Ring Sizing Quotes

Your average witch is not, by nature, a social animal as far as other witches are concerned. There's a conflict of dominant personalities. There's a group of ringleaders without a ring. There's the basic unwritten rule of witchcraft, which is 'Don't do what you will, do what I say.' The natural size of a coven is one. Witches only get together when they can't avoid it.

And she tricked us into taking walkie-talkie rings she could listen in on,” Simon said. “I wouldn’t trust her further than I could throw a medium-sized elephant.

Voicemail #1: “Hi, Isabel Culpeper. I am lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling. I am mostly naked. I am thinking of … your mother. Call me.” Voicemail #2: The first minute and thirty seconds of “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You” by the Bee Gees. Voicemail #3: “I’m bored. I need to be entertained. Sam is moping. I may kill him with his own guitar. It would give me something to do and also make him say something. Two birds with one stone! I find all these old expressions unnecessarily violent. Like, ring around the rosy. That’s about the plague, did you know? Of course you did. The plague is, like, your older cousin. Hey, does Sam talk to you? He says jack shit to me. God, I’m bored. Call me.” Voicemail #4: “Hotel California” by the Eagles, in its entirety, with every instance of the word California replaced with Minnesota. Voicemail #5: “Hi, this is Cole St. Clair. Want to know two true things? One, you’re never picking up this phone. Two, I’m never going to stop leaving long messages. It’s like therapy. Gotta talk to someone. Hey, you know what I figured out today? Victor’s dead. I figured it out yesterday, too. Every day I figure it out again. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like there’s no one I can —” Voicemail #6: “So, yeah, I’m sorry. That last message went a little pear-shaped. You like that expression? Sam said it the other day. Hey, try this theory on for size: I think he’s a dead British housewife reincarnated into a Beatle’s body. You know, I used to know this band that put on fake British accents for their shows. Boy, did they suck, aside from being assholes. I can’t remember their name now. I’m either getting senile or I’ve done enough to my brain that stuff’s falling out. Not so fair of me to make this one-sided, is it? I’m always talking about myself in these things. So, how are you, Isabel Rosemary Culpeper? Smile lately? Hot Toddies. That was the name of the band. The Hot Toddies.” Voicemail #20: “I wish you’d answer.

No one has ever asked you to make a floor-to-ceiling-sized friendship collage for their birthday. Or ring them three times a day. No one will cry if you don’t invite them to dinner because you don’t have enough chairs. If you feel exhausted by people, it’s because you’re willingly playing the martyr to make them like you. It’s your problem, not theirs.

And do you know what “the world” is to me? Shall I show it to you in my mirror? This world: a monster of energy, without beginning, without end; a firm, iron magnitude of force that does not grow bigger or smaller, that does not expend itself but only transforms itself; as a whole, of unalterable size, a household without expenses or losses, but likewise without increase or income; enclosed by “nothingness” as by a boundary; not something blurry or wasted, not something endlessly extended, but set in a definite space as a definite force, and not a space that might be “empty” here or there, but rather as force throughout, as a play of forces and waves of forces, at the same time one and many, increasing here and at the same time decreasing there; a sea of forces flowing and rushing together, eternally changing, eternally flooding back, with tremendous years of recurrence, with an ebb and a flood of its forms; out of the simplest forms striving toward the most complex, out of the stillest, most rigid, coldest forms striving toward the hottest, most turbulent, most self-contradictory, and then again returning home to the simple out of this abundance, out of the play of contradictions back to the joy of concord, still affirming itself in this uniformity of its courses and its years, blessing itself as that which must return eternally, as a becoming that knows no satiety, no disgust, no weariness: this, my Dionysian world of the eternally self- creating, the eternally self-destroying, this mystery world of the twofold voluptuous delight, my “beyond good and evil,” without goal, unless the joy of the circle is itself a goal; without will, unless a ring feels good will toward itself— do you want a name for this world? A solution for all of its riddles? A light for you, too, you best-concealed, strongest, most intrepid, most midnightly men?— This world is the will to power—and nothing besides! And you yourselves are also this will to power—and nothing besides!

An old man sat down beside her. "Well, aren't you a pretty little peach?" His breath smelled near as foul as the dead men in the cages, and his little pig eyes were crawling up and down her. "Does my sweet peach have a name?" For half a heartbeat she forgot who she was supposed to be. She wasn't any peach, but she couldn't be Arya Stark either, not here with some smelly drunk she did not know. "I'm . . ." "She's my sister." Gendry put a heavy hand on the old man's shoulder, and squeezed. "Leave her be." The man turned, spoiling for a quarrel, but when he saw Gendry's size he thought better of it. "You sister, is she? What kind of brother are you? I'd never bring no sister of mine to the Peach, that I wouldn't." He got up from the bench and moved off muttering, in search of a new friend. "Why did you say that?" Arya hopped to her feet, "You're not my brother." "That's right," he said angrily. "I'm too bloody lowborn to be kin to m'lady high." Arya was taken aback by the fury in his voice. "That's not the way I mean it." "Yes it is." He sat down on the bench, cradling a cup of wine between his hands. "Go away. I want to drink this wine in peace. Then maybe I'll go find that black-haired girl and ring her bell for her." "But . . ." "I said, go away. M'lady." Arya whirled and left him there. A stupid bullheaded bastard boy, that's all he is. He could ring all the bells he wanted, it was nothing to her.

The ripple effect is change. Eventually, the rings of the ripples change; they either become smaller or wider in length. No matter the size, sooner or later, the ripple will vanish, but the question is—did it leave an effect or was it pointless? What impact does the ripple effect have on you? Will you reach for great heights, or will you let the ripple effect’s “purpose” pass you by?

I'm fine with marrying Tove." "You're 'fine' with marrying him?" Willa laughed and looped her arm through Matt's. "How romantic." "You should've seen the proposal," I said. "Where is the ring,by the way?" Willa asked, looking at my hands. "Is it getting sized?" "I don't know." I held my hands out to look at them,as if I expected a ring to magically appear. "He didn't give me one." "That's horrible!

Nor do the females of our closest primate cousins offer much reason to believe the human female should be sexually reluctant due to purely biological concerns. Instead, primatologist Meredith Small has noted that female primates are highly attracted to novelty in mating. Unfamiliar males appear to attract females more than known males with any other characteristic a male might offer (high status, large size, coloration, frequent grooming, hairy chest, gold chains, pinky ring, whatever). Small writes, "The only consistent interest seen among the general primate population is an interest in novelty and variety...In fact," she reports, "the search for the unfamiliar is documented as a female preference more often than is any other characteristic our human eyes can perceive.

I know some people build their safety with walls. Me, I'm into demolition - whatever tears the walls down. I have a hard time kissing without that kind of dust in the air. I see a wrecking ball and see a wedding ring, think, "Look at the size of that stone.

When we get engaged—” “We’re not getting engaged.” “I want a ring the size of my fist.” He snorted. “Good luck with that.” “And when we get married—” “We’re not getting married.” “I want a big house in the country, with a huge four-poster bed and one of those giant flat-screen televisions hanging on the wall.” “And where am I going to find the money for that?” I beamed at him. “I thought you said we weren’t getting married.” “We’re not.” He turned to face me. “We can’t because I’ll be in prison for robbing a bank to pay for that fist-size ring you have your eye on.” “And when we have babies—” “We’re not having babies.” “They’ll be blond and green-eyed and just like their dad.” “You’re insane.” “I’m in love.

Mr. Blue's way of death was fitting. He had been utterly corrupted by America, and I find it proper that his carotid artery should have been severed by flak from a jumbo-sized can of mentholated shave cream. Like James Joyce, who tried to bend and subjugate the ironmongery of the cosmos with words (wasn't it The Word Joyce was after?), Mr. Blue tried to undo the empyrean mysteries with Seedy and his red carpet, with his elevated alligator shoes, with the ardent push-ups he seemed so sure would make him outlast time's ravages, with his touching search for some golden pussy that would yield to his lips the elixir of eternal life. And like Joyce's Leopold Bloom, like Quixote, Mr. Blue had become the perennial mock-epic hero of his country, the salesman, the boomer who believed that at the end of his American sojourn of demeaning doorbell-ringing, of faking and fawning, he would come to the Ultimate Sale, conquer, and soar.

Hey,” Fitz said, leaning closer. “You trust me, don’t you?” Sophie’s traitorous heart still fluttered, despite her current annoyance. She did trust Fitz. Probably more than anyone. But having him keep secrets from her was seriously annoying. She was tempted to use her telepathy to steal the information straight from his head. But she’d broken that rule enough times to know the consequences definitely weren’t worth it. “What is with these clothes?” Biana interrupted, appearing out of thin air next to Keefe. Biana was a Vanisher, like her mother, though she was still getting used to the ability. Only one of her legs reappeared, and she had to hop up and down to get the other to show up. She wore a sweatshirt three sizes too big and faded, baggy jeans. “At least I get to wear my shoes,” she said, hitching up her pants to reveal purple flats with diamond-studded toes. “But why do we only have boy stuff?” “Because I’m a boy,” Fitz reminded her. “Besides, this isn’t a fashion contest.” “And if it was, I’d totally win. Right, Foster?” Keefe asked. Sophie actually would’ve given the prize to Fitz—his blue scarf worked perfectly with his dark hair and teal eyes. And his fitted gray coat made him look taller, with broader shoulders and— “Oh please.” Keefe shoved his way between them. “Fitz’s human clothes are a huge snoozefest. Check out what Dex and I found in Alvar’s closet!” They both unzipped their hoodies, revealing T-shirts with logos underneath. “I have no idea what this means, but it’s crazy awesome, right?” Keefe asked, pointing to the black and yellow oval on his shirt. “It’s from Batman,” Sophie said—then regretted the words. Of course Keefe demanded she explain the awesomeness of the Dark Knight. “I’m wearing this shirt forever, guys,” he decided. “Also, I want a Batmobile! Dex, can you make that happen?” Sophie wouldn’t have been surprised if Dex actually could build one. As a Technopath, he worked miracles with technology. He’d made all kinds of cool gadgets for Sophie, including the lopsided ring she wore—a special panic switch that had saved her life during her fight with one of her kidnappers. “What’s my shirt from?” Dex asked, pointing to the logo with interlocking yellow W’s. Sophie didn’t have the heart to tell him it was the symbol for Wonder Woman.

It is not possible even at great length to “pot” The Lord of the Rings in a paragraph or two … It was begun in 1937, and every part has been written many times. Hardly a word in its 600,000 or more has been unconsidered. And the placing, size, style, and contribution to the whole of the features, incidents, and chapters has been laboriously pondered. I do not say this in recommendation. It is, I feel, only too likely that I am deluded, lost in a web of vain imaginings of not much value to others – in spite of the fact that a few readers have found it good, on the whole. What I intend to say is this: I cannot substantially alter the thing. I have finished it, is “off my mind”: the labour has been colossal: and it must stand or fall, practically as it is. [1951]

The biggest lie a girl will ever tell you is that the size or authenticity of an engagement ring doesn’t matter to her. The truth is that the worth of a woman could be defined by her engagement ring.

Grief shatters. If you let yourself shatter and then you put yourself back together, piece by piece, you wake up one day and realize that you have been completely reassembled. You are whole again, and strong, but you are suddenly a new shape, a new size. The change that happens to people who really sit in their pain—whether it’s a sliver of envy lasting an hour or a canyon of grief lasting decades—it’s revolutionary. When that kind of transformation happens, it becomes impossible to fit into your old conversations or relationships or patterns or thoughts or life anymore. You are like a snake trying to fit back into old, dead skin or a butterfly trying to crawl back into its cocoon. You look around and see everything freshly, with the new eyes you have earned for yourself. There is no going back. Perhaps the only thing that makes grief any easier is to surrender completely to it. To resist trying to hold on to a single part of ourselves that existed before the doorbell rang. Sometimes to live again, we have to let ourselves die completely. We have to let ourselves become completely, utterly, new. When grief rings: Surrender. There is nothing else to do. The delivery is utter transformation.

i am dead but i know the dead are not like this." the dead can sleep they don’t get up and rage they don’t have a wife. her white face like a flower in a closed window lifts up and looks at me. the curtain smokes a cigarette and a moth dies in a freeway cash as I examine the shadows of my hands. an owl, the size of a baby clock rings for me, come on come on it says as Jerusalem is hustled down crotch-stained halls. the 5 a.m. grass is nasal now in hums of battleships and valleys in the raped light that brings on the fascist birds. I put out the lamp and get in bed beside her, she thinks I’m there mumbles a rosy gratitude as I stretch my legs to coffin length get in and swim away from frogs and fortunes.

Birds will be bored If I'd forgotten something Ring the bells of those school dismissals in the sea What we shall call pensive borage We start by giving the solution to the contest To wit how many tears can be held in a woman's hand 1. as little as possible 2. in a medium-sized hand While I crumple this star-lit paper And while the everlasting flesh has once and for all taken possession of the mountain summits I live like a recluse in a little house in the Vaucluse Heart king's order

That's the way with a cat, you know -- any cat; they don't give a damn for discipline. And they can't help it, they're made so. But it ain't really insubordination, when you come to look at it right and fair -- it's a word that don't apply to a cat. A cat ain't ever anybody's slave or serf or servant, and can't be -- it ain't in him to be. And so, he don't have to obey anybody. He is the only creature in heaven or earth or anywhere that don't have to obey somebody or other, including the angels. It sets him above the whole ruck, it puts him in a class by himself. He is independent. You understand the size of it? He is the only independent person there is. In heaven or anywhere else. There's always somebody a king has to obey -- a trollop, or a priest, or a ring, or a nation, or a deity or what not -- but it ain't so with a cat. A cat ain't servant nor slave to anybody at all. He's got all the independence there is, in Heaven or anywhere else, there ain't any left over for anybody else. He's your friend, if you like, but that's the limit -- equal terms, too, be you king or be you cobbler; you can't play any I'm-better-than-you on a cat -- no, sir! Yes, he's your friend, if you like, but you got to treat him like a gentleman, there ain't any other terms. The minute you don't, he pulls freight.

Life is a great big beautiful three-ring circus. There are those on the floor making their lives among the heads of lions and hoops of fire, and those in the stands, complacent and wowed, their mouths stuffed with popcorn. I know less now than ever about life, but I do know its size. Life is enormous. Much grander than what we’ve taken for ourselves, so far. When the show is over and the tent is packed, the elephants, lions and dancing poodles are caged and mounted on trucks to caravan to the next town. The clown’s makeup has worn, and his bright, red smile has been washed down a sink. All that is left is another performance, another tent and set of lights. We rest in the knowledge: the show must go on. Somewhere, behind our stage curtain, a still, small voice asks why we haven’t yet taken up juggling. My seminars were like this. Only, instead of flipping shiny, black bowling balls or roaring chainsaws through the air, I juggled concepts. The world is intrinsically tied together. All things march through time at different intervals but move ahead in one fashion or another. Though we may never understand it, we are all part of something much larger than ourselves—something anchoring us to the spot we have mentally chosen. We sniff out the rules, through spiritual quests and the sciences. And with every new discovery, we grow more confused. Our inability to connect what seems illogical to unite and to defy logic in our understanding keeps us from enlightenment. The artists and insane tiptoe around such insights, but lack the compassion to hand-feed these concepts to a blind world. The interconnectedness of all things is not simply a pet phrase. It is a big “T” truth that the wise spend their lives attempting to grasp.

I had less control over my thoughts than I'd have liked. The little ring hung around my neck, under my gown, where nobody could see it. When I was alone, I took it out sometimes, wondering how he had judged the size, with nothing but my swollen, knotted fingers to go by. Wondering if my hands would ever be as they once were, small, white, and fine. By the time that happened, if it ever did, I would be long gone from here. I would have left behind both husband and wedding ring. It mattered little whether the size were right or no. Yet, when I thought this, I found my hand closing around the ring as if I did not want to let it go. It's mine, something inside me would say.

The ring nestled against the velvet cushion gave the Wollman Rink a run for its money in terms of size.

Let us examine the case of rings. Rings have long been considered peculiarly suitable for this sort of magic by virtue of their small size.

This house has endured three of my Dad's four wives, and so over the last few decades it's been a home-size mood ring, changing to the styles and temperaments of its female inhabitants.

I even yelled at you last night." Phin eased up. "For which I apologize." "It was kind of nice," Sophie said. "At least you know I was there." "Oh hell, Spohie, I always know you're there." Phin rolled twords her on one hip, and Sophie felt felt a flare of hope, but he was just digging something out of his back pocket. "Here." He weld out an emerald-cut diamond ring the size of her head. "Marry me, Julie Ann. Ruin the rest of my life." "Hello." Sophie gasped at the ring. "Jeez, that thing is huge. Where did you get it?" "My mother gave it to me," Phin said sounding bemused. Then the other shoe dropped. "Marry you?" Sophie said, and the sun came out and the birds to sing and the river sent up a cheer. Marriage was probably out- Liz as a mother-in-law was too terrifying to complete , and Phin would never get elected agian if he was married to a pornographer- but suddenly everything else was looking pretty good.

Whatever your size, do not be misled by the reactions of your own body. With your spirit open and unconstricted, look at things from a high point of view. You must cultivate your wisdom and spirit.

When facing reality, we want to see the big picture. To simplify, it’s important to consider all aspects of our experience. The experience of being in the moment centers us, and being centered puts us in the moment. Recognizing perfection requires us to notice where we are at any given moment. If we are in the center, also look to the periphery. Likewise, if we are on the periphery, recognize where the other rings are and where the center is. Achieving balance is the ability to be centered wherever we are. Ideally, we want to increase the size of the center so that it encompasses as many rings as possible.

I haven't bothered to run a brush through my hair, and the bowl of cereal my mother set in front of me before leaving for work is untouched. The multigrain rings have swollen up to three times their normal size.

Alana – still dressed as a pirate- chambers over the counter like that evil Japanese ghost in the Ring, knocking over the child-size popcorn of some little kid, who starts to cry. The pink-pigtailed girl knows something crazy is going on, but she doesn’t yet understand it has anything to do with her. Not until Alana has grabbed Tyler by his black button-down shirt and pushed him hard into the Icee machine, which begins to stream cherry-red Icee onto the counter.

In a room the size of a ballroom the Pattern was laid. The floor was black and looked smooth as glass. And on the floor was the Pattern. It shimmered like the cold fire that it was, quivered, made the whole room seem somehow unsubstantial. It was an elaborate tracery of bright power, composed mainly of curves, though there were a few straight lines near its middle. It reminded me of a fantastically intricate, life-scale version of one of those maze things you do with a pencil (or ballpoint, as the case may be), to get you into or out of something. Like, I could almost see the words “Start Here,” somewhere way to the back. It was perhaps a hundred yards across at its narrow middle, and maybe a hundred and fifty long. It made bells ring within my head, and then came the throbbing. My mind recoiled from the touch of it. But if I were a prince of Amber, then somewhere within my blood, my nervous system, my genes, this pattern was recorded somehow, so that I would respond properly, so that I could walk the bloody thing.

All great, simple images reveal a psychic state. The house, even more than the landscape, is a "psychic state," and even when reproduced as it appears from the outside, it bespeaks intimacy. Psychologists generally, and Francoise Minkowska in particular, together with those whom she has succeeded interesting in the subject, have studied the drawing of houses made by children, and even used them for testing. Indeed, the house-test has the advantage of welcoming spontaneity, for many children draw a house spontaneously while dreaming over their paper and pencil. To quote Anne Balif: "Asking a child to draw his house is asking him to reveal the deepest dream shelter he has found for his happiness. If he is happy, he will succeed in drawing a snug, protected house which is well built on deeply-rooted foundations." It will have the right shape, and nearly always there will be some indication of its inner strength. In certain drawings, quite obviously, to quote Mme. Balif, "it is warm indoors, and there is a fire burning, such a big fire, in fact, that it can be seen coming out of the chimney." When the house is happy, soft smoke rises in gay rings above the roof. If the child is unhappy, however, the house bears traces of his distress. In this connection, I recall that Francoise Minkowska organized an unusually moving exhibition of drawings by Polish and Jewish children who had suffered the cruelties of the German occupation during the last war. One child, who had been hidden in a closet every time there was an alert, continued to draw narrow, cold, closed houses long after those evil times were over. These are what Mme. Minkowska calls "motionless" houses, houses that have become motionless in their rigidity. "This rigidity and motionlessness are present in the smoke as well as in the window curtains. The surrounding trees are quite straight and give the impression of standing guard over the house". Mme. Minkowska knows that a live house is not really "motionless," that, particularly, it integrates the movements by means of which one accedes to the door. Thus the path that leads to the house is often a climbing one. At times, even, it is inviting. In any case, it always possesses certain kinesthetic features. If we were making a Rorschach test, we should say that the house has "K." Often a simple detail suffices for Mme. Minkowska, a distinguished psychologist, to recognize the way the house functions. In one house, drawn by an eight-year-old child, she notes that there is " a knob on the door; people go in the house, they live there." It is not merely a constructed house, it is also a house that is "lived-in." Quite obviously the door-knob has a functional significance. This is the kinesthetic sign, so frequently forgotten in the drawings of "tense" children. Naturally, too, the door-knob could hardly be drawn in scale with the house, its function taking precedence over any question of size. For it expresses the function of opening, and only a logical mind could object that it is used to close as well as to open the door. In the domain of values, on the other hand, a key closes more often than it opens, whereas the door-knob opens more often than it closes. And the gesture of closing is always sharper, firmer, and briefer than that of opening. It is by weighing such fine points as these that, like Francoise Minkowska, one becomes a psychologist of houses.

Marta Jolicoeur: We all learned how to ride from George and had wonderful riding careers but more than that, George taught us how to be successful in life...George had us all sized up. He used to tell me that I'm a worrier and he was right! I used to get rally nervous in the ring when I was about fifteen, and he made me go around the ring, reciting out loud, 'I know I'm going to see a distance. It might be a little short or a little long, but I know I'm going to see something.' I would have to say it loud over and over again on course...

It begins with a doorway. There is a huge, burnished metal door, erected by the First, that is heavy as sin, three times the height of a man and half that distance in width. It is a full cubit thick and bears a head-sized ring of brass, a complicated pressure-plate lock and an inscription that reads, roughly, "Go away. This is not a place to be. If you do try to enter here, you will fail and also be cursed. If somehow you succeed, then do not complain that you entered unwarned, nor bother us with your deathbed prayers." Signed, "The Gods.

His thoughts were starting to take on a strange ring: they had shrunk from their usual size and now the ordinary attic that was his ordinary mind looked like a cathedral at night, with endless galleries and rafters lost in the dark and nothing but the echoes to show where they were.

When we get engaged—” “We’re not getting engaged.” “I want a ring the size of my fist.” He snorted. “Good luck with that.” “And when we get married—” “We’re not getting married.” “I want a big house in the country, with a huge four-poster bed, and one of those giant flatscreen televisions hanging on the wall.” “And where am I going to find the money for that?” I beamed at him. “I thought you said we weren’t getting married.” “We’re not.” He turned to face me. “We can’t because I’ll be in prison for robbing a bank to pay for that fist-sized ring you have your eye on.

Honestly, man, it’s whatever she wants. She wants a ring, I’ll by her one the size of her head. She wants a kid, I’ll take her to bed every night until she has one, and I won’t complain about it at all. If she wants to keep things the way they are now, until the end of time, then I’m cool with that, too. All that matters is that it’s her and me at the end of the day.

Why are you crying and laughing at the same time?” he demands. Was I laughing? So many feelings are flooding my body that I don’t know what to do with them. I look at him haughtily. “You’d have to be human to understand, Joshua dick-sucking piece-of-crap Smith. And by the way? You’re a liar, you little turd-breath asshole. You lied about nobody reporting me missing. You know why you had to lie? Because you’re fucking weak!” He lashes out and slaps me, and my ears ring, and I laugh and laugh, spiraling up into hysteria. “Oh my God. My God. Thank you for proving my point, wussy girl. I call you weak and it hurts your sad little feelings, and you respond like a puppet because I jerked your string. You just slapped a woman half your size who’s chained to a bed! You’re so brave, Joshua! Did that make you feel good about yourself? Are you going to come now?” Just fucking kill me already. What do I have to say to push him over the edge?

The Silverbird was tracking the Raiel’s gas giant-sized DF spheres as they continued their flight across the star system. Gravity waves spilled out from them with astonishing force, distorting the orbits within the main asteroid rings. A couple of small moons caught in the backwash had also changed inclination. All nine of the DFs were heading in towards the small orange star which Centurion Station’s never-named planet was in orbit around. As the ship watched, the photosphere started to dim.

I consider these things idly. Each one of them seems the same size as all the others. Not one seems preferable. Fatigue is here, in my body, in my legs and eyes. That is what gets you in the end. Faith is only a word, embroidered.   I look out at the dusk and think about its being winter. The snow falling, gently, effortlessly, covering everything in soft crystal, the mist of moonlight before a rain, blurring the outlines, obliterating color. Freezing to death is painless, they say, after the first chill. You lie back in the snow like an angel made by children and go to sleep. Behind me I feel her presence, my ancestress, my double, turning in midair under the chandelier, in her costume of stars and feathers, a bird stopped in flight, a woman made into an angel, waiting to be found. By me this time. How could I have believed I was alone in here? There were always two of us. Get it over, she says. I'm tired of this melodrama, I'm tired of keeping silent. There's no one you can protect, your life has value to no one. I want it finished.   As I'm standing up I hear the black van. I hear it before I see it; blended with the twilight, it appears out of its own sound like a solidification, a clotting of the night. It turns into the driveway, stops. I can just make out the white eye, the two wings. The paint must be phosphorescent. Two men detach themselves from the shape of it, come up the front steps, ring the bell. I hear the bell toll, ding-dong, like the ghost of a cosmetics woman, down in the hall. Worse is coming, then. I've

Are those chocolate chip?'' Cole reaches her first and claims one. ''Oh, my godness.'' Nana sets the tray aside and coos the guy. ''Cole, dear, you have a boulder-size knot on your jaw.'' ''River did it.'' Cole smirks at the guy. ''And he insulted my mom. And my dad.'' ''River Marks.'' Nana shakes her head, as if her heart is acually breaking. ''How could you be so rough? And so insensitive!'' River glares at Cole before bowing his head. ''I'm sorry, Nana.'' ''The human body is like a flower. Treat it well, and it will bloom.'' She approaches the ring and extends two cookies. River and I accept with eager thanks. ''Let's be kind to each other and keep our punches away from the face and groin.'' ''Yes, ma'am,'' we say in unison. Then of course, we devour the offering as if we've never tasted sugar. ''Good, good.'' She brushes the crumbs from her fingers. ''I'll leave you kids to your practice.'' She kisses Ali, then Cole, and leaves. ''Are you a rose?'' River sneers at Cole. ''Or a lilly?'' ''Orchid. And your jealousy is showing.'' Cole responds.

The last time I’d been unwell, suicidally depressed, whatever you want to call it, the reactions of my friends and family had fallen into several different camps: The Let’s Laugh It Off merchants: Claire was the leading light. They hoped that joking about my state of mind would reduce it to a manageable size. Most likely to say, ‘Feeling any mad urges to fling yourself into the sea?’ The Depression Deniers: they were the ones who took the position that since there was no such thing as depression, nothing could be wrong with me. Once upon a time I’d have belonged in that category myself. A subset of the Deniers was The Tough Love people. Most likely to say, ‘What have you got to be depressed about?’ The It’s All About Me bunch: they were the ones who wailed that I couldn’t kill myself because they’d miss me so much. More often than not, I’d end up comforting them. My sister Anna and her boyfriend, Angelo, flew three thousand miles from New York just so I could dry their tears. Most likely to say, ‘Have you any idea how many people love you?’ The Runaways: lots and lots of people just stopped ringing me. Most of them I didn’t care about, but one or two were important to me. Their absence was down to fear; they were terrified that whatever I had, it was catching. Most likely to say, ‘I feel so helpless … God, is that the time?’ Bronagh – though it hurt me too much at the time to really acknowledge it – was the number one offender. The Woo-Woo crew: i.e. those purveying alternative cures. And actually there were hundreds of them – urging me to do reiki, yoga, homeopathy, bible study, sufi dance, cold showers, meditation, EFT, hypnotherapy, hydrotherapy, silent retreats, sweat lodges, felting, fasting, angel channelling or eating only blue food. Everyone had a story about something that had cured their auntie/boss/boyfriend/next-door neighbour. But my sister Rachel was the worst – she had me plagued. Not a day passed that she didn’t send me a link to some swizzer. Followed by a phone call ten minutes later to make sure I’d made an appointment. (And I was so desperate that I even gave plenty of them a go.) Most likely to say, ‘This man’s a miracle worker.’ Followed by: ‘That’s why he’s so expensive. Miracles don’t come cheap.’ There was often cross-pollination between the different groupings. Sometimes the Let’s Laugh It Off merchants teamed up with the Tough Love people to tell me that recovering from depression is ‘simply mind over matter’. You just decide you’re better. (The way you would if you had emphysema.) Or an All About Me would ring a member of the Woo-Woo crew and sob and sob about how selfish I was being and the Woo-Woo crew person would agree because I had refused to cough up two grand for a sweat lodge in Wicklow. Or one of the Runaways would tiptoe back for a sneaky look at me, then commandeer a Denier into launching a two-pronged attack, telling me how well I seemed. And actually that was the worst thing anyone could have done to me, because you can only sound like a self-pitying malingerer if you protest, ‘But I don’t feel well. I feel wretched beyond description.’ Not one person who loved me understood how I’d felt. They hadn’t a clue and I didn’t blame them, because, until it had happened to me, I hadn’t a clue either.

It had only two points of egress, the door to the hallway from which I’d just entered, and against which I’d been pinned-and now leaned against for support-and the other to the stable yard where a man dressed all in black leather had shoved John’s dog, and where I was assuming John kept his horse, Alastor, another creature from the Underworld who hated my guts. He was going to have to get in line, though. The boy who’d pulled Typhon off me was standing a few feet away, next to the wooden plank table that ran down the center of the room, staring at me with a look that suggested he disliked me even more than the dog had. It was difficult not to notice the size of his bare biceps-not as large as John’s, but still impressive-since he’d folded his arms across his chest, and this had caused the muscles to bulge. The fact that they were circled in vicious-looking rings of black tattooed thorns did even more to draw attention to them. It was hard to figure out if that was why he was so much more noticeable than anyone else in the room, or if it was because he was what my friend Kayla would have called smokin’ hot, despite a jagged scar that ran down one side of his forehead, through a dark brow, and halfway to the center of his left jaw. Whoever had wielded that knife had thankfully-for him-spared his dark eye. Not so thankfully for me, however, since he was able to use both eyes to give me a deathlike stare. “Um,” I said, finally feeling the blood flow returning to my limbs. “You might want to think about getting that dog neutered.” The boy with the thorn tattoos sneered. “I’m guessing she’ll be wanting to get us all neutered,” he said.

Julius explained that the palace rooms where they stood were called Wunderkammers, or wonder rooms. Souvenirs of nature, of travels across continents and seas; jewels and skulls. A show of wealth, intellect, power. The first room had rose-colored glass walls, with rubies and garnets and bloodred drapes of damask. Bowls of blush quartz; semiprecious stone roses running the spectrum of red down to pink, a hard, glittering garden. The vaulted ceiling, a feature of all the ten rooms Julius and Cymbeline visited, was a trompe l'oeil of a rosy sky at down, golden light edging the morning clouds. The next room was of sapphire and sea and sky; lapis lazuli, turquoise and gold and silver. A silver mermaid lounged on the edge of a lapis lazuli bowl fashioned in the shape of an ocean. Venus stood aloft on the waves draped in pearls. There were gold fish and diamond fish and faceted sterling silver starfish. Silvered mirrors edged in silvered mirror. There were opals and aquamarines and tanzanite and amethyst. Seaweed bloomed in shades of blue-green marble. The ceiling was a dome of endless, pale blue. A jungle room of mica and marble followed, with its rain forest of cats made from tiger's-eye, yellow topaz birds, tortoiseshell giraffes with stubby horns of spun gold. Carved clouds of smoky quartz hovered over a herd of obsidian and ivory zebras. Javelinas of spotted pony hide charged tiny, life-sized dik-diks with velvet hides, and dazzling diamond antlers mingled with miniature stuffed sable minks. Agate columns painted a medley of dark greens were strung with faceted ropes of green gold. A room of ivory: bone, teeth, skulls, and velvet. A room crowded with columns all sheathed in mirrors, reflecting world maps and globes and atlases inlaid with silver, platinum, and white gold; the rubies and diamonds that were sometimes set to mark the location of a city or a town of conquest resembled blood and tears. A room dominated by a fireplace large enough to hold several people, upholstered in velvets and silks the colors of flame. Snakes of gold with orange sapphire and yellow topaz eyes coiled around the room's columns. Statues of smiling black men in turbans offering trays of every gem imaginable-emerald, sapphire, ruby, topaz, diamond-stood at the entrance to a room upholstered in pistachio velvet, accented with malachite, called the Green Vault. Peridot wood nymphs attended to a Diana carved from a single pure crystal of quartz studded with tiny tourmalines. Jade tables, and jade lanterns. The royal jewels, blinding in their sparkling excess: crowns, tiaras, coronets, diadems, heavy ceremonial necklaces, rings, and bracelets that could span a forearm, surrounding the world's largest and most perfect green diamond. Above it all was a night sky of painted stars, with inlaid cut crystal set in a serious of constellations.

Grief shatters. If you let yourself shatter and then you put yourself back together, piece by piece, you wake up one day and realize that you have been completely reassembled. You are whole again, and strong, but you are suddenly a new shape, a new size. The change that happens to people who really sit in their pain -- whether it's a sliver of envy lasting an hour or a canyon of grief lasting decades -- it's revolutionary. when that kind of transformation happens, it becomes impossible to fit into your old conversations or relationships or patterns or thoughts or life anymore. You are like a snake trying to fit back into old, dead skin or a butterfly trying to crawl back into its cocoon. You look around and see everything freshly, with the new eyes you have earned for yourself. There is no going back. Perhaps the only thing that makes grief any easier is to surrender completely to it. To resist trying to hold on to a single part of ourselves that existed before the doorbell rang. Sometimes to live again, we have to let ourselves die completely. We have to let ourselves become completely, utterly new. When grief rings: Surrender. There is nothing else to do. The delivery is utter transformation.

It is interesting to note that the lion that is the most amenable to the circus trainer’s tricks is the one with the lowest social standing in the pride, the omega animal. It has the most to gain from a close relationship with the super-alpha trainer. It is not only a matter of extra treats. A close relationship will also mean protection from the other members of the pride. It is this compliant animal, to the public no different from the others in size and apparent ferocity, that will be the star of the show, while the trainer leaves the beta and gamma lions, more cantankerous subordinates, sitting on their colourful barrels on the edge of the ring.

The academic world, I knew, was small; full of friends and enemies, lightly smoldering conflicts that had been stoked by years of offhand remarks about one’s work, and sometimes, one’s character. Just a survey of the room identified the different cabals: tenured faculty who still sat with their aging dissertation advisors from ten, twenty, thirty years ago, ringed by their own current graduate students who, no doubt, imagined how their own acolytes would someday gather around them. Each group was like a constellation, intertwined, but also circling each other, always trying to gauge the size of the other orbits, the power of individual gravitational pulls.

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

dinner guests. Lorena Lim and Carol Tai shook Rachel’s hand, while Daisy Foo embraced Nick. (It did not escape Rachel that Daisy was the first person who had hugged him all night.) “Aiyah, Nicky, why have you been hiding your beautiful girlfriend for so long?” Daisy said, greeting Rachel with an effusive hug as well. Before Rachel could respond, she felt someone grabbing her arm. She looked down at the bing-cherry-size ruby ring and long red manicured claws before looking up in shock at a woman with teal-green eye shadow and rouge painted heavier than a drag queen’s. “Rachel, I’m Nadine,” the woman said. “I’ve heard so much about you from my daughter.” “Really? Who’s your daughter?” Rachel asked politely. Just then, she

I reach out and squeeze her hand, and remember everything we’ve lived through together. The normal things we endured as we grew from girls to women. The days in school where boys would line us up in order of our fuckability. The parties where it was normal to lie on top of a semi-conscious girl, do things to her, then call her a slut afterwards. A Christmas number-one song about a pregnant woman being stuffed into the boot of a car and driven off a bridge. Laughing when your male friends made rape jokes. Opening a newspaper and seeing the breasts of a girl who had only just turned legal, dressed in school uniform to make her look underage. Of the childhood films we grew up on, and loved, and knew all the words to, where, at the end, a girl would always get chosen for looking the prettiest compared to all the others. Reading magazines that told you to mirror men’s body language, and hum on their dick when you went down on them, that turned into books about how to get them to commit by not being yourself. Of size zero, and Atkins, and Five-Two, and cabbage soup, and juice cleanses and eat clean. Of pole-dancing lessons as a great way to get fit, and actually, if you want to be really cool, come to the actual strip club too. Of being sexually assaulted when you kissed someone on a dance floor and not thinking about it properly until you are twenty-seven and read a book about how maybe it was wrong. Of being jealous of your friend who got assaulted on the dance floor because why didn’t he pick you to assault? Boys not wanting to be with you unless you fuck them quickly. Boys not wanting to be with you because you fucked them too quickly. Being terrified to walk anywhere in the dark in case the worst thing happens to you, and so your male friend walks you home to keep you safe, and then comes into your bedroom and does the worst thing to you, and now, when you look him up online, he’s engaged to a woman who wears a feminist T-shirt and isn’t going to change her name when they get married. Of learning to have no pubic hair, and how liberating it is to pay thirty-five pounds a month to rip this from your body and lurch up in agony. Rings around famous women’s bodies saying ‘look at this cellulite’, oh, by the way, here is a twenty-quid cream so you don’t get

Hallsy is only thirty-nine, and already her face is pulled tight as a pair of Lululemon yoga pants across a plus-size girl’s rear. She’s never been married, which she’ll tell you she never wants to be even though she hangs all over every remotely fuckable guy after a single drink, while they gently untangle her Marshmallow Man arms from around their stiff necks. It’s no wonder the only ring on her finger is the Cartier Trinity, what with the way she’s ruined her face and the fact that she spends more time sunning on the beach than she should running on a treadmill. But it’s not just her sunspot-speckled chest and stocky, lazy frame. Hallsy is the type of person others describe as “whacky” and “kooky,” which is just the civilized way of saying she’s a nasty cunt. Hallsy she loves me.

Grief is a cocoon from which we emerge new. Last year Liz’s beloved partner became very sick and started dying. I was far away, so each day I would send her messages that said, “I am sitting outside your door.” One day, my mom called and asked, “How is Liz?” I thought for a moment about how to answer. I realized I couldn’t because she’d asked me the wrong question. I said, “Mama, I think the question is not ‘How is Liz?’ The question is ‘Who is Liz? Who will she be when she emerges from this grief?’ ” Grief shatters. If you let yourself shatter and then you put yourself back together, piece by piece, you wake up one day and realize that you have been completely reassembled. You are whole again, and strong, but you are suddenly a new shape, a new size. The change that happens to people who really sit in their pain—whether it’s a sliver of envy lasting an hour or a canyon of grief lasting decades—it’s revolutionary. When that kind of transformation happens, it becomes impossible to fit into your old conversations or relationships or patterns or thoughts or life anymore. You are like a snake trying to fit back into old, dead skin or a butterfly trying to crawl back into its cocoon. You look around and see everything freshly, with the new eyes you have earned for yourself. There is no going back. Perhaps the only thing that makes grief any easier is to surrender completely to it. To resist trying to hold on to a single part of ourselves that existed before the doorbell rang. Sometimes to live again, we have to let ourselves die completely. We have to let ourselves become completely, utterly, new. When grief rings: Surrender. There is nothing else to do. The delivery is utter transformation.

Lady Isabeau was tall for a woman, nearly as tall as Molly, but slender where Molly was stout, with a smooth immobile face that looked as if it had been carved from ivory, pale and serene. Hob stared at her: glossy black hair bound about the brows with a broad white linen fillet and partly concealed by a veil that draped down her neck; dark eyes beneath dark brows plucked thin; unsmiling lips, full and well-shaped. There was so little expression on her face, and its beauty was so unworldly, that Hob had a moment when he thought her an apparition, or a graven figure. “Blanche comme la neige,” came to his mind, a song Molly had taught him, “belle comme le jour.” The thinnest of scars ran from her hairline down her forehead, divided her left eyebrow, and curved along her cheek to the corner of her mouth, and seemed at once to augment her beauty and to reinforce its carven stillness, as if some wright's chisel had slipped in the course of fashioning her visage. A linen band of the sort known as a barbette ran down from the fillet at her temples and passed under her chin, framing her face, and rendering her features all the more austere. Her gown was a muted purple; heavy embroidery of red and blue circled its neckline, and it was gathered by a zone of gray silk, sewn with pearls, that circled her hips. From this belt depended a silver ring, as wide around as a big man's fist. On the ring was a bunch of black iron keys, of varying sizes: the symbol and reality of her standing as administrator of the household. As she spoke, she fiddled with the keys as though they were prayer beads; they gave off a continual muted clink, just barely audible to Hob above the rumble of voices, the thuds and thumps of plank tabletops settling onto their trestles.

Thither we had now to walk, and our way, to my great delight, lay along the quays and beside the great multitude of ships of all sizes and rigs and nations. In one, sailors were singing at their work, in another there were men aloft, high over my head, hanging to threads that seemed no thicker than a spider’s. Though I had lived by the shore all my life, I seemed never to have been near the sea till then. The smell of tar and salt was something new. I saw the most wonderful figureheads, that had all been far over the ocean. I saw, besides, many old sailors, with rings in their ears, and whiskers curled in ringlets, and tarry pigtails, and their swaggering, clumsy sea- walk; and if I had seen as many kings or archbishops I could not have been more delighted. And I was going to sea myself, to sea in a schooner, with a piping boatswain and pig-tailed singing seamen, to sea, bound for an unknown island, and to seek for buried treasure!

She leaned forward, eager to see what it was. She was wearing her charm bracelet that day, as she always did, so she was eager to add the new one. But what was it? “That’s funny,” Luca said. “It looked a lot bigger in the store.” He dropped the charm into her hand. It was a teeny, tiny ring. An engagement ring. “Luca,” she said. The older lady giggled nervously. “Hang on,” Luca said. “Don’t say anything yet.” He reached into his pocket again, and that time he pulled out a full-sized ring. One that would fit on her finger. It was the second most beautiful thing Tina Gardenia had ever seen. The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen was Luca’s blue eyes, glistening as he looked up at her and asked, “Will you marry me?” The word came out of her mouth without even registering in her brain. “Yes.” She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his big shoulders. The other patients, and some nurses who’d approached quietly, clapped and cheered.

I select the right practice gun, the one about the size of a pistol, but bulkier, and offer it to Caleb. Tris’s fingers slide between mine. Everything comes easily this morning, every smile and every laugh, every word and every motion. If we succeed in what we attempt tonight, tomorrow Chicago will be safe, the Bureau will be forever changed, and Tris and I will be able to build a new life for ourselves somewhere. Maybe it will even be a place where I trade my guns and knives for more productive tools, screwdrivers and nails and shovels. This morning I feel like I could be so fortunate. I could. “It doesn’t shoot real bullets,” I say, “but it seems like they designed it so it would be as close as possible to one of the guns you’ll be using. It feels real, anyway.” Caleb holds the gun with just his fingertips, like he’s afraid it will shatter in his hands. I laugh. “First lesson: Don’t be afraid of it. Grab it. You’ve held one before, remember? You got us out of the Amity compound with that shot.” “That was just lucky,” Caleb says, turning the gun over and over to see it from every angle. His tongue pushes into his cheek like he’s solving a problem. “Not the result of skill.” “Lucky is better than unlucky,” I say. “We can work on skill now.” I glance at Tris. She grins at me, then leans in to whisper something to Christina. “Are you here to help or what, Stiff?” I say. I hear myself speaking in the voice I cultivated as an initiation instructor, but this time I use it in jest. “You could use some practice with that right arm, if I recall correctly. You too, Christina.” Tris makes a face at me, then she and Christina cross the room to get their own weapons. “Okay, now face the target and turn the safety off,” I say. There is a target across the room, more sophisticated, than the wooden-board target in the Dauntless training rooms. It has three rings in three different colors, green, yellow, and red, so it’s easier to tell where the bullets it. “Let me see how you would naturally shoot.” He lifts up the gun with one hand, squares off his feet and shoulders to the target like he’s about to lift something heavy, and fires. The gun jerks back and up, firing the bullet near the ceiling. I cover my mouth with my hand to disguise my smile. “There’s no need to giggle,” Caleb says irritably. “Book learning doesn’t teach you everything, does it?” Christina says. “You have to hold it with both hands. It doesn’t look as cool, but neither does attacking the ceiling.” “I wasn’t trying to look cool!” Christina stands, her legs slightly uneven, and lifts both arms. She stares the target for a moment, then fires. The training bullet hits the outer circle of the target and bounces off, rolling on the floor. It leaves a circle of light on the target, marking the impact site. I wish I’d had this technology during initiation training. “Oh, good,” I say. “You hit the air around your target’s body. How useful.” “I’m a little rusty,” Christina admits, grinning.

I leaned against my car and sighed, rubbing a hand over my eyes. “It’s been a long day, James. A long, somewhat odd day. Let’s not cap it off with me sitting in the yard talking to a cat, okay?”   James gave a derisive snort—strangely suiting his feline persona—and shifted into his dragon form, which is about the size of a schnauzer. He flapped his wings once and settled in, puffing a ring of smoke at me while he did.   I tried not to sigh in exasperation. “Yes, that’s much better . Talking to a cat was weird, but speaking to a miniature dragon completely fulfills my desire for normalcy.” He blew a thin jet of fire at my shoes. I jumped up with a yelp, and he snickered.   “Cute...” James had three forms: cat, small schnauzer-sized dragon, and human. The third had been a surprise until I moved in and asked him how he’d managed to do all of Douglas’s errands with no opposable thumbs. He’d morphed, poked me on the head with one of said opposable thumbs, and finished by stealing my yogurt. I still hadn’t quite figured James out.

But believe me, Henry. You’re not the first Snow White I’ve seen, and you probably won’t be the last. You’ll do what you can with the resources you have, and you’ll serve your story by trying to save me.” Sloane dropped her head again. “I should be trying to save you. That would subvert the narrative. But instead here we are, you saving me, or dying in the process. Dying is a lot more likely.” “Only if you take things at face value,” I said. “I’m not going to eat anything you hand me, drink anything you’ve touched, borrow your comb, or put on any of your rings. You know what I will do?” “What?” asked Sloane, not sounding as if she believed that the answer could matter in the slightest. “I’ll shoot you in your goddamn head if I really and truly feel that you’ve become a danger to yourself and others. And then I’ll take your body down to the folks in Agricultural and ask them to use you to fertilize an apple tree. And when you’ve grown to a lovely size and started bearing fruit, I will sit underneath you and not eat a single one of your inevitably poisoned apples.” Sloane glanced at me through her hair, and for a moment I actually saw a wisp of a smile on her face. “You’d do that for me?” she asked.

How much are you asking for it?" "It is a durable and dependable storage device. Many of my customers appreciate items that are incognito. With the size and craftsmanship involved, the price should be eighty platinum, but I am only asking for sixty," Vuitton said. Hugo winced. He didn’t have that much. He said, "That might be reasonable for a ring with ten cubic feet of easily accessible space, but this is eight separate storage spaces. That really limits its usefulness. I was thinking twenty-five would be much more reasonable." "I am afraid reason has left you then. I couldn’t part with it for anything less than fifty," the impundulu said haughtily as sparks of lightning danced across his hair. "Ah, I understand. It must have some sentimental value to you. I couldn’t pay more than thirty for it, since I am not a sentimental man," Hugo said. "Storage items never lose value. You can buy this today and your grandson will thank you for it a hundred years from now. Why not pay the forty-five platinum now and invest in your future?" he replied. "My grandson will need to eat. Let me keep five plat for him and I will give you the forty," Hugo said with a smile. "You drive a hard bargain, honored customer. Forty will suffice

We may conceive of a machine constructed for the purpose of performing simple processes of classification of this kind. We can, for instance, imagine a machine which “sorts out” balls of various size which are placed into it by distributing them between different receptacles. . . . Another kind of machine performing this simplest kind of classification might be conceived as in a similar fashion sorting out individual signals arriving through any one of a large number of wires or tubes.We shall regard here any signal arriving through one particular wire or tube as the same recurring event which will always lead to the same action of the machine. The machine would respond similarly also to signals arriving through some different tubes or wires, and any such group to which the machine responded in the same manner would be regarded as events of the same class. Such a machine would act like a simplified telephone exchange in which each of a number of incoming wires was permanently connected with, say a particular bell, so that any signal coming in on any one of these wires would ring that bell. All the wires connected with any one bell would then carry signals belonging to the same class. An actual instance of a machine of this kind is provided by certain statistical machines for sorting cards on which punched holes represent statistical data.

Back in L.A., I’d remained friends with my freshman-year boyfriend, Collin, and we’d become even closer after he confided in me one dark and emotional night that he’d finally come to terms with his homosexuality. Around that time, his mother was visiting from Dallas, and Collin invited me to meet them at Hotel Bel Air for brunch. I wore the quintessential early-1990s brunch outfit: a copper-brown silk tank with white, dime-size polka dots and a below-the-knee, swinging skirt to match. A flawless Pretty Woman--Julia Roberts polo match replica. I loved that outfit. It was silk, though, and clingy, and the second I sat down at the table I knew I was in trouble. My armpits began to feel cool and wet, and slowly I noticed the fabric around my arms getting damper and damper. By the time our mimosas arrived, the ring of sweat had spread to the level of my third rib; by mealtime, it had reached the waistline of my skirt, and the more I tried to will it away, the worse it got. I wound up eating my Eggs Florentine with my elbows stuck to my hip bones so Collin and his mother wouldn’t see. But copper-brown silk, when wet, is the most unforgiving fabric on the planet. Collin had recently come out to his parents, so I’d later determined I’d experienced some kind of sympathetic nervousness on Collin’s behalf. I never wore that outfit again. Never got the stains out. Nor would I ever wear this suit again.

But the 1880s are also embedded in our lives in many smaller ways. Over a decade ago, in Creating the Twentieth Century, I traced several daily American experiences through mundane artifacts and actions that stem from that miraculous decade. A woman wakes up today in an American city and makes a cup of Maxwell House coffee (launched in 1886). She considers eating her favorite Aunt Jemima pancakes (sold since 1889) but goes for packaged Quaker Oats (available since 1884). She touches up her blouse with an electric iron (patented in 1882), applies antiperspirant (available since 1888), but cannot pack her lunch because she has run out of brown paper bags (the process to make strong kraft paper was commercialized in the 1880s). She commutes on the light rail system (descended directly from the electric streetcars that began serving US cities in the 1880s), is nearly run over by a bicycle (the modern version of which—with equal-sized wheels and a chain drive—was another creation of the 1880s: see engines are older than bicycles!, this page), then goes through a revolving door (introduced in a Philadelphia building in 1888) into a multistory steel-skeleton skyscraper (the first one was finished in Chicago in 1885). She stops at a newsstand on the first floor, buys a copy of the Wall Street Journal (published since 1889) from a man who rings it up on his cash register (patented in 1883). Then she goes up to the 10th floor in an elevator

Our two taco specials get shoved up on the serving counter, crispy, cheesy goodness in brown plastic baskets lined with parchment paper, sour cream and guacamole exactly where they should be. On the side. There is a perfect ratio of sour cream, guac, and salsa on a shredded chicken tostada. No one can make it happen for you. Many restaurants have tried. All have failed. Only the mouth knows its own pleasure, and calibration like Taco Heaven cannot be mass produced. It simply cannot. Taco Heaven is a sensory explosion of flavor that defies logic. First, you have to eye the amount of spiced meat, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and tomatillos. You must consider the size and crispiness of the shells. Some people–I call them blasphemers–like soft tacos. I am sitting across from Exhibit A. We won’t talk about soft tacos. They don’t make it to Taco Heaven. People who eat soft tacos live in Taco Purgatory, never fully understanding their moral failings, repeating the same mistakes again and again for all eternity. Like Perky and dating. Once you inventory your meat, lettuce, tomato, and shell quality, the real construction begins. Making your way to Taco Heaven is like a mechanical engineer building a bridge in your mouth. Measurements must be exact. Payloads are all about formulas and precision. One miscalculation and it all fails. Taco Death is worse than Taco Purgatory, because the only reason for Taco Death is miscalculation. And that’s all on you. “Oh, God,” Fiona groans through a mouthful of abomination. “You’re doing it, aren’t you?” “Doing what?” I ask primly, knowing damn well what she’s talking about. “You treat eating tacos like you’re the star of some Mythbusters show.” “Do not.” “Do too.” “Even if I do–and I am notconceding the point–it would be a worthwhile venture.” “You are as weird about your tacos as Perky is about her coffee.” “Take it back! I am not that weird.” “You are.” “Am not.” “This is why Perky and I swore we would never come here with you again.” Fiona grabs my guacamole and smears the rounded scoop all over the outside of her soft taco. I shriek. “How can you do that?” I gasp, the murder of the perfect ratio a painful, almost palpable blow. The mashed avocado has a death rattle that rings in my ears. Smug, tight lips give me a grimace. “See? A normal person would shout, ‘Hey! That’s mine!’ but you’re more offended that I’ve desecrated my inferior taco wrapping with the wrong amount of guac.” “Because it’s wrong.” “You should have gone to MIT, Mal. You need a job that involves nothing but pure math for the sake of calculating stupid shit no one else cares about.” “So glad to know that a preschool teacher holds such high regard for math,” I snark back. And MIT didn’t give me the kind of merit aid package I got from Brown, I don’t add. “Was that supposed to sting?” She takes the rest of my guacamole, grabs a spoon, and starts eating it straight out of the little white paper scoop container thing. “How can you do that? It’s like people who dip their french fries in mayonnaise.” I shudder, standing to get in line to buy more guac. “I dip my french fries in mayo!” “More evidence of your madness, Fi. Get help now. It may not be too late.” I stick my finger in her face. “And by the way, you and Perky talk about my taco habits behind my back? Some friends!” I hmph and turn toward the counter.

Let your imagination change what you know. Suddenly a gray rock becomes ashen or clouded with dream. A ring round a rock is luck. To find a red rock is to discover earthblood. Blue rocks make you believe in them. Patterns and flecks on rocks are bits of different countries and terrains, speckled questions. Conglomerates are the movement of land in the freedom of water, smoothed into a small thing you can hold in your hand, rub against your face. Sandstone is soothing and lucid. Shale, of course, is rational. Find pleasure in these ordinary palm worlds. Help yourself prepare for a life. Recognize when there are no words for the pain, when there are no words for the joy, there are rocks. Fill all the clear drinking glasses in your house with rocks, no matter what your husband or lover thinks. Gather rocks in small piles on the counters, the tables, the windowsills. Divide rocks by color, texture, size, shape. Collect some larger stones, place them along the floor of your living room, never mind what the guests think, build an intricate labyrinth of inanimates. Move around your rocks like a curl of water. Begin to detect smells and sounds to different varieties of rock. Give names to some, not geological, but of your own making. Memorize their presence, know if one is missing or out of place. Bathe them in water once each week. Carry a different one in your pocket every day. Move away from normal but don’t notice it. Move towards excess but don’t care. Own more rocks than clothing, than dishes, than books. Lie down next to them on the floor, put the smaller ones in your mouth occasionally. Sometimes, feel lithic, or petrified, or rupestral instead of tired, irritable, depressed. At night, alone, naked, place one green, one red, one ashen on different parts of your body. Tell no one.

NOBODY CAN PREDICT WHO’LL MAKE it through BUD/S. The brass tries to figure it out; they bring in psychologists and boost the number of guys beginning the process, hoping more SEALs will be left standing at the end. They tweak the design to create more equal opportunity for minorities, but all that happens is that the instructors do to the students exactly what was done to them, and always 80 percent don’t make it. We have more white SEALs simply because more white guys try out. Eighty percent of white guys fail, 80 percent of Filipinos fail, 80 percent of black guys fail. And the irony is, the Navy doesn’t want an 80 percent failure rate. There can’t be too many SEALs. We’re always undermanned. From the beginning of boot camp, the instructors try separating guys who want to be SEALs. They put them together, feed them better, give them workouts designed to prepare them for BUD/S. These promising rookies get in better shape, are better nourished, and are psychologically primed to go. Then they’re sent to SEAL training and 80 percent fail. No matter what the Navy process tweakers do, they can’t crack it. You’d think the Olympic swimmer would make it. You’d think the pro-football player would make it. But they don’t—well, 80  percent don’t. In my experience, the one category of people who get reliably crushed in BUD/S are that noble demographic, the loudmouths. They’re usually the first to ring the bell. As for who will make it, all I can say is: Are you the person who can convince your body that it can do anything you ask it to? Who can hit the wall and say, “What wall?” That strength of mind isn’t associated with any ethnicity or level of skin pigmentation. It’s not a function of size or musculature or IQ. In the end, it’s sheer cussedness, and I’m guessing you’re either born that way or you never get there.

The revelation came in flashes: the planet visible only in moments, during the surges of light blasted between the orbital mirrors and the satellites scattered perilously close to it. Each time it flickered into view, exposed by the relentless pulses, it almost disappeared again into the cold dark of space and time, fully reemerging altered. Size fluctuating by percentages that defied physics: swelling, contracting. Colour shifting from muted greyish green to bruised emerald, lines of deeper shadow pulsing across its surface. It looked alive. Pulsating. Breathing. As if it existed in different planes, not fully anchored to this reality, a visitor from some orthogonal dimension bleeding through. Two moons orbited it, locked in unnatural proximity, different sizes but bound like Siamese twins in gravitational chains. Both coppery and burnt, their surfaces scorched to a uniform metallic sheen, craters etched with patterns too regular to be natural. Constructions dotted them: angular spires and lattices, satellites vibrating with faint energy signatures even at this distance. Ramps; vast, curving structures; encircled the planet itself, rings of alloy and field emitters fixing the moons in place, stabilising what should not be stable. But the horror only grew from here. Where the planet stood, the fabric of space flared and whined in a horrible growl, audible now through the facility’s audio relays; a static-laced rumble that set teeth on edge. A violent, ruthless pull emanated from it: gravitational anomalies spiking, temporal eddies registering as localised slowdowns in light propagation. Instruments screamed with conflicting data; mass readings inverting, entropy values negative, quantum fluctuations off the charts. Horrible stats poured in; radiation profiles that matched no known isotope, magnetic fields twisting in impossible knots, biological signatures flickering like ghosts in the noise. The entire planet was one huge anomaly; an infection spreading through space and time, corrupting the very rules that bound the solar system. It did not belong. It hungered.

When Kestrel opened her eyes, she was lying in her bed. Someone had built a fire, which sent ripples of orange light over the ceiling. An oil lamp burned on the night table, casting her father’s face into extremes of shadow and bone. He had drawn a chair close and perhaps had been sleeping in it, but his eyes were alert. “Your knee needs to be tapped,” he said. She looked at it. Someone--her father?--had cut away the right legging at her thigh, and below the sheared black cloth her knee was swollen to twice its normal size. It felt tight and hot. “I don’t know what that means,” Kestrel said, “but it doesn’t sound very nice.” “Irex dislocated your kneecap. It slipped back into place, but the blow must have torn your muscle. Your knee’s filling with blood. That’s what’s causing you so much pain: the swelling.” He hesitated. “I have some experience with this kind of wound, on the battlefield. I can drain it. You’ll feel better. But I would have to use a knife.” Kestrel remembered him cutting her mother’s arm, blood weaving through his fingers as he tried to close the wound. He looked at her now, and she thought that he was seeing the same thing, or seeing Kestrel remember it, and that they were mirroring each other’s nightmare. His gaze fell to his scarred hands. “I’ve sent for a doctor. You can wait until she comes, if you prefer.” His voice was flat, yet there was a small, sad note that probably only she would have heard. “I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t feel myself capable and if I didn’t think it would be better to do it now. But it’s your choice.” His eyes met hers. Something in them made her think that he would never have let Irex kill her, that he would have pushed into the ring and planted a blade in Irex’s back if he had thought his daughter might die, that he would have thrown away his honor with hers. Of course, Kestrel couldn’t be sure. Yet she nodded. He sent a slave for clean rags, which he eased under her knee. Then he went to the fire and held a small knife in the flames to sterilize it. He returned to her side, the blackened knife in his hand. “I promise,” he said, but Kestrel didn’t know whether he meant to say that he promised this would help her, or that he knew what he was doing, or that he would have saved her from Irex if she had needed saving. He slid the knife in, and she fainted again.

NOTE: Practice your most effective relaxation techniques before you begin these exercises (refer to Chapter 6 if necessary). People are better able to concentrate when they are relaxed. Listening -Pay attention to the sounds coming from outside: from the street, from above in the air, from as far away as possible. Then focus on one sound only. -Pay attention to the sounds coming from a nearby room—the kitchen, living room, etc. Identify each one, then focus on a single sound. -Pay attention to the sounds coming from the room you are in: the windows, the electrical appliances. Then focus on one sound only. -Listen to your breathing. -Hear a short tune and attempt to re-create it. -Listen to a sound, such as a ringing doorbell, a knock on the door, a telephone ringing, or a siren. How does it make you feel? -Listen to a voice on the telephone. Really focus on it. -Listen to the voices of family members, colleagues, or fellow students, paying close attention to their intonation, pacing, and accent. What mood are they conveying? Looking -Look around the room and differentiate colors or patterns, such as straight lines, circles, and squares. -Look at the architecture of the room. Now close your eyes. Can you describe it? Could you draw it? -Look at one object in the room: chair, desk, chest of drawers, whatever. Close your eyes and try to picture the shape, the material, and the colors. -Notice any changes in your environment at home, at school, or in your workplace. -Look at magazine photos and try to guess what emotions the subjects’ expressions show. -Observe the effect of light around you. How does it change shapes? Expressions? Moods? Touching -When shaking a person’s hand, notice the temperature of the hand. Then notice the temperature of your own hand. -Hold an object in your hands, such as a cup of coffee, a brick, a tennis ball, or anything else that is available. Then put it down. Close your eyes and remember the shape, size, and texture of the object. -Feel different objects and then, with your eyes closed, touch them again. Be aware of how the sensations change. -Explore different textures and surfaces with your eyes first open and then closed. Smelling and Tasting -Be aware of the smells around you; come up with words to describe them. -Try to remember the taste of a special meal that you enjoyed in the past. Use words to describe the flavors—not just the names of the dishes. -Search your memory for important smells or tastes. -Think of places with a strong tie to smell. These sensory exercises are an excellent way to boost your awareness and increase your ability to concentrate. What is learned in the fullest way—using all five senses—is unlikely to be forgotten. As you learn concentration, you will find that you are able to be more in tune with what is going on around you in a social situation, which in turn allows you to interact more fully.

Take your hands off him.' She did. 'Unshackle him.' Lucien's skin drained of colour as Ianthe obeyed me, her face queerly vacant, pliant. The blue stone shackles thumped to the mossy ground. Lucien's shirt was askew, the top button on his pants already undone. The roaring that filled my mind was so loud I could barely hear myself as I said, 'Pick up that rock.' Lucien remained pressed against that tree. And he watched in silence as Ianthe stopped to pick up a grey, rough rock about the size of an apple. 'Put your right hand on that boulder.' She obeyed, though a tremor went down her spine. Her mind thrashed and struggled against me, like a fish snared on a line. I dug my mental talons in deeper, and some inner voice of hers began screaming. 'Smash your hand with the rock as hard as you can until I tell you to stop.' The hand she'd put on him, on so many others. Ianthe brought the stone up. The first impact was a muffled, wet thud. The second was an actual crack. The third drew blood. Her arm rose and fell, her body shuddering with the agony. And I said to her very clearly, 'You will never touch another person against their will. You will never convince yourself that they truly want your advances; that they're playing games. You will never know another's touch unless they initiate, unless it's desired by both sides.' Thwack; crack; thud. 'You will not remember what happened here. You will tell the others that you fell.' Her ring finger had shifted in the wrong direction. 'You are allowed to see a healer to set the bones. But not to erase the scarring. And every time you look at that hand, you are going to remember that touching people against their will has consequences, and if you do it again, everything you are will cease to exist. You will live with that terror every day, and never know where it originates. Only the fear of something chasing you, hunting you, waiting for you the instant you let your guard down.' Silent tears of pain flowed down her face. 'You can stop now.' The bloodied rock tumbled onto the grass. Her hand was little more than cracked bones wrapped in shredded skin. 'Kneel here until someone finds you.' Ianthe fell to her knees, her ruined hand leaking blood onto her pale robes. 'I debated slitting your throat this morning,' I told her. 'I debated it all last night while you slept beside me. I've debated it every single day since I learned you sold out my sisters to Hybern.' I smiled a bit. 'But I think this is a better punishment. And I hope you live a long, long life, Ianthe, and never know a moment's peace.' I stared down at her for a moment longer, tying off the tapestry of words and commands I'd woven into her mind, and turned to Lucien. He'd fixed his pants, his shirt. His wide eyes slid from her to me, then to the bloodied stone. 'The word you're looking for, Lucien,' crooned a deceptively light female voice, 'is daemati.

When I swung open the door, there he was: Marlboro Man, wearing Wranglers and a crisp white shirt and boots. And a sweet, heart-melting smile. What are you doing here? I thought. You’re supposed to be in the shower. You’re supposed to be with the sex kitten. “Hey,” he said, wasting no time in stepping through the door and winding his arms around my waist. My arms couldn’t help but drape over his strong shoulders; my lips couldn’t help but find his. He felt soft, warm, safe…and our first kiss turned into a third, and a sixth, and a seventh. It was the same kiss as the night before, when the phone call alerting him to the fire had come. My eyes remained tightly closed as I savored every second, trying to reconcile the present with the horror movie I’d imagined just moments earlier. I had no idea what was going on. At that point, I didn’t even care. “Ummmmm!!! I’m t-t-t-ttellin’!” Mike teased from the top of the stairs, just before running down and embracing Marlboro Man in a bear hug. “Hi, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, politely patting him on the back. “Mike?” I said, smiling and blinking my eyes. “Will you excuse us for a couple of minutes?” Mike obliged, giggling and oooo-ing as he walked toward the kitchen. Marlboro Man picked me up and brought my eyes to the level of his. Smiling, he said, “I’ve been trying to call you this afternoon.” “You have?” I said. I hadn’t even heard the phone ring. “I, um…I sort of took a nine-hour nap.” Marlboro Man chuckled. Oh, that chuckle. I needed it badly that night. He set my feet back down on the floor. “So…,” he teased. “You still cranky?” “Nope,” I finally answered, smiling. So, who is that woman in your house? So…what did you do all day? “Did you ever get any sleep?” So, who is that woman in your house? “Well,” he began. “I had to help Tim with something this morning, then I crashed on the couch for a few hours…it felt pretty good.” Who was the woman? What’s her name? What’s her cup size? He continued. “I would’ve slept all day, but Katie and her family showed up in the middle of my nap,” he said. “I forgot they were staying at my house tonight.” Katie. His cousin Katie. The one with the two young kids, who had probably just gone to bed when I’d called earlier. “Oh…really?” I said, my chest relaxing with a long, quiet exhale. “Yeah…but it’s a little crowded over there,” he said. “I thought I’d come over here and take you to a movie.” I smiled, stroking his back with my hand. “A movie sounds perfect.” The busty, bronze mystery girl slowly faded into oblivion. Mike came barreling out of the kitchen, where he’d been listening to every word. “Hey--if you guys are goin’ to the movie, c-c-c-can you drive me to the mall?” he yelled. “Sure, Mike,” Marlboro Man said. “We’ll drive you to the mall. It’ll cost you ten bucks, though.” And as the three of us made our way outside to Marlboro Man’s diesel pickup, I had to bite my lip to keep myself from articulating the only seven words in the English language that were in my vocabulary at that moment: God help me--I love that man.

BACON, EGG, AND CHEDDAR CHEESE TOAST CUPS Preheat oven to 400 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 6 slices bacon (regular sliced, not thick sliced) 4 Tablespoons (2 ounces, ½ stick) salted butter, softened 6 slices soft white bread ½ cup grated cheddar cheese 6 large eggs Salt and pepper to taste Cook the 6 slices of bacon in a frying pan over medium heat for 6 minutes or until the bacon is firmed up and the edges are slightly brown, but the strips are still pliable. They won’t be completely cooked, but that’s okay. They will finish cooking in the oven. Place the partially-cooked bacon on a plate lined with paper towels to drain it. Generously coat the inside of 6 muffin cups with half of the softened butter. Butter one side of the bread with the rest of the butter but stop slightly short of the crusts. Lay the bread out on a sheet of wax paper or a bread board butter side up. Hannah’s 1st Note: You will be wasting a bit of butter here, but it’s easier than cutting rounds of bread first and trying to butter them after they’re cut. Using a round cookie cutter that’s three and a half inches (3 and ½ inches) in diameter, cut circles out of each slice of bread.   Hannah’s 2nd Note: If you don’t have a 3.5 inch cookie cutter, you can use the top rim of a standard size drinking glass to do this. Place the bread rounds butter side down inside the muffin pans, pressing them down gently being careful not to tear them as they settle into the bottom of the cup. If one does tear, cut a patch from the buttered bread that is left and place it, buttered side down, over the tear. Curl a piece of bacon around the top of each piece of bread, positioning it between the bread and the muffin tin. This will help to keep the bacon in a ring shape. Sprinkle shredded cheese in the bottom of each muffin cup, dividing the cheese as equally as you can between the 6 muffin cups. Crack an egg into a small measuring cup (I use a half-cup measure) with a spout, making sure to keep the yolk intact. Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you break a yolk, don’t throw the whole egg away. Just slip it in a small covered container which you will refrigerate and use for scrambled eggs the next morning, or for that batch of cookies you’ll make in the next day or two. Pour the egg carefully into the bottom of one of the muffin cups. Repeat this procedure for all the eggs, cracking them one at a time and pouring them into the remaining muffin cups. When every muffin cup has bread, bacon, cheese and egg, season with a little salt and pepper. Bake the filled toast cups for 6 to 10 minutes, depending on how firm you want the yolks. (Naturally, a longer baking time yields a harder yolk.) Run the blade of a knife around the edge of each muffin cup, remove the Bacon, Egg, and Cheddar Cheese Toast Cups, and serve immediately. Hannah’s 4th Note: These are a bit tricky the first time you make them. That’s just “beginner nerves”. Once you’ve made them successfully, they’re really quite easy to do and extremely impressive to serve for a brunch. Yield: 6 servings (or 3 servings if you’re fixing them for Mike and Norman).

A box sat on top of Jade’s pillows, wrapped in green paper with a white bow. He frowned slightly. Who would’ve left a gift on Jade’s bed? “You have a present.” “What?” Jade turned her head when he gestured toward the box. Confusion filled her eyes. She sat up and reached for the box. “I don’t understand.” Zach sat by her again and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Maybe there’s a card.” After searching beneath the large white bow, Jade pulled out a small envelope. Zach looked over her shoulder as she withdrew the card and read it aloud. “‘To Mom and Zach. Have fun tonight. Bre.’” Zach chuckled, both at Breanna’s card and at Jade’s blush. “Your daughter has quite a sense of humor.” “My daughter deserves to be spanked.” She lifted the box onto her lap. “I’m afraid to open it.” “Would you like me to? It’s addressed to both of us.” “I’m even more afraid for you to open it.” “Go ahead. It can’t be that bad.” “You don’t know my daughter.” Untying the bow, Jade raised the lid and pulled apart the bright green tissue paper. Several sex toys lay in the box. She gasped. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe she did this!” She started to push the tissue paper back over the contents, but Zach held her hand to stop her. “Wait. Let’s see what she bought.” “I am going to kill her, after I beat her.” Chuckling, Zach dug through the box, lifting the different items as he came to them. “Cock ring. Chocolate body paint. Stay-hard gel.” He looked into Jade’s eyes. “I don’t think I’ll need that tonight.” Her cheeks turned a deep pink. He dropped a kiss on her lips before beginning to explore again. “Anal beads. Ben-Wa balls. Fur-lined handcuffs. Nipple clamps. Lemon-flavored nipple cream.” His gaze dipped to her breasts. “Interesting.” She huffed out a breath. “Can we close the box now?” “Not yet. I like it when you blush.” Zach grinned when Jade scowled at him. “This is completely spoiling the mood.” “I won’t have any problem getting hard again.” “Zach!” Ignoring her outraged tone, he continued to sift through the items. “Lifelike dildo.” He held it up to eye level. “Close, but not quite as big as I am.” Jade covered her eyes with one hand. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered. “Butt plug. Wait, I’m wrong. It’s a vibrating butt plug. Very interesting. I hope you have batteries. Never mind. Breanna included several packages.” “Okay, that’s enough.” Jade tried to jerk the box out of his reach, but Zach held on to the side. “There’re only a couple more items. We might as well see what they are.” “I don’t care what they are.” “You might care about one of them.” Zach held up a large box of condoms. “Oh.” He turned the box in his hand. “I’m flattered, but I don’t think I’ll be able to use one hundred of these tonight.” “One hundred?” “All different types, sizes, and colors.” Jade laughed. “Oh, Bre.” She pushed her hair behind one ear. “What’s the last thing?” “Cherry-flavored lubricant. It looks like she thought of everything.” “You must think my daughter is crazy.” “I think your daughter loves you very much and wants you to be happy.” “That’s true. But we won’t use all this…stuff.” “Who says we won’t?

Everywhere you look with this young lady, there’s a purity of motivation,” Shultz told him. “I mean she really is trying to make the world better, and this is her way of doing it.” Mattis went out of his way to praise her integrity. “She has probably one of the most mature and well-honed sense of ethics—personal ethics, managerial ethics, business ethics, medical ethics that I’ve ever heard articulated,” the retired general gushed. Parloff didn’t end up using those quotes in his article, but the ringing endorsements he heard in interview after interview from the luminaries on Theranos’s board gave him confidence that Elizabeth was the real deal. He also liked to think of himself as a pretty good judge of character. After all, he’d dealt with his share of dishonest people over the years, having worked in a prison during law school and later writing at length about such fraudsters as the carpet-cleaning entrepreneur Barry Minkow and the lawyer Marc Dreier, both of whom went to prison for masterminding Ponzi schemes. Sure, Elizabeth had a secretive streak when it came to discussing certain specifics about her company, but he found her for the most part to be genuine and sincere. Since his angle was no longer the patent case, he didn’t bother to reach out to the Fuiszes. — WHEN PARLOFF’S COVER STORY was published in the June 12, 2014, issue of Fortune, it vaulted Elizabeth to instant stardom. Her Journal interview had gotten some notice and there had also been a piece in Wired, but there was nothing like a magazine cover to grab people’s attention. Especially when that cover featured an attractive young woman wearing a black turtleneck, dark mascara around her piercing blue eyes, and bright red lipstick next to the catchy headline “THIS CEO IS OUT FOR BLOOD.” The story disclosed Theranos’s valuation for the first time as well as the fact that Elizabeth owned more than half of the company. There was also the now-familiar comparison to Steve Jobs and Bill Gates. This time it came not from George Shultz but from her old Stanford professor Channing Robertson. (Had Parloff read Robertson’s testimony in the Fuisz trial, he would have learned that Theranos was paying him $500,000 a year, ostensibly as a consultant.) Parloff also included a passage about Elizabeth’s phobia of needles—a detail that would be repeated over and over in the ensuing flurry of coverage his story unleashed and become central to her myth. When the editors at Forbes saw the Fortune article, they immediately assigned reporters to confirm the company’s valuation and the size of Elizabeth’s ownership stake and ran a story about her in their next issue. Under the headline “Bloody Amazing,” the article pronounced her “the youngest woman to become a self-made billionaire.” Two months later, she graced one of the covers of the magazine’s annual Forbes 400 issue on the richest people in America. More fawning stories followed in USA Today, Inc., Fast Company, and Glamour, along with segments on NPR, Fox Business, CNBC, CNN, and CBS News. With the explosion of media coverage came invitations to numerous conferences and a cascade of accolades. Elizabeth became the youngest person to win the Horatio Alger Award. Time magazine named her one of the one hundred most influential people in the world. President Obama appointed her a U.S. ambassador for global entrepreneurship, and Harvard Medical School invited her to join its prestigious board of fellows.

Get dressed. We’re going hunting,” he says randomly. In my half-woke state, I feel like I’ve missed something crucial, because I don’t understand how those words are supposed to make sense. “I’m sorry, but what?” I ask, sipping the coffee like the lack of caffeine is the reason I heard him wrong. “We’re going hunting. Emit has some rogue, unregistered wolves who’ve just done something heinous and stupid, and we’re taking you with us, apparently.” “I don’t want to hunt wolves,” I point out, taking a step back, since he’s acting very un-Vance-like. “I don’t want you to hunt wolves, but apparently you’re going with us, or you’re going with him,” he says bitterly, glancing over his shoulder to where there’s a large SUV. Emit’s behind the wheel, smirking like he’s proud of all this. “Yeah, no. Thanks for the offer,” I say as I shut the door…and lock it. I sip my coffee again, as Lemon drinks hers in the kitchen. Her phone rings, and she stands and answers it, while I go to the fridge in search of something to eat. I hear the door unlocking, and look over my shoulder, as Lemon gives me a very unapologetic grin. “Sorry,” she says, confusing me. “But he’s still my alpha.” Emit walks in, filling up my doorway, before he grins over at me in a way that’s sort of…scary. “It’s not really optional,” he says before he stalks to me so fast I don’t have time to react, and I’m unceremoniously slung over his shoulder. My breath comes out in a surprised rush, and I bounce against him as my mind comes to terms with why the world has tipped upside down. Ingrid comes down the stairs with a small bag, giving me a shitty excuse for a contrite smile. “I’ll remember this,” I tell the traitorous omegas dryly, as they give me a little wave and send me on my way like this is a planned vacation. I don’t really put up a fight. I’ve never seen Emit actually determined to do anything, but clearly I’m outnumbered and out wolfed on this one... I allow a small smile as I’m dropped to my feet, and then wipe the smile away because I’m supposed to be annoyed... I climb in as my backpack and small duffel finish flopping to a stop, and close my robe a little more before digging for my boots. “We’ve got everything here under control! Don’t worry about deliveries or the store,” Leiza calls very excitedly, bouncing on her feet. “This is a hunting trip to kill things, right?” I ask Vance directly, though my eyes are on the very happy omegas, who are animatedly waving from the porch now. “Yes,” he states in a tone that assures me he’s not one bit happy I’m here. “Why are they treating it like I’m going on spring break?” I ask, genuinely concerned about their level of enthusiasm. I thought they were a little saner than this. Emit snorts, but clears his expression quickly. “Do I want to know what spring break is a euphemism for?” Vance asks Emit. “You’re really that old?” I groan. “Do you know how long a century is?” Vance asks me dryly. “I averaged a C on vocab tests, so yeah,” I retort, matching his condescension. Emit releases a rumble of laughter, as his body shakes with the force. Then he pulls out and begins to drive us off on our hunt. I’m so not adjusting this fast, but it seems I have no choice in the matter. It’s like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining size and momentum. Either I’ll boulder through anything when I reach the bottom, or I’ll simply go splat into a mountainside. “Do you know how quickly the vernacular shifts and accents devolve, evolve, or simply cease to exist?” Vance asks me. Now I feel a little talked down to. “No.” “I swear he used to be fun,” Emit tells me, smiling at me through the rearview

We certainly did. We just wanted to survive. That’s all. Your house could be bombed, and you could lose everything you owned in a matter of seconds, but it wouldn’t matter if you still had the people you loved. If they survived, that was all the riches you could ever ask for. So, don’t let the size of that ring sway you. Think about what kind of a man he is. Is he decent and honorable? Would he die for you or help another person before he helped himself?

I’d rather be attacked by ants than by a golden poison dart frog. It has enough poison in it to kill ten grown men. In that case, I’m glad I’m not a grown man yet. But I bet a golden poison dart frog wouldn’t want to get into a fight with a blue-ringed octopus. It’s only the size of a golf ball, but it has enough venom to kill twenty-six people.

It’s Fae on Fae, man, what are you thinking?” he asked with a frown and I could only glower as I looked back to the fight, forcing myself to remain still. It might have made me ache to hold back but he was right, I couldn’t get involved in a fight between two Fae. And if it had been anyone else, I never would have considered it. But Roxy always made me want to break the rules. “You jumped up, crown touting, cock sucking, whore!” Mildred slammed her fist into Roxy’s face again, not even bothering to use magic as she screamed insults in her face which included way too many references to me being her beloved. “What’s the matter, Mildred?” Roxy snarled. “Is it just that you can’t suck cock properly with that mis-matched jaw of yours or is it that you know Darius is only marrying you because his father is forcing him to?” “When I take my beloved to the bedroom he will be screaming so loudly that he won’t even remember the name Vega!” Mildred howled as she punched Roxy again. “Yeah, screaming in horror,” Roxy spat and I almost fucking laughed aside from the fact that she was about to get her face smashed in by that beast of a girl. “We’ll see if he’s so tempted by you when I’m done pulverising that pretty face of yours and I cut your perky tits off for good measure!” Mildred howled. “Not the tits!” Tyler Corbin gasped from the other side of the crowd as he filmed the whole thing. My heart pounded. Roxy might have been tough, but Mildred was four times the size of her. She needed to fight back with magic if she was going to stand a chance, but as she swung her head forward and cracked the bridge of Mildred’s nose with a savage headbutt, I got the feeling she wasn’t going to use it. Roxy swung a fist into Mildred’s throat to follow it before driving her knee up between her legs as hard as she could. “Ooo right in the vag!” Tyler called and a laugh caught in my throat. “Yes, Tor!” Darcy screamed as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “Show her how we fight where we come from!” As Mildred reared back, Roxy lunged forward, rolling them over so that she was on top before swinging her fists down into Mildred’s ugly face with a brutality that made my heart race. She was wild and vicious, blood pissing down her face from her own injuries as she used my stolen rings to batter Mildred again and again. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t end up with Dragons imprinted all over her face from her own injuries as she used my stolen rings to batter Mildred again and again. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t end up with Dragons imprinted all over her face from the shape of the jewellery. Mildred gave as good as she got, punching Roxy in the sides, the chest, even trying to bite her fist as she punched her. “Holy shit,” Seth breathed as he nuzzled against my arm. “This would be so hot if it wasn’t, you know, Mildred. But if I imagine her being literally any other girl then I’d be so turned on right now.” I swallowed a lump in my throat as I refused to agree out loud, but he was right. There was something about Roxy as she fought like that, her lip curled back with determination and absolutely no mercy in her. They might have been fighting like mortals having a bar brawl, but with a crown on her head and blood painting her flesh, I didn’t think she’d ever looked more like the Savage King’s daughter before. She really was a Fae Princess. And I liked it. Mildred cursed and screamed, throwing fists like sledgehammers so hard that I was pretty sure I heard ribs cracking, but Roxy wasn’t going to give in. She swung her arm back one final time and with a scream of rage, she hit Mildred so hard in her pug face that she blacked out. A laugh tumbled from my lips before I could stop it and Roxy looked up at me with a wild determination in her eyes as she grinned like a damn warrior. (Darius POV)

And do you know what “the world” is to me? Shall I show it to you in my mirror? This world: a monster of energy, without beginning, without end; a firm, iron magnitude of force that does not grow bigger or smaller, that does not expend itself but only transforms itself; as a whole, of unalterable size, a household without expenses or losses, but likewise without increase or income; enclosed by “nothingness” as by a boundary; not something blurry or wasted, not something endlessly extended, but set in a definite space as a definite force, and not a space that might be “empty” here or there, but rather as force throughout, as a play of forces and waves of forces, at the same time one and many, increasing here and the same time decreasing there; a sea of forces flowing and rushing together, eternally changing, eternally flooding back, with tremendous years of recurrence, with an ebb and a flood of its forms; out of the simplest forms striving toward the most complex, out of the stillest, most rigid, coldest forms toward the hottest, most turbulent, most self-contradictory, and then again returning home to the simple out of this abundance, out of the play of contradictions back to the joy of concord, still affirming itself in this uniformity of its courses and its years, blessing itself as that which must return eternally, as a becoming that knows no satiety, no disgust, no weariness: this my Dionysian world of the eternally self-creating, the eternally self-destroying, this mystery world of the twofold voluptuous delight, my “beyond good and evil,” without goal, unless the joy of the circle is itself a goal; without will, unless a ring feels good will toward itself–do you want a name for this world? A solution for all its riddles? A light for you, too, you best-concealed, strongest, most intrepid, most midnightly men?— This world is the will to power—and nothing besides! And you yourselves are also this will to power—and nothing besides!

Basically, when you are at an interval where your sword can strike the enemy, you should think that the enemy’s sword can also reach you.12 Forget your body when you are set to kill your opponent.13 Examine this carefully. (8) About Mindset (心持之事) One’s mind should neither dwindle nor be in an excited state. It must not be rueful nor afraid. It is straight and expansive, with one’s “heart of intent” faint and one’s “heart of perception” substantial. The mind is like water, able to respond aptly to changing situations. Water can be a sparkling hue of emerald green, it can be a single drop or a blue ocean. This should be carefully studied. (9) To Know the Upper, Middle and Lower Levels of Strategy (兵法上中下の位を知る事) Stances are adopted in combat, but a show of various sword positions in order to appear strong or fast is regarded as lower-level strategy. Further, refined-looking strategy, flaunting an array of techniques and rhythmical mastery to give the impression of beauty and magnificence, is regarded as middle level. Upper-level strategy looks neither strong nor weak, not irregular, not fast, not glorious and not bad. It looks broad, direct and serene. Examine this carefully.14 (10) About the “Cord-Measure” (いとかねと云事) Always hold a cord-measure in your mind. By holding the cord against each opponent to size him up, you will see his strengths, weaknesses, straightness, crookedness, and tense and relaxed points. With your mind’s measure, pull the cord, making it straight so that you can quantify the enemy’s heart. With this measure, you should be able to know the round, uneven, long, short, crooked or straight features of the enemy. This must be studied.

I find myself grinning and wrapping my arm around her waist as she rests her head on my shoulder. I know we’re not really engaged, but Reagan is a damn good actress which makes it harder than you’d think to play along without forgetting. Hell, when Dr. Dove, a professor in the physics department, asks to see Reagan’s ring, I want to kick myself for not buying her a rock the size of my fist. Then I remember, we’re not actually engaged.

And considering how many healers had passed through the Torre halls, considering the number of bells, large and small, that now hung throughout the space … The entire chamber, nearly the size of the khagan’s great hall, was full of the echoing, layered ringing.

There’s nothing quite like a perfectly stocked maid’s trolley early in the morning. It is, in my humble opinion, a cornucopia of bounty and beauty. The crisp little packages of delicately wrapped soaps that smell of orange blossom, the tiny Crabtree & Evelyn shampoo bottles, the squat tissue boxes, the toilet-paper rolls wrapped in hygienic film, the bleached white towels in three sizes—bath, hand, and washcloth—and the stacks of doilies for the tea-and-coffee service tray. And last but not least, the cleaning kit, which includes a feather duster, lemon furniture polish, lightly scented antiseptic garbage bags, as well as an impressive array of spray bottles of solvents and disinfectants, all lined up and ready to combat any stain, be it coffee rings, vomit—or even blood. A well-stocked housekeeping trolley is a portable sanitation miracle; it is a clean machine on wheels. And as I said, it is beautiful.

A great smoke went up. It shaped itself like a mountain seen in the distance, and began to glow at the summit. It spouted green and scarlet flames. Out flew a red-golden dragon – not life-size, but terribly life-like: fire came from his jaws, his eyes glared down; there was a roar, and he whizzed three times over the heads of the crowd. They all ducked, and many fell flat on their faces. The dragon passed like an express train, turned a somersault, and burst over Bywater with a deafening explosion.

As Ephraim gets up and Ayda can finally walk out of this damn room, she replies to SecUnit’s latest requisition form. It’s for a gunship nearly the size PortFreeCommerce’s transit ring: I think you made this one up.

Nice one, Hero!” Noah was laughing so hard he could barely speak. “Hero’s just reminding us who’s in charge,” Jack said. “I keep telling Scout to respect his elders, but he’s not listening.” No one knew what kind of dog Scout was, but Ben could tell he was going to catch up to the large, muscular Hero one day—and then Hero would be in trouble. After Hero and Ben had saved baby Scout from a dogfighting ring, he’d gone to live with Jack at the beginning of the summer, after Jack’s old dog passed away. Since then, the little mutt had almost doubled in size from a tiny puppy to about the size of a full-grown beagle. He was finally growing into his gigantic paws—but he still had a long way to go. Because Scout and Hero wanted to play all the time, Jack and Ben had become really good friends, talking nonstop about their two favorite things: dogs and baseball. Ben played shortstop, and Jack was at first base. That meant Jack and Noah—Ben’s best friend since kindergarten, who was the team’s starting pitcher—also hung out a lot. Ben wasn’t always sure

REDWOODS The first time I entered a forest I saw the trees, of course, huddled together in rings, thin veils of mist between their branches, some dead but still standing, or fallen thigh bones on the desiccated floor, but I also saw the great buttery platters of fungus climbing like stepping stones up their shaggy trunks: tzadee, tzadee, tzadee, each a different size: small to large or large to small, as if some rogue architect had been cocky enough to install them on the stunned trees’ northern sides, leading up to the balcony of their one ton boughs. I was here to investigate my place among them, these giants, 3000 years old, still here, living in my lifetime. I should have felt small, a mere human—petty in my clumsy boots, burrs in my socks, while these trees held a glossary of stars in their crowns, their heads up there in the croissant-shaped clouds, the wisdom of the ages flowing up through from root to branchlet— though rather I felt large inside my life, the sum of Jung’s archetypes: the self, the shadow, the anima, the persona of my personhood fully recognized and finally accepted, the nugget of my being, my shadow of plush light. I felt like I was climbing up those fungal discs toward something endless, beyond my birth and death, into my here-ness and now-ness, the scent and silence overwhelming me, seeping back into my pores. You had to have been there to know such joy, fear intermingled, my limbs tingling: ancient, mute.

(12) About “Infecting” （一、うつらかすと云事） All things can be infectious. Drowsiness is infectious, as is yawning. Even time is communicable. In large-scale strategy, if you sense that the enemy is agitated and hesitant, pretend not to notice and take your time. Seeing this reaction, the enemy will drop their guard. With your mind set free, attack mercilessly the instant the enemy has been infected by your inaction. With individual combat, loosen your body and spirit and, as your opponent inadvertently follows suit, seize the initiative to attack powerfully and quickly. There is a similar tactic, “making the enemy drunk.” You contaminate his mind by exhibiting listlessness, hesitancy or weakness. Be sure to explore this strategy thoroughly. (13) About “Eliciting Agitation” （一、むかつかすると云事） There are many ways in which one can become agitated, such as being within an inch of danger. A second way is when faced with an impossible task. The third way is through surprise. Study this. In large-scale strategy, it is important to know how to evoke irritation in the enemy. By suddenly assaulting with vim and vigor when they least expect it, and not giving them a chance to recoup, you can seize the initiative and finish them off in their moment of indecision. For individual combat, trick the enemy by moving slowly at first and then suddenly attack him with force. It is imperative to not let up, crushing him according to the movement of his body and the fluctuations of his mind. Learn this method well. (14) About “Invoking Fear” （一、おびやかすと云事） Many things can invoke fear. Fear is aroused when the unexpected happens. With large-scale strategy, fear can be conjured in the enemy not only by what they see. Fear can be incited by bellowing, making something small seem greater in size, or by unexpectedly assaulting their flank. Victory is gained by taking advantage of the enemy’s muddled cadence prompted by a moment of terror. In the case of individual combat, it is important to beat your opponent by doing something unexpected with your body, sword or voice to startle him. Study this well. (15) About “Blending” （一、まぶるると云事） When you clash with the advancing enemy and an impasse has been reached, this is the time to become one with him through “blending.” From within the tussle you must find an opportunity to win. In both large- and small-scale strategy, when the engagement languishes because both are fighting with equal force, blend with the enemy so that it is impossible to make a distinction. From there you can find an opening and to seize victory, winning strongly. Study this tactic in detail.

The mindset in the Way of combat must be no different from one’s normal state of mind. In the course of your daily life, and when engaged in strategy, there should be no change whatsoever in your outlook. Your mind should be expansive and direct, devoid of tension, but not at all casual. Keep your mind centered, not leaning too much to one side, swaying serenely and freely so that it does not come to a standstill in moments of change. Consider this carefully. The mind is not static even in times of calm. In times of haste, the mind does not rush. The body does not carry the mind and the mind does not carry the body. The mind should be vigilant when the body is exposed. The mind must not be absent nor be excessive. Both the high-spirited mind and the lethargic mind are signs of weakness. When the mind’s exterior is weak, its interior must be strong so that the enemy cannot gauge your condition. A small man should be aware of the spirit of a larger man and a large man must know the mind of a small man.1 Both big and small must keep their minds straight and not become trapped by preconceived notions of size.2 Be sure to maintain a spirit that is untainted and extensive. Wisdom will settle in the seat of a broad mind. It is crucial to enrich your mind and your wisdom. By enhancing your wisdom, you will be able to sense what is reasonable and unreasonable in the world and will learn the difference between good and evil. You can then see commonality in the Ways of different arts and you will not be open to deception. This is when one can be said to possess the wisdom of strategy in one’s heart. Wisdom that is fundamental to the Way of combat strategy is distinctive. When you face adversity in the midst of battle and find yourself completely engaged, never forget to focus your mind on the principles of strategy as this will create within you a steadfast spirit. Study this carefully.

(1) About the Mindset of Combat （一、兵法心持の事） The mindset in the Way of combat must be no different from one’s normal state of mind. In the course of your daily life, and when engaged in strategy, there should be no change whatsoever in your outlook. Your mind should be expansive and direct, devoid of tension, but not at all casual. Keep your mind centered, not leaning too much to one side, swaying serenely and freely so that it does not come to a standstill in moments of change. Consider this carefully. The mind is not static even in times of calm. In times of haste, the mind does not rush. The body does not carry the mind and the mind does not carry the body. The mind should be vigilant when the body is exposed. The mind must not be absent nor be excessive. Both the high-spirited mind and the lethargic mind are signs of weakness. When the mind’s exterior is weak, its interior must be strong so that the enemy cannot gauge your condition. A small man should be aware of the spirit of a larger man and a large man must know the mind of a small man.1 Both big and small must keep their minds straight and not become trapped by preconceived notions of size.2 Be sure to maintain a spirit that is untainted and extensive. Wisdom will settle in the seat of a broad mind. It is crucial to enrich your mind and your wisdom. By enhancing your wisdom, you will be able to sense what is reasonable and unreasonable in the world and will learn the difference between good and evil. You can then see commonality in the Ways of different arts and you will not be open to deception. This is when one can be said to possess the wisdom of strategy in one’s heart. Wisdom that is fundamental to the Way of combat strategy is distinctive. When you face adversity in the midst of battle and find yourself completely engaged, never forget to focus your mind on the principles of strategy as this will create within you a steadfast spirit. Study this carefully.

FINALLY—YOU ARE A SWEEPSTAKES WINNER! I don’t know about you, but I enter all those darned magazine company sweepstakes. I go for the Reader’s Digest sweepstakes and I buy my weekly lottery tickets—after all, as a character in the movie Let It Ride said, “You could be walking around lucky and not know it.” In a lot of years, though, I have gone winless. The guys with the balloons and the giant-sized check have not shown up at my door. So the headline FINALLY—YOU ARE A SWEEPSTAKES WINNER! got me. I read that letter. And if you send a letter to every one of your customers with that headline on it, every one of them will read it. What should the letter say? Here’s an example, courtesy of the late, great copywriter, my friend Gary Halbert: Dear Valued Customer:    I am writing to tell you that your name was entered into a drawing here at my store and you have won a valuable prize.    As you know, my store, ABC Jewelry, specializes in low-cost, top-quality diamond rings and diamond earrings. Well, guess what? The other day we got in a small shipment of fake diamonds that are made with a new process that makes them look so real they almost fooled me!    Anyway, I don’t want to sell these fakes because they could cause a lot of trouble for the pawnbrokers around town. So I’ve decided to give them away to some of my good customers whose names were selected at random by having my wife, Janet, put all the names in a jar and pull out the winners.    So, you’re one of the winners—and all you’ve got to do is drop in sometime before 5:00 P.M. Friday and you’ll have a 1-karat “diamond” that looks so good it’ll knock your eyes out! Sincerely, John Jones P.S.: After 5:00 P.M. Friday, I reserve the right to give your prize to someone else. Thank you.

He gave a sudden broad grin. ‘Her footprints’ll be distinctive enough,’ he said. ‘Those sandals she wears. The size of elephants’ feet. The CSI won’t confuse them.’ ‘They won’t find any footprints!’ She didn’t mean to be defiant, but realized that was how she sounded and she couldn’t stop. ‘That’s what I was doing when I found the ring. I was cleaning. I brushed and mopped all the floors, scrubbed the work surfaces. It’s not worth bringing in your experts.

When Ruthie pressed her face against the window of her closet-sized room, she could see Trapper Peak, the tallest in the Bitterroots, hooked like a finger beckoning her above the tree line. Circled by bald eagles and white with snow eleven months of the year, it reassured her that men were small scrabbling things, crawling across the ice unaware of the depths below. The boys in her class made each other bleed with straightened paper clips. Her father’s friends—Kent Willis, Raymond Pompey, and the Salish brothers Terry and Billy French—drank themselves into stupors of displaced rage and stumbled outside to shoot bottles off a busted washing machine. The glass shards glinted kaleidoscopically in the morning sunlight while the men snored in the living room, their arms sprawled tenderly over each other’s chests, showing affection in sleep in a way that would be impossible awake. Tiptoeing around them to the bathroom, Ruthie wanted to fly away. She climbed on top of the toilet and wedged her head through the small window. Her gray eyes had a yellow ring in the irises like the beginning of an explosion, noticed by strangers, that she hoped would allow her to see farther. She tasted a storm approaching in the air. Saw herself zooming over the spent shotgun shells, the glittering pattern of glass, the cannibalized dump truck her father used as a kind of fort—full of discarded whiskey pints and Bowhunter magazines—to perch atop Trapper Peak and look back down on her life, free from its bonds and humiliations.

Oh? Gonna write the happily ever after for me?” “I can give you some ideas.” And I recognized that kind of smile, finally. The kind you didn’t really show to strangers. The kind you kept to yourself because the world had been shit, and your heart had been broken so many times by different people and places and stories. He had stories, too. The wedding ring on a chain around his neck. The way he fit his hands into his pockets to look as small as possible. The reason he loved romance. And for the first time since I cried about Lee in Rose’s matchbox-sized apartment with a bottle of wine and a half-eaten pizza, my hair still wet with rain, I wanted to learn a new story. I wanted to read the first chapter in the life of Ben Andor and figure out the words that built his heart and soul.

A large fish jumped across the river and they were silent; he was huge. “King,” Rick finally said. “I haven’t seen one that size in a long time.” “He must be lost,” Jack said, casting in that direction. Rick took a few paces downstream, changed out his fly and threw a line. They played with him a while, then Rick hooked him and yelled, “Woo-hoo!” “Lead him, let him take out line, tire him out before you—” Rick laughed. “I know how to catch a fish.” “Don’t screw around, get too anxious and lose him,” Jack said. “You milking this cow?” Ricky asked him. For the better part of an hour Rick played him, letting out line, letting him run, pulling him back, walking up and down in the shallow part of the river when the fish ran, and all the while he had Jack in his ear. “That son of a bitch is big. Let out more line. Don’t spoil him, he’s a fighter. He’s getting too far from your control, reel him back.” And on and on and on. Rick finally brought him in, a great big Chinook, over thirty pounds. And that was more than enough fishing; Rick’s ears were ringing from Jack’s mother-henning. When they got back to the bar, Preacher whistled in admiration and loaded the fish on the scale. “Thirty-seven point four. You catch him all by yourself, Rick?” Rick made a face at Jack. “Not exactly.” *

Face the facts. Your life is too perfect. You probably lie awake at night, fantasizing about spicin’ up all that lily whiteness you live in.” But damn it, I get a whiff of vanilla from her perfume or lotion. It reminds me of cookies. I love cookies, so this is not good at all. “Gettin’ near the fire, chica, doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get burned.” “You touch her and you’ll regret it, Fuentes,” Colin’s voice rings out. He resembles a burro, with his big white teeth and ears sticking out from his buzz cut. “Get the hell away from her.” “Colin,” Brittany says. “It’s okay. I can handle this.” Burro Face brought reinforcements: three other pasty white dudes, standing behind him for backup. I size up Burro Face and his friends to see if I can take them all on, and decide I could give all four a run for their money. “When you’re strong enough to play in the big leagues, jock boy, then I’ll listen to the mierda flyin’ out of your mouth,” I say. Other students are gathering around us, leaving room for a fight that is sure to be fast, furious, and bloody. Little do they know Burro Face is a runner. This time he’s got backup, though, so maybe he’ll stay to duke it out. I’m always prepared for a fight, been in more of ‘em than I can count on my fingers and toes. I’ve got the scars to prove it. “Colin, he’s not worth it,” Brittany says. Thanks, mamacita. Right back at ya. “You threatening me, Fuentes?” Colin barks, ignoring his girlfriend. “No, asshole,” I say, staring him down. “Little dicks like you make threats.” Brittany parks her body in front of Colin and puts her hand on his chest. “Don’t listen to him,” she says. “I’m not afraid of you. My dad’s a lawyer,” Colin brags, then puts his arm around Brittany. “She’s mine. Don’t ever forget that.” “Then keep a leash on her,” I advise. “Or she might be tempted to find a new owner.” My friend Paco comes up beside me. “Andas bien, Alex?” “Yeah, Paco,” I tell him, then watch as two teachers walk down the hall escorted by a guy in a police uniform. This is what Adams wants, perfectly planned to get my ass kicked out of school. I’m not falling into his trap only to end up on Aguirre’s hit list. “Si, everything’s bien.” I turn to Brittany. “Catch ya later, mamacita. I’m looking forward to researching our chemistry.” Before I leave and save myself from suspension on top of my detention, Brittany sticks that perky nose of hers in the air as if I’m the scum of the earth.

What are these?” he asked, holding up a smooth metal ring. Tom scratched at his jaw and grinned wider. He knew that the box contained more metal rings of different sizes as well as a few leather ones. “Cock rings.” Jon stared at the ring in his hand, his brow furrowed in confusion. “How do they work?” he asked after a moment. “Ye know when Da ties your cock up tight? Right behind yer balls…?” Understanding dawned on Jon’s face, and he reddened a little, nodding. He dropped the ring back into the box and frowned. “There’s one with a bunch of little bells on it in here.” Tom laughed, sliding one hand into his trousers. He was already too hard to put one of the rings on, but that was ok. He used the tips of his fingers to softly tease the head of his cock.

So either panicking amateurs or something critical to defend,” Holden said. A metal canister the size of a fist rolled through the gateway, clanking. Amos picked the grenade up casually and tossed it back through the doorway. The detonation lit the room, the report louder than anything Prax had ever heard before. The ringing in his ears redoubled. “Could be both,” Amos shouted conversationally from very far away.

Nykyrian hung back in the crowd, but not quite enough to keep her from hearing and seeing how he was mistreated. She felt so bad for him, and yet, true to Jayne’s words, he seemed completely oblivious to it all. It took several minutes before Kiara could find a clerk who would wait on her. “Excuse me,” she finally said, cornering one before the woman could escape to another department. “Do you have this in a size thirty?” The clerk’s eyes drifted over her shoulder to where Nykyrian was eyeing the crowd and Kiara wanted to shake the woman for the unwarranted fear. The clerk’s gaze returned to Kiara and the jacket. “I think so.” She took it from Kiara’s hand and disappeared into the back. Kiara’s eyes narrowed in anger. After a minute, the clerk returned with the right size. “Will this be all, ma’am?” Kiara nodded, her teeth clenched. Jayne said nothing as she remained by her side. After ringing the order, the clerk leaned over the counter and whispered, “Where did you find an Andarion? I’ve never seen one on Gouran before. Aren’t you afraid to be with him?” Kiara tossed a strand of hair over her shoulder as if she were completely vacuous. “Why no, I’m not afraid. He’s already had his daily feeding.” “What do you feed him?” the clerk asked with an audible gulp. Kiara narrowed her gaze on the idiot. “Babies. Lots and lots of babies.” The clerk shrank back. Jayne laughed. Kiara glared, unable to believe the nerve. Snatching up her package, she left the store with Jayne, who was still laughing, in tow. “Babies,” Jayne repeated. “I have got to remember that one. Oh, I definitely like you, princess.

ring. Three or four men come in, mounted on the merest skeletons of horses blind or blind-folded and so weak that they could not make a sudden turn with their riders without danger of falling down. The men are armed with spears having a point as sharp as a needle. Other men enter the arena on foot, armed with red flags and explosives about the size of a musket cartridge. To each of these explosives is fastened a barbed needle which serves the purpose of attaching them to the bull by running the needle into the skin. Before the animal is turned loose a lot of these explosives are attached to him. The pain from the pricking of the skin by the needles is exasperating; but when the explosions of the cartridges commence the animal becomes frantic. As he makes a lunge towards one horseman, another runs a spear into him. He turns towards his last tormentor when a man on foot holds out a red flag; the bull rushes for this and is allowed to take it on his horns. The flag drops and covers the eyes of the animal so that he is at a loss what to do; it is jerked from him and the torment is renewed. When the animal is worked into an uncontrollable frenzy,

Chefs strived to entertain guests with their culinary feats, creating such whimsical concoctions as the mythical creature the “cockatryce,” a combination of capon legs and the body of a suckling pig. Robert May, the author of The Accomplisht Cook, amused diners by baking deer-shaped baked dough filled with red wine so it appeared to “bleed” when pierced. He also built a table-size battlefield with dough battleships and tiny dough cannons ignited by real gunpowder and even provided the ladies with eggshells filled with scented water to be thrown on the floor to dispel the scent of the gunpowder. Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright, To entertain great England’s lawful king. KING HENRY VI, PART II, 5.1

I think back to the parties Aimee and I planned, and how all those tuxedos and ball gowns weren't really that much different, costumewise, than some of these getups. Not as elaborate or out there, to be sure, but not so different. After all, is an hour at Bobbi Brown for the perfect party makeup that much of a stretch from an hour putting on a Klingon forehead or Spock ears? Is searching for the perfect dress, shoes, bag, wrap, jewelry so much different from the perfect jumpsuit, ray gun, ammo belt, and communicator? And unlike most of the regular parties we did, these people are way open to each other and the experience. There don't seem to be gaggles of people standing back to judge the other gaggles. And while a lot of the subsets do seem to flock together, Star Wars over here, Lord of the Rings over there, I haven't overheard one snarky comment about someone's costume. None of the women here, in all of their variety of shapes and sizes, seem to be doing anything other than squeeing at each other and praising how gorgeous they are. And everyone seems to just own themselves. I've been at hundreds of events looking at a sea of black dresses because everyone thinks it is slimming. But today I've seen a riot of color and skin. Including a 350-pound raven-haired vixen in a chain-mail corset, with cleavage you could park a hovercraft in, surrounded by a coterie of clearly smitten men. I wanted to high-five her.

Krakatoa, spelled “Krakatau” in Indonesian, is a volcano in the Sunda Strait between Java and Sumatra. It is also the name of an island group made up of what is left of a larger island, consisting of three volcanic peaks that were destroyed by the catastrophic 1883 eruption. This explosive force was equivalent to 100,000 Hiroshima sized atomic bombs. It was the loudest sound ever heard in modern history and could be heard up to 3,000 miles away. At that time, the explosion caused huge tsunamis which killed more than 36,000 people and sent out shock waves that were recorded worldwide for almost a week. Years later in 1927, “Anak Krakatau” a new island mountain formed in its place and is again the location of volcanic activity. It is considered a part of the Pacific “Ring of Fire.

Why can’t you just admit you’re attracted to me, Rachel?” I asked into her ear as I pressed my body against hers. She swallowed audibly and shook her head as if to clear her mind before speaking. “Because I’m not? I’m not attracted to guys who look like they’re Photoshopped and who have bigger chests than most girls I know.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed loudly and had to pull back slightly when the movement and being pressed up against her made my jeans shrink a size. “Liar.” Even if her voice hadn’t gone all breathy, I still hadn’t forgotten her blush. “And I really hate your tattoos.” “No you don’t.” “And your lip ring and your eyes. And your hair, it drives me nuts. You really need to cut it. Or better yet, one morning you’ll wake up and I will have shaved it off while you slept.” I smiled and let my nose run along her jaw, loving the quick breath she took and how her eyes fluttered shut when I did. “Good to know your favorite things about me, Sour Patch. And if you’re wondering . . . everything about you is my favorite.” “They’re not. And I wasn’t.” “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night. But do you think we could wrap up this meeting about how much you want me? I really need to go buy about a dozen pints of ice cream so I can work at not looking Photoshopped anymore.” Her eyes snapped open and darkened as she narrowed them at me. “God, you’re annoying.” “And you’re keeping me from eating.” “I’m not the one who isn’t dressed.” Touché. “I think I should go like this. Maybe there will be a woman there who appreciates the way I look.

I don't think you want that," he said. "It's broken." "Broken?" Edith Williams rubbed off the dust and held the lovely bell-shape of crystal, the size of a pear, to the light. "It looks perfect to me." "I mean it is not complete." Something of the American had vanished from the young man. "It has no clapper. It will not ring." "Why, that's right." Mark Williams took the bell. "The clapper's missing." "We can have another clapper made," his wife declared. "That is, if the original can't be found?" The young Chinese shook his head. "The bell and the clapper were deliberately separated by my father twenty years ago." He hesitated, then added: "My father was afraid of this bell.

It’s a beautiful morning that’s promising to be stinking hot by the afternoon. We ride the ponies down to the warm-up ring, surrounded by horses and ponies of all shapes and sizes, Alec calling out greetings to people he knows. I love everything about the atmosphere of a horse show. The smell of crushed grass, the drum of hoofbeats across the ground, the clatter of the poles coming down, the scattered applause from spectators.

Fennel Spell Hang fennel from doors and windows to ward off evil energy and entities. Fiery Wall of Protection Spells Fiery Wall of Protection is among the most famous classic condition formulas. Its name invokes the power of Archangel Michael’s protective flaming sword. The formula may be consecrated to the archangel. Fiery Wall’s basic ingredients include such powerful protective agents as salt, frankincense and myrrh. Its red color, the color of protection, derives from dragon’s blood powder. See the Formulary for specific instructions: the dried powder may be used as incense or magic powder. When the powder is added to oil, Fiery Wall of Protection Oil is created. Fiery Wall of Protection Spell (1) Candle Carve a red or white candle with your name, identifying information, hopes, and desires. Dress it with Fiery Wall of Protection Oil and burn. Consecrate the candle to the Archangel Michael if desired. Fiery Wall of Protection Spell (2) Extra-strength Mojo Place a handful of Fiery Wall of Protection Powder in a charm bag. Drizzle it with Fiery Wall of Protection Oil and Protection Oil. Add a medallion depicting Michael the Archangel and/or a tiny doll-sized sword: a fancy tooth pick works well. Carry it in your pocket. Replace the powder weekly, dressing with fresh oil. Cleanse, charge, and consecrate the charms as needed. Fiery Wall of Protection Spell (3) Incense Protect against a threatened curse by burning Fiery Wall of Protection Powder as incense. To intensify the protection, add powdered agrimony and/or vervain. Fiery Wall of Protection Spell (4) Powder Circle Cast a circle of Fiery Wall of Protection Powder around yourself, your home, or whatever needs protection. Envision a circle of enchanted flames magically surrounding and protecting you, something like the magic fire encircling The Ring of the Nibelung’s valkyrie swan-maiden Brunhilde: the flames are cool and won’t harm those whom they protect yet serve as a burning boundary preventing the entrance of all evil. Stay within the circle for as long as necessary. Carry the powder within a charm bag so that circles and boundary lines may be spontaneously cast as needed. Fiery Wall of Protection Spell (5) Quick Fix Soak a cotton ball in Fiery Wall of Protection Oil and carry it in your pocket or tucked into your bra.

Spinach Rollups This recipe is from my friend Susan Zilber. Susan moved away to New York, but I bet she still makes these.   5 to 8 flour tortillas (the large burrito size) 16-ounce package frozen chopped spinach ¼ cup mayonnaise ½ cup softened cream cheese ¼ cup sour cream 1/8 cup dried chopped onion ¼ cup bacon bits 1 Tablespoon Tabasco sauce   Cook the spinach and drain it, squeezing out all the moisture. (Cheesecloth inside a strainer works well for this.) Mix together all ingredients except the tortillas. Spread small amount of spinach mixture out on the face of a tortilla. Roll it up and place it in a plastic freezer bag. Continue spreading and rolling tortillas until the spinach mixture is gone. Fold the plastic bag over when all the rollups are inside to make sure they stay tightly rolled. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours. (Overnight is best.) Slice with a sharp knife, arrange on a platter, and serve as appetizers. Susan says to tell you that once she started to make these and found that she was out of sour cream. She used all cream cheese instead, and they were delicious. Hannah’s Addition to Susan’s Rollups 5 to 8 flour tortillas (the large burrito size) 6 ounces chopped smoked salmon (or lox) 1 cup (8 ounces) softened cream cheese ¼ cup dried chopped onions 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 teaspoon dill weed (of course fresh is best)   Mix all the ingredients except the tortillas together in a bowl. Spread small amount of the salmon mixture out on the face of a tortilla. Roll it up and place it in a plastic freezer bag. Continue spreading and rolling tortillas until the salmon mixture is gone. Fold the plastic bag over when all the rollups are inside to make sure they stay tightly rolled. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours. (Overnight is best.) Slice with a sharp knife, arrange on a platter, and serve as appetizers. I made Susan’s Spinach Rollups too, and after I cut them the next day, I arranged both kinds on the platter in contrasting rings. It looked gorgeous.

It is not the size of the ring, but the size of the love.

That was how for years, all through that quarter of the continent, they had fought, fled, beckoned, resumed. . . . If you took a map and tried to follow them over it, zigzagging town to town, back and forth, it might not have been that easy to account for, even if you recalled how wild, how much better than "wild" it'd been not all that many years ago, out here, even with the workdays that had you longing for the comforts of territorial prison, yes hard as that, when whatever was going to become yours—your land, your stock, your family, your name, no matter, however much or little you had, you earned it, with never no second thoughts as to just killing somebody, if it even looked like they might want to take it. Maybe a dog catching their scent coming down the wind, or the way some trailhand might be wearing his waterproof, that could be enough—didn't matter, with everything brand new and the soldiering so hard, waking up each day never knowing how you'd end it, cashing 'em in being usually never too distant from your thoughts, when any ailment, or animal wild or broke, or a bullet from any direction might be enough to propel you into the beyond . . . why clearly every lick of work you could get in would have that same mortal fear invested into it—Karl Marx and them, well and good, but that's what folk had for Capital, back in early times out here—not tools on credit, nor seed money courtesy of some banker, just their own common fund of fear that came with no more than a look across the day arising. It put a shade onto things that parlor life would just never touch, so whenever she or Reef pulled up and got out, when it wasn't, mind, simple getting away in a hurry, it was that one of them had heard about a place, some place, one more next-to-last place, that hadn't been taken in yet, where you could go live for a time on the edge of that old day-to-day question, at least till the Saturday nights got quiet enough to hear the bell of the town clock ring you the hours before some Sunday it'd be too dreary to want to sober up for. . . . So in time you had this population of kind of roving ambassadors from places like that that were still free, who wherever they came to rest would be a little sovereign piece of that faraway territory, and they'd have sanctuary about the size of their shadow.

HOW TO MAKE A HAND-TIED BOUQUET This bouquet has a lush, loose, casual feel. You make it by holding a stem in one hand and adding other stems around it in a spiral fashion. Because it’s not tightly wrapped in ribbon, it can easily be stored in a glass of water until showtime. (Do make sure it’s dry before it gets anywhere near your dress!) MATERIALS: • 15 to 20 stems of fairly long-stemmed flowers (no more than 3 or 4 varieties for a mixed bouquet; if using a variety of colors make sure they are evenly distributed) • Florist’s knife • 5 to 10 stems of greenery • 26-gauge florist’s wire or ordinary twine • Floral shears • Ribbon for finishing 1. Cut each of the stems on the diagonal and place in water while you work. Remove any thorns by gently scraping them off with a florist’s knife (take care not to gouge too deeply) and any foliage from the bottom half of the stem. 2. Take the largest flower in the bunch—this will form the center of the bouquet. Hold its stem in your left hand, between your thumb and first finger, about 6 to 8 inches from the base of the flower head. 3. With your right hand, add 4 to 6 clusters of greenery evenly around the center flower, tucking them in just below the head, allowing the stems to cross at the bottom and turning the bouquet clockwise as you work. 4. Tuck the end of a long piece of wire or twine in between two of the stems, and then wind it around the whole bunch of stems a couple of times to begin to hold everything together. Do not cut the wire. 5. Holding the bouquet in your left hand as in step 2, place 5 or 6 more flowers around the greenery, turning the bouquet clockwise as you work. Secure this next layer of stems with a couple of twists of wire in the same place as before. Continue adding greenery, flowers, or whatever you like to add mass to the bouquet until it reaches the desired size and shape. (Look at it from all angles to make sure you like the silhouette.) 6. Finish with a ring of greenery to give it a nice decorative cuff (optional). 7. Secure all the stems together one last time by winding the wire gently but firmly around several times, and then cut it off and tuck it in. 8. Using floral shears, cut the stems to the desired length, all at the same level. (Don’t chop them too short or your bouquet will look top heavy.) 9. Wrap ribbon around the stems to cover the wire, and tie in a droopy bow. If your ribbon is narrow, wrap it around several times before tying a bow to ensure that you’ve covered all your work. Leave the ends of the bow long and trim them at an angle.

And you say you want a new job, but something keeps you holding on to the old one, justifying why he’ll get better this year,” Mina added, holding her iced almond-milk latte in one hand as she swiped through a dating app with the other. “And he’s so clingy and expects you to be there for him twenty-four seven,” Ellen added. “And when you do finally get another offer, you get cold feet because you can’t even remember who you were without Mr. Wall Street in your life.” “You’ve got to get out,” Mina said, tilting her head to evaluate a digital suitor on her phone. “It’s time,” Ellen agreed. “Sarah agrees with us.” Rae felt the panicked sensation of a door that had closed before she’d managed to reach it, but she avoided interpreting their words as truth. She just went into defensive mode, disliking how the rest of the Scramblettes had apparently started a separate group chat to stage an intervention. “Things have been getting better,” Rae said. “I think I’ll be able to present my market size analysis to a client at a pitch meeting next week.” “You’re doing that thing,” Ellen said, “where the shitty boyfriend does one mediocre thing, but relative to everything else he’s done it’s amazing, and so you think this means he’s really changed.” The glare from Ellen’s engagement ring felt very bright, and Rae didn’t like the sight of it.

Round the corner came a black horse, no hobbit-pony but a full-sized horse; and on it sat a large man, who seemed to crouch in the saddle, wrapped in a great black cloak and hood, so that only his boots in the high stirrups showed below; his face was shadowed and invisible.

The kids had no desire to see grief counselors and, perhaps because I didn’t either, I didn’t push it. Instead, we did what we always did. We drew pictures and played music and lit candles and danced around the house with bare feet singing “Ring Around the Rosie.” We did our own version of familial mourning. We made stuff and burned stuff and cried and laughed and made macabre jokes and decorated the house for Halloween with skeletons and a dozen freshly purchased gravestones. We shopped for plots in the cemetery while blasting haunted-house sound effects on our phones. We sang along to Hal’s favorite songs. We danced in the middle of grocery aisles, life-sized plastic skeletons in our arms. We laughed until we cried until we cried until we laughed and ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

I saw bonobos for the first time at a now-defunct Dutch zoo that kept a couple of what it labeled “pygmy chimpanzees.” However, they seemed too different in physique, demeanor, and behavior to qualify as such. They were also not that small: bonobos are the same size as the smallest subspecies of chimpanzee. Because we knew virtually nothing about them at the time, I decided that this had to change. A good starting point, I thought, would be to get rid of the “pygmy” label. It was misleading and demeaning, as if they were the poor man’s miniature chimp. People would ask, “Why study those little chimps if you can study the real big ones?” I agreed with Tratz and Heck that bonobos deserved their own name. We don’t know the origin of their name, but one speculation is that it derives from a misspelling on a shipping crate from Bolobo, a town in the DRC. Regardless, I made a point of always calling these apes “bonobos” despite the resistance of journal editors and blank stares from the general public. The new name took hold owing to its happy ring, which befits the species’ nature.

He didn’t know how he got in the box.  Everything was foggy and numb like the bad end of a heavy dose.  He tried to blink himself clear, but couldn’t focus his mind.  This wasn’t heroin. He knew the difference.  His throat folded over on itself as he tried to swallow. When was the last time he drank something? When was the last time he remembered doing anything? And why the hell was he in a box? His hands were bound and he could feel the roughly cut end of a zip-tie digging into the skin on his leg where his wrists had been resting.  It felt like wood under his fingernails in the dark and he could feel the corners around him — he was hunched over, his knees to his chest. There were air holes the size of his fingers drilled through the plywood. He remembered the feeling of the layers from that time he’d been made to help his dad build that bookcase that fit in the nook under the stairs.  Mum had wanted to have one made, but dad had said it was way too expensive, and that he would build one — with Ollie’s help.  Why the hell was he in this box?  His arm was itching, the track marks enraged and fresh.  Ollie kicked out, his bare heels catching splinters as he thumped against the sides, listening to the noise ring in the room around him. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything except his own heart in his ears. He could smell fresh sawdust, damp earth, something sharp and synthetic, like bleach, and his own breath, hot against his cheeks as he pressed his eye to the hole above him. He tried to calm himself, replaying the last things he remembered over and over in his head. It was all fog. There were streets, people he knew but whose faces he couldn’t see, then there was someone he didn’t recognise, someone alien to him, and then nothing.  His fingers traced the seams, looking for a gap. There wasn’t one.  Tears burned hot on his face, his eyes stinging in the dust.  He kept searching, the rough skin under his chewed nails discovering the hard protrusion of an angled nail. The tip was sticking out through the wood on his right side — hammered through the lid at an odd angle. God, how couldn’t he remember being nailed inside a damn coffin?  He pulled at it, hands still bound, and felt his fingernails pull back.  He wept more, digging into the wood around it, focused solely on it. The only weak point in the box. His only chance. There was no one else around and he had to escape. That was all he knew.

Plus, guards did not jump straight from prep hoops to the NBA. It just wasn’t something to be done. In the history of basketball, five other high schoolers had gone direct to the Association, and all five were forwards or centers. The last one to make the move, a Farragut Career Academy senior named Kevin Garnett, stood 6-foot-11 and was a rebounding and shot-blocking machine. Even with his size and strength, he joined the Minnesota Timberwolves in 1995 and averaged but 10.4 points per game. “It was,” he later said, “really hard.

And do you know what “the world” is to me? Shall I show it to you in my mirror? This world: a monster of energy, without beginning, without end; a firm, iron magnitude of force that does not grow bigger or smaller, that does not expend itself but only transforms itself; as a whole, of unalterable size, a household without expenses or losses, but likewise without increase or income; enclosed by “nothingness” as by a boundary; not something blurry or wasted, not something endlessly extended, but set in a definite space as a definite force, and not a space that might be “empty” here or there, but rather as force throughout, as a play of forces and waves of forces, at the same time one and many, increasing here and at the same time decreasing there; a sea of forces flowing and rushing together, eternally changing, eternally flooding back, with tremendous years of recurrence, with an ebb and a flood of its forms; out of the simplest forms striving toward the most complex, out of the stillest, most rigid, coldest forms toward the hottest, most turbulent, most self-contradictory, and then again returning home to the simple out of this abundance, out of the play of contradictions back to the joy of concord, still affirming itself in this uniformity of its courses and its years, blessing itself as that which must return eternally, as a becoming that knows no satiety, no disgust, no weariness: this, my Dionysian world of the eternally self-creating, the eternally self-destroying, this mystery world of the twofold voluptuous delight, my “beyond good and evil,” without goal, unless the joy of the circle is itself a goal; without will, unless a ring feels good will toward itself—do you want a name for this world? A solution for all its riddles? A light for you, too, you best-concealed, strongest, most intrepid, most midnightly men?— This world is the will to power—and nothing besides! And you yourselves are also this will to power—and nothing besides!

everything you are releasing.” I started listing a few things. Cassie stopped me and said, “No, Mom. What are you REALLY releasing? Dig deeper.” “I guess that did sound kind of Hallmark-ish,” I said. I closed my eyes, tightly held on to the ring in my hand, and dug deep. What was it I really wanted to let go of? Not only from the marriage but from everything. This was my chance to put it all out there. “I’m letting go of having it be okay for me to be mistreated.” Tears started to come. “I’m letting go of believing I have to be perfect to be wanted. “I’m letting go of doubting myself and my abilities. “I’m letting go of hiding my strength and my smart mind. “I’m letting go of having to censor what I really feel. “I’m letting go of not trusting my own intuition. “I’m letting go of believing what others think of me. “I’m letting go of having to always be nice, positive, and kind. “I’m letting go of my fears of shining. “I’m letting go of relationships that are the illusion of love. “I’m letting go of all shame. “I’m letting go of any thought that says any part of me is unlovable. “I’m letting go of believing what others say more than trusting my own feelings. “I’m letting go of the belief that says my body needs to be a certain size to be wanted. “I’m letting go of believing I have to do something to be valuable. “I’m letting go of the belief that says I need to be any more or less than I am to be loved.

My mind trails back to the sight of her luscious ass walking away from me in that dress today. I didn’t think I had a type. I like all shapes and sizes. But I’ve come to realize that I definitely have a preference. And that preference is big tits, big ass, brown eyes, and motherfucking nipple rings. Or bars. Or whatever the hell they pierce nipples with. Goddamnit, I need to know what they look like!

Her capsaicin warming lubes will ring your devil's doorbell in ten seconds flat." "There are children present!" Roy shouted, apoplectic with rage. "And how do you think they got here, duck?" Vee challenged.

Then, as they cross the street back toward the dorm, Bird sees it on the ground: spray-painted, blood-red against the asphalt, right in the center of the intersection. The size of a car, impossible to miss. A heart, he realizes, just like the banner in Brooklyn. And circling it this time, a ring of words. bring back our missing hearts.

He was enormous. I got into my fighting crouch and delivered about half a dozen blows. He went down. The round wasn’t nearly over! The referee had begun the count when the Boston Bearcat raised his hand and interrupted him by saying, “The Bearcat is through.” I couldn’t believe it. The fight with the Bearcat really spurred me on. Now I fought more and more and trained harder than ever, running six or seven miles every morning before sunrise to strengthen my legs and my stamina. I adopted different methods to suit my size and talents. If a man fought down low, then I’d have to get down low too. If he was a puncher, I couldn’t box him; I had to fight him. Above all, I really got to know myself, to know my ability to take a blow and to know the extent of my endurance under different conditions. Missing a target only weakened my strength; it was better to duck, feint and weave. I practised ducking my head from side to side when charging in, making me harder to hit. When I was in the ring, if it was going well, very little went on in my head. I didn’t have time to think because I had to concentrate on what I was doing. If I got hurt and pain seared through my body, I’d hope that the fight would soon end. I was always aware of the lust for blood of a portion of the fight crowd. There was that unconscious wish to see something dramatic happen. Often those who seemed the most timid would be the ones who screamed their lungs out at ringside, hoping their voices would mingle with the others. But the fight crowd was an essential part of the fight game. Without the people, there would have been no color, no stimulation and of course no gate.

I’m also going to need your ring size. My fiancée will be properly adorned with a ring.” She swallows hard. “Fine, but I’m going to need to know your dick size before you leave.” “Why do you need to know that?” I ask. “Because,” she says with a smile, “I need to know if I have to act like a happy fiancée, or a truly satisfied fiancée.

I believe I could incinerate a moderately sized solar system, although it would be taxing.

Megan was over at the Morgan brothers’ house, having a casual dinner with Drew and his brother, Alan. It was casual in the sense that there were only three courses and no ice sculpture. When Alan left the room to get dessert, Megan said, “If you don’t give me whatever’s in your pocket, I’m going to reach in there and grab it myself.” He got a devilish grin and threw his hands in the air. “Help yourself!” She reached in and found a ring. Not an engagement ring but a ring with a large stone in the middle. A cheap-looking stone. Megan frowned. “Is this plastic?” “It’s a mood ring,” he said. “I bought it at a carnival when I was a kid. I wore it to school once because I thought it was cool. I got my first black eye that day.” “You got bullied?” “Not exactly. The guy who punched me once got two right back.” She handed the ring back. “You can wear it now, if you want. You’re an adult. Nobody’s going to beat you up.” She made a fist and punched her palm. “Not if they don’t want me to tag in and finish the match.” He put the ring back in his pocket. “Never mind,” he said. She put her hand in his pocket and grabbed the ring back. “Don’t tell me to never mind. Why do you have this? Were you going to give it to me?” “I thought it would be funny,” he said. “You’re reading all those books Feather recommended, and you’re doing that thing where you name your emotions. I thought it would be funny if you had a mood ring to help you with that.” She tried on the ring. The only finger it fit was her ring finger, so she left it there. “I like it,” she said. “It’s not very funny, though. It’s actually kind of…” She was at a loss for words. It had been happening a lot lately. Coming up with words to describe feelings was much harder than being crass or sarcastic. “Romantic,” Drew said. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. It’s romantic.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Plus, now I know your ring size,” he said. They both looked down at her hand. She looked away. “For the future,” he said. “Relax. I don’t mean right now.” She looked at the ring again. It was changing colors. “It’s working,” she said. “It’s a heat-sensitive compound,” he said. “It doesn’t really tell you someone’s mood, just how warm their fingers are.” “But finger temperature means a lot,” she said. “I’ve been reading about the nervous system, and how everything works together in all these different feedback loops. When someone’s stressed, their hands get cold. Or when their hands get cold for some other reason, they might feel stressed and make up a story about why they feel that way. People make up a lot of stories to explain how they feel because it’s so confusing to not know, and sometimes we’d rather think it’s because of something bad than not know at all.” He looked down at the ring, which was still changing colors. “I had no idea.” “I’ll have to come into your clinic and give you some tips for putting your patients more at ease.” “You can’t do that,” he said. “It would really cut down on the screaming, which I have grown to love.” He gave her his mad scientist cackle. “You are so weird.” She kissed him again.

The body of its victim travels slowly down the snake’s throat. The snake’s lack of front limbs and pectoral girdle means that there is no bony ring encircling its shoulders through which its prey has to pass. The skin of the snake’s tubular body is also elastic and stretches as the muscles of its body wall steadily force the meal down towards the stomach where the process of digestion will at last begin. If the meal has been a big one, this may take some time. If its victim had spines or even horns then sudden movement could cause a puncture of the snake’s body wall. So the snake will now do its best to keep out of harm’s way and avoid too much activity. Particularly large meals stimulate changes in the snake’s internal organs that are necessary to deal with the task of digestion and storage. Its heart swells by 40%. Within two days, its liver has doubled in size. Absorbing the whole meal may take a week or more. When at last the task is completed, the snake’s bodily systems shut down once again, leaving only the equivalent of a pilot hght activated.

I’m also going to need your ring size. My fiancée will be properly adorned with a ring.

He doesn’t need to see the size of the ring to realize there’s no competition. Especially when I’m the man who gave you the ring.

In other words, women were not born with a wedding gown gene or a neo-natal craving for a diamond engagement ring! They were taught to want these things. Women didn’t enter the world with a desire to practice something called dating or a desire to play with a “My Size Bride Barbie,” they were rewarded for desiring these things. Likewise, men did not exit the womb knowing they would one day buy a date a bunch of flowers or spend two months’ income to buy an engagement ring. These are all products that have been sold to consumers interested in taking part in a culturally established ritual that works to organize and institutionalize heterosexuality and reward those who participate.

Neither Duncan nor I could see how to solve that problem by pure mathematics, so we used a computer to simulate the morph on networks of large but manageable size, starting from pristine rings with 1,000 nodes and 10 links per node. To chart the structural changes in the middle ground, we graphed both the average path length and the clustering as functions of the proportion of links that were randomly rewired. What we found amazed us. The slightest bit of randomness contracted the network tremendously. The average path length plummeted at first—with only 1 percent rewiring (meaning that only 1 out of every 100 links was randomized), the graph dropped by 85 percent from its original level. Further rewiring had only a minimal effect; the curve leveled off onto a low-lying plateau, indicating that the network had already gotten about as small as it could possibly get, as if it were completely random. Meanwhile, the clustering barely budged. With 1 percent rewiring, the clustering dropped by only 3 percent. Connections were being yanked out of well-ordered neighborhoods, yet the clustering hardly noticed. Only much later in the morph, long after the crash in path length, did clustering begin to drop significantly.

I want to clear every doubt without a doubt By saying what I mean without being mean Attention without intention is flirtation You rush your crush on her and got a blush You tell her, ‘your sweetness is my weakness’ (Barry White) She’s admirable and you style her Adorable She clears every crass in her class just to please you She even does exercise to reduce excess size Sadly, you’re falling into the folly of deceit Her company soothes, but you don’t ‘accompany’ her She resists every tempting attempt because of you Your distraction is the destruction of her disposition Even a weak praise in a week she expects in vain Bring a ring and don’t let her finger linger A distinguished glow is being extinguished Please don’t hug if you won’t go the whole hog

STICKY TAMARIND BABY BACK RIBS TIME: 1 HOUR 15 MINUTES YIELD: 4 SERVINGS These gingery sweet-and-sour glazed ribs are tender and intensely flavored—and pretty much impossible to stop eating once you start. The sauce also works well on spareribs if you’d like to substitute those here. Just reduce the cooking time by a few minutes on the pressure setting, or as much as an hour if using the slow cooker setting. 4 to 5 pounds baby back ribs 1 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste ¼ cup tamarind paste or concentrate ¼ cup fresh orange juice (from about ½ orange) ¼ cup honey, plus more as needed 2 tablespoons soy sauce ¼ teaspoon grated lime zest 1 tablespoon fresh lime juice 1 star anise pod 2 tablespoons neutral oil, such as safflower or canola 4 small shallots, diced (about ⅓ cup) 1½ teaspoons grated peeled fresh ginger 2 garlic cloves, grated on a Microplane or minced Cut the ribs into chunks of 2 or 3 ribs, depending on their size, and place them in a large bowl. Toss with the 1 teaspoon salt, and set aside while you prepare the sauce. In a small bowl, combine the tamarind, orange juice, honey, soy sauce, lime zest and juice, and star anise. Set aside. Using the sauté function, heat the oil in the pressure cooker. Stir in the shallots and cook until they are starting to brown, about 5 minutes. Stir in the ginger and garlic and cook until fragrant, another minute; then stir in the tamarind mixture. Bring to a simmer, and then scrape the sauce into the large bowl of ribs. Toss gently to combine. Arrange the ribs standing up along the outer edge of the pressure cooker, making a ring with the meat side of the ribs facing out. Continue with the remaining ribs, arranging them to make concentric circles. Pour any remaining sauce over the ribs, cover, and cook on high pressure for 32 minutes. Allow the pressure to release naturally. Heat the broiler. Transfer the ribs, meat-side down, to a rimmed baking sheet. Turn the pressure cooker to the sauté function and cook to reduce the sauce until it’s thick, about 15 minutes; spoon the fat off the top when finished. Taste the sauce, and adjust the seasoning or add more honey if necessary; then brush the ribs with the sauce. Broil the ribs until they are charred in spots, 1 to 3 minutes. Then flip them over, brush with more sauce, and broil on that side until charred. Serve immediately, with more sauce on the side. COOK IT SLOW Add ¾ cup water to the slow cooker when adding the sauce in step 4. Cook the ribs on high for 4 to 5 hours or on low for 6 to 8 hours. Remove the ribs, reduce the sauce, and broil as described in step 6.

Anastasia’s continent-sized engagement ring was probably made by the blood of a mafia’s enemies.

Bryan and Galia held their breaths, staring at what I had no choice but to look at myself. My fiancée—so painfully beautiful in her black velvet dress, her hair secured in a French twist, as she gazed adoringly at an antique piano, caressing it with her fingers while wearing an enchanted smile on her face. She was, to my utter displeasure, much more than an ivory pawn, expensive and striking, but useless and still. She was a living thing with a pulse you could feel from across the room, and for the first time since I took her from her father, I truly wished I hadn’t. Not only because of the picture, but because she was not going to be easy to tame. And difficult, I’d decided from a very young age, was a flavor I found distasteful. She began to play Chopin. Her fingers moved with grace, but it was the look on her face that betrayed her. The intense pleasure music brought to her both mesmerized and enraged me. She looked like she was coming, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her lips humming silently to the music. She was chasing the notes with her lips. I shifted on the couch, looking to my left at the Hatch’s as the room grew smaller and hotter with the dramatic music bouncing on the walls. Galia was smiling and nodding, unaware of the fact that her husband was sporting a hard-on the size of her arm. Up until now, I had no issue with Bryan Hatch. In fact, I quite liked him, despite his incompetence to take care of a goldfish, let alone occupy a seat in the Cabinet. This, however, changed my view of him. My things were mine. Not to be admired. Not to be desired. Not to be touched. Suddenly, the need to ruin the moment for my young bride-to-be was overwhelming, almost violent. My provocative fiancée, who had the guts to fuck another man on the night I’d presented her to my colleagues and peers after having put an engagement ring on her finger that cost more than some people’s houses, would most definitely pay. Dispassionately, and oh-so-smugly, I raised my tumbler of whiskey to my lips, standing up and sauntering to Francesca. Since I was positioned behind her back, she wouldn’t see me even if she opened her eyes. But she didn’t, caught in a trance of art and desire. She was dripping lust on the floor for our guests to see, and they gulped every drop of it—so much so that I had to make a point, both to them and to her. With every step I took, the tune under her fingers became louder and more dramatic. The piece reached its peak just as I planted the first, soft kiss on her shoulder blade

the universe is infinite in size and infinite in depth. It is made up of dreams within dreams, worlds within worlds, and selves within selves. There are more forces at work here than you can know, but that knowledge is for another day.

The phone rings again. I notice something odd on the ground, and reach out to pick up a peculiar object, the size of an egg. Only when the soft material

For the Christian, every man is homo viator, whose sole purpose (and soul’s purpose) is to travel through the adventure of life with the goal of getting to heaven, his ultimate and only true home, facing many perils and temptations along the way. The enemy of homo viator is homo superbus (proud man), who refuses the self-sacrifice that the adventure of life demands and seeks to build a home for himself within his “self.” Such a man becomes addicted to the sins that bind him, shriveling and shrinking to the pathetic size of his gollumized self. The drama of life revolves around this battle within each of us, between the homo viator we are called to be, and the homo superbus we are tempted to become. This drama is mirrored in Middle-earth in the struggles between selflessness and selfishness within the hearts of hobbits and men.

In this instance, she’d not heard him count. He’d not hit a wall, unless the brick-headed stubbornness of Dmitri’s face counted. Thwack! “Yay.” Yes, that was her cheering for her Pookie aloud. Since it seemed he hadn’t heard, she said it louder, yodeled it as a matter of fact. “You get him, Pookie. Show him who’s the biggest, baddest pussy around.” Leo turned his head at that, narrowing his blue gaze on her. Totally annoyed. Totally adrenalized. Totally hot. “Vex!” How sexy her nickname sounded when he growled it. She could tell he totally dug the encouragement. She waggled her fingers at him and meant to say, “You’re welcome,” but instead shouted, “Behind you!” During that moment of inattention— which really Leo should have known better than to indulge in— Dmitri threw a mighty hook. Had she mentioned just how sigh-worthy big her Pookie was? The perfectly aimed blow hit Leo in the jaw, and the force snapped his head to the side. But it certainly didn’t fell him. Not even close. On the contrary, the punch brought the predator in him alive. As he rotated his jaw, Leo’s gaze flicked her way, his eyes lit with a wildness, his lip quirked, almost in amusement, and then he acted. His fist retaliated then his elbow, snapping Dmitri in the nose. Any other man, even shifter, might have quickly succumbed, but the Russian Siberian tiger was more than a match for the hybrid lion/ tiger. Put them in a ring and they’d have brought in a fortune. They certainly put on a good show. Blood trailed from Dmitri’s lip from where Leo’s fist struck him. However, that didn’t stop the Russian from giving as good as he got. Size-wise, Leo held a slight edge, but what Dmitri lacked in girth, he made up for in skill. Even if Meena wasn’t interested in marrying him, it didn’t mean she couldn’t admire the grace of Dmitri’s movement and his uncanny intuition when it came to dodging blows. Leo wasn’t too shabby either. While he’d obviously not grown up on the mean streets of Russia, he knew how to throw a punch, wrestle a man, and look totally hot in defense of his woman. Sigh. A man coming to her rescue. Just like one of those romance novels Teena likes to read. Luna sidled up alongside her. “What did you do this time?” Why did everyone assume it was her fault? “I didn’t do anything.” Luna snorted. “Sure you didn’t. And it also wasn’t you who put Kool-Aid in Arik’s mom’s shampoo bottle and turned her hair pink at the family picnic a few years ago.” “I thought the short spikes she sported after she got it shaved looked awesome.” “Never said the outcome wasn’t worth it. Just like I’m totally intrigued about what’s happening here. That is Leo laying a smackdown on that Russian diplomat, right? Since I highly doubt they’re sparring over who makes the better vodka or who deserved the gold medal in hockey at the last winter Olympics, then that leaves only one other possibility.” Luna fixed her with a gaze. “This is your fault.” Meena’s shoulders hunched. “Okay, so maybe I’m a teensy tiny bit responsible. Like maybe I made sure my ex-fiancé and current fiancé got to meet.” “Duh. I already knew about that part. What I’m talking about is, how the hell did you get Leo to lose his shit? I mean when he gets his serious on, you couldn’t melt an ice cube in his mouth. Leo never loses control because to lose control is to lose one’s way, or some such bullshit. He’s always spouting these funny little sayings in the hopes of curbing our wild tendencies.” Pookie had the cutest personality. “What can I say?” Meena shrugged. “I guess he got jealous. Totally normal, given we’re soul mates.

I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who sprang through the open window by my bed and pummeled my chest, barely sheathing his claws. I’ve been bloodied and mauled, wrung, dazzled, drawn. I taste salt on my lips in the early morning; I surprise my eyes in the mirror and they are ashes, or fiery sprouts, and I gape appalled or full of breath. The planet whirls along and dreaming. Power broods, spins, and lurches down. The planet and the power meet with a shock. They fuse and tumble, lightning, ground fire; they part, mute, submitting, and touch again with hiss and cry. The tree with the lights in it buzzes into flame and the cast-rock mountains ring. Emerson saw it. “I dreamed that I floated at will in the great Ether, and I saw this world floating also not far off, but diminished to the size of an apple. Then an angel took it in his hand and brought it to me and said, ‘This must thou eat.’ And I ate the world.” All of it. All of it intricate, speckled, gnawed, fringed, and free. Israel’s priests offered the wave breast and the heave shoulder together, freely, in full knowledge, for thanksgiving. They waved, they heaved, and neither gesture was whole without the other, and both meant a wide-eyed and keen-eyed thanks. Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, said the bell. A sixteenth-century alchemist wrote of the philosopher’s stone, “One finds it in the open country, in the village and in the town. It is in everything which God created. Maids throw it on the street. Children play with it.” The giant water bug ate the world. And like Billy Bray, I go my way, and my left foot says “Glory,” and my right foot says “Amen”: in and out of Shadow Creek, upstream and down, exultant, in a daze, dancing, to the twin silver trumpets of praise.

He crossed to the small guard station and foraged through its drawers until he found the first-aid box. He threw bottles over his shoulder and they shattered on the ground behind him. When he came to the procaine hydrochloride vial, he stopped. The Maingate physician had insisted it be present in case emergency oral surgery were ever necessary for the guards; in addition to being a contained security unit, the Tower had to be a self-sufficient medical station. Allander withdrew a needle from the small packet and fit it gently into a plastic syringe. He punched the needle through the rubber top of the vial and withdrew some of the liquid, then cleared the air from the syringe. A few drops squirted through, onto the floor. Taking a deep breath, Allander inserted the needle into the tip of the ring finger on his left hand. He waited for the numbness to spread and settle. After a few minutes, he removed a scalpel from its sterile package and dipped it in the container of alcohol. Then he made a neat incision, cutting diagonally through his fingerprint. Since the anesthetic had not fully taken effect, he felt a painful tingling in the pad of his finger, but feeling suddenly rushed for time, he continued. Using tweezers, he pried underneath the skin, grimacing as he saw his flesh rise along the straight line of the cut. The blood came and washed over the end of the tweezers until it obscured his view. Once, he felt the tweezers close on something hard and he pulled gently, but when the tweezers emerged from the bloody gash, they held only fleshy material that looked like gristle. Allander hadn’t anticipated that numbing the finger would have made it difficult for him to distinguish the location sensor from his own senseless tissue. Beginning to lose patience, he pressed the tweezers in until they hit the bone. He applied too much pressure and they slid around the side of his finger next to his nail, pulling the flesh around and stretching the cut open. He heard a soft, metallic clink as the tweezers struck something distinctly alien, and he bit his lip in a mixture of pain and delight. Finally, working the tweezers around the metal, he withdrew the sensor, which was the size of a large pea. The flesh around the cut strained and whitened at the edges as he pulled the bloody orb through. After pressing gauze to his wound, Allander wrapped it with medical tape, bandaging it thoroughly. Then he used the tape to affix the location sensor to the side of the Hole. It was close enough to its assigned location that the difference in position would not be detected from the mainland.

His thoughts were starting to take on a strange ring: they had shrunk from their usual size and now the ordinary attic that was his ordinary mind looked like a cathedral at night, with endless galleries and rafters lost in the dark and nothing but the echoes to show where they were. He

Barn Owl" High in the chaffy, taffy-colored haze of the hayloft, up under the starry nail-hole twinkle of the old tin roof, there in a nest of straw and baling twine I have hidden my valentine for you: a white heart woven of snowy feathers in which wide eyes of welcome open to you as you climb the rickety ladder into my love. Behind those eyes lies a boudoir of intimate darkness, darling, the silks of oblivion. And set like a jewel dead center in the heart is a golden hook the size of a finger ring, to hold you always, plumpest sweetheart mouse of mine.

The question loomed: At what point does commonness cease to be an asset, as a viable form of populism, and become a liability for a political actor? And should anyone be shocked when voters are swept up in an “almost Elvis-sized following,” as Cavett said Palin’s supporters were? When you turn an election into a three-ring circus, there’s always a chance that the dancing bear will win.

Walking behind Warren, I’m approaching execution, till he stops and draws from his breast pocket a small blue velvet box. It holds a platinum ring with a sapphire the size of a chiclet flanked by diamonds of equal size, which—with all the drinks in me—makes me wobble. He slides it onto my shaking finger, saying, They’re family stones. Mother had it made. I joke I’ll need a bodyguard to wear it in public. When I lean back to stare into his green eyes, I resist the urge to kiss him—a public display he’d hate. But our gazes are so interwoven, I feel neither Texas trash nor WASP-itude can touch us. It doesn’t matter that my mother-in-law sobs through much of the meal, not—I’m guessing—from joy. Warren’s brother Dev says with genuine puzzlement as we head down the grand staircase, She was crying? And I think How do they block this stuff out? Nor does it matter that Mother offered to paint Mr. Whitbread in the nude and quote fix anything you need fixed close quote.

Josh leaned next to me against the examining table where I sat with my bare legs dangling. He held my hand so I couldn’t fidget. “Does it always take this long?” he asked, checking his watch. His wedding ring was on his watch hand and I smiled at it, despite being cold and nervous. The inscription inside his ring said “okay.” I’d had my ring sized, and Josh had it inscribed with “my universe.” We were adorable. We were also hungry. It had been almost a half an hour since the ultrasound tech finished taking images. Nobody had been back since, and I’d had to fast for a glucose test. Josh hadn’t eaten in solidarity, so we were both starving. I sighed. “I don’t know how long this takes. I’ve never had a pre-op for a hysterectomy before.” We’d been married four weeks. It had been a hectic month. Josh had moved in with me, but we realized almost on day one that we needed a place closer to Sloan. Both of us were there more than we were at home. We asked her to move in with us and she’d flatly refused. We asked to move in with her and she refused that too. So we’d been house hunting in addition to merging our lives, launching our new line of doghouses, and taking care of my best friend. Josh had taken on all the home repairs that Brandon hadn’t gotten to. He cooked most of our meals, and I spent almost every day still getting her out of bed, cleaning her house, trying to cheer her up. She wasn’t getting any better.

This isn't true", Patty says. "You'll find someone. You just can't be afraid to take a risk." What is she talking about? I do nothing but take risks. I'm trying to keep a psychopath from killing again. Isn't that enough? I have to have a ring on my finger, too? Some people are never satisfied.

Annie was trying to listen but she was unable to shake the image of herself dressed in a knock-off Lady Lightning outfit, sitting alone at a table at a mid-level comic book convention, drinking a diet soda and staring at her cell phone, which did not ring. “Annie?” Daniel said. “I want to talk to you about the movie.” Annie imagined herself in Japan, shilling caffeinated tapioca pearls, living in a closet-size apartment, dating a washed-up sumo wrestler. “Annie?” Daniel said again. Annie imagined herself doing dinner theater in a converted barn, playing Myra Marlowe in A Bad Year for Tomatoes, getting fat on carved roast beef and macaroni and cheese from the buffet during intermission. “I want to help you, Annie,” Daniel continued, undeterred by Annie’s blank-faced analysis of her future. “And I think I can.

I walked out into the parking lot and found the space he’d written on the rental folder.  I frowned at the bright yellow and black machine that sat there waiting for me.  What is that?  A riding lawnmower?  “This can’t be right,” I said to no one.  I was the only one out there, so I don’t know who I thought I was talking to, but having a thousand conversations in my head over the last twenty-four hours was making me question my own sanity.  Probably talking out loud to myself wasn’t any better, but what the hell … might as well change up the crazy every once in a while to keep it fresh. I pressed the button on the key ring and the headlights flashed on once, proving this was not a mistake.  “A Smart Car?  Are you kidding me?”  It looked like a giant, wasp-yellow roller skate.  Maybe not even a giant one; maybe just a large-ish roller skate.  Surely looking like a giant wasp flying down a country road was a bad idea for a girl with a sting-allergy… I debated in my head whether I should go and argue for one of the other fifty full-sized cars on the lot, but then gave up on the idea five seconds later.  “Screw it,” I said, annoyed as hell.  “Might as well get eight hundred miles to the gallon, right?!”  The tone of my voice had drifted a little over to the hysterical side, but there was nothing I could do about it.  I was barely hanging on, the stress almost enough to send me to the looney bin.  I just kept picturing Bradley saying, “You got married?  To a complete stranger?  In Las Vegas?  When you were drunk?  By a guy named Elvis?”  It was too horrible to fully fathom.  He’d dump me just for humiliating him in front of all his clients and his frat brothers and his parents.  There were so many people expecting me to be the perfect fiancée. I threw my overnight bag in the passenger seat and drove off the lot, wishing I could peel out and really express my anger in a satisfyingly loud and obnoxious way.  But I quickly learned that a Smart Car doesn’t know how to peel out; it’s not equipped to do much with its lawn-mower sized engine.  It just knows how to deliver me from Point A to Point B on a very small amount of gas with almost zero elbow room.  I felt like a clown buzzing around in her little circus car.  The only things missing were a little face paint and some floppy shoes.  At first I thought I was also missing one of those brass honky-horns that clowns carry around, but then I pressed on the steering wheel and found out differently.  Yes, it’s true.  The Smart Car comes equipped with a clown honky-horn.

She had straight brown hair that fell to her shoulders, a rock the size of a Prius on her left ring finger, and she might have been pretty if the skin weren’t stretched so tight against her face it gave her the unfortunate look of someone who’d been struck by lightning during an orgasm.

The drive is supposed to take six and a half hours but somehow we have been on the road for eight when we come to the wooden sign sunk into grass that signifies the entrance to Deakins Park, and although Honey is still caterwauling, passing the sign feels like entering protected land, something apart from the ravages of the town. It sounds like hair-splitting to parse the varieties of mobile home, like something only a person obsessed about imperceptible class minutia would do, but there are mobile homes and mobile homes and despite how mortified Mom and I used to be by the fact that her parents lived in a mobile home now I happen to think Deakins Park is just as nice if not nicer than many a suburban cul-de-sac of for example the Nut Tree-adjacent variety. It’s a circle of nicely appointed and discreetly mobile homes of different styles and patterns built on either side of a large circular street, each with a good-size yard. The outer ring of houses is bounded by a split-rail fence, and beyond this the town gives over to the high desert, with low, prickly sagebrush and rafts of tumbleweed through which jackrabbits and antelopes poke delicately in the cool mornings. Everyone has plenty of space and a view of the low-lying mountains ringing the basin. The houses look pretty good. It’s a little neighborhood on the frontier. Home on the range, if you will.

He looks up and notices the Plexiglas box on the rickety shelf above the toilet and his eyes grow two sizes bigger. He looks at me and back at the trophy. "Is that a fucking Stanley Cup ring?" "Yeah. Jude's first," I explain. "He gave it to my dad. Dad used to keep it here. It was a prized possession in his favorite place." "In the shitter?" Holden is both stunned and horrified as he rises to his feet and leans forward to admire it. "He kept it on his dresser, where he could see it first thing in the morning and last thing at night." I say and I almost smile as I explain the rest. "But Sadie, Dixie and I always move it to the bathroom. At first, Jude actually thought Dad kept it there, but then he realized it was our way of keeping him humble. Reminding him rings and trophies mean shit to us. He still has to be a good person." Holden chuckles and I'm surprised by how good it feels to make him laugh. "You girls sure know how to keep a guy in place ... and dishonor a symbol of the hardest trophy to win in sports.

Half the food that he sends out is raw: ruby cubes of tuna dressed with a heaping mound of fresh wasabi; sea grapes the size of ball bearings that pop like caviar against the roof of your mouth; glistening beads of salmon roe meant to be stuffed into crispy sheets of nori. The other half gets the blowtorch treatment. Tuna is transformed into a sort of tataki stir-fry, toasted, glazed with ponzu, and tossed with a thicket of spring onions. Fish heads are blitzed under the flame until the cheeks singe and the skin screams and the eyes melt into a glorious stew meant to be extracted with chopsticks. Even sea urchin, those soft orange tongues of ocean umami, with a sweetness so subtle that cooking it is considered heretical in most culinary circles, gets blasted like a crème brûlée by Toyo and his ring of fire.

These small surprises can do a lot to break the monotony of everyday routines. A few months ago I realized that though I loved our white dinnerware, I was getting a bit bored with it. But rather than consider buying a new set, I ordered two extra pink plates in each size. The pink dishes make the whole stack of plates seem more appealing, and when laid out on the table for a dinner party, they’re like joyful punctuation marks. Similarly, the “accent nail” trend, which involves painting the thumb or ring fingernail in an atypical color like lemon yellow or turquoise, offers a simple way to make a manicure special.

Kill somethin’,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Right now?” I hissed. “Do it,” Haragh urged. “He thinks you’re weak.” I looked around at the angry ogres all towering beyond Aurora’s ring of flames, and as much as I wanted to avoid being eaten by Grot, I didn’t think killing one of his ogres would strictly get things off on the right foot. Then I saw another of the black birds swooping overhead, and I pulled my revolver out to take my aim. I waited a few seconds until the bird circled back to where I wanted him, and when I fired a bullet into his chest, the body came spiraling down and crashed into the mud directly in front of Grot. Another batch of mud boiled up as everyone stared at the carcass, and I holstered the revolver. “I came for the feast,” I informed the leader. “Smooth,” Haragh mumbled. We both waited as we carefully gauged Grot’s reaction, and I could see the leader’s bloody brown eyes staring down at the huge bird for what felt like an eternity. When he finally looked up, his wrinkly expression was completely unreadable, and he looked at me like this for a full minute before slowly sizing up the women at my back. Then he let out a low growl that was so bassy I could feel it resonating in my chest. “Ye’ kill for Grot?” he suddenly roared as he bared his teeth, and every ogre in the mob snarled their disapproval. I didn’t even have to glance at Haragh to know the look he was sending me was wide-eyed and loaded, but I just crossed my arms and held the leader’s gaze. “Hell, no,” I growled back. “That’s my kill. Get your own.

Does being present on earth make it your favorite planet?" "Oh absolutely! Most people say Saturn because of it's rings, or Jupiter due to it's size. But Earth" I sigh. "This is where the dreamers are.

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Then the proposal. I got engaged in front of the Mona Lisa, and after seeing the size of the ring, that funky hoe didn’t matter that much anymore.

I made it to the checkout line before taking in the people around me. The cashier, about my age, was familiar in the way most people in a town this size were. We’d probably gone to school together, but I couldn’t be sure. She was taking her time ringing up the man in front of me, and my attention diverted to the other customers in line, stopping on the woman behind me. Her, I recognized. There was no mistaking the tall, icy blonde for anyone other than Mrs. Elena Kelly, my childhood best friend’s mom. I’d spent a lot of my days out on the Kelly ranch with Caleb, getting dirty and making trouble. His parents had been firm but not strict, and they had welcomed me into their home for countless dinners and sleepovers. Elena Kelly’s gaze swept over me, pausing for a moment. I nodded at her, my mouth curving into a half smile. “Good evening, Mrs. Kelly.” She cocked her head, taking me in. There was no flare of recognition, but it’d been more than a decade since she’d seen me. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head, giving her a better view.

My left arm is splinted, and a beautiful gold ring with an emerald the size of my thumbnail sits on my hand. Oh gods, I know that stone. It matches the others from the Blade of Aretia upstairs on Xaden’s nightstand. Is it the missing one? “What is happening right now?” I ask slowly.

All I need to know is ya ring size, my baby. I need to know if you prefer living in this house or if you want me to buy you a new house. I need to know whether you’re gon’ carry my babies or are we adopting. Either is cool wit’ me. Are we gon’ be best friends? Do you believe in love enough to trust me with every single part of Kayauna Sleigh?

For each they had provided a hood and cloak, made according to his size, of the light but warm silken stuff that the Galadhrim wove.

I’m also going to need your ring size. My fiancée will be properly adorned with a ring.” She swallows hard. “Fine, but I’m going to need to know your dick size before you leave.” “Why do you need to know that?

For each they had provided a hood and cloak, made according to his size, of the light but warm silken stuff that the Galadhrim wove. It was hard to say of what colour they were: grey with the hue of twilight under the trees they seemed to be; and yet if they were moved, or set in another light, they were green as shadowed leaves, or brown as fallow fields by night, dusk-silver as water under the stars. Each cloak was fastened about the neck with a brooch like a green leaf veined with silver.

Searching the nightstands by the bed, I turn up a collection of sex toys—vibrators, cock rings, clips, lubricants, massage oils, dildos, nipple rings and clamps, solid metal ben-wa balls in various sizes—again, nothing out of the ordinary.

On Sundays, if one of the women wanted to go to church, then a ffth person, Brinda, who worked down the hill in the ofce, would come in to assist the bathing team. Brinda was small, only as high as the door handles, with a braid of black hair that was almost as long as herself. Her father was a gold-smith and had made his daughter exquisite jewellery scaled to size, which she always wore to work. Her toe- rings, tiny bangles and jhumka earrings glinted in the dim bathroom. She wore a Brinda- sized rubber apron over her kurta and salwar. (Malayalis had taken to this Punjabi attire with immeasurable enthusiasm.)

My room is at the back of the house, so rather than the expanse of garden at the front, it faces north, with a view of outhouses and a cluster of dark trees. It’s the same room I stayed in as a child. I just have time to glance around and put my case on the single bed before Ophelia is hurrying me back downstairs and into the kitchen. It’s a farmhouse-style kitchen, redone since I was last here, with fitted cream cupboards with wooden knobs, and heavy granite tops, speckled with grey. The floor is solid oak boards, and the industrial size stainless steel fridge-freezer is big enough to feed a small army. Her mobile rings, and she picks it up. ‘I’m on my way,’ she says in a low voice. ‘I know. I know. She’s just arrived. I’ll be with you soon.’ She ends the call with a click and hoists Kit onto his booster seat as she gestures towards the fridge. ‘Just give them whatever you think best. They’re not fussy, and everything is organic.’ Then she’s gone, with no explanation about where to, or when she’ll be back. Neither of the children seem bothered by their mother’s departure or about being left with a stranger. I guess they’re used to it. It was my agency who alerted me to the job vacancy. ‘You’re from Suffolk, aren’t you?’ my agent had asked. ‘I think you’ll want to apply for this one. Good money too.’ When I realised where the job was, it felt like fate. I didn’t even need an interview. I got the position on references alone.

Anassa senses my fury. For a thundering heartbeat, I’m certain she’s going to attack Jonah and his wolf. And then someone else does it for us. Jonah is there one moment and gone the next. Jonah’s body slams against the wall of the training yard. A second after it happens, there’s a rush of wind, as if death just streaked past me and only narrowly left me breathing. The sheer power I just felt like a glimpse of something primordial … Someone is shouting. Gamma Daegan, I think. The wolves from both packs fall back, parting to give me a view of Jonah’s crumpled body where he’s groaning on the ground. My vision swims slightly as blood pours from my nose. A dark figure is standing over Jonah, shouting. At first, it’s garbled by the ringing in my ears. Then the words come through in a deep, enraged voice. “—you do not touch an Alpha that way!” Stark’s chest is heaving. Cratos isn’t beside him, but he doesn’t need his wolf’s sheer size to threaten Jonah. The menacing way his tattooed hands are clenching and unclenching says it all, like he’s imagining them around Jonah’s throat. “She’s not my Alpha, sir,” Jonah says, but his eyes are averted. “Your Alpha gave you an order not to use your magic on Strategos at full strength, and you disobeyed it!” Stark bellows. His entire pack stirs at the echo of his voice. Some of their wolves’ ears fold back, their heads lowering submissively below their shoulders. Stark’s voice quiets, but only slightly. It’s still loud enough for the whole training yard to hear, laced through with menace.

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I completely lack any of the complicated second-guessing that plagues you humans. I chose this path because I thought it provided the best opportunity for me to achieve my goals. I have no idea what the future will hold. All I know is that, currently, the sun is shining, my roots have ample nutrients and moisture, and my desire to grow and explore is being fulfilled. I’ll prepare as best I can for what might come. But in truth, even if the sun wasn’t shining, even if there weren’t enough nutrients, or water was scarce, the eternal flame would allow me to survive. And whether I grow to be a hundred times my current size, or if I’m reduced to the size of a root, my perspective on the world won’t change. Regret is, in my opinion, a rather silly affair.

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