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After Death.txt

this is not an outpost of Hell. Nevertheless, there is no safe neighborhood these days, and any homeboy with an active imagination might be as interested in a duffel bag as in the flash of a solid-gold Rolex. This is a residential district where precious illumination is allowed in a time of shortages; however, the lampposts are old and insufficiently bright, and the milky globes atop a number of them have been shot out or broken with stones. The street trees are nearly as old as the city and have not been properly maintained in decades; through the intricate thatchery of branches, the veiled glow of the westering moon is reduced to a stippling of gray light on the otherwise dark sidewalk. When any vehicle approaching from behind him slows down, he tenses in expectation that it will stop, that a confrontation might occur. They all motor eastward, toward a thin, ashen radiance along the eastern rim of the world that is rising as though the lost continent of Atlantis is slowly surfacing in the sea of night. The houses are mostly bungalows, stucco or clapboard, on small lots. Some are maintained with pride. An equal number are crumbling toward condemnation, the lawns long neglected. Perhaps 10 percent are abandoned. This is Vig territory, a gang as dangerous as the Bloods or the Crips, their name shortened from vigorous, to imply that they have drive, force, and strength. Nina Dozier’s stucco bungalow is in good repair, colorless in these last minutes of darkness but, in daylight, pale blue with white trim. Two small bedrooms. One bath. A living room that also serves as a home office. An eat-in kitchen. Maybe seven hundred square feet in all. The house had belonged to her mom and dad. She inherited it, along with a mortgage, when they were run down and killed in a crosswalk as they were coming home from a local market with bags of groceries. The hit-and-run driver, later caught, was a methamphetamine freak with a long rap sheet, recently released on bail after being charged with carjacking. He was driving a stolen Lincoln Aviator that he totaled later that day, without injury to himself. Because Nina’s son will be sleeping at this hour, Michael goes around the bungalow to the back, as they arranged. She is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, slim and fresh-faced, one of those women who seems too small to withstand the storms of this world but who walks through them all unbent, a mahogany Madonna. He taps softly on one of the four panes in the top half of the door, and she looks up. In spite of the proofs that he provided to her, she is clearly astonished that he has shown up as promised. Her surprise isn’t accompanied with relief; she is accustomed to people and fate disappointing her just when her expectations are highest. She disengages the two deadbolts and opens the door. Michael steps into this humble home in which lives the hope of the world. A BRIDGE

Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt

novel back into print. In that same year at a conference on minority literature held at Yale and directed by Michael Cooke, the few copies of Their Eyes that were available were circulated for two hours at a time to conference participants, many of whom were reading the novel for the first time. In March of 1977, when the MLA Commission on Minority Groups and the Study of Language and Literature published its first list of out of print books most in demand at a national level, the program coordinator, Dexter Fisher, wrote: “Their Eyes Were Watching God is unanimously at the top of the list.” Between 1977 and 1979 the Zora Neale Hurston renaissance was in full bloom. Robert Hemenway’s biography, Zora Neale Hurston: A Literary Biography, published in 1977, was a runaway bestseller at the December 1977 MLA convention. The new University of Illinois Press edition of Their Eyes, published a year after the Hemenway biography in March of 1978, made the novel available on a steady and dependable basis for the next ten years. I Love Myself When I Am Laughing…And Then Again When I Am Looking Mean and Impressive: A Zora Neale Hurston Reader, edited by Alice Walker, was published by the Feminist Press in 1979. Probably more than anything else, these three literary events made it possible for serious Hurston scholarship to emerge. But the event that for me truly marked the beginning of the third wave of critical attention to Their Eyes took place in December 1979 at the MLA convention in San Francisco in a session aptly titled “Traditions and Their Transformations in Afro-American Letters,” chaired by Robert Stepto of Yale with John Callahan of Lewis and Clark College and myself (then at the University of Detroit) as the two panelists. Despite the fact that the session was scheduled on Sunday morning, the last session of the entire convention, the room was packed and the audience unusually attentive. In his comments at the end of the session, Stepto raised the issue that has become one of the most highly controversial and hotly contested aspects of the novel: whether or not Janie is able to achieve her voice in Their Eyes. What concerned Stepto was the courtroom scene in which Janie is called on not only to preserve her own life and liberty but also to make the jury, as well as all of us who hear her tale, understand the meaning of her life with Tea Cake. Stepto found Janie curiously silent in this scene, with Hurston telling the story in omniscient third person so that we do not hear Janie speak—at least not in her own first-person voice. Stepto was quite convinced (and convincing) that the frame story in which Janie speaks to Pheoby creates only the illusion that Janie has found her voice, that Hurston’s insistence on telling Janie’s story in the third person undercuts her power as speaker. While the rest of us in the room struggled to find our voices, Alice Walker rose and claimed hers, insisting passionately that women did

A Spell of Good Things.txt

face. The action so sudden he’d moved his head to the side only after he felt wetness begin to spread across his nose, so unexpected it had silenced men whose voices could usually be heard in every house on the street. At least Paul and Hakeem, his classmates who also lived on that street, weren’t there to witness that moment. After seeing an old video of Klint da Drunk performing on Night of a Thousand Laughs, Paul had decided he wanted to be just like Klint. Since then, whenever a teacher skipped a period, Paul staggered around, bumping into desks and chairs, slurring insults at his classmates. Ẹniọlá placed a palm against his cheek to press in any wetness and leave his skin unmarked. If there was any trace of saliva on his face when he passed by Paul’s house on his way back home, the other boy’s hour or so in front of the class this afternoon would be all about him. Paul might say the wetness was there because Ẹniọlá drooled in his sleep, had not taken a bath before putting on his school uniform, came from a family that could not even afford soap. There would be laughter. He laughed too when Paul tortured other people. Most of the jokes were not even funny, but, hoping this would keep Paul’s focus on whatever unfortunate boy or girl he’d chosen that afternoon, Ẹniọlá laughed at everything Paul said. When Paul shifted his attention from one person, it would usually turn on a girl who hadn’t been laughing at his jokes. Usually. There had been that terrible afternoon when Paul had stopped talking about some other classmate’s tattered shoe to say Ẹniọlá’s forehead was shaped like the thick end of a mango. Ẹniọlá had been laughing at the girl with tattered shoes and found that as the class erupted into a fresh round of laughter he would hear in his sleep for months after, he could not shut his mouth. He wanted to stop laughing but couldn’t. Not when his throat began to hurt with tears or when his classmates became quiet because the chemistry teacher had stumbled in a few minutes before her period was over. He’d gone on laughing until she told him to kneel in one corner of the class with his face to the wall. Without a mirror, there was no way to tell…no. No. He wouldn’t ask any of the men around him to confirm if his face still had any streaks. He wouldn’t. As his hand slipped away from his cheek, Ẹniọlá squinted at the three-storey building where Paul’s family lived on the second floor. They shared its four rooms with two other families and an old woman who had no known relatives. The woman was standing in front of the house now, scattering grain on the sand while chickens squawked at her feet. No Paul. Maybe he had left for school already. But then, he could also be on the staircase or in the corridor, ready to step out just as Ẹniọlá passed by

After Death.txt

at sea, ten miles south of there and nine miles from land. The trunk was bound in chains to which were attached six twenty-pound barbells; a hydraulic hand truck with a five-hundred-pound capacity was needed to get that package onto his boat and later raise it over the gunwale to slide it into the sea. If Royce believed in ghosts, he might wonder if the spirit of Harry Houdini freed Jennifer’s corpse for some macabre reason. After strangling a girlfriend, he never deposits her in a place where he has left another one. Indeed, he has conveyed two of them to New Mexico, wrapped in plastic drop cloths that he sprayed with lubricant before dropping them into ancient lava pipes, long tubes about three or four feet in width, leading down through solid stone, up which lava had gushed in an epoch long before the creation of humanity. Those lovelies lie hundreds—perhaps thousands—of feet below the possibility of discovery. Another he cremated in Arizona, by leaving her in an abandoned church to which he set fire. He had chosen to bury Lenore on public land, in a lonely vale more than thirty miles from his home. He had found the site before he strangled her and had tested the texture of the soil to be sure he could dig a grave easily enough with pick and spade. He almost had her in the ground when the robots appeared. After enough time has passed, many episodes in Royce Kinnel’s life seem surrealistic, phantasmagorical, too colorful and quirky to have played out as they did, more like vivid dreams than real-life experiences; reliving them in memory is far more entertaining than anything on television. Thinking back, Royce is often amazed at what he’s done and that he’s gotten away with it, although at the time his actions seemed as mundane as taking out the trash. A few hours earlier, however, the incident near Rancho Santa Fe struck him as surrealistic even as it occurred. Robots. As big as Great Danes. Appearing out of nowhere. Royce isn’t interested in either science fiction or science. He’s not interested in much of anything other than his girlfriends and housekeeping; he doesn’t care what’s cool in movies or music or art or fashion, and he has no politics. People say there will be robots everywhere one day, but he’s sure that is at least a decade from now. So, aliens. A lot of people seem to be fascinated with UFOs, but Royce isn’t. He couldn’t care less about aliens. Whatever extraterrestrial females are like, they won’t be hot in any way that’s likely to get his sap rising. Earth girls are enough for him. He wishes the robots hadn’t so unnerved him. He can’t go back and fill the grave now. That’s like asking to be caught. Although he panicked and although Lenore will now be found sooner than later, he is confident that no one can connect her to him. One of the benefits of his style of romance is that no one ever sees him in

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

a name he had found in A History of Magic. His school books were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn't come in to vacuum anymore, because Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall, counting down to September the first. On the last day of August he thought he'd better speak to his aunt and uncle about getting to King's Cross station the next day, so he went down to the living room where they were watching a quiz show on television. He cleared his throat to let them know he was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the room. "Er -- Uncle Vernon?" Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening. "Er -- I need to be at King's Cross tomorrow to -- to go to Hogwarts." Uncle Vernon grunted again. "Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?" Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes. "Thank you." He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually spoke. "Funny way to get to a wizards' school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?" Harry didn't say anything. "Where is this school, anyway?" "I don't know," said Harry, realizing this for the first time. He pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of his pocket. "I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o'clock," he read. His aunt and uncle stared. "Platform what?" "Nine and three-quarters." "Don't talk rubbish," said Uncle Vernon. "There is no platform nine and three-quarters." "It's on my ticket." "Barking," said Uncle Vernon, "howling mad, the lot of them. You'll see. You just wait. All right, we'll take you to King's Cross. We're going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn't bother." "Why are you going to London?" Harry asked, trying to keep things friendly. "Taking Dudley to the hospital," growled Uncle Vernon. "Got to have that ruddy tail removed before he goes to Smeltings." *** Harry woke at five o'clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because he didn't want to walk into the station in his wizard's robes -- he'd change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Harry's huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys' car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had set off. They reached King's Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this was strangely kind until Uncle

Silas Marner.txt

of short-term changes--the reasoning that leads Godfrey to keep his secret marriage hidden or that makes Dunstan rob Silas. 5. THE IMPORTANCE OF THE PAST Raveloe is a society strongly connected to its past. In contrast, the town Silas comes from seems impersonal and transient--when Silas returns thirty-two years later, Lantern-Yard has been literally wiped off the face of the Earth. Individuals in this book also are connected to their own pasts in different degrees. Godfrey hopes to bury his past. Silas and Eppie cherish their past together. As Silas is redeemed by his love for Eppie, he regains a sense of his past, and memory heals him. Attachment to the past can be stultifying, however, for characters like Squire Cass and Nancy Lammeter. Look at the role played in this novel by local traditions, personal memories, and familiar objects or places. By her own comments, then, Eliot gives this story, set in the past, a meaning for her own modern world. 6. OTHER THEMES In Silas Marner, Eliot also examines the class system of England in microcosm (mark the differences between the upper and lower classes, and judge Eliot's comments on them). Connected to this is her belief in the importance of work. The villagers understand the value of having a craft or skill and the role this gives one in a community. Silas clings to his craft when all else is taken from him. In the upper class, the Lammeter girls understand hard work, but the Cass sons are dangerously idle. In examining the social structure of Raveloe, however, Eliot defines a society that no longer exists. In describing Raveloe particularly by comparing it to the town Silas comes from--she depicts an England that may have been destroyed by the spread of the Industrial Revolution. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: STYLE At her best, George Eliot writes in a strong, precise style, each word chosen carefully. At her worst, her sentences circle around what she's trying to say, stringing out clauses loaded with abstract, colorless words. In the second paragraph of the book, for example, she starts off with a plain sentence that sets up Silas' situation in simple, concrete words. But by the end of the paragraph she's tangled up in long, meandering sentences, using abstract terms like "a shadowy conception of power that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain from inflicting harm." This puts some readers off before they've even gotten into the book. When George Eliot is not speaking to the reader directly, however, her style is less self-conscious. Often she takes on the voice of a village gossip to show the community's view of Silas; her language becomes casual, humorous, and colloquial. (See for example the fifth sentence in that second paragraph, beginning "They had, perhaps, heard their mothers and fathers hint....") When she takes on the voice of an upperclass observer, she uses a light, arch irony. (See the first paragraph of Chapter 3.) Her scenes of straight dialogue can also be surprisingly dramatic, as characters use distinctive dialects, and speeches move energetically back and

Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt

ground and billows around my ankles like a low-lying cloud. Before I head to the main office, I do a walk-through of the camp to make sure everything is as it should be. I start at the eastern edge where the control center, located in the Craftsman Lodge, is situated. The outer door is locked, and I don’t bother to check inside. There’s never any issue in there, but outside, the generator is sitting like a relic from some bygone era. It broke last summer, and when I googled the make and model to see if I could fix it myself, it said it was built in 1990. I flip open the side panel. The fuel indicator reads full, and the little green light in the corner is steady, which means it’s ready to kick on in case the main power fails. A good final girl always makes sure the generator, no matter how ancient, has fuel and is in good working order. I cut through the wooded pathway between my cabin and the shower building and come upon Porter and Javier, one of our new hires, arguing in a small clearing. Porter’s got his hand pushed down on his hip. “Just because you’re too scared to go over there and check don’t mean it doesn’t need to be done.” “You do it, then,” Javier says. “You know the whole place like the back of your hand. Doesn’t it make more sense for you to go check?” Porter throws his hands up, then spots me walking toward them. “Oh, good,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Boss is here. Let her tell you whose job it is to check the perimeter fencing because news flash, sugafoot, it ain’t me.” I approach Javier. “That would be your job. Is there a problem?” Javier smiles, and his right eyebrow arches up. He’s tall, dark hair and eyes, a scattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. He looks like an athlete, but I’ve seen him trip over damn near every exposed root or uneven pathway out here. I don’t think he’s coordinated enough to walk in a straight line, much less play sports. “Aw, come on, Charity,” he whines. “Porter is so much better at this. He knows every inch of this place, and besides, something might happen to me, and then we’d never get a chance to really know each other, you know?” He flashes me another smile. He’s so obvious, it’s actually a little funny. “I’m a vegetarian,” I say to him. He looks at me, confused. “Huh?” “She don’t like meat,” Porter says. “Strictly strawberries, like my man Harry Styles said.” Javier’s brows push together. Me and Porter are both part of the alphabet mafia, so we get it, but poor Javier is clueless. “I’m gay,” I say. “Very, very gay. Save all that flirting and goofy grinning for somebody who wants it and who also isn’t your direct supervisor.” Porter tilts his head to the side. “I, however, am strictly dickly and not your supervisor, so please feel free to

Things Fall Apart.txt

with which his guests drew lines on the floor before they ate kola nuts. "And these white men, they say, have no toes." "And have you never seen them?" asked Machi. "Have you?" asked Obierika. "One of them passes here frequently," said Machi. "His name is Amadi." Those who knew Amadi laughed. He was a leper, and the polite name for leprosy was "the white skin." CHAPTER NINE For the first time in three nights, Okonkwo slept. He woke up once in the middle of the night and his mind went back to the past three days without making him feel uneasy. He began to wonder why he had felt uneasy at all. It was like a man wondering in broad daylight why a dream had appeared so terrible to him at night. He stretched himself and scratched his thigh where a mosquito had bitten him as he slept. Another one was wailing near his right ear. He slapped the ear and hoped he had killed it. Why do they always go for one's ears? When he was a child his mother had told him a story about it. But it was as silly as all women's stories. Mosquito, she had said, had asked Ear to marry him, whereupon Ear fell on the floor in uncontrollable laughter. "How much longer do you think you will live?" she asked. "You are already a skeleton." Mosquito went away humiliated, and any time he passed her way he told Ear that he was still alive. Okonkwo turned on his side and went back to sleep. He was roused in the morning by someone banging on his door. "Who is that?" he growled. He knew it must be Ekwefi. Of his three wives Ekwefi was the only one who would have the audacity to bang on his door. "Ezinma is dying," came her voice, and all the tragedy and sorrow of her life were packed in those words. Okonkwo sprang from his bed, pushed back the bolt on his door and ran into Ekwefi's hut. Ezinma lay shivering on a mat beside a huge fire that her mother had kept burning all night. "It is iba," said Okonkwo as he took his machete and went into the bush to collect the leaves and grasses and barks of trees that went into making the medicine for iba. Ekwefi knelt beside the sick child, occasionally feeling with her palm the wet, burning forehead. Ezinma was an only child and the centre of her mother's world. Very often it was Ezinma who decided what food her mother should prepare. Ekwefi even gave her such delicacies as eggs, which children were rarely allowed to eat because such food tempted them to steal. One day as Ezinma was eating an egg Okonkwo had come in unexpectedly from his hut. He was greatly shocked and swore to beat Ekwefi if she dared to give the child eggs again. But it was impossible to refuse Ezinma anything. After her father's rebuke she developed an even keener appetite for eggs. And she enjoyed above

THE SCARLET LETTER.txt

(adv) awfully, ghastly, return, refund. not solved, open, strange, dissonant, dreadfully, fearfully, hideously, steed: (n) horse, mount, charger, undecided. ANTONYM: (adj) terribly, gruesomely, terrifically, knight, courser, warhorse, pony, apparent. atrociously, horrendously, awful. stallion, mare. winged: (adj) swift, rapid, speedy, ravenous: (adj) hungry, greedy, avid, sunrise: (n) dawn, sunup, daybreak, quick, flying, alate, sublime, lofty, famished, gluttonous, voracious, daylight, aurora, first light, alated, aligerous, composed. Nathaniel Hawthorne 217 bedazzled %eyes. There he was, with the pen still between his fingers, and a vast, immeasurable tract of written space behind him! Thesaurus behind: (adj, n) back, rear; (adj, adv) small. tiny, cramped, small, miniature, backward, late; (adv) backwards, space: (n) gap, scope, opening, period, affordable, bounded, insignificant, later, aback, beyond; (n) backside, place, void, margin, latitude, extent, slight, shallow, restricted. can; (prep) abaft. ANTONYMS: (adj, emptiness, distance. ANTONYM: (n) written: (adj) registered, clerical, adv) early; (adv) fore; (adj) prompt. mess. conscript, enrolled, literal, hard-and- immeasurable: (adj) endless, immense, tract: (n) region, area, expanse, essay, fast, on paper; (n) examination. infinite, huge, enormous, illimitable, pamphlet, section, extent, district, ANTONYMS: (adj) verbal, unmeasurable, incalculable, dissertation, plot, lot. unscripted, unwritten. inestimable, innumerable, vast: (adj) large, immense, spacious, interminable. ANTONYMS: (adj) extensive, immeasurable, enormous, limited, minute, finite, shallow, gigantic, wide, boundless, colossal, slight, negligible, tiny, few, minor, great. ANTONYMS: (adj) narrow, Nathaniel Hawthorne 219 CHAPTER XXI. THE NEW ENGLAND HOLIDAY Betimes in the morning of the day on which the new Governor was to receive his office at the hands of the people, Hester Prynne and little Pearl came into the market-place. It was already thronged with the craftsmen and other plebeian inhabitants of the town, in considerable numbers, among whom, likewise, were many rough figures, whose attire of deer-skins marked them as belonging to some of the forest settlements, which surrounded the little metropolis of the colony.% On this public holiday, as on all other occasions for seven years past, Hester was clad in a garment of coarse gray cloth. Not more by its hue than by some indescribable peculiarity in its fashion, it had the effect of making her fade personally out of sight and outline; while again the scarlet letter brought her back from this twilight indistinctness, and revealed her under the moral aspect of its own illumination. Her face, so long familiar to the townspeople, showed the marble quietude which they were accustomed to behold there. It was like a mask; or, rather like the frozen calmness of a dead woman's features; owing this dreary resemblance to the fact that Hester was actually dead, in respect to any Thesaurus accustomed: (adj, n) habitual; (adj) unclothe; (n) nakedness. expression, nameless, inexpressible, familiar, normal, wonted, usual, figures: (n) statistics, numbers, nondescript, terrible, intangible, natural, everyday, ordinary, information, facts, poll. termless. ANTONYMS: (adj) habituated, common, traditional. illumination: (n) brightness, explainable, conceivable, concrete. ANTONYMS: (adj) unusual, green, illuminance, lighting, light, metropolis: (n) city, capital, town, unseasoned, unconventional, explanation, elucidation, edification, municipality, buffalo, meshed, untrained, abnormal, luminousness, luminosity, borough, burgh, independence, hull, uncharacteristic, exceptional. illustration; (adj, n) irradiation. bale. attire: (n, v) array, garb, apparel, wear; ANTONYMS: (n) education,

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt

me; though I used to take to the woods most of the time when he was around. Well, about this time he was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so people said. They judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, be- cause it had been in the water so long it warn't much like a face at all. They said he was floating on his back in the water. They took him and buried him on the bank. But I warn't comfortable long, because I happened to think of something. I knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. So I was uncomfortable again. I judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though I wished he wouldn't. We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned. All the boys did. We hadn't robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only just pre- tended. We used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them. Tom Sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and marked. But I couldn't see no profit in it. One time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was the sign for the Gang to get together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of Spanish merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. He never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was before. I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there warn't no Spaniards and

A Spell of Good Things.txt

mother’s pleas, Ẹniọlá now refused to go begging again since none of the money would go towards his school fees. The betrayal he’d felt when he realised that his parents had chosen Bùsọ́lá over him had only intensified over time. Nothing his mother could say could make him budge. “You don’t know how you’ll get breakfast tomorrow?” Rashidi shook his head. “You, is it that you have never heard about what Honourable is doing? There’s breakfast, lunch and dinner in his house every day. You just need to show up.” Ẹniọlá frowned, he had never heard about what Rashidi was saying. Free food every day? It did not sound possible. “Free food? Honourable gives people free food?” “Not people, oh, not everybody,” Sàámú said. “Just young men like us. Not everybody.” Rashidi puffed on the cigarette. “You are telling us that nobody has ever invited you to come and eat in Honourable’s house?” Ẹniọlá shook his head. He noticed that Sàámú and Rashidi exchanged a look, but he did not think much of it. Rashidi leaned back and blew smoke rings into the air. “See this life now. There is free food in this town and you are going hungry in a town where you can get free breakfast, free lunch and free dinner.” “And you don’t pay any money?” Ẹniọlá asked. “No o. This food we just ate came from his house and we did not pay one naira for it.” Sàámú stood and stretched. “Honourable is just doing what God has sent him to do. He is doing good things for the young men in the community.” Rashidi patted Ẹniọlá’s arm. “You know, if you want lunch, you can go with us to Honourable’s house. Sàámú, what did the cook say we will be eating this afternoon?” Sàámú scratched his head. “Pounded yam, I think it is pounded yam.” “Are you sure you don’t pay for the food?” Ẹniọlá asked. Sàámú and Rashidi laughed. “Àní, Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé will never die. The food is free, but if you don’t want to go with us, there is no problem. Sàámú, lets go.” Rashidi crushed his cigarette with his sandal while Sàámú threw the bowl and cutlery into the black polythene bag. “Wait,” Ẹniọlá said when the boys got to the door. “Wait for me.” Ẹniọlá still did not believe all that Rashidi had said. He followed them only because he was curious. The boys went behind the classroom block and walked a short distance to the school’s fence. Rashidi and Sàámú scaled the fence with swift movements. “Are you not coming with us again?” Rashidi asked. Ẹniọlá moved further down along the fence until he got to a place where it was broken down, and then he stepped over the debris to the other side. * * * Honourable Kọ́lápọ̀ Timothy Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé was known by many names. To the university girlfriend who became his first wife, he was Kọ́lá. Before they all died on the day their father was to be buried, his brother and eleven stepsiblings had called him Timo or

Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

into the not-dead child’s black eyes, the gape of that unmoving, whispering mouth. “Stop,” she rasped. “Please stop.” The body fell back, eyes still open, limbs slack. She snapped her hands closed, just like she’d done with Horse, just like she’d done with Cedric, breaking the threads of Mortem that bound her to the corpse. Then Lore bolted. August’s voice chased her out the door, echoing in all that stone, but Lore paid the King no mind. She tripped over her hem, hit her knees, skinning them beneath her skirt. A heaving breath in and another out, trying her best to keep the bile in her throat from surging. The white, necrotic skin on her fingers slowly leached back to living warmth, the gray of her veins fading with each breath. Her heart lurched in her chest, beating so hard it almost hurt. “Get up, girl.” Anton’s voice was as cold as the stone against her palms. Lore rubbed the back of her wrist over her mouth, deliberately taking her time before she straightened and glared up at the Priest Exalted. The sun through the skylight blazed his gray hair into a halo, obscured his features. “Ready for round two?” Lore nearly spat it. As humanity suffused her again, chasing out death, so did a righteous anger she couldn’t totally explain—the thought of that child, of how she’d disturbed his peaceful rest after something terrible happened to him, made shame prick up and down her spine. “Are there any other corpses you want to disturb while we have the time? Maybe we can climb up to the top and see if I can get some dead marquess to sing the national anthem—” “That’s quite enough,” Anton murmured, his expression still hidden in shadow. “This is exactly what we brought you here for. Don’t start having a conscience now.” “Rich, coming from a priest.” “I told you before. The Bleeding God understands that sometimes the rules must be bent for the greater good. For the glory of His promises to be fulfilled.” Anton’s hand lifted, a finger tracing over one of the golden rays on his pendant. “He forgives His faithful, always. For everything.” Lore swallowed. Tightened her fists in her skirt. The shame didn’t dissipate, but she managed to shove it down, push it somewhere to stay until she dealt with it later. “I failed,” she said, shaking her head, returning to the matter at hand instead of an existential one she couldn’t parse yet. “We learned absolutely nothing about what’s happening in the villages.” They’ve awakened. It still reverberated in her head, that awful whisper from a dead mouth. They’ve awakened. She’d asked the dead boy what happened to him, and she didn’t think the dead could lie. It was an answer of some kind, but not one that made any sense. “It doesn’t matter, on this first attempt.” August waved a hand as he stepped through the small door of the vault, ducking so his crown didn’t knock into the lintel. Despite his look of confused near-terror when he heard

Hound of the Baskervilles.txt

passed into the avenue, where the wheels were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches in a sombre tunnel.over our heads. Baskerville shuddered as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the farther end. "Was it here?" he asked in a low voice. "No, no, the yew alley is on the other side." The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face. "It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a place as this," said he. "It's enough to scare any man. I'll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months, and you won't know it again, with a thousand candle- power Swan and Edison right here in front of the hall door." The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenellated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke. "Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!" A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouet- ted against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand down our bags. "You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr. Mortimer. "My wife is expecting me." "Surely you will stay and have some dinner?" "No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I can be of service." The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak. In the great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the coats of arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp. "It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry. "Is it not the

Frankenstein.txt

I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my five those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide in him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply. M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance. --Ay, ay," continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself when young; but that wears out in a very short time." M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me. Clerval had never sympathized in my tastes for natural science; and his literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He came to the university with the design of making himself complete master of the oriental languages, and thus he should open a field for the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanscrit languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement.

Anne of Green Gables.txt

likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again." "I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not," said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana-navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you

Dracula.txt

as dead, for not a soul did I see. I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about. When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing, not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight around her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands free to help her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety pin. But I must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet, and then began very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond, but gradually she became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and for many other reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realize all at once where she was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must have been

A-Living-Remedy.txt

I called home in his final months, I would often catch him on his own while my mother was at work. Later, if Mom asked him what we’d chatted about, all he would tell her was that we’d had a good talk. This is my sense of those calls as well, although no particular one stands out in my memory. My mother later said that our weekday talks had represented a turning point for him. “He knew that he wasn’t doing well,” she told me. “I think he decided that it was time to accept you, love you, forgive you for everything—and just be your father.” If that is true, he must have made the decision during his final weeks, the weeks my parents spent reading my book together. There was nothing in it that I hadn’t already discussed with them—by then, we had all learned how to talk about my adoption in ways we couldn’t when I was young. But giving them my book to read meant sharing in new, expanded language who I had become, how I differed from them, what it had been like to be their adopted child, without mitigation or platitudes. They could have resented me for it, or felt threatened by the many ways in which my feelings and experiences diverged from theirs. Instead, their response was We see you. While I wish that I could recall the last thing my father said to me, I find some solace in allowing his appreciation for the story I labored over—one in which I tried to explore and honor both the truth of my adoption and my adoptive parents’ love for me—to stand in for the final words I don’t remember. 12 After my father dies, I become, for a time, someone I do not recognize. Entire weeks are all but lost to me, scooped out of my once-airtight memory. Our rental term ends two months after the funeral, and when we move into another house, our third residence in seven years, I will hardly remember packing or unpacking. I don’t know how to ask for leave from my job. I tell myself that I can’t afford to take unpaid time off anyway. The truth is that I have always been able to work, and now I learn that grief is no hindrance to my productivity. I bank on this, even feel a kind of twisted pride in it. It doesn’t matter to me whether I take care of myself, because I do not deserve the care. All my parents ever wanted was to spend more time with us, to see us more than once a year or every other year, and I never found a way to make it happen, and now my father is dead. When other people—my husband, my friends—try to tell me that I am not at fault, I barely hear them. Punishing myself, keeping myself in as much pain as possible, seems like something a good daughter should do if it is too late for her to do anything else. There is a

Hell Bent.txt

made up its mind. The steps went still and solid, the door sprang wide, every window came ablaze with light. Even the house could say what Alex could not: Welcome back. You were missed. You are needed. Part demon or not, the golden boy of Lethe was back, and human enough to pass through the wards. “Where’s Tripp?” she asked. “He’s not answering his phone,” said Dawes. Alex’s stomach turned. “When did he last check in?” “Three hours ago,” said Turner as they shuffled into the dining room where someone had set the table. “I went by his apartment, but no answer.” Darlington looked skeptical. “I suppose this is a reasonable time to ask why you brought Tripp Helmuth, of all people, to hell?” Alex threw up her hands in annoyance. “You try putting together Team Murder on short notice.” She had left Tripp on the New Haven Green. She’d seen him set off toward downtown. Could he be late? Scared of returning to hell? He knew another descent was the only way to be rid of their demons. They were the bait. Their misery. Their hopelessness. “We never should have left him alone,” she said. “He had the seabird,” Turner noted. “But the salt spirits can only do so much. I don’t know about you, but I could tell Not Hellie was adapting. She was less scared of those snakes the last time I used them. She wasn’t frightened out on the sidewalk a minute ago.” “You’re all forgetting he could just be a coward,” Mercy said as they settled around the table. “That isn’t fair,” Dawes called from the kitchen. “What?” Mercy demanded. “You saw how freaked out he was. He didn’t want to make the descent a second time.” “None of us do,” said Turner. “And you wouldn’t either.” “I’ll go,” Mercy said, her chin lifting. “You’re down a pilgrim. You need someone to fill the gap.” “You’re not a killer,” said Alex. “Yet. Maybe I’m a late bloomer.” Dawes returned to the dining room with a big tureen of steaming soup. “This isn’t a joke!” “Let’s try to remember that not being a murderer is actually a good thing,” Darlington said. “I’ll take Tripp’s place. I’ll be the fourth.” Dawes set the tureen on the table with a loud, disapproving thud. “You will not.” Alex didn’t like the idea either. The Gauntlet wasn’t meant to be used as a revolving door. “I’m not giving up on Tripp. We don’t know that Not Spenser got him. We don’t know anything yet.” “We know the math,” said Turner. “Four pilgrims to open the door—four to make the journey, and four to close it all up at the end. The full moon is tomorrow night, and unless Tripp suddenly slinks out into the open, the prodigal demon is our only option.” “We’ll find another way,” Dawes insisted, ladling soup into bowls aggressively. “Sure,” Turner replied. “Should we just have Mercy stab someone?” “Of course not,” Dawes snapped, though Mercy looked scarily game. “But…” A faint, sad smile touched Darlington’s lips. “Go

The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

with the bottle still in his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger's door. There was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open and entered. It was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was stranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and along the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post. As Hall stood there he heard his wife's voice coming out of the depth of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience. "Gearge! You gart what a wand?" At that he turned and hurried down to her. "Janny," he said, over the rail of the cellar steps, "'tas the truth what Henfrey sez. 'E's not in uz room, 'e ent. And the front door's unbolted." At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the bottle, went first. "If 'e ent there," he said, "his close are. And what's 'e doin' without his close, then? 'Tas a most curious basness." As they came up the cellar steps, they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Some one sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. "Of all the curious!" she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and, turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the top-most stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He's been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened--the bed- clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger's hat hopped off the bed-post, describing a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall's face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger's coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing dryly in a voice singularly like the stranger's, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall,

The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt

She’d wanted company. ‘His bicycle. It needs a bit of a… service.’ ‘Oh…’ ‘You don’t mind, do you, love?’ ‘Of course not.’ Lin tried to conceal her disappointment with a wide smile. ‘You’ll be back for lunch?’ ‘Well, I was thinking I might have lunch round at Jimmy’s, just a sandwich… it might be a long job…’ ‘Oh, all right.’ Neil shuffled his feet. ‘Are you sure, love?’ He pecked her cheek quickly. ‘I’ll be back in time to cook dinner.’ ‘Yes, fine, fine.’ Lin heard an edge to her voice, irritation. Neil seemed not to notice. He reached for his jacket, the smart dark one he’d bought a month ago. Lin frowned. ‘Isn’t that jacket a bit nice for wearing to fix a bicycle?’ Neil offered a cheeky grin. ‘I thought I’d break it in…’ He moved towards the door. ‘I’ll see you later.’ ‘Yes, fine.’ Lin watched him go then she stared around the empty kitchen. She felt inadequate and annoyed with herself. Josie spent every day alone and yet Lin was tired with her own company after just a few minutes. She wondered again if Neil found her dull. Perhaps that’s why he’d gone to Jimmy Baker’s, for some interesting conversation. She gazed through the window and told herself that she was being silly – she just felt a little down today. The arthritis medication made her feel tearful. Outside, the farm machinery was still rumbling along, parallel to the garden, and she could see Bobby Ledbury at the wheel, handsome, moody, in his early twenties. Lin smiled; he reminded her of the actor James Dean. In her childhood days, James Dean had been the symbol of restless youth and Bobby Ledbury was that sort of young man, dangerous and a bit unpredictable. She’d never had a proper conversation with Bobby, but she often spoke to Penny, his grandmother, in the Co-op and she said that he was always out on his motorbike until late. Lin folded a few tea towels and thought about her daughter Debbie. She wasn’t rebellious, but she was difficult to pin down. She and her family lived less than two hours away, but whenever Lin and Neil offered to visit, Debbie had something else to do. She and her husband Jon worked hard at their catering company, so it was understandable; Debbie’s children were teenagers now, probably a handful. Lin remembered when she’d last seen them a year ago – Debbie had been welcoming but detached. The grandchildren were lovely – Melissa was fifteen then, doing so well at school, Louis was thirteen and sporty, a bit quiet, but he had eagerly accepted the money Lin had offered him as they’d left. Lin’s shoulders drooped; she felt depressed. It didn’t help that Bobby Goldsborough was on the radio singing a song about a tree in the garden, how it had just been a twig the day his beloved planted it. It was a song about time passing and death and it made Lin feel worse. She’d ring Josie and they’d go for a walk

Blowback.txt

lifted as the president emerged beaming in a black tuxedo, cueing an obedient band to play “Hail to the Chief.” Trump swaggered down the stairs from the residence, basking in the moment. Melania Trump, who by some accounts had considered leaving her husband, was on his arm smiling in a dazzling ivory gown. Next to me, a Republican congressman from Virginia, who had lost reelection in the midterms because of Trump, excitedly snapped pictures of the commander in chief on his phone. And in front of us, Vice President Mike Pence—a silent hostage to the president’s daily transgressions—applauded his approaching boss. Pence would be remembered for an erect posture and flaccid conscience. He stood proudly next to the chief executive but never stood up to him. He was built to obey. Trump took to the podium. “No administration has done more in two years than the Trump administration,” he declared triumphantly, scanning the crowd. He seemed to notice that there were far more Republicans than Democrats standing before him. “We have a lot of Democrats here, and I am very happy about that,” Trump boasted. “I have a lot of friends who are Democrats.” He changed his tune about Congress, predicting an “exciting year” of bipartisan deals on everything from infrastructure to healthcare—before urging his guests to relax and explore the White House. “To me, it’s a happy place,” he said. From his demeanor, you wouldn’t have known Donald Trump was preparing for an explosive confrontation with the legislative branch. He was playing nice. But a week later, Trump butted heads with Congress and sparked the longest government shutdown in history—forcing almost a million federal employees to go home or work without pay—just in time for Christmas. THE NEXT TRUMP WILL BEND CONGRESS TO THE MAGA MOVEMENT’S WILL THROUGH OBSTRUCTION, INSTRUCTION, AND DESTRUCTION. Article One of the U.S. Constitution comes first in the document for a reason. The section outlines the role of the legislative branch, which the Founders considered to be the most closely connected to the people. They also saw it as a counterweight to a power-hungry chief executive. The legislature can restrain the president on almost every aspect of his or her job by making laws, controlling government funds, approving presidential appointments, and monitoring executive agencies. It should be the toughest guardrail against a wayward president. That’s why the Next Trump will work hard to bypass Congress. “Article One is pretty well undone,” former Republican congressman Reid Ribble told me. In a second MAGA term, he said, “it will be undone entirely.” Ribble doesn’t believe it will happen in a sweeping constitutional clash but quietly and gradually. Members of the GOP will grow accustomed to another Trump-like president governing by executive order. “They will allow [the Next Trump] to become a soft dictator by complying with his legislative circumvention because it’s in the service of implementing policies of which they approve,” he said. “It slowly normalizes legislative nullification.” “Obstruction” will be used to thwart congressional oversight. After the 2018 midterms, the White House called a meeting of the chiefs

Romantic-Comedy.txt

still a medical newsletter writer because I didn’t want to talk to them about TNO or be asked for tickets. After the text where Gene told me he had a girlfriend, he sent another text saying, By the way it’s cool you’re a writer for TNO. I asked how he knew, and he said he’d seen a fleece jacket with the TNO logo at my apartment and assumed I’d bought it at the gift shop in the 66 Building, but later he’d also seen a mug that Henrietta had made for my birthday one year that had a picture of me, her, and Viv on it. So then he googled me.” I was quiet, and Noah looked at me. “How’d you feel about that?” “Remorseful. Not because he deserved better, although of course he did, but because who was I really pulling one over on? What was I achieving by sleeping with someone I didn’t want to tell the most basic information about my life?” “Before seeing Louisiana,” Noah said, “I hadn’t had sex for almost a year. In 2019, I went on a bunch of first dates, and a couple second dates, but I felt like I knew beforehand how they’d play out and it just wasn’t worth the energy. If you’re our age and single, dating kind of has to be an act of reckless optimism, right? The triumph of hope over experience?” “Did you really not have sex for almost a year?” “Yes.” “I’m not judging you, I’m just surprised.” “Because I’m a guy?” “Partly.” “Do you buy into the idea of all men as constantly horny? I thought the younger TNO staffers were teaching you that gender stereotypes are nonsense.” “I don’t know if you know this, but you’re also a celebrity. A good-looking celebrity. Don’t women throw their bras at you onstage?” “I don’t think that happens in real life.” “Never? Not even once or twice?” He smiled sheepishly. “Maybe once or twice.” Then he burrowed into me. “I am constantly horny for you, in case that’s not clear.” * * * — Margit and Glenn came back in the afternoon, and even though I knew they weren’t Noah’s parents, I felt a little like they were, and I wanted their approval. They appeared to be in their sixties—Margit was petite and dark-haired, and Glenn was tall—and I further realized that I’d half expected them to have on uniforms like the servants in a British period drama. Instead, they were wearing shorts and T-shirts, and when Noah introduced me in the kitchen, they greeted me in a friendly but brief way, and then Noah told Margit that we hadn’t eaten the salmon the night before so it would probably be good to have it for dinner. Equally casually, Noah said to me, “Do you want Glenn to vacuum your car?” “Oh,” I said. “No, that’s okay.” “If you change your mind, just give him the keys.” Then we went out to the pool and splashed around and treaded water for a while and stood in the shallow

Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt

had you whipped. You had disobeyed the king’s orders and hidden in the temple.” Clytemnestra remembers too. The coldness of the floor, the redness of the columns under her hands. The priestess had found her and dragged her by the hair onto the altar in front of her brothers. “You were afraid, as everyone is, but you didn’t show it. You wanted to make me angry, to prove yourself to your mother, to make your father proud.” It is true. She had bitten her tongue so hard she was afraid she might lose it and had stared at a crumpled leaf on the ground, swirling with the wind. “You are a strong woman. Whatever opposes you, you will fight it,” the priestess says. “It is only death that you can’t defeat, and the sooner you understand that, the better.” Clytemnestra leans back, and the priestess stands, the feeble light blurring her features. Her steps fade as she walks away. Clytemnestra remains in the bath for a long time, the water turning cold, the priestess’s words swirling in her mind. * * * That night, when she is cleaned and perfumed, she walks in the darkness of the corridors, away from the gynaeceum and toward the main entrance of the palace. She steps outside into the breeze, her feet bare, and hurries along the narrow path that leads down the hill to the river. A few torches are lit in the guests’ rooms—she can see them from outside, dim and flickering in the windows. Feeling each stone and flower under her feet, she runs toward the Eurotas, careful not to disturb the horses in the stables and the dogs in the village. In the shadows of the night, the valley floors are covered with wildflowers, shining under the stars like gems. On the right bank of the Eurotas, between the rocks and the weeds, an excavated corridor is lined by large, squared stones. At the end, an open door, like an empty eye socket, two painted green columns on the side. The tholos, the tomb where royals’ ashes are placed, its stones piled up to form a dome. Clytemnestra takes a few uncertain steps toward the entrance. Then, clutching her tunic, she moves from the shadows into the blackness of the tomb. She hasn’t set foot in here for a long time, not since her grandmother died. The place is small and dark, the air sad and sodden. Gold cups and jewels fill the spaces between the ashes, the tombs arranged like a beehive. Her husband and baby are here—she can feel their presence. She kneels. In the utter silence, she can almost hear a breeze, as if the dead were breathing. She presses her forehead to the ground, her arms tucked under her chest, and cries. * * * She doesn’t remember much about the wedding. Her world is opaque, shapeless, as though she were an unburied spirit, doomed to wander in the world of the living, mute and invisible. The only thing that feels real is her sisters’ touch on her

I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt

down the lights and the soundboard, that I reset the props and locked up the theater, went back to the dorm, studied alone until the fire alarm went off. What if my memories were as false as dreams? What if my dreams were really memories? What if we swam together in borrowed suits until the water became heavy and thick, until Omar tried to throw us the life preserver, but it only sank? There you were, throwing rocks from the observation deck, and they kept missing us, so I grabbed one and helped you, I lifted it over Thalia’s head and brought it down. Then I sank to the bottom, a rock myself; I sank there and lived there for years. 44 That afternoon, with most of my fever slept away and the rest medicated down, I FaceTimed Jerome. The kids tore around the house with the iPad, showing me the gerbil, the fish, the cat’s butt. Leo wanted to know if there was snow in New Hampshire, so I took my phone outside and showed him the unimpressive crust. He requested that I make a snowball, and I did my best. “Mommy,” Silvie said, “I’m eating my hay.” Pieces of yellow yarn hung from her mouth. Jerome sent them to the basement and I asked how he was holding up. He said, “I don’t think this is going away.” He meant for himself. I said, “So I got in some hot water defending you.” He rolled his head back. He said, “I know. You shouldn’t have done that. I mean, you didn’t need to. You go into mama bear mode.” He didn’t seem to know about the fallout for the podcast, and I didn’t need to lay that on him just now, nor did I want to speak it aloud. He said, “Aren’t these the same people who believe in rehabilitation? Honestly, if I’d shot someone in a robbery fifteen years ago, they’d be fighting for everyone to forgive me. They’d say I learned from my mistakes.” “That—Jerome. Come on.” “Who’s that singer from Boston, no one even remembers he tried to kill someone.” “I’m glad you didn’t shoot anyone. You wouldn’t trade this life for that.” “But being bad at relationships, that’s worse than murder. I don’t get it. I want to stay home and never talk to people ever again.” “Why don’t you cook with the kids? That always helps.” He said, “You’re okay in all this, right? You’ll be okay?” Silvie was back, crying. She said, “Mommy, Leo stepped on my tail. He won’t apologize, and my tail hurts and my mane hurts.” 45 Monday morning, an inch of fresh snow had settled on every tree branch, every railing. On the ground, it covered the old, hardened patches so your boot drifted down through soft new clouds only to hit solid ice. I hadn’t seen snow like this since I’d left. Not in New York, where the piles turned grainy and black within hours. Not in my time in London. Obviously not in LA. I imagined that if

Lord of the Flies.txt

and other things and glanced round uneasily. The flames, busy about the tent, drew their eyes back again. Eric watched the scurrying woodlice that were so frantically unable to avoid the flames, and thought of the first fire--just down there, on the steeper side of the mountain, where now was complete darkness. He did not like to remember it, and looked away at the mountain-top. Warmth radiated now, and beat pleasantly on them. Sam amused himself by fitting branches into the fire as closely as possible. Eric spread out his hands, searching for the distance at which the heat was just bearable. Idly looking beyond the fire, he resettled the scattered rocks from their flat shadows into daylight contours. Just there was the big rock, and the three stones there, that split rock, and there beyond was a gap--just there-- "Sam." "Huh?" "Nothing." The flames were mastering the branches, the bark was curling and falling away, the wood exploding. The tent fell inwards and flung a wide circle of light over the mountain-top. "Sam--" "Huh?" "Sam! Sam!" Sam looked at Eric irritably. The intensity of Eric's gaze made the direction in which he looked terrible, for Sam had his back to it. He scrambled round the fire, squatted by Eric, and looked to see. They became motionless, gripped in each other's arms, four unwinking eyes aimed and two mouths open. Far beneath them, the trees of the forest sighed, then roared. The hair on their foreheads fluttered and flames blew out sideways from the fire. Fifteen yards away from them came the plopping noise of fabric blown open. Neither of the boys screamed but the grip of their arms tightened and their mouths grew peaked. For perhaps ten seconds they crouched like that while the flailing fire sent smoke and sparks and waves of inconstant light over the top of the mountain. Then as though they had but one terrified mind between them they scrambled away over the rocks and fled. Ralph was dreaming. He had fallen asleep after what seemed hours of tossing and turning noisily among the dry leaves. Even the sounds of nightmare from the other shelters no longer reached him, for he was back to where he came from, feeding the ponies with sugar over the garden wall. Then someone was shaking his arm, telling him that it was time for tea. "Ralph! Wake up!" The leaves were roaring like the sea. "Ralph, wake up!" "What's the matter?" "We saw--" "--the beast--" "--plain!" "Who are you? The twins?" "We saw the beast--" "Quiet. Piggy!" The leaves were roaring still. Piggy bumped into him and a twin grabbed him as he made for the oblong of paling stars. "You can't go out--it's horrible!" "Piggy--where are the spears?" "I can hear the--" "Quiet then. Lie still." They lay there listening, at first with doubt but then with terror to the description the twins breathed at them between bouts of extreme silence. Soon the darkness was full of claws, full of the awful unknown and menace. An interminable dawn faded the

The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt

sharpening the kitchen knives by the fire while Raya counted her weekly earnings for the sixth time. “The more responsibilities you place on their shoulders, the better they will become at bearing them.” She’d looked at me so long that I’d started to tense, tightening my grip on one of the knives. Dark circles hollowed the space under Raya’s eyes. “Children are not meant to bear the woes of this life, Sylvia. It breaks them. They will spend their adult lives doing everything in their power to never feel the weight of the world again.” Exhaustion tugged at me. I hadn’t slept in two days, but each time I closed my eyes, I saw Nizahl soldiers riding into Mahair with swords and torches. Any illusion of safety here had been shattered. You are the Jasad Heir. Safety was not written for you, Hanim said. I shoved my face into the hard pillow. I mentally recited the herbs I would pack for Rory and planned the best spot to set up our table for the waleema. When nothing else worked, I resorted to a practice as old as the scars on my back. I pressed my cold palm against my heart and counted the beats. One, two. I’m alive. Three, four. I’m safe. Five, six. I won’t let them catch me. I stand alone at the head of a vast ballroom. An audience of faceless Jasadis waits breathlessly for my address. My bodice is in the shape of a lotus flower, curling out and around my ribs. Jasad’s iridescent symbol is etched on my skirt. The head of a falcon and gold wings sit on the body of the sleek black cat. A gold kitmer, a feline of pure magic and legend. The kitmer circles within my dress, agitated. On my head rests a crown. “Queen Essiya! The lost Heir has returned to reunite Jasad!” shouts a man of twisted shadow and smoke. “Magic will prosper once more!” I try to flee, but I am immobile beneath the weight of the crown. Golden thread stitches my lips shut. I silently bear their exultation, their relief, as it batters me from every side. Savior. Hero. Queen. Red drips down my chin as I force my lips apart, pulling the stitches taut. An iron tang fills my mouth, trying to drown out my words at their inception. “Please, I am not who you seek! I can’t help you!” I drop to my knees. The stitches tear, beautiful golden threads fluttering to the ground in a bloody heap. My freed voice rings in the empty ballroom. A strong grip lifts me to my feet. “Essiya, you’re going to wrinkle your dress.” Shock ripples through me. I stand over my mother by nearly a full head. The shoulders I used to climb are half the width of mine. I have curves in the places where she’s slim, and I am strong where she’s soft. “I’m taller than you,” is all I can think to say to my dead mother. Niphran’s laugh is music. “Only by a little.

Little Women.txt

out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the `Laurence boy'. "Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in. But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled, "Don't mind me, stay if you like." "Shan't I disturb you?" "Not a bit. I only came here because I don't know many people and felt rather strange at first, you know." "So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather." The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy, "I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, don't you?" "Next door." And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home. That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way, "We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present." "Grandpa sent it." "But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?" "How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober while his black eyes shone with fun. "Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo," returned the young lady. "I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie." "Laurie Laurence, what an odd name." "My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made the say Laurie instead." "I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?" "I thrashed `em." "I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it." And Jo resigned herself with a sigh. "Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name

Quietly-Hostile.txt

college, but here’s the main point of this Brandon character: to introduce the idea that Sam is a “writer” into the show. I really wrestled with the idea of my writing being a part of this show, and if it were up to just me, I don’t know that it would be. I mean, practically speaking, writing is boring. On the one hand, the only writing I was doing when I worked at the bakery was at night, after we closed, on the little computer in the upstairs office while the overnight crew was down in the kitchen making Danish and bread for the morning rush. I didn’t write anything of consequence, just elaborate romantic fantasies written as short stories featuring thinly veiled versions of myself. On the other, if you tune into a show about me (in hindsight, an absolute nightmare possibility!), you’re probably doing so because you’ve read something I’ve written, and it would be super weird if the writing went unacknowledged on the show. We reached a kind of compromise that is hard to explain, please bear with me as I struggle through the vision: TV Sam would be a mixture of nineteen-, twenty-five-, and thirty-two-year-old Actual Sam, working nineteen-year-old Sam’s job and boning twenty-five-year-old Sam’s sex partners and having thirty-two-year-old Sam’s burgeoning writing/performing career. Does that makes sense? I shudder thinking about walking people who’ve actually lived this life with me through their real-time fact-checking of all the events I creatively maneuvered into this show: “Dude, we were twenty-five at the same time and I know for a fact you did not [verb] [human male name] in the back of [type of vehicle] while wearing [unflattering article of clothing] after we left [nightclub name] high on [street drug]! Why are you lying on basic cable?” INT. PHARMACY—DAY Do you remember that old show Herman’s Head? As a kid I was obsessed with it, and as an old kid, I’m still fascinated by people’s interior monologues, all the little shit that runs through your mind as you go about your day. I thought it would be fun, especially in this moment when Sam is trying desperately to impress this hot person Brandon, to see Sam in the pharmacy contradict literally everything she says. BRANDON Are you writing a lot these days? Pretty sure I still have a copy of your zine somewhere in my room. PHARMACY SAM (TO CAMERA) I’m not. SAM ON THE STREET I am! I’ve been writing some things, you know, on the internet…? BRANDON Oh you mean like a blog? SAM ON THE STREET Yes, like a blog! I, uhh, have a blog! PHARMACY SAM (TO CAMERA) I do not know what a blog is. The dog looks at Sam like, “Bitch, you do??” Sam shoots him a “Shut up” look in return, and I’m not sure how we were gonna teach a dog face-acting but never let anyone tell you I’m not delusional enough to try. I never had a zine in high school, but I did once write a monologue called “Boxes” for

Divine Rivals.txt

publish about the war—he can’t deny us a soldier’s story every now and then, nor the facts, all right? So make sure you cite your stuff so he can’t claim it’s propaganda. You’ll then slip and seal your typed articles in the brown classified envelopes that you’ll find in your bag, and you’ll hand them directly to the conductor. Supplies will also come in on the train, so if you need something, let me know. Do you understand everything I’ve told you, Iris?” “Yes Ms. Hammond,” Iris said. But her mouth was dry, her palms sweaty. Was she really doing this? “Good,” Helena said. “Now, get dressed. You can’t take your valise, only the approved leather bag and your typewriter. Meet me out front on the pavement in five minutes.” She began to step out the door but tarried on the threshold. “Oh, what name are you writing under?” Iris paused, uncertain. At the Oath Gazette, her articles had been published under Iris Winnow. She wondered if she should add her middle initial, like Roman did, but thought it sounded a bit pretentious. Roman Cocky Kitt. As soon as she thought of him, her chest ached. The feeling surprised her because it was sharp and undeniable. I miss him. She missed irritating him by rearranging his desk. She missed stealing glances at his horribly handsome face, the rare sight of his smile and the fleeting sound of his laughter. She missed striking up banter with him, even if it was most often to see who could outsnark whom. “Iris?” Helena prompted. Iris shivered. That bewitching moment of longing for him faded as she set her resolve. She was about to go to the war front and she didn’t have time to wallow in … whatever these feelings were. “Iris Winnow is fine,” she said, reaching for the jumpsuit. “Just ‘fine’?” Helena looked pensive for a second, her mouth twisting. And then she winked at Iris and said, “I bet I can come up with something better.” She slipped out the door before Iris could reply. {16} Attie Six hundred kilometers feel like an eternity when you’re waiting for the unexpected. An eternity made of golden fields and pine forests and mountains that look blue in the distance. An eternity made of things you’ve never seen, air you’ve never tasted, and a train that rocks and clatters like guilt. I wonder if this is how it feels to be immortal. You’re moving, but not really. You’re existing, but time seems thin, flowing like a current through your fingers. I try to close my eyes and rest, but I’m too tempted to watch the world pass by my window. A world that seems endless and sprawling. A world that makes me feel small and insignificant in the face of its wildness. And then that sense of distance tightens my chest as if my bones can feel these six hundred kilometers—I’m leaving the only home I’ve ever known—and I withdraw his letters from my bag, and I reread them. Sometimes I regret leaving his last

To Kill a Mockingbird.txt

He hit me agin an' agin-" Mr. Gilmer waited for Mayella to collect herself: she had twisted her handkerchief into a sweaty rope; when she opened it to wipe her face it was a mass of creases from her hot hands. She waited for Mr. Gilmer to ask another question, but when he didn't, she said, "-he chunked me on the floor an' choked me'n took advantage of me." "Did you scream?" asked Mr. Gilmer. "Did you scream and fight back?" "Reckon I did, hollered for all I was worth, kicked and hollered loud as I could." "Then what happened?" "I don't remember too good, but next thing I knew Papa was in the room a'standing over me hollerin' who done it, who done it? Then I sorta fainted an' the next thing I knew Mr. Tate was pullin' me up offa the floor and leadin' me to the water bucket." Apparently Mayella's recital had given her confidence, but it was not her father's brash kind: there was something stealthy about hers, like a steady-eyed cat with a twitchy tail. "You say you fought him off as hard as you could? Fought him tooth and nail?" asked Mr. Gilmer. "I positively did," Mayella echoed her father. "You are positive that he took full advantage of you?" Mayella's face contorted, and I was afraid that she would cry again. Instead, she said, "He done what he was after." Mr. Gilmer called attention to the hot day by wiping his head with his hand. "That's all for the time being," he said pleasantly, "but you stay there. I expect big bad Mr. Finch has some questions to ask you." "State will not prejudice the witness against counsel for the defense," murmured Judge Taylor primly, "at least not at this time." Atticus got up grinning but instead of walking to the witness stand, he opened his coat and hooked his thumbs in his vest, then he walked slowly across the room to the windows. He looked out, but didn't seem especially interested in what he saw, then he turned and strolled back to the witness stand. From long years of experience, I could tell he was trying to come to a decision about something. "Miss Mayella," he said, smiling, "I won't try to scare you for a while, not yet. Let's just get acquainted. How old are you?" "Said I was nineteen, said it to the judge yonder." Mayella jerked her head resentfully at the bench. "So you did, so you did, ma'am. You'll have to bear with me, Miss Mayella, I'm getting along and can't remember as well as I used to. I might ask you things you've already said before, but you'll give me an answer, won't you? Good." I could see nothing in Mayella's expression to justify Atticus's assumption that he had secured her wholehearted cooperation. She was looking at him furiously. "Won't answer a word you say long as you keep on mockin' me," she said. "Ma'am?" asked Atticus, startled. "Long's you keep on makin' fun o'me." Judge Taylor said, "Mr.

The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

along a path in the shrubbery and stooping as he ran, like a man who evades observation. He vanished behind a laburnum, and appeared again clambering a fence that abutted on the open down. In a second he had tumbled over and was running at a tremendous pace down the slope towards Mr. Heelas. "Lord!" cried Mr. Heelas, struck with an idea; "it's that Invisible Man brute! It's right, after all!" With Mr. Heelas to think things like that was to act, and his cook watching him from the top window was amazed to see him come pelting towards the house at a good nine miles an hour. "Thought he wasn't afraid," said the cook. "Mary, just come here!" There was a slamming of doors, a ringing of bells, and the voice of Mr. Heelas bellowing like a bull. "Shut the doors, shut the windows, shut everything! the Invisible Man is coming!" Instantly the house was full of screams and directions, and scurrying feet. He ran to shut the French windows himself that opened on the veranda; as he did so Kemp's head and shoulders and knee appeared over the edge of the garden fence. In another moment Kemp had ploughed through the asparagus, and was running across the tennis lawn to the house. "You can't come in," said Mr. Heelas, shutting the bolts. "I'm very sorry if he's after you, but you can't come in!" Kemp appeared with a face of terror close to the glass, rapping and then shaking frantically at the French window. Then, seeing his efforts were useless, he ran along the veranda, vaulted the end, and went to hammer at the side door. Then he ran round by the side gate to the front of the house, and so into the hill-road. And Mr. Heelas staring from his window--a face of horror--had scarcely witnessed Kemp vanish, ere the asparagus was being trampled this way and that by feet unseen. At that Mr. Heelas fled precipitately upstairs, and the rest of the chase is beyond his purview. But as he passed the staircase window, he heard the side gate slam. Emerging into the hill-road, Kemp naturally took the downward direction, and so it was he came to run in his own person the very race he had watched with such a critical eye from the belvedere study only four days ago. He ran it well for a man out of training; and though his face was white and wet, his wits were cool to the last. He ran with wide strides, and wherever a patch of rough ground intervened, wherever there came a patch of raw flints, or a bit of broken glass shone dazzling, he crossed it and left the bare invisible feet that followed to take what line they would. For the first time in his life Kemp discovered that the hill- road was indescribably vast and desolate, and that the beginnings of the town far below at the hill foot were strangely remote. Never had there been a slower or more painful method of progression

Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

outside world. “That I couldn’t say,” he replied. “As I’ve only known our Folk. That’s enough for one man, I’ve always thought. More than enough.” His tone had darkened a little, but in a grim rather than an ominous way, the sort of voice one uses when speaking of those hardships that are a fact of life. He set a loaf of dark bread upon the table, which he informed me quite casually had been baked in the ground via geothermal heat, along with enough cheese and salted fish for two. He was quite cheery about it, and seemed intent on joining me for the humble feast. “Thank you,” I said, and we gazed at each other awkwardly. I suspected that I was supposed to say something else—perhaps enquire about his life or duties, or joke about my helplessness—but I’ve always been useless at that sort of amiable chatter, and my life as a scholar affords me few opportunities for practice. “Is your mother about?” I said finally. “I would thank her for the bread.” I may be a poor judge of human feeling, but I have had plenty of experience with putting my feet wrong to know that it was the worst possible thing to say. His handsome face closed, and he replied, “I made it. My mother passed a year and more ago.” “My apologies,” I said, putting on a show of surprise in an attempt to cover the fact that Egilson had included this information in one of our early letters. What a thing to forget about, you idiot. “Well, you’ve quite a talent for it,” I added. “I expect your father is proud of your skill.” Unfortunately, this inept rejoinder was met with a wince, and I guessed that his father was not in fact proud of his son’s skill in the kitchen, perhaps even viewing it as a degradation of his manhood. Fortunately, Finn seemed kindhearted at the core, and he said with some formality, “I hope you enjoy it. If you need anything else, you can send word to the big house. Will half seven suit for breakfast?” “Yes,” I said, regretting the change from his former easy conversation. “Thank you.” “Oh, and this arrived for you two days ago,” he said, withdrawing an envelope from his pocket. “We get mail deliveries every week.” From the way he said it, he saw this as a source of local pride, so I forced a smile as I thanked him. He smiled back and departed, murmuring something about the chickens. I glanced at the letter, and found myself confronted with a florid script that read The Office of Dr. Wendell Bambleby, Cambridge in the upper left corner, and in the middle, Dr. Emily Wilde, Abode of Krystjan Egilson, Farmer, Village of Hrafnsvik, Ljosland. “Bloody Bambleby,” I said. I set the letter aside, too hungry to be vexed just then. Before I tucked into my own refreshments, I took the time to prepare Shadow’s, as was our custom. I collected a mutton steak from the outdoor cellar—to which I

The Hunger Games.txt

long to dep- lete them. “The lake,” says Peeta. “That’s where they want us to go.” “Maybe the ponds still have some,” I say hopefully. “We can check,” he says, but he’s just humoring me. I’m humoring myself because I know what I’ll find when we re- turn to the pond where I soaked my leg. A dusty, gaping mouth of a hole. But we make the trip anyway just to confirm what we already know. “You’re right. They’re driving us to the lake,” I say. Where there’s no cover. Where they’re guaranteed a bloody fight to the death with nothing to block their view. “Do you want to go straightaway or wait until the water’s tapped out?” 322 “Let’s go now, while we’ve had food and rest. Let’s just go end this thing,” he says. I nod. It’s funny. I feel almost as if it’s the first day of the Games again. That I’m in the same position. Twenty-one tri- butes are dead, but I still have yet to kill Cato. And really, wasn’t he always the one to kill? Now it seems the other tri- butes were just minor obstacles, distractions, keeping us from the real battle of the Games. Cato and me. But no, there’s the boy waiting beside me. I feel his arms wrap around me. “Two against one. Should be a piece of cake,” he says. “Next time we eat, it will be in the Capitol,” I answer. “You bet it will,” he says. We stand there a while, locked in an embrace, feeling each other, the sunlight, the rustle of the leaves at our feet. Then without a word, we break apart and head for the lake. I don’t care now that Peeta’s footfalls send rodents scurry- ing, make birds take wing. We have to fight Cato and I’d just as soon do it here as on the plain. But I doubt I’ll have that choice. If the Gamemakers want us in the open, then in the open we will be. We stop to rest for a few moments under the tree where the Careers trapped me. The husk of the tracker jacker nest, beaten to a pulp by the heavy rains and dried in the burning sun, confirms the location. I touch it with the tip of my boot, and it dissolves into dust that is quickly carried off by the breeze. I can’t help looking up in the tree where Rue secretly 323 perched, waiting to save my life. Tracker jackers. Glimmer’s bloated body. The terrifying hallucinations . . . “Let’s move on,” I say, wanting to escape the darkness that surrounds this place. Peeta doesn’t object. Given our late start to the day, when we reach the plain it’s already early evening. There’s no sign of Cato. No sign of any- thing except the gold Cornucopia glowing in the slanting sun rays. Just in case Cato decided to pull a Foxface on us, we cir- cle the Cornucopia to make sure it’s empty. Then obediently, as if following instructions, we cross to the

The Silmarillion.txt

Black; a chieftain of the Easterlings, who with his three sons followed Caranthir, and proved faithless in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 189, 231, 235 Ulfast Son of Ulfang the Black, slain by the sons of Bor in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 189, 235 Ulmo A Vala, one of the Aratar, called Lord of Waters and King of the Sea, The name was interpreted by the Eldar to mean 'The Pourer' or 'The Rainer'. See especially 19-20, 36. 8-10, 18-24, 36, 44, 51, 52, 59-61, 64, 70, 97, 116, 120, 133-5, 141, 146, 149-52, 187, 190, 240, 256, 260, 294-8, 301-2, 305-6, 308 Ulumri The great horns of Ulmo made by the Maia Salmar. 19, 36, 59 Ulwarth Son of Ulfang the Black, slain by the sons of Bor in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 189, 235 manyar Name given to those Elves who went on the westward Journey from Cuivinen but did not reach Aman: 'Those not of Aman', beside Amanyar 'Those of Aman'. 54, 58 marth 'Ill-fate', a fictitious name for his father given out by Trin in Nargothrond. 257 Umbar Great natural haven and fortress of the Nmenreans south of the Bay of Belfalas. 334 Undying Lands Aman and Eressa; also called the Deathless Lands. 308, 320, 324, 345, 348 Ungoliant The great spider, destroyer with Melkor of the Trees of Valinor. Shelob in The Lord of the Rings was 'the last child of Ungoliant to trouble the unhappy world' (The Two Towers IV 9). 79-80, 84, 85, 88-90, 100, 109, 116, 144, 157,198,307 Union of Maedhros The league formed by Maedhros to defeat Morgoth that ended in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad 230 Urthel One of the twelve companions of Barahir on Dorthonion. 187 Urulki Quenya word meaning 'fire-serpent', dragon. 137, 294-304, 308 Utumno The first great stronghold of Melkor, in the north of Middle-earth, destroyed by the Valar. 31, 37, 46, 51-2, 81, 91, 114, 139 Vair 'The Weaver', one of the Valier, the spouse of Nmo Mandos. 18, 21 Valacirca 'The Sickle of the Valar', name of the constellation of the Great Bear. 48, 211 Valandil Youngest son of Isildur; third King of Arnor. 367 Valaquenta 'Account of the Valar', a short work treated as a separate entity from The Silmarillion proper. Valar 'Those with Power', 'The Powers' (singular Vala); name given to those great Ainur who entered into E at the beginning of Time, and assumed the function of guarding and governing Arda. Called also the Great Ones, the Rulers of Arda, the Lords of the West, the Lords of Valinor. Passim; see especially 10-12, 37, 81-2, and see also Ainur, Aratar. Valaraukar 'Demons of Might' (singular Valarauko), Quenya form corresponding to Sindarin Balrog. 26 Valarma The horn of the Vala Orom. 22, 37, 85, 108-9 Valier 'The Queens of the Valar' (singular Valie); a term used only in the Valaquenta. 18, 20, 23 Valimar See Valmar. Valinor The land of the Valar in Aman, beyond the mountains of the Pelri; also called the Guarded Realm. Passim; see especially 32-3, 117 Valmar The city of the Valar in Valinor; the name also

Hedge.txt

the arrangement and waited for an epiphany. Instead, the door swung open. Harriet had found her once again. “Any luck?” she said, then looked pityingly when Maud shook her head. In her early sixties, Harriet had hooded eyes behind rimless glasses, and a wide, sensuous mouth lacquered in magenta lipstick. Her spindly body was clad in a zigzag-patterned dress that stopped above her wrinkled knees. She tapped the back of her wrist as if she were wearing a watch instead of a fitness tracker. “Down to the wire.” “I could probably buy myself a couple more days if I work late when I start planting,” Maud said. She needed to get the plants into the ground before the blithe spring sun turned summer-hostile. And her contract at Montgomery Place was for one summer: this summer. Harriet had already let her know that it would be difficult for Maud to return next summer if she wanted to bring her children again, since the arrangement was already “experimental and potentially problematic.” Maud’s daughters, Ella and Louise, were back home in Marin with their father, Peter, finishing school. They’d arrive next Monday and stay with Maud on the grounds for two months until August, attending a day camp down the road. “I’ll tell you what,” Harriet said, her smile both generous and victorious. “If you find all the beds, I’ll lend you Chris to help cut them. Gabriel has so much to do down at his site. And he’s too qualified for manual labor.” Chris was the groundskeeper’s son, with whom Maud hadn’t spoken since their awkward introduction the day she arrived. “I’m bringing our charming archaeologist a lemonade once I’m done sorting books,” Harriet said with a flight of her hand. “He forgets to hydrate. Would you like one? I can leave it for you in the butler’s pantry.” Maud politely declined, and Harriet clicked the door shut. The last time she had offered Maud a lemonade, she seemed to have omitted the sugar. Maud wasn’t sure why Harriet disliked her, exactly, but she supposed it had to do with her friendship with Gabriel. He was indeed charming, the kind of man who warmed the air when he spoke to you, and until Maud arrived, that warmth had been all for Harriet. Gabriel had been at Montgomery Place for a month, opening his own dig—an ancient campsite—in the forest. Once Maud got there, he volunteered to help her locate that first swath of beds, which had been easy to identify from the indentations of their terra-cotta edging tiles. Then they’d followed the trail of gravel that had once lined the paths and dug test pits all the way to the mansion, looking for soil rich with the nitrates of decay that proved a concentration of former life. After another ten minutes, measured by the tsk-tsk of a grandfather clock wedged between the bookcases, Maud abandoned the desk for the window. She gazed out at the front lawn. In their most contentious days, Peter used to say that she was too optimistic—that was why she

treasure island.txt

recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was all within an ace of calling for help. But the mere fact that he held together by a system of the most various and incongru- was a man, however wild, had somewhat reassured me, and ous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry my fear of Silver began to revive in proportion. I stood still, gaskin. About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather therefore, and cast about for some method of escape; and as I belt, which was the one thing solid in his whole accoutre- was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed into my ment. mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, cour- “Three years!” I cried. “Were you shipwrecked?” age glowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for “Nay, mate,” said he; “marooned.” this man of the island and walked briskly towards him. I had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible He was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; kind of punishment common enough among the buccaneers, but he must have been watching me closely, for as soon as I in which the offender is put ashore with a little powder and began to move in his direction he reappeared and took a step shot and left behind on some desolate and distant island. to meet me. Then he hesitated, drew back, came forward “Marooned three years agone,” he continued, “and lived again, and at last, to my wonder and confusion, threw himself on goats since then, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man Contents on his knees and held out his clasped hands in supplication. is, says I, a man can do for himself. But, mate, my heart is At that I once more stopped. sore for Christian diet. You mightn’t happen to have a piece Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 122 123 of cheese about you, now? No? Well, many’s the long night further’n that; and so my mother told me, and predicked the I’ve dreamed of cheese—toasted, mostly—and woke up again, whole, she did, the pious woman! But it were Providence and here I were.” that put me here. I’ve thought it all out in this here lonely “If ever I can get aboard again,” said I, “you shall have island, and I’m back on piety. You don’t catch me tasting rum cheese by the stone.” so much, but just a thimbleful for luck, of course, the first All this time he had been feeling the stuff of my jacket, chance I have. I’m bound I’ll be good, and I see the way to. smoothing my hands, looking at my boots, and generally, in And, Jim”—looking all round him and lowering his voice to a the intervals of his speech, showing a childish pleasure in the whisper—”I’m rich.” presence of a fellow creature. But at my last words he perked I now felt sure that the poor fellow had

Fahrenheit 451.txt

air. "Millie, did you see that?" "I saw it, I saw it! " Montag reached inside the parlour wall and pulled the main switch. The images drained away, as if the water had been let out from a gigantic crystal bowl of hysterical fish. The three women turned slowly and looked with unconcealed irritation and then dislike at Montag. "When do you suppose the war will start?" he said. "I notice your husbands aren't here tonight?" "Oh, they come and go, come and go," said Mrs. Phelps. "In again out again Finnegan, the Army called Pete yesterday. He'll be back next week. The Army said so. Quick war. Forty-eight hours they said, and everyone home. That's what the Army said. Quick war. Pete was called yesterday and they said he'd be, back next week. Quick..." The three women fidgeted and looked nervously at the empty mud-coloured walls. "I'm not worried," said Mrs. Phelps. "I'll let Pete do all the worrying." She giggled. "I'll let old Pete do all the worrying. Not me. I'm not worried." "Yes," said Millie. "Let old Pete do the worrying." "It's always someone else's husband dies, they say." "I've heard that, too. I've never known any dead man killed in a war. Killed jumping off buildings, yes, like Gloria's husband last week, but from wars? No." "Not from wars," said Mrs. Phelps. "Anyway, Pete and I always said, no tears, nothing like that. It's our third marriage each and we're independent. Be independent, we always said. He said, if I get killed off, you just go right ahead and don't cry, but get married again, and don't think of me." "That reminds me," said Mildred. "Did you see that Clara Dove five-minute romance last night in your wall? Well, it was all about this woman who--" Montag said nothing but stood looking at the women's faces as he had once looked at the faces of saints in a strange church he had entered when he was a child. The faces of those enamelled creatures meant nothing to him, though he talked to them and stood in that church for a long time, trying to be of that religion, trying to know what that religion was, trying to get enough of the raw incense and special dust of the place into his lungs and thus into his blood to feel touched and concerned by the meaning of the colourful men and women with the porcelain eyes and the blood-ruby lips. But there was nothing, nothing; it was a stroll through another store, and his currency strange and unusable there, and his passion cold, even when he touched the wood and plaster and clay. So it was now, in his own parlour, with these women twisting in their chairs under his gaze, lighting cigarettes, blowing smoke, touching their sun-fired hair and examining their blazing fingernails as if they had caught fire from his look. Their faces grew haunted with silence. They leaned forward at the sound of Montag's swallowing his final bite of food. They listened to his feverish breathing.

How to Sell a Haunted House.txt

played “The Star-Spangled Banner” slowed down to a funeral march while Clark made his entrance on six-foot stilts, dressed as Death, swooping low over the bodies of the Victims that lay scattered across the stage. Death was the biggest puppet we’d ever made, and he looked absolutely terrifying. In our final tableau we looked like grim beasts standing over a field of corpses while the great grinning skull of Death itself rose above us like a malevolent moon. That’s when one of the kids started to cry. I’m not sure how we could have been expected to know that a significant portion of them had parents deployed overseas. I also feel like maybe the first little girl who started crying might have been looking for attention? Either way, that one crying kid set off a chain reaction, and suddenly there were sobbing kids everywhere. Through the eyeholes of my mask I could see teachers ushering the kids out the back door like the place was on fire while Mrs. Marsten steamed down the aisle toward us. “Get off this stage,” she hissed. “Right. Now.” We bowed and apparently that was the wrong thing to do, because she yanked my mask off and the tie got caught in my hair so I lost a clump. She was pretty pissed. Sadie and I lifted up the side of the General, and Richard crawled out from underneath, and together we watched the last of the kids vanish through the gym doors. An hour ago they’d been treating us like celebrities. Now they were acting like we’d killed Elmo. To be honest, I blamed the teachers for not preparing them better. Mrs. Marsten disappeared and we realized most of the teachers were gone, so we struck the show and loaded up the station wagon. We still felt pretty good about it, to be honest, and as for the crying kids? If you’re making real art, not everyone’s always going to like it. By tomorrow morning they wouldn’t even remember what they’d been crying about, and maybe a few of them would even start asking questions about American hegemony. Clark went inside to get our check. The sun went behind the clouds and it started getting cold. He came out a long time later. “They’re not paying us,” he said. “What do you mean?” Richard asked. “I mean there’s no check with our name on it,” Clark said. “They’re saying we traumatized the kids and probably violated the Patriot Act.” “The what?” Richard asked. “I spent forty dollars on gas,” Sadie said. “You’re going to have to eat it,” Clark said. “They’re pretty angry.” “And for groceries,” she added. “It’s fucking unfair,” I chimed in. I felt like the situation warranted profanity. “I have spent 375 bucks on materials for this show,” Richard said. “I have the receipts. Whether they liked it or not, the least they can do is cover our expenses.” The school disagreed. We wound up having a pretty heated public debate with Mrs. Marsten and a few of her storm troopers in the

Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt

to feel grateful that I’d had her at all. I’d thank her, and then—yes—I’d cry … because happiness and sadness are always so tangled up. And then I’d put on a Cary Grant movie—and usually eat the birthday cake, sometimes digging straight in with a fork without even slicing it, until I conked out on the sofa. It was quite the ritual. I’d started out trying to feel happy. But in the end, I’d settled for grateful. Which might be the better emotion, if I had to choose. Anyway, the chances I’d be telling Oliver Addison, DVM, about any of this were pretty close to zero. He didn’t need to do a belly flop into my sad past on our first date. I’d be cheery and positive and funny and charming—as best I could. I’d set all my bittersweet emotions about my lost mother on a mental shelf. And then I’d shut the conversation down before I could accidentally reveal any personal imperfections … and go stop by the grocery store for the ingredients for the cake. Yellow cake with chocolate icing. My mom’s favorite. And mine, too. This would work. I could have it all. As long as I kept to the schedule. * * * I WENT DOWN to Bean Street at six o’clock on the dot. I found a table that faced the exterior door, couldn’t resist dabbing just one more spot of a lipstick color called Passionfruit onto the poutiest part of my lower lip, gave myself a little pep talk about how doing scary things is good for you, and waited. And waited. And then I waited some more. And while I waited, I could feel the confidence leaking out of me like a punctured tire. Was it cold in here? Maybe I should’ve brought a sweater. Should I take my hair back down? Was my lipstick too orangy? And of all the bras I owned, how had I managed to grab the one that always slid off my shoulder? I yanked the shoulder strap up and pressed it in place sternly, like, Stay. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I couldn’t pull this off. The entire future I’d just mapped out for myself as Mrs. Oliver Addison, DVM, was riding on not screwing up this moment. The words don’t screw it up kept circling around in my head like they were on an airplane banner. Great tip—but the problem was, there were so many ways to screw it up. What if, to just take the biggest, scariest, most likely example, I didn’t recognize him? What if—and this likelihood was really only occurring to me now, as I sat there—without his lab coat on and out of the context of the clinic, I truly couldn’t tell him apart from anyone else? It was more than possible. How mortifying would that be? I thought about the woman on Facebook who’d called her face blindness “a superpower.” What would she be doing right now? She wouldn’t be sitting here nervously ripping up a paper napkin, her stomach cold

How to Sell a Haunted House.txt

people,” Louise said apologetically as Mercy walked past her, headed for the hall. “Mark was going to build them a deck once, but he quit before he even started.” “That was Aunt Honey,” Mercy said from the hall. “She told your mom she couldn’t stand anyone changing her sister’s old house and you know how your mom always listened to her. She did y’all a favor, too. That big empty backyard is going to light up some eyes.” Louise followed Mercy into the hall and caught a glimpse of the boardedup attic hatch. She tried to distract Mercy from looking up. “So what steps do we need to take?” she asked. “In your opinion.” Louise knew Mercy loved giving her opinion. “We need to focus on making this house the best house it can be,” Mercy said, peering into Mark’s old bedroom and taking another flash picture. “We need to brighten this space. Allow it to breathe, make it appeal to the senses.” Mercy opened the workroom door. The puppets kept it from opening more than a crack. “There’s a ton of puppets in there,” Louise apologized again. “They have to go,” Mercy said. “You guys grew up around them, so you think they’re normal, but puppets creep people out even more than dolls.” “We’re getting them out today,” Louise promised, following Mercy down the hall. Something directly overhead thumped lightly on the floor once, purposeful and deliberate. Louise’s shoulders twitched and she stopped, waiting to see if it would happen again. “There’s a lot to do here,” Mercy said, “but I see high six digits if we do this right.” maybe something just fell over Louise started down the hall after Mercy, and over her head in the attic whatever it was thumped again, then again, then again, one time for every step she took, staying right over her head, following her down the hall, and she recognized the sound—footsteps. Something in the attic was pacing her. Something small. “People used to move in and renovate,” Mercy continued as Louise stopped walking. Horribly, the tiny footsteps stopped, too. “But these days everyone wants to move into a big white box with marble on the countertops and stainless steel in the kitchen and they’ll pay through the nose. I’ve seen little doo-doo places not even in this neighborhood cover everything with Benjamin Moore off-white, do a gut renovation, and go for almost seven figures.” Louise had to start walking again or it would look weird. She started and the footsteps followed her to join Mercy, who was squatting in front of the wall. “Why is this vent open?” she asked, examining the hole in the wall. “Is there an HVAC problem?” “So stupid,” Louise said, and the silence overhead was worse than the footsteps. “I knocked it off, but we’ll get it replaced. The heating and air work great, though.” “The fluff is the fluff,” Mercy said, standing, her knees cracking. “But motivated buyers want to know the nitty-gritty: how old is the heat pump? How old is this roof? Do you

Titanium-Noir.txt

see you up and about,” Stefan says. “Yeah. Thank you.” “Oh, you’re welcome, of course. As I said, you turned out to be more interesting than I’d imagined. A seasoning process, no doubt. Suffering and age. I might have done it anyway, even without Athena’s urging. If I’d heard in time.” “Maybe Elaine would have called you.” “Maybe. Thank you for that, by the way. Not just for taking care of her, but she was so moved by your situation that she’s in treatment now herself. Out in a few more months—the brain takes longer, you know. All’s well that ends well. What will you do now?” “I think we can say the cops aren’t interested in retaining my services any more.” “No, I fear not. Rather too messy and ambiguous an outcome.” “Are you asking me if I want a job?” “Genuine curiosity.” “The same, maybe. But from the other side of the line.” “Ah, yes. Perhaps. I think that would be…helpful.” He shrugs, water running down his back, then looks over at Athena. “It’s so nice for her. Finally, she has everything she wanted. You, of course. But also Elaine getting better, and Maurice out of the picture. The man who tormented her mother is dead. And she even has a little something to hold over me, if I ever get too patriarchal with her. Quite the fortunate outcome, and she never had to lift a finger. I’m very proud.” He flashes me a grin, and I see all his teeth. “Excuse me, Cal. I must get back in. I find the water infinitely more convivial than dry land, these days.” “Sure. See you round.” “Count on it, Cal.” He splashes into the pool like a child. Athena waves at me from the lounger. I think about what happened in the spaces between what I’ve already found out: how did Roddy Tebbit hear that Elaine might be an ally in Stefan’s camp? How did Maurice come to know who Roddy really was? The smallest intersections of lives; coincidences that add up to one particular ending. I remember Elaine’s face as she hit him, and the years of pain drained out of her into the dark. I realise I’m proud of Athena too. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS It’s been a tough few years in our house, just as it probably has been in yours. Thank you, Clare, as ever, but moreso. Thank you, kids, for surviving and even thriving. Thank you to Ireland, and to Inchinattin in particular, for welcoming my father home. Thank you, everyone who’s reading this book, and thank you doubly for reading these acknowledgements. Thank you Patrick, Edward, Olivia and your amazing teams. Thank you to the anonymous security guard at the Royal Cornwall Hospital on the morning of December 13th, 2020, who understood, and was kind. Thank you public health professionals, vaccine researchers, doctors, nurses, paramedics and volunteers. Thank you, teachers. Thank you delivery drivers and grocers. Thank you, everyone. Together, we go forward. A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR Nick Harkaway is the author of four previous novels (The

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt

after that money." "It's so, Tom, it's so. I'll foller him; I will, by jingoes!" "Now you're talking! Don't you ever weaken, Huck, and I won't." --------------------------------------------------------- -254- Chapter XXVIII THAT night Tom and Huck were ready for their adventure. They hung about the neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching the alley at a distance and the other the tavern door. Nobody entered the alley or left it; nobody resembling the Spaniard entered or left the tavern door. The night promised to be a fair one; so Tom went home with the understanding that if a considerable degree of darkness came on, Huck was to come and "maow," whereupon he would slip out and try the keys. But the night remained clear, and Huck closed his watch and retired to bed in an empty sugar hogshead about twelve. Tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also Wednesday. But Thursday night promised better. Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's old tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He hid the lantern in Huck's sugar hogshead and the watch began. An hour before midnight the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts) were put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody had entered or left the alley. Everything --------------------------------------------------------- -255- was auspicious. The blackness of darkness reigned, the perfect stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings of distant thunder. Tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the towel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern. Huck stood sentry and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then there was a season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck's spirits like a mountain. He began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern -- it would frighten him, but it would at least tell him that Tom was alive yet. It seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely he must have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and excitement. In his uneasiness Huck found himself drawing closer and closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and momentarily expecting some catastrophe to happen that would take away his breath. There was not much to take away, for he seemed only able to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the way it was beating. Suddenly there was a flash of light and Tom came tearing by him: . "Run!" said he; "run, for your life!" He needn't have repeated it; once was enough; Huck was making thirty or forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. The boys never stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house at the lower end of the village. Just --------------------------------------------------------- -256- as they got within its shelter the storm burst and the rain poured down. As soon as Tom got his breath he said: "Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as

The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt

and down the room, glancing every moment at the clock, and becoming horribly agitated as the minutes went by. At last the door opened, and his servant entered. "Mr. Alan Campbell, sir." A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the color came back to his cheeks. "Ask him to come in at once, Francis." The man bowed, and retired. In a few moments Alan Campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. "Alan! this is kind of you. I thank you for coming." "I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold. He spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and appeared not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted. "It is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one person. Sit down." Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful. After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of the man he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. He has been dead ten hours now. Don't stir, and don't look at me like that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. What you have to do is this--" "Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what you have told me is true or not true, doesn't concern me. I entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself. They don't interest me any more." "Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself. You are the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are a scientist. You know about chemistry, and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you have got to do is to destroy the [90] thing that is up-stairs,--to destroy it so that not a vestige will be left of it. Nobody saw this person come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to

Anne of Green Gables.txt

and lock it in the jam closet and give you the key. And you must not give it to me, Matthew, until my lessons are done, not even if I implore you on my bended knees. It's all very well to say resist temptation, but it's ever so much easier to resist it if you can't get the key. And then shall I run down the cellar and get some russets, Matthew? Wouldn't you like some russets?" "Well now, I dunno but what I would," said Matthew, who never ate russets but knew Anne's weakness for them. Just as Anne emerged triumphantly from the cellar with her plateful of russets came the sound of flying footsteps on the icy board walk outside and the next moment the kitchen door was flung open and in rushed Diana Barry, white faced and breathless, with a shawl wrapped hastily around her head. Anne promptly let go of her candle and plate in her surprise, and plate, candle, and apples crashed together down the cellar ladder and were found at the bottom embedded in melted grease, the next day, by Marilla, who gathered them up and thanked mercy the house hadn't been set on fire. "Whatever is the matter, Diana?" cried Anne. "Has your mother relented at last?" "Oh, Anne, do come quick," implored Diana nervously. "Minnie May is awful sick-she's got croup. Young Mary Joe says-and Father and Mother are away to town and there's nobody to go for the doctor. Minnie May is awful bad and Young Mary Joe doesn't know what to do-and oh, Anne, I'm so scared!" Matthew, without a word, reached out for cap and coat, slipped past Diana and away into the darkness of the yard. "He's gone to harness the sorrel mare to go to Carmody for the doctor," said Anne, who was hurrying on hood and jacket. "I know it as well as if he'd said so. Matthew and I are such kindred spirits I can read his thoughts without words at all." "I don't believe he'll find the doctor at Carmody," sobbed Diana. "I know that Dr. Blair went to town and I guess Dr. Spencer would go too. Young Mary Joe never saw anybody with croup and Mrs. Lynde is away. Oh, Anne!" "Don't cry, Di," said Anne cheerily. "I know exactly what to do for croup. You forget that Mrs. Hammond had twins three times. When you look after three pairs of twins you naturally get a lot of experience. They all had croup regularly. Just wait till I get the ipecac bottle-you mayn't have any at your house. Come on now." The two little girls hastened out hand in hand and hurried through Lover's Lane and across the crusted field beyond, for the snow was too deep to go by the shorter wood way. Anne, although sincerely sorry for Minnie May, was far from being insensible to the romance of the situation and to the sweetness of once more sharing that romance with a kindred spirit. The night was clear and frosty, all ebony

Blowback.txt

nothing to satisfy women. So, I guess, like father, like daughter.” I watched one of Trump’s communications aides, Mercy Schlapp, walk out in protest. But Wolf saved her harshest for last by mocking all the dinner attendees, collectively. “You guys are obsessed with Trump. Did you used to date him? Because you pretend like you hate him, but I think you love him. I think what no one in this room wants to admit is that Trump has helped all of you.… He’s helped you sell your papers and your books and your TV. You helped create this monster,” she emphasized. “If you’re going to profit off of Trump, you should at least give him some money, because he doesn’t have any!” Afterward, Wolf’s set was widely panned as disrespectful toward the prominent women in the administration. Attendees consoled Conway and Sanders, chiding the comedian for being too crass. The critiques were thick with irony, given who the women worked for. Something else made guests feel uncomfortable, though no one admitted it during the after party. The lewd jokes didn’t make us squirm. It was the truthful ones, like the bit at the end. People in the room who despised the president nevertheless relied on him. One of them was Rod Rosenstein, the deputy attorney general. I briefly got sandwiched into a conversation with him after the speeches ended. He was the highest-ranking official overseeing the Russia investigation, and Trump regularly lambasted him in public and private. Yet I listened with surprise as Rosenstein assured dinner guests that any suggestion of turmoil between the White House and the Justice Department was completely overblown. I knew he felt differently. The deputy attorney general saw Trump as a danger and perhaps already a criminal. Rosenstein had discussed the idea of wearing a wire in the Oval Office, as well as the possibility of invoking “the Twenty-Fifth.” Codified in 1967, the Twenty-Fifth Amendment to the Constitution outlines a process for the vice president and the heads of the fifteen executive departments to declare the president—by simple majority vote—unfit for office and to strip the president of his or her powers. As recently as a week before the Correspondents’ Dinner, Kirstjen and I had met and talked about the “forbidden” provision. John Kelly had done an informal whip count. A number of cabinet members were prepared to take the vote in an extreme scenario, but no one thought it was a viable option at the moment. Trump would call it a coup. His supporters would violently take to the streets, and Congress would probably overturn the determination anyway. Rosenstein had canvassed administration colleagues about the possibility, too. That’s why I was perplexed to hear him at the dinner, casually downplaying concerns about the president. The Adults who despised Trump still seemed to be choked by his vise-like grip. In fact, a year later, Rosenstein would write the president a flattering departure letter—thanking Trump for the honor of a lifetime, praising the administration’s policies, and glowingly recalling the president’s “courtesy and humor.” The woman I was searching

Anne of Green Gables.txt

lights and moods and gray in others. So far, the ordinary observer; an extraordinary observer might have seen that the chin was very pointed and pronounced; that the big eyes were full of spirit and vivacity; that the mouth was sweet-lipped and expressive; that the forehead was broad and full; in short, our discerning extraordinary observer might have concluded that no commonplace soul inhabited the body of this stray womanchild of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid. Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speaking first, for as soon as she concluded that he was coming to her she stood up, grasping with one thin brown hand the handle of a shabby, old-fashioned carpet-bag; the other she held out to him. "I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables?" she said in a peculiarly clear, sweet voice. "I'm very glad to see you. I was beginning to be afraid you weren't coming for me and I was imagining all the things that might have happened to prevent you. I had made up my mind that if you didn't come for me to-night I'd go down the track to that big wild cherry-tree at the bend, and climb up into it to stay all night. I wouldn't be a bit afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in a wild cherry-tree all white with bloom in the moonshine, don't you think? You could imagine you were dwelling in marble halls, couldn't you? And I was quite sure you would come for me in the morning, if you didn't to-night." Matthew had taken the scrawny little hand awkwardly in his; then and there he decided what to do. He could not tell this child with the glowing eyes that there had been a mistake; he would take her home and let Marilla do that. She couldn't be left at Bright River anyhow, no matter what mistake had been made, so all questions and explanations might as well be deferred until he was safely back at Green Gables. "I'm sorry I was late," he said shyly. "Come along. The horse is over in the yard. Give me your bag." "Oh, I can carry it," the child responded cheerfully. "It isn't heavy. I've got all my worldly goods in it, but it isn't heavy. And if it isn't carried in just a certain way the handle pulls out-so I'd better keep it because I know the exact knack of it. It's an extremely old carpet-bag. Oh, I'm very glad you've come, even if it would have been nice to sleep in a wild cherry-tree. We've got to drive a long piece, haven't we? Mrs. Spencer said it was eight miles. I'm glad because I love driving. Oh, it seems so wonderful that I'm going to live with you and belong to you. I've never belonged to anybody-not really. But the asylum was the worst. I've only been in it four months, but that was enough. I don't suppose you ever were an orphan in an asylum, so you can't possibly understand

Lord of the Flies.txt

of fire. The heart of flame leapt nimbly across the gap between the trees and then went swinging and flaring along the whole row of them. Beneath the capering boys a quarter of a mile square of forest was savage with smoke and flame. The separate noises of the fire merged into a drum-roll that seemed to shake the mountain. "You got your small fire all right." Startled, Ralph realized that the boys were falling still and silent, feeling the beginnings of awe at the power set free below them. The knowledge and the awe made him savage. "Oh, shut up!" "I got the conch," said Piggy, in a hurt voice. "I got a right to speak." They looked at him with eyes that lacked interest in what they saw, and cocked ears at the drum-roll of the fire. Piggy glanced nervously into hell and cradled the conch. "We got to let that burn out now. And that was our firewood." He licked his lips. "There ain't nothing we can do. We ought to be more careful. I'm scared--" Jack dragged his eyes away from the fire. "You're always scared. Yah--Fatty!" "I got the conch," said Piggy bleakly. He turned to Ralph. "I got the conch, ain't I Ralph?" Unwillingly Ralph turned away from the splendid, awful sight. "What's that?" "The conch. I got a right to speak." The twins giggled together. "We wanted smoke--" "Now look--!" A pall stretched for miles away from the island. All the boys except Piggy started to giggle; presently they were shrieking with laughter. Piggy lost his temper. "I got the conch! Just you listen! The first thing we ought to have made was shelters down there by the beach. It wasn't half cold down there in the night. But the first time Ralph says 'fire' you goes howling and screaming up this here mountain. Like a pack of kids!" By now they were listening to the tirade. "How can you expect to be rescued if you don't put first things first and act proper?" He took off his glasses and made as if to put down the conch; but the sudden motion toward it of most of the older boys changed his mind. He tucked the shell under his arm, and crouched back on a rock. "Then when you get here you build a bonfire that isn't no use. Now you been and set the whole island on fire. Won't we look funny if the whole island burns up? Cooked fruit, that's what we'll have to eat, and roast pork. And that's nothing to laugh at! You said Ralph was chief and you don't give him time to think. Then when he says something you rush off, like, like--" He paused for breath, and the fire growled at them. "And that's not all. Them kids. The little 'uns. Who took any notice of 'em? Who knows how many we got?" Ralph took a sudden step forward. "I told you to. I told you to get a list of names!" "How could I," cried Piggy indignantly,

Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt

a lodge owned by a woman who hid a body for twenty years. And good luck booking any weddings, Naomi.” “It’s not going to be like that,” Olivia said, tone turning desperate. “God, I sound awful. Worrying about money, when…” Cass’s voice choked off. “But seriously, Liv. What do you think happens when people start asking questions? I don’t think any of us wants the world to know exactly what happened in those woods. Or after,” she added softly, pinning me with a level look. “Maybe it’s time they did,” I replied, voice hollow. Her calm fractured. “Of course you’re in favor of just blowing everything up. You’re never the one who has to stick around to clean up the mess.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you’ve never tried to fix anything in your life. You just break it and leave,” Cass said. There was a prickly anger in her voice that left my skin feeling raw. “You left us behind. Amanda doesn’t even remember you.” “Can you blame her for wanting to get away?” Olivia asked. “We were kids. People have shit in their childhoods. The point is to move past it,” Cass said. “Yeah, you’ve definitely moved past it. We’re what, two blocks from your parents’ old place?” I asked, my temper flaring to match hers. “Better to be living with a shitty boyfriend and taking photos of people who are happier than you’ll ever be?” “Fuck off, Cass.” “You too, Naomi.” We glared at each other. Then she laughed, wagging her head. “It is so damn easy to fight with you. Always has been.” I let out a strained chuckle of my own. We’d scrapped constantly as kids, too. Quick to fight and quick to get over it. Even back then, my instinct had been to lash out and run at the slightest provocation, and Cass was always the one who hunted me down so we could patch things up. Cass straightened up and walked over to the counter, plucking a half-empty bottle of white wine from its spot. “I’m drinking. Who’s with me?” I glanced at the clock. Barely 10:15. “Cass—” Olivia started. “Well, I’m not drinking alone,” she said, and took down glasses for all of us. She set them out and poured a splash into each. She took a sip from hers, shut her eyes, and stood there with the glass hovering an inch from her mouth. Then she opened her eyes, and they were clear and calm. “Listen, Liv. I understand what you’re doing—I do. Really. It’s not right, leaving her out there. But you’ve been thinking about this for years. We’ve only had a few minutes. Give us some time to catch up, okay?” “I—” Olivia began. “We need time to figure things out,” Cass insisted. She glanced pointedly over at me, looking for backup. “We have to think about the consequences.” I took a swallow of my wine. Liv was right—it was long past time to tell someone about Persephone. Someone out there had to be looking for her. Mourning her.

The-Lost-Bookshop.txt

body at all. I still could not see his face, but already I could read snippets of him. It was something I’d always done, reading people, even though it got me into trouble sometimes. This one seemed distracted, searching, unhappy. ‘What are you doing here?’ I continued my conversation with his shins. ‘I hardly think it’s any of your business. What are you doing here?’ ‘I live here!’ I said, wishing I’d pulled the blinds in the first place. ‘So you can do your Peeping Tom act somewhere else.’ My voice was shaking a bit. I didn’t feel up to having a confrontation with a stranger, but I also wanted my privacy. I could hear his boots scuffing the dirt and next thing I knew, he was sitting on his haunches, his face looming in front of me. It didn’t really match the voice at all, which was all sharp edges that you could cut your finger on. There was a warmth in his brown eyes, or were they green? Hazel, perhaps. His hair kept falling in the way. But his features held the quizzical look of someone who would challenge every word you spoke. ‘Did you just say Peeping Tom?’ he asked, clearly amused. ‘Have you time-travelled from the eighties?’ I wasn’t sure which I disliked more, being ignored or mocked. His grin was annoyingly infectious and it revealed some imperfect teeth, which I read as the result of a short-lived passion for sports. Football, I think. Blocking a penalty kick, he’d been hit in the face. I smiled, then immediately stopped. ‘Look, if you don’t stop stalking me or whatever it is you’re doing, I’m going to phone the police.’ He raised his hands in surrender. ‘I’m sorry. Look, my name is Henry,’ he said, offering me his hand to shake. I stared at it and watched as he sheepishly retracted it. ‘I wasn’t peeping in your window, I promise. I’m … I’m looking for something.’ Likely story, I thought. ‘What did you lose?’ ‘Um …’ He looked around him at the waste ground between Madame Bowden’s house and her next-door neighbour, messing up his already messy hair with his hands. ‘I didn’t lose it exactly …’ I rolled my eyes. He was a Peeping Tom. Or whatever. A perv! That was it. I was about to tell him when he blurted out a word I hadn’t expected. ‘Remains! I’m looking for the remains—’ ‘Oh Jesus Christ, did somebody die here? I knew it, I knew there was a weird vibe about this place. I got a feeling as soon as I arrived—’ ‘No, no. God no. Not those kinds of remains.’ He stooped his head low to make eye contact with me again. ‘Look, I know this looks sketchy, but I promise you, it’s nothing bad, it’s just difficult to explain.’ For a moment, we said nothing. Him crouching by the gable wall, me half hanging out of the window, standing on a kitchen chair. That’s when I heard the bell. ‘What was that?’ he asked, trying to peer

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

He . . . died in combat. Killed during a raid. Last one in. He was the last one in. I’m still not sure how we missed the target coming down the staircase. Faulty intel, they said, as if it helps.” While she digested that awful and jarring information without being able to take a breath, August’s fingers drummed on the side of the vanity. “Sam had this dream to be a winemaker. We all laughed about it. Called him Napa Daddy. But he was serious about doing it. Leaving the teams one day and buying a small vineyard, like this one. This is his dream, not mine. I’m just the one fucking it up.” Natalie’s stomach hung down somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles. Every terrible thing she’d ever said to him came roaring back in perfect clarity, making her throat feel like it had been cut to ribbons. “August . . .” “You’re right.” He pushed off the sink abruptly, his hoarse laugh filling the small bathroom. “I smell god-awful. I’ll take a quick shower and then we can talk about wedding stuff, huh?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Just leaned into the shower stall and twisted the handle, the sound of water pelting the tile wall filling the silence. Feeling numb down to her toes, Natalie backed out of the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Guilt burned inside every one of her organs. Made her limbs feel like dead weight. All this time, he’d been trying to fulfill this dream for his late best friend and everyone had been ridiculing him for it? The reality of that was too much to bear. Natalie’s hand still rested on the bathroom doorknob and she watched through gritty eyes as it turned in her grip, letting her back into the now-fogged-up space. What am I doing? No idea. But she knew that she’d been extremely unfair to the man on the other side of the shower curtain. He was clearly hurting after having painful memories dredged up . . . and she wanted very badly to comfort him. In any way she could. Maybe the only way she could in this exact moment? Natalie untucked her T-shirt from the waistband of her skirt, pulling it off over her head. Her skirt dropped to the floor, followed by her sandals. Her fingers hesitated for only a moment on the front clasp of her bra before releasing it. Baring her breasts to the hot, foggy room. Too eager to touch him to realize she still wore her mint green panties, she walked slowly to the curtain and drew it back, stepping into the stall. Or . . . squeezing into it, rather. August occupied nearly every inch of space. He stood with his head hanging forward beneath the spray, but the sound of the curtain being pulled back and her stepping into the shower had the meat of his shoulders flexing dramatically—and he turned with an incredulous expression. “Natalie? What are you . . .” If he was a cartoon

Blowback.txt

was a stupid lie. The unit numbers were spray-painted in each parking spot. “All right, well just be careful out there. Take care of yourself, and make sure you’re watching out for others. Okay?” “Always,” I replied, my cheeks filling with hot shame. She knew I’d driven drunk. Out in the car, everything was there, untouched. Personal phone. Burner phone. Briefcase. I was relieved, but I lost a day of writing. I was too hungover and consumed by continuous self-flagellation, as my brain fought itself. How could you be so stupid? This put everything at risk. My capacity for self-preservation was continuous, too. Not a big deal. This hasn’t happened before. It won’t happen again. All three reassurances were lies. Nevertheless, the incident became a scared-sober cliché for a period of time. I emptied the liquor bottles in the kitchen, and my nightly routine at the bar ceased. I doubled down on writing, afraid of losing more time. I also became a touch paranoid. Shaken by the potential that I could have exposed the project if the car had been stolen, I started taking extra steps to guard my possessions. I placed tamper tape on the trunk. I also attached it to the condo door when I left, so I’d know if someone entered. Weeks later at a hotel, I came back from grabbing food to find the tamper tape breached. My iPad had been in the room with the manuscript on it. What if someone had come in and installed malware? The cleaning staff probably missed the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I went to a shopping center, smashed the device against a brick wall outside with my foot, and bought a new one. Despite the setbacks, I finished the book titled A Warning on time. It was an unsparing indictment of Donald Trump with a two-pronged caution: Americans shouldn’t reelect the man and, more importantly, we needed to unite to fix our broken republic. “If we look within ourselves and undertake the arduous task of moral repair, America can restore the soul of its political system,” I wrote in the closing paragraph. “We can once again illuminate a pathway for others onto the vaunted plazas of open society. If, however, we shrink from the task, our names will be recorded by history as those who didn’t pass the torch but let its light expire.” Through our back channel, I sent the final draft to Sean and Matt. Fate was in control now. I packed up for the journey back home, and on the drive, I got good news. For months, I’d been unemployed, and with the writing behind me, I needed a job. Somewhere on the road in Georgia, I got a callback about my application to Google—and an offer. They wanted me to be their head of national security relations. The pay was higher than any job I’d had, and after years of a public service salary, I accepted without a second thought. Google seems like adult Disneyland. A few weeks later, I started

Cold People.txt

alien occupation force would draw, the border outside of which people would not be allowed to venture. There’d been no further communication or clarification, no elaboration or explanation, merely the same simple message repeated over and over, the countdown continuing towards zero. Directly in front of their super-tanker was a cruise liner and a nuclear submarine. There was no prospect of getting any closer to land. Behind them the queue of ships stretched for miles. Having abandoned their fishing ship off the coast of Mauritania, Liza knew that it was time to do so again. On the bridge the captain listened as she made the case for evacuating all the passengers to shore. ‘Why would we leave this boat?’ ‘To reach Antarctica.’ ‘We’ve reached Antarctica. These are Antarctic waters.’ ‘What if we need to be in direct contact with land?’ ‘The instructions are to be in Antarctica – this is Antarctica – we made it.’ ‘What if being a thousand metres away doesn’t count? What if being in the airspace doesn’t count? What if being in a boat, anchored offshore, doesn’t count? The only way to be sure is to be in direct contact with the land.’ ‘Sure of what? Sure of death. Look at that land! There’s nothing – no shelter, no food. If we abandon this ship we give up our only protection against the cold. We brought everyone down off the deck because they couldn’t survive outside.’ ‘I know that but—’ ‘I have two hundred thousand people on board. They’re wearing shawls and shirts, not parkas and snow boots. The temperature outside is freezing. The wind is fifteen knots. If I order an evacuation, how many will die? How many will fall in the water or be taken by the cold? And for what? To stand on the shore when the deadline arrives?’ ‘Yes, to stand on the shore of Antarctica when the deadline arrives. We have no reason to believe they will treat us fairly. I know it goes against every human instinct to leave the warmth and venture out into this cold. Think of it like this: what if the shoreline is the finishing line and we’re dealing with an unpredictable power, someone unlikely to be lenient or merciful. Either you cross the finish line or you don’t.’ ‘I am in charge of the last survivors from my country. This ship is all that remains of our nation and its people. It’s been our saviour. It is our home. It’s all we have. I cannot give it up unless they agree. If we evacuate this ship, many will die.’ ‘If we don’t evacuate to land, we might all die. I made a promise to my parents. I can’t stop here. I can’t stop short.’ ‘Then you should go. May God be with you.’ THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA SUPER-TANKER AXIOS SAME DAY NINE HOURS REMAINING THE BOW OF THE SUPER-TANKER, which bulged out as a giant red sphere to improve fuel efficiency, was crunching against the back of one of the world’s largest cruise liners, The Symphony of the

treasure island.txt

getting my eye once more above upon me, caking my very lips with salt, combined to make the gunwale, I set myself to study how it was she managed to my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the trees so slip so quietly through the rollers. near at hand had almost made me sick with longing, but the I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth glossy moun- current had soon carried me past the point, and as the next tain it looks from shore or from a vessel’s deck, was for all the reach of sea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the world like any range of hills on dry land, full of peaks and nature of my thoughts. smooth places and valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turn- Right in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the ing from side to side, threaded, so to speak, her way through HISPANIOLA under sail. I made sure, of course, that I these lower parts and avoided the steep slopes and higher, should be taken; but I was so distressed for want of water that toppling summits of the wave. I scarce knew whether to be glad or sorry at the thought, and “Well, now,” thought I to myself, “it is plain I must lie long before I had come to a conclusion, surprise had taken where I am and not disturb the balance; but it is plain also entire possession of my mind and I could do nothing but that I can put the paddle over the side and from time to time, stare and wonder. in smooth places, give her a shove or two towards land.” No The HISPANIOLA was under her main-sail and two jibs, sooner thought upon than done. There I lay on my elbows in and the beautiful white canvas shone in the sun like snow or the most trying attitude, and every now and again gave a weak silver. When I first sighted her, all her sails were drawing; she stroke or two to turn her head to shore. was lying a course about north- west, and I presumed the It was very tiring and slow work, yet I did visibly gain men on board were going round the island on their way back ground; and as we drew near the Cape of the Woods, though to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more and more I saw I must infallibly miss that point, I had still made some to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and hundred yards of easting. I was, indeed, close in. I could see were going about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the cool green tree-tops swaying together in the breeze, and I the wind’s eye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile felt sure I should make the next promontory without fail. helpless, with her sails shivering. It was high time, for I now began to be tortured with “Clumsy

Dune.txt

the troop embraced Paul, repeating his new troop name. And Paul was passed from embrace to embrace through the troop, hearing the voices, the shadings of tone; "Usul . . . Usul . . . Usul." Already, he could place some of them by name. And there was Chani who pressed her cheek against his as she held him and said his name. Presently Paul stood again before Stilgar, who said: "Now, you are of the Ichwan Bedwine, our brother." His face hardened, and he spoke with command in his voice. "And now, Paul-Muad'Dib, tighten up that stillsuit." He glanced at Chani. "Chani! Paul-Muad'Dib's nose plugs are as poor a fit I've ever seen! I thought I ordered you to see after him! " "I hadn't the makings, Stil," she said. "There's Jamis' of course, but--" "Enough of that!" "Then I'll share one of mine," she said. "I can make do with one until--" "You will not," Stilgar said. "I know there are spares among us. Where are the spares? Are we a troop together or a band of savages?" Hands reached out from the troop offering hard, fibrous objects. Stilgar selected four, handed them to Chani. "Fit these to Usul and the Sayyadina." A voice lifted from the back of the troop: "What of the water, Stil? What of the literjons in their pack?" "I know your need, Farok," Stilgar said. He glanced at Jessica. She nodded. "Broach one for those that need it," Stilgar said. "Watermaster . . . where is a watermaster? Ah, Shimoom, care for the measuring of what is needed. The necessity and no more. This water is the dower property of the Sayyadina and will be repaid in the sietch at field rates less pack fees." "What is the repayment at field rates?" Jessica asked. "Ten for one," Stilgar said. "But--" "It's a wise rule as you'll come to see," Stilgar said. A rustling of robes marked movement at the back of the troop as men turned to get the water. Stilgar held up a hand, and there was silence. "As to Jamis," he said, "I order the full ceremony. Jamis was our companion and brother of the Ichwan Bedwine. There shall be no turning away without the respect due one who proved our fortune by his tahaddi-challenge. I invoke the rite . . . at sunset when the dark shall cover him." Paul, hearing these words, realized that he had plunged once more into the abyss . . . blind time. There was no past occupying the future in his mind . . . except . . . except . . . he could still sense the green and black Atreides banner waving . . . somewhere ahead . . . still see the jihad's bloody swords and fanatic legions. It will not be, he told himself. I cannot let it be. =========================== God created Arrakis to train the faithful. -from "The Wisdom of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan In the stillness of the cavern, Jessica heard the scrape of sand on rock as people

To Kill a Mockingbird.txt

her. "That is three-fourths colored folks and one-fourth Stephanie Crawford," said Miss Maudie grimly. "Stephanie Crawford even told me once she woke up in the middle of the night and found him looking in the window at her. I said what did you do, Stephanie, move over in the bed and make room for him? That shut her up a while." I was sure it did. Miss Maudie's voice was enough to shut anybody up. "No, child," she said, "that is a sad house. I remember Arthur Radley when he was a boy. He always spoke nicely to me, no matter what folks said he did. Spoke as nicely as he knew how." "You reckon he's crazy?" Miss Maudie shook her head. "If he's not he should be by now. The things that happen to people we never really know. What happens in houses behind closed doors, what secrets-" "Atticus don't ever do anything to Jem and me in the house that he don't do in the yard," I said, feeling it my duty to defend my parent. "Gracious child, I was raveling a thread, wasn't even thinking about your father, but now that I am I'll say this: Atticus Finch is the same in his house as he is on the public streets. How'd you like some fresh poundcake to take home?" I liked it very much. Next morning when I awakened I found Jem and Dill in the back yard deep in conversation. When I joined them, as usual they said go away. "Will not. This yard's as much mine as it is yours, Jem Finch. I got just as much right to play in it as you have." Dill and Jem emerged from a brief huddle: "If you stay you've got to do what we tell you," Dill warned. "We-ll," I said, "who's so high and mighty all of a sudden?" "If you don't say you'll do what we tell you, we ain't gonna tell you anything," Dill continued. "You act like you grew ten inches in the night! All right, what is it?" Jem said placidly, "We are going to give a note to Boo Radley." "Just how?" I was trying to fight down the automatic terror rising in me. It was all right for Miss Maudie to talk- she was old and snug on her porch. It was different for us. Jem was merely going to put the note on the end of a fishing pole and stick it through the shutters. If anyone came along, Dill would ring the bell. Dill raised his right hand. In it was my mother's silver dinner-bell. "I'm goin' around to the side of the house," said Jem. "We looked yesterday from across the street, and there's a shutter loose. Think maybe I can make it stick on the window sill, at least." "Jem-" "Now you're in it and you can't get out of it, you'll just stay in it, Miss Priss!" "Okay, okay, but I don't wanta watch. Jem, somebody was-" "Yes you will, you'll watch the back end of

Quietly-Hostile.txt

lower belly is extremely sexy to me, and don’t tell me, for real, but this is because my mom died when I was a kid, right? Reality It’s hilarious that this is a tag on a video that is both longer than an episode of prestige television and opens with a sweeping Spielbergian wide shot of the Italian countryside. I like a lot of “real” or “amateur” stuff, mostly because I don’t like thinking about a guy in the corner whose job it is to squirt baby oil on a dry torso between takes. I also don’t like the idea of takes, because it’s sexier and less creepy to feel like it’s just me and my pals in a rented room down at the hourly motel having a little innocent fun on a Saturday night. Just me (fully clothed, saying nothing, feeling no hands on my body except for my own) and my pals (Bob, the manager at a furniture store in the one strip mall you avoid going to, and Harriet, who works at the neck-pillow store at the airport) getting our blood pressures up for seven minutes and not a second longer at the end of a grueling week. Scissoring So nice they had to list it twice. * * * — If I was into role-play I’d literally be like, “Let’s do the one where we play hot dog vendors at the Tigers’ stadium who get home late and are too tired to touch each other’s genitals so they just fall asleep in matching recliners, fully clothed,” but I do understand the transgressive appeal of fucking in a nun’s costume, even though I have had just enough African Methodist Episcopal indoctrination that even the idea of initiating ass eating while wearing God’s uniform makes me feel phantom flames from hell lapping at the back of my neck. My ultimate sex fantasy would be something like: I want to rig the sky so it rains and thunders for three days (but not scary thunder) and the rain magically doesn’t flood anything or make the roads too treacherous to get a pesto-based pizza delivered in a reasonable amount of time, also the power doesn’t ever go out and the Wi-Fi stays strong, plus I get to wear the same threadbare sweatshirt I always wear, without a pinching-ass digging-ass bra, and we watch thirteen straight hours of television and then make out in the dark and go to sleep in separate rooms and maybe I’ll use my high-tech vibrator that simulates sucking human lips alone (you need one of those!), if I’m not too exhausted. You’re lying if you say that doesn’t sound like the best night of your life. No one is actually fantasizing about figuring out which leg hole is which in the Sexy-Illusion Bodystocking! I can’t find this on Pornhub anymore, so I’ve got “Two Old Nuns Having Amzing [sic] Lesbian Sex” queued up on a site purporting to have “the best in lesbian erotica.” And I want to talk about how this porn movie you are supposed to

Jane Eyre.txt

experienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated; Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me, so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me her feeling toward me was unchanged, and unchangeable. I knew by her stony eye opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure only a sense of mortification. I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood; I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head; I sat down and leaned over the pillow. "You sent for me," I said, "and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get on." "Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?" "Yes." "Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind; to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say let me see " The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of a quilt, fixed it down; she was at once irritated. "Sit up!" said she; "don't annoy me with holding the clothes fast are you Jane Eyre?" "I am Jane Eyre." "I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watching of one's movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend no child ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood. The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die; but I said she did I wish she had died!" "A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?" "I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband's only sister, and a great favorite with him; he opposed the family's disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when

Great Expectations.txt

must rob the pantry. There was no doing it in the night, for there was no getting a light by easy friction then; to have got one, I must have struck it out of flint and steel, and have made a noise like the very pirate himself rattling his chains. As soon as the great black velvet pall outside my little window was shot with grey, I got up and went down stairs; every board upon the way, and every crack in every board, calling after me, "Stop thief!" and "Get up, Mrs. Joe!" In the pantry, which was far more abundantly supplied than usual, owing to the season, I was very much alarmed, by a hare hanging up by the heels, whom I rather thought I caught, when my back was half turned, winking. I had no time for verification, no time for selection, no time for anything, for I had no time to spare. I stole some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I tied up in my pocket-handkerchief with my last night's slice), some brandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into a glass bottle I had secretly used for making that intoxicating fluid, Spanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the stone bottle from a jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little on it, and a beautiful round compact pork pie. I was nearly going away without the pie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it was that was put away so carefully in a covered earthen ware dish in a corner, and I found it was the pie, and I took it, in the hope that it was not intended for early use, and would not be missed for some time. There was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I unlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe's tools. Then, I put the fastenings as I had found them, opened the door at which I had entered when I ran home last night, shut it, and ran for the misty marshes. Chapter 3 It was a rimy morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the outside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there all night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. Now, I saw the damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort of spiders' webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade. On every rail and gate, wet lay clammy; and the marsh-mist was so thick, that the wooden finger on the post directing people to our village - a direction which they never accepted, for they never came there - was invisible to me until I was quite close under it. Then, as I looked up at it, while it dripped, it seemed to my oppressed conscience like a phantom devoting me to the Hulks. The mist was heavier yet when I got out

The Hunger Games.txt

transformed to flame and smoke. Burning branches crack from trees and fall in showers of sparks at my feet. All I can do is follow the others, the rabbits and deer and I even spot a wild dog pack shooting through the woods. I trust their sense of direction because their instincts are sharper than mine. But they are much faster, flying through the un- derbrush so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree limbs, that there’s no way I can keep apace with them. The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the smoke, which threatens to suffocate me at any moment. I pull the top of my shirt up over my nose, grateful to find it soaked in sweat, and it offers a thin veil of protection. And I run, chok- ing, my bag banging against my back, my face cut with branches that materialize from the gray haze without warn- ing, because I know I am supposed to run. 171 This was no tribute’s campfire gone out of control, no acci- dental occurrence. The flames that bear down on me have an unnatural height, a uniformity that marks them as human- made, machine-made, Gamemaker-made. Things have been too quiet today. No deaths, perhaps no fights at all. The au- dience in the Capitol will be getting bored, claiming that these Games are verging on dullness. This is the one thing the Games must not do. It’s not hard to follow the Gamemakers’ motivation. There is the Career pack and then there are the rest of us, probably spread far and thin across the arena. This fire is designed to flush us out, to drive us together. It may not be the most origi- nal device I’ve seen, but it’s very, very effective. I hurdle over a burning log. Not high enough. The tail end of my jacket catches on fire and I have to stop to rip it from my body and stamp out the flames. But I don’t dare leave the jacket, scorched and smoldering as it is, I take the risk of shov- ing it in my sleeping bag, hoping the lack of air will quell what I haven’t extinguished. This is all I have, what I carry on my back, and it’s little enough to survive with. In a matter of minutes, my throat and nose are burning. The coughing begins soon after and my lungs begin to feel as if they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through my chest. I manage to take cover under a stone outcropping just as the vomiting begins, and I lose my meager supper and whatever water has remained in my stomach. Crouching on my hands and knees, I retch until there’s nothing left to come up. 172 I know I need to keep moving, but I’m trembling and light- headed now, gasping for air. I allow myself about a spoonful of water to rinse my mouth and spit then take a few swallows from

Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt

caught before he kills someone else.” The sound of the policemen returning drove Marion back to her appointed spot. At ten o’clock exactly, Ogden gestured for them to follow him back to Somers’s office. Peter closed his notepad and pushed back his chair. “I’m ready.” They knocked on Somers’s door and entered, Ogden trailing close behind. This time Peter stood at the window while she and Ogden took the seats. Somers sat back in his chair, arms crossed. “So. What did you discover, Dr. Griggs?” “As I mentioned before, usually a psychiatrist studies the patient and then predicts the behavior. In this case, I’m working backward, examining the behavior and then trying to figure out what type of person would act this way, looking at all the factors that come into play with this kind of unstable conduct. I tried to use that to determine his identity. Reverse psychology, if you will.” So far, so good. Both policemen were listening closely, and even the sarcastic look on Ogden’s face was smoothed over, replaced with interest. “Determine his identity?” asked Somers. “Not anything as specific as his name, but other factors that aren’t insignificant, like his race, what kind of work he might do. Keep in mind, to this guy, his behavior makes perfect sense. He sees the world with a warped point of view, and if I can get into his head, I can figure out what sort of man might see the world that way. The letters are very helpful, in that regard. The early ones are typed, the later ones handwritten. That handwriting will help identify him, eventually. He’s becoming bolder, but also possibly more likely to make a mistake.” “That’s pretty obvious, even to us, Dr. Griggs,” said Ogden. “That’s the best you can do?” “My diagnosis is your bomber is a paranoid schizophrenic. He might hear voices that aren’t real, and he can hold a grudge for years, if necessary.” “So we’re looking for someone who talks to himself?” Ogden said. “Again, that’s half the city, right, Captain?” “Let him finish,” said Somers. Peter took a deep breath. “Most paranoid schizophrenics don’t develop their illness until after age thirty, so your guy, if he’s been at this for sixteen years, is probably in his mid-forties or early fifties. They also tend to be neither fat nor skinny, in my experience, so he’s of medium build. The phrases he uses in his letters are not quite American. Dastardly deeds, for example, or writing The Metropolitan Power Company when anyone in New York would refer to the company as Met Power. He’s been mailing the letters from multiple locations in Westchester, which leads me to believe he lives just beyond that county, in southwest Connecticut, say, and mails them on his way into the city. That area has a lot of industrial towns where Slav immigrants settled, which indicates he’s a Slav, and probably Roman Catholic.” “A Slav?” said Somers. “That’s a pretty big leap.” “He used a knife to insert the bomb into the seat when he could have

Quietly-Hostile.txt

out of a frail woman’s hands and said, “Dude? What in the world is going on here today?” He looked at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted a second head, then dove to his left to avoid a pair of sprinting college kids whose shoes pounded the ground so hard sparks shot out from beneath them. “We finally got a Cheesecake Factory!” he shouted. “And today is the grand opening!” A freshly constructed Cheesecake Factory, the uncontested ruler of the reheated, prepackaged mall chains, opening only an hourlong car ride and a half a tank of gas away from where I live? And I just so happened to want a block of twig-and-berries natural soap on the day of its grand opening? My karma was obviously right. I fought my way through the throngs of people in sensible gym shoes clustered around the door, dragging Emily’s tiny limp body behind me, and made my way to the host, who informed me that there could be a wait of “several hours” between me and a plate of Roadside Sliders. I watched frustrated packs of tweens sighing and grimacing at their watches, angrily punching orders like “mom get me NOW, k?” into their phones as they stormed away in a huff. Adults pressed their impatient faces against the brand-new cold cases housing the “more than thirty legendary cheesecakes” as their toddlers wailed and tugged at their pant legs, begging them to just feed them the bag of Cheerios they’d left behind in the car. Was I really going to waste three-plus hours in the middle of a perfectly acceptable weekend outside a restaurant entrance crammed next to a cell-phone-case kiosk with your aunts and uncles, waiting to get food I’d already eaten before? YES, I WAS. Good fortune such as this simply doesn’t happen to me. And now, all of a sudden, I’d accidentally stumbled across the grand opening of the luxurious, wicker-chaired faux-Egyptian-mall-restaurant fantasy of my dreams. There was absolutely no way Emily and I weren’t going to put our names in. Where else can you get an entire bucket of soup for six dollars? My love affair with the Cheesecake Factory had begun much like everyone else’s: a girl in my suburban high school took me there for my seventeenth birthday. It was the most glamorous, luxurious place I had ever been, and I was genuinely in awe of the seventy-two-page menu. I couldn’t believe they would bring you a literal goblet of ice water and refill it every thirty seconds. Ten out of ten, would go again. And I did. Dozens of times. And, okay, maybe I exaggerated the number of menu pages, but you could easily go there once a week for the rest of your life and never get the same thing twice. Try to beat that. You can’t! Nestled inside a booth the size of a mid-priced sedan, backs and knees sore from pacing in front of Ann Taylor and the North Face while trying not to think about the unhinged ridiculousness of spending an entire day waiting

The Secret Garden.txt

and walk about, Mary had an inspiration. "Now that I am a real boy," Colin had said, "my legs and arms and all my body are so full of Magic that I can't keep them still. They want to be doing things all the time. Do you know that when I waken in the morning, Mary, when it's quite early and the birds are just shouting outside and everything seems just shouting for joy--even the trees and things we can't really hear--I feel as if I must jump out of bed and shout myself. If I did it, just think what would happen!" Mary giggled inordinately. "The nurse would come running and Mrs. Medlock would come running and they would be sure you had gone crazy and they'd send for the doctor," she said. Colin giggled himself. He could see how they would all look--how horrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright. "I wish my father would come home," he said. "I want to tell him myself. I'm always thinking about it--but we couldn't go on like this much longer. I can't stand lying still and pretending, and besides I look too different. I wish it wasn't raining today." It was then Mistress Mary had her inspiration. "Colin," she began mysteriously, "do you know how many rooms there are in this house?" "About a thousand, I suppose," he answered. "There's about a hundred no one ever goes into," said Mary. "And one rainy day I went and looked into ever so many of them. No one ever knew, though Mrs. Medlock nearly found me out. I lost my way when I was coming back and I stopped at the end of your corridor. That was the second time I heard you crying." Colin started up on his sofa. "A hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "It sounds almost like a secret garden. Suppose we go and look at them. wheel me in my chair and nobody would know we went" "That's what I was thinking," said Mary. "No one would dare to follow us. There are galleries where you could run. We could do our exercises. There is a little Indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants. There are all sorts of rooms." "Ring the bell," said Colin. When the nurse came in he gave his orders. "I want my chair," he said. "Miss Mary and I are going to look at the part of the house which is not used. John can push me as far as the picture-gallery because there are some stairs. Then he must go away and leave us alone until I send for him again." Rainy days lost their terrors that morning. When the footman had wheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, Colin and Mary looked at each other delighted. As soon as Mary had made sure that John was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, Colin got out of his chair.

Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt

likes me. I like him too. In time, our affection will grow, I hope, into the deep-heart love the concubines are always talking about. Tonight, since Poppy has yet to return from her errand, I serve my husband a simple meal of a soup, duck glazed with kumquat, water spinach sautéed in ginger and garlic, and tofu with black mushrooms and pickled turnip. When I pour his wine, he touches my hand. “Sit with me tonight,” he says. “Let me feed you.” It’s hardly proper. Wives don’t eat with their husbands, but no one is here to see what we’re doing. He uses his chopsticks to lift a sliver of duck. With his other hand cupped beneath the morsel, he guides it to my mouth. The way he watches me chew causes my cheeks to flush, which seems to please him even more. I’m equally fascinated by him: the precision with which he picks up a slice of mushroom, the gentleness with which he places it between my lips, the look in his eyes as he takes in my features. He’s the first man, apart from my father and grandfather, with whom I’ve spent time alone; I suspect—but can’t be sure—that I’m the first woman with whom Maoren has enjoyed the luxury of soaking in every mark of beauty and every flaw. When we’re like this, I feel more exposed than when we’re naked together. Poppy returns in time to clear the dishes. When Maoren disappears into my marriage bed, she gives me a letter and a packet from Grandmother, which I tuck in a drawer. Then she removes the layers of my daywear, holds up my favorite silk sleeping gown for me to slip my arms into, and then ties the sash loosely at my hip. Last, Poppy helps me change into a pair of bound-foot slippers on which I’ve embroidered lilies in bloom. Poppy leads me to the bed, supporting me as I step into the first antechamber. As I cross through the dressing room, Poppy reaches in to place a lantern on the bench. “I’ll be right here, Little Miss,” she says with a bow. By the time I’m under the quilts with Maoren, Poppy has rolled out her bedding in the first antechamber and lain down. I do not know—nor do I want to know—what she thinks of the sounds Maoren and I make as we begin to perform bedchamber affairs. He takes one of my feet in the palm of his hand. He caresses the silk. He admires the embroidery, saying, “When I see the beautiful petals you stitched, I’m reminded that in every step you take your golden lilies bloom beneath you.” He brings my slippered foot to his nose so he can appreciate its aroma. But mostly it’s as I’ve always been told. My feet are physical proof of the pain I suffered to give him this treasure so dear to him. He’ll never see them naked, but he knows from the books that taught him about bedroom affairs that hidden beneath the binding cloth

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt

a necklace, with pendant, bracelets, and ear-rings; and also some other small ornaments. Tess seemed afraid to touch them at first, but her eyes sparkled for a moment as much as the stones when Clare spread out the set. "Are they mine?" she asked incredulously. "They are, certainly," said he. He looked into the fire. He remembered how, when he was a lad of fifteen, his godmother, the Squire's wife--the only rich person with whom he had ever come in contact--had pinned her faith to his success; had prophesied a wondrous career for him. There had seemed nothing at all out of keeping with such a conjectured career in the storing up of these showy ornaments for his wife and the wives of her descendants. They gleamed somewhat ironically now. "Yet why?" he asked himself. It was but a question of vanity throughout; and if that were admitted into one side of the equation it should be admitted into the other. His wife was a d'Urberville: whom could they become better than her? Suddenly he said with enthusiasm--- "Tess, put them on--put them on!" And he turned from the fire to help her. But as if by magic she had already donned them-- necklace, ear-rings, bracelets, and all. "But the gown isn't right, Tess," said Clare. "It ought to be a low one for a set of brilliants like that." "Ought it?" said Tess. "Yes," said he. He suggested to her how to tuck in the upper edge of her bodice, so as to make it roughly approximate to the cut for evening wear; and when she had done this, and the pendant to the necklace hung isolated amid the whiteness of her throat, as it was designed to do, he stepped back to survey her. "My heavens," said Clare, "how beautiful you are!" As everybody knows, fine feathers make fine birds; a peasant girl but very moderately prepossessing to the casual observer in her simple condition and attire, will bloom as an amazing beauty if clothed as a woman of fashion with the aids that Art can render; while the beauty of the midnight crush would often cut but a sorry figure if placed inside the field-woman's wrapper upon a monotonous acreage of turnips on a dull day. He had never till now estimated the artistic excellence of Tess's limbs and features. "If you were only to appear in a ball-room!" he said. "But no--no, dearest; I think I love you best in the wing-bonnet and cotton-frock--yes, better than in this, well as you support these dignities." Tess's sense of her striking appearance had given her a flush of excitement, which was yet not happiness. "I'll take them off," she said, "in case Jonathan should see me. They are not fit for me, are they? They must be sold, I suppose?" "Let them stay a few minutes longer. Sell them? Never. It would be a breach of faith." Influenced by a second thought she readily obeyed. She had something to tell, and there might be help in these. She sat down

Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt

when he offered to be my model. What was I thinking? Of course he’d glimpsed my life and bolted. Who’d want to get anywhere near it? In the end, I took the portrait to the gallery without ever showing it to Joe—or seeing him at all. And then I spent the next two days being ignored and obsessing over why that was happening. In the meantime, I rearranged my paints. Organized my canvases. Restacked the dishes in my cabinets. Painted Peanut’s toenails with glitter polish. Watched a video tutorial about how to make one large T-shirt into twelve different outfits. And stewed. Emotionally. Oh, and I googled “Why men don’t text you back.” But it wasn’t very helpful. I also had another brain scan to check my edema. And that wasn’t helpful, either. Dr. Estrera reported that, shockingly, according to the scan, the edema had now largely resolved. He compared last week’s scan with this week’s scan—both of which looked quite similar to me. “We’re seeing an eighty-one percent reduction in swelling in the area,” Dr. Estrera said proudly. Big news, I guess—but it didn’t do me much good if nothing else had changed. And nothing else had changed. After the scan, Dr. Nicole gave me a battery of facial recognition tests to compare to my baseline. And I was exactly the same on those as I’d been a month ago. The same identical numerical score. I knocked my head against the table at the results. “Please don’t do that,” Dr. Nicole said. “How can I be exactly the same?” I whined. “These results are to help you—not make you pound your head on the table.” “Well, they don’t feel very helpful.” “Now that the edema is resolving, you should start to see some changes in your facial perceptions,” she said, like that might cheer me up. Then she added, “No guarantees.” But I wasn’t in the mood to be cheered up. I flopped down on her sofa in despair. “Nothing is going right.” “Maybe you need to broaden your definition of right.” “Don’t throw that cheery nonsense at me. My life is a shit show.” This right here felt like my lowest moment so far. I thought I was supposed to be getting better, not getting worse. Learning to cope, at least. What the hell was going on? “Tell me what has you feeling down,” Dr. Nicole asked. “Everything?” I asked. Like, did she really think she could handle that? “Sure. Everything.” Okay. She asked for it. “I still can’t see faces. I submitted a portrait to this competition that I should have won—handily—that’s guaranteed to come in dead last. I’m being menaced by my evil stepsister. I’m embarrassed to go back to my favorite coffee shop. My best friend eloped to Canada and left me dateless for what’s sure to be the most humiliating event of my life. My stepmother wants to build a relationship with me and she’s coming to the show over my vociferous objections. My dog is a thousand years old. I broke up with my fantasy

The-Last-Sinner.txt

happen? Why the hell are you involved?” “I’m not. Not in her death.” “Who’s ‘her’?” “Look, the less you know, the better. For now.” “Then why the hell did you call me in the first place?” Montoya demanded, his voice rising and his temper flaring. Cruz was and always had been trouble, more trouble than he himself had ever thought of being. “I didn’t want to just show up and freak you out.” “You’re doing that now.” “I’m just giving you a heads-up. I figured after my last call you might be worried—” “The whole damned family’s worried sick, Cruz. What the hell’s wrong with you?” “You tell me!” he snapped, obviously on the edge. “I’ll see you soon. I’ll explain then.” “You sure as hell better—” But the connection was severed and Montoya was left not knowing any more than he had ten minutes earlier before he’d answered the phone. Who was dead? Some woman with, as yet, no name. Some woman Cruz had been somehow involved with. And that woman had been murdered. Out west somewhere. Knowing he couldn’t sleep, he slipped back into the house and grabbed his laptop, brought it out to the porch, and sat in the porch swing where he heard a truck rumbling by on the street and farther off the sound of a train gathering speed. There was an occasional voice and he saw, through the slats in the fence, his neighbor’s yard cast in flickering shades of gray from the old man’s television, which was always on, day or night, muted, thankfully, as he kept his curtains and windows open. He Googled recent homicides of women in the western states, concentrating on the day Cruz first called him and the week before that. Then he started filtering down the news reports, Googling Cruz’s name, and got nowhere. Sadly, too many people were the victims of homicide in this country. Rocking gently back and forth on the swing, he thought about it. Where would Cruz be in the West? Why had he gone there? The last time Montoya had seen him, years ago, he’d been burned by a woman who’d stolen his motorcycle and had left him stranded here, in New Orleans. But he’d taken off after Lucia Costa, a woman who had been a nun at St. Marguerite’s, a girl he’d known in school years before. When Montoya cross-referenced her name with the recent murders, he found the headline: WOMAN FOUND SLAIN NEAR TRASK RIVER BOYFRIEND WANTED FOR QUESTIONING Boyfriend? Montoya skimmed the story. Yes, the body of Lucia Costa had been found on the banks of the Trask River in a remote part of Oregon. She was the apparent victim of homicide and Cruz Montoya was being sought as a person of interest. The story ran at the end of last week, an earlier one several days before, but Cruz had called him over a week before that. So he’d known about Lucia’s death. And was involved. Enough to be on the lam. Shit! Montoya stopped rocking and felt the knot in

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we're very much inclined to take it." "I would, wouldn't you Ford?" said Zaphod promptingly. "Oh yes," said Ford, "jump at it, like a shot." Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to. "But we've got to have a product you see," said Frankie, "I mean ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other." Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur. "You see," he said, "if they're just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to admit that in fact it's Forty-two, then the show's probably quite short. No follow-up, you see." "We have to have something that sounds good," said Benji. "Something that sounds good?" exclaimed Arthur. "An Ultimate Question that sounds good? From a couple of mice?" The mice bristled. "Well, I mean, yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I'm afraid where you begin to suspect that if there's any real truth, it's that the entire multi-dimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs. And if it comes to a choice between spending yet another ten million years finding that out, and on the other hand just taking the money and running, then I for one could do with the exercise," said Frankie. "But ..." started Arthur, hopelessly. "Hey, will you get this, Earthman," interrupted Zaphod. "You are a last generation product of that computer matrix, right, and you were there right up to the moment your planet got the finger, yeah?" "Er ..." "So your brain was an organic part of the penultimate configuration of the computer programme," said Ford, rather lucidly he thought. "Right?" said Zaphod. "Well," said Arthur doubtfully. He wasn't aware of ever having felt an organic part of anything. He had always seen this as one of his problems. "In other words," said Benji, steering his curious little vehicle right over to Arthur, "there's a good chance that the structure of the question is encoded in the structure of your brain - so we want to buy it off you." "What, the question?" said Arthur. "Yes," said Ford and Trillian. "For lots of money," said Zaphod. "No, no," said Frankie, "it's the brain we want to buy." "What!" "I thought you said you could just read his brain electronically," protested Ford. "Oh yes," said Frankie, "but we'd have to get it out first. It's got to be prepared." "Treated," said Benji. "Diced." "Thank you," shouted Arthur, tipping up his chair and backing away from the table in horror. "It could always be replaced," said Benji reasonably, "if you think it's important." "Yes, an electronic brain," said Frankie, "a simple one would suffice." "A simple one!" wailed Arthur.

The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt

those crowds…’ ‘Normally we don’t make it out of Tadderly,’ Josie agreed. Minnie leaned forward. ‘Then we should visit somewhere exciting. Paris, Edinburgh. Anywhere.’ ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Josie agreed. ‘It certainly took me out of myself for a while, going on the cruise. That reminds me, I must email David Ellis.’ ‘Who’s he?’ Minnie was interested. ‘A new friend she met on the cruise…’ Lin explained. ‘He’d just lost his partner, so we teamed up for company.’ Josie caught Minnie’s expression. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t become obsessed with me as your Felix is with you.’ ‘He’s not my Felix…’ ‘I promised David I’d message him. I want to ask how he was getting on with the novel he’s writing in memory of his partner.’ Odile was at the table, arms folded. ‘So, can I get you lunching ladies a nice dessert? Florence is taking a break and I said I’d pop out front.’ Lin patted her stomach. ‘Do you have anything low in calories?’ ‘Let’s push the boat out. I love puddings.’ Minnie was as slim as a wand. Odile said, ‘I have sticky toffee pudding, carrot cake or I have a bit of pineapple and ginger upside-down cake.’ ‘I’ll have some of the sticky toffee pudding when you’re ready,’ Dangerous Dave called out loudly. Linval waved a hand. ‘I’ll have the pineapple upside-down cake, Odile. It’s so good.’ ‘Absolutely,’ Rita agreed. ‘For me too.’ ‘Odile’s carrot cake is delicious, to die for.’ Jimmy slapped Kenny’s arm. ‘I recommend it, mate.’ ‘You’re joking, ent you?’ Kenny looked alarmed. ‘Cake with carrots in it? Sounds like summat a rabbit would eat.’ ‘Looks like everyone’s ready for one of your famous desserts, Odile,’ Minnie grinned. At that moment, the door clanged open, the little bell tinkling, and a woman in a faux-fur coat leaned against the door jamb, surveying the café. Kenny shouted out, ‘Shut that door up, missus – the wind’s howling around my legs and I’m bloody cold.’ The woman took a step forward, allowing the door to close behind her. She removed her hat, revealing neatly coiled silver hair, her face lined like the contours of a map. All eyes were on her, completely self-contained, elegant, surrounded by the scent of floral perfume, her lips a film-star red colour as she smiled sweetly. ‘Kenny Hooper, you know better than to be so rude. You used to be so well mannered…’ Kenny stared at her and then the penny dropped. The voice had given it away, the smooth cultured tones the class had listened to so many years ago, telling them about the adventures of Moley and Ratty on the river. He hung his head. ‘I’m s-sorry, Miss Hamilton.’ Minnie gasped. ‘Miss Hamilton! How nice to see you.’ Lin’s eyes were wide. ‘Miss Hamilton? Oh, it’s really you.’ ‘It was you on the scooter, of course…’ Josie added. ‘I saw you last week.’ She decided it might be better not to mention to her teacher that she had almost bowled her over. Miss Hamilton looked at each of them in

Things Fall Apart.txt

did not understand him," said Obierika. "He seemed to speak through his nose." "One of the men told me," said Obierika's other companion, "that he repeated over and over again a word that resembled Mbaino. Perhaps he had been going to Mbaino and had lost his way." "Anyway," resumed Obierika, "they killed him and tied up his iron horse. This was before the planting season began. For a long time nothing happened. The rains had come and yams had been sown. The iron horse was still tied to the sacred silk-cotton tree. And then one morning three white men led by a band of ordinary men like us came to the clan. They saw the iron horse and went away again. Most of the men and women of Abame had gone to their farms. Only a few of them saw these white men and their followers. For many market weeks nothing else happened. They have a big market in Abame on every other Afo day and, as you know, the whole clan gathers there. That was the day it happened. The three white men and a very large number of other men surrounded the market. They must have used a powerful medicine to make themselves invisible until the market was full. And they began to shoot. Everybody was killed, except the old and the sick who were at home and a handful of men and women whose chi were wide awake and brought them out of that market." He paused. "Their clan is now completely empty. Even the sacred fish in their mysterious lake have fled and the lake has turned the colour of blood. A great evil has come upon their land as the Oracle had warned." There was a long silence. Uchendu ground his teeth together audibly. Then he burst out: "Never kill a man who says nothing. Those men of Abame were fools. What did they know about the man?" He ground his teeth again and told a story to illustrate his point. "Mother Kite once sent her daughter to bring food. She went, and brought back a duckling. 'You have done very well,' said Mother Kite to her daughter, 'but tell me, what did the mother of this duckling say when you swooped and carried its child away?' 'It said nothing,' replied the young kite. 'It just walked away.' 'You must return the duckling,' said Mother Kite. 'There is something ominous behind the silence.' And so Daughter Kite returned the duckling and took a chick instead. 'What did the mother of this chick do?' asked the old kite. 'It cried and raved and cursed me,' said the young kite. 'Then we can eat the chick,' said her mother. 'There is nothing to fear from someone who shouts.' Those men of Abame were fools." "They were fools," said Okonkwo after a pause. "They had been warned that danger was ahead. They should have armed themselves with their guns and their machetes even when they went to market." "They have paid for their foolishness," said Obierika, "But I am greatly

To Kill a Mockingbird.txt

like the rumble of distant artillery: "There's a land beyond the river." Miraculously on pitch, a hundred voices sang out Zeebo's words. The last syllable, held to a husky hum, was followed by Zeebo saying, "That we call the sweet forever." Music again swelled around us; the last note lingered and Zeebo met it with the next line: "And we only reach that shore by faith's decree." The congregation hesitated, Zeebo repeated the line carefully, and it was sung. At the chorus Zeebo closed the book, a signal for the congregation to proceed without his help. On the dying notes of "Jubilee," Zeebo said, "In that far-off sweet forever, just beyond the shining river." Line for line, voices followed in simple harmony until the hymn ended in a melancholy murmur. I looked at Jem, who was looking at Zeebo from the corners of his eyes. I didn't believe it either, but we had both heard it. Reverend Sykes then called on the Lord to bless the sick and the suffering, a procedure no different from our church practice, except Reverend Sykes directed the Deity's attention to several specific cases. His sermon was a forthright denunciation of sin, an austere declaration of the motto on the wall behind him: he warned his flock against the evils of heady brews, gambling, and strange women. Bootleggers caused enough trouble in the Quarters, but women were worse. Again, as I had often met it in my own church, I was confronted with the Impurity of Women doctrine that seemed to preoccupy all clergymen. Jem and I had heard the same sermon Sunday after Sunday, with only one exception. Reverend Sykes used his pulpit more freely to express his views on individual lapses from grace: Jim Hardy had been absent from church for five Sundays and he wasn't sick; Constance Jackson had better watch her ways- she was in grave danger for quarreling with her neighbors; she had erected the only spite fence in the history of the Quarters. Reverend Sykes closed his sermon. He stood beside a table in front of the pulpit and requested the morning offering, a proceeding that was strange to Jem and me. One by one, the congregation came forward and dropped nickels and dimes into a black enameled coffee can. Jem and I followed suit, and received a soft, "Thank you, thank you," as our dimes clinked. To our amazement, Reverend Sykes emptied the can onto the table and raked the coins into his hand. He straightened up and said, "This is not enough, we must have ten dollars." The congregation stirred. "You all know what it's for- Helen can't leave those children to work while Tom's in jail. If everybody gives one more dime, we'll have it-" Reverend Sykes waved his hand and called to someone in the back of the church. "Alec, shut the doors. Nobody leaves here till we have ten dollars." Calpurnia scratched in her handbag and brought forth a battered leather coin purse. "Naw Cal," Jem whispered, when she handed him a shiny quarter, "we can

Romantic-Comedy.txt

say, “With you or someone else?” but what if he thought I was serious? Instead, I said, “I don’t know for certain, but I’m not sitting around waiting for either one. And I bet not settling down when you were thirty has made you a better musician. And continuing to feel confusion has, too, probably. I just can’t see how anyone who thinks they have everything sorted out and have come out on top could write very good songs. Or, for that matter, very good comedy sketches or very good screenplays.” “Maybe you should be a therapist.” He lifted his glass from the bar, took a sip, swallowed, and said, “By the way, I don’t believe in the Danny Horst Rule. I thought your sketch was funny and I’m sorry it got cut, but the rule itself—personally, I’ve definitely dated—you know—” I didn’t try to conceal my amusement. “Women less attractive than you?” I suggested. “That’s not what I was going to say. But non-celebrities.” “You’ve dated them in a serious way?” “Of course. It’s not like the only relationships I’ve been in are the ones that have been reported in gossip columns. But you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. If you go out with another celebrity, it’s like Danny and Annabel, where you’re under this distorting microscope. You have the advantage of understanding each other’s worlds firsthand, but the disadvantage of both having really complicated schedules. Whereas if you date someone who isn’t another celebrity, you feel like you’re always asking them to accommodate you. Plus, it’s easy for them to feel insecure. You’re looking at me with a very mocking expression right now. I realize these are privileged problems.” “I think you think I’m looking at you with a mocking expression because I’m a writer for TNO.” “I guess that might be an occupational hazard.” And then something happened that later was hard for me to explain to myself, hard to understand. As when he’d cupped my chin in my office, it might have been nothing. His expression became both very tender and very amused, as if there were an excellent inside joke between us, and he tilted his head to the right and looked at me with a focused kind of sweetness and warmth. Then he again set his glass on the bar and leaned forward incrementally, and I thought, Oh my God, is he going to kiss me? Because Noah Brewster cannot kiss me here, in front of my co-workers, in a setting that isn’t really private because nowhere is private in the age of cellphones, in a world in which he is him and I am me. And because if he kisses me, what will happen next? Also incrementally, I took a step back. “All your insights about love and romance,” I said. “Did you get them from dating twenty-two-year-old models?” He squinted with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?” My heart was beating more quickly, and not in a swoony way. In a pre-combat way, like in

Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt

person you thought I was.’ Found neatly folded in the pocket of her uniform. The paper sustained heavy water damage, but it was still readable. Now, give me one reason not to hang up right now.” “Lenora didn’t kill her family,” I say, more out of desperation than anything else. I certainly have no plan. But I hope dropping a bombshell like that will keep Detective Vick listening. “At least, I don’t think she did. We haven’t gotten that far yet.” “We?” “Me and Lenora. I told you, we’re typing her story, just like she did with Mary. But there was a worker here. Ricardo Mayhew.” “I know,” Detective Vick says. “I used to work there, remember?” “Did you also know Lenora was in love with him? And that it’s possible he’s the one who killed her parents and sister? I’m pretty sure Lenora knew he did it and covered for him. Now I think she wants to come clean, maybe in the hopes that he’ll be caught, even though he vanished the night of the murders.” When I finally give Detective Vick a chance to speak, his voice wavers between intrigue and wariness. “Are you sure about this?” “You have access to the police report from that night,” I say. “Look at it and see. You’ll also see that there’s a whole lot of unanswered questions from that night. Mary had those answers. Now she’s dead. That’s not a coincidence. And it’s sure as hell not suicide.” I hang up before Detective Vick can poke another hole in my theory, tell me I’m wrong, and then smugly trot out some other bit of evidence to prove it. I know I’m on to something here. And it terrifies me. Because Lenora’s also telling me her story, I could be next. Yet that’s not the scariest part of all this. The truly chilling, scarier-than-Stephen-King part is that Mary wasn’t killed by some random stranger. In a twisted way, that would put me more at ease. But whoever pushed her off the terrace knew what she was up to. They knew her. Which means it was likely someone at Hope’s End. Other than me and Lenora, only four people fit that description—Mrs. Baker, Archie, Carter, and Jessie. Why one of them would feel the need to kill Mary over something Lenora typed is beyond me. I reach for the phone again, itching to call Detective Vick back. He needs to hear this, even if it’s doubtful he’ll believe me. He hasn’t yet. About anything. I’m about to dial when I hear a noise behind me. Footsteps. Moving from the darkened dining room into the kitchen. I whirl around to see Carter halt in the doorway. Hands raised in innocence, he says, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Yet he did. My heart pounds so loud I suspect he can hear it. Adding to the pounding is this: Carter is one of the four people who could have shoved Mary off the terrace. He sways slightly as he steps fully into the kitchen. He’s been

Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt

I’m surprised my skull hasn’t fractured yet, forming a crack as big as the one now running across the terrace at Hope’s End. “Since they couldn’t prove—or disprove—that Ricardo did it, and since they couldn’t do the same with Lenora, the case just stalled?” “Correct,” Detective Vick says. “Sound familiar?” Anger flashes through me like lightning. Electric. Searing. “Fuck you,” I tell Detective Vick, which might be illegal. I’m not up to date on laws against swearing at police detectives. If it is a crime, Detective Vick makes no move to do anything about it as I yank open the door to my Escort and slide behind the wheel. “I don’t blame you, you know,” he says before I can slam the door shut. “Your mother was suffering. I understand that. My own parents suffered when their time came. But I didn’t break the law to try to end it.” “Neither did I.” I’m on the verge of tears, and I don’t know if it’s from rage or grief or the fact that everything about the past six months has been too damn much. When I got to Hope’s End, I threw myself into learning Lenora’s story because I was desperate to change my own pathetic existence by focusing on someone else’s. But then I found Mary dead, and things have only spiraled since then. “I didn’t make my mother take those pills,” I say, swiping at a tear before it can fall because I’ll be damned if I cry in front of Detective Vick. “She killed herself. Mary didn’t. And someone smarter than you would understand that.” The detective’s nostrils flare. The only sign I’ve gotten to him. Unlike me, he knows how to keep his emotions in check. “Kit, for the last time, Mary Milton wasn’t murdered.” “How can you be so sure of that?” Detective Vick removes a piece of paper from inside his jacket. A photocopy of a page made ragged and faint from water damage. Thrusting it at me, he says, “Because of this.” My hands go numb as I read the single sentence typed across the page. “What is this?” “A copy of Mary Milton’s suicide note,” Detective Vick says. “I told you we found it with her body.” I scan the page a second, third, fourth time, hoping each pass will produce a different meaning. But it all reads the same every damn time. im sorry im not the person you thought i was “Mary—” I stop, unnerved by the way my voice sounds. Like I’m underwater. Like I’m a thousand miles away. “Mary didn’t write this.” “Of course she did,” Detective Vick says. “Who else could it be?” Rather than answer, I struggle to jam the key into the ignition and struggle even more to pull out of the parking spot. Then I drive off, leaving Detective Vick standing in exhaust fumes, still ignorant to the fact that what he found with Mary’s body wasn’t a suicide note. It’s something else. Typed by someone else. And I think I know exactly what it means.

Jane Eyre.txt

and a taste of cheese, that's all." "And the sago?" "Never mind it at present. I shall be coming down before tea-time. I'll make it myself." The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me; so I departed. I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her position at Thornfield; in questioning why she had not been given into custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master's service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night. What mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange a bold, vindictive and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependants so much in her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge her with the attempt, much less punish her for it. Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-favored and matronly as she was, the idea could not be admitted. "Yet," I reflected, "she has been young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master's. Mrs. Fairfax told me once she had lived here many years. I don't think she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she may possess originality and strength of character to compensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and she now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?" But, having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square, flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind's eye, that I thought: "No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct, Yet," suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts, "youare not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you at any rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last night remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!" I well remembered all language, glance and tone seemed at the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the school-room. Adle was drawing. I bent over her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start. "Qu'avez-vous, mademoiselle?" said she; "Vos doigts tremblent comme le feuille, et vos joues sont rouges; mais, rouges

Wuthering Heights.txt

years, I will be content to pass to the next summer ---the summer of 1778; that is nearly twenty-three years ago." CHAPTER VIII. On the morning of a fine June day my first bonny little nursling, and the last of the ancient Earn- shaw stock, was born. We were busy with the hay in a far-away field when the girl that usually brought our breakfasts came running an hour too soon, across the meadow and up the lane, calling me as she ran. "Oh, such a grand bairn!" she panted out. "The finest lad that ever breathed! But the doctor says missis must go. He says she's been in a consumption these many months. I heard him tell Mr. Hindley; and now she has nothing to keep her, and she'll be dead before winter. You must come home directly. You're to nurse it, Nelly---to feed it with sugar and milk, and take care of it day and night. I wish I were you, because it will be all yours when there is no missis!" "But is she very ill?" I asked, flinging down my rake and tying my bonnet. "I guess she is; yet she looks bravely," replied the girl, "and she talks as if she thought of living to see it grow a man. She's out of her head for joy, it's such a beauty! If I were her, I'm certain I should not die; I should get better at the bare sight of it, in spite of Ken- neth. I was fairly mad at him. Dame Archer brought the cherub down to master, in the house, and his face just began to light up, when the old croaker steps for- ward, and says he, 'Earnshaw, it's a blessing your wife has been spared to leave you this son. When she came, I felt convinced we shouldn't keep her long; and now, I must tell you, the winter will probably finish her. Don't take on and fret about it too much. It can't be helped. And besides, you should have known better than to choose such a rush of a lass!' " "And what did the master answer?" I inquired. "I think he swore; but I didn't mind him---I was straining to see the bairn." And she began again to de- scribe it rapturously. I, as zealous as herself, hurried eagerly home to admire, on my part, though I was very sad for Hindley's sake. He had room in his heart only for two idols---his wife and himself. He doted on both, and adored one, and I couldn't conceive how he would bear the loss. When we got to Wuthering Heights, there he stood at the front door; and, as I passed in, I asked, "How was the baby?" "Nearly ready to run about, Nell!" he replied, put- ting on a cheerful smile. "And the mistress?" I ventured to inquire; "the doc- tor says she's------" "Damn the doctor!" he interrupted, reddening. "Frances is quite right; she'll be perfectly well by this time next week. Are you going upstairs? Will you tell

Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt

over my shoulder at her. “We can tie you up with rope or fabric restraints. No handcuffs and we can’t cover your mouth or nose. We can blindfold you, though. So keep that in mind.” She doesn’t ask any other questions as her friends laugh behind their hands. A younger guy in a black T-shirt chuckles to himself. “This is so stupid. I don’t know why I let y’all talk me into this.” “This camp was established to celebrate the 1983 cult horror classic The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake,” I say, taking full offense. “They shot the movie on these very grounds, and we do our best to re-create the key events from the film.” “So if we’ve seen the movie, we should be all right?” one of the other guys asks. “We’ll already know what’s gonna happen?” “No,” I answer. “We change things up a little.” We change things up a lot, actually. But it’s always fun when the players think watching the movie will give them a leg up. We approach the Crow’s Nest lodging area, and I point out Cabin #2, a log structure with a green metal roof and a brick chimney. “Meet your fellow players in the Western Lodge at eight to start the game.” I hand the brunette the key to Cabin #2. “Hope you all survive the night.” As I leave them to settle in, I make an executive decision. Tonight, there will be no survivors. • • • The guests from Cabin #2, alongside Porter and Tasha posing as other real players, file into the Western Lodge a little before seven. I’m already there. I say hi to them, keeping my head down, making myself as small and invisible as possible. The wig helps. So does the makeup. The brunette doesn’t even recognize that I’m the same girl who checked her in and took her to her cabin. Normally, Felix would do that, and I wouldn’t meet the guests until we all get together in the main lodge. I’m still pissed about that, but I set it aside and focus on the task in front of me. I gently touch the back of my sweater, making sure the battery pack for my earpiece is concealed. I tell the guests my name is Jade and that I’m so excited to be here at Camp Mirror Lake in a southern accent I borrow from my late grandmother. They latch on to my enthusiasm. I watch their eyes brighten, their mouths draw up. The excitement builds like water behind a dam. Everyone is buzzing around the big fireplace as I steal a quick glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 7:59. There’s a rustle of static across the line as my earpiece clicks on. “It’s go time,” Kyle’s voice says. “Remember, Charity says tonight is a no-survivors scenario. Everybody goes down.” He laughs into the mic. “This is my favorite type of game.” Normally, we let a few guests slip through. We let them see the carnage, give them a few near-misses with Kyle, but

Yellowface.txt

the easy intimacy of two sisters who can’t fathom what the other finds attractive about their lifestyle, and have long given up trying to convert them. Rory thinks I’m itinerant, badly prepared for the future, wasting an Ivy League degree, and getting a little too old to keep chasing the publishing pipe dream instead of a stable career with benefits and a retirement plan. And I think Rory, who studied accounting at UT Austin and now does precisely that, has such a boring, cookie-cutter, picket-fence life that I’d rather claw out my eyeballs than live it. Rory is married to her college sweetheart, Tom, an IT technician who has always struck me as having the appearance and personality of wet dough. Neither of them knows a thing about publishing. They aren’t, as Rory puts it, “bookish people.” They like browsing the airport store for the latest John Grisham paperbacks, and Rory takes out the occasional Jodi Picoult title from their local library over the holidays, but otherwise they haven’t a clue about the vicissitudes of my world, nor are they dying to learn. I don’t think Rory even has a Twitter account. Tonight, that’s a blessing. Rory and Tom live far enough out in the suburbs that they can afford a spacious backyard with a deck, where they host family grills the last Saturday of every month. The weather tonight is perfect: humid and hot, but breezy enough that it’s not a bother. Rory is making corn bread, and it smells so good, I think this might be the first meal I stomach this week that doesn’t come roiling back up from anxiety. They’re bickering on the patio when I arrive. The argument, I gather, is whether it was fair of HR to reprimand Rory’s desk mate for telling a colleague that her hair looked gorgeous that day. “I just don’t think you should touch people without their permission,” says Tom. “Like, that’s an etiquette thing, not a race thing.” “Oh, come on, it wasn’t like she was, like, assaulting her,” says Rory. “It was a compliment. And it’s so crazy to call Chelsea a racist—I mean, she’s a Democrat. She voted for Obama—oh, hey, honey.” Rory squeezes me from the side as I walk up. Usually I cringe from Rory’s big-sisterly affectations—it’s always struck me as a bit fake, overcompensating for her distance when we were younger—but tonight I lean into her touch. “Have a beer. I’m going to go check on the oven.” “How’s tricks?” Tom gestures to the picnic table, and I sit down across from him. He’s been growing his beard out. It’s nearly two inches long now, and it emphasizes his solid, unbothered lumberjack’s aesthetic. Every time I see Tom, I wonder what it would be like to go through life with the easy contentment of a rock. “Just the usual,” I say, accepting a Corona Light. “Could be better.” “Rory told me you published another book, right? Congrats!” I wince. I hope they haven’t Googled me recently. “Well, thanks.” “What’s it about?” “Oh, uh, World War

Things Fall Apart.txt

lightning. The conversation at once centred on him, and everybody agreed that he was as sharp as a razor. "I sometimes think he is too sharp," said Obierika, somewhat indulgently. "He hardly ever walks. He is always in a hurry. If you are sending him on an errand he flies away before he has heard half of the message." "You were very much like that yourself," said his eldest brother. "As our people say, 'When mother-cow is chewing grass its young ones watch its mouth.' Maduka has been watching your mouth." As he was speaking the boy returned, followed by Akueke, his half-sister, carrying a wooden dish with three kola nuts and alligator pepper. She gave the dish to her father's eldest brother and then shook hands, very shyly, with her suitor and his relatives. She was about sixteen and just ripe for marriage. Her suitor and his relatives surveyed her young body with expert eyes as if to assure themselves that she was beautiful and ripe. She wore a coiffure which was done up into a crest in the middle of the head. Cam wood was rubbed lightly into her skin, and all over her body were black patterns drawn with uli. She wore a black necklace which hung down in three coils just above her full, succulent breasts. On her arms were red and yellow bangles, and on her waist four or five rows of jigida, or waist beads. When she had shaken hands, or rather held out her hand to be shaken, she returned to her mother's hut to help with the cooking. "Remove your jigida first," her mother warned as she moved near the fireplace to bring the pestle resting against the wall. "Every day I tell you that jigida and fire are not friends. But you will never hear. You grew your ears for decoration, not for hearing. One of these days your jigida will catch fire on your waist, and then you will know." Akueke moved to the other end of the hut and began to remove the waist-beads. It had to be done slowly and carefully, taking each string separately, else it would break and the thousand tiny rings would have to be strung together again. She rubbed each string downwards with her palms until it passed the buttocks and slipped down to the floor around her feet. The men in the obi had already begun to drink the palm-wine which Akueke's suitor had brought. It was a very good wine and powerful, for in spite of the palm fruit hung across the mouth of the pot to restrain the lively liquor, white foam rose and spilled over. "That wine is the work of a good tapper," said Okonkwo. The young suitor, whose name was Ibe, smiled broadly and said to his father: "Do you hear that?" He then said to the others: "He will never admit that I am a good tapper." "He tapped three of my best palm trees to death," said his father, Ukegbu. "That was about five years ago," said Ibe,

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

on him. Mother’s strict about things like this. We don’t want any taint on the family, no suggestion we’re covering anything up.” He gave her a fast look. “We’ve all heard rumors about your father’s funny business. Somebody should go to the police.” Miss de Vries turned, clutching the side of the carriage. “Why on earth,” she said, “would you want to do that?” “It’s my duty,” he said smoothly, “as a Christian.” He arrowed the carriage into the park, hurtling over rough ground. “I expect Lockwood’ll come and tell you the rest himself. We’ve torn up the contract. With you, that is.” He braked, hard, and Miss de Vries felt her stomach jolting. He turned, expression as flat as she could make her own. “Thought I’d do the decent thing and tell you myself.” * * * Lockwood was waiting for her in the front hall. He hadn’t removed his gloves. “Miss de Vries, I regret to tell you, I think I must withdraw my counsel.” She wanted to press her thumbs into his throat, stop him from breathing. She knew she could do it. “You’ll survive,” she said, “won’t you? You loathsome little cockroach.” Lockwood grimaced and raised a hand, silencing her. “Ah, Shepherd.” A door had opened. Mr. Shepherd lumbered slowly in. He glanced at Lockwood, then his mistress. “Keys,” he said. The air chilled. “What?” said Miss de Vries. Shepherd’s mouth was working furiously, eyes ablaze. “Keys, miss. I’ll need to take your keys, for safekeeping. While the police are looking into everything.” To her credit, she told herself later, she didn’t act as though the wind had just been knocked out of her sails. She put her hand in her pocket. “I only have this one,” she said, plucking her single key, the one that was for the garden door. “As well you know.” She bent her knees a little, and then she threw it across the hall. It hit the marble with a gentle clang, skidding past Shepherd’s feet. “Fetch,” she said, with disdain. This wasn’t over, she promised herself, hands shaking. This wasn’t the end. 40 The day after the ball That night the women had a feast. Not in Tilney Street, but in the docks, in Mrs. Bone’s inventions room, cuckoo clocks hooting at them every hour. There was a queer energy to the air. The first proceeds were already coming in, rushing like dark water through underground tunnels. They came faster than Mrs. Bone could tally them, orders running like wildfire back and forth across the wires, steamer routes, trains, the express—to Paris, Marseille, Kristiania, Venice, Prague. Mrs. Bone had ordered game pie, and boned capon, and cutlets and peas, and chicken in aspic. She gave them melon and green figs, and ribbon jelly, and an amber-colored sponge cake at least a foot high. There were candied oranges and a dish with ices, and a basket of greengages and meringues. “Too much,” said Hephzibah, clutching her stomach. “I thought you were a skinflint, Mrs. Bone.” “I can get more,” said Mrs. Bone, eyes

treasure island.txt

the boards of Contents land, and sail away as he had at first intended, laden with several packing-cases strewn around. On one of these boards I crimes and riches. saw, branded with a hot iron, the name WALRUS—the name Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 274 275 of Flint’s ship. All was clear to probation. The CACHE had been found and rifled; the seven hundred thousand pounds were gone! Chapter 33. The Fall of a Chieftain. THERE never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men was as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost instantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a racer, on that money; well, he was brought up, in a single second, dead; and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the others had had time to realize the disappointment. “Jim,” he whispered, “take that, and stand by for trouble.” And he passed me a double-barrelled pistol. At the same time, he began quietly moving northward, Contents and in a few steps had put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at me and nodded, as much as to say, “Here is a narrow corner,” as, indeed, I thought it was. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 276 277 His looks were not quite friendly, and I was so revolted at the pit between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering, offer the first blow. Silver never moved; he watched them, “So you’ve changed sides again.” very upright on his crutch, and looked as cool as ever I saw There was no time left for him to answer in. The bucca- him. He was brave, and no mistake. neers, with oaths and cries, began to leap, one after another, At last Merry seemed to think a speech might help mat- into the pit and to dig with their fingers, throwing the boards ters. aside as they did so. Morgan found a piece of gold. He held “Mates,” says he, “there’s two of them alone there; one’s it up with a perfect spout of oaths. It was a two-guinea piece, the old cripple that brought us all here and blundered us and it went from hand to hand among them for a quarter of down to this; the other’s that cub that I mean to have the a minute. heart of. Now, mates—” “Two guineas!” roared Merry, shaking it at Silver. “That’s He was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to your seven hundred thousand pounds, is it? You’re the man lead a charge. But just then—crack! crack! crack!— three for bargains, ain’t you? You’re him that never bungled noth- musket-shots flashed out of the thicket. Merry tumbled head ing, you wooden-headed lubber!” foremost into the excavation; the man with the bandage spun “Dig away, boys,” said Silver with the coolest insolence; round like a teetotum and fell all his length upon his side, “you’ll

A-Living-Remedy.txt

effortless as being alone, if considerably more fun. I felt more like myself in his company, which was of course partly why I had been seeking it out so often. Still, I was surprised when a mutual friend told me that he had feelings for me. No, we were just good friends, I insisted—friends who hung out several days a week, who, okay, had maybe held hands once or twice, but in a totally friendly, casual way? “Dating would ruin our friendship,” I said. “I’m happy, I’m busy, and I don’t need any drama.” “Okay,” she said. “So you’d be fine with him dating someone else then.” Like who? What had she heard? My mother laughed loud and long when I told her that we were “serious” after a month or so of dating, probably because I’d spent the entire year before insisting that college was no time to be looking for commitment. It did feel early for him to meet my parents when they flew out from Oregon a month later, but it was the one and only time they had managed to visit me on campus, and I had no idea when I’d have another chance to introduce him. The four of us went out to dinner, and the next day we all worked on putting my new dresser and bookshelves together. Watching him with my parents, I found myself thinking that the immediate ease he’d established with them had to be a good sign—also the fact that he had watched us interact and tease and annoy each other for two days, and none of it appeared to scare him off. I recalled a day in tenth grade when some friends and I had taken turns making predictions for each other, trying to imagine our lives after high school. Maria was going to be a marine biologist, Kristie was going to be a teacher or a park ranger, I’d be a journalist, and we’d have a couple of kids each. You’ll definitely be the last of us to get married, another friend told me, if you get married at all. She thought my standards would be too high and I’d probably be focused on my career. I remember laughing, wondering if I was being complimented, feeling warm because my friends and I knew each other well enough to dream on one another’s behalf. But even then, I’d told them that I hoped to have a partner and children someday. The possibility of creating a different kind of family, one I would not have to question my place in, had long been appealing to me as an adoptee, and I knew that I might never have the experience of seeing a face like mine unless I had a child of my own. Though my parents were traditionalists at heart, they were not the sort to pressure me into a certain kind of life. My mother told me that she didn’t care when or whether I got married. Just remember, she would always say, you’re not allowed to get married without me

spare.txt

evading the Taliban but finding them. In the four<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">years since my first tour, they’d got much better at escaping. Humans are<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">adaptable, but never more so than in war. The Taliban had worked out<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">exactly how many minutes they had from first contact with our troops until<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the cavalry came over the horizon, and their internal clocks were finely<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">calibrated: they’d shoot at as many guys as possible, then bolt.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">They’d got better at hiding too. They could effortlessly melt into a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">village, blend into the civilian population, or vaporize into their network of<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">tunnels. They didn’t run away—it was far more diffuse than that, more<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">mystical.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We didn’t give up the search easily. We’d circle, sweep back and forth,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">sometimes for two hours. (The Apache ran out of fuel after two hours.)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Sometimes, at the end of two hours, we’d still be unwilling to give up. So<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we'd refuel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">One day we refueled three times, spending a total of eight hours in the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">air.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">When we finally returned to base the situation was dire: I’d run out of<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">piss bags.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">53.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I WAS THE FIRST in my squadron to pull the trigger in anger.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I remember the night as well as any in my life. We were in the VHR<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">tent, the red phone rang, we all sprinted to the aircraft. Dave and I raced<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">through preflight checks, I gathered the mission details: One of the control<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">225<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">points closest to Bastion had come under small arms fire. We needed to get<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">there, ASAP, and find out where the fire was coming from. We took off,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">swept over the wall, went vertical, climbed to fifteen hundred feet. Moments<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">later I swung the night sight onto the target area. There!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Eight hot spots, eight kilometers away. Thermal smudges—walking from<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">where the contact had been.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Dave said: That’ got to be them!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Yeah—there’s no friendly forces out here on patrol! Especially not at this<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p

The Silmarillion.txt

despoil him, from dread of the spirit of Glaurung and his very memory. But now one had come, and stood upon the threshold; and Mm came forth, and demanded to know his purpose. But Hrin said: 'Who are you, that would hinder me from entering the house of Finrod Felagund?' Then the Dwarf answered: 'I am Mm; and before the proud ones came from over the Sea, Dwarves delved the halls of Nulukkizdn. I have but returned to take what is mine; for I am the last of my people.' 'Then you shall enjoy your inheritance no longer,' said Hrin; 'for I am Hrin son of Galdor, returned out of Angband, and my son was Trin Turambar, whom you have not forgotten; and he it was that slew Glaurung the Dragon, who wasted these halls where now you sit; and not unknown is it to me by whom the Dragon-helm of Dor-lmin was betrayed.' Then Mm in great fear besought Hrin to take what he would, but to spare his life; but Hrin gave no heed to his prayer, and slew him there before the doors of Nargothrond. Then he entered in, and stayed a while in that dreadful place, where the treasures of Valinor lay strewn upon the floors in darkness and decay; but it is told that when Hrin came forth from the wreck of Nargothrond and stood again beneath the sky he bore with him out of all that great hoard but one thing only. Now Hrin journeyed eastward, and he came to the Meres of Twilight above the Falls of Sirion; and there he was taken by the Elves that guarded the western marches of Doriath, and brought before King Thingol in the Thousand Caves. Then Thingol was filled with wonder and grief when he looked on him, and knew that grim and aged man for Hrin Thalion, the captive of Morgoth; but he greeted him fairly and showed him honour. Hrin made no answer to the King, but drew forth from beneath his cloak that one thing which he had taken with him out of Nargothrond; and that was no lesser treasure than the Nauglamr, the Necklace of the Dwarves, that was made for Finrod Felagund long years before by the craftsmen of Nogrod and Belegost, most famed of all their works in the Elder Days, and prized by Finrod while he lived above all the treasures of Nargothrond. And Hrin cast it at the feet of Thingol with wild and bitter words. 'Receive thou thy fee,' he cried, 'for thy fair keeping of my children and my wife! For this is the Nauglamr, whose name is known to many among Elves and Men; and I bring it to thee out of the darkness of Nargothrond, where Finrod thy kinsman left it behind him when he set forth with Beren son of Barahir to fulfil the errand of Thingol of Doriath!' Then Thingol looked upon the great treasure, and knew it for the Nauglamr, and well did he understand Hrin's intent; but being filled with pity he

Wuthering Heights.txt

glowed; all his rudeness and all his surly harshness had deserted him. He could not summon courage at first to utter a syllable in reply to her questioning look and her murmured petition,--- "Say you forgive me, Hareton, do. You can make me so happy by speaking that little word." He muttered something inaudible. "And you'll be my friend?" added Catherine inter- rogatively. "Nay, you'll be ashamed of me every day of your life," he answered, "and the more ashamed the more you know me; and I cannot bide it." "So you won't be my friend?" she said, smiling as sweet as honey, and creeping close up. I overheard no further distinguishable talk, but, on looking round again, I perceived two such radiant countenances bent over the page of the accepted book that I did not doubt the treaty had been ratified on both sides, and the enemies were thenceforth sworn allies. The work they studied was full of costly pictures, and those and their position had charm enough to keep them unmoved till Joseph came home. He, poor man, was perfectly aghast at the spectacle of Catherine seated on the same bench with Hareton Earnshaw, leaning her hand on his shoulder, and confounded at his favourite's endurance of her proximity; it affected him too deeply to allow an observation on the subject that night. His emotion was only revealed by the immense sighs he drew as he solemnly spread his large Bible on the table, and overlaid it with dirty bank-notes from his pocket- book, the produce of the day's transactions. At length he summoned Hareton from his seat. "Tak' these in to t' maister, lad," he said, "and bide there. I's gang up to my own rahm. This hoile's neither mensful nor seemly for us; we mun side out and seearch another." "Come, Catherine," I said, "we must 'side out' too. I've done my ironing. Are you ready to go?" "It is not eight o'clock," she answered, rising un- willingly---"Hareton, I'll leave this book upon the chimney-piece, and I'll bring some more to-morrow." "Ony books that yah leave I shall tak' into th' hahse," said Joseph, "and it'll be mitch if yah find 'em agean. Soa yah may plase yerseln." Cathy threatened that his library should pay for hers, and smiling as she passed Hareton, went singing up- stairs, lighter of heart, I venture to say, than ever she had been under that roof before, except, perhaps, dur- ing her earliest visits to Linton. The intimacy thus commenced grew rapidly, though it encountered temporary interruptions. Earnshaw was not to be civilized with a wish, and my young lady was no philosopher and no paragon of patience; but both their minds tending to the same point---one loving and desiring to esteem, and the other loving and de- siring to be esteemed---they contrived in the end to reach it. You see, Mr. Lockwood, it was easy enough to win Mrs. Heathcliff's heart.--- But now I'm glad you did not try. The crown of all my wishes will be the union of those

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

knotted fingers. Am I? “Ana, she’s a sexual predator. Not my type at all. How can you be jealous of her? Of anyone? Nothing about her interests me.” When I glance up, he’s gaping at me as if I’ve grown an additional limb. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s only you, Ana,” he says quietly. “It will only ever be you.” Oh my. Abandoning the plans once more, Christian moves toward me and clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How can you think otherwise? Have I ever given you any indication that I could be remotely interested in anyone else?” His eyes blaze as he stares into mine. “No,” I whisper. “I’m being silly. It’s just today . . . you . . .” All my conflict- ing emotions from earlier resurfaces. How can I tell him how confused I am? I’ve 164/551 been confounded and frustrated by his behavior this afternoon in my office. One minute he wants me to stay at home, the next he’s gifting me a company. How am I supposed to keep up? “What about me?” “Oh, Christian”—my bottom lip trembles—“I’m trying to adapt to this new life that I had never imagined for myself. Everything is being handed to me on a plate—the job, you, my beautiful husband, who I never . . . I never knew I’d love this way, this hard, this fast, this . . . indelibly.” I take a deep steadying breath, as his mouth drops open. “But you’re like a freight train, and I don’t want to get railroaded because the girl you fell in love with will be crushed. And what’ll be left? All that would be left is a vacuous social x-ray, flitting from charity function to charity function.” I pause once more, struggling to find the words to convey how I feel. “And now you want me to be a company CEO, which has never even been on my radar. I’m bouncing between all these ideas, struggling. You want me at home. You want me to run a company. It’s so confusing.” I stop, tears threatening, and I force back a sob. “You’ve got to let me make my own decisions, take my own risks, and make my own mistakes, and let me learn from them. I need to walk before I can run, Christian, don’t you see. I want some independence. That’s what my name means to me.” There, that’s what I wanted to say this afternoon. “You feel railroaded?” he whispers. I nod. He closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair in agitation. “I just want to give you the world, Ana, everything and anything you want. And save you from it, too. Keep you safe. But I also want everyone to know you’re mine. I pan- icked today when I got your e-mail. Why didn’t you tell me about your name?” I flush. He has a point. “I only thought about it while we were on our honeymoon, and well, I didn’t want to burst the bubble, and

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

skiing holiday before you dismantle them," said Frankie, acidly. "Skiing holiday!" cried the old man. "Those glaciers are works of art! Elegantly sculptured contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines! It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!" "Thank you Slartibartfast," said Benji firmly. "That will be all." "Yes sir," said the old man coldly, "thank you very much. Well, goodbye Earthman," he said to Arthur, "hope the lifestyle comes together." With a brief nod to the rest of the company he turned and walked sadly out of the room. Arthur stared after him not knowing what to say. "Now," said Benji mouse, "to business." Ford and Zaphod clinked their glasses together. "To business!" they said. "I beg your pardon?" said Benji. Ford looked round. "Sorry, I thought you were proposing a toast," he said. The two mice scuttled impatiently around in their glass transports. Finally they composed themselves, and Benji moved forward to address Arthur. "Now, Earth creature," he said, "the situation we have in effect is this. We have, as you know, been more or less running your planet for the last ten million years in order to find this wretched thing called the Ultimate Question." "Why?" said Arthur, sharply. "No - we already thought of that one," said Frankie interrupting, "but it doesn't fit the answer. Why? - Forty-Two ... you see, it doesn't work." "No," said Arthur, "I mean why have you been doing it?" "Oh, I see," said Frankie. "Well, eventually just habit I think, to be brutally honest. And this is more or less the point - we're sick to the teeth with the whole thing, and the prospect of doing it all over again on account of those whinnet-ridden Vogons quite frankly gives me the screaming heeby jeebies, you know what I mean? It was by the merest lucky chance that Benji and I finished our particular job and left the planet early for a quick holiday, and have since manipulated our way back to Magrathea by the good offices of your friends." "Magrathea is a gateway back to our own dimension," put in Benji. "Since when," continued his murine colleague, "we have had an offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we're very much inclined to take it." "I would, wouldn't you Ford?" said Zaphod promptingly. "Oh yes," said Ford, "jump at it, like a shot." Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to. "But we've got to have a product you see," said Frankie, "I mean ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other." Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur. "You see," he said, "if they're just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to admit that in fact it's Forty-two, then the show's probably quite short. No follow-up, you see."

Anne of Green Gables.txt

right out and he said he'd think of it. But Mr. Russell told him yesterday that the bank was all right." Anne had her good day in the companionship of the outdoor world. She never forgot that day; it was so bright and golden and fair, so free from shadow and so lavish of blossom. Anne spent some of its rich hours in the orchard; she went to the Dryad's Bubble and Willowmere and Violet Vale; she called at the manse and had a satisfying talk with Mrs. Allan; and finally in the evening she went with Matthew for the cows, through Lovers' Lane to the back pasture. The woods were all gloried through with sunset and the warm splendor of it streamed down through the hill gaps in the west. Matthew walked slowly with bent head; Anne, tall and erect, suited her springing step to his. "You've been working too hard today, Matthew," she said reproachfully. "Why won't you take things easier?" "Well now, I can't seem to," said Matthew, as he opened the yard gate to let the cows through. "It's only that I'm getting old, Anne, and keep forgetting it. Well, well, I've always worked pretty hard and I'd rather drop in harness." "If I had been the boy you sent for," said Anne wistfully, "I'd be able to help you so much now and spare you in a hundred ways. I could find it in my heart to wish I had been, just for that." "Well now, I'd rather have you than a dozen boys, Anne," said Matthew patting her hand. "Just mind you thatrather than a dozen boys. Well now, I guess it wasn't a boy that took the Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl-my girl-my girl that I'm proud of." He smiled his shy smile at her as he went into the yard. Anne took the memory of it with her when she went to her room that night and sat for a long while at her open window, thinking of the past and dreaming of the future. Outside the Snow Queen was mistily white in the moonshine; the frogs were singing in the marsh beyond Orchard Slope. Anne always remembered the silvery, peaceful beauty and fragrant calm of that night. It was the last night before sorrow touched her life; and no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it. 37. The Reaper Whose Name Is Death "Matthew-Matthew-what is the matter? Matthew, are you sick?" It was Marilla who spoke, alarm in every jerky word. Anne came through the hall, her hands full of white narcissus,-it was long before Anne could love the sight or odor of white narcissus again,-in time to hear her and to see Matthew standing in the porch doorway, a folded paper in his hand, and his face strangely drawn and gray. Anne dropped her flowers and sprang across the kitchen to him at the same moment as Marilla. They were both too late; before they could reach him

Cold People.txt

athletic, able to trek across the snow regardless of their occupation. Liza’s duties required her to be at the hospital throughout the winter and since there were no vehicles for personal use, her walk to work alone was often a perilous expedition. Gone was the softness about her body that she’d once tried to lose with gyms and spin classes, replaced with a far deeper and more complete physical strength she’d only known in the rowers and track athletes at her college. Her features were sharper, her auburn hair longer than before for no reason other than it kept her neck warm. If her parents had been alive, they’d barely have recognized her from the young woman they’d said goodbye to. A nurse ran into the staff office, calling out for help: ‘Hypothermia. It’s a child. He’s going into cardiac arrest.’ Liza took the call for help, hurrying towards the emergency response unit. Staffing in Hospital One operated by a grid of expertise, but with perpetual staffing shortages anyone could be called upon for any emergency. No matter their medical background, cosmetic surgery or dentistry, every member of staff was an expert on hypothermia – the most common cause of death on the continent. When the body’s temperature dropped from ninety-eight, the hypothalamus slowed the blood flow to the heart and liver because those organs used the most heat, the human body’s desperate attempt to keep the brain alive. ‘Core temperature?’ ‘Eighty-three.’ At this temperature consciousness would be impaired, vital signs hard to detect. Entering the emergency room, Liza saw a young boy on the operating table. His skin was red, his eyes were closed – his chest wasn’t moving. From countless encounters with hypothermia, she could judge in an instant the child’s chances, and in this case she knew that she’d struggle to save this boy. Skipping over the initial-response treatments, she opted for the most extreme measures – a peritoneal lavage, a mechanism to directly warm the abdominal cavity. As she readied the procedure she spoke to the boy as though he were alive and well: ‘Hey there, young man, I need you to open your eyes and tell me your name.’ He didn’t reply, didn’t open his eyes. With the peritoneal lavage complete, using warm saline, and still no sign of him waking, the nurse began to shake her head, indicating the child was lost. Refusing to accept this, Liza placed her warm hands firmly on his cold cheeks and whispered into his ear: ‘Young man, listen to me very carefully, your mother is waiting outside to see you. I need you to open your eyes.’ To everyone’s surprise the little boy’s eyes opened. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t know where he was. He claimed to be hot and wanted to cool down. A common trait among people suffering severe hypothermia was to strip naked, as their brains became confused. He was one of the lucky ones, brought back from the brink, and Liza’s reputation as one of the most skilful doctors in town was confirmed. She

Anne of Green Gables.txt

for Gilbert Blythe, she would not even look at him. She would NEVER look at him again! She would never speak to him!! When school was dismissed Anne marched out with her red head held high. Gilbert Blythe tried to intercept her at the porch door. "I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne," he whispered contritely. "Honest I am. Don't be mad for keeps, now" Anne swept by disdainfully, without look or sign of hearing. "Oh how could you, Anne?" breathed Diana as they went down the road half reproachfully, half admiringly. Diana felt that SHE could never have resisted Gilbert's plea. "I shall never forgive Gilbert Blythe," said Anne firmly. "And Mr. Phillips spelled my name without an e, too. The iron has entered into my soul, Diana." Diana hadn't the least idea what Anne meant but she understood it was something terrible. "You mustn't mind Gilbert making fun of your hair," she said soothingly. "Why, he makes fun of all the girls. He laughs at mine because it's so black. He's called me a crow a dozen times; and I never heard him apologize for anything before, either." "There's a great deal of difference between being called a crow and being called carrots," said Anne with dignity. "Gilbert Blythe has hurt my feelings EXCRUCIATINGLY, Diana." It is possible the matter might have blown over without more excruciation if nothing else had happened. But when things begin to happen they are apt to keep on. Avonlea scholars often spent noon hour picking gum in Mr. Bell's spruce grove over the hill and across his big pasture field. From there they could keep an eye on Eben Wright's house, where the master boarded. When they saw Mr. Phillips emerging therefrom they ran for the schoolhouse; but the distance being about three times longer than Mr. Wright's lane they were very apt to arrive there, breathless and gasping, some three minutes too late. On the following day Mr. Phillips was seized with one of his spasmodic fits of reform and announced before going home to dinner, that he should expect to find all the scholars in their seats when he returned. Anyone who came in late would be punished. All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. Bell's spruce grove as usual, fully intending to stay only long enough to "pick a chew." But spruce groves are seductive and yellow nuts of gum beguiling; they picked and loitered and strayed; and as usual the first thing that recalled them to a sense of the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting from the top of a patriarchal old spruce "Master's coming." The girls who were on the ground, started first and managed to reach the schoolhouse in time but without a second to spare. The boys, who had to wriggle hastily down from the trees, were later; and Anne, who had not been picking gum at all but was wandering happily in the far end of the grove, waist deep among the bracken, singing softly to herself,

USS-Lincoln.txt

Let’s get up to the bridge.” Akari was waiting for us at the entrance into the bridge. “We have a problem, Captain.” “If I had a dollar for every time I heard those five words …” I mumbled. “What is it?” “Two things. First, Wrath and Portent are on the move, making their way through the asteroid field toward us.” “I thought it was too dangerous … asteroid fragments and all.” “That brings up the second thing. Captain Loggins has informed us that those red ships all lined up along the fringe of the field … Well, they’ve deployed more frigates. They’re entering the asteroid field as we speak.” I looked to Hardy. “Four good-sized frigates. They’re taking a beating but making good headway, close on the heels of Wrath and Portent.” “There’s something else, Captain,” Akari said. But I was already staring past her to the halo display at the front of the bridge. That faint yellow nanite cloud had drifted and was now virtually on top of two of the three conjoining spaceways. “Dammit, why didn’t you hail me!” I said, hurrying toward the captain’s mount, Akari and Hardy right behind. “I did, multiple times. You didn’t hear Sir Calvin over the PA?” Sir Calvin’s blaring overhead voice had been a constant assault upon my ears ever since I’d arrived back on Adams. Crew directives, reminders on the limitations of personal items, which groups of crew members were to use which spaceway … I must have tuned him out after a while. With a quick glance down at my Jadoo ring, I saw I had multiple messages waiting. “Sorry …” I took a seat and tried to think. “Where’s Polk?” Hardy said, “Tinkling … Zone D, Deck 26, Head 34, Stall 3.” Both Akari and I looked up to Hardy. “Way, way, way too much information, Hardy!” Akari balked. “Oop, she’s washing her hands now,” Hardy added. “Woman’s got excellent hygiene.” “I need to know the overall progress of the move. Can you tell me that, Hardy, in between spying on crew members’ bathroom habits?” “Progress has been slow but steady. I’d venture a guess that 85.7 percent of Adams’ crew have completed the transfer over to Lincoln. Coogong is busy quansporting heavy equipment, while Sonya, now up on the Symbio Decks—” “Wait, are you saying Sonya is back on Adams?” I abruptly asked. Hardy’s faceplate display suddenly changed to fluttering butterflies in that same pastoral meadow I saw earlier. “She better not have quansported over.” “Wait. The quansporter is working?” Akari said. Hardy did one of his awkward shrug things. “I refuse to answer on the grounds it may incriminate me.” “Knock it off. Where is Sonya now?” “Deck 37. She’s helping Ensign Plorinne with the quansporting of Symbio sleeping pods. Not an insubstantial task, I might add.” “At least she’s not quansporting humans,” I said. Hardy’s faceplate went black. He said nothing. “What are you not telling me?” “It’s understandable; the girl has deep-seated loyalties.” “Spill it, Hardy.” “The Pylors … Sloppy Joe, Little Vince, and the thirty

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

Aiden R.?” she continues. I nod, because there are, like, four Aidens in her class. “He likes Stevie, and they always sit together at lunch, but today Stevie was assigned to Indonesia for World Cultures Day with Eric, and Aiden was quiet-sad the same way Mr. Prince was tonight.” “Oh yeah? How’s that?” She points to her face. “You know how boys clench their jaw like this?” She does a pretty solid impression. “He was doing that and just, like, ignoring her at lunch. But it wasn’t like Stevie had a choice about who she does World Cultures Day with. It’s assigned.” “Right,” I agree sympathetically. Ugh, this metaphor is pretty great. I redirect: “Who did you get assigned to work with?” “Kyle Pyun,” she says, and gives a vague grimace. “He’s really hyper but at least he gets good grades.” “Totally.” I lean in, grinning. “Is he cute?” Juno looks genuinely disgusted. “Auntie Fizzy, we’re in fifth grade.” “I’m not asking if you’re engaged, Junebug, just whether he’s got potential.” “Mom says boys are dumb until high school.” “Wow, that’s generous.” “So if Isaac wins,” Juno says, doing her own redirection, “does he get money or something?” “In theory he gets me.” She laughs like this is funny. “Yeah but… you know. Like a real prize.” Pressing my lips together, I give her a flat “I get to choose who I’m taking to Fiji, and there’s a cash prize for the Hero who wins the most votes, if that’s what you mean.” Her eyes are planets. “A trip together?” I nod. “Sleeping in the same room?” “We can have separate rooms if we want.” Juno’s lip curls a little. “Would you want to share a room with him?” “I’m not averse to sharing a room, but I’m not sure I want to share it with him yet. It will be our decision once we get there.” She nods, looking to the side, thinking. I look down at my phone. It’s almost nine. Time for River to come get her and save me from this laser interrogation. “What if Lucas Ayad was one of the contestants?” she asks. I playfully scowl at the mention of my favorite Wonderland member. “I mean obviously if Lucas was a contestant and he didn’t win fairly, I’d invent a time machine to go back and rig the results.” “We should start a petition to write him in,” she says. “Tell everyone to start tagging Lucas Ayad in the votes.” “You just want that so I don’t marry Suchin and steal him from you.” Juno beams. “Suchin belongs to me, he just doesn’t know it yet.” This kid cracks me up. “How can you talk about Suchin like this but can’t even tell me whether World Cultures Day Kyle is cute?” “Because I actually know Kyle—gross.” She leans in now, too. “But what if we vote for Mr. Prince?” I knew her checkmate was coming, but it still catches me unaware. “I knew you were up to something, you little shi—” I pull back just in time,

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

her glass. “I look marvelous.” Naturally she had business to take care of. Once the ball was underway, she’d begun surreptitiously gathering her actresses, sending them circling around the ballroom, knocking over drinks, upsetting supper plates, causing confusion. “Movement,” Winnie had said when they were going over the program for the evening. “We must have constant and immediate movement. We need people away from the windows, eyes on the entertainment. We’ve got ropes going up the eastern side of the house. We can’t have anyone spotting that.” “I’ve got it,” Hephzibah had said. Winnie had made her apologies half a dozen times, but Hephzibah still wouldn’t meet her eye. “Don’t fuss.” There was no delay to the dancing, no wallflowers spoiling the mood: Hephzibah’s actresses saw to that. I might join in, Hephzibah thought, a splendid fog descending over her vision. She saw her men leading women to the ballroom floor, music swelling. They looked like sea anemones, billowing into each other’s arms, pulsing. It was a waltz, a fast one. It made the blood start pumping in the veins. I need more champagne, she decided. And more jelly. She spied a boy gawking at her from the corner of the room. A lamp-trimmer, she assumed, or an urchin kept for running errands. He had a pointed, weaselly face, and he was keeping himself carefully out of view from the other servants. In the normal course of events, Hephzibah might have flicked him half a crown for trying his luck upstairs. But this wasn’t the time for unkempt boys to be scuttling around the house. They’d made no allowances in the plan for that. And she didn’t like the way he was staring at her. One of Hephzibah’s actresses came whirling past, a profusion of taffeta and silks. “Goodness gracious!” she cried, throwing her champagne glass to the floor, where it shattered in all directions. “Enough chaos for you, dear?” she muttered to Hephzibah as the waiters hurried to clean it up, the dancers surging around them. The boy’s eyes narrowed. Have I been rumbled? Hephzibah wondered, with a prickling of alarm. “Boy!” she exclaimed, sidestepping the actress. “Fetch me a drink!” Perhaps her voice came out a little louder than she’d intended. An under-footman or a waiter glided up, tray in hand. “Madam,” he said, blocking her path. She dodged. “That little boy can fetch it for me,” she said. “He needs teaching a lesson. He made a face at me. He is a cheeky rodent.” I never, mouthed the boy. “Tell him...tell him to go down to the kitchen and fetch me a...cold flannel!” Oh, I do feel a little dizzy, she thought. Perhaps it was the heat. Or the champagne. Surely she could leave her actresses to manage things, just for a moment. “Here, help me,” she said, lurching forward, grabbing the boy by his shoulder. He wriggled furiously underneath her. “Get me to a chair.” The footmen had glanced at each other, then at the crowd. “Help Her Grace into the Boiserie,” one said to the boy. “I’ll

Yellowface.txt

from me—” “Don’t gaslight me.” I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. My face feels terribly hot, tight; my head dizzy. Reality is careening away from me, and I’m only hanging on by a thread. All I know—all I can hold on to—is the revelation that Diana did this to me. It’s been Diana all along. “I know what you’re doing. I know it’s you—” “Jesus Christ.” Diana’s arm trembles, but she doesn’t spray me. “What are you talking about?” “Those are her boots. Her shawl.” I almost choke, I’m so angry. Was it Diana that first night at Politics and Prose? Was it Diana at Coco’s? Has she been fucking with me for months? I think back to that rant she gave at the panel in Virginia, to all those interviews and blog pieces she’s put out about me since. The woman is obsessed with me. Is this all some perverse art project for her? The Haunting of Juniper Song? “Hold on.” Diana lowers the can. “Do you think I’m trying to dress up like Athena Liu?” “You can’t pretend,” I insist. “You’re dressed up like her; you’re stalking me—” “These are my boots,” says Diana. “These are my clothes. And I’m walking by Saxby’s because I fucking live here, you psycho.” “I’m not a psycho—” “Not all Asian women look the same,” Diana snarls. “Is that so hard to comprehend, you crazy bitch?” I almost slap her then. “I’m not crazy.” But up close, all the resemblances fall apart. Those aren’t Athena’s boots—Athena’s favorite Uggs were brown, with tassels. Diana’s are black, with buckles and stiletto heels. Diana’s hair is blunt and straight-edged, not loosely curled. She’s wearing hoops, not emerald danglers. Her lipstick is far, far brighter than anything Athena would ever wear. She doesn’t look like Athena. She doesn’t look like her at all. What on earth did I see in that café window? “I’m not crazy.” But I can think of no evidence otherwise. I can’t trust my eyes. I can’t trust my memory. All the fight goes out of me then, and my chest sags; the air lets out. My voice cracks. “I’m not.” Diana watches me for a long moment, her face a mix of curiosity, pity, and disgust. At last, she places the pepper spray back in her bag. “Jesus,” she mutters, then hurries away from me, glancing over her shoulder with every other step as if making sure I don’t follow. “You need help.” SOMEHOW I MANAGE TO COLLECT MY THINGS FROM SAXBY’S AND head home. My Uber driver must think I’m drunk—I’m breathing hard and I can’t stop reeling, clutching the armrest like it’s the only thing that will keep me from toppling over. My mind keeps replaying the encounter with Diana. My fingers digging into her shoulders. Her pepper spray. The disgust in her eyes, the fear. For a moment there, she really thought I was going to attack her. I can’t believe I did that. There’s no excuse. No explanation. I accosted someone in broad daylight. I run for

Tarzan of the Apes.txt

making mocking grimaces at it. Sabor paced back and forth beneath the tree for hours; four times she crouched and sprang at the dancing sprite above her, but might as well have clutched at the illusive wind that murmured through the tree tops. At last Tarzan tired of the sport, and with a parting roar of challenge and a well-aimed ripe fruit that spread soft and sticky over the snarling face of his enemy, he swung rapidly through the trees, a hundred feet above the ground, and in a short time was among the members of his tribe. Here he recounted the details of his adventure, with swelling chest and so considerable swagger that he quite impressed even his bitterest enemies, while Kala fairly danced for joy and pride. Chapter 9 Man and Man Tarzan of the Apes lived on in his wild, jungle existence with little change for several years, only that he grew stronger and wiser, and learned from his books more and more of the strange worlds which lay somewhere outside his primeval forest. To him life was never monotonous or stale. There was always Pisah, the fish, to be caught in the many streams and the little lakes, and Sabor, with her ferocious cousins to keep one ever on the alert and give zest to every instant that one spent upon the ground. Often they hunted him, and more often he hunted them, but though they never quite reached him with those cruel, sharp claws of theirs, yet there were times when one could scarce have passed a thick leaf between their talons and his smooth hide. Quick was Sabor, the lioness, and quick were Numa and Sheeta, but Tarzan of the Apes was lightning. With Tantor, the elephant, he made friends. How? Ask not. But this is known to the denizens of the jungle, that on many moonlight nights Tarzan of the Apes and Tantor, the elephant, walked together, and where the way was clear Tarzan rode, perched high upon Tantor's mighty back. Many days during these years he spent in the cabin of his father, where still lay, untouched, the bones of his parents and the skeleton of Kala's baby. At eighteen he read fluently and understood nearly all he read in the many and varied volumes on the shelves. Also could he write, with printed letters, rapidly and plainly, but script he had not mastered, for though there were several copy books among his treasure, there was so little written English in the cabin that he saw no use for bothering with this other form of writing, though he could read it, laboriously. Thus, at eighteen, we find him, an English lordling, who could speak no English, and yet who could read and write his native language. Never had he seen a human being other than himself, for the little area traversed by his tribe was watered by no greater river to bring down the savage natives of the interior. Chapter 9 46 High hills shut it off on three sides, the ocean on the

The-One.txt

it can be linked to any other shootings.” He envisions his wife, so calm and collected as Brody bled out beside her on the floor. Sure, she was no stranger to trauma, but after coming so close to taking a bullet to her face, she wasn’t even rattled. And how she so easily put on a show of doing compressions for the first responders, as if she’d been trying desperately to save Carr’s life. What was she afraid would happen if Carr lived? Out of nowhere, their marriage therapist’s words pop into his mind. Think the best of each other, not the worst. Sloane had been telling the truth about Brody attacking her in their garage. She probably just didn’t want to live with the threat of him coming after her again. If that was the case, he can’t say he blames her. The detective stands from her chair. “Thanks for your cooperation, detective. As you know, you’ll be on leave until we, and King County Major crimes, conclude our investigations. I’ll let you know by email if I have any more questions. You can meet your wife outside in the hall.” She opens the door, waiting for Ethan and the police guild representative to exit first. Ethan follows the guild rep out of the room. Sloane is leaning against the wall, still wearing her scrubs, which are now stained with blood. Jonah is standing beside her. Her eyes look red from crying, a stark contrast to her cool and collected demeanor after Ethan shot Brody. He thinks back to the instant before he pulled the trigger. Seeing Brody lift his gun toward Sloane’s terrified face. He couldn’t lose her. He loves her, despite everything. She grabs his hand. “Let’s go home.” But can he trust her? Jonah slaps Ethan on the shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ll drive you two.” Ethan wants to believe his partner’s words as Jonah leads the way down the hall toward the exit. As they move down the quiet hallway Sloane squeezes his hand, and he feels himself squeeze hers back. Maybe this was their chance. To put the past behind them. And start fresh. Chapter 47 Five Weeks Later Sloane wakes to the sensation of Ethan’s lips on hers. Her eyes flutter open, and she smiles when he pulls away. The early morning sunlight filtering in through their drawn bedroom curtains is enough for Sloane to see he’s already dressed for work. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says. She reaches behind his head and draws him toward her for another kiss. “Bye, detective.” She yawns as he pushes himself off their bed, straightening his suit as he heads for the door. “I love you.” He turns. “I love you, too.” Sloane sits up in bed when she hears the garage door open, knowing she won’t be able to go back to sleep. She lifts her phone from her nightstand to check the time. She has over four hours before she meets Kay for lunch. She throws back her comforter and pulls on her silk robe

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

an intense sense of power to know that he could, by a single act of consent, in a moment of thought, undo all that he had done. He seemed to feel a flood slowly advancing towards his naked feet and to be waiting for the first faint timid noiseless wavelet to touch his fevered skin. Then, almost at the instant of that touch, almost at the verge of sinful consent, he found himself standing far away from the flood upon a dry shore, saved by a sudden act of the will or a sudden ejaculation; and, seeing the silver line of the flood far away and beginning again its slow advance towards his feet, a new thrill of power and satisfaction shook his soul to know that he had not yielded nor undone all. When he had eluded the flood of temptation many times in this way he grew troubled and wondered whether the grace which he had refused to lose was not being filched from him little by little. The clear certitude of his own immunity grew dim and to it succeeded a vague fear that his soul had really fallen unawares. It was with difficulty that he won back his old consciousness of his state of grace by telling himself that he had prayed to God at every temptation and that the grace which he had prayed for must have been given to him inasmuch as God was obliged to give it. The very frequency and violence of temptations showed him at last the truth of what he had heard about the trials of the saints. Frequent and violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall. Often when he had confessed his doubts and scruples--some momentary inattention at prayer, a movement of trivial anger in his soul, or a subtle wilfulness in speech or act--he was bidden by his confessor to name some sin of his past life before absolution was given him. He named it with humility and shame and repented of it once more. It humiliated and shamed him to think that he would never be freed from it wholly, however holily he might live or whatever virtues or perfections he might attain. A restless feeling of guilt would always be present with him: he would confess and repent and be absolved, confess and repent again and be absolved again, fruitlessly. Perhaps that first hasty confession wrung from him by the fear of hell had not been good? Perhaps, concerned only for his imminent doom, he had not had sincere sorrow for his sin? But the surest sign that his confession had been good and that he had had sincere sorrow for his sin was, he knew, the amendment of his life. --I have amended my life, have I not? he asked himself. * * * * * The director stood in the embrasure of the window, his back to the light, leaning an elbow on the brown crossblind, and, as he spoke

The-One.txt

secret, he knows that. He has to tell McKinnon after he goes through the records. Then, he’ll get kicked off the case—and the whole department will know why. He’ll have to trust that Jonah will do what’s necessary to ensure that the rich asshole gets what’s coming to him. But first, he needs to know how long it was going on. How often Sloane was communicating with her sex-offender lover. Ethan flips to the third page, still not having seen Sloane’s number on Carr’s call logs. He feels only slight relief that the affair has been going on less than two months. The shorter the fling, the less likely it seems Sloane could have been involved in the murder of Carr’s wife. If the case goes to trial, there will be no way to keep the affair out of the media. Even with Sloane wanting his forgiveness, he doubts their marriage will survive it. By the bottom of the fourth page, he still hasn’t spotted Sloane’s number. Unable to take it any longer, he digs through the pages until he finds the date of Sloane’s hospital award ceremony. He runs his finger down the list of numbers called that day. There was a two-minute call at 3:16 p.m. and not another call until 7:58 p.m. that night. Ethan stares at the date at the top of the page. He doesn’t have it wrong. And it had to have been between five and six p.m. when he heard Sloane on the phone in their bathroom. So, where is it? He skims through the text messages from that day. If they were talking on the phone, and sleeping together, they had to be texting too. But there was nothing to or from Sloane’s number. Ethan scans the next several pages. Still nothing. He lifts his phone from the desk and calls Jonah, who answers on the second ring. “Hey,” Ethan says. “Are these all the phone records from Brody Carr?” “That’s the only cell phone account in his name. I double checked. Why?” Ethan puts his hand to his forehead, staring at the papers splayed across his desk. It would be better for Sloane if they don’t find them, but he needs to know. Plus, if Carr had an unregistered number, there was likely much more damning evidence on it than his affair with Ethan’s wife. “I guess I expected a guy like that to have more than one number, you know?” “If he does, there’s no record of it.” “Huh. Okay, thanks. I’ll keep looking through these. Let me know what you learn from the divorce attorney. And how it goes with the dive team.” Ethan hangs up and goes through each page again. Certain that Sloane’s number isn’t anywhere in Carr’s cell records, he rubs his eyes. He thinks about her phone ringing when he came home earlier, and how quick she was to decline the call. His desk phone rings, bringing him back to the present. “Detective Marks.” “Ethan, it’s Pete.” He recognizes the medical examiner’s gravelly voice. “I wanted to

Hedge.txt

It was the first time he’d struck out at her in months, and she almost enjoyed the blow, because it was real. “I’ll stop looking for historical work. I’ll be more open. I’ll do landscaping.” “You’d hate that.” “Then I’ll hate it.” “Is something going on with that guy?” “No.” “Okay. I trust you. And you can trust me.” “Why? What’s changed?” “I don’t want to lose you, Maud.” But I’m already gone, she thought. I left long ago and I never came back. And I never will. “We’ll talk about it when I’m home at the end of August, like we said.” “Why can’t we talk about it when I visit?” “Because that’s not what we agreed to. We can’t have the conversation with the girls around.” “Don’t ruin our life over one mistake.” “I thought you slept with her twice,” Maud said, unable to stop herself. “You know what I mean.” After she hung up, she walked across the porch to look more closely at the nest. She recognized the hexagons made by paper wasps—they wouldn’t sting the girls, so she decided to let them be. That weekend, she took Ella and Louise to the city. On the boat to Ellis Island, she thought about Gabriel. In the kaleidoscope of the gem room at the Museum of Natural History, moving up and down on a carousel horse in Central Park, and walking along the High Line, she thought about Gabriel. This place is a desert without you, he texted. “Bathing suit time,” she told Ella on Sunday morning, as people bearing shopping bags rushed by them on the sidewalk. “Your period must be over by now. You can’t keep sitting around doing nothing at camp when everyone’s swimming.” “Fine,” Ella muttered. They were standing on Fifth Avenue in front of the flagship store of a clothing chain that Ella liked and Maud didn’t, a source of previous shopping conflicts. “I’d think you’d be happy I brought you here,” Maud said, opening the door. “I don’t feel like getting a bathing suit.” “You can buy a few other things too.” Maud’s impression of the clothing chain as overpriced, cult-like, and ridiculous (it had an urban cowboy theme) was not lessened by the sight of two shirtless white boys in ten-gallon hats who greeted them as they walked inside. “Yuck,” Louise whispered. “Agreed,” Maud whispered back, although there was no need to lower her voice given the cowpunk music blaring through the store. Ella gave the boys a nervous wave, then beelined for a wall of T-shirts. Maud stifled her opinions about the clothes that Ella heaped into her arms: a bandanna repurposed as a tank top, jeans that seemed to have passed several times through a shredder. Later, though, in the dressing room, when Ella parted the curtain to show them her first selection, Maud almost gasped as Louise applauded. In a spaghetti-strap sundress, her thick hair flooding her bare shoulders, her body all soft, delicate lines, Ella was stunningly beautiful. “You look amazing,” Maud said. “Do you feel good in

Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt

keep the tears from coming down my cheeks but found it impossible. “Lanie, what’s wrong?” I shook my head. “I do not deserve your kindness. I don’t now and I didn’t then.” He hadn’t said anything about my apology after we were interrupted and, while part of me wanted to let it lie, another part just had to know what he was feeling. “You lost your job!” I said, sniffling. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, as if he was thinking. “Yeah. But you would have lost your scholarship. I took the blame willingly. That was on me.” Hearing him say that made me smile just the tiniest bit, and I thought that maybe we were okay. But, as the rain pounded on the tin roof of the sailing hut, Rich’s face clouded, and he turned away from me. “See,” I said softly. “I knew you were still mad.” “It wasn’t the drinking ticket that pissed me off,” he started. He turned back to me. “It was how you handled the aftermath. I mean, what the hell, Lanier?” I hated when he called me Lanier. I felt like a child being scolded, which, let’s face it: I kind of deserved. “I got not talking to me in the cop car. But not responding to my letters? I felt like I had done the most chivalrous thing in the world, had proven my love for you in a big way, and you just ghosted me!” Shame washed over me anew. “I know,” I whispered. I moved closer to him, feeling like I was stepping into dangerous territory but unable to resist. “I was so ashamed I couldn’t bring myself to open your letters.” “You didn’t make Daphne do it? It could have been your ‘hard thing.’ ” He was attempting a joke, but it didn’t feel like one. I took a deep breath. “I couldn’t bear to open the letters. I was too afraid of what they might say. I imagined how, after camp, I would just show up at your fraternity house, unannounced. I would apologize. I would beg for your forgiveness. I would tell you how broken up I was inside and ashamed that I didn’t take responsibility for my actions, that I let you take the blame for something that wasn’t your fault. And, as a result, ironically, I didn’t take responsibility for my actions again.” “So what stopped you?” “The same thing that stopped me from opening your letters. I thought you hated me,” I said. “But if I didn’t see you, if you didn’t tell me, then I’d never know for sure.” “Lanier, do you know what those letters said?” I shook my head. “They said I loved you, that I forgave you, that I would wait for you forever.” Rich was so close now that I could feel his breath, his steady inhale and exhale. “They said I would always protect you, always keep you safe, and if getting a stupid drinking ticket was a way I could prove that, then I would do it a

Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt

all perfect and impressive. I watch as she helps a sunny Irish Traveller girl named Mary wrestle a tent key into a pole. “Don’t be scared of it,” Celine says firmly. “It’s not going to break.” “It’ll break my damn nose if I let go,” Mary huffs. “Then don’t let go,” is Celine’s sweet-as-honey response. She doesn’t seem bothered by the rain; she’s taken her coat off and wrapped it around her waist. Her hoodie’s unzipped and her collarbone is gleaming wet. A few braids have slipped out of her ponytail but her black eyeliner—two wings per eye, like a butterfly—is sharp and clean and as unbothered as she is. “Mate,” Raj says in this very weird tone of voice, “isn’t that your cousin?” “No,” I reply, watching Celine corral tent poles as if they were rogue boa constrictors. “Oh.” He sounds relieved but still dubious. Relubious. “It’s just, Thomas said—” “No,” I repeat. Sorry, Thomas, but the cousin lie is no longer working for me. I blink, realize I’m staring, and turn away. “But you do know her?” Raj asks, watching me with this one-sided, flickering smile. “No. I mean, yeah. Yeah, I know her. We go to the same school, remember?” And that’s it. She’s not even talking to me, so I’m definitely not thinking about her. I know I asked if we could be normal—which, in hindsight, seems like such a pathetic attempt at begging for friendship—and she said yes, but I bet she regrets it. I bet it didn’t feel like her heart was a fist unclenching. I bet she’s going to come over here and say— “Bradley?” My head jerks up. Celine. “Can we talk?” I ignore her butterfly eyes and nod. “Okay.” Raj grins as Celine and I crawl into the tent. Inside, Celine headbutts the saggy part of our roof like a fault-seeking missile and looks at me. “Um.” “Don’t judge.” She rolls her eyes, but the action is more amused than scathing. Weird. Very weird. “I thought you were pissed at me,” I blurt, then instantly regret it. Why would I mention that? I could honestly sink into a hole. Celine blinks and echoes my thoughts. “Why?” “We didn’t talk. Yesterday.” Her brow furrows, like you could press a fingertip between her eyes and smooth the creases out. In this shadowy, raindrop-stained blue universe, she is very soft and dark, like falling into bed at night after a long, hard day. “I didn’t think we needed to talk. You said…not-enemies.” So she wasn’t ignoring me—just being infuriatingly literal and pragmatic and other Celine-like qualities. “Typical. I put my pride on the line to negotiate an historic peace treaty and you can’t even tell me good morning?” “Do you hear yourself?” she asks me curiously. “Like, when you speak? Or is it just noise?” I’m going to strangle her. “Why do you look like you’ve got gas?” she asks. I rub a hand over my face. “You know what I admire about you, Celine? Your class and sophistication.” She snorts. “Bite me.” “No, it’s impressive.