Padlock Quotes

It is better to lock up your heart with a merciless padlock, than to fall in love with someone who doesn't know what they mean to you.

He's an enigma wrapped up in sensuality padlocked with a dozen chains of desire and topped off with a razor-sharp ribbon of danger. There are more layers to him than a billionaire's wedding cake.

The padlock clicked open. A voice soundingoddly like South Parks's Cartman echoed through my quivering brain. Goddammit!

If you’re going to rattle my cage, you better make sure I’m padlocked in it.

I only want you", she groaned. "Only you. Promise me that I can keep you. Promise me." My heart...shit, my heart. It unlocked. The padlock fell free. Her words were a key. Her forgiveness, and love and strength and everything that made her pure stole me from my life of pain. She changed me. Right there. Right then. I became hers. Irreversibly.

But unlike Mama, I would not go to heaven. My secrets padlocked the gates. I'd be a torn kite stuck in the dead branches of a tree, unable to fly.

Take good care of my babies,” Jesper said as he handed them over to Dirix. “If I see a single scratch or nick on those, I’ll spell forgive me on your chest in bullet holes.” “You wouldn’t waste the ammo.” “And he’d be dead halfway through forgive,” Big Bolliger said as he dropped a hatchet, a switchblade, and his preferred weapon—a thick chain weighted with a heavy padlock—into Rotty’s expectant hands. Jesper rolled his eyes. “It’s about sending a message. What’s the point of a dead guy with forg written on his chest?” “Compromise,” Kaz said. “I’m sorry does the trick and uses fewer bullets.

She smiled at me, that one particular smile I hardly ever saw, the one that could open padlocks, Yale locks, bank vaults, the one that was a trapdoor down into everything.

Yet what happened in fact? In the middle of the night John woke up and saw me sleeping beside him with no doubt a look of peace on my face, even of bliss, bliss is not unattainable in this world. He saw me—saw me as I was at that moment—took fright, hurriedly strapped the armour back over his heart, this time with chains and a double padlock, and stole out into the darkness.

Believe me when I say: 'Out of all those around, she’s the best locksmith in town.' Her stethoscope ears know when the dials of your heart click into place. She’s been cutting keys for years. You don’t stand a chance with that flimsy case. Alas, no matter how you lock your heart— bolt, fixture, and key— she’s got nimble fingers that pick locks for free. Padlocks and deadbolts are all in vain. Why do you even bother with that chain? She’s way too smart. Along with ours, she’ll have your heart. And you will see that the best locksmith in town is she.

I have a box inside me now that never used to exist. I never needed it before. It's down in my deepest, darkest corner, and it's airtight, soundproofed and padlocked. It's where I keep the thoughts I don't know what to do with, that could get me into trouble. Eating Unseelie hammers on the inside of that lid incessantly. I try to keep kissing Barrons in that box, too, but it gets out sometimes.

A ghastly creeping terror rises from a place beyond thoughts. Some innermost trapdoor she must leap upon immediately and lean against with all her weight and padlock shut.

She told me children were nothing but padlocks on the patriarchal shackles of marriage. That

I don’t believe it,” I muttered. “How on earth did he manage to get the padlocks back onto the can?” Thomas opened his mouth, but Mrs. Harvey silenced him with a look. “Not a word out of you, dear. Or I swear I’ll finish my story about poor Mr. Harvey and his underthings.

It’s like the P-38 is an old skeleton key I’m trying to fit into an old padlock and when I make that connection I’ll hear a click and a door will open and I’ll walk through and be saved.

The chief duty of every new age is to upraise new men to determine its liberties, to lead it towards material success- to rend the rusty padlocks and chains of dead custom that always prevent healthy expansion. Theories and ideas that may have meant life and hope and freedom for our ancestors may now mean destruction, slavery, and dishonor to us!

Off flew his shirt, which landed on an outstretched arm of the ceiling fan. 'Beats me. God, is there a padlock on this thing?' 'It's not rocket science, Driggs. It's a bra.' 'It's a Rubik's cube of diabolical proportions, is what it - ha! Suck it, evil underwear!' Triumphant, he flung the unfastened conundrum across the room [...]

The three golden balls were above his head. The entrance to the shop (not so good a one as Mr. Rabinowitz’s but a pawnshop all the same, with a cash-register in the rear) was shuttered with a grey iron gate, fixed with a padlock.

Outside, I clicked the padlock back in place, sealing the butterflies within. It seemed remarkable that they'd survived in there for so long in such fruitless and insubstantial conditions. But as I walked back up the drive to the front of the house, I thought about Jake and me, and I realized that was just what happens. The butterflies didn't have a choice, after all. That's what things do. Even in the toughest of circumstances, they keep living.

A little north of Boston, there was something called LOVECRAFT KEYHOLE; it was a crater in the rough shape of a padlock.

I got a golden handshake that nearly broke my arm I left the ranks of shuffling graveyard people I got rust upon my hands from the padlocked factory gates Silent chimneys provide the silent steeples

The floor went completely black when Mr. Amos pulled the door shut. I couldn’t see it now, but I’d rememorized the exact shape the stain was in. The padlock snapped shut with the loudest click I’d ever heard.

You’re not a picture book left on a coffee table for just anyone to flip through at their leisure. Far from it. You’re a grimoire, kept in a private library, wrapped in a girth of chains, and cinched with a padlock. If

When he reached the yard gate and found the padlock seized with frost, he felt the strain of being alive and wished he had stayed in bed, but he made himself carry on and crossed to a neighbour’s house, whose light was on.

In another assignment, he wrote about how one day, when he refused to do extracredit homework, his mother padlocked his comic book collection in a closet; unable to pick the lock, he removed the hinges and took off the door.

With a great sigh, Jesper removed the gun belts at his hips. She had to admit he looked less himself without them. The Zemeni sharpshooter was long-limbed, brown-skinned, constantly in motion. He pressed his lips to the pearl handles of his prized revolvers, bestowing each with a mournful kiss. “Take good care of my babies,” Jesper said as he handed them over to Dirix. “If I see a single scratch or nick on those, I’ll spell forgive me on your chest in bullet holes.” “You wouldn’t waste the ammo.” “And he’d be dead halfway through forgive,” Big Bolliger said as he dropped a hatchet, a switchblade, and his preferred weapon—a thick chain weighted with a heavy padlock—into Rotty’s expectant hands. Jesper rolled his eyes. “It’s about sending a message. What’s the point of a dead guy with forg written on his chest?” “Compromise,” Kaz said. “I’m sorry does the trick and uses fewer bullets.” Dirix laughed, but Inej noted that he cradled Jesper’s revolver’s very gently. “What about that?” Jesper asked, gesturing to Kaz’s walking stick. Kaz’s laugh was low and humorless. “Who’d deny a poor cripple his cane?” “If the cripple is you, then any man with sense.

The further he raided, the closer he came to the other rooms. Those unused, cobwebbed chambers of her heart. Would he dare to venture there? She doubted. Jumping off a cliff was a flashy sort of courage, but a man would need true strength and valor to break through those padlocked doors. There were dark, uncharted spaces within her that had been built to house love, and even she was afraid to explore them. Terrified to learn just how vast and how achingly empty they truly were.

I think that the process of giving your true love to someone, mainly surrounds the act of opening a door inside that's all locked up. Behind that door lives the small child that is the real you. The small child who hurts too much and feels too much and laughs too loud and always believes... true love involves unlocking the many padlocks on that door, taking her by the hand, and guiding her to the arms of the one you've chosen to love. And I think this is why some people change forever... because they loved someone in this way, but it only hurt too much. The little one was wounded. So this is why you take her back and tell her she's better off staying inside. It is a poetic, lyrical tragedy. Some people die this way, before they ever are dead. Or maybe we don't die; maybe we live on, behind that door.

You're a handsome one, aren't you?" she cooed. "So strong and sturdy. What a good hasp you must have; what a firm sense of your purpose. But you've been holding your place for so long. You can't be expecting to stay closed forever. Why, that isn't fair! The people who put you here don't appreciate you the way I do. They don't understand how difficult it is to be a lock, and do the things you do. I would appreciate you always. I would never leave you alone in the rain to rust." "Are we watching a woman try to seduce a lock?" asked Andrew. "I'm not objecting if we are -- your kink is okay and all -- but I just want to confirm that everyone else is seeing what I'm seeing, here." The lock clicked as it released, popping open. "No, we're watch a woman successfully seduce a lock, said Jeffery. "Fascinating." "Her love life must involve a lot of handcuffs," I said, earning myself a snort from Ciara as she reached out and removed the padlock from its place on the door. "Don't ask about mine and I won't ask about yours," she said, making the lock disappear into her pocket.

His life was absurd. He went all over the world accepting all kinds of bondage and escaping. He was roped to a chair. He escaped. He was chained to a ladder. He escaped. He was handcuffed, his legs were put in irons, he was tied up in a strait jacket and put in a locked cabinet. He escaped. He escaped from bank vaults, nailed-up barrels, sewn mailbags; he escaped from a zinc-lined Knabe piano case, a giant football, a galvanized iron boiler, a rolltop desk, a sausage skin. His escapes were mystifying because he never damaged or appeared to unlock what he escaped from. The screen was pulled away and there he stood disheveled but triumphant beside the inviolate container that was supposed to have contained him. He waved to the crowd. He escaped from a sealed milk can filled with water. He escaped from a Siberian exile van. From a Chinese torture crucifix. From a Hamburg penitentiary. From an English prison ship. From a Boston jail. He was chained to automobile tires, water wheels, cannon, and he escaped. He dove manacled from a bridge into the Mississippi, the Seine, the Mersey, and came up waving. He hung upside down and strait-jacketed from cranes, biplanes and the tops of buildings. He was dropped into the ocean padlocked in a diving suit fully weighted and not connected to an air supply, and he escaped. He was buried alive in a grave and could not escape, and had to be rescued. Hurriedly, they dug him out. The earth is too heavy, he said gasping. His nails bled. Soil fell from his eyes. He was drained of color and couldn't stand. His assistant threw up. Houdini wheezed and sputtered. He coughed blood. They cleaned him off and took him back to the hotel. Today, nearly fifty years since his death, the audience for escapes is even larger.

covering ten to twenty miles a day. The pregnant women complained desperately. The Georgia-man rode on. After crossing the Potomac, he moved Ball, who was physically the strongest of the men, from the middle of the chain and attached his padlocked collar to the first iron link. With Ball setting a faster pace, the two sets of double lines of people hurried down the high road, a dirt line in the Virginia grain fields that today lies under the track of US Highway 301.

What are you storing up there?" Virginia Dare yelled from the stairwell below. The immortal was outlined with a translucent green aura that lifted her fine black hair off her back and shoulders like a cloak. "Just a few small alchemical experiments...," Dee began. A thunderous explosion dropped the trio to their knees. Bits of plaster rained down from the ceiling and a heavy smell of sewage filled the stairwell. "And one or two big ones," he added. "We need to get out of here.The entire building is going to collapse," Dare said. She turned and continued down the stairs, Dee and Josh close on her heels. Josh breathed deeply. "Am I smelling burning bread?" he asked, surprised. Dare glanced back up at Dee. "I don't even want to know what that smell is coming from." "No,you don't," the doctor agreed. When they reachd the bottom of the stairs,Virginia flung herself against the double doors but bounced off them. They were padlocked, a thick chain woven through their handles. "I'm sure that breaches a fire code," Dee murmured.

What today we mistake for a padlock, keeping us out, we may tomorrow find to be the key that lets us in.

The padlock wants to be open. All you have to do is let it do what it wants.

A ghastly creeping terror rises from a place beyond thoughts. Some innermost trapdoor she must leap upon immediately and lean against with all her weight and padlock shut.

You cannot open the padlock if you does not have the key.

Abel Muranda fought off furious red ants with mandibles that could cut through a miser's padlock.

padlocked.

The Lowe family had always been the undisputed villains of their town’s ancient, bloodstained story, and no one understood that better than the Lowe brothers. The family lived on an isolated estate of centuries-worn stone, swatched in moss and shadowed in weeping trees. On mischief nights, children from Ilvernath sometimes crept up to its towering wrought iron fence, daring their friends to touch the padlock chained around the gate—the one engraved with a scythe. Grins like goblins, the children murmured, because children in Ilvernath loved fairy tales—especially real ones. Pale as plague and silent as spirits. They’ll tear your throat out and drink your soul. All these tales were deserved.

n medieval Europe, a new slave would place his head under his master’s arm, and have a strap placed around his neck, in imitation of a sheep or cow, and in eighteenth-century Britain, goldsmiths advertised silver padlocks “For blacks or dogs.

If more people understood how nice it is to have a sense of home that extends past our locked doors, past our neighbors' padlocks, to the local food co-op and library, the sidewalks busted up by old trees - if we all held home with longer arms - we'd live in a very different place... We wouldn't feel so alone, no matter the size of our houses or our bank accounts, no matter whether we had good health or congestive heart failure. We would begin to see that each moment presents an opportunity to relax, to notice that the wind has shifted and a storm is coming, or that our friend's toddler has decided to wear dinner instead of eating it. We would see that each minute counts for something timeless and, if we want, we all can find our way inside these big, tiny, moments.

But how many daydreams we should have to analyze under the simple heading of Doors! For the door is an entire cosmos of the Half-open. In fact, it is one of its primal images, the very origin of a daydream that accumulates desires and temptations: the temptation to open up the ultimate depths of being, and the desire to conquer all reticent beings. The door schematizes two strong possibilities, which sharply classify two types of daydream. At times, it is closed, bolted, padlocked. At others, it is open, that is to say, wide open.

If more people understood how nice it is to have a sense of home that extends past our locked doors, past our neighbors' padlocks, to the local food co-op and library, the sidewalks busted up by old trees - if we all held home with longer arms - we'd live in a very different place.

You mentioned earlier that if I wanted to help, Miss Oliviera, I should save the lectures, and help,” Mr. Smith said as he sprayed. “Perhaps that’s exactly what Fates do.” I shook my head, bewildered. “I’m sorry?” “Perhaps Fates are people like us…ordinary souls who’ve found themselves caught up in the battle between good and evil, and have chosen to take a stand and help do what’s right.” Mr. Smith was lecturing again, but this time the speech seemed to be directed at John, too. His tone was kindly, however. “Maybe that’s why John’s fingerprints aren’t in the Isla Heusos Police Department database, and why no one will find his footsteps here. Small things that take just a moment to do, yes, but that could add up, in the end, to make an enormous difference to someone. What do you say to that, Miss Oliviera?” “I…I don’t know,” I said. I was confused. I supposed he was right, though. This could certainly explain how John was able to drift like a ghost in and out of the Isla Heusos Cemetery-and my various schools-leaving behind no trace, except rumors and the faintest images on video, and broken padlocks and chains.

I—I only want you,” she groaned. “Only you. Promise me that I can keep you. Promise me.” My heart…shit, my heart. It unlocked. The padlock fell free. Her words were a key. Her forgiveness and love and strength and everything that made her pure stole me from my life of pain. She changed me. Right there. Right then. I became hers. Irreversibly. “I promise,

Right then,” said Hermione, checking her watch. “She ought to be here in about five minutes. When I’ve Stunned her--” “Hermione, we know,” said Ron sternly. “And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?” Hermione squealed. “I nearly forgot! Stand back--” She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door beside them, which burst open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as they knew from their careful scouting trips, into an empty theater. Hermione pulled the door back toward her, to make it look as though it was still closed. “And now,” she said, turning back to face the other two in the alleyway, “we put on the Cloak again--” “--and we wait,” Ron finished, throwing it over Hermione’s head like a blanket over a birdcage and rolling his eyes at Harry.

Daoud scowled. “In case you’ve forgotten, I was in Homeland. Twice.” “Yeah, and spent it with your face covered by a keffiyeh. What was the part again? Terrorist Henchman?” “Head Terrorist Henchman.” One big pull and the grille rattled down into place. I put on the padlock. “So when are you gonna play a hero?” Daoud laughed. “Guys like us don’t get to be heroes. You know that.” “Why? ‘Cause you’re an Arab, or ’cause you’re a Muslim?” “Take your pick, cuz. Take your pick.

And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed bedroom-windows standing open to let in the sweet-smelling air, and the ragged old rooks'-nests still dangling in the elm-trees at the bottom of the front garden. Now I am in the garden at the back, beyond the yard where the empty pigeon-house and dog-kennel are—a very preserve of butterflies, as I remember it, with a high fence, and a gate and padlock; where the fruit clusters on the trees, riper and richer than fruit has ever been since, in any other garden, and where my mother gathers some in a basket, while I stand by, bolting furtive gooseberries, and trying to look unmoved. A great wind rises, and the summer is gone in a moment. We are playing in the winter twilight, dancing about the parlour. When my mother is out of breath and rests herself in an elbow-chair, I watch her winding her bright curls round her fingers, and straitening her waist, and nobody knows better than I do that she likes to look so well, and is proud of being so pretty.

Any man can chain you to a post.” He buckled the leather collar around her neck, securing it with a four-digit padlock. The leather sat snugly against her skin, the gravity of it choking her air. “Any man can rip off your clothes.” He tested the chain between her neck and the wooden column. “Fuck your throat, call you a whore, and you might even like it. That’s rough, gritty sex. But it isn’t dominance.” Her heart stuttered. He’d described her experience with Van so accurately. He glided a finger across the line of her jaw, tilting her face upward. “Dominance is when I kiss your brow and you obediently lower to the floor. Willingly. No hesitation.” His eyes flashed. “It’s when you kneel for me, give me the power to break you inside and out, and trust that I won’t. You will surrender your vulnerability without shame, because that’s what I want, and what I want, you crave.” “You’re delusional.” She struggled to swallow. “I’m not—” “You’re not there yet. So in the meantime, I’ll settle for rough, gritty sex.

It was hesitant at first, gentle. His fingers held tight at the base of her skull and she could feel the restraint in him, the leashed energy vibrating in the space between their bodies. He needed to shave and the stubble on his chin was prickly against hers. He smelled like he always had – aftershave, Calvin Klein cologne he bought at the grocery store, and something wild and frightening, like smoke; something that was unmistakably Ben to her – and it assaulted her brain, turning keys in padlocks and laying bare her self-control.

Since the gate was so clearly locked—locked and double-locked and chained and barred; who, she wondered, wants so badly to get in?—she made no attempt to get out of her car, but pressed the horn, and the trees and the gate shuddered and withdrew slightly from the sound. After a minute she blew the horn again and then saw a man coming toward her from inside the gate; he was as dark and unwelcoming as the padlock, and before he moved toward the gate he peered through the bars at her, scowling. “What you want?” His voice was sharp, mean.

The family lived on an isolated estate of centuries-worn stone, swathed in moss and shadowed in weeping trees. On mischief nights, children from Ilvernath sometimes crept up to its towering wrought iron fence, daring their friends to touch the padlock chained around the gate—the one engraved with a scythe. Grins like goblins, the children murmured, because children in Ilvernath loved fairy tales—especially real ones. Pale as plague and silent as spirits. They’ll tear your throat out and drink your soul. All these tales were deserved.

The family lived on an isolated estate of centuries-worn stone, swatched in moss and shadowed in weeping trees. On mischief nights, children from Ilvernath sometimes crept up to its towering wrought iron fence, daring their friends to touch the padlock chained around the gate—the one engraved with a scythe. Grins like goblins, the children murmured, because children in Ilvernath loved fairy tales—especially real ones. Pale as plague and silent as spirits. They’ll tear your throat out and drink your soul. All these tales were deserved.

8 The chief duty of every new age is to upraise new men to determine its liberties, to lead it towards material success - to rend the rusty padlocks and chains of dead custom that always present healthy expansion. Theories and ideas that may have meant life and hope and freedom for our ancestors may now mean destruction, slavery, and dishonor to us! 9 As environments change, no human ideal standeth sure! 10 Whenever, therefore, a lie has built unto itself a throne, let it be assailed without pity and without regret, for under the domination of an inconvenient falsehood, no one can prosper.

YOU WISH TO KNOW ME? POSIT YOURSELF AS THE PINPOINT CENTER OF ONE OF YOUR KALEIDOSCOPES, AND GRASP TIME AS THE COLORFUL FRAGMENTS ERUPTING FROM YOU IN A MULTITUDE OF DIMENSIONS THAT CONSTANTLY EXPAND OUTWARD IN AN EVER-WIDENING, EVER-SHIFTING, INFINITE ARRAY. SEE THAT YOU CAN CHOOSE AND EXPAND FROM ANY OF THOSE UNCOUNTABLE DIMENSIONS AND THAT, WITH EACH CHOICE, THOSE DIMENSIONS WIDEN AND SHIFT AGAIN. INFINITY COMPOUNDED EXPONENTIALLY. UNDERSTAND THAT THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS REALITY: THE FALSE GOD YOUR RACE WORSHIPS WITH SUCH BLIND DEVOTION. REALITY IMPLIES A SINGLE POSSIBLE. YOU ACCUSE ME OF ILLUSION. YOU—WITH YOUR ABSURD CONSTRUCT OF LINEAR TIME. YOU FASHION FOR YOURSELF A PRISON OF WATCHES, CLOCKS, AND CALENDARS. YOU RATTLE BARS FORGED OF HOURS AND DAYS, BUT YOU’VE PADLOCKED THE DOOR WITH PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. PUNY MINDS NEED PUNY CAVES. YOU CANNOT GAZE UPON TIME’S TRUE FACE ANY MORE THAN YOU CAN BEHOLD MINE. TO APPREHEND YOURSELF AS THE CENTER, TO SIMULTANEOUSLY PERCEIVE ALL COMBINATIONS OF ALL POSSIBLES, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO MOVE IN ANY DIRECTION—“DIRECTION” BEING A VERY LIMITED METHOD OF ATTEMPTING TO CONVEY A CONCEPT FOR WHICH YOUR RACE HAS NO WORD—THAT IS WHAT IT IS TO BE ME.

I imagined I had discovered a new word. I rise up in bed and say, "It is not in the language; I have discovered it. 'Kuboa.' It has letters as a word has. By the benign God, man, you have discovered a word!... 'Kuboa' ... a word of profound import." . . . There was no occasion for it to mean either God or the Tivoli; and who said that it was to signify cattle show? I clench my hands fiercely, and repeat once again, "Who said that it was to signify cattle show?" No; on second thoughts, it was not absolutely necessary that it should mean padlock, or sunrise. It was not difficult to find a meaning for such a word as this. I would wait and see . . . "That is quite a matter of detail," I said aloud to myself, and I clutched my arm and reiterated: "That is quite a matter of detail." The word was found, God be praised! and that was the principal thing.

You look terrible,” was Ron’s greeting as he entered the room to wake Harry. “Not for long,” said Harry, yawning. They found Hermione downstairs in the kitchen. She was being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher and wearing the slightly manic expression that Harry associated with exam review. “Robes,” she said under her breath, acknowledging their presence with a nervous nod and continuing to poke around in her beaded bag, “Polyjuice Potion . . . Invisbility Cloak . . . Decoy Detonators . . . You should each take a couple just in case. . . . Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Nougat, Extendable Ears . . .” They gulped down their breakfast, then set off upstairs, Kreacher bowing them out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when they returned. “Bless him,” said Ron fondly, “and when you think I used to fantasize about cutting off his head and sticking it on the wall.” They made their way onto the front step with immense caution: They could see a couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square. Hermione Disapparated with Ron first, then came back for Harry. After the usual brief spell of darkness and near suffocation, Harry found himself in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to take place. It was as yet deserted, except for a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not usually appear here until at least eight o’clock. “Right then,” said Hermione, checking her watch. “She ought to be here in about five minutes. When I’ve Stunned her—” “Hermione, we know,” said Ron sternly. “And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?” Hermione squealed. “I nearly forgot! Stand back—” She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door beside them, which burst open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as they knew from their careful scouting trips, into an empty theater. Hermione pulled the door back toward her, to make it look as though it was still closed. “And now,” she said, turning back to face the other two in the alleyway, “we put on the Cloak again—” “—and we wait,” Ron finished, throwing it over Hermione’s head like a blanket over a birdcage and rolling his eyes at Harry.

For her part, Patricia was looking at Laurence and feeling a kind of ache deeper than mere sexual desire, although there was that, too. All of her life, she felt like she had been telling people, “It doesn’t have to be like this,” which is the close cousin to “It can be better than this.” Or even, “We can be better than this.” As a little girl, getting pressed into the dirt by her schoolmates or padlocked in a foul old spice crate by Roberta, she’d tried to say that with tears in her eyes, but she didn’t have the words back then and nobody would have understood anyway. As the outcast freak in junior high, with everybody wanting to burn her alive, she’d given up on even trying to find a way to say, “It can be more than this.” But she’d never let go of that feeling, and it came back now, in the form of hope. She gazed at Laurence’s face (which looked squarer and more handsome without a big shirt collar framing it), his surprisingly puffy and suckable-looking nipples, his shaved pubes, and the way the leg and stomach hair erupted in a heart-shaped ring around the depilated zone. And she felt like they, the two of them, right here, right now, could make something that defied tragedy.

The photographer was taking pictures with a small pocket camera but the sergeant sent him back to the car for his big Bertillon camera. Grave Digger and Coffin Ed left the cellar to look around. The apartment was only one room wide but four storeys high. The front was flush with the sidewalk, and the front entrance elevated by two recessed steps. The alleyway at the side slanted down from the sidewalk sufficiently to drop the level of the door six feet below the ground-floor level. The cellar, which could only be entered by the door at the side, was directly below the ground-floor rooms. There were no apartments. Each of the four floors had three bedrooms opening on to the public hall, and to the rear was a kitchen and a bath and a separate toilet to serve each floor. There were three tenants on each floor, their doors secured by hasps and staples to be padlocked when they were absent, bolts and chains and floor locks and angle bars to protect them from intruders when they were present. The doors were pitted and scarred either because of lost keys or attempted burglary, indicating a continuous warfare between the residents and enemies from without, rapists, robbers, homicidal husbands and lovers, or the landlord after his rent. The walls were covered with obscene graffiti, mammoth sexual organs, vulgar limericks, opened legs, telephone numbers, outright boasting, insidious suggestions, and impertinent or pertinent comments about various tenants’ love habits, their mothers and fathers, the legitimacy of their children. “And people live here,” Grave Digger said, his eyes sad. “That’s what it was made for.” “Like maggots in rotten meat.” “It’s rotten enough.” Twelve mailboxes were nailed to the wall in the front hall. Narrow stairs climbed to the top floor. The ground-floor hallway ran through a small back courtyard where four overflowing garbage cans leaned against the wall. “Anybody can come in here day or night,” Grave Digger said. “Good for the whores but hard on the children.” “I wouldn’t want to live here if I had any enemies,” Coffin Ed said. “I’d be scared to go to the john.” “Yeah, but you’d have central heating.” “Personally, I’d rather live in the cellar. It’s private with its own private entrance and I could control the heat.” “But you’d have to put out the garbage cans,” Grave Digger said. “Whoever occupied that whore’s crib ain’t been putting out any garbage cans.” “Well, let’s wake up the brothers on the ground floor.” “If they ain’t already awake.

The fictional exploits of buccaneering men had lost their magic for him. Besides, there were other pirates on view in Tilbury that spring. One, unredeemed by any amnesty, hung from the gibbet at Tilbury Point, tugged at by a brisk breeze off the river. His body had been bound in chains, daubed with tar and encased in a cage, denied Christian burial as a warning to the living of the hideousness of death. It did not have quite that effect on Nathan. "It's Easter," he said to Hardcastle. "A week since," said Hardcastle. "When they went to the tomb to rewrap Christ's body . . ." Harcastle threw Toby in the air and caught him repeatedly, making the child laugh and laugh. ". . . except that it had gone . . ." said Nathan. "Raised to glory," agreed Harcastle, rubbing noses with the baby. ". . . out into the garden." Suddenly it seemed to him that the tarry skull of the pirate on the gibbet might not be shouting a warning after all -- that his decaying corpse might no longer be suffering the torments of the gibbet as his executioners like to suggest with cage and chain and padlock. There were amnesties other than the King's. The man might simply be singing: singing and dancing in the bright, brittle Easter sunshine, held up in midair not by chains but by invisible hands or on invisible shoulders.

We stepped in, and, as we paid the cover charge, the music hit us. The double doors buzzed open and we walked in. A handsome man and his lover in an orange top snuggled as they walked to the exit. Veronica turned to me and smiled, taking my hand. I unbuttoned my shirt at the neck and exposed my collar. It was a thin metal collar with a padlock on the front. If the padlock wasn’t attached it would have looked like any other interesting necklace that was tight against my neck, but it got more interesting with the padlock. On Veronica’s left hand there was a thick bracelet, and that had a key on it. Her right wrist had a glow bracelet. We walked past the tables of people as they drank and screamed over the music to talk. We decided to go right to the dance floor. She took me by the hand, led me. We were on the dance floor and I couldn’t dance. I ended up just throwing myself around, getting lost in the people surrounding us. The bodies pressed against us, the industrial music loud and crisp. The bass shook your bones, and my ribcage felt like it was rattled to pieces. I closed my eyes and just moved. Veronica moved with a grace I hadn’t seen in awhile when I opened my eyes. She pressed herself against a couple that surrounded her. I felt my breath catch in my throat, my heart pounded from excitement. She squeezed past them and moved to me, her hands ran down my face, and then she gripped the padlock with her left hand. She pulled me down to her, which wasn’t very far, but it was the intensity of the moment that made all the difference. What she did next made me jump, my body tensed and relaxed in milliseconds. She gave me a deep kiss, and, while she kissed me, distracted me, her other hand undid my padlock. I pulled back as I jumped in shock. Our eyes were locked on each others’ in the flashing neon stage lights. She had a twinkle in her eye as she pulled me close to her. “Find a man, for you.” I pulled back, looked at her in surprise. She smiled wickedly, an erotic edge to her features suddenly. She was hot when she was getting dressed and she was even hotter now. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I leaned into her ear. “Are you looking for a woman?

Boys will be boys, and ballplayers will always be arrested adolescents at heart. The proof comes in the mid-afternoon of an early spring training day, when 40 percent of the New York Mets’ starting rotation—Mike Pelfrey and I—hop a chain-link fence to get onto a football field not far from Digital Domain. We have just returned from Dick’s Sporting Goods, where we purchased a football and a tee. We are here to kick field goals. Long field goals. A day before, we were all lying on the grass stretching and guys started talking about football and field-goal kickers, and David Wright mentioned something about the remarkable range of kickers these days. I can kick a fifty-yard field goal, Pelfrey says. You can not, Wright says. You don’t think so? You want to bet? You give me five tries and I’ll put three of them through. One hundred bucks says you can’t, David says. This is going to be the easiest money I ever make. I am Pelf’s self-appointed big brother, always looking out for him, and I don’t want him to go into this wager cold. So I suggest we get a ball and tee and do some practicing. We get back from Dick’s but find the nearby field padlocked, so of course we climb over the fence. At six feet two inches and 220 pounds, I get over without incident, but seeing Pelf hoist his big self over—all six feet seven inches and 250 pounds of him—is much more impressive. Pelf’s job is to kick and my job is to chase. He sets up at the twenty-yard line, tees up the ball, and knocks it through—kicking toe-style, like a latter-day Lou Groza. He backs up to the twenty-five and then the thirty, and boots several more from each distance. Adding the ten yards for the end zone, he’s now hit from forty yards and is finding his range. Pretty darn good. He insists he’s got another ten yards in his leg. He hits from forty-five, and by now he’s probably taken fifteen or seventeen hard kicks and reports that his right shin is getting sore. We don’t consider stopping. Pelf places the ball on the tee at the forty-yard line: a fifty-yard field goal. He takes a half dozen steps back, straight behind the tee, sprints up, and powers his toe into the ball … high … and far … and just barely over the crossbar. That’s all that is required. I thrust both my arms overhead like an NFL referee. He takes three more and converts on a second fifty-yarder. You are the man, Pelf, I say. Adam Vinatieri should worry for his job. That’s it, Pelf says. I can’t even lift my foot anymore. My shin is killing me. We hop back over the fence, Pelf trying to land as lightly as a man his size can land. His shin hurts so much he can barely put pressure on the gas pedal. He’s proven he can hit a fifty-yard field goal, but I go into big-brother mode and tell him I don’t want him kicking any more field goals or stressing his right leg any further. I convince him to drop the bet with David. The last thing you need is to start the season on the DL because you were kicking field goals, I say. Can you imagine if the papers got ahold of that one? The wager just fades away. David doesn’t mind; he gets a laugh at the story of Pelf hopping the fence and practicing, and drilling long ones.

The pregnant women complained desperately. The Georgia-man rode on. After crossing the Potomac, he moved Ball, who was physically the strongest of the men, from the middle of the chain and attached his padlocked collar to the first iron link. With Ball setting a faster pace, the two sets of double lines of people hurried down the high road, a dirt line in the Virginia grain fields that today lies under the track of US Highway 301.

Step 1: The sender places the present in the briefcase, which they lock with their padlock and remove their key. They then send the locked briefcase to the receiver. Note: While the briefcase is en route from sender to receiver, it is safe from all adversaries, because they cannot remove the padlock from the briefcase. However, the receiver is also unable to obtain the present. Step 2: The receiver locks the briefcase with their own padlock and removes the key. They then return it to the sender. Note: The briefcase is now locked with two padlocks so no one can get the present. Step 3: The sender uses their own key to remove their padlock from the briefcase and returns the briefcase to the receiver. Note: The only lock on the briefcase belongs to the receiver. Step 4: The receiver removes their padlock from the briefcase to obtain the present.

In this simplistic example we have to admit that the sender has no way of knowing whose padlock is on the briefcase and that it might be possible for an adversary to impersonate the receiver and place their padlock on the briefcase. This is a problem that has to be addressed. The ‘Whose padlock is it?’ question in this briefcase example is similar to the ‘Whose public key is it?’ question that is so important when public key systems are used.

Be to her virtues very kind; Be to her faults a little blind; Let all her ways be unconfin’d; And clap your padlock— on her mind.

startled awake. Ollie froze for a moment, staring in his direction. The kid scrunched his face and yawned like a bear. I said to Ollie, “It’s still Bobby.” “Right,” she said. She unzipped the bag. There was no lock on the zipper, not even the tiny padlocks they

I’m scared, but also debating whether to try and whack her with my Chloé Paddington bag – thank goodness for the heavy padlock – and try to make a run for it in my gorgeous but impractical brown suede, five-inch Marc by Marc Jacobs boots. Luckily, I spy Obélix – lucky because my boots were made more for display purposes than running footwear. Obviously the crazy woman is wearing flat, sensible, Clarks-looking shoes in dependable black. Yuck. That’s not the point though. The point is she’d catch me in seconds and I’d probably damage my boots in the process.

MATTHEW PRIOR. 1664-1721. English Padlock. Be to her virtues very kind; Be to her faults a little blind.

Rising to his own challenge, Mr. Cruz called for “the locusts” of the Environmental Protection Agency to be stifled and for padlocking the Internal Revenue Service, then redeploying its agents to secure the Southern border.

dispatch riders would race across the world with padlocked briefcases, personally distributing keys to everyone who would receive messages from the bank over the next week. As business networks grew in size, as more messages were sent, and as more keys had to be delivered, the banks found that this distribution process became a horrendous logistical nightmare, and the overhead costs became prohibitive.

Try to imagine what it’s like to wake up one morning, like I did recently, to realize your childhood has been boarded up, abandoned, padlocked. It’s a very disorienting feeling.

Ward, do you think we’ll have time to ride this afternoon? I’d love to go over some of the old trails with you,” Erica asked, smiling at him over the assortment of pastries and wedding cake in the lodge’s dining room. Ward fought the urge to growl his reply that he had an even better idea. He’d love to stuff her into Ralph Cummins’s taxi, slam the door, and instruct Ralph to hit the gas and not slow down until he reached Palo Alto, where Erica was currently living. Once the taxi was out of sight, he’d go down to the bottom of the road to Silver Creek Ranch and lock the gates. With a padlock. Instead, he shoveled in a forkful of the wedding cake Roo had baked and pretended not to hear. He’d been doing a lot of that.

platform. Outside an old man in overalls was working his way along the wagons, undoing padlocks, throwing bolts, hauling the massive panel doors back along their tracks. Apart from him, no one. Could it be this simple? He didn’t pause to ask himself the question a second time. Just sprang down from the opening onto the concrete siding and began walking, head lowered and limping at first, until the oxygen started flowing through his bloodstream and the muscles of his legs began to work then, as they did, quickening his pace and striding faster, lifting his head to the seamless pale blue dawn sky and tasting the breath of freedom. He found a covered overpass that seemed to connect the freight platforms with the main terminal. Took the stairs two at a time and started across the bridge towards the massive building at the other side. The station hall was a curiously romantic

My favorite part of our honeymoon was when Simon dipped me backwards in a passionate kiss on the Ponts des Arts bridge just before we hung a padlock with our initials to the rails, immortalizing our love.

Non, un cadenas ne symbolisera JAMAIS l'amour.

A door in the corner was painted the same colour as the walls. Beige. An old padlock kept it closed. She checked the seams and saw that they’d been painted over. It didn’t look like the door had been opened in years. An old storage cupboard. She made a mental note of it and headed for the filing cabinet. The bottom two drawers were empty, but the top one had a number of hanging files. She walked her fingers over them, reading the names as she went. When she reached Hammond, she stopped and pulled it out. Pausing only when she spotted another name. Grace Melver. The person who had reported him missing. She pulled that one too and pinned them under her arm as she closed the top drawer.  She took one more look around and then headed for the desk, putting the files down. Roper would keep Mary busy for a few more minutes, which meant she could dig into the cold hard facts.  Her father was at the back of her chair, looking over her head, his big hands resting on her shoulders. Information is your friend, he’d say. Acquire it ruthlessly.  She rubbed her eyes, ignoring the sting from the alcohol-based sanitiser, and dove in.  If there was anything to find, she’d find it.  Chapter

Man, what am I going to do? I guess I’m going to have to figure out a way to make my own Harry Potter costume. It’s probably gonna be real hard too. I still haven’t even figured out how to carve a lightning bolt on my head. So we just spent the rest of the time shopping for a costume for my little brother Wesley. As we were looking around, I saw a crowd of people standing around a display that had a large object covered in a black curtain. It was inside a glass box that was locked with like 20 padlocks. Then, around the glass box there were two big fat chains that were locked together with a big lock. And in front of the glass box there were two security guards that were dressed in riot gear. Man, I just had to find out what was in there.

any of his homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the Wizarding world. Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on the other hand, was

Dangerous. A voice warned from somewhere far, far away. Someplace buried so deep in her psyche, she might have forgotten it even existed. Her reason. Her wit. He’d interred it beneath the avalanche of desire tumbling through her, tossing her end over end until she couldn’t decide which way was up. Danger. You’re in danger. The warning was closer now, more urgent. Enough to draw her back, breaking the seal of their lips. She only had a moment of gratification at a similar haze unfocusing his stormy eyes before the clouds parted and he blinked down at her with an expression both alert and regretful. “Forgive me,” he whispered, releasing the lock on her shackles and letting them fall to the floor. She looked down at them in mute astonishment, not having even noticed he’d been working on them. By the time she’d registered that he had moved, he’d slid out the door and pulled it shut and secured the padlock just as she lunged for him.

YOU ACCUSE ME OF ILLUSION. YOU—WITH YOUR ABSURD CONSTRUCT OF LINEAR TIME. YOU FASHION FOR YOURSELF A PRISON OF WATCHES, CLOCKS, AND CALENDARS. YOU RATTLE BARS FORGED OF HOURS AND DAYS, BUT YOU’VE PADLOCKED THE DOOR WITH PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. PUNY MINDS NEED PUNY CAVES.

She stood in the doorway watching them with a look of immense responsibility. Before her serious gaze they became a boy you couldn’t trust and a ghost you could almost puff away: a piece of frightened air. She was very young—about thirteen—and at that age you are not afraid of many things, age and death, all the things which may turn up, snake-bite and fever and rats and a bad smell. Life hadn’t got at her yet: she had a false air of impregnability. But she had been reduced already, as it were, to the smallest terms—everything was there but on the thinnest lines. That was what the sun did to a child, reduced it to a framework. The gold bangle on the bony wrist was like a padlock on a canvas door a fist could break.

All Harry’s spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron and top-of-the-range Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place in the house Quidditch team because he hadn’t practised all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went back to school without any of his homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins) and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world.

Now, as I said, I am all for your Second Amendment rights. I think you should be able to have guns. It’s in your constitution. What I am not for is bullshit arguments and lies. There is one argument and one argument alone for having a gun, and this is the argument… “Fuck off. I like guns.” It’s not the best argument, but it’s all you’ve got. And there’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with saying, “I like something. Don’t take it away from me.” But don’t give me this other bullshit. The main one is, [In American accent] “I need it for protection. I need to protect me. I need to protect my family.” Really? Is that why they’re called “assault rifles”? Is it? I’ve never heard of these fucking “protection rifles” you speak of. Protection? What the fuck are you talking about? You have a gun in your house, you’re 80% more likely to use that gun on yourself, than to shoot someone else. And people think, “Well, that’d never happen to me.” You don’t know that, because you know what? ♪ From time to time We all get sad ♪ ♪ One day you’re happy Then you’re sad ♪ ♪ And then, uh-oh ♪ Protection. I had a break-in in Manchester, England, where I was tied up, I had my head cut. They threatened to rape my girlfriend. They came through the window with a machete and a hammer, and Americans always go, [In American accent] “Well, imagine if you had a gun.” And I’m like, “All right. I was naked at the time. I wasn’t wearing my holster. I wasn’t staring at the window waiting for cunts with machetes to come through.” What world do you live in where you’re constantly fucking ready? You have guns ’cause you like guns! That’s why you go to gun conventions! That’s why you read gun magazines! None of you give a shit about home security. None of you go to home security conventions. None of you read Padlock Monthly. None of you have a Facebook picture of you behind a secure door going, “Fucking yeah!” Like you’re going to be ready if someone comes into your house. You have it at all fucking times. By the way, most people who are breaking into your house just want your fucking TV! You think that people are coming to murder your family? How many fucking enemies do you have? Jeez, you think a lot of yourself if you think everyone’s coming to murder you. See, if you have it readily available, it becomes unsafe. You have it in your bedside table, one of your kids picks it up, thinks it’s a toy, shoots another one of your kids. Happens every fucking day, but people go, “That’d never happen in my house ’cause I’m a responsible gun owner. I keep my guns locked in a safe.” Then they’re no fucking protection! Someone comes into the house, you’re like, “Wait there, fuck-face! Oh! You’ve come to the wrong house here, buddy boy. I tell you what. I’m gonna fuck you up! Okay. Is it 32 to the left or 32 to the right? Your mother’s birthday? Why the fuck would I know your fucking mother’s birthday? Maybe if you didn’t leave the window open [In whining voice] ‘because it’s too hot in here,’ we wouldn’t be getting fucking murdered, right?

they climbed above the beach there to a higher elevation where decayed wooden gates with padlocks announced the phantoms of abandoned houses. Where the shallow water suddenly deepened there were irregular shapes of black opal, like the forms of stationary sharks, and farther out dark green masses that suggested a brooding energy that would always remain withheld from the upper air.

Mister Anthony will do this. You know his face too. You know too much. You must leave this place. You must escape.” “But how?” I asked him. “Look at that padlock. There’s no way of getting it open without a key. Have you got the key?” Kaya shook his head. “No,” he said. “But I have been thinking, and maybe we do not need a key after all. What is it you say in English? There is more than one way to skin a rabbit. Listen to them. They are busy with their drinking. If we are lucky, if we are careful, they will see nothing, they will hear nothing. I will bring knives from the kitchen. I have knives like saws, very sharp. It is easy to do I think. I will saw, you will saw. It will not take

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Immobilized in marriage, since long ago, she was taken as rightful property under wedlock. As a side note, I am urged to comment, the curious nature of these terms property and wed-lock; as if doomed to be firmly kept under latch and key, a padlocked yard? Pastures lain fallow occasionally?

Sometimes the key to unlocking the future is your ability to just leave the padlock of the past.

And this,' Astrid says, gesturing at a wiry gentleman wearing eyeglasses and a houndstooth suit in need of pressing, standing a little distance away from the rest of the group, looking slightly uncomfortable, 'is Dexter Palmer, and he's a—what?' 'I,' says Dexter Palmer. 'Um.' 'He's a novelist,' Astrid brays, and Harold looks at Dexter, at his right arm rubbing his threadbare left elbow. Harold sees the oaken trunk in the corner of Dexter's filthy downtown loft with an enormous padlock on it, sees the tens of thousands of pages of handwritten manuscript that fill it. He sees the stub of the tallow candle on Dexter's rickety wooden desk, purchased for a dollar-fifty at a rummage sale. He sees the short leg of the desk propped up with a seven-hundred page study of phrenology, printed during the age of miracles. He sees Dexter's eyes going bad by candlelight, a whole diopter lost with each late night. 'Zounds, I am working on my masterpiece,' Dexter Palmer yells hoarsely, disturbing the neighbors. He slings a cup half-full of tepid chamomile tea at the wall, where it shatters. 'Dexter's writing a novel,' Astrid says brightly. After a few minutes of introductory cross-talk, the group of five splits into separate conversations: Harold talks with his sister and Charmaine, while Marlon ends up with Dexter. To Harold, Marlon looks cornered—Harold can't hear what Dexter's saying, but whatever he's talking about, he's clearly going on about it at length and in fine detail. Maybe Marlon is getting to hear all about the novel. Every once in a while Marlon will look at Harold and theatrically roll his eyes and sigh, but Dexter, who's frantically gesticulating, wrapped up in whatever he's chattering about, doesn't notice.

Life can be like a padlock refusing to open. One little change in the combination can finally open the door.

I went along on this ride, as did Adolph, and we returned to the Feudenheim district of Mannheim, which was where our apartment stood. The roads were extremely cratered from the frequent bombings and the driver had to carefully circumvent these deep chasms. As we drove along we were fully aware that we could also become an inviting target, but eventually we arrived at the house safely. Surprisingly, the house was still relatively undamaged and my flat was locked up and further secured with a padlock, which I had used. It was apparent from the drawn blinds that everyone had moved out. Luckily I still had the keys and could open the door. Letting ourselves in, we looked around. It was really surprising that everything was still in place and that looters hadn’t ransacked everything, as was usually the case. Pointing out the items of furniture I would need, Herr Meyer quickly organized the boys, in a military fashion, and had them carry my things down the three flights of stairs. Even the truck driver helped carry my things, and to my delight the move went smoothly. When the truck was finally loaded, the weight became apparent. Weighted down with an old coal stove and its chimney sections, kitchen cupboard, a radio, double bed and mattress, a sofa and my wardrobe as well as pots and pans, it was down onto its axles.

The first bell went off just as I got to my locker. After spinning the combination into the padlock, I yanked on the handle while pressing my shoulder into the door. It was my usual routine whenever I visited my locker so none of my stuff would fall out. Sure, we have a locker clean out every two weeks, but you know how life can get busy sometimes, right? That and I was pretty sure I was feeding a small family of rodents living at the bottom of it. I’m not sure I could live with myself if I did anything to take food off their table. Squeezing my fingers into the cold, dark, and somehow damp locker, I managed to scrape the top of my math book just enough so that it would tip into my hand. “Gotcha!” I exclaimed as I slid the book out slowly. After it was free from the locker, I slammed the door shut with my knee since that was the spot where it clicked shut. Suddenly, like she materialized out of thin air, Naomi was standing

The first bell went off just as I got to my locker. After spinning the combination into the padlock, I yanked on the handle while pressing my shoulder into the door. It was my usual routine whenever I visited my locker so none of my stuff would fall out. Sure, we have a locker clean out every two weeks, but you know how life can get busy sometimes, right? That and I was pretty sure I was feeding a small family of rodents living at the bottom of it. I’m not sure I could live with myself if I did anything to take food off their table. Squeezing my fingers into the cold, dark, and somehow damp locker, I managed to scrape the top of my math book just enough so that it would tip into my hand. “Gotcha!

The only ones hoarding HCQ were Dr. Fauci and Rick Bright, who had padlocked 63 million doses in the Strategic National Stockpile79—more than enough to supply virtually every gerontology-ward patient in America. Despite such efforts to create a shortage, none existed. HCQ is cheap, quick, and easy to manufacture, and since its patent is expired, dozens of manufacturers around the world can quickly ramp up production to meet escalating demand. In July, Gates endorsed censorship of HCQ recommendations after a video touting its efficacy against coronavirus accumulated tens of millions of views.80 Gates called the video “outrageous,” and praised Facebook and YouTube for hastily removing it.

She hated flowers, and I wondered why That was; When diamonds less radiant Diminished her gloom, And she delighted in the fragrance of her favorite perfume. She hated that they withered and faded, I thought; That their petals broke loose, And they barely hung on. She hated that they were thrown away, With every trace of them gone. They were delicate and fragile like her, I’d say; The kind of thing She felt so undeserving of. It’s such taxing work for the weary, Simply to nurture and love. She clung to her own greenness and vigor, I thought. Exquisite as they were, They brought too much sorrow; She detested caring for those that, Would not need her tomorrow. She was too oppressed to provide refuge, I found. I heard heartbreaking stories, Where she had it rough. She did the best she could, I know, But it was just never enough. She is every bit like the flowers, You know, Warms your vulnerable heart, With kindness and grace; Brings happy tears to your eyes, And the most joyful smile to your face! She regales like a queen, and she stuns, I say; And I love her, As I do those flowers she hates! Some have penetrable walls, you know; She has padlocked iron gates.

When public housing grew to be the nation's highest priority, the need to fit everyone into state-sanctioned boxes became a task of the highest order. No more of these zinc-roofed monstrosities parading as households. Not to mention those attap-walled nooks hanging off the edges of shorelines. How to maintain security when you could pick the padlock on any one of these doors and barge your way into someone else's life.

The boys hurried to the convertible and sped away. Soon the outlines of a Ferris wheel came in sight. “Quite a show,” Joe remarked as he and Frank got out of the car. Just inside the entrance gate a man standing on a platform was announcing loudly: “Ten dollars, I said! Ten dollars ! Easiest way in the world to earn ten dollars! All you have to be is smart!” The barker held up a large padlock. “You just have to open this. Sure, it’s a trick lock. But it’ll cost you only a dime to try. Step this way, gentlemen!” Frank nudged Joe. The first customer to ascend the stairs was Chet Morton! The crowd roared with laughter as Chet struggled with the padlock. He seemed determined to win the ten dollars. “Hey! You better quit before you bust,” cried one of the bystanders. Chet was bent double and was very red in the face. “It’ll cost you more than ten dollars for a doctor!” another man shouted. Frank and Joe were grinning from ear to ear. They knew their friend thought he could open the padlock because he had heard so much about locks and keys lately. But Chet finally gave up and turned away to buy some peanuts.

The pile grew smaller, revealing two large cellar doors sealed together with an old padlock. Ray dug his keys out of his pocket and picked through them until he found the right one. He lifted open the doors. Dust filled my nose. Concrete steps led into darkness. Ray motioned to the steps. I ducked my head and stepped into the darkness, holding the railing on the left to steady my feet as I made my way down. I came to the bottom and turned to look up at Ray, waiting for him to follow me. But he didn’t. He just stood there looking at me with a strange expression on his face. Then, without saying a word, he reached over and shut one of the doors. He wasn’t coming with me?

The enclosures were struck by either some very skilled intruders or by what seemed to be a torrent of “poltergeistlike” activity. Persons unknown would routinely open the doors, padlocks would vanish, and the dogs would escape by unknown means.