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1 " There's a psychological mechanism, I've come to believe, that prevents most of us from imagining the moment of our own death. For if it were possible to imagine fully that instant of passing from consciousness to nonexistence, with all the attendant fear and humiliation of absolute helplessness, it would be very hard to live. It would be unbearably obvious that death is inscribed in everything that constitutes life, that any moment of your existence may be only a breath away from being the last. We would be continuously devastated by the magnitude of that inescapable fact. Still, as we mature into our mortality, we begin to gingerly dip our horror-tingling toes into the void, hoping that our mind will somehow ease itself into dying, that God or some other soothing opiate will remain available as we venture into the darkness of non-being. "
― Aleksandar Hemon
2 " Well, well, well,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, little boy.”This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t fucking around.“I’m not really a little boy,” I pointed out.“Get on my lap, then, big boy.”I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his belly. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjustedhis crotch.“Ho ho ho!” he chortled.I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it.“Have you been a good little boy this year?” he asked.I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes.He actually wobbled with joy.“Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?”I thought it was obvious.“A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.”“So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a little something for you”—he shifted a little inhis seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’ll have to rub Santa’s belly.”“What?” I asked.He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.”I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat.“You know you want it,” he whispered.The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was.Fuck off, Lily. You can’t intimidate me.I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, Geshy, hairy … andhis belly was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole timehaving Santa laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hell!” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa. And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked itout, pulling some of his white belly hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped o1 his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed.The letter was in my hand, damp but intact.“He touched Santa!” a young child squealed. "
3 " The Viscount stepped into the room. " Came to see if you was dead," he said. " Laid Pom odds you weren't." Lethbridge passed his hand across his eyes. " I'm not," he replied in a faint voice." No. I'm sorry," said the Viscount simply. He wandered over to the table and sat down. " Horry said she killed you, Pom said So she might, I said No. Nonsense." Lethbridge still holding a hand to his aching head tried to pull himself together. " Did you?" he said. His eyes ran over his self invited guest. " I see. Let me assure you once more that I am very much alive." " Well I wish you'd put your wig on," complained the Viscount. " What I want to know is why did Horry hit you on the head with a poker?" Lethbridge gingerly felt his bruised scalp. " With a poker was it? Pray ask her, though I doubt if she will tell you." " You shouldn't keep the front door open," said the Viscount. " What's to stop people coming in and hitting you over the head? It's preposterous." " I wish you'd go home," said Lethbridge wearily.The Viscount surveyed the supper-table with a knowing eye." Card-party?" he inquired. "
4 " Gareth Miller grabbed the beer first, then the hotdog, because if there’s one thing you don’t want to be caught dead without at these sorts of events it’s beer. The hotdog was strictly for show, a prop, a way of blending in.Burst of static in his right ear: “G-man, you read me? What’s yo’ twenty, dawg?”Gareth departed the concession stand, stopped, looked down at his hands, and tossed the hotdog into the first trash receptacle he saw. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into the cuff of his long-sleeved tee. “Concession stand, Section B. Over.”Allowing his hand to linger by his chin, he gingerly scratched his cheek as if he had meant to do it all along. The same voice: “Yo, I’m in position. Ready when you is.”Gareth cringed while crossing the wide concourse, checking both directions. The giant hallway was the main drag of a ghost town, its only residents a solitary custodian sweeping debris into a portable waste bin and the concession crew to his rear. "
― Jay Nichols , Uprising
5 " Apparently, we're all in the frame," I heard Harry murmur somewhere behind me. And I whirled back to him. Innate, irrational anger surged. Then stopped, dead - as I suddenly took in Handsome, Robert and Doc. They were all staring at me. They were concentrating, all resolute, all a tad furrow-browed… upon my face.Self-consciousness burgeoned. I gingerly fingered my and lips and my chin," Am I drooling?" " Your arse is hanging out," said Harry, not looking up from the forensics he was scanning.And so it was.Handsome, Robert and Doc averted their eyes as I, wishing I'd merely been dribbling, grabbed the back flaps of my breezy hospital gown, fully placed my back against the wall. Then, thinking better of it, dived hurriedly, carefully, back into bed.If Chinese Lady'd been here, she could've, would've, told me.I missed her already. "
6 " It felt like an eternity before he gingerly lifted himself from the table and staggered backwards. Glass shards protruded from chest to groin. The guy looked like a bloody porcupine. A cute, tall bloody porcupine. I’m tall too. Five foot ten. But he had at least four inches on me, even with my thick-heeled boots.“What’s your name?” he slurred. While visions of reckless homicide charges danced in my head, I contemplated using an alias. Finally, I said my real name, “Sam.”“Nice to meet you, Sammers. I’m Jake,” he said. "
― Betsy Cook Speer , Demolition Queen - Champagne, Murder & Chaos
7 " Tea- The sweetness of love,The fragrance of flowers,The comfort of a friend,The warmth of a hug-Such great delight gingerly poured from a single pink teapot. "
― , The Happy Rosy Day Book, Happiness Blossoms: A Keepsake Gratitude Journal
8 " He tousled Baby's hair, then looked up at Tiger Lily. " The woods have rules." He put Baby down gingerly in his trough with his bottle. " But the rules are ugly." " It's nature," she said, thoughtfully." I have a lot of disagreements with nature," he said, looking confused, and his downy brow wrinkled over his eyes. "