Kids On The Slope Quotes

I remembered the things we used to talk about, the things we'd planned. But now I wanted other things, new things, like the career that people at work kept telling me I was sure to have. I'd probably want the house and the kids and the husband one day, but not yet. There were so many things I wanted to do between now and then. I also knew that Park Slope wasn't the only place in planet to plant a flower garden. There were even better places out there somewhere.

Our staunch ideals of how we will raise our children get significantly reshaped by those very kids once they’re here in the world running us ragged, wearing down our defenses, leaving us no choice but to embark on that slippery slope and say, “Just this once!” to stop the whining.

And you can glance out the window for a moment, distracted by the sound of small kids playing a made-up game in a neighbor's yard, some kind of kickball maybe, and they speak in your voice, or piggyback races on the weedy lawn, and it's your voice you hear, essentially, under the glimmerglass sky, and you look at the things in the room, offscreen, unwebbed, the tissued grain of the deskwood alive in light, the thick lived tenor of things, the argument of things to be seen and eaten, the apple core going sepia in the lunch tray, and the dense measures of experience in a random glance, the monk's candle reflected in the slope of the phone, hours marked in Roman numerals, and the glaze of the wax, and the curl of the braided wick, and the chipped rim of the mug that holds your yellow pencils, skewed all crazy, and the plied lives of the simplest surface, the slabbed butter melting on the crumbled bun, and the yellow of the yellow of the pencils, and you try to imagine the word on the screen becoming a thing in the world, taking all its meanings, its sense of serenities and contentments out into the streets somehow, its whisper of reconciliation, a word extending itself ever outward, the tone of agreement or treaty, the tone of repose, the sense of mollifying silence, the tone of hail and farewell, a word that carries the sunlit ardor of an object deep in drenching noon, the argument of binding touch, but it's only a sequence of pulses on a dullish screen and all it can do is make you pensive--a word that spreads a longing through the raw sprawl of the city and out across the dreaming bournes and orchards to the solitary hills. Peace.

She missed the autumn weekends at somebody's country house, leaf-fall and touch football, kids tumbling down grassy slopes, leaders and followers, all watched by a pair of tall slender dogs poised on their haunches like figures in myth.

You have to walk differently on roofs,” Alec told him. He took Rafael’s hands in his, showing him how. “Like this, because they slope. Do it like me.” It was oddly nice, to teach a child these things. He’d had all sorts of plans to teach his little brother, when he got older, but his baby brother hadn’t lived to be older. “When will you give your parents a real grandchild?” he’d heard Irina Cartwright ask Isabelle after a Clave meeting. “By the Angel,” said Isabelle. “Is Max imaginary?” Irina paused, then laughed. “A Shadowhunter child, to teach our ways. Nobody would give those people a Shadowhunter child. Imagine a warlock around one of our little ones! And that kind of behavior. Children are so impressionable. It wouldn’t be right.” Isabelle went for her whip. Alec dragged his sister back. “You Lightwood kids are out of control and out of your minds,” muttered Irina. Jace had appeared beside Alec and Isabelle, and given Irina a radiant smile. “Yes, we are.

From what Natalie could observe, by middle age, every person's life had rolled some distance downhill, even if it was a very gentle slope, coming to rest at a place of disappointment. Some spheres of an individual's life might have gone spectacularly well but there would always be an obstinate slab of disappointment in another department - a stalled career, inability to have kids, a dismal marriage, whatever.

That’s really sweet of you, O,” Bellamy said. She shrugged. “No big deal. The little kids aren’t the ones we should be pissed at. It’s their parents who locked us up.” She was trying to sound blasé, but Bellamy knew that growing up in the Colony’s care center had given her a soft spot for orphaned kids. “Come on, Leo,” she said, reaching out for his hand. “I’ll show you where the bunny lives.” She looked at Bellamy. “You going to be okay out here?” she asked. Bellamy nodded. “It’s just for today. Once things settle down, we’ll come up with a plan.” “Okay… be careful.” She smiled and turned to Leo. “Let’s go, kiddo.” Bellamy stared after them and felt something in his chest twinge as he watched Octavia hop down the slope, pretending to be a rabbit in order to make Leo laugh. She

People who don’t read science fiction, but who have at least given it a fair shot, often say they’ve found it inhuman, elitist, and escapist. Since its characters, they say, are both conventionalized and extraordinary, all geniuses, space heroes, superhackers, androgynous aliens, it evades what ordinary people really have to deal with in life, and so fails an essential function of fiction. However remote Jane Austen’s England is, the people in it are immediately relevant and revelatory—reading about them we learn about ourselves. Has science fiction anything to offer but escape from ourselves? The cardboard-character syndrome was largely true of early science fiction, but for decades writers have been using the form to explore character and human relationships. I’m one of them. An imagined setting may be the most appropriate in which to work out certain traits and destinies. But it’s also true that a great deal of contemporary fiction isn’t a fiction of character. This end of the century isn’t an age of individuality as the Elizabethan and the Victorian ages were. Our stories, realistic or otherwise, with their unreliable narrators, dissolving points of view, multiple perceptions and perspectives, often don’t have depth of character as their central value. Science fiction, with its tremendous freedom of metaphor, has sent many writers far ahead in this exploration beyond the confines of individuality—Sherpas on the slopes of the postmodern. As for elitism, the problem may be scientism: technological edge mistaken for moral superiority. The imperialism of high technocracy equals the old racist imperialism in its arrogance; to the technophile, people who aren’t in the know/in the net, who don’t have the right artifacts, don’t count. They’re proles, masses, faceless nonentities. Whether it’s fiction or history, the story isn’t about them. The story’s about the kids with the really neat, really expensive toys. So “people” comes to be operationally defined as those who have access to an extremely elaborate fast-growth industrial technology. And “technology” itself is restricted to that type. I have heard a man say perfectly seriously that the Native Americans before the Conquest had no technology. As we know, kiln-fired pottery is a naturally occurring substance, baskets ripen in the summer, and Machu Picchu just grew there. Limiting humanity to the producer-consumers of a complex industrial growth technology is a really weird idea, on a par with defining humanity as Greeks, or Chinese, or the upper-middle-class British. It leaves out a little too much. All fiction, however, has to leave out most people. A fiction interested in complex technology may legitimately leave out the (shall we say) differently technologized, as a fiction about suburban adulteries may ignore the city poor, and a fiction centered on the male psyche may omit women. Such omission may, however, be read as a statement that advantage is superiority, or that the white middle class is the whole society, or that only men are worth writing about. Moral and political statements by omission are legitimated by the consciousness of making them, insofar as the writer’s culture permits that consciousness. It comes down to a matter of taking responsibility. A denial of authorial responsibility, a willed unconsciousness, is elitist, and it does impoverish much of our fiction in every genre, including realism.

Leaving our baby to cry also changes us as parents. We have to turn off our natural empathy for our baby, the same empathy that is so essential to helping our child develop emotional intelligence. Our natural tendency to see things from her perspective diminishes a bit, so we’re likely to find parenting harder. Leaving our child alone to cry can be the first step on a slippery slope of disconnection that erodes both our ability to be the responsive parent our child needs and our own satisfaction as a parent.

She tucks light brown hair behind her ears, rubbing her thumbs over each lobe twice, before her hands drop to her sides. It’s a calming gesture Nonna taught us when we were kids, insisting the ears are the gateway to healing the rest of our bodies. She’d say the things we allowed ourselves to hear had the potential to poison our minds, and that once the mind was poisoned, it was a slippery slope before the rest of our bodies wilted as well.

A Gathering of Frogs by Stewart Stafford Through the fence with friends, And into the back field frontier, Past the growing pile of lumber, Shivers for the Halloween bonfire. Down the slope to a boundary hedge, Rusty bathtub lying like a crime scene, And into the deepening marsh beyond, For the ritual kidnapping of frogspawn. Frogs leap through reeds and tall grass, The bulbous jelly of many eyes located, Scooped surgically into a container, Up to our fort to study our live plunder. Tongues of smoke from our twig fire, On the derelict path between estates, Crisps consumed in the darkening chill, Then, satiated, a walk home for dinner. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

They're kidding themselves, of course. Our sky can go from lapis to tin in the blink of an eye. Blink again and your latte's diluted. And that's just fine with me. I thrive here on the certainty that no matter how parched my glands, how anhydrous the creek beds, how withered the weeds in the lawn, it's only a matter of time before the rains come home. The rains will steal down from the Sasquatch slopes. They will rise with the geese from the marshes and sloughs. Rain will fall in sweeps, it will fall in drones, it will fall in cascades of cheap Zen jewelry. And it will rain a fever. And it will rain a sacrifice. And it will rain sorceries and saturnine eyes of the totem. Rain will primitivize the cities, slowing every wheel, animating every gutter, diffusing commercial neon into smeary blooms of esoteric calligraphy. Rain will dramatize the countryside, sewing pearls into every web, winding silk around every stump, redrawing the horizon line with a badly frayed brush dipped in tea and quicksilver. And it will rain an omen. And it will rain a trance. And it will rain a seizure. And it will rain dangers and pale eggs of the beast. Rain will pour for days unceasing. Flooding will occur. Wells will fill with drowned ants, basements with fossils. Mossy-haired lunatics will roam the dripping peninsulas. Moisture will gleam on the beak of the Raven. Ancient shamans, rained from their rest in dead tree trunks, will clack their clamshell teeth in the submerged doorways of video parlors. Rivers will swell, sloughs will ferment. Vapors will billow from the troll-infested ditches, challenging windshield wipers, disgusing intentions and golden arches. Water will stream off eaves and umbrellas. It will take on the colors of beer signs and headlamps. It will glisten on the claws of nighttime animals. And it will rain a screaming. And it will rain a rawness. And it will rain a disorder, and hair-raising hisses from the oldest snake in the world. Rain will hiss on the freeways. It will hiss around the prows of fishing boats. It will hiss in the electrical substations, on the tips of lit cigarettes, and in the trash fires of the dispossessed. Legends will wash from desecrated burial grounds, graffiti will run down alley walls. Rain will eat the old warpaths, spill the huckleberries, cause toadstools to rise like loaves. It will make poets drunk and winos sober, and polish the horns of the slugs. And it will rain a miracle. And it will rain a comfort. And it will rain a sense of salvation from the philistinic graspings of the world. Yes, I am here for the weather. And when I am lowered at last into a pit of marvelous mud, a pillow of fern and skunk cabbage beneath my skull, I want my epitaph to read, IT RAINED ON HIS PARADE, AND HE WAS GLAD!

dragging Katie with her, half-patting her back as she slid the cardboard box onto the island. In the box, Ariel’s phone dinged with a new message alert. Ariel picked it up as she scooped Katie into a full hug, making soothing shushing noises. She let her daughter cry into her shoulder, waiting it out. Over Katie’s shoulder, Ariel opened the screen for her messages. Maybe it would be Dylan, with some uplifting birthday getaway planned that would help both Ariel and Katie get over this awful day. But it wasn’t. Ariel gaped at the phone screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The text was from Dylan, but it wasn’t anywhere near about mistletoe and ski slopes. It simply said: This just isn’t working out. It seems like we’re going in different

I became the quintessential stereotype of the spoiled rich kid with too much money and too little sense. Alcohol, drugs, shady dealings with even shadier people, I had started down a slippery slope without a care about what I was doing or where I was going to end up.

A winter only sport where slopes covered in snow are glided on with a uniquely style board. It requires plenty of balance and food control. The idea is to race down a track on the board and reach a finish line in the fastest time possible. Some events include jumps and tricks.

Participants go down slopes with their feet attached to skis. This takes quite a bit of lower body strength and balance to stay on the course. While it is a fun sport to do on your own, there are also competitive levels of skiing you can participate in, including in the Winter Olympics.

I started on the bunny hill with the kids and on the second day got a little too over confident.  I also misinterpreted the symbols on the trail marks for the degree of difficulty and managed to find myself at the top of the mountain and the beginning of a double Black Diamond run.   I had no idea until I discovered the only way down was to ski, and that the double Black Diamond meant “For Experts Only.”      Marguerite had gotten off at a rest area, found a nice table outside, got a cup of hot tea and rented a telescope so she could watch me ski down the mountain.       She got a ski show all right; about 200 yards down the slope I lost complete control.  I saw the sky and ground so many times as I tumbled I lost count and when I did come to rest it was at the bottom of the run and I was minus a ski.  A nice Swiss couple had retrieved it for me and it wasn’t until they gave it back that I realized just how lethal a runaway downhill ski could be, I was damned lucky it didn’t go through somebody down the mountain.      I realized I was over matched and stuck with the bunny hill for the rest of the day.

But more than the sins themselves, what upset her most was the effort the community put into covering up for the sinners, leaving their victims at the mercy of their tormentors, and all for the sake of preserving the unity of the village against the outside world. She thought bitterly of the pamphlets strewn around town, calling for a popular uprising against the new ski slope. There was so much activism against the “invasion,” yet nobody had lifted a finger to help these kids.

3 ALICIA Seven hours. That’s how much time had passed since Alicia collected two-and-a-half-year-old Theo from the police station and brought him to his new foster home. Seven hours since he scampered out of her grasp and disappeared under the dining room table. Seven hours since Alicia sat on the linoleum floor and promised him she would wait until he was ready to come out. Alicia always kept her promises to the kids. Which meant now she might have to die on this linoleum floor. “Hey, buddy, I think Bluey might be on the TV,” Alicia tried, without much hope. “Should we go and see?” Theo didn’t turn his little blond head from the wall. She had to admire his resolve. Since they’d arrived, he hadn’t spoken, he’d refused all food and drink, and, if smell was anything to go by, he’d soiled himself. Still, he wouldn’t budge. Last night, he’d been taken to the police station by a neighbor who’d discovered him playing on the road at midnight, wearing nothing but a dirty nappy. Apparently his father had been too inebriated to realize he was gone. His mother had yet to be located and it wasn’t looking hopeful. Alicia had hoped that returning Theo to Trish’s, where he’d spent a few months earlier in the year, might provide Theo with some reassurance; but, if anything, his understanding of what was happening made things worse. His head remained down, his tiny, twiggy arms remained ramrod straight by his sides. “Do you like chocolate?” she asked, as another foster kid, Aaron, sloped into the kitchen, and started rummaging in the cupboards, presumably for food. “I’ve got a Kit Kat here. Want some?” Alicia broke off a chocolate finger and held it out to Theo under the table. To her delight, he scooted across the floor to inspect it. “Ow!

Wait! You fool!" Braydon shouted from far behind. "Raaaauuggghhh!!" Steve shouted, charging down the hillside. His blood was rushing in his arms and leg, his heart felt like it was on fire, and he couldn't keep from smiling! He grinned from ear to ear as he charged the squad of six wither skeletons heading through the desert toward the western sun. He was looking forward to a battle. Braydon had told him to charge, after all... It was fine. He could take them. None of them had armor. They weren't armed with bows. They clearly had nothing more than stone swords. Steve could already imagine their bones shattering under his wooden weapon. It would have been nicer to have a better blade, but maybe he could take one of theirs. "I'm charging!" Steve shouted back to Braydon, who was now somewhere up the slope behind him. The six skeletons all turned to look at Steve without expression. They held their stone swords high and faced the incoming Minecraftian warrior. "But let me soften them up a little first!" Braydon shouted back from yet farther away. It was fine. Steve charged on, anticipating the moment he dove into combat. He visualized his sword plowing through the first blackened ribcage and extended it to his side, low, ready... No problem. Skeletons were slow. He'd be able to run circles around— The six dark skeletons suddenly burst into a surprising run. They charged at him. Their bones clunked from afar. Steve balked. Dang. Not normal skeletons! Two arrows streaked past him from Braydon. One hit one skeleton, then the other hit a second. The two struck wither skeletons stumbled with arrows in their ribs, but kept coming. Gosh—they were fast! Just as fast as Steve was! Then, they were on him. All of the wither skeletons moved to surround Steve, but he expected that. He was just sorry to see them all moving so quickly. He was supposed to dominate them with his speed. Oh well. He'd have to try something else.

[The kids have] run around the grassy paths of their granddad's vegetable beds too many times. Let's play something, they say, but are out of ideas. . . At that a tall figure appears in black with a scythe and says, I have a game. Yeah? Yeah. I won't tell you the rules, or what the aim of it is, but you have to play it anyway, and reside with the persistent feeling of playing it wrongly - though there are no rules and there is no aim - and when you have finished playing you will both die. OK? Not really OK. OK? Not rea-- OK! Go, kids. Off sloped the figure in black and the girl and boy, despite themselves, began to play the game for which there were no rules and no aim, because it seemed there was no choice.

Suddenly, as I watched the powerful dynamics of the ocean, I saw a young boy and his sister trying to make their way around the front of the superstructure. Like me, they wanted to get a better view. It was just then that an exceptionally large wave struck, bringing the water crashing over the anchor windlass and the foredeck. The force swept the children off their feet and towards the railing. My first thought was that they were about to be carried overboard, into this unforgiving ocean. Fortunately, they managed to hold fast onto the lower rung of the railing, as the bulk of the water washed over the side or ended up in the scuppers. As the ship started to lift itself from the ocean’s grip, I ran across the foredeck and grabbed both children with one arm. Feeling the ship begin its slide into another trough, I grabbed hold of a stanchion with my free hand. Once more, the vessel shuddered and lifted, trying to break free of the raging ocean. In this wild roller coaster ride, we were all soaked in the cold salt water that flooded around us, but I managed to hold fast. It seemed like an eternity that I lay there trying to prevent the three of us from being washed over the side. Braced against the fishplate, my leg steadied us until the next convulsion lifted us high above the ocean again. At the right moment, we all got up and ran. Slipping and sliding we ran down the sloping deck to the relative safety of the leeward side. The Deck Officer on the Bridge, who had the watch, saw what had happened and recommended me for a “Life Saving award.” I didn’t think that I deserved an award for what I had done, but nevertheless I received one on our return voyage. And when the crew learned what had happened, I was promoted in their estimation from a greenhorn kid, to one of them.

dense wind calluses that usually hide the sloping of cheekbones. Volga’s small for an Obsidian, lean and a stunted six and a half feet. It makes her look less threatening than the average crow. It’s not what her makers intended. She was born in a lab, courtesy of a Society breeding program. Poor kid didn’t measure up with the rest of the crop and was tossed down to Earth for slave labor.

No use kidding herself. This situation with Jarrod was a slippery slope. She’d had plenty of men since Sam, attractive, well endowed, charming in many ways. Jarrod was different, and she needed to figure out why before she found herself in the middle of stupid. She had a business to think of, people who depended on her for their livelihood, even more people present and future who needed the services she offered. It wasn’t just a job, damn it, it was a mission. No one should be as out of touch with themselves as thoroughly as she had been. For as long.

As a kid, glissading down steep, snow-covered mountain slopes had been an upgrade in difficulty and fun to simply sledding.

An Outrageous Farmyard Challenge If you're looking for a chaotic, hilarious, and action-packed arcade experience, Crazy Cattle is the game for you. Set in a rural farmyard turned battleground, this quirky game throws you into the middle of a full-blown cow stampede, where you must run, dodge, and survive as long as possible. With fast-paced gameplay, unpredictable cow behavior, and comic visuals, Crazy Cattle offers an addictive experience that keeps you on your toes from the very first second. This isn’t your average farm simulator—this is a high-speed test of reflexes and survival instincts where only the quickest players will come out on top. Gameplay Overview In Crazy Cattle, your main objective is simple: stay alive. The game starts calmly, but quickly turns into mayhem as angry, confused, and chaotic cows begin charging across the field. Your task is to maneuver through waves of stampeding cattle without getting trampled. The gameplay features: Simple tap or arrow controls to move and dodge Increasing difficulty with each wave of cows Dynamic movement patterns from the cattle Power-ups like speed boosts and shields Random obstacles such as hay bales, fences, and water troughs The longer you survive, the faster and wilder things get. Timing and reaction speed are critical to avoiding getting flattened. Fun and Accessible Design One of Crazy Cattle’s biggest strengths is its accessible design. Whether you're playing on desktop or mobile, the game runs smoothly with intuitive controls and quick restarts. The visual style is lighthearted and cartoonish, making it appealing to players of all ages. The cows are the real stars of the show—animated with exaggerated expressions and unpredictable movements. Some sprint, others zigzag, and a few even jump. Their erratic behavior adds humor and challenge to every run. Combined with upbeat country-style background music and goofy sound effects (moo!), Crazy Cattle creates a playful atmosphere that encourages players to keep coming back for “just one more try.” What Makes Crazy Cattle Addictive? Fast-paced action with no loading delays Funny animations and unpredictable cows Randomly generated patterns for unique runs every time No complex rules or menus—just press play and start dodging Great for quick sessions or long play streaks Unlike many arcade games that rely on high scores alone, Crazy Cattle adds layers of strategy through its item system. For example, grabbing a magnet may attract useful coins, while a shield gives you a brief period of invincibility to plow through danger. Tips to Stay Alive Longer Want to last more than 30 seconds? Here are a few survival tips: Stay near the center to give yourself room to dodge Watch for patterns in cow movement before committing to a direction Use power-ups wisely—especially shields during dense waves Don’t panic! Stay calm when things get hectic Practice makes perfect: every failed run helps you improve reflexes Perfect for All Ages and Devices Crazy Cattle is a browser-based game, so there’s no need to download or install anything. It runs directly on both mobile and desktop platforms, making it a great pick for casual players, kids, and anyone who loves quick and silly games. It’s also an excellent choice for short breaks, since matches are typically under a minute—unless you’re a dodging master, of course. Conclusion Crazy Cattle is a refreshingly fun and chaotic arcade game that blends fast reflex gameplay with comedic charm. With simple mechanics, humorous visuals, and endless replay value, it stands out as a must-try for fans of action-packed casual games. Whether you’re dodging for dear life or laughing as cows fly past, Crazy Cattle delivers pure entertainment in every round. Jump in now and prove that you can survive the stampede! From slope-ball.io