Giant Killer Quotes

Who the hell would attack the Steel Horse anyway? What was the thinking behind that? “Here is a bar full of psychotic killers who grow giant claws and people who pilot the undead for a living. I think I’ll go wreck the place.

There was nothing wrong with being a homebody. There was nothing wrong with not wanting - not needing - the constant jostle and noise of a party or bar or... whatever.

I simply felt alone, one leaf sitting miles away from a giant, communal pile.

There's a great power of imagination about these little creatures, and a creative fancy and belief that is very curious to watch . . . I am sure that horrid matter-of-fact child-rearers . . . do away with the child's most beautiful privilege. I am determined that Anny shall have a very extensive and instructive store of learning in Tom Thumbs, Jack-the-Giant-Killers, etc.

You're a punk?' 'What?' 'What do they call people from the eighties?' I asked. 'Oh,' she laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. 'I'm my mother, actually. I mean, these are her clothes from High School. I guess I should tell people I'm Cyndi Lauper though, or something, because dressing up as your mother is pretty lame.' 'I almost dressed up as my mother,' I said, 'but I was worried what my therapist would say.' She laughed again, and I realized that she thought I was joking. It was probably for the best, since telling her the second half of my mom costume - a giant fake butcher knife through the head - would probably freak her out.

I have learned that I must be selective when, where, and with whom I dream out loud.

He took one long stride and caught me in another vice-tight bear hug. "You really, honestly don't mind that I morph into a giant dog?" he asked, his voice joyful in my ear. "No," I gasped. "Can't―breathe―Jake!" He let me go, but took both my hands. "I'm not a killer, Bella." I studied his face, and it was clear that this was the truth. Relief pulsed through me. "Really?" I asked. "Really," he promised solemnly. I threw my arms around him. It reminded me of that first day with the motorcycles―he was bigger, tough, and I felt even more like a child now. Like that other time, he stroked my hair. "Sorry I called you a hypocrite," he apologized. "Sorry I called you a murderer." He laughed.

People wanted the explanation to be as big and flashy as the killings themselves, but the truth was far more terrifying: true terror doesn’t come from giant monsters but from small, innocent-looking people.

Embalming was like . . . I don't know how to describe it. It was like playing with a giant doll, dressing it and bathing it and opening it up to see what was inside.

The moment isn't a piece of time; it's a question. The moment comes when you look up and see your life stretching out for seventy more years. And there, in front of you, like a giant roadblock, is the question: Is this life good enough for the next seventy years? But maybe that's the easy question. The next logical question--Can I live like this?--is the killer. Because it isn't a yes or no kind of question. It's a do or die kind of question. I avoid moments.

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind, Two of us will help you, whichever you would find, One among us seven will let you move ahead, Another will transport the drinker back instead, Two among our number hold only nettle wine, Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line. Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore, To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four: First, however slyly the poison tries to hide You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side; Second, different are those who stand at either end, But if you would move onward, neither is your friend; Third, as you see clearly, all are different size, Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides; Fourth, the second left and the second on the right Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

God isn’t put off by brokenness, weakness, failure, and sin. He simply declares them not true of us anymore. He is saying, “You now have a new identity: saint, blessed, chosen, adopted, redeemed, and forgiven.” The power of grace should never be underestimated.

It should go without saying that the first step in killing a giant is admitting that you are facing one.

The word “whale” was almost always synonymous with monster and interchangeable with giant.

When you got a giant killer robot, who needs metaphors?

If you want to kill giants, hang around a giant killer. It rubs off.

There was no Disney World then, just rows of orange trees. Millions of them. Stretching for miles And somewhere near the middle was the Citrus Tower, which the tourists climbed to see even more orange trees. Every month an eighty-year-old couple became lost in the groves, driving up and down identical rows for days until they were spotted by helicopter or another tourist on top of the Citrus Tower. They had lived on nothing but oranges and come out of the trees drilled on vitamin C and checked into the honeymoon suite at the nearest bed-and-breakfast. "The Miami Seaquarium put in a monorail and rockets started going off at Cape Canaveral, making us feel like we were on the frontier of the future. Disney bought up everything north of Lake Okeechobee, preparing to shove the future down our throats sideways. "Things evolved rapidly! Missile silos in Cuba. Bales on the beach. Alligators are almost extinct and then they aren't. Juntas hanging shingles in Boca Raton. Richard Nixon and Bebe Rebozo skinny-dipping off Key Biscayne. We atone for atrocities against the INdians by playing Bingo. Shark fetuses in formaldehyde jars, roadside gecko farms, tourists waddling around waffle houses like flocks of flightless birds. And before we know it, we have The New Florida, underplanned, overbuilt and ripe for a killer hurricane that'll knock that giant geodesic dome at Epcot down the trunpike like a golf ball, a solid one-wood by Buckminster Fuller. "I am the native and this is my home. Faded pastels, and Spanish tiles constantly slipping off roofs, shattering on the sidewalk. Dogs with mange and skateboard punks with mange roaming through yards, knocking over garbage cans. Lunatics wandering the streets at night, talking about spaceships. Bail bondsmen wake me up at three A.M. looking for the last tenant. Next door, a mail-order bride is clubbed by a smelly ma in a mechanic's shirt. Cats violently mate under my windows and rats break-dance in the drop ceiling. And I'm lying in bed with a broken air conditioner, sweating and sipping lemonade through a straw. And I'm thinking, geez, this used to be a great state. "You wanna come to Florida? You get a discount on theme-park tickets and find out you just bough a time share. Or maybe you end up at Cape Canaveral, sitting in a field for a week as a space shuttle launch is canceled six times. And suddenly vacation is over, you have to catch a plane, and you see the shuttle take off on TV at the airport. But you keep coming back, year after year, and one day you find you're eighty years old driving through an orange grove.

Stalin tried to kill Yugoslavian leader Tito 22 times. Tito then wrote a letter in reply saying: "Stop sending people to kill me. If you don't stop sending killers, I'll send one to Moscow, and I won't have to send a second.

The power of grace is such that God declares sinners saints, blesses those who deserve a curse, and honors the dishonorable. We may be convinced of our sinfulness and worthlessness, but God, through Jesus, has declared otherwise. We are no longer slaves to sin. We are blessed; we are chosen; we are predestined; we are heirs; we have been redeemed and forgiven!

The tribbles were really made by a fellow named Wah Chang—he did much of STAR TREK’s special effects work, but he’s also well known for his work in films like Jack the Giant Killer, The Seven Faces of Dr. Lao, and other fantasies requiring unusual effects or animation.

When microbiologists first started cataloguing the human microbiome in its entirety they hoped to discover a "core" microbiome: a group of species that everyone shares. It's now debatable if that core exists. Some species are common, but none is everywhere. If there is a core, it exists at the level of functions, not organisms. There are certain jobs, like digesting a certain nutrient or carrying out a specific metabolic trick, that are always filled by some microbe-just not always the same one. You see the same trend on a bigger scale. In New Zealand, kiwis root through leaf litter in search of worms, doing what a badger might do in England. Tigers and clouded leopards stalk the forests of Sumatra but in cat-free Madagascar that same niche is filled by a giant killer mongoose called the fossa; meanwhile, in Komodo, a huge lizard claims the top predator role. Different islands, different species, same jobs. The islands in question could be huge land masses, or individual people.

Self-confidence is no greater than self. God confidence, which is called faith, is as big as God.

Fear is not the problem; it’s how we respond to it that gets us in trouble.

We sleep safely at night because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.” — Richard Grenier

A video screen descended from the spear-enhanced ceiling and locked into place. He pushed another button. Images of wolves, giants, gods, and weapons flashed across the screen. Then a title: The Signs of Ragnarok: Doomed if You Know Them, Doomed if You Don’t. I groaned inwardly. I’d sat through Odin’s instructional video when I first became a Valkyrie. I saw it a second time after I helped re-shackle the dreaded killer Fenris Wolf on Lyngvi, the Isle of Heather. Then once more after I’d inadvertently aided my father Loki, a vile trickster, to escape his imprisonment. And after Loki was recaptured? Yep—got to see it again.

For years, the people of Congo spoke of giant chimpanzees that ate lions, fished, and howled at the moon. In fact, the animal was called “lion killer” by the native people. Of course, traditional scientists attributed the rumors to a highly imaginative indigenous group whose bedtime stories had gotten a little out of hand. Besides, the descriptions seemed to more closely match a gorilla than a chimp. It was said that it lived in nests on the ground, rather than in the trees; that it was not aggressive toward humans; that it walked on two feet for longer distances than is typical for a chimp; and that it grew to as large as six and half feet tall. All in all, it was too incredible to be real, at least for the Western world. Still, in 1996, when word of the giant chimps got out, researchers descended on Congo. Although scat, hair, and other evidence was found, it wasn’t until 2005 that the chimps were actually seen by a Westerner. Primatologist Shelly Williams was in the Congo, searching for the creatures, when a group of four of them emerged from the trees, charging at her. They were at least five feet tall, with wide flat faces, a pronounced brow, and gray fur. Yet when they noticed Williams’s face, they stopped their charge and walked away. This lack of aggression toward humans was repeated in other encounters, including those of Cleve Hicks of the University of Amsterdam, who spent eighteen months observing the creatures following the Williamses’ encounter. He, too, found that they had no fear of humans, but rather seemed to recognize humans as a cousin of sorts.

must we then conclude after all that Man is the most important thing in Nature? If I had to answer ‘Yes’ to this question I should not be embarrassed. Supposing Man to be the only rational animal in the universe, then (as has been shown) his small size and the small size of the globe he inhabits would not make it ridiculous to regard him as the hero of the cosmic drama: Jack after all is the smallest character in Jack the Giant-Killer.

And mayonnaise is the whitest food.” “Mayonnaise isn’t a food.” “How is it not a food?” “No one eats just mayo straight from the jar. It’s a sauce.” “Weak sauce.” “So that’s your definition of food? What about peanut butter?” “Of course peanut butter’s a food. Don’t you ever eat it straight from the jar?” “Well, yeah.” “What if something’s gross unless you put other stuff on it? Like, no one eats plain oatmeal, right? Is it a food?” “Plain oatmeal is communist.” “Pickled eggs are for serial killers.” “Nasty. Who’d eat a pickled egg?” “Exactly! It’s like eating a giant eyeball.” “Pickled eggs dipped in mayo. Yum.” “If you ever open a fridge and there’s nothing but pickled eggs and mayo, run for your life. Hundred percent chance you’re at a serial killer’s house.” We were back to being ridiculous, like at most of our sleepovers. Every time I laughed, the rock grew smaller.

The Poodle The poodle -- nature’s most perfect food -- was invented by Otto Van Plotsberg in 1872. According to Van Plotsberg he had only just begun experimenting with kinky hair and extra toes when he happened upon the formula for poodles. Van Plotsberg’s first poodles sported only one leg -- a stumpy appendage protruding from the center of the body. These crude early versions (commonly inverted and used as hat stands) were soon abandoned in favor of the superior French model, which featured a winning smile and four limbs positioned strategically around the torso. Thus began the dizzying proliferation of the modern-day poodle -- hampered temporarily by a 1909 decree which stated that “Henceforth all poodles shall bear the name Svee,” marking a slight decline in the population until the edict was overturned. Today, poodles inhabit every corner of the earth. Witness the African Killer Poodle, The Wild Poodles of Borneo, and the elusive Giant Swamp Poodle of Denchai.

A footfall crunched behind him. He turned to see Reyna heading his way with the cat at her side. He grinned at them, and Reyna stopped short, glancing over her shoulder as if looking for the cause of his grin. "Someone spike you prefight Gatorade?" she asked. "No, I'm just happy to see -" He rocked back on his heels. "Happy to see the cat is still with you. Have you picked a name yet?" "What are my options again?" "Trjegul, Bygul, and Heyyu." "Tree-gool and Bee-gool?" she said. "And Hey-yu?" She stopped. "Hey, you. Oh. Ha-ha. Leave comedy to the professionals, Thorsen." He shrugged. "You could always ask the cat what her name is." "Nope. I pick Trjegul." She looked down at the calico. "You're Trjegul now. Even if you're really Bygul." The cat only blinked. "So if I call you by your name, you'll come, right?" Trjegul got up and wandered off in the other direction. "Watch out or I'll trade you for a swan!" Reyna called after her. "A giant, killer stealth swan that eats ungrateful kitties for breakfast.

Nor was it mean delight To watch crude Nature work in untaught minds; To note the laws and progress of belief; Though obstinate on this way, yet on that How willingly we travel, and how far! To have, for instance, brought upon the scene The champion, Jack the Giant-killer: Lo! He dons his coat of darkness; on the stage Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the eye Of living Mortal covert, "as the moon Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought? The garb he wears is black as death, the word "Invisible" flames forth upon his chest.

The lack of emotional connection with other people has the odd effect of making you feel separate and alien—as if you were observing the human race from somewhere else, unattached and unwelcome. I’ve felt like that for years, long before I met Dr. Neblin and long before Mr. Crowley sent ridiculous love notes on his cell phone. People scurry around, doing their little jobs and raising their little families and shouting their meaningless emotions to the world, and all the while you just watch from the sidelines, bewildered. This drives some sociopaths to feel superior, as if the whole of humanity were simply animals to be hunted or put down; others feel a hot, jealous rage, desperate to have what they cannot. I simply felt alone, one leaf sitting miles away from a giant, communal pile.

According to the corporate media, which allows all shades of opinion from the far right to the middle-of-the-road, America has vicious enemies on all continents (except maybe Antarctica). These Evildoers, driven by Satan, want to destroy us and take all we own. Hence, by this analysis, our president must have no compunction about spilling blood; in short, like it or not, he must have the soul--or soullessness--of a serial killer. A rival "leftish" view, banned from the corporate media but widely available on Internet, holds that the world does not consist entirely of endless enemies, but does contain many, many peoples who want to get out from under the heel of the IMF, the World Bank and the multi-nationals. "Our" government, in this view, actually belongs not to us but to these giant money-cows, who finance the two major parties and ensure that no third party ever gets decent coverage in their media. The government then acts as Company Cop for the rich, suppressing all attempts at rebellion or national liberation, etc. Thus, once again, via a dissenting ideology, we arrive at the conclusion that the president must think, feel and act like a serial killer.

We walked the circuit, passing the food stands frying funnel cakes and burgers, and the game booths, ceilings bristling with giant, multicolored stuffed animals. I paused in front of the crossbow game. Nicholas cocked an eyebrow. “Want me to win you a stuffed bunny?” “Ha.” I rubbed my hands together. “I’ll win my own stuffed bunny, thanks very much.” Nicholas passed the attendant a few dollars to pay for my turn. “I guess it’s nice to see you use your legendary aim for something other than breaking my nose,” he teased. “The night is young,” I snapped back, lifting the plastic crossbow. “This is a pathetic weapon,” I muttered. “I couldn’t stake an undead mouse with this thing.” “It’s supposed to be a game, remember?” he whispered, laughter in his dark voice. I fired my three shots, all crowding into the bull’s-eye. With a triumphantly smug toss of my head, I looked at the openmouthed attendant. “I want the purple bunny.” He tugged it down and passed it over to me. I slipped it into my bag while Nicholas shook his head. “Dump this loser, Lucy, and run away with me. You’ll never have to win your own cross-eyed bunny again.” I grinned up at Nicholas’s brother Quinn, who was smiling his charming smile, his arm draping casually over my shoulder. Hunter rolled her eyes at me from my other side. “No way,” I said. “My aim’s better than yours. Plus, your girlfriend can hurt me.” “Ooh,” Quinn said, winking. “Catfight. Hot.” He grinned. “Ouch,” he added when both Hunter and I smacked him.

Trash first. Then supplies. Stepping forward, I kicked a pile of takeout containers to one side, wanting to clear a path to the cabinets so I could look for latex gloves. But then I stopped, stiffening, an odd scratching sound coming from the pile I’d just nudged with my foot. Turning back to it, I crouched on the ground and lifted a greasy paper at the top of the mess. And that’s when I saw it. A cockroach. In Ireland. A giant behemoth of a bug, the likes I’d only ever seen on nature programs about prehistoric insects. Okay, perhaps I was overexaggerating its size. Perhaps not. Honestly, I didn’t get a chance to dwell on the matter, because the roach-shaped locust of Satan hopped onto my hand. I screamed. Obviously. Jumping back and swatting at my hand, I screamed again. But evil incarnate had somehow crawled up and into the sleeve of my shirt. The sensation of its tiny, hairy legs skittering along my arm had me screaming a third time and I whipped off my shirt, tossing it to the other side of the room as though it was on fire. “What the hell is going on?” I spun toward the door, finding Ronan Fitzpatrick and Bryan Leech hovering at the entrance, their eyes darting around the room as though they were searching for a perpetrator. Meanwhile, I was frantically brushing my hands over my arms and torso. I felt the echo of that spawn of the devil’s touch all over my body. “Cockroach!” I screeched. “Do you see it? Is it still on me?” I twisted back and forth, searching. Bryan and Ronan were joined in the doorway by more team members, but I barely saw them in my panic. God, I could still feel it. I. Could. Still. Feel. It. Now I knew what those hapless women felt like in horror movies when they realized the serial killer was still inside the house.

A particularly gruesome hunt targeted the basking shark, the second-largest fish in the world. At one time these creatures, which may reach fifteen metres in length, were abundant along the coast. For all their size they are peaceable giants, feeding on zooplankton in the nutrient-rich ocean waters close to the surface. They do not eat salmon or any other fish, but fishermen considered them a nuisance because they often became entangled in fishing gear. In 1949 the Department of Fisheries labelled them a "destructive pest" and in 1955 the department was persuaded to take aggressive action against the sharks in Barkley Sound, on the west coast of Vancouver Island, where they were especially prevalent. A large triangular cutting blade was mounted on the bow of a fisheries patrol vessel, the Comox Post. This knife could be lowered just below the surface of the water. When the vessel drove straight into a lounging shark, the blade sliced the animal in half. Between 1955 and 1969, when the blade was in use, hundreds of sharks were slaughtered in the sound. "The great shark slaughter began at noon and continued for hours," wrote a reporter who witnessed one of these excursions in 1956. "We littered the beaches with their livers and the bottom with their carcasses." Other fisheries vessels that were not equipped with the knife had orders to simply ram any sharks they encountered in the hope of killing them. Basking sharks are today almost never encountered in Barkley Sound or anywhere else on the coast.

adventure, one usually found me, and now I weave those tales into my stories. I am blessed to have written the bestselling Jack Stratton mystery series. The collection includes And Then She Was Gone, Girl Jacked, Jack Knifed, Jacks Are Wild, Jack and the Giant Killer, and Data Jack. My background is an eclectic mix of degrees in theatre, communications, and computer science. Currently I reside in Massachusetts with my lovely wife and two fantastic children. My wife, Katherine Greyson, who is my chief content editor, is an author of her own romance

transformations never happened in one fell swoop. There was no single defining action, no grand program, no one killer innovation, no solitary lucky break, no miracle moment. Rather, the process resembled relentlessly pushing a giant heavy flywheel in one direction, turn upon turn, building momentum until a point of breakthrough, and beyond.

Hm … yes, all is in a man’s hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that’s an axiom. It would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most…. But I am talking too much. It’s because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I’ve learned to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den thinking …of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It’s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything.

Serial killer, David Berkowitz, claimed that the neighbor’s dog “Harvey” ordered him to kill during the summer of 1977 in New York City.

But Mr. Gradgrind prefers the lantern unlighted. Material facts are good enough for him. Until it comes to religion. And then, suddenly, the child who has been forbidden to believe in Jack the Giant Killer must believe in Goliath and David. There are no fairies, but you must believe that there are angels. The magic sword and the magic buckler are nonsense, but the child must not have any doubts about the breastplate of righteousness and the sword of the Spirit. What spiritual reaction do you expect when, after denying all the symbolic stories and legends, you suddenly confront your poor little Materialist with the Most Wonderful Story in the world?

[46] “I have called myself Grim, I have called myself Wanderer, Warrior and Helmet-Wearer, Famed One and Third One, Thunder and Wave, Hel-Blind and One-Eye, [47] “Truth, and Swift, and True Father, Battle-Merry, Battle-Stirrer, Curse-Eye and Fire-Eye, Evildoer, Spellcaster, Masked and Shadowed-Face, Fool and Wise Man, {70} [48] “Long-Hat and Long-Beard, Victory-Father and War-Ready, Allfather, War-Father, Rope-Rider and Hanged-God. I have never been known by just one name since I first walked among men. [49] “They called me Shadowed-Facehere at Geirroth’s place,but Gelding at Asmund’s,they called me Driverwhen I pulled the sleds,and Mighty at the assembly.Among the gods I’m called Wish-Granter, Speaker, Just-as-High, Shield-Shaker, Wand-Bearer, Graybeard. [50] “Wise and Wisdom-Granter were my names at Sokkmimir’s hall, when I deceived that old giant and I killed his famous son. I was his killer. [51] “You are drunk, Geirroth! You have drunk too much. You have lost too much when you have lost my favor; you’ve lost the favor of Odin and all the Einherjar. [52] “I’ve told you much, and you’ll remember little— your friends will deceive you— I see the sword of my friend dripping with blood. {71} [53] “Now Odin will have a weapon-killed man— I know your life has ended. Your guardian spirits are anxious, they see Odin here before you. Approach me, if you can. [54] “Odin is my name. But before they called me Terror, and Thunder before that, and Waker and Killer, and Confuser and Orator-God, Heat-Maker, Sleep-Maker, both Gelding and Father! I think all these names were used for me alone.

She barely made enough to cover her rent and food, not to mention her truck payments and a pair of insurmountable credit card bills. Often Dani felt like her debt was a giant chasing her, his footsteps smashing the land.

looked as if he might hit Jack, but the giant killer just

before you, while safety lies behind, Two of us will help you, whichever you would find, One among us seven will let you move ahead, Another will transport the drinker back instead, Two among our number hold only nettle wine, Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line. Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore, To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four: First, however slyly the poison tries to hide You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side; Second, different are those who stand at either end, But if you would move onwards, neither is your friend; Third, as you see clearly, all are different size, Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides; Fourth, the second left and the second on the right Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

My gentle giant—I couldn’t fathom what it took for him to kill a man with his bare fists. He was the boy who had been sensitive enough to spend day after day drawing a traumatized girl out of her shell. He was the boy who texted me about new piano pieces he had mastered. He was the boy who had given me a pendant of the Eiffel Tower with the promise of seeing the world. He wasn’t a killer. Or at least, he hadn’t been.

God, it’s sweet. I’ve never seen Gentry look comfortable, but he looks at home when he’s touching her like that. That one word turned a giant fucking serial killer into a little puppy.

Among the people, it was believed, as late as the present century, that spirits were imprisoned in statues. The statue of Neptune by Ammanati in the fountain of the Piazza della Signoria is called 'Il Biancone' or 'The Great White Man' by the poor people, who used to say that he was the mighty river god of the Arno tuned into statue because, like Michelangelo, he spurned the love of women. When the full moon shines on him, so the story goes, he comes to life and walks about the Piazza conversing with the other statues. Michelangelo's 'David', before it became a statue, used to be known as 'The Giant'. It was a great block of marble eighteen feet high that had been spoiled by Agostino di Duccio; personified by popular fancy, it lay for forty years in the workshops of the Cathedral, until Michelangelo made the Giant-Killer, that is, into a patriotic image of a small country defeating its larger foes. Giants, it was related, had built the great Etruscan stone wall of Fiesole, and many stories were told in Florence of beautiful maidens being turned into pure white marble statues.

called

I’m not even that honest with myself.

Many tribes, for instance, have mythical accounts of the origin of the various races (echoing the way Europeans mythologized ‘the Indian’ in terms of Western cosmology) which hold up a surprising distorting mirror to Euro-American culture. A Tohono O’odham (Papago) story describes how, long ago, the hero I’itoi brought the victims of a giant killer-eagle back to life. Those who had been dead the longest and were most decayed and pallid, he turned into white people. Because they had been dead so long that they had forgotten everything they once knew, I’itoi gave them the power of writing to help them record and remember. Clearly, from a Tohono O’odham point of view, literacy is a kind of crutch: far from being an emblem of cultural superiority, it is evidence that Europeans are lost, ignorant and detached from a knowledge of themselves.

A T-bone’s a two-for-one cut. That way I get a piece of tenderloin and a piece of strip steak. Win-win.

The archangels were well acquainted with the Mother Earth Goddess and her protective parasites. Her evil was ancient. Before the Flood, she had resided in the land now called Arabia. It had been a vast fertile continent in antediluvian days. But Gaia sucked the soul out of the environment and turned it into a lifeless desert. She had the ability to manifest herself between heaven and earth, unseen by mortal eyes from a distance behind a veil of illusion. The area around her was like being in a world between worlds. It was there, but not there. Before the Flood, Enoch and his band of giant killers had encountered her within a Shaitan, a supernatural sandstorm. After the Flood, the great King Gilgamesh and his companion Enkidu had cut down the great tree with their mighty axes. But Gaia’s seed always finds new earth and she had planted herself in these foothills of the sacred mountain of Baal-Hermon. Protected in the shadow of the assembly of gods, by the cult of Pan and the idol worship of the tribe of Dan nearby, Gaia flourished.

Then it came to him. This was not the diversion, the battle of Gibeah was the diversion. The real goal was to capture Mikael himself, the prince of Israel. Well, he thought, they picked the wrong archangel to mess with. I have a chosen nation to protect. He pulled out his horn to call for help, but Ba’alzebul’s mace smashed it out of his hands. Dagon assaulted him with a barrage of sword slashes and strikes. Mikael kept him at bay, but almost got stung by Asherah’s javelin from the other side. He dodged and kept moving. His Karabu training was his only hope. It was the heavenly battle technique of Yahweh’s archangels developed to protect the Garden of Eden in primordial days. They had taught the human giant killers Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech, and Caleb the Way of Karabu, but now he would need to call upon his training to survive this ordeal. He flipped, spun, and danced around the four attacking gods and their weapons. It frustrated the malevolent beings, which was to Mikael’s advantage. But archangels were still created beings. He began to grow tired. They were wearing him down. Dagon’s sword grazed Mikael’s arm, cutting through his tunic. He was not going to be able to keep it up. He would have to do something drastic. Ba’alzebul moved in on Mikael. The biggest, meanest, mightiest of the gods had been waiting for his opportune moment when Mikael was just weary enough, just worn enough, to be incapable of expecting the unexpected. Ba’alzebul took the lead and pounded Mikael’s sword with his mace and backed him up against the ledge. Mikael looked down to the chasm floor. Saul and his forces made their way through the chasm below after slaughtering the priests of Molech. It wasn’t a fair fight. And neither was this fight. But Saul was safe. He had made it through and went north toward Gibeah. But the gods were not here for Saul. They were here for Mikael. Ba’alzebul suddenly threw down his mace and rushed Mikael like a bull goring its prey. Mikael didn’t register why, until Ba’alzebul hit him. The two of them launched off into space, plummeting toward the chasm floor two hundred feet below. Angels and gods could not die. But they were not mere spirits. They were enfleshed spirits. While it was unique flesh that would heal miraculously, it was still flesh that could be hurt — as Ba’alzebul knew all too well from his own painful experience in the molten earth. They hit the ground with a powerful thud and sank several feet into the dirt. Every bone in Mikael’s body was broken in the fall. He was paralyzed in excruciating pain. Ba’alzebul had been on top of Mikael, so while he too would be somewhat incapacitated, it would not be as bad for him, having used Mikael’s body as a cushion in the fall. As Mikael slipped into a state of delirious pain, he knew that their goal had been to capture him this way. To ambush him and therefore make both Saul and David more vulnerable to human attack. But what did they plan for Mikael? He could not begin to imagine.

Hair spray was king, and the eighties silhouette in Burlington was big hair, giant shoulder pads, chunky earrings, thick belts, and form-fitting stretch pants. My silhouette was an upside-down triangle. Add in my round potato face and hearty eyebrows and you’ve got yourself a grade-A boner killer, so remember that before you try to jerk it to my teenage-nurse story.

Lamech and Betenos had a brief wedding ceremony. Its brevity was inspired by the fact that the team of giant killers was about to embark on the final leg of its journey to Bashan. They allowed the new lovers several days to discover themselves in all their god-given intimacy. At last, Lamech understood what his father meant when he said that making love to his wife was an act of worship to Elohim. It embodied the kind of union that transcended their physical existence. Grandfather Enoch, with his passionate way with words, had often spoken of the love of Elohim for his people being like that of a bridegroom with his bride.

Three generals galloped forward on their horses, each accompanied by an archangel. Each led a battalion of about seven hundred soldiers, Tubal-cain and Raphael commanded the left flank division, Jubal and Gabriel were over the right flank division, and Methuselah and Mikael led the center division. They met in the center to counsel. “Have you fought Nephilim?” Mikael asked Methuselah. Methuselah raised his eyebrow. “In my day, I was quite the giant killer. Now, I think I am just an archangel’s irritant.” Everyone knew he was talking about Uriel. They all smiled. Mikael said, “Well, then you should do well on this day.

the Karabu slid out from their hiding places and crevice openings. They attacked the Nephilim at the base of the mountain. The Nephilim forces were divided into two units, those climbing and those waiting to climb. But the six thousand at the bottom of the mountain would still be a difficult victory for the three hundred members of the vanishing secret order of giant killers. The battle form of the Karabu was referred to as “the dance of death,” which showed itself as the Karabu attacked. They came at the Nephilim in clothing the color of the volcanic rock around them. The Nephilim did not even know what hit them. By the time they could get their bearings on the hostile force cutting them down, they had already lost nearly a thousand giants. The Nephilim below pulled in their ranks to fight the spinning, twisting, flipping, nearly invisible enemy. The Nephilim above saw the slaughter, but kept climbing toward their launch point above.

side, behind him. He lowered his voice and whispered,

She just had to be careful and clever and brave. She could be Puss in Boots; she could be Jack the Giant-Killer. She knew all the rules. Her father had taught her when she was just a girl, and her father knew everything about the forest.

When will you rest? Even in the heat of battle. I tell you, rest does not always look like a hammock stretched between two trees on a lazy summer evening. Rest can mean looking to Me and My grace even as you swing your weapon. Rest is simply being with Me. “I promise you this: I will be with you every step of the way. I will hold you together when you feel that you could fall apart. And I will be there to celebrate with you when at last your battles are at an end.” Even

When we react to problems, as opposed to create with them, we get hooked into stress. When we are under constant low-grade stress—and it’s estimated that over 80 percent of us are all the time—this begins to hurt us.1 When we are stressed, our nervous system tightens up and we lose our creativity. Stress stops us learning, and if we aren’t learning, we aren’t growing.2 Stress, AKA fear, corrodes the curiosity and courage we need to experiment with the new. It is almost impossible to play big in life, if we are scared of looking like idiots, going bankrupt, or being rejected. Stress kills creativity and kills us too. Whereas small amounts of stress help us focus, engage, and learn, chronic or elevated stress burns us out, literally as well as metaphorically. People who live near airports and deal with the stress of giant airplanes roaring above them have higher rates of cardiac arrest than those who don’t.3 People who deal with a controlling or uncommunicative boss have a 60 percent higher chance of developing coronary heart disease than those who don’t.4 Stress leads to tangible changes inside all the cells of the body. Specific genes start to express proteins, which leads to inflammation; and chronic inflammation is associated with killers such as heart disease and cancer. Over time, stress reduces our ability to prevent aging, heal wounds, fight infections, and even be successfully immunized.5 Unmanaged stress, simply from having a sense of disempowerment at work, can be more dangerous than smoking or high cholesterol.

The famous giant killers of folklore tend to be children. Whether their names are David or Jack, it does not occur to them that a small round stone cannot successfully take on an eight-foot spear. (If you are going up against an eight-foot spear, the one weapon it is foolish to choose is a four-foot spear; if you can’t match the length, you need something different.)

She missed having someone at her back, knowing that it didn't all fall on her, every hour, every day, every month, every task. But it was the everyday intimacy that left a gaping hole. The teasing you wear-the-black-teddy-I'll-kill-the-giant-arachnid and the I'll-clean-the-showerdrain-if-you-drape-your-hair-over-my-belly negotiations. Samara swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat. "The Spider-Killing Factor. You didn't appreciate it until it was gone. She bet Logan would be a great spider-killer.

Modern art is a waste of time. When the zombies show up, you can't worry about art. Art is for people who aren't worried about zombies. Besides zombies and icebergs, there are other things that Soap has been thinking about. Tsunamis, earthquakes, Nazi dentists, killer bees, army ants, black plague, old people, divorce lawyers, sorority girls, Jimmy Carter, giant quids, rabid foxes, strange dogs, new anchors, child actors, fascists, narcissists, psychologists, ax murderers, unrequited love, footnotes, zeppelins, the Holy Ghost, Catholic priests, John Lennon, chemistry teachers, redheaded men with British accents, librarians, spiders, nature books with photographs of spiders in them, darkness, teachers, swimming pools, smart girls, pretty girls, rich girls, angry girls, tall girls, nice girls, girls with superpowers, giant lizards, blind dates who turn out to have narcolepsy, angry monkeys, feminine hygiene commercials, sitcoms about aliens, things under the bed, contact lenses, ninjas, performances artists, mummies, spontaneous combustion, Soap has been afraid of all of these things at one time or another, Ever since he went to prison, he's realized that he doesn't have to be afraid. All he has to do is come up with a plan. Be prepared. It's just like the Boy Scouts, except you have to be even more prepared. You have to prepare for everything that the Boy Scouts didn't prepare you for, which is pretty much everything.

Here in our country cottage the long summer is coming to an end, in falling leaves and setting suns, and gold and russet, where green shoots were twinkling a little time ago.

Whitewash and blue cotton, and weary faces in the women’s wards; whitewash and brown fustian, and sullen, stupid looks in the men’s; this was all that Trevithic carried away in his brain that first day; - misery and whitewash, and a dull, choking atmosphere from which he was ashamed almost to escape into the open fields outside the town, across which his way led back to the station.

The gracious fancy kingdom vanishes at cock-crow, we know. It is not among realities so wonderful and beautiful that we can scarce realize them that we must look for it. Its greatest triumphs are where no other light shines to brighten, - by weary sick-beds; when distance and loneliness oppress. Who cannot remember days and hours when a foolish conceit has come now and again, like a "flower growing on the edge of a precipice," to distract the dizzy thoughts from the dark depths below?

Dave, the key to life and the key to all your problems is this: money in the bank calms nerves!

Don’t slide down the rabbit hole. The way down is a breeze but climbing back’s a battle.” —Kate Morton

of Darrington should be assured that everything

You are who God says you are. Remove the old labels. I’ll give you new labels to wear: “giant killer,” “history maker,” “world changer.

How proud must Americans be that the US continues to be the war-making giant of the world. All it takes nowadays is a fistful of practically worthless dollars, and the US sucks another prostituted nation into the corrupt orbit of the New World Order. A few of us try to stand up and point out that this is all wrong, but our voices are lost in a tidal wave of irrelevant trivia that is more important to most people than their own lives, than their own well-being. And as new planes are launched and new bombs dropped, our voices are drowned out by the ugly sounds of people gasping for breath and dying, because of our refusal to acknowledge that we ourselves have failed to protest the lies that are killing them. Because of our profound ignorance, our families will soon suffer the same fate of those innocent people who have died because we did not have the courage to confront the lies we were told, and are still being told. America is a nation of killers. If you call yourself an American, you must accept that as the truth, and act accordingly in some way to try to redeem yourself from the thoughtless scumbag that history will judge you as having been. Or at least you will have to do that if you care about anything at all.

The killer whale is a natural predator of the moose.

The power held by corporate giants was terrifying even before the CEO decided to leverage that power for their own murderous ends. A supply shortage. A profit-driven business decision. Cost cuts or poorly thought-out policies that reduced safety margins, forced people into unemployment, or added more pressure to frontline workers already stretched thin. A price hike of an essential medicine. (Wolfram hadn’t forged new ground there.) These things, especially in the health and medical industry, routinely killed far more people than the average serial killer could ever aspire to. And yet so few of them resulted in criminal charges. Indirect manslaughter for profit was far more societally acceptable than one person purposefully ending lives on a smaller scale.

He missed just being out there and being useful.

The Food of the Gods" is the tale of "Jack the Giant-Killer" told from the point of view of the giant. This has not, I think, been done before in literature; but I have little doubt that the psychological substance of it existed in fact. I have little doubt that the giant whom Jack killed did regard himself as the Superman. It is likely enough that he considered Jack a narrow and parochial person who wished to frustrate a great forward movement of the life-force.

I am so sorry,’ I said, forgetting his serial killer potential for a moment and instead wondering whether or not he could crush a walnut with his giant thighs.

Run. Run faster. Daniel clapped and cheered for her. She gulped in huge breaths and felt power course through her. The grass flicked up in the air as her paws sank into the turf and ripped out little tufts. She headed back toward Daniel when she saw him pull the ball out of his pocket. She pranced sideways, fighting her momentum to change direction. “You want it, girl?” Daniel

lying for days together in my den thinking... of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It’s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything.

Hopper.

You've got your alien abduction. Bigfoot abduction. Men in black. Genie wish gone awry. Interdimensional portal. Cursed Mesopotamian tablet. Sewer monster. Lake monster. Sea monster. Swamp monster. Killer clowns. Time paradox. Cults—you've got death cults, demon cults, occult cults, new age cults, basically any kind of cult. Witches. The giant Pacific octopus. Trapped on a ghost ship. Possessed. Possessed by a ghost ship—could happen. Knocked unconscious by genetically engineered mushroom spores. Genetically modified insect swarm. Genetically modified alligator. Lots of potential in the genetically modified space overall, really. Fell in a vat of invisible paint. Stolen by time thieves. Shrink ray on the highest setting. Unexpected wicker man festival. Psychically scrubbed from memory so you forget them as soon as you aren't looking at them. Mole men. Lizard men. Giant carnivorous pitcher plant. Giant carnivorous catfish. Bears. Got lost in Finland. Went hiking. Trapped in a TV show. Trapped in a haunted painting. Trapped in a mirror. Trapped in a snow globe. Trees. Not sure how they'd be involved but I always feel like we underestimate them. Moth man. Time loop. Wild hunt. Tax fraud. I could keep going.

To go back to the game metaphor from before, there exists a component of storytelling where it is you and the reader (or viewer, or whoever) sitting on opposite sides of a chessboard. You’re always trying to outwit each other. And sometimes you need them to outwit you—the audience needs that power, needs to be invested. They want to do work, and they want (sometimes) to be victorious. Other times, they want the shock of loss, the joy at being outplayed. And at those times you misdirect and distract, and as they’re thinking you’re moving your piece one way, you move it another and shock them with your prowess. But the trick is making all of this organic. It has to unfold naturally from the story—it’s not JUST you screwing with them. It’s you fucking with them within a framework that you built and agreed upon, a framework you’ve shown them, a place of rules and decorum. In this context, consider the game space. Like, say, a chessboard, or a D&D dungeon. The game space is an agreed-upon demesne. It has rules. It has squares. Each piece or character moves accordingly within those squares. It has a framework that everyone who has played the game understands. And yet, the outcome is never decided. The game is forever uncertain even within established parameters. Surprises occur. You might win. Maybe I win. That’s how storytelling operates best—we set up rules and a storyworld and characters, and you try to guess what we’re going to do with them. We as storytellers shouldn’t ever break the rules. Note: Breaking the rules in this context might mean conveniently leaving out a crucial storyworld rule (“Oh, vampires don’t have to drink blood; they can drink Kool-Aid”), or solving a mystery with a killer who the audience couldn’t ever have guessed (“It was the sheriff from two towns over who we have never before discussed or even mentioned”), or invoking a deus ex machina (“Don’t worry, giant eagles will save them. It’s cool”). You can still have chaos and uncertainty within the parameters—creating a framework, like building a house, doesn’t mean it cannot contain secrets and surprises—but you stay within the parameters that you created. Again, it’s why stage magic works as a metaphor when actual wizard magic does not. With stage magic—tricks and illusions!—you can’t really violate the laws of reality. But it damn sure feels like you do. Stories make you believe in wizard magic, but really it’s just a clever, artful trick. The storyworld is bent and twisted, but never broken. And, of course, your greatest touchstone for all of this is the characters, and their problems and places inside the storyworld. The characters will forever be your guide, if you let them. They are the tug-of-war rope, the chess pieces, the D&D characters that exist as a connection between you and the audience. They are your glorious leverage.

The October air was cooling as it got dark.

waters off Vancouver Island are home to Chinook and coho salmon, rockfish, lingcod, and the giant halibut—the major carnivore fish of the Pacific Northwest. Now, a new species of carnivore has made this oceanic waterway its home. The orca are transients, the resident killer whales having mysteriously vacated the area weeks earlier. There are six whales in the pod: two mature females, two calves,

My words to my wife are to refresh, encourage and help bring her into her destiny.

Bitterness affects the container, not the target.

Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.” — Buddha

the good-to-great transformations never happened in one fell swoop. There was no single defining action, no grand program, no one killer innovation, no solitary lucky break, no miracle moment. Rather, the process resembled relentlessly pushing a giant heavy flywheel in one direction, turn upon turn, building momentum until a point of breakthrough, and beyond.

What will become of humanity after nuclear war? The dinosaurs had a 165-million-year run. They came, they dominated, they evolved. Then an asteroid hit Earth and the dinosaurs went extinct (not counting their descendants, birds). No trace of the killer reptiles was found by anyone, that we know of, for 66 million years. Until just a few hundred years ago, in 1677, when the director of Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum, Robert Plot, found a dinosaur femur in the village of Cornwall and drew it for a science journal, misidentifying the bone as belonging to a giant. After nuclear war, who, if anyone, will know we were once here?

I bounded across Newbury Street, Jack sprang to full form in my hand. His blade—thirty inches of double-edged bone-forged steel—was emblazoned with runes that pulsed in different colors when Jack talked. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Who are we killing?” Jack claims he doesn’t pay attention to my conversations when he is in pendant form. He says he usually has his headphones on. I don’t believe this, because Jack doesn’t have headphones. Or ears. “Chasing assassin,” I blurted out, dodging a taxi. “Killed goat.” “Right,” Jack said. “Same old, same old, then.” I leaped up the side of the Pearson Publishing building. I’d spent the last two months learning to use my einherji powers, so one jump took me to a ledge three stories above the main entrance—no problem, even with a sword in one hand. Then I hop-climbed from window ledge to cornice up the white marble facade, channeling my inner Hulk until I reached the top. On the far side of the roof, a dark bipedal shape was just disappearing behind a row of chimneys. The goat-killer looked humanoid, which ruled out goat-on-goat homicide, but I’d seen enough of the Nine Worlds to know that humanoid didn’t mean human. He could be an elf, a dwarf, a small giant, or even an ax-murderer god. (Please, not an ax-murderer god.) By the time I reached the chimneys, my quarry had jumped to the roof of the next building. That might not sound impressive, but the next building was a brownstone mansion about fifty feet away across a small parking lot. The goat-killer didn’t even have the decency to break his ankles on impact. He somersaulted on the tar and came up running.

No trace of the killer reptiles was found by anyone, that we know of, for 66 million years. Until just a few hundred years ago, in 1677, when the director of Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum, Robert Plot, found a dinosaur femur in the village of Cornwall and drew it for a science journal, misidentifying the bone as belonging to a giant. After nuclear war, who, if anyone, will know we were once here?