The guide invited the crowd to imagine that they were looking across a desert at a mountain range on a day that was twinkling bright and clear. They could look at a peak or a bird or cloud, at a stone right in front of them, or even down into a canyon behind them. But among them was this poor Earthling, and his head was encased in a steel sphere which he could never take off. There was only one eyehole through which he could look, and welded to that eyehole were six feet of pipe. "This was only the beginning of Billy's miseries in the metaphor. He was also strapped to a steel lattice which was bolted to a flatcar on rails, and there was no way he could turn his head or touch the pipe. The far end of the pipe rested on a bi-pod which was also bolted to the flatcar. All Billy could see was the little dot at the end of the pipe. He didn't know he was on a flatcar, didn't even know there was anything peculiar about his situation. "The flatcar sometimes crept, sometimes went extremely fast, often stopped-went uphill, downhill, around curves, along straightaways. Whatever poor Billy saw through the pipe, he had no choice but to say to himself, 'That's life.
All I know is, he found out you left and he locked himself in the shed and barricaded the door. No one's seen him since," Doug said. "When I bolted, Sean and Evan were trying to boost Caleb up onto the roof so he could look through the skylight and make sure the kid wasn't dead or something.
All I know is, he found out you left and he locked himself in the shed and barricaded the door. No one's seen him since, " Doug said. "When I bolted, Sean and Evan were trying to boost Caleb up onto the roof so he could look through the skylight and make sure the kid wasn't dead or something.
It was Friday, July 24, 1992, when I stepped on the train. Every year I think of it. I see it as my real birthday: the birth of me as a person, making decisions about my life on my own. I was not running away from Islam, or to democracy. I didn't have any big ideas then. I was just a young girl and wanted some way to be me; so I bolted into the unknown.
Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Eyes are at rest, the stars are setting. Hushed are the stirrings of birds in their nests, Of monsters in the ocean. You are the Just who knows no change, The Balance that can never swerve, The Eternal which never passes away. The doors of Kings are bolted now and guarded by soldiers. Your Door is open to all who call upon You. Each love is now alone with his beloved. And I am alone with You.
Political writing in our time consists almost entirely of prefabricated phrases bolted together like the pieces of a child's Meccano set. It is the unavoidable result of self-censorship. To write in plain, vigorous language one has to think fearlessly, and if one thinks fearlessly one cannot be politically orthodox.
Pain is like a new room in your house that you never knew you had. If you had known, you would have bolted and locked the room past any entering. But truly, it is a room like any other, four glaring white walls and a dark hard floor, and if you don't try to get out, it is possible to remain in it. Once you tried to get out, you ... couldn't ... stand ... it. Don't think of getting out.
Oh! that look of love!" continued he, between his teeth, as he bolted himself into his own private room. "And that cursed lie; which showed some terrible shame in the background, to be kept from the light in which I thought she lived perpetually! Oh, Margaret, Margaret! Mother, how you have tortured me! Oh! Margaret, could you not have loved me? I am but uncouth and hard, but I would never have led you into any falsehood for me.
Miss Cecily, " she gasped, and then her eyes went to Will. She clapped a hand over her mouth, turned, and bolted back into the house. "Oh, dear, " said Tessa. "I have that effect on women, " Will said. " I probably should have warned you before you agreed to marry me." "I can still change my mind, " Tessa said sweetly. "Don't you dare-, " he began with a breathless half laugh.
Miss Cecily," she gasped, and then her eyes went to Will. She clapped a hand over her mouth, turned, and bolted back into the house. "Oh, dear," said Tessa. "I have that effect on women," Will said. " I probably should have warned you before you agreed to marry me." "I can still change my mind," Tessa said sweetly. "Don't you dare-," he began with a breathless half laugh.
He bolted right through the wooden cross arm at the parking garage exit and power-slid into traffic. A torrent of car horns and skids enveloped his vehicle, but the tears in Danny's eyes created the inability to differentiate one vehicle from another. The colors of the automobiles bled into each other like melting rainbow sherbet.
Astonishingly, at some point, a sputtering torch was thrust into her hands. Alma did not see who gave it to her. She had never before been entrusted with fire. The torch spit sparks and sent chunks of flaming tar spinning into the air behind her as she bolted across the cosmos-the only body in the heavens who was not held to a strict elliptical path. Nobody stopped her. She was a comet. She did not know that she was not flying.
He was a peculiar sight. Tears rolling down his face, shouting to drown the sound of the singing rabbit; he said he needed help, pointed to a chicken, handed over some money, grabbed his parcel and bolted out the door in panic. Boys, thought the butcher. Drugs, thought the woman. Justin Case, thought Dorothea.
Placing the burden on the individual to break down doors in finding better education for a child is attractive to conservatives because it reaffirms their faith in individual ambition and autonomy. But to ask an individual to break down doors that we have chained and bolted in advance of his arrival is unfair.
Two hours. More than enough time to kidnap a man. Or to slice his throat, bury him in the forest, and steal his magic project. How the hell did de Harven fit into it? Did he surprise the thieves? Of course, Adam Kamen could've killed his uber-bodyguard and bolted with the goods. Because he was secretly a ninja, adept at mortal combat and vanishing into thin air. Yes, that was it. Case solved.
Of course, sweetie," his mom said. "We'll be here all day. You just come down whenever you want and we love you and you're so so special, Colin, and you can't possibly let this girl make you think otherwise because you are the most magnificent, brilliant boy-" And right then, the most special, magnificent, brilliant boy bolted into his bathroom and puked his guts out. An explosion, sort of.
But what he said was true enough: I had recently destroyed a perfectly good set of wire braces by straightening them to pick a lock. Father had grumbled, of course, but had made another appointment to have me netted and dragged back up to London, to that third-floor ironmonger's shop in Farringdon Street, where I would be strapped to a board like Boris Karloff as various bits of ironmongery were shoved into my mouth, screwed in, and bolted to my gums.
Bout time," she huffed, but her voice sounded thick and emotional too."I was at the hospital all day yesterday, but they wouldn't let me see you. I bolted past security but they called code ninetynine and chased me down, they escorted me out in handcuffs. The way I see it, the only criminal here is your mom. No visitors? I'm your best friend, or did she not get the memo every year for the past eleven? Next time I'm over, I'm going to lay into that woman." ~Vee
Nicky turned and bolted. He'd only had about a thirty foot head start and a few were closing ground on him quickly. He cursed his hundred-dollar shoes and his vanity. The shoes looked great, but were definitely not made for running, nor was the suit he was wearing. He vowed that if he made it out of there alive, he'd only wear sneakers and track suits for the rest of his days. "Of course, I'll probably be laughed out of the mob, but I don't care at this point.
Very softly, but very swiftly, Last, the man with the grey face and the staring eyes, bolted for his life, down and away from the White House. Once in the road, free from the fields and brakes, he changed his run into a walk, and he never paused or stopped, till he came with a gulp of relief into the ugly streets of the big industrial town. He made hi way to the station at once, and found that he was an hour too soon for the London express. So, there was plenty of time for breakfast; which consisted of brandy.
Yeah, and so Max and Dylan are supposed to, like, go to Germany and have kids together, " I heard Gazzy say. My eyes popped open and I bolted upright. "What?" Fang said, his voice icy. "Gazzy!" I yelled. Wide blue eyes looked at me in surprise, then back at Fang's stoic face. "Oh. Was I not supposed to say anything?" Gazzy asked.
Yeah, and so Max and Dylan are supposed to, like, go to Germany and have kids together," I heard Gazzy say. My eyes popped open and I bolted upright. "What?" Fang said, his voice icy. "Gazzy!" I yelled. Wide blue eyes looked at me in surprise, then back at Fang's stoic face. "Oh. Was I not supposed to say anything?" Gazzy asked.
Before she could let herself think, Clara burst from the door and bolted for the table. People just began turning when she grasped the guest and shoved him to the ground, the chair flying backwards. Wine and food spilled everywhere as he flung out his arms. For a moment, she felt a swift pressure, as if her hair was being pulled, before strong hands gripped her, flinging her to the floor. A boot pressed into her back and she felt the cold tip of blade on her neck above her slave's collar.
Suzanna J. Linton
The press box at Wrigley Field in Chicago is an extended narrow shed, two rows deep, that is precariously bolted to the iron rafters just underneath the park's second deck. To gain access, one must climb a steeply angled ramp and clamber down a little starboard companionway, guarded at its foot by a uniformed minion and then proceed giddily along a catwalk that hangs directly above the tiered, circling rows of seats and spectators behind home plate.
deceitful!' she decided with a little bounce of fury that briefly ballooned the silk of her trousers. 'There! You deceitful ... ' 'Gillia... ' '... misleading, dishonest, insincere... ' 'Those are all the same words, Gill-' 'Ooh! Liar!' She'd managed to get her hands on a small pillow. He ducked just as it whizzed past him. In justice, however, it did strike the mosaic vase behind him on an engraved mahogany pedestal, and it tipped and spun on its base before landing in a shattered heap on the bare floor. 'Now, look what you've done!' she accused tearfully and bolted from the room.
Man disavows, and Deity disowns me; Hell might afford my miseries a shelter; Therefore Hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all Bolted against me. Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers, Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors, I'm called, if vanquished, to receive a sentence Worse than Abiram's. Him the vindictive rod of angry Justice Sent quick and howling to the centre headlong; I, fed with judgement, in a fleshy tomb, am Buried above ground.
The first building she reached appeared to be an old barn. Only one young guard stood before its bolted door, staring at her with wide eyes, holding up his sword in defense, She heated his sword and he dropped it, his expression barely changing, as if he had been expecting that. She held up her two swords to his throat, but they were two heavy, so she dropped one and held the other with both hands. "Where are the two Bayern boys kept?" The soldier shook his head. BURN HIM, prompted the fire. The excitement of burning was simmering in her, heating her up for more action.
If you can try to nap where someone's sitting, Although there is another empty chair, Then rub against his ankle without quitting Until he rises from your favorite lair; If you can whine and whimper by a portal Until the bolted door is opened wide, Then howl as if you've got a wound that's mortal Until he comes and lets you back inside; If you can give a guest a nasty spiking, But purr when you are petted by a thief; If you can find the food not to your liking Because they put some cheese in with the beef; If you can leave no proffered hand unbitten, And pay no heed to any rule or ban, then all will say you are a Cat, my kitten. And - which is more - you'll make a fool of Man!
Henry N. Beard
Amongst these legends of dragon hoards, Where secret, precious things are stored, There golden nugget and diamond shard, There treasure-keeper hoped to guard. As bolted doorway securely braced, hoping its treasures to ever hold, hoping beyond when time grows old, So stood the keeper in its place. A statue of unrelenting stance Still stands victim to happenstance, For treasure-keeper did not bargain on a bit of chance and a bit of dwargen... ' - Dwenzuak the dwargen
T. William Watts
Subjective truth is an oxymoron; objective truth is redundant. Subjective truth is feathers in a wind tunnel, blowing anywhere and everywhere. Objective truth is an anvil, bolted to the floor of the wind tunnel. Subjective truth is your truth and my truth; objective truth is Jesus Christ-immovable, immutable.
Will looked at him curiously. 'Do you think you will see me again?' At the change in Jem's expression, he added, 'I mean, is there a chance for me? To have another life after this, a better one?' As Jem opened his mouth to answer, a rustling came from beneath their feet. Just as they both looked down, a tentacle shot from the surface of the river, wrapped itself around Jem's ankle, and yanked him beneath the surface of the water. Will bolted to his feet with his blade in hand; the water was still boiling where the creature's tentacles were thrashing wildly, indicating that Jem was getting some good blows in. Will's heart pounded, firing blood and the call of battle through his veins. 'Hell, ' he said. 'Just when it was getting interesting, too, ' and he leaped into the water after his friend.
He was halfway to the house, thinking to set the cabbage inside the kitchen door, when a brown blur thundered past him. Joanna Robbins tore out of the barn astride a magnificent chestnut quarter horse. She leaned forward in the saddle, hat flopping against her back, hair streaming out behind her in a wild curly mass as she urged her mount to a full-out gallop. Unable to do anything but stare, Crockett stood dumbstruck as she raced past. She was the most amazing horsewoman he'd ever seen. Joanna Robbins. The shy creature who claimed painting and reading were her favorite pastimes had just bolted across the yard like a seasoned jockey atop Thoroughbred. She might have inherited her mother's grace and manners, but the woman rode like her outlaw father.Maybe better.
You're with a girl. She's brown-haired and side-swept. I imagine that she's the kind of girl who can easily shop for jean shorts, and speaks kindly more often than not. She seems like the kind of girl who hates New York City because it wreaks havoc on her shoes (really she just thinks it's a big and scary place), but once had the time of her life in Spain on a backpacking trip when she was 23. Her gaze is focused on the embracing couple as near strangers capable of judgement. She stands bolted next to you like you're her anchor in the social storm. You two seem finely matched... but what do I know? (Nothing at all.) I accidentally saw a picture of you and it reminded me that I was dating a man rightfully shaking his fist at God, while trying to hold my hand with the other. I was reminded of how fiercely we tried to hold our relationship together, and how devastated and relieved we were in its destruction. There's water under that bridge. I accidentally saw a picture of you. No big deal. I wrote about it.
For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and never would be again. But the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. It smoldered, and then the fire went out. It was my eighteenth birthday.
His heart cracked, and he fell in love. He wondered if she would marry him. 'Tu sei pazzo, ' she told him with a pleasant laugh. 'Why am I crazy?' he asked. 'Perche non posso sposare.' 'Why can't you get married?' 'Because I am not a virgin, ' she answered. 'What has that got to do with it?' 'Who will marry me? No one wants a girl who is not a virgin.' 'I will. I'll marry you.' 'Ma non posso sposarti.' 'Why can't you marry me?' 'Perche sei pazzo.' 'Why am I crazy?' 'Perche vuoi sposarmi.' Yossarian wrinkled his forehead with quizzical amusement. 'You won't marry me because I'm crazy, and you say I'm crazy because I want to marry you? Is that right?' 'Si.' 'Tu sei pazz'!' he told her loudly. 'Perche?' she shouted back at him indignantly, her unavoidable round breasts rising and falling in a saucy huff beneath the pink chemise as she sat up in bed indignantly. 'Why am I crazy?' 'Because you won't marry me.' 'Stupido!' she shouted back at him, and smacked him loudly and flamboyantly on the chest with the back of her hand. 'Non posso sposarti! Non capisci? Non posso sposarti.' 'Oh, sure, I understand. And why can't you marry me?' 'Perche sei pazzo!' 'And why am I crazy?' 'Perche vuoi sposarmi.' 'Because I want to marry you. Carina, ti amo, ' he explained, and he drew her gently back down to the pillow. 'Ti amo molto.' 'Tu sei pazzo, ' she murmured in reply, flattered. 'Perche?' 'Because you say you love me. How can you love a girl who is not a virgin?' 'Because I can't marry you.' She bolted right up again in a threatening rage. 'Why can't you marry me?' she demanded, ready to clout him again if he gave an uncomplimentary reply. 'Just because I am not a virgin?' 'No, no, darling. Because you're crazy.
Take this message to your people, you obsequious little worm, ' I murmured. 'Anyone who lays a hand on Jordan Amador will have to answer to me. Now do me a favor and go to hell.' I removed my sword from his hand and then decapitated him. His severed head tumbled across the floor like a wayward bowling ball. Good riddance. I set my sword aside, found a stool in the corner, and climbed up in front of Jordan. Her handcuffs were attached to a huge meat hook bolted into the ceiling. I lifted her off of it with great care, unsure if she had the strength to stand. As soon as her arms were free, she looped them around my shoulders and pressed her face against my neck. She was trembling, but not crying. I sank to the floor and cradled her in my lap, breathing out the last of my anger now that she was safe. ''M sorry, ' she mumbled in a small voice. 'I'm so sorry, Michael.' I snorted. 'What the hell do you have to apologize for? You got kidnapped. Pretty sure that's not your fault.' She shook her head, her words partially muffled as she pressed her face against my shirt. 'Should've been stronger. I could've gotten you killed.' 'By Heckle and Jeckle here? Not likely.' A shaky laugh rattled through her. She slid her fingers into the hairs along the nape of my neck and hugged me tighter. I knew from experience she didn't want me to see her face because she knew she was only seconds away from breaking down. No one would ever accuse Jordan Amador of being a crybaby, not if she could help it. It was a ridiculous notion at best, but I indulged her anyway. 'Thank you.' 'Just doing my job. But you're welcome.' I smoothed the sweaty hairs away from her forehead enough to kiss it. She didn't move away. We stayed there for a while without speaking, just clinging to each other until we felt strong enough to separate.
In the park which surrounded our house were the ruins of the former mansion of Brentwood, a much smaller and less important house than the solid Georgian edifice which we inhabited. The ruins were picturesque, however, and gave importance to the place. Even we, who were but temporary tenants, felt a vague pride in them, as if they somehow reflected a certain consequence upon ourselves. The old building had the remains of a tower, an indistinguishable mass of mason-work, overgrown with ivy, and the shells of walls attached to this were half filled up with soil. I had never examined it closely, I am ashamed to say. There was a large room, or what had been a large room, with the lower part of the windows still existing, on the principal floor, and underneath other windows, which were perfect, though half filled up with fallen soil, and waving with a wild growth of brambles and chance growths of all kinds. This was the oldest part of all. At a little distance were some very commonplace and disjointed fragments of the building, one of them suggesting a certain pathos by its very commonness and the complete wreck which it showed. This was the end of a low gable, a bit of grey wall, all encrusted with lichens, in which was a common doorway. Probably it had been a servants' entrance, a backdoor, or opening into what are called "the offices" in Scotland. No offices remained to be entered-pantry and kitchen had all been swept out of being; but there stood the doorway open and vacant, free to all the winds, to the rabbits, and every wild creature. It struck my eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like a melancholy comment upon a life that was over. A door that led to nothing - closed once perhaps with anxious care, bolted and guarded, now void of any meaning. It impressed me, I remember, from the first; so perhaps it may be said that my mind was prepared to attach to it an importance, which nothing justified. ("The Open Door")
Finding herself on the way to the village center again, she pulled over, intending to negotiate a three-point turn. The cottage was slightly out of the village, so she needed to get back onto the opposite side of the road and go back up the hill. Glancing over Hannah's instructions again, she swung the car to the right-straight into the path of a motorcyclist. What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. The rider tried to stop but couldn't do so in time, although he did manage to avoid hitting her car. As he turned his handlebars hard to the right, his tires lost grip on the wet road and he flew off, sliding some way before coming to a halt. Layla sat motionless in her car, paralyzed temporarily by the shock. At last she managed to galvanize herself into action and fumbled for the door handle, her shaking hands making it hard to get a grip. When the door finally opened, another dilemma hit. What if she couldn't stand? Her legs felt like jelly, surely they wouldn't support her. Forcing herself upward, she was relieved to discover they held firm. Once she was sure they would continue to do so, she bolted over to where the biker lay, placed one hand on his soaking leather-clad shoulder and said, 'Are you okay?' 'No, I'm not bloody okay!' he replied, a pair of bright blue eyes meeting hers as he lifted his visor. 'I'm a bit bruised and battered as it goes.' Despite his belligerent words, relief flooded through her: he wasn't dead! 'Oh, I'm so glad, ' she said, letting out a huge sigh. 'Glad?' he said, sitting up now and brushing the mud and leaves off his left arm. 'Charming.' 'Oh, no, no, ' she stuttered, realizing what she'd just said. 'I'm not glad that I knocked you over. I'm glad you're alive.' 'Only just, I think, ' he replied, needing a helping hand to stand up. 'Can I give you a lift somewhere, take you to the nearest hospital?' 'The nearest hospital? That would be in Bodmin, I think, about fifteen miles from here. I don't fancy driving fifteen miles with you behind the wheel.' Feeling a little indignant now, Layla replied, 'I'm actually a very good driver, thank you. You're the first accident I've ever had.' 'Lucky me, ' he replied sarcastically.