Staggered 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
im-staggered-by-the-question-of-what-its-like-to-be-a-multimillionaire-i-always-have-to-remind-myself-that-i-am
they-reeled-staggered-like-drunken-men-they-were-at-their-wits-end-psalm-10727
i-think-everyone-knows-someone-whos-battling-with-dementia-caring-for-relative-affected-by-it-ive-been-staggered-by-how-commonplace-it-is
because-when-beauty-awes-you-you-must-halt-try-to-catch-your-breath-your-staggered-heart-kate-elliott
i-love-to-design-things-that-people-can-actually-buy-im-staggered-by-what-boot-costs-today
at-this-my-body-is-racked-with-pain-pangs-seize-me-like-those-woman-in-labor-i-am-staggered-by-what-i-hear-i-am-bewildered-by-what-i-see-isaiah-213
i-didnt-cry-much-after-i-was-35-but-staggered-stony-faced-into-middle-age-handkerchief-still-in-my-bag-just-in-case
the-night-was-whiteblind-with-fog-kate-staggered-over-every-stone-stumbled-in-every-puddle-but-she-pushed-on-as-fast-as-she-could-erin-bow
i-staggered-into-manchester-bar-late-one-night-on-tour-waitress-said-you-look-as-if-you-need-screaming-orgasm-at-time-this-was-last-thing-on-my-mind-terry-pratchett
love-was-terrible-thing-you-poisoned-it-stabbed-at-it-knocked-it-down-into-mud-well-down-it-got-up-staggered-on-bleeding-muddy-awful-like-jean-rhys
i-remember-day-i-found-out-my-draft-status-i-was-really-floored-kind-staggered-around-in-daze-it-just-hadnt-occurred-to-me-that-i-could-end-up-in-vietnam
it-was-heavy-i-staggered-when-i-lifted-it-but-it-was-strangely-satifying-to-have-real-burden-upon-my-shoulders-kind-counterweight-to-my-terrible-sarah-waters
i-ran-three-miles-staggered-into-lobby-took-elevator-back-to-my-apartment-no-point-to-overdoing-this-exercise-junk-stephanie-plum-janet-evanovich
it-was-heavy-i-staggered-when-i-lifted-it-but-it-was-strangely-satifying-to-have-real-burden-upon-my-shoulders-kind-counterweight-to-my-terrible-heaviness-heart-sarah-waters
dakotas-head-was-stuck-in-his-toga-he-staggered-around-olike-koolaidstained-ghost-um-percy-said-should-i-wear-my-bed-sheets-rick-riordan
myrnin-was-heading-for-kim-when-she-picked-up-crossbow-lying-on-table-nearby-shot-him-pointblank-in-chest-he-staggered-backward-muttered-not-again-rachel-caine
the-christian-faith-is-most-exciting-drama-that-ever-staggered-imagination-man-dogma-is-drama
people-staggered-from-town-to-town-for-water-but-did-not-get-enough-to-drink-yet-you-have-not-returned-to-me-declares-lord-amos-48
he-staggered-not-at-the-promise-of-god-through-unbelief-but-was-strong-in-faith-giving-glory-to-god
the-people-australia-would-be-staggered-to-learn-that-australia-has-no-national-development-plan
the-coons-had-enjoyed-real-party-my-trashcan-had-been-pieata-theyd-obviously-indulged-in-evening-feasting-on-our-wares-then-staggered-off-property-loaded-up-with-our-birdseed-as-
i-have-written-to-minister-state-for-personnel-public-grievances-pensions-asking-him-to-consider-staggered-office-timings-for-government-offices-which-will-help-in-decongesting-r
in-america-unlike-england-unlike-israel-unlike-japan-other-democracies-we-have-elections-that-have-staggered-terms-barney-frank
Simon whispered to me, 'But is everything okay?' 'No, ' Tori said. 'I kidnapped her and forced her to escape with me. I've been using her as a human shield against those guys with guns, and I was just about to strangle her and leave her body here to throw them off my trail. But then you showed up and foiled my evil plans. Lucky for you, though. You get to rescue poor little Chloe again and win her undying gratitude.' 'Undying gratitude?' Simon looked at me. 'Cool. Does that come with eternal servitude? If so, I like my eggs sunnyside up.' I smiled. 'I'll remember that.' 'Oh, right. You must be starving.' Simon reached into his pockets. 'I can offer one bruised apple and one brown banana. Convenience stores aren't the place to buy fruit, as I keep telling someone.' 'Better than these. For you, anyway, Simon.' Derek passed a bar to Tori. 'Because you aren't supposed to have those, are you?' I said. 'Which reminds me... ' I took out the insulin. 'Derek said it's your backup.' 'So my dark secret is out.' 'I didn't know it was a secret.' 'Not really. Just not something I advertise.'... 'Backup?' Tori said. 'You mean he didn't need that?' 'Apparently not, ' I murmured. Simon looked from her to me, confused, then understanding. 'You guys thought... ' 'That if you didn't get your medicine in the next twenty-four hours, you'd be dead?' I said. 'Not exactly, but close. You know, the old 'upping the ante with a fatal disease that needs medication' twist. Apparently, it still works.' 'Kind of a letdown, then, huh?' 'No kidding. Here we were, expecting to find you minutes from death. Look at you, not even gasping.' 'All right, then. Emergency medical situation, take two.' He leaped to his feet, staggered, keeled over, then lifted his head weakly. 'Chloe? Is that you?' He coughed. 'Do you have my insulin?' I placed it in his outstretched hand. 'You saved my life, ' he said. 'How can I ever repay you?' 'Undying servitude sounds good. I like my eggs scrambled.' He held up a piece of fruit. 'Would you settle for a bruised apple?' I laughed.

Kelley Armstrong
simon-whispered-to-me-but-is-everything-okay-no-tori-said-i-kidnapped-her-forced-her-to-escape-with-me-ive-been-using-her-as-human-shield-against-those-guys-with-guns-i-was-just-
I prayed to a mystery. Sometimes I was simply aware of the mystery. I saw a flash of it during a trip to New York that David and I took before we were married. We were walking on a busy sidewalk in Manhattan. I don't remember if it was day or night. A man with a wound on his forehead came toward us. His damp, ragged hair might have been clotted with blood, or maybe it was only dirt. He wore deeply dirty clothes. His red, swollen hands, cupped in half-fists, swung loosely at his sides. His eyes were focused somewhere past my right shoulder. He staggered while he walked. The sidewalk traffic flowed around him and with him. He was strange and frightening, and at the same time he belonged on the Manhattan sidewalk as much as any of us. It was that paradox - that he could be both alien and resident, both brutalized and human, that he could stand out in the moving mass of people like a sea monster in a school of tuna and at the same time be as much at home as any of us - that stayed with me. I never saw him again, but I remember him often, and when I do, I am aware of the mystery. Years later, I was out on our property on the Olympic Peninsula, cutting a path through the woods. This was before our house was built. After chopping through dense salal and hacking off ironwood bushes for an hour or so, I stopped, exhausted. I found myself standing motionless, intensely aware of all of the life around me, the breathing moss, the chattering birds, the living earth. I was as much a part of the woods as any millipede or cedar tree. At that moment, too, I was aware of the mystery. Sometimes I wanted to speak to this mystery directly. Out of habit, I began with "Dear God" and ended with "Amen". But I thought to myself, I'm not praying to that old man in the sky. Rather, I'm praying to this thing I can't define. It was sort of like talking into a foggy valley. Praying into a bank of fog requires alot of effort. I wanted an image to focus on when I prayed. I wanted something to pray to. but I couldn't go back to that old man. He was too closely associated with all I'd left behind.

Margaret D. McGee
i-prayed-to-mystery-sometimes-i-was-simply-aware-mystery-i-saw-flash-it-during-trip-to-new-york-that-david-i-took-before-we-were-married-we-were-walking-on-busy-sidewalk-in-manha
All at once, something wonderful happened, although at first, it seemed perfectly ordinary. A female goldfinch suddenly hove into view. She lighted weightlessly on the head of a bankside purple thistle and began emptying the seedcase, sowing the air with down. The lighted frame of my window filled. The down rose and spread in all directions, wafting over the dam's waterfall and wavering between the tulip trunks and into the meadow. It vaulted towards the orchard in a puff; it hovered over the ripening pawpaw fruit and staggered up the steep faced terrace. It jerked, floated, rolled, veered, swayed. The thistle down faltered down toward the cottage and gusted clear to the woods; it rose and entered the shaggy arms of pecans. At last it strayed like snow, blind and sweet, into the pool of the creek upstream, and into the race of the creek over rocks down. It shuddered onto the tips of growing grasses, where it poised, light, still wracked by errant quivers. I was holding my breath. Is this where we live, I thought, in this place in this moment, with the air so light and wild? The same fixity that collapses stars and drives the mantis to devour her mate eased these creatures together before my eyes: the thick adept bill of the goldfinch, and the feathery coded down. How could anything be amiss? If I myself were lighter and frayed, I could ride these small winds, too, taking my chances, for the pleasure of being so purely played. The thistle is part of Adam's curse. 'Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.' A terrible curse: But does the goldfinch eat thorny sorrow with the thistle or do I? If this furling air is fallen, then the fall was happy indeed. If this creekside garden is sorrow, then I seek martyrdom. I was weightless; my bones were taut skins blown with buoyant gas; it seemed that if I inhaled too deeply, my shoulders and head would waft off. Alleluia.

Annie Dillard
all-at-once-something-wonderful-happened-although-at-first-it-seemed-perfectly-ordinary-a-female-goldfinch-suddenly-hove-into-view-she-lighted-weightlessly-on-head-bankside-purpl
Ready yourselves!' Mullone heard himself say, which was strange, he thought, for he knew his men were prepared. A great cry came from beyond the walls that were punctuated by musket blasts and Mullone readied himself for the guns to leap into action. Mullone felt a tremor. The ground shook and then the first rebels poured through the gates like an oncoming tide. Mullone saw the leading man; both hands gripping a green banner, face contorted with zeal. The flag had a white cross in the centre of the green field and the initials JF below it. John Fitzstephen. Then, there were more men behind him, tens, then scores. And then time seemed to slow. The guns erupted barely twenty feet from them. Later on, Mullone would remember the great streaks of flame leap from the muzzles to lick the air and all of the charging rebels were shredded and torn apart in one terrible instant. Balls ricocheted on stone and great chunks were gouged out by the bullets. Blood sprayed on the walls as far back as the arched gateway, limbs were shorn off, and Mullone watched in horror as a bloodied head tumbled down the sloped street towards the barricade. 'Jesus sweet suffering Christ!' Cahill gawped at the carnage as the echo of the big guns resonated like a giant's beating heart. Trooper O'Shea bent to one side and vomited at the sight of the twitching, bleeding and unrecognisable lumps that had once been men. A man staggered with both arms missing. Another crawled back to the gate with a shattered leg spurting blood. The stench of burnt flesh and the iron tang of blood hung ripe and nauseating in the oppressive air. One of the low wooden cabins by the wall was on fire. A blast of musketry outside the walls rattled against the stonework and a redcoat toppled backwards onto the cabin's roof as the flames fanned over the wood. 'Here they come again! Ready your firelocks! Do not waste a shot!' Johnson shouted in a steady voice as the gateway became thick with more rebels. He took a deep breath. 'God forgive us, ' Corporal Brennan said. 'Liberty or death!' A rebel, armed with a blood-stained pitchfork, shouted over-and-over.

David Cook
ready-yourselves-mullone-heard-himself-say-which-was-strange-he-thought-for-he-knew-his-men-were-prepared-a-great-cry-came-from-beyond-walls-that-were-punctuated-by-musket-blasts
And it was in that moment of distress and confusion that the whip of terror laid its most nicely calculated lash about his heart. It dropped with deadly effect upon the sorest spot of all, completely unnerving him. He had been secretly dreading all the time that it would come - and come it did. Far overhead, muted by great height and distance, strangely thinned and wailing, he heard the crying voice of Defago, the guide. The sound dropped upon him out of that still, wintry sky with an effect of dismay and terror unsurpassed. The rifle fell to his feet. He stood motionless an instant, listening as it were with his whole body, then staggered back against the nearest tree for support, disorganized hopelessly in mind and spirit. To him, in that moment, it seemed the most shattering and dislocating experience he had ever known, so that his heart emptied itself of all feeling whatsoever as by a sudden draught. 'Oh! oh! This fiery height! Oh, my feet of fire! My burning feet of fire... ' ran in far, beseeching accents of indescribable appeal this voice of anguish down the sky. Once it called - then silence through all the listening wilderness of trees. And Simpson, scarcely knowing what he did, presently found himself running wildly to and fro, searching, calling, tripping over roots and boulders, and flinging himself in a frenzy of undirected pursuit after the Caller. Behind the screen of memory and emotion with which experience veils events, he plunged, distracted and half-deranged, picking up false lights like a ship at sea, terror in his eyes and heart and soul. For the Panic of the Wilderness had called to him in that far voice - the Power of untamed Distance - the Enticement of the Desolation that destroys. He knew in that moment all the pains of someone hopelessly and irretrievably lost, suffering the lust and travail of a soul in the final Loneliness. A vision of Defago, eternally hunted, driven and pursued across the skyey vastness of those ancient forests fled like a flame across the dark ruin of his thoughts... It seemed ages before he could find anything in the chaos of his disorganized sensations to which he could anchor himself steady for a moment, and think... The cry was not repeated; his own hoarse calling brought no response; the inscrutable forces of the Wild had summoned their victim beyond recall - and held him fast. ("The Wendigo")

Algernon Blackwood
and-it-was-in-that-moment-distress-confusion-that-whip-terror-laid-its-most-nicely-calculated-lash-about-his-heart-it-dropped-with-deadly-effect-upon-sorest-spot-all-completely-u
What did we talk about? I don't remember. We talked so hard and sat so still that I got cramps in my knee. We had too many cups of tea and then didn't want to leave the table to go to the bathroom because we didn't want to stop talking. You will think we talked of revolution but we didn't. Nor did we talk of our own souls. Nor of sewing. Nor of babies. Nor of departmental intrigue. It was political if by politics you mean the laboratory talk that characters in bad movies are perpetually trying to convey (unsuccessfully) when they Wrinkle Their Wee Brows and say (valiantly-dutifully-after all, they didn't write it) "But, Doctor, doesn't that violate Finagle's Constant?" I staggered to the bathroom, released floods of tea, and returned to the kitchen to talk. It was professional talk. It left my grey-faced and with such concentration that I began to develop a headache. We talked about Mary Ann Evans' loss of faith, about Emily Bronte«'s isolation, about Charlotte Bronte«'s blinding cloud, about the split in Virginia Woolf's head and the split in her economic condition. We talked about Lady Murasaki, who wrote in a form that no respectable man would touch, Hroswit, a little name whose plays "may perhaps amuse myself, " Miss Austen, who had no more expression in society than a firescreen or a poker. They did not all write letters, write memoirs, or go on the stage. Sappho-only an ambiguous, somewhat disagreeable name. Corinna? The teacher of Pindar. Olive Schriener, growing up on the veldt, wrote on book, married happily, and ever wrote another. Kate Chopin wrote a scandalous book and never wrote another. (Jean has written nothing.). There was M-ry Sh-ll-y who wrote you know what and Ch-rl-tt- P-rk-ns G-lm-an, who wrote one superb horror study and lots of sludge (was it sludge?) and Ph-ll-s Wh-tl-y who was black and wrote eighteenth century odes (but it was the eighteenth century) and Mrs. -nn R-dcl-ff- S-thw-rth and Mrs. G-rg- Sh-ld-n and (Miss?) G-rg-tt- H-y-r and B-rb-r- C-rtl-nd and the legion of those, who writing, write not, like the dead Miss B-l-y of the poem who was seduced into bad practices (fudging her endings) and hanged herself in her garter. The sun was going down. I was blind and stiff. It's at this point that the computer (which has run amok and eaten Los Angeles) is defeated by some scientifically transcendent version of pulling the plug; the furniture stood around unknowing (though we had just pulled out the plug) and Lady, who got restless when people talked at suck length because she couldn't understand it, stuck her head out from under the couch, looking for things to herd. We had talked for six hours, from one in the afternoon until seven; I had at that moment an impression of our act of creation so strong, so sharp, so extraordinarily vivid, that I could not believe all our talking hadn't led to something more tangible-mightn't you expect at least a little blue pyramid sitting in the middle of the floor?

Joanna Russ
what-did-we-talk-about-i-dont-remember-we-talked-hard-sat-still-that-i-got-cramps-in-my-knee-we-had-too-many-cups-tea-then-didnt-want-to-leave-table-to-go-to-bathroom-because-we-
It was getting difficult to see exactly what was going on in the pool and a fourth officer jumped in as one came up with the unconscious form of the first cop. While others pulled the half-drowned man from the pool, three more wrestled Skorzeny to the surface and dragged him to the steps at the shallow end of the pool. He wasn't struggling any longer. Nor was he breathing with any apparent difficulty. The biggest of the three cops later admitted to punching him as hard as he could in the stomach and Skorzey doubled over. Another half-dragged him, still on his feet, shirt torn, jacket ripped, out of the pool and put a handcuff on his left wrist. Skorzeny pulled his arm away from the cop and, suddenly straightening, elbow-jabbed him in the gut, sending him sprawling and rolling back into the pool. Skorzeny turned toward the back fence and was now between the pool and a small palm tree. Before him were two advancing officers, pistols leveled. Behind him two more circled the pool. Skorzeny lunged forward and all fired simultaneously. The noise was deafening. Lights in neighboring houses began to go on. Skorzeny's body twitched and bucked as the heavy slugs ripped through his body. His forward momentum carried him into the officers ahead of him and he half-crawled, half-staggered to the southeast corner of the yard where another gate was set into the fiberglass fencing. Two more officers, across the pool, cut loose with their pistols, emptying them into this writing body which danced like a puppet. Another cop fired two shots from his pump-action shotgun and Skorzeny was lifted clean off his feet and slammed against the gate, sagging to the ground. En masse from both ends of the pool they advanced, when he gave out with a terrible hissing snarl and started to rise once more. All movement ceased as the cops, to a man, stood frozen in their tracks. Skorzeny stood there like some hideous caricature, his shredding clothing and skin hanging like limp rags from his scarecrow form. His flesh was ripped in several places and he was oozing something that looked like watered-down blood. It was pinkish and transparent. He stood there like a living nightmare. Then he straightened and raised his fist with the cuff still dangling from it like a charm bracelet. 'Fools!' he shrieked. 'You can't kill me. You can't even hurt me.' Overhead, the copter hovered, the copilot giving a blow-by-blow description of the fight over the radio. The police on the ground were paralyzed. Nearly thirty shots had been fired (the bullets later tallied in reports turned in by the participating officers) and their quarry was still as strong as ever. He'd been hit repeatedly in the head and legs, so a bulletproof vest wasn't the answer. And at distances sometimes as little as five feet, they could hardly have missed. They'd seen him hit. They stood frozen in an eerie tableau as the still roiling pool water threw weird reflections all over the yard. Then Skorzeny did the most frightening thing of all. He smiled. A red-rimmed, hideous grin revealing fangs that 'would have done justice to a Doberman Pinscher.

Jeff Rice
it-was-getting-difficult-to-see-exactly-what-was-going-on-in-pool-fourth-officer-jumped-in-as-one-came-up-with-unconscious-form-first-cop-while-others-pulled-halfdrowned-man-from
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