Pony Tail Quotes

I said, leave her alone!” Her saviour was a slim young man with blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, and even in the gloom his eyes seemed to burn with ice-cold intensity.

once ruffle-skirted vanity table where I primped at thirteen, opening drawers to a private chaos of eyeshadows lavender teal sky-blue, swarms of hair pins pony tail fasteners, stashes of powders, colonies of tiny lipsticks (p.39)

THE FORTRESS Under the pink quilted covers I hold the pulse that counts your blood. I think the woods outdoors are half asleep, left over from summer like a stack of books after a flood, left over like those promises I never keep. On the right, the scrub pine tree waits like a fruit store holding up bunches of tufted broccoli. We watch the wind from our square bed. I press down my index finger -- half in jest, half in dread -- on the brown mole under your left eye, inherited from my right cheek: a spot of danger where a bewitched worm ate its way through our soul in search of beauty. My child, since July the leaves have been fed secretly from a pool of beet-red dye. And sometimes they are battle green with trunks as wet as hunters' boots, smacked hard by the wind, clean as oilskins. No, the wind's not off the ocean. Yes, it cried in your room like a wolf and your pony tail hurt you. That was a long time ago. The wind rolled the tide like a dying woman. She wouldn't sleep, she rolled there all night, grunting and sighing. Darling, life is not in my hands; life with its terrible changes will take you, bombs or glands, your own child at your breast, your own house on your own land. Outside the bittersweet turns orange. Before she died, my mother and I picked those fat branches, finding orange nipples on the gray wire strands. We weeded the forest, curing trees like cripples. Your feet thump-thump against my back and you whisper to yourself. Child, what are you wishing? What pact are you making? What mouse runs between your eyes? What ark can I fill for you when the world goes wild? The woods are underwater, their weeds are shaking in the tide; birches like zebra fish flash by in a pack. Child, I cannot promise that you will get your wish. I cannot promise very much. I give you the images I know. Lie still with me and watch. A pheasant moves by like a seal, pulled through the mulch by his thick white collar. He's on show like a clown. He drags a beige feather that he removed, one time, from an old lady's hat. We laugh and we touch. I promise you love. Time will not take away that.

It became his habit to creep out of bed even before his mother was awake, to slip into his clothes and to go quietly down to the barn to see Gabilan. In the grey quiet mornings when the land and the brush and the houses and the trees were silver-grey and black like a photograph negative, he stole toward the barn, past the sleeping stones and the sleeping cypress tree. The turkeys, roosting in the tree out of coyotes' reach, clicked drowsily. The fields glowed with a grey frost-like light and in the dew the tracks of rabbits and of field mice stood out sharply. The good dogs came stiffly out of their little houses, hackles up and deep growls in their throats. Then they caught Jody's scent, and their stiff tails rose up and waved a greeting Doubletree Mutt with the big thick tail, and Smasher, the incipient shepherd-then went lazily back to their warm beds. It was a strange time and a mysterious journey, to Jody -an extension of a dream. When he first had the pony he liked to torture himself during the trip by thinking Gabilan would not be in his stall, and worse, would never have been there. And he had other delicious little self-induced pains.

I'd gotten my first glimpse of Elizabeth DeVille. She'd had her hair in a pony-tail that stuck up off the side of her head, and she'd been wearing short red shorts and a light blue tank top with a whale on it. “You like whales?” I'd asked her when I finished with the car. Her face had gone all soft and pretty, making me feel more like one-hundred-and-three than the twenty-three I was, and she'd shrugged. “Yeah, but not a lot more than any other animal. I just like saving things.

The pony preserved his character for independence and principle down to the last moment of his life; which was an unusually long one, and caused him to be looked upon, indeed, as the very Old Parr of ponies. He often went to and fro with the little phaeton between Mr. Garland's and his son's, and, as the old people and the young were frequently together, had a stable of his own at the new establishment, into which he would walk of himself with surprising dignity. He condescended to play with the children, as they grew old enough to cultivate his friendship, and would run up and down the little paddock with them like a dog; but though he relaxed so far, and allowed them such freedoms as caresses, or even to look at his shoes or hang on by his tail, he never permitted anyone among them to mount his back or drive him; thus showing that even their familiarity must have its limits, and that there were points between them far too serious for trifling. He was not unsusceptible of warm attachments in his later life, for when the good Bachelor came to live with Mr. Garland upon the clergyman's decease, he conceived a great friendship for him, and amiably submitted to be driven by his hands without the least resistance. He did no work for two or three years before he died, but lived on clover; and his last act (like a choleric old gentleman) was to kick his doctor.

Spirituality is a concoction of prescriptions and half-truths. It is a circus of orange robes, incense, and ineffective jargon such as love and mindfulness. It is a maze of silent retreats and men with pony tails and yoga pants spouting spiritual psychobabble to those who enjoy the psychobabble. It is the unserious leading the unserious in concentric circles that lead only to more circles.

Each-uisce can never be tamed. They may appear as sleek black horses, eerily beautiful, or even ponies, deceptively small. Always their manes and tails are dripping wet, and their eyes glow like a wolf’s.

There is no bitterness in Wind In His Hair's heart," he began. "Our minds may choose different paths, but some part of every heart will always be as one. All my life I have been a warrior, and I will not change. I will not die as anything else. "The whites have taken much from me. They have taken my brothers, my wives, my children. Now they want to take me off the earth upon which I walk. Maybe they will kill me now, and if they do, so be it. I will not take their hands. I will keep my ponies' tails tied up for war." - Wind In His Hair

I am a person of binges. I have never understood the phrase “too much of a good thing.” Look: it’s irrational, impossible. See fig. 1: when I was a child, I became obsessed with horses. I know, I know, all little girls are obsessed with horses. But I lived for them. I gorged on them. I begged for them in any incarnation: films, toys, patterns, photographs, posters. Once, I cut the hair off a Barbie and superglued it to the base of my spine. I thrilled to wear my pony tail under my clothes, in secret, my parents knowing nothing, thinking me merely human, but it rubbed off after two days, leaving long blond doll hairs clotting in the corners of the house. My birthday came, and my parents, who were still together then, splurged on an afternoon of horseback riding lessons. When it was time to leave, they found that I had knotted my hair into the horse’s mane so elaborately that they had to cut me away from it with a pair of rusted barn shears. I still have the clump of matted girl-and-horse hair hidden in a drawer, though after all the times I put it in my mouth, I admit that it is somewhat the worse for wear.

It was not a bridle-path—merely a pedestrian's track, and the boughs spread horizontally at a height not greater than seven feet above the ground, which made it impossible to ride erect beneath them. The girl, who wore no riding-habit, looked around for a moment, as if to assure herself that all humanity was out of view, then dexterously dropped backwards flat upon the pony's back, her head over its tail, her feet against its shoulders, and her eyes to the sky. The rapidity of her glide into this position was that of a kingfisher—its noiselessness that of a hawk. Gabriel's eyes had scarcely been able to follow her. The tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under

The advisors, on the other hand, were like older brothers and sisters. My favorite was Bill Symes, who'd been a founding member of Fellowship in 1967. He was in his early twenties now and studying religion at Webster University. He had shoulders like a two-oxen yoke, a ponytail as thick as a pony's tail, and feet requiring the largest size of Earth Shoes. He was a good musician, a passionate attacker of steel acoustical guitar strings. He liked to walk into Burger King and loudly order two Whoppers with no meat. If he was losing a Spades game, he would take a card out of his hand, tell the other players, "Play this suit!" and then lick the card and stick it to his forehead facing out. In discussions, he liked to lean into other people's space and bark at them. He said, "You better deal with that!" He said, "Sounds to me like you've got a problem that you're not talking about!" He said, "You know what? I don't think you believe one word of what you just said to me!" He said, "Any resistance will be met with an aggressive response!" If you hesitated when he moved to hug you, he backed away and spread his arms wide and goggled at you with raised eyebrows, as if to say, "Hello? Are you going to hug me, or what?" If he wasn't playing guitar he was reading Jung, and if he wasn't reading Jung he was birdwatching, and if he wasn't birdwatching he was practicing tai chi, and if you came up to him during his practice and asked him how he would defend himself if you tried to mug him with a gun, he would demonstrate, in dreamy Eastern motion, how to remove a wallet from a back pocket and hand it over. Listening to the radio in his VW Bug, he might suddenly cry out, "I want to hear... 'La Grange' by ZZ Top!" and slap the dashboard. The radio would then play "La Grange.

Bilbo had never seen or imagined anything of the kind. They were high up in a narrow place, with a dreadful fall into a dim valley at one side of them. There they were sheltering under a hanging rock for the night, and he lay beneath a blanket and shook from head to toe. When he peeped out in the lightning-flashes, he saw that across the valley the stone-giants were out, and were hurling rocks at one another for a game, and catching them, and tossing them down into the darkness where they smashed among the trees far below, or splintered into little bits with a bang. Then came a wind and a rain, and the wind whipped the rain and the hail about in every direction, so that an overhanging rock was no protection at all. Soon they were getting drenched and their ponies were standing with their heads down and their tails between their legs, and some of them were whinnying with fright. They could hear the giants guffawing and shouting all over the mountainsides.

When I got home, I unloaded all the groceries, stuffing them in wherever I could find an open space. I hoped Charlie wouldn't mind. I wrapped potatoes in foil and stuck them in the oven to bake, covered a steak in marinade and balanced it on top of a carton of eggs in the fridge. When I was finished with that, I took my book bag upstairs. Before starting my homework, I changed into a pair of dry sweats, pulled my damp hair up into a pony-tail, and checked my e-mail for the first time.

He couldn't take his eye off that dragon There was something odd about the swaying of his tail ...he watched his curved and voluptuous reptilian legs move with grace... ...its stare was docile and...loving... He wanted that creature He wanted him all to himself He slapped his forehead, "Get ahold of yourself, George. It's a dragon!" He couldn't hold himself He followed the dragon-shifter into its cave From Lonely George and the Dragon God, a standalone story deriving from the universe built in Dragons and Cicadas.

The pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the nature and properties of the fireplug, looked into the air after his old enemies the flies, and as there happened to be one of them tickling his ear at that moment he shook his head and whisked his tail, after which he appeared full of thought but quite comfortable and collected. The old gentleman having exhausted his powers of persuasion, alighted to lead him; whereupon the pony, perhaps because he held this to be a sufficient concession, perhaps because he happened to catch sight of the other brass plate, or perhaps because he was in a spiteful humour, darted off with the old lady and stopped at the right house, leaving the old gentleman to come panting on behind

Rainbow laughed. “You guys really saved my tail.

Though the historical Cossacks ceased to exist in the eighteenth century, they lived on powerfully in the Ukrainian imagination. The anarchic peasant armies of the Russian Civil War called themselves ‘Cossacks’, as do a few fringe nationalists today, turning out in astrakhan hats and home-made uniforms at anti-communist rallies. Khokhol – the name of the long pony-tail, worn with a shaven head, which was the Cossack hallmark – is still derogatory Russian slang for a Ukrainian.

His eyes slowly moved up my legs. I drank the iced tea in my glass so as not to have to respond. He needed to stop staring at me like he was ready to eat me. What the hell was wrong with him today? He was too smart to get caught by Cupid. But, he was acting awfully interested. The worst part about that was that the more interested he looked, the more my body seemed to respond. Forget him! What the hell was wrong with me? My breathing became more erratic. I tugged my hair loose from its pony tail and pulled it over my shoulders, trying to hide how excited certain parts of my body were becoming. It backfired, because he took it as a different type of sign and closed the gap between us. One hand reached up and threaded through my hair as I tilted my face upward. I felt his other palm land on my hip, but it didn't stay there long. Slowly it slid down and then wrapped around until it cupped my ass and pulled me upward into contact with his hips where I could feel just how much he wanted me.

Copyright © 2013 Chloe McCreary

The wonderful thing about Moab is that everything happens in a story-book setting, with illustrations by Maxfield Parrish and Wyeth and Joe Coll, and all the rest of them, whichever way you look. Imagine a blue sky—so clear-blue and pure that you can see against it the very feathers in the tails of wheeling kites, and know that they are brown, not black. Imagine all the houses, and the shacks between them, and the poles on which the burlap awnings hang, painted on flat canvas and stood up against that infinite blue. Stick some vultures in a row along a roof-top—purplish—bronze they’ll look between the tiles and sky. Add yellow camels, gray horses, striped robes, long rifles, and a searching sun-dried smell. And there you have El-Kerak, from the inside. From any point along the broken walls or the castle roof you can see for fifty miles over scenery invented by the Master-Artist, with the Jordan like a blue worm in the midst of yellow-and-green hills twiggling into a turquoise sea. The villains stalk on-stage and off again sublimely aware of their setting. The horses prance, the camels saunter, the very street-dogs compose themselves for a nap in the golden sun, all in perfect harmony with the piece. A woman walking with a stone jar on her head (or, just as likely, a kerosene can) looks as if she had just stepped out of eternity for the sake of the picture. And not all the kings and kaisers, cardinals and courtezans rolled into one great swaggering splurge of majesty could hold a candle to a ragged Bedouin chief on a flea-bitten pony, on the way to a small-town mejlis.

Traipsing the tunnels alone, the boys depended on the ponies for companionship; if their lamps went out, as they frequently did, a pony could guide them home. 'The ponies knew their way around their own district of the pit and could always find their way back to the pit bottom. They did this by travelling against the air which was being fed down the shaft,' Jim remembered. 'If you got caught in the dark, you grasped your pony's tail and tried to get your head just below the level of his back while he walked slowly - never offering to kick you - straight back to the pit bottom.

Alec is sitting deep in the saddle, holding the mare firmly between hand and leg, not letting her get away from him. After a couple of quick circles, she steadies her stride and gets into a proper rhythm, moving with ease and grace across the turf, turning easily and responding to Alec’s light aids. There’s not much muscle on her light frame, her neck is thin and held high, giving a slightly giraffe-like impression, and her unease shows in the slight roll of her eye. But I can see now, so easily, the pony she could be. I can imagine myself cantering her into the ring, her copper coat glistening in the sun and neatly pulled mane ruffling in the light breeze, her slender legs dancing across the grassy turf. I can feel my own legs against her sides, the thickness of rubber reins taut between my fingers. I hear the sound of the jostling crowd and know that all eyes are on us as we canter around the ring. We hold their attention and admiration as they watch us jump easily over the highest obstacles. In my mind, the chestnut pony’s neck is arched, tail proudly aloft, her dark eyes bright and full of life and enthusiasm.

he was so focused on watching where Presley went that she almost didn’t see the man he was with until they stopped beneath a security light, their backs to her. She first noticed the other man then, and was shocked at his size. Then her gaze moved to the thick bush of curly hair pulled into a pony tail at the back of his neck, and she wondered how he ever got something that unruly washed and dried. It wasn’t until he turned sideways that she got a momentary glimpse of his profile. As she did, a strange, anxious feeling skittered through her belly, then quickly disappeared. The stranger didn’t matter. He couldn’t matter. It was time to make her move. She had to stop Presley now, before he went any farther. She reached toward the glove box for her handgun and taser, slipped the taser in her pocket and was reaching for the door latch when the big man turned and faced her. For a full fifteen or twenty seconds, Cat had a clear and unfettered view of his face, and in those seconds, the world fell out from under her. She didn’t know that she started moaning, or that she’d broken out in a cold sweat. All she knew was that she was no longer in her car in a San Antonio parking lot but back in her childhood home, trying to run from the intruder who’d come out of their bathroom. She was screaming for her father when the intruder’s arm slid around her chest and lifted her off her feet. She saw the strange geometric designs on his arm, then on the side of his face, as the cold slash of steel from his knife suddenly slid against her throat. The coppery scent of her own blood was thick in her nose as he dropped her to the floor, leaving her to watch as he slammed the same knife into her father over and over again. She tried to scream, but the sounds wouldn’t come. The last things she saw before everything went black were the look of sorrow on her father’s face and the demon who’d killed them running out the front door.

A pony who lives outdoors usually has healthy skin and hair and does not need to be groomed daily, except to get him clean for riding and for special occasions. He should be checked over and have his feet picked out every day, whether he is ridden or not, and his eyes, nose and dock should be cleaned. In some parts of the country, he should be checked for ticks, especially in his mane and tail. Besides that, he will only need currying and brushing with the dandy brush to make his coat smooth. The body brush will not do much good on a pony that rolls every day, and you do not want to remove the natural grease and scurf from his coat, as it protects him from getting wet and cold. After riding, sweat marks should be brushed out or rubbed out with a towel. Controlling

So you'd let me do whatever I wanted?" I shrugged. "Like, literally anything? You'd let me pee on you?" "You wouldn't, but no." "You'd let me parade you around downtown naked? Force-feed you into Type II Diabetes? Give you a bit gag and a pony-tail plug and make you pull me around in a rickshaw?" "No. No. None of those things." I shook my head. "Your brain is a weird place." "Real people do that stuff, Talia. Just because their kinks aren't your kinks doesn't mean they're weird or gross or wrong.

My feet are weird , i suck at nhl gm my partner is better, I am a bad sprayer and get carried from being on a good team , I look like Shane but I used to have a weird pony tail and no one would have lunch with me

The Little Cowboy That Could" Once upon a time, in a dusty, sunbaked town, there was a little cowboy named Cody. Unlike the other cowboys who rode tall in the saddle, Cody was just a young buck with a small pony. Every day, he watched the seasoned cowboys and wished he could wrangle and ride as well as they did. One evening, as the sun dipped low, Old Man Moon peered down and saw Cody looking downhearted. "Why the long face, little cowboy?" asked the Moon. "I'm not as skilled as the others. I want to be a great cowboy too," Cody replied. The Moon chuckled softly and said, "Every cowboy has his day to shine. You've got a special spirit within you, and one day, it'll show." Bolstered by the Moon's words, Cody decided to try harder. He started by helping a lost calf find its way back to the herd. Then, he practiced lassoing as best as he could to help round up the steers. With every good deed, he felt a proud warmth inside. Days turned into weeks, and Cody kept on working hard. One night, as he helped a little lost pup find its way back to the ranch, he felt a sudden glow. Cody looked down and saw the pup wagging its tail, looking up at him with grateful eyes. The pup barked as if to say, "Thank you, little cowboy, for guiding me home." At that moment, Cody felt a burst of happiness and, to his surprise, he found himself riding and roping better than ever before. All the other cowboys noticed and cheered, "Look, Cody is riding like a true cowboy!" From that day on, Cody became known as the cowboy who rode the brightest, not just with his skills, but with his kindness and heart. And he learned that it's not just about how well you ride, but about the help you bring to others' lives. And so, Cody continues to ride, reminding everyone that even the smallest cowboy can make a big difference.

pony swished his tail and lifted his head, shaking off a few beads of early morning dew.  He snorted, and clouds of steam erupted from his nostrils as if he

They were standing in the middle of the arena, with Stardust tacked up and ready to go. Issie watched as Aunt Hester walked over to the mare and attached a long webbing lunge rein, clipping it on to the bit and running it over the mare’s poll and down the other side. “Before you get on her, let’s try putting Stardust through her paces on the lunge rein,” Hester said. “Run the stirrups up the leathers, will you, dear?” Issie slid the irons up on their leathers so that they didn’t bounce against the mare’s sides and then she stood back as Aunt Hester led Stardust into the centre of the arena. “Tsk tsk, walk on!” Hester clucked at the palomino to get her moving, and Stardust obeyed her commands, stepping out on the lunge at a brisk walk. The lunge rein was about three metres long. Hester held the end of the rein and her eyes followed the mare as she circled around her. “Trot on!” Hester called out and again Stardust immediately obliged, breaking into a trot on command. “She’s got the most lovely trot!” Issie called out to her aunt. “That’s nothing, wait until you see her canter,” Hester grinned. “Come on, Stardust, canter on!” Hester was right. Stardust had a canter that almost seemed to float above the ground–she was as graceful as a ballerina. Issie could see why Rupert had cast this mare in his movie. With her silver mane and tail flowing out behind her, she looked exactly like the sort of pony that belongs to a princess. Stardust shook her mane and arched her neck, as if she knew that she was the centre of attention as she circled round and round the arena. “And steady…walk on! And…halt!” Hester instructed. Stardust did just as she was asked, pulling up on the lunge and stopping in front of Hester in a perfect square halt. “Good girl, Stardust!

Hana, the bravest wireless operator in the entire camp. No one is quite like her. She does the night shift in the wireless room, and goes with the girls to her military positions.” I looked at her. Her eyes were green, her hair was tied back in a pony tail. She had a feminine air despite the seriousness which her difficult assignments imparted to her. I asked her: “It’s unusual for a girl to be on duty at night all by herself!” “I’m not afraid of the night. Sometimes I used to be on duty at night, and I was not scared. The young men would be tied up along the combat lines and I would keep operating the wireless. At first, my parents wouldn’t agree to my work because they were worried about me. But I’ve done a three-month militia training course. I did it when the revolution entered the camp, and training began. They offered a course for girls. I was fourteen years old. It was a very strenuous course and I was in the third preparatory class at school.

The word “meme” was coined by Richard Dawkins in his seminal 1978 work The Selfish Gene. The basic idea is that human cultural practices—tying one’s hair in a pony-tail versus tying it in intricate braids, wearing watches versus wearing extensive bangles, or holding racist views—spread like biological genes. Some memes take hold of the public’s mind, proliferate quickly, and along the way morph and shift to the sender’s viewpoints. The word “meme” picked up steam later in the 1970s, as Dawkins’s work sparked an entire field, called memetics, to study these phenomena.

But as her body moves, all the yarn in the room suddenly gains tension. There's a swift swishing sound as the lines pull taut. She feels everything in the room move at once, from the big ropey lines supporting her weight, down to the tiny interlocking stitches pressed against her skin. "She rests in mid-air, suspended above her bed by the network of yarn slicing around the room. It holds her, and at the same time it caresses her. She feels its touch through the stitches on her arms, her legs, her stomach. It feels as if her weight is held in its giant hand, and it contemplates her like Yorick's skull. Hundreds of strings and lines of yarn, ranging from individual strands up to thick knitted cables now move on her. She is wrapped by long meaty loops that move around her legs, and her arms, and her neck; and thin little strings that slip between her fingers. A loop circles her hair and pulls it gently into a pony tail, and it lifts to supports her head. "She hangs quietly and meditatively for a while, feeling the caress of the yarn, gently tightening and loosening, and sliding over her body. It feels along her body. And as it feels her, she feels it. She can feel its affection through the way the yarn touches her. The caresses slide up and down her arms, her legs, between her fingers, and around her neck. "She can feel all the different textures of the different yarns. The scratchy itch of cheap wool, and the smooth toughness of nylon and polyester strings. In places there's even some slick and soft rayon and silk. And she's sure she can tell just by the touch of it, that her foot has been wrapped in a small scarf she made of an extremely fine cashmere. "But the thing doesn't just want to hold her.

Oh, we play alright and we could beat your butts anytime!” The words flew out of Nyla’s mouth before she had the chance to stop and think. They came out of her mouth before she realized that she was challenging the top scorer on the boys’ travelling hockey team. They hung in the air like snowflakes while the hard cold fact that she didn’t actually have a hockey team sunk into her brain.

Nyla didn’t have ay idea what she was thinking. It was like her brain was split in two with one half shouting out crazy ideas and the other half standing back and calmly reminding her that she and her three friends were not exactly a match for the town’s star hockey team.