Twice Shy Quotes

God, if you ever loved me, open my eyes for me when I'm being this stupid! (Ron)

Sometimes things would be so much simpler if you could just pull out your gun and shoot the bad guy. Reason number seventeen why Indiana Jones is my hero.

Once bitten twice shy? Sure, but... why not get a bigger dog and bite them back?

Breaking rules isn't bad when what you're doing is more important than the rule itself

I pictured Cupid sitting in a crappy little bar, drunk and depressed, while he moaned to the bartender, "That Jasmine Parks, gods, she pisses me off! Did you see what she just did? Totally blew off this immortal stud to play kiss-the-boo-boo with a fickle little rent-a-cop. Why? 'Cause she's the biggest chickenshit on the planet! I'm ready to toss my bow and pick up a bazooka!

Apparently you don't have to observe the Rules of Etiquette when reuniting with a muderous spouse.

Sounds good. Drive safe." He sighed, knowing I really meant, "Take care of my Mercedes.

You ever think you were single for no reason and then you meet someone and realize you’ve been waiting for them without knowing it?

Cool! Now I can steal some rich old coot's Ferrari and go fishing for marlin with the same piece of jewelry.

Puppy presents on the rug. This sucked.

I hate nice girls. Just exchanging greetings with them will get them on your mind. Start texting each other, and your heart will be set a flutter. If they call you, you're done for. Enjoy staring at your logs and grinning like a fool. However, I won't get fooled again. That's what your kind calls kindness. If you're nice to me, you're nice to others. I always end up nearly forgetting that. Reality is cruel, So I'm sure lies are a form of kindness. Thus, I say kindness itself is also a lie. I always ended up with these expectations. And I always ended up with these misunderstandings. And before I knew it, I stopped hoping. A highly trained loner is once bitten, twice shy. As a veteran on this battlefield of life, I've gotten used to losing. That's why I always hate nice girls. — Hachiman Hikigaya

I described the pyramid we'd found and waited for him to jump on the bandwagon. Unfortunately he's afraid of wagons. And bands.

Fear sucks. Because you never know when it will attack. Sometimes it sneaks up behind you, giggling like your best girlfriend from seventh grade. Then it whacks you on the back of the head, takes you straight to your knees before you realize what hit you. Other times you can see it coming, just a dot on the horizon, but you're like a canary in a cage. All you can do is hang in there and hope you don't get motion sickness and puke all over the newspapers.

Unbelievable. After what just happened between us no, I don’t have any right. None at all. We’re barely a couple. We’re not even sleeping together. I have to-" What in God’s name are you babbling about?" "You’re cheating on me!" "I never cheat.

I never want anyone to hold me again if they don’t hold me like this.

During an argument that we had,” he tells me, pitch low, “you called me beautiful. And an insufferable ass. But beautiful. I haven’t gotten over it.

I’m not that strong at all but for you, I can be strong enough.

I read a book while you were sleeping,” Mosscap said, holding up its pocket computer. “And I would really like to discuss it with you.” Dex blinked twice. “You woke me up to talk about a book?

Okay, okay, backing off. Um, I suppose this would be a bad time to ask you to talk to Pete for me, you know, about the car?' His eyes widened. I could almost hear him thinking, Of all the nerve! 'You were driving,' he said. 'But he likes you so much better than me.' 'That is because I do not keep wrecking the rentals.

Still enmeshed from the knees down, Vayl flopped off the cabinet before we realized he needed a hand down, falling fast and hard like a penguin who hasn't bought the whole flightless scenario.

Not to be dramatic, but I would rather drink battery acid than be in the throes of a crush.

As I was leaving, a door opened and a man looked out. I got the feeling we were having a mutual oh-crap-you're-not-supposed-to-see-me reaction.

I think you are beautiful, too, Maybell. I think that you walked into my life and absolutely ruined it with how beautiful you are.

Once bitten, twice shy, thrice shame on me!

Once bitten, twice shy; twice bitten, forever shy.

It’s so much easier to pretend I have a personality where I don’t have any words for anyone, that I don’t care to, rather than not being able to find them.

I want to be commanding, stern, intimidating, but I am raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. My resolve is dandelion fluff.

They hired us over the Internet, mailed us half the cash and promised the other half after we nailed the vampire." I lowered Grief until it pointed straight at Rudy's crotch. "You two wouldn't recognize the Internet if a server fell on your heads. So give it to me straight this time, Rudy, before I lose my temper and make sure Junior grows up an only child.

I think he’s under a curse—if he laughs, he’ll die. This is a sensible explanation to me. It isn’t that I’m not a joy to be around, it’s that he’ll literally die.

WHAT?!" I felt the prickling along my scalp that signaled Big Anger. I wished I was the Queen of Hearts so I could just order my little card soldiers to cut off Albert's head.

Whatever happened to 'Hey, how are you?' 'Long time, no see.' Apparently you don't have to observe the rules of etiquette when reuniting with a murderous spouse.

The seraph looked up, and pain sliced through my head as our eyes met, almost blinding me. "I honor you. You can do something I cannot," it said softly. "For all I am and all I have been, you are human. You are loved for your inventiveness, both good and bad. I can kill, but you can create. You can even create...an end," it said wistfully. "That's something I will never be able to do. Accept this. Create.

It must've been Albert's military background, because man, when he dropped a bomb the entire country shook. I was still jittery as a hurricane survivor in New Orleans, and I was sure that somewhere in Alaska some poor Inuit had just taken a tumble from his sled for the very same reason.

The white-haired wonder leading what had to, by now, be a blocks-long parade must've finally turned on her hearing aid. Because she finally pulled into the United Methodist Church parking lot, praise God, leaving the rest of us free to party until some other octogenarian found it necessary to take to the streets after dark. In Ohio, old folks know better than to drive at night. Yet another reason Cleveland rocks.

Their tongues met, starving, two years without this delicious meal. They kissed and kissed and kissed. The joining of their mouths was more intense than that night on the ferry. This was a kiss of reunion. Of forgiveness. Of coming home.

You got a problem?" he drawled, obviously expecting me to pee my pants before falling to the ground and groveling like an unworthy subject of the Emperor. And that was all it took. A new, screw-you attitude took precedence, trampling my fear under its boots. A highly dangerous approach, I still found it much easier to bear. "Well it all goes back to my childhood…." I began,

Once shit on, twice shy," Jan

Once bitten, twice shy. Once caring, twice cry. Once beloved, can’t deny—heart broken, twice die.

Once burned, twice shy’?

I hate restaurants, because when I sit at tables I feel trapped. Something about sitting down across from someone and it being socially unacceptable to leave at any moment makes me panic.

It's vampire Barbie" ……….. "get a load of this," I said, " perfect makeup, perfect nails, perfect figure --- it makes me want to shove her head-first into a steaming pile of horse crap. Why is it you can never find a mounted police when you need one?" …… "your ….late….wife?" I whispered. Vayl nodded, just a slight jerk of his head. " She died. Then she killed me. Ergo…. Late wife.

Cardigans are my kryptonite.

My brain is so busy with Nick thoughts, it’s a swarm inside my head: Nicknicknicknicknick! And when I picture his mind, I hear my name as a shy crystal ping that occurs once, maybe twice, a day and quickly subsides. I just wish he thought about me as much as I do him. Is that wrong? I don’t even know anymore.

be able to just get up and leave if I wanted, for whatever reason, without grabbing people’s attention. Without being asked questions, and having to explain something I myself don’t entirely understand

Our next period of silence descends naturally, but if I shone a flashlight over all the dark space that surrounds us, it would illuminate a hundred lingering words.

Your problem is that you love everything.

An innovative mind is never once bitten, twice shy.

those who deserve to be in my circle will like me just as I am, and will treat me the way I deserve to be treated.

He's the most beautiful human I've ever seen.

It's been too long since I've felt heard by anyone.

He looks utterly wrecked in the most wonderful way.

I would like to touch you,” he says faintly. “If that’s okay.

And when I picture his mind, I hear my name as a shy crystal ping that occurs once, maybe twice, a day and quickly subsides. I just wish he thought about me as much as I do him.

I’ll grow you some real ones, if you like.

Jordan, the shy Runner with the copper braids, asks me twice if I’m okay. I just shrug her off. Yeah, something’s wrong. Isn’t that the understatement of the year.

Once bitten, twice shy isn't a very good investment strategy.

Once bitten, twice shy, Dragon? It’s alright. I’m also learning. We Dragons say, once bitten, bite back twice as hard.

bitten, twice shy.

Derek and the Wolf both watched Aubree through the one pair of eyes, the Human watching with pity while the Beast made a disdainful assessment of a weaker being. Once Bitten Twice Shy (WIP)

It was hard to conceive of one so young roped into the war, but that was war for you. Jacob was just shy of twice his age and had avoided the rope so far. He thought that was a good thing. You see, the rope'd hang you.

Who are they for? Friends. Not necessarily neighbor friends: indeed, the larger share is intended for persons we've met maybe once, perhaps not at all. People who've struck our fancy. Like President Roosevelt. Like the Reverend and Mrs. J. C. Lucey, Baptist missionaries to Borneo who lectured here last winter. Or the little knife grinder who comes through town twice a year. Or Abner Packer, the driver of the six o'clock bus from Mobile, who exchanges waves with us every day as he passes in a dust-cloud whoosh. Or the young Wistons, a California couple whose car one afternoon broke down outside the house and who spent a pleasant hour chatting with us on the porch (young Mr. Wiston snapped our picture, the only one we've ever had taken). Is it because my friend is shy with everyone except strangers that these strangers, and merest acquaintances, seem to us our truest friends? I think yes. Also, the scrapbooks we keep of thank-you's on White House stationery, time-to-time communications from California and Borneo, the knife grinder's penny post cards, make us feel connected to eventful worlds beyond the kitchen with its view of a sky that stops.

Took you long enough,” she said, finally. Somewhere, the polite part of Likotsi’s mind chided her for blocking the flow of pedestrian traffic, but she didn’t start walking. She slowly adjusted the lapels of her coat and then the hem of each cuff. “Well. I’m certainly worth the wait.

get nervous about communicating with them because they don’t know me yet, and they don’t know the issues I have. I’m putting all my energy into trying to present myself as normal, which I get into my head about. Whether it’s real or not, I can’t stop imagining that they’re judging me. Which makes it worse. My mind goes blank, and I just . . . I can’t find the words. I freeze up. It’s mortifying when the words won’t come. It’s so much easier to pretend I have a personality where I don’t have any words for anyone, that I don’t care to, rather than not being able to find them.

A bruise. You hurt yourself?” On the door, while imagining him naked. It’s what I deserve. “No,” I reply quickly. “That’s probably just a shadow.

I want to say one thing, be a certain way, but it gets all tangled up on its way out of my mouth. A pumpkin trying to be flowers and coming off like a cactus. It's frustrating.

When Lex was forceful and dominating, it turned me on. When he was sweet, I melted.

I don’t understand that thing you’re wearing. Your top is attached to your shorts. How do you go to the bathroom?

I want to believe there are still wonders out there left unspoiled

People call women who brag about their accomplishments unlikeable.

Dejection was inefficient, and worse, it was pedestrian.

For someone as beautiful as you are, it's a shame you're such an insufferable ass. I'm not that bad, you know. You are constantly turning your back on me, ignoring me when I'm around like I'm a punishment to talk to, and it makes me feel like shit. You make me feel even lonelier than I already was. Whatever! I won't bother you anymore, then. Go ahead and be alone.

I flipped quickly through the pages as I waited—made my family a jerky, imperfect movie. It struck me that my mother had compiled mostly a book of her father, Thomas, and me. Others make appearances: Ray, Dessa, the Anthonys from across the street, the Tusia sisters from next door. But my grandfather, my brother, and I are the stars of my mother’s book. Ma herself, camera-shy and self-conscious about her cleft lip, appears only twice in the family album. In the first picture, she’s one of a line of dour-faced schoolchildren posed on the front step of St. Mary of Jesus Christ Grammar School. (A couple of years ago, the parish sold that dilapidated old schoolhouse to a developer from Massachusetts who converted it into apartments.

Bastian gently cupped either side of Katherine’s face. “Can I kiss you?” Katherine smiled at the question, but instead of answering with words, pressed her lips to his. And as their mouths moved sensually against one another’s, Katherine knew that she could handle anything that came her way as long as Bastian was always there to smile at her like that and kiss her like this.

When she’d seen Likotsi’s photo—a woman in a dapper suit with a bearing that made her think of royalty and a mouth that made her think of worship—a flash of desire had zipped through her body, surprising her.

I must do better at adoring him like I used to. Nick responds to adoration. I just wish it felt more equal. My brain is so busy with Nick thoughts, it's a swarm inside my head: Nicknicknicknicknick! And when I picture his mind, I hear my name as a shy crystal ping that occurs once, maybe twice a day and quickly subsides. I just wish he thought about me as much as I do him. Is that wrong? I don't even know anymore.

She’d thought that Fab had smashed their connection like a smartphone beneath a car tire, but all their data had been saved on a cloud drive somewhere, it seemed, and was happily downloading and ready to resume where they’d left off.

Aiden made a deep sound in his throat. His hand slid up my back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and his lips moved across my cheek, stopping to hover above mine. I forgot how to breathe, and most importantly, how to think. He moved, ever so slightly, and his lips brushed across mine once, and then twice. It was such a soft, beautiful kiss, but when the kiss deepened, it wasn’t a shy one. This was one of dangerously pent-up need, a desire that’d been denied far too long. The kiss felt fierce, demanding, and soul burning. Aiden pulled me to him, pressing me right up against his body. And when he kissed me again, it left both of us breathless. Our hands tangled with each other’s bodies as we made it back to his bedroom. My hands found their way under his shirt and over the taut skin of his sides. We separated long enough for me to get the shirt off, and gods, each hard ripple was as breathtaking as I’d imagined. Easing me down on his bed, his hands glided from my face to my arms. Next his hand traveled over my stomach, then my hip, and under the hem of my dress. Somehow, the top of my dress ended up at my waist, and his mouth moved over my body. I melted into him, his kisses, and his touch.

But it’s hard to meet people when you have social anxiety as bad as I do. I panic. Or I want to say one thing, be a certain way, but it gets all tangled up on its way out of my mouth. A pumpkin trying to be flowers and coming off like a cactus. It’s frustrating.

That dung flop?” Nakita said, her dislike almost visibly dripping into nasty puddles at Amy’s designer flats. “Yes, I guess. That doesn’t mean I have to like him.” “I know what you mean.” Amy faked a heartfelt sigh. “I have a brother too.” The girls behind her giggled when she pushed past me to Barnabas. “I’m Amy,” she said, smiling as she extended her hand.” “Barnabas,” the reaper said as he darted past me to give Nakita a sideways hug to avoid having to shake Amy’s hand. “This is Nakita. She’s my favorite sister. We’re from Norway.

Out of all the train cars in all the world you had to walk into mine.” Likotsi switched up which ankle was resting on which knee, the action forcing Fab to take a step back, then tilted her chin toward the doors separating the cars. “You’re only supposed to use those in case of emergency.” “I’d say that seeing you a few feet away counts as an emergency.

If you’re a teacher, enjoy your gregarious and participatory students. But don’t forget to cultivate the shy, the gentle, the autonomous, the ones with single-minded enthusiasms for chemistry sets or parrot taxonomy or nineteenth-century art. They are the artists, engineers, and thinkers of tomorrow. If you’re a manager, remember that one third to one half of your workforce is probably introverted, whether they appear that way or not. Think twice about how you design your organization’s office space. Don’t expect introverts to get jazzed up about open office plans or, for that matter, lunchtime birthday parties or team-building retreats. Make the most of introverts’ strengths—these are the people who can help you think deeply, strategize, solve complex problems, and spot canaries in your coal mine.

His hand slid up my back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and his lips moved across my cheek, stopping to hover above mine. I forgot how to breathe, and most importantly, how to think. He moved, ever so slightly, and his lips brushed across mine once, and then twice. It was such a soft, beautiful kiss, but when the kiss deepened, it wasn’t a shy one. This was one of dangerously pent-up need, a desire that’d been denied far too long. The kiss felt fierce, demanding, and soul burning. Aiden pulled me to him, pressing me right up against his body. And when he kissed me again, it left both of us breathless. Our hands tangled with each other’s bodies as we made it back to his bedroom. My hands found their way under his shirt and over the taut skin of his sides. We separated long enough for me to get the shirt off, and gods, each hard ripple was as breathtaking as I’d imagined. Easing me down on his bed, his hands glided from my face to my arms. Next his hand traveled over my stomach, then my hip, and under the hem of my dress. Somehow, the top of my dress ended up at my waist, and his mouth moved over my body. I melted into him, his kisses, and his touch. My fingers dug into the tight skin of his arms, and my insides were in tight coils. Every place our bodies touched, sparks flew. Aiden pulled his lips away from mine, and I made a sound of protest, but then his mouth trailed across my throat and to the base of my neck. My skin burned and my thoughts were on fire. His name was barely a whisper, but I felt his lips curve against my skin.

It bothers me. There’s a stigma, especially for guys. Especially for guys who are about to hit thirty. It’s not that I want to be a . . . you know . . .” He can’t bring himself to verbalize it. “But it’s hard to meet people when you have social anxiety as bad as I do. I panic. Or I want to say one thing, be a certain way, but it gets all tangled up on its way out of my mouth. A pumpkin trying to be flowers and coming off like a cactus. It’s frustrating. “You’re much more flowers than you are cactus,” I tell him, meaning every word. I hope he believes it. “But for what it’s worth, pumpkins are the best.

I write because of the fragility of our existence. I write because it's my answer to impermanence. I write because it helps me stay connected to my heart. I write because we’re all different, and so much the same. I write because the world needs more tenderness. I write because I'm tired of secrets. I write because it’s my path to redemption. I write because I've forsaken those that I love. I write because I want to know myself. I write because I want to know you. I write because I'm drawn towards things I shouldn't do. I write because every flower is meant to bloom. I write because life is full of paradoxes. I write because I’ve had to leave friends behind. I write because it's my form of prayer. I write because, when I write, I lose track of time. I write because I've walked dark streets looking for love. I write because of the way the sublime slips away from words. I write because of the twice shy part of once burned. I write because it helps me learn. I write because there are plenty of people who have written, famous well-published people, literary figures, literary giants, and I didn't like what they wrote. I write because I'm always telling myself stories anyhow. I write because I don't know all of the reasons I write. I write for you. I write. I write. I write.

Get off your horse, Jack." "Why don't you just ride outta here, missy, and I'll forget this ever happened." Willow's voice trembled with fury. "Get off your horse," she repeated. "Slow and easy." Still grinning his contempt, he did as he asked. "That's good. Now, real slow like, take your gunbelt off and toss it my way." "Like hell!" A shot rang out and nicked a chunk of leather from his boot. Cursing, he unbuckled his gun and tossed it at her mare's feet. "Now,strip them britches off, underwear, too," she ordered. "You little shi-" Bang! Jack's hat whizzed off his head. He dropped his pants in a puddle over his boots, trying his best to shelter his privates from her view. "My,my,Jack." Willow laughed humorlessly. "Is that puny thing you're trying to hide the same thing you were threatening me with?" If looks could kill, Willow would have been dead and buried ten times over, then and there. "Take them confounded boots off so's you can get your pants clear off," she ordered in mock exasperation. He wheeled around, gaining a modicum of privacy while he complied. "You're puny all over, Jack. You got the boniest bee-hind I ever did see. You sure you ain't picked up a worm somewheres?" "You're gonna pay for this,you little slut!" "Shut your filthy mouth and pick them pants off the ground and toss 'em over here at my horse's feet. Then you can put your boots back on." He gave the pants a toss, put his boots on, and turned around to face her, cuping his privates in his hands. "Okay,Jack, finish the job. You've been real generous but I'm a greedy cuss. Give me the shirt off your back, too." Cursing, he again turned around and obeyed. "Oh,ah,Jack, you better reach behind you there,and get your hat. I'll let you keep it. We wouldn't want your bald spot to get sunburned." Scofield now stood in nothing but his boots, using his hat to shield his lower half. Humiliated, the gunslinger's eyes burned with bloody intent. Willow suddenly regretted her damnable quick temper and realized the folly of her reckless retaliation. No doubt,the heinous man would seek revenge. But the damage was done and the man was so mad that backing off now would be the same as signing her death warrant. "Step away from your horse and start walking toward the ranch, Scofield." "You're out of your mind!" "Maybe,but I bet you'll think twice before threatening to poke that puny thing at another lady." "You? A lady? Ha!" Willow's temper flared anew. "Walk, Jack. Real fast. Cuz if you don't, I'm gonna use your puny thing for target practice." Her bullet kicked up the dust at his feet and started him on his way.

To the Highland Girl of Inversneyde SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks, this household lawn, These trees—a veil just half withdrawn, This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake, This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together ye do seem Like something fashion’d in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers: And yet my eyes are fill’d with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away; For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scatter’d, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrass’d look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacédness: Thou wear’st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread, Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brook’d, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea: and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father, anything to thee. Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place: Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old As fair before me shall behold As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And Thee, the spirit of them all

eyes, golden-brown curls and crimson cheeks. She laughed too much to please her father's congregation and had shocked old Mrs. Taylor, the disconsolate spouse of several departed husbands, by saucily declaring—in the church-porch at that—"The world ISN'T a vale of tears, Mrs. Taylor. It's a world of laughter." Little dreamy Una was not given to laughter. Her braids of straight, dead-black hair betrayed no lawless kinks, and her almond-shaped, dark-blue eyes had something wistful and sorrowful in them. Her mouth had a trick of falling open over her tiny white teeth, and a shy, meditative smile occasionally crept over her small face. She was much more sensitive to public opinion than Faith, and had an uneasy consciousness that there was something askew in their way of living. She longed to put it right, but did not know how. Now and then she dusted the furniture—but it was so seldom she could find the duster because it was never in the same place twice. And when

Rider made this sound in the back of his throat. It was deep and masculine, part groan and growl, and it made me shiver. He folded one hand along my cheek and lowered his head to mine, but he didn’t kiss me. No. His warm breath glided over my forehead as his hand slid across my cheek, his fingers spreading into my hair at the base. His other hand landed low on my back, and the weight did insane things to my insides. He drew it up my back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. My eyes fluttered shut as his lips brushed over the curve of my cheek. It was the craziest torture. My entire body tensed, prepared for the moment when his lips met mine. And it was the sweetest pressure, a feather-light brush of his lips over mine. Once. Then twice. I felt the touch everywhere, a jolt to the system that zipped through my veins, and then the pressure increased. Rider kissed me then. It was a real one, soft and beautiful, and when the kiss deepened, it wasn’t a shy one. He knew what he was doing, and even though I didn’t, an innate knowledge told me it didn’t matter. His lips mapped out mine, and my insides were in tight coils. Kissing was awesome. Amazing. Astonishing. I could probably think of a couple of more words to describe it. Kissing blew me away, and when he lifted his mouth, both of us were breathing hard. He rested his forehead against mine. Neither of us spoke for several moments. I still wasn’t thinking. I had no idea how my hands had gotten to Rider’s chest, but his heart pounded under my palm as fast as mine did. My mind was blissfully blank as I breathed in his scent, a mix of his citrusy cologne and the faint trace of paint. “Did you like that?” he asked, dragging his fingers out of my hair and over the line of my jaw. Screaming yes, oh, God, yes, would’ve probably been a little too excessive, so I managed a somewhat subdued, “Yes.” As Rider grinned, his lips brushed mine. “Good. Because I really liked it.

One: A Book Is A Universe and the Universe is a Book. Inside a book, any Physiks or Magical Laws or Manners or Histories may hold sway. A book is its own universe and while in it, you must play by their rules. More or less. Some of the more modern novels are lenient on this point and have very few policemen to spare. This is why sometimes, when you finish a book, you feel strange and woozy, as though you have just woken up. Your body is getting used to the rules and your own universe again. And your own universe is just the biggest and longest and most complicated book ever written—except for all the other ones. This is also why books along the walls make a place feel different—all those universes, crammed into one spot! Things are bound to shift and warp and hatch schemes! Two: Books Are People. Some are easy to get along with and some are shy, some are full of things to say and some are quiet, some are fanciful and some are plainspoken, some you will feel as though you've known forever the moment you open the cover, and some will take years to grow into. Just like people, you must be introduced properly and sit down together with a cup of something so that you can sniff at each other like tomcats but lately acquainted. Listen to their troubles and share their joys. They will have their tempers and you will have yours, and sometimes you will not understand a book, nor will it understand you—you can't love all books any more than you can love every stranger you meet. But you can love a lot of them. And the love of a book is a precious, subtle, strange thing, well worth earning, And just like people, you are never really done with a book—some part of it will stay with you, gently changing the way you see and speak and know. Three: People Are Books. This has two meanings. The first is: Every person is a story. They have a beginning and a middle and an end (though some may have sequels and series).They have motifs and narrative tricks and plot twists and daring escapes and love lost and love won. The rules of books are the rules of life because a book must be written by a person alive, and an alive person will usually try to tell the truth about the world, even if they dress it up in spangles and feathers. The other meaning is: When you read a book, it is not only a story. It is never only a story. Exciting plots may occur, characters suffer and triumph, yes, It is a story. But it is also a person speaking to you, directly to you. A person far away, perhaps in time, perhaps in space, perhaps both. A person who wanted to say something so loud that everyone could hear it. A book is a time-travelling teleportation machine. And there's millions and millions of them! When you read a book, you have a conversation with the person who wrote it. And that conversation is never quite the same twice. Every single reader has a different chat, because they are different people with different histories and ideas in their heads. Why, you cannot even have the same conversation with the same book twice! If you read a book as a child, and again as a Grown-Up, it will be something altogether other. New things will have happened to you, new folk will have come into your life and taught you wild and wonderful notions you never thought of before. You will not be the same person—and neither will the book. When you read, know that someone somewhere wrote those very words just for you, in hopes that you would find something there to take with you in your own travels through time and space.

Sometimes, acting so— extremely—is an attempt to hide in plain sight. A terribly shy man might act boisterous to hide his shyness; a man who is melancholic may laugh louder than anyone else. And a man who is uncertain of his own masculinity may feel the need to act twice as manly.

Owed MasterCard over $9,000. Owed his sister and mother twice that, easily. Shied

Fiona Zedde’s entire body of work), and Alyssa Cole’s body of work (Once Ghosted, Twice Shy and How to Find a Princess). There is sporadic representation of bi Black women, such as Talia Hibbert’s Take a Hint, Dani Brown. The self-published options, however, are broader. There’s Chencia C. Higgins’s Things Hoped For and Consolation Gifts, Meka James’s Being Hospitable, J. Nichole’s A Girl Like Me, Christina C. Jones’s Something Like Love, and G. L. Tomas’s Wander This World and The Love Bet.

The children who played the Scorpion game in daycare knew the point. Before the beach, Andrei walked past a group of little boys and girls through the front window. He spectated their game. The kids were placed within a circle marked on the ground as a boundary. One blindfolded child played the Scorpion. And then the Scorpion violently tagged each student they found, eliminating the group one by one. The game would eventually end. The Scorpion would eat everyone. Andrei watched the children choose their mortal dance and run carefully in all directions. Then the circle of watchers applauded the child who won— that was, the timid, clever boy who had laid down patiently on the floor, away from the Scorpion, as still as a manhole cover. The unseen kid held his breath in the name of survival for the duration of the game. Though there was one player who moved unlike the rest. Bless that spirit who dared to dance teasingly in front of the Scorpion, inspect the circle to learn its space, had fleeting looks of love with other bugs, and was the only one to know what it felt like to belt their endangered voice in a loud, delightful cry toward the heavens. The dancing crier was killed. But the shy, certain statue of a boy died twice.

him betting. Taff and the others could hardly be persuaded not to accept such easy pickings, which left the source of the cash, Harry Gilbert himself. Precisely what, I wondered,

sycophantic

Sometimes it made sense to lead from behind, and other times you had to take the situation to hand.

High-Priority Storage When an event is flagged as negative, the hippocampus makes sure it’s stored carefully for future reference. Once burned, twice shy. Your brain is like Velcro for negative experiences and Teflon for positive ones—even though most of your experiences are probably neutral or positive.

she had accepted that doling out sarcastic criticism invited a cutting response. They circled each other, in consequence, like exactly matched opponents unwilling to declare open war. For as long as he could remember William had been irresistibly attracted to horses and had long affirmed his intention to be a jockey, of which Sarah strongly and I mildly disapproved. Security, William said, was a dirty word. There were better things in life than a safe job. Sarah and I, I suppose, were happier with pattern and order and achievement. William increasingly as he grew through thirteen, fourteen, and now fifteen, seemed to hunger for air and speed and uncertainty. It was typical of him that he proposed to spend the week’s mid-term break in riding horses instead of working for the eight ‘O’ Level exams he was due to take immediately afterwards. I left his letter on my desk to remind myself to send him a cheque and unlocked the cupboard where I kept my guns. The air-gun that I’d taken to school was little more than a toy and needed no licence or secure storage, but I also owned two Mauser 7.62s, an Enfield No. 4 7.62 and two Anschütz .22s around which all sorts of regulations bristled, and also an old Lee Enfield .303 dating back from my early days which was still as lethal as ever if one could raise the ammunition for it. The little I had, I hoarded, mostly out of nostalgia. There

the one hand, Kipling did not shy away from writing about the African American population in racist tones; on the other hand, he was amused by the aristocratic affectations and pretensions of southern plantation owners who did not think twice about practicing lynch justice. As the height of his contempt, Kipling compares the barbarism of this supposedly civilized America with that of India, about which he had published so many writings brimming with racist clichés, the very clichés that made him one of Victorian Britain’s most successful authors and most typical representatives. Anti

I knew I was being stupid, but I couldn’t help it. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that. I’d been bitten about a dozen times and had about two dozen shynesses left to work through because of it.