Pinch Myself Quotes

It's okay,' he tells me. 'If you want to go. Everyone wants you to stay. I want you to stay more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.' His voice cracks with emotion. He stops, clears his throat, takes a breath, and continues. 'But that's what I want and I could see why it might not be what you want. So I just wanted to tell you that I understand if you go. It's okay if you have to leave us. It's okay if you want to stop fighting.' For the first time since I realized that Teddy was gone, too, I feel something unclench. I feel myself breathe. I know that Gramps can't be that late-inning pinch hitter I'd hoped for. He won't unplug my breathing tube or overdoes me with morphine or anything like that. But this is the first time today that anyone has acknowledged what I have lost. I know that the social worker warned Gran and Gramps not to upset me, but Gramps's recognition, and the permission he just offered me--it feels like a gift. Gramps doesn't leave me. He slumps back into the chair. It's quiet now. So quiet you can almost hear other people's dreams. So quiet that you can almost hear me tell Gramps, 'Thank you.

God…” I choked on the word. “I know we haven’t talked much in the past few years. Hell, I told you I hated you when Tye took his own life.” I cursed again and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t even care about myself anymore, just promise me she’ll be okay. If I don’t make it… if you take me, just let Kiersten be okay. She can’t go down that road — I don’t care if you have to punish me, God. If she’s going to suffer, give me her pain instead. If her heart’s going to break, break mine for hers. Please, God… please.

It was like being asleep when you were awake and awake when you were asleep. I'd pinch myself, figuratively speaking - I had to keep pinching myself. Then I'd wake up kind of in reverse; I'd go back to the nightmare I had to live in. And everything would be clear and reasonable.

Now, a bad thief,' continued Kaz, 'one who doesn't know his way around, just makes the grab and tries to run for it. Good way to get pinched by the stadwatch. But a proper thief - like myself - nabs the wallet and puts something else in its place.' 'A biscuit?

You think I am very cute, you think me sexy, as well. I can read your thoughts, remember.” I hoisted myself up and slid across his body. You are conceited, arrogant, and domineering, everything I dislike in a man. And you are independent, stubborn, and heedless, everything I dislike in a women. I slid my hands under his back and kissed his dampened lips. So why is it that I love you so much? He smiled a smug, masculine little smile and captured my legs with his. Because I love you, and to be loved by a Dark One is enough for any woman. I pinched him in a particularly vulnerable spot and allowed him to kiss me with all the sexy arrogance he had.

I’m glad I have you for my boyfriend.” “Me too,” I said. “Sometimes I have to pinch myself.” She pinched my arm and smiled. “You’re so cute.

She was extending a hand that I didn't know how to take, so I broke its fingers with my silence, she said, "You don't want to talk to me, do you?" I took my daybook out of my knapsack and found the next blank page, the second to last. "I don't speak," I wrote. "I'm sorry." She looked at the piece of paper, then at me, then back at the piece of paper, she covered her eyes with her hands and cried, tears seeped between her fingers, she cried and cried and cried, there weren't any napkins nearby, so I ripped the page from the book - "I don't speak. I'm sorry" - and used it to dry her cheeks, my explanation and apology ran down her face like mascara, she took my pen from me and wrote on the next blank page of my daybook, the final one: Please marry me I flipped back and pointed at: "Ha ha ha!" She flipped forward and pointed at: "Please marry me." I flipped back and pointed at: "Thank you, but I'm about to burst." She flipped forward and pointed at: "Please marry me." I flipped back and pointed at: "I'm not sure, but it's late." She flipped forward and pointed at: "Please marry me", and this time put her finger on "Please", as if to hold down the page and end the conversation, or as if she were trying to push through the word, and into what she was trying to say. I thought about life, about my life, the embarrassments, the little coincidences, the shadows of alarm clocks on bedside tables, I thought about my small victories and everything I'd seen destroyed. I'd swum through mink coats on my parents' bed while they hosted downstairs, I'd lost the only person with whom I could have spent my only life, I'd left behind a thousand tonnes of marble from which I could have released sculptures, I could have released myself from the marble of myself, I'd experienced joy, but not nearly enough, could there be enough? The end of suffering does not justify the suffering, and so there is no end to suffering, what a mess I am, I thought, what a fool, how foolish and narrow, how worthless, how pinched and pathetic, how helpless in the universe. None of my pets knows their own name. What kind of person am I? I flipped back, one page at a time: Help

Home is in my hair, my lips, my arms, my thighs, my feet and my hands. I am my own home. And when I wake up crying in the morning, thinking of how lonely I am, I pinch my skin, tug at my hair, remind myself that I am alive. Remind myself to step outside and greet the morning. Remind myself that it’s all about forward motion. It’s all about change. It’s all about that elusive state. Freedom.

I was taking a nap in the theater one day while I ditched English, when I looked up and saw Jess on the stage. I had to pinch myself, because I figured either I was dreaming or else I’d died and gone to heaven—which given my history was probably not where I’d end up.

Pinch myself and say I AM AWAKE once an hour. Look at my hands. Count my fingers. Look at clock (or watch), look away, look back. Stay calm and focused. Think of a door.

F*ck, Cassie. What do you want to hear? How much I hate myself for getting drunk that night and losing the only girl in my life I've ever trusted and truly loved? How I called Dean fifty times a day for weeks begging him to tell me how I could get you back? Do you want to hear how fucking weak and pathetic I think I am for not being able to tell her no that night, when I knew what was at stake? His eyebrows pinched together and his jaw tensed as his emotions spilled out into the night air. "Do you want to hear how I tried to talk her out of keeping this baby so that it wouldn't fuck everything up? How I begged her not to keep it, told her I'd pay for everything, I'd drive her there and give her money after it was all over, just to please not to this to me. And then how much of an asshole I felt after that too? Who tells someone that?

I stopped at a red light, turned my head, and allowed myself to enjoy the handsomeness that was Brent. He noticed my staring and asked, "What?" "As if you don't know. You're not the type of guy that a girl gets tired of looking at." "Oh. Well in that case, you're welcome to look all you want," he said and gestured to himself. "You're allowed to touch, too." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. I lowered my voice into its sexy-husky range. "I was hoping you'd say that." With my flirtiest look on my face, I rubbed my hand slowly up his arm and then pinched him firmly on the shoulder. "Ow!" Brent rubbed his shoulder and grinned. "Not what I had in mind!

Are you deaf as well as blind, woman? I’m not a carpet to walk over, and I distinctly heard myself speak. If I pinch your bottom, you can slap my face, but until I do, I expect a civil word for a civil word!

Now, glancing over...as she knelt with her eyes closed, her fingertips touching and pointed to Heaven, and her lips shaping soft words of devotion, I had to pinch myself to keep in mind that I was sitting next to the Devil's Hairball.

Just shut up.” But he doesn’t. “I’m not saying you should do anything. And that’s why I stepped in and didn’t let you bring her home.” His tone turns serious. “All kidding aside, Pike,” he goes on, “she is exactly your type. You shouldn’t be alone with her.” Yeah. I know. I just hope he’s the only person who’s noticed. “Thanks for the intervention,” I tell him, “but even if I were attracted to her, I’m capable of controlling myself.” “You’re not seeing yourself from my perspective.” He looks out the front windshield, solemn. “You look at each other like…” “Like?” He swallows, an unusually troubled pinch to his brow. “Like the two of you have your own language.

She's my pride, my winning prize, always a surprise, to look into her eyes, see her free soul, as soap that slips from the grip of control; a stroll through the park on a dark night with stars to spark the sky, heaven with no price tag I realize, love is the same: endless, priceless, full bliss; to have this princess I pinch myself thinking this is a dream, but to my reprise, I can only say I am now, at last, alive.

Y-naga: "That's the thing... It's like trying to find a guy who's a kid at heart but still a responsible adult, so he can be counted on when I find myself in a pinch, somebody who's a little wild at times but normally lets me have my way even when I'm being selfish and just says, "well, if you insist," a guy who's not too full of himself but understands what clothes suit his body type best..." S-hara: "What I'm saying is the pretty ones are stupid! The ones who have it all together are all so, so stubborn that they never do things my way!

Question," says Christina, leaning forward. "The leaders who were watching your fear landscape...they were laughing at something." "Oh?" I bite my lip hard. "I'm glad my terror amuses them." "Any idea which obstacle it was?" she asks. "No." "You're lying," she says. "You always bite the inside of your cheek when you lie. It's your tell." I stop biting the inside of my cheek. "Will's is pinching his lips together, if it makes you feel better," she adds. Will covers his mouth immediately. "Okay,fine.I was afraid of...intimacy," I say. "Intimacy," repeats Chrstina. "Like...sex?" I tense up.And force myself to nod.Even if it was just Christina, and no one else was around,I would still want to strangle her right now. I go over a few ways to inflict maximum injury with minimum force in my head. I try to throw flames from my eyes. Will laughs. "What was that like?" she says. "I mean,did someone just...try to do it with you? Who was it?" "Oh,you know. Faceless...unidentifiable male," I say. "How were your moths?" "You promised you would never tell!" cries Christina,smacking my arm. "Moths," repeats Will. "You're afraid of moths?" "Not just a cloud of moths," she says, "like...a swarm of them. Everywhere. All those wings and legs and..." She shudders and shakes her head. "Terrifying," Will says with mock seriousness. "That's my girl. Tough as cotton balls." "Oh,shut up.

I remember how I would eye with envy all the kids in our neighborhood, in my school, who had a little brother or sister. How bewildered I was by the way some of them treated each other, oblivious to their own good luck. They acted like wild dogs. Pinching, hitting, pushing, betraying one another any way they could think of. Laughing about it too. They wouldn’t speak to one another. I didn’t understand. Me, I spent most of my early years craving a sibling. What I really wished I had was a twin, someone who’d cried next to me in the crib, slept beside me, fed from Mother’s breast with me. Someone to love helplessly and totally, and in whose face I could always find myself.

When I doubt that I exist, I pinch myself.

if another person got on that elevator to travel eight feet upward, I couldn’t have been responsible for what I did. I had been pushed to the limit. The next time it happens, I swore to myself, I’m going to reach out and pinch that One Floorer and say, “You get out there and walk! You won’t come close to burning a fraction of the three thousand calories you ate at lunch, but maybe by the time you reach the landing, you’ll pass out from exhaustion and get to go home for the rest of the day, you lazy little asshole, because that’s exactly what you want anyway!

Seriously, sometimes I have to pinch myself. Whatever I did in this life to deserve you I have no idea. But I’m hoping God doesn’t realize the mistake anytime soon. You really are the best.

I wrap my arms around her, hugging her back. I love this woman more than anything on this earth. I’d fucking die and go to hell for her, and I still have to pinch myself to believe she’s all mine.

What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? ...I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of the morning.

God…” I choked on the word. “I know we haven’t talked much in the past few years. Hell, I told you I hated you when Tye took his own life.” I cursed again and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t even care about myself anymore, just promise me she’ll be okay. If I don’t make it… if you take me, just let Kiersten be okay. She can’t go down that road — I don’t care if you have to punish me, God. If she’s going to suffer, give me her pain instead. If her heart’s going to break, break mine for hers. Please, God… please.” The drugs Angela had given me started to kick in, I fell into a dreamless sleep with that prayer repeating over and over again in my head.

Oh, Charmian, Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he or sits he? Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! Do bravely, horse, for wott’st thou whom thou mov’st? The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now, Or murmuring “Where’s my serpent of old Nile?” For so he calls me. Now I feed myself With most delicious poison. Think on me, That am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black And wrinkled deep in time. Broad-fronted Caesar, When thou wast here above the ground, I was A morsel for a monarch. And great Pompey Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow. There would he anchor his aspect, and die With looking on his life.

DORINE. Then what's your plan about this other match? MARIANE. To kill myself, if it is forced upon me. DORINE. Good! That's a remedy I hadn't thought of. Just die, and everything will be all right. This medicine is marvellous, indeed! It drives me mad to hear folk talk such nonsense. MARIANE. Oh dear, Dorine you get in such a temper! You have no sympathy for people's troubles. DORINE. I have no sympathy when folk talk nonsense, And flatten out as you do, at a pinch.

I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell or knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake.

A young filly is leading her mater in. They’re both wearing green wellies, and there’s something so indefinably horsey about them that I have to pinch myself and remember that were-ponies do not exist outside the pages of a certain bestselling kid-lit series.

So I had this date last night,” Dane goes on, ignoring my order. “Do you remember that girl from Sigma Kappa Whatever? She was at the gig last night, and everything was going great, both of us eye-fucking for like four frickin’ hours…” He pauses and turns to me, his voice turning urgent. “She takes me home, dude, and I’m sitting in the living room while she’s in the bathroom, and I’m so ready, because she’s so hot, right? And who walks in?” “Dane.” I close my eyes, willing him to shut the fuck up. “Her mom, dude!” he bursts out. “Her mom in her light pink nightie with legs for days. And let me tell you, man…Stacy’s mom has got it going on?” I can’t help myself. I break out in a laugh at the song reference and pinch the bridge of my nose, tired but a fraction more relaxed, even if I’d never admit it to him. Such an idiot.

Have you considered what you might do to help? You have recovered, so you cannot get the fever again. You are young and strong. We have a real need for you.” “How can I help anyone? I’m just a girl.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to pinch myself. The first time anyone treats me like a woman and I respond like an infant.

I wake with tears in my eyes. I wake to Jeanine’s scream of frustration. “What is it?” She grabs Peter’s gun out of his hand and stalks across the room, pressing the barrel to my forehead. My body stiffens, goes cold. She won’t shoot me. I am a problem she can’t solve. She won’t shoot me. “What is it that clues you in? Tell me. Tell me or I will kill you.” I slowly push myself up from the chair, coming to my feet, pushing my skin harder into the cold barrel. “You think I’m going to tell you?” I say. “You think I believe that you would kill me without figuring out the answer to this question?” “You stupid girl,” she says. “You think this is about you, and your abnormal brain? This is not about you. It is not about me. It is about keeping this city safe from the people who intend to plunge it into hell!” I summon the last of my strength and launch myself at her, clawing at whatever skin my fingernails find, digging in as hard as I can. She screams at the top of her lungs, a sound that turns my blood into fire. I punch her hard in the face. A pair of arms wrap around me, pulling me off her, and a fist meets my side. I groan, and lunge toward her, held at bay by Peter. “Pain can’t make me tell you. Truth serum can’t make me tell you. Simulations can’t make me tell you. I’m immune to all three.” Her nose is bleeding, and I see lines of fingernail scrapes in her cheeks, on the side of her throat, turning red with blossoming blood. She glares at me, pinching her nose closed, her hair disheveled, her free hand trembling. “You have failed. You can’t control me!” I scream, so loud it hurts my throat. I stop struggling and sag against Peter’s chest. “You will never be able to control me.” I laugh, mirthless, a mad laugh. I savor the scowl on her face, the hate in her eyes. She was like a machine; she was cold and emotionless, bound by logic alone. And I broke her. I broke her.

Holy crap! I still have to pinch myself that I have not one, but TWO books out there that are Amazon bestsellers and I'm about to publish my third. I just want to shout out to anyone out there that felt like maybe they weren't good enough. YOU ARE! I struggled with this shit for years, but I'm so grateful that I just followed my gut. DON'T let anyone make you feel you are not worth it. This is coming from a high school dropout that only got her GED (Yeah, whatever, nothing to brag about) But is fulfilling her dreams now as a writer. What I'm saying is, take the dive, you may sink for a little, but doggy paddling along of what you want is so much more than learning the proper stroke on things...if that makes any sense? Be YOU and don't give a f*ck! ~Natalie Barnes

Home is in my hair, my lips, my arms, my thighs, my feet and my hands. I am my own home. And when I wake up crying in the morning, thinking of how lonely I am, I pinch my skin, tug at my hair, remind myself that I am alive. Remind myself to step outside and greet the morning. Remind myself that it’s all about forward motion. It’s all about change. It’s all about that elusive state. Freedom.

Zain pinched my skin. I surprised myself when I instantly flipped up that same arm and gripped her wrist hard. I said, in a soft voice, “Don’t do that.” There was no smile on my face now. But that was when her facade broke, and she was suddenly grinning. I felt her body relax. My grip relaxed then, too, but I did not let go of her hand. I remained unsmiling, suddenly frightened, but not of her.

I thought about life, about my life, the embarrassments, the little coincidences, the shadows of alarm clocks on bedside tables. I thought about my small victories and everything I'd seen destroyed, I'd swum through mink coats on my parents' bed while they hosted downstairs, I'd lost the only person I could have spent my only life with, I'd left behind a thousand tons of marble, I could have released sculptures, I could have released myself from the marble of myself. I'd experienced joy, but not nearly enough, could there be enough? The end of suffering does not justify the suffering, and so there is no end to suffering, what a mess I am, I thought, what a fool, how foolish and narrow, how worthless, how pinched and pathetic, how helpless. None of my pets know their own names, what kind of person am I?

There's a moon ring on her index finger, and with her other hand she pinches the moon and twists the ring all the way around and back. I want to be that moon. The I immediately tell myself to dial it back.

We produce thirty-year projections of social security deficits and oil prices without realizing that we cannot even predict these for next summer—our cumulative prediction errors for political and economic events are so monstrous that every time I look at the empirical record I have to pinch myself to verify that I am not dreaming. What is surprising is not the magnitude of our forecast errors, but our absence of awareness of it.

On December the twenty-third, the park was hazy from clammy mists that muted and softened all color and distance. Michael had not set off for Whitelow after breakfast, so I bundled myself into my redingote that was as thick and warm as a man's, and pulled on my sable hat and muff. Even so, the chill pinched my nose as I hurried along paths of mushy leaves, sending startled birds pink-pinking up into the air. Claw-like seed pods clung to my skirts; the fine flowers of summer drooped slimy and black. I collected a few posies of evergreens to paint: stiff pine cones, jewel-like berries of black and scarlet, and oval seed pods as lustrous as pearl.

Let’s join the others,” he said eventually. “They’ve probably discovered a variety of moss we haven’t yet seen. Or God help us, a mushroom.” The pinching tightness eased from her chest. “I’m hoping for some lichen, myself.

And I’ve got something else to say to those people who say, ‘I’m offended’, like some five-year-old child throwing a tantrum. Ready? There are a lot of things in life that are offensive, life itself can be offensive, I myself have a large list of things that offend me . . . So what!? Grow the fuck up! We now live in the ‘Age of being offended.’ Get over it. Perhaps a little open-mindedness, tolerance, and acceptance may be the antidote to what ails you. Try it and see if your load isn’t lifted just a bit. See if your pinched face of fear doesn’t relax a tad.

His fingers gouged into my leg harder. "My sister was in that cafeteria," he said. "She saw her friends die, thanks to you and that puke boyfriend of yours. She still has nightmares about it. He got what he deserved, but you got a free pass. That ain't right. You should've died that day, Sister Death. Everyone wishes you would have. Look around. Where is Jessica, if she wants you here so bad? Even the friends you came here with don't want to be with you." "Let go of me," I said again, pulling on his fingers. But he only pinched tighter. "Your boyfriend isn't the only one who can get his hands on a gun," he said. Slowly he eased himself up to standing again. He reached into the waistband of his jeans and pulled out something small and dark. He pointed it at me, and when the moonlight hit it, I gasped and pressed myself against the barn wall.

It's Also Tradition to Wear White,I Study Myself in The Mirror Now,as Annabelle Curls My Hair. My Dress is Strapless,Layers of ivory chiffon Floating to The Floor.a Necklace of Diamonds and Rubies Sparkles at My Throat Garnet Leans Against The Newel Post and Whistles As I Come Down The Stairs. My Cheeks Flush. Have You Been To The Royal Palace Yet? Garnet Asks Me.I Stare at Him for a Second Wondering if He's Joking. Yes, I Say Slowly. You Bumped Into Me at The Exetor's Ball. Did I? Garnet's Eyebrows Pinch Together. Huh Well,You Haven't Seen Anytging Until You've Seen The Winter Ball Decorations. We are Escorted to a Extension Made Entirely of Glass. It is Lit with Thousands of Candles. Giving The Room a Beautiful Golden Glow. The Floor is Made Out Of Blue Glass and Enormous Ice Sculptures Glitter in The Flickering Light. I See What Garnet Meant-The Whole Effect is Magnificent.

It's Also Tradition to Wear White,I Study Myself in The Mirror Now,as Annabelle Curls My Hair. My Dress is Strapless,Layers of ivory chiffon Floating to The Floor.a Necklace of Diamonds and Rubies Sparkles at My Throat Garnet Leans Against The Newel Post and Whistles As I Come Down The Stairs. My Cheeks Flush.  Have You Been To The Royal Palace Yet? Garnet Asks Me.I Stare at Him for a Second Wondering if He's Joking. Yes, I Say Slowly. You Bumped Into Me at The Exetor's Ball. Did I? Garnet's Eyebrows Pinch Together. Huh Well,You Haven't Seen Anything Until You've Seen The Winter Ball Decorations. We are Escorted to a Extension Made Entirely of Glass. It is Lit with Thousands of Candles. Giving The Room a Beautiful Golden Glow. The Floor is Made Out Of Blue Glass and Enormous Ice Sculptures Glitter in The Flickering Light. I See What Garnet Meant-The Whole Effect is Magnificent.” 

It is hopeless, I cannot say it. I give a little whooping cough and raise my eyes to his face. I cannot help myself, I hate him like an enemy, I cannot stop myself dreaming of his enemy, I cannot say his name, I cannot possibly marry him. But Henry, prosaic and real, understands exactly what is happening, and gives me a sharp corrective pinch with his fingers in the soft palm of my hand. He uses his nails, he digs into my flesh, I yelp at the pain, and his hard brown gaze emerges from the mist and I see his scowl. I snatch at a gasp of air. “Say it!” he mutters furiously. I master myself and say again, correctly this time, “I, Elizabeth, take thee, Henry . . .

It’s been twenty-five years of it, man, and like I said at the beginning of the interview, I’m really happy, I really am. I often have to pinch myself, that I even have relevance of any sort. I get to do all sorts of cool shit, I get tons of free toys and it’s great. My family’s healthy and I’m healthy. It’s great. So looking at it from that point of view, yeah, it’s awesome. But to me, I don’t think I’ve been relevant to the metal scene for years. It’s funny because sometimes folks go out of their way to try and defend me, and I’m like, 'No, don’t, dude.' I’m making puppets and fart jokes, and it’s not because I’m trying to be provocative or I’m lazy or whatever. It’s just less about music for me now than it is about making Tetris pieces work melodically.

Sometimes I go into the hospital and have to do surgery just as the sleeping pills begin to kick in. I spend the rest of the night pinching myself and throwing cold water on my face. At night I tell myself it’s not worth it. I tell myself I hate the Army and wish I’d never joined. I curse the war on both sides, American and Iraqi. I wish everyone would just...die...so that I could go home.

Well then, he said. What are you doing here? I am not sure. Liberty I suppose. I lived so long under constraints. You wonder why I grub about in the mud - it's what I remember from childhood. Barely ever wearing shoes - picking gorse for cordial, watching the ponds boiling with frogs. And then there was Michael, and he was - civilised. He would pave over every bit of woodland, have every sparrow mounted on a plinth. And he had me mounted on a plinth. My waist pinched, my hair burned into curls, the colour on my face painted out, then painted in again. And now I'm free to sink back into the earth if I like - to let myself grow over with moss and lichen. Perhaps you're appalled to think we are no higher than the animals, or at least, if we are, only one rung further up the ladder. But no, no - it has given me liberty. No other animal abides by rules - why then must we?

There have been moments, see; pinpricks in time that have given me such an essential and triumphant feeling of realness I am for that one split second jolted directly back into myself. I have found it when immersed in bodies of very cold water, when face-to-face with a vast and beautiful view. I have found it in print, loud noise and in utter silence. I have found it in darkness too. But most of all, most consistently, I have found it in art.

Divinity Somedays it was the sun & moon Somedays it was a happy place Other days it was love with the volatility of iodine Which one has to let go But perhaps it was the different ways I gave myself to you As I longed you in ways insane Somedays it was the reciprocation Somedays it was the protest Other days it's the admiration Pinching me as I flip through you But perhaps it was the person unknown I tied my cares to As I wished all my blessing onto you ~ Seiji Amasawa ( Snow Patrol )

Divinity Somedays it was the sun & moon Somedays it was a happy place Other days it was love with the volatility of iodine Which one has to let go But perhaps it was the different ways I gave myself to you As I longed you in ways insane Somedays it was the reciprocation Somedays it was the protest Other days it's the admiration Pinching me as I flip through you But perhaps it was the person unknown I tied my cares to As I wished all my blessing onto you ~ Seiji Amasawa ( Snow Patrol )

The pressing of my thumbnail against my fingertip had started off as a way of convincing myself that I was real. As a kid, my mom had told me that if you pinch yourself and don't wake up, you can be sure that you're not dreaming; and so every time I thought maybe I wasn't real, I would dig my nail into my fingertip, and I would feel the pain, and for a second I'd think, Of course, I'm real. But the fish can feel pain, is the ting. You can't know whether you're doing the bidding of some parasite, not really.

It is in general and odd thing to reach some measure of fame and see one's name bandied about in the newspapers. It is quite another to see oneself turned into a chess piece in a political match. I should call myself a pawn, but I feel that does some disservice to the the obliqueness of my movements. I was a bishop, perhaps, sliding at odd angles, or a knight, jumping from one spot to another. I did not much like the feel of unseen fingers pinching me as I was moved from this square to that." - Benjamin Weaver

LOVE, FORGIVE ME After Rachel McKibbens My sister told me a soul mate is not the person who makes you the happiest, but the one who makes you feel the most. Who conducts your heart to bang the loudest. Who can drag you giggling with forgiveness from the cellar they locked you in. It has always been you. You are the first person I was afraid to sleep next to, not because of the fear you would leave in the night but because I didn’t want to wake up gracelessly. In the morning, I crawled over your lumbering chest to wash my face and pinch my cheeks and lay myself out like a still-life beside you. Your new girlfriend is pretty like the cover of a cookbook. I have said her name into the empty belly of my apartment. Forgive me. When I feel myself falling out of love with you, I turn the record of your laughter over, reposition the needle. I have imagined our children. Forgive me. I made up the best parts of you. Forgive me. When you told me to look for you on my wedding day, to pause on the altar for the sound of your voice before sinking myself into the pond of another love, forgive me. I mistook it for a promise.

What should I tell people if they ask about you? Before I could plead some kind of ignorance, but as your wife…” She shouldn’t have to ask these things. It shouldn’t be a burden for her to bear. “Tell them I’d rather slit my own throat than associate with them.” Rose looked horrified at the thought-so much so that Grey’s heart pinched. She really was adorable. “Or, you could tell them that you have thoroughly exhausted me in bed and I am unable to draw the strength needed to rouse myself.” That brought a sparkle back into her eyes. “I rather fancy that. It would certainly set tongues wagging, wouldn’t it?

The world should know,' I said. 'The world should know how good you are, Rhysand- how wonderful all of you are.' 'I can't tell if I should be worried that you're saying such nice things about me. Maybe the king's taunting did get to you.' I pinched his arm, and he let out a low laugh before raising my face to study my eyes. He angled his head. 'Should I be worried?' I put a hand to his cheek once more, the silken skin now warm. 'You are selfless, and brave, and kind. You are more than I ever dreamed for myself, more than I...' The words choked off, and I swallowed, taking a deep breath. I wasn't sure if he needed to hear it after what the king had said, but I needed to say it.

For the first time since I realized that Teddy was gone, too, I feel something unclench. I feel myself breathe. I know that Gramps can’t be that late-inning pinch hitter I’d hoped for. He won’t unplug my breathing tube or overdose me with morphine or anything like that. But this is the first time today that anyone has acknowledged what I have lost. I know that the social worker warned Gran and Gramps not to upset me, but Gramps’s recognition, and the permission he just offered me—it feels like a gift. Gramps doesn’t leave me. He slumps back into the chair. It’s quiet now. So quiet that you can almost hear other people’s dreams. So quiet that you can almost hear me tell Gramps, “Thank you.

Hi, I’m Gale Norton,” she said. “Welcome to the White House.” “I’m Jessica,” I said, shaking her hand. I made a stab at small talk. “And what do you do?” “I’m the secretary of the interior,” she said. “Oh my gosh,” I said, waving my arm high to take in the room. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Everything is beautiful.” My dad pinched my arm, and she just walked away. I was trying to be nice and give a compliment, but that’s her Jessica Simpson story. Now I know the secretary of the interior manages federal land and national parks. Believe me, I beat myself up so much over that one that I could ace a test on it. At least I’d made it to the White House again. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

course, I grin back like the hussy I apparently am. ‘Hell yeah, she’s excited,’ Jake says mostly under his breath. ‘Later, she’ll be yelling your name in your overly clean bedroom with her naked ass pressed against your freshly ironed sheets.’ He slaps my ass as though I’m headed into a football game. ‘Who irons their sheets anyway?’ ‘I send my laundry out,’ I remind him. ‘I don’t iron them myself. That said… maybe she will. Don’t be jealous all you have to go home to is this.’ I motion to Brynn, who cocks her head, a pinch-lipped grin on one side of her face. ‘Not funny,’ she says, now digging through her bag. ‘I bought you this. I can’t even believe they sell them again.’ She pulls something from her things and hands it to me.

Now, to be sure, Mrs Varden thought, here is a perfect character. Here is a meek, righteous, thoroughgoing Christian, who, having mastered all these qualities, so difficult of attainment; who, having dropped a pinch of salt on the tails of all the cardinal virtues, and caught them everyone; makes light of their possession, and pants for more morality. For the good woman never doubted (as many good men and women never do), that this slighting kind of profession, this setting so little store by great matters, this seeming to say, ‘I am not proud, I am what you hear, but I consider myself no better than other people; let us change the subject, pray’—was perfectly genuine and true. He so contrived it, and said it in that way that it appeared to have been forced from him, and its effect was marvellous. Aware of the impression he had made—few men were quicker than he at such discoveries—Mr Chester followed up the blow by propounding certain virtuous maxims, somewhat vague and general in their nature, doubtless, and occasionally partaking of the character of truisms, worn a little out at elbow, but delivered in so charming a voice and with such uncommon serenity and peace of mind, that they answered as well as the best. Nor is this to be wondered at; for as hollow vessels produce a far more musical sound in falling than those which are substantial, so it will oftentimes be found that sentiments which have nothing in them make the loudest ringing in the world, and are the most relished.

I go to one of my favorite Instagram profiles, the.korean.vegan, and I watch her last video, in which she makes peach-topped tteok. The Korean vegan, Joanne, cooks while talking about various things in her life. As she splits open a peach, she explains why she gave up meat. As she adds lemon juice, brown sugar, nutmeg, a pinch of salt, cinnamon, almond extract, maple syrup, then vegan butter and vegan milk and sifted almond and rice flour, she talks about how she worried about whitewashing her diet, about denying herself a fundamental part of her culture, and then about how others don't see her as authentically Korean since she is a vegan. I watch other videos by Joanne, soothed by her voice into feeling human myself, and into craving the experiences of love she talks of and the food she cooks as she does. I go to another profile, and watch a person's hands delicately handle little knots of shirataki noodles and wash them in cold water, before placing them in a clear oden soup that is already filled with stock-boiled eggs, daikon, and pure white triangles of hanpen. Next, they place a cube of rice cake in a little deep-fried tofu pouch, and seal the pouch with a toothpick so it looks like a tiny drawstring bag; they place the bag in with the other ingredients. "Every winter my mum made this dish for me," a voice says over the video, "just like how every winter my grandma made it for my mum when she was a child." The person in the video is half Japanese like me, and her name is Mei; she appears on the screen, rosy cheeked, chopsticks in her hand, and sits down with her dish and eats it, facing the camera. Food means so much in Japan. Soya beans thrown out of temples in February to tempt out demons before the coming of spring bring the eater prosperity and luck; sushi rolls eaten facing a specific direction decided each year bring luck and fortune to the eater; soba noodles consumed at New Year help time progress, connecting one year to the next; when the noodles snap, the eater can move on from bad events from the last year. In China too, long noodles consumed at New Year grant the eater a long life. In Korea, when rice-cake soup is eaten at New Year, every Korean ages a year, together, in unison. All these things feel crucial to East Asian identity, no matter which country you are from.

No one said a word, and I waited a beat, then pushed forward. Screw Kevin. Screw Maggie. Screw whatever happened to them now. I went after Caden. He didn’t have to push his way through the crowd. It automatically opened for him. Not so much for me. I was at a disadvantage, and when I ran to the parking lot, he was already in the car and peeling past me. “HEY!” I yelled, raising my hands in the air. He braked, a little too close for comfort, right next to me. The passenger window rolled down. “What?” I reached for the door. “Let me in.” His eyebrows pinched together. “Why?” “Let me in.” He unlocked the door. I opened it and climbed in. “Okay. I’m with you.” I had no idea what I was doing. “Excuse me?” “I’m with you.” I clapped the dashboard, pointing ahead. “Whatever you’re going to do, I’m in. You seem to need a friend. You’re in luck. I could use one myself. So I’m in.” “I’m going to get drunk and have sex.” “Oh.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You still in?” He was laughing now. He was still mad, but he was laughing. For whatever reason—maybe I did want to go with him, or maybe I heard my own voice calling me boring and pathetic again—I sat back and folded my hands in my lap. “I’m in.” He shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into..” He shifted his Land Rover into drive and started forward. “But that’s your problem, not mine.” He careened out of the parking lot, and I fell against the door. I grabbed the oh shit handle above my head, and I had a feeling that was going to be the theme for the rest of the night: Oh, shit.

The dance began. Caran remained silent the entire time. When the instruments slowed to an end, a lute picking a light tune downward until there was no more music, Kestrel broke away. Caran gave her an awkward bow and left. “Well, that didn’t look very fun,” said a voice behind her. Kestrel turned. Gladness washed over her. It was Ronan. “I’m ashamed of myself,” he said. “Heartily ashamed, to be so late that you had to dance with such a boring partner as Caran. How did that happen?” “I blackmailed him.” “Ah.” Ronan’s eyes grew worried. “So things aren’t going well.” “Kestrel!” Jess threaded through milling people and came close. “We didn’t think you’d come. You should have told us. If we’d known, we’d have been here from the first.” Jess took Kestrel’s hand and drew her to the edge of the dance floor. Ronan followed. Behind them, dancers began the second round. “As it was,” Jess continued, “we barely made it into the carriage. Ronan was so listless, saying he saw no point in coming if he couldn’t be with you.” “Sweet sister,” said Ronan, “is it now my turn to share private things about you?” “Silly. I have no secrets. Neither do you, where Kestrel is concerned. Well?” Jess looked triumphantly between them. “Do you, Ronan?” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and thumb, brows rumpling into a pained expression. “Not anymore.” “You look lovely, Kestrel,” Jess said. “Wasn’t I right about the dress? And the color will go perfectly with the iced apple wine.” Kestrel felt giddy, whether form the relief of seeing her friends or because of Ronan’s forced confession, she wasn’t sure.

The curve of her bare breast filled my palm, and we both made a noise of pleasure. I tweaked the hard bead of her nipple, loving the way her lids fluttered as her lips parted. She arched into the touch, her head tilting to the side. I kissed my way along her neck, pinching that sweet nipple, tugging it. Oh, but she liked that, whimpering and wiggling, lifting those sweet tits up higher in encouragement. I dipped down and dragged my tongue along one beaded tip. The sound she made was so dirty, hot, and greedy my dick pulsed. Holding that succulent breast plumped in the palm of my hand, I licked, sucked, and kissed it the way I'd been dying to. "Lucian..." She needed more, her hips grinding on my thigh with uncoordinated motions. My free hand moved to her ass---that spectacular ass----and gripped it. I hauled her up close, my mouth finding hers. "Ride me, honey." I worked her on my thigh, holding her ass as she rocked the slick heat of her sex up and down its length. Emma's breasts tickled my chest with every upward thrust, her lips feathering over mine. Our breath mingled, and I stole a kiss, messy and frantic. My cock throbbed for release, fucking ached for it. But watching her lids flutter, the way her gorgeous face strained with pleasure, made it worth the torture. "I'm going to come if you..."----she gasped, nibbled my lower lip----"keep doing that." "Good," I grunted, flexing my thigh, bouncing her. Oh, she loved that. "Come all over me, honey. Let me see you move." Her head fell to my shoulder, her lips nuzzling my neck. She rocked and ground on my thigh, getting it hot and wet. But her clever hand slid down and found my needy dick once more. I made a noise that sounded a lot like pain, but it was unadulterated pleasure that had me pushing up into the clasp of her hand. "Not without you," she said, jacking my length. Our mouths met, and the kiss became a wild thing. I kissed her until I couldn't breathe, then kissed her again. And she moved on me, her hand stroking and pulling. Heat swarmed my skin, licked up my cock. My abs clenched as I groaned, curling myself around her with a shudder of pure lust. "I'm close." "Are you?" "Yeah." Panting now, we worked with each other, harder, faster. The air steamed, and she trembled. "Now, Lucian. Now." "Fuck." "Oh!" Her deep moan, the way she clenched all around me as her orgasm shuddered through her slim frame, set me off. I released with a shout, pulsing so hard my head went light.

They went off, and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because I knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn’t no use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don’t get started right when he’s little, ain’t got no show—when the pinch comes there ain’t nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on,—s‘pose you’d a done right and give Jim up; would you felt better than what you do now? No, says I, I’d feel bad—I’d feel just the same way I do now. Well, then, says I, what’s the use you learning to do right, when it’s troublesome to do right and ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same? I was stuck. I couldn’t answer that. So I reckoned I wouldn’t bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time.

Maybe the true surprise, I thought, was that it had not happened sooner. My uncles’ eyes used to crawl over me as I poured their wine. Their hands found their way to my flesh. A pinch, a stroke, a hand slipping under the sleeve of my dress. They all had wives, it was not marriage they thought of. One of them would have come for me in the end and paid my father well. Honor on all sides. The light had reached the loom, and its cedar scent was rising in the air. The memory of [Redacted]’s white-scarred hands, and the pleasure I had taken in them, was like a hot wire pushed through my brain. I dug my nails into my wrist. There are oracles scattered across our lands. Shrines where priestesses breathe sacred fumes and speak the truths they find in them. Know yourself is carved above their doors. But I had been a stranger to myself, turned to stone for no reason I could name.

I'd carry you," he added, "but I'd have to get you declawed first." "Don't count on it," I replied. Sage did an exaggerated stretch. "In the meantime, I think we should all get some sleep." He sprawled out across the dirt floor. "Good night." He shut his eyes and was perfectly still. There was no chance he was asleep already, but Ben spoke his mind anyway. He pulled me aside just the slightest bit and sneered down at Sage. "I don't like any of this, Clea." "Really? Because when he started talking about the Elixir of Life, I thought the two of you were ready to become blood brothers." "I believe in the Elixir," Ben said. "Enough that I want to believe Sage's story. I just don't now if we can. And we still can't explain the pictures. I don't trust him." "I don't care, Ben. Dad trusted him. And Sages plan is my best shot at finding him alive." "I guess. Just..." Ben took a moment to put together his next words. "Be careful around him, okay? I feel like..." I waited, but he wasn't going to finish. "Feel like what?" "Nothing. I'm here for you. You know that, right?" I could see him struggling. It was like he was trying to tell me something monumental, but the words that came out weren't doing it justice. He sprawled out on the cave floor as far away from Sage as he could, and patted his chest. "Need a pillow? It's not really in my job description, but I'm happy to offer." He pinched a corner of his shirt between two fingers. "Cotton twill. Very soft." I forced a laugh. "I'm okay. Thanks." I curled up on the cave floor in between the two guys. Despite everything, I could already feel myself drifting away. "Clea?" It was Ben's voice, now right next to my ear, but I was to tired to turn and respond. I think I managed a "Hmm?" but that might have been in my head. "Good night," he said, then I heard him lie back down.

She went to move around Jacques, strongly objecting to the this woman label. She did have a name. She was a person. She had a feeling they all thought her the hysterical type. She certainly hadn’t managed to show them her normal calm self. Jacques stepped backward and his arm swept behind him to pin her against the wall. He never took his eyes from the trio before them. He knew he was unstable, still fighting to hold on to reason when his every instinct was to attack. He trusted none of them and would not allow Shea to be put in any danger. Shea retaliated with a hard pinch. She was not going to cower behind her wild man like some seventeenth-century heroine fainting with the vapors. So she was surrounded by a few vampires. Big deal. Carpathians. Jacques sounded amused. If you laugh at me, Jacques, I might find another wooden stake and come after you myself, she warned him silently. “Well, for heaven’s sake.” Shea sounded exasperated as she addressed the group. “We’re all civilized, aren’t we?” She shoved at Jacques’ broad back. “Aren’t we?” “Absolutely.” Raven stepped forward, ignoring Mikhail’s restraining hand. “At least the women are. The men around here haven’t quite graduated from the swinging-through-trees stage yet.

I had abandoned Elana; I deserved her uncertainty. I closed my eyes and focused on her touch. Perhaps she wouldn't have understood had I tried to explain it to her, but to me Elana was not only Elana--she was the sad-eyed love of mine who used to bag groceries at Woodley's in Buffalo; she was the sweet one who always sat across from me on the city bus in Niagara Falls; she was the girl I'd picked up hitchhiking in Mobile and dropped off in New Orleans, brash, full of sarcastic humor, but truly lonely and scared; she was the one I'd nabbed pinching Newports for her dad from the Marathon station I'd worked at in Bakersfield (I'd softened and paid for the pack myself); yes, she was the girl playing basketball with all the boys in the park, collecting cans by the side of the road, keeping secret pet kittens in an empty boxcar in the woods, walking alone at night through the rail yards, teaching her little sisters how to kiss, reading out loud to herself, so absorbed by the story, singing sadly in the tub, building a fort from the junked cars out in the meadow, by herself in the front row at the black-and-white movies or in the alley, gazing at an eddy of cigarette stubs and trash and fall leaves, smoking her first cigarette at dusk by a pile of dead brush in the desert, then wishing at the stars-she was all of them, and she was so much more that was just her that I still didn't know.

Marlboro Man’s call woke me up the next morning. It was almost eleven. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?” I hopped out of bed, blinking and stumbling around my room. “Who me? Oh, nothing.” I felt like I’d been drugged. “Were you asleep?” he said. “Who, me?” I said again, trying to snap out of my stupor. I was stalling, trying my darnedest to get my bearings. “Yes. You,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t believe you were asleep!” “I wasn’t asleep! I was…I just…” I was a loser. A pathetic, late-sleeping loser. “You’re a real go-getter in the mornings, aren’t you?” I loved it when he played along with me. I rubbed my eyes and pinched my own cheek, trying to wake up. “Yep. Kinda,” I answered. Then, changing the subject: “So…what are you up to today?” “Oh, I had to run to the city early this morning,” he said. “Really?” I interrupted. The city was over two hours from his house. “You got an early start!” I would never understand these early mornings. When does anyone ever sleep out there? Marlboro Man continued, undaunted. “Oh, and by the way…I’m pulling into your driveway right now.” Huh? I ran to my bathroom mirror and looked at myself. I shuddered at the sight: puffy eyes, matted hair, pillow mark on my left cheek. Loose, faded pajamas. Bag lady material. Sleeping till eleven had not been good for my appearance. “No. No you’re not,” I begged. “Yep. I am,” he answered. “No you’re not,” I repeated. “Yes. I am,” he said. I slammed my bathroom door and hit the lock. Please, Lord, please, I prayed, grabbing my toothbrush. Please let him be joking. I brushed my teeth like a crazed lunatic as I examined myself in the mirror. Why couldn’t I look the women in commercials who wake up in a bed with ironed sheets and a dewy complexion with their hair perfectly tousled? I wasn’t fit for human eyes, let alone the piercing eyes of the sexy, magnetic Marlboro Man, who by now was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear the clomping of his boots. The boots were in my bedroom by now, and so was the gravelly voice attached to them. “Hey,” I heard him say. I patted an ice-cold washcloth on my face and said ten Hail Marys, incredulous that I would yet again find myself trapped in the prison of a bathroom with Marlboro Man, my cowboy love, on the other side of the door. What in the world was he doing there? Didn’t he have some cows to wrangle? Some fence to fix? It was broad daylight; didn’t he have a ranch to run? I needed to speak to him about his work ethic. “Oh, hello,” I responded through the door, ransacking the hamper in my bathroom for something, anything better than the sacrilege that adorned my body. Didn’t I have any respect for myself? I heard Marlboro Man laugh quietly. “What’re you doing in there?” I found my favorite pair of faded, soft jeans. “Hiding,” I replied, stepping into them and buttoning the waist. “Well, c’mere,” he said softly.

If loneliness or sadness or happiness could be expressed through food, loneliness would be basil. It’s not good for your stomach, dims your eyes, and turns your mind murky. If you pound basil and place a stone over it, scorpions swarm toward it. Happiness is saffron, from the crocus that blooms in the spring. Even if you add just a pinch to a dish, it adds an intense taste and a lingering scent. You can find it anywhere but you can’t get it at any time of the year. It’s good for your heart, and if you drop a little bit in your wine, you instantly become drunk from its heady perfume. The best saffron crumbles at the touch and instantaneously emits its fragrance. Sadness is a knobby cucumber, whose aroma you can detect from far away. It’s tough and hard to digest and makes you fall ill with a high fever. It’s porous, excellent at absorption, and sponges up spices, guaranteeing a lengthy period of preservation. Pickles are the best food you can make from cucumbers. You boil vinegar and pour it over the cucumbers, then season with salt and pepper. You enclose them in a sterilized glass jar, seal it, and store it in a dark and dry place. WON’S KITCHEN. I take off the sign hanging by the first-floor entryway. He designed it by hand and silk-screened it onto a metal plate. Early in the morning on the day of the opening party for the cooking school, he had me hang the sign myself. I was meaning to give it a really special name, he said, grinning, flashing his white teeth, but I thought Jeong Ji-won was the most special name in the world. He called my name again: Hey, Ji-won. He walked around the house calling my name over and over, mischievously — as if he were an Eskimo who believed that the soul became imprinted in the name when it was called — while I fried an egg, cautiously sprinkling grated Emmentaler, salt, pepper, taking care not to pop the yolk. I spread the white sun-dried tablecloth on the coffee table and set it with the fried egg, unsalted butter, blueberry jam, and a baguette I’d toasted in the oven. It was our favorite breakfast: simple, warm, sweet. As was his habit, he spread a thick layer of butter and jam on his baguette and dunked it into his coffee, and I plunked into my cup the teaspoon laced with jam, waiting for the sticky sweetness to melt into the hot, dark coffee. I still remember the sugary jam infusing the last drop of coffee and the moist crumbs of the baguette lingering at the roof of my mouth. And also his words, informing me that he wanted to design a new house that would contain the cooking school, his office, and our bedroom. Instead of replying, I picked up a firm red radish, sparkling with droplets of water, dabbed a little butter on it, dipped it in salt, and stuck it into my mouth. A crunch resonated from my mouth. Hoping the crunch sounded like, Yes, someday, I continued to eat it. Was that the reason I equated a fresh red radish with sprouting green tops, as small as a miniature apple, with the taste of love? But if I cut into it crosswise like an apple, I wouldn't find the constellation of seeds.

Neamh. Evie. Neamh. Evie. Lend, Lend, Lend. Neamh. Evie. “What are you doing, my love?” I scowled at Reth for breaking my concentration. “Thinking. Shut up.” The Light Queen was speechifying up on a podium made of liquid light, her radiance bathing all the faeries in a glow that was nearly overpowering. Within a few seconds of being around this much faerie glamour I was having a hard time seeing straight and found myself slack-jawed and dazed. Thus, the name equivalent of pinching myself. I realized at some point she had stopped talking, and now every single set of faerie eyes—a few hundred of them—were trained intently on me. “Oh, uh, hey.” I waved. “What did I miss?” I whispered to Reth. “You’re supposed to tell us how to convince the Dark Court to join us.” “I—What? Seriously? I’m only here to make sure everything happens. I thought the queen would have a plan! I’m a glorified doorman. I open the gate, I close the gate. Nowhere in my job description of Empty One does it say I also manage to convince a mob of anti-Evie faeries to saunter through the gate.” Reth smiled. “And just when she’d finished praising human ingenuity and assuring us that everything will work out according to plan.” “Yes! Plan! Her plan! Gosh, you guys are sucking it up all over the place. Aren’t you supposed to have these things in place for centuries, or were you too busy writing pretty little poems to describe the plans that you never bothered actually making them?” His golden eyes, now with fine lines around them, twinkled with amusement. “We had a plan, my love. I was to fill you up and you were to open a fate for us immediately. But I seem to recall you doing everything in your power to resist and change that plan. So now we’ve had to account for all the other creatures from our world and conform to your requirements. I think you’ll find that we fey, while obviously superior in nearly every way, are not quite as adaptable as temporary creatures. If you want improvisations, you’ll have to provide it yourself.

Kristen- So you know I ran… and he got me. He had his belt in hand ready to whip me, and he did repeatedly until I fell to the ground, with him straddling me, his hand touching me, he started pinching me, and that is when he pierced my nipple with an old rusty nail. ‘Honey hush,’ he said as I screamed, even more, the second time; because I knew the pain was picking and nearing. He laughed- ‘Saying now everything matches!’ I recall him saying this- as he pulled me up dragging me by the hair. ‘Good now your bare ass can rub up on the bark of the tree, and then I can smack it later on tonight. You would like that? Wouldn’t you? My little bitch!’ Kristen- I had to say- ‘Yes, Yes- I would!’ I screamed louder than I have ever had in my entire life! For the reason that I knew what was coming! I could see him coming with the cruel tools in hand! I was thinking to myself. ‘Please God don’t let him have a screwdriver.’’ Because knew what he would do with it, and where it would be shoved in! Just for the hell of it, he drew a target on my tummy with my lipstick and started throwing tools like wrenches, trying to hit the same spot. I thought for sure something of his was going to go deep inside me. He looked at me, flashing scissors, and said in a sick way. ‘Look, baby, these are the same scissors your momma used to slit her wrist. He slapped them in my hand, and said it is your choice; you can do the same thing she had the choice of... What do you say? You know these are the very same scissors, that gave your mother the episiotomy that brought you into this world. Now they can be the same scissors to take you out.’ Gasping for breath in being so appalled, I remember saying- ‘What did I do to you?’ He said- ‘It is not what you did to me, it is what they want, and what I was asked to do, and what they will do to me if I don’t!’ I said- ‘Who are they?’ He whispered in my ear, as well as he bit it- my earlobe with his teeth afterward saying. - ‘You are that stupid? I knew it! Will If I tell you, I will have to kill you.’ He said- (In a very paranoid, yet almost cocky tone of voice.) So, I yelled back- ‘Just do it- you- vain shit-face!’ That is when he did it, one by one. Yes, one toe by toe, all the nails went in and through my fingernails and flesh. This happened to my hand, palm, and wrists one nail at a time. (Bang! Bang! Bang!) Until the point that I was able to suspend from them alone on the tree. The same tree that he carved our names into, saying forever and ever. I have to say at that point I did not want to live, saying get me down! Then he yelled- ‘Not yet- my baby!

I have come, my lovely,” Roddy said with his usual sardonic grin as he swept her a deep bow, “in answer to your urgent summons-and, I might add,-“ he continued, “before I presented myself at the Willingtons’, exactly as your message instructed.” At 5’10”, Roddy Carstairs was a slender man of athletic build with thinning brown hair and light blue eyes. In fact, his only distinguishing characteristics were his fastidiously tailored clothes, a much-envied ability to tie a neckcloth into magnificently intricate folds that never drooped, and an acid wit that accepted no boundaries when he chose a human target. “Did you hear about Kensington?” “Who?” Alex said absently, trying to think of the best means to persuade him to do what she needed done. “The new Marquess of Kensington, once known as Mr. Ian Thornton, persona non grata. Amazing, is it not, what wealth and title will do?” he continued, studying Alex’s tense face as he continued, “Two years ago we wouldn’t have let him past the front door. Six months ago word got out that he’s worth a fortune, and we started inviting him to our parties. Tonight he’s the heir to a dukedom, and we’ll be coveting invitations to his parties. We are”-Roddy grinned-“when you consider matters from this point of view, a rather sickening and fickle lot.” In spite of herself, Alexandra laughed. “Oh, Roddy,” she said, pressing a kiss on his cheek. “You always make me laugh, even when I’m in the most dreadful coil, which I am now. You could make things so very much better-if you would.” Roddy helped himself to a pinch of snuff, lifted his arrogant brows, and waited, his look both suspicious and intrigued. “I am, of course, your most obedient servant,” he drawled with a little mocking bow. Despite that claim, Alexandra knew better. While other men might be feared for their tempers or their skill with rapier and pistol, Roddy Carstairs was feared for his cutting barbs and razor tongue. And, while one could not carry a rapier or a pistol into a ball, Roddy could do his damage there unimpeded. Even sophisticated matrons lived in fear of being on the wrong side of him. Alex knew exactly how deadly he could be-and how helpful, for he had made her life a living hell when she came to London the first time. Later he had done a complete turnabout, and it had been Roddy who had forced the ton to accept her. He had done it not out of friendship or guilt; he had done it because he’d decided it would be amusing to test his power by building a reputation for a change, instead of shredding it. “There is a young woman whose name I’ll reveal in a moment,” Alex began cautiously, “to whom you could be of great service. You could, in fact, rescue her as you did me long ago, Roddy, if only you would.” “Once was enough,” he mocked. “I could hardly hold my head up for shame when I thought of my unprecedented gallantry.” “She’s incredibly beautiful,” Alex said. A mild spark of interest showed in Roddy’s eyes, but nothing stronger. While other men might be affected by feminine beauty, Roddy generally took pleasure in pointing out one’s faults for the glee of it. He enjoyed flustering women and never hesitated to do it. But when he decided to be kind he was the most loyal of friends.

Unattractive, like a selfish woman. Ugly, like an ambitious one. Like one who chose to punish a good man for not being the right man, who left because staying was too boring, too painful, too hard. Like a woman who had to be a weapon because she couldn’t be anything else. thing, for one chance— Parisa tousled her hair, switching her part from one side to the other. She didn’t have a bad side. —but I’m done being grateful! I’m done trying to make myself suitable for this family, for this God, for this life. I’m done being small, I’ve outgrown the person who needed you to save her, I don’t even know who she is anymore— She pouted at the mirror and started again, pinching her cheeks to see the color come and go. —and I want more, so much more— Lip balm. Mascara. Lips softer, eyes wider, be something different, something else. —I just want to live, Nas! Just let me live! What was the point of reliving the past? She was hunting her invisible nemeses, grappling for power, finding new methods of control. She should be busy, too busy being the most dangerous person in this or any world to think about why she’d been such an easy target for Atlas Blakely, a man in need of weapons just to make a universe that he could stand. But now— Now she was thinking about Nasser, as if it mattered at all what kind of person she’d been over a decade ago. Just an hour of your time, now and then. That’s all I ask. I know, I know, I’m asking a lot more from you inside my head, but that’s not fair—doesn’t it matter what I choose to put in front of you? Someday maybe you’ll understand that there’s a difference between what a person thinks and who they choose to be— A glint caught her eye from her reflection. A brief, unnatural sparkle in the placid lake of her appearance, the consistency of her beauty, the easy grace she always wore. She leaned forward, forgetting her internal monologue, letting it collapse. Someday the view will be different, eshgh, and I hope you see me in a softer light— “Parisa?” Dalton leaned against the frame of the bathroom door. In his left hand was one of her dresses. In his right hand was her phone. “I don’t care if you want to see your husband. Sorry—Nasser. If you want me to call him that, I will. I suppose you’re right, anyway, you’ll need to see him, because if the Society could find evidence of him in your past then the Forum surely can as well, and so can Atlas. And so can anyone else who wants you dead.” Another pause as Dalton set her phone back on the bathroom counter. “I replied to the physicist for you as well. I think you’ll need to find out what he plans to do about the archives, or at least keep track of what Atlas is doing at the house. Atlas is going to win over both the physicists unless you can convince one of them to do it differently. “What is it?” Dalton asked, frowning at her silence. His gaze traced the placement of her fingers, which had been parsing the thickness of her hair. “I—” Parisa was caught somewhere between laughing and crying. “I found a gray hair.” “So?” Laughter, definitely laughter. It escaped her in something of a rueful bray. Unattractive, like a selfish woman. Ugly, like an ambitious one. Like one who chose to punish a good man for not being the right man, who left because staying was too boring, too painful, too hard. Like a woman who had to be a weapon because she couldn’t be anything else. “Nothing.” Only the future loss of her desirability, the collapse of her personhood. The first glimpse of an empire steadily falling to unseen ruin. The fate she already knew was coming, the punishment she’d always known she deserved. What timing!

He shook his head slowly. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.” “I know, it’s weird, isn’t it? It’s like a dream but it isn’t. It’s all too real. For days when I first got here I kept on pinching myself to see if I could wake myself up.

I found myself half wishing Sam had come home from Utah State for the weekend to spoil our plans. It could be like old times, eating junk food and watching Vin Diesel movies on Mom’s bed. Instead, I was wearing boots that pinched my toes, new jeans and a water bra.

I like to think of myself as an artist - one who adds a dash of fame, a touch of dirt, a pinch of stardust, and a moral to every little story I report. (Carlotta DuBois, Gossip Columnist)

Skotos performed music in two different genres. When he wasn’t singing about love, his music fell in the genre I can only describe as doucherock. When he was singing about love, he was all about the power ballad. Or even the pop ballad. It just depended on where his cheesy muse took him. Given a choice between listening to Skotos sing and listening to a lawn mower, I would pick the mower. He also spent a good deal of time doing theater. He was a master of melodrama, and there were certain Dynamisians who thought that was the pinnacle of acting. I personally found him over the top. When we were assigned to do a scene together I had to pinch myself to keep from asking him where he spit out all the scenery he’d chewed.

But I did it. I imagined myself, muscular, lean and deliciously male, in a suit, holding my completed dissertation. I was accepted to the PhD program in History at Yale University today, as well as starting hormone replacement therapy: subcutaneously-injected testosterone in a solution with cottonseed oil. The universe, fate, or what I chose to call God, has an incredible way of working things out like that. And then I plunged the needle into my skin. I did it with clear intention and the surest, most earnest heart I have ever felt beat inside my chest...I breathed in and exhaled as I pushed the testosterone into my body for the first time. Little pinch. A leap of faith into the rest of my life.

Why, Reshi?"The words poured out of Bast in a sudden gush. "Why did you stay there when it was so awful?" Kvothe nodded to himself, as if he had been expecting the question. "Where else was there for me to go, Bast? Everyone I knew was dead." "Not everyone," Bast insisted. "There was Abenthy. You could have gone to him." "Hallowfell was hundreds of miles away, Bast," Kvothe said wearily as he wandered to the other side of the room and moved behind the bar. Hundreds of miles without my father's maps to guide me. Hundreds of miles without wagons to ride or sleep in. Without help of any sort, or money, or shoes. Not an impossible journey, I suppose. But for a young child, still numb with the shock of losing his parents. . . ." Kvothe shook his head. "No. In Tarbean at least I could beg or steal. I'd managed to survive in the forest for a summer, barely. But over the winter?" He shook his head. "I would have starved or frozen todeath." Standing at the bar, Kvothe filled his mug and began to add pinches of spice from several small containers, then walked toward the great stone fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You're right, of course. Anywhere would have been better than Tarbean." He shrugged, facing the fire. "But we are all creatures of habit. It is far too easy to stay in the familiar ruts we dig for ourselves. Perhaps I even viewed it as fair. My punishment for not being there to help when the Chandrian came. My punishment for not dying when I should have, with the rest of my family." Bast opened his mouth, then closed it and looked down at the tabletop, frowning. Kvothe looked over his shoulder and gave a gentle smile. "I'm not saying it's rational, Bast. Emotions by their very nature are not reasonable things. I don't feel that way now, but back then I did. I remember." He turned back to the fire. "Ben's training has given me a memory so clean and sharp I have to be careful not to cut myself sometimes." Kvothe took a mulling stone from the fire and dropped it into his wooden mug. It sank with a sharp hiss. The smell of searing clove and nutmeg filled the room. Kvothe stirred his cider with a long-handled spoon as he made his way back to the table. "You must also remember that I was not in my right mind. Much of me was still in shock, sleeping if you will. I needed something, or someone, to wake me up." He nodded to Chronicler, who casually shook his writing hand to loosen it, then unstoppered his inkwell. Kvothe leaned back in his seat. "I needed to be reminded of things I had forgotten. I needed a reason to leave. It was years before I met someone who could do those things." He smiled at Chronicler. "Before I met Skarpi.

Wordlessly, Darren sits at the edge of the next bed, which leaves the one between him and the wall for me. I’m going to have to sleep next to Darren. For THREE nights. What if I dream about him? What if I say something during those dreams? What if he says something in his sleep? What if I roll over and bump into him? I set my camera and backpack down on the desk, dig out a pink tank top, matching pajama shorts, and my toiletry pouch, and get ready for bed in the bathroom. When I come back out, Darren’s sitting at the desk, elbow propped on it, head supported in his hand. He’s already changed into a pair of red-and-white plaid pants and a black T-shirt. For some reason, the sight of him in his PJs gives me a little thrill. He motions toward the beds. “They’re passed out.” I glance at the fully clothed spooning figures and look away before my cheeks get the better of me. The clock on the desk shows that it’s only 8:25. I know traveling wears you out but I feel completely wired. “Are you ready to go to bed or…?” I let my voice trail off and swallow. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about sleeping one bed over from him. “You want to go for a walk?” I pinch the fabric of my shorts as if to say, In these? and frown. He looks down at my bare legs, then meets my eyes. “Just throw on your sneakers.” There’s a flutter in my chest, but I imagine myself squashing the little winged creatures. No butterflies allowed. I can do this.

Every time I’m with you it’s like a dream,” he mumbled and eased two fingers inside my hole. “I want to pinch myself to make sure it’s real.” He slid three fingers inside. “But if it isn’t real, I don’t want to wake up.” He pulled his digits free. After

Last night. I, uh, I spoke with someone who off-handedly told me you knew we had a fake engagement. I couldn’t possibly understand how you’d know, so I blamed Lottie, thinking she was the one who let it slip to Ellie. I said some shitty things, and she left.” I shake my head, completely disgusted with myself. “I fucking blew it because I was so caught up in my image, my reputation, that I forgot one thing—none of that matters if I don’t have someone to share my life with. She took off for her sister’s.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She chose sleeping on the floor over sleeping with me. If that doesn’t tell you how fucked I am, I don’t know what does.

Come on now, I urged myself, looking at my reflection. Don’t let her ruin this, too. The sight of my red-rimmed eyes made me even more sad and I tried to force a smile, but then my dimples appeared, and they always made me look like her. Or at least back when she used to smile. I hated the way they reminded me of her. I covered them with my index fingers and turned my head sideways, trying to imagine myself without them, wishing I could smooth them out with a touch. If only it were that easy to erase something you didn’t want. I stood pinching the poisonous letter until my breath had calmed and my eyes stopped burning. Then I hurried back to my room and hid it at the bottom of my bag, where I wouldn’t have to think about it any longer. I hadn’t come all this way to keep living this nightmare. In bed, I curled up and tried to focus on the cool breeze that came in through the open window, carrying scents of unfamiliar blossoms and dry grass, and soon I drifted off to the pulsing lullaby of the Midwestern crickets. Ahead lay the road. And the whole world. Two I woke confused, dazzled by a beam of sunlight poking at my eye. Instinctively, I turned around and burrowed my face deeper into the pillow, before I remembered where I was and flew right up. I’m in America! Through the window I could see pastel suburbs and sprawling oak trees, topped by a beckoning blue sky. My head cleared in an instant and I wanted to run outside and explore. But Nathan was still asleep, so instead I padded into the living room and stretched out on the sofa, letting out a gratified exhale. I was free. My eyes drifted over to Nathan’s guitar. I picked it up and ran my fingers over the curved wood. Back home I had a cheap, second-hand acoustic which had served me well in learning the basics. I knew I wasn’t much of a guitarist, but I

By progressively confronting one's opposites, it becomes more and more obvious — and this point can hardly be repeated too often—that since the Shadow is a real and integral facet of the ego, all of the "symptoms" and discomforts that the Shadow seems to be inflicting on us are really symptoms and discomforts which we are inflicting on ourselves, however much we may consciously protest to the contrary. It is very, very much as if I, for instance, were deliberately and painfully pinching myself but pretending not to! Whatever my symptoms on this level may be — guilt, fear, anxiety, depression—all are strictly the result of my "mentally" pinching myself in one fashion or another. And this directly implies, incredible as it may seem, that I want this painful symptom, whatever its nature, to be here just as much as I want it to depart!

The percolator gave a few last burps and subsided while he reached for two big blue-and-white mugs. One had an overall design of bunny rabbits humping. The other portrayed elephants similarly occupied. I tried not to look. The thing I’ve worried about for years is how dinosaurs mated, especially those great big spiny ones. Someone told me once they did it in water, which helped support all that weight, but I find it hard to believe dinosaurs were that smart. It didn’t seem likely with those tiny pinched heads. I shook myself back to reality.

Sofia just stared at me and I shook my head, turning back towards my door as Roxy mumbled something against my chest. “Forget it,” I muttered, my gut twisting as I failed him again. “You know,” Sofia said softly behind me. “Everyone says Darius Acrux is heartless and cold blooded just like the Dragon he turns into. But you’re not, are you?” I gave her a flat look over my shoulder but she carried on anyway. “You actually give a shit about other people, don’t you? You want to protect them, look after them…” Her gaze fell on the unconscious girl in my arms like that was proof and I growled at her. “Is there a point to your inaccurate analysis?” Sofia had the nerve to roll her fucking eyes at me. “I’ll message you my number. You can tell Phillip to message me whenever he likes.” I raised an eyebrow at her in surprise and she threw a final look at Roxy in my arms before turning and heading away from us. I unlocked my door awkwardly while still holding her and headed inside, kicking it closed behind me as I dropped her bag and crossed the wide space towards the bed. Roxy’s head lolled back against my shoulder and her hair hung over my arm. She was still soaking wet and I hadn’t realised how much she’d been shivering as I’d walked here but now I could feel the tremors of her body where it was pressed to mine. I quickly used my water magic to pull every bit of moisture from her clothes and hair then pushed some warmth from my body into hers. She drifted near to consciousness as she stopped shivering and shifted in my arms, mumbling something incoherent as she pressed her cheek to my chest. My heart thumped a little harder than usual and I cleared my throat uncomfortably as I lowered her down onto the bed. Her brows pinched and she started mumbling something again as I released her. I pulled her shoes off and tossed them on the floor and she kicked out at me, forcing me to step back. “I can do it myself, Darcy,” she muttered, still slurring. “You shouldn’t have to look after me like this.” Before I could stop her, she lifted her hips up, pulled her skirt off and threw it at me. She still hadn’t opened her eyes and I didn’t think she was really awake at all. The gold panties she wore matched the bra which I could still see as her buttonless shirt had fallen open. I tried not to stare at her, I really tried but I couldn’t stop looking at her bronze skin, her narrow waist, the swell of her breasts as they rose and fell in time with her deep breaths... Fuck it’s like someone picked apart my deepest desires and brought every fantasy I’ve ever had to life. Why did it have to be her? Why did I have to lust after one of the only people in the whole of Solaria who I could never have? I knew I was going to have to marry a Dragon Shifter one day but that didn’t stop me from having other women. But this one would never be mine in any way. She hated me more viscerally than I thought anyone else ever had. And I couldn’t even blame her. I’d hate me too if I was her. What we’d done to her, what I’d done... it was necessary but I still didn’t like it. I was supposed to be working with the other heirs to get rid of them and instead here I was protecting her like I'd lost my fucking mind. (Darius POV)

I haven’t been drained that low in a long time. I shouldn’t have tried to take so much all at once,” I muttered, wanting to apologise but not quite finding the right words beyond that statement. “Well feel free to just steal all of mine then,” Darcy spat icily, clutching her neck tighter. I had the urge to heal her, but knew if I tried to touch her again, she’d only recoil. The ambulance pulled away and I glanced around, double checking Darius wasn’t here and I was glad to find he’d listened to me for once. That was something anyway. “Come on, I can drive you girls back in my car,” I offered. I’d left my Faerrari parked at the Acrux Hotel when I’d last visited Tucana, opting to stardust home because I’d been too drunk to drive. But I hadn’t had any magical drinks tonight, so I’d healed myself of the effects of the whiskey I’d consumed before coming to get Darius from the nightclub. Tory’s lip curled back as she glared at me with poison in her gaze. “We’re not going anywhere alone with you,” Darcy said bitterly, distrust in her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, stepping forward to get hold of her. I’d protect her tonight whether she liked it or not. Tory moved to intercept me and Caleb joined her too like a prime asshole. “You don’t fucking touch her again,” Tory growled. I narrowed my eyes at her, about to object, but as my gaze slid to Darcy over her shoulder and I saw the wall in her eyes that told me to get fucked, I knew I wasn’t going to win this fight. “Bastard,” Darcy hissed at me, looking woozy. Shit, I needed to heal her. And I could get her a blood replenishing potion back at the academy. “Come on, girls. The bus is gonna leave soon,” Caleb said, tugging Tory after him but she dug her heels in, waiting for Darcy. I opened my mouth to try and find the words that would convince Blue to stay with me, but she walked straight past me with her cheek turned and Tory threw me one more filthy look before they all headed down the street to the bus stop where mountains of students were gathering. Professors were among them and I knew they were safe enough in numbers, but my feet were still rooted to the pavement as I watched Darcy leave. You drank way too much. You have to get a grip. How are you going to keep feeding from her if you act like a monster every time your teeth are in her? I’d never had this problem before. The only thing I could compare it to was when my magic had been Awakened and my Order had Emerged. That first feed had made me feel like a ravenous beast with a bottomless stomach, and yet it still didn’t have a pinch on what it was like to feed from Blue. Caleb led Tory and Darcy past the queue straight onto the bus and my hackles rose as they joined Max and Seth on the back seats. And as Seth pulled Darcy close to him and nuzzled against her cheek, that feral animal in me awoke once more. I took out my Atlas and shot an update to Francesca, anxiously scoring my fingers through my hair. Just as the bus pulled away and rounded a corner, the FIB appeared on the street and I was immediately surrounded by three agents with dark frowns on their faces. “Lance Orion, you need to come down to the station and make a statement,” Captain Hoskins said and I sighed, knowing it was going to be a long ass night. I agreed and as I was stardusted away to the precinct, my heart was tugged in another direction, nearly forcing the stars to guide me elsewhere. But the captain ensured I made it to where he wanted to take me and I made a silent prayer to the stars that Darcy wouldn’t end up in Seth Capella’s bed tonight. Because I wasn’t sure I could control the demon in me who’d want his head for that. (ORION POV)

Orion tugged the hat off of my head, tossing it onto the bed and kissing my wet cheek as I pulled myself together at last, the grief in my chest a tight pinch which wouldn’t go away. “The hat kid’s name was Diego? I swear it was Darnell,” Darius murmured to Tory and she punched him in the arm with a muttered curse about him being an asshole. (Darcy)

My mother was always trying to shape me into the most perfect version of myself. When I was an infant, she pinched my nose because she was worried it was too flat.

For the last month or so I’ve been nesting in a dream-like state, pinching myself mentally, not only because of the palace we now reside in permanently but also because of the shimmer of the three-carat teardrop diamond on my finger and what it means—a cure for the sickness I’ve harbored for so long, a lasting end.

I think that I’m done. Are you ready to go?” I’m pinching myself. Could it really be so? And when over she strolls with complete shopping goals, My heart’s just so full that it’s quite set to blow! My cold bitter heart warms a hundred degrees, When she whispers, “I love you,” and gives me a squeeze.

Her brow pinches. “Enzo, I don’t expect you to save me.” “That’s because no one has ever found you worth saving.” Her mouth drops, offended, and I take the opportunity to hook her bottom teeth with two fingers and tug her into me. She nearly falls against my chest. “They were wrong, baby. You are worth it.” She digs her little teeth into my digits, and I grin, releasing her. “I’m capable of saving myself,” she tells me, fire in her eyes. “You are,” I agree, brushing my thumb across her cheek affectionately. “You’ve already proven that when you ended your abuser’s life. But you’re not alone anymore. Now you have someone to serve you while you seek justice.

To be honest, I’m still not okay with it. To be honest, I still get really fucking angry about it. To be honest, I struggle when I put my focus on that pinched skin. To be honest, I will always take a breath before I bare myself naked to a partner. To be honest, I still struggle to run my fingers across it in the bathtub.

My uncle snorted. “Hasn’t your mother read you The Old Book enough times?” When my cousins stayed silent, my uncle reached for the Card, pinching it between his thumbs and forefingers. When he jerked his hands to rip it in half, I heard myself gasp. But the Card did not tear. My uncle set it back down on the table, the parchment aged but without wrinkle. “Providence Cards cannot be destroyed,” he said to his sons. “They are woven by old magic.” Lyn leaned forward and talked into his brother’s face. Older by only one year, Lyn liked to play the tutor, Aldrich his reluctant pupil. “He means the Shepherd King’s magic.” Aldrich swatted him away.

What?” Whatever she’d expected him to say, it hadn’t been this. “One look at you in those blasted britches and I wanted you more than I wanted my ranch and my cattle and my pa’s respect. And I’ve been trying to stay away from you ever since. I kept thinking when things were good and I knew I’d made it, then I could think on things like a wife. But then, after I got hurt and it looked like I’d lose everything . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve been trying to get you to go away so when I disgrace myself and lose my ranch, I won’t drag you down with me.” “Rylan, you’re not going to lose the ranch. We’ll get the cattle ready on time.” “You mean you will. You’re saving me, Maizy.” Rylan reached out and took her other hand. “Maybe not being able to do it on my own should pinch my pride—the good Lord knows I’ve got too much of that. But right now all I can think is, I’ve been a fool not to accept the gift God put right in front of me. And I’ve shown myself to be a fool in about every way a man can.

At night, I paced the cell, counting footsteps until the numbers blurred. I took to pinching my arms and pulling hairs from my head, one at a time, trying to use the pain not just to keep myself awake but also to locate myself in my real body, and to keep at bay the tanked self of my dreams. Nothing worked. It was all unraveling: my body; my mind. Time itself was jumpy and fragmented now. Some days I slipped through hours like someone skidding, out of control, down a scree slope. Other days I could have sworn that time stopped, and a single breath seemed to last a year. I thought of the mad seer at Haven market, and the mad Omega on the ramparts.

Jim turned. "Is everything okay? What are you doing?" "Pinching myself.

badly. For myself, but also for Ari. I still have to pinch myself to believe everything that she’s done for me.” She cleared her throat to keep herself from letting out a sob as she continued.