It's not a cold that you can get over. There is no anti-racist certification class. It's a set of socioeconomic traps and cultural values that are fired up every time we interact with the world. It is a thing you have to keep scooping out of the boat of your life to keep from drowning in it. I know it's hard work, but it's the price you pay for owning everything.
I guess it's time.' While Cress's thoughts continued to churn through the horrible things that could happen to her, she felt herself being suddenly spun around and dipped backward, a supportive arm scooping beneath her back. She yelped and caught herself on Thorne's shoulder. Then he was kissing her.
The space that we're looking through is nine-dimensional. If you build a mathematical model, the amount of searching that we've done in 50 years is equivalent to scooping one 8-ounce glass out of the Earth's ocean, looking and seeing if you caught a fish. No, no fish in that glass? Well, I don't think you're going to conclude that there are no fish in the ocean. You just haven't searched very well yet. That's where we are.
A tired starving dog so thin and frail it looks like it could be knocked over by the wind. But it's staring at me. Unafraid. Mouth opened. Tongue lolling. I want to laugh out loud. I glanced around quickly before scooping the dog into my arms. I don't need to give my father anymore reasons to castrate me, and I don't trust my soldiers not to report something like this. That I would play with the dog.
Inhaling fumes directly from burning foliage, either in a confined space such as a cave or a tent, or scooping up and breathing in the vapors from psychoactive plant materials scattered on a bowl full of hot coals, must be an extremely ancient practice. Herodotus's account from the fifth-century BCE, describing the use of small tents by the Scythians (a northwestern Iranian tribe) for inhaling the smoke of cannabis, is probably the most famous account that confirms the antiquity of the use of cannabis as a ritual intoxicant.
Shark!" I yelled as my feet hit the wet sand. "There's a shark out there! Everyone get out of the water!" Man, you want to see humans move fast? Scream that on a crowded beach and watch what happens. Its amazing the fear people have for a scaly, sharp toothed predator. I watched the water empty in seconds, parents scooping up their children and heading to shore, desperate to get out of the ocean, and found it a little ironic. They were so terrified of the big, nasty monster out in the water, when there was a bigger, nastier, deadlier one right here on the beach.
I'MA GET A BOX OF PHILLYS FROM OUT THE STO', AND COME RIGHT BACK THEN I'MA ROLL A PHILLY, FAT AS A FINGER AND LIGHT THAT LEMON LIME HYDRO AND REGULAR PINE, YOU KNOW I LIKE THAT UNDER OF THE INFLUENCE OF STICKY, THERE'S NO NEED TO FIGHT BACK CAUSE I LOVE IT WHEN I BE LIFTED, ALL OF MY GEARS BE DONE SHIFTED ONE DEEP IN THE RENTAL CAR GOING OFF, BECAUSE I'M TALENTED AND GIFTED SCOOPING UP NOTHING BUT PLAYAS, AND WE'RE THINKING THE SAME NOTHING BUT FLIPPING AND SIPPING, AND RUNNING A TRAIN ON MARY JANE LOVE IT MAYN, ROLLING EM AND BLOWING EM ALL DAY POSTED UP AT THE RED BOOTH INN, SMELLING GOOD IN THE HALLWAY WITH A WET TOWEL UP UNDER THE DO', BUT THAT AIN'T ENOUGH TO STOP THE DO-DO BUT LIKE THE PO-YO I'M ABOUT TO REP THE LOGO, SMOKE ON IN A TINTED OUT FO' DO'
What kind of knife is this?' Locke held a rounded buttering utensil up for Chains' inspection. 'It's all wrong. You couldn't kill anyone with this.' 'Well, not very easily, I'll grant you that, my boy.' Chains guided Locke in the placement of the butter knife and assorted small dishes and bowls. 'But when the quality get together to dine, it's impolite to knock anybody off with anything but poison. That thing is for scooping butter, not slicing windpipes.' 'This is a lot of trouble to go to just to eat.' 'Well, in Shades' Hill you may be able to eat cold bacon and dirt pies off one another's asses for all your old master cares. But now you're a Gentleman Bastard, emphasis on the Gentleman. You're going to learn how to eat like this, and how to serve people who eat like this.
They went back to scooping up breakfast, licking the mess off their fingers. Soon the pile of berry mush was gone and their tongues were dyed a nice midnight blue. Ian seemed in a good mood, sticking his tongue out playfully at his best friend. Eena did likewise, right back at him. She was happy he was smiling, even if his teeth were purple. (You're too much fun, Eena, ) Ian announced in her mind. (I'm really glad we're friends.) (Me too, ) she agreed. (Best friends.) Ian leaned back on his hands and watched the waves roll in from far off. The swells were building into large, flat-crested waves. (Angelle never thought like you do. You're creative and kinda crazy. Her thoughts were always more simple and, well...normal.) (Yeah, well, deadly dragons and evil witches tend to suck all the normal right out of you, ) she grumbled. (I suppose.)
Richelle E. Goodrich
Sheridan's eyes fell to the watery gateway as he begrudgingly donned the novel wetsuit and pulled on the crown of arc lamps. Following Kunchen's lead, he cinched it tightly around his waist, feet, and neck. And all the while his eyes returned to the teeming portal. Kunchen took notice. 'This whirlpool is like the mighty river of life.' Kunchen said. Sheridan watched as Kunchen dipped his right hand into a shallow pool of ice-crusted water, scooping up the pristine liquid in his cupped fingers. He submitted the handful of water to Sheridan. With the gentle tilt of his right hand he poured it out, watching it trickle into his left hand. With unerring kindness in his eyes, Kunchen became the teacher and Sheridan the pupil: 'Observe the water. It is soft, easily bending and transforming to its circumstance.' He poured the water from his left hand. It fell into the writhing water and disappeared in an instant. 'But when it joins with the force of the whirlpool it becomes powerful and unstoppable. You must be flexible like the water, feeling the flow of life, tapping into its current. This is the only way.
Phillip R. White
How very like you, Puck.' Ash's voice came from a great distance, and the room started to spin. 'Offer them a taste of faery wine, and act surprised when they're consumed by it.' That struck me as hilarious, and I broke into hysterical giggles. And once I began, I couldn't stop. I laughed until I was gasping for breath, tears streaming down my face. My feet itched and my skin crawled. I needed to move, to do something. I tried standing up, wanting to spin and dance, but the room tilted violently and I fell, still shrieking with laughter. Somebody caught me, scooping me off my feet and into their arms. I smelled frost and winter, and heard an exasperated sigh from somewhere above my head. 'What are you doing, Ash?' I heard someone ask. A familiar voice, though I couldn't think of his name, or why he sounded so suspicious. 'I'm taking her back to her room.' The person above me sounded wonderfully calm and deep. I sighed and settled into his arms. 'She'll have to sleep off the effects of the fruit. We'll likely be here another day because of your idiocy.' The other voice said something garbled and unintelligible. I was suddenly too sleepy and light-headed to care. Relaxing against the mysterious person's chest, I fell into a heady sleep.
Did you ever think much about jobs? I mean, some of the jobs people land in? You see a guy giving haircuts to dogs, or maybe going along the curb with a shovel, scooping up horse manure. And you think, now why is the silly bastard doing that? He looks fairly bright, about as bright as anyone else. Why the hell does he do that for living? You kind grin and look down your nose at him. You think he's nuts, know what I mean, or he doesn't have any ambition. And then you take a good look at yourself, and you stop wondering about the other guy... You've got all your hands and feet. Your health is okay, and you make a nice appearance, and ambition-man! You've got it. You're young, I guess: you'd call thirty young, and you're strong. You don't have much education, but you've got more than plenty of other people who go to the top. And yet with all that, with all you've had to do with this is as far you've got And something tellys you, you're not going much farther if any. And there is nothing to be done about it now, of course, but you can't stop hoping. You can't stop wondering... Maybe you had too much ambition. Maybe that was the trouble. You couldn't see yourself spending forty years moving from office boy to president. So you signed on with a circulation crew; you worked the magazines from one coast to another. And then you ran across a little brush deal-it sounded nice, anyway. And you worked that until you found something better, something that looked better. And you moved from that something to another something. Coffee-and-tea premiums, dinnerware, penny-a-day insurance, photo coupons, cemetery lots, hosiery, extract, and God knows what all. You begged for the charities, You bought the old gold. You went back to the magazines and the brushes and the coffee and tea. You made good money, a couple of hundred a week sometimes. But when you averaged it up, the good weeks with the bad, it wasn't so good. Fifty or sixty a week, maybe seventy. More than you could make, probably, behind agas pump or a soda fountain. But you had to knock yourself out to do it, and you were standing stil. You were still there at the starting place. And you weren't a kid any more. So you come to this town, and you see this ad. Man for outside sales and collections. Good deal for hard worker. And you think maybe this is it. This sounds like a right town. So you take the job, and you settle down in the town. And, of course, neither one of 'em is right, they're just like all the others. The job stinks. The town stinks. You stink. And there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it. All you can do is go on like this other guys go on. The guy giving haircuts to dogs, and the guy sweeping up horse manute Hating it. Hating yourself. And hoping.