M Elliot Quotes

Krista asks,"What is it about society that disappoints you so much?" Elliot thinks, "Oh I don't know, is it that we collectively thought Steve Jobs was a great man even when we knew he made billions off the backs of children? Or maybe it's that it feels like all our heroes are counterfeit; the world itself's just one big hoax. Spamming each other with our burning commentary of bullshit masquerading as insight, our social media faking as intimacy. Or is it that we voted for this? Not with our rigged elections, but with our things, our property, our money. I'm not saying anything new. We all know why we do this, not because Hunger Games books makes us happy but because we wanna be sedated. Because it's painful not to pretend, because we're cowards. Fuck Society." "Mr. Robot" season 1 episode 1, 'ohellofriend.mov

I can wait in silence no longer, but I’m afraid I’m already too late. I am trapped between agony and hope—believing I have no right to speak, but knowing more how much I’d regret it if I did not. Tell me I’m not wrong. Tell me that, this time, you will accept my offer. Because I’m making it again. I want you with me, Elliot. It’s all I have ever wanted. I offer you everything I have—my world, my ship, my self—perhaps they will be enough to replace what I know you would be giving up if you came with me.

(Matty) 'I'm going to a corn maze.' (Elliot) 'Oh, bitch. You've lost your ever-loving mind.

Only people who have been discriminated against can really know how much it hurts. Each person feels the pain in his own way, each has his own scars. So I think I'm as concerned about fairness and justice as anybody. But what disgusts me even more are people who have no imagination. The kind T. S. Elliot calls 'hollow men'. People who fill up that lack of imagination with heartless bits of straw, not even aware of what they're doing. Callous people who throw a lot of empty words at you, trying to force you to do what you don't want to.

Whatever is in the cup that God is offering to me, whether it be pain and sorrow and suffering and grief along with the many more joys, I’m willing to take it because I trust Him.

Good evening officers, how can we help you?’ The officer said ‘Are you Mr Elliot Saphan, sir?’ ‘I’m his father. What has he done?

They were so comfy. But not anymore. Now I just want to burn them.” “Want to burn what?” Tom says, trudging into the kitchen, his hair all messy from sleeping. “Her unicorn knickers,” Elliot says. “OK, clearly I’m still asleep and dreaming,” Tom says, slumping down in a chair. “So you’re not actually naked in this video?” Dad says. “Yep, definitely still dreaming.

I'm not saying this to upset you. I'm trying to tell you what you absolutely have to do. What if we were both dead?' asked Luke. Elliot looked at his pudding and was very sad about his life and his choices. How had he wound up here, in a place where all he had was pudding - Elliot would have sold his soul for a chocolate bar - and awful people who at the age of thirteen asked questions like 'What if we were both dead.

You were light and life. You are heat, and I’m so damn cold.

Very often (nearly always, I'm afraid) when I come to church my feelings are uppermost in my mind. This is natural. We are human, we are "selves," and it takes no effort at all to feel. But worship is not feeling. Worship is not an experience. Worship is an act, and this takes discipline. We are to worship "in spirit and in truth." Never mind about the feelings. We are to worship in spite of them. Finding myself scattered in all directions and in need of corralling like so many skittish calves, I kneel before the service begins and ask to be delivered from a vague preoccupation with myself and my own concerns and to be turned, during this short hour, to God.

Oh, poor, poor fellow!' said Mrs. Elliot with a remorse that was sincere, though her congratulations would not have been.

I’m clinging to one last thought: pain is the harbinger of hope. You have to be alive to feel pain. If you are alive, then you have purpose. If you have purpose, then you have hope.

Is that what God does? He helps? Tell me, why didn't God help my innocent friend who died for no reason while the guilty ran free? Okay. Fine. Forget the one offs. How about the countless wars declared in his name? Okay. Fine. Let's skip the random, meaningless murder for a second, shall we? How about the racist, sexist, phobia soup we've all been drowning in because of him? And I'm not just talking about Jesus. I'm talking about all organized religion. Exclusive groups created to manage control. A dealer getting people hooked on the drug of hope. His followers, nothing but addicts who want their hit of bullshit to keep their dopamine of ignorance. Addicts. Afraid to believe the truth. That there's no order. There's no power. That all religions are just metastasizing mind worms, meant to divide us so it's easier to rule us by the charlatans that wanna run us. All we are to them are paying fanboys of their poorly-written sci-fi franchise. If I don't listen to my imaginary friend, why the fuck should I listen to yours? People think their worship's some key to happiness. That's just how he owns you. Even I'm not crazy enough to believe that distortion of reality. So fuck God. He's not a good enough scapegoat for me.

[Stephanie] "This won't be so bad," I said to her, making an effort at convincing myself. "How about your blanket? We could wrap him up in the blanket. Then we could pick him up without actually touching him." "I suppose that'd be all right," Lula said. "We could give it a try" I spread the blanket on the ground beside Elliot Harp, took a deep breath, hooked my fingers around his belt and rolled him onto the blanket. I jumped back, squeezed my eyes closed tight and exhaled. No matter how much violent death I saw, I would never get used to it. "I'm gonna definitely have the runs," Lula said. "I can feel it coming on." "Forget about the runs and help me with this body!" Lula grabbed hold of the head end of the blanket, and I grabbed hold of the foot end. Harp had full rigor and wouldn't bend, so we put him in the trunk headfirst with his legs sticking out. We carefully closed the lid on Harp's knees and secured the lid with a piece of rope Lula had in her trunk. "Hold on," Lula said, pulling a red flowered scarf from her coat pocket, tying the scarf on Harp's foot like a flag. "Don't want to get a ticket. I hear the police are real picky about having things sticking out of your trunk." Especially dead guys.

She's a Sophomore. Her name is Autumn Elliot. What the hell kind of name is Autumn? Why don't they just call her Fall or The Depressing Season Where Everything Starts to Die" "It's a pretty name Chloe." "Fine," she huffed. "But getting your freak on in a public bathroom? Who does that?" "Um, Chloe..." "Okay, fine. I've done that." She flicked her hair over her shoulder. "Jesus, Lisa, help me out here. I'm trying to console you, but you're making it difficult.

I don't know you very well, and i'm almost afraid to know you better. Maybe i love you because i don't know you. Maybe if i knew what you were really like and what you wanted out of life and what you think is important, I wouldn't care for you at all and that would be the end of this.

I’m convinced that there are a good many things in this life that we really can’t do anything about, but that God wants us to do something with.

I'm going to lie down. Please wake me up in a couple of don't.

She's my north star. The shining light I look to when I don't know where I am. And I'm losing her. I'm losing you, and I don't know how to let you go.

We fundamentalists are a pack of mood-loving showoffs. I'm sure the Minor Prophets would have found subject for correction.

...I'm old school. I prefer to air my grievances out of a window instead of on Twitter" -Elliot

Holy swoon-gate!' Elliot exclaims when I finally get to the end of my tale. 'If that's what Brooklyn boys are like I'm emigrating as soon as possible!

I saw Elliot Petropoulos yesterday for the time in almost exactly eleven years and I realized that I'm still in love with him and probably always will be.

What’s your favorite word?” Startled, I looked up at him, unsure I’d heard him right. “My favorite word?” He nodded, slipping his glasses up his nose with a quick, practiced scrunch of his face that made him look angry and then surprised within a single second. “You have seven boxes of books up here. A wild guess tells me you like words.” I suppose I had never thought about having a favorite word, but now that he asked, I kind of liked the idea. I let my eyes lose focus as I thought. “Ranunculus,” I said after a moment. “What?” “Ranunculus. It’s a kind of flower. It’s such a weird word but the flowers are so pretty, I like how unexpected that is.” They were my Mom’s favorite, I didn’t say. “That’s a pretty girly answer.” “Well, I am a girl.” He kept his eyes on his feet but I knew I wasn’t imagining the gleam of interest I’d seen when I said ranunculus. I bet he had expected me to say unicorn or daisy or vampire. “What about you? What’s your favorite word? I bet it’s tungsten. Or, like, amphibian.” He quirked a smile, answering, “Regurgitate.” Scrunching my nose, I stared at him. “That is a gross word.” This made him smile even wider. “I like the hard consonant sounds in it. It kinda sounds like exactly what it means.” “An onomatopoeia?” I half expected trumpets to blast revelatory music from an invisible speaker in the wall from the way Elliot stared at me, lips parted and glasses slowly sliding down his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know. You don’t have to look so surprised that I know some big words.” “I never thought you were an idiot,” he said quietly, looking toward the box and pulling out another book to hand to me. For a long time after we returned to our slow, inefficient method of unpacking the books, I could feel him looking up and watching me, tiny flashes of stolen glances. I pretended I didn’t notice.

The kindnesses … I never forget them. And so they keep one from becoming bitter. They encourage you to be as strong, as volatile as necessary to make a well world. Those people who gave me so much, and still give me so much, have a passion about them. And they encourage the passion in me. I’m very blessed that I have a healthy temper. I can become quite angry and burning in anger, but I have never been bitter. Bitterness is a corrosive, terrible acid. It just eats you and makes you sick.

Elliot thinks I’m pansexual. Although, I feel totally fucking straight when I’m with you.

I’m fine.” The biggest lie ever uttered by every woman.

The point I’m making is that hate never dies,” Ava continued. “It can go dormant and seem to disappear when it’s actually hiding and evolving, passed from generation to generation.

You, me, Jason, and Leo. And Agathi, of course … I’m not sure if I’ll ask Elliot—he’s been annoying me lately. Well, what do you say?

You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right

J.D.: Elliot, I'm thirty years old; I'm single, I'm homeless, and I'm pretty sure I just soiled myself. Elliot: Why don't you just move into my place? J.D.: Oh, great, then we'll be two losers under one roof.

From the very beginning, no matter where Elliot was or what they were doing, Danny's gaze instinctively sought him out. It was like everything else was boring shades of gray, and Elliot was a solar flare, bright and burning.

I’m glad there are organizations like Dale Murphy’s I Won’t Cheat Foundation. I’m glad there are athletes with standards and morals who kids can look up to and learn from. I’m glad that for every bad example my nephew sees today on ESPN that I can share with him stories about truly heroic ballplayers like Cal Ripken, Jr. or Dale Murphy or Kirby Puckett.

The last two days I’ve been on long bus rides, driven through the countryside on the back of a motorbike, and crossed rivers on wooden boats, traversing currents into a different century. It’s late and dark, but I’m so close now. My uncle died five kilometers from here.

You stirred things up here." he finally said. "Why?" "I'm not the one who-" "You've angered the Sanguinati, and that's not going to help us right now." "You don't know what's been going on here,' Elliot snapped. "what that monkey-fuck female has done." "She's not a monkey-fuck, and she is not prey," Simon said, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "She is Meg." "You don't know what she's done!" "She gets mail and deliveries to the complexes on a regular basis. She has a routine with the deliverymen, so we get the merchandise we bought. And she got Sam out of the damn cage!" "She put a him on a leash, Simon. On a leash!" "It's not a leash," a young, scratchy voice shouted. Of tried to shout. "It's a safety line. Adventure buddies use a safety line so they can help each other." Elliot stared, frozen. Simon turned, barely breathing.

Well it seems to me that there are books that tell stories, and then there are books that tell truths...," I began. "Go on," she said "The first kind, they show you life like you want it to be. With villains getting what they deserve and the hero seeing what a fool he's been and marrying the heroine and happy ending and all that. Like Sense and Sensibility or Persuasion. But the second kind, they show you life more like it is. Like in Huckleberry Finn where Huck's pa is a no-good drunk and Jim suffers so. The first kind makes you cheerful and contented, but the second kind shakes you up." "People like happy ending, Mattie. They don't want to be shaken up." "I guess not, ma'am. It's just that there are no Captain Wentworths, are there? But there are plenty of Pap Finns. And things go well for Anne Elliot in the end, but they don't go well for most people." My voice trembled as I spoke, as it did whenever I was angry. "I feel let down sometimes. The people in the books-the heroes- they're always so...heroic. And I try to be, but..." "...you're not," Lou said, licking deviled ham off her fingers. "...no, I'm not. People in books are good and noble and unselfish, and people aren't that way... and I feel, well... hornswoggled sometimes. By Jane Austen and Charles Dickens and Louisa May Alcott. Why do writers make things sugary when life isn't that way?" I asked too loudly. "Why don't they tell the truth? Why don't they tell how a pigpen looks after the sow's eaten her children? Or how it is for a girl when her baby won't come out? Or that cancer has a smell to it? All those books, Miss Wilcox," I said, pointing at a pile of them," and I bet not one of them will tell you what cancer smells like. I can, though. It stinks. Like meat gone bad and dirty clothes and bog water all mixed together. Why doesn't anyone tell you that?" No one spoke for a few seconds. I could hear the clock ticking and the sound of my own breathing. Then Lou quietly said, "Cripes, Mattie. You oughtn't to talk like that." I realized then that Miss Wilcox had stopped smiling. Her eyes were fixed om me, and I was certain she'd decided I was morbid and dispiriting like Miss Parrish had said and that I should leave then and there. "I'm sorry, Miss Wilcox," I said, looking at the floor. "I don't mean to be coarse. I just... I don't know why I should care what happens to people in a drawing room in London or Paris or anywhere else when no one in those places cares what happens to people in Eagle Bay." Miss Wilcox's eyes were still fixed on me, only now they were shiny. Like they were the day I got my letter from Barnard. "Make them care, Mattie," she said softly. "And don't you ever be sorry.

Hours may have passed before I heard a throat clear behind us, saw Dad appear. His frame blocked out the sun, casting a cool shadow over where we lay. I registered only once he was there that I had slowly shifted so I was lying with my head on Elliot’s stomach, in our secluded stretch of sand. I pushed to sit up, awkwardly. “What are you guys doing?” “Nothing,” we said in unison. I could hear immediately how guilty our joined answer made us sound. “Really?” Dad asked. “Really,” I answered, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. He and Elliot were having some kind of male Windtalker exchange that included prolonged eye contact, throat clearing, and probably some mysterious form of direct communication between their Y chromosomes. “We were just reading,” Elliot said finally, his voice shifting deeper midway through the sentence. I’m not sure if this sign of his impending manliness was reassuring or damning as far as my dad was concerned. “Seriously, Dad,” I said. His eyes flickered to mine. “Okay.” Finally he seemed to relax and squatted down next to me. “What are you reading?” “A Wrinkle in Time.” “Again?” “It’s so good.

We’ve never been closer, and her willingness to change and grow and move through the discomfort has been powerful and inspiring. She’s become my ally. She loves her son endlessly. I’m lucky to have that, to feel such profound and genuine love. What was the most beautiful and meaningful was to watch her bloom as her old narratives and doctrines faded.

I don't pray when I'm in the mood anymore then I wash dishes when I'm in the mood. Pray 'til you feel like praying.

Because of what I do remember, I'm heartbroken, and what I don't, I never want to

Elliot grinned. ‘I’m one of the founding partners of Stryker, West, Dwyer, Coffey, and Nichols.

As a trans person and a public one, the sensation is that I'm always pleading for people to believe me, which I imagine most trans people relate to. Tired of the wink and nod.

I’m in my classroom and I’m looking at this girl, but all I can see is my dad on the ground, in front of The Wall, telling the truth, finally—his knees drawn and his chest heaving—and when people pass by they look the other way, except for this one lady who stops to give my dad a hug. She gets down on her knees to reach him, and now she’s crying with a stranger, and without asking I know it’s because she’s lost something, too, and I wonder if in comforting my dad she thinks she can find it again. Probably not. It doesn’t work that way.

No, but I am,’ Elliot says, quick as a flash. ‘That’s why I need Penny’s help.’ ‘Oh.’ Dad frowns and scratches his head. He doesn’t look convinced at all. ‘Well, when you’ve sorted your French crisis, come down and have some breakfast. I’m making eggs over easy,’ he says in an American accent, ‘and we need to talk about New York.’ ‘Will do,’ I call over my shoulder as Elliot and I race up the second flight of stairs. As soon as we’re in my room, I shut the door tight. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Elliot says. ‘I was too embarrassed.’ I sink down on to

If you try to find your worth in others, Elliot, you’ll come up short every single time. Your worth is in you. It’s in the things you do when nobody is around. It’s in how you treat those who have less than you. It’s putting others before yourself and the goals you had planned out. The man I’m looking at has far more worth than most, and I’ve been all over the world and encountered all kinds of men.

I’m sure the driver was a great guy and all he wanted was to drive me to my hotel—but he was a complete stranger to me and the truth is that being vigilant isn’t a part-time job, it’s not about being nice to people, it’s about reality. I made a terrible mistake once, believing the monsters that want to hurt us are easily labeled and identified, rather than walking and hiding amongst us. That’s my reality.

I’m not sure I ever met an American teacher in Korea that hadn’t volunteered at an orphanage at least once—even our resident idiot could be surprisingly decent on occasion—but I’ve also visited foreign countries where children are taught hatred. I’ve seen it up close and personal. It’s antithetical to everything I believe in as a teacher. The mandate for all teachers is to instill hope, not fear and hatred.

What was it like to spend your whole day in rooms stuffed with thirty elementary school students and then have to come home, make dinner, and judge your kid’s fake diving competition? She’d been on her feet all day and now was crouched on the cold tile floor, I’m sure desperate for a comfy seat, warm food, and a cold beer, none of which were going to magically appear before her. These are important moments to remember. They aren’t small.

Much of the control exerted by the caregiver is accomplished through being indirect, such as implying expectations. The caregiver may tell the child what the child feels and thinks, particularly when he or she is upset or angry. "You don't really feel that way, do you?" is a phrase heard often in the families of people with a compressed structure. Statements like, "You want to play the piano for Aunt Martha, don't you?" are used to get the child to do what the caregiver wants without directly asking the child what he wants or not leaving the child any room to say no. The caregiver may act in a way that assumes the child feels as the caregiver feels, as if the child were an extension of the caregiver, by saying, for example, "I'm cold, put on your sweater." Children growing up in this situation become so well attuned to the feelings and will of the caregiver that the caregiver may eventually need only to shiver a little for the child to go to get a sweater for both of them.

Billie and I are gonna be a thing. Didn’t you know?” “Does she know?” Elliot shakes his head at me. “Billie Scott is not your girl, Caden,” Ethan says as if I’m the craziest fucker on the planet. “Yeah, well, not right now,” I fight back. “These things take time.

I thought, Dad. Could I go to Vietnam for you? Dad, I could do it. I could do it for you. I could go to the places you fought. I could find the bits and pieces of your heart and soul left behind. If I bring them back, would it heal your pain? Dad, you gave me life. You made possible every good thing in my life. Why do you insist on fighting your nightmares and memories and monsters alone? You don’t have to do it alone, Dad. I could help you fight. Dad, you know what? I’ll be back before you find out so you don’t have to be afraid. I’m going to Vietnam.

The truth is, in many ways, my narrative is still unfolding. I have been on testosterone for over a year now. Every Friday I wake up excited yet content, a new sense of calm in my life. I inject myself with forty milligrams of T, I’m changing, I’m growing, it’s all just beginning.

And, to put it bluntly, I was codependent. Only now am I finally moving away from that. Better boundaries, less fearful, more openhearted. Stronger, with a burgeoning confidence I did not possess before. Reminders and lessons emerge from our most painful moments, ones I’m sure I will forget and have to remember again. But

Sully’s heart jammed into his throat as his body caught up to the words that had escaped his mouth. His face got hot and tight, but it was worth it when Elliot’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile even if he couldn’t quite get there. “Keeping me safe?” Elliot asked, a glimmer of his playfulness peeking out. “Got it in one.

My keys are always in my pocket, that is what I tell myself,” explained Drew. “If I’m not sure, if I’m hesitant and scared, I simply remind myself that I have my keys in my pocket and I can leave at any point. You can just leave.” A pretty straightforward suggestion, but one I had not considered. To this day, I will say this to myself, and it still helps.

Oh Angus,” she moaned. “Can’t you just use your…you know…your powers to clean this up?” Angus was walking to the kitchen, wiping his face with a napkin. He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” he asked. “‘Mess: Clean yourself up!’ ‘Floor, sweep yourself and be quick about it! Anne Commands!’ No, Darling, I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that! Not like that at all!

Come on, I’ll take you home,” he murmurs. “I need to tell Kate.” Holy Moses, I’m in his arms again. “My brother can tell her.” “What?” “My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh.” “Oh?” I don’t understand. “He was with me when you phoned.” “In Seattle?” I’m confused. “No, I’m staying at the Heathman.” Still? Why? “How did you find me?” “I tracked your cell phone Anastasia.

Clarissa Harlowe is a larger form than all the heroines of the Protestant will descended from her: Jane Austen’s Elizabeth Bennet, Emma Woodhouse, Anne Elliot; Hawthorne’s Hester Prynne; George Eliot’s Dorothea Brooke; Thomas Hardy’s Sue Bridehead; Henry James’s Isabel Archer, Milly Theale; D. H. Lawrence’s Ursula Brangwen; E. M. Forster’s Margaret Schlegel; and Virginia Woolf’s Lily Briscoe.

On the TV and in the newspapers all we hear and read is 'live your life or the terrorists win' and it sounds great, I’m all for that, except my kids won’t ask for a bathroom pass because the faculty facilities are on the first floor of the building and the MPs patrolling the second floor won’t go downstairs on their shift—so I’ve got middle school kids afraid to take a piss because there might be a soldier in the stall next to them carrying a loaded M- 16—but hell yes, I’m all for 'live your life' and screw the terrorists, and screw all the countries who harbor and support them. I’m on board with that, except I’ve got these kids who stay home now, because they’re scared riding a bus with soldiers carrying guns, knowing that one soldier isn’t enough, so there’s a military truck full of soldiers with even bigger guns following the bus 'just in case.

Around them, the noise of the search continued, but Elliot’s attention was recaptured by Warren’s shadowed gaze, full of adrenaline and edged with lust as he tipped his head up, lips parting in invitation. A jolt of shocked arousal heated Elliot as Warren slid his hardening prick against Elliot’s thigh. He barely held back a groan as he ducked his head to kiss Warren, against his better judgement. The pressure and yield of Warren’s soft mouth was both pleasure and temptation; he couldn’t resist dipping his tongue inside, clutching Warren’s hips and dragging his body closer. This was the worst time, the worst place, and still Elliot couldn’t help himself. Need and desire had him in their implacable grasp, and Elliot had no intention of fighting when it was so much easier to give into the stroke of Warren’s tongue, the gentle pressure of his teeth against Elliot’s bottom lip.

Son of a bitch! I own your place! I’m your host. Is this how you repay me? By stealing my woman?” The spirit stopped and turned. “No one owns me,” he said. “I go where I will.” “Yeah well I’ll fill in your fucking pond and build a goddamned parking lot! How would you like that? Huh? I‘ll build condos. I’ll tear up the whole damned forest and pave it over!” The spirit stopped and regarded him. Angus swept the rain from his face as he waited for the spirit’s reply, the two of them hovering in the storm.

It is not as easy to forgive my father. I’m going to come to Toronto and kick your ass. When his kid needed safety, when his kid needed love, when his kid needed protection, he threatened violence. Outraged because I had the audacity to communicate with an older man on the internet when I was a minor. If I didn’t deserve care in that moment, if I didn’t deserve safety and love, when would I ever? That sentence has lived in my body much longer than the man’s threats, his obsession, his fingers fondling my arm.

I have experience all kinds of discrimination, Oshima says. Only people have been discriminated against can really know how much it hurts. Each person feels the pain in his own way, each has its own scars. So I think I’m as concerned about fairness and justice as anybody. But what disgusts me even more are people who have no imagination. The kind T.S Elliot calls hollow men. People who fill up that lack of imagination with heartless bits of straw, not even aware of what they’re doing. Callous people who throw a lot of empty words at you, trying to force you to do what you don’t want to. - Oshima

At Rachel's instruction, the monkey briefly looked to his mistress, then looked back at Elliot and raised his hand. "Hey." "That's not the way, Haley. That's how you greet people we're close to." Realizing his mistake, Haley got up, pointed out his butt toward Elliot, and slapped it. " Get lost, okay?" "That's not right either, now is it? Look closely before you greet him." Haley scrutinized Elliot. Then he thrust his thumbs into his ears, fanned out his wriggling fingers, and stuck out his wagging tongue. "Dummy, dummy." "I'm sorry, Your Highness", Rachel apologized. "He's having trouble learning tricks, it seems.

Elliot opens the gate to the top paddock and leads him in. “You are now grounded to the top paddock.” “Bahahaha,” Billy bleats. “Seeing that you can’t be trusted.” Oh my lord, this is priceless. Tough guy Elliot Miles grounding his goat. He undoes the rope around Billy’s neck. “I’m watching you, fucker. One wrong move and it’s off to . . .” He pauses as he thinks of the right wording. “The knackers.” “Bahahaha.” “Do you know what they do to naughty goats there?” he asks. I burst out laughing. “Go inside,” Elliot snaps. I turn and walk inside as I continue to laugh. “Bahahaha,” Billy bleats. “Stop making that noise, too,” Elliot barks.

a.m. Max Shepherd knew few people who loved working the graveyard shift. But for him, working nights at the institute was about as plum a job as he could have wished for. Just a year into his doctoral program, he had landed a position as research assistant to Dr. Elliot Seaborne, the noted seismologist currently heading up the Lunar Seismology Initiative. A NASA-sponsored project, the LSI was yet another component of the agency’s increasing desire to mount a return to the Moon. A new series of lunar missions had been talked about since Shepherd had been in grammar school. But since NASA had scrapped its shuttle program back in 2011, the Moon had become

The bathroom has a small tub and no shower, just a smooth hose attached to the faucet and hanging limply downward, a neck bent in defeat. “You don’t have a shower,” I say, walking back out and feeling the sudden intimacy of being in his space. It’s all so quintessentially him: sparse furniture other than floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books. Elliot watches me as I lean against the hallway wall. The space is tiny, and he seems to fill it with his height and the solid width of his chest. “I don’t know if I could handle only having a bathtub,” I babble. “I call it a shath,” he says. “That sounds dirty.” I’m staring at his chest but hear the smile in his voice: “I think that’s why I call it that.

wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his tombstone," said Jerry. "Mrs. Davis would," giggled Faith. "She just watches us in church like a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seen her glare. I'll bet she boxed HIS ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn't offend her on any account or I'd have made a face at her, too!" "They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would never have his father again, even when her husband was dying," said Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like." "I liked their looks," said Faith. The manse children had been at the station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived. "I liked Jem's looks ESPECIALLY." "They say in school that Walter's a sissy," said Jerry. "I don't believe it," said Una, who had thought Walter very handsome. "Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me. Bertie's mother thought HE should have got the prize because of his name, but Bertie said he couldn't write poetry to save his soul, name or no name." "I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to school," mused Faith. "I hope the girls are nice. I don't like most of the girls round here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe twins look jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, but they don't. I think the red-haired one is the nicest." "I liked their mother's looks," said Una with a little sigh. Una envied all children their mothers. She had been only six when her mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh. "They say she isn't like other people," said Jerry. "Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up," said Faith. "She's taller than Mrs. Elliott." "Yes, yes, but it is inside—Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe

Well,” I flush. How to say this? “I need to talk to Kate. I’ve so many questions about sex, and you’re too involved. If you want me to do all these things, how do I know—?” I pause, struggling to find the right words. “I just don’t have any terms of reference.” He rolls his eyes at me. “Talk to her if you must.” He sounds exasperated. “Make sure she doesn’t mention anything to Elliot.” I bristle at his insinuation. Kate isn’t like that. “She wouldn’t do that, and I wouldn’t tell you anything she tells me about Elliot—if she were to tell me anything,” I add quickly. “Well, the difference is that I don’t want to know about his sex life,” Christian murmurs dryly. “Elliot’s a nosy bastard. But only about what we’ve done so far,” he warns. “She’d probably have my balls if she knew what I wanted to do to you,” he adds so softly I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear it. “Okay,” I agree readily, smiling up at him, relieved. The thought of Kate with Christian’s balls is not something I want to dwell on. His lip quirks up at me, and he shakes his head. “The sooner I have your submission the better, and we can stop all this,” he murmurs. “Stop all what?” “You, defying me.” He reaches down and cups my chin and plants a swift, sweet kiss on my lips as the doors to the elevator open. He grabs my hand and leads me into the underground garage. Me, defying him … how?

Did you eat?” he asked as he backed out of the parking lot. “No.” “Do you want to stop somewhere?” “Like Burger King?” “I was thinking something a little nicer.” “I’m wearing sweaty clothes and sneakers.” Briefly taking his eyes off the road, he glanced at her. “I think you look nice.” “Says the man in a dress shirt and tie.” “Trust me, you could wear a sack and I’d still be the inappropriate factor in the equation. Let’s stop and have dinner. We’ll go someplace small and quiet.” She sighed. “Fine. But you have to take off your tie and un-tuck your shirt.” “What?” “Either that or I’m not going. I look like a slob.” His fingers noticeably tightened on the wheel. “Fine.” When they arrived at the restaurant, a little corner place with outdoor seating and Italian cuisine, Elliot stood at the car door and loosened his tie. After unclasping the top button of his shirt, he frowned at his hips. “My shirttails will be wrinkled. Can’t this be enough?” She laughed at how uncomfortable the idea of wrinkles made him. “Fine.” Untwisting the clip in her hair, she flipped her head over and shook out her waves, hoping to hide the fact that she was in an old tank top with a bleach stain on the side. Flipping back, she paused as she caught him staring. “What?” His eyes were wide behind his glasses. “Nothing.” He shook his head and looked away. He took her hand and escorted her into the restaurant. The smell of delicious pasta cranked up her hunger. The hostess greeted them, and before Nadia could manage a word, Elliot asked for a private table in the back. They were escorted to the rear of the restaurant, far away from all other patrons. “Do they know you here?” He seemed to have some pull. “No, but if you make a direct request people don’t often tell you no.” She raised a brow. “I’ll have to remember that trick.” For as gentle as he was, he had a knack for being equally commanding. His clout was subtle but undeniable. She wondered if he even realized the influence he held over others. He wore authority very well.

Thank you for coming,” Juliana said with sincerity. “I’m only sorry we did not have enough time to spend together.” “Of course we didn’t. What with your planning, your house not ready, people shooting at one another, and crashing chandeliers, we did not have a moment to ourselves.” Gemma kissed her cheek. “Next time, dear.

I can't serve SPIT to my friends." "Would you give any of them blood? A kidney?" "Of course. They can have the organ of their choice." This makes me think about Grant's friend Jenna, who gave her best friend part of her liver, sadly to no avail. Grant and I used to double-date occasionally with Jenna and her husband Elliot, and I loved them both. They live not far from here, but I didn't tell them when I moved into the Palmer house. They were his friends, not mine, and I'm sad to have lost them in the split. Although they do have the worst-behaved dog on the planet, who slobbered all over Schatzi the one time we tried to meet at the dog park, and ate my purse the last time they had us over for dinner, so maybe it isn't the worst loss.

The point I’m making is that hate never dies,” Ava continued. “It can go dormant and seem to disappear when it’s actually hiding and evolving, passed from generation to generation. Did you know the KKK was very active in Portland as recently as the 1980s? Someone even called Portland the skinhead capital of the US back then. We can’t say racism doesn’t exist because it’s never personally touched us. It’s here and it can be deadly.

I thought you got dressed up for your dinner last week with him?” “I don’t just mean Elliot.” Sean’s playful smirk tells me he thinks I’m full of shit, and it makes me laugh but then immediately gives me pause.

My keys are always in my pocket, that is what I tell myself,” explained Drew. “If I’m not sure, if I’m hesitant and scared, I simply remind myself that I have my keys in my pocket and I can leave at any point. You can just leave.

Yes. That’s true.” I sigh. “It’s just that… I know how badly Elliot wants another child. I feel like… I’m letting him down.

Elliot, are you trying to stop yourself from loving Zach?” I asked. “Are you the one burning your body?” “Yes,” he said, ashamed. “I thought it would make my feelings go away. I said it was God because I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. But you kept accusing everyone. And now – now Zach knows I’m bad.” I closed my eyes, pained by his pain. This wasn’t a case of molestation. It was a story of first love, internalized homophobia, and self-flagellation. “Bad?” I repeated gently. “Elliot, it’s wonderful to love your friend.” “No it’s not!” He raised his voice. “Leviticus 18:22, Timothy 1:8-10, Corinthians 6:9-10. They all say the same thing. It gets you thrown into Hell with murderers and liars and cheaters.” I shook my head angrily. He probably heard Father Michael recite verses like that every day. Who needs an abuser when you have a big book telling kids that an omniscient deity thinks they’re defective.

I didn't think you'd like romantic movies, pegged as you more of an action kind of girl. "I'm every kind of girl, Fintry

I didn't think you'd like romantic movies, pegged as you more of an action kind of girl. I'm every kind of girl, Fintry.

I didn't think you'd like romantic movies, pegged as you more of an action kind of girl." "I'm every kind of girl, Fintry.

How did you sleep?” he asked. “Actually great.” “You sound surprised.” “Well, normally, I don’t sleep with a six-foot-three body pillow with a huge cock, so yeah, I’m a little surprised.” “I slept better than I have in years. Maybe better than I ever have. I might need to keep you with me to make sure I get eight hours a night.” His voice was dark, possessive. “I don’t think the world is ready for a well-rested Jason Elliot.” I couldn’t handle him across the conference table, that was for sure.

Are you doing work right now?” “I’m actually typing ‘fuck Jason Elliot’ over and over again while I make you squirm. Is it working?

Just thinking about you.” I smiled. “And how you always stock enough food to feed an army.” And how I’m falling for you. “And how fucked up I am?” He scoffed and set the knife down. No. I would not stand for this. I circled the counter and grabbed his hand. Warm, rough skin slid against my own. “Don’t say that,” I said fiercely. “You’re not fucked up. You’re amazing. You’ve done the impossible and you make it look easy.” His throat worked, and he looked away. “Don’t you look away from me, Jason Elliot.” My voice rose. “I will support you, whether you like it or not. And I won’t hear any more of that nonsense. Now show me how to cook whatever the hell this is.

Having you, and then having you ripped away… This past week has been the worst week of my life. Those weeks in the rental house were probably the best. I’m sorry for that day in the conference room. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry if you ever thought I didn’t want you or that I wanted you to change. If you let me, I’ll spend every day forcing you to take things for yourself. Making you share your burdens with me. Say you want this.” “Jason,” I whispered. “Every night in that rental house, I though to myself that one day a very lucky girl would get to keep you. I ached to be that girl. If you want me, I’m all in.” “I love you.” He crushed me against his chest. “I love you too,” I murmured the words into his neck. “I love you, Jason Elliot. I want all your fucked-up parts and your cooking skills and the hot stuff you like in bed. Give it all to me.” “Good. It’s yours.

What is it?” “Ah…I’m but feeling a little glum.” “Huh?” “I’ve come to realize just how hopeless I truly am.” “This is all because Elliot shot his mouth off before…” “You’re sayin’ it’s my fault!?” “You have a bad habit of saying what you want to say without regard for the other person’s circumstances.” “W-well, that may be, but still…!” “I…I’ve been stuck in the same place for ages. Since that day…I’ve never been able to move forward…and I’m ashamed of it. I feel so frustrated..!” “Just how dumb are you? Like Leo said, I don’t know you’re deal, but…but you came to the ‘realization,’ right? So—! At that moment you’d already taken a step forward! Now do what you want from here on! Whether you keep on going, or turn back…or go another way—it’s all up to you!

What is it?” “Ah…I’m but feeling a little glum.” “Huh?” “I’ve come to realize just how hopeless I truly am.” “This is all because Elliot shot his mouth off before…” “You’re sayin’ it’s my fault!?” “You have a bad habit of saying what you want to say without regard for the other person’s circumstances.” “W-well, that may be, but still…!” “I…I’ve been stuck in the same place for ages. Since that day…I’ve never been able to move forward…and I’m ashamed of it. I feel so frustrated..!” “Just how dumb are you? Like Leo said, I don’t know your deal, but…but you came to the ‘realization,’ right? So—! At that moment you’d already taken a step forward! Now do what you want from here on! Whether you keep on going, or turn back…or go another way—it’s all up to you!

The Sunborn Champion landed on the bloodied battlefield, wings curved above his head in a great arch like the carved ceiling in the grand hall of home. When he lifted his face, it was cold as gold beneath the mountain. “Hi, loser,” said Mr. Schafer. The Sunborn Champion was focused on Captain Arch. “Try to hit him again,” he suggested. “Give me a reason to kill you.” “Don’t kill him,” commanded Mr. Schafer. “He’s only committed petty crimes. I have a list back in the Westering fortress. He and most of his men need to be fined, but it’s the men of Deepfort who forced prisoners into indentured servitude—” “Elliot, I am going to kill you,” said the Sunborn Champion. He wheeled on Mr. Schafer, all wings and bared sword and fury like the sun. Mr. Schafer rolled his eyes. “That’s not fair. I haven’t committed any crimes. Not since the treason. I’m glad you’re here to see justice done, as I outlined in my letter to Commander Woodsinger—” “I did notice you’d suddenly regained your ability to write letters!” snapped the Sunborn Champion.

To: catherinewarner@levydevelopment.com From: elliotlevy@levydevelopment.com Catherine, Congratulations on the arrival of your daughter, Josephine. I was told by Raymond and Davida you were goddess-like when bringing her into the world, which I don’t doubt. I’m also not surprised you managed to give birth in an efficient amount of time. Ten hours of labor should be applauded. Not too long or too short. Good going. I’ve seen pictures of Josephine, and she’s as lovely as expected. Good going on that too. Please let me know if you need anything, and I’ll be happy to provide it. Yours, Elliot

doing today?” I placed my hands on my desk. “I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. Mr. Levy is always busy.” Busy, abrupt, demanding, intolerable. I kept those adjectives between me and my postscripts. Tapping the edge of my desk, he grinned. “I get it. I’ve known him since college. The guy never changes.” Standing up, I turned toward Elliot’s office when Luca’s words stopped me in my tracks. “Hey, congratulations.” My brows rose, and I swiveled back around, momentarily confused. When his eyes landed on my stomach, I understood. “Oh. Thanks. I’m not used to people noticing yet. It only started happening this week.” “I have a pregnant sister, so maybe I’m more attuned to it these days.

ripped the top and pulled out a card with the name of a spa I could never have dreamed of setting foot in. Opening it, I found a gift card for five hundred dollars inside. “What’s this?” I squeezed out of my tightening throat. “For you. I’m told they do prenatal massages, foot treatments, anything you want. Or you could save it and use it after she’s here.” I was nearly speechless. Elliot had barely acknowledged my pregnancy since our initial conversation—which had been more than fine, honestly—but hearing him call my baby she nearly undid me. I didn’t know why. Maybe because I had no one to talk to about any of this with besides Davida and Raymond. Having her acknowledged sent me into a mini tailspin. It made this even more real. “This is incredibly generous. Thank you so m—” My words were cut off when Baby Girl decided to do a death roll and shoved aside my lungs to stretch out and get comfortable. “Catherine?” Elliot leaped to his feet in alarm. I would have told him I was fine, except I’d lost my breath. “Are you okay?” When I didn’t reassure him quickly enough, he was around the desk, crouching in front of me. “Catherine…

Please, dig in. You deserve a nice meal, and I’m sure Josephine will thank you later for it.” I snorted a soft laugh. “Do you think my milk will be richer from this food than PBJs?” He tilted his head toward my plate. “It’s worth a shot.” I smiled at him for a split second before turning all my attention to my food. Well, most of it. Joey was in one arm, so I had to be careful not to drop anything on her head. Poor thing had been glopped with jelly more than once, but luckily, she forgave me. Elliot tapped my arm. “Here. Let me hold her while you eat.” I paused, my garlic bread halfway to my mouth. “What? No. You need to eat too.” He held out his hands, insistent. “I’m fine, and I have a feeling you’ll clean your plate pretty quickly anyway. Give her to me.” He didn’t really wait for me to hand her over, scooping her out of my arms like he was a professional. Elliot was good at everything I’d seen him do, and now I could add “holding my newborn daughter” to the list.

I had a son, but I lost him and his mother in an accident while I was away, serving as a soldier,” he revealed, his voice laden with deep, lingering grief. “I’m so sorry, Elliot,” Ava said softly, reaching out to gently take his hand in hers. “You’ve endured so much loss in your life. More than anyone should have to bear.

But what if they are coming from God?” asked Elliot. “Isn’t it better to be safe, so I don’t go to Hell forever?” “Can you imagine God creating this vast universe, full of oceans and mountains and stars and galaxies – and then being so petty that He punishes you for loving who you love?

You don’t have to continue if it’s too hard.” Ava shook her head determinedly, a tear spilling down her cheek. “No, it’s important. You need to know, and I need to say it,” she said, her voice quivering. She hastily wiped the tear away. “I only have fragments of memories after that. I woke up in the forest. My clothes were torn, and I felt bruised and sore.” More tears followed, and Elliot gently wiped them away, his expression mirroring the anguish of her story. In the silence that followed, a heavy air of unspoken words filled the shelter. Her story explained the contempt she held for the Telvanni and the depth of her concern for Bella, especially in light of Bella’s recent experience. Elliot grappled with a tempest of emotions—anger at the Telvanni, sorrow for Ava, and a burning desire for revenge. Recognizing that Ava needed his reassurance and not his anger, he gently enveloped her in a comforting embrace, whispering words of solace. “I’m so sorry, Ava,” he said softly. “I promise you, we will hold them accountable for their actions.

When Joey and I finally made our way downstairs in the morning, Elliot was long gone, but he’d left me a croissant on a plate on the counter, along with a note and his garage door opener. Catherine, There’s fruit in the refrigerator and groceries will be delivered at 2 p.m. I didn’t know what you like to have on hand, so I ordered some of everything. In the future, you can make a list. It was my mistake not asking for your requests. Please make yourself at home. I left you the remote to the garage. The alarm code is 052106.

Catherine, Coffee’s in the refrigerator. I left the last pear for you. Eat it. It’s the perfect ripeness. Do you like Thai food? Text me when you’re up to let me know. If yes, I’ll bring it home tonight. It’s time we talked about what’s going on with your house. Can we also talk about when you’re coming back to the office? Daniel has been at peak vibration all week. I’m not certain either of us can sustain much more of this. Yours, Elliot P.S. Tell Josephine good morning for me.

If he really wanted to get me something I could use, a gift card for Target would have had me singing his praise. Do you know how many diapers I’m going to need?” She shook her head again, less subtly this time. “I didn’t either, but I looked it up, and it’s staggering.” I sighed. “I—” “Excuse me.” I whirled around at the sound of Elliot’s voice coming from behind me. He was standing there, holding my iced coffee out to me. “Elliot—” He shoved the cup toward me. “You forgot this in my office. I thought you might want it.” “Thank you. I do want it.” I took it from him gingerly, trying to catch his eye. He allowed his gaze to graze mine once, then he nodded and walked away. Davida broke the thick silence first. “Shit.” I turned around to face her. “How much did he hear?” “All of it, darling. Didn’t you see me shaking my head?” I slapped my hand on my forehead. “I thought you were going along with what I was saying. You need a better signal.

Elliot, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. There should only be one notebook in my desk. If that’s what he’s using, it’s the correct paper. As for your other questions, my internet is fine, but I was away from my computer. I still have three weeks left of maternity leave, and I plan on using them to the fullest. Don’t expect instant replies, and you won’t be disappointed. If you feel the need to keep Leafy-Daniel, by all means, have at it. But if he’s staying, maybe try being a little nicer so he won’t shake quite as much. That sounds awfully distracting. I hope you’re well.

Good morning, Catherine.” “Hello, Elliot.” He placed the carrier on the edge of my desk, and the scent of coffee wafted toward me. I’d been trying to wait until lunch and hadn’t had my hit of caffeine yet. Seeing as I’d almost nodded off, that probably wasn’t happening. “This is for you. Iced, with milk and vanilla syrup.” He nudged the cup toward me and placed a paper straw on top. I almost couldn’t form words, but my mother’s voice in the back of my head overpowered my shock. “Thank you. This is exactly what I needed.” He inclined his head. “I’m early, so take your time.” Then he swiveled around and walked away without another word. “I’ll be in my office when you’re ready.” His kind gesture almost made me feel guilty for my postscript, but I’d learned not to give Elliot too much credit this early in the day. I didn’t doubt he’d earn my harsh statement by the time I left our morning meeting.

For the one-hundred-and-eleventh day, I arrived at the office at eight a.m., sat down at my desk, flipped open a notepad, and neatly wrote Elliot Levy’s schedule in black ink. And at the bottom, following the notation for his last meeting of the day, I included a postscript—which I’d been doing for a hundred and one days. Yesterday’s had been: P.S. Are you even human? The day before: P.S. You remind me of porridge. Today’s: P.S. You’re intolerable. Then, like I always did, I precisely sliced that strip off the bottom, slid it inside an envelope with all one hundred and one of the others, and returned it to its place at the back of my desk drawer beneath my box of tampons. In my current condition, I absolutely did not need them, but I’d found tampons were the best deterrent for most men. Though I regularly questioned if Elliot was a cyborg, I couldn’t picture him willingly touching feminine hygiene products either. This was my only form of rebellion. Those postscripts allowed me to release a tiny drip of the anger I swallowed down on a daily basis. When Elliot’s demands became unbearable, I took out my envelope, ran my fingers over the one-inch strips of “fuck you very much,” and immediately calmed. The therapist I’d been forced to see when I was a teen would have been proud…ish.