Entryway Quotes

This time Magnus answered it, his voice booming through the tiny entryway. "WHO DARES DISTURB MY REST?" Jace looked almost nervous. "Jace Wayland. Remember? I'm from the Clave." "Oh, yes." Magnus seemed to have perked up. "Are you the one with the blue eyes?" "He means Alec," Clary said helpfully. "No. My eyes are usually described as golden," Jace told the intercom. "And luminous." "Oh, you're that one." Magnus sounded disappointed. If Clary hadn't been so upset, she would have laughed. "I suppose you'd better come up.

Yes. He. Was. Just. Here. Spreading his goodwill and love all around Max’s entryway. It’s a wonder there aren’t cherubs flying around sprinkling rose petals and rainbows erupting through the windows, an aftermath of his delightful visit.

In the cave's innermost entryway, a band of four stood tall and thick, shouldered and heavily weaponed. Members of the Brotherhood. He knew this quartet by name: Ahgony, Throe, Murhder, Tohrture.

Alec took a deep breath and let it out. Well, he’d come this far; he might as well go on. The bare lightbulb hanging overhead cast sweeping shadows as he reached forward and pressed the buzzer. A moment later a voice echoed through the stairwell. “WHO CALLS UPON THE HIGH WARLOCK?” “Er,” Alec said. “It’s me. I mean, Alec. Alec Lightwood.” There was a sort of silence, as if even the hallway itself were surprised. Then a ping, and the second door opened, letting him out onto the stairwell. He headed up the rickety stairs into the darkness, which smelled like pizza and dust. The second floor landing was bright, the door at the far end open. Magnus Bane was leaning in the entryway.

Cardan tucks my arm firmly through his before striding into the entryway, and I feel a rush of warmth as I match his step. I can't afford to be less than ruthlessly honest with myself. Against my better judgment, despite the fact that he is terrible, Cardan is also fun. Maybe I should be glad of how little it will matter.

The soul is the entryway to the heart, the heart is the doorway to the mind, the mind is the hallway to the world, and the world is the passageway to the universe.

You're not going,"he said as soon as she'd finished. "If I have to tie you up and sit on you until this insane whim of yurs passes, you are not going to Idris." Clary felt as if he'd slapped her. She had thought he'd be pleased. She'd run all the way from the hospital to the Institute to tell him, and here he was standing in the entryway glaring at her with a look of grim death. "But you're going.

Abby took the box, and then tugged on my hand until we were in the entryway. It smelled like a combination of cleaner, candles, and kids. It smelled like home.

Look. Folks. It's simple. If you have poor taste in decorating, don't go nuts in the entryway. Wait until your guests are inside before you spring something unusual on them.

Somehow: Molly. He heard her in the entryway. Mol, Molly, oh boy. When they were first married they used to fight. Say the most insane things. Afterward, sometimes there would be tears. Tears in bed? And then they would - Molly pressing her hot wet face against his hot wet face. They were sorry, they were saying with their bodies, they were accepting each other back, and that feeling, that feeling of being accepted back again and again, of someone's affection for you expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you, that was the deepest, dearest thing he'd ever - She came in flustered and apologetic, a touch of anger in her face. He'd embarrassed her. He saw that. He'd embarrassed her by doing something that showed she hadn't sufficiently noticed him needing her. She'd been too busy nursing him to notice how scared he was. She was angry at him for pulling this stunt and ashamed of herself for feeling angry at him in his hour of need, and was trying to put the shame and anger behind her now so she could do what might be needed. All of this was in her face. He knew her so well. Also concern. Overriding everything else in that lovely face was concern. She came to him now, stumbling a bit on a swell in the floor of this stranger's house.

Wait a minute, who was in your room then?”… “That would be me,” Spencer replies smugly from the entryway. How does he always pop up at the most inopportune times? It’s like he has some radar in his brain that tells him the best time and place where douchebaggery may occur, and he follows it religiously.

That dream I had about the boss last night," she leaned closer. "It was dirty. Giggling at the shock on Tatianna's face Evie spun back around, only to halt immediately in her tracks. Swallowing a lump in her throat, her eyes as wide as saucers, Evie said, "Hello Sir! Any chance you'd like to add my head to the entryway?

Hey Charlotte," Julianne yelled. "Hell must have frozen over!" And then in a quieter voice she added, "Charlotte was hoping it would." "What?" Colton asked. I sprinted the rest of the way to the door. As I rounded the corner I saw both Wesley and Colton in the entryway. Julianne stood in front of them transfixed, staring up at Colton with adoring eyes. "Julianne, it's time for you to go to your room," I said. "Right now." "Do you really know the devil?" she asked Colton. "Have you ever been to hell?" "Sometimes I think I have," he answered, glaring at me.

Do you ... still believe?' 'Our very presence here, a Polynesian goddess sitting next to a Zulu thunder god, listening to the song of a Greek siren, should be proof enough that religions can and do coexist.' He looked back at the cross over the entryway. 'And I still do not know.

Information about time cannot be imparted in a straightforward way. Like furniture, it has to be tipped and tilted to get it through the door. If the past is a solid oak buffet whose legs must be unscrewed and whose drawers must be removed before, in an altered state, it can be upended into the entryway of our minds, then the future is a king-size waterbed that hardly stands a chance, especially if it needs to be brought up in an elevator. Those billions who persist in perceiving time as the pursuit of the future are continually buying waterbeds that will never make it beyond the front porch or the lobby. And if man's mission is to reside in the fullness of the present, then he's got no space for the waterbed, anyhow, not even if he could lower it through a skylight.

I shove through the double doors of the library and it’s like I’ve just walked outside. Things are somehow lighter here, and everything moves at a more normal pace, slowing my heart down along with them as I stand in the entryway.

I have always enjoyed cemeteries. Altars for the living as well as resting places for the dead, they are entryways, I think, to any town or city, the best places to become acquainted with the tastes of the inhabitants, both present and gone.

Adronitis n. frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone—spending the first few weeks chatting in their psychological entryway, with each subsequent conversation like entering a different anteroom, each a little closer to the center of the house—wishing instead that you could start there and work your way out, exchanging your deepest secrets first, before easing into casualness, until you’ve built up enough mystery over the years to ask them where they’re from, and what they do for a living.

But even while Rome is burning, there’s somehow time for shopping at IKEA. Social imperatives are a merciless bitch. Everyone is attempting to buy what no one can sell.  See, when I moved out of the house earlier this week, trawling my many personal belongings in large bins and boxes and fifty-gallon garbage bags, my first inclination was, of course, to purchase the things I still “needed” for my new place. You know, the basics: food, hygiene products, a shower curtain, towels, a bed, and umm … oh, I need a couch and a matching leather chair and a love seat and a lamp and a desk and desk chair and another lamp for over there, and oh yeah don’t forget the sideboard that matches the desk and a dresser for the bedroom and oh I need a coffeetable and a couple end tables and a TV-stand for the TV I still need to buy, and don’t these look nice, whadda you call ’em, throat pillows? Oh, throw pillows. Well that makes more sense. And now that I think about it I’m going to want my apartment to be “my style,” you know: my own motif, so I need certain decoratives to spruce up the decor, but wait, what is my style exactly, and do these stainless-steel picture frames embody that particular style? Does this replica Matisse sketch accurately capture my edgy-but-professional vibe? Exactly how “edgy” am I? What espresso maker defines me as a man? Does the fact that I’m even asking these questions mean I lack the dangling brass pendulum that’d make me a “man’s man”? How many plates/cups/bowls/spoons should a man own? I guess I need a diningroom table too, right? And a rug for the entryway and bathroom rugs (bath mats?) and what about that one thing, that thing that’s like a rug but longer? Yeah, a runner; I need one of those, and I’m also going to need…

The doorway smells of lavender, of freshly brewed chamomile tea, and my doll eyes flutter, suddenly heavy, like silver coins placed on the eyelids of the dead. I feel the soft, dreamy tug of a gentle wind. Easy and quiet. Like bedding down in a knoll of moss, or sinking into a cellar, without sound.

Adrenaline pumped through her body as she stopped in the cabin entryway, just a few inches from Scott. His intense expression made her nervous—he looked suspicious. Was she coming on too strong? Flirting was not her specialty. She’d always been much more comfortable using scalpels and microscopes than smiles and sauntering strides. Scott’s

What is this?” Nick whispered, a tear trickling down his cheek. “The future,” Seth said. “For you. For me. For all of us. You’re a hero, Nicky. An Extraordinary. It’s about time you had a costume to show that.” “Oh my god,” Nick breathed. “Do you realize what this means?” “What?” Gibby asked, her voice crystal clear. “We have a ship name!” Nick cried. “Holy shit, we’re PyroGuard! Wait, no. That sounds like medicine for a foot rash. GuardStorm! StormGuard? GuardPyro!” “Nicky, no,” they all groaned. “Nicky, yes!” “Nicky, yes,” another voice said, and Nick startled. He removed the helmet and smiled at Dad, who was standing in the entryway to the kitchen. His eyes were wet, but he was smiling. Nick set the helmet on the table before flinging himself at his father. Dad caught him. He always did. “Guardian,” Dad whispered into his hair. “My guardian.

What worlds are there herein? I’ll tell you. In these seas of fragrant waters, numerous as atoms in unspeakably many buddha-fields, rest an equal number of world systems. Each world system also contains an equal number of worlds. Those world systems in the ocean of worlds have various resting places, various shapes and forms, various substances and essences, various locations, various entryways, various adornments, various boundaries, various alignments, various similarities, and various powers of maintenance.

Shades of its former grandeur were still evident in the curving staircase, the chipped marble entryway floor, and the wide single-paned skylight overhead

But when she turned at the entryway and looked back at him, he left the table and followed, as if she were a magnet, drawing him away from his better judgement.

There sits the skiff – over there perhaps is the entryway to the great nothing. But who wants to board this “perhaps”?

Jasper and I looked at each other. He stood across the length of the entryway from me . . . being careful. "You're wrong, you know," he said quietly. "What?" I gasped. "I can feel what you're feeling now - and you are worth it." "I'm not," I mumbled. "If anything happens to them, it will be for nothing." "You're wrong," he repeated, smiling kindly at me.

I hope that others will find what I found: that that journey—that literary journey of the Romantics through an age of unbelief back to the entryway of faith—is nothing less than the journey home.

So, whose man parts are you setting on fire?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.... "No one. I was just telling Belle about how I need to lose my virginity." Aaaaand, that did it. He froze, his arm dropping from Belle's shoulders as he took a not very subtle step toward the entryway. "I need to get the door." She picked up her tulip-shaped glass, fighting a grin. "I didn't hear the doorbell.

But here's the thing I've learned about leaving- you can't really go back. I don't know what to do with Cooley Ridge anymore, and Cooley Ridge doesn't know what to do with me, either. The distance only increases with the years. Most times, if I tried to shift it back into focus...all I'd see was a caricature of it in my mind: a miniature town set up on entryway tables around the holidays, everything frozen in time.

In the nation’s eyes, the Bastille was the trophy of its servitude; it seemed erected at the entryway to Paris, across from the sixteen pillars of Montfaucon, as a gallows on which liberties were hanged.* By razing this fortress of the State, the people thought to break the military yoke and thereby tacitly agreed to take the place of the army that they were disbanding. And we know what marvels were born when the people became soldiers.

The world sees. The sky hears. The universe understands. The heavens speak. The soul is the entryway to the heart, the heart is the doorway to the mind, the mind is the hallway to the world, and the world is the passageway to the universe.

By the way,” Etan began as we entered the hall, our footsteps echoing in the grand entryway, “I realize I said I’d never go near an altar, and I maintain that you are an obnoxious brat . . . but I will love you to the very last beat of my heart.

Papa said that when he wanted to escape from something unpleasant or sad all he needed was to find a crack in the wall and pretend it was an entryway into another world, a world where all that was lost - yourself included - would again be found.

He always had the impression, when waving goodbye to Felix at the end of the afternoon - Felix listlessly raising his own hand before slouching back into the recesses of the entryway - that he never left the house, never went out, never had friends over. Poor Felix: his very name was a taunt.

The location of this entryway was forgotten in the following centuries, and when the Moslem caliph AI Mamoon attempted to enter the pyramid in 820 A.D., he employed an army of masons, blacksmiths and engineers to pierce the stones and tunnel his way into the pyramid's core. What prompted him was both a scientific quest and a lust for treasure; for he was apprised of ancient legends that the pyramid contained a secret chamber wherein celestial maps and terrestrial spheres, as well as "weapons which do not rust" and "glass which can be bent without breaking" were hidden away in past ages.

ItHaving to put someone between himself and Emma made him feel sick, but the memory of the way he'd snapped at her in the entryway made him feel sicker. It had been like watching someone else talking to the person he loved the most in the world; someone else, hurting his parabatai on purpose. He had been able to do something with his feelings while she'd ben with Mark - twist and crumple them, shove them far underneath his skin and consciousness. He had felt them there, bleeding, like a tumor slicing open his internal organs, but he hadn't been able to see them. Now they were there again, laid out before him. It was terrifying to love someone who was forbidden to you. Terrifying to feel something you could never speak of, something that was horrible to almost everyone you knew, something that could destroy your life. It was in some ways more terrifying to know that your feelings were unwanted. When he had thought Emma loved him back, he had not been completly alone in his hell. Jules

Nobody needs to identify, nobody is trapped, nobody needs to stay forever and pledge allegiance. The words are gifts. If you know which terms to search, you know how to find others who might have something to teach. They are, like Lucid said, keys. Intellectual entryways to the ace world and other worlds. Offerings of language for as long as they bring value.

The flowers on the entryway table have wilted, and a dozen or so petals have fallen to the floor. I kneel down to clean them up but stop, suddenly struck by the unexpected beauty in what might otherwise be considered debris in need of a broom and dustpan. I reach for my sketchbook and pencils and begin capturing the scene as I see it, a perfect, beautiful mess.

There was no part of this house that felt inviting. Paul's cold, calculating hand could be seen behind every choice. The concrete on the entryway floor was polished to a dark mirror straight out of Snow White. The spiral stairs looked like a robot's asshole. The endless white walls made Lydia feel like she was trapped inside a straightjacket. The sooner she was out of here the better.

View marriage as an entryway into sanctification — as a relationship that will reveal your sinful behaviors and attitudes and give you the opportunity to address them before the Lord. But here’s the challenge: Don’t give in to the temptation to resent your partner as your own weaknesses are revealed. Don’t run from what you are hearing about yourself, or push your spouse away because of it — accept it and use it to grow.

Prayer is the only entryway into genuine self-knowledge. It is also the main way we experience deep change—the reordering of our loves. Prayer is how God gives us so many of the unimaginable things he has for us. Indeed, prayer makes it safe for God to give us many of the things we most desire. It is the way we know God, the way we finally treat God as God. Prayer is simply the key to everything we need to do and be in life.

Do you want to be a vampire?' Evangeline asked. 'No,' Jacks spat. 'I don't want to be a vampire, but I do want to bite you.' Evangeline's skin went hot all over. Jacks ground his teeth, looking furious at her for still being there. 'You should go,' he repeated. 'I'm not leaving you like this.' Evangeline searched the entryway for shackles. 'You are not pinning me to a wall.' Jacks glared. 'Do you have a better suggestion?

I'll see you when you're done with your interrogation." "I am not going to interrogate anyone!" Jack grinned. "Of course not.You're just going to ask questions." He cast a glance at Perkins. "Lady Kincaid will be with our guest shortly." "Yes,my lord." The butler bowed and left. Fiona frowned at the steady beat of rain against the window. "Dougal will catch his death,riding in such a rain." Jack shrugged. "He made it; let him swim in it." He pressed a kiss to his wife's forehead. "I'll be curious to hear about this woman." Fiona absently nodded.If what Jack suspected wer true and Miss MacFarlane was the cause of Dougal's gloom, then woe betide the lady! Chin high, she swept into the entryway. Standing in the center of the hall was a woman with gray curly hair and freckles, broad as a barn and dressed as a servant. Fiona almost tripped over her own feet. Surely,this was not the sort of woman Dougal pursued? But perhaps...perhaps it was true love. Was that why Dougal had been so surly? Fiona gathered her scattered wits and put a polite smile on her face. "Miss MacFarlane? Welcome to-" A soft cough halted Fiona, and the woman before her pointed behind Fiona. She turned around and knew instantly that she was indeed facing the cause of Dougal's storms. Miss MacFarlane wasn't simply beautiful; the girl was breathtaking.

Andrew just shrugged, and I fiddled with the napkin in my lap while glancing idly around the restaurant. The obligatory mirrors hung on the walls, and there was one of those fountains with fake lily pads in the entryway. The restaurant was also lit like a mine shaft. I've never understood why dim lighting is supposed to be so romantic. Night vision belongs into a Paris Hilton sex tape - not in a restaurant that could potentially poison me with peanut sauce.

Prayer is the only entryway into genuine self-knowledge. It is also the main way we experience deep change—the reordering of our loves. Prayer is how God gives us so many of the unimaginable things he has for us. Indeed, prayer makes it safe for God to give us many of the things we most desire. It is the way we know God, the way we finally treat God as God. Prayer is simply the key to everything we need to do and be in life. We must learn to pray. We have to.

Time is the entryway to the past, the past is the doorway to the present, the present is the hallway to the future, and the future is the passageway to eternity. Reality is the entryway to awareness, awareness is the doorway to experience, experience is the hallway to truth, and truth is the passageway to knowledge. Intelligence is the entryway to insight, insight is the doorway to understanding, understanding is the hallway to wisdom, and wisdom is the passageway to enlightenment. Religion is the entryway to spirituality, spirituality is the doorway to faith, faith is the hallway to hope, and hope is the passageway to expectation. God is the entryway to light, light is the doorway to love, love is the hallway to life, and life is the passageway to existence. The soul is the entryway to the heart, the heart is the doorway to the mind, the mind is the hallway to the world, and the world is the passageway to the universe.

When I stepped into the brown-tiled entryway of the Kentwood Public Library, the sunlight flowing down on me from the high windows, I felt a sense of importance. It gratified me to be in a place devoted to books and quiet; I was filled with a sense of hope. Reading to me was fundamental, as fundamental as food. And nothing could be more satisfying than reading a good book while eating a good meal of mi soup, french fries, and a thin cut of steak. I plowed through books as fast as possible in order to read them again.

Con jerked to a halt in the entryway to his and Leilani’s bedroom. It looked as if their entire closet had been dumped onto the bed. Or at least her half of the closet. “Leilani?” She stepped out of the bathroom wearing only panties and the giant cerulean-colored jewel around her neck that he’d given her a week ago to commemorate their official mating. Part of him still couldn’t believe she’d said yes. She was everything to him and he loved seeing the physical statement around her neck. Everyone knew she was his but still, his most primitive side liked claiming her publicly. She held up two long-sleeved tunics, both a similar blue color. “Which one should I wear tonight?” They looked almost the same but the slightly wild look in her dark eyes told him that would be the dumbest answer possible. He pointed to the one on the left. It was cut lower than the other and he liked to see the soft swell of her breasts as often as possible. “That’s what I thought too.” Grinning, she tossed the other to the ground and disappeared back into the bathroom. The female was a whirlwind of activity sometimes.

A flash of lightning ghosts into the room, and when it leaves again, my eyes follow it back out to sea. In the window's reflection, I glimpse a figure standing behind me. I don't need to turn around to see who creates such a big outline-or who makes my whole body turn into a goose-bump farm. "How do you feel?" he says. "Better," I say to his reflection. He hops over the back of the couch and grabs my chin, turning my head side to side, up and down, all around, watching for my reaction. "I just did that," I tell him. "Nothing." He nods and unhands me. "Rach-Uh, my mom called your mom and told her what happened. I guess your mom called your doctor, and he said it's pretty common, but that you should rest a few more days. My mom insisted you stay the night since no one needs to be driving in this weather." "And my mother agreed to that?" Even in the dark, I don't miss his little grin. "My mom can be pretty persuasive," he says. "By the end of the conversation, your mom even suggested we both stay home from school tomorrow and hang out here so you can relax-since my mom will be home supervising, of course. Your mom said you wouldn't stay home if I went to school." A flash from the storm illuminates my blush. "Because we told her we're dating." He nods. "She said you should have stayed home today, but you threw a fit to go anyway. Honestly, I didn't realize you were so obsessed-ouch!" I try to pinch him again, but he catches my wrist and pulls me over his lap like a child getting a spanking. "I was going to say, 'with history.'" He laughs. "No you weren't. Let me up." "I will." He laughs. "Galen, you let me up right now-" "Sorry, not ready yet." I gasp. "Oh, no! The room is spinning again." I hold still, tense up. Then the room does spin when he snatches me up and grabs my chin again. The look of concern etched on his face makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to keep my mouth shut. "Works every time," I tell him, giving my best ha-ha-you're-a-sucker smirk. A snicker from the entryway cuts off what I can tell is about to be a good scolding. I've never heard Galen curse, but his glower just looks like a four-letter word waiting to come out. We both turn to see Toraf watching us with crossed arms. He is also wearing a ha-ha-you're-a-sucker smirk. "Dinner's ready, children," he says. Yep, I definitely like Toraf. Galen rolls his eyes and extracts me from his lap. He hops up and leaves me there, and in the reflection, I see him ram his fist into Toraf's gut as he passes. Toraf grunts, but the smirk never leaves his face. He nods his head for me to follow them. As we pass through the rooms, I try to remember the rich, sophisticated atmosphere, the marble floors, the hideous paintings, but my stomach makes sounds better suited to a dog kennel at feeding time. "I think your stomach is making mating calls," Toraf whispers to me as we enter the kitchen. My blush debuts the same time we enter the kitchen, and it's enough to make Toraf laugh out loud.

Sunday morning dawned bright and cloudless. Ernest awoke early as always. He put on the red "Emporor's robe" and padded softly down the carpeted stairway. The early sunlight lay in pools on the living room floor. He had noticed that the guns were locked up in the basement. But the keys, as he well knew, were on the window ledge above the kitchen sink. He tiptoed down the basement stairs and unlocked the storage room. It smelled as dank as a grave. He chose a double-barreled Boss shotgun with a tight choke. He had used it for years of pigeon shooting. He took some shells from one of the boxes in the storage room, closed and locked the door, and climbed the basement stairs. If he saw the bright day outside, it did not deter him. He crossed the living room to the front foyer, a shrinelike entryway five by seven feet, with oak-paneled walls and a floor of linoleum tile. He had held for years to the maxim: "il faut (d'abord) durer". Now it had been succeeded by another: "il faut (apres tout) mourir". The idea, if not the phrase, filled all his mind. He slipped in two shells, lowered the gun butt carefully to the floor, leaned forward, pressed the twin barrels against his forehead just above the eyebrows, and tripped both triggers.

My mother was the first person you called for a recipe (a cup of onions, garlic, don’t forget the pinch of sugar) and the last one you called at night when you just couldn’t sleep (a cup of hot water with lemon, lavender oil, magnesium pills). She knew the exact ratio of olive oil to garlic in any recipe, and she could whip up dinner from three pantry items, easy. She had all the answers. I, on the other hand, have none of them, and now I no longer have her. “Hi,” I hear Eric say from inside. “Where is everyone?” Eric is my husband, and he is our last guest here today. He shouldn’t be. He should have been with us the entire time, in the hard, low chairs, stuck between noodle casseroles and the ringing phone and the endless lipstick kisses of neighbors and women who call themselves aunties, but instead he is here in the entryway to what is now my father’s house, waiting to be received. I close my eyes. Maybe if I cannot see him, he will stop looking for me. Maybe I will fold into this ostentatious May day, the sun shining like a woman talking loudly on a cell phone at lunch. Who invited you here? I tuck the cigarette into the pocket of my jeans. I cannot yet conceive of a world without her, what that will look like, who I am in her absence. I am incapable of understanding that she will not pick me up for lunch on Tuesdays, parking without a permit on the

Stop!” Leilani’s worried voice cut through the haze in his mind as he pinned Ruari face down on the stone entryway. He could have let the fight drag on, but the panic in her voice did something strange to him. He wanted to get up and soothe all her fears. But since he didn’t trust the male, or any male, around her, he kept a firm hold on Ruari as he stared at Leilani. And it was impossible not to. Her long, dark hair hung in a single braid draped over one shoulder and breast. The females on the mainland dressed differently than the few females who lived in the mountain clans. Her dress-style was no different than the other Luminet mainlanders he’d seen. The bright red shift dress she had on cinched right under her breasts, the V cut dipping low enough that he could see the soft upper swell of her breasts. Her skin tone was a deep bronze and her shoulders, which he’d never thought of as sexy before, were bare except for straps of gauzy material pinned by jewel-studded dragons. He wondered where she’d gotten the pins, if some male had given them to her. The thought made something dark and possessive flare inside him. The possessiveness took him off guard. That was when he realized Cyn and Brandt were both standing there staring at him, clearly wondering if he was going to let Ruari up. Leilani was watching him as well, but her expression was much harder to read. He thought he might have seen a trace of desire in her gaze yesterday when she looked at him but that was before he’d ordered her to give him her files. “I will let you up, but do not move toward her,” he growled at Ruari. When he stood he immediately moved between Leilani and the other male.

Athena’s helmet may represent the protection of our neural pathways, as mentioned earlier. The experience of trauma affects our ability to think clearly. Therefore the work of healing requires the clear thinking and clear seeing which are also Athena’s gifts. The quality of mindfulness, defined by Bessel van der Kolk as the ability ‘to hover calmly and objectively over our thoughts, feelings and emotions,’ is a key part of recovery and also of Athena’s mental power. The theme of protection manifests when Athena places Medusa’s head on her breastplate or aegis, right in the centre of her heart. Medusa’s head now becomes the universally powerful apotropaic emblem, the Gorgoneion, placed on shields, walls, houses, temples, roofs, gates and entryways throughout Classical antiquity and even in the present day. I believe this action has profound significance for our theme of healing from trauma.

One Saturday in the month of August, you leave your home wearing your tennis gear, accompanied by your wife. In the middle of the garden you point out to her that you’ve forgotten your racket in the house. You go back to look for it, but instead of making your way toward the cupboard in the entryway where you normally keep it, you head down into the basement. Your wife doesn’t notice this. She stays outside. The weather is fine. She’s making the most of the sun. A few moments later she hears a gunshot. She rushes into the house, cries out your name, notices that the door to the stairway leading to the basement is open, goes down, and finds you there. You’ve put a bullet in your head with the rifle you had carefully prepared. On the table, you left a comic book open to a double-page spread. In the heat of the moment, your wife leans on the table; the book falls closed before she understands that this was your final message.

I shoot up out of my chair. “It’s Bree. Hide the board!” Everyone hops out of their chairs and starts scrambling around and bumping into each other like a classic cartoon. We hear the door shut behind her, and the whiteboard is still standing in the middle of the kitchen like a lit-up marquee. I hiss at Jamal, “Get rid of it!” His eyes are wide orbs, head whipping around in all directions. “Where? In the utensil drawer? Up my shirt?! There’s nowhere! That thing is huge!” “LADY IN THE HOUSE!” Bree shouts from the entryway. The sound of her tennis shoes getting kicked off echoes around the room, and my heart races up my throat. Her name is pasted all over that whiteboard along with phrases like “first kiss—keep it light” and “entwined hand-holding” and “dirty talk about her hair”. Yeah…I’m not sure about that last one, but we’ll see. Basically, it’s all laid out there—the most incriminating board in the world. If Bree sees this thing, it’s all over for me. “Erase it!” Price whispers frantically. “No, we didn’t write it down anywhere else! We’ll lose all the ideas.” I can hear Bree’s footsteps getting closer. “Nathan? Are you home?” “Uh—yeah! In the kitchen.” Jamal tosses me a look like I’m an idiot for announcing our location, but what am I supposed to do? Stand very still and pretend we’re not all huddled in here having a Baby-Sitter’s Club re-enactment? She would find us, and that would look even worse after keeping quiet. “Just flip it over!” I tell anyone who’s not running in a circle chasing his tail. As Lawrence flips the whiteboard, Price tells us all to act natural. So of course, the second Bree rounds the corner, I hop up on the table, Jamal rests his elbow on the wall and leans his head on his hand, and Lawrence just plops down on the floor and pretends to stretch. Derek can’t decide what to do so he’s caught mid-circle. We all have fake smiles plastered on. Our acting is shit. Bree freezes, blinking at the sight of each of us not acting at all natural. “Whatcha guys doing?” Her hair is a cute messy bun of curls on the top of her head and she’s wearing her favorite joggers with one of my old LA Sharks hoodies, which she stole from my closet a long time ago. It swallows her whole, but since she just came from the studio, I know there is a tight leotard under it. I can barely find her in all that material, and yet she’s still the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. Just her presence in this room feels like finally getting hooked up to oxygen after days of not being able to breathe deeply. We all respond to Bree’s question at the same time but with different answers. It’s highly suspicious and likely what makes her eyes dart to the whiteboard. Sweat gathers on my spine. “What’s with the whiteboard?” she asks, taking a step toward it. I hop off the table and get in her path. “Huh? Oh, it’s…nothing.” She laughs and tries to look around me. I pretend to stretch so she can’t see. “It doesn’t look like nothing. What? Are you guys drawing boobies on that board or something? You look so guilty.” “Ah—you caught us! Lots of illustrated boobs drawn on that board. You don’t want to see it.” She pauses, a fading smile hovering on her lips, and her eyes look up to meet mine. “For real—what’s going on? Why can’t I see it?” She doesn’t believe my boob explanation. I guess we should take that as a compliment? My eyes catch over Bree’s shoulder as Price puts himself out of her line of sight and begins miming the action of getting his phone out and taking a picture of the whiteboard. This little show is directed at Derek, who is standing somewhere behind me. Bree sees me watching Price and whips her head around to catch him. He freezes—hands extended looking like he’s holding an imaginary camera. He then transforms that into a forearm stretch. “So tight after our workout today.” Her eyes narrow.

She broke off abruptly as she heard her name being called, and glanced over her shoulder, fearing that St. Vincent had discovered her escape. Her entire body stiffened in battle readiness. But there was no sign of St. Vincent, no betraying gleam of golden-amber hair. She heard the voice again, a deep sound that penetrated to her soul. “Lillian.” Her legs quivered beneath her as she saw a lean, dark-haired man coming from the front entryway. It can’t be, she thought, blinking hard to clear her vision, which must surely have been playing tricks on her. She stumbled a little as she turned to face him. “Westcliff,” she whispered, and took a few hesitant steps forward. The rest of the room seemed to vanish. Marcus’s face was pale beneath its tan, and he stared at her with searing intensity, as if he feared she might disappear. His stride quickened, and as he reached her, she was seized and caught in a biting grip. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard against him. “My God,” he muttered, and buried his face in her hair. “You came,” Lillian gasped, trembling all over. “You found me.” She couldn’t conceive how it was possible. He smelled of horses and sweat, and his clothes were chilled from the outside air. Feeling her shiver, Marcus drew her tightly inside his coat, murmuring endearments against her hair. “Marcus,” Lillian said thickly. “Have I gone mad? Oh, please be real. Please don’t go away—” “I’m here.” His voice was low and shaken. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.” He drew back slightly, his midnight gaze scouring her from head to toe, his hands searching urgently over her body. “My love, my own… have you been hurt?” As his fingers slid along her arm, he encountered the locked manacle. Lifting her wrist, he stared at the handcuffs blankly. He inhaled sharply, and his body began to shake with primitive fury. “G**damn it, I’ll send him to hell—” “I’m fine,” Lillian said hastily. “I haven’t been hurt.” Bringing her hand to his mouth, Marcus kissed it roughly, and kept her fingers against his cheek while his breath struck her wrist in swift repetitions. “Lillian, did he…” Reading the question in his haunted gaze, the words he couldn’t yet bring himself to voice, Lillian whispered scratchily, “No, nothing happened. There wasn’t time.” “I’m still going to kill him.” There was a deadly note in his voice that made the back of her neck crawl. Seeing the open bodice of her gown, Marcus released her long enough to pull off his coat and place it over her shoulders. He suddenly went still. “That smell… what is it?” Realizing that her skin and clothes still retained the noxious scent, Lillian hesitated before replying. “Ether,” she finally said, trying to form her trembling lips into a reassuring smile as she saw his eyes dilate into pools of black. “It wasn’t bad, actually. I’ve slept through most of the day. Other than a touch of queasiness, I’m—” An animal growl came from his throat, and he pulled her against him once more. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Lillian, my sweet love… you’re safe now. I’ll never let anything happen to you again. I swear it on my life. You’re safe.” He took her head in his hands, and his mouth slid over hers in a kiss that was brief, soft, and yet so shockingly intense that she swayed dizzily. Closing her eyes, she let herself rest against him, still fearing that none of this was real, that she would awaken to find herself with St. Vincent once more. Marcus whispered comforting words against her parted lips and cheeks, and held her with a grip that seemed gentle but could not have been broken by the combined efforts of ten men.

Princess, stop walking and just talk to me.” “Why? So you can let me know again how much of a slut you think I am?” “I don’t,” he let out a half-growl, half-sigh, “I don’t think you’re a slut. You just caught me on a bad day.” “Let me guess Chase, you hurt me because you were just so damn mad … am I right?” I threw his line from a month ago back in his face and he paled. His hand came up and brushed my hair back, holding it away from my face as he stared into my eyes, “This is why I told you I would never be good enough for you, all I do is hurt you Princess.” “This isn’t about you being, or not being good enough for me. I just want to be your friend, and you’re making that impossible.” Friend, he mouthed and scratched his head before grabbing a fistful of hair, “Okay, fine, we’re friends. But I need you to stop approaching me around my house and at school.” “What? Then that puts us exactly where we’ve been the last three weeks, that doesn’t change anything.” “It needs to be that way.” He released both his hair and mine at the same time and turned away for a second before facing me again, “Sundays are the only day I get you. Those are the only days when you’re here with me.” I opened my mouth but he stopped me, “No, I know you’re not here for me … but you’re here. And he’s not.” He bent his knees so we were eye to eye, “I need these days with you Harper. But every other day, you’re his and it’s not a good idea for us to be around each other then. So stay away. Please.” “Chase …” “If you think acting like you don’t exist isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done, you’re wrong. I hate not talking to you, I hate not bickering like we’re an old married couple and I hate not spending every day right next to you. But this is how it has to be, Brandon hates me, and Princess trust me when I say he has every reason to. So if after everything I’ve done to you, you’ll still even consider being my friend, then it has to be Sundays only.” “Brandon won’t care if we’re friends.” Okay I wasn’t entirely sure that was true. He smiled and shook his head, “I know you’re not that naïve. Now go have lunch with Mom and Bree, then get your ass back here so I can have my few stolen hours with you.” I walked toward the entryway but stopped after a few feet, “Chase?” “Yeah Princess?” Looking over my shoulder, I held his gaze, “Will you please stop hurting me … in every way?” Chase closed the distance and pulled me into a tight hug, “Go eat sweetheart.” That

If these avatars were real people in a real street, Hiro wouldn't be able to reach the entrance. It's way too crowded. But the computer system that operates the Street has better things to do than to monitor every single one of the millions of people there, trying to prevent them from running into each other. It doesn't bother trying to solve this incredibly difficult problem. On the Street, avatars just walk right through each other. So when Hiro cuts through the crowd, headed for the entrance, he really is cutting through the crowd. When things get this jammed together, the computer simplifies things by drawing all of the avatars ghostly and translucent so you can see where you're going. Hiro appears solid to himself, but everyone else looks like a ghost. He walks through the crowd as if it's a fogbank, clearly seeing The Black Sun in front of him. He steps over the property line, and he's in the doorway. And in that instant he becomes solid and visible to all the avatars milling outside. As one, they all begin screaming. Not that they have any idea who the hell he is -- Hiro is just a starving CIC stringer who lives in a U-Stor-It by the airport. But in the entire world there are only a couple of thousand people who can step over the line into The Black Sun. He turns and looks back at ten thousand shrieking groupies. Now that he's all by himself in the entryway, no longer immersed in a flood of avatars, he can see all of the people in the front row of the crowd with perfect clarity. They are all done up in their wildest and fanciest avatars, hoping that Da5id -- The Black Sun's owner and hacker-in-chief -- will invite them inside. They flick and merge together into a hysterical wall. Stunningly beautiful women, computer-airbrushed and retouched at seventy-two frames a second, like Playboy pinups turned three-dimensional -- these are would-be actresses hoping to be discovered. Wild-looking abstracts, tornadoes of gyrating light-hackers who are hoping that Da5id will notice their talent, invite them inside, give them a job. A liberal sprinkling of black-and-white people -- persons who are accessing the Metaverse through cheap public terminals, and who are rendered in jerky, grainy black and white. A lot of these are run-of-the-mill psycho fans, devoted to the fantasy of stabbing some particular actress to death; they can't even get close in Reality, so they goggle into the Metaverse to stalk their prey. There are would-be rock stars done up in laser light, as though they just stepped off the concert stage, and the avatars of Nipponese businessmen, exquisitely rendered by their fancy equipment, but utterly reserved and boring in their suits.

I panted as he pulled me back through the entryway, hands on my waist, kissing the whole way, and collapsed backward onto the gray leather couch, which felt softer than my skin. I fell on top of him, straddling his lap. He kissed his way down my neck and across the collar of my blouse, leaving a trail of fire behind. "Enough of that," I panted, ripping my shirt over my head. Thank goodness I'd worn a decent bra today---blue satin with a bow in the middle, not frayed or torn anywhere. He eyed it with a growl of approval, but maybe it wasn't a growl for the bra at all, because a moment of fumbling over my back and---pop---I shook off my now unfastened bra. "And to think you didn't like me at first." He drank me in unabashedly, his eyes roaming from belly to breasts to nose to eyes, and each inch his eyes traveled made me feel more and more powerful. Like I could go anywhere, do anything. Except all I wanted to do was right here. I ground against him, feeling his cock already hard and strong under his zipper. "Who says I like you now?" He gasped and pulled me tighter onto him. "If this is what you do to people you don't like, what do you do to people you do like?" I silenced him with another kiss as I rubbed up and down him again. Now my own sex was throbbing, and I sucked in a breath with every movement. I kept moving up and down as he kissed my breasts, tongue tracing lightly over each nipple. When I couldn't take it anymore, I tumbled to the side, lying down on the couch and pulling him on top of me. Because his was an expensive couch and not the cheap one my old roommate had bought at Ikea, there was plenty of room for us to writhe without making me feel like I might topple off the edge. He went down to kiss my breasts again... and kept going. His tongue slid down my stomach, did a lazy circle around my belly button. I clenched my teeth, holding back a beg for more as he slowly, slowly, way too slowly unzipped my skirt and tugged it down. I kicked it off, along with my underwear, when he reached my knees, nearly clipping him on the ear. When I felt close to the edge, I reached down and pulled him up. My hand moved down and took over, zeroing in on just the right spot on my clit. It didn't take long. I shuddered against his shoulder, biting back a cry, then wondered why I was biting it back and let it out. Breathing hard, my head collapsed back into the cushion. I was a little worried that now post-orgasm clarity would descend upon me and be like, What the hell are you doing, Julie? but the post-orgasm clarity seemed to approve. With a wink and a nudge, it made me pull away, and the desire roared back inside me. "That's why it's great to have a clitoris," I told Bennett. "Multiple orgasms.

The leader of the Red Guards stepped up to Nien Cheng. “We are the Red Guards. We have come to take revolutionary action against you!” Nien Cheng held up the copy of the Constitution and looked the leader in the eye. “It’s against the Constitution to enter a private house without a search warrant.” The man grabbed the Constitution out of Nien’s hand and threw it on the floor. “The Constitution is abolished. It was a document written by the Revisionists within the Communist Party. We recognize only the teachings of our Great Leader Chairman Mao.” One of the Red Guards took the stick he was carrying and smashed the mirror hanging over a wooden chest in the entryway. Another guard replaced the mirror with a blackboard that bore a quotation from Mao: “When the enemies with guns are annihilated, the enemies without guns still remain. We must not belittle these enemies.”2 With that, the young guards tore through the house, smashing furniture, dumping shelves of books onto the floor, slashing priceless paintings by Lin Fengmian and Qi Baishi. On a rampage, the eager students looted the closets and drawers, tearing most of Nien Cheng’s clothing and linens. They overturned the bed mattresses and hacked them to pieces. Then they smashed her music recordings. Pressing on, they found the food pantry and dumped flour, sugar, and canned goods onto the ravaged clothing. They broke several bottles of red wine, pouring it over the mess.

We rode for perhaps an hour with the snow tapping at our cheeks before we came to a little gully where the mountainside folded itself around a grove of misshapen willows. Even if the changeling hadn't directed us there, I would have taken it for a faerie door of some sort; though there are many sorts of doors, they all have a similar quality which can best---and quite inadequately---be described as unusual. A round ring of mushrooms is the obvious example, but one must additionally be on the lookout for large, hoary trees that dwarf their neighbors; for twisted trunks and gaping hollows; for wildflowers out of sync with the forest's floral denizens; for patterns of things; for mounds and depressions and inexplicable clearings. Anything that does not fit.

If loneliness or sadness or happiness could be expressed through food, loneliness would be basil. It’s not good for your stomach, dims your eyes, and turns your mind murky. If you pound basil and place a stone over it, scorpions swarm toward it. Happiness is saffron, from the crocus that blooms in the spring. Even if you add just a pinch to a dish, it adds an intense taste and a lingering scent. You can find it anywhere but you can’t get it at any time of the year. It’s good for your heart, and if you drop a little bit in your wine, you instantly become drunk from its heady perfume. The best saffron crumbles at the touch and instantaneously emits its fragrance. Sadness is a knobby cucumber, whose aroma you can detect from far away. It’s tough and hard to digest and makes you fall ill with a high fever. It’s porous, excellent at absorption, and sponges up spices, guaranteeing a lengthy period of preservation. Pickles are the best food you can make from cucumbers. You boil vinegar and pour it over the cucumbers, then season with salt and pepper. You enclose them in a sterilized glass jar, seal it, and store it in a dark and dry place. WON’S KITCHEN. I take off the sign hanging by the first-floor entryway. He designed it by hand and silk-screened it onto a metal plate. Early in the morning on the day of the opening party for the cooking school, he had me hang the sign myself. I was meaning to give it a really special name, he said, grinning, flashing his white teeth, but I thought Jeong Ji-won was the most special name in the world. He called my name again: Hey, Ji-won. He walked around the house calling my name over and over, mischievously — as if he were an Eskimo who believed that the soul became imprinted in the name when it was called — while I fried an egg, cautiously sprinkling grated Emmentaler, salt, pepper, taking care not to pop the yolk. I spread the white sun-dried tablecloth on the coffee table and set it with the fried egg, unsalted butter, blueberry jam, and a baguette I’d toasted in the oven. It was our favorite breakfast: simple, warm, sweet. As was his habit, he spread a thick layer of butter and jam on his baguette and dunked it into his coffee, and I plunked into my cup the teaspoon laced with jam, waiting for the sticky sweetness to melt into the hot, dark coffee. I still remember the sugary jam infusing the last drop of coffee and the moist crumbs of the baguette lingering at the roof of my mouth. And also his words, informing me that he wanted to design a new house that would contain the cooking school, his office, and our bedroom. Instead of replying, I picked up a firm red radish, sparkling with droplets of water, dabbed a little butter on it, dipped it in salt, and stuck it into my mouth. A crunch resonated from my mouth. Hoping the crunch sounded like, Yes, someday, I continued to eat it. Was that the reason I equated a fresh red radish with sprouting green tops, as small as a miniature apple, with the taste of love? But if I cut into it crosswise like an apple, I wouldn't find the constellation of seeds.

That's Branton, Michigan, by the way. Don't try to find it on a map - you'd need a microscope. It's one of a dozen dinky towns north of Lansing, one of the few that doesn't sound like it was named by a French explorer. Branton, Michigan. Population: Not a Lot and Yet Still Too Many I Don't Particularly Care For. We have a shopping mall with a JCPenny and an Asian fusion place that everyone says they are dying to try even though it’s been there for three years now. Most of our other restaurants are attached to gas stations, the kind that serve rubbery purple hot dogs and sodas in buckets. There’s a statue of Francis B. Stockbridge in the center of town. He’s a Michigan state senator from prehistoric times with a beard that belongs on Rapunzel’s twin brother. He wasn’t born in Branton, of course – nobody important was ever born in Branton – but we needed a statue for the front of the courthouse and the name Stockbridge looks good on a copper plate. It’s all for show. Branton’s the kind of place that tries to pretend it’s better than it really is. It’s really the kind of place with more bars than bookstores and more churches than either, not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. It’s a place where teenagers still sometimes take baseball bats to mailboxes and wearing the wrong brand of shoes gets you at least a dirty look. It snows a lot in Branton. Like avalanches dumped from the sky. Like heaps to hills to mountains, the plows carving their paths through our neighborhood, creating alpine ranges nearly tall enough to ski down. Some of the snow mounds are so big you can build houses inside them, complete with entryways and coat closets. Restrooms are down the hall on your right. Just look for the steaming yellow hole. There’s nothing like that first Branton snow, though. Soft as a cat scruff and bleach white, so bright you can almost see your reflection in it. Then the plows come and churn up the earth underneath. The dirt and the boot tracks and the car exhaust mix together to make it all ash gray, almost black, and it sickens your stomach just to look at it. It happens everywhere, not just Branton, but here it’s something you can count on.

Kiril glanced around the darkened room. He walked to a leather chair and sat, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. “Did you know that during the Fae Wars the Dark took two Dragon Kings? At different times, of course.” “I suppose they escaped as well? Are you telling me we don’t know how to hold a Dragon King?” “The Dark did . . . things to my brethren. One completely lost his mind and attacked us, which is what the Dark wanted. He had to be killed. The other King knew what was happening to him, but he couldna stop it. He came to us and begged to be killed before he could harm one of us.” Shara sipped her whisky before she said, “You lost two Kings and I lost seven siblings.” “And the Light the Dark took?” “The Dark take the Light and the Light take the Dark.” Kiril let his gaze drift down her body. How he itched to have her long legs wrapped around him. Things would be so much easier if he didn’t desire her as he did, but there wasn’t a switch he could flip and turn off his body’s reaction. The more he tried to ignore the growing desire, the more it raged uncontrollably within him. He gave himself a mental shake and returned to their conversation. “What’s the plan, then? Will the Dark storm in here and try to capture me?” Shara walked around the room, her hand skimming along the backs of the chairs. “No.” “No?” Kiril set aside his glass on the table next to him and silently rose to his feet. He followed her as if a string tied them together. “What then?” “You don’t really want to know.” Kiril spun her around so hard that her glass flew from her hand and landed upon a rug, spilling the whisky but not breaking the crystal. “Tell me,” he demanded in a soft, deadly voice. “My job is to seduce you.” She held her stance for a heartbeat before she retreated, taking two steps back. He tracked her until she was once more in the entryway. The shadows darkened everything, and yet the smallest sliver of moonlight found her, illuminating her in a pale blue glow. No longer could he deny what he wanted. Perhaps it was her confession. Maybe it was because he hadn’t taken to the skies in weeks. Whatever it was, all he knew was that he had to have her or go up in flames. “Then seduce me.

Catherine drew out an object wrapped in soft cloth. Gently she unwrapped a new pair of spectacles made of silver... gleaming and perfect, the oval lenses sparkling. Marveling at the workmanship, she drew a finger along one of the intricate filigreed earpieces, all the way to the curved tip. "They're so beautiful," she said in wonder. "If they please you, we'll have another pair made in gold. Here, let me help you..." Leo gently drew the old spectacles off her face, seeming to savor the gesture. She put the new ones on. They felt light and secure on the bridge of her nose. As she looked around the room, everything was wonderfully detailed and in focus. In her excitement, she jumped up and hurried to the looking glass that hung over the entryway table. She inspected her own glowing reflection. "How pretty you are," Leo's tall, elegant form appeared behind hers. "I do love spectacles on a woman." Catherine's smiling gaze met his in the silvered glass. "Do you? What an odd preference." "Not at all." His hands came to her shoulders, lightly fondling up to her throat and back again. "They emphasize your beautiful eyes. And they make you look capable of secrets and surprises- which, as much as we know, you are." His voice lowered. "Most of all I love the act of removing them- getting you ready for a tumble in bed." She shivered at his bluntness, her eyes half closing as she felt him pull her back against him. His mouth went to the side of her neck. "You like them?" Leo murmured, kissing her soft skin. "Yes." Her head listed to the side as his tongue traced a subtle path along her throat. "I... I don't know why you went to such trouble. It was very kind." Leo's dark head lifted, and he met her drowsy gaze in the looking glass. His fingers went to the side of her throat, stroking as if to rub the feel of his mouth into her skin. "I wasn't being kind," he murmured, a smile touching his lips. "I merely wanted you to see clearly." I'm beginning to, she was tempted to tell him, but Poppy returned to the apartment before she was able.

I know of no pleasure like that of books, yet I read very little. Books are the entryway to dreams, but people at ease in life don't need such introductions to enter into conversation with dreams. I could never read a book and give myself over to it; always, with each step, the commentary of my intellect or my imagination interrupts the narrative sequence. After some minutes I am the one who writes and the writing is nowhere to be seen.

When the front door suddenly burst open, she let out a yell and went running into the hall, convinced the whole front of the house was blowing away. What she found instead was Etienne, alone in the entryway, shaking off water like a wet dog. “You!” She let out a sigh of relief while Etienne glanced around the corridor. “Yeah. Last time I checked, anyhow.” “What are you doing, coming here in this weather? It looks horrible out there.” “It is horrible out there. But Miss Teeta, she just called me and she was worried, so I figured you might like the company.” “You figured right.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah, I usually do.

Trapped in the entryway was an old man, dead, hungry, and beating on the interior door. It was kind of funny that he still clung to his library book.

When I saw the flash of her stola in the entryway, my heart would beat like a temple drum. Passia! Her name was a song in my mind. Whenever she came into the kitchen I thought I might faint with desire. Everything about her was perfect. Her long auburn hair was perfect against her tanned skin. Her eyes were a perfect ebony brown, her wrists perfect and delicate, her voice a melody that I wished I could hear every waking moment of my life.

In the center of the house stood the disco, a rectangular marble space accessed from adjacent rooms through arched entryways.

The lion's share of individuals who are thinking about a story covering or paint for their carport, for the most part, envision an exhausting ship dark shading. On the off chance that you need to have a carport that looks better since you need to offer it quicker or you truly get a kick out of the chance to claim decent things, at that point this dim shading can't do anything for you. The uncovered cement is as of now dim so why considerably try touching it up? All things considered, if this is your state of mind, at that point you are in awesome good fortune. Presently, you can have an epoxy floor paint in a greater number of hues than you at any point thought conceivable. In actuality, you can have any shading you wish in the event that you are sufficiently quiet to look at all potential outcomes. Presently, what are the things you ought to recollect when you pick? There are three boss approaches to coordinate hues that individuals need to make as they paint their floor. To start with, they will get a shading that would match be able to or compliment the house paint. This can truly enhance the controlling claim each time the carport entryway is opened. Many individuals will go for a shading that matches their vehicle. This is extremely unsurprising for individuals who possess a show auto or only an auto that they are exceptionally pleased with. A complimentary shading can really make your "road pole" seem like it just fell off the showroom floor. At last, in settling on the shade of your epoxy carport floor covering, many individuals pick a shading that would cover be able to up stains and earth. Cases of these hues are earth tones or shading that they might be inclined toward. Regardless, it's your own inclination for your carport since you claim it. On the off chance that you have any arrangements to chip away at your autos or whatever else inside the carport at that point consider my recommendation. Lift a shading that will appear any nuts or fasteners you drop regardless of how little. More often than not, this is a light shading. As you end up plainly more seasoned and your visual perception has debased, you will be grateful to me for this wisdom. Any shade of your decision would make be able to this venture an extraordinary movement this mid-year. When you prepare to do this venture make sure you invest the required measure of the energy of the prep work for the floor. Like all paint extends, the fallen angel is in the arrangement with regards to landing a position that looks extraordinary as well as keeps going quite a while. Invest the energy in the prep and you will be content with the outcomes.

Heather was convinced Scarlet needed to see Nate. Scarlet was not. After leaving a tall, thick trail of dust, Heather parked her car at a haphazard angle in front of the cabin. Bursting through the front door with Scarlet beside her, Heather dramatically announced, “Scarlet is broken!” Scarlet shook her head. “I’m not broken.” “What?” Gabriel met them in entryway, looking at Scarlet in concern.“What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I’m fine.” Scarlet slowly walked into the living room, her body aching with every movement as she laid down on one of the large couches. “You are notfine, Scarlet. You are broken.” Heather turned to Gabriel with big eyes. “She was wheezing and coughing and moaning during sixth period. Moaning! Do you know how hard it is to explain to your economics teacher why your best friend is moaning during his supply-and-demand lecture?” She shrugged. “Someone needs to fix her.” Heather looked around. “Where’s the nerdy, little immortal?” Nate entered the living room from the back hallway and shot Heather a dirty look. “I’m not little. I’m average-sized. And five hundred years ago I was actually considered a large man. But then humans started eating well and evolving and, suddenly, I’m no longer the tallest guy in the room—” “I don’t care about the evolution of Nate!” Heather snapped. “I care about Scarlet

Next, to ensure the popular acclaim that would overwhelm resistance from corrupt politicians, Beach installed a gas-lit entryway, a platform with frescoed walls, settees, and a grand piano, and a luxuriously upholstered twenty-two-person car. In February 1870 a huge rotary blower began propelling passengers smoothly back and forth—a public relations triumph that drew four hundred thousand riders that year, at twenty-five cents each. Nevertheless, the combination of Tweed’s opposition, protests from powerful Broadway landlords who feared for their buildings’ foundations, technical difficulties, and reluctance of private investors to undertake the enterprise led to its demise.

through the entryway with the stone staircase. She stopped

Becca wasn’t sure how long she stood there in the entryway shaking like a late-winter lead as it clung to a barren branch during a snowstorm. Five minutes? An hour? It was impossible to say. Time had ceased to exist.

...research has found that 80% of potential home buyers decide whether or not a home is right for them as soon as they walk in.

Diana had been finishing up a session with the Russian artist and mosaicist Boris Anrep at the National Gallery when the messenger arrived. Anrep had asked eleven friends to model for the nine Muses, plus Apollo and Dionysus, that he was depicting on a mosaic floor in the entryway to the famous museum. The chosen few were draped in togas and arranged in languid positions—Clive Bell as Dionysus, Virginia Woolf as Clio, Greta Garbo as Melpomene, and Diana as Polyhymnia, muse of sacred music and oratory, and so on—when a uniformed man clomped into the private

on the road, I take stock. Despite the setbacks, I did stumble on what looked to be a secret terrorist meeting spot. Saw some additional suspects. And learned a whole lot. I’m just not sure what. Chapter 24 ARRIVING HOME, I open my front door and practically collapse right there in the entryway. With the adrenaline surge from the fight long over, the full agony of its aftermath is starting to hit me, hard. I stumble into my bathroom and peel off my torn, bloody T-shirt. My chest and arms are a patchwork of cuts and bruises. That includes a long but shallow scrape across my shoulder. Must have been from the attacker’s knife. In the heat of battle, I guess I didn’t even notice it. I douse the wound with disinfectant, which feels like I’m bathing in acid, and it makes me groan. But the real doozy is the welt on my temple from that crowbar. I inspect the plump, crimson mound in

For example, consider the question of what theologies are operative in a given worship service. Imagine entering a worship service in which the hymns are all about the church's own action: the action of obedience, of following God's way, of experiencing life together. Along comes the sermon, an exposition of Scripture. The punch line of the sermon does not relate to God but to a fresh understanding of how to respond to challenges at work, or to challenges in our relationships at home. God will take care of God. What we experience in this worship service is not speculation about God but more practical fare: words of insight and encouragement about how God wants us to succeed in all of our life endeavors. Note the functional assumptions about God and Scripture in a service such as this: even if there are references to God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit, the basic assumption is that knowledge of God is an abstract affair that has little to do with our practical lives. Since direct talk about God is impractical (if not presumptuous), we read Scripture and write songs in a way that focuses on what is under our control - our own will, our own decisions.

The Trinitarian Christian is not a basically good person who tries his or her best to follow God's rules. The Trinitarian Christian is one who was in bondage but now lives into an identity of being filled with the Spirit, united to Christ and his body, living in gratitude before the Father.

We should recognize that "religion is above all an external word" that "molds and shapes the self and its world.

the incarnate Word speaks through Scripture so that our faith can become our own, amidst all of our cultural particularity; yet the incarnate Word calls his disciples to a continuing conversion, wherein the Spirit uses Scripture to reshape God's people into Christ's image.

If this account of revelation is correct, then coming to know God takes place in a community that the Spirit has enlivened to receive the Word sent from the Father. While books - especially the Bible as God's chosen instrument of revelation - will be indispensable, we will ultimately need a community that loves and worships in its midst a God who has entered from outside.

As Christians interpreting Scripture, we should exegete not only Scripture but our own culture, the culture that provides the lens through which we receive Scripture.

Have you ever wondered why some people at your new job displayed a passionate animosity toward you even though you were meeting them for the very first time? It’s not personal. The answer lies in understanding the dynamics of spiritual altars. Whenever two individuals carrying two opposing altars come into contact with each other, the spirit of animosity between them is proof that their two altars are now engaged in a spiritual battle.

My mother came home at some point, but she didn’t peek into the den. Her heels clacked in the entryway, and after she took them off, I marked the sounds of her movements in the kitchen, followed by the stairs to her bedroom. Since I’d heard the clink of a wine glass against a bottle as she passed the doorway to the den, I had no doubt she would be upstairs for the rest of the night. My gut clenched when she didn’t even check on me, but I should have been used to it. We hadn’t had much of a conversation since last weekend, and I didn’t foresee that changing.

The world around her slowed, then blasted apart with darkness. She was in the darkness; she was its master. It plunged the entryway into a night so thick it was suffocating. Taesia's whole body shook as it scraped against the boundaries of her control, demanding more, demanding everything from her. In the shadows, she was beyond death and life - she was the breath tentatively connecting them. Delicate as gossamer. More powerful than crowns or wars or blade. Unseen, patient, devastating.

We stand up, and as we’re leaving the Relaxation Room, he grabs my hand. We walk out through the pharmacy, still holding hands, and over to the entryway to Pink & Green.

To anyone watching, it probably appeared we were having a romantic moment, slow dancing in the middle of the crowd of grinding bodies. When I slid my eyes open, they landed on a pair of violent, stormy eyes watching us from the entryway. Gabe was here, and from his balled fists and flaring nostrils, he wasn’t pleased to see me.

No lighted sign shone above the entryway, just a simple board fashioned from wood featuring the name of the bar and a painted caricature of a pig. I thought it resembled some of the people I’d find inside.

Instead, releasing resistance requires us to refocus. We have to get clear on what we want as well as when and why we want it. We have to identify unconscious beliefs that are preventing us from showing up, and then we have to step back into the work when we feel inspired. Wanting is the entryway to showing up after resistance.

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There is the Abyss, which is what everyone thinks of when they picture the Shadowlands—fiery pits and endless torment,” he said, staring at the strand of my hair. “But there is also the Vale, and that is paradise for those worthy.” “What is the Vale like?” His gaze lifted to mine, searching. A moment passed. “That, I cannot tell you.” “Oh.” Disappointed, I lowered my gaze to the long fingers that held my hand. “What awaits in the Vale cannot be shared with anyone, mortal or god. Not even Primals can enter the Vale,” he added. “But the rest of the Shadowlands is like an entryway—a village before the city. It is beautiful in its own way, but it was once one of the most magnificent regions in all of Iliseeum.” Once was? “What happened to it?” “Death,” he stated flatly. A chill swept over me. “What is the rest of Iliseeum like?” “The skies are a color of blue you would never see in this realm, the waters clear, and the grass lush and vibrant,” he told me. “Except for when it’s night, the hours of darkness are brief in Dalos.” My breath caught. Dalos. The City of the Gods, where the Primal of Life—Kolis—and his Court resided.

Winter Song” by Leslie Odom Jr. comes on, and I know I’m in trouble. It makes me cry on a good day, and lying here, with pine-scented candles burning, looking at our small tabletop Christmas tree and the mistletoe by the entryway, it sends me over. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and before I know it, I’m bawling.

Ahead of us is a sea of people and machinery, with a sign over it that says SECURITY CHECKPOINT. I don’t understand why they need so much security if they’re already protected by two layers of fence, one of which is electrified, and a few layers of guards, but this is not my world to question. No, this is not my world at all. Tris touches my shoulder and points down the long entryway. “Look at that.” Standing at the far end of the room, outside the security checkpoint, is a huge block of stone with a glass apparatus suspended above it. It’s a clear example of the things we will see here that we don’t understand. I also don’t understand the hunger in Tris’s eyes, devouring everything around us as if it alone can sustain her. Sometimes I feel like we are the same, but sometimes, like right now, I feel the separation between our personalities like I’ve just run into a wall. Christina says something to Tris, and they both grin. Everything I hear is muffled and distorted. “Are you all right?” Cara asks me. “Yeah,” I say automatically. “You know, it would be perfectly logical for you to be panicking right now,” she says. “No need to continually insist upon your unshakable masculinity.” “My…what?” She smiles, and I realize that she was joking.

Georgia’s grandest surviving railroad station; in 2002, it was purchased by the city of Macon and converted to a retail center. Over the northern archway, you can clearly see the words “Colored Waiting Room” carved into the building’s stone surface. Maconites I talked to said it was decided to leave the entryway unchanged as a reminder of a time when an entire race was treated as though they were animals. That wasn’t so long ago, but it was long enough that, to anyone born after 1960, it can seem like something that happened on another planet. My white students play and study with and date black students and vice versa, and to them, the idea of the one race grinding its boot into the face of the other is inconceivable. I envy them their innocence.

Once the medical team cleared the entryway, people went back to eating as if nothing had happened. Amazing, the herd’s ability to forget the disturbance of their peace.

The corridor came to an end with two crescent-shaped wooden doors. Aodhan opened one side with no trouble—we must be expected. I shivered at the thought. Inside was a high-ceilinged entryway, lit by dozens of fey lights lining the walls. Beautiful spiral designs were carved into every surface.

Staring across the dining hall, Emily watched the tall, muscular man stop and look up at the picture over the entryway. "I wonder what his last name is," she muttered to herself. "Best you get your mind off that one." Alice Smith, the administrator who ran the Cassidy Place soup kitchen where Emily volunteered three times a week, tossed out the warning as she refilled creamers and sugars. At 7:30 p.m., they were ready to close up for the night. Emily liked this down-to-earth woman with her sturdy build, a tidy bun corralling her coarse gray hair. Though Alice worked tirelessly at feeding the impoverished, she could be tough when one of the guests got out of line, or the volunteers grumbled too much. Emily's