See Dr Red Quotes

The others can’t see me,” said the little ghost. “I know,” I said. “My name’s Gwyneth. What’s yours?” “Dr. White to you,” said Dr. White. “I’m Robert,” said the ghost. “That’s a very nice name,” I said. “Thank you,” said Dr. White. “I’ll return the compliment by saying you have very nice veins.

Show Dr. Princi your teeth. That's right, let's see 'em all. Christ, Sparks, is that your tongue or are you swallowing a squirrel? Keep moving -

Valuable and ingenious he might be, thought Jack, fixing him with his glass, but false he was too, and perjured. He had voluntarily sworn to have no truck with vampires, and here, attached to his bosom, spread over it and enfolded by one arm, was a greenish hairy thing, like a mat - a loathsome great vampire of the most poisonous kind, no doubt. ‘I should never have believed it of him: his sacred oath in the morning watch and now he stuffs the ship with vampires; and God knows what is in that bag. No doubt he was tempted, but surely he might blush for his fall?’ No blush; nothing but a look of idiot delight as he came slowly up the side, hampered by his burden and comforting it in Portuguese as he came. ‘I am happy to see that you were so successful, Dr Maturin,’ he said, looking down into the launch and the canoes, loaded with glowing heaps of oranges and shaddocks, red meat, iguanas, bananas, greenstuff. ‘But I am afraid no vampires can be allowed on board.’ ‘This is a sloth,’ said Stephen, smiling at him. ‘A three-toed sloth, the most affectionate, discriminating sloth you can imagine!’ The sloth turned its round head, fixed its eyes on Jack, uttered a despairing wail, and buried its face again in Stephen’s shoulder, tightening its grip to the strangling-point.

The Glass Cat is one of the most curious creatures in all Oz. It was made by a famous magician named Dr. Pipt before Ozma had forbidden her subjects to work magic. Dr. Pipt had made the Glass Cat to catch mice, but the Cat refused to catch mice and was considered more curious than useful. This astonishing cat was made all of glass and was so clear and transparent that you could see through it as easily as through a window. In the top of its head, however, was a mass of delicate pink balls which looked like jewels but were intended for brains. It had a heart made of a blood-red ruby. The eyes were two large emeralds. But, aside from these colors, all the rest of the animal was of clear glass, and it had a spun-glass tail that was really beautiful.

If you ever reed this Miss Kinnian dont be sorry for me. Im glad I got a second chanse in life like you said to be smart because I lerned alot of things that I never even new were in this werld and Im grateful I saw it all even for a littel bit. And Im glad I found out all about my family and me. It was like I never had a family til I remembird about them and saw them and now I know I had a family and I was a person just like evryone. I dont no why Im dumb agen or what I did rong. Mabye its because I dint try hard enuf or just some body put the evel eye on me. But if I try and practis very hard mabye Ill get a littel smarter and no what all the words are. I remembir a littel bit how nice I had a feeling with the blue book that I red with the toren cover. And when I close my eyes I think about the man who tored the book and he looks like me only he looks different and he talks different but I dont think its me because its like I see him from the window. Anyway thats why Im gone to keep trying to get smart so I can have that feeling agen. Its good to no things and be smart and I wish I new evrything in the hole world. I wish I could be smart agen rite now. If I could I would sit down and reed all the time. Anyway I bet Im the frist dumb persen in the world who found out some thing inportent for sience. I did somthing but I dont remembir what. So i gess its like I did it for all the dumb pepul like me in Warren and all over the world. Goodby Miss Kinnian and dr Strauss and evrybody... P.S. please tel prof Nemur not to be such a grouch when pepul laff at him and he would have more frends. Its easy to have frends if you let pepul laff at you. Im going to have lots of frends where I go. P.S. please if you get a chanse put some flowrs on Algernons grave in the bak yard.

How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the brief gleams of moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and passing-like the gladness and sorrow of a man’s life; how sweet it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how humanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city

Here, my man, just hold it this way, while I look into it a bit," he said one day to Fitz G., putting a wounded arm into the keeping of a sound one, and proceeding to poke about among bits of bone and visible muscles, in a red and black chasm made by some infernal machine of the shot or shell description. Poor Fitz held on like a grim Death, ashamed to show fear before a woman, till it grew more than he could bear in silence; and, after a few smothered groans,he looked at me imploringly, as if he said, "I wouldn't, ma'am, if I could help it," and fainted quietly away. Dr. P. looked up, gave a compassionate sort of cluck, and poked away more busily than ever, with a nod at me and a brief—"Never mind; be so good as to hold this till I finish." I obeyed, cherishing the while a strong desire to insinuate a few of his own disagreeable knives and scissors into him, and see how he liked it. A very disrespectful and ridiculous fancy of course; for he was doing all that could be done, and the arm prospered finely in his hands. But the human mind is prone to prejudice; and though a personable man, speaking French like a born "Parley voo," and whipping off legs like an animated guillotine, I must confess to a sense of relief when he was ordered elsewhere; and suspect that several of the men would have faced a rebel battery with less trepidation than they did Dr. P., when he came briskly in on his morning round.

Everything has led to this: the death of his father; all those restless hours with Jutta listening to the crystal radio in the attic; Hans and Herribert wearing their red armbands under their shirts so Frau Elena would not see; four hundred dark, glittering nights at Schulpforta building transceivers for Dr. Hauptmann. The destruction of Frederick. Everything leading to this moment as Werner piles the haphazard Cossack equipment into the shell of the truck and sits with his back against the bench and watches the light from the burning cottage rise above the field. Bernd climbs in beside him, rifle in his lap, and neither bothers to close the back door when the Opel roars into gear.

Acquainted? We know only names, so far. I know that it is Eleanor, here, who is wearing a red sweater, and consequently it must be Theodora who wears yellow—” “Doctor Montague has a beard,” Theodora said, “so you must be Luke.” “And you are Theodora,” Eleanor said, “because I am Eleanor.” An Eleanor, she told herself triumphantly, who belongs, who is talking easily, who is sitting by the fire with her friends. “Therefore you are wearing the red sweater,” Theodora explained to her soberly. “I have no beard,” Luke said, “so he must be Doctor Montague.” “I have a beard,” Dr. Montague said, pleased, and looked around at them with a happy beam. “My wife,” he told them, “likes a man to wear a beard. Many women, on the other hand, find a beard distasteful. A clean-shaven man—you’ll excuse me, my boy—never looks fully dressed, my wife tells me.” He held out his glass to Luke. “Now that I know which of us is me,” Luke said, “let me identify myself further. I am, in private life—assuming that this is public life and the rest of the world is actually private—let me see, a bullfighter. Yes. A bullfighter.

THE POWER OF FIVE These portions contain roughly 5 grams of carbohydrates. Food groups are arranged in the general order in which they should be added. Vegetables 3/4 cup cooked spinach 1/2 cup red peppers 1 medium tomato 2/3 cup cooked broccoli 8 medium asparagus 1 cup cauliflower 1/3 cup chopped onions 1/2 California avocado 2/3 cup summer squash Dairy 5 ounces farmer's cheese or pot cheese 5 ounces mozzarella cheese 1/2 cup cottage cheese 2/3 cup ricotta cheese 1/2 cup heavy cream Nuts and Seeds 1 ounce of: macadamias (approximately ten to twelve nuts) walnuts (approximately fourteen halves) almonds (approximately twenty-four nuts) pecans (approximately thirty-one nuts) hulled sunflower seeds (three tablespoons) roasted shelled peanuts (approximately twenty-six nuts) 1/2 ounce of cashews (approximately nine nuts) Fruits 1/4 cup blueberries 1/4 cup raspberries 1/2 cup strawberries 1/4 cup cantaloupe, honeydew Juices 1/4 cup lemon juice 1/4 cup lime juice 1/2 cup tomato juice Convenience Foods You can select from the variety of convenience foods (bars and shakes are the two most available), but be sure to determine the actual number of digestible carbohydrate in any particular product (see Chapter 8, page 68).

Eat either three regular-size meals a day or four or five smaller meals. Do not skip meals or go more than six waking hours without eating. 2. Eat liberally of combinations of fat and protein in the form of poultry, fish, shellfish, eggs and red meat, as well as of pure, natural fat in the form of butter, mayonnaise, olive oil, safflower, sunflower and other vegetable oils (preferably expeller-pressed or cold-pressed). 3. Eat no more than 20 grams a day of carbohydrate, most of which must come in the form of salad greens and other vegetables. You can eat approximately three cups-loosely packed-of salad, or two cups of salad plus one cup of other vegetables (see the list of acceptable vegetables on page 110). 4. Eat absolutely no fruit, bread, pasta, grains, starchy vegetables or dairy products other than cheese, cream or butter. Do not eat nuts or seeds in the first two weeks. Foods that combine protein and carbohydrates, such as chickpeas, kidney beans and other legumes, are not permitted at this time. 5. Eat nothing that is not on the acceptable foods list. And that means absolutely nothing! Your "just this one taste won't hurt" rationalization is the kiss of failure during this phase of Atkins. 6. Adjust the quantity you eat to suit your appetite, especially as it decreases. When hungry, eat the amount that makes you feel satisfied but not stuffed. When not hungry, eat a small controlled carbohydrate snack to accompany your nutritional supplements. 7. Don't assume any food is low in carbohydrate-instead read labels! Check the carb count (it's on every package) or use the carbohydrate gram counter in this book. 8. Eat out as often as you wish but be on guard for hidden carbs in gravies, sauces and dressings. Gravy is often made with flour or cornstarch, and sugar is sometimes an ingredient in salad dressing. 9. Avoid foods or drinks sweetened with aspartame. Instead, use sucralose or saccharin. Be sure to count each packet of any of these as 1 gram of carbs. 10. Avoid coffee, tea and soft drinks that contain caffeine. Excessive caffeine has been shown to cause low blood sugar, which can make you crave sugar. 11. Drink at least eight 8-ounce glasses of water each day to hydrate your body, avoid constipation and flush out the by-products of burning fat. 12. If you are constipated, mix a tablespoon or more of psyllium husks in a cup or more of water and drink daily. Or mix ground flaxseed into a shake or sprinkle wheat bran on a salad or vegetables.

Much struck by the idea of a man--this man--bent on doing himself to death, were he able, I asked, "Do you mean, Doctor, that Mr. Penfold desires to...to bleed himself to death? Or do we speak of carnivorous intent?" I'd adopted the doctor's habit of distancing the very present patient, only to be brought up short by Mr. Penfold himself:- "May I respond to that, Dr. Stewart?" This, uttered in tones appropriate to any London parlour. Dr. Stewart said nothing, and so Mr. Penfold spoke on:- "What I wish, sir," said he to me, "is simply to die. Rather, I no longer wish to live. And, as no other means of suicide avails itself to me in this cushioned cell--neither utensil nor tool, not even a hardened corner on which to dash the brains from my head--the doctor speaks true: I would, yes, if able, tear and rend my flesh with fingers and teeth. Not with carnivorous intent, no, but rather to rid myself, my body, of its blood; for the blood, sir, is the life, and, as I have said, I have had done with life. The blood is the life. Whence did those words come? Forthwith I was informed, by Penfold himself:- "So it says in Deuteronomy 12:23, where the interdiction is, and I quote, 'Only be sure that thou eat not the blood: for the blood is the life.' But of course I do not wish to drink my own blood, Mr. Stoker. I would, however, see it spilled. I would watch with increasing relief, yes, if the red of life were to run from me.

It's a stupendous day for Dr. Seuss fans, with the announcement of a new, previously unpublished picture book, What Pet Should I Get? , to be released on July 28th.  When Dr. Seuss (aka Ted Geisel) passed away in 1991 he left behind pages of text and sketches for book ideas and projects he had worked on over the years but hadn't completed before his death. Where were these hidden gems, you might ask?  Locked away in a safe? Buried in the backyard? Hidden behind a secret wall in his hat closet?  No.  Like many utterly ordinary people, Seuss had a box in his office filled with a paper trail of ideas and bursts of creativity--only in this case, it was a veryspecial box of creative bits and pieces... Who knew, when his wife, Audrey Geisel, packed away that box shortly after Seuss' death, that when she opened it up over two decades later, she would discover the complete manuscript and illustrations for What Pet Should I Get? . I'm envisioning a ray of bright green and blue and red sunshine beaming down on that moment...  In point of fact, the brilliant colors of Seuss' stories came later in the evolution of his books, so color is being added to the black and white sketches of What Pet Should I Get? by Seuss' former art director, Cathy Goldsmith, who worked with him on the last book he published before his death, Oh, The Places You'll Go!   I can't even imagine the goosebumps Goldsmith must have felt to see and hold never-before-seen Seuss artwork... So while we have to wait until the sun is beating down and summer vacation is nearing an end before we can get our hands on a brand new Dr. Seuss story, can also look forward to hearing about what else was found in that treasure trove of Seussy goodness--two more stories are promised as a result of the findings.

As the subject watches the movies, the MRI machine creates a 3-D image of the blood flow within the brain. The MRI image looks like a vast collection of thirty thousand dots, or voxels. Each voxel represents a pinpoint of neural energy, and the color of the dot corresponds to the intensity of the signal and blood flow. Red dots represent points of large neural activity, while blue dots represent points of less activity. (The final image looks very much like thousands of Christmas lights in the shape of the brain. Immediately you can see that the brain is concentrating most of its mental energy in the visual cortex, which is located at the back of the brain, while watching these videos.) Gallant’s MRI machine is so powerful it can identify two to three hundred distinct regions of the brain and, on average, can take snapshots that have one hundred dots per region of the brain. (One goal for future generations of MRI technology is to provide an even sharper resolution by increasing the number of dots per region of the brain.) At first, this 3-D collection of colored dots looks like gibberish. But after years of research, Dr. Gallant and his colleagues have developed a mathematical formula that begins to find relationships between certain features of a picture (edges, textures, intensity, etc.) and the MRI voxels. For example, if you look at a boundary, you’ll notice it’s a region separating lighter and darker areas, and hence the edge generates a certain pattern of voxels. By having subject after subject view such a large library of movie clips, this mathematical formula is refined, allowing the computer to analyze how all sorts of images are converted into MRI voxels. Eventually the scientists were able to ascertain a direct correlation between certain MRI patterns of voxels and features within each picture. At this point, the subject is then shown another movie trailer. The computer analyzes the voxels generated during this viewing and re-creates a rough approximation of the original image. (The computer selects images from one hundred movie clips that most closely resemble the one that the subject just saw and then merges images to create a close approximation.) In this way, the computer is able to create a fuzzy video of the visual imagery going through your mind. Dr. Gallant’s mathematical formula is so versatile that it can take a collection of MRI voxels and convert it into a picture, or it can do the reverse, taking a picture and then converting it to MRI voxels. I had a chance to view the video created by Dr. Gallant’s group, and it was very impressive. Watching it was like viewing a movie with faces, animals, street scenes, and buildings through dark glasses. Although you could not see the details within each face or animal, you could clearly identify the kind of object you were seeing. Not only can this program decode what you are looking at, it can also decode imaginary images circulating in your head.

SCENE 24 “Tiens, Ti Jean, donne ce plat la a Shammy,” my father is saying to me, turning from the open storage room door with a white tin pan. “Here, Ti Jean, give this pan to Shammy.” My father is standing with a peculiar French Canadian bowleggedness half up from a crouch with the pan outheld, waiting for me to take it, anxious till I do so, almost saying with his big frowning amazed face “Well my little son what are we doing in the penigillar, this strange abode, this house of life without roof be-hung on a Friday evening with a tin pan in my hand in the gloom and you in your raincoats—” “II commence a tombez de la neige” someone is shouting in the background, coming in from the door (“Snow’s startin to fall”)—my father and I stand in that immobile instant communicating telepathic thought-paralysis, suspended in the void together, understanding something that’s always already happened, wondering where we were now, joint reveries in a dumb stun in the cellar of men and smoke … as profound as Hell … as red as Hell.—I take the pan; behind him, the clutter and tragedy of old cellars and storage with its dank message of despair–mops, dolorous mops, clattering tear-stricken pails, fancy sprawfs to suck soap suds from a glass, garden drip cans–rakes leaning on meaty rock–and piles of paper and official Club equipments– It now occurs to me my father spent most of his time when I was 13 the winter of 1936, thinking about a hundred details to be done in the Club alone not to mention home and business shop–the energy of our fathers, they raised us to sit on nails– While I sat around all the time with my little diary, my Turf, my hockey games, Sunday afternoon tragic football games on the toy pooltable white chalkmarked … father and son on separate toys, the toys get less friendly when you grow up–my football games occupied me with the same seriousness of the angels–we had little time to talk to each other. In the fall of 1934 we took a grim voyage south in the rain to Rhode Island to see Time Supply win the Narragansett Special–with Old Daslin we was … a grim voyage, through exciting cities of great neons, Providence, the mist at the dim walls of great hotels, no Turkeys in the raw fog, no Roger Williams, just a trolley track gleaming in the gray rain– We drove, auguring solemnly over past performance charts, past deserted shell-like Ice Cream Dutchland Farms stands in the dank of rainy Nov.—bloop, it was the time on the road, black tar glisten-road of thirties, over foggy trees and distances, suddenly a crossroads, or just a side-in road, a house, or bam, a vista gray tearful mists over some half-in cornfield with distances of Rhode Island in the marshy ways across and the secret scent of oysters from the sea–but something dark and rog-like.— J had seen it before … Ah weary flesh, burdened with a light … that gray dark Inn on the Narragansett Road … this is the vision in my brain as I take the pan from my father and take it to Shammy, moving out of the way for LeNoire and Leo Martin to pass on the way to the office to see the book my father had (a health book with syphilitic backs)— SCENE 25 Someone ripped the pooltable cloth that night, tore it with a cue, I ran back and got my mother and she lay on it half-on-floor like a great poolshark about to take a shot under a hundred eyes only she’s got a thread in her mouth and’s sewing with the same sweet grave face you first saw in the window over my shoulder in that rain of a late Lowell afternoon. God bless the children of this picture, this bookmovie. I’m going on into the Shade.

SCENE 24 “Tiens, Ti Jean, donne ce plat la a Shammy,” my father is saying to me, turning from the open storage room door with a white tin pan. “Here, Ti Jean, give this pan to Shammy.” My father is standing with a peculiar French Canadian bowleggedness half up from a crouch with the pan outheld, waiting for me to take it, anxious till I do so, almost saying with his big frowning amazed face “Well my little son what are we doing in the penigillar, this strange abode, this house of life without roof be-hung on a Friday evening with a tin pan in my hand in the gloom and you in your raincoats—” “II commence a tombez de la neige” someone is shouting in the background, coming in from the door (“Snow’s startin to fall”)—my father and I stand in that immobile instant communicating telepathic thought-paralysis, suspended in the void together, understanding something that’s always already happened, wondering where we were now, joint reveries in a dumb stun in the cellar of men and smoke … as profound as Hell … as red as Hell.—I take the pan; behind him, the clutter and tragedy of old cellars and storage with its dank message of despair–mops, dolorous mops, clattering tear-stricken pails, fancy sprawfs to suck soap suds from a glass, garden drip cans–rakes leaning on meaty rock–and piles of paper and official Club equipments– It now occurs to me my father spent most of his time when I was 13 the winter of 1936, thinking about a hundred details to be done in the Club alone not to mention home and business shop–the energy of our fathers, they raised us to sit on nails– While I sat around all the time with my little diary, my Turf, my hockey games, Sunday afternoon tragic football games on the toy pooltable white chalkmarked … father and son on separate toys, the toys get less friendly when you grow up–my football games occupied me with the same seriousness of the angels–we had little time to talk to each other. In the fall of 1934 we took a grim voyage south in the rain to Rhode Island to see Time Supply win the Narragansett Special–with Old Daslin we was … a grim voyage, through exciting cities of great neons, Providence, the mist at the dim walls of great hotels, no Turkeys in the raw fog, no Roger Williams, just a trolley track gleaming in the gray rain– We drove, auguring solemnly over past performance charts, past deserted shell-like Ice Cream Dutchland Farms stands in the dank of rainy Nov.—bloop, it was the time on the road, black tar glisten-road of thirties, over foggy trees and distances, suddenly a crossroads, or just a side-in road, a house, or bam, a vista gray tearful mists over some half-in cornfield with distances of Rhode Island in the marshy ways across and the secret scent of oysters from the sea–but something dark and rog-like.— J had seen it before … Ah weary flesh, burdened with a light … that gray dark Inn on the Narragansett Road … this is the vision in my brain as I take the pan from my father and take it to Shammy, moving out of the way for LeNoire and Leo Martin to pass on the way to the office to see the book my father had (a health book with syphilitic backs)— SCENE 25 Someone ripped the pooltable cloth that night, tore it with a cue, I ran back and got my mother and she lay on it half-on-floor like a great poolshark about to take a shot under a hundred eyes only she’s got a thread in her mouth and’s sewing with the same sweet grave face you first saw in the window over my shoulder in that rain of a late Lowell afternoon. God bless the children of this picture, this bookmovie. I’m going on into the Shade.

He read me the Bible to prove I was sinful. For in the night he was betrayed. And then he let me give him a Judas-kiss, that red lock that held us in place, and then I gave him a drink from my cup and he whispered, "Rape, rape." And then I gave him my wrist and he sucked on the blood, hating himself for it, murmuring, "God will see. God will see.

Red Bull is another case. In America and Europe, Red Bull invented the ‘energy drink’ category. All attempts by the Coca-Cola Corporation and other soft-drink makers to compete with Red Bull have failed. Energy drinks are a separate niche and Red Bull is a valuable star. There is another clue as to whether or not a niche market is viable, and it is simply this: is the niche highly profitable? Does it generate a lot of cash? Leadership in a niche is not valuable unless, sooner or later, the niche is very profitable and gushes out cash. For sure, if your product is very good and you give it away, you can attain leadership in a niche. Free newspapers, for example. But unless you have some other way of taking in cash - through advertising in this case - your niche business will be unprofitable and gobble up cash. It follows that you can tell whether or not niche leadership really exists by seeing whether the niche leader is very profitable and cash-positive. If not, there is a kind of theoretical niche leadership, but the niche has little or no practical value. It will never qualify as a star business. Is Dr Pepper’s niche leadership valuable? Is Red Bull’s? You bet!

Ball in the Well As future rulers of the land, the princes of the ancient kingdom of Hastings were required to master various skills like archery and sword play. Their grandfather, Peter decided that they should have only the best teacher and so he was on the constant lookout for such a person. One day, the princes were playing in the garden with their ball, which unfortunately fell into the palace well.   The princes ran to the well and peered inside. All they could see was the bright red ball floating on top of the water far down in the well. The princes were disappointed because they could not continue with their game. Just then, they saw a young man dressed in black clothes passing by. From his dress, they knew immediately that was a sage, a wise and pious man with little concern for the cares of the world. They called out to him. “Sir, can you help us?” When he approached them, Durand, the eldest prince, told him how their ball had fallen into the well and they could not reach it. The man smiled. “You are princes of royal blood and you cannot solve such a simple problem?” he said. “Now watch me.” The princes looked on as the sage plucked a blade of grass, chanted some holy words and threw it into the well.   Amazingly, the blade of grass hit the surface of the ball and remained stuck on it. The sage took a second blade of grass and again after chanting some words, threw it into the well. The second blade of grass stuck to the first blade of grass. The man kept chanting and throwing blades of grass into the well. Each blade stuck to the earlier blade of grass and soon formed a chain leading to the very top of the well. The sage then used this to pull out the ball. The princes stared at him in astonishment.   Later, they told their grandfather what had happened. He then asked them to describe the man who he realised was none other than Sayer, a famous warrior who had given up fighting to become a sage. So their grandfather hastened to find him and never stopped until he persuaded Sayer to come and teach the princes how to shoot and to fight with a sword. Sayer faithfully taught the princes all kinds of warfare and military skills. As a result, the kingdom of Hastings became extremely powerful. In the process, Sayer became one of the most important and powerful men in the land. Moral of story: Once skills are learned they are not easily forgotten.

After fifteen minutes in the air, Sharko started leafing through the book on mass hysteria. As Dr. Taha Abou Zeid had briefly explained, this phenomenon had cut across time periods, nationalities, and religions. The author based his thesis on photos, eyewitness accounts, and interviews with specialists. In France, for instance, witch hunts in the Middle Ages had provoked an inordinate fear of the devil and mass acts of insanity: screaming crowds hungry for blood, mothers and children who cheered to see “witches” burning alive. The cases in the book were astounding. India, 2001: hundreds of individuals from different parts of New Delhi swear they were attacked by a fictional being, half man, half monkey, “with metal claws and red eyes.” Certain “victims” even leap from the window to flee this creature, who’d surged right out of the collective imagination. Belgium, 1990: the Belgian Society for the Study of Space Phenomena suddenly receives several thousand sightings of UFOs. The most likely cause was held to be sociopsychological. A sudden mania for looking for flying objects, exacerbated by the media: when you want to see something, you end up seeing it. Dakar: ninety high school students go into a trance and are brought to the hospital. Some speak of a curse; there are purification rituals and sacrifices to remedy the situation. Sharko turned the pages—it went on forever. Sects committing group suicide, panicked crowds, haunted house syndrome like the Amityville Horror, collective fainting spells at concerts…There was even a chapter on genocides, a “criminal mass hysteria,” according to the terms of certain psychiatrists: organizers who plan coldly, calculatingly, while those who execute sink into a frenzy of wholesale destruction and butchery.

Well, young fellow, I hope you’re not trying to see what cards I’m holding,” one of the cardplayers said with a twinkle in his eye. “Your eyes are bigger than my ice-cream bowl.” Benny felt his ears get red. “Are you playing Go Fish?” he asked. “That’s what we played in the car when we drove from Greenfield. Only now it’s time for Go Eat Ice Cream, not Go Fish.” Everyone at the table chuckled. “I’m getting chocolate ice cream,” Benny continued. “And know what? We’re going to Skeleton Point. Grandfather’s cousin Charlotte bought it--even the skeletons. She asked us to help her fix up the house. We might even get to stay there overnight.” The players looked up from their cards when they heard this. “Well,” one silver-haired lady said, “you must be very brave. A lot of strange things have been going on at Skeleton Point ever since Charlotte bought Dr. Tibbs’s old place.” Another man at the table put his finger to his lips. “Now, don’t go scaring the boy with all that foolish talk about the Walking Skeleton.” The woman ignored the man. “Well, don’t say we didn’t warn you. I heard from William Mason, who’s working out there, that there’s a skeleton in the house trying to turn into a real person again. If you ask me, that’s why some of those statues have missing parts.” Now Benny’s eyes were bigger than dinner plates. “Everything’s been falling down at Skeleton Point for years, especially those statues. I was glad to hear Charlotte’s going to fix up the place. That’ll stop all this Walking Skeleton nonsense.” “Maybe the Walking Skeleton is a real person already,” Benny said. “I’m a walking skeleton, too. Only I have muscles on top of my skeleton.” The cardplayers laughed again and returned to their game. When the Aldens got their cones, they sat on the front porch of the general store to enjoy their ice cream. “Where to next?” Grandfather asked when everyone had finished. “As if I didn’t know.” “Skeleton Point!” the children cried at the same time. “Skeleton Point it is,” Grandfather said. The Mystery at Skeleton Point

Jared stared at the back of Gabriel’s head. Eric was blinking rapidly. Tristan was the one who broke the silence, his amused eyes fixed on his brother. “You know, you’d better put a sack on his head if you don’t want people to look at Jared.” The intern looked between them, puzzled. “What?” “It’s not your fault,” Tristan told him. “It’s Eric, right?” When the intern nodded, Tristan smiled at him. “There are a few unwritten rules here, Eric. No one talks about them, but everyone knows them.” He pointed at Jared and winked at the intern. “Dr. Sheldon is very hot, huh?” Eric flushed, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Jared shook his head. “Tristan—” But Tristan continued, “Now see the other guy? The one who looks like he wants to piss all over Jared?” Gabriel spluttered, the tips of his ears turning bright red. “Tristan, that’s enough,” Jared said, his voice hard. Tristan put on an innocent face, widening his eyes. “My bad, I forgot we were all supposed to ignore the elephant in the room.” “You—” Gabriel started, taking a step to the table, but Jared caught Gabriel’s fist and pulled him back against his chest. “Enough, both of you.” He glanced at the intern. “Ice and compression, Eric. Keep his leg elevated and don’t let him move until I’m back.” He steered Gabriel out of the office.

It was early in my career, and I had been seeing Mary, a shy, lonely, and physically collapsed young woman, for about three months in weekly psychotherapy, dealing with the ravages of her terrible history of early abuse. One day I opened the door to my waiting room and saw her standing there provocatively, dressed in a miniskirt, her hair dyed flaming red, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a snarl on her face. “You must be Dr. van der Kolk,” she said. “My name is Jane, and I came to warn you not to believe any the lies that Mary has been telling you. Can I come in and tell you about her?” I was stunned but fortunately kept myself from confronting “Jane” and instead heard her out. Over the course of our session I met not only Jane but also a hurt little girl and an angry male adolescent. That was the beginning of a long and productive treatment.

Think about it, Mother. My name is Lee Oliver Winekoop. My initials spell L-O-W. Did you know that when you named me?” She shifted her petite body in the chair and frowned. “What on earth has gotten into you? Maybe I need to make a special appointment with Dr. Jerry. Are you feeling all right?” She was referring to Dr. Jerry Osgood, the psychologist Lee had been seeing for two years, to make him more like his brothers he thought. What his mother didn’t know was how much he was already trying to be like them.

me. “Well, I know one thing about my twins. They’re not going to be models. I already tried them out for catalogue work. Within the first ten minutes, Orianthe informed me that she doesn’t like to do boring things and that modelling’s boring. And she’s not going to let her brother do boring things either.” I laughed. The cries of the twins pealed down the hallway as they bounded inside and called Jessie’s name. They must have discovered she was home. “Hey, where’s the pup?” I asked Pria. “Can I see him? Jessie said he’s growing big.” Immediately, Pria rolled her eyes and made a low disparaging sound. “I sent Buster out with the dog walker as soon as I knew Kate was coming over with the kids. He’d knock them flying. Wish I’d never bought him, to tell you the truth. After the break-in, I wanted a watchdog, but I should have paid more attention to the breed. He’s damned strong—even though he’s only nine months old. And he snaps. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit scared of the mutt. I’m having a dog trainer try to rein him in, but if that doesn’t work, he’s gone.” “What a shame,” I said. “Jess told me she’d like to walk the dog sometimes, but that’s not sounding good.” “Nope. The only thing I got right about him is his name. Because Buster has busted everything from doors to shoes.” She shook her head, a sorry smile on her face. The sound of the three children playing became too much. Tommy had once run through this house, too. I stayed for a while longer then made an excuse to leave.     29.                 PHOEBE   Tuesday night   STORM CLOUDS PUSHED INTO THE SKY, making the day darken a good hour before the incoming night. The heavy atmosphere pressed down on me. I opened the window of my bedroom upstairs at Nan’s house, letting the chill air stream in. I could only just catch a glimpse of the water from here. An enormous cruise liner dominated the harbour, staining the water red and blue with its lights. Maybe my small step in seeing Pria and Kate earlier had helped my frame of mind, but I didn’t feel it yet. I was back at square one. I began pacing the room, feeling unhinged. Things were all so in between. Dr Moran hadn’t succeeded in jogging my memory about the letters. She’d said she didn’t think it was possible to do all that I’d done in sleepwalking sessions and so the memory should still be in my mind somewhere. True sleepwalkers rarely remembered their dreams. Not remembering any of it was the most disturbing thing of all. It wasn’t the first time I’d forgotten things. With the binge drinking and the trauma of losing Tommy, there were gaps in my memory. But not a fucking chasm. And forgetting the writing of three notes and delivering them was a fucking chasm. Nan called me for dinner, and we ate the pumpkin soup together. I’d tried watching one of her sitcoms with her after that, but I gave up halfway through. I headed back upstairs. Surprisingly, I was tired enough to sleep. I crawled into bed and let myself drift off. I woke just before four thirty in the morning. The temperature had plummeted—I guessed it was below ten degrees. I’d been dreaming. The dream had been of the last day that Sass, Luke, Pria, Kate,

I realized with an unexpected shock that without either ale or female within easy reach, Ned was somehow incomplete. Why hadn't I noticed that before? Perhaps, like Dr. Watson on the wireless in 'A Scandal in Bohemia', there are times that I see, but do not observe. This was something I needed to think about.

She's receiving Dr. Sheldon Lord in audience just at the moment," Marshall said. "I don't see why you shouldn't go on to the Throne Room, though. He's giving her some psychological tests, but they ought to be finished in a minute or two." "Fine," Malone said. "How about court dress? Got anything here that might fit me?" Marshall nodded. "We've got a pretty complete line of court costume now," he said. "I should say it was the most complete in existence--except possibly for the TV historical companies. Down the hall, three doors farther on, you'll find the dressing room." * * * * * Malone thanked Dr. Marshall and went out slowly. He didn't really mind the court dress or the Elizabethan etiquette Her Majesty liked to preserve; as a matter of fact, he was rather fond of it. There had been some complaints about expense when the Throne Room and the costume arrangement were first set up, but the FBI and the Government had finally decided that it was better and easier to humor Her Majesty. Malone spent ten minutes dressing himself magnificently in hose and doublet, slash-sleeved, ermine-trimmed coat, lace collar, and plumed hat. By the time he presented himself at the door to the Throne Room he felt almost cheerful. It had been a long time since he had entered the world of Elizabethan knighthood over which Her Majesty held sway, and it always made him feel taller and more sure of himself. He bowed to a chunkily-built man of medium height in a stiffly brocaded jacket, carrying a small leather briefcase. The man had a whaler's beard of blond-red hair that looked slightly out of period, but the costume managed to overpower it. "Dr. Lord?" Malone said. The bearded man peered at him. "Ah, Sir Kenneth," he said. "Yes, yes. Just been giving Her Majesty a few tests. Normal weekly check, you know." "I know," Malone said. "Any change?" "Change?" Lord said. "In Her Majesty? Sir Kenneth, you might as well expect the very rocks to change. Her Majesty remains Her Majesty--and will, in all probability, throughout the foreseeable future." "The same as ever?" Malone asked hopefully. "Exactly," Lord said. "But--if you do want background on the case--I'm flying back to New York tonight. Look me up there, if you have a chance. I'm afraid there's little information I can give you, but it's always a pleasure to talk with you." "Thanks," Malone said dully. "Barrow Street," Lord said with a cheery wave of the briefcase. "Number 69.

Dr. Campbell handed us off to the orthopedic surgeon, who went over the next steps to deal with Brandon’s broken bones. Another surgeon told us about the repairs to the laceration to his liver. Then a plastic surgeon talked to us about the skin grafts he would need to cover the extensive road rash on his left arm. By the time the doctors were done with us, Sloan was wiped. I put her back in her chair and called Josh. The phone was still ringing when I heard it behind me. I spun and there he was. The second I saw him, my emotional disconnect from the situation clicked off. My coping mechanism snapped away from me like a rubber band shot across a room, and the weight of what happened hit me. Sloan’s grief, Brandon’s condition—Josh’s trauma. I dove into his arms, instantly withered. I’d never trusted anyone else to be the one in control, and my manic mind gave it to him immediately and without reservation and retreated back into itself. He clutched me, and I held him tighter than I’d ever held anyone in my life. I wasn’t sure if I was comforting him, or if I was letting him comfort me. All I knew was something subconscious in me told me I didn’t have to hold the world up anymore now that he was here. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered, breathing him in as my body turned back on from being in suspended animation. The sound to the movie around me turned all the way up. My heart began to pound, I gasped into his neck, and tears instantly flooded my eyes. He put his forehead to mine. He looked like shit. He’d looked bad this morning at the station—I knew he hadn’t slept. But now his eyes were red like he’d been crying. “Any updates?” His voice was raspy. I couldn’t even comprehend how hard it must have been for him to see what he saw and stay at work, going on calls. I wanted to cover him like a blanket. I wanted to cover them both, Josh and Sloan, and shield them from this. I put a hand to his cheek, and he turned into it and closed his eyes. “He just got out of surgery,” I said. Then I told him everything, my hands on his chest like they anchored me. He stood with his arms around my waist, nodding and looking at me like he was worried I was the one who wasn’t okay. It didn’t escape me that we were holding each other and I didn’t care what it meant or what wrong signals it might send to him at the moment. I just knew that I needed to touch him. I needed this momentary surrender. For both of us.

Here are some tips for an anti-inflammatory eating plan, including increasing the diet’s alkalinity:  Add more alkaline foods to your diet when you can. You can find lists of alkaline-/ acid-forming foods online, including my website. You will note that meat, sodas, sugar, coffee, alcohol, and refined carbohydrates (such as those found in cookies, cakes, and other sweets) are high acid formers. Some of the highest alkaline-forming foods are lemons, limes, parsley, kelp, kale, broccoli, and pumpkin seeds.  Eat several servings of vegetables, especially green leafy vegetables, each day, as well as some fruits. Get plenty of raw foods in your diet. Eating a salad each day loaded with raw veggies is a good way to start. You also might want to add a fresh apple cider vinegar dressing to your salad—see my website for recipes.  Get plenty of omega-3 fatty acids, such as those found in fatty fish, fish oil supplements, ground flax, chia, and hemp seeds, and walnuts.  Eliminate trans fats and fried foods.  If you eat animal protein, rely on fish and lean meats, such as chicken or turkey; cut back on red meat and dairy. (Note: There is growing concern about both fish toxicity and the sustainability of popular fishing methods. The Environmental

Aisha ran to Codex and hugged him. “Good to see you too,” Codex said. “Do you really think I’m cute?” Codex flushed red. “I mean, I guess.” “Why didn’t you say something?” “I just thought it might be weird.” Aisha laughed. “Weirder than a madman reading me your innermost thoughts from the pages of a book made from your own body?” Codex smiled. “I guess not.

Players always talk about glitches and what they would do if they saw one, but I don’t think anyone really does ever get to see them. We have an opportunity to become legendary.” “Shut up.” It was Otis. He had come out of the house and had overheard that last bit. “You have no idea what legendary is. You wouldn’t know it if it hit you in the face.” “I sure would,” Pro said, balling his fists defiantly. Otis walked over to him, reached up, and slapped him in the face. “So?” Pro’s face turned beetroot red with anger, but then the redness subsided and he started to laugh. “You’re saying that you’re legendary?” “I know I’m legendary. Even the annoying Warrior over there is legendary, though he’s probably more legendary than he deserves.” “Hey!” I said, feeling insulted. Pro continued to laugh. “It’s alright Otis, I’ll be happy to call you the Little Legend, if you’d like.” Otis snarled. “Otis will be fine.” He reached into his inventory and pulled out a jar of applesauce and a spoon began eating.