Clicking Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
The man seemed not to have heard him. 'At this life-giving time of the year, Professor Scrooge, ' said the pastor, clicking his pen, 'it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight contribution to babes and adults, who lie languishing in hospitals and care facilities, standing on street corners and under bridges, or living alone at home during this time. Many are in need of blood transfusions or food or pregnancy care every day in our large community; many others - especially the elderly - are in want of comfort and cheer.' 'Are there no abortion clinics?' asked Scrooge. 'Plenty of clinics, ' said the pastor, clicking the pen tip in again. 'And Euthanasia facilities?' demanded Scrooge. 'Are they still in operation?' 'They are. Still, ' returned the gentleman, 'I wish I could say they were not.' 'Welfare and Food Stamps are in full swing, then?' said Scrooge. 'Both very busy.' 'Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course, ' said Scrooge. 'I'm very glad to hear it.' 'Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, ' returned the gentleman, 'a few churches are endeavoring to raise a fund to provide those in need with medical care and food as well as the comfort of a human presence and the message of eternal life through Jesus. We choose this time to sow into others' lives because it is a time, of all others, when we rejoice in the life God gave to us through His Son. What shall I put down - in time, money, or blood - for you?' 'Nothing!' Scrooge replied. 'You wish to give anonymously, then?' 'I wish to be left alone, ' said Scrooge.

Ashley Elizabeth Blair Tetzlaff
Pakistan were still just one major hurdle from victory, however, and Wasim thought he had vaulted it with Australia 132 runs short. There was a wooden, clicking noise as the ball passed Langer's bat on its way through to Moin Khan. It registered at precisely the right moment on the snickometer; there was even a small deflection, visible from the reverse-angle replay. (The reader is directed to YouTube.) But home umpire Peter Parker was having none of it. He shook his head, and Wasim was livid: 'I can't believe you didn't hear it!' 'Come on!' moaned Moin. 'Parker had earlier apologised to Langer for a poor first-innings decision-'a silly thing to do, ' in the view of his colleague Peter Willey. When the fact was publicised, the suspicion naturally arose that Pakistan had been hard done by. The umpire, it seemed, had attempted to make amends. 'I honestly believe I didn't hit it, ' Langer claimed afterwards. He was lying through his teeth, and he would lie a decade more, attributing the sound, whenever he was asked about it, to 'a clicky bat handle.' He even kept this up with his father. It is a wonder anyone believed it. 'Truth is, ' he admitted ten years later, when it no longer mattered, 'I absolutely smashed it.' 'But Langer's mendacity, and Parker's possible cowardice, is less interesting and salient for our purposes than the question of whether or not Gilchrist, too, was lying: 'I didn't hear anything-absolutely nothing.' These were his words to a press conference later that day. But many spectators heard it; Roebuck heard it; Langer's own team-mates heard it; even his father heard it. The claim is also crucially at odds with Gilchrist's own memoir, in which he affirms that 'there was a noise, but it was inconclusive.' It is difficult to say what he could mean by this. The bat had been nowhere near either pad or turf; it could only have been leather. As a 'walker' himself, Gilchrist is acclaimed for his probity. Someone ought to ask him about this episode.

Rodney Ulyate
from the upcoming novel, Agent White: A figure dressed all in black ran across the rooftops in the rain. A black cloak fluttered behind him as he ran two and sometimes three stories above the sidewalk where Ezra Beckitt stood. Long silver hair tied back in a ponytail flew out behind him, exposing ears that came to sharp points. His left ear was pierced with a silver ring, high up in the cartilage. Like the old man, this black figure wore a sword; but this weapon was long and thin, slightly curved. The blade stuck out behind him for three and a half feet, almost seeming to glow against the grey backdrop of the rain-soaked cityscape. Suddenly, the figure in black looked down into the street and saw Ezra there. More, he saw Ezra seeing him. Startled, he lost his sure footing and slid down the steep incline of an older building's metal roof, the busy street below waiting to catch him in an asphalt embrace. The figure in black got his feet under himself and pushed, flying out into space above the street. For an eternity Ezra watched him, suspended in the air and the rain with his cloak spread in midnight ripples around him, and then the figure in black flipped neatly and landed on the sidewalk half a block away. The pavement cracked, pushing up in twisted humps around the figure in black's tall leather boots. Before the sound of this impact even reached Ezra the figure was up and gone, dashing through the morning throngs waiting for buses or headed to the 'tram station. Ezra saw a girl's hair blow back in the wind created by his passing, but she never noticed him. A young techie blinked his 20-20's (Ezra's own enhanced senses picked up the augmented eyes because of a strange, silvery glow in the pupils) and turned halfway around, almost seeing him. And then the figure in black darted into an alley, gone. Ezra drew his service weapon and ran after, pushing his way through the sidewalk traffic. Turning into the alley he skidded to a stop, stunned; the figure in black was still there. The alley was just wide enough to accommodate Ezra's shoulders- he couldn't have held his arms out at his sides. Dumpsters spilled their trash out onto the wet pavement. The alley ended in a fire door, the back exit of a store on the next street over. Even if it was locked, Ezra didn't think it would pose a real problem for the figure in black. No, he was waiting for him. Ezra advanced with his gun out in front of him, and his eyes locked with the figure in black's. His were completely black- no pupils, no corneas, only solid black that held no light. The figure in black smiled, exposing teeth that looked very sharp, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. He wore leather gloves with the fingers cut off. His fingers were very long and very white. 'Don't even think about it, ' Ezra said, clicking the safety off his weapon. 'I am a Hatis City Guard, an if you move I will put you down.' This only seemed to amuse the figure in black, whose smiled widened as he drew his sword. Ezra opened fire.

Michael Kanuckel
As I became older, I was given many masks to wear. I could be a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, with long hair in a queue to be pulled by pranksters; a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb; a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet; a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming 'Banzai' on my way to my death; a peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water; an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good; a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret; a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave; a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets; a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe; a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo; an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful; one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader; an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life; a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives with the slogan 'but wait-there's more' as the commercial segued to show another free gift; a chef serving up dog stew, a trick on the unsuspecting diner; a bad driver swerving into the next lane, exactly as could be expected; a horny exchange student here for a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleader; a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues; a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high and batting the ball with a wicked spin; a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall, before taking a polite bow; a teen computer scientist, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the company stock crashes; a gangster in sunglasses and a tight suit, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob; an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change over the counter to the black patrons; a businessman with a briefcase of cash bribing a congressman, a corrupting influence on the electoral process; a salaryman on my way to work, crammed into the commuter train and loyal to the company; a shady doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body mapping the flow of life energy through a multitude of colored points; a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut, serving as a teaching assistant with an incomprehensible accent, scribbling on the chalkboard; an automobile enthusiast who customizes an imported car with a supercharged engine and Japanese decals in the rear window, cruising the boulevard looking for a drag race; a illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, defying death only to crowd into a New York City tenement and work as a slave in a sweatshop. My mother and my girl cousins were Madame Butterfly from the mail order bride catalog, dying in their service to the masculinity of the West, and the dragon lady in a kimono, taking vengeance for her sisters. They became the television newscaster, look-alikes with their flawlessly permed hair. Through these indelible images, I grew up. But when I looked in the mirror, I could not believe my own reflection because it was not like what I saw around me. Over the years, the world opened up. It has become a dizzying kaleidoscope of cultural fragments, arranged and rearranged without plan or order.

Frank H. Wu
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