...Grease – 41 – Grease ACT ONE GREASE IS THE WORD, IS THE WORD, THAT YOU HEARD, Scene 1 IT’S GOT GROOVE IT’S GOT MEANING SONG “GREASE IS THE WORD” ALL: I SOLVE MY PROBLEMS AND I SEE THE LIGHT, WE GOT A LOVIN’ THING WE GOTTA FEED IT RIGHT. THERE AIN’T NO DANGER WE CAN GO TOO FAR WE START BELIEVIN’ NOW THAT WE CAN BE WHO WE ARE GREASE IS THE WORD. THEY THINK OUR LOVE IS JUST A GROWIN’ PAIN, WHY DON’T THEY UNDERSTAND IT’S JUST A CRYIN’ SHAME THEIR LIPS ARE LYIN’ ONLY REAL IS REAL GREASE IS THE TIME, IS THE PLACE, IS THE MOTION AND GREASE IS THE WAY WE ARE FEELIN’ WE TAKE THE PRESSURE AND WE THROW AWAY CONVENTIONALITY BELONGS TO YESTERDAY THERE IS A CHANCE THAT WE CAN MAKE IT SO FAR WE START BELIEVIN’ NOW THAT WE CAN BE WHO WE ARE GREASE IS THE WORD GREASE IS THE WORD, IS THE WORD, THAT YOU HEARD IT’S GOT GROOVE IT’S GOT MEANING WE STOP THE FIGHT RIGHT NOW, WE GOTTA BE WHAT WE FEEL GREASE IS THE TIME, IS THE PLACE, IS THE MOTION GREASE IS THE WORD AND GREASE IS THE WAY WE ARE FEELIN’ Grease Grease – 43 – THIS IS A TIME OF ILLUSION, WRAPPED UP IN TROUBLE LACED IN CONFUSION, WHAT ARE WE DOIN’ HERE? GREASE IS THE WORD, IS THE WORD, THAT YOU HEARD IT’S GOT GROOVE IT’S GOT MEANING GREASE IS THE TIME, IS THE PLACE, IS THE MOTION AND GREASE IS THE WAY WE ARE FEELIN’ GREASE IS THE WORD, IS THE WORD, IS THE WORD, IS THE WORD Scene 2 The Greasers stalk off as the scene shifts to the high school cafeteria...
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...Dictionary of English Idioms & Idiomatic Expressions Dictionary of English Idioms & Idiomatic Expressions .......................................... 1 ~ A ~ ..................................................................................................................... 1 ~ B ~ ..................................................................................................................... 3 ~ C ~ .................................................................................................................... 8 ~ D ~ .................................................................................................................. 11 ~ E ~ ................................................................................................................... 14 ~ F ~ ................................................................................................................... 15 ~ G ~ .................................................................................................................. 17 ~ H ~ .................................................................................................................. 19 ~ I ~ .................................................................................................................... 22 ~ J ~ ................................................................................................................... 24 ~ K ~ ...............................................................................................
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...G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS An imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group. Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, USA. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd). Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Center, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books South Africa, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa. Penguin China, B7 Jiaming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Copyright © 2013 by Rick Yancey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat & Tm. Off. Please...
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...awaiting the loosing of the leash. Twin fires on long hearths at either end of the room held off the late winter cold. It was a plain, soldier's room, really, everything well made but nothing extravagant except for the sunburst. Furnishings came to the audience chamber of the Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light with the man who rose to the office; the flaring sun of coin gold had been worn smooth by generations of petitioners, replaced and worn smooth again. Gold enough to buy any estate in Amadicia, and the patent of nobility to go with it. For ten years Niall had walked across that gold and never thought of it twice, any more than he thought of the sunburst embroidered across the chest of his white tunic. Gold held little interest for...
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...17 202 Chapter 18 216 Chapter 19 219 And among the cities which ye shall give unto the Levites there shall be six cities for refuge, which ye shall appoint for the manslayer, that he may flee thither. Numbers 35: 6 Country of Asylum Chapter 1 It was just beginning to get hot in Tikrit when I first realized I might have to kill this new man of my wife’s. It’s possible I overreacted to everything. You have to get up pretty early to call the States, if you want your privacy and you want to catch anybody awake at home; at home it’ll be sometime the night before. The desert is cool in the mornings too, or cooler, so that you’ll see the occasional soldier getting his PT in before it gets too hot, but he’s usually far enough away that you don’t have to whisper. I would watch the big black beetles fighting with each other in the dirt (they’re way bigger here than they are at home) while waiting for the call to go through. It always takes so long just to connect that I nearly give up before the static stops and the phone starts to ring. The day I was going home was about the worst: I tried three times and couldn’t get anybody at the apartment to pick up, then tried Felicia’s cell phone four times with no answer. Finally, I called over to Mama’s. Pops picked up after I called the second time. I knew he wouldn’t pick up...
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...leaves made the stuff of the sorcerous drink the Qartheen called shade of the evening. No other buildings stood near. Black tiles covered the palace roof, many fallen or broken; the mortar between the stones was dry and crumbling. She understood now why Xaro Xhoan Daxos called it the Palace of Dust. Even Drogon seemed disquieted by the sight of it. The black dragon hissed, smoke seeping out between his sharp teeth. “Blood of my blood,” Jhogo said in Dothraki, “this is an evil place, a haunt of ghosts and maegi. See how it drinks the morning sun? Let us go before it drinks us as well.” Ser Jorah Mormont came up beside them. “What power can they have if they live in that?” “Heed the wisdom of those who love you best,” said Xaro Xhoan Daxos, lounging inside the palanquin. “Warlocks are bitter creatures who eat dust and drink of shadows. They will give you naught. They have naught to give.” Aggo put a hand on his arakh. “Khaleesi, it is said that many go into the Palace of Dust, but few come out.” “It is said,” Jhogo agreed. “We are blood of your blood,” said Aggo, “sworn to live and die as you do. Let us walk with you in this dark place, to keep you safe from harm.” “Some places even a khal must walk alone,” Dany said. “Take me, then,” Ser Jorah urged. “The risk-” “Queen Daenerys must enter alone, or not at all.” The warlock Pyat Pree stepped out from under the trees. Has he been there all along? Dany wondered. “Should she turn away now, the doors of wisdom...
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...To Annalena Part One "The Tributes" When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping. I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me. Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. I le hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me. Entrails...
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...happened so fast. In less than a month, monsters infested every part of this world. People panicked, people died. They clawed at each other just to get out of all the infested areas around the world. There was problem about fleeing from infested areas. Everywhere was infested. There was no where anyone could go without encountering the walking plague. You know that phrase "War is Hell"? Well... it's dead wrong. War at least has some organization to it. What was faced in the last days... by last days I mean the last days of civilization not life; itself. What was faced was hell. Everyone went ape shit insane. Everyone was killing and raping each other into oblivion, because we were under attack by creatures that was so beyond our understanding! Geez, there were many names given to these undead. Some called them demons, others called them lost souls. With all these names, I found only one that was truly worthy; Zombies. It was a simple word. At the same time it was the most complicated word to enter any human language. I mean just think about it... You say that word to anyone before the outbreak and what would they think of? They would, think of those horror movies or comic books where, for no reason what so ever, zombies appear all around the globe in an instance. That's not how it happened for us. There were signs for over two months. It's just that no one took the time to put the pieces together. I kind of did. I knew there was something more than what we were told about the...
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...For James Proimos 2 PART I "THE TRIBUTES" 3 When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping. I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me. Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. I le hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of 4 the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails...
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...The Five People You Meet in Heaven Mitch Albom ALSO BY MITCH ALBOM Tuesdays with Morrie Fab Five Bo Live Albom Live Albom II Live Albom III Live Albom IV The Five People You Meet in Heaven Mitch Albom NEW YORK YOU MADE ME LOVE YOU Copyright 1913 (Renewed) Broadway Music Corp, Edwin H. Morris Co., Redwood Music Ltd. All rights on behalf of Broadway Music Corp administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing, 8 Music Square, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Copyright © 2003 Mitch Albom All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information address: Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023-6298. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Albom, Mitch. The five people you meet in heaven / Mitch Albom. p. cm. ISBN 0-7868-6871-6 (alk. paper) 1. Accident victims—Fiction. 2. Amusement parks—Fiction. 3. Amusement rides—Fiction. 4. Future life—Fiction. 5. Aged men—Fiction. 6. HeavenFiction. 7. Death—Fiction. I. Title. PS3601.L335F59 2003 813'.6-dc21 2003047888 Hyperion books are available for special promotions and premiums. For details contact Michael Rentas, Manager, Inventory and Premium Sales, Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, 11th floor, New York, New York 10023-6298, or call 212-456-0133. FIRST EDITION This book is dedicated to Edward Beitchman, my beloved...
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...Ok. First, I just want to say that I think it is so cool that you guys have this awesome forum. I’ve never had a good reason to post in it before, but, well, I’m in Mr. McMurtry’s 10th grade honors English class (go me), and our half-year fiction project is due just before winter break, which is coming up. Ok. So, before you read this, you should know that I already asked Mr. McMurtry if I could write my fiction project in an experimental science fiction style and make lots of horrible, malicious, false, and hateful blood libels against the Mormons, and he asked what I had in mind, and I told him that I thought it could be cool to write a story that consisted entirely of a War between Mormons and Scientologists and Atheist Texan Cowboys in the Future, and he said that would be fine. I knew he’d let me do it, as his homosexuality is a well known fact to the student body, and therefore his concomitant openness to avant-guard art and literature and experimentation and stuff like that. Not like the other English teacher, Ms. Nichols, who is the sort of totally sexless spinster that makes her students write poems about Jesus, which I’m pretty sure is fucking illegal, although I’m sure nobody in this hick town cares. God and Football, all the way. Ok, so, then I didn’t do any work on it at all until last night. We had to do a one-page outline a few weeks ago, which is so stupid, so I did it on the bus and I have no idea what I wrote, so last night I just started over from scratch...
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...maStuff My Stocking M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty An M/M Romance Group Publication copyright 2010 With stories by: M.J. O'Shea Brian Jackson Deanna Wadsworth Missy Welsh Jade Archer Michael S. Xara X. Xanakas Mark Alders Em Woods Rachel Haimowitz SJD Peterson Kari Gregg Kim Dare A.J. Llewellyn Serena Yates Ocotillo Jessica Freely Heinrich Xin William Cooper Wren Boudreau Selah March Sarah Madison Stephani Hecht Amy Lane Angela Benedetti edited by: Diane W. (mailto:diane.goodreads@gmail.com) Jason B. Kathy H. Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty What you’ve gotten yourself into… The stories you are about to read are the product of a very special project sponsored by the Goodreads M/M Romance groupthe online community for readers who love to read about men in love (Male/Male). The group moderators issued an invitation for members to choose a photo and pen a Letter to Santa asking for a short M/M romance story inspired by the image; authors from the group were encouraged to select a letter and write an original tale. The result was an outpouring of creativity that shined a spotlight on the special bond between M/M romance writers and the people who love what they do. This book is an anthology of those letters and stories. Whether you are an avid M/M romance reader or new to the genre, you are in for a delicious treat. So sit back, relax and enjoy...
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...The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn By Mark Twain Download free eBooks of classic literature, books and novels at Planet eBook. Subscribe to our free eBooks blog and email newsletter. NOTICE P ERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narra- tive will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR, Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn EXPLANATORY I N this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary ‘Pike County’ dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a hap- hazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech. I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding. THE AUTHOR. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Scene: The Mississippi Valley Time: Forty to fifty years ago The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Chapter I Y OU don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told...
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...1984 By George Orwell Download free eBooks of classic literature, books and novels at Planet eBook. Subscribe to our free eBooks blog and email newsletter. Part One 1984 Chapter 1 I t was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. Inside the flat a fruity...
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...1984 George Orwell 1949 Chapter 1 It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which...
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