Mighty Girl Quotes

I’ve only ever loved one girl, Tru – and that’s you. It’s always been you. I loved you from the moment I knew how to love.

You’re not just any girl. You’re my girl.

His Majesty needs a can-I girl anyway. And I'm not it." "A can-I girl?" Andrea frowned. I leaned back. "'Can I fetch your food, Your Majesty? Can I tell you how strong and mighty you are, Your Majesty? Can I pick your fleas, Your Majesty? Can I kiss your ass, Your Majesty? Can I..." It dawned on me that Raphael was sitting very still. Frozen, like a statue, his gaze fixed on the point above my head. "He's standing behind me, isn't he?" Andrea nodded slowly. "Technically it should be 'may I'," Curran said, his voice deeper than I remembered. "Since you're asking for permission." Why me? "To answer your question, yes, you may kiss my ass. Normally I prefer maintain my personal space, but you're a Friend of the Pack and your services have proven useful once or twice. I strive to accommodate the wishes of persons friendly to my people. My only question is, would kissing my ass be obeisance, grooming, or foreplay?

His Majesty needs a can-I girl anyway. And I’m not it.” “A can-I girl?” Andrea frowned. I leaned back. “ ‘ Can I fetch you your food, Your Majesty? Can I tell you how strong and mighty you are, Your Majesty? Can I pick out your fleas, Your Majesty? Can I kiss your ass, Your Majesty? Can I...” It dawned on me that Raphael was sitting very still. Frozen, like a statue, his gaze fixed on the point above my head. “He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?” Andrea nodded slowly. “Technically it should be ‘may I,’” Curran said, his voice deeper than I remembered. “Since you’re asking permission.

He has the look of a mighty mind, whose thoughts spin hidden beneath the impassive surface.

You’re not just any girl. You’re my girl.

Being a kind, emperor, or president is mighty small potatoes compared to being a mother. Commanding an army is little more than sweeping a street compared with training a boy or girl. The mother of Moses did more for the world than all the kinds that Egypt ever had. Oh, you wait until you reach the mountains of eternity, then read the mothers' names in God's Hall of Fame.

They can try to kill me all they want, but I'm the girl who stands on tha backs of the beasts of the NeoPacific. The Minnow blazes from within, promising life and warmth and vilainy, but out here I'm mighty.

Because I have a few things in common with him,” he answers, opening his eyes. “Like?” “The drugs … the women … hanging out for the girl of my dreams.” I take a sharp breath in. Tears instantly prick the backs of my eyes. He touches my face, his thumb smoothing over my lips. “You’re my June, Tru.

Ten good lines out of four hundred, Emily—comparatively good, that is—and all the rest balderdash—balderdash, Emily." "I—suppose so," said Emily faintly. Her eyes brimmed with tears—her lips quivered. She could not help it. Pride was hopelessly submerged in the bitterness of her disappointment. She felt exactly like a candle that somebody had blown out. "What are you crying for? demanded Mr. Carpenter. Emily blinked away tears and tried to laugh. "I—I'm sorry—you think it's no good—" she said. Mr. Carpenter gave the desk a mighty thump. "No good! Didn't I tell you there were ten good lines? Jade, for ten righteous men Sodom had been spared." "Do you mean—that—after all—" The candle was being relighted again. "Of course, I mean. If at thirteen you can write ten good lines, at twenty you'll write ten times ten—if the gods are kind. Stop messing over months, though—and don't imagine you're a genius, either, if you have written ten decent lines. I think there's something trying to speak through you—but you'll have to make yourself a fit instrument for it. You've got to work hard and sacrifice—by gad, girl, you've chosen a jealous goddess. And she never lets her votaries go—not even when she shuts her ears forever to their plea.

Thoreau wrote, "the mass of men live lives of quiet desperation." This is as true today as it was back then. How many men stand on a balcony and wonder what happened?... He wanted adventure and he got two weeks' vacation. He wanted a mission and he got a lawn that needs mowing. He wanted purpose and he got a cubicle. He wanted a mighty steed and he got a minivan. He wanted a castle and he got a mortgage. He wanted a battle to fight and he got televised sports. He wanted wisdom and he got talking heads on TV. He wanted treasure and he got endless debt. He wanted every part of his life to be wonderful, and here he is... standing on a balcony, in bleak, ruminating hesitation.

I love you,” he repeats. “I’ve only ever loved one girl, Tru – and that’s you. It’s always been you. I loved you from the moment I knew how to love.” My eyes fill with tears again, them quickly spilling over, down my cheeks. Jake takes my face in his hands, caressing my tears away with his thumbs. “You’re it for me. I want to be with you forever. I want you to be mine.” I stare deep into his eyes. “I’ve always been yours, and I always will be. I love you too … so much.

By the nineteenth century, society had given up burning witches. Yet the sexual exploitation of children continued. In late-nineteenth-century Britain, for example, men who raped young girls were excused because they did it to cure venereal disease. There was a widely held belief that children would take "poisons" out of the body. In fact, leprosy, venereal disease, depression, and impotence were part of a wide range of maladies believed cured by having sex with the young. An English medical text of the time reads, "Breaking a maiden's seal is one of the best antidotes for one's ills. Cudgeling her unceasingly, until she swoons away, is a mighty remedy for man's depression. It cures all impotence.

I’m a big girl.” “Honey,” he said, “you ain’t no bigger than a minute.” She sighed. “Sometimes a minute can be a mighty powerful thing.

It’s kind of romantic with unrequited love. A big, strong, sexy hero. A fight to the death.” She sighed wistfully. Slowly and thoughtfully, she traced his strong jaw with her fingertip. “You’d make a good Orion,” she murmured absentmindedly. Ronin raised an eyebrow, and, realizing that she’d said that out loud, she buried her face in his shoulder. “Umm… shit…” she whispered. “It’s getting pretty late and I have to work tomorrow. I should probably, um… yeah.” Neither of them spoke after that, both lost in their own thoughts. Devin contemplated the need to work on her verbal filter, rather mortified by her offhanded Orion comment. But, honestly, Ronin was exactly how she pictured Orion when she was a little girl. Big and stoic, muscular with a strong jaw, a fierce build. A mighty Greek hero.

That river runs through the place where I was easier to define. The place that made me who I used to be. Althea Marie Butler-Cochran: round, dimpled face; rounding, dimpled body; smooth, light brown skin; wife; mother; daughter; sister; mighty force of nature.

I think I was enchanted When first a sombre Girl — I read that Foreign Lady** — The Dark — felt beautiful — And whether it was noon at night — Or only Heaven — at Noon — For very Lunacy of Light I had not power to tell — The Bees — became as Butterflies — The Butterflies — as Swans — Approached — and spurned the narrow Grass — And just the meanest Tunes That Nature murmured to herself To keep herself in Cheer — I took for Giants — practising Titanic Opera — The Days — to Mighty Metres stept — The Homeliest — adorned As if unto a Jubilee 'Twere suddenly confirmed — I could not have defined the change — Conversion of the Mind Like Sanctifying in the Soul — Is witnessed — not explained — 'Twas a Divine Insanity — The Danger to be Sane Should I again experience — 'Tis Antidote to turn — To Tomes of solid Witchcraft — Magicians be asleep — But Magic — hath an Element Like Deity — to keep —

Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

Handicap,’ she said eventually, like it was a diagnosis. ‘This girl grew up in that deep, deep patriarchy which trembles in the presence of the Mighty Vagina.’ The Bunsens caught their breaths at the V word, but Kana did not pause. ‘A patriarchy that cannot make up its mind whether to fall on its knees in worship of the gateway into the world or to flee the crisis, the orgasmic paroxysms.’ ‘Watch it, Kana, that kind of mwenkanonkano is radical.’ ‘Any mwenkanonkano is radical. Talk about equality and men fall in epileptic fits.

Then Sunny St. James will take over the world. Or at least my little corner of it.

I love you,” he repeats. “I’ve only ever loved one girl, Tru—and that’s you. It’s always been you. I loved you from the moment I knew how to love.

The vast power of money, mighty when you have it and even mightier when you don’t, with its divine gift of freedom and the demonic fury it unleashes on those forced to do without it—

All through the Torah, God is pictured as having hands, a face. The rabbis say, Of course God doesn’t really have hands, but the Torah uses the language of faces and hands and eyes so that we will have an easier time wrapping our minds around this infinite, handless God. That is what you say if you are a rabbi. But if you are a good novelist, you actually give Him hands and eyes by the end of the book, and that is what the Bible does. It says, in Deuteronomy, that God brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; and then it gives Him an arm in the Gospel of Matthew.

The Father protects his children, the septons taught, but Davos had led his boys into the fire. Dale would never give his wife the child they had prayed for, and Allard, with his girl in Oldtown and his girl in Kings Landing, and his girl in Braavos, they would all be weeping soon. Matthos would never captain his own ship, as he dreamed. Maric would never have his knighthood. 'How can I live when they are dead? So many brave knights and mighty lords have died, better men than me, and highborn. Crawl inside your cave, Davos. Crawl inside and shrink up small and the ship will go away, and no one will trouble you ever again. Sleep on your stone pillow and let the gulls peck out your eyes while the crabs feast on your flesh. You've feasted on enough of them, you owe them. Hide, smuggler. Hide, and be quiet, and die.

The Gypsy’S Song* Come, cross my hand! My art surpasses All that did ever Mortal know; Come, Maidens, come! My magic glasses* Your future Husband’s form can show: For ’tis to me the power is given Unclosed the book of Fate to see; To read the fixed resolves of heaven, And dive into futurity. I guide the pale Moon’s silver waggon; The winds in magic bonds I hold; I charm to sleep the crimson Dragon, Who loves to watch o’er buried gold: Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture Their sabbath strange where Witches keep; Fearless the Sorcerer’s circle enter, And woundless tread on snakes asleep. Lo! Here are charms of mighty power! This makes secure an Husband’s truth; And this composed at midnight hour Will force to love the coldest Youth: If any Maid too much has granted, Her loss this Philtre* will repair; This blooms a cheek where red is wanted, And this will make a brown girl fair! Then silent hear, while I discover What I in Fortune’s mirror view; And each, when many a year is over, Shall own the Gypsy’s sayings true.

I think you give our relationship too much credit. I irritate the hell out of Curran and he found a way to pester me. It’s nothing.” “You may be right,” Raphael said. “His Majesty needs a can-I girl anyway. And I’m not it.” “A can-I girl?” Andrea frowned. I leaned back. “‘Can I fetch you your food, Your Majesty? Can I tell you how strong and mighty you are, Your Majesty? Can I pick out your fleas, Your Majesty? Can I kiss your ass, Your Majesty? Can I . . .’” It dawned on me that Raphael was sitting very still. Frozen, like a statue, his gaze fixed on the point above my head. “He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?” Andrea nodded slowly. “Technically it should be ‘may I,’” Curran said, his voice deeper than I remembered. “Since you’re asking permission.

(...) well, there's a girl I used to know, and I wasn't sure if I should find her and talk to her or if I should just forget about it. (...) Oh! You must go to her and implore her. You must call her your Terpsichore, your Echo, your Clytemnestra. You must write poems for her, mighty odes - I shall help you write them - and thus - and only thus - shall you win your true love's heart.

There is one in this tribe too often miserable - a child bereaved of both parents. None cares for this child: she is fed sometimes, but oftener forgotten: a hut rarely receives her: the hollow tree and chill cavern are her home. Forsaken, lost, and wandering, she lives more with the wild beast and bird than with her own kind. Hunger and cold are her comrades: sadness hovers over, and solitude besets her round. Unheeded and unvalued, she should die: but she both lives and grows: the green wilderness nurses her, and becomes to her a mother: feeds her on juicy berry, on saccharine root and nut. There is something in the air of this clime which fosters life kindly: there must be something, too, in its dews, which heals with sovereign balm. Its gentle seasons exaggerate no passion, no sense; its temperature tends to harmony; its breezes, you would say, bring down from heaven the germ of pure thought, and purer feeling. Not grotesquely fantastic are the forms of cliff and foliage; not violently vivid the colouring of flower and bird: in all the grandeur of these forests there is repose; in all their freshness there is tenderness. The gentle charm vouchsafed to flower and tree, - bestowed on deer and dove, - has not been denied to the human nursling. All solitary, she has sprung up straight and graceful. Nature cast her features in a fine mould; they have matured in their pure, accurate first lines, unaltered by the shocks of disease. No fierce dry blast has dealt rudely with the surface of her frame; no burning sun has crisped or withered her tresses: her form gleams ivory-white through the trees; her hair flows plenteous, long, and glossy; her eyes, not dazzled by vertical fires, beam in the shade large and open, and full and dewy: above those eyes, when the breeze bares her forehead, shines an expanse fair and ample, - a clear, candid page, whereon knowledge, should knowledge ever come, might write a golden record. You see in the desolate young savage nothing vicious or vacant; she haunts the wood harmless and thoughtful: though of what one so untaught can think, it is not easy to divine. On the evening of one summer day, before the Flood, being utterly alone - for she had lost all trace of her tribe, who had wandered leagues away, she knew not where, - she went up from the vale, to watch Day take leave and Night arrive. A crag, overspread by a tree, was her station: the oak-roots, turfed and mossed, gave a seat: the oak-boughs, thick-leaved, wove a canopy. Slow and grand the Day withdrew, passing in purple fire, and parting to the farewell of a wild, low chorus from the woodlands. Then Night entered, quiet as death: the wind fell, the birds ceased singing. Now every nest held happy mates, and hart and hind slumbered blissfully safe in their lair. The girl sat, her body still, her soul astir; occupied, however, rather in feeling than in thinking, - in wishing, than hoping, - in imagining, than projecting. She felt the world, the sky, the night, boundlessly mighty. Of all things, herself seemed to herself the centre, - a small, forgotten atom of life, a spark of soul, emitted inadvertent from the great creative source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the heart of a black hollow. She asked, was she thus to burn out and perish, her living light doing no good, never seen, never needed, - a star in an else starless firmament, - which nor shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage, nor priest, tracked as a guide, or read as a prophecy? Could this be, she demanded, when the flame of her intelligence burned so vivid; when her life beat so true, and real, and potent; when something within her stirred disquieted, and restlessly asserted a God-given strength, for which it insisted she should find exercise?

Brastias, general of the Dark Plains rebellion and Annwyl’s second in command, leaned back into the hard wood chair and rubbed his tired eyes. She must be dead. She had to be dead. Annwyl would never disappear this long without word sent. He’d already sent trackers out to find her, but they came back empty-handed, losing her trail somewhere near Dark Glen, a haunted place most men dare not enter. Of course, Annwyl was not most men. She often dared where others fled. She remained the bravest warrior Brastias knew and he’d met many men over the years who he considered brave. But Annwyl could be foolhardy and her anger . . . formidable. And yet every day for two years Brastias thanked the gods for his good fortune. On a whim they had attacked a heavily armed caravan coming from Garbhán Isle. Its cargo had been Annwyl. Dressed in white bridal clothes and chained to the horse she rode, her destiny to be the unwilling bride for some noble in Madron. And based on how heavily armed her procession was, dangerously unhappy about it as well. Once the attack began, one of his men released Annwyl and told her to escape. She didn’t. Instead she took up a sword and fought. Fought, in fact, like a demon sent from the gods of hate and revenge. Her rage a mighty sight to behold. By the time the girl finished, she stood among the headless remains of those she killed. Her white gown completely covered in blood. On that day the men had given her the name Annwyl the Bloody and, as much as she hated it, the name stuck.

Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room. Winning a way past us before any of us could raise a hand to stay him. There was something so pantherlike in the movement, something so unhuman, that it seemed to sober us all from the shock of his coming. The first to act was Harker, who with a quick movement, threw himself before the door leading into the room in the front of the house. As the Count saw us, a horrible sort of snarl passed over his face, showing the eyeteeth long and pointed. But the evil smile as quickly passed into a cold stare of lion-like disdain. His expression again changed as, with a single impulse, we all advanced upon him. It was a pity that we had not some better organized plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what we were to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything. Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count's leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorn through his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat, making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank notes and a stream of gold fell out. The expression of the Count's face was so hellish, that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke. Instinctively I moved forward with a protective impulse, holding the Crucifix and Wafer in my left hand. I felt a mighty power fly along my arm, and it was without surprise that I saw the monster cower back before a similar movement made spontaneously by each one of us. It would be impossible to describe the expression of hate and baffled malignity, of anger and hellish rage, which came over the Count's face. His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast of his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed on the pallid skin like a palpitating wound. The next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker's arm, ere his blow could fall, and grasping a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw himself at the window. Amid the crash and glitter of the falling glass, he tumbled into the flagged area below. Through the sound of the shivering glass I could hear the "ting" of the gold, as some of the sovereigns fell on the flagging. We ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground. He, rushing up the steps, crossed the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door. There he turned and spoke to us. "You think to baffle me, you with your pale faces all in a row, like sheep in a butcher's. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think you have left me without a place to rest, but I have more. My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all love are mine already. And through them you and others shall yet be mine, my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed. Bah!" With a contemptuous sneer, he passed quickly through the door, and we heard the rusty bolt creak as he fastened it behind him. A door beyond opened and shut. The first of us to speak was the Professor. Realizing the difficulty of following him through the stable, we moved toward the hall. "We have learnt something… much! Notwithstanding his brave words, he fears us. He fears time, he fears want! For if not, why he hurry so? His very tone betray him, or my ears deceive. Why take that money? You follow quick. You are hunters of the wild beast, and understand it so. For me, I make sure that nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he returns.

if they label you soft, feather weight and white-livered, if the locker room tosses back its sweaty head, and laughs at how quiet your hands stay, if they come to trample the dandelions roaring in your throat, you tell them that you were forged inside of a woman who had to survive fifteen different species of disaster to bring you here, and you didn’t come to piss on trees. you ain’t nobody’s thick-necked pitbull boy, don’t need to prove yourself worthy of this inheritance of street-corner logic, this blood legend, this index of catcalls, “three hundred ways to turn a woman into a three course meal”, this legacy of shame, and man, and pillage, and man, and rape, and man. you boy. you won’t be some girl’s slit wrists dazzling the bathtub, won’t be some girl’s, “i didn’t ask for it but he gave it to me anyway”, the torn skirt panting behind the bedroom door, some father’s excuse to polish his gun. if they say, “take what you want”, you tell them you already have everything you need; you come from scabbed knuckles and women who never stopped swinging, you come men who drank away their life savings, and men who raised daughters alone. you come from love you gotta put your back into, elbow-grease loving like slow-dancing on dirty linoleum, you come from that house of worship. boy, i dare you to hold something like that. love whatever feels most like your grandmother’s cooking. love whatever music looks best on your feet. whatever woman beckons your blood to the boiling point, you treat her like she is the god of your pulse, you treat her like you would want your father to treat me: i dare you to be that much man one day. that you would give up your seat on the train to the invisible women, juggling babies and groceries. that you would hold doors, and say thank-you, and understand that women know they are beautiful without you having to yell it at them from across the street. the day i hear you call a woman a “bitch” is the day i dig my own grave. see how you feel writing that eulogy. and if you are ever left with your love’s skin trembling under your nails, if there is ever a powder-blue heart left for dead on your doorstep, and too many places in this city that remind you of her tears, be gentle when you drape the remains of your lives in burial cloth. don’t think yourself mighty enough to turn her into a poem, or a song, or some other sweetness to soften the blow, boy, i dare you to break like that. you look too much like your mother not t

But afterwards in the pub, they had dreamed about the big stories and talked for hours of how they would never be satisfied with the conventional or the shallow but instead would always dig deep. They were young and ambitious and wanted it all, all at once. There were times when Levin missed that, not the salary, or the working hours, or even the easy life in the bars and the women, but the dreams—he missed the power in them. He sometimes longed for that throbbing urge to change society and journalism and to write so that the world would come to a standstill and the mighty powers bow down. Even a hotshot like himself wondered: Where did the dreams go?

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,        The holy time is quiet as a Nun        Breathless with adoration; the broad sun        Is sinking down in its tranquility;        The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea:        Listen! the mighty Being is awake,        And doth with his eternal motion make        A sound like thunder—everlastingly.        Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,        If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,        Thy nature is not therefore less divine:        Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;        And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,        God being with thee when we know it not.

All in the wicked darkest eve In blood and shadows alike; We strive to live through mighty pain, By mighty arms unite, Oft mighty hands make plain romance, A traveling heart's plight. Ah, cruel Nine! In such an hour, Beneath such dreadful weather, To beg a tale of life so bleak To stir bound wings of feathers! Yet what can one lone voice avail Against ten tongues together? Imperious Alice tumbles forth Her edict “we will end it”— In wistful tones her people hope “There will be justice in it”— While her men carry on the tale And also help begin it. Shit, this sudden war's begun, In ire giving chase The young woman moving through a land Of wonders dark and base, In friendly tryst with man and beast— The darkness she would face. And ever, as the story changed The wells of knowledge lie, And hearty strove that weary one To put her subjects by, “I am not brave—” “True fear is fine!” The frightened voices cry. Thus grew the tale of Underland: Thus slowly, one by one, Its queer events are fucking wrote— The tale is far from done, And home is where, the girl may ask, As she debates to run. Alice! A terrifying story, And with a skeleton hand Lay it where graveyard's nightmares bury The rebels no longer stand, Like magic's withered throne of corpses Plucked from a far-off land.

When they were children at Loeanneth they'd spent the summer in and out of the water, their skin turning brown beneath the sun, their hair bleaching almost white. Despite her weak chest, Clemmie had been the most outdoorsy of them all, with her long, skinny foal's legs and windblown nature. She should have been born later. She should have been born now. There were so many opportunities these days for girls like Clemmie. Alice saw them everywhere, spirited, independent, forthright, and focused. Mighty girls unbounded by society's expectations. They made her glad, those girls, with their nose rings and their short hair and their impatience with the world. Sometimes Alice felt she could almost glimpse her sister's spirit moving in them. Clemmie had refused to speak to anyone in the months after Theo disappeared. Once the police had done their interviews, she'd shut her mouth, tight as a clam, and behaved as if her ears had switched off too. She'd always been eccentric, but it seemed to Alice, looking back, that during the late summer of 1933 she became downright wild. She hardly returned home, prowling around the airfields, slicing at the reeds by the stream with a sharpened stick, creeping inside the house only to sleep, and not even that most nights. Camping out in the woods or by the stream. God only knew what she ate. Birds' eggs, probably. Clemmie had always had a gift for raiding nests.

A girl who can dance – finally!” Stuart cheers, pulling my attention back to him, grabbing hold of my hips. “I’ve found my Ginger! Tru, seriously, if you had less tits and more cock, I’d be proposing marriage to you right now!” He spins me around. “It can always be arranged,” I laugh. “Marry me?” I hold out my hand dramatically to him. He grabs it and yanks me back to his chest. “Vegas tomorrow, baby. I’ll be the one in white at the Elvis chapel.” “I’ll be there.” I wink at him. We both start laughing, as he starts to move me around the floor again. I like Stuart. He’s so much fun, and so uncomplicated and as hot as hell. He could give Jake a run for his money in those stakes. Why isn’t he straight? Actually no, my life is complicated enough as it is without trying to add another guy into the picture

Could there be a slenderer, more insignificant thread in human history than this consciousness of a girl, busy with her small inferences of the way in which she could make her life pleasant?—in a time, too, when ideas were with fresh vigour making armies of themselves, and the universal kinship was declaring itself fiercely; when women on the other side of the world would not mourn for the husbands and sons who died bravely in a common cause, and men stinted of bread on our side of the world heard of that willing loss and were patient: a time when the soul of man was walking to pulses which had for centuries been beating in him unfelt, until their full sum made a new life of terror or of joy. What in the midst of that mighty drama are girls and their blind visions? They are the Yea or Nay of that good for which men are enduring and fighting. In these delicate vessels is borne onward through the ages the treasure of human affections.

Crimson flames tied through my ears Rollin' high and mighty traps Pounced with fire on flaming roads Using ideas as my maps "We'll meet on edges, soon," said I Proud 'neath heated brow Ah, but I was so much older then I'm younger than that now Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth "Rip down all hate," I screamed Lies that life is black and white Spoke from my skull. I dreamed Romantic facts of musketeers Foundationed deep somehow [chorus] Girls' faces formed the forward path From phony jealousy To memorizing politics Of ancient history Flung down by corpse evangelists Unthought of, though, somehow [chorus] A self-ordained professor's tongue Too serious to fool Spouted out that liberty Is just equality in school "Equality," I spoke the word As if a wedding vow {chorus] In a soldier's stance, I aim my hand At the mongrel dogs who teach Fearing not that I'd become my enemy In the instant that I preach My pathway led by confusion boats Mutiny from stern to bow [chorus] Yes , my guard stood hard when abstract threats Too noble to neglect Deceived me into thinking I had something to protect Good and bad, I define these terms Quite clear, no doubt, somehow Ah, but I was so much older then I'm younger than that now

build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar--except a small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole. When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else. When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at. Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke. It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly. Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the

Do you know how to play?” I asked. Hannah gave me one of her vexed looks. “Goodness, Andrew, if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t know the first thing about marbles. Your brain is a regular sieve these days.” I tapped my forehead to remind her I’d been sick. She looked so contrite I felt guilty. “Will you teach me all over again?” Hannah poured her marbles onto the quilt and sighed. Without raising her eyes, she said, “Girls my age are supposed to be ladies, but sometimes I get mighty tired of trying to be what I’m not.” Cradling an aggie almost as shiny as Andrew’s red bull’s-eye, she cocked her head, studied her targets, and shot. The aggie hit a glass marble and sent it spinning off the bed. Hannah grinned and tried again. When all the marbles except the aggie were scattered on the floor, Hannah seized my chin and tipped my face up to hers. Looking me in the eye, she said, “If you promise not to tell a soul, I’ll give you as many lessons as you want. No matter what Papa thinks, I’d rather play marbles than be a lady, and that’s the truth.” “Ringer,” I said sleepily. “Do you know how to play ringer?” Hannah ruffled my hair. “You must be pulling my leg, Andrew. That’s what we always play. It’s your favorite game.” I yawned. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll practice every day till I get even better than I used to be.” “When I’m finished with you, you’ll be the all-time marble champion of Missouri.

Now, son, I don’t pay much mind to idle talk, never have done. But there’s a regular riptide of gossip saying you’ve got something going with that girl in the marsh.” Tate threw up his hands. “Now hold on, hold on,” Scupper continued. “I don’t believe all the stories about her; she’s probably nice. But take a care, son. You don’t want to go starting a family too early. You get my meaning, don’t you?” Keeping his voice low, Tate hissed, “First you say you don’t believe those stories about her, then you say I shouldn’t start a family, showing you do believe she’s that kind of girl. Well, let me tell you something, she’s not. She’s more pure and innocent than any of those girls you’d have me go to the dance with. Oh man, some of the girls in this town, well, let’s just say they hunt in packs, take no prisoners. And yes, I’ve been going out to see Kya some. You know why? I’m teaching her how to read because people in this town are so mean to her she couldn’t even go to school.” “That’s fine, Tate. That’s good of you. But please understand it’s my job to say things like this. It may not be pleasant and all for us to talk about, but parents have to warn their kids about things. That’s my job, so don’t get huffy about it.” “I know,” Tate mumbled while buttering a biscuit. Feeling very huffy. “Come on now. Let’s get another helping, then some of that pecan pie.” After the pie came, Scupper said, “Well, since we’ve talked about things we never mention, I might as well say something else on my mind.” Tate rolled his eyes at his pie. Scupper continued. “I want you to know, son, how proud I am of you. All on your own, you’ve studied the marsh life, done real well at school, applied for college to get a degree in science. And got accepted. I’m just not the kind to speak on such things much. But I’m mighty proud of you, son. All right?” “Yeah. All right.” Later in his room, Tate recited from his favorite poem: “Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear?” •

Moreland sired some decent sons,” Rothgreb remarked. “And that’s a pretty filly they have for a sister. Not as brainless as the younger girls, either.” “Lady Sophia is very pretty.” Also kind, intelligent, sweet, and capable of enough passion to burn a man’s reason to cinders. “She’s mighty attached to the lad, though.” His uncle shot him a look unreadable in the gloom of the chilly hallways. “Women take on over babies.” “He’s a charming little fellow, but he’s a foundling. I believe she intends to foster him. Watch your step.” He took his uncle’s bony elbow at the stairs, only to have his hand shaken off. “For God’s sake, boy. I can navigate my own home unaided. So if you’re attracted to the lady, why don’t you provide for the boy? You can spare the blunt.” Vim paused at the first landing and held the candle a little closer to his uncle’s face. “What makes you say I’m attracted to Lady Sophia? And how would providing for the child endear me to her?” “Women set store by orphans, especially wee lads still in swaddling clothes. Never hurts to put yourself in a good light when you want to impress a lady.” His uncle went up the steps, leaning heavily on the banister railing. “And why would I want to impress Lady Sophia?” “You ogle her,” Rothgreb said, pausing halfway up the second flight. “I do not ogle a guest under our roof.” “You watch her, then, when you don’t think anybody’s looking. In my day, we called that ogling. You fret over her, which I can tell you as a man married for more than fifty years, is a sure sign a fellow is more than infatuated with his lady.” Vim remained silent, because he did, indeed, fret over Sophie Windham. “And you have those great, strapping brothers of hers falling all over themselves to put the two of you together.” Rothgreb paused again at the top of the steps. Vim paused too, considering his uncle’s words. “They aren’t any more strapping than I am.” Except St. Just was more muscular. Lord Val was probably quicker with his fists than Vim, and Westhaven had a calculating, scientific quality to him that suggested each of his blows would count. “They were all but dancing with each other to see that you sat next to their sister.

There was an infinity of firmest fortitude, a determinate unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and fearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye. And not only that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion in his face; in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some mighty woe. Ere long, from his first visit in the air, he withdrew into his cabin. But after that morning, he was every day visible to the crew; either standing in his pivot-hole, or seated upon an ivory stool he had; or heavily walking the deck. As the sky grew less gloomy; indeed, began to grow a little genial, he became still less and less a recluse; as if, when the ship had sailed from home, nothing but the dead wintry bleakness of the sea had then kept him so secluded. And, by and by, it came to pass, that he was almost continually in the air; but, as yet, for all that he said, or perceptibly did, on the at last sunny deck, he seemed as unnecessary there as another mast. But the Pequod was only making a passage now; not regularly cruising; nearly all whaling preparatives needing supervision the mates were fully competent to, so that there was little or nothing, out of himself, to employ or excite Ahab, now; and thus chase away, for that one interval, the clouds that layer upon layer were piled upon his brow, as ever all clouds choose the loftiest peaks to pile themselves upon. Nevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the pleasant, holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him from his mood. For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants; so Ahab did, in the end, a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish air. More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look, which, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile.

With great care, Amy opened the cellar door. With ladylike demeanor, she descended the stairs. And as her reward, she had the satisfaction of catching His Mighty Lordship sitting on the cot, his knee crooked sideways and his ankle pulled toward him, cursing at the manacle. “I got it out of your own castle,” she said. Northcliff jumped like a lad caught at a mischief. “My . . . castle?” At once he realized what she meant. “Here on the island, you mean. The old ancestral pile.” “Yes.” She strolled farther into the room. “I went down into the dungeons, crawled around in among the spider webs and the skeleton of your family’s enemies—” “Oh, come on.” He straightened his leg. “There aren’t any skeletons.” “No,” she admitted. “We had them removed years ago.” For one instant, she was shocked. So his family had been ruthless murderers! Then she realized he was smirking. The big, pompous jackass was making a jest of her labors. “If I could have found manacles that were in good shape I’d have locked both your legs to the wall.” “Why stop there? Why not my hands, too?” He moved his leg to make the chain clink loudly. “Think of your satisfaction at the image of my starving, naked body chained to the cold stone—” “Starving?” She cast a knowledgeable eye at the empty breakfast tray, then allowed her lips to curve into a sarcastic smile. “You’d love a look at my naked body, though, wouldn’t you?” He fixed his gaze on her, and for one second she thought she saw a lick of golden flame in his light brown eyes. “Isn’t that what this is all about?” “I beg your pardon.” She took a few steps closer to him—although she remained well out of range of his long arms. What are you talking about?” “I spurned you, didn’t I?” What? What What was he going on about? “You’re a girl from my past, an insignificant debutante I ignored at some cotillion or another. I didn’t dance with you.” He stretched out on the cot, the epitome of idle relaxation. “Or I did, but I didn’t talk to you. Or I forgot to offer you a lemonade, or—” “I don’t believe you.” She tottered to the rocking chair and sank down. “Are you saying you think this whole kidnapping was done because you, the almighty marquees of Northcliff, treated me like a wallflower?” “It seems unlikely I treated you as a wallflower. I have better taste than that.” He cast a critical glance up and down her workaday gown, then focused on her face. “You’re not in the common way, you must know that. With the proper gown and your hair swirled up in that style you women favor—” He twirled his fingers about his head—“you would be handsome. Perhaps even lovely.” She gripped the arms of the chair. Even his compliments sounded like insults! “We’ve never before met, my lord.” As if she had not spoken, he continued, “but I don’t remember you, so I must have ignored you and hurt your feelings—” “Damn!” Exploding out of the chair, she paced behind it, gripping the back hard enough to break the wood. His arrogance was amazing. Invulnerable! “Haven’t you heard a single word I’ve said to you? Are you so conceited you can’t conceive of a woman who isn’t interested in you as a suitor?” “It’s not conceit when it’s the truth.” He sounded quite convinced.

(p.112-114) This past, the Negro's past, of rope, fire torture, castration, infanticide, rape; death and humiliation; fear by day and night, fear as deep as the marrow of the bone; doubt that he was worthy of life, since everyone around him denied it; sorrow for this women, for his kinfolk, for his children, who needed his protection, and whom he could not protect; rage, hatred, and murder, hatred for white men so deep that it often turned against him and his own, and made all love, all trust, all joy impossible - this past, this endless struggle to achieve and reveal and confirm a human identity, human authority, yet contains, for all its horror, something very beautiful. I do not mean to be sentimental about suffering - enough is certainly as good as a feast - but people who cannot suffer can never grow up, can never discover who they are. That man who is forced each day to snatch manhood, his identity, out of the fire of human cruelty that rages to destroy it knows, if he survives his effort, and even if he does not survive it, something about himself and human life that no school on earth - and indeed, no church - can teach. He achieves his own authority, and that is unshakable. This is because, in order to save his life, he is forced to look beneath appearances, to take nothing for granted, to hear the meaning behind the words. If one is continually surviving the worst that life can bring, one eventually ceases to be controlled by a fear of what life can bring; whatever it brings must be borne. And at this level of experience one's bitterness begins to be palatable, and hatred becomes too heavy a sack to carry. The apprehension of life here so briefly and inadequately sketched has been the experience of generations of Negroes, and it helps to explain how they have endured and how they have been able to produce children of kindergarten age who can walk through mobs to get to school. It demands great force and great cunning continually to assault the mighty and indifferent fortress of white supremacy, as Negroes in this country have done so long. It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate. The Negro boys and girls who are facing mobs today come out of a long line of improbable aristocrats - the only genuine aristocrats this country has produced. I say "this country" because their frame of reference was totally American. They were hewing out of the mountain of white supremacy the stone of their individuality. I have great respect for that unsung army of black men and women who trudged down back lanes and entered back doors, saying "Yes, sir" and "No, Ma'am" in order to acquire a new roof for the schoolhouse, new books, a new chemistry lab, more beds for the dormitories, more dormitories. They did not like saying "Yes, sir" and "No Ma'am", but the country was in no hurry to educate Negroes, these black men and women knew that the job had to be done, and they put their pride in their pockets in order to do it. It is very hard to believe that they were in anyway inferior to the white men and women who opened those back doors. It is very hard to believe that those men and women, raising their children, eating their greens, crying their curses, weeping their tears, singing their songs, making their love, as the sun rose, as the sun set, were in any way inferior to the white men and women who crept over to share these splendors after the sun went down. ... I am proud of these people not because of their color but because of their intelligence and their spiritual force and their beauty. The country should be proud of them, too, but, alas, not many people in this country even know of their existence.

Oh, and Asher?” “Yes, sir?” “I looked her up. She’s a mighty pretty thing. If she’s not the girl for you, I guess she won’t be single for too long, huh?” Then he grinned and sat back down at his desk, immediately turning his attention to the files waiting there. Asher closed the door, standing in the small waiting room with his good hand curled into a fist. The idea of Savannah with someone else, anyone else but him, made him so desperate and so furious he wanted to hit something. He still wasn’t sure what to do, but he missed her fiercely, and while he wasn’t ready to talk to her, he at least needed to find out if she’d started moving on.

Last night we encountered a strange sight. As we walked along the banks of the mighty Volga, Europe’s longest river, we both stopped in our tracks to stare at a large python wrapped around a young woman. She offered us ‘photo with the snake’, which we declined and instead opted to stroke the cold scaly skin of this impressive reptile. Thank God I wasn’t walking my ferrets at the time.

nature’s noblest gift – my grey goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! – Lord Byron

In 1871, much of the city of Chicago was on fire, hundreds of people died, and four square miles of the city burned to the ground. The Great Chicago Fire was one of the worst disasters in America during the nineteenth century. One Chicago resident, Horatio Spafford, was a good friend of D. L. Moody and a man who lived out his faith. Despite great personal loss in property and assets, Horatio and his wife, Anna, dedicated themselves to helping the people of Chicago who had become impoverished by the fire. After years of hard work helping others recover from their losses, the Spaffords decided to take a well-earned vacation to help Moody during one of his evangelistic crusades in Great Britain. Anna and their four daughters went on ahead while Horatio planned on joining them in a few days after tending to some unfinished business matters. One night en route, the ship that Anna and the girls were traveling on collided with another ship and sank within minutes. Anna and the girls were thrown into the black waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and only Anna survived. As hard as she tried, she could not save even one of her daughters. Anna was found unconscious, floating on a piece of wreckage. After her rescue, she sent a heartrending telegram to Horatio in Chicago that simply said, “Saved alone.” Horatio boarded the next ship to Europe to be reunited with his wife. As he was en route, the captain called Horatio to the bridge when they reached the spot where his daughters had drowned. As Horatio stood looking out into the blackness of the sea, heartbroken and no doubt with tears running down his face, with only his faith sustaining him, he penned the words to one of the greatest hymns ever written: “It Is Well with My Soul.” When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul Chorus It is well with my soul, It is well, it is well with my soul! My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought! My sin, not in part, but the whole, Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more, Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul! How can a man who has just lost his four little girls praise the Lord? Where does a person get that kind of strength? The answer: by being deeply rooted in the Word of God. Horatio Spafford was a man of the Word, so when tragedy stuck, he could face it with strength and confidence. The centrality of God’s Word plays a critical role in the life of every believer, and this emphasis serves as the Big Idea throughout Psalms 90—150.

The Baby Ruth candy bar debuted in 1921, and even today the origin of the name remains in dispute. The Chicago-based Curtiss Candy Co. insisted that it named the bar after President Grover Cleveland’s daughter Ruth. But some historians find it odd that a company would name a new candy after a girl who had died 17 years earlier. They also find it mighty suspicious that the candy’s name was similar to that of baseball star Babe Ruth, who never collected royalties and was prevented from selling his own Babe Ruth Home Run Bar because of a Curtiss lawsuit.

Aaron lifted me up onto his hips and I knew we weren’t staying. “We just got here,” I murmured against his cheek. “Don’t you think Judd and Coop will take their women home to celebrate?” Glancing around, I noticed Tawny high fiving Judd who looked pretty proud about his revenge on Mac. Nearby, Farah was squeezing Cooper’s flexed muscles. None of them were planning to stay at the bar. “Are you okay, Bailey?” I asked as Aaron started for the door. “Sure, I’ll just hang out and pretend Vaughn is charming. It’ll be good practice for the next loser I date.” A grinning Vaughn patted the spot next to him in a booth. As the blonds got comfy, Aaron carried me to the Harley and sat me on the seat. “You saved me from mean words,” I teased as he felt me up in the spot Mac thought I needed help. “No one messes with my girl.” “Mighty sperm and powerful fists. Plus, you can cook and paint and write poems and a million other qualities. I’ve hit pay dirt.” “I need to get you home,” he said and I sensed the ride would be uncomfortable for him. As I wrapped my arms around his waist, he started the Harley. “Raven bought headphones, so we can fuck really loud and she won’t be bothered.” “The best houseguest ever,” Aaron said over his shoulder. As we sped away, I noticed Judd chasing a laughing Tawny to the parking lot. Cooper strutted out with Farah clinging to him. Everyone was happy except for a naked Mac tied to a tree in what I assumed was the club’s version of a time out.

If possible, I loved her even more. She didn’t even think of herself. Defend my brother? The thought was near laughable that a five-foot human girl would want to defend the honor of the mighty Guardian angel Alexander. But I knew just how she felt. I, too, wanted to defend his honor. He had given Abby a beautiful gift, and he would rather rip his own heart out than put her through this.

It’s wonderful to think of the fact that God can turn around a whole nation, a whole world, by using us. God uses simple things, you know that. He uses simple, mundane, everyday, routine, common things for the most amazing purposes. When He made man in the Garden, He didn’t use gold, silver, or even iron; He used dirt. That ought to give you an idea of how He works right from the start. When He called David to deliver Israel from the Philistines, He didn’t want Saul, the great king, and He didn’t want Saul’s massive armor. He used a shepherd and a couple of stones, that’s all. When He came into the world, He didn’t enter the family of the wealthy and noble, He didn’t find Himself born in a castle; He simply chose a peasant girl and a stable. When He chose the Twelve, He didn’t choose the elite, educated, and affluent. He just chose a group of ignorant Galileans. The Bible says, ‘Not many mighty, and not many noble.’ That’s the way it always has been, because God gets the greater glory in the humbleness of the one that He uses. So He uses us, grains of sand, to influence a corrupting world. (Pastor John MacArthur)   When did I start expecting to outgrow child-like reliance? At what age did I think I’d lose the desperation? When did I expect to be mighty and noble? Prestigious? Competent?   God uses the weak, the base, the foolish.   And praise God, I still qualify.

Shuffle A Dream You cruise around in your deluxe water craft And play and picking designer shades, don't deny class And the girls that you know want it mighty bad They want your kids in a row, they'll be lining up fast to your door So make a move, castle in the sky Pick and choose if you want him Would you share? 'Cause that's the deal, girl Trickling coins, making a noise Follow it blind, follow the signs Why would you want someone so vain? Stealing your soul, looking at rain You act supreme as your fortune lit the sky But it's a shell with a crack and you're just a plain guy Play a pill 'cause the world made it easy to I see the shimmering rocks moving closer to you to your door So make a move, castle in the sky Pick and choose if you want it, girl Could you share 'cause that's the deal now If you dare, so Trickling coins, making a noise Follow it blind, follow the signs Why would you want someone so vain? Stealing your soul, looking at rain Trickling coins, making a noise Follow it blind, follow the signs Why would you want someone so vain? Stealing your soul, looking at rain Trickling coins, making a noise Follow it blind, follow the signs

No, little girl, Nero can’t, and that’s a fact. I’m mighty sorry for it, too. If I could read enough to read a little in the Good Book, I’d feel mighty glad.” “The Good Book?” repeated Vira. “That’s the Bible, ain’t it?” “Yes, Missy, it’s the Bible; that’s the Good Book. Old Nero loves it, if I can’t read it, and I’m going to Heaven by it straight; I reckon I’ll know how to read it there. I suspect they’ll put an angel to work to teach me, soon as ever I get inside the golden gates.

These findings are especially damaging to Freud, because if Westermarck is right then Oedipal theory is wrong. Freud's thinking was premised on a supposed sexual attraction between members of the same family that needs to be suppressed and sublimated. His theory would predict that unrelated boys and girls who have grown up together will marry in absolute bliss, as there is no taboo standing in the way of their primal sexual desires. In reality, however, the signs are that such marriages often end in misery. Co-reared boys and girls resist being wed, arguing that they are too much like brother and sister. The father of the bride sometimes needs to stand with a stick by the door during the wedding night to prevent the two from escaping the situation. In these marriages, sexual indifference seems to be the rule, and adultery a common outlet. As Wolf exclaimed at the conference, Westermarck may have been less flamboyant, less self-assured, and less famous than any of his mighty opponents; the fundamental difference was that he was the only one who was right!

The angel of the Lord appeared to Gideon and said, “The Lord is with you, mighty warrior!” Judges 6:12

While her eyes traveled down its belly in an attempt to count how many teats it possessed, she was alarmed to learn, “Cerberus is a female?” ​Hermes nodded. “Only a mighty bitch can keep the innumerable souls of Hades in check.

Okay, ma love, the big stuff… ‘I can’t stand the thought that you’ll feel a day of pain in your life, or that you’ll come across people who won’t treat you well, but that’s life, m’darlin’. The important thing is that you spot them and ditch them and don’t look back. Everyone makes mistakes, so have some forgiveness for the folk you love, but if someone doesn’t see you for the incredible girl you are, and the mighty woman you’ll become, then cut them loose, because that’s the only way you’ll find the people who deserve you.

She turned back to Broadway and strolled past the fruit stands and the debris of collisions lying on the curbs, the broken pizza crusts of the city’s eaters in the streets, fruit peels and cores, a lost boot and a rotted tie, a woman sitting on the sidewalk combing her hair, the black boys ranting after a basketball, the implosion of causes and purposes she had once known and could no longer find the strength to call back from the quickly disappearing past. And Charles arm in arm with her here, walking imperturbably through it all with his hat flat straight on his head and his crimson muffler around his throat and whistling softly but so strongly the mighty main theme of Harold In Italy. Oh Death, oh Death, she said almost aloud, waiting on the corner for the light to change, and wondering at her fortune at having lived into beauty.

A PRAYER FOR ALL NATIONS Heavenly Father we come before your throne of grace with a humbled and a repented heart, help us Lord display your love, peace and unity to all creations in the name of Jesus. Father God all nations are in crisis and they are all hurting from all sorts of trails and tribulations right now. They are facing poverty, natural disasters, wars, viruses and diseases, hatred, witchcraft, killings of women and girls and the list goes on in the name of Jesus. Lord have mercy on us, forgive us and help us to reach out and touch the hem of your garment(Matthew 9:20-22) so we may be healed and delivered from the evil one in the mighty name of Jesus. Father God in the name of Jesus we pray for all governmental leaders and we ask you Lord to open their eyes to see you as the living God, the God of all nations and help them to believe the real truth and acknowledge your rulership. Give them wisdom and understanding of the importance of humanity and help them to follow the godly rulings. Fill their hearts with the spirit of compassion and kindness and fill every nation with peaceful hearts and minds in the name of Jesus. Heavenly Father help us to rise up as the body of Christ and be the natural love givers to the most unloved nations, peace makers to all nations and unifier supporters to the most divided nations and bring the Lordship of Jesus Christ in every nation. Father God we claim Genesis 12:2-3 for every nation on planet earth in the name of Jesus. 2’I will make you into a great nation. I will bless you and make you famous, and you will be a blessing to others. 3’I will bless those who bless you and curse those who treat you with contempt. All families on earth will be blessed through you’(NLT). Thank you Lord for your unconditional love, your faithfulness and your promises in the mighty name of Jesus amen. Your promises are YES and AMEN

Bella fell to her knees, clasping her hands in prayer. “Lord Kyros, mighty and great—fill my mind with your words and my soul with hate. You are the only God for which I yearn—please assure me of your return.

The question is of utmost importance both theoretically and practically, for the law—whatever it be—is a natural law—a law of human nature—a law of the time-binding energy of man. What is the law? We have already noted the law of arithmetical progression and the law of geometric progression; we have seen the immense difference between them; and we have seen that the natural law of human progress in each and every cardinal matter is a law like that of a rapidly increasing geometric progression. In other words, the natural law of human progress—the natural law of amelioration in human affairs—the fundamental law of human nature—the basic law of the time-binding energy [pg 090] peculiar to man—is a Logarithmic law—a law of logarithmic increase. I beg the reader not to let the term bewilder him but to make it his own. It is easy to understand; and its significance is mighty and everlasting. Even its mathematical formulation can be understood by boys and girls. Let us see how the formulation looks.

but if someone doesn’t see you for the incredible girl you are, and the mighty woman you’ll become, then cut them loose, because that’s the only way you’ll find the people who deserve you.

I can’t stand the thought that you’ll feel a day of pain in your life, or that you’ll come across people who won’t treat you well, but that’s life, m’darlin’. The important thing is that you spot them and ditch them and don’t look back. Everyone makes mistakes, so have some forgiveness for the folk you love, but if someone doesn’t see you for the incredible girl you are, and the mighty woman you’ll become, then cut them loose, because that’s the only way you’ll find the people who deserve you.

Several pills and a hot shower later, I felt well enough to go back to the party. To my surprise, the three girls were skinny-dipping in the rooftop swimming pool, while Johnny, wearing nothing but an apron, served them wine from a silver platter. “Ze white is a 1968 Chassagne-Montrachet,” he said in a cheesy accent plucked from the Mighty Carson Art Players, “and ze rhedd is a 1966 Pétrus.” I was impressed; that Pétrus went for $3,000 a bottle. “Come on, Henry,” Johnny shouted. “Take off your clothes! Join the fun!” Well, I

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" -Emma Lazarus

Do I look the sort of girl that’s always falling in love with every man she meets?” “You do not. You look the sort of girl that’s mighty often getting fallen in love with!

Hunt lifted his chin with a bravado he didn’t feel. “So let’s hear it. Your proposal for how we should ally with you to overthrow the Asteri and set you up as our new masters.” “Is that what you think will happen?” “Aidas already gave us a history lesson. Spare me.” The darkness rumbled with distant thunder. “You are foolish and arrogant.” “Takes one to know one, I suppose.” The darkness paused. “You are impertinent as well. Do you not know where I come from? My father was the Void, the Being That Existed Before. Chaos was his bride and my dam. It is to them that we shall all one day return, and their mighty powers that run in my blood.” “Fancy.” But Apollion said, “You’re wasting the gifts that were given to you.” Hunt drawled, “Oh, I think I’ve put them to good use.” “You don’t know a fraction of what you might do. You and the Starborn girl.” “Again, Quinlan got the whole ‘master your powers’ talk from Aidas today, and that was boring enough, so let’s not repeat it.” “Both of you would benefit from training. Your powers are more similar than you realize. Conduits, both of you. You have no idea how valuable you and the others like you are.” Hunt arched a brow. “Oh yeah?” The darkness rippled with displeasure. “If you are so dismissive of my assistance, perhaps I should send some … appetizers to test you and yours.” Hunt flared his wings slightly. “Why summon me? Just to give me this shove?” Apollion’s unholy essence whispered around him again. “The Northern Rift is groaning once more. I can smell war on the wind. I do not plan to lose this time.” “Well, I don’t plan to have a demon prince for my ruler, so find a new five-year goal.” A soft laugh. “You do amuse, Orion.” Hunt snarled, and his lightning sizzled in answer. “I take it we’re done here—” The seething darkness and those leathery wings vanished.

His Majesty needs a can-I girl anyway. And I’m not it.” “A can-I girl?” Andrea frowned. I leaned back. “ ‘ Can I fetch you your food, Your Majesty? Can I tell you how strong and mighty you are, Your Majesty? Can I pick out your fleas, Your Majesty? Can I kiss your ass, Your Majesty? Can I . . .” It dawned on me that Raphael was sitting very still. Frozen, like a statue, his gaze fixed on the point above my head. “He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?” Andrea nodded slowly. “Technically it should be ‘may I,’” Curran said, his voice deeper than I remembered. “Since you’re asking permission.

Humansoul and Dragonsoul stood atop their mountain, hand in paw, watching the advent of a storm. Vast battlements of cloud spread from horizon to horizon, rolling toward their mountain with majestic, unstoppable unconcern. This will be a mighty tempest, said her Dragoness. She spoke not of the now, but of the near future. The Human girl responded, We will stand together, my soul’s song. Strands of pink and mauve, white and gold, raven-dark and shimmering blue, wound together about her wrist and the paw that engulfed her hand. We are strongest together, undivided and indivisible, our soul in plurality forged adamantine. When you fly, I will be with you. When you sing, I shall be your song. When you triumph, my hand shall hold thy crown. For the longest time, Dragoness-Aranya could find no words to respond to Humansoul’s poetic outpouring of her heart. Then, she said in a breathless rush, Thou art the quintessential totality of my white-fires. We are strongest when you burn brightest, o my soul, and without thee, one fire-soul would ever live in Imbalance. Oddly, she understood herself perfectly. She was just not sure anyone else would.

You’re going to be mighty annoyed when Dora marries Billy,” Calamity said. “You’ll lope into town one day and find she’s gone to China or somewhere.” “Why, Dora wouldn’t marry that rooster,” Blue said. “What makes you think she won’t?” Calamity asked. “Well, what if she didn’t like China?” Blue said. “She’d be stuck.” “You’re married—are you stuck?” “I’m bogged, but I ain’t quite stuck yet,” Blue said with his winning grin. He looked up and saw Dora watching them from the head of the stairs. “There she is now—she still looks like my girl,” he said.

Rural Free Delivery (RFD) Home, upon that word drops the sunshine of beauty and the shadow of tender sorrows, the reflection of ten thousand voices and fond memories. This is a mighty fine old world after all if you make yourself think so. Look happy even if things are going against you— that will make others happy. Pretty soon all will be smiling and then there is no telling what can’t be done. Coca-Cola Girl Mother baked a fortune cake pale yellow icing, lemon drops round rim, hidden within treasures, a ring—you’ll be married, a button—stay a bachelor, a thimble—always a spinster, and a penny—you’re rich. Gee, but I am hungry. Wait a second, dear, until I pull my belt up another notch. There that’s better. So, you see, Hon, I am straighter than a string around a bundle. You ought to see my eye, it’s a peach. I am proud of it, looks like I’ve been kicked by a mule. You know, dear, that they can kick hard enough to knock all the soda out of a biscuit without breaking the crust Hogging Catfish This gives you a fighting chance. Noodle your right hand into their gills, hold on tight while you grunt him out of the water. This can be a real dogfight. Old river cat wants to go down deep, make you bottom feed. Like I said, boys, when you tell a whopper, say it like you believe it. Saturday Ritual My Granddad was a cobbler. We each owned two pairs of shoes, Sunday shoes and everyday shoes. When our Sunday shoes got worn they became our everyday shoes. Main Street Saturday Night We each were given a dime on Saturday opening a universe of possibilities. All the stores stayed open and people flocked into town. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds set up a popcorn stand on Reinheimer’s corner and soon after lighting a little stove, sounding like small firecrackers, popping began. Dad, laughing shooting the breeze with a group of farmers, drinking Coca Cola, finding out if any sheds needed to be built or barns repaired, discussing the price of next year’s seed, finding out who’s really working, who’s just looking busy. There is no object I wouldn’t give to relive my childhood growing up in Delavan— where everyone knew everyone— and joy came with but a dime. Market Day Jim Pittsford’s grocery smelled of bananas ripening and the coffee he ground by hand, wonderful smoked ham and bacon fresh sliced. He’d reward the child who came to pick up the purchase, with a large dill pickle Biking home, skillfully balancing Jim Pittsford’s bacon, J B’s tomatoes and peaches, while sniffing a tantalizing spice rising from fresh warm rolls, I nibbled my pickle reward.

Your friends have made you weak. Did they teach you how to cry like a babe at her mammy's side? Stranders don't cry, Maraly." "I'm not a Strander," she said, looking him in the eye. "Then I'll have to MAKE you one," Claxton barked. "You've got my blood in yer veins, girl, and nothin' can change that. You've got MY name written in yer bones, Maraly Weaver. You can go take yer bath and eat yer fancy food and giggle with yer friend, but you'll always know deep down that you were born in the mud of the Strand, along with the mud of the Blapp, and once that mud gets on you, NOTHIN' ever gets it off." Claxton seemed to know Maraly's deepest fear and was speaking it aloud. She had lain awake at night, fighting to believe that Gammon's fatherly love was real, that the change she had been feeling--the lightening of heart and the almost painful flashes of joy--was more than a silly girlish notion. She thought back to the day of the Battle of Kimera, when Gammon had looked her in the eye and held out his hand and asked if she would let him care for her. Even then something had bubbled up in the dry well of her soul, and over these last months she had felt that spring slowly fill her. With the coming of the warmer sun she had finally allowed herself to believe that the water was pure enough to drink--but every word Claxton spewed poisoned the water, darkened it, muddied it like the Mighty Blapp, and now she felt herself drowning in it. "I'm going to give you one last chance, girl. Either Claxton is yer father or Gammon is. Only one of those names is true to your nature. Answer carefully now. Who's your father?" Maraly shook her head and wept. She wished the Fangs would appear, or more Stranders--she had given up on wishing for Gammon. That sort of thing only happened in storybooks. "WHO'S YOUR FATHER?" Claxton bellowed. He struck her in the mouth. "You're a Strander down to the bone, girl! Who's your father? What do you think runs thicker than blood in your veins?" Maraly mumbled. "What?" Claxton shouted, clenching her throat tighter. She blinked through her tears and took a trembling breath, then looked him in the eye as fiercely as she could manage. "Love." "Love," Claxton sputtered. He snorted with laughter. Maraly sniffled and said, "Love runs stronger than blood. Deeper than any name you could give me." "You worthless dog," Claxton spat. He balled his fingers into a fist and reared back to strike. Maraly smiled through her tears. She knew she had chosen well, because she had BEEN chosen. She believed in her heart that Gammon was even now fighting to find her, that his affection was more real than the hand that gripped her throat and the first that was about to pound her. She closed her eyes and waited for the pain. But Claxton's blow never fell. He gasped and made a choking sound, and his grip on her neck loosened. Maraly crumpled to the ground, looking up at Claxton in confusion. He staggered backward and spun around, and she saw a knife in his back, buried to the hilt. "Maker help you, boy," said [Nurgabog's] thin, quavering voice. "Maker help me too.

Your friends have made you weak. Did they teach you how to cry like a babe at her mammy's side? Stranders don't cry, Maraly." "I'm not a Strander," she said, looking him in the eye. "Then I'll have to MAKE you one," Claxton barked. "You've got my blood in yer veins, girl, and nothin' can change that. You've got MY name written in yer bones, Maraly Weaver. You can go take yer bath and eat yer fancy food and giggle with yer friend, but you'll always know deep down that you were born in the mud of the Strand, along with the mud of the Blapp, and once that mud gets on you, NOTHIN' ever gets it off." Claxton seemed to know Maraly's deepest fear and was speaking it aloud. She had lain awake at night, fighting to believe that Gammon's fatherly love was real, that the change she had been feeling--the lightening of heart and the almost painful flashes of joy--was more than a silly girlish notion. She thought back to the day of the Battle of Kimera, when Gammon had looked her in the eye and held out his hand and asked if she would let him care for her. Even then something had bubbled up in the dry well of her soul, and over these last months she had felt that spring slowly fill her. With the coming of the warmer sun she had finally allowed herself to believe that the water was pure enough to drink--but every word Claxton spewed poisoned the water, darkened it, muddied it like the Mighty Blapp, and now she felt herself drowning in it. "I'm going to give you one last chance, girl. Either Claxton is yer father or Gammon is. Only one of those names is true to your nature. Answer carefully now. Who's your father?" Maraly shook her head and wept. She wished the Fangs would appear, or more Stranders--she had given up on wishing for Gammon. That sort of thing only happened in storybooks. "WHO'S YOUR FATHER?" Claxton bellowed. He struck her in the mouth. "You're a Strander down to the bone, girl! Who's your father? What do you think runs thicker than blood in your veins?" Maraly mumbled. "What?" Claxton shouted, clenching her throat tighter. She blinked through her tears and took a trembling breath, then looked him in the eye as fiercely as she could manage. "Love." "Love," Claxton sputtered. He snorted with laughter. Maraly sniffled and said, "Love runs stronger than blood. Deeper than any name you could give me." "You worthless dog," Claxton spat. He balled his fingers into a fist and reared back to strike. Maraly smiled through her tears. She knew she had chosen well, because she had BEEN chosen. She believed in her heart that Gammon was even now fighting to find her, that his affection was more real than the hand that gripped her throat and the first that was about to pound her. She closed her eyes and waited for the pain. But Claxton's blow never fell. He gasped and made a choking sound, and his grip on her neck loosened. Maraly crumpled to the ground, looking up at Claxton in confusion. He staggered backward and spun around, and she saw a knife in his back, buried to the hilt. "Maker help you, boy," said [Nurgabog's] thin, quavering voice. "Maker help me too.

One of the core dysfunctions of straight culture—and a centerpiece of my analysis—is the misogyny paradox, wherein boys’ and men’s desire for girls and women is expressed within a broader culture that encourages them to also hate girls and women. If you have experienced life as a girl or woman, you know the misogyny paradox all too well. Men shout “compliments” about girls’ and women’s bodies on public streets (“You are looking mighty fine today!” or “You’re a beautiful woman. Why don’t you smile?”) and then, a moment later, when they are not met with a response, hurl violent and misogynistic threats (“Fuck you bitch!”).70 Young boys cannot wait to have sex with girls, and once they do, many describe girls’ bodies in the most abject terms possible, seemingly disgusted by their very objects of desire.71 Men love women’s bodies, we are told, but only after women spend an inordinate amount of time whipping their bodies into a lovable shape—by dieting, shaving, waxing, dying, perfuming, covering with makeup, douching, and starving them.

The imperial hag had the good sense to look nervous. “Then why are you here?” Lidia smirked at Irithys. “To warm you up.” The Sprite Queen caught her meaning, and simmered into a deep, threatening red. But the hag let out a hacking laugh. She still wore her imperial uniform, the crest of the Republic frayed over her sagging breasts. “I’ve got nothing to tell you, Lidia.” Lidia crossed one leg over the other. “We’ll see.” Hilde hissed, “You think yourself so mighty, so untouchable.” “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll have your revenge?” “I knew your mother, girl,” the hag snapped. Lidia had enough training and self-control to keep her face blank, tone utterly bored. “My mother was a witch-queen. Plenty of people knew her.” “Ah, but I knew her—flew in her unit in our fighting days.” Lidia angled her head. “Before or after you sold your soul to Flame and Shadow?” “I swore allegiance to Flame and Shadow because of your mother. Because she was weak and spineless and had no taste for punishment.

Reverend Conant was quite the orator himself, and I sat on the pews of the First Congregational Church with the Thomases and listened to him preach. He believed every word he said. In a way, he radicalized me too, if faith can be called radical. I’ve come to think it might be the most rebellious thing of all. I don’t know why Reverend Conant cared about my learning or my happiness, but he did, and it was because of him—a man who loved God and loved me, two ends of the mighty spectrum—that I began to see what a father’s love looked like. To him I was simply Deborah, worthy of expectation and affection, and the things that mattered to him came to matter deeply to me. “You must continue with your memorization. I have known no greater comfort in my life than to be able to call upon God’s words when I am at a loss for my own,

It is the need for love that puts a measure of equality between all beings on this mighty Earth.

What people are saying about WAR EAGLES ​5 out of 5 stars! WW2 with a dash of fantasy! I really enjoyed stepping back in time as the race for air travel was developing. One could truly feel the passion these pilots and engineers had for these magnificent machines. The twist of stepping back into a land of Vikings and dinosaurs was very well executed. Well done to both the author and the narrator. ​ Reminiscent of Golden Age Sci Fi This audio book reminded me of some of the 40's and 50's era tales, but what it happens to be is an alternative timeline World War II era fun adventure story. Think of a weird mash-up of a screw-up Captain America wanna-be mixed with the Land of the Lost mixed with Avatar where Hitler is the real villain and you might come close. At any rate, it's load of good fun and non stop action. But don't get distracted for a minute or you'll miss something! There are american pilots, Polish spies, Vikings, giant prehistoric eagles and, of course, Nazis! What more could you ask for to while away an afternoon? Our hero even gets the (Viking) girl! Put your feet up an get lost in what might have been.... 4 out of 5 stars! it's Amelia Earnhart meets WWII This is not an accurate historical fiction book, but rather an action-packed book set an historical time. I normally listen to my books at a higher speed, however the amount of drama and action in this book I had to slow it down. I like the storyline and the narrator however, the sound effects throughout the book did kind of throw me since I'm not used to that and most audible books. still I would recommend this is a good read.​ 5 out of 5 stars! I Would Like to See this on the Silver Screen Back in the late 1930s, the director of King Kong started planning War Eagles as his next block buster film. Then World War II intervened and the project languished for decades. It helps to know this background to fully appreciate this novel. It’s a big cinematic adventure waiting to find the screen. The heroes are larger than life, but more importantly, the images are bigger and more vivid than the mighty King Kong who reinvented the silver screen. And what are those images you may ask? Nazis developing super-science weapons for a sneak attack on America, Viking warriors riding gargantuan eagles in a time-forgotten land of dinosaurs, and of course, those same Vikings fighting Nazis over the skyline of New York City. This book is a heck of a lot of fun. It starts a little bit slow but once the Vikings enter the story it chugs along at a heroic pace. There is a ton of action and colorful confrontations. Narrator William L. Hahn pulls out all the stops adding theatrical sound effects to his wide repertoire of voices which adds a completely appropriate cinematic feel to the entire story. If you’re looking for some genuinely heroic fantasy, you should try War Eagles. Wonderful story War Eagles is a really good adventure story. ​5 out of 5 stars!

For the One Jesus gave His life for me, He took away my pain, He made beat this heart of mine So I could love again. In return I asked Him What I could give away, He showed me things That break His heart, And then I heard Him say. Just stop for the one, Until My kingdom comes, From the smallest seed, Comes a mighty tree. When you just stop for the one. He showed me orphans on the street, Their faces full of fear, Always hungry, always cold, Always death is near. Girls in flimsy dresses, Watching men drive past, Trading on their kisses, Every kiss their last. He said... Just stop for the one, Until My kingdom comes, From the smallest seed, Comes a mighty tree. When you just stop for the one. I saw boys without a purpose Become men before their time. Every day a little worse, Driven into crime. Drugs to ease the sorrow, Never kill the pain, Peace lasts ’til tomorrow, Then it all starts up again. Jesus stopped for children And the thief on Calvary, For the woman at the water well, And then He stopped for me. He said go love another, Until the battle’s done, In this world you will have trouble, But victory shall come. He said... Just stop for the one, Until My kingdom comes, From the smallest seed Comes a mighty tree. Just stop for the one, Until My will is done Here on earth, As you just ... stop ... for ... the ... one. (Claire Vorster, 2012)

Speakin' of the Jones an' Plummer trail, I once hears a dance-hall girl who volunteers some songs over in a Tucson hurdygurdy, an' that maiden sort o' dims my sights some. First, she gives us The Dying Ranger, the same bein' enough of itse'f to start a sob or two; speshul when folks is, as Colonel Sterett says, 'a leetle drinkin'.' Then when the public clamours for more she sings something which begins: "'Thar's many a boy who once follows the herds,     On the Jones an' Plummer trail;   Some dies of drink an' some of lead,   An' some over kyards, an' none in bed;   But they're dead game sports, so with naught but good words,     We gives 'em "Farewell an' hail."' "Son, this sonnet brings down mem'ries; and they so stirs me I has to vamos that hurdygurdy to keep my emotions from stampedin' into tears. Shore, thar's soft spots in me the same as in oilier gents; an' that melody a-makin' of references to the old Jones an' Plummer days comes mighty clost to meltin' everything about me but my guns an' spurs.

Katriona never liked being touched, but touching sometimes felt like another thing entirely. When she slipped her hand into Anthea's, she was startled by the sheer aliveness of the other girl's soul - like green fire, or the heartbeat of a mighty tree - and she was startled, too, by how right it felt to be near her.

The soldier who raped Danita has returned many times. It doesn’t look like rape anymore. When he’s done eating our food, Danita walks up the stairs ahead of him with mock complicity. Danita the Mighty. Danita the Merciless. She made a deal, she told me, but I’m not to say a word to our sisters or Mamá. “It’s just sex, and he’s promised me he’ll keep the others off Oneila’s girls. They’re too young. They’d never recover. At least he’s not violent.

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On that day, in jungle hamlets and mountain villages, in cacophonous slums and sprawling refugee camps, on worn concrete floors and under roofs thatched of rice straw and banana leaves, in clay brick homes, on rutted, red dirt roads, and on scorching swaths of sand, children cried and screamed and sang and giggled and toddled and ran and fell and got back up and climbed on their mothers' laps and pulled their siblings' hair and gazed out in wonder at the big, bright world that swirled around them. Millions of boys and girls whose lives were reclaimed whose stories were allowed to continue, who were not mourned or grieved or buried, but instead were loved and held and fretted over and scolded and prepared for the challenges of living, of surviving, all because of a man they had never met and whose name they would likely never know.

I thank you for that, Loretta. It was mighty fine, and even if you don’t never marry me, I’ll have it to remember.” He gave her a little push toward the door. “You git on back in the house now.” As revolting as she had found the kiss, Loretta hesitated. At times, her silence rose around her like a wall. “I’ll be careful, and there’s no need for thanks.” He flashed a grin. “Don’t stand there lookin’ silly. You only think you can’t talk, girl. Them there eyes of yours never shut up. Now, go on, git. I can’t leave with you standin’ out here.” In a swirl of skirts, she turned back and hugged his neck, surprising herself as much as him. Before she lost her nerve, she kissed his cheek. Then she dashed into the house, her heart pounding like a kettledrum. Through the door cracks, she heard Tom chuckle. She swiped the back of her hand across her lips to get rid of the tobacco taste. Only then could she smile.

His Majesty needs a can-I girl anyway. And I’m not it.” “A can-I girl?” Andrea frowned. I leaned back. “ ‘ Can I fetch you your food, Your Majesty? Can I tell you how strong and mighty you are, Your Majesty? Can I pick out your fleas, Your Majesty? Can I kiss your ass, Your Majesty? Can I . . .” It dawned on me that Raphael was sitting very still. Frozen, like a statue, his gaze fixed on the point above my head. “He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?” Andrea nodded slowly. “Technically it should be

Mrs. Brown, I hurried over as soon as I heard..." Ollie Clark ducked through the low front door and removed his hat as he noticed Lily sitting in the old rocker she had brought with her from Mississippi. His gaze stopped at the child at her feet. "Come in, Mr. Clark, have a seat. You've had word of Jim?" Lily’s breath caught in her lungs as she waited for the words she didn't want to hear. Ollie took the overlarge wing chair that had once decorated a bedroom parlor and wrung his hat between his hands. "No, ma'am, I didn't mean to get your hopes up none. I was talkin' 'bout Cade. The boys were just funnin' about him the other day. He's a drunken half-breed, Mrs. Brown. You don't want the likes of him about the place. Let me explain things to him and send him on his way. It ain't right for a respectable lady like yourself to have to deal with a man like that." "I can't dismiss a man without giving him a chance, Mr. Clark. Even drunk, he's showed more sense than some sober men I could name. If Colonel Martin could use him, I don't see why I can't." He took a deep breath. "He ain't even white, Lily. You'll give me permission to call you Lily?" When she didn't reply, Ollie hurried on. "He's half-Indian, half-Mexican. You'd be better off hiring one of your father's slaves. At least they listen when you whip them. Cade's more likely to turn and kill you. He's done it before. You've got to get him out of here." Ollie was speaking sense from his own point of view. Beneath his placid exterior. Cade undoubtedly had a violent temper. Lily had seen evidence of that already. And Ralph had told her he'd been in prison for killing another man. So Ollie was speaking the truth, but only one side of the truth. Lily knew all about that kind of lie. "I'll give Cade his chance, Mr. Clark. Jim would want it that way." Lily watched gleefully as she used this two-edged sword to make Clark squirm. How many times had she resentfully heard those words when the men wouldn't listen to her? Clark scowled and rose. "Jim wouldn't have taken on a drunken Indian. I'll set about finding you a decent man to help out. You'll be needing him soon enough." He gave the child on the floor another glance, one of puzzlement, but he didn't ask the question that obviously was on his mind. And Lily didn't answer it. Sweetly, she held out her hand and offered her best Southern-belle smile. "I'm so grateful for your concern, Mr. Clark. Please do come and visit sometime. Perhaps you could bring Miss Bridgewater. I'd be happy for the company." The name of the young girl whom the town gossip had Clark courting only brought a milder frown to his handsome face. "That's mighty kind of you, Mrs. Brown. I hope you hear from Jim soon." Lily watched him go with a sigh of relief and a small sense of triumph. She didn't know why Ollie Clark was suddenly so all-fired concerned with her welfare, but surely she had set him properly in his place. Now,

Part 1. My Life Story. - If I can do it, so can you- I was born and lived in one of the most oldest and most beautiful cities in Albania. for 23 years I lived under the communist regime, where everyone was poor, there was no rich people beside the Elite group who dictate the country. Since I was little girl I dreamed of fairy tale life. But for some reason no one was supportive of my dreams. It looked like they were enjoying watching us living in poverty and keep our heads down, for instance I remember when I was in 5th grade I told my literature teacher "When I get older I want to be a beautician." With a smire on her face she said "You are going to be just like your mother, keep having kids in a row" At that time I did not understood what she meant, but I did not expected that answer from an "educated" person, especially your teacher. As I got older I started to isolate myself from all the negative people until one day I asked my uncle to help me to get in a beauty college, he knew people in town that's why, I did not wanted to believe he respond. Even today I can hear his words whisper in my ears, telling me "Beauty college is not for poor children, education is only for rich kids" But that did not stopped me either, I told myself "No one can tell me what I can and can't do" They just motivated me to prove them wrong. Poor children can go to college. So I decided to make a very big move my that would either end it my life or could change my life for ever. Sep 2, 1990 I had it enough of that hell place, communist regime and all the negative people.I decided to leave everyone behind me and move forward in life, I decided to escape the communist and followed my dreams. I was also escaped from army who was chasing to kill us, but mighty God was with us. We made the local news saying "Two young girls were killed today by army forces escaping the borders" but I made it alive to Yugoslavia, I spend almost seven months there in concentration camp. There I meet the love of my life also, we dated for five months, until his visa was approved to come in US, two months later I come to state on March of 1991. New place, new chapter in my life, two weeks later got united, neither of us spoke English, it was very hard to find jobs, we manage to get a job in a local restaurant as a dishwasher and me as a bustable, at that time I was very I found a happy, so I did it with smile on my face. We were living at my husband's cousins unfinished basement. Yes we were sharing a single / twin size bed, we had to saved money so we can get our own apartment, we had nothing insite site. I remember when the manager showed us the appartment, it was green shaggy carpet, I told my husband. "Honey the carpet is thick enough, we don't need mattress to sleep on it, we can sleep on the carpet" later on a co-worker give us some household stuff to start our life with. Later that year our 1st child /daughter was born, two months later we get married in a local Albania church. Life was getting way better than living under the communist regime, later on we have two more children. We decided to bring my parents here so they can help us, I can get back to work or go to school . On April 1, 1998 my father come, we picked him at airport, with tears on his eye he was looking the street lights outside of the car window and said, "America is beautiful country, is land of dreams,....when I die please bury me here and not in Albania" By that time have I learning enough English to continued my education. I went to beauty school. two years later I graduated and got the state license. Yahhhh my dreams start coming true, remember I told you I always wanted to be a beautician. I found a job in a local salon, couple months later I was promoted to a salon manager. I did it for me and not for them who did not believed on me, As I said " I never cared

Part 1. My Life Story. - If I can do it, so can you- I was born and lived in one of the most oldest and most beautiful cities in Albania. for 23 years I lived under the communist regime, where everyone was poor, there was no rich people beside the Elite group who dictate the country. Since I was little girl I dreamed of fairy tale life. But for some reason no one was supportive of my dreams. It looked like they were enjoying watching us living in poverty and keep our heads down, for instance I remember when I was in 5th grade I told my literature teacher "When I get older I want to be a beautician." With a smire on her face she said "You are going to be just like your mother, keep having kids in a row" At that time I did not understood what she meant, but I did not expected that answer from an "educated" person, especially your teacher. As I got older I started to isolate myself from all the negative people until one day I asked my uncle to help me to get in a beauty college, he knew people in town that's why, I did not wanted to believe he respond. Even today I can hear his words whisper in my ears, telling me "Beauty college is not for poor children, education is only for rich kids" But that did not stopped me either, I told myself "No one can tell me what I can and can't do" They just motivated me to prove them wrong. Poor children can go to college. So I decided to make a very big move my that would either end it my life or could change my life for ever. Sep 2, 1990 I had it enough of that hell place, communist regime and all the negative people.I decided to leave everyone behind me and move forward in life, I decided to escape the communist and followed my dreams. I was also escaped from army who was chasing to kill us, but mighty God was with us. We made the local news saying "Two young girls were killed today by army forces escaping the borders" but I made it alive to Yugoslavia, I spend almost seven months there in concentration camp. There I meet the love of my life also, we dated for five months, until his visa was approved to come in US, two months later I come to state on March of 1991. New place, new chapter in my life, two weeks later got united, neither of us spoke English, it was very hard to find jobs, we manage to get a job in a local restaurant as a dishwasher and me as a bustable, at that time I was very I found a happy, so I did it with smile on my face. We were living at my husband's cousins unfinished basement. Yes we were sharing a single / twin size bed, we had to saved money so we can get our own apartment, we had nothing insite site. I remember when the manager showed us the appartment, it was green shaggy carpet, I told my husband. "Honey the carpet is thick enough, we don't need mattress to sleep on it, we can sleep on the carpet" later on a co-worker give us some household stuff to start our life with. Later that year our 1st child /daughter was born, two months later we get married in a local Albania church. Life was getting way better than living under the communist regime, later on we have two more children. We decided to bring my parents here so they can help us, I can get back to work or go to school . On April 1, 1998 my father come, we picked him at airport, with tears on his eye he was looking the street lights outside of the car window and said, "America is beautiful country, is land of dreams,....when I die please bury me here and not in Albania" By that time have I learning enough English to continued my education. I went to beauty school. two years later I graduated and got the state license. Yahhhh my dreams start coming true, remember I told you I always wanted to be a beautician. I found a job in a local salon, couple months later I was promoted to a salon manager. I did it for me and not for them who did not believed on me, As I said " I never cared

Charles ... How much younger I was when I knew you," she whispered to his painted likeness. She looked down at it, trying to find the right words. "I was an impressionable girl and you, a god on a mighty charger, resplendent in officer's dress, all glitter and gold. I was so enamored of you — but I know now that we would never have been happy together. We were too much alike — both too serious, too practical, too … cautious, perhaps. You were right for me then, and I shall never, ever forget you — but it's your brother who's right for me now." She swallowed, hard. "I hope you don't mind what I have done," she added, as she gazed down into those blue, blue eyes. "But I know you wouldn't have wanted me to be unhappy." There

I’ve only ever loved one girl, Tru—and that’s you. It’s always been you. I loved you from the moment I knew how to love.” My eyes fill with

And when our kids grow up and ask about the story of Mummy and Daddy—how we met and how the Mighty Storm came to be—I’ll sit them down and tell them the story of how, once upon a long time ago, in Manchester, a girl moved next door to a boy…

Don’t sneak out tonight, okay? Just stay put.” “That is mighty presumptuous of you,” she said, taken aback. “I don’t mean with me. I mean with anybody. Please just stay in your room tonight, okay?” “I don’t have any intention of doing anything else, thank you very much. What kind of girl do you think I am?” “I think you’re the kind of girl who just told me she puts soap on her window so she can sneak out at night.” “Why, I never!” Mary said. She slid across the seat, opened the car door, and disappeared up the walk in a huff.

He has the look of one with a mighty mind, whose thoughts spin hidden beneath the impassive surface.

A girl is only happy when she believes that she is the sole occupant of your heart. It is a little nest of fantasy that each woman weaves for herself, never realizing that she roosts in the branches of a mighty oak, strong enough and broad enough to shelter many such little nests.

No more pet videos for you. You go finish your book.” I start to shove her out of the bed, and Kitty grabs on to my leg. “Sweet my sister, cast me not away!” Proudly she says, “That’s Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, in case you haven’t read it.” “Don’t act high and mighty like you were reading Shakespeare. I saw you watching the movie on TV the other day.” “Who cares if I read it or I saw the movie? The message is still the same.” Kitty crawls back up by me. I pat her hair. “So what’s the message?” “Don’t kill yourself over a boy.” “Or a girl.” “Or a girl,” she agrees.

God Tends to Select the Lowliest to Lead. The world selects leaders according to perceived competence. God selects His representatives by character. He delights to seek out the humblest and lowest and by their elevation to glorify Himself. A humble teenage girl said it best: “He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their thrones and exalted the lowly” (Luke 1:51–52). We stand with Mary and magnify the Lord, rejoicing in God our Savior. He has done all things well, even setting up surprising people to lead us.

After Princess Nehemia was assassinated, they say a slave girl killed her overseer and sparked an uprising. The slaves seized the camp.” He took a shallow breath. “The King of Adarlan sent two legions to get the slaves under control. And they killed them all.” “The slaves killed his legions?” A push of breath. There were thousands of slaves in Calaculla—all of them together would be a mighty force, even for two of Adarlan’s legions. With horrific gentleness, Rowan grasped her hand. “No. The soldiers killed every slave in Calaculla.