I Wont Disturb You Quotes

The real damage is done by those millions who want to 'survive.' The honest men who just want to be left in peace. Those who don’t want their little lives disturbed by anything bigger than themselves. Those with no sides and no causes. Those who won’t take measure of their own strength, for fear of antagonizing their own weakness. Those who don’t like to make waves—or enemies. Those for whom freedom, honour, truth, and principles are only literature. Those who live small, mate small, die small. It’s the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you’ll keep it under control. If you don’t make any noise, the bogeyman won’t find you. But it’s all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe. Safe?! From what? Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn.

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!" Raise your voice -- they won't hear you otherwise -- "I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!" Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: "I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!" Or if you prefer, don't say anything: just hope they'll leave you alone.

The youngest Merriville, bursting into the room some time later, found them seated side by side on the sofa. 'Buddle said I wasn't to disturb you, but I knew that was fudge,' he said scornfully. 'Cousin Alverstoke, there is someting I particularly wanted to ask you!' He broke off, perceiving suddenly, and with disfavour, that his Cousin Alverstoke had an arm round Frederica. Revolted by such a betrayal of unmanliness, he bent a disapproving look upon his idol and demanded: 'Why are you cuddling Frederica, sir?' 'Because we are going to be married,' replied his lordship calmly. 'It's obligatory, you know. One is expected to -er - cuddle the lady one is going to marry.' 'Oh!' said Felix. 'Well, I won't ask anyone to marry me , if that's what you have to do! I just say I never thought that you sir would have-' Again he broke off, as a thought struck him. 'Will that make her a - a She-Marquis? Oh, Jessamy, did you hear that? Frederica is going to be a She-Marquis!' 'What you mean is a Marchioness, you ignorant little ape!' replied his austere brother.

I want you bound. And not on the outside. I’m working my way in.” “Gideon—“ “I won’t ever take it further than you can handle,” he promised, his eyes glittering hotly in the muted lighting. “But I’ll take you to the edge.” I squirmed, both aroused and disturbed by the thought of giving up that much control. “Why?” “Because you want to be mine and I want to possess you. We’ll get there.” His hand slid under my shirt and cupped my breast, his fingers rolling and tugging my nipple, igniting my body.

Skulduggery: You won't want to move any sudden moves until we reach the road - I'll know if you crazy kids disturbs the air around the nice bag of explosives Valkyrie: Blow it up Skulduggery: Can't do that Valkyrie: Why not? Skulduggery: Not a bomb. It's a bag with collapsible jacks; for changin tyres Valkryie: What about the remote? Skulduggery: It opens my garage door. Don't tell them, but it doesn't even have any batteries in it

You listen to me, and listen good!" she shouted, shocking me. "I am not evil because I have a thousand years of demon smut on my soul!" she exclaimed, the tips of her hair trembling and her face flushed. "Every time you disturb reality, nature has to balance it out. The black on your soul isn't evil, it's a promise to make up for what you have done. It's a mark, not a death sentence. And you can get rid of it given time." "Ceri, I'm sorry," I fumbled, but she wasn't listening. "You're an ignorant, foolish, stupid witch," she berated, and I cringed, my grip tightening on the copper spell pot and feeling the anger from her like a whip. "Are you saying because I carry the stink of demon magic, that I'm a bad person?" "No..." I wedged in. "That God will show no pity?" she said, green eyes flashing. "That because I made one mistake in fear that led to a thousand more that I will burn in hell?" "No. Ceri -" I took a step forward. "My soul is black," she said, her fear showing in her suddenly pale cheeks. "I'll never be rid of it all before I die, but it won't be because I'm a bad person but because I was a frightened one.

I slammed the water off hard enough to make it clack, got out of the shower, dried, and started getting dressed in a fresh set of secondhand clothes. “Why do you wear those?” asked Lacuna. I jumped, stumbled, and shouted half of a word to a spell, but since I was only halfway done putting on my underwear, I mostly just fell on my naked ass. “Gah!” I said. “Don’t do that!” My miniature captive came to the edge of the dresser and peered down at me. “Don’t ask questions?” “Don’t come in here all quiet and spooky and scare me like that!” “You’re six times my height, and fifty times my weight,” Lacuna said gravely. “And I’ve agreed to be your captive. You don’t have any reason to be afraid.” “Not afraid,” I snapped back. “Startled. It isn’t wise to startle a wizard!” “Why not?” “Because of what could happen!” “Because they might fall down on the floor?” “No!” I snarled. Lacuna frowned and said, “You aren’t very good at answering questions.” I started shoving myself into my clothes. “I’m starting to agree with you.” “So why do you wear those?” I blinked. “Clothes?” “Yes. You don’t need them unless it’s cold or raining.” “You’re wearing clothes.” “I am wearing armor. For when it is raining arrows. Your T-shirt will not stop arrows.” “No, it won’t.” I sighed. Lacuna peered at my shirt. “Aer-O-Smith. Arrowsmith. Does the shirt belong to your weapon dealer?” “No.” “Then why do you wear the shirt of someone else’s weapon dealer?” That was frustrating in so many ways that I could avoid a stroke only by refusing to engage. “Lacuna,” I said, “humans wear clothes. It’s one of the things we do. And as long as you are in my service, I expect you to do it as well.” “Why?” “Because if you don’t, I  .  .  . I  .  .  . might pull your arms out of your sockets.” At that, she frowned. “Why?” “Because I have to maintain discipline, don’t I?” “True,” she said gravely. “But I have no clothes.” I counted to ten mentally. “I’ll  .  .  . find something for you. Until then, no desocketing. Just wear the armor. Fair enough?” Lacuna bowed slightly at the waist. “I understand, my lord.” “Good.” I sighed. I flicked a comb through my wet hair, for all the good it would do, and said, “How do I look?” “Mostly human,” she said. “That’s what I was going for.” “You have a visitor, my lord.” I frowned. “What?” “That is why I came in here. You have a visitor waiting for you.” I stood up, exasperated. “Why didn’t you say so?” Lacuna looked confused. “I did. Just now. You were there.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps you have brain damage.” “It would not shock me in the least,” I said. “Would you like me to cut open your skull and check, my lord?” she asked. Someone that short should not be that disturbing. “I  .  .  . No. No, but thank you for the offer.” “It is my duty to serve,” Lacuna intoned. My life, Hell’s bells.

If you and I go around grumbling about ingratitude, who is to blame? Is it human nature—or is it our ignorance of human nature? Let’s not expect gratitude. Then, if we get some occasionally, it will come as a delightful surprise. If we don’t get it, we won’t be disturbed.   Here is the first point I am trying to make in this chapter: It is natural for people to forget to be grateful; so, if we go around expecting gratitude, we are headed straight for a lot of heartaches.

...each day I sit down in purposeful concentration to write in a notebook, some sentences on a buried truth, an unnamed reality, things that happened but are denied. It is hard to describe the stillness it takes, the difficulty of this act. It requires an almost perfect concentration which I am trying to learn and there is no way to learn it that is spelled out anywhere or so I can understand it but I have a sense that it's completely simply, on the order of being able to sit still and keep your mind dead center in you without apology or fear. I squirm after some time but it ain't boredom, it's fear of what's possible, how much you can know if you can be quiet enough and simple enough. I move around, my mind wanders, I lose the ability to take words and roll them through my brain, move with them into their interiors, feel their colors, touch what's under them, where they come from long ago and way back. I get frightened seeing what's in my own mind if words get put to it. There's a light there, it's bright, it's wide, it could make you blind if you look direct into it and so I turn away, afraid; I get frightened and I run and the only way to run is to abandon the process altogether or compromise it beyond recognition. I think about Celine sitting with his shit, for instance; I don't know why he didn't run, he should've. It's a quality you have to have of being near mad and at the same time so quiet in your heart that you could pass for a spiritual warrior; you could probably break things with the power in your mind. You got to be able to stand it, because it's a powerful and disturbing light, not something easy and kind, it comes through your head to make its way onto the page and you get fucking scared so your mind runs away, it wanders, it gets distracted, it buckles, it deserts, it takes a Goddamn freight train if it can find one, it wants calming agents and sporifics, and you mask that you are betraying the brightest and the best light you will ever see, you are betraying the mind that can be host to it... ...Your mind does stupid tricks to mask that you are betraying something of grave importance. It wanders so you won't notice that you are deserting your own life, abandoning it to triviality and garbage, how you are too fucking afraid to use your own brain for what it's for, which is to be a host to the light, to use it, to focus it; let it shine and carry the burden of what is illuminated, everything buried there; the light's scarier than anything it shows, the pure, direct experience of it in you as if your mind ain't the vegetable thing it's generally conceived to be or the nightmare thing you know it to be but a capacity you barely imagined, real; overwhelming and real, pushing you out to the edge of ecstasy and knowing and then do you fall or do you jump or do you fly?

You can figure out by sheer logic that if you were only—and I mean only—to stay with your desires and preferences, and if you were never—and I mean never—to stray into unrealistic demands that your desires have to be fulfilled, you could very rarely disturb, really disturb, yourself about anything. Why? Because your preferences start off with, “I would very much like or prefer to have success, approval, or comfort,” and then end with the conclusion, “But I don’t have to have it. I won’t die without it. And I could be happy (though not as happy) without it.

Please have a seat, Henrietta. Winifred, thank you; that will be all. Ensure we’re not disturbed.” The older woman bobbed a slight curtsey, giving Etta’s back a parting pinch, hard enough to make her jump forward a step. Etta waited until the woman had vanished through the door in a swirl of dark skirts before turning to Henry and spitting out, “She doesn’t travel through passages, does she? She sacrifices a puppy and flies through the centuries on her broom.” He gave a sharp cough into his hand. “I assure you, your great-aunt is quite loving,” Henry said, only to stop and reconsider. “That is, she’s quite loving in her own way…every other Sunday. In May. Won’t you sit?” Great-aunt. No way in hell.

The bad news about this grandiosity is that trying to avoid it by being humble only indicates the enormity of your struggle. I hate to disturb anyone's good day, but a really humble person may be having more trouble with grandiosity than someone who thinks they are pretty hot stuff. If you get depressed a lot because you think you are worthless, it indicates a mighty struggle with this little god within. You need to feel like you weigh a thousand pounds in your leaden depression so you won't float off into the sun and be destroyed by an Icarus complex. From this point of view, what is depression? It is your friend. Thank God for your depression, because it is the ballast on your psychic balloon. Without it, you would be flying into the sun of psychosis.

The end of this short story could be a rather disturbing thing, if it came true. I hope you like it, and if you do, be sure to COMMENT and SHARE. Paradoxes of Destiny? Dani! My boy! Are you all right? Where are you? Have you hurt yourself? Are you all right? Daniiii! Why won’t you answer? It’s so cold and dark here. I can’t see a thing… It’s so silent. Dani? Can you hear me? I shouldn’t have looked at that text message while I was driving… I shouldn’t have done it! I'm so stupid sometimes! Son, are you all right?... We really wrecked the car when we rolled it! I can’t see or hear a thing… Am I in hospital? Am I dead…? Dani? Your silence is killing me… Are you all right?! I can see a glimmer of light. I feel trapped. Dani, are you there? I can’t move. It’s like I’m wrapped in this mossy green translucent plastic. I have to get out of here. The light is getting more and more intense. I think I can tear the wrapping that’s holding me in. I'm almost out. The light is blinding me. What a strange place. I've never seen anything like it. It doesn’t look like Earth. Am I dead? On another planet? Oh God, look at those hideous monsters! They’re so creepy and disgusting! They look like extraterrestrials. They’re aliens! I'm on another planet! I can’t believe it. I need to get the hell out here. Those monsters are going to devour me. I have to get away. I’m so scared. Am I floating? Am I flying? I’m going to go higher to try to escape. I can’t see the aliens anymore and the landscape looks less terrifying. I think I've made it. It’s very windy. Is that a highway? I think I can see some vehicles down there. Could they be the extraterrestrials’ transport? I’m going to go down a bit. I see people! Am I on Earth? Could this be a parallel universe? Where could Dani be? I shouldn’t have looked at that text message while I was driving. I shouldn’t… That tower down there looks a lot like the water tank in my town… It’s identical. But the water tank in my town doesn’t have that huge tower block next to it. It all looks very similar to my neighborhood, but it isn’t exactly the same: there are a lot of tower blocks here. There’s the river… and the factory. It’s definitely my neighborhood, but it looks kind of different. I must be in a parallel universe… It’s amazing that I can float. People don’t seem to notice my presence. Am I a ghost? I have to get back home and see if Dani’s there. God, I hope he’s safe and sound. Gabriela must be out of her mind with the crash. There’s my house! Home sweet home. And whose are those cars? The front of the house has been painted a different color… This is all so strange! There’s someone in the garden… Those trees I planted in the spring have really grown. Is… is that… Dani? Yes, yes! It’s Dani. But he looks so different… He looks older, he looks… like a big boy! What’s important is that he’s OK. I need to hug him tight and tell him how much I love him. Can he see me if I’m a ghost? I'll go up to him slowly so I don’t scare him. I need to hold him tight. He can’t see me, I won’t get any closer. He moved his head, I think he’s started to realize I’m here… Wow I’m so hungry all of a sudden! I can’t stop! How are you doing, son?! It’s me! Your dad! My dear boy? I can’t stop! I'm too hungry! Ahhhh, so delicious! What a pleasure! Nooo Daniii! Nooooo!.... I’m your daaaad!... Splat!... “Mum, bring the insect repellent, the garden’s full of mosquitoes,” grunted Daniel as he wiped the blood from the palm of his hand on his trousers. Gabriela was just coming out. She did an about turn and went back into her house, and shouted “Darling, bring the insect repellent, it’s on the fireplace…” Absolute cold and silence… THE END (1) This note is for those who have read EQUINOX—WHISPERS OF DESTINY. This story is a spin-off of the novel EQUINOX—WHISPERS OF DESTINY and revolves around Letus’s curious theories about the possibility of animal reincarnation.

my blood runs pink (for my sexuality that is mine to embrace, not yours to strike with lightning bolts of change) and red (for the life i will continue to live, the life you cannot take away from me) and orange (for my siblings who heal me with their love and understanding, helping me piece myself back together after you tried to break me) and yellow (for the sunlight from within that still manages to shine in these dark times) and green (for existing in the natural, physical world when all you want is my disappearance) and blue (for the serenity we bring amidst the disturbances we face) and purple (for my spirit, which won’t be broken) (it can never be broken and you will never break us)

One of the general patterns of good (i.e., striking and memorable) writing is the effect of repetition. If you use a certain element—a plot device, an image, a noticeable phrase—once, readers may or may not notice it consciously, but it doesn’t disturb the flow of their reading. If you use that element twice, they won’t notice it consciously—but they will notice it subconsciously, and it will add to the resonance of the writing or to their sense of depth and involvement (and if it’s a plot device, it will heighten the dramatic tension). But if you use that element three times, everybody will notice it the third time you do it.

We have to stop,” Harvard said, abrupt and desperate. “Wait, why?” Aiden murmured, reaching to drag Harvard back when Harvard pulled away, barely seeming to understand the words Harvard had spoken. “I don’t want to. You said you didn’t want to…” He trailed off, hands still grasping Harvard’s shirt, exerting pressure to bring Harvard back where he had been. Aiden’s eyes were heavy-lidded, almost as if he was drowsy, but it was an electric drowsiness. For a terrifying moment, Harvard looked at Aiden and couldn’t remember why they should stop. Then he looked at Aiden and did remember. “I don’t want to, but we have to,” Harvard tried to explain. Aiden looked suddenly wide awake and affronted to be so, like a cat disturbed from his rest. His voice as sharp this time as it had been soft before, he said, “Why?” When Aiden had agreed to help Harvard with practice dating, Harvard remembered vividly the exact words he’d used. I know how dating works. It doesn’t matter, and this wouldn’t even be real dating. It doesn’t mean anything. It won’t change anything. He looked at Aiden, his chest feeling cold and empty, bleak with despair. Harvard was just like all the rest of Aiden’s guys, only worse. He was the one who really knew Aiden, and he should know better. Harvard said, “Because this means nothing.

Let's not play games, Mr. Cratchett," I replied. "I wanted to let you know that I'll be coming in for an appointment with Mr. Raisin on Tuesday morning at eleven o'clock. I shall need about an hour and would prefer it if we were not disturbed during that time. I hope that he will be free at that hour but just so you both know, if he is not, then I am perfectly willing to sit in your office until he is free. I shall bring a book with me to pass the time. I shall bring two, if need be. I shall bring the complete works of Shakespeare if he insists on keeping me waiting interminably and those plays will get me through the long hours. But I will not leave until I have seen him, are we quite clear on that? Now, I wish you a very pleasant Sunday, Mr. Cratchett. Enjoy your lunch, won't you? Your breath smells of whisky.

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, “No, I don’t want to watch TV!” Raise your voice—they won’t hear you otherwise—“I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” Maybe they haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “I’m beginning to read Italo Calvino’s new novel!” Or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you alone. Find the most comfortable position: seated, stretched out, curled up, or lying flat. Flat on your back, on your side, on your stomach. In an easy chair, on the sofa, in the rocker, the deck chair, on the hassock. In the hammock, if you have a hammock. On top of your bed, of course, or in the bed. You can even stand on your hands, head down, in the yoga position. With the book upside down, naturally.

Neither do I express well nor do I know how to write perfectly charming like writers do yet here I sit every night under the stars hoping one to break away so I could wish for the missing peace of my puzzle of life .. * Selfish isn't it wishing something to break so we can join ourselves  maybe thats the law of nature. One always has to give up for something to live. Tree dies  leaving the seed for a new bud behind.  Crazy! The sacrifice for one becomes the breath for the other one without even  him realizing what suffering something went through for its precious life * It gets cold fast once you decide to swim deep into your thoughts . Every thing from a star to even the buzzing of bees tell you a story about what your existence might be for but the city's lights and sound never let you realize how small yet how fascinating your existence is . We tend to forget the meaning of life even after preaching the same for others ourselves. . It feels good and at peace with nobody to bother you anymore . You can think and imagine stuff that might never be but this wonderful brain imagines  it . If not forever Atleast for sometime   you can feel the feeling you forever lust for.  Sure the usual disturbances try to lure my mind away from things but I'm used to it now . The gloominess  inside doesn't let them affect inside anymore. * The sky gets dark it really does . Maybe like the night sky's supposed to be so are my thoughts with a beating heart to support them and keep the flame of fight lit like the moon lights up the sky even if that means reflecting the harsh rays of sun. * The time flies and so do the body shivers for warmth but I feel like staying. Sure the exposed sky gives peace but it comes at a cost so I try to bargain with  it every night. She's a good at negotiating though only gives me some hours before she signal that time's over. * Hesitantly I move my numb body using the last remaining gas in  the dying  shell known as body. How much i try it won't let me stay so here I leave heartbroken once again like every other night.

better. Instead, he said, Galbatorix still has two dragon eggs. During our first audience with Hrothgar, you mentioned that you would like to rescue them. If we can— Saphira snorted bitterly. It could take years, and even if we did retrieve the eggs, I have no guarantee that they would hatch, nor that they would be male, nor that we would be fit mates. Fate has abandoned my race to extinction. She lashed her tail with frustration, breaking a sapling in two. She seemed perilously close to tears. What can I say? he asked, disturbed by her distress. You can’t give up hope. You still have a chance to find a mate, but you have to be patient. Even if Galbatorix’s eggs don’t work, dragons must exist elsewhere in the world, just like humans, elves, and Urgals do. The moment we are free of our obligations, I’ll help you search for them. All right? All right, she sniffed. She craned back her head and released a puff of white smoke that dispersed among the branches overhead. I should know better than to let my emotions get the best of me. Nonsense. You would have to be made of stone not to feel this way. It’s perfectly normal.… But promise you won’t dwell on it while you’re alone.

You really don’t mind that I can learn everything about you so easily?” “As I don’t plan to keep secrets from you again, no, I really don’t mind. But I would appreciate it if you promised to come to me, talk to me, if anything you learn about me disturbs you.” A promise like that implied she would be around for a while. Though she knew she shouldn’t, she said, “I promise.” And she meant it. Starting now. “Your psychiatrist believes you are wrong to push people out of your life.” A muscle ticked below his eye and a rosy flush overtook his cheeks. “Every agent has to see a shrink periodically.” “Well, you’re not going to drive me insane with your darkness. I told you, I like it.” “That doesn’t mean—” “Your father was wrong, Sean. Not once have I thought I was losing my mind.” “But it has happened to others,” he insisted harshly. “I’m different. Remember? My brain operates on a different wavelength.” They stared at each other as he considered her words. Then, slowly, a smiled curved his lips, and the clouds cleared from his eyes. “Then I won’t hold anything back from you. I won’t push you away,” he said. “God help you, I’ll only draw you closer. I didn’t have much fight left in my anyway. I want you too damn bad.

They had forgotten the Golden Rule; they did whatever benefited and pleased them. When someone was ill in the street, they looked the other way. They were indifferent to the poor and homeless among them. They only wanted more and more for themselves. The young man was so disturbed that he started to preach on the streets about caring for others. But no one paid attention to him. This went on for years; he became an excellent speaker and was known as "the preacher. " He spoke of the joys of loving everyone and helping the poor. He helped the homeless. He warned of God's wrath. No matter how hard he tried to get them to change, the people of these two cities wouldn't listen.Instead, they thought he was weird. When he was an old man and very tired, a young boy listened to a part of one of his sermons and then shouted, "Why do you preach so much old man? Don't you know people won't change?" The old man said, "Oh, by now, I know that. " "So why do you keep on preaching?" asked the boy."So they won't change me," said the old man. If you really love another properly, there must be sacrifice.-Mother Teresa Those who bring sunshine into the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves.-Sir James M.BarriePage 48 of 48

when expressing her own. Despite what happened in August, there is still something in her soft brown eyes—a cheerfulness and curiosity—that reminds me of the daughters I lost so many years ago. It’s what drew me to Rebecca in the first place. Every interaction with her since has made me wonder what my daughters would be doing now had they survived that long, horrid summer. She cups her tea in both hands and holds it to her lips, letting the steam curl around her cheeks, before taking a sip. “So what is this news you have for me?” Instead of answering Rebecca’s question, I once again look to the door, listen for a beat, then ask one of my own. “Do you happen to know where Isaac was last night?” “I don’t. In his study, I suppose. But I wasn’t feeling well, and I went to bed early. Why?” I can remember a time, when my sons were younger, when they loved throwing stones over the bridge into the river. They loved the splash and the noise. Being boys, they loved the disturbance that it caused. I study Rebecca’s face and take no pleasure in upsetting the still waters of her soul. “Joshua Burgess is dead. They found his body in the river this morning.” Rebecca shakes her head, as though unable to comprehend. “Was he…? Did…?” Whatever questions she means to ask won’t form. “It was not an accident. He didn’t drown,” I tell her. “He was hanged.” Rebecca goes completely still, except for her hands, which begin a frantic

Dear Spider web, Why won’t you let me go? I will not accept your silky web as my resting place. Your web might be soft, but there is nothing comfortable about you. You have my mind entangled with doubts. You have me feeling helpless as you tie down my hands and feet. Let me go! I am not your prey! Spider web, you captured me, and then you abandoned me in your web. You are just like my mother; she left Kace and me in her old and damaged cobweb. She selfishly left us to figure out life. Furthermore, just like you, she will not let us go. You covered me in your web to the point you made me invisible and empty inside. Partly because of you, people used a broom to swat me here and there because they see the webs all over me. They look at me as a nobody, an invasion, a pest, or a rodent who is trying to destroy their home. You confuse me because I know that I am not damaged and used, but there are many days I feel like I am no good for myself or anyone. Your web has cluttered my mind; I am disturbed mentally because I have never felt complete or good enough. I’ve been fighting so long to get out of your web—I am tired. However, I have come this far, and I am going to hold on a little while longer. When I hold on to your thin web tightly, something or someone uses the sharpest knife to cut it down. While it is swinging left and right, I try to jump and break free, but you catch me and wrap me back in your web again. I’ve been fighting for so long, and I will continue to fight because you cannot keep me here forever. I am creating thicker skin.

The contrast between the two, the sweetness and the badness, wrenches the heart of the lover as such sweetness on its own would not, and the lover shudders all the more at dread of the beloved’s recklessness, for the sake of the sweetness that is there, and the shudder only makes more violent the shuddering that announces love (Phaedrus 251). I do not think, but for that sweetness, the friend of whom I spoke would have become impassioned as he did and he would have recognized that such a one, entirely wanting in the desire to become better than what he knows himself to be, was not worthy of his love. She who signs herself “I Don’t Know How (Or If) to Love Him” repeated the word “exciting” three times. A VBB (and let us remember that there are also, though perhaps they are rarer, VBGs) creates around himself or herself a separate world in which all that happens is exciting, for exciting it must be. Excitement is the air they breathe, and they cannot exist without it. And when they pull others into their world, then these others leave the world of common air and now they breathe the rare air of excitement, which they are not accustomed to, and in their confused state they are more apt to think that the excitement they breathe is the excitement of love. She asks whether she should continue to love her VBB, but I do not think she really loves him, just as he, and this for a certainty, does not love her. For I think even the best man of his day of whom I just wrote did not love that boy as he thought he did. Perhaps if your questioner thinks more on the true nature of the excitement she feels, she will be able to see the wisdom of the course of action that you and I both urge on her, and then she will find the strength to break the spell that her VBB casts upon her. Last, let her think on this, that though love is a profound disturbance, not all profound disturbances are love.

Sophie?” He knocked, though not that hard, then decided she wasn’t going hear anything less than a regiment of charging dragoons over Kit’s racket. He pushed the door open to find half of Sophie’s candles lit and the lady pacing the room with Kit in her arms. “He won’t settle,” she said. “He isn’t wet; he isn’t hungry; he isn’t in want of cuddling. I think he’s sickening for something.” Sophie looked to be sickening. Her complexion was pale even by candlelight, her green eyes were underscored by shadows, and her voice held a brittle, anxious quality. “Babies can be colicky.” Vim laid the back of his hand on the child’s forehead. This resulted in a sudden cessation of Kit’s bellowing. “Ah, we have his attention. What ails you, young sir? You’ve woken the watch and disturbed my lady’s sleep.” “Keep talking,” Sophie said softly. “This is the first time he’s quieted in more than an hour.” Vim’s gaze went to the clock on her mantel. It was a quarter past midnight, meaning Sophie had gotten very little rest. “Give him to me, Sophie. Get off your feet, and I’ll have a talk with My Lord Baby.” She looked reluctant but passed the baby over. When the infant started whimpering, Vim began a circuit of the room. “None of your whining, Kit. Father Christmas will hear of it, and you’ll have a bad reputation from your very first Christmas. Do you know Miss Sophie made Christmas bread today? That’s why the house bore such lovely scents—despite your various efforts to put a different fragrance in the air.” He went on like that, speaking softly, rubbing the child’s back and hoping the slight warmth he’d detected was just a matter of the child’s determined upset, not inchoate sickness. Sophie would fret herself into an early grave if the boy stopped thriving. “Listen,” Vim said, speaking very quietly against the baby’s ear. “You are worrying your mama Sophie. You’re too young to start that nonsense, not even old enough to join the navy. Go to sleep, my man. Sooner rather than later.” The child did not go to sleep. He whimpered and whined, and by two in the morning, his nose was running most unattractively. Sophie would not go to sleep either, and Vim would not leave her alone with the baby. “This is my fault,” Sophie said, her gaze following Vim as he made yet another circuit with the child. “I was the one who had to go to the mews, and I should never have taken Kit with me.” “Nonsense. He loved the outing, and you needed the fresh air.” The baby wasn’t even slurping on his fist, which alarmed Vim more than a possible low fever. And that nose… Vim surreptitiously used a hankie to tend to it, but Sophie got to her feet and came toward them. “He’s ill,” she said, frowning at the child. “He misses his mother and I took him out in the middle of a blizzard and now he’s ill.” Vim put his free arm around her, hating the misery in her tone. “He has a runny nose, Sophie. Nobody died of a runny nose.” Her expression went from wan to stricken. “He could die?” She scooted away from Vim. “This is what people mean when they say somebody took a chill, isn’t it? It starts with congestion, then a fever, then he becomes weak and delirious…” “He’s not weak or delirious, Sophie. Calm down.

But that's fatalism." "The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if it was bad I can accept no censure." "My brain reels," said Philip. "Have some whiskey," returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. "There's nothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-witted if you insist upon drinking beer." Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded: "You're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbs conversation. But when I speak of good and bad..." Philip saw he was taking up the thread of his discourse, "I speak conventionally. I attach no meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice and virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world." "But there are one or two other people in the world," objected Philip. "I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities. Round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the centre of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as my power. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we are gregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of force, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion (that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is might against might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling, since in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, against the tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws because I must; I do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice, I only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects me and, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the army which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits with society: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes laws for its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me: it has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I will accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as punishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Society tempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of my fellows; but I am indifferent to their good opinion, I despise honours and I can do very well without riches." "But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once." "I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with myself. I take advantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certain rewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience." "It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things," said Philip. "But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for selfish reasons?" (324)

THE VISION EXERCISE Create your future from your future, not your past. WERNER ERHARD Erhard Founder of EST training and the Landmark Forum The following exercise is designed to help you clarify your vision. Start by putting on some relaxing music and sitting quietly in a comfortable environment where you won’t be disturbed. Then, close your eyes and ask your subconscious mind to give you images of what your ideal life would look like if you could have it exactly the way you want it, in each of the following categories: 1. First, focus on the financial area of your life. What is your ideal annual income and monthly cash flow? How much money do you have in savings and investments? What is your total net worth? Next . . . what does your home look like? Where is it located? Does it have a view? What kind of yard and landscaping does it have? Is there a pool or a stable for horses? What does the furniture look like? Are there paintings hanging in the rooms? Walk through your perfect house, filling in all of the details. At this point, don’t worry about how you’ll get that house. Don’t sabotage yourself by saying, “I can’t live in Malibu because I don’t make enough money.” Once you give your mind’s eye the picture, your mind will solve the “not enough money” challenge. Next, visualize what kind of car you are driving and any other important possessions your finances have provided. 2. Next, visualize your ideal job or career. Where are you working? What are you doing? With whom are you working? What kind of clients or customers do you have? What is your compensation like? Is it your own business? 3. Then, focus on your free time, your recreation time. What are you doing with your family and friends in the free time you’ve created for yourself? What hobbies are you pursuing? What kinds of vacations do you take? What do you do for fun? 4. Next, what is your ideal vision of your body and your physical health? Are you free of all disease? Are you pain free? How long do you live? Are you open, relaxed, in an ecstatic state of bliss all day long? Are you full of vitality? Are you flexible as well as strong? Do you exercise, eat good food, and drink lots of water? How much do you weigh? 5. Then, move on to your ideal vision of your relationships with your family and friends. What is your relationship with your spouse and family like? Who are your friends? What do those friendships feel like? Are those relationships loving, supportive, empowering? What kinds of things do you do together? 6. What about the personal arena of your life? Do you see yourself going back to school, getting training, attending personal growth workshops, seeking therapy for a past hurt, or growing spiritually? Do you meditate or go on spiritual retreats with your church? Do you want to learn to play an instrument or write your autobiography? Do you want to run a marathon or take an art class? Do you want to travel to other countries? 7. Finally, focus on the community you’ve chosen to live in. What does it look like when it is operating perfectly? What kinds of community activities take place there? What charitable, philanthropic, or volunteer work? What do you do to help others and make a difference? How often do you participate in these activities? Who are you helping? You can write down your answers as you go, or you can do the whole exercise first and then open your eyes and write them down. In either case, make sure you capture everything in writing as soon as you complete the exercise. Every day, review the vision you have written down. This will keep your conscious and subconscious minds focused on your vision, and as you apply the other principles in this book, you will begin to manifest all the different aspects of your vision.

After six long hours of driving and three rest stops, Tiger pulls up to a snow-topped, metal speaker box just outside the State Penitentiary's first gate in Walla Walla. As he rolls down his window and snow flies in his face, Joshua starts begging for a Happy Meal. I turn around, snapping at him. "This ISN'T MCDONALDS and YOU AREN'T HUNGRY. NOW SHUT UP BRAT." A loud scratchy masculine voice blasts out of the speaker. "CAN I HELP YOU?" Tiger leans out the window, as he answers- We're here to visit Raven Chandler. "HAVE YOU BEEN HERE BEFORE?" "Yes sir. I've been here A LOT." "WHERE'S HIS MOTHER?" "I don't know.. I haven't seen her in months." "NOT THE PRISONER'S MOTHER. THE BRAT IN THE BACK SEAT OF YOUR JEEP." "Oh- HIM-" As he turns, smiling and sticking his tongue out at Joshua, I lean towards his window to answer the guard's question. "SHE'S IN VEGAS, SIR. I'M BABYSITTING. HE'S MY GODSON." When the speaker remains disturbingly silent for far too long, I continue. "HE'S A GOOD BOY SIR. HE WON'T BE ANY TROUBLE- I SWEAR." "THAT'S RIGHT," Tiger said. "HE SWEARS ON THE LITTLE BRAT'S MOTHER'S GRAVE.

I won't tell you." Killoran sighed wearily. "Of course you will, my angel," he said in a deceptively pleasant voice. "I have any number of ways of discovering that which I desire to know. I can do it nicely." He'd come closer, too close, and his hand caught hers, his long fingers stroking her palm, slowly, insistently, cleverly. "I can touch you in ways that you can't even imagine." His voice was low, heated, and she felt a disturbing, answering shimmer deep inside. "I can take your darkest secrets, I can take anything I want from you, and you'd be willing, eager, to give me. Everything." For a moment she was unable to speak. Her pulse leapt in her throat, and she knew he could feel it, pounding beneath her pale skin. "You underestimate me," she said in a hushed voice, struggling against the hypnotic effect he had on her. His smile was small, cynical, and heartbreaking. "No, my love. I know you very well indeed. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself. You want me to let go of your hand, don't you?" "Yes," she said hoarsely. "You want me to go away and leave you alone?" "Yes." His other arm slid around her waist as he bent over her. "You want me to kiss you, don't you?" "Yes," she whispered, helpless, angry. Angry at herself, for making no effort to escape. Angry at him, for making her want him.

Jesus put it this way: “Stop allowing yourselves to be agitated and disturbed” (John 14:27 AMP). Notice it’s a choice we have to make. He didn’t say, “I will make sure your circumstances are perfect. That way you can be happy.” He said, in effect, “The things upsetting you right now don’t have to upset you. The people aggravating you, even if they don’t change, they don’t have to aggravate you.” If you’ll make adjustments and change your approach to life, you can be happy in spite of those circumstances. I’m asking you today to stop allowing negative people and disappointments and inconveniences to steal your joy. You have to put your foot down and say, “This child gets on my nerves—I love him—but I will rise above it. I won’t let this control me.” Or, “This grumpy boss jumps down my throat for no reason, but I’m not letting him ruin any more of my days.” That’s what it means to not give away your power. You have to be determined to enjoy your life.

Then one of them asked me what those Italian volunteers were really coming to do in Sicily. ‘They are coming to teach us good manners,’ I replied in English. ‘But they won’t succeed, because we think we are gods.’ “I don’t think they understood, but they laughed and went off. That is my answer to you too, my dear Chevalley: the Sicilians never want to improve for the simple reason that they think themselves perfect; their vanity is stronger than their misery; every invasion by outsiders, whether so by origin or, if Sicilian, by independence of spirit, upsets their illusion of achieved perfection, risks disturbing their satisfied waiting for nothing; having been trampled on by a dozen different peoples, they consider they have an imperial past which gives them a right to a grand funeral.

SOUVENIR I would like to take something with me but even one chair is too awkward too heavy peeling paint falls off in a suitcase hinge sounds betray a theft cheeses won’t keep the clothespin without its surroundings would be mediocre the big thunder rolled elsewhere the umbrella is for sale but in a desert what you want is a soaking the do not disturb sign is tattered I have many times taken some café’s small packets of sugar so that in Turkey I might sweeten my coffee with China, and in Italy remember a Lithuanian pastry but where is the coffee hands left and right useless knees clattery heart finally calm as some hero at the end of a movie squinting silently into the sun you can’t hold an umbrella there anyhow and what would he hang from the clothespin

Afterward, someone associated with the orchestra asked me in a hushed voice, “Would you like to know who came in early in the Mendelssohn?” Whether it was the slightly conspiratorial nature of the question that put me off, or whether it was that such a question was in disturbing contrast with the spiritedness of the music that we had just performed, I found myself saying, “No” abruptly, and then adding, “I did it.” Not literally, of course. I didn’t actually play the violin. But in that moment, in the context of the great music we had just made, it seemed absurd to me to consider handing out blame. It could only divide us, and for what? Certainly that player would never again come in early in the Italian Symphony, nor, perhaps, from this time on, make the mistake of a premature entrance in any performance. And I myself would know to be especially careful in guiding the orchestra through those eleven steps whenever I conducted that passage again. There was absolutely no gain to blaming anyone, and a real cost in terms of the blow to our integrity as a group. Besides, I know full well that every time I step onto a podium, I take a risk that things won’t turn out exactly as I anticipate them in my ear—but then, there is no great music-making without such risk taking.

Do not treat this as a time of introspective penitence. To the extent you must clean up, do it with the attitude of someone showering and changing clothes, getting ready for the best banquet you have ever been to. This does not include three weeks of meditating on how you are not worthy to go to banquets. Of course you are not. Haven’t you heard of grace? Celebrate the stuff. Use fudge and eggnog and wine and roast beef. Use presents and wrapping paper. Embedded in many of the common complaints you hear about the holidays (consumerism, shopping, gluttony, etc.) are false assumptions about the point of the celebration. You do not prepare for a real celebration of the Incarnation through thirty days of Advent Gnosticism. At the same time, remembering your Puritan fathers, you must hate the sin while loving the stuff. Sin is not resident in the stuff. Sin is found in the human heart—in the hearts of both true gluttons and true scrooges—both those who drink much wine and those who drink much prune juice. If you are called up to the front of the class, and you get the problem all wrong, it would be bad form to blame the blackboard. That is just where you registered your error. In the same way, we register our sin on the stuff. But—because Jesus was born in this material world, that is where we register our piety as well. If your godliness won’t imprint on fudge, then it is not true godliness. Some may be disturbed by this. It seems a little out of control, as though I am urging you to “go overboard.” But of course I am urging you to go overboard. Think about it—when this world was “in sin and error pining,” did God give us a teaspoon of grace to make our dungeon a tad more pleasant? No. He went overboard.

Thank you so much for coming,” I said to my mother. “It was right that you were there.” “I enjoyed myself very much, and would like to extend an invitation of my own. Would you join me in my quarters for tea?” “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely, and warm.” Her cheeks were rosy from the day’s activity, and mine were no doubt a match. “Shall we say a half hour? And, Alera, please ask Narian to escort you.” My eyebrows rose dramatically. “I don’t know if that would be best,” I hedged, for I had no idea how Narian would react to her invitation. She drew me away from the Cokyrian sentries stationed by the door and dropped her volume. “Alera, if you’re going to marry this man, he’s going to be my son. I want to know him better.” “Yes, but…I don’t know if he’d be comfortable. He’s very reserved, and probably wouldn’t say much.” “Then those are things I’ll learn about him. It can’t hurt to ask him, can it? If he prefers not to come, I’ll accept his decision.” My mother was full of subtlety. She did not say that she would understand his decision, only that she would accept it. And her phrasing wasn’t really chosen with Narian in mind--it was to let me know that this was important, and that I should do all I could to ensure he would be there. “I’ll do my best,” I agreed, thinking that this would be the quietest tea I had ever attended. Leaving my mother behind, I walked through the antechamber and across the Hearing Hall to reach Narian’s headquarters, which was situated in the former strategy room between Cannan’s office and mine. As always, there was much activity in the partitioned room; I also could not simply knock on the door to his private office, for a Cokyrian sentry prevented access to him without an appointment. In the end, I directed one of Narian’s officers to inform him that I wished to speak with him about an “urgent provincial matter.” “Shall we go to your study?” Narian asked when he emerged from his office, knowing full well I had no political matters to address. “Yes, I think that would be best.” I couldn’t repress a smile, for his eyes sparkled with curiosity. As soon as we had closed the door to my study, and before I could speak, Narian kissed me, catching me by surprise. “I’ve wanted to do that all afternoon, Alera. I’m not particularly fond of the gowns Hytanican women wear, but I’m willing to make an exception for this one.” I laughed, my head spinning, and he took hold of my hands. “Now, what’s this about?” “My mother has invited me to tea, and we would be pleased to have you join us.” Despite how casual I was trying to sound, Narian stiffened, and I could feel him pulling away. This wasn’t going to be easy. “You both would like me to join you?” “Yes, she suggested it.” I took a deep breath and made my confession. “She knows that we’re betrothed, that we’re in love.” I couldn’t gauge his reaction from his face, but the fact that he released my hands suggested he was disturbed, piqued--not an encouraging sign. I waited, giving him a chance to straighten out his thoughts, then tried again. “I know we agreed not to tell anyone--” “Yes, we did,” he snapped, walking over to my desk, not meeting my eyes. This was so uncharacteristic of him that I knew I had to proceed very carefully. “Please listen. We agreed not to tell anyone, but she’s my mother. She won’t breathe a word.” “How can you be sure?” I almost laughed, confused as to how he could question that. “Because she’s my mother! She raised me, Narian. I’ve always been able to trust her. Just believe me.

already put me in quite a position. ‘I’ve put you in a position? Just give me the damned divorce and let’s have done with it.’ Before he could answer there was a rustling just inside the house, and our houseboy, Barasa, came onto the veranda, ducking his head to show us he’d not meant to disturb us. ‘Does bwana want the evening meal served here?’ ‘No, in the house, Barasa. We’ll be in directly.’ When the boy had gone, Jock looked at me pointedly. ‘What?’ I asked. ‘The servants won’t tell tales.’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Usually not. But they always know the score, don’t they?’ ‘I don’t care what anyone knows.’ ‘Maybe not, but you should.’ We ate our meal in strained silence, all of the furniture seeming to lean heavily in from the walls. The servants were very quiet as they came and went, and it was awful to sit there, wanting to scream but saying nothing. Jock was terrified I was going to embarrass him – or embarrass him further. That was all he seemed to think of now as he flexed and cautioned me, running thick strands of wire around the charade of our life together. He’d always been good at fences. I had known that from the beginning, but I hadn’t guessed how desperate I could feel bound up inside one. When I could finally excuse myself to the small guest bedroom where I was sleeping, I felt chapped and raw and prodded at. I barely slept at all that night, and the next morning, though I generally stayed for lunch, I bolted for the wagon at first light.   Back at Soysambu, Jock’s warnings and expectations continued to wear on me, but only in weak moments, when I let myself think of him.

I think I arrived just in time,” Leo announced a second before he grabbed a swinging Jeoff. Leo plopped Arabella’s brother onto the couch. “Stay or I’ll sit on you.” A wise man— some of the time— Jeoff didn’t budge. “You were told,” Hayder taunted. “Don’t make me duct tape your mouth again.” Count on Leo to take the wind out of Hayder’s sail. Few people argued with the massive man. Nor did anyone ever tell him to leave, even if Hayder really wished both Leo and Jeoff would go so he could resume the interesting moment he’d shared with Arabella just before all hell broke loose. Alas, judging by Arabella’s guarded expression, that sensual moment was gone. He’d have to find another way to recapture it. But first he needed to convince Jeoff to let her stay, as well as get Leo to depart— without enforcing an omega-calming moment— and have Arabella lose the rounded shoulders as they fought over her. Poor baby. How overwhelming this must be for her. How upsetting. And partially his fault. Shit. Ignoring the others, Hayder dropped to his knees in front of her. “I’m sorry, baby. Don’t get upset. I promise to behave. After all, it’s normal your brother would want to protect you, and I shouldn’t have beaten the hell out of him for it.” “I think it was the other way around, cat,” Jeoff muttered. “Shhh!” Leo said in a loud whisper. “He’s apologizing. Don’t ruin it.” Arabella’s gaze briefly met Hayder’s. “It’s okay.” “No, it’s obviously not. I can see you’re disturbed. You know I didn’t mean for that to happen. I never meant to upset you.” “I’m not upset about the fight.” Her lips twitched into a small smile. “Boys will be boys, my mom used to say. I’m just sorry to cause all this trouble. Jeoff’s right. I shouldn’t be here.” “Ha. Told you so.” Jeoff crowed in triumph. “And I shouldn’t be with his pack either. With this danger hanging over me, I should flee the country and keep my problems away from all of you.” Leave? He meant to say no, but his lion spoke first. More like rawr-ed. And in reply? She sneezed. A few times as a matter of fact. “What’s wrong with you?” Jeoff asked his sister. “Stupid allergies,” she grumbled. Jeoff snickered. “You still suffering from those? That’s hilarious. And yet the cat thinks you’re true mates?” “She’s mine, and a little sneeze and spit won’t change that.” “Is he completely insane?” Jeoff muttered. “Utterly, but the doctors say he’s not a danger to himself or the pride. But I wouldn’t push him. And given these two are talking about the future, a future that isn’t ours to decide, we should leave them to work things out,” Leo politely suggested. “But—” Jeoff never got a chance to finish that thought because Leo had spoken. And when Leo spoke, he acted. “No buts. You. Come.” Leo grabbed a hold of Arabella’s brother, tossed him over a shoulder, and marched him out with a tossed, “Don’t you screw anything up with the girl. I’d hate to have to come back and teach you a lesson.

The serum wears off five hours later, when the sun is just beginning to set. Tobias shut me in my room for the rest of the day, checking on me every hour. This time when he comes in, I am sitting on the bed, glaring at the wall. “Thank God,” he says, pressing his forehead to the door. “I was beginning to think it would never wear off and I would have to leave you here to…smell flowers, or whatever you wanted to do while you were on that stuff.” “I’ll kill them,” I say. “I will kill them.” “Don’t bother. We’re leaving soon anyway,” he says, closing the door behind him. He takes the hard drive from his back pocket. “I thought we could hide this behind your dresser.” “That’s where it was before.” “Yeah, and that’s why Peter won’t look for it here again.” Tobias pulls the dresser away from the wall with one hand and wedges the hard drive behind it with the other. “Why couldn’t I fight the peace serum?” I say. “If my brain is weird enough to resist the simulation serum, why not this one?” “I don’t know, really,” he says. He drops down next to me on the bed, jostling the mattress. “Maybe in order to fight off a serum, you have to want to.” “Well, obviously I wanted to,” I say, frustrated, but without conviction. Did I want to? Or was it nice to forget about anger, forget about pain, forget about everything for a few hours? “Sometimes,” he says, sliding his arm across my shoulders, “people just want to be happy, even if it’s not real.” He’s right. Even now, this peace between us comes from not talking about things--about Will, or my parents, or me almost shooting him in the head, or Marcus. But I do not dare to disturb it with the truth, because I am too busy clinging to it for support. “You might be right,” I say quietly. “Are you conceding?” he says, his mouth falling open with mock surprise. “Seems like that serum did you some good after all…” I shove him as hard as I can. “Take that back. Take it back now.” “Okay, okay!” He puts up his hands. “It’s just…I’m not very nice either, you know. That’s why I like you so--” “Out!” I shout, pointing at the door. Laughing at himself, Tobias kisses my cheek and leaves the room.

Are you certain you’re unharmed?” he asked as the carriage surged into motion. “My nerves are a little rattled, as can be expected, but other than that, I’m fine.” She caught his eye. “I’m incredibly grateful that you and everyone else worked so hard to find me, and were able to rid me of Silas once and for all.” A smile tugged at her lips. “I’m sure after a few weeks have passed, or . . . maybe a few years, when it’s not so very fresh to me, I’ll be able to laugh about it and tell people I was able to participate in my very own gothic-style story, quite like one our favorite author, Mr. Grimstone, might pen.” The mention of Mr. Grimstone had him leaning forward. “We have much to discuss.” Lucetta immediately took to looking wary. “Why do I have the feeling we’re no longer talking about me and . . . my abduction?” “Because we need to talk about us, and talk about where we go from here before we get back to Abigail’s house and everyone distracts us.” Lucetta’s wariness immediately increased. “I’m not certain there’s any need for that, Bram. The danger to me has passed, which means I’m free to return to the theater, and . . . you and I are free to go on our merry ways—and our separate merry ways, at that.” Bram settled back against the carriage seat. “I never took you for a coward, Lucetta.” Temper flashed in her eyes. “I’m not a coward.” “Then why aren’t you willing to at least see where whatever this is between us leads?” “There’s nothing between us.” “Your lips said differently a few days ago, and . . . you enjoy my company—you can’t deny that.” “Perhaps I do enjoy your company, but we’ll leave my lips out of further discussion, if you please. The truth of the matter is that I don’t trust you, I don’t like secrets, which you’re obviously keeping, and . . . I have no desire to become attached to a gentleman who spends time in a dungeon, of all places, and has a mausoleum marking the entrance to his drive.” “Ah, well, yes, but you see, those are some of the things I’d like to discuss with you.” He sent her what he hoped was a most charming smile, but one that only had her arching a brow his way again. Clearing his throat, he sat forward. “To continue, I have to admit that I’ve thought out my explanation regarding all of the things I need to explain in a certain order. So . . . if you’ll humor me, I wrote down a list, and . . .” Digging a hand into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the list and read it through, nodding before he lifted his head. “First, I need to say that—” he blew out a breath—“I’ve bungled practically everything with you so far, starting when I almost drowned you in the moat, er . . . twice.” “You won’t get an argument from me on that.” “I neglected to warn you about my goat.” Her lips twitched right at the corners. “That might be being a little hard on yourself, Bram. You couldn’t have known someone would turn Geoffrey loose on me up in the tower room.” “True, but I should have mentioned that I owned a goat with a curious dislike for ladies in skirts.” “I don’t believe Geoffrey is really at the root of the issues I have with you and Ravenwood, Bram.” He caught her eye and nodded. “I’m at the root of your issues, Lucetta—me and all of my secrets—which is why . . .” He consulted his notes again before he lifted his head. “I’m going to tell you everything, and then . . . ” He glanced one last time at his notes before he looked her way. “After you hear me out, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d consider allowing me to . . . court you.” “Court me?” She began inching toward the carriage door, which was rather disturbing considering the carriage was traveling at a fast clip down the road. Stiffening his resolve, and ignoring the disbelief in her eyes, he nodded. “It would be my greatest honor to court you, especially since I should have asked to court you before I kissed you, and certainly before I offered to marry you . . . twice.” “You

Miss Dunlap, you see, put on quite a dramatic display after she went back to the ballroom, far more dramatic than anything that dreary production she was trying to direct could have achieved. You won’t like hearing this, but the woman actually took to the stage and told everyone the rehearsal, as well as the final production, had been canceled. Then she told everyone in the ballroom about you and Miss Plum—and that Miss Plum had been the very unattractive Miss Fremont—and that Miss Plum had obviously gone to great lengths to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, embarrassing the good folk of Tarrytown in the process by mocking their theatrical efforts.” “Oh . . . no,” Bram said. “Indeed,” Tilda agreed. “And unfortunately, it gets worse.” “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me everything all in one sitting, Tilda,” Bram said a little weakly. “Don’t be a coward, Mr. Haverstein. It’s always best to hear all the bad instead of parceling it out bit by painful bit.” Retaking his seat, he buried his face in his hands. “Very well, carry on.” “Well, you see, Miss Dunlap was clearly distraught, as well as disappointed, that you’d been discovered kissing Miss Plum. Because of that, she said some very disparaging things about Miss Plum, and before long Mr. Skukman joined her on stage.” “Oh . . . no.” “Exactly. Well, Miss Dunlap didn’t take kindly to him arguing with her, and she . . . attacked him.” Bram lifted his head. “She . . . attacked him?” Tilda nodded. “She did, but to give Mr. Skukman credit, he didn’t bat an eye as she went about the unpleasant business of pummeling him. It wasn’t harming him at all, of course, but when she started throwing things—and not just at him but at members of your staff as well—Mr. Skukman saved quite a few people from suffering injuries by picking up Miss Dunlap, tossing her over his shoulder, and carting her offstage.” “Should I ask what happened next?” “He was run out of Tarrytown by a horde of angry townswomen, and . . . to add further chaos to the evening, someone let Geoffrey out of the barn again and he chased Miss Dunlap and Miss Cooper all the way down the drive, until they were rescued by Ernie. Although . . . he was apparently in the process of creating some new gravestones for the back graveyard in case you needed some disturbing inspiration some night, and . . . there is now a rumor swirling about town that we’re up to some concerning shenanigans here at Ravenwood.” “The

Oh, little girl,” a sinister voice rang out in the hall behind me, and every hair on my body rose. “Have you finally come out to play with the rest of us?” A low growl built up in my captor’s chest, and my body started shaking uncontrollably. “I won’t bite . . . hard.” My captor pressed his body closer to mine, and after slowly moving his hand away from my mouth, moved close to whisper in my ear. I cringed back but couldn’t go far. “Don’t say anything.” “Where’d you go, you little bitch?” the voice said again, but this time the sinister tone was laced with hatred. When my captor pulled back, his face was murderous. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I somehow knew that I needed to listen to him. Suddenly his head turned to the side, and I froze . . . not wanting to see the man that voice belonged to. “Damn, bro, already claiming her?” “Leave,” my captor growled. “Now.” “No need to get touchy. I’ll wait for my go at her.” “I said get. The fuck. Out.” “I’m going . . . I’m going. You better keep an eye on your bitch. Because next time she’s alone, Marco might be the one to find her . . . and you know how bad Marco wants her.” “No one touches her.” His body was vibrating, and I looked up at his face to see the barely concealed rage. “For now,” the voice said in a mocking tone. “Possessive doesn’t suit you. You might want to be careful with that, you know how we all like a challenge.” With a deep laugh, I heard footsteps retreating from us. “I’ll be seeing you soon, sweetheart.” A few seconds passed before my captor looked back at me. His face was dark when he whispered, “Do not run from me again, understood?” Not waiting for me to respond, he pushed off me, grabbed my arm, and started walking out of the kitchen. I shrank into him when he suddenly stopped, and we came face-to-face with three men. “Look what we have here,” one of them said. “Told you I’d be seeing you soon, sweetheart,” another said, and I would have recognized that disturbing voice anywhere. “We need her.” The third spoke directly to my captor, his eyes never once looking at me. The man holding my arm pulled me behind him. A move the first two didn’t miss. “You’ve gotten by fine without her, Marco. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Moving me to his other side, and closer to the wall, he began walking again. Not four steps later, pain spread over my scalp, and a cry burst from my chest as I was yanked back by my hair. My captor’s arm moved around my waist as he put himself between Marco and me, and his other arm was straight in front of him with a gun pointed at Marco’s head. “Someone’s moody.” Marco never flinched. But a smile slowly crossed his face as he let my hair fall from his fingers. “You have beautiful hair. What a shame.” “No. One. Touches her,” my captor said low, his words full of warning. “Just fuck her and get that pent-up anger out of your system already,” he said to my captor, his smile never fading. Marco stepped back to the other two guys, his hands raising up in mock-surrender. “Until next time.” My

Useless mongrel,” Christopher said, bending to pet him. “You smell like the floor of an East End tavern.” The dog pushed back against his palm demandingly. Christopher lowered to his haunches and regarded him ruefully. “What would you say if you could talk?” he asked. “I suppose it’s better that you don’t. That’s the point of having a dog. No conversation. Just admiring gazes and endless panting.” Someone spoke from the threshold behind him, startling him. “I hope that’s not what you’ll expect…” Reacting with explosive instinct, Christopher turned and fastened his hand around a soft throat. “…from a wife,” Beatrix finished unsteadily. Christopher froze. Trying to think above the frenzy, he took a shivering breath, and blinked hard. What in God’s name was he doing? He had shoved Beatrix against the doorjamb, pinning her by the throat, his other hand drawn back in a lethal fist. He was a hairsbreadth away from delivering a blow that would shatter delicate bones in her face. It terrified him, how much effort it took to unclench his fist and relax his arm. With the hand that was still at her throat, he felt the fragile throb of her pulse beneath his thumb, and the delicate ripple of a swallow. Staring into her rich blue eyes, he felt the welter of violence washed away in a flood of despair. With a muffled curse, he snatched his hand from her and went to get his drink. “Mrs. Clocker said you’d asked not to be disturbed,” Beatrix said. “And of course the first thing I did was disturb you.” “Don’t come up behind me,” Christopher said roughly. “Ever.” “I of all people should have known that. I won’t do it again.” Christopher took a fiery swallow of the liquor. “What do you mean, you of all people?” “I’m used to wild creatures who don’t like to be approached from behind.” He shot her a baleful glance. “How fortunate that your experience with animals has turned out to be such good preparation for marriage to me.” “I didn’t mean…well, my point was that I should have been more considerate of your nerves.” “I don’t have nerves,” he snapped. “I’m sorry. We’ll call them something else.” Her voice was so soothing and gentle that it would have caused an assortment of cobras, tigers, wolverines, and badgers to all snuggle together and take a group nap. Christopher gritted his teeth and maintained a stony silence.

Sir, I think you’d better come with me,” the guard said, grabbing James by the elbow. James wrenched it free and demanded Aaron’s room number again. And again. And again. The guard shouted, the receptionist shouted, James shouted; the emergency room crowd took a sudden interest in the latest celebrity gossip in their magazines. “Hey!” A woman’s bark from down the hall pierced the commotion. “Whoever’s disturbing my peaceful environment of calm and healing is gonna get popped in the nose! And I just got a manicure! Now who’s causing all . . . ?” The short woman with a black beehive of hair and flushed cheeks matching her scrubs spotted James over the top of her thick, silver-rimmed glasses. Her lips pursed. “Listen, Deena,” James said, “I don’t know where you found this candy striper, but she won’t tell me where Aaron is. And I’m trying to explain to the nice big officer here that—” “Save it,” Deena said, cutting him off. Her cheeks faded to the same color white as her lab coat. “They’re back here.” She flicked her head down the hall and held up a hand to the guard. “He’s fine, Trevor; I got him.” “You sure?” The guard inflated, ready to pounce if the head ER nurse gave the order. “Yes, I’m sure. But I’ll call you if there’s a problem.” Deena raised one black eyebrow and scowled at James as he approached. “Won’t I, Mr. McConnell?” His plastic cleats left a trail of baseball field dirt for the guard to follow. He was in no mood for a reprimand. “Just tell me where he is.

The sound of her anguish broke his heart; no way could he let her go, no matter what she said about being alone. This crying made her weeping over baby Chloe look like a mere rehearsal. She was wracked. She started to crumble to the ground and he put his arms under hers and held her upright as the rain soaked them. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she howled. “Oh God, oh God, oh God!” “Okay,” he whispered. “Let it go, let it out.” “Why, why, why?” she cried in the night, her breath coming in jagged gasps. Her whole body jerked and shook as she cried. “Oh, God, why?” “Let it all out,” he whispered, his lips against her wet hair. She screamed. She opened up her mouth, tipped her head back against him and screamed at the top of her lungs. He hoped she wouldn’t wake the dead, the sound was so powerful. But he only hoped she wasn’t heard so that no one would disturb them and stop this purging. He wanted to do this with her. He wanted to be there for her. The scream subsided into hard sobbing. Then more quietly, “Oh, God, I can’t. I can’t, I can’t.” “It’s okay, baby,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Her legs didn’t seem to hold her up anymore; he was keeping her upright. He had the passing thought that no amount of emotion he had ever expelled in his lifetime could match this. It was almost phenomenal in its strength, this pain that gripped her. What had he thought? That his few days of brooding, a good drunk, had been demonstrative of his pain? Ha! He held in his arms a woman who knew more about gut-wrenching pain than he did. His eyes stung. He kissed her cheek. “Let it go,” he whispered. “Get it out. It’s okay.” It was a long time before she began to cry more softly. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Twenty. Jack knew you don’t stop something like this until it’s over. Till it’s all bled out. They were both soaked to the skin when her breath started coming in little gasps and hiccups. It was a long time before she pushed herself away from the tree and turned toward him. She looked up at his rain soaked face, hers twisted with pain, and said, “I loved him so much.” He touched her wet cheek, unable to tell the tears from the rain. “I know,” he said. “It was so unfair.” “It was.” “How do I live with it?” “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. She let her head drop against his chest. “God, it hurt so much.” “I know,” he said again.

The end of this short story could be a rather disturbing thing, if it came true. I hope you like it, and if you do, be sure to COMMENT and SHARE. Paradoxes of Destiny? Dani! My boy! Are you all right? Where are you? Have you hurt yourself? Are you all right? Daniiii! Why won’t you answer? It’s so cold and dark here. I can’t see a thing… It’s so silent. Dani? Can you hear me? I shouldn’t have looked at that text message while I was driving… I shouldn’t have done it! I'm so stupid sometimes! Son, are you all right?... We really wrecked the car when we rolled it! I can’t see or hear a thing… Am I in hospital? Am I dead…? Dani? Your silence is killing me… Are you all right?! I can see a glimmer of light. I feel trapped. Dani, are you there? I can’t move. It’s like I’m wrapped in this mossy green translucent plastic. I have to get out of here. The light is getting more and more intense. I think I can tear the wrapping that’s holding me in. I'm almost out. The light is blinding me. What a strange place. I've never seen anything like it. It doesn’t look like Earth. Am I dead? On another planet? Oh God, look at those hideous monsters! They’re so creepy and disgusting! They look like extraterrestrials. They’re aliens! I'm on another planet! I can’t believe it. I need to get the hell out here. Those monsters are going to devour me. I have to get away. I’m so scared. Am I floating? Am I flying? I’m going to go higher to try to escape. I can’t see the aliens anymore and the landscape looks less terrifying. I think I've made it. It’s very windy. Is that a highway? I think I can see some vehicles down there. Could they be the extraterrestrials’ transport? I’m going to go down a bit. I see people! Am I on Earth? Could this be a parallel universe? Where could Dani be? I shouldn’t have looked at that text message while I was driving. I shouldn’t… That tower down there looks a lot like the water tank in my town… It’s identical. But the water tank in my town doesn’t have that huge tower block next to it. It all looks very similar to my neighborhood, but it isn’t exactly the same: there are a lot of tower blocks here. There’s the river… and the factory. It’s definitely my neighborhood, but it looks kind of different. I must be in a parallel universe… It’s amazing that I can float. People don’t seem to notice my presence. Am I a ghost? I have to get back home and see if Dani’s there. God, I hope he’s safe and sound. Gabriela must be out of her mind with the crash. There’s my house! Home sweet home. And whose are those cars? The front of the house has been painted a different color… This is all so strange! There’s someone in the garden… Those trees I planted in the spring have really grown. Is… is that… Dani? Yes, yes! It’s Dani. But he looks so different… He looks older, he looks… like a big boy! What’s important is that he’s OK. I need to hug him tight and tell him how much I love him. Can he see me if I’m a ghost? I'll go up to him slowly so I don’t scare him. I need to hold him tight. He can’t see me, I won’t get any closer. He moved his head, I think he’s started to realize I’m here… Wow I’m so hungry all of a sudden! I can’t stop! How are you doing, son?! It’s me! Your dad! My dear boy? I can’t stop! I'm too hungry! Ahhhh, so delicious! What a pleasure! Nooo Daniii! Nooooo!.... I’m your daaaad!... Splat!... “Mum, bring the insect repellent, the garden’s full of mosquitoes,” grunted Daniel as he wiped the blood from the palm of his hand on his trousers. Gabriela was just coming out. She did an about turn and went back into her house, and shouted “Darling, bring the insect repellent, it’s on the fireplace…” Absolute cold and silence… THE END (1) This note is for those who have read EQUINOX—WHISPERS OF DESTINY. This story is a spin-off of the novel EQUINOX—WHISPERS OF DESTINY and revolves around Letus’s curious theories about the possibility of animal reincarnation

What Do You Want the Lord to Do for You? Lord, that I may receive my sight. Luke 18:41 What is the thing that not only disturbs you but makes you a disturbance? It is always something you cannot deal with yourself. “They rebuked him, that he should hold his peace: but he cried so much the more.” Persist in the disturbance until you yet get face to face with the Lord Himself; do not deify common sense. When Jesus asks us what we want Him to do for us in regard to the incredible thing with which we are faced, remember that He does not work in commonsense ways, but in supernatural ways. Watch how we limit the Lord by remembering what we have allowed Him to do for us in the past: “I always failed there, and I always shall”; consequently we do not ask for what we want, “It is ridiculous to ask God to do this.” If it is an impossibility, it is the thing we have to ask. If it is not an impossible thing, it is not a real disturbance. God will do the absolutely impossible. This man received his sight. The most impossible thing to you is that you should be so identified with the Lord that there is nothing of the old life left. He will do it if you ask Him. But you have to come to the place where you believe Him to be Almighty. Faith is not in what Jesus says but in Himself; if we only look at what He says we shall never believe. When once we see Jesus, He does the impossible thing as naturally as breathing. Our agony comes through the wilful stupidity of our own heart. We won’t believe, we won’t cut the shore line, we prefer to worry on.

Therian lover were completely different, outside of the obvious. “You won’t like what you hear. He’s not… civil. I think he knew how I felt before I did. Everything I feel, he feels ten times stronger. It can be a little… disturbing.” “Try me.” There was no mistaking the sincerity in Dex’s voice. Sloane pressed his hard body down against Dex’s, his voice low as he tried to keep his grip on his feral half. “He wants me to mark you so that every Therian will know you belong to us.” His finger circled one of the faint lines on Dex’s arm. Dex swallowed hard, his blue eyes moving to his arm in Sloane’s grip. They widened slightly as Sloane’s nails slowly elongated. Sloane hissed at the pain, but he held his feral side at bay. Dex moved his eyes back to Sloane, the lust in them taking Sloane’s breath away. “Do it.” “Dex,

Ghanima sensed her brother trembling where he sat in front of her. “What have you done?” she demanded. But he would not leave his own train of revelation. “Fewer sandtrout—the ecological transformation of the planet . . .” “They resist it, of course,” she said, and now she began to understand the fear in his voice, drawn into this thing against her will. “When the sandtrout go, so do all the worms,” he said. “The tribes must be warned.” “No more spice,” she said. Words merely touched high points of the system danger which they both saw hanging over human intrusion into Dune’s ancient relationships. “It’s the thing Alia knows,” he said. “It’s why she gloats.” “How can you be sure of that?” “I’m sure.” Now she knew for certain what disturbed him, and she felt the knowledge chill her. “The tribes won’t believe us if she denies it,” he said. His statement went to the primary problem of their existence: What Fremen expected wisdom from a nine-year-old? Alia, growing farther and farther from her own inner sharing each day, played upon this.

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, “No, I don’t want to watch TV!” Raise your voice—they won’t hear you otherwise—“I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” Maybe they haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “I’m beginning to read Italo Calvino’s new novel!” Or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you alone. Find the most comfortable position: seated, stretched out, curled up, or lying flat. Flat on your back, on your side, on your stomach. In an easy chair, on the sofa, in the rocker, the deck chair, on the hassock. In the hammock, if you have a hammock. On top of your bed, of course, or in the bed. You can even stand on your hands, head down, in the yoga position. With the book upside down, naturally. Of course, the ideal position for reading is something you can never find.

The literature of apocalypse is scary stuff, the kind of thing that can give religion a bad name, because people so often use it as a means of controlling others, instilling dread by invoking a boogeyman God. ... [Apocalyptic literature] is not a detailed prediction of the future, or an invitation to withdraw from the concerns of this world. It is a wake-up call, one that uses intensely poetic language and imagery to sharpen our awareness of God's presence in and promise for the world. The word "apocalypse" comes from the Greek for "uncovering" or "revealing," which makes it a word about possibilities. And while uncovering something we'd just as soon keep hidden is a frightening prospect, the point of apocalypse is not to frighten us into submission. Although it is often criticized as "pie-in-the-sky" fantasizing, I believe its purpose is to teach us to think about "next-year-country" in a way that sanctifies our lives here and now. "Next-year-country" is a treasured idiom of the western Dakotas, an accurate description of the landscape that farmers and ranchers dwell in - next year rains will come at the right time; next year I won't get hailed out; next year winter won't set in before I have my hay hauled in for winter feeding. I don't know a single person on the land who uses the idea of "next year" as an excuse not to keep on reading the earth, not to look for the signs that mean you've got to get out and do the field work when the time is right. Maybe we're meant to use apocaly[tic literature in the same way: not as an allowance to indulge in an otherworldly fixation but as an injunction to pay closer attention to the world around us. When I am disturbed by the images of apocalypse, I find it helpful to remember the words of a fourth-centry monk about the task of reading scripture as "working the earth of the heart," for it is only in a disturbed, ploughted0up ground that the seeds we plant for grain can grow.

There must be no disturbance. If any creatures exit the cave or warn others of our existence here, we could be found. A piece of paper couldn’t fit in here, certainly not a person. No one is going to look for us here. A vampire would know the moment bats flew from the cave. Bats can’t fly out of here if there aren’t any in here, now, can they? She was sweetly reasonable. Trust me, little red hair, it is only a short distance farther. You aren’t going to make me sleep in the ground, are you? Because I won’t do it, not even if there are ten vampires stalking us. Vampires cannot stand even the dawn, Shea. Killing his prey does something to the blood. The sun would fry him immediately. He might betray us to the human servants he is in league with if he marked the entrance to this cave. Or they might be watching for just such a sign as bats flying unexpectedly into the early sun. You’re telling me there are bats in here. He tugged at her wrist. Stop being such a baby. I can control the bats, and they will serve to warn us of any danger. Shea made a face but followed him.

She couldn’t look at Jacques, who had somehow made his large body thin and weird looking. Carpathians were capable of doing things she didn’t want to think about. How had she gotten herself into this mess? Sex. A good-looking intense man with black, hungry eyes, and she fell like a lovesick calf. Sex. It ruined many otherwise sane women. I can read your thoughts. The amusement was soft and caressing, wrapping her up in strong arms. I was perfectly sane and sensible until I met you. Now look at me. I’m crawling around inside a mountain. Suddenly she stopped and held herself perfectly still. I’m hearing something. Tell me you are not taking me into a cave full of bats. Say it right now, Jacques, or I’m out of here. I am not taking you into cave filled with bats. Shea relaxed visibly. She was not squeamish about very many things, but bats were creatures that were on the earth to remain a safe distance away from her. Miles away. Bats were one of those things she could stare up at in the night sky and think how interesting and wonderful they were, as long as they stayed high above her and nowhere close. Her nose wrinkled. The sounds she was trying to ignore were getting louder. Her heart began to pound in alarm. The walls of the passageway were so narrow, she had no way to move fast. All at once she felt trapped, as if she was suffocating. I’m going back, Jacques. I’m not a cave person. She did her best to sound firm and matter-of-fact, not at all as if she were seconds from screaming her head off. She turned her head cautiously to keep from scraping her face on the jutting surfaces. His fingers circled her wrist like a vise. There must be no disturbance. If any creatures exit the cave or warn others of our existence here, we could be found. A piece of paper couldn’t fit in here, certainly not a person. No one is going to look for us here. A vampire would know the moment bats flew from the cave. Bats can’t fly out of here if there aren’t any in here, now, can they? She was sweetly reasonable. Trust me, little red hair, it is only a short distance farther. You aren’t going to make me sleep in the ground, are you? Because I won’t do it, not even if there are ten vampires stalking us.

We must grow, or we begin to die. The status quo leads to stagnation and discontent. So just standing still isn’t really an option. We have to move on. If not, disturbances will come. We’ve learned how to handle the disturbances of getting fired from our job, the outward ones, but when vanity and pride and smugness dawn, these disturbances, what I would call the diseases of the mind, take root within us. So nature offers us a new challenge. We’re handling the day-to-day problems, but are we handling the inner disease of the growth of vanity, pride, and smugness in ourselves? This is a new challenge. We have to deal with it, but we won’t if we get caught up in yoga for pleasure, the self-regarding yoga of saying, “I’m alright, aren’t you in a mess.” So the need to persevere derives from the fact that if we don’t go further, new problems arise in which we become bogged down. That is why we are compelled to continue our practice.

She studied his face, the chiseled lines and valleys, the square chin and solid jaw. There was something different this morning, but she couldn’t quite figure… “You shaved,” she blurted out, feeling like an idiot the instant the words let her mouth. His lips curved up. She remembered exactly the way they felt pressing into hers and a little sliver of heat trickled into her belly. “Believe it or not, I shave every once in a while.” “You look good.” God, did he. If she’d thought he was handsome before, now she realized how disturbingly attractive he was. “Do I?” A hint of color crept beneath the bones in his cheeks. “Then I guess I’ll have to do it more often.” He glanced down at the metal detector. “How’s it going? Found anything yet?” “Not yet. I don’t think I’ve quite got the hang of this thing, but tomorrow we clean out the sluice box. Hopefully, something will turn up then.” He nodded, began to look off toward his house like he wanted to escape. Or maybe only part of him wanted to leave. She gathered her courage and plunged in. “I still say I owe you for your very timely rescue. How about supper?” “Supper?” “Just a neighborly sort of thing. If you don’t already have plans, that is. I was thinking maybe tomorrow evening.” He looked uncertain, torn in some way. “Well, I…yeah, tomorrow night sounds all right.” “You won’t attack me again, will you?” she teased just to make him feel at ease, and he relaxed a little. “Not unless you ask me real nice.” Her own smile turned wobbly. Surely she could trust herself--couldn’t she? “Okay, then. Supper tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock okay?” “Fine. I’ll see you at seven.” He started walking toward the path leading back to his house. “By the way,” she called after him, “how is it you always seem to know what I’m doing over here?” He turned to her and actually grinned. “Binoculars. A good woodsman always knows what’s going on around him.” Her mouth dropped open. “Binoculars! You’ve been watching me with binoculars?” Call kept on walking. “They come in real handy up here,” he said over one wide shoulder. “You ought to get yourself a pair.” Charity sputtered, opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again and simply stood there fuming. Binoculars! She watched him disappear down the trail, so amazed she couldn’t get a single ugly name past her lips.

We’ve drained about fifty percent of the work in process from the plant, and about twenty-five percent from finished goods. We’ve saved a lot by not purchasing new materials to replace this excess inventory, and the cash figures show it clearly. But on our books, the assets represented by inventory went down, since they were only partially compensated for by the cash we didn’t have to pay out. In this period, when we were reducing inventory, all the difference between the product cost and the material cost of the reduced inventory showed up as a net loss.” I swallow hard. “Lou, you’re telling me that we were penalized for doing the right thing? That reducing the excess inventory was interpreted by our books as a loss?” “Yes,” he replies, still looking at his papers. “Well tell me, what was the impact—in numbers?” “Our actual net profit was well over twenty percent in each of the last three months,” he says flatly. I stare at him. I can’t believe my ears. “But look at the good side,” he says sheepishly, “now that the inventory has stabilized at a new, low level, this effect won’t disturb us any longer.

Incoming call: Adam Reynolds. I let those words fill my vision for a moment. Not because I intend to make him wait; it’s simply that for a second I freeze. Blake’s dad is a wolf, and I feel very much like the rabbit. The last time Adam and I talked, it didn’t turn out particularly well. But right now, the CEO of Cyclone—and the man who, incidentally, still thinks I’m dating his son—is calling me. What can I do? I hit accept. He appears on the screen: messy pepper-gray hair and beard scruff in need of a shave. His gaze fixes on mine. “Tina.” His voice is just a little hoarse. He clears his throat and sniffs. “Is Blake there?” “No.” “Good.” He frowns. “Look. Blake’s a little distant right now. Is something going on with him?” Something is obviously going on between them, but even I can’t tell what it is, and I suspect I know about as much as anyone on the planet except these two. I shake my head. “I’m not talking to you about Blake.” “Yeah.” He blows out a breath. “Probably just as well that you’re loyal to him. I just…” He pauses, tapping his fingers against his cheek. “It’s not that,” I interject. “It’s just that you’re an…” I choke back the word I’d been planning to put in that blank. Last time was bad enough. “You’re a little intense,” I finish. For a moment, he stares at me. Then, ever so slowly, he smiles. “Don’t start holding out on me now. I’m an asshole.” My surprise must show, because he shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.” I suspect this is as close as Adam Reynolds will ever come to apologizing for his behavior in that restaurant. “Blake thinks you’re not an asshole.” “Blake,” Mr. Reynolds says with a roll of his eyes, “is a ridiculously good kid. There’s a reason I’m a little protective of him. I’m always afraid people will take advantage.” I don’t say anything. A little protective is what he is? Despite my silence, he sighs and waves his hand. “Good point,” he mutters in response to the thing I didn’t say. “It hasn’t happened yet, and God knows if he were as naïve as I really feared, it would have by now. Of all the women he could have had, he did choose you.” I think this is intended as a compliment. “Still,” his dad continues. “I worry. Is everything okay with him?” I have the distinct impression that even though Blake has never said so, most of his problems lie with this man. Somehow. Some way. “This is a conversation you should have with Blake.” He puts his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.” He doesn’t move for a few moments. And then—of all things—he sniffles. Unconvincingly. “Mr. Reynolds, are you fake crying to try to get my sympathy?” The hand lowers. He glowers at me—obviously dry-eyed. “Fuck me,” he says. “First, call me Adam. Mr. Reynolds makes me sound like some bullshit old fart. Second, I don’t fucking cry. I especially don’t fake cry. Emotional manipulation is for morons who don’t have the strength of will to get people on their side with reason. I have a cold.” “Aw. Poor baby. You should get some rest.” I incline my head toward him, and then widen my eyes. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You can’t.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, yeah. My kid has good taste. I’m fucking things up for you. I hope it won’t be too much of a disturbance.” “You know.” I swallow. “I think Blake gave you the wrong impression about us.” “What, that he’s into you more than you’re into him? I got that from him.” I swallow. “That you need to be convinced? That he’s going to end up convincing you, no matter what you’re telling yourself right now? I let out a breath. “Exactly.” Adam points a finger at me. “That’s what I thought. My money’s on my boy. But hey, don’t tell me what’s going on. Who needs details? Surely not his own father. I’m not invasive.” “Right. Calling me in the middle of the night when Blake’s not around isn’t invasive at all.

I remember you only rarely And your fate I do not view But the mark won't be stripped from my soul Of the meaningless meeting with you. Your red house I avoid on purpose, Your red house murky river beside, But I know, that I am disturbing Gravely your heart-pierced respite. Would it weren't you that, on to my lips pressing, Prayed of love, and for love did wish, Would it weren't you that with golden verses Immortalized my anguish. Over future I do secret magic If the evening is truly blue, And I divine a second meeting, Unavoidable meeting with you.

Mr. Wheeler agreed that she was—he always agreed with his wife, for it was the easiest thing to do. “But I hope she won’t disturb you, Zoë,” he said anxiously. Frances did not disturb her aunt. She was a quiet, gentle child and soon developed a taste for reading, which was a good thing for every one concerned. At ten years old she discovered Dickens, and, as there was a whole set of Dickens in the bookcase in the dining-room, the discovery kept her quieter than before . . . after that came Thackeray and Jane Austen, but Dickens was her first love.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself- no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house. The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's. It winked. Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too. The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly: "I get that all the time." "I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying." The snake nodded vigorously. "Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked. The snake jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see- so you've never been to Brazil?" As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump. "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!" Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could. "Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened- one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror. Harry had sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits. As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come... Thanksss, amigo.

Golden Rule: I won’t disturb your self-interest, if you don’t disturb mine.

I close the book and text Livia back. Okay, Fern Woman. I’ll meet you at 8. Then I add, Are you super sure about the Nite’s Inn? She responds right away. I’ll see you then, and I’m very sure. I’m doing this on a public servant’s budget! And it’s close to a Steak’n Shake, so you know it’s in a good neighborhood. ...Liv. Kitten. They found a body in that Steak’n Shake’s dumpster last year. One body and all of a sudden it’s a ‘bad’ place. You are so judgey! I, for one, won’t be scared away by that one tiny thing. I like to see the best in places. My radio goes off in my ear—a senior is causing a disturbance at a nursing home and they need all available units to respond. With a rueful smile to myself at my idealistic little librarian, I send her a final message and then climb out of my car. See you tonight, Livvy-girl. Don’t get thrown into a dumpster before I get there. Even though I was mostly joking about the Murder Steak’n Shake, I get to the Nite’s Inn half an hour early so that I can be extra sure she’s not in the parking lot alone

If you mean me no good, please leave me alone. I won’t return or match your energy. I won’t talk about you… especially if I’m not talking to you. I say this not to reject you, but to protect myself. If you can’t contribute to the peace I have in my life, by all means, do not disturb it.

I don’t begrudge others the right to disregard disturbing images but I always want to see for myself, even at the risk of providing free diversion for gazers with sordid motives. The opportunity to witness fuels my awareness of my own precarious citizenship, informs my understanding of our police state and, at critical times, has strengthened my willingness to resist. I won’t insist that you look; neither should you demand that I don’t.