Injured Leg Quotes

For a moment I feel as though I exist outside of my body, as if I'm looking at myself from his perspective. I see my face, my injured arm, these legs that suddenly seem unable to carry my weight. Cracks begin to form along my face, all the way down my arms, my torso, my legs. I imagine this is what it's like to fall apart.

When Roshar saw her ripped, one-legged trousers and Arin at her side as they stood outside the prince’s tent, his eyes glinted with mirth and Kestrel felt quite sure that the prince was going to say it was about time Arin tore her clothes off. Then Roshar might comment coyly on Arin’s inability to reach a full conclusion (Only one trouser leg? she imagined Roshar saying. How lazy of you, Arin), or on the quaint quality of Arin’s modesty (What a little lamb you are). Perhaps he’d offer condolences to Kestrel on the partial death of her trousers. He’d ask whether she’d gotten injured on purpose.

Would you still like to go ice skating?" "Yes!" she burst out. "But---" She tried not to glance down at his injured leg. A grin tugged at his mouth. "We saved the world, Scrivener. We'll figure out a way." She relaxed. He was right. They would figure out a way. "Even if you have to pull me on a sled," Nathaniel went on. "I am not pulling you on a sled!" "Why not? I dare say you're strong enough." She sputtered.. "It would get in the papers." "I hope so. I'd want to save a clipping.

Dasha!' Rin yelled, 'Dasha!' A face looked up, then two. They started walking toward her, then running. Dasha was in front, her eyes set on Razo, her face caught in an expression of desperate hope. 'Razo,' she said, .... 'Razo, it had better be you. If it just looks like you, I am going to kill you. It had better-' He'd reached her by then. They embraced, and he swung her around, her legs lifting in the air, her tunic swirling...Then Dasha was kissing Razo's face and crying and smiling and declaring all his perfections. 'Well, this isn't half-bad,' said Razo, 'I think I'll die more often.' Dasha embraced him again and squeezed until Razo had to admit he was injured. 'Love the lips, not the ribs,' he said, and pulled her into a long kiss.

Anxiously, he touched the lump on his head again, then felt his injured leg, groaning. "The whole affair is a mystery to me," he said. "Who would want to steal anything from me?" "Perhaps a thief...?" ventured Julius.

...Were you in the military?" "Are you kidding me? I was in high school." "High school," he said quietly. "You’re American. And a civilian?" "Uh, yes. An American civilian." "Lovely. A straight answer. Keep it up. Did somebody train you?" "No, nobody trained me. Unless you count the Rhode Island child welfare and juvenile justice systems. Why?" Malachi held up his hand and ticked off the reasons with his fingers. "You stole a Guard's weapon. If I'm not mistaken, it belonged to a Gate Guard. Which means you managed to do it on your way into the city. You escaped Amid even after he had you in hand. You slashed his leg in just the right place, preventing him from chasing you. Under extreme duress, injured and cornered, you threw a knife and hit a target-" "It's not like I hit something vital.

Noah was no longer at my side when I turned. He had Kent from algebra pinned against the car. "I should injure you considerably," he said in a low voice "Dude, chill." Kent was completely calm. "Noah," I heard myself say. "Its not worth it." Noah's eyes narrowed, but apon hearing my voice, he released Kent who straightened his shirt and brushed the front of his khakis. "Get fucked, Kent," Noah said as he turned away. The idiot laughed, "Oh, I will." Noah whirled around and I heard the unmistakable impact of knuckles meeting face. Kent was on the concrete, his hands clutching his nose. When he started to get up, Noah said, "I wouldn't. I'm barely above kicking the shit out of you on the ground. Barely." "You broke my nose!" Blood streamed down Kents shirt and a crowd formed a small circle around the three of us. A teacher parted the throng and called out, "Principals office NOW, Shaw." Noah ignored him and walked over to me, inordinately calm. He placed his good hand on the small of my back and my legs threatened to dissolve. The bell rang and I looked at Noah as he leaned in and brushed his lips against my ear. He whispered into my hair, "It was worth it." - The Unbecoming Of Mara Dyer

Get Comfortable Not Knowing There once was a village that had among its people a very wise old man. The villagers trusted this man to provide them answers to their questions and concerns. One day, a farmer from the village went to the wise man and said in a frantic tone, “Wise man, help me. A horrible thing has happened. My ox has died and I have no animal to help me plow my field! Isn’t this the worst thing that could have possibly happened?” The wise old man replied, “Maybe so, maybe not.” The man hurried back to the village and reported to his neighbors that the wise man had gone mad. Surely this was the worst thing that could have happened. Why couldn’t he see this? The very next day, however, a strong, young horse was seen near the man’s farm. Because the man had no ox to rely on, he had the idea to catch the horse to replace his ox—and he did. How joyful the farmer was. Plowing the field had never been easier. He went back to the wise man to apologize. “You were right, wise man. Losing my ox wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. It was a blessing in disguise! I never would have captured my new horse had that not happened. You must agree that this is the best thing that could have happened.” The wise man replied once again, “Maybe so, maybe not.” Not again, thought the farmer. Surely the wise man had gone mad now. But, once again, the farmer did not know what was to happen. A few days later the farmer’s son was riding the horse and was thrown off. He broke his leg and would not be able to help with the crop. Oh no, thought the man. Now we will starve to death. Once again, the farmer went to the wise man. This time he said, “How did you know that capturing my horse was not a good thing? You were right again. My son is injured and won’t be able to help with the crop. This time I’m sure that this is the worst thing that could have possibly happened. You must agree this time.” But, just as he had done before, the wise man calmly looked at the farmer and in a compassionate tone replied once again, “Maybe so, maybe not.” Enraged that the wise man could be so ignorant, the farmer stormed back to the village. The next day troops arrived to take every able-bodied man to the war that had just broken out. The farmer’s son was the only young man in the village who didn’t have to go. He would live, while the others would surely die. The moral of this story provides a powerful lesson. The truth is, we don’t know what’s going to happen—we just think we do. Often we make a big deal out of something. We blow up scenarios in our minds about all the terrible things that are going to happen. Most of the time we are wrong. If we keep our cool and stay open to possibilities, we can be reasonably certain that, eventually, all will be well. Remember: maybe so, maybe not.

The irresistible ocean sucks around his hooves. But still he looks over his withers at me and he wails, again and again. The hair on my arms stands with his call. I know he wants me to go to him, but I can't go with him where he needs to go. Corr falls silent when I do not come to him. He looks back out to the endless horizon. I see him lift a hoof and put it back down. He tests his weight again. Then Corr turns, stepping out of the ocean. His head jerks up when his injured leg touches the ground, but he takes another labored step before keening to me again Corr takes another step away from the November sea. And another. He is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me.

He pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His comrades talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs.

Ow!” I yelp. My eyes pop open and I jerk up into a sitting position, automatically reaching for my now injured leg. “You kicked me!” I accuse as I glare angrily at my attacker. I still in disbelief as I find myself once again face to face with the same boy I had encountered only days before. “I had to make sure you were alive,” he states simply, an edge of amusement coloring his words, as he shrugs unapologetically. “It’s not like I find a lot of girls playing dead in the woods.

You’re injured.” He flicks his chin at my bleeding leg. “We need to get that cleaned up.” “It’ll be fine,” I wave it off. “My mom will descend upon me with a bottle of peroxide the second I hit the door.

So, are you moving in?” Dove tried to look like she was casually leaning against a lamppost. But there was no lamppost, so it looked more like she had injured her back or one of her legs was shorter than the other.

Raven angrily stomped her foot. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying out in pain. "Note to self- don't stomp injured leg. That really, really hurts," she mumbled to herself through her clenched teeth.

Once, when she was travelling to one of her convents, St. Teresa of Ávila was knocked off her donkey and fell into the mud, injuring her leg. “Lord,” she said, “you couldn’t have picked a worse time for this to happen. Why would you let this happen?” And the response in prayer that she heard was, “That is how I treat my friends.” Teresa answered, “And that is why you have so few of them!

Twenty-one-year-old Chris Reed was gunned down with four bullets, including one that “exploded and took out a big chunk “of his left thigh. He listened in terror as troopers debated in front of him whether to kill him or let him bleed to death. As they discussed this the troopers had fun jamming their rifle butts into his injuries and dumping lime onto his face and injured legs, until he fell unconscious.

You're going to have to take care of yourself," Karrin said quietly. "Over the next few weeks. Rest. Give yourself a chance to heal. Keep the wound on your leg clean. Get to a doctor and get that arm into a proper cast. I know you can't feel it, but it's important that--" I stood, leaned over the bed, and kissed her on the mouth. Her words dissolved into a soft sound that vibrated against my lips. Then her good arm slid around my neck, and there wasn't any sound at all. It was a long kiss. A slow kiss. A good one. I didn't draw away until it came to its end. I didn't open my eyes for a moment after. "...oh...," she said in a small voice. Her hand slid down my arm to lie upon mine. "We do crazy things for love," I said quietly, and turned my hand over, fingers curling around hers.

Brackenfur’s purring faltered and his eyes looked troubled. “You should have been with me,” he murmured, gently nosing her injured leg. “No, I’m fine as I am,” Cinderpaw insisted. “You’ll have to be a warrior for both of us. And I’ll have to settle for being the greatest medicine cat this forest has ever seen!

The road looked as if no one had traveled on it in months. "It's not much farther," the grandmother said and just as she said it, a horrible thought came to her. The thought was so embarrassing that she turned red in the face and her eyes dilated and her feet jumped up, upsetting her valise in the corner. The instant the valise moved, the newspaper top she had over the basket under it rose with a snarl and Pitty Sing, the cat, sprang onto Bailey's shoulder. The children were thrown to the floor and their mother, clutching the baby, was thrown out the door onto the ground; the old lady was thrown into the front seat. The car turned over once and landed right-side-up in a gulch off the side of the road. Bailey remained in the driver's seat with the cat gray-striped with a broad white face and an orange nose clinging to his neck like a caterpillar. As soon as the children saw they could move their arms and legs, they scrambled out of the car, shouting, "We've had an ACCIDENT!" The grandmother was curled up under the dashboard, hoping she was injured so that Bailey's wrath would not come down on her all at once. The horrible thought she had had before the accident was that the house she had remembered so vividly was not in Georgia but in Tennessee.

The angel of death, she said proudly, touched me when I was a child, with the exact same illness as now, but I screwed him, even though I was just a girl. And you'll see, I'll screw him again, because I know how to suffer. I learned at the age of ten, I haven't stopped since. And if you know how to suffer, the angel respects you, after a while he goes away. As she spoke she pulled up her dress and showed me the injured leg like the relic of an old battle. She smacked it, observing me with a fixed half-smile on her lips and terrified eyes.

America, is there lipstick on my teeth?" Zoe asked. I turned to my left and found her smiling maniacally, exposing all her pearly whites. "No, you're good," I answered, seeing out of the corner of my eye that Marlee was nodding in confirmation. "Thanks. How is he so calm?" Zoe asked, pointing over at Maxon, who was talking to a member of the crew. She then bent down and put her head between her legs and started doing controlled breathing. Marlee and I looked at each other, eyes wide with amusement, and tried not to laugh. It was hard if we looked at Zoe, so we surveyed the room and chatted about what others were wearing. There were several girls in seductive reds and lively greens, but no one else in blue. Olivia had gone so far as to wear orange. I'd admit that I didn't know that much about fashion, but Marlee and I both agreed that someone should have intervened on her behalf. The color made her skin look kind of green. Two minutes before the cameras turned on, we realized it wasn't the dress making her look green. Olivia vomited into the closest trash can very loudly and collapsed on the floor. Silvia swooped in, and a fuss was made to wipe the sweat off her and get her into a seat. She was placed in the back row with a small receptacle at her feet, just in case. Bariel was in the seat in front of her. I couldn't hear what she muttered to the poor girl from where I was, but it looked like Bariel was prepared to injure Olivia should she have another episode near her. I guessed that Maxon had seen or heard some of the commotion, and I looked over to see if he was having any sort of reaction to it all. But he wasn't looking toward the disturbance; he was looking at me. Quickly-so quickly it would look like nothing but scratching an itch to anyone else-Maxon reached up and tugged on his ear. I repeated the action back, and we both turned away. I was excited to know that tonight, after dinner, Maxon would be stopping by my room.

It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl.

She needed to stand, but her body felt strangely heavy, as if invisible weights were tugging on her limbs. Gravity here felt different, harsher—or was she injured? Glass placed her hand on her shin and gasped. Her legs were wet.

Presently, I grew tired and swam back to shore, long, pulling strokes that nevertheless did not seem to take me anywhere. My arms and legs felt leaden, my injured wrist tender and sore. It felt as though I would never reach dry land, and I began to worry that I would indeed drown. But I fought this battle every, fighting upstream against the inevitable, inexorable pull of my own destructive tendencies, and if the body was exhausted, then at least the mind was willing.

Rhage glared over the top of the Caldwell Courier Journal. From his vantage point on V and Butch’s leather sofa, he had more view than he wanted of a shirtless Lassiter playing with himself. Foosball, that was. The fallen angel was working V’s table like a pro, flashing back and forth between the two sides—and hurling insults at himself. “Question,” Rhage muttered, as he rearranged his injured leg. “Are either of your personalities aware that you’re schizo-freakin’-phrenic?

Though he could not remember how he had been injured or how long he had been unconcious, his first thought was to call the office and find someone to cover his shifts. He had a busy week of beating people to a bloody pulp, and his victims weren't going to punch themselves in the face. He couldn't leave his bosses in the lurch. He was evil, but he was professional. Perhaps it was his dedication to his work that had built him such an impressive resume: fifteen broken jaws, fifty-seven legs, a hundred arms, and more noses than he could count. He had knocked out thousands of teeth, pushed a few people off bridges, and once buried a guy in concrete up to his neck. He had been nominated for the Goon of the Year nine times by OUCH (Organization of United Criminals and Henchman), and had won its highest honor, the Brass Knuckle, seven times. At the office, he showed up early and left late. He ate his lunch on the job, frequently beating people as he ate his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. You didn't get on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list by taking a sick day!

Our behavior is as absurd and incomprehensible with respect to the first drink as that of an individual with a passion, say, for jay-walking. He gets a thrill out of skipping in front of fast-moving vehicles. He enjoys himself for a few years in spite of friendly warnings. Up to this point you would label him as a foolish chap having queer ideas of fun. Luck then deserts him and he is slightly injured several times in succession. You would expect him, if he were normal, to cut it out. Presently he is hit again and this time has a fractured skull. Within a week after leaving the hospital a fast-moving trolley car breaks his arm. He tells you he has decided to stop jay-walking for good, but in a few weeks he breaks both legs. On through the years this conduct continues, accompanied by his continual promises to be

I flip up my collar and turn my back to him as I pick my way back up toward the cliff base. I don’t think I can watch him disappear into the water. It will break my heart. Puck’s scrubbing her eyes busily as if she has something in them. George Holly bites his lip. The cliffs tower above me and I try to console myself, I will find another capall uisce, I will ride again, I will move to my father’s home and be free. But there’s no comfort in my thoughts. Behind me, the ocean says shhhhhhhh, shhhhhhhhh. There’s a thin, long wail. I keep walking, my bare feet slow on the uneven stones. The wail comes again, low and keening. Puck and Holly are looking past me, so I turn around. Still at the shoreline, Corr has noticed my going, and he stands where I left him, looking back at me. He lifts his head again and keens to me. The irresistible ocean sucks around his hooves. But still he looks over his withers at me and he wails, again and again. The hair on my arms stands with his call. I know he wants me to go to him, but I can’t go with him where he needs to go. Corr falls silent when I do not come to him. He looks back out to the endless horizon. I see him lift a hoof and put it back down. He tests his weight again. Then Corr turns, stepping out of the ocean. His head jerks up when his injured leg touches the ground, but he takes another labored step before keening to me again. Corr takes another step away from the November sea. And another. He is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me.

Smiling, Simon stared into the depths of his brandy. “What a difficult evening you’ve had,” he heard Westcliff remark sardonically. “First you were compelled to carry Miss Peyton’s nubile young body all the way to her bedroom …then you had to examine her injured leg. How terribly inconvenient for you.” Simon’s smile faded. “I didn’t say that I had examined her leg.” The earl regarded him shrewdly. “You didn’t have to. I know you too well to presume that you would overlook such an opportunity.” “I’ll admit that I looked at her ankle. And I also cut her corset strings when it became apparent that she couldn’t breathe.” Simon’s gaze dared the earl to object. “Helpful lad,” Westcliff murmured. Simon scowled. “Difficult as it may be for you to believe, I receive no lascivious pleasure from the sight of a woman in pain.” Leaning back in his chair, Westcliff regarded him with a cool speculation that raised Simon’s hackles. “I hope you’re not fool enough to fall in love with such a creature. You know my opinion of Miss Peyton—” “Yes, you’ve aired it repeatedly.” “And furthermore,” the earl continued, “I would hate to see one of the few men of good sense I know to turn into one of those prattling fools who run about pollenating the atmosphere with maudlin sentiment—” “I’m not in love.” “You’re in something,” Westcliff insisted. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you look so mawkish as you did outside her bedroom door.” “I was displaying simple compassion for a fellow human being.” The earl snorted. “Whose drawers you’re itching to get into.” The blunt accuracy of the observation caused Simon to smile reluctantly. “It was an itch two years ago,” he admitted. “Now it’s a full-scale pandemic.

Romance Of A Youngest Daughter" Who will wed the Dowager’s youngest daughter, The Captain? filled with ale? He moored his expected boat to a stake in the water And stumbled on sea-legs into the Hall for mating, Only to be seduced by her lady-in-waiting, Round-bosomed, and not so pale. Or the thrifty burgher in boots and fancy vest With considered views of marriage? By the tidy scullery maid he was impressed Who kept that house from depreciation and dirt, But wife does double duty and takes no hurt, So he rode her home in his carriage. Never the spare young scholar antiquary Who was their next resort; They let him wait in the crypt of the Old Library And found him compromised with a Saxon book, Claiming his truelove Learning kept that nook And promised sweet disport. Desirée (of a mother’s christening) never shall wed Though fairest child of her womb; “We will have revenge,” her injured Ladyship said, “Henceforth the tightest nunnery be thy bed By the topmost stair! When the ill-bred lovers come We’ll say, She is not at home.

And under that bridge sits a troll and demands every passerby pays him. Those who refuse have a leg injured, sometimes both. So I go to the alderman: “How much will you give me for that troll?” He’s amazed. “What are you talking about?” he asks, “Who will repair the bridge if the troll’s not there? He repairs it regularly with the sweat of his brow, solid work, first rate. It’s cheaper to pay his toll.

I think the most fortunate thing is that I was born with a strong, healthy body. I've never had a time when my legs hurt so much I couldn't run. I don't really stretch much before running, but I've never been injured, never been hurt, and haven't been sick once.

the pistol DeVontay had given her, but she’d found another in the house they’d slept in two nights before. It was heavy and shiny and had probably never been fired. The bullets in the revolver’s chamber were fatter than what she was used to, so she assumed it would pack a hefty kick. But she hadn’t had a chance for target practice. Until now. She fished it from her pack and leaned more heavily against the tree, taking some of the weight off her injured leg. If she fired the gun, Zapheads would come from miles around. The

As the third evening approached, Gabriel looked up blearily as two people entered the room. His parents. The sight of them infused him with relief. At the same time, their presence unlatched all the wretched emotion he'd kept battened down until this moment. Disciplining his breathing, he stood awkwardly, his limbs stiff from spending hours on the hard chair. His father came to him first, pulling him close for a crushing hug and ruffling his hair before going to the bedside. His mother was next, embracing him with her familiar tenderness and strength. She was the one he'd always gone to first whenever he'd done something wrong, knowing she would never condemn or criticize, even when he deserved it. She was a source of endless kindness, the one to whom he could entrust his worst thoughts and fears. "I promised nothing would ever harm her," Gabriel said against her hair, his voice cracking. Evie's gentle hands patted his back. "I took my eyes off her when I shouldn't have," he went on. "Mrs. Black approached her after the play- I pulled the bitch aside, and I was too distracted to notice-" He stopped talking and cleared his throat harshly, trying not to choke on emotion. Evie waited until he calmed himself before saying quietly, "You remember when I told you about the time your f-father was badly injured because of me?" "That wasn't because of you," Sebastian said irritably from the bedside. "Evie, have you harbored that absurd idea for all these years?" "It's the most terrible feeling in the world," Evie murmured to Gabriel. "But it's not your fault, and trying not to make it so won't help either of you. Dearest boy, are you listening to me?" Keeping his face pressed against her hair, Gabriel shook his head. "Pandora won't blame you for what happened," Evie told him, "any more than your father blamed me." "Neither of you are to blame for anything," his father said, "except for annoying me with this nonsense. Obviously the only person to blame for this poor girl's injury is the woman who attempted to skewer her like a pinioned duck." He straightened the covers over Pandora, bent to kiss her forehead gently, and sat in the bedside chair. "My son... guilt, in proper measure, can be a useful emotion. However, when indulged to excess it becomes self-defeating, and even worse, tedious." Stretching out his long legs, he crossed them negligently. "There's no reason to tear yourself to pieces worrying about Pandora. She's going to make a full recovery." "You're a doctor now?" Gabriel asked sardonically, although some of the weight of grief and worry lifted at his father's confident pronouncement. "I daresay I've seen enough illness and injuries in my time, stabbings included, to predict the outcome accurately. Besides, I know the spirit of this girl. She'll recover." "I agree," Evie said firmly. Letting out a shuddering sigh, Gabriel tightened his arms around her. After a long moment, he heard his mother say ruefully, "Sometimes I miss the days when I could solve any of my children's problems with a nap and a biscuit." "A nap and a biscuit wouldn't hurt this one at the moment," Sebastian commented dryly. "Gabriel, go find a proper bed and rest for a few hours. We'll watch over your little fox cub.

We’ve created mass production at low prices, a system that operates under duress. There are stressed-out pigs who can’t mate, who bite one another’s tails because they’re so confined, or who are so heavy their legs can no longer support their bodies; turkeys who can’t reproduce naturally; chickens who have to be debeaked because they peck at each other in densely packed cages; roosters bred for growth who’ve become so aggressive that they injure or kill their mates; and cows who eat other cows as part of their feed and go mad. All of this is presided over by stressed-out farmers, many of whom have come to accept the industry’s bigger-is-better mantra, though it’s clearly unsustainable for them and the earth. In the process they have become almost as trapped as the animals they “farm.” Farmers, industry, and consumers have created a treadmill that runs ever more rapidly, fueled by all kinds of suffering animals—including us. It’s a system that only takes and doesn’t give back; it extracts and doesn’t replenish, until the creatures and the earth that sustain its existence have nothing more to give.

She suffers a week of food brought in by a silent guard in a rent-a-cop uniform. She knows she’s no longer in the hands of the Juvenile Authority, but who her new captors are is a mystery. These new jailers ask no questions, and that concerns her the same way that Connor is always concerned by the fact that the Graveyard has never been taken out. Are they so unimportant in the grand scheme of things that the Juvenile Authority won’t even torture her to get the information they want? Have they been deluding themselves into thinking they’re making a difference? All this time she’s forced out thoughts of Connor, because it simply hurt too much to think about him. How horrified he must have been when she turned herself in. Horrified and stunned. Well, fine, let him be; he’ll get over it. She did it for him just as much as she did it for the injured boy, because as painful as it is to admit, Risa knows she had become just a distraction to Connor. If he’s truly going to lead those kids in the Graveyard like the Admiral did, he can’t be giving Risa leg massages and worrying whether her emotional needs are being met. Maybe he does love her, but it’s obvious there’s no room in his life at this moment to pay it any more than lip service.

When Roshar saw her ripped, one-legged trousers and Arin at her side as they stood outside the prince’s tent, his eyes glinted with mirth and Kestrel felt quite sure that the prince was going to say it was about time Arin tore her clothes off. Then Roshar might comment coyly on Arin’s inability to reach a full conclusion (Only one trouser leg? she imagined Roshar saying. How lazy of you, Arin), or on the quaint quality of Arin’s modesty (What a little lamb you are). Perhaps he’d offer condolences to Kestrel on the partial death of her trousers. He’d ask whether she’d gotten injured on purpose. Kestrel flushed. “Things at the scout station didn’t go according to plan,” she said, stating the obvious in order to shunt the conversation to where it should be. Not, absolutely not, about what had happened or didn’t happen in Arin’s tent. “She’s wounded,” said Arin--who, although he didn’t look it, must have also been flustered if he, too, felt he had to state the obvious. “Barely,” Roshar said. “A mere scratch, or she wouldn’t be standing.” “You could offer her a seat,” Arin said. “Ah, but I have only two chairs in my tent, little Herrani, and we are three. I suppose she could always sit on your lap.” Arin shot him a look of deep annoyance and pushed inside the tent. “But I could have said something so much worse,” Roshar protested. “Say nothing at all,” Kestrel told him. “That would be very unlike me.

The evening was a string of miserable minutes strung together in tiny clusters. Three minutes for a man shot through the shoulder; Ellis put first a finger in the entry wound and then another in the exit and when his fingers touched, he decided the man was only lightly injured and didn’t need a surgeon. Three minutes to set a broken wrist and splint it with a strip of cowhide and a piece of wood from a sycamore tree. Two minutes to tourniquet a leg, then extract a piece of wire deep in the meat of it. A minute to peek under a pink, saturated bandage several inches below a slender belly button; he saw thin, red water leaking from a hole and smelled urine, knew the ball had breached the bladder. It would either heal or it wouldn’t, but nothing to do about it so he set the soul aside, a case not to be operated upon. He turned a man’s head looking for the source of a trickle of blood and had ten terrible minutes trying to stop torrential bleeding from under his clavicle; frantic moments during which he could get neither a finger nor a clamp around the pulsating source. All bleeding stops eventually though, and the case did not violate the rule. He took two minutes to settle his own breathing, then four minutes sewing a torn scalp, and half a minute saying a prayer over a fat, cigar-shaped dead man. After awhile, he had the impression he wasn’t seeing men, but parts—an exploded chest, a blood swolled thigh, a busted jaw with its teeth spat to the wind or swallowed. It was more than a man could take and a lot less than there was to be seen.

No one will think anything, Alma. It’s an empty room, remember – you said so yourself.’ I began to sit cross-legged at his feet so as to listen to his operatic flourishes. Soon I was running to meet him when he came home, then crawling up onto his lap so I could see the words on the page. I still didn’t say much, and I was mute with all strangers and continued to hide my face in my grandmother’s skirts. We were sat this way one afternoon when there was a tap at the window that startled us both. We looked, but there was nothing there. It sounded like something had been thrown at it, so my grandfather told me to stay inside while he went out to investigate. When he came back, he was carrying a tiny bird in his hands. ‘It’s a little dunnock, Susannah. He must have got himself confused, or scared, chased by a sparrowhawk maybe, and flown into the glass. He’s only stunned himself. We’ll find him a box and keep him warm, see if he comes to.’ The bird looked dead to me, but my grandfather lined an old box with straw, placed the tiny bird inside and closed the lid. ‘We need to remove him from all the terrors of the world for a while, let his little body recover. You know, it’s a very good thing for an animal to hide if he’s injured or in danger. All the clever animals do it. He crawls into the tiniest space he can find and makes his world very small. It’s a natural thing, when you’re very scared, to make your world very small indeed. The trick is to understand when the danger is gone, to be very brave and let the world be big again, or else there may as well be no world at all.

In the book “The Blind Side” they are talking about the most important job in the NFL (Lewis). The most important job is the job of the left tackle he is there to protect the quarterback’s blindside. People don’t see the left tackle’s job as any more important as the right tackle but the truth is that without a good left tackle most quarterbacks would be injured. The left tackle has to have a certain figure with big wide legs long arms big hands and very fast feet (Lewis 37-38). When the left tackle is on the field, he is supposed to be able to see the quarterback and the guy trying to get the quarterback. The left tackles have to figure out their own way to keep anybody from running around them. Therefor this shows that they need to be able to do whatever they need to protect the quarterback.

In the summer of 1914, he had headed to France in the company of his only son, Alistair. They were driving at high speed through woodland in Northern France when Alistair lost control of the wheel. The car spun into a roadside tree and flipped upside down. Alistair was flung from the vehicle and landed on his head. Cumming was trapped by his leg in a tangle of smouldering metal. ‘The boy was fatally injured,’ wrote Compton Mackenzie in his account of the incident, ‘and his father, hearing him moan something about the cold, tried to extricate himself from the wreck of the car in order to put a coat over him; but struggle as he might, he could not free his smashed leg.’ If he was to have any hope of reaching his son, there was only one thing to do. He reached for his pocket knife and hacked away at his mangled limb ‘until he had cut it off, after which he had crawled over to the son and spread a coat over him.’ Nine hours later, Cumming was found lying unconscious next to his son’s dead body. His recovery was as remarkable as his survival. He was back at his desk within a month, brushing aside any outer shows of mourning for his son. Cumming had the ramrod emotional backbone that so typified the gentlemen of his social class and era. Just a few months after his accident, one of his operatives visited him at his offices on the top floor of Whitehall Court. Cumming, who had not yet received his artificial leg, was inching his substantial frame down six flights of stairs: ‘two sticks, and backside, edging its way down one step at a time.’ Little wonder that his friends described him as ‘obstinate as a mule.

I was thinking, The last thing I want to do is get in a wreck and lose another limb. I completely lost it and blew up at my father. “Why did you do that? I can’t get injured again! Pull over. I’ll drive!” I screamed. Dad is not the kind of person who would have ever taken that kind of behavior from me in the past, but I think he understood the paranoia. I’d asked him while I was in the hospital, “Did you ever think one of your kids would ever lose a limb?” And he said, “No, it never crossed my mind. I was always more afraid I would lost another limb.” It wasn’t until later that I realized how great it was of him that he kept his cool and understood where I was coming from. He just let me freak out and let me drive. I think in some ways it was the same kind of lesson he taught me as a child without ever saying a word. I watched him just get on with things with one arm. He never made a fuss about it. It was an example that growing up I didn’t know I’d need eventually. So I got in the driver’s seat and we continued on our way. After a while we stopped at a gas station to stretch our legs and get some snacks. I grabbed a lemon-line Gatorade and Dad grabbed something to drink and we got back in the car. I turned the car on, so the air and the radio were going as I tried and tried to get my Gatorade bottle open, but the top was too big and I couldn’t quite get my fingers to grab it, hold it, and twist it open. My finger strength just wasn’t there yet. So I put it between my legs and tried to hold it still while I twisted the top. I heard the creak of release as I managed to break the seal of the plastic orange cap but my legs were squeezing the bottle so hard that the bright yellow liquid squirted all over me. “Crap!” I yelled. I heard my dad snicker. I turned to look at him and he smirked while holding a can of Coke in his hand. “And that’s why I drink out of a can,” he declared with a smug grin. Click. Fizzzz. With one hand, Dad popped that can open and took a big slug of his soda.

One day, a farmer from the village went to the wise man and said in a frantic tone, “Wise man, help me. A horrible thing has happened. My ox has died and I have no animal to help me plow my field! Isn’t this the worst thing that could have possibly happened?” The wise old man replied, “Maybe so, maybe not.” The man hurried back to the village and reported to his neighbors that the wise man had gone mad. Surely this was the worst thing that could have happened. Why couldn’t he see this? The very next day, however, a strong, young horse was seen near the man’s farm. Because the man had no ox to rely on, he had the idea to catch the horse to replace his ox—and he did. How joyful the farmer was. Plowing the field had never been easier. He went back to the wise man to apologize. “You were right, wise man. Losing my ox wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. It was a blessing in disguise! I never would have captured my new horse had that not happened. You must agree that this is the best thing that could have happened.” The wise man replied once again, “Maybe so, maybe not.” Not again, thought the farmer. Surely the wise man had gone mad now. But, once again, the farmer did not know what was to happen. A few days later the farmer’s son was riding the horse and was thrown off. He broke his leg and would not be able to help with the crop. Oh no, thought the man. Now we will starve to death. Once again, the farmer went to the wise man. This time he said, “How did you know that capturing my horse was not a good thing? You were right again. My son is injured and won’t be able to help with the crop. This time I’m sure that this is the worst thing that could have possibly happened. You must agree this time.” But, just as he had done before, the wise man calmly looked at the farmer and in a compassionate tone replied once again, “Maybe so, maybe not.” Enraged that the wise man could be so ignorant, the farmer stormed back to the village. The next day troops arrived to take every able-bodied man to the war that had just broken out. The farmer’s son was the only young man in the village who didn’t have to go. He would live, while the others would surely die. The moral of this story provides a powerful lesson.

One day in Sumatra, Steve was climbing into the forest canopy alongside a family of orangutans when he fell. A four-inch spike of bamboo jammed into the back of his leg. As always, he was loath to go to the hospital and successfully cut the spike of bamboo out of his own leg himself. Ever since I’d met him, Steve had refused to let me dress or have anything to do with any of his wounds. He didn’t even like to talk about his injuries. I think this was a legacy from his years alone in the bush. He had his own approach to being injured, and he called it “the goanna theory.” “Sometimes you’ll see a goanna that’s been hurt,” he said. “He may have been hit by a car and had a leg torn off. Maybe he’s missing a chunk of his tail. Does he walk around feeling sorry for himself? No. He goes about his business, hunting for food, looking for mates, climbing trees, and doing the best that he can.” That’s the goanna theory. Steve would take into consideration how debilitating the specific wound was, but then he would carry on. A bamboo spike in the back of his leg? Well, it hurt. But his leg still worked. He continued filming.

Long ago there was a little boy who lived in the wood with his father and his sister. One night, the three of them were out collecting firewood when they heard a low, delicate whimper. The father realised it was an injured animal and ordered the children to fetch water from the lake, whilst he followed the sound. Hours past but the father did not return. The children became fearful for their father’s safety and in their moment of fright, they disobeyed their father in order to find him. And find him they did. However, he was no longer the man he once was. Both his eyes were slit through their centre, oozing blood down the paleness of his face. His neck had been torn open. The entirety of his midsection was split but nothing, not one, single organ, seemed to be left within. Each limb still remained, however they had been dragged, with some exceptional force, in the opposite direction to which they were designed. The children screamed and ran, though the image of their father’s mangled corpse seemed to chase after them. They slept. Within the whisper of the wind came the sweet tune of a woman’s song. The little girl awoke to the feeling of happiness, security and motherly love that the song carried with it. She needed to find the woman it had come from. Leaving her brother, she took off into the wood to try and find the singer. The little boy quickly entered into a spit of panic when he found his sister missing. He didn’t know whether he should call out for her, look for her or wait. But waiting could mean the worst, he thought, and so he took off into the woods after her. He had searched everywhere, every dark corner and decrepit tree, before reaching the lake. The moon reflected off its black surface, which drew his attention to something bobbing within the ripples. It was a leg. When he caught sight of the foot, the boy fell to his knees. He recognised the shoe. It was his sister’s shoe; his sister’s leg. Soon enough, the other body parts came drifting to join the leg, forming a rough manifestation of what was once his sister’s living body. Firstly, there was a head facing down in the water, then arms seemingly blue under the moonlight, and lastly a torso coated in her favourite dress. He felt sick, lost, terrified to his very core. Just as thoughts of never being whole again began to pain his chest, the boy heard the snapping of a twig behind him. He dared to turn around but all he found was a small, black-furred wolf. The wolf approached him timidly, whining deep in its throat to say to the boy that he too was lonely and afraid. The boy put out his hand for the wolf to join him and they sat together. Perhaps he would be OK. Perhaps all that had happened had led to this; something new. He rustled the fur of his new friend, starting with its back then its ear before going under its snout. His hand touched something wet and sticky. He drew it from the wolf to get a better look, only to find a crimson substance now clinging to his small hands. Blood. The wolf turned on the boy as its eyes became a pale blue before thwack! He tore the boy’s face from his head…

And of course if you ill-treat the body, it can throw you out of the house entirely, out of your body. It is like ill-treating objects. You know, objects are inanimate things; they lie about heavily, have no legs or wings, and people are often quite impatient with them. For instance, this book would like it very much better, I am sure, if it were lying near the center of the table where it is safe, but I have put it on the edge. It is an awkward position for that poor creature of a book. It may fall down and get injured. If I am impatient, if I touch them in an awkward way, it is a lamentable plight for the poor objects. Then they take their revenge on me. Because I illtreat them they turn against me and become contradictory in a peculiar way. I say, "Oh, these damned objects, dead things, despicable!"- and instantly they take on life. They begin to behave as if they were animated living things. You will then observe what the German philosopher tells about the die Tücke des Objekts. And the more you curse them, the more you use speech figures which insinuate life into them. For instance, "Where has that book hidden itself now? It has walked off and concealed itself somewhere." Or, "The devil is in that watch, where has it gone ?"Objects really take on dangerous qualities with people who are particularly impatient with them: they jump into your eyes, they bite your legs, they creep onto a chair and stick up a point upon which you sit-such things. Jung, C. G.. Nietzsche's Zarathustra: Notes of the Seminar given in 1934-1939. Two Volumes: 1-2, unabridged (Jung Seminars) (p. 351-352)

The warm wool blanket dropped to the floor, and Lydia set her hand in the earl’s firm grip. She stuck her foot outside, but awareness wasn’t with her. That cavernous black doorway claimed her attention, and therein was her problem. Trouble came in mere seconds, as it usually did for her. The step was slick. She slipped. The sole of her leather shoe slid off the step’s edge. “Oww!” she yelped as her foot banged the graveled drive hard. Legs buckling, down she went, like a graceless sack of flour. What’s worse, she slammed into the earl, her shoulder punching his midsection. “Ooomph!” Lord Sanford grunted but moved quickly to save her from falling all the way to the ground. Her face mashed against leather and linen. Strong hands held her arms. At least she didn’t knock the earl down. Grabbing for purchase, her fingers touched warm wool…buttons…skin. Her face pressed into fabric, she murmured, “I’m so very sorry.” Lydia tried to right herself, but relief turned to horror: she was a mortified eye level with the pewter buttons of Lord Sanford’s breeches. Stalwart English mist snapped sense into her. That and seeing his placket bunched low in her fist. Her fingers grazed smooth flesh. Another, more interesting sliver of Lord Sanford’s skin was exposed: pale, intimate skin just below his navel. Lydia yanked back her hand, and a pewter button went flying. “Oh no!” she cried as humiliating heat flared across her face and neck. “Miss Montgomery? Are you injured?” Lord Sanford asked above the wind, slowly lifting her up. He sounded unperturbed at having a woman’s hand on the front of his breeches. hands on the front of his breeches.

One evening in April a thirty-two-year-old woman, unconscious and severely injured, was admitted to the hospital in a provincial town south of Copenhagen. She had a concussion and internal bleeding, her legs and arms were broken in several places, and she had deep lesions in her face. A gas station attendant in a neighboring village, beside the bridge over the highway to Copenhagen, had seen her go the wrong way up the exit and drive at high speed into the oncoming traffic. The first three approaching cars managed to maneuver around her, but about 200 meters after the junction she collided head-on with a truck. The Dutch driver was admitted for observation but released the next day. According to his statement he started to brake a good 100 meters before the crash, while the car seemed to actually increase its speed over the last stretch. The front of the vehicle was totally crushed, part of the radiator was stuck between the road and the truck's bumper, and the woman had to be cut free. The spokesman for emergency services said it was a miracle she had survived. On arrival at the hospital the woman was in very critical condition, and it was twenty-four hours before she was out of serious danger. Her eyes were so badly damaged that she lost her sight. Her name was Lucca. Lucca Montale. Despite the name there was nothing particularly Italian about her appearance. She had auburn hair and green eyes in a narrow face with high cheek-bones. She was slim and fairly tall. It turned out she was Danish, born in Copenhagen. Her husband, Andreas Bark, arrived with their small son while she was still on the operating table. The couple's home was an isolated old farmhouse in the woods seven kilometers from the site of the accident. Andreas Bark told the police he had tried to stop his wife from driving. He thought she had just gone out for a breath of air when he heard the car start. By the time he got outside he saw it disappearing along the road. She had been drinking a lot. They had had a marital disagreement. Those were the words he used; he was not questioned further on that point. Early in the morning, when Lucca Montale was moved from the operating room into intensive care, her husband was still in the waiting room with the sleeping boy's head on his lap. He was looking out at the sky and the dark trees when Robert sat down next to him. Andreas Bark went on staring into the gray morning light with an exhausted, absent gaze. He seemed slightly younger than Robert, in his late thirties. He had dark, wavy hair and a prominent chin, his eyes were narrow and deep-set, and he was wearing a shabby leather jacket. Robert rested his hands on his knees in the green cotton trousers and looked down at the perforations in the leather uppers of his white clogs. He realized he had forgotten to take off his plastic cap after the operation. The thin plastic crackled between his hands. Andreas looked at him and Robert straightened up to meet his gaze. The boy woke.

Miss Addie!” Edward, too, rushed to her side, but Gideon reached her first and pranced around her. “I’m all right,” she said as John arrived. He knelt beside her and slipped his arm around her. “Are you injured?” She had no idea of her true condition with him so close. Assessing the pain level, she leaned her head against his shoulder. His presence was the best medicine. “I-I don’t think so.” Edward threw himself atop her, and she pulled him onto her lap when she realized he was crying. “It’s okay, darling.” “You’re bleeding,” the child wailed. John moved away, and she hugged Edward, relishing the little-boy scent of grass and dog. “It’s merely a scratch, Edward. Proof of valor.” John was still near enough that she could smell his bay rum hair tonic. “I should call the doctor,” John said. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “No, no, I think I can get up with your assistance.” Aware she was showing more of her leg than was seemly, Addie flipped her skirt into place. She brushed a kiss across Edward’s cheek and scooted him onto the grass. “Papa’s going to help me up.” She grasped John’s arm and allowed him to lift her to her feet. “Does anything hurt?” he asked. She smiled into his face. “Only my pride.” “Let’s get you inside.” She glanced at the heap of wheels and metal. “No, I want to get back on the bicycle.” His mouth gaped. “You aren’t afraid?” “I’m terrified. But if I don’t get back on now, I might never do it. The fall will expand in my mind. I want to learn this.” She released his arm and stepped away, though she preferred to stay close to him. “The bicycle appears unharmed.” “But you’re not. You’re bleeding.” She bent her elbow up to have a look. “As I said, it’s merely a scratch.

RYLAN!" The yell comes out of nowhere and nearly gives me a heart attack. Tearing my eyes away, I watch as Babette comes crashing through the undergrowth. With no regard that I might be severely injured, she bounds over and grabs me in a bear hug. "Rylan! Oh my God, Rylan," Babette whimpers. She gently rocks me like I'm five years old again. There are some more footsteps, and Aidan and Nadia soon appear. Relief fills both their faces, with Nadia crying happily on Aidan's shoulder. Just as I think she's going to crush me, Babette finally pulls back, her face shiny with tears. "Rylan, I thought I'd lost you. I thought I was never going to see you again. I—" I hold up a hand. "Babette, it's okay. I'm alive. Not perfect, but I'm alive." I gesture to my leg. "Holy crap!" the twins say together, staring at my leg in horror and disgust. It only takes one glance for Nadia to really start sobbing. "Nadia! Nadia...don't cry," I murmur in an attempt to comfort her. Since she's such a happy person most of the time it hurts to see her like this. "It'll heal up. It's fine." "B-but it-it's horrible! You near-nearly drowned an-and now you're hurt!" Aidan pulls her into an awkward hug, trying to calm her down.

Somehow Frank got word to the dingo enclosure. “You’d better get to the compound,” came the message. “Graham grabbed Wes.” I felt cold chills go down my arms into my fingers. Graham was a large enough crocodile that he could easily kill prey the size of a man. I struggled through the water toward the compound. This is a nightmare, I thought. It felt like a bad dream, trying desperately to run in the waist-deep water, and yet feeling like I was in slow motion, struggling my way forward. When I got to the compound, I was shocked. Wes was conscious and standing up. I had a look at his wounds. The gaping holes torn out of his bottom and the back of his leg were horrifying. Both wounds were bigger than my fist. He was badly torn up. We discussed whether or not to call an ambulance, and then decided we would take Wes to the hospital ourselves. Wes was fluctuating between feeling euphorically happy to be alive and lashing out in anger. He was going into shock and had lost a lot of blood. Steve drove. A trip that would normally have taken half an hour took less than twenty minutes. The emergency room was having a busy night. By now Wes’s face was somewhere between pale and gray--the pain was well and truly setting in. We explained to a nurse that he needed help immediately, but because we had a blanket over him to keep him warm, the severity of his injuries didn’t really hit home. Finally the nurse peeked under the blanket. She gasped. Wes was so terribly injured, I was worried that he would still bleed out. Steve and I were both very emotional. So many thoughts went through our heads. Why Wes? Why hadn’t Steve been grabbed? What kind of chance was it that Graham had grabbed Wes in probably the only manner that would not have killed him instantly? We realized again how much we loved Wes. The thought that we almost lost him terrified us. It was a horrible, emotional Friday night. Over the course of the weekend we learned that Wes would probably make a full recovery. He would keep his leg and probably regain most movement. There was still some doubt as to whether he was going to need skin grafts. Steve laid his life on the line to defend Wes. And as severely injured as Wes was, he stopped at the top of the fence to turn back and help Steve. That was mateship; that was love. It made me think of the line from scripture: Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Steve and Wes were lucky, for they were truly friends.

Steve and I were both very emotional. So many thoughts went through our heads. Why Wes? Why hadn’t Steve been grabbed? What kind of chance was it that Graham had grabbed Wes in probably the only manner that would not have killed him instantly? We realized again how much we loved Wes. The thought that we almost lost him terrified us. It was a horrible, emotional Friday night. Over the course of the weekend we learned that Wes would probably make a full recovery. He would keep his leg and probably regain most movement. There was still some doubt as to whether he was going to need skin grafts. Steve laid his life on the line to defend Wes. And as severely injured as Wes was, he stopped at the top of the fence to turn back and help Steve. That was mateship; that was love. It made me think of the line from scripture: Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Steve and Wes were lucky, for they were truly friends.

I didn’t want to kill children. I even paused when the last one came at me. Long enough that he was able to injure my leg seriously. And I killed him. I know it was self-defense, but it still hurts me terribly to think about it. Perhaps the hardest part of killing those children was seeing myself at their ages." I

Gould finally resorted to a printed message that couldn’t be misunderstood—or ignored. He had a little notice typed up and posted it to his dressing room door whenever he gave a concert. Occasionally he handed copies to fellow musicians and well-wishers after his performances. It read: YOUR COOPERATION WILL BE APPRECIATED A pianist’s hands are sometimes injured in ways which cannot be predicted. Needless to say, this could be quite serious. Therefore—I will very much appreciate it if handshaking can be avoided. This will eliminate embarrassment all around. Rest assured that there is no intent to be discourteous—the aim is simply to prevent any possibility of injury. Thank you. GLENN GOULD Gould

Cade was on his feet and after her within seconds, but she was fleet of foot and recklessly unaware of the treacherousness of the ground. He took it more cautiously, wanting to be certain one of them came out of this whole so as to carry the other back. Cursing beneath his breath, he watched her take the lead to greater lengths. With a burst of speed when they hit the open prairie, he closed the gap. She was like a terrified bird with injured wings, running and desperately trying to take to the air, without success. He didn't want to harm her with capture, but there seemed no other choice. Cade grabbed Lily's waist and spun around to take the impact as they fell to the ground. The fall knocked the breath from his lungs, and he could only hold her struggling figure while he gasped for air. "Don't, Lily," he managed to get out as she flailed wildly with arms and legs, seeking to punish. His use of her name made no impression. Lily turned in his grasp and tried to sink her teeth into any flesh she could find. Cade turned over and flattened her against the grass, effectively trapping her. "You don't want what I have to offer," he informed her. His words finally penetrated some still-functioning part of her brain, and Lily gave up her futile struggles. Even now, she could feel the desire flare up between them, a heat that boiled and simmered every place that they touched. She tried to move her hips away from the encroachment of his, and he shifted to relieve the strain. "If I had taken what you offered back there, I would have brought you pain and possibly given you a bastard to bring you shame. That isn't what you want." Of course it wasn't, but logic wasn't the best defense against what she was feeling. Lily turned her head away so Cade couldn't see her eyes. Grass bent and tickled her face, but all she could think of was the solid masculinity of him straddling her hips. She burned with desire, and she hated his rationality. "Get

If Glenn related to anything outside of music, it was animals. When he bicycled through the countryside near his parents’ lakeside vacation cottage outside of Toronto, he sang to the cows. His pets included rabbits, turtles, a fully functioning skunk, goldfish named Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, and Haydn, and a parakeet named Mozart. There was also a series of beloved dogs: a big Newfoundland named Buddy, an English setter named Sir Nickolson of Garelocheed—or Nick for short—and, later, Banquo, a collie. One of Glenn’s childhood dreams was to someday create a preserve for old, injured, and stray animals on Manitoulin Island, north of Toronto, where he wanted to live out his old age by himself, surrounded by animals.

It seemed that wherever we went, Steve had an uncanny ability as a wildlife magnet. As we traveled downstream in the boat, he spotted a large carpet python on an overhanging limb. We filmed as Steve held on to the python’s tree limb, keeping the boat steady. He talked about the snake, and how it might have been in that tree to hunt fruit bats. Suddenly the tree lamb snapped, and both the branch and snake crashed down into the boat. Everyone reacted, startled. I had been standing up, and I fell backward into the river. Splashing to the surface would only catch a crocodile’s attention, so I let myself sink and then gradually drift up to the surface again. As my head broke the surface, I could see the boat had drifted off. I can remember looking up from the murky water and seeing the spotlight get smaller and smaller. Don’t panic, I told myself, knowing we were right in front of a baited croc trap. I was trying to tread water without making any splashing or “hurt animal”--type movements that would attract a crocodile. I could feel my heart pounding. It was hard to breathe. I was absolutely fighting the panic. Steve and the film crew were wrangling branch and snake. The boat motor had quit. Steve frantically attempted to start it. I could hear him swearing in the darkness. The crew member holding the spotlight divided his attention between making sure I was okay and helping Steve see what he was doing. The boat continued to drift farther and farther down the river. Just be as motionless as possible, I told myself. I had my teeth clenched in anticipation of feeling a croc’s immense jaw pressure close around my leg. Suddenly I heard the engine roar back to life. Steve swung the boat around and gunned it. As soon as he got to me, he dragged me back in. I felt a little sick. I lay there for a moment, but the drama was not over. Our cameraman was deathly afraid of snakes, and the carpet python was still in the bottom of the boat. Steve scooped it up. The snake decided it didn’t appreciate the whole ordeal. It swung around and proceeded to grab Steve repeatedly on the forearm, bite after bite after bite. Looking back at the footage now, the whole ordeal seems a bit amusing. “Ah! Ah! Ah!” a male voice yells. You think it might be Steve, as he is the one being bitten, but actually it was John Stainton. He cries out in sympathy each time the python sinks its teeth into Steve’s arm. It sounds as though Steve himself is being terribly injured, when in fact the little tiny pinpricks form the carpet python’s hundreds of teeth were only minor wounds. Although the teeth go deep into the flesh and it bleeds quite readily, there was no permanent scarring, no venom, and no infection. “Are you okay, babe?” Steve asked. I told him I was. Shaken, but in one piece. Steve was okay, the python was okay, and even the cameraman seemed to have recovered. We returned the snake to its tree. “We might as well go back to camp,” Steve said, mock-sternly. “Thanks to you, we probably won’t catch that croc tonight. You probably scared the living daylights out of him, landing in the water like that.

Training new hunters was the worst and I wonder if Marek had latched onto the fact that I was infact, finding him hard to teach. “It's down! Now shoot it in the head!” I yell, Marek follows my instructions, I peer down to see where he'd shot it. I notice he got the werewolf in the leg I raise my eyebrow “Impressive.” he may have missed the eye but Marek injured it. Marek looks at me “Am I really that hard to teach?” he asks me.

He ran towards the illagers coming up from the water and POW POW POW! He blocked their axe swings and punched them in their faces. “Grab the axes!” Dave yelled to Robo-Steve and Carl. They ran forward and picked up the axes that the injured illagers had dropped, then joined in the fight. Carl wasn’t much help, holding the axe awkwardly in one of his legs, but Dave and Robo-Steve soon had two axes each, and were swinging them wildly at the illagers. “Retreat!” one of the illagers yelled, seeing that the battle was lost. The remaining illagers jumped into the water, and swam away, back to the middle of the lake.

No one cares about an injured leg of a tiny ant It has to be healed for its own walking Such is the norm of nature which seems to be always unwilling to compromise From the poem- Altered

At Shiloh, Ulysses S. Grant had been caught by surprise. Flush off two victories, convinced he had superior resources and tactics, he was confident he would win. Yet he had thrown everything he had at the Confederates and been thrown back. It had begun to pour rain on the troops as they attempted to settle in for the night. Grant had seriously injured his leg in a fall a few weeks before. He is desperately short of reinforcements. Sherman finds him and begins to politely discuss plans for retreat. He says to him, "Well, Grant, we've had the devil's own day, haven't we?" Grant, backlit by the camp lantern, squints as he clamps down on the stub of his cigar, "Yes. Yes. Lick 'em tomorrow, though."p206

Q: Why did the dog’s owner think his dog was a great mathematician? A: He asked the dog what six minus six was and the dog said nothing. Q: Why did the injured dog say he was an actor? A: His leg was in a cast.

Come swim with me,” he says, splashing water toward my legs. “I’m on duty,” I say, and I blow my whistle at one of the boys. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the group and says, “They’re deaf, you know?” He laughs. “Your whistle is pretty ineffectual.” “Then let’s hope they can all swim.” “They’re confined to the shallow end.” He grins at me. I look at the boys. They’re watching Pete from where they’re still hitting the ball back and forth. “They like you,” I say. Of course they do. Everyone likes Pete. Even my dad likes him, though I’m not sure he likes the burgeoning relationship between us. “They like you more,” he says. “I told them I was going to come and put the moves on the pretty lifeguard.” A grin tugs at my lips. He thinks I’m pretty. “You did not.” “Oh, yes, I did.” He smiles, and my heart trips over. “Prepare to be moved, pretty lifeguard.” He hoists himself out of the pool, careful of his injured wrist as he goes up the ladder, and stalks toward me, water sluicing from his body. When he gets close to me, he stops and lays his crossed arms over my lap, and looks up at me. “You don’t mind me touching you, do you?” he asks. My heart’s beating so fast I can’t take a deep breath, but it’s not because I’m afraid of him. He makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. “Apparently, my inner goddess is a slut. Yeah, I read Fifty Orgasms.” He lays his forehead on his folded arms and laughs into the space, his shoulders shaking. I thump him on the top of his closely shaved head. He covers his head with his hand and looks up, scowling at me. “What was that for?” “You laughed at me.” He snorts. “You were talking about Fifty Orgasms. Of course I laughed.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you even know what book I’m talking about?” “Anastasia and what’s his name,” he says with a breezy wave. “I read it.” My mouth falls open. “The last one was the best.” He grins. “His surrender was kind of sweet.” “He didn’t surrender.” “What do you call it then?” He laughs. “He totally changed for her. And he loved every second of it.” I lay back heavily against the chair I’m in and glare at him. “You skipped around and just read the good parts, didn’t you?” He looks offended. “Just because I’m pretty doesn’t mean I’m not smart.

By suppertime the following day, Nic was ready to declare the honeymoon officially over. Her husband was a tyrant. First he demanded she hang a Closed sign on the clinic door and refer her patients to the vet hospital in Creede. No amount of calm, collected insistence that she could still perform her job while on crutches moved him. Next he refused to leave the bathroom while she hung her head over the toilet for her daily dose of morning sickness. Even if she did appreciate his steadying hands at her waist and his help keeping her hair out of the way, that didn’t mean she shouldn’t have control over who accompanied her to the bathroom under what circumstances. Finally, when she mentioned her intention to go to Cavanaugh House after supper for a meeting Celeste had requested, he took it upon himself to arrange for the meeting to be moved to Nic’s house without even asking her if she cared. “Of all the nerve,” she grumbled as she sat in the overstuffed chair in her living room, her injured leg propped on an ottoman, flipping through the mail he’d brought in from the mailbox moments before. The worst part of it was that she knew he was right about just about everything.

With everything that has happened, it would be really easy for me to crawl in a hole and say, “It’s not fair.” But I feel the opposite. A friend of mine asked me once, “If time travel were real, where would you go?” I said, “I would love to go back to when I was first in the hospital. I would go back and tell myself that everything is going to be okay. You are going to have some ups and downs, but you’re going to be fine.” He looked at me and said, “If you could go back in time, why wouldn’t you just go back and stop yourself from being injured?” I said, “I hadn’t thought about that. But I wouldn’t do that.” I wouldn’t change anything that happened to me. If I had a do-over I would want to go through that depression, would want to go through everything that happened. I would want to screw up and end up spending ten days in jail. All those things had to happen for my life to come out the way it did. I wouldn’t change anything. Do I still get pissed from time to time that I have one arm and one leg? Yes, I do. Do I put on a pair of blue jeans and think, Man, from the right side this looks amazing, and then turn and look in the mirror and see that the left side the leg is smaller, the left butt cheek is smaller, and get pissed off? That’s just pure vanity, but yes, it’s there. But then I say, You know what, that’s okay because everything else is good.

Apollo smiled widely as the orderlies transferred the guy to the bed, and Ben took a second glance. The guy was so injured that it was hard to look, what with the heavy bandaging around a shaved head and the bad leg, but his hazel eyes were open and— “Mad?” Ben scarcely dared to hope. “Hey, buddy.” Maddox’s usually deep voice was raspy and thin. “Heard you’re raising hell.” “Always.

But then she started shouting—the same word again and again as Dorian tried to keep dragging her up the stairs. Fleetfoot. Chaol looked. In a dark shadow by the wall, Fleetfoot had been left behind, her leg too injured to run. The creature looked, too. And there was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing, as the creature whirled, grabbed Fleetfoot by her injured hind leg, and dragged her through the portal with it. There was nothing he could do, he realized, except run. Celaena’s scream was still echoing through the passageway as Chaol leapt off the stairs and hurtled through the misty portal after Fleetfoot.

Charles, a footman who had once worked on his father's farm and who loved animals, appeared and came over to help her prepare dishes of boiled chicken and brown rice for the cats and dogs waiting eagerly at their feet. When guests were staying, Charles often assisted with the care of her furry brood. Without asking, he set to work, even taking a few moments to gather fresh meat scraps for Aeolus, her wounded hawk, and cut-up apple and beetroots for Poppy, a convalescing rabbit who had an injured leg. He gave her several more apple quarters for the horses, who got jealous if she didn't bring them treats as well. Once all her cats and dogs were fed, Esme set off for the stables, laden pail in hand, Burr trotting at her heels. She stopped along the way to chat with the gardener and his assistant, who gave her some timothy grass, comfrey and lavender to supplement the hay she regularly fed Poppy.

If I was not in danger, why are you so pale?" I inquired. "Exhaustion," Stefano replied coldly. "The exertion of moving the stone was strenuous, for a cripple." "I can't imagine how you did it," I murmured, letting my eyes linger on the breadth of shoulder, displayed by his wetly clinging shirt. Unperturbed by my regard, Stefano smiled. "Because my leg is injured does not mean all my muscles are atrophied.

Alistair laughs, then I hear the door close and those funny-sounding footsteps coming back upstairs. Is he injured? Maybe he hurt himself trying to put on my pants, which are three or four sizes too small for him. He appears in the doorway a moment later, and I literally choke on my laugh. He didn’t abandon the pants. Nor is he wearing them as a cape or half-assed toga. He’s actually wearing them. Of course, he could only get them about halfway up his tree-trunk legs, so they’re basically acting like shackles, and his goods are still on full display. I sputter as he puts the food down.

His country was starving because those in charge mismanaged the economy to the point that its citizens were so hungry that a child could become injured and lose his leg looking for food. That same government would then scold him for being crippled.

up to Day and said, “Now you are nothing. We have the crown prince.” Day was relieved to be nothing. He wondered who the new guy was and why he was being placed in the cell with him and Overly. The next morning the cell door opened, and a wreck of a man was carried inside on a stretcher and dumped onto the floor. He was in worse shape than Day. Both arms were broken. His leg was broken. A shoulder had been smashed by a rifle butt. He had been stabbed with a bayonet. He was the most severely injured of all the American POWs to enter Hoa Lo. He was near death. Trying to cheer this shell of a man, Day smiled. “I’m Bud Day.” He pointed. “This is Norris Overly.” He paused. “Welcome to the Hilton.” With eyes burning bright with fever, the thin, white-haired young pilot looked up from his stretcher and told his fellow prisoners his rank and name. The rank was lieutenant commander, U.S. Navy. The name was John McCain.

This time it was with FIFA, the organization that oversees soccer throughout the world and organizes the Women’s World Cup. FIFA, along with the Canadian Soccer Association, or CSA, planned to put every game of the 2015 Women’s World Cup on artificial turf, something that had never been proposed for a senior World Cup before, including all 20 men’s World Cups prior. Artificial turf has become a necessity in some climates where it’s hard to maintain grass or at venues that need to stand up to constant use. Where natural grass isn’t a viable option, artificial turf is the next-best alternative. But generally, soccer is supposed to be played on natural grass. Players report getting injured more and recovery time taking longer when they play on artificial turf. Some studies have supported this perception, while some have been inconclusive. But when Sydney Leroux posted a photo of her legs covered with bloody scrapes from slide tackling on artificial turf, it was a clear example of why there’s a consensus among soccer players. Kelley O’Hara responded to Leroux’s photo: “You should probs tweet that to FIFA.” It may be less of an issue in other sports, but in soccer, turf can be especially hard on a player’s body.

By showing me to the injured men, the army told them, This fluffy, cooing thing with its wooden leg is what the public will know of the ravages of war. Your task is to remain unseen. By showing me to the public, the army told them, War is a game, and its costs are light enough to be borne by even this little bird. The burgeoning American empire demanded sacrifices; my job was to help make them acceptable, even entertaining.

By showing me to the injured men, the army told them, This fluffy, cooing thing with its wooden leg is what the public will know of the ravages of war. Your task is to remain unseen. By showing me to the public, the army told them, War is a game, and its costs are light enough to be borne by even this little bird. The burgeoning American empire demanded sacrifices; my job was to help make them acceptable, even entertaining. In that limited and perverted sense, I continued to function as a messenger pigeon.

Every time he was called out, no matter the hour or the condition of the patient, he was there to answer the same implicit question: Should we spend coin at a hospital for this? Whether it was fever, injured leg, vomiting child, or anything, really, they just wanted to know if he could fix it without having to turn their life savings over to the medical bureaucracy.

FROM OTHER SOURCES Pre–race and Venue Homework Get hold of any history of past events at the venue, plus any information that the conducting club may have about weather and expected conditions. Go to the weather bureau and get history for the area. Speak to sailors from your class who have this venue as their home club or who have sailed there on a number of occasions. Boat, Sails, Gear Preparation Checklist Many times the outcome of a race is as dependent on what you have done prior to the race as to what you do out on the course. Sometimes no matter how good your tactics and strategy are a simple breakage could render all that useless. Hull – make sure that your hull is well sanded and polished, centreboard strips are in good condition, venturis if fitted are working efficiently, buoyancy tanks are dry and there are no extraneous pieces of kit in your boat which adds unwanted weight. Update any gear that looks tired or worn especially control lines. Mast, boom and poles – check that all halyards, stays and trapeze wires are not worn or damaged and that pins are secure, knots tight and that anything that can tear a sail or injure flesh is taped. Mark the full hoist position on all halyards. Deck hardware – check all cam cleats for spring tension and tape anything that may cause a sail tear or cut legs hands and arms. Check the length of all sheets and control lines and shorten anything that is too long. This not only reduces weight but also minimises clutter. Have marks on sheets and stick or draw numbers and reference scales for the jib tracks, outhaul and halyards so that you can easily duplicate settings that you know are fast in various conditions. Centreboard and rudder – ensure that all nicks and gouges are filled and sanded and the surfaces are polished and most importantly that rudder safety clips are working. Sails – select the correct battens for the day’s forecast. Write on the deck, with a china graph pencil, things like the starting sequence, courses, tide times and anything else that will remind you to sail fast. Tools and spares – carry a shackle key with screwdriver head on your person along with some spare shackles and short lengths of rope or different diameters. A tool like a Leatherman can be very useful to deal with unexpected breakages that can occur even in the best prepared boat.

When I reach the house, I find Felicity in the surgery with Monty who is—miraculously—awake. It’s a drowsy consciousness, but still, eyes open, sitting up, sort of—propped up—with his injured leg elevated, while Felicity is curled at the other end of the cot, her bare feet against the headboard, picking at the split ends of her plait. They look like children, wedged into one bed, whispering late into the night in the glow of a sputtering candle. Monty tilts his face away from her, and I think maybe he isn’t paying attention, then I realize he’s turned his deaf ear away to be certain he hears her. I watch them for a moment, wondering if they ever passed their nights like this back in Cheshire and feeling suddenly like a dog that has been tied up outside the shop.

How bad,' he asked, his voice hoarse. 'How bad was your injury,' Rhys said mildly, 'or how badly did we have our asses kicked?' Cassian blinked again. Slowly. As if whatever sedative he'd been given still held sway. 'To answer the second question,' Rhys went on, Mor and Azriel backing away a step or two as something sharpened in my mate's voice, 'we managed. Keir took heavy hits, but... we won. Barely. To answer the first...' Rhys bared his teeth. 'Don't you ever pull that kind of shit again.' The glaze wore off Cassian's eyes as he heard the challenge, the anger, and tried to sit up. He hissed, scowling down at the red, angry slice down his chest. 'Your guts were hanging out, you stupid prick,' Rhys snapped. 'Az held them in for you.' Indeed, the Shadowsinger's hands were caked in blood- Cassian's blood. And his face... cold with- anger. 'I'm a soldier,' Cassian said flatly. 'It's part of the job.' 'I gave you an order to wait,' Rhys growled. 'You ignored it.' I glanced to Mor, to Azriel- a silent question of whether we should remain. They were too busy watching Rhys and Cassian to notice. 'The line was breaking,' Cassian retorted. 'Your order was bullshit.' Rhys braced his hands on either side of Cassian's legs and snarled in his face, 'I am your High Lord. You don't get to disregard orders you don't like.' Cassian sat up this time, swearing at the pain lingering in his body. 'Don't you pull rank because you're pissed off-' 'You and your damned theatrics on the battlefield nearly got you killed.' And even as Rhys spat the words- that was panic, again, in his eyes. His voice. 'I'm not pissed. I'm furious.' 'So you're allowed to be mad about our choices to protect you- and we're not allowed to be furious with you for your self-sacrificing bullshit?' Rhys just stared at him. Cassian stared right back. 'You could have died,' was all Rhys said, his voice raw. 'So could you.' Another beat of silence- and in its wake, the anger shifted. Rhys said quietly, 'Even after Hybern... I can't stomach it.' Seeing him hurt. Any of us hurt. And the way Rhys spoke, the way Cassian leaned forward, wincing again, and gripped Rhys's shoulder.... I strode out of the tent. Left them to talk. Azriel and Mor followed behind me.

Grant spent the first part of the night under a tree a few hundred yards from the river bank. His injured ankle was still aching badly, and the cold rain drenched his face and body. The general decided to limp back to the log cabin near the Landing. He reached the building in a few minutes, but found it was being used as an emergency hospital. Several doctors busily dressed wounds or sawed off arms and legs as the case called for. Wounded and delirious soldiers screamed and shrieked in their agony, while orderlies carried outside the amputated limbs. After a few minutes of this, Grant decided he preferred the rain, and he returned to the comparative sanity of his tree.

Like other eastern tribes, the Cherokee played a ball game similar to lacrosse. Called "the friend or companion of battle," or simply "little brother of war," these stickball games were very rough--there were often broken bones, torn muscles, cuts, and bruises. Elaborate rituals preceded the game. If someone wanted a contest, he gathered his friends and sent a challenge to another town. If the town accepted the challenge, people were selected for various tasks: an elderly man to oversee the game, a person to sing for the players, another to whoop, and a musician for seven women who danced on the seventh night of preparations for the game. The night before the game, players danced together around the fire with their ball sticks, pretending that they were playing. Then they hung up their sticks, went to a brisk stream, and bathed seven times, after which they went to bed. At daybreak, the shaman took them to the creek again. During their preparations the players were not allowed to go near women and they could not eat meat or anything hot or salty. Seven women were chosen to prepare meals of cold bread and a drink of parched cornmeal and water. The men could not be served by women, so boys brought the food to them. During the day the men were scratched with rattlesnake fangs or turkey quills to toughen them for the "little brother of war." The two teams gathered on a large field where goalposts were set up at each end. Players paired off, the referee threw the ball up in the air between the two captains, and a mad scramble ensued. The game was "anything goes," and there was biting, gouging, choking, scratching, twisting arms and legs, and banging each other with the wooden rackets. The object of the game was to carry the ball between the goals twelve times. The first team with twelve wooden pegs stuck in the ground by the shaman won the game. There was no time limit and often the game went on until dark. There was also no time-out or substitution. If a player was injured, he and the opponent with whom he was paired both left the game. Cherokee gathered from throughout the mountains to watch and bet on these hotly contested games.

Historically, wolf trappers staked traps in the earth so that a trapped animal was stuck at a single location. This made it easier for the trapper to find his quarry, but it caused a great deal of stress for the animal. Stake-trapped animals often struggle so violently against the metal clinching their legs that they severely injure themselves. By not staking their traps, and by adding features like a drag with a coil spring and swivel - which reduces the strain from the pointed prongs when it’s being dragged - the red wolf program allows a trapped animal to continue moving and to seek refuge. In theory, this makes the trapping experience less stressful, both physically and mentally, for the animals. It can also make them harder to locate. “Please take it off,” I blurted. The sight of the metal trap biting Ryan’s hand shot adrenaline up and down my spine. Even though he claimed it didn’t hurt, I still expected geysers of blood to spout at any second. Ryan paused, clearly taken aback. Then he grinned like a jester and doubled over in laughter at me. When he freed himself and slipped off the glove, a faint purple pressure mark wrapped around his fingers. He often demonstrated this to groups sans glove.

In the morning, we’d take an injured person to the hospital with a gunshot wound in his leg. That night, we’d return to find him dead with a gunshot to the head.

if my billboard were in Marin County (or another big cycling destination) it would just say, “When my legs hurt, I say, ‘Shut up, legs! Do what I tell you to do!’” This gem is from Jens Voigt, a legendary cyclist who is famous for his willingness to work extra hard for his team, no matter how fatigued or injured. Building a startup is very much an endurance sport, and cycling never fails to provide an inspirational anecdote, quote, or metaphor. Another Voigt favorite is, “If it hurts me, it must hurt the other ones twice as much.

Finally, it was our turn and my stomach churned with anxiety and nerves. As we raced out onto the stage to form our positions before the curtain went up, Sara turned to me and said, “Break a leg, Julia!” “What?” I frowned. “That’s for good luck,” she smirked and then faced the audience whose applause was deafening once again. We lunged into our routine, with Sara in the front row, doing the somersaults that she was so good at and as usual, her precision and timing were excellent. The applause erupted again and with a flick of her long ponytail, she executed a very tricky interchange with Alex and then moved to the back. Alex attacked his moves with his usual gusto and the sharp, expressive movements which made him the stand out hip-hop dancer that he was. I felt a rush of pride at being a part of such a cool routine but just as I moved to the front position, I felt my leg give way under me. It was a completely involuntary reaction and one I was powerless to prevent. I was supposed to kneel down and support the weight of one of the smaller girls on my bent knee but unfortunately, it was the leg that I had injured that morning. There was no way I could bear her weight and the sharp pain caused my knee to drop just as Abbie pressed down on it to raise herself into the air. With a gasp from the audience, she went tumbling to the ground. Bright red with embarrassment, she glared at me in horror and all I could do was help her up and try to resume the timing and movements of the routine going on around us. Fortunately, Abbie had no trouble getting back into rhythm, but I just seemed to lose my place and was not able to recover. As if in slow motion, I felt myself limping around the stage after the others and then looking down, I realized that blood was oozing from my leg and onto the floor. I tried to ignore it and focus on the moves that I knew so well, but I was simply unable to get it together. Gratefully, Millie took over my spot and I moved once again to the back row, trying to camouflage myself amongst the others. The scene around me was almost surreal and I felt as though I were a spectator watching the event unfold from afar. The swirling, twisting and turning of the dancers in front of me, along with the steady thumping beat of the latest hip-hop song that everyone knew so well, all seemed to mesh together into a whirlpool of crazy colors and sounds. Then, feeling a slight nudge in my lower back, I was pushed towards the front of the stage. An instant flash of recall had me leaping into the air. Everyone still considered this moment the highlight of our routine. It was the grand finale and my chance to relinquish my status as actually being a decent dancer and choreographer. Flinging my arms and legs forward, I came down onto the stage, one foot at a time. Then reminiscent of that morning’s episode in the school driveway, rather than gripping onto the stage in a final dramatic stomp, my foot slid forward and just kept on going until my whole body landed horizontally on the floor with a loud bang. In a blur of dizziness, I sat up and looked around then saw that I had slipped on a pool of blood; blood that had oozed from the gash in my knee and onto the stage. At that very moment, I was overcome with a sudden rush of nausea and unable to stop the sudden convulsion, I vomited all over the floor in front of me. Too terrified to open my eyes, I wished I could turn back the clock. Back to the day of our dress rehearsal when everything had gone so smoothly. My final leap had been the high point of the day, where even Miss Sheldon and also Alex our expert hip hop dancer, had congratulated me on my performance. I dared to glance fearfully out into the audience. Everyone appeared aghast and I could see the shocked expressions of my mom and dad. Then, realizing I was surrounded by worried faces peering down at me, everything suddenly went black.

He swallowed hard, and stared into the corner. “I never wanted you to see me like that. When a man faces death, he meets the animal lurking inside him. When it’s hand to hand, blade to blade, kill or be killed . . .” Defiant green eyes met hers, and he slapped a hand to his scar. “The man who did this to me— I killed him. With his bayonet stuck in my flesh, I reached out and grabbed him by the throat and watched his eyes bulge from his skull as he suffocated at my hand.” She would not react, Cecily told herself, calmly dabbing at his wound. That’s what he expected, what he feared— her reaction of revulsion or disgust. “And he wasn’t the only one,” he continued. “To learn what violence you’re truly capable of, in those moments . . . It’s a burden I’d not wish on anyone.” She risked a glance at him then. “Burdens are lighter when they’re shared.” Luke swore. “I’ve shared too much of it with you already. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” “You can tell me anything. I’ll still love you. And I warn you, I’ve learned something of tenacity in the past four years. I’m not going to let you go.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Sometimes, I scarcely feel human anymore. The brutal way I took down that boar, Cecily. That barbarism with the stocking . . .” “Ah, yes.” She put aside her handkerchief and stood. “The stocking.” She propped one boot on the stool and slowly rucked up her skirts to reveal her stocking-clad leg. “Cecy . . .” “Yes, Luke?” She leaned over to untie the laces of her boot, giving him an eyeful of her décolletage. He groaned. “Cecy, what are you doing?” “Tending to your wounds,” she said, slipping the boot from her foot. With sure fingers, she unknotted the ribbon garter at her thigh, then eased the stocking down her leg. “Making it better.” Skirts still hiked thigh-high, she straddled his legs and nestled on his lap. “Shh.” She quieted his objection, then deftly wound the length of flannel around his injured arm, tucking in the end to secure it. “There,” she said in a husky voice, lowering her lips to the underside of his wrist. “All better.” “I wasn’t after your damn stocking,” he blurted out. “When I took you to the ground last night and pushed up your skirts. By all that’s holy, I wanted—” With a muttered oath, he gripped her by the shoulders, hauling her further into his lap. Until she felt the hard ridge of his arousal, pressing insistently against her cleft. “Cecily, what I want from you is not tender. It’s not romantic in the least. It’s plunder. It’s possession. If you had the least bit of sense, you’d turn and run from—” She kissed him hard, raking his back with her fingernails and clutching his thighs between hers like a vise. Boldly, she sucked his lower lip into her mouth and gave it a sharp nip, savoring his startled moan. Wriggling backward, she placed her hands over his, dragging them downward and molding his fingers around her breasts. “For God’s sake, Luke. You’re not the only one with animal urges.” He took her mouth, growling against her lips as he did.

He didn’t need to get up and look in the ornate, gilt-edged mirror over the massive fireplace to know that calamitous was the accurate word for his face. His right eye drooped, and the right half of his face was a gnarled mess of scar tissue. He was missing a small chunk of his nose on the right side, and he wore his hair shaggy to conceal the scar where his right ear used to be. But no amount of hairstyling could conceal the fact that his right arm was missing below the elbow. And his right leg, also injured in the blast, would always cause him to walk with a slight limp. Once a handsome young man, he was now a monster. A beast.

Later, some kind of animal—Gloyd described it to him as a six-legged mammal, half mouth—vaulted from a burrow and tore into one of the injured. It took five exhausted sentries to slay the beast. One of Devore’s mining specialists cast a chunk of the creature’s body into the campfire and sampled a piece. She vomited blood and died within heartbeats.

By the time they reached Selchester, Hugo’s leg hurt like hell. It was a gritted-teeth job, and he struggled not to wince every time he had to change gear. Georgia was sitting beside him; she gave her brother a glance or two but didn’t offer any sympathy. She’d said more than once that since his leg was the way it was, he would just have to get used to it, which practical and pragmatic response to his injury rather pleased him. But at the moment he wasn’t thinking of Georgia, or how he’d injured his leg, or regretting what it had done to him. He was just wondering if he could last out until they got to Selchester Castle and he could climb out of the car. They had stopped on the way, more often than he would have done in the old days, but nonetheless it was a four-hour drive from London and the longest stretch of time behind the wheel he’d attempted since he’d been shot.

I'm not a masochist. I don't want to be hurt. Or injured. Just... pushed. I want that sort of... effacement, I guess... where my rationality is dissolved by sensation, emotion, adrenaline, all that. Like when you bike or run, and you think you've hit the wall and have to stop because your lungs don't seem to be able to suck in enough air, your heart is pounding so hard it hurts, and your legs feel soft, like you're just going to fall down. But you keep going, and after a while, it's almost like floating. Like you're apart from your body, but at the same time you feel, hear, see everything with this unfamiliar intensity. Or when you eat too much chili pepper or wasabe, and you feel your body respond, it's not a thought process. Your veins throb, you sweat, there's a weird euphoria. And there's pain, too. You can't stop it. You just have to wait for it to pass, and while you do, you, your reality is subsumed in the... transcendence of the pain. Krylov, Varian (2008-05-19). Abduction (Kindle Locations 9214-9221). eXcessica. Kindle Edition.

I risked a quick glance over my shoulder as we raced through the door and saw some men in uniforms converging on the spot we had been fighting. The three weres were lying on the floor, all obviously injured. Three Wolf Moon’s leg was bent at a wrong angle and Tribal Tattoos was holding his arm and howling. Brass Knuckles was still scrabbling at his bleeding neck, sobbing like a little girl that he had been bitten.

Many days had passed since the stoats had attacked the WindClan camp. Most of the injured cats had recovered, though Crowfeather still felt a twinge of pain when he put his weight on his wounded hind leg. Leafpool and Mothwing had returned to their own Clans and now sat close to the Great Oak with their fellow medicine cats.

It’s the cats who trained with the Dark Forest who are fighting hardest, Crowfeather realized. They’re throwing themselves into the worst of the battle. As he looked around, Crowfeather’s heart swelled with pride as he saw his Clanmates, who had suffered so much suspicion after the mistake they’d made, showing their loyalty by risking their lives for their Clan. At the same time, rage against the stoats gave him new strength and energy. A stoat rushed at him, rearing up to attack him with both forepaws. Crowfeather ducked underneath its forelegs, and as the stoat landed, he spun around to fasten his teeth in its throat. He pinned it to the ground, his paws gripping it determinedly until he felt a warm rush of blood; the stoat went limp and he tossed it aside. Looking up, he found himself staring into the face of Nightcloud. “Neat kill,” she commented. “Leave some for the rest of us, won’t you?” As she spoke, a stoat dived for her, leaping up to land on her back. But before it could get a firm grip on her, Crowfeather lashed out with one forepaw, knocking it to the ground. Nightcloud sank her claws into its throat; the stoat twitched and lay still. She gave Crowfeather a nod of gratitude before turning back to the battle. Crowfeather and Nightcloud fought together, standing tail to tail as they turned in a circle, paws striking out at the endless surge of stoats. As soon as they killed or injured one, another would take its place. The white bodies, the small, malignant eyes and snarling fangs, seemed to Crowfeather like something out of a nightmare. He could only go on struggling, grateful for Nightcloud’s steady presence beside him. Then pain exploded in Crowfeather’s shoulder. He turned his head to see a stoat gripping him with its claws, while a splash of drool on his muzzle warned him it was going for his throat. Crowfeather couldn’t shake it off; he dropped to the ground, buying time, but the pressing weight of the frenzied creature made him feel there was no escape. The angle of their bodies meant that he couldn’t batter at it with his hind legs. StarClan, help me! he prayed. The stoat abruptly vanished. Crowfeather looked up to see Nightcloud holding it by the scruff, shaking it vigorously, then tossing it away into the crowd. “Thanks,” Crowfeather gasped, scrambling to his paws. “Anytime,” Nightcloud responded. They turned as one to attack two other stoats that dived in from opposite directions. Even while his body remembered his battle moves, Crowfeather could reflect on how well he and Nightcloud fought together, how well they knew each other. We may not be in love, but we make a fierce team on the battlefield. I know she’ll fight ferociously for me, and for all her Clanmates. Crowfeather’s reflections were interrupted by a screech of pain. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Lionblaze fall, the golden tabby warrior overwhelmed beneath a swarm of stoats. Crowfeather leaped toward him, only to run into what

protests. A wound like that was incredibly dangerous. If he didn’t get her to a healer soon, he knew Mara would die. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. After a long while, he was too tired to carry her, so he rested for a bit, his breath heaving and stiff arms and legs protesting. Even though it was almost dark, Talis could see that Mara’s face looked white as chalk. He had to keep going, no matter what, no matter how much his legs and back burned from carrying her. By the time he spotted the City of Naru from afar, moonlight sent long, wiry shadows across the hillside leading up to the towering stone walls. He told himself he could do it. No matter how hard it was to continue carrying her, he was determined to bring her home alive. Lights flickered from countless braziers mounted hundreds of feet high on the upper part of the city. Naru stood ominous under the garish light of the four moon sisters and as the evening gong sounded from atop a watchtower, Talis knew he had made it. He stumbled toward the main gates, barely able to stand. A group of soldiers making their rounds noticed and ran over to help. “Young Master Talis, what’s wrong?” said Baratis, the captain of the guard. His eyes blazed in fear at the sight of Mara. “Is she alive?” “I can’t talk now… open the gates… she’s hurt!” “Carem and Jorem! Help them,” Baratis shouted. “You! Ride and fetch a healer. Have them run straightaway to House Lei. Now go!” Two soldiers lifted Mara from Talis' arms and carried her while another raced atop a horse into the city. Massive steel shafts stared down at them from inside the stone walls as they jogged past. If they weren’t quick about it, she would die. Ahead, Talis could see a soldier speed off on horseback. He prayed that the healer would arrive in time. He ran ahead, urging them to run faster. Past the gate was the Arena of the Sej Elders, formed of gigantic white granite blocks, rising over everything in the lower part of the city. Stone towers lined the wide avenue leading up to the arena. They had to move faster. The soldiers’ boots clapped against the cobblestone streets as they marched past the arena, finally winding up and around until they reached the gates of the upper city. Up the snaking rise, they charged past merchant shops and eyes that gawked at the soldiers carrying Mara. They continued on to the highest part of the city, beneath the Temple of the Goddess Nestria, the Goddess of the Sky. To Mara’s house, the House of Viceroy Lei and Lady Malvia, daughter of the king and second in line to the throne. They were going to be furious; Talis knew he was in serious trouble for going with Mara out on the hunt. But he couldn’t think of that, all that mattered was Mara’s life. As the soldiers carried her into the white marble mansion, Talis worried her wounds were too grave to cure. Today was the worst day and he blamed himself. Why hadn’t he stopped Mara from going after the boar? He could have scared it off. She would have been angry at him, but at least she wouldn’t be injured. Two servants ran up and gasped when they noticed Mara. They quickly helped her inside, shouting for help.

Rising Hawk was dozing in the longhouse when the hanging on his sleeping compartment ripped aside. “A baby? What were you thinking of?” Rising Hawk blinked owlishly at Gideon. Ephraim was standing off to the side, looking guilty. “I had to tell them, Rising Hawk. For Livy’s sake.” Rising Hawk struggled into a sitting position. “As soon as you can stand on your own, I’m beating the stuffin’ out of you,” Gideon promised. “Whose baby?” “Livy’s! The one you fathered on her. We know. She told the Wilkeses. You idiot!” “Rising Hawk, it was the meanest thing I ever saw,” Eph broke in. “One minute old Mrs. Wilkes was bleating over Livy like she was her lost lamb. The next, she’s sending her to hell and back for being a fornicator. She locked her in the cellar overnight and wouldn’t even let her eat breakfast in the house, but made her sit out in the yard.” “Servant girl with a bastard ain’t that shocking,” Gideon said grimly. “But you’re an Indian, Rising Hawk. Do you have any notion of the sorrow you’ve brought down on that child?” Polly looked in, one hand laid instinctively over her own flat stomach. “Rising Hawk. How could you?” “She told them I gave her a belly?” He struggled to the edge of the bed, dragging his injured leg painfully over the side. “Brother, give me your hand,” he said impatiently.

I remember Manjrekar admonishing me for rolling the ball back down the pitch. (I was keeping wickets with our regular keeper injured.) Polly Umrigar in a friendly match at CCI, as soon as he came in, would not play balls on his leg toward short leg preferring to take them on his thigh-pad till he was set; such was the seriousness and professional attitude the Bombay player displayed. And the more senior you were, the greater was the discipline for they saw themselves as role models. This was not evident in Madras or Bangalore where players who had made the grade often thought they were above the law and the code of conduct that was preached. Venkataraghavan was the exception—apart from talent, his discipline, fitness and work ethic has ensured that he is till today, the most successful cricketer from Tamil Nadu.

Office and Classroom Tools—Have the child cut with scissors; use a stapler and hole puncher; draw with crayons and chalk; paint with brushes, feathers, sticks, and eyedroppers; squeeze glue onto paper in letters or designs, sprinkle sparkles on the glue, and shake off the excess; and wrap boxes with brown paper, tape, and string. MOTOR PLANNING Jumping from a Table—Place a gym mat beside a low table and encourage the child to jump. After each landing, stick tape on the mat to mark the spot. Encourage the child to jump farther each time. Walking Like Animals—Encourage the child to lumber like a bear, on all fours; a crab, from side to side on all fours; a turtle, creeping; a snake, crawling; an inchworm, by stretching flat and pulling her knees toward her chest; an ostrich, while grasping her ankles; a duck, squatting; a frog, squatting and jumping; a kangaroo or bunny, jumping; a lame dog, with an “injured” leg; a gorilla, bending her knees; a horse, galloping. Playground Games—Remember Simon Says, Ring-Around-the-Rosy, The Hokey-Pokey, London Bridge, Shoo Fly, and Mother, May I? Insy-Outsy—Teach the child to get in and out of clothes, the front door, and the car. With a little help, the child may become able to perform these tasks independently, even if it takes a long time!

not all as bad as that one.’ She turned off the engine. ‘Let’s get to work.’ ‘’Ere come the angels to the rescue,’ a man called out as Frankie and Winnie carried the stretcher over to where the injured stevedore lay on the ground, his face pale and pinched-looking with pain. ‘You telephoned and we came.’ Winnie smiled at the men. ‘Frankie, would you like to do the honours?’ ‘Of course.’ After they’d laid the stretcher down, Frankie quickly examined the man’s leg, gently feeling along his thigh. ‘Ow, that ’urts.’ ‘Sorry.’ Frankie smiled at him. ‘I needed to check where the break is. Now I’m going to splint your legs together so they won’t move around too much on the way to hospital.’ ‘’Ave you done this before?’ the man asked as Frankie unpacked some splints and bandages from her bag. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Frankie’s an expert; she’s splinted up hundreds of broken bones.’ Winnie knelt down near the man’s head and patted his shoulder. ‘I can assure you that you’re in

The farm is saved, hurrah!” Jade said without enthusiasm. She looked me over, pursing her lips at my sallow complexion and gimpy leg. Her expression made me thankful I wasn’t an injured horse. They scowled at my shaggy hair and thickening beard; nor were they pleased by my leather jacket, slacks, and scuffed Doc Martens. Tinhorn, city slicker, ne’er-do-well, is what my Big & Tall duds said about me. How much did they know of my background? No telling what lies Mr. Apollo had fed them, no telling what manner of bargain he’d struck.

Already she felt the loss of him, of their unique closeness. Somehow she knew there would never be another man, another time in her life when she laughed and talked the way they had and was totally accepted and comfortable. “You don’t need to say anything else, Mikhail. I ‘saw’ your ‘little scratch’ firsthand. You were right; you weren’t alone out there--I was watching. Honesty in my language means truth.” Raven took a deep breath, tugged off the ring, and laid it carefully, regretfully, on the small table beside the bed. “I’m sorry, Mikhail, I really am. I know I’m letting you down, but I don’t fit into this world of yours. I don’t understand it, or the rules. Please do me the courtesy of staying away, of not trying to contact me. We both know I’m no real match for you. I’m leaving on the first available train.” She turned and started toward the door. It flew shut with a loud crash. She stared at it, not turning around. The air was thick with tension, with some dark feeling, one she couldn’t put a name to. “I don’t think it’s going to do any good to prolong this. You need help right now. Obviously however they intend to help you is some secret thing not to be shown to outsiders. I am just that--an outsider. Let me go home where I belong, Mikhail, and let them help you now.” “Leave us,” Mikhail ordered the others. “You need…,” Eric began, but broke off under Mikhail’s black scowl. With a sigh he followed the others out and closed the door. “Raven, come here to me, please. I am weak and it would take most of my strength to come to you.” There was gentleness in his voice, an honesty she found heartbreaking. She closed her eyes against the power in his voice, the soft caressing tone that rubbed sensuously like black velvet over her skin and crawled into her body, wrapping itself around her heart. “Not this time, Mikhail. We not only live in two different worlds, we have two separate value systems. We tried--I know you wanted to--but I can’t do this. Maybe I never could have. It happened too fast and we don’t really know one another.” “Raven.” Heat curled in her very name. “Come here to me.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I can’t, Mikhail. If I let you get around me again, I’ll lose respect for myself.” “Then I have no choice but to come to you.” He shifted his weight, using his hands to move his injured leg. “No!” Alarmed, she whirled around. “Stop it, Mikhail. I’m calling the others back inside.” She pressed him back among the pillows. His hand caught the nape of her neck with unexpected strength. “You are the only reason I am living right now. I told you I would make mistakes. You cannot give up on me, on us. You do know me, everything important. You can look into my mind and know I need you. I would never hurt you.