Send Off Wishes Quotes

Somewhere someone thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you. Somewhere someone shakes from the ripple of a thousand butterflies inside a single stomach. Somewhere someone is packing their bags to see the world with someone else. Somewhere someone is reaching through the most terrifying few feet of space to hold the hand of someone else. Somewhere someone is watching someone else’s chest rise and fall with the breath of slumber. Somewhere someone is pouring ink like blood onto pages fighting to say the truth that has no words. Somewhere someone is waiting patient but exhausted to just be with someone else. Somewhere someone is opening their eyes to a sunrise in someplace they have never seen. Somewhere someone is pulling out the petals twisting the apple stem picking up the heads up penny rubbing the rabbits foot knocking on wood throwing coins into fountains hunting for the only clover with only 4 leaves skipping over the cracks snapping the wishbone crossing their fingers blowing out the candles sending dandelion seeds into the air ushering eyelashes off their thumbs finding the first star and waiting for 11:11 on their clock to spend their wishes on someone else. Somewhere someone is saying goodbye but somewhere someone else is saying hello. Somewhere someone is sharing their first or their last kiss with their or no longer their someone else. Somewhere someone is wondering if how they feel is how the other they feels about them and if both theys could ever become a they together. Somewhere someone is the decoder ring to all of the great mysteries of life for someone else. Somewhere someone is the treasure map. Somewhere someone thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you. Somewhere someone is wrong.

The Emperor wishes me to send my innocent little lamb to the slaughter. No. Instead, I'll send him my anaconda.

There was nothing left for me to do, but go. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-titled streetlight; a frozen clock, a bird visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; towering off one’s clinging shirt post-June rain. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease. A bloody ross death-red on a platter; a headgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead. Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it. Loon-call in the dark; calf-cramp in the spring; neck-rub in the parlour; milk-sip at end of day. Some brandy-legged dog proudly back-ploughs the grass to cover its modest shit; a cloud-mass down-valley breaks apart over the course of a brandy-deepened hour; louvered blinds yield dusty beneath your dragging finger, and it is nearly noon and you must decide; you have seen what you have seen, and it has wounded you, and it seems you have only one choice left. Blood-stained porcelain bowl wobbles face down on wood floor; orange peel not at all stirred by disbelieving last breath there among that fine summer dust-layer, fatal knife set down in pass-panic on familiar wobbly banister, later dropped (thrown) by Mother (dear Mother) (heartsick) into the slow-flowing, chocolate-brown Potomac. None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and in this way, brought them forth. And now we must lose them. I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant. Goodbye goodbye good-

And so, Navani painted a prayer onto the stones themselves, sending her attendants for more ink. She paced off the size of the glyph as she continued its border, making it enormous, spreading her ink onto the tan rocks. Soldiers gathered around, Sadeas stepping from his canopy, watching her paint, her back to the sun as she crawled on the ground and furiously dipped her brushpen into the ink jars. What was a prayer, if not creation? Making something where nothing existed. Creating a wish out of despair, a plea out of anguish. Bowing one's back before the Almighty, and forming humility from the empty pride of a human life. Something from nothing. True creation. Her tears mixed with the the ink. She went through four jars. She crawled, holding her safehand to the ground, brushing the stones and smearing ink on her cheeks when she wiped the tears. When she finally finished, she knelt back before a glyph twenty paces long, emblazoned as if in blood. The wet ink reflected sunlight, and she fired it with a candle; the ink was made to burn whether wet or dry. The flames burned across the length of the prayer, killing it and sending its soul to the Almighty.

Picking oranges in Florida. Pushing a broom in New Orleans. Mucking out horse-stalls in Lufkin, Texas. Handing out real estate brochures on street corners in Phoenix, Arizona. Working jobs that pay cash. ... The faces on the currency don't matter. What matters is the sight of a weathervane against a violent pink sunset, the sound of his heels on an empty road in Utah, the sound of the wind in the New Mexico desert, the sight of a child skipping rope beside a junked-out Chevrolet Caprice in Fossil, Oregon. What matters is the whine of the powerlines beside Highway 50 west of Elko, Nevada, and a dead crow in a ditch outside Rainbarrel Springs. Sometimes he's sober and sometimes he gets drunk. Once he lays up in an abandoned shed-this is just over the California state line from Nevada-and drinks for four days straight. It ends with seven hours of off-and-on vomiting. For the first hour or so, the puking is so constant and so violent he is convinced it will kill him. Later on, he can only wish it would. And when it's over, he swears to himself that he's done, no more booze for him, he’s finally learned his lesson, and a week later lies drunk again and staring up at the strange stars behind the restaurant where he has hired on as a dishwasher. He is an animal in a trap and he doesn't care. ... Sometimes he asks himself what he thinks he's doing, where the hell he's going, and such questions are apt to send him in search of the next bottle in a hurry. Because he's really not going anywhere. He's just following the highways in hiding and dragging his trap along behind him, he's just listening to the call of those roads and going from one to the next. Trapped or not, sometimes he is happy; sometimes he sings in his chains like the sea. He wants to see the next weathervane standing against the next pink sunset. He wants to see the next silo crumbling at the end of some disappeared farmer's long-abandoned north field and see the next droning truck with TONOPAH GRAVEL or ASPLUNDH HEAVY CONSTRUCTION written on the side. He's in hobo heaven, lost in the split personalities of America. He wants to hear the wind in canyons and know that he's the only one who hears it. He wants to scream and hear the echoes run away.

People try to get away from it all—to the country, to the beach, to the mountains. You always wish that you could too. Which is idiotic: you can get away from it anytime you like. By going within. Nowhere you can go is more peaceful—more free of interruptions—than your own soul. Especially if you have other things to rely on. An instant’s recollection and there it is: complete tranquillity. And by tranquillity I mean a kind of harmony. So keep getting away from it all—like that. Renew yourself. But keep it brief and basic. A quick visit should be enough to ward off all < . . . > and send you back ready to face what awaits you. What’s there to complain about? People’s misbehavior? But take into consideration: • that rational beings exist for one another; • that doing what’s right sometimes requires patience; • that no one does the wrong thing deliberately; • and the number of people who have feuded and envied and hated and fought and died and been buried. . . . and keep your mouth shut. Or are you complaining about the things the world assigns you? But consider the two options: Providence or atoms. And all the arguments for seeing the world as a city. Or is it your body? Keep in mind that when the mind detaches itself and realizes its own nature, it no longer has anything to do with ordinary life—the rough and the smooth, either one. And remember all you’ve been taught—and accepted—about pain and pleasure. Or is it your reputation that’s bothering you? But look at how soon we’re all forgotten. The abyss of endless time that swallows it all. The emptiness of all those applauding hands. The people who praise us—how capricious they are, how arbitrary. And the tiny region in which it all takes place. The whole earth a point in space—and most of it uninhabited. How many people there will be to admire you, and who they are. So keep this refuge in mind: the back roads of your self. Above all, no strain and no stress. Be straightforward. Look at things like a man, like a human being, like a citizen, like a mortal. And among the things you turn to, these two: i. That things have no hold on the soul. They stand there unmoving, outside it. Disturbance comes only from within—from our own perceptions. ii. That everything you see will soon alter and cease to exist. Think of how many changes you’ve already seen. “The world is nothing but change. Our life is only perception.

People try to get away from it all—to the country, to the beach, to the mountains. You always wish that you could too. Which is idiotic: you can get away from it anytime you like. By going within. Nowhere you can go is more peaceful—more free of interruptions—than your own soul. Especially if you have other things to rely on. An instant’s recollection and there it is: complete tranquillity. And by tranquillity I mean a kind of harmony. So keep getting away from it all—like that. Renew yourself. But keep it brief and basic. A quick visit should be enough to ward off all <…> and send you back ready to face what awaits you.

Oh my God,” Jenna murmured, just as I said, “Holy hell weasel,” under my breath. I won’t repeat what Archer said. Someone in the crowd-I think it was Taylor-shouted, “But the school is closed. Everyone was saying…” Her voice trailed off, and one of the faeries piped up, her voice higher and clear. “You have no right to bring us here. The Fae are no longer in alliance with the rest of Prodigium. On behalf of the Seelie court, I demand you send us home.” Ah. That was Nausicaa. She was the only one of the faeries that talked like she was rehearsing a play. Next to me, Jenna leaned in closer and said, “The Fae broke their alliance? Did you know that?” I shook my head just as Mrs. Casnoff pinned Nausicaa with a glare. No matter how feeble she seemed, she could still throw one heck of a dirty look. “Alliances and treaties have no meaning here at Hecate Hall. Once you’ve been a student here, your allegiance is to the school. Always.” She gave a smile that was more like a grimace. “It was in the code of conduct you signed when you were sentenced here.” I remembered that, a thick pamphlet I’d barely read before scrawling my name on the dotted line. I suddenly wished I had of power of time travel so that I could go smack Sophie From A Year Ago around, and tell her to read things first.

As every blossom fades and all youth sinks into old age, so every life’s design, each flower of wisdom, attains its prime and cannot last forever. The heart must submit itself courageously to life’s call without a hint of grief, A magic dwells in each beginning, protecting us, telling us how to live. High purposed we shall traverse realm on realm, cleaving to none as to a home, the world of spirit wishes not to fetter us but raise us higher, step by step. Scarce in some safe accustomed sphere of life have we establish a house, then we grow lax; only he who is ready to journey forth can throw old habits off. Maybe death’s hour too will send us out new-born towards undreamed-lands, maybe life’s call to us will never find an end Courage my heart, take leave and fare thee well.

EVERYTHING SMELLED LIKE POISON. Two days after leaving Venice, Hazel still couldn’t get the noxious scent of eau de cow monster out of her nose. The seasickness didn’t help. The Argo II sailed down the Adriatic, a beautiful glittering expanse of blue; but Hazel couldn’t appreciate it, thanks to the constant rolling of the ship. Above deck, she tried to keep her eyes fixed on the horizon—the white cliffs that always seemed just a mile or so to the east. What country was that, Croatia? She wasn’t sure. She just wished she were on solid ground again. The thing that nauseated her most was the weasel. Last night, Hecate’s pet Gale had appeared in her cabin. Hazel woke from a nightmare, thinking, What is that smell? She found a furry rodent propped on her chest, staring at her with its beady black eyes. Nothing like waking up screaming, kicking off your covers, and dancing around your cabin while a weasel scampers between your feet, screeching and farting. Her friends rushed to her room to see if she was okay. The weasel was difficult to explain. Hazel could tell that Leo was trying hard not to make a joke. In the morning, once the excitement died down, Hazel decided to visit Coach Hedge, since he could talk to animals. She’d found his cabin door ajar and heard the coach inside, talking as if he were on the phone with someone—except they had no phones on board. Maybe he was sending a magical Iris-message? Hazel had heard that the Greeks used those a lot. “Sure, hon,” Hedge was saying. “Yeah, I know, baby. No, it’s great news, but—” His voice broke with emotion. Hazel suddenly felt horrible for eavesdropping. She would’ve backed away, but Gale squeaked at her heels. Hazel knocked on the coach’s door. Hedge poked his head out, scowling as usual, but his eyes were red. “What?” he growled. “Um…sorry,” Hazel said. “Are you okay?” The coach snorted and opened his door wide. “Kinda question is that?” There was no one else in the room. “I—” Hazel tried to remember why she was there. “I wondered if you could talk to my weasel.” The coach’s eyes narrowed. He lowered his voice. “Are we speaking in code? Is there an intruder aboard?” “Well, sort of.” Gale peeked out from behind Hazel’s feet and started chattering. The coach looked offended. He chattered back at the weasel. They had what sounded like a very intense argument. “What did she say?” Hazel asked. “A lot of rude things,” grumbled the satyr. “The gist of it: she’s here to see how it goes.” “How what goes?” Coach Hedge stomped his hoof. “How am I supposed to know? She’s a polecat! They never give a straight answer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got, uh, stuff…” He closed the door in her face. After breakfast, Hazel stood at the port rail, trying to settle her stomach. Next to her, Gale ran up and down the railing, passing gas; but the strong wind off the Adriatic helped whisk it away. Hazel

The Lanyard The other day I was ricocheting slowly off the blue walls of this room, moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano, from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor, when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard. No cookie nibbled by a French novelist could send one into the past more suddenly— a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake learning how to braid long thin plastic strips into a lanyard, a gift for my mother. I had never seen anyone use a lanyard or wear one, if that's what you did with them, but that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand again and again until I had made a boxy red and white lanyard for my mother. She gave me life and milk from her breasts, and I gave her a lanyard. She nursed me in many a sick room, lifted spoons of medicine to my lips, laid cold face-cloths on my forehead, and then led me out into the airy light and taught me to walk and swim, and I , in turn, presented her with a lanyard. Here are thousands of meals, she said, and here is clothing and a good education. And here is your lanyard, I replied, which I made with a little help from a counselor. Here is a breathing body and a beating heart, strong legs, bones and teeth, and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered, and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp. And here, I wish to say to her now, is a smaller gift—not the worn truth that you can never repay your mother, but the rueful admission that when she took the two-tone lanyard from my hand, I was as sure as a boy could be that this useless, worthless thing I wove out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

But I wouldn’t be alive. Not really. I would be wasting oxygen, space, and resources, going back to not-so-secretly wishing I’d die. The realization dawned on me like a cold shower. I didn’t want to die when I was with Grace. I wanted to live. To laugh. To love. To date her and nibble on her neck and listen to her talking about plays and nineties movies and defending fanny packs vehemently. I’d been relishing life—actively enjoying it, even—for months, and I didn’t even realize it. I didn’t want to die anymore. Somewhere along the road, the idea of veering my bike off the road when I picked up speed stopped appealing to me. I no longer imagined what it would feel like to hurl myself off a cliff. I stopped walking into the ring wanting the asshole in front of me to throw a punch that would send me into cardiac arrest. And it was all because of Grace ‘Texas’ Shaw.

With a whistle of the wind, And an icy snow flurry. Off to Gobbler's Knob, Come now let us hurry! It is February second! Groundhog's Day! We need some prognostication, On this cold winter's day. Happy Groundhog Day to you! Punxsutawney Phil, do come out of your cave! For whether you cast a fair shadow, or no shadow you see on this day! We send many warm wishes, Of good tidings and cheer! For when it is Groundhog's Day, Springtime is surely near!

A kiss with Lenore is a scenario in which Iskate with buttered soles over the moist rink of lower lip, sheltered from weathers by the wet warm overhang of upper, finally to crawl between lip and gum and pull the lip to me like a child’s blanket and stare over it with beady, unfriendly eyes out at the world external to Lenore, of which I no longer wish to be part. That I must in the final analysis remain part of the world that is external to and other from Lenore Beadsman is to me a source of profound grief. That others may dwell deep, deep within the ones they love, drink from the soft cup at the creamy lake at the center of the Object of Passion, while I am fated forever only to intuit the presence of deep recesses while I poke my nose, as it were, merely into the foyer of the Great House of Love, agitate briefly, and make a small mess onthe doormat, pisses me off to no small degree. But that Lenore finds such tiny frenzies, such conversations just inside the Screen Door of Union, to be not only pleasant and briefly diverting but somehow apparently right, fulfilling, significant, in some sense wonderful, quite simply and not at all surprisingly makes me feel the same way, enlarges my sense of it and me, sends me hurrying up the walk to that Screen Door in my best sportjacket and flower in lapel as excited as any schoolboy, time after time, brings me charging to the cave entrance in leopardskin shirt, avec club, bellowing for admittance and promising general kickings of ass if I am impeded in any way.

I wish I could answer your question. All I can say is that all of us, humans, witches, bears, are engaged in a war already, although not all of us know it. Whether you find danger on Svalbard or whether you fly off unharmed, you are a recruit, under arms, a soldier." "Well, that seems kinda precipitate. Seems to me a man should have a choice whether to take up arms or not." "We have no more choice in that than in whether or not to be born." "Oh, I like choice, though," he said. "I like choosing the jobs I take and the places I go and the food I eat and the companions I sit and yarn with. Don't you wish for a choice once in a while ?" She considered, and then said, "Perhaps we don't mean the same thing by choice, Mr. Scoresby. Witches own nothing, so we're not interested in preserving value or making profits, and as for the choice between one thing and another, when you live for many hundreds of years, you know that every opportunity will come again. We have different needs. You have to repair your balloon and keep it in good condition, and that takes time and trouble, I see that; but for us to fly, all we have to do is tear off a branch of cloud-pine; any will do, and there are plenty more. We don't feel cold, so we need no warm clothes. We have no means of exchange apart from mutual aid. If a witch needs something, another witch will give it to her. If there is a war to be fought, we don't consider cost one of the factors in deciding whether or not it is right to fight. Nor do we have any notion of honor, as bears do, for instance. An insult to a bear is a deadly thing. To us... inconceivable. How could you insult a witch? What would it matter if you did?" "Well, I'm kinda with you on that. Sticks and stones, I'll break yer bones, but names ain't worth a quarrel. But ma'am, you see my dilemma, I hope. I'm a simple aeronaut, and I'd like to end my days in comfort. Buy a little farm, a few head of cattle, some horses...Nothing grand, you notice. No palace or slaves or heaps of gold. Just the evening wind over the sage, and a ceegar, and a glass of bourbon whiskey. Now the trouble is, that costs money. So I do my flying in exchange for cash, and after every job I send some gold back to the Wells Fargo Bank, and when I've got enough, ma'am, I'm gonna sell this balloon and book me a passage on a steamer to Port Galveston, and I'll never leave the ground again." "There's another difference between us, Mr. Scoresby. A witch would no sooner give up flying than give up breathing. To fly is to be perfectly ourselves." "I see that, ma'am, and I envy you; but I ain't got your sources of satisfaction. Flying is just a job to me, and I'm just a technician. I might as well be adjusting valves in a gas engine or wiring up anbaric circuits. But I chose it, you see. It was my own free choice. Which is why I find this notion of a war I ain't been told nothing about kinda troubling." "lorek Byrnison's quarrel with his king is part of it too," said the witch. "This child is destined to play a part in that." "You speak of destiny," he said, "as if it was fixed. And I ain't sure I like that any more than a war I'm enlisted in without knowing about it. Where's my free will, if you please? And this child seems to me to have more free will than anyone I ever met. Are you telling me that she's just some kind of clockwork toy wound up and set going on a course she can't change?" "We are all subject to the fates. But we must all act as if we are not, or die of despair. There is a curious prophecy about this child: she is destined to bring about the end of destiny. But she must do so without knowing what she is doing, as if it were her nature and not her destiny to do it. If she's told what she must do, it will all fail; death will sweep through all the worlds; it will be the triumph of despair, forever. The universes will all become nothing more than interlocking machines, blind and empty of thought, feeling, life...

Michael Moran was born about 1794 off Black Pitts, in the Liberties of Dublin, in Faddle Alley. A fortnight after birth he went stone blind from illness, and became thereby a blessing to his parents, who were soon able to send him to rhyme and beg at street corners and at the bridges over the Liffey. They may well have wished that their quiver were full of such as he, for, free from the interruption of sight, his mind became a perfect echoing chamber, where every movement of the day and every change of public passion whispered itself into rhyme or quaint saying.

We’ll leave you,” Westhaven said, stepping forward to kiss Sophie’s forehead. “Don’t stay out too long in this weather. Sindal, welcome to the family.” “Welcome,” Valentine said, “but if you so much as give Sophie reason to wince, I will delight in thrashing you.” He kissed Sophie’s cheek and stepped back. “And then I’ll stand you to a round,” St. Just said, extending a hand to Vim then drawing Sophie forward into the hug. “You’ll send the boy to me when it’s time to learn how to ride.” It wasn’t a request, but it was sufficiently controversial that as they walked off in the direction of Morelands, all three brothers could tear into a rousing good argument about who would teach the lad to ride, to dance, to flirt, to shoot…

A kiss with Lenore is a scenario in which I skate with buttered soles over the moist rink of lower lip, sheltered from weathers by the wet warm overhang of upper, finally to crawl between lip and gum and pull the lip to me like a child’s blanket and stare over it with beady, unfriendly eyes out at the world external to Lenore, of which I no longer wish to be part. That I must in the final analysis remain part of the world that is external to and other from Lenore Beadsman is to me a source of profound grief. That others may dwell deep, deep within the ones they love, drink from the soft cup at the creamy lake at the center of the Object of Passion, while I am fated forever only to intuit the presence of deep recesses while I poke my nose, as it were, merely into the foyer of the Great House of Love, agitate briefly, and make a small mess on the doormat, pisses me off to no small degree. But that Lenore finds such tiny frenzies, such conversations just inside the Screen Door of Union, to be not only pleasant and briefly diverting but somehow apparently right, fulfilling, significant, in some sense wonderful, quite simply and not at all surprisingly makes me feel the same way, enlarges my sense of it and me, sends me hurrying up the walk to that Screen Door in my best sportjacket and flower in lapel as excited as any schoolboy, time after time, brings me charging to the cave entrance in leopardskin shirt, avec club, bellowing for admittance and promising general kickings of ass if I am impeded in any way.

Traffic is light as she leaves Mowbray. So is her heart. Light. Soon. Soon, she will be home. Strange how she was able to bear it -- bear being away. Until now. With a day to go, it has suddenly become unbearable. Since that party on Saturday night. Smashing send-off these lovely people gave her. Really smashing. So, why is she feeling so blue? Ah, well, she thinks to herself, I've always had a problem, saying goodbye. She hardly has a moment to breathe through the day. So busy. Her very last day at this place she has called home these ten months past. Here at the university too, many people want to talk about her trip back home. If only they knew. If only they knew. Excited as she is about the prospect of seeing her family, of going home, seeing her friends, with all that ... still, saying goodbye is not easy. Never has been for her. That is what she's doing now. How she wishes everybody would just forget she was going back home. But no. People insist on saying goodbye, on giving her party after party. Therefore, she is forced to take leave of her friends, to acknowledge the pain of parting. Bitter sweet. How she wishes she were home already. But, of course, before that can happen, she has to say goodbye to all these dear, dear friends, these people of whom she has grown so fond. But perhaps she will come back. Of course, she will come back, one day. A not too far-away day too, that's for sure. Yes, I can see how torn she must have felt. Excited and grieving. Happy and sad. At one and the same time. For the same, the very same, reason.

Swan had used them to send Sophie messages. He fished out the tiny velvet pouch and Sophie caught herself clutching her allergy remedy necklace. She still kept the silver moonlark pin that Calla had given her attached to the cord—a reminder of the friend she’d lost, and a symbol of the role she needed to figure out how to play. “Looks like we’re good,” Sandor said, handing her the small boobrie pin—a strange black bird with bright yellow tail feathers. “Can’t imagine that means anything important.” Sophie couldn’t either. Especially since the Black Swan had been annoyingly silent. No notes. No clues. No answers during their brief meetings. Apparently they were “regrouping.” And it was taking forever. At least the Council was doing something—setting up goblin patrols and trying to arrange an ogre Peace Summit. The Black Swan should at least be . . . Actually, Sophie didn’t know what they should be doing. That was the problem with having her friend join the enemy. “There you are!” a familiar voice said behind her. “I was starting to think you’d ditched us.” The deep, crisp accent was instantly recognizable. And yet, the teasing words made Sophie wish she’d turn and find a different boy. Fitz looked as cute as ever in his red Level Five uniform, but his perfect smile didn’t reach his trademark teal eyes. The recent revelations had been a huge blow for all of her friends, but Fitz had taken it the hardest. Both his brother and his best friend had run off with the Neverseen. Alvar’s betrayal had made Fitz wary—made him doubt every memory. But Keefe’s?

2/ KICK YOUR OWN ASS, GENTLY. I’ve been trying to set a few modest goals, both daily and weekly. In the course of a day, it’s good to get some stupid things accomplished, and off your “list.” I guess because it leaves you feeling that you and the “rest of the world” still have something to do with each other! Like today, for example, I can think back on sending a fax to my brother on his birthday, leaving a phone message for Brutus at his “hotel” on his birthday, phoning my Dad on his birthday (yep, all on the same day), then driving to Morin Heights to the ATM machine, to St. Sauveur for grocery shopping, and planning all that so I’d still have enough daylight left to go snowshoeing in the woods. And then I could drink. Not a high-pressure day, and hardly earth-shaking activities, but I laid them out for myself and did them (even though tempted to “not bother” with each of them at one point or another). I gave myself a gentle kick in the ass when necessary, or cursed myself out for a lazy fool, and because of all that, I consider today a satisfactory day. Everything that needed to be done got done. And by “needs” I certainly include taking my little baby soul out for a ride. And drinking. And there are little side benefits from such activities, like when the cashier in the grocery store wished me a genuinely-pleasant “Bonjour,” and I forced myself to look at her and return the greeting. The world still seems unreal to me, but I try not to purposely avoid contact with pleasant strangers. It wouldn’t be polite! Another “little goal” for me right now is spending an hour or two at the desk every morning, writing a letter or a fax to someone like you, or Brutus, or Danny, who I want to reach out to, or conversely, to someone I’ve been out of touch with for a long while, maybe for a year-and-a-half or two years. These are friends that I’ve decided I still value, and that I want as part of my “new life,” whatever it may be. It doesn’t really matter what, but just so you can say that you changed something in the course of your day: a neglected friend is no longer neglected; an errand that ought to be dealt with has been dealt with.

I thought you'd sworn off marriage," Ranulf growled. "Who said anything about marriage?" Tyr snapped back. "I just know that when a younger sister gets married,the older one might like some company and Bronwyn is one damn fine-looking woman." "Leave her alone, Tyr." The possessive growl in Ranulf's voice was unmistakable and undeniable. Tyr swung around abruptly and faced his friend from across the table. "I knew it!" "Just what do you think you know?" "Something happened between you two," Tyr answered,pointing at him. "No man-not even you-can spend a day and night with a woman that beautiful and not at least try to kiss her. Did you?" "None of your business." Tyr let go a long low whistle. "So not only did you,but you enjoyed it.Enough to still be bothered.I'm kind of wishing it had been me up there instead." Ranulf moved toward the door. "I think your first inclinations about leaving Hunswick were good ones.Tell the queen I said hello." Tyr shook his head and leaned back against the table,crossing his arms. "I've changed my mind. Ranulf de Gunnar, the man who wanted no woman, suddenly has two.I'm staying." "Not if I send you away.

Who sent you, boy?” Fafhrd demanded. “How did you get here?” “Now who and how would you expect?” replied the urchin. “Catch.” He tossed the Mouser a wax tablet. “Say, you two, take my advice and get out while the getting’s good. I think so far as your expedition’s concerned, Ningauble’s pulling up his tent pegs and scuttling home. Always a friend in need, my dear employer.” The Mouser ripped the cords, unfolded the tablet, and read: “Greetings, my brave adventurers. You have done well, but the best remains to be done. Hark to the calling. Follow the green light. But be very cautious afterwards. I wish I could be of more assistance. Send the shroud, the cup, and the chest back with the boy as first payment.” “Loki-brat! Regin-spawn!” burst out Fafhrd. The Mouser looked up to see the urchin lurching and bobbing back toward the Lost City on the back of the eagerly fugitive camel. His impudent laughter returned shrill and faint. “There,” said the Mouser, “rides off the generosity of poor, penurious Ningauble. Now we know what to do with the camel.” “Zutt!” said Fafhrd. “Let him have the brute and the toys. Good riddance to his gossiping!

No. Knox got to his feet. I’ll go get her myself. He quickly ended the business call, uncaring that he’d been rude. Opening his office door, Knox indicated for Levi to follow him. “Tanner just contacted me,” said Knox. “Apparently Harper —” He cut off as a she-demon rounded the corner and came to a halt in front of him. Belinda smiled. “Oh, Knox, I was hoping to catch you.” For fuck’s sake. “What can I do for you, Miss Thacker?” Her smile dimmed at his impatient tone. “It’s about the appetizers for the event.” “I told you I want Harper to decide these things.” Belinda’s mouth flattened. “She doesn’t find any of my suggestions suitable.” “Then they’re not suitable.” Simple. “Knox —” “Miss Thacker, I didn’t invite you to call me by my first name.” Her cheeks reddened. “I gave you my orders when I hired you. They were not complicated. I specified all the details of the event that I wished to be left for Harper to decide.” “She wants steak and potato wedges on sticks!” Belinda took a deep breath and lowered her eyes. “I apologize for my outburst.” Steak and potato wedges on sticks? echoed Levi, a smile in his telepathic voice. That actually sounds pretty good. “Do you remember the all-important order I gave you before sending you Harper’s way, Miss Thacker?” She swallowed. “Yes.” “What was it?” Belinda met his gaze. “You told me to give her whatever she wants.” “Then do it. Now I have somewhere I need to be…” She straightened her blazer. “Thank you for your time, Mr Thorne,” she said stiffly.

Hey,” Chase said as he approached. “The rain sucks.” “Agreed.” His younger brother settled on a log. “I checked on the cattle. They’re fine. The clouds don’t look like there’s going to be any lightning or thunder, but they look plenty wet.” Zane nodded. “Storm’s supposed to last two days. I was hoping it would hold off until Saturday.” Chase sipped his coffee. “Everybody okay?” There was something about the question. Zane stared at him. “What do you mean?” “Nothing. Just checking.” Had Chase heard something in the night? Zane shook his head. Not possible. His tent had been some distance from the others, and the rain had blocked out a lot of noise. Nothing about his brother’s expression told what he was thinking. “We’re heading back today, right?” Chase said. “That’s the plan. I wish it wasn’t a two-day ride.” “There’s--” Chase stopped speaking and stared at his coffee. Zane knew what he’d been about to say. Reilly’s place. It was only about an hour’s ride. The old man would give them shelter until the worst of the storm passed, and even send out a few of his men to watch over the cattle until then. But Zane wasn’t about to impose on his neighbor. Not now and not ever. He glanced at the sky and wondered how long he could take a stand in weather like this. Whatever his issues with Reilly, his guests’ safety came first. “I better see how everyone’s doing,” he said as he tossed the rest of his coffee into the fire. “Before you go,” Chase said and held out something in his hand. “I wasn’t sure if you had enough with you.” Zane stared at the three condoms resting on his brother’s palm. Then he glanced at Chase, who was grinning. “Way to go, big brother.” Not knowing what to say, Zane rose and stalked off. But not before he took the condoms. He might be stubborn, but he wasn’t a fool.

I didn't mean to hurt you.' He grabs my hand, possibly to keep me from hitting him again. Our fingers lace together. 'No, it's not that, not exactly. I didn't think I could hurt you. And I never thought you would be afraid of me.' 'And did you like it?' I ask. He looks away from me then, and I have my answer. Maybe he doesn't want to admit to that impulse, but he has it. 'Well, I was hurt, and yes, you scare me.' Even as I am speaking, I wish I could snatch back the words. Perhaps it is exhaustion or having been so close to death, but the truth pours out of me in a devastating rush. 'You've always scared me. You gave me every reason to fear your capriciousness and your cruelty. I was afraid of you even when you were tied to that chair in the Court of Shadows. I was afraid of you when I had a knife to your throat. And I am scared of you now.' Cardan looks more surprised than he did when I slapped him. He was always a symbol of everything about Elfhame that I couldn't have, everything that would never want me. And telling him this feels a little like throwing off a heavy weight, except that weight is supposed to be my armour, and without it, I am afraid I am going to be entirely exposed. But I keep talking anyway, as though I no longer have control over my tongue. 'You despised me. When you said you wanted me, it felt like the world had turned upside down. 'But sending me into exile, that made sense.' I meet his gaze. 'That was an entirely right-side-up Cardan move. And I hated myself for not seeing it coming. And I hate myself for not seeing what you're going to do to me next.' He closes his eyes. When he opens them, he releases my hand and turns so I can't see his face. 'I can see why you thought what you did. I suppose I am not an easy person to trust. And maybe I ought not to be trusted, but let me say this: I trust you.

I am like God, Codi? Like GOD? Give me a break. If I get another letter that mentions SAVING THE WORLD, I am sending you, by return mail, a letter bomb. Codi, please. I've got things to do. You say you're not a moral person. What a copout. Sometime, when I wasn't looking, something happened to make you think you were bad. What, did Miss Colder give you a bad mark on your report card? You think you're no good, so you can't do good things. Jesus, Codi, how long are you going to keep limping around on that crutch? It's the other way around, it's what you do that makes you who you are. I'm sorry to be blunt. I've had a bad week. I am trying to explain, and I wish you were here so I could tell you this right now, I am trying to explain to you that I'm not here to save anybody or any thing. It's not some perfect ideal we're working toward that keeps us going. You ask, what if we lose this war? Well, we could. By invasion, or even in the next election. People are very tired. I don't expect to see perfection before I die. Lord, if I did I would have stuck my head in the oven back in Tucson, after hearing the stories of some of those refugees. What keeps you going isn't some fine destination but just the road you're on, and the fact that you know how to drive. You keep your eyes open, you see this damned-to-hell world you got born into, and you ask yourself, "What life can I live that will let me breathe in & out and love somebody or something and not run off screaming into the woods?" I didn't look down from some high rock and choose cotton fields in Nicaragua. These cotton fields chose me. The contras that were through here yesterday got sent to a prison farm where they'll plant vegetables, learn to read and write if they don't know how, learn to repair CB radios, and get a week-long vacation with their families every year. They'll probably get amnesty in five. There's hardly ever a repeat offender. That kid from San Manuel died. Your sister, Hallie "What's new with Hallie?" Loyd asked. "Nothing." I folded the pages back into the envelope as neatly as I could, trying to leave its creases undisturbed, but my fingers had gone numb and blind. With tears in my eyes I watched whatever lay to the south of us, the land we were driving down into, but I have no memory of it. I was getting a dim comprehension of the difference between Hallie and me. It wasn't a matter of courage or dreams, but something a whole lot simpler. A pilot would call it ground orientation. I'd spent a long time circling above the clouds, looking for life, while Hallie was living it.

Feeling each move carefully, Len climbed, hilt of the sword held in one hand blade hanging point down. A wet and dripping Rose King hovered above him. Being dripped on wasn't nearly as distracting as the constant sight of his watch on his left wrist. He wanted to look and see how much of the allotted hour he had left. He resisted the urge. He didn't want to risk having this knowledge affect his judgment. They had no time for speed born mistakes. The shaft they climbed down amplified the slightest sound sending it reverberating up and down its length. The slight clank of the sword against the iron rungs of the ladder became enormous. The click of Rose King's chattering teeth reverberated like castanets. Len stepped on a rung. The next second he found himself grappling for security as the rung moved then broke loose. The racket as the metal bar fell rang up and down the narrow oblong space like a pair of dropped cymbals. He looked down. They were approximately ten feet up from the bottom of the well. If he had fallen he would not have been hurt badly if at all. Discovery, however, had a danger all its own. Frozen in place, both he and Rose listened. Something large was down there. It was something large that dragged as it walked. As if investigating the source of the clatter, this something stopped by the grate at the bottom, blocking off the light. Twice there was a rushing of sound as if some huge bellows was blowing air into the grate then pulling it out. The thing seemed to move away from the grate. When he was sure it was well away from the opening Len began again to climb down. The nearer the grate the more he and Rose began to hear something beyond the ominous sounds of large animal. Len thought he knew what it was, but kept silent. He was about to jump the last three feet when a pain wracked cry echoed through the space on the other side of this new grate and up the stone well. Len jumped to the ground. A second later Rose was behind him. Wishing desperately they had more than one weapon between them, Len pushed hard at the grate, rushing through the space as fast as the cramped size of the opening would allow. They were in a large round open torch lit space with a high domed brick ceiling. To their left was an exit to a dark hallway blocked by a barred door; to their right, a curved cave like opening with what looked like a barred gate that could be raised or lowered. On the other side of the room was a barred wall with a door closing off the cell where Tyrone lay. Between them and their goal was a large, reptilian creature. "What the hell is that?" Rose gasped softly. Len swallowed hard and licked his dry lips. It was mad and at the same time made complete sense. "It’s just what it looks like, Major," he whispered. "It's a dragon.

Benjamin Franklin wrote little about race, but had a sense of racial loyalty. “[T]he Number of purely white People in the World is proportionably [sic] very small,” he observed. “ . . . I could wish their Numbers were increased.” James Madison, like Jefferson, believed the only solution to the problem of racial friction was to free the slaves and send them away. He proposed that the federal government sell off public lands in order to raise the money to buy the entire slave population and transport it overseas. He favored a Constitutional amendment to establish a colonization society to be run by the President. After two terms in office, Madison served as chief executive of the American Colonization Society, to which he devoted much time and energy. At the inaugural meeting of the society in 1816, Henry Clay described its purpose: to “rid our country of a useless and pernicious, if not dangerous portion of the population.” The following prominent Americans were not merely members but served as officers of the society: Andrew Jackson, Daniel Webster, Stephen Douglas, William Seward, Francis Scott Key, Winfield Scott, and two Chief Justices of the Supreme Court, John Marshall and Roger Taney. All opposed the presence of blacks in the United States and thought expatriation was the only long-term solution. James Monroe was such an ardent champion of colonization that the capital of Liberia is named Monrovia in gratitude for his efforts. As for Roger Taney, as chief justice he wrote in the Dred Scott decision of 1857 what may be the harshest federal government pronouncement on blacks ever written: Negroes were “beings of an inferior order, and altogether unfit to associate with the White race, either in social or political relations; and so far inferior that they have no rights which a White man is bound to respect.” Abraham Lincoln considered blacks to be—in his words—“a troublesome presence” in the United States. During the Lincoln-Douglas debates he expressed himself unambiguously: “I am not nor ever have been in favor of making voters or jurors of negroes, nor of qualifying them to hold office, nor to intermarry with white people; and I will say in addition to this that there is a physical difference between the white and black races which I believe will for ever forbid the two races living together on terms of social and political equality.” His opponent, Stephen Douglas, was even more outspoken, and made his position clear in the very first debate: “For one, I am opposed to negro citizenship in any form. I believe that this government was made on the white basis. I believe it was made by white men for the benefit of white men and their posterity forever, and I am in favor of confining the citizenship to white men—men of European birth and European descent, instead of conferring it upon negroes and Indians, and other inferior races.

Marcus released the countess as if he had been burned. His first reaction was a piercing relief that Lillian was still alive. However, the relief was followed immediately by the awareness that she was far from safe. In light of St. Vincent’s need of a fortune, it made perfect sense for him to abduct Lillian. Marcus turned from his mother, never wanting to look at her again, unable to bring himself to speak to her. His gaze locked with Simon Hunt’s. Predictably, Hunt was already making rapid calculations. “He’ll take her to Gretna Green, of course,” Hunt murmured, “and they’ll have to travel east to the main road in Hertfordshire. He won’t risk traveling the back ways and getting mired in mud, or having the wheels damaged from broken road. From Hertfordshire it will be approximately forty-five hours to Scotland… and at a speed of ten miles per hour, with occasional stops for fresh relay horses…” “You’ll never overtake them,” the countess cried with a cackling laugh. “I told you I would have my way, Westcliff!” “Oh, shut up, you evil hag!” cried Daisy Bowman impatiently from the doorway, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Lord Westcliff, shall I run to the stables and tell them to saddle a horse?” “Two horses,” Simon Hunt said resolutely. “I’m going with him.” “Which ones—” “Ebony and Yasmin,” Marcus replied. They were his best Arabians, bred for speed over long distance. They were not as lightning-fast as thoroughbreds, but they would endure a punishing pace for hours, traveling at least three times as fast as St. Vincent’s coach. Daisy disappeared in a flash, and Marcus turned to his sister. “See that the countess is gone by the time I return,” he said curtly. “Pack whatever she needs, and get her off the estate.” “Where do you wish me to send her?” Livia asked, pale but composed. “I don’t give a damn, so long as she knows not to return.” Realizing that she was being banished, and most likely exiled, the countess rose from her chair. “I will not be disposed of in this manner! I won’t have it, my lord!” “And tell the countess,” Marcus said to Livia, “that if the slightest harm comes to Miss Bowman, she had better pray that I never find her.” Marcus strode from the room, shoving through a small crowd that had gathered in the hallway. Simon Hunt followed, pausing only to murmur briefly to Annabelle and press a kiss to her forehead. She stared after him with an anxious frown, biting her lip to keep from calling after him. After a lengthy pause, the countess was heard to mutter, “It matters not what becomes of me. I am content in the knowledge that I have prevented him from befouling the family lineage.” Livia turned to give her mother a half-pitying, half-contemptuous glance. “Marcus never fails,” she said softly. “Most of his childhood was spent learning to overcome impossible odds. And now that Marcus has finally found someone worth fighting for… do you really think he would let anything stop him?

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shelves; hundreds of narrow rows. Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had decided to search while Ron strode off down a row of books and started pulling them off the shelves at random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted Section. He had been wondering for a while if Flamel wasn’t somewhere in there. Unfortunately, you needed a specially signed note from one of the teachers to look in any of the restricted books, and he knew he’d never get one. These were the books containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at Hogwarts, and only read by older students studying advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. “What are you looking for, boy?” “Nothing,” said Harry. Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather duster at him. “You’d better get out, then. Go on — out!” Wishing he’d been a bit quicker at thinking up some story, Harry left the library. He, Ron, and Hermione had already agreed they’d better not ask Madam Pince where they could find Flamel. They were sure she’d be able to tell them, but they couldn’t risk Snape hearing what they were up to. Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other two had found anything, but he wasn’t very hopeful. They had been looking for two weeks, after all, but as they only had odd moments between lessons it wasn’t surprising they’d found nothing. What they really needed was a nice long search without Madam Pince breathing down their necks. Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him, shaking their heads. They went off to lunch. “You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?” said Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find anything.” “And you could ask your parents if they know who Flamel is,” said Ron. “It’d be safe to ask them.” “Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” said Hermione. Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were having too good a time to think much about Flamel. They had the dormitory to themselves and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. They sat by the hour eating anything they could spear on a toasting fork — bread, English muffins, marshmallows — and plotting ways of getting Malfoy expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they wouldn’t work. Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This was exactly like Muggle chess except that the figures were alive, which made it a lot like directing troops in battle. Ron’s set was very old and battered. Like everything else he owned, it had once belonged to someone else in his family — in this case, his grandfather. However, old chessmen weren’t a drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had trouble getting them to do what he wanted. Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had lent him, and they didn’t

Still, I wish there existed a meat cleaver I could simply hand to some sort of metaphysical butcher who could lop off the part of me that committed these crimes, and who could send that part off packing to the stoney lonesome. Then the rest of me — the other ninety-nine percent — the part that is a devoted father, a decent neighbour, a dedicated husband, and a caring, useful member of my community could go home.

The back door opens again a few minutes later and I stand, fully prepared to wrestle the phone away from her. But Morgan’s not standing in my backyard. “Hey, you.” I blink. He’s here. Dark-red T-shirt, brown fedora. I blink again. The corner of his mouth turns up and I take off in a sprint, fly down the stairs of the deck, and jump into his arms, which he wraps tight around me. His hand cups the back of my head and repeatedly strokes my damp hair. Our bodies sway back and forth, and I slowly slide down until my feet touch the ground. I take a step back to study him. “You’re a hat guy again.” I grin. “But, that means--” I gasp when I pull the hat off him. “Your hair! You cut it!” I reach up and rake my hand through his subdued curls, more like waves now. “I cut it for you.” His hands at my bare waist send shivers through my core. “I liked the curls, you know.” “You thought I had a perm!” He leans his head back and laughs fully. “That’s the very definition of not liking the curls.” I giggle and shrug. “They grew on me. But this can grow on me too.

We stop at the gate to the apartment, but Bruno’s still hanging on to me. “The key,” he says, swaying his hips. “Pocket on left.” “So put me down and get it out.” He lowers his lips to my ear. “You get it for me?” Goose bumps. All over. I may have decided I want his attention, but that’s a little much. I remove my hands from his neck and push my legs down against his arm, making myself as heavy as possible. He gives in and lets me slide off, then opens the gate. I hop over to the stairs and use the railing as leverage to hoist myself up the first and second steps, blood pounding in my ears with every move. With a top floor apartment, this could take an hour. Bruno scoops me back up without a word and trudges up the stairs. Despite the strength and precision it takes him to avoid letting any of my appendages smack into the wall, he’s not even winded when we finally get to the apartment. He sets me down on the couch--the boys’ temporary bed folded away inside--and carefully props my giant foot on a pillow. He rummages in the kitchen and comes back with a plastic sandwich bag filled with ice, wrapped in a hand towel. The weight of it sends a fresh wave of pain up to my temples and I lean back, bracing myself. “I am sorry!” he says, a deep line between his eyebrows. “It’s fine.” I force a laugh. “This”--I motion to my foot--“is definitely not your fault.” “It is. I should have gone. It would not have happened.” If he had come with me, I know exactly what would have happened, and it wouldn’t have involved sightseeing. It would have been The Kissing Bench Part II.

This was an elaborate ruse to get S K Srivastava, off the investigation of NDTV for its tax evasion. After some time, P Chidambaram, much against his wishes, became the Home Minister and got Delhi Police under him. Srivastava says that Chidambaram promptly got false and mischievous criminal cases lodged against him, to get him removed from service. Not only that, Chidambaram got him arrested on the premises of the Court [Patiala House Court, Delhi, Jan 8, 2010]. A few illustrative but not exhaustive instances of such monumental persecution of a member of the Indian Revenue Service S K Srivastava are being listed below: Srivastava had found that his junior Income Tax official Shumana Sen IRS was conniving with NDTV in fudging their accounts[10]. In this, she was also supported by her batch mate and partner-in-crime, Ashima Neb, claims Srivastava. Shumana Sen was Assessing Officer of NDTV’s Income Tax circle and her husband Abhisar Sharma was a news presenter of NDTV being a serious violation of Govt. rules and law governing the conduct of employees of Govt. [MHA OM No.F.3/12/(S)/64-Ests.(B), dated 12.10.1965) and Rule 4 of the CCS (Conduct) Rules, 1965] and despite there being mandatory requirement of serving IRS officers to declare pecuniary interest like employment of spouse, etc., by a Company or Firm to the Govt. and failure of which is to be visited with severest punishment including dismissal from service; Shumana Sen never declared to Govt. that her husband was a staffer of the company which she was assessing to all the Direct Taxes, a serious breach which invites dismissal from service without any benefits. The vicious and criminal vilification of an IRS officer for nothing but doing his duty and protecting the public revenue and public interest which were being prejudiced by NDTV, Minister P Chidambaram and hired mercenaries Shumana Sen and Ashima Neb is something that would send shivers down the spine of any right thinking person. Srivastava was forced to face the allegations and court cases as Minister P Chidambaram was desperate to protect NDTV and hush up its crime, criminality and criminal acts – acts that caused defrauding of public revenue of India running into thousands of crores of rupees.

Abraham Lincoln occasionally got fuming mad with a subordinate, one of his generals, even a friend. Rather than taking it out on that person directly, he’d write a long letter, outlining his case why they were wrong and what he wanted them to know. Then Lincoln would fold it up, put the letter in the desk drawer, and never send it. Many of these letters survive only by chance. He knew, as the former emperor of Rome knew, that it’s easy to fight back. It’s tempting to give them a piece of your mind. But you almost always end up with regret. You almost always wish you hadn’t sent the letter. Think of the last time you flew off the handle. What was the outcome? Was there any benefit?

Father's Day in Heavenly Wi-Fi Bliss Oh, dear departed Dad, Are you up in heaven or perhaps in hell? I wonder, do they offer Wi-Fi up there? I hope you've got my number, saved with care. Father's Day is here, you know, And everyone's giving their love a show. So, I thought of you, up in the skies, And sending you wishes, oh so wise. How can you resist, with internet divine? Check my WhatsApp status, it'll be quite a find! I hope you're feeling proud and full of glee, Knowing your son remembers, as you can see. Amma and sister, we keep you in prayer, Forgetting you? Oh no, we wouldn't dare! Stay happy and blessed, wherever you may be, Your loving son, signing off, with glee.

At times … I wish I could meet in a duel the man who killed my father and razed our home, expelling me into a narrow country. And if he killed me, I’d rest at last, and if I were ready— I would take my revenge! * But if it came to light, when my rival appeared, that he had a mother waiting for him, or a father who’d put his right hand over the heart’s place in his chest whenever his son was late even by just a quarter-hour for a meeting they’d set— then I would not kill him, even if I could. * Likewise … I would not murder him if it were soon made clear that he had a brother or sisters who loved him and constantly longed to see him. Or if he had a wife to greet him and children who couldn’t bear his absence and whom his gifts would thrill. Or if he had friends or companions, neighbors he knew or allies from prison or a hospital room, or classmates from his school … asking about him and sending him regards. * But if he turned out to be on his own— cut off like a branch from a tree— without a mother or father, with neither a brother nor sister, wifeless, without a child, and without kin or neighbors or friends, colleagues or companions, then I’d add not a thing to his pain within that aloneness— not the torment of death, and not the sorrow of passing away. Instead I’d be content to ignore him when I passed him by on the street—as I convinced myself that paying him no attention in itself was a kind of revenge.

I wish I could give you more,” he said softly. “More than a name. More than a few scraps of paper.” “Why?” I choked out. “Why did you do this?” I knew. In my heart, I already knew. “Because you deserve so much more than what this world has given you. And I know—I know I was a part of that. I took away your ability to get those answers. This isn’t enough. I know it isn’t. But… There’s something else.” “What—” I started. “Gold,” he said. “The material matters more than the currency. Anyone in any of the human nations will accept it. It’s enough to last you. I was going to send more if you ever needed it, but—” “I don’t—” “Just let me fucking talk, Oraya.” Then, more softly, “Just… please. Please let me say this to you. At the mouth of Lituro, near the outskirts of the human districts, a man is waiting for you right now. He has a boat. He’ll take you to the trading islands off the coast. There, you can get on a ship going anywhere in the world.” My lips parted. It had all been prepared. A man waiting for me. The money. This notebook, wrapped and ready, waiting for me. Raihn had never intended to make my freedom dependent upon the support of the House of Shadow. He was always going to let me go.

The catcalls and screams didn’t surprise Leo, nor did discovering Meena at the heart of chaos. There was his delicate flower, on the ground wrestling Loni, a lioness who’d come to town for the wedding. The same Loni who’d made numerous passes at him over the years, but whose high maintenance attitude made him steer clear. He wondered what had triggered the hair pulling and wrestling. He also really wished, once again, that Meena had worn panties. The occasional flash of her girly bits dragged the possessive side of him out— which really wanted to snarl, “Mine. Don’t look.” It also woke the hungry lover that wanted to toss her over a shoulder and take her somewhere private for ravishing. At least those closest to the fight and witness to her bare bottom were all women. The bad? They were all women. His usual method of smacking a few heads together to save time wouldn’t work in this situation. Boys shouldn’t hit girls. So how to stop the catfight? He stuck fingers in his mouth and blew, the whistle strident and cutting through the noise. In the sudden quiet, he said, “Vex, what the hell are you doing?” Meena, fist held back, poised for a serious blow, froze. She swiveled her head and smiled sweetly. No sign of repentance at being caught misbehaving. “Just give me a second, Pookie. I am almost done here.” He arched a brow. “Vex.” He used his warning tone. “Maybe you should let Loni go and forget about hitting her.” “Probably. But the thing is, I really want to smash her face in.” Sensing an out, Loni turned her head and whined, “Get this crazy bitch off me. I didn’t do a damned thing. She started it. She always starts shit. She should have never been unbanned. She’s trouble. Always has been.” Reba and Zena opened their mouths, ready to leap to Meena’s defense, but Leo raised a hand. They held their tongues— not an easy feat for cats— but their eyes spoke quite eloquently. Leo focused his attention on Meena. “Vex, is this true? Did you jump her?” Her shoulders slumped. “Yeah.” “Why?” “Does it matter?” she asked. “It does to me. Why do you want to rearrange her nose?” “She said we didn’t belong together and that maybe she should show you why she’s a better choice.” Meena couldn’t help but growl as she recounted the reason for her ire aloud. “Punch her.” To say a few mouths O’d in surprise would be an understatement. No one was more surprised than Meena at his order. “Seriously?” “Yeah, seriously. Given any idiot with eyes could see we were together, then that makes what she said mean and uncalled for. If you’re going to talk the talk, then you have to be prepared to pay the price. Since I can’t very well smack Loni for causing trouble, as pride omega”— and, yes, he thrust out his chest and put on his most serious mien—“ I am giving you permission to do so.” Permission granted, and yet Meena didn’t hit Loni. On the contrary, she stood, smoothed down her skirt, and tossed her head, sending her ponytail flying. “No need to rearrange her face. You just admitted in front of an audience we are together. That calls for a round of shots. Whee!” Meena did a fist pump and yelled, “In your face, bitch!

While she was making a pretense of choosing another poem, something warm settle on the back of her neck. Vim’s hand. He’d said nothing. His body hadn’t shifted. He still held the child in the crook of his arm, but he was touching Sophie too. His thumb was making slow circles on her nape, sending a melting warmth down her spine and up into her brain. “Read more slowly, Sophie. I think Kit’s dropping off.” She nodded carefully so as not to dislodge the wondrous gift of his hand on her person. When she read again, she could barely focus on the words, so drunk was she with the sensation of Vim Charpentier’s touch on the bare skin of her neck. She’d wished for things from him before he left, things no decent woman admitted to wanting, things she could never have asked for in words. And this slow, sweet touch was part and parcel of what she’d wished for. ***

Kosciusko.—The hero of Poland once wished to send some bottles of good wine to a clergyman at Solothurn; and as he hesitated to trust them by his servant, lest he should smuggle a part, he gave the commission to a young man of the name of Zeltner, and desired him to take the horse which he himself usually rode. On his return, young Zeltner said that he never would ride his horse again unless he gave him his purse at the same time. Kosciusko enquiring what he meant, he answered, "As soon as a poor man on the road takes off his hat and asks charity, the horse immediately stands still, and will not stir till something is given to the petitioner; and as I had no money about me, I was obliged to feign giving something, in order to satisfy the horse." Mysterious

GENERAL MAXIMS FOR HEALTH. Rise early. Eat simple food. Take plenty of exercise. Never fear a little fatigue. Let not children be dressed in tight clothes; it is necessary their limbs and muscles should have full play, if you wish for either health or beauty. Avoid the necessity of a physician, if you can, by careful attention to your diet. Eat what best agrees with your system, and resolutely abstain from what hurts you, however well you may like it. A few days' abstinence, and cold water for a beverage, has driven off many an approaching disease. If you find yourself really ill, send for a good physician. Have nothing to do with quacks;

What about you?” he asked, ready to take the focus off himself and his parents. “What kind of mom did you have?” She hesitated. Her hair was unraveled and lay in a glorious display of long dark curls around her face. The muscles in his hands tensed with the need to thread his fingers through the thick locks. Instead he grabbed his ax and poked the fire, sending more sparks flying. “I don’t remember much about my mother,” she said. He stared at the flames, trying to keep a rein on his thoughts about Lily. “She died giving birth to Daisy.” Her voice dipped. “I’m sorry.” He stilled and glanced at her again. Her forehead crinkled above eyes that radiated pain. “My father couldn’t take care of us, and for a few years we were shuffled between relatives. Until he got into an accident at work and died within a few days.” An ache wound around his heart. “After that, no one wanted us anymore. I suppose without the money my father had provided them, they couldn’t afford to take care of two more children—not when they struggled enough without us. So they dropped us off at the New York Foundling Hospital.” She paused, and he didn’t say anything, although part of him wished he could curse the family that gave up two girls with such ease. “We lived at the hospital in New York City until there was no longer room for us. Then we moved to other orphanages.” She turned to look at the fire, embarrassment reflected in her face. “I made sure they never separated Daisy and me. I kept us together all those years, no matter where we were. And finally we had the option of moving here to Michigan. They said families needed boys and girls. We’d get to live in real homes.” The grip on his heart cinched tighter. “When we got here, I thought I was doing the best thing for Daisy by giving her a real family to live with. The Wretchams seemed nice. They lived on a big farm. Needed some extra help—” “So you and Daisy didn’t stay together?” “There weren’t any families needing two almost-grown girls. But I consoled myself that it was only temporary, that we’d only be apart until I could find a good job and a place for us to live.” “That must have been hard on both of you.” “Letting her go was like ripping out a piece of my heart.” He wanted to reach for her, pull her into his arms, and comfort her. But everything within him warned him against even a move as innocent as that. “When I learned she’d run away from the Wretchams, she ripped out the rest of my heart, and it hasn’t stopped bleeding since.

My dear Charles," he said, expansively.  "I wonder if I might ask a favor of you?" "What would you like?" "Nerissa and Amy wish to go to London, and I simply don't have time to accompany them.  You wouldn't mind going instead, just to ensure that they come to no harm, would you?" "What do they need to go to London for?" Lucien gave a dramatically heavy sigh.  "Oh, female pursuits, of course.  Shopping, gossip, maybe a visit to that infernal French dressmaker of Nerissa's.  You know how your sister just has to have the latest fashions from the Continent."  He raised his brows as Charles eyed him narrowly.  "But of course, if you don't feel . . . up to it, I suppose I could always send Andrew instead." "What do you mean, if I don't feel up to it?" "Oh, nothing.  I was just thinking about our little conversation last night.  The one where you made it quite obvious that you are no longer, shall we say, capable of the things you once were.  But never mind.  I'm sure that Andrew will be delighted to lend his protection to the girls, instead.  He has become quite a handsome young lad, don't you think?"  His black eyes gleamed.  "I do wonder what your little friend will think of him . . ."  He whistled for the dogs and raised his walking stick to Charles in mock salute.  "Good day, Charles.  I will see you at teatime, I hope." And then he moved off, leaving Charles staring after him in rising fury, his hands balled into fists and a little muscle ticking in his jaw. What the devil was that all about?! Well, one thing was for sure.  Andrew was not going to be the one escorting the girls into London! 

Doug Crowley was going to go the way of all flesh, and as quickly as possible I would find him and flense him and send him off to the ocean’s floor in four neat and separate garbage bags, and I would do it before he could write another taunting drivel-filled blog bragging about his insult to me. I would tape him and teach him what it truly meant to be Me, and I would make him wish he had chosen someone else to fill out his shadow, and the only question at all was a very simple one-word query: How?

Charles?  What is wrong?" That rueful little smile still in place, he bent his head, looking down as though he could see the beautiful animal whose broad forehead was pressed to his chest, and whose ears were only a few inches from his nose.  "I cannot ride him," he said softly, with one of his long, slow, blinks that lent him an air of studied sadness.  "As much as he means to me, as much as I've missed him, he is nothing more to me than a pet, now —" He never finished the sentence.  As though he'd taken violent offense at his master's words, the stallion flung up his head, the blow catching Charles squarely beneath the jaw, snapping his head back and sending him reeling backwards into Amy's arms. She staggered under his weight. "Will, help me!" Her brother rushed forward, and together they eased the captain down onto his back in the straw.  He lay unmoving, his lashes still against his cheeks.  Blood gushed from his nose. "Charles!" Amy slid a hand beneath his nape and lifted his head just as his eyes fluttered open. "Oh-h-h-h," he moaned, covering his nose with one hand and trying to stop the bleeding.  "Damn." "Will, get some cold water, quick!" Amy urged.  As her brother ran out of the barn toward the well, Amy helped Charles to sit up.  Cradling him against her body and tipping his head back over her arm, she tore off her neckerchief and pressed it to his nose. "You silly man," she said, in gentle admonishment.  "I would've thought you knew your horse well enough to realize he doesn't take kindly to insults, either to himself or to his master." "I didn't insult him. "  His voice sounded nasally and thick. "You insulted yourself." "I did not." "You did.  You said you couldn't ride him." "I damn well can't." "You damn well will.  My brother didn't go to all the trouble of bringing him back just so you could do nothing more than groom and feed him." "My dear Amy, please be realistic.  I cannot ride him." "Why not?" "Because I can't see." "So you can't.  But there's nothing wrong with your legs —" she blushed hotly, remembering the feel of them hard and strong against her own — "or your balance, or anything else about you.  You simply can't see where you're going.  But Contender can." "I shall not be able to guide him where I wish to go, pull him up when he needs pulling up, anticipate possible dangers to both himself and I." "Then you can go out riding with Mira and me, and we'll anticipate those things for you." "But I shall look the fool, up there on his back." "You shall look splendid." "Amy," he said in a patient, controlled voice, "you do not understand.  If something cannot be done the proper way, it should not be done at all.  Since I cannot ride him the proper way, I should not —" "No, Charles, you don't understand.  Sometimes there is no right way to do something, but a whole parcel of varying ways.  So you can't ride him the way you used to.  You find a different way." "But —" "You're doing it again," she scolded. "Doing what?" "Trying to be perfect.  And taking yourself far too seriously.  Stop it." He began to protest, then grinned and gave her a half-hearted salute.  "Yes, ma'm." At

A: The unkind things these girls are saying about your friend Ashley are based on jealousy and have nothing to do with Ashley herself. I understand why you feel it might be right to tell Ashley about these attacks. Life Principle #1, “Do No Harm,” sometimes means that we have to get involved and prevent harm to others. In this situation, however, the right thing to do is to speak up when you hear these insults—and leave it at that. Here’s why. First, the reason many of us get away with doing or saying things we shouldn’t is because no one else tells us to stop. You may have heard the saying, “Silence is consent.” Even if you’re not actively joining in on the “fun” the other girls are having, remaining silent and not challenging them sends the message that what they’re doing is okay with you. But it’s not, and that’s why you should speak up. Second, Ashley almost certainly would not want to know that a few people are speaking ill of her, so telling her wouldn’t honor your duty to treat her with respect (Life Principle #3). In fact, repeating the slurs would hurt her feelings and thus violate Life Principle #1, “Do No Harm.” Of course, if Ashley has told you that she would like a full report whenever anyone talks trash about her, that’s one thing, but most people with any degree of self-respect have no interest in hearing the petty things that are said about them. So how should you handle the situation? It would be both self-defeating and a violation of Life Principle #1 to respond with the same kind of mean remarks you’re hearing or to post negative comments on your social networking site. As tempting as it might be to take the low road, you’re much better off taking the high road and leading by example. Saying something like, “Ashley is my friend, and I wish you wouldn’t say those things about her,” is a good way to stick up for your friend and not add to the nastiness. Dealing with the problem this way will show that you’re a person of integrity, and you’ll have every reason to feel good about that.

But I wish I understood it. When your man, this…Tom Badgerlock, when he came in and I recognized his face, I was filled with joy for you. You carved his face on Paragon’s figurehead. Don’t deny to me what you feel for him. ‘They are reunited at last,’ I thought to myself. But then you bark at him and send him off as if he were a servant…Lord Golden’s serving man, in fact, is what he told me he was. Why the masquerade, even it must be so difficult for both of you?” A long silence followed. I heard no sound of footsteps, but I recognized the chink of a bottle’s neck again glass’ lip. I guessed that he poured wine for both of them as Jek and I awaited his answer. “It is difficult for me,” the Fool replied in Amber’s voice. “It is not so difficult for him, because he knows little of it. There. Fool that I am and have been, truly, to have ever let that secret have breath to anyone, let alone shape. Such a monstrous vanity on my part.” “Monstrous? Immense! You carved a ship’s figurehead in his likeness, and hoped no one would ever guess what he meant to you? Ah, my friend. You manage everyone’s lives and secrets so well and then when it comes to your own… Well. And he doesn’t even know that you love him?” “I think he chooses not to. Perhaps he suspects…well, after chatting with you, I am certain he suspects now. But he leaves it alone. He is like that.” “Then he’s a damned fool. A handsome damned fool, though. Despite the broken nose. I’ll wager he was even prettier before that happened. Who spoiled his face?” A small sound, a little cough of laughter. “My dear Jek, you’ve seen him. No one could spoil his face. Not for me.

Afraid to move and give away his nervousness, Zubair was in no hurry. Once most of the other passengers were gone, he retrieved his computer bag and made his way down the narrow stairs to the main body of the plane. He half expected to see a group of men in suits waiting for him, but thankfully there were none. He’d been warned that the Americans had gotten much better at intercepting people who were trying to illegally enter their country. Two female flight attendants with whorish makeup and skirts that were far too short stood by the door. They thanked him for flying Qantas. Despite what his trainers had told him, Zubair ignored the women, refusing to look them in the eye. Fortunately for him his diminutive stature made him seem shy rather than hostile. Zubair was just five and a half feet tall, and weighed a svelte 142 pounds. With his mustache shaved he easily passed for someone five to ten years younger than his twenty-nine years. He stepped into the Jetway, joining the stampede for baggage claim and customs and sandwiched between the business-class and economy customers. The stress of the situation and the heat of the enclosed Jetway triggered the scientist’s sweat glands, sending them into overdrive. Within seconds salty perspiration dampened every inch of his skin. Zubair felt trapped, as if he was on a conveyor belt headed toward his own execution. There was no turning back. Passengers continued to pour off the plane, pushing forward, moving through the confined tunnel toward U.S. Customs agents who would ask probing questions. Zubair suddenly wished he had taken the sedative that they had given him to calm his nerves. He had thrown the pills away at the Sydney airport. Allah would never approve of him taking a mood-altering drug.

I wish I could send everyone in America to live under the dictatorship in Turkmenistan. Or to spend a little time in a New Delhi slum. Maybe they’d gain a little perspective about how good they have it. But I can’t. So instead, they’ll listen to politicians tell them how they’re getting screwed. Or the media telling them about all the things that can kill them. Or some YouTube influencer showing off their fake idyllic life.

Dylan, Duende, Death and Lorca Does Bob Dylan have Duende? DUENDE dancers perform moving, unique, unrepeatable performances Does Bob Dylan have duende? Do you have duende? What is duende? Duende is a Spanish word with two meanings. A duende is a goblin or a pixie that probably lives at the bottom of the garden and gives three wishes to old ladies who deserve a break. The duende was best defined by Spain’s great poet Federico García Lorca during a lecture he gave in New York in 1929 on Andalusian music known as cante jondo, or deep voice. ‘The duende,’ he said, ‘is a momentary burst of inspiration, the blush of all that is truly alive, all that the performer is creating at a certain moment.’ The difference between a good and a bad singer is that the good singer has the duende and the bad singer doesn’t. ‘There are no maps nor disciplines to help us find the duende. We only know that he burns the blood like a poultice of broken glass, that he exhausts, that he rejects all the sweet geometry we have learned.’ Some critics say Bob Dylan does not have a great voice. But more than any other performer since the birth of recorded music, Dylan has revealed the indefinable, spine-tingling something captured in Lorca’s interpretation of duende. ‘It is an inexplicable power of attraction, the ability to send waves of emotion through those watching and listening to them.’ ‘The duende,’ he continues, ‘resembles what Goethe called the demoniacal. It manifests itself principally among musicians and poets of the spoken word, for it needs the trembling of the moment and then a long silence.’ painting off hell by Hieronymus Bosch Hell & Hieronymus Bosch Four elements can be found in Lorca’s vision of duende: irrationality, earthiness, a heightened awareness of death and a dash of the diabolical. I agree with Lorca that duende manifests principally among singers, but would say that same magic may touch us when confronted by great paintings: Picasso’s Guernica, Edvard Munch’s The Scream, the paintings of heaven and hell by Hieronymus Bosch. The duende is found in the bitter roots of human existence, what Lorca referred to as ‘the pain which has no explanation.’ Artists often feel sad without knowing why. They sense the cruel inevitability of fate. They smell the coppery scent of death. All artists live in a permanent state of angst knowing that what they have created could have been better. Death with Duende It is not surprising that Spain found a need for the word duende. It is the only country where death in the bullring is a national spectacle, the only nation where death is announced by the explosion of trumpets and drums. The bullring, divided in sol y sombre – the light and shade, is the perfect metaphor for life and death, a passing from the light into darkness. Every matador who ever lived had duende and no death is more profound than death in the bullring.

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I said to him at last, 'I don't want your damn pity.' 'It's not pity. Tamlin said I shouldn't tell you-' He winced a bit. 'I'm not made of glass. If the naga attacked you, I deserve to know-' 'Tamlin is my High Lord. He gives an order, I follow it.' 'You didn't have that mentality when you worked around his commands to send me to see the Suriel.' And I'd nearly died. 'I was desperate then. We all were. But now- now we need order, Feyre. We need rules, and rankings, and order, if we're going to stand a chance of rebuilding. So what he says goes. I am the first one the others look to- I set the example. Don't ask me to risk the stability of this court by pushing back. Not right now. He's giving you as much free rein as he can.' I forced a steady breath to fill my too-tight lungs. 'For all that you refuse to interact with Ianthe, you certainly sound a great deal like her.' He hissed, 'You have no idea how hard it is for him to even let you off the estate grounds. He's under more pressure than you realise.' 'I know exactly how much pressure he endures. And I didn't realise I'd become a prisoner.' 'You're not-' He clenched his jaw. 'That's now how it is and you know it.' 'He didn't have any trouble letting me hunt and wander on my own when I was a mere human. When the borders were far less safe.' 'He didn't care for you the way he does now. And after what happened Under the Mountain...' The words clanged in my head, along my too-tense muscles. 'He's terrified. Terrified of seeing you in his enemies' hands. And they know it, too- they know all they have to do to own him would be to get ahold of you.' 'You think I don't know that? But does he honestly expect me to spend the rest of my life in that manor, overseeing servants and wearing pretty clothes?' Lucien watched the ever-young forest. 'Isn't that what all human women wish for? A handsome faerie lord to wed and shower them with riches for the rest of their lives?' I gripped the reins of my horse hard enough that she tossed her head. 'Good to know you're still a prick, Lucien.' His metal eye narrowed. 'Tamlin is a High Lord. You will be his wife. There are traditions and expectations you must uphold. We must uphold, in order to present a solid front that is healed from Amarantha and willing to destroy any foes who try to take what is ours again.

These days I do all sorts of public engagements, and even the smallest thing, like doing an interview or being on stage, gives me the same feeling of apprehension beforehand. Then you do the thing and it feels great and you get off and think, Well that was okay. Why was I bricking that? And that whole parcel of feelings sends me right back to my schooldays. I wish I could get rid of it, but it’s embedded somehow.

PACKING CHECKLIST Light, khaki, or neutral-color clothes are universally worn on safari and were first used in Africa as camouflage by the South African Boers, and then by the British Army that fought them during the South African War. Light colors also help to deflect the harsh sun and are less likely than dark colors to attract mosquitoes. Don’t wear camouflage gear. Do wear layers of clothing that you can strip off as the sun gets hotter and put back on as the sun goes down. Smartphone or tablet to check emails, send texts, and store photos (also handy as an alarm clock and flashlight), plus an adapter. If electricity will be limited, you may wish to bring a portable charger. Three cotton T-shirts Two long-sleeve cotton shirts preferably with collars Two pairs of shorts or two skirts in summer Two pairs of long pants (three pairs in winter)—trousers that zip off at the knees are worth considering Optional: sweatshirt and sweatpants, which can double as sleepwear One smart-casual dinner outfit Underwear and socks Walking shoes or sneakers Sandals/flip-flops Bathing suit and sarong to use as a cover-up Warm padded jacket and sweater/fleece in winter Windbreaker or rain poncho Camera equipment, extra batteries or charger, and memory cards; a photographer’s vest and cargo pants are great for storage Eyeglasses and/or contact lenses, plus extras Binoculars Small flashlight Personal toiletries Malaria tablets and prescription medication Sunscreen and lip balm with SPF 30 or higher Basic medication like antihistamine cream, eye drops, headache tablets, indigestion remedies, etc. Insect repellent that is at least 20% DEET and is sweat-resistant Tissues and/or premoistened wipes/hand sanitizer Warm hat, scarf, and gloves in winter Sun hat and sunglasses (Polaroid and UV-protected ones) Documents and money (cash, credit cards, etc.). A notebook/journal and pens Travel and field guide books A couple of large white plastic garbage bags Ziplock bags to keep documents dry and protect electronics from dust

Eris's amber eyes studied hers. 'Trust Rhysand to keep you hidden away.' Right. She was to flatter him, keep him on their side. 'I just saw you the other week.' Eris chuckled. 'And as riveting as it was to see you send Tamlin scrambling off with his tail between his legs, I didn't see this side of you. The time since the war has changed you.' She didn't smile, but she met his stare directly as she said, 'For the better, I hope.' 'Certainly for the more interesting. It seems you came to play the game tonight after all,' Eris spun her, and when she returned to him, he murmured in her ear, 'Don't believe the lies they tell you about me.' She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, 'Oh?' Eris nodded to where Mor watched them from beside Feyre and Rhys, his face neutral and aloof. 'She knows the truth but has never revealed it.' 'Why?' 'Because she is afraid of it.' 'You don't win yourself any favours with your behaviour.' 'Don't I? Do I not ally myself with this court under constant threat of being discovered and killed by my father? Do I not offer aid whenever Rhysand wishes?' He spun her again. 'They believe a version of events that is easier to swallow. I always thought Rhysand wiser than that, but he tends to be blind where those he loves are concerned.' Nesta's mouth twitched to one side. 'And you? Who do you love?' His smile sharpened. 'Are you inquiring about my eligibility?' 'I'm merely saying it's hard to find a good dance partner these days.' Eris laughed, the sound like silk over her skin. She shivered. 'Indeed it is. Especially one who can both dance and tear the King of Hybern's head from his shoulders.' She let him see a bit of that person- see the savage rage and silver fire he'd witnessed before Tamlin. Then she blinked and it was gone. Eris's face tightened, and not from fear. He twirled her again, the waltz already coming to a close. He whispered in her ear, 'They say your sister Elain is the beauty, but you outshine her tonight.' His hand stroked down the bare skin of her back, and she arched slightly into his touch.

How I wish I could fold inward and shut down and shake off predators with one touch. What a skill, what a thrill that could be. Touch me now on the dance floor, don't you see my wedding ring? Touch me not in the subway; touch me not on the train, one the plane, in a cab or a limo. Touch me not in a funicular going up the side of a mountain, touch me not on the deck of a cruise ship, touch me not in the green room right before I go onstage, touch me not at the bar while I wait for my to-go order, touch me not at a faculty party, touch me not if you are a visiting writer, touch me not at the post office while I'm waiting to send a letter to my grandmother, let me and my children and everyone's children decide who touches them and who touches them not, touch them not, touch them now.

Under Muslim law, a man's freedom to divorce his wife is justified in the Koran. This system of the threat of divorce looming over a woman's security is most unsettling to women in my land. It is intolerable that many men stretch this ruling to the utmost of its flexibility, demanding divorce for the most trivial causes, ending with the continuous social degradation of their women. Women do not have the same options, since a divorce in a woman's favour is given only after a thorough investigation into her life. More often than not, women will not be allowed to divorce, even when there is just cause. This female lack of freedom so enjoyed by males creates onesided, often cruel methods of male control and power over their women. The words of divorce slip most easily off the tongue of a man who wishes to punish his wife, 'I divorce thee', or 'I dismiss thee', sending the woman into exile from her married home, often without her children.

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

So for people who do not wish to vaccinate their children, let me say that raising children seems very difficult. My job, as I see it, is to support my friends in their child-rearing decisions. They want to send their toddler off to a Swiss boarding school? That’s great! Four-year-olds who know how to play polo inspire not only admiration but terror, which in my mind means respect! They’re going to let their daughter choose her own name and send her to a hippie academy where the students learn to draw instead of read? Also great! It sounds like Princess Jellybean Frostina Elsa will be very creative or, as she would write, “!!☺ ☺****☺!!

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