Recliner Chair Quotes

Well, well. Lucinda Hutton. One flexible little gal.” He is reclining in his chair again. Both feet are flat on the floor and they point at me like revolvers in a Wild West shootout. “HR,” I clip at him. I’m losing this game and he knows it. Calling HR is virtually like tapping out. He picks up the pencil and presses the sharpened tip against the pad of his thumb. If a human could grin without moving their face, he just did it.

20. Don’t lean your chair back. You really don’t need to. By nature airplanes are the most uncomfortable–leaning a chair back isn’t going to make you content, it’s going to make you an asshole. If you really NEED to get those ten to twenty extra reclining degrees, at least buy the person behind you a drink.

Livvie has her own opinions and isn't afraid to voice them," he murmured. Tobias reclined in his chair in a deliberately casual pose. "So I've discovered." "And what will you do with your ... discovery?" "There is nothing to be done." "Many men would say she is unruly, headstrong, and disobedient. In need of a firm guiding hand." Was the man trying to persuade him to call off the rushed engagement? "Olivia is not a horse and I am not other men.

And then he began to laugh in a peculiar way of his own which was both violent and soundless. His heavy reclining body, draped in its black gown, heaved to and fro. His knees drew themselves up to his chin. His arms dangled over the sides of the chair and were helpless. His head rolled from side to side. It was as though he were in the last stages of strychnine poisoning. But no sound came, nor did his mouth even open. Gradually the spasm grew weaker, and when the natural sand colour of his face had returned (for his corked-up laughter had turned it dark red) he began his smoking again in earnest.

Attraction The whites of his eyes pull me like moons. He smiles. I believe his face. Already my body slips down in the chair: I recline on my side, offering peeled grapes. I can taste his tongue in my mouth whenever he speaks. I suspect he lies. But my body oils itself loose. When he gets up to fix a drink my legs like derricks hoist me off the seat. I am thirsty, it seams. Already I see the seduction far off in the distance like a large tree dwarfed by a rise in the road. I put away objections as quietly as quilts. Already I explain to myself how marriages are broken-- accidentally, like arms or legs.

Angel and I were watching all this, the smears of ketchup hardening on our discarded plates, our feet up as if our legs were paralyzed, which they were I suppose. There is little in modern life more paralyzing than the recliner chair.

I got hold of a copy of the video that showed how Saddam Hussein had actually confirmed himself in power. This snuff-movie opens with a plenary session of the Ba'ath Party central committee: perhaps a hundred men. Suddenly the doors are locked and Saddam, in the chair, announces a special session. Into the room is dragged an obviously broken man, who begins to emit a robotic confession of treason and subversion, that he sobs has been instigated by Syrian and other agents. As the (literally) extorted confession unfolds, names begin to be named. Once a fellow-conspirator is identified, guards come to his seat and haul him from the room. The reclining Saddam, meanwhile, lights a large cigar and contentedly scans his dossiers. The sickness of fear in the room is such that men begin to crack up and weep, rising to their feet to shout hysterical praise, even love, for the leader. Inexorably, though, the cull continues, and faces and bodies go slack as their owners are pinioned and led away. When it is over, about half the committee members are left, moaning with relief and heaving with ardent love for the boss. (In an accompanying sequel, which I have not seen, they were apparently required to go into the yard outside and shoot the other half, thus sealing the pact with Saddam. I am not sure that even Beria or Himmler would have had the nerve and ingenuity and cruelty to come up with that.)

Noel Vanstone [...] composed himself to meet the coming ordeal, with reclining head and grasping hands - in the position familiarly associated to all civilized humanity with a seat in a dentist's chair.

There the crew would reside, either strapped into reclining metal chairs or with magnetic boots clanking around on a metal gridwork floor, nicely warmed by all the heat-generating vacuum-tube electronics necessary for the primitive computers, radios, and other necessary equipment.

Yesterday, where someone had dumped a cat-scratched leather recliner in the weedy empty lot around the corner, an elderly man was found sitting in the chair, quietly disoriented. The recliner looked like a seat on an Amtrak train, in Coach. The man did not seem to know where he was, or how he got there, but he was not fearful, just quiet. He was able to recite his son’s email address and list the son’s many accomplishments to the police whom someone called to help. They were kind when they contacted the man’s son in another state. But this won’t go well, I thought, and chose not to follow the story.

I occasionally smoke a cigar because it makes me happy, and my wife occasionally fails to understand why I must have a cigar to be happy when she can apparently be just as happy without one (and even happier without me having one). But the experience-stretching hypothesis suggests that I too could have been happy without cigars if only I had not experienced their pharmacological mysteries in my wayward youth. But I did, and because I did I now know what I am missing when I don’t, hence that glorious moment during my spring vacation when I am reclining in a lawn chair on the golden sands of Kauai, sipping Talisker and watching the sun slip slowly into a taffeta sea, is just not quite perfect if I don’t also have something stinky and Cuban in my mouth. I could press both my luck and my marriage by advancing the language-squishing hypothesis, carefully explaining to my wife that because she has never experienced the pungent earthiness of a Montecristo no. 4, she has an impoverished experiential background and therefore does not know what happiness really is. I would lose, of course, because I always do, but in this case I would deserve it.

usual, he threw himself into the marketing, working with James Vincent and Duncan Milner at the ad agency (now called TBWA/ Media Arts Lab), with Lee Clow advising from a semiretired perch. The commercial they first produced was a gentle scene of a guy in faded jeans and sweatshirt reclining in a chair, looking at email, a photo album, the New York Times, books, and video on an iPad propped on his lap. There were no words, just

Patrick reclined again in his chair and closed his eyes. It was so much easier to attend to the kids with a partner. With Clara there he felt free to relax and trust that someone would pick up the slack. He could let his guard down if they walked toward the water or were to talk to other kids, and he suddenly had great sympathy for his brother, Greg. Yes she was beautiful and yes she was wealthy, but could this also be part of Livia's appeal? Having someone around that allowed Greg the luxury of exhaling, to not have to be on guard ALL the time?

I wonder: What level of precision determines when a body crosses the line between functional and dying? Is there a distinct moment, a millisecond or a nanosecond, when the number of healthy cells suddenly drops too low to permit the continuance of life? Or is there a single cell whose abnormal division creates a threshold where previously there was none, just one outlaw cell to blame? My mother seemed to speed across that line so fast. As I remember it, she was sitting in a reclining chair in front of the television one evening, bouncing her foot and impatiently waiting for her abdomen to recede, and the next morning she didn’t get out of bed.

The old woman sat in her leather recliner, the footrest extended, a dinner tray on her lap. By candlelight, she turned the cards over, halfway through a game of Solitaire. Next door, her neighbors were being killed. She hummed quietly to herself. There was a jack of spades. She placed it under the queen of hearts in the middle column. Next a six of diamonds. It went under the seven of spades. Something crashed into her front door. She kept turning the cards over. Putting them in their right places. Two more blows. The door burst open. She looked up. The monster crawled inside, and when it saw her sitting in the chair, it growled. “I knew you were coming,” she said. “Didn’t think it’d take you quite so long.” Ten of clubs. Hmm. No home for this one yet. Back to the pile. The monster moved toward her. She stared into its small, black eyes. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to just walk into someone’s house without an invitation?” she asked. Her voice stopped it in its tracks. It tilted its head. Blood—from one of her neighbor’s no doubt—dripped off its chest onto the floor. Belinda put down the next card. “I’m afraid this is a one-player game,” she said, “and I don’t have any tea to offer you.” The monster opened its mouth and screeched a noise out of its throat like the squawk of a terrible bird. “That is not your inside voice,” Belinda snapped. The abby shrunk back a few steps. Belinda laid down the last card. “Ha!” She clapped. “I just won the game.” She gathered up the cards into a single deck, split it, then shuffled. “I could play Solitaire all day every day,” she said. “I’ve found in my life that sometimes the best company is your own.” A growl idled again in the monster’s throat. “You cut that right out!” she yelled. “I will not be spoken to that way in my own home.” The growl changed into something almost like a purr. “That’s better,” Belinda said as she dealt a new game. “I apologize for yelling. My temper sometimes gets the best of me.

If you don’t know what became of someone, if you don’t attend a person’s funeral or hear word from a friend of a friend, these persons who float from our lives attain a kind of immortality, always hovering around the next corner. By closing your eyes, you can attach to them any set of attributes: the various chairs he reclines in, the soda she might sip from, the dreams they have of you they can’t remember in the morning. This brings me to life’s great paradox: for someone to truly be a part of you – to live in your thoughts, roaming your memory and vision, occupying planes of hope, nostalgia, and speculation in your mind – he or she must be wholly inaccessible to you. Twin

Home sweet home Home sweet home It sure feels good to be home again. Been away for so long, Almost forget what coming home feels like. Down the street, I am almost there. The place I know best. The place I put above all else, There’s no place I’d rather be. Sweet girl like you. The warm embrace of being missed. After so many miles the end is drawing near. Home sweet home Home sweet home. Soon as I am there, I’ll kiss the welcome mat of your feet & recline deep in the chair of your arms. Soon as I am there I’ll sink into comfort, I’ll pour me a glass filled in your kiss. The warm embrace of being missed. It sure feels good to be home again. Dozing off fast asleep at home. Safe & sound in your arms

Steve Harmon, thirty-six, had esophageal cancer growing at the inlet of his stomach. For six months, he had soldiered through chemotherapy as if caught in a mythical punishment cycle devised by the Greeks. He was debilitated by perhaps the severest forms of nausea that I had ever encountered in a patient, but he had to keep eating to avoid losing weight. As the tumor whittled him down week by week, he became fixated, absurdly, on the measurement of his weight down to a fraction of an ounce, as if gripped by the fear that he might vanish altogether by reaching zero. Meanwhile, a growing retinue of family members accompanied him to his clinic visits: three children who came with games and books and watched, unbearably, as their father shook with chills one morning; a brother who hovered suspiciously, then accusingly, as we shuffled and reshuffled medicines to keep Steve from throwing up; a wife who bravely shepherded the entire retinue through the whole affair as if it were a family trip gone horribly wrong. One morning, finding Steve alone on one of the reclining chairs of the infusion room, I asked him whether he would rather have the chemotherapy alone, in a private room. Was it, perhaps, too much for his family—for his children? He looked away with a flicker of irritation. “I know what the statistics are.” His voice was strained, as if tightening against a harness. “Left to myself, I would not even try. I’m doing this because of the kids.

There were a few civilized details, like chairs that looked as though they had been purloined from more modern and elegant domiciles- a red velvet recliner, for instance, which would have been far more at home at Mr. Darling's club than in a cave. Wherever did that come from? Wendy wondered. But the rest of the furniture consisted primarily of things like barrels cut in half with moss for cushions, and the stumps of trees with hastily hammered-on backs. Enormous mushrooms made for tables. Some of the lanterns were fungus as well- softly glowing bluish-green "flowers" that spread in delicate clumps just below the ceiling. "John would just have a field day with those, I'm certain," Wendy said with a smile. One large barrel was placed under the end of a hollowed-out root to collect rainwater. There were shelves and nooks for the few possessions considered precious by the Lost Boys: piles of gold coins, interesting animal skeletons, shiny crystals, captivating burrs and seedpods. Also more strange detritus of the civilized world: a hinge, a pipe, a knob from a drawer, a spanner, and even a pocket watch.

Marcelina loved that miniscule, precise moment when the needle entered her face. It was silver; it was pure. It was the violence that healed, the violation that brought perfection. There was no pain, never any pain, only a sense of the most delicate of penetrations, like a mosquito exquisitely sipping blood, a precision piece of human technology slipping between the gross tissues and cells of her flesh. She could see the needle out of the corner of her eye; in the foreshortened reality of the ultra-close-up it was like the stem of a steel flower. The latex-gloved hand that held the syringe was as vast as the creating hand of God: Marcelina had watched it swim across her field of vision, seeking its spot, so close, so thrillingly, dangerously close to her naked eyeball. And then the gentle stab. Always she closed her eyes as the fingers applied pressure to the plunger. She wanted to feel the poison entering her flesh, imagine it whipping the bloated, slack, lazy cells into panic, the washes of immune response chemicals as they realized they were under toxic attack; the blessed inflammation, the swelling of the wrinkled, lined skin into smoothness, tightness, beauty, youth. Marcelina Hoffman was well on her way to becoming a Botox junkie. Such a simple treat; the beauty salon was on the same block as Canal Quatro. Marcelina had pioneered the lunch-hour face lift to such an extent that Lisandra had appropriated it as the premise for an entire series. Whore. But the joy began in the lobby with Luesa the receptionist in her high-collared white dress saying “Good afternoon, Senhora Hoffman,” and the smell of the beautiful chemicals and the scented candles, the lightness and smell of the beautiful chemicals and the scented candles, the lightness and brightness of the frosted glass panels and the bare wood floor and the cream-on-white cotton wall hangings, the New Age music that she scorned anywhere else (Tropicalismo hippy-shit) but here told her, “you’re wonderful, you’re special, you’re robed in light, the universe loves you, all you have to do is reach out your hand and take anything you desire.” Eyes closed, lying flat on the reclining chair, she felt her work-weary crow’s-feet smoothed away, the young, energizing tautness of her skin. Two years before she had been to New York on the Real Sex in the City production and had been struck by how the ianqui women styled themselves out of personal empowerment and not, as a carioca would have done, because it was her duty before a scrutinizing, judgmental city. An alien creed: thousand-dollar shoes but no pedicure. But she had brought back one mantra among her shopping bags, an enlightenment she had stolen from a Jennifer Aniston cosmetics ad. She whispered it to herself now, in the warm, jasmine-and vetiver-scented sanctuary as the botulin toxins diffused through her skin. Because I’m worth it.

But…but that’s tragic! To go through life without color? Unable to appreciate art, or beauty?” He laughed. “Now, sweet-hold your brush before you paint me a martyr’s halo. It’s not as though I’m blind. I have a great appreciation for art, as I believe we’ve discussed. And as for beauty…I don’t need to know whether your eyes are blue or green or lavender to know that they’re uncommonly lovely.” “No one has lavender eyes.” “Don’t they?” His gaze caught hers and refused to let go. Leaning forward, he continued, “Did that tutor of yours ever tell you this? That your eyes are ringed with a perfect circle a few shades darker than the rest of the…don’t they call it the iris?” Sophia nodded. “The iris.” He propped his elbow on the table and leaned forward, his gaze searching hers intently. “An apt term it is, too. There are these lighter rays that fan out from the center, like petals. And when your pupils widen-like that, right there-your eyes are like two flowers just coming into bloom. Fresh. Innocent.” She bowed her head, mixing a touch of lead white into the sea-green paint on her palette. He leaned closer still, his voice a hypnotic whisper. “But when you take delight in teasing me, looking up through those thick lashes, so saucy and self-satisfied…” She gave him a sharp look. He snapped his fingers. “There! Just like that. Oh, sweet-then those eyes are like two opera dancers smiling from behind big, feathered fans. Coy. Beckoning.” Sophia felt a hot blush spreading from her bosom to her throat. He smiled and reclined in his chair. “I don’t need to know the color of your hair to see that it’s smooth and shiny as silk. I don’t need to know whether it’s yellow or orange or red to spend an inordinate amount of time wondering how it would feel brushing against my bare skin.” Opening his book to the marked page, he continued, “And don’t get me started on your lips, sweet. If I endeavored to discover the precise shade of red or pink or violet they are, I might never muster the concentration for anything else.” He turned a leaf of his book, then fell silent. Sophia stared at her canvas. Her pulse pounded in her ears. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck, channeling down between her shoulder blades, and a hot, itchy longing pooled at the cleft of her legs. Drat him. He’d known she was taunting him with her stories. And now he sat there in an attitude of near-boredom, making love to her with his teasing, colorless words in a blatant attempt to fluster her. It was as though they were playing a game of cards, and he’d just raised the stakes. Sophia smiled. She always won at cards. “Balderdash,” she said calmly. He looked up at her, eyebrow raised. “No one has violet lips.” “Don’t they?” She laid aside her palette and crossed her arms on the table. “The slope of your nose is quite distinctive.” His lips quirked in a lopsided grin. “Really.” “Yes.” She leaned forward, allowing her bosom to spill against her stacked arms. His gaze dipped, but quickly returned to hers. “The way you have that little bump at the ridge…It’s proving quite a challenge.” “Is that so?” He bent his head and studied his book. Sophie stared at him, waiting one…two…three beats before he raised his hand to rub the bridge of his nose. Quite satisfactory progress, that. Definite beginnings of fluster.

We were sitting on the second floor, with Michael reclining on a couch. I was in an upright chair, my tape recorder perched on a foldout desk to my right. Michael gazed upward, apparently lost in thought. I looked down—anywhere but at his face. And we sat there. I decided that rather than press him again with words I would just simply wait to see how he would respond. For nearly four minutes he did not say a word. After about ninety seconds, his customary mumbling returned and nearing the four-minute mark (I felt like a swimmer under water wanting to come up for air), he seemed to pull himself together, drawing in his breath. He paused another few seconds, then said: Two or three of the women are alive. One or two are not. Let me just think about this.

A couple strolled by behind my chair. For a moment, they got between us and the closest light, casting Freddie in a patch of shadow. As the light peeled away, so did the facade. A desiccated corpse reclined on the divan, with skin turned blue and chapped by arctic windburn. The corpse grinned at me from a lipless mouth, showing sharp yellowed teeth. Her nose and most of one cheek had rotted away, the ragged wounds black with frostbite, and iron talons three inches long curled around the stem of her martini glass. Then the light flooded back and the moment was gone. Freddie must have caught the look on my face. She smiled and gave me a wink.

Several hours later, 125 miles from Lille, Martin Leclerc, head of the Violent Crimes unit, pondered a three-dimensional representation of a human head on the screen of a Mac. You could clearly see the brain and several salient parts of the face: tip of the nose, outer surface of the right eye, left tragus…Then he pointed to a green area, located in the left superior temporal gyrus. “So that lights up every time I say something?” Half reclining on a hydraulic chair, head squeezed under a hood containing 128 electrodes, Chief Inspector Franck Sharko stared at the ceiling without moving a muscle. “It’s called Wernicke’s area, linked to hearing speech. For you and me both, blood rushes there the moment you hear a voice. Hence the coloration.” “Impressive.” “Not half as much as seeing you here.” Sharko spoke softly beneath the bonnet. “I don’t know if you recall, Martin, but the invitation was for a drink at my place. The only thing you’ll get here is watery coffee.” “Your shrink didn’t have any problems with me sitting in on a session. And you’d suggested it yourself—or am I not the only one having memory lapses?

untold hours” deciding on the right chairs for the room, ultimately choosing a set of seven tan leather recliners from Norwegian furniture company Ekornes. “I went to furniture stores

A chair that reclines is mighty fine.

The peace boys talk, smoke, rant, make their jokes, strum guitars, run their silky white hands through their stringy long hair. They spread their legs when they talk, they spread out, their legs open up and they spread them wide and their sentences spread all over and their words come and come and their gestures get bigger and they got half erect cocks all the time when they talk, the denim of their dirty jeans is pulled tight across their cocks because of how they spread their legs and they always finger themselves just lightly when they talk so they are always excited by what they have to say. Somehow they are always half reclining, on chairs, on desks, on tables, against walls or stacks of boxes, legs spread out so they can talk, touching themselves with the tips of their fingers or the palms of their spread hands, giggling, smoking, they think they are Che.

The light in Rhysand’s eyes guttered, as if a hand of darkness wiped away those stars. But he reclined in his chair, withdrawing his hand from my knee to trace idle circles on his seat’s wooden arm. “I’m not in the business of discussing our plans with enemies.” Helion, across the reflection pool, grinned like a lion. “No,” Tamlin said with equal ease, “you’re just in the business of fucking them.

It’s strange,” Cecchini told me at the end of one of our hours-long discussions, “that some of the greatest musicians were self-taught or never learned to read music. I’m not saying one way is the best, but now I get a lot of students from schools that are teaching jazz, and they all sound the same. They don’t seem to find their own voice. I think when you’re self-taught you experiment more, trying to find the same sound in different places, you learn how to solve problems.” Cecchini stopped speaking for a moment, reclined in his chair, and stared at the ceiling. A few moments passed. “I could show somebody in two minutes what would take them years of screwing around on the fingerboard like I did to find it. You don’t know what’s right or what’s wrong. You don’t have that in your head. You’re just trying to find a solution to problems, and after fifty lifetimes, it starts to come together for you. It’s slow,” he told me, “but at the same time, there’s something to learning that way.

Why can’t I have an ordinary footman like the other ladies have?” “Because you won’t always be going to the places other ladies go.” Gabriel sat on a chair to remove his shoes and stockings. “You’ll be looking for factory space, and meeting with suppliers, retailers, and wholesale traders, and so forth. If you take Drago with you, it will ease my mind about your safety.” As he saw the mulish set of Pandora’s jaw, Gabriel decided to take another tack. “Of course, we’ll replace him if you wish,” he said with a casual shrug. He began to unfasten the buttons of his braces. “But it would be a pity. Drago grew up in an orphanage and has no family. He’s always lived in a small room at the club. He was looking forward to living in a real household for the first time in his life, and seeing what family life was like.” That last sentence was pure conjecture, but it did the trick. Pandora sent him a long-suffering glance and heaved a sigh. “Oh, all right. I suppose I’ll have to keep him. And train him not to scare people.” Dramatically she fell backward on the bed, arms and legs akimbo. Her small, glum voice floated up to the ceiling. “My very own footmonster.” Gabriel regarded the small, splayed figure on the bed, feeling a rush of mingled amusement and lust that made his breath catch. Before another second had passed, he’d climbed over her, crushing her mouth with his. “What are you doing?” Pandora asked with a spluttering laugh, twisting beneath him. “Accepting your invitation.” “What invitation?” “The one you gave me by reclining on the bed in that seductive pose.” “I flopped backward like a dying trout,” she protested, squirming as he began to hike up her skirts. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.” “Take a bath first,” she implored. “You’re not fit for the house. I should take you out to the stables and scrub you like one of the horses, with carbolic soap and a birch brush.” “Oh, you naughty girl . . . yes, let’s do that.” His hand wandered lecherously under her skirts. Pandora yelped with laughter and wrestled him. “Stop, you’re contaminated! Come to the bathroom and I’ll wash you.” He pinned her down. “You’ll be my bath handmaiden?” he asked provocatively. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” “I would,” he whispered, touching his tongue to the center of her lower lip. Her dark blue eyes were bright with mischief. “I’ll bathe you, my lord,” she offered, “but only if you agree to keep your hands to yourself, and remain as still and stiff as a statue.” “I’m already as stiff as a statue.” He nudged her to demonstrate. Pandora rolled out from under him with a grin and headed toward the bathroom, while he followed readily.

This festival of the Cara cognatio or 'beloved kin' (Tert., Idol., 10, 3) was too popular to be eradicated from Roman customs; so it was Christianised under the name of 'Chair of St Peter', the cathedra Petri always recalling the chair on which one participated seated (and not reclining) at the funeral meal with the dead. In 567, the Council of Tours (Mansi, IX, 790) still expelled from the Church those who, at St Peter's festival, offered food to the dead and who, after the mass, ate meat dedicated to the 'demon'.

3. Physical Zooming: Mood Follows Action We have covered this idea so far in the book, but to reiterate, one study took participants and sat them in a chair. They told participants to either lean forward so that they were on the edge of their seat, anticipating what was coming, or lean back in a fully reclined comfortable position. After getting into position, subjects were given a task to categorize a group of pictures. Those who reclined in the chair were more likely to choose broad categories, coming up with creative ways to make,

Practice: Sitting Mindfulness Meditation Find a quiet time and place. Sit upright but relaxed on a chair or cushion. Be comfortable! You can even meditate in a recliner. Either cup your hands, letting your thumbs touch, or simply rest them in whatever way is comfortable. Set a timer so you don’t have to worry about the time. Close your eyes fully or leave them at half-mast. Bring your attention to your breath and your body. Let your mind be spacious and your heart be kind and soft. Feel your breath at your belly or your nose. Let your breath be natural. Notice each in-breath and each out-breath. Say to yourself, “breathing in” as you breathe in and “breathing out” as you breathe out. Expect your mind to wander right away. That’s normal! The goal is not to stop your thoughts but to train your attention. The goal is to spend more time in the present moment and less time lost in distraction. Label your thoughts “thinking” if you want, then return your attention to your breath. Do this again, and again, and again, and again. Each time you discover that your mind has wandered is an opportunity to do a “rep” and build that mindfulness muscle. Even if you think you are doing this badly, it is still working. Meditation thrives on practice and a kind approach. If you do this simple practice every day, you will gradually become more grounded and aware.

To her mind, the owner of a spite house should spend her days reclining upon a sleek settee. One upholstered in satin, or possibly velvet brocade. Whichever fabric most clearly told observers I am a woman of both ineffable power and ineffable pettiness, and thus bought a fancy elongated chair-thing.

I see.” Julius reclined in the chair and crossed one of his long legs over the other, his face deep in thought. “Your sisters take after your mother more than you do. Although your resemblance of her is still apparent,” he nodded at her, apparently uninhibited by the inappropriate intimacy of the entire conversation. “In what way do I resemble my mother?” she asked cautiously. “You have her lips.” Eden started, and her tea splashed over her saucer. “I—do?” His eyes fell to them, and something in his eyes darkened. “Unfortunately. And you inherited the fine almond shape of her eyes. But the eyebrows, the intelligence in your eyes, the mischief in them—those are from your father.” Eden was astonished. Never had she been thus spoken to. Her face was scarlet. “Are there any other features of mine you wish to trace to their parentage?” she managed. His eyes flicked over her bosom, tightly buttoned up beneath the faded bodice, past her disappearing waist to the curved, perky bottom perched so tensely on the chair. "The curves I must attribute to the mother, but the lightness of figure, the graceful athleticism, and restlessness to the father." A great din of a clanging from outside had drown out his words so she could not hear them. “I beg your pardon?” Eden said over the din. “The stage coach,” was all he said. “Oh,” was her only reply. The clanging finished. “I’m afraid I missed what you said earlier.” "Nothing of import." He leaned forward for another grape.

To save space and money, Thor and my mom work in the same office, which is basically like a converted closet, only smaller. In keeping with the frugal and Puritanical mindset, they even share the same chair. It’s a wooden chair with its back cut off and a pillow on top for padding, and Thor sits on the front half while my mom sits on the back half. Each uses the other’s back like the back of a chair. Thank God Thor’s stooped posture is like an ergonomically designed chair for my mom. He is her recliner.

... our landlord and landlady. Their house, just outside the town, was quite a little chateau, and the evil that dwelt within its highly polished salons, that reclined on its lace-covered beds, and was coiled deep in the stuffing of its exquisitely upholstered chairs and sofas, was enough to make the blood turn icy in the veins.

The chair wasn’t helping. You were supposed to stay awake, yet they put you in a nice recliner for the duration. Sam couldn’t decide if it fit the definition of irony, but he doubted it was far off. Thinking

When I go on the road, I take another chair with me, a black leather recliner, so that I can have the feel of home. I have them set it up on the wings of the stage and I sit there instead of in the dressing room. Some

I have the reports from Gemson and Boyd,” Syn replied. His boots were up on the corner of his desk as he reclined back in his chair, skimming the contents of the file. “How are they?” God asked. He removed his leather coat and draped it over the back of his chair. “Detailed. Good,” Syn answered. He brought his feet down and gave God a pointed look. The big man shook his head, already knowing what Syn wanted. He wanted everything they knew about this case. Now. “Alright Syn. Chill out. We’re not used to you yet. But we know what it means to have a Sergeant on our team. You’re the team's go to, and have just as much command and input regarding decision making as we do,” Day responded as God stared. Day chuckled. “Tito was just as important as the other Jacksons.” Syn threw a pen at Day, which he dodged easily. Syn couldn’t help but laugh at Day’s fucked up comparison. “I’m no fucking Tito, shithead.

The room was silent, just the low murmur of Sports Center coming from the television. Ruxs’ eyes were on the sports announcers but he wasn’t listening to them. He could feel Green’s strong presence. It called to him. He heard him rustling in his chair and turned to look in his direction. Green was still reclined all the way back. He was looking at the TV, his eyes heavy, one hand down inside his lounge pants. Ruxs could see his hand moving. Oh my God. Ruxs had an urge to rub his own aching balls. Shit. Poor things. They’d been sorely neglected for months. He

A real patriot wont pretend everything is fine Sit back in an arm chair and blissfully recline While the streets burn I’ll point out the signs And maybe we’ll fix this country of mine.

We climbed up the stairs to the jet.  As I entered, the first thing that came to my mind was, 'Holy shit, I'm on an episode of Criminal Minds.'  The jet was super posh.  Cream-colored leather seats in groups of four, with real wood tables in between, filled the spacious interior.  The plush carpeting underfoot make our steps soundless, muffling the noises of our boarding.  I was willing to bet that those chairs could recline all the way.  This is about as far from coach class as I was ever going to get.

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A school bus is many things. A school bus is a substitute for a limousine. More class. A school bus is a classroom with a substitute teacher. A school bus is the students' version of a teachers' lounge. A school bus is the principal's desk. A school bus is the nurse's cot. A school bus is an office with all the phones ringing. A school bus is a command center. A school bus is a pillow fort that rolls. A school bus is a tank reshaped- hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a science lab- hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a safe zone. A school bus is a war zone. A school bus is a concert hall. A school bus is a food court. A school bus is a court of law, all judges, all jury. A school bus is a magic show full of disappearing acts. Saw someone in half. Pick a card, any card. Pass it on to the person next to you. He like you. She like you. K-i-s-s-i . . . s-s-i-p-p-i is only funny on a school bus. A school bus is a stage. A school bus is a stage play. A school bus is a spelling bee. A speaking bee. A get your hand out of my face bee. A your breath smell like sour turnips bee. A you don't even know what a turnip bee is. A maybe not, but I know what a turn up is and your breath smell all the way turnt up bee. A school bus is a bumblebee, buzzing around with a bunch of stingers on the inside of it. Windows for wings that flutter up and down like the windows inside Chinese restaurants and post offices in neighborhoods where school bus is a book of stamps. Passing mail through windows. Notes in the form of candy wrappers telling the street something sweet came by. Notes in the form of sneaky middle fingers. Notes in the form of fingers pointing at the world zooming by. A school bus is a paintbrush painting the world a blurry brushstroke. A school bus is also wet paint. Good for adding an extra coat, but it will dirty you if you lean against it, if you get too comfortable. A school bus is a reclining chair. In the kitchen. Nothing cool about it but makes perfect sense. A school bus is a dirty fridge. A school bus is cheese. A school bus is a ketchup packet with a tiny hole in it. Left on the seat. A plastic fork-knife-spoon. A paper tube around a straw. That straw will puncture the lid on things, make the world drink something with some fizz and fight. Something delightful and uncomfortable. Something that will stain. And cause gas. A school bus is a fast food joint with extra value and no food. Order taken. Take a number. Send a text to the person sitting next to you. There is so much trouble to get into. Have you ever thought about opening the back door? My mother not home till five thirty. I can't. I got dance practice at four. A school bus is a talent show. I got dance practice right now. On this bus. A school bus is a microphone. A beat machine. A recording booth. A school bus is a horn section. A rhythm section. An orchestra pit. A balcony to shot paper ball three-pointers from. A school bus is a basketball court. A football stadium. A soccer field. Sometimes a boxing ring. A school bus is a movie set. Actors, directors, producers, script. Scenes. Settings. Motivations. Action! Cut. Your fake tears look real. These are real tears. But I thought we were making a comedy. A school bus is a misunderstanding. A school bus is a masterpiece that everyone pretends to understand. A school bus is the mountain range behind Mona Lisa. The Sphinx's nose. An unknown wonder of the world. An unknown wonder to Canton Post, who heard bus riders talk about their journeys to and from school. But to Canton, a school bus is also a cannonball. A thing that almost destroyed him. Almost made him motherless.

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Eli motions for me to sit on the couch. I do and Cyrus settles into his recliner as Eli pulls a wooden chair out of the kitchen and straddles it across from me. Eli rubs the stars tattooed on his forearm. The guy is hardcore, but ask him what his tattoos mean and most women will weep.

If God exists, He is resting comfortably on the ocean’s far shore, reclining in plump chairs beside our so-called Allies, who have perfected the art of watching us suffer and doing nothing about it.” The

Cat sat in a rocking recliner, her foot pushing the chair into motion steadily. She looked up when he came down the stairs but didn’t say anything. Harper felt like a royal ass when he saw her tear-stained cheeks and the tissues clutched in her hand. Cat was a strong woman. It took a lot to see her cry. The fact that she was crying now made him feel like the lowest kind of scum. Crossing the room, he knelt down in front of her, stopping the chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond to you. I’m kind of in shock. When I fell in love with you I just always thought it was forever. Even though my lifestyle didn’t create stability, you did, Cat. You were always my stability. Walking away was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But I did it in the hopes that I could make myself better. It’s not like a damned driving test where if I mark a wrong answer I get to take the test over again. I’m a trained killer. If I had screwed up in our house you or the kids were going to pay for it, possibly with your lives. I couldn’t chance that.” Fresh tears rolled down her face and her expression crumpled. “I know. I knew that was why you left. Or at least that was what I had hoped. But it’s been eighteen damn months—a year and a half—with you not letting us have any contact. If you had talked to us, or wrote…just something to let us know that we weren’t all alone.” Cat sobbed and it broke his heart. Pulling her into his arms then down onto his lap, he held her as she let all her emotions out. Tears choked his own throat as he cradled her to him. “If I had called I would not have been able to stay away.” And that was the gist of his angst. God, yes, he wanted to be with them, but he was willing to give up his own happiness if it kept them safe. Cat’s arms wrapped around his neck and she looked up at him. “I have always had more faith in you than you have yourself. Always.” Nuzzling his face into her damp hair, he nodded. “I know that. Without a doubt. And whether you were with me or not your faith kept me going.” Relaxing into his hold, Cat’s tears began to slow. “I love you, Cat.” Her arms tightened around his neck till he thought something was going to pop. “I love you too, damn it.

She lives in the coolest house. It’s really big and super modern. They even have a spa bath in the bathroom as well as a jacuzzi out by the pool. We talked about spending time sunbathing in her backyard as soon as the weather was warm enough. The lounge chairs that were scattered around the sides of the pool were so inviting that I had to try them out. Then when I found that they reclined right back, I lied there picturing myself during the summer months, just relaxing by that beautiful sparkling pool. Sara is so lucky! She seems to have pretty much everything a girl could wish for. Her bedroom has the prettiest pink wallpaper with a gorgeous white flower print as a feature wall. And her furniture is all white. She has a huge comfy bed with matching bedside tables. I’ve never known a girl our age to have a queen sized bed though. Even my parents only have a double bed and Sara’s bed seems enormous in comparison. The two hot pink chrome lamps that sit on her bedside tables are the coolest design and I just love the fluffy pink rug that spreads across the middle of her floor. And she even has

Our gazes met from across the room, and we stared at each other in surprise. Then his eyes dropped down to my—his—shirt, and the corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk. I stood, putting Stuntman on the chair as the guy set down his groceries and walked toward me. I held my breath, waiting to see how he was going to play this. Brandon laid his book over the arm of the recliner and got up. “Josh, this is Kristen Peterson, Sloan’s best friend. Kristen, Josh Copeland.” “Well, hello—it’s so nice to meet you,” he said, gripping my hand just a little too tightly. I narrowed my eyes. “Nice to meet you too.” Josh didn’t let go of my hand. “Hey, Brandon, didn’t you get a new truck this weekend?” he asked, talking to his friend but staring at me. I glared at him, and his brown eyes twinkled. “Yeah. Want to see it?” Brandon asked. “After breakfast. I love that new-car smell. Mine just smells like coffee.” I gave him crazy eyes and his smirk got bigger. Brandon didn’t seem to notice. “Got any more bags? Want help?” Brandon asked. Sloan had already dived in and was in the kitchen unbagging produce. “Just one more trip. I got it,” Josh said, his eyes giving me a wordless invitation to come outside. “I’ll walk out with you,” I announced. “Forgot something in the truck.” He held the door for me, and as soon as it was closed, I whirled on him. “You’d better not say shit.” I poked a finger at his chest. At this point it was less about the coffee spill and more about not wanting to reveal my brazen attempt at covering up my crime. I didn’t lie as a rule, and of course the one time I’d made an exception, I was immediately in a position to be blackmailed. Damn. Josh arched an eyebrow and leaned in. “You stole my shirt, shirt thief.” I crossed my arms. “If you ever want to see it again, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Remember, you rear-ended me. This won’t go over well for you either.” His lips curled back into a smile that was annoyingly attractive. He had dimples. Motherfucking dimples. “Did I rear-end you? Are you sure? Because there’s no evidence of that ever happening. No damage to his truck. No police report. In fact, my version of the event is I saw a hysterical woman in distress in the Vons parking lot and I gave her my shirt to help her out. Then she took off with it.” “Well, there’s your first mistake,” I said. “Nobody would ever believe I was hysterical. I don’t do hysterics.” “Good info.” He leaned forward. “I’ll adjust my story accordingly. A calm but rude woman asked for my help and then stole my favorite shirt. Better?” He was smiling so big he was almost laughing. Jerk. I pursed my lips and took another step closer to him. He looked amused as I encroached on his personal space. He didn’t back up and I glowered up at him. “You want the shirt. I want your silence. This isn’t a hard situation to work out.” He grinned at me. “Maybe I’ll let you keep the shirt. It doesn’t look half-bad on you.” Then he turned for his truck, laughing.

To further distract herself, Miranda started doing mental math. Dividing ten mpg into their total distance, then multiplying that number by the current gas price was a bit staggering. “Do you realize it’s going to cost you around a thousand bucks to make this trip?” “Sure. I have it all figured out. And that’s just gas. It’ll be about that much again for campsites and food.” “Two thousand bucks for a road trip?” Miranda shook her head. “It’s worth it, dear. This’ll be the trip of a lifetime.” She glanced over with a grin. “Besides, I got a real nice price for my house. I can afford this.” “Right.” Miranda pointed at the road. “Better keep focused, Joy.” Joy just laughed. “You’re just like George used to be. At first anyway. After a while he’d sit back and relax. That chair reclines. You can even put your feet up if you like.

Some years ago I took a copy of God’s “whoever” policy to California. I wanted to show it to my Uncle Billy. He’d been scheduled to visit my home, but bone cancer had thwarted his plans. My uncle reminded me much of my father: squared like a blast furnace, ruddy as a leather basketball. They shared the same West Texas roots, penchant for cigars, and blue-collar work ethic. But I wasn’t sure if they shared the same faith. So after several planes, two shuttles, and a rental-car road trip, I reached Uncle Billy’s house only to learn he was back in the hospital. No visitors. Maybe tomorrow. He felt better the next day. Good enough to come home. I went to see him. Cancer had taken its toll and his strength. The recliner entombed his body. He recognized me yet dozed as I chatted with his wife and friends. He scarcely opened his eyes. People came and went, and I began to wonder if I would have the chance to ask the question. Finally the guests stepped out onto the lawn and left me alone with my uncle. I slid my chair next to his, took his skintaut hand, and wasted no words. “Bill, are you ready to go to heaven?” His eyes, for the first time, popped open. Saucer wide. His head lifted. Doubt laced his response: “I think I am.” “Do you want to be sure?” “Oh yes.” Our brief talk ended with a prayer for grace. We both said “amen,” and I soon left. Uncle Billy died within days. Did he wake up in heaven? According to the parable of the eleventh-hour workers, he did.

What’s the matter?” “I know you want Providence Cards,” I said, the words rushing out of my mouth. “I also know you don’t want the King to find out. Otherwise, you would not have bothered disguising yourself on the forest road.” I steadied my voice. “I’ll help you find Cards. I won’t tell anyone you and the Prince moonlight as highwaymen, and you, in turn, will keep my secret. But I need something else.” Ravyn crossed his arms over his chest, surveying me anew. “The decision regarding how to handle your magic does not rest solely with me, I’m afraid.” I stuck out my chin. Even reclined, calm in his seat, Ravyn Yew frightened me. Taking my silence in stride, the Captain asked, “What precisely do you want, Miss Spindle?” My fingers shook. “I want you to leave my family alone. Do not punish them for hiding my infection.” He nodded slowly. “If that is your wish.” “And don’t go back to my uncle’s house,” I added. “He carries no Card you have not already shown me today.” “I thought you didn’t know anything about your uncle’s Cards.” I blinked. “I wasn’t about to tell a man with a knife to my chest how to steal from my own family.” “Brave of you.” Ravyn shifted in his chair. “Anything else?” He’ll give anything to have your magic, the Nightmare cooed. Ask for something extravagant. Like a magical procedure to remove the parasite from my head? I kept my face neutral and my eyes on the Captain of the Destriers. “One last thing.” “Yes?” I put my hands on the table and leaned forward without breaking our gaze. “You must swear, Captain, no matter the circumstance, you will never use that Nightmare Card on me again.