Love Retrieval Quotes

I am my heart’s undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.

I am the planet's most affectionate life-form, something like the cross between a golden retriever and a barnacle.

This is who I am. I am loving but wounded, and I need someone to take me as I am.

How clear, how lovely bright, How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play; How heaven laughs out with glee Where, like a bird set free, Up from the eastern sea Soars the delightful day. To-day I shall be strong, No more shall yield to wrong, Shall squander life no more; Days lost, I know not how, I shall retrieve them now; Now I shall keep the vow I never kept before. Ensanguining the skies How heavily it dies Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound Not further to be found, How hopeless under ground Falls the remorseful day.

You don’t get it. There is no happily ever after for us.” We weren’t a fairytale. We were a forbidden love letter, tucked into the back of a drawer and retrieved only in the darkness of night. We were the chapter of bliss before the climax hit and everything crumbled into ash. We were a story that was always meant to end. “This is it.

... that the past is one lie, and the memory has no returning, becouse every old spring is beyond retrieve, and even the craziest and most persistent love is just a temporary truth...

Be brave. Even if you're not, pretend to be. No one can tell the difference. Don't allow the phone to interrupt important moments. It's there for your convenience, not the callers. Don't be afraid to go out on a limb. That's where the fruit is. Don't burn bridges. You'll be surprised how many times you have to cross the same river. Don't forget, a person's greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated. Don't major in minor things. Don't say you don't have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Mother Teresa, Helen Keller, Leonardo Da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein. Don't spread yourself too thin. Learn to say no politely and quickly. Don't use time or words carelessly. Neither can be retrieved. Don't waste time grieving over past mistakes Learn from them and move on. Every person needs to have their moment in the sun, when they raise their arms in victory, knowing that on this day, at his hour, they were at their very best. Get your priorities straight. No one ever said on his death bed, 'Gee, if I'd only spent more time at the office'. Give people a second chance, but not a third. Judge your success by the degree that you're enjoying peace, health and love. Learn to listen. Opportunity sometimes knocks very softly. Leave everything a little better than you found it. Live your life as an exclamation, not an explanation. Loosen up. Relax. Except for rare life and death matters, nothing is as important as it first seems. Never cut what can be untied. Never overestimate your power to change others. Never underestimate your power to change yourself. Remember that overnight success usually takes about fifteen years. Remember that winners do what losers don't want to do. Seek opportunity, not security. A boat in harbor is safe, but in time its bottom will rot out. Spend less time worrying who's right, more time deciding what's right. Stop blaming others. Take responsibility for every area of your life. Success is getting what you want. Happiness is liking what you get. The importance of winning is not what we get from it, but what we become because of it. When facing a difficult task, act as though it's impossible to fail.

Nick is actually the human embodiment of a golden retriever puppy, as well as being Truham’s rugby captain and a genuinely lovely person.

I knew something as I watched: almost everyone was saying goodbye to me. I was becoming one of the many little-girl-losts. They would go back to their homes and put me to rest, a letter from the past never to be reopened or reread. And I could say goodbye to them, wish them well, bless them somehow for their good thoughts. A handshake in the street, a dropped item picked up and retrieved and handed back, or a friendly wave from the distant window, a nod, a smile, a moment when the eyes lock over the antics of a child.

Nina sat down next to Alys. “Would you um … like some tea?” “With honey?” Alys asked. “I, uh … I think we have sugar?” “I only like tea with honey and lemon.” Nina looked like she might tell Alys exactly where she could put her honey and lemon, so Matthias said hurriedly, “How would you like a chocolate biscuit?” “Oh, I love chocolate!” Nina’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember saying you could give away my biscuits.” “It’s for a good cause,” Matthias said, retrieving the tin. He’d purchased the biscuits in the hope of getting Nina to eat more. “Besides, you’ve barely touched them.” “I’m saving them for later,” said Nina with a sniff. “And you should not cross me when it comes to sweets.” Jesper nodded. “She’s like a dessert-hoarding dragon.

And it killed me because I could never forget him. Couldn't because he'd permanently etched himself to me, left a part of himself forever within me. For so many years I'd loved him, but when he'd gone this time, he'd taken a part of me captive too, a piece that could never be retrieved because it would always belong to him...

Sometimes maybe you should let someone you love travel great distances away from you. You shouldn’t think you needed to set out to retrieve them and put them back where they belonged. Sometimes they were only safe and happy, like Annabelle Aurora. And then other times, it was just possible they were lost at sea. It would be your duty, then, to get out into the boat and search, even if the waves were choppy and the wind was howling the protests of the dead.

Well,” sighed Toby, “I’m not really much of a hunter. Retrievers retrieve things, you know, things other folk have hunted. Other than that I’m a lovely boy, that’s what my human said, and I do enjoy being lovely.” Garth cringed and, to change the subject said, “There’s a rabbit now. It’s sitting up sniffing the air and not picking up our scent. Could you catch it, do you think?” “Oh, look at him,” chuckled Toby. “what a sweet little chap.

Happiness isn’t the reward we retrieve after a long struggle. It arrives daily, in those clear moments when our hearts are tender, pricked by the embrace of a loved one, the beauty of a single flower, the majesty of the world in which we are central. Look over your shoulder at how far you’ve come and all the good things you’ve experienced and that is when you will see the smiling face of happiness.

The retriever took each bit of meat from his master's hand with a delicacy almost equal to that of a hummingbird sipping sugar water from a garden feeder, and when it was all gone, he gazed up at Dusty with an adoration that could not have been much less than the love with which the angels regard God.

No one will retrieve my lost heart amidst so many roots, in the bitter freshness of the sun multiplied by the fury of the water, there the shadow lives that does not travel with me.

Leave it to the English to fabricate a lake,” she tossed over her shoulder to Carla, who snickered. “And leave it to the Italians to fall into it!” “I was retrieving my hat!” “Ah . . . that makes it all much more logical. Do you even know how to swim?” “Do I know how to swim?” she asked, and he took more than a little pleasure in her offense. “I was raised on the banks of the Adige! Which happens to be a real river.” “Impressive,” he said, not at all impressed. “And tell me, did you ever swim in said river?” “Of course! But I wasn’t wearing”—she waved a hand to indicate her dress—“sixteen layers of fabric!” “Why not?” “Because you don’t swim in sixteen layers of fabric!” “No?” “No!” “Why not?” He had her now. “Because you will drown!” “Ah,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Well, at least we’ve learned something today.

In friendships or relationships, usually one person is the cat—guarded, a little standoffish—someone where you have to work for it. And then the other person is the golden retriever. Loves immediately and completely.

For all the thirsty bitches who love a dirty-talking golden retriever boy. Eat your hearts out.

While they waited, Ronan decided to finally take up the task of teaching Adam how to drive a stick shift. For several minutes, it seemed to be going well, as the BMW had an easy clutch, Ronan was brief and to the point with his instruction, and Adam was a quick study with no ego to get in the way. From a safe vantage point beside the building, Gansey and Noah huddled and watched as Adam began to make ever quicker circles around the parking lot. Every so often their hoots were audible through the open windows of the BMW. Then—it had to happen eventually—Adam stalled the car. It was a pretty magnificent beast, as far as stalls went, with lots of noise and death spasms on the part of the car. From the passenger seat, Ronan began to swear at Adam. It was a long, involved swear, using every forbidden word possible, often in compound-word form. As Adam stared at his lap, penitent, he mused that there was something musical about Ronan when he swore, a careful and loving precision to the way he fit the words together, a black-painted poetry. It was far less hateful sounding than when he didn’t swear. Ronan finished with, “For the love of . . . Parrish, take some care, this is not your mother’s 1971 Honda Civic.” Adam lifted his head and said, “They didn’t start making the Civic until ’73.” There was a flash of fangs from the passenger seat, but before Ronan truly had time to strike, they both heard Gansey call warmly, “Jane! I thought you’d never show up. Ronan is tutoring Adam in the ways of manual transmissions.” Blue, her hair pulled every which way by the wind, stuck her head in the driver’s side window. The scent of wildflowers accompanied her presence. As Adam catalogued the scent in the mental file of things that made Blue attractive, she said brightly, “Looks like it’s going well. Is that what that smell is?” Without replying, Ronan climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Noah appeared beside Blue. He looked joyful and adoring, like a Labrador retriever. Noah had decided almost immediately that he would do anything for Blue, a fact that would’ve needled Adam if it had been anyone other than Noah. Blue permitted Noah to pet the crazy tufts of her hair, something Adam would have also liked to do, but felt would mean something far different coming from him.

Her heart pounded as the door lifted and Hunter got out dressed in faded jeans, a gray and black v-neck sweater, and a black leather jacket, the man was drop-dead stunning. And that deadly stagger of his made her weak in the knees. "Oh baby," she heard Tammy whisper as he came around the car. Hunter stopped in front of Amanda and raked a hungry look over her body. "Hi, luscious," he said in that deep, evocative voice. "Sorry I'm late." Before Amanda knew what he was doing, he pulled her into his arms and gave her a sizzling hot kiss. Her body burned in response to his tongue tasting hers as he fisted his hands against her back. Then, he dipped down and picked her up in his arms. "Hunter!" she gasped as he carried her effortlessly toward the car. He gave her that devilish tight-lipped smile. His midnight eyes were warm and alive with humor and hunger. With the toe of his boot, he opened the passenger-side door and set her inside. He retrieved her briefcase and purse from the sidewalk where she had dropped them and handed them to her. Then, he turned and gave a knowing smile to Cliff. "You really have to love a woman who lives to see you naked.

I have to go, Jenna", he whispered, sounding shaky, like he questioned the decision himself. He released the hold and squatted to retrieve his bag, leaving me to sway in the air, ready to collapse any second, as he walked away forever. And it ate me up inside. Forever. "Evan?" "Yeah?" he answered, turning back as his hand gripped the door. "I do love you. And i never gave you anything less than everything i had to give" A solitary tear managed to break through my defenses. "And i'll always regret that it wasn't enough" "Me, too" And just as he slid out into the hallway, marking the beginning of forever, he quietly added "Because i would've spent my life with you

I love you.” He grinned unexpectedly, traced he lower lip with the tip of a finger. “What is more, I know you love me. You hide it from yourself, but I found it in a little corner, tucked away in your mind.” Shea stared up at the teasing smile on his face, then pushed at the solid wall of his chest. “You’re making that up.” Jacques moved off her, then reached down to pull her to her feet. His clothes were scattered everywhere, and he made no move to retrieve them. Shea’s shirt was still hanging open, and her jeans were down around her ankles. Blushing, she pulled them up. His hand stayed hers, preventing her from fastening them. “Do not bother, Shea. The pools are just ahead.” He walked a few feet, then looked back over his shoulder. “I did not make it up, and I know you are staring at my backside.” Shea tossed her mane of red hair so that it flew in all directions. “Any woman in her right mind would stare at your particular backside, so you don’t need to add that to your arrogant list of virtues. And stay out of my mind unless you’re invited.” She was staring, but she couldn’t help it. He was so beautifully masculine. Jacques reached behind him and captured her hand, lacing their fingers together. “But I find the most interesting things in your mind, my love. Things you do not have any intention of telling me.

where the Army we loved sold us out for careerist brass, a war-porn-fixated media and military-industrial-complex corporate greed; where the only honor and integrity seemed to exist among the troops on the line.

All my life I have loved travelling at night, with a companion, each of us discussing and sharing the known and familiar behaviour of the other. It’s like a villanelle, this inclination of going back to events in our past, the way the villanelle’s form refuses to move forward in linear development, circling instead at those familiar moments of emotion. Only the rereading counts, Nabokov said. So the strange form of that belfry, turning onto itself again and again, felt familiar to me. For we live with those retrievals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout our lives, the way shattered pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope reappear in new forms and are songlike in their refrains and rhymes, making up a single monologue. We live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories, whatever story we tell.

I would lie of course. I lied a lot and with good reason: to protect the truth—safeguard it like wearing fake gems to keep the real ones from getting stolen or cheapened by overuse. I guarded what truths I possessed because information was not a thing—it was colorless odorless shapeless and therefore indestructible. There was no way to retrieve or void it no way to halt its proliferation. Telling someone a secret was like storing plutonium inside a sandwich bag the information would inevitably outlive the friendship or love or trust in which you’d placed it. And then you would have given it away.

Unlike modern pills, these hard antimony pills didn’t dissolve in the intestines, and the pills were considered so valuable that people rooted through fecal matter to retrieve and reuse them. Some lucky families even passed down laxatives from father to son. Perhaps for this reason, antimony found heavy work as a medicine, although it’s actually toxic. Mozart probably died from taking too much to combat a severe fever.

A few days later, Tuesday quietly crossed our apartment as I read a book and, after a nudge against my arm, put his head on my lap. As always, I immediately checked my mental state, trying to assess what was wrong. I knew a change in my biorhythms had brought Tuesday over, because he was always monitoring me, but I couldn't figure out what it was. Breathing? Okay. Pulse? Normal. Was I glazed or distracted? Was I lost in Iraq? Was a dark period descending? I didn't think so, but I knew something must be wrong, and I was starting to worry...until I looked into Tuesday's eyes. They were staring at me softly from under those big eyebrows, and there was nothing in them but love.

Words are the oldest information storage and retrieval system ever devised. Words are probably older than the cave paintings in France, words have been here for tens of thousands of years longer than film, moving pictures, video, and digital video, and words will likely be here after those media too. When the electromagnetic pulse comes in the wake of the nuclear blast? Those computers and digital video cameras and videotape recorders that are not melted outright will be plastic and metal husks used to prop open doors. Not so with the utterances of tongues. Words will remain, and the highly complicated and idiosyncratic accounts assembled from them will provide us with the dark news about the blast. The written word will remain, scribbled on collapsed highway overpasses, as a testament to love and rage, as evidence of the wanderers in the ruin.

He retrieved the words from somewhere long forgotten. They floated through the foggy recesses of his mind, plucked from the dark and released into the air like a dove.

I'd thought Clarice's smile was both too dim and friendly and too wide and white, so that she looked to me like the love child of a cannibal and a Labrador retriever.

He was like a golden retriever. She imderstood the apeal, but that didn't mean she wanted to take him home.

Now that I know he’s Ezra’s new maybe-special friend, I pay a little more attention to him than I would have before. He kind of reminds me of a golden retriever, with his floppy blond hair and blue eyes. The first time I saw him in acrylics class, I kind of immediately hated the guy. He’s the sort of person the world adores, just based on the way he looks, a little like the way people obsess over men like Chris Hemsworth and Chris Evans and Chris Pine and all the other famous Chrises, plus Ryan Gosling, claiming that they’re liberal and that they aren’t racist and that they’re feminists, but not really thinking about why they’re so obsessed with white men, and why they don’t love any people of color the same way.

We make a pretty good team, huh?" "The best. In fact, I was planning to do this when we got back to the Fairmont, but suddenly I don't want to wait." "For what?" Reaching into the pocket of his black pinstripe suit coat, he retrieved a huge square-cut diamond ring and slid it onto her left hand. "What do you say we make this partnership official?" Tears flooded her eyes. "Do you promise to love me forever?" His blue eyes went dark with desire and love as he nodded. "Forever and ever." "Pinky swear?" He smiled and wrapped his little finger around hers. "Pinky swear" She leaned in to kiss him. "Then you've got yourself a deal.

Whenever I needed a reassuring touch, Tuesday was there. He was my miracle dog. I already loved him and depended on him more than any other animal I'd ever known- and most other people, too.

Prejudices emerge from the disposition of the human mind to perceive and process information in categories. “Categories” is a nicer, more neutral word than “stereotypes,” but it’s the same thing. Cognitive psychologists consider stereotypes to be energy-saving devices that allow us to make efficient decisions on the basis of past experience; help us quickly process new information and retrieve memories; make sense of real differences between groups; and predict, often with considerable accuracy, how others will behave or how they think.24 We wisely rely on stereotypes and the quick information they give us to avoid danger, approach possible new friends, choose one school or job over another, or decide that that person across this crowded room will be the love of our lives.

Then there were antimony pills. Unlike our one-use pharmaceuticals today, these metal pills were heavy, and after passing through the bowels they were often relatively unchanged. They were dutifully retrieved from latrines, washed, and reused over and over again. Talk about recycling. The “everlasting pills” or “perpetual pills” were often lovingly handed down from generation to generation as an heirloom.

The Devil's Rose You would never take a rose from a beast. If his callous hand were to hold out a scarlet flower, his grip unaffected by pricking thorns, you would shrink from the gift and refuse it. I know that is what you would do. But the cunning beast will have his beauty. He hunts not in hopeless pursuit, for fear would have you sprint all the day long. Thus, he turns toward the shadows and clutches the rosebud, crunching and twisting until every delicate petal is detached. One falls not far from your feet, and you notice the red spot in the snow. The color sparkles in the sunlight, catching your curious eye. No beast stands in sight; there is nothing to fear, so you dare retrieve the lone petal. The touch of temptation is velvet against your thumb. It carries a scent you bring to your nose, and both eyes close to float on a cloud of perfume. As your lashes lift, another scarlet drop stains the snow at a near distance. A glance around perceives no danger, and so your footprints scar the snowflakes to retrieve another rosy leaflet as soft and sweet as the first. Your eyes shine with flecks of golden greed at the discovery of more discarded petals, and you blame the wind for scattering them mere footprints apart. All you want is a few, so you step and snatch, step and snatch, step and snatch. Soon, there is enough velvet to rub against your cheek like a silken kerchief. Your collection of one-plus-one-more reeks of floral essence. Distracted, you jump at the sight of the beast in your path. He stands before his lair, grinning without love. His callous hands grip at thorns on a single naked stem, and you look down at your own hands that now cup his rose. But how can it be? You would never take a rose from a beast. You would shrink from the gift and refuse it. He knows that is what you would do.

This is why men get a bad rap. Y’all do stupid shit then try to justify it by saying crap like, ‘For a man, it’s different.’ Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but if a man is kind, loving, respectful, makes a woman laugh, knows how to open the pickle jar, and change a flat tire, we really don’t need much else.

People had always amazed him, he began. But they amazed him more since the sickness. For as long as the two of them had been together, he said, Gary’s mother had accepted him as her son’s lover, had given them her blessing. Then, at the funeral, she’d barely acknowledged him. Later, when she drove to the house to retrieve some personal things, she’d hunted through her son’s drawers with plastic bags twist-tied around her wrists. “…And yet,” he whispered, “The janitor at school--remember him? Mr. Feeney? --he’d openly disapproved of me for nineteen years. One of the nastiest people I knew. Then when the news about me got out, after I resigned, he started showing up at the front door every Sunday with a coffee milkshake. In his church clothes, with his wife waiting out in the car. People have sent me hate mail, condoms, Xeroxed prayers…” What made him most anxious, he told me, was not the big questions--the mercilessness of fate, the possibility of heaven. He was too exhausted, he said, to wrestle with those. But he’d become impatient with the way people wasted their lives, squandered their chances like paychecks. I sat on the bed, massaging his temples, pretending that just the right rubbing might draw out the disease. In the mirror I watched us both--Mr. Pucci, frail and wasted, a talking dead man. And myself with the surgical mask over my mouth, to protect him from me. “The irony,” he said, “… is that now that I’m this blind man, it’s clearer to me than it’s ever been before. What’s the line? ‘Was blind but now I see…’” He stopped and put his lips to the plastic straw. Juice went halfway up the shaft, then back down again. He motioned the drink away. “You accused me of being a saint a while back, pal, but you were wrong. Gary and I were no different. We fought…said terrible things to each other. Spent one whole weekend not speaking to each other because of a messed up phone message… That time we separated was my idea. I thought, well, I’m fifty years old and there might be someone else out there. People waste their happiness--That’s what makes me sad. Everyone’s so scared to be happy.” “I know what you mean,” I said. His eyes opened wider. For a second he seemed to see me. “No you don’t,” he said. “You mustn’t. He keeps wanting to give you his love, a gift out and out, and you dismiss it. Shrug it off because you’re afraid.” “I’m not afraid. It’s more like…” I watched myself in the mirror above the sink. The mask was suddenly a gag. I listened. “I’ll give you what I learned from all this,” he said. “Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love.

We weren’t a fairy tale. We were a forbidden love letter, tucked into the back of a drawer and retrieved only in the darkness of night. We were the chapter of bliss before the climax hit and everything crumbled into ash. We were a story that was always meant to end.

What almost knocked me on my ass, if not for the seat belt, was Aaron leading his finger to his mouth, parting those lips that were so often pressed in an unamused line, and wiping the chocolate clean off his thumb. Chocolate that he had just retrieved from the corner of my mouth. A riot of emotions burst inside my belly as I watched his throat gulp it down, appreciation flashing through his face.

Christ took upon himself this human form of ours. He became Man even as we are men. In his humanity and his lowliness we recognize our own form. He has become like a man, so that men should be like him. And in the Incarnation the whole human race recovers the dignity of the image of God. Henceforth, any attack on the least of men is an attack on Christ, who took the form of man, and in his own Person restored the image of God in all that bears a human form. Through fellowship and communion with the incarnate Lord, we recover our true humanity, and at the same time we are delivered from that individualism which is the consequence of sin, and retrieve our solidarity with the whole human race. By being partakers of Christ incarnate, we are partakers in the whole humanity which he bore. We now know that we have been taken up and borne in the humanity of Jesus, and therefore that new nature we now enjoy means that we too must bear the sins and sorrows of others. The incarnate Lord makes his followers the brothers of all mankind. The “philanthropy” of God (Titus 3:4) revealed in the Incarnation is the ground of Christian love towards all on earth that bears the name of man. The form of Christ incarnate makes the Church into the Body of Christ. All the sorrows of mankind fall upon that form, and only through that form can they be borne.

It seems right now that all I’ve ever done in my life is making my way here to you.’ I could see that Rosie could not place the line from The Bridges of Madison County that had produced such a powerful emotional reaction on the plane. She looked confused. ‘Don, what are you…what have you done to yourself?’ ‘I’ve made some changes.’ ‘Big changes.’ ‘Whatever behavioural modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.’ Rosie made a downwards movement with her hand, which I could not interpret. Then she looked around the room and I followed her eyes. Everyone was watching. Nick had stopped partway to our table. I realised that in my intensity I had raised my voice. I didn’t care. ‘You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required. ‘I need a minute to think,’ she said. I automatically started the timer on my watch. Suddenly Rosie started laughing. I looked at her, understandably puzzled at this outburst in the middle of a critical life decision. ‘The watch,’ she said. ‘I say “I need a minute” and you start timing. Don is not dead. 'Don, you don’t feel love, do you?’ said Rosie. ‘You can’t really love me.’ ‘Gene diagnosed love.’ I knew now that he had been wrong. I had watched thirteen romantic movies and felt nothing. That was not strictly true. I had felt suspense, curiosity and amusement. But I had not for one moment felt engaged in the love between the protagonists. I had cried no tears for Meg Ryan or Meryl Streep or Deborah Kerr or Vivien Leigh or Julia Roberts. I could not lie about so important a matter. ‘According to your definition, no.’ Rosie looked extremely unhappy. The evening had turned into a disaster. 'I thought my behaviour would make you happy, and instead it’s made you sad.’ ‘I’m upset because you can’t love me. Okay?’ This was worse! She wanted me to love her. And I was incapable. Gene and Claudia offered me a lift home, but I did not want to continue the conversation. I started walking, then accelerated to a jog. It made sense to get home before it rained. It also made sense to exercise hard and put the restaurant behind me as quickly as possible. The new shoes were workable, but the coat and tie were uncomfortable even on a cold night. I pulled off the jacket, the item that had made me temporarily acceptable in a world to which I did not belong, and threw it in a rubbish bin. The tie followed. On an impulse I retrieved the Daphne from the jacket and carried it in my hand for the remainder of the journey. There was rain in the air and my face was wet as I reached the safety of my apartment.

We are all part of a loving gestation process. We are here to empower each other to face the journey through unconditional love. This voyage involves stopping over in conditioned configurations, such as our physical reality. Yet, these are all provisional abodes, and every step through this voyage entails becoming more whole, retrieving further pieces of the soul. All human sufferance derives from lack of awareness of this process. Read on at: //www.facebook.com/notes/astroshamanism...

charged me two hundred fucking dollars an hour to sit in the bar and flirt while Adam retrieved the stolen corporate data. I could have hired a prostitute for less and she would have blown the dude. The point is, I need Knight because he won’t ever get married, and therefore I can throw him out there when I need someone to charm the ladies.” Charlotte stared at her husband for a moment and then a brilliant smile crossed her face. “You should be so glad I love you.” “I am, baby. You’re the only one who gets my charm.

One day in the next five hundred billion years, while the probes complete one full circuit of the Milky Way, maybe they’ll stumble upon intelligent life. In forty thousand years or so, when the two probes sail close enough to a planetary system, maybe just maybe one of these plants will be home to some life form which will spy the probe with whatever it has that passes for eyes, stay its telescope, retrieve the derelict fuel-less old probe with whatever it has that passes for curiosity, lower the stylus (supplied) to the record with whatever it has that passes for digits, and set free the dadadadaa of Beethoven’s Fifth. It’ll roll like thunder through a different frontier. Human music will permeate the Milky Way’s outer reaches. There’ll be Chuck Berry and Bach, there’ll be Stravinsky and Blind Willie Johnson, and the didgeridoo, violin, slide guitar and shakuhachi. Whale song will drift through the constellation of Ursa Minor. Perhaps a being on a planet of the star AC +793888 will hear the 1970s recording of sheep bleat, laughter, footsteps, and the soft pluck of a kiss. Perhaps they’ll hear the trundle of a tractor and the voice of a child. When they hear on the phonograph a recording of rapid firecracker drills and bursts, will they know that these sounds denote brainwaves? Will they ever infer that over forty thousand years before in a solar system unknown a woman was rigged to an EEG and her thoughts recorded? Could they know to work backwards from the abstract sounds and translate them once more into brainwaves, and could they know from these brainwaves the kinds of thoughts the woman was having? Could they see into a human’s mind? Could they know she was a young woman in love? Could they tell from this dip and rise in the EEG’s pattern that she was thinking simultaneously of earth and lover as if the two were continuous? Could they see that, though she tried to keep her mental script, to bring to mind Lincoln and the Ice Age and the hieroglyphs of ancient Egypt and whatever grand things have shaped the earth and which she wished to convey to an alien audience, every thought cascaded into the drawn brows and proud nose of her lover, the wonderful articulation of his hands and the way he listened like a bird and how they had touched so often without touching. And then a spike in sound as she thought of that great city Alexandria and of nuclear disarmament and the symphony of the earth’s tides and the squareness of his jaw and the way he spoke with such bright precision so that everything he said was epiphany and discovery and the way he looked at her as though she were the epiphany he kept on having and the thud of her heart and the flooding how heat about her body when she considered what it was he wanted to do to her and the migration of bison across a Utah plain and a geisha’s expressionless face and the knowledge of having found that thing in the world which she ought never to have had the good fortune of finding, of two minds and bodies flung at each other at full dumbfounding force so that her life had skittered sidelong and all her pin-boned plans just gone like that and her self engulfed in a fire of longing and thoughts of sex and destiny, the completeness of love, their astounding earth, his hands, his throat, his bare back.

Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation. —KAHLIL GIBRAN

I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I know this now. I should have talked to you. But, in the throes of failing the only woman I’ve ever loved, the words didn’t come easily.

But while Dwayne babbled to his Labrador retriever about love, Trout sneered and muttered to his parakeet about the end of the world.

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.

Growing up, I believed in all sorts of fantastic things. Ghosts and aliens, monsters that brought on nightmares and fed on fear. The fantasies materialized every time I closed my eyes, making me afraid to fall asleep. I'm still scared of sleeping alone. The yawn the sneeze, the breath of whoever's lying next to me retrieves me from the nightmares. Even though I'm all grown up. I say it like a joke, and it usually gives people a laugh. "You're still a little kid," they say. It's lonely being in a big bed all by myself. It's never hurt my feelings. They're only strangers.

as if this were the beginning of a detective novel where a dead body’s been found in a lake, and a divorced police officer from the big city who has just returned to her childhood home is drawn into an investigation that forces her to confront her past, but which may or may not also give her the chance to fall in love with a man in a flannel shirt who has a golden retriever and a charming down-to-earth view of life.

It soothed me to imagine a cavernous space inside the earth where missing or lost valuables—the cracked teapots, broken dolls, torn photos, bronzed baby shoes, dead turtles—made their habitation, a place where all our losses came to rest. I was not sure the dead lived among these things, but I was perfectly willing to suppose that they did or that they at least stopped in, as if visiting a ghostly pawnshop, to retrieve what had once, through

Her mental list of items she’d need from her apartment was growing. There were things a girl just couldn’t live without, so Keegan would have to get them when he retrieved Muffin. “I need another purse. Can you get me my Prada knockoff? It’s in my closet on the shelf. Pink. It’s pink. I got it from a vendor in Manhattan. Jeez he was a tough negotiator, but it was worth the haggling. It’s soooo cute.” Keegan sighed, raspy and long. “Okay.” “Oh! And my nail polish. I have two new bottles in the bathroom under the sink in one of those cute organizer baskets, you know? Like the ones you get at Bed Bath and Beyond? God, I love those. Anyway, I need Retro Red and Winsome Wisteria.” Another sigh followed, and then a nod of consent. “My moisturizer. I never go anywhere, not even overnight, without my moisturizer. Not that I ever really go anywhere, but anyway I need it, or my skin will dehydrate and it could just be ugly. Top left side of my medicine cabinet.” “Er, okay.” “My shoes. I can’t be without shoes. Let’s see. I need my tennis shoes and my white sandals, because I don’t think there’s much hope for these, wouldn’t you say?” Marty looked up at him and saw impatience written all over his face. “And my laptop. I can’t check on my clients without my laptop, and they need me. Plus, there’s that no-good bitch Linda Fisher. I have to watch that she’s not stealing my accounts. Do you have all of that?” He gave her that stern look again. The one that made her insides skedaddle around even if it was meant in reproach. “I’m going too far, huh?” His smile was crooked. “Just a smidge.

I knew how when you really liked a boy, all the little daily incidents shrank and slipped away. You carried around you anticipation of seeing him again and retrieved it when you felt bored or anxious, like a memory of something good.

There was, however, a real “Honey the cat.” Honey was one of two cats and a parrot living in the building on the day it was demolished, whose owners were not allowed to retrieve them. Neither the cats nor the parrot were ever seen again.

We were a forbidden love letter, tucked into the back of a drawer and retrieved only in the darkness of night. We were the chapter of bliss before the climax hit and everything crumbled into ash. We were a story that was always meant to end.

I stood there, like always, like forever it seemed, in the middle of the road waiting for something or someone to retrieve me, God or a parent or my husband or any of those things or people or ideas or words that by their definition promised love.

Kilgore Trout owned a parakeet named Bill. Like Dwayne Hoover, Trout was all alone at night, except for his pet. Trout, too, talked to his pet. But while Dwayne babbled to his Labrador retriever about love, Trout sneered and muttered to his parakeet about the end of the world.

At the end of the day, what it all comes down to is that believers are basically scared shitless of the very god whom they believe loves them. This reminds of an abused dog that lives in fear of being beaten by their master, but still dutifully retrieves the morning newspaper.

I'm sorry your chair collapsed, but the furnishings are in as poor repair as the roof." He retrieved his abandoned glass of sherry. "I assume the rook leaks." "Only when it rains." His eyes warmed with laughter as he watched her over the rim of his glass. "I'm surprised you countenance this place." "I'm here for my father. Once he returns and you take the house, I will be on my way." "May I ask where?" "Italy,perhaps. Or France." She shrugged. "I haven't yet decided." "I love Italy." His voice deepened the faintest bit. "I imagine Italy would love you,too.

Jett said, barely noticing his friend’s half full glass. Kenny didn’t blink. “How urgent is it?” “Major deal.” “A good hookup and can’t find her number?” Kenny grinned. He had no idea how close he was to the truth. “Something like that,” Jett remarked dryly as he retrieved a brown Manila envelope

For the moment we’ll spend our lives happily together. But a long time from today, when the goddess arrives to retrieve your soul, and the time comes to prepare for our next roles in life... In that next life, when you will forget everything and live in a world where you don’t know me... I will come find you again!

The Fawn There it was I saw what I shall never forget And never retrieve. Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to believe, He lay, yet there he lay, Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft small ebony hoves, The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer. Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here Till I return," so spotty and plain to see On the green moss lay he. His eyes had opened; he considered me. I would have given more than I care to say To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend One moment only of that forest day: Might I have had the acceptance, not the love Of those clear eyes; Might I have been for him in the bough above Or the root beneath his forest bed, A part of the forest, seen without surprise. Was it alarm, or was it the wind of my fear lest he depart That jerked him to his jointy knees, And sent him crashing off, leaping and stumbling On his new legs, between the stems of the white trees?

At the bottom of the box were two big fairy-tale collections our father had sent us sometime after our parents divorced in 1963. I was four and my sister was five. We never saw him again. One book was a beautifully illustrated collection of Russian fairy tales inscribed, "To Rachel, from Daddy." The other, a book of Japanese fables, was inscribed to me. It had been years since I had opened them. I stared at the handwriting. Something seemed a bit off. Then it dawned on me - both inscriptions bore my own adolescent scrawl. I had always remembered the books and our father's dedications as proof of his love for us. Yet, how malleable our memories are, even if our brains are intact. Neuroscientists now suggest that while the core meaning of a long-term memory remains, the memory transforms each time we attempt to retrieve it. In fact, anatomical changes occur in the brain every single time we remember. As Proust said, "The only paradise is paradise lost.

For a moment his voice stilled the hubbub in the room. Dogs can arouse grander passions then love. ‘A retriever’s s’posed to retrieve what’s shot yes? ‘Sall right for you. Spaniels only have to rampage around the bushes, scaring out anything that’s stupid enough to pay attention to them. They can’t retrieve worth a damn anyway.

ANASTASIA: “It was only a simple kiss,” I said. “It’s not like you threw me against a wall and fucked me until I didn’t know my name—not that I know my name, but you get my drift. Besides, I all but fell into your lap and begged you to kiss me. No need to be dramatic. It was no big deal.” I huffed, rolling my eyes so hard it hurt.

Be right back, Blackbird.”  He folds a hand around my nape and presses his lips to mine in a final, quick kiss, and then he lets go to retrieve his ax from the floor.  “What are you doing?” I hiss.  Rowan rests the handle of the ax against his shoulder and huffs before giving me a wink. “Getting revenge for hurting my girl, of course.

You are because of your mother. Rest into the service that your mother expressed to you, no matter how imperfect it may have seemed. Give yourself permission to retrieve and receive her Love. See her in your vision as the one who cared for you, cleaned up after you, fed you, and held you as a baby as much as life allowed her to at that time.

Nick grinned, swooping in for another kiss and then leaning back and scruffing his hair up. “Harriet Manners, I’m about to give you six stamps. Then I’m going to write something on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope with your address on it.” “OK …” “Then I’m going to put the envelope on the floor and spin us as fast as I can. As soon as either of us manage to stick a stamp on it, I’m going to race to the postbox and post it unless you can catch me first. If you win, you can read it.” Nick was obviously faster than me, but he didn’t know where the nearest postbox was. “Deal,” I agreed, yawning and rubbing my eyes. “But why six stamps?” “Just wait and see.” A few seconds later, I understood. As we spun in circles with our hands stretched out, one of my stamps got stuck to the ground at least a metre away from the envelope. Another ended up on a daisy. A third somehow got stuck to the roundabout. One of Nick’s ended up on his nose. And every time we both missed, we laughed harder and harder and our kisses got dizzier and dizzier until the whole world was a giggling, kissing, spinning blur. Finally, when we both had one stamp left, I stopped giggling. I had to win this. So I swallowed, wiped my eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then I reached out my hand. “Too late!” Nick yelled as I opened my eyes again. “Got it, Manners!” And he jumped off the still-spinning roundabout with the envelope held high over his head. So I promptly leapt off too. Straight into a bush. Thanks to a destabilised vestibular system – which is the upper portion of the inner ear – the ground wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Nick, in the meantime, had ended up flat on his back on the grass next to me. With a small shout I leant down and kissed him hard on the lips. “HA!” I shouted, grabbing the envelope off him and trying to rip it open. “I don’t think so,” he grinned, jumping up and wrapping one arm round my waist while he retrieved it again. Then he started running in a zigzag towards the postbox. A few seconds later, I wobbled after him. And we stumbled wonkily down the road, giggling and pulling at each other’s T-shirts and hanging on to tree trunks and kissing as we each fought for the prize. Finally, he picked me up and, without any effort, popped me on top of a high wall. Like Humpty Dumpty. Or some kind of really unathletic cat. “Hey!” I shouted as he whipped the envelope out of my hands and started sprinting towards the postbox at the bottom of the road. “That’s not fair!” “Course it is,” he shouted back. “All’s fair in love and war.” And Nick kissed the envelope then put it in the postbox with a flourish. I had to wait three days. Three days of lingering by the front door. Three days of lifting up the doormat, just in case it had accidentally slipped under there. Finally, the letter arrived: crumpled and stained with grass. Ha. Told you I was faster. LBxx

Whoa, big brother. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. Wait, do you wear boxers? Briefs? What about that sidekick of yours? His are always shoved straight up his tightly clenched ass cheeks. You might want to round up an underwear-retrieval operation for him. It’s probably damaging to his health, and most definitely damaging to his scrotum. Scrotum. What a weird word.

ANASTASIA: I was more than the sum of discovered—or undiscovered—facts. And if my past wouldn’t come to me, I’d build a future that didn’t need it. But the question of who I’d been before all this remained. This was a puzzle I was determined to solve, with or without Conan’s help. No matter what truths lay buried, I would face them head-on. After all, wasn’t that what survivors did?

All the luminous and loving episodes of any relationship you have had in your life continue to exist in the present at all times, no matter how old they are and regardless of any unpleasant experience you may have had in those same relationships. As you acknowledge the luminous episodes, they return to life. If you can retrieve their memory at any time, those moments will always be with you. The fact of whether you are physically in those relationships or not is completely irrelevant. What counts is your capacity to treasure any luminous relationship, no matter how long it lasts, or whether it is past or present. Authentic relationships are not bound by time. You are not the victim of time. By selecting and holding the memories you value in time you lay the foundations for your future memories.

By the time it was over, I'd learned all the right words for all the dinosaurs (pretty much the same as they were in English), and multiple variations of "Help, for the love of God!," which might come in handy should I ever take up any of the activities that scared me most. It was also past five o'clock.Time to go. I extricated myself from the chair, leaving a distinctly Ella-shaped imprint, and retrieved my jacket.

The Book Booth There's not a big selection, It's not locked for protection, But at the intersection Of Booth and Telephone, Two customers politely Can snuggle in it (tightly) And go once over (lightly) The books they'd like to own. "Readcycle" means you leave one - A book you love. Retrieve one... Who knows? You might receive one You haven't read before. Hats off to the committee For such an itty-bitty Library in the city, Which proves that less is more.

How could Wilma not expect this child to look for her mother’s humming, to be drawn like a moth to a flame to anyone who wished not only to retrieve this name, but to dust it off, shake it out, try it on with her? From the moment they met, Adan had called her no other name but Lala, had sung her name in every tone he could think of to see if she would recognize it, would remember exactly the notes her mother intended her to. It was one of the reasons she had loved him.

Is it true it takes thirteen months for a female to carry and give birth?” “Minimum.” He said it with such casual dismissal that Bella laughed. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to lug the kid around inside of you all that time. You, just like your human counterparts, have the fun part over with like that.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. His dark eyes narrowed and he reached to enclose her hand in his, pulling her wrist up to the slow, purposeful brush of his lips even as he maintained a sensual eye contact that was far too full of promises. Isabella caught her breath as an insidious sensation of heated pins and needles stitched its way up her arm. “I promise you, Bella, a male Demon’s part in a mating is never over like this.” He mimicked her snap, making her jump in time to her kick-starting heartbeat. “Well”—she cleared her throat—“I guess I’ll have to take your word on that.” Jacob did not respond in agreement, and that unnerved her even further. Instinctively, she changed tack. “So, what brings you down into the dusty atmosphere of the great Demon library?” she asked, knowing she sounded like a brightly animated cartoon. “You.” Oh, how that singular word was pregnant with meaning, intent, and devastatingly blatant honesty. Isabella was forced to remind herself of the whole Demon-human mating taboo as the forbidden response of heat continued to writhe around beneath her skin, growing exponentially in intensity every moment he hovered close. She tried to picture all kinds of scary things that could happen if she did not quit egging him on like she was. How she was, she didn’t know, but she was always certain she was egging him on. “Why did you want to see me?” she asked, breaking away from him and bending to retrieve the book she had dropped. It was huge and heavy and she grunted softly under the weight of it. It landed with a slam and another puff of dust on the table she had made into her own private study station. “Because I cannot seem to help myself, lovely little Bella.

THE MONSTER & THE MAN One obstacle pierces his soul and calls him down the dark road - heavy sighing he must carry on and at last, the thorn is retrieved - with agony in his brown eyes - he suddenly sees: Fever dreams, scarlet on blue velvet, like ink drowning in words - words drowning inside his veins - words that pleaded in vain - words so scarlet... so stained. Empty lines for empty souls that carry too much inside; empty pages for empty hands with nothing else to hide nor to control the beast inside his soul.

We've been trying to recreate Mum's Coorg pandhi curry." "Is that so?" said Mynah. "How was that supposed to work without the kachampuli?" "The what?" "Kachampuli," she repeated. "What is kachampuli supposed to be?" Dad asked, sounding out the syllables carefully. Mynah let out a shriek of laughter. "Are you telling me you've been trying to make Coorg pandhi curry all this time, and neither of you knows about kachampuli? Which is only the most essential ingredient?" "But surely the pandhi is the most essential ingredient," Anna protested, gesturing in the direction of the pork rind sitting on the counter. "Otherwise it would be called kachampuli curry." Mynah ignored that and wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "Kachampuli, my sweet ignorant ones, is what gives the pandhi curry its distinct flavor. It's a little vinegar, and it's made from a limey sort of fruit they grow in Coorg." She marched to one of the cupboards, rooted around in the back, and retrieved a dusty bottle with a sealed cap. Inside gleamed a thick, dark liquid. "Behold," she said dramatically, "kachampuli.

How clear, how lovely bright, How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play; How heaven laughs out with glee Where, like a bird set free, Up from the eastern sea Soars the delightful day. To-day I shall be strong, No more shall yield to wrong, Shall squander life no more; Days lost, I know not how, I shall retrieve them now; Now I shall keep the vow I never kept before. Ensanguining the skies How heavily it dies Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound Not further to be found, How hopeless under ground Falls the remorseful day.

Unlike your kind, mine do not get stronger simply by lifting heavy things or making repetitive movements. Our physical power is largely innate and comes to us as we mature." "That's unfortunate," he said as he turned away from her and moved around his desk to retrieve his suit and overcoats. "Strength that gets earned the hard way actually means something." She smiled grimly as he met her eyes again and said, "I was hatched as part of a clutch of over ten thousand. I am one of twenty-two survivors. Trust me when I say I did in fact earn my strength 'the hard way.

Emma, I came out here to tell you that you don't have to mate with Grom." I raise a brow. "Uh, I was never going to mate with Grom." "What I mean is, Grom is mating with someone else who has the gift of Poseidon. Which means that-" "I don't have to mate with Grom," I finish for him. "That's what I just said." "I mean, I don't have to feel like I've let the entire species of Syrena go extinct because I won't mate with Grom." He grins. "Exactly." "But that doesn't change what I am-a Half-Breed. You still can't be with me, can you?" He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, thoughtful. "The law forbids it right now. But I think if we give it time, we could get it overturned somehow. And I'm not going anywhere until I do." He turns us toward the SUV, stopping to retrieve my heels from the side of the road. He helps me in the passenger seat of the Escalade, then hands me my shoes. "Thank you," I tell him as he walks around to the driver's side. "It's a little late to blush," he says, strapping in. "I don't think I'll ever stop blushing." "I really hope not," he says, shutting his door. Taking my face into both hands, he pulls me to him again. His lips brush mine, but I want more. Sensing my intention, he puts his hand over mine and the seat belt I'm trying to unsnap. "Emma," he says against my lips. "I've missed you so much. But we can't. Not yet." I'm not trying to do that, I just want to get in a better position to accept his lips. Telling him so would just embarrass us both. But he says yet. What does that mean? That he wants to wait until he can get the law overturned? Or will he give it time, and if it doesn't work out, break Syrena law to be with me? For some reason, I don't want the answer bad enough to ask. Images of "that girl" flare up in my head. I don't want Galen to break his laws-it's a big part of why I love him so much. His loyalty to his people, his commitment to them. It's the kind of devotion almost nonexistent among humans. But I don't want to be "that girl" either. Syrena or not, I want to go to college. I want to experience the world above and below sea level. But it's not like any decisions need to be made right now, do they? I mean, life-changing decisions take time to make. Time and meditation. And physical space between my lips and his. I pull back. "Right. Sorry." He seizes a few tendrils of my hair and runs them along his face, grinning. "Not as sorry as I am. You'll have to help me keep my hands off you." I laugh, even as a charge runs through my veins. "Yeah. No." He laughs too and turns to start the car, then stops. Letting go of the keys, he says, "So. About breaking up." "Let me think about it some more," I tell him on the brink of giggling at his expression. "I'll see what I can do to help you make up your mind." We stay parked for another fifteen minutes. But at least we're not broken up anymore.

I lost my balance and fell. The rice balls slipped from my hands and careened down the slope. My father chased after them and retrieved them. They were covered with mud, but my father handed them to me anyway. “Your mother made them for you, so just eat them!” he said. And to my amazement, he burst into tears. I’d never seen him cry or show much emotion. So of course I started blubbering too. Somehow, my father showing his feelings made everything seem that much worse. But I sure forced down those rice balls. And that small kernel of love for my father, planted when we first arrived, began to grow.

Rhys kept starting at the table as he said, 'I didn't know. That you were with Tamlin. That you were staying at the Spring Court. Amarantha sent me that day after the Summer Solstice because I'd been so successful on Calanmai. I was prepared to mock him, maybe pick a fight. But then I got into that room, and the scent was familiar, but hidden... And then I saw the plate, and felt the glamour, and... There you were. Living in my second-most enemy's house. Dining with him. Reeking of his scent. Looking at him like... Like you loved him.' The whites of his knuckles showed. 'And I decided that I had to scare Tamlin. I had to scare you, and Lucien, but mostly Tamlin. Because I saw how he looked at you, too. So what I did that day...' His lips were pale, tight. 'I broke into your mind and held it enough that you felt it, that it terrified you, hurt you. I made Tamlin beg- as Amarantha had made me beg, to show him how powerless he was to save you. And I prayed my performance was enough to get him to send you away. Back to the human realm, away from Amarantha. Because she was going to find you. If you broke that curse, she was going to find you and kill you. 'But I was so selfish- I was so stupidly selfish that I couldn't walk away without knowing your name. And you were looking at me like I was a monster, so I told myself it didn't matter, anyway. But you lied when I asked. I knew you did. I had your mind in my hands, and you had the defiance and foresight to lie to my face. So I walked away from you again. I vomited my guts up as soon as I left.' My lips wobbled, and I pressed them together. 'I checked back once. To ensure you were gone. I went with them the day they sacked the manor- to make my performance complete. I told Amarantha the name of that girl, thinking you'd invented it. I had no idea... I had no idea she'd sent her cronies to retrieve Clare. But if I admitted my lie...' He swallowed hard. 'I broke into Clare's head when they brought her Under the Mountain. I took away her pain, and told her to scream when expected to. So they... they did those things to her, and I tried to make it right, but... After a week, I couldn't let them do it. Hurt her like that anymore. So while they tortured her, I slipped into her mind again and ended it. She didn't feel any pain. She felt none of what they did to her, even at the end. But... But I still see her. And my men. And the others that I killed for Amarantha.' Two tears slid down his cheeks, swift and cold. He didn't wipe them away as he said, 'I thought it was done after that. With Clare's death. Amarantha believed you were dead. So you were safe, and far away, and my people were safe, and Tamlin had lost, so... It was done. We were done. But then... I was in the back of the throne room that day the Attor brought you in. And I have never known such horror, Feyre, as I did when I watched you make that bargain. Irrational, stupid terror- I didn't know you. I didn't even know your name. But I thought of those painter's hands, the flowers I'd seen you create. And how she'd delight in breaking your fingers apart. I had to stand and watch as the Attor and its cronies beat you. I had to watch the disgust and hatred on your face as you looked at me, watched me threaten to shatter Lucien's mind. And then- then I learned your name. Hearing you say it... it was like an answer to a question I'd been asking for five hundred years.

Once upon a time, a greedy prince fell in love with a wicked girl. The prince had far more than he needed, but it was never enough. When he grew ill, he visited the Kingdom of the Great Ocean, where the Underworld meets the living world, to bargain with Moritas, the goddess of Death, for more life. When she refused, he stole her immortal gold and fled to the surface. In revenge, Moritas sent her daughter Caldora, the angel of Fury, to retrieve him. Caldora materialized out of the sea foam on a warm, stormy night, clad in nothing but silver silk, an achingly beautiful phantom in the mist. The prince ran to the shore to greet her. She smiled at him and touched his cheek. “What will you give me in return for my affection?” she asked. “Are you willing to part with your kingdom, your army, and your jewels?” The prince, blinded by her beauty and eager to boast, nodded. “Anything you want,” he replied. “I am the greatest man in the world. Even the gods are no match for me.” So he gave her his kingdom, his army, and his jewels. She accepted his offerings with a smile, only to reveal her true angel form—skeletal, finned, monstrous. Then she burned his kingdom to the ground and pulled him below the sea into the Underworld, where her mother, Moritas, was patiently waiting. The prince tried once again to bargain with the goddess, but it was too late. In exchange for the gold he’d stolen, Moritas devoured his soul.

Memories of love are, in fact, no exception to the general laws of remembering, which are themselves subject to the more general laws of habit. Habit weakens all things; but the things that are best at reminding us of a person are those which, because they were insignificant, we have forgotten, and which have therefore lost none of their power. Which is why the greater part of our memory exists outside us, in a dampish breeze, in the musty air of a bedroom or the smell of autumn’s first fires, things through which we can retrieve any part of us that the reasoning mind, having no use for it, disdained, the last vestige of the past, the best of it, the part which, after all our tears seem to have dried, can make us weep again.

Neitzche said that one of the best days in his life was the day when he rebaptized all his negative qualities as his best qualities. In this kind of baptism, rather than banishing what is at first glimpse unwelcome, you bring it home to unity with your life. This is the slow and difficult work of self retrieval. Every person has certain qualities or presences in their heart that are awkward, disturbing, and negative. One of your sacred duties is to exercise kindness toward them. In a sense, you are called to be a loving parent to your delinquent qualities. Your kindness will slowly poultice their negativity, alleviate their fear, and help them to see that your soul is a home where there is no judgement or febrile hunger for a fixed and limited identity.

To help me learn how to practice lectio divina, I’ve enlisted two expert sources. Eugene Peterson opens his book on spiritual reading with an analogy of us reading Scripture like a dog might gnaw a bone. His dog is joyful to have the bone; for a time he plays with it and enjoys having others interact with it. Then he settles in to chew it in a more private area, turning it over for a long time, then burying it only to retrieve it again later and pick up where he left off. Peterson says that in Hebrew, the word we tamely translate as “meditate” on the Scriptures actually means “growl,” like an animal growls over its prey. God wants us to growl in triumph over the Bible before settling in to wrestle with it and worry it like a bone. It’s a marvelous image.

Voyages III Infinite consanguinity it bears This tendered theme of you that light Retrieves from sea plains where the sky Resigns a breast that every wave enthrones; While ribboned water lanes I wind Are laved and scattered with no stroke Wide from your side, whereto this hour The sea lifts, also, reliquary hands. And so, admitted through black swollen gates That must arrest all distance otherwise, Past whirling pillars and lithe pediments, Light wrestling there incessantly with light, Star kissing star through wave on wave unto Your body rocking! and where death, if shed, Presumes no carnage, but this single change,- Upon the steep floor flung from dawn to dawn The silken skilled transmemberment of song; Permit me voyage, love, into your hands . .

And by the early 1970s our little parable of Sam and Sweetie is exactly what happened to the North American Golden Retriever. One field-trial dog, Holway Barty, and two show dogs, Misty Morn’s Sunset and Cummings’ Gold-Rush Charlie, won dozens of blue ribbons between them. They were not only gorgeous champions; they had wonderful personalities. Consequently, hundreds of people wanted these dogs’ genes to come into their lines, and over many matings during the 1970s the genes of these three dogs were flung far and wide throughout the North American Golden Retriever population, until by 2010 Misty Morn’s Sunset alone had 95,539 registered descendants, his number of unregistered ones unknown. Today hundreds of thousands of North American Golden Retrievers are descended from these three champions and have received both their sweet dispositions and their hidden time bombs. Unfortunately for these Golden Retrievers, and for the people who love them, one of these time bombs happens to be cancer. To be fair, a so-called cancer gene cannot be traced directly to a few famous sires, but using these sires so often increases the chance of recessive genes meeting—for good and for ill. Today, in the United States, 61.4 percent of Golden Retrievers die of cancer, according to a survey conducted by the Golden Retriever Club of America and the Purdue School of Veterinary Medicine. In Great Britain, a Kennel Club survey found almost exactly the same result, if we consider that those British dogs—loosely diagnosed as dying of “old age” and “cardiac conditions” and never having been autopsied—might really be dying of a variety of cancers, including hemangiosarcoma, a cancer of the lining of the blood vessels and the spleen. This sad history of the Golden Retriever’s narrowing gene pool has played out across dozens of other breeds and is one of the reasons that so many of our dogs spend a lot more time in veterinarians’ offices than they should and die sooner than they might. In genetic terms, it comes down to the ever-increasing chance that both copies of any given gene are derived from the same ancestor, a probability expressed by a number called the coefficient of inbreeding. Discovered in 1922 by the American geneticist Sewall Wright, the coefficient of inbreeding ranges from 0 to 100 percent and rises as animals become more inbred.

Lady Kestrel?” said an anxious voice. Kestrel opened her eyes to see a girl dressed in a Herrani serving uniform. “Yes?” “Will you please follow me? There is a problem with your escort.” Kestrel stood. “What’s wrong?” “He has stolen something.” Kestrel rushed from the room, wishing the girl would move more quickly down the villa’s halls. There must be some mistake. Arin was intelligent, far too canny to do something so dangerous. He must know what happened to Herrani thieves. The girl led Kestrel into the library. Several men were gathered there: two senators, who held Arin by his arms, and Irex, whose expression when he saw Kestrel was gloating, as if he had just drawn a high tile in Bite and Sting. “Lady Kestrel,” he said, “what exactly did you bring into my house?” Kestrel looked at Arin, who refused to return her gaze. “He wouldn’t steal.” She heard something desperate in her voice. Irex must have, too. He smiled. “We saw him,” said one of the senators. “He was slipping that inside his shirt.” He nodded at a book that had fallen to the floor. No. The accusation couldn’t be true. No slave would risk a flogging for theft, not for a book. Kestrel steadied herself. “May I?” she asked Irex, nodding at the fallen book. He swept a hand to indicate permission. Kestrel stooped to retrieve the book, and Arin’s eyes flashed to hers. Her heart failed. His face was twisted with misery. She considered the closed, leather-bound book in her hands. She recognized the title: it was a volume of Herrani poetry, a common one. There was a copy in her library as well. Kestrel held the book, not understanding, not seeing anything worth the risk of theft--at least not here, from Irex’s library, when her own could easily serve Arin’s purposes. A suspicion whispered in her mind. She recalled Arin’s odd question in the carriage. Where are we going? His tone had been incredulous. Yet he had known their destination. Now Kestrel wondered if he had recognized something in the passing landscape that she hadn’t, and if his question had been less a question than the automatic words of someone sickened by a sudden understanding. She opened the book. “Don’t,” said Arin. “Please.” But she had already seen the inscription. For Arin, it read, from Amma and Etta, with love. This was Arin’s home. This house had been his, this library his, this book his, dedicated to him by his parents, some ten years ago.

Beneath his purposefully constructed armor is the bleeding heart of an orphaned little boy who was forced to grow up way too soon. A heart that suffered years of neglect, of rejection—including his own. He kept it that way to protect himself and those around him until I retrieved it. And he let me discover him, knowing he would become his most vulnerable. He told me once his admiration for me stems from the fact that I’ve always been vocal about my heart—while he’s carefully hidden his to protect those he loves. And it’s here, with me, where he’s finally unshackled himself from the obligation of being so selfless. It’s here with me that he’s freed himself to love the way he was meant to. I raise my palm to the window. “You’ll never be alone again. You’ll never be alone. I promise you. It was never my heart, Tobias. It was yours.

Episode" Dear: The Letter    The reason I loved you from the first moment we met is because you seemed to hold a certain hostility towards me which I mistook for wisdom. I thought you really knew me instinctively, which is a laugh. But who's laughing?    In the heyday of our exceptional excitement with each other I think you thought I loved you blindly, but actually I was just wondering whether you loved me or just saw through me to yourself. That, of course, is nothing to be sneezed at. I'm not saying that I didn't enjoy (enjoy! how cool I am!) sex with you more than with anyone else in my whole life so that it hardly seemed to be with anyone and became some- thing else, like a successful American satellite, but the thought of it doesn't exactly nourish me spiritually.    Yes, it does. It would still keep me out of a monastery, if I were invited to attend one.    But this is a message, no time for thinking. The thinking's been done. By you too, baby. I didn't just make this all up. So now that you feel serious and responsible again, what do you propose to do about it? I'm not putting any return address on this, and it's being mailed by a "friend" so don't count on the postmark. I know you don't love me still, I'm not so vain, I just know that you'll be mightily intrigued. And you are one of the few living mortals of whom the word "mightily" indicates a quality. You see, even now, I am never ironic.    Well, I don't want to sound like a French moralist. I am dying without you, and I won't be dying long. But don't come.                                                     Best always,                                                                  Frank

I do love you.” He said it suddenly, raising his head so his black eyes could meet her startled green ones. “I mean it, Shea. I do not just need you, I love you. I know everything about you, I have been in your head, shared your memories, shared your dreams and your ideas. I know you think I need you and that is why I am with you, but it is much more than that. I love you.” He grinned unexpectedly, traced her lower lip with the tip of a finger. “What is more, I know you love me. You hide it from yourself, but I found it in a little corner, tucked away in your mind.” Shea stared up at the teasing smile on his face, then pushed at the solid wall of his chest. “You’re making that up.” Jacques moved off her, then reached down to pull her to her feet. His clothes were scattered everywhere, and he made no move to retrieve them. Shea’s shirt was still hanging open, and her jeans were down around her ankles. Blushing, she pulled them up. His hands stayed hers, preventing her from fastening them. “Do not bother, Shea. The pools are just ahead.” He walked a few feet, then looked back over his shoulder. “I did not make it up, and I know you are staring at my backside.” Shea tossed her mane of red hair so that it flew in all directions. “Any woman in her right mind would stare at your particular backside, so you don’t need to add that to your arrogant list of virtues. And stay out of my mind unless you’re invited.” She was staring, but she couldn’t help it. He was so beautifully masculine. Jacques reached behind him and captured her hand, lacing their fingers together. “But I find the most interesting things in your mind, my love. Things you do not have any intention of telling me.

She woke to find dawn light, pearly silver tinged with pink, washing into the room. For a moment, she wondered what had woken her, then she glanced at Breckenridge-into his hazel eyes. "You're awake!" She only just managed not to squeal. The joy leaping through her was near impossible to contain. He smiled weakly. His lids drooped, fell. "I've been awake for some time, but didn't want to wake you." His voice was little more than a whisper. She realized it was the faint pressure of his fingers on hers that had drawn her rom sleep. Those fingers, his hand, were no longer over-warm. Reaching out, she laid her fingers on his forehead. "Your temperature's normal-the fever's broken. Thank God." Retrieving her hand, refocusing on his face, she felt relief crash through her in a disorienting, almost overpowering wave. "You have to rest." That was imperative; she felt driven by flustered urgency to ensure he understood. "You're mending nicely. Now the crisis has passed, you'll get better day by day. Catriona says that with time you'll be as good as new." Algaria had warned her to assure him of that. He swallowed; eyes closed, he shifted his head in what she took to be a nod. "I'll rest in a minute. But first...did you mean what you said out there by the bull pen? That you truly want a future with me?" "Yes." She clutched his hand more tightly between hers. "I meant every word." His lips curved a fraction, then he sighed. Eyes still closed-she sensed he found his lids too heavy to lift-he murmured, "Good. Because I meant every word, too." She smiled through sudden tears. "Even about our daughters being allowed to look like Cordelia?" His smile grew more definite. "Said that aloud, did I? Yes, I meant that, but for pity's sake don't tell her--she'll never let me hear the end of it, and Constance will have my head to boot." His words were starting to slur again; he was slipping back into healing sleep. Catriona's words, her warning, rang in Heather's head. She remembered her vow. Rising, she leaned over him; his hand still clasped between hers, and kissed him gently. "Go to sleep and get well, but before you do, I need to tell you this. I love you. I will until the end of my days. I don't expect you to love me back, but that doesn't matter anymore. You have my love regardless, and always will." She kissed him again, sensed he'd heard, but that he was stunned, surprised. He didn't respond. She drew back. "And now you need to put your mind to getting better. We have a wedding to attend, after all." She knew he heard that-his features softened, eased. As he slid into sleep, he was, very gently, smiling.

He kissed her temple. "Would you read to me?" "You wouldn't grow bored?" "Not if you were reading, my love." Helen slipped off the bed, tiptoed into the main chamber and retrieved the book from the table. When she returned, Eoin had situated the candelabra to provide good light, and arranged the pillows for comfort. How wonderful it was to be with a man who actually cared enough to do simple things like fluffing the pillows. He opened his arms and beckoned her to him. "Come and tell me what this story's about." "It would be my pleasure, sir knight." Helen climbed up and snuggled into his arms. She opened the cover and read the title. "'The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle'." She looked at Eoin and grinned. "The story begins when the mystical knight, Sir Gromer Somer Joure, challenges King Arthur to discover what women desire most, or face dire consequences." He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered at the pages. "You have me entranced already.

The cold pre-dawn sky was softly grey through the cave opening above, when Griff finally arose and began to retrieve his clothes. Astelle said, ‘A man like you – I could take full time.’ He smiled regretfully. ‘That is impossible, my darling girl. Even though you are irresistibly sweet to me, you are not suitable to join the Faen race, and I am not prepared to live among Morts.’ ‘Suppose I should have a child?’ she asked. ‘You have put enough seed in me to make a dozen babies.’ ‘You will not,’ he said with conviction. ‘A Faen child can be conceived only in love, and we don't have that, do we?’ Griff was quite sure that she thought nothing of him, even though she had left his emotions in turmoil. Damned bitch! She had stolen from him. ‘I would not know if we did. I don't understand how love should feel.’ ‘If you loved, you would know it,’ he told her. And you would not steal from your love, he thought fiercely. He was buckling his sword belt over the black tunic. She did not notice the shaking of his hands; she simply thought what a fine manly figure he made, and she realised how much she wanted him to stay. ‘If I did have a child – could I let you know somehow?’ Astelle clutched at the only strand of hope she could find. He strove to reassure her. ‘We do have mindlink, which means you only have to mindwhisper my name, if you ever need me – I will come.’ But he did not think this very likely. ‘Please don't go, Griff.’ She was almost tearful. ‘I have to go – before the sun rises.’ He then kissed her with unexpected tenderness, which made her feel even worse. ‘Use those jewels wisely.’ He smiled and winked at her, then looked into her eyes for a few more moments, seriously – almost wistfully. Then he just vanished before her very eyes. He had forgotten his black forest cloak. It lay on the floor at the end of the bed. Astelle picked it up and held it close to her body. She watched the red streaks of dawn spread across the cold grey sky, framed in the rocky aperture above her. If you loved, you would know it, he had said. She had never felt more lonely or deserted in her life. Unexplained tears slid slowly down her cheeks. And that was how Griff broke the Faen Colonial Rule.

My friend Brad Feld and I sat on his back porch while his golden retrievers vied for our affection. We spoke of big and small things. We reminisced. We recalled stories from two decades of friendship. We caught up on recent stories, present-day stories, of lives unfolding, hearts breaking, and the gravity that comes from becoming more and more ourselves. “I’m working harder than I’d like,” he tells me as we both nod, recognizing the tendency in each of us to do that. We know that neither of us will ever really stop working; for us, working means thinking, talking, connecting, and creating. “The difference now,” he says, referring to his fifty-something self, “the difference from earlier in my life is simple: I’m no longer striving.” Seat taken, he no longer needs to define himself by what he’s doing. Seat taken, he can allow the sadness of everyday heartbreak—his and that of those he loves—to wash over and through him. Seat taken, the gentle, openhearted warrior emerges, and we laugh and speak of our approaching elder-hood. Taking your seat leads to equanimity. Taking your seat means defining your life.

I remember only too well, since I had only a moment to tell you, given the danger of being seen by your parents and mine, how I showed you so crudely what I wanted that I’m ashamed of it now. But you looked at me so fiercely that I realized that you didn’t want to.” And suddenly I thought that the real Gilberte and the real Albertine were perhaps those who offered themselves up in a single glance, one by a hedgerow of pink hawthorn, the other on the beach. And it was I, unable to understand something which I was to retrieve only later in my memory, after a delay during which the whole emotional undercurrent of my conversation had made them fear to be as frank as they had been in the first instance, who had spoiled everything with my clumsiness. I had “bungled” things more completely with them than Saint-Loup had with Rachel, and for the same reasons, although I have to say that my relative failure with them was less absurd. “And the second time,” continued Gilberte, “was years later when I saw you in your doorway, the day before I met you at my aunt Oriane’s; I didn’t recognize you straight away, or rather I recognized you without realizing it, since I felt the same urges that I had at Tansonville.—But in between, there was the Champs-Elysées.—Yes, but then you were too much in love with me, I felt that you were spying on my every move.

I am not a Goddess. I am the face of them All, the embodiment of many. I will burn your village to the ground wearing pants. Nourish your soil and scatter new seeds in a skirt that lifts in the breeze. Strike like lightening and change everything you thought you knew. Scorch you and replenish your reservoir. Sing until you weep with joy. I will leave you poetry on your pillow beside a bottle of hemlock. Feed you til' your belly is full. Devour your ego and spit out your falsities in front of you. Steal your favourite things. I will lead you into temptation. Be the ugliest hag you ever did see. Awaken you from your slumber. Hand you a poisoned apple. Light a candle in your darkness. Weave you a dream. Bow at your feet and kiss the ground you walk upon. I will love you like you've never felt love before. Take your breath away with my beauty. Call your demons into the Light and watch them bury you. Make you tremble in ecstasy. I'll answer your prayers. Shake you til' you scream. Retrieve you from the deep. Carry your manifestations inside of me and birth them into Being. Be the wind in your sails. The blood on your sheets. The wish granted from the wild dandelion wheel. The snake in the grass. Tufts of idle time. I will disappear suddenly, wait until you ache for me, and reemerge as if I had never gone. I am not a Goddess. I am the face of them All, the embodiment of many.

What does it take to make you stop?” Elizabeth flinched from the hatred in the voice she loved and drew a shaking breath, praying she could finish without starting to cry. “I’ve hurt you terribly, my love, and I’ll hurt you again during the next fifty years. And you are going to hurt me, Ian-never, I hope, as much as you are hurting me now. But if that’s the way it has to be, then I’ll endure it, because the only alternative is to live without you, and that is no life at all. The difference is that I know it, and you don’t-not yet.” “Are you finished now?” “Not quite,” she said, straightening at the sound of footsteps in the hall. “There’s one more thing,” she informed him, lifting her quivering chin. “I am not a Labrador retriever! You cannot put me out of your life, because I won’t stay.” When she left, Ian stared at the empty room that had been alive with her presence but moments before, wondering what in hell she meant by her last comment. He glanced toward the door as Larimore walked in, then he nodded curtly toward the chairs in front of his desk, silently ordering the solicitor to sit down. “I gathered from your message,” Larimore said quietly, opening his legal case, “that you now wish to proceed with the divorce?” Ian hesitated a moment while Elizabeth’s heartbroken words whirled through his mind, juxtaposed with the lies and omissions that had begun on the night they met and continued right up to their last night together. He recalled the torment of the first weeks after she’d left him and compared it to the cold, blessed numbness that had now taken its place. He looked at the solicitor, who was waiting for his answer. And he nodded.

What they do not know is that this plain brown girl will build her nest stick by stick, make it her own inviolable world, and stand guard over its every plant, weed, and doily, even against him. In silence will she return the lamp to where she put it in the first place; remove the dishes from the table as soon as the last bite is taken; wipe the doorknob after a greasy hand has touched it. A sidelong look will be enough to tell him to smoke on the back porch. Children will sense instantly that they cannot come into her yard to retrieve a ball. But the men do not know these things. Nor do they know that she will give him her body sparingly and partially. He must enter her surreptitiously, lifting the hem of her nightgown only to her navel. He must rest his weight on his elbows when they make love, ostensibly to avoid hurting her breasts but actually to keep her from having to touch or feel too much of him. While he moves inside her, she will wonder why they didn’t put the necessary but private parts of the body in some more convenient place—like the armpit, for example, or the palm of the hand. Someplace one could get to easily, and quickly, without undressing. She stiffens when she feels one of her paper curlers coming undone from the activity of love; imprints in her mind which one it is that is coming loose so she can quickly secure it once he is through. She hopes he will not sweat—the damp may get into her hair; and that she will remain dry between her legs—she hates the glucking sound they make when she is moist. When she senses some spasm about to grip him, she will make rapid movements with her hips, press her fingernails into his back, suck in her breath, and pretend she is having an orgasm. She might wonder again, for the six hundredth time, what it would be like to have that feeling while her husband’s penis is inside her. The closest thing to it was the time she was walking down the street and her napkin slipped free of her sanitary belt. It moved gently between her legs as she walked. Gently, ever so gently. And then a slight and distinctly delicious sensation collected in her crotch. As the delight grew, she had to stop in the street, hold her thighs together to contain it. That must be what it is like, she thinks, but it never happens while he is inside her. When he withdraws, she pulls her nightgown down, slips out of the bed and into the bathroom with relief.

Excerpt from Storm’s Eye by Dean Gray With a final drag and drop, Jordan Rayne sent his latest creation winging its way toward the publisher. He looked up, squinted at that little clock in the right hand corner of his monitor, and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. His cover art was finished and shipped, just in time for lunch. He sighed and stood, rolling his shoulders and bending side to side, his back cracking in protest as the muscles loosened after having been hunched over the screen for so long. Sam raised his head, tilting it enquiringly at him, and Jordan laughed. “Yeah, I know what you want, some lunch and a nice long walk along the beach, hmm?” Jordan smiled fondly at the furry ball of energy he’d saved from certain death. With his mom’s recent death it was just Sam and him in the house. Sometimes he wondered what kept him here, now that the last thread tethering him to the island was severed. Sam limped over and nuzzled at his hand. When Jordan had first found him out on the main road, hurt and bleeding, he hadn’t been sure the pooch would make it. Taylor, his best friend and the local vet, had done what she could. At the time, Jordan simply didn’t have the deep pockets for the fancy surgery needed to mend Sam’s leg perfectly, he could barely afford the drugs to keep his mom in treatment. So they’d patched him up as well as they could, Taylor extending herself further than he could ever repay, and hoped for the best. The dog had made a startling recovery, urged on by plenty of rest and good food and lots of love, and had flourished, the slight limp now barely noticeable. Jordan’s conscience still twinged as he watched Sam limp over to his dish, but he had barely been keeping things together at the time. He had done the best he could. He’d done his best to find Sam’s real owners as well, papering downtown Bar Harbor with a hand-drawn sketch of the dog, but to no avail. The only thing it had prompted was one kind soul wanting to buy the illustration. But no one had ever come forward to claim the “goldendoodle,” which Taylor had told him was a golden retriever/standard poodle cross. Who had a dog breed like that anyway? Summer people! Jordan shook his head, grinning at the dog’s foolish antics, weaving in and around his legs like he was still a little pup instead of the fifty-pound fuzzball he actually was now. So without meaning to at all, Sam had drifted into Jordan’s life and stayed, a loyal, faithful companion.

At that moment Elizabeth would have said or done anything to reach him. She could not believe, actually could not comprehend that the tender, passionate man who had loved and teased her could be doing this to her-without listening to reason, without even giving her a chance to explain. Her eyes filled with tears of love and terror as she tried brokenly to tease him. “You’re going to look extremely silly, darling, if you claim desertion in court, because I’ll be standing right behind you claiming I’m more than willing to keep my vows.” Ian tore his gaze from the love in her eyes. “If you aren’t out of this house in three minutes,” he warned icily, “I’ll change the grounds to adultery.” “I have not committed adultery.” “Maybe not, but you’ll have a hell of a time proving you haven’t done something. I’ve had some experience in that area. Now, for the last time, get out of my life. It’s over.” To prove it, he walked over and sat down at his desk, reaching behind him to pull the bell cord. “Bring Larimore in,” he instructed Dolton, who appeared almost instantly. Elizabeth stiffened, thinking wildly for some way to reach him before he took irrevocable steps to banish her. Every fiber of her being believed he loved her. Surely, if one loved another deeply enough to be hurt like this…It hit her then, what he was doing and why, and she turned on him while the vicar’s story about Ian’s actions after his parents’ death seared her mind. She, however, was not a Labrador retriever who could be shoved away and out of his life. Turning, she walked over to his desk, leaning her damp palms on it, waiting until he was forced to meet her gaze. Looking like a courageous, heartbroken angel, Elizabeth faced her adversary across his desk, her voice shaking with love. “Listen carefully to me, darling, because I’m giving you fair warning that I won’t let you do this to us. You gave me your love, and I will not let you take it away. The harder you try, the harder I’ll fight you. I’ll haunt your dreams at night, exactly the way you’ve haunted mine every night I was away from you. You’ll lie awake in bed at night, wanting me, and you’ll know I’m lying awake, wanting you. And when you cannot stand it anymore,” she promised achingly, “you’ll come back to me, and I’ll be there, waiting for you. I’ll cry in your arms, and I’ll tell you I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, and you’ll help me find a way to forgive myself-“ “Damn you!” he bit out, his face white with fury. “What does it take to make you stop?” Elizabeth flinched from the hatred in the voice she loved and drew a shaking breath, praying she could finish without starting to cry. “I’ve hurt you terribly, my love, and I’ll hurt you again during the next fifty years. And you are going to hurt me, Ian-never, I hope, as much as you are hurting me now. But if that’s the way it has to be, then I’ll endure it, because the only alternative is to live without you, and that is no life at all. The difference is that I know it, and you don’t-not yet.” “Are you finished now?” “Not quite,” she said, straightening at the sound of footsteps in the hall. “There’s one more thing,” she informed him, lifting her quivering chin. “I am not a Labrador retriever! You cannot put me out of your life, because I won’t stay.” When she left, Ian stared at the empty room that had been alive with her presence but moments before, wondering what in hell she meant by her last comment.

That's how we got our dog, Revolver. We thought he was crazy about us, but it turns out that Labrador retrievers adore everyone. Well, maybe that's what love is, a state of mind ready to grace anyone willing to accept it. Anyone who cares.

Her chances of a decent marriage were about to be dashed—and all because of a ferret. Unfortunately Poppy Hathaway had pursued Dodger halfway through the Rutledge Hotel before she recalled an important fact: to a ferret, a straight line included six zigs and seven zags. “Dodger,” Poppy said desperately. “Come back. I’ll give you a biscuit, any of my hair ribbons, anything! Oh, I’m going to make a scarf out of you . . .” As soon as she caught her sister’s pet, Poppy swore she was going to alert the management of the Rutledge that Beatrix was harboring wild creatures in their family suite, which was definitely against hotel policy. Of course, that might cause the entire Hathaway clan to be forcibly removed from the premises. At the moment, Poppy didn’t care. Dodger had stolen a love letter that had been sent to her from Michael Bayning, and nothing in the world mattered except retrieving it. All the situation needed was for Dodger to hide the blasted thing in some public place where it would be discovered.  ... The ferret paused at a corner, checked to make certain he was still being chased, and in his happy excitement, he did a little war dance, a series of sideways hops that expressed pure delight. Even now, when Poppy wanted to murder him, she couldn’t help but acknowledge that he was adorable. “You’re still going to die,” she told him, approaching him in as unthreatening a manner as possible. “Give me the letter, Dodger.” The ferret streaked past a colonnaded lightwell that admitted sunshine from overhead and sent it down three floors to the mezzanine level. Grimly, Poppy wondered how far she was going to have to chase him. He could cover quite a lot of territory, and the Rutledge was massive, occupying five full blocks in the theater district. “This,” she muttered beneath her breath, “is what happens when you’re a Hathaway. Misadventures . . . wild animals . . . house fires . . . curses . . . scandals . . .

She had never experienced jealousy before now, and it was agonizing. It was like a slow death by poison. Prudence had spent the summer being courted by a handsome and heroic soldier, whereas Beatrix had spent the summer with his dog. And soon he would come to retrieve Albert, and she wouldn’t even have his dog.

..I took in the perfection of his chest, the feel of his weight on mine. And then...and then...GOSPEL! A medley of riffs piercing the air. Mary Mary, doing vocal gymnastics for Jesus, in the middle of this most intimate moment, in the middle of an act I still thought of as an abomination. JESUS being sung at full volume, in front of the sachets of condoms and lube I'd retrieved from under the bed. The shame shot through me as I leapt to switch off the speaker and fumbled for my clothes. After years of hiding Jesus away from my sexuality -- and vice versa -- the two had collided. How could I have been so careless?

What are you looking for in a woman?" "Someone who's loyal. Loving. Likes to spend time together, especially outdoors. And I sure wouldn't mind if she hunts." "Are you sure you wouldn't be happier with a Labrador retriever?

Have you ever thought about your soul can it be saved? Or perhaps you think that when you're dead you just stay in your grave Is God just a thought within your head or is he a part of you? Is Christ just a name that you read in a book when you were in school? , When you think about death do you lose your breath or do you keep your cool? Would you like to see the Pope on the end of a rope do you think he's a fool? Well I have seen the truth, yes I've seen the light and I've changed my ways And I'll be prepared when you're lonely and scared at the end of our days , Could it be you're afraid of what your friends might say If they knew you believe in God above? They should realize before they criticize That God is the only way to love , Is your mind so small that you have to fall In with the pack wherever they run Will you still sneer when death is near And say they may as well worship the sun? , I think it was true it was people like you that crucified Christ I think it is sad the opinion you had was the only one voiced Will you be so sure when your day is near, say you don't believe? You had the chance but you turned it down, now you can't retrieve , Perhaps you'll think before you say that God is dead and gone Open your eyes, just realize that he's the one The only one who can save you now from all this sin and hate Or will you still jeer at all you hear, yes I think it's too late

Bring me the stars She wanted me to bring her those stars, I looked at the sky and wondered how far they could be, They had witnessed moments of triumph, romance and many wars, And from where I was they appeared too distant to me, But then a feeling greeted me suddenly, “To know how far , far can be; you must go, Bring her the stars she loves so passionately, And how much she loves you, you shall know!” I could dare the dark even the unknown, But being unable to see her would be like witnessing the sky without stars, And in my thoughts in these distant skies I have often flown, Knowing that she is beside me, kissing me, touching me, unlike these far away stars, Yet her wish, her desire, is like this night sky to me, Where the stars indeed exist, But somehow this sky of mine where she is everything, she fails to see, Perhaps this is why from seeking these new and unknown stars I resist, But tonight she kissed me with her eyes and she spread over my soul, And said, “I want those stars and the sky too.” I wondered how I could steal the empire of Gods whole, But for her love, her smile, her warm and wet kisses, I can anything do, So I held her in my embrace and felt her everywhere, Then I let her drown into my eyes, And from there, when she returned she had retrieved the sky, the stars from somewhere, Then her smile and the passion in her eyes, Poured over me like the million kisses of love, And from this night onwards, whenever she loves me in the darkness of the night, I hold her warm body in my arms and kiss her with the feeling of love, And then she dives into my eyes of passion to retrieve her objects of delight, It has been so, since that night, that starry night, When I realised how far, far can be, And with the feeling of love one can even steal the starlight, At least this is how I feel Irma, whenever you confess you love me!

What almost knocked me on my ass, if not for the seat belt, was Aaron parting those lips that were so often pressed in an unamused line, and licking the chocolate clean off his thumb. Chocolate that he had just retrieved from the corner of my mouth.

Beautiful ways Memories with deep feelings, Are like always retracting emotions, They drop like sticky cob web hanging from the ceilings, And retrieve many moments filled with deep sensations, Sometimes they lead to poignancy, And sometimes they bring flashes of her sweet memories, And then the heart struggles to find its buoyancy, Because the mind willingly all these moments carries, Poor heart’s every perversion, Fails to convince the mind to consider the heart’s requests, the heart that keeps it alive, Alas the mind is a slave to her memories and her beautiful sensation, And without bearing her feelings in no other thinking avenues it wishes to dive, So the heart beats with a sense of precariousness, While the mind seeks her sensations, her feelings and enters a state of meditation, Where it only ponders on her feelings and her loveliness, And the poor heart becomes the victim of its own creation, Of loving, of feeling, of emoting, of beating just for her, And as the mind becomes unresponsive, I neither think of my anguished heart, my inactive mind, but just about her, and only about her, And wait and hope that the reality becomes a little bit sensitive and a bit more submissive, But destiny that turns the wheels of time and everything, Has its own plans to execute and fulfil, To it love, lovers, feelings do not mean anything, Because it obeys someone else’s heart’s will, For destiny is true to her emotions and her love affair, And I too then proclaim I am devoted to my memories and their every sensation, And loving her is by all means sensible and fair, For if destiny can do what it pleases, my heart and mind too shall seek their destiny in their most loving destination, So let destiny play its game and cast the heart and mind in time’s bottomless well, But let it know, that we all- my heart, my mind and I, shall fill it too with her sensation, And then time may bid to every other life’s pursuit its final farewell, And then mine shall be the destiny and I shall live with her in the world that will be her beauty’s creation, So, let my heart love her enough, Let my mind think of her always, For time and destiny maybe tough, But love and facts always find their new and beautiful ways!

Charlie stared at the picture, everyone wearing big smiles, everyone just a little drunk. He raised his snifter, and said, “Good-bye, Ethan. You were a good man and a great friend. I love you, and I’ll miss you.” He tossed back the cognac, moved out from behind the bar, and flipped off the lights. He started for the back of the restaurant, to the pull-down staircase to his apartment, thought better of it, and went back to the bar to retrieve the bottle of cognac.

Hand that stretched I had never seen him there before, On the street where I tread every day to settle life’s daily score, There on the edges of pavement at its most conspicuous location, He knelt there with no sense of self promotion, With one hand held out from his thinning and tattered blanket, And he held it there in this position from the sunrise to the sunset, And everyone who passed by flung something towards him, Few tossed money, few tossed a thing or two, but most of them offered him looks grim, It was at these moments his hand retreated a bit, But then it reclaimed its stance that the man had for many years now deemed fit, And people looked at him, a few looked at the hand, Many, just like me, paused for a moment and thought of the causes for his life being so bland, Who could tell, no one, none of us, for only the hand knew of the strain, Of being stretched forever on the pillars of disdain and a lot of pain, Beside the man, next to the pavement, flowed a river, That stretched endlessly like his hand as if trying to reach out to its discreet lover, Because it flowed slowly, with no visible waves, no movement at all, But in reality it flowed deep into the veins of journey encompassing seasons all, The journey called life that just like kneeling man’s hand stretches endlessly, Through which we seek life, that evades us all tirelessly, Because finding it will be like the river meeting its lover, And then both the river and the hand would sink to a point lower, From where nothing can be retrieved once lost, Because there everything is a creation of the past, To be continued........

My smile reaches higher, deeper. I’ll stick to throttling your cock in one of our two beds. Speaking of cocks, shall we go retrieve yours, mo khrà? Retrieve my cock, he mutters right before popping my ass cheek. Did you just spank me? Well, you did just call me dickless. He spins me around, his hands kneading the skin he tapped, and then he tilts my hips, and I flail forward, my fingers locking around the edge of the chest of drawers that sits like an island in the middle of his dressing chamber. My cock may not be made of flesh, Fallon, but it can fill you up just the same. Allow me to demonstrate. When he slams home, I wheeze. Can you feel me, my love? I can feel nothing else. To punish me once again for having alluded to his missing manhood, he rubs my ass, then gives it a brisk smack. A dizzying current whizzes through my body, zapping a throaty mewl from my lungs. Oh, Gods, Lore. Oh—I choke as Lore pounds into me, stretching me with his shadows—Gods—my climax roars through my body, jostling both my skin and marrow—Lore! He keeps rocking his shadow-hips. Reassured? I didn’t mean to make you feel like less of a man. He doesn’t respond, merely recalls his shadows. When a translucent trail of wetness dribbles down my inner thighs, he rips a fresh tunic off a hanger and cleans my skin. I hook up an eyebrow. Was any of that yours? His gaze remains locked on the fabric absorbing my pleasure. No. Because he cannot come in this form . . . If I need to come, I’ll penetrate your mind before I penetrate your body. Now get dressed and meet me in the war room. His gruff timbre makes me glance over my shoulder at where he stands, delineated in dark wisps. How do I reach the war room? Use the door beside my fireplace. It’ll lead to a sitting room, which will lead you to the war room. His tone is laced with so much frost that it ices my heart. “Lore, I’m sorry. I . . .” He leaves before I can finish speaking.

How clear, how lovely bright, How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play; How heaven laughs out with glee Where, like a bird set free, Up from the eastern sea Soars the delightful day. To-day I shall be strong, No more shall yield to wrong, Shall squander life no more; Days lost, I know not how, I shall retrieve them now; Now I shall keep the vow I never kept before. Ensanguining the skies How heavily it dies Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound Not further to be found, How hopeless under ground Falls the remorseful day.

Exactly.” Rabbi Hillel, one of the early Jewish sages, had been challenged to state the essence of Judaism while standing on one foot. He had said, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.

That you love her as you love yourself. You recognize that she has good and bad points, just like each of us does. And that your love for her has to be equal to your love for yourself. You don’t owe it to her to turn your whole life upside down to take care of her—just to make sure that she’s safe, and well-cared for, that she has a roof over her head, food in her belly, and that she knows you love her.

Raised in San Diego, I grew up on a steady diet of western movies and musicals and a love for the ocean, cowgirls, pianos, golden retrievers, and art.

It is the affair of the natural sciences to explain how the tree of life in particular continues to grow and how new branches shoot out from it. This is not a matter for faith. But we must have the audacity to say that the great projects of the living creation are not the products of chance and error. Nor are they the products of a selective process to which divine predicates can be attributed in illogical, unscientific, and even mythic fashion. The great projects of the living creation point to a creating Reason and show us a creating Intelligence, and they do so more luminously and radiantly today than ever before. Thus we can say today with a new certitude and joyousness that the human being is indeed a divine project, which only the creating Intelligence was strong and great and audacious enough to conceive of. Human beings are not a mistake but something willed; they are the fruit of love.

more clearly discern God’s response: Yes, that is the man who is loved by God to the very dust, who is so loved by God that he pursues him to the uttermost toils of death.

Human beings who consider dependence on the highest love as slavery and who try to deny the truth about themselves, which is their creatureliness, do not free themselves; they destroy truth and love. They do not make themselves gods, which in fact they cannot do, but rather caricatures, pseudo-gods, slaves of their own abilities, which then drag them down.

Only being loved is being saved, and only God’s love can purify damaged human love and radically reestablish the network of relationships that have suffered from alienation.

Jesus Christ goes Adam’s route, but in reverse. In contrast to Adam he is really “like God.” But this being like God, this similarity to God, is being a Son, and hence it is totally relational. “I do nothing on my own authority” (John 8:28). Therefore the One who is truly like God does not hold graspingly to his autonomy, to the limitlessness of his ability and his willing. He does the contrary: he becomes completely dependent, he becomes a slave. Because he does not go the route of power but that of love, he can descend into the depths of Adam’s lie, into the depths of death, and there raise up truth and life.

Why are golden retrievers so cute and simultaneously complete psychopaths?

The heist of feelings Everything appeared older than it was, Time seemed to end sooner than it should have ended, A moment that was here just now, I wondered, now where it was, It felt like a desire, that before a wish could find it, always ended, A feeling of strangeness where every sense failed to feel anything, Because time ended sooner than before, And you only felt a feeling that was made of everything but you could not feel anything, Because it led to incomplete sensations that felt, only partially, like before, They bore no true shades of complete feelings, Because before the heart could feel them time ended their reign, And being caught in this ever flowing stream of incomplete feelings, Made you a victim of this strange reign, Where time no more ruled, but something that controlled it now manifested itself, Time rushed with an unknown pace, witnessing the premature death of its every moment, It was as if time was fleeing from its own interlooping moments, and confounding itself, And a sensation that visited the heart, left before it could be felt in that climactic moment, And in this trench of strangeness everything vanished, finally to be lost forever, Every incomplete feeling struggled to witness its completion, Before it was destroyed and lost forever, And moments of time too appeared desperate to realise their own completion, But every moment of time was dissected into two halves, One that felt a feeling and the other that carried its unfelt parts, And thus every feeling, every sensation was cut into halves, One that belonged to the mind and the one that only bore heart’s parts, For a feeling that enters the heart through the mind is incomplete unless it reaches the heart, And this force somehow stole the moments of time that entered the mind, Ending them before they could meet their waiting part in the heart, And as the moment left alone in the heart ended without feeling the sensation of the mind, The trench was filled with moments of heart and moments of mind, never together, And finally time realised it could undo this continuous heist of feelings and sensations, And keep its separated moments together, It dived into this trench with infinity and retrieved all feelings and sensations, While this strange force is now riding ripples of infinity, Time has rearranged sensations and feelings and paired them with their respective moments, While the evil force is caught in the loops of infinity, Time now flows as it always used to, in the form of complete moments, Where a feeling beginning in the mind grows as a sensation in the heart, And my love Irma, that is what time should be doing forever now, Letting the thoughts of mind sink into the sensations of my heart, To be our infinity of known feelings and sensations, always as fresh as now, always like now!

Love, as a currency of the heart, is the most valuable investment in time. Wherever you go, spread its seeds generously, for lost moments of love are echoes that can never be retrieved.

Alexander's selected the best potatoes they have in storage, a medium-sized white onion, a hearty block of Reblochon-style cheese, a slab of fatty bacon, and has even retrieved a dry white wine from the downstairs pantry. Eden's mind races. The ingredients are simple, but there are hundreds of different possible outcomes. She can't even begin to fathom what Alexander has in store for her. He handles his knives beautifully. His grip is strong, but just light enough to offer the most flexibility. It isn't very long before he slices up generous bits of bacon and has it sizzling in a hot pan, fat melting away and frying all around the meat to leave it nice and crisp. In goes finely minced onion, and then a good cup or so of white wine to deglaze the bottom of the pan. Then it's the potatoes, which he's skinned and sliced with mind-bending accuracy. Alexander pops everything into an oven-proof dish before covering the top with a hefty layer of cheese. He places it in the oven, but doesn't bother setting a timer. He's a skilled enough chef to know when it's done. "Are you going to tell me what this mystery dish is?" Eden asks. Alexander smiles. "It's a tartiflette," he explains. "My father used to make it all the time. Comfort food, for when I wasn't feeling well.

We only have five minutes before dessert's ready," she protests. "I can do a lot to you in five minutes, sweetheart." "Then what are you waiting for, boyfriend?" He moves with purpose, hooking his hands around her thighs so that he can lift her up and lay her down on the kitchen table. The dishes have already been cleared, save for a pair of forks that clink together with the sudden movement. His skillful hands make quick work of the front of her jeans, tugging them off hurriedly before kneeling on the kitchen tile between her thighs. They've already eaten dinner, but he's ravenous. With the time now sitting at four minutes and thirty seconds, he wastes no more time and dips down to enjoy his meal. The sounds she makes. Alexander's so hard, it's almost painful. He teases her with his tongue, his fingers; makes his business her pleasure. Eden reaches her peak just as the timer on the oven beeps. Alexander can't help but smirk at himself. He always knew he worked well under pressure. "Mmph, thank you for that," Eden mumbles. "Sit tight. I'll go get dessert." "I've already had dessert." She rolls her eyes. "Cheesy." Alexander reclaims his seat just as Eden returns with a piping hot baking dish. It's a layer of molten chocolate topped with a gooey marshmallow layer and a buttery graham cracker crust. She also retrieves a tub of vanilla bean ice cream from the fridge and a can of whipped cream... Which she immediately sprays all over his chest. He's momentarily shocked by the cold, but then Eden gets on her knees with that mischievous glint in her eye that he adores so much. "Food needs to cool," she reasons. "We've got time to kill.

Therefore we must not in our own day conceal our faith in creation. We may not conceal it, for only if it is true that the universe comes from freedom, love, and reason, and that these are the real underlying powers, can we trust one another, go forward into the future, and live as human beings. God is the Lord of all things because he is their creator, and only therefore can we pray to him. For this means that freedom and love are not ineffectual ideas but rather that they are sustaining forces of reality.

In the Bible this thought goes still further. It lets us know that the rhythm of the heavenly bodies is, more profoundly, a way of expressing the rhythm of the heart and the rhythm of God’s love, which manifests itself there.

To this must be added the fact that Torah, the law, is an expression of Israel’s history with God. It is an expression of the covenant, and the covenant is in turn an expression of God’s love, of his “yes” to the human being that he created, so that he could both love and receive love. Now we can grasp this notion better. We can say that God created the universe in order to enter into a history of love with humankind.

God created the universe in order to be able to become a human being and pour out his love upon us and to invite us to love him in return.

All Yang’s men were in by midday and our party straggled in later completely done in. Chuen came in first. He was wearing a dark green commando’s beret, long green canvas boots with rubber soles – American jungle boots – and green battle-dress with lovely blue parachute wings over his left pocket. He is a little cheerful man and speaks fair English. Then came Humpleman, very young, blue-eyed, with a bland and serious manner; then Jim Hannah, lean, dark, hook-nosed, moustached, and over forty. At one time he was a journalist and in the rubber slump in Malaya he worked in Australia. Then came Harrison, short, with red face and sandy hair – a very silent Scot, also a planter. John and Richard brought up the rear, absolutely exhausted but very contented. After a meal they had got out on to the field and had everything ready an hour before midnight. Then they waited and waited and, as nothing happened, they got more and more worried and despondent. One hour late, then two hours. It was bitterly cold, and at last they were just talking of returning home when a faint drone was heard from the west. They were so excited that their hearts almost choked them! At last the Lib came over. Apparently she followed up the Perak river, then came across on a bearing. The moon was shining brilliantly and the sky was covered with high, white, fleecy clouds. The fires, freshly stoked with dry atap, burned up brightly, and Quayle with his torch flashed the recognition letter faster and faster with growing excitement as the great Lib, after flying round in a wide circle, swooped overhead, vast and glistening in the moonlight. Suddenly four little white balls seemed to appear in the plane’s wake, and four tiny black forms were seen swinging from side to side below them. John, Richard, and Frank all agreed it was the most exciting moment of their lives. While they were still lost in wonder, things started happening. Hannah and Harrison landed beautifully and were immediately fielded, but Humpleman fell in the stream and was retrieved soaking wet. The containers and packages, which had been released immediately after the bodies, now came down and all landed

A functional reward is one that is not food based. There are lots of functional rewards such as retrieving, tugging, physical affection, car rides, walks, chase games, and verbal praise in a high, excited voice. Not all puppies find all of those rewarding, but you’ll soon know what your puppy loves.

Liv, you stole my heart at seventeen, and I don’t think you ever gave it back. That’s why everything has been meaningless since I left you behind. You kept my heart safe, patiently waiting for me to return and retrieve it. To remember where I belong, by your side.” Letting out a shaky breath, tears fell freely down her face. “Do you think I ever stopped loving you? Why do you think there’s been no one else? Because my naïve heart thought that maybe someday you’d come back. Even as the years passed and the nights grew colder, I held out hope.

We were a forbidden love letter, tucked into the back of a drawer and retrieved only in the darkness of night.

The retriever took each bit of meat from his master’s hand with a delicacy almost equal to that of a hummingbird sipping sugar water from a garden feeder, and when it was all gone, he gazed up at Dusty with an adoration that could not have been much less than the love with which the angels regard God. “And you are an angel, all right,” Dusty said, as he gently scratched under Valet’s chin. “A furry angel. And with ears that big, you don’t need wings.

Clutching his prize, Erik felt his face widen. She smiled back at him. Neither of them had said so much as hello yet she was looking at him with those eyes. Deep in the cathedral of his young being, Erik felt a bell toll, a peal of recognition. And for the rest of his life, he would swear, he would swear to anyone who asked, although nothing was said aloud, he heard Daisy Bianco speak to him. She said it with her eyes, he heard it clearly in his head, and it wasn’t hello. It was, “Well, here you are.” Here I am, he thought. Her expression grew expansive. The green in her eyes deepened. David cleared his throat. “Go put some shoes on, honey. Nails are all over the damn place.” “See ya,” she said, looking at Erik. Her voice was soft, a secret meant only for his ears. “Bye.” His mouth formed the word with barely a sound. It rose like a shimmering bubble and followed Daisy out the door. Pointedly David retrieved his lunch. Erik surrendered it, and through the glass of the lighting booth he watched Daisy walk back down the aisle of the auditorium. Sat and watched her as the atoms in his body slowly rearranged themselves.

Clutching his prize, Erik felt his face widen. She smiled back at him. Neither of them had said so much as hello yet she was looking at him with those eyes. Deep in the cathedral of his young being, Erik felt a bell toll, a peal of recognition. And for the rest of his life, he would swear, he would swear to anyone who asked, although nothing was said aloud, he heard Daisy Bianco speak to him. She said it with her eyes, he heard it clearly in his head, and it wasn’t hello. It was, “Well, here you are.” Here I am, he thought. Her expression grew expansive. The green in her eyes deepened. David cleared his throat. “Go put some shoes on, honey. Nails are all over the damn place.” “See ya,” she said, looking at Erik. Her voice was soft, a secret meant only for his ears. “Bye.” His mouth formed the word with barely a sound. It rose like a shimmering bubble and followed Daisy out the door. Pointedly David retrieved his lunch. Erik surrendered it, and through the glass of the lighting booth he watched Daisy walk back down the aisle of the auditorium. Sat and watched her as the atoms in his body slowly rearranged themselves.

Our golden retriever Beau was our master teacher in how to greet a loved one. There were days when he would almost knock my husband over after work, meeting him at the front door with happy crying, enthusiastic tail wagging, and a big smile. When Beau died, his evening greeting was noticeably absent. But a few days later, my daughter and I had an idea: When we heard the doorknob turn, we would run to the door, hugging and kissing my husband in a pretty good imitation of Beau. Our dog had taught us how to show love by sincerely welcoming the people we care about into our orbit.

It laughs at fear, afraid of nothing; it does not shy away from the sword.” —Job 39:22 (NIV) Colby, my golden retriever, pounded through the woods, enjoying his first visit to Blue Ridge, Georgia. We turned down a gravel lane that looped by several houses perched high above the water when, suddenly, Colby froze. In front of my eyes, my sweet, loving golden tucked his tail and stood completely still; the high-pitched whine emanating from the back of his throat was his only giveaway. My eyes followed to where his gaze locked: our neighbor’s life-size, two-dimensional metal cutout of a bear. From where we stood, the bear looked to be crossing a stream a few yards away from us. Had Colby noticed the bear a few feet earlier or later, he would’ve seen what I knew to be true: This harmless, flat, rusted bear was only a lawn ornament. Instead, Colby cowered and whimpered until I carried him far enough along the path so that he could recognize the bear was only metal. I often wonder how many times God has had to pull me past certain trials that I don’t notice until I’m knee-deep in them and cowering. If I’d seen them coming or had the patience to wait until the fear subsided, I might’ve been better prepared to call out to God in prayer. Instead, I collapsed in a pile of woe and wailing, panicked at the situation I faced. Now, when I comfort Colby when he encounters something scary, I remember that God does the same with me. I may not be able to see the leash, but if I pay attention, I can feel the tug on my heart to follow Him. Lord, remind me that diving into my fear only allows it to bloom. Remind me to follow You out of the darkness and into the light. —Ashley Kappel Digging Deeper: Ps 23:4; Is 41:10; 1 Jn 4:18

Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but if a man is kind, loving, respectful, makes a woman laugh, knows how to open the pickle jar, and change “a flat tire, we really don’t need much else. If I needed insurance, food, a house, or clothes, I would get off my ass, get a job, and get that stuff myself. What I can’t get on my own is a good, kind, loving, respectful man who makes me laugh, knows how to open a pickle jar, and change a flat tire.

I convinced my wife to go on a romantic holiday in the area because there was a hotel with a very nice restaurant with foie gras, and a hot-water spa nearby,” Thomas told me. A mischievous smile spread across his face as he relayed this, hinting that he might have brought her there under false pretenses. After they had a lovely meal, he went on, he did not retire to the hotel room with her but retrieved test tubes from the trunk of his car and returned to stake out the pool.

Lewis-Kraus traces why cats are so successful as internet symbols; he cites research about the relation between depression in humans and domestic cats. Indeed, your cat will like you best if you pretend that you don’t desperately want to play with it all the time. ... The more neurotic the cat owner – the more desperate for fuzzy comfort and nuzzly security and unconditional affection – the briefer the interactions that damn cat would allow. And so, What we do on the internet is mostly “like” things, and while liking them we wait for our own content to be liked. We check our analytics as we await retweets. This is where the cats come in. A cat will not retrieve some dumb object so that you can throw it yet again ... That goes against everything cats stand for. Or more often sit. It’s not just that cats are unable to be anything but real; it’s that cats both know they are performing and couldn’t possibly care less about how their performance is received ... What an internet cat does is thus confront us with how cravenly we ourselves court approval. A cat, if it decides to love you, will do so only on its own terms ... and the less you need it, the better loved you are going to be. The reason the lolcat says “oh hai” is because he only just noticed, and certainly doesn’t care. ... He doesn’t worry about you or what you think. ... Thus is the internet cat the realest cat of all.

His book For Whom the Bell Tolls was an instant success in the summer of 1940, and afforded him the means to live in style at his villa outside of Havana with his new wife Mary Welsh, whom he married in 1946. It was during this period that he started getting headaches and gaining weight, frequently becoming depressed. Being able to shake off his problems, he wrote a series of books on the Land, Air and Sea, and later wrote The Old Man and the Sea for which he won the Pulitzer Prize in May 1954. Hemingway on a trip to Africa where he barely survived two successive airplane crashes. Returning to Cuba, Ernest worked reshaping the recovered work and wrote his memoir, A Moveable Feast. He also finished True at First Light and The Garden of Eden. Being security conscious, he stored his works in a safe deposit box at a bank in Havana. His home Finca Vigía had become a hub for friends and even visiting tourists. It was reliably disclosed to me that he frequently enjoyed swinger’s parties and orgies at his Cuban home. In Spain after divorcing Frank Sinatra Hemingway introduced Ava Gardner to many of the bullfighters he knew and in a free for all, she seduced many of hotter ones. After Ava Gardner’s affair with the famous Spanish bullfighter Luis Miguel Dominguín crashed, she came to Cuba and stayed at Finca Vigía, where she had what was termed to be a poignant relationship with Ernest. Ava Gardner swam nude in the pool, located down the slope from the Hemingway house, after which he told his staff that the water was not to be emptied. An intimate friendship grew between Hemingway’s forth and second wife, Mary and Pauline. Pauline often came to Finca Vigia, in the early 1950s, and likewise Mary made the crossing of the Florida Straits, back to Key West several times. The ex-wife and the current wife enjoyed gossiping about their prior husbands and lovers and had choice words regarding Ernest. In 1959, Hemingway was in Cuba during the revolution, and was delighted that Batista, who owned the nearby property, that later became the location of the dismal Pan Americana Housing Development, was overthrown. He shared the love of fishing with Fidel Castro and remained on good terms with him. Reading the tea leaves, he decided to leave Cuba after hearing that Fidel wanted to nationalize the properties owned by Americans and other foreign nationals. In the summer of 1960, while working on a manuscript for Life magazine, Hemingway developed dementia becoming disorganized and confused. His eyesight had been failing and he became despondent and depressed. On July 25, 1960, he and his wife Mary left Cuba for the last time. He never retrieved his books or the manuscripts that he left in the bank vault. Following the Bay of Pigs Invasion, the Cuban government took ownership of his home and the works he left behind, including an estimated 5,000 books from his personal library. After years of neglect, his home, which was designed by the Spanish architect Miguel Pascual y Baguer in 1886, has now been largely restored as the Hemingway Museum. The museum, overlooking San Francisco de Paula, as well as the Straits of Florida in the distance, houses much of his work as well as his boat housed near his pool.

She watched Trey nod his head to her question before asking, "Would you like to see what I retrieved from my bag? I promise you'll love it and beg for more.

A Solution Waiting for a Problem Engineers tend to develop tools for the pleasure of developing tools, not to induce nature to yield its secrets. It so happens that some of these tools bring us more knowledge; because of the silent evidence effect, we forget to consider tools that accomplished nothing but keeping engineers off the streets. Tools lead to unexpected discoveries, which themselves lead to other unexpected discoveries. But rarely do our tools seem to work as intended; it is only the engineer’s gusto and love for the building of toys and machines that contribute to the augmentation of our knowledge. Knowledge does not progress from tools designed to verify or help theories, but rather the opposite. The computer was not built to allow us to develop new, visual, geometric mathematics, but for some other purpose. It happened to allow us to discover mathematical objects that few cared to look for. Nor was the computer invented to let you chat with your friends in Siberia, but it has caused some long-distance relationships to bloom. As an essayist, I can attest that the Internet has helped me to spread my ideas by bypassing journalists. But this was not the stated purpose of its military designer. The laser is a prime illustration of a tool made for a given purpose (actually no real purpose) that then found applications that were not even dreamed of at the time. It was a typical “solution looking for a problem.” Among the early applications was the surgical stitching of detached retinas. Half a century later, The Economist asked Charles Townes, the alleged inventor of the laser, if he had had retinas on his mind. He had not. He was satisfying his desire to split light beams, and that was that. In fact, Townes’s colleagues teased him quite a bit about the irrelevance of his discovery. Yet just consider the effects of the laser in the world around you: compact disks, eyesight corrections, microsurgery, data storage and retrieval—all unforeseen applications of the technology.* We build toys. Some of those toys change the world. Keep

When at last he sprang to his feet, she retreated a step, lifting her chin so the lapping water couldn’t reach her mouth. He bent to retrieve the buffalo robe and beckoned for her. “Keemah.” She knew by now that the word meant “come.” She shuddered and looked longingly at the fur he held. “Keemah,” he repeated. When she made no move to obey, he sighed. Sinking lower into the water, Loretta accidentally took a mouthful and choked. He glanced skyward, clearly exasperated. “This Comanche is not stupid. You would run like the wind if I took my eyes from you.” She shook her head. Frowning, he studied her for a long moment. “This is not pe-nan-de taquoip, the honey talk. It is a promise you make?” She nodded, her teeth chattering. “And you will not make a lie of it?” When he assured him she wouldn’t with another shake of her head, he dropped the fur to the ground and pivoted on one foot. She could scarcely believe he truly meant to keep his back to her. She stared at the broad expanse of his shoulders, at the curve of his spine, at his long, leather-clad legs. Like the wild animals he hunted, he was lithe and lean, his large frame padded with sleek, powerful muscle. If she tried to run, he would be upon her before she had gone more than a few steps. Plowing her way through the water to shore, she kept her eyes riveted to his back. A small rock cut into the sole of her foot as she scrambled up the bank. She bit her lip and kept going, afraid to hesitate even for a second. By the time she reached him, her heart was slamming. She grabbed up the fur and slung it around her shoulders, clasping the edges tightly to her chest. Standing this close to him, she could see the sheen of oil on his skin, the dark hair that dusted the crease of his armpits. She didn’t want to touch him. The seconds ticked past. Was his hearing so keen that he knew she was still behind him? She sensed he was waiting her out, testing her in some way she couldn’t fathom, proving his mastery over her. She worked one hand free from the heavy robe. So fast that she scarcely felt her fingertips graze his skin, she tapped his shoulder and snatched her hand back. He turned to look at her, his gaze lingering a moment on her bare feet and legs. Humiliation scorched her cheeks. He stepped toward her, stooping as he did to catch her behind the knees and toss her over his shoulder. As Loretta grabbed his belt for support, she realized two things: the cold water had eased her headache, and the hilt of the Comanche’s knife was within her reach… Without stopping to think of the possible consequences, she reached out, imagining how it would feel to bury the blade into his back, to be free of him. Just as her fingers curled around the knife handle, he spoke. “Kill me, Yellow Hair, and my friends will avenge me. The blood of your loved ones will be spilled as slowly as sap drips from a wounded tree.” He kept walking and made no move to grab her hand. “My friends know the way to your wooden walls, eh? Make no grief behind you. It is wisdom.

Matthew, mentioned you.” “He did?” Leni said. Don’t smile so big. What a dork. Geneva Walker slipped in beside her husband. “Hey,” she said, smiling at Cora. “I see you’ve met my husband.” “Ex.” Tom Walker put his arm around Geneva, pulled her close. “I love the woman like air, but I can’t live with her.” “Can’t live without me, either.” Geneva smiled, cocked her head to the left. “That’s my main squeeze over there. Calhoun Malvey. He doesn’t love me as much as Tom does, but he likes me a helluva lot better. And he doesn’t snore.” She elbowed Mr. Walker in the side playfully. “I hear you guys aren’t too well prepared,” Mr. Walker said to Dad. “You’re going to have to learn fast. Don’t be afraid to ask me for help. I’m always up for it. Anything you need to borrow, I have.” Leni heard something in Dad’s “Thanks” that put her on alert. He sounded irritated all of a sudden. Offended. Mama heard it, too; she glanced worriedly at him. Mad Earl stumbled forward. He was wearing a T-shirt that read I’VE BEEN FISHING SO LONG I’M A MASTER BAITER. He grinned drunkenly, swayed side to side, stumbled. “You offering Ernt help, Big Tom? That’s mighty white of you. Sorta like King John offerin’ to help his poor serfs. Maybe your friend the governor can help ya out.” “Good Lord, Earl, not again,” Geneva said. “Let’s play some music. Ernt, can you play an instrument?” “Guitar,” Dad said. “But I sold—” “Great!” Geneva said, taking him by the arm, pulling him away from Mad Earl and toward Large Marge and the makeshift band gathered at the beach. She handed Dad the guitar Mr. Walker had put down. Mad Earl stumbled over to the fire and retrieved his crockery jug. Leni wondered if Mama knew how beautiful she looked, standing there in her form-fitting pants, with

Sunset. He had promised her until sunset. “If something goes wrong, we need to get her out.” Miles Dorrington looked thoughtful. “I say, we could raise the Jolly Roger and storm the fort as pirates. While they’re panicking, you sneak in and retrieve Jane.” “Too many cannons,” said Jack tersely. “You’ll be blown to splinters before we can get inside. Next?” Lizzy raised her crossbow. “I could—” “No,” said Jack and his father in unison. When Jack had finished glaring at his father, he said, “Jane and I discussed this. If she’s not back by sundown, Lord Richard and I”—Jack nodded to the blond man, who nodded back—“will go after her disguised as dragoons.” Lord Richard quickly took charge. “I’ll see that my men acquire the relevant uniforms.” “No,” said Jack’s new stepmother. “No?” Jack looked narrowly at his stepmother. “What do you propose, then?” His stepmother paced decisively down the deck. “Richard”—Lord Richard leaped agilely out of range of her parasol—“will stay and mind the Bien-Aimée . If Jane isn’t back by sundown”—Jack’s stepmother regarded him imperiously—“you and I will go after her.” “Gwen is very good at rappelling down walls,” said Jack’s father, looking at his bride with gooey eyes. “Up them, too.” “We’re not rappelling,” said Jack. If there was anything he hated, it was rappelling. It was as showy and useless as swinging through windows on ropes. “We’re going through the door.” “I’ve known that girl since she was born.” His stepmother stalked towards him, parasol point glinting. “I’ve protected her from more assailants than you’ve had hot suppers. If you go, I go.” “How lovely,” said Lady Henrietta brightly. “You can get to know each other.” Miles Dorrington prudently lifted his wife by the waist and deposited her out of parasol range. “We don’t know that she’ll need rescuing,” said Jack, staring down his new stepmother. “The plan might go as planned.” His stepmother snorted. “With the Gardener? I’ll go get my pistols.” And she departed, leaving Jack with a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach as he tried not to contemplate what the Gardener might be doing with Jane right now.

You want to borrow my girlfriend?” Carson shouted later that afternoon, promptly dropping the box in his hands. The cardboard smashed onto the floor of Carson and Holly’s new glorious kitchen with a resounding thunk and the distinct sound of glass shattering. “My new plates!” Holly wailed, immediately sinking to her knees. She ripped open the tape closing the two flaps together and peered into the box then looked up at Carson in horror. “You’re a monster!” Carson scowled at her. “I’ll buy you new plates.” The scowl deepened. “That is, if I decide not to break up with you. I can’t believe this was your idea. I told Garrett you and Shelby shouldn’t hang out. The two of you are trouble together.” “They’re just trying to help me out,” Will pointed out, experiencing a jolt of sympathy at the despair on Holly’s face. He swiftly knelt down and tried to pry her hands out of the box. “Quit sticking your fingers in there, Hol. It’s filled with broken glass.” Carson let out an enraged roar. “Don’t you dare console my girlfriend. My girlfriend!” Holly got to her feet, planting her hands on her hips. “Now I’m definitely going,” she shot out. “You broke my plates.” “So you’re going to play house with my lieutenant as punishment?” “He’s in love with another woman!” “Well, I’m in love with you!” Holly’s eyes softened. “Doesn’t it make you love me more, knowing I’m willing to help out one of your friends?” A sigh slid out of Carson’s mouth. “What is it with you and helping people? Didn’t we just decide you’re not going to drop everything for your family anymore?” “This isn’t my family. It’s yours.” “Will and I aren’t related.” “You’re SEALs. Of course you’re related.” Another sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.” Carson took a step forward and pulled Holly into his arms. “Fine, you can go.” “Really?” “I just said it, didn’t I?” Holly threw her arms around her boyfriend. The two proceeded to make out as if Will wasn’t in the kitchen. He shook his head to himself. He wasn’t quite certain how they’d gone from furious to calm to horny in a matter of seconds, but he wasn’t complaining. Ever since Holly and Shelby had burst into his house this morning, he’d been warming up to the plan, starting to believe it might actually work. He was glad Carson hadn’t put up more of a fight. Slipping his hands in the pockets of his khakis, he let the couple smooch a while longer, then cleared his throat. “Uh, guys?” The two pulled apart sheepishly. “Sorry,” Holly said. “Forgot you were here.” Story of his life, women forgetting he was standing right in front of them. Hopefully not for much longer, though. “So how is this going to work?” Carson asked, bending down to retrieve the fallen box. He glanced at his girlfriend. “I’m sorry about the plates, sweetheart. We’ll go out and buy some tomorrow, ’kay?” “I’m holding you to that.” With a stern look, she headed for the fridge and grabbed a can of soda. Flicking the tab, she raised the can to her lips, sipped, and then said, “Will and I are going to Hunter Ridge tomorrow. Apparently there’s some fair going on this weekend.

The happiest people are not those who have the best things, but those who retrieve everything that is best from what they have.

Colin’s eyes glittered in response. He moved to her, slipping his arms beneath the blanket to encircle her waist. “I’m glad you like it, love,” he murmured before his mouth descended on hers. “And I second your opinion concerning the rarity and value of Amethyst…” His large hands were warm on her bare back, and he kissed her long and deep, breaking off only when the quilt slid from her shoulders and she pulled away and stooped hurriedly to retrieve it. Colin wrapped it back around her. “Benchley has our dinner waiting. How quickly can you dress? Unless you’d rather have, uh, dessert first?” “Kendra is the one who has dessert first.” Colin chuckled deep in his throat. “That wasn’t what I meant.” He leaned down and kissed her again, sending a tremor through her body. When he pulled back, his eyes bore into hers suggestively. Two hot spots burned on Amy’s cheeks, but nonetheless she murmured, “Oh. Dessert would be nice.” This time, when the blanket fell, she didn’t reach for it. And as he carried her to the bed, she told herself it was impossible for something this perfect to be wrong. She wouldn’t let it be. SIXTY-FIVE Six weeks later

Tonight, with the umite candle burning low, she turned to her favorite entry in the journal and read Patton’s familiar handwriting: Having returned scant hours ago from a singular adventure, I now find myself unable to suppress the urge to impart my thoughts. I have seldom considered whom I intend to read the covert information compiled in this record. Upon the occasions when I have paid heed to the matter, I have vaguely concluded that I was jotting these notations for myself. But I am now aware that these words will reach an audience, and that her name is Kendra Sorenson. Kendra, I find this realization both thrilling and foreboding. You face challenging times. Some of the knowledge I possess could aid you. Regrettably, much of that same knowledge could usher you into unspeakable danger. I keep staging vigorous internal debates in the attempt to discern what information will grant you an advantage over your enemies and what information might further imperil your situation. Much of what I know has the potential to cause more harm than good. Your enemies among the Society of the Evening Star will balk at nothing to obtain the five artifacts that together can open Zzyzx, the great demon prison. At the time I left you, to our knowledge, they had acquired only one artifact, while your able grandfather retained another. I have information about two of the artifacts that you lack, and could probably acquire more knowledge with some effort. And yet I hesitate to share. If you or others try to pursue or guard the artifacts, you might inadvertently lead our enemies to them. Or you could be harmed in the attempt to retrieve them. Conversely, if the Sphinx is in avid pursuit of the artifacts, I am inclined to believe that he will eventually succeed. Under certain circumstances, it would benefit our cause for you to have my knowledge in order to keep the artifacts out of his grasp. Therefore, Kendra, I have elected to rely on your judgment. I will not include the specifics in this journal, for who could resist such temptingly convenient access, regardless of that person’s integrity? But in the hidden chamber beyond the Hall of Dread I will disguise further details regarding the hiding places of two of the artifacts. Unearth that information only if you find it becomes absolutely necessary. Otherwise, do not even mention that such knowledge exists. Use discretion and patience and courage. My hope is that the information will lie dormant for your whole lifetime. If not, information about the location of the hidden chamber awaits elsewhere in this journal. Go to the chamber and use a mirror to find the message on the ceiling. Kendra, I wish I could be there to help you. Your loved ones are strong and capable. Put your trust where it belongs and make smart decisions. Keep that brother of yours in line. I am grateful to have such an exemplary niece. Drumming

When in the throes of our desolation, it is difficult to hope. But when it is time, we walk the corridors of our heart, retrieving the shattered threads of once-believed dreams.

The game is a thread, microscopic in breadth, a hint of gossamer drawing unsuspecting souls together in simple competition to the exclusion of all else, from a mother and her infant playing peekaboo to two old men hunched over a chessboard and everything in between. The game unifies, joining father and son pitching baseballs at night after a long day at the office, pitches pounding the mitt or skipping past, one time even knocking the coffee cup handle clean off and the boy scampering off to retrieve a wild one as the dad sips and ponders. The game allows brothers to bond even when the age gap is too great for real competition, their mutual effort to fashion a bridge between disparate age and ability forming a bond of trust and respect. And finally, it is the game’s presence and past and its memory that inspires each of us to forgive time and aging and their inevitable accompanying attrition because the gray and hobbled old man before me was once lean and powerful and magnificent and some of what became of him was due to the investment he made in me and after all the batting practice he threw and grounders he hit, his shoulder aches and his knees need replacement. Even though youth masks it so you don't realize it all when you’re a kid, someday it happens to you and suddenly you realize you are him and you are left wishing you could go back and tell him what you now know and perhaps thank him for what he gave up. You imagine him back then receiving nothing in return except the knowledge that you would someday understand but he could not hasten that day or that revelation and he abided it all so graciously knowing that your realization might be too late for him. So you console yourself that in the absence of your gratitude he clung to hope and conviction and the future. Turn the page and you find yourself staring out at the new generation and you wince as his pitches bruise your palm and crack your thumb and realize that today the game is growth and achievement and tomorrow it will be love and memories. The game is a gift.

I had painted a lot of landscapes, had stood before many while they burned their remote beauty into my skin, but had never done both at the same time. Don’t know why. I was comfortable painting indoors and I liked best to retrieve those images from memory where they might be stained by awe and jumbled together with other things I loved. Now that I had tried the other, I wanted to do more.

Love must be learned, and learned again; there is no end to it. —KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

This is the spiritual truth contained in the phrase from the Apostles’ Creed: “He descended into hell.” He has come to get us out of prison and out of the tombs. There is no place he would not go to retrieve us. David prayed, “If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there” (Psalm 139:8). Indeed, even when we are hell-bent on running from God and create all manner of hell for ourselves and our loved ones, Jesus goes to the depths with us. He can get us out and bring us home. Even when others open up a can of living hell all over us, when they release the hounds of their madness into our lives, when they empty their evil onto us, Jesus is not daunted nor defeated. He has been to hell and he reigns even there.

For some reason, he was ecstatic to see his brother again. It wasn’t until Mase blurted out something that caught Trigga’s attention, as he reached into the ashtray and retrieved a partially burnt blunt then reared back in the seat and fired it up, that Trigga finally responded. 

You’re a vampire.” Her voice was disbelieving, and she was nodding her head up and down in a way that didn’t look promising. “Fine. Bite me.” Terri held her arm out in challenge, and Bastien frowned. “Terri, I don’t want to bite you,” he said. Then he paused and said more honestly, “Well, actually, I am a pit peckish right at the moment, but I’d rather not—” “Uh-huh. Bite me!” she snapped. “If you’re a vampire, bite me.” Bastien peered at her arm for a minute, then took it in hand, lifted it up, and bit her. “Ouch!” Terri leapt off the couch, retrieving her arm as she went. Bastien had to snap his teeth back double quick to keep from ripping her vein and flesh. “You bit me! You’ve got fangs!” “Now do you believe me?” Clutching her arm to her chest, she began to back away. “Please don’t be afraid of me, Terri. I love you,” he said softly, taking a step after her and holding out his hand in pleading.

When a man fights a crowd to retrieve your missing shoe, and stops everything in motion to bend upon his knee and return it to your foot, you have found your true prince.

For you make me glad by your deeds, Lord; I sing for joy at what your hands have done. —Psalm 92:4 (NIV) My golden retriever, Millie, and I were walking home from the dog park, where Millie socialized for a bit but mostly sat sedately next to me on a bench while I read. At five, Millie doesn’t play as rambunctiously as she once did. She has a few select friends whom she will cavort with, but her inner puppy rarely emerges anymore. Except when we pass Clement Clarke Moore Park, which is teeming with children. There is nothing my dog loves more than kids. She gives me a plaintive look as if to ask, “Can we go inside and have some real fun?” There is a sign, though, that says the park is only for kids and their parents or guardians. No dogs allowed. I gently tug on her leash. She is reluctant to go, dawdling and glancing longingly over her shoulder, her tail drooping. Lord, I wonder, do dogs know that they break our hearts? “Sir? Excuse me, sir?” A woman stood at the park’s gate, pushing a baby in a stroller trailed by two older kids. She waved at me. “Can my kids say hello to your dog?” Before I could answer, Millie was on the move, prancing and pulling me back. First she said hello to the baby, giving it a kiss, her tail flying. Then she bumped up against the older kids, letting them hug and pet her, all the while with an ecstatic look on her face. Finally the woman maneuvered her kids back into the park. “Thanks,” she said, “they really wanted to see a dog today.” Thank You, Lord, for giving us what we need, even a maturing golden retriever whose inner puppy still wants to play. —Edward Grinnan Digging Deeper: Ps 84:11

But grieving with memories is better than nothing without them and the only thing worse than not being alive, is not having anything to remember.

Now it came to pass that Sarah had gone to be with the Lord, so Abraham set her in a cave in Machpelah near Mamre that he had purchased from Ephron the Hittite. Abraham sent his servant to Aram Naharaim to retrieve a wife for Isaac from the house of his brother and he brought back Rebekah the grand daughter of Nahor, Abraham’s brother. When Isaac saw her he married her and was comforted in his mother’s death. Abraham married Ketura and had many sons whom he loved and gave many gifts to but he sent them far away from Isaac to the east. When Abraham died he left everything to Isaac and was laid to rest with his beloved Sarah.

Lass, I know that ye have been searching for the ring so that ye can go home. While, we were away, Arran found it.” “He did?” Shocked, I tried to normalize my expression as he continued.  “Aye,” he paused to retrieve it and held it out to me, eventually setting it in between us when I didn’t reach out for it.  “I almost threw it in the ocean.” “You what?” The pitch of my voice was oddly high and screechy, making me sound angry rather than shocked.  “Aye, lass. I’m verra sorry, but I dinna want to give ye the ring. I know that I canna keep it from ye, but I’d like to ask ye something before I let ye have it.” “Of course.” My heart restarted as hope began to crawl through the fear rooted in my stomach.  “Doona go, lass.” He squeezed my hands tightly in between his own, and I was sure my heart was going to burst with happiness. “I’ve fallen in love with ye, Bri, and I doona wish to be parted from ye. If ye doona love me, I shall give ye the ring, but I could no let ye leave without telling ye.” My voice cracked as I spoke to him, and a tear broke free from my left eye. “No.” He didn’t give me a chance to finish. “I’m so verra sorry for keeping the ring from ye, lass. I just wasna ready to let ye go.” I pried my hands loose and reached up to grab hold of his face. “No, listen. Let me finish.” He stopped talking, pursing his lips awkwardly like a fish, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Its no so funny, lass. Ye’re breaking my heart. I only ask that ye do it swiftly.” “Hush. It is funny. Your face looks ridiculous. I meant, ‘no,’ I’m not mad at you. I had something to tell you tonight as well.” “Aye?” “I was going to tell you that I wanted to stop looking for the ring. I can’t leave here. This is my home now and I’ve fallen in love with everyone. Mary, Kip, Arran, Griffin, even you.” I winked at him before continuing, “Before, I only thought I had to go back because of my mother and Blaire. She deserved the chance to return to her home, but she doesn’t want it. “How do ye know, lass?” “It’s the spell book. We can write messages to one another that cross over through time. My mother knows I’m safe here, and as long as she knows that, she’ll be okay with my decision. And Blaire, she said she wants to stay. That means I’m free, Eoin. I’m free to stay with you. If you’ll have me?” “Have ye, lass? Did ye no just hear what I said to ye? I’ll have ye and ye alone.

If you think I’ll believe anything you have to say from this point forward, Mr. Haverstein, you’re more delusional than I’m giving you credit for. Although, do know that I’m not blaming you for everything. I will take some responsibility for being caught in a compromising situation.” “I’m the one who stole you away from the rehearsal.” “True, you did, but . . .” Lucetta drew herself up. “In hindsight, it was a mistake on my part to accompany you there so readily. You’re obviously not a gentleman I can trust, and that means . . . I expect you to keep your distance from me until I can make arrangements to depart Ravenwood for a safer environment.” With that, she spun on her heel and was out of the dungeon before he could even consider stopping her. “Don’t just stand there, go after her,” Tilda said. “She’s not going to listen to me.” “You’ll have to tell her the truth. Tell her you’re Mr. Grimstone.” “I was about to do just that, but . . . well, matters seemed to get quickly out of hand.” “That’s because Miss Plum thinks you’ve lied to her, sir,” Ernie said. “I have lied to her—I’ve lied to everyone, for that matter, by keeping Mr. Grimstone a secret.” Ernie shifted the shovel to his other shoulder. “Perhaps it’s time for you to make amends for that. I believe your family will be more accepting of having an author in the family than you’ve given them credit for, sir.” “Except for maybe Ruby,” Tilda said, speaking up. “Especially since she was considering tracking Mr. Grimstone down and convincing him he should court her.” “Good thing she’s been showing a bit of interest in Mr. Skukman,” Stanley pointed out from his position on the ground. “That way you won’t be dealing with a sister nursing a broken heart over a love that can never be hers.” Bram’s lips quirked ever so slightly “Yes, thank you for that, Stanley.” Heading for the door, he looked over his shoulder and caught Ernie’s eye. “Will you see Stanley released? I wasn’t able to retrieve the spare key from the kitchen.” “Don’t you give it another thought, sir,” Ernie said with a nod. “And don’t fret over what you need to tell Miss Plum. Just remember what Reverend Gilmore was preaching the last time we were back in the city—the truth shall set you free.” Bram smiled. “A good reminder. Thank you, Ernie.

The Huge Artifice: an interim assessment Enough of this great work has now appeared For sightings to be taken, the ground cleared, Though the main purpose - what it's all about In the thematic sense - remains in doubt. We can be certain, even at this stage, That seriousness adequate to engage Our deepest critical concern is not To be found here. First: what there is of plot Is thin, repetitive, leaning far too much On casual meetings, parties, fights and such, With that excessive use of coincidence Which betrays authorial inexperience. We note, besides these evident signs of haste, A great deal in most questionable taste: Too many sex-scenes, far too many coarse Jokes, most of which have long lost all their force. It might be felt that, after a slow start, Abundance incident made amends for art, But the work's 'greatness' is no more than size, While the shaping mind, and all that implies, Is on a trivial scale, as can be guessed From the brash nature of the views expressed By a figure in an early episode, who Was clearly introduced in order to Act as some kind of author-surrogate, Then hastily killed off - an unfortunate Bid to retrieve a grave strategic lapse. More damaging than any of this, the gaps In sensitivity displayed are vast. Concepts that have not often been surpassed For ignorance or downright nastiness - That the habit of indifference is less Destructive than the embrace of love, that crimes Are paid for never or a thousand times, That the gentle come to grief - all these are forced Into scenes, dialogue, comment, and endorsed By the main action, manifesting there An inhumanity beyond despair. One final point remains: it has been urged That a few characters are not quite submerged In all this rubbish, the they can display Reason, justice and forethought on their day, And that this partly exculpates the mind That was their author. Not at all. We find Many of these in the history of art (So this reviewer feels), who stand apart, Who by no purpose but their own begin To struggle free from a base origin.

He doesn’t say anything, but he points to my guitar and raises his brow. I don’t know what he wants, and he can’t tell me, so I just look at him. I don’t want to acknowledge his presence, but he’s sitting with his knee an inch from mine. When I don’t respond, he puts a hand on my guitar. He points to me and strums at the air like he’s playing a guitar. I realize I’ve stopped playing. But he did put a twenty in my case, so I suppose I owe him. I start to play “I’m Just a Gigolo.” I love that tune, and love playing it. After a minute, his eyebrows draw together, and he points to his lips. I shake my head because I don’t know what he’s asking. Either he wants me to kiss him or I have something on my face. I swipe the back of my hand across my lips. Not that. And the other isn’t going to happen. He shakes his head quickly and retrieves a small dry-erase board from his backpack. Sing, he writes. I have to concentrate really hard to read it, and there are too many distractions here in the tunnel, so I don’t want him to write anymore. I just shake my head. I don’t want to encourage him to keep writing. I could read the word sing, but I can’t read everything. Or anything, sometimes. He holds his hand up to his mouth and spreads his fingers like someone throwing up. I draw my head back, but I keep on playing. Why does he want me to sing? He can’t hear it. But I start to sing softly, anyway. He smiles and nods. And then he laughs when he sees the words of the song on my lips. He shakes his head and motions for me to continue. I forgot he can read lips. I can talk to him, but he can’t talk back.

Wade on in,” he said. “The water’s nice and cool this morning.” “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been spying on you.” “That’s all right.” He couldn’t help grinning. “You’re the prettiest spy I’ve ever seen, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Ada spun away, her cheeks blazing. “I’ll wait for you in front of the church.” “Don’t go.” He jammed his hat onto his head and splashed across the water to the bank. “We should go back. Your aunt will be wondering where we are.” “She knows where to find me.” He slipped his shirt on, retrieved his boots, and sat down on a fallen log to pull them on, trying to think of some way to hold on to her company a little longer. “There’s a pretty little waterfall just upstream there. I’d love for you to see it. It isn’t far.” “I shouldn’t.” She kept her eyes trained on the river. “We shouldn’t even be here. You know how some people love to talk.” He sighed and buttoned his shirt. “I suppose you’re right. Another time, then.

He was more than a dog. He was love that crept in on four paws and remains, as long as memory lasts.

Or we can cast off our fear, gather those things around us that are precious, shedding that which only seeks to hinder us and head out into the world, eyes wide open.

Potty Training Your Puppy Potty training your pup begins on day one. Keep your puppy in sight at all times. Take your puppy outside before and after crate time, after playtime, and after naptime. Contrary to popular belief, your pup doesn’t need to go out directly after feeding and drinking. Keep this in mind! Your puppy also needs to be taken out when he’s walking around sniffing, particularly walls, doors, etc. Whenever your puppy has an accident in the home, take him directly outside, even before cleaning up the mess. You are to only tell him no or punish him if you catch him in the act, otherwise he won’t understand what he’s done wrong, or he’ll think that whatever he was doing at the time is what he’s being punished for, which could be a good thing, like resting in his crate. Never let your pup see you or anyone else clean up his mess. During potty training, outside isn’t for playtime. You should not allow your puppy to run free and roam, play or do anything except potty while he’s outdoors. Be overly excited when your puppy eliminates in the proper space. You don’t have to sue treats. Simply tell your puppy that he’s done well and give him lots of love for 30 seconds. Let him know how happy you are that he’s done what he’s done, and he’ll remember that the more you take him out. If you follow these rules, you should be able to potty train your pup within a couple of weeks. Remember that this involves constant supervision, and never forget to tell your pup how wonderful he is when he follows the rules.

I am in love with you. I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you, but it started before I even saw you. Every move I’ve made since your voice illuminated my token and my whole world has been to retrieve you from your prison so I can have you.

Our users were generally database administrators, and their answers were typically quite specific and technical: “We just want to run a fast query” or “We have to produce a report, so we need to retrieve data from a very large database very quickly.” From those answers, I could assume they viewed our database as one that can quickly execute queries. But when we asked them what they would use if our database didn’t exist, none of them named another database; instead, they suggested business intelligence tools or data warehouses. Understanding the customer’s problem wasn’t enough—to really understand how they perceived our strengths and weaknesses, we needed to understand the alternatives to which they compared us. Customers always group solutions in categories, but talking to them about problems doesn’t necessarily reveal those categories.

Pranav Mishra is a well-rounded individual with diverse interests and hobbies. In addition to his love for data analysis and machine learning, Pranav Mishra enjoys playing cricket and watching the NBA. He is also an avid hiker and spends his weekends exploring the outdoors with his golden retriever, Fluffy. Pranav Mishra enjoys cooking, reading, camping, and playing computer games during his leisure time. He is also a fan of music and loves learning about new cultures through his travels.

This living organism breathed, could roam around the world, see and be seen, and make any mess it wanted. And here Andrei was, pulsing in a field with another pulse. How miraculous that for a short period, the two of them could focus their eyes, turn their heads, lift their limbs, and run straight into the arms of another person. The living were not rocks or wood, incapable of being affected by chance, but rather forces of momentary magic that could digress and collide with anything it chose. Should a human ever feel bored lying atop their bed, they could change reality and within thirty seconds walk outside and strike up a new conversation with another pulse on the street. The living sound an ancient, sacred, temporary hum that is exclusive to them. Once gone, it can never be retrieved. But if there still, it could do anything.

know, Will,” Edmund said. “You needn’t worry. I won’t muck anything up.” He peeled back the duvet, climbed into the bed, and curled himself into a ball. At this, Mrs. Müller appeared in the doorway bearing a load of crisp white linens, patchwork quilts, and hot-water bottles wrapped in knitted cases the same dove gray as the blanket. On top of the teetering pile was a book. As she set her load down on the dressing table, she looked at Edmund. “Lord love you, child.” She went to the bedside, lifted the duvet, and tucked a hot-water bottle at Edmund’s feet. She tested his forehead once again with the palm of her hand. “Perhaps we’ll forgo the clean linens, just for tonight,” she said. “I hate to extract you, Edmund.” “Yes. I mean—thank you,” he murmured. The librarian smiled and looked at William and Anna. “If I had someplace else to put you two, I’d keep you out of the sick room, but short of making up beds on the floor somewhere…” She trailed off. “We’ll be fine,” William said. “Honestly.” Anna nodded in agreement. None of them wanted to be separated, anyhow. “In bed, then,” Mrs. Müller said. “All three of you.” She pulled back the duvet on the other side of the bed and laid down another hot-water bottle. Anna climbed into the middle, and William took his place beside her. The librarian tucked the duvet around the three of them and brushed each one’s cheek with a tenderness that even Edmund found acceptable. She retrieved the book she’d carried in with the linens and handed it to William. “Perhaps you’re all too old for bedtime stories, but what sort of librarian would I be if I didn’t provide you with some reading material?” For a long moment, the children only looked at one another. Mrs. Müller drew the wrong conclusion from their silence. “Oh, dear. You are entirely too old for bedtime stories, aren’t you?” She took a step back. “Not having children of my own, I’m sure to make a mess of these things—” “No,” Anna whispered. “We’re not too old.” Mrs. Müller looked at the boys. “We’re not too old,” William agreed. “Definitely not,” Edmund said, his voice cracking. Perhaps it was his head cold. But probably not. “Well”—the librarian gestured toward the book in William’s hands—“I hope that one will suit you.” “It will,” Anna said. “Good night, then,” the librarian whispered. As she headed for the door, all three children had the same wish. All three children were surprised that it was William who voiced it. “Would you read it to us?

Stage Three: The parent just wants to stay home and may no longer do minor chores like taking out the garbage or retrieving the mail or newspapers. They may skip meals unless someone else prepares them or nap more often. At this stage some may say it takes “too much energy to live.” You might also notice a loss of interest in their family members and their activities.

Infinite consanguinity it bears - This tendered theme of you that light Retrieves from sea plains where the sky Resigns a breast that every wave enthrones; While ribboned water lanes I wind Are laved and scattered with no stroke Wide from your side, whereto this hour The sea lifts, also, reliquary hands. And so, admitted through black swollen gates That must arrest all distance otherwise, - Past whirling pillars and lithe pediments, Light wrestling there incessantly with light, Star kissing star through wave on wave unto Your body rocking! and where death, if shed, Presumes no carnage, but this single change, - Upon the steep floor flung from dawn to dawn The silken skilled transmemberment of song; Permit me voyage, love, into your hands ...

Shameful,' Rhysand purred, and we whirled to find him faintly illuminated by the light that broke in through the doorway. But he stood behind us- father into the passage, rather than toward the door. He hadn't come in through the throne room. With that ability of his, he had probably walked through the walls. 'Just shameful.' He stalked toward us. Tamlin remained holding me. 'Look at what you've done to my pet.' Panting, neither of us said anything. But the air became a cold kiss upon my skin- upon my exposed breasts. 'Amarantha would be greatly aggrieved if she knew her little warrior was dallying with the human help,' Rhysand went on, crossing his arms. 'I wonder how she'd punish you. Or perhaps she'd stay true to habit and punish Lucien. He still has one eye to lose, after all. Maybe she'll put it in a ring, too.' Ever so slowly, Tamlin removed my hands from his body and stepped out of my embrace. 'I'm glad to see you're being reasonable,' Rhysand said, and Tamlin bristled. 'Now, be a clever High Lord and buckle your belt and fix your clothes before you go out there.' Tamlin looked at me, and, to my horror, did as Rhysand instructed. My High Lord never took his eyes off my face as he straightened his tunic and hair, then retrieved and fastened his belt again. The paint on his hands and clothes- paint from me- vanished. 'Enjoy your party,' Rhysand crooned, pointing to the door. Tamlin's green eyes flickered as they continued to stare into mine. He softly said, 'I love you.' Without another glance at Rhysand, he left.

Joe said. ‘He could certainly do the training if you could look after the rest. It’s my experience that you can teach a puppy the rudiments of retrieving without getting out of your armchair.’ ‘Training a spaniel to quest without chasing takes a little more application,’ Mrs Kitts said severely. ‘You’re a lazy devil, Joe. I think that that’s why you stick to Labradors.’ Joe laughed and nearly choked on his food. ‘Anybody who chooses to work with spaniels,’ he said, wiping his eyes, ‘would make love standing up in a hammock, just to make life difficult.

Once, when his father was alive, Langdon had heard his mom begging his father to “stop and smell the roses.” That year, Langdon bought his father a tiny blown-glass rose for Christmas. It was the most beautiful thing Langdon had ever seen . . . the way the sun caught it, throwing a rainbow of colors on the wall. “It’s lovely,” his father had said when he opened it, kissing Robert on the forehead. “Let’s find a safe spot for it.” Then his father had carefully placed the rose on a high dusty shelf in the darkest corner of the living room. A few days later, Langdon got a stool, retrieved the rose, and took it back to the store. His father never noticed it was gone.

she has no one to walk Cujo.” I gasped in horror. “Cujo? I know we live in Stephen King’s home state, but c’mon. What kind of name is that for a dog, given, well, everything Cujo did?” Nan sighed but didn’t turn to face me. “Big talk from someone who named her pet Octo-Cat.

It didn’t symbolize their love,” Courtney said. “It symbolized all the ways that love can go wrong. It was real, then it was not, it was stolen, it was retrieved. Maybe the ring is bad luck.

Endless Love! A beautiful, young, mountain girl who loved the sea, There she always longed to be, She dreamt of someday marrying a mariner, Then there would be just the sea and her sea smelling mariner, Years passed by and she grew prettier, And with every passing year her fondness for the sea grew deeper and deeper, On one sunny summer day, she found her mariner, She loved his smile, his curly hair, she loved him because he was just a mariner, They hugged, they kissed and they smiled, Life seemed perfect, as if exclusively for the two of them styled, They got married in the midst of summer flowers, she and the sea smelling mariner, Then both moved to live their lives together at the sea, the mountain girl and the mariner, In the evening the mariner’s return from work brought with him the sweet smelling sea, It was exactly the way the mountain girl always wanted it to be, The sea, the open skies, the ever moving waves and the lap of the mariner, Where she rested her head and smelled sea on the skin of the weary mariner, Who was never tired of the sea but only sometimes tired at the sea, For everyday it stared at him in million different ways and how he loved to see, The sunset, the sprightly fish and the winding shadows of the toiling mariner, Alas the mountain girl only fancied the sea and its traces in the mariner, And gradually she grew tired of the sea and its every memory, Of the mariner too, because he smelled of the sea and that left the mountain girl less merrier, The mountain girl only fancied what she ought to have loved- the sea and the mariner, For fascinations fade away, but the sea always stayed with the mariner, Now the girl loved to hate the sea, and how she despised it! And with it, the mariner too died at the sea, bit by bit. Everyday bit by bit, For the mariner loved the mountain girl just like the sea - the poor mariner, When he saw her love for the sea and him fading away it silently killed the mariner, The vast sea is still there and so is the majestic mountain, The girl has aged now and brimming with mariner’s love just like a perennial fountain, So every night when the tide is high, the sea silently welcomes the still young but long dead mariner, And his shadow gently descends upon the naked body of the time weary woman - the warm skin kissed by the cold shadow of the mariner, Now she smells just the mariner who infact was the sea and he always wanted to be her vast and beautiful sea, For this is who the mariner was and always wanted to be- the open and the endless sea, Sea of endless love and hope for the mountain girl, Where he would dive deep and retrieve only for her the rarest pearl, For he loved her true and endlessly under the vast sky, Alas the mountain girl took a while to realise that both the sea and the mountain shall always lie under the blue and sometimes dark sky, The dead mariner still loves to spread his shadow over her skin by and by, And silently whisper to her, “I love you more than the sea, the mountains and the never ending sky!

have never had a poodle but I know that they are very special dogs. People who have poodles are crazy about them and often have more than one! My friend Annie loves her two black miniature poodles, Oggi and Pearl. They are so smart and funny and they love to curl up in your lap just like a cat would. And my friend Leda has two golden doodles, Pippa and Pogo. They love to play together. Even though they are only half poodle (the other half is golden retriever), they have to be groomed every ten weeks, just like poodles do. Yours from the Puppy Place, Ellen Miles P.S.

She looked at me. “Are you an American?” “I am.” “I love Americans,” she said. “Do you want to know why?” I did. If only because the number of times a Muslim had asked me if I wanted to know why she loved Americans had just increased by 100% “Because Americans can be many things. Many ethnicities. Many religions. Just like the Kyrgyz people. Because Americans, like Kyrgyz, are free people.” Then she took my hand. “You are looking for Matthew.” “Yes,” I said, I am. “Or I was.” “May God let you find him,” she said. I tried to retrieve my hand, but she was not yet done. Her fingers warmly tightened. “May God straighten your road. May God put the wind at your back. May God allow the rain to come down softly. And May God bring us together again.

Austin smiles at me while Leah argues with Hazel. Now that I know he’s Ezra’s new maybe-special friend, I pay a little more attention to him than I would have before. He kind of reminds me of a golden retriever, with his floppy blond hair and blue eyes. The first time I saw him in acrylics class, I kind of immediately hated the guy. He’s the sort of person the world adores, just based on the way he looks, a little like the way people obsess over men like Chris Hemsworth and Chris Evans and Chris Pine and all the other famous Chrises, plus Ryan Gosling, claiming that they’re liberal and that they aren’t racist and that they’re feminists, but not really thinking about why they’re so obsessed with white men, and why they don’t love any people of color the same way. I love that I have brown skin. I love that I’m queer, and that I’m trans. But sometimes, I can’t help but think how much easier my life would be if I was someone like Austin.

The Recycle Bin can be a treacherous place for programs." He explained to the three as he walked briskly back down the hallway. "One wrong slip at the wrong time and it's virtually impossible to retrieve or restore you.

tossed the mask and snorkel aboard and with surprising ease, pulled his upper body quickly out of the water, allowing his legs to find the rungs.  He reached back and unbuckled each fin, tossing them up and grabbing his towel in the same motion. He retrieved a bottle of orange juice from the small refrigerator and went forward to relax on the trampoline.  Peering at the larger island, he could make out the faint image of a jet ski skirting across the water.  It amazed him how many people loved noise.  Insistent that they need a break from the grind, they travel to a remote area to unwind, only to shop with a thousand other tourists, or zip across the bay on a rocket running at 80 decibels.  He smiled to himself and tipped his orange juice in their direction.  To each his own, he thought.  He should, in fact, be thankful.  If they were not over there, they would probably be here next to him.  With that, he stood up and squinted at the glimmering horizon.  Having to decide what to do every day was just the type of problem he wanted. His body suddenly stiffened.  The sound was extremely faint but unmistakable, and he felt a flutter of grim acceptance before reaching for the binoculars.  He wiped the water from his

When we try to pick and choose what we will be aware of, choosing only from what is lovely and alluring, shunning what is unpleasant and frightening, we simply relegate those things we revile to our subconscious. There they sit and rule us from the Id, the hidden darkness of the disowned shadow-realm of our psyches, without our conscious awareness. Powered by the emotions of our secret hidden fears, they take form in the world around us in shadow governments, black ops and secret societies. We call these “other” than ourselves, but the distinct probability is that they are our own collective unconscious creation, manifest as a quantum mirror for us to look into, to see and to heal ourselves deep inside our own psyches.

Imagine someone with an actual beating heart, who claims to love baseball, looking at a spreadsheet on a computer at a Fifth Avenue Starbucks and deciding that the national pastime in the very places where it truly touches the hearts of that nation might be better off without McCormick Field. Without the next Ron McKee or Gary Saunders. Without James the Mountain Man bracing snakebites to retrieve baseballs. Without the Circuit Rider and the Two-Eyed Redeemer galloping in to save souls before a Sunday-afternoon matinee. Without jazz saxophone national anthems, panty-less miniskirt haircuts atop the home team dugout, and mascot fights. Without a McCormick Field sunset, settling in over the ballpark as fireworks explode overhead and-sure-, why not?-Alabama's "Cheap Seats" reverberating off the trees, the forest, and the honeysuckle vines that line the magnificent little bandbox carved into a nook of the Blue Ridge Mountains. That's the imagery I carry in my head. It's what I see in my mind's eye the very instant someone mentions the Asheville Tourists or McCormick Field. It has been that way every single day of my life since the summer of 1994, and it will be that way until I depart this Earth to be rejoined by Julio the Cat.

We each have a source of love within us called the Self. From this place, we can retrieve our exiles from our inner basements and heal their wounds sufficiently

She retrieved her hand from inside the blankets and brought it to Roma’s cheek. “I wish we had been born as other people,” she whispered. “Born into ordinary lives, untouched by a blood feud.” Roma’s hand came up too, curled loosely around hers to keep her touch remaining upon him. For a long while, he looked at her, taking in her eyes, her mouth, gaze roaming like he had once been starving and this now was a feast. “No,” Roma finally said. “Then we would not have met. Then I would have lived an ordinary life, pining for some great love I would never find, because ordinary things happen to ordinary people, and ordinary people settle for something that satisfies them, never knowing if there would have been greater happiness in another life.” His voice was rough, but it was certain. “I will fight this war to love you, Juliette Cai. I will fight this feud to have you, because it was this feud that gave you to me, twisted as it is, and now I will take you away from it.” Juliette searched his face, searched for any hint of hesitance. Roma didn’t waver. “What pretty words,” she whispered. She tried to play it cool, but she knew Roma could hear her breathlessness. “I mean them all,” Roma replied. “I would engrave them onto stone if that would have you believe me more.” “I believe you.” Juliette finally let herself smile. “But you shall not engrave it onto stone, because I don’t need you to take me away from the feud. I’ll be running by your side.

Whitman began to work on an elegy to describe the meaning of the war. He called it, “Retrievements Out of the Night.” It was perhaps his greatest poem. It was written for all the bruised and broken young men. The poem was saturated with death: Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death. Here were commingled the memories of the dead soldiers and their dead commander—the president. It was a triumph of a poem—written in the thrall of dharma. It was the last great poem of Whitman’s career.

Wade pulled his gaze from hers before he got stuck there again, then retrieved his hat from where it had fallen. He set it on Abigail’s head and looked at her appreciatively. She made one heck of a cowgirl. “You were born to wear that thing.” “A little big.” He gazed at her face, loving the planes and curves that were becoming so familiar. “Fits just right.