Skins Funny Quotes

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I go to the saltwater and wash off the blood, trying to decide which I hate more, pain or itching. Fed up, I stomp back onto the beach, turn my face upward and snap, "Hey, Haymitch, if you're not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin." It's almost funny how quickly the parachute appears above me. I reach up and the tube lands squarely in my open hand. "About time" I say, but I can't keep the scowl on my face. Haymitch. What I wouldn't give for five minutes of conversation with him.
Suzanne Collins (Catching Fire (The Hunger Games, #2))
Home is where, when you go there and tell people to get out, they have to leave.
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
Legion hissed like a startled cat, the noise scraping at Reyes’s skin. “Me no boy. You think me a boy?” Everyone stopped, stared. Even Aeron. Reyes was the first to find his voice. “You’re a…girl?” A nod. “Me pretty.” “Yes, you are.” Reyes exchanged a glance with Lucien. “Beautiful.
Gena Showalter (The Darkest Pleasure (Lords of the Underworld, #3))
Sam's hand brushed her shoulder, and she almost jumped out of her skin as he brought his mouth close to her ear and murmured, "You look beautiful. Though I bet you already know that." She most certainly did.
Sarah J. Maas (The Assassin's Blade (Throne of Glass, #0.1-0.5))
One last thing," he said. "Stop looking for me." "I'm not looking for you." I scoffed. He touched his index finger to my forehead, my skin absurdly warming under his touch. It didn't escape me that he couldn't seem to stop finding reasons to touch me. Nor did I miss that I didn't want him to stop. "Under all the layers, a part of you remembers. It's the part that came looking for me tonight. It's that part that's going to get you killed, if you're not careful." We stood face-to-face, both of us breathing hard. The sirens were so close now. "What am I supposed to tell the police?" I said. "You're not going to talk to the police." "Oh, really? Funny, because I plan on telling them exactly how you rammed that tire iron into Gabe's back. Unless you answer my questions." He gave an ironic snort. "Blackmail? You've changed, Angel.
Becca Fitzpatrick (Silence (Hush, Hush, #3))
But sometimes, people kick you to the ground at recess because they think the shape of your eyes is funny. They lunge at you because they see a vulnerable body. Or a different skin color. Or a different name. Or a girl. They think that you won't hit back - that you'll just lower your eyes and hide. And sometimes, to protect yourself, to make it go away, you do. But sometimes, you find yourself standing in exactly the right position, wielding exactly the right weapon to hit back.
Marie Lu (Warcross (Warcross, #1))
It’s funny how you get under his skin.” At first, I’m not sure I heard him right. I almost ask whom he’s talking about, because I can’t quite believe he’s admitting that high and mighty Cardan is affected by anything. “Like a splinter?” I say. “Of iron. No one else bothers him quite the way that you do.
Holly Black (The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air, #1))
I can’t see through clothes or anything. Just glamour skin. Except I can see through all of you, since your clothes aren’t real.” I stopped, horrified. “I mean, I don’t look—It’s hard to see you, and I like looking at your real face, but I don’t try to see anything, because—Oh gosh, this sounds terrible.” He had a funny look on his face, like he wasn’t sure what to think. “Huh. That’s never been an issue before. Maybe next time you could bring me some shorts.
Kiersten White (Paranormalcy (Paranormalcy, #1))
Oh God, is this like Silence of the Lambs?" Tears flowed down her face. "I don't want to go down the hole! I won't put lotion on the skin! Look at me, you won't be able to wear my skin, I won't cover your huge ass!" She wailed.
Alanea Alder (My Commander (Bewitched and Bewildered, #1))
Shh." I squeeze his hand. His palm feels clammy. "We have to keep it down, okay? We don't want my dad coming in." He grits his teeth against more shivers. "Always knew I'd end up in your bed . . . and hear you say those words one day." He manages a smirk. Jeb snarls. "Unbelievable. Even when he's at death's door he's a tool." He arranges a pillow beneath Morpheus's neck. "Why don't you keep your mouth shut while we help you." Morpheus laughs weakly, his skin flashing with blue light. "What say Alyssa"--his breath rattles--"give my mouth something else to do?
A.G. Howard (Unhinged (Splintered, #2))
What are they waiting to see?" Sam follows my gaze and I shrug. "Who knows? You could always do a dance, or tell a joke, or... kiss the bride?" "Not the bride," he wraps his arms around me, and gradually pulls me close. Our noses are practically touching. I can see right into his eyes. I can feel the warmth of his skin. "you." Me. "The girl who stole my phone." His lips brush across the corner of my mouth. "The thief." "It was in a bin." "Still stealing." "No it isn't-," I begin. But now his mouth is firmly on mine, and I can't speak at all. And suddenly, life is good.
Sophie Kinsella (I've Got Your Number)
Here I am, in borrowed bones, in makeshift skin, looking out it eyes that are a construct, breathing with lungs that are only a step–a basic rearrangement–away from leaves. How funny, to have a body when I am not a body? How funny, to be inside when I am outside.
Helena Fox (How It Feels to Float)
He sat down on the edge of Lucie’s bed—and immediately leaped back up, blushing. Lucie took her hands off her hips, amused. “A ghost with a sense of propriety. That is funny.” He looked at her darkly. He really did have a most arresting face, she thought. His black hair and green eyes made a wintry contrast against his pale skin. As a writer, one had to pay attention to these things. Descriptions were very important.
Cassandra Clare (Chain of Gold (The Last Hours, #1))
Sometimes being crazy is a demon. And sometimes the demon is me. And I visit quiet sidewalks and loud parties and dark movies, and a small demon looks out at the world with me. Sometimes it sleeps. Sometimes it plays. Sometimes it laughs with me. Sometimes it tries to kill me. But it’s always with me. I suppose we’re all possessed in some way. Some of us with dependence on pills or wine. Others through sex or gambling. Some of us through self-destruction or anger or fear. And some of us just carry around our tiny demon as he wreaks havoc in our mind, tearing open old dusty trunks of bad memories and leaving the remnants spread everywhere. Wearing the skins of people we’ve hurt. Wearing the skins of people we’ve loved. And sometimes, when it’s worst, wearing our skins.
Jenny Lawson (Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things)
I rubbed at my temple, where the zit was gone. It still hurt a little , though, deep under the skin. I hate those zits that burrow underground. You think they've vanished, but no, they just barricade themselves right next to the bone and hurt.
Lili St. Crow (Strange Angels (Strange Angels, #1))
The funny thing about a lie is that once it has been said and believed, it lives and becomes. It can't be taken back. It sucks all the air from you until you give up and it takes over and you forget how to breathe on your own. It is like those parasitic relationships, but not like the shark and the little remora that politely cleans the shark's skin and sometimes attaches itself to its underbelly. No, it is more like a tapeworm eating someone from the inside out.
Carrie Arcos (Out of Reach)
(One does not simply walk into Mordor--except that was exactly what everyone in the story did anyway.)
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
More real, more there, like it's just the most incredible thing in the world that we're both still alive and I feel my chest get all funny and tight and I think, Here she is, right here, my Viola, she came for me, she's here- And I find myself thinking how I want to take her hand again and never let it go, to feel the skin of it, the warmth of it, hold it tight against my own hand...
Patrick Ness (Monsters of Men (Chaos Walking, #3))
When it rains it pours and when it shines you get melanoma.
Sol Luckman (Beginner's Luke (Beginner's Luke, #1))
He glances over his shoulder, no doubt hearing my insanely loud shoes stop in their tracks. Then he looks again. It’s a double take for the record books. “I’m out stalking,” I call. It doesn’t come out the way I’d intended. It’s not lighthearted or funny. It comes out like a warning. I’m one scary bitch right now. I hold my hands up to show I’m not armed. My heart is racing. “Me too,” he replies. Another cab cruises past like a shark. “Where are you actually going?” My voice rings down the empty street. “I just told you. I’m going out stalking.” “What, on foot?” I come closer by another six paces. “You were going to walk?” “I was going to run down the middle of the street like the Terminator.” The laugh blasts out of me like bah.I’m breaking one of my rules by grinning at him, but I can’t seem to stop. “You’re on foot, after all. Stilts.” He gestures at my sky-high shoes. “It gives me a few extra inches of height to look through your garbage.” “Find anything of interest?” He strolls closer and stops until we have maybe ten paces between us. I can almost pick up the scent of his skin. “Pretty much what I was expecting. Vegetable scraps, coffee grounds, adult diapers.
Sally Thorne (The Hating Game)
Julian,” said Jia, in the same gentle voice, “would you do something for us? Would you take up the Mortal Sword?” Clary sat up straight. She had held the Mortal Sword: she had felt the weight of it. The cold, like hooks in your skin, dragging the truth out of you. You couldn’t lie holding the Mortal Sword, but the truth, even a truth you wanted to tell, was agony. “They can’t,” she whispered. “He’s just a kid —” “He’s the oldest of the kids who escaped the Institute,” Jace said under his breath. “They don’t have a choice.” Julian nodded, his thin shoulders straight. “I’ll take it.” Robert Lightwood passed behind the podium then and went to the table. He took up the sword and returned to stand in front of Julian. The contrast between them was almost funny: the big, barrel-chested man and the lanky, wild-haired boy. Julian reached a hand up and took the sword. As his hand closed around the hilt, he shuddered, a ripple of pain that was quickly forced down. Emma, behind him, started forward, and Clary caught a glimpse of the look on her face — pure fury — before Helen caught at her and pulled her back.
Cassandra Clare (City of Heavenly Fire (The Mortal Instruments, #6))
He loved her. Was in love with her. Had always loved her. And it seemed that she loved him, too. It was funny how the world could change on a dime like that. One minute, you were some poor chump pining after a girl you thought didn’t feel the same way about you, and the next, you were lying together, arms entwined, chest to chest, so close you could feel her heartbeat under her soft skin. You were looking into her eyes and seeing your whole future written there.
Libba Bray (Before the Devil Breaks You (The Diviners, #3))
Once I faced a female with diamond skin," Nix said breathlessly. "I was transfixed - even as she was choking the life out of me." "Really?" " No, I saw that character on X men. I just wanted to commiserate. Alas, I have no weaknesses." "Except your insanity," Lucia pointed out. sigh. "Well played, Archer. then carry on...
Kresley Cole (Pleasure of a Dark Prince (Immortals After Dark, #8))
Eventually, Krysomallos would be skinned for his fleece, which became known as the Golden Fleece, which means I am related to a sheepskin rug. This is why you don't want to think too hard about who you're related to in the Greek myths. It'll drive you crazy.
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Gods)
Personally, if I were trying to discourage people from smoking, my sign would be a little different. In fact, I might even go too far in the opposite direction. My sign would say something like, "Smoke if you wish. But if you do, be prepared for the following series of events: First, we will confiscate your cigarette and extinguish it somewhere on the surface of your skin. We will then run you nicotine-stained fingers through a paper shredder and throw them into the street, where wild dogs will swallow them and then regurgitate them into the sewers, so that infected rats can further soil them before they're flushed out to sea with the rest of the city's filth. After such time, we will sysematically seek out your friends and loved one and destroy their lives." Wouldn't you like to see a sign like that?
George Carlin (When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?)
Many obese people spend a significant amount of their energy on suppressing the urge to tell some of the people who are staring at them that they do not eat as much and as frequently as they seem to.
Mokokoma Mokhonoana
Growing up I sometimes imagined that for Christ's return perhaps He would appear as 'Black Jesus' to white people and 'White Jesus' to black people just to screw with the racists.
Criss Jami (Healology)
Lipstick?" He arched a brow. "I'm on the hunt for my perfect shade," I respond, deadpan. "Ditch the magenta. Your olive skin screams for rose." His deadpan is better than mine.
Gena Showalter (A Mad Zombie Party (White Rabbit Chronicles, #4))
Dan's skin was beginning to lose color. "Oh, har-har. A library, right? Just to make me crazy. 'Cause there's no reason we would go to a library. Right? I mean, we don't need to research Peoria, do we?" Amy began heading for the building. "Not Peoria. Something else." "Not funny, Amy!" Dan called as she pushed open the heavy brass doors. "Amy...Amy?
Peter Lerangis (The Viper's Nest (The 39 Clues, #7))
And if he was kind and friendly and funny, and if he told you about places so beautiful that you wanted to go with him to see them, and if he listened to you talk like he actually cared about what you were saying? And if he tried to protect you when other people tried to tell you what to do, as if they owned you? And if he has the handsomest face you've ever seen, no matter if the skin has been damaged, because he's just lovely even so?
Caroline Leech (Wait for Me)
He was a humorist, and everyone knew the funny writers were the most serious sort under their skins.
Paula McLain (The Paris Wife)
I am a vicious and unrepentant killer who should be locked up. With him, my idiot boyfriend.
Kylie Scott (Skin (Flesh, #2))
None of my issues have included memory loss or unconscious actions," she said. Thomas squinted back at her. "If they had, how would you know it?" Molly frowned. "Valid point.
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
Understanding America for the Non-American Black: Thoughts on the Special White Friend One great gift for the Zipped-Up Negro is The White Friend Who Gets It. Sadly, this is not as common as one would wish, but some are lucky to have that white friend who you don’t need to explain shit to. By all means, put this friend to work. Such friends not only get it, but also have great bullshit-detectors and so they totally understand that they can say stuff that you can’t. So there is, in much of America, a stealthy little notion lying in the hearts of many: that white people earned their place at jobs and schools while black people got in because they were black. But in fact, since the beginning of America, white people have been getting jobs because they were white. Many whites with the same qualifications but Negro skin would not have the jobs they have. But don’t ever say this publicly. Let your white friend say it. If you make the mistake of saying this, you will be accused of a curiosity called “playing the race card.” Nobody quite knows what this means. When my father was in school in my NAB (Non American Black) country, many American Blacks could not vote or go to good schools. The reason? Their skin color. Skin color alone was the problem. Today, many Americans say that skin color cannot be part of the solution. Otherwise it is referred to as a curiosity called “reverse racism.” Have your white friend point out how the American Black deal is kind of like you’ve been unjustly imprisoned for many years, then all of a sudden you’re set free, but you get no bus fare. And, by the way, you and the guy who imprisoned you are now automatically equal. If the “slavery was so long ago” thing comes up, have your white friend say that lots of white folks are still inheriting money that their families made a hundred years ago. So if that legacy lives, why not the legacy of slavery? And have your white friend say how funny it is, that American pollsters ask white and black people if racism is over. White people in general say it is over and black people in general say it is not. Funny indeed. More suggestions for what you should have your white friend say? Please post away. And here’s to all the white friends who get it.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Americanah)
It will never belong in a Hallmark card, but I drove a car into a house and killed a man for you. You chained me up for days and I still wanted to come back and talk over our darkly sordid, slightly kinky, and a lot warped relationship. Face it, you're stuck with me.
Kylie Scott (Skin (Flesh, #2))
You were a mermaid, weren’t you? That’s what Nadya said.” “I still am,” said Cora. “I just have my scales under my skin for now.” Christopher smiled, a little lopsided. “Funny. That’s where I keep my bones.
Seanan McGuire (Beneath the Sugar Sky (Wayward Children, #3))
I like your skin because it keeps your organs from falling out onto the carpet.
Jenny Lawson (Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things)
I’m fifteen and I feel like girl my age are under a lot of pressure that boys are not under. I know I am smart, I know I am kind and funny, and I know that everyone around me keeps telling me that I can be whatever I want to be. I know all this but I just don’t feel that way. I always feel like if I don’t look a certain way, if boys don’t think I’m ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’ then I’ve failed and it doesn’t even matter if I am a doctor or writer, I’ll still feel like nothing. I hate that I feel like that because it makes me seem shallow, but I know all of my friends feel like that, and even my little sister. I feel like successful women are only considered a success if they are successful AND hot, and I worry constantly that I won’t be. What if my boobs don’t grow, what if I don’t have the perfect body, what if my hips don’t widen and give me a little waist, if none of that happens I feel like what’s the point of doing anything because I’ll just be the ‘fat ugly girl’ regardless of whether I do become a doctor or not. I wish people would think about what pressure they are putting on everyone, not just teenage girls, but even older people – I watch my mum tear herself apart every day because her boobs are sagging and her skin is wrinkling, she feels like she is ugly even though she is amazing, but then I feel like I can’t judge because I do the same to myself. I wish the people who had real power and control the images and messages we get fed all day actually thought about what they did for once. I know the girls on page 3 are probably starving themselves. I know the girls in adverts are airbrushed. I know beauty is on the inside. But I still feel like I’m not good enough.
Laura Bates (Everyday Sexism)
[He] carefully put a funky-looking pair of reading glasses on her. "There we go. How are they?" She blinked experimentally, peering around the room. "Good, I think. Thank you." "Wear them the next time we f***. That would be thanking me." "Aww. You say the sweetest things." "Don't I?
Kylie Scott (Skin (Flesh, #2))
Love was lazy as hell. Love laid around in bed, warm from the sheets and the sunlight pouring into the room. Love was too lazy to get up to close the blinds. Love was too comfortable to get up and go pee. Love took too many naps, it watched TV, but not really, because it was too busy kissing and napping. Love was also funny, which somehow made the bed more comfortable, the laughter warming the sheets, softening the mattress and the lovers’ skin.
Adi Alsaid (Never Always Sometimes)
With the Book hitching rides, hiding on people, guess we’re all going to be dressing like skanks for a while, huh? Skintight or skin. Dude, everybody’s everything’s gonna be hanging out, and some o’ those fat chicks at the abbey are gonna gross my eyeballs right outta my head. Muffin tops and camel toes, gah!
Karen Marie Moning (Shadowfever (Fever, #5))
Ali was a lucky, lucky girl having those two big hot men at her disposal. Not that Roslyn wasn't content with her one surly man, but still...two. Some people were enjoying their apocalypse a little too much.
Kylie Scott (Skin (Flesh, #2))
Maybe I was wrong, and maybe someday I’ll look back and regret lashing out like that. I’m still not entirely sure why I threw myself into the fire over this specific incident. But sometimes, people kick you to the ground at recess because they think the shape of your eyes is funny. They lunge at you because they see a vulnerable body. Or a different skin color. Or a difficult name. They think that you won’t hit back—that you’ll just lower your eyes and hide. And sometimes, to protect yourself, to make it go away, you do. But sometimes, you find yourself standing in exactly the right position, wielding exactly the right weapon to hit back. So I hit. I hit fast and hard and furious. I hit with nothing but the language whispered between circuits and wire, the language that can bring people to their knees. And in spite of everything, I’d do it all over again.
Marie Lu (Warcross (Warcross, #1))
She tried to remind herself that beauty was only skin deep, but that didn't offer any helpful excuses when she was berating herself for never knowing what to say to people. There was nothing more depressing than an ugly girl with no personality. It hurts, because deep inside, she knew who she was, and that person was smart and kind and often very funny, but somehow her personality always got lost somewhere between her heart and her mouth, and she found herself saying the wrong thing or, more often, nothing at all.
Julia Quinn (Romancing Mister Bridgerton: The 2nd Epilogue (Bridgertons, #4.5))
All right, my hope—but I am not saying the rest of it—I have something you need to feel.” She feigned the sound of outrage. “But we barely know each other, sir!” He laughed softly. “But you must hold it in your hand and feel it change,” he urged, in her ear. “I insist. I can wait no longer.” She knew they were on a serious subject, but the flutter of his breath on her skin, the low drawl of his words—heat raced along all her nerve endings. “Will I like it?” “Well, I do have to apologize for its size. It is rather small.” And with that, he pressed something rather small into her hand.
Sherry Thomas (The Perilous Sea (The Elemental Trilogy, #2))
You put cow dung on my face?’ ‘Every day religiously until you were three. Why else do you think your skin is so clear?
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
Come with me if you want to live.
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
It’ll be hard not to tease your folk sometimes.” Brishen couldn’t imagine how she might go about such a thing.  He had no idea if the Kai and the Gauri even knew the same jokes or found the same things funny.  “What do you mean?” He almost leapt out of his skin when Ildiko stared at him as both of her eyes drifted slowly down and over until they seemed to meet together, separated only by the elegant bridge of her nose. “Lover of thorns and holy gods!” he yelped and clapped one hand across her eyes to shut out the sight.  “Stop that,” he ordered. Ildiko laughed and pushed his hand away.  She laughed even harder when she caught sight of his expression.  “Wait,” she gasped on a giggle.  “I can do better.  Want to see me make one eye cross and have the other stay still?” Brishen reared back.  “No!”  He grimaced.  “Nightmarish.  I’ll thank you to keep that particular talent to yourself, wife.
Grace Draven (Radiance (Wraith Kings, #1))
Do you understand that you are exactly attractive enough and thin enough (even if you weigh four hundred pounds) and smart enough and funny enough, even if you cannot tell a knock-knock joke without fucking it up? You are exactly everything enough to the person who thinks you are. Just like when you look at them, your eyes will get all wet and girly. Because of their beauty. Even if by any ordinary, reasonable standard, they're short and old and have bad skin.
Augusten Burroughs (This Is How: Proven Aid in Overcoming Shyness, Molestation, Fatness, Spinsterhood, Grief, Disease, Lushery, Decrepitude & More. For Young and Old Alike.)
Shayna wasn't so lucky. She waved as she passed her. "Looking good, Mrs. Mancuso." No. She wasn't. Mrs. Mancuso's neck skin dragged a path between the tulips. "Go to church and get some morals, hussy!
Cecy Robson (A Cursed Embrace (Weird Girls, #2))
Oh come on,'Pheobe continued. 'You're asking for it. Pale skin, black clothes, no lunch and that whole brooding thing? It's hilarious. You should get body glitter and go after an unsuspecting freshman.' 'You should!' Cassidy agreed. 'Tell her you're a dangerous monster. And mention how good her blood smells.' 'Wrong time of the month on that one, and I'm getting slapped,' I muttered, and everyone laughed.
Robyn Schneider (The Beginning of Everything)
On this Thursday, on this particular walk to school, there was an old frog croaking in the stream behind the hedge as we went by. 'Can you hear him, Danny?' 'Yes,' I said, 'That is a bullfrog calling to his wife. He does it by blowing out his dewlap and letting it go with a burp.' 'What is a dewlap?' I asked. 'It's the loose skin on his throat. He can blow it up just like a balloon.' 'What happens when his wife hears him?' 'She goes hopping over to him. She is very happy to have been invited. But I'll tell you something very funny about the old bullfrog. He often becomes so pleased with the sound of his own voice that his wife has to nudge him several times before he'll stop his burping and turn round to hug her.' That made me laugh. 'Dont laugh too loud,' he said, twinkling at me with his eyes. 'We men are not so very different from the bullfrog.
Roald Dahl (Danny the Champion of the World)
I’ve got to get my body back. While I like wearing you, I’d rather wear you as a blanket on top of me and not the skin I’m walking around in. It has this whole Hannibal Lecter aspect that’s really creeping me out.”Jo “Hannibal Lecter?” Cadegan “It’s a TV show and book character. Not really important. Like a wombat in a blender.” Jo “I’m not sure what this blender is, but I think I should be feeling bad for that poor wombat.” Cadegan
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Son of No One (Dark-Hunter, #23; Hellchaser, #5; Were-Hunter, #8, Lords of Avalon, #4))
Lee, I’m not good enough for him.” “Now, what do you mean by that?” “I’m not being funny. He doesn’t think about me. He’s made someone up, and it’s like he put my skin on her. I’m not like that—not like the made-up one.” “What’s she like?” “Pure!” said Abra. “Just absolutely pure. Nothing but pure—never a bad thing. I’m not like that.” “Nobody is,” said Lee. “He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even want to know me. He wants that—white—ghost.
John Steinbeck (East of Eden)
The sun weeps because it can no longer caress your skin or warm your lips." He sifted his fingers through my hair. "I do not envy the sun, Eva. But I truly hate the moon, because its light touches you in all the ways I cannot.
Michele Bardsley (Don't Talk Back To Your Vampire (Broken Heart, #2))
Dad used to say lots of funny things - like he was speaking his own language sometimes. Twenty-three skidoo, salad days, nosey parker, bandbox fresh, the catbird seat, chocolate teapot, and something about Grandma sucking eggs. One of his favourites was 'safe as houses'. Teaching me to ride a bike, my mother worrying in the doorway: "Calm down, Linda, this street is as safe as houses." Convincing Jamie to sleep without his nightlight: "It's as safe as houses in here, son, not a monster for miles." Then overnight the world turned into a hideous nightmare, and the phrase became a black joke to Jamie and me. Houses were the most dangerous places we knew. Hiding in a patch of scrubby pines, watching a car pull out from the garage of a secluded home, deciding whether to make a food run, whether it was too dicey. "Do you think the parasites'll be long gone?" "No way - that place is as safe as houses. Let's get out of here." And now I can sit here and watch TV like it is five years ago and Mom and Dad are in the other room and i've never spent a night hiding in a drainpipe with Jamie and a bunch of rats while bodysnatchers with spotlights search for the thieves who made off with a bag of dried beans and a bowl of cold spaghetti. I know that if Jamie and I survived alone for twenty years we would never find this feeling on our own. The feeling of safety. More than safety, even - happiness. Safe and happy, two things I thought i'd never feel again. Jared made us feel that way without trying, just be being Jared. I breathe in the scent of his skin and feel the warmth of his body under mine. Jared makes everything safe, everything happy. Even houses.
Stephenie Meyer (The Host (The Host, #1))
In the morning After taking cold shower —-what a mistake—- I look at the mirror. There, a funny guy, Grey hair, white beard, wrinkled skin, —-what a pity—- Poor, dirty, old man, He is not me, absolutely not. Land and life Fishing in the ocean Sleeping in the desert with stars Building a shelter in the mountains Farming the ancient way Singing with coyotes Singing against nuclear war— I’ll never be tired of life. Now I’m seventeen years old, Very charming young man. I sit quietly in lotus position, Meditating, meditating for nothing. Suddenly a voice comes to me: “To stay young, To save the world, Break the mirror.
Nanao Sakaki (Break the Mirror)
It's funny: one starts off thinking one is shrinkingly sensitive & intelligent & always one down & all the rest of it: then at thirty one finds one is a great clumping brute, incapable of appreciating anything finer than a kiss or a kick, roaring our one's hypocrisies at the top of one's voice, thick skinned as a rhino. At least I do.
Philip Larkin (Philip Larkin: Letters to Monica)
Well I'm not going to hope that you get hurt, but if you do, remember that you're my damsel in distress, and no one is allowed to carry you." "I don't remember signing a contract." "All the more reason to promise me now." "What if you're not around when I get hurt?" "Send word, I`ll come running." "How big an injury does it have to be? Because sometimes I do this thing when I stand up too quickly and my ankle kind of twists a little---" "Sounds serious. You don't want to put any weight on that. I`d better carry you the next time that happens." "What if I skin my knee?" "I`ll carry you." "Charley horse?" "I`ll carry you." "Chipped toenail?" "Not worth taking a risk. I`ll carry you.” I grin at him [...] I have to admit -- he's funnier and smarter than I've given him credit for.
Claire LaZebnik (The Trouble with Flirting)
I have a dream. And in this dream I’m under the covers in bed, just a few scant inches away from Carter’s body. I stare at his prone form lying next to me, the greenish-blue glow from the alarm clock on the bedside table providing just enough illumination for me to see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The sheet is draped low over his hips as he sleeps peacefully with one arm flung over his eyes and the other resting on his taut, naked stomach. I slide my body ever so slowly across the bed, careful not to disturb him, until I’m so close I can feel the heat from his skin warming me from head to toe. I pull my arms out from under the sheet and my hands reach out towards him. I connect with his smooth, muscular chest, slide my fingers up his body, and…choke the ever living shit out of him.
Tara Sivec (Futures and Frosting (Chocolate Lovers, #2))
He shakes his head, still smiling. "No. It's funny how you get under his skin." --- "Like a splinter?" I say. --- "Of iron. No one else bothers him quite the way that you do.
Holly Black (The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air, #1))
Mr. Darcy is a construct designed to make woman feel bad about the partners that they're capable of attracting versus the fantasized image he presents.
Caitlin Kittredge (Second Skin (Nocturne City, #3))
He’s sitting casually at my kitchen table peeling the skin off an apple with a pocket knife, a red apple that he has quite obviously appropriated from my fruit bowl, might I add.
L.H. Cosway (Tegan's Blood (The Ultimate Power, #1))
BLARGLE SLORG NOTH HARGHLE FTHAGN! You know. The usual.
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
I liked my face. Ethan liked my face. A lot of people liked my face. Besides, makeup was really just glorified face paint.
D.A. Paul (Boost (A Haunted Addiction, #1))
The funny thing was that the sisters were hardly nubile, creamy-skinned Lolitas blushing on the bough. In fact, one of them looked like she'd beaten herself with a tire iron during a smallpox-induced hallucination, and the other looked like a close-up photo of a wolf spider.
Diablo Cody
Arrgh!” Hadleigh flung up an arm to shield her eyes but the damage had been done. She’d seen a lot of ugly things in her time and generally ended up killing them but this … this thing defied description. It mocked the word ugly as pithy and stomped on an array of descriptive words such as loathsome, skin crawling and hideous. “Good Goddess, what in the Hell is that?
Jane Cousins (To Woo A Warrior (Southern Sanctuary, #1))
The things you remember about a person when they're gone are funny. No two people will feel the same way, though usually it has to do with scent, or expression, the sound of a voice, an unusual gesture. For me, I can still see the colors of Keiko; the black of her hair against creamy pale skin, her dark blue kimono with white circles, the deep orange persimmons falling from the brown basket she carried. The ache in my heart grows larger every time I think of these colors, and how as each day passes they continue to fade from my eyes.
Gail Tsukiyama (The Samurai's Garden)
Funny, she had all that ink on her skin to protect her from ghosts and magic, and he were damn sure doing what he could to protect her outside that, but weren’t anything he could do to keep her safe from the memories.  He
Stacia Kane (Wrong Ways Down (Downside Ghosts, #1.5))
Bennie's corner of Brooklyn looked different every time Sierra passed through it. She stopped at the corner of Washington Avenue and St. John's Place to take in the changing scenery. A half block from where she stood, she'd skinned her knee playing hopscotch while juiced up on iceys and sugar drinks. Bennie's brother, Vincent, had been killed by the cops on the adjacent corner, just a few steps from his own front door. Now her best friend's neighborhood felt like another planet. The place Sierra and Bennie used to get their hair done had turned into a fancy bakery of some kind, and yes, the coffee was good, but you couldn't get a cup for less than three dollars. Plus, every time Sierra went in, the hip, young white kid behind the counter gave her either the don't-cause-no-trouble look or the I-want-to-adopt-you look. The Takeover (as Bennie had dubbed it once) had been going on for a few years now, but tonight its pace seemed to have accelerated tenfold. Sierra couldn't find a single brown face on the block. It looked like a late-night frat party had just let out; she was getting funny stares from all sides--as if she was the out-of-place one, she thought. And then, sadly, she realized she was the out-of-place one.
Daniel José Older (Shadowshaper (Shadowshaper Cypher, #1))
It's a funny thing, how people go. How you can be so consumed by one person, and then as the years go by, like a slow-working serum, something seeps into your skin that renders the person you once loved so dearly a total stranger.
Luna Lacour (Star-Crossed)
To all who walk the dark path, and to those who walk in the sunshine but hold out a hand in the darkness to travel beside us: Brighter days are coming. Clearer sight will arrive. And you will arrive too. No, it might not be forever. The bright moments might be for a few days at a time, but hold on for those days. Those days are worth the dark. In the dark you find yourself, all bones and exhaustion and helplessness. In the dark you find your basest self. In the dark you find the bottom of watery trenches the rest of the world only sees the surface of. You will see things that no normal person will ever see. Terrible things. Mysterious things. Things that try to burrow into your mind like a bad seed. Things that whisper dark and horrid secrets that you want to forget. Things that scream lies. Things that want you dead. Things that will stop at nothing to pull you down further and kill you in the most terrible way of all … by your own trembling hand. These things are fearsome monsters … the kind you always knew would sink in their needle-sharp teeth and pull you under the bed if you left a dangling limb out. You know they aren’t real, but when you’re in that black, watery hole with them they are the realest thing there is. And they want us dead. And sometimes they succeed. But not always. And not with you. You are alive. You have fought and battled them. You are scarred and worn and sometimes exhausted and were perhaps even close to giving up, but you did not. You have won many battles. There are no medals given out for these fights, but you wear your armor and your scars like an invisible skin, and each time you learn a little more. You learn how to fight. You learn which weapons work. You learn who your allies are. You learn that those monsters are exquisite liars who will stop at nothing to get you to surrender. Sometimes you fight valiantly with fists and words and fury. Sometimes you fight by pulling yourself into a tiny ball, blotting out the monsters along with the rest of the world. Sometimes you fight by giving up and turning it over to someone else who can fight for you. Sometimes you just fall deeper. And in the deepest, night-blind fathoms you’re certain that you’re alone. You aren’t. I’m there with you. And I’m not alone. Some of the best people are here too … feeling blindly. Waiting. Crying. Surviving. Painfully stretching their souls so that they can learn to breathe underwater … so that they can do what the monsters say is impossible. So that they can live. And so that they can find their way back to the surface with the knowledge of things that go bump in the night. So that they can dry themselves in the warm light that shines so brightly and easily for those above the surface. So that they can walk with others in the sunlight but with different eyes … eyes that still see the people underwater, allowing them to reach out into the darkness to pull up fellow fighters, or to simply hold their cold hands and sit beside the water to wait patiently for them to come up for air. Ground zero is where the normal people live their lives, but not us. We live in the negatives so often that we begin to understand that life when the sun shines should be lived full throttle, soaring. The invisible tether that binds the normal people on their steady course doesn’t hold us in the same way. Sometimes we walk in sunlight with everyone else. Sometimes we live underwater and fight and grow. And sometimes …  … sometimes we fly.
Jenny Lawson (Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things)
It was his wife we objected to. Her name was Leda, but he called her Tip. She was very small and her hair, eyes, and skin, though naturally of different shades, were all muddy. She seldom sat- she perched on things - and liked to cock her head a little to one side. Nora had a theory that once when Edge opened an antique grave, Tip ran out of it,...
Dashiell Hammett (The Thin Man)
It was that summer, too, that I began the cutting, and was almost as devoted to it as to my newfound loveliness. I adored tending to myself, wiping a shallow red pool of my blood away with a damp washcloth to magically reveal, just above my naval: queasy. Applying alcohol with dabs of a cotton ball, wispy shreds sticking to the bloody lines of: perky. I had a dirty streak my senior year, which I later rectified. A few quick cuts and cunt becomes can't, cock turns into back, clit transforms to a very unlikely cat, the l and i turned into a teetering capital A. The last words I ever carved into myself, sixteen years after I started: vanish. Sometimes I can hear the words squabbling at each other across my body. Up on my shoulder, panty calling down to cherry on the inside of my right ankle. On the underside of a big toe, sew uttering muffled threats to baby, just under my left breast. I can quiet them down by thinking of vanish, always hushed and regal, lording over the other words from the safety of the nape of my neck. Also: At the center of my back, which was too difficult to reach, is a circle of perfect skin the size of a fist. Over the years I've made my own private jokes. You can really read me. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I've certainly given myself a life sentence. Funny, right? I can't stand to look myself without being completely covered. Someday I may visit a surgeon, see what can be done to smooth me, but now I couldn't bear the reaction. Instead I drink so I don't think too much about what I've done to my body and so I don't do any more. Yet most of the time that I'm awake, I want to cut. Not small words either. Equivocate. Inarticulate. Duplicitous. At my hospital back in Illinois they would not approve of this craving. For those who need a name, there's a gift basket of medical terms. All I know is that the cutting made me feel safe. It was proof. Thoughts and words, captured where I could see them and track them. The truth, stinging, on my skin, in a freakish shorthand. Tell me you're going to the doctor, and I'll want to cut worrisome on my arm. Say you've fallen in love and I buzz the outlines of tragic over my breast. I hadn't necessarily wanted to be cured. But I was out of places to write, slicing myself between my toes - bad, cry - like a junkie looking for one last vein. Vanish did it for me. I'd saved the neck, such a nice prime spot, for one final good cutting. Then I turned myself in.
Gillian Flynn (Sharp Objects)
Let her go in with him." (...) "Actually, I feel quite endangered by her presence. Dont you, Lila?" "Absolutely," said Lila. "She terrifies me. Right Sean?" "Shit." Sean wiped a hand over his face. (...) Lila raised her eyebrows and the Viking groaned in defeat. "Never been so scared in my life. She's so small and ...wounded." "Please, Finn," said Ali, her eyes full of warmth and good humor. "Save us. You're our last hope." "F***ing ridiculous." Finn pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and shoved one into the lock.
Kylie Scott (Skin (Flesh, #2))
He cupped my chin with his big hand and watched me. He breathed hard through his nose. His shoulders heaved way harder than they should have after a few minutes of kissing. I was about to suggest some additional conditioning exercises before football season started. I opened my mouth to tell him. He kissed me again. His tongue passed my lips and played across my teeth. We’d only been kissing like this for a week, but it seemed very natural when I kissed him back the same way. My body was on autopilot as I reached blindly for his waist and dragged him even closer, his torso skin-to-skin with mine against the tree. Who were we? I was turning into any of the assorted older girls who’d been seen leaving the cab of Sean’s truck at night. I’d always viewed those girls with a mixture of awe and derision. Sexual attraction was funny. Lust was hilarious. Now, not so much. Those girls had my sympathy, because I totally got it. I ran my fingers lightly up Adam’s bare back. He gasped. I opened my eyes to see if I’d done something wrong. He still touched the tree, but his muscles were taut, holding on to it for dear life. His eyes were closed. He rubbed his rough cheek slowly against mine. I had done nothing wrong. He was savoring. I knew how he felt. Tracing my fingernails down his back again, I whispered, “Stubble or what?” Eyes still closed, he chuckled. “I’m not shaving until our parents let us date again.” He kissed my cheek. “What if it takes… a… while?” I asked, struggling to talk.
Jennifer Echols (Endless Summer (The Boys Next Door, #1-2))
Nyx rubbed the ointment onto her new, darker skin. She was nearly as dark as Suha now. She supposed it would protect her from more cancers, but it was funny-looking. At least her face was the same. At least her face didn't look Chenjan. I'm never going to get laid again, Nyx thought.
Kameron Hurley (Infidel (Bel Dame Apocrypha, #2))
Try not to look like that," Ascher said under breath, after we were in the elevator. "Like what?" I asked. "Like you're expecting ninjas to leap out of the trash cans. This is a party." "Everyone knows there's no such things as ninjas," I scoffed. "But it will be something. Count on it.
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
We didn't have time to get you an actual haircut," she said. "Seriously, did you do it yourself? Maybe without a mirror?" I put a hand up to my head self-consciously and said, "I had some help from the General. And, hey, I didn't say anything about your man-shoes." "They're steel-toed," she said calmly. "In case I need to plant them in anyone's ass as a result of him calling them man-shoes. And seriously, you let Toot help you with your hair?
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
Under the mellowing influence of good food and good music, Adam relaxed, and I discovered that underneath that overbearing, hot-tempered Alpha disguise he usually wore was a charming, over-bearing, hot-tempered man. He seemed to enjoy finding out that I was as stubborn and disrespectful of authority as he’d always suspected. He ordered dessert without consulting me. I’d have been angrier, but it was something I could never have ordered for myself: chocolate, caramel, nuts, ice cream, real whipped cream, and cake so rich it might as well have been a brownie. “So,” he said, as I finished the last bit, “I’m forgiven?” “You are arrogant and overstep your bounds,” I told him, pointing my clean fork at him. “I try,” he said with false modesty. Then his eyes darkened and he reached across the table and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. He watched me as he licked the caramel from his skin. I thumped my hands down on the table and leaned forward. “That is not fair. I’ll eat your dessert and like it—but you can’t use sex to keep me from getting mad.” He laughed, one of those soft laughs that start in the belly and rise up through the chest: a relaxed, happy sort of laugh. To change the subject, because matters were heating up faster than I was comfortable with, I said, “So Bran tells me that he ordered you to keep an eye out for me.” He stopped laughing and raised both eyebrows. “Yes. Now ask me if I was watching you for Bran.” It was a trick question. I could see the amusement in his eyes. I hesitated, but decided I wanted to know anyway. “Okay, I’ll bite. Were you watching me for Bran?” “Honey,” he drawled, pulling on his Southern roots. “When a wolf watches a lamb, he’s not thinking of the lamb’s mommy.” I grinned. I couldn’t help it. The idea of Bran as a lamb’s mommy was too funny. “I’m not much of a lamb,” I said. He just smiled.
Patricia Briggs (Moon Called (Mercy Thompson, #1))
He shook his head, but I kept flattering him, telling him how fine his beard was, how fair his skin was (ha!), how it was obvious from his nose and forehead that he wasn't some pig herd who had converted, but a true-blue Muslim who had flown here on a magic carpet all the way from Mecca, and he grunted with satisfaction
Aravind Adiga (The White Tiger)
Al right, calm down. Fuck,” Smithie said. It was then I felt something not unpleasant but somewhat scary slide across my skin and I looked up to see the gang of hotties al standing, watching and every last one of them flashing a grin. “What are you lookin’ at?” I snapped, not to any one of them in particular, but in their general direction. Don’t ask me why I didn’t run and hide in the books, I just didn’t. I guess that wasn’t me anymore. “Babe, you just made me a regular,” Mace said.
Kristen Ashley (Rock Chick Rescue (Rock Chick, #2))
In the cool dark basement, she whispers, "It's not Ralph, is it?" Cabel's quiet for a moment, as if he's thinking, "You mean like Forever Ralph? Uh, no." "You've read Forever?" Janie is incredulous. "There wasn't much else to chose from on the hospital library cart, and Deenie was always checked out," Cable says sarcastically. "Did you like it?" Cabel laughs softly, "Um...well, it wasn't the wisest thing to read for a fourteen-year-old guy with fresh skin grafts in the general area down there, if you know what I mean.
Lisa McMann (Gone (Wake, #3))
If he didn't want to be mauled by a sex-starved woman who hadn't gotten any skin in months, he'd better keep his hands to himself.
Jody Wallace (The Whole Truth)
His son. That funny creature that looked like a skinned rabbit was his son.
Lisa Marie Rice (Dangerous Secrets (Dangerous, #2))
I'm not exactly a useless cream puff.
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
Tropical trees had been planted throughout the room, along with bright flowering plants that were busy committing the olfactory floral equivalent of aggravated assault.
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
I know you haven't burned down any buildings in a while," she said, "but if you start feeling the need...
Jim Butcher (Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15))
We loved them. We hated them. We wanted to be them. How tall they were, how lovely, how fair. Their long, graceful limbs. Their bright white teeth. Their pale, luminous skin, which disguised all seven blemishes of the face. Their odd but endearing ways, which ceased to amuse - their love for A.I. sauce and high, pointy-toed shoes, their funny, turned-out walk, their tendency to gather in each other's parlors in large, noisy groups and stand around talking, all at once, for hours. Why, we wondered, did it never occur to them to sit down? They seemed so at home in the world. So at ease. They had a confidence that we lacked. And much better hair. So many colors. And we regretted that we could not be more like them.
Julie Otsuka (The Buddha in the Attic)
“Sit with me,” Isaiah says. As I move to rest next to him, he stops me. “Not there. Here.” He motions to the spot between his legs. Awkwardly, I settle in front of him. Isaiah, the king of secure, waves off any distance between us as he gathers me into the safe shelter of his body. The blood pulses faster in my veins. I like being this close to him. Maybe a little too much. “You’re beautiful.” His breath tickles the skin behind my ear, and the small hairs stand on end with the joyous sensation. “You’re smart and funny. I love how your eyes shine when you laugh.” He glides his fingers against my skin causing an addictive tingling. “I love how you lace your fingers and brush your hair from your face when you’re nervous. I love how you offer yourself so completely to me—no fear. You’re loyal and strong.” “I’m not strong.” I cut him off. The panic attacks confirm that. Unable to be near him anymore, I attempt to untangle myself from him, but Isaiah becomes a solid wall around me and I jerk in his arms in protest. His tender hold tightens, and the words feel like poetry because of the deep, soothing way he speaks. “You’re wrong. I see you exactly as you are.”
Katie McGarry (Crash into You (Pushing the Limits, #3))
It's a queer thing is a man's soul. It is the whole of him. Which means it is the unknown him, as well as the known. It seems to me just funny, professors and Benjamins fixing the functions of the soul. Why, the soul of man is a vast forest, and all Benjamin intended was a neat back garden. And we've all got to fit into his kitchen garden scheme of things. Hail Columbia ! The soul of man is a dark forest. The Hercynian Wood that scared the Romans so, and out of which came the white- skinned hordes of the next civilization. Who knows what will come out of the soul of man? The soul of man is a dark vast forest, with wild life in it. Think of Benjamin fencing it off! Oh, but Benjamin fenced a little tract that he called the soul of man, and proceeded to get it into cultivation. Providence, forsooth! And they think that bit of barbed wire is going to keep us in pound for ever? More fools they. ... Man is a moral animal. All right. I am a moral animal. And I'm going to remain such. I'm not going to be turned into a virtuous little automaton as Benjamin would have me. 'This is good, that is bad. Turn the little handle and let the good tap flow,' saith Benjamin, and all America with him. 'But first of all extirpate those savages who are always turning on the bad tap.' I am a moral animal. But I am not a moral machine. I don't work with a little set of handles or levers. The Temperance- silence-order- resolution-frugality-industry-sincerity - justice- moderation-cleanliness-tranquillity-chastity-humility keyboard is not going to get me going. I'm really not just an automatic piano with a moral Benjamin getting tunes out of me. Here's my creed, against Benjamin's. This is what I believe: 'That I am I.' ' That my soul is a dark forest.' 'That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest.' 'Thatgods, strange gods, come forth f rom the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back.' ' That I must have the courage to let them come and go.' ' That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women.' There is my creed. He who runs may read. He who prefers to crawl, or to go by gasoline, can call it rot.
D.H. Lawrence (Studies in Classic American Literature)
Mira Levenson. Aged twelve. Looks, long dark shiny hair, dark brown eyes (almost black), brown skin. Beautiful. Favorite colour, copper orange, I think. Personality, clever, bright, serious, shy, funny without realizing it, holds back her thoughts, mystery girl, arty. What I've noticed: she's stronger than she thinks she is; she doesn't speak much ay school. What I know: she's got a loud laugh (when she lets it out). Her best friend is Millie Lockhart. She doesn't need Millie as much as she thinks she does. Her grandmother is dying and she loves her. She started talking in Pat Print's class. I know she doesn't know how much I think of her, how much I miss her if she's not around. What I think she thinks about me is that I'm a bit of a joker, but I'm deadly serious. Deer...apple...green...sea... See you on Friday! Love Jidé
Sita Brahmachari (Artichoke Hearts)
Jem looked at ease in a white sweater and dark jeans. His black hair had a single, dramatic streak of silver in it that stood out against his brown skin. “How are you finding the training?” he asked, leaning forward. “I don’t bruise as much anymore,” Simon said, shrugging. “That’s excellent,” Jem said. “It means you’re finding your feet and deflecting more blows.” “Really?” Simon said. “I thought it was because I was dead inside.
Cassandra Clare
I had a dream about you. You had no skin or muscle on your face, and to try to conceal your bare skull you liberally applied lipstick and makeup. Your birthday was coming up, and I knew you were probably sensitive about parties that emphasize the aging process, so I decided to box up your gift in a coffin and wrap it with black wrapping paper. I got you the best gift ever too—a hooker, who happened to be dead, because that enabled me to procure a sizeable discount.

Dora J. Arod (I Had a Dream About You)
The sweating is awful. It’s not as bad as the not eating, but it’s weird—cold sweat, all over my forehead, having to be wiped off every two minutes, smelling like skin concentrate. People notice. It’s one of the few things people notice.
Ned Vizzini (It's Kind of a Funny Story)
Breathe, Cassie, breathe. He has a good face. Not the face of someone who wants to hurt you. If he wanted to hurt you, he wouldn't have brought you here and stuck an IV in you to keep you hydrated, and the sheets feel nice and clean, and so what took your clothes and dressed you in this cotton nightie, what did you expect him to do? Your clothes were filthy, like you, only you're not anymore, and your skin smells a little like lilacs, which means holy Christ he BATHED you.
Rick Yancey (The 5th Wave (The 5th Wave, #1))
K, boys, it’s shirts against skins. Lose ‘em,” Lucy said, pointing to the guys and ignoring Thad. “I beg your pardon?” Thad said, aghast. “Why do we have to be skins?” Josh complained. Lucy looked at Erin and they both shrugged and grabbed the hems of their shirts, preparing to haul them over their heads. “Whoa!” Sable said, covering his eyes immediately. “Wait,” Josh, Angelo, and Thad said at the same time. “Hell, yeah,” Blaze chimed in. The girls stopped right before they fully exposed their chest. “What? You guys act like none of you have ever seen a pair of boobs in a bra before. Josh saw mine a few hours ago and I know, for a fact, that three of you have seen hers outside the bra.” Lucy looked pointedly at Thad, Blaze, and Angelo. Erin’s head snapped in Josh’s direction. “JOSH!” she screeched, accidentally letting loose a snap of electricity.
Christine James (Final Redemption (The Chosen, #3))
I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with our dog's blanket and the tea-cosy. I can't say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left. And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring - I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen-house. Though even that isn't a very good poem. I have decided my best poetry is so bad that I mustn't write any more of it. Drips from the roof are plopping into the water-butt by the back door. The view through the windows above the sink is excessively drear. Beyond the dank garden in the courtyard are the ruined walls on the edge of the moat. Beyond the moat, the boggy ploughed fields stretch to the leaden sky. I tell myself that all the rain we have had lately is good for nature, and that at any moment spring will surge on us. I try to see leaves on the trees and the courtyard filled with sunlight. Unfortunately, the more my mind's eye sees green and gold, the more drained of all colour does the twilight seem. It is comforting to look away from the windows and towards the kitchen fire, near which my sister Rose is ironing - though she obviously can't see properly, and it will be a pity if she scorches her only nightgown. (I have two, but one is minus its behind.) Rose looks particularly fetching by firelight because she is a pinkish person; her skin has a pink glow and her hair is pinkish gold, very light and feathery. Although I am rather used to her I know she is a beauty. She is nearly twenty-one and very bitter with life. I am seventeen, look younger, feel older. I am no beauty but I have a neatish face. I have just remarked to Rose that our situation is really rather romantic - two girls in this strange and lonely house. She replied that she saw nothing romantic about being shut up in a crumbling ruin surrounded by a sea of mud. I must admit that our home is an unreasonable place to live in. Yet I love it. The house itself was built in the time of Charles II, but it was grafted on to a fourteenth-century castle that had been damaged by Cromwell. The whole of our east wall was part of the castle; there are two round towers in it. The gatehouse is intact and a stretch of the old walls at their full height joins it to the house. And Belmotte Tower, all that remains of an even older castle, still stands on its mound close by. But I won't attempt to describe our peculiar home fully until I can see more time ahead of me than I do now. I am writing this journal partly to practise my newly acquired speed-writing and partly to teach myself how to write a novel - I intend to capture all our characters and put in conversations. It ought to be good for my style to dash along without much thought, as up to now my stories have been very stiff and self-conscious. The only time father obliged me by reading one of them, he said I combined stateliness with a desperate effort to be funny. He told me to relax and let the words flow out of me.
Dodie Smith (I Capture the Castle)
But as no two (theoreticians) agree on this (skin friction) or any other subject, some not agreeing today with what they wrote a year ago, I think we might put down all their results, add them together, and then divide by the number of mathematicians, and thus find the average coefficient of error. (1908)
Hiram Stevens Maxim (Artificial and Natural Flight.)
His hands have begun to tremble, and he stuffs them into his pockets. They have put him in a thick gray coat, but he wears no scarf, and the skin of his neck and chest are exposed at the open collar. The healer in Arsinoe resists the urge to wrap him in a cloak. He is still weak and should be in front of a cozy fire with a hot bowl of soup. "How is it that I have come to be here?" he asks. "I gather that I was stolen from the capital." Emilia shoves him again. "You are here to give information, not get it." "Emilia." Jules shakes her head, then returns her attention to Pietyr. "You were stolen from you sickbed in Greavesdrake Manor. From what we have heard, you had been there for a long time." "You don't remember anything?" asks Arsinoe. "Have you ever been unconscious, Queen Arsinoe?" "Yes." "Then you should know that is a stupid question." She frowns. In her mind, she takes away his bowl of soup.
Kendare Blake (Five ​Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns, #4))
A near half hour passed as Salvatore weaved his way through the winding tunnel, his steps slowing as he tilted back his head to sniff the air. The scent of cur was still strong, but he was beginning to pick up the distant scent of other curs, and…pure-blood. Female pureblood. Coming to a sharp halt, Salvatore savored the rich vanilla aroma that filled his senses. He loved the smell of women. Hell, he loved women. But this was different. It was intoxicating. “Cristo,” he breathed, his blood racing, an odd tightness coiling through his body, slowly draining his strength. Almost as if… No. It wasn’t possible. There hadn’t been a true Were mating for centuries. “Curs,” Levet said, moving to his side. “And a female pureblood.” “Si,” Salvatore muttered, distracted. “You think it’s a trap?” Salvatore swallowed a grim laugh. Hell, he hoped it was a trap. The alternative was enough to send any intelligent Were howling into the night. “There’s only one way to find out.” He moved forward, sensing the end of the tunnel just yards in front of him. “Salvatore?” Levet tugged on his pants. Salvatore shook him off. “What?” “You smell funny. Mon Dieu, are you…” With blinding speed, Salvatore grasped the gargoyle by one stunted horn and yanked him off his feet to glare into his ugly face. Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed the musky scent that clung to his skin. Merda. “One more word and you lose that tongue,” he snarled. “But…” “Do not screw with me.” “I do not intend to screw with anyone.” The gargoyle curled his lips in a mocking smile. “I am not the one in heat.
Alexandra Ivy (Beyond the Darkness (Guardians of Eternity, #6))
She's probably just tired of seeing you miserable.Like we all are," I add. "I'm sure...I'm sure she's as crazy about you as ever." "Hmm." He watches me put away my own shoes and empty the contents of my pockets. "What about you?" he asks, after a minute. "What about me?" St. Clair examines his watch. "Sideburns. You'll be seeing him next month." He's reestablishing...what? The boundary line? That he's taken, and I'm spoken for? Except I'm not. Not really. But I can't bear to say this now that he's mentioned Ellie. "Yeah,I can't wait to see him again. He's a funny guy, you'd like him.I'm gonna see his band play at Christmas. Toph's a great guy, you'd really like him. Oh. I already said that,didn't I? But you would. He's really...funny." Shut up,Anna. Shut.Up. St. Clair unbuckles and rebuckles and unbuckles his watchband. "I'm beat," I say. And it's the truth. As always, our conversation has exhausted me. I crawl into bed and wonder what he'll do.Lie on my floor? Go back to his room? But he places his watch on my desk and climbs onto my bed. He slides up next to me. He's on top of the covers, and I'm underneath. We're still fully dressed,minus our shoes, and the whole situation is beyond awkward. He hops up.I'm sure he's about to leave,and I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed,but...he flips off my light.My room is pitch-black. He shuffles back toward my bed and smacks into it. "Oof," he says. "Hey,there's a bed there." "Thanks for the warning." "No problem." "It's freezing in here.Do you have a fan on or something?" "It's the wind.My window won't shut all the way.I have a towel stuffed under it, but it doesn't really help." He pats his way around the bed and slides back in. "Ow," he says. "Yes?" "My belt.Would it be weird..." I'm thankful he can't see my blush. "Of course not." And I listen to the slap of leather as he pulls it out of his belt loops.He lays it gently on my hardwood floor. "Um," he says. "Would it be weird-" "Yes." "Oh,piss off.I'm not talking trousers. I only want under the blankets. That breeze is horrible." He slides underneath,and now we're lying side by side. In my narrow bed. Funny,but I never imagined my first sleepover with a guy being,well,a sleepover. "All we need now are Sixteen Candles and a game of Truth or Dare." He coughs. "Wh-what?" "The movie,pervert.I was just thinking it's been a while since I've had a sleepover." A pause. "Oh." "..." "..." "St. Clair?" "Yeah?" "Your elbow is murdering my back." "Bollocks.Sorry." He shifts,and then shifts again,and then again,until we're comfortable.One of his legs rests against mine.Despite the two layers of pants between us,I feel naked and vulnerable. He shifts again and now my entire leg, from calf to thigh, rests against his. I smell his hair. Mmm. NO! I swallow,and it's so loud.He coughs again. I'm trying not to squirm. After what feels like hours but is surely only minutes,his breath slows and his body relaxes.I finally begin to relax, too. I want to memorize his scent and the touch of his skin-one of his arms, now against mine-and the solidness os his body.No matter what happens,I'll remember this for the rest of my life. I study his profile.His lips,his nose, his eyelashes.He's so beautiful.
Stephanie Perkins (Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss, #1))
There's something to be said about practice-even if I'm not actually practicing anything. Just hanging out in the water, holding my breath, withering my skin to grandma-like wrinkles. I pull off the flippers Toraf brought me and chuck them onto shore. I keep my back turned while he maneuvers his shorts into place. "Are you decent?" I call after a few seconds. No matter how many times I tell him I can't see into the water yet, he insists I'm just trying to look at his "eel." For crying out loud. "Oh, I'm more than decent. I'm actually quite a catch." I couldn't agree more. Toraf is good-looking, funny, and considerate-which makes me question Rayna's attitude.
Anna Banks (Of Poseidon (The Syrena Legacy, #1))
As the day heats up, Peter convinces me to put down my French book and jump in the pool with him. The pool is crowded with little kids, no one as old as us. Steve Bledell has a pool at his house, but I wanted to come here, for old times’ sake. “Don’t you dare dunk me,” I warn. Peter starts circling me like a shark, coming closer and closer. “I’m serious!” He makes a dive for me and grabs me by the waist, but he doesn’t dunk me; he kisses me. His skin is cool and smooth against mine; so are his lips. I push him away and whisper, “Don’t kiss me--there are kids around!” “So?” “So nobody wants to see teenagers kissing in the pool where kids are trying to play. It isn’t right.” I know I sound like a priss, but I don’t care. When I was little, and there were teenagers horsing around in the pool, I always felt nervous to go in, because it was like the pool was theirs. Peter bursts out laughing. “You’re funny, Covey.” Swimming sideways, he says, “It isn’t right,” and then starts laughing again.
Jenny Han (Always and Forever, Lara Jean (To All the Boys I've Loved Before, #3))
You know, it’s funny. If someone attacked you with a knife and scarred you, the courts would assess the physical damage—how long a scar, how many stitches it took to close the wound, whatever—and they’d come up with a figure that you’d be entitled to in compensation. But hurting someone with words that they’ll always remember? With an act they’ll never forget? That’s physical damage, too—it changes you just as permanently as a scar. But instead of tallying up what the compensation should be, we just say, ‘Get over it,’ or ‘You should develop a thicker skin,’ or—and this is ironic, given that it’s the one thing that’s impossible—‘you should just forget about it.
Robert J. Sawyer (Triggers)
For years of mornings, I have woken wanting to die. Life itself twists into nightmare. For years, I have pulled the covers up over my head, dreading to begin another day I’d be bound to just wreck. Years, I lie listening to the taunt of names ringing off my interior walls, ones from the past that never drifted far and away: Loser. Mess. Failure. They are signs nailed overhead, nailed through me, naming me. The stars are blinking out. Funny, this. Yesterday morning, the morning before, all these mornings, I wake to the discontent of life in my skin. I wake to self-hatred. To the wrestle to get it all done, the relentless anxiety that I am failing. Always, the failing. I yell at children, fester with bitterness, forget doctor appointments, lose library books, live selfishly, skip prayer, complain, go to bed too late, neglect cleaning the toilets. I live tired. Afraid. Anxious. Weary. Years, I feel it in the veins, the pulsing of ruptured hopes. Would I ever be enough, find enough, do enough?
Ann Voskamp (One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are)
A hint of red there and a dose of heat to sear the skin—mmm, barbecue. Not funny, you sick bastard. As Wes rebuked his inner gator, he slapped himself, only to hear a voice he never thought to hear again after last night. “You’re slapping the wrong part of your body. Why don’t you stand up and I’ll help you get the right spot?” Melanie. What is she doing here?
Eve Langlais (Gator's Challenge (Bitten Point, #4))
Wouldn't it be cool to be single in a bygone area? I take a girl to a drive-in movie, we go have a cheeseburger and a malt at the diner, and then we make out under the stars in my old-timey convertible. Granted, this might have been tough in the fifties given my brown skin tone and racial tensions at the time, but in my fantasy, racial harmony is also part of the deal.
Aziz Ansari
It’s no one’s fault really,” he continued. “A big city cannot afford to have its attention distracted from the important job of being a big city by such a tiny, unimportant item as your happiness or mine.” This came out of him easily, assuredly, and I was suddenly interested. On closer inspection there was something aesthetic and scholarly about him, something faintly professorial. He knew I was with him, listening, and his grey eyes were kind with offered friendliness. He continued: “Those tall buildings there are more than monuments to the industry, thought and effort which have made this a great city; they also occasionally serve as springboards to eternity for misfits who cannot cope with the city and their own loneliness in it.” He paused and said something about one of the ducks which was quite unintelligible to me. “A great city is a battlefield,” he continued. “You need to be a fighter to live in it, not exist, mark you, live. Anybody can exist, dragging his soul around behind him like a worn-out coat; but living is different. It can be hard, but it can also be fun; there’s so much going on all the time that’s new and exciting.” I could not, nor wished to, ignore his pleasant voice, but I was in no mood for his philosophising. “If you were a negro you’d find that even existing would provide more excitement than you’d care for.” He looked at me and suddenly laughed; a laugh abandoned and gay, a laugh rich and young and indescribably infectious. I laughed with him, although I failed to see anything funny in my remark. “I wondered how long it would be before you broke down and talked to me,” he said, when his amusement had quietened down. “Talking helps, you know; if you can talk with someone you’re not lonely any more, don’t you think?” As simple as that. Soon we were chatting away unreservedly, like old friends, and I had told him everything. “Teaching,” he said presently. “That’s the thing. Why not get a job as a teacher?” “That’s rather unlikely,” I replied. “I have had no training as a teacher.” “Oh, that’s not absolutely necessary. Your degrees would be considered in lieu of training, and I feel sure that with your experience and obvious ability you could do well.” “Look here, Sir, if these people would not let me near ordinary inanimate equipment about which I understand quite a bit, is it reasonable to expect them to entrust the education of their children to me?” “Why not? They need teachers desperately.” “It is said that they also need technicians desperately.” “Ah, but that’s different. I don’t suppose educational authorities can be bothered about the colour of people’s skins, and I do believe that in that respect the London County Council is rather outstanding. Anyway, there would be no need to mention it; let it wait until they see you at the interview.” “I’ve tried that method before. It didn’t work.” “Try it again, you’ve nothing to lose. I know for a fact that there are many vacancies for teachers in the East End of London.” “Why especially the East End of London?” “From all accounts it is rather a tough area, and most teachers prefer to seek jobs elsewhere.” “And you think it would be just right for a negro, I suppose.” The vicious bitterness was creeping back; the suspicion was not so easily forgotten. “Now, just a moment, young man.” He was wonderfully patient with me, much more so than I deserved. “Don’t ever underrate the people of the East End; from those very slums and alleyways are emerging many of the new breed of professional and scientific men and quite a few of our politicians. Be careful lest you be a worse snob than the rest of us. Was this the kind of spirit in which you sought the other jobs?
E.R. Braithwaite (To Sir, With Love)
She felt him relax and his voice softened. “Is that what this is all about? You feel like you can’t talk to me anymore? We haven’t changed; we’re still the same people.” She slipped her hands beneath the front of his shirt, slowly running her fingertips over his chest and back down to his waist. He turned in her arms and smiled, but his grin was filled with mocking suspicion. “Are you trying to distract me, Violet Ambrose?” “I guess you’re smarter than you look,” she teased as he pushed her backward so that they both fell on her bed. “And you are not as funny as you think you are.” His mouth hovered over hers, his arms tightening, crushing her against him. Violet giggled and tried to squirm free, but Jay wouldn’t let her. He kissed her throat, his lips teasing her until it wasn’t his grip that made it hard for Violet to breathe. “Oh, and Violet,” he whispered against her ear, his breath tickling her cheek, “I’m still your best friend. Don’t ever forget it.” His words were fervent and touching. Violet tried to think of a response that made sense, something appropriate, but all she could manage was: “Please. Don’t stop.” She didn’t mind begging if it meant getting her way. Apparently that was enough to satisfy Jay, and he kissed her possessively. Thoroughly. Deeply. He eased her back until she was lying against the pillows, and she waited for him to stop, to tell her that they’d gone far enough for tonight. But she didn’t want him to. She wanted him to keep going. She wanted him to touch her, to kiss her, to explore her. Her body ached for it. She reached for him, clinging so tightly that her fingers hurt. Everything inside of her hurt. Jay settled over her, covering her with his body, reacting to her. Violet wrapped her legs around him, pulling his hip closer, telling him with her every movement that she wanted him, that she wanted this. Now. “Are you sure?” Jay asked into the warm breath between them, barely lifting his mouth from hers. She nodded, but when she tried to speak, her voice trembled. She hoped he didn’t read it wrong. “Of course I am.” She was nervous and terrified and thrilled all at the same time. He smiled against her mouth, still kissing her, and she melted into him, unable to stop her heart from thundering. He reached around for his wallet. “I have a condom.” His voice was rough. Violet smiled. She’d been waiting for this moment for far too long not to be prepared, but she was happy to hear that he’d been considering it seriously also. “Me too,” she told him, reaching into her nightstand drawer and pulling out a handful of them. “I knew you’d give in.” He groaned, his lips moving to her neck as he tugged at his shirt and pulled it over his head. Violet thought he was beautiful. He was right for her; he always had been. And as he slowly slid her shirt up, his fingertips stroking her bare skin and making goose bumps prickle in the wake of his touch, she wondered why it had taken them so long to get to this place.
Kimberly Derting (Desires of the Dead (The Body Finder, #2))
I shut my eyes and concentrated on the sun, and on feeling it warm my skin. On pleasure. Hedon. The Greek god. Or idol, as he should probably be called seeing as I was on hallowed ground. It's pretty arrogant, calling all other gods, apart from the one you've come up with, idols. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Every dictator's command to his subjects, of course. The funny thing was that Christians couldn't see it themselves. They didn't see the mechanism, the regenerative, self-fulfilling, self-aggrandising aspect which meant that a superstition like this could survive for two thousand years, and in which the key--salvation--was restricted to those who were fortunate enough to have been born in a space of time which was a merest blink of the eye in human history, and who also happened to live on the only little bit of the planet that ever got to hear the commandment and were able to formulate an opinion about the concise sales pitch ("Paradise?").
Jo Nesbø (Midnight Sun (Blood on Snow, #2))
Again, this week as I walked on Broadway, in front of giant photographs of voluptuous supermodels at a Victoria Secret mega-store, who was rebuilding the sidewalks? With sweaty headbands, ripped-up jeans, and dust on their brown faces? Their muscled hands quivered as they worked the jack-hammers and lugged the concrete chunks into dump trucks. Two men from Guanajuato. Undocumented workers. They both shook my hand vigorously, as if they were relieved I wasn’t an INS officer. I imagined how much money Victoria Secret was making off these poor bastards. I wondered why passersby didn’t see what was in front of their faces. We use these workers. We profit from them. In the shadows, they work to the bone, for pennies. And it’s so easy to blame them for everything and nothing simply because they are powerless, and dark-skinned,and speak with funny accents. Illegal is illegal. It is a phrase, shallow and cruel, that should prompt any decent American to burn with anger.
Sergio Troncoso (Crossing Borders: Personal Essays)
I tell Marla about the woman in Dear Abby who married a handsome successful mortician and on their wedding night, he made her soak in a tub of ice water until her skin was freezing to the touch, and then he made her lie in bed completely still while he had intercourse with her cold inert body. The funny thing is this woman had done this as a newlywed, and gone on to do it for the next ten years of marriage and now she was writing to Dear Abby to ask if Abby thought it meant something.
Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club)
Curran smiled. “What’s so funny?” “Your panties have a bow,” he said. I looked down. I was wearing a short tank top—not mine—and my blue panties with a narrow white strip of lace at the top and a tiny white bow. Would it have killed me to check what I was wearing before I pulled the blanket down? “What’s wrong with bows?” “Nothing.” He was grinning now. “I expected barbed wire. Or one of those steel chains.” Wiseass. “I’m secure enough in myself to wear panties with bows on them. Besides, they are comfy and soft.” “I bet.” He almost purred. I gulped. Okay, I needed to either crawl back into bed and cover myself with the blanket or get the hell to the bathroom and back. Since I didn’t fancy peeing on myself, the bathroom was my only option. “I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me a bit of privacy for my trip?” “Not a chance,” he said. I tried to get off the bed. Everything was under control until my weight actually hit my legs and then the room decided to crawl sideways. Curran caught me. His arm hugged my back, his touch sending an electric shiver along my skin. Oh no. “Need some help, ass kicker?” “I’m fine, thanks.” I pushed away from him. He held on to me for a second, letting me know that he could restrain me against my will with laughable ease, and let go. I clenched my teeth. Enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll be back on my feet soon. I walked away from him, successfully maintaining vertical position, and zeroed in on the nearest door. “That’s the closet.
Ilona Andrews (Magic Burns (Kate Daniels, #2))
A paradisiacal lagoon lay below them. The water was an unbelievable, unreal turquoise, its surface so still that every feature of the bottom could be admired in magnified detail: colorful pebbles, bright red kelp, fish as pretty and colorful as the jungle birds. A waterfall on the far side fell softly from a height of at least twenty feet. A triple rainbow graced its frothy bottom. Large boulders stuck out of the water at seemingly random intervals, black and sun-warmed and extremely inviting, like they had been placed there on purpose by some ancient giant. And on these were the mermaids. Wendy gasped at their beauty. Their tails were all colors of the rainbow, somehow managing not to look tawdry or clownish. Deep royal blue, glittery emerald green, coral red, anemone purple. Slick and wet and as beautifully real as the salmon Wendy's father had once caught on holiday in Scotland. Shining and voluptuously alive. The mermaids were rather scandalously naked except for a few who wore carefully placed shells and starfish, although their hair did afford some measure of decorum as it trailed down their torsos. Their locks were long and thick and sinuous and mostly the same shades as their tails. Some had very tightly coiled curls, some had braids. Some had decorated their tresses with limpets and bright hibiscus flowers. Their "human" skins were familiar tones: dark brown to pale white, pink and beige and golden and everything in between. Their eyes were also familiar eye colors but strangely clear and flat. Either depthless or extremely shallow depending on how one stared. They sang, they brushed their hair, they played in the water. In short, they did everything mythical and magical mermaids were supposed to do, laughing and splashing as they did. "Oh!" Wendy whispered. "They're-" And then she stopped. Tinker Bell was giving her a funny look. An unhappy funny look. The mermaids were beautiful. Indescribably, perfectly beautiful. They glowed and were radiant and seemed to suck up every ray of sun and sparkle of water; Wendy found she had no interest looking anywhere else.
Liz Braswell (Straight On Till Morning (Twisted Tales))
When I met Oodgeroo, I met my mother: not just Dossie’s poise, eyes and Lindt-like skin, but the funny-bugger with a steak knife, buried, a serrated intensity that unsettled me—a boy of elocution lessons and an easier ride,      25 a man of lighter brown travelling, whose tab of overt intolerance came in at insults and one lost girlfriend. I wasn’t there when indignity did its daily round—rarely blunt, rather, a pointed      30 needling that cut near the core, left wounds that broke their stitches every morning I did know that the sharp steel about Oodgeroo was also about my mother. On campus—
Anita Heiss (Anthology of Australian Aboriginal Literature)
I BELIEVE THAT we know much more about God than we admit that we know, than perhaps we altogether know that we know. God speaks to us, I would say, much more often than we realize or than we choose to realize. Before the sun sets every evening, he speaks to each of us in an intensely personal and unmistakable way. His message is not written out in starlight, which in the long run would make no difference; rather it is written out for each of us in the humdrum, helter-skelter events of each day; it is a message that in the long run might just make all the difference. Who knows what he will say to me today or to you today or into the midst of what kind of unlikely moment he will choose to say it. Not knowing is what makes today a holy mystery as every day is a holy mystery. But I believe that there are some things that by and large God is always saying to each of us. Each of us, for instance, carries around inside himself, I believe, a certain emptiness—a sense that something is missing, a restlessness, the deep feeling that somehow all is not right inside his skin. Psychologists sometimes call it anxiety, theologians sometimes call it estrangement, but whatever you call it, I doubt that there are many who do not recognize the experience itself, especially no one of our age, which has been variously termed the age of anxiety, the lost generation, the beat generation, the lonely crowd. Part of the inner world of everyone is this sense of emptiness, unease, incompleteness, and I believe that this in itself is a word from God, that this is the sound that God’s voice makes in a world that has explained him away. In such a world, I suspect that maybe God speaks to us most clearly through his silence, his absence, so that we know him best through our missing him. But he also speaks to us about ourselves, about what he wants us to do and what he wants us to become; and this is the area where I believe that we know so much more about him than we admit even to ourselves, where people hear God speak even if they do not believe in him. A face comes toward us down the street. Do we raise our eyes or do we keep them lowered, passing by in silence? Somebody says something about somebody else, and what he says happens to be not only cruel but also funny, and everybody laughs. Do we laugh too, or do we speak the truth? When a friend has hurt us, do we take pleasure in hating him, because hate has its pleasures as well as love, or do we try to build back some flimsy little bridge? Sometimes when we are alone, thoughts come swarming into our heads like bees—some of them destructive, ugly, self-defeating thoughts, some of them creative and glad. Which thoughts do we choose to think then, as much as we have the choice? Will we be brave today or a coward today? Not in some big way probably but in some little foolish way, yet brave still. Will we be honest today or a liar? Just some little pint-sized honesty, but honest still. Will we be a friend or cold as ice today? All the absurd little meetings, decisions, inner skirmishes that go to make up our days. It all adds up to very little, and yet it all adds up to very much. Our days are full of nonsense, and yet not, because it is precisely into the nonsense of our days that God speaks to us words of great significance—not words that are written in the stars but words that are written into the raw stuff and nonsense of our days, which are not nonsense just because God speaks into the midst of them. And the words that he says, to each of us differently, are be brave…be merciful…feed my lambs…press on toward the goal.
Frederick Buechner (Listening to Your Life: Daily Meditations with Frederick Buechne)
Okay. Let me rephrase. Sometimes being crazy is a demon. And sometimes the demon is me. And I visit quiet sidewalks and loud parties and dark movies, and a small demon looks out at the world with me. Sometimes it sleeps. Sometimes it plays. Sometimes it laughs with me. Sometimes it tries to kill me. But it's always with me. I suppose we're all possessed in some way. Some of us with dependence on pills or wine. Others through sex or gambling. Some of us through self-destruction or anger or fear. And some of us just carry around our tiny demon as he wreaks havoc in our minds, tearing open old dusty trunks of bad memories and leaving the remnants everywhere. Wearing the skins of people we've hurt. Wearing the skins of people we've loved. And sometimes, when it's worst, wearing our skins. These times are the hardest. When you can see yourself confined to your bed because you have no strength or will to leave. WHen you find yourself yelling at someone who you love because they want to help but can't. When you wake up in a gutter after trying to drink or smoke or dance away the ache - or the lack thereof. Those times when you are more demon than you are you. I don't always believe in God. But I believe in demons.
Jenny Lawson (Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things)
But it wasn't all bad. Sometimes things wasn't all bad. He used to come home easing into bed sometimes, not too drunk. I make out like I'm asleep, 'casue it's late, and he taken three dollars out of my pocketbook that morning or something. I hear him breathing, but I don't look around. I can see in my mind's eye his black arms thrown back behind his head, the muscles like a great big peach stones sanded down, with veins running like little swollen rivers down his arms. Without touching him I be feeling those ridges on the tips of my fingers. I sees the palms of his hands calloused to granite, and the long fingers curled up and still. I think about the thick, knotty hair on his chest, and the two big swells his breast muscles make. I want to rub my face hard in his chest and feel the hair cut my skin. I know just where the hair growth slacks out-just above his navel- and how it picks up again and spreads out. Maybe he'll shift a little, and his leg will touch me, or I feel his flank just graze my behind. I don't move even yet. Then he lift his head, turn over, and put his hand on my waist. If I don't move, he'll move his hand over to pull and knead my stomach. Soft and slow-like. I still don't move, because I don't want him to stop. I want to pretend sleep and have him keep rubbing my stomach. Then he will lean his head down and bite my tit. Then I don't want him to rub my stomach anymore. I want him to put his hand between my legs. I pretend to wake up, and turn to him, but not opening my legs. I want him to open them for me. He does, and I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I be softer than I ever been before. All my strength in his hand. My brain curls up like wilted leaves. A funny, empty feeling is in my hands. I want to grab holt of something, so I hold his head. His mouth is under my chin. Then I don't want his hands between my legs no more, because I think I am softening away. I stretch my legs open, and he is on top of me. Too heavy to hold, too light not to. He puts his thing in me. In me. In me. I wrap my feet around his back so he can't get away. His face is next to mine. The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back home. He puts his fingers in mine, and we stretches our arms outwise like Jesus on the cross. I hold tight. My fingers and my feet hold on tight, because everything else is going, going. I know he wants me to come first. But I can't. Not until he does. Not until I feel him loving me. Just me. Sinking into me. Not until I know that my flesh is all that be on his mind. That he couldnt stop if he had to. That he would die rather than take his thing our of me. Of me. Not until he has let go of all he has, and give it to me. To me. To me. When he does, I feel a power. I be strong, I be pretty, I be young. And then I wait. He shivers and tosses his head. Now I be strong enough, pretty enough, and young enough to let him make me come. I take my fingers out of his and put my hands on his behind. My legs drop back onto the bed. I don't make a noise, because the chil'ren might hear. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating up into me-deep in me. That streak of green from the june-bug light, the purple from the berries trickling along my thighs, Mama's lemonade yellow runs sweet in me. Then I feel like I'm laughing between my legs, and the laughing gets all mixed up with the colors, and I'm afraid I'll come, and afraid I won't. But I know I will. And I do. And it be rainbow all inside. And it lasts ad lasts and lasts. I want to thank him, but dont know how, so I pat him like you do a baby. He asks me if I'm all right. I say yes. He gets off me and lies down to sleep. I want to say something, but I don't. I don't want to take my mind offen the rainbow. I should get up and go to the toilet, but I don't. Besides Cholly is asleep with his leg thrown over me. I can't move and I don't want to.
Toni Morrison (The Bluest Eye)
Delete the italics I am not popular enough. I am not good enough. I am not strong enough. I am not lovable enough. I am not attractive enough. I am not cool enough. I am not hot enough. I am not clever enough. I am not funny enough. I am not educated enough. I am not Oxford enough. I am not literary enough. I am not rich enough. I am not posh enough. I am not young enough. I am not tough enough. I am not well-traveled enough. I am not talented enough. I am not cultured enough. I am not smooth-skinned enough. I am not thin enough. I am not muscular enough. I am not famous enough. I am not interesting enough. I am not worth enough. (I am enough.)
Matt Haig
Speaking of body decorations, I luuhhhvv your belly piercing!” Heeb said, looking at the gold ring in the center of her slim, tan waist. Despite the artic cold, Angelina had opted for a skin tight, black tube top that ended just above her belly, on the assumption that a warm cab, a winter coat, and a short wait to get into the club was an adequate frosty weather strategy. Heeb was still reverently staring at her belly when Angelina finally caught her breath from laughing. “Do you really like it? You’re just saying that so that you can check out my belly!” “And what’s so bad about that? I mean, didn’t you get that belly piercing so that people would check out your belly?” “No. I just thought it would look cool…Do you have any piercings?” “Actually, I do,” Heeb replied. “Where?” “My appendix.” “Huh?” “I wanted to be the first guy with a pierced organ. And the appendix is a totally useless organ anyway, so I figured why the hell not?” “That’s pretty original,” she replied, amused. “Oh yeah. I’ve outdone every piercing fanatic out there. The only problem is when I have to go through metal detectors at the airport.” Angelina burst into laughs again, and then managed to say, “Don’t you have to take it out occasionally for a cleaning?” “Nah. I figure I’ll just get it removed when my appendix bursts. It’ll be a two for one operation, if you know what I mean.
Zack Love (Sex in the Title: A Comedy about Dating, Sex, and Romance in NYC (Back When Phones Weren't So Smart))
...“I’m not being funny. He doesn’t think about me. He’s made someone up, and it’s like he put my skin on her. I’m not like that—not like the made-up one.” “What’s she like?” “Pure!” said Abra. “Just absolutely pure. Nothing but pure—never a bad thing. I’m not like that.” “Nobody is,” said Lee. “He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even want to know me. He wants that—white—ghost.” Lee rubbled a piece of cracker. “Don’t you like him? You’re pretty young, but I don’t think that makes any difference.” “ ’Course I like him. I’m going to be his wife. But I want him to like me too. And how can he, if he doesn’t know anything about me? I used to think he knew me. Now I’m not sure he ever did”.
John Steinbeck (East of Eden)
What do you think of this stuff?’ he asked. I looked at the bottle and discovered that it contained a miracle udder liniment, guaranteed to reduce pain and swelling. ‘I’ve seen the ad in the Dairy Exporter, but that’s about it,’ I said. ‘Does it work?’ Personally I doubted that it would, since it’s a bit of a stretch to ask something you rub on the skin to kill the bacteria lurking in the tissues ten centimetres down, but I had learnt through bitter experience that belittling someone’s pet alternative treatment is almost as offensive as telling them their kid looks funny. (My all-time low was attending a cat after-hours wearing a T-shirt which read Homeopathy, making damn-all difference since 1796, and then learning that the cat’s owner was a certified homeopath.)
Danielle Hawkins (Chocolate Cake for Breakfast)
Mom?” Then again, louder. “Mom?” She turned around so quickly, she knocked the pan off the stove and nearly dropped the gray paper into the open flame there. I saw her reach back and slap her hand against the knobs, twisting a dial until the smell of gas disappeared. “I don’t feel good. Can I stay home today?” No response, not even a blink. Her jaw was working, grinding, but it took me walking over to the table and sitting down for her to find her voice. “How—how did you get in here?” “I have a bad headache and my stomach hurts,” I told her, putting my elbows up on the table. I knew she hated when I whined, but I didn’t think she hated it enough to come over and grab me by the arm again. “I asked you how you got in here, young lady. What’s your name?” Her voice sounded strange. “Where do you live?” Her grip on my skin only tightened the longer I waited to answer. It had to have been a joke, right? Was she sick, too? Sometimes cold medicine did funny things to her. Funny things, though. Not scary things. “Can you tell me your name?” she repeated. “Ouch!” I yelped, trying to pull my arm away. “Mom, what’s wrong?” She yanked me up from the table, forcing me onto my feet. “Where are your parents? How did you get in this house?” Something tightened in my chest to the point of snapping. “Mom, Mommy, why—” “Stop it,” she hissed, “stop calling me that!” “What are you—?” I think I must have tried to say something else, but she dragged me over to the door that led out into the garage. My feet slid against the wood, skin burning. “Wh-what’s wrong with you?” I cried. I tried twisting out of her grasp, but she wouldn’t even look at me. Not until we were at the door to the garage and she pushed my back up against it. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I know you’re confused, but I promise that I’m not your mother. I don’t know how you got into this house, and, frankly, I’m not sure I want to know—” “I live here!” I told her. “I live here! I’m Ruby!” When she looked at me again, I saw none of the things that made Mom my mother. The lines that formed around her eyes when she smiled were smoothed out, and her jaw was clenched around whatever she wanted to say next. When she looked at me, she didn’t see me. I wasn’t invisible, but I wasn’t Ruby. “Mom.” I started to cry. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be bad. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry! Please, I promise I’ll be good—I’ll go to school today and won’t be sick, and I’ll pick up my room. I’m sorry. Please remember. Please!” She put one hand on my shoulder and the other on the door handle. “My husband is a police officer. He’ll be able to help you get home. Wait in here—and don’t touch anything.” The door opened and I was pushed into a wall of freezing January air. I stumbled down onto the dirty, oil-stained concrete, just managing to catch myself before I slammed into the side of her car. I heard the door shut behind me, and the lock click into place; heard her call Dad’s name as clearly as I heard the birds in the bushes outside the dark garage. She hadn’t even turned on the light for me. I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, ignoring the bite of the frosty air on my bare skin. I launched myself in the direction of the door, fumbling around until I found it. I tried shaking the handle, jiggling it, still thinking, hoping, praying that this was some big birthday surprise, and that by the time I got back inside, there would be a plate of pancakes at the table and Dad would bring in the presents, and we could—we could—we could pretend like the night before had never happened, even with the evidence in the next room over. The door was locked. “I’m sorry!” I was screaming. Pounding my fists against it. “Mommy, I’m sorry! Please!” Dad appeared a moment later, his stocky shape outlined by the light from inside of the house. I saw Mom’s bright-red face over his shoulder; he turned to wave her off and then reached over to flip on the overhead lights.
Alexandra Bracken (The Darkest Minds (The Darkest Minds, #1))
Morning.” She blinks at me. Specifically at my abs, I think. “Where are your pajamas?” “Don’t own any.” I glance down at my boxers. All the important bits are covered. “Does it matter? I could put on my bathing suit instead. It’s more or less the same thing in a brighter color.” “Right.” She clears her throat. But I don’t miss her eyes making another quick sweep of my body. And I have to hold back a laugh. Could Alex be having a moment of regret? “Um…” She shakes her head once. “Thank you for dealing with the delivery.” “No problem.” I lift a hand to my chest and stroke a palm down my bare skin. And, yup, her eyes lock onto my fingers, and she follows my movements like a hungry dog eyes a piece of meat. How funny is this? Now I’m definitely not putting on a shirt this morning. Not until I absolutely have to. Why ruin the fun?
Sarina Bowen (Moonlighter (The Company, #1))
I’m going to puncture the femoral sheath.” Camilla passed him a little pair of scissors, and he cut a short slit in the thigh of the corpse’s soft leather trousers. Then Palamedes prodded around with his fingers—he placed the needle to the dead skin—and the corpse’s hand shot out and ringed around his wrist before anyone could stop it. Nona noticed that one of the corpse prince’s sleeves had worked up, and that on her wrist was a funny fat bracelet: a braided cord of many colours, none of which was matched. “One, that’s not going to work. Two, I fucking hate needles,” said the corpse. “Three—Sex Pal, if that’s how you get a lady’s pants off, holy shit, no wonder I stole your girl.” Palamedes rocked back on his heels. “Not my girl. Unlike some of us, I’ve never much seen the allure of an evil cougar,” he said crisply. “Good morning, Gideon.
Tamsyn Muir (Nona the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #3))
Everyone in the delivery room was laughing at the story, including me. I never knew whether the doctor thought it was funny or not. She certainly did not join in the lightheartedness the rest of us felt. Because my doctor was also one of my bosses, I respected her and yet felt a bit intimidated by her at the same time. Jase was not intimidated at all. He was so relaxed, and that alleviated all the stress and tension I had felt since I first arrived at the hospital. True to his personality, he kept most of the room enthralled and laughing at his stories. As a lifelong hunter, he is no stranger to blood and gore. He thought the surgical process was very interesting and wanted to study everything inside of me. I’m sure his comment that my insides looked like a deer he had skinned the previous day was the first of its kind uttered during a C-section. At one point, the doctor said to him, “Jason, you have to be quiet now.” “Why?” he asked. “Because I’m getting close to the baby with this scalpel, and Missy has to stop laughing.” “Oh,” he said. “My bad.” As the doctor prepared to remove Cole, the room became quiet; I didn’t know exactly what was going on because I couldn’t see around the sheet, but I knew the time had come for our baby to be born. Jase watched everything intently. The doctor pulled on the baby, but he would not budge. In Jase’s words, “He just wouldn’t come out.” So Jase decided to lend a hand. He reached into the area near where the doctor was working, which caused every person to freeze. The room fell completely silent. As Jase recalled later, the doctor’s eyes filled with fire, and she shot him laser-sharp looks. No words were spoken, but he immediately raised his hands as if to say, “Don’t shoot,” and backed off.
Missy Robertson (Blessed, Blessed ... Blessed: The Untold Story of Our Family's Fight to Love Hard, Stay Strong, and Keep the Faith When Life Can't Be Fixed)
He has a funny look in his eyes as if to say, “Come off it, Shiva, I know what you are up to, I know what you are doing.” And you say, “What, me?” So he looks at you in this funny way until finally you get the feeling that he sees all the way through you; and that all your selfishness and evil, nasty thoughts are transparent to his gaze. Then you have to try and alter them. He suggests that you practice the control of the mind, that you become interiorly silent, and that you give up selfish desires of the skin-encapsulated self. Then you may have some success in quieting your mind and in concentrating. But after that, he will throw a curve at you, which is: Are you not still desiring not to desire? Why are you trying to be unselfish? Well, the answer is, “I want to be on the side of the big battalions. I think it is going to pay off better to be unselfish than to be selfish.
Alan W. Watts (Eastern Wisdom, Modern Life)
Gee, Mr. Davis, I can’t remember much about that time. I think it was about Italian writers and about Mr. Ford. Mr. Joyce couldn’t stand Mr. Ford. Mr. Pound had gotten on his nerves, too. ‘Ezra’s mad, Hudson,’ he said to papa. I can remember that because I thought mad meant mad like a mad dog and I remember sitting there and watching Mr. Joyce’s face, it was sort of red with awfully smooth skin, cold weather skin, and his glasses that had one lens even thicker than the other, and thinking of Mr. Pound with his red hair and his pointed beard and his nice eyes, with white stuff sort of like lather dripping out of his mouth. I thought it was terrible Mr. Pound was mad and I hoped we wouldn’t run into him. Then Mr. Joyce said, ‘Of course Ford’s been mad for years,’ and I saw Mr. Ford with his big, pale, funny face and his pale eyes and his mouth with the teeth loose in it and always about half open and that awful lather dripping down his jaws too.
Ernest Hemingway (Islands in the Stream)
Okay,” I finally said. “Can we all agree that this is maybe the most screwed-up situation we’ve ever found ourselves in?” “Agreed,” they said in unison. “Awesome.” I gave a little nod. “And do either of you have any idea what we should do about it?” “Well, we can’t use magic,” Archer said. “And if we try to leave, we get eaten by Monster Fog,” Jenna added. “Right. So no plans at all, then?” Jenna frowned. “Other than rocking in the fetal position for a while?” “Yeah, I was thinking about taking one of those showers where you huddle in the corner fully clothed and cry,” Archer offered. I couldn’t help but snort with laughter. “Great. So we’ll all go have our mental breakdowns, and then we’ll somehow get ourselves out of this mess.” “I think our best bet is to lie low for a while,” Archer said. “Let Mrs. Casnoff think we’re all too shocked and awed to do anything. Maybe this assembly tonight will give us some answers.” “Answers,” I practically sighed. “About freaking time.” Jenna gave me a funny look. “Soph, are you…grinning?” I could feel my cheeks aching, so I knew that I was. “Look, you two have to admit: if we want to figure out just what the Casnoffs are plotting, this is pretty much the perfect place.” “My girl has a point,” Archer said, smiling at me. Now my cheeks didn’t just ache, they burned. Clearing her throat, Jenna said, “Okay, so we all go up to our rooms, then after the assembly tonight we can regroup and decide what to do next.” “Deal,” I said as Archer nodded. “Are we all going to high-five now?” Jenna asked after a pause. “No, but I can make up some kind of secret handshake if you want,” Archer said, and for a second, they smiled at each other. But just as quickly, the smile disappeared from Jenna’s face, and she said to me, “Let’s go. I want to see if our room is as freakified as the rest of this place.” “Good idea,” I said. Archer reached out and brushed his fingers over mine. “See you later, then?” he asked. His voice was casual, but my skin was hot where he touched me. “Definitely,” I answered, figuring that even a girl who has to stop evil witches from taking over the world could make time for kissage in there somewhere. He turned and walked away. As I watched him go, I could feel Jenna starting at me. “Fine,” she acknowledged with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “He’s a little dreamy.” I elbowed her gently in the side. “Thanks.” Jenna started to walk to the stairs. “You coming?” “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be right up. I just want to take a quick look around down here.” “Why, so you can be even more depressed?” Actually, I wanted to stay downstairs just a little longer to see if anyone else showed up. So far, I’d seen nearly everyone I remembered from last year at Hex Hall. Had Cal been dragged here, too? Technically he hadn’t been a student, but Mrs. Casnoff had used his powers a lot last year. Would she still want him here? To Jenna, I just said, “Yeah, you know me. I like poking bruises.” “Okay. Get your Nancy Drew on.
Rachel Hawkins (Spell Bound (Hex Hall, #3))
And he was introduced to Loki, the family’s hairless cat. “The kids wanted another pet,” Becky explained as Felix stared in horror at the creature beside him. “But with Polly’s allergies . . .” “You are lying to me. You borrowed this creature from a zoo to play a prank on me. This isn’t even really a cat, is it? This is some sort of rat and opossum hybrid. This is a lifelike Japanese robot that can dance to disco music.” “Funny. They’re called sphinx cats. Come on, feel her skin. Like peach fuzz, right? Isn’t she sweet? Give her a good rub. She’s very affectionate.” “Ah-ha, yes, isn’t that just . . . er, what is coating my hands?” “It’s . . . it’s like a body wax. I should’ve bathed her before you came. The hairless cats, they ooze this waxy stuff to protect their skin. ’Cause they don’t have hair. To protect them. So the waxy ooze helps. You see.” Felix stared at her for several seconds, his hands held up like a doctor about to perform surgery. “I’m going to wash my hands now. And I’m going to try very hard not to run out of this house screaming.
Shannon Hale (The Actor and the Housewife)
A few minutes later, a tall, bronze-skinned woman with masses of dark hair, eyes like pale emeralds, and more curves than the Nürburgring racetrack appeared next to my table. My SEAL stood and started to intervene, but I held up a lazy hand, gave a droopy-eyed smile, slurred my words, and waved him off. The stripper sat on my lap with nothing between her and the Lord but a smile and three pieces of strategically placed duct tape. She slipped a glittering arm around my shoulders—she apparently was wearing lotion with metal flakes in it and it felt rough. Then she leaned her décolletage my way, placing her head next to my ear. “You know what you’re supposed to do, right?” she whispered, smiling and acting like she had just said something terribly wrong. She was a good actress for Elizabeth City. Laughing, smiling, and acting wasted, I slurred as loudly and obnoxiously as I could, “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing, woman!” With that, I reached up and placed my hand on her massive breast, just as I’d been instructed to do—all for the good of my country. The slap that followed could[…]” Excerpt From: Jamie Smith. “Gray Work
Jamie Smith
Vern did not trust humans was the long and short of it. Not a single one. He had known many in his life, even liked a few, but in the end they all sold him out to the angry mob. Which was why he holed up in Honey Island Swamp out of harm's way. Vern liked the swamp okay. As much as he liked anything after all these years. Goddamn, so many years just stretching out behind him like bricks in that road old King Darius put down back in who gives a shit BC. Funny how things came back out of the blue. Like that ancient Persian road. He couldn't remember last week, and now he was flashing back a couple thousand years, give or take. Vern had baked half those bricks his own self, back when he still did a little blue-collar. Nearly wore out the internal combustion engine. Shed his skin two seasons early because of that bitch of a job. That and diet. No one had a clue about nutrition in those days. Vern was mostly ketogenic now, high fat, low carbs, apart from his beloved breakfast cereals. Keto made perfect sense for a dragon, especially with his core temperature. Unfortunately, it meant that beer had to go, but he got by on vodka. Absolut was his preferred brand. A little high on alcohol but easiest on the system.
Eoin Colfer (Highfire)
I hope at 50 I'll be dancing like Gianluca Vacchi Party, whiskey, Bellini, Martini, Bloody Maries Bad & Boujee, Tutti Fruity booty, type that really moves me Kundalini rising, energy fill me completely I hope at 50 I'll be writing books like JK Rowling Pen and paper take me places, countries far and foreign Find a cafe up in Edinburgh, write in Scotland Let the stories in my head come out, bloom and blossom I hope at 50
I'll be wealthy like Carlos Slim Buying yachts and mansions and my mother shiny things Encrusted diamond dial on a new Patek Philippe Chill in Maldives but do charity in Ardabil I hope at 50
I'll be funny like Stephen Colbert Cracking witty jokes, making everyone laugh in tears Laughter it goes round and round like a carousel Chronic comic sonic sounds of haha everywhere I hope at 50
I'll be stoic like Robert De Niro Zeno school of thought put an end to my evil ego I hope at 50
I'll be fit as The Rock, Dwayne Johnson Hard rock abs to be paired with an even harder mindset I hope at 50,
I'll be wise like Denzel Washington
Wisdom, knowledge and the faith of God under my skin I hope at 50,
I'll find real love like George Clooney
Amal Alamuddin clone is the type that really moves me
Soroosh Shahrivar (Letter 19)
Are you mad at me?” Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes were worried, and she wasn’t smiling anymore. “I thought you would laugh.” She shrugged. “I told Kathleen I was going to surprise you. And she said, ‘Go right ahead!’ So I did. I used your paints, but I put everything back.” “Why are you kicking me in the head?” “It’s our story. We meet. You save me. I kiss you. You kiss me back, but you keep acting like you don’t like me even though I know you do. So I’m kicking some sense into you. And man, does it feel good.” She grinned cheekily, and I looked back at her depiction. That was some kick to the head. “It’s a terrible mural.” It was terrible. And funny. And very Georgia. “Well, we can’t all be Leonardo DiCaprio. You painted on my walls, I’m painting on yours. And you don’t even have to pay me. I’m just trying to bond with you over art.” “Leonardo da Vinci, you mean?” “Him too.” She smiled again and laid back on my bed, patting the spot beside her. “You could have at least given me some biceps. That doesn’t look anything like me. And why am I saying, ‘Don’t hurt me, Georgia!’” I plopped down on the bed and purposely landed partially on top of her. She wiggled and scooted breathlessly, trying to free herself from my intentional squishing... She stroked my head and I breathed against her skin. “Are we bonding over art?” she whispered in my ear. “No.
Amy Harmon (The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1))
I slid my thigh between her warm ones. Damp heat ground into my muscle as she clamped down and rolled her hips with a small helpless groan. "That feel good, honey?" She was mostly shadows, and I itched to turn on a lamp so I could see her properly. But that would mean stopping, and I wasn't willing to let her go. I relied on touch, running my fingers along her arm, up to her neck, where sweat dewed on her skin. "You like riding my thigh?" "Yes. Yes." That word again. Best word ever. Her lips tickled mine as she panted, her sweet sex working in a little circle. I cupped her cheek and ate at her mouth as she took her pleasure. I'd been wanting to give it to her for so long. So fucking long. Her hands found my chest and slid down, mapping their way along my torso. It was nothing in the scheme of things, but that simple exploration, the way she whimpered and gasped into my mouth, sent licks of heat over my skin. When her slim hand reached my cock and squeezed me through the barrier of my boxers, a groan tore from me. I shuddered, so close to coming from a furtive grope in the dark it would almost be funny if I weren't so worked up. "Take it out," I rasped, flexing my thigh, knowing she'd feel it. I needed her hand on my bare skin. "Please." Deftly she stole beneath the waistband and wrapped her fingers around my needy dick, giving it a firm tug. Then I was the one whimpering and gasping, fucking into the clasp of her hand because it felt so good. Sweet relief, hot pleasure.
Kristen Callihan (Make It Sweet)
When it begins it is like a light in a tunnel, a rush of steel and steam across a torn up life. It is a low rumble, an earthquake in the back of the mind. My spine is a track with cold black steel racing on it, a trail of steam and dust following behind, ghost like. It feels like my whole life is holding its breath. By the time she leaves the room I am surprised that she can’t see the train. It has jumped the track of my spine and landed in my mothers’ living room. A cold dark thing, black steel and redwood paneling. It is the old type, from the western movies I loved as a kid. He throws open the doors to the outside world, to the dark ocean. I feel a breeze tugging at me, a slender finger of wind that catches at my shirt. Pulling. Grabbing. I can feel the panic build in me, the need to scream or cry rising in my throat. And then I am out the door, running, tumbling down the steps falling out into the darkened world, falling out into the lifeless ocean. Out into the blackness. Out among the stars and shadows. And underneath my skin, in the back of my head and down the back of my spine I can feel the desperation and I can feel the noise. I can feel the deep and ancient ache of loudness that litters across my bones. It’s like an old lover, comfortable and well known, but unwelcome and inappropriate with her stories of our frolicking. And then she’s gone and the Conductor is closing the door. The darkness swells around us, enveloping us in a cocoon, pressing flat against the train like a storm. I wonder, what is this place? Those had been heady days, full and intense. It’s funny. I remember the problems, the confusions and the fears of life we all dealt with. But, that all seems to fade. It all seems to be replaced by images of the days when it was all just okay. We all had plans back then, patterns in which we expected the world to fit, how it was to be deciphered. Eventually you just can’t carry yourself any longer, can’t keep your eyelids open, and can’t focus on anything but the flickering light of the stars. Hours pass, at first slowly like a river and then all in a rush, a climax and I am home in the dorm, waking up to the ringing of the telephone. When she is gone the apartment is silent, empty, almost like a person sleeping, waiting to wake up. When she is gone, and I am alone, I curl up on the bed, wait for the house to eject me from its dying corpse. Crazy thoughts cross through my head, like slants of light in an attic. The Boston 395 rocks a bit, a creaking noise spilling in from the undercarriage. I have decided that whatever this place is, all these noises, sensations - all the train-ness of this place - is a fabrication. It lulls you into a sense of security, allows you to feel as if it’s a familiar place. But whatever it is, it’s not a train, or at least not just a train. The air, heightened, tense against the glass. I can hear the squeak of shoes on linoleum, I can hear the soft rattle of a dying man’s breathing. Men in white uniforms, sharp pressed lines, run past, rolling gurneys down florescent hallways.
Jason Derr (The Boston 395)
i will tell you about selfish people even when they know they will hurt you they walk into your life to taste you because you are the type of being they don’t want to miss out on you are too much shine to not be felt so when they have gotten a good look at everything you have to offer. when they have taken your skin, your hair, your secrets with them when they realize how real this is how much of a storm you are and it hits them. that is when the cowardice sets in. that is when the person you thought they were is replaced with the sad reality of what they are. that is when they lose every fighting bone in their body and leave after saying you will find better than me. you will stand there naked with half of them still hidden somewhere inside you and sob. asking them why they did it. why they forced you to love them when they had no intention of loving you back and they’ll say something along the lines of I just had to try. I had to give it a chance. It was you after all but that isn’t romantic. It isn’t sweet. The idea that they were so engulfed by your existence that had to risk breaking it for the sake of knowing they weren’t the one missing out your existence meant that little next to their curiosity of you this is the thing about selfish people they gamble entire beings. entire souls to please their own. One second they are holding you like the world in their lap and the next they have belittled you to a mere picture a moment. something of the past. one second. as if the human heart means that little to them. isn’t it sad and funny how people have more guts these days to undress you with their fingers than they do to pick up the phone and call. apologize. for the loss.
Rupi Kaur
God speaks to us, I would say, much more often than we realize or than we choose to realize. Before the sun sets every evening, he speaks to each of us in an intensely personal and unmistakable way. His message is not written out in starlight, which in the long run would make no difference; rather it is written out for each of us in the humdrum, helter-skelter events of each day; it is a message that in the long run might just make all the difference. Who knows what he will say to me today or to you today or into the midst of what kind of unlikely moment he will choose to say it. Not knowing is what makes today a holy mystery as every day is a holy mystery. But I believe that there are some things that by and large God is always saying to each of us. Each of us, for instance, carries around inside himself, I believe, a certain emptiness—a sense that something is missing, a restlessness, the deep feeling that somehow all is not right inside his skin. Psychologists sometimes call it anxiety, theologians sometimes call it estrangement, but whatever you call it, I doubt that there are many who do not recognize the experience itself, especially no one of our age, which has been variously termed the age of anxiety, the lost generation, the beat generation, the lonely crowd. Part of the inner world of everyone is this sense of emptiness, unease, incompleteness, and I believe that this in itself is a word from God, that this is the sound that God’s voice makes in a world that has explained him away. In such a world, I suspect that maybe God speaks to us most clearly through his silence, his absence, so that we know him best through our missing him. But he also speaks to us about ourselves, about what he wants us to do and what he wants us to become; and this is the area where I believe that we know so much more about him than we admit even to ourselves, where people hear God speak even if they do not believe in him. A face comes toward us down the street. Do we raise our eyes or do we keep them lowered, passing by in silence? Somebody says something about somebody else, and what he says happens to be not only cruel but also funny, and everybody laughs. Do we laugh too, or do we speak the truth? When a friend has hurt us, do we take pleasure in hating him, because hate has its pleasures as well as love, or do we try to build back some flimsy little bridge? Sometimes when we are alone, thoughts come swarming into our heads like bees—some of them destructive, ugly, self-defeating thoughts, some of them creative and glad. Which thoughts do we choose to think then, as much as we have the choice? Will we be brave today or a coward today? Not in some big way probably but in some little foolish way, yet brave still. Will we be honest today or a liar? Just some little pint-sized honesty, but honest still. Will we be a friend or cold as ice today? All the absurd little meetings, decisions, inner skirmishes that go to make up our days. It all adds up to very little, and yet it all adds up to very much. Our days are full of nonsense, and yet not, because it is precisely into the nonsense of our days that God speaks to us words of great significance—not words that are written in the stars but words that are written into the raw stuff and nonsense of our days, which are not nonsense just because God speaks into the midst of them. And the words that he says, to each of us differently, are be brave…be merciful…feed my lambs…press on toward the goal.
Frederick Buechner (Listening to Your Life: Daily Meditations with Frederick Buechne)
Is this weird?" she asked with a satisfied sigh. Jay shook his head. "Nah," he answered, rubbing his hand along the sensitive skin of her arm. "It was gonna happen eventually. I'm just glad it's finally out there...I was getting tired of waiting." Violet was confused. Out there? What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was going to happen eventually? How could he have known what was going to happen? She wiggled out from beneath him. "What do you mean, you were tried of waiting? Waiting for what, exactly?" She propped herself back up on her elbow as she interrogated him, waiting for an answer. He let the question linger between them for longer than he needed to, deliberately teasing Violet as she waited impatiently. But when he finally did answer her, it proved to be well worth the minor annoyance. "I was just waiting for you to want me as much as I wanted you." His words were quiet but carried one hell of an impact. "I knew we were going to be together; it was just a matter of time. I kept hoping that you would figure it out. But for a smart girl, you're a little dense, Vi. I kept bringing up Lissie Adams, and showing you the notes she was leaving me, hoping that you'd get pissed enough to finally admit how you felt about me." Lissie Adams. Just hearing the other girl's name made Violet bristle enviously, causing her to shiver. She rubbed her arms protectively and hoped that Jay didn't notice. "What makes you think I was feeling anything?" she asked him suspiciously, as if he'd somehow read her mind. If she had been the kind of girl who kept a diary, she would have sworn that he'd picked the lock and read it word for word. He grinned at her. "Because you did," he stated matter-of-factly. "I know, because I did, and there was just no way that you didn't feel it too." She didn't bother denying it and instead asked, "So you used Lissie to make me jealous?" She tried to sound indignant, but it was difficult when what she really wanted to do was dance around her room triumphantly. She wondered what Lissie would think if she could see them now, together on Violet's bed. "No, I tried to use Lissie. But apparently you're more pigheaded than I gave you credit for. I thought for sure that would do it. Instead, it backfired on me, and you agreed to go to the dance with...someone else." He gritted his teeth, probably without even realizing it, as he choked out the words, unable to actually say Grady's name. "And when I realized you were going with him, I figured the only way I was going to get to see you that night was to ask Lissie to go with me. I figured I could sneak in at least one dance with you." Violet couldn't help it-she giggled. Just a little. It was just too much. The whole thing. Jay trying to trick her into revealing her feelings for him. Grady trying to kiss her last night. And then this...now...she and Jay cuddled up together on her bed...making out. It was crazy. "You think that's funny, huh?" He seemed a little bent that she was laughing at him. "Joke's on me, I guess," she said, serious now. "I get to sit at home, while you and Lissie Adams go to Homecoming." She tried to sound like it was no big deal, but the truth was that it stung more than she wanted it to. Jay reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. He pulled her toward him, staring her in the eye as they closed the distance between them. Violet felt an agonizing thrill at just being so hear him again. "I called her last night to cancel after I dropped you off." His voice was thick and husky, giving her chills. "I told her I was going to the dance with you instead.
Kimberly Derting (The Body Finder (The Body Finder, #1))
Sam dragged her over to a small plot. Unlike the historic ones, this seemed like an ordinary grave. The headstone read Paul Danvers 1950-1997. “And this guy,” Sam said through clenched teeth. “Got so drunk one night, he accidentally set his house on fire, killing himself and his seventeen-year-old son.” Margot pulled back. This date had turned as sour as the feeling in her gut. “Murdered his own son.” Sam’s voice was tight and full of emotion. “He was going to college in the fall. Got a full ride and everything.” “That’s awful,” said Margot. “Where’s the son buried?” “So glad you asked.” Sam smiled so mournfully that Margot regretted asking at all. He pointed to the headstone next to Paul’s. In the darkness, it was nearly impossible to make out the young man’s name. Margot knelt on the soft grass and leaned forward, using the light from her cellphone to see the engraving. She gasped and nearly dropped the phone. “Sam Danvers,” she said, barely getting out the words. “That’s not funny.” Margot’s hands shook. “Is your name really Sam?” He no longer smiled, just nodded. “It is.” Sam came in close and said her name in such a soft whisper, Margot ached to touch him. He reached up to her face and tucked a strand of wavy hair behind her ear. “If things were different at all…” She put her hands on his. His skin felt dry and cold while hers felt clammy. “What does that mean? If what was different?” Sam leaned in, his face encased in shadows, and kissed Margot. She gasped before being taken in by the kiss. His breath tasted oddly of licorice and she was suddenly aware of the scent of fresh-cut grass. His lips were soft, but his kiss was urgent. He gripped the belt loops of Margot’s jean shorts and pulled her in tight against his chest. Her head swam and her heart pounded. She pulled away from him and attempted to catch her breath. She looked at him, her eyes bright with fury. “That wasn’t an answer.” He ran his hands through his hair. A typical guy stall tactic, thought Margot. But Sam wasn’t stalling. He was struggling. “Margot, I’m Sam Danvers,” he said. Margot shook her head — “No. No. No.” — and marched away from him.
Kimberly G. Giarratano (One Night Is All You Need: A Short Story)
Jesus… is this about him? Hastings?” “No, this is about you.” She points at me. “You and your innocent act… and your money, and your things. The words you say—the jokes, the laughs, the smiles you give her that she eats right up, and ugh, your face.” “My face?” “Your stupid fucking face,” she says, running her hands through her hair as she groans, those words startling me. Kennedy doesn’t curse. “Your face is everywhere. I’m sick of it!” “You’re sick of my face.” “Yes!” “There’s not much I can do about that.” “You can get out of my head,” she says. “Stop being there all the time!” I laugh at that, because it’s so damn absurd, but that’s the wrong thing to do. Her eyes narrow as she stares me down, looking like she wants to hit me right now. “I hate you,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’ve never hated someone as much as I hate you, Jonathan.” Those words, they wake me right up. I’m no longer laughing. There’s nothing funny about it. I got under her skin, and with the two of us already on shaky ground, I know that’s dangerous. She turns to leave, like she’s going to walk away, but I grab her arm to stop her. “Come on, don’t be like that…” “Don’t touch me,” she says, ripping from my grasp. I let go as I stand up, stepping toward her. “Just… wait a minute… talk to me.” “There’s nothing left to say.” “I’ll be goddamned.” I grab her arm again before she can walk out. “You can’t tell me you hate me and then leave. That’s bullshit. You bust up in here while I’m asleep to yell at me…” “You deserve it!” “Maybe so, but still…” “Still nothing,” she says, turning to me again, getting right in my face. “I hate you. That’s it. There’s nothing else to say. I hate everything about you. Your voice, your face… I hate it. Why aren’t you going away?” “Because I can’t,” I tell her, “and I’m pretty sure you don’t really want me to.” She scoffs. “You’re upset,” I say, “but you’re lying to yourself if you think you want me gone.” “I do.” “You don’t.” “Leave.” “No.” “Go away.” “I’m not.” As soon as that last word leaves my lips, she’s on me, slamming into me, her lips pressing against mine. She’s kissing me, and I’m so fucking stunned that it takes me a moment to react, a moment to consider kissing her back. She moans and wraps her arms around my neck, clinging to me damn near aggressively as she kicks the door closed.
J.M. Darhower (Ghosted)
It was this whole huge deal,” Megan said. “But then we re-voted and I won! I still can’t believe it.” “Well, congratulations,” Finn said. “Thanks. I couldn’t wait t tell you,” Megan said, grinning at him. “You should have seen her face. It was like…” Megan stopped suddenly--Finn’s face had gone all weird. He wasn’t smiling anymore. It seemed like he had stopped breathing. “What?” Megan said, her heart skipping a beat. He was studying her. Taking in every line of her face from her jaw to her cheekbone to her flyaway hair. Finn reached over and ran his hand quickly over her hair, brushing it back. “This,” he said. And then he leaned forward and kissed her. For an infinitesimal moment, Megan froze. She had no idea what to do with herself. No idea where to put her hands or whether to move her lips or how to even breathe. Kiss him back, for God’s sake! she told herself. Then she stifled a surprised, embarrassed, happy laugh and did as she was told. She returned his pressure and reached up to grab awkwardly at his sleeve. Finn’s hand cupped the back of her head and his other hand lightly touched her knee. Megan’s skin was on fire. Finn was kissing her. Finn was kissing her! He pulled back, out of nowhere, and looked her in the eyes. “Is this okay?” he asked. Megan mutely, dumbly, breathlessly nodded. She just wanted his lips on hers. He smiled and kissed her again, and this time Megan slid forward on the bench, leaning her body closer to his. What she couldn’t believe was how perfect this felt. How excited and happy and thrilling and safe all at the same time. And then it hit her: Finn was the one. The one she’d wanted to share her great news with. The one she could talk to. The one she always thought of when something funny or weird or interesting happened. Finn was smart and hilarious and kind and thoughtful. Why did I waste my time thinking about Evan? Megan wondered as Finn lightly trailed a finger down her cheek. How could I have done that when Finn was right here all along? All she wanted to do was get as close to him as possible. It was suddenly impossible to believe that she had lasted this long in life without feeling this way. The door behind Megan let out its telltale squeak and Finn sprang away from her so fast she almost fell forward. It wasn’t fast enough, however. Regina stood in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her stomach. Megan gulped in a breath and looked at Finn, who hung his head as low as it could go. Yes, Finn McGowan was a lot of great things. But now he was also a dead man.
Kate Brian (Megan Meade's Guide to the McGowan Boys)
That was the whole trouble with police work. You come plunging in. a jagged Stone Age knife, to probe the delicate tissues of people's relationships, and of course you destroy far more than you discover. And even what you discover will never be the same as it was before you came; the nubbly scars of your passage will remain. At the very least. you have asked questions that expose to the destroying air fibers that can only exist and fulfill their function in coddling darkness. Cousin Amy, now, mousing about in back passages or trilling with feverish shyness at sherry parties—was she really made all the way through of dust and fluff and unused ends of cotton and rusty needles and unmatching buttons and all the detritus at the bottom of God's sewing basket? Or did He put a machine in there to tick away and keep her will stern and her back straight as she picks out of a vase of brown-at-the-edges dahlias the few blooms that have another day's life in them? Or another machine, one of His chemistry sets, that slowly mixes itself into an apparently uncaused explosion, poof!, and there the survivors are sitting covered with plaster dust among the rubble of their lives. It's always been the explosion by the time the police come stamping in with ignorant heels on the last unbroken bit of Bristol glass; with luck they can trace the explosion back to harmless little Amy, but as to what set her off—what were the ingredients of the chemistry set and what joggled them together—it was like trying to reconstruct a civilization from three broken pots and a seven-inch lump of baked clay which might, if you looked at its swellings and hollows the right way, have been the Great Earth Mother. What's more. people who've always lived together think that they are still the same—oh, older of course and a bit more snappish, but underneath still the same laughing lad of thirty years gone by. "My Jim couldn't have done that." they say. "I know him. Course he's been a bit depressed lately, funny like. but he sometimes goes that way for a bit and then it passes off. But setting fire to the lingerie department at the Army and Navy, Inspector—such a thought wouldn't enter into my Jim's head. I know him." Tears diminishing into hiccuping snivels as doubt spreads like a coffee stain across the threadbare warp of decades. A different Jim? Different as a Martian, growing inside the ever-shedding skin? A whole lot of different Jims. a new one every seven years? "Course not. I'm the same. aren't I, same as I always was—that holiday we took hiking in the Peak District in August thirty-eight—the same inside?" Pibble sighed and shook himself. You couldn't build a court case out of delicate tissues. Facts were the one foundation.
Peter Dickinson (The Glass Sided Ant's Nest (Jimmy Pibble #1))
The first one was wearing a kind of ancient Tyrolean (?) hat whose ragged edges were maybe an inch wide; the second had a straw hat that looked like an open snuffbox with a broken cover. The Agitated on the right had an evil laugh that bared his stumps of tarnished nuggets; the Agitated on the left foamed with rage. The laugher started dancing, doing somersaults and dancing again, like a circus ballerina; then he jumped up and down, tirelessly, saying “Opa! Opa!” and guffawing. He smiled less and looked satisfied, almost happy. He obviously thought he was funny and was playing nice, but all of a sudden, he started yelling, rolling on the ground and jumping back up. He kept yelling and jumping and then finally fell down on the floor of his cage and wiggled around in a kind of epileptic fit. After maybe 20 seconds, he got up and started dancing; and the whole time he was scratching himself and smiling absent-mindedly. The furious one climbed the bars of the window, tried to spit on us, shook the bars, moaned and groaned and his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. He tore at his rags, scratched his face until it bled, howled and cried in frustration—at not being able to bite us, to wring our necks and tear off our skin. He aimed his claws at us; he choked; his face turned purple, almost black! “OK, Leonard! Now I’ve had enough of looking at these monsters! They’re hurting me. Not to mention that us being here is not good for them. These crises must wear them out. When they’re alone. they can hide in the corner, curl up and go to sleep, or whatever, but they’ll calm down. I’m getting out of here!” “Good! Good! Let’s go,” my guardian said very seriously. “They’re very gentle, almost proper. It’s the others I don’t wanna show you, no matter what Bid’homme says. The others, ah! They’re nightmares! If there’s any like them outside of here, they’re only found in jars—and drowned in alcohol—again!” Just then two young, buxom nurses passed by us. The two sad anthropoids whinnied—literally—like horses and threw themselves against the bars—then tore off some of their clothes, seized by an exhibitionist rage, and slobbered and roared. The nurses ran away and Leonard finally agreed to get away from the awful scene—so sad that it was almost not disgusting.
John-Antoine Nau (Enemy Force)
was in everyday attire with sand-colored jeans and a denim-blue buttoned-down shirt with his lean muscles defined underneath and exposed with his rolled-up sleeves. His tannish skin was peppered with freckles and he was bestowed with a natural rouge on his face; matched with his dry wavy dirty blonde hair he looked like a scarecrow that had given up the farm in favor of greener racing pastures.
J.S. Mason (Whisky Hernandez)
...he saw Quotinir floating in front of him. Deep in the darkest parts of the ocean, he was lit only by a single, yellow light that swung from a fin atop his head. His grey skin sickly under the swinging bulb, he looked as much like a man as he did a monster, scarred and chipped around the edges, with strands of white hair like seaweed flowing around his narrow face. His human waist merged with the rubbery flesh of a shark, the tail larger than any fish or man Elf had ever seen. Though, Quotinir himself was four times larger than any man - the last true giant - trapped under the pressure of the ocean with only his light for company. Slitted, white eyes locked onto Elf as they both floated, suspended in the darkness. ‘Hey, ugly,’ Elf said.
Q.E. Saenz (The Mermaid's Shoal)
His diary recorded a mixture of moods: October 17: Out to Mount Vernon. . . . Bracing cool air; cloudless sky; warm autumn sunshine. Shapeless, droopy people—stuffy from Sunday morning waffles and funny papers, tired from not walking—staggered out of shiny automobiles and dragged themselves around the grounds of the old mansion.... Grasshoppers flicked themselves around before us. An occasional late bird sang from the hard, many-colored foliage. The corn was stacked in the fields.... It was very nice and encouraging, but in the distance the roar of the Sunday traffic on the big turnpike was never lost, and it was never clearer that man is a skin-disease of the earth.
John Lewis Gaddis (George F. Kennan: An American Life)
Funny how that works, isn’t it?
Brittney Griner (In My Skin: My Life On and Off the Basketball Court)
Couldn’t I, for once, fight in a field full of fragrant flowers with a small clean stream to wash the blood away after? I hated caked blood on my skin. Or a Chinese restaurant with steamed dumplings and Kung Pao chicken available for later? Food after a fight was always welcome.
Paulina Ian-Kane (Wolf Down (Forsaken Mountain Series Book 1))
Every morning, I had to work harder to talk my limbs into moving. Imagine a skeleton, tossing its organs inside its bony shell, sealing on its skin. Strutting into the world with a Hello! Doing fine, thank you. How are you? I’ll have it to you by the end of the day. Yes! That’s too funny, ha ha, good-bye.
Chanel Miller
Life, liberty and the pursuit, culling, skinning, tanning and sale of the hides of happiness.
The Covert Comic a.k.a. John Alejandro King
I am just an old garbage bag full of blood patiently waiting for death to rescue me, but sometimes when I tell people that, their immediate response is HOW CAN YOU BE SAD, YOU’RE HILARIOUS!!!!! and then for five seconds I’m like, “This person who has never met me before is correct. I’m so funny I should stop thinking life is a trash can.” But five seconds after that, some human roadkill yells at the grocery store bagger or pulls his scrotum out on the train, and I get the insatiable urge to peel my skin off like the layers of an onion and jam my thumbs into my eye sockets, just hoping that I’ll disappear down the garbage disposal of human existence straight into hell.
Samantha Irby (We Are Never Meeting in Real Life.)
Colin was silent for a long moment. It hadn’t ever occurred to him that he enjoyed his writing; it was just something he did. He did it because he couldn’t imagine not doing it. How could he travel to foreign lands and not keep a record of what he saw, what he experienced, and perhaps most importantly, what he felt? But when he thought back, he realized that he felt a strange rush of satisfaction whenever he wrote a phrase that was exactly right, a sentence that was particularly true. He distinctly remembered the moment he’d written the passage Penelope had read. He’d been sitting on the beach at dusk, the sun still warm on his skin, the sand somehow rough and smooth at the same time under his bare feet. It had been a heavenly moment—full of that warm, lazy feeling one can truly only experience in the dead of summer (or on the perfect beaches of the Mediterranean), and he’d been trying to think of the exact right way to describe the water. He’d sat there for ages—surely a full half an hour—his pen poised above the paper of his journal, waiting for inspiration. And then suddenly he’d realized the temperature was precisely that of slightly old bathwater, and his face had broken into a wide, delighted smile. Yes, he enjoyed writing. Funny how he’d never realized it before.
Julia Quinn (Romancing Mister Bridgerton (Bridgertons, #4))
It's funny how you get under his skin.' At first, I'm not sure I heard him right. I almost ask whom he's talking about, because I can't quite believe he's admitting that high and mighty Cardan is affected by anything. 'Like a splinter?' I say. 'Of iron. No one else bothers him quite the way you do.' He picks up a towel and wets it, then kneels down beside me and carefully wipes my face. I suck in a breath when the cold cloth touches the sensitive part of my eye, but he is far gentler than I would have been to myself. His face is solemn and focused on what he's doing. He doesn't seem to notice my studying him, his long face and sharp chin, his curling red-brown hair, the way his eyelashes catch the light. Then he does notice. He's looking at me, and I'm looking back at him, and it's the strangest thing, because I thought Locke would never notice anyone like me. He is noticing, though. He's smiling like he did that night at the Court, as though we share a secret. He's smiling as if we're sharing another one. 'Keep it up,' he says. I wonder at those words. Can he really mean them? As I make my way back to the tournament and my sisters, I can't stop thinking of Cardan's shocked face, nor can I stop considering Locke's smile. I am not altogether sure which is more thrilling and which more dangerous.
Holly Black (The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air, #1))
I’m going to puncture the femoral sheath.” Camilla passed him a little pair of scissors, and he cut a short slit in the thigh of the corpse’s soft leather trousers. Then Palamedes prodded around with his fingers—he placed the needle to the dead skin—and the corpse’s hand shot out and ringed around his wrist before anyone could stop it. Nona noticed that one of the corpse prince’s sleeves had worked up, and that on her wrist was a funny fat bracelet: a braided cord of many colours, none of which matched. “One, that’s not going to work. Two, I fucking hate needles,” said the corpse. “Three—Sex Pal, if that’s how you get a lady’s pants off, holy shit, no wonder I stole your girl.” Palamedes rocked back on his heels. “Not my girl. Unlike some of us, I’ve never much seen the allure of an evil cougar,” he said crisply. “Good morning, Gideon.
Tamsyn Muir (Nona the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #3))
How can I define white privilege? It’s so difficult to describe an absence. And white privilege is an absence of the negative consequences of racism. An absence of structural discrimination, an absence of your race being viewed as a problem first and foremost, an absence of ‘less likely to succeed because of my race’. It is an absence of funny looks directed at you because you’re believed to be in the wrong place, an absence of cultural expectations, an absence of violence enacted on your ancestors because of the colour of their skin, an absence of a lifetime of subtle marginalisation and othering – exclusion from the narrative of being human.
Reni Eddo-Lodge (Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race)
And some were pretty, some were smart, some were funny. Some probably had square asses. I can’t even remember now.” I frame her face and hold her eyes with a look that goes serious so she’ll know I mean it. “But none of them were you. There’s only ever been one Banner, and her . . . I’ve never been able to forget.” Her smile falls away and she swallows hard. “This blogger bitch person has no idea who you are.” I caress the silky skin covering one high cheekbone. “She has no idea that you’ve always been the girl I liked most, and I don’t even like people.
Kennedy Ryan (Block Shot (Hoops #2))
I'm not lying..." My voice shook, but I had to defend myself. I knew I was weird and awkward here. Since I always forgot my hat, my skin was darker, not the pale shade people thought was pretty here. I knew I had a funny haircut, and maybe I was a burden, maybe I was a nuisance--no, I knew I was, a burden to my aunts, uncles, cousins, Mr. Adachi, Reiko. and maybe the way I spoke made me seem rude when I didn't mean to be... but I didn't say that. I did not lie.
Waka T. Brown (While I Was Away)
It’s funny how the painter’s not: the one with pigment smeared into her skin the one whose body is as permanent a fixture in this studio as stool, palette, easel, the only one whose heart is flung across this canvas. No: the painter merely signs his name and takes his gold.
Joy McCullough (Blood Water Paint)
She sits with shoulders slumped, staring at the wall, waiting for an answer, waiting to feel some joy. She's holding her breath without knowing it, listening to her body like a pregnant woman, listening, bending down deep into herself. But nothing stirs, everything is silent and empty like a forest when no birds are singing. She tries harder, this twenty-eight-year-old woman, to remember what it is to be happy, and with alarm she realizes that she no longer knows, that it's like a foreign language she learned in childhood but has now forgotten, remembering only that she knew it once. When was the last time I was happy? She thinks hard, and two little lines are etched in her bowed forehead. Gradually it comes to her: an image as though from a dim mirror, a thin-legged blond girl, her schoolbag swinging above her short cotton skirt. A dozen other girls are swirling about her: it's a game of rounders in a park in suburban Vienna. A surge of laughter, a bright trill of high spirits following the ball into the air, now she remembers how light, how free that laughter felt, it was never far away, it tickled under her skin, it swirled through her blood; one shake and it would spill out over her lips, it was so free, almost too free: on the school bench you had to hug yourself and bite your lip to keep from laughing at some funny remark or silliness in French class. Any little thing would set off waves of that effervescent girlish laughter. A teacher who stammered, a funny face in the mirror, a cat chasing its tail, a look from an officer on the street, any little thing, any tiny, senseless bit of nonsense, you were so full of laughter that anything could bring it out. It was always there and ready to erupt, that free, tomboyish laughter, and even when she was asleep, its high-spirited arabesque was traced on her young mouth.
Stefan Zweig (The Post-Office Girl)
Jimmy's skin smelled like paint. So much so that when she'd wrap her hand around his dick and jerk it up and down – like shaking a can of spray paint – she'd half expect to hear something rattle inside.
Chuck Palahniuk (The Invention of Sound)
The drinking became a little more of a problem when I went to university. My parents had never been particularly present while I was growing up, so one might presume if I was going to go off the rails, why not do it at home, but I saved it for when I went away. I was enough of a disappointment to my father. I didn’t need to give him yet another excuse to help me understand I was not the daughter he wanted. My mother had left her native America when she fell in love with my dad while working for a year as an au pair in Gerrards Cross. She seemed happy when I was very young, then spent most of my teenage years in what I have always thought must have been, albeit undiagnosed a deep, and possibly clinical, depression. I can understand why. What I couldn’t understand is how she ever ended up with my father in the first place. He was handsome, and I suppose he must have been charming when they were young, but he was so damned difficult, I used to think, even when I was young, that we’d all be much happier if they got a divorce. I would sit with friends who would be in floods of tears because their mother had just found out their father had been having an affair, or their parents had decided they hated each other, or whatever the myriad of reasons are that drive people apart, and these friends would be crying at the terrible fear of their families breaking up, and all I could think was: I wish my parents would get divorced. It seemed to me that if ever there were two people on the planet who should not have been together, it was my parents. My mother is laid-back, funny, kind. She’s comfortable in her skin and has the easy laugh you expect from all Americans. She was brought up in New York, but her parents died very young, after which she went to live with her Aunt Judith. I never knew Aunt Judith, but everything about those days sounds idyllic, especially her summers in Nantucket. You look at pictures of my mum from those days and she was in flowing, hippie-ish clothes, always smiling. She had long, silky hair, and she looked happy and free. In sharp contrast to the pictures of her with my dad, even in those early days, when they were newlyweds, supposedly the happiest time of a relationship. He insisted she wear buttoned-up suits, or twinsets and pearls. Her hair was elaborately coiffed. I remember the heated rollers she kept in the bathroom, twisting her hair up every morning, spraying it into tight submission, slicking lipstick on her lips, her feet sliding into Roger Vivier pumps. If my father was away, she left her hair long and loose, wrapping a scarf around her head. She’d wear long gypsy skirts with espadrilles or sandals. I loved her like that most of all. I used to think it was her clothing that changed her personality,
Jane Green (Cat and Jemima J)
who like the taste of being hurt. That makes you lower than the mice and the roaches. At least they try to save their skins, they got a normal outlook. But you, you’re just a clown that ain’t funny. And that’s a sad picture, that’s the saddest picture of all. Like on the outside it’s the stupid crazy smile and inside it’s a gloomy place where all they play is the blues. He frowned.
David Goodis (Five Noir Novels of the 1940s & 50s)
Little Johnny was 12 years old and like other boys his age rather curious. He had been hearing quite a bit about “courting” from the older boys, and he wondered what it was and how it was done. One day he took his question to his mother, who became rather flustered. Instead of explaining things to Johnny, she told him to hide behind the curtains one night and watch his older sister and her boyfriend. This he did. The following morning, Johnny described everything to his mother. “ ’Sis and her boyfriend sat and talked for a while, then he turned off most of the lights. Then he started kissing and hugging her. I figured Sis must be getting sick, because her face started looking funny. He must have thought so too, because he put his hand inside her blouse to feel her heart, just the way the doctor would. Except he’s not as smart as the doctor because he seemed to have trouble finding her heart. I guess he was getting sick too, because pretty soon both of them started panting and gettin’ all out of breath. His other hand must have been cold because he put it under her skirt. “About this time Sis got worse and began to moan and sigh and squirm around and slide down toward the end of the couch. This was when her fever started. I knew it was a fever, because Sis told him she felt really hot. Finally, I found out what was making them so sick — a big eel had gotten inside his pants somehow. It just jumped out of his pants and stood there, about 10 inches long, honest, anyway he grabbed it in one hand to keep it from getting away. When Sis saw it, she got really scared — her eyes got big, and her mouth fell open, and she started calling out to God and stuff like that. She said it was the biggest one she’s ever seen; I should tell her about the ones down at the lake. “Anyway, Sis got brave and tried to kill the eel by biting its head off. All of a sudden she grabbed it with both hands and held it tight while he took a muzzle out of his pocket and slipped it over the eel’s head to keep it from biting again. Sis lay back and spread her legs so she could get a scissor-lock on it and he helped by lying on top of the eel. The eel put up a hell of a fight. Sis started groaning and squealing and her boyfriend almost upset the couch. I guess they wanted to kill the eel by squashing it between them. After a while they both quit moving and gave a great sigh. Her boyfriend got up, and sure enough, they killed the eel. I knew because it just hung there, limp, and some of its insides were dripping out. “Sis and her boyfriend were a little tired from the battle, but they went back to courting anyway. He started hugging and kissing her again. By golly, the eel wasn’t dead! It jumped straight up and started to fight again. I guess eels are like cats — they have nine lives or something. This time, Sis jumped up and tried to kill it by sitting on it. After a 35 minute struggle, they finally killed the eel. I knew it was dead, because I saw Sis’s boyfriend peel its skin off and flush it down the toilet.
E. King (Best Adult Jokes Ever)
Hey, Haymitch, if you’re not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin.” It’s almost funny how quickly the parachute appears above me.
Suzanne Collins (The Hunger Games Trilogy)
I felt like I’d lost a layer of skin but couldn’t tell anyone. What do you even say as a mid-30s woman? Help, I’m sad. My friends don’t like me. The people in my life who I chose just unchose me?
Kelly Williams Brown (Easy Crafts for the Insane: A Mostly Funny Memoir of Mental Illness and Making Things)
It’s funny how quickly you descend from civilized young lady to madwoman; it was as if this beastly, boundaryless creature had been living just beneath my skin for years, lashing her tail.
Alix E. Harrow (The Ten Thousand Doors of January)
Getting a nickname is a very common thing in Australia, and when your friends honour you with one, you don’t have a choice; you have to accept it. I knew a guy at school who was super thin, so he scored the nickname ‘Skin’, for ‘skinny’. My mother’s name is Shirley, but Dad only called her ‘Girl’ and hardly ever said her real name. Either it was because she always looked so young and pretty, or he was playing it safe to avoid slipping up and calling her by a different woman’s name when he was drunk.
Brett Preiss (The (un)Lucky Sperm: Tales of My Bizarre Childhood - A Funny Memoir)
The groomer wasn’t provided any dental care or skin care and that’s the truth. Just ask his dentdermatautologist, he’ll tell you.
J.S. Mason (The Satyrist...And Other Scintillating Treats)
It's not what it looks like. That was a photo one of my barbecue teammates took. That was our ice luge. It melted, so I was picking it up and throwing it over the fence there. But from the angle he took the picture, my teammates thought it looked funny and posted it online. You can write your story and try to get a couple of clicks. It is what it is. ut it's just stupid. It's a nonstory. Given what’s happening with so many elected officials in the capital with so many real scandals going on, it seems like someone is trying to do a little misdirection and throw some heat onto a political consultant who has no skin in the game.
Rick Scott Cooper Josh
Woooooooooohoooooooooo! It’s finally done and finally ready to be published! Thank goodness I’m done. I’m really sorry that it took so, so, so, sooooooooooo long for this final book to come out. I had a difficult time writing it, probably because it was the finale. Usually, when I write, the story and words flow out of me pretty easily. But with this final book, the words came trickling out. Not only that, but I rewrote some sections a few times. So, yeah, that’s why it took so long. But hey, it ended up with nearly 88,000 words and 71 pics. It’s basically a double book, though I’d like to think of it as two and a half books. That way, I feel a little bit better about the long delay. Speaking of delays, I must apologize again for missing my deadlines repeatedly. I totally underestimated this last book. It’s actually kinda funny, because this book was scheduled for a late August release. And now it’s mid-December! Oh, my goodness… how time flies. But yeah, I was at it every day. At one point, I seriously considered splitting this book into two parts. I think that was in early November. But then, I decided to just push through. Alright, enough of publishing times. Let’s talk about the book and the ending. I think I found a nice blend of multiple ideas on the ending. With this ending, it opens up the possibilities to a lot of new things in Minecraft, such as all the latest and greatest updates. Anyway, I think most readers will like the ending.  Now a word about the next series—or the rather—the continuing series, the new world/realm will feature player name tags/humans, as well as custom player skins. It will contain the latest updates, as well as mods. The continuing series will make use of pop culture such as memes. There’s so much more I can say about the next saga, but I won’t because I don’t want to give everything away.
Steve the Noob (Diary of Steve the Noob 45 (An Unofficial Minecraft Book) (Diary of Steve the Noob Collection))
Observing his captors, Kojima was astounded by their racial and ethnic diversity: “Blond, silver, black, brown, red hair. Blue, green, brown, black eyes. White, black, skin colors of every variety. I was stunned. I realized then that we’d fought against all the peoples of the world. At the same time, I thought, what a funny country America is, all those different kinds of people fighting in the same uniform!”61 On
Ian W. Toll (Twilight of the Gods: War in the Western Pacific, 1944-1945 (Vol. 3) (Pacific War Trilogy))
Since my biographer may be too staid Or know too little to affirm that Shade Shaved in his bath, here goes: "He'd fixed a sort Of hinge-and-screw affair, a steel support Running across the tub to hold in place The shaving mirror right before his face And with his toe renewing tap-warmth, he'd Sit like a king there, and like Marat bleed." The more I weigh, the less secure my skin; In places it's ridiculously thin; Thus near the mouth: the space between its wick And my grimace, invited the wicked nick. Or this dewlap: some day I must set free The Newport Frill inveterate in me. My Adam's apple is a prickly pear: Now I shall speak of evil and despair As none has spoken. Five, six, seven, eight, Nine strokes are not enough. Ten. I palpate Through strawberry-and-cream the gory mess And find unchanged that patch of prickliness. I have my doubts about the one-armed bloke Who in commercials with one gliding stroke Clears a smooth path of flesh from ear to chin, Then wipes his faces and fondly tries his skin. I'm in the class of fussy bimanists. As a discreet ephebe in tights assists A female in an acrobatic dance, My left hand help, and holds, and shifts its stance. Now I shall speak...Better than any soap Is the sensation for which poets hope When inspiration and its icy blaze, The sudden image, the immediate phrase Over the skin a triple ripple send Making the little hairs all stand on end As in the enlarged animated scheme Of whiskers mowed when held up by Our Cream.
Vladimir Nabokov (Pale Fire)
When you fall in every way- to me, it’s not about love… I have a hard time believing in something that I don’t find too real for me or can trust… like papa said- I should. Times have changed. To me, it’s trying to keep it, after the fact. That's the color of Jenny, her skin is never that natural looking. What was the look on her face all about? Maddie begins giggling hysterically until she doubles over and has to cover her mouth with both hands. I don’t know what she could find funny. Then I see Ray and Justen are love drinks doing it on the pole table, with my little sis just eyeing it all up. She knows- Ray is my guy, and Justen is her new bestie. ‘God save me if you can hear me!’ I am ready to rip someone’s head off and the skin that goes with it. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she- my sis says. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She looks back at me- like I know your heart has broken. Justen looked at her and said- ‘OH MY GOD’ get her out of here. She was her to dance not see this. I grab her by the back of her short dress and take her into the next room and said. ‘It’s okay, everything is going to be fine no damn it go home!’ She said- ‘Know it’s not… Kar-ley I did a No-no!’ (She still baby talks.) You’re never going to forgive me. I said- ‘I know you had sex, for the first time tonight.’ She said- ‘Yes, but…’ I said- ‘But… what… go on.’ She starts subbing. She said- ‘It was Ray that did it to me, up in the master bedroom. He said- ‘That you would think it would be okay because I knew him.’ ‘So, I believed him.’ She added- During sex I bleed a lot out of there (and the point) and it hurt so much Karly, I cried the whole time. But I felt close to him… How was it I ask? And then she dropped the shocker of a lifetime. She said- ‘I think I am in love with your boyfriend, yet Justen just ripped him away. She asks me the most complex question ever coming from the mind of a ten-year-old. ‘So, which of us girls do you think he loves the most? Is it me, you or her?’ I said- ‘I don’t know… she looks puzzled by that… just like I could not believe that I didn’t say- me.’ Kellie said- I feel a little sore but other than that I am a hundred percent perfectly fine emotion Madilyn and physically, up till this point at least.’ I whispered in her ear- ‘Aww sis, boys will say anything to get you to do what they want. She has her head on my chest. No, I am not mad at you. I’ll take care of this, ‘I am not mad’- I said once more. On the other hand, inside I was pissed, she had the night that I have been planning for a long time.
Marcel Ray Duriez
Blond, silver, black, brown, red hair. Blue, green, brown, black eyes. White, black, skin colors of every variety. I was stunned. I realized then that we’d fought against all the peoples of the world. At the same time, I thought, what a funny country America is, all those different kinds of people fighting in
Ian W. Toll (Twilight of the Gods: War in the Western Pacific, 1944-1945 (Vol. 3) (Pacific War Trilogy))
He muses on the terrorists who brought down the World Trade Center (he muses on them often). Those clowns actually thought they were going to paradise, where they'd live in a kind of eternal luxury hotel being services by gorgeous young virgins. Pretty funny, and the best part? They joke was on them...not that they knew it. What they got was a momentary view of all those windows and a final flash of light. After that, they and their thousands of victims were just gone. Poof. Seeya later, alligator. Off you go, killers and killed alike, off you go into the universe null set that surrounds one lonely blue planet and all its mindlessly bustling denizens. Every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage. The truth is darkness, and the only thing that matters is making a statement before one enters it. Cutting the skin of the world and leaving a scar. That's all history is, after all: scar tissue.
Stephen King (Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1))
Why not now?’ Horgias said. ‘We could go back in now and take it.’ ‘You can certainly try.’ Pantera rolled his tongue around his teeth and then said something in the native tongue that neither of us understood. When we made no response, he repeated it, more slowly, louder. We looked at each other, and at him. He smiled tightly. ‘I said, “You are Roman and we of Eleazir’s party take great pleasure in slaughtering your countrymen. We took five days to skin alive a man who tried to join you. Imagine what we can do now, when we have all winter.”’ ‘Very funny.’ I wasn’t smiling. Nor was Pantera. ‘If you want to go, I won’t stop you. But without fluency in both Aramaic and Hebrew, you will die.
M.C. Scott (Rome: The Eagle of the Twelfth (Rome, #3))
What happens to a man who loses more than half of himself? Ron Lester has searched for the answer since December 2000, when he underwent Roux-en-Y gastric bypass surgery with a duodenal switch.1 Since he realized in the third grade that his massive girth could draw laughs, Lester knew his fate was as the funny fat guy. When he moved to Hollywood — a town where funny fat guys can become millionaires — he was an overnight success. There was one problem, though: His moneymaker was slowly killing him. With a family history of heart problems, the 500-pound Lester wasn’t long for this world. Surgery saved his life. It also ended his career. A shrinking man with loose skin greeted casting directors expecting the funny fat guy, and Lester struggled to score roles post-op. Now living in Dallas nearly 15 years after his glory days, he is left to ponder whether choosing life was the right decision. “Am I alive? Yes. Am I happy? No. Did I throw away my career to be skinny? Yes,” he says. “I wouldn’t do [the surgery] again. I would much rather have died happy, rich, and kept my status and gone out on top.
Billy Bob's Blues
Sunday's Best Times are tough for English babies Send the army and the navy Beat up strangers who talk funny Take their greasy foreign money Skin shop, red leather, hot line Be prepared for the engaged sign Bridal books, engagement rings And other wicked little things Chorus: Standing in your socks and vest Better get it off your chest Every day is just like the rest But Sunday's best Stylish slacks to suit your pocket Back supports and picture lockets Sleepy towns and sleeper trains To the dogs and down the drains Major roads and ladies smalls Hearts of oak and long trunk calls Continental interference At death's door with life insurance Chorus Sunday's best, Sunday's finest When your money's in the minus And you suffer from your shyness You can listen to us whiners Don't look now under the bed An arm, a leg and a severed head Read about the private lives The songs of praise, the readers' wives Listen to the decent people Though you treat them just like sheep Put them all in boots and khaki Blame it all upon the darkies
Elvis Costello
Well I'm not going to hope that you get hurt, but if you do, remember that you're my damsel in distress, and no one is allowed to carry you." "I don't remember signing a contract." "All the more reason to promise me now." "What if you're not around when I get hurt?" "Send word, I`ll come running." "How big an injury does it have to be? Because sometimes I do this thing when I stand up too quickly and my ankle kind of twists a little---" "Sounds serious. You don't want to put any weight on that. I`d better carry you the next time that happens." "What if I skin my knee?" "I`ll carry you." "Charley horse?" "I`ll carry you." "Chipped toenail?" "Not worth taking a risk. I`ll carry you.
Claire LaZebnik
One thing that gets lost in all the aggregation throughout this book: on an individual level, the personal affects of these broad social forces are often very subtle... when you go person by person, any individual's experience is too small and too varied to conclusively say anything racial has happened. It could be your skin or it could be just you. On the other side of it, it's laughable to think of one red-faced guy searching for n****r jokes because Barak Obama got elected, but it's a lot less funny when you can see that he's one of thousands and thousands making the same search. And it's less funny still when you see the large affects these private attitudes can still have, even in public life. Thus the story of just one of us versus the story of us all. That's why data like this is necessary; it ends arguments that anecdotes could never win. It provides facts that need facing.
Christian Rudder (Dataclysm: Who We Are (When We Think No One's Looking))
There was a fire drill at school the next day. I think I’m more afraid of the fire alarm than I am of a fire. When the fire alarm goes off, you jump out of your skin. Your heart pounds and your ears buzz and your brain melts and all you want to do is get away from that horrible noise. “Get up and walk quickly out the door and to your right,” said Mr. Dooley. “Do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars,” said Donald. I held my hands over my ears to drown out the fire alarm. Outside we stood around waiting for the bell that means we could come back in again. “Yay! The roof is on fire! No more school!” someone joked. “Anybody got a match?” said someone else. Mr. Dooley said that wasn’t funny. He said if there really was a fire, we’d be smart to know what to do.
Phyllis Reynolds Naylor (Alice in Blunderland (Alice Prequels #2))
Something wet and cold fell into her lap. Aimee jumped in surprise, jolted out of her sensual daydreams. She stared as a large trout flopped up and down on her legs. Her gaze shot toward the river. Daniel wore a wolfish grin on his face. “You threw a fish at me?” she shouted in false anger. “I can’t believe you threw a fish at me!” In truth, it was hard to believe. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Scowly had actually done something funny. Imagine that. She bent down in pretense of picking up the wiggling fish, and gathered a handful of river mud from the bank, and squeezed it into a ball. As Daniel slowly waded toward her, still grinning from ear to ear, she aimed and threw the mud, hitting him in the shoulder. “Hah! Take that!”  Daniel’s grin faded quickly. “Two can play at that game.” Aimee kept taunting him, her hands on her hips. Daniel emerged from the river, and she swallowed hard. Her eyes roamed over his glistening wet body as he advanced. His feral virility stunned her. Several large jagged scars on his chest stood out against his olive skin. Why hadn’t she noticed them the day before? She swallowed nervously as her gaze traveled lower, and sighed in relief. He wasn’t completely nude. He wore a breechcloth, but it didn’t leave much to the imagination as to what it covered, and only served to accentuate his flat, rippled stomach and muscular thighs. The smoldering look in his eyes as he advanced sent her a few steps backwards, and the smile on her face froze. Oh God! Is he really this angry because I threw some mud at him?  In one lightning fast, predatory move, Daniel grabbed her up and flung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and turned back to the water. “What are you doing? Put me down!” Aimee shrieked. Her fists pounded his hard back while her feet kicked uselessly in the air. He waded into the water a few feet, and unceremoniously threw her into the river. Before she hit the water, her thought was one of disbelief that he carried the game this far. It seemed so uncharacteristic of him. “You slimeball,” she yelled as her head emerged from the water. She was actually pleasantly surprised at this new, playful side of him. At least it solved her dilemma of wanting to go for a swim earlier. “How dare you!” she squealed in mock anger. Daniel dove into the river after her and came up inches from her face. She splashed water at him to ward him off. Daniel’s hands shot up and encircled her wrists. Flashing a devilish grin, he asked, “What is a slimeball?” She couldn’t keep up her false anger any more. “A slippery snake,” she laughed. “Like you, who preys on helpless women.” Daniel’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you said you weren’t helpless.” “You’re right, I’m not helpless,” she confirmed, and flapped like a fish to try and free herself from his iron grip.
Peggy L. Henderson (Yellowstone Heart Song (Yellowstone Romance, #1))
I was overreacting. I tend to do that when imagining someone wearing my skin as a cape.
Nadine Hays Pisani (The Costa Rica Escape Manual: Your How-To Guide on Moving, Traveling Through, & Living in Costa Rica)
Her eyes slid closed, her secret places pulsed in anticipation, and his lips settled onto the skin beneath her ear. That was magic. She held perfectly still. He pressed a kiss to her neck. Then another, lower. A third, even lower. She squirmed. He dropped his hands. “Sorry. I---“ “Don’t stop,” Kimmie whispered.
Jamie Farrell (Sugared (Misfit Brides, #4))
It took me quite a while to begin to recover physically from Everest. The thick, rich air of sea level, in comparison to the ultrathin air of Everest, was intoxicating--and at times it felt like too much. Several times I fainted and had quite bad nosebleeds. As if from oxygen overload. Above all, I slept like a baby. For the first time in years, I had no fear, no doubts, no sense of foreboding. It felt amazing. Everest had taken all my heart, soul, energy, and desire, and I was spent. The way I was after SAS Selection. Funny that. Good things rarely come easy. Maybe that is what makes them special. I didn’t feel too guilty about taking a little time off to enjoy the British summer and catch up with my friends. It just felt so great to be safe. I also did my first-ever newspaper interview, which carried the headline: “What Makes a Scruffy 23-Year-Old Want to Risk It All for a View of Tibet?” Nice. Before I left I would have had a far slicker reply than I did afterward. My reasons for climbing seemed somehow more obscure. Maybe less important. I don’t know. I just knew that it was good to be home. The same journalist also finished up by congratulating me on having “conquered” Everest. But this instinctively felt so wrong. We never conquer any mountain. Everest allowed us to reach the summit by the skin of our teeth, and let us go with our lives. Not everyone had been so lucky. Everest never has been, and never will be, conquered. This is part of what makes the mountain so special. One of the other questions I often got asked when we returned home was: “Did you find God on the mountain?” The real answer is you don’t have to climb a big mountain to find faith. It’s simpler than that--thank God. If you asked me did He help me up there, then the answer would be yes. Every faltering step of the way.
Bear Grylls (Mud, Sweat and Tears)
I’ll never be put in a box and lowered into the earth. I’ll never grow old and watch the veins on my hands begin to work their way out of my skin. … It was funny, now, the way all the inner workings of old people moved to the outside. Their muscles and their sinews got hard and ropy and hung on the outside of their skins. Their veins rose up, so where you hadn’t been able to see them before you could see them now. There were little blue ones that appeared on the forehead, jagged like a saw blade, where the skin had once been smooth. There were others like cords wrapping their way across the backs of hands, and along legs. And pulses turned up where they never had been before. The throat one now, you didn’t even know it was there, until one day you saw it, naked and exposed, pumping your blood for everybody to see. … I won’t be like that, Margaret thought. I won’t ever get old and I won’t ever die. I couldn’t. …
Shirley Ann Grau (The Keepers of the House)
No, it’s not that. Or not just that,” Kat protested. “I don’t get along with them at all—one of them, anyway.” “Now let me guess—that would be your dark twin. Am I right?” Piper raised an eyebrow at her and Kat nodded. “Lock is really sweet. But Deep…we just can’t get along.” She looked down at her hands. “My parents divorced when I was twelve and my grandmother raised me but before then, they were constantly yelling and screaming at each other. I just…I don’t want to be stuck for life in a relationship like that and…” She looked up. “And I don’t even know why I’m telling you this when I just met you.” “That’s ‘cause I’m easy to talk to.” Piper smiled at her. “Everybody says so. I was a bartender back on Earth back before my men called me as a bride. Worked at a club in downtown Houston called Foolish Pride. I bet I listened to fifty sob stories a night and you know what? I kinda miss it.” “You’re good at it.” Kat smiled at her. “Did…do you have the same problem with your, uh, guys? Not that Deep and Lock are mine or anything,” she continued hurriedly. “I mean, we kind of all got stuck together by accident and now I’m having a really hard time getting away.” “Isn’t that just the way?” Piper nodded sympathetically. “As for dark twins—they’re always a problem. Ask any female on God’s green Earth who’s mated to one. They’re contrary and irritating and just plain ornery and yours seems to be worse than most.” “He certainly is,” Kat agreed, thinking of Deep’s tendency to get under her skin. “He’s sarcastic and moody and dark…” She sighed. “But he’s very protective, too. And loyal and gentle when he wants to be. And…” “And you’re really confused,” Piper finished for her. Kat nodded gratefully. “I really am. But I do know I don’t want to be bonded to anyone until I’m ready. And I am so far from being ready right now it isn’t funny.” “Then stay away from them tonight when the bonding fruit kicks in,” Piper said seriously. “Ask for a private room or lock yourself in the bathroom but whatever you do, don’t wind up between them or it’s gonna be game, set, and match. I promise you that.” “Okay,
Evangeline Anderson (Sought (Brides of the Kindred, #3))
paces. ‘She can’t do that.’ ‘She can and she is. She’s renting a cottage. I don’t know how long for.’ She takes hold of my wrist and grips it so tightly that her nails pierce my skin. ‘I have to stop her.’ ‘Monica! You need to keep this in perspective!’ I extract my wrist from her fingers and shake her gently. ‘I know she brings back memories of your parents and I know that hurts, but now, in the present, you have nothing to fear from Orla.’ Her eyes say otherwise and as she looks into mine I see that she is close to telling me something. ‘What is it, Monica? What is it?’ My scalp tingles. ‘Is it about Rose?’ Her eyes glaze over. ‘I was warned about this. I was warned—’ ‘What are you talking about? Warned by whom?’ ‘Grace!’ she hisses. ‘Do you have any idea how much damage she could do?’ I give a short laugh, not because it’s funny but because I have to let some emotion out. ‘The status quo should never be underestimated. Life, ticking along. It might seem boring at times but . . .’ She looks up to the right and seems to pluck her words from the air. ‘Orla is dangerous. She will cause havoc and then she will leave. We have to stop her.’ ‘Believe me, I don’t want her around either.’ I take her hand. ‘Tell me what’s troubling you.’ ‘I can’t.’ She pulls free. ‘I can’t break a confidence.’ She takes a few steps backward. ‘Can you find out what Orla wants? Can you do that?’ I already have. ‘I’ll do my best.’ I try to look optimistic. ‘I’ll let you know.’ ‘Good.’ She recovers her composure and gives me an awkward hug. ‘I may not have been popular at school, my home life was in meltdown, but hey!’ She looks around her, takes
Julie Corbin (Tell Me No Secrets)
For a second the werewolf, er, Justin, paused, his head cocked to the side, making him look less like a throatripping-out beastie and more like a cocker spaniel. The thought made me giggle. And suddenly those yellow eyes were on me. It gave another howl, and before I even had time to think, it charged. I heard the man and woman cry out a warning as I frantically racked my brain for some sort of throatrepairing spell, which I was clearly about to need. Of course the only words I actually managed to yell at the werewolf as he ran at me were, "BAD DOG!" Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of blue light on my left. Suddenly, the werewolf seemed to smack into an invisible wall just inches in front of me. Giving a pitiful bark, he slumped to the ground. His fur and skin began to ripple and flow until he was a normal boy in khakis and a blue blazer, whimpering pitifully. His parents got to him just as Mom ran to me, dragging my trunk behind her. "Oh my God!" she breathed. "Sweetie, are you okay?" "Fine," I said, brushing grass off my skilt. "You know," someone said off to my left, "I usually find a blocking spell to be a lot more effective than yelling 'Bad dog,' but maybe that's just me." I turned. Leaning against a tree, his collar unbuttoned and tie loose, was a smirking guy. His Hecate blazer was hanging limply in the crook of his elbow. "You are a witch, aren't you?" he continued. He pushed himself off the tree and ran a hand through his black curly hair. As he walked closer, I noticed that he was slender almost to the point of skinny, and that he was several inches taller than me. "Maybe in the future," he said, "you could endeavor not to suck so badly at it.
Rachel Hawkins (Hex Hall (Hex Hall, #1))
Funny, she had all that ink on her skin to protect her from ghosts and magic, and he were damn sure doing what he could to protect her outside that, but weren’t anything he could do to keep her safe from the memories.
Stacia Kane (Wrong Ways Down (Downside Ghosts, #1.5))
Oh, sure, they all went through the motions. For almost two weeks, they paraded out witnesses and experts and walked us through a chain of custody and exhibits A to Z, all of which I guess gave legitimacy to what was already a foregone conclusion. I was guilty. Hell, as far as the police and the prosecutor and the judge and even my own defense attorney were concerned, I was born guilty. Black, poor, without a father most of my life, one of ten children—it was actually pretty amazing I had made it to the age of twenty-nine without a noose around my neck. But justice is a funny thing, and in Alabama, justice isn't blind. She knows the color of your skin, your education level, and how much money you have in the bank. I may not have had any money, but I had enough education to understand exactly how justice was working in this trial and exactly how it was going to turn out. The good old boys had traded in their white robes for black robes, but it was still a lynching.
Anthony Ray Hinton (The Sun Does Shine: How I Found Life and Freedom on Death Row)
But sometimes, people kick you to the ground at recess because they think the shape of your eyes is funny. They lunge at you because they see a vulnerable body. Or a different skin color. Or a difficult name. They think that you won’t hit back—that you’ll just lower your eyes and hide. And sometimes, to protect yourself, to make it go away, you do.
Marie Lu (Warcross (Warcross, #1))
The woman looked like she was starving, her ribs thrusting out from her sides, her legs so thin that Tally wondered how they didn’t snap under her weight. Her elbows and pelvic bones looked sharp as needles. But there she was, smiling and proudly baring her body, as if she’d just had the operation and didn’t realize they’d sucked out way too much fat. The funny thing was, her face was closer to being pretty than any of the rest. She had the big eyes, smooth skin, and small nose, but her cheekbones were too tight, the skull practically visible beneath her flesh. “What on earth is she?” “A model.” “Which is what?” “Kind of like a professional pretty. I guess when everyone else is ugly, being pretty is sort of, like, your job.
Scott Westerfeld (Uglies (Uglies, #1))
You think you’re better than everyone else. You think the rules don’t apply to you. You breeze into town, working your charm on all the girls, then walk away when you realize they aren’t the skin-walker you’re looking for. You find her”--Sam pointed at me--“and you use her, too, but apparently, she’s forgiven you. Maya’s smart and she’s sensible, so maybe I’m trying to figure out why the hell she’s with you when there are great guys like…” She stumbled, as if searching for a name. “Like Brendan. You’ve got some kind of hold over her, and I don’t like it.” Rafe leaned over and whispered. “It’s a love spell I picked up from a witch over in Nanaimo. But don’t tell Maya.” “You think you’re funny.” “No, I think you have your own issue with me and I think I know what it is. But it has nothing to do with me personally, so I’m going to try not to take it personally. And, while I might be enjoying this--” He lifted his hand, which was still clasping mine. “I know it’s as temporary as a love spell. Give it a few hours and she’ll hate me again.” “Hate’s a strong word,” I said. “Strong emotion is better than indifference.” He grinned at me, then looked at the others. “Now, if we can stop bickering for a few minutes, I’ll tell you my plan.” His gaze moved to Sam. “Which I’m sure Maya and Daniel will change, if they don’t outright reject it, and I’m fine with that.
Kelley Armstrong (The Calling (Darkness Rising, #2))
I am Gregori, Jacques.” Gregori’s voice was power itself, yet soft and soothing. “A healer for our people.” Shea was lying across Jacques, her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed. She groaned— a low, husky sound that added fuel to Jacques’ rage. His fingers brushed the dark smudges along her swollen throat, and he turned a murderous gaze on Mikhail. “Leave us alone.” Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and raw. She did not open her eyes or try to move. “I can help him,” Gregori persisted, using his same compelling tone. The woman was so obviously the key to reaching Jacques. It was in the way he held her, the protective posture of his body, the way his eyes moved possessively, even tenderly, over her face. His hands were continually caressing her, stroking her hair, her skin. At the underlying command in Gregori’s beautiful voice, her long eyelashes lifted, and she studied his face. He was savagely beautiful, a blend of elegance and untamed beast. He looked more dangerous than the other two strangers did. Shea made an effort to swallow, but it hurt. “You look like an ax murderer to me.” This one has brains. Mikhail’s soft laughter echoed in Gregori’s head. She sees beyond that handsome face of yours. You are so funny, ancient one. Gregori deliberately reminded him of the quarter of a century difference in their ages.
Christine Feehan (Dark Desire (Dark, #2))
        Bees die when they sting you. A bee’s stinger can get stuck in a person’s skin and the bee has to rip itself apart to escape.               If the bee is careful, or doesn’t sting you at a funny angle, it will be fine.               So when people say, “You got stung, but at least the bee is dead,” just remember that those people are liars.
James Egan (1000 Things People Believe That Aren't True (365 Things People Believe That Aren't True Book 4))
Jeffrey’s face, noting how the skin under his eyes was puffy and red, underscored with deep circles. Even as a child, he couldn’t sleep when something troubled him. Now this foolish thing his father supposedly had done was keeping him up at night. But Jeffrey couldn’t afford to worry about her. He had his own family and his own problems. “Things will work out. You’ll see. Call the bank and talk to them.” She forced a bright smile, though she felt like crying. Funny how you managed to find it in your heart to do things
Kathleen Irene Paterka (The Other Wife)
Questions When she asked me out for coffee, I knew she was different. Her words were funny but lonely. Her eyes nervously asked questions. I was looking into a murky well, but I couldn't turn away. Sometimes I wish I could take her away. We could walk a beach sipping coffee, and she'd laugh and feel really well and not start crying. She'd be different. No one would ask me questions about being with someone so weird, lonely. 'Save me,' she whispers. It makes me lonely. My life before that first day seems far away. Her cutting habit scares me. I ask questions so maybe she can say what hurts. I offer coffee with lots of sugar and milk, something different. She dries her smudged eyes, sighs, 'Oh, well.' I wish we could hold hands by a rock well and fling in her thorny wounds, fears, loneliness. Maybe things with her will never be different. Maybe I need to pack up and run far away, but then tomorrow, alone, she'd drink bitter coffee again, and I'd be asking myself what-if questions. My counselor asks me confusing questions about whether I can cure her, make her well, and what if I hadn't gone out for that first coffee, can I really save anyone but me. 'But she's so lonely,' I say, 'and I love her and can't just turn away.' I even pray that she'll wake up smiling, different. My family says, 'Think of college, a new different life, a clean start.' Maybe a roommate will question my politics, sign us up for a trip to the mountains far away. Can, should I, forget her, and focus just on me? Well, I'd miss her too, digging into my skin, lonely for what I provide, warmth and not just in the coffee. People say I don't look well, I stopped coffee, but the broken questions just replay, won't go away. I want to be different even if I'm lonely.
Pat Mora (Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love)