Stomach Funny Quotes

Oh, there you are, Albus,' he said. 'You've been a very long time. Upset stomach?' 'No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,' said Dumbledore. 'I do love knitting patterns.

I'm not leaving, Kitten. You're going to do this." My mouth opened as did the door behind us. Stomach dropping, I turned to see Mom standing there in all her fuzzy-bunny pajama glory. Oh, for the love of God.

Leah: "That is easily the freakin’ grossest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Yuck. If there was anything in my stomach, it would be coming back." Seth: "They are vampires, I guess. I mean, it makes sense, and if it helps Bella, it’s a good thing, right?" Leah and Jake stare at Seth. Seth: "What?" Leah: "Mom dropped him a lot when he was a baby." Jake: "On his head apparently." Leah: "He used to gnaw on the crib bars, too." Jake: "Lead paint?" Leah: "Looks like it." Seth: "Funny. Why don’t you two shut up and sleep?

It’s funny—when people call you “shy,” they usually smile. Like it’s cute, some funny little habit you’ll grow out of when you’re older, like the gaps in your grin when your baby teeth fall out. If they knew how it felt—really being shy, not just unsure at first—they wouldn’t smile. Not if they knew how the feeling knots up your stomach or makes your palms sweat or robs you of the ability to say anything that makes sense. It’s not cute at all.

If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.” She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried. And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.” But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it. I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away. You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. “Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.” Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

She came awake, stomach rumbling, and opened her eyes to see a plate being held right under her nose. When she reached for it, Shane snatched it back. 'Nuh-uh. Mine.' 'Share!' she demanded. 'Man, you are one grabby girlfriend.' She grinned. It always made her feel so fiercly warm inside to hear him say that- the girlfriend part, not the grabby part. 'If you love me, you'll give me a taco.' 'Seriously? That's all you got? What about you'll do sexy, illegal things to me for a taco?' 'Not for a taco,' she said. 'I'm not cheap.' 'They're brisket tacos.' 'Now you're talking.

He shrugged. “I have a stomach thing. Don’t get close.” “Well, now you’ve spoiled everything,” I said casually, working hard to fake it. “I was planning to seduce you in the broom closet.” I pointed. “Right there.” A joyless smile appeared on Jamie’s lips. “We are far too screwed-up for a goddamned love triangle.” That’s my Jamie.

She'd had sex with a demon. Tayla swallowed bile and tried to keep her stomach from heaving. She needed to shower. And douche.

There was a profound silence, abruptly broken by an enormously loud rumble from George's stomach. Plaster didn't actually fall from the ceiling, but it was close.

Excuse me?" I said, palms down on the Formica tabletop. "Coffee? I thought we came here for pie." "I don't eat the kind of pie they serve here." I felt a flash of heat go through my stomach. I knew firsthand the kind of pie Ranger liked.

Doc, I'm not afraid of dying; I'm only afraid of living, and I want to put this bayonet through my stomach,

I feel there's a funny little hole in me that wasn't there before, like a splinter in your finger, but this is somewhere above my stomach.

Sometimes when Sam's pretending to be in love with me, my stomach does funny things." "Well, get some milk of magnesia and stop it.

I feel all the same things when I do things alone as when Ole Golly was here. The bath feels hot, the bed feels soft, but I feel there's a funny little hole in me that wasn't there before, like a splinter in your finger, but this is somewhere above my stomach.

Finally," Magnus said, grabbing a ten-dollar bill from a table near the door, and he buzzed the delivery man in. "I need some beef and broccoli before I face any more Mr. Darcy. It's a truth universally acknowledged that if you watch too much television on an empty stomach, your head falls off." "If your head fell off," Tessa said, "the hairdressing industry would go into an economic meltdown.

While I was backstage before presenting the Best New Artist award, I talked to George Strait for a while. He's so incredibly cool. So down-to-earth and funny. I think it should be known that George Strait has an awesome, dry, subtle sense of humor. Then I went back out into the crowd and watched the rest of the show. Keith Urban's new song KILLS ME, it's so good. And when Brad Paisley ran down into the front row and kissed Kimberley's stomach (she's pregnant) before accepting his award, Kellie, my mom, and I all started crying. That's probably the sweetest thing I've ever seen. I thought Kellie NAILED her performance of the song we wrote together "The Best Days of Your Life". I was so proud of her. I thought Darius Rucker's performance RULED, and his vocals were incredible. I'm a huge fan. I love it when I find out that the people who make the music I love are wonderful people. I love Faith Hill and how she always makes everyone in the room feel special. I love Keith Urban, and how he told me he knows every word to "Love Story" (That made my night). I love Nicole Kidman, and her sweet, warm personality. I love how Kenny Chesney always has something hilarious or thoughtful to say. But the real moment that brought on this wave of gratitude was when Shania Twain HERSELF walked up and introduced herself to me. Shania Twain, as in.. The reason I wanted to do this in the first place. Shania Twain, as in.. the most impressive and independent and confident and successful female artist to ever hit country music. She walked up to me and said she wanted to meet me and tell me I was doing a great job. She was so beautiful, guys. She really IS that beautiful. All the while, I was completely star struck. After she walked away, I realized I didn't have my camera. Then I cried. You know, last night made me feel really great about being a country music fan in general. Country music is the place to find reality in music, and reality in the stars who make that music. There's kindness and goodness and....honesty in the people I look up to, and knowing that makes me smile. I'm proud to sing country music, and that has never wavered. The reason for the being.. nights like last night.

Day had gotten a little nervous during one session when the doctor asked God how he would handle someone hurting Day now and his lover responded by jerking one side of his leather coat open and pulling his long blade from its sheathe. “Easy, I’d cut their fucking arm off and beat the shit out of them with it,” he’d said. But Day quickly started laughing and told the concerned doctor that his partner was just playing. After popping God hard in his stomach, God agreed and said he was indeed joking. When the doctor went back to writing on her legal pad, God mouthed to him, “No I’m not.

R.F. JACKABY INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES ASSISTANT WANTED -$8 PER WEEK- Must be literate and possess a keen intellect and open mind. Strong stomach preferred. Inquire at 926 Augur Lane. Do not stare at the frog.

Where do you find a stomach on a Thursday afternoon in Reno? "Chinatown?" suggests someone. "Costco?" "Butcher Boys." Tracy pulls his phone from a pocket. "Hello, I'm from the university" - the catchall preamble for unorthodox inquiries.

I FEEL ALL THE SAME THINGS WHEN I DO THINGS ALONE AS WHEN OLE GOLLY WAS HERE. THE BATH FEELS HOT, THE BED FEELS SOFT, BUT I FEEL THERE’S A FUNNY LITTLE HOLE IN ME THAT WASN’T THERE BEFORE, LIKE A SPLINTER IN YOUR FINGER, BUT THIS IS SOMEWHERE ABOVE MY STOMACH.

New Rule: Someone must x-ray my stomach to see if the Peeps I ate on Easter are still in there, intact and completely undigested. And I'm not talking about this past Easter. I'm talking about the last time I celebrated Easter, in 1962.

I found this, though," Gazzy said excitedly, holding up a small green box. "Gas-X! Like, 'X' for explosion! This is great! I'm thinking I rig this with a detonator and-" "Did you find that in the medicine cabinet?" Dylan asked. "Yeah." "It's for upset stomachs," Dylan said, trying to hide a smile. He pointed to the words on the box. "It's to reduce gas in you digestive system, not to create more gas to make explosions." Gazzy's face fell as Iggy said, "Really? Gazzy, take it! Take the whole box!

smashed fly or the dead pig, gone stiff in the sun. It made his stomach feel funny even trying. “I don’t think it’s fair we’ve got to do Luke’s chores now,” Luke’s other brother,

Somehow suppressing her wolf, who was eager to slice open Marley’s stomach, Jaime simply gave her an unpleasant smile. “You know, I watched an old episode of Friends yesterday. It was so damn funny it could have made your boobs fall off…Oh, you saw it.

If you were smart," Genghis said, "you would have borrowed the silverware of one of your friends." "We never thought of that," Klaus said. When one is forced to tell atrocious lies, one often feels a guilty flutter in one's stomach, and Klaus felt such a flutter now. "You certainly are an intelligent man." "Not only am I intelligent," Genghis agreed, "but I'm also very smart.

Well, well, well,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, little boy.” This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t fucking around. “I’m not really a little boy,” I pointed out. “Get on my lap, then, big boy.” I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his belly. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjusted his crotch. “Ho ho ho!” he chortled. I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it. “Have you been a good little boy this year?” he asked. I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes. He actually wobbled with joy. “Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?” I thought it was obvious. “A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.” “So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a little something for you”—he shifted a little in his seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’ll have to rub Santa’s belly.” “What?” I asked. He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.” I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat. “You know you want it,” he whispered. The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was. Fuck off, Lily. You can’t intimidate me. I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, Geshy, hairy … and his belly was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole time having Santa laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hell!” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa. And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked it out, pulling some of his white belly hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped o1 his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed. The letter was in my hand, damp but intact. “He touched Santa!” a young child squealed.

Maybe he couldn't understand why we weren't able to laugh yet, but he knew you can't really be strong until you see a funny side to things. In fact, he worked so hard at pointing out the funny side of things that I was wondering a little if maybe he was blind to the other side, if maybe he wasn't able to see what it was that parched laughter deep inside your stomach. Maybe the guys weren't able to see it either, just feel the pressures of the different beams and frequencies coming from all directions, working to push and bend you one way or another, feel the Combine at work - but I was able to see it.

Disgusting foods, as Madame de Pompadour discovered, do not arouse the senses. They only dull them. Seduction, as you know by now, for women starts with the ears and for men starts with the eyes and for both, travels directly to the stomach. Some say you need sweet murmurings in the ears, but I say laughter, intrigue and delicacies are more powerful.

There was a zombie at my back door. Its eyes swung up, and they were blue, the whites already clouding with the egg rot of death. Its jaw a mess of meat and frozen blood; something had eaten half its face. Its fingertips already worn down to bony nubs, scraped against the window. Flesh hung in strips from it’s hand, and my stomach turned over hard. Black mist rose at the corners of my vision, and the funny rushing sound in my head sounded like a jet plane taking off. I’d know that zombie anywhere. Even if he was dead and mangled, his eyes were the same. Blue as winter ice, fringed with pale lashes.

They call me Domino for obvious reasons. One nudge in the right direction and I'm flat on my stomach.

O woman, father says natural is beautiful so why do you redden your cheeks and blacken your eyes? Why do you remove the hair on your legs and draw them into your brows? Why do you hold your breath lest your stomach show and hold your fart lest they know that you’re a human? O woman, father says natural is beautiful so why do you straighten your hair to curl it next and pretend to orgasm so they think you enjoyed the sex? Why do you dumb yourself down and push your breasts up? Why do you smile when you’re told to and love when you don’t want to? When? When will you stop, woman? Father says natural is beautiful but that is doubtful for what does father know he’s only a fellow.

I can't help it, I run up to him and put my arms around him. Shocked he pulls away, just a little because my arms are still around him and he lifts my head to look at him and kisses me. "And you've been trying to act like you aren't interested." he says while smiling that smile that makes butterflies suddenly appear in multitudes in my stomach.

It doesn't seem fair," he murmured, once again smoothing out her messy bed head. “You get all the morning sickness, the kicks in the ribs and the bloated stomach and swollen ankles, and I get nine months of sex without condoms.

If you like being cuffed, I have no problem accommodating you, baby.” “Actually,” she returned, drawing the word out, “I was thinking I would cuff you.” She held her breath. Any minute now, he’d scoff at her request and this charade would be over. Funny, she wasn’t quite as ready to walk away as she had been moments ago. In fact, the thought of Brent’s big body, restrained by handcuffs, was surprisingly appealing. That fluttering in her stomach had graduated into a constant tug, confusing her further. “Done.” Hayden hid her shock as Brent leaned close and spoke gruffly near her ear. “Be warned, though. If you take away the use of my hands, I’ll only make up for it with my mouth.

Love is a funny thing; there’s the kind that’s like you’re five and you’re looking up at your Mum’s face as she reads you a bedtime story. Then there’s the kind that makes you nervous and twists in your stomach. Then there’s the kind that makes you feel like you’re holding everything of worth in your hands.

It’s funny, you learn a lot about people when you’re on the road like that. Every morning, for example, Bill would have a cup of coffee, a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, and a beer. Always in the same order. I asked him why he did it once. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the coffee’s to wake me up, the orange juice is to give me some vitamins to stop me getting sick, the milk’s to coat my stomach for the rest of the day, and the beer’s to put me back to sleep again.’

I've never been this naked with a girl before. I'm not self-conscious or anything, but its different. Not weird. I'm definitely all right with Hayles seeing this much of me. "Wowza." Okay, now I'm a little embarrassed. "Is that a good thing?" She puts her hands on my chest and her face goes from pink to red. (...) "Seriously? Brody, this is totally another reason why you're just super fabulous." Huh? "You don't even know how freaking hot you are. That's uber sexy." Her eyes go to my bare torso. "Count with me." One finger strokes part of my stomach. "One..." She moves an inch or two over. "Two..." She slides down. "Three..." Back over. "Four..." Down. "Five..." Over. "Six." She flicks her gaze back up to me. "That's what people call a six-pack." I roll my eyes, but she keeps moving her fingers up to my chest. I want to stop her, but I don't at the same time. It feels too good. "And these..." She flattens her hands on me, and I tug her closer. "Are called pecs. Its like you stepped out of a fantasy.

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.

A lot healthier than getting socked in the stomach. Especially if you had a big breakfast.

Oh, and Knievel stared you down, and you gave in so quick.” Jed laughed lowly, rubbing his hand over Redford’s stomach. “You’re now my cat’s bitch.

Roth was feeling a gentle warmth as he thought of his son. He was remembering the way his son used to awaken him on Sunday mornings. His wife would put the baby in bed with him, and the child would straddle his stomach and pull feebly at the hairs on Roth’s chest, cooing with delight. It gave him a pang of joy to think of it, and then, back of it, a realization that he had never enjoyed his child as much when he had lived with him. He had been annoyed and irritable at having his sleep disturbed, and it filled him with wonder that he could have missed so much happiness when he had been so close to it. It seemed to him now that he was very near a fundamental understanding of himself, and he felt a sense of mystery and discovery as if he had found unseen gulfs and bridges in all the familiar drab terrain of his life. “You know,” he said, “life is funny.

Dear Mommy I’m doing really good, I get all A’s in school And I don’t cry at bedtime anymore, Though my new mom said I could. I remember how much you hate tears, You slapped them out of me To make me strong, I think it worked. I learned to use a microscope And my hair grew two inches. It’s pretty, just like yours. I’m not allowed to clean the house, Only my own room, Isn’t that a funny rule? You say kids are so much trouble Getting born, they better pay it back. I’m not supposed to take care Of the other kids, only me, I sort of like it. I still get the hole in my stomach When I do something wrong, I have a saying on my mirror “Kids make mistakes, It’s OK,” I read it every day, Sometimes I even believe it. I wonder if you ever think of me Or if you’re glad the troublemaker’s gone, I never want to see you again. I love you, Mommy.

Okay, time to get serious. I let my smile fade slowly and lowered my pitch, as no human woman could have. “I’m not joking this time. If I see it, it’s mine, and you won’t get it back at the end of the school year.” I growled, deep and long, savoring the feel of the vibrations in my throat, as if the sound alone could save me. It wasn’t quite a cat’s growl but it was damn close. And it was his last warning. Miguel dismissed my threat with an easy smile, and my stomach clenched. Oh, yeah, Faythe. You have Puss shaking in his boots, all right.

Speaking of cold... I shiver. "Has the temperature dropped, or is it just me?" "Here." Etienne unwraps the black scarf that had been tied loosely around his neck,and hands it to me. I take it, gently, and wrap it around mine. It makes me dizzy.It smells like freshly scrubbed boy. It smells like him. "Your hair looks nice," he says. "You bleached it again. I touch the stripe self-consciously. "Mom helped me." "That breeze is wicked,I'm going for coffee." Josh snaps his sketchbook closed. I'd forgotten he was here again. "You coming?" Etienne looks at me, waiting to see how I answer. Coffee! I'm dying for a real cup. I smile at Josh. "Sounds perfect." And then I'm heading down the steps of the Pantheon, cool and white and glittering, in the most beautiful city in the world. I'm with two attractive, intelligent,funny boys and I'm grinning ear to ear. If Bridgette could see me now. I mean,who needs Christopher when Etienne St. Clair is in the world? But as soon as I think of Toph, I get that same stomach churching I always do when I think about him now.Shame that I ever thought he might wait. That I wasted so much time on him. Ahead of mine,Etienne laughs at something Josh said. And the sound sends me spiraling into panic as the information hits me again and again and again. What am I going to do? I'm in love with my new best friend.

And Talon did not understand – no, strike that, he didn‘t want to understand – why seeing Hawk and Roadkill together gave him a funny ache in the pit of his stomach. Every time he looked at Flit, the ache got worse. He needed to get laid.

I have lived my life in the shelter of too many northern alliances. I have made alliance with the gentle cow, the health department, the local policeman. In the shelter of such alliances I have got out of bed in the morning with moderate assurance that I shall still be alive at bedtime. But south of the moon my allies vanish, and I have an emptiness in my stomach. I fear the cobras in the garden. I lack a treaty with the lioness. I dread the crocodiles of Lake Victoria, the tsetse fly in the Tanganyika bush, the little airplane with the funny engine, and the mosquito in the soft evening air. But most of all, I am afraid of the African street.

Jen felt a hand rest at the nape of her neck as a voice spoke softly next to her ear, "If you need a lap to sit on, ţinere de meu inimă (holder of my heart), mine will be the only available to you." She watched as Decebel sat in the chair next to her and felt her stomach drop as he winked at her.

I’m not gay,” Atticus managed, sounding unsure even to himself. The stranger grinned, and Atticus’s stomach did somersaults. “Yeah, but you’re not straight either, are you?” “I’m a psychopath,” Atticus blurted. The stranger leaned forward, his whisper conspiratorial. “I’m a Scorpio. I still like banging dudes.

Mountains could be what happens when Father Earth eats something that doesn’t agree with him. When he burps, mountains pop up." "That’s absurd," Keselo said, trying not to laugh. "If you’ve got a better theory, I’d be happy to hear it," Red-Beard said mildly. "Anyway, a burp isn’t anything but air that boils up out of a man’s stomach, so Father Earth’s mountains have chunks of empty air in the middle of them—burps that didn’t quite manage to make it to the surface, you understand.

I’m pretty sure my stomach has a sliver in it from rubbing up against my backbone, so back off, bitch.

If you want to know what the camel stole from your kitchen yesterday, then you shouldn;t slit open its stomach. You should stare into its arsehole.

You forgive the person and you endlessly rationalize and you forget..." "That there are other people out there," says Seb softly, and as he meets my eyes, I feel a sudden tightening in my stomach. Other people. What does he mean? Me? No, don't be stupid, I scold myself at once. Of course he doesn't mean me. He probably means, like, there are loads of people on Tinder.

Dev tsked at him. "Next time you wanna play ping-pong, I suggest you use a ball and not your head. Slim, you look awful." "Thanks, Dev. That was just the look I was going for. Got up this morning, glanced in the mirror, and said, 'Nick, you're just too dang handsome. You need to find us someone to kick the crap out of you and bruise you all over. That'll make you feel all better.'" Aimee laughed, then popped Dev in the stomach with her hand. "Holy cow, I think we may have found the one person in existence who can give you a run for your sarcasm. Go, Nick.

He looks up. Our eyes lock,and he breaks into a slow smile. My heart beats faster and faster. Almost there.He sets down his book and stands.And then this-the moment he calls my name-is the real moment everything changes. He is no longer St. Clair, everyone's pal, everyone's friend. He is Etienne. Etienne,like the night we met. He is Etienne,he is my friend. He is so much more. Etienne.My feet trip in three syllables. E-ti-enne. E-ti-enne, E-ti-enne. His name coats my tongue like melting chocolate. He is so beautiful, so perfect. My throat catches as he opens his arms and wraps me in a hug.My heart pounds furiously,and I'm embarrassed,because I know he feels it. We break apart, and I stagger backward. He catches me before I fall down the stairs. "Whoa," he says. But I don't think he means me falling. I blush and blame it on clumsiness. "Yeesh,that could've been bad." Phew.A steady voice. He looks dazed. "Are you all right?" I realize his hands are still on my shoulders,and my entire body stiffens underneath his touch. "Yeah.Great. Super!" "Hey,Anna. How was your break?" John.I forget he was here.Etienne lets go of me carefully as I acknowledge Josh,but the whole time we're chatting, I wish he'd return to drawing and leave us alone. After a minute, he glances behind me-to where Etienne is standing-and gets a funny expression on hs face. His speech trails off,and he buries his nose in his sketchbook. I look back, but Etienne's own face has been wiped blank. We sit on the steps together. I haven't been this nervous around him since the first week of school. My mind is tangled, my tongue tied,my stomach in knots. "Well," he says, after an excruciating minute. "Did we use up all our conversation over the holiday?" The pressure inside me eases enough to speak. "Guess I'll go back to the dorm." I pretend to stand, and he laughs. "I have something for you." He pulls me back down by my sleeve. "A late Christmas present." "For me? But I didn't get you anything!" He reaches into a coat pocket and brings out his hand in a fist, closed around something very small. "It's not much,so don't get excited." "Ooo,what is it?" "I saw it when I was out with Mum, and it made me think of you-" "Etienne! Come on!" He blinks at hearing his first name. My face turns red, and I'm filled with the overwhelming sensation that he knows exactly what I'm thinking. His expression turns to amazement as he says, "Close your eyes and hold out your hand." Still blushing,I hold one out. His fingers brush against my palm, and my hand jerks back as if he were electrified. Something goes flying and lands with a faith dink behind us. I open my eyes. He's staring at me, equally stunned. "Whoops," I say. He tilts his head at me. "I think...I think it landed back here." I scramble to my feet, but I don't even know what I'm looking for. I never felt what he placed in my hands. I only felt him. "I don't see anything! Just pebbles and pigeon droppings," I add,trying to act normal. Where is it? What is it? "Here." He plucks something tiny and yellow from the steps above him. I fumble back and hold out my hand again, bracing myself for the contact. Etienne pauses and then drops it from a few inches above my hand.As if he's avoiding me,too. It's a glass bead.A banana. He clears his throat. "I know you said Bridgette was the only one who could call you "Banana," but Mum was feeling better last weekend,so I took her to her favorite bead shop. I saw that and thought of you.I hope you don't mind someone else adding to your collection. Especially since you and Bridgette...you know..." I close my hand around the bead. "Thank you." "Mum wondered why I wanted it." "What did you tell her?" "That it was for you,of course." He says this like, duh. I beam.The bead is so lightweight I hardly feel it, except for the teeny cold patch it leaves in my palm.

Taking out your enemy before the battle is really smart; I'll give you that,' he whispers, his warm breath brushing the shell of my ear. Oh gods. He knows what I've been doing. The pain in my arm is nothing compared to the nausea churning in my stomach at the thought of what he might do with that knowledge. 'Problem is, if you aren't testing yourself in here'- he scrapes the dagger down my neck, but there's no warm trickle of blood, so I know he hasn't cut me- 'then you're not going to get any better.' 'You'd rather I die, no doubt,' I fire back, the side of my face pressed into the mat. This isn't just painful, it's humiliating. 'And be denied the pleasure of your company?' he mocks. 'I fucking hate you.' The words are past my lips before I can shut my mouth. 'That doesn't make you special.

Your grandma is a magician. Remember that time when you fell off your bicycle and she lifted you up onto the kitchen counter? She cleaned your bloody knees, washed the tears and snot off your face, told you funny stories and tickled your stomach until you giggled so hard it made you hiccup. The tears, the blood, the pain, your mum’s closed bedroom door—all vanished, as if your grandma had waved a wand—sim sala bim! Hard to keep your smile off your face now, no? She did such things. Still does. A trickster, she is. Always full of pranks and laughter. Like now, looking so wrinkled and pale in her bed, not responding. Bet she opens her eyes any moment now with that mischievous grin of hers, pleased she fooled you. You’ll both double over in laughing fits. Any moment now. From: "Grandma's Tricks", In-flight literary magazine issue 4 2015

Nicole: You're a funny looking creature. Larfleeze: Pfft! I'm not the one without a snout! Nicole: I can sense the empty void within you. Larfleeze: You must mean my stomach! I haven't eaten in two hours! Nicole: No. There is a pit inside you that you have been trying to fill for centuries. I am here to give you hope. Larfleeze: You know where I can find my lantern?! Nicole: Your parents are still alive. And they still miss you. Larfleeze: They... do?

Kylee laughed. "Nothing with you is normal. But speaking of abnormal, I saw this movie where these two girls liked the same boy, and one girl was a werewolf, and the other was a dragon, although she didn't know it yet, and it turned out the boy was a killer of, like, magical creatures, so both girls died and he took the head cheerleader to prom." "That sounds like a stupid movie," I said. "It actually was. But the boy had this shirt off a lot. I guess hunting magical creatures is great for stomach muscles.

Life is a funny, funny thing. Not the ‘ha-ha’ kind of funny, but an odd kind of funny. The kind of funny that you know exists, yet you can’t place your finger on. You know it’s there, and when the funny strikes, you feel it, but you can’t categorize it. It’s almost a feeling of melancholy, fixed with a tickle in your stomach and an odd loss of balance. This feeling catches you when you least expect it. Sometimes it’s better that way, sometimes it may feel like a curse. Regardless, once it passes, you feel different. You may even look different, though not to the naked eye. It may takes days or even months until you recognize the change within yourself, however apparent it may seem. One thing’s for sure: Once this funny thing strikes, you will never be the same.

I am the only tea abstainer in my family. I think they regard this as a baffling perversion. To me, tea tastes like dried lawn clippings, diluted leaf mold, watered down compost mixed with a dash of bovine bodily fluid. I have never been able to stomach it.

It's funny to think about endings now. Now that all there is to do is wait. Now that the real ending is coming, all of the other endings feel like something else completely. All of the goodbyes, and leaving the people she loved. The people she loved leaving her. They felt like endings at the time. But the next day, she had gotten out of bed, and maybe there was a hollow pit where her stomach used to be, maybe she didn't feel like eating or talking or seeing people for a while, but mostly, things stayed the same.

Scott stared at her mouth, just stared like he was hypnotized, paralyzed, like that crimson O was the answer to all of life’s problems, or maybe just his prayers. I kicked his shin to break the spell, which worked; he blinked, then ate the bite himself as if he’d never even offered it to anyone at all. I looked frankly at Carmel; her expression was innocently amused. There are women whose whole selves are engaged in being a public commodity, and Carmel was one of these. Every gesture she made, every syllable she uttered, the tinkle of her laughter, the way her dress’s fabric draped over her breasts, all of it was self-conscious and deliberate, designed to elicit admiration in women, desire in men. This isn’t to say I held any of that against her. Not a bit. I liked her, in fact. The way I saw it, she was a kind of living work of art, and funny and thoughtful besides. Was it her fault if she, as had happened to me, sometimes provoked the basest feelings in a man? Scott and Fred made short work of that second bottle of brandy while Carmel’s and my glasses still held our initial pour. I’d found that drinking very much of any kind of alcohol still did bad things to my stomach. Carmel might have found that it did bad things to her self-preservation; I know that if I looked like her, I’d never let down my guard.

If you were trying to startle us half to death, you succeeded,” she told him as she closed the distance between them. He responded with an angry growl, “The only thing I was trying to do was cool my a..., er, butt off.” “What?” Not the reply she had expected to get from him. “Those little shits,” he huffed, pointing in the direction of the boys’ cabins, “slipped Ex-Lax into my coffee this morning!” “How do you know it’s not just a stomach bug?” He grunted his impatience. “Because I discovered the laxative box in the boys’ bathroom garbage, alongside the empty jar of Icy Hot those delinquents thought would be funny to smear all over the toilet seat in the boys’ bathroom.” Water ran down his tanned face, spewing from his lips as he ranted angrily. No wonder Dalton had virtually flew, pants half undone, into the lake. Her lips began to twitch. This isn’t funny, she told herself. “Are you okay?” Was he okay? Dalton arched a wet brow. “My innards aren’t threatening to combust any longer, but my ass is still burning.

Jared was completely gone now, holding his stomach and laughing so hard that tears were running down his face. Matt turned on him and snapped, "It's not funny," which only made Jared laugh harder. "Any of you guys strict about top or bottom?" Angelo asked, "'Cause if so, you'll screw it all up-" "Literally," Cole said. "And we'll have to start all over." Angelo turned to Matt. "If you got a strong preference you better say so now." "Lay it all out, so to speak," Cole said. "On the table." Angelo said. "For all to see." "Zach does like to watch," Angelo said, winking at me, and I was relieved that with the direction the conversation was going, nobody took him seriously. "Then it's settled!" Cole said. "Who's going where with whom first? Zach, I think you're up." He winked at me. "Or you soon will be." "Oh dear God," Mat moaned, hanging his head. "I knew I shouldn't have come." "Don't worry about it a bit," Cole said. "I'm sure Zach can coax at least one more out of you." Jared laughed so hard, I was amazed he managed to stay in his chair.

Who are you?” I ask, opening the door the rest of the way and crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes move to my arms and then back up, and his smile gets wider. “Aye.” “What?” I frown when he chuckles. “Name’s Aye.” “Like when a pirate says yes?” I inquire. Then I growl, “What’s so funny?” when he bends over, holding his stomach and laughing. ~ Myla

The butterflies were performing circus tricks now, flying through hoops of fire. Lexi had read about infatuation once. Some writer had doused the romantic notion of winged insects. He'd said the funny feeling was simply the motion of common sense fleeing the body. It made more sense, in a world where few things did. Lexi smiled, reveling in the feeling.

Since you're hell-bent on a sedentary lifestyle,' he said, 'I thought I'd go one step further and bring your food to you.' My stomach was already twisting with hunger, and I lowered the book into my lap. 'Thank you.' A short laugh. 'Thank you? Not "High lord and servant?" Or "Whatever it is you want, you can go shove it up your ass, Rhysand"?' He clicked his tongue. 'How disappointing.

Everyone's here except for St. Clair." Meredith cranes her neck around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late." "Always," Josh corrects. "Always running late." I clear my throat. "I think I met him last night. In the hallway." "Good hair and an English accent?" Meredith asks. "Um.Yeah.I guess." I try to keep my voice casual. Josh smirks. "Everyone's in luuurve with St. Clair." "Oh,shut up," Meredith says. "I'm not." Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend. He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well,I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it." "This school has a prom?" I ask. "God no," Rashmi says. "Yeah,Josh. You and St. Clair would look really cute in matching tuxes." "Tails." The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead." "St. Clair!" Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug. "No kiss? I'm crushed,mate." "Thought it might miff the ol' ball and chain. She doesn't know about us yet." "Whatever," Rashi says,but she's smiling now. It's a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often. Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Etienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me. "Anna." He's surprised to see me,and I'm startled,too. He remembers me. "Nice umbrella.Could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble,and I'm alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race. Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him. "Sounds terrible.You ought to feed that thing. Unless..." He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. "Unless you're one of those girls who never eats. Can't tolerate that, I'm afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban." I'm determined to speak rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order." "Easy," Josh says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want.Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood." "I heard they raised it to three pints this year," Rashmi says. "Bone marrow," Beautiful Hallway Boy says. "Or your left earlobe." "I meant the menu,thank you very much." I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white.In French. "Not exactly my first language." "You don't speak French?" Meredith asks. "I've taken Spanish for three years. It's not like I ever thought I'd be moving to Paris." "It's okay," Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't speak French." "But most of them do," Josh adds. "But most of them not very well." Rashmi looks pointedly at him. "You'll learn the lanaguage of food first. The language of love." Josh rubs his belly like a shiny Buddha. "Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit." "Not funny." Rashmi punches him in the arm. "No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk." I glance at the chalkboard again. It's still in French. "And, um, until then?" "Right." Beautiful Hallway Boy pushes back his chair. "Come along, then. I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd.

If you're the most powerful High Lord in history... does that mean the drop I got from you holds more sway over the others?' Why I'd been able to break into his head that one time? 'Give it a try.' He jerked his chin toward me. 'See if you can summon darkness. I won't ask you to try to winnow,' he added with a grin. 'I don't know how I did it to begin with.' 'Will it into being.' I gave him a flat stare. He shrugged. 'Try thinking of me- how good-looking I am. How talented-' 'How arrogant.' 'That, too.' He crossed his arms over his bare chest, the movement making the muscles in his stomach flicker. 'Put a shirt on while you're at it,' I quipped. A feline smile. 'Does it make you uncomfortable?' 'I'm surprised there aren't more mirrors in this house, since you seem to love looking at yourself so much.' Azriel launched into a coughing fit. Cassian just turned away, a hand clamped over his mouth. Rhys's lips twitched. 'There's the Feyre I adore.

Good morning, Mike,” I mumbled, making a beeline for the coffeepot. “Oooooh!” he teased again. “Someone is getting married tonight! Woooooooo…” “Yep,” I said, taking that first glorious sip of java. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Mike put his hand over his mouth and snickered. Then he asked, “So…are you guys gonna do some…some kissin’?” “I certainly hope so,” I said. This only served to make Mike laugh harder. “Ooooooh!” he squealed. “Are you gonna have a baby?” Oh, Lord. I took another hit of Gevalia and answered, “Not today.” Mike cracked up again. He was clearly on a roll. “What’s so funny this morning, Mike?” I asked. “Your s-s-s-stomach is gonna get so fat,” he answered. Mike was quickly approaching manic stage--the result of a large, busy weekend and his routine being disrupted. Soon the inevitable crash would come. I just hoped I was on the plane to Australia when it happened. It wasn’t going to be pretty. “Oh, whatever, Mike,” I answered, feigning indignation.

You're overstepping.' My nails bite into my palms. 'You haven't begun to see overstepping,' he warns, hid voice dropping low, sending a shiver down my spine. 'Any threat against you is a threat against me, and as we've already established, I have more important things to do than sleep on your floor.' Heat flushes up my neck and stains my cheeks. 'He is not sleeping in my room.' 'Of course not.' He freaking smirks, and my traitorous stomach dips. 'I had him moved into the one next to yours. Wouldn't want to overstep.

As for me: I hadn’t even known that I was hungry until I’d stepped into the hallway, but at that moment, standing there with a rough stomach and a bad taste in my mouth and the prospect of what would be my last freely chosen meal, it seemed to me that I’d never smelled anything quite so delicious as that sugary warmth: coffee and cinnamon, plain buttered rolls from the Continental breakfast. Funny, I thought, going back into the room and picking up the room service menu: to want something so easy, to feel such appetite for appetite itself.

When things are serious and either Amy Eleni or I need to beat our personal hysteric, the informal code is to seize your head and twist coils of your hair around your fingers and groan, "I'm not mad! I'm not mad! I don't want to die!" And if you have a friend who knows, then the friend grabs her head too and replies, "There's someone inside of me, and she says I must die!" That way it is stupid, and funny, and serious. Our hysteric is the revelation that we refuse to be consoled for all this noise, for all this noise and for the attacks on our softnesses, the loss of sensitivity to my scalp with every batch of box braids. Sometimes we cannot see or hear or breathe because of our fright that this is all our bodies will know. We're scared by the happy, hollow disciple that lines our brains and stomachs if we manage to stop after one biscuit. We need some kind of answer. We need to know what that biscuit-tin discipline is, where it comes from. We need to know whether it's a sign that our bones are turning against the rest of us, whether anyone will help us if our bones win out, or whether the people who should help us will say "You look wonderful!" instead.

THAT DAY, while we were in school, four men in a jeep came to visit Ghosh. They took him away as if he were a common criminal, his hands jacked up behind his back. They slapped him when he tried to protest. Hema learned this from W. W. Gonad, who told the men they were surely mistaken in taking away Missing’s surgeon. For his impertinence W.W. got a boot in his stomach. Hema refused to believe Ghosh was gone. She ran home, certain that she’d find him sunk into his armchair, his sockless feet up on the stool, reading a book. In anticipation of seeing him, in the certainty that he would be there, she was already furious with him. She burst through the front door of our bungalow. “Do you see how dangerous it is for us to associate with the General? What have I been telling you? You could get us all killed!” Whenever she came at him like that, all her cylinders firing, it was Ghosh’s habit to flourish an imaginary cape like a matador facing a charging bull. We found it funny, even if Hema never did. But the house was quiet. No matador. She went from room to room, the jingle of her anklets echoing in the hallways. She imagined Ghosh with his arm twisted behind his back, being punched in the face,

If the thought of Jackson dating someone caused a funny little pang in her stomach, Mollie ignored it. It was just that for a moment there, when the two of them had stood face-to-face in his apartment, she could have sworn there was a little sizzle of something between them. Nothing inappropriate. Not even interest. Just…awareness. She’d always been aware of Jackson Burke. She’d accepted that as one of the facts of her life. But this was the first time she’d sensed that maybe he’d been aware of her. Thank you, little red dress. Mollie mentally slapped herself. No. That was not what this was about.

It's a funny thing about love. Starts off pretty wonderfully with your stomach doing somersaults for joy. You look forward to seeing the person whenever and however often you can. Find excuses for calling and talking. Sending texts. Notes. Emails. You can't get enough of each other. Or you think you'll die. You have trouble concentrating. Every little thing- your hair, what you wear, what you say, how you eat- is considered in the light of the other. What will that person think of this? Of that? Of you? You kind of live for the person. Give it all up for the person. Get swept up in the idea that the person you love is perfect. Or nearly so.

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.

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.

Normally, burning is carried out from a Jeep or other open vehicle, the driver holding a torch out of the side, lighting grass as he goes. I’d seen Marlboro Man do it from afar but had never been up close and personal with the flames. Maybe he needs me to drive the Jeep! I thought. Or, better yet, man the torch! This could be really fun. He asked me to meet him at the barn near his house, where his Jeep was parked. Just as I pulled up, I saw Marlboro Man exiting the barn…who two horses in hand. My stomach felt funny as I scrunched up my nose and mouthed the word crap. I wasn’t comfortable riding a horse, and like my parents’ marital problems, I’d been secretly hoping this whole “horse thing” would just up and magically disappear.

answer, only left the room. She might have asked him if something was wrong, might even have gone after him and asked him if he was sick to his stomach—he was sexually uninhibited, but he could be oddly prim about other things, and it wouldn’t be at all unlike him to say he was going to take a bath when what he really had to do was whoops something which hadn’t agreed with him. But now a new family, the Piscapos, were being introduced, and Patty just knew Richard Dawson would find something funny to say about that name, and besides, she was having the devil’s own time finding a black button, although she knew there were loads of them in the button box. They hid, of course; that was the only explanation. . . . So she let him go and did not think of him again until the credit-crawl, when she

Which mirror now, Ms. Lane?” He glanced around the white room, scanning the ten mirrors. “Fourth from the left. Jericho.” I was sick of him calling me Ms. Lane. I picked myself up off the white floor. Once again the Silver had spit me out with entirely too much enthusiasm, and I didn’t even have the stones on me. I didn’t have anything but the spear in my holster, a protein bar, two flashlights, and a bottle of Unseelie in my pockets. “You don’t have the right to call me Jericho.” “Why? Because we haven’t been intimate enough? I’ve had sex with you in every possible position, killed you, fed you my blood in the hopes that it would bring you back to life, crammed Unseelie into your stomach, and tried to rearrange your guts. I’d say that’s pretty personal. How much more intimate do we have to get for you to feel comfortable with me calling you Jericho? Jericho.” I expected him to pounce on the sex-in-every-possible-position comment, but he only said. “You fed me your—” I pushed into the mirror, cutting him off. Like the first one, it resisted me, then grabbed me and squirted me out on the other side. His voice preceded his arrival. “You bloody fool, do you never stop to consider the consequences of your actions?” He barreled out of the mirror behind me. “Of course I do,” I said coolly. “There’s always plenty of time to consider the consequences. After I’ve screwed up.” “Funny girl, aren’t you, Ms. Lane?” “Sure am. Jericho. It’s Mac. I’m Mac. No more fake formality between us. Get with the program or get the hell out of here.” His dark eyes flared. “Big talk. Ms. Lane. Try to enforce it.” Challenge burned in his gaze. I sauntered toward him. He watched me coldly and I was reminded of the other night, when I’d pretended to be coming on to him, because I was angry. He thought I was doing it again. I wasn’t. Being in the White Mansion with him was doing something strange to me. Unraveling all my inhibitions, as if these walls had no tolerance for lies, or within them there was no need.

He tried sometimes to see in her some extraordinary hidden gift, some thing of great beauty, the pearl that would make her attractive to a man. But if there was a pearl, it lay deeply and irretrievably buried. Where she was not unsightly, she was merely ordinary. Her voice didn’t dazzle, she had no great brains, she cooked but with no particular interest or talent for it, she couldn’t dance and didn’t want to (a wise choice—when Arnie imagined Iris throwing her concentrated weight around a dance floor, his stomach went acidy). Her hair didn’t shine, her feet were not small, the clothes she wore didn’t enhance her qualities, because she had few qualities to enhance. She could be funny at times, and kind at times, but not overwhelmingly, not to a degree that might cause a guy to give her a second look. The best Arnie could come up with for Iris’s main selling point was that she did what she was supposed to do. Which wasn’t so bad really, in a world where you couldn’t depend on anybody. Iris showed up for work on time, she bathed regularly with sensible soap, and she paid her bills. Arnie doubted there was anyone out there staying up nights fantasizing about a woman like that.

I Never Knew What They Meant by Flyover Country until the first time someone put me on a plane, windowed me into the congregation looking down on our fields stretched out endless in orderly blanks, redactions in the transcripts of the trial of man versus nature. All this holy squinting at scrimshaw country roads draped with power lines - trip wires lying in wait for the giants we just sort of mice around. I watched the others look down on our Fridays racing Opal Road to hit the tiny hill that drops stomachs like a roller coaster, headlights off for cops. Eighty; Ninety. Ninety-five in a fifty-five, how Kyle's brother talked about defusing IEDs on tour - snip whichever wire you want, you'll only find out if you're a hero. We learned a word for this, its reckless in court, predestination in church. Funny how a thing gets a different name there. Robe becomes vestment. Bench becomes pew. Truth grows a capital letter. Anything to help believe, Mom says, though when it comes to theology we are Presbyterian in casseroles only. This is the word of God, says the pastor into the microphone. See you at the picnic after. See you at the finish, says Kyle's Honda Civic. See you never says his brother's IED.

He probably likes you. That's no reason to put ink all--" "I don't want him to like me," she said. Then she started looking at me funny. "Holden," she said, "how come you're not home Wednesday?" "What?" Boy, you have to watch her every minute. If you don't think she's smart, you're mad. "How come you're not home Wednesday?" she asked me. "You didn't get kicked out or anything, did you?" "I told you. They let us out early. They let the whole--" "You did get kicked out! You did!" old Phoebe said. Then she hit me on the leg with her fist. She gets very fisty when she feels like it. "You did! Oh, Holden!" She had her hand on her mouth and all. She gets very emotional, I swear to God. "Who said I got kicked out? Nobody said I--" "You did. You did," she said. Then she smacked me again with her fist. If you don't think that hurts, you're crazy. "Daddy'll kill you!" she said. Then she flopped on her stomach on the bed and put the goddam pillow over her head. She does that quite frequently. She's a true madman sometimes. "Cut it out, now," I said. "Nobody's gonna kill me. Nobody's gonna even--C'mon, Phoeb, take that goddam thing off your head. Nobody's gonna kill me." She wouldn't take it off, though. You can't make her do something if she doesn't want to.

My mouth dropped open. 'You're naked!' 'I am,' Kieran replied. And he was. Like completely naked, and I saw way too much tawny-hued skin. Way too much. I quickly spun around, my wide eyes clashing with Casteel's. 'You should see your face right now,' Casteel gripped the arrow in his stomach. 'It looks like you've been sunbathing.' 'Because he's naked,' I hissed. 'Like, super naked.' 'What do you think happens when he shifts forms?' 'The last time his pants actually stayed on!' 'And sometimes they don't.' Casteel shrugged. 'Those pants were looser, I suppose,' Kieran stated. 'There's no need to be embarrassed. It's only skin.' What I saw was not only skin. He was... well, his body was a lot like Casteel's. Lean, hard muscle and... I wasn't going to think about what I saw. At a loss for what to say, I blurted out in a whisper. 'He has to be cold!' 'Wolven body temperatures run higher than normal. I'm just a little chilled,' Kieran commented. 'As I'm sure you noticed.' Casteel smirked. 'I doubt she knows what you're referencing.' I inhaled deeply through my nose and exhaled slowly. 'I know exactly what you're referencing, thank you very much!' 'How do you know that?' Casteel lifted his brows, and I noticed that his pupils seemed to have returned to their normal size. 'If you know what that means, than someone has been very naughty.

It is necessary to have metaphysical ideas-we cannot do without them-but it is also necessary to submit them very seriously to the test whether they agree with the human being: a good metaphysical idea does not spoil one's stomach. For instance, if I hold a metaphysical conviction that we live on after death for fifty thousand years instead of fifty million-if that is a solution-! try what it means if I believe in fifty thousand years only; perhaps that is good for my digestion-or bad. You see, I have no other criterion. Of course, it sounds funny, but I start from the conviction that man has also a living body and if something is true for one side, it must be true for the other. For what is the body? The body is merely the visibility of the soul, the psyche; and the soul is the psychological experience of the body. So it is really one and the same thing. Therefore, a good truth must be true for the whole system, not only for half of it. According to my imagination, something seems to be good-it f-its in with my imagination-but it proves to be entirely wrong for my body. And something might apparently be quite nice for the body, but it is very bad for the experience of the soul, and in that case I have a metaphysical enteritis. So I must be careful to bring the two systems together; the only criterion is that both are balanced. When life flows, then I can say it is probably all right, but if I get upset I know something must be wrong, out of order at least. Jung, C. G.. Nietzsche's Zarathustra: Notes of the Seminar given in 1934-1939. Two Volumes: 1-2, unabridged (Jung Seminars) (p. 355).

There is absolutely nothing wrong with me." "Yeah?" "Yeah." He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. For a second, he looked exactly like Daniel: cynical, bored, and liable to bite. "Well,that's funny," he drawled. "I think you're lying through your teeth." My stomach clenched. "Why?" "Because," he said calmly, "in all the time I've known you,you have never once said those words." "What words?" "'There is nothing wrong with me.'" "Oh,don't-" "Never. You are a walking litany of imaginary flaws.So." Frankie unfolded himself and rested his elbows on the table. It wobbled. He didn't. He studied me over his tented fingers. "Truth or Dare?" "It's Sadie's turn to ask." "She passed," he snapped. "Hey," I protested. "Hey." Sadie actually waved a hand between us. "Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow." "We could," Frankie replied with suspicious agreeability. "Except I want to do it now. So,here's the question, Marino. What-" "Dare." "Sorry?" he said. "Dare. I'll take a dare/" "Really?" he demanded. "As long as it takes ten minutes or less. I have to go." All I wanted, really, was to leave. Frankie didn't say anything-or move-for the longest time. He just stared at me. Then, finally, he blinked, lowered his hands, and shrugged. "Sing." "Oh,come on-" "Sing," he repeated. "You know how. Or concede." That, I thought, would be so easy. It would also break something precious. In all out time together, none of us had ever conceded a dare. "Sadie. Sing with me?" She nodded,but Frankie shook a finger at her. "You will not. Marino, you're on your own here." I pretty much stomped way may to the stage. Stavros's son Nic was manning the karaoke machine. His brows shot up when he saw me. "A first.

When everyone is seated, Galen uses a pot holder to remove the lid from the huge speckled pan in the center of the table. And I almost upchuck. Fish. Crabs. And...is that squid hair? Before I can think of a polite version of the truth-I'd rather eat my own pinky finger than seafood-Galen plops the biggest piece of fish on my plate, then scoops a mixture of crabmeat and scallops on top of it. As the steam wafts its way to my nose, my chances of staying polite dwindle. The only think I can think of is to make it look like I'm hiccupping instead of gagging. What did I smell earlier that almost had me salivating? It couldn't have been this. I fork the fillet and twist, but it feels like twisting my own gut. Mush it, dice it, mix it all up. No matter what I do, how it looks, I can't bring it near my mouth. A promise is a promise, dream or no dream. Even if real fish didn't save me in Granny's pond, the fake ones my imagination conjured up sure comforted me until help arrived. And now I'm expected to eat their cousins? No can do. I set the fork down and sip some water. I sense Galen is watching. Out of my peripheral, I see the others shoveling the chum into their faces. But not Galen. He sits still, head tilted, waiting for me to take a bite first. Of all the times to be a gentleman! What happened to the guy who sprawled me over his lap like a three-year-old just a few minutes ago? Still, I can't do it. And they don't even have a dog for me to feed under the table, which used to be my go-to plan at Chloe's grandmother's house. One time Chloe even started a food fight to get me out of it. I glance around the table, but Rayna's the only person I'd aim this slop at. Plus, I'd risk getting the stuff on me, which is almost as bad as in me. Galen nudges me with his elbow. "Aren't you hungry? You're not feeling bad again, are you?" This gets the others' attention. The commotion of eating stops. Everyone stares. Rayna, irritated that her gluttony has been interrupted. Toraf smirking like I've done something funny. Galen's mom wearing the same concerned look he is. Can I lie? Should I lie? What if I'm invited over again, and they fix seafood because I lied about it just this once? Telling Galen my head hurts doesn't get me out of future seafood buffets. And telling him I'm not hungry would be pointless since my stomach keeps gurgling like an emptying drain. No, I can't lie. Not if I ever want to come back here. Which I do. I sigh and set the fork down. "I hate seafood," I tell him. Toraf's sudden cough startles me. The sound of him choking reminds me of a cat struggling with a hair ball. I train my eyes on Galen, who has stiffened to a near statue. Jeez, is this all his mom knows how to make? Or have I just shunned the Forza family's prize-winning recipe for grouper? "You...you mean you don't like this kind of fish, Emma?" Galen says diplomatically. I desperately want to nod, to say, "Yes, that's it, not this kind of fish"-but that doesn't get me out of eating the crabmeat-and-scallop mountain on my plate. I shake my head. "No. Not just this kind of fish. I hate it all. I can't eat any of it. Can hardly stand to smell it." Way to go for the jugular there, stupid! Couldn't I just say I don't care for it? Did I have to say I hate it? Hate even the smell of it? And why am I blushing? It's not a crime to gag on seafood. And for God's sakes, I won't eat anything that still has its eyeballs.

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.

Marriage meant jointures and pin money and siring an heir to continue the dynasty. A cottage meant just him and Maria. What a fool he was. Even a woman with Maria’s low connections wanted more. And he couldn’t give it. The very thought of attempting it made him ill, because he could never make her happy. He would muck it up, and the legacy of misery would go on. But he’d be damned if he’d watch her throw herself away on that fool Hyatt. She deserved better than an indifferent fiancé who had no clue how to make her eyes darken in passion as she shuddered and trembled and gave her mouth so sweetly… He groaned. He shouldn’t have gone so far with her. It had frightened her. Worse yet, his reaction to it bloody well terrified him-because he’d give a great deal to be able to do it again. He’d never felt that way for any other woman. Freddy was still blathering on, and suddenly a word arrested him. “What was that you said?” Oliver asked. “The beefsteak needed a bit more salt-“ “Before that,” he ground out. “Oh. Right. There was a chap in that club claiming he was your cousin. Mr. Desmond Plumtree, I think.” His stomach sank. When had Desmond gained membership at such a selective club? Did it mean the bastard was finally becoming accepted in society? “Though if you ask me,” Freddy went on, “with family like him, who needs enemies? Insulting fellow. Told me a bunch of nonsense about how you’d killed your father and everybody knew it.” Freddy sniffed. “I told him he was a scurrilous lout, and if he couldn’t see that you were a good sort of chap, then he was as blind as a town crier with a broken lantern. And he didn’t belong in the Blue Swan with all those amiable gents, neither.” For a moment, speech utterly failed Oliver. He could only imagine Desmond’s reaction to that little lecture. “And…er…what did he say?” “He looked surprised, then muttered something about playing cards and trotted off to a card room. Good riddance, too-he was eating up all the macaroons.” Oliver gaped at him, then began to laugh. “What’s so funny?” “You and Maria-don’t you Americans ever pay attention to gossip?” “Well, sure, if it makes sense. But that didn’t make sense. If everybody knew you’d killed your father, you’d have been hanged by now. Since you’re sitting right here, you can’t have done it.” Freddy tapped his forehead. “Simple logic is all.” “Right,” Oliver said. “Simple logic.” A lump caught in his throat. Maria’s defending him was one thing; she was a woman and softhearted, though that had certainly never kept any other woman from gossiping about him. But to have an impressionable pup like Freddy defend him…he didn’t know whether to scoff at the fellow’s naivete or clap him on the shoulder and pronounce him a “good sort of chap” as well.

The funny thing: I’d worried, if anything, that Boris was the one who was a little too affectionate, if affectionate is the right word. The first time he’d turned in bed and draped an arm over my waist, I lay there half-asleep for a moment, not knowing what to do: staring at my old socks on the floor, empty beer bottles, my paperbacked copy of The Red Badge of Courage. At last—embarrassed—I faked a yawn and tried to roll away, but instead he sighed and pulled me closer, with a sleepy, snuggling motion. Ssh, Potter, he whispered, into the back of my neck. Is only me. It was weird. Was it weird? It was; and it wasn’t. I’d fallen back to sleep shortly after, lulled by his bitter, beery unwashed smell and his breath easy in my ear. I was aware I couldn’t explain it without making it sound like more than it was. On nights when I woke strangled with fear there he was, catching me when I started up terrified from the bed, pulling me back down in the covers beside him, muttering in nonsense Polish, his voice throaty and strange with sleep. We’d drowse off in each other’s arms, listening to music from my iPod (Thelonious Monk, the Velvet Underground, music my mother had liked) and sometimes wake clutching each other like castaways or much younger children. And yet (this was the murky part, this was what bothered me) there had also been other, way more confusing and fucked-up nights, grappling around half-dressed, weak light sliding in from the bathroom and everything haloed and unstable without my glasses: hands on each other, rough and fast, kicked-over beers foaming on the carpet—fun and not that big of a deal when it was actually happening, more than worth it for the sharp gasp when my eyes rolled back and I forgot about everything; but when we woke the next morning stomach-down and groaning on opposite sides of the bed it receded into an incoherence of backlit flickers, choppy and poorly lit like some experimental film, the unfamiliar twist of Boris’s features fading from memory already and none of it with any more bearing on our actual lives than a dream. We never spoke of it; it wasn’t quite real; getting ready for school we threw shoes, splashed water at each other, chewed aspirin for our hangovers, laughed and joked around all the way to the bus stop. I knew people would think the wrong thing if they knew, I didn’t want anyone to find out and I knew Boris didn’t either, but all the same he seemed so completely untroubled by it that I was fairly sure it was just a laugh, nothing to take too seriously or get worked up about. And yet, more than once, I had wondered if I should step up my nerve and say something: draw some kind of line, make things clear, just to make absolutely sure he didn’t have the wrong idea. But the moment had never come. Now there was no point in speaking up and being awkward about the whole thing, though I scarcely took comfort in the fact.

GRRRRRAAAAAWWW

Michael OToole hated going to school, He wanted to stay home and play. So he lied to his dad and said he felt bad And stayed home from school one day. The very next day he decided to say That his stomach felt a bit queasy. He groaned and he winced ‘til his dad was convinced, And he said to himself, “This is easy!” At the end of the week, his dad kissed his cheek And said, “Son, you’ve missed too much school.” “But still I feel funny, and my nose is all runny,” Said the mischievous Michael OToole. Each day he’d complain of a new ache or pain, But his doctor could find nothing wrong. He said it was best to let Michael rest, Until he felt healthy and strong. Michael OToole never did get to school, So he never learned how to write— Or to read or to spell or do anything well, Which is sad, for he’s really quite bright. And now that he’s grown, he sits home alone ‘Cause there’s nothing he knows how to do. Don’t be a fool and stay home from school, Or the same thing could happen to you!

I’ll walk around, Jim thought, but I won’t have a good time. Whatever was in the Coke was helping his headache and the knot in his stomach, the ringing in his ears was also gone. He walked around for a while watching everyone; then he saw the Ayatollah, he was sitting with three other religious men who he recognized as local imams. He found a spot where he could watch them and leaned against the wall. After a few minutes one of the black women approached the Ayatollah’s table and asked if they wanted anything. For some reason they found the question funny because they all laughed. Then, as the woman started to walk away, the Ayatollah put his arm around her and pulled her into his lap. They all laughed again when she put her arm around his neck and pushed her large breasts into his face. The Ayatollah was clearly enjoying the attention the woman was paying him.

The memory of Nikolas’s hands cradling my face as his mouth covered mine made my stomach do those funny little somersaults again. I’d never understood why other girls made such a big deal over kissing, but now I got it. Just thinking about it made my pulse jump and my breath catch in my throat. Were all kisses that amazing, or was that one special because of Nikolas? “I

leaders.’ Nebe snorted and went back round his desk. ‘You’re going to have to watch your mouth, Bernie,’ he said, half-amused. ‘Get to the funny bit.’ ‘Well, it’s this. A number of recent reports, complaints if you like, made to Kripo by those related to institutionalized people leads me to suspect that some sort of mercy-killing is already being unofficially practised.’ I leant forward and grasped the bridge of my nose. ‘Do you ever get headaches? I get headaches. It’s smell that really sets them off. Paint smells pretty bad. So does formaldehyde in the mortuary. But the worst are those rotten pissing places you get where the dozers and rum-sweats sleep rough. That’s a smell I can recall in my worst nightmares. You know, Arthur, I thought I knew every bad smell there was in this city. But that’s last month’s shit fried with last year’s eggs.’ Nebe pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle and two glasses. He said nothing as he poured a couple of large ones. I threw it back and waited for the fiery spirit to seek out what was left of my heart and stomach. I nodded and let him pour me another. I said: ‘Just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse, you find out that they’ve always been a lot worse than you thought they were. And then they get worse.’ I drained the second glass and then surveyed its empty shape. ‘Thanks for telling me straight, Arthur.’ I dragged myself to my feet. ‘And thanks for the warmer.’ ‘Please keep me informed about your suspect,’ he said. ‘You might consider letting a couple of your men work a friend-and-foe shift on him. No rough stuff, just a bit of the old-fashioned psychological pressure. You know the sort of thing I mean. Incidentally, how are you getting on with your team? Everything working out there? No resentments, or anything like that?’ I could have sat down again and given him a list of

She'd run to the bathroom sink and vomited until there was nothing left to come out other than bile and saliva. It was funny how your body reacted to extreme emotion by emptying the stomach. She didn't know why that would be the case; you'd think it would be better to retain the food as to have some energy to deal with whatever crisis it was.

I swallowed, a strange weight dropping in my stomach. I felt funny, hot, and nervous, and I wanted to pull him to me and never let go. I laced my fingers through his. I was the shaky one this time period he was steady.

You'd rather not say. You humans like to think that evil is something outside of you, don't you? But evil is right... Here..." she pointed. "In my stomach?" Said Jinx She flickered blue in annoyance. "In your heart". "That's my stomach.

After all we shared? You throw a dagger at my face?' 'All we shared? It was a handful of minutes and a few kisses,' I said, and the truth of that struck me with startling clarity. That was all we'd shared. Gods, I was so... sheltered. Because in my limited experience, it had become... so much more to me. The wake-up call that it was only a few kisses was utterly brutal. 'It was more than a few kisses.' His voice dropped low. 'If you've forgotten, I'm more than willing to remind you.' Tiny coils of tension formed in my stomach. Part of me wanted to be reminded of what I surely had not forgotten. Thank the gods, the smarter, logical part of me won out. 'There was nothing worth remembering.' 'Now you insult me after throwing a dagger at my face? You've wounded my tender feelings.' 'Tender feelings?' I snorted. 'Don't be overdramatic.' 'Hard not to be when you threw a dagger at my head and then cut my neck,' he shot back, his grip on me surprisingly gentle compared to the hardness of his tone. 'I knew you'd move out of the way.' 'Did you? Is that why you tried to slice open my throat?' His golden eyes burned from beneath heavy, thick lashes. 'I nicked your skin,' I corrected. 'Because you had a hold of me and wouldn't let go. Obviously, you haven't learnt anything from it.' 'I've actually learned a lot, Princess. That's why your hands and your dagger aren't getting anywhere near my neck.' His thumb slid over the inside of my wrist as a reminder, and my fingers spasmed around the handle of my weapon. 'But if you let go of the dagger, there's a whole lot of me I'll let your hands get close to.