea lions, smart prey. Smart enough to take cover when they hear a fluke slap or a click train. So transients are sneaky, eh? Hunt in small groups, range all over the place, keep their mouths shut so nobody hears ’em coming.” “And Jukka’s a transient.” “Man’s instincts tell him to keep quiet around prey. Every time he opens his mouth, every time he lets us see him, he’s fighting his own brain stem. Maybe we shouldn’t be too harsh on the ol’ guy just because he’s not the world’s best motivational speaker, eh?

I'm all strung-out, my money's spent Can't really tell ya' where last year went But I've given up paying my bills for Lent My landlord, he says he wants his rent Fuck 'em! Hey, now, the women they come, the women they go The hens start to cackle when the cock starts to crow Hell, I take 'em in when the warm winds blow But I boot 'em in the ass once it starts to snow 'Cause fuck them! Yeah, got a letter from my folks, and they say they're in debt They say that things are as bad as they can possibly get You know, I haven't answered that letter yet I might use it to light my cigarette 'Cause fuck them! What'd they ever do for me anyway? Threw me outta the house when I was twenty-nine years old and cut off my allowance Fuck 'em! Hey, a woman come around and handed me a line About a lot of little orphan kids sufferin' and dyin' Shit, I give her a quarter, cause one of 'em might be mine The rest of those bastards can keep right on cryin' I mean, fuck kids! Throw up on your shoulder, piss in your lap, Never give you nothing Fuck 'em! You might also like Think U The Shit (Fart) Ice Spice Anuv Jain - Husn (Romanized) Genius Romanizations ​yes, and? Ariana Grande I had a fight last night with a big lumberjack I spent most of the fight laying flat on my back You know he beat me up fair, and that's a fact But I busted his head as soon as he turned his back 'Cause fuck fair fighting! Yeah You know, my junkie buddy got the shakes again He give me five bucks and sent me out in the rain I'm supposed to bring back something to kill his pain, oh Shit, I took the bread and I jumped on a train Cause fuck junkies!

There was a spot down the South Western Railway where we wanted to stick up a board, a great big board, as ugly as they make ‘em. It was in a man’s garden; a certain particular place, where the trains slow, and folks have time to read the advertisement and meditate on it. That chap wouldn’t listen. What! spoil his garden with our da —— with our confounded board! not for five hundred a year!

He spends more time than ever now schooling players on the value of competition. He explains to them in spring training the challenge and magnificence of getting a World Series ring, because “it won’t happen accidentally. You gotta tell ’em to want it.” He sees how quickly clubhouses empty out regardless of how sweet the win or how tough the loss, suburbanites hoping to catch the 5:05 home, all-night talk of baseball replaced by simply wanting to get to wherever they’re going. He wishes there were more team parties, but when so many players are glancing impatiently at their Rolexes because it’s almost ten o’clock, no party could generate much esprit de corps. In recent years,

The ding-ding-ding wasn’t coming from the train, of course, but from signals at crossings, where anybody who didn’t give us the right-of-way would be ripped to smithereens. Serve ’em right! They were nothing. We were everything.

In my training programs, I use redacted local ePCRs as examples. When I identify ePCRs, like those above, to members of the agency that created them, the audience, who were laughing and enjoying the class just a minute ago, falls silent. Every time. After a few seconds of them pondering their feet like children who were just caught ditching class, I point out that these obviously substandard providers are their peers, their coworkers. As far as the public and the law are concerned, if they know about it and do nothing, these substandard providers are them.

What’s it like for you, Velvet? Being married, I mean?” Velvet permitted herself a dreamy sigh and gazed into the bonfire as though she saw some wonderful pageant being played out there. “It gets better every day,” she answered after a long time. “Hank and me, we work together, side by side, all day through. And come night, we—well, we’re together then, too.” Lily was touched, and a little amused, to see that her worldly friend was blushing. “Do you think that’s enough, though—liking what a man does to you in bed?” Velvet shook her head. “Wouldn’t be enough by itself, I reckon. It’s if you can laugh and talk together, and if you know you’d stand by him no matter what, and he’d stand by you.” Glancing toward Caleb, Lily let out a long sigh. “I just don’t know. That man is so stubborn, sometimes I think I’d better just give in and marry him.” “Why don’t you?” “He’d own me then, just like he owns his horse and his land and his shotgun.” Velvet smiled. “I don’t mind Hank ownin’ me,” she said. “That’s silly, Velvet,” Lily protested. “You’re a human being, not a saddle blanket or a wheelbarrow. Nobody can own you.” “Can if you let ’em,” Velvet insisted. Lily

She had one knee up on the bureau and was just about to crawl through when she felt two hands close around her waist and pull her down. She turned her head and saw Caleb grinning at her. “Trespassing, were you? Well, sodbuster, there’s a penalty for that, you know.” Lily put out her chin and turned to crawl over the bureau. She wasn’t about to dignify his remark with an answer. “If that’s how you want it, fine,” he said, and he pinned her right to that bureau, with her bottom making a plump cushion against his masculinity. “Caleb Halliday,” Lily sputtered, “you let me up!” Caleb was lifting her skirts. “I don’t deal lightly with trespassers,” he said in a conversational tone of voice. “Give ’em an inch, and pretty soon they’re swinging from the rafters.” Lily felt her drawers begin to slide downward. She squirmed, but she was stuck between Caleb’s thighs. “Caleb,” she said, “I am not amused.” He laid a brazen finger to the rosebud between her legs and chuckled when she started with a little moan. He continued to caress her, making her go all warm and moist. Considering that he’d already had her, and well, earlier that day, her involuntary response was doubly humiliating. “You know,” he remarked, “in some places they hang a chicken thief. I think the penalty’s probably even stiffer when dumplings are involved.” “I hate you!” Lily sputtered, her hips twisting.

satisfaction of either. They’d sat apart on the train. She’d left the stuffed animal behind, not able to look at a reminder of what had almost been. The walk home was silent. She wanted to run; she wanted to run and hide and disappear. Her father’s voice was the only thing that kept her from losing it completely. Never let ’em know you’re scared.

He tells me about his family—how there was some kind of dispute, and his brother killed his father when Mr. Grote was sixteen and he ran away from home and never went back. He met Mrs. Grote around that time, and Harold was born when they were eighteen. They never actually tied the knot until they had a houseful of kids. All he wants to do is hunt and fish, he says, but he has to feed and clothe all these babies. God’s honest truth, he didn’t want a single one of ’em. God’s honest truth, he’s afraid he could get mad enough to hurt them.

If Fred tells you a chicken can pull a freight train, your job is to hook ’em up.

widening. “Don’t you dare draw their fire.”  Lynn.   Jonathan committed the name to memory. The outsiders didn’t seem to notice the man’s slip. They kept their weapons trained on the girl. She glared at them as if daring them to kill her. “Go ahead! Shoot! I’m sick of being hunted by you! Kill me and claim the fame. Do it!”  Parker dodged forward, rushing past any and all that stood between him and the woman named Lynn. He shoved his body in front of hers in a protective manner and glared at the men. “You’ll not harm her. She’s under my protection now.”  Eli let out a low whistle. “Never did I see that coming. Saw-bones is a born skirt-chaser. Think he might have The Fever or something? He’s always doctorin’ folks with weird ailments.”  Well, if The Fever included an uncontrollable urge to protect a woman, then his brother most certainly had caught it. He could only hope Parker’s case was curable. Jonathan knew his own case wasn’t. Molly had infected him long ago and he knew he’d never get her out of his veins. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. His exploits of the female persuasion were legendary—so was the fact he refused to commit. “Are you stupid?” Lynn asked, giving Parker a good shove. At five-eight, she was tall by female standards but short compared the MacSweeny boys. Still, she managed to get Parker to budge ever so slightly, shocking Jonathan. “Move! They’ll gun you down to get to me.”  “Then so be it.”  Jonathan shook his head. Parker was bound to get himself killed without some serious intervention. “Parker, get her and your ass out of there. We’ll take care of our guests. We’ll even be sweet enough to give ‘em that welcome speech you had worked out.”  “Parker?” the girl asked. She glanced at Jonathan and Eli and her eyes widened. “That means one of you is Jonathan.” The feel of a cold, hard barrel pressed against the back of Jonathan’s head. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, he put his hands up as his attacker shoved harder with the gun.  “Lookie, boys, we got us a sheriff. He’s got to bring a good amount of coinage, don’t ya think?”  There was a flash of black. A blur. Several shots. Screams. Jonathan caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized someone had shot the man who had him at gunpoint. Chapter Four Molly

indistinguishable from Delta. Gumm said the pi­lot-train­ing plan is an­oth­er way in which En­deav­or is re­bound­ing as a top-flight pas­sen­ger car­ri­er. The airline was renamed Endeavor after the former Pinnacle Airlines emerged from bankruptcy in 2013. At­lan­ta-based Delta, which ac­quired North­west Airlines in 2008, em­ploys near­ly 80,000 peo­ple around the globe and op­er­ates a fleet of 700 air­craft. Neal St. Anthony

The Gospel is represented as a training school in which to deny worldly desires is one part of its curriculum.

Well, I'll tell yer now, it's going t' be even better for talkin' t' me! Get your arse down tut station. I'd gor meself, but I'm sending you as a proxy. Sort it out at Oxford Street for me, will yer, eh? They're not doin' the bloody figures, an' I for one want to know what the eck's goin' on! You'll be writin' me a full report. And if they're pissing about, sack 'em, right? Get your arse on the next bloody train, eh! I want you there as soon as possible. Get yourself checked in tut hotel when you get there. You can phone that man, Bart is it, whatsisname, and let 'im knor, eh?.....What d'yer say? You'll do it for me? Grand! Get your arse down that station, now! The phone clicked off

Still, I can’t help but think that everything I’ve been through has led to this. If I hadn’t been chosen by the Byrnes, I wouldn’t have ended up with the Grotes and met Miss Larsen. If Miss Larsen hadn’t brought me to Mrs. Murphy, I never would’ve met the Nielsens. And if I weren’t living with the Nielsens and attending college with Lil and Em, I would never have come to Minneapolis for the night—and probably never would have seen Dutchy again. My

Fasten my buttons, please,” she said, turning her back to Daisy. “I’ll fasten your buttons, all right,” Daisy muttered, but she couldn’t hide her amusement at Emma’s good mood. “You just see that young cowboy don’t unfasten ’em again.” Emma stiffened. “Daisy! How could you say such a thing?” “I wasn’t always old an’ fat,” Daisy chortled. “No, siree, I was young once, just like you. Now, you mind your manners and behave like a lady, or I’ll paddle your bottom.” “Fiddlefaddle,” Emma said, but she was smiling when she whirled around to face Daisy, her skirts swishing as she moved. “How do I look?” “Like a tiger lily,” Daisy answered fondly, gathering her apron into her hands. “Lord, but you’re a beauty, chile—no wonder some young fella’s always tryin’ to lead you down the primrose path!” Emma’s smile faded as she wondered how on earth she would resist Steven Fairfax if he got her alone and kissed her. But Daisy laughed at her expression and patted her briskly on the cheek. “Don’t look so fretted up, now—the fella what succeeds, I reckon he’ll be the right one.” To

I was hoping—er—thinking—” He went crimson from his neck to his hairline. “Would you dance with me, Miss Emma?” She smiled and offered her hand. “I’d like that very much,” she said, hoping her face didn’t show the ravages of her earlier crying fit. Nathaniel cleared his throat and marshalled Emma awkwardly into a waltz. It seemed strange that, only three years before, she’d been his age. “If Steven or Macon is mean to you,” he ventured boldly, “you just come and tell me. I’ll give ’em what-for.” Resisting an urge to kiss his cheek, because she knew it would embarrass him too much, Emma nodded solemnly. “I’ll do that,” she promised, both amused and touched that Nathaniel was willing to do battle with such formidable opponents for her sake. Nathaniel’s handsome young face was dark with conviction and his palm was moist against Emma’s. “I know you think I’m just a kid, but I’m strong, Miss Emma. I won’t let anybody hurt you.” “Thank you,” Emma said, and she meant it. After

I’m a good dog,” says Lynch. “Woof, woof! I had fun. I did exactly what you’d expect a young fucking buck to do when he’s off the leash. He fucking runs, shits everywhere, and has a ball. You’re supposed to go, ‘Get ’em, Bosco!’ You’re not supposed to train him.

First, eat. Then we train. One step follows another. One day follows another." He touched my head, and his reassurance flowed into my mind. "It is a beginning.