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1 " When wiggling through a holethe world looks different thanwhen scrubbed clean by the wiggleand looking back. "
― Mark Nepo
2 " Interviewer: So. Tell me about your mother.Ezra: You're taping this, right?Interviewer: Audio only. Camera is faulty.Ezra: Okay, well for the benefit of the sight-impaired, I am now raising my… oh, dear… yes, it's my MIDDLE finger at Mr. Postgrad here.Interviewer: Mr. Mason...Ezra: Now I'm wiggling it.Interviewer: Terminating interview at 13:58 on 03/19/75.Ezra: Look at it wiggl--audio ends- "
― Amie Kaufman , Illuminae (The Illuminae Files, #1)
3 " Married?" she practically screeched, not sounding all that pleased, which left him feeling a little offended. " We're not getting married." He snorted at that. " I may have let you have your naughty little way with me for the past couple of months, but that doesn't mean I'm going to allow you to keep treating me like some dirty little boy toy. If you want to live with me then I expect you to put a ring on my finger," he said, holding up his left hand and wiggling his ring finger to punctuate his words. "
4 " Puck shook her head ruefully. " We haven't even solved the first problem, and I'm worrying about the next one. I must be an idiot." " No," Hush said, wiggling an impossible finger at her. " Only kindness. Very much kindness. "
5 " Rory's big labradoodle made a snap judgement that Frankie was everything her life had been missing up until now. She flung herself into the girl's arms, wiggling and whining, a shaggy mass of chocolate-colored enthusiasm." Mistral likes you, I see." While he, the one who filled the dog's food dish, had gotten nothing but suspicious glances since he arrived two days earlier." of course you like me" she said, baby-talking into the dog's fur, " I'm extremely likeable." If the dog's expression was any indication, Frankie was about to get nominated for sainthood....She glanced at him. " Maybe she'd like you more if you weren't so... testosterone-y." " But then you might like me less "
6 " And like flowers in the fields, that make wonderful views, when we stand side-by-side in our wonderful hues..We all make a beauty so wonderfully true.We are special and different, and just the same, too!So whenever you look at your beautiful skin, from your wiggling toes to your giggling grin...Think how lucky you are that the skin you live in, so beautifully holds the " You" who's within. "
7 " Socrates held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. " God gave me these hands to change the world, one child at a time. "
8 " Stop wiggling - you’ll move when I move you. "
― Heather McVea , Ela: Forever (Waking Forever, #2)
9 " Oh yes," said Jana. " You want the birdbath." She let him down onto the rim of the birdbath, then watched as he dipped his head, lowered his chest into the water, and raised it. Having finished his bath, he did a dance of sheer joy, flapping his wings and shaking off the water in a circle of drops. " He enjoys life," said a voice. Mr. Powell the optometrist, a closed umbrella in hand, was letting his two dachshunds chase each other around the park. " As do your dogs," said Jana. " Yes," said Mr. Powell," they have fun in a simpler and more joyous way than most humans do. Their pleasures seem more reliable. All you have to do is say the word 'walk' and they're wiggling from head to toe.... "
10 " She turned on the radio. Christmas music filled the car. She turned it off with a groan. " It's not going to turn you into an elf if you listen," he promised and liked the smile that played at the corner of her lips, wiggling the small mole that kept drawing his attention. She glanced at him. " Do you believe in Christmas?" " I do," he said without hesitation. " Even after all you've seen and done overseas?" " Especially because of that... "
11 " Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon’s daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar. "
― Bob Thurber , Nothing But Trouble
12 " I came to find you last night," Lena says more quietly. " When I knew there was going to be a raid...I snuck out. I was there when—when the regulators came. I barely made it out. Alex helped me. We hid in a shed until they were gone..." I close my eyes and reopen them. I remember wiggling into the damp earth, bumping my hip against the window. I remember standing, and seeing the dark forms of bodies lying like shadows in the grass, and the sharp geometry of a small she shed, nestled in the trees.Lena was there. It was almost unimaginable." I can't believe that. I can't believe you snuck out during a raid—for me." My throat feels thick again, and I will myself not to start crying. For a moment I am overwhelmed by a feeling so huge and strange, I have no name for it: It surges over the guilt and the shock and the envy; it plunges a hand into the deepest part of myself and roots me to Lena. "
13 " People think blood red, but blood don't got no colour. Not when blood wash the floor she lying on as she scream for that son of a bitch to come, the lone baby of 1785. Not when the baby wash in crimson and squealing like it just depart heaven to come to hell, another place of red. Not when the midwife know that the mother shed too much blood, and she who don't reach fourteen birthday yet speak curse 'pon the chile and the papa, and then she drop down dead like old horse. Not when blood spurt from the skin, on spring from the axe, the cat-o'-nine, the whip, the cane and the blackjack and every day in slave life is a day that colour red. It soon come to pass when red no different from white or blue or black or nothing. Two black legs spread wide and mother mouth screaming. A black baby wiggling in blood on the floor with skin darker than midnight but the greenest eyes anybody ever done seen. I goin' call her Lilith. You can call her what they call her. "
― Marlon James , The Book of Night Women
14 " She again patted the ground beside her. " Now come. Sit beside me. I will play with your cock while we eat." Elina hadn't even finished chewing the second bite of her food before the dragon suddenly dove into place next to her. A smile on his handsome face, his eyebrows wiggling in anticipation.He was adorably pathetic." Take care of your horse first, Dolt." " Take care of him?" " He cannot spend the all night wearing saddle and equipment." " Aye, but..." " I am not going anywhere. My hands will still be here to play with cock when you get back." " Promise? "
15 " America's strength has made it a sort of Gulliver in world affairs: By wiggling its toes it can, often inadvertently, break the arm of a Lilliputian. "