Peg Leg Quotes

We won't be seeing you,' Fred told Professor Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick. 'Yeah, don't bother to keep in touch,' said George, mounting his own. Fred looked around at the assembled students, and at the silent, watchful crowd. 'If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley — Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes,' he said in a loud voice, 'Our new premises!' 'Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they're going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,' added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge. 'STOP THEM!' shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd. 'Give her hell from us, Peeves.' And Peeves, who Harry had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset.

No foot, but strapped to his thigh was what looked like a wooden table leg. It looked ridiculous; the idea was completely idiotic. A naked pirate who couldn’t even afford a proper peg leg.

A pirate at sea has a peg leg, a hook for a hand, and an eye patch. One of his companions asks him how he lost his leg.” “Please stop,” Kearan begs. “He answers, ‘A cannonball.’ Then his companion asks how he lost his hand. He answers, ‘A sword.’” “Enwen, I will knock you unconscious,” Kearan threatens, but I can tell he doesn’t have the energy to carry it out. “When the companion asks how he lost his eye, the man says, ‘A spray of the sea.’” Kearan stares at Enwen. “That doesn’t even make any sense.” “It was his first day with the hook.

I give Finn a wicked smile. "Don't you think a peg leg would be charming? Like a pirate? The first mate of the Calypso had one, didn't he?" "It would add a certain rakish factor. Have you got a spare eye patch?" "Be serious, you two. Gangrene is no laughing matter," Mrs. O'Hare scolds.

I swear on Peter Stuyvesant’s peg leg that the country that became the U.S. bears a closer family resemblance to the devil-may-care merchants of New Amsterdam than it does to Boston’s communitarian English majors.

The human resources cabin is mostly bare. A large poster on the wall features a cat with a peg leg paw. "There is no Purr in Pirate!" reads the caption.

Pirates have seized the boat,” Brooklyn said. “I think they’re coming for the two of you.” “Pirates?” Judy gave her a confused look. “You mean with peg legs and parrots?” “Yes, and a crocodile with a loud clock in its stomach,” Brooklyn replied sarcastically. “This isn’t a storybook. These are actual twenty-first-century criminals at sea. And you two are the most valuable treasure on this boat.

When he heard light, rushing footfalls, he turned his head. Someone was racing along the second-floor balcony. Then laughter drifted down from above. Glorious feminine laughter. He leaned out the archway and glanced at the grand staircase. Bella appeared on the landing above, breathless, smiling, a black satin robe gathered in her hands. As she slowed at the head of the stairs, she looked over her shoulder, her thick dark hair swinging like a mane. The pounding that came next was heavy and distant, growing louder until it was like boulders hitting the ground. Obviously, it was what she was waiting for. She let out a laugh, yanked her robe up even higher, and started down the stairs, bare feet skirting the steps as if she were floating. At the bottom, she hit the mosaic floor of the foyer and wheeled around just as Zsadist appeared in second-story hallway. The Brother spotted her and went straight for the balcony, pegging his hands into the rail, swinging his legs up and pushing himself straight off into thin air. He flew outward, body in a perfect swan dive--except he wasn't over water, he was two floors up over hard stone. John's cry for help came out as a mute, sustained rush of air-- Which was cut off as Zsadist dematerialized at the height of the dive. He took form twenty feet in front of Bella, who watched the show with glowing happiness. Meanwhile, John's heart pounded from shock...then pumped fast for a different reason. Bella smiled up at her mate, her breath still hard, her hands still gripping the robe, her eyes heavy with invitation. And Zsadist came forward to answer her call, seeming to get even bigger as he stalked over to her. The Brother's bonding scent filled the foyer, just as his low, lionlike growl did. The male was all animal at the moment....a very sexual animal. "You like to be chased, nalla, " Z said in a voice so deep it distorted. Bella's smile got even wider as she backed up into a corner. "Maybe." "So run some more, why don't you." The words were dark and even John caught the erotic threat in them. Bella took off, darting around her mate, going for the billiards room. Z tracked her like prey, pivoting around, his eyes leveled on the female's streaming hair and graceful body. As his lips peeled off his fangs, the white canines elongated, protruding from his mouth. And they weren't the only response he had to his shellan. At his hips, pressing into the front of his leathers, was an erection the size of a tree trunk. Z shot John a quick glance and then went back to his hunt, disappearing into the room, the pumping growl getting louder. From out of the open doors, there was a delighted squeal, a scramble, a female's gasp, and then....nothing. He'd caught her. ......When Zsadist came out a moment later, he had Bella in his arms, her dark hair trailing down his shoulder as she lounged in the strength that held her. Her eyes locked on Z's face while he looked where he was going, her hand stroking his chest, her lips curved in a private smile. There was a bite mark on her neck, one that had very definitely not been there before, and Bella's satisfaction as she stared at the hunger in her hellren's face was utterly compelling. John knew instinctively that Zsadist was going to finish two things upstairs: the mating and the feeding. The Brother was going to be at her throat and in between her legs. Probably at the same time. God, John wanted that kind of connection.

there is a growing body of work coming out of psychology and cognitive science that says you have no clue why you act the way you do, choose the things you choose, or think the thoughts you think. Instead, you create narratives, little stories to explain away why you gave up on that diet, why you prefer Apple over Microsoft, why you clearly remember it was Beth who told you the story about the clown with the peg leg made of soup cans when it was really Adam, and it wasn’t a clown.

I adjusted my skirt again and looked down to evaluate the decency of its length. It's fine, Anna. At least my legs had a little muscle these days, instead of looking like a pair of toothpicks. Although I'd been pegged with nicknames like "Twiggy" and "Sticks" growing up, I didn't obsess about my figure, or lack of one. Padded bras were a helpful invention, and I was satisfied with the two small indentations in my sides that passed for a waist. Running had become my new pastime five weeks ago, after I'd read how my body is the "temple of my soul." Healthy temple: check.

History crawls along on the peg legs of small individual lives,” said Frex, “and at the same time larger eternal forces converge. You can’t attend to both arenas at once.

History crawls along on the peg legs of small individual lives,” said Frex, “and at the same time larger eternal forces converge. You can’t attend to both arenas at once.” “Our child may not have a small life.

In the lobby, an old woman with legs wrapped in elastic bandages mopped the floor with filthy water. She kept missing the same spot, over and over. There was the overpowering smell of disinfectant, bad tobacco, and wet wool. This was the smell of Russia indoors, the smell of the woman in front of you on line, the smell of every elevator. Near an abandoned newsstand, dozens of overcoats hung on long rows of pegs, somber and dark, lightly steaming, like nags in a stable.

A pirate walks into a bar with a parrot on his shoulder, a peg leg, and a steering wheel on his pants,” Derek said. “The bartender says, ‘Hey, you’ve got a steering wheel on your pants.’ And the pirate goes, ‘Arrrgh, I know. It’s driving me nuts.

Want to hear a joke?” “No.” “A pirate at sea has a peg leg, a hook for a hand, and an eye patch. One of his companions asks him how he lost his leg.” “Please stop,” Kearan begs. “He answers, ‘A cannonball.’ Then his companion asks how he lost his hand. He answers, ‘A sword.’” “Enwen, I will knock you unconscious,” Kearan threatens, but I can tell he doesn’t have the energy to carry it out. “When the companion asks how he lost his eye, the man says, ‘A spray of the sea.’” Kearan stares at Enwen. “That doesn’t even make any sense.” “It was his first day with the hook.

I was taught to say nothing about another person’s appearance if I can’t find a way to say something nice, so I’ll say that of all the other persons I’ve encountered in my years, Peg McMoughin was one of them. She had the usual number of arms, legs, and head, none of which warrant further comment. She wore clothes.

place the holes for your pegs? In the legs? That’s good. How about in a wide front apron? That’s better. In a sliding deadman? Much better.

There was a moment of stillness before something in him seemed to snap. she pounced on her with a sort of tigerish delight, and clamped his mouth over hers. She squeaked in surprise, wriggling in his hold, but his arms clamped around her easily, his muscles as solid as oak. He kissed her possessively, almost roughly at first, gentling by voluptuous degrees. Her body surrendered without giving her brain a chance to object, applying itself eagerly to every available inch of him. The luxurious male heat and hardness of him satisfied a wrenching hunger she hadn't been aware of until now. It also gave her the close-but-not-close-enough feeling she remembered from before. Oh, how confusing this was, this maddening need to crawl inside his clothes, practically inside his skin. She let her fingertips wander over his cheeks and jaw, the neat shape of his ears, the taut smoothness of his neck. When he offered no objection, she sank her fingers into his thick, vibrant hair and sighed in satisfaction. He searched for her tongue, teased and stroked intimately until her heart pounded in a tumult of longing, and a sweet, empty ache spread all through her. Dimly aware that she was going to lose control, that she was on the verge of swooning, or assaulting him again, she managed to break the kiss and turn her face away with a gasp. "Don't," she said weakly. His lips grazed along her jawline, his breath rushing unsteadily against her skin. "Why? Are you still worried about Australian pox?" Slowly it registered that they were no longer standing. Gabriel was sitting on the ground with his back against the grass-covered mound, and- heaven help her- she was in his lap. She glanced around them in bewilderment. How had this happened? "No," she said, bewildered and perturbed, "but I just remembered that you said I kissed like a pirate." Gabriel looked blank for a moment. "Oh, that. That was a compliment." Pandora scowled. "It would only be a compliment if I had a beard and a peg leg." Setting his mouth sternly against a faint quiver, Gabriel smoothed her hair tenderly. "Forgive my poor choice of words. What I meant to convey was that I found your enthusiasm charming." "Did you?" Pandora turned crimson. Dropping her head to his shoulder, she said in a muffled voice, "Because I've worried for the past three days that I did it wrong." "No, never, darling." Gabriel sat up a little and cradled her more closely to him. Nuzzling her cheek, he whispered, "Isn't it obvious that everything about you gives me pleasure?" "Even when I plunder and pillage like a Viking?" she asked darkly. "Pirate. Yes, especially then." His lips moved softly along the rim of her right ear. "My sweet, there are altogether too many respectable ladies in the world. The supply has far exceeded the demand. But there's an appalling shortage of attractive pirates, and you do seem to have a gift for plundering and ravishing. I think we've found you're true calling." "You're mocking me," Pandora said in resignation, and jumped a little as she felt his teeth gently nip her earlobe. Smiling, Gabriel took her head between his hands and looked into her eyes. "Your kiss thrilled me beyond imagining," he whispered. "Every night for the rest of my life, I'll dream of the afternoon in the holloway, when I was waylaid by a dark-haired beauty who devastated me with the heat of a thousand troubled stars, and left my soul in cinders. Even when I'm an old man, and my brain has fallen to wrack and ruin, I'll remember the sweet fire of your lips under mine, and I'll say to myself, 'Now, that was a kiss.'" Silver-tongued devil, Pandora thought, unable to hold back a crooked grin. Only yesterday, she'd heard Gabriel affectionately mock his father, who was fond of expressing himself with elaborate, almost labyrinthine turns of phrase. Clearly the gift had been passed down to his son.

Callie prayed and prayed, hoping he was all right. At long last, she heard a cheering roar from the people of the village. Turning around, she saw the group of men coming toward them. And in their midst… Nay. It couldn't be. Callie frowned, then blinked, trying to see if her eyes were deceiving her. Angus was the first to reach the village. "I'll beat the first one of you who laughs," he said in warning. "No mon who fights like that for our women and children will be mocked. You hear me?" "We wouldn't dream of it, Angus MacDougal," Peg said. Choking on her laughter and filled with tremendous relief that he was unhurt, Callie ran to her husband and wrapped her arms around him. Her heart pounded at the feel of his strong arms holding her close. Och, how she loved this wonderful man. She kissed his cheek, then pulled away to look him over one more time and make sure he really was unharmed. Again, she had to purse her lips to keep from smiling. In truth, she had no idea how the village refrained from laughing at the sight of her proud husband. He only had one boot on and his breeches were shredded. The kirtle he'd wrapped around the swatter was now wrapped around his body in a poor, ill-fitting state. He was covered in mud and looked like some half-formed fey beastie. Sin looked at her with humor dancing in his midnight eyes. "Go ahead and laugh, dove. I promise I won't be offended." He draped an arm over her shoulders, drawing her close to him again, and looked around at the people gathered to welcome him back. "By the way, methinks I owe someone a new dress." Several snickers broke out and were silenced as Angus turned a feral glare to the crowd. "Where's the bull?" Callie asked. "Tied to a tree, eating my boot. I'm just glad my leg is no longer in it." That succeeded in making everyone laugh. Angus shook his head as he drew near. "Lad, how did you manage it?" "I run fast when chased by large bulls." -Angus, Peg, Sin, & Callie

So I see you got to know Trish on a pretty intimate level tonight,” Max said, focusing her attention back on the present as they made their way down the deserted roads back to her house. “She was definitely…friendly.” What Landon casually defined as friendly was what Max more accurately described as molestation. Her hands had disappeared under the table, rubbing his leg or whatever she was doing, more times than she spent holding her damn cards. Landon’s indifference to the whole thing was entirely impossible to read. Was he enjoying the attention? Wouldn’t any man? Not that it was any of her business. Landon was just some guy that she’d let stay with her for a few days. The fact that he was good-looking was irrelevant. Trish could have him for all she cared as long as they kept the indecencies out of her house. “Well, don’t you worry about her. She’s a bit of a flirt when she’s drunk. I’m pretty sure she’d hit on a monkey.” “You just compared me to a monkey and you don’t want me to worry?” “You know what I mean.” “I’m sorry, I don’t.” “Don’t tell me that girls like that actually appeal to you.” “Jealous?” “Hardly,” Max shot back defensively. “I just pegged you for a man with higher standards that’s all.” She couldn’t really say why she’d chosen to share her opinion. No harm in giving the guy a little warning, right? “You’ve pegged me for a lot of things.

Next to him sat a stooping little man who made his presence felt by the stench of sweat that came wafting from him every time he made any movement. This man was fiddling around with his feet in the darkness, and, although Pierre couldn’t see his face, he could sense him continually glancing his way. As his eyes grew more used to the dark Pierre realized that this man was unwrapping his footcloths, and the way he was doing it caught Pierre’s imagination. After unwinding the strings from one of his legs he tidied them away and then tackled the other leg, glancing up at Pierre. While one hand was still hanging up the first leg-string, the other hand was busy unwinding the string on the other leg. With this meticulous procedure, in a swift succession of neat and tidy circular movements, the man unrolled his footcloths and hung them up on pegs in the wall overhead, took out a knife, cut off a piece of something, snapped the knife shut, put it away at the head of his sleeping-place, eased himself into a more comfortable position and sat there with his arms clasped round his knees, staring straight at Pierre. Pierre was aware of something rather pleasant, something rounded and reassuring, in those neat, circular movements, the man’s nicely tidied corner, even the very smell of him. He couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Treble strings: Treble strings are wires beginning at one tuning pin, round a hitch pin and back to where it started. Tuning pins: The tuning pins are steel pegs that are usually one and a half inches long everywhere a string is wound. Leg: The legs are a wooden patch that forms the foundation for the piano, they add beauty to the instrument. Wheel: The wheels are used for moving the piano around. Hammer: The hammer is like a mallet covered with felt and used to produce sound by striking the strings when a key or keys are pressed. Keyboard (white and black keys): The horizontal stretch of keys

. . .a peal of laughter sounded from within the room where the firelight was. . . .it was a boy’s laughter, and the joy of it called to the unhappy Marianne as nothing in her life had ever called to her before. He was standing on the hearthrug as a lord of creation should, his legs straddling arrogantly, his arms above his head as he stretched himself, his laughter caught up upon a prodigious yawn. He was broad-shouldered, strong, yet possessed of an elegance that was strangely mature, taller than she was but much younger. . .the brilliance of it was entangled in the wildly untidy shock of red-gold curly hair and there seemed sparks in his tawny eyes. His face was round and ruddy, with freckles on the nose, but finely featured. He had full red lips and a deep cleft in his chin, and he showed a great deal of pink tongue as he yawned. His coat and waistcoat of vivid emerald green cloth were stained with seawater and torn linings protruded from the pockets. His white cravat was soiled, the straps that should have fastened his long peg-top trousers beneath his instep had snapped, so that they coiled round his legs like delirious green snakes, and his shoes needed a polish. Never was a male so much in need of female attention or so blissfully unaware of his need. . . .she stood with her back against the door, stiff and ungainly, staring at him with great dark eyes that seemed to devour his face with the intensity of her gaze, and she could not move or speak because her heart was beating so madly that it made her feel sick and faint. Her figure might have delayed to plump itself out into the womanly roundness proper to her age, but her heart did not delay to claim this male creature for her own. She was in love, in love at sixteen, desperately in love, as Juliet was, and with a boy who for all his height and strength and maturity was only a child of thirteen years. It was absurd. But then Marianne was never at any time in the least like other girls.

History crawls along on the peg legs of small individual lives,

Be good to have him home,” Mike said. “He’s not like he was,” Jack said. “He’s got a peg leg and a giant bug up his ass.” “None of us were like we were. For a while,” Paul said. “He’s a kid. He’ll get through it. Or we’ll get him through it.” “Mel’s

closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on pushing his orgasm down. When Ruxs topped him it sure as hell took longer than two minutes. He lowered himself and aimed for a higher angle. Ruxs lurched in his arms and Green pulled out, went back in with power, keeping that angle and strong momentum. Ruxs was quieter now. His only sounds a mix between a groan and sob each time Green pegged his gland. He looked down and Ruxs cock was harder than a choirboy’s in a porn shop. Fuck yeah. But he needed a better position, needed to go deeper. He rolled pulling Ruxs with him. “Don’t stop.” Ruxs voice was barely recognizable. “I’m not.” Green pulled Ruxs on top. Ruxs’ heavy legs on either side of his. His back to his chest, his rigid cock pointing to the ceiling. Damn. He was heavy but the weight felt good and it put Green just as deep as he needed to be. Ruxs shuddered on top of him when Green gripped him between his thighs, holding his balls in a diamond created by his hands and slid him up and down his body while he thrust up into him on the down stroke. “Fuuuuuuck,” Ruxs keened. “Right th—oh… god.” “You’re

If socialism and liberalism are distinct strands of Enlightenment humanism, then socialists are the hipsters of that humanism, advocating on particular issues before they're cool (also, like hipsters, socialists tend to have horrible beards). Today's easy liberal consensus--gender equality, racial equality, the idea that peg-legged tubercular five-year-olds should get statutory holidays from their coal-sorting jobs--is almost always yesterday's fiery and decidedly un-pragmatic socialist whinge. As it turns out, the middle of the political spectrum is a far more fun, sophisticated place to be after your comrades have already expended a lot of blood, sweat and tears yanking it in the proper direction for you (and guess which direction that usually is?).

I’m Captain Florida, the state history pimp Gatherin’ more data than a DEA blimp West Palm, Tampa Bay, Miami-Dade Cruisin’ the coasts till Johnny Vegas gets laid Developer ho’s, and the politician bitches Smackin’ ’em down, while I’m takin’ lots of pictures Hurricanes, sinkholes, natural disaster ’Scuse me while I kick back, with my View-Master (S:) I’m Captain Florida, obscure facts are all legit (C:) I’m Coleman, the sidekick, with a big bong hit (S:) I’m Captain Florida, staying literate (C:) Coleman sees a book and says, “Fuck that shit” Ain’t never been caught, slippin’ nooses down the Keys Got more buoyancy than Elián González Knockin’ off the parasites, and takin’ all their moola Recruiting my apostles for the Church of Don Shula I’m an old-school gangster with a psycho ex-wife Molly Packin’ Glocks, a shotgun and my 7-Eleven coffee Trippin’ the theme parks, the malls, the time-shares Bustin’ my rhymes through all the red-tide scares (S:) I’m the surge in the storms, don’t believe the hype (C:) I’m his stoned number two, where’d I put my hash pipe? (S:) Florida, no appointments and a tank of gas (C:) Tequila, no employment and a bag of grass Think you’ve seen it all? I beg to differ Mosquitoes like bats and a peg-leg stripper The scammers, the schemers, the real estate liars Birthday-party clowns in a meth-lab fire But dig us, don’t diss us, pay a visit, don’t be late And statistics always lie, so ignore the murder rate Beaches, palm trees and golfing is our curse Our residents won’t bite, but a few will shoot first Everglades, orange groves, alligators, Buffett Scarface, Hemingway, an Andrew Jackson to suck it Solarcaine, Rogaine, eight balls of cocaine See the hall of fame for the criminally insane Artifacts, folklore, roadside attractions Crackers, Haitians, Cuban-exile factions The early-bird specials, drivin’ like molasses Condo-meeting fistfights in cataract glasses (S:) I’m the native tourist, with the rants that can’t be beat (C:) Serge, I think I put my shoes on the wrong feet (S:) A stack of old postcards in another dingy room (C:) A cold Bud forty and a magic mushroom Can’t stop, turnpike, keep ridin’ like the wind Gotta make a detour for a souvenir pin But if you like to litter, you’re just liable to get hurt Do ya like the MAC-10 under my tropical shirt? I just keep meeting jerks, I’m a human land-filler But it’s totally unfair, this term “serial killer” The police never rest, always breakin’ in my pad But sunshine is my bling, and I’m hangin’ like a chad (S:) Serge has got to roll and drop the mike on this rap . . . (C:) Coleman’s climbin’ in the tub, to take a little nap . . . (S:) . . . Disappearin’ in the swamp—and goin’ tangent, tangent, tangent . . . (C:) He’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (Fade-out) (S:) I’m goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (C:) Fuck goin’ platinum, he’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (S:) . . . Wikipedia all up and down your ass . . . (C:) Wikity-Wikity-Wikity . . .

This story is for kids who think everyone on the Disney Channel is an over-actor that should be stabbed repeatedly with sporks.

The toothless or peg-legged buccaneer hoisting a flag of defiance against the world, drinking and feasting to a stupor on stolen loot, fleeing at the first sign of serious opposition, leaving only tall tales and confusion in his wake, is, perhaps, just as much a figure of the Enlightenment as Voltaire or Adam Smith, but he also represents a profoundly proletarian vision of liberation, necessarily violent and ephemeral. Modern factory discipline was born on ships and on plantations. It was only later that budding industrialists adopted those techniques of turning humans into machines into cities like Manchester and Birmingham. One might call pirate legends, then, the most important form of poetic expression produced by that emerging North Atlantic proletariat whose exploitation laid the ground for the industrial revolution.

Pegs on the wall are for coats,” Simon said, sounding snappish. “The mats are for wet boots and shoes. Floor can be slippery when it’s wet. Our bodywalkers don’t know anything about mending actual humans, so if you slip and break a leg, we’ll eat you same as we would a deer.

It’s preposterous, expecting a man to unburden himself to a woman,” Bennett Winchester slurred as the mantel clock chimed. Though it was midmorning the Bow Street Society’s parlour had neither daylight nor gaslight to soften the retired captain’s pointed profile. Bloodshot, brown eyes looked beyond the wall as he approached, turned, and retraced his route, each thump of his boot succeeded by the heavy thud of his peg-leg. Miss Trent’s gaze tracked him during each pass of her armchair yet she remained seated. “Captain Winchester,” she began, “you weren’t obligated to come here and I wasn’t obligated to receive you, yet here we are. Putting aside my disinclination to beg your pardon for my gender, I instead ask you to observe your surroundings. You and I are the only ones here. Therefore, your choice is clear—either swallow your masculine pride and tell me why you’re here, or leave and put your trust in those at Bow Street Police Station.” “Don’t speak such impertinence to me!” Captain Winchester barked, drawing Miss Trent to her feet. She countered, “I shall speak whatever I want, Captain, when you are in my domain.” His lips repeatedly furled and unfurled against gritted teeth while calloused hands, which had previously rested within his greatcoat’s deep pockets, balled at his sides. Starting at his neck, his already pink face steadily flushed as if port had spilt under his skin. He snarled, “How daare you, you uncouth wretch.” “Continue as you are, Captain Winchester, and I will be calling upon the officers at Bow Street,” Miss Trent promised despite his stale-rum-drenched breath turning her stomach. Whether it was the tone of her voice, her fixed gaze, the words themselves, or a combination of all three which cooled Bennett Winchester’s rage was unclear. Regardless the result was the same. After some aggressive chewing of his anger, the captain plonked himself in the vacant armchair. The clerk wasn’t naïve enough to think it ended, however. Instead, she enabled additional calming time by fetching tea from the kitchen. Coffee would’ve been more sobering for him but, alas, she suspected such a blatant assumption wouldn’t have been welcomed by his volatile temper. In due course Captain Winchester’s pallid complexion had returned and his hands had come to rest upon his thighs. She poured the amber liquid in silence and he accepted the cup without remark. “I must beg your pardon for my brutishness, Miss Trent,” he muttered against the steam rising from his cup.

I want to take ten gazillion photos and put them on Instagram, since I'm proud of myself for baking and decorating this cake when I was horny as fuck." "Did you just say...?" "Did I just say what, Lindsay?" He wanted her to repeat his words, damn him. "That you're horny as fuck?" she said. "Might have done," he said innocently, as he started removing his clothes. No, his apron. He was only removing his apron. She did the same and hung it on a peg, bumping into him in the process. An accident. She hadn't done that on purpose. But then she was in his arms again, and he was kissing her, and God, why was he so good at this? His hands slipped beneath her T-shirt, touching her skin above the waistband of her jeans. It was enough to nearly make her combust, and at the same time, it frustrated her. She wrapped a leg around him and tried to climb him like a tree. He laughed softly, in a way that made her insides turn into runny strawberry filling

Paddy's Lament" "Well it's by the hush, me boys, and sure that's to hold your noise And listen to poor Paddy's sad narration I was by hunger stressed, and in poverty distressed So I took a thought I'd leave the Irish nation Well I sold me ass and cow, my little pigs and sow My little plot of land I soon did part with And me sweetheart Bid McGee, I'm afraid I'll never see For I left her there that morning broken-hearted Here's you boys, now take my advice To America I'll have ye's not be going There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin Well myself and a hundred more, to America sailed o'er Our fortunes to be making we were thinkin' When we got to Yankee land, they put guns into our hands 'Paddy, you must go and fight for Lincoln' Here's you boys, now take my advice To America I'll have ye's not be going There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin General Meagher to us he said, if you get shot or lose your head Every murdered soul of youse will get a pension Well in the war lost me leg, they gave me a wooden peg And by soul it is the truth to you I mention Here's you boys, now take my advice To America I'll have ye's not be going There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin Well I think myself in luck, if I get fed on Indianbuck And old Ireland is the country I delight in To the devil, I would say, it's curse Americay For the truth I've had enough of your hard fightin Here's you boys, now take my advice To America I'll have ye's not be going There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin I wish I was at home I wish I was at home I wish I was at home I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin

I planted my hands on his shoulders, lifting myself up onto the peg and swinging my leg over. “Oh. It’s like getting on a horse,” I said, trying to sit back on the small seat. His head dropped forward, and I could feel him shaking now. “Are you laughing at me?” I asked. “I’ve just never had a girl say that as she got on top of me before.

Second, things would have improved between us on account of boys have more respect for one another after a good pounding. But Flea is not a boy. She is a girl. And girls are weird even if they wear a cool eye patch, drag a cool peg leg and know how to throw a mean uppercut. I was thinking about all this when . . .

Janner knew that at night his grandfather often unbuckled the harness that bound the wooden peg to his leg, but it was rare to see him in broad daylight without it. It was unsettling to see him now, vulnerable and— “You’re starin’ like you’ve never seen me stubby leg before, lad,” Podo said, squinting at Janner. “Sorry,” Janner said. “It’s just—why won’t you tell us how you lost it?” “Oh, I will, lad. One of these days.” Podo took a deep breath. “It’s not a fun story for yer Podo to tell, but I’m startin’ to think I should dig it up sooner rather than later. There’s things you lot should know.” “What things?” Tink asked quietly. Janner thought he saw Podo and Tink exchange an odd look, and the old pirate’s eyebrows bunched together like a cloud at the front of his head. “Can we just eat breakfast?” Leeli asked.

Like other eastern tribes, the Cherokee played a ball game similar to lacrosse. Called "the friend or companion of battle," or simply "little brother of war," these stickball games were very rough--there were often broken bones, torn muscles, cuts, and bruises. Elaborate rituals preceded the game. If someone wanted a contest, he gathered his friends and sent a challenge to another town. If the town accepted the challenge, people were selected for various tasks: an elderly man to oversee the game, a person to sing for the players, another to whoop, and a musician for seven women who danced on the seventh night of preparations for the game. The night before the game, players danced together around the fire with their ball sticks, pretending that they were playing. Then they hung up their sticks, went to a brisk stream, and bathed seven times, after which they went to bed. At daybreak, the shaman took them to the creek again. During their preparations the players were not allowed to go near women and they could not eat meat or anything hot or salty. Seven women were chosen to prepare meals of cold bread and a drink of parched cornmeal and water. The men could not be served by women, so boys brought the food to them. During the day the men were scratched with rattlesnake fangs or turkey quills to toughen them for the "little brother of war." The two teams gathered on a large field where goalposts were set up at each end. Players paired off, the referee threw the ball up in the air between the two captains, and a mad scramble ensued. The game was "anything goes," and there was biting, gouging, choking, scratching, twisting arms and legs, and banging each other with the wooden rackets. The object of the game was to carry the ball between the goals twelve times. The first team with twelve wooden pegs stuck in the ground by the shaman won the game. There was no time limit and often the game went on until dark. There was also no time-out or substitution. If a player was injured, he and the opponent with whom he was paired both left the game. Cherokee gathered from throughout the mountains to watch and bet on these hotly contested games.

One day Sid turns up in the peg trousers and they're in ribbons. He'd sliced them up with a razor blade because he hated them so much but he couldn't find his jeans so when he wanted to go out he had to stick them back together. He joined the rips with loads of safety pins, all the way down his legs, hundreds of them. That’s how the ‘loads of safety pins’ thing started amongst people in clubs: they copied it, but he only did it because he couldn’t be bothered to sew his trousers up.

First Kiss' (for Lips) Her mouth fell into my mouth like a summer snow, like a 5th season, like a fresh Eden, like Eden when Eve made God whimper with the liquid tilt of her hips— her kiss hurt like that— I mean, it was as if she’d mixed the sweat of an angel with the taste of a tangerine, I swear. My mouth had been a helmet forever greased with secrets, my mouth a dead-end street a little bit lit by teeth—my heart, a clam slammed shut at the bottom of a dark, but her mouth pulled up like a baby-blue Cadillac packed with canaries driven by a toucan—I swear those lips said bright wings when we kissed, wild and precise—as if she were teaching a seahorse to speak— her mouth so careful, chumming the first vowel from my throat until my brain was a piano banged loud, hammered like that— it was like, I swear her tongue was Saturn’s 7th moon— hot like that, hot and cold and circling, circling, turning me into a glad planet— sun on one side, night pouring her slow hand over the other: one fire flying the kite of another. Her kiss, I swear—if the Great Mother rushed open the moon like a gift and you were there to feel your shadow finally unhooked from your wrist. That’d be it, but even sweeter— like a riot of peg-legged priests on pogo-sticks, up and up, this way and this, not falling but on and on like that, badly behaved but holy—I swear! That kiss: both lips utterly committed to the world like a Peace Corps, like a free store, forever and always a new city—no locks, no walls, just doors—like that, I swear, like that.

I wonder if your mom made peg legs?” “Chanel, don’t play with me.” He was now the one looking on in disgust before we both kneeled over in laughter.

Male Name-Pictures JAMES (Jim)—a Slim Jim JOHN—a toilet (my apologies to anyone named John) ROBERT (Bob)—a buoy bobbing on the water’s surface MICHAEL (Mike)—a microphone WILLIAM (Bill)—a dollar bill DAVID—a statue RICHARD—I’m sure you can think of something for this one CHARLES—a river (I’m from Boston) JOSEPH (Joe)—a cup of coffee THOMAS (Tom)—a drum CHRISTOPHER (Chris)—an “X” (like a crisscross) DANIEL (Dan)—a lion (lion’s den) PAUL—a bouncing ball MARK—a bruise (as in, “That’s gonna leave a mark!”) DONALD—a duck GEORGE—a gorge KENNETH (Ken)—a hen STEVEN (Steve)—a stove EDWARD (Ed)—a bed BRIAN—a brain RONALD (Ron)—a man running ANTHONY (Tony)—a skeleton (Bony Tony) KEVIN—the number seven JASON—a man being chased (chasin’) MATTHEW (Matt)—a welcome mat Female Name-Pictures MARY—the Virgin Mary PATRICIA (Pat)—a baseball bat LINDA—beauty crown (linda means “pretty” in Spanish) BARBARA—barbed-wire fence ELIZABETH—an ax (Lizzie Borden) JENNIFER—a heart (Jennifer Love Hewitt) MARIA—a wedding dress (as in, “I’m gonna marry ya”) SUSAN—a pair of socks (Susan sounds like “shoes and . . .”) MARGARET (Peg)—a pirate’s peg leg DOROTHY (Dot)—Dots candy LISA—the Mona Lisa NANCY—pants KAREN—a carrot BETTY—a poker chip HELEN—a demon SANDRA (Sandy)—the beach DONNA—a duck (as in, Donald) CAROL—bells (“Carol of the Bells”) RUTH—a roof SHARON—a toddler throwing a fit because she doesn’t want to share MICHELLE—a missile LAURA—an “aura” SARAH—cheerleader’s pom-poms (rah-rah!) KIMBERLY—a very burly woman named Kim DEBORAH—a bra A great way to practice this technique is to jump on Facebook and just start browsing profiles. You’ll have an endless supply of names and faces from which to try creating name-pictures and associations.

Alvie rolled his eyes in annoyance. This was not new. The coarse attitudes of others landed on Alvie like unwelcome flies on a sweaty day. Alvie wasn’t stupid. He was fully aware his appearance lacked the usual qualities of a knight: he was shorter than most men and built like the peg leg that’d replaced his right leg below the kneecap decades ago after a bout of the Cors fever. He’d spent much of his life as a pauper or as a short-term laborer working for mere coppers. He wasn’t stupid. But he’d had twenty-two years of brushing off others’ discouragement. The silly, small opinions of others would never be Alvie’s concern.

The enclosure next to the dingoes held Graham the crocodile. Wes, Steve, and other staff battled the flood in Graham’s home. One man stood on the fence to spot the croc. He had to shout to Wes and Steve as they cleared the fence line inside the enclosure in waist-deep, dark waters. With the vehicle spotlights casting weird shadows, he had to scope out the murky water and try to discern the crocodile from among the floating bits of debris. Once the backup man had the crocodile pegged, he kept a close eye on him. If Graham submerged, Wes and Steve had to be warned immediately. The spotter worked hard to keep a bead on Graham. Steve and Wes were synchronized with their every move. They had worked together like this for years. They didn’t even have to speak to each other to communicate. There was no room for error as the amount of time spent in Graham’s enclosure was kept to a minimum. They jumped into the enclosure, cleared on, two, three armloads of debris, then jumped back out and re-evaluated the situation. Graham’s fence line had a bow in it, but it wasn’t in any danger of buckling. Steve and Wes were doing a good job, and there was no need for me to be there with them. It was more urgent for me to keep the dingo fence line intact next door. Graham’s female, named Bindi, was nesting, and this added another dangerous dimension to the job, since Graham was feeling particularly protective. The men were also keenly aware that nighttime meant croc time--and Graham would be stalking them with real intent. They reached down for their three armloads of debris. Steve scooped up his first load, flung it out, and gathered his second. Suddenly, Wes slammed into the fence with such force that his body was driven in an arc right over the top of Steve. It only took a split second for Steve to realize what had happened. As Wes had bent over to reach for an armload of debris, he had been hit from behind by more than twelve feet of reptile, weighing close to nine hundred pounds. Graham grabbed Wes, his top teeth sinking into Wes’s bum, his bottom teeth hooking into the back of Wes’s thigh, just above his knee. The croc then closed his mouth, exerting that amazing three thousand pounds per square inch of jaw pressure, pulling and tearing tissue as he did. The croc hit violently. Wes instinctively twisted away and rolled free of Graham’s jaws, but two fist-sized chunks were torn from his backside. The croc instantly swung in for another grab. Wes pushed the lunging croc’s head away, but not before Graham’s teeth crushed through his finger. They crashed back down into the water. Wes screamed out when he was grabbed, but no one could hear him because of the roar of the storm. In almost total darkness, Steve seized a pick handle that rested near the fence. He turned toward the croc as Graham was lining Wes up for another bite. Wes was on his side now, in water that was about three feet deep. He could see the crocodile in the lights of a Ute spotlight that shone over the murk--the dark outline of the osteodermal plates along the crocodile’s back. As Graham moved in, Wes knew the next bite would be to his skull. It would be all over. Wes braced himself for the inevitable, but it didn’t come. Steve reached into the water and grabbed Graham’s back legs. He didn’t realize that Graham had released Wes in preparation for that final bite. He thought Graham was holding Wes under the water. Steve pulled with all his strength, managing to turn the crocodile around to focus on him. As Graham lunged toward Steve, Steve drove the pick handle into the crocodile’s mouth and started hammering at his head. Wes saw what was happening and scrambled up the fence. “I’m out mate, I’m out,” Wes yelled, blood pouring down his leg. Steve looked up to see Wes on the top of the fence. He realized that even though Wes was wounded, he was poised to jump back down into the water to try to rescue his best mate.

From time to time he glanced idly at a chart pegged out with four drawing-pins on a low three-legged table abaft the steering-gear case. The sheet of paper portraying the depths of the sea presented a shiny surface under the light of a bull’s-eye lamp lashed to a stanchion, a surface as level and smooth as the glimmering surface of the waters. Parallel rulers with a pair of dividers reposed on it; the ship’s position at last noon was marked with a small black cross, and the straight pencil-line drawn firmly as far as Perim figured the course of the ship — the path of souls towards the holy place, the promise of salvation, the reward of eternal life — while the pencil with its sharp end touching the Somali coast lay round and still like a naked ship’s spar floating in the pool of a sheltered dock. ‘How steady she goes,’ thought Jim with wonder, with something like gratitude for this high peace of sea and sky.