Holes Sam Quotes

Sam," she said. "I'm trying!" "Sam," she repeated. "No," he spat, hearing her tone. "No!" He began screaming for help then. Celaena pressed her face to one of the holes in the grate. Help wasn't going to come-not fast enough. "Please," Sam begged as he beat and yanked on the grate, he tried to wedge another dagger under the lid. "Please don't." She knew he wasn't speaking to her. The water hit her neck. "Please," Sam moaned, his fingers now touching hers. She'd have one last breath. Her last words. "Take my body home to Terrasen, Sam," she whispered. And with a gasping breath, she went under.

Why do some men seek pleasurable satisfaction in sleeping with many women when they all have the same hole?

Sam wasn’t allowed to attend classes because he was a Negro,

Sam and Bill and I would cut a hole in a watermelon and fill it with rum so Jimmy didn’t know we were drinking. “Boy, you men sure like your watermelon,” Jimmy would say.

The morning came, pale and clammy. Frodo woke up first, and found that a tree-root had made a hole in his back, and that his neck was stiff. "Walking for pleasure! Why didn't I drive?" he thought, as he usually did at the beginning of an expedition. "And all my beautiful feather beds are sold to the Sackville-Bagginses! These tree-roots would do them good." He stretched. "Wake up, hobbits!" he cried. "It's a beautiful morning." "What's beautiful about it?" said Pippin, peering over the edge of his blanket with one eye. "Sam! Get breakfast ready for half-past nine! Have you got the bath-water hot?" Sam jumped up, looking rather bleary. "No, sir, I haven't, sir!" he said. Frodo stripped the blankets from Pippin and rolled him over, and then walked off to the edge of the wood.

But it must’ve happened!” snapped Vimes. “I told you, I can remember it! I was there yesterday!” “Nice try, but that doesn’t mean anything anymore,” said the monk. “Trust me. Yes, it’s happened to you, but even though it has, it might not. ’Cos of quantum. Right now, there isn’t a Commander Vimes–shaped hole in the future to drop you into. It’s officially Uncertain. But might not be, if you do it right. You owe it to yourself, Commander. Right now, out there, Sam Vimes is learning to be a very bad copper indeed. And he learns fast.

The truth was, she was afraid that when she fell hard for a boy, she’d lose herself along the way. She’d seen it happen to lots of girls. They’d go from drinking gin, driving fast cars, and boldly shimmying in speakeasies to these passive creatures who couldn’t make a move without asking their beaus if it would be okay. Evie had no intention of fading behind any man. She didn’t want to slide into ordinary and wake up to find that she’d become a housewife in Ohio with a bitter face and an embalmed spirit. Besides, things you loved deeply could be lost in a second, and then there was no filling the hole left inside you. So she lived in the moment, as if her life were one long party that never had to stop as long as she kept the good times going. But right now, in this moment, she felt a strong connection to Sam, as if they were the only two people in the world. She wanted to hold on to both him and the beautiful moment and not let go.

Sam swore violently and began yanking on the grate cover again. “Come on,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Come on.” The water was around her waist now, and over her chest a moment after that. Rain continued streaming in through the grate, blinding her senses. “Sam,” she said. “I’m trying!” “Sam,” she repeated. “No,” he spat, hearing her tone. “No!” He began screaming for help then. Celaena pressed her face to one of the holes in the grate. Help wasn’t going to come—not fast enough. She’d never given much thought to how she’d die, but drowning somehow felt fitting. It was a river in her native country of Terrasen that had almost claimed her life nine years ago—and now it seemed that whatever bargain she’d struck with the gods that night was finally over. The water would have her, one way or another, no matter how long it took.

These are the facts: The Walker boat smashed into Sam’s boat. Sam was shot and killed in the water. Katherine Barlow was rescued against her wishes. When they returned to the shore, she saw Mary Lou’s body lying on the ground. The donkey had been shot in the head. That all happened one hundred and ten years ago. Since then, not one drop of rain has fallen on Green Lake. You make the decision: Whom did God punish?

On the night Sam went missing, it occurred to Sadie that nothing in life was as solid-state as it appeared. A childish game could be deadly. A friend might disappear. And as much as a person might try to shield herself from it, the possibility for the other outcome was always there. We are all living, at most, half of a life, she thought. There was the life that you lived, which consisted of the choices you made. And then, there was the other life, the one that was the things you hadn't chosen. And sometimes, this other life felt as palpable as the one you were living. Sometimes, it felt as if you might be walking down Brattle Street, and without warning, you could slip into this other life, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole that led to Wonderland. But it wouldn't be strange like Wonderland, not at all. Because you would have expected all along that it could have turned out that way. You would feel relief, because you had always wondered what that other life would have looked like. And there you were.

A hole in my Sam.

The only time you start at the top is when you’re digging a hole.

My heart is breaking.” “I can fix that,” said Sam. She turned to him. He took hold of both of her hands, and kissed her.

If you're putting that energy into performance," he said, "you're also getting it back out again, right? You're giving so you can receive." He spread his arms wide. "If you were writing songs with it, you'd be holed up in your room in the middle of the night, scribbling them in a notebook and feeling self-important. You'd think you were getting it out, but really you'd be keeping it inside and quiet. You'd take what upset you and turn it into art, and now it would fester, because you think other people ought to share your outrage at what happened to you.

Eddie poured it into the hole, teeth bared at the pain, and then went ahead and used the stuff on both his leg and the laceration in his scalp before he could lose his courage. He tried to remember if Frodo and Sam had had to face anything even close to the horrors of hydrogen peroxide, and couldn't come up with anything, Well, of course, they had elves to heal them, hadn't they?

Rope-a-dope boxers and quarterbacks and hockey enforcers continue to shake off concussions on the theory of no blood, no harm. But each concussion effectively softens up the brain and ups the chances of more concussions. After multiple blows, neurons start to die and spongy holes open up; people’s personalities then disintegrate, leaving them depressed, diminished, suicidal. Four centuries have passed, but macho modern athletes* might as well trade pads for armor and go joust with

The Peacemaker Colt has now been in production, without change in design, for a century. Buy one to-day and it would be indistinguishable from the one Wyatt Earp wore when he was the Marshal of Dodge City. It is the oldest hand-gun in the world, without question the most famous and, if efficiency in its designated task of maiming and killing be taken as criterion of its worth, then it is also probably the best hand-gun ever made. It is no light thing, it is true, to be wounded by some of the Peacemaker’s more highly esteemed competitors, such as the Luger or Mauser: but the high-velocity, narrow-calibre, steel-cased shell from either of those just goes straight through you, leaving a small neat hole in its wake and spending the bulk of its energy on the distant landscape whereas the large and unjacketed soft-nosed lead bullet from the Colt mushrooms on impact, tearing and smashing bone and muscle and tissue as it goes and expending all its energy on you. In short when a Peacemaker’s bullet hits you in, say, the leg, you don’t curse, step into shelter, roll and light a cigarette one-handed then smartly shoot your assailant between the eyes. When a Peacemaker bullet hits your leg you fall to the ground unconscious, and if it hits the thigh-bone and you are lucky enough to survive the torn arteries and shock, then you will never walk again without crutches because a totally disintegrated femur leaves the surgeon with no option but to cut your leg off. And so I stood absolutely motionless, not breathing, for the Peacemaker Colt that had prompted this unpleasant train of thought was pointed directly at my right thigh. Another thing about the Peacemaker: because of the very heavy and varying trigger pressure required to operate the semi-automatic mechanism, it can be wildly inaccurate unless held in a strong and steady hand. There was no such hope here. The hand that held the Colt, the hand that lay so lightly yet purposefully on the radio-operator’s table, was the steadiest hand I’ve ever seen. It was literally motionless. I could see the hand very clearly. The light in the radio cabin was very dim, the rheostat of the angled table lamp had been turned down until only a faint pool of yellow fell on the scratched metal of the table, cutting the arm off at the cuff, but the hand was very clear. Rock-steady, the gun could have lain no quieter in the marbled hand of a statue. Beyond the pool of light I could half sense, half see the dark outline of a figure leaning back against the bulkhead, head slightly tilted to one side, the white gleam of unwinking eyes under the peak of a hat. My eyes went back to the hand. The angle of the Colt hadn’t varied by a fraction of a degree. Unconsciously, almost, I braced my right leg to meet the impending shock. Defensively, this was a very good move, about as useful as holding up a sheet of newspaper in front of me. I wished to God that Colonel Sam Colt had gone in for inventing something else, something useful, like safety-pins.

I imagine a man coming out of an alley and stabbing me a number of times until I die. Face-down, mouth-open in the snow. What would that change about me. Would I love it. Would I think that the stabbing was painful and that I didn’t like it. Does it actually hurt or is it great. I see my killer being given a wreath and a box of candy by the mayor of Chicago at some kind of ceremony (a ceremony for killing me, you see). And people are cheering for him. I see myself stab-holed and crawling out of an alley to join the periphery of the celebration. Then I hold one hand over the stab wounds and with the other hand I give the thumbs-up sign to my killer as he accepts the wreath from the mayor. I pass more people who are out walking. I’m on Ashland Avenue. A lot of times when I encounter someone else out walking or running past me, it feels like we should be more united than we end up acting. We’re both outside at the same time together. Why doesn’t that mean anything to anyone. Goddamn. No, I don’t think I actually care about that. I thought I cared about it just now.

She heard the sound of one tremendous flap and looked up in time to see the man who’d put a hole in the roof of her stable hovering in the air over her castle looking down at her. For the space of a breath, Sam’s heart completely stopped beating in her chest at what she saw in the bright light of day. Those were wings. They were real. And then she fainted dead away in her garden.

One afternoon, Sam, the onion man, and his donkey, Mary Lou, were returning to his boat, which was anchored just a little off shore. It was late in November and the peach trees had lost most of their leaves. “Sam!” someone called. He turned around to see three men running after him, waving their hats. He waited. “Afternoon, Walter. Bo, Jesse,” he greeted them, as they walked up, catching their breath. “Glad we caught you,” said Bo. “We’re going rattlesnake hunting in the morning.” “We want to get some of your lizard juice,” said Walter. “I ain’t a-scared of no rattlesnake,” said Jesse. “But I don’t want to come across one of those red-eyed monsters. I seen one once, and that was enough. I knew about the red eyes, of course. I hadn’t heard about the big black teeth.” “It’s the white tongues that get me,” said Bo. Sam gave each man two bottles of pure onion juice. He told them to drink one bottle before going to bed that night, then a half bottle in the morning, and then a half bottle around lunchtime. “You sure this stuff works?” asked Walter. “I tell you what,” said Sam. “If it doesn’t, you can come back next week and I’ll give you your money back.” Walter looked around unsure, as Bo and Jesse laughed. Then Sam laughed, too. Even Mary Lou let out a rare hee-haw. “Just remember,” Sam told the men before they left. “It’s very important you drink a bottle tonight. You got to get it into your bloodstream. The lizards don’t like onion blood.

At that moment, Hattie Parker stepped out of the general store. They didn't see her, but she saw them. She pointed in their direction and whispered, "God will punish you!" . . . These are the facts: The Walker boat smashed into Sam's boat. Sam was shot and killed in the water. Katherine Barlow was rescued against her wishes. When they retured to the shore, she saw Mary Lou's body lying on the ground. The donkey had been shot in the head. That all happened one hundred and ten years ago. Since then, not one drop of rain has fallen on Green Lake. You make the decision: Whom did God punish?

Onions! Fresh, hot, sweet onions,” Sam called as Mary Lou pulled the cart down Main Street. “Eight cents a dozen.” It was a beautiful spring morning. The sky was painted pale blue and pink—the same color as the lake and the peach trees along its shore. Mrs. Gladys Tennyson was wearing just her nightgown and robe as she came running down the street after Sam. Mrs. Tennyson was normally a very proper woman who never went out in public without dressing up in fine clothes and a hat. So it was quite surprising to the people of Green Lake to see her running past them. “Sam!” she shouted. “Whoa, Mary Lou,” said Sam, stopping his mule and cart. “G’morning, Mrs. Tennyson,” he said. “How’s little Becca doing?” Gladys Tennyson was all smiles. “I think she’s going to be all right. The fever broke about an hour ago. Thanks to you.” “I’m sure the good Lord and Doc Hawthorn deserve most of the credit.” “The Good Lord, yes,” agreed Mrs. Tennyson, “but not Dr. Hawthorn. That quack wanted to put leeches on her stomach! Leeches! My word! He said they would suck out the bad blood. Now you tell me. How would a leech know good blood from bad blood?” “I wouldn’t know,” said Sam. “It was your onion tonic,” said Mrs. Tennyson. “That’s what saved her.” Other townspeople made their way to the cart. “Good morning, Gladys,” said Hattie Parker. “Don’t you look lovely this morning.” Several people snickered. “Good morning, Hattie,” Mrs. Tennyson replied. “Does your husband know you’re parading about in your bed clothes?” Hattie asked. There were more snickers. “My husband knows exactly where I am and how I am dressed, thank you,” said Mrs. Tennyson. “We have both been up all night and half the morning with Rebecca. She almost died from stomach sickness. It seems she ate some bad meat.” Hattie’s face flushed. Her husband, Jim Parker, was the butcher. “It made my husband and me sick as well,” said Mrs. Tennyson, “but it nearly killed Becca, what with her being so young. Sam saved her life.” “It wasn’t me,” said Sam. “It was the onions.” “I’m glad Becca’s all right,” Hattie said contritely. “I keep telling Jim he needs to wash his knives,” said Mr. Pike, who owned the general store. Hattie Parker excused herself, then turned and quickly walked away. “Tell Becca that when she feels up to it to come by the store for a piece of candy,” said Mr. Pike. “Thank you, I’ll do that.” Before returning home, Mrs. Tennyson bought a dozen onions from Sam. She gave him a dime and told him to keep the change. “I don’t take charity,” Sam told her. “But if you want to buy a few extra onions for Mary Lou, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.” “All right then,” said Mrs. Tennyson, “give me my change in onions.” Sam gave Mrs. Tennyson an additional three onions, and she fed them one at a time to Mary Lou. She laughed as the old donkey ate them out of her hand.

Okay. Well. Here’s a real question. How long do you think it takes to get over someone dying? Someone you really loved, I mean.” I’m not entirely sure why I asked him. It was almost cruelly direct, given his circumstances. Perhaps I was afraid that the compulsive shagger was about to come out to play. Sam’s eyes widened just a little. “Whoa. Well”—he looked down at his mug, and then out at the shadowy fields—“I’m not sure you ever do.” “That’s cheery.” “No. Really. I’ve thought about it a lot. You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they’re not living, breathing people anymore. It’s not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you and makes you want to cry in the wrong places and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It’s just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a hole. I don’t know. It’s like you become . . . a doughnut instead of a bun.

The traumatic aspect of drinking ayahuasca is that in order to heal yourself, you must first confront the wound; by forcing you to deal with your own inner garbage, ayahuasca shows you things about yourself that you might not want to see. I wish that a whole country could drink ayahuasca—not merely every individual citizen of a country, but the country itself, the spirit of the country. I wish that a flag could drink ayahuasca, that we could just fold the Stars and Stripes into the shape of a cup, pour in the tea, and transport Uncle Sam into another dimension. He’d have to fight his way out of some nightmares, but he’d be cleansed. What would he find? William S. Burroughs wrote that when you drink ayahuasca, “The blood and substance of many races, Negro, Polynesian, Mountain Mongol, Desert Nomad, Polyglot Near East, Indian—new races as yet unconceived and unborn, combinations not yet realized—pass through your body.” When Burroughs drank, he actually saw himself transformed into both a black man and a black woman. What if some freedom-hating narcoterrorists snuck into the Fox News studios and put ayahuasca in Sean Hannity’s coffee, just before he went live? What would be the day’s fair and balanced news for America? If America drank ayahuasca and then withdrew into the filthy pit of its own heart, confronting all its fears and hate and finally purging itself of that negative energy, maybe America would come out Muslim: sucked through a black hole by the Black Mind, young Latter-Day Saint crackers with smooth cheeks, short-sleeved white shirts, and name tags confront nightmarish visions of getting swallowed whole by giant grotesque “Jolly Nigger” coin banks and then find themselves vomited back up as Nubian Islamic Hebrews in turbans and robes selling incense on the subways. The “God Hates Fags” pastor, eyes wild with a new passion for Allah, boards a helicopter to drop thousands of Qur’ans upon the small towns below. I want to see ayahuasca’s vine goddess clean out America’s poison. But what would happen if a religion could drink the vine? What if I poured ayahuasca into my Qur’an?

I’m mean? That’s the worst you can throw at me?” “Mean and self-pitying. Does that make it better?” “And what are you, Astrid?” he shouted. “A smug know-it-all! You point your finger at me and say, ‘Hey, Sam, you make the decisions, and you take all the heat.’” “Oh, it’s my fault? No way. I didn’t anoint you.” “Yeah, you did, Astrid. You guilted me into it. You think I don’t know what you’re all about? You used me to protect Little Pete. You use me to get your way. You manipulate me anytime you feel like it.” “You really are a jerk, you know that?” “No, I’m not a jerk, Astrid. You know what I am? I’m the guy getting people killed,” Sam said quietly. Then, “My head is exploding from it. I can’t get my brain around it. I can’t do this. I can’t be that guy, Astrid, I’m a kid, I should be studying algebra or whatever. I should be hanging out. I should be watching TV.” His voice rose, higher and louder till he was screaming. “What do you want from me? I’m not Little Pete’s father. I’m not everybody’s father. Do you ever stop to think what people are asking me to do? You know what they want me to do? Do you? They want me to kill my brother so the lights will come back on. They want me to kill kids! Kill Drake. Kill Diana. Get our own kids killed. “That’s what they ask. Why not, Sam? Why aren’t you doing what you have to do, Sam? Tell kids to get eaten alive by zekes, Sam. Tell Edilio to dig some more holes in the square, Sam.” He had gone from yelling to sobbing. “I’m fifteen years old. I’m fifteen.” He sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “Oh, my God, Astrid. It’s in my head, all these things. I can’t get rid of them. It’s like some filthy animal inside my head and I will never, ever, ever get rid of it. It makes me feel so bad. It’s disgusting. I want to throw up. I want to die. I want someone to shoot me in the head so I don’t have to think about everything.” Astrid was beside him, and her arms were around him. He was ashamed, but he couldn’t stop the tears. He was sobbing like he had when he was a little kid, like when he had a nightmare. Out of control. Sobbing. Gradually the spasms slowed. Then stopped. His breathing went from ragged to regular. “I’m really glad the lights weren’t on,” Sam said. “Bad enough you had to hear it.” “I’m falling apart,” he said. Astrid gave no answer, just held him close. And after what felt like a very long time, Sam moved away from her, gently putting distance between them again. “Listen. You won’t ever tell anyone…” “No. But, Sam…” “Please don’t tell me it’s okay,” Sam said. “Don’t be nice to me anymore. Don’t even tell me you love me. I’m about a millimeter from falling apart again.” “Okay.

Are you hurt badly?” she asked. “Don’t cry, Kate, I’m just fine, right Doc? Just a little bullet hole in my arm. I’ll be right as rain in no time.” “Ben, how is he?” she asked, turning to look at the doctor, as he finished bandaging Sam’s arm. “He’ll be just fine, Kate. It’s like he said, just a small hole in his arm. It should heal completely in a few months. The main thing we need to watch for is infection. As long as the wound is kept clean, and Sam here, doesn’t exert himself, he should be fine.” “See, I told you, now come over here and give a wounded man a kiss,” Sam said, holding his good arm out to her.

him. She'd poured him a cup of coffee when she'd heard his bathroom toilet flush, so he reached for the butter and syrup that were on the table and began slathering butter into every single hole in Kenzie's waffle, before smothering it in his own favorite original maple syrup.

Just pretend I’m not here,” Danny continued. “Just a guy driving a minivan. Riddled with bullet holes. Down a deserted highway. In the apocalypse. With undead creatures probably watching us from the woods. You know, nothing special.

How much I'd always envied the tight life of voles. The hidey hole was happiness.

You been sneaking off to read again?” Danny smirked. “It’s amazing what you can shove into your learning hole when you’re bored.

What’s up, Sam?” “What birthday?” he panted. “What?” “What birthday, Anna?” It took a while for her to absorb his fear. It took a while for the reason for his fear to dawn on her. “Fifteen,” Anna said in a whisper. “What’s the matter?” Emma asked, sensing her twin’s mood. “It doesn’t mean anything.” “It doesn’t,” Anna whispered. “You’re probably right,” Sam said. “Oh, my God,” Anna said. “Are we going to disappear?” “When were you born?” Sam asked. “What time of day?” The twins exchanged scared looks. “We don’t know.” “You know what, no one has blinked out since that first day, so it’s probably—” Emma disappeared. Anna screamed. The other older kids took notice, the littles, too. “Oh, my God!” Anna cried. “Emma. Emma. Oh, God!” She grabbed Sam’s hands and he held her tight. The prees, some of them, caught the fear. Mother Mary came over. “What’s going on? You’re scaring the kids. Where’s Emma?” Anna just kept saying, “Oh, my God,” and calling her sister’s name. “Where’s Emma?” Mary demanded again. “What’s going on?” Sam didn’t want to explain. Anna was hurting him with the pressure of her fingers digging into the backs of his hands. Anna’s eyes were huge, staring holes in him. “How far apart were you born?” Sam asked. Anna just stared in blank horror. Sam lowered his voice to an urgent whisper. “How far apart were you born, Anna?” “Six minutes,” she whispered. “Hold my hands, Sam,” she said. “Don’t let me go, Sam,” she said. “I won’t, Anna, I won’t let you go,” Sam said. “What’s going to happen, Sam?” “I don’t know, Anna.” “Will we go to where our mom and dad are?” “I don’t know, Anna." “Am I going to die?” “No, Anna. You’re not going to die.” “Don’t let go of me, Sam.” Mary was there now, a baby on her hip. John was there. The prees, some of them, watched with serious, worried looks on their faces. “I don’t want to die,” Anna repeated. “I…I don’t know what it’s like.” “It’s okay, Anna.” Anna smiled. “That was a nice date. When we went out.” “It was.” For a split second it was like Anna blurred. Too fast to be real. She blurred, and Sam could almost swear that she had smiled at him. And his fingers squeezed on nothing. For a terribly long time no one moved or said anything. The littles didn’t cry out. The older kids just stared. Sam’s fingertips still remembered the feel of Anna’s hands. He stared at the place where her face had been. He could still see her pleading eyes. Unable to stop himself, he reached a hand into the space she had occupied. Reaching for a face that was no longer there. Someone sobbed. Someone cried out, other voices then, the prees started crying. Sam felt sick. When his teacher had disappeared he hadn’t been expecting it. This time he had seen it coming, like a monster in a slow-motion nightmare. This time he had seen it coming, like standing rooted on the railroad tracks, unable to jump aside.

​More was the name of the game. More liquor. More blow. More more. His yearning was frantic. It howled like wind through the holes in his brain. He longed to penetrate and excrete, to fuck and be fucked, to violate, to be ruined.

Can we stop?” Hayley asked. “If I see a sheltered spot, we’ll hole up for a while.” “Can we look for one? I have a blister--” “We all have blisters,” Sam said. “We need to keep going,” Daniel said. “We lost a lot of time yesterday.” “What? Are we on a schedule?” Hayley said. “Is there a bus waiting to pick us up somewhere?” She sighed, then said, “I hate complaining.” “So don’t do it,” Sam said. Hayley glowered at her.

There are many stories about seagoing cats. My research indicates that cats were domesticated about 9,500 years ago. I really don’t know anyone who was around at that time to verify this, but I also don’t have any reason to doubt this little bit of trivia. It is documented that the Egyptians who kept cats around to bring the good luck, also used them to catch thicket birds that lived in the tall grass along the riverbanks. I guess that these small birds were a treat and a welcome substitute for the usual river fish that the sailors would catch with hooks fashioned from bones. In time it was the Phoenicians who inadvertently brought cats from the middle east to Europe. It seems that sailors had cats with them on their ships from the beginning of recorded history. They successfully used the excuse that the cats would keep the rat population under control. I don’t believe that this was really true since there are stories of where the cat befriended the rats, but in most cases the cats did keep the rats from invading their living spaces. Six-toed cats were thought to be better hunters and to this day many islands in remote areas are overrun by these cats and rats that managed to get ashore from ships that foundered along the island’s shore. Sailors are notoriously superstitious and have always believed that cats can predict the weather and bring luck. There are many accounts concerning this and there may be some truth to this but you’ll have to be the judge. Because of their sensitive inner ears cats can sense barometric pressure drops, indicating foul weather and being warned frequently crawl into their safe hidey-hole prior to a storm. A cat named Oscar, or Oskar in German, was the mascot on the German Battle Cruiser Bismarck when she was sunk by the British. Found floating on a wooden plank, Oskar was rescued by the crew of the British ship the HMS Cossack. No sooner recued and with Oskar renamed Oscar, the HMS Cossack was sunk by the Germans. This time Oscar was rescued by the crew of the HMS Arc Royal, which was then also sunk by the German navy. Not believing their bad luck the Brit’s blamed poor Oscar and renamed the cat to the German Oskar. Thinking Oskar to be the harbinger of bad luck they contacted the German Navy and offered to return their cat. The Germans refused the offer, so the British retired Oskar to a home in Plymouth, England. This time they banned poor Oskar from ever sailing on a British Naval Vessel again and changed his name to Sam. The British Navy banned cats from sailing on British war ships in 1975. Even though the British Navy has banned cats from their ships, other countries and merchant ships still have cats aboard.

Three days after Sam's death, Miss Katherine shot the sheriff while he was sitting in his chair drinking a cup of coffee. Then she carefully applied a fresh coat of lipstick and gave him the kiss he had asked for. For the next twenty years, Kissin' Kate Barlow was one of the most feared outlaws in all the West.

He’d been shooting since he was seventeen, and even with two bullet holes in him it was all about instinct.

I don't even know why I bother being disappointed. Remember when we didn't have any money, and we never saw them because they were always working? I used to lie in bed at night, waiting for things to get better, trying to block out the noise of your Walkman from the bottom bunk. I used to lie there with my eyes closed and wish that things would get better, that something would happen to pull us all out of that hole. And then it did, and here we are, no better off".

I don’t guess you can outrun an explosion, right?” Sam asked doubtfully. Jack rolled his eyes and sighed his condescending geek sigh. “Seriously? Brianna runs in miles per hour. Explosions happen in feet per second. Don’t believe what you see in movies.” “Yeah, Sam,” Dekka said. “In the old days I always had Astrid around to humiliate me when I asked a stupid question,” Sam said. “It’s good to have Jack to take over that job.” He’d said it lightheartedly, but the mention of Astrid left an awkward hole in the conversation. Brianna said, “I can’t outrun an explosion, but I’ll tie the string around the wire.” She zipped over to the wire and zipped back holding the loose end. “Who gets to yank the string?” “She who ties the string pulls it,” Sam said. “But first—” BOOOOM! The containers, the sand, pieces of driftwood, bushes on the bluff all erupted in a fireball. Sam felt a blast of heat on his face. His ears rang. His eyes scrunched on sand. Debris seemed to take a long time to fall back down to earth. In the eventual silence Sam said, “I was going to say first we should all lie flat so we didn’t get blown up. But I guess that was good, too, Breeze.

The men fortunately didn’t notice my near heart attack or me.  They were too busy watching something in the parking lot.  Standing shoulder to shoulder, they blocked my view.  I didn’t really care what had them so engrossed; I wanted to go home. I heard Sam behind me, muttered a quick “excuse me,” and moved around the small group.  It took me less than a second to spot the object of their attention.  Once I did, I couldn’t look away. Sam’s truck had exploded.  Ok, maybe not literally, but that’s what it looked like at first glance.  The detached hood leaned against the right front fender.  Dark shapes littered the ground directly in front of the truck.  My mouth popped open when I realized I was looking at scattered pieces of the truck’s guts.  Little pieces, big pieces, some covered in sludge.  Deep inside, I groaned a desperate denial.  Not Sam’s truck.  I needed it. A clanking sound drew my attention from the carnage to the form bent over the front grill.  He did this, the last man I’d met.  He studied the gaping hole that had once lovingly cradled an engine—one with enough life to drive me home. “Gabby, honey,” Sam said from behind me, causing me to jump.  “I don’t think he wants you to go just yet.” My heart sank.  Not only did the man’s actions scream loud and clear “she’s mine” but Sam’s calm statement confirmed my worst fear.  The Elders had noticed.  My stomach clenched with dread for a moment, and I wrestled with my emotions.  No, it didn’t matter who noticed.  I wasn’t giving up or giving in.  I’d told Sam I’d come to the Introductions.  I had never agreed to follow their customs. “There’s more than one vehicle here,” I said. “If we go inside to ask anyone else, we’ll come back to more vehicular murder.” I turned to look at Sam.  He watched the man and his truck.  He was right.  I couldn’t ask anyone else to deal with this guy’s obvious mental disorder.  As soon as that thought entered my mind, I felt a little guilty.  I usually didn’t judge people.  I preferred to avoid them altogether.  But this guy made himself hard to ignore. “Fine.”  I shouldered my bag, turned, and walked toward the main gate, pretending I didn’t hear Sam’s warning. “You won’t get far,” he said softly behind me. The

Deerfield, Massachusetts February 29, 1704 Temperature 0 degrees We will freeze to death, thought Mercy. Why go to the trouble of carrying a hundred pairs of moccasins when they won’t make a fire? Her Indian knelt and, with his bare hands, scooped out a hole in a snowbank. She expected him to store his plunder in the cavity. He had to make a lot of hand motions before she understood that this was her shelter for the night. Not a house, nor a bed, nor even a stable. A hole in the snow. Mercy wanted to raise her head to the skies and howl like a dog. But she wanted to survive. There must be no more bodies along this terrible trail. “First, may I look for my brothers?” She held up four fingers. “No,” said the Indian, and motioned her into the cave, tucking Daniel in after her. Mercy would have felt much better if she could have rested her eyes on Tommy and John and Sam and Benny. From her hole she watched the others settle in for the night. Eben’s Indian collected the older boys: Eben, the oldest Kellogg boy, the two Sheldon boys and Joe Alexander, who was in his twenties but looked very young. They were pinioned to the ground a dozen yards from where Mercy was curled. For Eben, however, his Indian made a cradle of spruce boughs. He wrapped a leather rope around Eben’s wrists and linked the cord to his own. If Eben moved, his captor would know it. The rest were made to lie on open snow. There was nothing between them and the weather. No walls, no roof, no parent.

Listen, Sam, and everyone, you need to know something so it won’t freak you out: Pack Leader can speak. I mean, human words. Like Smart-Girl Barbie there was saying, he’s some kind of mutant or whatever. I know you think I’m probably crazy.” She had Hermit Jim’s tin cup now and used it to scoop up another helping of wonderful, wonderful pudding. Blondie—Astrid—was opening a can of fruit cocktail. “What do you know about the FAYZ?” Astrid asked. Lana stopped eating and stared at her. “The what?” Astrid shrugged and looked embarrassed. “That’s what people are calling it. The Fallout Alley Youth Zone. FAYZ.” “What does that mean?” “Have you seen the barrier?” She nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen the barrier. I touched the barrier, which, by the way, is not a good idea.” Sam said, “As far as we can tell, it goes clear around in a big circle. Or maybe a sphere. We think the center is the power plant. It seems like a ten-mile radius from there, you know, twenty miles across.” “Circumference of 62.83 miles, with an area of 314.159 square miles,” Astrid said. “Point 159,” Quinn echoed from his corner. “That’s important.” “It’s basically pi,” Astrid said. “You know, 3.14159265…. Okay, I’ll stop.” Lana hadn’t stopped being hungry. She took a scoop of the fruit cocktail. “Sam, you think the power plant caused it?” Sam shrugged, and then he hesitated, surprised. Lana guessed that he felt no pain in his shoulder. “No one knows. All of a sudden every single person over the age of fourteen disappears and there’s this barrier and people…animals…” Lana slowly absorbed this new information. “You mean all the adults? They’re gone?” “Poof,” Quinn said. “They ditched. They blinked out. They vacated. They took the off-ramp. They cut a hole. They emigrated. Adults and teenagers. Nothing left but kids.” “I’ve done all I can to strengthen the door,” Edilio announced. “But all I have is nails. Someone can break it in eventually.” “Maybe they didn’t all ditch,” Lana said. “Maybe we did.” Astrid said, “That’s definitely one of the possibilities, not that it makes any real difference. It’s effectively the same thing.

What’s going on?  What news?” I said glancing between the two. Sam gave Clay a sharp look. “You didn’t tell her?” “He’s not talking to me, yet,” I said, wondering what bad news Sam had to share. Sam shook his head at Clay.  “You’ve dug your own hole then, son.”  He focused on me.  “A group of Forlorn have asked Elder Joshua to approach you for an unofficial kind of Introduction.  Joshua approved, but he made it clear they were to keep it brief and then leave, unless any of them had a further request of him.” The meaning of Sam’s words sunk in deep like a vicious bite.  It also explained his less than warm greeting.  He stood in my living room as an Elder on pack business, not as family or a friend.  I struggled to contain my anger. “I thought I was done with that.  We had a deal.”  I crossed my arms and coldly regarded Sam.  “I know I said I was done.” The carefully, composed expression on Sam’s face faltered a bit.  “Honey, there are rules we must follow to keep peace in the pack.  Clay had six months to convince you of his suit.  That time has passed.  That means unMated can once again approach you, with permission.” My mouth popped open.  Six months.  Permission from an Elder.  That’s why they’d stationed Joshua here.  A backup plan because they knew I didn’t want to Claim Clay.  They failed to understand I didn’t want to Claim anyone.  I’d never been free.  I clenched my fists.  My temper boiled. “That’s complete crap,” I gritted out.  “First of all, I didn’t reject anyone.  Second, no one ever told me about this stupid rule.”  My voice rose to a yell, and I took a deep breath and closed my eyes briefly to restrain myself.  When I reopened them, I felt more in control and able to speak calmly.  “You know what?  I don’t care what the pack rules are.  I gave you my word and my time.  Now, I expect you to keep yours.  I worked hard to get here, Sam.  I won’t let anyone take this away from me.”  My hands shook.  That Sam had cared for me in the past and given me a place to call home for two years, kept my tongue marginally civil. “By not completing the Claim, you’ve become eligible again.  Charlene was granted a special consideration because, at that time, we weren’t even sure a Claiming would be possible between a human and a werewolf.  Now that we know it is, you fall under the same rules,” Sam explained calmly, his face again carefully devoid of emotion. “No, I don’t.”  I knew I could stand there and argue all day with Sam, and he wouldn’t budge.  It would always be whatever’s best for the pack with him.  “Is this why Clay was beat up?” Clay made a noise—like a snort of disagreement—behind me. “Feel free to jump in at any time,” I said, turning to arch an eyebrow at him.  He remained mute, but his eyes softened when he looked at me. Sam spoke up from behind me, but I didn’t turn to look at him. “Gabby, it’s the reason he’s been fighting.  He’s not relinquishing his tie to you.  Every time an unMated shows up here, he will challenge that man for his right for an Introduction.  Did Clay get beat up?  Only as a byproduct of handing out beatings.” Clay steadily met my gaze the entire time.  It broke my heart a little to know he was fighting so hard to keep me, and all I’d given him in those six months was a kiss.  Not even spontaneously given, but relinquished as part of a bribe.  I hadn’t rejected him.  I just didn’t want to be forced into a choice.  If I chose to be with Clay, I wanted it to be on our terms. “Why

Now the saying is common that Sam Colt made men equal. But if it is true then our town wouldn’t have burned up in the rain; instead that Bad Man would have been buried with due honors and a proper notice sent to the Territory Office. He would have had a hole in his chest, or his back, and the one who shot him would have Avery standing him a drink and maybe redheaded Flo and Molly smiling his way. Colt gave every man a gun, but you have to squeeze the trigger for yourself. A few times during that long cold night I thought the Bad Man was coming back.

Driver stood over the German’s body. A fatal wound to the stomach and a bullet hole between the eyes. Whoever was responsible, they were either merciful or meticulous. She closed the man’s eyelids, moved back into the hallway and found the rest of the team lingering in the interrogation room.

Blackstone’s ace in the hole was that it was offering an all-cash deal, as opposed to Vornado’s 40 percent stock. Blackstone was also aggressive about a quick deal closing, promising to close the transaction within two weeks of a scheduled Equity Office shareholders meeting on February 5, while Vornado had to wait a few months for its own shareholders’ vote and for the SEC’s ruling because of the proposed issuance of Vornado stock. A lot can happen in a few months, and I liked the certainty Blackstone was offering.

Next the guys were heading out to find a house we could hole up in--someplace the Cabals wouldn’t expect to find us. Sam’s leg wasn’t up to scouting, and Rafe thought I should stay with her, take a break, get a hot shower, and put on the fresh clothes I’d brought from home. That may have been his nice way of saying I really needed that shower.

Can we stop?” Hayley asked. “If I see a sheltered spot, we’ll hole up for a while.” “Can we look for one? I have a blister--” “We all have blisters,” Sam said. “We need to keep going,” Daniel said. “We lost a lot of time yesterday.” “What? Are we on a schedule?” Hayley said. “Is there a bus waiting to pick us up somewhere?” She sighed, then said, “I hate complaining.” “So don’t do it,” Sam said. Hayley glowered at her. “You think I like being the whiner? If Nicole was here, she’d be complaining just as much. We’re tired and wet and miserable, but I’m stuck being the one who says it while everyone else just hopes I whine loud enough so we all get to stop and rest. Maya and Daniel can’t complain. They need to set an example. Unless Corey’s in enough pain that he snaps again, he’s going to tough it out. And Sam? Well, she’s not even human, so she doesn’t count.” “Excuse me?” Sam said. “Face it, you’re not one of those bendo-things. You’re a robot. A cyborg. Probably an evil one, programmed to murder us all in our sleep.” Corey snickered. “Yeah?” Sam lifted a fist to Hayley. “You want to try that one again, blondie?” Hayley looked at Daniel and me. “I rest my case.

- Słyszysz? - upewniła się Chyłka. - Za głośno i za wyraźnie - odparł cicho. - Co znalazłaś? Pornosy? - Nie. Listę piosenek na Spotify, którą w pocie czoła musiałeś tworzyć od zarania dziejów. Zaśmiał się cicho. Rzeczywiście pracował nad tym od jakiegoś czasu, a właściwie od kiedy tylko Chyłka po raz pierwszy puściła mu Poison Alice'a Coopera i oznajmiła, że to najbardziej romantyczny kawałek, jaki zna. Potraktował to jak wyzwanie i postawnowił znaleźć inne metalowe i jednocześnie balladowe numery, które byłyby rzeczywiście, a nie tylko pozornie romantyczne. Zgromadził ich trochę, a potem rozszerzył katalog także na kawałki rockowe i grunge'owe. - Disarm Smashing Pumpkins - powiedziała z uznaniem. - Nieźle. Naprawdę nieźle. - Wyciskacz łez. - Nawet ja to przyznam - odparła nieobecnym głosem. - Nie ma rzewniejszego kawałka na świecie. - Ano nie - przyznała. - Ale zobaczymy, co tu jeszcze masz... HammerFall, Always Will Be. Też całkiem nieźle, choć ja i power metal za sobą nie przepadamy. - Pomyślałem, że zrobisz wyjątek. - Zrobię nawet dwa, bo widzę tutaj Ghost of Reedom Iced Earth. - Zgadza się. - Guns'n'Roses November Rain, dobry wybór. Wind of Change Scorpionsów, też nieźle. Słysząc sam tytuł ostatniego kawałka, Kordian usłyszał w głowie charakterystyczne gwizdanie na początku. - It's Been Awhile Staind, brawo, brawo. Idealny podkład muzyczny dla wieczoru przy świeczkach i papierosach. - Tak? SPrawdzimy w praktyce. - O, wyłowiłeś nawet Black Hole Sun Soundgarden. I Fade to Black Metalliki! - Jest też Killing Me Killing You Sentenced. - Och, Zordon... - Zrobiłem robotę? - Przyjeżdżaj. Będę twoja.

Now, Sam,’ said Frodo, ‘don’t hinder me! The others will be coming back at any minute. If they catch me here, I shall have to argue and explain, and I shall never have the heart or the chance to get off. But I must go at once. It’s the only way.’ ‘Of course it is,’ answered Sam. ‘But not alone. I’m coming too, or neither of us isn’t going. I’ll knock holes in all the boats first.’ Frodo actually laughed. A sudden warmth and gladness touched his heart. ‘Leave one!’ he said. ‘We’ll need it. But you can’t come like this without your gear or food or anything.’ ‘Just hold on a moment, and I’ll get my stuff!’ cried Sam eagerly. ‘It’s all ready. I thought we should be off today.’ He rushed to the camping place, fished out his pack from the pile where Frodo had laid it when he emptied the boat of his companions’ goods, grabbed a spare blanket, and some extra packages of food, and ran back. ‘So all my plan is spoilt!’ said Frodo. ‘It is no good trying to escape you. But I’m glad, Sam. I cannot tell you how glad. Come along! It is plain that we were meant to go together. We will go, and may the others find a safe road! Strider will look after them. I don’t suppose we shall see them again.’ ‘Yet we may, Mr. Frodo. We may,’ said Sam.

After them flyin' snakes, and floatin' spider-plants, and them yellow duck-dogs that keep peekin' at us from holes yonder-well, I can believe that we're gonna pick us apples offa pine trees, too.

Because of the rain, there was nobody else out on the street. Even if there was, Katherine and Sam wouldn’t have noticed. There were lost in their own world.

I wrapped one hand around his cock; the other I slid in his crease. Sam spread his legs for me so I could reach his hole, my cock hard and needy to find a home inside him.

Consciousness slipped slowly away, as he watched through gaping roof-holes pinprick stars high up, glistening against a purple sky. He thought of his mother and Dog and the kittens and Cat, as the stars began dropping to the earth like molten bullets, gradually fading away.

It’s amazing what you can shove into your learning hole when you’re bored.

The New England wilderness March 1, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees Somebody was tapping Mercy in the ribs. It couldn’t be Tommy, who pounced, or Sam, who jabbed. It wasn’t John, who kissed, or Benny, who snuggled. Whichever brother it was had wet the bed in the night, and wet Mercy with him, and so far it was still warm, but the moment she separated from that sleeping brother, it would be cold and awful. But the tapping would not stop, and Mercy woke to see a deerskin legging with a painted running deer. “Up,” said her Indian. The paint had partly peeled off his face, giving him a patchy smeared look. She remembered the day before backward: the marching, the carrying, the slipping, the snow. She thrust memory away, folding it closed. She would not think about the attack. Lord, please, she prayed. Let me see Sam and John and Tommy and Benny. Let Uncle Nathaniel and Aunt Mary and the cousins be here. Let it not be true abut Marah. Let Stepmama and the baby be safe and sound and walking fast enough. The Indian stooped to take her hand and pull her to her feet, giving a slight grunt as he did. For the first time she saw that he too had been hurt and that the paint on his side was his own dried blood, and Mercy knew then that she had experienced war, and that it was true about Marah. She did not take his hand, knowing what it had done. Rolling Daniel ahead of her, she was out of the snow hole and on her feet in a moment. There was some sort of assembly going on. The prisoners were stumbling toward Mr. Williams, who stood alone, his hands raised to the sky. How extraordinary, thought Mercy. They’re going to let us pray. She was glad, because a day without morning prayer was unthinkable, but it didn’t seem like something the Indians would permit. French Indians were Catholic, though, converted by priests from France itself. Mr. Williams often said that if you were Catholic, you hated God and were evil and stole little children from their beds. The warriors had gathered in clumps. Yesterday had been complete victory for the Indians, and yet there was no rejoicing among them. Her captor’s eyes were on a bundle in the snow. She had seen enough death in her life to know it. One of the Indian wounded had not survived the night. The posture of her Indian was human. It was grief.

Dr. Anderson returned with Sam’s discharge paperwork. “I had this made for you,” he said, handing her a card that had a hole punched in it. Nick busted up laughing when he saw what it said. GW E.R. Frequent Flier. “Hardy har har,” Sam said. “Have your laughs, Doc. I help keep you in business.” “That you do, my friend. That you do.

People flocked like lemmings to the water's edge all across Michigan's vast coastline every pretty summer evening to watch the spectacular sunsets. They were marvelous spectacles, a fireworks display most nights- a kaleidoscope of color and light in the sky, white clouds turning cotton candy pink, Superman ice cream blue, and plum purple, the sun a giant fireball that seemed to melt in the water as it began to slink behind the wavy horizon. Sunsets are one of our simplest and most profound gifts, Sam remembered her grandma telling her years ago as they walked the shoreline looking for witches' stones- the ones with holes in them- or pretty Petoskeys to make matching necklaces. They remind us that we were blessed to have enjoyed a perfect day, and they provide hope that tomorrow will be even better. It's God's way of saying good night with His own brand of fireworks.

I am agnostic on the shadow market. I went deep into the rabbit hole of global finance, with a legal background and experience on Wall Street, and I decided it wasn't my role to decide--that was for readers.