Rainbow Baby Quotes

It was the nicest thing she could imagine. It made her want to have his babies and give him both of her kidneys.

You flirt with everything." She could tell that her eyes were popping-- her eyeballs actually felt cold around the edges. "You flirt with old people and babies and everybody in between.

He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. That includes puppies, babies, rainbows, sunsets, and sunrises. I can’t even call him a man―men don’t look this good.

No one can ever make you feel inferior without your permission, Tory. Don’t give it to them. Realize that it’s their own insecurities that make them attack you and others. They’re so unhappy with themselves that the only way they can feel better is by making everyone as unhappy as they are. Don’t let those people steal your day, baby. You hold your head high and know that you have the one thing they can never take away from you. (Theo) What's that, Papa? (Tory) My love. Your mother’s love and the love of your family and true friends. Your own self-respect and sense of purpose. Look at me, Torimou, people laugh at me all the time and say that I’m chasing rainbows. They told George Lucas that he was a fool for making Star Wars – they used to even call it Lucas’s Folly. Did he listen? No. And if he’d listened to them you wouldn’t have had your favorite movie made and think of how many people would never have heard the phrase 'May the Force be With You.' (Theo)

I'm really good at quickly identifying the smartest girl in every class." Cath frowned at him. "God, Levi, that's so exploitive." "How is it exploitive? I don't make them wear miniskirts. I don't call them 'baby.' I just say, 'Hello, smart girl, would you like to talk to me about Great Expectations?'

i'm only human, & inadequacy is what makes us human, & if we was perfect we wdnt have nothin to strive for, so you might as well go on & forgive me pretty baby, cause i'm sorry

So ... I'm larking through the Baby Gap, looking at tiny capri pants and sweaters that cost more than ... I don't know, more than they should. And I get totally sucked in by this ridiculous, tiny fur coat. The kind of coat a baby might need to go to the ballet. In Moscow. In 1918. To match her tiny pearls.

Imagine an eye unruled by man-made laws of perspective, an eye unprejudiced by compositional logic, an eye which does not respond to the name of everything but which must know each object encountered in life through an adventure of perception. How many colors are there in a field of grass to the crawling baby unaware of 'Green'? How many rainbows can light create for the untutored eye? How aware of variations in heat waves can that eye be? Imagine a world alive with incomprehensible objects and shimmering with an endless variety of movement and innumerable gradations of color. Imagine a world before the 'beginning was the word.

It made her want to have his babies and give him both her kidneys.

Writing tales of horror makes it hard to convince people that I'm a nice, gentle person. I love rainbows and wildflowers and butterflies and babies, and I wouldn't swat a fly unless it was diving directly into my fruit salad.

He put his pen in his pocket, then took her hand and held it to his chest for a minute. It was the nicest thing she could imagine. It made her want to have his babies and give him both of her kidneys.

The first time I came back to Watford, my second year, I climbed right into my bed and cried like a baby. I was still crying when Baz came in. “Why are you already weeping?” he snarled. “You’re ruining my plans to push you to tears.

There are a lot of things on earth that I think would be considered magic if they weren’t real. Dreaming, for example. The fact that babies are created inside of women’s bodies; the whole concept of conception. Castles. Trees. Whales. Lions. Birds. Rainbows. Water. The northern lights. Volcanos. Lightning. Fire.

The rest of us, not chosen for enlightenment, left on the outside of Earth, at the mercy of a Gravity we have only begun to learn how to detect and measure, must go on blundering inside our front-brain faith in Kute Korrespondences, hoping that for each psi-synthetic taken from Earth's soul there is a molecule, secular, more or less ordinary and named, over here - kicking endlessly among the plastic trivia, finding in each Deeper Significance and trying to string them all together like terms of a power series hoping to zero in on the tremendous and secret Function whose name, like the permuted names of God, cannot be spoken... plastic saxophone reed sounds of unnatural timbre, shampoo bottle ego-image, Cracker Jack prize one-shot amusement, home appliance casing fairing for winds of cognition, baby bottles tranquilization, meat packages disguise of slaughter, dry-cleaning bags infant strangulation, garden hoses feeding endlessly the desert... but to bring them together, in their slick persistence and our preterition... to make sense out of, to find the meanest sharp sliver of truth in so much replication, so much waste... [Gravity's Rainbow, p. 590]

She knew what that was like. His eyes were warm and baby blue. They made you feel like he liked you better than other people.

Fine," he moped. "I hope you’re very happy together. Cute little hobbit couple with lots of roly-poly hobbit babies." Georgie turned back to him, but didn’t stop walking away. "I’m not hobbity.

I’d felt this before, when my granddad was in the hospital before he died. We all camped out in the waiting room, eating our meals together, most of us sleeping in the chairs every night. Family from far-flung places would arrive at odd hours and we’d all stand and stretch, hug, get reacquainted, and pass the babies around. A faint, pale stream of beauty and joy flowed through the heavy sludge of fear and grief. It was kind of like those puddles of oil you see in parking lots that look ugly until the sun hits them and you see rainbows pulling together in the middle of the mess. And wasn’t that just how life usually felt—a confusing swirl of ugly and rainbow?

Baby girl Wake up and Worry a little less today Be brave and strong Open the doors and receive All the light Let the rays of sunshine come in

Why is it when you have a bad day, everything that can go wrong just jumps on the bandwagon? It’s never like one thing is shitty but the rest of the day is sunshine and rainbows.

We made it, baby. We’re riding in the back of the black limousine. They have lined the road to shout our names. They have faith in your golden hair & pressed grey suit. They have a good citizen in me. I love my country. I pretend nothing is wrong. I pretend not to see the man & his blond daughter diving for cover, that you’re not saying my name & it’s not coming out like a slaughterhouse. I’m not Jackie O yet & there isn’t a hole in your head, a brief rainbow through a mist of rust. I love my country but who am I kidding? I’m holding your still-hot thoughts in, darling, my sweet, sweet Jack. I’m reaching across the trunk for a shard of your memory, the one where we kiss & the nation glitters. Your slumped back. Your hand letting go. You’re all over the seat now, deepening my fuchsia dress. But I’m a good citizen, surrounded by Jesus & ambulances. I love this country. The twisted faces. My country. The blue sky. Black limousine. My one white glove glistening pink—with all our American dreams.

Keep watching rainbows, baby. Keep looking at the sky. You find what you look for. If you go hunting good in the world, you’ll find it. If you go hunting evil … well, don’t.

Somber Yellowstone Park and its colored hot springs, baby geysers, rainbows of bubbling mud - symbols of my passion.

I understand He took something with him That you will never get back But baby Be strong and live a little

Hanna loved how the pencils and crayons looked, with their pointy unused tips. She liked the quarter-size circles of watercolor paint, like frozen puddles from a dripping rainbow.

The baby Francie crowed with delight as her grandmother held up the cruet and the sun shone through it and made a small fat rainbow on the opposite wall. Mary smiled with the child and made the rainbow dance. "Schön! Schön!" she said. "Shame! Shame!" repeated Francie and held out her two hands.

<> I was at the mall last night, walking around by myself, trying not to spend money, trying not to think about a delicious Cinnabon...and I found myself walking by the Baby Gap. I've never been in a Baby Gap. So, I decided to duck in. On a lark. <> Right. On a lark. I'm familiar with those. <> So...I'm larking through the Baby Gap, looking at tiny capri pants and sweaters that cost more than...I don't know, more than they should. And I get totally sucked in by this ridiculous, tiny fur coat. The kind of coat a baby might need to go to the ballet. In Moscow. In 1918. To match her tiny pearls.

How do you get through any of your classes?" Cath had hours of assigned reading, almost every single night. "Coping strategies." "Such as?" "I record my lectures and listen to them later. Professors usually cover most of what's on the test in class. And I find study groups." "And you lean on Reagan --" "Not just Reagan." He grinned. "I'm really good at quickly identifying the smartest girl in every class." Cath frowned at him. "God, Levi, that's so exploitive." "How is it exploitive? I don't make them wear miniskirts. I don't call them 'baby.' I just say, 'Hello, smart girl, would you like to talk to me about Great Expectations?'" "They probably think you like them." "I do like them." "If it wasn't exploitive, you'd harass smart boys, too --" "I do, in a pinch. Do you feel exploited, Cather?" He was still grinning at her over his coffee cup. "No," she said, "I know that you don't like me." "You don't know anything." "So, this is old hat for you? Finding a girl to read a whole book to you?" He shook his head. "No, this is a first." "Well, now I feel exploited," she said, setting her drink down and reaching for the book. "Thank you," he said. "Chapter seven --" "I'm serious." Levi pulled the book down and looked at her. "Thank you." Cath held his eyes for a few seconds. Then she nodded and pulled back the book.

Surely for as long as there have been nights as bad as this one---something to raise the possibility of another night that could actually, with love and cockcrows, light the path home, banish the Adversary, destroy the boundaries between our lands our bodies, our stories, all false, about who we are: for the one night, leaving only the clear way home and the memory of the infant you saw, almost too frail, there's too much shit in these streets, camels andother beasts stir heavily outside, each hoof a chance to wipe him out, make him only another Messiah, and sure somebody's around already taking bets on that one, while here in this town the Jewish collaborators are selling useful gossip to Imperial Intelligence, and the local hookers are keeping the foreskinned invaders happy, charging whatever the traffic will bear, just like the innkeepers who're naturally delighted with this registration thing, and up in the capital they're wondering should they, maybe, give everybody a number; yeah, something to help SPQR record-keeping...and Herod, or Hitler, fellas...what kind of a world is it...for a baby to come in tippin' those toledos at 7 pounds 8 ounces thinkin' he's gonna redeem it, why, he ought have his head examined... "But on the way home tonight, you wish you'd picked him up, held him a bit. Just held him, very close to your heart, his cheek by the hollow of your shoulder, full of sleep. As it it were you who could, somehow, save him. For the moment not caring who you're supposed to be registered as. For the moment, anyway, no longer who the Caesars say you are.

I’ve tried it a few times, when I’m alone in the car. But I never get past small talk. I feel sort of like I’m invading the baby’s space or like it’s going to wonder, after two months of respectful silence, why I’ve suddenly decided we need to get all personal with each other.

What Jessica said—hair much shorter, wearing a darker mouth of different outline, harder lipstick, her typewriter banking in a phalanx of letters between them—was: "We're going to be married. We're trying very hard to have a baby." All at once there is nothing but his asshole between Gravity and Roger. "I don't care. Have his baby. I'll love you both—just come with me Jess, please... I need you...." She flips a red lever on her intercom. Far away a buzzer goes off. "Security." Her voice is perfectly hard, the word still clap-echoing in the air as in through the screen door of the Quonset office wth a smell of tide flats come the coppers, looking grim. Security. Her magic word, her spell against demons.

This is my wish for you. Comfort on difficult days, smiles when sadness intrudes, rainbows to chase the clouds away, laughter to kiss your lips, sunsets to warm your heart, hugs when spirits sag, beauty for your eyes to see, friendships to brighten your being, faith so that you can believe, confidence for you when you doubt, courage to know yourself, patience to accept the truth and love to complete your life. I love you, baby boy.

AT THE NEXT weekend’s D&D game, Christine pulled Lincoln aside to ask about his situation at work. “Did you stop reading that woman’s e-mail?” Christine asked. “No,” Lincoln said, “but I didn’t walk by her desk this week.” Christine bit her lip and rocked the baby nervously. “I’m not sure that counts as progress.

When you shattered her, oh how you allowed all kinds of free-flowing magical rainbow light to enter. You allowed a cleansing. A purification. Who would’ve known breaking could be so damn beautiful! I say, break baby. Let the shattered pieces split you wide open and let light enter through all cracks and crevices.

I’d gazed into the abyss and the abyss had gazed back, just like Daddy always said it would: You want to know about life, Mac? It’s simple. Keep watching rainbows, baby. Keep looking at the sky. You find what you look for. If you go hunting good in the world, you’ll find it. If you go hunting evil . . . well, don’t.

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky Are also on the faces of people going by I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?" They're really saying "I love you" I hear babies cryin', I watch them grow They'll learn much more than I'll ever know And I think to myself, what a wonderful world Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world

I want you alongside So near to each other For I could listen to your heartbeats I want to stare at you I know this makes me super shy But baby I will try

was the nicest thing she could imagine. It made her want to have his babies and give him both of her kidneys.

Tina’s a monster. She’s what would happen if the devil married the wicked witch, and they rolled their baby in a bowl of chopped evil.

In one of those mythic remarks of uncertain authorship, Michael Faraday is alleged to have been asked what was the use of science. ‘Sir,’ Faraday replied. ‘Of what use is a new-born child?’ The obvious thing for Faraday (or Benjamin Franklin, or whoever it was) to have meant was that a baby might be no use for anything at present, but it has great potential for the future. I now like to think that he meant something else, too: What is the use of bringing a baby into the world if the only thing it does with its life is just work to go on living? If everything is judged by how ‘useful’ it is — useful for staying alive, that is — we are left facing a futile circularity. There must be some added value. At least a part of life should be devoted to living that life, not just working to stop it ending.

Petunia’s having a baby.” “What?” “Petunia!” Georgie said, more urgently. “She’s having puppies in the dryer!” “No, she’s not. She’s having a C-section in two weeks.” “Great!” Georgie shouted. “I’ll go tell her!

I’m not sure how the ponies happened, though I have an inkling: “Can I get you anything?” I’ll say, getting up from a dinner table, “Coffee, tea, a pony?” People rarely laugh at this, especially if they’ve heard it before. “This party’s ‘sposed to be fun,” a friend will say. “Really? Will there be pony rides?” It’s a nervous tic and a cheap joke, cheapened further by the frequency with which I use it. For that same reason, it’s hard to weed it out of my speech – most of the time I don’t even realize I’m saying it. There are little elements in a person’s life, minor fibers that become unintentionally tangled with your personality. Sometimes it’s a patent phrase, sometimes it’s a perfume, sometimes it’s a wristwatch. For me, it is the constant referencing of ponies. I don’t even like ponies. If I made one of my throwaway equine requests and someone produced an actual pony, Juan-Valdez-style, I would run very fast in the other direction. During a few summers at camp, I rode a chronically dehydrated pony named Brandy who would jolt down without notice to lick the grass outside the corral and I would careen forward, my helmet tipping to cover my eyes. I do, however, like ponies on the abstract. Who doesn’t? It’s like those movies with the animated insects. Sure, the baby cockroach seems cute with CGI eyelashes, but how would you feel about fifty of her real-life counterparts living in your oven? And that’s precisely the manner in which the ponies clomped their way into my regular speech: abstractly. “I have something for you,” a guy will say on our first date. “Is it a pony?” No. It’s usually a movie ticket or his cell phone number. But on our second date, if I ask again, I’m pretty sure I’m getting a pony. And thus the Pony drawer came to be. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but almost every guy I have ever dated has unwittingly made a contribution to the stable. The retro pony from the ‘50s was from the most thoughtful guy I have ever known. The one with the glitter horseshoes was from a boy who would later turn out to be straight somehow, not gay. The one with the rainbow haunches was from a librarian, whom I broke up with because I felt the chemistry just wasn’t right, and the one with the price tag stuck on the back was given to me by a narcissist who was so impressed with his gift he forgot to remover the sticker. Each one of them marks the beginning of a new relationship. I don’t mean to hint. It’s not a hint, actually, it’s a flat out demand: I. Want. A. Pony. I think what happens is that young relationships are eager to build up a romantic repertoire of private jokes, especially in the city where there’s not always a great “how we met” story behind every great love affair. People meet at bars, through mutual friends, on dating sites, or because they work in the same industry. Just once a coworker of mine, asked me out between two stops on the N train. We were holding the same pole and he said, “I know this sounds completely insane, bean sprout, but would you like to go to a very public place with me and have a drink or something...?” I looked into his seemingly non-psycho-killing, rent-paying, Sunday Times-subscribing eyes and said, “Sure, why the hell not?” He never bought me a pony. But he didn’t have to, if you know what I mean.

I see trees of green Red roses too I see them bloom For me and you And I think to myself What a wonderful world I see skies of blue And clouds of white The bright blessed day The dark sacred night And I think to myself What a wonderful world The colors of the rainbow So pretty in the sky Are also on the faces Of people going by I see friends shaking hands Saying how do you do They're really saying I love you I hear babies cry I watch them grow They'll learn much more Than I'll ever know And I think to myself What a wonderful world Yes, I think to myself What a wonderful world Ooh, yes

I think that's what changed you, Beth. Your job. The film critic. Critics are parasites. They live off other people's creativity. They bring nothing into this world. They're like barren women who steal other people's babies in grocery store parking lots. Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, criticize.

I remembered that Stacey was wearing a matching top and skirt made of gray sweatshirt material with big yellow number tens all over it. Her hair was pinned back with clips shaped like rainbows. Little silver whistles were dangling from her ears. It was all very cool, but it seemed kind of young looking. And she was drinking a glass of milk.

There is necessary beauty in the world, I understand this. Beauty to attract mates, to attract prey, to attract pollinators. But so much of beauty seems to be bycatch, “unnecessary beauty,” waste products of essential processes. The opalescence of the inside of an oyster shell, a rainbow around the moon, a baby’s dreaming smile. Profligate beauty is a mystery to me. Sing praises.

She helps Holly and me to decorate the sky-blue bedroom with sparkly stars and a crescent moon painted in silver acrylic paint. We paint a wide, arching rainbow that stretches from one corner of the room to another. When my new baby sister looks up from her cot, she’ll see stars to wish on, a moon to soothe her to sleep, a slice of rainbow to remind her that magic is always just round the corner. I

It is never lost on me that the women in the waiting room have had to walk past these protesters, too. Even if they were escorted to the door by a cheerful young pro-choice activist with bright pink hair who carries a protective rainbow umbrella, they’ve heard the vitriol—different from the insults hurled at me, but no less offensive. “Think twice!” “Don’t murder your baby!” The antis shout these things, as if these women had not minds of their own. As if their decision fails to merit respect. As if they were not, as most of them are, adults exercising a legal right to make a private health-care decision for themselves. (Imagine, if you will, these verbal assaults being hurled at any other person for having made any other consequential health-care choice: the decision to pursue a potentially fatal course of chemotherapy, for example. “Don’t risk your life! Suicide!”)

Do you believe in love at first sight?” He made himself look at her face, at her wide-open eyes and earnest forehead. At her unbearably sweet mouth. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you believe in love before that?” Her breath caught in her throat like a sore hiccup. And then it was too much to keep trying not to kiss her. She came readily into his arms. Lincoln leaned against the coffee machine and pulled her onto him completely. There it was again, that impossible to describe kiss. This is how 2011 should have ended, he thought. This is infinity. The first time Beth pulled away, he pulled her back. The second time, he bit her lip. Then her neck. Then the collar of her shirt. “I don’t know…,” she said, sitting up in his lap, laying her check on the top of his head. “I don’t know what you meant by love before love at first sight.” Lincoln pushed his face into her shoulder and tried to think of a good way to answer. “Just that… I knew how I felt about you before I ever saw you,” he said, “when I still thought I might never see you…” She held his head in her hands and titled it back, so she could see his face. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. Which made him laugh. “Absolutely,” he said. “No, I mean it,” Beth said. “Men fall in love with their eyes.” He closed his. “That’s practically science,” she said. “Maybe,” Lincoln said. Her fingers felt so good in his hair. “But I couldn’t see you, so…” “So, what did you see?” “Just…the sort of girl who would write the sort of things that you wrote.” “What things?” Lincoln opened his eyes. Beth was studying his face. She looked skeptical-maybe about more than just the last thing he said. This was important, he realized. “Everything,” he said, sitting straighter, keeping hold of her waist. “Everything you wrote about your work, about your boyfriend…The way you comforted Jennifer and made her laugh, through the baby and after. I pictured a girl who could be kind, and that kind of funny. I pictured a girl who was that alive…” She looked guarded. Lincoln couldn’t tell from her eyes whether he was pushing her away or winning her over. “A girl who never got tired of her favourite movies,” he said softly. “Who saved dresses like ticket stubs. Who could get high on the weather.. “I pictured a girl who made every moment, everything she touched, and everyone around her feel lighter and sweeter. I pictured you,” he said. “I just didn’t know what you looked like. And then, when I did know what you looked like, you looked like the girl who was all those things. You looked like the girl I loved.” Beth’s fingers trembled in his hair, and her forehead dropped against his. A heavy, wet tear fell onto Lincoln’s lips, and he licked it. He pulled her close, as close as he could. Like he didn’t care for the moment whether she could breath. Like there were two of them and only one parachute. “Beth,” he barely said, pressing his face against hers until their lashes brushed, pressing his hand into the small of her back. “I don’t think I can explain it. I don’t think I can make any more sense. But I’ll keep trying. If you want me to.” She almost shook her head. “No,” she said, “no more explaining. Or apologizing. I don’t think it matters how we ended up here. I just…I want to stay…I want.. He kissed her then. There. In the middle of the sentence.

It all suddenly made me nervous, and a little, tiny, baby bit worried. Pulling one of the stools at the island back, I plopped into it and simply stared at that discolored, harsh face in unease. “I just want to know whether I need to steal a bat or make a phone call.” His mouth had been open and poised to argue with me… until he heard the last thing I said. “What?” “I need to know—” “What do you need to steal a bat for?” “Well, no one I know owns one, and I can’t go buy one at the store and have it caught on videotape.” “Videotape?” Did he know nothing? “Aiden, come on, if you beat the shit out of someone with a bat, they’re going to look for suspects. Once they have suspects, they’ll look through their things or their purchases. They’ll see I bought one recently and know it was premeditated. Why are you looking at me like that?” His mauve-colored eyelids went heavy over the bright whites of his eyes, and the expression on his face was filled such a vast range of emotions, one after another after another, that I wasn’t sure which one I was supposed to hold on to. He switched the icepack to the other side of his bruised jaw and shook his head. “The amount you know about committing crimes is terrifying, Van.” His mouth twitched under the rainbow of whatever he was thinking. “It scares the hell out of me, and I don’t get scared easily.” I snorted, pretty pleased with myself. “Calm down. I went through this phase when I was into watching a lot of crime TV shows. I’ve never even stolen a pen in my life.” Aiden’s careful expression didn’t go anywhere. “I’m not trying to kill anyone… unless we had to,” I joked weakly. His nostrils flared so slightly I almost missed it. But what I didn’t miss was the way the corners of his mouth tipped up into a tiny smile. I smiled at him as innocently as possible. “So do you want to tell me who’s going to get the fists of fury?” I hoped I sounded as harmless as I intended, even though I felt the exact opposite as every second passed. “Fists of fury?” “Yep.” I held up my hands just a little so he could see them. He had no idea the number of fights I’d gotten into with my sisters over the years. I didn’t always win—I rarely won if I was going to be honest—but I never gave up. The sigh that came out of him was so long and drawn out, I kind of prepped myself for the half-assed answer that was going to come out of his mouth. “It’s nothing.” There it was

But underneath all this reasonable talk, this scientific speculating, no white Afrikaner could quite put down the way it felt…Something sinister was moving out in the veld: he was beginning to look at their faces, especially those of the women, lined beyond the thorn fences, and he knew beyond logical proof: there was a tribal mind at work out here, and it had chosen to commit suicide…Puzzling. Perhaps we weren’t as fair as we might have been, perhaps we did take their cattle and their lands away…and then the work-camps of course, the barbed wire, and the stockades…Perhaps they feel it is a world they no longer want to live in. Typical of them, though, giving up, crawling away to die…why won’t they even negotiate? We could work out a solution, some solution… It was a simple choice for the Hereros, between two kinds of death: tribal death, or Christian death. Tribal death made sense. Christian death made none at all. It seemed an exercise they did not need. But to the Europeans, conned by their own Baby Jesus Con Game, what they were witnessing among these Hereros was a mystery potent as that of the elephant graveyard, or the lemmings rushing into the sea.

But it wasn't all bad. Sometimes things wasn't all bad. He used to come home easing into bed sometimes, not too drunk. I make out like I'm asleep, 'casue it's late, and he taken three dollars out of my pocketbook that morning or something. I hear him breathing, but I don't look around. I can see in my mind's eye his black arms thrown back behind his head, the muscles like a great big peach stones sanded down, with veins running like little swollen rivers down his arms. Without touching him I be feeling those ridges on the tips of my fingers. I sees the palms of his hands calloused to granite, and the long fingers curled up and still. I think about the thick, knotty hair on his chest, and the two big swells his breast muscles make. I want to rub my face hard in his chest and feel the hair cut my skin. I know just where the hair growth slacks out-just above his navel- and how it picks up again and spreads out. Maybe he'll shift a little, and his leg will touch me, or I feel his flank just graze my behind. I don't move even yet. Then he lift his head, turn over, and put his hand on my waist. If I don't move, he'll move his hand over to pull and knead my stomach. Soft and slow-like. I still don't move, because I don't want him to stop. I want to pretend sleep and have him keep rubbing my stomach. Then he will lean his head down and bite my tit. Then I don't want him to rub my stomach anymore. I want him to put his hand between my legs. I pretend to wake up, and turn to him, but not opening my legs. I want him to open them for me. He does, and I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I be softer than I ever been before. All my strength in his hand. My brain curls up like wilted leaves. A funny, empty feeling is in my hands. I want to grab holt of something, so I hold his head. His mouth is under my chin. Then I don't want his hands between my legs no more, because I think I am softening away. I stretch my legs open, and he is on top of me. Too heavy to hold, too light not to. He puts his thing in me. In me. In me. I wrap my feet around his back so he can't get away. His face is next to mine. The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back home. He puts his fingers in mine, and we stretches our arms outwise like Jesus on the cross. I hold tight. My fingers and my feet hold on tight, because everything else is going, going. I know he wants me to come first. But I can't. Not until he does. Not until I feel him loving me. Just me. Sinking into me. Not until I know that my flesh is all that be on his mind. That he couldnt stop if he had to. That he would die rather than take his thing our of me. Of me. Not until he has let go of all he has, and give it to me. To me. To me. When he does, I feel a power. I be strong, I be pretty, I be young. And then I wait. He shivers and tosses his head. Now I be strong enough, pretty enough, and young enough to let him make me come. I take my fingers out of his and put my hands on his behind. My legs drop back onto the bed. I don't make a noise, because the chil'ren might hear. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating up into me-deep in me. That streak of green from the june-bug light, the purple from the berries trickling along my thighs, Mama's lemonade yellow runs sweet in me. Then I feel like I'm laughing between my legs, and the laughing gets all mixed up with the colors, and I'm afraid I'll come, and afraid I won't. But I know I will. And I do. And it be rainbow all inside. And it lasts ad lasts and lasts. I want to thank him, but dont know how, so I pat him like you do a baby. He asks me if I'm all right. I say yes. He gets off me and lies down to sleep. I want to say something, but I don't. I don't want to take my mind offen the rainbow. I should get up and go to the toilet, but I don't. Besides Cholly is asleep with his leg thrown over me. I can't move and I don't want to.

Baby's World I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very own world. I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows. Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with trays crowded with bright toys. I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds; Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history; Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth sets Fact free from its fetters.

Consider it a Solstice and birthday present in one.' He gestured to the house, the gardens, the grounds that flowed to the river's edge. With a perfect view of the Rainbow at night, thanks to the land's curve. 'It's yours. Ours. I purchased it on Solstice Eve. Workers are coming in two days to begin clearing the rubble and knock down the rest of the house.' I blinked again, long and slow. 'You bought me an estate?' 'Technically, it will be our estate, but the house is yours. Build it to your heart's content. Everything you want, everything you need- build it.' The cost alone, the sheer size of this gift had to astronomical. 'Rhys.' He paced a few steps, running his hands through his blue-black hair, his wings tucked in tight. 'We have no space at the town house. You and I can barely fit everything in the bedroom. And no one wants to be at the House of Wind.' He again gestured to the magnificent estate around us. 'So build a house for us, Feyre. Dream as wildly as you want. It's yours.' I didn't have words for it. What cascaded through me. 'It- the cost-' 'Don't worry about the cost.' 'But...' I gaped at the sleeping, tangled land, the ruined house. Pictured what I might want there. My knees wobbled. 'Rhys- it's too much.' His face became deadly serious. 'Not for you. Never for you.' He slid his arms around my waist, kissing my temple. 'Build a house with a painting studio.' He kissed my other temple. 'Build a house with an office for you, and one for me. Build a house with a bathtub big enough for two- and for wings.' Another kiss, this time to my cheek. 'Build a house with a garden for Elain, a training ring for the Illyrian babies, a library for Amren, and an enormous dressing room for Mor.' I choked on a laugh at that. But Rhys silenced it with a kiss to my mouth, lingering and sweet. 'Build a house with a nursery, Feyre.' My heart tightened to the point of pain, and I kissed him back. Kissed him again and again, the property wide and clear around us. 'I will,' I promised.

CHILDHOOD I That idol, black eyes and yellow mop, without parents or court, nobler than Mexican and Flemish fables; his domain, insolent azure and verdure, runs over beaches called by the shipless waves, names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celt. At the border of the forest—dream flowers tinkle, flash, and flare,—the girl with orange lips, knees crossed in the clear flood that gushes from the fields, nakedness shaded, traversed, dressed by rainbow, flora, sea. Ladies who stroll on terraces adjacent to the sea; baby girls and giantesses, superb blacks in the verdigris moss, jewels upright on the rich ground of groves and little thawed gardens,—young mothers and big sisters with eyes full of pilgrimages, sultanas, princesses tyrannical of costume and carriage, little foreign misses and young ladies gently unhappy. What boredom, the hour of the “dear body” and “dear heart.” II

And everywhere, just as there were animals on land, were the animals of the sea. The tiniest fish made the largest schools- herring, anchovies, and baby mackerel sparkling and cavorting in the light like a million diamonds. They twirled into whirlpools and flowed over the sandy floor like one large, unlikely animal. Slightly larger fish came in a rainbow, red and yellow and blue and orange and purple and green and particolored like clowns: dragonets and blennies and gobies and combers. Hake, shad, char, whiting, cod, flounder, and mullet made the solid middle class. The biggest loners, groupers and oarfish and dogfish and the major sharks and tuna that all grew to a large, ripe old age did so because they had figured out how to avoid human boats, nets, lines, and bait. The black-eyed predators were well aware they were top of the food chain only down deep, and somewhere beyond the surface there were things even more hungry and frightening than they. Rounding out the population were the famous un-fish of the ocean: the octopus, flexing and swirling the ends of her tentacles; delicate jellyfish like fairies; lobsters and sea stars; urchins and nudibranchs... the funny, caterpillar-like creatures that flowed over the ocean floor wearing all kinds of colors and appendages. All of these creatures woke, slept, played, swam about, and lived their whole lives under the sea, unconcerned with what went on above them. But there were other animals in this land, strange ones, who spoke both sky and sea. Seals and dolphins and turtles and the rare fin whale would come down to hunt or talk for a bit and then vanish to that strange membrane that separated the ocean from everything else. Of course they were loved- but perhaps not quite entirely trusted.

And something about the rawness of life with the baby was like the rawness of travel, the way it laid you open to the clear blue nerves. You were the five senses pouring down an unknown street; you were the slap of your shoes and hot paper of your palms, streaming past statues of regional Madonnas. The indelibility of a certain thrift shop in Helsinki, the smell of foreign decades in the lining of one leather coat. The loop of "Desert Island Disk" in a certain coffee shop in Cleveland, where the owner warned her not to have a second detoxifying charcoal latte because it would "flush the pills out of her system and get her pregnant". The bridges of other cities, where she would watch their drab green rivers buoy up their rainbow-necked ducks, where she would drink espresso until there was a free and frightening exchange between her and the day--- she was open, flung open, anything could rush in.

This may be our only hope,” said Lillian. “Don’t think too long.” Lillian turned and left, the baggy back of her cardigan seeming to sweep behind her like a cape. “I wasn’t kidding. Someone really has to talk to her about her motivational speaking,” said Dad. “She’s meant to be the town leader, isn’t she?” “She’s the only adult sorcerer alive who isn’t strictly evil,” said Rusty. “So she wins the crown by default, I guess. Unless Henry wants it.” Kami supposed Henry was technically grown up, though he was only a couple of years older than Rusty. “Your town seems very nice,” said Henry, in the tones of one being very polite when offered a large unwanted present that was on fire. “But I only just got here. I don’t feel qualified to lead.” “Okay,” said Dad. “So she’s all we’ve got to work with, as Ash and Jared are both so extremely and tragically seventeen. Fine. So what we need to do now is get the town behind her. Worse politicians have been elected every day.” “I don’t think Lillian will be kissing any babies anytime soon,” Holly said doubtfully. “Since she probably hates babies. And kittens. And rainbows and sunshine,” said Angela, who sounded like she had a certain amount of sympathy for Lillian’s viewpoint.

We’d been together for a year when he lost his job in Chicago and I started noticing a change in him. Gone was his ever present smile when we were together; more often than not he would be withdrawn and seemed as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then, he got a job offer from his Uncle in Dalton, Ohio. He needed a new mechanic and wanted to help Beau out. Beau begged me to go with him; said he loved me and couldn’t bear to live without me. My parents and my best friend, Kate, were dead against it. They had noticed the change in Beau. They’d never been happy with our relationship, so they weren’t shy at expressing their concerns about moving across a whole other state to live with my “bad boy” boyfriend, and were vehemently against me giving up nursing school to do so. In the end, Beau used the ace up his sleeve, something I didn’t see coming until it was too late. He blackmailed me into moving with him. We were lying in bed one night, having just made love, and I was stuck in the post-coital haze that had my mind thinking of fluffy bunnies and rainbows. He rolled over and brushed the hair out of my face. “I can’t leave you behind, so I’ve decided you’re coming with me, Mac. It’s you and me against the world. I can’t survive without you, baby.” And

You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’ Let me introduce myself. I’m River. I’m your current boyfriend. Cross my heart and hope to die—not really, but you know what I mean. There are three things about you that caught my attention: First, you’re smart, too smart for me, but for some reason, you don’t care. Two, if you had wings, they’d be the colors of the rainbow. Three, you touch me, and I have peace. You’re a River-whisperer. Dad told me to take care of Mom, be a good brother to Rae, and wait for Anastasia. He somehow knew you were mine. Where are you from? Apparently, everywhere. Do you know how cool I think you are? Growing up moving around must have been hard, but it created a woman who looks at someone and sees underneath to the parts others don’t. What are you doing after this? I hope after this night, in the future, we’ll be together, in some city, crazy in love. Please tell me you’re single. You aren’t single, Anastasia. You’re mine. Also… I’m not a serial killer. True. Or an alien. (People in Walker really dig that stuff.) True. Or a player. I had my moments. Or a douchebag. Again, had some moments. Or a dick. Okay…maybe once or twice. I’m just the guy in front of you on a snow-covered mountain, baring his soul to the most beautiful girl in the world. You have dreams and I get it. I’ll wait for you forever. No matter how long it takes for us to come back to a place where we can be together for real. Your first reaction to this note may be to run as far as you can, but you only live once, and we can’t lose what we have. Fate has a way of bringing people together, and, baby girl, we’re meant to be. Kappa Boy AKA River Tate AKA Snake AKA Fake River AKA Anastasia’s Man

I got your flowers. They’re beautiful, thank you.” A gorgeous riot of Gerber daisies and lilies in a rainbow of reds, pinks, yellows and oranges. “Welcome. Bet Duncan loved sending one of his guys out to pick them up for me.” She could hear the smile in his voice, imagined the devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, he did. Said it’s probably the first time in the history of WITSEC that a U.S. Marshal delivered flowers to one of their witnesses.” A low chuckle. “Well, this was a special circumstance, so they helped me out.” “I loved the card you sent with them the best though.” Proud of you. Give ‘em hell tomorrow. He’d signed it Nathan rather than Nate, which had made her smile. “I had no idea you were romantic,” she continued. “All these interesting things I’m learning about you.” She hadn’t been able to wipe the silly smile off her face after one of the security team members had knocked on her door and handed them to her with a goofy smile and a, “special delivery”. “Baby, you haven’t seen anything yet. When the trial’s done you’re gonna get all the romance you can handle, and then some.” “Really?” Now that was something for a girl to look forward to, and it sure as hell did the trick in taking her mind off her worries. “Well I’m all intrigued, because it’s been forever since I was romanced. What do you have in mind? Candlelit dinners? Going to the movies? Long walks? Lazy afternoon picnics?” “Not gonna give away my hand this early on, but I’ll take those into consideration.” “And what’s the key to your heart, by the way? I mean, other than the thing I did to you this morning.” “What thing is that? Refresh my memory,” he said, a teasing note in his voice. She smiled, enjoying the light banter. It felt good to let her worry about tomorrow go and focus on what she had to look forward to when this was all done. Being with him again, seeing her family, getting back to her life. A life that would hopefully include Nathan in a romantic capacity. “Waking you up with my mouth.” He gave a low groan. “I loved every second of it. But think simpler.” Simpler than sex? For a guy like him? “Food, then. I bet you’re a sucker for a home-cooked meal. Am I right?” He chuckled. “That works too, but it’s still not the key.” “Then what?” “You.” She blinked, her heart squeezing at the conviction behind his answer. “Me?” “Yeah, just you. And maybe bacon,” he added, a smile in his voice. He was so freaking adorable. “So you’re saying if I made and served you a BLT, you’d be putty in my hands?” Seemed hard to imagine, but okay. A masculine rumble filled her ears. “God, yeah.” She couldn’t help the sappy smile that spread across her face. “Wow, you are easy. And I can definitely arrange that.” “I can hardly wait. Will you serve it to me naked? Or maybe wearing just a frilly little apron and heels?” She smothered a laugh, but a clear image of her doing just that popped into her head, serving him the sandwich in that sexy outfit while watching his eyes go all heated. “Depends on how good you are.” “Oh, baby, I’ll be so good to you, you have no idea.

Close your eyes, Sophia. Look at the table in your mind. What does it look like? What's on the menu? Taste it. Tell me." She closed her eyes. Enveloped by all that was Elliott. She tried to concentrate and ignore those rough fingers on her cheek. "Shrimp wrapped in Thai basil and prosciutto, crisped on the grill, drizzled with olive oil and fresh lime juice. It's Emilia's favorite." "Mmm. Keep going. Don't stop." His lips were almost touching her forehead. His breath on her skin. "Grilled filet mignon with my peppercorn sauce. White, red, pink peppercorns. The girls get them for me when they travel. That's our special dinner. Our decadent meal." "More." His lips grazed her ear. Sophia's eyes were tightly shut, but she had to suppress a shudder. "Vegetable salad on baby greens from my garden. Yellow peppers, green zucchini, purple eggplant, lightly grilled. With a sherry vinaigrette and fresh herbs. All the colors of the rainbow." "Lovely. Keep going." She could no longer hear the buzz of crickets or throaty calls of the frogs. Just Elliott's breathing. Steady. Intense. "Wine, lots of wine," she said huskily. She felt his chuckle against her cheek. "Well, this is my fantasy, right? It must have wine." "Of course it does. Keep going." "Home-made gelato. Lemon. With lemon zest and lemon basil and lemon verbena. And crunchy toasted macadamia nuts on top.

He put his pen in his pocket, then took her hand and held it to his chest for a minute. It was the nicest thing she could imagine. It made her want to have his babies and give him both of her kidneys.

With my immeasurable inner light, I have built a rainbow bridge of love all the way back to heaven. I once walked the path of darkness, but with baby steps, I found my way out. At first glimpse, I knew I was in unfamiliar territory – but it was beautiful. I took my light sword and cut away all of the overgrown brush that was initially blocking the path, for I could see the light seeping through. I forged on knowing it was only a matter of time before I would be living and breathing that light. With each issue I forgave that presented itself upon my path, the rainbow bridge took me further and further along, at times taking me through the craziest of storms – which this past year has been proof of.

A sweet little baby girl sleeping just next to me. Her attractive brows on the eyes are like rainbow in the skies. Seeing repeatedly her Cute little face, which is undoubtedly full of grace. Ofcourse I am trying to sleep, but out of sheet again and again prefering to peep. Stopping myself in continuity, thought of writing the experience once properly awake But I Can’t doze sound, since I wanna jot it down right away without any mistake Lucky I am, to have this small yet best blessing everyday on my side A proud father is rhyming today for his beloved daughter which he consider his pride A sweet little baby girl sleeping just next to me. Endless Gratitude lord for reminding to rhyme even when I am half asleep !!

Baby, i have loved you endlessly. I have loved your past traumas and your good and bad days. I took your pain like mine, and with every touch, i tried to heal you and pour in all the love i had to draw rainbows in your sky. All i wanted was your love in return, but you were as cold as the snow, and you painted my sky red and blue. I tried to move on fixing the hue and hoping you are happy and remember my love and treat the new person in a better way. That's how i will feel i left a mark on you, and as a human, you have moved on to a better path and progressed.

that are as awesome as unicorns puking rainbows on the head of baby dragons.

Slipping past a patch of reeds, I slow to look for the purple gallinule, Porphyrula martinica. My father called it a pond chicken. No dead bird skin can capture the way this creature walks weightlessly over lily pads and floating reeds. That's why I've come out today, after all---to get the gizz of one purple pond chicken. I skim close to every clump of bulrush, wild rice, and pickerelweed. For a moment, the only sound is my paddle and the water. Then here come the moorhens, cousins to the gallinule, swimming around me. Their beaks are white, and their feathers are black, where the gallinule's are blue, violet, and rainbow-shine green. They start up with their high, collective cackle. "Listen to 'em laughing at us," my dad would say. "Get out there," Estelle said, "before you lose touch." What exactly was that supposed to mean? I spy a limpkin among the reeds, poking its tweezer-like beak in the mud for apple snails. Crying birds, they call them, because of the baleful sound they make trying to get a mate into their nest. It almost sounds like a baby's wail. I do a quick sketch of the limpkin's long legs and slender, curving bill, the variegation of its brown and white feathers.

Looking back, I think that maybe the whole thing about liking and loving isn’t that having one word is better, or worse, than having two. It’s more that, perhaps, we actually need loads more words. It’s that we really need so many words to properly describe all the different kinds of love that having one, or just two, is neither here nor there. Because there’s the love you feel for your mother, the woman who gave birth to you, who you depended on, and the love you feel for your father, and they are entirely different kinds of love. There’s the love you feel for a brother or sister, and the fierce protective – hurt them and I will kill you – love you feel for your kids. There’s love for friends, who make you laugh and feel good about yourself – and love for just about any other human you see suffering on the news. There’s romantic, sexy love, that makes you want to get so close that you end up making babies, and the inexplicable love you have for an old cat or dog you’ve had for years. My point is, I suppose, that the list just goes on and on. And somewhere in that rainbow list of things we don’t have words for there’s a special kind of hormone-swamped love that a mother feels for a man when she sees him curled protectively round her sleeping child. That one’s a particularly nice kind of love. And a bloody powerful one, too. FIVE

Kimi, I think it’s a landslide!” Gracie cried out. Small rocks joined the pebbles and Kimi flicked her wand. A giant bubble appeared around the goat. The rocks and pebbles bounced off it, keeping everyone safe. A few seconds later, the kid landed gently beside its father. He nuzzled it happily. “Now I’m happy that the chief troll threw my bubble tea this way,” said Kimi. “If she hadn’t, we would never have been able to save the baby goat.

Waterfalls" A lonely mother gazing out of her window Staring at a son that she just can't touch If at any time he's in a jam she'll be by his side But he doesn't realize he hurts her so much But all the praying just ain't helping at all 'Cause he can't seem to keep his self out of trouble So he goes out and he makes his money the best way he knows how Another body laying cold in the gutter Listen to me [Chorus:] Don't go chasing waterfalls Please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to I know that you're gonna have it your way or nothing at all But I think you're moving too fast Little precious has a natural obsession For temptation but he just can't see She gives him loving that his body can't handle But all he can say is "Baby, it's good to me." One day he goes and takes a glimpse in the mirror But he doesn't recognize his own face His health is fading and he doesn't know why Three letters took him to his final resting place Y'all don't hear me [Chorus (2x)] Come on I seen a rainbow yesterday But too many storms have come and gone Leavin' a trace of not one God-given ray Is it because my life is ten shades of gray I pray all ten fade away Seldom praise Him for the sunny days And like His promise is true Only my faith can undo The many chances I blew To bring my life to anew Clear blue and unconditional skies Have dried the tears from my eyes No more lonely cries My only bleedin' hope Is for the folk who can't cope With such an endurin' pain That it keeps 'em in the pourin' rain Who's to blame For tootin' 'caine into your own vein What a shame You shoot and aim for someone else's brain You claim the insane And name this day in time For fallin' prey to crime I say the system got you victim to your own mind Dreams are hopeless aspirations In hopes of comin' true Believe in yourself The rest is up to me and you [Chorus (2x)]

him life just as much as you did, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan was wont to say. "He is just as much my baby as he is yours." And, indeed, it was always to Susan that Shirley ran, to

Nic walked to the end of the hallway and opened the door that led to the unfinished attic. She flipped on the light switch and gasped aloud. The attic wasn’t merely finished. It had been transformed. He’d chosen a mountain wildlife theme for the nursery that suited the space to a T, and he’d included two sets of everything—two cribs, two dressers, two changing tables, and even two full-size rocking chairs. Both rockers sported cushions that had been embroidered with two words: Mama Bear on one, Papa Bear on the other. “Oh, Gabe,” she said with a sigh. She sat in the Mama Bear rocker, rubbed her belly, and that’s when she saw the mural on the wall. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, two Baby Bears, and a crooked-tailed boxer sprawled at their feet. Papa Bear held a T-square. Mama Bear had a stethoscope draped around her neck. In the sky to the right, a happy-faced sun shined down upon them. In the sky to the left, two silhouettes with angel wings sat perched at the apex of a rainbow. Gabe

What the fuck is that?” At the sound of V’s voice, John turned with the rest of them . . . and when he saw what was up at the head of the grand staircase, he blinked once. Twice. Twelve times. Lassiter was standing at the top of the carpeted steps, his blond-and-black hair styled in a pompadour, a heavy Bible under his armpit, piercings catching the light . . . But none of that was the real shocker. The fallen angel was dressed in a sparkling white Elvis costume. Complete with bell-bottoms, balloon sleeves, and lapels big enough to tent up the backyard. Oh, and rainbow wings that revealed themselves as he held his arms out, preacher style. “Time to get the party started,” he said as he jogged down, sequins winking and flashing. “And where the hell’s my pulpit?” V coughed out the smoke he’d just inhaled. “She’s having you do the service?” The angel popped his already mile-high collar. “She said she wanted the holiest thing in the house to do it.” “She got holey, all right,” somebody muttered. “Is that Butch’s Bible?” V asked. The angel flashed the goods. “Yup. And his BoC, he called it? I also got a sermon I did myself.” “Saints preserve us,” came from the opposite side of the crowd. “Wait, wait, wait.” V waved his hand-rolled around. “I’m the son of a deity and she picked you?” “You can call me Pastor—and before Mr. Sox Fan gets his panties in a wad, I want everyone to know I’m legit. I went online, took a minister’s course in under an hour, and I’m ordained, baby.” Rhage raised his hand. “Pastor Ass-hat, I have a question.” “Yes, my son, you are going to hell.” Lassiter made the sign of the cross and then looked around. “So where’s our bride? The groom? I’m ready to marry somebody.” “I didn’t bring enough tobacco for this,” V bitched. Rhage sighed. “There’s Goose in the bar, my brother—oh, wait. We don’t have a bar anymore.” “I think I’ll just run an IV of morphine.” “Can I put it in?” Lassiter asked. “That’s what she said,” somebody shot back

By force-marching his exhausted men through the unknown, rain-swept wilderness of the German-infested Teutoburg Forest, this guy had just made a brain-explodingly boneheaded mistake so amazing in its incompetence that it makes the Roman consuls at Cannae look like a conjoined triplet made out of Napoleon Bonaparte, Alexander the Great, and that dude from Total Recall who had the baby coming out of his stomach. In terms of career moves, marching three legions into the Teutoberg was the Classical Age equivalent of coauthoring an academic paper with the Unabomber or asking Charles Manson to write you a letter of recommendation for law school. Unsurprisingly, this came back to bite him in the ass. We don’t know exactly how many Germans were hiding in the woods, watching the column of imperial invaders trudge past. The Germans didn’t bother to write anything down more detailed than “killed sum d00ds 2day lulz,” and the only Romans who managed to run screaming out of this forest alive were the ones who knew better than to sit there and try to count how many GWAR fans were currently trying to brutally dismember them with axes. Let’s just say it was probably a crapload, and that when these long-haired death metal freaks unleashed a bloodcurdling shout and started charging through the forest like a bunch of gigantic mutant Ewok-Wookies ambushing the Imperial Stormtroopers on the Forest Moon of Endor it wasn’t exactly the sort of hilarious laugh riot you might see in an animated GIF involving unicorns, rainbows, and cartoon kitties with Pop-Tarts where their bodies are supposed to be. Bellowing like madmen, these balls-out, frothing-at-the-mouth, beer-swilling sausage fiends went Leeroy Jenkins toward the enemy, blitzkrieging out of the woods from every side seemingly at the same time, their ferociousness magnified not only by their savage blood rage, but by the fact that some of the dudes had taken to painting their entire bodies black with mud to help them hide in the dark forest like how Schwarzenegger hid from the Predator’s infrared vision. It was so damned terrifying that it took every ounce of Roman discipline to not simply spontaneously combust into blood vapor on the spot.

Eleanor looked hard at him. “Are you kidding? Tina’s a monster. She’s what would happen if the devil married the wicked witch, and they rolled their baby in a bowl of chopped evil.

It seemed like such a pointless, flaky thing to say. Even if it was his favorite line from The Lord of the Rings. CHAPTER 48 From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder To: Beth Fremont Sent: Mon, 12/06/1999 9:28 AM Subject: I’ll bet you’re the kind of girl who’s already picked out baby names.

When some early Tom Waits demos were released against his wishes in the early 1990s, he is supposed to have said: ‘Demo tapes are like baby pictures, everybody’s got them, you just don’t want them passed around.

Find inspiration by noticing the infinite beauty in the everyday things all around you. The petals of a flower. The eyelashes of a baby. The rainbow of colors in a sunrise and sunset. The breathing of your four-legged friends. The infinite flavors of each bite of food. Beauty and inspiration are everywhere.

You might not have sealed your fate four days ago. <> I hope I did. I just want to get this over with. <> Write that down, so you’ll remember to put it in the baby book.

Although irises come in different colors (iris = rainbow), they contain only brown pigment. When they have a lot of pigment, the eyes appear brown or black. If the amount of pigment is small and restricted to the posterior surface of the iris, the unpigmented parts simply scatter the shorter wavelengths of light and the eyes appear blue, green, or gray. Most newborn babies’ eyes are slate gray or blue because their iris pigment is not yet developed.

If I think too hard about it, I get lost...He should probably be here instead of me. But the thing is--I'm really glad to be here.' Mikey growled, frustrated, shaking his head. 'Anyway, Janine and I never would have stayed together in high school. We were both only half-baked and double stupid back then. She broke up with me after prom because I didn't believe in Jesus. Now I paint, like, *actual* profanity, and she wants to have babies with me.' Shiloh was biting her bottom lip and laughing softly. 'I feel like this proves my point--high school relationships aren't magical. They're not destiny.

Don’t laugh though.” “What do you mean?” said Emma. Biff didn’t say anything. He reached into his inventory and pulled out his bed and tossed it on the floor. I’m sorry, but I had to laugh. Emma laughed too. The bed had a blanket with a chicken face on it. His pillow case had the picture of a bunny rabbit on it. “Stop laughing! My mom got me the blanket and the pillowcase when I was little. Hurrr, I just never got around to replacing them.” I was still laughing and said, “No worries, Bro. Looks comfortable.” Emma, who had stopped laughing, yawned. It was contagious. Biff and I both yawned. “Okay, guys, I’m going to sleep. Good night,” said Emma. Biff and I both wished her good night and we each got into our beds and went to sleep. * * * I suppose it will come as no surprise to you that I was visited in my dreams that evening. One of the visitors I had almost expected. But the other…. The visitor I was more or less expecting to show up was, of course, the Rainbow Creeper. It appeared without any attempt to conceal itself in a mysterious form or behind a cloud of dream smoke. You know, the typical weird dream-type stuff. It spoke with the strange lilting voice that had been created when Claire had been joined to it. “Jimmy. I understand that you have rescued Emma from the witch.” “Yes, RC, I did. If Claire still has any independent memory, I hope she’s relieved.” There was a pause for a moment and then the Creeper said, “Yes, she is.” There was another brief pause and then the Rainbow Creeper changed the subject. “Have you had any luck locating Entity 303’s piece in Baby Zeke’s dimension?” I shook my head. “No, but this dimension’s Ender King, Herobrine, and Notch are working on ways to find it. We are going to establish a search party tomorrow using volunteers. It may take a while, but we will leave no stone unturned.” “Excellent,” said the Rainbow Creeper. “I’m sure Entity 303 will not be able to escape your reconnaissance.” “How are things going in my native dimension?” “They are still searching as well. No news.” The Rainbow Creeper was beginning to fade from my dream when I remembered. “Creeper? Wait a minute. Something else happened.” The Creeper’s form solidified again and it looked at me, its expressionless

But on the way home tonight, you wish you’d picked him up, held him a bit. Just held him, very close to your heart, his cheek by the hollow of your shoulder, full of sleep. As if it were you who could, somehow, save him. For the moment not caring who you’re supposed to be registered as. For the moment anyway, no longer who the Caesars say you are. O Jesu parvule, Nach dir ist mir so weh . . . So this pickup group, these exiles and horny kids, sullen civilians called up in their middle age, men fattening despite their hunger, flatulent because of it, pre-ulcerous, hoarse, runny-nosed, red-eyed, sore-throated, piss-swollen men suffering from acute lower backs and all-day hangovers, wishing death on officers they truly hate, men you have seen on foot and smileless in the cities but forgot, men who don’t remember you either, knowing they ought to be grabbing a little sleep, not out here performing for strangers, give you this evensong, climaxing now with its rising fragment of some ancient scale, voices overlapping three- and fourfold, up, echoing, filling the entire hollow of the church—no counterfeit baby, no announcement of the Kingdom, not even a try at warming or lighting this terrible night, only, damn us, our scruffy obligatory little cry, our maximum reach outward—praise be to God!—for you to take back to your war-address, your war-identity, across the snow’s footprints and tire tracks finally to the path you must create by yourself, alone in the dark. Whether you want it or not, whatever seas you have crossed, the way home. . . .

She hovered beside Kirsty and dropped a kiss on her cheek. Fluffy nuzzled against her human friend, too. Then they did the same to Rachel. “Thank you both for helping me find Fluffy,” Elodie said. “You’re wonderful.

Kirsty didn’t know why Rachel wanted her to drop the end of the yarn ball, but she trusted her best friend

The baby's eyes glimmered through the water like their namesake emeralds, and she wriggled with undeniable delight. Bubbles flowed around her, iridescent in the fading light. She smiled through them, as if she had created them on purpose for their perfect shapes and rainbow colors.

Ganesha turned to admire himself in the mirror. The elephant calf wore a ridiculously coloured caparison across his back, with a Keralan-style nettipattam headdress tied over his forehead. The nettipattam stretched all the way down to the top of his trunk and was painted gold and edged with a rainbow of coloured pom-poms. White cheek spots had been painted on their side of his face, and coloured garlands and brass bells had been tied around his tail. Unlike Chopra the little elephant was delighted with his new look. Like any child he was enormously proud of his new outfit and wished to show it off.

Leftists shrieked like happy hamsters at a recent Canadian (of course) study linking “prejudice” and “right-wing” ideology to “lower cognitive ability.” They also squealed like shiny baby piglets at another recent study that purported to show that liberals and conservatives (whatever that means) have different brain structures. And though they claim to celebrate the rainbow of differences that Goddess has bequeathed us, somehow they find room in their wide-open minds to cheer for the day when we breed all of those differences into extinction. Neither will these diversicrats tolerate any true diversity of thought—they’re lurching toward Soviet-style political psychiatry by suggesting that ideological disagreement on racial matters is a mental disorder requiring medication. Sound paranoid? I’m sure they’re working on a pill for that, too. Sanity is in many ways a social construct, one that varies widely from society to society. In a pragmatic sense I’ll admit it’s crazy to go against the crowd, however abjectly deluded and brainwashed that crowd may be. If you don’t run with them, they’ll stomp right over you like wild buffalo. Despite the soul-blotting excesses of Soviet and Maoist totalitarianism, many neo-Marxists still appear to believe that the control freaks and power psychos are confined to the right.

I mounted the stairs to my pavilion and sank onto Hlidskjalf, the magic throne from which I can peer into the Nine Worlds. The seat cradled my posterior with its ermine-lined softness. I took a few deep breaths to focus my concentration, then turned to the worlds beyond. I usually begin with a cursory look-see of my own realm, Asgard, then circle through the remaining eight: Midgard, realm of the humans; the elf kingdom of Alfheim; Vanaheim, the Vanir gods’ domain; Jotunheim, land of the giants; Niflheim, the world of ice, fog, and mist; Helheim, realm of the dishonorable dead; Nidavellir, the gloomy world of the dwarves; and Muspellheim, home of the fire giants. This time, I didn’t make it past Asgard. Because goats. Specifically, Thor’s goats, Marvin and Otis. They were on the Bifrost, the radioactive Rainbow Bridge that connects Asgard to Midgard, wearing footy pajamas. But there was no sign of Thor, which was odd. He usually kept Marvin and Otis close. He killed and ate them every day, and they came back to life the next morning. More disturbing was Heimdall, guardian of the Bifrost. He was hopping around on all fours like a deranged lunatic. “So here’s what I want you guys to do,” he said to Otis and Marvin between hops. “Cavort. Frolic. Frisk about. Okay?” I parted the clouds. “Heimdall! What the Helheim is going on down there?” “Oh, hey, Odin!” Heimdall’s helium-squeaky voice set my teeth on edge. He waved his phablet at me. “I’m making a cute baby goat video as my Snapchat story. Cute baby goat videos are huge in Midgard. Huge!” He spread his hands out wide to demonstrate. “I’m not a baby!” Marvin snapped. “I’m cute?” Otis wondered. “Put that phablet away and return to your duties at once!” According to prophecy, giants will one day storm across the Bifrost, a signal that Ragnarok is upon us. Heimdall’s job is to sound the alarm on his horn, Gjallar—a job he would not be able to perform if he were making Snapchat stories. “Can I finish my cute baby goat video first?” Heimdall pleaded. “No.” “Aw.” He turned to Otis and Marvin. “I guess that’s a wrap, guys.” “Finally,” Marvin said. “I’m going for a graze.” He hopped off the bridge and plummeted to almost certain death and next-day resurrection. Otis sighed something about the grass being greener on the other side, then jumped after him. “Heimdall,” I said tightly, “need I remind you what could happen if even one jotun snuck into Asgard?” Heimdall hung his head. “Apologetic face emoji.” I sighed. “Yes, all right.

Baby

rangers.

fuel to May’s ever-glowing fire. His in-laws would create and so would his father. Wilbur had been determined to see the infant shipped off to the workhouse and out of their lives. But he could handle his da the same as the rest of them if he was strong enough, and he would be strong over this. Mostly for his mother’s sake, he had to admit; she’d go mad with grief if the baby was put away, but also to make some sort of reparation to Bess, late though it was. And then there was Amy herself. He glanced down at the tot on his lap who was sleeping with her thumb in her mouth, her other hand clasping the front of his jacket. She had been sitting on Mrs Price’s lap finishing her supper when he had walked in the house, and when she had caught sight of him she had smiled and held out her arms. She had never done that before. Of course it was probably because she associated him with her grandma, he knew that, but nevertheless it had touched something inside him, melting the hardness.When all was said and done, you couldn’t blame the bairn for her beginnings. If anyone was the innocent in all of this, she was. As the tram jolted and creaked its way along, he looked out of the window, his mouth grim. There was

In order to get Otis and Bob up to speed about what had happened in my dimension, we traveled on foot for the first fifteen minutes of our journey toward the swamp.  Baby Zeke told them all about how he was pulled into another dimension during the blending and what we all had to do – and sacrifice – in order to stop the blending, save the Rainbow Creeper, and put a stop to Entity 303’s evil plan. “Yeah, that blending nonsense was crazy,” said Otis. “I thought you and Harold were dead for sure. I mean, one minute Bob and I are riding next to you and Harold, and the next minute you are missing and there is a giant pool of lava right in front of me. And, I was engulfed in a strange flash of yellow light!” “Yeah, I’m just glad I appeared near Jimmy and could contribute to the struggle against Entity 303 and the preservation of the Rainbow Creeper.” “This Rainbow Creeper thing sounds bizarre,” said Bob. “Is it really the shape of a creeper with a bunch of colors on its skin?” “It sure is,” said Baby Zeke. Otis looked at me and asked, “And your friend Claire was joined with the Rainbow Creeper when she grabbed the creation stone?” I took a deep breath and sighed. “Yes, she was.” I paused and wiped a tear from my eye. “But, at least she’s alive … hurrr ... in some manner. That’s why we need to save my friend Emma. I can’t lose another friend.” Otis thumped his chest. “A good friend is hard to find. I vow on my life that we will save your friend Emma. Saving people is what I do, even if I have to kill a thousand others to achieve it.” Weird flex, but ... okay. I guess the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many in Otis’ worldview. I must say, Baby Zeke had really captured Otis

headquarters and led us up a flight of stairs and into a room where the Ender King sat at a table talking with his daughter Tina. When we walked in, they looked up nonchalantly, expecting a soldier or a servant, but when they saw who it was, they both teleported immediately to our sides and began slapping us on the back and hugging us. “I’m so glad you made it back!” said the Ender King smiling broadly. “And thank you for stopping the blending.” I smiled, but I was not entirely happy, I thought again of Claire. Tina noticed the absences immediately, a look of consternation on her face. “But where is Claire? Where is Emma?” There was silence in our group for a moment and then everyone looked at me. I guess I had to tell the tale. And I did. When I had finished telling the King and Tina about everything that had happened in the control room, the world of the players, and upon my return, the King shook his head sadly while Tina sobbed quietly. “That’s terrible,” said the Ender King. “But I’m sure you’ll be able to rescue Emma. And find Entity 303’s piece in Baby Zeke’s dimension.” “King, what about the third piece? The piece even the Rainbow Creeper could not track?” asked Baby Zeke. The King rubbed his chin and looked at Notch and Herobrine. “What do you think? How should we go about looking for his piece?” Herobrine shrugged. “That’s assuming it is even in our dimension.” “Well, assuming it is in this dimension, I would suggest

My marriage is the most important thing in my life. I would rather have a happy marriage than anything—a good job, a nice house, opposable thumbs, the right to vote, anything. If not wanting a baby is destroying my marriage, I’ll have a baby. I’ll have 10 babies.

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So this pickup group, these exiles and horny kids, sullen civilians called up in their middle age, men fattening despite their hunger, flatulent because of it, pre-ulcerous, hoarse, runny-nosed, red-eyed, sore-throated, piss-swollen men suffering from acute lower backs and all-day hangovers, wishing death on officers they truly hate, men you have seen on foot and smileless in the cities and forgot, men who don't remember you either, knowing they ought to be grabbing a little sleep, not out here performing for strangers, give you this evensong, climaxing now with its rising fragment of some ancient scale, voices overlapping three and fourfold, filling the entire hollow of the church - no counterfeit baby, no announcement of the Kingdom, not even a try at warming or lighting this terrible night, only, damn us, our scruffy obligatory little cry, our maximum reach outward - praise be to God! - for you to take back to your war-address, your war-identity, across the snow's footprints and tire tracks finally to the path you must create by yourself, alone in the dark. Whether you want it or not, whatever seas you have crossed, the way home...