Getting Caught Up In The Moment Quotes

Zoe - " I said.

"Stars," she whispered. "I can see the stars again, my lady."

A tear trickled down Artemis's cheek. "Yes, my brave one. They are beautiful tonight."

"Stars," Zoe repeated. Her eyes fixed on the night sky. And she did not move again.

Thalia lowered her head. Annabeth gulped down a sob, and her father put his hands on her shoulders. I watched as Artemis cupped her hand above Zoe's mouth and spoke a few words in Ancient Greek. A silvery wisp of smoke exhaled from Zoe's lips and was caught in the hand of the goddess. Zoe's body shimmered and disappeared.

Artemis stood, said a kind of blessing, breathed into her cupped hand and released the silver dust to the sky. It flew up, sparkling, and vanished.

For a moment I didn't see anything different. Then Annabeth gasped. Looking up in the sky, I saw that the stars were brighter now. They made a pattern I had never noticed before - a gleaming constellation that looked a lot like a girl's figure - a girl with a bow, running across the sky.

"Let the world honor you, my Huntress," Artemis said. "Live forever in the stars. ~ Rick Riordan

The egoic mind imagines a problem, and then it imagines a solution. When we get caught up in these thoughts, we feel like we have a problem that has to be solved before we can be happy. But the problem is just imagined! When we drop out of involvement with these thoughts and into the simple experience of the present moment, we discover that everything is fine just the way it is. Life never had to be any different than it is, nor do we. We can be the "imperfect" human we are. In fact, we weren't designed to be anything other than the human being that we are. ~ Gina Lake

Back in Paris they had happy moments together, like stills from a perfume ad (dashing hand in hand down the steps of Montmartre; or suddenly revealed in motionless embrace on the Pont des Arts by the lights of a bateau-mouche as it turned). There were the Sunday afternoon half-arguments, too, the moments of silence when bodies curl up beneath the sheets on the long shores of silence and apathy where life founders. Annabelle's studio was so dark they had to turn on the lights at four in the afternoon. They sometimes were sad, but mostly they were serious. Both of them knew that this would be their last human relationship, and this feeling lacerated every moment they spent together. They had a great respect and a profound sympathy for each other, and there were days when, caught up in some sudden magic, they knew moments of fresh air and glorious, bracing sunshine. For the most part, however, they could feel a gray shadow moving over them, on the earth that supported them, and in everything they could glimpse the end. ~ Michel Houellebecq

The whirlwind of life
It was true. Sometimes life was like that, a wonderful whirlwind that fills us with joy, like a ride on a merry-go-round when we are children. A whirlwind of love and drunkenness when you sleep in someones arms, in a tiny bed, getting up for breakfast at midday because you've spent the morning making love. But sometimes a whirlwind destroys things, like a violent typhoon that tries to drag us down, when we have been caught by the storm, when we realize that we have to face the tempest alone. And we are afraid. ~ Guillaume Musso

Batman can create as many crappy trophies as he wants. They don't change a thing. They're built on lies and sand. And they will fall. Like his whole damn world. It's important for me to stay on mission. No distractions. I'm here to make sure I can follow his moves throughout the city. Not get caught up in his imaginary nostalgia. There's nothing to be gained getting caught up in his gravity. Nothing. ~ Peter J. Tomasi

I'm sorry. I know how much players have to focus, and I know not to be a distraction. I just got caught up in the moment, in the great game, in your terrific pitching."

But I felt a need to explain more.

"Look, Jason, I love baseball. I love the crack of the bat hitting the ball. I love the seventh-inning stretch and singing 'Take Me Out to the Ball Game.' I love eating hot dogs and standing for the singing of the national anthem. I love doing the wave. I love Kiss Cam. I love that the game isn't over until it's over.

"I love the thrill of a home run and the disappointment of an out at first. I love the way a batter stands at the plate and the catcher readies himself to receive the pitch. I love watching the pitcher windup. I love sitting in the stands and feeling like I'm part of the game.

"And tonight, watching you pitch, I forgot that I'm only a small part - the spectator. Watching you, I felt like I was in the game, out on that field with you. You're out there on the mound, living a dream that so few people ever experience.

"I'm sorry, sorry that tonight I ruined the moment for you."

He was staring at me intently. I'd just bared my soul. Why didn't he speak? What could he possibly be thinking?

My nerves stretched taut.

"Say something," I demanded.

"There's nothing else to say," he said in that quiet way he had.

Then he lowered his head and kissed me. ~ Rachel Hawthorne

Bonnaroo is the most significant festival in the country. I can sometimes just get caught up in the moment and listening and say, 'Oops, I gotta go sing now.' ~ Richie Furay

I'm not a good listener some times. I'm too much of a control freak. I'm learning to be better. I was so caught up in just getting the job done that I would miss out on the human aspect of this. There was a connection missing. ~ Howard Stern

It was as if a rocket had exploded inside him, flooding all the dark places in his mind with light when he had caught up in that dynamic moment with the lead his instinct for adventure had given him. ~ Leslie Charteris

His ears caught a sweet chiming noise, and a moment later a warm rush fell over his body. How we doing Rhage? Too hot? Butch's voice. Up close. The cop was in the shower with him. And he smelled Turkish tobacco. V must be in the bathroom too. Hollywood? This too hot for you? No. He reached around for the soap, fumbling. Can't see. Just as well. No reason for you to know what we look naked together. Frankly, I'm traumatized enough for the both of us. Rhage smiled a little as a washcloth scrubbed over his face, neck and chest. ~ J.R. Ward

Ding!

Lady Elizabeth Figgles. Her father's a viscount and a member of Parliament, and she's also Sam Berkinshire's - an old schoolmate and one of my dearest friends - girlfriend.

"Elizabeth? What the hell are you doing here? Where's Sam?"

"Sam can go fucking die." She looks right at the camera. "Are you getting this? You can go fucking die, Sam! I hope your prick gets caught in a wood chipper, you cheating bastard!"

"He cheated on you? Sam?"

Sam's a great guy. The kind of guy even really good guys want to be more like. He makes Abraham Lincoln look like a lying shit.

"Your face right now, that's exactly how I looked when I found out - but a hell of a lot angrier. I found receipts, knickers that weren't mine, rubbers. Faithless, worthless son of a bitch."

She bangs the table and her nails are long enough to double as claws.

"Now I want Sam to see what it feels like. So I'm going to fuck you. On television. A lot. Hopefully live. You'd better rest up, Henry. I brought lube - a whole bucket of it."

Wow.

Ding! ~ Emma Chase

In the beginning was the Word'. I have taken as my text this evening the almighty Word itself. Now get this: 'There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe.' Amen, brothers and sisters, Amen. And the riddle of the Word, 'In the beginning was the Word....' Now what do you suppose old John meant by that? That cat was a preacher, and, well, you know how it is with preachers; he had something big on his mind. Oh my, it was big; it was the Truth, and it was heavy, and old John hurried to set it down. And in his hurry he said too much. 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.' It was the Truth, all right, but it was more than the Truth. The Truth was overgrown with fat, and the fat was God. The fat was John's God, and God stood between John and the Truth. Old John, see, he got up one morning and caught sight of the Truth. It must have been like a bolt of lightning, and the sight of it made him blind. And for a moment the vision burned on the back of his eyes, and he knew what it was. In that instant he saw something he had never seen before and would never see again. That was the instant of revelation, inspiration, Truth. And old John, he must have fallen down on his knees. Man, he must have been shaking and laughing and crying and yelling and praying - all at the same time - and he must have been drunk and delirious with the Truth. You see ~ N. Scott Momaday

You stand there all tan and glowing and wonder why I use Voice on you?" he bellowed. "Where the hell do you get off? You've been with V'lane again. How many slaps in the face do you think I'm going to take, Ms. Lane?" He grabbed my fist and held it when I tried to punch him again. I swung at him with the other. He caught that, too. "I warned you not to play us against each other."
"I'm not playing you! I'm trying to survive. And I don't slap you when I go off with V'lane!" I tried to yank my fists from his hands. "It doesn't have anything to do with you. I'm trying to get answers, and since you won't give me any, you can't blame me for going somewhere else."
"So, the man who doesn't get laid at home has the right to go off and cheat?"
"Huh?"
"Which word didn't you understand?" he sneered.
"You're the one who's crippled by illogic. This isn't home, it never will be, and nobody's getting laid!" I practically shouted.
"You think I don't know that?" He shifted his body beneath me, making me painfully aware of something. Two somethings, in fact, one of which was how far up my short skirt was. The other wasn't my problem. I wriggled, to shimmy my hem down, but his expression perished the thought. When Barrons looks at me like that, it rattles me. Lust, in those ancient, obsidian eyes, offers no trace of humanity. Doesn't even bother trying.
Savage Mac wants to invite it to come out and play. I think she's nuts. Nuts, I tell you.
"Let go of my ~ Karen Marie Moning

I was going to say, let alone that I might find a mate."
Vic's heart swelled, and in that moment, he knew his feelings weren't simply a case of misplaced lust, that Kellan meant something to him, that he had been led to Vale Valley for more than sanctuary. They might not be able to have a family since they couldn't possibly be fated mates, but that was all right. They'd still have each other.
"Kellan, have you ever been kissed?"
Kellan blinked up at him as he shook his head.
Vic framed Kellan's face with his hands. "Then I think we should do something about that."
He held Kellan's gaze for a moment before descending on him, capturing Kellan's lips with his own, moving them over Kellan's mouth. He kept his touch slow and gentle, imprinting the memory of their first kiss to hold dear in his heart forever. Kellan melted against his frame and kissed him back, his technique clumsy, but earnest. As their exchange heated, Vic wrapped one hand around Kellan's nape and grasped his waist with the other. Kellan opened up to him and Vic dipped his tongue into Kellan's willing mouth, tasting and exploring as much of the sweet man as he could.
Vic slowed the kiss before they got too carried away, still mindful of not overwhelming him. When he broke the connection, he framed Kellan's face again and pressed his lips to Kellan's forehead to seal his intent. They stared into each other's eyes in silence as they caught their breath again.
Kellan curled ~ M.M. Wilde

She regretted volunteering, as getting off the ship required wading in chest-deep water. It was very cold and took her breath away. Her robe billowed around her as she struggled to find traction in the ground below.

A strong wave struck her from behind and she started to fall face forward. Hadrian caught her by the elbow and held her up.

"Thank you. I thought I was going for a swim there," she told him.

"Bad form on the wave's part, sneaking up and attacking you from the back like that."

"Not very chivalrous, was it?"

"Not at all - I'd complain. ~ Michael J. Sullivan

What happened?" Violet asked Jay, when Mike went to join the girls in the kitchen, giving them a moment alone in front of the fire.
Jay shook his head, his expression dark. "You tell me. One minute you were leaning on me, and the next you passed out. It freaked the shit out of me."
"Claire actually screamed," Chelsea added, rejoining them. She sat down on a wooden chair across from Violet. "I can't believe you didn't hear her. I'm with Jay though-it was pretty scary. You're lucky he caught you before you hit the ground."
Violet cringed. She glanced up at Jay, humiliated. "You…caught me?"
He nodded, and she could tell from the look on his face that he was enjoying this part. A lot. "You're welcome," he said with a completely straight face.
She looked at him again and rolled her eyes, stubbornly refusing to thank him after he'd already so clearly patted himself on the back.
Megan came back in, carrying a mug of hot chocolate, and Claire trailed behind her.
"Be careful," Megan warned quietly, handing it to Violet. "It's kind of hot."
Their fingertips brushed as the mug exchanged hands. Violet locked eyes with the younger girl. "Thank you." She imparted as much meaning as she could in the two simple words and hoped that it was gesture enough, even if only for herself. She felt bad for the things she'd suspected her of doing.
Megan pulled her hand away and glanced down nervously. "You're welcome." Her voice was timid and hesitant.
~ Kimberly Derting

He could also be terrible romantic and thoughtful. My job was a real challenge. The work was difficult and the boss demanding: he thought nothing of calling or emailing at odd hours, even on the weekend; you ignored him at your peril.
There was a point at which everything got to me. And it was exactly at that moment that Chris stepped in and planned a weekend getaway. He found a little cabin out in the woods where there was no cell phone reception-yes!-and without telling anyone, we made our getaway.
Almost. I actually called the boss and told him my cell reception was giving out, and so I wouldn't be able to check messages, something he expected even on the weekends.
As soon as we got to the cabin, I headed to the bedroom. Inside, I opened my suitcase and changed into sexy white Victoria's Secret-style lingerie, complete with corset and thigh-highs. Feeling a little shy and silly, I walked out and leaned against the doorway of the living room where he was sitting.
"Hey!"
"Yeah?" he mumbled from the couch, not bothering to look up from the magazine he was reading.
"Turn around," I said.
He turned around-slowly at first. But as soon as he caught sight of me in that lingerie, he hopped clear over the couch and chased me down the hall to the bedroom. I squealed and giggled the whole way. ~ Taya Kyle

Ending

I lied.
I wanted you from that moment.
I wanted you, wrapped in starlight and reflections,
To be tied up with strings.
And ropes.
And chains.
I wanted you hanging around my neck
Like a charm I could press to my heart and
Make three wishes on.

But I trapped the want
And the words inside my mouth.
I buried those secret things under my tongue,
Biting down until blood and bitterness
Filled my mouth
And poured down the back of my throat.

In the beginning, you said, there was only water.
But what about the end?

I closed my eyes and lay flat
With my back to the ocean
And my face to the sky.
I lifted my hands and caught ribbons of wind
Underneath my fingernails.
I rode the water for so long,
I forgot what my skin felt like when it was dry. ~ Autumn Doughton

Zane turned his attention to the bus. Phoebe got a bad feeling when she caught sight of the worn sandals, tie-dyed T-shirts and woven hats on the next couple to disembark.
"Hey," the man said. "I'm Martin Lagarde and this is my wife, Andrea."
The woman, a thirtysomething brunette with freckles and glasses, shook hands with Zane.
"We're so excited to be here. Martin and I just love being in the outdoors. We've hiked all over, and last year we did a week at a meditation retreat in Hawaii, but we've never done anything like this." She continued to pump his hand as her expression turned earnest. "We really want this opportunity to be one with the land. To experience a different kind of life. The Old West." She finally released Zane's hand. "We're vegetarians. I hope that won't be a problem."
Zane considered them for a moment, then said, "Not for me." He jerked his head toward the compartment beneath the bus that the driver had opened. "Collect your gear and head inside. Chase will show you where you'll bunk tonight."
"Sure thing," Martin said.
He held up his hand for a high five. When Zane simply stared at him, Martin grabbed Zane's wrist and pulled it until it was level with his shoulder, then slapped his hand against Zane's.
When he walked away, Zane turned to look at her. "Two starving kids and tree-hugging vegetarians. I'm going to kill Chase. ~ Susan Mallery

The tide of our national meanness rises incrementally, one brutalizing experience at a time, inside one person at a time in a chain of working-class Americans stretching back for decades. Back to the terror-filled nineteen-year-old girl from Weirton, West Virginia, who patrols the sweat-smelling halls of one of the empire's far-flung prisons at midnight. Back to my neighbor's eighty-year-old father, who remembers getting paid $2 apiece for literally cracking open the heads of union organizers at our textile and sewing mills during the days of Virginia's Byrd political machine. (It was the Depression and the old man needed the money to support his family.) The brutal way in which America's hardest-working folks historically were forced to internalize the values of a gangster capitalist class continues to elude the left, which, with few exceptions, understands not a thing about how this political and economic system has hammered the humanity of ordinary working people.

Much of the ongoing battle for America's soul is about healing the souls of these Americans and rousing them from the stupefying glut of commodity and spectacle. It is about making sure that they - and we - refuse to accept torture as the act of "heroes" and babies deformed by depleted uranium as the "price of freedom." Caught up in the great self-referential hologram of imperial America, force-fed goods and hubris like fattened steers, working people like World Championship Wrestling and Confederate f ~ Joe Bageant

He approached her, his voice taking on a seductive tenor. "Shall we seal it with a kiss, then?"
Callie caught her breath and stiffened at the question. Ralston smiled at her obvious nerves. He ran a finger along the edge of her hairline, tucking a rogue lock of hair behind her ear gently. She looked up at him with her wide brown eyes, and he felt a burst of tenderness in his chest. He leaned close, moving slowly, as though she might scare at any moment, and his firm mouth brushed across hers, settling briefly, barely touching before she jumped back, one hand flying to her lips.
He leveled her with a frank gaze and waited for her to speak. When she didn't, he asked, "Is there a problem?"
"N-No!" she said, a touch too loudly. "Not at all, my lord. That is- Thank you."
His breath exhaled on a half laugh. "I'm afraid that you have mistaken the experience." He paused, watching the confusion cross her face. "You see, when I agree to something, I do it wholeheartedly. That was not the kiss for which you came, little mouse."
Callie wrinkled her nose at his words, and at the nickname he had used for her. "It wasn't?"
"No."
Her nervousness flared, and she resumed toying with her cloak tassel. "Oh, well. It was quite nice. I find I am quite satisfied that you have held up your end of our bargain."
"Quite nice isn't what you should be aiming for," he said, taking her restless hands into his own and allowing his voice to deepen. "Neither should the ~ Sarah MacLean

It's important to keep up appearances with books," I explained. "Image goes a long way in this business."

He dared a look over at me, still nervous but steadily recovering his composure. "I go more for content."

"Really?" I repositioned slightly so that we were touching again, the soft flannel of his shirt brushing my bare skin. "Because I could have sworn a moment ago you were pretty caught up in outside appearance."

His eyes shifted down again, but I could see a smile curving his lips. "Well. Some things are so striking, they can't help but draw attention to themselves."

"And doesn't that make you curious about what's inside?"

"Mostly it makes me want to get you some advanced copies."

Advanced copies? What did he - ?

"Seth? Seth, where - ah, there you are." Paige turned down our aisle, Doug following behind. She brightened when she saw me, and I felt my stomach sink out of me and hit the floor with a thud as I put two and two together. No. No. It couldn't be -

"Ah, Georgina. I see you've already met Seth Mortensen. ~ Richelle Mead

She knew how to play him so very well.
He slipped his hand around hers. "Friends," he repeated roughly.
Her smile was bright enough to light up the room-and make him see stars. "Excellent! I'm so pleased. And now I really should go. I don't want to keep your family waiting."
His family. She was going out with his family. His mother and sister, who would no doubt think her absolutely perfect.
Perfect for Archer, who his mother was determined to see married, now that she had given up all hopes for Grey. Or perhaps they'd want her for Trystan, although he was still living the life of an adventurous young man.
"Have fun," he encouraged with all the false enthusiasm he could muster.
She flashed a quick grin at him over her shoulder as she made for the door. "I'm sure I will. Your brother will see to that."
As far as parting shots went, it wasn't bad. By no means mortal, but deep enough to wound never the less.
Alone once more, Grey returned to his chair and pulled the copy of Voluptuous out from underneath the cushion of the other. He stared at it for a moment, contemplating finishing the article on pleasing a woman orally.
And then, with a snarl, he flung the pages into the fire, watching ash and embers fly up in the assault. The paper caught quickly, giving off a sudden bloom of heat.
Women, he thought as he watched the magazine's mocking text blacken and char.
He would be much happier in his misery without them. ~ Kathryn Smith

Isn't she doing this too? Connecting and disconnecting. Facing grief then turning from it. One minute she is caught up in minutiae. Will her feet get sore standing in heels at the church? Have they made enough food? Will the kitten get scared by dozens of strangers in the house? Should she shut him in a room upstairs? The next moment she is weeping uncontrollably, taken over by pain so profound she can barely move. Then there was the salad bowl incident; her own fury scared her. But maybe these are different ways of dealing with events for all of them. Molly and Luke are infantile echos of her, their emotions paired down, their reactions simpler but similar. For if they have difficulty taking in what has happened, then so too does she. Why is she dressing up, for instance? Why can't she wear clothes to reflect the fact that she is at her lowest end? A tracksuit, a jumper full of holes, dirty jeans? Why can't she leave her hair a mess, her face unmade up? The crazed and grieving Karen doesn't care about her appearance. Yet she must go through with this charade, polish herself and her children to perfection. She, in particular, must hold it together. Oh, she can cry, yes, that's allowed. People expect that. They will sympathize. But what about screaming, howling, and hurling plates like she did yesterday? She imagines the shocked faces as she shouts and swears and smashes everything. But she is so angry, surely others must feel the same. Maybe a plate throwing ceremony would be ~ Sarah Rayner

My dress is caught in the settee. And I would be much obliged if you would help me out of it!" "The dress or the settee?" the stranger asked, sounding interested. "The settee," Pandora said irritably. "I'm all tangled up in these dratted - " she hesitated, wondering what to call the elaborate wooden curls and twists carved into the back of the settee. " - swirladingles," she finished. "Acanthus scrolls," the man said at the same time. A second passed before he asked blankly, "What did you call them?" "Never mind," Pandora said with chagrin. "I have a bad habit of making up words, and I'm not supposed to say them in public." "Why not?" "People might think I'm eccentric." His quiet laugh awakened a ticklish feeling in her stomach. "At the moment, darling, made-up words are the least of your problems. ~ Lisa Kleypas

Anna's attention was focused on a single patient. Ariadne Bridgestock lay quietly against the white pillows. Her eyes were shut, and her rich brown skin was ashen, stretching tightly over the branching black veins beneath her skin.
Anna slipped in between the screens surrounding Ariadne's cot, and Cordelia followed, feeling slightly awkward. Was she intruding? But Anna looked up, as if to assure herself that Cordelia was there, before she knelt down at the side of Ariadne's bed, laying her walking stick on the floor.
Anna's bowed shoulders looked strangely vulnerable. One of her hands dangled at her side: she reached out the other, fingers moving slowly across the white linen sheets, until she was almost touching Ariadne's hand.
She did not take it. At the last moment, Anna's fingers curled and dropped to rest, beside Ariadne but not quite touching. In a low and steady voice, Anna said, "Ariadne. When you wake up - and you will wake up - I want you to remember this. It was never a sign of your worth that Charles Fairchild wanted to marry you. It is a measure of his lack of worth that he chose to break it off in such a manner."
"He broke it off?" Cordelia whispered. She was stunned. The breaking off of a promised engagement was a serious matter, undertaken usually only when one of the parties in question had committed some kind of serious crime or been caught in an affair. For Charles to break his promise to Ariadne while she lay unconscious was appalling. ~ Cassandra Clare

Their eyes met.
For a split second she caught a glimpse of heat in his eyes. Then Jake banked the flame and broke out of her embrace.
Marnie felt a hot blush rise from her toes to her nose.
It took a moment for her eyes to focus and her brain to function. Bewildered, she looked up to find him watching her. His heavy-lidded eyes held a strange desperation as he reached back and unhooked the vice of her ankles from around his wiast.
Her legs dropped. Her heels thumped against the cabinet.
Beneath his hawklike gaze she felt stripped bare and vulnerable. He studied her face, seeming to see more than her features. He seemed to delve into her mind, to touch things deep and frightening - parts of herself Marnie was still exploring.
The muscles in his jaw knotted and unknotted. After a moment he stepped back and casually, but with difficulty, adjusted his jeans
Heat flooded her cheeks. Legs splayed, nipples peaked to his clinical gaze, she'd never experienced such acute embarrassment in her life. Her breath hitched as she jumped off the counter, tugging her top down and her pants up.
At a loss for hers, she half laughed. "I have absolutely no idea what to say." Which was a reasonable start, she guessed. It was rare for her to be speechless. But then, this was a day of firsts.
"I told you you weren't my type." The brass button on his jeans closed like the clasp of a miser's purse. Other than a faint flush on the ridge of his cheekbones and ~ Cherry Adair

Tell me, Princess Olivia... why do you have to stay in your tower?"
The soft entreaty made Livia feel as if she were melting inside. She laughed unsteadily, wishing for a moment that she dared to trust him. But the habit of independence was too strong. Shaking her head, Livia approached him, expecting him to back away from the doorway. He retreated half a step, his hands still grasping the edges of the doorway, so that she couldn't help but walk into an open-armed embrace. The bonnet ribbons slipped from her fingers.
"Mr. Shaw-" she began, making the mistake of looking up at him.
"Gideon," he whispered. "I want to know your secrets, Olivia."
A bitter half smile touched her lips. "You'll hear them sooner or later from other people."
"I want to hear them from you."
As Livia began to retreat into the glasshouse, Shaw deftly caught the little cloth belt of her walking dress. His long fingers hooked beneath the reinforced fabric.
Unable to back away from him, Livia clamped her hand over his, while a hectic blush flooded her face. She knew that he was toying with her, and that she once might have been able to manage this situation with relative ease. But not now.
When she spoke, her voice was husky. "I can't do this, Mr. Shaw."
To her amazement, he seemed to understand exactly what she meant. "You don't have to do anything," he said softly. "Just let me come closer... and stay right there..." His head bent, and he found her mouth easily. ~ Lisa Kleypas

For if there are no waving flags and marching songs at the barricades as Walter marches out with his little battalion, it is not because the battle lacks nobility. On the contrary, he has picked up in his way, still imperfect and wobbly in his small view of human destiny, what I believe Arthur Miller once called "the golden threat of history." He becomes, in spite of those who are too intrigued with despair and hatred of man to see it, King Oedipus refusing to tear out his eyes, but attacking the Oracle instead. He is that last Jewish patriot manning his rifle at Warsaw; he is that young girl who swam into sharks to save a friend a few weeks ago; he is Anne Frank, still believing in people; he is the nine small heroes of Little Rock; he is Michelangelo creating David and Beethoven bursting forth with the Ninth Symphony. He is all those things because he has finally reached out in his tiny moment and caught that sweet essence which is human dignity, and it shines like the old star-touched dream that it is in his eyes. ~ Lorraine Hansberry

Nicaise had picked up a gilt three-pronged fork, but had paused before sampling the dish in order to speak. The fear he'd shown of Damen at the ring seemed to still be there. His knuckles, clenched around the fork, were white.

'It's all right,' said Damen. He spoke to the boy as gently as he could. 'I'm not going to hurt you.'

Nicaise stared back at him. His huge blue eyes were fringed like a whore's, or like a doe's. Around them, the table was a coloured wall of voices and laughter, courtiers caught up in their own amusements, paying them no attention.

'Good,' said Nicaise, and stabbed the fork viciously into Damen's thigh under the table.

Even through a layer of cloth, it was enough to make Damen start, and instinctively grab the fork, as three drops of blood welled up.

'Excuse me a moment,' Laurent said smoothly, turning from Torveld to face Nicaise.

'I made your pet jump,' said Nicaise, smugly.

Not sounding at all displeased: 'Yes, you did.'

'Whatever you're planning, it's not going to work.'

'I think it will, though. Bet you your earring.'

'If I win, you wear it,' said Nicaise.

Laurent immediately lifted his cup and inclined it toward Nicaise in a little gesture sealing the bet. Damen tried to shake the bizarre impression that they were enjoying themselves.

Nicaise waved an attendant over and asked for a new fork. ~ C.S. Pacat

Finders keepers!" Ian shouted, scooping up the overlay and hopping onto a rock outcropping.
"You cheater!" Amy was furious. No way was he going to get away with that. She climbed the rock, matching him step for step until she reached the top. There he turned to her, panting for breath. "Not bad for a Cahill," he said, grinning.
"You --y-y-you--" The words caught in her throat, the way they always did. He was staring at her, his eyes dancing with laughter, making her so knotted up with anger and hatred that she thought she would explode. "C-c-can't--"
But in that moment, something totally weird happened. Maybe it was a flip of his head, a movement in his eyebrow, she couldn't tell. But it was as if someone had suddenly held a painting at a different angle, and what appeared to be a stormy sea transformed into a bright bouquet -- a trick of the eye that proved everything was just a matter of perspective. His eyes were not mocking at all. They were inviting her, asking her to laugh along. Suddenly, her rage billowed up and blew off in wisps, like a cloud. "You're ... a Cahill, too," she replied.
"Touche."
His eyes didn't move a millimeter from hers.
This time she met his gaze. Solidly. This time she didn't feel like apologizing or attacking or running away. She wouldn't have minded if he just stared like that all day. ~ Peter Lerangis

I waver, continually fly to the summit of the mountain, but cannot stay up there for more than a moment. Others waver too, but in lower regions, with greater strength; if they are in danger of falling, they are caught up by the kinsman who walks beside them for that purpose. But I waver on the heights; it is not death, alas, but the eternal torments of dying. ~ Franz Kafka

I landed on my side, my hip taking the brunt of the fall. It burned and stung from the hit, but I ignored it and struggled to sit up quickly. There really was no point in hurrying so no one would see.
Everyone already saw
A pair of jean-clad legs appeared before me, and my suitcase and all my other stuff was dropped nearby.
"Whatcha doing down there?" Romeo drawled, his hands on his hips as he stared down at me with dancing blue eyes.
"Making a snow angel," I quipped. I glanced down at my hands, which were covered with wet snow and bits of salt (to keep the pavement from getting icy).
Clearly, ice wasn't required for me to fall.
A small group of girls just "happened by", and by that I mean they'd been staring at Romeo with puppy dog eyes and giving me the stink eye. When I fell, they took it as an opportunity to descend like buzzards stalking the dead. Their leader was the girl who approached me the very first day I'd worn Romeo's hoodie around campus and told me he'd get bored. As they stalked closer, looking like clones from the movie Mean Girls, I caught the calculating look in her eyes. This wasn't going to be good.
I pushed up off the ground so I wouldn't feel so vulnerable, but the new snow was slick and my hand slid right out from under me and I fell back again. Romeo was there immediately, the teasing light in his eyes gone as he slid his hand around my back and started to pull me up. "Careful, babe." he said gently.
The girls ~ Cambria Hebert

Ged saw all these things from outside and apart, alone, and his heart was very heavy in him, though he would not admit to himself that he was sad. As night fell he still lingered in the streets, reluctant to go back to the inn. He heard a man and a girl talking together merrily as they came down the street past him towards the town square, and all at once he turned, for he knew the man's voice.

He followed and caught up with the pair, coming up beside them in the late twilight lit only by distant lantern-gleams. The girl stepped back, but the man stared at him and then flung up the staff he carried, holding it between them as a barrier to ward off the threat or act of evil. And that was somewhat more than Ged could bear. His voice shook a little as he said, "I thought you would know me, Vetch."

Even then Vetch hesitated for a moment.

"I do know you," he said, and lowered the staff and took Ged's hand and hugged him round the shoulders-" I do know you! Welcome, my friend, welcome! What a sorry greeting I gave you, as if you were a ghost coming up from behind– and I have waited for you to come, and looked for you- ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

I move like I'm gravity, like it's not a decision.
Standing on my toes, on the edge of the high dive, the water looks as clear and blue as the sky.
In my head there's the possibility that this moment isn't here yet, that maybe I'm not born. I could be an idea. Or I could be realized, and life is standing still. For this moment, the world has stopped.
I have a perfect balance. The wind moves around me. My heart is as light and bright as the sun. I am as light as a sparrow bone, and for one moment I am everything that can't be caught and held.
Then I'm passing through the air, turning, arms drawn in, toes pointed. My chin rests on my chest. I believe I have a chance at anything: one full revolution.
I spread my wings. I arch my back. I remember why swans are graceful, why someone would name this for something beautiful.
I think I'm touching the clouds. For a long time they keep me from breaking the blue. I don't hear the shattering surface. I belong behind this sky, all-silent and calm, and part of the world where butterflies live after they give up their feet and dream of flight. I can stay, if I pretend the fire in my chest doesn't burn, if I pretend the world is upside down, if I pretend water is the air I breathe. ~ Suzanne Marie Phillips

We fall into states of illusion - we forget all this. We get caught up in desires, frustrations, political movements, philosophies, religions, the getting of a living, the pain of a body, the pleasure of a body. ~ Frederick Lenz

The moment I entered the bright, buzzing lobby of Men's House I was overcome by a sense of alienation and hostility … The lobby was the meeting place for various groups still caught up in the illusions that had just been boomeranged out of my head: college boys working to return to school down South; older advocates of racial progress with utopian schemes for building black business empires; preachers ordained by no authority except their own, without church or congregation, without bread or wine, body or blood; the community "leaders" without followers; old men of sixty or more still caught up in post-Civil War dreams of freedom within segregation; the pathetic ones who possessed noting beyond their dreams of being gentlemen, who held small jobs or drew small pensions, and all pretending to be engaged in some vast, though obscure, enterprise, who affected the pseudo-courtly manners of certain southern congressmen and bowed and nodded as they passed like senile old roosters in a barnyard; they younger crowd for whom I now felt a contempt such as only a disillusioned dreamer feels for those still unaware that they dream - the business students from southern colleges, for whom business was a vague, abstract game with rules as obsolete as Noah's Ark but who yet were drunk on finance. ~ Ralph Ellison

He walked me to the door--the same one to which I'd been escorted many times before by pimply high school boys and a few miscellaneous suitors along the way. But this time was different. Bigger. I felt it. I wondered for a moment if he felt it, too.
That's when the spike heel of my boot caught itself on a small patch of crumbling mortar on my parents' redbrick sidewalk. In an instant, I saw my life and any ounce of pride remaining in my soul pass before my eyes as my body lurched forward. I was going to bite it for sure--and right in front of the Marlboro Man. I was an idiot, I told myself, a dork, a klutz of the highest order. I wanted desperately to snap my fingers and magically wind up in Chicago, where I belonged, but my hands were too busy darting in front of my torso, hoping to brace my body from the fall.
But someone caught me. Was it an angel? In a way. It was Marlboro Man, whose tough upbringing on a working cattle ranch had produced the quick reflexes necessary to save me, his uncoordinated date, from certain wipeout. Once the danger was over, I laughed from nervous embarrassment. Marlboro Man chuckled gently. He was still holding my arms, in the same strong cowboy grip he'd used to rescue me moments earlier. Where were my knees? They were no longer part of my anatomy.
I looked at Marlboro Man. He wasn't chuckling anymore. He was standing right in front of me…and he was still holding my arms. ~ Ree Drummond

I spent nine days in the Downtown Los Angeles City Jail. The judge gave me a suspended sentence and I went to work that night - wailed just like nothing happened. What strucked me funny though - I laughed real loud when several movie stars came up to the bandstand while we played a dance set and told me, when they heard about me getting caught with marijuana, they thought marijuana was a chick. Woo boy - that really fractured me! ~ Louis Armstrong

She'd not known grief would come in waves, brought on by the smallest of things. Nor had she realized that ordinary acts of living would continue even after the loss of a love and that it would remain possible to get caught up in the moment of a simple pleasure before remembering. ~ Tess Thompson