Lynn White Quotes

Aunt Mercy put down her tiles, one at a time. I-T-C-H-I-N. Aunt Grace leaned closer to the board, squinting. "Mercy Lynne, you're cheatin' again! What kinda word is that? Use it in a sentence." "I'm itchin' ta have some a that white cake." "That's not how you spell it." At least one of them could spell. Aunt Grace pulled one of the tiles off the board. "There's no T in itchin'." Or not.

A panda walks into a cafe. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air. "Why?" asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife annual and tosses it over his shoulder. "I'm a panda," he says, at the door. "Look it up." The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds an explanation. Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.

Why do people say, "Grow some balls"?  Balls are weak and sensitive.  If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina.  Those things can take a pounding. -Betty White

Marry me. Nay, marriage will cost us precious moments together. Let us make sweet, passionate love right here. Let me bear your children.” A primal growl signaled Miss Lynn getting over her shock at being thus addressed. She lunged forward; Jack deftly rolled off the bench, jumping up out of her reach. “Goodness, I didn’t expect you to be quite this enthusiastic about my advances. If I don’t play hard to get, how will I ever know whether or not you respect me?

Maybe I'll paint you white. Fuck. You'd love that, woudn't you? Have my come all over your body.

What would a mediocre white man do?” she asks.

How do you break into a ship?" "The same way you do a house, only wetter.

No. I came here to see you. I didn’t believe the rumors,but after hearing it on so many continents I had to come andsee for myself.” “See what?” His eyes widened in adulation, his voice taking on areverent tone. “If it was true that Helen of Troy, nay, Aphrodite herself had been reincarnated in gym teacher form.” The room was utterly silent. Except Vicious Redhead’s jaw dropping to the ground with a little plink. Or maybe I imagined that. And then the class did the worst thingpossible: They started giggling. Miss Lynn was going tomurder me.

Miss Lynn came around the corner of the row of lockers,glaring daggers. No, daggers would be too delicate a weapon for her.Glaring sledgehammers was probably more appropriate.

We should have a funeral," he said. Pan held his hands clasped in a tent on his lap, and he bowed his head. He seemed to be trying to recall something, and it was a long time before he finally said, "Our Father. Our Father. Our Father. Amen." Then he leaned back, and his face was blank again. He smiled, all white teeth. "There.

You don't notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theater whom no one notices until she slips out.Then only those near the door themselves, like Grandma Lynn, notice; to the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room. Grandma Lynn died several years later, but I have yet to see her here. I imagine her tying it on in her heaven, drinking mint juleps with Tennessee Williams and Dean Martin. She'll be here in her own sweet time, I'm sure. If I'm to be honest with you, I still sneak away to watch my family sometimes. I can't help it, and sometimes they still think of me. They can't help it.... It was a suprise to everyone when Lindsey found out she was pregnant...My father dreamed that one day he might teach another child to love ships in bottles. He knew there would be both sadness and joy in it; that it would always hold an echo of me. I would like to tell you that it is beautiful here, that I am, and you will one day be, forever safe. But this heaven is not about safety just as, in its graciousness, it isn't about gritty reality. We have fun. We do things that leave humans stumped and grateful, like Buckley's garden coming up one year, all of its crazy jumble of plants blooming all at once. I did that for my mother who, having stayed, found herself facing the yard again. Marvel was what she did at all the flowers and herbs and budding weeds. Marveling was what she mostly did after she came back- at the twists life took. And my parents gave my leftover possessions to the Goodwill, along with Grandma Lynn's things. They kept sharing when they felt me. Being together, thinking and talking about the dead, became a perfectly normal part of their life. And I listened to my brother, Buckley, as he beat the drums. Ray became Dr. Singh... And he had more and more moments that he chose not to disbelieve. Even if surrounding him were the serious surgeons and scientists who ruled over a world of black and white, he maintained this possibility: that the ushering strangers that sometimes appeared to the dying were not the results of strokes, that he had called Ruth by my name, and that he had, indeed, made love to me. If he ever doubted, he called Ruth. Ruth, who graduated from a closet to a closet-sized studio on the Lower East Side. Ruth, who was still trying to find a way to write down whom she saw and what she had experienced. Ruth, who wanted everyone to believe what she knew: that the dead truly talk to us, that in the air between the living, spirits bob and weave and laugh with us. They are the oxygen we breathe. Now I am in the place I call this wide wide Heaven because it includes all my simplest desires but also the most humble and grand. The word my grandfather uses is comfort. So there are cakes and pillows and colors galore, but underneath this more obvious patchwork quilt are places like a quiet room where you can go and hold someone's hand and not have to say anything. Give no story. Make no claim. Where you can live at the edge of your skin for as long as you wish. This wide wide Heaven is about flathead nails and the soft down of new leaves, wide roller coaster rides and escaped marbles that fall then hang then take you somewhere you could never have imagined in your small-heaven dreams.

Silence that is what she strives for, so that she can be invisible.

Penny for your thoughts," she commented as she ran a hand over my dress, smoothing the fabric. "A penny won't buy you much these days," I told Lily as she zipped me. "Thought inflation.

But in the end, black can never be white, one plus one must always equal two, and Mara Lynn was a normal little girl.

So,” Libby said sagely, “chess.” “Chess,” I repeated. “The move—it’s called the Queen’s Gambit. Whoever’s playing white puts that second pawn in a position to be sacrificed, which is why it’s considered a gambit.” “Why would you sacrifice a piece?” Libby asked. I thought about billionaire Tobias Hawthorne, about Toby, about Jameson, Grayson, Xander, and Nash. “To take control of the board,” I said.

Shakespeare calls jealousy yellow and green; I think it may be called black and white for it most assuredly views white as black, and black as white. The most fanciful surmises wear the aspect of truth, the greatest improbabilities appear as consistent realities.

Before one cut a tree, mined a mountain, or dammed a brook, it was important to placate the spirit in charge of that particular situation, and to keep it placated. By destroying pagan animism, Christianity made it possible to exploit nature in a mood of indifference to the feelings of natural objects. Lynn White, Jr.

You followed your heart. That is all I ever wished for both of my children. I'm proud of you ... of your choices for your own lives. I'm happy that they were yours to make. Nothing could give me more satisfaction as your mother. You have what I never dreamed of.

Ouch!" The manicurist who'd just relieved me of part of my cuticle submerged my feet in bubbling water. Hot water. "Oh, hush," Lily said. "It feels good. Beauty is pain." "Pain," I gritted out, "is also pain.

I wasn’t exactly a stranger to feeling like a princess—if you meant the princess in the first half of the fairy tale. Cinderella as a scullery maid. Snow White with the wicked stepmother. But I wasn’t used to what life was like after you meet the prince, after the slipper fits, after the kiss wakes you from your slumber. It would take some getting used to.

Dark hair on a white pillow, an ache inside, his face a reflection in her eye.

Rather than sleeping myself, I practiced. I practiced taking everything I'd seen in the last few days-every horror, every drop of blood-and locking it away, so deep in my mind that I could pretend that nothing had happened. And then I practiced letting it out. This time, I didn't start with a specific memory. I didn't walk myself step by step through a scene. Instead, I built a room inside my head-a tiny room with white walls and no windows and no doors. No way out. In that room, I put the sound of screams, tearing flesh, and heavy breathing, the smell of rancid blood. Everything I'd been holding back, everything threatening to devour me whole was there-in the ceiling of that room, the corners, the floor.

Ain't I been trying to tell you that you can't be holding grudges against people? Didn't you hear me say that? What do you think Jesus is gonna say if we come walking up to those pearly gates carrying a whole sackful of grievances and grudges on our backs? Jesus is gonna ask, What's that you toting on your back? Do you want to be opening that sack and showing Him all those ugly thing? He's dressed all in white and shining like the sun, and you're coming in with a load a hate in your your arms? Umm hmm. I can't imagine doing that.

Cerulean. Or possible sapphire. Less formal than semi-formal. Cocktail?" "Yes, please," I muttered. "Cocktail attire," Lily emphasized, shooting a warning look at me,

There was waiting for the guillotine to fall, and then there was hearing the eek, eek, eek of the blade creaking downward. Campbell being nice was downright terrifying.

You're not the type to natter, are you?" David Ames said in response to my silence. I said the first thing that came to mind. "Kind of a sexist way to describe someone talking." He blinked. "You wouldn't describe your grandsons as nattering," I elaborated.

Como era a risada dela? (...) Era como um pássaro flutuando graciosamente numa brisa de verão, subindo e descendo como as ondas, penteando as pontas das árvores ao passar deslizando. Soava... livre.

Lynn Rosenthal. Rosenthal was the first White House liaison to the Office of Violence Against Women, a position created by the Obama Administration that remains unfilled two years into the Trump Administration

I mean, technically, he wasn’t fired,” Emilia clarified. “He was reassigned. But precision of language has never been the gossip mill’s forte, and I guess anything’s a pretty big step down after the White House.

Whether it’s the Manual that peers down from your bookshelf, or Strunk and White, or the APA style guide, or Fowler, or Lynne Truss, it’s fair to ask why we consider these books authoritative, and if there might not be some better way to assess our writing than through their dicta.

Mackie kneaded his forehead. "Are you sure none of you want to call your parents?" "No, thank you." "Do you know who my father is?' "My stepmother's faking a pregnancy, and she needs her rest." Mackie wasn't touching that with a ten-foot pole. He turned to the last girl, the one who'd successfully picked the lock mere seconds after he'd arrived. "What about you?" he said hopefully. "My biological father literally threatened to kill me if I become inconvenient," the girl said, leaning back against the wall of the jail cell like she wasn't wearing a designer gown. "And if anyone finds out we were arrested, I'm out five hundred thousand dollars.

From what I picked up during the remainder of the evening, Campbell Ames had a reputation for pulling "stunts like this". It wasn't entirely clear what constituted as a stunt, though I did gather that borrowing cars that didn't belong to her and wearing white after Labor Day were both in Campbell's repertoire.

Tell me everything. Did you manage to have any fun? I hope you at least staged a protest in the middle of one of Lillian's formal dinners. Burned a few bras?" "The 1960s called, Mom. They want their signature feminist protest back." "Smart-ass.

You can't be serious." I turned to face Lily. She was standing in the doorway to my room. The expression on her face could not have been more horrified if I'd declared my allegiance to a religious sect that didn't believe in wearing clothes, only snakes.

He turned to me and extended a hand. "Since Lillian seems to have forgotten her manners, I suppose it's up to the two of us to introduce ourselves. I'm David Ames. And you are, young lady?" If my grandmother could have incinerated him with the power of her mind, I think she would have. "Right now," I replied, "I'm someone who is very concerned for your longevity.

Why do people say, "Grow some balls"?  Balls are weak and sensitive.  If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina.  Those things can take a pounding. -Betty White” Excerpt From: Vale, Lani Lynn. “Highway Don't Care (Freebirds).” iBooks. This material may be protected by copyright.

The bright blue sky remained cloudless, and the aquamarine ocean still crashed gently onto the white sand beach, but the scene was suddenly warped. Twisted, as I processed Thad's words.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a person in want of plastic baggies need only look in the Taft family kitchen. Aunt Olivia was the queen of Ziplocs. She'd taken over Lillian's cabinets and had entire drawers dedicated to them - every size, every type, a year's supply of each at least.

You should be more careful. Miss Lynn really doesn't like you." I sighed, pulling out my gym clothes. What school chooses yellow and brown for their colors? Gross. Just,gross. "The feeling is mutual.

Are we still tying bows?" Sadie-Grace sounded hopeful as she sat down beside me at the senator's dining room table. "I only have three things in life that I am truly gifted at, and one of them is tying bows." I shoved the basket I was currently working on in her direction. "Have at it." Sadie-Grace studied my work and got very quiet for a moment. "Sawyer," she said morosely, "what did this cellophane wrap ever do to you?

The late Lynn White, a distinguished historian of science, understood just what scientists mean by truth: “It is not a citadel of certainty to be defended against error; it is a shady spot where one eats lunch before tramping on.”11

Do I even want to know what you're doing in here?" I whirled to face Campbell. "Tampons," I said. Plausible deniability, thy name is feminine hygiene. "I need one." I paused. "Possibly two." Campbell frowned. "Why would you need two?

One lone wolf sat on the other side of the offender, licking his chops. “Yeah, you know we don’t discriminate around here. We like dark meat, white meat, red meat, even yellow meat,” the wolf said, staring up at the bartender. “It’s all good stuff.

Jack fell to his knees on the bench,his eyes rolling back in ecstasy as he clutched both hands to his heart. "Oh, heavens above,to have seen such beauty with my own eyes! It's more than I ever hoped for. But how can I live now, knowing that you're not mine? Please." He crawled forward to the edge of the bench. "Marry me. Nay,marriage will cost us precious moments together. Let us make sweet, passionate love right here.Let me bear your children." A primal growl signaled Miss Lynn getting over her shock at being thus addressed. She lunged forward; Jack deftly rolled off the bench, jumping up out of her reach. "Goodness, I didn't expect you to be quite this enthusiastic about my advances. If I don't play hard to get, how will I ever know whether or not you respect me?" Another growl,this one sounding like "you!" Or prehaps "eew!" because that's certainly how I felt about the whole exchange. Everyone stopped laughing and watched, wide-eyed with horror, unsure whether to stay or distance themselves from the inevitable outcome, which would quite possibly involve jack's dismemberment. I didn't know who to root for.

Sarah Lynn strides out of the stairwell. Lawrence watches her go. The door slushes shut behind her, and he turns to me with a tightened jaw. I want to tell him: No, no, you've got it all wrong. I don't care if you kiss a white girl. I don't care if you love a white girl. I just wish you'd chosen a white girl worthy of your love. Lawrence's Adam's apple jerks up and down, and I realize that in addition to whatever else he's feeling, he's scared. He's in love with the darling of the school, Sarah Lynn Lancaster, ad he's afriad I'll expose his secret. I give a tiny shake of my head, wanting him to know he has nothing to fear, not from me.

On Hana’s island, diving is women’s work. Their bodies suit the cold depths of the ocean better than men’s. They can hold their breath longer, swim deeper, and keep their body temperature warmer, so for centuries, Jeju women have enjoyed a rare independence.

How about I call? We'll do lunch." he blew a kiss toward Miss Lynn's increasingly purple face and jumped off onto the next row. Miss lynn shoved past me, running to block the exit. "Guard the gym door!" she shouted,eyes blazing as she took up her position and waited. And waited. And waited. But jack was long gone,having eluded both Miss lynn and any repercussions for his idiotic actions.

I noticed the valet stand, but didn't think to look for the valet. My frustration with Lily - and the fact that she was still updating the blog over which she was being blackmailed - may have caused me to throw my door open slightly harder than necessary. And then I saw the valet. In my defense, I wasn't used to people opening my car door for me, and he only made a small wheezing sound when it nailed him in the stomach. I stood and reached out to steady him by the arm. "You okay?" The valet's hazel eyes rested on mine. "I'll live.

An angel," I repeated. "Have you met me?" "You, as in the girl who threw herself into the line of fire on my behalf after having known me less than a day?" Lily asked innocently. "Or the one who spends hours discussing zombie-related military tactics with my younger brother?" She paused. "Or maybe the one who can't even let herself be angry that her mother's a piece of work who's been refusing her calls all month?" Ouch. Lily usually didn't go quite so clearly for the jugular.

At least it was gym and there was a little wiggle room. Or so I thought. Miss Lynn,that hideous creature, was waiting outside the door, marking off girls as they came in.

long to taste the honeyed breeze and touch the rubied apple’s flavor—to speak with soft conversing leaves, the songs of sky’s white clouds to savor.

Inside was a small white metal cupboard with a mirror in the door, the kind you see over the basin in old-fashioned bathrooms.

She remembered her father's tears, her mother’s cold, white hand, and the perfect, tiny, porcelain face of her still-born baby brother.

His eyes never wavered, but the sparkle in his eyes told me he was amused by my nervousness. They pretty much said, ‘As well you should be. I’m about to devour you.’ His white

He’s the kind of person who believes all Real Literature has already been written by dead white men.

We were at the White House a couple of weeks ago," the man says, "they had a state dinner for Prince Charles and Camilla. Listen, those royals are just the finest people, no pretensions to them whatsoever. You can talk to Prince Charles about anything." Billy nods. There's a silence. Just in time he asks, "What did you talk about?" "Hunting," the man answers.

Perhaps," Aunt Olivia suggested diplomatically, "you should put on some clothes." Apparently, the tailor had finished getting the measurements she needed. Apparently, that wasn't a particularly recent development. Apparently, I'd been standing there in my undergarments for a while. Only about a third as embarrassed as I should have been, I ducked back into the dressing room.

You're here because you know what it's like to feel powerless. Everyone you see here has been given every privilege that money can buy, but at the end of the day, there are some privileges that money can't buy. Money doesn't keep people from telling girls who look like me to go back to the other side of the border. And no matter what your family name is, or how white your skin, I'm willing to bet that there are still people who tell you to smile, because you look so pretty when you smile." She paused, just for an instant. "we all play by rules our brothers will never even have to know. "You want to know why we go cliff-diving and off-roading and drag you out to abandoned islands in the night?" Victoria's voice was no louder, but her delivery was suddenly crystal clear. "Because we can. Because when people say that well-behaved women rarely make history, they leave out the little tidbit that the women who do make history rarely do so alone.

You just have to dream. You have to dream until your knuckles are bloody from fighting for it and white from holding on to it. It doesn't matter what other people think or say-- what matters is your dream.

I am a haenyeo. Like my mother, and her mother before her, like my sister will be one day, her daughters too - I was never anything but a woman of the sea. Neither you or any man can make me less than that.

Optical Illusion" Time is a stage magician Pulling sleight-of-hand tricks To make you think things go. There Eclipsed by the quick scarf A lifetime of loves. Zip— The child is man. Zip— The friend in your arms Is earth. Zip— The green tree is gold, is white, Is smoking ash, is gone. Zip— Time's trick goes on. All things loved— Now you see them, now you don't. Oh, this world has more Of coming and of going Than I can bear. I guess it's eternity I want, Where all things are And always will be, Where I can hold my loves A little looser, Where finally we realize Time Is the only thing that really dies.

Words are power, her father once told her after reciting one of his political poems. The more words you know, the more powerful you become. That is why the Japanese outlaw our native language. They are limiting our power by limiting our words.

The seamstress looped her measuring tape around my boobs. The sound she made as she wrote down the number was unmistakably a sound of judgement. "We'll build in cups," she offered delicately. "I should think so," Aunt Olivia replied. "You have such a tiny waist," Lily told me soothingly. There was nothing like starting the day off with a three-way conversation about the size of my boobs where no one actually mentioned my chest, but it was strongly implied that one needed a microscope to see it.

He [Logan] wasn't wearing his baseball cap for once, and the day was bright, almost warm, so his face was bathed in a soft glow from the winter sun. Logan's normally shaded eyes looked a much lighter brown in the sun, and they crinkled up at the corners as he gave me an easy smile. Are you deliberately screwing with me, sun? What's next? Is his smile going to sparkle as a bell-like “ding” chimes in the distance? Is a butterfly going to land on his shoulder? Give the boy a white horse and it's a wrap for poor Paige's heart.

In Lynn White Jr.’s study of the stirrup we find a classic example of a technology introduced for a simple reason (to make riding horses easier) leading to vast and complicated consequences never imagined by its inventors (the rise of medieval feudalism). In the second half of the twentieth century, many scholars in the field of the philosophy of technology began to research similar case studies of unintended consequences. Over time, this idea that tools can sometimes drive human behavior became known as technological determinism.

His delicate blue-ish cheeks dusted the softest shade of pink, and he bit that bottom lip again. The backdrop of thick black trees, and grey and white grass made his colors even more vivid. Pink, blue, purple, with big, green eyes. He was a tiny rainbow in a sea of black.

Never had my home seemed more beautiful than in this moment when I was pressing each curve, each stone into my mind. The thousand lanterns illuminated the soil, the silver roof tiles reflected the stars. And on the balcony where I had stared at the world below, there stood a slender figure in white.

Je suis une haenyeo", dit-elle en le foudroyant du regard. Les mots se mettent à sortir, pareils à une confession. "Comme ma mère, comme sa mère avant elle, et comme ma sœur le sera un jour, ainsi que ses filles - je n'ai jamais été rien d'autre qu'une fille de la mer. Ni vous ni aucun homme ne pourrez me l'enlever.

And it feels very similar to rushing a sorority; the planned conversation with the more important sorority sisters, always pretty, usually white, who've already gone through a list of photos and have their favorites pegged and the answers to their questions preloaded. "Oh, no way! You were a cheerleader, too?! So was I! You'll fit in so well in our house!" Meanwhile, we, of source, knew she was a cheerleader because we spent days studying the rushee's photos and applications, and we already knew which ones we'd be attacking. And here I am, in my mid-thirties, re-creating the same behavior to sell a similar promise of a different sisterhood.

What most upset her, was the widespread use of slave labor. ...It is true Republicanism that drives the slaves half fed, and destitute of clothing...to labor...while the owner walks about idle...white men considered idleness a virtue even if they owned only one slave or none. No white man would do work considered too menial for his race.

THE SOUNDTRACK OF WES AND LIZ Someone Like You | Van Morrison Paper Rings | Taylor Swift Lovers | Anna of the North ocean eyes | Billie Eilish Bad Liar | Selena Gomez Public Service Announcement (Interlude) | Jay-Z Up All Night | Mac Miller How Would You Feel (Paean) | Ed Sheeran Hello Operator | The White Stripes Paradise | Bazzi Sabotage | Beastie Boys Feelin’ Alright | Joe Cocker Someone Like You | Adele Monkey Wrench | Foo Fighters Bella Luna | Jason Mraz Forrest Gump | Frank Ocean Electric (feat. Khalid) | Alina Baraz Kiss | Tom Jones Enter Sandman | Metallica Death with Dignity | Sufjan Stevens We Are Young | fun. feat. Janelle Monáe New Year’s Day | Taylor Swift River | Joni Mitchell

In his mind, the only thing you're supposed to feel while reading a book is a sense of superiority. He's the kind of person who believes all Real Literature has already been written by dead white men. If he could, he'd bring Hemingway back to life for one last cocktail, smoke a cigar with Fitzgerald, dissect the nature of human existence with Steinbeck.

I'd like to make you an offer." An offer? I was suddenly reminded of who I was dealing with here. Lillian Taft wasn't a powder puff. She was the merciless, dictatorial matriarch who'd kicked my pregnant mother out of her house at the ripe old age of seventeen. I stalked to the front door and retrieved the Post-it I'd placed next to the doorbell when our house had been hit with door-to-door evangelists two weeks in a row. I turned and offered the hand-written notice to the women who'd raised my mother. Her perfectly manicured fingertips plucked the Post-it from my grasp. "'No soliciting,'" my grandmother read. "Except for Girl Scout cookies," I added helpfully. I'd gotten kicked out of the local Scout troop during my morbid true-crime and facts-about-autopsies phase, but I still had a weakness for Thin Mints. Lillian pursed her lips and amended her previous statement. "'No soliciting except for Girl Scout cookies.'" I saw the precise moment that she registered what I was saying: I wasn't interested in her offer. Whatever she was selling, I wasn't buying.

Even after the war, Eugenia, do you still put people into categories the way you were taught to do—rich and poor, socially acceptable and not, black and white?” “I haven’t placed them there. Life has.” “But people are all the same in God’s eyes, don’t you think? Or do you believe there will be segregated divisions in heaven like the ones we’ve created here on earth?

On the other hand, a white shoemaker wrote in 1848 in the Awl, the newspaper of Lynn shoe factory workers: . . . we are nothing but a standing army that keeps three million of our brethren in bondage. . . . Living under the shade of Bunker Hill monument, demanding in the name of humanity, our right, and withholding those rights from others because their skin is black! Is

I have an idea,” Lia said in an overly innocent tone that I recognized immediately as trouble. “We could always take things to the next level.” She unknotted the white kerchief around her neck and tossed it to me. Her fingers played with the bottom of her tank top, raising it up just enough to make it crystal clear what the “next level” was. “It is my understanding that the rules of strip poker specify that only the loser is required to disrobe,” Sloane interjected. “No one has lost yet, ergo—” “Call it a show of solidarity,” Lia said, inching her shirt up farther. “Cassie’s almost out of chips. I’m just trying to even the playing field.” “Lia.” Dean was not amused. “Come on, Dean,” Lia said, her bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Loosen up. We’re all friends here.” With those words, Lia pulled off her tank top.

What do you think Jesus is gonna say if we come walking up to those pearly gates carrying a whole sackful of grievances and grudges on our backs? Jesus is gonna ask, What’s that you toting there on your back? Do you want to be opening that sack and showing Him all those ugly things? He’s dressed all in white and shining like the sun, and you’re coming in with a load of hate in your arms? Umm hmm. I can’t imagine doing that.

He was just under three inches tall. His blue-black hair, done in a plait and pressed to his head by a colored headband, gleamed in the sun. So did the minuscule muscles of his tiny naked torso, and the skin of his arms. His legs were covered with buckskin leggings, which had some decoration on them too small to see properly. He wore a kind of bandolier across his chest and his belt seemed to be made of several strands of some shiny white beads. Best of all, somehow, were his moccasins.

No woman in reality could ever possess such grace. That’s how I realized it had to be a dream. Her skin was barely lighter than the dark of night and a hood was pulled so far over her head it was impossible to make out whether she had any hair. The whites of her eyes stood out greatly in contrast to her skin, matching the intense purity of the lace parasol hanging over her right arm. Her clothing was iridescent and looked almost like oil as it reflected cloudy rainbows with her movements.

Walker-thinkers have found various ways to accommodate the gifts that their walking brings. Caught paperless on his walks in the Czech enclaves of Iowa, maestro Dvořák scribbles the string quartets that visited his brain on his starched white shirt cuffs (so the legend goes). More proactively, Thomas Hobbes fashioned a walking stick for himself with an inkwell attached, and modern poet Mary Oliver leaves pencils in the trees along her usual pathways, in case a poem descends during her rambles.

Accidentals Something out of place, seen where it doesn’t belong. A surprise on the water like Tundra Swans unexpected and flung far from the Arctic onto a Vermont pond. Me, driving home, seeing all that white with sinewy S-shaped necks out of the corner of my eye. Blessed is an ordinary Wednesday, now etched forever in memory as that Wednesday I went home another way and found myself far flung from work, from home, from whoever I was before black beaks beckoned me while four pairs of wings unfolded.

Ain't I been trying to tell you that you can't be holding grudges against people? Didn't you hear me say that? What do you think Jesus is gonna say if we come walking up to those pearly gates carrying a whole sackful of grievances and grudges on our backs? Jesus is gonna ask, What's that you toting on your back? Do you want to be opening that sack and showing Him all those ugly thing? He's dressed all in white and shining like the sun, and you're coming in with a load a hate in your your arms? Umm hmm. I can't imagine doing that.

So . . ." Campbell took up position next to me. "What's the plan?" She'd kept her voice low, but I still cast a glance at Lily, who was focusing on driving the boat, and Sadie-Grace, who was "helping Lily focus," before I supplied a response. "The plan," I murmured, "is to talk to Victoria again." I'd caught Campbell up on the conversation I'd had with Victoria Gutierrez at The Big Bang. Cam was as invested in finding Ana's baby—her half sibling—as I was. And that meant that she was just as interested in what Victoria had to say. "I didn't actually expect you to answer my question," Campbell murmured beside me. "It was more of a courtesy question, really. You were supposed to ask what my plan was." Having seen one of Campbell's schemes up close and personal, I was almost afraid to ask. "What's your plan?" "Talk to Victoria." She smiled. her teeth a flash of white in the dark. "No offense, but I'm better at talking than you are." "Me too!" Sadie-Grace appeared between us. "I'm so good at talking that sometimes, once I start, I can't even stop!" Neither Campbell nor I had a reply for that.

On Writing Well, by William Zinsser The Elements of Style, by William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White Eats, Shoots & Leaves, by Lynne Truss This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage, by Ann Patchett There are also several podcasts on writing that I like, including these: Grammar Girl Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing Write about Now, with Jonathan Small A Way with Words, with Martha Barnette and Grant Barrett Mad Dogs & Englishmen, with Kevin Williamson and Charles C. W. Cooke (this isn’t a podcast about language, but their command of English is incredible)

Jesus’ harshest words were for the moral guardians of His day - the Pharisees. They wanted to dictate morality too, but Jesus called them hypocrites and white-washed tombs. It isn’t our calling as Christians to write laws that force people to live moral lives. As much as our communities might need them, and as bad as things are, imposing our morality on others isn’t the answer. It doesn’t work. People may be forced to give up alcohol, but they are still going to hell. That’s our calling – to bring people to Christ not to force them to behave the way we want them to or to solve all their external problems.

This extends beyond MLMs, of course, to the white women wellness space. Take a gander at Goop, Gwyneth Paltrow's wellness brand. Celebrities have a knack for convincing women that they can afford the designer lifestyle and all the products that go with it, and it will make their lives better. Goop has made headlines for selling vagina crystals and co-opting controversial doctors (ones who argue that HIV doesn't cause AIDS, for example). Many find that the health benefits of their products don't quite match up to what they sell, and why would they? Goop's goal isn't health - the goal is to make Gwyneth Paltrow richer.

As she looked in the full-length mirror in her dressing room, she added a few ropes of pearls, pinned a white silk camellia, and draped the Chantilly lace shawl. In that moment, Dana thought of fashion's most enduring icon who created this elegant and alluring style, and the happy personal life that eluded her. Mademoiselle Chanel died in 1971 at the age of eighty-eight while working on her spring collection, but her passion for work did not fill the void of marriage and children. Her success was costly, but clearly the choice of an uncompromising woman determined to achieve greatness on her own. She once said, "I never wanted to weigh more heavily on a man than a bird.

Before common or high magick was sealed in a spellring or a cursering, it was considered raw. And raw magick was a tricky thing to find. It could appear at random: in the accidental shattering of a mirror, tucked into the pages of dusty books, dancing in a clover patch the hour after dawn. Nowadays, much of it was mass produced, farmed and bottled like high-fructose corn syrup, sprinkled as a primary ingredient in everything from lipstick to household cleaners. But not so much in Ilvernath, where the old ways stubbornly continued on. Isobel Macaslan examined the raw common magick shimmering white across the graveyard, like glitter caught in rain. People had magick inside them, too. If left uncollected, the wind picked it up and carried it away, where it would later nestle itself into forgotten places.

Tobias emerges from a door hidden behind a length of white cloth. He flicks the cloth out of the way irritably before coming toward us and sitting beside me at the table in the Gathering Place. “Kang is going to meet with a representative of Jeanine Matthews at seven in the morning,” he says. “A representative?” Zeke says. “She’s not going herself?” “Yeah, and stand out in the open where a bunch of angry people with guns can take aim?” Uriah smirks a little. “I’d like to see her try. No, really, I would.” “Is Kang the Brilliant taking a Dauntless escort, at least?” Lynn says. “Yes,” Tobias says. “Some of the older members volunteered. Bud said he would keep his ears open and report back.” I frown at him. How does he know all this information? And why, after two years of avoiding becoming a Dauntless leader at all costs, is he suddenly acting like one? “So I guess the real question is,” says Zeke, folding his hands on the table, “if you were Erudite, what would you say at this meeting?” They all look at me. Expectantly. “What?” I say. “You’re Divergent,” Zeke replies. “So is Tobias.” “Yeah, but he doesn’t have aptitude for Erudite.” “And how do you know I do?” Zeke lifts his shoulder. “Seems likely. Doesn’t it seem likely?” Uriah and Lynn nod. Tobias’s mouth twitches, as if in a smile, but if that’s what it is, he suppresses it. I feel like a stone just dropped into my stomach. “You all have functional brains, last time I checked,” I say. “You can think like the Erudite, too.” “But we don’t have special Divergent brains!” says Marlene. She touches her fingertips to my scalp and squeezes lightly. “Come on, do your magic.” “There’s no such thing as Divergent magic, Mar,” says Lynn.

Like God, you hover above the page staring down on a small town. Outside a window some scenery loafs in a sleepy hammock of pastoral prose and here is a mongrel loping and here is a train approaching the station in three long sentences and here are the people in galoshes waiting. But you know this story about the galoshes is really About Your Life, so, like a diver climbing over the side of a boat and down into the ocean, you climb, sentence by sentence, into this story on this page. You have been expecting yourself as a woman who purrs by in a dress by Patou, and a porter manacled to the luggage, and a man stalking across the page like a black cloud in a bad mood. These are your fellow travelers and you are a face behind or inside these faces, a heartbeat in the volley of these heartbeats, as you choose, out of all the journeys, the journey of a man with a mustache scented faintly with Prince Albert. "He must be a secret sensualist," you think and your awareness drifts to his trench coat, worn, softened, and flabby, a coat with a lobotomy, just as the train pulls into the station. No, you would prefer another stop in a later chapter where the climate is affable and sleek. But the passengers are disembarking, and you did not choose to be in the story of the woman in the white dress which is as cool and evil as a glass of radioactive milk. You did not choose to be in the story of the matron whose bosom is like the prow of a ship and who is launched toward lunch at the Hotel Pierre, or even the story of the dog-on-a-leash, even though this is now your story: the story of the person-who-had-to-take-the-train-and-walk- the-dark-road described hurriedly by someone sitting at the tavern so you could discover it, although you knew all along the road would be there, you, who have been hovering above this page, holding the book in your hands, like God, reading.

A box sat on top of Jade’s pillows, wrapped in green paper with a white bow. He frowned slightly. Who would’ve left a gift on Jade’s bed? “You have a present.” “What?” Jade turned her head when he gestured toward the box. Confusion filled her eyes. She sat up and reached for the box. “I don’t understand.” Zach sat by her again and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Maybe there’s a card.” After searching beneath the large white bow, Jade pulled out a small envelope. Zach looked over her shoulder as she withdrew the card and read it aloud. “‘To Mom and Zach. Have fun tonight. Bre.’” Zach chuckled, both at Breanna’s card and at Jade’s blush. “Your daughter has quite a sense of humor.” “My daughter deserves to be spanked.” She lifted the box onto her lap. “I’m afraid to open it.” “Would you like me to? It’s addressed to both of us.” “I’m even more afraid for you to open it.” “Go ahead. It can’t be that bad.” “You don’t know my daughter.” Untying the bow, Jade raised the lid and pulled apart the bright green tissue paper. Several sex toys lay in the box. She gasped. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe she did this!” She started to push the tissue paper back over the contents, but Zach held her hand to stop her. “Wait. Let’s see what she bought.” “I am going to kill her, after I beat her.” Chuckling, Zach dug through the box, lifting the different items as he came to them. “Cock ring. Chocolate body paint. Stay-hard gel.” He looked into Jade’s eyes. “I don’t think I’ll need that tonight.” Her cheeks turned a deep pink. He dropped a kiss on her lips before beginning to explore again. “Anal beads. Ben-Wa balls. Fur-lined handcuffs. Nipple clamps. Lemon-flavored nipple cream.” His gaze dipped to her breasts. “Interesting.” She huffed out a breath. “Can we close the box now?” “Not yet. I like it when you blush.” Zach grinned when Jade scowled at him. “This is completely spoiling the mood.” “I won’t have any problem getting hard again.” “Zach!” Ignoring her outraged tone, he continued to sift through the items. “Lifelike dildo.” He held it up to eye level. “Close, but not quite as big as I am.” Jade covered her eyes with one hand. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered. “Butt plug. Wait, I’m wrong. It’s a vibrating butt plug. Very interesting. I hope you have batteries. Never mind. Breanna included several packages.” “Okay, that’s enough.” Jade tried to jerk the box out of his reach, but Zach held on to the side. “There’re only a couple more items. We might as well see what they are.” “I don’t care what they are.” “You might care about one of them.” Zach held up a large box of condoms. “Oh.” He turned the box in his hand. “I’m flattered, but I don’t think I’ll be able to use one hundred of these tonight.” “One hundred?” “All different types, sizes, and colors.” Jade laughed. “Oh, Bre.” She pushed her hair behind one ear. “What’s the last thing?” “Cherry-flavored lubricant. It looks like she thought of everything.” “You must think my daughter is crazy.” “I think your daughter loves you very much and wants you to be happy.” “That’s true. But we won’t use all this…stuff.” “Who says we won’t?

Jack fell to his knees on the bench, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy a he clutched both hands to his heart. "Oh, heavens above, to have seen such beauty with my own eyes! It's more than I ever hoped for. But how can I live now, knowing that you're not mine? Please." He crawled forward to the edge of the bench. "Marry me. Nay, marriage will cost is precious moments together. Let us make sweet, passionate love right here. Let me beat your children.

As she looked in the full-length mirror in her dressing room, she added a few ropes of pearls, pinned a white silk camellia, and draped the Chantilly lace shawl. In that moment, Dana thought of fashion's most enduring icon who created this elegant and alluring style, and the happy personal life that eluded her. Mademoiselle Chanel died in 1971 at the age of eighty-eight while working on her spring collection, but her passion for work did not fill the void of marriage and children. Her success was costly, but clearly the choice of an uncompromising woman determined to achieve greatness on her own. Chanel once said, "I never wanted to weigh more heavily on a man than a bird." Quote from "A very Good Life.

...there was the little matter of me talking to people in the hospital that no one else could see. I went for brain scan after brain scan, tried little white pills, big blue pills, yellow pills—I tasted the rainbow when it came to pills—but the doctors couldn't find anything medically wrong with me.

She lifted her hand, slowly folded down her index, ring, and little fingers, then cheerfully flipped him the bird. Someone behind him laughed and he whirled around and bellowed out a curse. Maybe it had meant the same general thing in the Middle Ages. Or maybe it had been the look on her face. Whatever the case, she felt rather vindicated. She lowered her hand and smiled up at Richard, whose expression had darkened even more. His eyebrows had become a single, dark slash across his forehead. His scar was white. Even if she hadn’t seen the blazing fury in his eyes, she would have known by his scar that he was livid.

Lynn wanted to say she was sorry, but she couldn’t seem to speak around the foot in her mouth.

Meanwhile, angered by white violence in the South and inspired by the gigantic June 23 march in Detroit, grassroots people on the streets all over the country had begun talking about marching on Washington. “It scared the white power structure in Washington, D.C. to death,” as Malcolm put it in his “Message to the Grassroots” and in his Autobiography.6 So the White House called in the Big Six national Negro leaders and arranged for them to be given the money to control the march. The result was what Malcolm called the “Farce on Washington” on August 28, 1963. John Lewis, then chairman of SNCC and fresh from the battlefields of Georgia, Mississippi, and Alabama where hundreds of blacks and their white student allies were being beaten and murdered simply for trying to register blacks to vote, was forced to delete references to the revolution and power from his speech and, specifically, to take out the sentence, “We will not wait for the President, the Justice Department nor Congress, but we will take matters into our own hands and create a source of power, outside of any national structure, that could and would assure us a victory.” Marchers were instructed to carry only official signs and to sing only one song, “We Shall Overcome.” As a result, many rank-and-file SNCC militants refused to participate.7 Meanwhile, conscious of the tensions that were developing around preparations for the march on Washington and in order to provide a national rallying point for the independent black movement, Conrad Lynn and William Worthy, veterans in the struggle and old friends of ours, issued a call on the day of the march for an all-black Freedom Now Party. Lynn, a militant civil rights and civil liberties lawyer, had participated in the first Freedom Ride from Richmond, Virginia, to Memphis, Tennessee, in 1947 and was one of Robert Williams’s attorneys.8 Worthy, a Baltimore Afro-American reporter and a 1936–37 Nieman Fellow, had distinguished himself by his courageous actions in defense of freedom of the press, including spending forty-one days in the Peoples Republic of China in 1957 in defiance of the U.S. travel ban (for which his passport was lifted) and traveling to Cuba without a passport following the Bay of Pigs invasion in order to help produce a documentary. The prospect of a black independent party terrified the Democratic Party. Following the call for the Freedom Now Party, Kennedy twice told the press that a political division between whites and blacks would be “fatal.

Lord August Godwine was an odious man. Stretched around the barrel of fat was an ornate golden doublet. He wore a bright-white, linen ruff with drip marks running down its curves, and ill-fitting breeches. Atop his head sat a long, brown wig, no doubt hiding the old man’s baldness. A vertical rows of curls stood in direct opposition to the gray of his scraggily, upturned mustache.

The crinkly paper stuck to my legs. I picked up my leg, peeled the paper off, and set my leg back down. The tissue paper stuck to it again. I hated doctors’ offices. I hated the dignity-thieving gowns, the lack of good reading material, the stark whiteness and blindingly bright lighting. I hated waiting to get into a room, only to wait to see the doctor and then wait as he or she found excuses to leave. I hated that the air conditioning, no matter what time of year, was kept at fifty-eight degrees. I hated needing to be at a doctor’s office, which meant being trapped in a body going haywire. Most of all, I hated the tissue paper. No

Herd. Star whipped around and faced Morningleaf, cutting her off. She dodged him, stubbing her hoof, and tumbled across the grass, nickering happily. Morningleaf sat up and shook a flower petal off her head. “You two will be Snow Herd raiders,” she said, pointing her wing at Star and Bumblewind. “Try to catch us. Come on, Echofrost.” Echofrost cantered up beside Morningleaf, flicking Star with her white tail. “Hey!” he nickered and chased her, Bumblewind galloping beside him. “Notice how they made us Snow Herd steeds, the worst fliers in Anok,” Bumblewind huffed. “So if we catch them, they’ll say we’re cheating.” “But we’re bigger and stronger,” Star said, running faster, his heart thrumming in his chest. He felt like a regular pegasus colt when he