Swift And Shift Quotes

There is psychological pleasure in this takeoff, too, for the swiftness of the plane’s ascent is an exemplary symbol of transformation. The display of power can inspire us to imagine analogous, decisive shifts in our own lives, to imagine that we, too, might one day surge above much that now looms over us.” P. 38-39

A lie is a mischievous thing with a life of its own, and no matter how hard you try to keep it hidden, it will surface on your face, or through your hands, or in the way you shift from one leg to another.

There was such a rush about me: wing, and tangled spray, and colors upon colors and shades of colors that were not colors at all but shifts of white and silver. If light like that were sound, it would sound like the sea on sand, and if my ears were eyes, they would see such a light. I crouched there, gasping in the swirl of it, and a flood struck me, shallow and swift, turning up and outward like flower petals where it touched my knees, then soaking me to the waist in its bubble and crash. I pressed my knuckles to my eyes so they would open again. The sea on my lips with the taste of tears and the whole white night shouted and wept aloud.

I think I finally understand why Shakespeare wrote all those love sonnets and Taylor Swift writes all those songs. I get it now—the inexplicable and inescapable need to untangle the garden of feelings growing inside you, leaf by leaf and vine by vine, to put them into words.

On moonless nights in haunted hollow The tongues of beasts, men's blood do swallow Shape shifting shadows that soon will fade Leaving lifeless husks in that mountain glade Swift now close thy sleepy eyes Hope that your dreams hold no surprise.

They all seem infected with a vivaciousness that isn't common in our compound, and there are more smiles on their faces than I've ever seen at once. And yet as I watch them, I feel more intensely than ever the knowledge that I'm not one of them. For these moral humans, birthdays are a kind of countdown to the end, the ticking clock of a dwindling life. For me, birthdays are notches on an infinite timeline. Will I grow tired of parties one day? Will my birthday become meaningless? I imagine myself centuries from now, maybe at my three-hundredth birthday, looking all the way back to my seventeenth. How will I possibly be happy, remembering the light in my mother's eyes? The swiftness of Uncle Antonio's steps as he dances? The way my father stands on edge of the courtyard, smiling in that vague, absent way of his? The scene shifts and blues in my imagination. As if brushed away by some invisible broom, these people whom I've known my entire life disappear. The courtyard is empty, bare, covered in decaying leaves. I imagine Little Cam deserted, with everyone dead and gone and only me left in the shadows. Forever.

One may picture, too, the sudden shifting of the attention, the swiftly spreading coils and bellyings of that blackness advancing headlong, towering heavenward, turning the twilight to a palpable darkness, a strange and horrible antagonist of vapour striding upon its victims, men and horses near it seen dimly, running, shrieking, falling headlong, shouts of dismay, the guns suddenly abandoned, men choking and writhing on the ground, and the swift broadening-out of the opaque cone of smoke. And then night and extinction – nothing but a silent mass of impenetrable vapour hiding its dead.

Was he angry? Was he hungry? The shifting theories of the police were ominous and tantalizing—what could attack so brutally, yet so carefully, that the evidence pointed to both man and beast? I imagined swift claws and bright teeth slashing through moonlight and flesh, sending arcs of blood high onto the wall behind.

Hamlet's mother says to Hamlet, "Why seems it so particular with thee?" What is the difference between belief and make-belief? What makes us give to any one belief (since it is only a matter of shifting, tuning the mind) the peculiar weight of actuality? "For there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

We have enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.” -Jonathan Swift

as if the world was turning, its center shifting swiftly to the point where she was standing, her

Most people don't listen to understand, they listen, and push in, to prove their point is RIGHT!

Some things you found just when you needed them, and Solo thought of the years that had passed so swiftly with his friend.

Seems today everyone is waiting for someone or someday. Some-one and Some-day don’t exist! There is only YOU and only NOW. Now is the time for YOU to take SWIFT ACTION with FIERCE Focus!

The party was like many another. Conversation began desultorily, gathered a swift but feeble energy, and trailed irrelevantly into other conversations; laughter was quick and nervous, and it burst like tiny explosives in a continuous but unrelated barrage all over the room; and the members of the party flowed casually from one place to another, as if quietly occupying shifting positions of strategy.

Breathing Under Water,” a title taken from a telling poem by Carol Bieleck, r.s.c.j., which seemed to sum up so much of the common message. I quote it here in full:   “Breathing Under Water”   I built my house by the sea. Not on the sands, mind you; not on the shifting sand. And I built it of rock. A strong house by a strong sea. And we got well acquainted, the sea and I. Good neighbors. Not that we spoke much. We met in silences. Respectful, keeping our distance, but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand. Always, the fence of sand our barrier, always, the sand between.   And then one day, —and I still don’t know how it happened— the sea came. Without warning.   Without welcome, even Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine, less like the flow of water than the flow of blood. Slow, but coming. Slow, but flowing like an open wound. And I thought of flight and I thought of drowning and I thought of death. And while I thought the sea crept higher, till it reached my door. And I knew then, there was neither flight, nor death, nor drowning. That when the sea comes calling you stop being neighbors Well acquainted, friendly-at-a-distance, neighbors And you give your house for a coral castle, And you learn to breathe underwater.3

Many moral advances have taken the form of a shift in sensibilities that made an action seem more ridiculous than sinful, such as dueling, bullfighting, and jingoistic war. And many effective social critics, such as Swift, Johnson, Voltaire, Twain, Oscar Wilde, Bertrand Russell, Tom Lehrer, and George Carlin have been smart-ass comedians rather than thundering prophets. What in our psychology allows the joke to be mightier than the sword? Humor works by confronting an audience with an incongruity, which may be resolved by switching to another frame of reference. And in that alternative frame of reference, the butt of the joke occupies a lowly or undignified status. ... Humor with a political or moral agenda can stealthily challenge a relational model that is second nature to an audience by forcing them to see that it leads to consequences that the rest of their minds recognize as absurd. ... According to the 18th-century writer Mary Wortley Montagu, 'Satire should, like a polished razor keen / Wound with touch that's scarcely felt or seen.' But satire is seldom polished that keenly, and the butts of a joke may be all too aware of the subversive power of humor. They may react with a rage that is stoked by the intentional insult to a sacred value, the deflation of their dignity, and a realization that laughter indicates common knowledge of both. The lethal riots in 2005 provoked by the editorial cartoons in the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten (for example, one showing Muhammad in heaven greeting newly arrived suicide bombers with 'Stop, we have run out of virgins!') show that when it comes to the deliberate undermining of a sacred relational model, humor is no laughing matter. (pp. 633-634)

You’re my boss. I’m contracted for a project. Once that project is complete, I’m done. I move on. I get a new boss.” Wes’s features shifted from hurt to anger. “So that’s all I am to you, then?” “That, and a good lay.” I shrugged,

Song for the Last Act Now that I have your face by heart, I look Less at its features than its darkening frame Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame, Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd's crook. Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease The lead and marble figures watch the show Of yet another summer loath to go Although the scythes hang in the apple trees. Now that I have your face by heart, I look. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read In the black chords upon a dulling page Music that is not meant for music's cage, Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed. The staves are shuttled over with a stark Unprinted silence. In a double dream I must spell out the storm, the running stream. The beat's too swift. The notes shift in the dark. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see The wharves with their great ships and architraves; The rigging and the cargo and the slaves On a strange beach under a broken sky. O not departure, but a voyage done! The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.

...We were pulling into the next station, when the woman suddenly got to her feet and made a move to squeeze past me. As her knees made contact with mine, she turned towards me. Her eyes locked straight onto mine, her eyelids pinned back, with a look I could only describe as sheer dread. In the next second, deep tram-lines formed between her eyebrows and her expression shifted. It was as if she was silently imploring me, entreating me. To do what? I had no idea. I was immobile, her gaze pressing me into my seat by some centrifugal force and I held her stare, unsure of how to react. Just as swiftly, she dropped her eyes and the moment passed. With one final glance behind her, she was swallowed up in the bodies at the door. She was getting off. Something wasn’t right.

In Sugamo, Louie asked his escort what had happened to the Bird. He was told that it was believed that the former sergeant, hunted, exiled and in despair, had stabbed himself to death. The words washed over Louie. In prison camp, Watanabe had forced him to live in incomprehensible degradation and violence. Bereft of his dignity, Louie had come home to a life lost in darkness, and had dashed himself against the memory of the Bird. But on an October night in Los Angeles, Louie had found, in Payton Jordan’s words, “daybreak.” That night, the sense of shame and powerlessness that had driven his hate the Bird had vanished. The Bird was no longer his monster. He was only a man. In Sugamo Prison, as he was told of Watanabe’s fate, all Louie saw was a lost person, a life beyond redemption. He felt something that he had never felt fro his captor before. With a shiver of amazement, he realized that it was compassion. At that moment, something shifted swiftly inside him. It was forgiveness, beautiful and effortless and complete. For Louie Zamperini, the was was over.

Say you could view a time-lapse film of our planet: what would you see? Transparent images moving through light, “an infinite storm of beauty.” The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth’s face through only random patches of clarity. The land shudders and splits, like pack ice rent by a widening lead. Mountains burst up, jutting and dull and soften before your eyes, clothed in forests like felt. The ice rolls up, grinding green land under water forever; the ice rolls back. Forests erupt and disappear like fairy rings. The ice rolls up-mountains are mowed into lakes, land rises wet from the sea like a surfacing whale- the ice rolls back. A blue-green streaks the highest ridges, a yellow-green spreads from the south like a wave up a strand. A red dye seems to leak from the north down the ridges and into the valleys, seeping south; a white follows the red, then yellow-green washes north, then red spreads again, then white, over and over, making patterns of color too swift and intricate to follow. Slow the film. You see dust storms, locusts, floods, in dizzying flash frames. Zero in on a well-watered shore and see smoke from fires drifting. Stone cities rise, spread, and then crumble, like patches of alpine blossoms that flourish for a day an inch above the permafrost, that iced earth no root can suck, and wither in a hour. New cities appear, and rivers sift silt onto their rooftops; more cities emerge and spread in lobes like lichen on rock. The great human figures of history, those intricate, spirited tissues that roamed the earth’s surface, are a wavering blur whose split second in the light was too brief an exposure to yield any images. The great herds of caribou pour into the valleys and trickle back, and pour, a brown fluid. Slow it down more, come closer still. A dot appears, like a flesh-flake. It swells like a balloon; it moves, circles, slows, and vanishes. This is your life.

III. I take my love to Manita. Swift-boned, green- eyed, dressed in her dark skin and hair, I take my Love in on fire. Manita moans. Manita's hands flow delicate as insects, agile as fish, cool as the shifting water, the night- quiet lake. I take my Love to her hand on fire. She takes my love.

We had one car. It was a stick shift.” “But you couldn’t drive it?” I asked, tightening my hand that was on the steering wheel. “No, which meant I didn’t leave the house unless I was going somewhere within walking distance or my ex drove me.” “He didn’t try to teach you?” “He said I didn’t need to know how to drive it when he could take me anywhere I wanted to go.

So what's your story?" Maddie didn't try to hide the singsong lilt of her voice as she spoke. She didn't want to. She'd learned at a very young age that nothing annoyed manly men more than girly girls, and if Maddie had one talent, it was truly exceptional girliness. "Shut up and be quiet," Stefan snapped. "That's just a tad redundant, FYI." "Shut up!" he hissed near her ear. Maddie couldn't help but shift her weight from foot to foot, almost pacing in place. She was careful of the ice and the snow, though. No use falling to the ground and having Stefan accidentally pull the trigger. "You really do give a lot of orders," she told him. He tightened his grip. "I'm the one with the gun." "Well, yeah. Sure. Technically. But I'm the one with the winning personality, and that should count for something." "You should be scared," he said in the same tone a movie villain might use to say You should be dead when the hero materializes five years later, hungry for vengeance. Stefan was confused, and Maddie couldn't blame him. So she turned back and shrugged. "Maybe. But I don't think you're a bad guy." He let her go and spun her around, grabbing Logan's unzipped coat and pulling her closer. "I. Have. The. Gun," he reminded her. Maddie smiled and pulled away. "And I have Taylor Swift's signature scent. Doesn't make me a pop star. It just makes me smell like Taylor Swift, which isn't as great as it sounds because, to a bear, Taylor Swift smells delicious. Stefan stuttered for a moment, then fell silent.

She moved back to accommodate him as he rolled on a condom. Then she stroked and squeezed until rational thought was a distant memory and all that was left were need and want, lust and desire. He dragged her up, claiming her mouth as he thrust inside her. Pleasure so exquisite, he closed his eyes and tried to take a mental snapshot of the moment. Bracing herself on his shoulders she rode him, levering her hips as she brought him closer and closer to his peak. Control. He needed it. In one swift motion he shifted, carrying her down so she lay beneath him, clothes half off, hair tangled, lips swollen from his kisses, wanton and free. Lifting her legs to his hips, he thrust into her. Slick walls tightened, made his eyes water. His hips pistoned, driving deep until pleasure peaked and they both found release.

side to side. It does not surprise me, though. Always this happens; whenever Eragon and I part, someone attacks him. It’s gotten so it makes my scales itch to let him out of my sight for more than a few hours. He’s more than capable of defending himself. True, but our enemies are not without skill either. Impatient, Saphira shifted her stance, raising her wings even higher. Nasuada, I am eager to be gone. Is there anything else I should know? No, said Nasuada. Fly swift and

What did I do now?” He reluctantly pulled the car the curb. I needed to get out of this car – like now. I couldn’t breathe. I unbuckled and flung open the door. “Thanks for the ride. Bye.” I slammed the door shut and began down the sidewalk. Behind me, I heard the engine turn off and his door open and shut. I quickened my stride as James jogged up to me. I slowed down knowing I couldn’t escape his long legs anyway. Plus, I didn’t want to get home all sweaty and have to explain myself. “What happened?” James asked, matching my pace. “Leave me alone!” I snapped back. I felt his hand grab my elbow, halting me easily. “Stop,” he ordered. Damn it, he’s strong! “What are you pissed about now?” He towered over me. I was trapped in front of him, if he tugged a bit, I’d be in his embrace. “It’s so funny huh? I’m that bad? I’m a clown, I’m so funny!” I jerked my arm, trying to break free of his grip. “Let me go!” “No!” He squeezed tighter, pulling me closer. “Leave me alone!” I spit the words like venom, pulling my arm with all my might. “What’s your problem?” James demanded loudly. His hand tightened on my arm with each attempt to pull away. My energy was dwindling and I was mentally exhausted. I stopped jerking my arm back, deciding it was pointless because he was too strong; there was no way I could pull my arm back without first kneeing him in the balls. We were alone, standing in the dark of night in a neighborhood that didn’t see much traffic. “Fireball?” he murmured softly. “What?” I replied quietly, defeated. Hesitantly, he asked, “Did I say something to make you sad?” I wasn’t going to mention the boyfriend thing; there was no way. “Yes,” I whimpered. That’s just great, way to sound strong there, now he’ll have no reason not to pity you! “I’m sorry,” came his quiet reply. Well maybe ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t good enough. The damage is already done! “Whatever.” “What can I do to make it all better?” “There’s nothing you could–” I began but was interrupted by him pulling me against his body. His arms encircled my waist, holding me tight. My arms instinctively bent upwards, hands firmly planted against his solid chest. Any resentment I had swiftly melted away as something brand new took its place: pleasure. Jesus! “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked him softly; his face was only a few inches from mine. “What do you think you’re doing?” James asked back, looking down at my hands on his chest. I slowly slid my arms up around his neck. I can’t believe I just did that! “That’s better.” Our bodies were plastered against one another; I felt a new kind of nervousness touch every single inch of my body, it prickled electrically. “James,” I murmured softly. “Fireball,” he whispered back. “What do you think you’re doing?” I repeated; my brain felt frozen. My heart had stopped beating a mile a minute instead issuing slow, heavy beats. James uncurled one of his arms from my waist and trailed it along my back to the base of my neck, holding it firmly yet delicately. Blood rushed to the very spot he was holding, heat filled my eyes as I stared at him. “What are you doing?” My bewilderment was audible in the hush. I wasn’t sure I had the capacity to speak anymore. That function had fled along with the bitch. Her replacement was a delicate flower that yearned to be touched and taken care of. I felt his hand shift on my neck, ever so slightly, causing my head to tilt up to him. Slowly, inch by inch, his face descended on mine, stopping just a breath away from my trembling lips. I wanted it. Badly. My lips parted a fraction, letting a thread of air escape. “Can I?” His breath was warm on my lips. Fuck it! “Yeah,” I whispered back. He closed the distance until his lush lips covered mine. My first kiss…damn! His lips moved softly over mine. I felt his grip on my neck squeeze as his lips pressed deeper into

Pity me not because the light of day" Pity me not because the light of day At close of day no longer walks the sky; Pity me not for beauties passed away From field and thicket as the year goes by; Pity me not the waning of the moon, Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea, Nor that a man’s desire is hushed so soon, And you no longer look with love on me. This have I known always: Love is no more Than the wide blossom which the wind assails, Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales: Pity me that the heart is slow to learn What the swift mind beholds at every turn.

Astounding, really, that Michel could consider psychology any kind of science at all. So much of it consisted of throwing together. Of thinking of the mind as a steam engine, the mechanical analogy most ready to hand during the birth of modern psychology. People had always done that when they thought about the mind: clockwork for Descartes, geological changes for the early Victorians, computers or holography for the twentieth century, AIs for the twenty-first…and for the Freudian traditionalists, steam engines. Application of heat, pressure buildup, pressure displacement, venting, all shifted into repression, sublimation, the return of the repressed. Sax thought it unlikely steam engines were an adequate model for the human mind. The mind was more like—what?—an ecology—a fellfield—or else a jungle, populated by all manner of strange beasts. Or a universe, filled with stars and quasars and black holes. Well—a bit grandiose, that—really it was more like a complex collection of synapses and axons, chemical energies surging hither and yon, like weather in an atmosphere. That was better—weather—storm fronts of thought, high-pressure zones, low-pressure cells, hurricanes—the jet streams of biological desires, always making their swift powerful rounds…life in the wind. Well. Throwing together. In fact the mind was poorly understood.

One common criticism emerged from Congress and the media: Obama had not formally addressed the nation since authorizing military action. So, on March 28, two weeks after the Situation Room meeting that had set everything in motion, he gave a speech at the National Defense University in Washington. The television networks said they wouldn’t carry it in prime time, so it was scheduled for the second-tier window of 7:30 P.M., an apt metaphor for the Libyan operation—cable, not network; evening, not prime time; kinetic military operation, not war. The speech was on a Monday, and I spent a weekend writing it. Obama was defensive. Everything had gone as planned, and yet the public and political response kept shifting—from demanding action to second-guessing it, from saying he was dithering to saying he wasn’t doing enough. Even while he outlined the reasons for action in Libya, he stepped back to discuss the question that would continue to define his foreign policy: the choice of when to use military force. Unlike other wartime addresses, he went out of his way to stress the limits of what we were trying to achieve in Libya “—saving lives and giving Libyans a chance to determine their future, not installing a new regime or building a democracy. He said that we would use force “swiftly, decisively, and unilaterally” to defend the United States, but he emphasized that when confronted with other international crises, we should proceed with caution and not act alone.

I would like to see you cheat,” Elizabeth said impulsively, smiling at him. His hands stilled, his eyes intent on her face. “I beg your pardon?” “What I meant,” she hastily explained as he continued to idly shuffle the cards, watching her, “is that night in the card room at Charise’s there was mention of someone being able to deal a card from the bottom of the deck, and I’ve always wondered if you could, if it could…” She trailed off, belatedly realizing she was insulting him and that his narrowed, speculative gaze proved that she’d made it sound as if she believed him to be dishonest at cards. “I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “That was truly awful of me.” Ian accepted her apology with a curt nod, and when Alex hastily interjected, “Why don’t we use the chips for a shilling each,” he wordlessly and immediately dealt the cards. Too embarrassed even to look at him, Elizabeth bit her lip and picked up her hand. In it there were four kings. Her gaze flew to Ian, but he was lounging back in his chair, studying his own cards. She won three shillings and was pleased as could be. He passed the deck to her, but Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t like to deal. I always drop the cards, which Celton says is very irritating. Would you mind dealing for me?” “Not at all,” Ian said dispassionately, and Elizabeth realized with a sinking heart that he was still annoyed with her. “Who is Celton?” Jordan inquired. “Celton is a groom with whom I play cards,” Elizabeth explained unhappily, picking up her hand. In it there were four aces. She knew it then, and laughter and relief trembled on her lips as she lifted her face and stared at her betrothed. There was not a sign, not so much as a hint anywhere on his perfectly composed features that anything unusual had been happening. Lounging indolently in his chair, he quirked an indifferent brow and said, “Do you want to discard and draw more cards, Elizabeth?” “Yes,” she replied, swallowing her mirth, “I would like one more ace to go with the ones I have.” “There are only four,” he explained mildly, and with such convincing blandness that Elizabeth whooped with laughter and dropped her cards. “You are a complete charlatan!” she gasped when she could finally speak, but her face was aglow with admiration. “Thank you, darling,” he replied tenderly. “I’m happy to know your opinion of me is already improving.” The laughter froze in Elizabeth’s chest, replaced by warmth that quaked through her from head to foot. Gentlemen did not speak such tender endearments in front of other people, if at all. “I’m a Scot,” he’d whispered huskily to her long ago. “We do.” The Townsendes had launched into swift, laughing conversation after a moment of stunned silence following his words, and it was just as well, because Elizabeth could not tear her gaze from Ian, could not seem to move. And in that endless moment when their gazes held, Elizabeth had an almost overwhelming desire to fling herself into his arms. He saw it, too, and the answering expression in his eyes made her feel she was melting. “It occurs to me, Ian,” Jordan joked a moment later, gently breaking their spell, “that we are wasting our time with honest pursuits.” Ian’s gaze shifted reluctantly from Elizabeth’s face, and then he smiled inquisitively at Jordan. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, shoving the deck toward Jordan while Elizabeth put back her unjustly won chips. “With your skill at dealing whatever hand you want, we could gull half of London. If any of our victims had the temerity to object, Alex could run them through with her rapier, and Elizabeth could shoot him before he hit the ground.” Ian chuckled. “Not a bad idea. What would your role be?” “Breaking us out of Newgate!” Elizabeth laughed. “Exactly.

Song for the Last Act Now that I have your face by heart, I look Less at its features than its darkening frame Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame, Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd's crook. Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease The lead and marble figures watch the show Of yet another summer loath to go Although the scythes hang in the apple trees. Now that I have your face by heart, I look. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read In the black chords upon a dulling page Music that is not meant for music's cage, Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed. The staves are shuttled over with a stark Unprinted silence. In a double dream I must spell out the storm, the running stream. The beat's too swift. The notes shift in the dark. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see The wharves with their great ships and architraves; The rigging and the cargo and the slaves On a strange beach under a broken sky. O not departure, but a voyage done! The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.

His world turned on its head for the second time at precisely ten eighteen p.m. He’d been taken into custody a little under ninety minutes earlier, but that had nothing to do with it. They did the job efficiently, boxing him in, two in front and two behind. Four men, swift and grim, clearly plainclothes law enforcement officers. One of the men in front of him stepped close, said something. He shook his head. ‘Non parlo Croato. Solo Italiano.’ The man nodded as if unsurprised, tipped his head: come with us. He followed the front pair to the unmarked saloon parked up on the kerb ahead. Before he got in the back he glimpsed the glitter of light off the restless water of the bay, the masts of the boats shifting in the embrace of the marina at the bottom of the hill. He glanced at his watch. Five past nine. Fifty-five minutes to go. * The room was a cliché: ivory linoleum curling at the edges, dusty fluorescent lighting strips with one bulb flickering like an eyelid with a tic, cheap wooden tabletop with metal legs bolted to the floor. The smell was of tobacco and sour sweat. He sat facing the door, alone. After seventeen minutes, at nine forty-four by the clock on the wall, the door opened. A woman came in, dark-haired, with glasses like an owl’s eyes. Two of the men who had picked him up followed her in. One seated himself in the chair. The other leaned against the wall, arms folded. She stood across the table from him, his passport grasped loosely between her fingertips like a soiled rag. Without introduction she said, her Italian accented but fluent, ‘Alberto Manta, of Lugano, Switzerland. Arrived in Zagreb on September second. Checked in at Hotel Neboder here in Rijeka the same day.

Another howl ruptured the quiet, still too far away to be a threat. The Beast Lord, the leader, the alpha male, had to enforce his position as much by will as by physical force. He would have to answer any challenges to his rule, so it was unlikely that he turned into a wolf. A wolf would have little chance against a cat. Wolves hunted in a pack, bleeding their victim and running them into exhaustion, while cats were solitary killing machines, designed to murder swiftly and with deadly precision. No, the Beast Lord would have to be a cat, a jaguar or a leopard. Perhaps a tiger, although all known cases of weretigers occurred in Asia and could be counted without involving toes. I had heard a rumor of the Kodiak of Atlanta, a legend of an enormous, battle-scarred bear roaming the streets in search of Pack criminals. The Pack, like any social organization, had its lawbreakers. The Kodiak was their Executioner. Perhaps his Majesty turned into a bear. Damn. I should have brought some honey. My left leg was tiring. I shifted from foot to foot . . . A low, warning growl froze me in midmove. It came from the dark gaping hole in the building across the street and rolled through the ruins, awakening ancient memories of a time when humans were pathetic, hairless creatures cowering by the weak flame of the first fire and scanning the night with frightened eyes, for it held monstrous hungry killers. My subconscious screamed in panic. I held it in check and cracked my neck, slowly, one side then another. A lean shadow flickered in the corner of my eye. On the left and above me a graceful jaguar stretched on the jutting block of concrete, an elegant statue encased in the liquid metal of moonlight. Homo Panthera onca. The killer who takes its prey in a single bound. Hello, Jim. The jaguar looked at me with amber eyes. Feline lips stretched in a startlingly human smirk. He could laugh if he wanted. He didn’t know what was at stake. Jim turned his head and began washing his paw. My saber firmly in hand, I marched across the street and stepped through the opening. The darkness swallowed me whole. The lingering musky scent of a cat hit me. So, not a bear after all. Where was he? I scanned the building, peering into the gloom. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, creating a mirage of twilight and complete darkness. I knew he was watching me. Enjoying himself. Diplomacy was never my strong suit and my patience had run dry. I crouched and called out, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Two golden eyes ignited at the opposite wall. A shape stirred within the darkness and rose, carrying the eyes up and up and up until they towered above me. A single enormous paw moved into the moonlight, disturbing the dust on the filthy floor. Wicked claws shot forth and withdrew. A massive shoulder followed, its gray fur marked by faint smoky stripes. The huge body shifted forward, coming at me, and I lost my balance and fell on my ass into the dirt. Dear God, this wasn’t just a lion. This thing had to be at least five feet at the shoulder. And why was it striped? The colossal cat circled me, half in the light, half in the shadow, the dark mane trembling as he moved. I scrambled to my feet and almost bumped into the gray muzzle. We looked at each other, the lion and I, our gazes level. Then I twisted around and began dusting off my jeans in a most undignified manner. The lion vanished into a dark corner. A whisper of power pulsed through the room, tugging at my senses. If I did not know better, I would say that he had just changed. “Kitty, kitty?” asked a level male voice. I jumped. No shapechanger went from a beast into a human without a nap. Into a midform, yes, but beast-men had trouble talking. “Yeah,” I said. “You’ve caught me unprepared. Next time I’ll bring cream and catnip toys.” “If there is a next time.

I shifted one strap over my shoulder, then the other. I circled my head around and swiveled my hips, creating a sort of hula hoop helix, a study in the curves of a woman's body. He reached for me, but I stepped back, just beyond his reach. "Not yet..." "Argh," he said, but he said it with a smile. "Yes, mademoiselle." I turned around and grazed the tops of his knees with my butt, then spread my legs and bent over, because I knew the dress would ride up. I'd known this Hervé Léger was good for dancing, but I hadn't known until then that it was made for holding men entranced. I stood up while his hand moved up and down my inner thigh, and then his other hand joined in. He unzipped the back of the dress and it fell to the ground with an unsexy sandbag-like thud. I had never stood in front of a man in just a bra, panties, and heels. My first instinct was to be embarrassed, to want to cover up or turn down the lights, to jump on him so he wouldn't have such a complete view of every inch of me. Yet his gaze only grew in intensity. But then Pascal pulled me at the knees so I buckled and tripped on the way to his lap. He flicked my bra open and off so my arms flew wildly in front of me. Then, in a rather impressive move, he slid my panties off and circled me around me so I was the one sitting and he stood over me. All of a sudden, he had the control. "Hey," I said. A quiver came into my voice now that he was on top and I didn't know what to do. Pascal unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt. I got the picture and began to kick off my shoes, but he stopped me. "Leave them on," he said. "You look so fucking sexy in those heels." I blushed, but now wasn't the time to be sheepish. He leaned over me. I squeezed his waist with my legs and held his neck in the crook of my elbows so I could keep his face to mine. We rocked together forcefully but in sync. He swiftly slid off his boxer briefs and put my hand on him. He was even harder than before, harder than I had ever felt with Elliott. Pascal was roaring in triumph as he sat over me, himself in hand.

The renegade strand of hair nipped her eyes once more. With a swift, steady hand, Oscar pushed it away from her face. His fingertip left a trail of fire along her cheek. Camille reached up to help him tuck the strand back, and their fingers met. She knew for certain the flush had returned to her ears. Oscar dropped his arm and walked to the rail, wrapping his strong hands around the carved wood. “He is used to having things go his way,” Oscar said, his voice low and only for her ears. Camille moved to stand beside hm. “Have you always done everything he’s asked of you?” She was cautious not to come off sounding snide. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail tighter, as if to hold something back. Hold something in. “No.” She hadn’t expected him to give her an answer, and certainly not that one. “No? I don’t believe it. What have you done that’s gone against his wishes?” Oscar had been her father’s shadow since day one. He’d watched and obeyed William Rowen with the kind of devotion any eager apprentice would show his teacher. Oscar had been staring at the water, at the mounting churn of the waves. Now he shifted his eyes to her and fixed her with a look so strong and deep, she felt helpless beneath it. “He asked me to stop associating with you,” he answered, still hushed. Camille’s eyes watered with mortification and dread. Her father had spoken to Oscar, too. She wiped her sweaty palms on the hips of her trousers. “But clearly,” Oscar continued, leaning toward her, “I didn’t listen.” His gaze revolved out to the ocean again, releasing Camille. Air flowed back down her windpipe. This was beyond humiliation. Her father couldn’t do this. He couldn’t order people to stop speaking to her. “Why not?” she asked, her breath uneven from a cross of fury and the steadfast way Oscar had looked at her. “He could fire you.” He moved away from the rail. “If he wants to fire me for speaking to you, for looking at you…” He turned back to her on his way to the quarterdeck and held her gaze again. “Then I’ll risk it.” She watched in awe as Oscar took the helm from a sailor and placed himself behind the great spoked wheel. He’d risk everything he had to be able to speak with her, to just look at her. His bravery made her feel no taller than a hermit crab. She’d so quickly, dutifully, accepted her father’s request to set her focus solely on Randall. But she mattered to Oscar. She mattered, and that one truth made her wish she was brave enough to risk everything, too.

The Man-Moth Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for “mammoth.” Here, above, cracks in the buildings are filled with battered moonlight. The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat. It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on, and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon. He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties, feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold, of a temperature impossible to record in thermometers. But when the Man-Moth pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface, the moon looks rather different to him. He emerges from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings. He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky, proving the sky quite useless for protection. He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb. Up the façades, his shadow dragging like a photographer’s cloth behind him he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage to push his small head through that round clean opening and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light. (Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.) But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt. Then he returns to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits, he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains fast enough to suit him. The doors close swiftly. The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed, without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort. He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards. Each night he must be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams. Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window, for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison, runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers. If you catch him, hold up a flashlight to his eye. It’s all dark pupil, an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens as he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lids one tear, his only possession, like the bee’s sting, slips. Slyly he palms it, and if you’re not paying attention he’ll swallow it. However, if you watch, he’ll hand it over, cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.

The captain? Sophia stood staring numbly after him. Had he just said he’d introduce her to the captain? Of someone else was the captain, then who on earth was this man? One thing was clear. Whoever he was, he had her trunks. And he was walking away. Cursing under her breath, Sophia picked up her skirts and trotted after him, dodging boatmen and barrels and coils of tarred rope as she pursued him down the quay. A forest of tall masts loomed overhead, striping the dock with shadow. Breathless, she regained his side just as he neared the dock’s edge. “But…aren’t you Captain Grayson?” “I,” he said, pitching her smaller trunk into a waiting rowboat, “am Mr. Grayson, owner of the Aphrodite and principle investor in her cargo.” The owner. Well, that was some relief. The tavern-keeper must have been confused. The porter deposited her larger truck alongside the first, and Mr. Grayson dismissed him with a word and a coin. He plunked one polished Hessian on the rowboat’s seat and shifted his weight to it, straddling the gap between boat and dock. Hand outstretched, he beckoned her with an impatient twitch of his fingers. “Miss Turner?” Sophia inched closer to the dock’s edge and reached one gloved hand toward his, considering how best to board the bobbing craft without losing her dignity overboard. The moment her fingers grazed his palm, his grin tightened over her hand. He pulled swiftly, wrenching her feet from the dock and a gasp from her throat. A moment of weightlessness-and then she was aboard. Somehow his arm had whipped around her waist, binding her to his solid chest. He released her just as quickly, but a lilt of the rowboat pitched Sophia back into his arms. “Steady there,” he murmured through a small smile. “I have you.” A sudden gust of wind absconded with his hat. He took no notice, but Sophia did. She noticed everything. Never in her life had she felt so acutely aware. Her nerves were draw taut as harp strings, and her senses hummed. The man radiated heat. From exertion, most likely. Or perhaps from a sheer surplus of simmering male vigor. The air around them was cold, but he was hot. And as he held her tight against his chest, Sophia felt that delicious, enticing heat burn through every layer of her clothing-cloak, gown, stays, chemise, petticoat, stockings, drawers-igniting desire in her belly. And sparking a flare of alarm. This was a precarious position indeed. The further her torso melted into his, the more certainly he would detect her secret: the cold, hard bundle of notes and coin lashed beneath her stays. She pushed away from him, dropping onto the seat and crossing her arms over her chest. Behind him, the breeze dropped his hat into a foamy eddy. He still hadn’t noticed its loss. What he noticed was her gesture of modesty, and he gave her a patronizing smile. “Don’t concern yourself, Miss Turner. You’ve nothing in there I haven’t seen before.” Just for that, she would not tell him. Farewell, hat.

modern civilization’s highly processed foods, broad-spectrum antibiotics, and enhanced hygiene, we may be tipping the balance away from this long-term association—and actually placing that relationship in danger. It is possible that this microbial shift underpins the swift and otherwise inexplicable increases in obesity, autoimmune diseases, depression, anxiety, and many other health problems that we see today.

I shifted so I was leaning back on my elbows and my knees fell open. They got an intimate view of my junk. As one, they walked toward me. It made my pulse speed up and beat against my veins like a thriving demon. My first blowjob. Three men. This was a fucking reward from the universe. Beau knelt on my right, Chaos was on my left, and Grim was right between my legs. My cock gave an excited spurt of pre-cum as they leaned over me. I couldn’t even control my rapid breathing. Grim moved lower first, his lips open, and his tongue sliding out. Oh, fuck, this was really going to happen. I watched as he slowly descended. His breath rushed across my aroused flesh and then his mouth came over my tip. I inhaled sharply and then he touched. His tongue probed my piss slit and my foreskin. The sensations were astonishing. He sucked as Beau and Chaos kissed above me, their passion obvious as their mouths met and Grim took more of me into his. I gasped, moaned, unable to hold back. He was so warm and wet. Chaos and Beau broke apart. Grim kissed down my length, taking a swipe at my balls. I tucked my hips under so he could reach them better. My mind was totally fucking blown. And then Beau and Chaos lowered. I hissed out a breath as they each took a side of my cock and licked. “Please.” The word gushed out. Chaos slid his lips up and down my dick while Beau did the same to the other side. Grim was sucking the skin around my balls into his mouth. I was going to have heart failure at this rate. Then Chaos and Beau met at my tip. They tongued each other around my cockhead. I felt the swift contact as they kissed. “Yes!” I cried out. My hips bucked. Grim chuckled, reaching under and stroking a finger over my hole. His wet finger slipped inside me. I could hardly catch my breath. The stimulations were too much. I reached out, grabbing Beau and Chaos’s thigh. Gripping them as my body rebelled from so much pleasure. “Please. Need to. Come.” Beau eased back and Chaos moved over my dick. He took inch after inch inside his throat. I was overwhelmed. “Oh, fuck. Yes. Yes!” He lifted. My dick flopped out of his mouth only to have Beau take over. He deep throated me, bringing me to an entirely new realm of intensity. I was gasping, squirming by the time he stopped. My cock was going to blow. “Coming,” Grim was next. He took my cock in his mouth and descended. His tongue, his teeth, his lips. I blew. My body jerked, sending my shaft completely down his throat. “Grim!” I screamed. My orgasm exploded, cum erupted out of my body and into his. “Hold it!” I managed to say. The pleasure so intense I wanted to stay like this forever. I grabbed his head in my hands, coming and coming into him. Over and over. Spurt after spurt. Grim took every drop without fighting my hold. Then my shaky body gave way and I collapsed on the blanket. My hands fell to my sides as Grim rose and gasped for breath. I had a permanent smile as I lay there. Beau and Chaos were kissing above me again. I watched them, content to lay here for eternity.

Come out, White-Eyes,” the voice called. “I bring gifts, not bloodshed.” Henry, wearing nothing but his pants and the bandages Aunt Rachel had wrapped around his chest the night before, hopped on one foot as he dragged on a boot. By the time he reached the window, he had both boots on, laces flapping. Rachel gave him a rifle. He threw open the shutter and jerked down the skin, shoving the barrel out the opening. “What brings you here?” “The woman. I bring many horses in trade.” Loretta ran to the left window, throwing back the shutters and unfastening the membrane to peek out. The Comanche turned to meet her gaze, his dark eyes expressionless, penetrating, all the more luminous from the black graphite that outlined them. Her hands tightened on the rough sill, nails digging the wood. He looked magnificent. Even she had to admit that. Savage, frightening…but strangely beautiful. Eagle feathers waved from the crown of his head, the painted tips pointed downward, the quills fastened in the slender braid that hung in front of his left ear. His cream-colored hunting shirt enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, the chest decorated with intricate beadwork, painted animal claws, and white strips of fur. He wore two necklaces, one of bear claws, the other a flat stone medallion, both strung on strips of rawhide. His buckskin breeches were tucked into knee-high moccasins. Her gaze shifted to the strings of riderless ponies behind him. She couldn’t believe their number. Thirty? Possibly forty? Beyond the animals were at least sixty half-naked warriors on horseback. Loretta wondered why Hunter had come fully clothed in all his finery with wolf rings painted around his eyes. The others wore no shirts or feathers, and their faces were bare. “I come for the woman,” the Comanche repeated, never taking his gaze from her. “And I bring my finest horses to console her father for his loss. Fifty, all trained to ride.” His black sidestepped and whinnied. The Indian swayed easily with his mount. “Send me the woman, and have no fear. She will come to no harm walking in my footsteps, for I am strong and swift. She will never feel hunger, for I am a fine hunter. My lodge will shelter her from the winter rain, and my buffalo robes will shield her from the cold. I have spoken it.

After Hunter lowered her onto her fur pallet, which she was swiftly coming to regard as her prison, she clutched the buffalo robe around her and rolled onto her side. Make no grief behind you. She felt like an animal caught in a snare--awaiting the trapper and certain death. The sun burned through her closed eyelids, red and hot. Loretta heard Hunter walk a short distance away, heard him murmur something. His stallion nickered in response. She lifted her lashes and watched the Comanche go through the contents of a parfleche. He withdrew her ruffled drawers, the buckskin shirt he had worn to the farm yesterday morning, and a drawstring pouch. As he walked back to her, he pressed her bloomers to his nose and sniffed. He met her gaze as he drew the lavender-scented cloth away from his face. For the first time, he smiled a genuine smile. It warmed his expression so briefly that she might have believed she imagined it but for the twinkle that remained in his dark eyes as he knelt beside her. He dropped the clothing onto the fur and held up the pouch. “Bear fat for the burn. You will lie on your face.” Their gazes locked, laughter still shimmering in his. Seconds dragged by, measured by the wild thumping of her heart. He wanted to rub her down? Oh, God, what was she going to do? She clutched the fur more tightly. Hunter shrugged as if her defiance bothered him not at all and tossed down the pouch. “You are sure enough not smart, Blue Eyes. You will lie on your face,” he said softly. “Don’t fight the big fight. If my strong arm fails me, I will call my friends. And in the end, you will lie on your face.” Loretta imagined sixty warriors swooping down on her. As if he needed more of an advantage. Hatred and helpless rage made her tremble. Hunter watched her, his expression unreadable as he waited. She wanted to fly at him, scratching and biting. Instead she loosened her hold on the buffalo robe and rolled onto her stomach. As she pressed her face into the stench-ridden buffalo fur, tears streamed down her cheeks, pooling and tickling in the crevices at each side of her nose. She clamped her arms to her sides and lay rigid, expecting him to jerk back the robe. Shame swept over her in hot, rolling waves as she imagined all those horrible men looking at her. She felt the fur shift and braced herself. His greased palm touched her back and slid downward with such agonizing slowness that her skin shriveled and her buttocks quivered. So focused was she on his touch, on the shame of it, that several seconds passed before she realized he had slipped his arm beneath the fur, that no one, not even he, could see her.

Even annoyed, as she was now, she vibrated the kind of barely restrained energy that made every part of him spark to life. Some parts more enthusiastically than others. He shifted his weight and sidestepped slightly in an effort to keep that reality as unnoticeable as possible. He’d become a master of that particular skill during the last few months she’d been on the station. He needn’t have worried. She didn’t so much as glance at him. Her irritation was focused solely on her big brother. “Did you really just perp walk Cooper down the harbor?” Logan’s eyebrows lifted along with his hands, which he held up at his sides, palms out. “Hold up, I didn’t--” “Save it,” Kerry said. She turned to Cooper. “I apologize. He forgets I’m an adult woman who can handle her own affairs.” She glared at her brother during that last part. “She’s right, you know.” This came from a little spitfire brunette who, given Kerry’s descriptions of her family, must be the middle McCrae sister, Fiona. Fists planted on her hips, managing to somehow look down her cute little nose at her much taller and much bigger brother, she added, “We’re trying to plan my wedding and grill her about Mr. Hot and Aussie here. I’d think by now you’d know that we’ve got this covered.” She made a brief gesture to the other women standing alongside her. “If we thought he was a danger to society, we would have called.” Cooper watched the ricocheting dialogue like a spectator at a cricket match, unable to squelch a grin. It was like watching his own sister, all grown up and in triplicate. As Kerry and Fiona closed in on a somehow now hapless-looking lumberjack of a police chief, Cooper stepped forward and stuck out his hand toward the taller, willowy young woman who stood just behind Fiona. Where Kerry was Amazonian and Fiona a little firebrand, their oldest sister was the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. “Hannah Blue, I presume? I’m Cooper Jax. Sorry for the disruption of your sister’s wedding plans. I didn’t know.” This had Fiona turning his way. “And how could you, given Kerry couldn’t be bothered to so much as send you a postcard?” “Hey,” Kerry said, looking at her sister now. “Whose side are you on?” Fiona looked back at her. “The side that keeps this guy here and you looking all pent up and googly-eyed.” “Googly-eyed?” Kerry shot back. Cooper, grinning unrepentantly now, turned his attention back to Hannah and continued, as if her sisters weren’t getting all up in each other’s personal space. “I understand congratulations are in order on your recent nuptials as well.” Hannah gave him a swift, all-encompassing once-over as only a former defense attorney could. Then, in the face of his unrelenting goodwill, she took his hand, her mouth curving up in the barest hint of a smile as she gave it a firm, quick shake. “You’re a charmer, Mr. Jax, I’ll give you that.” “Go with your strength,” he replied.

Brothers,” he continues, “are lifelong. And though you take that field tonight, you have also taken that field before, just as you will tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. That field is your home—your battlefield—and those other men are intruders. They don’t respect it. They’re trespassing—unwanted guests..“I can assure you they didn’t,” my father says. Again, the room chants, “Hoorah!” I hold my breath because this next part, more than anything that led up to it, is what I’ve been waiting for. I check the camera, my father still centered in my frame and his face as serious as I’ve ever seen it. Our team has won the first two games of the year, but he knows that two is not ten. A loss, at this point, will be unforgiveable. “What’s that word on your backs?” His question echoes, and the answer is swift. “Honor, sir!” they all shout in unison. They always do. It’s more than memorization, and it’s always made me sit in awe of how it all plays out. “Honor! That’s right. There are no individuals in here. We all have one name. It isn’t the mascot. It isn’t your nickname or some fad that will be forgotten the second the yearbook is printed. It’s a word that means heart, that means drive and ambition, that means giving your all and leaving the best of every goddamned thing you’ve got out there on that field. Turn to your right!” They all do, seated in a circle on the benches, looking at the helmets and heads of their teammates. My dad should have been a preacher, or perhaps a general. He was born to stand before boys and make them believe that for two and a half hours, they are men. “Turn to your left!” All heads shift, the sound swift, but mouths quiet. “Honor. Brotherhood. Tradition.” He pauses, his team still sitting with heads angled and eyes wide on the dark blue sheen of the helmets and sweat-drenched heads next to them. “Again…” he says, and this time they say it with him. “Honor. Brotherhood. Tradition.” “Whose house is this?” my father asks, quiet and waiting for a roar. “Our house!” “Whose house is this?” He’s louder now. “Our house!” “Whose house…” My dad’s face is red and his voice is hoarse by the time he shouts the question painted above the door that the Cornwall Tradition runs through to the field. The final chant back is loud enough that it can be heard through the cinderblock walls. I know, because last week, I filmed the speech from outside. With chests full, egos inflated, voices primed and muscles ready for abuse, this packed room of fifty—the number that always takes the field, even though less than half of them will play—stands, each putting a hand on the back of everyone in front of them.

They weren’t putting him to sleep. They were killing him. Troy knew this as suddenly and swiftly as he knew that his wife was dead,

How deeply could she have cared for me if she could dive so swiftly into the next things? How real had it been? Such thoughts plagued me, though I knew, in my deepest heart, that this was me trying to shift the blame, and the blame could not be shifted, it rested firmly on my shoulders.—So this was

We wrote Shift Ahead to document how the smartest companies and organizations shift their strategies in order to stay relevant in the face of swift and exponential changes in everything from technology to the forces of globalization, from politics and culture, from consumer tastes to human behavior. We wanted to find out how they shift ahead – how they stayed ahead of the curve, the competition, and the evolving requirements of their customers – given the barrage of evolving challenges.

So saying, she managed to straighten- which left her facing the house, looking directly at the blank bow windows of the downstairs parlor. With the storm darkening the skies, the windows were reflective. They reflected the image of a man standing directly behind her. With a gasp, Patience whirled. Her gaze collided with the man's- his eyes were hard, crystalline gray, pale in the weak light. They were focused, intently, on her, their expression one she couldn't fathom. He stood no more than three feet away, large, elegant and oddly forbidding. In the instant her brain registered those facts, Patience felt her heels sink, and sink- into the soft soil of the flower bed. The edge crumbled beneath her feet. Her eyes flew wide- her lips formed a helpless "Oh." Arms flailing, she started to topple back- The man reacted so swiftly his movement was a blur- he gripped her upper arms and hauled her forward. She landed against him, breast to chest, hips to hard thighs. The breath was knocked out of her, leaving her gasping, mentally as well as physically. Hard hands held her upright, long fingers iron shackles about her arms. His chest was a wall of rock against her breasts; the rest of his body, the long thighs that held them braced, felt as resilient as tensile steel. She was helpless. Utterly, completely, and absolutely helpless. Patience looked up and met the stranger's hooded gaze. As she watched, his grey eyes darkened. The expression they contained- intensely concentrated- sent a most peculiar thrill through her. She blinked; her gaze fell- to the man's lips. Long, thin yet beautifully proportioned, they'd been sculpted with a view to fascination. They certainly fascinated her; she couldn't drag her gaze away. The mesmerizing contours shifted, almost imperceptibly softening; her own lips tingled. She swallowed, and dragged in a desperately needed breath. Her breasts rose, shifting against the stranger's coat, pressing more definitely against his chest. Sensation streaked through her, from unexpectedly tight nipples all the way to her toes. She caught another breath and tensed- but couldn't stop the quiver that raced through her. The stranger's lips thinned; the austere planes of his face hardened. His fingers tightened about her arms. To Patience's stunned amazement, he lifted her- easily- and carefully set her down two feet away.

What… where am I?” She looked at me uncertainly and then recognition flooded her eyes. “What are you doing here? Where’s the wolf?” “He’s here.” I thumped my chest. “I changed back.” Her eyes flicked over my naked body, no doubt taking in my cock, which was standing at attention for her. “Uh, sorry,” I muttered, shifting to try and hide it. I wanted to pull the covers over my hip but we were sleeping on top of the spread for some reason. A look of fear crossed her face and she scooted suddenly away from me, putting distance between us. “What have you been doing to me since you changed back?” “Nothing.” I held up my hands in a “don’t shoot” gesture. “I swear.” “I don’t believe you,” she snapped. “I thought… I thought I felt your hands. We were both naked and you… you were touching me.” “Look at yourself, sweetheart,” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice. “You’re still dressed—well, sort of. And I’m only naked because I just changed back. You must have had a dream.” “But… but why would I dream about that?” Her voice quivered. “I don’t even like that. I never want to ever again. I don’t—” “Taylor—” I started but she shook her head. “No, leave me alone. I just… I can’t.” Swiftly she jumped off the bed and ran out of the bedroom. “Watch out for the sun,” I shouted after her. “It’s three in the afternoon and this is the only light-tight room in the house.

The man’s gaze settled on me for a moment before they shifted to Beck who tensed. Embarrassment swept over his features as he realized who the guy was, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it because the man dropped his head and sealed his mouth over Beck’s in one swift move. Beck gasped in surprise and then began kissing him back. I should have been pissed. I wasn’t. And I had no idea why. They were fucking gorgeous together.

I’ve had one rather insistent fantasy over the course of this beautiful Maine afternoon,” he said, hearing the rough edge come back into his voice, his hunger for her making his mouth go as dry as Cameroo in April. Her lips curved upward, and that gleaming light flickered to life in her eyes. “Does it involve pillaging?” “Aye,” he said, a bit of the pirate back in his voice. Het let the blanket slide from his fingers, then put his palms on her hips, wrapping his fingers around her so the tips pressed gently into the firm curve at the top end of her bum. His thumbs rubbed over her hip bones, pressing against the tight wrap of her dress. He felt a little shudder go through her and had to dig deep for what little restraint he had left. He kept his gaze tipped up and on hers. “I stood by the rail as you steered this big beast through that maze of bobbing boats in the harbor and imagined what it would be like if I walked over to stand behind you, to wrap my hands around your hips.” He did sink his fingertips into her softness a bit then, and was rewarded with a little gasp from her. Her parted lips called to him like a siren, but he remained where he was. “I wanted to slide them up, cup your breasts, find out if they’d fit as perfectly in my hands as I’ve imagined.” His actions mirrored his words, and he felt her intake of breath as he slid his palms up, over her rib cage. She didn’t stop him, and his gaze shifted to his hands as he slowly circled her breasts, all pushed up and bound tightly within her dress…and, indeed, perfectly shaped for his hands. Her body twitched under his hands as he rain his palms up and over her nipples, and she let out a little moan. He could feel them grow harder, pushing at the silky, gathered fabric, pushing against his hands. “I wanted to slide my fingertips under the top edge, here,” he said, curling his fingers until they slid under the inside edge of her bodice, “and tug it down, slowly, so the soft, silky fabric would rub over your nipples, making them stand up, full and pink and hard, just for me.” She took a swift intake of breath as he began to do what he’d described. He kept his attention focused solely on what he was doing, wondering why in the hell he thought torturing himself further was a good idea. By the time he got rid of her clothes, he might not be able to get his own off, or ever father children, but then he glanced up, saw her eyes were lit like the fire of glittering emeralds, but decided he’d gnaw his clothes off if necessary.

Saving Lives and Protecting Rights in Translation It is said that life and death are under the power of language. —Hélène Cixous, French author and philosopher Lifeline The phone rings, jolting me to attention. It’s almost midnight on a Friday night. I didn’t want to work the late shift, but the need for my work never sleeps. Most of the calls I get at this late hour are from emergency dispatchers for police, fire, and ambulance. They often consist of misdials, hang-ups, and other nonemergencies. I’ve been working since early this morning, and I’m just not in the mood tonight to hear someone complain about a neighbor’s television being turned up too loud. But someone has got to take the call. I pick up before it rings a second time. “Interpreter three nine four zero speaking, how may I help you?” The dispatcher wastes no time with pleasantries. “Find out what’s wrong,” he barks in English. He didn’t ask me to confirm the address, so I assume he must already have police officers headed to the scene. I ask the Spanish speaker how we can help. I wait for a response. Silence. I ask the question again. No answer, but I can hear that there’s someone on the line. We wait, but we don’t hear any response. It’s probably just another child playing with the phone, accidentally dialing 911. I imagine the little guy looking curiously at the phone and pressing the buttons, then staring at it as a voice comes out of the other end. This happens all the time. I turn up the volume on my headset, just in case it might help me pick up the scolding words of a parent in the background. Then suddenly, I hear a timid female voice speaking so quietly that I can barely make out the words. “Me va a matar,” she whispers. The tiny hairs on my arm stand up on end. I swiftly render her words into English: “He’s going to kill me.” Not missing a beat, the dispatcher asks, “Where is he now?” “Outside. I saw him through the window,” I state, after listening to the Spanish version. I’m trying to stay calm and focused, but the fear in the caller’s voice is not only contagious, but essential to the meaning I have to convey. For what seems like an eternity (but is probably just a few seconds), I hear only the beeps of the recorded line and the dispatcher clicking away at his keyboard. I feel impatient. He’s most likely looking to see how far the nearest police officer is from the scene. “Interpreter, find out where she is.

Something was trying to dig its way beneath the wall and into the garage, practically right underneath my butt. I felt a chill of fear, followed swiftly by anger at the thing that had added to already overabundant flow of adrenaline. I clutched my make-shift weapon in hand and moved to crouch over the source of the disturbance, lifting in preparation to strike at whatever came through. I saw it in the dimness, and there was no mistaking the shape. A paw, a huge canine paw, scrabbled at the earth, digging out a shallow hole beneath the wall, frustrated by bits of concrete that got in the way. Between shots, I could hear animal sounds outside, panting whimpers of eagerness, it seemed. Whatever was out there wanted to dig its way inside, and wanted it bad. "Dig this," I muttered, and swung the wrench down on the paw, hard.

Olivia? Lilenta?” He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice as he went to her but he couldn’t quite manage it. Every cell in his body was screaming that she was his to protect, to comfort and hold and shield from danger and pain. The look of obvious discomfort on her face made his stomach knot with tension. Olivia tried to wave him away. “I’m all right. It’s just the glass in my foot—I think it’s shifted. It, uh, really kind of hurts. A lot.” Baird didn’t need to hear any more. Paying no attention to her half formed protests he swung her up in his arms again and turned to Sylvan. “We need to get her to a med station. Now.” “There’s one at the far entrance. This way.” The big male nodded his blond, spiky head in the direction of the docking bay doors, motioning for Baird to follow him. “Wait a minute!” Olivia protested as they walked along swiftly, uniform boots echoing in the cavernous metal space that was filled with short-distance space-going craft similar to their own. Baird frowned at her. “I can’t wait. Not when you’re in pain.” She looked exasperated. “Look, I’m sorry if I overreacted. It’s just a little sliver of glass.” “Nothing that hurts you is little to me,” Baird told her shortly. When would she understand that her pain was his? A Kindred male couldn’t rest if his mate was in any kind of discomfort. He had to do everything in his power to ease her and bring her relief—the same way he would do everything in his power in the bedroom to pleasure her. “But

indicators: You are forced to be out of your comfort zone. The manipulator is physically, mentally, and emotionally dominant so that everything is tilted toward favoring their wishes and desires. The manipulator should be the one with the upper hand at all times. When the power dynamic appears to shift, the manipulator will be swift to restore balance. The manipulator will try to undermine your confidence. The logic behind this is that the manipulator always seeks to create a reliance on them. If the victim is confident and able to fend for themselves, then the reliance they place on the manipulator will be minimized. Naturally, this is not in the manipulator’s best interest. The silent treatment. The manipulator will be prone to silence as a means of punishing the victim for behavior that is unacceptable in the manipulator’s eyes. This also extends to other forms of punishment, such as withholding affection or withdrawing their attention until the victim complies with the manipulator’s wishes. Guilt

How is it possible for a book of 628 pages to inspire so many different visions?2 Because it consists of so many distinct but interrelated objects — that is to say words, of course, but they denote and evoke things—more things than there are words. Many of the words or formations appear nowhere else, and it is difficult to describe something so much of which you’re seeing for the first time. Its neologisms make it unencompassable, endlessly redefinable. The textual matter of Finnegans Wake developed over seventeen years, just as the meaning for its readers has developed over the seventy- eight years since its first publication. The continual critical redefining of Finnegans Wake partly maps onto its many redefinitions of itself. Both have histories and the list above comprises jumbled fragments of them, concealing a deranged story of ever-shifting perceptions. During the seventeen years of its composition, composed in a manner unlike that used for any other novel, it was always growing. That is it was shifting, splitting, recombining, reconfiguring, restructuring, destructuring, decomposing, and recomposing. One of the things that Finnegans Wake is, is a strange object made in strange ways. By focusing on some of the ways it was made, we will in this book arrive at a further understanding of what it is. Through its continuously self-generating transformation, it is a text of modulation and becoming, flux and flow, an alternative classic of change to the I Ching. Written in a world which was heading towards a confident belief that it could locate, name, and describe anything (all organisms, subatomic particles, links of DNA, black holes), it produced something full of indescribable, unnamable parts. As an unencompassable unfathomable text it remains the best correlative for our unencompassable unfathomable times, changing in its meanings as swiftly as our world, through its feverish reproduction of reproductions.

The world was awash in hues of dark blue, interrupted only by shafts of buttery light escaping from the shuttered windows of our dilapidated cottage. It was like striding through a living painting- a fleeting moment of stillness, the blues swiftly shifting to solid darkness.

Magic appears to be a science which markedly depends on its environment—that is, the situation of the world and the general conditions of the cosmos at any particular time. For example, Euclidean geometry is useful on Earth, but out in the great depths of space a non-Euclidean geometry is more practical. The same is true of magic, but to a more striking degree. The basic, unstated formulas of magic appear to change with the passage of time, requiring frequent restatement—though it might conceivably be possible to discover master-formulas governing that change. It has been speculated that the laws of physics show a similar evolutionary tendency—though if they do evolve, it is at a much less rapid rate than those of magic. For example, it is believed that the speed of light may slowly change with its age. It is natural that the laws of magic should evolve more swiftly, since magic depends on a contact between the material world and another level of being—and that contact is complex and may be shifting rapidly.

Magic appears to be a science which markedly depends on its environment—that is, the situation of the word and the general conditions of the cosmos at any particular time. For example, Euclidean geometry is useful on Earth, but out in the great depths of space a non-Euclidean geometry is more practical. The same is true of magic, but to a more striking degree. The basic, unstated formulas of magic appear to change with the passage of time, requiring frequent restatement—though it might conceivably be possible to discover master-formulas governing that change. It has been speculated that the laws of physics show a similar evolutionary tendency—though if they do evolve, it is at a much less rapid rate than those of magic. For example, it is believed that the speed of light may slowly change with its age. It is natural that the laws of magic should evolve more swiftly, since magic depends on a contact between the material world and another level of being—and that contact is complex and may be shifting rapidly.

Christensen outlines: Disruptive technologies bring to a market a very different value proposition than had been available previously. Generally, disruptive technologies underperform established products in mainstream markets. But they have other features that a few fringe (and generally new) customers value. Products based on disruptive technologies are typically cheaper, simpler, smaller, and, frequently, more convenient to use. Disruptive technologies like cryptoassets initially gain traction because they’re “cheaper, simpler, smaller.” This early traction occurs on the fringe, not in the mainstream, which allows incumbents like Mr. Dimon to dismiss them. But cheaper, simpler, smaller things rarely stay on the fringe, and the shift to mainstream can be swift, catching the incumbents off guard.

This shift in the balance of power between Boeing and the FAA was the culmination of a decades- long war for influence, one embedded in the very nature of a place sometimes derided as “the tombstone agency” because it only seemed to act swiftly when people were dead.

❝The Blood Horse❞ GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light. Look,—how ’round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float! Sinewy strength is on his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire,— Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O’Brien’s blood itself! He, who hath no peer, was born Here, upon a red March morn: But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine! And yet,—he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain ’fringed with green: With him, a roving Bedouin, He liv’d,—(none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day,)— And died untam’d upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!

Today, on the sands of Tượng Lâm, there loom two vast bronze columns. General Ma Yuan, who erected them, said that the Hán will rule in this land as long as they stand. Yet the shift in the fortunes of women and men is as swift as the darting of the black-winged kite, soaring in one direction, then jinking suddenly in another. The work of nature upon us is more patient and, like the crawl of the snail, seems to leave only a faint trail behind it. Yet the shell endures, emptied of its life, to be worked on by the elements until it is indistinguishable from a rock, until it, too, joins with the grains on the beach.

He took off running. The muscles in his back shifted as he leaped down the short flight of stairs and bounded into the garden, as spry and swift as a stag. Within seconds he was gone.

The last two lifetimes have seen more scientific and technological achievement than the first 798 put together. The shift to a swiftly changing society has not greatly affected the surfaces of daily living. The New York of the 1980s resembles the New York of the 1930s more than the New York of the 1930s resembled the New York of the 1880s. But the shift has profoundly altered inner perceptions and expectations. It has placed traditional roles and institutions under severe and incomprehensible strain. It has cast off reference points and rituals that had stabilized and sanctified life for generations. It has left the experience of elders useless to the tribulations of the young. Children, knowing how different their own lives will be, no longer look to parents as models and authorities; rather, parents now learn from their children.

As he began to strum his harp, he filled his mind with images of earth. Old crumbling stones and tangled grasses and wildflowers and weeds and saplings that put down deep roots, growing into mighty trees. The color of dirt, the scent of it. How it felt clutched in the hollow of one’s palm. The voice of branches swaying in the breeze, and the slope of the earth as it rose and fell, faithful and steady. Jack closed his eyes and began to sing. He didn’t want to see the spirits manifest, but he heard the grass hissing near his knees, and he heard the tree boughs groaning above him, and he heard the scratch of stone, as if two were being rubbed together. When he heard Adaira’s soft gasp, Jack opened his eyes. The spirits were forming themselves, gathering around him to listen. He played and sang and watched as the trees became maidens with long arms and hair made of leaves. The grass and pennywort knotted themselves into what looked to be mortal lads, small and green. The stones found their faces like old men waking from a long dream. The wildflowers broke their stems and gathered into the shape of a woman with long dark hair and eyes the color of honeysuckle, her skin purple as the heather that bloomed on the hills. Yellow gorse crowned her, and she waited beside the Earie Stone, whose face was still forming, craggy and ancient. As Jack played Lorna’s ballad he felt as if he was slowly sinking into the earth. His limbs were becoming heavy, and he drooped like a flower wilting beneath a fierce sun. It was like the sensation of falling asleep. He swore he saw daisies blooming from his fingertips, and every time he plucked his strings the petals broke away but regrew just as swiftly. And his ankles…he couldn’t move them, the tree roots had begun to take hold of him. His hair was turning into grass, green and long and tangled, and as the song ended he struggled to remember who he was, that he was mortal, a man. Someone was coming to him, bright as a fallen star, and he felt her hands on his face, blissfully cold. “Please,” the woman said, but not to him. She beseeched the wildflower spirit with her long dark hair and crown of vibrant gorse. “Please, this man belongs to me. You cannot claim him.” “Why, mortal woman,” one of the pennywort lads said from the ground, his words raspy as summer hay falling to a scythe. “Why did you sit so far away from him? We thought he sang to be taken by us.” Jack snapped out of the haze. Adaira was kneeling beside him, her hand shifting to his arm. He was stricken to see that he had truly been turning into the earth—grass, flowers, and roots. His harp clattered from his tingling hands; he struggled to breathe as he watched his body return to him. “He is mine, and he played to bring you forth by my command,” Adaira said calmly. “I long to speak to you, spirits of the earth.

because I had been taught that that kind of change was impossible. The only explanations that fit my experience completely contradicted everything I had learned in optometry school. So I left my training behind to develop a new approach to natural vision improvement, one that was based on the fundamental self-healing properties of the body/mind. As I introduced this new approach to my patients, I noticed that it did a lot more than help people improve their eyesight. In fact, vision improvement was just a small part of the powerful transformations that began to occur. In the twenty years since then, I have seen over and over that changing your vision is the same as changing your life. Jonathan Swift said a long time ago that “vision is the art of seeing [the] invisible.” My clinical experience has proven that he was absolutely right—clearing our vision allows us to, literally, see the parts of ourselves, of our lives, that were invisible to us before. In the ancient traditions, the concept of “vision” did not refer to eyesight; it was synonymous with wisdom. Real wisdom, even what we call genius, flows naturally from the clarity of our perception. The belief that eyesight occurs only in our eyes limits more than our vision; it limits our entire worldview. The eyes have been described most accurately as the windows of the soul. Light energy enters our being through our eyes, but our vision of reality is determined more by what we see with our mind’s eye than what we see with our physical eye. In fact, I’ve found that our eyesight is simply a reflection of our view of reality. So when the mind begins to see more clearly, the eyes also begin to see more clearly—and that shift can be instantaneous. I now spend most of my time speaking and giving workshops all over the world, and everywhere I travel, I meet ordinary people who have miraculously healed their eyesight. They all suddenly saw a new possibility. Vision is so much more than eyesight. The eyes are simply one focal point in a vast perceptive field. But if we live in a chronic state of fear or anger, all our sensory functions contract; we literally become narrow-minded. After a while that contraction begins to feel “normal.” Most of us seem to have closed down some aspects of our perception.

Life is short, and time is swift; Roses fade, and shadows shift —Ebenezer

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