Sister Location Quotes

I remembered a piece of sisterly advice, which Feely once gave Daffy and me: "If ever you're accosted by a man," she'd said, "kick him in the Casanovas and run like blue blazes!" Although it had sounded at the time like a useful bit of intelligence, the only problem was that I didn't know where the Casanovas were located. I'd have to think of something else.

Knock, knock. You have the day to hide. Come nightfall, we hunt. (Desiderius) Yeah, yeah...you and your little dog, too. (Kyrian) You're not scared of his threats? (Amanda) Chere, the day I fear something like him is the day I lie down at his feet and hand him the knife to cut my heart out. The only fear I have is getting you back to your sister and convincing High Queen Hard Head to leave off this matter until I can locate Desiderius and send his soul into oblivion where it belongs. (Kyrian)

A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. This every sister of the Bene Gesserit knows. To begin your study of the life of Maud'Dib, then, take care that you first place him in his time: born in the 57th year of the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam IV. And take the most special care that you locate Maud'Dib in his place: the planet Arrakis. Do not be deceived by the fact that he was born on Caladan and lived his first fifteen years there. Arrakis, the planet known as Dune, is forever his place.

There is some strange sense in which distance and closeness are sisters, the two sides of the one experience. Distance awakens longing; closeness is belonging. Yet they are always in a dynamic interflow with each other. When we fix or locate them definitively, we injure our growth. It is an interesting imaginative exercise to interchange them: to consider what is near as distant and to consider the distant as intimate.

Addy,” said Mrs. Kaur. “I’ll still have to log it, and account for it later.” “Blame me,” said Robin at once. One thick black eyebrow arched. Miss Morrissey leaned forward and smiled at her sister. “Would you say Sir Robert is a threatening figure?” “Er,” said Mrs. Kaur. It was the most diplomatic single syllable Robin had ever heard. “Are you afraid for your maidenly virtue?” “I’m married, Addy,” said Kitty Kaur dryly. “I have none.” She eyed Robin. “He does seem the kind of well-built, pugnacious fellow who would follow through on a threat of bodily harm.” “I beg your pardon,” Robin began to protest, and then the penny dropped. “Oh. Would it help if I raised my voice?” “Yes, that would do nicely. Sir Robert strong-armed my sister into bringing him here to seek my help, and threatened us with harm unless I abused my access to the lockroom in order to locate Mr. Courcey. Overcome by concern for his friend, of course, but still. Most brutish behavior.” “And we are but feeble women,” said Miss Morrissey. “Woe.” “Your sister is a magician,” Robin said, pointing out what seemed the largest hole in this story. “Woe,” said Mrs. Kaur firmly, and Robin recalled what Miss Morrissey had said about the assumptions made by men.

Tom felt his darkness. His father was beautiful and clever, his mother was short and mathematically sure. Each of his brothers and sisters had looks or gifts or fortune. Tom loved all of them passionately, but he felt heavy and earth-bound. He climbed ecstatic mountains and floundered in the rocky darkness between the peaks. He had spurts of bravery but they were bracketed in battens of cowardice. Samuel said that Tom was quavering over greatness, trying to decide whether he could take the cold responsibility. Samuel knew his son’s quality and felt the potential of violence, and it frightened him, for Samuel had no violence—even when he hit Adam Trask with his fist he had no violence. And the books that came into the house, some of them secretly—well, Samuel rode lightly on top of a book and he balanced happily among ideas the way a man rides white rapids in a canoe. But Tom got into a book, crawled and groveled between the covers, tunneled like a mole among the thoughts, and came up with the book all over his face and hands. John Steinbeck. East of Eden (Kindle Locations 4766-4770). Viking.

I was extremely shy of approaching my hero but he, as I found out, was sorely in need of company. By then almost completely blind, he was claustrated and even a little confused and this may help explain the rather shocking attitude that he took to the blunt trauma that was being inflicted in the streets and squares around him. 'This was my country and it might be yet,' he intoned to me when the topic first came up, as it had to: 'But something came between it and the sun.' This couplet he claimed (I have never been able to locate it) was from Edmund Blunden, whose gnarled hand I had been so excited to shake all those years ago, but it was not the Videla junta that Borges meant by the allusion. It was the pre-existing rule of Juan Perón, which he felt had depraved and corrupted Argentine society. I didn't disagree with this at all—and Perón had victimized Borges's mother and sister as well as having Borges himself fired from his job at the National Library—but it was nonetheless sad to hear the old man saying that he heartily preferred the new uniformed regime, as being one of 'gentlemen' as opposed to 'pimps.' This was a touch like listening to Evelyn Waugh at his most liverish and bufferish. (It was also partly redeemed by a piece of learned philology or etymology concerning the Buenos Aires dockside slang for pimp: canfinflero. 'A canfinfla, you see,' said Borges with perfect composure, 'is a pussy or more exactly a cunt. So a canfinflero is a trafficker in cunt: in Anglo-Saxon we might say a 'cunter."' Had not the very tango itself been evolved in a brothel in 1880? Borges could talk indefinitely about this sort of thing, perhaps in revenge for having had an oversolicitous mother who tyrannized him all his life.)

Wherever there is distance, there is longing. Yet there is some strange wisdom in the fact of distance. It is interesting to remember that the light that sustains life here on earth comes from elsewhere. Light is the mother of life. Yet the sun and the moon are not on the earth; they bless us with light across the vast distances. We are protected and blessed in our distance. Were we nearer to the sun, the earth would be consumed in its fire; it is the distance that makes the fire kind. Nothing in creation is ever totally at home in itself. No thing is ultimately at one with itself. Everything that is alive holds distance within itself. This is especially true of the human self. It is the deepest intimacy which is nevertheless infused with infinite distance. There is some strange sense in which distance and closeness are sisters, the two sides of the one experience. Distance awakens longing; closeness is belonging. Yet they are always in a dynamic interflow with each other. When we fix or locate them definitively, we injure our growth. It is an interesting imaginative exercise to interchange them: to consider what is near as distant and to consider the distant as intimate.

For the white person who wants to know how to be my friend The first thing you do is to forget that i’m Black. Second, you must never forget that i’m Black. You should be able to dig Aretha, but don’t play her every time i come over. And if you decide to play Beethoven – don’t tell me his life story. They made us take music appreciation too. Eat soul food if you like it, but don’t expect me to locate your restaurants or cook it for you. And if some Black person insults you, mugs you, rapes your sister, rapes you, rips your house, or is just being an ass – please, do not apologize to me for wanting to do them bodily harm. It makes me wonder if you’re foolish. And even if you really believe Blacks are better lovers than whites – don’t tell me. I start thinking of charging stud fees. In other words – if you really want to be my friend – don’t make a labor of it. I’m lazy. Remember.

Although both the U.S. and Canadian sides of the falls are well worth visiting, the best views, including nighttime illumination, are from the beautifully manicured flower gardens that line the Canadian side. However, to get up-close-and-personal with the falls, visit Niagara Falls State Park in New York, where there are several locations, including Prospect Point, Luna Island, Terrapin Point, and the Three Sisters Islands, that allow visitors to stand within a few feet of the raging rapids and at the brink of the falls.

... I somehow got the idea that oak floors were located exclusively in New York City. This came chiefly from watching Woody Allen movies. I wanted to live someplace that looked like Mia Farrow's apartment in 'Hannah and Her Sisters' (little did I know that it was Mia Farrow's apartment). To me, this kind of space did not connote wealth. These were places where paint was peeling and the rugs were frayed, places where smart people sat around drinking gin and tonics, having interesting conversations, and living, according to my logic, in an authentic way.

Sisters weren’t really angry about my breakdown of just how dangerous Miley Cyrus’s performance on a televised award show actually was. They weren’t exactly angry that I pointed out the size and shape of the black woman dancers behind her. What many black women were angry about was how I located myself in what I’d written. I said, blithely as a matter of observable fact, that I am unattractive. Because I am unattractive, the argument went, I have a particular kind of experience of beauty, race, racism, and interacting with what we might call the white gaze.

[Lena Lees describes from trance her experience of Kuan Yin]: “I see Kuan Yin. She is like Venus, statuesque and standing in front of a beautiful pink half-shell. Quickly, she walks in front of me, pointing the way. We are entering the mouth of a cave. It’s so interesting. I see stairs carved out of rock in the cave. We walk up the stairs to a door. I know somehow this is just another entrance, a doorway to another time, place. Perhaps at another historical time monks lived there. Now, I’m seeing a huge image, a beautiful statue of Kuan Yin right at the top of the mountain. There are stairs leading up to her and it is as if I’m right on location, standing alongside a group of worshipers. I feel the potency of her energy. In these places, perhaps China or Vietnam, there is a palpable sense of being immersed in and supported by her presence. There is a need by the people to know more, to pick up and accumulate wisdom. I’m suddenly feeling a need to be in that kind of energy. Suddenly it is Kuan Yin who is speaking: “Some believe I am in servitude to Buddha. However, Buddha doesn’t see it like that. We’re more like brother and sister. I’m showing, Lena, my abode, a place on earth where humans can visit me and be in my potency. Lena is looking at my statue and then at my form. There’s a difference. I come to people in many forms, forms constructed from people’s own perceptions of how I should come to them. And it is individual spiritual needs that create these unique perceptions. In the end, it does not matter what form I take.” “Kuan Yin wants me to know that I can have the most divine life imaginable,” whispers Lena, still very deep in trance. “She’ll be here until the last soul passes off the earth. She remains in deity form to assist people in transcending their materialistic nature, to help them attain their highest spiritual level.

Jules Verne was born on 8 February 1828 on Île Feydeau, a small artificial island on the Loire river located in the town of Nantes, in the house of his maternal grandmother Dame Sophie Allotte de la Fuÿe, in No. 4 Rue de Clisson. His father, Pierre Verne, was an attorney originally from Provins. His mother was Sophie Allotte de la Fuÿe, a Nantes woman of Scottish descent. She belonged to a local family of navigators and ship owners. The Verne family moved away to No. 2 Quai Jean-Bart in 1829, where Verne’s brother Paul was born the same year. Verne also had three sisters named Anne, Mathilde, and Marie, who were born in 1836, 1839, and 1842, respectively. In 1834, Verne was sent to the boarding school located at 5 Place du Bouffay in Nantes.

I was a bird. I lived a bird's life from birth to death. I was born the thirty-second chick in the Jipu family. I remember everything in detail. I remember breaking out of the shell at birth. But I learned later that my mother had gently cracked the shell first to ease my way. I dozed under my mother's chest for the first few days. Her feathers were so warm and soft! I was strong, so I kicked away my siblings to keep the cozy spot. Just 10 days after I was born, I was given flying lessons. We all had to learn quickly because there were snakes and owls and hawks. My little brothers and sisters, who didn't practice enough, all died. My little sister looked so unhappy when she got caught. I can still see her face. Before I could fly, I hadn't known that our nest was on the second-lowest branch of a big tree. My parents chose the location wisely. Snakes could reach the lowest branch and eagles and hawks could attack us if we lived at the top. We soared through the sky, above mountains and forests. But it wasn't just for fun! We always had to watch out for enemies, and to hunt for food. Death was always nearby. You could easily starve or freeze to death. Life wasn't easy. Once, I got caught in a monsoon. I smacked into a tree and lay bleeding for days. Many of my family and friends died, one after another. To help rebuild our clan, I found myself a female and married her. She was so sweet. She laid many eggs, but one day, a human cut down the tree we lived in, crushing all the eggs and my beloved. A bird's life is an endless battle against death. I survived for many years before I finally met my end. I found a worm at some harvest festival. I came fluttering down. It was a bad mistake. Some big guy was waiting to ambush hungry little birdies like me. I heard my own guts pop. It was clear to me that I was going to die at last. And I wanted to know where I'd go when I died.

From the very start, when the Islamists attempted to impose their laws against women, there were massive demonstrations, with hundreds of thousands of women pouring into the streets of Tehran protesting against the new laws. When Khomeini announced the imposition of the veil, there were protests in which women took to the streets with the slogans: “Freedom is neither Eastern nor Western; it is global” and “Down with the reactionaries! Tyranny in any form is condemned!” Soon the protests spread, leading to a memorable demonstration in front of the Ministry of Justice, in which an eight-point manifesto was issued. Among other things, the manifesto called for gender equality in all domains of public and private life as well as for the guarantee of fundamental freedoms for both men and women. It also demanded that “the decision over women’s clothing, which is determined by custom and the exigencies of geographical location, be left to women.” Women

Is the missing object a lover’s token you shouldn’t have?” “Gracious!” She sat back, looking dismayed but not insulted. “Investigating must call for a vivid imagination, Mr. Hazlit.” “Hardly. Human nature seems to draw most people into the same predictable peccadilloes over and over. So which misstep have you taken? Do you need to locate the child’s father? Pay off his wife to keep her mouth shut? Those aren’t strictly investigatory matters, but I can see where the need for discretion… What?” “I should slap you.” The words weren’t offered with any particular animosity, more a tired acceptance. “You are a man, though, and allowances must be made.” “I beg your pardon.” “And well you should.” She sipped her tea then tipped her head back to regard him. “Despite the foul implications of your questions, Mr. Hazlit—questions I doubt you would have put to any of my sisters—I still need your help, and I still intend to retain you. I have committed no indiscretion; I have no ill-conceived child on the way; I need not go for a tour of the Continent to eschew my dependence on laudanum.” “So

If a Jewess from the East – her family comes from Cairo, I gather – were to find herself in need of help in Paris, where would she go?’ ‘To her family,’ replied ben-Gideon promptly. ‘I’m not sure she has one in Paris.’ ‘Benjamin, my mother spends eleven and a half hours out of twenty-four going from sister to sister, from aunt to aunt, from the houses of her sisters-in-law and second-cousins to the grandparents of my father’s old business-partners, lugging my sisters along with her, and what do you think they all talk about? Family.’ Ben-Gideon ticked off subjects with his fingers. ‘Who’s marrying whom. Who shouldn’t have married whom and why not. Who’s expecting a child and who isn’t bringing their children up properly. Oh, was she the one who married Avram ben-Hurri ben-Moishe ben-Yakov and is now operating that import business in Prague?  . . .  No, no, that was the OTHER Cousin Rachel who married Avram ben-Hurri ben-Moishe ben-CHAIM and THEY’RE in Warsaw, where THEIR son is a rabbi  . . .  Every rabbi from Portugal to Persia will tell you that women’s minds are incapable of the concentration required for study of the Torah, yet I guarantee you that not a single word of this lore is forgotten. You can drop any Jew over the age of seven naked in the dark out of a balloon anywhere in Europe, and he or she will locate family in time for breakfast.

Three years later he had another opportunity to see the little girl. Helmert had been tearing through the keep, bellowing like a mad bull as he searched for his sister. “Josephine , I swear I’ll rip yer head off when I find ye!” ’Twas eerily similar to Graeme’s first visit. Remembering his first encounter with the tree sprite, Graeme went in search of Josephine. The first place he looked was the auld oak tree, but she was not there. After a careful search out of doors, he went inside. She was not in the larder or the kitchen. It took more than half an hour before he finally located her in her father’s study, hiding under the large desk. Graeme crouched low so he could see her better. It didn’t appear she had grown much in three years, though she had lost the cherubic face. This time she wore a dark green dress and matching slippers. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been quite terrified of her brother. Now, she looked quite angry. “I’ll nae tell, Josephine,” he whispered, offering her a kind smile. A scrunched brow said she didn’t believe him. “Pray tell, what did ye hide this time?” he asked, hoping his amused tone would help lighten the mood. Reluctantly, she finally confessed. “His strop.” Graeme raised a confused brow. “Why would ye hide his strop?” The little girl looked at him as though he were quite daft. “So he will not beat me with it.

Knowing Chris was getting married, his fellow Team members decided that they had to send him off with a proper SEAL bachelor party. That meant getting him drunk, of course. It also meant writing all over him with permanent markers-an indelible celebration, to be sure. Fortunately, they liked him, so his face wasn’t marked up-not by them, at least; he’d torn his eyebrow and scratched his lip during training. Under his clothes, he looked quite the sight. And the words wouldn’t come off no matter how he, or I scrubbed. I pretended to be horrified, but honestly, that didn’t bother me much. I was just happy to have him with me, and very excited to be spending the rest of my life with the man I loved. It’s funny, the things you get obsessed about. Days before the wedding, I spent forty-five minutes picking out exactly the right shape of lipstick, splurging on expensive cosmetics-then forgot to take it with me the morning of the wedding. My poor sister and mom had to run to Walgreens for a substitute; they came back with five different shades, not one of which matched the one I’d picked out. Did it matter? Not at all, although I still remember the vivid marks the lipstick made when I kissed him on the cheek-marking my man. Lipstick, location, time of day-none of that mattered in the end. What did matter were our families and friends, who came in for the ceremony. Chris liked my parents, and vice versa. I truly loved his mom and dad. I have a photo from that day taped near my work area. My aunt took it. It’s become my favorite picture, an accidental shot that captured us perfectly. We stand together, beaming, with an American flag in the background. Chris is handsome and beaming; I’m beaming at him, practically glowing in my white gown. We look so young, happy, and unworried about what was to come. It’s that courage about facing the unknown, the unshakable confidence that we’d do it together, that makes the picture so precious to me. It’s a quality many wedding photos possess. Most couples struggle to make those visions realities. We would have our struggles as well.

One day Marlboro Man invited my sister, Betsy, and me to the ranch to work cattle. She was home from college and bored, and Marlboro Man wanted Tim to meet another member of my family. “Working cattle” is the term used to describe the process of pushing cattle, one by one, through a working chute, during which time they are branded, dehorned, ear tagged, and “doctored” (temperature taken, injections given). The idea is to get all the trauma and mess over with in one fell swoop so the animals can spend their days grazing peacefully in the pasture. When Betsy and I pulled up and parked, Tim greeted us at the chute and immediately assigned us our duties. He handed my sister a hot shot, which is used to gently zap the animal’s behind to get it to move through the chute. It’s considered the easy job. “You’ll be pushing ’em through,” Tim told Betsy. She dutifully took the hot shot, studying the oddly shaped object in her hands. Next, Tim handed me an eight-inch-long, thick-gauge probe with some kind of electronic device attached. “You’ll be taking their temperature,” Tim informed me. Easy enough, I thought. But how does this thing fit into its ear? Or does it slide under its arm somehow? Perhaps I insert it under the tongue? Will the cows be okay with this? Tim showed me to my location--at the hind end of the chute. “You just wait till the steer gets locked in the chute,” Tim directed. “Then you push the stick all the way in and wait till I tell you to take it out.” Come again? The bottom fell out of my stomach as my sister shot me a worried look, and I suddenly wished I’d eaten something before we came. I felt weak. I didn’t dare question the brother of the man who made my heart go pitter-pat, but…in the bottom? Up the bottom? Seriously? Before I knew it, the first animal had entered the chute. Various cowboys were at different positions around the animal and began carrying out their respective duties. Tim looked at me and yelled, “Stick it in!” With utter trepidation, I slid the wand deep into the steer’s rectum. This wasn’t natural. This wasn’t normal. At least it wasn’t for me. This was definitely against God’s plan.

While Saladin is attacking Reynald at Kerak: "As it happens, Raynald is hosting a wedding party for his wife's son, Humphrey of Toron, and princess Isabelle, King Baldwin's half sister, who is eleven years old.The pounding continues increasingly, but the guests have traveled from all over the Latin East for this party and they are not about to put an end to the festivities over a mere Moslem attack. Finally, Lady Stephanie, Raynald's wife, has her servants take some dishes from the wedding feast to Saladin's tent. Saladin is delighted to receive the gifts and offers profuse thanks to lady Stephanie. He then ask where the newly weds will be spending the night. When the servants point out the location, Saladin orders his army not to bombard that tower until morning.

Uh, hello? Hello, hello! Uhm, there has been a slight change of company policy, concerning you and the suits. Uhm, so, after learning of an unfortunate incident at the sister location involving multiple and simultaneous spring lock failures, the company has deemed the suits temporarily unfit for employees. Safety is top priority at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, which is why the classic suits are being retired to an appropriate location, while being looked at by our technicians. Until replacements arrives, you'll be expected to wear the temporary costumes provided to you. Keep in mind, they were found on very short notice, so questions about appropriateness/relevance should be deflected. I repeat, the classic suits are not to be touched, activated or worn. That being said, we are free of liability, do as you wish. As always, remember to smile. You are the face of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza.

Ah, wine. Wine was my friend. Wine understood me. Wine knew that it was entirely possible to be one hundred percent happy for your sisters and also ten percent jealous, because Wine does not care about mathematics. Harlow, Melanie (2016-02-09). Some Sort of Love: A Happy Crazy Love Novel (Kindle Locations 44-46). . Kindle Edition.

You have an accent I do not recognize," he was saying. 'Tis certainly not local…." "Really, Lord Gareth — you should rest, not try to talk. Save your strength." "My dear angel, I can assure you I'd much rather talk to you, than lie here in silence and wonder if I shall live to see the next sunrise. I ... do not wish to be alone with my thoughts at the moment. Pray, amuse me, would you?" She sighed. "Very well, then. I'm from Boston." "County of Lincolnshire?" "Colony of Massachusetts." His smile faded. "Ah, yes ... Boston."  The town's name fell wearily from his lips and he let his eyes drift shut, as though that single word had drained him of his remaining strength. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?" "Farther, perhaps, than I should be," she said, cryptically. He seemed not to hear her. "I had a brother who died over there last year, fighting the rebels.... He was a captain in the Fourth. I miss him dreadfully." Juliet leaned the side of her face against the squab and took a deep, bracing breath. If this man died, he would never know just who the little girl playing so contentedly with his cravat was. He would never know that the stranger who was caring for him during his final moments was the woman his brother had loved, would never know just why she — a long way from home, indeed — had come to England. It was now or never. "Yes," she whispered, tracing a thin crack in the squab near her face. "So do I." "Sorry?" "I said, yes. I miss him too." "Forgive me, but I don't quite understand...."  And then he blanched and stiffened as the truth hit him with debilitating force. His eyes widened, their lazy dreaminess fading. His head rose halfway out of her lap. He stared at her and blinked, and in the sudden, charged silence that filled the coach, Juliet heard the pounding tattoo of her own heart, felt his gaze boring into the underside of her chin as his mind, dulled by pain and shock, quickly put the pieces together. Boston. Juliet. I miss him, too. He gave an incredulous little laugh. "No," he said, slowly shaking his head, as though he suspected he was the butt of some horrible joke or worse, knew she was telling the truth and could not find a way to accept it. He scrutinized her features, his gaze moving over every aspect of her face. "We all thought ... I mean, Lucien said he tried to locate you ... No, I am hallucinating, I must be!  You cannot be the same Juliet. Not his Juliet —" "I am," she said quietly. "His Juliet. And now I've come to England to throw myself on the mercy of his family, as he bade me to do should anything happen to him." "But this is just too extraordinary, I cannot believe —" Juliet was gazing out the window into the darkness again. "He told you about me, then?" "Told us? His letters home were filled with nothing but declarations of love for his 'colonial maiden,' his 'fair Juliet' — he said he was going to marry you. I ... you ... dear God, you have shocked my poor brain into speechlessness, Miss Paige. I do not believe you are here, in the flesh!" "Believe it," she said, miserably. "If Charles had lived, you and I would have been brother and sister. Don't die, Lord Gareth. I have no wish to see yet another de Montforte brother into an early grave." He settled back against her arm and flung one bloodstained wrist across his eyes, his body shaking. For a moment she thought the shock of her revelation had killed him. But no. Beneath the lace of his sleeve she could see his gleaming grin, and Juliet realized that he was not dying but convulsing with giddy, helpless mirth. For the life of her, she did not see what was so funny. "Then this baby —" he managed, sliding his wrist up his brow to peer up at her with gleaming eyes — "this baby —" "Is your niece.

about two miles east of where the infant had been discarded. It was a Medicaid hospital, meaning that most of the patients were poor. Despite its location, it had a world-renowned reputation. When my baby sister, Hannah, needed some minor surgery, Rina insisted that she be taken to Mid-City instead of one of the bigger, more moneyed behemoth hospitals on the affluent west side of town.

The game had only two rules. The first was that every statement had to have at least two words in which the first letters were switched. “You’re not my little sister,” Shawn said. “You’re my sittle lister.” He pronounced the words lazily, blunting the t’s to d’s so that it sounded like “siddle lister.” The second rule was that every word that sounded like a number, or like it had a number in it, had to be changed so that the number was one higher. The word “to” for example, because it sounds like the number “two,” would become “three.” “Siddle Lister,” Shawn might say, “we should pay a-eleven-tion. There’s a checkpoint ahead and I can’t a-five-d a ticket. Time three put on your seatbelt.” When we tired of this, we’d turn on the CB and listen to the lonely banter of truckers stretched out across the interstate. “Look out for a green four-wheeler,” a gruff voice said, when we were somewhere between Sacramento and Portland. “Been picnicking in my blind spot for a half hour.” A four-wheeler, Shawn explained, is what big rigs call cars and pickups. Another voice came over the CB to complain about a red Ferrari that was weaving through traffic at 120 miles per hour. “Bastard damned near hit a little blue Chevy,” the deep voice bellowed through the static. “Shit, there’s kids in that Chevy. Anybody up ahead wanna cool this hothead down?” The voice gave its location. Shawn checked the mile marker. We were ahead. “I’m a white Pete pulling a fridge,” he said. There was silence while everybody checked their mirrors for a Peterbilt with a reefer. Then a third voice, gruffer than the first, answered: “I’m the blue KW hauling a dry box.” “I see you,” Shawn said, and for my benefit pointed to a navy-colored Kenworth a few cars ahead. When the Ferrari appeared, multiplied in our many mirrors, Shawn shifted into high gear, revving the engine and pulling beside the Kenworth so that the two fifty-foot trailers were running side by side, blocking both lanes. The Ferrari honked, weaved back and forth, braked, honked again. “How long should we keep him back there?” the husky voice said, with a deep laugh. “Until he calms down,” Shawn answered. Five miles later, they let him pass. The trip lasted about a week, then we told Tony to find us a load to Idaho. “Well, Siddle Lister,” Shawn said when we pulled into the junkyard, “back three work.” — THE WORM CREEK OPERA HOUSE announced a new play: Carousel. Shawn drove me to the audition, then surprised me by auditioning himself. Charles was also there, talking to a girl named

beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. This every sister of the Bene Gesserit knows. To begin your study of the life of Muad’Dib, then, take care that you first place him in his time: born in the 57th year of the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam IV. And take the most special care that you locate Muad’Dib in his place: the planet Arrakis. Do not be deceived by the fact that he was born on Caladan and lived his first fifteen years there. Arrakis, the planet known as Dune, is forever his place. —FROM “MANUAL OF MUAD’DIB” BY THE PRINCESS IRULAN

For despite the fact that Man was the only known Race, he still managed to find differences between himself and his brothers and sisters—differences of the coloration of their skin, of the location of their homeland, of the nature of their politics—and Man distrusted anything that was different.

…If I can locate Ari or Aria (Andy’s sister) I’m sure I will be able to locate my ex-lover. Sam, out of curiosity; are you currently single or attached? Best Wishes! Young.

Mr. Grattingly, while we might tarry in the conservatory in plain sight of the open door, the location you’ve chosen—ooph!” “The location I’ve chosen is perfect,” Grattingly said as he mashed his body against Louisa’s. He’d shoved her back against a tree, off the path, into the shadows. “Mr. Grattingly! How dare—” Wet lips landed on Louisa’s jaw, and the scent of wine-soured breath filled her head. “Of course, I dare. You all but begged me to drag you in here. With your tits nigh falling from your bodice, how do you expect a man to act?” He thrust his hand into the neckline of Louisa’s gown and closed his fingers around her breast. Louisa was too stunned for a moment to think, then something more powerful than fear came roaring forward. “You slimy, presuming, stinking, drunken, witless varlet!” She shoved against him hard, but he wasn’t budging, and those thick, wet lips were puckering up abominably. Louisa heard her brother Devlin’s voice in her head, instructing her to use her knee, when Grattingly abruptly shifted off her and landed on his bottom in the dirt. “Excuse me.” Sir Joseph stood not two feet away, casually unbuttoning his evening coat. His expression was as composed as his tone of voice, though even when he dropped his coat around Louisa’s shoulders, he kept his gaze on Grattingly. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.” “You’re not.” Louisa clutched his jacket to her shoulders, finding as much comfort in its cedary scent as she did in the body heat it carried. “Mr. Grattingly was just leaving.” “Who the hell are you,” Grattingly spat as he scrambled to his feet, “to come around and disturb a lady at her pleasures?” Somewhere down the path, a door swung closed. Louisa registered the sound distantly, the way she’d notice when rain had started outside though she was in the middle of a good book. Though this was not a good book. Instinctively Louisa knew she was, without warning or volition, in the middle of something not good at all. “I was not at my pleasures, you oaf.” She’d meant to fire the words off with a load of scathing indignation, but to Louisa’s horror, her voice shook. Her knees were turning unreliable on her, as well, so she sank onto the hard bench. “What’s going on here?” Lionel Honiton stood on the path, three or four other people gathered behind him. “Nothing,” Sir Joseph said. “The lady has developed a megrim and will be departing shortly.” “A megrim!” Grattingly was on his feet, though to Louisa it seemed as if he weaved a bit. “That bitch was about to get something a hell of a lot more—” Sir Joseph, like every other guest, was wearing evening gloves. They should not have made such a loud, distinct sound when thwacked across Grattingly’s jowls. Lionel stepped forth. “Let’s not be hasty. Grattingly, apologize. We can all see you’re a trifle foxed. Nobody takes offense at what’s said when a man’s in his cups, right?” “I’m not drunk, you ass. You—” “That’s not an apology.” Sir Joseph pulled on his gloves. “My seconds will be calling on yours. If some one of the assembled multitude would stop gawping long enough to fetch the lady’s sisters to her, I would appreciate it.” He said nothing more, just treated each member of the small crowd to a gimlet stare, until Lionel ushered them away. Nobody had a word for Grattingly, who stomped off in dirty breeches, muttering Louisa knew not what. Sir

I am so proud of you.” It was the last thing Eve expected her mother to say, much less in a public location. “Proud of me?” “Oh, you rode like a Windham. I wish Bartholomew had been alive to see his baby sister out there, soaring over one fence after another. I wish St. Just had been here to brag on you properly. I wish… oh, I wish…” She reached for Eve and enfolded her daughter in a fierce, tight hug. “You showed them, Eve. You showed us all. Deene will be wroth with you for such a stunt, but he’ll get over it. A man in love forgives a great deal. Just ask your father.” Her Grace whispered this between hugs, tighter hugs, and teary smiles. “Mama, Deene is the one who said I ought to ride. I would never have had the…” The courage. The faith in herself. The determination… All the things she’d called upon time after time in the past seven years, her own strengths, and she’d been blind to them. “I could not have ridden that race without my husband’s blessing and support, Mama.” “But you did ride it,” Her Grace said, pulling Eve in for another hug. “I about fainted when you had that bad moment. Your father had to watch the last fences for me, but then the finish… You were a flat streak, you and that horse. I’ve no doubt he’d jump the Channel for you did you ask it. Oh, Eve… You must promise me never to do such a thing again, though. I could not bear it. Your father nearly had another heart seizure.” “I did no such thing, and I will ask you, Duchess, to keep your voice down if you’re going to slander my excellent health in such a manner.” His Grace was capable of bellowing, of shouting down the rafters, of letting every servant on three floors know at once of his frequent displeasures, but the duke was not using ducal volume as he approached his wife and youngest daughter. He was using his husband-voice, his volume respectful, even if his tone was a trifle testy. “Papa.” Eve pulled back from her mother’s embrace to meet her father’s blue-eyed gaze. Mama might be willing to make allowances, but His Grace was another matter entirely. “Evie.” He glanced from daughter to mother. “You’ve upset your mother, my girl. Gave her a nasty moment there at that oxer.” She was to be scolded? That was perhaps inevitable, given that His Grace— Her father pulled her into his arms. “But what’s one bad moment, if it means you’re finally back on the horse, though, eh? I particularly liked how you took the water—that showed style and heart. And that last fence… quite a race you rode, Daughter. I could not be more proud of you.” He extended an arm to the duchess, who joined the embrace with a whispered, “Oh, Percival…” So

VIRGINIA WOOLF LOVED SOHO. IN THE EARLY 1920S, HER FAVORITE URBAN itinerary brought her to this old, foreign quarter of central London, located to the west of Bloomsbury. Her “usual round,” as she put it, involved a journey from Gordon Square, where her sister Vanessa still lived, to the bookish fringes of Soho.

1) “How did I end up down this rabbit hole of being obsessed with men on the DL (down-low)? Why did I prefer playing more in the straight arena with the closet cases (as they were called in my day) and the bisexual men over the gay ones?” 2) “We didn’t identify in my day; you were either gay, bisexual, or straight. People will always label others or pigeonhole them without even knowing for sure who they really are. They presumably stereotype and judge just by your outward appearance.” 3) “It wasn't until the seventh grade that Sister Gloria would be my social studies teacher, and I began leaning more towards being an extrovert than the anxious introvert that I was. All the accolades go to her. She lit the flame under my ass that would be the catalyst for my advocacy. Her podium, located front and center of the classroom, became ground zero for me and where I found my voice.” 4) “Their taunting was my kryptonite. My peers hated me for no other reason than the fact that they thought I was gay. I was only thirteen and often wondered how they knew who I was before I did.” 5) “Evangelical Christian Anita Bryant (First Lady of Religious Bigotry), along with her minions, led a crusade against the LGBTQ community back in 1977 and said we were trying to recruit children and that ‘Homosexuals are human garbage.’ My first thoughts were, how unchristian and deplorable of her to even say something like that, not to mention, to make it her life’s mission promoting hate.” 6) “Are there any more Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. kind of Christians in this country today? Dr. King knew about his friend’s homosexuality and arrest. Being a religious man and a pastor, Dr. King could have cast judgment and shunned Bayard Rustin like so many other religious leaders did at the time. But he didn’t. That, to me, is the true meaning of being a Christian. He loved Bayard unconditionally and was unbiased towards his sexual orientation. Dr. King was not a counterfeit Christian and practiced what he preached—and that, along with remembering what Jesus had said, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself,’ is the bottom line to Christianity and all faiths.” 7) “We are all God’s children! That is what I was taught in Catholic school. God doesn’t make mistakes—it’s as simple as that. Love is love—period! I don’t need anyone’s validation or approval, I define myself.” 8) “You will bake our cakes, you will provide us our due healthcare, you will do our joint tax returns, and yes, you will bless our unions, too. Otherwise, you cannot call yourselves Christians or even Americans, for that matter.” 9) “The torch has been passed. But we must never forget the LGBT pioneers that have come before and how they fought in the streets for our lives. Never forget the Stonewall riots of 1969 nor the social stigma put upon us during the HIV/AIDS epidemic from its onset in the early 1980s. Remember how many died alone because nobody cared. Finally, keep in mind how we were all pathologized and labeled in the medical books until 1973.

A man I used to love died in a hospital alone. We had grown apart and lost touch. I met a common friend one day at a bar and he told me about my ex-lover. Nobody claimed the body for two weeks: His parents refused, his only sister could not be found, and the hospital was certainly not going to release the body to his AA sponsor. So after two weeks they cremated him like all the other unclaimed bodies, put his ashes into a jar, and then allowed anyone to take it. But no one did. He was buried by the municipality in an unmarked grave. I drove to the cemetery. He was buried in Lot 12, Block 86, Section D. Incredibly precise locations for a person who is nothing but ashes unclaimed.

and didn't quite hear the question. "Sorry, Eric," he said, raising his eyebrows. "What was that?" "I had uniform call round at her address. That's okay, isn't it?" "Yes, yes. Of course. Is anyone home?" Eric nodded. "Sister. Janet Beckett. They live together. But I told uniform not to say anything beyond that we'd located a body." "Good. Come on. Let's go and see if she can shed any light on what Mary was doing out this way last night." Chapter Three Mary Beckett's home was an imposing traditional brick and flint building situated on the Blakeney Road between the hamlet of Glandford and Letheringsett,

of fluff and dust floated gently onto their preferred location of the floor and bookcases again. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Better add new vacuum cleaner to the list. I gave a resigned sigh, dropped the hoover hose onto the floor, opened the

Her previous pigeon mentor, Boo, was currently a flammable chick of some kind. Her crush, Aiden, had kissed her and yet was now acting like she was invisible. Her friend Kara had turned out to not only be her real-life half sister but also the daughter of the sun god. And, as if that weren’t enough for the past twenty-four hours, Kara had betrayed them, joined forces with the Sleeper to locate the nectar of immortality, and incinerated the Pandavas’ celestial weapons. On Aru’s birthday.

Extended kinship groups - sometimes located on one plantation, more commonly extended over several - became the central units of slave life, ordering society, articulating values, and delineating identity by defining the boundaries of trust. They also became the nexus for incorporating the never-ending stream of arrivals from the seaboard states into the new society, cushioning the horror of the Second Middle Passage, and socializing the deportees to the realities of life on the plantation frontier. Playing the role of midwives, the earlier arrivals transformed strangers into brothers and sisters, melding the polyglot immigrants into one. In defining obligations and responsibilities, the family became the centerpole of slave life. The arrival of the first child provided transplanted slaves with the opportunity to link the world they had lost to the world that had been forced upon them. In naming their children for some loved one left behind, pioneer slaves restored the generational linkages for themselves and connected their children with grandparents they would never know. Some pioneer slaves reached back beyond their parents' generation, suggesting how slavery's long history on mainland North America could be collapsed by a single act. Along the same mental pathways that joined the charter and migration generations flowed other knowledge. Rituals carried from Africa might be as simple as the way a mother held a child to her breast or as complex as a cure for warts. Songs for celebrating marriage, ceremonies for breaking bread, and last rites for an honored elder survived in the minds of those forced from their seaboard homes, along with the unfulfilled promise of the Age of Revolution and evangelical awakenings. Still, the new order never quite duplicated the old. Even as transplanted slaves strained their memories to reconstruct what they had once known, slavery itself was being recast. The lush thicket of kin that deportees like Hawkins Wilson remembered had been obliterated by the Second Middle Passage. Although pioneer slaves worked assiduously to knit together a new family fabric, elevating elderly slaves into parents and deputizing friends as kin, of necessity they had to look beyond blood and marriage. Kin emerged as well from a new religious sensibility, as young men and women whose families had been ravaged by the Second Middle Passage embraced one another as brothers and sisters in Christ. A cadre of black evangelicals, many of who had been converted in the revivals of the late eighteenth century, became chief agents of the expansion of African-American Christianity. James Williams, a black driver who had been transferred from Virginia to the Alabama blackbelt, was just one of many believers who was 'torn away from the care and discipline of their respective churches.' Swept westward by the tide of the domestic slave trade, they 'retained their love for the exercises of religion.

Abstraction is important, abstraction is necessary, otherwise we can't perceive the shapes—an ellipse, a triangle—that structure experience, provide its lattice, but she can be cold, the way stars are cold, beautiful cold light that bends around the sun, changing the star's apparent location, a problem of measurement, prosody, the ancient dream of conspiring (the car beeped and the lights flashed twice as I unlocked it)—a dream, not a theory. But in reality, I just mumbled something about having to get home, I'm sure your sister will show up soon. When I got into the car, he slowly raised an arm; I couldn't tell if the gesture meant goodbye or wait. Now I think it meant goodbye and wait.

A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. This every sister of the Bene Gesserit knows. To begin your study of the life of Muad’Dib, then, take care that you first place him in his time: born in the 57th year of the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam IV. And take the most special care that you locate Muad’Dib in his place: the planet Arrakis. Do not be deceived by the fact that he was born on Caladan and lived his first fifteen years there. Arrakis, the planet known as Dune, is forever his place. —FROM “MANUAL OF MUAD’DIB” BY THE PRINCESS IRULAN

Though continental division and shifting in the days of Peleg appears feasible from a superficial reading of Genesis 10:25 in isolation, this concept has some major problems associated with it: 1. When Genesis 10:25 is read within the context of the whole of Genesis 10, the four other verses (5, 18, 20, and 32) speaking of the division clearly emphasize that this was a linguistic and family division of all post-Flood people into different lands (geographical locations). 2. Had the division of continents occurred during the days of Peleg, then the associated catastrophism would have resulted in another worldwide Flood, in violation of God's specific promise to Noah. 3. Had the division of continents occurred during the days of Peleg, then the ark (with Peleg's ancestors) would have had no place to land, as the mountains of Ararat produced by continental collisions would not have yet existed. 4. There is tremendous fossil and geologic evidence for continental division having occurred only during the Flood. We, therefore, gently and lovingly encourage our brothers and sisters in Christ to refrain from claiming the division of continents occurred during the days of Peleg. The phrase "for in his days the earth was divided" in Genesis 10:25 needs to be kept and read within its context of Genesis 10 to give the statement its correct meaning.

Chicago is the proverbial middle child of large U.S. cities. Some might consider this analogy only in reference to Chicago’s geographic location in the middle of the country. However, the analogy is multifaceted; like most middle children and like books between elaborate bookends, Chicago can sometimes be easy to overlook. It is smart and genuine, but it is always compared, for better or for worse, to its older and younger siblings, New York and Los Angeles. It’s the less notorious but smarter sister to New York; it’s the less ostentatious but considerably more genuine sister to Los Angeles.

Anyhow, I drove like my daddy was chasing me, which he did a few times when I was a teenager and I snuck out of the house, and made it to the airport. I stowed away on a plane, which looks a lot more fun in the movies by the way, and made it back home. Most guys would have stopped at that point but Dmitri, being stubborn, called a few times spouting off, so I had my number changed.” “But?” “But, he got my family’s number and started calling them. Which was fine. My aunts and stuff blocked him, but thing is, he showed up on my parents’ doorstep while I was out shopping. My parents are vacationing in Mexico, and so Aunt Cecily had to deal with him.” “They scared her.” She laughed. “Scare my Aunt Cecily? Not in this lifetime. She wields a mean right hook. Daddy’s sister is the one who taught me to fight dirty.” “Something had to have happened to get you banished.” “Well, she was kind of worried about me, on account of me being delicate and stuff.” He couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah, that was my reaction too, but that’s what I get for being the youngest in the family. Teena beat me into the world by like ten seconds. Anyhow, Aunt Cecily would have kept me around, except the goons trampled Mama’s flower garden during one of their kidnapping attempts.” “You got banished over flowers?” “No, I got banished before the goons did any more damage to Mama’s stuff. When my mother cries, Daddy gets a little upset, and when Daddy gets upset, things happen. Dealing with the disposal of bodies is always a pain, and law enforcement really frowns upon murder. And Daddy’s been trying so hard to stay out of jail. Anyhow, for the good of the family, it was strongly suggested I take an extended vacation in the hopes my absence would see Dmitri call off his paid thugs and give up on the whole marriage business.” “Except he realized you took off and followed you here.” A frown creased her brow. “Yeah, which is weird because I was certain I didn’t have a tail.” “Well, you’re going to have one now, twenty-four-seven, until I locate this Dmitri fellow and tell him to get the hell out of pride territory.” -Meena & Leo

As much as you vex me, I would like to see you locate your sister." His lips spread into an easy grin. "Why, Miss Pennypacker, I think you might have admitted that you like me." "I said," she said pointedly, "that you vex me." "Well, of course. I do it on purpose." That earned him a glare. He leaned forward and chucked her chin. "Vexing you is the most fun I've had in ages." "It isn't fun for me," she muttered. "Of course it is," he said jovially, leading her into the small dining room. "I'll wager I'm the only person you know who dares to contradict you." "You make me sound like a termagant." He pulled out a chair for her. "Am I correct?" "Yes," she mumbled, "but I'm not a termagant." "Of course not." He sat down across from her. "But you are used to having your own way." "So are you ," she retorted. "Touché.

Drat,” Pandora exclaimed, examining a handful of puzzle pieces, “I can’t find Luton.” “Don’t concern yourself with it,” West told her. “We can leave out Luton entirely, and England will be none the worse for it. In fact, it’s an improvement.” “They are said to make fine hats in Luton,” Cassandra said. “I’ve heard that hat making drives people mad,” Pandora remarked. “Which I don’t understand, because it doesn’t seem tedious enough to do that.” “It isn’t the job that drives them mad,” West said. “It’s the mercury solution they use to smooth the felt. After repeated exposure, it addles the brain. Hence the term ‘mad as a hatter.’” “Then why is it used, if it is harmful to the workers?” Pandora asked. “Because there are always more workers,” West said cynically. “Pandora,” Cassandra exclaimed, “I do wish you wouldn’t force a puzzle piece into a space where it obviously does not fit.” “It does fit,” her twin insisted stubbornly. “Helen,” Cassandra called out to their older sister, “is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?” The music ceased briefly. Helen spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano. Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious. “No, dear, in the Irish Sea.” “Fiddlesticks.” Pandora tossed the piece aside. “This is frustraging.” At Devon’s puzzled expression, Helen explained, “Pandora likes to invent words.” “I don’t like to,” Pandora said irritably. “It’s only that sometimes an ordinary word doesn’t fit how I feel.

Pandora,” Cassandra exclaimed, “I do wish you wouldn’t force a puzzle piece into a space where it obviously does not fit.” “It does fit,” her twin insisted stubbornly. “Helen,” Cassandra called out to their older sister, “is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?” The music ceased briefly. Helen spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano. Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious. “No, dear, in the Irish Sea.” “Fiddlesticks.” Pandora tossed the piece aside. “This is frustraging.” At Devon’s puzzled expression, Helen explained, “Pandora likes to invent words.” “I don’t like to,” Pandora said irritably. “It’s only that sometimes an ordinary word doesn’t fit how I feel.

Pandora,” Cassandra exclaimed, “I do wish you wouldn’t force a puzzle piece into a space where it obviously does not fit.” “It does fit,” her twin insisted stubbornly. “Helen,” Cassandra called out to their older sister, “is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?” The music ceased briefly. Helen spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano. Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious. “No, dear, in the Irish Sea.” “Fiddlesticks.” Pandora tossed the piece aside. “This is frustraging.” At Devon’s puzzled expression, Helen explained, “Pandora likes to invent words.” “I don’t like to,” Pandora said irritably. “It’s only that sometimes an ordinary word doesn’t fit how I feel.” Rising from the piano bench, Helen approached Devon. “Thank you for finding Kathleen, my lord,” she said, her gaze smiling. “She is resting upstairs. The maids are preparing a hot bath for her, and afterward Cook will send up a tray.” “She is well?” he asked, wondering exactly what Kathleen had told Helen. Helen nodded. “I think so. Although she is a bit weary.” Of course she was. Come to think of it, so was he. Devon turned his attention to his brother. “West, I want to speak to you. Come with me to the library, will you?” West drained the rest of his tea, stood, and bowed to the Ravenel sisters. “Thank you for a delightful afternoon, my dears.” He paused before departing. “Pandora, sweetheart, you’re attempting to cram Portsmouth into Wales, which I assure you will please neither party.” “I told you,” Cassandra said to Pandora, and the twins began to squabble while Devon and West left the room.