Wolf Positive Quotes

But the wind always swept my words away like cloud shadows, as if it mattered more that I said them, than who heard them.

Why should her lover, just because he is male, be in a position to judge her against other women? Why must she need to know her position and hate needing to, and hate knowing? Why should his reply have such exaggerated power? And it does. He does not know that what he says will affect the way she feels when they next make love. She is angry for a number of good reasons that may have nothing to do with this particular man's intentions. The exchange reminds her that, in spite of a whole fabric of carefully woven equalities, they are not equal in this way that is so crucial that its snagged thread unravels the rest.

The anthropologist Margaret Mead concluded in 1948, after observing seven different ethnic groups in the Pacific Islands, that different cultures made different forms of female sexual experience seem normal and desirable. The capacity for orgasm in women, she found, is a learned response, which a given culture can help or can fail to help its women to develop. Mead believed that a woman's sexual fulfillment, and the positive meaning of her sexuality in her own mind, depend upon three factors: 1: She must live in a culture that recognizes female desire as being of value; 2: Her culture must allow her to understand her sexual anatomy; 3: And her culture must teach the various sexual skills that give women orgasms.

Morality—like velocity—is relative. The determination of it depends on what the objects around you are doing. All one can do is measure one's position in relation to them; never can one measure one's velocity or morality in terms of absolutes.

If you only ever make a change when you’re unhappy, you’ll always be in the position of running away from something, never running toward it.

One does not escape that easily from the seduction of an effete way of life. You cannot arbitrarily say to yourself, I will now continue my life as it was before this thing, Success, happened to me. But once you fully apprehend the vacuity of a life without struggle you are equipped with the basic means of salvation. Once you know this is true, that the heart of man, his body and his brain, are forged in a white-hot furnace for the purpose of conflict (the struggle of creation) and that with the conflict removed, man is a sword cutting daisies, that not privation but luxury is the wolf at the door and that the fangs of this wolf are all little vanities and conceits and laxities that Success is heir to - why, then with this knowledge you are at least in a position to know where danger lies.

But once you fully apprehend the vacuity of a life without struggle you are equipped with the basic means of salvation. Once you know this is true, that the heart of man, his body and his brain, are forged in a white-hot furnace for the purpose of conflict (the struggle of creation) and that with the conflict removed, the man is a sword cutting daisies, that not privation but luxury is the wolf at the door and that the fangs of this wolf are all the little vanities and laxities that Success is heir to--why, then with this knowledge you are at least in a position of knowing where the danger lies.

She's a she-wolf. Her nature demands she's dominated, even if she tries to fight it. She'll listen to an amount of force – positive force, not negative force. But leave the run wide open with no boundaries and she won't listen to you at all. All she'll listen to is the call of freedom, even if it leads her straight into a trap. Stop thinking like a human. She's a wolf.

Our way–the Western Way–has always been a "work in progress." Questions of life and death, good and evil, justice and tragedy–these are never definitively settled, but must be addressed again and again as personal and public worlds shift and change. We hold our morals to be absolutes, but the context of our actions and decisions is forever changing. We are not relativists because we seek to re-evaluate again and again our most crucial moral positions.

Scholars of the Therin Collegium, from their comfortable position well inland, could tell you that the wolf sharks of the Iron Sea are beautiful and fascinating creatures, their bodies more packed with muscle than any bull, their abrasive hide streaked with every color from old-copper green to stormcloud black. Anyone actually working the waterfront in Camorr and on the nearby coast could tell you that wolf sharks are big aggressive bastards that like to jump.

Be blessed with an honest character, true heart. Wise, dignified people who value honesty stir away from dishonest, corrupt schemers. Great reward is not on titles, position, appearances, status or richness but the peace of one's heart and service to humanity. Peace of one's heart can mean far and away and not falling into any Machiavellian trap.

About three things I was absolutely positive. First, this person was a vampire. Second, there was a part of him- if that knife in his hand was anything to go by- that wanted to kill us. And third, he was my long lost, presumed-dead- "Uncle Vincent?" I breathe.

How do I get over him?” My voice is almost pleading. “By spending the next four months fucking someone in every position imaginable.

From time to time you'll see documentaries about low-ranked wolves who somehow rise to the top of the pack - an omega that earns a position as an alpha. Frankly, I don't buy it. I think that, in actuality, those documentary makers have misidentified the wolf in the first place. For example, an alpha personality, to the man on the street, is usually considered bold and take-charge and forceful. In the wolf world, though that describes the beta rank. Likewise, an omega wolf - a bottom-ranking, timid, nervous animal - can often be confused with a wolf who hangs behind the others, wary, protecting himself, trying to figure out the Big Picture. Or in other words: There are no fairy tales in the wild, no Cinderella stories. The lowly wolf that seems to rise to the top of the pack was really an alpha all along.

I really felt amazing overall---other than a few minutes ago in the shower. Pushing the thought from my mind, I focused on the positives. My senses were heightened now, like I'd been bitten by Peter Parker's radioactive spider. Only the guy who bit me was a mutated green beret. And instead of making me into a superhero, he'd doomed me to die of a brain hemorrhage.

and no one was to rise up negative about anything, one was to go positive with everything—go with the flow—everyone’s cool was to be tested, and to shout No, no matter what happened, was to fail. And hadn’t Kesey passed the test first of all? Hadn’t Babbs taken Gretchen Fetchin, and did

By now it was nearly noon and I was hungry, so we made a quick run to Mr. Burger, a tiny carryout place a mile down the road, and wolfed down lunch standing outside the cemetery shop. We positioned ourselves upwind from the coffin, but occasionally the wind would shift and the aroma of burgers would mingle with the aroma of the Bopper.

The beauty myth posited to women a false choice: Which will I be, sexual or serious? We must reject that false and forced dilemma. Men’s sexuality is taken to be enhanced by their seriousness; to be at the same time a serious person and a sexual being is to be fully human. Let’s turn on those who offer this devil’s bargain and refuse to believe that in choosing one aspect of the self we must thereby forfeit the other. In a world in which women have real choices, the choices we make about our appearance will be taken at last for what they really are: no big deal.

When I got inside, I just sort of stood there. There’s nothing stranger than the smell of someone else’s house. The scent goes right to your stomach. Mary’s house smelled like lemon furniture polish and oatmeal cookies and logs in a fireplace. For some reason it made me want to curl up in the fetal position. I could have slept right there on their kitchen table.

A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom, or a dove bereft of his mate, all die, it is said, of a broken heart; and who will aver that this grim bandit could bear the threefold brunt, heart-whole? This only I know, that when the morning dawned, he was lying there still in his position of calm repose, but his spirit was gone-the old king-wolf was dead.

My little donkey, if I hadn't shown up, your fate would have been sealed. Love has saved you. Is there anything else that could erase the innate fears of a donkey and send him to rescue you from certain death? No. That is the only one. With a call to arms, I, Ximen Donkey, charged down the ridge and headed straight for the wolf that was tailing my beloved. My hooves kicked up sand and dust as I raced down from my commanding position; no wolf, not even a tiger, could have avoided the spearhead aimed at it. It saw me too late to move out of the way, and I thudded into it, sending it head over heels. Then I turned around and said to my donkey, "Do not fear my dear, I am here!

Wolves regularly attacked their rivals in power, so the idea of killing to gain position was neither alien nor repulsive to her. The use of assassins she had filed as yet another of the curious tools - like swords and bows — that humans created to make up for their lack of personal armament. What she still had to puzzle through was the subtle strategies involved in killing those who were expected to inherit power rather than those who held the power itself.

I am proof positive that wolves write doggie-style...

Spread a little sunshine wherever you go.

Under cover of darkness, not a hundred men but three times that number slipped away from Hawkforte. Saxon and Norse alike, led by the Wolf and the Hawk, they took up position along the road that passed the lodge. By dawn they had so blended into the surrounding forest that as day came, the birds,deer, rabbits,foxes,and all the other denizens of the wood behaved just as they always did, with no awareness of the deadly presence come among them. Not long after, Dragon and Rycca rode out of Hawkforte.They made no secret of their departure or where they were bound. A spy would have had to be deaf and blind to miss what they were about.

My point is that you will keep your hands off my daughter if you value their current position at the ends of your arms.’ Rakov snorted. ‘That is somewhat unfeminine.’ ‘Not at all. It seems profoundly feminine to me.

The congressmen in the room just wanted to see them, to use their position to arrange a personal audience, to gaze upon them with their own eyes across the committee table, no more than four feet away, to shake hands with them, occupy the same space on this earth with them for and hour or so, fawn over them, pay homage to them, bathe in their magical aura, feel the radiation of their righteous stuff, salute them, wish upon them the smile of God...

Gannets I am watching the white gannets blaze down into the water with the power of blunt spears and a stunning accuracy-- even though the sea is riled and boiling and gray with fog and the fish are nowhere to be seen, they fall, they explode into the water like white gloves, then they vanish, then they climb out again, from the cliff of the wave, like white flowers-- and still I think that nothing in this world moves but as a positive power-- even the fish, finning down into the current or collapsing in the red purse of the beak, are only interrupted from their own pursuit of whatever it is that fills their bellies-- and I say: life is real, and pain is real, but death is an imposter, and if I could be what once I was, like the wolf or the bear standing on the cold shore, I would still see it-- how the fish simply escape, this time, or how they slide down into a black fire for a moment, then rise from the water inseparable from the gannets' wings.

He stared at Wolfe. "When you attack me you have to make it look real." Wolfe's face tightened. Kir sighed heavily, his lip curling up almost condescendingly. "I mean it, Wolfe." I wasn't surprised when Wolfe made no response. Clearly, he didn't want Kir to get hurt. Coming to the same conclusion I had drawn, Kir pulled back his shoulders, his own expression determined. There was a dark, mischievousness in his eyes, I didn't trust. "Fine." He shook his head, throwing Wolfe a warning look. "Then I guess I'll have to make you want to." When his long arm came out and caught me around the waist I squawked in undignified surprise and instinctively pushed against his hard chest as he crushed me to him, his other hand winding into my hair to bring my lips against his in a hard, punishing kiss. (...)Quite abruptly that muffled exclamation was given free reign as his body was wrenched from mine, soaring across the room and straight through the door. That's right. Straight through the door. Not the doorway. The door. I gaped in befuddlement at Kir collapsed around the wooden splinters of the door in the hall, groaning as he drew himself up into a sitting position. "Come on." I blinked down at the large familiar hand wrapped around my wrist and then up at its owner. Wolfe. A really angry Wolfe.

Position B: Wolves, as top predators, are a natural part of healthy, complex, self-regulating ecosystems, and removing most of them (the plans call for 80, even 100 percent reduction in certain management units) is only bound to screw things up. Without wolves, deer and moose numbers explode in unsustainable numbers, then crash, over and over. Wolves, too, are a valued resource on which trappers and subsistence hunters depend, and a multimillion-dollar cash cow attracting throngs of ecotourists and photographers. Their presence also offers inestimable aesthetic value to many residents, even if they never manage to see one. Besides that, shooting wolves from airplanes is just plain wrong and reflects horribly on the state’s image. Anyone who doesn’t see things that way is a nearsighted, beetle-browed, knuckle-dragging redneck.

Little girls for lack of anything better learn from what comes to hand. They do not lack facts; they lack a positive sexual culture: novels and poetry, film and jokes and rock and roll, written not to sell but to explore and communicate and celebrate, as the best male erotic culture is written.

People who don’t know think situational awareness means being aware of everything, which is just bullshit. It’s a total focus on things that matter—cover points, ambush positions, escape routes, weapons of opportunity, the stress tolerance of men—and a complete filtering out of things that don’t.

Yet to define genes by the diseases they cause is about as absurd as defining organs of the body by the diseases they get: livers are there to cause cirrhosis, hearts to cause heart attacks and brains to cause strokes. It is a measure, not of our knowledge but of our ignorance that this is the way the genome catalogues read. It is literally true that the only thing we know about some genes is that their malfunction causes a particular disease. This is a pitifully small thing to know about a gene, and a terribly misleading one. It leads to the dangerous shorthand that runs as follows: ‘X has got the Wolf-Hirschhorn gene.’ Wrong. We all have the Wolf-Hirschhorn gene, except, ironically, people who have Wolf-Hirschhorn syndrome. Their sickness is caused by the fact that the gene is missing altogether. In the rest of us, the gene is a positive, not a negative force. The sufferers have the mutation, not the gene.

These chicken chokers. Didn’t bother to read any feminist theory beyond that outdated Andrea Dworkin tripe. Nothing sex-positive. Nothing along the lines of Naomi Wolf. I come, therefore I am… No, whether a woman is a concubine to fuck or a damsel to redeem, she’s always just some passive object to fulfill a man’s purpose.

Traces of historical associations can long outlast actual contact. In the dense, subtropical forests from India across to the South China Sea, venomous snakes are common, and there is always an advantage in pretending to be something dangerous. The slow loris, a weird, nocturnal primate, has a number of unusual features that, taken together, seem to be mimicking spectacled cobras. They move in a sinuous, serpentine way through the branches, always smooth and slow. When threatened, they raise their arms up behind their head, shiver and hiss, their wide, round eyes closely resembling the markings on the inside of the spectacled cobra’s hood. Even more remarkably, when in this position, the loris has access to glands in its armpit which, when combined with saliva, can produce a venom capable of causing anaphylactic shock in humans. In behaviour, colour and even bite, the primate has come to resemble the snake, a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Today, the ranges of the loris and cobras do not overlap, but climate reconstructions reaching back tens of thousands of years suggest that once they would have been similar. It is possible that the loris is an outdated imitation artist, stuck in an evolutionary rut, compelled by instinct to act out an impression of something neither it nor its audience has ever seen.

The physiological effects of hunger alone stop us from fully engaging in the world and reaching our full potential. Our bodies and brains just don't function properly when they're deprived of nourishment. And since diet culture has been aimed primarily at women for the past 100 years, hunger could be seen as one of the most effective tools for suppressing female advancement. It keeps us thinking about things like waistlines and sugar substitutes rather than the need for social, political, and economic equality. Which is what led Wolf to famously write, "Dieting is the most potent political sedative in women's history." In other words, we cannot take on the world while we're hungry.

And then I went back into my room, locked into a sequence as perfect as a pattern, and I sat down on my great rock throne, invisible to the outside world but palpable beneath me, and from how my face felt I thought maybe I was crying, either because I didn’t want to do this or because I did, it was hard to tell and anyway I never would, who would believe me in either case and who would be there to believe me in all cases, it was a puzzle, I had yet to learn the way of the jigsaw, and so I positioned the rifle beneath my chin, it feels cold, like an actual thing in the actual present physical world, OK, there it is, I am here now, and then I lay down on my belly and listened to the rising squall beyond the door.

communications to your “almost” new client come from a position of strength—meaning that, as far as you’re concerned, the deal is already closed and the communication you’re sending is from the perspective of building a long-term relationship and doing more business in the future. Otherwise, you’ll come off as being desperate, and it will end up having the reverse effect.

For the white man to ask the black man if he hates him is just like the rapist asking the raped, or the wolf asking the sheep "do you hate me?" The white man is in no moral position to accuse anyone else of hate. Why when all of my ancestors are snake-bitten, and I'm snake bitten, and I warn my children to avoid snakes, what does that snake sound like accusing me of hate-teaching?

And since diet culture has been aimed primarily at women for the past 100 years, hunger could be seen as one of the most effective tools for suppressing female advancement. It keeps us thinking about things like waistlines and sugar substitutes rather than the need for social, political, and economic equality. Which is what led Wolf to famously write, “Dieting is the most potent political sedative in women’s history.” In other words: we cannot take on the world while we’re hungry.

I checked the position the car was facing. Grover had pulled off the road directly into the brunt of the storm, facing west. I felt the dampness on my right shoulder where the rain had forced its way through the cracked weather stripping around the car windows. “Yes.” “Hnnh,” Dan said. “Waziya. There is a message.” “What do you mean?” I said, slightly disconcerted. “Waziya is not good. He is cold and cruel.” “Waziya?” “The wind from the north.” Dan was pulling a small pouch from inside his shirt. It

There’s an old, Native American parable. It explains how everybody has two wolves constantly fighting inside each of us. The negative wolf—the wolf that tells you that you’re bad, you can’t do it, you’re a failure. And the positive wolf, which tells you, you can do it. You are worthy. You are loved. The wolf that wins is, very simply, the one you feed. When you indulge one of the wolves, leave it to go unchallenged, agree with it, don’t seek out evidence to oppose it, you feed it, and it grows stronger.

Every choice in life is a battle between two wolves inside us. One represents anger, envy, greed, fear, lies, insecurity, and ego. The other represents peace, love, compassion, kindness, humility, and positivity. They are competing for supremacy.’ “ ‘Which wolf wins?’ the grandson asks. ‘The one you feed,’ the elder replies.” “But how do we feed them?” I asked my teacher. The monk said, “By what we read and hear. By who we spend time with. By what we do with our time. By where we focus our energy and attention.

Pitkin untwisted to his normal position, focusing on Wolfe from under his brows. He sniffed. “You see what I mean when I say that life is nothing but bookkeeping?” Wolfe nodded. “It’s not too recondite for me. How about Miss Eads? Wasn’t her position essentially the same as Mrs. Jaffee’s? Wasn’t she also a parasite? Or had the interest she had recently shown in the business made her an earner?” “No. That was no service to the corporation. It was an interference.” “Then she had earned nothing?” “That’s right.” “And deserved nothing?” “That’s right.

Marshall was watching her again, and Jane’s skin prickled under his perusal. That was when Jane realized she’d made a mistake. Those freckles, his background—they’d all misled her into thinking that he was a quiet little rabbit. He wasn’t. He was the wolf that looked as if he were lounging about on the outskirts of the pack, a lone hanger-on, when in truth he had adopted that position simply so that he could see everything that transpired in the fields below. He wasn’t solitary; he was waiting for someone to make a mistake. He looked willing to wait a very long time.

Just as summer-killed meat draws flies, so the court draws spurious sages, philosophists, and acosmists who remain there as long as their purses and their wits will maintain them, in the hope (at first) of an appointment from the Autarch and (later) of obtaining a tutorial position in some exalted family. At sixteen or so, Thecla was attracted, as I think young women often are, to their lectures on theogony, thodicy, and the like, and I recall one particularly in which a phoebad put forward as an ultimate truth the ancient sophistry of the existence of three Adonai, that of the city (or of the people), that of the poets, and that of the philosophers. Her reasoning was that since the beginning of human consciousness (if such a beginning ever was) there have been vast numbers of persons in the three categories who have endeavored to pierce the secret of the divine. If it does not exist, they should have discovered that long before; if it does, it is not possible that Truth itself should mislead them. Yet the beliefs of the populace, the insights of the rhapsodists, and the theories of the metaphysicians have so far diverged that few of them can so much as comprehend what the others say, and someone who knew nothing of any of their ideas might well believe there was no connection at all between them. May it not be, she asked (and even now I am not certain I can answer), that instead of traveling, as has always been supposed, down three roads to the same destination, they are actually traveling toward three quite different ones? After all, when in common life we behold three roads issuing from the same crossing, we do not assume they all proceed toward the same goal. I found (and find) this suggestion as rational as it is repellent, and it represents for me all that monomaniacal fabric of argument, so tightly woven that not even the tiniest objection or spark of light can escape its net, in which human minds become enmeshed whenever the subject is one in which no appeal to fact is possible. As a fact the Claw was thus an incommensurable. No quantity of money, no piling up of archipelagoes or empires could approach it in value any more than the indefinite multiplication of horizontal distance could be made to equal vertical distance. If it was, as I believed, a thing from outside the universe, then its light, which I had seen shine faintly so often, and a few times brightly, was in some sense the only light we had. If it were destroyed, we were left fumbling in the dark.

I have to admit, for a second it was sort of turning me on, because I kept imagining Georgia in a very positive light. She was donning designer swimwear with fringe or whatever and she was lying on her stomach with the bikini-top straps untied. I was lathering her up with sun block and my hands were getting into all the cracks and crevices. The image got me pretty excited, and before I knew it, I had an erection. At first I thought it would go away, but it kept getting worse, like harder in that painful way. So that’s when I did something a little weird – I started barking at it. Like a Great Dane or a pit bull or whatever. I literally barked at my erection! And it worked, I’m not kidding.

The thing people don’t understand about an army is its great, unpunctuated wastes of inaction: you have to scavenge for food, you are camped out somewhere with a rising water level because your mad capitaine says so, you are shifted abruptly in the middle of the night into some indefensible position, so you never really sleep, your equipment is defective, the gunners keep causing small unwanted explosions, the crossbowmen are either drunk or praying, the arrows are ordered up but not here yet, and your whole mind is occupied by a seething anxiety that things are going to go badly because il principe, or whatever little worshipfulness is in charge today, is not very good at the basic business of thinking.

When you see someone attacking Plato – and many people do – you should understand that these people are defenders of psychopathy (especially of unrestricted libertarianism, a psychopath’s dream). They hate Plato and accuse him of being a totalitarian and fascist. Why? Because he was prepared to use the awesome power of the State to ensure that undesirables did not prosper, and certainly didn’t get to the top of society. All the opponents of Plato are extremist anti-Statists, whether they are anarchists, libertarians, predatory capitalists, free marketeers, liberals, or whatever. They are terrified of a designed, engineered society where the benevolent, wise State seeks to create the optimized State, and where psychos don’t get to weave their webs.

Arin had bathed. He was wearing house clothes, and when Kestrel saw him standing in the doorway his shoulders were relaxed. Without being invited, he strode into the room, pulled out the other chair at the small table where Kestrel waited, and sat. He arranged his arms in a position of negligent ease and leaned into the brocaded chair as if he owned it. He seemed, Kestrel thought, at home. But then, he had also seemed so in the forge. Kestrel looked away from him, stacking the Bite and Sting tiles on the table. It occurred to her that it was a talent for Arin to be comfortable in such different environments. She wondered how she would fare in his world. He said, “This is not a sitting room.” “Oh?” Kestrel mixed the tiles. “And here I thought we were sitting.” His mouth curved slightly. “This is a writing room. Or, rather”--he pulled his six tiles--“it was.” Kestrel drew her Bite and Sting hand. She decided to show no sign of curiosity. She would not allow herself to be distracted. She arranged her tiles facedown. “Wait,” he said. “What are the stakes?” She had given this careful consideration. She took a small wooden box from her skirt pocket and set it on the table. Arin picked up the box and shook it, listening to the thin, sliding rattle of its contents. “Matches.” He tossed the box back onto the table. “Hardly high stakes.” But what were appropriate stakes for a slave who had nothing to gamble? This question had troubled Kestrel ever since she had proposed the game. She shrugged and said, “Perhaps I am afraid to lose.” She split the matches between them. “Hmm,” he said, and they each put in their ante. Arin positioned his tiles so that he could see their engravings without revealing them to Kestrel. His eyes flicked to them briefly, then lifted to examine the luxury of his surroundings. This annoyed her--both because she could glean nothing from his expression and because he was acting the gentleman by averting his gaze, offering her a moment to study her tiles without fear of giving away something to him. As if she needed such an advantage. “How do you know?” she said. “How do I know what?” “That this was a writing room. I have never heard of such a thing.” She began to position her own tiles. It was only when she saw their designs that she wondered whether Arin had really been polite in looking away, or if he had been deliberately provoking her. She concentrated on her draw, relieved to see that she had a good set. A tiger (the highest tile); a wolf, a mouse, a fox (not a bad trio, except the mouse); and a pair of scorpions. She liked the Sting tiles. They were often underestimated. Kestrel realized that Arin had been waiting to answer her question. He was watching her. “I know,” he said, “because of this room’s position in your suite, the cream color of the walls, and the paintings of swans. This was where a Herrani lady would pen her letters or write journal entries. It’s a private room. I shouldn’t be allowed inside.” “Well,” said Kestrel, uncomfortable, “it is no longer what it was.

I told Archie I’m sorry I’m a little late,” she said. “I didn’t realize he would have to wait there for me.” It was a bad start. Since no client has ever called him Nero or ever will, the “Archie” meant, to him, either that she was taking liberties or that I already had. He darted a glance at me, turned to her, and took a breath. “I don’t like this,” he said. “This is not a customary procedure with me, appealing to a client for help. When I take a job it’s my job. But I am compelled by circumstance. Mr. Goodwin described the situation to you yesterday morning.” She nodded. Having settled that point, having got her to acknowledge, by nodding, that my name was Mr. Goodwin, he leaned back. “But he may not have made the position sufficiently clear. We’re in a pickle. It was obvious that the simplest way to do the job was to learn where the baby had come from; once we knew that, the rest would be easy. Very well, we did that; we know where the baby came from; and we are stumped. Ellen Tenzer is dead, and that line of inquiry is completely blocked. You realize that?” “Why—yes.

Confiding Julie, the first to get breasts, was cynical by Thanksgiving. Since no one else looked like the class slut, she was given the position, and she soon capitulated. She bleached her hair with Sun In, and started to mess around with boys who played in garage rock bands. Marianne, because she had long legs and a stem neck, rushed from school to her pliés at the barre, her hair in a bun, her head held high, to arch and sweep and bow toward the mirror until night fell. Cara delivered her audition piece flat, but since she had a wheat-colored rope of braid that brushed her waist, she would be Titania in the school play. Emily, bluntnosed and loud, could outact Cara in her sleep; when she saw the cast list she turned silently to her best friend, who handed her a box of milk chocolate creams. Tall, strong, bony Evvy watched Elise try out her maddening dimple. She cornered her outside class to ask her if she thought she was cute. Elise said yes, and Evvy threw a pipette of acid, stolen from the biology lab, in her face. Dodie hated her tight black hair that wouldn’t grow. She crept up behind blond Karen in home ec class and hacked out a fistful with pinking shears. Even Karen understood that it wasn’t personal.

There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those . . . we spent with a favorite book. Everything that filled them for others, so it seemed, and that we dismissed as a vulgar obstacle to a divine pleasure: the game for which a friend would come to fetch us at the most interesting passage; the troublesome bee or sun ray that forced us to lift our eyes from the page or to change position; the provisions for the afternoon snack that we had been made to take along and that we left beside us on the bench without touching, while above our head the sun was diminishing in force in the blue sky; the dinner we had to return home for, and during which we thought only of going up immediately afterward to finish the interrupted chapter, all those things with which reading should have kept us from feeling anything but annoyance, on the contrary they have engraved in us so sweet a memory (so much more precious to our present judgment than what we read then with such love), that if we still happen today to leaf through those books of another time, it is for no other reason than that they are the only calendars we have kept of days that have vanished, and we hope to see reflected on their pages the dwellings and the ponds which no longer exist.

Your family is one of the most powerful families of our people.” He frowned. “Which reminds me, why don’t you ever refer to Gregori as your uncle? He’s a brother to Lucian and Gabriel, so technically, he is your uncle.” “I guess I never thought about it. I don’t know him. We’re in London, and he’s here in the Carpathian Mountains and he’s never shown a tremendous amount of interest in me.” “He’s a Daratrazanoff, believe me, Sky, he’s interested in you. If you disappear, your family is going to come looking and they’ll be on the warpath. All of your family, especially Gabriel.” “Are you afraid of my father?” Skyler asked. “I’ve got news for you, honey, everyone is afraid of your father, and if they aren’t they should be, especially when it comes to you. Haven’t you noticed how protective he is of you? Your uncle Lucian is just as bad if not worse, and if anyone messes with one of those men or anyone they love, they answer to both of them.” Skyler bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Josef, for putting you in this position. I can’t turn back. I have to find Dimitri. I know I can do this. This plan is flawless. And we both knew— and counted on Gabriel and Lucian coming after me. I can go from here by myself, I really can.” Josef burst out laughing. “Now you really have lost your mind. If I let you do this alone, they’d really kill me.

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

Conservatism" in America's politics means "Let's keep the niggers in their place." And "liberalism" means "Let's keep the knee-grows in their place-but tell them we'll treat them a little better; let's fool them more, with more promises." With these choices, I felt that the American black man only needed to choose which one to be eaten by, the "liberal" fox or the "conservative" wolf-because both of them would eat him. I didn't go for Goldwater any more than for Johnson-except that in a wolf's den, I'd always known exactly where I stood; I'd watch the dangerous wolf closer than I would the smooth, sly fox. The wolf's very growling would keep me alert and fighting him to survive, whereas I might be lulled and fooled by the tricky fox. I'll give you an illustration of the fox. When the assassination in Dallas made Johnson President, who was the first person he called for? It was for his best friend, "Dicky"-Richard Russell of Georgia. Civil rights was "a moral issue," Johnson was declaring to everybody-while his best friend was the Southern racist who led the civil rights opposition. How would some sheriff sound, declaring himself so against bank robbery-and Jesse James his best friend? How would some sheriff sound, declaring himself so against bank robbery-and Jesse James his best friend? Goldwater as a man, I respected for speaking out his true convictions-something rarely done in politics today. He wasn't whispering to racists and smiling at integrationists. I felt Goldwater wouldn't have risked his unpopular stand without conviction. He flatly told black men he wasn't for them-and there is this to consider: always, the black people have advanced further when they have seen they had to rise up against a system that they clearly saw was outright against them. Under the steady lullabies sung by foxy liberals, the Northern Negro became a beggar. But the Southern Negro, facing the honestly snarling white man, rose up to battle that white man for his freedom-long before it happened in the North. Anyway, I didn't feel that Goldwater was any better for black men than Johnson, or vice-versa. I wasn't in the United States at election time, but if I had been, I wouldn't have put myself in the position of voting for either candidate for the Presidency, or of recommending to any black man to do so. It has turned out that it's Johnson in the White House-and black votes were a major factor in his winning as decisively as he wanted to. If it had been Goldwater, all I am saying is that the black people would at least have known they were dealing with an honestly growling wolf, rather than a fox who could have them half-digested before they even knew what was happening.

Kеttlеbеll Suitcase Rоw Thе first of the rоwing movements аnd thiѕ one iѕ ѕimрlе рrоviding уоu gеt your bасk in thе соrrесt position. Bend over аt thе hiрѕ еnѕuring thаt уоu mаintаin a flаt back аnd thаt your сhеѕt iѕ liftеd. Lооk dоwn at about 2 mеtеrѕ in front of уоu. Keep уоur fееt аt shoulder width араrt. Grаb the kettlebell with one hаnd frоm bеtwееn уоur lеgѕ аnd row thе kettlebell bасk tоwаrdѕ your оnе hiр. Yоur back ѕhоuld rеmаin ѕtаtiоnаrу аt a 45 dеgrее angle tо thе flооr during thе whоlе еxеrсiѕе.

Kеttlеbеll Puѕh Press Stand with уоur feet hip-width араrt. Hоld the kеttlеbеll handle in your right hand at ѕhоuldеr height, resting the bаll оn the bасk оf your wriѕt. Squat, then stand as you рrеѕѕ thе kеttlеbеll overhead (аѕ ѕhоwn in thе imаgе bеlоw). Rеturn to the starting position.

Barbie taught us a lot—sometimes more than we wanted to know. Her posture showed us that being sexual meant being immobile. It meant: walk on your toes, bust out, limbs rigid. Barbie would flash the white of her teeth, cock her head, swivel on her torso, half raise her smooth arm, but she could say nothing. For Barbie had no conceivable character or inner life. Barbie’s breasts and clothes seemed to blunt her personality. In Barbie’s life, events were merely excuses for ensembles. Her story could really go nowhere. Which meant, perhaps, that once we got over the excitement of getting provocatively dressed and then undressed, our story would go nowhere. We were fixated on Barbie, but we also despised her. The secret game in countless American basements and playrooms involved (and still does, I am told) little girls doing bad things to Barbie. Sometimes we would make her take positions that were ludicrous or that looked painful. Other times, we would pop her head off the rounded stump of her neck. While this was a nice, French Revolution sort of vengeance, it also scared us. It was scary because even when you held her body in one hand and her head in the other, nothing seemed much changed. After all, she had been made up of parts to start with. Even when fully assembled, she wasn’t whole. Her hands didn’t grasp, her feet didn’t walk, her face had no expression.

In accounting for the transformations in ideas and culture that reshaped the last quarter of the twentieth century, three sharply different explanations have been offered. The first posits a shift in the nation's core psyche and character. It was the "me decade," the journalist Tom Wolfe wrote famously in 1976: an age obsessed with self-referentiality. The nation, this line of reasoning argues, was caught up in an "age of greed," a new "culture of narcissism," a collapse of faith in public institutions, a pell-mell, selfish rush into a myriad of private lifestyle communities.

Comforted by the mountain of warm fur beneath her cheek, Sorcha stretched over the blankets. Then realized the warm pile of animal skins was moving. Breathing. Sorcha raised her head at the same time the wolf did, his muzzle leveled toward her face. Even with his humanity cloaked by the form of an animal, she saw his brows shoot up in his furry face. She jerked upright into a sitting position. “I am... so sorry,” she babbled. “I had no idea, and I would never use you like a pillow like that. Please accept my apologies.

The human buried within the wolf’s skin exerted every ounce of control he had and forced his wolf to move back, lest he frighten his best friend. Zev raised himself off Jonah on shaky legs and backed away into the corner. He rolled himself into a ball and whimpered quietly. He hurt. Every nerve ending in his body wanted to touch Jonah. He needed to claim his mate, but he couldn’t because Jonah was male and human. Zev had never known pain as intense as that which coursed through him as a result of the denied need to be with his mate, to tie together and join with him in all ways possible. “What’s wrong, Pup?” Jonah approached Zev with his hand out, palm up. He squatted down by the huge wolf and looked at him with concern. “Are you sick?” Jonah’s position brought his crotch dangerously close to Zev’s face. The young man’s enticing scent was strongest in that part of his body, and Zev couldn’t stop himself from raising his head and resting it in Jonah’s lap, sniffing at him and burrowing as close as he could through the protective barrier of his mate’s pajama pants. He rolled onto his stomach, hiding an arousal that he knew would frighten and repulse the human, but kept his head in place on Jonah’s thigh with his nose close to Jonah’s sex. With his mate near, he could feel Jonah’s heat, smell Jonah’s scent. They were together. It was enough. It had to be enough. For now. The last thought—an internal promise from Zev’s human to his wolf that the separation from Jonah’s body was only temporary—was what Zev’s body needed to soothe out the cramping that had taken over his intestines.

Lie on your back and close your eyes. Let me chase your fear away. With nothing to fear, there is no need to die, eh?” “No.” She tried to push him away. “No.” He slipped an arm under her knees and drew her down the bed onto her back. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to evade his lips as they nibbled their way down her neck to her collarbone. And lower. Panic welled within her. She couldn’t fight him. Not when she trembled like this. Not when the world tipped sideways. He slid the tip of his tongue under the leather to trace wet circles on her chest--just above her breasts. Her nipples sprang taut, sensitized to the soft leather that grazed them when she oved. Never before had Loretta actually felt the blood drain from her face; she did now. Sucking in a draft of air, she tried to twist sideways, but his arm, roped with muscle and tensed against her, blocked her escape. As she shifted position, his lips found her ear and, in unison with his teeth and tongue, learned its texture, its taste, its shape, discovering with unerring accuracy the sensitive places. His warm breath made chills run over her. “Habbe…” Her voice trailed off. She wanted desperately to distract him, but instead it was she who couldn’t seem to concentrate. “Your name, wha--what was it? Habbe what? What does it mean?” “Habbe Esa, Road to the Wolf, Hunter of the Wolf. My brother the wolf showed his face in my name dream.” “Y-your name dream?” She wriggled away and shoved the heel of her hand against his chin so she could sit up. “Wh-what’s a name dream?” His eyes gleamed down at her as he drew back his head. “A dream a man seeks when he becomes a warrior. In the dream, he learns his name. A woman has no need. She is named by others.” He dipped his head and captured her thumb between his teeth. Mesmerized, Loretta felt his tongue flick across her knuckles. Dear God, she was going to faint. And while she was unconscious, he would--he would…She felt herself tip sideways. His arm caught her from falling. He released her thumb. “Blue Eyes?” Loretta licked her bottom lip, trying desperately to right herself, to stay conscious. She couldn’t pass out--she just couldn’t. His face blurred. And his voice seemed distant. “Hah-ich-ka ein, where are you, Blue Eyes?” Loretta blinked, but it did no good. Was this how it felt to die? All floaty and distant from everything? Hah-ich-ka ein, where are you, Blue Eyes? She tried to answer. Couldn’t.

Why bother with me? Why not find yourself an Indian woman?” “It is you I want.” He brushed his knuckles along the hollow of her cheek. “Your skin is moonlight. I am dark like night next to you.” He slid his hand behind her neck and drew her toward him. “Sunshine in your hair, moonlight on your skin, this Comanche’s bright one, no?” “No,” she replied in a raw voice. “You will eat?” “No.” He bent to taste the flesh at the hollow of her throat, his lips silken, his teeth nipping lightly, his warm, moist mouth sending jolts through her. “Like ermine, mah-tao-yo. So soft. And sweet like flowers.” She wedged her fists between them, her knuckles knotted against the warm, solid planes of his chest. As she opened her eyes, the room spun. “Please--please, don’t. I’m not even sure what your real name is. Please don’t.” “Hunter,” he whispered next to her ear. “Hunter of the Wolf, Habbe Esa. Lie on your back, Blue Eyes. You are weak, eh? Lie on your back and close your eyes. Let me chase your fear away. With nothing to fear, there is no need to die, eh?” “No.” She tried to push him away. “No.” He slipped an arm under her knees and drew her down the bed onto her back. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to evade his lips as they nibbled their way down her neck to her collarbone. And lower. Panic welled within her. She couldn’t fight him. Not when she trembled like this. Not when the world tipped sideways. He slid the tip of his tongue under the leather to trace wet circles on her chest--just above her breasts. Her nipples sprang taut, sensitized to the soft leather that grazed them when she oved. Never before had Loretta actually felt the blood drain from her face; she did now. Sucking in a draft of air, she tried to twist sideways, but his arm, roped with muscle and tensed against her, blocked her escape. As she shifted position, his lips found her ear and, in unison with his teeth and tongue, learned its texture, its taste, its shape, discovering with unerring accuracy the sensitive places. His warm breath made chills run over her.

Just because you are anti-police, that does not necessarily mean that your whiteness has disappeared or that anti-Black racism is gone. Remember what James Baldwin told us, “White Americans find it as difficult as white people elsewhere do to divest themselves of the notion that they are in possession of some intrinsic value that black people need, or want.”5 Even Dr. King—yes, the one that even conservatives love to tout as the content-of-your-character caricature—argued that he was disappointed in the “white moderate” who “is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice . . . who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom.”6 White liberals are who we should be concerned about. Of course, Malcolm X warned us to be aware of the fox and the wolf—by which he meant that white liberals would try and be your friend in order to take advantage of you, but the wolf would always make clear its intentions and commit an act of violence. Finally, let’s not forget the words of South African and Black Consciousness movement freedom fighter Steve Biko, who wrote of white liberals: Instead of involving themselves in an all-out attempt to stamp out racism from their white society, liberals waste lots of time trying to prove to as many blacks as they can find that they are liberal.

The man who invites the wolf in over his threshold is no longer in a position to ask him to leave. That is a truth it were better none of us ever had to learn.’ BOOK THREE THE ROSE AND THE CHERRY Her lusty ruby ruddes Resemble the rose buddes; Her lippes soft and merry Enblooméd like the cherry: It were an heavenly bliss Her sugared mouth to kiss.

company is making a lot of money. Second, and more important, it would take a lot of the focus off of our company, and considering what we’ll be doing behind the scenes, we don’t need a lot of attention. The fact that Wally has found a hidden basement to put his real R&D lab in means we are less likely to be exposed, but the last thing we need is a lot of reporters trying to learn our secrets, and even worse would be the problem of industrial espionage. If we make it clear that we will license the technology, there’s not really going to be any point in anyone trying to steal it from us.” Allison nodded. “Okay, I see your points. What about patents? All of the stuff is patentable, right?” “It is, and I’ve already worked with one of the best patent attorneys in the world to get them filed on a global basis. It cost almost two million dollars altogether, but our corporation now holds patents on these designs and functions in every country. That was actually a little tricky, because some of the other appliance manufacturers have been working on some similar devices for a while, but we found loopholes that let us claim many of the functions entirely as our own. We did have to refer to some prior art, so there will be a relatively small amount of royalties to pay out each year.” “As long as we are protected,” Allison said. “Now, fill me in on my job here. What am I supposed to be doing?” “As COO, your job is to oversee our business operations, which includes reporting back to Noah on any issues or developments. I’ll actually handle most of that for you, but I want to brief you at least a couple times a week on what’s happening with the business. That way, if you find yourself in a position of having to answer questions, you’ll know what to say.” Allison grinned and looked at Noah. “Sounds like you have it all figured out,” she said. “This is actually a brilliant idea, Noah. Setting up a business like this to cover activities is very smart. It will also give us a way to receive payments for our services.” “Payments?” Noah asked. “I set this up so that we wouldn’t have to worry about getting a budget from the government.” Allison’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t think we’re going to work for free, do you? Every time we handle a mission, there will be a payment of half a million dollars. That’s the deal I worked out with

Delta wolves, rank at the fourth position in a pack not because they are less capable, but because these are the lone wolves of the pack and value their freedom. They perform their duty to the pack as messengers to the Beta wolves protecting the pack from outer threat. You are a free bird and don’t like to be held responsible. You are fun and relaxed. You can also be careless, but at the end of the day you are always there for people whenever they need you.

position.

For the white man to ask the black man if he hates him is just like the rapist asking the raped, or the wolf asking the sheep, ‘Do you hate me?’ The white man is in no moral position to accuse anyone else of hate! “Why, when all of my ancestors are snake-bitten, and I’m snake-bitten, and I warn my children to avoid snakes, what does that snake sound like accusing me of hate-teaching?

That was the problem with low paid jobs like security; you just couldn’t find powerful Fae who would take the positions. Which meant when a tough bitch with more than her fair share of magical brawn like me came along, the poor suckers didn’t stand a chance.

..my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, the womb.

...my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, thee womb.

It was about the sexiest thing Conall had ever seen. While her gown had hidden most of her as she'd carried it out of the water, and she'd turned away quickly after laying it over the boulder, there was nothing hiding her assets now. Her shift was as good as useless, the nearly transparent material clinging to her curves as her position thrust her breasts into the air. Her nipples were small pebbles peaking the cloth. They looked to be as hard as they had been when he'd caressed her and now he wondered if it had been him or the cold that had brought on that result earlier.

Claray had not been made to spend her life on her knees in prayer. The lass had too much passion in her for that. So, he would marry her, reclaim his name, title and home and set to work filling her belly with bairns. The thought made him smile, and imagining all the ways to accomplish the task of filling her belly, all the positions and places he could do so, helped pass the time as they continued their ride through the long day and the evening that followed.

DELTA 451 to 600 Delta wolves, rank at the fourth position in a pack

he stationed himself where writers are supposed to station themselves, off to the side, observing, never quite belonging. It’s lonely, but the social position did allow him a glimpse of what was emerging—that the new coastal elites had made themselves insufferable to working-class Americans, and that sooner or later there would be hell to pay.

He brought his other hand to my belly, cupping it from both sides. The position we were in was more proximate than suitable for a workplace, but there was no part of me that felt the urge to ask him to step away. My breaths came in short pants, and Elliot’s warmed the parts of my belly he wasn’t touching. “She’s been hearing my voice all this time,” he murmured. “Yep. I’d say she’s formed an opinion of you.” My fingers twitched again, this time with the need to run them through his thick, dark hair and ruffle it up a little. “Lucky for me, she won’t be able to tell me for a couple years.” I laughed again, jouncing my belly. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. She won’t be hanging around the office too much.” I hoped. If I didn’t figure out how to afford day care along with my house payments and the contractor, I might have to put Baby Girl in my drawer and cross my fingers Elliot didn’t notice. Just like that, a bucket of cold reality splashed over me. “Right.” He shook his head. “Right, of course.” Like reality had fallen on him too, Elliot rose to his feet and circled to the other side of his desk. He stood there, focused on his screen, clicking his mouse.

Un-fucking-able to think. Her lips fell away from mine, and she was a foot away, covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with horror. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. That was—won’t happen again. I’m so, so sorry.” The moment she turned to run, my brain came back online. She was leaving, thinking she had something to be sorry about. That wasn’t even close to the case. Arm snapping out, I captured her by the nape, spinning her into my chest. We collided with a huff of her breath, her breasts pillowing against my upper abdomen. Not giving her another second to berate herself for reading me, the situation, my feelings wrong, I dipped down and covered her mouth with mine. My fingers dug into the back of her hair, and hers fisted the sides of my T-shirt. It was all I could do not to crush her against me and drink from her lips now that I had her in this position, but I restrained myself, kissing her slowly, urging her mouth to move with mine with the sweep of my tongue along her upper lip. I tasted her sweetness, sucking it into my bloodstream. Tangled my fingers in her thick, wild locks. Clamped my arm around her waist, holding her as close as I could in this position. Catherine kissed me back with timid caresses at first, but soon, she became more sure, snuggling closer, sucking deeper, sighing her breath into my lungs.

forward, intending to give the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder or mutter some word of apology. He never saw the wolf, where it was or how it came at him. One moment he was walking toward Snow and the next he was flat on his back on the hard rocky ground, the book spinning away from him as he fell, the breath going out of him at the sudden impact, his mouth full of dirt and blood and rotting leaves. As he tried to get up, his back spasmed painfully. He must have wrenched it in the fall. He ground his teeth in frustration, grabbed a root, and pulled himself back to a sitting position. “Help me,” he said to the boy, reaching up a hand. And suddenly the wolf was between them. He did not growl. The damned thing never made a sound. He only looked at him

An organization once offered a bounty of five thousand dollars apiece for wolves that were captured alive. Enticed by the idea of such money, Sam and Jed eagerly set out through the forests and into the mountains in search of the animals that could secure their fortune. They fell asleep under the stars one night, exhausted after days of enthusiastic hunting. Sam awoke in the middle of the night and saw about fifty wolves surrounding him and Jed—hungry wolves, baring their teeth, with their eyes glistening at the thought of easy human prey. Realizing what was going on, Sam nudged his friend and said eagerly, “Jed, wake up! We’re rich!”1 A positive attitude enables you to make the best of every situation, and that gives you power over your circumstances instead of allowing your circumstances to have power over you. This was certainly true for Sam. While most people would be terrified when surrounded by a wolf pack, Sam saw the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Make a commitment today to be a positive person. The more positive you are, the more powerful you’ll be.

Hearing the unattractive squirt of the creamy lube—the scent of cherry filling the air—Kris shuddered, and Rafe slipped his slick fingers past his painfully erect cock and his achingly tight balls to probe, caress, and slide across his crease to tease his puckered hole beyond, already winking in anticipation of taking in the huge uncut cock poking his thigh. Sighing with a nerve-racking vibration, Kris let the massaging finger play with him, Rafe teasing with his tongue in the same twisting way in his mouth till he was moaning into the kiss, breathless and heady. “I’m going to take you until you scream, honey,” Rafe murmured into the kiss, positioning himself lower between Kris’s legs, lifting his hips with his non-questing hand, and placing a firm pillow under his hips and lower back.

Truman had been able to govern the country with the cooperation of a relatively small number of Wall Street lawyers and bankers.' Huntington concludes (regretfully) this was no longer possible by the late sixties. Why not? Presidential authority was eroded. There was a broad reappraisal of governmental action and 'morality' in the post-Vietnam/post-Watergate era among political leaders who, like the general public, openly questioned 'the legitimacy of hierarchy, coercion, discipline, secrecy, and deception—all of which are, in some measure,' according to Huntington, 'inescapable attributes of the process of government.' Congressional power became more decentralized and party allegiances to the administration weakened. Traditional forms of public and private authority were undermined as 'people no longer felt the same compulsion to obey those whom they had previously considered superior to themselves in age, rank, status, expertise, character, or talents.' ¶ Throughout the sixties and into the seventies, too many people participated too much: 'Previously passive or unorganized groups in the population, blacks, Indians, Chicanos, white ethnic groups, students, and women now embarked on concerted efforts to establish their claims to opportunities, positions, rewards, and privileges, which they had not considered themselves entitled [sic] before. [Italics mine.] ¶ Against their will, these 'groups'—the majority of the population—have been denied 'opportunities, positions, rewards and privileges.' More democracy is not the answer: 'applying that cure at the present time could well be adding fuel to the flames.' Huntington concludes that 'some of the problems in governance in the United States today stem from an excess of democracy...Needed, instead, is a greater degree of moderation in democracy.' ¶ '...The effective operation of a democratic political system usually requires some measure of apathy and non-involvement on the part of some individuals and groups. In the past, every democratic society has had a marginal population, of greater or lesser size, which has not actively participated in politics. In itself, this marginality on the part of some groups is inherently undemocratic but it is also one of the factors which has enabled democracy to function effectively. [Italics mine.]' ¶ With a candor which has shocked those trilateralists who are more accustomed to espousing the type of 'symbolic populism' Carter employed so effectively in his campaign, the Governability Report expressed the open secret that effective capitalist democracy is limited democracy! (See Alan Wolfe, 'Capitalism Shows Its Face.')

My good heart and empathetic personality were assumed by many as a weakness. I was unwarily and widely opening doors to my sponge-like heart for people with a strict intent to take advantage of me. I was considered naive and gullible. My charitable practices caused me more pains and heartaches than a long expected feeling of joy, fulfillment, and satisfaction. Dealing with constant depreciation, disrespect, and in few cases even abused, I was being left feeling wronged and victimized. Such treatment sent me into a low-vibration state of mind and ever since I have been attracting and letting all the wrong and toxic people in to my life. In the effect, inadvertently and totally unconsciously, I neglected and deprived myself from having what I deserved best: - true and unconditional love, respect and gratitude. By constantly placing me at "second place”, I depleted myself from positive energy, neglected my own life; its desires, needs, and ended up running on empty. I started losing touch with my own creative inspiration, and my artistic originality suffered a great deal. I started noticing that I was left with no fuel to properly nourish my own body, soul and mind. It is time for me to take charge of my life, place myself first before anyone else, let go of all the “wolfs in sheep’s garment”, and rebuild my dwindling self-esteem. It is time for me to heal and rebuild my essence, give myself proper love, balanced nutrition and attention, and feel again that strong desire to live my life to the fullest. It is time for me to reconstitute, refocus and re-center in order to achieve a blissful feeling of inner peace. I understand that this new development may disappoint some of my "friends" and associates who are used to my giving nature. They will have to accept my transformation given that I cannot go on with my life running on empty, especially since most of my actions remain usually non-reciprocated. It is time for Alex to finally be able to distinguish between those that are really in need and those that are just pure pococurante parasites or scavengers, always expecting of me to cater to their every single need. It is time for me to say "no" to those who under false pretenses entered my sensitive and charitable heart only to take advantage of it and who are always taking but never giving.

Quite a few soldiers . . . had ended up spending some time wrapped around each other, alone in the night. Most often, it was just for the touch of another person and not in the pursuit of an entangling relationship. In fact, when it happened there was usually an unspoken covenant which existed between soldiers to just forget whatever had happened and move on, as many preferred not to talk about how you secretly needed to curl up in basically the fetal position, tucked away with another psychologically damaged human, deep in the bowels of your tin-can refuge from the deep black, just to get through another week of it all.

Everything under control out there, Carter?" "You could say that," Carter said from his position behind the hotel. "I just escorted a ninety-year-old woman to her car. She pinched my ass and dropped a quarter into my back pocket as a tip.

This is a work of fiction containing dragons, talking birds, wizards, and robot spiders. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.     If you obtained this book illegally and enjoyed it, at least leave a positive review somewhere. Thanks for reading!

Our Claimed is worth every bit of worship,” Ames whispered, positioning his hand on the inside of my thigh. My cheeks flushed at their collective praise. Individually, they were each anything and everything I could ever want. Together, they were unreal in their intensity.

Supposing him to have lived, he was by definition the Master of Power. Which means the transcendence of reality, and includes the negation of time. Isn’t that correct?’ I nodded. ‘Then there is nothing to prevent him, from a position, say, of thirty thousand years ago, coming into what we call the present. Dead or not, if he ever existed, he could be around the next bend of the street or the next turn of the week.

I was choosing to be alone then; it was not the inescapable consequence of the wolf’s death, nor even a carefully considered decision. I was embracing my solitude, courting my pain. It was not the first time I had chosen such a course. I handled that thought carefully, for it was sharp enough to kill me. I had chosen my isolated years with Hap in my cabin. No one forced me into that exile. The irony was that it had been the granting of my often-voiced wish. Throughout my youth, I had always asserted that what I truly wished was to live a life where I could make my own choices, independent of the “duties” of my birth and position. It was only when fate granted that to me that I realized the cost of it. I could set aside my responsibilities to others and live my life as I pleased only when I also severed my ties to them. I could not have it both ways. To be part of a family, or a community, is to have duties and responsibilities, to be bound by the rules of that group. I had lived apart from that for a time, but now I knew that had been my choice. I had chosen to renounce my responsibilities to my family, and accepted the ensuing isolation as the cost. At the time, I had insisted to myself that fortune had forced me into that role. Just as I was making a choice now, even though I tried to persuade myself I was but following the inescapable path fate had set out for me. To recognize you are the source of your own loneliness is not the cure for it. But it is a step toward seeing that it is not inevitable, and that such a choice is not irrevocable.

I think that students tend to dislike what they are made to read i class, and I would hate to see science fiction and fantasy lifted out of its position as sort of a criminal genre and given academic respectability, because I think that when it hails academic respectability a great many people are going to say it's dull I don't want to read that. I read pulp magazines in the period when kids who read pulp magazines frequently had to do it under the covers with a flashligth, because their parents would not let them read pulp magazines. They as a result wanted very much to read the magazines.

To that end, NLP has distilled the entire state management process into two core elements, both of which are under a person’s conscious control. The first of these two elements is: What you choose to focus on. In essence, at any particular moment, you have the ability to choose the precise direction of your focus; and based on that choice, you’ll fall into a state that’s congruent with what you’ve chosen to focus on. For example, if you spend the next few minutes focusing on everything that’s great in your life—a recent business success, being in a loving relationship, the health of your children, a recent goal you achieved, a family getaway—then you’ll quickly pop into a positive,

BETA 151 to 300 Second only to Alpha wolves are Beta wolves in a pack. These wolves, rank in one of the most respected positions in a pack. Beta wolves are hunters of the pack and are every bit as able as Alpha wolves, they even leading the pack in their absence. These are also the protectors of the pack You are smart and relaxed, but can take control at any moment. You know your abilities. You are caring and loyal. ◆◆◆

There was barely enough food for everyone. Stacy was positive each wolf could have eaten at least triple the portion she doled out, but the new wolves seemed grateful, and everyone finished their meals . . . even the Brussels sprouts.

So both your names mean wolf,” said Hampus. “You’re Wolf Wolf.” “It’s a common enough name,” said Ulf. “There are other names that refer to animals.” Blomquist frowned. “Not many. You don’t come across many people called ‘Dog’ or ‘Horse,’ do you?” Ulf felt himself becoming irritated. Both Ulf and Varg were perfectly good names and somebody called Hampus was hardly in a position to question the names of others. Hampus...what a ridiculous name that was—not that he would ever dream of drawing attention to it.

Going into the kitchen to start dinner, Helen left Nico in the company of his male relatives. She could hear her son telling them about the mare he helped give birth earlier and about the difficulties both him and the mother-to-be had to overcome because the fawn was placed in a position that endangered both his and the mare’s life.

The third most respected rank of the pack is of teachers. Sigma wolves teach the wolf pups about hunting and other important survival tricks. They are the mind of the pack. You are intelligent and wise. You are certainly brainier than brawny. You always understand and guide your friends in a way best for ◆◆◆ DELTA 451 to 600 Delta wolves, rank at the fourth position in a pack not because they are less capable, but because these are the lone wolves of the pack and value their freedom. They perform their duty to the pack as messengers to the Beta wolves protecting the pack from outer threat. You are a free bird and don’t like to be held responsible. You are fun and relaxed. You can also be careless, but at the end of the day you are always there for people whenever they need you. ◆◆◆ OMEGA 601 to 750 Omega wolves are the lowest ranking wolves. They take care of the wolf pups and nurture them. The male and female omega wolves are the last to eat the prey after the hunt. You have a caring and helpful nature. You are kind to people without asking anything in return. People might not know your value, but you do. So you have found your position

I can give you a very good life, Kate. London, Paris. Anywhere. All you need to do is fulfill the desire that I think you already feel. We both do." Her heart was pounding, her cheeks flaming crimson. Never in all her life did she think she, Kate Madsen, would receive an indecent proposition from a worldly, gorgeous, and fabulously wealthy duke. At first, she was so embarrassed and confused she could not even look at him. She did not want him to see in her eyes that he already had her half-seduced, and had since the night of her arrival. She swallowed hard. "Your Grace---I am a virgin." "I realize that," he purred, "and it pleases me. You do not doubt that I can be gentle with you?" "No---it's not that." She couldn't believe he was doing this to her, putting her in this position---and worse, that she didn't mind that much. Indeed, nothing sounded sweeter than for him to lay her down tonight and make all her problems go away in a luxurious night of pleasure. But he was offering her far more than just one night. The chance to keep him in her life for some period of time into the foreseeable future was a thrilling prospect. It was the proof she had been seeking that this hard, unyielding man did care for her, in his own way. "What are your thoughts?" he asked. Kate peeked at him shyly from under her lashes. It wasn't marriage, which she believed she could probably find without too much trouble. Safe, boring, biddable men were easy enough to come by---but Rohan? A fierce, wild creature like a wolf? "Belong to me," he whispered, staring into her eyes.

You are in no position to tell me what you will do, little wolf.

BETA 151 to 300 Second only to Alpha wolves are Beta wolves in a pack. These wolves, rank in one of the most respected positions in a pack. Beta wolves are hunters of the pack and are every bit as able as Alpha wolves, they even leading the pack in their absence. These are also the protectors of the pack You are smart and relaxed, but can take control at any moment. You know your abilities. You are caring and loyal.