Getaway Quotes

My father was incredibly indecisive. As an example, take his wedding day. He couldn't decide where to sit in the getaway car, decide the fact he was supposed to be driving.

I can't promise we'll ever use you for a hasty getaway," Cole said, "but with a little work, you might be able to race my grandmother-while she's on her scooter.

When tragedy hits close to home, like your neighbor’s house, it really makes you stop and think. And while you’re thinking, I’ll be speeding off in the getaway car.

If there were no risk of a punishment, a getaway would lose the pleasure.

The Audi tires squealed as the vehicle tracked the same path. Jake hammered down the avenue, hunting for a getaway. Traffic thickened at the juncture ahead. A green light flickered into amber. He ramped up over the limit, punching over the white lines on a red signal. Tires screeched and a horn beeped. The needle sat on one hundred kilometers per hour. He fishtailed at a laneway. The GPS showed a right angle, car slid into a slot in an overhang. Jake got out and crept toward the opening, hugged the brick wall. He pulled the SIG and flicked off the safety. The Audi braked at the mouth. Door slammed. A shadow fell over the concrete. The swish of clothing indicated a possible weapon draw.

did you think i was a city big enough for a weekend getaway i am the town surrounding it the one you've never heard of but always pass through there are no neon lights here no skyscapers or statues but there is thunder for i make bridges tremble i am not street meat i am homemade jam thick enough to cut the sweetest thing you lips will touch i am not police sirens i am the crackle of a fireplace i'd burn you and you still couldn't take your eyes off of me cause i'd look so beautiful doing it you'd blush i am not a hotel room i am home i am not the whiskey you want i am the water you need don't come here with expectations and try to make a vacation out of me

Stridey-Man: " Want 2 vaca w/me?" William: "Romantic getaway for 2? UR not my type" Stridey-Man: "I'm everyone's type. So U in or out? 'Cause I'm thinking about hooking up w/P, wherever he is. U'd just B extra baggage." William: "In" Stridey: "Knew you couldn't resist me. B ready in 5." William: "Right on. Make it 10. I want 2 style my hair for U. U know, just how U like it." Stridey: "Now U only have 8 minutes 2 do UR hair.

God she hated the dance. A blow to the cheek one minute and discussing a romantic getaway the next. It was the one step forward, two steps back waltz. She wanted to scream. Sitting on the side of the bed, Claire allowed herself tears and swallowed

A book acts as the getaway car when you need to escape. Even when you're the one writing it.

Is it true? You had a clean getaway and risked it all for me?" I Swallowed. "It wouldn't have been a clean getaway without you.

I can’t promise we’ll ever use you for a hasty getaway,” Cole said, “but with a little work, you might be able to race my grandmother—while she’s on her scooter.

The Babar the Elephant book is sitting in front of me. I pick it up and start reading it. I remember reading it as a small Boy and enjoying it and imagining that I was friends with Babar, his constant Companion during all of his adventures. He went to the moon, I went with him. He fought Tomb Raiders in Egypt, I fought alongside him. He rescued his elephant girlfriend from Ivory Hunters on the Savanna, I coordinated the getaway. I loved that goddamn Elephant and I loved being his friend. In a childhood full of unhappiness and rage, Babar is one of the few pleasant memories that I have. Me and Babar, kicking some motherfucking ass.

Stridey-Man' asked, Want 2 vacay w/me? William snorted as he typed. Romantic getaway for 2? UR not my type, dickwad. Fuck U. i'm everybody's types. So U in or out?Last chance in or out? In Knew U couldn't resist me. B ready in 5. Right on. Make it 10. I want 2 style my hair for U. U know, just how U like it. ASSHOLE.

The more we are willing to separate from distraction and step into the open arms of boredom, the more writing will get on the page.

Dwarves sat on stoops, clapping and cheering as we ran by. A few of them recorded videos of us on uniquely crafted smartphones. I figured our attempted getaway would go viral on the Dwarven Internet, famous among Internets.

How do you explain to a nonreader that books aren't just things but treasured friends? Companions?

I'll teach you later, but for now I just need someone to watch the signs for me. Come on up to the copilot chair." I jerked a thumb in the direction of Chubs. Liam only shook his head. "Are you kidding me? Yesterday he thought a mailbox was a clown." I unbuckle my seat belt with a sigh. As I climbed over Chubs's outstretched legs to the front, I glanced over my shoulder, my eyes going to his too-small glasses. " Is his eyesight really that bad?" "Worse," Liam said. "So, right after we got the hell out of Caledonia, we broke into this house to spend the night, right? I woke up in the middle of the night hearing the most awful noise, like a cow dying or something. I followed the wailing, clutching some kid's baseball bat, thinking I was going to have to beat someone's head in for us to make a clean getaway. then I saw what was sitting at the bottom of a drained pool." "No way," I said. "Way," he confirmed. "Hawkeye had gone out to relieve himself and had somehow missed the giant gaping hole in the ground. Twisted his ankle and couldn't climb out of the deep end. I tried so hard not to laugh, but it was impossible. The mental image was just too damn good.

Up there we see everything, Oakland to the left, El Cerrito and Richmond to the right, Marin forward, over the Bay, Berkeley below, all red rooftops and trees of cauliflower and columbine, shaped like rockets and explosions, all those people below us, with humbler views; we see the Bay Bridge, clunkety, the Richmond Bridge, straight, low, the Golden Gate, red toothpicks and string, the blue between, the blue above, the gleaming white Land of the Lost/Superman's North Pole Getaway magic crystals that are San Francisco.

Art stands on the shoulders of craft, which means that to get to the art, you must master the craft. If you want to write, practice writing.

Then he laughed and she laughed. And quivering with the movement of the train, the dead man seemed to laugh too.

A memory can be a marvelous getaway but you must never make a home there.

Why are you driving?!” I shout at her. “How are you driving?!” “Because you can’t have a fast getaway if you’re doing the speed limit!” she snaps. “And I have ghost powers, eejit!

Here was a man who'd learned to write before he could think, a man who threw out logical fallacies like tacks behind a getaway car, and he always always always got away.

All these scars. The road map of my life. My armor.

Maybe everyone does have a novel in them, perhaps even a great one. I don't believe it, but for the purposes of this argument, let's say it's so. Only a few of us are going to be willing to break our own hearts by trading in the living beauty of imagination for the stark disappointment of words.

We all have ideas, sometimes good ones, not to mention the gift of emotional turmoil that every childhood provides.

In a way, being an addict is very proactive. A good addiction takes the guesswork out of death. There is such a thing as planning your getaway.

The journey from the head to the hand is perilous and lined with bodies. It is the road on which nearly everyone who wants to write—and many of the people who do write—get lost.

He kept his back turned and his eyes closed, feeling no shame or anger but only an increasing sickness of soul.

they were looking for housekeepers and cooks, and I was dying to get out of Australia and see the rest of the world. It's a Sagittarius thing, you know. We just move on and on, like tumbleweeds.

It turns out that the distance from head to hand, from wafting butterfly to entomological specimen, is achieved through regular, disciplined practice. What begins as something like a dream will in fact stay a dream forever unless you have the tools and the discipline to bring it out.

You can't drive them around in the getaway van.' 'How about we don't call it the getaway van? People might get suspicious.' 'So what should we call it?' 'How about the van?' 'It doesn't change what it is and that it's a shitty thing to do. Someone might see them in it.

He could be breaking apart inside and you'd never know it from the way he acted. He'd be just as pleasant and polite as if he didn't have a care in the world. You had to be careful with someone like that. You could never know what he was thinking.

To the dead. Let’s think of them always, but not join them too soon.

This wasn’t a romantic getaway at the Ritz, unless running for your lives counted as foreplay.

My point is, you were a part of the machine: an arm, a leg. You drove the getaway car. You threw bricks through the window and someone else grabbed the jewelry. You distracted the feds while the spies got away. You held her down while someone else beat her. You shot the deer and wounded it. When the second hunter came along, the deer could no longer run.

It’s a wonderful thing to find a great teacher, but you also have to find him or her at a time in life when you’re able to listen to, trust, and implement the lessons you receive.

Mostly I read at this hour, perusing the pile of books that live by my favourite chair, waiting to offer up fragments of learning, rather than inviting cover-to-cover pursuits. I browse a chapter here, a segment there, or hunt through an index for a matter that’s on my mind. I love such loose, exploratory reading. For once, I am not reading to escape; instead, having already made my getaway, I am able to roam through the extra space I’ve found, as restless and impatient as I like, revelling in the play of my own absorption. They say that we should dance like no one is watching. I think that applies to reading, too.

The things we do to stay alive for another year. Another day. Another hour. The deals we make with the universe and ourselves. You start to feel dirty.

So I separated all my books into stacks: best friends, old friends, classic friends, new friends, and casual acquaintances.

Why is it that we understand that playing the cello will require work but we relegate writing to the magic of inspiration?

I found the bank robbery getaway car but was scolded over the FBI radio. Why?" ~ From Walking the Corporate Beat: Police School for Business People.

Be in the World, Not of the World—Kind of like Lucky Charms cereal: there are lots of pretty marshmallows in with the cereal, but they’re not the same. So live with the cereal, but remember: you’re a pretty marshmallow.

There is never a right time to break someone's heart. And anyone with even a microgram of sensitivity in his or her body will agonise for an age over that timing. Only problem is there is always some reason not to make someone unhappy. The day a relationship end, if that relationship was at all important to the suckers involved, becomes as important an anniversary as a wedding day or birthday. Obviously, the average person doesn't want to kick someone they once loved while that person is down.   It's not just hard times when someone is down that become obstacles to making your getaway. After times of bereavement, unemployment and general unhappiness, those events that should be happy ones also make some times off limits for the eager would- be dumper. Christmas, birthdays, Easter  all impossible. A clever person with a sensitive lover that they sense is not quite as into them as he or she used to be, could starve off the inevitable for years by carefully spacing out this crucial dates.

I think that what influences us in literature comes less from what we love and more from what we happen to pick up in moments when we are especially open.

I mean, there’s doomed. There’s screwed. And there’s monsoons-in-Hell fucked. And we’re at fucked o’clock.

Unlock the door or I’ll call a locksmith. You’re going to be comfortable in my home, goddammit.” Her mouth wobbles and she breaks into a laugh. “What is this? Aggressive southerning?

You don’t need stars, Riley. You are one. You have your own gravity and I cannot fucking wait to see what you do with it.

There are in life a few miraculous moments when the right person is there to tell you what you need to hear and you are still open enough, impressionable enough, to take it in.

There're three reasons people get away from here: gone good, gone bad or gone dead.

You never help others by allowing them to getaway with giving less than their best efforts.

When tragedy hits close to home, like your neighbor’s house, it really makes you stop and think. And while you’re thinking, I’ll be speeding off in the getaway car. 


Wouldn’t hear of it. Long as you don’t need me to drive a getaway car for your bank robbery I’ll happily take you wherever you need to go. Think of it as the town welcome wagon.

Fame is an island, and right before the castaway, the getaway of being known without being known.

The tantalizing scent transported me to a white, sandy beach lapped by a turquoise sea under a tropical sun. Lime and coconut were the getaway flavors my bakery customers needed in April, tax time.

I never rode on the back of an old Chopper down the highway Holdin' on tight just him and I Makin' our getaway I've always been the good girl Walked the straight and narrow path all my life, I like a man with a tan and a twisted chrome kickstand Leanin' on a big old bike The low rollin' sound that'll shake the ground Comin' out of long pipes I like a tattoo or two Or even more if they're cool On the big old arms of a long-haired dude Inside of me, there's an all I wanna be Biker chick

Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.

He had never before realized the blessedness of silence - the freedom to be silent, rather, if one chose. He had never realized, somehow, that such blessedness might be his privilege. He was Doc Mc Coy, and Doc Mc Coy was born to the obligation of being one hell of a guy.

They had no hope of anything more, no comprehension that there might be anything more. In a sense they were an autonomous body, functioning within a society which was organized to grind them down. The law did not protect them; for them it was merely an instrument of harassment, a means of moving them on when it was against their interest to move, or detaining them where it was to their disadvantage to stay.

I was the least easygoing and carefree person on the planet. I was a storm cloud that ruined picnics, not something full of warmth and light. “I

I believe that, more than anything else, this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness,

An essential element of being a writer is learning whom to listen to and whom to ignore where your work is concerned. Every

You’re a philosopher.” “No. Just drunk.

I’ve got plenty on my plate. Till then, Ishii can piss his sorrows in a teapot and brew himself a hot cup of fuck off.

If you have a problem," Adrik's steady voice sounds as he remains behind me. "Lower your gaze.

This is going to sound so cheesy," says Tom. "But that makes me so happy. The idea that we know all the same stars. That we'll always have that in common even when we're far away." It doesn't sound cheesy. It sounds heartbreaking. Fuck stars I want to tell him. Every single one of them. I'd rather have you.

Death, like birth, is a secret of nature.” Only with birth you get a blanket and a bottle. You get a blanket with death too, but they call it a shroud and everyone else gets the bottle.

Flight is many things. Something clean and swift, like a bird skimming across the sky. Or something filthy and crawling; a series of crablike movements through figurative and literal slime, a process of creeping ahead, jumping sideways, running backward. It is sleeping in fields and river bottoms. It is bellying for miles along an irrigation ditch. It is back roads, spur railroad lines, the tailgate of a wildcat truck, a stolen car and a dead couple in lovers' lane. It is food pilfered from freight cars, garments taken from clotheslines; robbery and murder, sweat and blood. The complex made simple by the alchemy of necessity

It’s like with every passing mile, I am farther and farther away from safety—and farther from myself. From being human. I’m turning into this other type of being, one who jerks off criminals in crappy motel rooms. One who wants to be kissed in a getaway car.

A six-week island getaway and a book deal any way I looked at it. I glanced over at Jeannie and she was giving me a death glare. Islands or Boss from Hell. Coconut Hell or Editorial Hell. Sand in my swimsuit crack every day for two months, or jeannie up my ass for the rest of my life.

He also starred in The Blob, The Magnificent Seven, The Great Escape, Love with a Proper Stranger, Nevada Smith, and The Sand Pebbles, for which he received an Academy Award nomination for Best Actor. Other features include, Le Mans, The Getaway, Towering Inferno, The Reivers, Tom Horn, The

As I exited the car, I glanced over at Henry. "Should I call Asher and tell him we won't be needing that getaway distraction?" Before Henry could reply, pop music reverberated off the building. Asher jogged into the middle of a large crowd and struck a dramatic pose. "You say distraction," Henry deadpanned, "Asher hears 'flash mob'." Five seconds later, Vivvie danced wildly past and gave me a questioning look. I nodded. "The possum has fallen on the nun!" Vivvie called to Asher. Asher didn't miss a beat of choreography. He shimmied and punched a fist into the air. "Long live the possum!

Clinton sighed, and gave up. All his life he had given up. He didn't know why it was like that; why a man who wanted nothing but to live honestly and industriously and usefully - who, briefly, asked only the privileges of giving and helping - had had to compromise and surrender at every turn. But that was the way it had been, and that apparently was the way it was to be.

In 1973, Jan Erik Olsson walked into a small bank in Stockholm, Sweden, brandishing a gun, wounding a police officer, and taking three women and one man hostage. During negotiations, Olsson demanded money, a getaway vehicle, and that his friend Clark Olofsson, a man with a long criminal history, be brought to the bank. The police allowed Olofsson to join his friend and together they held the four hostages captive in a bank vault for six days. During their captivity, the hostages at times were attached to snare traps around their necks, likely to kill them in the event that the police attempted to storm the bank. The hostages grew increasingly afraid and hostile toward the authorities trying to win their release and even actively resisted various rescue attempts. Afterward they refused to testify against their captors, and several continued to stay in contact with the hostage takers, who were sent to prison. Their resistance to outside help and their loyalty toward their captors was puzzling, and psychologists began to study the phenomenon in this and other hostage situations. The expression of positive feelings toward the captor and negative feelings toward those on the outside trying to win their release became known as Stockholm syndrome.

Is his eyesight really that bad?" "Worse," Liam said. "So right after we got the hell out of Caledonia, we broke into this house to spend, right? I woke up in the middle of the night hearing the most awful noise, like a cow dying or something. I followed the wailing, clutching some kid's baseball bat, thinking I was going to have to bad someone's head in for us to make a clean getaway. Then I saw what was sitting at the bottom of the drained pool." "No way," I said. "Way," he confirmed. "Hawkeye had gone out to relieve himself and had somehow missed the giant gaping hole in the ground. Twisted his ankle and couldn't climb out of the deep end.

What I like about the job of being a novelist, and at the same time what I find so exhausting about it, is that it's the closest thing to being God you're ever going to get. All the decisions are yours. You decide when the sun comes up. You decide who gets to fall in love and who gets hit by a car. You have to make all the trees and all the leaves and then sew the leaves onto the trees. You make the entire world.

If I were taking notes, they would read: I see something. A shape? I have no idea. It’s not exactly the stuff that literary archives are made of.

as far as I’m concerned, writer’s block is a myth.

Time applied equaled work completed. I

You have to admit, you’re a little clumsy.” I gasp. “Only when scary politicians leap out of the shadows.

What are you looking at?” “Just checking to see if your milkshake brought all the boys to the yard.

Had I given equal weight to everyone who had something to say, every story would have turned into a terrible game of Twister (left

You can learn more, and more quickly, from other people’s missteps than from their successes. If

Sometimes you have to get away from what you know to discover what you don't know.

That's for me, isn't it? I'm going to Hell." "Don't feel so bad. It beats Fresno.

The thing that makes ethics interesting is that no two individuals see things the same. We all have our own internal barometer of what’s right and wrong.

I always love the way everyone else seems to know what God is thinking. To me, it's more of a mystery.

Art stands on the shoulders of craft,

I decided I was going to make up a novel, and that the novel was going to get me out of the restaurant. The novel was going to be my getaway car.

If you've spent more than an hour plotting a getaway route, you're either a writer or a criminal. Or maybe a cheating spouse.

This is the FBI Hostage Negotiations Service. Press one if you wish to surrender. Press two for a getaway car. Press three for a helicopter. Press four for a pizza

Ghost Story (1981) The Getaway (1972) The Godfather (1972)

At least you love me," I say to my pet as I hold them against my chest as they try to getaway.

The golf cart served as our getaway car, but it turned out a getaway car wasn’t truly a getaway car if you were taking what you wanted to get away from with you.

The person you are with should be your escape, your cherished getaway from the world around you. If they’re not, give them back to the world.

Watching him snap someone's neck as easily as lighting a cigarette made me dizzy with desire for him. And when he stabbed someone I could barely see straight until we'd made a successful getaway, and he'd trace a blade across my skin, making me come. I'd received more scars from acts of lovemaking than I had from my whole childhood, and I wasn't even eighteen yet.

two or three million years ago our ancestors began a great escape from the here and now, and their getaway vehicle was a highly specialized mass of grey tissue, fragile, wrinkled and appended. This frontal lobe–the last part of the human brain to evolve, the slowest to mature and the first to deteriorate in old age–is a time machine that allows each of us to vacate the present and experience the future before it happens. No other animal has a frontal lobe quite like ours, which is why we are the only animal that thinks about the future as we do. But

Do you know what you’re saying?” This time I looked out to the sea and, with a vague and weary tone that was my last diversion, my last cover, my last getaway, said, “Yes, I know what I’m saying and you’re not mistaking any of it. I’m just not very good at speaking. But you’re welcome never to speak to me again.” “Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” “Ye-es.

We are, however, entirely responsible for procrastination, and in the best of all possible worlds, we should also be responsible for being honest with ourselves about what is really going on. I

I remember complaining one night on the phone to my mother that we spent too much of our time worrying about love and money. “Think of it as research,” she said. “That’s what everybody writes about.

Where do they teach you to talk like this? In some Panama City "Sailor wanna hump-hump" bar, or is it getaway day and your last shot at his whiskey? Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here.

Forgiveness. The ability to forgive oneself. Stop here for a few breaths and think about this, because it is the key to making art and very possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life.

We must sober up and admit that too many of the Republicans and the Democrats have played us, lied to us and stolen from us, while the getaway car was driven by the media. A media that can no longer claim with a straight face the role of journalist. Journalists print the things the powerful don’t want printed. What they do is public relations. Those PR firms will not print the truth about the average American who finds himself concerned with the direction of our country today. So we must. We are not violent. We are not racist. We are not anti immigrant. We are not anti-government. And we will not be silent anymore.

I understood what a real catastrophe was now, and that there was no way to prevent chaos when outside factors were involved. The only way to live a life that was controlled and secure was to have no life at all . . .

I know exactly what you mean. It’s like when all your decisions get made for you like that, you’re just sort of—set up to fail, trying to get out from under it. Like you’re either going to disappoint them or yourself.

If I told you I could give you life would you leave the boundaries of your mind? I bet you never even knew that there’s a universe inside of you. Can I take your pain and make it go away? Would you let me be your getaway?

A blanket could be used to fix your broken marriage. You’ll also need duct tape, an empty car trunk, a getaway driver, and the most opportune moment to snatch your mother-in-law away to never be seen or heard from again. 


This is a time in which very few activities seem right. Mostly I read at this hour, perusing the pile of books that live by my favourite chair, waiting to offer up fragments of learning, rather than inviting cover-to-cover pursuits. I browse a chapter here, a segment there, or hunt through an index for a matter that’s on my mind. I love such loose, exploratory reading. For once, I am not reading to escape; instead, having already made my getaway, I am able to roam through the extra space I’ve found, as restless and impatient as I like, revelling in the play of my own absorption. They say that we should dance like no one is watching. I think that applies to reading, too.

Do you know a way out of here?” I ask Ben. Sammy’s more trusting than I am, but the idea’s worth exploring. Finding the escape pods—if they even exist—has always been the weakest part of my getaway plan. He nods. “Do you?” “I know a way—I just don’t know the way to the way.” “The way to the way? Okay.” He grins. He looks like hell, but the smile hasn’t changed a bit. It lights up the tunnel like a thousand-watt bulb. “I know the way and the way to the way.

and sure enough, emmett's voice rose above the din. at some point, though, a mistake becomes a decision, whether you like it or not. in this, my husband and i were fundamentally different. in my opinion, a mistake required a getaway.

The longer I'm in New York, the more I get the impression that it isn't the shiny new universe I expected it to be. It's just the home of 100,000 little universes... that all exist rubbing up against each other, sometimes never touching.

She told the woman to go to one of the online agent sites that list agents who are looking for new clients, and then follow their submission guidelines to the letter. If they ask for a twenty-page writing sample, do not send in twenty-two pages.

Her mind moved around and around the subject, moving with a kind of fuzzy firmness. With no coherent thought process, she arrived at a conviction - a habit with the basically insecure; an insecurity whose seeds are invariably planted earlier, in under or over-protectiveness, in a distrust in parental authority which becomes all authority. It can later, with maturity - a flexible concept - be laughed away, dispelled by determined clear thinking. Or it can be encouraged by self-abusive resentment and brooding self-pity. It can grow ever greater until the original authority becomes intolerable, and a change becomes imperative. Not to a radical one in thinking; that would be too troublesome, too painful. The change is simply to authority in another guise which, in time, and under any great stress, must be distrusted and resented even more than the first.

a woman raised her hand and said that her minister had told the congregation that they should never read novels with omniscient narrators, because the writer was trying to imitate God. “Really?” I said. “No Tolstoy? No Dickens?” The woman shook her head. I have to say it thrilled me to think that narrative structure was dangerous enough to rate its own Sunday sermon.) 

to pull away. “I promise this dog will not hurt you,” he said. “This is a golden retriever. He has a scary bark because he’s big, but he would let anyone into the house. For a belly rub, he’d help the thieves carry the valuables to their getaway car.

Bury Me Deep, Megan Abbott Red Baker, Robert Ward Ghost Story, Peter Straub The Getaway, Jim Thompson The Godfather, Mario Puzo Suggested Viewing Misery (1990) The King of Comedy (1982) A Place in the Sun (1951) I Want to Live! (1958) The Wire, season 2

I don’t know if you’ve spent time in the Catskills. From a distance, say, the parking lot of the old Caldor’s (which became an Ames that became a Stop ‘N’ Shop) in Huguenot, they’ve always made me think of a herd of giant animals, all standing grazing on the horizon. Up close, when you’re driving among them with the early morning light breaking over their round peaks, they seem incredibly present, more real than real, these huge solid heaps of rock that wear their trees like mile-long scarves. You glance at them, trying to keep your eyes on the road, which is already pretty busy with people driving up for a weekend getaway, and somehow you wouldn’t be surprised if the mountain closest to you were to cast off its trees in one titanic shrug and start to lumber away, a vast, unimaginable beast. When you turn off onto whatever secondary road you need to take, and you’re following its twists and turns back into the mountains, and the ground is steep to either side of you, opening every now and then on a meadow, or an old house, you think, Here, there are secret places. Well,

The thing to do is keep your cash in your mattress so in a jam you can grab it and escape out the window.”“That’s it,” Ayumi said, snapping her fingers. “Like in The Getaway. The Steve McQueen movie. A wad of bills and a shotgun. I love that kind of stuff.” It’s not much fun to live like that, Aomame

Around the time that he canned Mike Offit, Mitchell organized a corporate getaway for hundreds of employees. The retreat was in a luxury resort overlooking Lake Maggiore, in the foothills of the Italian Alps. The bankers flew into Milan, and a fleet of Mercedes sedans chauffeured them into the mountains.

You tell yourself it is a bad dream.  You tell yourself you have died—you, not the others—and have waked up in hell.  But you know better.  You know better.  There is an end to dreams, and there is no end to this.  And when people die they are dead—as who should know better than you?” —Jim Thompson The Getaway

if I wanted to be a better writer, I was the only person who could push myself to do it. It was up to me to challenge myself, to be vigilant about finding the places in my own work where I was just getting by. “You have to ask yourself,” he said to me, “if you want to write great literature or great television.

Russell had told me how Carlos Marcello liked to send to Sicily for war orphans with no families. They would get smuggled in from Canada, like through Windsor, right across the water from Detroit. The Sicilian war orphans would think they had to take care of a matter and then they could stay in America and maybe they’d be given a pizza parlor or something. They would go paint a house and then they would get in the getaway car and be taken somewhere and their house would get painted and nobody back in Sicily would miss them. Because they were orphans and had no family there would be no vendettas, which are very popular things in Sicily. Carlos

People like to ask me if writing can be taught, and I say yes. I can teach you how to write a better sentence, how to write dialogue, maybe even how to construct a plot. But I can’t teach you how to have something to say. I would not begin to know how to teach another person how to have character, which was what Grace Paley did.

And I wonder if people do this all the time: fall for people because of their ability to pick getaway cars; or fall for people because of the way they look when they think nobody is watching; or fall for people because of the things they say, or the way they look at them, or the things they give up, or the things they cannot do. -Alina Chase

Besides,” continued Gottfried, “you’re coming now to the time when the difference between a bourgeois and a cavalier begins to show. A bourgeois always gets less attentive the longer he knows a woman. A cavalier, always more attentive.” He made an extended gesture. “With all this you can become an absolutely staggering cavalier.” I laughed. “That is all fine, Gottfried,” said I. “But what happens when you get caught? There’s not much of a getaway, and pious people might easily consider it as desecration of a holy place.” “My dear boy,” replied Lenz, “do you see anybody here? Since the war people go to political meetings, not to church.” That was true. “But what about the parsons?” I asked.

What’s in the past, is in the past. You can learn from it, but you shouldn’t let it dictate the future.

At home, she was broken and useless; in the Canyon she had the same potential as the raven that flew circles above her head.

The longer we sit in that feeling the more I recognize it. The unknown becoming known. A strange place becoming home.

used to get excited about dressing up or adding a pink streak to my hair. Now I have Pasta Thursdays.

I’m learning that’s a lot of what love is—stepping aside for the sake of each other’s futures.

Maybe I'm lonely, but I'm not alone in this. In feeling like there are things that you want to say to the people you love, but aren't ready to say them, or don't fully know how.

I’m good at staying on top of things that are a handful.

Love isn’t logical or reasonable. Our hearts make no sense.

No one should go into debt to study creative writing. It

You wouldn’t believe all the nice people I’ve met at chemotherapy,” she

you also have to find him or her at a time in life when you’re able to listen to, trust, and implement the lessons you receive. The

I think that what influences us in literature comes less from what we love and more from what we happen to pick up in moments when we are especially open. For

Running for mayor is time consuming. That’s why I’ve never done it.” My laugh sneaks up on me. “Oh, is that why?

Even if the trophy is gone, you still won it and that victory lasts forever.

had I listened to no one, or only to the people who liked me, the workshop would have been a waste of time.

Making friends with other writers you respect is reason enough to go to graduate school. You

Sometimes we get more than we asked for because we've settled for less for so long.. When you pay your dues, your bound to be rewarded eventually.

My mom always says sorry is like pulling a nail from the board: The hole’s still there no matter how much you want it not to be.

...getting six woman to agree on something is like getting Dr. Laura to agree with Howard Stern.

I don’t need to meditate. I just look at the ocean.

the fact that I had to work with someone scared me. what if they hate me and tell their friends that everyday. what if i'm the girl that they dread having to talk to everyday.

Things were replaceable, emotions were ignorable and men, they were forgettable.

Every once in a while, I think about exercising and getting really buff. But in the future, I’ll bet everyone will just be able to take a pill and get fit without having to exercise, anyway. Being in great shape will be NORMAL, and all the people who AREN’T fit will be the ones everyone’s attracted to. So if I just stick with my current exercise plan, I’ll be all set.

A Day Away We often think that our affairs, great or small, must be tended continuously and in detail, or our world will disintegrate, and we will lose our places in the universe. That is not true, or if it is true, then our situations were so temporary that they would have collapsed anyway. Once a year or so I give myself a day away. On the eve of my day of absence, I begin to unwrap the bonds which hold me in harness. I inform housemates, my family and close friends that I will not be reachable for twenty-four hours; then I disengage the telephone. I turn the radio dial to an all-music station, preferably one which plays the soothing golden oldies. I sit for at least an hour in a very hot tub; then I lay out my clothes in preparation for my morning escape, and knowing that nothing will disturb me, I sleep the sleep of the just. On the morning I wake naturally, for I will have set no clock, nor informed my body timepiece when it should alarm. I dress in comfortable shoes and casual clothes and leave my house going no place. If I am living in a city, I wander streets, window-shop, or gaze at buildings. I enter and leave public parks, libraries, the lobbies of skyscrapers, and movie houses. I stay in no place for very long. On the getaway day I try for amnesia. I do not want to know my name, where I live, or how many dire responsibilities rest on my shoulders. I detest encountering even the closest friend, for then I am reminded of who I am, and the circumstances of my life, which I want to forget for a while. Every person needs to take one day away. A day in which one consciously separates the past from the future. Jobs, lovers, family, employers, and friends can exist one day without any one of us, and if our egos permit us to confess, they could exist eternally in our absence. Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for. Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us. We need hours of aimless wandering or spates of time sitting on park benches, observing the mysterious world of ants and the canopy of treetops. If we step away for a time, we are not, as many may think and some will accuse, being irresponsible, but rather we are preparing ourselves to more ably perform our duties and discharge our obligations. When I return home, I am always surprised to find some questions I sought to evade had been answered and some entanglements I had hoped to flee had become unraveled in my absence. A day away acts as a spring tonic. It can dispel rancor, transform indecision, and renew the spirit.

It was dangerous to kill when there wasn't enough reason, because after a while killing became the solution to everything, and when you got to thinking that way you were only one step from the chair.

...I realized that even when people know the pep talk is phony, they still want to hear it. Maybe it was easier to believe a lie when somebody else was saying it rather than you saying it to yourself.

It was easier with Mother--always had been--less complicated, less treacherous. I didn't have to be on my guard so much. I didn't have to watch what I said all the time for fear of inflicting a wound. Being alone with her on those weekend getaways was like curling up into a soft cloud, and, for a couple of days, everything that had ever troubled me fell away, inconsequentially, a thousand miles below.

To Jodi survival is really just a game.  Does Jodi really care about her freedom?  Or does Jodi care more about the exposure and attention all of this brings?  She may have been packing a getaway car with weapons, but perhaps getting caught was what she really wanted and needed.  To be talked to, listened to, for the world to show an interest in her.  No longer in the shadows, now we could all see Jodi.

The connection between women.’ Vivienne emerged from the shower, her hair dripping, a white towel around her torso. ‘It shouldn’t be overlooked, the power of sisterhood. We’re strong by ourselves and stronger together.

That's the beauty of discipline. It trumps everything. A lot of us are born with minimal talent, unhappy in our own skin and with the genetic makeup with which we were born. We have fucked-up parents, grow up bullied and abused, or are diagnosed with learning disabilities. We hate our hometown, our teachers, our families, and damn near everything about ourselves. We wish we could be born again as some other motherfucker in some other time and place. Well, I am proof that rebirth is possible through discipline, which is the only thing capable of altering your DNA. It is the skeleton key that can get you past all the gatekeepers and into each and every room you wish to enter. Even the ones built to keep you the fuck out! ... Discipline builds mental endurance because when effort is your main priority, you stop looking for everything to be enjoyable. Our phones and social media have turned too many of us inside out with envy and greed as we get inundated with other people's success, their new cars and houses, big contracts, resort vacations, and romantic getaways. We see how much fun everyone else is having and feel like the world is passing us by, so we bitch about it and then wonder why we are not where we want to be. When you become disciplined, you don't have time for that bullshit. p140

She’d practically ripped his clothes off before they got into her apartment, had him inside her before the sound of the door closing had stopped vibrating through the apartment. He’d pressed her to the door and pounded into her until he couldn’t stand up. He’d carried her to the bedroom, where she took over, riding him until he curled his body up to embrace her, so that his breath was on her lips when they reached their climax together.

They say your life flashes before you at the time of death, but for Clea, the lives were not hers, but her grandmother’s and her parents’. She thought of how they had loved her, of what a short time they had had together.

After that, the two of them seemed more in love than ever. There was more dancing. More hand - holding. More romantic weekend getaways. More of Dad saying things like, "Your mother has been a lot of people in the twenty years I've known her, and I've had a chance to fall in love with every single one of them, Janie. That's the key to marriage. You have to keep falling in love with every new version of each other, and it's the best feeling in the whole world.

There isn’t a single shooting star in the sky tonight, and I’m glad for it. I don’t need to ask for wishes now; I have choices all my own. Ones that will always be built on love, on hope, and on infinite, daunting, beautiful realms of possibility.

In attempting to create a psychological profile of an unknown serial killer, investigators try to distinguish between the perpetrator’s “signature”—the seemingly gratuitous acts of excessive violence or sadistic cruelty he commits for his own depraved pleasure—and his MO or modus operandi. Technically speaking, the latter term refers to the killer’s preferred method of committing his crimes without getting caught: how he selects, snares, subdues, and dispatches his victims, then makes his getaway.

The gentleness of his mouth on hers surprised her, the slow caress of his lips and tongue not unlike the waves below them. She curved her hand around the back of his neck and let herself float on the rhythm, let her fears drift and her body take over.

It’s right here next to Tom, in the warmth of his hand in mine. It’s anywhere I want it to be. It’s in the family I know, and the ones that I found, and ones I don’t even know yet. It’s in the power to choose, one that I love testing the boundaries of every day.

novel excerpts rarely benefit from group critique. It’s one thing to get all those opinions when you’ve finished, but when you’re still in the middle of a project, it’s like having fifteen people give you conflicting directions as to how best to get to the interstate.) And

Vaguely she was aware of her moans floating across the backyard as her entire body tightened around him, then released, sending bits of her consciousness flying in all directions like the stars in the sky above. Her nails dug into his shoulder through his shirt as she anchored herself to him, as the orgasm pulsed through her. She felt the ripples of his own climax inside her, and then he collapsed over her, bringing both legs into the hammock and pulling her against his side. “Perfect,” he murmured, and in a few minutes, his breathing evened out.

Carlos comes back with our drinks. “What should we drink to?” “To love,” says Brigitte. “To the few loyal customers I have left,” says Carlos. I have to think for a minute. “To the dead. Let’s think of them always, but not join them too soon.” Everyone in the bar drinks to that.

The next thing she knew, his c#ck nudged at her entrance. “Condom,” she managed. “Taken care of.” He guided her hand to the base of his shaft so she could feel the sheath. “Ride me, Elizabeth.” With a shift of her hips, she brought him into her, igniting desire she thought spent as he stretched her, stroked her inner walls.

Mary wished she could look away, shut out the sculpted beauty of his face, the width of his shoulders and the scent of his cologne. She hated the impact his physical presence had on her senses. Tall and dark, lean but very muscular, sharply dressed yet deeply tanned, he gave off the primitive, seductive aura of a powerful, desirable male.

I love you," I say. "And I'm not telling you that so you'll change your mind. I'm telling you that so you never doubt it no matter how far you go. I'm telling you that because you are someone so easy to love that it kills me to think you've ever been made to think you're not. And I'm telling you that because I'm too selfish to keep it to myself.

Yet, for all the hours Imogen spent as an adult cocooned in her apartment, she still wasn’t sure if she’d ever felt truly at home anywhere. Sometimes in the company of a tree—or a creek, or a moss-covered rock, or a desert night haloed by the Milky Way—she felt the tension inside her finally relent. There—out there—was a place where she belonged.

We all have a story to tell, adventures to share and memories we would like passed down from generation to generation surrounding a place we call home in a location that isn't actually where we live full time. Just snapping a photo and putting it on social media isn't the same as taking it slow, collecting your thoughts and sharing and documenting experiences.

He entered her with a practiced thrust, his mouth finding hers, filling her with her taste and arousal so strong. She curled her fingers over his muscular ass and spread her legs wider, searching for the rhythm to match his. God, so perfect, the angle, the tempo. He looked down at her as she found it, as she met him stroke for stroke, so good, so hot, so deep.

The last morning I woke up with Lindsay, she was leaving on a camping trip to Kauai—a brief getaway with friends that I’d encouraged. We lay in bed and I held her too tightly, and when she asked with sleepy bewilderment why I was suddenly being so affectionate, I apologized. I told her how sorry I was for how busy I’d been, and that I was going to miss her—she was the best person I’d ever met in my life. She smiled, pecked me on the cheek, and then got up to pack. The moment she was out the door, I started crying, for the first time in years. I felt guilty about everything except what my government would accuse me of, and especially guilty about my tears, because I knew that my pain would be nothing compared to the pain I’d cause to the woman I loved, or to the hurt and confusion I’d cause my family.

Mary didn't know much about Mexican law, but she felt quite certain she could hold out in the crumbling village jail for a long, long time. She knew how strong she was. And she knew the difference between right and wrong. Above all, she knew how to defy the man she hated for making love to her until she let down all her defenses. Deceitful, dishonest, devastatingly seductive Max would never get her to give in again!

In the early '80s, I spent a year working on a verse-play -- based on the life of Anne Maguire (whose sister, Mairead, founded the Peace People movement after Anne took her own life). Anne's three children were killed on the pavement as she was wheeling the pram one day in 1976 by an IRA fugitive's getaway car -- the driver fatally shot by a British soldier; this singular incident crystallized for me so much of the terror then in the air. Writing was a way of keeping clear -- in the sense of fixing it, restoring it facet by facet, to clarity. Catching a moment of history like a fly in amber with the chorus of witnesses alive, outside. After all, poetry affords this license and extreme economy. I have no business, of course, to write about such matters, being a complete foreigner in Ireland. But you do it because it is nobody's business. What you write is nobody's business. Isn't that poetry? - "What You Write Is Nobody's Business": An Interview With Wong May (The Believer, May 2014)

He could also be terrible romantic and thoughtful. My job was a real challenge. The work was difficult and the boss demanding: he thought nothing of calling or emailing at odd hours, even on the weekend; you ignored him at your peril. There was a point at which everything got to me. And it was exactly at that moment that Chris stepped in and planned a weekend getaway. He found a little cabin out in the woods where there was no cell phone reception-yes!-and without telling anyone, we made our getaway. Almost. I actually called the boss and told him my cell reception was giving out, and so I wouldn’t be able to check messages, something he expected even on the weekends. As soon as we got to the cabin, I headed to the bedroom. Inside, I opened my suitcase and changed into sexy white Victoria’s Secret-style lingerie, complete with corset and thigh-highs. Feeling a little shy and silly, I walked out and leaned against the doorway of the living room where he was sitting. “Hey!” “Yeah?” he mumbled from the couch, not bothering to look up from the magazine he was reading. “Turn around,” I said. He turned around-slowly at first. But as soon as he caught sight of me in that lingerie, he hopped clear over the couch and chased me down the hall to the bedroom. I squealed and giggled the whole way.

the hand like a beggar’s upheld with the fingers forming a suggestion of what he deserves and desires to receive, shaping the alms, thumb almost touching finger tips, as though on the tip of the tongue he’s about to say in sleep and with that gesture what he couldnt say awake: ‘Why have you taken this away from me, that I cant draw my breath in the peace and sweetness of my own bed but here in these dull and nameless rags on this humbling stoop I have to sit waiting for the wheels of the city to roll,’ and further, ‘I dont want to show my hand but in sleep I’m helpless to straighten it, yet take this opportunity to see my plea, I’m alone, I’m sick, I’m dying – see my hand up-tipped, learn the secret of my human heart, give me the thing, give me your hand, take me to the emerald mountains beyond the city, take me to the safe place, be kind, be nice, smile – I’m too tired now of everything else, I’ve had enough, I give up, I quit, I want to go home, take me home O brother in the night – take me home, lock me in safe, take me to where all is peace and amity, to the family of life, my mother, my father, my sister, my wife and you my brother and you my friend – but no hope, no hope, no hope, I wake up and I’d give a million dollars to be in my own bed – O Lord save me –’ In evil roads behind gas tanks where murderous dogs snarl from behind wire fences cruisers suddenly leap out like getaway cars but from a crime more secret, more baneful than words can tell. The woods are full of wardens.

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How much do you know about each other?” was Father Johnson’s final question of the day. Marlboro Man and I looked at each other. We didn’t know everything yet; we couldn’t possibly. We just knew we wanted to be together. Was that not enough? “Well, I’ll speak for myself,” Marlboro Man said. “I feel like I know all I need to know in order to be sure I want to marry Ree.” He rested his hand on my knee, and my heart leapt. “And the rest…I figure we’ll just handle it as we go along.” His quiet confidence calmed me, and all I could think about anyway was how long it would take me to learn how to drive my new lawn mower. I’d never mowed a lawn before in my life. Did Marlboro Man know this? Maybe he should have started me out with a cheaper model. Just then Father Johnson stood up to bid us farewell until our session the following week. I picked up my purse form its spot next to my chair. “Thank you, Father Johnson,” I said, standing up. “Wait just a second,” he said, holding up his hands. “I need to give you a little assignment.” I’d almost made a clean getaway. “I want you both to show me how much you know about each other,” he began. “I want you both to make me a collage.” I looked at him for a moment. “A collage?” I asked. “Like, with magazine pictures and glue?” “That’s exactly right,” Father Johnson replied. “And it doesn’t have to be large or elaborate; just use a piece of legal-size paper as the backdrop. I want you to fill it with pictures that represent all the things you know about the other person. Bring it to your session next week, and we’ll look at them together.” This was an unexpected development.

In heist movies, there's always a montage of scenes where the caper crew rehearses for the big day. The greaser person practices maneuvering through a mock laser beam field made up of string. The driver races through obstacle courses, back alleys, and dark city streets. The hacker pounds on her keyboard, staring at screens full of code. The gadget person demonstrates all their clever toys. The key master practices opening a safe. The muscle finds a few security guards to knock unconscious and wrestles guard dogs to the ground. The inside person seduces or befriends the target and gets them to spill their secrets. And the leader organizes it all with the help of her second-in-command. At least, that's the way it works in the movies. In real life, with a bunch of newbs who are scraping by with low-paying jobs, inflexible hours, difficult bosses, and a bunch of side gigs to make ends meet, just organizing a rehearsal heist was one hell of a task.

I can’t get over the view. I spent most of the night sitting on the third-floor balcony watching the boats.” Don’t sing to them or they’ll crash on the rocks. The thought catches me off guard, but it sticks. I can picture her up there, dark hair flying around in the wind, beckoning to passing sailors. Will I ever get to see her up there? “You like the house?” I rasp. She shrugs one shoulder. And coming from Addison, that’s a resounding yes. “It reminds me of you.” Why am I holding my breath? “Does it?” “Mmmhmm. Old-fashioned and charming…” She squints at my backside. “With a big old kitchen.” The heat that weaves up my neck is humiliating, but I cough my way through it. I’m not sure if my usual embarrassment is at play, or if I’m remembering for the thousandth time how hard I came when she used that damn finger on me. Was it supposed to make me shake like a damn teenager? “It’s not polite to make ass jokes about your tour guide.” “Oh come on. You know I love that thing.

I cannot stop them from fingering, stabbing, and sucking on me! My nipples are raw! They beat me up for enjoyment. Pledging with 'God' saying this has to stop. Yet it goes on every school day.' 'I must get away from them. I need to getaway! ('I just need to okay!') It is like these visions of what my life's existence about comes and goes away from me.' I see my life before I live it out in its entirety.' 'Sometimes, it's like I am black, I am not biased, bigoted, discriminatory, prejudiced, antiblack, and racialist, let's get that clear; yet this is the category, I was placed in, as a girl owned by man, that think I should never do anything more than be something like a worker in a field, as a slave to pay back my debts to be who I am to them in their hate.' 'The air that is around me now, is making my slit labia skin hurt with burn and sting. Burning hotter than a flame, before snuffed out! I know how a candle feels, struggling not to be blown out by the rushing air, or being snuffed out.' 'It's like they have a new addiction and that is the hole in my body that makes me a lady.' 'Just if you are wondering, I put my teddy in my backpack right after getting off the bus, after getting hazed by having him. after all, he is very significant to me.' 'I walk over to my bookbag, and see him down in their look at me, and find my one pink notebook. I open it to that one page I penned, the one that I have dogeared. 'There it is!' I say as I rip it out, it recollects the day.' 'The paper is jagged and wet, but I have an adieu note in my hand. I made it earlier in school, at lunch, when I was sitting alone; on this wrinkled up pink notebook paper. The black ink is running like a watercolor all over all my trembling, quivering, shivering, and childlike penmanship handwriting. All it has on it are all words that need to be said, about my existence in life, not living! Decidedly not.' 'They're all there the notes the things, places, events, and even smalls, maybe spelled incorrectly, but there regardless, all have gone in this book of life I call- Sh-h as if making the most long-spun book in the world, with all my pages, are thick; all pasted, shoved and slammed together, furthermore mismatched, yet all has been said, in my enchanting written long run-ons of memories, the way I fancy to remember.

OTHER RELAXATION TECHNIQUES There are many other stress management techniques that can help you to “bring yourself down” quickly when you are highly stressed. You can use them before a situation where anticipation raises tensions that do not automatically subside after a few minutes. You also can use them during an interaction or when a surprise threatens to escalate your stress out of control. Or use them after an encounter has raised your stress level, if it is not subsiding naturally. Mental Imagery You experimented with mental imagery in the previous chapter on goal-setting. The use of mental imagery also can be an effective tool for anxiety control. Think of it as a new application of skills you already have: memory and imagination. When I asked you earlier to recall how many windows there are in your bedroom, you used imagery to retrieve the information. Mentally, you went into the room, looked from wall to wall, and counted. That process is mental imagery. From a relaxation perspective, your nervous system cannot distinguish between reality and imagery. Material passed from the body to the senses, whether real or imagined, is processed the same way. Therefore, imagery can play an important role in inducing internal self-regulation and relaxation. If there is a particular image—such as the warm, sandy beach of the previous exercise, a cool forest clearing covered with a blanket of pine needles, or even a clear blue sky—that represents relaxation to you, it would be valuable for you to be able to tune in to it whenever stress threatens to interfere with your life. Be sure to conjure up the reactions of all five senses: Imagine the look, sound, smell, taste, and feel of your surroundings. Mental gateways are a valuable part of the relaxation exercise we just went through. And it is important to be aware that your nervous system—which is what overreacts in a stressful situation—cannot distinguish between reality and imagination. Here’s how to use mental imagery to create a mental getaway: (a) Choose a favorite place, a pleasant, relaxing setting that you have enjoyed in the past or one you would enjoy visiting in the future. (b) Close your eyes and think about the scene. Use your senses of hearing, smell, sight, taste, and touch to develop the scene. Put yourself there. If your mind wanders a bit, that’s okay. You’ll drift back to the scene after a short while.

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Oh, by the way, security told me earlier that some guy showed up, claiming to be your assistant.” “Already? What time is it?” “It’s almost one o’clock,” he says. “Are you telling me you actually hired someone?” My heart drops. I shove past Cliff, ignoring him as he calls for me, wanting his question answered. I head straight for security, spotting Jack standing along the side with a guard, looking somewhere between disturbed and amused. “Strangest shit I’ve ever witnessed in Jersey,” Jack says, looking me over. “And that’s saying something, because I once saw a chimpanzee roller skating, and that was weird as fuck.” “I’m going to take that as a compliment, even though I know it isn’t one,” I say, grabbing his arm and making him follow me. It’s about a two-and-a-half hour drive to Bennett Landing, but I barely have two hours. “Please tell me you drove.” Before he can respond, I hear Cliff shouting as he follows. “Johnny! Where are you going?” “Oh, buddy.” Jack glances behind us at Cliff. “Am I your getaway driver?” “Something like that,” I say. “You ever play Grand Theft Auto?” “Every fucking day, man.” “Good,” I say, continuing to walk, despite Cliff attempting to catch up. “If you can get me where I need to be, there will be one hell of a reward in it for you.” His eyes light up as he pulls out a set of car keys. “Mission accepted.” There’s a crowd gathered around set. They figured out we’re here. They know we’re wrapping today. I scan the area, looking for a way around them. “Where’d you park?” I ask, hoping it’s anywhere but right across the street. “Right across the street,” he says. Fuck. I’m going to have to go through the crowd. “You sure you, uh, don’t want to change?” Jack asks, his eyes flickering to me, conflicted. “No time for that.” The crowd spots me, and they start going crazy, making Cliff yell louder to get my attention, but I don’t stop. I slip off of set, past the metal barricades and right into the street, as security tries to keep the crowd back, but it’s a losing game. So we run, and I follow Jack to an old station wagon, the tan paint faded. “This is what you drive?” “Not all of us grew up with trust funds,” he says, slapping his hand against the rusted hood. “This was my inheritance.” “Not judging,” I say, pausing beside it. “It’s just all very ‘70s suburban housewife.” “That sounds like judgment, asshole.” I open the passenger door to get in the car when Cliff catches up, slightly out of breath from running. “What are you doing, Johnny? You’re leaving?” “I told you I had somewhere to be.” “This is ridiculous,” he says, anger edging his voice. “You need to sort out your priorities.” “That’s a damn good idea,” I say. “Consider this my notice.” “Your notice?” “I’m taking a break,” I say. “From you. From this. From all of it.” “You’re making a big mistake.” “You think so?” I ask, looking him right in the face. “Because I think the mistake I made was trusting you.” I get in the car, slamming the door, leaving Cliff standing on the sidewalk, fuming. Jack starts the engine, cutting his eyes at me. “So, where to? The unemployment office?” “Home,” I say, “and I need to get there as soon as possible, because somebody is waiting for me, and I can't disappoint her.

A quick getaway,’ she said, shucking

The ocean breeze blew her flimsy gown against her body. Hip bones jutted out on either side of her concave stomach. I’d once seen a picture of sacred cows on the Ganges. Starving. “What’s with the outfit?” I asked. “No time to change,” she said. “Had to make a quick getaway.” She kicked the pumps off, pulled the dress over her head. There she stood in a lacy bra and butt-floss thong. Some yacht dads gazed our way. “Evie!” stage-whispered Jack to me. “She’s naked!” “Listen, kid,” said Alycia. “What was your name again?” “Jack?” said Jack. “Right, right. Well, Jack, I can show you naked if you want. But this isn’t it. See this piece of fabric? They call it underwear.” “But I can see your regina.” “Jack, it’s your lucky day.” She turned from us, splashed through the shallows, and dove. Graceful as a dolphin. The yacht dads rubbernecked. She front-crawled out past the breakers. “Why is my day lucky?” asked Jack. I tousled his hair.

The officer claimed he’d been scared, had reason to believe Philando was reaching for his gun. Show me that scenario. A man seated with a trunk full of melting groceries, wearing a thin layer of cotton, a little girl in the backseat. About to whip out his gun, shoot through the cop’s bulletproof vest, to be his own getaway driver? Why would Philando shoot an innocent man within forty seconds of meeting him? Why did the officer?

Girlfriends’ Getaway is going to be the perfect time to revive, restore. Have some yoga on the lawn, do some bootcamp on the beach

The place didn’t look much like a family dwelling, really. It looked like a rich man’s love nest, a secluded little getaway nestled back in the trees of the peninsula and safe from spying eyes. Or an ideal location for a novice sorcerer to come to try out his fledgling abilities, safe from interruptions. A good place for Victor Sells to set up shop and practice

the first flight they could get, to reach safety in London. No arrests were made by gardaí, the attackers having fled before the force’s arrival. The getaway vehicle, a Ford Transit van, was later found burnt out in a nearby housing estate. There was a general air of disbelief in the city following the attack, with the Taoiseach making statements aimed at calming an unnerved public. But if the authorities had been left stunned by what

Life certainly has its ups and downs, but the magical moments make it all worthwhile.

Buying an investment property in a country you want to visit extensively or live in gives you a double helping of benefits. Through rent and property appreciation, your global getaway pays for itself and provides pre-relocating cash flow. Then, when you’re ready to be there, you already have a substantial holding and history in the country.

dragging Katie with her, half-patting her back as she slid the cardboard box onto the island. In the box, Ariel’s phone dinged with a new message alert. Ariel picked it up as she scooped Katie into a full hug, making soothing shushing noises. She let her daughter cry into her shoulder, waiting it out. Over Katie’s shoulder, Ariel opened the screen for her messages. Maybe it would be Dylan, with some uplifting birthday getaway planned that would help both Ariel and Katie get over this awful day. But it wasn’t. Ariel gaped at the phone screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The text was from Dylan, but it wasn’t anywhere near about mistletoe and ski slopes. It simply said: This just isn’t working out. It seems like we’re going in different

The Night Bomber by Stewart Stafford Stefan and Elyse came home by rote, To find a stranger's chilling note, "I’m going to kill you" scrawled in red, Pranks locked out with nothing said. Then the hall window smashed, In a firework’s screaming flash, They threw it out before it burned, Danger had not passed, they learned. A ticking device left behind, Elyse kicked it away just in time, A garden explosion's massive bang, Their ears and windows loudly rang. They wondered what psycho did this deed, And how they'd crossed this evil breed, Then they heard them bomb their neighbours who thought Stefan and Elyse were perpetrators. Then another blast three doors down, Stefan ran to help with a worried frown, Concerned to see who else got hit, Seeing their attacker was still at it. A bomber in a ski mask did a backflip, To dodge their lunging, angry grip, He swung on ropes and vaulted high, An acrobat mocking with a stylish eye. The bomber fled in his getaway car, A neighbour leapt on before he got far, He held on tight but got dragged along, Rolled to the kerb, he couldn't hold on. The Night Bomber of Sheila’s Cabin On the loose, an explosive phantom, Stalking without any reason or pity, His laughter echoed across the city. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

The February morning dawned cold as a brass madonna. I hadn’t worn my fleece coat, despite Dreema telling me to as I dashed out the door and made my getaway. Check the box for stubbornness.

No matter how bad things got, she could always count on the fact God was in control. After all, her daughter was alive. She knew God would grant her peace and help calm her fears. That was what He loved to do with His children, the ones who believed in Him and looked to Him to supply their needs.

God needed to be that port. The One who called her home, to come and anchor her life in Him. She couldn’t be swept around by every wave and battered by all the storms that left her adrift. She would be tethered to Him. Safe, in Him.

Grandfather, who usually greeted me with sneers and eye rolls, never acknowledged I was even in the room.

no one really knows how much they can take until they finally reach their limit.

...he looked at her as if he wanted nothing more than to get away. And she wanted nothing more than for him him to stay.