Gazebo Quotes

This is awful. I don't know what's going to happen to me or to anyone else in the world.

There was a small wooden gazebo built out over the water; Isabelle was sitting in it, staring out across the lake. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting at the top of her tower for someone to ride up and rescue her. Not that traditional princess behavior was like Isabelle at all. Isabelle with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time.

Only by examining our personal biases can we grow as artists; only by cultivating empathy can we grow as people.

There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.

I'm moving to Nevada. Either there or kill myself.

We knew our days were numbered. We had fouled up our lives and we were getting ready for a shake-up.

Beside me, Dean squints at the gazebo to get a better look. “Naah, that’s not her. Your freshman is a brunette. And she doesn’t have legs that go on and on and—fuck, those legs are hot. ’Scuse me, I think I’ll go over there and introduce myself.” I grab his arm before he can take another step. “It’s Grace, dumbass. She obviously dyed her hair. And if you looked at her face and not her legs, you’d see it.

When the writing is good, a book becomes a mirror. The reader will see an uncanny familiarity and respond accordingly.

Years passed. The trees in our yard grew taller. I watched my family and my friends and neighbors, the teachers whom I'd had or imaged having, the high school I had dreamed about. As I sat in the gazebo I would pretend instead that I was sitting on the topmost branch of the maple under which my brother had swallowed a stick and still played hide-and-seek with Nate, or I would perch on the railing of a stairwell in New York and wait for Ruth to pass near. I would study with Ray. Drive the Pacific Coast Highway on a warm afternoon of salty air with my mother. But I would end each day with my father in his den. I would lay these photographs down in my mind, those gathered from my constant watching, and I could trace how one thing- my death- connected these images to a single source. No one could have predicted how my loss would change small moments on Earth. But I held on to those moments, hoarded them. None of them were lost as long as I was there.

Hooves clomping over the whitewashed planks, Doren sprinted along the boardwalk after Rondus, a portly satyr with butterscotch fur and horns that curved away from each other. Puffing hard, Rondus cut through a gazebo and started down the stairs to the field. Only a few steps behind, Doren went airborne and slammed into the heavyset satyr. Together they pitched violently forward into the grass, staining their skin green.

I got to third base. At baseball practice the following Monday, that is. As for what happened that night with Kevin at the stinky picnic gazebo, that's none of your damn business.

It was always too late, she thought. At the point when you actually realized something important, the moment to do anything about it had already slipped by.

You take your flashlight out on your walks, right?” Simon asked. “Depends on the moonlight.” “From now on, take it with you every night. When you’re out walking this way, you’ll pass the gazebo, where, chances are, I will be smoking.” “Then what?” “You can signal—say, three times if you want to take a walk with me. Twice if you want to walk alone. that way I’ll just let you walk on. It’ll be like a military code. No one gets hurt.” I laughed. “that’s silly and charming.” “I try. I can signal back with my cigarette lighter too,” Simon said, holding up the lighter and firing off three short bursts of flame. “So, like, if I see you first and I happen to not wish to talk to you, I can fire off two bursts and block you in your tracks.

She must have thought I was marrying just anybody and I needed a gazebo to make it spectacular.

The kiss, the music, the gazebo…it was the perfect moment. But, like all moments, it couldn’t last. Eventually, it would end, and so would we.

My room was in one of those turrets and at night I could hear the sea and the faint rustle of eelgrass in the soft wind. The weather was perfect that summer. No storms. Blue skies and just the right amount of wind every day. The sailors were in heaven.

Then it’s settled,” Harriet said. “We shall work out the smaller roles later.” “What about you?” Elizabeth demanded. “Oh, I’m going to be the goddess of the sun and moon.” “The tale gets stranger and stranger,” Daniel said. “Just wait until act seven,” Miss Wynter told him. “Seven?” His head snapped up. “There are seven acts?” “Twelve,” Harriet corrected, “but don’t worry, you’re in only eleven of them. Now then, Miss Wynter, when do you propose that we begin our rehearsals? And may we do so out of doors? There is a clearing by the gazebo that would be ideal.

SEPTIMUS: My lady, I was alone with my thoughts in the gazebo, when Mrs Chater ran me to ground, and I being in such a passion, in an agony of unrelieved desire -- LADY CROOM: Oh....! SEPTIMUS: -- I thought in my madness that the Chater with her skirts over her head would give me the momentary illusion of the happiness to which I dared not put a face. (Pause.) LADY CROOM: I do not know when I have received a more unusual compliment, Mr Hodge. I hope I am more than a match for Mrs Chater with her head in a bucket. Does she wear drawers? SEPTIMUS: She does. LADY CROOM: Yes, I have heard that drawers are being worn now. It is unnatural for women to be got up like jockeys. I cannot approve.

In my day you got married and spent one holiday with one set of in-laws and another with the others. None of this bonding business.

But just a piece of advice. Never let a man walk you to a riverside gazebo all lit up with white lights if you don’t want your head to go spinning in crazy directions.

My little brother's greatest fear was that the one person who meant so much to him would go away. He loved Lindsey and Grandma Lynn and Samuel and Hal, but my father kept him stepping lightly, son gingerly monitoring father every morning and every evening as if, without such vigilance, he would lose him. We stood- the dead child and the living- on either side of my father, both wanting the same thing. To have him to ourselves forver. To please us both was an impossibility. ... 'Please don't let Daddy die, Susie,' he whispered. 'I need him.' When I left my brother, I walked out past the gazebo and under the lights hanging down like berries, and I saw the brick paths branching out as I advanced. I walked until the bricks turned to flat stones and then to small, sharp rocks and then to nothing but churned earth for miles adn miles around me. I stood there. I had been in heaven long enough to know that something would be revealed. And as the light began to fade and the sky to turn a dark, sweet blue as it had on the night of my death, I saw something walking into view, so far away I could not at first make out if it was man or woman, child or adult. But as moonlight reached this figure I could make out a man and, frightened now, my breathing shallow, I raced just far enough to see. Was it my father? Was it what I had wanted all this time so deperately? 'Susie,' the man said as I approached and then stopped a few feet from where he stood. He raised his arms up toward me. 'Remember?' he said. I found myself small again, age six and in a living room in Illinois. Now, as I had done then, I placed my feet on top of his feet. 'Granddaddy,' I said. And because we were all alone and both in heaven, I was light enough to move as I had moved when I was six and in a living room in Illinois. Now, as I had done then, I placed my feet on top of his feet. 'Granddaddy,' I said. And because we were all alone and both in heaven, I was light enough to move as I had moved when I was six and he was fifty-six and my father had taken us to visit. We danced so slowly to a song that on Earth had always made my grandfather cry. 'Do you remember?' he asked. 'Barber!' 'Adagio for Strings,' he said. But as we danced and spun- none of the herky-jerky awkwardness of Earth- what I remembered was how I'd found him crying to this music and asked him why. 'Sometimes you cry,' Susie, even when someone you love has been gone a long time.' He had held me against him then, just briefly, and then I had run outside to play again with Lindsey in what seemed like my grandfather's huge backyard. We didn't speak any more that night, but we danced for hours in that timeless blue light. I knew as we danced that something was happening on Earth and in heaven. A shifting. The sort of slow-to-sudden movement that we'd read about in science class one year. Seismic, impossible, a rending and tearing of time and space. I pressed myself into my grandfather's chest and smelled the old-man smell of him, the mothball version of my own father, the blood on Earth, the sky in heaven. The kumquat, skunk, grade-A tobacco. When the music stopped, it cold have been forever since we'd begun. My grandfateher took a step back, and the light grew yellow at his back. 'I'm going,' he said. 'Where?' I asked. 'Don't worry, sweetheart. You're so close.' He turned and walked away, disappearing rapidly into spots and dust. Infinity.

The grassy park was lined with dozens of kissing booths. Twinkle lights draped back-and-forth between tall trees, making a canopy of stars above the red and pink tables below. People were lined up at each booth, applying lipstick and perfume as they readied for their purchased kisses. Behind the booths stood a large white gazebo housing a group of musicians. As a love song filled the air, couples intertwined their bodies and swayed to the melody. Here and there, children ran about wearing red hats and eating lip-shaped chocolates, while women waited impatiently for quickie makeovers under a flashy pink tent. The park was littered with couples kissing behind trees and making out on park benches. And paper stars were everywhere; in trees, on the ground, above heads, inside mouths…. It was like Valentine’s Day. On crack.

Mistakes are lessons and lessons are gifts. Examine them.

You're not a wallflower. But you have my permission to hide in corners, my sweet- so long as you take me with you. In fact, I'll insist on it. I warn you, I'm very badly behaved at such affairs- I'll probably debauch you in gazebos, on balconies, beneath staircases, and behind assorted potted plants. And if you complain, I'll simply remind you that you should have known better than to marry a conscienceless rake." Evie's throat arched slightly at the light stroke of his fingers. "I wouldn't complain." Sebastian smiled and nipped tenderly at the side of her neck. "Dutiful little wife," he whispered. "I'm going to be a terrible influence on you. Why don't you give me a kiss, and go upstairs for your bath? By the time you finish, I'll be there with you.

I dream of a small room and a man with one eye. Blood seeps like scarlet tears from his empty socket. I turn away and the room becomes a hallway that becomes a stairway that becomes a roof. The wind tugs at my body; the sky tries to wrap me in stars. Below me, a gazebo glows with red light. A line of black cars crawls like cockroaches through the streets. An air conditioner exhaust fan chitters angrily near the roof’s edge, one of its blades bent just enough to scrape against the side of the casing. For a second I let the wind push me close enough to the fan’s razor- sharp blades that a lock of my hair gets snipped and sent out into the night. As it twists and flutters toward the gazebo, I think about just letting go, letting the breeze carry my body into the whirling blades, the wind scattering pieces of me throughout the city. Blood and flesh seeping into the cracked pavement. Flowers blooming wherever I land.

the way it sounded under the bridge when the sleigh passed over, the thunder of the horses' hooves mingled with the brighter notes of the jangling bells; the way the blue bowl of the sky arched overhead; the way the air filled my lungs, so cold that it hurt; the way the enticing scent of hot chocolate drifted from the little gazebo on the island.

A gazebo on top of a welding rig” was how Yul might have described it, if only he had been here.

Even the enormity of what had happened in this gazebo with India had been no match for his focus, because twenty-four hours did not define you. An hour with her just redefined you.

He had to have her, he couldn't wait, the need throbbed through him hot and urgent. But here? On the wooden floor of his brother's gazebo?

a beautiful gazebo. The place itself was monstrous;

I wondered if Rhys had left Eldorra yet, and if he'd remember us ten, twenty, thirty years from now. I wondered if, when he saw me on TV or in a magazine, he would think about Costa Rica and storms in a gazebo and lazy afternoons in a hotel room, or if he'd flip past with nothing more than a spark of nostalgia. I wondered if I would haunt him as much as he haunted me.

Noakes (bleating) Lord Little has one very similar – Lady Croom I cannot relieve Lord Little’s misfortunes by adding to my own. Pray, what is this rustic hovel that presumes to superpose itself on my gazebo?

I began to experience, over the course of the next three months, full-blown insomnia. I’m not talking about the romantic kind, not the sweet sleeplessness one has when one is in love, anxiously awaiting the morn so one can rendezvous with a lover in an illicit gazebo. No, this was the torturous, clammy kind, when one’s pillow slowly takes on the properties of a block of wood and one’s sheets, the air of the Everglades.

I continue through the forest, all the way to the gazebo where Hettie and I once watched a show of a thousand-colored stingrays, where we once danced to lulling music, and where I finally realized it was all a lie.

Fuck,” he growled and ripped the elastic band out of his hair and threw it on the gazebo floor. “I don’t know what I have to do for you. I gave you a job, flew you out to Vegas, gave you the best home I could, fed you, trained you, fucked you, fought for you… and still you won’t have me.” His

She laughed. “Let me guess, sex in the gazebo is one of your fantasies?” “Oh, yeah. I’ve wanted to do this since the moment this damn thing was built.” “What, none of your hockey groupies ever wanted to do it in the wilderness of your backyard?” she teased. “I’ve never brought a woman home before.

Inviting arguments is easy. The goal is to write something bold enough to invite contrary feedback and provoke real discussion.

The best way to keep your house spotless is to begin writing a novel.

As she neared the gazebo, the unmistakable sounds of passion drifted from the interior. She halted as a woman let out a long, soft moan. "Oh, Robby, we need to stop. We're missing the party." "I canna wait another minute," he grumbled in a low voice. "I need you now, Olivia." The woman let out another long moan that Caitlyn could only interpret as surrender. She tiptoed across the grass, headed in another direction. A feminine squeal emanated from the gazebo, followed by a masculine growl.

A single mud street rutted from the recent rains. A squalid alameda where there stood a rotting brushwood gazebo and a few old iron benches. The trees in the alameda had been freshly whitewashed and the upper trunks were lost in the dark above the light of the few lamps yet burning so that they looked like plaster stagetrees new from the mold. The horses stepped with great weariness among the dried rails of mud in the street and dogs barked at them from behind the wooden gates and doors they passed.

Then Agnes came out the front door and down the steps with a tray of drinks, dark curls bouncing and red-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose again, wearing some kind of red dress with straps that tied on her shoulders and a skirt that whipped around her legs in the breeze, and Shane's thoughts jumped track until she led the other two women around the side of the house to the gazebo. Agnes had damn good legs. And a great back. One pull on those ties- And she'd smiled at him, standing there in the morning sunlight. Might have been an invitation. Might not have been, too. Probably should make sure before he started untying things.

That was a very pretty image, the idle ladies sitting in the gazebo and murmuring lasciate ogni speranza, but it depended entirely upon the popular view of the movement as some kind of collective inchoate yearning for “fulfillment,” or “self-expression,” a yearning absolutely devoid of ideas and capable of engendering only the most pro forma benevolent interest. In fact there was an idea, and the idea was Marxist, and it was precisely to the extent that there was this Marxist idea that the curious historical anomaly known as the women’s movement would have seemed to have any interest at all. Marxism in this country had ever been an eccentric and quixotic passion. One oppressed class after another had seemed finally to miss the point. The have-nots, it turned out, aspired mainly to having. The minorities seemed to promise more, but finally disappointed: it developed that they actually cared about the issues, that they tended to see the integration of the luncheonette and the seat in the front of the bus as real goals, and only rarely as ploys, counters in a larger game. They resisted that essential inductive leap from the immediate reform to the social ideal, and, just as disappointingly, they failed to perceive their common cause with other minorities, continued to exhibit a self-interest disconcerting in the extreme to organizers steeped in the rhetoric of “brotherhood.

She didn’t understand love, not the golden, shimmering, romance-novel stuff that existed between mates. She was skeptical of it, and had never been one to pretend that it existed just for the sake of excitement. She didn’t know what it looked like, what it felt like…at least, she hadn’t. But she realized, amid the dancing tendrils of ivy that climbed the gazebo, that love – that good, golden kind she’d always discounted – didn’t arrive with a blast of trumpets and an earth-shattering epiphany. It was earned, formed, created, day by day, a little at a time. And it looked like Mike eating toast over her kitchen sink, felt like his hand smoothing her hair back off her face, sounded like his sudden shout of laughter when she spilled a whole sack of flour out of the top cabinet down onto her head in his kitchen, tasted like the kiss he used to make up for it.

A very big problem we have, as a human race, is our repeated failure to identify and to acknowledge all of the parts within us and we collectively and individually spend time and energy on denying so many inner natures, in a hot pursuit of moral codes and annoying virtues, that we have shrunken away within ourselves and left on top merely a malnourished container which feeds on static energy (knee jerk emotions, responses to stimuli, etc.). We are afraid of the creatures that roam the woodlands within us and we are afraid of the abandoned castles, eerie lakes, old songs, forgotten gazebos, all of which are established on the inside of the mind. There is maybe an old chair in a corner of a diner inside of your mind and you push it away and away and further away instead of going back to it, to sit down on it, to have a milkshake at that table. We have forged a worldwide culture wherein we are constantly struggling towards a moral good and it is supposed to be a daily attainment, and yet, nobody ever is good enough at the end of the day. And so we have cut off pieces of ourselves–arms and legs–because everything is nothing, or is wrong, in our bids to be worthy. No wonder we are all so lonely. We have amputated ourselves, and one another, in a bid to run away from the souls which take residence inside of us. Then we blame this loneliness on the world, or on other people's cowardice, or on the stupidity of the human race... we have failed to embrace the monsters within us long enough to give them chances to sprout silky wings and we have failed to embrace the laughs that we wish to free from our chests, if they do not fall into the norms of the standards for our own acceptance. No wonder we are so lonely. We are not lonely because we don't have one another; we are lonely because we do not have our own selves!

I believe another one of the Song girls has a birthday coming up.” He sings, “You are sixteen, going on seventeen…” I feel a strong surge of love for him, my dad who I am so lucky to have. “What song are you singing?” Kitty interrupts. I take Kitty’s hands and spin her around the kitchen with me. “I am sixteen, going on seventeen; I know that I’m naïve. Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet; willingly I believe.” Daddy throws his dish towel over his shoulder and marches in place. In a deep voice he baritones, “You need someone older and wiser telling you what to do…” “This song is sexist,” Kitty says as I dip her. “Indeed it is,” Daddy agrees, swatting her with the towel. “And the boy in question was not, in fact, older and wiser. He was a Nazi in training.” Kitty skitters away from both of us. “What are you guys even talking about?” “It’s from The Sound of Music,” I say. “You mean that movie about the nun? Never seen it.” “How have you seen The Sopranos but not The Sound of Music?” Alarmed, Daddy says, “Kitty’s been watching The Sopranos?” “Just the commercials,” Kitty quickly says. I go on singing to myself, spinning in a circle like Liesl at the gazebo. “I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet, and willingly I believe…” “Why would you just willingly believe some random fellows you don’t even know?” “It’s the song, Kitty, not me! God!” I stop spinning. “Liesl was kind of a ninny, though. I mean, it was basically her fault they almost got captured by the Nazis.” “I would venture to say it was Captain von Trapp’s fault,” Daddy says. “Rolfe was a kid himself--he was going to let them go, but then Georg had to antagonize him.” He shakes his head. “Georg von Trapp, he had quite the ego. Hey, we should do a Sound of Music night!” “Sure,” I say. “This movie sounds terrible,” Kitty says. “What kind of name is Georg?” We ignore her.

We remembered the delicate fig-shaped island,stranded between the American Empire and peaceful Canada, as it had been years ago, with its welcoming red white-and-blue flag-shaped flower bed,splashing fountains, European casino, and horse paths leading through woods where Indians had bent trees into giant bows. Now grass grew inpatches down to the littered beach where children fished with pop topstied to string. Paint flaked from once-bright gazebos. Drinking fountains rose from mud puddles laid with broken brick stepping stones. Along the road the granite face of the Civil War Hero had been spray-painted black. Mrs. Huntington Perry had donated her prize orchids to the Botanical Garden in the time before the riots, when civic money still ran high, but since her death ion the eroding tax base had forced cutbacks that had laid off one skilled gardener a year, so that plants that had survived transplantation from equatorial regions to bloom again in that false paradise now withered, weeds sprang up amid scrupulous identification tags, and fake sunlight flowed for only a few hours per day. The only thing that remained was the steam vapor, beading the sloping greenhouse windows and filling our nostrils with the moisture and aroma of a rotting world

Annie, just once could you not give me a hard time?” “Maybe someday, but not today.” “Annie, you’re making Theo sad.” Neither of them realized Livia had been paying attention to them. She peered around Theo’s legs. “I think you should tell him your free secret.” “I don’t!” She gave Livia a death glare. “And you’d better not, either.” Livia peered up at Theo. “Then you better tell your free secret.” He stiffened. “Annie doesn’t want to hear my free secret.” “You have a free secret?” Annie asked. “Yes, he does.” Livia puffed up with four-year-old self-importance. “And I know it.” Now Theo was the one giving Livia the death glare. “Find some pinecones. A lot of them.” He jabbed his hand toward the trees behind the gazebo. “Over there.” Annie could only stand so much. “Later,” she said. “We need to get back to the cottage and see if mom’s awake.” Livia’s face turned into a thundercloud. “I don’t want to go!” “Don’t give Annie a hard time,” he said. “I’ll finish the fairy house. You can see it later.” The fire had disrupted Livia’s world. She hadn’t had enough sleep, and she was as cranky as only an overstimulated four-your-old could be. “I’m not going!” she cried. “And if you don’t let me stay, I’ll tell your free secrets!” Annie grabbed her arm. “You can’t tell a free secret!” “You absolutely can’t!” Theo exclaimed. “I can!” Livia retorted. “If they’re both the same!

accepted Randy’s offer to sit beside him at the town’s Fourth of July ice cream social and band concert, he’d marched up the gazebo steps and announced his

speedy

day, in a gazebo by a river in the middle of fucking nowhere in the Colorado Mountains, the man known throughout the dark, harsh, fetid, hostile underbelly of this great United States as Ghost got married to one of the most beautiful women Nick had ever laid eyes on. She

Ever since last night at the gazebo, butterflies had taken up residence in my stomach. All it took was the slightest touch from him to set them off. “And

It was somewhere between being awake and being asleep—a netherworld of sorts. That was the only explanation for why he was walking in a park, through a large baseball field with short, recently cut grass. No one cuts grass anymore. Slowly, the sights became familiar, and he pieced together the evidence. There, a gazebo surrounded by hurricane fencing, with a sign across the entrance gate reading: “Gazebo Reservations Available.

As a writer, my mission is to represent the perceptible world in such a way that readers can see the extraordinary that lives all around them. I want to converse on the page. I want to squash the humdrum, the mendacity that arrives due to too many overworked routines and overfed expectations. I want to entertain and awaken. I want to imagine and observe. I want to spin my fiction from an honest, curious place.

An example of this is an urban legend told in some gaming circles about a gazebo.

Winning Expo 2020 marked the city’s coronation and the world could no longer deny Dubai its rightful status as one of the era’s more illustrious cities. The people who flocked there were looking for some sort of magic to occur in their lives, and life on the beach under these concrete gazebos offered many blessings. Some found riches. Some found religion. Some found love. And some, most importantly of all, found themselves.

This will work,” he said with great authority. “You’ll see.” She looked doubtful, but she nodded. Of course, there was little else she could do. She’d just been caught by the biggest gossip in London with a man’s mouth on her chest. If he hadn’t offered to marry her, she’d have been ruined forever. And if she’d refused to marry him . . . well, then she’d be branded a fallen woman and an idiot. Anthony suddenly stood. “Mother!” he barked, leaving Kate on the bench as he strode over to her. “My fiancée and I desire a bit of privacy here in the garden.” “Of course,” Lady Bridgerton murmured. “Do you think that’s wise?” Mrs. Featherington asked. Anthony leaned forward, placed his mouth very close to his mother’s ear, and whispered, “If you do not remove her from my presence within the next ten seconds, I shall murder her on the spot.” Lady Bridgerton choked on a laugh, nodded, and managed to say, “Of course.” In under a minute, Anthony and Kate were alone in the garden. He turned to face her; she’d stood and taken a few steps toward him. “I think,” he murmured, slipping his arm through hers, “that we ought to consider moving out of sight of the house.” His steps were long and purposeful, and she stumbled to keep up with him until she found her stride. “My lord,” she asked, hurrying along, “do you think this is wise?” “You sound like Mrs. Featherington,” he pointed out, not breaking his pace, even for a second. “Heaven forbid,” Kate muttered, “but the question still stands.” “Yes, I do think it’s very wise,” he replied, pulling her into a gazebo. Its walls were partially open to the air, but it was surrounded by lilac bushes and afforded them considerable privacy. “But—” He smiled. Slowly. “Did you know you argue too much?” “You brought me here to tell me that?” “No,” he drawled, “I brought you here to do this.” And then, before she had a chance to utter a word, before she even had a chance to draw breath, his mouth swooped down and captured hers in a hungry, searing kiss.

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The best part of gazebo Ottawa is it provides you with unlimited options to stylize and fashion it in your own sense. It can be a simple roof held by posts or can have walls, making it possible to include screens, windows, and doors.

Gazebo Ottawa is a perfect element to add up in your garden or any other surroundings. It can be the focal point amidst your environment, giving you a sense of serenity. It’s a perfect blend as it provides shade as well as it is airy. Adding to your home space, gazebos are one of their kind which can be a part of your lifestyle throughout all seasons. In summer, it is shady.

Well, I wasn’t surprised Lucas was in love with you,” Jamie said. “The way he spent all that time renovating your apartment and refurbishing your floors. I knew he was falling for you.” Kate tried to catch Lucas’s eyes, but he seemed intent on his food. “And all the time he spent on the gazebo,” Jamie continued. “We should have known there was more to it. He worked on it forever.

To summarize, these are the three main problems of bed-and-breakfast establishments: throw pillows, potpourri, and breakfast conversation, and the fourth problem is gazebos. And the fifth problem is water features. And the sixth problem is themed rooms, and the seventh problem is provenance (who owned the inn before and who owned the inn before that, and who owned it before that, and what year the bed-and-breakfast was built, and how old the timber is in the main hall), and the eighth problem is pride of ownership, because why can't it just be a place you stay, why does it always have to be an ideological crusade? And the ninth problem is excessive amounts of regional advice. And the tenth problem is the absence of telephones. Even if you aren't going to use the telephone, you want to know that the telephone is there. And the eleventh problem is price. There is no bed-and-breakfast that you can see from the interstate that says $39.95 in a neon sign above it, and although you can really sleep peacefully in the bed-and-breakfast if you are the sort of person who can be comfortable in the presence of a superabundance of pillows, that rush of uncertainty and danger that you get from the motel by the interstate is absent.

She rested her hand on my arm, and we walked toward the gazebo. 'Nope,' I said, steering her away. 'That's a sad place. We don't go there.

I drove to MedPro, which was across the Gandy Bridge on Roosevelt Boulevard in St. Petersburg. In the parking lot, I pulled into the only empty spot marked “visitors.” I’d never been to MedPro before and I was impressed with the aesthetics of the building. There was a small pond out back with a long dock running from the building to a large gazebo. The building itself was pristine white with “MedPro, Inc.” in large blue letters over the door. The lobby was similarly clean and decorated in a contemporary style. It continued the azure blue and bright white color scheme

He placed a cigarette in his mouth and sat down at his regular spot over in the white gazebo, where all the smokers were supposed to do their dirty business. He patted his pockets, searching for a lighter. Nothing. He’d forgotten to bring it. But it wasn’t his fault. He was expected to forget everything because he was the lucky recipient of life’s final going-away present, that red velvet, chocolate-covered cake of wonderfulness that the doctors liked to call Alzheimer’s. With Alzheimer’s, suddenly nothing was his fault anymore. No fault. No blame. No choice. No freedom.

Early that afternoon they came to a small town called Bradbury, which under its Nicosia-class tent looked like something out of Illinois: treelined blacktop streets, screened-in porches fronting two-story brick houses with shingle roofs, a main street with shops and parking meters, a central park with a white gazebo under giant maples.…

If I meant to harm you, Sophie, I would’ve grabbed you when you entered the gazebo. I had plenty of time, and I’m much stronger than you.” “Is that supposed to reassure me?” “Yes.” He scratched his shoulder, then his chest, then his arms and legs. “Argh—I swear I’ve picked up ichrites in this infernal fur.” “Ichrites?” Sophie asked. “A type of insect that feeds on unicorn blood.” He leaned against the post of the gazebo, rubbing his back like a bear scratching on a tree.

More than two dozen kids lined a low railing around the gazebo. They were all tied to it by a rope leash that gave them no more than a few feet of movement. Neck to rail, like tethered horses. Each of the kids was weighed down by a concrete block that encased their hands. Their eyes were hollow, their cheeks caved in. Astrid used a word that Sam had never imagined coming from her. “Nice language,” Drake said with a smirk. “And in front of the Pe-tard, too.” A cafeteria tray had been placed in front of each of the prisoners. It must have been a very recent delivery because some were still licking their trays, hunched over, faces down, tongues out, licking like dogs. “It’s the circle of freaks,” Drake said proudly, waving a hand like a showman. In a crusty old wheelbarrow to one side, three kids were using a short-handled shovel to mix cement. It made a heavy sloshing sound. They dumped a shovelful of gravel into the mix and stirred it like lumpy gravy. “Oh, no,” Lana said, backing away, but one of the Coates kids smashed her behind the knee with his baseball bat, and she crumpled. “Gotta do something with unhelpful freaks,” Drake said. “Can’t have you people running around loose.” He must have seen Sam start to react because he stuck his gun against Astrid’s head. “Your call, Sam. You so much as flinch and we’ll get to see what a genius brain really looks like.” “Hey, I got no powers, man,” Quinn said. “This is sick, Drake. Like you’re sick,” Astrid said. “I can’t even reason with you because you’re just too damaged, too hopelessly messed up.” “Shut up.

He shouldn't be captivated by the sight of a tear caught on her lashes, or her perfect nose, slightly pink. Those lips were even more intriguing, so he made himself look away, staring out at the forest beyond the gazebo. He glanced down to find Ellice still looking up at him, her eyes liquid pools of chocolate. Their gaze caught and held, the seconds ticking by in solemn regularity. He felt drawn to her like a magnet. Pulling away would be a difficult task. He must for his own safety. This woman with her guileless eyes, soft heart, and lurid imagination was a danger.

The next morning, I was finally able to have a proper look at the “NOC.” The place looked like some bizarre mountainous Disney Land at first glance. It wasn’t a town and there weren’t any houses to be seen anywhere. It was simply an area that was completely dedicated to having fun in the mountains and on the river. Everything was built on and centered along the large, Nantahala River that flowed swiftly past. There was a restaurant, an amazing outfitting store, gazebos, picnic areas, and places to rent kayaks and rafts to partake in river adventures. It was one of the most unique and fun looking locations I encountered on the journey. DSOH,

Snow began to fall as he laid his head on the ice and cried. Alone in a Currier & Ives painting, beside a Victorian gazebo adorned with colorful Christmas lights, Bob Cole lost his only son.

July.” The strawberries in Ursula’s garden at The Pines were the stuff of legend. “Thank you, no. But could you stay a bit longer?” “Until five. Tom is working at home today.” Faith didn’t offer any further explanation. After trying to write his sermon in the shadow of his file cabinets at the church yesterday, he had decided to give the parsonage study, neutral territory, a try today. “As I said, everything hinged on Father’s

Much to my surprise, the next couple of days passed by uneventfully. The most exciting thing was having Jack back at school. There was a large group of boys who he and Blake were good friends with, and they’d claimed one of the gazebos that were scattered around the school grounds to sit in during their lunch breaks. But Jack divided his time between hanging out with his friends and spending time with me. I was a bit worried that it might become awkward between us after our conversation on the phone, and especially after I’d read his mind and knew exactly how he felt. But that wasn’t the case at all, and instead, each day we seemed to become closer than ever.

letting the A/C run, and using PanScan—one of several competing apps in the anonymized contact tracing space—to check his immunological status versus that of everyone currently in the house. Since Willem was the interloper, he was the most likely to be bringing new viral strains in to this household. Eventually the app produced a little map of the property, showing icons for everyone there, color-coded based on epidemiological risk. The upshot was that Willem could get by without a mask provided he kept his distance from Hendrik. Oh, and if he ventured upstairs he should put a mask on because there was a Kuok in the second bedroom on the left whose recent exposure history was almost as colorful as Willem’s. Accordingly he and his father sat two meters apart in a gazebo in the snatch of mowed lawn between the house and the bank where the property plunged into the bayou.

It takes a lot more grit, strength and courage to be a kind and empathetic person than it does to be an asshole.

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Le vecchie strade e la città di Batroun hanno creato la cornice perfetta per il servizio fotografico del matrimonio tra case autentiche, romantici lampioni e monumenti storici. Quanto al tavolo da pranzo, i portici di Sayedet el Bahr erano l'ambiente perfetto sotto il quale si poteva apparecchiare la tavola. Costruita sulle rovine di una chiesa bizantina nel XIX secolo e affacciata sui resti di una muraglia fenicia, questa semplice chiesa ha un'incantevole terrazza con un gazebo ad arco che incornicia la vista sul mare. Il tavolo era l'incarnazione di elementi orientali. E dal design tradizionale e assemblato con un tocco moderno. ​ In cima allo specchio rotondo che riflette le pietre gialle, spessi tessuti di velluto nei toni senape e blu reale hanno creato un corridore su cui vasi di terracotta tradizionali e vasi d'oro vintage trasportavano una varietà di verdi e fiori locali. In giallo, rosa, blu e beige toni. Vasi e vassoi di frutta secca, mele e uccelli soffiati in vetro, melograni in cemento, servizi di piatti con motivi andalusi Abiti da sera anello, posate d'oro e menu stampati in velluto hanno aggiunto un tocco orientale all'ambientazione.

had begun to drizzle, so they relocated to a latticed gazebo used for waterfront weddings and the occasional renegade bris.

What is that?" "It's a gazebo." Calred sounded amused. "Why would you want a structure like that? It's completely indefensible." "That's true. I can't think of a single time in history a gazebo withstood a siege.

The Pressure Cooker by Stewart Stafford We arrive at the sweltering park, And disturb a larcenous squirrel, Trash can raider with easy spoils, He scampers away down the back. Solo lady in the gazebo watches, An outdoor Mrs. Bates silhouette, As a tuft of angel hair rolls along, I give the thirsty baby hydration. Transfixed by a burst helium balloon, Rocking itself to the unheard beats, Arid breeze, now ceiling conductor, Our squirrel pal returns to spy on us. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

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Foxglove grows waist high around the gazebo, and roses, which all the time hate our soil, rage here, with more thorns than blackberries and weeks of beet red blossoms. The wood siding of the hotel looks silver-plated, its peeling paint like the streaks on an unpolished tea service.

Misspelling

BURN GAZEBO BURN!” Icarus shouted as the ancient wooden structure burned away, exposing a hole in the ground.

Paul sat in the gazebo and polished off half the bottle. With each sip, his mind drifted further back, until it rested on a girl he’d known in his youth. He sang, in perfect pitch, the Pink Floyd song, Vera. His voice mingled with the wind and sailed off, seeking a nighttime solidarity with all the lonely lovers whose passion had long since grown cold.

Sam was staying at Faith’s tonight. They had decided that she and Lily would leave for Vermont tomorrow as planned and Sam would join them after he fixed the porch’s gazebo. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take him too long. It made Lacey’s stomach sick knowing he was missing out on his much-deserved vacation because of her. If anyone else was available to fix the porch, she’d give them the job and make Sam leave.

until the sun dipped down beneath the horizon at dusk. He had felt closer to a drink in Tokyo than he had for months, and had resolved to attend a meeting every day for a month in order to find his balance again. There were plenty to choose from, most of them attended by US sailors from the nearby base. His Wednesday evening meeting was in a gazebo at the north end of Chatan beach, close to the Hilton. He checked his watch as he made his way to the gazebo, the sand warm between his toes. He had struggled to find the venue the first time, the familiar AA sign just visible in the darkening light. He took a folding chair from the stack at the rear of the gazebo and sat down at the back of the small congregation of men and women. It was a rich mixture of colour and age, a collection scraped from all strata of society and united only by their addictions. There were the usual unlikely alcoholics: the well-turned-out men and women who would have looked more at home at a tennis club or on a golf course. They sat among those who more readily fulfilled the stereotype of the drunk: red noses and bloodshot eyes, the unwashed and unwanted.

For some reason, I found the fact that our two men were naked, while Jester and I were, in a way, clothed, particularly exciting. Jester was adorned in paint, and I had my feathered pinioned wings and my owl mask. I was a totem, my man was transparent and naked; he was my servant and my slave, and he was that pure thing – a naked male animal, and, tonight, he was mine. “To-wit, to-whoo,” I invited my servant with my owl call. He kissed me; the kiss was fierce and unending, or so it seemed, an eternal kiss, a kiss that would carry us into infinity, his arms around me, grasping me, clasping me under my pinioned arms; his lips explored mine; our lips merged in one; my eyes were closed; it was pure sensation: the pouring rain, my dripping feathers, my pinioned arms pressed together, my shoulders pulled back tight, my breasts tensed and straining forward; his chest, hard and smooth and muscular against my breasts; his hands on me; his lips meeting my lips; his tongue mingling with my tongue. I breathed him in. Inwardly, I sighed, “Oh, Master!” But it came out as a quizzical “To-wit, to-whoo?” He whispered, “Oh, Goddess, oh, beautiful Owl.” He held me so tight it was as if he wanted to consume me, merge my body in his, to absorb me totally. Finally, he stepped back, unhooked the owl mask-and-hood from the collar, and lifted it off, and placed it carefully on an iron bench, which was the only furniture in the gazebo. My face, now, was naked. And then, standing in the rain, we made love, me with my arms still pinioned behind me, totally at his mercy, thrilling at my helplessness, and entrusting myself totally to his love ...

Avevano deciso di vedersi direttamente davanti Di Martino 3. “Tre” perché il locale, storico ritrovo palermitano della periferia triste dell’era del sacco della città, era stato incendiato e ricostruito tre volte, fino ad adesso. Le motivazioni intuibili. Il posto, in questa sua terza versione anni duemiladieci, non era altro che un locale ampio, mal illuminato, con una cucina al coperto e tanti tavolini con la tovaglia di carta sotto un gazebo di plastica, riparo per la pioggia e per il sole, a seconda della stagione. Nonostante l’aspetto sempre più trasandato, quello di come se i proprietari si fossero ormai rotti i coglioni di mettere dell’impegno in una cosa che tanto fra un po’ verrà distrutta, il cibo da Di Martino è sempre una garanzia, sin dalla prima apertura. Panini giganteschi, grondanti ogni ben di Dio, frittura asciutta e sporca, come ogni palermitano la gradisce. Proprio quello di cui ha voglia, tanto non gli fa male mettere un po’ di carne sulle ossa.

One of her fondest memories was of John laughing under an apricot moon in Juliet and Laurence’s gazebo; another was of Eudora sitting beside Hilly, a thick book of words and pictures held between them. And of course there had been the countless afternoons of tea and arrowroot cookies with her girls, these three young women now gathered together once more. Such was Nell’s wealth. She recalled a line from Emily Dickinson: “My friends are my ‘estate.

Tomorrow night. Gazebo,... We’ll go together... And princess…don’t bother wearing any underwear.

might cover two nights. You and your mistress will have to scale

would

doubted

He leaned against the railing of the gazebo and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve gotta give me some incentive, babe.” “Hmm. Like this kind of incentive?” She slid her hands to her breasts. His breath hitched when she squeezed the lush mounds with her palms, the motion making her tits look bigger, fuller. With an impish smile, she stroked the underside of each breast, circling her nipples with her fingers and then dragging her thumbs over each hard bud.

Ten minutes later, Julio and Bobby Escobar eased from the shadows and saw Theo before he saw them. Bobby was very nervous and did not want to risk being seen by a policeman, so they walked to the other side of the park and found a spot on the steps of a gazebo. Theo couldn’t see his father but he was sure he was watching. He asked Bobby

Ten minutes later, Julio and Bobby Escobar eased from the shadows and saw Theo before he saw them. Bobby was very nervous and did not want to risk being seen by a policeman, so they walked to the other side of the park and found a spot on the steps of a gazebo. Theo couldn’t see his father but he was sure he was watching. He asked Bobby if he had worked that day, then went on to say that he and his father had played the Creek Course. No, Bobby had not worked,

Making brief eye contact with Tristan, Gabriel casually marched around the gazebo and yanked the Ashman back further into the shadowy cover of the dark trees. The Ashman struggled, but Tristan came up beside Gabriel and caught the Ashman’s hands behind his back. Another Ashman appeared in the darkness beyond Tristan. “Watch your back,” Gabriel said, and Tristan whipped around. In one fluid movement, Tristan pulled a dagger from his coat—because, apparently, Tristan carted bloody weapons around in his coat—and cut through the Ashman’s skull with forceful movement. Without missing a beat, Tristan turned back around and helped Gabriel pin the Ashman that was struggling beneath Gabriel’s grasp.Gabriel punched the Ashman in the face, giving Tristan an opportunity to restrain the Ashman’s hands behind his back. Gabriel pulled Scarlet’s butcher knife from his coat—okay, so maybe they both carted weapons around in their jackets—and with silent movement, he thrust the blade directly into the Ashman’s heart and twisted. Stiffness, cracking, crumbling…then ash. Murder accomplished. Gabriel tucked the blade back into his coat and dusted off his hands as he looked at the two piles of ash on the forest floor. “See how simple that was?” He looked at Tristan. “You hold him down, I stab him, end of threat. With Nate it’s all weird battle cries and plastic hammers.” Gabriel shook his head. “Fighting with you is much less dramatic.” “Yeah, well.” Tristan stretched his neck. “We make a good killing team.” Gabriel rolled his eyes as they headed out of the trees and back to the fair. “What is with everyone wanting to be on teams?

The townhouse was in a community called Waterview, a pretty green place with a common that had a gazebo and a fountain. The homes were red-brick colonial and beautiful. The townhouse Paxton had loved from the moment Kirsty showed it to her last year was in a cup-de-sac. Wisteria vines grew around the door, and Paxton remembered thinking how wonderful it would be to walk in and out in the springtime, when the wisteria would be in full bloom. It would be like walking through a wedding arch every day.

Qwilleran, never an early riser by choice, now found himself routed out of bed at dawn when the birds convened for their morning singsong and the Siamese wanted to join them. Koko and Yum Yum would station themselves outside his bedroom door, the one yowling in an operatic baritone and the other uttering soprano shrieks until he got up and transported them to the gazebo. Yum Yum simply wanted to bat insects on the screens, but Koko was fascinated by the chorus of trills, chirrups, whistles, warbles, and twitters. The cacophony reminded Qwilleran of the Pickax high school band tuning up for Pomp and Circumstance.

Iz, I hate to break this to you,” she started, swinging out an arm, “but bad stuff, really bad stuff, happens. Even in Mayberry.” I didn’t think of Matlock as Mayberry. With the gazebo in the square and the cute shops and handsome buildings with their bright bunting all around it, I thought it looked more like Stars Hollow.