Flood Relief Quotes

I was so worried that you wouldn’t want to know me once you found out.” I signed, relief flooding through me. “Are you kidding me?” Xavier reached out and curled a lock of my hair around his finger. “Surely I’ve got to be the luckiest guy in the world.” “How do you figure that?” “Isn’t it obvious? I’ve got my own little piece of Heaven right here.

No,” she said with a soft chuckle. “I’m afraid he will sever the spine of any boy who breaks our girl’s heart.” “Oh,” I said, relief flooding me. But she had an incredibly well thought-out point.

He laughed, then became serious once more. "Mary............" The expression in his eyes set her heart pounding. "Yes?" Twice he began to frame a sentence, and twice his voice seemed to fail him. And she thought she understood. What could he possibly say to her now, when he was on the verge of leaving forever? Even something as simple as asking her to write to him carried a distinct sort of promis, the type of promise he was ten years and a half a world removed from being able to make. She forced a polite smile and held out her hand. "Good luck, James." Regret-and relief-flooded his eyes. he took her hand, cradling it for a long moment. "And to you." It was foolish to linger. She slid her fingers from his grasp, turned, and began to walk away in the direction of the Academy. She'd gone about thirty paces when she heard his voice. "Mary!" She spun about. "What is it?" "Stay out of wardrobes!" She laughed, shook her head, and began to walk again. She was smiling this time.

Settle in the here and now. Reach down into the center where the world is not spinning and drink this holy peace. Feel relief flood into every cell. Nothing to do. Nothing to be but what you are already. Nothing to receive but what flows effortlessly from the mystery into form. Nothing to run from or run toward. Just this breath, Awareness knowing itself as embodiment. Just this breath, awareness waking up to truth.

You said please,” I whispered, smiling when his relief flooded my emotions with the force of a thousand dams breaking. “I’m never going to let you live that down.

When I asked the mayor if flood insurance rates had gone up after Sandy, he said, “Not really.” This is how disaster relief works in America. There are lots of incentives to rebuild but few incentives to rebuild differently, much less to rethink the long-term future of cities and towns along the coast.

That God is rich in mercy means that your regions of deepest shame and regret are not hotels through which divine mercy passes but homes in which divine mercy abides. It means the things about you that make you cringe most, make him hug hardest. It means his mercy is not calculating and cautious, like ours. It is unrestrained, flood-like, sweeping, magnanimous. It means our haunting shame is not a problem for him, but the very thing he loves most to work with. It means our sins do not cause his love to take a hit. Our sins cause his love to surge forward all the more. It means on that day when we stand before him, quietly, unhurriedly, we will weep with relief, shocked at how impoverished a view of his mercy-rich heart we had. 

Almost no abuser is mean or frightening all the time. At least occasionally, he is loving, gentle, and humorous and perhaps even capable of compassion and empathy. This intermittent, and usually unpredictable, kindness is critical to forming traumatic attachments. When a person, male or female, has suffered harsh, painful treatment over an extended period of time, he or she naturally feels a flood of love and gratitude toward anyone who brings relief, like the surge of affection one might feel for the hand that offers a glass of water on a scorching day. But in situations of abuse, the rescuer and the tormentor are the very same person.

Imagine the feeling of relief that would flood our whole being if we knew that when we were in the grip of sorrow or illness, our village would respond to our need. This would not be out of pity, but out of a realization that every one of us will take our turn at being ill, and we will need one another. The indigenous thought is when one of us is ill, all of us are ill. Taking this thought a little further, we see that healing is a matter, in great part, of having our, connections to the community and the cosmos restored. This truth has been acknowledged in many studies. Our immune response is strengthened when we feel our connection with community. By regularly renewing the bonds of belonging, we support our ability to remain healthy and whole.

Mal was alive. I wanted to push though the crowd and throw my arms around him, but it was all I could do to stay standing as relief flooded through me. Whatever happened here, we would be all right.

I loved you before we met. Before I ever laid eyes on you. I think I loved you before I was born. Is that possible? You’re the other half of my heart. The other half of my soul and I don’t want to lose you.” Her voice broke and she whispered, “Not again.” “Babe, you’re not gonna lose me.” Relief flooded him.

I'm so tired. Once, I wanted to watch the floods coming into a canyon, to stand on the edge and see it happen, on ground that was safe but shaking. I'd like to hear the trees snapy away and see the water come higher, I thought, but only from a place where it couldn't reach me. Now I think it might be a terrifying, bright relief to stand on the canyon floor and see the wall of water coming down, and to know this is it, I am finished, and before you could even complete the thought, you would be swallowed, and whole.

I am madly in love with you, Lachlan Kane,” she says, jabbing her finger in my direction as though punctuating each word. “And I am also just madly mad. Don’t you ever give me divorce papers again.” “I promise, duchess.” A burst of hope and relief and joy floods my chest. They are feelings I thought I’d never have, a life I never thought I’d live. Not until I made the choice to let Lark in. “I love you, Lark Kane.

It is because of this sea between us. The earth has never, up to now, separated us. But, ever since yesterday, there has been something in this nonetheless real, perfectly Atlantic, salty, slightly rough sea that has cast a spell on me. And every time I think about Promethea, I see her crossing this great expanse by boat and soon, alas, a storm comes up, my memory clouds over, in a flash there are shipwrecks, I cannot even cry out, my mouth is full of saltwater sobs. I am flooded with vague, deceptive recollections, I am drowning in my imagination in tears borrowed from the most familiar tragedies, I wish I had never read certain books whose poison is working in me. Has this Friday, perhaps, thrown a spell on me? But spells only work if you catch them. I have caught the Tragic illness. If only Promethea would make me some tea I know I would find some relief. But that is exactly what is impossible. And so, today, I am sinning. I am sinking beneath reality. I am weighted down with literature. That is my fate. Yet I had the presence of mind to start this parenthesis, the only healthy moment in these damp, feverish hours. All this to try to come back to the surface of our book... Phone me quickly, Promethea, get me out of this parenthesis fast!)

They came there regularly every evening drawn by some need. It was as if the water floated off and set sailing thoughts which had grown stagnant on dry land, and gave to their bodies even some sort of physical relief. First, the pulse of colour flooded the bay with blue, and the heart expanded with it and the body swam, only the next instant to be checked and chilled by the prickly blackness on the ruffled waves. Then, up behind the great black rock, almost every evening spurted irregularly, so that one had to watch for it and it was a delight when it came, a fountain of white water; and then while one waited for that, one watched, on the pale semicircular beach, wave after wave shedding again and again smoothly, a film of mother-of-pearl.

It was the quality of her feelings that shattered him—the pure belief and care that she had for him. He'd underestimated her, and he was more the fool for it, for denying this regard...this love for him. There was no other word to describe it. It truly was the same for her. The thought flooded him, filled his veins with equal parts relief and agony.

I came to another passageway and paused to examine the scene. I saw myself dead and lying on the ground with Ren kneeling beside me. He leaned over my inert body investigating. I heard him whisper, “Kelsey? Is it you? Kelsey, please. Talk to me. I need to know if it’s really you.” He picked my body up and cradled it lovingly in his arms. I checked to make sure he had the gada and the backpack, which he did, but I’d been fooled before. Then he said, “Don’t leave me, Kells.” I closed my eyes and listened to his voice begging me to live. My heart started thumping wildly, a different reaction than I’d had in the past visions. I took a step closer and hit a barrier again. I spoke to him softly, “Ren? I’m here. Don’t give up.” He raised his head as if he’d heard me. “Kelsey? I can hear you, but I can’t see you. Where are you?” He lowered me, or the body that looked like me, to the ground, and it disappeared. I told him, “Close your eyes and feel your way to me.” He stood slowly and closed his eyes. I closed my eyes too, and tried to focus not on his voice but on his heart. I imagined my hand on his chest, feeling the strong thump of his heart beneath my fingers. My body seemed to move of its own volition, and I took several steps forward. I concentrated on Ren, his laugh, his smile, how I felt being near him, then, suddenly, my hand touched his chest, and I could feel his heart beating. He was there. I opened my eyes slowly and looked at him. He reached out a hand to touch my hair, but then he pulled it back. “Is it really you this time, Kells?” “Well, I’m no maggoty corpse, if that’s what you mean.” He grinned. “That’s a relief. No maggoty corpse would be that sarcastic.” I countered, “Well, how do I know it’s really you?” He considered my question for a moment and then ducked his head to kiss me. He tugged me flush up against his chest, pulling me closer than I even thought possible, and then his lips touched mine. His kiss started out warm and soft, but quickly turned hungry and demanding. His hands ran up my arms, to my shoulders, and then cupped my neck. I wrapped my arms around his waist and luxuriated in the kiss. When he finally pulled back, my heart was pounding in response. When the power of speech returned, I quipped, “Well, even if it isn’t really you, I’ll take this version.” He laughed and relief flooded both of us. “Kells, I think you’d better hold my hand the rest of the way.” I smiled gaily back at him. “No problem.

The messages coming back flooded the comm buffers with rage and sorrow, threats of vengeance and offers of aid. Those last were the hardest. New colonies still trying to force their way into local ecosystems so exotic that their bodies could hardly recognize them as life at all, isolated, exhausted, sometimes at the edge of their resources. And what they wanted was to send back help. He listened to their voices, saw the distress in their eyes. He couldn't help, but love them a little bit. Under the best conditions, disasters and plagues did that. It wasn't universally true. There would always be hoarders and price gouging, people who closed their doors to refugees and left them freezing and starving. But the impulse to help was there too. To carry a burden together, even if it meant having less for yourself. Humanity had come as far as it had in a haze of war, sickness, violence, and genocide. History was drenched in blood. But it also had cooperation and kindness, generosity, intermarriage. The one didn’t come without the other.

If you are a millionaire beset by blackmailers or anyone else to whose comfort the best legal advice is essential, and have decided to put your affairs in the hands of the ablest and discreetest firm in London, you proceed through a dark and grimy entry and up a dark and grimy flight of stairs; and, having felt your way along a dark and grimy passage, you come at length to a dark and grimy door. There is plenty of dirt in other parts of Ridgeway's Inn, but nowhere is it so plentiful, so rich in alluvial deposits, as on the exterior of the offices of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow and Appleby. As you tap on the topmost of the geological strata concealing the ground-glass of the door, a sense of relief and security floods your being. For in London grubbiness is the gauge of a lawyer's respectability.

The collective sign of relief heaved on V-J Day ought to have inspired Hollywood to release a flood of "happily ever after" films. But some victors didn't feel too good about their spoils. They'd seen too much by then. Too much warfare, too much poverty, too much greed, all in the service of rapacious progress. A bundle of unfinished business lingered from the Depression — nagging questions about ingrained venality, mean human nature, and the way unchecked urban growth threw society dangerously out of whack. Writers and directors responded by delivering gritty, bitter dramas that slapped our romantic illusions in the face and put the boot to the throat of the smug bourgeoisie. Still, plenty of us took it — and liked it.

She found herself crying with relief and gratitude. It was as if a large, benevolent hand had reached down and picked her up, and was holding her safe.

She smiles and the relief floods me. “If we get caught in the rain, we’ll just enjoy the rainbow.

Warmth flooded her body and she felt her skin flush, sweat prickling her hairline. Pain dissipated to nothing but a numb, hollow feeling. Some combination of drugs seeped into her, promoting pain relief and relaxation. She felt her taut muscles yielding, even as a network of filamentous webs encased her and tugged her lower into the gel. Her arms grew heavy and sank into the gel of their own volition. Or had they been pulled there?

The scream lasted for about a heartbeat, and then recognition flooded in—and relief. “Oliver?” Great. She was relieved to see Oliver. The world was officially topsy-turvy, cats were living with dogs, and life as she knew it was probably over.

Almost no abuser is mean or frightening all the time. At least occasionally, he is loving, gentle, and humorous and perhaps even capable of compassion and empathy. This intermittent, and usually unpredictable, kindness is critical to forming traumatic attachments. When a person has suffered harsh, painful treatment over an extended period of time, s/he naturally feels a flood of love and gratitude toward anyone who brings relief. But in situations of abuse, the rescuer and the tormentor are the very same person.

So Bruce came to believe, as he put it, that “today’s flood of addiction27 is occurring because our hyperindividualistic, frantic, crisis-ridden society makes most people feel social[ly] or culturally isolated. Chronic isolation causes people to look for relief. They find temporary relief in addiction . . . because [it] allows them to escape their feelings, to deaden their senses—and to experience an addictive lifestyle as a substitute for a full life.” This isn’t an argument against Gabor’s discoveries. It’s a deepening of them. A

Violet,' Xaden groans against my mouth. The plea in his tone floods my veins with a whole different form of power. Knowing he's just as affected by our attraction as I am is a rush. 'This isn't what you want.' 'It's exactly what I want,' I counter. I want to replace the anger with lust, the death of the day with the pulse-pounding assurance of my own life, and I know he's capable of delivering all that and more. 'You said to do whatever I need.' I arch my back, pressing the tips of my breasts against his chest. His breathing changes, and there's a war in his eyes that I'm determined to win. It's time to stop dancing around this unbearable tension and break it. He leans down, his mouth only inches from mine. 'And I'm telling you that I'm the last thing you need.' The barely leashed growl of his voice rumbles up through his chest, and every nerve ending in my body flares to life. 'Are you suggesting someone else?' My heart races as I chance calling his bluff. 'Fuck no.' The unmistakable flare of jealousy narrows his eyes for a heartbeat before his hips pin mine to the door, and my instant relief at his answer is replaced by a jolt of pure lust. I can see that infamous control of his hovering on the edge, balancing precariously on the point of a knife. All he needs is one. Little. Push. And I'm about to shamelessly shove. 'Good.' I tilt my head up to his and draw his bottom lip between mine, sucking before gently nipping him with my teeth. 'Because I only want you, Xaden.' The words breach something within him, and he gives. Finally. One mouths collide, and the kiss is hot and hard and completely out of our control.

...she meets my gaze, and relief floods her eyes. “Ryke,” I barely hear her say over the noise, but I see her lips form my name. --------------------- 'I saw you,' I whisper. 'You were right there.' I remember meeting his eyes. And they were full of anger, full of desperation, full of gut-wrenching pain.

The teeth are made from stern stuff. They can withstand floods, fires, even centuries in the grave. But the teeth are no match for the slow-motion catastrophe that is a life of poverty: its burdens, distractions, diseases, privations, low expectations, transience, the addictive antidotes that offer temporary relief at usurious rates. Others

They came there regularly every evening drawn by some need. It was as if the water floated off and set sailing thoughts which had grown stagnant on dry land, and gave to their bodies even some sort of physical relief. First, the pulse of colour flooded the bay with blue, and the heart expanded with it and the body swam, only the next instant to be checked and chilled by the prickly blackness on the ruffled waves.

Kate?” Anthony yelled again. He couldn’t see anyone; a dislodged bench was blocking the opening. “Can you hear me?” Still no response. “Try the other side,” came Edwina’s frantic voice. “The opening isn’t as crushed.” Anthony jumped to his feet and ran around the back of the carriage to the other side. The door had already come off its hinges, leaving a hole just large enough for him to stuff his upper body into. “Kate?” he called out, trying not to notice the sharp sound of panic in his voice. Every breath from his lips seemed overloud, reverberating in the tight space, reminding him that he wasn’t hearing the same sounds from Kate. And then, as he carefully moved a seat cushion that had turned sideways, he saw her. She was terrifyingly still, but her head didn’t appear to be stuck in an unnatural position, and he didn’t see any blood. That had to be a good sign. He didn’t know much of medicine, but he held on to that thought like a miracle. “You can’t die, Kate,” he said as his terrified fingers yanked away at the wreckage, desperate to open the hole until it was wide enough to pull her through. “Do you hear me? You can’t die!” A jagged piece of wood sliced open the back of his hand, but Anthony didn’t notice the blood running over his skin as he pulled on another broken beam. “You had better be breathing,” he warned, his voice shaking and precariously close to a sob. “This wasn’t supposed to be you. It was never supposed to be you. It isn’t your time. Do you understand me?” He tore away another broken piece of wood and reached through the newly widened hole to grasp her hand. His fingers found her pulse, which seemed steady enough to him, but it was still impossible to tell if she was bleeding, or had broken her back, or had hit her head, or had . . . His heart shuddered. There were so many ways to die. If a bee could bring down a man in his prime, surely a carriage accident could steal the life of one small woman. Anthony grabbed the last piece of wood that stood in his way and heaved, but it didn’t budge. “Don’t do this to me,” he muttered. “Not now. It isn’t her time. Do you hear me? It isn’t her time!” He felt something wet on his cheeks and dimly realized that it was tears. “It was supposed to be me,” he said, choking on the words. “It was always supposed to be me.” And then, just as he was preparing to give that last piece of wood another desperate yank, Kate’s fingers tightened like a claw around his wrist. His eyes flew to her face, just in time to see her eyes open wide and clear, with nary a blink. “What the devil,” she asked, sounding quite lucid and utterly awake, “are you talking about?” Relief flooded his chest so quickly it was almost painful. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice wobbling on every syllable. She grimaced, then said, “I’ll be fine.” Anthony paused for the barest of seconds as he considered her choice of words. “But are you fine right now?” She let out a little cough, and he fancied he could hear her wince with pain. “I did something to my leg,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I’m bleeding.” “Are you faint? Dizzy? Weak?” She shook her head. “Just in pain. What are you doing here?” He smiled through his tears. “I came to find you.” “You did?” she whispered. He nodded. “I came to— That is to say, I realized . . .” He swallowed convulsively. He’d never dreamed that the day would come when he’d say these words to a woman, and they’d grown so big in his heart he could barely squeeze them out. “I love you, Kate,” he said chokingly. “It took me a while to figure it out, but I do, and I had to tell you. Today.” Her lips wobbled into a shaky smile as she motioned to the rest of her body with her chin. “You’ve bloody good timing.

I squeezed her hand. “He’s not coming back, Carlee” When I said her name, her whole body stiffened, her eyes opening wide and clearing, as though a veil over them had lifted. “Carlee,” she whispered. I nodded and waited for her to freak out, to start screaming or crying, bracing myself and getting ready to hug her or carry her back to the village, whatever it took. For a few impossibly long moments she didn’t say anything, didn’t move, and I wondered if the shock had broken her brain. Then her brown eyes locked on mine again, narrowing into slits. “I’m gonna kill that effing creep.” I laughed, relief flooding through me, and threw my arms around her neck. “No, seriously. I’m going to kill him! I can’t believe I bought his stupid lines! I don’t care how pretty he was, I mean, have you seen what I’m wearing?” Laughing, I nodded into her shoulder. “So not the style.” “I know, right? I look like an extra in some fantasy movie. Some stupid fantasy movie.

Ted Rittenhouse saw the relief that flooded the woman's face. She'd obviously come up with a solution she thought would satisfy him. "I'm staying with a cousin, Gabe Flanagan." She was so relieved that the words tripped over each other. She snatched a cell phone from her bag. "Look, you can call him. He'll vouch for me. Here's my cellphone. You can use it." "Seems to me I've heard of those newfangled gadgets," he said dryly, pulling his own cell phone from his uniform pocket.

Opioids work on the reward circuit of the brain. The first time you take them, your brain is so flooded with dopamine that you are left thinking that, like food, like sex, opioids are good for you, necessary for the very survival of your species. "Do it again! Do it again!" your brain tells you, but every time you listen, the drugs work a little less and demand a little more, until finally you give them everything and get nothing in return-no rush, no surge of pleasure, just a momentary relief from the misery of withdrawal.

So, is she giving you hell?” “Who?” “Hailey,” Finn replied. Megan smirked. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Finn turned away from his painting to smile at her. “Good,” he said. For some reason, that simple word flooded Megan with relief. Maybe it was the way he said it. Like he was proud of her. Or impressed. Or not at all surprised. “Maybe I’ll even make her repay you your Popsicle,” Megan quipped. “That’s okay. I’m over Popsicles,” Finn said. “I’m more of a milk shake man now.” He pulled up on his belt loops and they both laughed.

Round she went: the squared main and mizen yards lay parallel with the wind, the topsails shaking. Farther, farther; and now the wind was abaft her beam, and by rights her sternway should have stopped; but it did not; she was still travelling with remarkable speed in the wrong direction. He filled the topsails, gave her weather helm, and still she slid backwards in this insane contradiction of all known principles. For a moment all the certainties of his world quivered - he caught a dumbfounded, appalled glance from the master - and then with a sigh from the masts and stays, the strangest straining groan, the Polychrest's motion passed through a barely perceptible immobility to headway. She brought the wind right aft, then on to her larboard quarter; and hauling out the mizen and trimming all sharp, he set the course, dismissed the watch below, and walked into his cabin, relief flooding into him. The bases of the universe were firm again, the Polychrest was heading straight out into the offing with the wind one point free; the crew had not done very badly, no time worth mentioning had been lost; and with any luck his steward would have brewed a decent pot of coffee.

Someone once made me see that, and I wanted to give that to you.” I stared up at him, my heart racing but so happy I wanted to cry. He knew. He understood what I wanted more than anything. Freedom. “Own who you are,” he commanded. “And don’t apologize. Do you understand? Own it or it will own you.” Relief flooded me. For the first time in my entire life, someone told me it was okay to want what I wanted. To get into messes and to dive in headfirst. To have a little fucking fun before I died. I dropped my hands from the wall and slowly turned around, feeling his arm around my waist loosen to let me move.

The country, it seemed, was on the verge of a second civil war, this one over industrial slavery. But Frick was a gambler who cared little what the world thought of him. He was already a villain in the public’s eye, thanks to a disaster of epic proportions three years earlier. Frick and a band of wealthy friends had established the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club on land near an unused reservoir high in the hills above the small Pennsylvania city of Johnstown, 70 miles east of Pittsburgh. The club beautified the grounds around the dam but paid little attention to the dam itself, which held back the Conemaugh River and was in poor condition from years of neglect. On May 31, 1889, after heavy rainfall, the dam gave way, releasing nearly 5 billion gallons of water from Lake Conemaugh into Johnstown and killing 2,209 people. What became known as the Johnstown Flood caused $17 million in damages. Frick’s carefully crafted corporate structure for the club made it impossible for victims to pursue the financial assets of its members. Although he personally donated several thousands of dollars to relief efforts, Frick remained to many a scoundrel, the prototype of the uncaring robber baron of the Gilded Age.

We heard the United States had a new president, that she was arranging for a loan from the Commonwealth to bail us out. We heard the White House was burning and the National Guard was fighting the Secret Service in the streets of DC. We heard there was no water left in Los Angeles, that hordes of people were trying to walk north through the drought-ridden Central Valley. We heard that the county to the east of us still had electricity and that the Third World was rallying to send us support. And then we heard that China and Russia were at war and the US had been forgotten. Although the Fundamentalists' predictions of Armageddon grew more intense, and everyone else complained with increasing bitterness about everything from the last of chewing gum to the closure of Redwood General Hospital, still, among most people there was an odd sense of buoyancy, a sort of surreptitious relief, the same feeling Eva and I used to have every few years when the river that flows through Redwood flooded, washing out roads and closing businesses for a day or two. We knew a flood was inconvenient and destructive At the same time we couldn't help but feel a peculiar sort of delight that something beyond us was large enough to destroy the inexorability of our routines.

Then Israel Finch got to his feet and pointed the light at Dolly. He told Tommy to hold her arms, and Tommy roared as if they were the funniest words in his reduced language. Realizing his cut wasn’t mortal, Israel slapped Dolly across the mouth, told her she was in for deep regret now, boy, and reaching forth his strong smelly hands rent open the front of her sweater. That, Dolly said, is when she would’ve started to give up inside, had she not looked over Israel’s shoulder and seen Dad coming. Keep in mind he ought not’ve been visible at all; there were no lights on but the flashlight, which was aimed at Dolly. She said Dad’s face coming toward them was luminous of itself, glowing and serene, the way you’d suppose an angel’s would be, that it rose up behind Israel Finch like a sudden moon, and when Tommy Basca saw it he was so startled he dropped her right down on her bottom. She said Dad was as silent, those next moments, as he was incandescent; he made no sound except a strange whistling, which turned out, of course, to be the broom handle, en route to any number of painful destinations. What was odd, she said, was how the boys weren’t even up to the job of running away—Tommy went screeching to his knees before the first blow landed, and Israel prostrated himself and moaned as though the devil had hold of his liver. The two of them just lost their minds, Dolly said, while her own reaction was nearly as insensible; she suddenly could not stop laughing. Here was Dad, his face still lit though now even the flashlight had gone out, smiling (Dolly said) though his eyes looked terribly melancholy, whacking Finch and Basca every second or two while the pair of them shrieked in no English you’d recognize—Dolly said the laughter just flooded through her and came not only from relief, as you might surmise, but from a reckless and holy sort of joy she had never felt before, not even while cheerleading.

There were six hundred thousand Indian troops in Kashmir but the pogrom of the pandits was not prevented, why was that. Three and a half lakhs of human beings arrived in Jammu as displaced persons and for many months the government did not provide shelters or relief or even register their names, why was that. When the government finally built camps it only allowed for six thousand families to remain in the state, dispersing the others around the country where they would be invisible and impotent, why was that. The camps at Purkhoo, Muthi, Mishriwallah, Nagrota were built on the banks and beds of nullahas, dry seasonal waterways, and when the water came the camps were flooded, why was that. The ministers of the government made speeches about ethnic cleansing but the civil servants wrote one another memos saying that the pandits were simply internal migrants whose displacement had been self-imposed, why was that. The tents provided for the refugees to live in were often uninspected and leaking and the monsoon rains came through, why was that. When the one-room tenements called ORTs were built to replace the tents they too leaked profusely, why was that. There was one bathroom per three hundred persons in many camps why was that and the medical dispensaries lacked basic first-aid materials why was that and thousands of the displaced died because of inadequate food and shelter why was that maybe five thousand deaths because of intense heat and humidity because of snake bites and gastroenteritis and dengue fever and stress diabetes and kidney ailments and tuberculosis and psychoneurosis and there was not a single health survey conducted by the government why was that and the pandits of Kashmir were left to rot in their slum camps, to rot while the army and the insurgency fought over the bloodied and broken valley, to dream of return, to die while dreaming of return, to die after the dream of return died so that they could not even die dreaming of it, why was that why was that why was that why was that why was that.

Two hours later there was no call, and still no answer when I tried his cell phone. Around midnight, the clock and I had a conversation, I told the clock I wanted to wait another fifteen minutes before my new life began, the life in which Karl had been killed in a plane crash. I requested fifteen minutes more in this world—which I was quickly coming to see as the past—before figuring out who to call, who to wake up. You’ll remember this feeling when the phone rings, I told myself. You’ll remember how scared you were when he calls to tell you he’s fine. And it was true. As many times as I’ve been in exactly this situation, I never forget it, and it never fails to shock me, the flood of adrenaline that does not serve for fight or flight but drowns me. At twelve-thirty I shifted my perspective again, from wondering what it would be like if he were dead to the knowledge that he was dead, and I decided I could wait another fifteen minutes. He would be dead forever, so what difference did it make if I have myself a little more time? I still had no idea what I was supposed to do. After I had extended the final cutoff two more times, he walked in the door. That’s how these stories always end, of course, except for the one time they don’t. I saw the headlights against the garage door and went outside in the rain to meet him with my love and my rage and my sick relief. I wanted to kill him because he had not been killed. I wanted to step into his open jacket and stay there for the rest of my life. How had he not called? “I did call. I called you from Kentucky.” “But you never told me you’d left Kentucky.” “It took a long time to get the transponder fixed.” “Then why didn’t you call to say you’d landed?” “It was too late.” In the house, he went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He was dead tired but not dead. “I didn’t want to wake you up.” He might as well have said, I thought you were sleeping because I have no idea who you are, or who any normal people. I stayed awake for what was left of the night to watch him, just to make sure he was really there.

There on my knees I closed my eyes and wept like a child. The sorrow I had carried for so many years was washed from my mind and heart, which were flooded instead with light and love. I knew without a shadow of doubt that I had found not only myself, but in Yeshua my master, and through him my Father. A groan broke from my throat and I began to shake with sobs, overwhelmed by such exquisite relief, for I, like the son in his parable, had been lost, but now I was found. Waves of light seemed to sweep over and through me, filling my veins and my bones with warm love. I was awash in the kingdom of heaven. And there was no end to those waves of light… they were eternal. Time had vanished. He was gone, I finally realized. And yet he was still with me, as near as my own breath. I don’t know how long I wept; I only know that when I then sighed a great breath and opened my eyes, morning had come. The sight offered to me by my two eyes was still blurred, but this was of no consequence. I was seeing with new eyes. Eyes that did not require the light of the sun in this sky. The light of the kingdom of heaven was bright within me.

A pair of shots rang out from outside, near the front of the house, followed by shouting. A sudden flood of adrenaline doused my fatigue and political confusion. Jean’s posture straightened, and he rose quickly. “That is Dominique, whose men were watching the transport. Something is amiss.” Ya think? I ran for my bag and pulled out the staff. Jean slipped a triangular-bladed dagger from beneath his tunic, wrenched open the door to the study, and strode out ahead of me. As always where the pirate was concerned, I trailed along, a step behind. I edged around Jean in time to see his older half-brother and fellow pirate captain Dominique Youx dragging a stumbling, bleeding man into the front hallway from outside and shoving him to the floor. I breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t Alex, followed by a chaser of disappointment that it wasn’t Alex, topped by a dollop of concern that our friend Ken Hachette had been shot. Ken, a human NOPD detective who’d recently been clued in about the big bad world surrounding him, had missed all the recent events due to a family emergency that had taken him out of town. Why would he be coming to Old Barataria alone via Jean Lafitte’s private transport unless Alex sent him? My adrenaline jump-started my heart to another race, this one fueled by worry. Something bad had happened; it was the only explanation. Jean and Dominique exchanged a rapid-fire torrent of French that went way past my abilities to interpret. “He claims to be a friend to her,” Dominique finally spat out, and I could tell by the way he said her, much as one might say flesh-eating maggot, that he referred to me. He’d never liked me; he considered me a bad influence on his baby brother the immortal pirate. As if.

I run out onto the front porch, trying to slow my racing heart as I peer out into the night. The light gets closer and closer, causing hope to blossom in my chest. “Hey!” a familiar voice calls out, and I nearly weep with relief. He’s back. Thank God. But the relief is immediately replaced with anger. “Where the hell have you been?” I ask, my voice shaking. He clicks off the flashlight and makes his way up the porch steps. “Didn’t you see my note?” “Are you kidding me?” I sputter. “Do you have any idea how many hours you’ve been gone?” “Yeah, sorry about that. The house was fine, but the pool was a mess. A tree fell through the screen, and the roof was ripped off the pool house.” “You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say?” I take two steps toward him, fury thrumming through my veins. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? God, Ryder! I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere. I thought you were hurt, or…or…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I was about to go looking for you, out in the pitch-dark!” He reaches for my hand, but I slap him away. “Don’t touch me! I swear, I can’t even look at you right now.” I turn and reach for the door. But before I can fling it open, Ryder pulls me toward him, his hands circling my wrists. “Look, I’m sorry, Jemma. It took me forever to get there, what with all the flooding and everything. And then I was trying to clean stuff up and…well, I guess the time just got away from me.” I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “Well, you did scare me.” I manage to pull one hand loose, and I use it to whack him in the chest. “Idiot!” “I’m fine, okay? I’m here.” “I wish you weren’t!” I yell, fired up now. “I wish you were lying in a ditch somewhere!” I stumble backward, my heel catching on the porch’s floorboards. “You don’t mean that,” Ryder says, sounding hurt. He’s right; I don’t. But I don’t care if I hurt his feelings. I’m too angry to care. Angry and relieved and pissed off and…and, God, I’m so glad he’s okay. I thump his chest one more time in frustration, and then somehow my lips are on his--hungry and demanding and punishing all at once.

Finding herself on the way to the village center again, she pulled over, intending to negotiate a three-point turn. The cottage was slightly out of the village, so she needed to get back onto the opposite side of the road and go back up the hill. Glancing over Hannah’s instructions again, she swung the car to the right—straight into the path of a motorcyclist. What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. The rider tried to stop but couldn’t do so in time, although he did manage to avoid hitting her car. As he turned his handlebars hard to the right, his tires lost grip on the wet road and he flew off, sliding some way before coming to a halt. Layla sat motionless in her car, paralyzed temporarily by the shock. At last she managed to galvanize herself into action and fumbled for the door handle, her shaking hands making it hard to get a grip. When the door finally opened, another dilemma hit. What if she couldn’t stand? Her legs felt like jelly, surely they wouldn’t support her. Forcing herself upward, she was relieved to discover they held firm. Once she was sure they would continue to do so, she bolted over to where the biker lay, placed one hand on his soaking leather-clad shoulder and said, “Are you okay?” “No, I’m not bloody okay!” he replied, a pair of bright blue eyes meeting hers as he lifted his visor. “I’m a bit bruised and battered as it goes.” Despite his belligerent words, relief flooded through her: he wasn’t dead! “Oh, I’m so glad,” she said, letting out a huge sigh. “Glad?” he said, sitting up now and brushing the mud and leaves off his left arm. “Charming.” “Oh, no, no,” she stuttered, realizing what she’d just said. “I’m not glad that I knocked you over. I’m glad you’re alive.” “Only just, I think,” he replied, needing a helping hand to stand up. “Can I give you a lift somewhere, take you to the nearest hospital?” “The nearest hospital? That would be in Bodmin, I think, about fifteen miles from here. I don’t fancy driving fifteen miles with you behind the wheel.” Feeling a little indignant now, Layla replied, “I’m actually a very good driver, thank you. You’re the first accident I’ve ever had.” “Lucky me,” he replied sarcastically.

Fig-tree, for such a long time I have found meaning in the way you almost completely omit your blossoms and urge your pure mystery, unproclaimed, into the early ripening fruit. Like a curved pipe of a fountain, your arching boughs drive the sap downward and up again: and almost without awakening it bursts out of sleep, into its sweetest achievement. Like the god stepping into the swan. ......But we still linger, alas, we, whose pride is in blossoming; we enter the overdue interior of our final fruit and are already betrayed. In only a few does the urge to action rise up so powerfully the they stop, glowing in their heart's abundance, while, like the soft night air , the temptation to blossom touches their tender mouths, touches their eyelids, softly: heroes perhaps, and those chosen to disappear early, whose veins Death the gardener twists into a different pattern. These plunge on ahead: in advance of their own smile like the team of galloping horses before the triumphant pharaoh in the mildly hollowed reliefs at Karnak. The hero is strangely close to those who died young. Permanence does not concern him. He lives in continual ascent, moving on into the ever-changed constellation of perpetual danger. Few could find him there. But Fate, which is silent about us, suddenly grows inspired and sings him into the storm of his onrushing world. I hear no one like him. All at once I am pierced by his darkened voice, carried on the streaming air. Then how gladly I would hide from the longing to be once again oh a boy once again, with my life before me, to sit leaning on future arms and reading of Samson, how from his mother first nothing, then everything, was born. Wasn't he a hero inside you mother? didn't his imperious choosing already begin there, in you? Thousands seethed in your womb, wanting to be him, but look: he grasped and excluded—, chose and prevailed. And if he demolished pillars, it was when he burst from the world of your body into the narrower world, where again he chose and prevailed. O mothers of heroes, O sources of ravaging floods! You ravines into which virgins have plunged, lamenting, from the highest rim of the heart, sacrifices to the son. For whenever the hero stormed through the stations of love, each heartbeat intended for him lifted him up, beyond it; and, turning away, he stood there, at the end of all smiles,—transfigured.

today’s flood of addiction is occurring because our hyperindividualistic, frantic, crisis-ridden society makes most people feel social[ly] or culturally isolated. Chronic isolation causes people to look for relief.

When do you want me to leave, Frank?” His head whipped around. “Leave?” He seemed panicked. And yet today he’d been . . . Well, he’d been confusing. “I just thought . . .” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Of course. You need to go. I understand. We can manage.” He crisscrossed the room, stopped to finger the clock on the mantel. “But the children seem to have taken to you. I’d hate for them to have another loss right now.” I hopped up from my place, suddenly eager to make him understand. “It’s fine if I stay for a while. It really is. I . . .” The words died in my throat. I couldn’t explain. Relief seemed to flood his face, calming the flutters in my chest. I’d told God I’d wait right here until He showed me what to do next. And I intended to do just that—if Frank would let me. “I don’t want to impose. I know you’ve been here three months already.” His face mirrored James’s again as he ran a hand through his dark hair and blew out a long breath. “I’m not sure I can manage it all on my own. Not yet. But if you can stay for a while longer, maybe until after spring planting, I’d be mighty grateful.

I had dreamed that if this moment happened I would be elated and triumphant and flooded with relief, but when you have been keeping company with anxiety and fear for a long time it's hard to shake them off immediately. Also I hadn't really thought about anything behond the immediate goal: getting in. Now I was in and now I was going to have to do this thing, ballet, and not just think about the day I would do it. I realized I still wanted to dream about the person I would become, not actually be her. I was worried that I would work hard and nothing would happen, that I was as good as I would ever be.

If you really want to leave, we could probably hike out on snowshoes. It’d take at least a day, prob’ly two. It’s up to you.” She didn’t turn, and after a while he wondered if she’d heard him. Her voice was small when she spoke. “No, I’d rather wait.” He didn’t question too strongly the relief that flooded through him.

If he doesn’t come out soon and tell us what’s going on, I am going in there.” A rush of relief flooded Harper at the sound of Drea in the hallway. “As much as you think she loves you, shortcake, she loves him a bit more. Give them a minute.” Trent laughed. Harper opened her eyes and looked at him. “My money is on Drea,” she whispered. “Can you get your stupid frigging arms off me?” Drea and Cujo burst through the door. Cujo’s arms were wrapped tightly around Drea’s middle, and the angle she was bending his fingers back to release his grip had to hurt. “I tried to stop her but it’s like getting a feral cat into a shoe box.” Cujo let out a grunt and let Drea go. Harper looked from Cujo to Drea, desperate to bury the laugh she could feel brewing.

In 1938, in a desperate effort to stop the Japanese advance in North China, Chiang ordered that the dikes of the Yellow River, not for nothing known as China’s Sorrow, be broken. This only delayed the Japanese advance while it created an inundation of the vast North China plain, with two or three feet of water sweeping over whole counties in several provinces. The flooding caused widespread crop failure such that at the worst of it ten thousand starving people each day were gathering in major cities seeking relief. In the end, 800,000 people died either directly of flooding or of starvation. In 1945, five million refugees were still in the places they had fled to.

Such an incredible, stupefying realization: I am not, indeed, the center of the universe. Not! Not! Not! And the overwhelming gratitude, the flooding relief that comes from finally being able to give myself the permission to lay down that excruciating, exhausting burden of needing to prove to the world, every waking moment, that I am, indeed, undeniably, irrefutably The Center of the Universe.

Imagine us as simpler beings, wired to be on the alert for incongruity because anything out of the ordinary might kill us. When incongruity is recognized—a shadow at the wrong time, an unfamiliar noise in the jungle—all our red flags go up, our hackles are raised, our bodies are flooded with adrenaline, and our pulses pound. Fear and/or aggression surge as we prepare to fight, flee, or die. And then the incongruity turns out to be harmless. Suddenly, all the switches are shut off and we are awash in the release of tension. The sensation is a chemical rush, an exciting physiological change which our bodies experience as we come down. We associate this feeling with relief, triumph, celebration. We look at our fellow pre-language, proto-humans as we vocalize our gasps of relief—do you feel this too? Did

Then a dam burst somewhere and a river of relief flowed over Ron along with a wave of salty tears in a delicious, warming flood. All the steam valves popped open, spewing out months of pent-up pressure in a glorious, liberating whoosh.

He put out his hand and I felt his fingers circling my arm. The hand was solid, heavy, like a moulded marble hand from antiquity. I looked at it and at the dark woollen material of his coat sleeve and the mounded expanse of his shoulder. A flooding feeling of relief passed violently through me, as if I was the passenger in a car that had finally swerved away from a sharp drop.

The cure for this evil is that whenever the king’s peacocklike soul gazes upon its wings of kingship and monarchy and, taking pleasure in them, desires to fly off to the realm of arrogance and tyranny, he should look at his black feet of helplessness and impermanence and recall his own origins: “Did We not create you from a vile liquid?” He will see that in the beginning he was a lowly drop of liquid, and in the end will be a lowly handful of dust, and that meanwhile he is prisoner to a mouthful of food and a drop of water, without any control of how these pass through him, so that if they are blocked up within him he will be content to renounce the kingship of both worlds for the sake of relief. And with all this, each moment he anticipates the coming of fate’s flood totally to destroy the ruined traces of life’s house, from which the rotation of the heavens, with the succession of night and day, has been removing one brick after the other. What cause is there for pride in such a state, and what reliance can be placed on such fortune?

Wow. Please tell me you haven't come up with a way to blame me for what happened that night." Heat flushed across her skin. Suddenly her office was too small, and she leaned back in her chair, which only brought into focus the fact that he was leaning into her. "Sorry, I forgot. Nothing is ever your fault." The smile in his eyes singed away, he straightened up again. "You're serious? You're suggesting that it is somehow my fault that you rage-fucked me? Actually, rage-fucked my thigh." The temperature in the room shot up so fast, Naina thought she was experiencing her first hot flash. Did those happen at thirty-eight? She groaned, because that thought made her feel ancient as she stared into his stupid dewy young face. She was sure her own face had gone some mortified shade. The only good news was that for once Vansh's color rose too, just as fast and fierce. Wait, had he just accused her of rage-fucking his thigh? "You are the world's most infuriating person, you know that?" For a moment Naina thought she might choke on her own incredulousness and the fact that he was not lying. "What kind of person brings that sort of thing up when someone's life's work is at stake?" "I was not the one who brought it up." He mirrored her finger-spinning action and made a circle around her face. "And don't make that face. You didn't say the words but you were thinking them. Never mind. I am actually not here to discuss our night together." "There was no night together." She pressed her hands into her face and tried to breathe into an imaginary bag. If she didn't calm down she was not going to be able to get this conversation back on track, to say nothing of the fact that she was going to pass out from the heat in here. "You were gone before the morning and I am very grateful that you brought me home and helped me when I----" "Got horny." "Threw up." They spoke simultaneously. Because the universe had decided to test how much humiliation it could stuff into one situation. Great, now he was smiling again, and she wanted to shake him even more. "Come on, Naina. Loosen up. It really wasn't that big of a deal." Relief flooded through her. Thank God. Yes, it was not. She was so glad he thought so. "You're right, people drink too much and throw up all the time.

Yes.” No hesitation in her answer. “Are you sure, Brody?” She sighed. “You don’t really know what you’re letting yourself in for. I bring a ton of baggage to a relationship.” Relief flooded him. Thank God. “I’m positive, sweetheart. I’m looking forward to unpacking your baggage and tossing the suitcase out the door. Fair warning, though. I come with my own baggage. This is an exclusive deal, right?

Ruefully she thought of the cigarette she’d lit only seconds before the explosion. It was still smouldering in the CIC. What a waste. She’d have given anything for a cigarette now. Just one before she died. Instinct told her that no one on the ship was likely to survive. But no, she thought suddenly. Of course. They weren’t reliant on lifeboats. They had helicopters. Relief flooded through her. Shankar had reached the top of the companionway. Hands stretched down to haul him out. As Crowe followed, it struck her that what they were experiencing might be the kind of contact humans knew best - aggressive, ruthless and murderous. Soldiers pulled her into the island. Well, Ms Alien, she thought, what do you think now about finding intelligent life in space? ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?’ she asked a soldier. He stared at her. ‘You’ve got to be kidding, lady. Just get the hell out of here.

Once Dr Glowacki agreed to the deal, the specifics didn’t take long. International Match agreed to lend 6 million dollars to the Polish government at an interest rate of 7 percent. The extant Polish match factories were nationalized, combined, and leased to International Match for twenty years; ownership of the factories would revert to Poland after that. During the twenty-year monopoly period, the income would be shared among Swedish Match, International Match, and Poland. The Polish government would use its share of the proceeds to fund relief work following devastating floods in Upper Silesia, as well as to bolster the country’s finances more generally.10 Dr Glowacki signed the agreement and pushed the deal through the Polish government. Technically, International Match would not have its first functioning public monopoly for several months, until the law went into effect in October 1925. But that didn’t stop Ivar from broadcasting the deal to America right away.

shock of separateness flooded me with relief. The world does not center on me or on my species. The causal center of the natural world is a place that humans had no part in making. Life transcends us. It directs our gaze outward. I felt both humbled and uplifted by the woodpecker’s flight.

Relief flooded him. He’d passed the biggest hurtle—asserting independence while protecting his relationship with his mother.

Although Hugh forced his eyes to open with obvious effort, he was so pale there was a green undertone to his tan skin. “What…are you…talking about? You’re the…lazy one.” “Give me your hand.” Theo was almost snarling by this point. He’d lost so much this past year. He knew, just knew, that he couldn’t survive losing Hugh. If Theo let another partner die, that would be the end of him. “Hugh, you fucking asshole! Give me your goddamned hand!” There was a pause, just a single second of stillness, but long enough to make Theo’s heart stop. “Such language.” Hugh tsked, his voice weak but present, the hint of a teasing smile on his face. He slowly raised a visibly shaking arm. Relief flooded Theo, making his heart thud with such force it felt like it was pounding against his rib cage.

Am I losing my mind? I wondered. It was like being falling-down drunk: my body was independent of me. Before I knew it, tears were flooding out. I felt myself turning bright red with embarrassment & got off the bus. I watched it drive away, and then without thinking I ducked into a poorly lit alley. Jammed between my own bags, stooped over, I sobbed. I had never cried this way in my life. As the hot tears poured out, I remembered that I had never had a proper cry over my grandmother's death. I had a feeling that I wasn't crying over any one sad thing, but rather for many.

What I need,” Mulan said quietly, “is someone who will stand by my side. Someone who will support me in my role.” She looked at him, willing her heart into her eyes. “Someone who loves me, and whom I love in return.” As Shang gazed back at her, everything around them became blurred, muffled. Finally, she spoke the terrifying, hopeful words. “I want you to marry me, Shang.” In that moment, Mulan could hear nothing but her heart beating in her ears. For what seemed like an eternity, silence hung between them. Shang let out a shaky breath. His expression wasn’t a clear yes, and Mulan’s soul froze. “Mulan,” he said. “Heavens know I want nothing more, but I worry I’ll be holding you back.” Relief flooded through her at his words. She took his hands. “Shang, we’ve led China to victory now, not once but twice. You don't hold me back. Your love makes me stronger.

not yet allowing himself to wallow in the wave of relief coursing through his body, and pushed through it, ignoring questions barked at him in a foreign language. He galloped down a set of steps, past another pair of cops rushing in the opposite direction, barely meriting a second glance on this occasion. As he left the park, crossing a road that was cordoned off to traffic at either end, he breathed out a long, deep, endless sigh of relief that flooded out of him with the relentless power of the Nile emptying into the Mediterranean Sea. It was only now that he recognized how fast his heart was beating, or felt the beads of sweat dripping off his forehead – both more a result of tension than exertion. “That was close,” he groaned, cursing himself for breaking the cardinal rule of espionage and thrusting himself into the center of attention. “Too damn close.” And it was far from over. He might have escaped the first cordon of cops, but before long the whole of central Moscow would be on lockdown. He needed to get out before it was too late. Trapp fought against his instincts and slowed his pace, walking casually down a side street, past a government building with a small brass plaque outside which read, ‘Federal Agency for State Property Management’ in English letters under the Cyrillic. He kept his head low, pointed at the ground, hoping that it would obscure him from the surveillance cameras that dotted the area, but knowing that it probably wouldn’t. That’s a problem for another day. He cast a quick look around to make sure no one was paying him any attention, and when he was certain that they were not, he ducked into a space between two parked cars, crouched down, and pulled on the neon vest he had previously stowed by his breast. Again, the disguise was skin deep, but if one of the cops he’d just passed managed to radio in a description, then perhaps this costume change might add a layer of distance. It was better than nothing. He started walking again, slowly enough not to draw the eye, fast enough to put as much distance between himself and what was about to turn into a very hot crime scene as possible. As he walked, his fingers played with the rock he had carried all this time, searching for a seam or a catch. He knew that it would not be locked, or contain the kind of self-destruct device so beloved of Hollywood movies. There wasn’t the space, and besides, any competent intelligence agency would be able to defeat such protections quickly enough. Trapp found it, worked the bottom of the rock open, and saw a memory stick sitting in a foam indentation. He pulled it free, put it into the coin pocket of his denim jeans, and dumped the two halves of the rock into an overflowing trash can. It was only then that the question came to him. What the hell do I do now? 35 The village of Soloslovo was 20 miles from Central Moscow, about thirty minutes by car in light traffic, or twenty on a high-powered motorcycle the likes of which Eliza Ikeda rode as she zipped past, around

Our concern is with psychological, or what are called psychogenic triggers, as these are usually what lead to the mass psychosis. The most prevalent psychogenic cause of a psychosis is a flood of negative emotions, such as fear or anxiety, that drives an individual into a state of panic. When in a state of panic one naturally seeks relief as it is too mentally and physically draining to subsist in this hyper-emotional state for a prolonged period of time.

righteous dopefiends.” They have subordinated everything in their lives—shelter, sustenance, and family—to injecting heroin. They endure the chronic pain and anxiety of hunger, exposure, infectious disease, and social ostracism because of their commitment to heroin. Abscesses, skin rashes, cuts, bruises, broken bones, flus, colds, opiate withdrawal symptoms, and the potential for violent assault are constant features of their lives. But exhilaration is also just around the corner. Virtually every day on at least two or three occasions, and sometimes up to six or seven times, depending on the success of their income-generating strategies, they are able to flood their bloodstreams and jolt their synapses with instant relief, relaxation, and pleasure.

Oh, Cassie," he breathed against my lips. He loomed over me, bracing his weight on his elbows, his forearms on either side of my head. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to my temple. Then he chuckled quietly, the sound so happy and full of relief it broke my heart. "I will never be able to deny you anything you want." When I'd imagined this happening, alone in my bedroom, I'd imagined Frederick as a quiet and tentative lover, as polite and refined with sex as he was in everyday life. But there was nothing quiet or tentative about him now. Now that I was lying beneath him atop his lush four-poster bed, his passion was a dam bursting in flood, as though until this moment he'd been holding himself back only with extreme effort.

Dad holds my face in his hands and kisses my forehead. “This is life, Marvel. Not everything has to be perfect all the time and neither do you.” His words are such a relief that a fresh flood of tears falls from my eyes. I bury my head in his shoulder, and he rubs my back. I hang on to him, not wanting to let go. Butter pushes her nose between Dad and me, making us both laugh a little bit. Dad gives Butter a pat, then asks Mr. J, “Do you think we could talk privately?” “Of course.” Dad and Mr. J leave to talk while I wait with Butter. I pull her in my lap and hug her close, smushing my face into her fur, terrified I’m going to have to get rid of her after what I did. After a few minutes, Mr. J and Dad come back with Principal Huxx. I know it’s time to hear the consequences of my actions, and my heart thuds with dread.

his touch feel so right? “You good?” His voice is a faint whisper, but I feel it in my belly. “All good.” Relief floods me when he doesn’t stop rubbing

Her relief flooded over me and, in the mysterious world of emotional alchemy, transformed inside me to joy. That is a memory of love, I know what love feels like, it feels like that.

You might try a phrase like “I don’t like it when this person ,” describing their behavior. When you hit upon your true feelings, you’ll feel a release of tension or sense of relief in your body. Don’t let guilt inhibit you. You’re speaking only to yourself, for the purpose of self-discovery. No one can hear you, and it’s completely safe. Some people think it’s necessary to confront the other person to get a true resolution, but I believe this is often counterproductive and provokes too much anxiety. Disclosing feelings too soon may flood you with unnecessary anxiety—not to mention risking a backlash—when you’re just beginning to get in touch with your true feelings. You can always talk to the person later if you wish, but first you need to regain your ability to speak your feelings to yourself. Just to be clear, what helps isn’t telling the other person; it’s knowing what you really feel. Simply admitting your true feelings and stating them out loud can make a huge difference in regaining your emotional peace. Waking

It will be helpful. I have to go back to the city, anyway, and who knows what’s waiting for us there? You might need it.” He stared into her eyes, frozen as they were locked together. “You’re going back?” “I’m going to be the one to blow up the city.” His lips parted, and for a moment she thought he was going to tell her no. He would argue that it wasn’t safe. She would tell him that nothing they did was safe. They would go to bed angry at each other and maybe ruin all of this before it had a chance to really start. Instead, his warm hand came up to cup her jaw. “You are brave, kalon. Far more than you have any right to be.” Relief, unlike anything she’d ever felt, flooded through her. With a sharp nod, she stopped looking into his eyes and instead locked her gaze on the arm. “I am glad for you. It’s a complicated feeling, that’s all. Seeing you like this... whole now...” He moved so quickly she didn’t even see him twitch. The strap went up and over his head. He wrenched the arm off, and she could see there were tiny wires that had wriggled their way into his skin. He pulled those out without a single flinch. Blood dripped from the little holes that were left behind as he dropped the arm onto the floor. “Whole?” he growled, wrapping his hand around her waist and tugging her against him. Water splashed up to her knees with the force of his movement as he dragged her against his chest. “My lack of arm has nothing to do with feeling whole. A metal device or not, I was never whole before you. You were the first person to look at me and see a man after my injury. Not a mistake, not a failure. You were the one to see me. My kalon, if you wished me to shed my skin, I would. If the arm makes you uncomfortable, then I will drop it into the deepest pits of the sea.” “That’s not what I want,” she said with a watery laugh. “I don’t want you to not be whole again because of me.” “I am only whole because of you.” He pressed his lips to hers, the long kiss tasting of salty tears and seawater. When he drew back, he pressed their foreheads together and took a deep breath with her. In and out. “Anya. It’s just an arm. A tool to be used, but never something that is part of me. I will use it to bring you to victory, but it does not change who I am.

I refused to admit it was because I was heading home alone instead of eating with Dante. I shut my eyes as I realized that even the thought of his name caused a shiver to run down my back. His voice startled me. “Do you not understand English, Little Bee? Or do you like to try to test my patience?” Again, that odd swell of relief flooded my chest. He was here. I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He was behind the wheel of the red SUV, his head tilted, a deep frown on his face. “I said I’d pick you up.” “I never agreed,” I responded and turned my back. I knew I was acting like my cat. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me either. But maybe he’d go away. I heard the sound of a door opening and measured footsteps. Then he was behind me. “I didn’t ask,” he said, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me as if I weighed nothing. I gasped in outrage as he swung around and took the few steps needed to place me in the vehicle. He carried me in much the same fashion as I used to carry my dolls. Legs hanging, pressed tight to my chest, not giving them the chance to fall. I couldn’t move until he deposited me in the seat. “You-you high-handed, cupcake-stealing…motherplucker!” “Motherplucker? Oh, you wound me,” he said with a laugh, leaning over me and snapping my seat belt closed. Our faces were so close, he could have kissed me. His gaze dropped to my lips, and then he met my eyes again. The intensity of his stare was overwhelming. He ran a finger down my cheek then tapped the end of my nose. “Extraordinary,” he whispered. He stepped back, shutting the door and, with a smirk, engaging the locks.

CHAPTER 13 The squall was soon over. Firestar led his cats home through a forest where every twig and fern dripped water under a clearing sky. Silverpelt glittered brightly, and Firestar raised his eyes to utter a silent prayer: Great StarClan, show me what to do. He began to worry about whether Tigerstar had sent warriors to attack the camp while Firestar and the others were away. It would be one way to weaken ThunderClan so that Firestar had no choice but to ally his surviving cats with TigerClan. Relief flooded over

shuddered. Hawke nodded. “Well, whatever happened saved me. But I was under water for so long—terrified to surface—and all my bubbles disappeared, and I started drowning. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down . . . I was so disoriented. When I finally made it to the surface, I didn’t have enough energy to swim. I just laid there, floating, most of my hearts gone. Then I was attacked again, but a water type hatchamob. A squid. I must have bumped it while I was floating and made it mad or something. It blasted me with a water jet, and I flew out of the water. The last thing I remember was flying toward the shore of this island. I knew when I hit, I’d poof.” “I’m so glad you’re alive,” Ellie said, relief flooding every word out of her mouth. She couldn’t help it and hugged him again.

According to some accounts of the bible, ravens were released by Noah after the flood but didn’t return because they were out feasting on the dead. I look down at the men’s blood soaking into the hard rust-colored dirt and breathe a sigh of relief that this whole thing hasn’t made me hungry.

Is he going to be okay?” I asked his doctor. He nodded. “He’s going to be fine.” Relief flooded me as quickly as I found myself smacking him in the face. The whole room gasped, then froze. Both his parents, Henry, Jonah and a doctor. Beej looked wide-eyed, confused, still a bit dazed. “If you ever,” I started, my voice shaking, “do that to me, ever again—” I shook my head. “I will never forgive you.” “Okay.” He blinked, kind of teary. “Promise me.” “I promise.” He barely nodded. Then I climbed out of his bed and walked out of his room.

The view of addiction from Rat Park is that today’s flood of addiction is occurring because our hyperindividualistic, hypercompetitive, frantic, crisis-ridden society makes most people feel socially and culturally isolated. . . . They find temporary relief in addiction to drugs or any of a thousand other habits and pursuits because addiction allows them to escape from their feelings, to deaden their senses, and to experience an addictive lifestyle as a substitute for a full life.

he was in a tormented state of tension and anxiety, and at the same time he felt an extraordinary need for solitude. he wanted to be alone and to give himself up to this agonizing tension quite passively, without seeking the slightest relief. with revulsion he declined to settle the questions that had flooded into his soul and heart. 'well, none of this is my fault, is it?

A Red Daggertail,” I whisper, relief flooding my veins as Sloane clumsily dismounts, clutching her shoulder. “Just like her brother.

CHAPTER ONE Rheia Bradley paced back and forth in front of the large picture window in her family room. Last night's dream had spooked her so badly that she'd asked Radek Carson, one of her oldest friends, to swing by the house. He had taken over as Sheriff when her father retired, he always knew how to cheer her up and ease her fears. She breathed out a sigh of relief when she saw headlights flood her driveway. She walked over to the door and waited, knowing if she simply swung it open without checking to see who it was, Radek would never let

But it wasn’t a moment’s emotion for his grandfather: it was the whole of him. Anakin had been driven to the dark side by agonized love. The revelation stunned Jacen because it was so narrow and so … selfish. Relief flooded him. This is different. That isn’t what I feel, or what’s driving me. And

I’ll never let you go, Angel. What can I do to atone for the pain I caused you?” Warm, exquisite relief flooded her at his words. She swallowed and took a deep breath. It was now or never. Angelica chose her words carefully. “I love you, Ian. Please, make me like you and take me with you wherever you go.

Michaels dug and pulled on Judge’s beard because it was hot to do and it really got the big man fired up. He was sucking the fuck out of his cock while jerking his own with his other hand. He was letting himself loose and Michaels wanted that. Judge went down and buried his nose in Michaels’ thick bush, his throat working the head. Michaels grunted hard, his lower back forced up off the bed by the amount of desire flooding him. Judge gagged and pulled off, looking pleased at Michaels’ spit-slicked cock. Few more seconds of this and he was going to come… explosively. Judge moaned around the blushed head, working hard at getting both of them off. Michaels didn’t want to come like this; he wanted more. His ass was just starting to feel relief and he wanted to beat it up again. Oh, hell yes. He pulled on Judge’s hair. “Enough,” he groaned. “I want you to come,” Judge answered, his voice just as sexy and husky. “I will.” Michaels opened his legs wide. He reached his hand down and skimmed over his balls, gathering some of the spit there, reaching lower. Judge gasped when Michaels pushed two fingers inside himself. The

Jonas suddenly lifted his eyes up to mine and held there for a moment before he lowered his upper body and placed his nose against my groin and inhaled deeply. And when his fingers closed gently around the base of my dick and his tongue flitted over the crown, I nearly wept at the relief that flooded through me.

Connall had only stopped when she’d gone limp in his arms, and could still recall the pallor of her skin as he’d lifted his head to peer down at her. Eva had lain limp and pale in his arms, and so very still. Connall had felt a fear like he had never before known clutch at him. It was only then, as he’d cradled her in his arms and pressed her head to his chest that he’d realized how much he’d grown to care for the woman. She had been trying since arriving to make a place for herself at MacAdie, but somehow had crept into his heart and made a home for herself there as well. He loved Eva and that knowledge had kept him awake to watch over her until his physical state alone had forced him to sleep. Connall had awoken at sunset to find her curled up against him. She’d still looked awfully pale to him, but not nearly as much as she had the night before, and when he’d brushed a hand lightly over her cheek and she had murmured his name sleepily, relief had flooded him along with the knowledge that she was recovering. He’d decided to leave her to rest for a bit while he tended to his need to feed, and had dressed and left the night room. Aware

From the hilltop Loretta watched the lone man walking toward her from the village. Relief flooded through her when she recognized Hunter’s loose-hipped, graceful stride. She crossed herself quickly and murmured thanks to the Holy Mother for her intercession. A dozen emotions surging through her, she urged Friend down the embankment. Hunter met her halfway across the flat. As Loretta rode toward him, she couldn’t stop staring. Even though she had been away from him only a short while, she had forgotten how Indian he looked. How savage. He moved with the fluid strength of a well-muscled animal, his shoulders, arms, and chest in constant motion, a bronzed play of tendon and flesh. The wind whipped his hair about his face. Mercy. He wasn’t wearing any breeches, just a breechcloth and knee-high moccasins. She drew Friend to a halt and swallowed a rush of anxiety. Aunt Rachel was right. He was a Comanche, first, last, and always. Yet she had come to him.

flooded with relief when Gray came through the door. “You were at the cemetery awhile. I almost drove by, but I figured you wanted to be alone.” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” Gray set down Charlene’s messenger bag. “Mind if I change real quick?” Gray snapped her fingers and the skirt turned into a pair of soft blue jeans and ribbed tank top. “Much better,” Gray said, flopping onto the couch. “Actually I ran into Raj McKenna and we left in favor of mochas at The Daily Grind.” “Raj McKenna knows you’re back?” “Hey, Charlene told Ryan Phillips. If she can tell her minion what’s going on I should be able to tell my… well, definitely not minion, but, you know, magically inclined friend.” Gray chuckled at the thought of Raj as her minion. “Speaking of Ryan Phillips, are you and Mr. Phillips still an item?” Yes, let’s change the subject—obviously Mom was mulling over both the fact that Gray had confided in someone and, more likely, that she’d been out having coffee with a boy. “Marc and I aren’t dating any longer.” Gray tilted her head back on the armrest of the couch. “Oh, why not?” “I couldn’t see him after hearing Ryan helped Charlene

Even at a distance he recognized the way she sat a horse, the tilt of her head. He couldn’t believe she had come so far and so quickly. Fate had indeed led her in a circle back to him. Ordering Blackbird back to his mother’s lodge, Hunter increased his pace, the dread of leaving his people forgotten. Destiny. A month ago he had railed against it. Now he wasn’t certain how he felt. Resentful, yet pleased. And relieved. Deep in the quiet places of his heart, he sensed the rightness. Fate. Today it had brought him a woman, a woman like no other, with skin as white as a night moon, hair like honey, and eyes like the summer sky. His woman, and this time she came freely. From the hilltop Loretta watched the lone man walking toward her from the village. Relief flooded through her when she recognized Hunter’s loose-hipped, graceful stride. She crossed herself quickly and murmured thanks to the Holy Mother for her intercession. A dozen emotions surging through her, she urged Friend down the embankment. Hunter met her halfway across the flat. As Loretta rode toward him, she couldn’t stop staring. Even though she had been away from him only a short while, she had forgotten how Indian he looked. How savage. He moved with the fluid strength of a well-muscled animal, his shoulders, arms, and chest in constant motion, a bronzed play of tendon and flesh. The wind whipped his hair about his face. Mercy. He wasn’t wearing any breeches, just a breechcloth and knee-high moccasins. She drew Friend to a halt and swallowed a rush of anxiety. Aunt Rachel was right. He was a Comanche, first, last, and always. Yet she had come to him. “Blue Eyes?” He slowed his pace as he got closer, his indigo eyes traveling the length of her, taking in every detail of her dress, from the high neckline down to the bit of petticoat and black high-topped shoes showing below the hem of her full skirts. His eyes warmed with the familiar gleam of laughter that had once irritated her so much. She fastened her gaze on his face and, resisting the need to blurt out her troubles, searched her mind for the appropriate Comanche greeting, determined to begin this encounter on the right note. “Hi, hites,” she said, lifting her right hand. He caught the stallion’s bridle and stepped close. He was so tall that he didn’t have to tip his head back to see her face. With a smile in his voice, he replied, “Hello.” Loretta caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stop its trembling. How like him to remember her word of greeting. He was her friend. She had been right to come here.

In truth, most addicts find relief the moment they stop hiding. The moment they publicly admit they have a problem. For most high-functioning addicts, the moment they realize there’s a God and it’s not them, relief floods into their tortured hearts.

Toquet, it is well, little one. It is finished, eh?” She panted, tossing her head. “It h-hurts!” “It will pass,” he assured her huskily. “It will pass. It is a promise I make for you.” She went rigid when he began to move within her, her small face drawing tight. Tears sprang to Hunter’s eyes when she reached up to hug his neck, clinging to him even though he was the one hurting her. He had asked her to trust him this one last time. And she had. What if the discomfort didn’t lessen, as he had promised her? She would never let him near her again. Relief flooded through him when at last he felt her relax. Carefully he picked up momentum, nudging deeper and deeper. Only when Hunter heard her cry out in pleasure did he allow himself to seek pleasure as well. They drifted back to reality slowly, limbs entwined, heartbeats erratic, bodies shimmering with sweat. Hunter drew her head onto his shoulder, unwilling to let her go. A half smile settled on his mouth. He knew this first coupling had fallen far short of what it could have been, what it would be the second time. He had been tense, and so had she, not to mention the pain he had inflicted. His smile broadened. This small woman filled the empty places inside him, made him feel whole again.

I look down, relief flooding through me. If the king himself is involved now, surely the snatchers will be stopped. This work will continue, and Berenworth will be properly investigated, and even if the thrice-cursed Circle isn’t brought down, the snatchers themselves will be stopped.

The news of Hitler’s suicide on April 30th flooded Britain like a giant sigh of relief.

With a quick glance into the room, noting the inquiring faces, Lydia reached out for Robert's waistcoat and slowly pulled him into the shadows. "There is one matter that counts above all else. Do you love me?" This time, there was no hesitation. "With all my heart, until the day I die, and beyond, if there is an afterlife." A flood of relief washed over Lydia, leaving her speechless... for all of a moment. "Then, I will marry you, if you will ask." Before he had a chance to say anything, Lydia leaned forward. She wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her mouth to his. She could feel his heart pounding out a quick-time rhythm as he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. When their lips met, she thought her insides would melt into a puddle of ecstasy. Filled with a delicious, undefined longing, Lydia leaned in closer, wishing that she could stay locked in his arms forever. But all too soon, Robert lifted his head, taking a ragged breath. "Lydia, my dove?" "Yes, Robert?" "I have just thoroughly compromised you." "Thoroughly...what ever shall we do?" "We will have to announce our intention this very evening -- before there is any hint of a scandal." "Excellent idea. What are our intentions?" Robert chuckled and leaner over to kiss her forehead, but Lydia lifted herself up on her toes, initiating another session of excellent compromising. "Lydia, my dove?" Robert said again eventually. "Yes, Robert." "Will you grant me the great privilege of your hand in marriage?" Lydia closed her eyes and savored his proposal---the offer of a union for life. Exquisite joy, overwhelming and eternal, filled her to the brim; the sensation was so marvelous that she forgot to breathe for a time. The air around them stilled, as did Robert. He was waiting. How could he not know her answer? She had encouraged the proposal. And still he waited. Lydia opened her eyes and grinned. "I would be honored." The relief on his face nearly brought tears to her eyes. She lifted her hand and cupped his chin. "I would be honored," she repeated. "I love you so very much." As her future husband lowered his head once again, Lydia sighed dreamily. "We should go in," she whispered, tightening her hold, preventing him from going anywhere. "Absolutely," he said, nibbling at her lower lip. All thoughts of ballrooms and inquisitive glances were instantly drowned by the flow of marvelous sensations coursing through her body and a sudden desire to drag Robert deeper into the shadows. They would go back into the ballroom soon...but not yet.

The sprawling federal flood control infrastructure program of the mid-twentieth century had been replaced by an equally massive federal disaster relief and recovery assistance program of the late twentieth century.

Telling him everything about Kane, except the most important piece of information. Avery paid another twenty to learn Kane was in fact gay. Relief flooded through him like he had never experienced before in his entire life. Fate was a funny creature. Avery could totally see his heart's desire being stiffly straight. But fate had smiled down on him this time, and now he was more determined than ever to get Kane on board with his plans. From