Ray Hunt Quotes

Read a verse of Homer and you can walk the walls of Troy alongside Hector; fall into a paragraph by Fitzgerald and your Now entangles with Gatsby’s Now; open a 1953 book by Ray Bradbury and go hunting T. rexes. Ursula Le Guin said: “Story is our only boat for sailing on the river of time,” and she’s right, of course. The shelves of every library in the world brim with time machines. Step into one, and off you go.

That's sad," said Montag, quietly,(referring to The Hound) "because all we put into it is hunting and finding and killing. What a shame if that's all it can ever know.

It’s amazing what you can learn after you’ve learned all that you think there is to learn.” —Ray Hunt.

It doesn't think anything we don't want it to think.' 'That's sad,' said Montag, quietly, 'because all we put into it is hunting and finding and killing. What a shame if that's all it can ever know.

I found I could not wait to show Thomas and perhaps be like a sudden ray of sun to brighten his spirits in return. Mr.Thomas Cresswell might not truly hold the title of prince, but that was perfectly fine. To me, he'd always be the king of my heart.

You've got to give something you never gave to get something you never had. ...

Robin Hood. To a Friend. No! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Ofthe leaves of many years: Many times have winter's shears, Frozen North, and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men knew nor rent nor leases. No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear. On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale. Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grene shawe"; All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her---strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money! So it is; yet let us sing Honour to the old bow-string! Honour to the bugle-horn! Honour to the woods unshorn! Honour to the Lincoln green! Honour to the archer keen! Honour to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honour to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood! Honour to maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood clan! Though their days have hurried by Let us two a burden try.

The window slid upward. Fire woke in both of Magnus's palms, and magic blazed in the dark, sapphire-blue. A figure pulled its torso through the window and then froze. Framed in the opening was a Shadowhunter in full demon-hunting gear, bow looped over one shoulder. He looked surprised. "Uh, hi," said Alec Lightwood. "I'm home. Please don't shoot me with magical rays." Magnus waved with both hands, blue lights paling, then winking out, leaving faint traces of smoke curling around his fingers. "You usually use the door." "Sometimes I like the change of pace." Alec pulled himself the rest of the way in and closed the window behind him. Magnus gave him a look. "Okay. Truth. A demon ate my keys." "We go through so many keys.

The horse does of two things. He does what he thinks he's supposed to do, or he does what he thinks he needs to do to survive.

Be particular. The horse learns not to be particular unless the rider is.

it is always a walk for me for Bo it can be a walk a run a swim a hunt a kill a chase a game a skeletal discovery a bath in the rancid scent of some species dead or alive

This traditional woman grew up in a world where respect for the animals hunted was of paramount importance. A concept that, in many cases, differentiates the native from the non-native hunter.

It doesn't think anything we don't want it to think.' 'That's sad,' said Montag, quietly, 'because all we put into it is hunting and finding and killing. What a shame if that's all it can ever know.

Yet Wallace and other segregationists created an inflamed environment in which a confused but also ambitious man like Ray could think it was permissible, perhaps even noble, to murder King. The signals Ray was picking up enabled him to believe that society would smile on his crime. What

Bacteriologist Mary Hunt found one [a mold] on a cantaloupe in a Peoria, IL grocery store. That strain became even more productive after being exposed to X-rays and ultraviolet radiation, essentially all the penicillin in the world descends from the mold from that one cantaloupe in Peoria.

All Summer in a Day” by Ray Bradbury Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo Big Nate series by Lincoln Peirce The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Book Thief  by Markus Zusak Brian’s Hunt by Gary Paulsen Brian’s Winter by Gary Paulsen Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis The Call of the Wild by Jack London The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis Diary of a Wimpy Kid series by Jeff Kinney Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury The Giver by Lois Lowry Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling Hatchet by Gary Paulsen The High King (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien Holes by Louis Sachar The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins I Am LeBron James by Grace Norwich I Am Stephen Curry by Jon Fishman Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell Johnny Tremain by Esther Hoskins Forbes Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson LeBron’s Dream Team: How Five Friends Made History by LeBron James and Buzz Bissinger The Lightning Thief  (Percy Jackson and the Olympians) by Rick Riordan A Long Walk to Water by Linda Sue Park The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle Number the Stars by Lois Lowry The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton The River by Gary Paulsen The Sailor Dog by Margaret Wise Brown Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor “A Sound of Thunder” by Ray Bradbury Star Wars Expanded Universe novels (written by many authors) Star Wars series (written by many authors) The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann D. Wyss Tales from a Not-So-Graceful Ice Princess (Dork Diaries) by Rachel Renée Russell Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt Under the Blood-Red Sun by Graham Salisbury The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

Scientists sought out more productive strains of the mold, and eventually the bacteriologist Mary Hunt found one on a cantaloupe in a Peoria, Illinois, grocery store. That strain became even more productive after being exposed to X-rays and ultraviolet radiation. Essentially all penicillin in the world descends from the mold on that one cantaloupe in Peoria.

Eleven finally allowed to dye his own eggs, and then only in one color: red. All over the house red eggs gleam in lengthening, solstice rays. Red eggs fill bowls on the dining room table. They hang from string pouches over doorways. They crowd the mantel and are baked into loaves of cruciform tsoureki. But now it is late afternoon; dinner is over. And my brother is smiling. Because now comes the one part of Greek Easter he prefers to egg hunts and jelly beans: the egg-cracking game. Everyone gathers around the dining table. Biting his lip, Chapter Eleven selects an egg from the bowl, studies it, returns it. He selects another. “This looks like a good one,” Milton says, choosing his own egg. “Built like a Brinks truck.” Milton holds his egg up. Chapter Eleven prepares to attack. When suddenly my mother taps my father on the back. “Just a minute, Tessie. We’re cracking eggs here.” She taps him harder. “What?” “My temperature.” She pauses. “It’s up six tenths.” She has been using the thermometer. This is the first my father has heard of it. “Now?” my father whispers. “Jesus, Tessie, are you sure?” “No, I’m not sure. You told me to watch for any rise in my temperature and I’m telling you I’m up six tenths of a degree.” And, lowering her voice, “Plus it’s been thirteen days since my last you know what.” “Come on, Dad,” Chapter Eleven pleads.

Although over time, I have fallen with them as you know, now just as weak as them hunting young girls for the sweet taste of blood and souls, to keep for their own, to take them in the most sheepish, timid, cowardly and spineless way a child like me could do; acting like a sweet fallen angel.’ ‘Just to victimize, when they are just like me looking for hope, that I give misleadingly, in the time of their need, just like I was in too.' 'I am no better than the bullies, that picked on me, and I could not live with myself, as I was falling more every day, thinking, I was still ever-so good when I was just as wrong as my sisters and even my grandmother that made me this way.' 'I remember, that demons can take the shape of anything and hide within anything even you and me, and in me they did.

Eleven finally allowed to dye his own eggs, and then only in one color: red. All over the house red eggs gleam in lengthening, solstice rays. Red eggs fill bowls on the dining room table. They hang from string pouches over doorways. They crowd the mantel and are baked into loaves of cruciform tsoureki. But now it is late afternoon; dinner is over. And my brother is smiling. Because now comes the one part of Greek Easter he prefers to egg hunts and jelly beans: the egg-cracking game. Everyone gathers around the dining table. Biting his lip, Chapter Eleven selects an egg from the bowl, studies it, returns it. He selects another. “This looks like a good one,” Milton says, choosing his own egg. “Built like a Brinks truck.” Milton holds his egg up. Chapter Eleven prepares to attack. When suddenly my mother taps my father on the back. “Just a minute, Tessie. We’re cracking eggs here.” She taps him harder. “What?” “My temperature.” She pauses. “It’s up six tenths.” She has been using the thermometer. This is the first my father has heard of it. “Now?” my father whispers. “Jesus, Tessie, are you sure?” “No, I’m not sure. You told me to watch for any rise in my temperature and I’m telling you I’m up six tenths of a degree.” And, lowering her voice, “Plus it’s been thirteen days since my last you know what.” “Come on, Dad,” Chapter Eleven pleads. “Time out,” Milton says. He puts his egg in the ashtray. “That’s my egg. Nobody touch it until I come back.” Upstairs, in the master bedroom, my parents accomplish the act. A child’s natural decorum makes me refrain from imagining the scene in much detail. Only this: when they’re done, as if topping off the tank, my father says, “That should do it.” It turns out he’s right. In May, Tessie learns she’s pregnant, and the waiting begins.

She opened the satchel. And honestly, fate couldn't have provided a better prize at the end of a scavenger hunt. She pulled out a beautiful, sparkling crown. Her large green eyes grew even larger. Despite the hour and lack of sunlight, its jewels still managed to shimmer and twinkle in a magical, expensive way. Rapunzel might not have had much experience with royal gems or any kind of precious stone, but it was very clear that these were those. The thing was straight out of a fairy tale, what a princess would be wearing when she was turned back from a swan. The giant diamonds were even shaped like swans' eggs. Under each was a round pink ruby, and threading between them was a strand of perfectly round pearls. She turned it over in her hands, tracing the tiny, intricately wound gold wire that held it all together. And there, in a small flat patch of smooth metal, was the artist's mark-- and a multi-rayed sun symbol. The same one on her bracelet clasp. The same one that she constantly painted and dreamed of. The one that meant life and happiness and energy in the personal vocabulary of Rapunzel's soul.

She opened the window and peered out, the town on Klibo softly illuminated on the distant headland. She eyed the black stretch of water separating the islands and wondered whether her father was hunting out there below the waves. Later, a summer storm raged against the island and it felt like the cottage was at sea, an east wind goldering around the clapboard houses like a gang of vandals carrying blades. It tore through the harbor, smashing and riving, flinging doors hundreds of feet into the air. Zoë heard it wolf-whistling between the eaves and imagined Ingrid and Einar embracing.

The moon was bright with dark, wispy clouds dancing erratically across its troubled face, creating an eerie effect of shadow upon shadow. The surrounding marshes were alive as if energized by some powerful, irritable force causing its denizens to become restless.   Young Joe Billie shuddered and hunched his shoulders slightly. ‘ Gator moon,’ he thought. He remembered his Grandfather telling him of this; that when the moon was full,  the swamp creatures became restless and irritable, especially the bull gators.   “This was not the time to hunt the big creatures,” Grandfather had said. “The gator moon make them want to fight and kill. If you hunt them then, you will become the hunted. Even brave men fear the gator moon.

Walter Brennan, the on-screen grandfather, was also a grandfather on his ranch. Tammy, Mike’s daughter, remembered this period during a tour of Lightning Creek we took with Mike in July 2014. “When the lights were off, the lights were off,” Tammy recalled, “because of the gas generator. You had to find the bathroom in the dark.” “Grampy loved it,” Tammy said, “surrounded by quiet.” Still standing is the cathedral sized, handmade barn Ray Pogue set up just before selling the ranch to Walter, “212 feet long, about 65 feet wide,” Mike said. “I don’t know if Grampy had any funny things happen to him out here,” Tammy mused, perhaps wanting to help out a biographer. “No, none.” Mike said. “He just came out here, sat, and left,” Tammy suggested. “He’d come up and go deer hunting with us,” Mike added. “I don’t recall him ever shooting anything. I’d shoot something. I took the liver out of a deer. I didn’t have anywhere to put it, so I just tucked it in my shirt, the whole bloody thing. He’d get a kick out of it.

It was fair to say almost everyone was burned out by now. Morale was so low that the team, as a whole, didn’t crunch. The artists didn’t need to review their work in meetings anymore because everyone had the Warcraft look-and-feel down; they just moved from one art task to the next. Programming inched forward, mole-like, worrying only about the task immediately in front of them. Releasing the game in February didn’t look likely anymore. That meant more time crunching and bug hunting, and few were happy at the prospect. The game designers had the functionality they needed, but wowedit’s tools weren’t streamlined because David Ray had been reassigned to working on the god tool, an application that would be used by our GMs for in-game customer support. Most of the designers were too busy to socialize. The classes and combat were getting overhauled again, and the item system was getting revisited by adding procedurally created items to keep the loot tables feeling fresh. This meant possible delays for the friends-and-family alpha test, and everyone was tired of telling their nearest and dearest that our game wasn’t ready to play yet (and that they’d be the first to know when it was). Even the producers had resigned themselves to the fact that we wouldn’t be shipping in the first quarter of 2004. They were seeing stability problems, and we were having a hard time getting a playable build. This made things especially hard for the game designers, who needed to test their data, but no one was really coming down on the programmers, as they were already haggard. Nevertheless, when the game crashed, people were getting visibly upset. Our shipping date was pushed to June, although some people doubted even that was possible.

A Last Night with My Wife I, of course, had nothing to do with those sorts of decisions; as a T-4 and then a T-3—“Technician 4” and “Technician 3,” ranks roughly equivalent to and usually called sergeant—I worried about my job and my unit, and little else. At the same time, there were plenty of rumors about which way we were heading. Mostly, they predicted that we’d ship out to Great Britain. We kept training. I wangled my way into special rifle training, qualifying as a marksman and earning a badge. Ordinarily, medics didn’t carry weapons, not even pistols; our job in combat was to help the wounded, and according to the Geneva Conventions we were not supposed to fight or be fired upon. In combat, our helmets would have large red crosses; we would have armbands with the same very visible insignia. I took the course anyway. It’s possible I was the only medic who did that, at least in the 16th. Since I’d hunted from the time I was a boy, the course wasn’t all that difficult; I imagine a lot of guys who’d grown up in farm country found it a breeze, especially when it came to firing the M1

Bluestar, don’t leave us,” he begged. “I must,” his leader whispered. “I have fought my last battle.” She was panting in her efforts to speak. “When I saw the Clan at Sunningrocks, the strong helping the weak . . . and I knew you and the others had gone to confront the pack . . . I knew my Clan was loyal. I knew StarClan had not turned their backs on us. I knew . . .” Her voice failed and she struggled to continue. “I knew that I could not leave you to face the danger alone.” “Bluestar . . .” Fireheart’s voice shook with the pain of parting, and yet his heart leaped to hear that his leader knew he was not a traitor. Bluestar fixed her blue gaze on him. Fireheart thought he could already see the shimmer of StarClan in her eyes. “Fire will save the Clan,” she murmured, and Fireheart remembered the mysterious prophecy that he had heard from his earliest days in ThunderClan. “You never understood, did you?” Bluestar went on. “Not even when I gave you your apprentice name, Firepaw. And I doubted it myself, when fire raged through our camp. Yet I see the truth now. Fireheart, you are the fire who will save ThunderClan.” Fireheart could do nothing but stare at his beloved leader. He felt as if his whole body had turned to stone. Above his head, wind tore the clouds into shreds, letting a ray of sunshine strike down and touch his pelt to flame, just as it had in the clearing when he first arrived in the Clan, so many moons ago. “You will be a great leader.” Bluestar’s voice was the merest whisper. “One of the greatest the forest has ever known. You will have the warmth of fire to protect your Clan and the fierceness of fire to defend it. You will be Firestar, the light of ThunderClan.” “No,” Fireheart protested. “I can’t. Not without you, Bluestar.” But it was too late. Bluestar sighed softly, and the light died from her eyes. Mistyfoot let out a low wailing sound and pressed her nose to her mother’s fur. Stonefur crouched close to her, his head bowed. “Bluestar!” Fireheart meowed desperately, but there was no response. The leader of ThunderClan had given up her last life, and gone to hunt with StarClan forever.

He deemed the “first level” operatives to be Richard Helms, George Pender, John Philip Nichols, and Ray Cline. The second level included Robert Chasen, E. Howard Hunt, Edwin Wilson, Thomas Clines, and Ted Shackley.

153 In return for their allegiance, the Crown kept the Chickasaws well supplied with guns and ammunition, which they used to hunt game and ward off enemies. This alliance continued during the American Revolution; throughout the war, British agents boasted of the “friendly disposition” of their faithful allies, the Chickasaws.154

To hunt, trap, and trade—or to fight the king’s war: these were the choices open to Chickasaw males during the Revolution. Whereas many Native Americans were tugged in opposite directions by emissaries of the British and the patriots, the Chickasaws were pulled on the one hand by official agents of the king who urged them to take up the hatchet, and on the other by traders who preferred they venture into the woods in search of furs and pelts.

To my mind, if you don’t know anything about the lives of the people you meet then they will be inclined to treat you like a child, but if you can hunt, if you can make fire, if you can make shelter and you know how to take care of yourself, they see this; they know the time it takes to acquire those skills and they will treat you as an adult. From that, they might involve you in conversations that you would not otherwise have. That is what I wanted to try to tap into. I

Just before Thanksgiving, I met with Bunker Hunt, then the richest man in the world, at the Petroleum Club in Dallas. Bud Dillard, a Texan friend and client of mine who was big in the oil and cattle businesses, had introduced us a couple of years before, and we regularly talked about the economy and markets, especially inflation. Just a few weeks before our meeting, Iranian militants had stormed the U.S. embassy in Tehran, taking fifty-two Americans hostage. There were long lines to buy gas and extreme market volatility. There was clearly a sense of crisis: The nation was confused, frustrated, and angry. Bunker saw the debt crisis and inflation risks pretty much as I saw them. He’d been wanting to get his wealth out of paper money for the past few years, so he’d been buying commodities, especially silver, which he had started purchasing for about $ 1.29 per ounce, as a hedge against inflation. He kept buying and buying as inflation and the price of silver went up, until he had essentially cornered the silver market. At that point, silver was trading at around $ 10. I told him I thought it might be a good time to get out because the Fed was becoming tight enough to raise short-term interest rates above long-term rates (which was called “inverting the yield curve”). Every time that happened, inflation-hedged assets and the economy went down. But Bunker was in the oil business, and the Middle East oil producers he talked to were still worried about the depreciation of the dollar. They had told him they were also going to buy silver as a hedge against inflation so he held on to it in the expectation that its price would continue to rise. I got out.

Writers’ never-ending quest involves investigating genuineness while carving out narrative nonfiction. They must strive to reach great truths by recounting untold lies with acute enthusiasm. Culmination of a sprawling personal saga is an attempt to flesh out from the ichors of a person’s reptilian instincts and mammalian brain patterns the epicene embodiment of the originator’s dream works intermingled with their actual remembered sensory observations. One unleashes their cache of blood-tinged memories along with an X-ray beam of reminiscent enlightenment to forge a flowing stream of self-consciousness dedicated to the task of hunting out a new way of perceiving, thinking, and communicating.

A country is how men hunt in the dark

Why the Sun Rises and Sets Once upon a time, cinnamon people were sky-born. They lived within the clouds, and the browner their skin was, the longer they lived because they were so beloved by the sun. No one ever slept because no one ever needed to, and the sun stayed high in the sky all day. Night did not exist. It did not need to. Boys wearing burnt-sienna skin with pride would play in the sky, mahogany mothers watched their chestnut children fly away from them unafraid, because they always came back and no one feared anything—no one ever had to. Until the day the earth men came. They saw the sky people and wanted what they had. Joy. But the earth men didn’t know that joy was not a commodity and thought the sun’s rays were the secret gold that made these people so happy. The earth men hunted every little brown boy, girl, mother, father. They cut off their wings. They took them from the sky. They brought them to the earth and put them on ships as slaves, and took their sun, their homes, and even their bodies from them. Still, the sky people sung. Still, they held on. Still, they performed survival magics and proved so powerful in their spirit. You see, beings that are beloved by the sun do not get destroyed so easily. The sun, upon losing his people, turned the whole sky black in mourning, leaving his sister moon and his friends the stars in his stead. And till his people are restored to their former glory, he rises every morning to search for them, to hope them home, but every day he hears about how they are still targeted, injured, put into the ground, their children still murdered, so he paints the sky black again with his sadness, leaving his sister moon in charge again. The sun has never given up hope that one day, they will find their joy again. And until they do, he will paint the whole sky black to let them know he rises and sets for them.

You live a life of secrecy, and if you are a good writer you surprise everything out in the open. It is like going hunting and firing off a gun and the bush that is in front of you doesn't look like it is inhabited and suddenly all kinds of birds fly out into the open. And that's what writing is, you don't want to know what you are doing, you must never know what you are doing, and then the surprise is the good stuff!

We have something they don't', said Oliver, raising voice loud enough that everyone in the irregulars could hear. 'We fight as free citizens of Jackals, not slaves of a king or a first committee or a caliph.' He pulled one of his belt pistols out and the lion of Jackals on the handle seemed to suck in the light of the afternoon, drawing down rays of sunlight that rotated, blinding the troops with a brilliance they had never known before. 'We will not suffer the heel of tyranny, we will not bend our knee to unworthy gods, we will not see an evil without striking it down, and we will not pass meekly into the long face of darkness that is endangering our land. Because we are Jackelians - and our soul of freedom can never, never be conquered. Not as long as one free Jackelian has the heart to say, "No! I think my own thoughts I choose my own leader. I select my own book of worship and my law shall be the law of the people, not the whimsy of any bully with a sabre sharp enough to slice a crown off the previous brute's head.

XVII. Thinking, Tangling Shadows" Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude. You are far away too, oh farther than anyone. Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images, burying lamps. Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there! Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes, taciturn miller, night falls on you face downward, far from the city. You presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing. I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you. My life before anyone, my harsh life. The shout facing the sea, among the rocks, running free, mad, in the sea-spray. The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea. Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky. You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now. Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses. Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light. It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire. And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire. Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes? Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude, hour that is mine from among them all! Hunting horn through which the wind passes singing. Such a passion of weeping tied to my bedy. Shaking of all the roots, attack of all the waves! My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending. Thinking, burying lamps in the deep solitude. Who are you, who are you?

Like the club’s third investor Ray Ryan, who had met Holden through game hunting, Hirschmann was a wily entrepreneur with a Saint Bernard’s nose for sniffing out profitable business opportunities. It was not coincidence that their paths converged; it was causal, meaning that the three men initiated a specific plan of action, which had deliberate consequences. Like all success stories, the club’s efforts to recruit affluent members from around the world were the result of expert planning and timing.

You've got your alien abduction. Bigfoot abduction. Men in black. Genie wish gone awry. Interdimensional portal. Cursed Mesopotamian tablet. Sewer monster. Lake monster. Sea monster. Swamp monster. Killer clowns. Time paradox. Cults—you've got death cults, demon cults, occult cults, new age cults, basically any kind of cult. Witches. The giant Pacific octopus. Trapped on a ghost ship. Possessed. Possessed by a ghost ship—could happen. Knocked unconscious by genetically engineered mushroom spores. Genetically modified insect swarm. Genetically modified alligator. Lots of potential in the genetically modified space overall, really. Fell in a vat of invisible paint. Stolen by time thieves. Shrink ray on the highest setting. Unexpected wicker man festival. Psychically scrubbed from memory so you forget them as soon as you aren't looking at them. Mole men. Lizard men. Giant carnivorous pitcher plant. Giant carnivorous catfish. Bears. Got lost in Finland. Went hiking. Trapped in a TV show. Trapped in a haunted painting. Trapped in a mirror. Trapped in a snow globe. Trees. Not sure how they'd be involved but I always feel like we underestimate them. Moth man. Time loop. Wild hunt. Tax fraud. I could keep going.

No,” Ruhn was saying, over and over. “No, no—” But Hunt heard nothing. Felt nothing. It had all crumbled inside him the moment she’d hung up. Bryce leapt the fence around the Gate and halted before its towering archway. Before the terrible black void within it. A faint white radiance began to glow around her. “What is that?” Fury whispered. It flickered, growing brighter in the night. Enough to illuminate her slender hands cupping a sparkling, pulsing light before her chest. The light was coming from her chest—had been pulled from inside it. Like it had dwelled inside her all along. Bryce’s eyes were closed, her face serene. Her hair drifted above her head. Bits of debris floated up around her, too. As if gravity had ceased to exist. The light she held was so stark it cast the rest of the world into grays and blacks. Slowly, her eyes opened, amber blazing like the first pure rays of dawn. A soft, secret smile graced her mouth. Her eyes lifted to the Gate looming above her. The light between her hands grew stronger. Ruhn fell to his knees. “I am Bryce Quinlan,” she said to the Gate, to the void, to all of Hel behind it. Her voice was serene—wise and laughing. “Heir to the Starborn Fae.” The ground slid out from under Hunt as the light between her hands, the star she’d drawn from her shattered heart, flared as bright as the sun.

So,’ I began, picking the least important-though still a vitally interesting question to start with. I was safely delivered home, and he might decide to leave at any moment. I had to keep him talking. Besides, this temporary heaven wasn't entirely complete without the sound of his voice. ‘What have you been doing, up until three days ago?’ His face turned wary in an instant. ‘Nothing exciting.’ ‘Of course not,’ I mumbled. ‘Why are you making that face?’ ‘Well…’ I pursed my lips, considering. ‘If you were, after all, just a dream, that's exactly the kind of thing you would say. My imagination must be used up.’ He sighed. ‘If I tell you, will you finally believe that you're not having a nightmare?’ ‘Nightmare!’ I repeated scornfully. He waited for my answer. ‘Maybe,’ I said after a second of thought. ‘If you tell me.’ ‘I was… hunting.’ ‘Is that the best you can do?’ I criticized. ‘That doesn't prove I'm awake.

I took a step inside and fumbled for the light switch. It was so black-like the black water… Where was that switch? Just like the black water, with the orange flame flickering impossibly on top of it. The flame that couldn't be a fire, but what then…? My fingers traced the wall, still searching, still shaking- suddenly, something Marcel had told me this afternoon echoed in my head, finally sinking in… She took off into the water, he'd said. The bloodsuckers have the advantage there. That's why I raced home -I was afraid she was going to double back swimming. My hand froze in its searching, my whole body froze into place, as I realized why I recognized the strange orange color of the water. Maggie's hair, blowing wild in the wind, the color of fire… She'd been right there. Right there in the harbor with me and Marcel. If Sam hadn't been there if it had been just the two of us…? I couldn't breathe or move. The light flicked on, though my frozen hand had still not found the switch. I blinked at the sudden light and saw that someone was there, waiting for me. VISITOR UNNATURALLY STILL AND WHITE, WITH LARGE BLACK EYES intent on my face, my visitor waited perfectly motionless in the center of the halt, beautiful beyond imagining. My knees trembled for a second, and I nearly fell. Then I hurled myself at her. ‘Olivia, oh, Olivia!’ I cried as I slammed into her. I'd forgotten how hard she was; it was like running headlong into a wall of cement. ‘Bell?’ There was a strange mingling of relief and confusion in her voice. I locked my arms around her, gasping to inhale as much of the scent of her skin as possible. It wasn't like anything else-not floral or spice, citrus, and musk. No perfume in the world could compare. My memory hadn't done it justice. I didn't notice when the gasping turned into something else-I only realized I was sobbing when Olivia dragged me to the living room couch and pulled me into her lap. It was like curling up into a cool stone, but a stone that was contoured comfortingly to the shape of my body. She rubbed my back in a gentle rhythm, waiting for me to get control of myself. ‘I'm… sorry,’ I blubbered. ‘I'm just… so happy… to see you!’ ‘It's okay, Bell. Everything's okay.’ ‘Yes,’ I bawled. And, for once, it seemed that way. Olivia sighed. ‘I'd forgotten how exuberant you are,’ she said, and her tone was disapproving. I looked up at her through my streaming eyes. Olivia's neck was tight, straining away from me, her lips pressed together firmly. Her eyes were black as pitch. ‘Oh,’ I puffed, as I realized the problem. She was thirsty. And I smelled appetizing. It had been a while since I'd had to think about that. ‘Sorry.’ ‘It's my fault. It's been too long since I hunted. I shouldn't let myself get so thirsty. But I was in a hurry today.’ The look she directed at me then was a glare. ‘Speaking of which, would you like to explain to me how you're alive?’ That brought me up short and stopped the sobs. I realized what must have happened immediately, and why Olivia was here. I swallowed loudly, ‘you saw me fall.’ ‘No,’ she disagreed, her eyes narrowing. ‘I saw you jump.’ I pursed my lips as I tried to think of an explanation that wouldn't sound nuts.

Silence ‘Sh-h!’ ‘Shouldn't somebody has mentioned this to me earlier?’ I whispered angrily. ‘I mean, I wanted to be a… to be one of you! Shouldn't somebody have, already like explained the rules to me?’ Olivia chuckled once at my reaction. ‘It's not that complicated, Bell. There's only one core restriction-and if you think about it, you can probably figure it out for yourself.’ I thought about it. ‘Nope, I have no idea.’ She shook her head, disappointed. ‘Maybe it's too obvious. We just have to keep our existence a secret.’ ‘Oh,’ I mumbled. It was obvious. ‘It makes sense, and most of us don't need policing,’ she continued. ‘But, after a few centuries, sometimes one of us gets bored. Or crazy. I don’t know. And then the Ministry steps in before it can compromise them, or the rest of us.’ ‘So-o Marcel…’ ‘Is planning to flout that in their city-the city they've secretly held for three thousand years, since the time of the Etruscans. They are so protective of their city that they don't allow hunting within its walls. Volterra is probably the safest city in the world-from angel attack at the very least.’ ‘But you said they didn't leave. How do they eat?’ This is what she becomes because of me… what do you think of here… do you like her or heat? Are you going to hate her for this? ~*~ ‘They don't leave. They bring in their food from the outside, from quite far away sometimes. It gives their guard something to do when they're not out annihilating mavericks. Or protecting Volterra from exposure…

I bit my lip, ‘If you don't do it now, you'll change your mind.’ ‘No.’ She frowned- her expression unhappy. ‘I don't think I will. He'll be furious, but what will he be able to do about it?’ My heart beat faster. ‘Nothing at all.’ She laughed quietly and then sighed. ‘You have too much faith in me, Bell. I'm not sure that I can. I'll probably just end up killing you.’ ‘I'll take my chances.’ ‘You are so bizarre, even for a human.’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘Oh well, this is purely hypothetical at this point, anyway. First, we have to live through tomorrow.’ ‘Good point.’ But at least I had something to hope for if we did. If Olivia made good on her promise-and if she didn't kill me-then Marcel could run after his distractions all he wanted, and I could follow. I wouldn't let him be distracted. When I was beautiful and strong, he wouldn't want distractions. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she encouraged me. ‘I'll wake you up when there's something new.’ ‘Right,’ I grumbled, certain that sleep was a lost cause now. Olivia pulled her legs up on the seat, wrapping her arms around them and leaning her forehead against her knees. She rocked back and forth as she concentrated. I rested my head against the seat, watching her, and the next thing I knew, she was snapping the shade closed against the faint brightening in the eastern sky. ‘What's happening?’ I mumbled. ‘They've told him no,’ she said quietly. I noticed at once that her enthusiasm was gone. My voice choked in my throat with panic. ‘What's he going to do?’ ‘It was chaotic at first. I was only getting flickers; he was changing plans so quickly.’ ‘What kinds of plans?’ I pressed. ‘There was a bad hour,’ she whispered. ‘He'd decided to go hunting.’ She looked at me, seeing the comprehension on my face. ‘In the city,’ she explained. ‘It got very close. He changed his mind at the last minute.’ ‘He wouldn't want to disappoint Chiaz,’ I mumbled. Not at the end. ‘Probably,’ she agreed. ‘Will there be enough time?’ As I spoke, there was a shift in the cabin pressure. I could feel the plane angling downward. ‘I'm hoping so-if he sticks to his latest decision, maybe.

Purkiss, Diane. The Witch in History: Early Modern and Twentieth-Century Representations. New York: Routledge, 1996. Ray, Benjamin. “The Geography of Witchcraft Accusations in 1692 Salem Village.” The William and Mary Quarterly 65, no. 3 (2008): 449–78. Roach, Marilynne K. The Salem Witch Trials: A Day-by-Day Chronicle of a Community Under Siege. New York: Cooper Square Press, 2002. Rosenthal, Bernard. Salem Story: Reading the Witch Trials of 1692. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Rosenthal, Bernard, Gretchen A. Adams, et al., eds. Records of the Salem Witch-Hunt. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Thomas, Keith. Religion and the Decline of Magic. New York: Scribner, 1971. Trask, Richard B. The Devil Hath Been Raised: A Documentary History of the Salem Village Witchcraft Outbreak of March 1692: Together with a Collection of Newly Located and Gathered Witchcraft Documents. Danvers, MA: Yeoman Press, 1997. Weisman, Richard. Witchcraft, Magic, and Religion in 17th-Century Massachusetts. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1984.

guarding the camp site during the hunt, even Caleb. In fact, had he not pushed Lame Deer so

The Boyds, Prescott and Dorothy.” Sue gave Ray a knowing look as she continued. “The Crescent Cove—Round Island Hunt Club, I guess they own it now.” Ray was familiar with the location: a gated and fenced enclave that held the largest tract of private land in the county.

During World War II, rationing in Russia had made vinyl prohibitively expensive, and cheap X-ray film became the bootleg music industry’s substitute. After purchasing a used X-ray plate for a ruble or two from a medical facility, music lovers could cut the plate into a disk with scissors or a knife before having it etched with their favorite tunes. Students studying engineering, I was told, particularly excelled in this bootlegging process. But even a thawed Khrushchev regime had its standards to uphold, and in 1959 the government began a crackdown on this illicit music market. One government tactic was to flood record shops with unplayable records, many intended to damage record players. Some of these records included threatening vocals placed in the middle of a recording, which screamed at the unsuspecting listener, “You like rock and roll? Fuck you, anti-Soviet slime!” Eventually the use of bone records declined as replacement technologies, such as magnetic reel-to-reel tape, took over. But until then, bone-record makers were hunted down and sent to the Gulags. Particularly offensive to the Soviet government were bootleggers who reproduced American jazz records, music Stalin had declared a “threat to civilization.” Despite

A Revolutionary Act A hug, a moment of embrace; once an ordinary thing, now an act of revolution. See her smile there! The mask of shame lifted; teeth, shining bright against the gold of the sun; it's rays of love wrap the skin as if to say, "it's okay." A touch has become a weapon. The evil use it against us, as they label us dirty and contaminated. Uncover and breathe the free air again! I set the captive free from demonic chains that bound the humblest of folk~ confined no more by their black cloak. We run through green meadows, lined with blue and purple violets and daisies. Children laugh and throw toys about like the free-spirited tots they are. The lowly, lifted up upon our barter of silver and gold; hungry no more. The psychopath, brought down by the wolves; hunted, as the masses grow weary. Tired of their lies and raunchy alibis they ready themselves to strike at the polls. No more will they accept their false claims that we are a danger to ourselves and others. No more shaming the unmasked; we will live free or die fighting!