Then he holds her and for a moment I hear total silence; that totally silent part of a cry that announces that the most horrible grief is going to follow. And it does, and he's muffling it, but I can hear and I want someone to come over and jab her with a sedative because its pitch pierces my soul.
And Flock Rule Number Two is, Don't argue with Max or you'll live to regret it." I spun and stomped out to the clearing, turning back for one last jab at Dylan. "And by the way, you clearly DON'T know me better than Fang does. Do you see Fang arguing with me? No, you do not." Fang rolled his eyes.
I'm a God-gifted fighter. I've got vision. I've got very good reaction. I've got a good jab. I seem to be able to hit and not get hit. I've got a good right hand, and that's my power hand. I like to mix it up. I'm never set on one style. I'm always doing something different, and I'm a sponge. I'm always learning more.
Thursday morning. I usually let my Mum wake me up but today I have set my alarm for seven. Even from under my duvet, I can hear it bleating on the other side of my room. I hid it inside my plastic crate for faulty joysticks so that I would have to get out of bed, walk across the room, yank it out of the box by its lead and, only then, jab the snooze button. This was a tactical manoeuvre by my previous self. He can be very cruel.
Vae Victus - suffering to the conquered. Ironic that now I was the one suffering. Not anything as pedestrian as physical pain. Rather the cruel jab of impotent anger - the hunger for revenge. I didn't care if I was in Heaven or Hell - all I wanted was to kill my assassins. Sometimes you get what you wish for. The Necromancer Mortanius offered me a chance for vengeance. And like a fool, I jumped at his offer without considering the cost. Nothing is free, not even revenge.
How does this whole guardian angel business work? Am I the only person who can see you? I mean, are you invisible to everyone else?" Patch stared at me like he hoped I wasn't serious. "You're not invisible?" I squeaked. "You have to get out of here!" I made a movement to push Patch off the bed but was cut short by a searing jab in my ribs. "She'll kill me if she finds you in here. Can you climb trees? Tell me you can climb a tree!" Patch grinned. "I can fly." Oh. Right. Well, okay.
Whatcha doin', Freak Girl?" --------------------------- "What does it look like, brainiac?" I shot back, even surprising myself with the force of my jab. "I'll give you three guesses. No, wait. Don't strain yourself. Wouldn't want to hurt your head." I waved a flyer in his face, channeling my inner mean girl. "See these? I'm hanging them...on a...wall!" I spoke the last part slowly, as if addressing a dim-witted child. Which wasn't far off the mark, now that I thought about it. "With tape," I added, waving at the dispenser. "You know-sticky, sticky!
We match each other stroke for stroke until I get a hit on her right arm. She tries to switch sword arms, but I jab my scim at her wrist faster than she can parry. Her scim goes flying, and I tackle her. Her white-blonde hair tumbles free of her bun. 'Surrender!' I pin her down at the wrists, but she trashes and rips one arm free, scrabbling for a dagger at her waist. Steel stabs at my ribs, and seconds later, I am on my back with a blade at my throat. 'Ha!' She leans down, her hair falling around us like a shimmering silver curtain.
It was likely her due, then, that a familiar voice halted her progress just as she started to ascend the staircase. 'You've certainly turned the afternoon on its head.' Lucas regarded her with a wry smile from the first landing, his thick brown hair blending into an exceptionally large portrait of Gravethorne's favorite hounds. 'How does it feel to be the most notorious debutante in London?' Sparring with Lucas Bellamy held little appeal to her at the moment, but Amy was incapable of letting a jab go unanswered. She gripped the decorative knob on the newel post and lifted her chin. 'Slightly inconvenienced yet decidedly more powerful, I think.
Then the long nights, that were also days, in the hospital. And the long blanks, that were also nights. Needles, and angled glass rods to suck water through. Needles, and curious enamel wedges slid under your middle. Needles, and - needles and needles and needles. Like swarms of persistent mosquitoes with unbreakable drills. The way a pincushion feels, if it could feel. Or the target of a porcupine. Or a case of not just momentary but permanently endured static electricity after you scuff across a woolen rug and then put your finger on a light switch. Even food was a needle - a jab into a vein... ("For The Rest Of Her Life")
Unhappy memories are persistent. They're specific, and it's the details that refuse to leave us alone. Though a happy memory may stay with you just as long as one that makes you miserable, what you remember softens over time. What you recall is simply that you were happy, not necessarily the individual moments that brought about your joy. But the memory of something painful does just the opposite. It retains its original shape, all bony fingers and pointy elbows. Every time it returns, you get a quick poke in the eye or jab in the stomach. The memory of being unhappy has the power to hurt us long after the fact. We feel the injury anew each and every time we think of it.
YOU NIGGAS MADE A MISTAKE YOU SHOULDA NEVER PUT MY RHYMES WITH DRE THEM THUG NIGGAS HAVE ARRIVED AND IT'S JUDGEMENT DAY HEY HOMIE IF YA FEEL ME TELL THEM TRICKS THAT SHOT ME THAT THEY MISSED THEY AIN'T KILLED ME I CAN MAKE A MUTHAFUCKER SHAKE RATTLE AND ROLL I'M FULL OF LIQUOR THUG NIGGA QUICK TO JAB AT THEM HO'S AND I CAN MAKE YA JELOUS NIGGAS FAMOUS FUCK AROUND WITH 2PAC AND SEE HOW GOOD A NIGGAS AIM IS I'M JUST A RICH MUTHAFUCKER FROM THA WAY IF THIS RAPPIN' BRING ME MONEY THEN I'M RAPPIN' TILL I'M PAID I'M GETTEN GREEN LIKE I'M SUPPOSED TO NIGGA, I HOLLA AT THESE HO'S AND SEE HOW MANY I CAN GO THROUGH LOOK TO THE STAR AND VISUALIZE MY DEBUT NIGGAS KNOW ME, PLAYA I GOTTA STAY TRUE DON'T BE A DUMB MUTHAFUCKER BECAUSE IT'S CRAZY AFTER DARK WHERE THE TRUE THUG NIGGAS SEE YA HEART NIGGAS CAN'T C ME....
The state of mind above which my distraction floats like fog is suddenly perfectly clear, though the right word for it is less immediately available. Grief is too sharp and immediate; maybe it's the high pitch of the vowel sound, or the monosyllabic impact of the word, as quick a jab as knife or cut. Sadness is too ephemeral, somehow; it sounds like something that comes and goes, a response to an immediate cause which will pass in a little while as another cause arises to generate a different feeling. Mourning isn't bad, but there's something a little archaic about it. I think of widows keening, striking themselves- dark-swathed years, a closeting of self away from the world, turned inward toward an interior dark. Sorrow feels right , for now. Sorrow seems large and inhabitable, an interior season whose vaulted sky's a suitable match for the gray and white tumult arched over these headlands. A sorrow is not to be gotten over or moved through in quite the way that sadness is, yet sorrow is also not as frozen and monochromatic as mourning. Sadness exists inside my sorrow, but it's not as large as sorrow's realm. This sorrow is capacious; there's room inside it for the everyday, for going about the workaday stuff of life. And for loveliness, for whatever we're to be given by the daily walk.
Their conversation ceased abruptly with the entry of an oddly-shaped man whose body resembled a certain vegetable. He was a thickset fellow with calloused and jaundiced skin and a patch of brown hair, a frizzy upheaval. We will call him Bell Pepper. Bell Pepper sidled up beside The Drippy Man and looked at the grilled cheese in his hand. The Drippy Man, a bit uncomfortable at the heaviness of the gaze, politely apologized and asked Bell Pepper if he would like one. 'Why is one of your legs fatter than the other?' asked Bell Pepper. The Drippy Man realized Bell Pepper was not looking at his sandwich but towards the inconsistency of his leg sizes. 'You always get your kicks pointing out defects?' retorted The Drippy Man. 'Just curious. Never seen anything like it before.' 'I was raised not to feel shame and hide my legs in baggy pants.' 'So you flaunt your deformity by wearing short shorts?' 'Like you flaunt your pockmarks by not wearing a mask?' Bell Pepper backed away, kicking wide the screen door, making an exit to a porch over hanging a dune of sand that curved into a jagged upward jab of rock. 'He is quite sensitive, ' commented The Dry Advisor. 'Who is he?' 'A fellow who once manipulated the money in your wallet but now curses the fellow who does.