Trails Series Quotes

I made it the mantra of those days; when I paused before yet another series of switchbacks or skidded down knee-jarring slopes, when patches of flesh peeled off my feet along with my socks, when I lay alone and lonely in my tent at night I asked, often out loud: Who is tougher than me? The answer was always the same, and even when I knew absolutely there was no way on this earth that it was true, I said it anyway: No one.

We are and remain such creeping Christians, because we look at ourselves and not at Christ; because we gaze at the marks of our own soiled feet, and the trail of our own defiled garments.... Each, putting his foot in the footprint of the Master, and so defacing it, turns to examine how far his neighbor’s footprint corresponds with that which he still calls the Master’s, although it is but his own.

Seek on high bare trails Sky-reflecting violets... Mountain-top jewels

'Adult life is a series of compromises, Adrien.' 'Yeah, only you're negotiating with the Devil.' Still not looking at me, he growled, 'Oh, go to hell.' I raised my water in a toast. 'Sure. I'll follow the trail of bread crumbs you're scattering.'

We found water. We passed into a more fertile country where were grass and fruit. We found the trail to Babylon because the soul of a free man looks at life as a series of problems to be solved and solves them, while the soul of a slave whines, 'What can I do who am but a slave?

It was Joss Whedon's Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the television series, 1997-2003, not the lackluster movie that preceded it) that blazed the trail for Twilight and the slew of other paranormal romance novels that followed, while also shaping the broader urban fantasy field from the late 1990s onward. Many of you reading this book will be too young to remember when Buffy debuted, so you'll have to trust us when we say that nothing quite like it had existed before. It was thrillingly new to see a young, gutsy, kick-ass female hero, for starters, and one who was no Amazonian Wonder Woman but recognizably ordinary, fussing about her nails, her shoes, and whether she'd make it to her high school prom. Buffy's story contained a heady mix of many genres (fantasy, horror, science-fiction, romance, detective fiction, high school drama), all of it leavened with tongue-in-cheek humor yet underpinned by the serious care with which the Buffy universe had been crafted. Back then, Whedon's dizzying genre hopping was a radical departure from the norm-whereas today, post-Buffy, no one blinks an eye as writers of urban fantasy leap across genre boundaries with abandon, penning tender romances featuring werewolves and demons, hard-boiled detective novels with fairies, and vampires-in-modern-life sagas that can crop up darn near anywhere: on the horror shelves, the SF shelves, the mystery shelves, the romance shelves.

There was always a trail, skin cells, a scent, thermal imaging, parts left behind that the riders called prints. Sometimes those proved helpful when tracking an individual, especially if they were fresh.

Hellions to the right, Hellions to the left Hellions to the east the, Hellions to the west, above and below. The pits of hell must be empty by now for they are all here around me.

A brief hush fell over the table when the guy from the bar approached. After he finished depositing their drinks in the center of the table, Lynn jumped on the opportunity to flirt, winking and smiling prettily at him. “Thanks, cowboy.” “Cowboy?” Reaching for her appletini, Piper laughed. Lynn shrugged. “When I picture him in my bed, I see a Stetson and a saddle.” Something well-known among their group, ever since she watched John Travolta in Urban Cowboy, she was on a mission to secure herself her very own cowboy. “I bet you see a branding iron too,” Jules snickered. Lynn’s thoughtful gaze trailed after him as the bartender returned to making drinks.

...Everything we do is left in...like a trail out there, a big ring of decisions. Every action we take-" "And mistake." "And every mistake. But every good thing we do as well. They are immortal, every single touch we leave behind. Even if nobody sees them or remembers them, that doesn't matter. That trail will always be what happened, what we did, every choice. The past lives on forever. There's no changing it.

Boy and Egg Every few minutes, he wants to march the trail of flattened rye grass back to the house of muttering hens. He too could make a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it to his ear while the other children laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him, so little yet, too forgetful in games, ready to cry if the ball brushed him, riveted to the secret of birds caught up inside his fist, not ready to give it over to the refrigerator or the rest of the day.

Die in one universe and yet in another go on without a hitch. If this were true, the person who understood it would have conquered death. Would be invulnerable. Would be the Superman. There's a dizzying thrill in a philosophy that can only be tested by suicide -- and then never proven, only tested again by another attempt. And the person embarked on that series of tests, treading that trail of lives as if from boulder to boulder across the river of time -- no, out into the burning ocean of eternity -- what a mutant! Some new genesis, like a pale, poisonous daisy.

Success always moves on to the next thing,” Milton agreed, as Bloch trailed him up the circular stair. “But failure’s timeless, isn’t it? Failure is forever.

Everything is related, always. There is no ending to this, and no beginning. It simply is. 1st Precept, New Trails, Book 1 of the New Trails Series

Newel and Doren had inexhaustibly consumed milkshakes, burgers, sandwiches, tacos, nachos, pretzels, nuts, beef jerky, trail mix, soda, doughnuts, candy bars, cookies, crackers, and aerosol cheese. Of the fifty most impressive belches Seth had witnessed in his life, all had occurred on this road trip.

Newel and Doren had inexhaustibly consumed milkshakes, burgers, sandwiches, tacos, nachos, pretzels, nuts, beef jerky, trail mix, soda, doughnuts, candy bars, cookies, crackers, and aerosol cheese. Of the fifty most impressive belches Seth had witnessed in his life, all had occurred on this road trip. “I hate to interrupt the feasting,” Vanessa said, “but we did come here for a purpose. Let’s try to focus on something besides sweet fat and salty fat for the next little while.” “Some of us have fast metabolisms,” Doren mumbled. “We just want fuel in the tank before we risk our necks,” Newel complained.

As I ascended, I realized I didn’t understand what a mountain was, or even if I was hiking up one mountain or a series of them glommed together. I’d not grown up around mountains. I’d walked on a few, but only on well-trod paths on day hikes. They’d seemed to be nothing more than really big hills. But they were not that. They were, I now realized, layered and complex, inexplicable and analogous to nothing. Each time I reached the place that I thought was the top of the mountain or the series of mountains glommed together, I was wrong. There was still more up to go, even if first there was a tiny slope that went tantalizingly down. So up I went until I reached what really was the top. I knew it was the top because there was snow. Not on the ground, but falling from the sky, in thin flakes that swirled in mad patterns, pushed by the wind.

October twenty-second..." Lee read, trailing off as she reached the year. Her insides went cold. She whirled around, her voice quavering. "What is this? Don't screw with me!" "What is it?" Nasser asked? "The date is wrong." He knew it, of course. He had to know. "How wrong?" "Seven years wrong!" Lee shrieked. "What is this? Where am I?" Nasser opened his mouth, but all that came out was a series of stammers. Filo glared at him, then turned to Lee. "You want to know what's happening?" "Yes," Lee sobbed, nodding feebly. "Please." "Okay," Filo offered. "What do you know about faeries?

When you hike through the forest you have no choice but to experience every step. The slow speed at which you move through the wilderness allows you to experience the landscape in such an intimate way. You have the opportunity to slow down and look across every stunning mountain vista, touch the blossoming azaleas, feel the cool mist of the waterfalls, and smell the rich scents of the forest as you pass through it. You have the opportunity to experience this paradise that is our planet.

Astronomers suspect that the Oort Cloud could extend as far as three light-years from our solar system. That is more than halfway to the nearest stars, the Centauri triple star system, which is slightly more than four light-years from Earth. If we assume that the Centauri star system is also surrounded by a sphere of comets, then there might be a continuous trail of comets connecting it to Earth. It may be possible to establish a series of refueling stations, outposts, and relay locations on a grand interstellar highway. Instead of leaping to the next star in one jump, we might cultivate the more modest goal of "comet hopping" to the Centauri system. This thoroughfare could become a cosmic Route 66.

I know that the best adventures are often off-trail, and blissful solitude will be guaranteed.

Wilderness. My problems are over the moment I step out onto the trail, pack loaded, schedule free.

all

Right here stood with his arms around me and his lips trailing across my skin I know I’m undeniably in love with this man and even though a part of me knows he will destroy us both I welcome destruction with baited breath.

Longfellow talked about leaving footprints in the sands of time. But what’s the point? The point is the trail this leaves. Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Look,” Petru said, pointing up at the sky. Among the first stars beginning to pierce the night sky, there was one falling. It burned, light trailing behind it as it slowly moved through the gathering darkness. “It is an omen,” Daciana said from her seat in front of Stefan on his horse, her voice quiet with wonder. Lada closed her eyes, remembering another night when stars fell from the heavens. She had almost been happy, then, with the two men she loved. Now she had neither of them. But she had known that night what she knew now: nothing but Wallachia would ever be enough. The stars saw her. They knew. She lifted a hand in the air toward the burning sign as she rode forward, letting everyone see her pointing to the omen of her coming. Everyone would witness it. They were her people. This was her country. This was her throne. She needed no intrigues, no elaborate plans. Wallachia was her mother. After everything she had been through, all she had done in pursuit of the throne, she was left with one thing only: herself. She was enough.

Flint surprises me by laughing out loud, covering his mouth for a moment as though trying to hide it. “Oh my God—Relax. I’m still coherent, right?” “Define coherent and I'll let you be,” I mumble at him, annoyed. Flint smirks. “You’re cute when you fuss over me.” I have to wonder if this is friend appropriate behavior. "I am not cute.” I say; feeling heat spread over my cheeks and looking away from him. “And I’m merely concerned for your safety." I trail off when I hear the noise of someone moving around above our heads. Flint chuckles and says, “I think you’re cute.

Her vision came into focus and again this time the trees crackled and mocked her. You’re going to die you silly bitch, they seemed to chant. They waved their branches, howling, as the wind whistled through the trails which had suddenly grown icy cold. Kayn’s mind snapped back to reality; she had lost a lot of blood…none of this was real. Children of Ankh

clean boyfriend someday. I love you. Joe. On the other side was a photograph of the Sylvia Beach Hotel on the Oregon coast, where we’d stayed together once. I stared at the photograph for several moments, a series of feelings washing over me in waves: grateful for a word from someone I knew, nostalgic for Joe, disappointed that only one person had written to me, and heartbroken, unreasonable as it was, that the one person who had wasn’t Paul. I bought two bottles of Snapple lemonade, a king-sized Butterfinger, and a bag of Doritos and went outside and sat on the front steps, devouring the things I’d purchased while reading the postcard over and over again. After a while, I noticed a box in the corner of the porch stuffed

Now Van Ness claimed already to have died, more than once, in various other universes. Who can refute that? Is there any proof otherwise? Imagine a slight revision in Nietzsche’s myth of eternal return: not that at history’s end all matter collapses back to the center, Big-Bangs, and starts again identically; but that it starts again with one infinitesimal difference in the action of a single molecule— every time, and an endless number of times. When you die, your consciousness blanks out, but it resumes eons later, when the history of molecules has been revised enough to preclude your death due to those particular circumstances: the bullet hits your brain in this world, but in a later one merely tickles your earlobe. You die in one universe and yet in another go on without a hitch. You don’t mark the intervening ages—subjectively you experience nothing other than almost having died. But in fact you’ve edged into another kingdom, ruled by another king, engaging other potentialities. If this were true, the person who understood it would have conquered death. Would be invulnerable. Would be the Superman. There’s a dizzying thrill in a philosophy that can only be tested by suicide— and then never proven, only tested again by another attempt. And the person embarked on that series of tests, treading that trail of lives as if from boulder to boulder across the river of time— no, out into the burning ocean of eternity— what a mutant! Some new genesis, like a pale, poisonous daisy.

From time to time, a series of soft thumps on the back porch were not evidence of a prowler, merely one of the rocking chairs as a gust of wind bumped it against the house. And the hanging basket of trailing fuchsia swung back and forth, the friction of chain link on hook raising a creak-croak that might have been a hacksaw determinedly chewing through something as hard as bone.

And somehow, against all reason, we were kissing. I closed my eyes, and the world around me faded. The noise, the smoke . . . it was gone. All that mattered was the taste of his mouth, a mix of cloves and mints. There was a fierceness in his kiss, a desperation . . . and I answered, just as hungry for him. I didn’t stop him when he pulled me closer, so that I almost sat on his lap. I’d never been wrapped around someone’s body like that, and I was shocked at how eagerly mine responded. His arm went around my waist, pulling me onto him further, and his other hand slid up the back of my neck, getting entangled in my hair. Amazingly, the wig stayed on. He took his lips away from my mouth, gently trailing kisses down to my neck. I tipped my head back, gasping when the intensity returned to his mouth. There was an animalistic quality that sent shock waves through the rest of my body. Some Alchemist voice warned me that this was exactly how a vampire would feed, but I had no fear. Adrian wouldn’t hurt me, and I needed to know just how hard he could kiss me and— “Oh my God!” Adrian and I jerked apart as though someone had thrown cold water on us, though our legs stayed entangled.

And what kind of sick and twisted impulse would cause a professional sportswriter to deliver a sermon from the Book of Revelations off his hotel balcony on the dawn of Super Sunday? I had not planned a sermon for that morning. I had not even planned to be in Houston, for that matter… . But now, looking back on that outburst, I see a certain inevitability about it. Probably it was a crazed and futile effort to somehow explain the extremely twisted nature of my relationship with God, Nixon and the National Football League: The three had long since become inseparable in my mind, a sort of unholy trinity that had caused me more trouble and personal anguish in the past few months than Ron Ziegler, Hubert Humphrey and Peter Sheridan all together had caused me in a year on the campaign trail.

The Ancestral Trail was split into two-halves of 26 issues each. The first half takes place in the Ancestral World and describes Richard's struggle to restore good to the world. After the initial international run, which sold over 30 million copies worldwide, Marshall Cavendish omitted the second part of the trilogy and used the third part (future) for the second series that followed. This part of the series, written up by Ian Probert and published in 1994, takes place in the Cyber Dimension. It deals with Richard's attempts to return home. Each issue centered on an adventure against a particular adversary, and each issue ended on a cliffhanger. The Ancestral Trail was illustrated by Julek and Adam Heller. Computer-generated graphics were provided by Mehau Kulyk for issues #27 through #52.

He thought often these days of the words that ended the traditional marriage ceremony of the Anishinaabeg. You will share the same fire. You will hang your garments together. You will help one another. You will walk the same trail. You will look after one another. Be kind to one another. Be kind to your children. He hadn’t always been careful to abide by these simple instructions. But a man could change,

Back home, Huxley drew from this experience to compose a series of audacious attacks against the Romantic love of wilderness. The worship of nature, he wrote, is "a modern, artificial, and somewhat precarious invention of refined minds." Byron and Wordsworth could only rhapsodize about their love of nature because the English countryside had already been "enslaved to man." In the tropics, he observed, where forests dripped with venom and vines, Romantic poets were notably absent. Tropical peoples knew something Englishmen didn't. "Nature," Huxley wrote, "is always alien and inhuman, and occasionally diabolic." And he meant always: Even in the gentle woods of Westermain, the Romantics were naive in assuming that the environment was humane, that it would not callously snuff out their lives with a bolt of lightning or a sudden cold snap. After three days amid the Tuckamore, I was inclined to agree.

cover. In her sunglasses and short sleeves, Amé seemed oblivious to the glare and heat, although several trails of sweat had stained the neck of her shirt. Maybe it wasn’t the sun. Maybe it was concentration, or mental diffusion. Ten minutes went by, apparently not registering with her. The passage of time was not a practical component in her life. Or if it was, it wasn’t high on her list of priorities. It was different for me. I had a plane to catch.

We are and remain such creeping Christians, because we look at ourselves and not at Christ; because we gaze at the marks of our own soiled feet, and the trail of our own defiled garments, instead of up at the snows of purity, whither the soul of Christ clomb. Each, putting his foot in the footprint of the Master, and so defacing it, turns to examine how far his neighbour’s footprint corresponds with that which he still calls the Master’s, although it is but his own.

Though Wilder blamed her family’s departure from Kansas on “blasted politicians” ordering white squatters to vacate Osage lands, no such edict was issued over Rutland Township during the Ingallses’ tenure there. Quite the reverse is true: only white intruders in what was known as the Cherokee Strip of Oklahoma were removed to make way for the displaced Osages arriving from Kansas. (Wilder mistakenly believed that her family’s cabin was located forty—rather than the actual fourteen—miles from Independence, an error that placed the fictional Ingalls family in the area affected by the removal order.) Rather, Charles Ingalls’s decision to abandon his claim was almost certainly financial, for Gustaf Gustafson did indeed default on his mortgage. The exception: Unlike their fictional counterparts, the historical Ingalls family’s decision to leave Wisconsin and settle in Kansas was not a straightforward one. Instead it was the eventual result of a series of land transactions that began in the spring of 1868, when Charles Ingalls sold his Wisconsin property to Gustaf Gustafson and shortly thereafter purchased 80 acres in Chariton County, Missouri, sight unseen. No one has been able to pinpoint with any certainty when (or even whether) the Ingalls family actually resided on that land; a scanty paper trail makes it appear that they actually zigzagged from Kansas to Missouri and back again between May of 1868 and February of 1870. What is certain is that by late February of 1870 Charles Ingalls had returned the title to his Chariton County acreage to the Missouri land dealer, and so for simplicity’s sake I have chosen to follow Laura Ingalls Wilder’s lead, contradicting history by streamlining events to more closely mirror the opening chapter of Little House on the Prairie, and setting this novel in 1870, a year in which the Ingalls family’s presence in Kansas is firmly documented.

The same day, after the lessons were over and Emma went out to the schoolyard, an unexplainable strange trepidation suddenly awoke inside her heart. Something was stopping her from going home. She trailed to the stadium situated behind the school building and took some rest leaning onto the shady branches of poplars. Emily could not explain it how, but she felt it that Mr. Fog is somewhere around, and that he needs to talk to her about something important… She just knew it, and that was it.

National Park. This I must keep reminding myself. Our parks serve a great purpose, not just for preservation, but also as a funnel. The Designated Route. Mobs of tourists, RVs, buses, and family station wagons out on summer vacation need a place to go. Our national parks serve this purpose, complete with entrance fees, advance reservation campgrounds, snack bars, game rooms, bowling alleys, roped-off viewpoints, paved trails, lodges, and reserved backcountry campsites. Permit required. For a fee.

Flint surprises me by laughing out loud, covering his mouth for a moment as though trying to hide it. “Oh my God—Relax. I’m still coherent, right?” “Define coherent and I'll let you be,” I mumble at him, annoyed. Flint smirks. “You’re cute when you fuss over me.” I have to wonder if this is friend appropriate behavior. "I am not cute.” I say; feeling heat spread over my cheeks and looking away from him. “And I’m merely concerned for your safety." I trail off when I hear the noise of someone moving around above our heads. Flint chuckles and says, “I think you’re cute.

I wish you could see that it doesn’t matter if people reject you. I’ll be here for you, always. You’ll never have to worry about that from me. And they won’t reject you. You’re fucking talented, you’re the most talented, creative person I’ve ever met, and you’re doing amazing things. You’re kind and thoughtful and this big ball of light that people can’t help being drawn towards. I know you worry about not being good enough or never accomplishing enough, but look around you, Taylor! What more do you want? You have it all, you have…” he paused and trailed off, and she knew what he was going to say. You have me.

Alessandro burst out laughing and Bree wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t think about the past anymore. Let’s move forward and let’s be happy.” Alessandro cocked an eyebrow. “Is that an order, young lady?” “Yes, Sir. From this second on, you’re not allowed to think about how much we hurt each other and how stupid you were-“ “How stupid I-“ “Ah!” Bree pressed her fingers against his lips. “How stupid we both were.” “And what would the punishment be for disobeying such an order?” Alessandro asked, his fingers trailing down her back. “Oh it would be very bad,” Bree assured him playfully. “Very?” Alessandro asked, his eyes lit with amusement. “Oh yes. Brutal. Vicious even.” “Oh that does sound terrible,” Alessandro agreed. “There might even be whips,” Bree warned. “Oh dear,” Alessandro smiled.

The blood cyst works kind of like a whip, doesn’t it?” I asked. “For the sheep to manipulate the host.” “Exactly. Once that forms, there’s no escaping the sheep.” “So what on earth was the Boss after, doing what he was doing?” “He went mad. He probably couldn’t take the heat of that blast furnace. The sheep used him to build up a supreme power base. That’s why the sheep entered him. He was, in a word, disposable. The man was zero as a thinker, after all.” “So when the Boss died, you were earmarked to take over that power base.” “I’m afraid so.” “And what lay ahead after that?” “A realm of total conceptual anarchy. A scheme in which all opposites would be resolved into unity. With me and the sheep at the center.” “So why did you reject it?” Time trailed off into death. And over this dead time, a silent snow was falling. “I guess I felt attached to my

trailed off as her attention moved from Will taking his juice from the bartender to the glass behind the bartender. There were red dots on the glass. Alessandro brushed her shoulder again and Bree followed a row of red dots from the glass mirror to the wall. Some of the red dots danced over the guests and as an icy cloak of understanding fell over Bree, it seemed to grip Alessandro as well. Then she turned to face him and there were red dots on his chest, as well as her shoulder, which he had been brushing, thinking it was a speck of dust. “GET DOWN!” he screamed to everyone grabbing Bree by the waist and throwing her down while and trying to be heard over the music. Chaos erupted as gunfire drowned out the sound of music and people fell screaming on top of each other as pieces of the wall and glass from the doors and the mirrors rained down on them. The gunfire raged on and on for what seemed like an eternity. Then there was silence.

Her disillusionment with the business had intensified as the need to simplify her stories increased. Her original treatments for Blondie of the Follies and The Prizefighter and the Lady had much more complexity and many more characters than ever made it to the screen, and adapting The Good Earth had served as a nagging reminder of the inherent restraints of film. Frances found herself inspired by memories of Jack London, sitting on the veranda with her father as they extolled the virtues of drinking their liquor “neat,” and remembered his telling her that he went traveling to experience adventure, but “then come back to an unrelated environment and write. I seek one of nature’s hideouts, like this isolated Valley, then I see more clearly the scenes that are the most vivid in my memory.” So she arrived in Napa with the idea of writing the novel she started in her hospital bed with the backdrop of “the chaos, confusion, excitement and daily tidal changes” of the studios, but as she sat on the veranda at Aetna Springs, she knew she was still too close to her mixed feelings about the film business.48 As she walked the trails and passed the schoolhouse that had served the community for sixty years, she talked to the people who had lived there in seclusion for several generations and found their stories “similar to case histories recorded by Freud or Jung.” She concentrated on the women she saw carrying the burden in this community and all others and gave them a depth of emotion and detail. Her series of short stories was published under the title Valley People and critics praised it as a “heartbreak book” that would “never do for screen material.” It won the public plaudits of Dorothy Parker, Rupert Hughes, Joseph Hergesheimer, and other popular writers and Frances proudly viewed Valley People as “an honest book with no punches pulled” and “a tribute to my suffering sex.

Move when it’s time We were touring the ruins at Hovenweep National Monument in the southwestern United States. A sign along the interpretive trail told about the Anasazi who had lived along the small, narrow canyon so long ago. The archaeologists have done their best to determine what these ancient Indians did and how they lived their lives. The signs told about the strategic positioning of the buildings perched precariously on the edge of a cliff, and questioned what had caused this ancient group to suddenly disappear long ago. “Maybe they just got tired of living there and moved,” my friend said. We laughed as we pictured a group of wise ancients sitting around the campfire one night. “You know,” says one of them, “I’m tired of this desert. Let’s move to the beach.” And in our story they did. No mystery. No aliens taking them away. They just moved on, much like we do today. It’s easy to romanticize what we don’t know. It’s easy to assume that someone else must have a greater vision, a nobler purpose than just going to work, having a family, and living a life. People are people, and have been throughout time. Our problems aren’t new or unique. The secret to happiness is the same as it has always been. If you are unhappy with where you are, don’t be there. Yes, you may be here now, you may be learning hard lessons today, but there is no reason to stay there. If it hurts to touch the stove, don’t touch it. If you want to be someplace else, move. If you want to chase a dream, then do it. Learn your lessons where you are, but don’t close off your ability to move and to learn new lessons someplace else. Are you happy with the path that you’re on? If not, maybe it’s time to choose a new one. There need not be a great mysterious reason. Sometimes it’s just hot and dry, and the beach is calling your name. Be where you want to be. God, give me the courage to find a path with heart. Help me move on when it’s time.

Aubade Ending with the Death of a Mosquito" —at Apollo Hospital, Dhaka Let me break free of these lace-frail lilac fingers disrobing the black sky from the windows of this room, I sit helpless, waiting, silent—sister, because you drew from me the coil of red twine: loneliness— spooled inside— once, I wanted to say one true thing, as in, I want more in this life, or, the sky is hurt, a blue vessel— we pass through each other, like weary sweepers haunting through glass doors, arcing across gray floors faint trails of dust we leave behind—he touches my hand, waits for me to clutch back while mosquitoes rise like smoke from this cold marble floor, from altars, seeking the blood still humming in our unsaved bodies—he sighs, I make a fist, I kill this one leaving raw kisses raised on our bare necks— because I woke alone in the myth of one life, I will myself into another—how strange, to witness nameless, the tangled shape our blood makes across us, my open palm.

Yes.” I sniff. I love him like you might love a star. “Yes, you did?” He stares over at me. I nod. “Yes.” His eyes go funny, sort of blurry—he blinks twice and then he yells “Fuck!” way too loudly to be anything close to discreet. My head pulls back and I tense up. “Shit.” He breathes out, shaking his head. “Fuck—” I watch on in mild horror. “Are you ok—” “Say it.” “What?” I stare over at him. “Can you, please? Say it?” he asks. “Now. Out loud—” He shakes his head at himself. “Just so I’ve heard you say it one time.” I open my mouth to protest for a reason I don’t know why and then I stop myself, swallow and look him in the eye. “I loved you.” He nods a couple of times then closes his eyes for a few seconds, blows some air out of his mouth. “I have to ask—” He looks back over at me, eyes all heavy now. “Was I ever in with a shot?” He is a star. Not the shooting kind. Not some flash-in-the-pan meteorite that burns up on entry into the atmosphere. And stars, they’re undeniably beautiful, kind of magical. Only come out at the nighttime. Easy enough to ignore. In a sky full of them, a single star can be difficult to tell apart from the others. They don’t affect our day-to-day lives, really. You might see it one night and not the next, and it bears no real consequence other than perhaps the sky is a little less wonderful on that particular evening. A star is a star. “In this world,” I give him a delicate look, “with BJ?” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.” “That’s—” He trails, letting out this hollow laugh that I kind of hate. It doesn’t suit him. His regular laugh is so wonderful. “—fine.” He nods. “That’s good to know, actually—” “I’m sorry,” I tell him. He shakes his head again. “No, don’t be.” But you see, the thing about stars is that in another galaxy, that star is also a sun. “If it wasn’t him, it would be you,” I tell him, for better and for worse. He blows some more air out of his mouth and catches my eye. “In another life, yeah?” I nod and offer him a weak smile. “I’ll meet you there.

By then we lived in a small town an hour outside of Minneapolis in a series of apartment complexes with deceptively upscale names: Mill Pond and Barbary Knoll, Tree Loft and Lake Grace Manor. She had one job, then another. She waited tables at a place called the Norseman and then a place called Infinity, where her uniform was a black T-shirt that said GO FOR IT in rainbow glitter across her chest. She worked the day shift at a factory that manufactured plastic containers capable of holding highly corrosive chemicals and brought the rejects home. Trays and boxes that had been cracked or clipped or misaligned in the machine. We made them into toys—beds for our dolls, ramps for our cars. She worked and worked and worked, and still we were poor. We received government cheese and powdered milk, food stamps and medical assistance cards, and free presents from do-gooders at Christmastime. We played tag and red light green light and charades by the apartment mailboxes that you could open only with a key, waiting for checks to arrive. “We aren’t poor,” my mother said, again and again. “Because we’re rich in love.

They're playing my favorite song." He swept her into his arms and began to move with her around the floor. The honky-tonk music was something low and bluesy. Marilee looked up into his face. 'I don't recognize this song.What is it?" He gave her that soulful smile. "I don't know.But from now on it's going to be my favorite." She felt her heart stutter. He closed both arms around her, drawing her close. She knew that everyone in the saloon was watching. At the moment, she didn't care. She couldn't think about anything except the press of his body to hers.The feel of those strong, muscled arms around her.The warmth of his thighs molded to hers.The touch of his mouth against her temple,his warm breath feathering her hair. "This is nice." His voice vibrated through her, sending a series of delicious tingles along her spine. "Yeah." She looked up into his eyes and could feel herself drowning in them. She was melting all over him, with the entire town watching. She could actually feel her heart beginning to drum in her temples. She knew she ought to draw back, but she couldn't.She didn't want the song to end.Or this night. Oh,hell.Just look at her. She was falling for a footloose rebel with a smooth line who'd probably left a trail of broken hearts from Toledo to Timbuktu. The kind of guy she'd made a career of staying as far away from as possible. And here she was. Falling hard. Willingly. Right in front of the entire town.And loving every minute of it.

Geraldine nodded and headed for Mrs. Armstrong's lawn. I felt sorry for her in her carrot pajamas, having no idea what was really going on. I followed the other girls and stood behind the shrubs. Mrs. Armstrong's house was ginormous. Her house was even bigger than Aunt Jeanie's. There was one light on upstairs. I figured that was the bedroom. The rest of the house was dark. Geraldine went to the far end of the yard and removed a can of spray paint from the bag. She shook it and began to spray. "She's such an idiot," Ava said, taking out her phone to record Geraldine's act of vandalism. "You guys are going to get her into so much trouble," I said. "So what?" Hannah replied. "She got us in trouble at the soup kitchen, it's not like she's ever going to become a Silver Rose anyway. She's totally wasting her time." Geraldine slowly made her way up and down the huge yard carefully spraying the grass. It would take her forever to complete it and there wasn't nearly enough spray paint. "Hey, guys!" Geraldine yelled from across the lawn. "How about I spray a rose in the grass? That would be cool, right?" I cringed. The light on upstairs meant the Armstrongs were still awake. Geraldine was about to get us all caught. "O-M-G," Hannah moaned. "Shhhh," Summer hissed, but Geraldine kept screaming at the top of her lungs. "Well, what do you guys think?" My heart dropped into my stomach as a light from downstairs clicked on. We ducked behind the hedges and froze. "Who's out there?" called a man's voice. I couldn't see him and I couldn't see Geraldine. I heard the door close and I peeked over the hedges. "He went back inside," I whispered, ducking back down. At that moment something went shk-shk-shk and Geraldine screamed. We all stood to see what was happening. Someone had turned the sprinklers on and Geraldine was getting soaked. The door flew open and I heard Mrs. Armstrong's voice followed by a dog's vicious barking. "Get 'em, Killer!" "Killer!" Ava screamed and we all took off running down the street with a soggy Geraldine trailing behind us. I was faster than all the other girls. I had no intentions of being gobbled up by a dog named Killer. We stopped running when we got to Ava's street and Killer was nowhere in sight. We walked back to the house at a normal pace. "So, did I prove myself to the sisterhood?" Geraldine asked. Hannah turned to her. "Are you kidding me? Your yelling woke them up, you moron. We got chased down the street by a dog because of you." Geraldine frowned and looked down at the ground. Hopefully what I had told her before about the girls not being her friends was starting to settle in. Inside all the other girls wanted to know what had happened. Ava was giving them the gory details when a knock on the door interrupted her. It was Mrs. Armstrong. She had on a black bathrobe and her hair was in curlers. I chuckled to myself because I was used to seeing her look absolutely perfect. We all sat on our sleeping bags looking as innocent as possible except for Geraldine who still stood awkwardly by the door, dripping wet. Mrs. Armstrong cleared her throat. "Someone has just vandalized my lawn with spray paint. Silver spray paint. Since I know it's a tradition for the Silver Roses to pull a prank on me on the night of the retreat, I'm going to assume it was one of you. More specifically, the one who's soaking wet right now." All eyes went to Geraldine. She looked at the ground and said nothing. What could she possibly say to defend herself? She even had silver spray paint on her fingers. Mrs. Armstrong looked her up and down. "Young lady, this is your second strike and that's two strikes too many. Your bid to become a Junior Silver Rose is for the second time hereby revoked." Geraldine's shoulders drooped, but most of the girls were smirking. This had been their plan all along and they had accomplished it.

The young lady then placed her hands on Kode’s shoulder, letting her cheek rest on top of the pile. The smile on her face was more than a victory smile. It was a happy sign of contentment. Eena wondered. “When do you suppose those two will get married?” She whispered the question to Kira who still had a firm grip on her arm. “Kode get married?” The incredulity on Kira’s face matched her brother’s strong outburst. “Who the hell says I’m gettin’ hitched?” Niki pushed herself away from her boyfriend’s shoulder; her upper lip curled into a resentful scowl at the negative way he had voiced his query. Eena had never meant for them to overhear. She stumbled over a justification for the question. “It’s just that you’ve been together for a while, you know, like a couple. Close. I mean, you’re always together so…I just figured…” she let the notion trail off. Kode looked queasy. “We’re always together ‘cause she bloody follows me around everywhere I go like I’m some freakin’ tour guide!” “Fine!” Niki exclaimed, holding her palms like a defensive wall in front of her. “I’ll leave if that’s what you want. I don’t need you! There’s plenty of other guys who’d love to get their lips on me!” With that outburst, the pretty Mishmorat twirled her body around, setting off on foot with both fists seared into her hips. Kode let her take about four steps before he darted over and dragged her back. She didn’t put up much of a fight, but her beautiful burgundy eyes refused to look at him. “Ungrateful woman,” he murmured. “No one asked you to leave.” Niki continued to glare up at the cloudy sky. Kode sighed a long, perturbed sound. His next words were mumbled like they were torturous to have to speak out loud. “Come on, Niki, you know I don’t want you to go. Who the hell’s gonna keep me in line if you’re gone?” That made the pretty Mishmorat smile. She breathed in deeply and then dropped her gaze onto her man. His face was a goofy grimace, hers a smug grin of satisfaction. Kode threw an arm roughly around his girlfriend and pulled her close to him. He then turned to Eena, shrugging one shoulder. “She’ll probably break down and marry me this summer,” he said. “That’s what I’m thinkin’ anyway.” Niki’s head went back to rest on Kode’s shoulder, right where it had started.

Suddenly he felt his foot catch on something and he stumbled over one of the trailing cables that lay across the laboratory floor. The cable went tight and pulled one of the instruments monitoring the beam over, sending it falling sideways and knocking the edge of the frame that held the refractive shielding plate in position. For what seemed like a very long time the stand wobbled back and forth before it tipped slowly backwards with a crash. ‘Take cover!’ Professor Pike screamed, diving behind one of the nearby workbenches as the other Alpha students scattered, trying to shield themselves behind the most solid objects they could find. The beam punched straight through the laboratory wall in a cloud of vapour and alarm klaxons started wailing all over the school. Professor Pike scrambled across the floor towards the bundle of thick power cables that led to the super-laser, pulling them from the back of the machine and extinguishing the bright green beam. ‘Oops,’ Franz said as the emergency lighting kicked in and the rest of the Alphas slowly emerged from their hiding places. At the back of the room there was a perfectly circular, twenty-centimetre hole in the wall surrounded by scorch marks. ‘I am thinking that this is not being good.’ Otto walked cautiously up to the smouldering hole, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the beam emitter that was making a gentle clicking sound as it cooled down. ‘Woah,’ he said as he peered into the hole. Clearly visible were a series of further holes beyond that got smaller and smaller with perspective. Dimly visible at the far end was what could only be a small circle of bright daylight. ‘Erm, I don’t know how to tell you this, Franz,’ Otto said, turning towards his friend with a broad grin on his face, ‘but it looks like you just made a hole in the school.’ ‘Oh dear,’ Professor Pike said, coming up beside Otto and also peering into the hole. ‘I do hope that we haven’t damaged anything important.’ ‘Or anyone important,’ Shelby added as she and the rest of the Alphas gathered round. ‘It is not being my fault,’ Franz moaned. ‘I am tripping over the cable.’ A couple of minutes later, the door at the far end of the lab hissed open and Chief Dekker came running into the room, flanked by two guards in their familiar orange jumpsuits. Otto and the others winced as they saw her. It was well known already that she had no particular love for H.I.V.E.’s Alpha stream and she seemed to have a special dislike for their year in particular. ‘What happened?’ she demanded as she strode across the room towards the Professor. Her thin, tight lips and sharp cheekbones gave the impression that she was someone who’d heard of this thing called smiling but had decided that it was not for her. ‘There was a slight . . . erm . . . malfunction,’ the Professor replied with a fleeting glance in Franz’s direction. ‘Has anyone been injured?’ ‘It doesn’t look like it,’ Dekker replied tersely, ‘but I think it’s safe to say that Colonel Francisco won’t be using that particular toilet cubicle again.’ Franz visibly paled at the thought of the Colonel finding out that he had been in any way responsible for whatever indignity he had just suffered. He had a sudden horribly clear vision of many laps of the school gym somewhere in his not too distant future.

You were in the Marines. Didn’t you have to run in your sleep?” I question as I step onto the trail and set the timer on my watch. “Yes. And that’s precisely why I don’t want to do it anymore. People shouldn’t run unless someone is chasing them,” he tells me.

We found water. We passed into a more fertile country where were grass and fruit. We found the trail to Babylon because the soul of a free man looks at life as a series of problems to be solved and solves them, while the soul of a slave whines, ‘What can I

I happily trailed behind her as she excitedly guided me from stall to stall ... I wasn't even interested in the bling on her rear pockets anymore. I was interested in her, not bedding her, but her. Her expression was pure glee. Innocent. I was already in love with her because of the way she loved her horses. She was as at home with them as I was.

Every time the satyrs had spotted a fast food joint that they recognized from a commercial, they had hollered for a meal break. Vanessa had not always conceded, but whenever an opportunity was presented, Newel and Doren had inexhaustibly consumed milkshakes, burgers, sandwiches, tacos, nachos, pretzels, nuts, beef jerky, trail mix, soda, doughnuts, candy bars, cookies, crackers, and aerosol cheese. Of the fifty most impressive belches Seth had witnessed in his life, all had occurred on this road trip. “I

During World War II the top secret “Norden XV” or “Blue Ox” otherwise known the Army Airforce’s “Norden M Series Bombsights,” were used up to and including the Vietnam War by all American military aircraft with bomb carrying capabilities. This bombsight was considered a “Canonical Tachometric Design” meaning that it had the ability to measure the aircraft's direction and ground speed. In time the Norden improved its original design by using a computer that constantly calculated the aircraft’s flight characteristic and external wind forces to determine the bomb's impact point. When the B-17 Flying Fortress was designed, it came equipped with a Sperry A-3 Autopilot that only corrected angular deviations in the aircraft’s straight and level course. In time most bombsights were replaced by video displays on the instrument panel. Dumb or gravity bombs were mostly replaced with in-flight guidance bombs, such as laser-guided bombs or those using a GPS system. The last combat use of the Norden bombsight was by the US Navy during the covert “Operation Igloo White” mission when OP-2E Neptune aircraft dropped electronic sensors to detect enemy activity along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Project CHECO Southeast Asia Report was declassified on May 5, 2013.

These are things you’re not supposed to say on campuses now. But let’s be frank. To begin with, if colleges and universities around the country were in any way serious about policies to prevent sexual assaults, the path is obvious: don’t ban teacher-student romance, ban fraternities. And if we want to limit the potential for sexual favoritism—another rationale often proffered for the new policies—then let’s include the institutionalized sexual favoritism of spousal hiring, with trailing spouses getting ranks and perks based on whom they’re sleeping with rather than CVs alone, and brought in at salaries often dwarfing those of senior and more accomplished colleagues who didn’t have the foresight to couple more advantageously.

I’ve had hemorrhoids more pleasant, my dear!” Minin’s head spun. Two gray and white Italian Greyhounds—Artemis and Eos—pranced into the lounge and happily came for Minin with their wet noses. He knew they were gifts to their master from the grand duke of Luxembourg, and twins of the same litter. Lord Roman Leonidovich Ivanov trailed in a moment later. He was a tall, sharp man of eighty-six with the booming voice of an auctioneer, the confident poise of a Shakespearean actor and the suffocating presence of a master politician. A wavy silver mane covered the sides of his head; wrinkles ran across his forehead like rivulets and connected his wide nose with the corners of his mouth; and pale, fleshy circles ringed his eyes where tanning goggles frequently rested.

DURING THE RIDE back up to Telluride, among tablelands and cañons and red-rock debris, past the stone farmhouses and fruit orchards and Mormon spreads of the McElmo, below ruins haunted by an ancient people whose name no one knew, circular towers and cliffside towns abandoned centuries ago for reasons no one would speak of, Reef was able finally to think it through. If Webb had always been the Kieselguhr Kid, well, shouldn’t somebody ought to carry on the family business—you might say, become the Kid? It might’ve been the lack of sleep, the sheer relief of getting clear of Jeshimon, but Reef began to feel some new presence inside him, growing, inflating—gravid with what it seemed he must become, he found excuses to leave the trail now and then and set off a stick or two from the case of dynamite he had stolen from the stone powder-house at some mine. Each explosion was like the text of another sermon, preached in the voice of the thunder by some faceless but unrelenting desert prophesier who was coming more and more to ride herd on his thoughts. Now and then he creaked around in the saddle, as if seeking agreement or clarification from Webb’s blank eyes or the rictus of what would soon be a skull’s mouth. “Just getting cranked up,” he told Webb. “Expressing myself.” Back in Jeshimon he had thought that he could not bear this, but with each explosion, each night in his bedroll with the damaged and redolent corpse carefully unroped and laid on the ground beside him, he found it was easier, something he looked forward to all the alkaline day, more talk than he’d ever had with Webb alive, whistled over by the ghosts of Aztlán, entering a passage of austerity and discipline, as if undergoing down here in the world Webb’s change of status wherever he was now. . . . He had brought with him a dime novel, one of the Chums of Chance series, The Chums of Chance at the Ends of the Earth, and for a while each night he sat in the firelight and read to himself but soon found he was reading out loud to his father’s corpse, like a bedtime story, something to ease Webb’s passage into the dreamland of his death. Reef had had the book for years. He’d come across it, already dog-eared, scribbled in, torn and stained from a number of sources, including blood, while languishing in the county lockup at Socorro, New Mexico, on a charge of running a game of chance without a license. The cover showed an athletic young man (it seemed to be the fearless Lindsay Noseworth) hanging off a ballast line of an ascending airship of futuristic design, trading shots with a bestially rendered gang of Eskimos below. Reef began to read, and soon, whatever “soon” meant, became aware that he was reading in the dark, lights-out having occurred sometime, near as he could tell, between the North Cape and Franz Josef Land. As soon as he noticed the absence of light, of course, he could no longer see to read and, reluctantly, having marked his place, turned in for the night without considering any of this too odd. For the next couple of days he enjoyed a sort of dual existence, both in Socorro and at the Pole. Cellmates came and went, the Sheriff looked in from time to time, perplexed.

The Jedi Cannot Help Who They Are. Their Compassion Leaves A Trail. The Jedi Code Is Like An Itch.

The moment the first missile crashed into the Skylark, Captain Jeane Blake realized she had gravely underestimated the danger they’d gotten themselves into. The spaceship jolted, and a series of yellow warning messages flashed up on the screens. On the radar display, the markers showing the Lark and the Union vessel hot on its trail flickered in and out of existence in the interference, and the gravitational anomalies of the lane kept throwing both ships off-course. Their pursuer was gaining on them.

When we stop taking our thoughts so seriously, they lose their power, trailing off into some kind of distant background noise. Now there’s nothing left but my footsteps, my steady beating heart.

homesickness, because we miss those things and those people. That's O.K. But now, to be able to move on, here's what we need to do. We try not to look back so much, although that's O.K., it's kinda like checkin' your back trail, and we focus on lookin' forward. You know, to that which we haven't seen yet, what tomorrow's gonna bring. What new adventures are waitin' out there for us? When we can look forward, keepin' in our hearts what lies behind, then we can enjoy what the good Lord has for us just around the next corner.

In that tool kit is a little dark brown glass jar. Give Cody half a spoonful,” I tell Brett. He gives his friend half a spoonful. When the laudanum hits his system, I feel Cody relax. It’s time to try again with the pliers. This time the arrowhead comes out. I carefully work it out of the wound channel trying not to cut any extra muscle. Using the tweezers, I pull threads of his shirt from the wound. Satisfied it is as clean as I can get it, I’m ready to sew it closed. I dip the needle in the cup of rot gut, then submerge the clump of horsehair in the whiskey. Satisfied it is no longer dirty, I thread a needle with a long strand of horsehair. I begin sewing the cut closed. Before closing it completely I add half a little finger’s width of the clean horsehair into the wound channel. The horsehair will act as a drain, in case the wound needs to drain. I sew the wound close and wash the outside. I cover the wound with a clean strip of his shirt. I can remove the horsehair drain within ten days.

In the 1960s, the rise of "flower power" brought yoga to the attention of a generation of young Americans and Europeans. The wholesale embrace of Indian metaphysics and yoga by many countercultural icons (such as The Beatles' spiritual romance with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi) reinforced the position of yoga in the popular psyche and inspired many to join the "hippy trail" to India in pursuit of alternative philosophies and lifestyles. Increased media attention brought yoga closer to the mainstream, and printed primers and television series throughout the 1960s and 1970s, such as Richard Hittleman's Yoga for Health (first broadcast in 1961), encouraged many to take up posture-based yoga in the comfort of their own homes.

It is important to realize there is no magic recipe that guarantees success when you build products. There are no exact steps for you to follow. Every step you take helps shape the way. You must go where there is no path and leave a trail.

I'm going to stop you right there." I interrupted, casually flicking my hand up. "Not that your story didn't seem positively riveting..." I trailed off and she glared death at me, waiting for me to continue. "–Oh, I didn't have anything to say, I just wanted you to stop." I stated.

trailed off, darting my eyes toward Dr. Green, who was conversing with a group of students. “My future is bright, transformed, and made anew.

Life was short, cruel, and worth the effort, and compromise and accommodation were easy habits.

There was always plenty of collateral damage; politics left a trail of pain and tortured families in its wake.

trail

Even asleep, the little greyhound trailed after her madame, through a weave of green stars and gas lamps, along the boulevards of Paris. It was a conjured city that no native would recognize—Emma Bovary’s head on the pillow, its architect. Her Paris was assembled from a guidebook with an out-of-date map, and from the novels of Balzac and Sand, and from her vividly disordered recollections of the viscount’s ball at La Vaubyessard, with its odor of dying flowers, burning flambeaux, and truffles. (Many neighborhoods within the city’s quivering boundaries, curiously enough, smelled identical to the viscount’s dining room.) A rose and gold glow obscured the storefront windows, and cathedral bells tolled continuously as they strolled past the same four landmarks: a tremulous bridge over the roaring Seine, a vanilla-white dress shop, the vague façade of the opera house—overlaid in more gold light—and the crude stencil of a theater. All night they walked like that, companions in Emma’s phantasmal labyrinth, suspended by her hopeful mists, and each dawn the dog would wake to the second Madame Bovary, the lightly snoring woman on the mattress, her eyes still hidden beneath a peacock sleep mask. Lumped in the coverlet, Charles’s blocky legs tangled around her in an apprehensive pretzel, a doomed attempt to hold her in their marriage bed.

still

I was denying myself. I knew, but… I was faced with the past again, you know. To admit that I liked you, I had to also admit that I’m gay, and while I don’t have a problem with that…” He trailed off, sighing as he shook his head. “It’s confusing.” “No, it’s not.” I took his hand and twined our fingers. For some reason, it felt familiar. “You don’t want to be the gay kid who made his father crash, but by admitting you like me, you had to face your past… like I do every day.

I’d like to do more than sketch you naked. I want to draw directly on you with feather and ink … flowers around your breasts, trails of stars down your thighs.” He let his warm lips brush the edge of her ear. “I want to map your body, chart the north, south, east, and west of you. I would—

The Dean stared at me as if I had just sprouted purple horns with yellow polka dots.  ‘You mean you don’t even...’ His voice trailed off, and he rolled his eyes.  ‘Kinesis, Divination, Protection, Evocation and Illusion.’ ‘Ah, I see.’  I nodded sagely. ‘You have no idea what any of those actually are, do you?’ ‘Kinesis is moving things around, I guess.  Protection will be warding, I imagine, and learning how to kick the shit out of nasty things.’ The Dean winced.  ‘Language, please.’ ‘Oh, sorry.  Learning how to utilise one’s alchemical hocus-pocus in order to suppress and extirpate the existence of any objectionable entity that threatens either to subjugate or generally cause botheration.’  I crossed my legs and leaned back again.” Excerpt From: Helen Harper. “The Blood Destiny series.” iBooks.

THE RECKONING BROTHER’S KEEPER SINS OF THE FATHER THE BURNING THE DODGE CITY MASSACRE HELL HATH NO FURY THE RIVER RUNS RED DEATH DANCE BLOOD TRAIL BADGE OF HONOR LONG GUNS WANTED TIN MAN RETRIBUTION HIRED GUN HUNTED RESURRECTION IN COLD BLOOD REAGAN’S RIDERS THE BOUNTY WAGON TRAIN THE KILLING HOMBRE BODY COUNT HUNT DOWN FROM THE GRAVE BLACK RAVEN THE BOUNTY HUNTERS TO HELL AND BACK MACHETE STREETS OF LAREDO RIDE OF REVENGE COLD JUSTICE GOD’S GUN DARK CLOUD REDEMPTION TROUBLE IN NAVARRO BLACK HEART COMING SOON… THE 39TH BOOK IN THE JESS WILLIAMS WESTERN SERIES

Slowly he raised his gaze to meet hers. "you mean...." "I mean i love you too Alex." Maggie sighed.

Mind numb Ciardis trailed behind Mags, trying to comprehend how her life had just upended.

In front of me stands a willow tree by a river, its long green tendrils trailing into the chuckling water. A man sits beneath the tree, back propped against the trunk, gently strumming a lute as he looks out over the water. He feels familiar to me, as if I must know him. As if it would be impossible not to know him. I do not approach. I simply listen to the water and the lute, the sound settling deeply into my bones and heart.

Once you find where the trail is, you are faced with a sobering truth—in order to go on, you must let go of what brought you here. You cannot go on without turning your back on all of the very things that brought you to this place. —Mike Yaconelli

Never once did it occur to me that when I found the trail again, it would ruin my life forever. For once you feel the breath of God breathe on your skins, you can never turn back, you can never settle for what was, you can only move recklessly, with abandon, your heart filled with fear and your ears ringing with those constant words, “Fear Not.” —Mike Yaconelli

Trails are used by God to teach you humility and dependence on His grace rather than your own strength.

Easy…kelis,” he whispered, sweat beading his brow. “I want to savor this moment. And this…” Darién licked over Jenera’s lips with his tongue, planting small kisses at each corner before trailing over to her ear and he nibbled on her lobe. “I will fire you gently, simmer you sweetly,” he breathed, smiling against her throat. “And burn you completely.

She smiled at his flirtations. “Have I ever told you how incorrigible you are?” He chuckled. “Several times. But I do have some redeemable qualities. Don’t you think?” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “You sure do.” “Name one.” “Well!” Amelia tapped her forehead as if to think. Do you mean besides being so irresponsible that it drives me crazy? Well, I have to say that you’re not bad to look at. That why I keep you around.” A smile was playing at the corners of Rick’s lips and a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. Without warning, he pulled her into his arms and gave a kiss to remember.

Prayer is my half of an ongoing conversation between my God and me. ~ Donna Fawcett         Why Worry When We Can Pray?     “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:27)     The hill in the distance looked daunting. “You want to climb that?” I stopped walking to re-lace my shoes.   Helen giggled. “Yes, of course. I do it almost every day. The dogs love it.” Her two dogs ran ahead, eager to get going.   “Well, I suppose. But I’m not sure if I’ll make it.” I shifted my water bottle to my hip. The hill loomed ahead, a 5 kilometre walk upwards. I wasn’t a stranger to a good hike; I loved to tromp through the woods and along the trails. But a walk straight up a steep hill was not my usual repertoire.   To pass the time and keep my mind off the pain in my calves, we talked. Enjoying a good chat is one of my favourite things to do in combination with a walk. Helen explained how she normally walks alone and she agreed that having a partner makes the upwards strain that much easier. She shared with me a story of how she had been walking the same road the day before and suffered from blasts of dust from cars that raced by with no consideration for her and her dogs. Her frustration was compounded by the heat. She threw her arms up in irritation as cars sped past. “Why are you not slowing down? Have you no consideration?” she called after them. But as her anger and indignation rose, she felt convicted in her spirit. Why worry when you could pray? So as the next car came into vision, instead of complaining and getting agitated waiting for the dust to swirl around her, she chose to pray instead. “Dear Lord, please make this driver slow down.” As she watched the vehicle approach, it slowed to such a degree that she expected the driver to pull over and ask directions. Instead he gave a wave and continued on.   “Thank You, Jesus!” Helen exclaimed. As each car came into view, Helen prayed to God and He came through every time. The walk became enjoyable and a real testament to the fact that God cares about our every need.   As Helen finished her story, a farm vehicle, large and spewing dust all around came over the hill. “Let’s pray!” Helen enthusiastically challenged. We prayed and the truck passed without a flicker of dust. “God

There have to be rules though.” She pulled out of the kiss, withdrawing her finger as well, sliding it down his chin and throat, leaving a wet trail. “Rules?” Her gaze locked with his. “This can only be sex. Just seven weeks of utterly debauched, completely strings-free sex.” Her finger moved south, swirling around first one nipple then the other. “No expectations. No commitments. No getting attached. No crying like a baby and asking me not to leave.” Ryder laughed at the thought, but there was a husky catch to it as her finger trailed down his abdomen. “I’m not going to fall in love with you,” she continued. “And you’re not going to fall in love with me. I will not give up my dream again, Ryder. Not for you, not for any man. Okay?

Now they traced their tantalizing spiral path from behind the younger male’s right shoulder, under his arm, slanting smaller and smaller down across his ribs, and disappearing under the sheet. Cuinn knew where the trail ended now. He needed to see it again. Damn. Even in his sleep he seduces me. He

Cuinn knew what he would see —a trail of stars, the Pattern’s claiming mark on a Royal, gleaming silver-blue along the torso of... Of the male he loved. Fuck.

Abundance has to do with our deepest desires. God is not stingy. God is love. And God’s love is the most important thing, I think.” Her voice trailed off. Amid all of the loss and grief, Nanny told me that she asked herself about her deepest desires. Yes, she wanted her own space, a house, a home. A dog. A community. For Carl to have a job. But what she really wanted, she confessed, was to be held and loved by God, to have a deep relationship with him. And that, she said, was “abundantly available” whether or not she possessed anything else. Abundance for the Christian, then, is having God as our treasure and love. God offers himself abundantly to us. This was the word from someone who had a series of unrelenting Job-like experiences.

And then I wailed. No tears came, just a series of loud brays that coursed through my body so hard I couldn’t stand up. I had to bend over, keening, while bracing my hands on my knees, my pack so heavy on top of me, my ski pole clanging out behind me in the dirt, the whole stupid life I’d had coming out my throat. It was wrong. It was so relentlessly awful that my mother had been taken from me. I couldn’t even hate her properly. I didn’t get to grow up and pull away from her and bitch about her with my friends and confront her about the things I wished she’d done differently and then get older and understand that she had done the best she could and realize that what she had done was pretty damn good and take her fully back into my arms again. Her death had obliterated that. It had obliterated me. It had cut me short at the very height of my youthful arrogance. It had forced me to instantly grow up and forgive her every motherly fault at the same time that it kept me forever a child, my life both ended and begun in that premature place where we’d left off. She was my mother, but I was motherless. I was trapped by her but utterly alone. She would always be the empty bowl that no one could fill. I’d have to fill it myself again and again and again.

Preconceived notions, especially when one is fairly brought up in their influence, are most difficult to shake off.” STEWART EDWARD WHITE, CAMP AND TRAIL, 1907

There was no way of seeing forward, and no way back, only a trail ahead. Worn by the ancestors and those that came before. With tentative feet she would have to walk it, whether she liked it or not.

her throat a single row of humble seed pearls. ‘Bertie gave me these.’ Tenderly she fingered the hard cream-coloured pearls. A tear shone proud in her eye. ‘I might have married again after him.’ A sadness scarred her voice. ‘If anyone had asked. But no one ever did. None of them did.’ Trailing a slim hand over the long grey plait that hung gracefully over one shoulder, she moved away, her eyes now fixed on the small, circular table by the window. Peter had placed it there, at the furthest distance from her bed. Another little ploy to make her life more difficult. A few more steps and she was there. Softly, she picked up the receiver. With trembling fingers she began to dial, saying the numbers aloud as she did so. ‘Three, four, six . . .’ Here she paused, momentarily unsure, before going on again: ‘Two, one.’ After a series of ringing tones there was a click at the other end, then a man’s voice, authoritative and crisp. ‘Carter here!’ Realising that her son might come into the room at any minute, Ada lost no time. ‘There’s something I want you to do,’ she told her solicitor. ‘Right away!’ Attentive as always, he remained silent while she outlined her plan. Downstairs, Peter Williams held the receiver to his ear. Careful not to breathe too loudly, or make a sound, he listened intently; his dark eyes tightly closed, his handsome face contorting with rage as he followed the conversation. After a while, Ada brought the exchange to a close. ‘My son knows nothing of this,’ she warned. ‘It must remain a secret between you and me, for now at least.’ ‘Of course.’ The solicitor was an old friend. ‘You can rely on me.’ Shaken by what he had heard, Peter Williams softly replaced the receiver. The conversation only confirmed what he had long suspected. For a time he paced the floor, his mind unsettled. Presently, he stopped by the window, his face a mask of loathing. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ He smiled, a not unpleasant smile – unlike his thoughts. ‘I can’t allow it,’ he murmured. ‘It simply won’t do.

We found the trail to Babylon because the soul of a free man looks at life as a series of problems to be solved and solves them, while the soul of a slave whines, ‘What can I do who am but a slave?

all the blessings of the earth. Its life span is twelve years;