Stalker

* WISDOM TROVE *

* NEWFULLDB 2.4M *

1:unblinking stalker eyes. ~ Anonymous,

2:Fine, I'm a stalker, FINE. ~ Molly Ringle,

3:I have my own stalker, Joe. ~ Kristen Ashley,

4:I never play the victim, I’d rather be a stalker. ~ Rihanna,

5:You're a stalker with hooves." -Percy Jackson ~ Rick Riordan,

6:This man is my stalker, my terrorizer, my lover. ~ Nina G Jones,

7:You're a stalker with hooves."
-Percy Jackson ~ Rick Riordan,

8:and I’m glad because I’m now behaving like a stalker. ~ E L James,

9:For stalker food, Martha Stewart is the woman to go to. ~ Julie Powell,

10:I'm always on Instagram! I'm like an Instagram stalker. ~ Bella Thorne,

11:Persephone Marries Her Stalker (or, Demeter, the Sequel) I ~ Rick Riordan,

12:I said, “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I’m a stalker. ~ Graham Parke,

13:Wow, that sounds total stalker."
Or totally hot. God. ~ Tammara Webber,

14:She wasn’t a stalker. Just really enthusiastic.” “Redheads ~ Jessica Hawkins,

15:Great, I have a yeti stalker. Totally what every girl dreams of. ~ Ruby Dixon,

16:Uh, no! This is your dreamy stalker moment, not mine. You do it. ~ Chanda Hahn,

17:I don't even have a stalker. I'm just not the guy that people stalk. ~ Seth Rogen,

18:Like a stalker. An obsessed stalker. An obsessed, vampire stalker ~ Stephenie Meyer,

19:That’s an interesting combination of traits—a stalker who’s scared. ~ Laurelin Paige,

20:I have my own stalker, Joe. I don’t want to have to deal with yours. ~ Kristen Ashley,

21:Someone has to warn you."
"That's novel. A stalker warning his victim. ~ Anna Durand,

22:Would it discourage a stalker from stalking if he knew that they knew? ~ Donna Lynn Hope,

23:From afar (think like a stalker), I loved Dale Carothers with all my heart, ~ Avery Aster,

24:I don’t think one stalker is allowed to call another stalker a stalker. ~ Debra Anastasia,

25:Perv—I’ve gotten upgraded from stalker.' Wasn’t he the eternal optimist? ~ Laura Thalassa,

26:(Mutual interest is what separates courting couples from stalker and prey.) ~ Alvin E Roth,

27:Fundamentalists offer us a "loving" God who is some kind of divine stalker. ~ Robert M Price,

28:Every girl dreams about having her very own demon, but stalker is another story. ~ Gwen Hayes,

29:That's what I thought I was. A stalker of stalkers. A predator preying on predators. ~ Barry Lyga,

30:So, what, you’re a stalker now?” “I prefer the term ‘intense investigator.’” Before ~ Suzanne Wright,

31:Don't think of it as losing a boyfriend. Think of it as gaining a stalker."
-Dan Cahill ~ Gordon Korman,

32:I have to tell you man, that my stalker meter is kind of registering in the red zone right now. ~ John Green,

33:The police think I’m a rubbernecker. They think I’m a stalker, a nut-case, mentally unstable. ~ Paula Hawkins,

34:I have to tell you, man, that my stalker meter is kind of registering in the red zone right now. ~ David Levithan,

35:I never worried about being a whale stalker before. I promise to leave them unmolested from now on. ~ Eileen Cook,

36:Right now I’m working on the second book in the series, which will be called, The Night Stalker. ~ Robert Bryndza,

37:If I know I have everything prepared for when I get killed by a stalker, then I can go to sleep. ~ Christina Ricci,

38:For a guy who claimed not to be a stalker he sure knows the tricks of the trade.
Give up the Ghost ~ Megan Crewe,

39:Great, can’t fucking wait.” Yep. Child. A sarcastic, Drambuie-drinking child with stalker tendencies. ~ Lesley Jones,

40:Holy shit, you’re the most accomplished stalker I’ve ever met.”
“It’s not stalking if you like it. ~ Aleksandr Voinov,

41:Next year I hope to get a stalker or two because I don't believe you've arrived until you get a stalker. ~ Noel Gallagher,

42:She was an idiot. An idiot holding a pie in his garbage can. He probably thought she was a stalker. Or crazy. ~ Jamie Farrell,

43:I had a stalker who was extremely violent. He broke into the studio with knives and I was locked in a bathroom. ~ Paget Brewster,

44:Did I really just get assaulted by a big scary man, then get saved by my stalker?
…Yeah. That about sums it up. ~ Belle Aurora,

45:I haven't mentioned her to Flynn, and I'm glad because I'm now behaving like a stalker. Perhaps I should let him know". ~ E L James,

46:No, I haven't heard that, but I'll keep it in mind. Thanks for the proverbial insight, my stalker friend. ~ Courtney Allison Moulton,

47:You're a stalker with hooves." "I am not! I followed her to the Big House and hid in a bush and watched the whole thing. ~ Rick Riordan,

48:I’m not usually a stalker, and I’m not following her, exactly. I’m maintaining a noncreepy, half-block distance between us. ~ Nicola Yoon,

49:Because that was some mega tense awkwardness, a real 'Hello my name is Ever and I'll be your next stalker' kind of moment... ~ Alyson Noel,

50:You're a stalker with hooves."
"I am not! I followed her to the Big House and hid in a bush and watched the whole thing. ~ Rick Riordan,

51:When someone is stalking you because they think you are stalking them, it makes you wonder who really is the true stalker? ~ Shannon L Alder,

52:Wouldn't have pegged you for a dancer," he spoke to my mind "Funny, I would have pegged you for a stalker," I shot back. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

53:The Stalker seems to be weak, but essentially it is he who is invincible because of his faith and his will to serve others. ~ Andrei Tarkovsky,

54:Each time Stalker called you 'dove', I wanted to hit him. Because you're not a little gray bird... you're all the light in the world. ~ Ann Aguirre,

55:How pathetic are you? You’re actually ticked off that your stalker is no longer skulking around in the shadows. That’s just…pitiful. ~ Belle Aurora,

56:P.S. I also note that you included the Stalker's Anthem "Every Breath You Take" I do enjoy our sense of humor, but does Dr. Flynn know? ~ E L James,

57:Wouldn't have pegged you for a dancer," he spoke to my mind.

"Funny, I would have pegged you for a stalker," I shot back. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

58:He doesn’t know I know his secret. For a man so obsessed with security and privacy, he’s a surprisingly bad stalker. It’s almost endearing. ~ Chance Carter,

59:You don’t run from someone and expect them to follow unless you want a stalker," he said. "You fool. All I wanted was to play hide-n-seek! ~ Donna Lynn Hope,

60:The news that Richard had been identified as the Night Stalker hit El Paso like an atomic bomb. At 11:15 Friday evening, Joseph and Sofia were ~ Philip Carlo,

61:Het verdriet is weer terug. Als een stalker staat het altijd weer voor de deur, steeds als je denkt: het is voorgoed verdreven, is het er weer. ~ Arnon Grunberg,

62:…sitting on the sidewalk outside of his workplace like some creepy stalker ex-girlfriend, waiting for him to come out so I can ambush him with love. ~ Cynthia Hand,

63:Mr. Stalker
Mr. Kinky
Mr. Spellcaster
Mr. Charming
Mr. Personality
Mr. Stalker
Mr. Celebrity
Mr. Beautiful
Mr. Mercurial ~ R K Lilley,

64:Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Not Riley. Anything but that. After all this time, couldn’t her reputation as a young, crazed teenaged stalker be put to rest? ~ Susan Mallery,

65:So you’re a stalker?” I asked with a hard stare.

He smirked, a knees-turning-to jelly kind of smirk. “I prefer gravitationally linked to your presence. ~ R S Grey,

66:Are you crazy? I'm not going inside my stalker's house alone.
He cocked his head to the side.
Should you ever really go in your stalker's house at all? ~ Aly Martinez,

67:The film [Stalker] needs to be slower and duller at the start so that the viewers who walked into the wrong theatre have time to leave before the main action starts. ~ Andrei Tarkovsky,

68:The stalker, meanwhile, stepped into the road. Didn’t even check for traffic. There wasn’t any, but something told me this was lucky for traffic rather than the stalker. ~ Graham Parke,

69:Patrick Bergmann,” Deborah said when I stepped into her office a few minutes later. It seemed like an odd greeting, but I had to assume she meant that was our stalker’s name. ~ Jeff Lindsay,

70:Jesus, there is something seriously wrong with me. My stalker sneaks into my house and has his way with my sleeping body, and the only part I find upsetting is that he left. ~ Charleigh Rose,

71:But of course when you've got it bad for somebody, you aren't really sane. You're a stalker and a groupie combined, and you do things even you don't want to try and understand. ~ Kirsty Eagar,

72:Cinderella wouldn’t have met the prince if she’d stayed in the kitchen.”
“He tracked her down across the land. That makes him a seriously disturbed stalker. With a foot fetish. ~ Sarah Morgan,

73:Cinderella wouldn’t have met the prince if she’d stayed in the kitchen.”
“He tracked her down across the land. That makes him a seriously disturbed stalker. With a foot fetish. ~ Sarah Morgan,

74:It would be best to stride in with a cheer "hello!", but she wasn't the cheery sort; she was the "lurking in dark corners" sort. She found a dark corner, behind the Stalker-cases, and lurked. ~ Philip Reeve,

75:No one knew that a killer was already moving through their streets with them, an invisible stalker that would go house to house until it had touched everyone, rich or poor, in some terrible way. ~ Jim Murphy,

76:I would be lying if I said I didn't get a kick out of the assignment. Here I am, a "troubled youth," and my self-chosen treatment is to become a stalker. Okay, not stalker. Research Analyst. ~ Lindsey Leavitt,

77:Non lavori al negozio tutti i giorni"
"Conosci i miei orari?"
"Non è difficile scoprirlo"
" Ti rendi conto che è quello che fanno gli stalker... individuare gli orari delle loro vittime ~ Elizabeth Craft,

78:She had personal details about my relationships that only my close friends should have known. “So you’ve got a stalker,” I said to my reflection in the rearview mirror. “And she eats people. Great. ~ Craig Schaefer,

79:She’d no sooner begun to relax than who should appear on a leisurely stroll down Elm Street but her very own stalker, Fred the Moose. Cameron sank deeper into the rocker, hoping Fred wouldn’t notice her. ~ Marie Force,

80:I used to stay at my hotel... I remember looking out of the window once and I saw (GB boxers) Tom Stalker and Kal Yafai skipping out of the Premier Inn and they jumped into a Range Rover to go to training. ~ Anthony Joshua,

81:He chuckled and the sound was deep, masculine, and would’ve been nice if he hadn’t been a stalker. “Okay. We are getting off to another bad start. I have that effect on people.”

“I can imagine. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

82:The Stalker by Gail Anderson-Dargatz In From the Cold by Deborah Ellis Shipwreck by Maureen Jennings The Picture of Nobody by Rabindranath Maharaj The Hangman by Louise Penny Easy Money by Gail Vaz-Oxlade 2011 ~ Louise Penny,

83:You should let him work his magic. You look like you could use some loosening up,” my newest ghost stalker adds. Is it a requirement for all ghosts to get horny when they lose the ability to have sex ever again? ~ Kristy Cunning,

84:Vee said," I'm trying to read the title he's holding…hang on…How to Be a Stalker." "He is not checking out a book with that title." But I wasn't so sure. "It's either that of How to Radiate Sexy Without Trying. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

85:The problem, says my sister, Kelly, is not that I can't get over Naomi - it's that I refuse to.... Loving Naomi and waiting for her to come back to me - it's not a stalker thing, but more like a personal mission. A job. ~ David Levithan,

86:He pulls up outside my duplex. I belatedly realize he’s not asked me where I live - yet he knows. But then he sent the books, of course he knows where I live. What able, cell-phone-tracking, helicopter owning, stalker wouldn’t. ~ E L James,

87:A cold dismay creeps over me. Oh okay, maybe I did once kind of pretend I had a stalker. Which I shouldn't have done. But I mean, just because you invent one tiny stalker - that doesn't make you a complete nut case, does it? ~ Sophie Kinsella,

88:I started my career by becoming a stalker, watching women in the street, the way they greet each other. I thought if I could capture some of that expression, that depth of emotion, it will make me interesting to watch as an actor. ~ Bob Hoskins,

89:Vee said," I'm trying to read the title he's holding…hang on…How to Be a Stalker."

"He is not checking out a book with that title." But I wasn't so sure.

"It's either that or How to Radiate Sexy Without Trying. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

90:I don’t think it’s stalking if I get an invitation, but yes, I’d love to accompany you to the store.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this huge jump in status,” I tease. “From stalker to chaperone in a day? You’ll think I’m easy. ~ Mia Sheridan,

91:The Collector [John Fowles book] does such a good job of capturing the mindset of a capturer, and also that's become a banal trope of every second crime novel: the weirdo, fetishistic watcher/stalker/kidnapper/kidnapper of women or children. ~ Emma Donoghue,

92:I’m reading this fun Christian romance by an author who lives in Seattle named Lesley Ann McDaniel. It’s called Saving Grace and is about an opera singer from New York who flees from a stalker and winds up in a tiny town in Montana. I’m loving it. ~ Lynnette Bonner,

93:You’re such a stalker, Seth. How long were you standing there?”
“I am not a stalker, and I was standing there long enough to realize you have no self-control and you’re unstable. I kind of like that about you—mainly because I find it entertaining. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

94:Maybe she appears terrified now because I practically chase her down and I'm giving her absolutely no explanation. I'm just standing here like a creepy stalker and I have no idea how to even ask her if she's the girl I lost all those years ago. - Dean Holder ~ Colleen Hoover,

95:What, not even a driver?” asked Wren, focusing on the black, electric locomotive at the front of the train, a blunt, windowless thing, charging along like a bull. “The engine is the driver. A Popjoy Mark Twelve Stalker, controlled by a Resurrected human brain. ~ Philip Reeve,

96:The doo-wop stalker love song on a Cincinnati oldies station--you broke up with me because I was an obnoxious jerk and now you're dating him, so I drive by your house and stare in your window every night, thereby proving that I'm an even bigger creep than you thought ~ Sarah Vowell,

97:I had a stalker while filming a movie in Spain last year. She stood outside my apartment every day for weeks – all day, every day. I was so bored and lonely that I went out and had dinner with [her]. I just complained about everything in my life and she never came back. ~ Robert Pattinson,

98:You’re going to fuck everything up if you act like some crazed guy with an infatuation. This is not the guy she fell in love with. She fell in love with dark mysterious Dank Walker. She fell in love with Death. Be that guy. Stop being this broken, pitiful, obsessed stalker dude. ~ Abbi Glines,

99:And again that strange half-memory brushed mothlike against the Stalker’s mind, the Once-born called Tom kneeling over it in snow and saying, “Miss Fang! It’s not fair! He waited until you were dazzled!” For a moment it felt an odd satisfaction, as though it had returned a favor. ~ Philip Reeve,

100:The woman stared at the ruined body. Blood dripped from her arm. A fine spray of red covered her face --must've been cast off when she slammed down the cans. She wiped her face with her left forearm and kicked the stalker's corpse with her sneakered foot. "Don't mess with Texas. ~ Ilona Andrews,

101:I don't look at women as groupies. To me, a groupie is a stalker. If you're a fan, then you're a fan. But I can look at a woman and become a fan of hers instantly. I'll tell a woman, "Look, I don't want your phone number. Just give me your autograph. Can I take a picture with you?" ~ Tyrese Gibson,

102:Organizational theorists, at least since Burns and Stalker, 1961 and Joan Woodward, 1965 in what came to be called the contingency school, have recognized that centralization is appropriate for organizations with routine tasks, and decentralization for those with nonroutine tasks. ~ Charles Perrow,

103:Stalker, Blackbeard. Team in two elements. Half at the package on the cargo deck amidships. Half-split between port and starboard below the deck rails. Taking sniper fire from the bridge tower, and heavy contact from the aft cargo deck. Everyone aft of our lights is a shithead.” “Copy, ~ Brian Andrews,

104:I really like the George Clooney of Solaris also filmed by Andrei Tarkovsky, before Steven Soderbergh: that's very obviously sci-fi, and it seems to me a great film. But whatever pigeon-hole you put Stalker into you would both be increasing the risk of disappointing people and diminishing the film. ~ Geoff Dyer,

105:Counter to the public's thinking, the celebrities who attract the largest number of stalkers - and typically it's not "if" a celebrity has a stalker, it's "how many" - are neither the most glamorous nor obnoxious, but rather the ones who seem the sweetest and most wholesome. They appear approachable. ~ Park Dietz,

106:Do you ever leave a message for somebody and the answering machine cuts you off, and you have to decide whether you should not call back, or call back and appear like a stalker? "Hi. It's me again. I forgot to tell you that I'm going to kill you. Because I'm the freak who keeps calling and calling." ~ Jim Gaffigan,

107:I didn’t realize I had a royal stalker. I’m flattered, Your Majesty.” “Even better—you had an entire government team assigned to digging up information on you. They reported twice daily for over a week. You did run off with the most-wanted criminal in the world, after all.” “And your girlfriend.” Kai ~ Marissa Meyer,

108:Mothers know the difference between a broth and a consommé. And the difference between damask and chintz. And the difference between vinyl and Naugahyde. And the difference between a house and a home. And the difference between a romantic and a stalker. And the difference between a rock and a hard place. ~ Patricia Marx,

109:It didn't seem like Sergeant Doakes would give up before my conversion to a beer-bellied sofa ornament was complete, and I could see nothing else to do except play kick the can and hangman with Cody and Astor, performing outrageously theatrical good-bye kisses with Rita afterward for the benefit of my stalker. ~ Jeff Lindsay,

110:Stalking is not sexy, Alexis, no matter how hot you think the stalker is. It denotes an unbalanced, possessive personality, the kind of person who will manipulate the object of desire into isolation so that they’ll fall into dependency and subservience. The object loses themselves and becomes property, basically. ~ K F Breene,

111:Każdy stalker był człowiekiem legendą, półbogiem, na którego wszyscy – od małych po wielkich – patrzyli w zachwycie. Kiedy dzieci rodzą się w świecie, w którym nie ma już dokąd i po co latać i żeglować, a słowa „lotnik” i „marynarz” zacierają się i stopniowo tracą swój sens, dzieci te chcą zostać stalkerami. ~ Dmitry Glukhovsky,

112:I'm not stalking her," I insisted.
"I'm making sure she's safe. Besides, how could you stalk Lori McGillicuddy?
She'd see you and come out to your truck and say, "Hi, I'm Lori. Are you my stalker? It's so neat to meet you! While you're stuck here watching my every move, can I bring you anything? Sweet tea? ~ Jennifer Echols,

113:She said she could no longer live in New York, that she was being tormented day and night by some obsessive stalker. This caught me completely by surprise, as I had taken to hanging around Sarah’s apartment, hiding in the bushes day and night, watching her come and go, and I had never seen any signs of a stalker. ~ Norm Macdonald,

114:Beware the darkness of dragons,
Beware the stalker of dreams,
Beware the talons of power and fire,
Beware one who is not what she seems.

Something is coming to shake the earth,
Something is coming to scorch the ground.
Jade Mountain will fall beneath thunder and ice
Unless the lost city of night can be found. ~ Tui T Sutherland,

115:Honestly, I sort of thought it was you.” Well it wasn’t. And I really wish you’d mentioned this sooner. I pause at the top of the stairway. “Why?” Because it seems you have a Reaper stalker on your hands. “Like you?” I ask sarcastically. I’m not stalking you. I merely see something I want and refuse to give up until I have it. “Which ~ Jessica Sorensen,

116:Did you follow me here?"
"Something like that."
I let out a frustrated groan. "Can't anyone just talk to me straight? Why is everyone avoiding my damn questions tonight?"
Bishop's brows went up. "Okay, fine. Yes, I followed you here. Better?"
"Yes. Stalkery, but better."
"I'm not stalking you."
"Spoken like a true stalker ~ Michelle Rowen,

117:I like to believe I enjoy surprises, that I'm someone to whom an eruption of the unusual should be usual, or who branches out to advance the implausible. I might fly a jet, become a man, walk backward without a care, threaten like a stalker, speak freely at all times, swim the Atlantic on a greasy back, be silent for months like a Carthusian ... ~ Lynne Tillman,

118:Bubba said something about Willowdean having a stalker,” Miz Demetrice said.

“A stalker?” Aunt Caressa repeated as if she was unfamiliar with the word.

“You know, someone who follows you around, sends you cards, dead flowers, and turns up unwanted,” Miz Demetrice said.

“Oh, you mean kind of like a Republican,” Aunt Caressa Concluded. ~ C L Bevill,

119:Around 11 P.M., unable to concentrate on his work or even watch the news, he had started to wonder if this was how it started with stalkers. And then he started to think maybe he'd do his next article as an investigation of stalkers. But then he wondered... if you do a ride-along with a stalker, are you stalking the stalker?

It all got very weird. ~ Richard Castle,

120:Do you want some aspirin?” “I took four or five,” she said. “They’ll kick in in a minute.” She pursed her lips and sighed heavily. “It’s this guy. The stalker. Patrick Whatsit.” “Bergmann,” I said helpfully. “Yeah,” she said. “I just kept thinking, He’s out there, probably watching me right now, maybe sneaking into the hotel and picking the lock on my door.… ~ Jeff Lindsay,

121:He’d wanted to accompany her, but both of them knew it’d be smarter for him to stay home.
In other words, neither of them trusts me.
And who can really blame them?
The last time they both went away together, a stalker broke into our house, our basement turned into a scene out of Fright Night, and I nearly gave my boyfriend a concussion. ~ Laurie Faria Stolarz,

122:I guess it would fall into the stalker category more or less. I was being stalked by a mime - silent but maybe deadly. Somehow, this mime would appear on the set of 'Bringing Out the Dead' and start doing strange things. I have no idea how it got past security. Finally, the producers took some action and I haven't seen the mime since. But it was definitely unsettling. ~ Nicolas Cage,

123:When we first split up, he called me a stalker, but that's like an emotive word, "stalker", isn't it? I don't think you can call it stalking when it's just phone calls and letters and emails and knocking on the door. And I only turned up at his work twice. Three times, if you count his Christmas party, which I don't, because he said he was going to take me to that anyway. ~ Nick Hornby,

124:Stalker put his hands on my shoulders - and for a moment, his pale eyes blazed with the power of what he felt for me. The reflected head warmed me where I hadn't even know I was cold. Then his golden, spiky lashes swept down, veiling his thoughts. I shouldn't let this boy comfort me when I'd rejected him. Weakness made me selfish, but I didn't resist when he pulled me against him. ~ Ann Aguirre,

125:Huh. Fancy meeting you here," I teased. "I recall telling you that I had a meeting with Holly this morning. Coincidence?" "Sheridan, that's rubbish. Are you insinuating that I only came here in the hopes of running into you? I happen to have had an appointment as well," he taunted. "That's crap, you stalker," I deadpanned, moving in closer to him. He raised an eyebrow, watching me. ~ Alice Clayton,

126:Excuse me. I know this is going to sound strange, but if I don’t ask you now, I’ll be kicking myself for the rest of the day. I’m running to meet a friend [i.e., I have friends and am not a stalker], but I think you’re really [extremely, drop-dead] cute [gorgeous, hot]. Could I have your phone number? I’m not a psycho—I promise. You can give me a fake one if you’re not interested. ~ Timothy Ferriss,

127:There was something wrong with me. I was becoming something like my ex-stalker with Lochlan. I understood Mitch’s need to control me and have me be with him. It was an addiction. I had used Lochlan’s love and guilt as a weapon. I’d manipulated him. I didn’t recognize myself. I packed my bags. I needed to get away before he got home, hating himself for whatever he’d done when he was angry. ~ Tara Brown,

128:On April 6, 2001, two days after the news linking the East Area Rapist and the Original Night Stalker hit the media, the phone rang in a house on Thornwood Drive in east Sacramento. A woman in her early sixties answered. She’d lived in the house for nearly thirty years, though her last name had changed. “Hello?” The voice was low. He spoke slowly. She recognized it immediately. “Remember when we played? ~ Michelle McNamara,

129:I brushed the curtain aside, scowling. Hadn't even spoken to the girl and I felt like a stalker staring out the window, waiting once more...waiting for what? To catch a glimpse of her? Or to better prepare myself for the inevitable meeting?

If Dee saw me now, she'd be on the floor laughing.

And if Ash saw me right now, she'd scratch out my eyes and blast my new neighbor into outer space. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

130:Are you a stalker or something?”

“I’ve been called that a time or two, oddly enough.”

My jaw unhinged.

“And it’s funny, considering who the last person was to ask me that.” His arresting features tensed. “A relative of yours. A cousin, I guess.” His lips pursed thoughtfully. “Or maybe a sister? Honestly, I have no idea how that works out, but it’s about a thousand different kinds of disturbing. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

131:Bodyguard.”
Nipping at my mouth, he pulled me even tighter against his firm body. “You should fire him” – kiss – “for letting you go up a bridge every night alone.” Kiss
I smiled against his lips. “I’d fire him if he followed me.”
“I follow you.” He smirked. Kiss.
“Every celebrity needs a stalker I guess. The good news is I happen to like mine.”
“That definitely makes my job that much easier. ~ Aly Martinez,

132:I wouldn’t let you out of my sight if I could manage it.” I tugged on his hand. “Not cool. That’s more than a little stalker-ish, dude.” He laughed. “Okay. So that didn’t come out right.” He thought for a second. “How about I’d like to spend as much time with you as you’ll let me.” I nodded. “Better. Just this side of Stalkerville.” He gazed down at me. “I thought girls liked that kind of thing.” “Yeah. It’s kind of nice.” I grinned. ~ Aileen Erin,

133:I didn't ask if he meant his rescue or the deal with Stalker that involved kissing. I couldn't resist pushing, just a little. "So it won't bother you if I find someone else?"

His jaw clenched, and I saw the muscle move before he got it under control. "I thought you said you'd fight for me."

"And /you/ said it's too late." I offered him a faint smile along with his watch. "So it's a good thing I don't intend to listen to you. ~ Ann Aguirre,

134:OF COURSE HE DOESN’T ask me for my mother’s address. He knows it already, stalker that he is. When he pulls up outside the house, I don’t comment. What’s the point? “Do you want to come in?” I ask shyly. “I need to work, Anastasia, but I’ll be back this evening. What time?” I ignore the unwelcome stab of disappointment. Why do I want to spend every single minute with this controlling sex god? Oh yes, I’ve fallen in love with him, and he can fly. ~ E L James,

135:Buck Nance used Lane Coolman's phone to call Krystal. 'Baby, I'm coming home soon,' he said.
'Who's this?'
'Aw, don't be like that.'
'Wait... now I remember," said his wife. 'You're the scumbag husband who keeps a whore on the side.'
'She's just another stalker. I swear to Christ.'
'Is Miracle her real name or is that what her pimp tagged her with?'
'She's a total psycho, Krystal. You can't believe a word she-'
The line went dead. ~ Carl Hiaasen,

136:I trudged down the stairs and stood on the sidewalk examining my car. Deep scratch in the roof from a misplaced bullet. Hole in windsheild plus embeddedbullet in passenger seat. Bashed-in right rear quarter panel and right passenger-side door from slegehammer. Previous damage from creepy gun attack by insane stalker, And someone had spray painted EAT ME on the driver's side door.
"Your car's a mess,"Lula said. "I don't know what it is with you and cars. ~ Janet Evanovich,

137:Dye a specsuit any color other than the original red, and any stalker would put down five hundred for it without batting an eyelash”
“It’s light, comfortable, not too tight, and you don’t sweat in it from the heat. You can go right through a fire in this thing, and no gas will penetrate it. It’s even bulletproof, they say. Of course, fire toxic gas, and bullets -these are only Earth perils. The Zone doesn't have those; in the Zone you have other worries. ~ Arkady Strugatsky,

138:Viktor was swinging a leather duffle and wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and his favorite brown UGG slippers with a hole in the toe.
"Worn and old, just like Viv," he'd say when Frankie made fun of them, and then his wife would swat him on the arm. But Frankie knew he was just joking, because Viveka was the type of woman you wished was in a magazine just so you could stare at her violet-colored eyes and shiny black hair without being called a stalker or a freak. ~ Lisi Harrison,

139:I wiped water from my face and thought, Time to go. But I remained. “Thanks for an interesting evening,” she said, after a pause. “You’re not a bad guy, for a stalker.” I gave her a half smile. “That’s what people tell me.” There was an odd moment of quiet. Then she stepped in close and hugged me, her face against my shoulder. I was surprised. My arms moved reflexively around her. Just a little comfort, I thought. You were rough on her before. Let her go feeling good. ~ Barry Eisler,

140:Because of movies, music and television shows, men have come to believe that they are supposed to wait on a woman hand and foot and act like a stalker to make women fall for them. They learn, basically, that if they become her do-boy, she will fall in love with them. That may look romantic in the movies, but when you try that in real life, that is not the way it happens. It actually turns them off. Approval seeking behavior is not masculine. It is creepy stalker-like behavior. ~ Corey Wayne,

141:What feral?" he demanded.

"Oh, you did not know about that."

"Safe haven, my magical ass." He quieted. "How soon do you need us?

"Well, I may or may not have a stalker trying to kill me too."

"Okay, we'll be there in an hour."

"And I am pregnant."

"We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"There is no way that you could be here in fifteen minutes."

"Never mind that, I'm organizing the my team and one other; we'll be there soon. ~ Alanea Alder,

142:Being dropped by your stalker is pretty bad. I mean he watches you week-in, week-out for almost a year, and then you have sex and he’s like ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. We no longer require your position as victim. Don’t call us; we’ll call you. It’s not you…it’s me. We’re just at different stages of our stalker/stalkee relationship. I need space.’
How pathetic are you? You’re actually ticked off that your stalker is no longer skulking around in the shadows. That’s just…pitiful. ~ Belle Aurora,

143:Galen, he recognized her immediately."
"Emma?" Galen breathes. This can't be happening.
"No. The stalker."
"Wait," Rayna says. "Her? Her who?"
"Galen," Toraf says. "It's Nalia. Yudor swears on Triton's memory it is. She's not dead. He's on his way back to stop the mating ceremony.
Nalia. It all comes together as if the pieces of the puzzle were suddenly jarred into place.
Galen tears through the living room and to the beach, Toraf and Rayna close behind him. ~ Anna Banks,

144:Indiscriminate sex is like indiscriminate pie eating. I might enjoy the pie, but then I find out it was baked in a dirty kitchen, drooled and sneezed on by nut jobs, baked by a nut job who wants me to eat her dirty pie every day. Next thing you know I have a stalker, dysentery, and herpes just from one ignorant bite of pie. I keep my kitchen clean and discriminate and so should my partner. Plus, I don’t want someone telling me Pop-Tarts are pie. Pop-Tarts aren’t pie. I can tell the difference. ~ Penny Reid,

145:In the Andrei Tarkovsky film Stalker, just before making a fateful decision, one character says to another, “There must be a principle: never do anything that can’t be undone.” That principle is why, on the brink of a big decision, the first thing to fill my mind is doubt. What separates the strong from the weak, I reminded myself as I wandered sticker-shocked through the streets of Basseterre, is the ability to act instead of spending most of life paralyzed, too scared to make a choice that might be wrong. ~ Neil Strauss,

146:I might want to help the paranormals, but I’m not willing to give up my soul for it.”
“Of course not! No one can ask you to do that. No one should. If you decide to do this—and I man you decide, not anyone else—then we’ll figure out how to make it work so you come out safe and sound. Besides, I wouldn’t let you sacrifice your own soul. It’s mine.”
“Uh, I think you mean my heart is yours. That’s a little more romantic and less stalker creepy.”
“Well, regardless, you know mine is yours, right? Heart, soul, whatever. It’s all yours. ~ Kiersten White,

147:Feminism died in 1998 when Hillary allowed henchlings and Democrats to demonize Monica as an unbalanced stalker, and when Gloria Steinem defended Mr. Clinton against Kathleen Willey and Paula Jones by saying he had merely made clumsy passes, then accepted rejection, so there was no sexual harassment involved. As to his dallying with an emotionally immature 21-year-old, Ms. Steinem noted, 'Welcome sexual behavior is about as relevant to sexual harassment as borrowing a car is to stealing one.' Surely what's good for the Comeback Kid is good for the Terminator. ~ Maureen Dowd,

148:If you were mine" Oh my what would I do to be his? He's the only man who has ever set the blood racing through my body. Yet he's so antagonizing too; he's difficult, complicated, and confusing. One minute he rebuffs me, the next he sends me fourteen thousand dollar books, then tracks me like a stalker. And for all that, I have spent the night in his hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. He cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. He's not a dark knight at all but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor... a classic romantic hero. ~ E L James,

149:Stalker. Dokładnie tak ich sobie wyobrażał – z opowiadań ojczyma i historyjek straganiarzy. Poplamiony i miejscami osmalony skafander ochronny, długa ciężka kamizelka kuloodporna, potężne bary, na prawym ramieniu niedbale zarzucona potężna bryła erkaemu, z lewej, na podobieństwo bandoletu, zwisa pobłyskująca smarem taśma z nabojami. Masywne sznurowane buty, wpuszczone do środka spodnie, na plecach przepastny płócienny plecak. Stalker zdjął okrągły hełm specnazu, ściągnął gumową maskę przeciwgazową i, zaczerwieniony, mokry, rozmawiał o czymś z dowódcą posterunku. ~ Dmitry Glukhovsky,

150:Mearcstapa is not a comfortable role. Life on the borders of a group— and in the space between groups—is prone to dangers literal and figurative, with people both at “home” and among the “other” likely to misunderstand or mistrust the motivations, piety, and loyalty of the border-stalker. But mearcstapa can be a role of cultural leadership in a new mode, serving functions including empathy, memory, warning, guidance, mediation, and reconciliation. Those who journey to the borders of their group and beyond will encounter new vistas and knowledge that can enrich the group. ~ Makoto Fujimura,

151:You’re my mate. I’m naturally going to want to know everything about you.” He shrugged; it was simple. “That includes your address, where you work, and your cell number—just thought you should know so you won’t be surprised if a text message from me arrives.”
She gaped, both offended and shocked. “You can’t just pry into people’s lives like that and find out all their personal details. And how did you find them out anyway?”
He shrugged again. “I have contacts in the right places.”
“So, what, you’re a stalker now?”
“I prefer the term ‘intense investigator. ~ Suzanne Wright,

152:You know Shay Coleman?” the guy asked, sounding doubtful.

The girl was still laughing. She had no clue what was going on.

“I’m in a class with him. It’s all good. I’m not like a stalker or anything.” I shuddered at that thought, and as the girl pulled me forward and into a large crowd in the bar, I couldn’t help but think about the control a stalker had. They chose when to say something. They chose when to approach, when to look, when to retreat. They had all the control.

That was creepy as fuck.

I never wanted to be a stalker. Why was I thinking about that? ~ Tijan,

153:Use tools like Alexa and Klout that measure influence to get a rough metric for who’s dominating a particular space. Peruse Twitter for best-of lists and to see who’s most frequently retweeted, then become their most charming stalker. Connect to them in social media, listen to what they’re saying, and over time, weigh in. Once you know what would truly interest them, upgrade communications with a value-added email ping. Don’t worry if you don’t get a response; in a month, send another. Watch for opportunities to meet these people in person at conferences, book signings, and other events. ~ Keith Ferrazzi,

154:It had been a few weeks. He was done. No more note writing, no more calls. Even he wouldn’t date someone this desperate. He was going to start looking like a stalker when what he was, was in love with her. It embarrassed even him to think like that. How could you be in love with someone you’d met twice, but you knew for only twenty-four hours? It was impossible. There must be some other explanation for dreaming about her, smelling her, tasting her, hearing her voice, feeling her hair against his cheek when he was waking up in the morning. Some sort of mania or hallucination. An obsessive-compulsive disorder. He ~ Robyn Carr,

155:I need an audience with his furry Highness.” I can’t believe I’m saying this.
“I can’t believe you’re saying this, after all the bitc—yelling you did when I called you for the Spring Meet. I distinctly remember ‘never see that arrogant asshole again’ and ‘over my dead body.’”
“Spring Meet was optional.” After working with the Pack to dispatch the Red Point Stalker, I was granted the Friend of the Pack status, which apparently came with such benefits as being invited to ceremonies. Hell, if I transgressed in their territory, the shapeshifters might hesitate a couple of seconds before they shredded me into Kate sushi. ~ Ilona Andrews,

156:For all his manwhoring, the guy has a strict rule about not doing freshmen. I’m not sure I blame him, considering our little stalker incident at the start of the year. Dean had hooked up with a freshman, who, after one night of exquisite passion, decided they were madly in love. She then proceeded to show up at our house at all hours of the day and night, sometimes wearing clothes, other times not wearing clothes, usually armed with flowers and love letters and—my personal favorite—a framed photo of herself wearing Dean’s hockey jersey.

Sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I can still hear her wailing Deeeeeeeeean outside my window. ~ Elle Kennedy,

157:Lucky Charms are like the vampires of breakfast cereal. They're magical, they're delicious, they're a little bit dangerous and bad for you. They initially make you feel great, but then over time you realize that maybe your relationship with Lucky Charms is just a little bit unhealthy and you start to think, 'Maybe I don't want to be in a long-term relationship with a breakfast cereal that tastes delicious but damages my health.' But then the Lucky Charms gets all stalker on you and for some reason you kind of like that. It makes you feel special. So yeah, you spend your life with Lucky Charms. That's awesome. That's a great way to... get diabetes. ~ John Green,

158:You admit you're doing this on purpose?"
"This?"
"This - provoking me."
"Say 'provoking' again. Your mouth looks provocative when you do.”
―Vee said," I'm trying to read the title he's holding…hang on…How to Be a Stalker."
"He is not checking out a book with that title." But I wasn't so sure.
"It's either that of How to Radiate Sexy Without Trying.”
― Becca Fitzpatrick, Hush, Hush Hush, Hush

Vee said," I'm trying to read the title he's holding…hang on…How to Be a Stalker."
"He is not checking out a book with that title." But I wasn't so sure.
"It's either that of How to Radiate Sexy Without Trying.”
― Becca Fitzpatrick, Hush, Hush ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

159:I lock myself in the stall, take out the flask, unscrew it, and attach myself to it like a leech. I’m sitting on the bench, my heart is empty, my head is empty, my soul is empty, gulping down the hard stuff like water. Alive. I got out. The Zone let me out. The damned hag. My lifeblood. Traitorous bitch. Alive. The novices can’t understand this. No one but a stalker can understand. And tears are pouring down my face—maybe from the booze, maybe from something else. I suck the flask dry; I’m wet, the flask is dry. As usual, I need just one more sip. Oh well, we’ll fix that. We can fix anything now. Alive. I light a cigarette and stay seated. I can feel it—I’m coming around. ~ Arkady Strugatsky,

160:Tonight, when the walls started closing in on me, I figured a drive in the country might be nice because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Then I got here, you opened the door, and I thought: Oh crap, he’s going to think I’m a total stalker.”

“Not at all.” Seth raised their clasped hands and grinned. “I merely assumed you wanted to see my big hands again.”

Laughing, she gave his shoulder a shove. “You’re such a tease!”

His heart lightened. “Admitted without shame.”

“Well, I’ll forgive you,” she quipped, “because you’re letting me hold your hand.” Drawing their clasped hands closer to her face, she cupped her free hand over them and smoothed circles over his as she assumed a comical expression of amazement. “Oooooooh. So big,” she breathed.

Seth laughed. ~ Dianne Duvall,

161:At lunch I turned my phone on to check my messages. Georgia always sent me a few inane texts during the day, and sure enough there were two messages from her: one complaining about her physics teacher and a second, also obviously sent from her phone: I love you, baby. V.

I wrote her back: I thought I told you to buzz off last night, you creep-o French stalker guy.

Her response came back immediately: As if! Your beet-red cheeks this morning suggest otherwise ... liar! You're so into him.

I groaned and was about to turn my phone off when I saw that there was a third text from UNKNOWN. Clicking on it, I read: Can I pick you up from school? Same place, same time?

I texted back: How'd you get my number?

Called myself from your phone while you were in the restaurant's bathroom last night. Warned you we were stalkers! ~ Amy Plum,

162:Speaking of names and all-time favorite romances, Bailey told me you write under a pen name. I've been really curious about that."
Fern groaned loudly. She shook her fist toward Bailey's house. "Curse your big mouth, Bailey Sheen" She looked at Ambrose with trepidation. "You are going to think I'm some stalker chick. That I'm totally obsessed. But you have to remember that I came up with this alter ego when I was sixteen and I was a bit obsessed. Okay, I'm still a bit obsessed."
"With what?" Ambrose was confused.
"With you," Fern's response was muffled as she buried her forehead in his chest, but Ambrose still heard her. He laughed and forced her chin up so he could see her face. "I still don't understand what that has to do with your pen name."
Fern sighed. "It's Amber Rose."
"Ambrose?"
"Amber Rose," Fern corrected.
"Amber Rose?" Ambrose sputtered.
"Yes," Fern said in a very, very small voice. And Ambrose laughed for a very, very long time. ~ Amy Harmon,

163:Linc half listened. He managed to start the miniature camera on his jacket button. He could just feel the infinitesimal buzz.
He took video only of the men. Linc would never remember them all, but he had to try and jog Kenzie’s memory.
The stalker could be any one of them. An ordinary guy. On the outside.
He wished he’d gotten footage of the men who’d left with Vic Kehoe, but it was too late now. Linc guessed that a lot of it was going to be blurred or partial anyway. The thing was tiny and he wasn’t a pro, unlike Gary Baum’s cameraman. He knew for sure he’d gotten several shots of shirt fronts bulging with middle-manager fat.
Someone, not Lee, finally walked him over to the X-ultra department. Melvin Brody put down a sloppy sandwich to greet him. He invited Linc into his office for a spiel that could have been prerecorded on the merits of the new fiber in the vests.
Linc didn’t like the guy. His shirt had mayonnaise on it, but that wasn’t the reason. ~ Janet Dailey,

164:Em answered the phone on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘It’s me. What’s up?’

‘That was Mark Tipene in your kitchen last night, wasn’t it?’

‘It was.’

‘Mark Tipene! The All Black!’

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Did you find him on the Weetbix box?’

But she was not to be diverted. ‘And just how, pray, do you know Mark Tipene?’

I sat down cross-legged on the bench in the lunch room. ‘I fell over his feet at a party a few weeks ago. His cousin’s share-milking just out of town, and he was down here visiting. And then he came in to work and asked me out.’

My stepmother was temporarily stricken dumb, but I heard the sounds of laboured breathing down the phone.

‘Em,’ I said gently, ‘you sound like a stalker.’

‘You’re seeing Mark Tipene,’ she repeated.

‘Um. Yes. I think so,’ I said, looking across the lunch room at his picture and smiling wonderingly to myself.

‘Sweetie, he’s gorgeous.’

‘I know. ~ Danielle Hawkins,

165:Wade sighed. “I’ll never understand why women wear bras to start with. They look uncomfortable as hell.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“Turn around so I can fasten the damn thing for you.”
She refused to let go. Suddenly it seemed important to do this one small task alone. “I can do it, Wade. I need to get used to doing things with this cast.”
He crossed his arms over his chest as he watched her struggle. “Is it so hard to ask for help from me, Gracie?”
She tried the two small hooks once more, but failed to get them both attached. “No, it’s just that I’m not used to people offering, I guess.”
He moved around her and helped fasten the contrary hook. When she turned to tell him thanks, he placed his finger over her lips and murmured, “If you thank me, I’ll spank you. Knowing I haven’t been able to catch your stalker, that he broke into your home and trashed your things and I wasn’t able to stop him makes me feel as fucking useless as tits on a bull. The least I can do is fasten your bra. ~ Anne Rainey,

166:Closure
/klōZHər/ Noun

1. The thing women tell you what they want, but secretly they really want you to tell them why you don’t want them again, so they can try one last time to convince you that you were wrong.

2. The warped mentality that having someone tell you honestly why they don’t want you is going to somehow make you feel peace, so you can move on.

3. The neat packaging of finishing conversations because you have been stewing over it insecurely about the length of what a stalker does.

4. The one thing women don’t give themselves because if they didn’t care about the jerk they wouldn’t still be hanging onto another conversation that tells them what they already know: He just isn’t that interested in you.

5. The anal retentive art of perfecting every ending with meaning, rather than just excepting you went through something rather sucky and he doesn’t care.

6. The act of closing something with someone, when in reality you should slam the door. ~ Shannon L Alder,

167:Is that what we do? We pitch our tents, do our little clown shows, and then take off up the road to the next town ahead? Leaving our science-fictional debris on the blasted dirt to poison the minds of future generations, like the alien litter in STALKER and ROADSIDE PICNIC. Flying cars rusting out like Saturn Five rockets propped up as roadkill talismans at Kennedy, leaking toxins into the soil. Jetpacks oozing fuel from cracks in their tanks and poisoning the grass. Three-ring moonbases crumbling in the solar wind. Birdshit on the time machines. Big fat rats scavenging broken packs of food capsules, Best Before Date of 1971. A Westinghouse Robot Smoking Companion, vintage of 1931, slumped up against a tree, tin fingers still twitching for a cigarette. Vines growing through a busted cyberspace deck. The shreds of inflatable furniture designed for the space hospitals of 1955. Lizards perched atop a weather control cannon. Atomic batteries mouldering inside the grips of laser pistols abandoned in the weeds. ~ Warren Ellis,

168:Wszystkie oczy były skierowane na żelazne drzwi na zasuwę. Teraz były otwarte, a w prześwicie stał wysoki człowiek, widząc którego Artem też zapomniał po co tu przyszedł. Stalker. Dokładnie tak ich sobie wyobrażał – z opowiadań ojczyma i historyjek straganiarzy. Poplamiony i miejscami osmalony skafander ochronny, długa ciężka kamizelka kuloodporna, potężne bary, na prawym ramieniu niedbale zarzucona potężna bryła erkaemu, z lewej, na podobieństwo bandoletu, zwisa pobłyskująca smarem taśma z nabojami. Masywne sznurowane buty, wpuszczone do środka spodnie, na plecach przepastny płócienny plecak. Stalker zdjął okrągły hełm specnazu, ściągnął gumową maskę przeciwgazową i, zaczerwieniony, mokry, rozmawiał o czymś z dowódcą posterunku. Był już niemłody, Artem widział siwy zarost na jego policzkach i brodzie i srebrne nitki wśród krótkich, czarnych włosów. Ale biło od niego siłą, pewnością siebie, cały był spięty, czujny, jakby nawet tu, na cichej, jasnej stacji był gotów w każdej chwili stawić czoła niebezpieczeństwu i nie dać mu się zaskoczyć. ~ Dmitry Glukhovsky,

169:Later, as they sat at one another’s elbows, eating dinner at the employee house where they lived, Roan detected a subtle sense of happiness around Shiloh. Again, nothing obvious, but his operator’s senses told him that. “You said you were writing a chapter? On your latest book? The one that’s due to your editor’s desk?”

“Yes.” She shrugged. “I woke up this morning WANTING to write for the first time since coming here.” She met his gray gaze, seeing interest in them. Roan, she was discovering, missed nothing. He listened to her without ever interrupting her flow of thought. “First time.”

“Is this a good thing?” he wondered, adding more spoonfuls of whipped potatoes onto his plate.

“Sure is,” she sighed, giving him a look of relief. “I’ve had writer’s block for the last six months. I just haven’t felt the driving passion to write.” She added some green beans onto her plate. “Ever since the stalker came into my life, my writing has turned off.”

“Kind of expected?”

“I suppose,” Shiloh muttered. “It’s hurt me in so many ways, seen and unseen.”

“It’s what we in the military call psy ops or psychological warfare. ~ Lindsay McKenna,

170:This is not one of the bandits,” she said.

Gavril looked closer at the shadow-stalker-abandoned corpse. “You are correct,” he said, as if with some surprise.

She gave him a look. “Thank you. So it seems we are stuck in the middle—sorry, the edge of the steppes—with no horses and a useless wagon and a landscape populated by shadow stalkers. If they are indeed raised by some confederate of your father’s, then we should be safe enough. We simply need to find this sorcerer and turn ourselves in to him to be returned to your father and resume our original mission. However, the fact that it”—Moria waved at the shadow stalker—“attempted to attack you suggests we are not safe at all. What is going on here, Kitsune?”

“I . . . I’m thinking.”

“If you do it aloud, perhaps I can help. Unless you still think me a dull-witted Northerner.”

“I only said that to needle you.”

“You also did it in front of your father.”

“As I said, it was to convince him you were not intellectually capable . . .” He stopped and scowled at her. “You’re needling me now, Keeper. Playing on my guilt to make me share my thoughts.”

“I do not believe I am intellectually capable of such cunning—”

“Enough. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

171:Glaring, Kai leaned back against the headrest. "I'm already uncomfortable with you piloting this ship and being in control of my life. Try not to make it worse."
"Why does everyone think I'm such a bad pilot?"
"Cinder told me as much."
"Well, tell Cinder I'm perfectly capable of flying a blasted podship without killing anyone. My flight instructor at the Andromeda - which is a very prestigious military academy in the Republic, I will have you know-"
"I know what Andromeda Academy is."
"Yeah, well, my flight instructor said I was a natural."
"Right," Kai drawled. "Was that the same flight instructor who wrote in you official report about your inattentiveness, refusal to take safety precautions seriously, and overconfident attitude that often bordered on ... what was the word she used>? 'Fool-hardy', I think?"
"Oh, yeah. Commander Reid. She had a thing for me." The radar blinked, picking up a cruiser in the far distance, and Thorne deftly changed directions to keep them out of its course. "I didn't realize I had a royal stalker. I'm flattered, Your Majesty."
"Even better - you had an entire government team assigned to digging up information on you. They reported twice daily for over a week. You did run off with the most-wanted criminal in the world, after all. ~ Marissa Meyer,

172:She’d heard my theory on funnel cake and celery stalker men before. Most men were either like funnel cake: delicious and interesting, but who at the end of the day just aren’t good for the heart or complexion. Or they were celery: a sensible, healthy choice that didn’t really bring much to the table but an occasional crunch. If you OD on celery, you end up bingeing on cake behind closed doors.

Funnel cake, while warm and delicious, is difficult to make. But you go there because you long for it like the double-twist stomach-dropping roller coaster as soon as you arrive at the amusement park. Wet ribbons of batter crackle and pop until golden and crisp, yielding in the center. The steamy swirls of tender yellow dough absorb confectioners’ sugar like pores. When the luxurious fat melts on your tongue, you exhale. You’ve got sticky batter, dribbling down spouts, leaving rings on your clean countertops, splattering oil growing darker and beginning to smoke. Layers of paper towels and oil-draining weapons clutter your space. With funnel cake, you’ve got steps to follow. Procedures. Rules.

No one makes rules about celery. It’s always around for the snacking. You choose it when you’re dieting or trying not to consume too many wings over football. Come to think of it, you don’t even bother eating it when you diet. Instead it’s a conduit for blue cheese. You use it to make stocks and stuffing. It becomes filler, pantry almost. ~ Stephanie Klein,

173:Stalker

The light so thick nothing’s visible, cognoscenti

I knew them, stupid apes. Real apes know more

Before we said apes. I know how to be you bet-

ter — a stupid voice. You must find a mind

to respect — why? There was someone with ear

buds, speaking gibberish who wouldn’t

stop walking beside me; freckle-spattered. I

had to ask the métro attendant for help;

she extricated him from me ... I respect his chaotic

speech, mild adhesive force because it makes no sense.

I am back on the alley, discovering adults are un-

trustworthy: someone’s lying ... about a

fight between a teenage girl and boy — he pushed

her hard — first she badly scratched him, she’s worse, his

mother says. I’m back at pre-beginning, I don’t

want to go through that again. There is no

sexuality in chaos, there’s no style, nor

hope. I want style — apes have style, people

have machines. Show me something to respect

This bleuet growing out of a wall on rue d’Hauteville.

I picked it and pressed it in a diary. Every once

in a while I respect a moment. I am back at

pre-beginning: I don’t want to care beyond

this ... sudden hue in the sand, yellow or spotted with an

hallucinated iridescence. The one who is

stalking me ... there has often been someone stalk-

ing me. My destiny. He’s gone, stay here

in this, I can’t be harmed if I’m the only one who’s

thought of being here. Aren’t you lonely? I don’t know. ~ Alice Notley,

174:I saw them,” he said.
I frowned. “Saw what?”
He took a deep breath as he eyed me. “The paintings.”
For a moment, I didn’t get where he was going with this. Not when he traced the curve of my cheek with his thumb and not when a soft smile curved his lips. And then it hit me.
“The paintings?” I swallowed and started to sit up, but he didn’t let me get very far. “The paintings at my place?” When he nodded, I felt my face heat like I was out under the summer sun. “The ones that are . . . ?”
“Of me?” he supplied.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh my God. Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Mortified, I didn’t know what to say. “They were in my closet. Why were you in my closet?”
“Looking for a psycho stalker,” he answered.
My eyes popped opened. “That . . . that was like two weeks ago! You saw them back then and didn’t say anything.”
Reece sat up, bringing me with him. Somehow my body ended up between his legs and we were face-to-face. “I didn’t say anything, because I figured you’d respond this way.”
“Of course I’d respond this way! It’s embarrassing. You probably think I’m some kind of freak. A stalker—a creepy stalker who paints pictures of you when you’re not around.”
“I don’t think you’re a stalker, babe.” His voice was dry.
I screwed up my face. “I can’t believe you saw them.”
He chuckled, and my eyes narrowed on him. “Honestly? I really didn’t know how you truly felt about me until I saw them.”
My brows flew up. “I thought you were all-knowing.”
Reece smirked. “I had my suspicions that you were in love with me from the first time you laid eyes
on me.”
“Oh dear baby Jesus in a manger,” I muttered.
“But I don’t think I was a hundred percent until I saw those paintings, especially the one of me in the kitchen. You painted that after . . . after I left.” His brows lowered as he gave a little shake of his head. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I think it’s sweet. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

175:He cocked his head. "But why did you come to begin with?"
"I think you know, Callum," she answered, embarrassed.
"Yeah, I think I do, but I want to hear it from you."
Why not tell him? This whole sequence wouldn't amount to much more than a dream tomorrow, anyway. "Because you're amazing, because you're a rock star, because you move me. There are probably a million girls on the planet who would do anything to be where I am right now." Luckily, she didn't tell him she loved him; that would have been really awkward. She made herself breathe. "But I took advantage of this ability I have. The real truth is that last night, I'm not sure I could have stopped myself even if I wanted to. I just never thought..." Sylvie trailed off, unable to continue.
"What?"
"I never thought you'd be able to see me. Most people can't."
"Really?" His expression was almost smug. "So why do you think I can?"
"I don't know. I don't think anyone really understands how this works. Most times I float around and go unnoticed. I thought if I could just see you, I could make a kind of peace with that." She looked down at her feet, feeling inexcusable. "I'm getting this all wrong. I just wanted to apologize, that's all. And now I really do sound like a stalker."
He laughed. "Hey, there are worse things in the world than being stalked by a beautiful girl who has this amazing ability to fly out of her body any time she wants to. What else can you do, Sylvie?" The question lingered in the air. She had a feeling that he wasn't talking about anything spiritual at all. In fact, she got the distinct impression that he was flirting with her.
"Don't you want me to leave? Aren't you pissed off?" she asked.
He laughed again, totally at ease. She wished she were as relaxed. "Listen, I'm a guy who likes his privacy. But there's something about you... something special. It seems crazy, but maybe I can see you because I'm meant to see you."
Sylvie didn't know what to say. ~ Amy S Foster,

176:It's a physical sickness. Etienne. How much I love him.
I love Etienne.
I love it when he cocks an eyebrow whenever I say something he finds clever or amusing. I love listening to his boots clomp across my bedroom ceiling. I love that the accent over his first name is called an acute accent, and that he has a cute accent.
I love that.
I love sitting beside him in physics. Brushing against him during lands. His messy handwriting on our worksheets. I love handing him his backpack when class is over,because then my fingers smell like him for the next ten minutes. And when Amanda says something lame, and he seeks me out to exchange an eye roll-I love that,too. I love his boyish laugh and his wrinkled shirts and his ridiculous knitted hat. I love his large brown eyes,and the way he bites his nails,and I love his hair so much I could die.
There's only one thing I don't love about him. Her.
If I didn't like Ellie before,it's nothing compared to how I feel now. It doesn't matter that I can count how many times we've met on one hand. It's that first image, that's what I can't shake. Under the streeplamp. Her fingers in his hair. Anytime I'm alone, my mind wanders back to that night. I take it further. She touches his chest. I take it further.His bedroom.He slips off her dress,their lips lock, their bodies press,and-oh my God-my temperature rises,and my stomach is sick.
I fantasize about their breakup. How he could hurt her,and she could hurt him,and of all the ways I could hurt her back. I want to grab her Parisian-styled hair and yank it so hard it rips from her skull. I want to sink my claws into her eyeballs and scrape.
It turns out I am not a nice person.
Etienne and I rarely discussed her before, but she's completely taboo now. Which tortures me, because since we've gotten back from winter break, they seem to be having problems again. Like an obsessed stalker,I tally the evenings he spend with me versus the evening he spends with her. I'm winning. ~ Stephanie Perkins,

177:The chick last night marked you,” he said, gesturing to my throat. “Might be a stalker. You’ll want to prepare to wake up with your balls removed.”
“Raven might cut off my balls, but not because she’s a stalker. More like she’s just in a bad mood or gassy.”
Tawny looked at me then shook her head. “Oh, Vaughn. You’re fucked.”
“Actually, I was and quite well. In fact, I think she bruised my hip bones.”
Laughing, Tawny cuddled against Judd. “When’s the wedding?”
Once Judd started laughing, I flipped them off and looked at my menu. “We’re fuck buddies. Nothing more.”
Judd nodded. “Makes sense. A man of your stupidity couldn’t handle a relationship. Best to keep your life simple.”
“She’s hot. That’s all I care about.”
“She is hot,” Tawny said, smiling easier now. “She could probably land a rich guy with those looks.”
“Did you just call me poor?”
“I only mean she could get someone better than a manwhore with commitment issues.”
“Fuck you,” I said and Judd looked ready to hit me. “I could commit if I wanted to. If I wasn’t expecting to die soon, I’d commit all over the fucking place.”
“You don’t even have a pet.”
“Who would take care of my pet when I died?”
“If it was a cat, we’d take it in.”
Judd frowned. “No more cats.”
“One more wouldn’t hurt. In fact, if we have a bunch of cats, people will stop asking when we’re having a kid.”
Judd’s frown disappeared. “Another cat wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“Judd’s the one who can’t commit,” I muttered.
“He’s married and we have two cats. We’re plenty committed. You’re the one getting hickeys from a girl who likely will marry someone else in a few months.”
“Why a few months?”
“I don’t know. I just feel like she’ll be married in a few months. A rich guy.”
“Are you psychic now?”
“Yes, I’m going to open a shop and tell people their fortunes.”
Smiling, Judd kissed her forehead. “A businesswoman. That’s sexy.”
“Don’t even think about ditching me again so you two can fuck. You can hump each other later.”
“Oh, we will,” Tawny said, waving over the waitress. ~ Bijou Hunter,

178:Two seconds went by before I got a response.

Lenny: The offer stands, bish.

Lenny: You’re the best person I know, fyi.

I smiled down at my phone.

Me: I love you too

Lenny: [eye rolling emoji]

Lenny: I was texting you because Grandpa G is making margaritas and he was asking where you were.

Me: Tell him I love him.

Lenny: I will. You find Rip?

Me: I’m watching him.

Lenny: Stalker

Me: He’s standing in front of me, I can’t help it.

Lenny: Pretty sure that’s what every stalker thinks.

I chanced another glance at the man and held back a sigh.

Me: Sometimes I don’t understand why him.

Lenny: Because he looks like he’s been in jail and that’s about as far away from what every jackass you’ve ever dated looks like?

Lenny: Grandpa G says he loves you too and to come over and bring the girl with you if she’s around. I didn’t tell him you’re at the bar, otherwise he’d want to invite himself. You know how that man gets in public.

I almost laughed at the first comment and definitely laughed at the second one. Rip did look like he’d done time. That was unfair, but it was the truth.

For all I knew, he probably had.

Then again, I was probably judging him by a face he had no say in. For all I knew, he had a marshmallow heart and rescued and rehabilitated small animals when he wasn’t at work. Deep down, he might have a caring and loving disposition that he only shared around very few people—people who had won his trust.

You never knew.

The idea of that put a small smile on my face and kept it there as I typed a message back, leaving the first comment alone.

Me: I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here, but if I leave soon, I’ll drop by. Tell Grandpa G that the girl is working tonight. You’re all coming for the graduation, right?

Lenny: Yes. I’m legit ready to cry this Saturday.

Lenny: I’ve got the blow horn ready by the way. TOOT TOOT, bish.

She wasn’t the only one preparing herself to cry this weekend, and that made me happy for some reason. ~ Mariana Zapata,

179:Knocking on the Ellises’ door ten minutes later with the pink horn and streamers in hand, I try to put on the I-am-a-cool-motherfucker pose.
When Brittany opens the door wearing a baggy T-shirt and shorts, I’m floored.
Her pale blue eyes open wide. “Alex, what are you doing here?”
I hold out the horn and streamers.
She snatches them from my hand. “I can’t believe you came here because of some prank.”
“We’ve got some things to discuss. Besides pranks.”
She swallows nervously. “I’m not feeling great, okay? Let’s just talk at school.” She tries to close the door.
Shit, I can’t believe I’m going to do this like a stalker guy in the movies. I push open the door. ¡Que mierdaǃ
“Alex, don’t.”
“Let me in. For a minute. Please.”
She shakes her head, those angelic curls swaying back and forth across her face. “My parents don’t like when I have people over.”
“Are they home?”
“No.” She sighs, then opens the door hesitantly.
I step inside. The house is even bigger than it looks from the outside. The walls are painted bright white, reminding me of a hospital. I swear dust wouldn’t have the nerve to land on their floors or counters. The two-story foyer boasts a staircase that rivals the one I saw in The Sound of Music, which we were forced to watch in junior high, and the floor is as shiny as water.
Brittany was right. I don’t belong here. It doesn’t matter, because even if I don’t belong in this place, she’s here and I want to be where she is.
“Well, what did you want to talk about?” she asks.
I wish her long, lean legs weren’t sticking out from her shorts. They’re a distraction. I look away from them, desperate to keep my wits. So what if she has sexy legs? So what if she has eyes as clear as glass marbles? So what if she can take a prank like a man and give it right back?
Who am I kidding? I have no reason for being here other than the fact that I want to be near her. Screw the bet.
I want to know how to make this girl laugh. I want to know what makes her cry. I want to know what it feels like to have her look at me as if I’m her knight in shining armor. ~ Simone Elkeles,

180:I splash enough water in Chloe's face to put out a small house fire. I don't want to drown her, just exfoliate her eyeballs with sea salt. When she thinks I'm done, she opens her eyes-and her mouth. Big mistake. The next wave rinses off the hangy ball in the back of her throat and makes it to her lungs before she can swallow. She chokes and coughs and rubs her eyes as if she's been maced.
"Great, Emma! You got my new hair wet!" she sputters. "Happy now?"
"Nope."
"I said I was sorry." She blows her nose in her hand, then sets the snot to sea.
"Gross. And sorry's not good enough."
"Fine. I'll make it up to you. What do you want?"
"Let me hold your head underwater until I feel better," I say. I cross my arms, which is tricky when straddling a surfboard being pitched around in the wake of a passing speedboat. Chloe knows I'm nervous being this far out, but holding on would be a sign of weakness.
"I'll let you do that because I love you. But it won't make you feel better."
"I won't know for sure until I try it." I keep eye contact, sit a little straighter.
"Fine. But you'll still look albino when you let me back up." She rocks the board and makes me grab it for balance.
"Get your snotty hands off the surfboard. And I'm not albino. Just white." I want to cross my arms again, but we almost tipped over that time. Swallowing my pride is a lot easier than swallowing the Gulf of Mexico.
"White than most," she grins. "People would think you're naked if you wore my swimsuit." I glance down at the white string bikini, offset beautifully against her chocolate-milk skin. She catches me and laughs.
"Well, maybe I could get a tan while we're here," I say, blushing. I feel myself cracking and I hate it. Just this once, I want to stay mad at Chloe.
"Maybe you could get a burn while we're here, you mean. Matterfact, did you put sunblock on?"
I shake my head.
She shakes her head too, and makes a tsking sound identical to her mother's. "Didn't think so. If you did, you would've slipped right off that guy's chest instead of sticking to it like that."
"I know," I groan.
"Got to be the hottest guy I've ever seen," she says, fanning herself for emphasis.
"Yeah, I know. Smacked into him, remember? Without my helmet, remember?"
She laughs. "Hate to break it to you, but he's still staring at you. Him and his mean-ass sister."
"Shut up."
She snickers. "But seriously, which one of them do you think would win a staring contest? I was gonna tell him to meet us at Baytowne tonight, but he might be one of those clingy stalker types. That's too bad, too. There's a million dark little corners in Baytowne for you two to snuggle-"
"Ohmysweetgoodness, Chloe, stop! ~ Anna Banks,

181:This is the definition of peace.
The definition is interrupted by Toraf's ringtone. Why did Rachel get Toraf a phone? Does she hate me? Fumbling behind him in the sand, Galen puts a hand on it right before it stops ringing. He waits five seconds and...Yep, he's calling again.
"Hello?" he whispers.
"Galen, it's Toraf."
Galen snorts. "You think?"
"Rayna's ready to leave. Where are you?"
Galen sighs. “We’re on the beach. Emma’s still sleeping. We’ll walk back in a few minutes.” Emma braved her mom’s wrath by skipping curfew again last night to be with him. Grom’s mating ceremony is tomorrow, and Galen and Rayna’s attendance is required. He’ll have to leave her in Toraf’s care until he gets back.
“Sorry, Highness. I told you, Rayna’s ready to go. You have about two minutes of privacy. She’s heading your way. “The phone disconnects.
Galen leans down and sweeps his lips over her sweet neck. “Emma,” he whispers.
She sighs. “I heard him,” she groans drowsily. “You should tell Toraf that he doesn’t have to yell into the phone. And if he keeps doing it, I’m going to accidentally break it.”
Galen grins. “He’ll get the hang of it soon. He’s not a complete idiot.”
At this, Emma opens one eye.
He shrugs. “Well, three quarters maybe. But not a complete one.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she says, sitting up and stretching.
“You know I do. But I think this mating ceremony will be interesting enough without introducing my Half-Breed girlfriend, don’t you think?”
Emma laughs and pulls her hair to one side, draping it over her shoulder. “This is our first time away from each other. You know, as a couple. We’ve only been really dating for two weeks now. What will I do without you?”
He pulls her to him, leaning her back against his chest. “Well, I’m hoping that this time when I come back, it won’t be to the sight of you kissing Toraf.”
The snickers beside them let them know their two minutes of privacy are up. “Yeah. Or someone’s gonna die,” Rayna says cordially.
Galen helps Emma up and swats the leftover sand out of her sundress. He takes her hands into his. “Could I please just ask one thing without you getting all mad about it?”
She scowls. “Let me guess. You don’t want me to get in the water while you’re gone.”
“But I’m not ordering you to stay out of it. I’m asking, no begging, very politely, and with all my heart for you not to get in. It’s your choice. But it would make me the happiest man-fish on the coast if you wouldn’t.” They sense the stalker almost daily now. That and the fact that Dr. Milligan blew his theory about Emma’s dad being a Half-Breed out of the water makes Galen more nervous than he can say. It means they still don’t have any answers about who could know about Emma. Or why they keep hanging around.
Emma rewards him with a breathtaking smile. “I won’t. Because you asked.”
Toraf was right. I just had to ask. He shakes his head. “Now I can sleep tonight.”
“That makes one of us. Don’t stay gone too long. Or Mark will sit by me at lunch.”
He grimaces. “I’ll hurry.” He leans down to kiss her. Behind them, he hears Rayna’s initial splash.
“She’s leaving without you,” Emma whispers on his lips.
“She could have left hours ago and I’d still catch her. Good-bye, angelfish. Be good.” He places a forceful kiss on her forehead, then gets a running start and dives in.
And he misses her already. ~ Anna Banks,

182:Lui Et Elle
She is large and matronly
And rather dirty,
A little sardonic-looking, as if domesticity had driven her to it.
Though what she does, except lay four eggs at random in the garden once a year
And put up with her husband,
I don't know.
She likes to eat.
She hurries up, striding reared on long uncanny legs
When food is going.
Oh yes, she can make haste when she likes.
She snaps the soft bread from my hand in great mouthfuls,
Opening her rather pretty wedge of an iron, pristine face
Into an enormously wide-beaked mouth
Like sudden curved scissors,
And gulping at more than she can swallow, and working her thick, soft tongue,
And having the bread hanging over her chin.
O Mistress, Mistress,
Reptile mistress,
Your eye is very dark, very bright,
And it never softens
Although you watch.
She knows,
She knows well enough to come for food,
Yet she sees me not;
Her bright eye sees, but not me, not anything,
Sightful, sightless, seeing and visionless,
Reptile mistress.
Taking bread in her curved, gaping, toothless mouth,
She has no qualm when she catches my finger in her steel overlapping gums,
But she hangs on, and my shout and my shrinking are nothing to her.
She does not even know she is nipping me with her curved beak.
Snake-like she draws at my finger, while I drag it in horror away.
Mistress, reptile mistress,
You are almost too large, I am almost frightened.
87
He is much smaller,
Dapper beside her,
And ridiculously small.
Her laconic eye has an earthy, materialistic look,
His, poor darling, is almost fiery.
His wimple, his blunt-prowed face,
His low forehead, his skinny neck, his long, scaled, striving legs,
So striving, striving,
Are all more delicate than she,
And he has a cruel scar on his shell.
Poor darling, biting at her feet,
Running beside her like a dog, biting her earthy, splay feet,
Nipping her ankles,
Which she drags apathetic away, though without retreating into her shell.
Agelessly silent,
And with a grim, reptile determination,
Cold, voiceless age-after-age behind him, serpents' long obstinacy
Of horizontal persistence.
Little old man
Scuffling beside her, bending down, catching his opportunity,
Parting his steel-trap face, so suddenly, and seizing her scaly ankle,
And hanging grimly on,
Letting go at last as she drags away,
And closing his steel-trap face.
His steel-trap, stoic, ageless, handsome face.
Alas, what a fool he looks in this scuffle.
And how he feels it!
The lonely rambler, the stoic, dignified stalker through chaos,
The immune, the animate,
Enveloped in isolation,
Fore-runner.
Now look at him!
Alas, the spear is through the side of his isolation.
His adolescence saw him crucified into sex,
88
Doomed, in the long crucifixion of desire, to seek his consummation beyond
himself.
Divided into passionate duality,
He, so finished and immune, now broken into desirous fragmentariness,
Doomed to make an intolerable fool of himself
In his effort toward completion again.
Poor little earthy house-inhabiting Osiris,
The mysterious bull tore him at adolescence into pieces,
And he must struggle after reconstruction, ignominiously.
And so behold him following the tail
Of that mud-hovel of his slowly rambling spouse,
Like some unhappy bull at the tail of a cow,
But with more than bovine, grim, earth-dank persistence.
Suddenly seizing the ugly ankle as she stretches out to walk,
Roaming over the sods,
Or, if it happen to show, at her pointed, heavy tail
Beneath the low-dropping back-board of her shell.
Their two shells like domed boats bumping,
Hers huge, his small;
Their splay feet rambling and rowing like paddles,
And stumbling mixed up in one another,
In the race of love -Two tortoises,
She huge, he small.
She seems earthily apathetic,
And he has a reptile's awful persistence.
I heard a woman pitying her, pitying the Mère Tortue.
While I, I pity Monsieur.
'He pesters her and torments her,' said the woman.
How much more is he pestered and tormented, say I.
What can he do?
He is dumb, he is visionless,
Conceptionless.
His black, sad-lidded eye sees but beholds not
As her earthen mound moves on,
89
But he catches the folds of vulnerable, leathery skin,
Nail-studded, that shake beneath her shell,
And drags at these with his beak,
Drags and drags and bites,
While she pulls herself free, and rows her dull mound along.
~ David Herbert Lawrence,

183:Cito Pede Preterit Aetas
A mellower light doth Sol afford,
His meridian glare has pass'd
And the trees on the broad and sloping sward
Their length'ning shadows cast.
'Time flies.' The current will be no joke,
If swollen by recent rain,
To cross in the dark, so I'll have a smoke,
And then I'll be off again.
What's up, old horse ? Your ears you prick,
And your eager eyeballs glisten ;
'Tis the wild dog's note in the tea-tree thick,
By the river, to which you listen.
With head erect, and tail flung out,
For a gallop you seem to beg,
But I feel the qualm of a chilling doubt
As I glance at your fav'rite leg.
Let the dingo rest, 'till all for the best,
In this world there's room enough
For him and you and me and the rest,
And the country is awful rough.
We've had our gallop in days of yore,
Now down the hill we must run ;
Yet at times we long for one gallop more,
Although it were only one.
Did our spirits quail at a new four-rail,
Could a 'double' double-bank us,
Ere nerve and sinew began to fail
In the consulship of Plancus ?
When our blood ran rapidly, and when
Our bones were pliant and limber,
Could we stand a merry cross-counter then,
A slogging fall over timber ?
Arcades ambo ! Duffers both
In our best of days, alas !
(I tell the truth, though to tell it loth)
124
'Tis time we were gone to grass ;
The young leaves shoot, the sere leaves fall,
And the old gives way to the new,
While the preacher cries, ' 'Tis vanity all,
And vexation of spirit, too.'
Now over my head the vapours curl
From the bowl of the soothing clay,
In the misty forms that eddy and whirl
My thoughts are flitting away ;
Yes, the preacher's right, 'tis vanity all,
But the sweeping rebuke he showers
On vanities all may heaviest fall
On vanities worse than ours.
We have no wish to exaggerate
The worth of the sports we prize,
Some toil for their Church, and some for their State,
And some for their merchandise ;
Some traffic and trade in the city's mart,
Some travel by land and sea,
Some follow science, some cleave to art,
And some to scandal and tea ;
And some for their country and their queen
Would fight, if the chance they had,
Good sooth, 'twere a sorry world, I ween,
If we all went galloping mad ;
Yet if once we efface the joys of the chase
From the land, and outroot the Stud,
GOOD-BYE TO THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE !
FAREWELL TO THE NORMAN BLOOD !
Where the burn runs down to the uplands brown,
From the heights of the snow-clad range,
What anodyne drawn from the stifling town
Can be reckon'd a fair exchange
For the stalker's stride, on the mountain side
In the bracing northern weather,
To the slopes where couch, in their antler'd pride,
The deer on the perfum'd heather.
125
Oh ! the vigour with which the air is rife !
The spirit of joyous motion ;
The fever, the fulness of animal life,
Can be drain'd from no earthly potion !
The lungs with the living gas grow light,
And the limbs feel the strength of ten,
While the chest expands with its madd'ning might,
GOD'S GLORIOUS OXYGEN.
Thus the measur'd stroke, on elastic sward,
Of the steed three parts extended,
Hard held, the breath of his nostrils broad,
With the golden ether blended ;
Then the leap, the rise from the springy turf,
The rush through the buoyant air,
And the light shock landing—the veriest serf
Is an emperor then and there.
Such scenes ! sensation and sound and sight,
To some undiscover'd shore
On the current of Time's remorseless flight
Have they swept to return no more ?
While, like phantoms bright of the fever'd night,
That have vex'd our slumbers of yore,
You follow us still in your ghostly might,
Dead days that have gone before.
Vain dreams, again and again re-told,
Must you crowd on the weary brain,
Till the fingers are cold that entwin'd of old
Round foil and trigger and rein,
Till stay'd for ay are the roving feet,
Till the restless hands are quiet,
Till the stubborn heart has forgotten to beat,
Till the hot blood has ceas'd to riot ?
In Exeter Hall the saint may chide,
The sinner may scoff outright,
The Bacchanal steep'd in the flagon's tide,
Or the sensual Sybarite ;
But NOLAN'S name will flourish in fame,
When our galloping days are past,
126
When we go to the place from whence we came,
Perchance to find rest at last.
Thy riddles grow dark, oh ! drifting cloud,
And thy misty shapes grow drear,
Thou hang'st in the air like a shadowy shroud,
But I am of lighter cheer ;
Though our future lot is a sable blot,
Though the wise ones of earth will blame us,
Though our saddles will rot, and our rides be forgot,
'Dum Vivimus, Vivamus !'
~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

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