Stitch Best Quotes

Humility is the best dress you can wear

Despite what we knitters know to be true, the non-knitting world somehow persists in thinking that a "knitter" looks a certain way. Most likely, this picture is one of an elderly woman, grandmotherly and polite, sitting in her rocking chair surrounded by homemade cookies and accompanied by a certain number of cats. In reality, a knitter today is just as likely to be young, hip, male, and sitting at a "Stitch and Bitch" in a local bar. Several of today's best knitting designers are men, and a knitter is as likely to have body piercings as homemade cookies. Despite our diversity, the tendency to be accompanied by a cat is an oddity among knitters that cannot be explained.

I'm being fair, it was the best kiss of my life- a kiss that finds all your seams and pulls them apart, stitch by detail stitch.

I know you loved us all, in your own way. Magdalena for her brilliance, Alexi for his loveliness. But I was your war bride, your faithful Constanta, and you loved me for my will to survive. You coaxed that tenacity out of me and broke it down in your hands, leaving me on your work table like a desiccated doll until you were ready to repair me. You filled me with your loving guidance, stitched up my seams with thread in your favorite color, taught me how to walk and talk and smile in whatever way pleased you best. I was so happy to be your marionette, at first. So happy to be chosen.

I know God enjoys hearing my take on how best we should all proceed, as I'm always full of useful advice. I'm sure God says either, "Oh, I so love Annie's selfless and evolved thoughts," or else "Jeez. What a head case.

Perhaps thee will best understand what Abigail is like if I tell thee that when she quilts she prefers to stitch in the ditch, hiding her poor stitches in the seams between the blocks.

Say it's true: It is what it is. We're social, tribal, musical animals, walking percussion instruments. Most of us do the best we can. We show up. We strive for gratitude, and try not to be such babies.

And then I threw up from all the anesthesia and my teeth were still chattering and they were telling me not to vomit so hard, otherwise my stitches would bust open. I said,'I don't know how to vomit softly.' That's like telling someone to shit perfume.

From watching my parents I think being married or being with someone else in any kind of real way takes a certain amount of bravery, and it's not something I'm positive I have in me. To pluck your heart from your chest that way and hand it to someone, unprotected, and wait to see how gently they'll stitch it back in for you, or not--to wake up all those days you're the crappiest version of yourself and face the person who knows you best, morning after morning, year after year.

Stitched, healed and smoothed, my heart belonged to her.

So at the end of the day, although we will try to stitch together the best evidence for these theories, the result will be tentative. We have already seen that growth is hard to measure. It is even harder to know what drives it, and therefore to make policy to make it happen. Given that, we will argue, it may be time to abandon our profession’s obsession with growth.

You filled me with your loving guidance, stitched up my seams with tread in your favorite color, taught me how to walk and talk and smile in whatever way pleased you best. I was so happy to be your marionette, at first. So happy to be chosen.

In an effort to teach myself self-restraint and self-control, I decided that until I completed my engineering degree, I would wear only white saris, refrain from sweets, sleep on a mat and take baths with cold water. I aimed to become self-sufficient; I would be my best friend and my worst enemy. I didn’t know then that such a quote already existed in the Bhagavad Gita where Krishna says, ‘Atma aiva hi atmano bandhu aatma aiva ripu atmanah’.

I was no more than the garment worker who made sure the stitching was correct in an outfit designed, produced, and consumed by the wealthy white people of the world. They owned the means of production, and therefore the means of representation, and the best that we could ever hope for was to get a word in edgewise before our anonymous deaths.

We are each our own best effort. And we’re satisfied until we see a photograph or hear a recording of our voice. All the worse is the torture of video, to witness the squawking, gawky monster we’ve created. The you that you’ve chosen from all possible yous to create. The one life you’ve been given, and you’ve dedicated it to perfecting this staggering yammering artificial Frankenstein’s monster stitched together from the traits of other people. Anything original, anything innately you, it’s long ago been discarded.

Can we discuss this after the wedding?" "No." Damn. It was worth a shot. "Fine." I glanced around the car. How does one ask for privacy in the back of a limo occupied by eight observers? To their credit, my friends did their best impression of quality assurance engineers, checking the seat cushions for stitch durability and picking lint from the carpet.

Punctuation has been defined many ways. Some grammarians use the analogy of stitching: punctuation as the basting that holds the fabric of language in shape. Another writer tells us that punctuation marks are the traffic signals of language: they tell us to slow down, notice this, take a detour, and stop. I have even seen a rather fanciful reference to the full stop and comma as “the invisible servants in fairy tales – the ones who bring glasses of water and pillows, not storms of weather or love”. But best of all, I think, is the simple advice given by the style book of a national newspaper: that punctuation is “a courtesy designed to help readers to understand a story without stumbling”.

They taught me that being of service, an ally to the lonely and suffering, a big-girl helper to underdogs, was my best shot at happiness. They taught me that most of my good ideas were not helpful, and that all of my ideas after ten p.m. were especially unhelpful. They taught me to pay attention, but not so much attention to my tiny princess mind.

It’s tragic that these kids will never get to see the real Lilo & Stitch, because it has to be the best animated movie ever made. But I am proud that it’s my most requested movie retelling. Though I’m certain that comes from the fact that we’re all our own little fucked-up ‘ohana.

If you screwed up and said out loud that you thought something scary was happening, grown-ups would say, “Oh, for Pete’s sake—what an imagination.” This is the best way to gaslight children. It keeps them under control, because if the parent is a mess, the children are doomed. It’s best for the child to think he or she is the problem. Then there is toxic hope, which is better than no hope at all, that if the child can do better or need less, the parents will be fine.

But that’s how we recover. We take small risks⁠—like small stitches⁠—until we’re sewn back together.

Running is a deeply unpleasant sport at the best of times, but it is particularly awful when you’re bad at it. There is so much unpleasantness at once. First, there is the shortness of breath, then the ache in the legs, then the sharp pain of the stitch, the soreness of the feet, the discomfort of the joints, and the lactic acid burn in the thighs. Eventually, some of this subsides with the increase of dizziness, delirium and sweating. Then there are the added difficulties of cross-country running – scraping through prickly bushes, standing on sharp rocks, getting jabbed by sticks and wading through icy cold streams. Altogether, it was Friday’s idea of hell.

He remembers the philosophers dead with detail, and how they honed their trade into the grave for the sake of their livelihoods. Incapable of audacity, they pleasured themselves with a maze constructed of nothing but dead-ends. They were so petrified they might happen upon the truth, might come to know something for certain, that they deployed some of their best minds to obliterate it, scattering its shards into infinity. But they were only trying to keep the dream alive, after all, fighting to keep the questions outnumbering the answers, picking away at the odd dropped stitch in an otherwise ever-tightening blanket of sacrosanct precision. They fought hard, if unwittingly, against the encroaching dullness of complete knowledge, but ultimately paid the price of becoming as dull as their enemy - at least the chemical truths of literature sometimes bothered to wear a suit and tie.

Dont become anxious. Try not to get worked up. A word to the wise. Bird in hand. Bird in hand? A stitch in time. We’re not out of the woods. What the fuck. Where’s it say that? Penny wise and pound foolish. Honesty is the best policy. Jesus. Enough

After that, my life paused. Or, more accurately, I paused. I stood at the tracks, watching the train whip past. At first, I didn't care. When I finally did, I couldn't figure out what to do about it. My dreams and my future and part of my soul died with Michael, but now, deep inside, a voice has begun to scream that I'm letting the best years of my life slip past.

Imperial is like Robert Caro’s The Power Broker with the attitude of Mike Davis’s City of Quartz, if Robert Caro had been raised in an abandoned grain silo by a band of feral raccoons, and if Mike Davis were the communications director of a heavily armed libertarian survivalist cult, and if the two of them had somehow managed to stitch John McPhee’s cortex onto the brain of a Gila monster, which they then sent to the Mexican border to conduct ten years of immersive research, and also if they wrote the entire manuscript on dried banana leaves with a toucan beak dipped in hobo blood, and then the book was line-edited during a 36-hour peyote séance by the ghosts of John Steinbeck, Jack London, and Sinclair Lewis, with 200 pages of endnotes faxed over by Henry David Thoreau’s great-great-great-great grandson from a concrete bunker under a toxic pond behind a maquiladora, and if at the last minute Herman Melville threw up all over the manuscript, rendering it illegible, so it had to be re-created from memory by a community-theater actor doing his best impression of Jack Kerouac. With photographs by Dorothea Lange. (Viking has my full blessing to use that as a blurb.)

Wait." Walter went to the basket, taking what was a gray sleeve, drawing it out fro the middle of the heap. "Oh," He said. He held the shapeless wool sweater to his chest. Joyce had knit for months the year Daniel died, and here was the result, her handiwork, the garment that would fit a giant. It was nothing more than twelve skeins of yarn and thousands of loops, but it had the power to bring back in a flash the green-tiled walls of the hospital, the sound of an ambulance trying to cut through city traffic in the distance, the breathing of the dying boy, his father staring at the ceiling, the full greasy bucket of fried chicken on he bed table. "I'll take this one," Walter said, balling up the sweater as best he could, stuffing it into a shopping bag that was half full of the books he was taking home, that he was borrowing. "Oh, honey," Joyce said. "You don't want that old scrap." "You made it. I remember your making it." Keep it light, he said to himself, that's a boy. "There's a use for it. Don't you think so, Aunt Jeannie? No offense, Mom, but I could invade the Huns with it or strap the sleeves to my car tires in a blizzard, for traction, or protect our nation with it out in space, a shield against nuclear attack." Jeannie tittered in her usual way in spite of herself. "You always did have that sense of humor," she said as she went upstairs. When she was out of range, Joyce went to Walter's bag and retrieved the sweater. She laid it on the card table, the long arms hanging down, and she fingered the stitches. "Will you look at the mass of it," she exclaimed. "I don't even recall making it." ""'Memory -- that strange deceiver,'" Walter quoted.

As he held me close, I felt a sensation like I’d finally come home. It was like all of the layers around my heart were disintegrating away like paint chips falling into oblivion. The only sound were the crickets chirping outside. And I didn’t know what possessed me to say it— maybe the intense emotion of everything all coagulated into one spot. A swollen button on top of every experience that had stitched us together. “I love you,” I uttered into his ear, surprising myself. I’d meant to say I hated him, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words. “I love you too,” he said.

Ten years later . . . “Dude, you look like shit,” Carson says, clapping me on the shoulder. “This is my best sweater, and it’s supposed to make me look devastatingly handsome.” “It’s olive green,” Carson says with a question in his raised eyebrow. “Leave me alone.” I rest my head on the counter. “It’s been ten years since my heart was broken and it still aches.” “Ten years?” Carson laughs. “It’s been ten fucking days.” Ten days later (That’s right, sorry about that) . . . “Iknow, but ten days has felt like ten years. And I thought wearing my green sweater to Friendsgiving would be a nice pick-me-up but you just peed all over that idea.” “Does anyone like this sweater besides you?” “I get a lot of once-overs whenever I wear it. I think it’s how the color brings out my delicate green eyes.” “Or it’s the cross-stitched mountain range on the front.” I glance at my sweater and then rub my fingers over the cross-stitch. “I used to pretend it was brail and it would read, ‘You’re handsome, always have been, always will be.’” “I don’t understand how we’re friends.” Carson shakes his head. “Running pole-to-pole suicides at Brentwood together formed an unbreakable bond.” “God, you’re right.” 

Sloane inhaled sharply, and he relinquished control to his Therian side without any further thought. His claws came out, and his painful cry drowned out Dex’s as the tips of Sloane’s claws pierced his lover’s skin. Dex clutched at Sloane, his finger’s digging into his bicep and his jaw clenched as he tried desperately to keep himself quiet. His eyes grew glassy and red, but Sloane could see Dex fighting to keep himself from screaming. Darkness encroached Sloane’s vision, his senses sharpening. Slowly and deliberately he sliced at Dex’s arm, making sure to go deep enough to leave his mark permanently but not enough where Dex would need stitches. Sloane’s heart pounded, the scent of Dex’s blood filling his nostrils. He ground his hips against Dex as he finished leaving his mark around Dex’s forearm. As soon as he was finished, he pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped it around his partner’s bleeding arm, tying it firmly in place. His eyes landed on Dex, and he was taken aback by the heat in those amazing eyes. They clawed at each other’s clothes the best they could with Dex’s arm and Sloane’s leg. Desire and love turned into desperation, sending them both into a frenzy of need and lust. Sloane spit into his hand, making it good and wet, then wrapped it around his cock, stroking himself before he pushed a finger against Dex’s entrance. “Yes,” Dex hissed, his fingers slipping into Sloane’s hair and grabbing fistfuls of it. “Please, fuck me.” Sloane

Any idea what started it?” “No obvious point of origin, but Perry Horne will be out later and he can tell us more.” Joe unzipped his jacket a little way and palmed sweat from his throat. “I don’t need a fire marshal to tell you it wasn’t an accident, though.” Peck sighed and stiffened his jaw. The fire chief nodded, started toward the ruin. Peck followed. They skirted the yard where dry grass ticked, then crossed to the house’s eastern face, intact but damaged. The ground was soupy from the hoses’ spray. Peck stepped around the deeper puddles where the sky was reflected dull. A child’s soft toy stared at him with stitches for eyes. “You might want to ready yourself,” Joe said. Heat drove off the building and kinked the air and Peck felt his shirt latch to his back.

The cloak of the past is cut from patches of feeling and sewn with rebus threads. Most of the time, the best we can do is wrap it around us for comfort or drag it behind us as we struggle to go on. But everything has its cause and its meaning. Every life, every love, every action and feeling and thought has its reason, its significance, its beginning, and the part it plays in the end. Sometimes, we do see. Sometimes, we see the past so early and read the legend of its parts with such acuity, that every stitch of time reveals its purpose, and a kind of message is enfolded in it. Nothing in any life, no matter how well or poorly lived is wiser than failure or clearer than sorrow. And in the tiny, tiny precious wisdom that they give to us, even those dread and hated enemies, suffering and failure, have their reason and their right to be.

held on to Edward’s hand, gave him some of the best eye contact I’d given anyone in a while, and Dr. Fields tried to stitch me up ahead of my body’s healing. Even with the ardeur days from being fed I was healing too fast for normal medical help. Fuck. Edward talked low to me. He whispered about the case, tried to get me to think about work. It worked for a while, and then the painkiller was all gone and I was still being stitched up. I couldn’t think about work. He talked about his family, about what Donna was doing with her metaphysical shop, about Peter in school and in martial arts. He was working on his second black belt. Becca and her musical theater, and the fact that he was still taking her to dance class twice a week, that amused me enough for me to say, “I want to see you sitting with all the suburban moms in the waiting area.

Colby arrived the next day, with stitches down one lean cheek and a new prosthesis. He held it up as Cecily came out to the car to greet him. He held it up as Cecily came out to the car to greet him. “Nice, huh? Doesn’t it look more realistic than the last one?” “What happened to the last one?” she asked. “Got blown off. Don’t ask where,” he added darkly. “I know nothing,” she assured him. “Come on in. Leta made sandwiches.” Leta had only seen Colby once, on a visit with Tate. She was polite, but a little remote, and it showed. “She doesn’t like me,” Colby told Cecily when they were sitting on the steps later that evening. “She thinks I’m sleeping with you,” she said simply.” So does Tate.” “Why?” “Because I let him think I was,” she said bluntly. He gave her a hard look. “Bad move, Cecily.” “I won’t let him think I’m waiting around for him to notice me,” she said icily. “He’s already convinced that I’m in love with him, and that’s bad enough. I can’t have him know that I’m…well, what I am. I do have a little pride.” “I’m perfectly willing, if you’re serious,” he said matter-of-factly. His face broke into a grin, belying the solemnity of the words. “Or are you worried that I might not be able to handle it with one arm?” She burst out laughing and pressed affectionately against his side. “I adore you, I really do. But I had a bad experience in my teens. I’ve had therapy and all, but it’s still sort of traumatic for me to think about real intimacy.” “Even with Tate?” he probed gently. She wasn’t touching that line with a pole. “Tate doesn’t want me.” “You keep saying that, and he keeps making a liar of you.” “I don’t understand.” “He came to see me last night. Just after I spoke to you.” He ran his fingers down his damaged cheek. She caught her breath. “I thought you got that overseas!” “Tate wears a big silver turquoise ring on his middle right finger,” he reminded her. “It does a bit of damage when he hits people with it.” “He hit you? Why?” she exclaimed. “Because you told him we were sleeping together,” he said simply. “Honest to God, Cecily, I wish you’d tell me first when you plan to play games. I was caught off guard.” “What did he do after he hit you?” “I hit him, and one thing led to another. I don’t have a coffee table anymore. We won’t even discuss what he did to my best ashtry.” “I’m so sorry!” “Tate and I are pretty much matched in a fight,” he said. “Not that we’ve ever been in many. He hits harder than Pierce Hutton does in a temper.” He scowled down at her. “Are you sure Tate doesn’t want you? I can’t think of another reason he’d try to hammer my floor with my head.” “Big brother Tate, to the rescue,” she said miserably. She laughed bitterly. “He thinks you’re a bad risk.” “I am,” he said easily. “I like having you as my friend.” He smiled. “Me, too. There aren’t many people who stuck by me over the years, you know. When Maureen left me, I went crazy. I couldn’t live with the pain, so I found ways to numb it.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I came to my senses until you sent me to that psychologist over in Baltimore.” He glanced down at her. “Did you know she keeps snakes?” he added. “We all have our little quirks.

I decide that candor is probably best, that I will never see this woman again after this month. “I’m honestly not sure why I’m here, other than I feel like I could use some spiritual direction in my life.” This is the truth. “Why do you feel that way?” Nora asks. I sit for a few seconds, because this is a good question. I’m not terribly sure, other than my soul is weary, my usual recipe of prayer and reflecting on passages from the Bible isn’t inspiring me, and I sense a gaping, run-ragged hole in my soul where mature wisdom should be. Also, I don’t know where my home is, where I might really belong. Years have passed since I last felt poured-into, I tell her, and I have not bothered to seek it out. I have embarked on this year of travel, at age thirty-seven, feeling less confident than I did a decade ago about what I believe to be true, and how that truth intersects with who I am. I am weary from game playing and formulaic answers, and the evangelical-Christian hat that I have worn daily with every outfit since I was fourteen feels too small, headache inducing. I fidget daily in its discomfort, but I don’t know how to exchange it, how it should be resized. Perhaps I can stitch a new hat from scraps I find scattered around the globe, I suggest. Perhaps she could be my milliner, maybe help me find the first scrap, floating somewhere along the sidewalks of old Chiang

Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.” “For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.” Helen was briefly nonplussed. “I have no doubt he will be,” she ventured. Meticulously Winterborne neatened the stack of paper. “He wants to start by disposing of my shirts.” “Your shirts,” Helen repeated, perplexed. “One of my managers brought some of my clothes from London. Quincy could tell that the shirts were ready-made.” He glanced at her warily, assessing her reaction. “To be accurate,” he continued, “they’re sold half finished, so they can be tailored to the customer’s preference. The quality of the fabric is as high as any bespoke shirt, but Quincy still turns up his nose.” Helen considered her reply carefully. “A man of Quincy’s profession has an exacting eye when it comes to details.” She probably should have left it at that. The discussion of a man’s clothing was entirely improper, but she felt that she should help him to understand Quincy’s concerns. “It’s more than just the fabric. The stitching is different in a bespoke shirt: The seams are perfectly straight and flat-felled, and the buttonholes are often hand-worked with a keyhole shape at one side to reduce the stress of the button’s shank.” She paused with a smile. “I would elaborate about plackets and cuffs, but I fear you would fall asleep in the chair.

She was beauty and intelligence stitched together with no seams She lived in a world with no difference between reality and dreams Excellence as habit, she was much more than simple flesh and bone She walked in the way that forced her presence to be known If I viewed the world in melody, she is the only one I would see She could conquer that world in a day and still have time for tea Soft lips curved in confidence spilling sweetness with every breath Ideas remaining and growing even after the revolving dance of death Fingers curled with the power of creation and the ease with which it came She sat upon a throne as a queen playing the world like a simple game She was fire, and laughter, and the warmth both of them brought She made the idea of perfection appear as a simple afterthought Her body danced with the tidal currents of marvelous desire She could reach the sky in a day and then push on even higher She was the best getting better, the absolute antonym of threshold The words she wrote were gilded, laid heavy with amber glow gold She was one of very many, and yet, she was the only one of them all Her taste made my mouth water, her effect hit me harder than alcohol She was quality, and substance, an actual angel in every way real Her word was solid, it was a better guarantee than a devil with a deal She was better than just human, more like power that has taken shape and form And I the lucky one who holds her close, feels her heartbeat quicken like a storm

Christina walks out, bumping me with her shoulder as she leaves. Tris lifts her eyes to mine. “We should talk,” I say. “Fine,” she says, and I follow her into the hallway. We stand next to the door until everyone else leaves. Her shoulders are drawn in like she’s trying to make herself even smaller, trying to evaporate on the spot, and we stand too far apart, the entire width of the hallway between us. I try to remember the last time I kissed her and I can’t. Finally we’re alone, and the hallway is quiet. My hands start to tingle and go numb, the way they always do when I panic. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?” I say. She shakes her head, but says, “I don’t know. I think that’s what I need to figure out.” “You know…you know I never wanted Uriah to get hurt, right?” I look at the stitches crossing her forehead and I add, “Or you. I never wanted you to get hurt either.” She’s tapping her foot, her body shifting with the movement. She nods. “I know that.” “I had to do something,” I say. “I had to.” “A lot of people got hurt,” she says. “All because you dismissed what I said, because--and this is the worst part, Tobias--because you thought I was being petty and jealous. Just some silly sixteen-year-old girl, right?” She shakes her head. “I would never call you silly or petty,” I say sternly. “I thought your judgment was clouded, yes. But that’s all.” “That’s enough.” Her fingers slide through her hair and wrap around it. “It’s just the same thing all over again, isn’t it? You don’t respect me as much as you say you do. When it comes down to it, you still believe I can’t think rationally--” “That is not what’s happening!” I say hotly. “I respect you more than anyone. But right now I’m wondering what bothers you more, that I made a stupid decision or that I didn’t make your decision.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means,” I say, “that you may have said you just wanted us to be honest with each other, but I think you really wanted me to always agree with you.” “I can’t believe you would say that! You were wrong--” “Yeah, I was wrong!” I’m shouting now, and I don’t know where the anger came from, except that I can feel it swirling around inside me, violent and vicious and the strongest I have felt in days. “I was wrong, I made a huge mistake! My best friend’s brother is as good as dead! And now you’re acting like a parent, punishing me for it because I didn’t do as I was told. Well, you are not my parent, Tris, and you don’t get to tell me what to do, what to choose--!” “Stop yelling at me,” she says quietly, and she finally looks at me. I used to see all kinds of things in her eyes, love and longing and curiosity, but now all I see is anger. “Just stop.” Her quiet voice stalls the anger inside me, and I relax into the wall behind me, shoving my hands into my pockets. I didn’t mean to yell at her. I didn’t mean to get angry at all. I stare, shocked, as tears touch her cheeks. I haven’t seen her cry in a long time. She sniffs, and gulps, and tries to sound normal, but she doesn’t. “I just need some time,” she says, choking on each word. “Okay?” “Okay,” I say. She wipes her cheeks with her palms and walks down the hallway. I watch her blond head until it disappears around the bend, and I feel bare, like there’s nothing left to protect me against pain. Her absence stings worst of all.

Why?” “Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone’d be wantin’ magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.” At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street. Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Harry couldn’t blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?” “Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?” “Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.” “You’d like one?” “Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go.” They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets. People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. “Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted stitches. Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket. “Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list there of everything yeh need.” Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed the night before, and read: HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY UNIFORM First-year students will require: 1. Three sets of plain work robes (black) 2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear 3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) 4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags COURSE BOOKS All students should have a copy of each of the following: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling A

Lesson one: Pack light unless you want to hump the eight around the mountains all day and night. By the time we reached Snowdonia National Park on Friday night it was dark, and with one young teacher as our escort, we all headed up into the mist. And in true Welsh fashion, it soon started to rain. When we reached where we were going to camp, by the edge of a small lake halfway up, it was past midnight and raining hard. We were all tired (from dragging the ridiculously overweight packs), and we put up the tents as quickly as we could. They were the old-style A-frame pegged tents, not known for their robustness in a Welsh winter gale, and sure enough by 3:00 A.M. the inevitable happened. Pop. One of the A-frame pegs supporting the apex of my tent broke, and half the tent sagged down onto us. Hmm, I thought. But both Watty and I were just too tired to get out and repair the first break, and instead we blindly hoped it would somehow just sort itself out. Lesson two: Tents don’t repair themselves, however tired you are, however much you wish they just would. Inevitably, the next peg broke, and before we knew it we were lying in a wet puddle of canvas, drenched to the skin, shivering, and truly miserable. The final key lesson learned that night was that when it comes to camping, a stitch in time saves nine; and time spent preparing a good camp is never wasted. The next day, we reached the top of Snowdon, wet, cold but exhilarated. My best memory was of lighting a pipe that I had borrowed off my grandfather, and smoking it with Watty, in a gale, behind the summit cairn, with the teacher joining in as well. It is part of what I learned from a young age to love about the mountains: They are great levelers. For me to be able to smoke a pipe with a teacher was priceless in my book, and was a firm indicator that mountains, and the bonds you create with people in the wild, are great things to seek in life. (Even better was the fact that the tobacco was homemade by Watty, and soaked in apple juice for aroma. This same apple juice was later brewed into cider by us, and it subsequently sent Chipper, one of the guys in our house, blind for twenty-four hours. Oops.) If people ask me today what I love about climbing mountains, the real answer isn’t adrenaline or personal achievement. Mountains are all about experiencing a shared bond that is hard to find in normal life. I love the fact that mountains make everyone’s clothes and hair go messy; I love the fact that they demand that you give of yourself, that they make you fight and struggle. They also induce people to loosen up, to belly laugh at silly things, and to be able to sit and be content staring at a sunset or a log fire. That sort of camaraderie creates wonderful bonds between people, and where there are bonds I have found that there is almost always strength.

In Hiding - coming summer of 2020 WAYNE ANTHONY SEEKS REDEMPTION FROM A BAD DAY - Although warned about getting the stitches wet, he believed a hot shower was the only road to his redemption. Experienced taught him the best way to relieve the tightness in his lower back was by standing beneath the near-scalding water. Dropping the rest of his clothing, he turned the shower on full blast. The hot water rushed from the showerhead filling the tiny room with steam, instantly the small mirror on the medicine cabinet fogged up. The man quietly pulled the shower curtain back and entered the shower stall without a sound. Years of acting as another’s shadow had trained him to live soundlessly. The hot water cascaded over his body as the echo from the pounding water deadened slightly. Grabbing the sample sized soap, he pulled the paper off and tossed the wrapper over the curtain rail. Wayne rubbed the clean smelling block until his large hands disappeared beneath the lather. He ignored the folded washcloth, opting to use his hands across his body. Gently he cleaned the injury allowing the slime of bacterial soap to remove the residual of the rust-colored betadine. All that remained when he finished was the pale orange smear from the antiseptic. This scar was not the only mar to his body. The water cascaded down hard muscles making rivulets throughout the thatches of dark hair. He raised his arms gingerly as he washed beneath them; the tight muscles of his abdomen glistened beneath the torrent of water. Opening a bottle of shampoo-slash-conditioner, he applied a dab then ran his hands across his scalp. Finally, the tension in his square jaw had eased, making his handsome face more inviting. The cords of his neck stood out as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. It coursed down his chest leading down to his groin where the scented wash caught in his pelvic hair. Wayne's body was one of perfection for any woman; if that was, she could ignore the mutilations. Knife injuries left their mark with jagged white lines. Most of these, he had doctored himself; his lack of skill resulted in crude scars. The deepest one, undulated along the left side of his abdomen, that one had required the art of a surgeon. Dropping his arms, he surrenders himself to the pelting deluge from the shower. The steamy water cascaded down his body, pulling the soap toward the drain. Across his back, it slid down several small indiscernible pockmarks left by gunshot wounds, the true extent of their damage far beneath his skin. Slowly the suds left his body, snaking down his muscular legs. It slithered down the scars on his left knee, the result of replacement surgery after a thug took a bat to it. Wayne stood until the hot water cooled, and ran translucent over his body. Finally, he washes the impact of the long day from his mind and spirit.

I was no more than the garment worker who made sure the stitching was correct in an outfit designed, produced, and consumed by the wealthy white people of the world. They owned the means of production, and therefore the means of representation, and the best that we could ever hope for was to get a word in

was no more than the garment worker who made sure the stitching was correct in an outfit designed, produced, and consumed by the wealthy white people of the world. They owned the means of production, and therefore the means of representation, and the best that we could ever hope for was to get a word in edgewise before our anonymous deaths.

responsibilities of the colonial wife, who was “expected to cook, wash, sew, milk, spin, clean, and garden,” note Mintz and Kellogg. “Her activities included brewing beer [which was perceived as healthier than water], churning butter, harvesting fruit, keeping chickens, spinning wool, building fires, baking bread, making cheese, boiling laundry, and stitching shirts, petticoats, and other garments. She participated in trade—exchanging surplus fruit, meat, cheese, or butter for tea, candles, coats, or sheets—and manufacturing—salting, pickling,

The reason why we can’t see our eyes moving with our own eyes is because our brains edit out the bits between the saccades—a process called saccadic suppression. Without it, we’d look at an object and it would be a blurry mess. What we perceive as vision is the director’s cut of a film, with your brain as the director, seamlessly stitching together the raw footage to make a coherent reality. Perception is the brain’s best guess at what the world actually looks like. Immense though the computing power of that fleshy mass sitting in the darkness of our skulls is, if we were to take in all the information in front of our eyes, our brains would surely explode.** Instead, our eyes sample bits and pieces of the world, and we fill in the blanks in our heads. This fact is fundamental to the way that cinema works. A film is typically 24 static images run together every second, which our brain sees as continuous fluid movement—that’s why it’s called a movie. The illusion of movement actually happens at more like 16 frames per second. At that speed, a film projection is indistinguishable from the real world, at least to us. It was the introduction of sound that set the standard of 24 frames per second with The Jazz Singer in 1927, the first film to have synchronized dialogue. The company

Whenever they held a festival the women would dress in their best robes, on which they stitched rupees. The more rupees they had stitched on, the more attractive it was supposed to make them look. I saw one favourite wife of a well-to-do man who had three hundred and fifty rupees stitched on her robes, and huge silver bracelets on her arms and ankles. She looked like a walking mint and how she carried so much weight was beyond me. Like all other women in the world she would have cheerfully carried a ton of precious metal if she thought it would make her look more attractive than those of her sex who were carrying only about fifteen hundred-weight.

Was I supposed to call out, ‘Leif, we haven’t met yet, but we will wed. Don’t mind that your cousin and best friend can see your future wife without a stitch on.’ Is that how you’d have liked your introduction and my introduction to your family to have gone?

We can go somewhere else.” “Where?” I think about that for a moment, looking at Buster, as I pull Sasha to her feet. “How would you like to go meet the person who did Buster’s surgery?” Her eyes widen. “Really?” “Really,” I say, picking up Buster. “He’s a friend of mine. He’s not the best at stitching, but he’s got something else going for him.” “What?” “Unlike the Tin Man, I know he’s got a heart.

You filled me with your loving guidance, stitched up my seams with thread in your favorite color, taught me how to walk and talk and smile in whatever way pleased you best.

Nan's loud know on the door broke the silence. Lily took a sharp breath. Charles had not left her alone, she realized. The thought was a surprise. She and Nan and James had lost him, but not one another. He had worked on them all carefully, every day, bending and shaping, folding and binding, so that if he went first, they would not be adrift; they would be inextricably linked, these people who had known him longest and best. How she loved him, she thought - how improbably - for ensuring these friends would forever be her stitches, her scaffold, her ballast, her home.

but the best part is the jersey she’s wearing. She’s sporting number eleven, with “UNCLE ZEE” stitched right there on the back.   Logan: Do not show my husband this. He will kill me for letting her wear this, but I thought you’d get a kick out of seeing your favorite girl wearing your number.

You’re cheating,” I mutter sleepily. “The nap worked, I’m healed,” Garrett declares. “Me too, all healed,” Kenzo agrees, kissing across my shoulder. “So fucking healed.” “Uh-uh, we could tear your stitches,” I protest. “Nurse, I require you to heal me.” Kenzo grins against my skin as Garrett caresses over my knickers. Shit. “Me too,” Garrett murmurs. “I’ve heard the best form of treatment is with orgasms.” “Healing,” I blurt. “Rest.” But they ignore me, the stupid wankers and their stupid, seductive penises. Peni? What’s the plural of penis? Oh, who the fuck cares. “Fuck it,” I mutter, and Kenzo breathes out a laugh. “Thank fuck.

Just need your pretty fiancée to fish this bullet out and stitch me up so I can get back to my woman.” “She the one that shot you?” Oscar asked sardonically. “No, but isn’t the best trouble always about a woman?

What was that, stitched all round his cap?” I asked distractedly. “Feathers. And locks of hair from horse tails.” She was still breathless. I looked askance at her. “It was Patience’s fancy this year. All the boys she hired from Withy to act as pages for the holiday are dressed so. Feathers to bid all our troubles take flight, and horse tail hairs, which is what we will show to our problems as we flee them.” “I…see.” My second lie of the evening. “Well, it’s good that you do, as I certainly don’t. But every Winterfest, it’s something, isn’t it? Do you remember the year that Patience handed out greenwood staffs to every unmarried man who came to the festival? With the length based on her assessment of his masculinity?” I bit down on the laugh that threatened to escape. “I do. Apparently she thought the young ladies needed a clear indication of which men would make the best mates.” Molly lifted her brows. “Perhaps they did. There were six weddings at Springfest that year.

Thank you, Dr. Walker,” she said, standing. “I—I appreciate what you’ve done. I’m sure it will heal up nicely now.” She’d have to return another day to see about the curtains and the wagon. Right now she wanted nothing more than to escape his gaze and that of the Pattersons and go back to the cottage. She’d doubted he’d accept payment for his impromptu doctoring, but perhaps she could bring him a cake by way of thanks. “It’s a blessing he was there,” Mrs. Patterson murmured in agreement. “Oh, I’m not done, Miss Matthews. That’s a nasty gash you have, and it’s going to need proper disinfectant and some stitches to heal properly. You need to come down to the office with me where I can do it properly.” Her eyes flew open. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary,” she protested. “And I’m sure it is. Come along, Miss Matthews,” he said, tucking her uninjured arm in his. “But—” “Best listen to the doctor, dear,” Mrs. Patterson was saying. “Yes, he’s treated wounds on the battlefield, after all,” her spouse added. She felt herself being pulled out the door, willy-nilly. She trusted his medical judgment, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to be alone with him, even if she was only a patient to him in this instance.

Once Lotari reached his mate's side and gently kissed her hand, the crowd began cheering and whooping for them. Bastion the dwarf appeared beside Stitch, a handkerchief extended. "Ye blubbering hoofer. Best keep that with you tonight, I doubt this'll be the first tears you'll be a shedding." Stitch took the cloth and dabbed at his cheeks. "Glad to see you here, Bast." "Never miss a hoofer gathering. There's always meat and grog. Who in their right mind turns a nose up to such a fare, eh?

she would say to the children as they crowded about her bent shoulders, peering at her satin stitch or Madeira work, “my kids too: I’m not proud; well, I don’t care what happens to you kids, I’ve done my best and if that’s not satisfactory, you must try another shop.

The cloak of the past is cut from patches of feeling, and sewn with rebus threads. Most of the time, the best we can do is wrap it around ourselves for comfort or drag it behind us as we struggle to go on. But everything has its cause and its meaning. Every life, every love, every action and feeling and thought has its reason and significance: its beginning, and the part it plays in the end. Sometimes, we do see. Sometimes, we see the past so clearly, and read the legend of its parts with such acuity, that every stitch of time reveals its purpose, and a kind of message is enfolded in it. Nothing in any life, no matter how well or poorly lived, is wiser than failure or clearer than sorrow. And in the tiny, precious wisdom that they give to us, even those dread and hated enemies, suffering and failure, have their reason and their right to be.

you the best I know how. I’m going to make you little dresses and gowns with flowers stitched on them, and when your hair gets long enough, if it doesn’t curl on its own, I’m going to wind it up in curls every night.” I patted my tummy and the precious life inside it and smiled to myself. I was so happy. The morning sickness passed in a few weeks. I was grateful I didn’t suffer with it the way Helen had, almost until the end of her time. After a while, my clothes began to tug across my middle. I had taken to lifting the waistline a little to ease the pull. James’s mother brought me some big aprons and some new fabric. “If you wear an apron you don’t have to button your dress in the middle, and that will get you through

Robert Burns said it best: “Life is but a day at most.

The cloak of the past is cut from patches of feeling, and sewn with rebus threads. Most of the time, the best we can do is wrap it around ourselves for comfort or drag it behind as we struggle to go on. But everything has its cause and its meaning. Every life, every love, every action and feeling and thought has its reason and significance: its beginning, and the part it plays in the end. Sometimes, we do see. Sometimes, we see the past so clearly, and read the legend of its parts with such acuity, that every stitch of time reveals its purpose, and a kind of message is enfolded in it. Nothing in any life, no matter how well or poorly lived, is wiser than failure or clearer than sorrow. And in the tiny, precious wisdom that they give to us, even those dread and hated enemies, suffering and failure, have their reason and their right to be.

Running is a deeply unpleasant sport at the best of times, but it is particularly awful when you’re bad at it. There is so much unpleasantness at once. First, there is the shortness of breath, then the ache in the legs, then the sharp pain of the stitch, the soreness of the feet, the discomfort of the joints, and the lactic acid burn in the thighs. Eventually, some of this subsides with the increase of dizziness, delirium and sweating.

Sly is great with his one-liners because he’s so quick-witted. During one of the breaks we were sitting with the makeup people, and one of Sly’s assistants was there. He was talking about me to them. “This is Stitch. He’s the best cutman in the business. And he looks like Edward James Olmos.” Stallone was standing there with his arms crossed, and without skipping a beat he said, “Huh, more like Edward James Almost,” and then walked away with a smirk.

April 10: Marilyn appears on time for six hours of costume tests for Something’s Got to Give. She is irritated that Cukor is not there to meet her. She looks radiant, and Peter Levathes tells the press, “This will be the best Monroe picture ever. Marilyn is at the peak of her beauty and ability.” But that evening, producer Henry Weinstein finds her sprawled across a bed and unconscious after an overdose of barbiturates. He calls Ralph Greenson, who revives her. It is announced to the press that Marilyn will be part of the entertainment at the president’s Madison Square Garden birthday party. Marilyn agrees to pay $1,440.33 for the cost of producing a dress decorated with hand-stitched rhinestones, beading, and mirrors.

Though this is my first trip to the United Kingdom, I am a proud Anglophile. I admire the practical temperament of the people. I love the artful details of daily life: a hand-stitched tea cozy in the shape of a Victorian mansion, the Wellie boots, the sheep's wool stockings, and the best tailors in the world.

But what if the great secret insider-trading truth is that you don't ever get over the biggest losses in your life? Is that good news, bad news, or both? The good news is that if you don't seal up your heart with caulking compound, and instead stay permeable, people stay alive inside you, and maybe outside you, too, forever. This is also the bad news, not because your heart will continue to hurt forever, but because grief is so frowned upon, so hard for even intimate bystanders to witness, that you will think you must be crazy for not getting over it. You think it's best to keep this a secret, even if it cuts you off from certain aspects of life, like, say, the truth of your heart, and all that is real. The pain does grow less acute, but the insidious palace lie that we will get over crushing losses means that our emotional GPS can never find true north, as it is based on maps that no longer mention the most important places we have been to.

Papa tells me, “Be patient with yourself, one stitch at a time. By going too fast, you can miss the details of the process. It’s best to take your time and enjoy each moment.

Earlier yet, in 1917, an amateur geologist named Albert E. Knapp claimed to have found a fossilized human footprint from the Triassic period—the imprint of a shoe made of stitched dinosaur hide. This led him to believe that humans and dinosaurs had coexisted in Nevada’s Great Basin 200 million years ago. The New York Times took Knapp’s finding somewhat seriously, as did Nobel Prize-winning Oxford scientist Frederick Soddy, who used it to support his pet theory of a superior race of prehistoric humans that destroyed itself after achieving scientific mastery over atomic energy.

For advanced analytics, a well-designed data pipeline is a prerequisite, so a large part of your focus should be on automation. This is also the most difficult work. To be successful, you need to stitch everything together.

In life, the gaze of public opinion, the clash of interests, the struggle between rival greeds oblige us to hide our old rags, to disguise splits and stitches, to not extend to the world that which we reveal to our conscience; and the best of this obligation is when, by dint of deluding others, a man deludes himself, because in this case he is spared humiliation, which is a painful sensation, and hypocrisy, which is a ghastly vice. But in death, what a difference! What an unburdening! What freedom! How we can shake off our cloaks, toss our spangles into the gutter, unbutton ourselves, unpaint ourselves, unadorn ourselves, confess plainly what we were and what we failed to be!

As told in the history we learn in schools and on television and in the news, the work of social transformation often sidelines narratives of care or omits them altogether. The world is changed, we are told, when the loudest people talk the most and fight the hardest and come up with the best ideas. And that, indeed, can be important work. But care work --asking basic questions like, *Has everyone been fed? Do people have a safe place to sleep? Is there safe and reliable childcare? Are we attending to everyone's health?* --not only provides the necessary conditions for all the other stuff to happen; it is *also* a form of stitching together microcosms of a more just and loving world. Eve Ewing Original Sins: The (Mis)education of Black and Native Children and the Construction of American Racism

Dubai is a city full of life, colors, and creativity. People here love to wear stylish clothes that make them look unique. One of the best ways to show your personality is by wearing a T-shirt. Custom t-shirt supplier in Dubai is becoming more popular because it allows people to design their own shirts. Whether you want to print your company logo, a funny quote, or a cool design, T-shirt printing is a great way to stand out. In this blog, we will talk about different types of T-shirt printing, why people love custom T-shirts, and where you can get the best T-shirt printing in Dubai. Why Choose Custom T-Shirt Printing? People love custom T-shirts for many reasons. Some use them for business, while others wear them to express their style. Here are some of the top reasons why T-shirt printing in Dubai is so popular: Unique Style – You can create a T-shirt that no one else has. It is a great way to show your personality. Business Branding – Many companies print their logos on T-shirts for marketing. It helps promote their brand. Events and Celebrations – Custom T-shirts are great for birthdays, weddings, and family gatherings. Sports Teams – Teams print their names and numbers on jerseys to feel united and motivated. Gifts – A custom T-shirt is a fun and thoughtful gift for friends and family. Types of T-Shirt Printing in Dubai There are many ways to print designs on T-shirts. Let’s look at some of the most popular T-shirt printing methods in Dubai. Screen Printing This method is used for bulk orders. It is best for simple designs with one or two colors. It gives a smooth and long-lasting print. Heat Transfer Printing This is done using heat and special paper to transfer a design onto the T-shirt. It works well for colorful designs and photos. Sublimation Printing This method is used for polyester T-shirts. The ink gets absorbed into the fabric, making the print last longer. It is best for sports jerseys and bright designs. Embroidery Printing Instead of ink, the design is stitched onto the T-shirt. It looks premium and is great for company logos and uniforms. DTG (Direct to Garment) Printing This method is like using a printer to print directly onto the fabric. It allows for detailed designs with many colors. Where to Get the Best T-Shirt Printing in Dubai? If you are looking for high-quality T-shirt printing in Dubai, you should choose a company that offers: Good Quality Fabric – A soft and comfortable T-shirt will make your design look even better. Affordable Prices – You should find a service that gives good value for money. Quick Delivery – Some companies offer same-day or next-day printing services. Custom Design Options – A company should allow you to create your own design. One of the best places for custom T-shirt printing in Dubai is THE RPS LLC. They provide high-quality printing for businesses, events, sports teams, and personal use. Whether you need a single T-shirt or a bulk order, they offer excellent service and fast delivery. How to Order Custom T-Shirts? Ordering a custom T-shirt is easy. Just follow these steps: Choose Your T-Shirt – Pick a style, size, and color. Upload Your Design – Send your logo, text, or image to the printing company. Select the Printing Method – Decide which printing type suits your design best. Confirm and Pay – Check the preview, make payment, and wait for your delivery. Conclusion Custom T-shirt supplier in Dubai is a fun and creative way to express yourself, promote your business, or make special events memorable. With many printing options available, you can create the perfect T-shirt for any occasion. If you want high-quality, affordable, and stylish custom T-shirts, check out THE RPS LLC for the best printing services in Dubai.

You live here in Copper Creek, Miss Ashford?” She dipped a fresh cloth in the water and washed the bullet wound in the patient’s shoulder as best she could. “I do now. We arrived today.” She paused and straightened, the muscles in her back in spasms from bending over the table, and from too much riding on trains and coaches and wagons. She thought of Janie waiting at home, watching for her, and hoped she wasn’t worrying. Robert’s only concern would be that she’d left him overlong with people he didn’t know. He hated making chitchat. She just hoped he wasn’t acting sullen and stone-faced with Vince, Janie, and Emma, like he so often did with her. Hearing a clock ticking somewhere behind her, she rethreaded the needle and focused again on her task. Suturing a man was different from suturing a horse, and very definitely different from sewing saddles. Yet something about the repetition of the act felt similar, which made her wonder if she was doing it right. “We?” Finishing the third suture in the man’s shoulder, she peered up at Caradon, the needle poised between her right thumb and forefinger. “I beg your pardon?” “You said ‘we arrived today.’” Not wanting to talk, she tied off a fourth suture, and a fifth, aware of him watching her. “My brother and I.” “Where did you move from?” She raised her head to find him leaning close, their faces inches apart. “If you don’t mind, Marshal Caradon, could we . . . not talk right now?” The tanned lines at the corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly. “Not much on that, are you, ma’am? Talking, I mean.” Though his expression denied it, she heard a smile in his voice, yet she held back from responding to it. Outwardly anyway. Someone like Wyatt Caradon was the last person she, or Robert, needed in their lives right now. “I don’t mind talking, Marshal. When I’m not exhausted, famished, and stitching up a gunshot wound.” Catching his grin before she looked away, she finished suturing and bandaging the wound.

When they reached his horse tethered two streets over, he assisted her into the saddle. Caradon’s horse was a beauty of a mare—chestnut with a black mane. As Marshal Caradon untied the reins, McKenna scooted back so she’d be riding behind him instead of afore. Her preference. But not his apparently, telling by his short-lived frown. He climbed into the saddle and guided the horse down the street. “Not much room back there.” She balanced easily enough, having ridden this way with her father when she was a girl. Though that seemed like another lifetime ago. She was accustomed to having her own mount these days. “I’m fine. I’m an experienced rider.” “With a hand that needs stitching.” She glanced at the bandage. “I’ll hold on. If the situation arises.” He gently urged the mare to a faster pace, as though challenging that statement. Sensing his test, McKenna smiled and held on to the cantle, with no fear of falling, but mindful of the close proximity of her hand to Caradon’s backside. He slowed the mare’s pace. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he spoke over his shoulder, grinning. “Marshaling must be lonelier work than I thought, Marshal Caradon.” She heard his soft laugh and was reminded again of who he was. Best to keep some distance between them, and not only in proximity.

His mamãe was the best artist at that show, the disaster that became the yardstick by which I measured all others. Her series of child-sized mannequins depicting the stages of life of a waka in Palmares Três made me bite back tears. She dressed a child in a smock made lovely by a border of hand-stitched coffee beans and sugarcane. The older ones wore a shimmering aquamarine dress with a wistful bow gathered like flowers beneath her chin; a soccer jersey for a team that didn’t exist and shockingly orange cleats; and the last mannequin came of age in a simple wide skirt and blouse in blushing pink and a turban the color of dried blood.

Steldor lay on the bed, chest to the mattress, medicine-soaked bandages covering his shirtless back. The wrappings, though fresh from his best friend’s last visit, were dappled crimson and yellow from his body’s efforts to cleanse the wounds, and I could see shadows of long lines of stitches crossing his skin. “Steldor, Shaselle is here,” Galen said. My cousin lifted his head to squint at me. “Where did you come from?” “Outside,” I answered dryly, recognizing on its second asking just how inane the question was. Steldor was not amused. “I’ll leave you two alone,” Galen said, backing out of the room. When the door clicked shut, Steldor propped himself up on his elbows, wincing with the movement. “I wanted to see you,” I told him. “Could have guessed, since you’re here. Well, what have you been doing?” I considered his inquiry, scratching the back of my head. “I got attacked by a butcher.” The incident was still on my mind, not one easily dismissed, and part of me wanted his reaction. “A butcher?” he repeated, concerned. His eyes roved over me and he pronounced, “You appear to have survived.” “The same can be said of you.” “Thus far, anyway,” he responded with a self-deprecating chuckle. “You don’t have to tell me how smart that flag stunt was. My father has covered that.” I quickly countered his sarcasm. “I thought it was brave.” “The captain thought it was daft. And, in the aftermath, I’m tempted to agree with him.” Steldor motioned vaguely to his injured back and I drew nearer, half out of morbid curiosity, half to prove that I wasn’t afraid to look. For the first time, I noticed his damp hair and the sheen of sweat across his brow--he was fevered, and no doubt miserable.

The Best of Both Business Worlds I was seamstress in a sweatshop in Shenzhen, China. I patiently sewed a stitch in time, saved nine and earned 9 times the salary of my lackadaisical co-workers. I invested my profits meticulously and leveraged everything to buy the same poorly run textile factory that I once worked for. I freed the workers, automated the production, increasing the productivity by 2600%. My name is Bing Bing Cho Sen. I am a Chinese Jew. Please call me Chosen.

There are some supremely agreeable moments in life that are best savoured alone -- the first barefoot step into a cold sea, the reading of certain books, the revelation that it has snowed in the night, waking up on one's birthday... And others the full wonder of which can only be achieved if someone else is there to observe.

Art is pain, right? Everybody knew that the best artists were tortured souls. People with perfectly happy lives probably sat at home and did cross-stitch kits of kittens in baskets.

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The fins around his face flared wide, and even that made her uncomfortable. Just the slightest show of surprise and she was so close to bolting it made her ashamed of herself. With an angry exhale, she stacked everything next to him and tried her best to get control over the feelings. “It’s hard to remember that I know who you are when you’re so... so...” He reached up between them and grabbed one of her flailing hands. “What about me scares you?” She swallowed. “Maketes, I don’t want to⁠—” “Tell me exactly. Tell me what pieces of me scare you so that I can ease your fears.” She shouldn’t be doing this. This was stupid, anyway. There were so many parts of him that scared her. It would take them hours for her to list them all and they were on a timeline. She barely had time to stitch him closed, which was the other thing they should both be focused on right now. Instead, she found her lips moving. “Your claws.” “My claws?” He lifted their hands up so she had to look at them, seeing her fingers coiled together with his. “These would never cause pain. They were made to protect, not to harm.” “But they ripped through that man’s stomach so easily.” “I don’t want you to think of that, kefi. I want you to know that they are gentle with you and that if you need someone to save you, that they are the first weapon you should look for.

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