Wipe Those Tears Quotes

It was a long story, and sometimes she grew quiet and cried - and during those times he leaned over to wipe away her tears.

Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom . . . very much.” And then she told him of the princess whose heart had burned with wildfire, of the mighty kingdom in the north, of its downfall and of the sacrifice of Lady Marion. It was a long story, and sometimes she grew quiet and cried—-and during those times he leaned over to wipe away her tears.

He heaves a deep breath. Wipes a tear away with his thumb. "I'm here, okay?" He grasps my shoulder and squeezes gently. "These aren't platitudes. I'm right here. And I want to listen. Whenever you're sad, I want to hear why. I want to know what you're feeling, all the time, so I can share those feelings with you.

The walls weren't moving, and the room was open - gaping. No colors, but shades of darkness, of night . Only those star-flecked violet eyes were bright, full of color and light. He gave me a lazy smile before he leaned forward. I pulled away, but his hands were like shackles. I could do nothing as his mouth met with my cheek, and he licked away a tear. His tongue was hot against my skin, so startling that I couldn't move as he licked away another path of salt water, and then another. My body went taut and loose all at once and I burned, even as chills shuddered along my limbs. It was only when his tongue danced along the damp edges of my lashes that I jerked back. He chuckled as I scrambled for the corner of the cell. I wiped my face as I glared at him. He smirked, sitting down against a wall. "I figured that would get you to stop crying." "It was disgusting." I wiped my face again. "Was it?" He quirked an eyebrow and pointed to his palm - to the place where my tattoo would be. "Beneath all your pride and stubbornness, I could have sworn I detected something that felt differently. Interesting." "Get out." "As usual, your gratitude is overwhelming.

You don't know what it's like to grow up with a mother who never said a positive thing in her life, not about her children or the world, who was always suspicious, always tearing you down and splitting your dreams straight down the seams. When my first pen pal, Tomoko, stopped writing me after three letters she was the one who laughed: You think someone's going to lose life writing to you? Of course I cried; I was eight and I had already planned that Tomoko and her family would adopt me. My mother of course saw clean into the marrow of those dreams, and laughed. I wouldn't write to you either, she said. She was that kind of mother: who makes you doubt yourself, who would wipe you out if you let her. But I'm not going to pretend either. For a long time I let her say what she wanted about me, and what was worse, for a long time I believed her.

Wipe those tears soldier,

I...I'm sorry," Kylie mumbled. "Don't you even try to talk your way out of me being pissed!" Burnett growled. "Not a word!" "I just..." "That's two words and I said not one!" he snapped, and he swiped his hand through the air for emphasis. Kylie bit down on her lip, and wouldn't you know it that's when the tears started flowing. Big, fat, and fast tears. She sniffled and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her breath caught in her chest. But damn it. Why couldn't this have happened when she was alone? "Those tears do not affect me, young lady!" He pointed a finger at her. While she couldn't hear his heart beat to the rhythm of a lie, she heard it in his voice. *** "I just..." "Did I say you could talk?" he asked. He did three more pacing laps, as if working off steam, before he looked at her again. "Where were you going, Kylie?" When she just looked at him, he bit out, "Answer me." "You said I couldn't talk.

...you betrayed me, but after all those years I discover, my tears have wiped the slate clean...

My last tear falls. I can’t move to wipe it. I am transfixed by Loren Hale, my everything. “I love you,” he says again, “and no other man will ever say those words and mean them the way I do.

She felt as if she had been crying without end for minutes now. Yet this parting, this final farewell ... Aelin looked at Chaol and Dorian and sobbed. Opened her arms to them, and wept as they held each other. “I love you both,” she whispered. “And no matter what may happen, no matter how far we may be, that will never change.” “We will see you again,” Chaol said, but even his voice was thick with tears. “Together,” Dorian breathed, shaking. “We’ll rebuild this world together.” She couldn’t stand it, this ache in her chest. But she made herself pull away and smile at their tear-streaked faces, a hand on her heart. “Thank you for all you have done for me.” Dorian bowed his head. “Those are words I’d never thought I’d hear from you.” She barked a rasping laugh, and gave him a shove. “You’re a king now. Such insults are beneath you.” He grinned, wiping at his face. Aelin smiled at Chaol, at his wife waiting beyond him. “I wish you every happiness,” she said to him. To them both. Such light shone in Chaol’s bronze eyes—that she had never seen before. “We will see each other again,” he repeated. Then he and Dorian turned toward their horses, toward the bright day beyond the castle gates. Toward their kingdom to the south. Shattered now, but not forever. Not forever.

We bend. I bend to sweep crumbs and I bend to wipe vomit and I bend to pick up little ones and wipe away tears... And at the end of these days I bend next to the bed and I ask only that I could bend more, bend lower. Because I serve a Savior who came to be a servant. He lived bent low. And bent down here is where I see His face. He lived, only to die. Could I? Die to self and just break open for love. This Savior, His one purpose to spend Himself on behalf of messy us. Will I spend myself on behalf of those in front of me? And people say, “Don’t you get tired?” and yes, I do. But I’m face to face with Jesus in the dirt, and the more I bend the harder and better and fuller this life gets. And sure, we are tired, but oh we are happy. Because bent down low is where we find fullness of Joy.

Wipe those tears, as they have cleansed your soul.

She opens her eyes and wipes her hands together as if to say enough of that. Then she reconsiders and adds a final appeal. “Please don’t die. I can understand why you’d want to, but think about this: If you die, there’s going to be one of those cheesy Princess Diana memorials at school, where everyone puts flowers and candles and notes next to your locker.” She wipes away a renegade tear with the back of her hand. “I know you’d hate that kind of thing.

As I walked, I could feel his eyes on me, the way I could always feel his eyes on me. Tears ran down my face unabashed, but I didn’t move to wipe them away. I had earned those tears, and I would wear them as a symbol of everything I had been through. They represented all the pain I had suffered, the love I felt, and the ocean of loss sweeping through my soul. I had finally learned to obey and never looked back.

The power of a woman is in the tears she sheds, and the power of a man is wiping those tears while shedding his own.

He stilled. He knew she was leaving—this wasn’t a surprise—but how did he tell her he didn’t want her to go? That he wanted to know all the things that made her sad, all the things that made her laugh? That he wanted to reach over and wipe those tears away?

He wanted a home. He wanted a family. He wanted to have friends. But none of those things were realistic. At least not until he came to Mineral Wells. Right now Carter was just trying to hold on to the happiness he'd found since meeting Mr. Vernon the previous night. "To belong, okay??" Carter snapped. He felt tears in his eyes, but he wasn't sure. Quickly, he wiped at them. "You don't know what it's like to be alone.

Tristan?” He turned his face to me, and it was streaked with tears. I wanted to wipe them away, tell him that everything would be all right, but my body was locked stiff with pain. “Promise me you’ll get better,” he whispered. “Tell me you’ll grow strong again. That you’ll gallop on horseback through summer meadows. Dance in spring rains and let snowflakes melt on your tongue in winter. That you’ll travel wherever the wind takes you. That you’ll live.” He stroked my hair. “Promise me.” Confusion crept over me. “You’ll be with me, though. You’ll do those things too?” He kissed my lips, silencing my questions. “Promise me.” “No,” I said, struggling against him.. “No, you said you were coming with me. You said. You promised.” He had to be coming with me - he said he was and Tristan couldn’t lie. Wouldn’t lie. He got to his feet and stepped into the water. I tried to struggle, but he was too strong. “Tristian, no, no, no!” I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I tried to hold on to him, but my fingers wouldn’t work. The cold of the water bit into my skin and I sobbed, terrified. “You said you would never leave me!” He stopped, the weight of his sorrow greater than any mountain. “And if I had the choice, I never would. I love you, Cécile. I will love you until the day I take my last breath and that is the truth. “ He kissed me hard. “Forgive me.

I live precariously through my characters - so I want them to be loved passionately, live vibrantly, love unconditionally. Make friends they would die for - Explore unimaginable possibilities from all warps of life. And to never forget those that held their hands when life got scary. Wiped their tears away after a broken heart. Helped them back on their feet when others let them down. I want my characters to have family and friends - just like mine :)

Sometimes, no matter how much you try and plan and pray, things just go to hell. Life is full of heartbreak and the world is cruel, but it's still a beautiful place to be." I stroked his chest, right over his heart. "It's beautiful because we have the ability to love. We love harder than death. We love fiercer than hate. A human heart has more power than any nuclear weapon. It is impenetrable, even when it stops beating. You can break it, tear it to pieces, put a hole in it, but you can't erase the feelings, and those feeling are contagious. The contents can never be wiped clean. They spread in our thoughts, words, actions and our memories.

Return, O wanderer, now return, And seek thy Father’s face; Those new desires which in thee burn Were kindled by His grace. Return, O wanderer, now return, And wipe the falling tear: Thy Father calls, - no longer mourn; ’Tis love invites thee near

Do you have someone in mind, Galen?" Toraf asks, popping a shrimp into his mouth. "Is it someone I know?" "Shut up, Toraf," Galen growls. He closes his eyes, massages his temples. This could have gone a lot better in so many ways. "Oh," Toraf says. "It must be someone I know, then." "Toraf, I swear by Triton's trident-" "These are the best shrimp you've ever made, Rachel," Toraf continues. "I can't wait to cook shrimp on our island. I'll get the seasoning for us, Rayna." "She's not going to any island with you, Toraf!" Emma yells. "Oh, but she is, Emma. Rayna wants to be my mate. Don't you, princess?" he smiles. Rayna shakes her head. "It's no use, Emma. I really don't have a choice." She resigns herself to the seat next to Emma, who peers down at her, incredulous. "You do have a choice. You can come live with me at my house. I'll make sure he can't get near you." Toraf's expression indicates he didn't consider that possibility before goading Emma. Galen laughs. "It's not so funny anymore is it, tadpole?" he says, nudging him. Toraf shakes his head. "She's not staying with you, Emma." "We'll see about that, tadpole," she returns. "Galen, do something," Toraf says, not taking his eyes off Emma. Galen grins. "Such as?" "I don't know, arrest her or something," Toraf says, crossing his arms. Emma locks eyes with Galen, stealing his breath. "Yeah, Galen. Come arrest me if you're feeling up to it. But I'm telling you right now, the second you lay a hand on me, I'm busting this glass over your head and using it to split your lip like Toraf's." She picks up her heavy drinking glass and splashes the last drops of orange juice onto the table. Everyone gasps except Galen-who laughs so hard he almost upturns his chair. Emma's nostrils flare. "You don't think I'll do it? There's only one way to find out, isn't there, Highness?" The whole airy house echoes Galen's deep-throated howls. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he elbows Toraf, who's looking at him like he drank too much saltwater. "Do you know those foolish humans at her school voted her the sweetest out of all of them?" Toraf's expression softens as he looks up at Emma, chuckling. Galen's guffaws prove contagious-Toraf is soon pounding the table to catch his breath. Even Rachel snickers from behind her oven mitt. The bluster leaves Emma's expression. Galen can tell she's in danger of smiling. She places the glass on the table as if it's still full and she doesn't want to spill it. "Well, that was a couple of years ago." This time Galen's chair does turn back, and he sprawls onto the floor. When Rayna starts giggling, Emma gives in, too. "I guess...I guess I do have sort of a temper," she says, smiling sheepishly. She walks around the table to stand over Galen. Peering down, she offers her hand. He grins up at her. "Show me your other hand." She laughs and shows him it's empty. "No weapons." "Pretty resourceful," he says, accepting her hand. "I'll never look at a drinking glass the same way." He does most of the work of pulling himself up but can't resist the opportunity to touch her. She shrugs. "Survival instinct, maybe?" He nods. "Or you're trying to cut my lips off so you won't have to kiss me." He's pleased when she looks away, pink restaining her cheeks. "Rayna tries that all the time," Toraf chimes in. "Sometimes when her aim is good, it works, but most of the time kissing her is my reward for the pain.

Because there are two types of people in this world. Those who are capable of greatness, but don’t bother trying. And those who still try even though they’re not capable of greatness.” Her face screws up. “I do—” “You’re neither.” I wipe her tears away with my thumbs.  “You’re the type of girl who can do anything she sets her mind to and succeed.

A little bit of hatred can spoil a score of years And blur the eyes that ought to smile with many needless tears. A little bit of thoughtlessness and anger for a day Can rob a home of all its joy and drive delight away.. A little bit of shouting in a sharp and vicious tone Can leave a sting that will be felt when many years have flown. And just one hasty moment of ill temper can offend And leave an inner injury the years may never mend. It takes no mental fiber to say harsh and bitter things; It doesn't call for courage to employ a lash that stings. And cruel words and bitter any fool can think to say, But the hurt they leave behind them takes years to wipe away. Just a little bit of hatred robs a home of all delight, And leaves a winding trail of wrong that time may never right. For only those are happy and keep their peace of mind, Who guard themselves from hatred and words that are unkind!

... there won't be any unbelievers or any war or any famine or any suffering. There won't be any pollution or any towns either. There will be fields, and those who have died will come back to life and those who are living will never die at all and there will be no more sickness, because God will wipe out every tear from our eyes. We know this because God has promised.

Do you ever wear leather?" the guy asks. "What?" "Leather. Do you like leather?" "It doesn't exactly wipe me out." "I like to see boys in leather." I look at him cool. "Okay," I say, "what is it you want and how much are you willing to pay for it?" "I've got a leather jacket upstairs...Would you put it on?" "Just put it on?" "I'll go and get it." He leaves the horror hole and returns a few minutes later holding a leather flying jacket with a lambswool collar. There are tears in the jacket's sleeves, and the lambswool is yellow with age. John Wayne could've worn it in one of those crappy war films he made. "Put it on," the guy says. I give him a spiky smile and put on the jacket. "Okay, where's the plane, and what time's take-off?" "Drop your jeans and turn around.

And if sorrow clouds your soul, don't fight it; allow the tears to flow. We are not meant to be invincible, we bruise easily, and the heart is soft; prone to bleed at the slightest touch. It is in those moments of sadness that we must be brave enough to allow Christ in, to let him be present in our pain; our sorrow is seen by Christ. One day He will wipe away every tear, He will hold us tight, but for now we must pray through the pain. Just know that Christ shares our pain, He understands the sorrow that is within you, for He was a man of many sorrows. He wept alone, He was tormented and forsaken. Believe me, a man who has been forsaken such as Christ will never forsake you. Jesus is the only person who knows all that you have been through, He is the only one who knows the deepest, darkest spots of your soul, and still---He remains. Jesus has the scars to prove that He is trustworthy, He has the only heart that bled for you; and He will never stop loving you.

The end of this short story could be a rather disturbing thing, if it came true. I hope you like it, and if you do, be sure to COMMENT and SHARE. Paradoxes of Destiny? Dani! My boy! Are you all right? Where are you? Have you hurt yourself? Are you all right? Daniiii! Why won’t you answer? It’s so cold and dark here. I can’t see a thing… It’s so silent. Dani? Can you hear me? I shouldn’t have looked at that text message while I was driving… I shouldn’t have done it! I'm so stupid sometimes! Son, are you all right?... We really wrecked the car when we rolled it! I can’t see or hear a thing… Am I in hospital? Am I dead…? Dani? Your silence is killing me… Are you all right?! I can see a glimmer of light. I feel trapped. Dani, are you there? I can’t move. It’s like I’m wrapped in this mossy green translucent plastic. I have to get out of here. The light is getting more and more intense. I think I can tear the wrapping that’s holding me in. I'm almost out. The light is blinding me. What a strange place. I've never seen anything like it. It doesn’t look like Earth. Am I dead? On another planet? Oh God, look at those hideous monsters! They’re so creepy and disgusting! They look like extraterrestrials. They’re aliens! I'm on another planet! I can’t believe it. I need to get the hell out here. Those monsters are going to devour me. I have to get away. I’m so scared. Am I floating? Am I flying? I’m going to go higher to try to escape. I can’t see the aliens anymore and the landscape looks less terrifying. I think I've made it. It’s very windy. Is that a highway? I think I can see some vehicles down there. Could they be the extraterrestrials’ transport? I’m going to go down a bit. I see people! Am I on Earth? Could this be a parallel universe? Where could Dani be? I shouldn’t have looked at that text message while I was driving. I shouldn’t… That tower down there looks a lot like the water tank in my town… It’s identical. But the water tank in my town doesn’t have that huge tower block next to it. It all looks very similar to my neighborhood, but it isn’t exactly the same: there are a lot of tower blocks here. There’s the river… and the factory. It’s definitely my neighborhood, but it looks kind of different. I must be in a parallel universe… It’s amazing that I can float. People don’t seem to notice my presence. Am I a ghost? I have to get back home and see if Dani’s there. God, I hope he’s safe and sound. Gabriela must be out of her mind with the crash. There’s my house! Home sweet home. And whose are those cars? The front of the house has been painted a different color… This is all so strange! There’s someone in the garden… Those trees I planted in the spring have really grown. Is… is that… Dani? Yes, yes! It’s Dani. But he looks so different… He looks older, he looks… like a big boy! What’s important is that he’s OK. I need to hug him tight and tell him how much I love him. Can he see me if I’m a ghost? I'll go up to him slowly so I don’t scare him. I need to hold him tight. He can’t see me, I won’t get any closer. He moved his head, I think he’s started to realize I’m here… Wow I’m so hungry all of a sudden! I can’t stop! How are you doing, son?! It’s me! Your dad! My dear boy? I can’t stop! I'm too hungry! Ahhhh, so delicious! What a pleasure! Nooo Daniii! Nooooo!.... I’m your daaaad!... Splat!... “Mum, bring the insect repellent, the garden’s full of mosquitoes,” grunted Daniel as he wiped the blood from the palm of his hand on his trousers. Gabriela was just coming out. She did an about turn and went back into her house, and shouted “Darling, bring the insect repellent, it’s on the fireplace…” Absolute cold and silence… THE END (1) This note is for those who have read EQUINOX—WHISPERS OF DESTINY. This story is a spin-off of the novel EQUINOX—WHISPERS OF DESTINY and revolves around Letus’s curious theories about the possibility of animal reincarnation.

Tears fled her eyes as she ran, and they slid into her ears, but she did not wipe them, no, she pressed forward through the many trees, keeping her eyes upon the large shadow that flew forward, almost guiding her out of the woods, but that was preposterous – so why am I following it? What do you mean why are you following it? It’s the only thing that’s putting distance between you and those...monsters back there! But what about Lord Delacroix? What the devil about him? He tried to keep you safe – he truly did attempt to save you— And what did that get him? Crushed by a damned Lycan – again! But I should still go back to save him.... I should keep moving! But he’s saved my life – I can’t let him die! Technically, he’s already dead, Alexi.... Goddamn it all! Run – run now – come back when you’re safe! Come back? With who?! Help, of course! Where on Earth am I going to find help?!

We made love for a long time, and he whispered how much he’d missed me, and how beautiful I was, and how lucky he felt that we were together. And though I felt all those things, no words came out of my mouth. The feel of his body was taking my breath away, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t say anything. At this moment, I felt as if I was in a dream, and I never wanted it to end. I wanted to feel him and touch him and hear him breathe and look in his eyes, and there wasn’t one word I could say thatwouldn’t take away from the overwhelming sense of passion I was feeling at this very moment. “Are you okay?” Drew asked me. “Yeah, why?” I whispered. “Because you’re crying,” he said, wiping tears from my eyes. “No, I’m not.” He gave me a gentle smile. “Yes, you are. Tell me why.” I looked into his eyes so directly that I almost felt like I was trying to look into his soul. And then I whispered, “I love you,” and I realized that for the first time in my life, I actually meant it.

After his wife died, in great pain C. S. Lewis realized, “If I had really cared, as I thought I did, about the sorrows of the world, I should not have been so overwhelmed when my own sorrow came.”3 Our own suffering is often our wake-up call. But even if you aren’t now facing it, look around and you’ll see many who are. ... Suffering and evil exert a force that either pushes us away from God or pulls us toward him. ... Unfortunately, most evangelical churches—whether traditional, liturgical, or emergent—have failed to teach people to think biblically about the realities of evil and suffering. A pastor’s daughter told me, “I was never taught the Christian life was going to be difficult. I’ve discovered it is, and I wasn’t ready.” ... On the other side of death, the Bible promises that all who know him will fall into the open arms of a holy, loving, and gracious God—the greatest miracle, the answer to the problem of evil and suffering. He promises us an eternal kingdom on the New Earth, where he says of those who come to trust him in this present world of evil and suffering, “They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain” (Revelation 21:3–4)

This anger I felt wasn’t about the child at all. It’s inside me and it’s poisoning so many of my relationships. It leaves so little room for compassion.” She reached up to wipe a tear from her face. “That’s no way to live. I have to get over it. I may need some help, I don’t know. But I realized something today dredging up all those murky memories. I can’t change the past. I can’t take the hurt back. But I can soften it if I can just learn how to accept it.

Quote from Father Tim during a sermon given after the former priest was found after a suicide attempt. "      'Father Talbot has charged me to tell you that he is deeply repentant for not serving you as God appointed him to do, and as you hoped and needed him to do.         'He wished very much to bring you this message himself, but he could not.  He bids you goodbye with a love he confesses he never felt toward you...until this day.  He asks--and I quote him--that you might find it in your hearts to forgive him his manifold sins against God and this parish.'         He felt the tears on his face before he knew he was weeping, and realized instinctively that he would have no control over the display.  He could not effectively carry on, no even turn his face away or flee the pulpit.  He was in the grip of a wild grief that paralyzed everything but itself.          He wept face forward, then, into the gale of those aghast at what was happening, wept for the wounds of any clergy gone out into a darkness of self-loathing and beguilement; for the loss and sorrow of those who could not believe, or who had once believed but lost all sense of shield and buckler and any notion of God's radical tenderness, for the ceaseless besettings of the flesh, for the worthless idols of his own and of others; for those sidetracked, stumped, frozen, flung away, for those both false and true, the just and the unjust, the quick and the dead.           He wept for himself, for the pain of the long years and the exquisite satisfactions of the faith, for the holiness of the mundane, for the thrashing exhaustions and the endless dyings and resurrectings that malign the soul incarnate.           It had come to this, a thing he had subtly feared for more than forty years--that he would weep before the many--and he saw that his wife would not try to talk him down from this precipice, she would trust him to come down himself without falling or leaping.         And people wept with him, most of them.  Some turned away, and a few got up and left in a hurry, fearful of the swift and astounding movement of the Holy Spirit among them, and he, too, was afraid--of crying aloud in a kind of ancient howl and humiliating himself still further.  But the cry burned out somewhere inside and he swallowed down what remained and the organ began to play, softly, piously.  He wished it to be loud and gregarious, at the top of its lungs--Bach or Beethoven, and not the saccharine pipe that summoned the vagabond sins of thought, word, and deed to the altar, though come to think of it, the rail was the very place to be right now, at once, as he, they, all were desperate for the salve of the cup, the Bread of Heaven.             And then it was over.  He reached into the pocket of his alb and wondered again how so many manage to make in this world without carrying a handkerchief.  And he drew it out and wiped his eyes and blew his nose as he might at home, and said, 'Amen.'                 And the people said, 'Amen.

But no one’s hand can wipe away those tears he sheds invisibly today, which one hears in his laughter and in his speech and in his songs. I know what the world has done to my brother and how narrowly he has survived it. And I know, which is much worse, and this is the crime of which I accuse my country and my countrymen, and for which neither I nor time nor history will ever forgive them, that they have destroyed and are destroying hundreds of thousands of lives and do not know it and do not want to know it.

THE ANTHEM OF HOPE Tiny footprints in mud, metal scraps among thistles Child who ambles barefooted through humanity’s war An Elderflower in mud, landmines hidden in bristles Blood clings to your feet, your wee hands stiff and sore You who walk among trenches, midst our filth and our gore Box of crayons in hand, your tears tumble like crystals Gentle, scared little boy, at the heel of Hope Valley, The grassy heel of Hope Valley. And the bombs fall-fall-fall Down the slopes of Hope Valley Bayonets cut-cut-cut Through the ranks of Hope Valley Napalm clouds burn-burn-burn All who fight in Hope Valley, All who fall in Hope Valley. Bullets fly past your shoulder, fireflies light the sky Child who digs through the trenches for his long sleeping father You plant a kiss on his forehead, and you whisper goodbye Vain corpses, brave soldiers, offered as cannon fodder Nothing is left but a wall; near its pallor you gather Crayon ready, you draw: the memory of a lie Kind, sad little boy, sketching your dream of Hope Valley Your little dream of Hope Valley. Missiles fly-fly-fly Over the fields of Hope Valley Carabines shoot-shoot-shoot The brave souls of Hope Valley And the tanks shell-shell-shell Those who toiled for Hope Valley, Those who died for Hope Valley. In the light of gunfire, the little child draws the valley Every trench is a creek; every bloodstain a flower No battlefield, but a garden with large fields ripe with barley Ideations of peace in his dark, final hour And so the child drew his future, on the wall of that tower Memories of times past; your tiny village lush alley Great, brave little boy, the future hope of Hope Valley The only hope of Hope Valley. And the grass grows-grows-grows On the knolls of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom Across the hills of Hope Valley The midday sun shines-shines-shines On the folk of Hope Valley On the dead of Hope Valley From his Aerodyne fleet The soldier faces the carnage Uttering words to the fallen He commends their great courage Across a wrecked, tower wall A child’s hand limns the valley And this drawing speaks volumes Words of hope, not of bally He wipes his tears and marvels The miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley And the grass grows-grows-grows Midst all the dead of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom For all the dead of Hope Valley The evening sun sets-sets-sets On the miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley (lyrics to "the Anthem of Hope", a fictional song featured in Louise Blackwick's Neon Science-Fiction novel "5 Stars".

I looked at him and the other two people whose names I’d just learned. “So . . . so this is home then?” Akinli looked at me, perplexed, then turned to Ben and Julie. “She said some girls left her here and told her it was home. That’s all she knows. She doesn’t even know you.” Julie wiped at her tears, trying to calm herself. He moved his eyes back to me as quickly as he could manage. “Kahlen? You remember me, right?” I stared into this face, searching for something familiar. I didn’t recognize the angle of his chin, the length of his fingers. I didn’t know the slope of his shoulder or the shape of his lips. “Akinli, right?” I asked. This poor boy. I pitied him in the depths of my heart. Clearly, he’d already been going through something, and I could see the last scrap of fight he had in him dying with those words. “Yes.” “I don’t remember ever seeing you before in my life. I’m sorry.” He pressed his lips together as if he was swallowing the urge to cry. “But,” I said, “I know your voice. I know it as if it were my own.

Charlie nodded, like not getting it was valid. "I don't know how to explain it. But one thing's for sure. I'm not making you birthday doughnuts because your dad guilt-tripped me. I'm making you doughnuts because I'm grateful that you're here—for whatever you being here is doing to my life. And I genuinely want you to have a happy birthday." Ugh. One of those unwelcome tears of mine spilled over. And Charlie, like a reflex, reached up and wiped it away. Like you might do for someone you cared about. "Also," Charlie said, "I burned a hundred canned biscuits before I got the hang of this, so these little guys really are miracles." I gave Charlie the wobbly smile that happens when you try to shift emotional gears. Something was making me feel shaky. Maybe that I wasn't just a writer to him. Or that he was glad to have me in his life. Or that I was doing things to him—just like he was doing things to me. "You have to eat one," Charlie said then, putting his arm around my shoulders and turning us both toward the waiting donuts. "So many canned biscuits gave their lives for this moment." And now I really smiled. Despite myself.

Tariq was still speaking, his voice hushed, then high, beseeching, then reasoning; his face hopeful, then stricken. "I can't," Laila said. "Don't say that. I love you." "I'm sorry - " "I love you." How long had she waited to hear those words from him? How many times had she dreamed them uttered? There they were, spoken at last, and the irony crushed her. "It's my father I can't leave," Laila said. "I'm all he has left. His heart couldn't take it either." Tariq knew this. He knew she could not wipe away the obligations of her life any more than he could his, but it went on, his pleadings and her rebuttals, his proposals and her apologies, his tears and hers. In the end, Laila had to make him leave. At the door, she made him promise to go without goodbyes. She closed the door on him. Laila leaned her back against it, shaking against his pounding fists, one arm gripping her belly and a hand across her mouth, as he spoke through the door and promised that he would come back, that he would come back for her. She stood there until he tired, until he gave up, and then she listened to his uneven footsteps until they faded, until all was quiet, save for the gunfire cracking in the hills and her own heart thudding in her belly, her eyes, her bones.

Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom… very much.” And then she told him of the princess whose heart had burned with wildfire, of the mighty kingdom in the north, of its downfall and of the sacrifice of Lady Marion. It was a long story, and sometimes she grew quiet and cried—and during those times he leaned over to wipe away her tears. When she finished, Rowan merely passed her more of the tonic. She smiled at him, and he looked at her for a while before he smiled back, a different smile than all the others he’d given her before.

Please,Talks a Lot," Jesse said persuasively. "You were his friend. You know he read the Book.He believed in the one God and his Son,Jesse. Please...I want to bury him as my people bury those they love." Tears began streaming down her cheeks again, but she wiped them away stubbornly. "Please," she repeated, "I cannot leave him to the birds.I cannot." Talks a Lot came close and murmured, "But his spirit must be allowed to soar to the new hunting ground, Walks the Fire.The people will never understand." "His spirit is already with the Father, Talks a Lot.That is what the book we read together teaches. I must do this last thing for Rides the Wind.

1. Choose to love each other even in those moments when you struggle to like each other. Love is a commitment, not a feeling. 2. Always answer the phone when your husband/wife is calling and, when possible, try to keep your phone off when you’re together with your spouse. 3. Make time together a priority. Budget for a consistent date night. Time is the currency of relationships, so consistently invest time in your marriage. 4. Surround yourself with friends who will strengthen your marriage, and remove yourself from people who may tempt you to compromise your character. 5. Make laughter the soundtrack of your marriage. Share moments of joy, and even in the hard times find reasons to laugh. 6. In every argument, remember that there won’t be a winner and a loser. You are partners in everything, so you’ll either win together or lose together. Work together to find a solution. 7. Remember that a strong marriage rarely has two strong people at the same time. It’s usually a husband and wife taking turns being strong for each other in the moments when the other feels weak. 8. Prioritize what happens in the bedroom. It takes more than sex to build a strong marriage, but it’s nearly impossible to build a strong marriage without it. 9. Remember that marriage isn’t 50–50; divorce is 50–50. Marriage has to be 100–100. It’s not splitting everything in half but both partners giving everything they’ve got. 10. Give your best to each other, not your leftovers after you’ve given your best to everyone else. 11. Learn from other people, but don’t feel the need to compare your life or your marriage to anyone else’s. God’s plan for your life is masterfully unique. 12. Don’t put your marriage on hold while you’re raising your kids, or else you’ll end up with an empty nest and an empty marriage. 13. Never keep secrets from each other. Secrecy is the enemy of intimacy. 14. Never lie to each other. Lies break trust, and trust is the foundation of a strong marriage. 15. When you’ve made a mistake, admit it and humbly seek forgiveness. You should be quick to say, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” 16. When your husband/wife breaks your trust, give them your forgiveness instantly, which will promote healing and create the opportunity for trust to be rebuilt. You should be quick to say, “I love you. I forgive you. Let’s move forward.” 17. Be patient with each other. Your spouse is always more important than your schedule. 18. Model the kind of marriage that will make your sons want to grow up to be good husbands and your daughters want to grow up to be good wives. 19. Be your spouse’s biggest encourager, not his/her biggest critic. Be the one who wipes away your spouse’s tears, not the one who causes them. 20. Never talk badly about your spouse to other people or vent about them online. Protect your spouse at all times and in all places. 21. Always wear your wedding ring. It will remind you that you’re always connected to your spouse, and it will remind the rest of the world that you’re off limits. 22. Connect with a community of faith. A good church can make a world of difference in your marriage and family. 23. Pray together. Every marriage is stronger with God in the middle of it. 24. When you have to choose between saying nothing or saying something mean to your spouse, say nothing every time. 25. Never consider divorce as an option. Remember that a perfect marriage is just two imperfect people who refuse to give up on each other. FINAL

Will you dare to say so?–Have you never erred?–Have you never felt one impure sensation?–Have you never indulged a transient feeling of hatred, or malice, or revenge?–Have you never forgot to do the good you ought to do,–or remembered to do the evil you ought not to have done?–Have you never in trade overreached a dealer, or banquetted on the spoils of your starving debtor?–Have you never, as you went to your daily devotions, cursed from your heart the wanderings of your heretical brethren,–and while you dipped your fingers in the holy water, hoped that every drop that touched your pores, would be visited on them in drops of brimstone and sulphur?–Have you never, as you beheld the famished, illiterate, degraded populace of your country, exulted in the wretched and temporary superiority your wealth has given you,–and felt that the wheels of your carriage would not roll less smoothly if the way was paved with the heads of your countrymen? Orthodox Catholic–old Christian–as you boast yourself to be,–is not this true?–and dare you say you have not been an agent of Satan? I tell you, whenever you indulge one brutal passion, one sordid desire, one impure imagination–whenever you uttered one word that wrung the heart, or embittered the spirit of your fellow-creature–whenever you made that hour pass in pain to whose flight you might have lent wings of down–whenever you have seen the tear, which your hand might have wiped away, fall uncaught, or forced it from an eye which would have smiled on you in light had you permitted it–whenever you have done this, you have been ten times more an agent of the enemy of man than all the wretches whom terror, enfeebled nerves, or visionary credulity, has forced into the confession of an incredible compact with the author of evil, and whose confession has consigned them to flames much more substantial than those the imagination of their persecutors pictured them doomed to for an eternity of suffering! Enemy of mankind!' the speaker continued,–'Alas! how absurdly is that title bestowed on the great angelic chief,–the morning star fallen from its sphere! What enemy has man so deadly as himself? If he would ask on whom he should bestow that title aright, let him smite his bosom, and his heart will answer,–Bestow it here!

Do you ever wear leather?" the guy asks. "What?" "Leather. Do you like leather?" "It doesn't exactly wipe me out." "I like to see boys in leather." I look at him cool. "Okay," I say, "what is it you want and how much are you willing to pay for it?" "I've got a leather jacket upstairs...Would you put it on?" "Just put it on?" "I'll go and get it." He leaves the horror hole and returns a few minutes later holding a leather flying jacket with a lambswool collar. There are tears in the jacket's sleeves and the lambswool is yellow with age. John Wayne could've worn it in one of those crappy war films he made. "Put it on," the guy says. I give him a spiky smile and put on the jacket. "Okay, where's the plane and what time's take-off?" "Drop your jeans and turn around.

That’s not why you took his hands and cauterized the wounds to ensure they could never be reattached.” I looked at my old friend, and I knew he wasn’t going to let it go until I’d told him why I’d done it. “He used those hands to hold his family while he told them he loved them, to wipe away their tears and share their joys. Then he used those same hands to murder them all in one of the worst betrayals imaginable. He doesn’t deserve to keep them. That’s why I took them.” “Kay wasn’t happy.” “Kay once flayed a man alive in front of his family and forced them to eat their lunch while he did it. Kay can go fuck himself.” “That was pretty much my response too. Still, he was less than happy about the use of Hellequin. I assume Kay knows you and Hellequin are one and the same.

Any words to say before you die?' I came up with a plethora of curses, but I instead looked at Tamlin. He didn't react- his features like stone. I wished that I could glimpse his face- if only for a moment. But all I needed to see were those green eyes. 'I love you,' I said. 'No matter what she says about it, no matter if it's only with my insignificant human heart. Even when they burn my body, I'll love you.' My lips trembled, and my vision clouded before several warm tears slipped down my chilled face. I didn't wipe them away. He didn't react- he didn't even grip the arms of his throne. I supposed that was his way of enduring it, even if it made my chest cave in. Even if his silence killed me. Amarantha smiled sweetly. 'You'll be lucky my darling, if we even have enough left of you to burn.

Smokers exist in every kitchen. It kills a tastebud or two but we all die, and no one knows better than those who club the fish, clean the guts from the meat, and serve for your delectation a plate from which all blood has been wiped. We cook despite bad pay and sore backs and inadequate sleeps in apartments we can't afford and we wake up choosing again that most temporary of glories that is made, and then consumed: we know. We all die. Whether it comes after thirty years of hard labor or sixty at a desk, whether we calculate or plan, in the end we have only the choice of what touches the lips before we go: lobster if you like it or cold pizza if you don't, a sip of smoke, a drink, a job, a reckless passion, raw fish, the beguilement of mushrooms, cheese luscious beneath its crown of mold. What sustains in the end are doomed romances, and nicotine, and crappy peanut butter, damn the additives and cholesterol because life is finite and not all nourishment can be measured. When I learned to smoke behind a restaurant, my breath curling toward an inconsolable sky, I learned what it means to live by the tongue, dumb beast, obedient to neither time nor money, past nor future, loyal to a now worth living. I took my cigarette to the filter, and for the first time I appraised my employer back. He claimed to have evolved past fear. He lied. Behind the mask was a damp, scared boy. Fear of toxins, fear of carcinogens, tear of flood and smog and protest and entropy and all that could not be optimized, controlled, bought and held behind glass. Fear fueled a country so intent on perfection that they would give up the world.

I pull back and tell him, “You’re amazing.” He gives me a soft smirk. “That is the general consensus.” I smile. “And I love you.” He sets my feet on the floor but keeps his arms around my waist. “Good. Then you’re going to let me put three locks on the door of whatever apartment you decide to move into. And a chain. And a dead bolt.” I smile wider. “Okay.” Drew slowly steps forward, backing me up toward the bed. “And you’re not going to bitch when I have a security system installed.” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” We take another step together, almost like we’re dancing. “I’m thinking about buying you one of those ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ necklaces too.” My eyes squint as I pretend to think about the idea. “We’ll talk about it.” “And . . . you’re going to let me walk you home from work every night.” “Yes.” The back of my legs make contact with the bed frame. “I’m also going to come to every doctor’s appointment with you.” “I didn’t for a second imagine you wouldn’t.” Drew cups my face in his hands. “And one day, I’m going to ask you to marry me. And you’re going to know it’s not because you’re pregnant, or because of some misguided attempt to keep you.” Tears spring into my eyes as we gaze at each other. In a rough voice, he continues, “You’re going to know I’m asking because nothing would make me prouder than to be able to say, ‘This is my wife, Kate.’ And when I do ask, you’re going to say yes.” When I nod, one tear trails down my cheek. Drew wipes it away with his thumb as I promise, “It’s a sure thing.” And then he’s kissing me, with all the passion and desire he’s held in check the last two days. Drew cradles my head as we fall on the bed together.

They came from over the hill to slay, the monsters, beasts and bullies. The princesses came with their shiny crowns, two beauties in their flowing gowns. And so they shouted, away away away!” “Away away away!” the A.S.S. sang in response like they knew the words and my jaw dropped. “The monsters said we’re here to stay, raising forks and sticks and sharpened picks. The princesses came with their silver blades, two beauties with their loyal maids. And so they shouted, away away away!” She started up a dance, stamping her foot twice to the left, then twice to the right before jumping up and clapping above her head. “Away away away!” Tory and I joined in between our laughter as Justin Masters produced a flute from his bag and started piping out the tune. Oh my god this is actually happening. Geraldine reached out to us and I shrugged at Tory before climbing up to join her on the table. She started the dance again and I copied her, picking it up as Tory joined her other side, laughing as Geraldine continued the song. “The beasts they laughed with their hearts so black, they pushed, they fought and they attacked. But the princesses came with a swirl and a swoosh, and pushed those beasties in the Lake of Multush. And so they shouted, away away away!” “Away away away!” I cried with everyone else, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes as more and more people crowded around our table and joined in. “The bullies they smiled and they jeered the town, they jibed, they battered and made everyone frown. The princesses showed them the strength of their souls, no bully could make a dent on their walls. And so they shouted, away away away!” We clapped above our heads in time with Geraldine and everyone continued on singing that last line again and again, pointing over at the Heirs who were staring at us with their jaws slack like they couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “Away away away!

You may think this a strange story, but it is not. There are people whose lives are every bit as unusual as Bobby Box's--I can promise you that. Not all of them end as well, of course. For many people, the world is a place of sadness and sorrow, which is a great pity, as we have only one chance at life, and it is very bad luck if things do not go well. But even if you think they are not going well, you can still wish, as Bobby Box did. And sometimes those wishes will come true, as his did, and the world will seem filled with light and happiness. That can happen, you know. So never give up hope; never think things are so bad that they can never get better. They can get better, and they do. And if you have the chance to make things easier for another person, never miss it. Stretch out your hand to help them, to cheer them up, to wipe away their tears. Stretch out your hand as that man and that woman did to Bobby Box. Stretch out your hand and see what happens.

I have known both of you all your lives, have carried your Daddy in my arms and on my shoulders, kissed and spanked him and watched him learn to walk. I don’t know if you’ve known anybody from that far back; if you’ve loved anybody that long, first as an infant, then as a child, then as a man, you gain a strange perspective on time and human pain and effort. Other people cannot see what I see whenever I look into your father’s face, for behind your father’s face as it is today are all those other faces which were his. Let him laugh and I see a cellar your father does not remember and a house he does not remember and I hear in his present laughter his laughter as a child. Let him curse and I remember him falling down the cellar steps, and howling, and I remember, with pain, his tears, which my hand or your grandmother’s so easily wiped away. But no one’s hand can wipe away those tears he sheds invisibly today, which one hears in his laughter and in his speech and in his songs.

they draw back from your gentleness only to stumble over your righteousness and fall into your severity. They know not that you are everywhere; no place confines you, and you alone are present even to those who take themselves far away from you. [Ps. 72:27] Let them turn, therefore, and seek you; for you have not abandoned your creatures as they have abandoned their Creator. Let them turn to you. And behold, you are in their hearts, in the hearts of those who confess to you and throw themselves into your arms and weep upon your breast when they have come to the end of their difficult paths. [Wisd. 5:7 / Is. 25:8; Rev. 7:17, 21:4] You are gentle to them and wipe their tears; they cry all the more and rejoice in their weeping, for it is you, O Lord—not any human being, flesh and blood, but you, O Lord—who make them anew and give them comfort. And where was I when I was seeking you? You were right in front of me, but I had departed from myself; I could not find even myself, let alone you.

He approached his head to the dismal cavity, and heard, as at a great depth, the sound of a sullen and, as it seemed, subterranean stream. The sunless waves appeared murmuring for their victim. Death is dreadful at all ages; but in the first springtide of youth, with all the feelings of enjoyment afloat, and eager for gratification, to be snatched forcibly from the banquet to which the individual has but just sat down, is peculiarly appalling, even when the change comes in the ordinary course of nature. But to sit, like young Philipson, on the brink of the subterranean abyss, and ruminate in horrid doubt concerning the mode in which death was to be inflicted, was a situation which might break the spirit of the boldest; and the unfortunate captive was wholly unable to suppress the natural tears that flowed from his eyes in torrents, and which his bound arms did not permit him to wipe away. We have already noticed that, although a gallant young man in aught of danger which was to be faced and overcome by active exertion, the youth was strongly imaginative, and sensitive to a powerful extent to all those exaggerations which, in a situation of helpless uncertainty, fancy lends to distract the soul of him who must passively expect an approaching evil.

You didn’t tell me,” he says. “Why not?” “Because I didn’t…” I shake my head. “I didn’t know how to.” He scowls. “It’s pretty easy, Tris--” “Oh yeah,” I say, nodding. “It’s so easy. All I have to do is go up to you and say, ‘By the way, I shot Will, and now guilt is ripping me to shreds, but what’s for breakfast?’ Right? Right?” Suddenly it is too much, too much to contain. Tears fill my eyes, and I yell, “Why don’t you try killing one of your best friends and then dealing with the consequences?” I cover my face with my hands. I don’t want him to see me sobbing again. He touches my shoulder. “Tris,” he says, gently this time. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pretend that I understand. I just meant that…” He struggles for a moment. “I wish you trusted me enough to tell me things like that.” I do trust you, is what I want to say. But it isn’t true--I didn’t trust him to love me despite the terrible things I had done. I don’t trust anyone to do that, but that isn’t his problem; it’s mine. “I mean,” he says, “I had to find out that you almost drowned in a water tank from Caleb. Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?” Just when I was about to apologize. I wipe my cheeks hard with my fingertips and stare at him. “Other things seem stranger,” I say, trying to make my voice light. “Like finding out that your boyfriend’s supposedly dead mother is still alive by seeing her in person. Or overhearing his plans to ally with the factionless, but he never tells you about it. That seems a little strange to me.” He takes his hand from my shoulder. “Don’t pretend this is only my problem,” I say. “If I don’t trust you, you don’t trust me either.” “I thought we would get to those things eventually,” he says. “Do I have to tell you everything right away?” I feel so frustrated I can’t even speak for a few seconds. Heat fills my cheeks. “God, Four!” I snap. “You don’t want to have to tell me everything right away, but I have to tell you everything right away? Can’t you see how stupid that is?” “First of all, don’t use that name like a weapon against me,” he says, pointing at me. “Second, I was not making plans to ally with the factionless; I was just thinking it over. If I had made a decision, I would have said something to you. And third, it would be different if you had actually intended to tell me about Will at some point, but it’s obvious that you didn’t.” “I did tell you about Will!” I say. “That wasn’t truth serum; it was me. I said it because I chose to.” “What are you talking about?” “I was aware. Under the serum. I could have lied; I could have kept it from you. But I didn’t, because I thought you deserved to know the truth.” “What a way to tell me!” he says, scowling. “In front of over a hundred people! How intimate!” “Oh, so it’s not enough that I told you; it has to be in the right setting?” I raise my eyebrows. “Next time should I brew some tea and make sure the lighting is right, too?” Tobias lets out a frustrated sound and turns away from me, pacing a few steps. When he turns back, his cheeks are splotchy. I can’t remember ever seeing his face change color before. “Sometimes,” he says quietly, “it isn’t easy to be with you, Tris.” He looks away. I want to tell him that I know it’s not easy, but I wouldn’t have made it through the past week without him. But I just stare at him, my heart pounding in my ears. I can’t tell him I need him. I can’t need him, period--or really, we can’t need each other, because who knows how long either of us will last in this war? “I’m sorry,” I say, all my anger gone. “I should have been honest with you.” “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” He frowns. “What else do you want me to say?” He just shakes his head. “Nothing, Tris. Nothing.” I watch him walk away. I feel like a space has opened up within me, expanding so rapidly it will break me apart.

You didn’t tell me,” he says. “Why not?” “Because I didn’t…” I shake my head. “I didn’t know how to.” He scowls. “It’s pretty easy, Tris--” “Oh yeah,” I say, nodding. “It’s so easy. All I have to do is go up to you and say, ‘By the way, I shot Will, and now guilt is ripping me to shreds, but what’s for breakfast?’ Right? Right?” Suddenly it is too much, too much to contain. Tears fill my eyes, and I yell, “Why don’t you try killing one of your best friends and then dealing with the consequences?” I cover my face with my hands. I don’t want him to see me sobbing again. He touches my shoulder. “Tris,” he says, gently this time. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pretend that I understand. I just meant that…” He struggles for a moment. “I wish you trusted me enough to tell me things like that.” I do trust you, is what I want to say. But it isn’t true--I didn’t trust him to love me despite the terrible things I had done. I don’t trust anyone to do that, but that isn’t his problem; it’s mine. “I mean,” he says, “I had to find out that you almost drowned in a water tank from Caleb. Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?” Just when I was about to apologize. I wipe my cheeks hard with my fingertips and stare at him. “Other things seem stranger,” I say, trying to make my voice light. “Like finding out that your boyfriend’s supposedly dead mother is still alive by seeing her in person. Or overhearing his plans to ally with the factionless, but he never tells you about it. That seems a little strange to me.” He takes his hand from my shoulder. “Don’t pretend this is only my problem,” I say. “If I don’t trust you, you don’t trust me either.” “I thought we would get to those things eventually,” he says. “Do I have to tell you everything right away?” I feel so frustrated I can’t even speak for a few seconds. Heat fills my cheeks. “God, Four!” I snap. “You don’t want to have to tell me everything right away, but I have to tell you everything right away? Can’t you see how stupid that is?” “First of all, don’t use that name like a weapon against me,” he says, pointing at me. “Second, I was not making plans to ally with the factionless; I was just thinking it over. If I had made a decision, I would have said something to you. And third, it would be different if you had actually intended to tell me about Will at some point, but it’s obvious that you didn’t.” “I did tell you about Will!” I say. “That wasn’t truth serum; it was me. I said it because I chose to.” “What are you talking about?” “I was aware. Under the serum. I could have lied; I could have kept it from you. But I didn’t, because I thought you deserved to know the truth.” “What a way to tell me!” he says, scowling. “In front of over a hundred people! How intimate!” “Oh, so it’s not enough that I told you; it has to be in the right setting?” I raise my eyebrows. “Next time should I brew some tea and make sure the lighting is right, too?” Tobias lets out a frustrated sound and turns away from me, pacing a few steps. When he turns back, his cheeks are splotchy. I can’t remember ever seeing his face change color before. “Sometimes,” he says quietly, “it isn’t easy to be with you, Tris.” He looks away. I want to tell him that I know it’s not easy, but I wouldn’t have made it through the past week without him. But I just stare at him, my heart pounding in my ears. I can’t tell him I need him. I can’t need him, period--or really, we can’t need each other, because who knows how long either of us will last in this war? “I’m sorry,” I say, all my anger gone. “I should have been honest with you.” “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” He frowns. “What else do you want me to say?” He just shakes his head. “Nothing, Tris. Nothing.” I watch him walk away. I feel like a space has opened up within me, expanding so rapidly it will break me apart.

Uncle Peter is one of our family,” she said, her voice shaking. “Good afternoon. Drive on, Peter.” Peter laid the whip on the horse so suddenly that the startled animal jumped forward and as the buggy jounced off, Scarlett heard the Maine woman say with puzzled accents: “Her family? You don’t suppose she meant a relative? He’s exceedingly black.” God damn them! They ought to be wiped off the face of the earth. If ever I get money enough, I’ll spit in all their faces! I’ll— She glanced at Peter and saw that a tear was trickling down his nose. Instantly a passion of tenderness, of grief for his humiliation swamped her, made her eyes sting. It was as though someone had been senselessly brutal to a child. Those women had hurt Uncle Peter—Peter who had been through the Mexican War with old Colonel Hamilton, Peter who had held his master in his arms when he died, who had raised Melly and Charles and looked after the feckless, foolish Pittypat, “pertecked” her when she refugeed, and “’quired” a horse to bring her back from Macon through a war-torn country after the surrender. And they said they wouldn’t trust niggers! “Peter,” she said, her voice breaking as she put her hand on his thin arm. “I’m ashamed of you for crying. What do you care? They aren’t anything but damned Yankees!

I have known both of you all your lives, have carried your Daddy in my arms and on my shoulders, kissed and spanked him and watched him learn to walk. I don't know if you've known anybody from that far back; if you've loved anybody that long, first as an infant, then as a child, then as a man, you gain a strange perspective on time and human pain and effort. Other people cannot see what I see whenever I look into your father's face, for behind your father's face as it is today are all those other faces which were his. Let him laugh and I see a cellar your father does not remember and a house he does not remember and I hear in his present laughter his laughter as a child. Let him curse and I remember him falling down the cellar steps, and howling, and I remember, with pain, his tears, which my hand or your grandmother's so easily wiped away. But no one's hand can wipe away those tears he sheds invisibly today, which one hears in his laughter and in his speech and in his songs. I know what the world has done to my brother and how narrowly he has survived it. And I know, which is much worse, and this is the crime of which I accuse my country and my countrymen, and for which neither I nor time nor history will ever forgive them, that they have destroyed and are destroying hundreds of thousands of lives and do not know it and do not want to know it.

For those who live in Kashmir, the expectations of justice, rarely fulfilled in the Indian subcontinent, are more than optimistic; they belong to fantasy. It makes it all the more difficult for the victims to bear their human losses. At Dalal's house, the once carefully tended plants and hedges were already running wild just a few weeks after his murder, the fish in the pond were mostly dead, and few men sat slumped on the floor in a bare hall under the Islamic calendar of mourning. His mother, persuaded by her male relatives to emerge from the dark room where she had taken to since her son's death, broke down as soon as she noticed the photos of Dalal I had been studying. The pictures showed a young man in dark glasses and trendy clothes, a happy, contented man, someone who had managed to find, amid the relentless violence of the insurgency, a new style and identity for himself, and when Dalal's mother, still crying, while her mother, Dalal's grandmother, sat beside her, quietly wiping her tears with the frayed end of her headscarf, asked what was the point of talking to the press, of speaking about her son to me- he was gone and wouldn't come back; the people who had killed him were too powerful- it was hard not to feel pierced by the truth of what she was saying, hard not to be moved by her grief, and the pain, amid the great human waste of Kashmir, of her helplessness.

God is not dead— She has forsaken us. We wipe our angry, hate-filled tears after another shooting, as a man polishes his gun outside a mosque. All those stolen lives—we scream for justice! But God has quietly left our temples and churches. She will not return, for what WE have done is much worse. We have murdered humanity. God has deserted even the devout of us who save our love and compassion for those good and righteous, as we abandon the bigots brimming with hate. Yes, those least deserving of love, but the most in need of it. God’s agony rings in our hearts. She wails for the future shooters. Though we reject them, God greets these cracked and confused creatures— the least deserving of compassion but the most in need of it! We’ve read their spiteful tweets, but when we pass them in classrooms, in trains and markets, we dismiss those seemingly small opportunities for kindness. We don’t know—and how ignorant we are— that every time we ignore them, we sharpen our daggers and stab humanity in its pink raw flesh, not in dark alleyways. No, we do this openly in broad daylight, for hating them shows how loving we are. For condemning them proves how moral we are. But every shooting illumines the failure of our collective duty to love as God loves, to be compassionate as God is compassionate. Your prayers heal, yes, but for God’s sake, let God be. I say: First, resurrect your humanity!

I’m very glad,” Jones continued fervently, sounding like a card-carrying Colin Firth impersonator. “So very glad. You can’t know how glad . . .” He cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of more bad tidings, but your . . . friend was something of a criminal, the way I heard it. He had a price on his head—millions—from some druglord who wanted him dead. Chased him mercilessly, for years. I guess this Jones fellow used to work for him—it’s all very sordid, I’m afraid. And dangerous. He had to be on the move constantly. It was risky just to have a drink with Jones—you might’ve gotten killed in the crossfire. Of course, the big irony here is that the druglord died two weeks before Jones. He never knew it, but he was finally free.” As he looked at her with those eyes that she’d dreamed about for so many months, Molly understood. Jones was here, now, only because the druglord known as Chai, a dangerous and sadistic bastard who’d spent years hunting him, was finally dead. “It’s entirely possible that whoever’s taken over business for this druglord,” he continued, “would’ve gone after this Jones, too. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have searched to the ends of the earth for him . . . Although, when dealing with such dangerous types, it pays to be cautious, I suppose.” Message received. “Not that that’s anything Jones needs to worry about,” he added. “Considering he’s left his earthly cares behind. Still, I suspect it’s rather hot where he’s gone.” Yes, it certainly was hot in Kenya right now. Molly covered her mouth, pretending to sob instead of laugh. “Shhh,” Helen admonished him, thinking, of course, that he was referring to an unearthly heat. “Don’t say such a thing. She loved him.” She turned back to Molly. “This Jones is the man that you spoke of so many times?” Molly could see from the expression on Jones’s face that Helen had given her away. She might as well go big with the truth. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief that Helen had at the ready, then met his gaze. “I loved him very much. I’ll always love him,” she told this man who’d traveled halfway around the world for her, who apparently had waited years for it to be safe enough for him to join her, who had actually thought that, once he arrived, she might send him away. If you don’t want me here—and I don’t blame you if you don’t—just say the word . . . “He was a good man,” Molly said, “with a good heart.” Her voice shook, because, dear Lord, there were now tears in his eyes, too. “He deserved forgiveness—I’m positive he’s in heaven.” “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy for him,” he whispered. “It shouldn’t be . . .” He cleared his throat, put his glasses back on. “I’m so sorry to have distressed you, Miss Anderson. And I haven’t even properly introduced myself. Where are my manners?” He held out his hand to her. “Leslie Pollard.” Even with his glasses on, she could see quite clearly that he’d far rather be kissing her. But that would have to wait for later, when he came to her tent . . . No, wait, Gina would be there. Molly would have to go to his. Later, she told him with her eyes, as she reached out and, for the first time in years, touched the hand of the man that she loved.

If it means I get to spend the rest of my life with you.” She gave me a shy smile. “We’ll have to see,” she said. “We just met, you know.” “I’m in love with you.” Her lower lip started to tremble. “You’re sure about that?” “Yes. I am. Because it’s true.” She smiled at me, but I also saw that she was crying. “I’m sorry for breaking things off with you,” she said. “For disappearing from your life. I just—” “It’s OK,” I said. “I understand why you did it now.” She looked relieved. “You do?” I nodded. “You did the right thing.” “You think so?” “We won, didn’t we?” She smiled at me, and I smiled back. “Listen,” I said. “We can take things as slow as you like. I’m really a nice guy, once you get to know me. I swear.” She laughed and wiped away a few of her tears, but she didn’t say anything. “Did I mention that I’m also extremely rich?” I said. “Of course, so are you, so I don’t suppose that’s a big selling point.” “You don’t need to sell me on anything, Wade,” she said. “You’re my best friend. My favorite person.” With what appeared to be some effort, she looked me in the eye. “I’ve really missed you, you know that?” My heart felt like it was on fire. I took a moment to work up my courage; then I reached out and took her hand. We sat there awhile, holding hands, reveling in the strange new sensation of actually touching one another. Some time later, she leaned over and kissed me. It felt just like all those songs and poems had promised it would. It felt wonderful. Like being struck by lightning. It occurred to me then that for the first time in as long as I could remember, I had absolutely no desire to log back into the OASIS. For Susan and Libby

And that unfortunate loss? Was that really an accident,or did you lose deliberately so I wouldn't have to pay the bill?" He shrugged. "My lips are sealed." "I should have known." Once on the open highway he turned on the radio,and they both sang along with Garth as he lamented his papa being a rolling stone. When the song ended,Marilee looked over. "I'll consider that a sermon. According to Garth, a woman would be a fool to lose her heart to a man who'd rather drive a truck than be home with her." Wyatt winked,and in his best imitation of Daffy's smoky voice he said, "Honey, a man may love the open road,but any female with half a brain can figure out how to compete with a truck.Just bat those pretty little red-tipped lashes at any male over the age of twelve, and his brain turns to mush.Next thing you know, instead of revving up his engine, he's on his hands and knees, carrying a toddler on his back around a living room full of toys and baby gear." Though the image was a surprisingly pretty one,Marilee had to wipe tears from her eyes,she was laughing so hard. When she caught her breath she managed to say, "You've got Daffy down so perfectly,you could probably answer the phone at the Fortune Saloon and no one would believe it wasn't her." "She's easy." He chuckled. "I think she's the only female with a voice that's deeper than mine." She looked out the window at the full moon above Treasure Chest Mountain in the distance. "It's a shame to waste such a pretty night.Maybe you ought to pull over and park.We can make out like teenagers." "Not a bad idea." At his arched brow she added, "It would give me a chance to see if I could turn your brain to mush." "Believe it.

Rhys kept starting at the table as he said, 'I didn't know. That you were with Tamlin. That you were staying at the Spring Court. Amarantha sent me that day after the Summer Solstice because I'd been so successful on Calanmai. I was prepared to mock him, maybe pick a fight. But then I got into that room, and the scent was familiar, but hidden... And then I saw the plate, and felt the glamour, and... There you were. Living in my second-most enemy's house. Dining with him. Reeking of his scent. Looking at him like... Like you loved him.' The whites of his knuckles showed. 'And I decided that I had to scare Tamlin. I had to scare you, and Lucien, but mostly Tamlin. Because I saw how he looked at you, too. So what I did that day...' His lips were pale, tight. 'I broke into your mind and held it enough that you felt it, that it terrified you, hurt you. I made Tamlin beg- as Amarantha had made me beg, to show him how powerless he was to save you. And I prayed my performance was enough to get him to send you away. Back to the human realm, away from Amarantha. Because she was going to find you. If you broke that curse, she was going to find you and kill you. 'But I was so selfish- I was so stupidly selfish that I couldn't walk away without knowing your name. And you were looking at me like I was a monster, so I told myself it didn't matter, anyway. But you lied when I asked. I knew you did. I had your mind in my hands, and you had the defiance and foresight to lie to my face. So I walked away from you again. I vomited my guts up as soon as I left.' My lips wobbled, and I pressed them together. 'I checked back once. To ensure you were gone. I went with them the day they sacked the manor- to make my performance complete. I told Amarantha the name of that girl, thinking you'd invented it. I had no idea... I had no idea she'd sent her cronies to retrieve Clare. But if I admitted my lie...' He swallowed hard. 'I broke into Clare's head when they brought her Under the Mountain. I took away her pain, and told her to scream when expected to. So they... they did those things to her, and I tried to make it right, but... After a week, I couldn't let them do it. Hurt her like that anymore. So while they tortured her, I slipped into her mind again and ended it. She didn't feel any pain. She felt none of what they did to her, even at the end. But... But I still see her. And my men. And the others that I killed for Amarantha.' Two tears slid down his cheeks, swift and cold. He didn't wipe them away as he said, 'I thought it was done after that. With Clare's death. Amarantha believed you were dead. So you were safe, and far away, and my people were safe, and Tamlin had lost, so... It was done. We were done. But then... I was in the back of the throne room that day the Attor brought you in. And I have never known such horror, Feyre, as I did when I watched you make that bargain. Irrational, stupid terror- I didn't know you. I didn't even know your name. But I thought of those painter's hands, the flowers I'd seen you create. And how she'd delight in breaking your fingers apart. I had to stand and watch as the Attor and its cronies beat you. I had to watch the disgust and hatred on your face as you looked at me, watched me threaten to shatter Lucien's mind. And then- then I learned your name. Hearing you say it... it was like an answer to a question I'd been asking for five hundred years.

I felt the ripple in the darkness without having to look up, and didn't flinch at the soft footsteps that approached me. I didn't bother hoping that it would be Tamlin. 'Still weeping?' Rhysand. I didn't lower my hands from my face. The floor rose toward the lowering ceiling- I would soon be flattened. There was no colour, no light here. 'You're just beaten her second task. Tears are unnecessary.' I wept harder, and he laughed. The stones reverberated as he knelt before me, and though I tried to fight him, his grip was firm as he grasped my wrists and pried my hands from my face. The walls weren't moving, and the room was open- gaping. No colours, but shades of darkness, of night. Only those star-flecked violet eyes were bright, full of colour and light. He gave me a lazy smile before he leaned forward. I pulled away, but his hands were like shackles. I could do nothing as his mouth met with my cheek, and he licked away a tear. His tongue was hot against my skin, so startling that I couldn't move as he licked away another path of salt water, and then another. My body went taut and loose all at once and I burned, even as chills shuddered along my limbs. It was only when his tongue danced along the damp edges of my lashes that I jerked back. He chuckled as I scrambled for the corner of the cell. I wiped my face as I glared at him. He smirked, sitting down against a wall. 'I figured that would get you to stop crying.' 'It was disgusting.' I wiped my face again. 'Was it?' He quirked an eyebrow and pointed to his palm- to the place where my tattoo would be. 'Beneath all your pride and stubbornness, I could have sworn I detected something that felt differently. Interesting.' 'Get out.' 'As usual, your gratitude is overwhelming.' 'Do you want me to kiss your feet for what you did at the trial? Do you want me to offer another week of my life?' 'Not unless you feel compelled to do so,' he said, his eyes like stars.

Kneading her hand, touching her ring, Alexander said, “In America, when two people get married, they say their vows. Do you know what those are?” Tatiana was hardly listening. She had been thinking of America. She wanted to ask Alexander if there were villages in America, villages with cabins on the banks of rivers. In America where there was no war, and no hunger, and no Dimitri. “Are you listening? The priest says, ‘Do you, Alexander, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?’” “Lawfully bedded?” He laughed. “That too. No, lawfully wedded. And then we say our vows. Do you want me to tell you what they are?” “What what are?” Tatiana brought his fingers to her lips. “You have to repeat after me.” “Repeat after me.” “I, Tatiana Metanova, take this man to be my husband—” “I, Tatiana Metanova, take this great man to be my husband.” Kissing his thumb and forefinger and middle finger. He had wonderful fingers. “To live together in the covenant of marriage—” “To live together in the covenant of marriage.” Kissing his ring finger. “I will love him, comfort him, honor and keep him—” “I will love him, comfort him, honor and keep him.” Kissing the ring on his ring finger. Kissing his little finger. “And obey him.” Tatiana smiled, rolling her eyes. “And obey him.” “And, forsaking all others, be faithful to him until death do us part—” Kissing the palm of his hand. Wiping tears from her face with the palm of his hand. “And, forsaking all others, be faithful to him until death do us part.” “I, Alexander Barrington, take this woman to be my wife.” “Don’t, Shura.” Sitting on top of him, rubbing her breasts into his chest. “To live together in the covenant of marriage—” Kissing the middle of his chest. “I will love her”—his voice cracked—“love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her—” Pressing her cheek to his chest and listening for the iambic rhyme of his heart. “And, forsaking all others, be faithful to her until—” “Don’t, Shura.” His chest wet from her tears. “Please.” His hands above his head. “There are things worse than death.” Her heart full, overwhelmed. Remembering her mother’s body tilted over her sewing. Remembering Marina’s last words, to the end saying, I don’t want to die…and not feel just once what you feel. Remembering a laughing Dasha braiding her young hair already a lifetime ago. “Oh, yes? Like what?” He didn’t reply. She understood anyway. “I’d rather have a bad life in the Soviet Union than a good death. Wouldn’t you?” “If it was a life with you, then yes.

I started blasting my gun. Letting loose a stream of words like I'd never used before. True to form, Misty didn't stay put and stood at my side. Tears stained her cheeks. Her gun firing wildly. It was a blur. The next thing I knew, no zombies were left standing and we knelt at Kali's side. I took out a rag and wiped the feathers from his face. We could tell he was still alive. His chest rising and falling in jerks. "Kali, how bad are you hurt?" I asked with an unsteady voice. "I'm okay, guys. Did we get all of them?" he whispered. "Nate, he's been bit all over!" I looked down at his body, covered in white feathers, speckled with splotches of deep red. "Yep. You got 'em, even those freak chickens." "Nate, I'm thirsty," his voice shaky and cracking. "Okay, buddy. We've got water in the truck." "No, not water. How about a glass of lemonade?" "Kali, what are you saying?" Misty's voice was tense as a piano string. "Hurry, Nate. I'm getting weak—the lemonade." I think running into the crowd of zombies would have been easier than this. Maybe that's why Kali chucked a rock at my head—he knew he could count on me for this. I ripped off a small water gun I had taped on my suit and tore off the cap. "Oh, Nate, don't. Maybe there's something we can do. Maybe—" she stopped. I put my hand behind Kali's neck and felt a slight burn, probably zombie snot. Misty took one of his hands and held it to her chest. "You were so brave, Kali, so brave." My hands didn't shake anymore; they were numb, as if they didn't belong to me. I manipulated them the best I could—like using chopsticks. Lifting Kali's head, I poured the juice into his mouth until it was gone. He was burning up; his skin felt like it was on fire. "I never thought I'd have friends, real friends—thank you, guys." He closed his eyes and I felt the muscles in his neck go limp. Gently, I put his head down and cleaned my blistering hand with the rag. Misty wiped her tears as I put the rag over Kali's face. "No, thank you, kid." We sat there still, silent except for the small cries that we both let slip out. Misty, still holding his hand. Me, staring down at my hands, soaked in tears. I don't know how much time passed. It could have been five minutes; it might have been an hour. Suddenly, the feathers moved, flying in every direction. Looking up, I saw a helicopter coming down in front of us—one of those big black military ones. It landed and three men stepped out. They wore protective gear like you see in those alien movies. I worried a little about what they might have planned for us. I've seen enough movies to know those government types can't be trusted—especially when they're in those protective suits. "What happened here? How did you manage to negate the virus?" one of the hooded figures asked. "Zombie juice," I replied. "Zombie juice?" "Actually it was the Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb," Misty added as she stood and took my hand.

Slothrop is just settling down next to a girl in a prewar Worth frock and with a face like Tenniel’s Alice, same forehead, nose, hair, when from outside comes this most godawful clanking, snarling, crunching of wood, girls come running terrified out of the eucalyptus trees and into the house and right behind them what comes crashing now into the pallid lights of the garden but—why the Sherman Tank itself! headlights burning like the eyes of King Kong, treads spewing grass and pieces of flagstone as it manoeuvres around and comes to a halt. Its 75 mm cannon swivels until it’s pointing through the French windows right down into the room. “Antoine!” a young lady focusing in on the gigantic muzzle, “for heaven’s sake, not now. . . .” A hatch flies open and Tamara—Slothrop guesses: wasn’t Italo supposed to have the tank?—uh—emerges shrieking to denounce Raoul, Waxwing, Italo, Theophile, and the middleman on the opium deal. “But now,” she screams, “I have you all! One coup de foudre!” The hatch drops—oh, Jesus—there’s the sound of a 3-inch shell being loaded into its breech. Girls start to scream and make for the exits. Dopers are looking around, blinking, smiling, saying yes in a number of ways. Raoul tries to mount his horse and make his escape, but misses the saddle and slides all the way over, falling into a tub of black-market Jell-o, raspberry flavor, with whipped cream on top. “Aw, no . . .” Slothrop having about decided to make a flanking run for the tank when YYYBLAAANNNGGG! the cannon lets loose an enormous roar, flame shooting three feet into the room, shock wave driving eardrums in to middle of brain, blowing everybody against the far walls. A drape has caught fire. Slothrop, tripping over partygoers, can’t hear anything, knows his head hurts, keeps running through the smoke at the tank—leaps on, goes to undog the hatch and is nearly knocked off by Tamara popping up to holler at everybody again. After a struggle which shouldn’t be without its erotic moments, for Tamara is a swell enough looking twist with some fine moves, Slothrop manages to get her in a come-along and drag her down off of the tank. But loud noise and all, look—he doesn’t seem to have an erection. Hmm. This is a datum London never got, because nobody was looking. Turns out the projectile, a dud, has only torn holes in several walls, and demolished a large allegorical painting of Virtue and Vice in an unnatural act. Virtue had one of those dim faraway smiles. Vice was scratching his shaggy head, a little bewildered. The burning drape’s been put out with champagne. Raoul is in tears, thankful for his life, wringing Slothrop’s hands and kissing his cheeks, leaving trails of Jell-o wherever he touches. Tamara is escorted away by Raoul’s bodyguards. Slothrop has just disengaged himself and is wiping the Jell-o off of his suit when there is a heavy touch on his shoulder. “You were right. You are the man.” “That’s nothing.” Errol Flynn frisks his mustache. “I saved a dame from an octopus not so long ago, how about that?” “With one difference,” sez Blodgett Waxwing. “This really happened tonight. But that octopus didn’t.

Perhaps I ought to stuff up these sleeping things and go to bed. But I’m still too wide awake I’d only writhe about. If I had got him on the phone if we’d talked pleasantly I should have calmed down. He doesn’t give a fuck. Here I am torn to pieces by heartbreaking memories I call him and he doesn’t answer. Don’t bawl him out don’t begin by bawling him out that would muck up everything. I dread tomorrow. I shall have to be ready before four o’clock I shan’t have had a wink of sleep I’ll go out and buy petits fours that Francis will tread into the carpet he’ll break one of my little ornaments he’s not been properly brought up that child as clumsy as his father who’ll drop ash all over the place and if I say anything at all Tristan will blow right up he never let me keep my house as it ought to be yet after all it’s enormously important. Just now it’s perfect the drawing room polished shining like the moon used to be. By seven tomorrow evening it’ll be utterly filthy I’ll have to spring-clean it even though I’ll be all washed out. Explaining everything to him from a to z will wash me right out. He’s tough. What a clot I was to drop Florent for him! Florent and I we understood one another he coughed up I lay on my back it was cleaner than those capers where you hand out tender words to one another. I’m too softhearted I thought it was a terrific proof of love when he offered to marry me and there was Sylvie the ungrateful little thing I wanted her to have a real home and a mother no one could say a thing against a married woman a banker’s wife. For my part it gave me a pain in the ass to play the lady to be friends with crashing bores. Not so surprising that I burst out now and then. “You’re setting about it the wrong way with Tristan” Dédé used to tell me. Then later on “I told you so!” It’s true I’m headstrong I take the bit between my teeth I don’t calculate. Maybe I should have learned to compromise if it hadn’t been for all those disappointments. Tristan made me utterly sick I let him know it. People can’t bear being told what you really think of them. They want you to believe their fine words or at least to pretend to. As for me I’m clear-sighted I’m frank I tear masks off. The dear kind lady simpering “So we love our little brother do we?” and my collected little voice: “I hate him.” I’m still that proper little woman who says what she thinks and doesn’t cheat. It made my guts grind to hear him holding forth and all those bloody fools on their knees before him. I came clumping along in my big boots I cut their fine words down to size for them—progress prosperity the future of mankind happiness peace aid for the underdeveloped countries peace upon earth. I’m not a racist but don’t give a fuck for Algerians Jews Negroes in just the same way I don’t give a fuck for Chinks Russians Yanks Frenchmen. I don’t give a fuck for humanity what has it ever done for me I ask you. If they are such bleeding fools as to murder one another bomb one another plaster one another with napalm wipe one another out I’m not going to weep my eyes out. A million children have been massacred so what? Children are never anything but the seed of bastards it unclutters the planet a little they all admit it’s overpopulated don’t they? If I were the earth it would disgust me, all this vermin on my back, I’d shake it off. I’m quite willing to die if they all die too. I’m not going to go all soft-centered about kids that mean nothing to me. My own daughter’s dead and they’ve stolen my son from me.

Yrene’s eyes were still bright with those tears he’d caused. One still clung to her cheek. Chaol wiped it away. Another one he found down by her jaw. He didn’t understand—how she could be so delicate, so small, when she had overturned his life entirely. Worked miracles with those hands and that soul, this woman who had crossed mountains and seas. She was trembling. Not with fear, not as she looked up at him. And it was only when Yrene settled her hand on his chest, not to push him away but to feel the raging, thunderous heartbeat beneath, that Chaol lowered his head and kissed her.

Girls,” Kathleen said sharply, “bring that back here at once!” But it was too late. The receiving room’s double doors closed, accompanied by the click of a key turning in the lock. Kathleen stopped short, her jaw slackening. West and Helen staggered together, overcome with hilarity. “I’ll have you know,” Mrs. Church said in amazement, “it took our two stoutest footmen to bring that crate into the house. How did two young ladies manage to carry it away so quickly?” “Sh-sheer determination,” Helen wheezed. “All I want in this life,” West told Kathleen, “is to see you try to pry that crate away from those two.” “I wouldn’t dare,” she replied, giving up. “They would do me bodily harm.” Helen wiped at a stray tear of mirth. “Come, Kathleen, let’s go see what Mr. Winterborne sent. You too, Mrs. Church.” “They won’t let us into the room,” Kathleen muttered. Helen grinned at her. “They will if I ask.” The twins, busy as squirrels, had already unpacked a multitude of wrapped parcels when they finally allowed everyone into the receiving room.

What happened?” Even in the darkness, he could see her cheeks color in embarrassment. “I saw a spider. I know it was foolish to take a shot at the damned thing, but it frightened me. I hate being afraid.” “A spider,” he echoed like a half-wit. “You tried to shoot a spider.” Relief replaced his terror. “I thought you—” Mirthless laughter broke off his tirade. “You thought I tried to do myself in?” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Do you truly think I would take such a drastic measure after hearing a bit of unpleasant news? And if I did, that I would utilize such a messy, crude method? In such a case I would likely use poison…or leap from one of those high cliffs into the sea…” “Enough!” Vincent cut her off. “I am sorry I caused you undue alarm, my lord.” Her voice remained unnaturally brittle. “I merely wanted a few minutes of solitude, a peaceful nighttime walk. Y-you may return to your guest.” The

Eliza woke with a start at an unusual noise. Her eyes widened, her heart refused to beat, and she tried to muffle a scream. She stayed motionless, too afraid to move, to breathe. Eliza’s blood drained from her face and she tried to rouse her companions without frightening the horrid creature, afraid at any moment it would attack. “Kitty! Thomas!” she squeaked, staying still. Neither of them moved. She called for them again, louder this time. Thomas jerked and grabbed at the pistol underneath his side. He stalled for a moment, looking back and forth before his body shook with a bellowing laugh. Awake and giggling, Kitty rested on her elbow next to Eliza. “Liza, how do you always attract those creatures?” “This isn’t funny! Why isn’t it moving? Get it off of me!” Eliza squealed. Her plea only made Thomas laugh harder. How could they possibly find humor in this? “Please! Get it off of me, one of you. Why doesn’t it just leave?” Eliza covered her mouth and breathed through her fingers while the large gray squirrel stared at her from tiny black eyes. “Allow me to rescue you from this dangerous attacker, fair maiden.” Thomas reached over and shooed the animal from its perch on Eliza’s lower leg. It scampered away as Thomas continued chuckling and wiping tears from his eyes. He winked and his smile softened, but not enough to soothe the waves of Eliza’s embarrassment that crashed against her. She sat up straight and pressed her hand to her chest as she tried to calm the rapid thumping of her heart. Thomas pointed out the cave with a tilt to his voice that announced his teasing. “You could have been killed.” His winsome smile almost took away the shame. Almost. “I’m glad you were both so entertained.

Briette sighed. “I don’t think your intentions were bad, Sir Ansley. And in the end, you warned Calister of what the king planned to do. I simply have a favor to ask.” She smiled. “Which brings me to Calister.” Calister stiffened. “At your service, my lady.” Briette raised her voice so they would all hear. “At the castle, King Jarrod tried to have me arrested. Calister not only fended off the knights, he fought actually King Jarrod himself. A man nearly a foot taller and three times his weight. I have never seen such courage. Noble deeds deserve a noble reward, don’t you think? Calister… come here, please.” Calister crept toward her, uncertain. Briette carefully extracted the long sword she wore at her side. “I must ask you to kneel before me.” “Kneel?” Calister looked confused, then his eyes popped with understanding. “Oh!” He dropped to one knee. Briette lifted the sword and touched the flat of it to his shoulder. “Calister, do swear that you will honor and defend the kingdom of Runa under Princess Maelyn?” “I will,” said Calister. “That you will defend truth and justice, and strive to protect those weaker than yourself?” “I will,” said Calister. “And that you will uphold the noble ideals of chivalry to the benefit of your good name and the greater glory of our land?” “I will,” said Calister. Briette smiled. “Then, by the power invested in me, I now dub you Sir Calister, a knight of Runa Realm. Quite possibly the youngest knight this kingdom has ever known. You may rise.” Calister stood, blinking hard to hold back tears. “Th-thank you, my lady. I – I promise to be a faithful knight, and….” His face crumpled and he fell against Briette and squeezed her tightly. “Thank you, my lady!” “Bree. I am always Bree to you,” she said, returning the hug. She could see the servants over his shoulder. Rupy sobbed openly, Sir Ansley beamed with pride, Old Shivey nodded her head, and Havi wore a crooked smile. The duke, however, remained hard and impassive, his eyes turned away. Calister released her and wiped his eyes. Briette turned back to the group. “I will send for Calister in a few days. We shall make arrangements for him to be transferred to Lumen Fortress where he will continue his training with the knights there. Sir Ansley, I will rely on you to check on him regularly and see that he is progressing in his studies. Can you do this?” “Of course I can! Gladly!” said Sir Ansley. “Thank you. His lost hand is but a minor setback and I intend to have equipment made that will compensate for it. And please continue taking him to visit his mother. I’m sure she will be very proud of him.” Calister smiled, his face red. He rubbed his eyes again and laughed at himself. “I’m sorry, a knight shouldn’t cry.” “The good ones do.” Briette grinned and held out the sword. “Here. Take this as my gift to you. And wear it proudly! I’m sure you will have many adventures, Sir Calister.” Calister clasped the sword and bowed grandly. “I will strive to be worthy of this honor, my lady Bree.” “Oh, he’s adorable!” Miriella cried. Maelyn’s smile was more reserved. Briette hadn’t told her that she would knight a fourteen-year-old

Peer-oriented young people thus face two grave psychological risks that more than suffice to make vulnerability unbearable and provoke their brains into defensive action: having lost the parental attachment shield, and having the powerful attachment sword wielded by careless and irresponsible children. A third blow against feeling deeply and openly — and the third reason for the emotional shutdown of the peer-oriented child — is that any sign of vulnerability in a child tends to be attacked by those who are already shut down against vulnerability. To give an example from the extreme end of the spectrum, in my work with violent young offenders, one of my primary objectives was to melt their defenses against vulnerability so they could begin to feel their wounds. If a session was successful and I was able to help them get past the defenses to some of the underlying pain, their faces and voices would soften and their eyes would water. For most of these kids, these tears were the first in many years. Especially when someone isn't used to crying, it can markedly affect the face and eyes. When I first began, I was naive enough to send kids back into the prison population after their sessions. It is not difficult to guess what happened. Because the vulnerability was still written on their faces, it attracted the attention of the other inmates. Those who were defended against their own vulnerability felt compelled to attack. They assaulted vulnerability as if it was the enemy. I soon learned to take defensive measures and help my clients make sure their vulnerability wasn't showing. Fortunately, I had a washroom next to my office in the prison. Sometimes kids spent up to an hour pouring cold water over their faces, attempting to wipe out any vestiges of emotion that would give them away. Even if their defenses had softened a bit, they still had to wear a mask of invulnerability to keep from being wounded even further. Part of my job was to help them differentiate between the mask of invulnerability that they had to wear in such a place to keep from being victimized and, on the other hand, the internalized defenses against vulnerability that would keep them from feeling deeply and profoundly. The same dynamic, obviously not to this extreme, operates in the world dominated by peer-oriented children.

The sea,” he says, “gave up the dead which it had in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead that they contained; and the books were opened. Moreover,” he says, “the book of life was opened, and the dead were judged out of those things that were written in the books, according to their works; and death and hell were sent into the lake of fire, the second death.” Now this is what is called Gehenna, which the Lord styled eternal fire. “And if any one,” it is said, “was not found written in the book of life, he was sent into the lake of fire.” And after this, he says, “I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and earth have passed away; also there was no more sea. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from heaven, as a bride adorned for her husband.” “And I heard,” it is said, “a great voice from the throne, saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them; and they shall be His people, and God Himself shall be with them as their God. And He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and death shall be no more, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain, because the former things have passed away.” Isaiah

Bear fat for the burn. You will lie on your face.” Their gazes locked, laughter still shimmering in his. Seconds dragged by, measured by the wild thumping of her heart. He wanted to rub her down? Oh, God, what was she going to do? She clutched the fur more tightly. Hunter shrugged as if her defiance bothered him not at all and tossed down the pouch. “You are sure enough not smart, Blue Eyes. You will lie on your face,” he said softly. “Don’t fight the big fight. If my strong arm fails me, I will call my friends. And in the end, you will lie on your face.” Loretta imagined sixty warriors swooping down on her. As if he needed more of an advantage. Hatred and helpless rage made her tremble. Hunter watched her, his expression unreadable as he waited. She wanted to fly at him, scratching and biting. Instead she loosened her hold on the buffalo robe and rolled onto her stomach. As she pressed her face into the stench-ridden buffalo fur, tears streamed down her cheeks, pooling and tickling in the crevices at each side of her nose. She clamped her arms to her sides and lay rigid, expecting him to jerk back the robe. Shame swept over her in hot, rolling waves as she imagined all those horrible men looking at her. She felt the fur shift and braced herself. His greased palm touched her back and slid downward with such agonizing slowness that her skin shriveled and her buttocks quivered. So focused was she on his touch, on the shame of it, that several seconds passed before she realized he had slipped his arm beneath the fur, that no one, not even he, could see her. Relief, if she felt any at all, was short-lived, for he laved every inch of her back with grease and then tried to nudge her arms aside to get at the burned skin along her ribs. She resisted him, but in the end his strength won out. When his fingertips grazed the swell of her left breast, her lungs ceased working and her body snapped taut. He hesitated, then resumed the rubbing, diving his fingertips between her and the fur to graze her nipple. She wasn’t burned there, and she knew he pressed the issue only to drive home his point. She belonged to him, and he would touch her whenever and wherever he pleased. A sob caught in her throat. Once again she felt his hand pause. His gaze burned into the back of her head, tangible in its intensity. At last he withdrew his arm from under the fur and sat back. Loretta twisted her neck to look up at his dark face, not bothering to wipe away her tears, too defeated to care if he saw them. He set the leather pouch on the pallet beside her. For an instant she thought she glimpsed pity in his eyes. “You rub the rest, eh? And put yourself into the clothes.” With that, he rose, presented his broad back to her, and walked away to crouch by the only remaining fire. Loretta clutched the fur to her breasts and sat up, not quite able to believe he had left her alone to dress.

So why do these guys hate your guts?” “Because they believe strip-mining is a good thing. It provides jobs, and there are few jobs around here. They’re not bad people, they’re just misinformed and misguided. Mountaintop removal is killing our communities. It has single-handedly wiped out tens of thousands of jobs. People are forced to leave their homes because of blasting, dust, sludge, and flooding. The roads aren’t safe because of these massive trucks flying down the mountains. I filed five wrongful death cases in the past five years, folks crushed by trucks carrying ninety tons of coal. Many towns have simply vanished. The coal companies often buy up surrounding homes and tear them down. Every county in coal country has lost population in the past twenty years. Yet a lot of people, including those three gentlemen over there, think that a few jobs are better than none.” “If they are gentlemen, then why do you carry a gun?” “Because certain coal companies have been known to hire thugs. It’s intimidation, or worse, and it’s nothing new. Look, Samantha, I’m a son of the coal country, a hillbilly and a proud one, and I could tell you stories for hours about the bloody history of Big Coal.

For those who feel alienated from their sex, who feel like they can’t get warm in their bodies, no matter how many layers they put on, Jesus offers hope. Not the hope of a differently sexed body, but the hope of a new reality that no longer feels like labor pains. The transgender person I met after my talk in England thanked me for treating these questions with tenderness. But Jesus’s tenderness utterly surpasses ours. It’s the tenderness of the God who likens his love to that of a nursing mother (Isa. 49:15). We can trust our fragile bodies to this God, however out of joint with them we feel, because he loves us with an everlasting love. One day he will wipe away every tear from our eyes and make our groaning bodies new.

The Weeping Cloud (R) Level 1: Conjure a small cloud that weeps. Those who are touched by the cloud’s tears will experience increased Health regeneration and have Status ailments alleviated. Concentration and Mental Clarity will increase, outside influences will be wiped away. Size of cloud and efficacy of effects increase with Skill Level. Control increases with Skill Level.

Welcome on Who is "Nozipho Curve Babe" Book enjoy and learn in it you can bring your tissues to wipe tears if you can couse I'll tell you about my horrible Story that heppened in my life when I grow up by it I'M trying to give hope, motivate, impower and inspired those who stuck in pain, confusion, cursing God and condemming themself about this I say if I manage to accept and overcome this situation you can do it,you not alone mostly there's some good and better things after that fire you'll come out shine like a gold I'm a living testimony.Contineur reading to hear it all you can contact me about it and other book that l'm busy writing.

But this part of me …” Mor wiped at her tears with her free hand. “It didn’t matter as much, when my family disowned me. When they called me a whore and a piece of trash. When they hurt me. Because those things … they weren’t part of me. Weren’t true, and weren’t … intrinsic. They couldn’t break me because … because they never touched that innermost part of me.

It was the most affecting sight I have ever seen!” said Squealer, lifting his trotter and wiping away a tear. “I was at his bedside at the very last. And at the end, almost too weak to speak, he whispered in my ear that his sole sorrow was to have passed on before the windmill was finished. ‘Forward, comrades!’ he whispered. ‘Forward in the name of the Rebellion. Long live Animal Farm! Long live Comrade Napoleon! Napoleon is always right.’ Those were his very last words, comrades.

36Now one of the Pharisees was requesting Him to dine with him, and He entered the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. 37And there was a woman in the city who was a sinner; and when she learned that He was reclining at the table in the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster vial of perfume, 38and standing behind Him at His feet, weeping, she began to wet His feet with her tears, and kept wiping them with the hair of her head, and kissing His feet and anointing them with the perfume. 39Now when the Pharisee who had invited Him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet He would know who and what sort of person this woman is who is touching Him, that she is a sinner.” 40And Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to say to you.” And he replied, “Say it, Teacher.” 41“A moneylender had two debtors: one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. 42When they were unable to repay, he graciously forgave them both. So which of them will love him more?” 43Simon answered and said, “I suppose the one whom he forgave more.” And He said to him, “You have judged correctly.” 44Turning toward the woman, He said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave Me no water for My feet, but she has wet My feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. 45You gave Me no kiss; but she, since the time I came in, has not ceased to kiss My feet. 46You did not anoint My head with oil, but she anointed My feet with perfume. 47For this reason I say to you, her sins, which are many, have been forgiven, for she loved much; but he who is forgiven little, loves little.” 48Then He said to her, “Your sins have been forgiven.” 49Those who were reclining at the table with Him began to say to themselves, “Who is this man who even forgives sins?” 50And He said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.

Some people have the habit of leaving those hands that once wiped their tears.

One step at a time, Rei." He offers a reassuring look. "We've got this." A wave of tears assaults me, welling in my eyes. Those are words I've yearned to hear the most since I woke up with my head wiped clean. I wanted someone to console me and tell me everything will be okay.

Wrap those pretty lips around me, angel. Let me feel how good you can suck me.” He wipes the tears from my face. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you swallow my cum.

You know, I’ve been called strong and resilient before. And I used to think it was a compliment that I needed to be those things to be appreciated. But I get tired, too. I get emotional, even though I don’t show it like everyone else. But I’m exhausted. I want my life to be easy and uncomplicated.” A tear fell down her cheek and she wiped it away. I held her face between my hands. “I don’t want to scare you, but I’ve never felt like this before. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or us. I’m here, baby. Through thick and thin, I will be right here for you.

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SANGOMA IN Burgersfort & Jane furse[[+27°81°874°4558]].⓶BEST & GIFTED-TRADITIONAL HEALER IN MANKWENG, POLOKWANE,Loius Trichardt,Seshego, Lebowakgomo, Tzaneen,Lephalale,Bochum, Phalaborwa, Musina, Modimolle, Zebediela, Giyani, Mankweng, Senwabarwana, Dendron, Thohoyandou, Elim, Loius Trichardt, Botlokwa, Bela Bela, Naboom.MAMA PEACE&BABAMULO +27818744558 AM A TRADITIONAL HERBALIST HEALER / SANGOMA/ A SPELL CASTER AND A SPIRITUAL HEALER FROM THE MOUNTAINS OF KENYA . AM VERY GOOD WHEN IT COMES TO CASTING SPELLS, BRINGING BACK YOUR EX, STOP CHEATING PARTNERS AND FOR THOSE WHO WANT TO GET MARRIED, STOP COURT CASES AND DIVORCE, CLEANSING YOU FROM BAD LUCK AND AFFECTED HOMES, I HAVE A SPECIAL HERB FOR YOU WOMEN WHO BADLY NEED CHILDREN AND YOU HAVE FAILED TO GET PREGNANT. MEN WHO CAN’T PERFORM AND YOUR WEAK / SMALL IN SIZE COME FOR MY SUPER BOASTER AND BECOME A WARRIOR IN BED MATTERS. WHEN FRIENDS FAMILY RELATIVES AND IN LAWS ARE BECOMING A PROBLEM TO YOU COME AND I SORT THEM OUT FOR YOU IMMEDIATELY. I CAN TREAT DISEASES IN YOUNGER CHILDREN AND THE VERY OLD PEOPLE WITH PAINS AND BODY SORES. I CAN STOP YOUR MAN / WIFE FROM SMOKING AND DRINKING IMMEDIATELY. LOOKING FOR A JOB OR PROMOTION AND FAVOUR FROM YOUR EMPLOYER PLEASE SEE ME AND YOU SHALL COME BACK WITH A SMILE. AM A MATURE PAESON WITH EXPERIENCE SO I DEAL WITH SERIOUS MATURE PEOPLE. IF YOU HAVE BEEN BADLY AFFECTED BY VARIOUS HEALER WITHOUT GETTING HELP AND THOSE WITH UNFINISHED JOBS COME AND I WIPE YOUR TEARS. I PROFESSOR PEACE I CAN CAST A SPELL ANYWERE IN THE WORLD AND I WORK ON YOU FROM ANY PLACE YOU ARE IMMEDIATELY.CALL OR WHATSAPP MULO ON NB CONSULTATION / COUNSELING AND MINER TREATMENT ARE ALL Free +27818744558 PROFESSOR MAMA PEACE AM A TRADITIONAL HERBALIST HEALER / SANGOMA/ A SPELL CASTER AND A SPIRITUAL HEALER FROM THE MOUNTAINS OF KENYA . AM VERY GOOD WHEN IT COMES TO CASTING SPELLS, BRINGING BACK YOUR EX, STOP CHEATING PARTNERS AND FOR THOSE WHO WANT TO GET MARRIED, STOP COURT CASES AND DIVORCE, CLEANSING YOU FROM BAD LUCK AND AFFECTED HOMES, I HAVE A SPECIAL HERB FOR YOU WOMEN WHO BADLY NEED CHILDREN AND YOU HAVE FAILED TO GET PREGNANT. MEN WHO CANT PERFORM AND YOUR WEAK / SMALL IN SIZE COME FOR MY SUPER BOASTER AND BECOME A WARRIOR IN BED MATTERS. WHEN FRIENDS FAMILY RELATIVES AND IN LAWS ARE BECOMING A PROBLEM TO YOU COME AN PROFESSOR MAMA PEACE&BABA MULO +27818744558 AM A TRADITIONAL HERBALIST PEACE +27818744558 AM A TRADITIONAL HERBALIST HEALER / SANGOMA/ A SPELL CASTER AND A SPIRITUAL HEALER FROM THE MOUNTAINS OF KENYA. AM VERY GOOD WHEN IT COMES TO CASTING SPELLS, BRINGING BACK YOUR EX, STOP CHEATING PARTNERS AND FOR THOSE WITH UNFINISHED JOBS COME AND I WIPE YOUR TEARS. I MAMA PEACE I CAN CAST A SPELL ANYWERE IN THE WORLD AND I WORK ON YOU FROM ANY PLACE YOU ARE IMMEDIATELY.CALL OR WHATSAPP MAMA PEACE &BABA MULO ON NB CONSULTATION / COUNSELING AND MINER TREATMENT ARE ALL Free +27818744558

We were scared. We just had Reign, and I was already terrified of trying to be a good mother to one child. Then suddenly, we had two.” A smile breaks across her red lips, eyes distant with the memory. “But when your father laid eyes on you? When I watched him refuse to leave your side? All the fear left, and I knew you were ours. I named you Seraphina because your father’s name means smoke.” Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.  I hate crying. Loathe it with every fiber of my being. It makes me feel weak, exposed, like my heart is on display for the world to pick apart. I’ve spent years building walls, brick by brick, to keep all that vulnerability locked away. But now, as she speaks, those walls slide down a little, and I can feel the burn of tears in my eyes. And the worst part? I can’t even be angry at her for making me feel this way ’cause all I feel is love. “You are exactly who we expected you to be,” she mutters, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Our daughter. Nothing will ever change that.”  “Not even if I hate Shakespeare?” I counter, arching a brow as I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks.  She tilts her head back with a laugh, shaking it as she says, “Not even then.” Before we part, she pulls me into a hug, squeezing me a little tighter than normal.  Her parting words remind me why blood has never and will ever determine who my family is. “I know that weight on your shoulders is heavy. I can see it. When you’re ready, I’m right here, baby. I’m strong enough to help you carry it, always.

It is hard to write down in words the memories of those hours when I met Selma – those heavenly hours, filled with pain, happiness, sorrow, hope, and misery. We met secretly in the old temple, remembering the old days, discussing our present, fearing our future, and gradually bringing out the hidden secrets in the depths of our hearts and complaining to each other of our misery and suffering, trying to console ourselves with imaginary hopes and sorrowful dreams. Every now and then we would become calm and wipe our tears and start smiling, forgetting everything except Love; we embraced each other until our hearts melted; then Selma would print a pure kiss on my forehead and fill my heart with ecstasy; I would return the kiss as she bent her ivory neck while her cheeks became gently red like the first ray of dawn on the forehead of hills. We silently looked at the distant horizon where the clouds were coloured with the orange ray of sunset. 

process. There was so much more happening in the world, so many forces of greed pushing love to the side, and so many hidden agendas. Currently, people were both hurt and hurting others. Scars were still being made. Tears were still spilling over. Disappointments were still drowning hearts. Pain was still active. Within it all, however, God had a plan that ended in victory. Even though God had a plan to wipe away every tear, remove every scar and replace the ashes of a burnt-out life with a beautiful eternity, he also understood his future plans and promises meant precious little to those who were in the midst of suffering.

Was there anything in it?” she asked, not bothering to wipe the tear tracing the rim of her nose. “Our summer here, all those long walks and even longer conversations? When you kissed me that night, did it mean anything to you?” When he did not answer, she took three paces in his direction. “I know how proud you must be of those enigmatic silences, but I believe I deserve an answer.” She stood between his icy silence and the heated aura of the fire. Scorched on one side, bitterly cold on the other— like a slice of toast someone had forgotten to turn. “What sort of answer would you like to hear?” “An honest one.” “Are you certain? It’s my experience that young ladies vastly prefer fictions. Little stories, like Portia’s gothic novel.” “I am as fond of a good tale as anyone,” she replied, “but in this instance, I wish to know the truth.” “So you say. Let us try an experiment, shall we?” He rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, his expression one of jaded languor. His every movement a negotiation between aristocratic grace and sheer brute strength. Power. He radiated power in every form— physical, intellectual, sensual— and he knew it. He knew that she sensed it. The fire was unbearably warm now. Blistering, really. Sweat beaded at her hairline, but Cecily would not retreat. “I could tell you,” he said darkly, seductively, “that I kissed you that night because I was desperate with love for you, overcome with passion, and that the color of my ardor has only deepened with time and separation. And that when I lay on a battlefield bleeding my guts out, surrounded by meaningless death and destruction, I remembered that kiss and was able to believe that there was something of innocence and beauty in this world, and it was you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Almost. Warm breath caressed her fingertips. “Do you like that answer?” She gave a breathless nod. She was a fool; she couldn’t help it. “You see?” He kissed her fingers. “Young ladies prefer fictions.” “You are a cad.” Cecily wrenched her hand away and balled it into a fist. “An arrogant, insufferable cad.” “Yes, yes. Now we come to the truth. Shall I give you an honest answer, then? That I kissed you that night for no other reason than that you looked uncommonly pretty and fresh, and though I doubted my ability to vanquish Napoleon, it was some balm to my pride to conquer you, to feel you tremble under my touch? And that now I return from war, to find everything changed, myself most of all. I scarcely recognize my surroundings, except . . .” He cupped her chin in his hand and lightly framed her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Except Cecily Hale still looks at me with stars in her eyes, the same as she ever did. And when I touch her, she still trembles.” Oh. She was trembling. He swept his thumb across her cheek, and even her hair shivered. “And suddenly . . .” His voice cracked. Some unrehearsed emotion pitched his dispassionate drawl into a warm, expressive whisper. “Suddenly, I find myself determined to keep this one thing constant in my universe. Forever.” -Cecily & Luke

The imposter’s dead.” Adara froze as she heard the unfamiliar male voice through her prison’s door. “Are you sure?” her guard asked. “Aye. Lord Selwyn identified him himself. He was stabbed straight through his heart.” Adara felt her world shift at those words. Christian dead? Nay. It couldn’t be. The men outside laughed and began to celebrate. “Christian,” she breathed, her heart shattering in waves of bitter agony. He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t. “Open the door. Lord Selwyn wishes to have the queen join him so that they can set a date for her new wedding.” Never! Adara struggled to breathe as she glanced about for a weapon. There was nothing. But when the door opened, her rage took hold of her. “Damn you!” she shouted, then commenced to throwing every object toward the soldiers who entered. She couldn’t see clearly through her tears. All she knew was that she wanted vengeance on all of them. How dare they kill her Christian! How dare they! Sobs assailed her. She wanted to crumple from the excruciating weight of her grief. But she refused. So instead, she vented by pelting them with everything she could lift and launch. “Adara, cease!” She froze at the sound of a voice she hadn’t expected to hear. For a moment she thought she might be dreaming, until she blinked to look up into the most handsome face she’d ever known. She stared at the same blue eyes that made the tenderest of love to her. Christian. Her grip went lax and the candlestick in her hand fell to the floor. He was alive! She threw herself into his arms and held him close as giddy tears replaced her grief-induced ones. At least until her rage took hold again. “Damn you, you worthless, heartless son of a dog!” she snarled, pulling back to strike at his chest. “How dare you make me think you were dead! Don’t you ever do such a thing to me again.” Christian was stunned by her language and actions. “I didn’t know you could hear us through the door.” She struck him again on his armor, a blow that no doubt he felt not at all, but it gave her some degree of satisfaction. “Well, think better next time.” Her untoward anger amused him. Wiping the tears from her face, he kissed her tenderly. Phantom cleared his throat. “Need I remind the two of you that we still need to get out of this place before the guards regain consciousness?” “We are coming,” Christian said, pulling back from her and taking her hand into his. Two men brought the guards into her room and dumped them by her bed before they tied them securely. “How did you know where to find me?” she asked them. “Phantom has many unsavory friends who know every machination of Selwyn’s.” For some reason she didn’t doubt that.

Hayder didn’t bother checking the time when he left the condo. He banged on the closest door and waited with arms crossed, foot tapping. It opened a moment later on a tousled-hair Luna, who scowled. “What do you want?” “A lifetime supply of porterhouse steaks in my freezer.” Like duh. What feline wouldn’t? “Smartass.” “Thank you. I knew those IQ tests I took in college were wrong. But enough of my mental greatness, I need a favor.” “I am not lending you my eighties greatest hits CDs again to use for skeet practice,” she grumbled. “That’s not a favor. That’s just making the world a better place. No, I need you to watch Arabella’s place while I talk to the boss about her situation.” Obviously the rumor mill had been busy because Luna didn’t question what he meant. “You really think those wolves would be stupid enough to try something here?” Luna slapped her forehead. “Duh. Of course they are. Must be something in their processed dog food that inhibits their brain processes.” “One, while I agree that pack is mentally defective, you might want to refrain from calling them dogs or bitches or any other nasty names in the near future.” “Why? Aren’t you the one who coined the phrase ‘ass-licking, eau de toilette fleabags’?” Ah yes, one of his brighter inspirations after a few too many shots of tequila. “Yeah. But that was in the past. If I’m going to be mated to a wolf—” “Whoa there, big guy. Back up. Mated? As in”— Luna hummed the wedding march—“ dum-dum-dum-dum.” Hayder fought not to wince. Knowing he’d found the one and admitting it in such final terms were two different things. “Yes, mated. To Arabella.” “The girl who is allergic to you?” Luna needed the wall to hold her up as she laughed. And laughed. Then cried as she laughed. Irritated, Hayder tapped a foot and frowned. It just made her laugh all the harder. “It isn’t that funny.” “Says you.” Luna snorted, wiping a hand across her eyes to swipe the tears. “Oh, wait until the girls hear this.” “Could we hold off on that? It might help if I got Arabella to agree first.” Which, given her past and state of mind, wasn’t a sure thing. “You’re killing me here, Hayder. This is big news. Real big.” “I’ll let you borrow my treadmill.” Damned thing was nothing more than a clothes rack in his room. Indoor running just couldn’t beat the fresh adrenaline of an outdoor sprint. “Really big news,” she emphasized. He sighed. “Fine. You can borrow my car. But don’t you dare leave any fast food wrappers in it like last time.” “Who, me?” The innocent bat of her lashes didn’t fool him one bit.

Josephine, please wait,” he said. Even he could hear his voice catch in his throat. She turned to face him and wiped away a tear with the sleeve of her cloak. When he had been searching frantically for her, he had thought of what he’d say, of how he would apologize and beg for her forgiveness. But now his mind was blank and he was beginning to feel quite foolish, the one feeling above all others he detested . He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “Ye’re beautiful.” Josephine looked as though she either did not believe him or those were not the words she wanted to hear. He cleared his throat once, then again. “I did no’ want to think that about ye. I did no’ want to find ye beautiful.” “You mean you did not want to find me at all,” she told him. “I know you are against this marriage, Graeme. For what reasons, I do not know. I can only assume that you find me beneath you.” This was the most they had spoken to one another in years. She certainly did not mince words. Her words stung, but they were nothing but truth. No vehemence, no anger, just simply put. “That be true,” he said before quickly adding, “I mean, that was true.” He took a step toward her. “By now, I am certain me family has told ye that I can be a stubborn, hard-headed fool.” “I was able to glean that on my own,” she told him.

He reached his thumb out and wiped tears from my cheek. “Em, can we please go back to the way things were?” “Yes . . . definitely.” He pulled me into his chest. “I mean, Hunter Stevens? Really? That guy’s such a slimeball.” I wiped my tears and laughed into his shirt. “Come on, Desiree Banks? She’s a slut and everyone knows it . . . and those boobs, my god.” “For the record, I’m not really a boob guy. Well, I mean . . .” “I get it, dork! I can’t believe she was your first kiss.” He pushed my shoulders back to look at me. “Desiree wasn’t my first kiss.” “She wasn’t?” “No. I kissed Katy Brown in the seventh grade. We made out in the reading room in the back of the library.” He scratched his chin. “And then there was Chastity Williams, and then Lizzy Peters, and . . .” “Okay, okay, geez, I guess Desiree’s not the slut here.

Hey,” he said. She turned around and, as quickly, turned back. There had been tears on her face. He frowned. What was this? Trouble in paradise? “Hey,” he said, walking up behind her, squeezing her upper arm with his left hand. “What’s going on?” he asked her. “Nothing,” she said with a sniff. He turned her around to face him. He looked down at her pretty face and for the hundredth time thought, that damn Preacher. I bet he doesn’t know what he has here. “This isn’t nothing,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I can’t talk about it,” she said. “Sure you can. Seems like maybe you’d better. You’re all upset.” “I’ll work it out.” “Preacher do something to hurt you?” She immediately started to cry and leaned forward, her head falling on his chest. He put his good arm around her and said, “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay.” “It’s not okay,” she cried. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” “Maybe if you talk to me, I can help. I’m so good with free advice, you’ll be impressed.” “It’s just that...I care about him. But he just doesn’t find me...” Mike lifted her chin. “What, Paige?” “He doesn’t find me attractive.” “Bull.” “Desirable.” “Paige, that’s nonsense. The way he looks at you, he eats you with his eyes. He’s wacko for you.” “He won’t touch me,” she said, a large tear spilling over. That almost knocked Mike down. “No way.” She nodded pathetically. “Oh, man,” Mike said. He’d thought, everyone thought, they were doing it all night long. The way they looked at each other, like they couldn’t wait for everyone to leave so they could be alone, get it on. Those sweet little kisses on the cheek, the forehead. The way they touched—careful, so no one would see the sparks fly, but the sparks were flying all over this bar! The sexual tension was electric. “Oh, man,” he said again. He put his arm around her. “Paige, he wants you. Wants you so bad it’s showing all over him.” “Then why?” “I don’t know, honey. Preacher’s strange. He’s never been good with women, you know? When we served together, we all managed to find us a woman somewhere. I killed two marriages that way. But not Preacher. It was very rare for him to—” He stopped himself. He was trying to remember—were there women at all? He wasn’t sure; he knew Preacher never had a steady girl. He thought he remembered a woman here, there. It’s not as though he was focused on Preacher’s love life; he was too busy taking care of his own. He probably lacks sexual confidence, Mike thought. It would be hard for him to put the moves on anyone he felt he had to win over. “I bet he’s scared,” Mike heard himself say. “How can he be? I’ve practically thrown myself at him! He knows he isn’t going to face rejection!” She dropped her gaze, lowered her voice to a whisper. “He has to know how much I—” “Oh, brother,” Mike said. “I bet he’s not worried about rejection. Aw, Paige, Preacher’s so shy, sometimes it’s just plain ridiculous. But I promise you, Paige, I’ve known the man a long time—” “He said he’d trust you with his life. That he has...” “Yeah, we have that, it’s true. It’s funny with men—you can trust each other with your lives and never talk about anything personal, you know? Sometimes Preacher seems a little naive in the ways of the world.

Are you so scared you were going to run?” She nodded, and he ran a finger along the line of her jaw. “Let’s try to get through this,” he said. “Even if it works, there’s no way I can ever repay you,” Paige said. He just shook his head. “I don’t want anything from you, Paige. Except that no one ever hits you again. Ever.” Paige just had to touch his face. She put her small palm against his cheek and whispered, “You are such an angel.” “Naw. I’m just an average guy.” He laughed a little. “A below-average guy.” She shook her head and a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. Preacher carefully wiped it away. “It doesn’t make any sense to me,” he said. “If a man has a family like this—you and Christopher and a new baby coming—why? It seems like he’d do anything in the world to keep you safe, not hurt you. I wish...” He shook his head sadly. “What do you wish, John?” “You deserve to have a man who loves you and never lets you forget it. Someone who wants to raise Christopher into a solid and strong man, a good man who respects women.” He put his hand against her hair, grabbing a silky fistful. “If I had a woman like you, I’d be so careful,” he said in a whisper. She looked into his tender eyes and smiled, but it was tinged with fear and sadness. “Come here, let me hold you,” he said, pulling her to him. She slipped onto his lap, pulled up her legs and curled against him, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her back. She nestled like a little kitten against his broad chest. Preacher leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, his arms around her, holding her against him. All I have to offer is this, he thought. Help. Safety. We’ll get this bastard out of her life, she’ll grow strong and confident again. And then she’ll go. Somewhere down the line there will be a man—one who treats her right. But until then, sometimes she might need someone to hold her for a little while. And if it gets to be me, those few times, I’ll make the most of it. He sat like that until the small clock on the wall said that it was midnight. Paige had not moved in hours; she slept in his arms. He could stay there until dawn, just feeling her small body against his. With a deep sigh, he kissed the top of her head. Then he stood, carefully lifting her in his arms. She roused briefly, looking up at his face. “Shh,” he said. “Let’s get you to bed. We have a big day tomorrow.” He carried her up the back stairs and into his old room. Preacher lowered her to the bed, next to her son, and brushed the hair away from her brow. “Thank you, John,” she whispered. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I’m doing what I want to do.” *

A piercing cry came from the playroom. Preacher was on his feet at the same moment Chris came flying into the kitchen, holding his forearm with his other hand. He ran to his mother, with a look of pain and fear, his mouth open in a wail, tears on his face. Paige instantly drew him in, asking, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Preacher leaned over, pulled Chris’s hand away, saw the perfect outline of a juvenile mouth and, with an expression of sheer horror and disbelief, leveled his gaze at Bud. “Someone bit him!” “Aw, kids. They’ll work it out,” Bud said, waving his hand, as though leaving them completely unsupervised had nothing to do with him. Gin said, “I’ll get something for that,” and jumped up. Dolores left the table saying, “Ice. I’ll get ice.” Preacher gently drew Chris away from Paige and lifted him up against his broad chest. Chris put his head on Preacher’s shoulder and cried. He met Paige’s eyes and he was sure that despite his greatest effort to remain calm, his were ablaze. Paige stood, regally, Preacher thought with a touch of pride, and said, “We’ll be going now.” “Sit down,” Bud said sharply, and Preacher was as close as he’d ever been to coming completely unhinged. He passed Chris back to his mother as calmly as he could, then leaned both hands on the table, pressed his face close enough to Bud’s so that Bud actually leaned back a little bit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Paige had her bag over one shoulder and Chris lying against the other, headed for the front door. “We’re going to miss those steaks,” he said in a very menacing whisper. Then he picked up the fork he’d been squeezing and saw that it was a little bent. He bent it the rest of the way, folding it in half with one meaty hand. He dropped it on top of Bud’s salad. “Don’t get up.” By the time Preacher caught up with Paige, she was halfway down the walk toward the truck and already the women were fluttering out the door, calling after her. With no experience at this at all, having never before been in this position, Preacher knew what was going down. They were going to make excuses for Bud, maybe apologize for him, probably beg Paige to come back. He put a soft hand on her shoulder and she stopped, turning toward him. He reached for Chris. “Here,” he said, taking the boy tenderly. “Say goodbye. We’ll get settled.” He got Chris in the car seat while Paige and the other women were still on the walk. Each one of them took one of Paige’s hands, but she pulled out of their clutch. “Lemme see that arm, buddy,” Preacher said to Chris. “Aw, that’s going to be all right. Hey, how about pancakes? Breakfast for supper, huh?” He nodded and sniffed back tears. Preacher wiped a big thumb under each eye. “Yeah, pancakes. And chocolate milk.” Chris nodded again, a slight smile on his lips. Preacher