Fear

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.

Page 280 of 529 · 20 per page

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Then he took my hand, which he guided, not unwillingly on my side, between the twist of his closed thighs, which were extremely warm; there he lodged and pressed it, till raising it by degrees, he made me feel the proud distinction of his sex from mine. I was frightened at the novelty, and drew back my hand; yet, pressed and spurred on by sensations of a strange pleasure, I could not help asking him what that was for? He told me he would shew me if I would let him; and without waiting for my answer, which he prevented by stopping my mouth with kisses I was far from disrelishing, he got upon me, and inserting one of his thighs between mine, opened them so as to make way for himself, and fixed me to his purpose; whilst I was so much out of my usual sense, so subdued by the present power of a new one, that, between far and desire, I lay utter passive, till the piercing pain rouzed and made me cry out. But it was too late: he was too firm fixed in the saddle for me to compass flinging him, with all the struggles I could use, some of which only served to further his point, and at length an irresistible thrust murdered at once my maidenhead, and almost me. I now lay a bleeding witness of the necessity imposed on our sex, to gather the first honey off the thorns. “But the pleasure rising as the pain subsided, I was soon reconciled to fresh trials, and before morning, nothing on earth could be dearer to me than this rifler of my virgin sweets: he was every thing to me now. “How we agreed to join fortunes: how we came up to town together, where we lived some time, till necessity-parted us, and drove me into this course of life, to which I had been long ago bettered and torn to pieces before I came to this age, as much through my easiness, as through inclination, had it not been for my finding refuge in this house: these are all circumstances which pass the mark I proposed, so that here my narrative ends.” In the order of our sitting, it was Harriet’s turn to go on. Amongst all the beauties of our sex, that I had before, or have since seen, few indeed were the forms that could dispute excellence with her’s; it was not delicate, but delicacy itself incarnate, such was the symmetry of her small but exactly fashioned limbs. Her complexion, fair as it was, appeared yet more fair, from the effect of two black eyes, the brilliancy of which gave her face more vivacity than belonged to the colour of it, which was only defended from paleness, by a sweetly pleasing blush in her cheeks, that grew fainter and fainter, till at length it died away insensibly into the overbearing white.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Yeah, a volcano on the rez! The lake was so deep because the volcano crater and tunnels and lava chutes and all that plumbing went all the way down to the center of the earth. That lake was, like, forever deep. There were all sorts of myths and legends surrounding the lake. I mean, we’re Indians, and we like to make up shit about lakes, you know? Some people said the lake is named Turtle because it’s round and green like a turtle’s shell. Some people said it’s named Turtle because it used to be filled with regular turtles. Some people said it’s named Turtle because it used to be home to this giant snapping turtle that ate Indians. A Jurassic turtle. A Steven Spielberg turtle. A King Kong versus the Giant Reservation Turtle turtle. I didn’t exactly believe in the giant turtle myth. I was too old and smart for that. But I’m still an Indian, and we like to be scared. I don’t know what it is about us. But we love ghosts. We love monsters. But I was really scared of this other story about Turtle Lake. My dad told me the story. When he was a kid he watched a horse drown in Turtle Lake and disappear. “Some of the others say it was a giant turtle that grabbed the horse,” Dad said. “But they’re lying. They were just being silly. That horse was just stupid. It was so stupid we named it Stupid Horse.” Well, Stupid Horse sank into the endless depths of Turtle Lake and everybody figured that was the end of that story. But a few weeks later, Stupid Horse’s body washed up on the shores of Benjamin Lake, ten miles away from Turtle Lake. “Everybody just figured some joker had found the body and moved it,” Dad said. “To scare people.” People laughed at the practical joke. Then a bunch of guys threw the dead horse into the back of a truck, drove it to the dump, and burned it. Simple story, right? No, it doesn’t end there. “Well, a few weeks after they burned the body, a bunch of kids were swimming in Turtle Lake when it caught fire.” YES, THE WHOLE LAKE CAUGHT ON FIRE! The kids were swimming close to the dock. Because the lake was so deep, most kids swam close to shore. And the fire started out in the middle of the lake, so the kids were able to safely climb out of the water before it all went up like a big bowl of gasoline. “It burned for a few hours,” Dad said. “Burned hot and fast. And then it went out. Just like that. People stayed away for a few days then went to take a look at the damage, you know?

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  A deep shudder fell upon me and I fled, and later in a dream, it seemed to me, as if the goddess stood beside my bed, threatening me with up- raised arm. “I was sent to school early and soon reached the gymnasium. I passionately grasped at everything which promised to make the world of antiquity accessible to me. Soon I was more familiar with the gods of Greece than with the religion of Jesus. I was with Paris when he gave the fateful apple to Venus, I saw Troy burn, and followed Ulysses on his wanderings. The prototypes of all that is beautiful sank deep into my soul, and consequently at the time when other boys are coarse and obscene, I displayed an insurmountable aversion to everything base, vulgar, unbeautiful. “To me, the maturing youth, love for women seemed something especially base and unbeautiful, for it showed itself to me first in all its commonness. I avoided all contact with the fair sex; in short, I was supersensual to madness. “When I was about fourteen my mother had a charming chamber-maid, young, attractive, with a figure just budding into womanhood. I was sitting one day studying my Tacitus and growing enthusiastic over the virtues of the ancient Teutons, while she was sweeping my room. Suddenly she stopped, bent down over me, in the meantime holding fast to the broom, and a pair of fresh, full, adorable lips touched mine. The kiss of the enamoured little cat ran through me like a shudder, but I raised up my Germania, like a shield against the temptress, and indignantly left the room.” Wanda broke out in loud laughter. “It would, indeed, be hard to find another man like you, but continue.” “There is another unforgetable incident belonging to that period,” I continued my story. “Countess Sobol, a distant aunt of mine, was visiting my parents. She was a beautiful majestic woman with an attractive smile. I, however, hated her, for she was regarded by the family as a sort of Messalina. My behavior toward her was as rude, malicious, and awkward as possible. “One day my parents drove to the capital of the district. My aunt determined to take advantage of their absence, and to exercise judgment over me. She entered unexpectedly in her fur-lined kazabaika, 2 followed by the cook, kitchen-maid, and the cat of a chamber-maid whom I had scorned. Without asking any questions, they seized me and bound me hand and foot, in spite of my violent resistance.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Furthermore, it seemed to me the evil I was going to do him would be immediately offset by the extreme care I would take to save his life: I was going to be mistress of that life, but whatever might be his intentions with respect to me, it would certainly only be in order to restore it to him. We take our stations; Roland is stimulated by a few of his usual caresses; he climbs upon the stool, I put the halter round his neck; he tells me he wants me to curse him during the process, I am to reproach him with all his life's horrors, I do so; his dart soon rises to menace Heaven, he himself gives me the sign to remove the stool, I obey; would you believe it, Madame? nothing more true than what Roland had conjectured: nothing but symptoms of pleasure ornament his countenance and at practically the same instant rapid jets of semen spring nigh to the vault. When 'tis all shot out without any assistance whatsoever from me, I rush to cut him down, he falls, unconscious, but thanks to my ministrations he quickly recovers his senses. "Oh Therese !" he exclaims upon opening his eyes, "oh, those sensations are not to be described; they transcend all one can possibly say: let them now do what they wish with me, I stand unflinching before Themis' sword! "You're going to find me guilty yet another time, Therese," Roland went on, tying my hands behind my back, "no thanks for you, but, dear girl, what can one expect? a man doesn't correct himself at my age.... Beloved creature, you have just saved my life and never have I so powerfully conspired against yours; you lamented Suzanne's fate; ah well, I'll arrange for you to meet again; I'm going to plunge you alive into the dungeon where she expired." I will not describe my state of mind, Madame, you fancy what it was; in vain did I weep, groan, I was not heeded. Roland opened the fatal dungeon, he hangs out a lamp so that I can still better discern the multitude of corpses wherewith it is filled; next, he passes a cord under my arms which, as you know, are bound behind my back, and by means of this cord he lowers me thirty feet: I am twenty more from the bottom of the pit: in this position I suffer hideously, it is as if my arms are being torn from their sockets.

• From Manhunt (2022)

  It was hard to talk above a whisper. “Fran, I need you to help me restring the bow. Now. We need to do it now.” Fran stared up at her, uncomprehending. The screaming grew louder. Closer. Beth stood the bow upright, forcing herself to breathe. You don’t have time to freak out. You have to restring this fucking thing. You have to restring it before the men are here. “The socket wrench.” Fran’s mouth hung open. “What?” “This is not the fucking time to make a point about how femme you are,” Beth snarled, squatting in front of the staircase with the bow standing on end between her thighs. “Get me the socket wrench from the duffel’s front pocket, then get the spare string and wax it. Now.” Fran bent over, shoulders hunched, and fished through the duffel for what felt like half an hour before passing Beth the wrench. Beth loosened the bow’s limb bolts one at a time, first the lower, then the upper. She tried not to think about what would happen if the arms snapped straight. Three hundred foot-pounds of force per inch, give or take. It would be like getting slapped by a grizzly bear; she’d be lucky if it only broke her collarbone, or an arm. Maybe it’ll kill me, she thought, fitting the wrench’s head to the upper bolt again. Her palms were sweaty; she paused to wipe them on her shirt one by one. Then I’d have nothing to worry about. The floor began to shake. The windows rattled. The screams were getting closer. Beth loosened the lower bolt by a second turn. Fran, sitting on the stairs, had found the polyethylene replacement string. She had one end pinned under her shoe and she was rubbing a hunk of wax along its length, her breath coming in short, panicky gasps. Her cheeks were flushed, her brow glistening with sweat. Time seemed to pass in spastic flashes. Maybe they’ll go straight for the gunshot, Beth thought, knowing they wouldn’t. They’d smell girl-funk and come right through the walls. She rose into a crouch, turned the bow parallel with the floor, and set her boot against the chewed and fraying string. “That’s good enough,” she said to Fran, holding out her free hand as she slowly drew the bow to half extension, praying that the old string wouldn’t snap. “I need you to hook it.” A low, rumbling grunt came from outside the north windows.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  “Okay, guys,” Coach said. “We know what these guys can do. They’re averaging eighty points a game. They want to run and run and run. And when they’re done running and gunning, they’re going to run and gun some more.” Man, that wasn’t much of a pep talk. It sounded like Coach was sure we were going to lose. “And I have to be honest, guys,” Coach said. “We can’t beat these guys with our talent. We just aren’t good enough. But I think we have bigger hearts. And I think we have a secret weapon.” I wondered if Coach had maybe hired some Mafia dude to take out Rowdy. “We have Arnold Spirit,” Coach said. “Me?” I asked. “Yes, you,” Coach said. “You’re starting tonight.” “Really?” “Really. And you’re going to guard Rowdy. The whole game. He’s your man. You have to stop him. If you stop him, we win this game. It’s the only way we’re going to win this game.” Wow. I was absolutely stunned. Coach wanted me to guard Rowdy. Now, okay, I was a great shooter, but I wasn’t a great defensive player. Not at all. There’s no way I could stop Rowdy. I mean, if I had a baseball bat and bulldozer, maybe I could stop him. But without real weapons—without a pistol, a man-eating lion, and a vial of bubonic plague—I had zero chance of competing directly with Rowdy. If I guarded him, he was going to score seventy points. “Coach,” I said. “I’m really honored by this. But I don’t think I can do it.” He walked over to me, kneeled, and pushed his forehead against mine. Our eyes were, like, an inch apart. I could smell the cigarettes and chocolate on his breath. “You can do it,” Coach said. Oh, man, that sounded just like Eugene. He always shouted that during any game I ever played. It could be, like, a three-legged sack race, and Gene would be all drunk and happy in the stands and he’d be shouting out, “Junior, you can do it!” Yeah, that Eugene, he was a positive dude even as an alcoholic who ended up getting shot in the face and killed. Jeez, what a sucky life. I was about to play the biggest basketball game of my life and all I could think about was my dad’s dead best friend. So many ghosts. “You can do it,” Coach said again. He didn’t shout it. He whispered it. Like a prayer. And he kept whispering again. Until the prayer turned into a song. And then, for some magical reason, I believed in him. Coach had become, like, the priest of basketball, and I was his follower. And I was going to follow him onto the court and shut down my best friend. I hoped so. “I can do it,” I said to Coach, to my teammates, to the world. “You can do it,” Coach said. “I can do it.” “You can do it.”

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  But you oppose it, you ask that it stop; it would seem that, in the light of my obligations toward you, I ought to grant what you request; however, I surrender to nothing, I listen to nothing, I slash through all the knots that bind fools, I submit you to my desires, and out of the most elementary, the most monotonous enjoyment I evolve one that is really delicious; therefore submit, Therese, submit, and if ever you are reincarnated and return to the world in the guise of the mighty, exploit your privileges in the same way and you will know every one of the most lively and most piquant pleasures." These words gone out of his mouth, Roland went away and left me to ponder thoughts which, as you may well believe, presented him in no favorable aspect. I had been six months in this household, from time to time serving the villain's disgraceful debauches, when one night I beheld him enter my prison with Suzanne. "Come, Therese," said he, " 'tis already a long time, I find, since I took you down to that cavern which impressed you so deeply; both of you are going to accompany me there, but don't expect to climb back together, for I absolutely must leave one of you behind; well, we'll see which one fate designates." I get to my feet, cast alarmed glances at my companion, I see tears rolling from her eyes... and we set off. When we were locked into the underground vault, Roland examined each of us with ferocious eyes, he amused himself by reiterating our sentence and persuading us both that one of the two would certainly remain there below. "Well," said he, seating himself and having us stand directly before him, "each of you take your turn and set to work exorcising this disabled object; there's a devil in it keeps it limp, and woe unto the one of you who restores its energy." " 'Tis an injustice," quoth Suzanne; "she who arouses you most should be the one to obtain your mercy." "Not at all," Roland retorted, "once it is manifest which of you arouses me most, it is established which one's death will give me the greater pleasure... and I'm aiming at pleasure, nothing else. Moreover, by sparing her who inflames me the more rapidly, you would both proceed with such industry that you might perhaps plunge my senses into their ecstasy before the sacrifice were consummated, and that must not happen." " 'Tis to want evil for evil's sake, Monsieur," I said to Roland, "the completion of your ecstasy ought to be the only thing you desire, and if you attain it without crime, why do you want to commit one ?" "Because I only deliciously reach the critical stage in this way, and because I only came down here in order to commit one.

• From The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion (1967)

  what is probably the most important marginal situation (19). Death radically challenges all socially objectivated definitions of reality—of the world, of others, and of self. Death radically puts in question the taken-for-granted, “business-as-usual” attitude in which one exists in everyday life. Here, everything in the daytime world of existence in society is massively threatened with “irreality”—that is, everything in that world becomes dubious, eventually unreal, other than one had used to think. Insofar as the knowledge of death cannot be avoided in any society, legitimations of the reality of the social world in the face of death are decisive requirements in any society. The importance of religion in such legitimations is obvious. Religion, then, maintains the socially defined reality by legitimating marginal situations in terms of an all- encompassing sacred reality. This permits the individual who goes through these situations to continue to exist in the world of his society—not “as if nothing had happened,” which is psychologically difficult in the more extreme marginal situations, but in the “knowledge” that even these events or experiences have a place within a universe that makes sense. It is thus even possible to have “a good death,” that is, to die while retaining to the end a meaningful relationship with the nomos of one’s society—subjectively meaningful to oneself and objectively meaningful in the minds of others. While the ecstasy of marginal situations is a phenomenon of individual experience, entire societies or social groups may, in times of crisis, undergo such a situation collectively. In other words, there are events affecting entire societies or social groups that provide massive threats to the reality previously taken for granted. Such situations may occur as the result of natural catastrophe, war, or social upheaval. At such times religious legitimations almost invariably come to the front. Furthermore, whenever a society must motivate its 56

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  I had then just life enough to reach the green borders of the waterpiece, where wildly looking round for the young man, and missing him still, my fright and concern sunk me down in a deep swoon, which must have lasted me some time; for I did not come to myself, till I was roused out of it by a sense of pain that pierced me to the vitals, and awaked me to the the most surprising circumstance of finding myself not only in the arms of this very young gentleman I had been so solicitous to save; but taken at such an advantage in my unresisting condition, that he had actually completed his entrance into me so far, that weakened as I was by all the preceding conflicts of mind I had suffered, and struck dumb by the violence of my surprise, I had neither the power to cry out, nor the strength to disengage myself from his strenuous embraces, before, urging his point, he had forced his way and completely triumphed over my virginity, as he might now as well see by the streams of blood that followed his drawing out, as he had felt by the difficulties he had met with consummating his penetration. But the sight of the blood, and the sense of my condition, had (as he told me afterwards), since the ungovernable rage of his passion was somewhat appeased, now wrought so far on him, that at all risks, even of the worst consequences, he could not find in his heart to leave me, and make off, which he might easily have done. I still lay all discomposed in bleeding ruin, palpitating, speechless, unable to get off, and frightened, and fluttering like a poor wounded partridge, and ready to faint away again at the sense of what had befallen me. The young gentleman was by me, kneeling, kissing my hand, and with tears in his eyes, beseeching me to forgive him, and offering all the reparation in his power.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "Take the bitch," said Severino in a rage, "seize her, Clement, let her be naked in a minute, and let her learn that it is not in persons like ourselves that compassion stifles Nature." My resistance had animated Clement, he was foaming at the mouth: he took hold of me, his arm shook nervously; interspersing his actions with appalling blasphemies, he had my clothing torn away in a trice. "A lovely creature," came from the superior, who ran his fingers over my flanks, "may God blast me if I've ever seen one better made; friends," the monk pursued, "let's put order into our procedures; you know our formula for welcoming newcomers: she might be exposed to the entire ceremony, don't you think? Let's omit nothing; and let's have the eight other women stand around us to supply our wants and to excite them." A circle is formed immediately, I am placed in its center and there, for more than two hours, I am inspected, considered, handled by those four monks, who, one after the other, pronounce either encomiums or criticisms. You will permit me, Madame, our lovely prisoner said with a blush, to conceal a part of the obscene details of this odious ritual; allow your imagination to figure all that debauch can dictate to villains in such instances; allow it to see them move to and fro between my companions and me, comparing, confronting, contrasting, airing opinions, and indeed it still will not have but a faint idea of what was done in those initial orgies, very mild, to be sure, when matched against all the horrors I was soon to experience. "Let's to it," says Severino, whose prodigiously exalted desires will brook no further restraint and who in this dreadful state gives the impression of a tiger about to devour its prey, "let each of us advance to take his favorite pleasure." And placing me upon a couch in the posture expected by his execrable projects and causing me to be held by two of his monks, the infamous man attempts to satisfy himself in that criminal and perverse fashion which makes us to resemble none but the sex we do not possess while degrading the one we have; but either the shameless creature is too strongly proportioned, or Nature revolts in me at the mere suspicion of these pleasures; Severino cannot overcome the obstacles; he presents himself, and he is repulsed immediately....

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "Finally her legs relaxed, her dress was up, and she burst into tears—tears of fear, shame, and vexation! "My finger then stopped; and as I withdrew it I felt that it was also wet with tears—tears which were by no means briny ones. "'Come, don't be frightened!' said I, taking her head between my hands, and kissing her repeatedly. 'I was only joking. I do not mean to harm you. There, you can get up! You can go, if you like. I surely will not detain you against your free will.' "And thereupon I thrust my hand within her breasts, and began to pinch the tiny nipple, in size no bigger than a luscious wild strawberry, of which she seemed to have all the fragrance. She shook with excitement and delight as I did so. "'No,' said she, without attempting to get up, 'I am in your power. You can do with me what you like. I can't help myself any longer. Only remember, if you ruin me I shall kill myself.' "There was such an earnestness in her eyes as she said this that I shivered, and let her go. Could I ever forgive myself, if I were the cause of her committing self-murder? "And still the poor girl looked at me with such loving, longing eyes, that it was plain she was unable to bear the scathing fire that consumed her. Was it not my duty, then, to make her feel that soothing ecstacy of bliss she evidently longed to taste? "'I swear to you,' said I, 'that I shall do you no harm; so do not be afraid, only keep quiet.' "I pulled up her thick linen chemise, and I perceived the tiniest slit that could be seen, with two lips of a coralline hue, shaded by a soft, silky, black down. They had the colour, the gloss, the freshness of those pink shells so plentiful on Eastern strands. "Leda's charms, which made Jupiter turn into a swan, or Danæ's, when she opened her thighs to receive far into her womb the burning golden shower, could not have been more tempting than the lips of this young girl. "They parted of their own inward life, displaying, as they did so, a tiny berry, fresh with healthy life—a drop of dew incarnadined within the crimson petals of a budding rose. "My tongue pressed it closely for a second, and the girl was madly convulsed with that burning pleasure she had never dreamt of before. A moment afterwards we were again in each other's arms. "'Oh, Camille,' said she, 'you do not know how I love you!' "She waited for an answer. I closed her mouth with a kiss. "'But tell me. Do you love me? Can you love me only a little?' "'Yes,' said I, faintly; for even in such a moment I could not bring myself to tell a lie. "She looked at me for a second. "'No, you don't.' "'Why not?' "'I don't know.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  All men are born isolated, envious, cruel and despotic; wishing to have everything and surrender nothing, incessantly struggling to maintain either their rights or achieve their ambition, the legislator comes up and says to them: Cease thus to fight; if each were to retreat a little, calm would be restored. I find no fault with the position implicit in the agreement, but I maintain that two species of individuals cannot and ought not submit to it, ever; those who feel they are the stronger have no need to give up anything in order to be happy, and those who find themselves the weaker also find themselves giving up infinitely more than what is assured them. However, society is only composed of weak persons and strong; well, if the pact must perforce displease both weak and strong, there is great cause to suppose it will fail to suit society, and the previously existing state of warfare must appear infinitely preferable, since it permitted everyone the free exercise of his strength and his industry, whereof he would discover himself deprived by a society's unjust pact which takes too much from the one and never accords enough to the other; hence, the truly intelligent person is he who, indifferent to the risk of renewing the state of war that reigned prior to the contract, lashes out in irrevocable violation of that contract, violates it as much and often as he is able, full certain that what he will gain from these ruptures will always be more important than what he will lose if he happens to be a member of the weaker class; for such he was when he respected the treaty; by breaking it he may become one of the stronger; and if the laws return him to the class whence he wished to emerge, the worst that can befall him is the loss of his life, which is a misfortune infinitely less great than that of existing in opprobrium and wretchedness. There are then two positions available to us: either crime, which renders us happy, or the noose, which prevents us from being unhappy.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Rathbun signed the billion-year contract in January 1978.6 A few months later, Rathbun was sent to work in LA. One night, he was assigned to escort Diane Colletto, the twenty-five-year-old editor of Scientology’s Auditor magazine, from the publications building to the Scientology complex in Hollywood where they both lived. It was late at night on August 19, 1978. Diane was a petite and mousy intellectual, with thick glasses. A diligent worker, she was often the last to leave the office. On this night, she was frightened. Diane’s husband, John Colletto, a highly trained auditor, had recently been declared a Suppressive Person. John had gotten into an argument with church officials over a matter of policy. After being declared, he went to visit a Scientology chaplain, who could see that he was having a breakdown. He kept crying and grabbing his head in despair. At that point, he was forcibly detained in the RPF. He spent several weeks there, but managed to escape. Diane was ordered to disconnect from him. She told the chaplain that John had threatened her, saying that if he couldn’t have Scientology, then neither could she. Rathbun—a big man, a former college basketball player—knew nothing of this as he rode back to the berthing with Diane in her Fiat. She was uncommunicative. She drove north on Rampart Boulevard, where the Pubs Org was located, to Sunset, and then left on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was mid-August, but there was a breeze from the ocean and the night air was unseasonably cool. As soon as Diane turned the corner from North Edgemont Street onto Fountain Avenue, in front of the Scientology complex, a pair of headlights on high beam blinded them, then a car rammed into them, pinning Diane’s vehicle against the curb. Rathbun was in shock, but he managed to get out of the passenger side of the car. They had come to a stop in front of a small house with a picket fence. He saw the man in the other car get out and run toward Diane, who was still in the driver’s seat. Rathbun came around the front of the car, just in time to hear a popping noise and the sound of glass shattering. It was the first time in his life he had ever heard a gunshot. Jesse Prince, who was in RPF on the seventh floor, heard the sound and rushed to the windows. People were shouting, “ John Colletto!” Everyone knew immediately what was happening. Rathbun grabbed Colletto, and they spun around in the street. He got Colletto in a headlock, but Colletto pistol-whipped him and Rathbun momentarily lost consciousness. Both of them tumbled to the ground. When Rathbun recovered, he saw Diane on all fours, crawling on the sidewalk, and Colletto running toward her with the gun. Rathbun says he got up and tackled John. They crashed through the picket fence and wrestled on the lawn. More shots were fired.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  What kind of idiot was I? I was the kind of idiot that got punched hard in the face by his best friend. Bang! Rowdy punched me. Bang! I hit the ground. Bang! My nose bled like a firework. I stayed on the ground for a long time after Rowdy walked away. I stupidly hoped that time would stand still if I stayed still. But I had to stand eventually, and when I did, I knew that my best friend had become my worst enemy. How to Fight Monsters The next morning, Dad drove me the twenty-two miles to Reardan. “I’m scared,” I said. “I’m scared, too,” Dad said. He hugged me close. His breath smelled like mouthwash and lime vodka. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You can always go back to the rez school.” “No,” I said. “I have to do this.” Can you imagine what would have happened to me if I’d turned around and gone back to the rez school? I would have been pummeled. Mutilated. Crucified. You can’t just betray your tribe and then change your mind ten minutes later. I was on a one-way bridge. There was no way to turn around, even if I wanted to. “Just remember this,” my father said. “Those white people aren’t better than you.” But he was so wrong. And he knew he was wrong. He was the loser Indian father of a loser Indian son living in a world built for winners. But he loved me so much. He hugged me even closer. “This is a great thing,” he said. “You’re so brave. You’re a warrior.” It was the best thing he could have said. “Hey, here’s some lunch money,” he said and handed me a dollar. We were poor enough to get free lunch, but I didn’t want to be the only Indian and a sad sack who needed charity. “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I love you,” he said. “I love you, too.” I felt stronger so I stepped out of the car and walked to the front door. It was locked. So I stood alone on the sidewalk and watched my father drive away. I hoped he’d drive right home and not stop in a bar and spend whatever money he had left. I hoped he’d remember to come back and pick me up after school. I stood alone at the front door for a few very long minutes. It was still early and I had a black eye from Rowdy’s good-bye punch. No, I had a purple, blue, yellow, and black eye. It looked like modern art. Then the white kids began arriving for school. They surrounded me. Those kids weren’t just white. They were translucent. I could see the blue veins running through their skin like rivers. Most of the kids were my size or smaller, but there were ten or twelve monster dudes.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  He lived only fifteen miles away from my house. But he went to school in Springdale. And I had never met him. The world was a different place back then. It was bigger and smaller at the same time. You could belong to the same tribe, and live on the same reservation only fifteen miles apart, and be the same age, but you could still be strangers to each other. So I didn’t know Randy on his first day of school in Wellpinit. He was small. But he looked mean and tough. Like he was a fighter. You all remember how much we used to punch one another? Boys fighting boys. Girls fighting girls. Girls fighting boys. And almost everybody beating me up. It seemed like that, anyway. I know a lot of you were good kids. I know a lot of you were just as scared and hurting as I was. But you don’t notice that stuff when you’re a kid. Your own life feels so huge that it’s hard to see anybody else’s life. So Randy walks into the classroom. He struts on his little Peone legs. He looks like he will fight anybody. Like he will fight the weather. And I think, “Oh, great, somebody else to bully me.” So I avoid him all day. I even hide in the speech therapy room so I don’t have to go outside at recess and maybe get punched. But it turns out that Randy was getting bullied, instead of the other way around. And Stevie was the worst. You all remember how mean Stevie could be? He went after Randy, the new kid, the new Indian. So Stevie pushes and pushes and pushes Randy, and then Randy pushes back and says, “We’re fighting after school.” So, after school, everybody runs up to the old playground to watch the fight. But I run home because I know somebody will get all pumped up by the first fight and will get me into the second fight. I can see the old playground from my front window, so I sit there and watch it all happen. Everybody stands in a circle around Stevie and Randy. And I can see Stevie talking. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I know he’s probably telling Randy to throw the first punch. Remember how we did that? We’d always tell the other person to throw the first punch. Why did we do that? If you’re going to fight, then you should want to throw the first punch, right? Anyway, Stevie says, “Throw the first punch,” and Randy doesn’t even hesitate. He says, “Okay,” and punches Stevie in the face and knocks him out. Knocks him unconscious. What twelve-year-old kid has knockout power like that? Only Randy. At first, I was excited because Randy had just defeated the meanest bully.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  He scarce even obtained a kiss but what he ravished; I put his hand away twenty times from my breasts, where he had satisfied himself of their hardness and consistence, with passing for hitherto unhandled goods. But when grown impatient upon the main point, he now threw himself upon me, and first trying to examine me with his finger, sought to make himself further way, I complained of his usage bitterly: “I thought he would not have served a body so... I was ruined... I did not know what I had done..., I would get up, so I would...;” and at the same time kept my thighs so fast locked, that it was not for strength like his to force them open, or do any good. Finding thus my advantages, and that I had both my own and his motions at command, the deceiving him came so easy, that it was perfectly playing upon velvet. In the mean time his machine, which was one of those sizes that slip in and out without being minded, kept pretty stiffly bearing against that part, which the shutting my thighs barred access to; but finding, at length he could do no good by mere dint of bodily strength, he resorted to entreaties and arguments: to which I only answered, with a tone of shame and timidity, “that I was afraid he would kill me... Lord!..., would not be served so... I was never so used in all my born days..., I wondered he was not ashamed of himself, so I did...,” with such silly infantine moods of repulse and complaint as I judged best adapted to express the character of innocence, and affright.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "Why," he continued with a curse, "he doesn't much aid you, your God, does he? and thus he allows unhappy virtue to suffer, he abandons it to villainy's hands; ah! what a bloody fine God you've got there, Therese, what a superb God he is! Come," he says, "come here, whore, your prayer should be done," and at the same time he places me upon the divan at the back of that cell; "I told you Therese, you have got to die!" He seizes my arms, binds them to my side, then he slips a black silken noose about my neck; he holds both ends of the cord and, by tightening, he can strangle and dispatch me to the other world ei quickly or slowly, depending upon his pleasure. "This torture is sweeter than you may imagine, Therese," says Roland; "you will only approach death by way of unspeakably pleasurable sensations; the pressure this noose will bring to bear upon your nervous system will set fire to the organs of voluptuousness; the effect is certain; were all the people who are condemned to this torture to know in what an intoxication of joy it makes one die, less terrified by this retribution for their crimes, they would commit them more often and with much greater self-assurance; this delicious operation, Therese, by causing, as well, the contraction of the locale in which I am going to fit myself," he added as he presented himself to a criminal avenue so worthy of such a villain, "is also going to double my pleasure."

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  But I was almost blind drunk on that blurred night on my rez. And I recited poetry! That was so goofy and arrogant! Maybe some of you were there. I remember that some Indians tried to heckle me. But Randy, ever my protector, silenced them with a mean stare. And then he, ever the listener, sat in front of me, a one-person audience. I don’t know how long I recited poetry, but I do know that Randy paid attention. And I remember that I wept that night and told Randy how afraid I was of being trapped again. I was afraid of becoming a reservation drunk. I told him I wanted to become a professional poet, a real writer, and there was no way it would ever happen. I told Randy that I was doomed to fail. But Randy stood and grabbed my shoulders. He was nearly as drunk as I was. He was young and strong, so it hurt when he grabbed me. He wasn’t my best friend anymore. We’d stopped being best friends when I left the reservation school. When I left Wellpinit. Let me be real honest here. When I left Wellpinit, I also left my best friend. And that’s like a betrayal, right? No, it isn’t like a betrayal. It is betrayal. In leaving, I betrayed my best friend. In leaving, I betrayed my tribe. But sometimes you have to do that. I have lived an amazing life. I think I have changed the whole world for the better. At least a little bit. And I know my books, my stories, have helped a lot of people. A lot of other Indians. And none of that would’ve happened if I hadn’t left Wellpinit. Great things have happened to me because I left. But it has also caused me so much pain. And I know it caused all of you pain, too. I know some of you are still mad at me for leaving. That’s okay. I understand. But you have to understand that I didn’t leave because I wanted to hurt any of you. I left because I wanted to save myself. I am happy I left the reservation. My life has been magical. But I know I gave up so much. I know I lost so much beauty when I left. But, hey, most of you don’t know this. All of it almost fell apart. I almost fell apart. I ended up drunk on the reservation that night, reciting my poetry, and I was ready to give up. I had given up. But Randy, my handsome, blue-eyed Indian, stared hard at me, and he said, “Junior, those poems are amazing. You’re going to be famous.” “No,” I said. “That’s not me.” “You’re going to travel the whole world reading your poems,” he said. “But what about you?” I asked. “I’m always going to be here,” he said. “And you’ll always be somewhere else. Somewhere bigger.” “That’s not fair,” I said. “It’s not fair to you.”

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  And I am always the most available loser. “Come on,” Rowdy said. “I’ll protect you.” He knew that I was afraid of getting beat up. And he also knew that he’d probably have to fight for me. Rowdy has protected me since we were born. Both of us were pushed into the world on November 5, 1992, at Sacred Heart Hospital in Spokane. I’m two hours older than Rowdy. I was born all broken and twisted, and he was born mad. He was always crying and screaming and kicking and punching. He bit his mother’s breast when she tried to nurse him. He kept biting her, so she gave up and fed him formula. He really hasn’t changed much since then. Well, at fourteen years old, it’s not like he runs around biting women’s breasts, but he does punch and kick and spit. He got into his first fistfight in kindergarten. He took on three first graders during a snowball fight because one of them had thrown a piece of ice. Rowdy punched them out pretty quickly. And then he punched the teacher who came to stop the fight. He didn’t hurt the teacher, not at all, but man, let me tell you, that teacher was angry. “What’s wrong with you?” he yelled. “Everything!” Rowdy yelled back. Rowdy fought everybody. He fought boys and girls. Men and women. He fought stray dogs. Hell, he fought the weather. He’d throw wild punches at rain. Honestly. “Come on, you wuss,” Rowdy said. “Let’s go to powwow. You can’t hide in your house forever. You’ll turn into some kind of troll or something.” “What if somebody picks on me?” I asked. “Then I’ll pick on them.” “What if somebody picks my nose?” I asked. “Then I’ll pick your nose, too,” Rowdy said. “You’re my hero,” I said. “Come to the powwow,” Rowdy said. “Please.” It’s a big deal when Rowdy is polite. “Okay, okay,” I said. So Rowdy and I walked the three miles to the powwow grounds. It was dark, maybe eight o’clock or so, and the drummers and singers were loud and wonderful. I was excited. But I was getting hypothermic, too. The Spokane Powwow is wicked hot during the day and freezing cold at night. “I should have worn my coat,” I said. “Toughen up,” Rowdy said. “Let’s go watch the chicken dancers,” I said. I think the chicken dancers are cool because, well, they dance like chickens.

• From The History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  115 • Already in this account, we glimpse some of the elements of the early monastic life. o The world is perceived as corrupting; the desire to be alone and apart is the desire to achieve true discipleship through struggle. o Just as martyrdom was earlier associated with “fighting demons,” that is, the heathen gods and the state that sponsored them, so now the monk “fights the wild beasts,” who are inner demons in the fight for authentic faith. Thus, monasticism is a form of “white martyrdom.” o The arena for battle is the human mind and body. The control of the body through mental dedication (asceticism) is a key dimension of early monasticism, sometimes taking extreme forms, such as severe fasting and lack of sleep. o In contrast to the Gnostics, these early monks were deeply dedicated to ecclesiastical authority and orthodoxy—at least, this is the portrayal given by Athanasius, the bishop of Alexandria. o The “sages of the desert” were charismatic in the sociological sense of the term: They drew followers who sought the wisdom they personified. Cenobites • Another form of the monastic life was that of “life together” in the wilderness. The term “cenobite” for such monks comes from the Greek koinos bios (“life together”). • The founder of this form of monasticism in Egypt was Pachomius (290–346). o Born a pagan, he served as a Roman soldier and was converted in 313. o He founded a monastery (c. 320) at Tabennisi in the Thebaid near the Nile.