Rope Swing Quotes

Don’t ever scare me like that again, swinging on the rope.” “I won’t. I’ll find a new way,” she teased.

When I loved myself enough, I let the tomboy in me swing off the rope in Jackass Canyon. Yes!

You may wonder about long-term solutions. I assure you, there are none. All wounds are mortal. Take what's given. You sometimes get a little slack in the rope but the rope always has an end. So what? Bless the slack and don't waste your breath cursing the drop. A grateful heart knows that in the end we all swing.

I’ll tell you something,' he said, as if he had said nothing that day. 'You’re walking on gallows ground, and there’s a rope around your neck and a raven-bird on each shoulder waiting for your eyes, and the gallows tree has deep roots, for it stretches from heaven to hell, and our world is only the branch from which the rope is swinging.

If a person who is content with his life meets someone who makes everything just a little bit more challenging, who both fits and doesn't fit into his life and his routine, to quote Guy Fieri, it is On Like Donkey Kong: swing the rope, jump the barrel, and save the princess.

As Annabeth hung in the air, descending hand over hand with the ladder swinging wildly, she thanked Chiron for all those years of training on the climbing course at Camp Half-Blood. She’d complained loudly and often that rope climbing would never help her defeat a monster. Chiron had just smiled, like he knew this day would come.

It is only when our fate hangs in the balance, when our very life depends on something, that we see whether or not we trust that the rope to which we are clinging will support us. If we do not, then we let of of the ledge and swing on it with our full weight.

Sometimes I forget for one second and it hurts. It’s a different kind of pain than the constant, the weight that hangs from my heart. It swings from twine embedded so deeply that my aorta has grown around it. Blood pulses past rope in the chambers of my heart, dragging away tiny fibers until my whole body is suffused and pain is all I am and ever can be.

could be a magic country like Narnia, and the only way you can get in is by swinging across on this enchanted rope.

Once released from life, having lost it in such violence, I couldn’t calculate my steps. I didn’t have time for contemplation. In violence it is the getting out that you concentrate on. When you begin to go over the edge, life receding from you as a boat recedes inevitably from the shore, you hold on to death tightly, like a rope that will transport you, and you swing out on it, hoping to land away from where you are.

I wrap my wrist in the rope and swing myself so I face the beast. I unsheathe my dagger and hold it close as the ship tilts and the rigging hovers above the Lusca. This creature is extraordinary; something of legends. If I want to beat it, then I'm going to need to be extraordinary, too.

But sometimes it swings just right and there’s a moment of suspension when I can’t feel it. The rope goes slack and the laws of physics give me one second of relief. I can laugh and smile and feel something else. But those same laws undo me, and when it swings back there’s a sharp tug on my heart to remind me that I forgot.

My only one! In your last letter "My head aches my heart is stunned!" you say. "If they hang you, if I lose you;" you say; "I can't live!" You'll live my dearest wife, like a black smoke in the wind my memory will vanish; you'll live, the red-haired sister of my heart at most one year it lasts in the twentieth century the grief of death.. Death a dead body swinging on a rope. My heart doesn't accept such a death.. But be sure that, my love, if some pitiable gypsy's hairy black spider like hand slips the rope around my neck, to see the fear in my blue eyes they'll look in vain at Nâzım! And I, in the twilight of my last morning, shall see my friends and you, and carry only the grief of an unfinished song to the soil... My wife! Good hearted, golden coloured, with eyes sweeter than honey, my bee; why did I write you that they want to hang me, the trial is in the first step and they don't pluck like a turnip the head of a man. Come, forget them all. These are so far away probabilities. If you have some money buy me a flannel underwear, my sciatica is acting up. And don't forget that always there should be good thoughts in the mind of a prisoner's wife.

When you begin to go over the edge, life receding from you as a boat recedes inevitably from shore, you hold on to death tightly, like a rope that will transport you, and you swing out on it, hoping only to land away from where you are.

WHAT A CONCUBINE SHOULD NEVER SAY: You wanna swing? Fine! See that tree branch? The one with the rope...

life is a rope that swings us through hope always believe that today is better than yesterday and tomrrow wil be much better than today...

There’s not any real forwardness to it. You don’t sense it’s straining to get anywhere. The thing it makes you see as she reads is something heavy swinging slowly at the end of a long rope.

A mountain climber foolishly climbing alone slips off a precipice and finds himself dangling at the end of his safety rope, a thousand feet above a ravine. Unable to climb the rope or swing to a safe resting spot, he calls out in despair: “Hallooo, hallooo! Can anybody help me?” To his astonishment, the clouds part, a beautiful light pours through them, and a mighty voice replies, “Yes, my son, I can help you. Take your knife and cut the rope!” The climber takes out his knife, and then he stops, and thinks and thinks. Then he cries out: “Can anybody else help me?

One night he sits up. In cots around him are a few dozen sick or wounded. A warm September wind pours across the countryside and sets the walls of the tent rippling. Werner’s head swivels lightly on his neck. The wind is strong and gusting stronger, and the corners of the tent strain against their guy ropes, and where the flaps at the two ends come up, he can see trees buck and sway. Everything rustles. Werner zips his old notebook and the little house into his duffel and the man beside him murmurs questions to himself and the rest of the ruined company sleeps. Even Werner’s thirst has faded. He feels only the raw, impassive surge of the moonlight as it strikes the tent above him and scatters. Out there, through the open flaps of the tent, clouds hurtle above treetops. Toward Germany, toward home. Silver and blue, blue and silver. Sheets of paper tumble down the rows of cots, and in Werner’s chest comes a quickening. He sees Frau Elena kneel beside the coal stove and bank up the fire. Children in their beds. Baby Jutta sleeps in her cradle. His father lights a lamp, steps into an elevator, and disappears. The voice of Volkheimer: What you could be. Werner’s body seems to have gone weightless under his blanket, and beyond the flapping tent doors, the trees dance and the clouds keep up their huge billowing march, and he swings first one leg and then the other off the edge of the bed. “Ernst,” says the man beside him. “Ernst.” But there is no Ernst; the men in the cots do not reply; the American soldier at the door of the tent sleeps. Werner walks past him into the grass. The wind moves through his undershirt. He is a kite, a balloon. Once, he and Jutta built a little sailboat from scraps of wood and carried it to the river. Jutta painted the vessel in ecstatic purples and greens, and she set it on the water with great formality. But the boat sagged as soon as the current got hold of it. It floated downstream, out of reach, and the flat black water swallowed it. Jutta blinked at Werner with wet eyes, pulling at the battered loops of yarn in her sweater. “It’s all right,” he told her. “Things hardly ever work on the first try. We’ll make another, a better one.” Did they? He hopes they did. He seems to remember a little boat—a more seaworthy one—gliding down a river. It sailed around a bend and left them behind. Didn’t it? The moonlight shines and billows; the broken clouds scud above the trees. Leaves fly everywhere. But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow, imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn’t the wind move the light? Across the field, an American watches a boy leave the sick tent and move against the background of the trees. He sits up. He raises his hand. “Stop,” he calls. “Halt,” he calls. But Werner has crossed the edge of the field, where he steps on a trigger land mine set there by his own army three months before, and disappears in a fountain of earth.

I know you like me, Ara. You don't have to pretend, just because you think it's improper to fall for someone at first sight.” His eyes lit up, shimmering green like a glass marble held up to the sun. “I can see that you feel the same way I do.” Oh, my God! Is this the point where I can jump off the swing and fall into his waiting arms? No. Don't do that. Don't read into it too much. I looked away from his gleaming, white-toothed grin, and clutched the ropes of the swing tighter.

Life is an art of managing conflicts—conflicts between our expectations and perceptions. It is like a tightrope walk. We load our expectations from life on one end of the bar and our perceptions about life on other, and move on the rope, relying on the balance of the stick. Overload, on any end, can fling us down, ruining the remaining journey. Some might survive such falls through repeated mood swings or with emotional breakdowns, while some might go down, diving deep into the bottom of depression.

I’ll tell you something,” he said, as if he had said nothing that day. “You’re walking on gallows ground, and there’s a hempen rope around your neck and a raven-bird on each shoulder, waiting for your eyes, and the gallows tree has deep roots, for it stretches from heaven to hell, and our world is only the branch from which the rope is swinging.

She walked down the lawn and surveyed the world as they'd both seen it--the wild limbs of the leaning apple tree, the golden-brown evening sky, the black silhouettes of the mountains. The trunk and the branches of the tree had bent over the years, under the weight of the heavy fruit. One of the biggest branches had grown down from the canopy of the leaves, all the way to the ground and straight along the grass...the end of that same branch had begun growing up again, at a right angle, the wood bending toward the sky.

who did I meet only Mrs Connolly with a grin swinging between her ears like a skipping rope.

Sometimes ’tis best to swing on the rope, even if it’s too dark to see if the hay’s there or not.

climb, things to dodge and duck from, holes to crouch through and ropes to swing from.

He's afraid he'll cower into himself again, like every other day, and then say nothing at all when he really wants to say everything--to speak his body and his heart into existence.

Sometimes I forget for one second and it hurts. It’s a different kind of pain than the constant, the weight that hangs from my heart. It swings from twine embedded so deeply that my aorta has grown around it. Blood pulses past rope in the chambers of my heart, dragging away tiny fibers until my whole body is suffused and pain is all I am and ever can be. But sometimes it swings just right and there's a moment of suspension when I can't feel it. The rope goes slack and the laws of physics give me one second of relief. I can laugh and smile and feel something else. But, those same laws undo me. And, when it swings back, there's a sharp tug on my heart to remind me that I forgot.

In violence, it is the getting away that you concentrate on. When you begin to go over the edge, life receding from you as a boat recedes inevitably from shore, you hold on to death tightly, like a rope that will transport you, and you swing out on it, hoping only to land away from where you are.

It was in the southwest area that the trailers had begun to move in, and everything that goes with them, like an exurban asteroid belt: junked-out cars up on blocks, tire swings hanging on frayed rope, glittering beer cans lying beside the roads, ragged wash hung on lines between makeshift poles, the ripe smell of sewage from hastily laid septic tanks.

inched his way down. Soon he too was swinging at the bottom of the rope, clumsily, twisting and banging against the wall. He let go and Talis heard a heavy thud as he smacked onto the ground. Talis and Rikar didn’t have any trouble getting down to the ledge. Nikulo had his back pressed hard against the wall, as if afraid of falling off the ledge.  The storm settled

Cat lovers take cover. Believe it or not, in the 15th century, there was a ‘sport’ involving the swinging of cats (by the tail) into the air where they would become moving targets for archers at fetes, fayres and country festivals. Crowded festivals would be described as having no room to ‘swing the cat’ as revellers would be in danger of being hit by stray arrows.   When

I wonder if Jack and Diane ever made it After the drums and the guitars all faded Was the best they could do good enough Or did the heartland just swallow 'em up How did my mom and my dad ever do it If there were troubles then we never knew it I guess they had each other and that was enough You know you can't keep the ground from shaking, no matter how hard you try, You can't keep the sunsets from fading, you gotta treat you love like You're jumping off a rope swing maybe 'cause the whole thing is really just a shot in the dark You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart What am I gonna tell my kids when they see All of this bull that goes down on TV When the whole world is down on its luck I gotta make sure they keep that chin up Cry when it hurts, laugh when it's funny Chase after the dream, don't chase after the money And know we got each other, that's what's up 'Cause you can't keep the ground from shaking, no matter how hard you try You can't keep the sunsets from fading, you gotta treat you love like You're jumping off a rope swing maybe cause the whole thing is really just a shot in the dark You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart 'Cause you can't keep the ground from shaking, no matter how hard you try You can't keep the sunsets from fading, you gotta treat you love like You're jumping off a rope swing maybe 'cause the whole thing is really just a shot in the dark You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart You gotta love, love, love, love You gotta love, love, love, love You gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart

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

I couldn't stand boy companions," he [Jules Feiffer] wrote in his 1965 essay " The Great Comic Book Heroes. "Robin was my own age. One need only look at him to see he could fight better, swing from a rope better, play ball better, eat better and live better...He was obviously an A student, the center of every circle, the one picked for greatness in the crowd—God, how I hate him. You can imagine how please I was when, years later, I heard he was a fag.

The group that evening turned out to be almost a who’s who of Hollywood royalty, many of whom were Brits and all of whom could not have been kinder to this new kid on the block. Some of the people I remember meeting were: Greer Garson; Ronald Colman; David Niven, who had also been under contract to Goldwyn, and who was the best raconteur I have ever met; Myrna Loy; Ray Milland, with whom I later worked in The Girl in the Red Velvet Swing; and James Mason, who never seemed to be in the moment. It was as if he was off in his own secret places. Meeting him confirmed what I’d always suspected: he would have been terrific as Rupert in Rope.

Miriam was amused that he took a swing so seriously... She felt the accuracy with which he caught her, exactly at the right moment, and the exactly proportionate strength of his thrust, and she was afraid. Down to her bowels when the hot wave of fear. She was in his hands. Again, firm and inevitable came the thrust at the right moment. She gripped the rope, almost swooning. "Ha!" she laughed in fear. "No higher!" "But you're not a bit high," he remonstrated. "But no higher." He heard the fear in her voice and desisted. Her heart melted in hot pain when the moment came for him to thrust her forward again. But he left her alone. She began to breathe.

I slipped my lasso from the horn of my saddle, and grasped the coil in my right hand. This time you should have seen him come! It was a business trip, sure; by his gait there was blood in his eye. I was sitting my horse at ease, and swinging the great loop of my lasso in wide circles about my head; the moment he was under way, I started for him; when the space between us had narrowed to forty feet, I sent the snaky spirals of the rope a-cleaving through the air, then darted aside and faced about and brought my trained animal to a halt with all his feet braced under him for a surge. The next moment the rope sprang taut and yanked Sir Sagramor out of the saddle! Great Scott, but there was a sensation!

Best workout ever." Darius sat next to her and rested his back against the soft mat. She laughed and fumbled to put on her bra. He lifted the weight of her hair from her back and helped her pull down her silk shirt. For a moment, he held the length of her hair in his hand as he had the swing rope. He tugged gently to turn her face to his, and then released it. His face was open and relaxed, his pale blue eyes warm and content. His knees fell open to rest against hers. The feel of skin on skin, bone to bone, was easy, the most natural thing in the world. "Next time we should try the pommel horse." Mei laughed. "You still got pommeling on your mind?" "Oh yeah." He signed and tilted his chin to the ciling, exposing the length of his throat. "Some pommeling and tumbling would be good. We've got time to make up for.

Being a hangman requires you to take someone else’s life based on someone else’s judgment, and carry it out on someone else’s schedule. The job does not provide the same satisfaction that an ordinary murderer gets from smashing a skull. It robs them of the fulfillment of plunging a knife into someone’s throat. In the world of capital punishment, the prisoner’s crimes have been sanitized by years of sitting on death row. By then, the execution is a cold and impersonal affair. There is prayer, a noose, and a few last words. The prisoner then experiences a sudden rush of blood to the head. At the end of it all, you have a broken neck and a dead body swinging from the end of a rope. That is it. You don’t get to manhandle them with your own hands. That’s why the brutes you mention will never be hired. So you see, Vaida, this is not a job for a murderer. It is a job for a humanitarian.

Ahoy!” a seaman called out. “The English frigate Polaris, ten days out from Antigua, bound for Portsmouth.” “Ahoy, yerself!” It was O’Shea’s rough brogue. She’d never heard sweeter music. “This be the clipper Sophia, of no particular country at the moment. Seven days out from Tortola, bound for…well, bound for here. Captain requests permission to board.” Gray. It had to be Gray. The officers of the Polaris exchanged wary looks. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake.” Sophia pushed forward to the ship’s rail and cupped her hands around her mouth, calling, “Permission to board granted!” A cheer rose up from the other ship’s deck. “It’s her, all right!” a voice called. Stubb’s, Sophia thought. Oh, but she hardly cared who was on the other deck. She cared only for the strong figure swinging across the watery divide as the two ships came abreast. Turning back toward the center of the ship, she pushed her way through the sweaty throng of sailors, desperate to get to him. Her foot caught on a rope, and she tripped- But it didn’t matter. Gray was there to catch her. And he was still wearing those sea-weathered, fire-scarred boots. No doubt for sentimental reasons. “Steady there,” he murmured, catching her by the elbows. She looked up to meet his beautiful blue-green eyes. “I have you.” “Oh, Gray.” She launched herself into his arms, clinging to his neck as he laughed and spun her around. “You’re here.” “I’m here.” And he was. Every strong, solid, handsome inch of him. Sophia buried her face in his throat, breathing in his scent. Lord, how she’d missed him. She pulled away, bracing her hands on his shoulders to study his face. “I can’t believe you came after me.” “I can’t believe you actually left.” He lowered her to the deck, and her hands slid to his arms. “I thought you were bluffing with that bit. I’d have never allowed you to go.

One more question.” Henry waited until Faith put her finger down before continuing. “Do you ever remember your father wearing a baseball hat?” Like a kid flipping through the pages of a scrapbook, she ran through images of her father in her mind. No baseball cap. But it didn’t matter. Faith just wanted to stop seeing the man the world believed killed her sister. Yet the tighter she closed her eyes, the faster the images came. Her father at her horse show, sitting in the stands at Kim’s soccer game, his smiling face as he pushed her on the swing . . . Faith pressed her palms against the sides of her head and started screaming. The office door flew open. Dr. Rodgers, Titus, and two men in navy-blue suits rushed into the room. Like a boxer against the ropes, the images rained down on Faith like blows, but she was helpless to stop them. Each one sent her head reeling until she felt like she was falling—tumbling into oblivion, welcoming the darkness and an end to the pain. She felt Titus’s strong arms around her, carrying her back to her room.

Thus, I have always been more of an envious observer than a participant in physical activities, but there have been glowing exceptions, such as what happened at the end of a summer-solstice celebration I attended in California, on a ranch in the foothills of the Sierras. The women at the event were of all ages. But in the evening, when they had found a swing, they became a group of young girls. The swing was on a long rope and swept out over a slope. In the twilight, it was like flying to the stars. Or so they said. Everyone had tried it except me. When the others had wandered indoors, I stayed, looking at the swing and feeling that old shame of being the scaredy-cat, even though probably no one had noticed. Then a woman much younger than I appeared and offered to show me how to use the swing. I said no, I didn’t want to. But she ignored that. She promised she would never push me harder than I wanted. And she held out the swing. It took some time. But somehow I felt safe with her, and I built up the courage to swing out toward the stars like the others. I never saw that young woman again, but I will always be grateful not only for the experience but for the respect and understanding she showed as she taught me how—one gentle swing at a time.

NOVA SLUNG THE BAG over her shoulder and reached for one of the weighted ropes she’d set up in the alley the night before. She wrapped her arm around the rope and untied the sailor’s knot from the weights holding it to the ground. The weights attached to the opposite end dropped, dragging it through the pulley on the rooftop above. Nova jerked upward, holding tight as the rope whistled past the building’s concrete wall. The second set of weights crashed into the ground below. She stopped with a shudder, her hand only a few inches shy of the pulley, her body swinging six stories in the air. Nova threw her bag onto the rooftop, then grabbed the ledge and hauled herself over. She dropped down into a crouch and riffled through the bag, pulling out the uniform she had designed with Queen Bee’s help. She slung the weaponry belt across her hips, where it hung comfortably, outfitted with specially crafted pockets and hooks for all of her favorite inventions. Next, the snug black hooded jacket: waterproof and flame-retardant, yet lightweight enough to keep from inhibiting her movements. She zipped it up to her neck and tugged the sleeves past her knuckles before pulling up the hood, where a couple of small weights stitched into the hem held it in place over her brow. The mask came last. A hard metallic shell perfectly molded to the bridge of her nose that disappeared into the high collar of the jacket, disguising the lower half of her face. Transformation complete, she stooped and pulled the rifle and a single poisoned dart from the bag.

Do you remember the time we tied a lasso to a tree limb and decided to swing across the creek like Tarzan?" Wyatt tipped up his frosty bottle and took a long pull. "Yeah." Zane was already laughing. "As usual,you two decided that I'd be the one to try it out first.That way,if it broke,I'd be the one tossed into the creek." "It stands to reason." Jesse chuckled. "You were the youngest. That's just the price you had to pay to hang out with us." "And," Wyatt added, "you were always willing to go along with whatever we decided." Zane shook his head. "Not when I used it to fly across the creek." "And not when I followed him," Wyatt said with a laugh. "But Jesse, assured that it was safe,grabbed hold and was flying through the air when the branch snapped." Amy looked over at her husband. "You landed in the creek?" "Yeah? On the day after one of our biggest storms,with the water spilling over its banks and rushing so fast it carried me downstream half a mile or more." She put a hand to her mouth to cover her shock and saw Cora do the same. Wyatt laughed. "He was lucky Zane and I had our horses tethered nearby.We chased along the banks of the creek until we could get far enough ahead to toss him a tree branch to catch. By the time we hauled him out,he looked like a drowned rat and was spitting mad." "I had a right to be.I swallowed half the creek." Zane laughed. "But think how lucky we were that it happened to you instead of me. At least you could swim." Marilee's eyes rounded. "They had you test the rope when they knew you couldn't swim?" Wyatt was laughing even harder. "We figured it was one way for him to learn." "How old were you?" They thought a minute before Wyatt answered. "I was eight,so that would make Jesse ten and Zane seven." "You could have all drowned." "Yeah.Looking back,we were lucky to have surrived so many foolish adventures. But," Wyatt added, "I wouldn't have missed a single one of them." of them

The presence of this extraordinary being caused, as it were, a breath of life to circulate throughout the entire cathedral. It seemed as though there escaped from him, at least according to the growing superstitions of the crowd, a mysterious emanation which animated all the stones of Notre-Dame, and made the deep bowels of the ancient church to palpitate. It sufficed for people to know that he was there, to make them believe that they beheld the thousand statues of the galleries and the fronts in motion. And the cathedral did indeed seem a docile and obedient creature beneath his hand; it waited on his will to raise its great voice; it was possessed and filled with Quasimodo, as with a familiar spirit. One would have said that he made the immense edifice breathe. He was everywhere about it; in fact, he multiplied himself on all points of the structure. Now one perceived with affright at the very top of one of the towers, a fantastic dwarf climbing, writhing, crawling on all fours, descending outside above the abyss, leaping from projection to projection, and going to ransack the belly of some sculptured gorgon; it was Quasimodo dislodging the crows. Again, in some obscure corner of the church one came in contact with a sort of living chimera, crouching and scowling; it was Quasimodo engaged in thought. Sometimes one caught sight, upon a bell tower, of an enormous head and a bundle of disordered limbs swinging furiously at the end of a rope; it was Quasimodo ringing vespers or the Angelus. Often at night a hideous form was seen wandering along the frail balustrade of carved lacework, which crowns the towers and borders the circumference of the apse; again it was the hunchback of Notre-Dame. Then, said the women of the neighborhood, the whole church took on something fantastic, supernatural, horrible; eyes and mouths were opened, here and there; one heard the dogs, the monsters, and the gargoyles of stone, which keep watch night and day, with outstretched neck and open jaws, around the monstrous cathedral, barking. And, if it was a Christmas Eve, while the great bell, which seemed to emit the death rattle, summoned the faithful to the midnight mass, such an air was spread over the sombre façade that one would have declared that the grand portal was devouring the throng, and that the rose window was watching it. And all this came from Quasimodo. Egypt would have taken him for the god of this temple; the Middle Ages believed him to be its demon: he was in fact its soul.

Jenks and I stood there like statues watching him twitch, his eyes rolling up in his head. He clutched at his clothes pulling the wooden pole they hung from down on top of him. Slowly his right hand came scrambling out away from his body to clutch at my left leg. Without thinking I shoved my crucifix at him and he pulled his hand back with a hiss, shielding his face again. As quickly as I could, I dug my tubes of Holy Water out of my coat pocket and emptied them on his head. He shrieked again and clawed at his face. Jenks followed suit, pouring his two vials on Skorzeny's body and legs. Skorzeny started to foam and bubble before our eyes. I was paralyzed. I couldn't quite believe what was happening. Those books hadn't described any of this. I was feeling dizzy and sick. The shrieks turned to groans and a gurgling deep in his throat. He pulled his hands away from his face and it looked like the disintegrating Portrait of Dorian Gray. I looked over to Jenks who had an odd expression on his face. I looked over to Jenks who had on odd expression on his face. He motioned to me and reached for my left hand which, I noticed, was still clutching the airline hag with the stake and hammer in it. I dropped it and he grabbed it off the floor, moving over to the smoking form still squirming in the closet which smelled even more foul than before, and oozing a greenish yellow pus from the crumpled clothing on his scarecrow frame. Jenks looked back at me and handed me the stake and hammer. 'Go ahead. This was your idea. Finish it.' I declined, turning away. Jenks spun me around violently and thrust the stake into my left hand. He pushed me toward what was left of Skorzeny and forced me to my knees. He forced my hand toward Skorzeny, positioning the stake over the man's chest. Then he stuck the hammer in my right hand. 'Do it, you gutless sonofabitch. Finish it... now!' And he stepped away. I looked at him and back at Skorzeny. Then I gave one vicious swing and hit the stake dead center. The thing made a gurgling grunt, like a pig snuffling for food, and started to regurgitate a blackish fluid from its mouth. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and hit the stake three more times. Then I fell back and threw up. When I looked back, Skorzeny's hands, or what was left of them, clutched at the stake trying to pull it out. Suddenly, he emitted a kind of moaning, sucking sound, gagged and more bile-colored liquid flecked with black and red came coiling up in a viscous rope like some evil worm from his mouth. And he stopped moving, his hands still clutching the stake. Then a sort of gaseous mist started to rise from his body and it was so much worse than the original smell that I pushed Jenks aside and ran from the house. I ran all the way to a patrol car where I slumped against the left front wheel as Jenks slowly strolled toward me. He walked past me, ignoring me, and opened his trunk, taking out a couple of small gas cans, and headed back to the house. I wasn't paying much attention until he left the house again and I saw it was aflame.

Our bus pulled in to a museum consisting of only one exhibit—a history of lynching. Every wall was filled with photographs of dark-skinned human beings swinging by their necks. A mother and son hanging over a bridge. Burned bodies swinging over dying fires. White children staring in wide-eyed wonder while their parents proudly point to the mutilated body behind them. The cruel smiles of white faces testifying to the joy of the occasion. We came across newspaper stories that advertised lynchings as community events. In another case we saw a postcard. On the front was a photo of a mutilated man still hanging from a rope. On the other side, a handwritten note: “Sorry we missed you at the barbecue.

Sunset. He had promised her until sunset. “If something goes wrong, we need to get her out.” Miles Dorrington looked thoughtful. “I say, we could raise the Jolly Roger and storm the fort as pirates. While they’re panicking, you sneak in and retrieve Jane.” “Too many cannons,” said Jack tersely. “You’ll be blown to splinters before we can get inside. Next?” Lizzy raised her crossbow. “I could—” “No,” said Jack and his father in unison. When Jack had finished glaring at his father, he said, “Jane and I discussed this. If she’s not back by sundown, Lord Richard and I”—Jack nodded to the blond man, who nodded back—“will go after her disguised as dragoons.” Lord Richard quickly took charge. “I’ll see that my men acquire the relevant uniforms.” “No,” said Jack’s new stepmother. “No?” Jack looked narrowly at his stepmother. “What do you propose, then?” His stepmother paced decisively down the deck. “Richard”—Lord Richard leaped agilely out of range of her parasol—“will stay and mind the Bien-Aimée . If Jane isn’t back by sundown”—Jack’s stepmother regarded him imperiously—“you and I will go after her.” “Gwen is very good at rappelling down walls,” said Jack’s father, looking at his bride with gooey eyes. “Up them, too.” “We’re not rappelling,” said Jack. If there was anything he hated, it was rappelling. It was as showy and useless as swinging through windows on ropes. “We’re going through the door.” “I’ve known that girl since she was born.” His stepmother stalked towards him, parasol point glinting. “I’ve protected her from more assailants than you’ve had hot suppers. If you go, I go.” “How lovely,” said Lady Henrietta brightly. “You can get to know each other.” Miles Dorrington prudently lifted his wife by the waist and deposited her out of parasol range. “We don’t know that she’ll need rescuing,” said Jack, staring down his new stepmother. “The plan might go as planned.” His stepmother snorted. “With the Gardener? I’ll go get my pistols.” And she departed, leaving Jack with a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach as he tried not to contemplate what the Gardener might be doing with Jane right now.

wall while swinging from the rope bridge. At the top of the wall was a zip line with handlebars you had to grab. After that point, it was difficult to see the rest of the course. There were walls among walls blocking the view. It looked like there were spinning pillars scattered throughout it. I saw other pools of water and mud that the runner would have to avoid or worse yet, swim across. At the end of the course, there was a flat open space with barriers scattered throughout. High above the open space was a gun that shot tennis balls the runner had to avoid. The course was a monster. “Beauty, ain’t she?” Mr. Cooper said proudly as he approached us. “Just got her imported from Norway. The pamphlet said it was something that the Vikings themselves trained with, but somehow I doubt that. It also says ninety nine percent of students who attempt it can’t make it past the first rope bridge.” “What’s it doing here?” Carlyle asked. “Will students be running it today?” Mr. Cooper shook his head. “Oh no, it’s not ready by any means, legally I mean, buuuuut…,” the gym teacher trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder. “I didn’t see nothin’.” “Race ya,” Brayden said as he smiled at me. “How can I possibly say no?” I asked as I started running toward the obstacle course at full speed. When I reached the rope bridge, I didn’t hesitate and started climbing. Grabbing the ropes, I balanced myself and walked as quickly as possible over the pool of water. I

On our return from the bush, we went straight back to work at the zoo. A huge tree behind the Irwin family home had been hit by lightning some years previously, and a tangle of dead limbs was in danger of crashing down on the house. Steve thought it would be best to take the dead tree down. I tried to lend a hand. Steve’s mother could not watch as he scrambled up the tree. He had no harness, just his hat and a chainsaw. The tree was sixty feet tall. Steve looked like a little dot way up in the air, swinging through the tree limbs with an orangutan’s ease, working the chainsaw. Then it was my turn. After he pruned off all the limbs, the last task was to fell the massive trunk. Steve climbed down, secured a rope two-thirds of the way up the tree, and tied the other end to the bull bar of his Ute. My job was to drive the Ute. “You’re going to have to pull it down in just the right direction,” he said, chopping the air with his palm. He studied the angle of the tree and where it might fall. Steve cut the base of the tree. As the chainsaw snarled, Steve yelled, “Now!” I put the truck in reverse, slipped the clutch, and went backward at a forty-five-degree angle as hard as I could. With a groan and a tremendous crash, the tree hit the ground. We celebrated, whooping and hollering. Steve cut the downed timber into lengths and I stacked it. The whole project took us all day. By late in the afternoon, my back ached from stacking tree limbs and logs. As the long shadows crossed the yard, Steve said four words very uncharacteristic of him: “Let’s take a break.” I wondered what was up. We sat under a big fig tree in the yard with a cool drink. We were both covered in little flecks of wood, leaves, and bark. Steve’s hair was unkempt, a couple of his shirt buttons were missing, and his shorts were torn. I thought he was the best-looking man I had ever seen in my life. “I am not even going to walk for the next three days,” I said, laughing. Steve turned to me. He was quiet for a moment. “So, do you want to get married?” Casual, matter-of-fact. I nearly dropped the glass I was holding. I had twigs in my hair an dirt caked on the side of my face. I’d taken off my hat, and I could feel my hair sticking to the sides of my head. My first thought was what a mess I must look. My second, third, and fourth thoughts were lists of every excuse in the world why I couldn’t marry Steve Irwin. I could not possibly leave my job, my house, my wildlife work, my family, my friends, my pets--everything I had worked so hard for back in Oregon. He never looked concerned. He simply held my gaze. As all these things flashed through my mind, a little voice from somewhere above me spoke. “Yes, I’d love to.” With those four words my life changed forever.

over with mortar. It was impossible to climb. “Clever,” Nikulo said, prodding the wall with a stick. “Anyone have any bright Ideas?” Talis glanced left and right along the wall until he spotted a tree limb rising up and toward the wall, just close enough they might be able to jump and get a grip. “Tree climbing anyone?” Mara smiled and nodded her head as if he were offering her a piece of cake. Nikulo, however, frowned. “You expect me to climb that tree over to the wall, then climb another twenty feet up to the top?” “Fancy torture and a slow, hideous death instead?” Mara said. “We’re a team, but I’m not carrying you.” Rikar shrugged and made his way toward the tree. Mara of course was the first to climb and the first to show them how to jump onto the wall and not fall down in the process. The impish expression on her face as she glanced back at them infuriated Nikulo. He clung to a branch near the main tree trunk. “Okay miss sticky-paws-cat, how am I supposed to do that?” “Luckily, unlike my non-planning, non-thinking companions, I thought that a rope would come in handy.” Rikar unslung the rope and proceeded to tie a lasso. “Catch.” He tossed Mara the rope. She caught it, looped it around her arm and started the climb up. “Are you sure it’s long enough?” Talis said, watching the rope loop out from Rikar’s hands. “Twenty feet?” “Not good enough.” Talis climbed further up the limb toward the wall. “Mara,” he hissed, “we don’t have enough rope. Can you loop it around a rock?” She glanced back and scanned the wall. “Maybe this one.” She climbed over a few feet. “No, then we’ll swing over…it might slip. Try something in line with the branch.” “The rocks are all too flat.” “I have an idea.” Rikar skirted past Talis. “Throw the rope back. I’ll climb higher up… Closer to the wall.

30. Storms Make You Stronger A lot of the advice in this book is about how to cope when things don’t go well. You see, life is unpredictable, and as sure as eggs is eggs, it won’t always swing your way. But when those storms come I have a clear and simple mantra: The time to shine is when it is darkest. In other words: when it is all going wrong, step up to the plate, give it your all, heave hardest on that rope, and show that you are bigger than the obstacle. Nature has a way of rewarding that sort of attitude. Sometimes life tests us a little. Things we had banked on coming in just don’t work out. People let you down, one disaster follows another. You know the phrase: it never rains but it pours. When those times come we have a choice: do we cower and get beaten or do we stand tall and face it? I liken it to the school bully. When you stand up to them, they often stand down. They are testing you to see what you are made of. Man or mouse? So use those tough times as an opportunity to show the world and yourself what you are made of. Regardless of how you feel, how you see yourself, I have learnt one key lesson from mountains and the wild: that underneath it all, we humans are made strong. We all behave and act a little differently, depending on how we have been brought up and what has been thrown at us in our lives - but the underlying truth is that the real core of each of us is strong. I have seen incredible heroics from unlikely people on mountains. But it took exceptional circumstances for that bravery to emerge. You see, we are all a bit like grapes: when you squeeze us, you see what we are made of. And I believe that most people are far stronger than they ever imagine. It is refined within us from thousands of years of having to survive as a species. It might be dusty and hidden away, but it is there somewhere inside you: the heart of a survivor. Courage. Tenacity. Strength. So don’t shy away from hard times, they are your chance to shine. Write this on your bathroom mirror: Struggle develops strength and storms make you stronger.

The history of the land is a history of blood. In this history, someone wins and someone loses. There are patriots and enemies. Folk heroes who save the day. Vanquished foes who had it coming. It’s all in the telling. The conquered have no voice. Ask the thirty-eight Santee Sioux singing the death song with the nooses around their necks, the treaty signed fair and square, then nullified with a snap of the rope. Ask the slave women forced to bear their masters’ children, to raise and love them and see them sold. Ask the miners slaughtered by the militia in Ludlow. Names are erased. The conqueror tells the story. The colonizer writes the history, winning twice: A theft of land. A theft of witness. Oh, but let’s not speak of such things! Look: Here is an eagle whipping above the vast grasslands where the buffalo once thundered bold as gods. (The buffalo are here among the dead. So many buffalo.) There is the Declaration in sepia. (Signed by slave owners. Shhh, hush up about that, now!) See how the sun shines down upon the homesteaders’ wagons racing toward a precious claim in the nation’s future, the pursuit of happiness pursued without rest, destiny made manifest? (Never mind about those same homesteaders eating the flesh of neighbors. Winters are harsh in this country. Pack a snack.) The history is a hungry history. Its mouth opens wide to consume. It must be fed. Bring me what you would forget, it cries, and I will swallow it whole and pull out the bones bleached of truth upon which you will hang the myths of yourselves. Feed me your pain and I will give you dreams and denial, a balm in Gilead. The land remembers everything, though. It knows the steps of this nation’s ballet of violence and forgetting. The land receives our dead, and the dead sing softly the song of us: blood. Blood on the plains. In the rivers. On the trees where the ropes swing. Blood on the leaves. Blood under the flowers of Gettysburg, of Antioch. Blood on the auction blocks. Blood of the Lenape, the Cherokee, the Cheyenne. Blood of the Alamo. Blood of the Chinese railroad workers. Blood of the midwives hung for witchcraft, for the crime of being women who bleed. Blood of the immigrants fleeing the hopeless, running toward the open arms of the nation’s seductive hope, its greatest export. Blood of the first removed to make way for the cities, the factories, the people and their unbridled dreams: The chugging of the railways. The tapping of the telegram. The humming of industry. Sound burbling along telephone wires. Printing presses whirring with the day’s news. And the next day’s. And the day after that’s. Endless cycles of information. Cities brimming with ambitions used and discarded. The dead hold what the people throw away. The stories sink the tendrils of their hope and sorrow down into the graves and coil around the dead buried there, deep in its womb. All passes away, the dead whisper. Except for us. We, the eternal. Always here. Always listening. Always seeing. One nation, under the earth. E Pluribus unum mortuis. Oh, how we wish we could reach you! You dreamers and schemers! Oh, you children of optimism! You pioneers! You stars and stripes, forever! Sometimes, the dreamers wake as if they have heard. They take to the streets. They pick up the plow, the pen, the banner, the promise. They reach out to neighbors. They reach out to strangers. Backs stooped from a hard day’s labor, two men, one black, one white, share water from a well. They are thirsty and, in this one moment, thirst and work make them brothers. They drink of shared trust, that all men are created equal. They wipe their brows and smile up at a faithful sun.

Gibson paused. Turned to her. Gave her another look, up and down. “When elephant trainers catch a baby elephant in the wild, they tie it to a tree. That baby elephant fights and thrashes to break free, but it’s not strong enough. Within a couple of days, it gives up. So even as the elephant gets bigger, it doesn’t believe it can break the rope. And then you get a full-grown elephant tied to a tree with a piece of rope it could snap with a simple swing of its leg. It’s called learned helplessness. Everything here is built on people who don’t think the rope will break. Which means the most dangerous thing in the world for my business model is someone who recognizes how fragile the rope really is.

I spent a lot of time on the banks of the Suwannee growing up. Cookouts and swimming at Purvis Landing. There was a rope swing on an old cypress tree. Swing out into the dark brown water. The bank was lined with cypress knees. You learned to let go. We went fishing up near Log Landing Road. A remote area. More snakes than people. One Saturday we were joined by a boat. A new doctor in town. He raced up and down a short stretch of river. Blaring ZZ Top "Legs." The boat's wake crashed against the shore. Scared all the fish away. Changed our dinner plans. It ended with a crash. His boat raced into a log floating slowly downstream. He screamed for help over AC/DC "Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution." Not help for himself. Help for his boat. It sank into the Suwannee. And the fishing improved.

It says Come don the veil of the type and token. Come learn to love what’s hidden inside. To hold and cherish. The almost unbelievably thick-ankled. The kyphotic and lordotic. The irremediably cellulitic. It says Progress Not Perfection. It says Never Perfection. The fatally pulchritudinous: Welcome. The Actaeonizing, side by side with the Medusoid. The papuled, the macular, the albinic. Medusas and odalisques both: Come find common ground. All meeting rooms windowless. That’s in ital: all meeting rooms windowless.’ Plus the music she’s cued for this inflectionless reading is weirdly compelling. You can never predict what it will be, but over time some kind of pattern emerges, a trend or rhythm. Tonight’s background fits, somehow, as she reads. There’s not any real forwardness to it. You don’t sense it’s straining to get anywhere. The thing it makes you see as she reads is something heavy swinging slowly at the end of a long rope. It’s minor-key enough to be eerie against the empty lilt of the voice and the clinks of tines and china as Mario’s relations eat turkey salad and steamed crosiers and drink lager and milk and vin blanc from Hull over behind the plants bathed in purple light.

온라인토토 Swlook.com 가입코드 : win24 「〃Swlook.cℴm〃가입코드: win24〃」 단폴제제없는 메이저 사설놀이터 Swing 입니다. 신규가입 첫충 10% / 매일충전 5% Event 진행중 네임드사다리 로하이 농구쿼터실시간 스타 롤 등등, 타 업체 대비 최고의 배당률 & 다양한 경기 지원! 다폴더보너스,스페셜보너스 등 다양한 이벤트를 통해 머니 지급! 까다로운 보안으로 여러분의 안전을 책임집니다.The prisoner quickly opened his eyes and looked at the water. "If I could only free my hands," he thought. "Then I could get the rope off my neck and jump into the river.

농구쿼터실시간 Swlook.com 가입코드 : win24 「〃Swlook.cℴm〃가입코드: win24〃」 단폴제제없는 메이저 사설놀이터 Swing 입니다. 신규가입 첫충 10% / 매일충전 5% Event 진행중 농구쿼터실시간 로하이 농구쿼터실시간 스타 롤 등등, 타 업체 대비 최고의 배당률 & 다양한 경기 지원! 다폴더보너스,스페셜보너스 등 다양한 이벤트를 통해 머니 지급! 까다로운 보안으로 여러분의 안전을 책임집니다.The prisoner was dead. His neck was broken. His body hung at the end of a rope. It kept swinging from side to side. Swinging gently under a hole in Owl Creek Bridge.

The chopper canted forward, the quiet whup-whup of its blades grew slightly louder, and it began to move forward and up. The rope was swinging back at them, but the bottom of its arc was rising as the helicopter picked up altitude. The end of the rope was going to hit their position at ground level, at chest height, at head height, at three meters, four, rising… Feng slammed open the door, jumped onto the hood of the car, then the roof, took two steps and leapt out and up into the air, more than three meters up and three meters out. He hung in mid-air for a split second, one arm extended, a man in mid-leap, legs akimbo, detached from the earth, soaring through the night sky at a slender line that was swinging back towards him, but rising ever higher as it did… Feng snagged the very end of the rope with his black-gloved left hand as it hit the bottom of its arc. He roared in triumph. The Confucian Fist hung there for a moment, swinging beneath the chopper. Then he brought his gloved right hand up to join his left. He grinned up savagely at the chopper, a maniacal Asian man in a black chauffeur’s suit, and began to climb hand over hand.

THE LITTLE MILK-MAID 挤奶的小姑娘 Look at me, boys and girls. I am a little milk-maid. I am going home with my milk-pail and my stool. I have been milking the cow. You can see her on the grass in the field. The cow knows me. She never moves when I am milking her. Now my pail is quite full of nice sweet milk. Little baby is very fond of milk. When he can speak, I will teach him to say— Thank you, pretty cow, that made Nice rich milk to soak my bread, Every morn and every night, Fresh and warm, and sweet and white. 中文阅读 孩子们，看看我！我是个挤奶的小姑娘，正拿着凳子和奶桶回家。 我刚才一直在给那头牛挤奶。你看，牛就在田野的草地上。 那头牛认识我，我给它挤奶的时候，它从来都一动不动。 现在，我的提桶，已经装了满满一桶香甜的牛奶。 （家里的）小宝宝特别喜欢喝奶。等他会说话了，我就教他说—— 谢谢好奶牛，因为有了你， 我的面包才能，浸在牛奶里。 新鲜又温暖，甜美又洁白， 早晚每一天，都是那么可爱！ 04 THE SWING 秋 千 Fred and his little sister Lucy are on the swing in the garden. Look what a nice large seat of wood it has! It is so large that it holds them both. This is the first day Lucy has been on the swing, so she is a little afraid. But Fred will take care of her, and keep her from falling. Look at her as she sits by his side and holds on by the rope. When all is ready, Fred says, One, two, three, and away! Up and down, on we go; Here we swing to and fro!

라이브배팅 Swlook.com 가입코드 : win24 「〃Swlook.cℴm〃가입코드: win24〃」 단폴제제없는 메이저 사설놀이터 Swing 입니다. 신규가입 첫충 10% / 매일충전 5% Event 진행중 네임드사다리 로하이 농구쿼터실시간 스타 롤 등등, 타 업체 대비 최고의 배당률 & 다양한 경기 지원! 다폴더보너스,스페셜보너스 등 다양한 이벤트를 통해 머니 지급! 까다로운 보안으로 여러분의 안전을 책임집니다.While these thoughts raced through the prisoners mind, the captain gave the soldiers the order to hang him. A soldier quickly obeyed. He made the rope firm around the prisoners neck.

사다리첫충놀이터 Swlook.com 가입코드 : win24 「〃Swlook.cℴm〃가입코드: win24〃」 단폴제제없는 메이저 사설놀이터 Swing 입니다. 신규가입 첫충 10% / 매일충전 5% Event 진행중 네임드사다리 로하이 농구쿼터실시간 스타 롤 등등, 타 업체 대비 최고의 배당률 & 다양한 경기 지원! 다폴더보너스,스페셜보너스 등 다양한 이벤트를 통해 머니 지급! 까다로운 보안으로 여러분의 안전을 책임집니다.But the rope was still around his neck, and his hands were tied. He thought: "How funny. How funny to die of hanging at the bottom of a river!" Then he felt his body moving up to the top of the water.

매일첫충놀이터 Swlook.com 가입코드 : win24 「〃Swlook.cℴm〃가입코드: win24〃」 단폴제제없는 메이저 사설놀이터 Swing 입니다. 신규가입 첫충 10% / 매일충전 5% Event 진행중 네임드사다리 로하이 농구쿼터실시간 스타 롤 등등, 타 업체 대비 최고의 배당률 & 다양한 경기 지원! 다폴더보너스,스페셜보너스 등 다양한 이벤트를 통해 머니 지급! 까다로운 보안으로 여러분의 안전을 책임집니다.The prisoner did not know what he was doing. But his hands reached the rope on his neck and tore it off.

사다리양방놀이터 Swlook.com 가입코드 : win24 「〃Swlook.cℴm〃가입코드: win24〃」 단폴제제없는 메이저 사설놀이터 Swing 입니다. 신규가입 첫충 10% / 매일충전 5% Event 진행중 네임드사다리 로하이 농구쿼터실시간 스타 롤 등등, 타 업체 대비 최고의 배당률 & 다양한 경기 지원! 다폴더보너스,스페셜보너스 등 다양한 이벤트를 통해 머니 지급! 까다로운 보안으로 여러분의 안전을 책임집니다.Now he felt the most violent pain he had ever known. He wanted to put the rope back on his neck. He tried but could not.

The Infinite Chasm Between Lovers [10w] We connect only by hope and a swinging rope bridge.

What about after? Getting back through the lobby, I mean. Assuming you’ll need to leave at some point. For the bachelorette party, if nothing else.” “That’s not until the weekend.” He grinned. “Your point being?” “You know,” she said, tipping up on her toes and kissing his cheek, “I like it when you do the thinking.” “Well, I was going to mention that, but--” She pinched his butt, making him laugh. “Careful or I’ll swing you up and carry you up to my room over my shoulder.” Kerry spluttered a laugh, then said, “You know, it’s almost worth doing, just to blow everyone’s minds.” He pulled her closer. “Don’t tempt me.” She batted her lashes again. “But I thought you liked it when I tempted you.” Now he slid his hand behind her and gave her a little pinch, making her skip a little step but laugh at the same time. “I guess I had that coming.” “There’s a lot I’d like to do that has coming in the description.” “Okay, okay, so assuming I will have to leave your pirate’s lair at some point, then yes, how to do that without being the front-page story of the gossip gazette.” She looked up at him, her expression serious. “I could always come down the ramp carrying a box of tiddledywinks. Then no one would suspect for sure.” “A real funny one, you are,” he said dryly. “I was revisiting the whole black spandex cat burglar idea. Maybe you could sneak out under cover of darkness, shimmy down a rope from my window.” “Okay, you’ve given that particular scenario way too much thought.” They were still laughing when they reached the end of the pier.

We trapped several smaller females, all around the nine-foot mark. That’s when Steve stepped back and let the all-girl team take over: all the women in camp, zoo workers mainly, myself, and others. We would jump on the croc, help secure the tracking device, and let her go. At one point Steve trapped a female that he could see was small and quiet. He turned to Bindi. “How would you like to jump the head?” Bindi’s eyes lit up. This was what she had been waiting for. Once Steve removed the croc from the trap and secured its jaws, the next step was for the point person to jump the croc’s head. Everybody else on the team followed immediately afterward, pinning the crocodile’s body. “Don’t worry,” I said to Bindi. “I’ll back you up.” Or maybe I was really talking to Steve. He was nervous as he slipped the croc out of its mesh trap. He hovered over the whole operation, knowing that if anything went amiss, he was right there to help. “Ready, and now!” he said. Bindi flung herself on the head of the crocodile. I came in right over her back. The rest of the girls jumped on immediately, and we had our croc secured. “Let’s take a photo with the whole family,” Professor Franklin said. Bindi sat proudly at the crocodile’s head, her hand casually draped over its eyes. Steve was in the middle, holding up the croc’s front legs. Next in line was me. Finally, Robert had the tail. This shot ended up being our 2006 family Christmas card. I look at it now and it makes me laugh out loud. The family that catches crocs together, rocks together. The Irwin family motto. Steve, Bindi, and I are all smiling. But then there is Robert’s oh-so-serious face. He has a top-jaw rope wrapped around his body, with knots throughout. He took his job seriously. He had the rope and was ready as the backup. He was on that croc’s tail. It was all about catching crocs safely, mate. No mucking around here. As we idled back in to camp, Robert said, “Can I please drive the boat?” “Crikey, mate, you are two years old,” Steve said. “I’ll let you drive the boat next year.” But then, quite suddenly and without a word, Steve scooped Robert up and sat him up next to the outboard. He put the tiller in his hand. “Here’s what you do, mate,” Steve said, and he began to explain how to drive the boat. He seemed in a hurry to impart as much wisdom to his son as possible. Robert spent the trip jumping croc tails, driving the boat, and tying knots. Steve created a croc made of sticks and set it on a sandbar. He pulled the boat up next to it, and he, Robert, and Bindi went through all the motions of jumping the stick-croc. “I’m going to say two words,” Robert shouted, imitating his father. “’Go,’ and ‘Now.’ First team off on ‘Go,’ second team off on ‘Now.’” Then he’d yell “Go, now” at the top of his lungs. He and Steve jumped up as if the stick-croc was about to swing around and tear their arms off. “Another croc successfully caught, mate,” Steve said proudly. Robert beamed with pride too. When he got back to Croc One, Robert wrangled his big plush crocodile toy. I listened, incredulous, as my not-yet-three-year-old son muttered the commands of a seasoned croc catcher. He had all the lingo down, verbatim. “Get me a twelve-millimeter rope,” Robert commanded. “I need a second one. Get that top-jaw rope under that tooth, yep, the eye tooth, get it secured. We’ll need a third top-jaw rope for this one. Who’s got a six-millimeter rope? Hand me my Leatherman. Cut that rope here. Get that satellite tracker on.” The stuffed animal thoroughly secured, Robert made as if to brush off his little hands. “Professor Franklin,” he announced in his best grown-up voice, “it’s your croc.

As we idled back in to camp, Robert said, “Can I please drive the boat?” “Crikey, mate, you are two years old,” Steve said. “I’ll let you drive the boat next year.” But then, quite suddenly and without a word, Steve scooped Robert up and sat him up next to the outboard. He put the tiller in his hand. “Here’s what you do, mate,” Steve said, and he began to explain how to drive the boat. He seemed in a hurry to impart as much wisdom to his son as possible. Robert spent the trip jumping croc tails, driving the boat, and tying knots. Steve created a croc made of sticks and set it on a sandbar. He pulled the boat up next to it, and he, Robert, and Bindi went through all the motions of jumping the stick-croc. “I’m going to say two words,” Robert shouted, imitating his father. “’Go,’ and ‘Now.’ First team off on ‘Go,’ second team off on ‘Now.’” Then he’d yell “Go, now” at the top of his lungs. He and Steve jumped up as if the stick-croc was about to swing around and tear their arms off. “Another croc successfully caught, mate,” Steve said proudly. Robert beamed with pride too. When he got back to Croc One, Robert wrangled his big plush crocodile toy. I listened, incredulous, as my not-yet-three-year-old son muttered the commands of a seasoned croc catcher. He had all the lingo down, verbatim. “Get me a twelve-millimeter rope,” Robert commanded. “I need a second one. Get that top-jaw rope under that tooth, yep, the eye tooth, get it secured. We’ll need a third top-jaw rope for this one. Who’s got a six-millimeter rope? Hand me my Leatherman. Cut that rope here. Get that satellite tracker on.” The stuffed animal thoroughly secured, Robert made as if to brush off his little hands. “Professor Franklin,” he announced in his best grown-up voice, “it’s your croc.

She was outside in the back yard, seated in the swing Big John Lenahan had made for her when she was eleven, and watching the spring sun shimmer on the lake when she felt masculine hands encircle her waist. “Want a push?” Fulton asked. Emma would never have confessed to the disappointment she felt. She forced a smile to her lips. “No, thanks,” she said. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the day.” “I couldn’t think of a better time to catch you alone.” He took hold of the swing’s ropes and twisted them so that Emma was facing him. His eyes moved hungrily over her breasts, her trim waist and womanly thighs. “Let’s go into the summerhouse, Emma. I’ll make you forget that gunslinger once and for all.” Emma swallowed and then forced herself to smile. “What gunslinger?” she asked, to prove she’d forgotten Steven Fairfax already.

We were eighteen thousand vertical feet above sea level, in the mouth of Everest’s killer jaws. I noticed my hand was shaking as I fumbled with the ropes through thick mittens. It was pure fatigue. An hour later, it felt like we were still no closer to base camp, and it was starting to get late. I glanced nervously around the icefall. We should be meeting back up with Nima somewhere around here, as arranged. I scanned around but couldn’t see him. I dug my crampons into the snow, leaned back against the face to get my breath back, and waited for Mick behind me. He was still ten yards away, stepping carefully across the broken blocks of ice. We had been in this crevasse-ridden frozen death trap for more than nine hours, and we were both moving very laboriously. Watching him, I knew that if the mighty Mick was moving this slowly then we were indeed on a big mountain. I stood up and took a few more careful steps, testing the ice with each movement. I reached the end of one length of rope, unclipped, breathed hard, and grabbed the next rope. I held it loosely in my hand, looked around, took another deep breath, then clipped my karabiner into the line. Then all of a sudden, I felt the ground beneath me twitch. I looked down and saw a crack in the ice shoot between my feet, with a quiet, slicing sound. I didn’t dare move. The world seemed to stand still. The ice cracked once more behind me, then with no warning, it just dropped away beneath me, and I was falling. Falling down this lethal black scar in the glacier that had no visible bottom. Suddenly I smashed against the gray wall of the crevasse. The force threw me to the other side, crushing my shoulder and arm against the ice. Then I jerked to a halt as the thin rope that I had just clipped into held me. I am spinning round and round in free air. The tips of my crampons catch the edge of the crevasse wall. I can hear my screams echoing in the darkness below. Shards of ice keep raining down on me, and one larger bit smashes into my skull, jerking my head backward. I lose consciousness for a few precious seconds. I blink back into life to see the last of the ice falling away beneath me into the darkness. My body gently swings around on the end of the rope, and all is suddenly eerily silent. Adrenaline is coursing through my body, and I find myself shaking in waves of convulsions. I scream up at Mick, and the sound echoes around the walls. I looked up to the ray of light above, then down to the abyss below. I clutch frantically for the wall, but it is glassy smooth. I swing my ice axe at it wildly, but it doesn’t hold, and my crampons just screech across the ice. In desperation I cling to the rope above me and look up. I am twenty-three years old and about to die. Again.

Good evening.” He gazed down at her lying in her hammock and realized she had already changed into her bedclothes. Well, well, well… “Is there room for two in that hammock?” he asked, still not quite sure of his welcome. “I don’t know, but let’s try it, and if we end up on the ground, we’ll know there isn’t.” Not exactly a rousing cheer, but the boys had said she was in a mood today. Val hopped around, pulling off his boots and stockings, and surveyed the challenge before him. “You roll up that way and hold to the edge, and I’ll climb aboard.” The hammock dipped significantly, and it took some nimbleness on Val’s part, but he was soon ensconced wonderfully close to Ellen, the hammock pitching them together by design. “We need a rope,” Val murmured into Ellen’s ear, “attached to one of the trees, so I can set this thing to swinging for you.” “There’s a breeze tonight.” She turned so her cheek rested on Val’s arm. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.” “Why wouldn’t I?” Val nuzzled her hair, loving the scent and softness of it. “Because the boys are still making a racket at the pond?” “I hoped it was our boys and not those other rotten little brats. You shoo them away, and they’re like flies. They just come buzzing back.” “Are they truly rotten?” He worked an arm under her neck, drawing her closer. “I was a boy once. I hesitate to think all regarded me as an insect merely on the strength of my puerile status.” “You were a good boy.” Ellen’s voice held the first hint of a smile.

The Blind Men and the Elephant9 It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind. The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: “God bless me! but the Elephant Is very like a wall!” The Second, feeling of the tusk Cried, “Ho! what have we here, So very round and smooth and sharp? To me `tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spear!” The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up he spake: “I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant Is very like a snake!” The Fourth reached out an eager hand, And felt about the knee: “What most this wondrous beast is like Is mighty plain,” quoth he; “’Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree!” The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said: “E’en the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan!” The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope. “I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant Is very like a rope!” And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong! Moral So oft in theologic wars, The disputants, I ween, Rail on in utter ignorance Of what each other mean, And prate about an Elephant Not one of them has seen!

Who’s that?” James whispered next to my ear. I looked. Only a shadow of a figure really, far away down the road. I closed my eyes again. “Daddy!” Ollie’s shriek lifted me from my seat. She left her rope and bounded down the road. I clutched the porch post as I watched the man’s bag fall to the ground. He ran to meet her, swinging her up into his arms and holding her close. James rushed down the steps and then stopped, turned back to me. “Go on.” I shooed him away, as if it didn’t matter. In truth, my stomach clenched.

In the poem “The Blind Men and the Elephant,” American poet John Godfrey Saxe (1816–1887) relates the fable of six men of Indostan who went to see an elephant, though all of them were blind. Those who haven’t read the poem will learn that the first blind man felt the broad side of the elephant and thought the elephant “to be very like a wall.” The second, feeling the tusk, cried out, “No, the elephant is like a spear.” Holding the squirming trunk with both hands, the third said, “You are both wrong. The elephant is like a snake.” The fourth blind man, feeling the elephant’s knee, declared, “Fools, the elephant is clearly like a tree.” Caressing the ear, the fifth said, “Did you say tree? The elephant resembles most like a fan.” Surprised at all these, the sixth man, seizing the swinging tail, said, “Are you all crazy? Anyone can see the elephant is like a rope.” Like the blind men, people have formed their own perspective on Hinduism from their experience. While some say it is a mystic religion with endless contradictions, others declare Hinduism is about karma and cycles of reincarnation. “Hinduism has millions of gods, many with multiple limbs.

She sees washing lines and women squatting by a stream, and the creaking ropes of a swing beneath a big tree, and a big dog, cowering from the taunts of the village boys, and a hawk-nosed man digging a ditch, shirt plastered to his back with sweat, and a veiled woman bent over a cooking fire.

The moment he stepped outside, Macon materialized out of the darkness, as quickly as if he’d been a part of it. “Just making sure you don’t decide to take to your heels again,” Steven’s half-brother remarked as they walked along the wooden sidewalk. “I’m not going to do that and you know it,” Steven responded, never looking at Macon. “You just want to make me as miserable as you possibly can.” “You don’t know the meaning of the word misery,” Macon answered blithely. “But you will when you’re behind bars and I’m bedding that luscious little wife of yours. She’ll claim not to like it at first, probably, but I’ve dealt with her kind before. They tell you they’re not interested, but when you throw them down on a mattress, they’re breathing hard and spreading their thighs for you in a minute. And how they carry on when they come.” Steven lost the battle to control his rage and gripped Macon by the lapels of his coat, flinging him hard against the outside wall of the newspaper office. He followed that with a solid punch to Macon’s solar plexus. Macon made a sound that was half gasp and half laughter, clutching his middle and struggling to catch his breath. “Your mother was just like her,” he choked out. “She was a hot little whore who liked playing games with rich men.” Steven’s hand knotted into a fist again, but this time he held himself in check, realizing that Macon wanted to be struck. He got some kind of perverse pleasure out of it. Filled with contempt, Steven turned to walk away. “You’ll be swinging at the end of a rope by this time next month,” Macon called after him. “And nine months after that Emma will be sweating in childbirth, bearing the first of my bastards!” Steven’s hand flexed over the butt of his pistol, but he didn’t draw. He just kept walking, pretending he hadn’t heard. But

It was Brocker’s monster kitten that woke her, swinging from the hem of her dress like a man on the end of a rope.

The rope swings back towards me. 'Quick, Herbie. Jump!' Now, you've probably worked out by now that I'm not a 'Quick, Herbie. Jump!' kind of guy. I mean, it's not as if there's much need for jumping and exclamation marks in the daily life of a lost-property attendant.

With a snarl of pain, she forced herself to sit up, her head spinning with the sudden movement. One hand touched her temple, sticky with dried blood. She winced, feeling a gash along her eyebrow. It was long but shallow, and already scabbing over. She clenched her jaw, teeth grinding, as she surveyed the beach with squinting eyes. The ocean stared back at her, empty and endless, a wall of iron blue. Then she noticed shapes along the beach, some half-buried in the sand, others caught in the rhythmic pull of the tide. She narrowed her eyes and the shapes solidified. A torn length of sail floated, tangled up with rope. A shattered piece of the mast angled out of the sand like a pike. Smashed crates littered the beach, along with other debris from the ship. Bits of hull. Rigging. Oars snapped in half. The bodies moved with the waves. Her steady breathing lost its rhythm, coming in shorter and shorter gasps until she feared her throat might close. Her thoughts scattered, impossible to grasp. All thoughts but one. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Her shout echoed, desperate and ragged. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Only the waves answered, crashing endless against the shore. She forgot her training and forced herself to stand, nearly falling over with dizziness. Her limbs aches but she ignored it, lunging toward the waterline. Her lips moved, her voice shouting his name again, though she couldn’t hear it above the pummel of her own heart. Sorasa Sarn was no stranger to corpses. She splashed into the waves with abandon, even as her head spun. Sailor, sailor, sailor, she noted, her desperation rising with every Tyri uniform and head of black hair. One of them looked ripped in half, missing everything from the waist down. His entrails floated with the rear of him, like a length of bleached rope. She suspected a shark got the best of him. Then her memories returned with a crash like the waves. The Tyri ship. Nightfall. The sea serpent slithering up out of the deep. The breaking of a lantern. Fire across the deck, slick scales running over my hands. The swing of a greatsword, Elder-made. Dom silhouetted against a sky awash with lightning. And then the cold, drowning darkness of the ocean. A wave splashed up against her and Sorasa stumbled back to the shore, shivering. She had not waded more than waist deep, but her face felt wet, water she could not understand streaking her cheeks. Her knees buckled and she fell, exhausted. She heaved a breath, then two. And screamed. Somehow the pain in her head paled in comparison to the pain in her heart. It dismayed and destroyed her in equal measure. The wind blew, stirring salt-crusted hair across her face, sending a chill down to her soul. It was like the wilderness all over again, the bodies of her Amhara kin splayed around her. No, she realized, her throat raw. This is worse. There is not even a body to mourn. She contemplated the emptiness for awhile, the beach and the waves, and the bodies gently pressing into the shore. If she squinted, they could only be debris from the ship, bits of wood instead of bloated flesh and bone. The sun glimmered on the water. Sorasa hated it. Nothing but clouds since Orisi, and now you choose to shine.

SERENNA - "The scene before me resembles a vista from an E.M. Forster novel, a quintessentially English countryside. A meandering brook winds through the meadow catching glittering sunlight from above as it passes through the boughs of weeping willows. To my right, a tall oak tree stands solitary on a rise. I can see a rope swing hanging from one of its boughs

When I have finally hung myself with the rope of my crimes, your body will be swinging right next to mine.

That was the grand bargain with evil. No wrong ever got righted, any more than a hangman’s rope was ever unknotted and used as a child’s swing.

To make sure you’re swinging without using your arms, attach a lifting strap or very short rope [or a towel] to a kettlebell... “Try a few swings. If you’re driving the weight up with your hips, the bell, rope, and arm should all be in one line throughout the rep. If you’re using your arms, your hands will rise up above the strap and bell.

Twice a week, a hard 12 minutes of the U.S. Department of Energy “Man Maker.” The Man Maker is a painfully simple workout that was devised and implemented at a federal agency’s academy by Green Beret vet Bill Cullen, RKC. Its template is simple: alternate sets of high-rep kettlebell drills—swings in our case—with a few hundred yards of jogging. Do your swings “to a comfortable stop” most of the time and all-out occasionally. Don’t run hard; jogging is a form of active recovery. Senior RKC Mike Mahler prefers the jump rope to jogging, another great option.

The friction of your rope in your belay device is strong enough to keep you from falling.” “I know that. But I still feel safer holding on.” “You’re not safer. All you’re going to do is tire yourself out. So let go and relax.” Erica kicked off the rock wall and swung out over the void, grinning like a toddler on a playground swing.

Then again, who could say when it came to prophecy? It had been prophecy, in a way. To die and live again. To marry the Daughter of the Nine Moons. To give up half the light of the world to save the world, whatever that meant. He had died, after all, swinging on that rope. If that was true, the rest had to be. No way out of that.

The human mind feels like a tire that can be driven flat," continued Julian Tsenov. "And the reality is sometimes like a swinging rope. That's why being an idiot is almost a matter of safety.„

When you get to the end of your rope... Tie a knot and swing!

The ability to swing over the wall also corresponded well with our general spy-worthiness. Erica and Catherine both performed the feat with the deft grace of Cirque du Soleil cast members. (I almost felt as though I should applaud for them afterward.) Mike and Zoe handled it well, if a bit clumsily. I didn’t embarrass myself, though I did slip on a wet patch of sod on the landing and tumbled to my knees. Murray missed landing on his feet entirely, belly flopping in the mud. Alexander fell out of the oak tree. Twice. When he finally managed to grab the rope and swing over, he somehow got his ankle tangled in it and ended up oscillating helplessly while dangling upside down until Catherine—who seemed to have come prepared for this—threw a kitchen knife at the rope, severing it cleanly just below the branch when Alexander was on the proper side of the wall. Alexander came crashing down into a gorse bush and emerged spitting out leaves.

Daniel wobbled and the grip slid out of his hand. He dropped only a few inches, but by the time he’d recovered, I was pulling myself over the top. Brooke and Nicole were cheering. The others below called up good-natured boos. I took a breather as I hung off the ledge. I could hear Daniel panting beside me, but I didn’t look over. There was no way he’d lost his hold on that grip. He’d let go. Given me the win at the last second as he realized what was coming if he’d won. A kiss he didn’t want. The ego bruise lasted only a moment. Was I surprised? No. How awkward would that have been? Neither of us wanted that kiss. As always, Daniel had done the right thing and, if I’d been in his place, I’d have done the same. After a moment, I grinned over at him. “Loser.” “The rope slipped,” he said, tugging at it, like he was testing the belay system. “You just keep telling yourself that. It’ll keep you busy while you’re building those new holds.” “You still need to beat everyone else. You haven’t won yet.” “Just keep telling yourself that, too.” He laughed and gave me a shove. I returned the favor, sending him swinging, then belayed down before he could retaliate.

ran, his body became heavier, thicker, rippling with muscles. He crashed into the giant as a full-grown grizzly, a thousand pounds of pure force. He was still small compared to Alcyoneus, but he slammed into the giant with such momentum, Alcyoneus toppled into an icy watchtower that collapsed on top of him. Frank sprang at the giant’s head. A swipe of his claw was like a heavyweight fighter swinging a chain saw. Frank bashed the giant’s face back and forth until his metallic features began to dent. “Urgg,” the giant mumbled in a stupor. Frank changed to his regular form. His backpack was still with him. He grabbed the rope he’d bought in Seward, quickly made a noose, and fastened it around the giant’s scaly dragon foot.

A rope could be a weapon, if you really needed one. Tie a heavy bit of metal to one end, then swing it about and attack.

You know,no one takes you seriously until you're swinging from a rope.-Penelope

Best workout ever." Darius sat next to her and rested his back against the soft mat. She laughed and fumbled to put on her bra. He lifted the weight of her hair from her back and helped her pull down her silk shirt. For a moment, he held the length of her hair in his hand as he had the swing rope. He tugged gently to turn her face to his, and then released it. His face was open and relaxed, his pale blue eyes warm and content. His knees fell open to rest against hers. The feel of skin on skin, bone to bone, was easy, the most natural thing in the world. "Next time we should try the pommel horse." Mei laughed. "You still got pommeling on your mind?" "Oh yeah." He signed and tilted his chin to the ceiling, exposing the length of his throat. "Some pommeling and tumbling would be good. We've got time to make up for.

The ground recoiled, shocked. The worktable swooped beneath him as though it were a swing whose rope had broken. He turned over, grinding his belly against the table, holding the sides with his outstretched hands to kill the fear. The figure was standing now, and his feet held the ground flatly, directly on the damp, breathing earth. As trees do, he sought strength with grasping, rock-splitting notes. The first step shook the earth almost as the standing had. After