Exit The King Quotes

Let it crumble! Let the rocks revile me and flowers wilt at my coming. Your whole universe is not enough to prove me wrong. You are the king of gods, king of stones and stars, king of the waves of the sea. But you are not the king of man.

We haven't the time to take our time.

Love is not a word we use. We feel it, we mean it, but we don't say it. It feels so final, a declaration from which there is no easy return. I'm a thief. I know my exits. And I was a prisoner. I hate locked doors. But his eyes are so close, so eager. And it's what I feel. Even though the words terrify me, they are the truth. Didn't I say I would start telling the truth?

I can see it. You've got that look in your eye that says you know where every exit to this dormitory is.

This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the King. Our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day. They exit.

Tess exited YouTube, Binged Richard Widmark, and found what she expected, given

Once he reaches my ribs, he moves his hands to my arms, running them up to my shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re wearing,” he says. “But I like it.” “Custom-made,” I say. “And then stolen by you?” I shrug. “What are you doing?” “What does it look like I’m doing?” “You’re touching me.” “I’m trying to get my key back.” “Sounds like an excuse to touch me.” He smiles and leans forward so his mouth is at my ear. “I don’t see you stopping me.” “If I had, I wouldn’t be able to do this.” His eyes shoot up in alarm, but he doesn’t have enough time to guess what I’m about to do until I’ve already done it. Yes, I knee him. Right between the legs. He takes some time to recover. Enough for me to exit the cell and lock him in. He stares at me levelly. “That was low.

He remembered Andrew's hand over his mouth in Exites as he backed out of their conversation. He thought of Andrew yielding to his prodding and holding him up when Neil needed him most. Andrew had called him interesting and dangerous and had given him keys to his house and car. He'd trusted Neil with Kevin because Kevin was important to both of them and he knew Neil wouldn't let him down.

closed was one sign he could read by himself, along with Stop, Exit, Pizza, and a few others.

Exit the land of delusion where falsehood lives like a king. Let the bridge of faith take you places where your caged soul can take wing.

...and of course if Andrew Keene had been on the downhill side of the Standpipe, he would have exited the world in no time. But God favors drunks, small children, and the cataclysmically stoned...

She thought of the revelations she held cradled against her chest, of how they could potentially serve up more discord, more upset and controversy. Would she be doing this society any good by revealing her new knowledge? “I . . .” She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Really, it’s nothing that can’t wait. Actually”—she stood up and extracted the scrolls from Noah’s hold—“all I wanted was, uh . . . help with some interpretation. But you are busy . . .” She rounded the peculiar triangular table as casually as she could while she spoke, even turning to back out of the room while giving them a bright smile that she hoped did not look as fake as it felt. “You know, there are lots of books down there, and I bet there’s a translation.” She reached up to smack her palm into her forehead, chiding herself for not thinking properly. Isabella reached for the door and closed it even faster than she had originally opened it. Noah looked over at Jacob, one dark brow lifting toward his thick hairline. “Does . . .?” He raised a hand to point to the door, looking utterly perplexed. “Does she have any idea what a lousy liar she is?” “Apparently not,” Jacob said with a long, low sigh. “I think that was my fault,” he speculated wryly. “Your fault?” “Yeah . . . it is . . . a long story. We better get her.” “Relax,” Noah chuckled. “She’s leaning against the other side of the door, trying to catch her breath. “I know. I just thought it would be funny if we opened it behind her.” “I never knew you actually enjoyed being cruel,” the King remarked, humor sparkling in his eyes as they both stepped up to the exit. Noah opened the door, and Jacob reached out to catch her, scrolls and all.

You run off when things get a little more complicated than you'd like, and leave us to cover your tracks so the whole valley doesn't find out that Hytanica bloody lost its King-meanwhile, the Cokyrians are infiltrating our lands to the north, so it becomes entirely possible that you've walked right into their camp. We have men out there still searching for you,men who should be helping to barricade the northern border-to make sure that in a week you still have a kingdom to rule. And you have the gall to strut in here and be an ass! I swear, Steldo, if we didn't need someone to sit on that throne, I'd dispatch you with my own hands!" The two erstwhile companions stared at each other, Galen challenging Steldor to respond, and Steldor too staggered to do so.Eventually,the sergeant threw his hands in the air and marched into his office,slamming the door behind him. In the silence that followed Galen's departure, I came to appreciate the true meaning of the word awkward. Steldor did not rise to his feet, and his eyes were glazed. I felt un-needed,but there was no way for me to make a polished exit. The Palace Gaurds,bound by duty to remaind, searched the walls, the floor, the ceiling, for anything plausible in which to show an interest, not wanting to be caught gawking at their King.

KYAG?” He pulls the folder (which does indeed have the Republic logo on the front) out of the pocket. It shows where the emergency exits are, where the flotation devices are, how to use the oxygen masks, how to assume the crash-landing position. “The kiss-your-ass-goodbye folder,

Despite myself, I wince.  Everything about her screams “psychopath” – and not the ho-hum, hey-kid-I’m-a-creepy-loner-who’s-gonna-chop-you-up-and-eat-you kind that Hollywood adores.  She’s the truly effed-up variety.  The hey-bitch-I’m-the-pageant-spawned-nightmare-who’s-gonna-make-you-wish-you-were-dead-if-you-even-think-about-running-against-me-for-Prom-Queen type.  And it’s got me checking for the nearest exit. Until he steps in.

He was the one, however, with whom no one wanted his or her picture taken, the one to whom no one wanted to introduce his son or daughter. Louis and Gage knew him; they had met him and faced him down in New England, some time ago. He was waiting to choke you on a marble, to smother you with a dry-cleaning bag, to sizzle you into eternity with a fast and lethal boggie of electricity—Available at Your Nearest Switchplate or Vacant Light Socket Right Now. There was death in a quarter bag of peanuts, an aspirated piece of steak, the next pack of cigarettes. He was around all the time, he monitored all the checkpoints between the mortal and the eternal. Dirty needles, poison beetles, downed live wires, forest fires. Whirling roller skates that shot nurdy little kids into busy intersections. When you got into the bathtub to take a shower, Oz got right in there too—Shower with a Friend. When you got on an airplane, Oz took your boarding pass. He was in the water you drank, the food you ate. Who’s out there? you howled into the dark when you were frightened and all alone, and it was his answer that came back: Don’t be afraid, it’s just me. Hi, howaya? You got cancer of the bowel, what a bummer, so solly, Cholly! Septicemia! Leukemia! Atherosclerosis! Coronary thrombosis! Encephalitis! Osteomyelitis! Hey-ho, let’s go! Junkie in a doorway with a knife. Phone call in the middle of the night. Blood cooking in battery acid on some exit ramp in North Carolina. Big handfuls of pills, munch em up. That peculiar blue cast of the fingernails following asphyxiation—in its final grim struggle to survive the brain takes all the oxygen that is left, even that in those living cells under the nails. Hi, folks, my name’s Oz the Gweat and Tewwible, but you can call me Oz if you want—hell, we’re old friends by now. Just stopped by to whop you with a little congestive heart failure or a cranial blood clot or something; can’t stay, got to see a woman about a breach birth, then I’ve got a little smoke-inhalation job to do in Omaha. And that thin voice is crying, “I love you, Tigger! I love you! I believe in you, Tigger! I will always love you and believe in you, and I will stay young, and the only Oz to ever live in my heart will be that gentle faker from Nebraska! I love you . . .” We cruise . . . my son and I . . . because the essence of it isn’t war or sex but only that sickening, noble, hopeless battle against Oz the Gweat and Tewwible. He and I, in our white van under this bright Florida sky, we cruise. And the red flasher is hooded, but it is there if we need it . . . and none need know but us because the soil of a man’s heart is stonier; a man grows what he can . . . and tends it.

The audience roared and applauded again. A rush of actors exited the stage and filled the space around her. Shakespeare had already slipped away. She could see Daniel on the opposite wing of the stage.He towered over the other actors,regal and impossibly gorgeous. It was her cue to walk onstage. This was the start of the party scene at Lord Wolsey's estate, where the king-Daniel-would perform an elaborate masque before taking Anne Boleyn's hand for the first time. They were supposed to dance and fall heavily in love.It was supposed to be the very beginning of a romance that changed everything. The beginning. But for Daniel,it wasn't the beginning at all. For Lucinda,however, and for the character she was playing-it was love at first sight. Laying eyes on Daniel had felt like the first real thing ever to happen to Lucinda,just as it had felt for Luce at Sword & Cross. Her whole world had suddenly meant something in a way it never had before.

There was death in a quarter bag of peanuts, an aspirated piece of steak, the next pack of cigarettes. He was around all the time, he monitored all the checkpoints between the mortal and the eternal. Dirty needles, poison beetles, downed live wires, forest fires. Whirling roller skates that shot nurdy little kids into busy intersections. When you got into the bathtub to take a shower, Oz got right in there too—Shower with a Friend. When you got on an airplane, Oz took your boarding pass. He was in the water you drank, the food you ate. Who’s out there? you howled into the dark when you were frightened and all alone, and it was his answer that came back: Don’t be afraid, it’s just me. Hi, howaya? You got cancer of the bowel, what a bummer, so solly, Cholly! Septicemia! Leukemia! Atherosclerosis! Coronary thrombosis! Encephalitis! Osteomyelitis! Hey-ho, let’ s go! Junkie in a doorway with a knife. Phone call in the middle of the night. Blood cooking in battery acid on some exit ramp in North Carolina. Big handfuls of pills, munch em up. That peculiar blue cast of the fingernails following asphyxiation—in its final grim struggle to survive the brain takes all the oxygen that is left, even that in those living cells under the nails. Hi, folks, my name’s Oz the Gweat and Tewwible, but you can call me Oz if you want— hell, we’re old friends by now. Just stopped by to whop you with a little congestive heart failure or a cranial blood clot or something; can’t stay, got to see a woman about a breach birth, then I’ve got a little smoke-inhalation job to do in Omaha.

We peeled out with a screech, Ice Cube bumping from the brand-new speakers she’d proudly installed herself. Naperville is a relatively wealthy and predominantly Republican suburb a little over an hour outside of Chicago, and I knew I was in trouble the minute I saw how many churches we were driving past as we exited the tollway. Seriously, it was like church, church, Burger King that whole families actually sit down and eat dinner in, church, church, Walmart, church. We saw at least 137 churches in a two-mile stretch, and that was only after I’d actually started counting them.

The Harrowing of Hell is so important to the Eastern Orthodox Church that they reenact it during their Easter liturgy. The priest exits the church with a cross held high, and the congregation remains inside. The church doors are locked and the lights are turned off. The darkened church becomes hell, the Devil’s jail. The priest then pounds on the doors of the church— symbolizing Christ assaulting the gates of Hades—proclaiming “Open the doors to the Lord of the powers, the king of glory!” Inside the church the people make a great noise of rattling chains, the resistance of hell to the coming of Christ. Eventually the doors are opened, the cross enters, and the church is lit and filled with incense. For the Orthodox, Easter is all about how Jesus defeats the power of death.

He could feel every terrible inch of metal from the entry wound just beneath his sternum to the exit wound below his shoulder. He coughed, spitting blood onto the glass floor, and his legs threatened to fold beneath him, but he managed to stay on his feet. His body screamed, his mind screamed, but his heart kept beating stubbornly, defiantly, around the other prince’s blade. Rhy drew in a ragged breath, and raised his head. “How … dare you,” he growled, mouth filling with the copper taste of blood. The victory on Col’s face turned to shock. “Not possible,” he stammered, and then, in horror, “What are you?” “I am—Rhy Maresh,” he answered. “Son to Maxim and Emira—brother to Kell—heir to this city—and the future king of Arnes.” Col’s hands fell from the weapon. “But you should be dead.” “I know,” said Rhy, dragging his own blade from its sheath and driving the steel into Col’s chest.

Fritz.” The butler rushed over from the crudité arrangement he was working on. “Yes, master! I am eager to be of aid.” “Take this.” iAm peeled the cat off himself, prying both of its front claws out of his fleece. “And do whatever it is you do with it.” As he turned away, he felt like glancing back and making sure G*dd*mn was okay. But why the fuck would he do that? He had to get to Sal’s and check on his staff. Usually he hit the restaurant in the early afternoon, but shit had not been “usual,” what with that migraine: Every time his brother had one, they both got a headache. Now, though, with Trez rebounding and no doubt soon to be on the grind with that Chosen, it was time to get back on his own track. If only to keep himself from going psychotic. Jesus Christ, Trez was now going to fuck that female. And God only knew where that was going to land them all. Just as he hit the exit, he called out over his shoulder, “Fritz.” Through the din of First Meal prep, the doggen answered back, “Yes, master?” “I never find any seafood in this place. Why is that?” “The King does not favor any manner of fin.” “Would he allow it in here?” “Oh, yes, master. Just not upon his table, and certainly never upon his plate.” iAm stared at the panels of the door in front of him. “I want you to get some fresh salmon and poach it. Tonight.” “But of course. I will not have it ready afore First Meal for you—” “Not for me. I hate fish. It’s for G*dd*mn Cat. I want him served that regularly.” He pushed the door open. “And get him some fresh veggies. What kind of cat food does he eat?” “Only the best. Hill’s Science Diet.” “Find out what is in his food—and then I want everything hand-prepared. Nothing out of the bag for him from now on.” Approval bloomed in the old doggen’s voice: “I’m sure Master Boo will appreciate your special interest.” “I’m not interested in that bag of fur.” -iAm, Fritz, & Boo

King of the Ruskin was my show last year, last May, in New College Long Room. I filled that old room with seven big paintings. Big, colourful paintings. King of the Ruskin included better work than Abstractionism. I’ve tried since to paint like that and I can’t. The King of the Ruskin paintings were it. I didn’t realise it at the time but they were the best paintings I would ever make. They were the paintings I wanted to see and they did everything I wanted painting to do at that time. So these are my last paintings. I will never paint again. But why didn’t I stop in the first place? No one ever knows when to stop. They just decline. For me, I had to kill my painting. With King of the Ruskin I had delivered the mortal wounds but one rarely has the pleasure of a quick and graceful exit. No, it has been slow, painful and distressing. Of course I am speaking in hindsight; I only realised it was the end with the randomly themed, scrappy, clustered paintings where it finally became apparent to me that I had no skills, no ideas, no interest, no pride and no pleasure in painting. I was like a dying cowboy, making a final, feeble bid at victory with random, aimless shots at an invisible enemy.

The crystallized opposition of the segregationists was not unexpected; but we had only dimly foreseen the resistance that came from another quarter. Victor Hugo has spoken of the "madmen of moderation" who are "un-paving hell." The descendants of Hugo's moderates appeared in the fall of 1963, bearing banners inscribed with the message: Order Before Justice. For the most part, these moderates counted themselves as friends of the civil-rights movement; certainly they were in no sense moral bedfellows of the forces of segregation and violence. But they were now wrestling with a logic that an earlier, more passive, movement had never forced them to question. They had long settled on a simple compromise, one easy to accept and to live with. They could countenance token changes, and they had always believed these would make the Negro content. They were not asking him to stay in his old ghetto. They were ready to build a brand-new ghetto for him with a small exit door for a few. But the breath of the new movement chilled them. The Negro was insisting upon the mass application of equality to jobs, housing, education and social mobility. He sought a full life for a whole people. These moderates had come some distance in step with the thundering drums, but at the point of mass application they wanted the bugle to sound a retreat.

OUR TWO SOULS THEREFORE All that was ablaze in the Field of Flowers! Pluck forth a bloom, and think on what has been; on centuries of betrayal, and pain, and misunderstanding... I am what I am, and what I am is what I am. I have a will to be what I am, and what I will be is only what I am. If I have a will to be, I will to be no more than what I was. If I was I am willed to be, yet they ever will be wondering what I am or what I ever was. I want to change the Wall, and make my Will. That I am that same wall, the truth is so. And this the cranny is, right and sinister, Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. Each pair adds up to every jointed piece; the bottom left is a square; bottom right is a square; top left is a square; top right is a square. The heart is a square too. WHICH ARE ONE And I am halfway through the orbit. And if you take half of the whole and make up pairs to equal me, you will soon use up all of the pairs. Now, look no further than the day. My alpha and my omega. Make of these two halves a whole. Take the song of equal number in the old king's book. Equal number of paces forward from the start. Equal number of paces backwards from the end - omitting only the single exit word. Amen to that. I am what I am, and what I am is what you will see. Count on me very carefully. ENDURE NOT YET A BREACH, BUT AN EXPANSION

Feeling each move carefully, Len climbed, hilt of the sword held in one hand blade hanging point down. A wet and dripping Rose King hovered above him. Being dripped on wasn't nearly as distracting as the constant sight of his watch on his left wrist. He wanted to look and see how much of the allotted hour he had left. He resisted the urge. He didn't want to risk having this knowledge affect his judgment. They had no time for speed born mistakes. The shaft they climbed down amplified the slightest sound sending it reverberating up and down its length. The slight clank of the sword against the iron rungs of the ladder became enormous. The click of Rose King's chattering teeth reverberated like castanets. Len stepped on a rung. The next second he found himself grappling for security as the rung moved then broke loose. The racket as the metal bar fell rang up and down the narrow oblong space like a pair of dropped cymbals. He looked down. They were approximately ten feet up from the bottom of the well. If he had fallen he would not have been hurt badly if at all. Discovery, however, had a danger all its own. Frozen in place, both he and Rose listened. Something large was down there. It was something large that dragged as it walked. As if investigating the source of the clatter, this something stopped by the grate at the bottom, blocking off the light. Twice there was a rushing of sound as if some huge bellows was blowing air into the grate then pulling it out. The thing seemed to move away from the grate. When he was sure it was well away from the opening Len began again to climb down. The nearer the grate the more he and Rose began to hear something beyond the ominous sounds of large animal. Len thought he knew what it was, but kept silent. He was about to jump the last three feet when a pain wracked cry echoed through the space on the other side of this new grate and up the stone well. Len jumped to the ground. A second later Rose was behind him. Wishing desperately they had more than one weapon between them, Len pushed hard at the grate, rushing through the space as fast as the cramped size of the opening would allow. They were in a large round open torch lit space with a high domed brick ceiling. To their left was an exit to a dark hallway blocked by a barred door; to their right, a curved cave like opening with what looked like a barred gate that could be raised or lowered. On the other side of the room was a barred wall with a door closing off the cell where Tyrone lay. Between them and their goal was a large, reptilian creature. "What the hell is that?" Rose gasped softly. Len swallowed hard and licked his dry lips. It was mad and at the same time made complete sense. "It’s just what it looks like, Major," he whispered. "It's a dragon.

Slothrop is just settling down next to a girl in a prewar Worth frock and with a face like Tenniel’s Alice, same forehead, nose, hair, when from outside comes this most godawful clanking, snarling, crunching of wood, girls come running terrified out of the eucalyptus trees and into the house and right behind them what comes crashing now into the pallid lights of the garden but—why the Sherman Tank itself! headlights burning like the eyes of King Kong, treads spewing grass and pieces of flagstone as it manoeuvres around and comes to a halt. Its 75 mm cannon swivels until it’s pointing through the French windows right down into the room. “Antoine!” a young lady focusing in on the gigantic muzzle, “for heaven’s sake, not now. . . .” A hatch flies open and Tamara—Slothrop guesses: wasn’t Italo supposed to have the tank?—uh—emerges shrieking to denounce Raoul, Waxwing, Italo, Theophile, and the middleman on the opium deal. “But now,” she screams, “I have you all! One coup de foudre!” The hatch drops—oh, Jesus—there’s the sound of a 3-inch shell being loaded into its breech. Girls start to scream and make for the exits. Dopers are looking around, blinking, smiling, saying yes in a number of ways. Raoul tries to mount his horse and make his escape, but misses the saddle and slides all the way over, falling into a tub of black-market Jell-o, raspberry flavor, with whipped cream on top. “Aw, no . . .” Slothrop having about decided to make a flanking run for the tank when YYYBLAAANNNGGG! the cannon lets loose an enormous roar, flame shooting three feet into the room, shock wave driving eardrums in to middle of brain, blowing everybody against the far walls. A drape has caught fire. Slothrop, tripping over partygoers, can’t hear anything, knows his head hurts, keeps running through the smoke at the tank—leaps on, goes to undog the hatch and is nearly knocked off by Tamara popping up to holler at everybody again. After a struggle which shouldn’t be without its erotic moments, for Tamara is a swell enough looking twist with some fine moves, Slothrop manages to get her in a come-along and drag her down off of the tank. But loud noise and all, look—he doesn’t seem to have an erection. Hmm. This is a datum London never got, because nobody was looking. Turns out the projectile, a dud, has only torn holes in several walls, and demolished a large allegorical painting of Virtue and Vice in an unnatural act. Virtue had one of those dim faraway smiles. Vice was scratching his shaggy head, a little bewildered. The burning drape’s been put out with champagne. Raoul is in tears, thankful for his life, wringing Slothrop’s hands and kissing his cheeks, leaving trails of Jell-o wherever he touches. Tamara is escorted away by Raoul’s bodyguards. Slothrop has just disengaged himself and is wiping the Jell-o off of his suit when there is a heavy touch on his shoulder. “You were right. You are the man.” “That’s nothing.” Errol Flynn frisks his mustache. “I saved a dame from an octopus not so long ago, how about that?” “With one difference,” sez Blodgett Waxwing. “This really happened tonight. But that octopus didn’t.

where the user just exits the taxi without having

Supersoaker" [Verse 1:] My motivation has gone too soon Good vibrations all over you Act like you mean it, you mean it You've got a story you never tell Down in the delta I'm ringing bells I've never seen it, seen it Back of my mind I'm on my way I see through smiles on every face I don't believe it, believe it [Pre-Chorus:] Cause I'm a supersoaker red, white, And blew em all away With the kisses unclean as the words that you say [Chorus:] I don't mind sentimental girls at times Mister walk away, walk away [Verse 2:] The flags are flying across the plains I've got a secret picking at my brain I wanna see you, see you The exit sign is on my face Don't know my home, I don't know my place I just wanna be there, be there [Pre-Chorus] [Chorus x2] I don't mind sentimental girls at times I just lay it on the line, on the line [Chorus x2]

The morning following Shaselle’s arrest and release, I descended the Grand Staircase to the entry hall below and was drawn toward the antechamber by raised voices. I entered to find one of my worst nightmares unfolding--Steldor and Narian were in heated argument, both seeming to have discounted where they were and who might overhear. They stood opposite one another across the room from me, Steldor likely having come from Cannan’s office, while Narian had probably been passing through on his way to the Hearing Hall. I stared transfixed, not knowing what they were arguing about, but certain they would not appreciate my interference. “What business have you in the Bastion?” my betrothed demanded. “Business that is not yours, Cokyrian,” Steldor spat. Narian glowered at the former King. “Much as you might detest the thought, Steldor, I am no longer your enemy.” “These scars on my back argue differently.” “I was merciful in leaving you alive. You asked for execution and I ordered a lashing. If not for your ridiculous pride, you’d acknowledge that.” Steldor laughed mirthlessly. “I owe you nothing after all you’ve taken from me.” “Alera is not a possession,” Narian astutely shot back. “Alera hadn’t entered my mind.” The curl in Steldor’s lip revealed the lie, and the hostility he exuded would have made most men run in the other direction. But Narian wasn’t most men. “And yet I see you around this Bastion, her home, more than any soldier or son need be. You yearn for any chance glimpse of her.” “I come to the palace on business, you mongrel pup.” “Then pray tell, what business is that?” I stood miserably by, for it was apparent neither of them was aware of my presence. Still, the argument had come full circle, and I prayed it would soon be over. “I don’t have to tell you anything,” Steldor seethed. “You are not my superior.” His dark eyes glinted malevolently, a look he had once or twice directed at me during our unfortunate marriage. “True enough. But you are nonetheless one of my subjects.” Steldor’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, telling me how close he was to unleashing his hellish temper. Before I could intervene, he threw a right cross at Narian’s chin, which the commander adroitly dodged, stepping back and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I suggest you walk away, Steldor,” he said, unnervingly calm. “I did so once,” my former husband retorted. “I don’t intend to do so again.” Narian perused his opponent, judging his strengths and weaknesses, then struck Steldor in the middle of his chest with the heel of his palm, sending him staggering backward. In a flash, a dagger appeared in Steldor’s hand, and panic seized me. Would they spill each other’s blood right here, right now? “Stop!” I cried. “Both of you!” They straightened warily at the sound of my voice, and I hurried to stand between them, so distraught my hands were shaking. “I don’t know what this is about,” I beseeched, hoping Cannan would hear and lend assistance. “But please, for my sake, leave things be.” They glared at each other over the top of my head, then Steldor moved away, his eyes on Narian until he could place a hand on the door leading into the Grand Entry. “Queen Alera,” he pointedly acknowledged me. “I humbly honor your request.” With a disdainful smirk for Narian, he tossed the knife onto the floor, then exited, pulling the door firmly closed behind him. Narian crossed to snatch up the weapon, examining it carefully before showing it to me. “Do you plan to tell me that you recognize this blade?” he asked, and I stared at him, dumbfounded. With a stiff nod, he strode through the same door Steldor had used, leaving me alone.

Chapter II: Morning   The morning came and it was time for Steve to leave for Snowland. He got ready by putting all his his potions, weapons, and food in his inventory. When he opened the door, there were two guards waiting for him out there. "Are you ready?" They were holding a back pack on their hand. "Here, take this, you are going to have to carry a ton of stuff." Steve took the backpack and put it on his back. "Follow us," The soldiers started walking toward the wooden door at the end of the hallway.   They opened the door and there was a horse waiting outside. One of the guards patted the horse and said, "This is yours, take care of him." Steve nodded and said, "He'll be safe with me." The guard reached into his pocket and took out a compass and map. "Here, let me show you how to get to Snowland. I have the location marked on the map here. Don't get too attached to the compass, there's something weird going on down there that makes compasses mark North the wrong way, so pay attention to the map. The trip will take you about three days if you travel most of the day, and you don't lose your horse. If you lose your horse, the trip will take about a week so make sure you tie him well when you dismount. About one and a half of traveling days should be easy. The rest of the way is going to be challenging because of the fact that it begins to get freezing cold. Now get on the horse and be on your way. I wish you luck."   Steve jumped on the horse and said, "Thank you, but I don't need luck." He gave the horse a slight kick with his heel and said, "Walk." The horse obeyed his command and began walking through the trail until he stopped at the end of Springfield where the gate to the exit was. The guard at the door pointed his diamond sword at Steve and said, "Hold it right there! Where do you think you are going?" Steve took out a scroll with the king’s seal on it, showed it to the guard, and said, "I am traveling to Snowland by the king’s orders." The guard at the gate stepped back and put down his sword. "I'm sorry, sir, let me get the gate for you.

Tim Graham Tim Graham has specialized in photographing the Royal Family for more than thirty years and is foremost in his chosen field. Recognition of his work over the years has led to invitations for private sessions with almost all the members of the British Royal Family, including, of course, Diana, Princess of Wales, and her children. Diana had none of the remoteness of some members of royal families. Along with several of my press colleagues, I felt I came to know her quite well. She was a superstar, she was royal, but she was also very approachable. I have had various sessions with members of the Royal Family over the years, but those with her were more informal. I remember photographing Prince William at Kensington Palace when he was a baby. I was lying on the floor of the drawing room in front of the infant prince, trying to get his attention. Not surprisingly, he didn’t show much interest, so, without prompting, Diana lay down on the floor close to me and, using one of those little bottles of bubbles, starting blowing bubbles at him. Perfect. As he gazed in fascination at his mother, I was able to get the picture I wanted. I can’t think of many members of the Royal Family who would abandon protocol and lie on the carpet with you in a photo session! Funnily enough, it wasn’t the only time it happened. She did the same again years when she was about to send her dresses to auction for charity and we were sifting through prints of my photographs that she had asked to use in the catalog. She suggested that we sit on the floor and spread the photographs all around us on the carpet, so, of course, we did. I donated the use of my pictures of her in the various dresses to the charity, and as a thank-you, Diana invited me to be the exclusive photographer at both parties held for the dresses auction--one in London and the other in the United States. The party in New York was held on preview night, and many of the movers and shakers of New York were there, including her good friend Henry Kissinger. It was a big room, but everyone in it gravitated to the end where the Princess was meeting people. She literally couldn’t move and was totally hemmed in. I was pushed so close to her I could hardly take a picture. Seeing the crush, her bodyguard spotted an exit route through the kitchen and managed to get the Princess and me out of the enthusiastic “scrum.” As the kitchen door closed behind the throng, she leaned against the wall, kicked off her stiletto-heeled shoes, and gasped, “Gordon Bennett, that’s a crush!” I would have loved to have taken a picture of her then, but I knew she wouldn’t expect that to be part of the deal. You should have seen the kitchen staff--they were thrilled to have an impromptu sight of her but amazed that someone of her status could be so normal. She took a short breather, said hi to those who had, of course, stopped work to stare at her, and then glided back into the room through another door to take up where she had left off. That’s style!

Tim Graham Tim Graham has specialized in photographing the Royal Family for more than thirty years and is foremost in his chosen field. Recognition of his work over the years has led to invitations for private sessions with almost all the members of the British Royal Family, including, of course, Diana, Princess of Wales, and her children. I donated the use of my pictures of her in the various dresses to the charity, and as a thank-you, Diana invited me to be the exclusive photographer at both parties held for the dresses auction--one in London and the other in the United States. The party in New York was held on preview night, and many of the movers and shakers of New York were there, including her good friend Henry Kissinger. It was a big room, but everyone in it gravitated to the end where the Princess was meeting people. She literally couldn’t move and was totally hemmed in. I was pushed so close to her I could hardly take a picture. Seeing the crush, her bodyguard spotted an exit route through the kitchen and managed to get the Princess and me out of the enthusiastic “scrum.” As the kitchen door closed behind the throng, she leaned against the wall, kicked off her stiletto-heeled shoes, and gasped, “Gordon Bennett, that’s a crush!” I would have loved to have taken a picture of her then, but I knew she wouldn’t expect that to be part of the deal. You should have seen the kitchen staff--they were thrilled to have an impromptu sight of her but amazed that someone of her status could be so normal. She took a short breather, said hi to those who had, of course, stopped work to stare at her, and then glided back into the room through another door to take up where she had left off. That’s style!

The exit inclined towards a roundabout from which Ho peeled off onto a minor road, its edges potholed and broken, and over which trees dangled follage like fishermen hoping for a bite. Theoretically trees were a good thing, lungs of the planet, and Ho didn't mind them in parks, but out here they loomed too large, the way unleashed dogs acquired extra menace. They cast their shadows as if it were only by their permission that traffic was allowed to pass beneath, and Roddy Ho felt what he'd have called a threat to his sense of self, were such terms available to him. Instead, he simply noted that they were fucking creepy, and constituted a hazard. He made a mental note to do something about them, saved it in the folder When I'm King, and checked satnav again.

Let’s find out, shall we?” Then, louder and with a rakish grin, “Shall we find the exit to the garden, my lady? I daresay we both could use some…air.” “I don’t think that will be at all necessary, Stanhope.” The statement cut through the air like a knife, and Alex felt her stomach drop with the realization that Blackmoor was standing immediately behind her. She looked up at Freddie, wide-eyed, not quite knowing what to do. He spoke with an air of bored dismissal. “Blackmoor, what a surprise. What is it you want?” Blackmoor’s tone brooked no refusal, but was surprisingly hushed, only loud enough for the three of them to hear. “I want you to stay away from Lady Alexandra, Stanhope. She is most definitely not in need of a walk in the gardens with the likes of you.” “I suppose you would be a better companion?” Freddie drawled. Alex could sense that this conversation was not going to end well but had a nagging suspicion that Freddie was quite enjoying himself. “Most certainly. I’m practically her brother.” Freddie gave a short laugh at this, which made Blackmoor even more angry. “More importantly,” he continued, “I’m her escort this evening, and I say where she goes and who she goes with. And she is most certainly not going anywhere with you.” “I beg your pardon?” Alex spoke, keeping her voice hushed, but pulling herself up to her full height and stepping between the two men. Her face flushed with indignation as she leveled Blackmoor with a dark look. “What did you just say?” He looked down at her mutely as she pressed on. “I’m almost certain that you implied…nay…dictated…that you have some kind of control over my behavior.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “I think it best you say no more, my lord, lest you embarrass yourself further. Let me be clear. Last I was aware, you were neither my husband nor my father nor my king. Therefore, any control you may imagine you hold over me is just that—imaginary.” She continued, her anger making her voice waver, “If I want to take a walk in the gardens with Stanhope, or with anyone else for that matter, that is entirely my business. I will thank you to stay out of my affairs. Or need I remind you that it is not Stanhope whom I’ve had to be wary of on balconies recently?” Her

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. “What’s been the most upsetting thing you’ve had to read about yourself?” “Well, those pictures the other day of my supposed cellulite upset me a lot actually. It really hurt me. It was too painful, too personal. It’s my body everyone was talking about, not just my face. I felt invaded because they put the cameras deliberately onto my legs.” Diana’s relationship with the paparazzi was obviously complex. She professed to hate them: “I know most of the paparazzi and their number plates. They think I am stupid but I know where they are. I’ve had ten years practice. I would support an antistalking bill tomorrow.” Then she took me to the window and started showing me the various media cars, vans, and motorbikes lurking outside. But when I asked why she doesn’t go out of one of the ten other more discreet exits, she exposed her contrary side: “I want to go out the front like anyone else. Why should I change my life for them?” “Because it would make your life easier?” I said. William was equally upset by the constant prying lenses: “Why do they have to chase my mother around so much? It’s unfair on her.” I was torn between genuine concern for the young man protecting his mum so gallantly, and a sense of foreboding for him that one day it would be him, not his mother, who would be chased just as aggressively. How do you explain to a thirteen-year-old boy that he sells papers and therefor he’s a valuable commodity to photographers and editors like me?

In earnest, I shall echo your earlier proclamation, my friend, and state that in my mind the acquaintance of not only Cyprian Wythe, but any lover of King George is a grave displeasure.” Thomas raised his glass. “Hear, hear, my friend.” “Then I am surprised that you are able to abide my presence.” Kitty’s stiff response blasted a hole through Nathaniel’s middle and the resulting silence choked the merriment from their little circle like thick black smoke. He looked up only to be censured from the shock that drained the light from her eyes. Her lips pressed tight, turning them colorless.  The blood drained from his face. Idiot!  He couldn’t bring himself to look away from her wounded expression, aching for words that would soothe the pain he’d inflicted. The pleasant tune from the quartet and the quiet hum of voices continued around them, each guest blissfully unaware of his thoughtless remark. Thomas reached out to her, his brow pinching. “Kitty, you must know our comments are no reflection on you.” “Are they not?” She handed her glass to Eliza. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall take my leave so as not to injure you with my presence any longer.” Kitty brushed between them before facing them one last time. “Forgive me, Eliza.” She darted from the room, holding her skirts as she wove through the tangle of party-goers toward the exit. The hollow chill her absence created smacked Nathaniel on the back of the head like an irritated father. He exchanged a narrow glance with Thomas before slamming his eyes shut. How could he be so foolish? How could he have allowed himself to say something so hurtful to someone so gracious? The temperature of the room went hot, then instantly cold. So much for your famous charm, Nathaniel. You’ve proven your lack of it with amazing skill. “I’m

An hour later they were being escorted down a long corridor at the Pentagon. In fact, every corridor at the Pentagon was long. It was a labyrinth beyond all labyrinths. Indeed, it was rumored that employees from the 1960s were somewhere in the bowels of the place still looking for an exit.

Serve Britannia (The Sonnet) Let us build a new Britain, A Britain with actual heart's beauty, Where we shall right our wrongs, Instead of boasting our atrocities. Let us build a new Britain, Where commoners are king and queen, Where unlike our tribal ancestors, Our habit is not occupation but caring. Let us herald a new Britain, Where there is no exit only inclusion, Where no one bows to no one for honor, And each lives with self-determination. Serve Britannia! Britannia, serve as aid. Britain never again shall make others slave.

WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR PAST Serve it with lemons and curdled milk with shortbread biscuits make the day gray spots of rain. Make a quilt out of the villains crochet the heroes together in a hat Wear the hat. Use the quilt as a picnic blanket. Bring your friends. Watch the squirrels be tiny monkeys dare-deviling the trees. Exclaim things! Each lemon, sup of tea, cookie is a bite into the future / will digest, exit, and swim. Digest. Exit. Swim. Drink the curdled milk and get sick watch your friends clean up hold your hair back / hat on hand you a tissue. When you wash the vomit out of the villainous quilt each time it gets weaker Picnic often.

The Bronx had been a pleasant place to walk before Robert Moses got his hands on it. To hear Sal tell the story, Moses had been the king of New York roads, a child of wealth who burrowed into government and, once he chewed through its outer shell, established himself in its rib cage, a sort of parasitic pontifex for a new Rome.

What the passengers aboard Berengaria did not know was that Ivar spent hours every day just preparing to talk. When Ivar knew he would be meeting a new group of people, he planned the first impression he hoped to make in advance: whom to meet first, which nuggets of information to drop, and where to move next. He always formed an exit plan. As Berengaria slid out to sea, Ivar could tell that this first impression had been a good one. Now, it was time to slip away, to let their views of him set, like a carefully baked soufflé. He excused himself, bowed again, and rushed to the ship’s communications room. That concluded his opening act.

The exit from Afghanistan demonstrated with startling clarity that a well-placed pawn can topple a king.

The exit from Afghanistan demonstrated with startling clarity that a well-placed pawn can topple a king. If the U.S. defense budget were as tall as the Empire State Building, the entirety of Afghanistan’s GDP would be only as high as the lampposts out front. The Taliban’s income would be about the size of a fire hydrant.

The Three Estaits is a puzzle. In its original form it's an eight-hour dramatised sermon written by Sir David Lindsay of the Mount for the young King James V advising him on the responsibilities of kingship and government. Its relevance today is a bit misty. The art in preparing it for a modern audience starts with the cutting down of the original text to a manageable size. This Robert [Kemp] did superbly well. He was also well served by his original cast in 1948 who breathed life into the stereotypical characters. But the main advantage for that production and the later ones up till and including 1959 was in its producer. Tony [Tyrone] Guthrie took a fairly verbose script and wrung glory out of it. Movement, pageantry, crashing music with dozens of trumpets, banners, mass entrances and exits through the audience, anything to delight they eye and stop people trying to make sense of the dialogue. 1959 was the last time Guthrie produced it. I think by then he'd had enough and felt he was churning out productions without anything new to say. The play has been revived since, of course, but each revival has inevitably been a shadow of Guthrie's production and sometimes a pale replica of Robert's script.

Everything was malleable. The mind could build a city, remodel it, then raze it, all while you were taking a shower or shaving or having a piss. Once you began, however, that changed. Every scene you wrote, every word you wrote, limited your options a little more. Eventually you were like a cow trotting down a narrow chute with no exit, trotting toward the—

The Prime of Wolves, the Autumn King, the two Governors, the River Queen’s fair daughter, Queen Hypaxia, and Jesiba all took seats at that central table. Their seconds—Sabine, Ruhn, Tharion, an older-looking witch—all claimed spots in the ring of tables around them. No one else from the House of Flame and Shadow had come with Jesiba, not even a vampyr. The ranks fell into place beyond that, each ring of tables growing larger and larger, seven in total. The Asterian Guard lined the uppermost level, standing against the wall, two at each of the room’s three exits. The seven levels of Hel indeed.

The King: Until then, Carcosa will vanish; but my rule, I tell you now, is permanent, despite Aldebaran. Be warned. Also be promised: He who triumphs in this war shall be my inheritor, and so shall have the Dynasty back. But think: Already you own the world. Te great query is, can you rule it? Te query is the gift. The King in Yellow gives it into your hands, to hold…or to let loose. Choose, terrible Children. Noatalba: You are King, and are most gracious. We thank you. The King: You thank me? I am the living god! Bethink thyself, priest. There is a price; I have not as yet stated the half of it. (Everyone waits, petrified) The King: The price is the fixing of the Mask. (Silence) The King: Yhtill, you acceded to, and wore the Pallid Mask. That is the price. Henceforth, all in Yhtill shall wear the Mask, and by this sign be known. And war between the masked men and the naked shall be perpetual and bloody, until I come again…or fail to come. Cassilda: (Standing and throwing her arms wide) Not upon us! Not upon us! The King: (Offstage, remote, diminishing) What! Did you think to be human still? § [Those onstage hesitate, as if lost. Then, following Cassilda’s lead, each stoops, picks up his or her Mask and puts it on, turning to face the audience and standing in still silence. When all others are Masked theChild enters from the rear, wearing a mask himself. He walks to the front of the stage and draws the curtain. He turns to the audience] Child: Yhtill and Carcosa are now one city, and our tale is at its end, make of it what you will–history, fable, nonsense or cautionary tale, it is nonetheless, the only tale there is. § [Te Child exits through the curtains, and the house lights come up at once. There are to be no curtain calls.]

The Hinglish continuum, then, is an exit strategy. It is not a way of keeping one Indian language alive forever in parallel with English. The destination in India, for language, for the economy, and for politics, is the swift-flowing current taking us into the global arena. The only countries that have held off the decimation of their languages as they tread the neoliberal waters are those where all education has been firmly kept in a local language.

What the Hinglish continuum does is draw out the time it takes for the last bit of Hindi to make its exit, with the Hindi in the mix lingering because it has become as much an expression of who we are as the English that tells which way we are headed. But the direction of flow is clear.

If, therefore, in the present time also, God, knowing the number of those who will not believe, since He foreknows all things, has given them over to unbelief, and turned away His face from men of this stamp, leaving them in the darkness which they have themselves chosen for themselves, what is there wonderful if He did also at that time give over to their unbelief, Pharaoh, who never would have believed, along with those who were with him? As the Word spake to Moses from the bush: “And I am sure that the king of Egypt will not let you go, unless by a mighty hand.” And for the reason that the Lord spake in parables, and brought blindness upon Israel, that seeing they might not see, since He knew the [spirit of] unbelief in them, for the same reason did He harden Pharaoh’s heart; in order that, while seeing that it was the finger of God which led forth the people, he might not believe, but be precipitated into a sea of unbelief, resting in the notion that the exit of these [Israelites] was accomplished by magical power, and that it was not by the operation of God that the Red Sea afforded a passage to the people, but that this occurred by merely natural causes (sed naturaliter sic se habere).

We all have habitual places where we stop—a certain threshold where something gets too intimate or too expensive or too close to success for our comfort. Crossing this threshold is exactly what we need to do to exit our comfort zones and transform our lives, which is why it’s so terrifying to us and why our subconscious minds gather all the king’s horses and all the king’s men to make sure we run away, run away! We’re usually totally oblivious to this stopping point, and have a lifetime’s worth of excellent excuses we use to back our way out of greatness,

I had a little ginger cat. I found him in a field, stolen from his mother, a real wild cat. He was two weeks old, maybe a little more, but he already knew how to scratch and bite. I fed him and petted him and took him home. He became the sweetest cat. Once, he hid in the sleeve of a visitor’s coat. He was the most polite creature, a real prince. When we came home in the middle of the night, he would come greet us, his eyes all sleepy. Then he’d go back to sleep in our bed. One time the door was closed to our bedroom—he tried to open it, he pushed it with his behind, and he got angry and he made a beautiful noise. He shunned us for a week. He was terrified of the vacuum cleaner. He was really a cowardly cat, defenseless, a poet cat. Once we brought him a toy mouse and he hid under the cabinet. We wanted him to experience the outside world. We put him on the pavement right outside the window. He was so scared. There were pigeons all around and he was frightened of pigeons. He meowed with despair, pressed against the wall. All animals and all other cats were strange creatures that he mistrusted or enemies that he feared. He was only happy with us. We were his family. He thought we were cats and cats were something else. But still, one day, he went out on his own. The big dog next door killed him. He was lying there like a cat doll, a puppet ripped open with an eye gouged out and a paw torn off, like a stuffed animal damaged by a sadistic child. I had a dream about him. He was in the fireplace, lying on the embers. Marie was surprised he didn’t burn. I said, “Cat’s don’t burn. They’re fireproof.” He came out of the fireplace, meowing in a cloud of smoke. But it wasn’t him—it was another cat, ugly and fat and female. Like his mother, the wildcat. He looked like Marguerite.

Dendera's so-called Light Bulbs rather portray two buds sprouting against each other while enclosing the geometry of the Great Pyramid. In this vivid relief, the snakes (from the passed night) of the 4th and 5th hours in the Duat exit the shafts at sunrise and sunset towards the pyramid's virtual apex. The settings of sunrise and sunset can be seen on the left and right buds respectively; on the left is a priest of Afu-Ra supporting the bud in the same direction of Afu-Ra's path while being on top of the seed whence it germinates, and on the right is the djed pillar (without Afu-Ra's priest) representing the support of the pyramid's structure itself. Both supports, however, do unequivocally depict the sacred location of the whole scenery being in the House of Ka which is (or part of) the House of Osiris (with his throne on top of the pyramid). The oval shape of the so-called bulbs is yet another indication of the relevancy of the process of regeneration (which takes place in the womb of the pyramid) to the Duat itself; birth takes place at sunrise and gets cycled back at sunset. Another evidence is found in a papyrus where the rising Osiris-Res is in the same pyramidal posture. And according to Budge (who quotes Bergmann), the djed pillar was also called 'The House of Sekher', which I cannot help but interpret as Seker. The elements on the left side are carried on top of a barque signaling Afu-Ra's slanted journey in the southern shaft, whereas the right bud is sprouting on top of a horizontal floor showing probably the King's Chamber horizontal displacement from the center of the pyramid. Another relief shows one single bud combining both of the other buds together in one single scene; the scene of the sunrise. This relief is found right across the hall on the opposite wall. It depicts Afu-Ra's travel from the northern shaft by placing the djed pillar on the boat and in front of the priest. Another subtle difference is seen on the djed pillar's ka in which it touches the snake instead of the oval womb. It hence emphasizes the events surmounting the 5th hour (instead of the 4th). The ka is plucking the snake-like scepter to enact the scene of the 6th hour when the souls rise on their scepters and get provided with knives. And surely enough, an odd creature stands right in front of the bud with two knives in his hands. The presence of giants on these reliefs -who carry these buds- prove my assertion that the whole scene is taking place on a huge structure (i.e. pyramid), and the presence of two priests at the center facing each other (instead of giving their backs to one another) is a vivid representation of the Equinoxes; the time when the snakes creep into and out from the shafts.