Laughter Baby Quotes

people used to tell me that i had beautiful hands told me so often, in fact, that one day i started to believe them until i asked my photographer father, “hey daddy could i be a hand model” to which he said no way, i dont remember the reason he gave me and i wouldve been upset, but there were far too many stuffed animals to hold too many homework assignment to write, too many boys to wave at too many years to grow, we used to have a game, my dad and i about holding hands cus we held hands everywhere, and every time either he or i would whisper a great big number to the other, pretending that we were keeping track of how many times we had held hands that we were sure, this one had to be 8 million 2 thousand 7 hundred and fifty three. hands learn more than minds do, hands learn how to hold other hands, how to grip pencils and mold poetry, how to tickle pianos and dribble a basketball, and grip the handles of a bicycle how to hold old people, and touch babies , i love hands like i love people, they're the maps and compasses in which we navigate our way through life, some people read palms to tell your future, but i read hands to tell your past, each scar marks the story worth telling, each calloused palm, each cracked knuckle is a missed punch or years in a factory, now ive seen middle eastern hands clenched in middle eastern fists pounding against each other like war drums, each country sees theyre fists as warriors and others as enemies. even if fists alone are only hands. but this is not about politics, no hands arent about politics, this is a poem about love, and fingers. fingers interlock like a beautiful zipper of prayer. one time i grabbed my dads hands so that our fingers interlocked perfectly but he changed positions, saying no that hand hold is for your mom. kids high five, but grown ups, we learn how to shake hands, you need a firm hand shake,but dont hold on too tight, but dont let go too soon, but dont hold down for too long, but hands are not about politics, when did it become so complicated. i always thought its simple. the other day my dad looked at my hands, as if seeing them for the first time, and with laughter behind his eye lids, with all the seriousness a man of his humor could muster, he said you know you got nice hands, you could’ve been a hand model, and before the laughter can escape me, i shake my head at him, and squeeze his hand, 8 million 2 thousand 7hundred and fifty four.

My litter sister looks up at me. Mom was right. Her eyes are the same as they've always been. Brown eyes fringed with long lashes and steeped with the memory of sweetness and light, laughter and joy - trapped in this mangled corpse-like face. "It's all right, baby girl," I whisper into her hair as I hug her. "I'm here. I came for you." Her face crumples and her eyes shine. "You came for me." I stroke her hair. It's as silky as ever.

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.

The drab brown front of the house made it look as if it had been built from rusty spare parts. Someone always put lace curtains in the windows of dreary houses, and Nick was unsurprised to see the curtains making their attempts in every window of this place. There was a china garden gnome on the doorstep, wearing a desperate, crazy smile. "It's not so bad," Alan said. "You never take me nice places anymore, baby." said Nick, and was mildly gratified by Alan's ring of laughter, like a living bell that had been caught by surprise when it was struck.

Herb nodded. “Problem is, you knocked up your girl. That’s the only way women’ll allow you to get away with a Justice of the Peace.” Herb looked back to Hank as many of the men coughed to hide their laughter. “That’s the ticket, son, only way to save us all. Start workin’ on makin’ a baby.

We just lost our electricity. You want to tell me what’s so funny about that?” “It’s not exactly funny. It’s more of a good news/bad news situation.” “In that case, hit me with the good news first.” “They’re both sort of rolled up into one.” “Stop stalling.” “All right. Now don’t get mad, but . . .” Smothered laughter drifted toward him. “Cal . . . I’m naked.

The Doors The End This is the end, beautiful friend This is the end, my only friend The end of our elaborate plans The end of ev'rything that stands The end No safety or surprise The end I'll never look into your eyes again Can you picture what will be So limitless and free Desperately in need of some strangers hand In a desperate land Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain And all the children are insane All the children are insane Waiting for the summer rain There's danger on the edge of town Ride the king's highway Weird scenes inside the goldmine Ride the highway West baby Ride the snake Ride the snake To the lake To the lake The ancient lake baby The snake is long Seven miles Ride the snake He's old And his skin is cold The west is the best The west is the best Get here and we'll do the rest The blue bus is calling us The blue bus is calling us Driver, where you taking us? The killer awoke before dawn He put his boots on He took a face from the ancient gallery And he walked on down the hall He went into the room where his sister lived And then he paid a visit to his brother And then he walked on down the hall And he came to a door And he looked inside Father? Yes son I want to kill you Mother, I want to............. Come on, baby, take a chance with us Come on, baby, take a chance with us Come on, baby, take a chance with us And meet me at the back of the blue bus This is the end, beautiful friend This is the end, my only friend The end It hurts to set you free But you'll never follow me The end of laughter and soft lies The end of nights we tried to die This is the end

Ama wipes her hands on her apron, looks up at our old roof with new eyes, and lifts the baby from his basket. She twirls him in the air, her skirts flying around her ankles the way the clouds swirl around the mountain cap--her laughter fresh and strange and musical to my ears.

A Brief for the Defense Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies are not starving someplace, they are starving somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils. But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants. Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women at the fountain are laughing together between the suffering they have known and the awfulness in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody in the village is very sick. There is laughter every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta, and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay. If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction, we lessen the importance of their deprivation. We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil. If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down, we should give thanks that the end had magnitude. We must admit there will be music despite everything. We stand at the prow again of a small ship anchored late at night in the tiny port looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning. To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth all the years of sorrow that are to come.

Let me alone," said Mildred "Let you alone!" He almost cried out with laughter. "Letting you alone is easy, but how can I leave myself alone? That's what's wrong. We need not to be let alone. We need to be upset and stirred and bothered, once in a while, anyway. Nobody bothers anymore. Nobody thinks. Let a baby alone, why don't you? What would you have in twenty years? A savage, unable to think or talk--like us!

No one has to know until we adopt in a few years. I’m sure there are loads of damn babies waiting for parents to buy them. We will be fine.” I know she hasn’t accepted my offer of marriage, or even being in a relationship with me, but I hope she doesn’t use this opportunity to remind me of that. She laughs softly. “Damn babies? Please tell me you don’t think there is a store somewhere downtown where you walk in and purchase a baby?” She lifts her hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing at me. “There isn’t?” I joke. “What’s Babies ‘R’ Us, then?” “Oh my goodness!” She tilts her head back in laughter. I reach across the small space between us and grab hold of her hand. “If that damn store isn’t full of babies, lined up, ready for purchase, than I’m suing for false advertisement.

<…>His body shook as his grin spread to a smile. Then he asked, "You honestly think you can tackle me?" "I didn't say it would be a successful tackle." And then my husband burst out laughing. And I watched. He didn't give this to me often but I always watched. This time it was way better because he was doing it while still inside me. Then his laughter died to a chuckle, he dropped his forehead to mine and his hand came up and curled around the side of my neck. And when he did the last, the laughter died, his eyes held mine and he whispered, "Is my mama home?" I swallowed but I still knew my eyes got bright and my voice was husky when I whispered back, "Yes." He closed his eyes, shifted the lower half of his face and touched his mouth to mine. Then he lifted his head away, opened his eyes and I felt his thumb stroke my jaw. His gaze again locked with mine, he told me gently, "Missed you, baby." I swallowed again and my arms and legs tightened around him. "Me too."<…>

What - what - what are you doing?" he demanded. "I am almost six hundred years old," Magnus claimed, and Ragnor snorted, since Magnus changed his age to suit himself every few weeks. Magnus swept on. "It does seem about time to learn a musical instrument." He flourished his new prize, a little stringed instrument that looked like a cousin of the lute that the lute was embarrassed to be related to. "It's called a charango. I am planning to become a charanguista!" "I wouldn't call that an instrument of music," Ragnor observed sourly. "An instrument of torture, perhaps." Magnus cradled the charango in his arms as if it were an easily offended baby. "It's a beautiful and very unique instrument! The sound box is made from an armadillo. Well, a dried armadillo shell." "That explains the sound you're making," said Ragnor. "Like a lost, hungry armadillo." "You are just jealous," Magnus remarked calmly. "Because you do not have the soul of a true artiste like myself." "Oh, I am positively green with envy," Ragnor snapped. "Come now, Ragnor. That's not fair," said Magnus. "You know I love it when you make jokes about your complexion." Magnus refused to be affected by Ragnor's cruel judgments. He regarded his fellow warlock with a lofty stare of superb indifference, raised his charango, and began to play again his defiant, beautiful tune. They both heard the staccato thump of frantically running feet from within the house, the swish of skirts, and then Catarina came rushing out into the courtyard. Her white hair was falling loose about her shoulders, and her face was the picture of alarm. "Magnus, Ragnor, I heard a cat making a most unearthly noise," she exclaimed. "From the sound of it, the poor creature must be direly sick. You have to help me find it!" Ragnor immediately collapsed with hysterical laughter on his windowsill. Magnus stared at Catarina for a moment, until he saw her lips twitch. "You are conspiring against me and my art," he declared. "You are a pack of conspirators." He began to play again. Catarina stopped him by putting a hand on his arm. "No, but seriously, Magnus," she said. "That noise is appalling." Magnus sighed. "Every warlock's a critic." "Why are you doing this?" "I have already explained myself to Ragnor. I wish to become proficient with a musical instrument. I have decided to devote myself to the art of the charanguista, and I wish to hear no more petty objections." "If we are all making lists of things we wish to hear no more . . . ," Ragnor murmured. Catarina, however, was smiling. "I see," she said. "Madam, you do not see." "I do. I see it all most clearly," Catarina assured him. "What is her name?" "I resent your implication," Magnus said. "There is no woman in the case. I am married to my music!" "Oh, all right," Catarina said. "What's his name, then?" His name was Imasu Morales, and he was gorgeous.

What?” he asked, finishing the second of his nine-ounce steaks, medium rare. “Why are you looking at me that way?” [...] I sighed theatrically, resting my chin on my cupped hands and bracing my elbows on the table. “You are too gorgeous, you know?” I said it just loud enough that the people who’d been watching us surreptitiously could hear me. Unholy laughter lit his eyes—telling me he’d been noticing the looks we’d been getting. But his face was completely serious, as he purred, “So. Am I worth what you paid for me, baby?” I loved it when he played along with me. I sighed again, a sound that I drew up from my toes, a contented, happy sound. I’d get him back for that “baby.” Just see if I didn’t. “Oh, yes,” I told our audience. “I’ll tell Jesse that she was right. Go for the sexy beast, she told me. If you’re going to shell out the money, don’t settle.” He threw back his head and laughed until he had to wipe tears of hilarity off his face. “Jeez, Mercy,” he said. “The things you say.” Then he leaned across the table and kissed me. A while later he pulled back, grinned at me, and sat back in his chair. I had to catch my breath before I spoke. “Best five bucks I ever spent,” I told him fervently.

There’s a price for not taking care of yourself as you claim you do so well.” His eyes lift to mine and there is mischief in their depths. “I’ll have to punish you.” I glower at his reference to how well I take care of myself. “Don’t be a smart-ass. I can take care of myself.” “So you say.” His lips quirk, his eyes twinkle, and his dark mood has lightened in a flash as it often does. “I’m just looking out for us both. I need you alive and well if I’m going to fuck you until you can’t forget my name.” I feel myself heat from the inside out and I seize the opportunity to say what I had not earlier. “You’ve already done that, but if you want to be an overachiever, feel free.” “Your wish is my command,” he assures me. “I somehow doubt that.” “Don’t doubt, baby,” he says, and the laughter between us fades as we stare at each other with the promise of dark, erotic pleasure between us and so much more.

Spoil me differently! Spoil me with your love, honesty, and commitment. Spoil me with respect, honor, and appreciation. Spoil me with engaging conversations. Spoil me with your attentiveness. Spoil me by being kind, understanding, and genuine. Spoil me with laughter and let’s create memorable memories together. Spoil me by giving me your heart wholeheartedly. Spoil me baby, and I vow to do the same. Material things are okay, but nothing compares to knowing and feeling that you’re genuinely loved. Any man can buy a woman gifts, but it takes a special King to love his Queen properly.

And there is his three-year-old daughter, who runs around wearing nothing but a rhinestone necklace (who wouldn’t, if they could?).

have great power, and everyone knows one or two.” “Even me,” Eddie said. “For instance, why did the dead baby cross the road?” “That’s dumb, Eddie,” Susannah said, but she was smiling. “Because it was stapled to the chicken!” Eddie yelled, and grinned when Jake burst into laughter, knocking his little pile of kindling apart.

And one day, God would send another baby, a baby promised to a girl who didn't even have a husband. But this baby would bring laughter to the whole world. This baby would be everyone's dream come true.

Dimitri held up a car seat with one hand, which was almost comical. “We can go whenever you’re ready. Lana gave us this and swears it’s easy to install.” Rose laughed at that. “Oh, this I’ve got to see, comrade. Dimitri Belikov, badass god, installing a baby’s car seat.” He smiled good-naturedly, and we scurried around, gathering up things. Sydney had to call Jackie back, and since my hands were full, she handed Declan off to Rose. “Just rock him,” I said, seeing her panic. Rose blanched but complied, earning laughter in return from Dimitri. “Rose Hathaway, notorious rebel, showing her maternal side.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Enjoy it while you can, comrade. This is as close as you’ll ever get to it.

It’s everything, isn’t it? It’s the quiet dinners when not much gets said. It’s the sunny days at the beach. It’s hearing your laughter in my head when I see Kayla giggling. It’s seeing the love in your eyes when you watch our baby sleep. It’s watching the sun rise in your smile and set in your tears. It’s the contentment in seeing you eat and sleep and study and play. It’s the small, everyday things, like never getting tired of watching you tuck that same stubborn strand of hair behind your ear twenty times a day, and it’s the huge life-altering things like seeing your smile and my eyes on our beautiful little girl’s face. It’s knowing that even if you turn away from me forever, I’ll always be the better for having had you in my life.

Laughter is like changing a baby’s diaper—it solves a problem and makes things more acceptable for a while.

She said...she said don't be scared, we wasn't born to be all the time scared, we was born happy, babies laugh at everything, we was born happy and to make a better world.

Our lives are our stories, each day a fresh new page, each season a whole new chapter. Our parenting chapters become the beginning of our children's stories in glorious, dog-eared, mud-stained, daisy-chain pages of sunshine-filled days and wish-on-a-star nights and shared struggles and triumphs and tears and laughter. Where their stories go from there is up to them, but where they begin is up to us.

His lips spread in a manic grin, and he filled his helmet with so much laughter that his stomach cramped. He moved his limbs one by one to test them. He’d broken his left wrist for sure, maybe a few ribs as well, but despite that, the smile never left his face. Pain could be treated and bones healed, but all the medicine in the galaxy couldn’t fix dead. And he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t wait to tell the crew. “I’m okay,” he reported. “A little banged up, but nothing major. Kane, when this is over, I’m going to have your baby!

Life is an endless attempt to word the unwordable, to make what cannot be touched walk on the ground, to embody what can never be fit inside a single lifetime. We see reflections of ourselves in sunrises, hear our perfection in thunderstorms and babies' laughter--touch, taste and feel--and then try to somehow remember all of that while taking out the trash, paying bills and a million other ways we have invented to forget. We weave together within ourselves mud and spirit, shadow and light, animal and angel. No wonder humans feel crazy most of the time. But you aren't crazy. You are doing a heroic thing by being here as yourself.

First of all he might be a she we'll be finding that out tomorrow." "Hold it, fuck no you didn't tell me about that, we need to discuss that shit. I've pretty much come to terms with the whole having a baby deal but no girls Kat that's where I draw the fucking line." Her mouth fell open and she actually shook her head at me before busting into laughter and turned around to leave the room. "Get back here we're not finished.

I sigh therefore I am . . . In the beginning and unto the end was and is the lung: divine afflatus, baby’s first yowl, shaped air of speech, staccato gusts of laughter, exalted airs of song, happy lover’s groan, unhappy lover’s lament, miser’s whine, crone’s croak, illness’s stench, dying whisper, and beyond and beyond the airless, silent void. A sigh isn’t just a sigh. We inhale the world and breathe out meaning. While we can. While we can.

She hardly knew what to do, it had been so long since such strong feelings had borne down on her. It was like carrying another creature inside her, and nothing so benign and natural as a baby. Undamped, untamed, the pain and exultation of her attachment to them blew through Liga like a storm-wind carrying sharp leaves and struggling birds. How long she had known her daughters, and how well, and in what extraordinary vividness and detail! How blithely she had done the work of rearing them - it seemed to her now that she had had cause for towering, disabling anxieties about them; that what had seemed little plaints and sorrows in their childhoods were in fact off-drawings from much greater tragedies, from which she had tried to keep them but could not. And the joys she had had of them, too, their embraces and laughter - it was all too intense to be endured, this connection with them, which was a miniature of the connection with the forces that drove planet and season - the relentlessness of them, the randomness, the susceptibility to glory, to accident, to disaster. How soft had been her life in that other place, how safe and mild! And here she was, back where terrors could immobilize her, and wonders too; where life might become gulps of strong ale rather than sips of bloom-tea. She did not know whether she was capable of lifting the cup, let alone drinking the contents.

He arched a brow. “Miss Lahey, are you flirting with me?” “Well, hot stuff, if you have to ask, I’m not doing it right.” His laughter rumbled low, slithering heat underneath my skin. I pulled him to me, backing him against the table, risking a literal firestorm as his lips laid upon mine with a burning promise of— “That’s how babies are made!” I reeled back and knocked over a chair. “Aunt M!” “Sex kills!” “M, seriously.” Mom walked into the kitchen and rolled her eyes. My aunt patted her belly. “It killed my waistline.” Then she cackled. Who was the banshee now? “Ayden and Rory sitting in a tree,” Selena sing-songed, “making b-a-b-b-y-n-g.” “Mom!” “Selena,” Mom admonished. “That’s not the right spelling.

I grin at her enthusiasm. “Did you like the little gun-finger I flashed you after that goal? All for you, baby.” She grins back. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but you were actually pointing at the old guy a few seats over. He totally freaked out and started shouting to everyone that you scored that goal for him, and then I heard him ask his wife if maybe you knew that he was just diagnosed with diabetes, so I didn’t have the heart to tell him who the goal was really for.” I break down in laughter. “Why is nothing ever simple with us?” “Hey,” she protests. “We’re more interesting this way.” I can’t argue with that.

Dawn had passed and it was most of the way to morning when the baby emerged into the world, looked around, and burst into tears. “You get used to it,” the Sister told the infant, and handed the child to Marra, who stared at it with intense horror. It was bloody and wrinkly and reddish gray and looked like the sort of thing you would drive back to hell with holy water. “Um,” said Marra. “Is it…Is…” The mother was panting and could hardly breathe. “It cried. It’s alive, right?” “Oh, yes,” said Marra hurriedly. “Very alive.” She stared at it, trying to find something else to say. “Had arms and legs. And, uh…a head…” “That’s good,” said the mother, and began giggling with high, hysterical laughter. “Oh, that’s good. You want them to have heads.” “Lady of Grackles have mercy,” muttered the Sister Apothecary, but as she was saying this directly into the birth canal, no one but Marra heard.

I didn't sleep all night, thinking. I thought about you, about those puppy eyes you give me, when you fake your sadness to make me smile-- and that upper lip of yours that brings life to all of my senses. I thought about your laughter when you get tickled, and that soft mellow place near your arm pit that I wish could be knit into a pillow for me to hug all night long. I thought about your stomach, your soft and sensitive stomach, scared like a baby kitten under the pouring rain. And I remembered the feeling of protection that comes washing over me when I get a glimpse of it, the feeling of covering it with the layers of my very own skin. I remembered your head when it rests on my heart, a rock sheltering itself on the verdure of infinity. I remembered your silky black hair, and how I never imagined that hair curls so thin could twirl, in the way they do, the rigid core of my existence.

Ohhhhh." A lush-bodied girl in the prime of her physical beauty. In an ivory georgette-crepe sundress with a halter top that gathers her breasts up in soft undulating folds of the fabric. She's standing with bare legs apart on a New York subway grating. Her blond head is thrown rapturously back as an updraft lifts her full, flaring skirt, exposing white cotton panties. White cotton! The ivory-crepe sundress is floating and filmy as magic. The dress is magic. Without the dress the girl would be female meat, raw and exposed. She's not thinking such a thought! Not her. She's an American girl healthy and clean as a Band-Aid. She's never had a soiled or a sulky thought. She's never had a melancholy thought. She's never had a savage thought. She's never had a desperate thought. She's never had an un-American thought. In the papery-thin sundress she's a nurse with tender hands. A nurse with luscious mouth. Sturdy thighs, bountiful breasts, tiny folds of baby fat at her armpits. She's laughing and squealing like a four year-old as another updraft lifts her skirt. Dimpled knees, a dancer's strong legs. This husky healthy girl. The shoulders, arms, breasts belong to a fully mature woman but the face is a girl's face. Shivering in New York City mid-summer as subway steam lifts her skirt like a lover's quickened breath. "Oh! Ohhhhh." It's nighttime in Manhattan, Lexington Avenue at 51st Street. Yet the white-white lights exude the heat of midday. The goddess of love has been standing like this, legs apart, in spike-heeled white sandals so steep and so tight they've permanently disfigured her smallest toes, for hours. She's been squealing and laughing, her mouth aches. There's a gathering pool of darkness at the back of her head like tarry water. Her scalp and her pubis burn from the morning's peroxide applications. The Girl with No Name. The glaring-white lights focus upon her, upon her alone, blond squealing, blond laughter, blond Venus, blond insomnia, blond smooth-shaven legs apart and blond hands fluttering in a futile effort to keep her skirt from lifting to reveal white cotton American-girl panties and the shadow, just the shadow, of the bleached crotch. "Ohhhhhh." Now she's hugging herself beneath her big bountiful breasts. Her eyelids fluttering. Between the legs, you can trust she's clean. She's not a dirty girl, nothing foreign or exotic. She's an American slash in the flesh. That emptiness. Guaranteed. She's been scooped out, drained clean, no scar tissue to interfere with your pleasure, and no odor. Especially no odor. The Girl with No Name, the girl with no memory. She has not lived long and she will not live long.

Molly was up now, sitting in the kitchen nursing the babies and instructing Mrs. Bienenstock on how to make biscuits. “Don’t pound the dough, Dody!” Molly was crying with laughter. “You want to end up crackin’ your teeth on ’em? Pat it gentle like it’s a baby. That’s better.” Robert had only ever seen his landlady make coffee and eggs, and he did not think she would take kindly to being taught. But Mrs. B. seemed willing; she was smoothing out the biscuit dough into a round on the table. Neither woman even glanced over at him as he moved between the yard and the wagon with the pails. “Now, take this cup,” Molly ordered, “and cut out some circles. Don’t twist it! Twistin’ seals the dough and it don’t rise so well. Jest press and bring the cup back out. There now, put that on your sheet for bakin’.” “We’re

I'm grotesque." "You are pink and rather hairless. Like a baby, and people love babies." Actually, she looked more like the hairless cat his aunt Ludmilla had favoured more than any of her children, but that seemed an impolite thing to say to a lady. Ehri did not wish to be charmed. "Must you make a joke of everything?" "I must. By royal mandate and the curse of my own disposition. I find life quite unbearable without laughter.

This is my wish for you. Comfort on difficult days, smiles when sadness intrudes, rainbows to chase the clouds away, laughter to kiss your lips, sunsets to warm your heart, hugs when spirits sag, beauty for your eyes to see, friendships to brighten your being, faith so that you can believe, confidence for you when you doubt, courage to know yourself, patience to accept the truth and love to complete your life. I love you, baby boy.

I admit it, I'm tired. Over the years, I've hidden away my suffering. I smile when I feel like crying. I laugh when I feel like dying. I have to stare at pictures of my children and my grandchildren to see them grow up. I miss the simplest things of ordinary life — having dinner with friends, taking walks in the woods. I miss gardening. I miss children's laughter. I miss dogs barking. I miss the feel of the rain on my face. I miss babies. I miss the sound of birds singing and of women laughing. I miss winter and summer and spring and fall. Yes, I miss my freedom. So would you.

I drop my head into her shoulder, shaking with laughter. Anything you want, baby.

/ Each black petal / blasted / with what’s left / of our laughter. / Laughter ashed / to air / to honey to baby / darling, / look. Look how happy we are / to be no one /

I want all of you. I want your mind, your spirit, your laughter. I want your body, but most of all, baby, I want your heart.

Now that we know that Spring Roll is a girl, we should probably think about setting up her room. Gabriel kept his eyes on the road as he drove the Volvo one Saturday morning in May. We should also talk about names. That sounds good. Maybe you should think about what you want and we can go shopping. Julia turned to look at him. Now? I said I'd take you to lunch, and we can do that. But afterward, we need to start thinking about Spring Roll's room. We want it to be attractive, but functional. Something comfortable for you and for her, but not juvenile. She's a baby, Gabriel. Her stuff is going to be juvenile. You know what I mean. I want it to be elegant and not look like a preschool. Good grief. Julia fought a grin as she began imagining what the Professor would design. (Argyle patterns, dark wood, and chocolate brown leather immediately came to mind.) He cleared his throat. I might have done some searching on the Internet. Oh, really? From where? Restoration Hardware? Of course not. He bristled. Their things wouldn't be appropriate for a baby's room. So where then? He gazed at her triumphantly. Pottery Barn Kids. Julia groaned. We've become yuppies. Gabriel stared at her in mock horror. Why do you say that? We're driving a Volvo and talking about shopping at Pottery Barn. First of all, Volvos have an excellent safety rating and they're more attractive than a minivan. Secondly, Pottery Barn's furniture happens to be both functional and aesthetically pleasing. I'd like to take you to one their stores so you can see for yourself. As long as we get Thai food first. Now it was Gabriel's turn to roll his eyes. Fine. But we're ordering takeout and taking it to the park for a picnic. And I'm having Indian food, instead. If I see another plate of pad Thai, I'm going to lose it. Julia burst into peals of laughter.

The sun is setting, Ona reminds us, and our light is fading. We should light the kerosene lamp. But what of your question? asks Greta. Should we consider asking the men to leave? None of us have ever asked the men for anything, Agatha states. Not a single thing, not even for the salt to be passed, not even for a penny or a moment alone or to take the washing in or to open a curtain or to go easy on the small yearlings or to put your hand on the small of my back as I try, again, for the twelfth or thirteenth time, to push a baby out of my body. Isn't it interesting, she says, that the one and only request the women would make of the men would be to leave? The women break out laughing again. They simply can't stop laughing, and if one of them stops for a moment she will quickly resume laughing with a loud burst, and off they'll all go again. It's not an option, says Agata, at last. No, the others (finally in complete accord!) agree. Asking the men to leave is not an option. Greta asks the women to imagine her team, Ruth and Cheryl (Agata yelps in exasperation at the mention of their names), requesting that Greta leave them alone for the day to graze in the field and do nothing. Imagine my hens, adds Agata, telling me to turn around and leave the premises when I show up to gather the eggs. Ona begs the women to stop making her laugh, she's afraid she'll go into premature labour. This makes them laugh harder! They even find it uproariously funny that I continue to write during all of this. Ona's laughter is the finest, the most exquisite sound in all of nature, filled with breath and promise, and the only sound she releases into the world that she doesn't also try to retrieve.

At last she interrupted with a harsh rattle of laughter. "Oh, yes, I like this book! Crazy hopes of a glamorous, rich, colorful life and then abduction, rape, slavery. That book, at least, is true." "It is not true. It is a male sex fantasy." "And life for most women is just that, a performance in a male sex fantasy. The stupid ones don't notice, they've been trained for it since they were babies, so they're happy. And of course the writer of that book made things obvious by speeding them up. What happens to the Blandish girl in a few weeks takes a lifetime for the rest of us.

Wanting his mind on other matters, she deliiberately challenged his statement. "You don't know so much about me. There was a man once. He was crazy about me." She tried to look wordly. "Absolutely crazy for me." His answering laughter was warm against her neck, her throat. His lips touched the skin over her pulse and skimmed lightly up to her ear. "Are you, by any chance, referring to that foppish boy with the orange hair and spiked collar? Dragon something?" Savannah gasped and pulled away to glare at im. "How could you possibly know about him? I dated him last year." Gregori nuzzled her neck, inhaling her fragrance, his hand sliding over her shoulder, moving gently over her satin skin to take possession of her breast. "He wore boots and rode a Harley." His breath came out in a rush as his palm cupped the soft weight, his thumb brushing her nipple into a hard peak. The feel of his large hand-so strong, so warm and possessive on her-sent heat curling through her body. Desire rose sharply. He was seducing her with tenderness. Savannah didn't want it to happen. Her body felt better, but the soreness was there to remind her where this could all lead. Her hand caught at his wrist. "How did you find out about Dragon?" she asked, desperate to distract him, to distract herself. How could he make her body burn for his when she was so afraid of him, of having sex with him? "Making love," he corrected, his voice husky, caressing, betraying the ease with which his mind moved like a shadow through hers."And to answer your question, I live in you, can touch you whenever I wish.I knew about all of them. Every damn one." He growled the worrds, and her breath caught in her throat. "He was the only one you thought of kissing." His mouth touched hers. Gently. Lightly. Returned for more. Coaxing, teasing, until she opened to him. He stole her breath, her reason, whirling her into a world of feeling.Bright colors and white-hot heat, the room falling away until there was only his broad shoulders,strong arms, hard body, and perfect,perfect mouth. When he lifted his head, Savannah nearly pulled him back to her.He watched her face,her eyes cloudy with desire, her lips so beautiful, bereft of his. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Savannah? There is such beauty in your soul,I can see it shining in your eyes." She touched his face, her palm molding his strong jaw. Why couldn't she resist his hungry eyes? "I think you're casting a spell over me. I can't remember what we were talking about." Gregori smiled. "Kissing." His teeth nibbled gently at her chin. "Specifically,your wanting to kiss that orange-bearded imbecile." "I wanted to kiss every one of them," she lied indignantly. "No,you did not.You were hoping that silly fop would wipe my taste from your mouth for all eternity." His hand stroked back the fall of hair around her face.He feathered kisses along the delicate line of her jaw. "It would not have worked,you know.As I recall,he seemed to have a problem getting close to you." Her eyes smoldered dangerously. "Did you have anything to do with his allergies?" She had wanted someone, anyone,to wipe Gregori's taste from her mouth,her soul. He raised his voice an octave. "Oh, Savannah, I just have to taste your lips," he mimicked. Then he went into a sneezing fit. "You haven't ridden until you've ridden on a Harley,baby." He sneezed, coughed, and gagged in perfect imitation. Savannah pushed his arm, forgetting for a moment her bruised fist. When it hurt, she yelped and glared accusingly at him. "It was you doing all that to him! That poor man-you damaged his ego for life. Each time he touched me, he had a sneezing fit." Gregori raised an eyebrow, completely unrepentant. "Technically,he did not lay a hand on you.He sneezed before he could get that close.

That’s your idea of teaching? I could’ve been splattered from here to Manhattan!” “You were never in any danger.” His eyes gleamed with laughter and that just made her madder. “That’s how young angels learn to fly—they’re pushed out of the aeries before they have a chance to develop a fear of it.” Her fury came to a screeching halt, though her heart continued to ricochet violently in her chest. “You push babies out into thin air?

Tell me something true about you.” “Okay …” She mentally rifled through birthplace (Portland, Oregon), college major (sociology), astrological sign (Virgo), favorite movie (The Apple Dumpling Gang—don’t judge), until she hit a fact that wasn’t completely mundane. “One of my favorite things in the world are those charity events where everyone buys a rubber ducky with a number and the first person’s duck to get down the river wins.” “Why?” “I like seeing the river teeming with all those outrageously yellow and orange ducks. It’s so friendly. And I love the hope of it. Even though it doesn’t matter if you win, because all that wonderful, candy-colored money is going to something really important like a free clinic downtown or cleft palate operations for children in India, you still have that playful hope that you will win. You run alongside the stream, not knowing which is your duck but imagining the lead one is yours.” “And this is the essence of your soul—the ducky race?” “Well, you didn’t ask for the essence of my soul. You asked for something true about me, and so I went for something slightly embarrassing and secret but true nonetheless. Next time you want the essence of my soul, I’ll oblige you with sunsets and baby’s laughter and greeting cards with watercolor flowers.” He squinted at her thoughtfully. “No, so far as I’m concerned, the yellow duckies are the essence of your soul.

What?” Damon shouted from inside the room. We all stopped, looking at each other. “It’s a boy?” he blurted out. “Are you sure?” We leaned in, and I folded my lips between my teeth to contain the laughter. A baby cried, there was some shuffling, and then we heard Damon’s playful little growl. “Ugh, what am I going to do with you?” “Damon!” Winter growled. “I’m going to kill you. You better love him. You do, right?” There was a pause, and I met Alex’s wide eyes with my own. Drama… Damon and I ran the construction business together now, him building and me designing, so I’d gotten used to his…brand of humor. Finally, he answered. “Y–yeah,” he stuttered, not sounding convincing. “Yeah, of course, baby. But like, are you sure there aren’t any more in there or something?” “Damon!” Will collapsed against the wall, shaking with laughter, and I shook my head, reaching over and taking the squirming Ivar out of Rika’s arms.

From somewhere in the garden came a burble of childish laughter. He [Ruso] reached forward, put his arms around her [Tilla’s] waist and rested his head against the belly that was not holding his baby, and perhaps never would. “Everyone else,” he said. “Why not us?

I've always been his favorite." "Is that so?" Lazily Shelby folded her arms behind her head. She could picture him as a boy,seeing beyond what other boys saw and storing it. "Why?" "If I weren't modest,I'd confess that I was always a well-mannered, even-tempered child who never gave my parents a moment's trouble." "Liar," she said easily. "How'd you get the broken nose?" The grin became rueful. "Rena punched me." "Your sister broke your nose?" Shelby burst out with delighted and unsympathetic laughter. "The blackjack dealer, right? Oh,I love it!" Alan caught Shelby's nose between two fingers and gave it a quick twist. "It was rather painful at the time." "I imagine." She kept right on laughing as he shifted to her side. "Did she make a habit of beating you up?" "She didn't beat me up," he corrected with some dignity. "She was trying to beat Caine up because he'd teased her about making calf's eyes at one of his friends." "Typical brotherly intimidation." "In any event," Alan put in mildly, "I went to drag her off him,she took another swing,missed him, and hit me. A full-power roundhouse,as I remember. That's when," he continued as Shelby gave another peal of laughter, "I decided against being a diplomat. It's always the neutral party that gets punched in the face." "I'm sure..." Shelby dropped her head on his shoulder. "I'm sure she was sorry." "Initially.But as I recall, after I'd stopped bleeding and threatening to kill both her and Caine, her reaction as a great deal like yours." "Insensitive." Shelby ran apologetic kisses over his face. "Poor baby. Tell you what, I'll do penance and see about fixing you breakfast.

Grandparents treat them better than they treated you. They know the babies are going to leave again. Old age softens people." "Send him back," said Hetty. "It's the only way." "Free babysitting," said Ming. The two women laughed, but their laughter was the kind with no core, only loose edges.

Stefan!" shouted Casimir. "What are you doing, out in the rain with that girl? Madman!" As Stefan raised his head, Rozalia heard her aunt's bubbling laughter. "Not a madman, Cass - a lover!" "Same thing," said Casimir; but he put an arm around Anastasia where she stood holding the baby, and kissed her.

I am totally lost in the folds of Love, totally free of worry and care. I have passed beyond the four qualities. My heart has torn away the veil of pretense. There was a time I circled with the nine spheres, rolling with the stars across the sky. There was a time I stayed by his side— I lived in his world and he gave me everything. With the best of intentions I became a prisoner in this form. How else did I get here? What crime did I commit? But I’d rather be in a prison with my Friend than in a rosegarden all alone. I came to this world To have a sight of Joseph’s purity. Like a baby born of its mother’s womb, I was brought here with blood and tears. People think they are born only once But they have been here so many times. In the cloak of this ragged body I have walked countless paths. How many times I have worn out this cloak! With ascetics in the desert I watched night turn into day. With pagans in the temple I slept at the foot of idols. I’ve been a charlatan and a king; I’ve been a healer, and fraught with disease. I’ve been on my death-bed so many times. . . . Floating up like the clouds Pouring down like the rain. As a darvish I sought the dust of annihilation but it never touched my robe. So I gathered armfuls of roses in this faded garden of existence. I am not of wind nor fire nor of the stormy seas. I am not formed out of painted clay. I am not even Shams-e Tabriz— I am the essence of laughter, I am pure light. Look again if you see me— It’s not me you have seen!

It’s a boy?” he blurted out. “Are you sure?” We leaned in, and I folded my lips between my teeth to contain the laughter. A baby cried, there was some shuffling, and then we heard Damon’s playful little growl. “Ugh, what am I going to do with you?” “Damon!” Winter growled. “I’m going to kill you. You better love him. You do, right?

I know you,” he added, helping to arrange the blanket over my shoulders. “You won’t drop the subject until I agree to check on your cousin, so I’ll do it. But only under one condition.” “John,” I said, whirling around to clutch his arm again. “Don’t get too excited,” he warned. “You haven’t heard the condition.” “Oh,” I said, eagerly. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Thank you. Alex has never had a very good life-his mother ran away when he was a baby, and his dad spent most of his life in jail…But, John, what is all this?” I swept my free hand out to indicate the people remaining on the dock, waiting for the boat John had said was arriving soon. I’d noticed some of them had blankets like the one he’d wrapped around me. “A new customer service initiative?” John looked surprised at my change of topic…then uncomfortable. He stooped to reach for the driftwood Typhon had dashed up to drop at his feet. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, stiffly. “You’re giving blankets away to keep them warm while they wait. When did this start happening?” “You mentioned some things when you were here the last time….” He avoided meeting my gaze by tossing the stick for his dog. “They stayed with me.” My eyes widened. “Things I said?” “About how I should treat the people who end up here.” He paused at the approach of a wave-though it was yards off-and made quite a production of moving me, and my delicate slippers, out of its path. “So I decided to make a few changes.” It felt as if one of the kind of flowers I liked-a wild daisy, perhaps-had suddenly blossomed inside my heart. “Oh, John,” I said, and rose onto my toes to kiss his cheek. He looked more than a little surprised by the kiss. I thought I might actually have seen some color come into his cheeks. “What was that for?” he asked. “Henry said nothing was the same after I left. I assumed he meant everything was much worse. I couldn’t imagine it was the opposite, that things were better.” John’s discomfort at having been caught doing something kind-instead of reckless or violet-was sweet. “Henry talks too much,” he muttered. “But I’m glad you like it. Not that it hasn’t been a lot of added work. I’ll admit it’s cut down on the complaints, though, and even the fighting amongst our rowdier passengers. So you were right. Your suggestions helped.” I beamed up at him. Keeper of the dead. That’s how Mr. Smith, the cemetery sexton, had referred to John once, and that’s what he was. Although the title “protector of the dead” seemed more applicable. It was totally silly how much hope I was filled with by the fact that he’d remembered something I’d said so long ago-like maybe this whole consort thing might work out after all. I gasped a moment later when there was a sudden rush of white feathers, and the bird he’d given me emerged from the grizzly gray fog seeming to engulf the whole beach, plopping down onto the sand beside us with a disgruntled little humph. “Oh, Hope,” I said, dashing tears of laughter from my eyes. Apparently I had only to feel the emotion, and she showed up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you behind. It was his fault, you know.” I pointed at John. The bird ignored us both, poking around in the flotsam washed ashore by the waves, looking, as always, for something to eat. “Her name is Hope?” John asked, the corners of his mouth beginning to tug upwards. “No.” I bristled, thinking he was making fun of me. Then I realized I’d been caught. “Well, all right…so what if it is? I’m not going to name her after some depressing aspect of the Underworld like you do all your pets. I looked up the name Alastor. That was the name of one of the death horses that drew Hades’s chariot. And Typhon?” I glanced at the dog, cavorting in and out of the waves, seemingly oblivious of the cold. “I can only imagine, but I’m sure it means something equally unpleasant.

Where, then, do we find the truth? We find it in the body, in the woods, in the water, in the soil. We find it in music, dance, and sometimes in poetry. We find it in a baby’s face, and in the adult’s face behind the mask. We find it in each other’s eyes, when we look. We find it in an embrace, which is, when we feel into it, being to being, an incredibly intimate act. We find it in laughter and sobs, and we find it in the voice behind the spoken word. We find it in fairy tales and myths, and the tales we tell, even if fictional. Sometimes embroidering a tale enlarges it as a vehicle for the truth. We find it in silence and stillness. We find it in pain and loss. We find it in birth and death.

When he’s sliding down my body and planting greedy kisses on my inner thighs. “Better than ice cream,” he rasps against my sensitive flesh, his tongue coming out to tickle my clit. “So much sweeter, baby.” Then he captures the little bud between his lips and sucks hard enough to make me cry out. “Oh my God,” I choke. My fingers tangle in his hair, keeping him trapped between my thighs. “Keep doing that.” His laughter vibrates through my body. He continues to suckle me while one finger teases my folds, circling my opening until finally, slowly, slipping inside. I gasp in delight and rock against him. He’s rocking, too, I realize. He’s all but fucking the mattress as he licks and sucks and groans.

I want you to be my wife, baby. I want to come home to you every night and hear your laughter. I want to build a life together with all the things that matter. I want there to be family, and sailing, and church, and work, and kids . . .” Her lips trembled on a smile. “Five little angels?” He squeezed her hands. “I was thinking we’d start with one and work our way up. What about it, Maddy—will you marry me?

How are things going with your brothers?” “The judge set a date to hear me out after graduation. Mrs.Collins has been prepping me.” “That is awesome!” “Yeah.” “What’s wrong?” “Carrie and Joe hired a lawyer and I lost visitation.” Echo placed her delicate hand over mine.“Oh, Noah. I am so sorry." I’d spent countless hours on the couch in the basement, staring at the ceiling wondering what she was doing. Her laughter, her smile, the feel of her body next to mine, and the regret that I let her walk away too easily haunted me. Taking the risk, I entwined my fingers with hers. Odds were I’d never get the chance to be this close again. "No, Mrs. Collins convinced me the best thing to do is to keep my distance and follow the letter of the law." "Wow, Mrs. Collins is a freaking miracle worker. Dangerous Noah Hutchins on the straight and narrow. If you don’t watch out she’ll ruin your rep with the girls." I lowered my voice. "Not that it matters. I only care what one girl thinks about me." She relaxed her fingers into mine and stroked her thumb over my skin. Minutes into being alone together, we fell into each other again, like no time had passed. I could blame her for ending us, but in the end, I agreed with her decision. “How about you, Echo? Did you find your answers?” “No.” If I continued to disregard breakup rules, I might as well go all the way. I pushed her curls behind her shoulder and let my fingers linger longer than needed so I could enjoy the silky feel. “Don’t hide from me, baby. We’ve been through too much for that.” Echo leaned into me, placing her head on my shoulder and letting me wrap an arm around her. “I’ve missed you, too, Noah. I’m tired of ignoring you.” “Then don’t.” Ignoring her hurt like hell. Acknowledging her had to be better. I swallowed, trying to shut out the bittersweet memories of our last night together. “Where’ve you been? It kills me when you’re not at school.” “I went to an art gallery and the curator showed some interest in my work and sold my first piece two days later. Since then, I’ve been traveling around to different galleries, hawking my wares.” “That’s awesome, Echo. Sounds like you’re fitting into your future perfectly. Where did you decide to go to school?” “I don’t know if I’m going to school.” Shock jolted my system and I inched away to make sure I understood. “What the fuck do you mean you don’t know? You’ve got colleges falling all over you and you don’t fucking know if you want to go to school?” My damned little siren laughed at me. “I see your language has improved.” Poof—like magic, the anger disappeared. “If you’re not going to school, then what are your plans?” "I’m considering putting college off for a year or two and traveling cross-country, hopping from gallery to gallery.” “I feel like a dick. We made a deal and I left you hanging. I’m not that guy who goes back on his word. What can I do to help you get to the truth?” Echo’s chest rose with her breath then deflated when she exhaled. Sensing our moment ending, I nuzzled her hair, savoring her scent. She patted my knee and broke away. “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do.” "I think it’s time that I move on. As soon as I graduate, this part of my life will be over. I’m okay with not knowing what happened.” Her words sounded pretty, but I knew her better. She’d blinked three times in a row.

In the campaign of 1876, Robert G. Ingersoll came to Madison to speak. I had heard of him for years; when I was a boy on the farm a relative of ours had testified in a case in which Ingersoll had appeared as an attorney and he had told the glowing stories of the plea that Ingersoll had made. Then, in the spring of 1876, Ingersoll delivered the Memorial Day address at Indianapolis. It was widely published shortly after it was delivered and it startled and enthralled the whole country. I remember that it was printed on a poster as large as a door and hung in the post-office at Madison. I can scarcely convey now, or even understand, the emotional effect the reading of it produced upon me. Oblivious of my surroundings, I read it with tears streaming down my face. It began, I remember: "The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life.We hear the sounds of preparation--the music of boisterous drums--the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see the pale cheeks of women and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers..." I was fairly entranced. he pictured the recruiting of the troops, the husbands and fathers with their families on the last evening, the lover under the trees and the stars; then the beat of drums, the waving flags, the marching away; the wife at the turn of the lane holds her baby aloft in her arms--a wave of the hand and he has gone; then you see him again in the heat of the charge. It was wonderful how it seized upon my youthful imagination. When he came to Madison I crowded myself into the assembly chamber to hear him: I would not have missed it for every worldly thing I possessed. And he did not disappoint me. A large handsome man of perfect build, with a face as round as a child's and a compelling smile--all the arts of the old-time oratory were his in high degree. He was witty, he was droll, he was eloquent: he was as full of sentiment as an old violin. Often, while speaking, he would pause, break into a smile, and the audience, in anticipation of what was to come, would follow him in irresistible peals of laughter. I cannot remember much that he said, but the impression he made upon me was indelible. After that I got Ingersoll's books and never afterward lost an opportunity to hear him speak. He was the greatest orater, I think, that I have ever heard; and the greatest of his lectures, I have always thought, was the one on Shakespeare. Ingersoll had a tremendous influence upon me, as indeed he had upon many young men of that time. It was not that he changed my beliefs, but that he liberated my mind. Freedom was what he preached: he wanted the shackles off everywhere. He wanted men to think boldly about all things: he demanded intellectual and moral courage. He wanted men to follow wherever truth might lead them. He was a rare, bold, heroic figure.

...Women have preserved this `baby look' for as long as possible so as to make the world continue to believe in the darling, sweet little girl she once was, and she relies on the protective instinct in man to make him take care of her. As with everything a woman undertakes on her own initiative, this whole maneuvre is as incredible as it is stupid. It is amazing, in fact, that it succeeds. It would appear very shortsighted to encourage such an ideal of beauty. For how can any woman hope to maintain it beyond the age of twenty-five? Despite every trick of the cosmetics industry, despite magazine advice against thinking or laughing (both tend to create wrinkles), her actual age will inevitably show'- through in the end. And what on earth is a man to do with a grown-up face when he has been manipulated into considering only helpless, appealing little girls to be creatures of beauty? What is a men to do with a woman when the smooth curves have become flabby tires of flesh, the skin slack and pallid, when the childish tones have grown shrill and the laughter sounds like neighing? What is to become of this shrew when her face no longer atones for her ceaseless inanities and when the cries of `Ooh' and Ah' begin to drive him out of his mind? This mummified `child' will never fire a man's erotic fantasy again. One might think her power broken at last. But no, she still manages to get her own way - and for two reasons. The first is obvious: she now has children, who enable her to continue feigning helplessness. As for the second - there are simply not enough young women to go around. It is a safe bet that, given the choice, man would trade in his grown-up child-wife for a younger model, but, as the ratio between the sexes is roughly equal, not every man can have a younger woman. And as he has to have a wife of some sort. he prefers to keep the one he already possesses. This is easy to prove. Given the choice, a man will always choose a younger woman.

He flapped and hopped until he was up in the air and, frantically looking around, eyed the dining room table again and headed its way. This time he stuck his feet out in front of him and held them open like hands trying to grab solid ground. But it didn’t help. He hit the table, slid on his rear all the way across, and crashed on the floor again. Again I dissolved in laughter and again Wesley stared stonily at the wall. I stopped laughing abruptly when I realized that Wesley was embarrassed. Learning to fly is physically and emotionally very difficult, and human owl mothers should not laugh at their babies. From then on I tried my hardest to keep a straight face. Most pet owners know that animals can read emotions such as anger, approval, affection, and acceptance. But it had never occurred to me that perhaps an animal could feel ridiculed. From that point forward, no one in Wendy’s house was allowed to laugh at Wesley, at least not in front of him, while he was learning to fly. Sometimes we had to run into the bathroom, shut the door, and burst out laughing.

My interview was mostly conducted by Hugo Dyson, an Oxford ‘character’, known for his wit. I always found him alarming. He was like a hyperactive gnome, and stumped around on a walking stick which, when he was seized by one of his paroxysms of laughter, he would beat up and down as if trying to drive it through the floor. It brought to mind Rumpelstiltskin driving his leg into the ground in the fairy tale. He had been one of the ‘Inklings’ – the group of dons, including Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, who met during the 1930s in the Bird and Baby pub opposite St John’s. It was he and Tolkien who, one summer night in 1931, had converted Lewis to Christianity during a stroll along Addison’s Walk. So he was, at least in part, responsible for the Narnia books. I never asked him if he liked them. But it was well known that Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings was not to his taste. Tolkien had been in the habit of favouring the Inklings with readings from it, but one day Dyson, driven to exasperation, interjected, ‘Oh not another fucking elf!’ and after that the readings stopped. On

Being a parent was so much more than baby books and birthing classes. It was late night groans over who would get up to change diapers. It was fits of laughter over each face she made, and fits of anger over each toy stepped on in the dark. It was pictures that didn’t do real life justice, memories captured with eyes and cameras both. It was worry over if we were feeding her the right things and loving her the right way. It was tears of agony when she was sick, when all we wanted to do was take the pain for her, and it was tears of joy over her first word spoken.

From the standpoint of logic, a child is rather horribly perfect. A baby may be even more perfect, but so alien to an adult that only superficial standards of comparison apply. The thought processes of an infant are completely unimaginable. But babies think, even before birth. In the womb they move and sleep, not entirely through instinct. We are conditioned to react rather peculiarly to the idea that a nearly-viable embryo may think. We are surprised, shocked into laughter, and repelled. Nothing human is alien. But a baby is not human. An embryo is far less human.

Shadow enjoyed the easy, sweet Sunday life of the farmhouse when the two women traded stories and song. Coffee and cream. Laughter and tears. He liked Lora. She brought him creamy treats, not the dry stuff. And when she laughed at his snoring underneath the table, she would awaken him so he would not miss any of the action. He enjoyed this ma-triarchate much more than Ted’s rough reign. Sometimes, lying at the feet of Lora and Alice, on the cool kitchen floor, Shadow dreamed. He dreamed of the ancient times when tribal mothers ruled. Men hunted, but it was the women who shaped the wolves and the babies by the ring of fire into magic dogs and magic men.

The End” It is time for me to go, mother; I am going. When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, “Baby is not there!”—mother, I am going. I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again. In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room. If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, “Sleep, mother, sleep.” On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep. I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness. When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours’ children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day. Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask, “Where is our baby, sister?” Mother, you will tell her softly, “He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul.

I can understand the ignorant masses loving to soak themselves in drink—oh, yes, it's very shocking that they should, of course—very shocking to us who live in cozy homes, with all the graces and pleasures of life around us, that the dwellers in damp cellars and windy attics should creep from their dens of misery into the warmth and glare of the public-house bar, and seek to float for a brief space away from their dull world upon a Lethe stream of gin. But think, before you hold up your hands in horror at their ill-living, what "life" for these wretched creatures really means. Picture the squalid misery of their brutish existence, dragged on from year to year in the narrow, noisome room where, huddled like vermin in sewers, they welter, and sicken, and sleep; where dirt-grimed children scream and fight and sluttish, shrill-voiced women cuff, and curse, and nag; where the street outside teems with roaring filth and the house around is a bedlam of riot and stench. Think what a sapless stick this fair flower of life must be to them, devoid of mind and soul. The horse in his stall scents the sweet hay and munches the ripe corn contentedly. The watch-dog in his kennel blinks at the grateful sun, dreams of a glorious chase over the dewy fields, and wakes with a yelp of gladness to greet a caressing hand. But the clod-like life of these human logs never knows one ray of light. From the hour when they crawl from their comfortless bed to the hour when they lounge back into it again they never live one moment of real life. Recreation, amusement, companionship, they know not the meaning of. Joy, sorrow, laughter, tears, love, friendship, longing, despair, are idle words to them. From the day when their baby eyes first look out upon their sordid world to the day when, with an oath, they close them forever and their bones are shoveled out of sight, they never warm to one touch of human sympathy, never thrill to a single thought, never start to a single hope. In the name of the God of mercy; let them pour the maddening liquor down their throats and feel for one brief moment that they live!

She turned to him with wide, shocked eyes. "Why did he..." His lips twitched. No coarse language in front of the infants limited the ability to discuss the fountain of baby piss that had just arced halfway across the room. "Twasn't you, darling. It's one of their favorite bath-time games. "Something about the cool air on their naked...berries," he substituted at the last second.... "Do I have piddle in my hair?" she whispered, her eyes sparkling with laughter above her flushed cheeks. "Not much," he assured her with a straight face. "You look almost becoming."... "Decades from now, when our children ask how I fell in love with their mother, I'll say 'twas her sweet, gentle compliments during bath-time, and her fleetness of foot whilst dodging a flow of ---

I started to grin until I heard laughing and sensed we were on display. Glancing at them, I tightened my grip on Judd as if to say, “So what? He’s mine. Suck it.” Judd though wasn’t interested in their laughter. He glared hard at them and literally growled like a dog. While I giggled at the sound, the men shut up and moved away. When Vaughn saw this display, he yelled out, “Whipped is a good look on you, brother.” “I’m packing, Outlaw. Don’t make me pull it out.” At the same moment, Judd, Vaughn, and I thought of the same thing and started laughing. “Yeah, don’t pull it out here, baby,” I said, giggling. “I’m the only one who should be looking at it.” Judd leaned his head back and sighed. “It’s not my fault, you know. All of the blood left my brain the minute you sat on my lap.” “Poor bastard,” I whispered in his ear as I nibbled on the lobe.

A merrier baby than he had never been seen. Everything he glimpsed around him roused his interest and stirred him to joy. He looked with delight at the threads of rain outside the window, as if they were confetti and multicolored streamers. And if, as happens, the sunlight reached the ceiling indirectly and cast the shadows of the street's morning bustle, he would stare as it fascinated, refusing to abandon it, as if he were watching an extraordinary display of Chinese acrobats, given especially or him. You would have said, to tell the truth, from his laughter, from the constant brightening of his little face, that he didn't see things only in their usual aspects, but as multiple images of other things, varying to infinity. Otherwise, there was no explaining why the wretched, monotonous scene the house offered every day could afford him such diverse, inexhaustible amusement.

When’s the day, Sarah?” asked Maggie. “Soon. A few weeks…a month? The end of summer. The truth is I’m too old for this. This baby,” said Mama. “I was too old when I came to live here.” I looked quickly at Mama. What did she mean “too old”? “No. I’m old,” said Papa. “No, I’m old,” said Grandfather, making everyone laugh. “Grandfather wins,” Caleb said. Maggie put her arms around me. “And Cassie, you are beautiful!” No one had ever called me beautiful. They had called me sneaky and elusive and imaginative. Not beautiful. “You look just like your mama.” I frowned. I looked at Mama. Big. “I think I look like Anna,” I said. “Ah no,” said Maggie. “You have your mama’s smile and her eyes.” I frowned again. “Actually, I think Cassie looks like Eleni, the cow,” said Caleb. There was laughter. “No,” said Mama. “I look like Eleni.” “Don’t worry, Sarah. Eleni is a very beautiful cow,” said Grandfather.

The ghost was not a ghost at all, or so it claimed - it claimed to be a psychic energy baby, birthed in some ethereal dimension, and pulled into the phone by the powerful magnetism of phone signals. It remembered with perfect clarity how it came to be - remembered coalescing from the membranous surface of the world, streaked with reflected light, humming with surface tension under the pressure of emptiness underneath. The Psychic Energy Baby found form among the emanations of people's minds and the susurrus of their voices, it found flesh in the shapes of their lips and eyes made, the surprise of 'o's and the sibilations of 's's; its skin stretched taut like a soap bubble, forged from the wet sound of lips touching; its thoughts were the musky smells and the nerves twined around the transparent water balloons of the muscles like stems of toadflax, searching restlessly for every available crevice, stretching along cold rough surfaces. Its veins, tiny rivers, pumped heartbeats striking in unison, the dry dallying of billions of ventricular contractions. And it spoke, spoke endlessly, it spokes words that tasted of dark air and formic acid. It could speak long before it took it's final shape. And when it happened, when all the sounds and smells and words in the world, when all the thoughts had aligned so that it could become - then it found itself pulled into the wires, surrounded by taut copper and green and red and yellow insulation; twined and quartered among the cables, rent open by millions of voices that shouted and whispered and pleaded and threatened, interspersed with the rasping of breaths and tearing laughter. It traveled through the criss-crossing of the wires so fast that it felt itself being pulled into a needle, head spearing into the future while its feet infinitely receded into the past, until it came into a dark quiet pool of the black rotary phone, where it could reassemble itself and take stock.

Are you okay, baby? I don’t know. She sounded dazed. Am I alive? I’m not certain either of us are. Give me a minute and we’ll go for round two. He felt movement and managed to turn his head toward her and pry open one eye. She lifted her head and looked pointedly at his soft cock with a small smile. “You’re feeling optimistic, aren’t you?” she said aloud, laughter in her voice. His fingers found her hair, wrapping a length around his fist. He gave a gentle tug and made an effort to find his voice. “That’s a challenge, woman, and all good soldiers find a way to meet a challenge.” He felt her laughter in his mind, that soft, melting molasses that just poured in and filled him with happiness. How had he ever managed without her? “I wasn’t challenging you, Sammy. I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to walk again,” she pointed out. “I think I have skid marks inside.” Alarm spread instantly. “Did I hurt you?” “You know you didn’t, but we were a little on the wild side. I’m definitely going to be a little sore, but I’m perfectly willing to give up walking.

Sometimes you characters give me a pain in the back of my lap,” said Manuel abruptly. “I hang around with you and listen to simple-minded gobbledegook in yard-long language, if it’s you talking, Dran, and pink-and-purple sissification from the brat here. Why I do it I’ll never know. And it goes that way up to the last gasp. So you’re going to leave. Dran has to make a speech, real logical. Vaughn has to blow out a sigh and get misty-eyed.” He spat. “How would you handle it?” Dran asked, amused. Vaughn stared at Manuel whitely. “Me? You really want to know?” “This I want to hear,” said Vaughn between her teeth. “I’d wait a while—a long while—until neither of you was talking. Then I’d say, ‘I joined the Marines yesterday.’ And you’d both look at me a little sad. There’s supposed to be something wrong with coming right out and saying something. Let’s see. Suppose I do it the way Vaughn would want me to.” He tugged at an imaginary braid and thrust out his lower lip in a lampoon of Vaughn’s full mouth. He sighed gustily. “I have felt …” He paused to flutter his eyelashes. “I have felt the call to arms,” he said in a histrionic whisper. He gazed off into the middle distance. “I have heard the sound of trumpets. The drums stir in my blood.” He pounded his temples with his fists. “I can’t stand it—I can’t! Glory beckons. I will away to foreign strands.” Vaughn turned on her heel, though she made no effort to walk away. Dran roared with laughter. “And suppose I’m you,” said Manuel, his face taut with a suppressed grin. He leaned easily against the base of the statue and crossed his legs. He flung his head back. “Zeno of Miletus,” he intoned, “in reflecting on the cromislon of the fortiseetus, was wont to refer to a razor as ‘a check for a short beard.’ While shaving this morning I correlated ‘lather’ with ‘leather’ and, seeing some of it on my neck, I recalled the old French proverb, ‘Jeanne D’Arc,’ which means: The light is out in the bathroom. The integration was complete. If the light was out I could no longer shave. Therefore I can not go on like this. Also there was this matter of the neck. I shall join the Marines. Q. E. D., which means thus spake Zarathusiasm.” Dran chuckled. Vaughn made a furious effort, failed, and burst out laughing. When it subsided, Manuel said soberly, “I did.” “You did what?” “I joined the Marines yesterday.

It occurs to me that I could learn from this child something about the nature of humanity--and if I accept Harry's pronouncement that I am a born philosopher then this baby could be an ambitious philosophical project! What if I reared it in a cupboard without light? Or in a room full of mirrors? Or Dali paintings? Apparently babies have to learn to smile so what if I never taught him or showed him laughter? No television of course no movies maybe no society either--what if he never saw another human other than me or not even me? What would happen? Would cruelty develop in that miniature universe? Would sarcasm? Would rage? Yes I could really learn something here tho why stop at one child? Could have a collective of children of "family" & alter variables in environment that will govern life of each one to see what's natural what's inevitable what's environmental & what's conditioning. Above all I will strive to raise a being that understands itself. What if I gave child head start by encouraging self-awareness at an unnaturally young age, maybe 3? Maybe earlier? Would need to create optimum conditions for flowering of self-awareness. This child will know a lot of solitude that's for sure.

At such a time [at dawn] I would dream of being a baker who delivers bread, a fitter from the electric company, or an insurance man collecting the weekly installments. Or at least a chimney sweep. In the morning, at dawn, I would enter some half-opened gateway, still lighted by the watchman's lantern. I would put two fingers to my hat, crack a joke, and enter the labyrinth to leave late in the evening, at the other end of the city. I would spend all day going from apartment to apartment, conducting one never-ending conversation from one end of the city to the other, divided into parts among the householders; I would ask something in one apartment and receive a reply in another, make a joke in one place and collect the fruits of laughter in the third or fourth. Among the banging of doors I would squeeze through narrow passages, through bedrooms full of furniture, I would upset chamberpots, walk into squeaking perambulators in which babies cry, pick up rattles dropped by infants. I would stop for longer than necessary in kitchens and hallways, where servant girls were tidying up. The girls, busy, would stretch their young legs, tauten their high insteps, play with their cheap shining shoes, or clack around in loose slippers.

... as the cover falls my hawk makes a curious, bewitching movement. She twitches her head to one side then turns it upside down and continues to regard me with the tip of her beak pointing at the ceiling. I am astonished. I've seen this head-turning before. Baby falcons do it when they play. But goshawks? Really? I pull a sheet of paper towards me, tear a long strip from one side, scrunch it into a ball, and offer it to the hawk in my fingers. She grabs it with her beak, It crunches. She likes the sound. She crunches it again and then lets it drop, turning her head upside down as it hits the floor. I pick it up and offer it to her again. She grabs it and bites it very gently over and over again: gnam gnam gnam. She looks like a glove puppet, a Punch and Judy crocodile. Her eyes are narrowed in bird-laughter. I am laughing too. I roll a magazine into a tube and peer at her through it as if it were a telescope. She ducks her head to look at me through the hole. She pushes her beak into it as far as it will go, biting the empty air inside. Putting my mouth to my side of my paper telescope I boom into it: 'Hello, Mabel.' She pulls her beak free. All the feathers on her forehead are raised. She shakes her tail rapidly from side to side and shivers with happiness.

And you're thinking I just tossed out some casual phrase that you've heard from dozens of guys? Or maybe one in particular,who mattered enough to turn you into a cynic?" At the intensity of his tone she looked up. "Yeah.Something like that.After all, McCord,your reputation precedes you. You're not exactly shy with women. I'm sure you've used plenty of lines like that to get what you want." His eyes,steady on hers,were hot and fierce. His voice was equally fierce. "I'll admit that when I first saw you, my initial reaction was purely physical. A healthy combination of testosterone and lust.What guy could look at you and not feel what I felt? You're beautiful, and bright and independent.And did I mention beautiful?" That brought a smile to her eyes. "But the more I got to know you,the more I realized you weren't just a pretty package.I started learning that you were someone special.Someone I wanted to treat very carefully." "And now?" "I'm still battling lust." There was that grin,sending an arrow straight through her heart. "But there's more here.Much more." He stared at her mouth with naked hunger. "I've waited a long time for this,but now I'm going to have to kiss you.And when I do,I can't promise to stop." She stood very still,heart pounding. "How do you know I'll ask you to?" "Careful.Because unless you tell me to stop,you have to know where this is heading..." In reply she stood on tiptoe to brush her mouth to his,stopping his words. Stopping his heart. He drew in a deep breath and drew her a little away to stare into her eyes. "I hope you meant that." "With all my heart." "Thank God." He dragged her against him and covered her lips with his.Inside her mouth he whispered, "Because, baby,I mean this." She'd waited so long.So long.And it was worth all the time she'd spent waiting and wondering.Here was a man who knew how to kiss a woman and make her feel like the only one in the universe. This kiss was so hot,so hungry, she felt the rush of desire from the top of her head all the way to her toes.And still it spun on and on until she became lost in it. He changed the angle of the kiss and took it deeper until Marilee could feel her flesh heating, her bones melting like hot wax. She wanted to be sensible,to move slowly, but her mind refused to cooperate. With a single kiss her brain had been wiped clear of every thought but one.She wanted this man.Wanted him now.Desperately. When at last they came up for air, she put a hand to his chest. "I need a minute to catch my breath." "Okay." A second later he dragged her close. "Time's up." Her laughter turned into a sigh as he ran nibbling kisses down her throat until the blood was drumming in her temples.

Yes, that. Would you care to explain where the money is going, Madam President?” Letty laughed up at him with warm, loving eyes. “Certainly, Mr. Blackstone. Do you want to hear the explanation before or after I tell you that I have every reason to believe I'm pregnant?” That very morning Joel had decided that it was probably not possible for him to be any happier than he was already. Now he realized he was wrong. He forgot about the little matter of a fifty thousand dollar cost overrun and started to grin like an idiot. “You're pregnant?” Joel ignored the embarrassed expression on the face of the blond Adonis. “You're going to have our baby?” “It would appear so.” Letty pushed her glasses up onto her nose and smiled demurely. “What do you say to that, Mr. Blackstone?” Joel tossed the file over his left shoulder. The data on the ad budget was sent flying into the air. Eyes gleaming, he walked over to Letty and lifted her carefully into his arms. “I say the hell with the fifty thousand dollars. What's a few bucks between a president and her CEO?” “I knew you'd be reasonable about it, Joel.” Joel carried her out the door and down the hall. “Let's go back to my office, Mrs. Blackstone, and discuss something far more important than ad budget overruns.” “Yes, of course, Mr. Blackstone.” Letty glowed up at him. “And this time we must remember to lock the door before we start our discussions.” Joel's laughter echoed down the halls of Thornquist Gear. Life was very good.

A BRIEF FOR THE DEFENSE Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies are not starving someplace, they are starving somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils. But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants. Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women at the fountain are laughing together between the suffering they have known and the awfulness in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody in the village is very sick. There is laughter every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta, and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay. If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction, we lessen the importance of their deprivation. We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil. If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down, we should give thanks that the end had magnitude. We must admit there will be music despite everything. We stand at the prow again of a small ship anchored late at night in the tiny port looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning. To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth all the years of sorrow that are to come.

While Dr. Weeks attended to Devon’s injuries, Kathleen went to visit West. Even before she reached the open door of his room, she heard noise and laughter drifting into the hallway. She stood at the threshold, watching with a touch of fond resignation as she saw West sitting up in bed, regaling a group that included a half-dozen servants, Pandora, Cassandra, both dogs, and Hamlet. Helen stood beside a lamp, reading the temperature of a glass thermometer. Thankfully West no longer appeared to be shivering, and his color had improved. “…then I glimpsed a man wading back out into the river,” he was saying, “toward a half-submerged railway carriage with people trapped inside. And I said to myself, ‘That man is a hero. Also an idiot. Because he’s already been in the water for too long, and he won’t be able to save them, and he’s about to sacrifice his life for nothing.’ I proceeded to climb down the embankment and found Sutton. ‘Where is the earl?’ I asked.” West paused for dramatic effect, relishing the rapt attention of his audience. “And where do you think Sutton pointed? Out to the river, where that reckless fool had just saved a trio of children, and was wading after them with a baby in one arm and a woman on the other.” “The man was Lord Trenear?” one of the housemaids gasped. “None other.” The entire group exclaimed with pleasure and possessive pride. “Nothing to it, for a bloke as big as his lordship,” one of the footmen said with a grin. “I should think he’ll be put in the papers for this,” another exclaimed. “I hope so,” West said, “if only because I know how he would loathe it.

For a brief moment she considered the unfairness of it all. How short was the time for fun, for pretty clothes, for dancing, for coquetting! Only a few, too few years! Then you married and wore dull-colored dresses and had babies that ruined your waist line and sat in corners at dances with other sober matrons and only emerged to dance with your husband or with old gentlemen who stepped on your feet. If you didn't do these things, the other matrons talked about you and then your reputation was ruined and your family disgraced. It seemed such a terrible waste to spend all your little girlhood learning how to be attractive and how to catch men and then only use the knowledge for a year or two. When she considered her training at the hands of Ellen and Mammy, se knew it had been thorough and good because it had always reaped results. There were set rules to be followed, and if you followed them success crowned your efforts. With old ladies you were sweet and guileless and appeared as simple minded as possible, for old ladies were sharp and they watched girls as jealously as cats, ready to pounce on any indiscretion of tongue or eye. With old gentlemen, a girl was pert and saucy and almost, but not quite, flirtatious, so that the old fools' vanities would be tickled. It made them feel devilish and young and they pinched your cheek and declared you were a minx. And, of course, you always blushed on such occasions, otherwise they would pinch you with more pleasure than was proper and then tell their sons that you were fast. With young girls and young married women, you slopped over with sugar and kissed them every time you met them, even if it was ten times a day. And you put your arms about their waists and suffered them to do the same to you, no matter how much you disliked it. You admired their frocks or their babies indiscriminately and teased about beaux and complimented husbands and giggled modestly and denied you had any charms at all compared with theirs. And, above all, you never said what you really thought about anything, any more than they said what they really thought. Other women's husbands you let severely alone, even if they were your own discarded beaux, and no matter how temptingly attractive they were. If you were too nice to young husbands, their wives said you were fast and you got a bad reputation and never caught any beaux of your own. But with young bachelors-ah, that was a different matter! You could laugh softly at them and when they came flying to see why you laughed, you could refuse to tell them and laugh harder and keep them around indefinitely trying to find out. You could promise, with your eyes, any number of exciting things that would make a man maneuver to get you alone. And, having gotten you alone, you could be very, very hurt or very, very angry when he tried to kiss you. You could make him apologize for being a cur and forgive him so sweetly that he would hang around trying to kiss you a second time. Sometimes, but not often, you did let them kiss you. (Ellen and Mammy had not taught her that but she learned it was effective). Then you cried and declared you didn't know what had come over you and that he couldn't ever respect you again. Then he had to dry your eyes and usually he proposed, to show just how much he did respect you. And there were-Oh, there were so many things to do to bachelors and she knew them all, the nuance of the sidelong glance, the half-smile behind the fan, the swaying of hips so that skirts swung like a bell, the tears, the laughter, the flattery, the sweet sympathy. Oh, all the tricks that never failed to work-except with Ashley.

I just realized I know nothing about you. Do you have a family? Where are you from?” The idea that I just invited a relative stranger, who owns nothing, to live in my apartment gave me a stomachache, but the weird thing was that I felt like I had known him forever. “I’m from Detroit; my entire family still lives there. My mom works in a bakery at a grocery store and my dad is a retired electrician. I have twelve brothers and sisters.” “Really? I’m an only child. I can’t imagine having a huge family like that—it must have been awesome!” Relaxing his stance, he leaned his tattooed forearm onto the dresser and crossed his feet. Jackson came over and sat next to him. Will unconsciously began petting Jackson’s head. It made my heart warm. “Actually, I don’t have twelve brothers and sisters. I have one brother and eleven sisters.” He paused. “I’m dead serious. My brother Ray is the oldest and I’m the youngest with eleven girls in between. I swear my parents just wanted to give Ray a brother, so they kept having more babies. By the time I was born, Ray was sixteen and didn’t give a shit. On top of it, they all have R names except me. It’s a f**king joke.” “You’re kidding? Name ‘em,” I demanded. In a super-fast voice Will recited, “Raymond, Reina, Rachelle, Rae, Riley, Rianna, Reese, Regan, Remy, Regina, Ranielle, Rebecca, and then me, Will.” “Surely they could have figured out another R name?” “Well my brother was named after my dad, so my mom felt like I should be named after someone too, being the only other boy and all. So I was named after my grandfather… Wilbur Ryan.” “Oh my god!” I burst into laughter. “Your name is Wilbur?” “Hey, woman, that’s my poppy’s name, too.” Still giggling, I said, “I’m sorry, I just expected William.” “Yeah, it’s okay. Everyone does.” He smiled and winked at me again.

When he lifted his head, Savannah nearly pulled him back to her. He watched her face, her eyes cloudy with desire, her lips so beautiful, bereft of his. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Savannah? There is such beauty in your soul, I can see it shining in your eyes.” She touched his face, her palm molding his strong jaw. Why couldn’t she resist his hungry eyes? “I think you’re casting a spell over me. I can’t remember what we were talking about.” Gregori smiled. “Kissing.” His teeth nibbled gently at her chin. “Specifically, your wanting to kiss that orange-bearded imbecile.” “I wanted to kiss every one of them,” she lied indignantly. “No, you did not. You were hoping that silly fop would wipe my taste from your mouth for all eternity.” His hand stroked back the fall of hair around her face. He feathered kisses along the delicate line of her jaw. “It would not have worked, you know. As I recall, he seemed to have a problem getting close to you.” Her eyes smoldered dangerously. “Did you have anything to do with his allergies?” She had wanted someone, anyone, to wipe Gregori’s taste from her mouth, her soul. He raised his voice an octave. “Oh, Savannah, I just have to taste your lips,” he mimicked. Then he went into a sneezing fit. “You haven’t ridden until you’ve ridden on a Harley, baby.” He sneezed, coughed, and gagged in perfect imitation. Savannah punched his arm, forgetting for a moment her bruised fist. When it hurt, she yelped and glared accusingly at him. “It was you doing all that to him! The poor man— you damaged his ego for life. Each time he touched me, he had a sneezing fit.” Gregori raised an eyebrow, completely unrepentant. “Technically, he did not lay a hand on you. He sneezed before he could get that close.” She laid her head back on the pillow, her ebony hair curling around his arm, then her arm, weaving them together. His lips found her throat, then moved lower and found the spot over her breast that burned with need, with invitation. Savannah caught his head firmly in her hands and lifted him determinedly away from her before her treacherous body succumbed completely to his magic. “And the dog episode?” He tried for innocence, but his laughter was echoing in her mind. “What do you mean?” “You know very well what I mean,” she insisted. “When Dragon walked me home.” “Ah, yes, I seem to recall now. The big bad wolf decked out in chains and spikes, afraid of a little dog.” “Little? A hundred-and-twenty-pound Rottweiler mix? Foaming at the mouth. Roaring. Charging him!” “He ran like a rabbit.” Gregori’s soft, caressing voice echoed his satisfaction. He had taken great pleasure in running that particular jackass off. How dare the man try to lay a hand on Savannah? “No wonder I couldn’t touch the dog’s mind and call him off. You rotten scoundrel.” “After Dragon left you, I chased him for two blocks, and he went up a tree. I kept him there for several hours, just to make a point. He looked like a rooster with his orange comb.” She laughed in spite of her desire not to. “He never came near me again.” “Of course not. It was unacceptable,” he said complacently, with complete satisfaction, the warmth of his breath heating her blood.

Wakey wakey, Vex. Aren’t you going to answer? It’s your mother, and this is the fourth time she’s called. Would you like me to tell her you’re indisposed?” Hold on a second. It didn’t take long for her bleary mind to grasp Leo was here. In her room. About to talk to her mother at— she squinted at her clock— seven in the morning. Eep. Her eyes shot open, but before she could flail an arm in his direction and demand the phone, he answered. “Meena’s phone. Can I help you?” She moaned, her super hearing meaning she heard her mother’s very polite, “Excuse me, but who are you, and why are you answering my daughter’s phone?” If this were Meena, she’d say something like “I’m a serial killer, and sorry, but your daughter is all tied up right now. Muahahaha.” Of course, the last time she did that, the SWAT team wasn’t impressed, and she wasn’t allowed to hang out with Mary Sue anymore. Trust her Pookie to stick to the truth. “I’m Leo.” “Hello, Leo. How are you today?” Her mother ever Miss Manners. “I am just purrrr-fect. Yourself?” “Um. Er. Would you mind passing the phone to Meena, please?” “I would, but she’s kind of… indisposed.” Did he just smirk at her as he said it? She frowned. He grinned. It was a sexy grin, a mischievous grin, but that still didn’t prepare her for him saying, “How about I get her to call you back once we’ve located her clothes? With my help, I’m sure I can get her dressed in no time. Or not.” How low and husky he said it, his eyes boring into hers, wicked promise within them. Of course, that wicked promise would have to wait, given what he’d just said to her mother! “Are you insane?” she mouthed. “If I’m insane, then it’s totally your fault,” he replied, aloud. Uh-oh. “Peter! I need you now!” Her mother forgot her manners and yelled for Meena’s dad. Not good. So not good. Poor Leo. And she liked him so much. Even if it was only going to be a verbal barrage, she still yanked the covers over her head so she wouldn’t have to witness the carnage as her daddy came on the line. Unfortunately, she could still hear it. “Who the fuck is this, and what are you doing with my daughter?” Daddy didn’t bother with niceties. “Hello, sir, I’m Leo, the omega for the pride harboring your daughter while her spot of trouble blows over. As to what I’m doing with your daughter, I am trying to keep her out of trouble, but not succeeding very well so far. She has a knack it seems for causing disasters.” Familiar laughter boomed. “That’s my baby girl.” At least her father didn’t see the havoc that followed her as a problem. Mother wailed she’d never get married if she didn’t start to act like a proper lady. “As to my presence with your daughter, just keeping an eye on her. We’ve run into a issue with an old beau following her here.” “That Russian prick showed up?” “Indeed. And events have escalated where I fear there is only one thing to do. It’s drastic, but inevitable. ” The click of the door cut off the rest of that conversation. What the hell? She poked her head out, only to note her bedroom was empty. While Meena hid under the covers, Leo had wandered away. Still talking to my father. That couldn’t bode well.

That is the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen. I want to bite it,” I said, savoring the sound of Tatum’s laughter. “Didn’t you get enough to eat at dinner?” “Nowhere near. You’re dessert, and baby, I have a sweet tooth.

Patches of stained red grass. Rotting baby limbs at dusk. The sound of cicadas and laughter; picnics with madmen by the black lake at noon.

shenanigans, Spears smiles and at one point playfully scolds her boyfriend of six months, producer Charlie Ebersol, 32, when he swings Jayden up in the air beside the pool. “Baby, do not drop my son!” she says. The kids start to giggle. Laughter is the norm

Hawkins lost the grip on his mouth and barked out between peals of laughter, “I think… I think he… I think he’s breaching our… research installation… to find out… oh help me Jesus! …to find out where… where babies come from!!

Is she okay?” “Yes, but… Well, son, she’s pregnant.” Nate laughed. “Are you serious?” “Yes, I’m serious. I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but—” “Now, Dad, I thought we already had this talk.” This was followed by more laughter. “I think you breeded Janet like Chinook—” “Son, shut your mouth for a minute.” When Jack was satisfied that Nate was listening, he went on. “Because of her age and her injuries, there are a fair number of risks. She’s got hyperemesis gravi… hell, something that makes her throw up a lot, so they’re giving her IV fluids and some drug to stop the nausea.” “Poor thing. I hope it helps. Is there any risk to her or the baby right now?” “We have a lot of questions, but not many answers yet.” “God, I can’t wait to tell Megan.” “See that you don’t tell anyone else. I want to put a ring on her finger and walk her down the aisle before word of this gets out so that no one can accuse her of forcing me into marriage or say that I married her just because I got her pregnant.” For some reason, this made Nate laugh again. “A father at the age of sixty-four.” “I’m sixty-three.” “You won’t be by the time the baby arrives.” “Shit.” He hadn’t thought of that. “Seriously, congratulations, Dad. This baby is very lucky to have you as a father. Trust me on this. I know.” Jack’s throat suddenly got tight. “Thanks, son.

Taking my hand, she walked out of the room where we found Vaughn and Judd playing pool in the dining room. The guys were deep in silent competition, so we admired their hot bodies quietly. Our giggling finally drew their attention. “Where are we eating?” Vaughn asked, hitting a ball. “We should eat somewhere that preggos can’t enjoy,” I suggested and Tawny grinned. “I think they can’t eat deli meat, but I don’t want that crap.” Tawny searched info on her phone then smiled. “Sushi is supposed to be iffy.” “Barf,” Vaughn said and Judd grimaced. “We should go to a fish place and share a little sushi to celebrate our powerful birth control.” Judd smiled at this comment. “Poor Aaron.” “Screw Aaron,” I grunted. “Lark’s the one carrying two babies.” Vaughn and Judd looked at each other then burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?” “He hooks up with a chick whose birth control is defective and ends up with twins,” Vaughn said, walking to me. “Dumb fuck probably didn’t know what hit him.” “He gets to spend his life with an amazing person. Fuck you for laughing at his good luck.” “Don’t go big sis on me, daffodil. One day, I’m knocking you up with twins too. No harm in making double the hot kids.” “I’m still mad.” “Wanna make a baby right now?” he whispered in my ear. “Sushi first.” “Barf.” “We’ll see.” Thirty minutes later, Vaughn proved me wrong. He hated sushi and nearly threw up after trying a bite. Watching him freak-out nearly killed me. I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Tawny was also in hysterics. Like any good friend would, Judd took a picture of a gagging Vaughn with his phone. “Sent it to the crew. You’re welcome.” “Jackass,” Vaughn said, wiping his tongue with a napkin. Calming my laughter, I stroked his ponytail. “Poor baby. I’ll make it up to you later.” Vaughn’s horrified expression immediately shifted into a smirk. “Yeah, you will.

Baby Cooper and Aaron running around causing trouble,” Dad said, setting an album on Lark’s lap. “Aaron was a very good baby. Didn’t cry at all. Not once.” When I laughed, Dad gave me a wink. “Here was our boy at three months.” Lark looked at the picture and laughed. Knowing exactly what she thought was so funny, I explained, “They thought they were adopting a girl, so I wore pink those first few months.” “Babies grow so fast at that age,” Mom said. “No reason to waste money on new clothes when he wouldn’t know the difference.” Lark laughed at this comment and kept laughing until the pictures reached when I was three. Her eyes moistened and again I was the one to explain. “Lark’s little brother died around that age.” As Mom and Dad descended on her with hugs, I never saw my girl look so startled. Life was different for her now. No longer was she struggling to survive in a dysfunctional family of revolving fathers and a cold mother. Now, she was a Barnes and we were fully functional and only slightly on the weird side. “You have curls,” she cooed, running her finger over a picture of me at five. “I loved those curls,” Mom said. “She put barrettes in those curls,” I muttered, standing behind the three of them as they looked through the album. Ignoring my parents’ laughter, I continued, “I begged to have my hair shaved short. Once it was, I never looked back.

Dylan lifted my chin so my lips could meet his. I kissed him hard, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion I’d held tight inside me. “Good things happen,” I said, crying now. “Sometimes I forget that even when I have a blessing right in front of me.” Dylan wrapped me tighter in his arms and smiled against my lips. “Me too, but I never lost faith in little Lark. If anyone could kick death in the ass, it would be her.” I laughed at the thought of Lark versus the Grim Reaper. When my laughter drew the attention of the others, they laughed too, even without knowing why. All the tension faded as our fears turned to celebration. “Shit, I’m gonna get teary-eyed,” Vaughn announced, looking at his phone. We all received the same message from Raven with pictures of the babies. “Which one’s the girl?” Judd asked, squinting at Tawny’s phone. “The one with the pink hat,” his wife said. Everyone laughed again. “You can’t see if they have curly hair,” Cooper muttered. “Man, I hope at least one of them does. I’m never letting Aaron live that shit down.” More laughter as everyone enjoyed the additional photos Raven sent.

to sputter and giggle—Baby too. “I followed my piss!” I said between hiccupping laughter. “She followed her piss and her dreams came true!” Rachel screamed. “Follow your piss, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Barbara intoned.

I’m going to faint, Norman thought, just as his legs gave way, and he sat down hard on the stage. The world came back in a snap, led by the nauseating sound of Alvin’s Hyena Laugh. “Normie fell down and go boom, baby! Look at him! He’s white as a sheet! Whassamatter, Norm, you look like you saw a ghost! Get it? Get it? A ghost!” The laughter of Alvin and his Meaty Henchmen was momentarily drowned out by the sound of the bell. Leaving his script where it had fallen, Norman jumped to his feet and sped out of the gym. For just a moment, he was the only person in the hallway—everything looked oddly deserted and devoid of human life. Like how a school might look in a ghost town.

You dismiss the idea that the death of Jesus—the “torture and death of a single individual in a backward part of the Middle East” — could possibly be the solution to the sorrows of our brutish existence. When I said that Jesus is good for the world because he is the life of the world, you just tossed this away. You said, “You cannot possibly ‘know’ this. Nor can you present any evidence for it.” Actually, I believe I can present evidence for what I know. But evidence comes to us like food, and that is why we say grace over it. And we are supposed to eat it, not push it around on the plate—and if we don’t give thanks, it never tastes right. But here is some evidence for you, in no particular order. The engineering that went into ankles. The taste of beer. That Jesus rose from the dead on the third day, just like he said. A woman’s neck. Bees fooling around in the flower bed. The ability of acorns to manufacture enormous oaks out of stuff they find in the air and dirt. Forgiveness of sin. Storms out of the North, the kind with lightning. Joyous laughter (diaphragm spasms to the atheistic materialist). The ocean at night with a full moon. Delta blues. The peacock that lives in my yard. Sunrise, in color. Baptizing babies. The pleasure of sneezing. Eye contact. Having your feet removed from the miry clay, and established forever on the rock. You may say none of this tastes right to you. But suppose you were to bow your head and say grace over all of it. Try it that way. You say that you cannot believe that Christ’s death on the Cross was salvation for the world because the idea is absurd. I have shown in various ways that absurdity has not been a disqualifier for any number of your current beliefs. You praise reason to the heights, yet will not give reasons for your strident and inflexible moral judgments, or why you have arbitrarily dubbed certain chemical processes “rational argument.” That’s absurd right now, and yet there you are, holding it. So for you to refuse to accept Christ because it is absurd is like a man at one end of the pool refusing to move to the other end because he might get wet. Given your premises, you will have to come up with a different reason for rejecting Christ as you do. But for you to make this move would reveal the two fundamental tenets of true atheism. One: There is no God. Two: I hate Him.

Right now, in front of all of you, I’m gonna make the vows my dad showed me you should make when you fall in love with a woman.” “Oh shit,” Cher murmured. Ethan turned and looked down at his bride. “I vow to take care of you. I vow that every day you’ll feel safe because you know that down to your bones, seein’ as I’ll be breakin’ my back givin’ it to you. And I vow to give you shit when you’re bein’ a wiseass.” Laughter filled the room, but Ethan was not done speaking. “I also vow to take your shit when I’m bein’ one. I vow to make sure you got what you want as often as I can give it to you. I vow to love the children we make, spend time with them as often as humanly possible, and knock myself out to make them feel safe. I vow to guide them to the right paths in life, showin’ them I’m proud they’re mine, they’re ours, even when they don’t do anything special to make me feel that way.” His voice dipped before he went on. “And most importantly, green eyes, I vow to make you laugh at least once every day for the rest of the beautiful life I also vow to give you. I vow to make you do it hard. I vow to give it from the heart so I can make it come from your gut, and you’ll never forget how happy you make me because I vow to bust my ass to make you the same. I love you, baby, and I cherish you, and that’s what you’re gonna get from me until one or the other of us stops breathing.” “Oh, Ethan!” his girl cried, surging out of her seat, throwing herself in Ethan Merrick’s arms, and shoving her face in his neck. He wrapped one around her and kissed her hair before he turned to the room, raised his glass, and finished. “So toast with me, with my bride, to what real love means—care and safety and laughter and givin’ your baby shit when she’s bein’ a wiseass.

You’re playing with fire.” Then she went and jabbed her finger into my gut. I laughed and dodged away when she came at me again. “Woman,” I warned. “Don’t poke me.” With a playful laugh, she charged. “Don’t be such a baby. I like it when you poke me.” As I caught her and imprisoned her arms, I threw my head back and roared with laughter.

Livia’s song flows from my lips easily. I have known her since she was a baby. I held her, cuddled her, loved her. I sing of her strength. I sing of the sweetness and humor that I know still live within her, despite the horrors she has endured. I feel her body strengthening, her blood regenerating. But as I knit her back together, something is not right. I move down from her heart to her belly. My consciousness flinches back. The baby. He—and my sister is right, it is a he—sleeps now. But there is something wrong with him. His heartbeat, which instinct tells me should sound like the gentle, swift thud of a bird’s wings, is too slow. His still-developing mind too sluggish. He slips away from us. Skies, what is the child’s song? I do not know him. I know nothing about him except that he is part Marcus and part Livia and that he is our only chance for a unified Empire. “What do you want him to be?” the Nightbringer asks. At his voice, I jump, so deep in healing that I forgot he was here. “A warrior? A leader? A diplomat? His ruh, his spirit, is within, but it is not yet formed. If you wish him to live, then you must shape him from what is there—his blood, his family. But know that in doing so, you will be bound to him and his purpose forever. You will never be able to extricate yourself.” “He is family,” I whisper. “My nephew. I wouldn’t want to extricate myself from him.” I hum, searching for his song. Do I want him to be like me? Like Elias? Certainly not like Marcus. I want him to be an Aquilla. And I want him to be a Martial. So I sing my sister Livia into him—her kindness and laughter. I sing him my father’s conviction and prudence. My mother’s thoughtfulness and intelligence. I sing him Hannah’s fire. Of his father, I sing only one thing: his strength and skill in battle—one quick word, sharp and strong and clear—Marcus if the world had not ruined him. If he had not allowed himself to be ruined. But there is something missing. I feel it. This child will one day be Emperor. He needs something deeply rooted, something that will sustain him when nothing else will: a love of his people. The thought appears in my head as if it’s been planted there. So I sing him my own love, the love I learned in the streets of Navium, in fighting for my people, in them fighting for me. The love I learned in the infirmary, healing children and telling them not to fear. His heart begins to beat in time again; his body strengthens. I feel him give my sister an almighty kick, and, relieved, I withdraw.