For, or so they whispered, she would take the camp-stool and draw it up close below the face of the man or woman that hung down over the edge of the interrogation table. Then she would squat down on the stool and and look into the face and quietly say 'No. 1' or 'No. 10' or 'No. 25' and the inquisitors would know what she meant and they would begin. And she would watch the eyes in the face a few inches away from hers and breathe in the screams as if they were perfume.
I've always said that the 1986 [Immigration Reform and Control] Act had a fourth leg [in addition to law enforcement, increased immigration and amnesty] to its stool which was wishful thinking. And that pattern of a four-legged stool was copied in the failed attempts to enact a second and bigger general amnesty for illegal aliens in 2006, 2007, and in the current year 2013.
Jan C. Ting
Sideline reporting may look insidious, superfluous, or just a total waste of airtime from where you sit - probably on a couch or a recliner, perhaps on a bar stool in your local brewery - but let me assure you, if you're one of the handful who take it as seriously as some of my colleagues do, it is anything but.
The first time someone I loved left me behind... I didn't know how my family would balance. We had been such a sturdy little end table, four solid legs. I was sure we would now be off-kilter, always unstable. Until one day I looked more closely, and realized that we had simply become a stool.
The first time someone I loved left me behind...I didn't know how my family would balance. We had been such a sturdy little end table, four solid legs. I was sure we would now be off-kilter, always unstable. Until one day I looked more closely, and realized that we had simply become a stool.
In our society, we often tend to ignore what our bodies are telling us and instead are encouraged to medicate the symptoms with sleeping pills, stool softeners, a few beers, and a burrito. The problem with this approach is that whatever your body is trying to tell you gets lost beneath your attempts to cover it up.
YEAH, I'M IN THE WRONG 30 MILE SOUTH OF MALIBU PACING AROUND, TRYINA MAKE SOMETHING POWERFUL, YEAH I SIT AWAKE, BAKED ON THE SHOWER STOOL THE COOKIE FACED KING HAD TO SURGICALLY GET HIS CROWN REMOVED GET UP AND GO TO THE JOHN MY ONLY WORRY IS THE FREQUENCY MY VOCALS IS ON AND MY LADY GETS HER HAIR CUTS AT THE LOCAL SALON AND DOESN'T HAVE TO HIDE FROM ISIS AND BOKO HARAM DANG, I FEEL A STRANGE KINSHIP TO EVERY MAN HEAVY HAND, TREMBLE MY MEMORIES, NEED A STEADY CAM MY MIND'S MADE CLOTHES, AND VIDEOS THAT R. KELLY HAD BARELY HAD TIME TO THINK, THE WORLD MOVES VERY FAST AND LIFE IS A MYSTERY SCHOOL, I'M ON THE AIRPLANE LEARNING SOCIAL DELIVERY QUEUES FOOL, I CAN DRINK A WHOLE INFINITY POOL AND MAKE IMPASSIONED BAR SPEECHES FROM A RICKETY STOOL YEAH TRYING TO MAKE SHIT THAT SOUNDS GRAND BUDAPEST WITH THE SAME HAND THAT SLAMS HIS COMPUTER DESK AND EVERY DAY I'M BUMPING CINNAMON GIRL TRYINA PROMOTE THESE RAP SHOWS WHEN IT'S THE END OF THE MOTHERFUCKING WORLD
Open Mike Eagle
Has no one done my son a service and assassinated you yet?" "No assassins yet, " Wit said, amused. "I guess I've already got too much ass sass of my own."... "Oh really, Wit" she said. "I thought that kind of humour was beneath you." "So are you technically, " Wit said, smiling, from atop his high-legged stool.
The early years when I was starting, blues player, you wasn't always welcome in a lot of the other places. People usually have preconceived ideas about blues music. They always feel that it's depressing and that it's just something that a guy sit out on a stool, grab a guitar, and just start singing or mumbling or whatever.
B. B. King
We incline to think that God cannot explain His own secrets and that He would like a little information upon certain points Himself. We mortals astonish Him as much as He us. But it is this Being of the matter; there lies the knot with which we choke ourselves. As soon as you say Me, a God, a Nature, so soon you jump off from your stool and hang from the beam. Yes, that word is the hangman. Take God out of the dictionary, and you would have Him in the street.
She had picked the spot the day before and carried out a stool low enough to sit on and still have her paintbox and her water cup within reach. Anna didn't use an easel. Easels seemed to her an altogether too assertive aid, too obvious. She liked to work as unobtrusively as possible, the paper spread on a board in her lap, close to her hand.
Most of us who turn to any subject we love remember some morning or evening hour when we got on a high stool to reach down an untried volume, or sat with parted lips listening to a new talker, or for very lack of books began to listen to the voices within, as the first traceable beginning of our love.
Most of us who turn to any subject with love remember some morning or evening hour when we got on a high stool to reach down an untried volume, or sat with parted lips listening to a new talker, or for very lack of books began to listen to the voices within, as the first traceable beginning of our love.
Good Evening , Sir John. I hope that you will accept a little gift from me.' I should be honored, Your Majesty.' I want to give you a little carved stool from my privy chambers. A pretty little piece from France. I hope you will like it.' I should be grateful.' It is for your daughter. For Jane. To sit on. She seems not to have a seat of her own but she must borrow mine.
His mama put down the bag and headed for the door, her mouth a thin line. 'Wait! What are you doing? Don't go over there and yell at her.' Paul jumped off the stool and tried to beat her to the door. 'Oh, honey, I would never do that.' His mama stepped into the hallway. 'I'm fixin' to invite her for dinner.
Mary Jane Hathaway
So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent...and right when your song ended, I knew - just like your mother - I was a goner.
I drank in the scene around me. Some people were directing traffic, some were throwing buckets full of water on the flames (the whole bucket too, not just the contents), some were snapping photos and one guy, I recognized as a regular of the Black Opal, Scully, was clutching a stool and crying. It was like the bleacher seats at a Cubs game when the beer gets cut off...
For the best part of my childhood I visited the local library three or four times a week, hunching in the stacks on a foam rubber stool and devouring children's fiction, classics, salacious thrillers, horror and sci-fi, books about cinema and origami and natural history, to the point where my parents encouraged me to read a little less.
The old man slowly raised himself from the piano stool, fixed those cheerful blue eyes piercingly and at the same time with unimaginable friendliness upon him, and said: "Making music together is the best way for two people to become friends. There is none easier. That is a fine thing. I hope you and I shall remain friends. Perhaps you too will learn how to make fugues, Joseph.
Orma moved a pile of books off a stool for me but seated himself directly on another stack. This habit of his never ceased to amuse me. Dragons no longer hoarded gold; Comonot's reforms had outlawed it. For Orma and his generation, knowledge was treasure. As dragons through the ages had done, he gathered it and then he sat on it.
I went from a playing in a bar on a bar stool for free beer and tip money, where people weren't paying attention to me, to now I've got their attention. It's up to me to what I feed them with my music. It's up to me how I do that. I've put a lot of thought into how great the songs are, and how I want people to perceive me.
Like a stool which needs three legs to be stable, mathematics education needs three components: good problems, with many of them being multi-step ones, a lot of technical skill, and then a broader view which contains the abstract nature of mathematics and proofs. One does not get all of these at once, but a good mathematics program has them as goals and makes incremental steps toward them at all levels.
Long fiction is wonderful and you can lose yourself in it as a reader and as a writer, but short stories don't allow the same kind of immersion. Often the best stories hold you back and make you witness them. This may be one of the reasons some people reject the form. That and the fact that they are harder work to read. A story will not let you get comfortable and settle in. It is like a stool that is so small that you must always be aware of sitting.
Both of us take a moment to put our thoughts in order. I'm staring down at my glass when the pause in conversation is interrupted. 'Come with me, now!' He grabs hold of my drink just as I'm about to take a swig, and puts it back down on the bar before dragging me off the stool. I was really looking forward to that as well! However, he doesn't give me much choice as he downs what he had left in his glass and leaves the new pint untouched. Intensity flickers in his eyes.
My mind argued with itself about whether to adhere to proper etiquette or whether to fling aside all modesty and throw my arms around him. My feet chose the latter before my mind had a chance to settle it. I flew off the stool and landed in his embrace. Freezing rain drenched his coat and shirt. His arms wrapped around me tighter, and there was nothing so right as being pressed against Nathaniel Strider.
She positions herself on a stool in front of a giant washing machine, watching her garments twirl in flashing patterns of red and white on a sea of black. It subdues her, that clothes can be washed in Boston or Rome and look the same for it, that she can step on an airplane and be anywhere else in the civilized world within a day and wear the same clothes and be the same person. That the small realities stay knitted together!
Seven years I worked at the Polish deli. It's a very slow deli. So I sat around a lot on my stool at the cashier. And I'd sign my autograph on all the bags I'd put the milk in. Just everyday, practice my autograph. And the manager of the store would take some of them and tape them against the wall. And he'd say, "Some day, I'm telling you, it will be worth something." And I'm like 13, going, "Really?!" And when I go back there, he still has them on the wall. It's very cute.
Vee is my un-twin. She's green-eyed, milky blond, and a few pounds over curvy. I'm a smoky-eyed brunette with volumes of curly hair that holds its own against even the best flatiron. And I'm all legs, like a bar stool. But there is an invisible thread the ties us together; both of us swear that tie began long before birth. Both of us swear it will continue to hold for the rest of our lives.
The problem is that you are too much in love. You are here because your parents mentioned your name to someone who mentioned your parents' name to someone who mentioned your name to my superior who suggested that I might find a position for you. And so here you sit blocking my light and dripping on my floor, eager to tell me that you love the paintings in my museum. That you have known them, admired them, dreamt of them since you were a little girl. I wish it were otherwise but all this means nothing to me. Everyone who has sat on that stool has claimed your devotion.
I'm often asked, Which is more important--attitude or skill? The answer is that it's somewhat like asking which leg of a three-legged stool is most important. It is my complete conviction, based on a considerable amount of research, that if you have the right attitude, combined with the right skills, and build your attitude and your skills on a solid character base, you can enjoy long-lasting success.
Hope is one leg of a three-legged stool, together with faith and charity. These three stabilize our lives regardless of the rough or uneven surfaces we might encounter at the time... Hope in our Heavenly Father's merciful plan of happiness leads to peace, mercy, rejoicing, and gladness. The hope of salvation is like a protective helmet; it is the foundation of our faith and an anchor to our souls.
Dieter F. Uchtdorf
I was in Cancun, Mexico, sitting in a disappearing-edge swimming pool, on a bar stool that was actually under the water, watching palm trees sway in a sultry breeze against the unmistakable aqua splendor of the Caribbean Sea; drinking coconut, lime, and tequila from a scooped-out pineapple, with salt spray of breaking surf and sun kissing my skin. Translation: I'd died and gone to heaven.
Karen Marie Moning
[Kenny] leaned back against the counter and studied the other man. "So Dex, how's come you're still alive to tell the tale?" Dexter wiped up a small coffee spill, the sat on the stool next to Torie. "All I'm prepared to say is that your sister and I slept together, and, since I compromised her, I intend to marry her." Torie dropped her forehead and banged it three times against the countertop. "You are such a geek." "Doesn't sound like she's too enthusiastic about it," Kenny said.
Susan Elizabeth Phillips
There were horrendous, dramatic, violent quantities of green slime""oodles of it. It covered Howl completely. It draped his head and shoulders in sticky dollops, heaping on his knees and hands, trickling in glops down his legs, and dripping off the stool in sticky strands. It was in oozing ponds and crawling pools over most of the floor. Long fingers of it had crept into the hearth. It smelled vile.
Diana Wynne Jones
I took the stool next to him, raising an eyebrow at the coffee and cruller on the counter. "Thought you weren't into internal pollution," I said. Lately Ranger'd been on a health food thing. "Props," Ranger told me. "Didn't want to look out of place." I didn't want to burst his fantasy bubble, but the only time Ranger wouldn't look out of place would be standing in a lineup between Rambo and Batman.
For a moment, off balance, was I annoyed? Anger is always fear, I thought, and fear is always fear of loss. Would I lose myself if he made those choices? It took a second to settle down: I'd lose nothing. They'd be his wishes, not mine, and he's free to live as he wants. The loss would come if I dared force him, tried to live for him and me as well. There'd be disaster worse than life on a bar stool.
From Time for College - Mr. Chiardi and Other Stories It was time for Junior to go to college. He'd sprouted pubic hair and was eyeing all the girls. 'I want to go to college, ' he said. 'Yes, ' I replied, 'It's time.' His mother, my wife, was resigned to the fact that it was time for Junior to leave the nest. She sat on a stool at the granite kitchen counter, spiked coffee beside her, reading The New York Times. She looked almost real.
Is it true, then, Mayor?" Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton warbled from the end of the counter. "Is Jesse Tatum officially dead?" "Dead is such an unflattering term, " he said, sliding onto his stool. "I prefer to think of Jesse as... passe." The Azalea Women gasped. "What's passe mean?" Tinks Williams asked the Colonel, his voice low. "Dead, " the Colonel said, refilling Tink's iced tea.
The whiskey was a good start. I got the idea from Dylan Thomas. He's this poet who drank twenty-one straight whiskeys at the White Horse Tavern in New York and then died on the spot from alcohol poisoning. I've always wanted to hear the bartender's side of the story. What was it like watching this guy drink himself out of here? How did it feel handing him number twenty-one and watching his face crumple up before the fall of the stool? And did he already have number twenty-two poured, waiting for this big fat tip, and then have to drink it himself after whoever came took the body away?
Michael Thomas Ford
When you are old, at evening candle-lit beside the fire bending to your wool, read out my verse and murmur, "Ronsard writ this praise for me when I was beautiful." And not a maid but, at the sound of it, though nodding at the stitch on broidered stool, will start awake, and bless love's benefit whose long fidelities bring Time to school. I shall be thin and ghost beneath the earth by myrtle shade in quiet after pain, but you, a crone, will crouch beside the hearth mourning my love and all your proud disdain. And since what comes to-morrow who can say? Live, pluck the roses of the world to-day.
Pierre de Ronsard
Suddenly, as one, all the Greys stop talking and gape at Christian. What? Christian is singing softly to himself at the piano. Silence descends on us all as we strain to hear his soft, lyrical voice. I've heard him sing before, haven't they? He stops, suddenly conscious of the deathly hush that's fallen over the room. Kate glances questioningly at me and I shrug. Christian turns on the stool and frowns, embarrassed to realize he's become the center of attention. 'Go on, ' Grace urges softly. 'I've never heard you sing, Christian. Ever.