Riding A Swing Quotes

I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks, blazing your limbs into parts of speech.

I like storms. Thunder torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain. Don't ask me why. But it’s like this whole other realm of opportunity. I used to feel like a superhero, riding my bike over the dangerously slick roads, or maybe an Olympic athlete enduring rough trials to make it to the finish line. On sunny days, as a girl, I could still wake up to that thrilled feeling. You made me giddy with expectation, just like a symphonic rainstorm. You were a tempest in the sun, the thunder in a boring, cloudless sky. I remember I’d shovel in my breakfast as fast as I could, so I could go knock on your door. We’d play all day, only coming back for food and sleep. We played hide and seek, you’d push me on the swing, or we’d climb trees. Being your sidekick gave me a sense of home again. You see, when I was ten, my mom died. She had cancer, and I lost her before I really knew her. My world felt so insecure, and I was scared. You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you. I missed my mom. What was worse than losing you, was when you started to hurt me. Your words and actions made me hate coming to school. They made me uncomfortable in my own home. Everything still hurts, but I know none of it is my fault. There are a lot of words that I could use to describe you, but the only one that includes sad, angry, miserable, and pitiful is “coward.” I a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

I felt as if I were riding a pendulum. Just as I would swing into the abyss of hopelessness, the pendulum would swing back with some small goodness.

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.

If ever it's necessary to ride the bandwagon, it's done with one leg swinging out and eyes scoping the fields.

An unbearable smug look came over his usually impassive face."Uh-huh. You just keep telling youself that. You looove me." I took a swing at him, but he jumped back nimbly, and all I did was jar my left arm, making it hurt. He laughed at me, then pointed at the woods ouside the window."Pick a tree. I'll go carve our initials in it.

If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school. The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool. A crumb of cake would be a feast And last you seven days at least, A flea would be a frightening beast If you were one inch tall. If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door, And it would take about a month to get down to the store. A bit of fluff would be your bed, You'd swing upon a spider's thread, And wear a thimble on your head If you were one inch tall. You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum. You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb. You'd run from people's feet in fright, To move a pen would take all night, (This poem took fourteen years to write-- 'Cause I'm just one inch tall).

I am a book. Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty from shelves. Steamy and anxious, abused and misused, kissed and cried over, smeared, yellowed, and torn, loved, hated, scorned. I am a book. I am a book that remembers, days when I stood proud in good company When the children came, I leapt into their arms, when the women came, they cradled me against their soft breasts, when the men came, they held me like a lover, and I smelled the sweet smell of cigars and brandy as we sat together in leather chairs, next to pool tables, on porch swings, in rocking chairs, my words hanging in the air like bright gems, dangling, then forgotten, I crumbled, dust to dust. I am a tale of woe and secrets, a book brand-new, sprung from the loins of ancient fathers clothed in tweed, born of mothers in lands of heather and coal soot. A family too close to see the blood on its hands, too dear to suffering, to poison, to cold steel and revenge, deaf to the screams of mortal wounding, amused at decay and torment, a family bred in the dankest swamp of human desires. I am a tale of woe and secrets, I am a mystery. I am intrigue, anxiety, fear, I tangle in the night with madmen, spend my days cloaked in black, hiding from myself, from dark angels, from the evil that lurks within and the evil we cannot lurk without. I am words of adventure, of faraway places where no one knows my tongue, of curious cultures in small, back alleys, mean streets, the crumbling house in each of us. I am primordial fear, the great unknown, I am life everlasting. I touch you and you shiver, I blow in your ear and you follow me, down foggy lanes, into places you've never seen, to see things no one should see, to be someone you could only hope to be. I ride the winds of imagination on a black-and-white horse, to find the truth inside of me, to cure the ills inside of you, to take one passenger at a time over that tall mountain, across that lonely plain to a place you've never been where the world stops for just one minute and everything is right. I am a mystery. -Rides a Black and White Horse

Why did we divorce? I guess you could say we had trouble synchronizing. You know that carnival ride where two cages swing in opposite directions, going higher and higher until they go over the top? That was us. We passed each other all the time, but we never actually stopped in the same place until it was time to get off the ride.

He had held out shakily, like a tree that had been hacked down to its breaking point. But that kiss was the last swing, the final impact, and he gave in finally, felled.

They say your muscles have memory. Once you've trained your arms to swing a tennis racket or your legs to ride a bike, you can quit for a while - years even - and all it takes is picking up a racket or jumping on a bike again and your muscles remember what to do. They snap right back to performing the way you taught them. The heart is a muscle, too. And I've been training mine since I was a kid to fall in love with one particular person.

I'm sitting opposite you in the bar, waiting for you to uncross your boundaries. I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks, blazing your limbs into parts of speech.

He holds the elevator door open with one enormous hand and leans out to look at the weather. Then he swings those dark blue eyes to mine, his brow beginning to crease. The familiar bubble forms in my head. I wish he was my friend. I burst it with a pin. “I’ll give you a ride,” he forces out. “Ugh, no way,” I say over my shoulder and run.

Hey you, dragging the halo- how about a holiday in the islands of grief? Tongue is the word I wish to have with you. Your eyes are so blue they leak. Your legs are longer than a prisoner's last night on death row. I'm filthier than the coal miner's bathtub and nastier than the breath of Charles Bukowski. You're a dirty little windshield. I'm standing behind you on the subway, hard as calculus. My breath be sticking to your neck like graffiti. I'm sitting opposite you in the bar, waiting for you to uncross your boundaries. I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks, blazing your limbs into parts of speech. But with me for a lover, you won't need catastrophes. What attracted me in the first place will ultimately make me resent you. I'll start telling you lies, and my lies will sparkle, become the bad stars you chart your life by. I'll stare at other women so blatantly you'll hear my eyes peeling, because sex with you is like Great Britain: cold, groggy, and a little uptight. Your bed is a big, soft calculator where my problems multiply. Your brain is a garage I park my bullshit in, for free. You're not really my new girlfriend, just another flop sequel of the first one, who was based on the true story of my mother. You're so ugly I forgot how to spell. I'll cheat on you like a ninth grade math test, break your heart just for the sound it makes. You're the 'this' we need to put an end to. The more you apologize, the less I forgive you. So how about it?

PEOPLE SOMETIMES SHY AWAY from taking big swings because they assess the odds and build a case against trying something before they even take the first step. One of the things I’ve always instinctively felt—and something that was greatly reinforced working for people like Roone and Michael—is that long shots aren’t usually as long as they seem.

The Windhover To Christ our Lord I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

And I will now rock the brown basin from side to side so that my ships may ride the waves. Some will founder. Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. One sails alone. That is my ship. It sails into icy caverns where the sea-bear barks and stalactites swing green chains.

Have you ever suddenly realized it's someone else's mood swing and you're just along for the ride?

Getting jealous over a guy like Caleb would be like getting jealous over a swing at a public park. It was free for anyone to have a ride.

PEOPLE SOMETIMES SHY AWAY from taking big swings because they assess the odds and build a case against trying something before they even take the first step.

And I will now rock the brown basin from side to side so that my ships may ride the waves. Some will founder. Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. One sails alone. That is my ship. It sails into icy caverns where the sea-bear barks and stalactites swing green chairs. The waves rise, their crests curl; look at the lights on the mastheads. They have scattered, they have foundered, all except my ship which mounts the wave and sweeps before the gale and reaches the islands where the parrots chatter and then the creepers...

You know, having a panic attack feels like you're collapsing, like your organs are rebelling against you, and that you'd throw them up. It's like you're on a swing ride in an amusement park. At first, you're there waiting for things to happen, and for gravity to mess up with you. After a while of waiting, it starts working, and slowly you're reaching a frightening height. And it's not like you have phobia, but you certainly feel things as your chest starts tightening, you think it’d explode. Then, it's swinging and you just want to scream or jump or whatever, but you can't do that. You're tied and scared and there is no way you'd reach a solid ground.

A tire swing?

Lyra wanted to talk to the bear, and if he had been human, she would already be on familiar terms with him; but he was so strange and wild and cold that she was shy, almost for the first time in her life. So as he loped along, his great legs swinging tirelessly, she sat with the movement and said nothing. Perhaps he preferred that anyway, she thought; she must seem a little prattling cub, only just past babyhood, in the eyes of an armored bear. She had seldom considered herself before, and found the experience interesting but uncomfortable, very like riding the bear, in fact.

Toward midnight he sat in the Raney Playground swings with his broken, disloyal heart continuing to pump behind his ribs. Maybe fifty feet away his daughter was in her bed, reeling, thinking it out, a thousand betrayals and loves and resentments riding the synapses between brain and heart and back again.

Bereavement is sometimes like wading across a succession of snowfields with no landmark in sight. You are a lone small figure in a vast barren landscape. Other times it’s like a Ferris wheel ride. Like being strapped into a swinging spinning bucket. The dizzying dislocation from familiar grounded reality.

Galen and Rayna are close." I gasp. "How do you know that? I can't feel them." My heart turns traitor, beating like I just ran five miles uphill. It has nothing to do with sensing and everything to do with the mention of Galen's name. "I'm a Tracker, Emma. I can sense them from almost across the world. Especially Rayna. And from the feel of things, Galen is flittering that cute little fin of his like crazy to get back to you. Rayna must be riding on his back." "You can tell what she's doing?" "I can tell how fast she's moving. No one can swim as fast as Galen, Rayna included. He must be pretty impatient to see you." "Yeah. Impatient for me to change so he can have another royal subject to order around." Toraf's laughter startles me, not because it's loud, but because his mood seems to swing around on an axis. "Is that what you think?" he says.

The World Has Need Of You” everything here seems to need us —Rainer Maria Rilke I can hardly imagine it as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient prayer of my arms swinging in counterpoint to my feet. Here I am, suspended between the sidewalk and twilight, the sky dimming so fast it seems alive. What if you felt the invisible tug between you and everything? A boy on a bicycle rides by, his white shirt open, flaring behind him like wings. It’s a hard time to be human. We know too much and too little. Does the breeze need us? The cliffs? The gulls? If you’ve managed to do one good thing, the ocean doesn’t care. But when Newton’s apple fell toward the earth, the earth, ever so slightly, fell toward the apple.

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind. Withering my intuition leaving all these opportunities behind. Feed my will to feel this moment urging me to cross the line. Reaching out to embrace the random. Reaching out to embrace whatever may come. I embrace my desire to feel the rhythm, to feel connected enough to step aside and weep like a widow to feel inspired, to fathom the power, to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain, to swing on the spiral of our divinity and still be a human. With my feet upon the ground I lose myself between the sounds and open wide to suck it in. I feel it move across my skin. I'm reaching up and reaching out. I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me. And following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been. We'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been. Spiral out. Keep going...

There was something about the long stretch of train ride rattling out towards the suburbs and countryside that he found strangely oppressive. The same landmarks passing him by every day, again and again, marking the passage of time between a deeply unfulfilling job and a house his parents were clearly sick of sharing with him. A huge pendulum, back and forth, each swing another tally on a wasted life he’d never get back.

Xaden's head snaps in my direction. 'Violence?' I take a step and then another, holding my frame upright with muscle memory I didn't have last year, and begin to cross. Xaden swings his legs up and then fucking jumps to his feet. 'Turn around right now!' he shouts. 'Come with me,' I call over the wind, bracing myself as gust whips my skirt against my legs. 'Should have gone with the pants,' I mutter and keep walking. He's already coming my way, his strides just as long and confident as if he was on solid ground, eating up the distance between us as I move forward slowly until we meet. 'What the fuck are you doing out here?' he asks, locking his hands on my waist. He's in riding leathers, not a dress uniform, and he's never looked better. What am I doing out here? I'm risking everything to reach him. And if he rejects me... No. There's no room for fear on the parapet. 'I could ask you the same thing.' His eyes widen. 'You could have fallen and died!' 'I could say the same thing.' I smile, but it's shaky. The look in his eyes is wild, like he's been driven past the point where he can contain himself in the neat, apathetic façade he usually wears in public. It doesn't scare me. I like him better when he's real with me, anyway. 'And did you stop to think that if you fall and die, then I can die?' He leans in and my pulse jumps. 'Again,' I say softly, resting my hands on his firm chest, right above his heartbeat, 'I could say the same thing.' Even if Xaden's death wouldn't kill Sgaeyl, I'm not sure I could survive it.' Shadows rise, darker than the night that surrounds us. 'You're forgetting that I wield shadows, Violence. I'm just as safe out here as I am in the courtyard. Are you going to wield lightning to break your fall?' Fine. That's a good point. 'I... perhaps did not think that part through as thoroughly as you,' I admit. I wanted to be close to him, so I got close, parapet be damned.' 'You're seriously going to be the death of me.' His fingers flex at my waist. 'Go back.' It's not a rejection, not with the way he's looking at me. We've been sparring emotionally for the past month, hell, even longer than that, and one of us has to expose our jugular. I finally trust him enough to know he won't go for the kill. 'Only if you do. I want to be whereever you are.' And I mean it. Everyone else- everything else in the world can fall away and I won't care as long as I'm with him.

It is dark for archery,’ said Gimli. ‘Indeed it is time for sleep. Sleep! I feel the need of it, as never I thought any dwarf could. Riding is tiring work. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!

The Last Hero The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day, There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away, And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide, Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride. The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars, With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars, Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above, The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love. Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain, You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain. The chance of battle changes -- so may all battle be; I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me. I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise, More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes. She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine; The sunset never loved me, the wind was never mine. Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse? Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress. O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown, You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown. The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day, They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way, I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers, As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers. How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave, Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave. Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie, When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky. The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose, -- You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes. Know you what earth shall lose to-night, what rich uncounted loans, What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones? My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease, Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas. To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given, The blow that breaks my brow to-night shall break the dome of heaven. The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see, To-night I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me; One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath: You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.

I pass a construction site, abandoned for the night, and a few blocks later, the playground of the elementary school my son attended, the metal sliding board gleaming under a streetlamp and the swings stirring in the breeze. There's an energy to these autumn nights that touches something primal inside of me. Something from long ago. From my childhood in western Iowa. I think of high school football games and the stadium lights blazing down on the players. I smell ripening apples, and the sour reek of beer from keg parties in the cornfields. I feel the wind in my face as I ride in the bed of an old pickup truck down a country road at night, dust swirling in the taillights and the entire span of my life yawning out ahead o me. It's the beautiful thing about youth. There's a weightlessness that permeates everything because no damning choices have been made, no paths committed to, and the road forking out ahead is pure, unlimited potential. I love my life, but I haven't felt that lightness of being in ages. Autumn nights like this are as close as I get.

He held out his hand. “Need help down?” “I can manage.” Hopefully. She’d never admit it—especially not to this arrogant gnat—but this was the first time she remembered riding a horse, and she knew for certain this was her first time dismounting on her own. Elmery exhaled and gripped the horse’s mane. The two men continued chatting, occasionally waving to the others riding in. She could do this. Surely a learned woman of twenty-four summers could climb off a horse with minimal risk of injury, death, or embarrassment. Praying the massive beast beneath her remained still, she slowly attempted to swing her leg over the horse’s back. Her slipper fell off, landing with an inglorious plop on the right side.

We said our goodbyes to Eurytion, Tyson pulled the cattle grid off the hole and we dropped back into the maze. I wish I could’ve put the mechanical spider on a leash. It scuttled along the tunnels so fast that most of time I couldn’t even see it. If it hadn’t been for Tyson’s and Grover’s excellent hearing, we never would’ve known which way it was going. We ran down a marble tunnel, then dashed to the left and almost fell into an abyss. Tyson grabbed me and hauled me back before I could fall. The tunnel continued in front of us, but there was no floor for about thirty metres, just gaping darkness and a series of iron rungs in the ceiling. The mechanical spider was about halfway across, swinging from bar to bar by shooting out metal web fibre. ‘Monkey bars,’ Annabeth said. ‘I’m great at these.’ She leaped onto the first rung and started swinging her way across. She was scared of tiny spiders, but not of plummeting to her death from a set of monkey bars. Go figure. Annabeth got to the opposite side and ran after the spider. I followed. When I got across, I looked back and saw Tyson giving Grover a piggyback ride (or was it a goatyback ride?).

Hope swears, “You’re different, you matter.” She whispers, “Miracles happen.” She says, often quite reasonably, “New treatments are being developed all the time.” She promises, “You’ll beat the odds.” A hundred to one? A thousand to one? A million to one? “Eight to five”, hope lies. Odds are when your time comes, you won’t even ask for or against. You’ll swing up on that horse and ride.

I want to write this down, that revolution is like a merry-go-round, history always being made somewhere. And maybe for a short time, we’re part of that history. And then the ride stops and our turn is over. We walk slowly toward the park, where I can already see the big swings empty and waiting for me. And after I write it down, maybe I’ll end it this way. My name is Jacqueline Woodson and I am ready for the ride.

The Truth the Dead Know For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959 and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959 Gone, I say and walk from church, refusing the stiff procession to the grave, letting the dead ride alone in the hearse. It is June. I am tired of being brave. We drive to the Cape. I cultivate myself where the sun gutters from the sky, where the sea swings in like an iron gate and we touch. In another country people die. My darling, the wind falls in like stones from the whitehearted water and when we touch we enter touch entirely. No one's alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone. Anne Sexton was a model who became a confessional poet, writing about intimate aspects of her life, after her doctor suggested that she take up poetry as a form of therapy. She studied under Robert Lowell at Boston University, where Sylvia Plath was one of her classmates. Sexton won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1967, but later committed suicide via carbon monoxide poisoning. Topics she covered in her poems included adultery, masturbation, menstruation, abortion, despair and suicide.

there are restraining cuffs on each corner. Above it is an expansive iron grid suspended from the ceiling, eight-foot square at least, and from it hang all manner of ropes, chains, and glinting shackles. By the door, two long, polished, ornately carved poles, like spindles from a banister but longer, hang like curtain rods across the wall. From them swing a startling assortment of paddles, whips, riding crops, and funny-looking feathery implements.

On the afternoon of Tuesday, August 14, 1984, three children—Germaine (“Jamie”) Elinor Rowan, Adam Robert Ryan and Peter Joseph Savage, all aged twelve—were playing in the road where their houses stood, in the small County Dublin town of Knocknaree. As it was a hot, clear day, many residents were in their gardens, and numerous witnesses saw the children at various times during the afternoon, balancing along the wall at the end of the road, riding their bicycles and swinging on a tire swing.

A moment later, as he pulls away from the curb, I’m assuming the ride to school will be awkward with my sister in the back. It’s confirmed when she asks, “So what’s the deal with you and my sister?” He laughs shortly and rubs the back of his neck like something is there, tickling, tapping. “Tamra.” Clutching the dashboard, I turn and glare at her. “There is no deal.” She snorts. “Well, we wouldn’t be sitting here if that was the case now, would we?” I open my mouth to demand she end the interrogation when Will’s voice stops me. “I like your sister. A lot.” I look at him dumbly. He looks at me, lowers his voice to say, “I like you.” I know that, I guess, but heat still crawls over my face. I swing forward in my seat, cross my arms over my chest and stare straight ahead. Can’t stop shivering. Can’t speak. My throat hurts too much. “Jacinda,” he says. “I think you’ve shocked her,” Tamra offers, then sighs. “Look, if you like her, you have to make it legit. I don’t want everyone at school whispering about her like she’s some toy you get your kicks with in a stairwell.” Now I really can’t speak. My blood burns. I already have one mother doing her best to control my life. I don’t need my sister stepping in as mother number two. I know,” he says. “That’s what I’m trying to do now—if she’ll let me.” I feel his gaze on the side of my face. Anxious. Waiting. I look at him. A breath shudders from me at the intensity in his eyes. He’s serious. But then he would have to be. If he’s willing to break free of his self-imposed solitude for me, especially when he suspects there’s more to me than I’m telling him . . . he means what he’s saying. His thumb beats a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel as he drives. “I want to be with you, Jacinda.” He shakes his head. “I’m dong fighting it.” “Jeez,” Tamra mutters. And I know what she means. It seems too much. The declaration extreme. Fast. After all, we’re only sixteen . . . I start, jerk a little. I think he’s sixteen.

One Or Two Things Mary Oliver 1 Don't bother me I've just been born. 2 The butterfly's loping flight carries it through the country of the leaves delicately, and well enough to get it where it wants to go, wherever that is, stopping here and there to fuzzle the damp throats of flowers and the black mud; up and down it swings, frenzied and aimless; and sometimes for long delicious moments it is perfectly lazy, riding motionless in the breeze of the soft stalk of some ordinary flower 3 The god of dirt came up to me many times and said so many wise and delectable things; I lay on the grass listening to his dog voice, crow voice, frog voice; now he said, and now, and never once mentioned forever, 4 which has nevertheless always been, like a sharp iron hoof, at the center of my mind. 5 One or two things are all you need to travel over the blue pond, over the deep roughage of the trees and through the stiff flowers of lightning --- some deep memory of pleasure, some cutting knowledge of pain. 6 But to lift the hoof! For that you need an idea. 7 For years and years I struggled just to love my life. And then the butterfly rose, weightless, in the wind. "Don't love your life too much," it said, and vanished into the world.

Phenomenal Woman Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms, The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them, They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing, It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, The palm of my hand, The need for my care. 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.

The Truth the Dead Know" For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959 and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959 Gone, I say and walk from church, refusing the stiff procession to the grave, letting the dead ride alone in the hearse. It is June. I am tired of being brave. We drive to the Cape. I cultivate myself where the sun gutters from the sky, where the sea swings in like an iron gate and we touch. In another country people die. My darling, the wind falls in like stones from the whitehearted water and when we touch we enter touch entirely. No one's alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in their stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

It didn’t occur to him to think that better is not the same as well. Was he fooling himself? He would not have said so. Even at twenty-two, when his diagnosis was confirmed, he was realistic. Most suffer. Everyone dies. He knew how, if not when. Now more than ever, he was determined to cheat the Fates of entertainment, but naturally, his time would come. When it did, he believed he would accept death as Socrates had: with cool philosophical distance. He would say something funny, or profound, or loving. Then he would let life fall gracefully from his hands. Horseshit, as James Earp would say, of the highest order. The truth is this. On the morning of August 14, 1878, Doc Holliday believed in his own death exactly as you do—today, at this very moment. He knew that he was mortal, just as you do. Of course, you know you’ll die someday, but … not quite the same way you know that the sun will rise tomorrow or that dropped objects fall. The great bitch-goddess Hope sees to that. Sit in a physician’s office. Listen to a diagnosis as bad as Doc’s. Beyond the first few words, you won’t hear a thing. The voice of Hope is soft but impossible to ignore. This isn’t happening, she assures you. There’s been a mix-up with the tests. Hope swears, You’re different. You matter. She whispers, Miracles happen. She says, often quite reasonably, New treatments are being developed all the time! She promises, You’ll beat the odds. A hundred to one? A thousand to one? A million to one? Eight to five, Hope lies. Odds are, when your time comes, you won’t even ask, “For or against?” You’ll swing up on that horse, and ride.

My arm reaches up. I don't know if I'm reaching for the pipe or for him. I want to touch his skin. I want to breathe in what he breathes. The yellow swirl. I want to be the yellow swirl. I want him to breathe me in, be sent riding on oxygen molecules deep into lungs. I want to travel through his body, seeing what makes him happy, attaching myself to whatever place in him sparks to life on my arrival. His blood. His tissues. His muscles. I want to burrow inside the folds like a wind-blown dusting of snow so that each time I melt away, he seeks me out again. There's no delineation between the pipe and the smoke and his body. It's all whole, I want in. I want him. 'Please,' I say softly, 'let me try.' Without letting go of the pipe, he swings his hand holding the lighter with incredible force, backhanding my face. My jaw pops. The lighter swings back under the pipe undulating back and forth, inhaling the curl as it rises from the tar, exactly the same as before he hit me, only now he's staring at me, hating me.

Thanks for the ride.It was really nice of you." "No worrie. Since I'm down here, maybe I'll swing by Geno's for a cheesesteak." He shook his head. "You saw what was in my fridge." "I did. Alex..." I could ask. It would be so easy. A pizza,some of Nonna's fettuccine... "I had a good time," I told him. Coward, I scolded myself. "I didn't expect to." "Yeah,well,you can't beat a good raptor attack. Next time before we get started, I'll show you my French comic book collection..." He wiggled his eyebrows at me in perv fashion. "Then we'll work." "Okay," I agreed. "Sounds good." I started up the sidewalk. Instead of going home,I'd decided to go over to Marino's. Offer to peel garlic or something.Dad would appreciate it. "Hey,Ella." I turned. "Yeah?" "I'll see you tomorrow." I must have looked blank. "At the dance," he added. "Oh.Yeah.See you tomorrow." I turned back toward the restaurant. "Hey,Ella." "Yeah?" "J'ai passe un tres bon moment, aussi." When I just stared at him again, he snorted. "Work it out." I did,but not before he'd driven away. He'd had a really good time,too.

Now that we've come up with all the obvious answers to our problem, it's time to come up with some truly ridiculous ones." "Ridiculous?" asked Brasque. "Yes, ridiculous. Think of something impossible, improbable or downright ridiculous and go from there." "Like we all flap our arms and fly out of here," said Katherine. "Exactly!" said Spider. "How about we form a long line all the way to the mountains and pass the charges along it?" said Brasque. "Excellent," said Spider. "Keep it coming." "What if we each carry one charge, run back, carry another, and so on?" said Tom, getting into the swing of things. "Lovely!" laughed Spider. "Now we're cooking." The shower of sparks shot out of the top of the Amadragon. Joe shielded his eyes with his hand. "Yeah, and we can all climb on the Amadragon and ride out of here," he said. "What was that, Joe?" said Spider, suddenly dropping the jokey manner. "What's the Amadragon?" Katherine's eyes glittered. "He means that," she said, pointing at the excavator. Everyone except Spider turned and looked. "He's talking about the giant machine, the one that keeps shooting sparks in the air." Spider cocked his ear and listened to the rumble of the Amadragon's engine. "So Orlemann built the dragon, did he?" he said. "I'd been wondering what the noise was. If they built it to the original specifications, it should get us out of here within an hour. Let's pray that will give us enough time!

Claims were made decades after the campaign by Jérôme and Larrey that Napoleon’s lethargy was the result of his suffering from haemorrhoids which incapacitated him after Ligny.74 ‘My brother, I hear that you suffer from piles,’ Napoleon had written to Jérôme in May 1807. ‘The simplest way to get rid of them is to apply three or four leeches. Since I used this remedy ten years ago, I haven’t been tormented again.’75 But was he in fact tormented? This might be the reason why he spent hardly any time on horseback during the battle of Waterloo – visiting the Grand Battery once at 3 p.m. and riding along the battlefront at 6 p.m. – and why he twice retired to a farmhouse at Rossomme about 1,500 yards behind the lines for short periods.76 He swore at his page, Gudin, for swinging him on to his saddle too violently at Le Caillou in the morning, later apologizing, saying: ‘When you help a man to mount, it’s best done gently.’77 General Auguste Pétiet, who was on Soult’s staff at Waterloo, recalled that His pot-belly was unusually pronounced for a man of forty-five. Furthermore, it was noticeable during this campaign that he remained on horseback much less than in the past. When he dismounted, either to study maps or else to send messages and receive reports, members of his staff would set before him a small deal table and a rough chair made of the same wood, and on this he would remain seated for long periods at a time.78

Violet’s not getting out of our sight,” Arion adds. There’s a moment of just staring…like everyone is trying to silently argue. “No one naked in my car,” Mom states when I just stand in my spot, waiting on them to hurry through the push and pull. You really can tell how thick the air is when too many alphas are in the room at one time, but weirdly it never feels this way when it’s just the four of them. Unless punches are thrown. Then it gets a little heavier than normal. Arion pulls on his clothes, and threads whir in the air as I quickly fashion Emit a lopsided toga that lands on his body. Everyone’s gaze swings to him like it’s weird for him and normal for me to be in a toga. Awesome. Damien muffles a sound, Emit arches an eyebrow at me, and Arion remains rigid, staying close to me but never touching me. All of us squeezing into a car together while most of them hate each other…should be fun. The storm finally stops before we board the elevator, and it’s one of those super awkward elevator moments where no one is looking at anyone or saying anything, and everyone is trying to stay in-the-moment serious. We stop on the floor just under us, after the longest thirty-five seconds ever. The doors open, and two men glance around at Emit and I in our matching togas, even though his is the fitted sheet and riding up in some funny places. He looks like a caveman who accidentally bleached and shrank his wardrobe. I palm my face, embarrassed for him. The next couple of floors are super awkward with the addition of the two new, notably uncomfortable men. Worst seventy-nine seconds ever. Math doesn’t add up? Yeah. I’m upset about those extra nine seconds as well. Poor Emit has to duck out of the unusually small elevator, and the bottom of his ass cheek plays peek-a-boo on one side. Damien finally snorts, and even Mom struggles to keep a straight face. That really pisses her off. “You’re seeing him on an off day,” I tell the two guys, who stare at my red boots for a second. I feel the need to defend Emit a little, especially since I now know he overheard all that gibberish Tiara was saying… I can’t remember all I said, and it’s worrying me now that my mind has gone off on this stupid tangent. I trip over the hem of my toga, and Arion snags me before I hit the floor, righting me and showing his hands to my mother with a quick grin. “Can’t just let her fall,” he says unapologetically. “You’re going to have to learn to deal with that,” she bites out. She has a very good point. I don’t trip very often, but things and people usually knock me around a good bit of my life. The two guys look like they want to run, so I hurry to fix this. “Really, it’s a long story, but I swear Emit—the tallest one in the fitted-sheet-toga—generally wears pants…er…I guess you guys call them trousers over here. Anyway, we had some plane problems,” I carry on, and then realize I have to account for the fact we’re both missing clothing. “Then there was a fire that miraculously only burned our clothes, because Emit put all my flames out by smothering me with his body,” I state like that’s exactly what happened. Why do they look so scared? I’m not telling a scary lie. At this point, I’ve just made it worse, and fortunately Damien takes mercy, clamping his hand over my mouth as he starts steering me toward the door before I can make it…whatever comes after worse but before the worst. “Thank you,” sounds more like “Mmdi ooooo,” against his hand, but he gets the gist, as he grins. Mom makes a frustrated sound. “Another minute, and she’d be bragging about his penis size in quest to save his dignity. Did you really want to hear that?” Damien asks her, forcing me to groan against his hand.

I like storms. Thunder, torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain. Don't ask me why. But it’s like this whole other realm of opportunity. I used to feel like a superhero, riding my bike over the dangerously slick roads, or maybe an Olympic athlete enduring rough trials to make it to the finish line. On sunny days, as a girl, I could still wake up to that thrilled feeling. You made me giddy with expectation, just like a symphonic rainstorm. You were a tempest in the sun, the thunder in a boring, cloudless sky. I remember I’d shovel in my breakfast as fast as I could, so I could go knock on your door. We’d play all day, only coming back for food and sleep. We played hide and seek, you’d push me on the swing, or we’d climb trees. Being your sidekick gave me a sense of home again. You see, when I was ten, my mom died. She had cancer, and I lost her before I really knew her. My world felt so insecure, and I was scared. You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you. I missed my mom. What was worse than losing you, was when you started to hurt me. Your words and actions made me hate coming to school. They made me uncomfortable in my own home. Everything still hurts, but I know none of it is my fault. There are a lot of words that I could use to describe you, but the only one that includes sad, angry, miserable, and pitiful is “coward.” I a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought.

Then, on a left-hand curve 2.8 kilometres from the finish line, Marco delivers another cutting acceleration. Tonkov is immediately out of the saddle. The gap reaches two lengths. Tonkov fights his way back and is on Marco’s wheel when Marco, who is still standing on the pedals, accelerates again. Suddenly Tonkov is no longer there. Afterwards Tonkov would say he could no longer feel his hands and feet. ‘I had to stop. I lost his slipstream. I couldn’t go on.’ Marco told Romano Cenni he could taste blood. His performance on Montecampione was close to self-mutilation. Seven hundred metres from the finish line, the TV camera on the inside of the final right-hand bend, looking down the hill, picks Marco up over two hundred metres from the line and follows him for fifty metres, a fifteen-second close-up, grainy, pallid in the late-afternoon light. A car and motorbike, diffused and ghostlike, pass between the camera and Marco, emerging out of the gloom. The image cuts to another camera, tight on him as he swings round into the finishing straight, a five-second flash before the live, wide shot of the stage finish: Marco, framed between ecstatic fans on either side, and the finish-line scaffolding adorned with race sponsors‘ logos; largest, and centrally, the Gazzetta dello Sport, surrounded by branding for iced tea, shower gel, telephone services. Then we see it again in the super-slow-motion replay; the five seconds between the moment Marco appeared in the closing straight and the moment he crossed the finish line are extruded to fifteen strung-out seconds. The image frames his head and little else, revealing details invisible in real time and at standard resolution: a drop of sweat that falls from his chin as he makes the bend, the gaping jaw and crumpled forehead and lines beneath the eyes that deepen as Marco wrings still more speed from the mountain. As he rides towards victory in the Giro d‘Italia, Marco pushes himself so deeply into the pain of physical exertion that the gaucheness he has always shown before the camera dissolves, and — this must be the instant he crosses the line — he begins to rise out of his agony. The torso lifts to vertical, the arms spread out into a crucifix position, the eyelids descend, and Marco‘s face, altered by the darkness he has seen in his apnoea, lifts towards the light.

I told you before--you mustn’t let Edward scare you. He’s a bully and a coward. What would Frank Merriwell do if he were you?” Frank Merriwell--I was thoroughly sick of hearing that name. “I don’t care what some dumb guy in a story would do. I’m not going to fight Edward.” “Fight me then.” Hannah raised her fists and danced around on her bare feet, bouncing, ducking, and swinging at the air around my head. “Pretend I’m Edward!” I ducked a punch, and she swung again. “Put up your dukes,” she ordered, “defend yourself, sir.” This time Hannah clipped my chin hard enough to knock me down. Her shirtwaist was completely untucked, her face was smudged, her hair was tumbling down her back and hanging in her eyes. “On your feet, sir,” she shouted. “Let’s see your fighting spirit!” Hannah was making so much noise she didn’t hear John Larkin push aside the branches and enter the grove. When he saw her take another swing at me, he started laughing. Hannah whirled around, her face scarlet, and stared at John. “What do you mean by sneaking up on us like a common Peeping Tom?” “With the noise you’ve been making, you wouldn’t have noticed a herd of rampaging elephants.” John was still laughing, but Hannah was furious. Putting her fists on her hips, she scowled at him. “Well, now you know the truth about me. I’m no lady and I never claimed to be one. I suppose you’ll start taking Amelia Carter for rides in your precious tin lizzie and treating her to sodas at your father’s drugstore. I’m sure she’d never brawl with her brothers.” Theo and I looked at each other. We were both hoping Hannah would make John leave. Before he came along and ruined everything, we’d been having fun. To my disappointment, John didn’t seem to realize he was unwanted. Leaning against a tree, he watched Hannah run her hands through her hair. “I don’t know what you’re so fired up about,” he said. “Why should I want to take Amelia anywhere? I’ve never met a more boring girl. As for her brothers--a little brawling wouldn’t hurt them. Or Amelia either.” Hannah turned away, her face flushed, and John winked at me. “Your sister’s first rate,” he said, “but I wager I know a sight more about boxing than she does. Why not let me show you a thing or two?” Happy again, Hannah smiled at John. “What a grand idea! But go slow, Andrew’s still weak.” When John took off his jacket, I edged closer to Hannah. “I like your lessons,” I said to her, scowling at John. He was rolling up his sleeves, probably to show off his muscles. Next to him, I was nothing but a skinny little baby. He’d knock me flat and everyone would laugh at me.

The guys showed me to ride on the far inside of the straightaways, swinging out at the last second to take the turns at full speed. Holding the inside made it nearly impossible for anyone to attack into a corner, and easy for the team to control the race.

The two of us sat back down in the swing and continued sitting side-by-side the first Day of June; moving to-and-fro in the swing on the front porch. A soothing summer breeze caught a ride on the south wind and blew across our faces. I enjoyed endless days and nights sitting, sighing, lying, walking, and talking alongside my best friend..." Lone Walk From Panther Creek

Her face was still rosy from the carriage ride and exertion of the swing. In his view, this Margaret Macy was far more appealing than the powdered, perfectly coiffed lady of the ballroom. She looked unaffected, spirited, and breathtakingly beautiful. Had her father not been in the room he likely would have said so.

In jazz, time is your friend, and when you find your own swing, or the swing time in any group activity, actual time flies, yes. But it’s flying to where you want to be. And when you get there, you realize the ride is the destination. That’s the joy of swinging.

She straddles me, ass to my face, reverse cowgirl, tangled hair swinging. And son of a bitch, the woman can ride.

THE ONE- TO TWO-HOUR WINDOW Think and plan how you want to soothe your baby, but know that when you soothe your baby is more important. • Babies quickly become overtired after only one or two hours of wakefulness, and some cannot comfortably stay up for even one hour! During the day, note the time when your baby wakes up and try to help her nap by soothing within the next one or two hours before she becomes overtired. Try to keep the intervals of wakefulness brief. • Babies less than six weeks old fall asleep at night very late and do not sleep very long during the day or night. Try to soothe your baby to sleep during the day before she becomes overtired. Always respond to your baby. Avoid the overtired state. • Eighty percent of babies more than six weeks old become more settled at night, sleep a little longer at night, and begin to become drowsy for night sleep at an earlier hour. Try to soothe your baby to sleep at an earlier hour if she shows signs of drowsiness earlier. Do not let her cry. • Twenty percent of babies more than six weeks old do not appear to become more settled at night, do not appear to sleep longer at night, and do not become drowsy at an earlier hour. Nevertheless, try to soothe your baby to sleep at an earlier hour even if she does not show signs of drowsiness earlier. Spend extra time soothing: prolonged swinging, long luxurious baths, and never-ending car rides. Fathers should put forth extra effort to help out. Do not let her cry.

축구 조작경기 Swlook.com 가입코드 : win24 「〃Swlook.cℴm〃가입코드: win24〃」 단폴제제없는 메이저 사설놀이터 Swing 입니다. 신규가입 첫충 10% / 매일충전 5% Event 진행중 네임드사다리 로하이 농구쿼터실시간 스타 롤 등등, 타 업체 대비 최고의 배당률 & 다양한 경기 지원! 다폴더보너스,스페셜보너스 등 다양한 이벤트를 통해 머니 지급! 까다로운 보안으로 여러분의 안전을 책임집니다.And then the officer saw something that filled his heart with horror. A man on a horse was riding down into the valley through the air!

Out of the first carriage stepped Bran, his hair loose and shining under a rakish plumed hat. He was dressed in a magnificent tunic and glossy high blackweave riding boots, with a lined cloak slung over one shoulder. He grinned at me--then he turned and, with a gesture of practiced grace that made me blink, handed out a lady. A lady? I gawked in dismay at the impressive hat and muffling cloak that spanned a broad skirt, and looked down at myself, in an old skirt Oria had discarded, a worn tunic that I hadn’t bothered to change after my sword lesson that morning, and my bare feet. Then I noticed that Julen and Oria had vanished. I stood there all alone. In fine style Bran escorted the mysterious lady to the new slate steps leading to the big double doors where I stood, but then he dropped her arm and bounded up, grabbing me in a big hug and swinging me around. “Sister!” He gave me a resounding kiss and set me down. “Place looks wonderful!” “You could have let me know you were bringing a guest,” I whispered. “And spoil a good surprise?” he asked, indicating the lady, who was still standing on the first step. “We have plenty of room, and as you’d told me in your letter the place isn’t such a rattrap anymore, I thought why not make the trip fun and bring ‘em?” “‘Them?’” I repeated faintly, but by then I already had my answer, for the outriders had resolved into a lot of liveried servants who were busy unloading coaches and helping stablehands. Through the midst of them strolled a tall, elegant man in a heel-length black cloak. I looked at the familiar gray eyes, the long yellow hair--it was the Marquis of Shevraeth.

World-class rower Craig Lambert has described how it feels in Mind Over Water (Houghton Mifflin, 1998): Rowers have a word for this frictionless state: swing. . . . Recall the pure joy of riding on a backyard swing: an easy cycle of motion, the momentum coming from the swing itself. The swing carries us; we do not force it. We pump our legs to drive our arc higher, but gravity does most of the work. We are not so much swinging as being swung. The boat swings you. The shell wants to move fast: Speed sings in its lines and nature. Our job is simply to work with the shell, to stop holding it back with our thrashing struggles to go faster. Trying too hard sabotages boat speed. Trying becomes striving and striving undoes itself. Social climbers strive to be aristocrats but their efforts prove them no such thing. Aristocrats do not strive; they have already arrived. Swing is a state of arrival. The

It’s only an hour later that a servant comes to my room. And when she tells me the duke has invited me out for a horseback ride, I’m flooded with the strangest mix of emotions. I can’t believe that after running off like that, he still wants to hang out. What is going on between us? And why do I want so desperately for it to be something? I shouldn’t want anything. Not with a guy like him. I mean, yeah, I might have been wrong about the illegitimate kid and Lord Brimmon, but the dude still thinks I don’t have opinions or options because I’m a girl. He thinks I have a “place, my place” and that it’s behind a guy. And worse, I keep thinking about our kiss. The part where I bash into the wall in my haste to get away is a particular highlight on the reel I keep playing over and over again in my head. When I walk out the back of the house and he turns to look at me, it’s impossible to fight the burn in my cheeks as he steps up beside me and the horse. I can’t look at him. I’m so embarrassed I stare at the stirrup as if it will take all concentration to get my foot into it. Is he going to say anything? Is he going to apologize for just…kissing me like that? Maybe if he brings it up…Maybe if he apologizes, I can apologize too. For running off. It was so sudden all I could do was react. But he says nothing. He just steps up beside me and gives me a boost. I’m up on the first try and feeling rather proud of myself as I situate my pretty skirts so they drape over my ankles. Until, that is, I see him swing aboard and am reminded of how graceful and easy he makes it look, even when his horse swings away from him when he’s only halfway on. We ride past the stable, and when I glance in, I see one of the stable boys showing the other how to do the robot, his arms stuck out at odd angles, his hands dangling. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when I see Alex’s eyebrows shoot up so high they’re nearly to his hairline. It’s nice seeing him caught off-guard. I like it. It makes me want to do something totally crazy, just to see his expression.

I know when people think of New York, they think of theater, restaurants, cultural landmarks and shopping,” I told him. “But beyond the iconic skyline and the news from Wall Street, New York is a collection of villages. In our neighborhoods, we attend school, play Kick the Can, handball and ride our bikes. I grew up knowing the names and faces of the baker, the shoe repair family, the Knish man and the Good Humor man who sold me and the other kids in my neighborhood half a popsicle for a nickel. My father took me to the playground where he pushed me on the swing, helped balance me on the seesaw and watched as I hung upside down by my feet on the monkey bars. Yes,” I told the interviewer, “people actually grow up in New York.

That’s the nature of addiction. For many people, eating involves constant swings from unpleasantly hungry to uncomfortably full. On this roller-coaster ride, highly processed food may provide a few minutes of enjoyment, but it quickly sets us up for the next downward swing, with negative effects on our physical and mental well-being.

We flew into the small airfield in Monrovia where we were met by Jimmy, Captain Duffy’s assistant. It didn’t take long, driving on the back streets to get to the city hospital. Jimmy carefully avoided many of the potholes that pockmarked the wet streets but without seatbelts it was a bumpy ride that I wouldn’t want to repeat! One German and two Liberian doctors along with some orderlies shared the responsibilities of running the hospital. A few local nurses and attendants completed the staff. These few people were all they had to do everything, and I guess the hospital was lucky to have them. One of the attendants wearing a bloodstained shirt accompanied us on our way to the morgue. As he opened the large swinging door I was hit by an unmistakable sweet pungent odor of death that nearly caused me to throw up right there on the spot. Not having as much as a handkerchief to keep out the smell, I simply covered my nose and mouth with my hand and followed the attendant into the metal building. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from the still bright afternoon sun to the dark interior of the shed, but as they did, I witnessed a sight I can never forget. In the heat of this building were a few bloated, decaying naked cadavers lying on planks, with hundreds of flies swarming around them. If they didn’t have sheets for the living, it couldn’t be expected that there would be any for the dead. Turning on the single lightbulb hanging over a stainless-steel tray table with a corpse on it, allowed us to see the room better. The naked body directly in front of me, with its mutilated head propped up by a block of wood, was startling and is still vivid to this day. Although a part of his skull was crushed in, I could see where crabs had been eating the side of his face. Despite this mutilation I could instantly tell that it was Olaf. His ashen face had a stubble growth on it and the grey, gaping, bloodless wound on his forehead showed that he had either been in a terrible accident or murdered! There was no doubt as to what had happened to Olaf and I knew that it wasn’t an accident. Murder was commonplace in Liberia, especially in Monrovia.

People sometimes shy away from big swings because they build a case against trying something before they even step up to the plate. Long shots aren’t usually as long as they seem. With enough thoughtfulness and commitment, the boldest ideas can be executed.

The language, in fact, was Danish. After a moment, Nilsson recognized the lyrics, Jacobsen’s Songs of Gurre, and Schönberg’s melodies for them. The call of King Valdemar’s men, raised from their coffins to follow him on the spectral ride that he was condemned to lead, snarled forth. “Be greeted, King, here by Gurre Lake! Across the island our hunt we take, From stringless bow let the arrow fly That we have aimed with a sightless eye. We chase and strike at the shadow hart, And dew like blood from the wound will start. Night raven swinging And darkly winging, And leafage foaming where hoofs are ringing, So shall we hunt ev’ry night, they say, Until that hunt on the Judgment Day. Holla, horse, and holla, hound, Stop awhile upon this ground! Here’s the castle which erstwhile was. Feed your horses on thistledown; Man may eat of his own renown.” She started to go on with the next stanza, Valdemar’s cry to his lost darling; but she faltered and went directly to his men’s words as dawn breaks over them. “The cock lifts up his head to crow, Has the day within him, And morning dew is running red With rust, from off our swords. Past is the moment! Graves are calling with open mouths, And earth sucks down ev’ry light-shy horror. Sink ye, sink ye! Strong and radiant, life comes forth With deeds and hammering pulses. And we are death folk, Sorrow and death folk, Anguish and death folk. To graves! To graves! To dream-bewildered sleep— Oh, could we but rest peaceful!

A Piece of Heaven Just For You by Maisie Aletha Smikle Just for you I will climb To the mountain peak Just for you I will dive in the ocean deep For you My love The valley is never too wide I will tread plateaus and plains And ride camels on their reins Just for you My beloved Just for you I will swim and thread rivers and seas Paddle through the frosty snow and icy breeze Just for you My darling I will do triathlons around the circumference of the globe Trek rocky grounds And slippery slopes Just for you My darling I will zipline from the north pole to the south pole I will swing from the treetops And parachute from the backdrop Just for you My darling Just for you I will sing And cook a pot of stew Just for you my love I will climb the stairs of heaven To reach the clouds And bring back a piece of heaven Just for you my beloved

What I want is to spend a day at the beach that starts with us covering each other in sunscreen and laughing. What I want is to take her to my school carnival and promise her a medium-soda-sized wish if she can grab my hand on the swing ride. What I want is for her to grab my hand and lead me through the woods, back in time to that first moment I saw her, when we were thirteen. Maybe, if I’d kissed her at summer camp, things would have gone differently. Maybe then we wouldn’t have caught TB, or wound up at Latham, or fallen in love.

Sapphic Chords On what marble stones would you scratch your love today? Spray it on brick walls, rap it in pool halls, hang it on the clothes line with you lingerie? Oh, Sappho! Would you swing a softball bat, wear lipstick, ride a Harley? What novels would you pen, what political party? Is that really tenderness in your final line, or do words hang for what you couldn't say? What remnants you left behind, too little but enough for us to know the luxury of your lust. Your heat, your wisdom, your passion - all left in fragmented trust. Oh, Sappho!

Thirty-five years of intimidating and dreary Islamic rule had created a rose-tinted view of the pre-revolutionary era. The arrests, the intimidation, the decadence of the elite, the horrors of SAVAK; it had all been forgotten, replaced by a revised, romantic version of the good old days. Among Iranians of a certain age and class, the swinging sixties and seventies are recalled with a poetic yearning nostalgia; an era of mini-skirts, freedom and hedonism.

Some people like just to unlike, run just to slow down. fly just to crash, hug just to thrash, and swim just to drown. In an attempt to get you bound on their merry-go-round. Their speed, their rules, their weak power tools, and inefficient fuels. Reducing you to spoils. I stay clear of that ride and remain at the swings in my swing with no mainstream strings determining my well being, I swing. Bend my knees back, then tilt my feet up. Keep my head high, and keep a full cup of blessings. Higher and higher with no bar limitation, the swing’s just a metaphor that means elevation. I look at the creation and am filled with inspiration. I’m a child of the King, and that’s my motivation.

There were about 20 pikeys surrounding this bloke who looked like he should be in a cage. I swear he was 6ft 8in and about the same across. His boat had been shifted around so often he didn’t look human. I whispered to Kenny. ‘Hope you got a better deal than 500.’ He said, ‘We’ll walk away with two grand from this one. He ain’t as tough as he looks.’ I said, ‘How do you know?’ I just got that big grin again. ‘I don’t, I’m just trying to cheer you up.’ We all moved back away from the flashing lights of the rides, and they formed a large ring. No formalities, no bell. Just, ‘Go on, boys.’ I steamed straight in putting all my weight behind four or five solid belts. Every “one connected on his arms. I tried to come up under and do his ribs in but I couldn’t get round those massive arms. It was like he was holding sandbags up in front. He threw a couple but his eyes gave him away before he even started to swing. I tried again. Bang. Bang. Bang. This time I got through and put a nice split in his forehead; good bit of claret. Then he grabs me, pins my arms to my sides, and nuts me full in the face, trying to get his teeth into my nose. I could smell his breath – a mixture of shit and beer. I brought my knee up into his sack and he let go with a surprised look on his bloody face. Got you now, you bastard. I slammed into him, but he’d got those fucking great arms up and I’m punching sandbags again. Round and round we went. I had him sussed now. He’s not a fighter, he’s a steamroller. He wanted to tire me out then drop 20 stone on top of me. He’s got the right idea; I’m knackered. It’s dead quiet except for faint music from the fair. No one was cheering encouragement, just a ring of brown faces watching us both with cold eyes. Kenny’s looking worried. Fuck it. I shouldn’t have looked round; he’s caught me with a right-hander full in the side of the head. My head’s ringing, I’ve gone deaf on that side and now I’m really pissed off. This has gone on for long enough. I had to take a risk. I turned my back on him, raised my arms in Kenny’s direction and said, ‘When are you going to ring the fucking bell?’ At the same time, I spun round and, as I’d hoped, the big animal was so surprised at me turning my back he dropped his arms. Everything I’ve got went into a straight punch to the heart. He fell backwards and down like a falling tree.

I remember the time on the school bus back before anyone could drive, Jenny bet me a dollar, to put my hand down her jeans to prove she wears thong undies. Saying that I am such a baby, for not knowing, that’s how that all started, she felt like she had to teach me everything. Anyways back then I was still where Mickey Mouse Briefs and did even think about what was underneath. She beat me to feel that she was not a virgin, that she was all open and smooth, unlike me at the time. I didn’t even shave my legs yet. So, I did, I went for it. The rush here was touching a girl inappropriately, with everyone looking, and hoping the driver didn’t see. I’ll never forget Danny Hover looking over the site with Andrea Doeskin smelling, like little perv’s, and Shy saying- ‘Oh my God’- snickering at the fact, from the set accordingly. Yeah, it’s that kind of rush I get, over and over being with them. Just like Jenny got Liv fixed up with Dilco, it’s all about the rush in the end. Jenny can be a hell of a lot of fun, and it’s that fun that keeps me coming back for more, the same way Liv and Maddie do, and other girls keep trying to be like us, it’s all about the craziness. I don’t know why but when I am with them- I want to be so naughty! I remember Marcel smacking my butt, just to be cute, every time he would see me in the hallways of a school. -Yeah, he’s weird, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him as I was- well… doing me. Yet Ray’s photo was looking at me on my nightstand. ~*~ In my bed, I snap the bright light off when I hear my little sis coming down the hall, everyone goes back to being fuzzy, like I’m not looking at my room but only at a blurry photo of my room that was taken with a shaky hand incorrectly and nothing match up with the real thing. My sis went into the bathroom next door to tinkle, so I snapped on my nightlight, and then that light modifies everything, so it looks somewhat ordinary again. If my sis sees my light on from the crack at the bottom of my door, she will come bursting in. I have learned to keep it as dark as I can when I hear her coming run down the hallway. I love her, yet I want my privacy. All at once it comes back to me, like a hangover rush all my blood starts going back up into my head: the party, my sis getting laid, the argument with Ray, falling to Marcel, all the sex, all the drinking, and drugs, it’s all thumping hard in my brain, like my covered button was a few moments ago, on cam. I am still lying here uncovered, with everything still out in the open. ‘Kellie!’ My door swings open, hammering the door handle against my wall, and sis comes bolting across my room, jumping in my bed, pacing over my textbook's notebooks, love notes, and pills of dirty tops and bottoms and discarded jeans, I panic thinking my Victoria’s Secret Heritage Pink nighty way over there on the floor, where I thought it off and left it the night before. Yet it’s not liked my sis has not seen me naked before… but is wired when this happens. Something is not right, something seems very wrong and oggie; something skirts the edges of my memory, but then it is gone as my head pounds and sis is bouncing on my bed on top of me, throwing her arms and legs around my nude torso. Saying- ‘So what are you going to show me today?’ I am thinking to myself- girl you already got it down, doing what you’re doing now, I don’t need to teach you anything. Kellie- she is so hot… (Oh God not in that way, she’s- my sis.) She is like a little furnace with her worth coming from her tiny body. It’s not too long before her nighty rides up, and I can see it all in my face like she wants to be just like me, and then she starts asking her questions.

Thirty-five years of intimidating and dreary Islamic rule had created a rose-tinted view of the pre-revolutionary era. The arrests, the intimidation, the decadence of the elite, the horrors of SAVAK; it had all been forgotten, replaced by a revised, romantic version of the good old days. Among Iranians of a certain age and class, the swinging sixties and seventies are recalled with a poetic yearning nostalgia; an era of mini-skirts, freedom and hedonism. ‘I haven’t had a glass of wine since 1979,’ one man had told me at a petrol station in Qazvin; ‘I miss the 1970s,’ he had added with a mournful, faraway look.

The city at night is a playground, and we are a pack of kids riding its swings upside down.

It was at that point that my worries about Nag blowing us all into the next kingdom disappeared. Not because he’d convinced me it was at all safe to let him use explosives, but because another danger arrived that was far more immediate. And far less polite. “Freeze lily-livers!” came a shout from the top of Wiggins Bluff. All of us glanced up to see a single figure on horseback, riding down towards us at a furious pace. Swinging his horse round, he leapt right over us in a fearsome show of horsemanship and galloped straight through the workers, sending them scrambling every way in panic. I got a good look at him as he turned around. The fellow was dressed all in black apart from a red bandit’s scarf, with a wide black hat and a mean look on his face. He had

We are the finest crab. We eat whatever we can grab! There is no moon or sun. A scavenger hunt can be quite fun! We have no swings or slides, What makes my life worth living are the great amusement rides! They're very cozy and provide dinner and dessert. And then this fabulous fast ride which doesn't ever hurt. Tom said I should be happy and my life should not rotate On carnivals and free seafood and other luscious bait.

But, of all Albert’s fine service to me, I believe that most appreciated was the morning coffee. Around daylight, or thereabouts, the fifty or more pointers and setters kenneled not too far beyond my open window would start setting up their chorus. In a very short while, they’d be really opening up full swing. And I liked that, too. At first, it merely served as a reminder¬—after a comfortable night—that day was dawning in great quail country, and there were some of America’s finest bird dogs to run—and excellent horses to ride.

He saw that the sun was riding low in the sky. It would be sunset soon. He had planned to be at the Mallory docks, Key West’s sunset mecca, for the island’s signature moment, but he was juiced by the idea that he might know where Finbar McShane was. There would be another sunset tomorrow. If he was still here to see it. The parking lane was one-way. It took him on a swing under the causeway and then out at the entrance to another marina. He saw boat ramps and, beyond them, the houseboats grouped together on the water like a floating village. Most of them had smaller runabouts with outboards attached to back-door docks and decks. The houseboats were painted in pastels, two-story structures sitting on barges and lashed together to create a community. From Bosch’s angle of view he counted eight houses extending out into Garrison Bight. The second

the morning of April 1, 1882, our Circle Dot herd started on its long tramp to the Blackfoot Agency in Montana. With six men on each side, and the herd strung out for three quarters of a mile, it could only be compared to some mythical serpent or Chinese dragon, as it moved forward on its sinuous, snail-like course. Two riders, known as point men, rode out and well back from the lead cattle, and by riding forward and closing in as occasion required, directed the course of the herd. The main body of the herd trailed along behind the leaders like an army in loose marching order, guarded by outriders, known as swing men, who rode well out from the advancing column, warding off range cattle and seeing that none of the herd wandered away or dropped out. There was no driving to do; the cattle moved of their own free will as in ordinary travel.

Wilf slammed the apartment door with a boom and headed downstairs, swinging himself along using the railings. He had to hustle to catch the bus, even though that was the last thing he wanted to ride. It was surprising how quickly you could get used to having someone drive you everywhere. Especially when the bus on your route smelled like a combination of gas, rotten tuna fish, and sweat. Wilf kicked the building’s front door open and jumped down the entrance steps, almost slamming into some guy standing in the middle of the sidewalk. “Sorry,” he muttered. But really, what kind of guy just stands in the middle of the sidewalk? “What, forget me already?” Wilf looked up and broke into a surprised grin. “Frank?” Frank shrugged. “Funny thing, looks like they want you to keep going with those clues, anyway.” “Even though that Bondi kid won?” “Even though.” Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. “So we’re going to have to get moving if we want to finish up before I’m reassigned. So what’s next?” He scanned the page. “Seadog boat trip?” Wilf grinned. “You said it, Skipper.

My silk slick black muscular back- talking uncle driving me and a school of fish corpses to church. The sick-eyed gap-mouthed bass, the kingfish without kingdom, the silver-thin silver fish--each dead and separate in a cool bucket. Gilded and shapely as a necktied Sunday morning, the fish. Sit uptight, he said, and I sat right up, riding shotgun looking hard at the road. He muttered, Crackers, as if it was something swinging from a thin clear wire, the clump of tiny maggots in a trout's brain, the flies lazing like the devil's jewelry at our backs. Last night when the white boy's arm lassoed his daughter's neck, my uncle said nothing until they left. I let him feed me the anger I knew was a birthright, a plate of bones thin enough to puncture a lung. But the words did things in my mouth I'd heard they killed people for. They went to a movie and sat quietly and touched or did not touch the darkness. My uncle watched the news with the sound turned down until she came in, my silk slick black back- talking cousin, his daughter. He went to work beating a prayer out her skin.

rides my mood swings as though they are her favorite thing in the playground

Let's raise our children together: let them ride the same school buses, learn the same history, swing in the same playgrounds, pedal their bikes down the same streets, share their same city. Then we shall see face to face. Halleluiah.

COLORS My skin is kind of sort of brownish Pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are greyish blueish green, But I'm told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, But it's silver when it's wet. And all the colors I am inside Have not been invented yet. LISTEN TO THE MUSTN'TS Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child, Listen to the DON'TS Listen to the SHOULDN'TS The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS Listen to the NEVER HAVES Then listen close to me Anvthing can happen, child, ANYTHING can be. ONE INCH TALL If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school. The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool. A crumb of cake would be a feast And last you seven days at least, A flea would be a frightening beast If you were one inch tall. If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door, And it would take about a month to get down to the store. A bit of fluff would be your bed, You'd swing upon a spider's thread, And wear a thimble on your head If you were one inch tall. You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum. You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb. You'd run from people's feet in fright, To move a pen would take all night, (This poem took fourteen years to write 'Cause I'm iust one inch tall).

this with a very good purpose, for where the dykes run zigzag over Romney Marsh a thick mist arises some eight feet high, and even upon nights of full moon these mists hang about the dykes like heavy rolls of a spider's web, contrasting strangely with the rest of the country, which is all bright and easily seen. And now Jerk had to ride even faster than before, for the packponies, entirely hidden by the mist curtains, were circled and circled all the way by the galloping demons and jack-o'lanterns, these last swinging their pole lights round their heads and uttering strange cries like those of the Marsh fowl, weird and ominous. This accounted, then, for all the ghost tales he had heard, for all the ghostly things those not in the secret had seen upon the Marsh, and a very clever scheme Jack thought it was, and a very good way of clearing the ground of the curious. For there is no power like superstition, and nothing that spreads quicker or is more grossly exaggerated than tales of horror and fear. So on they rode in wild circles round and round the packponies. Beelzebub

I turn to my second-favorite victim. “Karsyn, push me since no one else will!” “Alright, sure,” Karsyn says, which really should have raised red flags in my brain, but sometimes I think my brain is broken. What does raise red flags is when Karsyn grabs the swing and yanks it back super quickly, and I realize that I’m about to go for the ride of my life. “I’m just joking! Save me! Marcus, save me!” I cry.

Anything I’ve ever gone away to, my mother had to come get me at. She wasn’t pissed, because my mother is my ride or die, and she’s also a free spirit herself. She laughs at the things I do. If I put shit on a swing, she’s laughing at

I have been angry before. I still am sometimes, but I’ve learned how to manage such feelings.” “How?” “Practice. Like anything else, learning to ride a dragon, to swing a sword, to master shadowguard, you must train. Except this training isn’t physical but mental, which is the most difficult type of training.

Fuck this.” I hang up the phone. I’m not about to let Cal tell me how to handle my wife. They might be friends, but I’m her husband. She belongs in our house no matter how upset she might feel right now. Couples talk issues out. They don’t need third-party mediators to handle their shit for them. Cal’s doorman holds the door open for me. I press the elevator button and wait, tapping my loafer against the floor until the doors slide open. The ride to the top is quick. I knock my fist against Cal’s front door. “Open up.” “Motherfucker.” I hear him grunt before the door swings open.

Me Time Zone It’s okay to be a “me-time mom.” ~Author Unknown The day has ended yet only just begun for I have two lives — one that hides behind the sun You may not see my secret life — the one lurking in the dark, the one that eagerly awaits its time to spark Daytime me puts the other me aside Daytime me doesn’t get to hide Daytime me washes all the clothes Daytime me kisses the injured toes I am a teacher, a maid and a cook I hand out the cuddles and the disconcerting looks I referee the arguments, the teasing and the fights I fasten the helmets to go ride the bikes Nighttime me relaxes in the chair Nighttime me reads books without a care Nighttime me watches comedy shows Nighttime me eats the treats that I chose I sometimes wonder whether I used to be bored when I had just one life and hardly any chores I want to do all the things that I did before but how do I fit them in now there’s so much more? I read books, played piano and swam I cycled and socialised and ran I wrote poetry, played video games and went to bars I knew popular culture and all the famous stars Now my me time has become so small sometimes I feel it’s hardly there at all When the children will not settle but the sun has gone away I throw my arms in the air, for daytime me has to stay. I count to ten and breathe in deep Why oh why won’t they go to sleep? Me time is a ship that has sailed past How could I be so foolish to think that it would last I tuck their hair behind their ears and then I begin to feel the tears Am I crying for my me time? That seems a little mad Surely it’s something else that’s making me sad Crying for my me time does seem a little daft As I leave the children’s room I begin to laugh. I’m trying to put me time into a time slot I precariously balance it on the top. But I realise my me time comes in different forms to be enjoyed even while daytime storms I read a book whilst I make the tea I play ukulele whilst the children dance with me I swim in the sea with the children under my wings I run around the park between pushing them on swings And there are famous stars that I know, even if they come from the children’s favourite show Yes the ultimate me time is when I’m on my own but me time can also be enjoyed when you’re not alone My me time is a state of mind When I’m in the me time zone who knows what I’ll find? — Anneliese Rose Beeson —

The men are ready to ride,” Ioan said as he came up the stairs behind him. Christian nodded. “Knowing Adara, I’m sure we’re already packed as well. I just need to don my armor and I, too, will be ready.” Ioan was about to leave him when they heard something shatter inside Christian’s room. A heartbeat later, Adara screamed. Terror, panic, and anger descended on Christian as he swung open the door to find her in the room with two other men who were trying to hold her down. “I’ll make you pay for that, bitch,” the one holding her said as he tore open her gown. Christian flew across the room, ready to kill them both. He grabbed the one holding his wife and knocked him against the wall, then turned to knock the other one back. But when the one who had touched her came back to swing at him, he lost all control. All he could see was the man ripping Adara’s gown, the terror on her face. He slugged her assailant repeatedly, then grabbed his head and banged it against the floor until he felt Ioan pulling him back. “Christian, stop! You’re going to kill him.” Enraged beyond reason, he slammed the man’s head against the floor one last time, then turned on the other, who was pushing himself up from the floor. His lip was busted as he stared at Christian in disbelief. “Go see to Adara,” Ioan snapped, pulling him away from the other attacker. Needing to make sure she was all right, Christian went to her. She was huddled on the floor, weeping. “Shhh,” he said soothingly as he pulled her into his arms. She looked up at him, her lips quivering, to show him her battered face. It was more than he could stand. Rising, he went after her attackers again, only to find Ioan blocking his way. “Get out of my way, Ioan, or I’ll thrash you, too. I mean it.” Ioan refused to budge. “Let the sheriff handle this.” “Why are you so angry?” the taller attacker asked. “You are one of us. ’Tis only fair we take a Saracen whore—” Christian shoved Ioan away from him as he lunged for the man and cut his words off with a vicious backhand. “That is my wife you speak of, you bastard. My wife you attacked.” The color faded from the man’s face. Suddenly Phantom was there, pulling him back as Ioan came forward. “Let go of me!” Christian shouted. “I want justice.” “I can’t let you hurt them, Christian,” Ioan said apologetically. “They are the ones who have just come back with Agbert and Dagger. They spent the past seven years in a Saracen prison.” Still, he fought against Phantom’s hold. “It doesn’t give them the right to attack an innocent woman, and most especially not mine.” “Nay, it doesn’t,” Ioan agreed. “I will see them into the sheriff’s custody.” Far from appeased, Christian finally succeeded in shoving Phantom away from him to return to Adara’s side.

Recall the pure joy of riding on a backyard swing: and easy cycle of motion, the momentum coming from the swing itself. Then swing carries us; we do not force it. We pump our legs to drive our arc higher, but gravity does most of the work. We are not so much swinging as being swung.

he just didn’t get it. He’d never understood the whole hero worship thing over actors and singers and sports stars. Cops and firemen, yeah. Soldiers, absolutely. He appreciated and admired a great athlete’s abilities, but just because a guy had the eye-hand coordination to swing a bat and hit a ball didn’t make him a hero. Neither did riding a bull in a rodeo.

I kicked back my heels, but all I achieved was to ride out of the panicked mass into the path of the Danes, and all around me men were screaming and the Danish axes and swords were chopping and swinging. The grim work, the blood feast, the song of the blade, they call it.

I draw in a long breath, and then it catches in my throat as his hand closes over mine, still wrapped around his waist. “Siamo arrivati,” he says gently. I have to get off first, I realize. And I’m embarrassed that it takes me a while to unwind my arms. Luca starts to turn and I realize with horror that my skirt is practically up around my waist: this galvanizes me and I jump off so fast I nearly fall over, dragging down my skirt so he can’t see my thighs. I’m wobbling, shaken up by the ride, and I hear him huff a little laugh of amusement as he swings his leg over to sit on the seat facing me, unbuckling his helmet. “You like to ride on a Vespa?” I take my helmet off and hand it back to him. “Well, it’s bumpy,” I say. I can’t really see his face, it’s so dark out here. There are a couple of lights on the villa walls, one over the main door, but that’s higher up; the parking lot is around the side, barely illuminated. He stands up, towering over me, and puts the helmets down on the seat. “And loud,” he says. “You know what ‘vespa’ means?” I shake my head, my mouth suddenly dry, because he’s taken a step toward me, and his legs are so long that one step means he’s already standing in front of me, close enough to touch. “It means ‘wasp,’” he says softly. “Because it makes a sound like a wasp. How do you say that?” “Buzzing,” I manage. “It buzzes.” “Buzzes,” Luca says, and his accent makes the word sound so funny that I can’t help laughing. “You laugh at me?” he asks, and though he’s put on a serious voice, as if he’s annoyed, somehow I know he isn’t. “Girls never laugh at me. You are the only one.” “Well, maybe they should,” I say without thinking. “No,” he says firmly. “Only you can laugh at me.

Historians often minimize or discount the impact that any one individual can have on human destiny-and for good reason. Given the broad tides in the affairs of men, and the complexity of the fires that shape and change history, it is almost always a mistake to ascribe too much significance to the actions of a single person. But even the most jaded observer an concede that, every now and then, a man or woman steps up to the plate and takes a mighty swing that clears the bases and fundamentally changes the game.