Misheard Quotes

In love, as in life, one misheard word can be tremendously important. If you tell someone you love them, for instance, you must be absolutely certain that they have replied "I love you back" and not "I love your back" before you continue the conversation.

A promise is a gift and a gift is a symbol of a social relationship. The donor is aware that it creates a link and the recipient identifies it as a mutual bond. A gift, however, is tangible and a promise is not. Eventually, a promise can be expounded as misunderstood, or misheard or it is simply over and done. If misheard, the social bond is to be put into question. If forgotten, it can be reminded but this is embarrassing. If elapsed, it is one of those broken promises that infest countless relationships. ( "Promised me a breeze of freedom" )

Thus, from admiration of one wise and innocent child, and from a misheard remark, the process that not even Aristotle could codify was triggered. Where do you get your ideas? I purposely mishear things.

Hodge says he's on his way and he hopes you can both manage to cling to your flickering sparks of life until he gets here," she told Simon and Jace. "Or something like that." "I wish he'd hurry," Jace said crossly. He was sitting up in bed against a pair of fluffed white pillows, still wearing his filthy clothes. "Why? Does it hurt?" Clary asked. "No. I have a high pain threshold. In fact, it's less of a threshold and more of a large and tastefully decorated foyer. But I do get easily bored." He squinted at her. "Do you remember back at the hotel when you promised that if we lived, you'd get dressed up in a nurse's outfit and give me a sponge bath?" "Actually, I think you misheard," Clary said. "It was Simon who promised you the sponge bath." Jace looked involuntarily over at Simon, who smiled at him widely. "As soon as I'm back on my feet, handsome.

Are you Magnificent Bane?" "Sure," said Magnus. "Let's go with that.

Colin's chuckles grew more heartfelt. "You really ought to have more faith in your favorite brother, dear sis." "He’s your favorite brother?" Simon asked, one dark brow raised in disbelief. "Only because Gregory put a toad in my bed last night," Daphne bit off, "and Benedict's standing has never recovered from the time he beheaded my favorite doll." "Makes me wonder what Anthony's done to deny him even an honorable mention," Colin murmured. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Daphne asked pointedly. Colin shrugged. "Not really." "Didn't," she asked through clenched teeth, "you just tell me you promised a dance to Prudence Featherington?" "Gads, no. You must have misheard." "Perhaps Mother is looking for you, then. In fact, I'm certain I hear her calling your name." Colin grinned at her discomfort. "You're not supposed to be so obvious," he said in a stage whisper, purposely loud enough for Simon to hear. "He'll figure out that you like him." Simon's entire body jerked with barely contained mirth. "It's not his company I'm trying to secure," Daphne said acidly. "It's yours I'm trying to avoid." Colin clapped a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Daff." He turned to Simon. "Oh, how she wounds me." "You missed your calling, Bridgerton," Simon said genially. "You should have been on the stage." "An interesting idea," Colin replied, "but one that would surely give my mother the vapors." His eyes lit up. "Now that's an idea. And just when the party was growing tedious. Good eve to you both." He executed a smart bow and walked off.

My eyes had been closed for a few minutes when he said it: "I love you," he muttered, so quiet, like a prayer whispered into my neck. "Hmm?" I was nearly asleep myself, edges blurring; I was one hundred percent sure I'd misheard. "I love you." He said it again, clearer this time, right into my ear, breath tickling. I felt like a hydrogen bomb. I tried to be very still, but I knew he could feel my entire body tensing, a runner ready to begin a race -- Get set-- Go. I opened my mouth, shut it again. Oh God. I did love him, is the awfulness of it. I'd loved Sawyer since the seventh grade, when Allie and I began keeping a list of the places we spotted him. I loved his quick, blistered musician hands and the honest soul he kept hidden safe under all his bravado, and I loved how I was still, every day, learning him. I loved his silly, secret goofy side and the way he had of making me feel like I was a tall tree, just from the way he looked at my face. I loved Sawyer LeGrande so much that sometimes I couldn't sit still for the fullness of it, but when I opened up my mouth to tell him so, nothing came out. I could do anything for him, I realized suddenly. I could give him anything. But not that. If I said that to him, I knew I could never get it back. "Go to sleep," I whispered, and he didn't say it again.

Laurel wondered whether perhaps a person reached an age when so much was kept from them, so many details of life discussed and decided elsewhere,misheard or misunderstood, that to be surprised was no longer disconcerting.

Zeus rolled his eyes. "A dimwitted god, apparently. But yes. With the consensus of the entire Council, I can make you immortal. Then I will have to put up with you forever." "Hmm," Ares mused. "That means I can smash him to a pulp as often as I want, and he'll just keep coming back for more. I like this idea." "I approve as well," Athena said, though she was looking at Annabeth. I glanced back. Annabeth was trying not to meet my eyes. Her face was pale. I flashed back to two years ago, when I'd thought she was going to take the pledge to Artemis and become a Hunter. I'd been on the edge of a panic attack, thinking that I'd lose her. Now, she looked pretty much the same way. I thought about the Three Fates, and the way I'd seen my life flash by. I could avoid all that. No aging, no death, no body in the grave. I could be a teenager forever, in top condition, powerful, and immortal, serving my father. I could have power and eternal life. Who could refuse that? Then I looked at Annabeth again. I thought about my friends from camp: Charles Beckendorf, Michael Yew, Silena Beauregard, so many others who were now dead. I thought about Ethan Nakamura and Luke. And I knew what to do. "No," I said. The Council was silent. The gods frowned at each other like they must have misheard. "No?" Zeus said. "You are . . . turning down our generous gift?" There was a dangerous edge to his voice, like a thunderstorm about to erupt. "I'm honored and everything," I said. "Don't get me wrong. It's just . . . I've got a lot of life left to live. I'd hate to peak in my sophomore year." The gods were glaring at me, but Annabeth had her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were shining. And that kind of made up for it.

Lena.” Alex’s voice is stronger, more forceful now, and it finally stops me. He turns so that we’re face-to-face. At that moment my shoes skim off the sand bottom, and I realize that the water is lapping up to my neck. The tide is coming in fast. “Listen to me. I’m not who—I’m not who you think I am.” I have to fight to stand. All of a sudden the currents tug and pull at me. It’s always seemed this way. The tide goes out a slow drain, comes back in a rush. “What do you mean?” His eyes—shifting gold, amber, an animal’s eyes—search my face, and without knowing why, I’m scared again. “I was never cured,” he says. For a moment I close my eyes and imagine I’ve misheard him, imagine I’ve only confused the shushing of the waves for his voice. But when I open my eyes he’s still standing there, staring at me, looking guilty and something else—sad, maybe?—and I know I heard correctly. He says, “I never had the procedure.” “You mean it didn’t work?” I say. My body is tingling, going numb, and I realize then how cold it is. “You had the procedure and it didn’t work? Like what happened to my mom?” “No, Lena. I—” He looks away, squinting, says under his breath, “I don’t know how to explain.

Lobsters," Aithinne says again, just in case I misheard her, and I rather hoped I had. "I hear they're biologically immortal," she explains, "and exempt from greed. And they're funny looking, so I've decided they're my favorite... what do you think of a lobster for a pet?" Aithinne asks suddenly, as if she's thought long and hard about this.

How can a person expect to escape their destiny, Merry? That is the question." A silence, then a small, practical voice. "There's always the train, I guess." Juniper thought at first she'd misheard; she glanced at Meredith and realized that the child was completely serious. "I mean, there are buses, too, but I think the train would be faster. A smoother ride, as well.

Was it more obscene to say it, to write it, or to set it in type? On the breath it could taken by a breeze or crowded out by chatter; it could be misheard or ignored. On the page it was a real thing. It had been caught and pinned to a board, its letters spread in a particular way so that anyone who saw it would know what it was.

Where is he living?” “With you.” The room fell silent. Rosalind thought she had misheard. “I beg your pardon?” “Sorry, did I skip that part? You’re getting married. For this mission, the two of you will be abandoning your present code names and becoming one combined operative. Welcome to the covert branch, High Tide.

Just got to fnafflebrump caddwallame, all right?" Edie says, and no one pays attention. She learned at Lady Gravely's that nonsense which can be misheard is a very good way to lie without getting caught. People just insert whatever they think you must be doing, and - having lied to themselves on your behalf - are disinclined to check up on you.

Blue. My name is Blue Sargent." "Blair?" "Blue." "Blaize?" Blue sighed. "Jane." "Oh, Jane! I thought you were saying Blue for some reason. It's nice to meet you, Jane.

Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered, sibilant similes and promises sotto voce. It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,

I wondered if I'd misheard him, if I'd imagined things, if it was ever possible to outgrow the person you'd been raised to believe you were. Or if I was stuck with her forever.

My love...you were insolent to a dragon? Please tell me that I misheard you just now.

Where's your dog?" Peter's voice came from within the gushing stream of water. Justin thought he must have misheard. "Pardon?" "Your dog." "Yes?" "Isn't he with you today?" Justin looked at Peter. "Ha bloody ha." Peter stuck his head out of the stream of water, features dripping. He smiled shyly. "I love greyhounds." Justin stared. "My dog is imaginary." "Oh." Peter looked interested. "That's unusual." Justin put his head under the water. When he emerged, Peter was still looking at him. "Less work," Peter offered, cheerily. "If the dog's imaginary, I mean. Not so much grooming, feeding, et cetera.

And for the record, I already know how you feel about fire, so you don’t have to be mad that I’ve witnessed one of your weaknesses. We all have them, you know.’ He turned to look at me, his face completely expressionless. I tensed, waiting for a scathing response, but he mumbled something and looked away. I left the smithy and headed toward the kitchen to help Brother Peele with dinner preparations, still puzzling over his parting remark. I must have misheard him. It almost sounded like he’d said, I fear you are becoming one of mine.

Here is how to sit through small openings of your father’s first art films, surrounded by surly foreign cigarette smoke and conversations so pretentious you literally cannot believe them, you’re sure you have misheard them.

Epiphanies are hidden in the most ordinary of moments: the casting of a shadow, the smell of a match igniting, an unusual phrase overheard or misheard. A dedication to the practice of showing up on a regular basis is the main requirement. [for inspiration]

„I went among the pilgrims this morning.“ Nikolai‘s head snapped up. In an instant, the easygoing prince had vanished. „I think I must have misheard you.“ „I‘m fine.“ „She was almost killed,“ said Tamar. „But I wasn‘t,“ I added. „Are you completely out of your mind?“Nikolai asked. „Those people are fanatics.“ He turned on Tamar. „How could you let her do something like that?“ „I didn‘t,“ said Tamar. „Tell me you didn‘t go alone,“ he said to me. „I didn‘t go alone.“ „She went alone.“ „Tamar, shut up. Nikolai, I told you, I‘m fine.

Your eyes were black. I don’t know how, but you were hurt in some way. And you were going to let him take you. What if you couldn’t get free?” “I would’ve found a… a way to…” Verakko’s words stuttered out as her words finally registered. “My eyes?” The world around him slammed to a halt, the thunderous pounding in his chest freezing as though even his heart feared he’d misheard her. I recognized her? She’s mine.

Harry, yours is OK except for this bit at the end, I think you must have misheard Professor Sinistra, Europa’s covered in ice, not mice

I’m a virgin.” I blinked, shocked, unsure I heard her correctly. But when she stared up at me unwavering, sorrow and shame coloring her cheeks, I knew I hadn’t misheard.

Try eons fighting over misinterpreted messages, centuries of killing for words misheard, and then you will understand what it means to have blood on your hands.” Hermes

You have no idea how an original text can be twisted though the years, only because someone misheard or misremembered the original story.

He agreed so quickly to this, I was sure he'd misheard my request and thought we were marching off to a mildly incestuous four-way.

Elizabeth, my dear, yes, I slept, ahh…quite well, and, um…I hope you did too?” Elizabeth dropped the spoon she had just lifted. Did he say my name? My dear? I obviously misheard him.

Tom looked at St. Vincent. “I assume the editor at the Chronicle refused to divulge the writer’s identity?” St. Vincent looked rueful. “Categorically. I’ll have to find a way to pry it out of him without bringing the entire British press to his defense.” “Yes,” Tom mused, tapping his lower lip with a fingertip, “they tend to be so touchy about protecting their sources.” “Trenear,” Lord Ripon said through gritted teeth, “will you kindly throw him out?” “I’ll see myself out,” Tom said casually. He turned as if to leave, and paused as if something had just occurred to him. “Although … as your friend, Trenear, I find it disappointing that you haven’t asked about my day. It makes me feel as if you don’t care.” Before Devon could respond, Pandora jumped in. “I will,” she volunteered eagerly. “How was your day, Mr. Severin?” Tom sent her a brief grin. “Busy. After six tedious hours of business negotiations, I paid a call to the chief editor of the London Chronicle.” St. Vincent lifted his brows. “After I’d already met with him?” Trying to look repentant, Tom replied, “I know you said not to. But I had a bit of leverage you didn’t.” “Oh?” “I told him the paper’s owner would dismiss him and toss him out on the pavement if he didn’t name the anonymous writer.” St. Vincent stared at him quizzically. “You bluffed?” “No, that is what the business negotiations were about. I’m the new owner. And while the chief editor happens to be a staunch advocate for freedom of the press, he’s also a staunch supporter of not losing his job.” “You just bought the London Chronicle,” Devon said slowly, to make certain he hadn’t misheard. “Today.” “No one could do that in less than a day,” Ripon sneered. Winterborne smiled slightly. “He could,” he said, with a nod toward Tom. “I did,” Tom confirmed, picking idly at a bit of lint on his cuff. “All it took was a preliminary purchase agreement and some earnest money.

Let me introduce you. These are my friends: Ronan, Adam Parrish, and Jane." Adam's expression focused. Became Adam-like. He blinked over to Gansey. "Blue," Blue corrected. "Oh, yes, you are blue," Malory agreed. "How perceptive you are. What was the name? Jane? This is the lady I spoke to on the phone all those months ago, right? How small she is. Are you done growing?" "What!" Blue said.

In April 2020, during his daily White House briefing, US President Donald Trump suggested research into whether coronavirus might be treated by irradiating patients’ bodies with UV light or by injecting disinfectant into the body. Many Americans misheard “ingestion of disinfectant”, and in the following days, at least 100 people were admitted to hospitals after having swallowed various disinfectants.

Good.” Fred puts his hands in his pockets, dark, creased in front, like my father’s. “I was worried I’d gotten a defective one.” I shake my head, sure that I’ve misheard him. “What?” “I’m kidding.” Fred smiles.

Your gift for euphemism continues to thrive. But I think I have heard of such modern relationships. There is a colloquialism for them, yes? They are boogie calls.” “Boogie? Oh! Nice try. You were very close. They’re known as booty calls.” “That’s what I said. Booty calls.” “You said boogie—” The Morrigan’s eyes flashed red for the briefest moment, and I cleared my throat. “Pardon me. I must have misheard you. Quite right.

I’m sorry.” Her chin juts out, and she holds up a hand to her ear. “Pardon? I think I misheard that.” “I’m. Sorry.” I bite out. “I’m having a hard time letting him go.” I watch her shoulders fall as she hisses out a sigh. “That’s fair. But there’s no amount of money in the world you could pay me to stay here and be your punching bag all summer.” I fucking love the pair on this girl. If I weren’t so irritated by how attracted I am to her, I’d be cheering her on.

We want you to get swept away, but be careful of being swept too far away,” repeated Rupert. “What happens if someone does get swept too far away?” asked Scarlett. “That’s usually when people die or go mad,” Rupert answered, so calmly she wondered if she’d misheard him.

I wish there were some way I could repay you,” she said, wiping her hands. “There is.” She looked up. “What can I do for you?” “You could kiss me, Rose.” She froze, the kitchen towel in her hands, sure she had misheard. “Surely, I deserve one kiss for saving your brother.” “Why would you want me to kiss you?” “I want to know what you taste like.” A slow smile stretched his lips. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.” She had thought of it, but she would die before admitting it. “Can’t say I have.” “One kiss,” he said. “Or are you scared?

He said only three words, but it was everything he didn’t say that I heard loudest. Because you see, I was waiting for him to tell me why. How. I was waiting for him to tell me he was kidding, or that I’d misheard him. I was waiting for him to take it back, to rewind time, to let me figure out how I hadn’t seen it coming. But he didn’t say any of that. He said only three words. “I’m getting married.

I’m glad your father doesn’t like you.” “Pardon?” I’d been in the process of lifting my hamburger when she’d spoken. Now I held it suspended, halfway to my mouth, certain I’d misheard her. She took a bite of pancake, chewed, swallowed a gulp of water and repeated, “I’m glad your father doesn’t like you.” “And why is that?” “He sounds like a tool. If he liked you, I would think there’s something wrong with you.” I gave her a sideways look.“That . . . sorta makes sense

When they were all assembled around the table, I said, “I went among the pilgrims this morning.” Nikolai’s head snapped up. In an instant, the easygoing prince had vanished. “I think I must have misheard you.” “I’m fine.” “She was almost killed,” said Tamar. “But I wasn’t,” I added. “Are you completely out of your mind?” Nikolai asked. “Those people are fanatics.” He turned on Tamar. “How could you let her do something like that?” “I didn’t,” said Tamar. “Tell me you didn’t go alone,” he said to me. “I didn’t go alone.” “She went alone.” “Tamar, shut up. Nikolai, I told you, I’m fine.” “Only because we got there in time,” said Tamar. “How did you get there?” Mal asked quietly. “How did you find her?” Tolya’s face went dark, and he pounded one of his giant fists down on the table. “We shouldn’t have had to find her,” he said. “You had the watch.” “Leave it alone, Tolya,” I said sharply. “Mal wasn’t where he should have been, and I’m perfectly capable of being stupid on my own.” I took a breath.

Martha had come up with the nickname Godbee by accident when she was younger than Lucy. Dorothy Boyle had been referred to as Grandma Boyle or Grandma B, for short, to distinguish her from Martha’s other grandmother, Anne Hubbard. As a toddler, Martha couldn’t pronounce Grandma B correctly, or had misheard it, and had, for as long as she could remember, called her favorite grandmother Godbee. For some reason, it had caught on. Not only with everyone in Martha’s family, but with some of Godbee’s friends and neighbors, too.

Yes, absolutely, I would save him, if he had said 'true love,' but you misheard, whereas I, being an expert on the bellows cram, will tell you what any qualified tongue man will only be happy to verify—namely, that the f sound is the hardest for the corpse to master, and that it therefore comes out vuh, and what your friend said was 'to blove,' by which he meant, obviously, 'to bluff'—clearly he is either involved in a shady business deal or a card game and wishes to win, and that is certainly not reason enough for a miracle.

turned and asked Norris, “How much did you get paid when you worked in the field?” “They give folks an allowance. First six months when I came to prison, you didn’t earn anything,” he said. “The first six months you’re paying off all your clothes that we got to give you while you’re here. Now, go figure.” Norris chuckled. “Six months going to pay for clothes for a lifetime.” But how much does someone make after the period is finished? I asked. “Jobs in the field? Seven cents an hour.” I leaned in, thinking I had misheard. “Seven cents,” Norris said again.

How on earth will you sneak in?" "I will not sneak. I will simply walk." The collar of my cloak had begun to itch against my neck like sandpaper. I ignored it. Ariadne looked as if she thought she'd misheard me. "What?" "I've done it before," I said. "Once at a goblin court in Shetland. Last year I walked into a winter fair in Ljosland and made off with two captives. You cannot hope to evade the notice of the courtly fae in their realm; the only option is deception. Pretense." "And--- who will you pretend to be?" Ariadne said slowly. "Someone who will not surprise the Folk," I replied. "Myself.

Kestrel though that Arin was someone who had fallen far. She couldn’t ask if that was true. She remembered his angry response when she had asked why he had been trained as a blacksmith, and that question had seemed innocent enough. Yet it had hurt him. She did not want to hurt him. “How did you learn to play Bite and Sting?” she asked. “It’s Valorian.” He looked relieved. “There was a time when Herrani enjoyed sailing to your country. We liked your people. And we have always admired the arts. Our sailors brought back Bite and Sting sets a long time ago.” “Bite and Sting is a game, not an art.” He folded his arms across his chest, amused. “If you say so.” “I’m surprised to hear that Herrani liked anything about Valorians. I thought you considered us stupid savages.” “Wild creatures,” he muttered. Kestrel was sure she had misheard him. “What?” “Nothing. Yes, you were completely uncultured. You ate with your hands. Your idea of entertainment was seeing who could kill the other first. But”--his eyes met hers, then glanced away--“you were known for other things, too.” “What things? What do you mean?” He shook his head. He made that strange gesture again, lifting his fingers to flick the air by his temple. Then he folded his hands, unfolded them, and began to mix the tiles. “You have asked too many questions. If you want more, you will have to win them.

It’s… did it happen to you at the home? Where you grew up?” There was something odd in Sirius’ voice. Remus found he couldn’t speak, so he just nodded. Sirius nodded too. “I’ve got scars.” He said, so quietly that Remus thought he’d misheard at first. Sirius bent down, and pulled up his trouser leg, turning his ankle to show Remus the marks there. His scars weren’t like Remus’ – which were big and rough and jagged, full of rage and hunger. The silver stripes on the backs of Sirius’ legs were thin and straight; uniform in their cruelty. Remus stared for a few seconds, before Sirius dropped the edge of the fabric and straightened up. They stared each other down for a full minute. Remus feeling very hot, Sirius’ eyes cool and calm. Then it broke. “Shall we go and watch James making a prat of himself?” Sirius asked. Remus nodded again, and they both stepped back out into the cold autumn air.

Tina, who worked at the Hampshire Gazette and drank like a journalist in a movie, was loudly musing about getting her shadow altered to have a cat tail. “Guys love a tail,” Tina proclaimed, to protests by nearly everyone. Aimee thought Tina shouldn’t consider fetishes along a gender binary. Ian wanted it to be known that he thought it was disgusting, and that men did not want to molest animals. The artist agreed it was kind of hot, but his comic was about saucy mice. Charlie told Tina that maybe she had misunderstood what “getting some tail” actually meant. “Mermaids, right?” Vince asked, in such a clueless just-joined-the-conversation tone that it was hard to know if he was joking, or if he’d misheard the earlier part. It didn’t matter. Everyone laughed. It was funny either way. As Charlie poured more bourbon—with ice this time—she decided she was glad she’d come. She was just buzzed enough to feel an expansive warmth for the people in the room. See, she was fine being a normal person and doing normal-person things.

Their ride back to Ealing was quiet. She avoided looking at him, while he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her. He tried to engage her in conversation, but the tart-tongued angel was in hiding, and he didn’t know how to get her back. Even Freddy must have realized that something had changed, for he kept his inane chatter to a minimum. By the time they reached Halstead Hall, Oliver’s nerves were on edge. He was relieved that he could excuse himself to go work in his study on the ledgers he’d ignored last night, but he didn’t get very far. Even after an hour of turning pages and noting transactions, he kept hearing Maria’s sighs of pleasure, kept seeing her teasing smile as she said, “Would you offer to ravish me?” Damned right he would. A knock came at the door, jerking him from his disturbing reverie. As he glanced at the clock, shocked to discover that two hours had passed, Jarret entered and strolled over to the desk. “Amazing,” the scapegrace said. “When the servant said you were in here working, I thought surely I’d misheard him.” “Very amusing.

Why don’t you turn on the dawnzer?” Ramona asked, proud of her new word. Beezus looked up from her book. “What are you talking about?” she asked Ramona. “What’s a dawnzer?” Ramona was scornful. “Silly. Everybody knows what a dawnzer is.” “I don’t,” said Mr. Quimby, who had been reading the evening paper. “What is a dawnzer?” “A lamp,” said Ramona. “It gives a lee light. We sing about it every morning in kindergarten.” A puzzled silence fell over the room until Beezus suddenly shouted with laughter. “She-she means—” she gasped, “The Star-Spangled B-banner!” Her laughter dwindled to giggles. “She means the dawn’s early light.

He starts whistling something else. It’s the Abba song about I have a dream. He doesn’t look the Abba type. He sings the lines about how if you see the wonder of a fairytale you’ll be fine in the future. He has a quite good voice. He’s singing quite loud, loud enough for her to be able to hear him clearly. In fact it’s almost as if he’s singing for her. Then, next, does he really sing this? I believe in Engels. That’s unbelievably witty, if that’s what he’s just sung and she hasn’t misheard. That’s the kind of thing only a really good friend of hers would have known to do to get her attention. Then the boy speaks, and it is to her. Come on, he says. He seems to want her to sing. She gives him her most withering look. You’re joking, she says. I only joke about really serious things, he says. Come on. Something good in everything you see. Don’t know it, she says. You do, he says. I don’t, actually, she says. You do, actually, he says, because Abba songs, as anyone who knows knows, are constructed, technically and harmonically, so as to physically imprint the human brain as if biting it with acid, to ensure we will never, ever, ever, be able to forget them. In twenty years’ time Abba songs will still be being sung, probably even more than they’re being sung now.

PERCY JACKSON!" Poseidon announced. My name echoed around the chamber. All talking died down. The room was silent except for the crackle of the hearth fire. Everyone's eyes were on me—all the gods, the demigods, the Cyclopes, the spirits. I walked into the middle of the throne room. Hestia smiled at me reassuringly. She was in the form of a girl now, and she seemed happy and content to be sitting by her fire again. Her smile gave me courage to keep walking. First I bowed to Zeus. Then I knelt at my father's feet. "Rise, my son," Poseidon said. I stood uneasily. "A great hero must be rewarded," Poseidon said. "Is there anyone here who would deny that my son is deserving?" I waited for someone to pipe up. The gods never agreed on anything, and many of them still didn't like me, but not a single one protested. "The Council agrees," Zeus said. "Percy Jackson, you will have one gift from the gods." I hesitated. "Any gift?" Zeus nodded grimly. "I know what you will ask. The greatest gift of all. Yes, if you want it, it shall be yours. The gods have not bestowed this gift on a mortal hero in many centuries, but, Perseus Jackson—if you wish it—you shall be made a god. Immortal. Undying. You shall serve as your father's lieutenant for all time." I stared at him, stunned. "Um . . . a god?" Zeus rolled his eyes. "A dimwitted god, apparently. But yes. With the consensus of the entire Council, I can make you immortal. Then I will have to put up with you forever." "Hmm," Ares mused. "That means I can smash him to a pulp as often as I want, and he'll just keep coming back for more. I like this idea." "I approve as well," Athena said, though she was looking at Annabeth. I glanced back. Annabeth was trying not to meet my eyes. Her face was pale. I flashed back to two years ago, when I'd thought she was going to take the pledge to Artemis and become a Hunter. I'd been on the edge of a panic attack, thinking that I'd lose her. Now, she looked pretty much the same way. I thought about the Three Fates, and the way I'd seen my life flash by. I could avoid all that. No aging, no death, no body in the grave. I could be a teenager forever, in top condition, powerful, and immortal, serving my father. I could have power and eternal life. Who could refuse that? Then I looked at Annabeth again. I thought about my friends from camp: Charles Beckendorf, Michael Yew, Silena Beauregard, so many others who were now dead. I thought about Ethan Nakamura and Luke. And I knew what to do. "No," I said. The Council was silent. The gods frowned at each other like they must have misheard. "No?" Zeus said. "You are . . . turning down our generous gift?" There was a dangerous edge to his voice, like a thunderstorm about to erupt. "I'm honored and everything," I said. "Don't get me wrong. It's just . . . I've got a lot of life left to live. I'd hate to peak in my sophomore year." The gods were glaring at me, but Annabeth had her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were shining. And that kind of made up for it.

Here is a little boy,” said Bingo, indicating me to the strange lady, “who wets his bed every night. Do you know what I am going to do if you wet your bed again?” she added, turning to me. “I am going to get the Sixth Form to beat you.” The strange lady put on an air of being inexpressibly shocked, and exclaimed “I-should-think-so!” And here occurred one of those wild, almost lunatic misunderstandings which are part of the daily experience of childhood. The Sixth Form was a group of older boys who were selected as having “character” and were empowered to beat smaller boys. I had not yet learned of their existence, and I mis-heard the phrase “the Sixth Form” as “Mrs. Form.” I took it as referring to the strange lady—I thought, that is, that her name was Mrs. Form. It was an improbable name, but a child has 110 judgement in such matters. I imagined, therefore, that it was she who was to be deputed to beat me. It did Dot strike me as strange that this job should be turned over to a casual visitor in no way connected with the school. I merely assumed that “Mrs. Form” was a stern disciplinarian who enjoyed beating people (somehow her appearance seemed to bear this out) and I had an immediate terrifying vision of her arriving for the occasion in full riding kit and armed with a hunting whip. To this day I can feel myself almost swooning with shame as I stood, a very small, round-faced boy in short corduroy knickers, before the two women. I could not speak. I felt that I should die if “Mrs. Form” were to beat me. But my dominant feeling was not fear or even resentment: it was simply shame because one more person, and that a woman, had been told of my disgusting offence.

Any word from our lads keeping an eye on the jewellery and pawn shops?’ ‘Nope – though there are rumours Franks misheard the instruction and ended up in a porno shop.’ ‘Wouldn’t surprise me, the dirty sod. Good rumour – let’s keep telling people that. What else is going on?

What can you tell me about this ship?” “She’s one hundred fifteen feet in length, with a beam of twenty-eight, and a depth of sixteen—” “I meant, more generally, what can you tell me about the ship?” “We were a whaler, came sailing around Cape Horn, where we put in at Paita in Peru. The captain received an urgent letter from the American consulate there, enjoining him to pick up passengers and cargo at Panama and bring them to San Francisco. We sold off or unloaded all our stores right there, and converted the ship as well as we might en route to Panama. Once we got here, the captain decided to run the ship aground at high tide. . . .” Again, not exactly what I need to know. “Maybe it would just be better to take us on a tour.” “I can do that,” he says. “Olive! Andrew!” calls out Becky. “Gather around. We’re going to take a tour of the ship.” Our group, which had been wandering and inspecting independently, converges at the center of the deck. Melancthon points to the front of the ship. “That’s the foaksul . . .” “Pardon me, the what?” asks Tom. “Could you spell that please?” “F-O-R-E-C-A-S-T-L-E.” “Ah,” says Tom, as if this makes perfect sense. “Forecastle?” I ask. “That’s what I said!” Melancthon points in the other direction. “And that’s the quarter deck, and there in the rear, that’s the poop deck.” Olive turns to her mother. “Ma, did he just say poop deck?” “I’m certain you misheard,” Becky says. “It’s from la poupe, the French word for the stern of the ship,” Henry explains. “Which, in turn, is derived from the Latin word puppis.” “La poop, la poop, la poop,” Andrew says. His mother turns scarlet. This is all going terribly off track. “Maybe I can just tell you what I want, and you can tell me if it can be done, and, if so, how fast you can do it.” “Yes, ma’am,” Melancthon says.

How come you don't have more going for you?" Jason asked, frowning out the small window beside their seats. "Excuse me?" Kira said, thinking that she must have misheard. "Why haven't you developed more? You ought to be a lot bigger in at least a couple of areas." Kira stared at him, mingled rage and disbelief freezing words in her throat. Jason glanced toward her and flinched away at her expression. "What?" She finally managed to get a few words out. "How…dare…you…" "I'm sorry! I just wondered why you guys hadn't developed your technology more in at least a couple of areas! I didn't realize you were so sensitive about that!" "Our technology?" Kira looked away from him, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "What does the word develop have to do with technology?

His words crack my mind with the forced of an anvil. They shiver down my spine and make my knees tremble. I misheard that. I must have. Or he's wrong. It doesn't make sense, after all, what he's saying. It's absurd. But even as my dizzy thoughts churn, every stubborn piece of bravery and thin thread of hope turns frail.

People want to be heard, especially when they’ve been misheard, misquoted, and misunderstood. It’s why we relive old arguments in the shower until we’ve won.

What if you asked for riches and the universe misheard and gave you bitches?

My tame Comms operator friend told me about a call that came in from an angry woman. “I want to complain about the farmer across the road. Every morning at six a.m his cock wakes me up and it’s getting on top of me now.” Was it a noise complaint or a sexual assault? Sometimes, the call handlers will confide in me that they think they must have just misheard what’s going on. Caller: “I want to report that I’m trapped in my house.” Police: “Is someone holding you against your will in your home?” Caller: “Yes. A frog.” Police: “A frog is holding you against your will?” Caller: “Yes, there’s a frog on my porch.” Police: “A frog?” Caller: “Yes, I’m scared of frogs. I can’t go out the front door. He might get me.” Police: “It’s not really a police matter, but have you thought about going out the back door?” Caller: “Good idea!

A rustle of movement drew her attention to the open condo door. A tousled blonde head peered in. “Everything okay?” “I think so.” Amber eyes followed the destructive path of the combatants. “Men. Can’t train them to behave inside and can’t teach them to not piss on the furniture.” Arabella’s mouth rounded in an O of surprise. Surely she’d misheard. “Pee?” “Only my ex-boyfriend ever actually did that. He’s the reason why I moved. Fucker would get drunk, break in through the window by the fire escape, and pee on my stuff. I’d get mad. He’d apologize. We’d have wild jungle sex, and then I’d kick him out and tell him to never talk to me again.” Still couldn’t fathom the logic. “You had sex with a guy who peed on your couch?” “Less the couch, more like the kitchen chair, so nothing I couldn’t wipe up. And the worst part is the bastard would wait for me to wake up. I’d wander into the kitchen all oblivious like, totally in the buff, usually to find him munching one of my homemade cookies.” The crazy blonde’s brows shot up in an Aha moment. “Hey, wait a second. I wonder if that’s why he got wasted so often?” She’d just clued in. “He was after no-strings sex.” “I was actually talking about the cookies, but I think your explanation is more plausible.” -Luna & Arabella

Speaking of the children, aren’t you supposed to be watching them at the moment?” “Of course.” He glanced around the hallway. “Where are they?” “They’re perfectly fine.” She dropped her voice to the merest whisper. “I’ve tied them up in the nursery.” For a moment, he thought he’d misheard her. “Forgive me, but you didn’t just say you’ve tied up the children, did you?” “Indeed I did.” “It’s little wonder you get dismissed so often if you make a habit of tying up your charges while you wander through libraries perusing romance novels.” “Oh, I’ve never tied children up before today. . . . Well, except for some children in my youth, but that hardly counts, since I was a child myself.” She held up a hand. “Before you dismiss me—something your expression clearly states you long to do—the whole tying-up business was the children’s idea.” “You would have me believe they wanted you to tie them up?” The dimple on Millie’s cheek popped out again as she grinned. “Don’t be silly. If you must know, they insisted on tying me up first, but obviously, since I’m standing in front of you, I was able to free myself.” Her grin widened. “In the spirit of fair play, I convinced them it was their turn to be held captive, although I don’t think the children thought their little game was going to have this particular outcome.” Everett headed for the stairs. “I’m going to go release them.” “You’ll put a damper on our fun if you do.” Not

As you’ve heard in Ms. Ward’s testimony, she is declining guardianship of these children. As per the stipulations in your sister’s will, you are to be offered the legal guardianship of the Ward children. Mr. Walker, do you accept the role of guardian for these children and all the responsibilities that accompany that role?” “No, Your Honor, I don’t.” Meridith’s eyes darted to Jake. He was staring straight at her. She’d misheard. The judge cleared his throat. “Mr. Walker, perhaps you misunderstood the question. Do you wish to be guardian of the children?” “No, Your Honor, I don’t,” Jake said clearly. She didn’t understand. What was he doing? The children— “Mr. Walker—” “Not unless . . .” Jake lowered his voice. “Not unless Meridith Ward agrees to stay.” His gaze beat a path to her heart. “In fact, not unless Ms. Ward agrees to marry me. Only then will I agree to share guardianship of the kids.” What? Meridith’s mind couldn’t assimilate the facts. But the love shining from Jake’s eyes said more than his words. Her eyes burned. “As it turns out,” Jake continued slowly, staring right into Meridith’s eyes, “I’m wildly, madly, and passionately in love with Ms. Ward, and I want us to be a real family.” “Me too!” Benny said loudly. “Me three,” Max called. “Ditto.” Noelle. Even Noelle. Had they known? She turned and looked at the children. Noelle’s eyes were teary. Benny and Max stared back, hope and worry lining their faces. She turned back to Jake, got caught in his eyes. He blurred in front of her. Her lip trembled, and she bit it still. The judge cleared his throat. “I see. This is most unusual. Well, I think a recess might be in order. Would you like to take a moment, Ms. Ward?” He loved her. Jake loved her and wanted to— Could she find the courage to love, to walk in uncertainty? To risk being hurt? She knew her foundation was stable. Everything else she had to take one day at a time, right? “Ms. Ward?” “Uh . . . yes. A recess, please.” The judge and bailiff exited, and Jake stood. She watched all six feet of him close the gap between them. Somewhere behind her, the children were as quiet as fireflies. Meridith stood, her legs trembling beneath her. And then Jake was there, standing in front of her, his solemn brown eyes shining. “I’m so sorry, Meri. I was a jerk. I’m sorry I hurt you, sorry for everything.” He took her chin in his hand. “And I do love you,” he whispered. “I want you to be my wife. Not for the kids, but because I want you with me every day for the rest of my life.” It was enough. More than enough. She swallowed hard. “I want that too. So much.” Jake

You’re a Northumbrian,” he said, “and I don’t know how they did things up there, but this is Alfred’s Wessex. You can do anything in Wessex except piss all over his church, and that’s what you just did. You pissed, son, and now the church is going to piss all over you.” He grimaced as the rain beat harder on the tent. Then he frowned, staring at the puddle spreading just outside the entrance. He was silent a long time, before turning and giving me a strange look. “You think any of this is important?” I did, but I was so astonished by his question that had been asked in a soft, bitter voice, that I had nothing to say. “You think Ubba’s death makes any difference?” he asked, and again I thought I had misheard. “And even if Guthrum makes peace,” he went on, “you think we’ve won?” His heavy face was suddenly savage. “How long will Alfred be king? How long before the Danes rule here?” I still had nothing to say. Æthelwold, I saw, was listening intently. He longed to be king, but he had no following, and Wulfhere had plainly been appointed as his guardian to keep him from making trouble. But Wulfhere’s words suggested the trouble would come anyway. “Just do what Alfred wants,” the ealdorman advised me, “and afterward find a way to keep living. That’s all any of us can do. If Wessex falls we’ll all be looking for a way to stay alive, but in the meantime put on that damned robe and get it over with.” “Both

Lungs heaving, Jon lay still for only a moment before he pulled out of Baltsaros. Hand on the captain’s shoulder, he roughly turned him onto his back. Jon’s eyes were dark as he leaned over him. “It’s Tom’s turn now,” he said quietly, his breathing ragged. Baltsaros frowned, wondering if he had misheard. “Jon?” said Tom. He sounded more confused than aroused. “It’s ok, Tom,” said Jon, gaze locked on Baltsaros. There was power there. A challenge… and yet, affection. “He’ll submit because I want him to and because he loves you. And… He loves me.” He stroked the side of Baltsaros’s face, lips barely moving as he spoke in a hush. “Baltsaros, I want to watch Tom take you.

When the first book out my sister-in-law read it and we were chatting at 5 o'clock in the afternoon and she said, "Oh my God, chapter six, sex and a murder," and her five year old wandered into the kitchen and said, "Sixty hamburgers?

The African American man rolled his eyes, but Robert said, “He’s just kidding, Renny. Dexter Morgan, this is Renny Boudreaux!” He pronounced it “boo-drow,” and since I am a man of the world and recognize a French name when I hear one, I nodded to him and said, “Enchanté, m’sieu.” Boudreaux stared at me and then, with a look of wonder on his face, he said, “Is that French?! Goddamn, you are smooth. I like that. French, that’s— Tell me, Dexter, you ever fuck a black man?” I really wanted to believe I had misheard him, but he’d said it so loud and clear that there could be no mistake. So I just shook my head and said, “Not yet, no. But the day is young.

This blockade and political action, I see leading into war. I don’t see any other solution,” LeMay said to Kennedy in one meeting at the start of the crisis. “In other words, you’re in a pretty bad fix at the present time.” Dumbfounded by the arrogant hostility, Kennedy assumed he must’ve misheard: “What did you say?” “You’re in a pretty bad fix,” LeMay repeated calmly. “Well, you’re in there with me—personally,” Kennedy shot back, hiding his anger behind a laugh. Luckily

There will be no more war!” I cried, my voice filling every corner of the quiet, finding every ear in the bar so I could not be misheard. “Today, I have struck a peace deal with Dante Oscura and from this day forth, the death will come to an end.

Come on bro, you can do this.” The whispered words hit my ears and I blinked, unsure if I had just imagined it, or in my slightly-inebriated state, had misheard the statement. I gave a little moan and then rolled my hips sensually. Maybe the guy just needed a little encouragement. I felt the whisper of hands on my thighs, and then a deep breath was inhaled as he buried his nose against my skin. The skin of my knee to be precise. He groaned, only it wasn't the kind of groan a woman expects to hear from a man who promised to give her the ride of her life, with just his tongue. "Just do it bro. It's just like mushrooms." I sat up and looked down, immediately regretting that decision. The guy looked like he was going to be sick. His eyes were shut, tight and he was gripping the sheet bunched between my legs like it was a lifeline. "Did you just compare me to mushrooms?

An hour later, I’m on my way home when I can’t fucking stand it any longer. I haven’t a clue what I’ll say to Magnolia if she picks up, but I want to try one last time. I pull over to the side of the road and, with my heart in my throat, dial her name. Four rings later, someone picks up. “Maggie, don’t hang up. Please hear me out.” A deep, masculine voice clears his throat. “Is this Michael?” “Who the fuck is this?” He snickers. “Just a friend. Listen, Imma do you a solid. This is not Maggie’s number.” I freeze and try to process his words. I double-check who I dialed, and sure enough, it’s Maggie’s contact info on the screen of my phone. “What do you mean? I’ve left her a million messages. Were they all going to you?” “Yup. And I gotta say, your night sounded hot as hell.” He lets out a whistle. “But I think your girl Maggie got her one-and-done and ghosted ya.” I’m going to be sick. “She didn’t give me her number.” “See? Case in point.” “No, that’s not what I mean. Her brother gave me her number. And I guess… I guess I punched it in wrong. Or I misheard. I don’t fucking know except it’s been weeks now. Jesus, if she wasn’t pissed at me before, she is now.

The boy’s first day of school in the North, he was assigned to a grade lower than the one he’d been in where he had come from, and the teacher couldn’t understand his southern accent. When she asked him his name, he said he was called J.C. The teacher misheard him and, from that day forward, called him Jesse instead. So did everyone else in this new world he was in. He would forever be known as Jesse Owens, not by his given name. He would go on to win four gold medals at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, becoming the first American in the history of track and field to do so in a single Olympics and disproving the Aryan notions of his Nazi hosts. It made headlines throughout the United States that Adolf Hitler, who had watched the races, had refused to shake hands with Owens, as he had with white medalists. But Owens found that in Nazi Germany, he had been able to stay in the same quarters and eat with his white teammates, something he could not do in his home country. Upon his return, there was a ticker-tape parade in New York. Afterward, he was forced to ride the freight elevator to his own reception at the Waldorf-Astoria. “I wasn’t invited to shake hands with Hitler,” he wrote in his autobiography. “But I wasn’t invited to the White House to shake hands with the President either. I came back to my native country, and I could not ride in the front of the bus. I had to go to the back door. I couldn’t live where I wanted. Now, what’s the difference?

Maybe I dislike spoiled rich men who waste my time and think far too highly of their overexposed charms.” The edge to her smile and that glittering thing in her gaze grew harder. Hotter. “I’ve seen it all in the pages of every tabloid magazine every week for the last twenty years. It’s about as thrilling as oatmeal.” “I must have misheard you. I thought you compared me to a revoltingly warm and cloying breakfast cereal.” “The similarities are striking.

I love you,” she says brokenly. She hitches a little breath that goes straight to my heart. “You what?” Surely, I misheard her. “I love you, Theo.” My pulse leaps. This is the outcome I wanted, and one I never let myself hope for. I step forward. “Say it again.” “I love you.” She finally smiles.

Pulling it out, she takes a seat, a devious smile on her face and a wicked glint in her eyes. Her tongue darts out, moistening her full lips. “Crawl to me.” I cock my head, sure I misheard. “What?” “Oh, you heard me, Ice. Crawl. To. Me.

Mudag lunges toward me, forcing me to leap backward. "He shall whack you over the head with the ceremonial club—" "Sorry, what?" I must have misheard. "The ceremonial club," Mudag continues. "He will strike you with it and knock you out so he can steal you away.

After an indefinite amount of time, a police officer knocked on the door and came into the room. He introduced himself, then said, “I want to start by saying how very sorry I am for your loss.” He stood in silence for a moment. We thanked him for his condolences, then waited for him to proceed. He cleared his throat and began, “The woman who killed your son feels terrible about it.” We looked at him in shock. “She is beside herself and is practically inconsolable,” he added. The room became deathly quiet. We could not believe what we were hearing. Had we misheard him? We looked around at each other, perplexed. Was he trying to elicit sympathy for our son’s killer? Wait, What? It was one of those moments one can’t forget, a significant point that cannot be erased. Something didn’t feel right, and even though I didn’t understand it at the time, we later learned what the officer meant.

Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful person I’ve ever met,” said Ron weakly, “and if I’m ever rude to you again —” “— I’ll know you’re back to normal,” said Hermione. “Harry, yours is okay except for this bit at the end, I think you must have misheard Professor Sinistra, Europa’s covered in ice, not mice — Harry?

Initially, I couldn’t grasp the intent of the question or thought I’d misheard it. But then I explained, “We went back to the mountain because we were SOG and that’s what we did, that was our mission.

What are you offering?” I asked. “The Mercenary Guild,” Jim said. “What?” I must’ve misheard. “The Mercenary Guild,” Jim repeated. “That’s stupid,” I told him. “I have the business sense of a walnut and even I know it’s stupid.

How often have you felt prejudged, invisible, misheard, or misunderstood? Do you really think you don’t do this to others on a daily basis?

After the initial surprise, Chu Wanning convinced himself that he had misheard. After all, Mo Ran had always called him “Shizun.” And it was one thing for Mo Ran to call him “Chu Wanning,” but to call him “Wanning”— His mind tracked back to that night at the Red Lotus Pavilion, when they had slept holding one another and Mo Ran, fast asleep, had clearly called out “Wanning,” then pressed a kiss to his lips, light as the touch of a dragonfly on water. Was it possible that, in Mo Ran’s heart, there actually was a little bit of…

I was tired, I think maybe I misheard him or he was doing a voice from a cartoon or something.

Alas, I had been a fool to expect any kind words from Ferdinand. I heaved a very disappointed sigh, but just as I went to put away the magic tool... “I... believe you are working hard,” came his voice again. I brought the tool back to my ear, wondering whether I’d simply misheard. And then— “Very good.” Hearing those two words sent a wave of pride through me, like all of my hard work had at last been rewarded. Maybe it was because he so rarely handed out praise that it felt so meaningful.

I have to be honest: at this point, we’re looking for zebras.” “Zebras?” I said, sure I had misheard him. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras’? Well, in this case, we’ve looked for all the horses. So we’re left with zebras.” “Great,” Matt said. “I’ve always wanted to go on a safari.

People are saying I’m the biggest hit in politics since Donald Trump!’ ‘I think you misheard the biggest hit part.

The US internet sales company, Amazon, was initially named Cadabra and sold books only. The owner, Jeff Bezos, later changed the name to Amazon.com after a lawyer misheard its original name as “cadaver”. The first book sold on the website was “Fluid Concepts and Creative Analogies: Computer Models of the Fundamental Mechanisms of Thought” by Douglas Hofstadter.

She and Holly had come into the bathroom together and they both opened their mouths in surprise. Casey jumped and then looked at me. My mind went blank. I thought no one ever used this bathroom. That’s what Casey had said. Or maybe today was our unlucky day. Casey and I looked at each other, then we looked at Ronnie and Holly. I had to think quickly on my feet. “You misheard, Ronnie,” I said, “she said we’re like twins. You know, because we look alike.” “That’s not what you said,” Holly said. “Ali’s right,” Casey said. “It’s what I meant. How would we be twins? We have different parents. I mean it is a coincidence that we look alike but that doesn’t mean anything.” Casey was rambling, but it seemed to work. The girls quickly lost interest and turned to the mirrors to fix their hair. They started talking among themselves about the fair on the weekend, while Casey and I slipped out the door. The first morning bell rang as we entered the hallway. “Wow! That was close!” Casey exclaimed. “I know. I really don’t want anyone to know about us being sisters until I tell my parents. I’m not sure how they’d find out from any of the kids at school but I’d feel better if I told them in case they do hear it from someone else.” “I totally get that,” Casey said. “I promise not to say anything to anyone. Let me know if you want me to come with you to talk to them, though. Like I said, I had such a great time with them this weekend. They really are lovely people. And they’re such great cooks!” I smiled. I was so lucky to have them in my life. But I was luckier to have a twin sister and a little brother now as well. I wished we could go home early and I could get this over with. But that wasn’t possible. I’d have to wait.

Who knows what somber ancestor had passed on to me this talent, this precocious ear for loss? For a while, because of it, I misheard almost everything.

MONDEGREEN. A term for misheard song lyrics, coined by American freelance writer Sylvia Wright (1920–1961) in 1954. It derived from her long-held belief that a song contained the line, “They had slain the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.” In fact, the line ended with the words, “and laid him on the green.

Give in. Trust me to take care of you because I love you, Eden.” Everything stopped—my breath, my heart, my brain. The world. I slow blinked, sure I’d misheard. “You love me?” “So fucking much.” His hold tightened as he ordered, “Say you love me, too.” Frantically, I shook my head. “Say it.” “No.” “Why?” Close to hyperventilating, I admitted, “Because then you’ll have every part of me.

I’m scared.” Connor whispered it so softly that she thought she’d misheard.

perhaps meaning to pretend to have misheard, as people sometimes do to buy time, when they think that what matters is how they respond, and not the thing that has been said

My daemons are crashing,' the computer tech said. I thought I’d misheard over the crush of the computer store, but then she repeated it. 'My smart phone wasn’t working because the computer daemons in it were crashing. Computer daemons are programs that wait in the background until you call them into service, sort of like the original idea of genies, or jinn, that give magical help if you have the power to call and control them. Not too far off from some of the mysterious workings of computers.

He grins like this has made his day. “You like my thighs?” “Nope. You misheard me.” “I’d pay good money to watch you grind on one of them.

It’s called a mondegreen, a misheard lyric, like how the Ramones will sing, I wanna be sedated, & my mom will nod along as she sings, I want a piece of bacon. It’s the way our brains fill in gaps, make sense of things we didn’t or couldn’t hear, the way my mom said, he’s gone, & I asked her where?