Anger

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Absolon could see nothing at all, of course, and so he put out his tongue and gave her a French kiss. He was eagerly slurping her bum. But then he knew that something was wrong. He had never known a woman with a beard before. But he knew this much - he had licked on something rough and hairy. ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘This isn’t right.’ Alison laughed out loud, and shut the window. Absolon shook his head, and began to walk away. But then he heard Nicholas laughing, too. He scowled in anger, and muttered to himself, ‘I’ll get my own back. Wait and see.’ Then he began to rub his lips and mouth with dust and straw and cloth and chips of wood - anything to get rid of the taste. He kept on repeating to himself, ‘What a mess! I would give anything to be revenged on those two. I would give my soul to the devil, I really would. If only I had turned away. If only I had not kissed that - that thing.’ His lust of course was now completely quenched. From this time forward, from the time he kissed the arse of Alison, he never looked at another woman. He was cured of lovesickness. Women? What were they to him? So, weeping like a child that has just been whipped, he crossed the street and made his way towards the shop of a blacksmith called Gervase. Gervase forged the equipment for ploughs - that sort of thing - and just at that moment was working on a ploughshare for one of the local farmers. So Absolon knocked on the door and called out, ‘Open the door, Gervase! Hurry up!’ ‘What? Who’s there?’ ‘It’s me. Absolon.’ ‘What in God’s name are you doing here so early? What’s the matter? Oh. I know. Some young madame has got you all excited. You rise early. You know what I mean.’ Absolon was not bothered by these sly insinuations. He had no time for joking. He had other matters on his mind. ‘I can see that hot blade in the corner of the chimney,’ he said to Gervase. ‘It’s for a ploughshare, isn’t it? Can I borrow it from you for a few minutes? I won’t need it for long.’ ‘Of course you can. I would do anything for an old friend like you. You could borrow it if it were made of gold or worth a sack of sovereigns. But what

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘So God be my judge I have never been discreet. I have never been backward. I have always followed my appetites. I didn’t mind if he was short or tall, black or white - if he liked me, I was on. I didn’t care if he was rich or poor, noble or serf, as long as I had him. ‘What else is there to say? At the end of the month, Jankyn was my new husband. We had a grand wedding. I gave him all my worldly goods, inherited from the previous four husbands. That is what marriage is all about. But, God, did I regret doing it! He was hard. He never let me do what I wanted. And he did beat me. Once I accidentally tore a page out of his book, and he went for me. He bashed me around the head so much that I became deaf in one ear. I still am. Yet I was stubborn. I was a lioness. And I had a loose tongue, too. He told me not to gossip in the neighbourhood, but I paid no attention to him. I still made my visits to Alison and the other dames. So then he began to preach at me, and cite all the ancient examples. There was one old Roman called Simplicius Gallus - I think that was his name - who left his wife for ever. What was her crime? One day he saw her standing on the doorstep with her head

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Mi cuerpo se calienta, recordando eso. La vista de ella caminando desnuda a la cocina una noche, y como no la dejé tomar un bocadillo de media noche hasta que yo tuviera el mío. Estaba tan hermosa. Me enderezo, apretando los dientes. —¿Observaste? —No. —Suelta como si nunca se atreviera. Y luego se encoje de hombros—. Quiero decir, lo hubiera hecho si no hubieran terminado en el suelo eventualmente y fuera de mi línea de visión. Continua con una risa, y si pudiera volar, estaría sobre su cerca en este momento, estrangulándolo. Parece notar mi ira e intenta calmarme. —Escucha, no pretendía ver nada, ¿está bien? Sabes, podrías intentar permanecer alejado de las ventanas. —Mueve la cabeza—. Solo digo que creo que es la primera vez que te vi sonreír. Ciertamente parece que te hizo feliz. En realidad no podría creer que ella no fuera capaz de hacer feliz a cualquier otro hombre. —Cállate de una jodida vez —murmuro, inclinándome y recogiendo las herramientas, tirándolas en la pequeña caja. ¿De verdad? ¿Cómo pudimos ser tan descuidados? Él es la última persona cuyos ojos quiero sobre ella. —Entonces, ¿a dónde fue? —pregunta—. ¿No funcionó para ustedes? Lo ignoro, reuniendo mi mierda, para poder escapar adentro. —¿Cómo lo echaste a perder, hombre? —Se ríe, tomando un sorbo de su cerveza—. Si encuentras a una mujer así, joven y ardiente con un cuerpo en buena forma, no la pierdes. Lanzo la llave al suelo, moviéndome hacia adelante sin tener a dónde ir. —Voy a patear tu trasero. Cierra la maldita boca. —Entonces, está disponible ahora, ¿verdad? —Hijo de perra —gruño. Se ríe entre dientes. Debe ser tan divertido. —Definitivamente eres triste —dice—. Las mujeres no son tan difíciles de hacer feliz si te interesa un poco. —No soy incapaz —espeto—. Pero ese no es el punto. Las chicas adolescentes deben estar con chicos adolescentes, y no lo olvides de una jodida vez la próxima vez que te cruces con una. Ella merece a alguien de su propia edad.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  By the blood of Christ, give me a seven!’ And then he exclaims, ‘By the bones of Christ, I will stab you to the heart if you play false with me!’ This is the fruit of the cursed dice - curses, anger, perjury and murder. So for the love of Christ, who died for us, forsake all oaths. Now I will get on with my story. These three young scoundrels, whom I mentioned at the beginning, were sitting in a low tavern long before daybreak. They were drinking together when suddenly they heard the chink of the handbell that announces the carriage of a coffin to the grave. One of them turned to his servant. ‘Go outside,’ he said, ‘and find out whose corpse it is. Try to remember the name.’ ‘Sir,’ the boy replied, ‘that isn’t necessary. I knew about it two hours ago. It is the body of an old comrade of yours. He was murdered last night, very suddenly, as he sat blind drunk upon the bench outside the tavern. A thief called Death sneaked up on him. Death is killing everyone around here. He took up his spear, pierced the drunk through the heart, and silently went on his way. He has killed another thousand during the recent plague. I think, master, that you should be careful not to come too close to him. It is better to beware such an adversary. That’s what my mother taught me. Death is the constant enemy.’

• From Going Clear (2013)

  The Sixth Dynamic is the matter, energy, space, and time that compose the reality we live in. The Seventh Dynamic is the Spiritual, which must be obtained before expanding into the Eighth Dynamic, which is called Infinity or God. The Scientology mantra for judging ethical behavior is “the greatest good for the greatest number of dynamics”—a formula that can excuse quite a number of crimes. Every individual or group moves through stages, which Hubbard calls Ethics Conditions, that incline toward either survival or collapse. They range from the highest state, Power, to the lowest, Confusion. The way to determine what condition one is in at any given moment is through statistics, compiled each Thursday at two p.m. For a Scientology church, the relevant statistic might be how much money it is bringing in. The “org” that brings in less money week after week is in a condition of Non- Existence, which, plotted on a graph, is represented as a steeply plummeting line. A level or slightly declining line indicates a condition of Emergency. Slightly up is Normal; sharply up is Affluence. Every Scientology organization, and every member of its staff, henceforth would be judged by the implacable weekly statistics. Hubbard warned his charges, “You have to establish an ethics presence hard. Otherwise, you’re just gonna be wrapped around a telegraph pole.” The years at sea were critical ones for the future of Scientology. Even as Hubbard was inventing the doctrine, each of his decisions and actions would become enshrined in Scientology lore as something to be emulated—his cigarette smoking, for instance, which is still a feature of the church’s culture at the upper levels, as are his 1950s habits of speech, his casual misogyny, his aversion to perfume and scented deodorants, and his love of cars and motorcycles and Rolex watches. More significant is the legacy of his belittling behavior toward subordinates and his paranoia about the government. Such traits stamped the religion as an extremely secretive and sometimes hostile organization that saw enemies on every corner. Because Hubbard viewed the world that way, he awakened suspicion that there must be something very dangerous about Scientology. One by one, ports began turning away the fleet. It had begun with Gibraltar in 1967, when the ship was refused assistance during a heavy storm in the strait. England banned foreign Scientologists from entering the country for study in July 1968 and declared Hubbard an undesirable alien. Hubbard took out his frustration on his crew. He assigned Yvonne Gillham a condition of Non-Existence and reduced her to a “swamper,” which he defined as “one who cleans up.” Her hands became raw and gnarled. “She was like Cinderella,” a friend recalled, “always scrubbing.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Or maybe I was just aggravated. I imagined her writing; Will not talk about father. Abuse? There was no abuse. Just nothingness. “Your book, then.” She reached under her notepad and pulled out a copy of my last novel, setting it on the table between us. I should have been surprised that she had a copy, but I wasn’t. When it was made into a movie, I didn’t think I would see it, but I did. Chances were they’d turn my book into some bastardized Hollywood knockoff. At least my book would get good publicity. They anticipated a small release, but on opening night the movie grossed three times the expected amount and then went on to top the box office for three weeks before it was knocked out by a tights-wearing superhero. My book became an overnight sensation. And I hated it. All of a sudden everyone was looking at me, looking into my life, asking questions about my art, which I had always deemed highly private. So, I bought a house with my money, changed my number and stopped answering my e-mails. For a while I was one of the most sought after interviews in the book world. Now I was a rape victim and I had cancer. I hated Isaac for making me do this. I hated him for making this the condition for performing my surgery. I’d taken to the internet, searching other surgeons who could cut out my cancer. They were plentiful. Cancer was trending. There were websites you could go to where you could see their pictures, where they went to medical school, how their former patients rated them. Five stars to Dr. Stetterson from Berkley! He took the time to know me as a person before dissecting me like a live specimen! Four stars to Dr. Maysfield. His bedside manner was stiff, but my cancer is gone. It was like a damn dating site. Scary. I’d quickly closed the window and resolved to see the shrink Isaac was forcing on me. The only peace I had at that point was knowing it was he who would cut the cancer from my body. Not any old stranger—the stranger who’d been sleeping on my couch and feeding me. “Let’s talk about your last relationship,” Saphira said. “Why? Why do we have to dissect my past? I hate it.” “To know who a person really is, I believe you have to know first who they were.” I hated where she put her words. A normal person would have said you first have to know who they were. Saphira mixed everything up. Threw me off. Used her dragged out ‘r’s’ as a weapon. She was a purring dragon. In my hesitation, her pen scratched on paper again. “His name was Nick.” I picked up my untouched coffee and spun the cup in my hands. “We were together for two years.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  I felt Stanley's hand creeping onto my thigh. I looked at him, but he was staring at the *Hee Haw* Honeys so intently that I couldn't be sure he was doing it on purpose, so I knocked his hand away without saying anything. A few minutes later, the hand came creeping back. I looked down and saw that Uncle Stanley's pants were unzipped and he was playing with himself. I felt like hitting him, but I was afraid I'd get in trouble the way Lori had after punching Erma, so I hurried out to Mom. "Mom, Uncle Stanley is behaving inappropriately," I said. … Mom cocked her head and looked concerned. "Poor Stanley," she said. "He's so lonely."

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  in the car, Dad would go through Mom’s purse and take the money out. On one trip, Mom went into the bank alone because Dad couldn’t find a place to park. When she came out, she was missing a sock. “Jeannette, I’m going to give you a sock that I want you to put in a safe place,” Mom said once she got in the car. She winked hard at me as she reached inside her bra and pulled out her other sock, knotted in the middle and bulging at the toe. “Hide it where no one can get it, because you know how scarce socks can get in our house.” “Goddammit, Rose Mary,” Dad snapped. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” “What?” Mom asked, throwing her arms up in the air. “Am I not allowed to give my daughter a sock?” She winked at me again, just in case I didn’t get it. Back in Battle Mountain, Dad insisted we go to the Owl Club to celebrate payday, and ordered steaks for all of us. They tasted so good we forgot we were eating a week’s worth of groceries. “Hey, Mountain Goat,” Dad said at the end of the dinner, while Mom was putting our table scraps in her purse. “Why don’t you let me borrow that sock for a second?” I looked around the table. No one met my eye except Dad, who was grinning like an alligator. I handed over the sock. Mom gave a dramatic sigh of defeat and let her head drop down on the table. To show who was in charge, Dad left the waitress a ten- dollar tip, but on the way out, Mom slipped it into her purse. • • • Soon we were out of money again. When Dad dropped Brian and me off at school, he noticed that we weren’t carrying lunch bags. “Where are your lunches?” Dad asked us. We looked at each other and shrugged. “There’s no food in the house,” Brian said. When Dad heard that, he acted outraged, as though he’d learned for the first time that his children were going hungry. “Dammit, that Rose Mary keeps spending money on art supplies!” he muttered, pretending to be talking to himself. Then he declared more loudly, “No child of mine has to go hungry!” After he dropped us off, he called after us, “Don’t you kids worry about a thing.” At lunch Brian and I sat together in the cafeteria. I was pretending to help him with his homework so that no one would ask us why we weren’t eating when Dad

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Jordan— está orientada hacia el patio trasero, y que posiblemente podría estar mirándola. Casualmente, camino hacia la mesa de jardín, enciendo mi cigarro y bajo el encendedor, fumando e inhalando hasta que el final se vuelve naranja. El dulce aroma llena mi nariz y exhalo el humo, inmediatamente siento un cosquilleo en mi cabeza. Me acerco a un lado de la piscina frente a ella y la miro, viendo que está vestida con unos pantalones cortos de dormir y una camisa negra sin sujetador. Los puntos duros de sus pezones son visibles desde aquí. manteniendo mi voz lo más baja posible. —Me ha visto en menos. Aprieto el cigarro y golpeo el extremo con mi dedo medio. —¿Y? —¿Y qué? Arqueo una ceja. —¿Te tocó? Escucho su aliento con una risa. —Tal vez. —Luego estrecha sus ojos en mí—. Y tal vez se lo permití. De tal palo tal astilla, después de todo. Me duele la mandíbula y sacude la cabeza, apartándose de mí. Sé que está enojada. Sé por qué está enojada. Y sé que todos hacemos cosas estúpidas cuando estamos enojados. Me está alejando, y solo necesito tiempo para pensar. Solo algo de tiempo. —No hagas esto —le digo. —Entonces no me hagas preguntas estúpidas. Su pecho se levanta y cae con respiraciones superficiales, y se ve miserable. No sé qué hacer. —Esto me está matando —le susurro, disparando mis ojos a su ventana para asegurarme que Lindsay no está mirando—. Jodidamente matando, saber que estás en su cama. —Entonces debiste haberles dicho la verdad —responde—. Que podían usar mi habitación todo lo que quisiera, porque ahora duermo en tu cama. Tenso mi mandíbula. —¿Vas a dormir en eso? —murmuro, apenas moviendo mis labios y

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Miller’s Prologue Heere folwen the wordes bitwene the Hoost and the Millere When the Knight had finished his story everyone in our company, young and old, rich and poor, agreed that it was a noble story to be kept ever green in the memory. Our Host, Harry Bailey, laughed and joked with us. ‘By my faith,’ he said, ‘the gate has been opened. We can see the path ahead of us. Now who is going to tell the next story? The game has been well begun. Who will continue it? How about you, sir Monk? Do you have anything to compare with the Knight’s tale?’ The Miller was coming up behind, half on and half off his horse. He was so drunk that he could scarcely keep his saddle. They say of a drunken man that he has seen the devil. The Miller was pale enough. He did not have the courtesy to doff his hood or his hat, or wait for anyone else to speak. In a voice as loud as that of Pilate on the pageant stage, he cried out to our Host. ‘By the blood and bones of Christ, Harry,’ he shouted, ‘I have a noble story to tell. It will beat the Knight by a mile.’ Then he burped. Harry could see that he was drunk, and tried to calm him down. ‘Wait a little, Robin,’ he said. ‘Let someone else tell the next story, dear friend, and you can tell yours later. We have to arrange these things properly.’ ‘By God’s soul I will not. I will speak now. Or I will go my own way without you all.’ ‘In the devil’s name speak then,’ Harry replied. ‘You are a fool. You left your wits in a dish of ale.’ ‘Listen to me, all of you,’ the Miller said. ‘I admit that I am drunk. There is no point in denying it. So if I swear, or get my words mixed up, blame it on good Southwark beer. But this is it. This is the point. I want to tell you the story of a carpenter and his wife, and how a young scholar got the better of the carpenter. If you know what I mean.’ The Reeve then angrily interrupted him. ‘That’s enough. Stop spouting all this lewd nonsense. Slurring your words. It is sinful and foolish to injure the reputation of any man, and to bring wives into disrepute. Why damage the good folk? There are plenty of other things to talk about.’ The drunken Miller answered him at once. ‘Oswald, dear brother,’ he said. ‘You know the old saying. He who has no wife cannot be a cuckold. I am not saying you are one of them. I don’t know. In any case there are plenty of good wives. I would say, if you were asking, that there were a thousand good to one bad. You should know as much yourself. Unless you’re completely mad. So why are you so angry with my story? I have a wife, just the same as you. I swear on all I hold sacred that she has been faithful to me. I swear - let me think, I swear on my oxen - that I am not a cuckold. At least I hope I am not. No husband should want to know the secrets of God or the secrets of his wife. As long as he can graze on God’s plenty, in the shape of a female body, he should not bother about anything else.’ It was clear that the Miller was not about to restrain himself, but was going to tell his vulgar story in his own very vulgar way. I am only sorry that I have to repeat it here. And therefore, dear readers, forgive anything you find in the next few pages. My intentions are not bad. I am obliged to repeat everything I have heard, for good or ill. Otherwise I will have failed. I will have been unfaithful to my material. If you do not want to read the Miller’s tale, then pass on to one of the others. I am not forcing you. There are plenty of other stories here. There are history tales, and tales of piety, and moral tales galore. Don’t blame me if you choose the wrong one. The Miller is a vulgarian. You know that. The Reeve is a bit of a lout, too, along with others I could mention. They both told dirty stories. So reflect. Do not lay the blame on me. In any case, why take this game too seriously?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  You encouraged your wife and your concubines to do the same. You are worse than a blasphemer. You also worship false gods. You will soon feel the force of the true God’s wrath. ‘You ask about the hand that wrote those three words upon the wall? It was sent by God. Trust me. Your reign is over. You are now less than nothing. Your kingdom shall be divided, given over to the Medes and the Persians.’ On that same night Belshazzar was assassinated. Darius ascended the throne, although he had no right or claim to it. So, fellow pilgrims, learn the moral of this story. Authority on earth is brittle. Power and wealth are transient. When Dame Fortune goes against you, you lose everything. You lose your friends, too. A friend made when Fortune smiles becomes an enemy when Fortune frowns. You know the proverb well enough. Cenobia Cenobia, queen of Palmyra in Syria, was renowned throughout the world for her nobility no less than for her skill in arms. No one could match her. She was of royal blood, descended from the kings of Persia. I will not say that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I will only say that, in appearance, she had no defects at all. From her childhood she disdained feminine pursuits. She did not want to stitch or sew. She ran off into the woods and joined the hunt for wild beasts; she liked nothing better than to let the arrows fly. She was faster than the creatures she pursued, and never tired. When she was older she killed lions and leopards. She ripped a bear apart with her ‘bear’ hands.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I put my hand to the garland of wilting flowers at my throat, and tore it from me. Then I did the same with the sable wig, and flung it to the floor. My hair was oiled flat to my head, my cheeks were flushed with wine and anger — I must have looked terrible. But I didn’t feel terrible: I felt filled with power and with light. I said, ‘You shall not talk to me in such a way. How dare you talk to me like that!’ Beside Diana, Dickie rolled her eyes. ‘Really Diana,’ she said, ‘what a bore this is!’ ‘What a bore!’ I turned to her. ‘Look at you, you old cow, dressed up in a satin shirt like a boy of seventeen. Dorian Gray? You look more like the bleedin’ portrait, after Dorian has made a few trips down the docks!’ Dickie twitched, then grew pale. Several of the ladies laughed, and one of them was Maria. ‘My dear boy - !’ she began. ‘Don’t “dear boy” me, you ugly bitch!’ I said to her then. ‘You’re as bad as her, in your Turkish trousers. What are you, looking for your harem? No wonder they are off fucking each other with their enormous parts, if they have you as their master. You have had your fingers all over me, for a year and a half; but if a real girl was ever to uncover her tit and put it in your hand, you would have to ring for your maid, for her to show you what to do with it!’ ‘That’s enough!’ This was Diana. She was gazing at me, white-faced and furious, but still terribly calm. Now she turned and addressed the group of goggling ladies. She said: ‘Nancy thinks it amusing, sometimes, to kick her little heels; and sometimes, of course, it is. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m afraid, it is only tiresome.’ She looked at me again, but spoke, still, as if to her guests. ‘She will go upstairs,’ she said levelly, ‘until she is sorry. Then she will apologise to the ladies she has upset. And then, I shall think of some little punishment for her.’ Her gaze flicked over the remains of my costume. ‘Something suitably Roman, perhaps.’ ‘Roman?’ I answered. ‘Well, you should know about that. How old are you today? You were there, weren’t you, at Hadrian’s palace?’ It was a mild enough insult, after all that I had said. But as I said it, there came a titter from the crowd. It was only a small one; but if there was ever anyone who could not bear to be tittered at, that person was Diana.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When she heard this, Cecilia began to laugh. ‘Oh, sir, you are a simpleton. Do you think that I would renounce my innocence in order to become a sinner? Do you not see that you are making a fool of yourself? You stamp and stare. You rage at me as if you had lost your mind.’ ‘Foolish woman! You do not know the extent of my power. The rulers of this land have given me the power of life and death, over you and everyone else. How dare you speak to me like that? You are puffed up with pride!’ ‘I speak nothing but the truth. I am not proud. We have been taught as Christians to hate the sin of pride. And if you want to hear another truth, then I will tell you this. You have lied. You have said that our rulers have granted you the power of life and death. You can take away only the mortal life. You have no other jurisdiction. So you can be the minister of death. But that is all.’ ‘Enough of your impudence,’ he said. ‘Make sacrifice to Jupiter. Then be on your way. I do not care what you say about me. I can endure that like a philosopher. But there is one thing I will not permit. I cannot allow you to speak ill of our native gods.’ ‘Oh foolish man,’ she replied. ‘You have said nothing to me that has not been vain and ill-considered. You are an incompetent officer and a presumptuous judge. You might as well be blind, for all the good your eyes are. Can’t you tell that this idol is made of stone? You have announced that a piece of granite is a god. Put your hand on it. If you cannot see it, taste it. Can’t you tell? It is made of stone. It is a shame that all the people will be laughing at you for your foolishness. It is known that the Lord God is in the heavens. Anyone can tell that these stone images are of no use or value. Do you not see that they have no purpose? They are cold. They are lifeless.’ Her words enraged Almachius. He ordered his officers to take her back to her house, and there burn her to death. ‘Bathe her in flame,’ he said. ‘Clean her.’ They followed his orders literally. They placed her in a bath, pinioned her, and then lit great fires beneath her that were fed with logs night and day. All that night, and for most of the next day, she felt no pain; she remained quite cool, and did not burn. There was not a drop of sweat upon her forehead. Yet she was still destined to die in that bath. Almachius, frustrated of his purpose, sent one of his servants to slay her as she lay there.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  WE FOUGHT A LOT in Welch. Not just to fend off our enemies but to fit in. Maybe it was because there was so little to do in Welch; maybe it was because life there was hard and it made people hard; maybe it was because of all the bloody battles over unionizing the mines; maybe it was because mining was dangerous and cramped and dirty work and it put all the miners in bad moods and they came home and took it out on their wives, who took it out on their kids, who took it out on other kids. Whatever the reason, it seemed that just about everyone in Welch—men, women, boys, girls—liked to fight. There were street brawls, bar stabbings, parking-lot beatings, wife slappings, and toddler whalings. Sometimes it was simply a matter of someone throwing a stray punch, and it would all be over before you knew it had started. Other times it would be more like a twelve-round prizefight, with spectators cheering on the bloody, sweating opponents. Then there were the grudges and feuds that went on for years, a couple of brothers beating up some guy because back in the fifties his father had beaten up their father, a woman shooting her best friend for sleeping with her husband and the best friend’s brother then stabbing the husband. You’d walk down McDowell Street, and half the people you passed seemed to be nursing an injury sustained in local combat. There were shiners, split lips, swollen cheekbones, bruised arms, scraped knuckles, and bitten earlobes. We had lived in some pretty scrappy places back in the desert, but Mom said Welch was the fightingest town she’d ever seen. Brian and Lori and Maureen and I got into more fights than most kids. Dinitia Hewitt and her friends were only the first in a whole line of little gangs who did battle with one or more of us. Other kids wanted to fight us because we had red hair, because Dad was a drunk, because we wore rags and didn’t take as many baths as we should have, because we lived in a falling-down house that was partly painted yellow and had a pit filled with garbage, because they’d go by our dark house at night and see that we couldn’t even afford electricity. But we always fought back, usually as a team. Our most spectacular fight, and our most audacious tactical victory—the Battle of Little Hobart Street—took place

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Una unidad de aire acondicionado sobresale por la ventana de enfrente, una cerca de madera desvencijada y vieja rodea la base, hay partes caídas y rotas sobre el césped o simplemente hay secciones faltantes y el porche está lleno de porquerías al azar, ropa y un par de bolsas llenas de basura. Tres jóvenes están de pie en el porche, fumando y hablando. —¿Aquí? —Me volteo y le pregunto. Pero solo se desabrocha el cinturón de seguridad, preparándose para bajarse. —¿Quiénes son esos tipos? —digo. Levanta la mirada solo por un momento antes de apartar sus ojos de nuevo, tomando su bolso. —Probablemente sean mi hermanastro y un par de sus amigos. Me detengo frente al tráiler, dado que la pequeña entrada para auto está ocupada y apago el motor. —¿Tienes un hermanastro? —No lo ha mencionado. Solo se encoge de hombros. —En el sentido técnico —dice, esbozando una sonrisa—. No hablo mucho con él. —Pero vive aquí —digo intentado conseguir algo de claridad. Asiente y antes que pueda decir algo más, se baja de la camioneta, llevando su bolso con ella. Bueno, ¿cuántas habitaciones puede tener este lugar, si hay otro chico viviendo aquí? ¿Siquiera tiene una cama? Saca una maleta de la parte trasera, pasa su bolso por encima de su cabeza, y guía el camino. Tomo una caja y la sigo, apretando mis dientes para mantener mi jodida boca bajo control. No sé si estoy furioso o preocupado o qué, y no sé si tengo derecho de sentir esas cosas o si cualquier preocupación está justificada. Probablemente estará bien. Esta es su familia. Yo solo... Siento como si fuera a explotar en cualquier segundo. Subimos los pocos escalones hacia la puerta principal y Jordan apenas si mira a su hermanastro y sus amigos mientras abre la puerta. —Ryan, este es el papá de Cole —murmura—. Pike, este es mi hermanastro, Ryan. Me giro hacia el chico y se endereza, tendiéndome su mano. —Qué tal, hombre. Muevo la caja en mis brazos y logro estrechar su mano. —Hola. Es bajo y fornido para ser un chico, de la estatura de Jordan, pero intenta compensarlo con un tatuaje en el cuello y una chaqueta de cuero negra. En verano. —Así qué, ¿ahora estás en casa? —le dice, tomando un trago de su cerveza. —Sí. Uno de los amigos de Ryan le da un codazo. —¿Ella es la que es desnudista? Aprieto mis dedos alrededor de la caja. Resopla, casi escupiendo su cerveza. —No, hombre. Esa es la otra. —Pero entonces sus ojos van hacia Jordan, moviéndose de arriba abajo con una sonrisita—. Aunque, esta también puede bailar un poco. Todos se ríen y siento un bulto subiendo por mi garganta como un gruñido. Tranquilizándome, me volteo y abro la puerta para Jordan, obligándola a entrar. Debo ser más indulgente. No es como si yo no fuera el ocasional idiota de tiempo en tiempo mientras crecía. ¿Cómo demonios sabe cómo baila?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  ¿De dónde sacó esa lencería? Es de color crema y delgadas cintas de encaje sobre los hombros, y malditamente casi transparente. Sus pezones oscuros son visibles desde aquí, al igual que las curvas de sus pechos, ya que la tela húmeda se adhiere a su cuerpo. Y mis ojos queman mientras giran por la sala hacia cada hombre que la mira y la llama. Debería estar usando eso en mi maldita cama. No en un maldito escenario. Aprieto mis puños. Parece salir de su conmoción, porque de repente abraza su cuerpo y sale disparada del escenario, dejando atrás su sudadera. Baja los escalones y corre a lo largo de la pared, hacia el pasillo donde están los baños. Algunas chicas en una mesa la agarran llamándola por su nombre, sigue avanzando, les devuelve la sonrisa y se sonroja ante sus amigas. O los amigos de su hermana. De repente, alza sus ojos y sostiene mi mirada, deteniéndose. Las chicas de la mesa la ven detenerse y siguen su mirada, observando entre ambos. Las pendientes en su estómago a ambos lados de su ombligo brillan, cubiertas en gotas de agua, y la vista de su piel hace que mi polla se llene de sangre. Usó eso. Deliberadamente se lo puso, lo que significa que estaba considerando ir allí. Levanto la vista de su cuerpo y la miro, dando un paso adelante. Mía. Retrocede un paso. Me muevo de nuevo Y ella también. —Fue un accidente —dice, frunciendo el ceño—. Ella solo estaba jugando. No necesito ninguna mierda sobre algo que no fue mi cul… Corro hacia ella y le rodeo la cintura con un brazo, tomando su rostro con mi mano y tirando de su boca hacia la mía. Gime, sorprendida, y no me importa quién nos vea en este momento. Sin romper el beso, la llevo hacia atrás, hacia el pasillo y doblando la esquina. Aparta su boca. —¿Qué estás haciendo? Pero, Dios, estoy tan hambriento. Me tiro de nuevo por sus labios, saboreando su lengua y pasando mi mano por su suave cabello. —No. —Se aleja de mí. Dejo caer mis brazos, mi corazón palpita y mis dedos aún zumban con la sensación de su piel. —No voy a pelear contigo —le digo, respirando con dificultad—, y no voy a pedirte que vengas a casa. Solo quiero decir que lo siento. Levanta la barbilla, fingiendo ignorancia. —¿Acerca de? —La pizza, la película... —Olvidarme —agrega. Me acerco, tratando de mantener la calma y mantener mis manos alejadas de ella. —No te olvidé. No puedo... olvidarme de ti. Se queda en silencio, sosteniendo mi mirada, y no estoy seguro de lo que está pasando en su cabeza, pero solo necesitaba decirle eso a la cara. No quiero que actúe porque cree que estaba siendo descuidado con ella. Sin decir una palabra, se gira y se dirige al pasillo, empujando la salida. —¿Adónde vas? —La sigo.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —La negra es la última —explica Pike, su voz es más profunda y juguetona de lo habitual—. Si la pones en la tronera, pierdes el juego. —¿Qué obtengo si gano? —¿Qué deseas? Ella ríe suavemente, y escucho el ruido de pies arrastrándose. No puedo verlos ya que están a la vuelta de la esquina en la mesa de billar, pero ella está haciendo algo, y aprieto el pomo de la puerta con frustración. Y luego escucho su voz baja. —Creo que eso es si yo gano —responde él a lo que sea que esté haciendo ella, y puedo escuchar la sonrisa en su voz. —Mmm hmmm. —Gime ella, y pongo los ojos en blanco, no estoy segura si le está haciendo algo a él, o él a ella. ¿Qué demonios? ¿Es en serio? ¿Cuánto tiempo han estado aquí? Él sabía que yo podría llegar a casa en cualquier momento. Soy una niña, ¡por Dios! ¿Cómo se supone que terminaré los deberes de la universidad y dormiré si ellos van a hacerlo toda la noche? Estoy segura que esto es lo que él estaba planeando. Si querían jugar billar, pudieron haber ido a The Cue. La trajo aquí por sexo. Doy marcha atrás a través de la cocina y dentro del cuarto de lavandería, abriendo deprisa la puerta de la lavadora, y vaciando la cerveza de raíz en el contenedor con vaso de papel y todo. Cierro de un golpe la tapa de nuevo, enciendo la máquina y entonces abro la puerta de la secadora, sacando toda su mierda y cerrándola de un golpe también. Sí quería tratarme como una niña, entonces aquí vamos. Subo corriendo las escaleras y entro en mi habitación, enciendo mi radio casetera y pongo Bad Medicine altísimo, mientras me quito la ropa del día y me pongo un pantalón de pijama y una camiseta corta. Tomando la agarradera de la casetera, bajo las escaleras hasta la mesa de la cocina y me siento frente al último modelo de paisaje en el que estoy trabajando para la universidad, con la música todavía resonando a mi lado. Son casi diez segundos antes de escuchar las pesadas pisadas de Pike en las escaleras del sótano, y tenso mi mandíbula, preparándome. Entra a la cocina y viene directamente hacia la mesa, presionando el botón Stop/Eject de mi reproductor. La casa queda inmediatamente en silencio, y alzo mi cabeza de golpe fingiendo una mirada inocente en mi rostro. —Oh, lo siento —digo—. Pensé que no había nadie. Pike se endereza pinchándome con una mirada que dice que soy una terrible mentirosa. —Hola, Jordan. —April entra a la cocina detrás de él—. ¿Cómo estás? Le doy una tensa sonrisa. —Bien. —Y regreso mi atención a mi modelo, ensuciándome con algo de falso lodo. Pike aún está mirándome fijamente, hay un largo e incómodo silencio mientras April, probablemente, intenta descubrir qué está sucediendo. —Me… marcharé —dice finalmente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Toda la posesividad, la necesidad de vigilarme y protegerme solo fue para tenerme aquí, así podría meterse en mis bragas. Se resistió porque se sentía mal, pero simplemente estaba ganando tiempo para convencerse. Llevarme a la cama siempre fue el plan. Ahora que ha tenido su pedazo de trasero se quitó el problema de encima, y caray, puede que April también esté en Red’s esta noche, y pueden retomarlo donde lo dejaron. Gruño, pateando una silla. Eso no me sucede a mí. Ya no más. Se termina ahora. Tomo el teléfono y llamo a Cam, recordando qué noche es. —Hola, ¿qué sucede? —responde. Curvo los labios, sintiéndome repentinamente audaz. —Siento que quiero ver mi primer concurso de camisetas mojadas. Jadea, luego chilla en el teléfono. —¡Sí! Me detengo en el camino de entrada un poco después de las nueve y miro la casa. Todavía no estará dormida, y no estoy en mejores condiciones de lidiar con ella que hace cuatro horas, cuando el trabajo terminó. Pero no puedo seguir posponiéndolo. Necesitamos hablar. Veo una pequeña luz encendida en la cocina y sé que probablemente es la que está sobre la estufa, pero el resto de la casa está a oscuras, y una parte de mí espera que realmente esté en la cama, porque no quiero hacer esto. Salto de mi camioneta, cierro la puerta y camino hacia la casa. Deslizando la llave en el cerrojo, la giro y abro, entrando en la sala oscura. No hay luz entrando desde ningún lado, y no escucho su música. Sé que plantarla no pasó desapercibido. Llamó hace un par de horas pero no dejó un mensaje. Indudablemente está enojada. Inhalo y al instante huelo el queso caliente y la carne picante. Pizza. Al entrar en la cocina, abro el horno y encuentro la caja grande de Joe's y la saco, colocándola sobre la estufa. Levanto la tapa. Cada pieza aún se encuentra en la caja, intacta. Mi estómago se retuerce, y me siento como una mierda. Por supuesto, sabía que tendría algo para cenar. De regreso a la sala de estar, tomo el control remoto y enciendo el televisor, viendo como el cristal oscuro cobra vida y la portada de The Lost Boys (1987) aparece en la pantalla de Netflix. Tenía todo listo para una noche en casa. Subiendo las escaleras, me detengo en la puerta de su habitación, sin ver una luz desde dentro que fluya por debajo. Llamo dos veces y espero. Cuando no hay respuesta, giro la manija y abro la puerta. A través de la luz de la luna entrando por su ventana, veo su cama aún hecha y una habitación vacía. Mi pulso se acelera. Todavía no tiene un auto que funcione. ¿A dónde fue? ¿Tenía que trabajar después de todo? Reviso mi teléfono de nuevo en busca de mensajes de texto, pero no veo nada. Tal vez su hermana le dio un aventón. Pero me habría dicho si tenía que trabajar.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  I have caught you! You proclaim yourself the lover of my lady, Emily, for whom I have suffered so much pain and woe. You are of my blood and allegiance, as I have told you many times, and yet what have you done? You have deceived Theseus. You have lived at his court under a false name. But you will not deal falsely with Emily. I am the only one who can, or will, ever love her. So. One of us will have to die. Look upon Palamon as your mortal enemy. And although I have no weapon in my possession, since by great good fortune I have just escaped from my prison, it makes no difference. Either you will die or else you will renounce your love for Emily. Choose which one you will. Otherwise you will never leave this wood.’ Then Arcite, with anger in his heart, unsheathed his sword. He was as ferocious as a lion close to a kill. ‘By God above us,’ he said. ‘If you were not sick with fever, and made lunatic by love, you would not walk out of this grove alive. If you had a weapon, you would surely die at my hand today. I deny the covenant, and I defy the bond, that you say I pledged to you. What? Do you think, like a fool, that love is negotiable? That it can be tied down? I will love Emily despite all your threats.’ He stopped for a moment, and wiped his brow. ‘Since you are a knight of high degree, I take it that you will decide the right to her by mortal combat. So here I pledge my faith to meet you in battle tomorrow. Without the knowledge of anyone in Athens, I will bring you armour and weapons. You choose the very best, and leave the worst for me. Tonight I will bring you food and drink, too, as well as blankets for your bedding here. And if it so happens that you win my lady, and slay me in this wood where now we stand, then you may possess her with as firm a right as I.’ And Palamon answered, ‘I accept your terms.’ So they parted from each other, both of them pledging their knightly duty to fight the next day. Oh Cupid, god of love, you are devoid of charity. You are the youngest of the gods, but you will permit no other to share your power. It has been said, with truth, that neither love nor lordship will allow a rival. Arcite and Palamon are, as yet, living examples. So Arcite rode back to Athens and, before daybreak on the following morning, he quietly and secretly prepared two suits of armour; they were both sturdy enough to decide that day’s battle between the two noble kinsmen. Then, on his horse, as alone as he was born, he carried all this gear to the place of combat.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “I have a phone, too, you know, but I haven’t had any calls from Key West lately.” She waited for Tawny to say something. Anything. When she didn’t, Vix said, “Is that it, then? That’s all you have to say about the man you were married to for ...” She tried to remember how many years it had been. “Send your father my wishes for a speedy recovery, Victoria.” “Send them yourself!” She slammed the receiver down, then looked around, chagrined, as the other people in the waiting room quickly looked away. After all, they had their own problems. She had no idea how to get in touch with Lewis so she tried Lanie’s number next. Amber answered. “Mommy’s in the bathroom with Ryan. He’s got diarrhea. Who’s this?” “Aunt Victoria, from New York.” “Mom ...” Amber shouted into the phone, “it’s Anti-Vix!” She pronounced it as if it were some right wing political group. “Mommy says hang on. She’s coming.” “Well, this is a surprise,” Lanie said. “I’m in Santa Fe. At the hospital. Dad has a heart problem but he should be okay.” “They called you before me?” “Let’s not argue about it, okay? Can you come up?” “Yeah ... I suppose.” “Good.” “You think he’ll last the night?” “I certainly hope so!” “Then I’ll come tomorrow.” When Lanie got there Ed was sitting up eating applesauce. His color had improved. The doctor had checked him earlier. He could go home in a day or two with a new diet, an exercise plan, and beta-blockers. Frankie fussed with his pillows, offered water. Amber and Ryan were fascinated by the equipment monitoring Ed’s heart until they discovered the buttons to raise and lower the hospital bed. Lanie grabbed each of them by an arm and dragged them into the hall. You could hear her scolding, telling them to behave or she’d let them have it. Vix offered to watch the kids while Lanie visited with Ed. She took them down to the coffee shop where they ordered chocolate ice cream with strawberry syrup, whipped cream, and sprinkles. Amber asked Vix