Giant Swing Quotes

Disappointment Can do a couple things. It can drop you into a giant sucking sinkhole of depression, a place you have to fight to climb out of. Or it can trigger an epic mania to overcome the odds and transform failure into success. Say you swing as high as the chains will take you because you seek the thrill of flight, and on the up- kick, you lose your seat. Injury is likely. But if you worry about falling down, and never chance "up," the sky will remain forever out of reach.

Puck swung the cannon around in anger. The nozzle spun and hit Sabrina in the chest. The force was so pawerful she was knocked right off the platform and fell backward off the tower. She saw sky above her and felt the wind in her hair. How ironic, she thought, as she fell to her certain death, that at that moment she would have given anything to be a giant goose again. Air rushed past Sabrina's ears and suddenly she felt her back tingling again. A moment later she was hanging upside down, inches from the ground. She looked up to find her savior, only to find that her her wasn't a person but a long, furry tail sticking out of the back of her pants. It was wrapped around a beam in the tower a kept her swinging there like a monkey. Puck floated down to her, his wings flapping softly enough to allow him to hover. "I bet you think this is hilarious. Look what you did to me with your stupid pranks. I have a tail!" she raged. Puck's face was trembling. "I'm sorry." "What?" Sabrina said blankly. "I almost killed you. I'm sorry, Sabrina," he said, rubbing his eyes on his filthy hoodie. He lifted her off the tower and set her on the ground. "Since when do you care?" Sabrina said, still stunned by the boy's apology.

And then, well . . . He might have slept for a bit. He rather hoped he was sleeping, because he was quite certain he’d seen a six-foot rabbit hopping through his bedchamber, and if that wasn’t a dream, they were all in very big trouble. Although really, it wasn’t the rabbit that was so dangerous as much as the giant carrot he was swinging about like a mace. That carrot would feed an entire village.

And how do you know he has a big dick? You’ve seen him once. And it was a five-second ‘Oh, that’s my boss, Kline’ conversation while we were walking across the parking lot. You haven’t even met him in person.” “Five seconds is all I need.” She tapped the side of her head. “You know my cockdar is off the chain. I can sense a giant swinging penis pendulum from at least ten miles away. It’s a God-given talent, Georgie.” I choked on my wine. “Let’s not bring God into this.” She raised an eyebrow. “God knows the G-spot needs a more than adequate-sized wiener to get the job done.” “I’m pretty sure that comment just got you wait-listed for heaven.

You want to fuck the singer, but you would suck on any of them. A rim job, a piss shower, wouldn't matter. The band plays in nothing but tube socks hung over their cocks and sacks. They can make the socks swing like giant tittie tassels. You've never seen anything so sexy.

Giants, hanging off my door eat, untie the knot you strung in art, oil this hinge for me, in a flashbulb, the door will swing deciphering dauphin syllables with arrow trimmed toes, detective tongues and millimetre ear lobes, yanked in a pig liver’s weight, raw for a gabfest day conceding these fuzzlusty remains to steal a blooey thought of you.

Dear New Orleans, What a big, beautiful mess you are. A giant flashing yellow light—proceed with caution, but proceed. Not overly ambitious, you have a strong identity, and don’t look outside yourself for intrigue, evolution, or monikers of progress. Proud of who you are, you know your flavor, it’s your very own, and if people want to come taste it, you welcome them without solicitation. Your hours trickle by, Tuesdays and Saturdays more similar than anywhere else. Your seasons slide into one another. You’re the Big Easy…home of the shortest hangover on the planet, where a libation greets you on a Monday morning with the same smile as it did on Saturday night. Home of the front porch, not the back. This engineering feat provides so much of your sense of community and fellowship as you relax facing the street and your neighbors across it. Rather than retreating into the seclusion of the backyard, you engage with the goings-on of the world around you, on your front porch. Private properties hospitably trespass on each other and lend across borders where a 9:00 A.M. alarm clock is church bells, sirens, and a slow-moving eight-buck-an-hour carpenter nailing a windowpane two doors down. You don’t sweat details or misdemeanors, and since everybody’s getting away with something anyway, the rest just wanna be on the winning side. And if you can swing the swindle, good for you, because you love to gamble and rules are made to be broken, so don’t preach about them, abide. Peddlin worship and litigation, where else do the dead rest eye to eye with the livin? You’re a right-brain city. Don’t show up wearing your morals on your sleeve ’less you wanna get your arm burned. The humidity suppresses most reason so if you’re crossing a one-way street, it’s best to look both ways. Mother Nature rules, the natural law capital “Q” Queen reigns supreme, a science to the animals, an overbearing and inconsiderate bitch to us bipeds. But you forgive her, and quickly, cus you know any disdain with her wrath will reap more: bad luck, voodoo, karma. So you roll with it, meander rather, slowly forward, takin it all in stride, never sweating the details. Your art is in your overgrowth. Mother Nature wears the crown around here, her royalty rules, and unlike in England, she has both influence and power. You don’t use vacuum cleaners, no, you use brooms and rakes to manicure. Where it falls is where it lays, the swerve around the pothole, the duck beneath the branch, the poverty and the murder rate, all of it, just how it is and how it turned out. Like a gumbo, your medley’s in the mix. —June 7, 2013, New Orleans, La.

The great oak tree had stood on a hill over the Hudson, in a lonely spot on the Taggart estate. Eddie Willers, aged seven, liked to come and look at that tree. It had stood there for hundreds of years, and he thought it would always stand there. Its roots clutched the hill like a fist with fingers sunk into the soil, and he thought that if a giant were to seize it by the top, he would not be able to uproot it, but would swing the hill and the whole of the earth with it, like a ball at the end of a string. He felt safe in the oak tree's presence; it was a thing that nothing could change or threaten; it was his greatest symbol of strength. One night, lightning struck the oak tree. Eddie saw it next morning. It lay broken in half, and he looked into its trunk as into the mouth of a black tunnel. The trunk was only an empty shell; its heart had rotted away long ago; there was nothing inside-just a thin gray dust that was being dispersed by the whim of the faintest wind. The living power had gone, and the shape it left had not been able to stand without it.

By the time a society attains Type II status thousands of years into the future, it becomes immortal. Nothing known to science can destroy a Type II civilization. Since it will have long mastered the weather, ice ages can be avoided or altered. Meteors and comets can be also be deflected. Even if their sun goes supernova, the people will be able to flee to another star system, or perhaps prevent their star from exploding. (For example, if their sun turns into a red giant, they might be able swing asteroids around their planet in a slingshot effect in order to move their planet farther from the sun.)

The setting sun that lights the tips Of TV's giant paperclips Upon the roof; The shadow of the doorknob that At sundown is a baseball bat Upon the door, The cardinal that likes to sit And make chip-wit, chip-wit, chip-wit Upon the tree; The empty little swing that swings Under the tree: these are the things That break my heart.

He bared his fangs at us. Across the field, the battle was not going well. One of Gunilla’s Valkyries sprawled lifeless on the rocks. The other one fell, her armor burning from Surt’s sword. Gunilla faced the Fire Lord alone, swinging her spear like a whip of light, but she couldn’t last. Her clothes smoldered. Her shield was charred and cracked. The einherjar were surrounded. Halfborn had lost one of his axes. He was covered with so many burns and gashes I didn’t understand how he could still be alive, but he just kept fighting, laughing as he charged the giants. Mallory was on one knee, cursing as she parried attacks from three giants at once. T.J. swung his rifle wildly. Even X looked tiny compared to the enemies now looming over him.

They rounded a corner in thunder and siren, with concussion of tires, with scream of rubber with a shift of kerosene bulk in the glittery brass tank, like the food in the stomach of a giant, with Montag's fingers jolting off the silver rail, swinging into cold space, with the wind tearing his hair back from his head, with the wind whistling in his teeth, and him all the while thinking of the women, the chaff women in his parlor tonight, with the kernels blown out from under them by a neon wind, and his silly damned reading of a book to them.

My father had once told me the story of how, when he was in the work camp, a truckload of giant logs was brought in to be chopped. He was on ax duty with a gang of twelve. It was a dreadfully hot summer and each swing of the blade was torture. He hacked at a log and there was the unmistakable sound of metal hitting metal. He bent down and found a mushroom-shaped chunk of lead embedded in the trunk. A bullet. He counted the rings from the perimeter to the bullet and found they matched his age exactly. We never escape ourselves, he said to me years later.

I quickly scrambled back up to my feet just in time to see Vinny’s big hand coming right at me. I swiftly ducked underneath it and then swung my sword at the giant’s arm, grazing his right arm. “Ooof!” Vinny groaned and reeled back. I took the opportunity to swing at him with another strike, this time at his feet. Vinny stumbled and shook as he tried to keep his balance. As sneaky as he sometimes can be, Jack had already finished digging a hole behind the giant while he was busy fighting me. Vinny, as he kept taking his steps backwards, tripped on the hole and came crashing down on the ground below. Jack and I both jumped on top of the giant. I smacked him a little with the blunt side of my sword, while Jack slapped the giant with a porkchop. “Ready to answer questions now?” I asked the giant. The giant opened his mouth to reply but was promptly slapped by Jack with another porkchop. “Jack, you have to let him talk first, then smack him if he refuses to answer,” I explained. “Oh, right. My bad. I was really into it,” Jack apologized, “To be fair, I was just tossed through a barn. I feel like I deserve a bit of vengeance.” “Okay, okay. Stop with the porkchop slapping,” Vinny pleaded, “I’m a vegan.” “Oh, sorry,” Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bread and then slapped the giant with the bread instead.

They rounded a corner in thunder and siren, with concussion of tires, with scream of rubber, with a shift of kerosene bulk in the glittery brass tank, like the food in the stomach of a giant, with Montag's fingers jolting off the silver rail, swinging into cold space, with the wind tearing his hair back from his head, with the wind whistling in his teeth and him all the while thinking of the women, the chaff women in his parlor tonight, with the kernels blown out from under them by a neon wind, and his silly damned reading of a book to them. How like trying to put out fires with water pistols, how senseless and insane. One rage turnedinto another. One anger displacing another. When would he stop being entirely mad and be quiet, be quiet indeed?

Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, Dedalus,” murmured Hestia. She clearly felt that it would be tactless for them to remain in the room while Harry and the Dursleys exchanged loving, possibly tearful farewells. “There’s no need,” Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon made any further explanation unnecessary by saying loudly, “Well, this is good-bye, then, boy.” He swung his right arm upward to shake Harry’s hand, but at the last moment seemed unable to face it, and merely closed his fist and began swinging it backward and forward like a metronome. “Ready, Diddy?” asked Aunt Petunia, fussily checking the clasp of her handbag so as to avoid looking at Harry altogether. Dudley did not answer, but stood there with his mouth slightly ajar, reminding Harry a little of the giant, Grawp. “Come along, then,” said Uncle Vernon. He had already reached the living room door when Dudley mumbled, “I don’t understand.” “What don’t you understand, popkin?” asked Aunt Petunia, looking up at her son. Dudley raised a large, hamlike hand to point at Harry. “Why isn’t he coming with us?” Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia froze where they stood, staring at Dudley as though he had just expressed a desire to become a ballerina. “What?” said Uncle Vernon loudly. “Why isn’t he coming too?” asked Dudley. “Well, he--he doesn’t want to,” said Uncle Vernon, turning to glare at Harry and adding, “You don’t want to, do you?” “Not in the slightest,” said Harry. “There you are,” Uncle Vernon told Dudley. “Now come on, we’re off.

Tairn.” I keep my breathing as even as possible as Xaden stares at me, his face masked like an emotionless wingleader. “Silver One?” Tairn’s giant head swings in my direction. “They all carry rebellion relics,” I tell him. “Everyone in this squad besides me is the child of a separatist.” In the chaos of the flight field, Xaden constructed an all-marked squad. And they’re all. Fucking. Traitors. And I fell for it. I fell for him. “Yes. They are,” he agrees, resignation in his tone. My chest threatens to cave in as it truly hits me. This is so much worse than just Xaden betraying me, betraying our entire kingdom. There’s only one explanation as to why my own dragons have been so damned docile in the presence of the enemy. “You and Andarna lied to me, too.” The treachery of it is too much, and my shoulders dip from the weight of it.

And then, slowly, I realise I can hear something – a low, jangling discordant music accompanied by screaming laughter, faint at first but growing ever louder, ever closer. I catch a glimpse of curling, gigantic horns silhouetted against the Christmas lights, and then, suddenly, the street is swarming with monsters. With masks depicting terrifying leering grimaces, mouths filled with jagged teeth, huge horns (often over a metre high), and costumes of shaggy pelts, these are the Krampuses. They are enormous – many of the Krampus performers wear platforms on their shoes to give them extra height, and the bulk of the pelts and horns make them even larger, towering over the spectators. They walk with a loping, swinging tread that only renders them more menacing, more animalistic, and serves to shake the giant cowbells that are strapped to their backs – this is the hideous music that accompanies them, so loud you have to yell to be heard. Every Krampus carries a switch.

She stands at the hairpin turn on Night Road. On either side of her, giant evergreens grow clustered together, rising high into the blue summer sky. Even now, in midday, this stubbled, winding ribbon of asphalt holds the morning mist close. This road is like her life; knee deep in shadow. Once, it had been the quickest way home and she’d taken it easily, turning onto its potholed surface without a second thought, rarely noticing how the earth dropped away on either edge. Her mind had been on other things back then, on the miniutae of everyday life. Chores. Errands. Schedules. She hadn’t taken this route in years. Just the thought of it had been enough to make her turn the steering wheel too sharply; better to go off the road than to find herself here. Or so she’d thought until today. People on the island still talk about what happened in the summer of ’04. They sit on barstools and in porch swings and spout opinions, half truths, making judgments that aren’t theirs to make. They think a few columns in a newspaper give them the facts they need. But the facts are hardly what matter. If anyone sees her here, just standing on this lonely roadside in a gathering mist, it will all come up again. Like her, they’ll remember that night, so long ago, when the rain turned to ash….

I jumped then. It seemed I heard a child laugh. My imagination, of course. And then, when I should have known better, I headed for the closet and the high and narrow door at the very back end and the steep and narrow dark stairs. A million times I’d ascended these stairs. A million times in the dark, without a candle, or a flashlight. Up into the dark, eerie, gigantic attic, and only when I was there did I feel around for the place where Chris and I had hidden our candles and matches. Still there. Time did stand still in this place. We’d had several candle holders, all of pewter with small handles to grasp. Holders we’d found in an old trunk along with boxes and boxes of short, stubby, clumsily made candles. We’d always presumed them to be homemade candles, for they had smelled so rank and old when they burned. My breath caught! Oh! It was the same! The paper flowers still dangled down, mobiles to sway in the drafts, and the giant flowers were still on the walls. Only all the colors had faded to indistinct gray—ghost flowers. The sparkling gem centers we’d glued on had loosened, and now only a few daisies had sequins, or gleaming stones, for centers. Carrie’s purple worm was there only now he too was a nothing color. Cory’s epileptic snail didn’t appear a bright, lopsided beach ball now, it was more a tepid, half-rotten squashy orange. The BEWARE signs Chris and I had painted in red were still on the walls, and the swings still dangled down from the attic rafters. Over near the record player was the barre Chris had fashioned, then nailed to the wall so I could practice my ballet positions. Even my outgrown costumes hung limply from nails, dozens of them with matching leotards and worn out pointe shoes, all faded and dusty, rotten smelling. As in an unhappy dream I was committed to, I drifted aimlessly toward the distant schoolroom, with the candelight flickering. Ghosts were unsettled, memories and specters followed me as things began to wake up, yawn and whisper. No, I told myself, it was only the floating panels of my long chiffon wings . . . that was all. The spotted rocking-horse loomed up, scary and threatening, and my hand rose to my throat as I held back a scream. The rusty red wagon seemed to move by unseen hands pushing it, so my eyes took flight to the blackboard where I’d printed my enigmatic farewell message to those who came in the future. How was I to know it would be me? We lived in the attic, Christopher, Cory, Carrie and me— Now there are only three. Behind the small desk that had been Cory’s I scrunched down, and tried to fit my legs under. I wanted to put myself into a deep reverie that would call up Cory’s spirit that would tell me where he lay.

Now that we've come up with all the obvious answers to our problem, it's time to come up with some truly ridiculous ones." "Ridiculous?" asked Brasque. "Yes, ridiculous. Think of something impossible, improbable or downright ridiculous and go from there." "Like we all flap our arms and fly out of here," said Katherine. "Exactly!" said Spider. "How about we form a long line all the way to the mountains and pass the charges along it?" said Brasque. "Excellent," said Spider. "Keep it coming." "What if we each carry one charge, run back, carry another, and so on?" said Tom, getting into the swing of things. "Lovely!" laughed Spider. "Now we're cooking." The shower of sparks shot out of the top of the Amadragon. Joe shielded his eyes with his hand. "Yeah, and we can all climb on the Amadragon and ride out of here," he said. "What was that, Joe?" said Spider, suddenly dropping the jokey manner. "What's the Amadragon?" Katherine's eyes glittered. "He means that," she said, pointing at the excavator. Everyone except Spider turned and looked. "He's talking about the giant machine, the one that keeps shooting sparks in the air." Spider cocked his ear and listened to the rumble of the Amadragon's engine. "So Orlemann built the dragon, did he?" he said. "I'd been wondering what the noise was. If they built it to the original specifications, it should get us out of here within an hour. Let's pray that will give us enough time!

I was a kid in Florida, in Sarasota, and the New York Giants trained in Sarasota. When teams would come, we’d stand outside the ballpark, and we would get the balls they hit over the fence during batting practice. We’d sell them to the tourists. And we made a stepladder so we could climb a pine tree out there. That way we could look into the ballpark. The Yanks were in town. I’m out there behind the fence, and I hear this sound. I’d never heard THAT sound off the bat before. Instead of me running to get the ball, I ran up the ladder to see who was hitting it. Well, it was a barrel-chested sucker, with skinny legs, with the best swing I’d ever seen. That was Babe Ruth hitting that ball. Yeah. I don’t hear that sound again until 1938, I’m with the Monarchs, we’re at Griffith Stadium in Washington D.C. We’re upstairs, changing clothes, and the Grays are taking batting practice. I’ve got nothing on but my jock. And I hear that sound. I ran down the runway, ran out on the field, and there’s a pretty black sucker with a big chest and about 34 in the waist, prettiest man I’d ever seen. That was Josh Gibson hitting that ball. And I don’t hear the sound again until I’m a scout with the Cubs. I’m scouting the Royals. When I opened the door to go downstairs, I heard that sound again. I rushed down on the field, and here’s another pretty black sucker hitting that ball. That was Bo Jackson. That’s three times I heard the sound. Three times. But I want to hear it a fourth. I go to the ballpark every day. I want to hear that sound again.

Hey, Emma, do you think Thor is a hunk?” Emma looked up from the orders to gaze at Georgie quizzically. “Are you talking about the mythological Norse god or the guy who played him in the movie?” “Either, both-- whatever.” Georgie returned to gazing out the shop window at the quiet main street of Scottsbluff. “The movie Thor is playing at the Midwest Theater this weekend. Looks like they’re having an Avenger movies marathon; must be getting ready for another sequel to come out soon. Anyway, it got me to thinking about how hunky Thor is. Actually it got me to thinking about hunky men, period.” “Oh yeah, it would. It doesn’t take much to send your mind in that direction. As for Thor, I think we can reasonably presume he’s a hunk. After all, he’d have to be to swing that giant hammer of his. That would take a lot of muscle and all of it in the right places. The actor in the movie definitely qualifies as a hunk and I choose to believe his portrayal is based on fact.” She grinned. “We should go see the movie so we can check out his hammer.” “That’s a deal.” Georgie also grinned, turning back to the window and giving a soft wolf whistle. “Hold on. Who’s this gorgeous specimen of manhood I see?” Emma joined Georgie at the window. “Whoa, I don’t know who he is, but he looks like he probably has a pretty big hammer of his own, even if he isn’t a Norse god.” “Down, girl. I saw him first so I’m calling dibs.” Georgie gave Emma a playful punch on the shoulder, eliciting a good natured chuckle. “Besides, how do you know he isn’t a Norse god?” “Would a Norse god wear a faded tee shirt tucked into tight jeans? And, what do you mean you’re calling dibs? I thought you’d given up on bad boys. He definitely looks like a bad boy.” “Yeah,” Georgie said sadly, “no more bad boys for me. Seriously though, Emma, aren’t all mythological gods known for their vanity? If they’d had tight jeans back in the days of the gods, that’s what they’d have worn for the sake of their godly vanity. I’m sure of it.

preservation. The pair of Golden Scorpions jumped into action, their stings flashing as they closed the gap and cut through three of the altivorc guards before their weapons even left their sheaths. The two survivors had managed to draw their own giant broadswords, but fell before taking a swing as the Scorpions slashed through them. Black blood sprayed on the floor and walls. They closed toward their final target, but the Altivorc King did not seem the least bit concerned. He leisurely shifted on his cushions as he withdrew a grey metal wand, pointed it at one of the Scorpions, and spoke a guttural syllable. A bolt of blue lighting sizzled from the tip, hurling the man back a dozen feet through the air with a scream of agony. In that split second, the other Scorpion reached him and stabbed. Dhananad barely registered the motion, but the final result stood out clearly. The Scorpion screamed and clawed at the King’s hand, which seized his wrist in a bone-crunching grip. Rising to his feet, the altivorc drove the would-be assailant down to his knees and plucked the weapon away. He threw it at Dhananad’s feet. “I am very forgiving, and will forget this reckless transgression.” He released his hold on the Scorpion’s wrist. “Your life is spared…for now. Go ahead and meet with the princess if you are still so thick-skulled. You will see I am right.” The Scorpion gasped, clutching his hand, which bent at a strange angle. He fared better than his companion, who lay in a smoldering heap near the entrance. Dhananad cringed, deciding once and for all he would never tempt the Altivorc King again. He turned on his heel and left, his entourage scurrying after him. Ambassador Piros watched Prince Dhananad storm out of the room. Once his angry

They basked in the sweet-scented breeze, and felt the sunshine warming their bare heads. Petals drifted from the gnarled apple and cherry trees, creating a pretty storm, like confetti. They lay together in the grass, watching a beetle trundling through the blades, its clumsy movements reminiscent of the soldiers' giant transport trucks. Birdsong filled the air, horse buses clopped through the street, and somewhere along the city docks, a ship's whistle blew. When it was time to go home, they packed everything into the basket and walked together, their clasped hands swinging between them. Annalise loved these perfect days with her mother, when the air was warm and the tulips and daffodils were coming up.

Today, Chicago, like London, sucks in the best talent from its interior in the Midwest, where the swing to Trump was strongest. In the past, Chicago acted as a regional locomotive, buying the Midwest’s farm produce and other raw commodities and then converting them into products. The city was linked to its surrounding geography and vice versa. Now it mostly hovers above its hinterlands. In some ways it is also parasitic on them.44 Much like the giant sucking sound of London hoovering up the UK’s talent, Chicago now takes the best and the brightest from the small towns of America and plugs them into the global economy. Chicago’s success is no longer symbiotic with its rural neighbours. It comes at their expense

In Austin, outside the governor’s mansion: a giant concrete cube with a crack running down the center, a crowbar by its side. Etched into the cube, four chiseled letters: P A C T. Etched into the crowbar: our missing hearts. One by one, passersby picked up the bar and hefted it, but no one dared swing, and when the police arrived they’d confiscated it as a dangerous weapon. The cube they loaded onto a flatbed and hauled away.

I once believed this was the most magical place on the planet. I walk closer. It's smaller now, it seems, than when we were kids, but still wonderful. The giant wooden playground is what we always called it, but it's so much more than that. It's a wooden castle the size of a Hollywood mansion, with towers and bridges and turrets and secret passageways. Elaborate swings in the shape of life-size horses with black rubber saddles.

inside a few o’ the caves, no go — then, in abou’ the sixth one, we found three giants hidin’.” “Cave must’ve been cramped,” said Ron. “Wasn’ room ter swing a kneazle,

네임드사다리 Swlook.com 가입코드 : win24 「〃Swlook.cℴm〃가입코드: win24〃」 단폴제제없는 메이저 사설놀이터 Swing 입니다. 신규가입 첫충 10% / 매일충전 5% Event 진행중 네임드사다리 로하이 농구쿼터실시간 스타 롤 등등, 타 업체 대비 최고의 배당률 & 다양한 경기 지원! 다폴더보너스,스페셜보너스 등 다양한 이벤트를 통해 머니 지급! 까다로운 보안으로 여러분의 안전을 책임집니다.And he saw the bridge, with the wall at one end. He saw the soldiers and the captain on the bridge. They shouted, and they pointed at him. They looked like giant monsters. As he looked, he heard gunfire. Something hit the water near his head. Now there was a second shot.

is July 2009. We step off our respective planes and lug our gear into the sweltering Vegas sun. Our taxis creep through downtown tourist traffic, swing around the airport, and unceremoniously drop us off in a giant, industrial-looking parking lot. The Las Vegas Sports Center sulks unimpressively in the heat, but under the sounds of arriving planes, there’s also a low hum and periodic whistles. Inside, the air is cooler and smells vaguely of . . . what is that smell? Sweat? Feet? Happiness? And when our eyes adjust to the light, we see skaters from every corner of the world—their helmets whiz by in every direction looking as if they are floating on air. On their feet are skates—black skates, white skates, blue skates, camouflage skates—propelled by a rainbow of wheels. On the sport floor, coaches with names like Carmen Getsome and Miss Fortune are drilling a centipede line of skaters in the fine art of knocking each other’s asses to the ground. Refs and skaters gear up for the mixed league, multination, battle du jour: Team Australia vs. Team Canada. Someone hobbles by with an ice pack strapped to her knee, still smiling. We smile too. Across town, nearly one thousand other skaters throng the casino and head to seminars in the meeting halls of the Imperial Palace Hotel, with nothing but roller derby on their minds. This is the fifth annual derby convention known as RollerCon.

Privileging the Present Political correctness disdainfully dismisses every former age as unenlightened, racist, imperialist, classist and sexist. Hmm, how will the future regard this era of political correctness? Privileging the present is a pendulum swing from an over-reverenced antiquity, but a hill of pygmies still lacks the perspective of the shoulders of giants, even if they have green tennis balls on their walkers. Oops, I shouldn't have called them 'pygmies'. I meant 'little people'.

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 she bent to set another pitcher beside Travis, and he absently reached out to hug her hips, Cade's composure cracked. Lily gasped in surprise as Travis's hand was ripped from her side and then Travis himself was hauled from his chair and shoved toward the door. Ollie leapt up, knocking his own chair over as he attempted to interfere, but Cade grabbed his collar with his spare hand and shoved him in the same direction as Travis. Both men came up swinging, but Cade already had the door open, and with the kick of his boot and a block from his shoulder, he shoved them out into the pouring rain and slammed the door after them. Roy came to the door of his cubicle to investigate the commotion. Lily stared at Cade's calm features for a second, then in an explosion of rage, slammed out of the room in the direction of her chambers. Cade pointed his finger at Roy, sending him scurrying back to bed. Tankard in hand, Ephraim looked up from the table at the young giant standing in the room's center, water streaming from his soaked clothing as he visibly forced his fists to unclench in the sudden emptiness of the room. The older man shook his head and took a sip of his steaming drink. "You certainly do know how to empty a room," Ephraim commented to the house at large. Surveying the havoc he had wreaked, the overturned chairs and spilled plates, the tracks of mud across clean planked floors, the condemning silence of closed doors, Cade reached for a plate and the hot stew kept warming by the fire for him. Without a word, he filled his plate, sat down across from the old man, and began to eat. Ephraim raised his shaggy eyebrows, took a drink, and hid his grin in his cup. It didn't seem like the rest of his company was going to return any too soon. It looked like he'd better learn to get along with this one. Generously,

A gray-clad giant closed with Donovan, and the sergeant, caught off balance, stumbled and fell, with the enemy on top, clutching the American's throat with one hand and trying to swing a clubbed Mauser pistol with the other. Rags leaped for the hand that held the pistol. As his teeth sank into the man’s wrist the pistol clattered to the ground. The grip on Donovan's throat relaxed. The sergeant shook the man from him, and after a few minutes of desperate fighting the Americans mopped up the nest.

But Ezra Squall can’t get in.” “No, he can’t,” said Jupiter. “Because our borders specifically keep Squall out. They’re impenetrable to him, but not necessarily to ordinary people in the Republic. It’s just that most ordinary people in the Republic have no idea the Free State exists, and if they do, they don’t know where it is or how to get here. But, as I say, there are ways inside.” “Such as through a clockface in a giant mechanical spider piloted by a madman,” said Morrigan, recalling her own strange journey to Nevermoor, two and a half years ago. Jack laughed at that as he dropped into an armchair next to hers, swinging his legs over the side.

Women and men with bodies covered in feathers and heads crowned with tiny curved horns dangled from the ceiling, twirling and spinning around thick sheets of gold or magenta silk that hung like massive party ribbons. Below them, performers in costumes made of fur, more feathers and paint slathered over skin, prowled and crawled as if they were wild chimeras escaped from another world. Tella saw performers dressed to look like tigers with dragon wings, horses with forked tails, snakes with lion manes, and wolves with ram horns, who growled and nipped and sometimes licked at the hells of guests. There were a few low balconies where shirtless men with wings as large as angels' and fallen stars pushed grinning couples back and forth on giant swings hanging from canopies of thorns and flowers.

...he saw Quotinir floating in front of him. Deep in the darkest parts of the ocean, he was lit only by a single, yellow light that swung from a fin atop his head. His grey skin sickly under the swinging bulb, he looked as much like a man as he did a monster, scarred and chipped around the edges, with strands of white hair like seaweed flowing around his narrow face. His human waist merged with the rubbery flesh of a shark, the tail larger than any fish or man Elf had ever seen. Though, Quotinir himself was four times larger than any man - the last true giant - trapped under the pressure of the ocean with only his light for company. Slitted, white eyes locked onto Elf as they both floated, suspended in the darkness. ‘Hey, ugly,’ Elf said.

It’s roots clutched the hill like a fist with fingers sunk into the soil, and he thought that if a giant were to seize it by the top, he would not be able to uproot it, but would swing the hill and the whole earth with it, like a ball at the end of a string.

swear, Nana, you need to leave your job and do this full-time. Honestly, you’re so talented. I mean, look at that jacket!’ I swing my arm towards a mannequin where a blue blazer with giant shoulder pads and a lapel made out of Kente cloth is draped. ‘It’s like something out of Black Panther.

Heel Drive A termed used by coaches to inform the gymnasts they want them to drive their heels harder up and over on the front side of a handspring vault or front handspring on floor. Stronger heel drives create more rotation and potential for block and power. Hecht Mount A mount where the gymnast jumps off a spring board while keeping their arms straight, pushes off of the low bar, and catches the high bar. Inverted Cross Performed by men on the rings, it is an upside down cross. Iron Cross A strength move performed by men on the rings. The gymnast holds the rings straight out on either side of their body while holding themselves up. Arms are perpendicular to the body. Jaeger Performed on bars, a gymnast swings from a front Giant and lets go of the bar, into a front flip and catches the bar again. Jaeger can be done in the straddle, pike, and layout position, and is occasionally performed in a tucked position. Kip The most commonly used mount for bars, the gymnast glides forward, pulls their feet to the bar, then pushes up to front support, resting their hips on the bar. Layout A stretched body position.

Salto Flip or somersault, with the feet coming up over the head and the body rotating around the axis of the waist. Sequence Two or more skills performed together, creating a different skill or activity. Stick To land, and remain standing without requiring a step. A proper stick position is with legs bent, shoulders above hips, arms forward. Straddle Back An uneven bar transition done from a swing backwards on the high bar over low bar, while catching the low bar in a handstand. Tap Swing Performed on bars, an aggressive tap toward the ceiling in a swinging motion. This gives the gymnast the necessary momentum to swing around the bar to perform a Giant or to go into a release move.

Giant Performed on bars, a swing in which the body is fully extended and moving through a 360 degree rotation around the bar. Full-In A full-twisting double back tuck, with the twist happening in the first back flip. It can be done in a tucked, piked, or layout position and is used in both men's and women's gymnastics. Free Hip Circle Performed on the uneven bars or high bar, the body circles around the bar without the body touching the bar. There are both front hip circles and back hip circles.

THE WEBSITE FOR SSA Marine says, “Accelerating the Pace of Business.” Its terminal is now giving off a deafening whir: engine sounds, horns, beeps, and the echoes of workers shouting. The giant cranes lift containers off the ship, sliding them inward fast enough that they swing a little bit in midair. Currently, the bay is full of the haze-lightened silhouettes of container ships, players in that sprawling, fractal network whose workings have recently come to the fore in headlines about the supply chain. In the restored marsh along the park, clusters of migrating shorebirds are keeping their own schedule. It’s currently three hours from high tide, and on the shrinking islands, tiny sandpipers sit together so densely that they look like a tessellated pattern. Stalking around them are a variety of spidery birds, including long-billed curlews, which have surreal curved beaks more than half the length of their entire bodies. They are back for the time being, having traveled northeast to breed—possibly as far as Idaho—and in the meantime, they adjust their activities to the tides. On the one hand, it is true that you can see multiple forms of time here. The containers pile up; the shorebirds probe the mud; the phoebe chases its flies; a small, brown mushroom pushes up from the grass; and the tide continues to rise. Your stomach rumbles. But one of these clocks is not like the others. In order to maintain its equilibrium, it has to run ahead faster and faster.

I froze. The grizzly paused, catching my movement, then lowered his head and with a sort of stiff-legged gait, ambled toward me swinging his head from side to side. I knew from having watched this bear interact with other animals that the worst thing I could do was run. The big bear stopped thirty feet in front of me. I slowly worked my hand into my bag and gradually pulled out the Magnum. I peered down the gun barrel into the dull red eyes of the huge grizzly. He gnashed his jaws and lowered his ears. The hair on his hump stood up. We stared at each other for what might have been seconds but felt like hours. I knew once again that I was not going to pull the trigger. My shooting days were over. I lowered the pistol. The giant bear flicked his ears and looked off to the side. I took a step backward and turned my head towards the trees. I felt something pass between us. The grizzly slowly turned away from me with grace and dignity and swung into the timber at the end of the meadow. I caught myself breathing heavily again, the flush of blood hot on my face. I felt life had been touched by enormous power and mystery.

Level up!  You are now a Level 2 Chimera. You have earned three free attribute points. You have learned the skill: Polearm! Your effective, if not entirely accurate wielding of the halberd, using its thrown, thrusting, and sweeping functions has earned you the Polearm skill. Continued use of this skill may increase its level and functionality. You have learned the ability: Intimidate! The poor little goblins, seeing a giant with dark skin and fangs in dwarven armor, roaring as it rushed toward them, were understandably afraid, and yes, intimidated. Continued use of this skill may increase its level and functionality. You have learned the skill:  Two-handed Weapon! This was a close one.  You swung that two-handed axe like you were swatting at flies.  It was ugly, but you did hit things.  You did it with one hand, but the weapon was two-handed, so let’s go with that. Continued use of this skill may increase its level and functionality. You have learned the skill: One-handed Weapon! On further reflection, screw it.  You did swing that big heavy axe with one hand. Continued use of this skill may increase its level and functionality.

the writer Lisa Alvarez saw a teenager pouring gasoline onto the base of a palm near LAPD headquarters. Alvarez remembers speaking out in defense of the plant as the boy reached for his matchbook: “ ‘Listen, lady,’ he says, leaning close. ‘It’s not a real tree. It’s a fake one. They’re all fake.’ He swings his arms toward the city trees that stand at attention in their little plots of dirt. ‘They shouldn’t be here. I’m taking this one out. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.’ ” This palm, and many others, burned like giant matchsticks that evening.

Janner never had a chance to swing his sword. The two Fangs at the steps retreated into the mist and left Janner and Podo dumbfounded. “Come on, lad!” The old pirate wasted no time scrambling down the steps. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the rushing water. Without being told, Nugget hopped across again and crouched so Podo could climb on. The giant dog barked and carried him over.

This is where you take back your life and give a giant fuck you to that dipshit of an ex-husband. And that hot piece of man meat out there in the audience who has no idea what’s about to hit him.” My eyes start to burn as they fill with tears, and I quickly blink them back before they ruin the perfect cat-eye eyeliner and false lashes she applied for me in the dressing room an hour ago. “That was the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I tell her with a sniffle. “Just think: Instead of having that giant pole up your ass, you’ll have it in the palm of your hands and be swinging on it in about forty-five seconds,” she says with a smirk. “And then you go and completely ruin it,” I mutter with a shake of my head,

All my life, I have kept these three ideas close to my heart: make work a game, swing for the fences, and hustle in all that you do.

ran, his body became heavier, thicker, rippling with muscles. He crashed into the giant as a full-grown grizzly, a thousand pounds of pure force. He was still small compared to Alcyoneus, but he slammed into the giant with such momentum, Alcyoneus toppled into an icy watchtower that collapsed on top of him. Frank sprang at the giant’s head. A swipe of his claw was like a heavyweight fighter swinging a chain saw. Frank bashed the giant’s face back and forth until his metallic features began to dent. “Urgg,” the giant mumbled in a stupor. Frank changed to his regular form. His backpack was still with him. He grabbed the rope he’d bought in Seward, quickly made a noose, and fastened it around the giant’s scaly dragon foot.

How would you like to be the agent for the hottest swing musician in the world?” he asks. “Who is it — Nero and his fiddle?” I crack. But he doesn’t bend. “No, this is the genuine jive,” he tells me. “A hep Joe from Buffalo. A walkie-talkie from Milwaukee. Strictly a mutt from Connecticut.

So it is with humans. We cannot hear the trees talking, except as a vague noise of roaring and hushing which we attribute to the wind in the leaves, because they talk too slowly for us. These noises are really the syllables and vowels of the trees. "You may speak for yourselves," said Athene. Oak spoke first, as became the noblest of all. He stood throbbing his leaves in the twilight, to which Time had mixed down day and night; stretching out his great muscular branches; yawning, as it were, like a noble giant of the earth who cracks his limbs in the morning when he wakes. "Ah," said the oak. "It's good to be alive. Look at my biceps, will you? Do you see how the other trees are afraid of Gravity, afraid that he will break their branches off? They point them up in the air, or down at the ground, so as to give the old earth-giant his least purchase upon them. Now I am ready to challenge Gravity, and I can stretch my branches straight out in a line parallel to the earth. He may swing on them for all I care, but, bless you, they won't break. Do you know how long I live? A thousand years is my expectation. Three hundred years to grow, three hundred years to live, and three hundred years to die. And when I am dead, what of that? They make me into timber, into ships and house beams that will be good for another thousand. My leaves come the last and go the last. I am a conservative, I am; and out of my apples they make ink, whose words may live as long as me, even as me, the oak.

Midtown was a war zone. We flew over little skirmishes everywhere. A giant was ripping up trees in Bryant Park while dryads pelted him with nuts. Outside the Waldorf Astoria, a bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin was whacking a hellhound with a rolled-up newspaper. A trio of Hephaestus campers fought a squad of dracaenae in the middle of Rockefeller Center. I was tempted to stop and help, but I could tell from the smoke and noise that the real action had moved farther south. Our defenses were collapsing. The enemy was closing in on the Empire State Building. We did a quick sweep of the surrounding area. The Hunters had set up a defensive line on 37th, just three blocks north of Olympus. To the east on Park Avenue, Jake Mason and some other Hephaestus campers were leading an army of statues against the enemy. To the west, the Demeter cabin and Grover's nature spirits had turned Sixth Avenue into a jungle that was hampering a squadron of Kronos's demigods. The south was clear for now, but the flanks of the enemy army were swinging around. A few more minutes and we'd be totally surrounded.