Our lips met and parted, and his tongue slid deep to taste me. The sounds from the peanut gallery-choking and retching-and the tug on my robe instantly drained the heat from the encounter. 'That's disgusting, ' Kola assured me with a glare that a six-year-old shouldn't have had. 'Why?' I asked snidely. 'Your mouth has germs, ' he informed me haughtily. 'That's why you told Hannah not to lick Chilly.' 'No, I told her not to lick Chilly because the cat doesn't like to be licked by her.' 'He licks his body.' 'He does, ' Hannah, our four-year-old, agreed with a nod. 'Kola's right.' 'But he doesn't want you to do it, ' I assured my daughter. 'How do you know?' Kola questioned. I had to think. Kola waited, squinting at me. 'Do not lick the cat! Nobody licks the cat!' Sam ordered when the silence stretched for too long.
Then you hand her over your jacket, you knew she was chilly -Styles P">felt-real-confident-know-you-was-willy-told-shorty-that-she-was-sweeter-then-strawberry-phillies-said-some-old-school-stuff-like-boy-you-was-silly-styles-p
There is something very shocking about seeing him standing dark and still on our doorstep. I lean the door a ways. The night's getting chilly. "You got away from the yard." "Is it still all right?" "It's all right. It's me and Gabe and Finn and Tommy Falk." "I've brought this." He holds up the bread, which is clearly a Palson's loaf, and it's still so fresh that I can smell the warmth of it. He must've come straight from there.
I come from grunge, and then Brit-pop, scenes where you boast about how little you spent on an outfit. ... Now, it seems you must find The Dress, then The Dress needs to have The Belt, and a complementary but not overly-matching bag must be found which works with not only the correct hosiery, but with something to throw over yourself if you become chilly.
I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.
I've always thought that the balance between the side of my mind that knows what it is doing and the side that really hasn't got a clue has to be carefully maintained because if you write too knowingly then you get chilly, and if you write too unknowingly you write bollocks that nobody else can understand.
There are any number of reasons for visiting Filey. The beach is clean, long, and rarely crowded. The countryside is bold and handsome, with one maritime feature that deserves to be better known: the long, thin rock finger of the Brigg, pointing into the chilly grey waters of the North Sea.
And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun/ And she forgot the blue above the trees, / And she forgot the dells where waters run, / And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;/ She had no knowledge when the day was done, / And the new morn she saw not: but in peace/ Hung over her sweet basil evermore, / And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.
Losing is the bane and bugbear of every professional athlete's existence, but in baseball the monster seems to hang closer than in other sports, its chilly claws and foul breath palpable around the neck hairs of the infielder bending for his crosshand scoop or the reliever slipping his first two fingers off-center on the ball seams before delivering his two-and-two cut fastball.
Durnik needs a tower somewhere in the Vale," Belgarath was saying. "I don't see why, father," Polgara replied. "All of Aldur's disciples have towers, Pol. It's the custom." "Old customs persist --even when there's no longer any need for them." "He's going to need to study, Pol. How can he possibly study with you underfoot all the time?" She gave him a long, chilly stare. "Maybe I should rephrase that.
Where moments before the bright morning sun flickered through the branches of the huge oak trees surrounding the property, every-thing in a ten yard radius immediately went pitch dark. The air, already a chilly fifty degrees, dropped past freezing in an instant, and the pressure changed to the point where he thought his eardrums might burst.
If only Myrtle would pay attention to the Boy's Own Journal, Blackwood's Magazine, etc., she would know that these creatures were Threls, who come from a worldlet called Threlfall on the far side of the asteroid belt. This Threlfall is a cheerless, chilly spot, and the whole history and religion of the Threls has been concerened with their quest to knit a nice woolly coverlet for it.
It was September, and there was a crackly feeling to the air. I was saying something that was making her laugh, and I couldn't stop looking at her. It was a little bit chilly, and her cheeks were pink, and her dark hair was flowing around her face. All I wanted for the rest of my life was to keep making her laugh like that. Sometimes our arms brushed against each other as we walked, and it was like I could feel the touch for minutes after it happened.
I belong to clever words and bedtime stories even a good riddle or two I belong to the sound of music and dance to my own rhythm I belong to the sunlight on a chilly autumn day when the world awaits a new beginning I belong by the shore under a star-filled sky with the ocean caressing my feet I belong everywhere. And anyway I please.
They walked away from the sea, Rolandsen in the lead. He kept to the edge of the road, in the snow, to leave room for the others. He was wearing light, fashionable shoes, but seemed unperturbed; he even had his coat unbuttoned in the chilly May wind. 'So that's the church!' said the curate. 'It looks old. I don't suppose there's a stove in it?' asked his wife. 'I couldn't say, ' Rolandsen replied, 'but I don't think so.
I WEAR STEEP TECH LIKE'S IT'S A REFLEX THAT BLUE JOINT IT'S CALLED AZTEC WITH THAT LONG BILL, WITH THOSE LOW SWEATS MY TRACKS ILL AND THAT'S NO SWEAT I GOT BACK HERE, IT AIN'T COLD YET BUT IT'S CHILLY OUT I GOT MY STEEP TECH I WAS WALKING OUT, SHE HAD THE PINK VEST I SAID "PARDON ME, IS THAT STEEP TECH?"
I love the joy of mountains Wandering free with no concerns Every day I find food for this old body There's leisure for thinking, nothing to do Often I carry an ancient book Sometimes I climb a rock pavilion To look down a thousand foot precipice Overhead are swirling clouds A cold moon chilly cold My body feels like a flying crane
The bookshop felt damp and chilly, but it was still and unsupervised bookshop, and Anna felt a frisson of excitement as she scanned the shelves with greedy eyes. Libraries weren't quite the same, she'd found; something about the prosaic smell of other people's houses and fingers seeping off the pages diluted that sense of magical worlds, but untouched, unread, unexplored books were something else.
You know" - Hale's breath was warm against Kat's ear in the chilly ballroom- "I don't know that both of us really have to be here...." The slide changed. While hundreds of mathematicians waited with baited breath, the boy beside Kat whispered, "I could go make some calls... check on some things..." "Play some blackjack?" "Well, when in Rome..." "Rome is tomorrow, babe," Kat reminded him. He nodded. "Right.
You know" - Hale's breath was warm against Kat's ear in the chilly ballroom- "I don't know that both of us really have to be here... " The slide changed. While hundreds of mathematicians waited with baited breath, the boy beside Kat whispered, "I could go make some calls... check on some things... " "Play some blackjack?" "Well, when in Rome... " "Rome is tomorrow, babe, " Kat reminded him. He nodded. "Right.
One of the shining moments of my day is that when, having returned a little weary from an afternoon walk, I exchange boots for slippers, out-of-doors coat for easy, familiar, shabby jacket, and, in my deep, soft-elbowed chair, await the tea-tray.... [H]ow delicious is the soft yet penetrating odour which floats into my study, with the appearance of the teapot!... What a glow does it bring after a walk in chilly rain!
The chilly December day! two shivering bicycle mechanics from Dayton, Ohio first felt their homemade contraption whittled out of hickory sticks, gummed together with Arnstein's bicycle cement, stretched with muslin they'd sewn on their sister's sewing machine in their own backyard on Hawthorn Street in Dayton, Ohio, soar into the air above the dunes and the wide beach at Kitty Hawk.
John Dos Passos
Just like that. Gone forever. They will not grow old together. They will never live on a beach by the sea, their hair turned white, dancing in a living room to Billie Holiday or Nat Cole. They will not enter a New York club at midnight and show the poor hip-hop fools how to dance. They will not chuckle together over the endless folly of the world, its vanities and stupid ambitions. They will not hug each other in any chilly New York dawn. Oh, Mary Lou. My baby. My love.
A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily. My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken. Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warm'd sweet to-orrow: Stripp'd bare of hope and everything, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.
She glanced up at him, and in that moment he pulled his wet shirt over his head. She forced her mind blank. Blank as a new sheet of paper, blank as a starless sky. He came to the fire and crouched before it. He rubbed the water from his bare arms and flicked it in the flames. She stared at the goose and sliced his drumstick carefully and thought of the blankest expression on the blankest face she could possibly imagine. It was a chilly evening; she thought about that. The goose would be delicious, they must eat as much of it as possible, they must not waste it; she thought about that.
The breath of wind that moved them was still chilly on this day in May; the flowers gently resisted, curling up with a kind of trembling grace and turning their pale stamens towards the ground. The sun shone through them, revealing a pattern of interlacing, delicate blue veins, visible through the opaque petals; this added something alive to the flower's fragility, to it's ethereal quality, something almost human , in the way that human can mean frailty and endurance both at the same time. The wind could ruffle these ravishing creations but it couldn't destroy them, or even crush them; they swayed there, dreamily; they seemed ready to fall but held fast to their slim strong branches-...
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. -Jane Eyre From Gradesaver.com
Winter Liar" by Liam Doyle the Incubus What come once here will never come again, no matter monument nor memory; all sunwarmed green succumbs to winter's wind. And you, my love, were also my best friend, and had your life to live. The tragedy was not just my youth's recklessness, although I trusted much to impulse, whim, freedom, a destiny excluding doom. Frankly, youth can be our insanity. But now I'm cured of that fever, although the price was high; and chilly April wind can only sigh at my regrets, yet sun will brighten wind so, one knows that soon green stirs, and wild bees hum. And summer once more will make winter liar, but I won't warm. You're all I'll ever desire.
That summer I spent a whole month at the place, and every day I went to fish in the early morning, in the lake formed by the mouth of of the rivulet Kakarma where it joins the charming Insa. The hut, where Yevseyitsch lived, was built close to the water's edge, and each day as I approached the lake, I perceived the bent, white-haired old man leaning against the wall of his cottage, facing the rising sun; his withered hands clasped round a staff which he pressed against his breast; while his sightless eyes were raised towards the Eastern sky. He could not see the light, but he enjoyed the warmth, which comforted him in the chilly dawn; and his countenance was at once both serene and melancholy.
But then, she wonders, just what kind of man would ever give her the courage to marry at all- to overcome that dreadful fear of death that seemed always to accompany the very thought of love? It was illogical, idiotic and childish. And yet the child was with her always; and always she would be afraid unless someone could place a light down there inside that dark and chilly heart of hers and chase all the ghosts away - the ghosts of Katherine Howard, of Jane Seymour and, not least, that of her own poor mother. They accompanied her always, those spirits - especially at this kind of time, a time of being alone, of being feminine and reflective. They would all gather round to whisper in her ear and warn her - so that even as she looks up once more into her mirror she almost expects to see them there, ranged behind her shoulders, their faces full of concern and anxiety. Never trust them - never trust the men, for they will betray you always the moment you surrender to them!
Robert Stephen Parry
The War Department in Washington briefly weighed more ambitious schemes to relieve the Americans on a large scale before it was too late. But by Christmas of 1941, Washington had already come to regard Bataan as a lost cause. President Roosevelt had decided to concentrate American resources primarily in the European theater rather than attempt to fight an all-out war on two distant fronts. At odds with the emerging master strategy for winning the war, the remote outpost of Bataan lay doomed. By late December, President Roosevelt and War Secretary Henry Stimson had confided to Winston Churchill that they had regrettably written off the Philippines. In a particularly chilly phrase that was later to become famous, Stimson had remarked, 'There are times when men have to die.
The History Teacher Trying to protect his students' innocence he told them the Ice Age was really just the Chilly Age, a period of a million years when everyone had to wear sweaters. And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age, named after the long driveways of the time. The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more than an outbreak of questions such as "How far is it from here to Madrid?" "What do you call the matador's hat?" The War of the Roses took place in a garden, and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan. The children would leave his classroom for the playground to torment the weak and the smart, mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses, while he gathered up his notes and walked home past flower beds and white picket fences, wondering if they would believe that soldiers in the Boer War told long, rambling stories designed to make the enemy nod off.
I've grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains - good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn't necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn't qualify either). I'm talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don't tell me you don't know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves - to the point of almost parodic encouragement - we've left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.
Touch" You are already asleep. I lower myself in next to you, my skin slightly numb with the restraint of habits, the patina of self, the black frost of outsideness, so that even unclothed it is a resilient chilly hardness, a superficially malleable, dead rubbery texture. You are a mound of bedclothes, where the cat in sleep braces its paws against your calf through the blankets, and kneads each paw in turn. Meanwhile and slowly I feel a is it my own warmth surfacing or the ferment of your whole body that in darkness beneath the cover is stealing bit by bit to break down that chill. You turn and hold me tightly, do you know who I am or am I your mother or the nearest human being to hold on to in a dreamed pogrom. What I, now loosened, sink into is an old big place, it is there already, for you are already there, and the cat got there before you, yet it is hard to locate. What is more, the place is not found but seeps from our touch in continuous creation, dark enclosing cocoon round ourselves alone, dark wide realm where we walk with everyone.
After you were bitten, I knew what would happen. I waited for you to change, every night, so I could bring you back and keep you from getting hurt." A chilly gust of wind lifter his hair and sent a shower of golden leaves glimmering down around him. He spred out his arms, letting them fall into his hands. He looked like a dark angel in an eternal autumn wood. "Did you know you get one happy day for everyone you catch?" I didn't know what he meant, even after he opened his fist to show me the quivering leaves crumpled in his palm. One happy day for every falling leaf you catch." Sam's voice was low. I watched the egdes of the leaves slowly unfold, fluttering in the breeze."How long did you wait?" It would have been romantic if hr'd had the courage to look into my face to say it, but instead, he dropped his eyes to the ground and scuffed his boots in the leaves- countless possibilities for happy days- on the ground. "I haven't stopped." And I should've said something romantic too, but i didn't have the courage, either. So instead, I watched the shy way he was chewing his lip and studying the leaves, and said, "That must've been very borring.
BILLY BAD ASS BILLY BAD ASS LITTLE BILLY BAD ASS CAUSE I'M BAD - BILLY BAD BAD BAD BILLY - LITTLE BILLY BADASS SO BAD SO BAD INSIDE I WAS BORN ON THE DAY THAT MY MAMA DIED IT MADE ME BAD - SILLY BAD - REAL BAD FEEL BAD CHITTY CHITTY GANG BANG YEAH THATS RIGHT GET IT RIGHT SIT TIGHT YOU GOT IT BAD YOU MAKE ME MAD HEY COOL OUT BILLY TAKE A CHILI BATH A SILLY WILLY BATH A BILLY BARTY BUBBLE BATH C'MON NOW, THEY'RE CLEARING A PATH HE GOES EIGHT TO THE BAR. LITTLE BILLY BAD, LITTLE BAD BILLY BAD ASS BILLY BAD. ONCE THERE WAS A TIME WHEN HE COULD HAVE CHANGED BUT HE DIDN'T BUT HE DIDN'T BUT HE DIDN'T BUT HE DIDN'T INSTEAD, HE STAYED THE SAME AND HE DIDN'T EVEN REALLY HAVE TO! I'M STILL MAD BUT JUST A TAD I'M JUST A LITTLE CHILLY SILLY BILLY HACKENSACK BUT ONE DAY I DIED MY MOMMA CRIED OH THAT'S RIGHT MY MAMA ALREADY DIED SHE DIED I CRIED THE ONLY REASON? I WAS A BABY AT THE TIME NOW IM ABLE... TO LAY MY CABLE
What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you then so easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition? And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror; because at every new incident your fortitude was to be called forth and your courage exhibited; because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your names adored as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly and returned to their warm firesides. Why that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.
He gestured at me. 'Do you like the blanket?' I nodded. 'It's warm.' 'I made it. Well, actually, I didn't skin the animal, but I did kill it... after the others pinned it down. It's werewolf skin.' My heart faltered; I gripped at a wad of black fur. 'I slayed the beast for you, Catherine. I used your sword. It was your grandmother's idea actually, a wedding present. You mentioned how chilly you get.' 'You didn't slay a werewolf, ' I breathed before repeating the words louder. 'You did not slay a werewolf, Thaddeus.' 'Oh, but I did. I took a band of huntsman with me and we tracked one down. A smaller one, mind you, not far from the front gate... ' 'You did not!' I contended more strongly. Why would one wolf have separated from the pack? Why outside our walls? 'Yes, Catherine, I did, ' he insisted. I shook my head disbelieving. 'You're not capable-' 'I am so.' I wanted to cry. I wanted to protest, but to do so meant giving away my knowledge of the truth. Without knowing what else to do or say I changed the subject. 'The fire's gone out.' Thaddeus turned his head to check. 'You're right. I'll see to it.' He fed the barrel stove until a healthy blaze was roaring. Finding me no longer a decent conversationalist, Thaddeus left with a promise to return soon with food and water. Unobserved, I gathered up the fur hide of a lost soul and curled into a ball, hugging it close to my chest. I cried silent tears and mourned for this unknown werewolf for days.
Richelle E. Goodrich
Atticus adjusted his glasses as he peered down at the blanket. 'Hey, is that the book Nellie told us about?' Jake's eyes flicked to Olivia's book. 'You've got it outside in the sun? Are you out of your minds?' Amy crossed her arms. 'We're being careful.' 'It's not about careful, this is a five-hundred-year-old manuscript! You should be wearing gloves-Atticus brought some-and keeping it out of the sunlight.' 'It didn't take you long to start barking orders!' Any exclaimed, her face flushing. 'But then you always know best, don't you?' 'Somebody has to be mature in this situation, ' Jake said, his gaze flashing at Ian, who was now intently trying to brush cookie crumbs off his pants. 'True. In that case, we'd rather consult your little brother, ' Ian said with a smirk. 'Medieval manuscripts are his field, am I right?' 'Technically, it's early Renaissance, ' Jake said. 'Thanks for the correction, my good man. Amy is right-you do know best.' Ian slipped his arm around Amy. 'She's so perceptive. One of the many things I adore about her.' 'It's getting chilly. Why don't we go inside?' Amy suggested brightly as she tried to step out of the circle of Ian's arm. Ian took the opportunity to rub her shoulder. 'You do feel rather cold, ' he said. 'Let's sit by the fire. Jake, since you're so interested in proper handling, why don't you take the book?' Jake snatched up the book and furiously stomped off toward the house. 'You forgot to wear gloves!' Ian called after him. Amy pushed him away. 'Really, Ian.' 'What a touchy guy, ' Ian said. 'Frankly, I don't know what you see in him.' He winced as the kitchen door slammed, then glanced at Amy's red face. 'Hmmm. It might be a good time for me to take a walk.
On cool autumn nights, eels hurrying to the sea sometimes crawl for a mile or more across dewy meadows to reach streams that will carry them to salt water.' These are adult eels, silver eels, and this descent that slid down my mind in the fall from a long spring ascent the eels made years ago... sometimes as high as 8, 000 feet above sea level. There they lived without breeding 'for at least 8 years.' In the late summer of the year they reached maturity, they stopped eating, and their dark color vanished. They turned silver; now they are heading to the sea. Down streams to rivers, down rivers to the seas, south in the North Atlantic where they meet, they are returning to the Sargasso Sea, where, in floating sargassum weed in the deepest waters of the Atlantic, they will mate, release their eggs, and die. This, the whole story of eels at which I have just hinted, is extravagant to the extremes, and food for another kind of thought, a thought about the meaning of such wild, incomprehensible gestures. Imagine a chilly night and a meadow; balls of dew droop from the curved grass. All right: the grass at the edge of the meadow begins to tremble and sway. Here come the eels. The largest are five feet long. They stream into the meadow, sift between grasses, veer from your path. There are too many to count. All you see is a silver slither, like twisted ropes of water falling roughly... If I saw that sight, would I live? If I stumbled across it, would I ever set foot out of my door again? Or would I be seized to join that compelling rush, would I cease eating, and pale, and abandon all to start walking?