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.

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• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  It was said that there had been a séance at the Variety after which all two thousand spectators ran out to the street in their birthday suits, that a press for making counterfeit money of a magic sort had been nabbed on Sadovaya Street, that some gang had kidnapped five managers from the entertainment sector, but the police had immediately found them all, and many other things that one does not even wish to repeat. Meanwhile it was getting on towards dinner time, and then, in the place where the investigation was being conducted, the telephone rang. From Sadovaya came a report that the accursed apartment was again showing signs of life. It was said that its windows had been opened from inside, that sounds of a piano and singing were coming from it, and that a black cat had been seen in a window, sitting on the sill and basking in the sun. At around four o’clock on that hot day, a big company of men in civilian clothes got out of three cars a short distance from no. 302-bis on Sadovaya Street. Here the big group divided into two small ones, the first going under the gateway of the house and across the courtyard directly to the sixth entrance, while the second opened the normally boarded-up little door leading to the back entrance, and both started up separate stairways to apartment no. 50. Just then Koroviev and Azazello—Koroviev in his usual outfit and not the festive tailcoat—were sitting in the dining room of the apartment finishing breakfast. Woland, as was his wont, was in the bedroom, and where the cat was nobody knew. But judging by the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen, it could be supposed that Behemoth was precisely there, playing the fool, as was his wont. ‘And what are those footsteps on the stairs?’ asked Koroviev, toying with the little spoon in his cup of black coffee. ‘That’s them coming to arrest us,’ Azazello replied and drank off a glass of cognac. ‘Ahh . . . well, well . . .’ Koroviev replied to that. The ones going up the front stairway were already on the third-floor landing. There a couple of plumbers were pottering over the harmonica of the steam heating. The newcomers exchanged significant glances with the plumbers. ‘They’re all at home,’ whispered one of the plumbers, tapping a pipe with his hammer. Then the one walking at the head openly took a black Mauser from under his coat, and another beside him took out the skeleton keys. Generally, those going to apartment no. 50 were properly equipped. Two of them had fine, easily unfolded silk nets in their pockets. Another of them had a lasso, another had gauze masks and ampoules of chloroform.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The "Book of Armagh "contains also an Irish hymn (the oldest monument of the Irish Keltic language), called S. Patricii Canticum Scotticum, which Patrick is said to have written when he was about to convert the chief monarch of the island (Laoghaire or Loegaire).55 The hymn is a prayer for the special aid of Almighty God for so important a work; it contains the principal doctrines of orthodox Christianity, with a dread of magical influences of aged women and blacksmiths, such as still prevails in some parts of Ireland, but without an invocation of Mary and the saints, such as we might expect from the Patrick of tradition and in a composition intended as a breast-plate or corselet against spiritual foes. The following is the principal portion: "5. I bind to myself to-day,— The Power of God to guide me, The Might of God to uphold me, The Wisdom of God to teach me, The Eye of God to watch over me, The Ear of God to hear me, The Word of God to give me speech. The Hand of God to protect me, The Way of God to go before me, The Shield of God to shelter me, The Host of God to defend me, Against the snares of demons, Against the temptations of vices, Against the lusts of nature, Against every man who meditates injury to me. Whether far or near, With few or with many. 6. I have set around me all these powers, Against every hostile savage power, Directed against my body and my soul, Against the incantations of false prophets, Against the black laws of heathenism, Against the false laws of heresy, Against the deceits of idolatry, Against the spells of women, and smiths, and druids, Against all knowledge which blinds the soul of man. 7. Christ protect me to-day Against poison, against burning, Against drowning, against wound, That I may receive abundant reward. 8. Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ at my right, Christ at my left, Christ in the fort [i.e. at home], Christ in the chariot-seat [travelling by land], Christ in the poop [travelling by water]. 9. Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks to me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me. 10. I bind to myself to-day The strong power of an invocation of the Trinity, The faith of the Trinity in Unity, The Creator of [the elements]. 11. Salvation is of the Lord, Salvation is of the Lord, Salvation is of Christ; May thy salvation, O Lord, be ever with us." The fourth and last document which has been claimed as authentic and contemporary, is a Latin "Hymn in praise of St. Patrick" (Hymnus Sancti Patricii, Episcopi Scotorum) by St. Sechnall (Secundinus) which begins thus: "Audite, omnes amantes Deum, sancta merita

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

  Nine o'clock strikes, the jailer appears, I tremble. "Follow me," that Cerberus says; "you are wanted by Messieurs Saint-Florent and de Cardoville; consider well and take advantage, as it befits you, of the favor Heaven offers you; there are many here who might desire such a blessing and who will never obtain it." Arrayed as best I am able, I follow the warden who puts me into the keeping of two strange tall fellows whose savage aspect doubles my fright; not a word do they utter; the carriage rolls off and we halt before an immense mansion I soon recognize as Saint-Florent's. Silence enshrouds everything; it augments my dread, however, my guides grasp my arms, hustle me along, and we climb to the fourth floor; there we discover a number of small decorated apartments; they seem to me very mysterious indeed. As we progress through them every door closes shut behind us, and thus we advance till we reach a remote room in which, I notice, there are no windows; Saint-Florent awaits me, and also the man I am told is Monsieur de Cardoville, in whose hands my case rests; this heavy-set, fleshy personage, provided with a somber and feral countenance, could have been about fifty years of age; although he was in lounging costume, 'twas readily to be seen he was a gentleman of the bar. An air of severity seemed to distinguish his entire aspect; it made a deep impression upon me. O cruel injustice of Providence! 'tis then possible Virtue may be overawed by Crime. The two men who had led me hither, and whom I was better able to make out by the gleam of the twenty candles which lit this room, were not above twenty-five and thirty years old. The first, referred to as La Rose, was a dark handsome chap with Hercules' own figure; he seemed to me the elder; the other had more effeminate features, the loveliest chestnut locks and large brown eyes; he was at least five feet ten inches tall, a very Adonis, had the finest skin to be seen, and was called Julien. As for Saint-Florent, you are acquainted with him; as much of coarseness in his traits as in his character, yet, nevertheless, certain splendid features. "Everything is secured fast?" Saint-Florent asked Julien. "We're well shut in, yes, Monsieur," the young man replied; "your servants are off for the night in accordance with your orders and the gatekeeper, who alone is on watch, will follow his instructions to admit no one under any circumstances." These few words enlightened me, I shivered, but what could I have done, confronted as I was by four men? "Sit down over there, my friends," said Cardoville, kissing the two men, "we'll call for your co-operation when the need arises."

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

  Knowing not what would happen or what to do, discovering dangers everywhere, I threw myself down beside a tree, determined to await my fate and silently resigning myself to the Eternal's will.... The sun rose at last; merciful Heaven! the first object to present itself to me... is the Count himself: it had been frightfully warm during the night, he had stepped out to take a breath of air. He believes he is in error, he supposes this a specter, he recoils, rarely is courage a traitor's virtue: I get trembling to my feet, I fling myself at his knees. "Therese! What are you doing here ?" he demands. "Oh, Monsieur, punish me," I reply, "I am guilty and have nothing to answer you." Unhappily, in my fright I had forgotten to destroy the Countess' letter: he suspects its existence, asks for it, I wish to deny I have it; but Gernande sees the fatal letter protruding above my kerchief, snatches, it, reads it, and orders me to follow him. We enter the chateau, descend a hidden stairway leading down to the vaults: the most profound stillness reigns there below ground; after several detours, the Count opens a dungeon and casts me into it. "Impudent girl," says he, "I gave you warning that the crime you have just committed is punished here by death: therefore prepare yourself to undergo the penalty you have been pleased to incur. When tomorrow I rise from dinner I am going to dispatch you." Once again I fall prostrate before him but, seizing me by the hair, he drags me along the ground, pulls me several times around my prison, and ends by hurling me against the wall in such a manner I am nigh to having my brains dashed out. "You deserve to have me open your four veins this instant," says he as he closes the door, "and if I postpone your death, be very sure it is only in order to render it the more horrible."

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

  "Sit down over there, my friends," said Cardoville, kissing the two men, "we'll call for your co-operation when the need arises." Whereupon Saint-Florent spoke up: "Therese," said he, presenting me to Cardoville, "here is your judge, this is the man upon whom your fate depends; we have discussed your problem; but it appears to me that your crimes are of such a nature we will have much to do to come to terms about them." "She has exactly forty-two witnesses against her," remarks Cardoville, who takes a seat upon Julien's knees, who kisses him upon the lips, and who permits his fingers to stray over the young man's body in the most immodest fashion; "it's a perfect age since we condemned anyone to die for crimes more conclusively established." "I? Conclusively established crimes?" "Conclusively established or inconclusively established," quoth Cardoville, getting to his feet and coming up to shout, with much effrontery, at my very nose, "you're going to burn pissing if you do not, with an entire resignation and the blindest obedience, instantly lend yourself to everything we are going to require of you." "Yet further horrors!" I cried; "ah indeed! 'tis then only by yielding to infamies innocence can escape the snares set for it by the wicked!" "That's it; 'tis ordained," Saint-Florent broke in; "you know, my dear: the weak yield to the strong's desires, or fall victims to their wickedness: that's all: that's your whole story, Therese, therefore obey." And while he spoke the libertine nimbly pulled up my skirts. I recoiled, fended him off, horrified, but, having reeled backward into Cardoville's arms, the latter grasped my hands and thereupon exposed me, defenseless, to his colleague's assaults. The ribbons holding up my skirts were cut, my bodice torn away, my kerchief, my blouse, all were removed, and in no time I found myself before those monsters' eyes as naked as the day I came into the world. "Resistance..." said one. "Resistance," chimed in the other, both proceeding to despoil me, "the whore fancies she can resist us...." and not a garment was ripped from my body without my receiving a few blows. When I was in the state they wished, they drew up their chairs, which were provided with protruding armrests; thus a narrow space between the chairs was left and into it I was deposited; and thus they were able to study me at their leisure: while one regarded my fore end, the other mused upon my behind; then they turned me round, and turned me again.

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

  I am seized; I am placed where Florette was lying; the sacrifice is consummated, and the host... that sacred symbol of our august Religion... Severino catches it up and thrusts it deep into the obscene locale of his sodomistic pleasures... crushes it with oaths and insults... ignominiously drives it further with the intensified blows of his monstrous dart and as he blasphemes, spurts, upon our Saviour's very Body, the impure floods of his lubricity's torrents.... I was insensible when they drew me from his hands; I had to be carried to my room, where for a week I shed uninterrupted tears over the hideous crime for which, against my will, I had been employed. The memory still gnaws at my soul, I never think back upon that scene without shuddering.... In me, Religion is the effect of sentiment; all that offends or outrages it makes my very heart bleed. The end of the month was close at hand when one morning toward nine Severino entered our chamber; he appeared greatly aroused; a certain crazed look hovered in his eyes; he examines us, one after the other, places us in his cherished attitude, and especially lingers over Omphale; for several minutes he stands, contemplating her in the posture she has assumed, he excites himself, mutters dully, secretly, kisses what is offered him, allows everyone to see he is in a state to consummate, and consummates nothing; next, he has her straighten up, casts upon her glances filled with rage and wickedness; then, swinging his foot, with all his strength he kicks her in the belly, she reels backward and falls six yards away. "The company is retrenching you, whore," he says, "we are tired of you, be ready by this afternoon. I will come to fetch you myself." And he leaves. When he is gone Omphale gets up and, weeping, casts herself into my arms. "Ah!" she says, "by the infamy, by the cruelty of the preliminaries... can you still blind yourself as to what follows? Great God! what is to become of me?" "Be easy," I say to the miserable girl, "I have made up my mind about everything; I only await the opportunity; it may perhaps present itself sooner than you think; I will divulge these horrors; if it is true the measures they take are as cruel as we have reason to believe, strive to obtain some delays, postpone it, and I will wrest you from their clutches." In the event Omphale were to be released, she swore in the same way to aid me, and both of us fell to weeping. The day passed, nothing happened during it; at five o'clock Severino returned. "Well," he asked Omphale, "are you ready?"

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

  states of anomy. In both cases, the fundamental order in terms of which the individual can “make sense” of his life and recognize his own identity will be in process of disintegration. Not only will the individual then begin to lose his moral bearings, with disastrous psychological consequences, but he will become uncertain about his cognitive bearings as well. The world begins to shake in the very instant that its sustaining conversation begins to falter. The socially established nomos may thus be understood, perhaps in its most important aspect, as a shield against terror. Put differently, the most important function of society is nomization. The anthropological presupposition for this is a human craving for meaning that appears to have the force of instinct. Men are congenitally compelled to impose a meaningful order upon reality. This order, however, presupposes the social enterprise of ordering world- construction. To be separated from society exposes the individual to a multiplicity of dangers with which he is unable to cope by himself, in the extreme case to the danger of imminent extinction. Separation from society also inflicts unbearable psychological tensions upon the individual, tensions that are grounded in the root anthropological fact of sociality. The ultimate danger of such separation, however, is the danger of meaninglessness. This danger is the nightmare par excellence, in which the individual is submerged in a world of disorder, senselessness and madness. Reality and identity are malignantly transformed into meaningless figures of horror. To be in society is to be “sane” precisely in the sense of being shielded from the ultimate “insanity” of such anomic terror. Anomy is unbearable to the point where the individual may seek death in preference to it. Conversely, existence within a nomic world may be sought at the cost of all sorts of sacrifice and suffering—and even at the cost of life itself, if 31

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

  words, the representation implied in every role is mysteriously endowed with the power to represent suprahuman realities. Thus the husband faithfully channeling his lust in the direction of his lawful spouse not only represents in this reiterated action all other faithful husbands, all other complementary roles (including those of faithful wives) and the institution of marriage as a whole, but he now also represents the prototypical action of connubial sexuality as willed by the gods and, finally, represents the gods themselves. Similarly, the king’s executioner, who faithfully chops off the head of the lawfully condemned malefactor, not only represents the institutions of kingship, law, and morality as established in his society, but he represents the divine justice that is posited as underlying these. Once more, the terror of suprahuman mysteries overshadows the concrete, empirical terrors of these proceedings. It is very important to recall in this connection that roles are not only external patterns of conduct, but are internalized within the consciousness of their performers and constitute an essential element of these individuals’ subjective identities. The religious mystification of internalized roles further alienates these, in terms of the duplication of consciousness discussed before, but it also facilitates a further process of falsification that may be described as bad faith (23). One way of defining bad faith is to say that it replaces choice with fictitious necessities. In other words, the individual, who in fact has a choice between different courses of action, posits one of these courses as necessary. The particular case of bad faith that interests us here is the one where the individual, faced with the choice of acting or not acting within a certain role “program,” denies this choice on the basis of his identification with the role in question. For example, the faithful husband may tell himself that he has “no 112

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

  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. And then I got depressed because that meant Randy was meaner than the meanest bully. There was proof. And that meant I was in big trouble. So I was terrified to go to school the next day. But I did. And everybody was talking about Randy’s punch, even the high schoolers. I sat at my desk and shook with fear. And then Randy walked into the classroom and sat beside me. He said, “What’s your name?” I wanted to run. I knew he’d make fun of my speech impediments—of my lisp and stutter. I knew he’d make fun of my big hydrocephalic head and my government glasses. I knew he’d make fun of how easily I cried, and then he would make fun of my crying. “Hey,” he said. “What’s your name?” “Junior,” I said. “I’m Randy J. Peone,” he said, and smiled. And then it happened. We all know about falling in love at first sight. Most of us have probably fallen in love at first sight with somebody. Hopefully, with the person you’re married to right now. Love at first sight is always romantic, right? But have you ever heard about people becoming best friends at first sight? Have you ever heard of two Indian boys becoming instant best friends? Becoming best friends the first time they ever talk to each other? After they’ve only said maybe ten words to each other? Well, that happened to Randy and me. I don’t know how to explain it. But Randy and I were suddenly best friends. We never talked about it. We never acknowledged it. We just knew. Both of us knew. And that’s just how it was always going to be. And let me tell you, after Randy became my best friend, I didn’t get bullied all that much anymore. Randy became my bodyguard.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I stand at the door and start pressing random number combinations. We have been taking turns trying to guess the four-digit code, a pretty stupid idea since there are ten thousand possible combinations, except there is nothing else to do, so why not? Isaac found a pen and we write the codes we try on the wall next to the door so we don’t use repeats. We have hidden knives in every room of the house: a steak knife under each mattress, a serrated knife the length of my forearm underneath the couch cushions in the little living room, a butcher knife in the bathroom under the sink, a carving knife in the upstairs hallway on the windowsill. We have to find a better place for the upstairs hallway knife , I keep thinking. Anyone can grab it. A nyone. Grab … it… My finger is suspended over the button that reads 5. I can feel my chest constricting slowly, like there is an invisible boa constrictor giving me a snake hug. My breath is coming quickly, too quickly. I turn until my back is against the door and slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I can’t catch my breath. I am drowning in a sea of air; it is all around me but I can’t get enough of it into my lungs to live. Isaac must hear my wheezing. He shoots around the corner and crouches in front of me. “Senna … Senna! Look at me!” I find his face, try to focus on his eyes. If I can only catch my breath… He takes my hand, his voice imploring me. “Senna, breathe. Nice and slow. Can you hear my voice? Try to match your breathing to my voice.” I try. His voice is distinct. I could pick it out in a lineup of voices. It’s an octave above an alto. Deep enough to lull you to sleep, lilting enough to keep you awake. I follow the patterns of his speech as he speaks to me—the dragged out consonants, the slight rasp over his “e’s”. I watch his mouth. His incisors slightly overlap his front two teeth, which also overlap; a perfectly imperfect flaw. Gradually, my breathing slows. I focus on his hands, which are holding mine. Surgeon’s hands. The best hands to be in. I trace the veins that run along the backs of them. His thumbs are rubbing circles on the skin between my thumb and forefinger. He has square nails. Manly. So many of the men I’ve dated have had oval nail beds. Square is better. I feel my lungs open. I take in air hungrily. He’s helping me. Square is better, I say over and over again. It is my mantra. Square is better. I am exhausted. Isaac doesn’t skip a beat. He picks me up and carries me to the sofa.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  “What? What is it?” I rush forward to see what he’s seeing. The refrigerator is large, industrial-sized. Every shelf is stocked without an inch of space to spare. The freezer is the same: meat, vegetables, ice cream, cans of frozen juice. My head spins as I take it all in. There is enough food for months. I grab a large can of tomatoes and throw it at the window as hard as I can. I throw it with my left hand, but fear propels it forward at an impressive speed. It hits the window with a muted thud, and drops to the counter, rolling backward toward the floor. We stare at it, dented on one side, for several minutes before Isaac bends to pick it up. He tries, pulling his arm back like a pitcher and letting it shoot from his fingertips. This time the thud is louder, but the result the same. I run back to the front door, throwing myself at the handle. I scream, slamming my fists against the wood, ignoring the searing pain in my injured hand. I need to feel pain, I want to. I pound and kick for a solid minute before I feel Isaac’s hands on my arms. He pulls me away. “Senna! Senna!” He shakes me. I stare up at him, my breath coming quickly. He must see something in my eyes, because he wraps me in a hug. I shiver against his warmth until he pulls away from me. “Let me see your wrist,” he says gently. I hold it out to him, flinching as he pokes at it gently with his cold fingertips. He nods in approval at my makeshift sling. “It’s a sprain,” he says. “Did you have it before you woke up?” I shake my head. “I fell … upstairs.” “Where did you wake up?” I tell him about the room at the top of the ladder, how I found the key. “I think I was drugged.” He nods. “Yes, we both were. Let’s go take a look at this room. Also, if there is power, there should be heat. We need to find the thermostat.” We make our way back up the stairs. I look at his face. His dark eyes look bleary like he’s coming down from a high—except he doesn’t take drugs. Not even for a headache. I know a lot about this man. That’s what’s shocking me the most. Why am I here? Why am I here with him? His head swivels to look at me. It’s as if he’s really seeing me for the first time. I can see the up and down movement of his chest as he struggles for breath. This was me, fifteen minutes ago. His eyes search my face, before he says, “What do you remember?” I shake my head. “I had dinner in Seattle. I left around ten. I stopped for gas on my way home. That’s it. You?”

• From Manhunt (2022)

  Vincent’s after bottom surgery, her skin splitting along her shoulder blades in the camera’s shaking frame, bloody foam dripping from her chin as she lurched through a privacy curtain and someone out of sight started to scream. She could still hear the pickup-fuzzed whisper of spotless green linen against antiseptic tile. In the year before the in ternet collapsed that video had been everywhere, spreading like black mold over Twitter and Facebook. “XX” had slipped into the vernacular not long after, a way for cis women to signal safety to one another. A little shibboleth to ward off the specter of the wolf in women’s clothing. And then, after a while, a catchy icon to scrawl in Sharpie on the baseball bat you kept by your bed. Or the gun under your pillow. Don’t worry, citizen—I have the right chromosomes. Boston PD and the city council turned a blind eye to the trans women who went missing. There were buildings to demolish, nests of men to root out, and a whole city falling down around them as the shadow of long-term reproductive viability whispered in their ears that time was running out, that ovaries were going stale, that any pregnancy could go wrong if some fluke of body chemistry doused the fetus in too much testosterone. Fran had heard of a woman in Vermont whose boy twins had eaten their way out of her. Who had the time to make sure the estrogen thieves were safe? Even if someone had wanted to help the poor benighted transsexuals, there was Maryland and its armed and watchful Matriarchy to think about. Down there they didn’t bother with trials, they just dragged your pants down and put two in the back of your head if they found a dick. There were six thousand diehard soldiers in the Maryland Womyn’s Legion; not the kind of enemy Boston needed. Fran had heard rumors of TERF death squads in New York, in Connecticut, even in southern Mass. Baltimore’s reach got longer every year. Well, it hadn’t mattered in the end. The TERFs were here anyway, and Boston would probably have to kiss the ring or else wind up some kind of feudal protectorate. The local XX chapters would be over the moon. Maybe we should go west , thought Fran, kicking idly at a loose chunk of asphalt. It went skittering over the highway, skipping up when it struck a tilted chunk of road, and spun to a halt in the sandy earth under the guardrail. We could get through the Rockies, somehow. Make it to California by winter. She imagined her shoulders peeling and her shirt stuck to her back with sweat, the dry heat out there in the California desert, the molten sunsets, and the cool waters of the Pacific.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  “She turned up destitute and pregnant.” Out of the goodness of his heart, Hubbard said, he had taken Sara in, to see her “through her trouble.” Weirdly, the letter was signed, “ Your good friend, J. Edgar Hoover.” After The Scandal of Scientology , Cooper’s life turned into a nightmare. She was followed; her phone was tapped; she was sued nineteen times. Her name and telephone number were written on the stalls in public men’s rooms. One day, when Cooper was out of town, her cousin, who was staying in her New York apartment, opened the door for a delivery from a florist. The deliveryman took a gun from the bouquet, put it to her temple, and pulled the trigger. When the gun didn’t fire, he attempted to strangle her. Cooper’s cousin screamed and the assailant fled. Cooper then moved to an apartment building with a doorman, but soon after that her three hundred neighbors received letters saying that she was a prostitute with venereal disease who molested children. A woman impersonating Cooper voiced threats against Secretary of State Henry Kissinger and President Gerald Ford at a Laundromat, while a Scientologist who happened to be present notified the FBI. Two members from the Guardian’s office broke into Cooper’s psychiatrist’s office and stole her files, then sent copies to her adoptive parents. Cooper was charged with mailing bomb threats to the Church of Scientology. In the courtroom, the prosecutor produced a threatening letter with her fingerprint on it, and Cooper fainted. (Later, she remembered signing a petition, which may have had a blank page underneath it.) In May 1973, Cooper was indicted by the US Attorney’s office for mailing the threats and then lying about it before the grand jury. IF THE RUMORS about Hubbard were true—that he had created a religion only in order to get rich—he had long since accomplished that goal. One of his disaffected lieutenants later claimed that Hubbard had admitted to “ an insatiable lust for power and money.” He hectored his adherents on this subject. “ MAKE MONEY,” he demanded in a 1972 policy letter. “MAKE MORE MONEY. MAKE OTHERS PRODUCE SO AS TO MAKE MONEY.” In order to siphon money into Hubbard’s personal accounts, a number of front organizations were established, including the Religious Research Foundation, which was incorporated in Liberia. In the mid-seventies that single foundation had an account in Switzerland containing more than $300 million. At one point, panicked that Switzerland was going to make a change in its tax laws, Hubbard ordered his medical officer, Kima Douglas, to move those funds from Switzerland to Lichtenstein. She described stacks of cash sitting in the bank vault, mostly hundred-dollar bills, four feet high and three to four feet wide, one pile in Hubbard’s name, the other in the church’s. “ Church’s was bigger but his was big too,” she told Hubbard’s biographer Russell Miller. L. Ron Hubbard, Jr., remembered shoeboxes full of money in his father’s closet.

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

  But I could handle them, especially when some huge monster boy was insulting me. But I knew I’d have to put a stop to it eventually or I’d always be known as “Chief” or “Tonto” or “Squaw Boy.” But I was scared. I wasn’t scared of fistfighting with those boys. I’d been in plenty of fights. And I wasn’t scared of losing fights with them, either. I’d lost most every fight I’d been in. I was afraid those monsters were going to kill me. And I don’t mean “kill” as in “metaphor.” I mean “kill” as in “beat me to death.” So, weak and poor and scared, I let them call me names while I tried to figure out what to do. And it might have continued that way if Roger the Giant hadn’t taken it too far. It was lunchtime and I was standing outside by the weird sculpture that was supposed to be an Indian. I was studying the sky like I was an astronomer, except it was daytime and I didn’t have a telescope, so I was just an idiot. Roger the Giant and his gang of giants strutted over to me. “Hey, Chief,” Roger said. It seemed like he was seven feet tall and three hundred pounds. He was a farm boy who carried squealing pigs around like they were already thin slices of bacon. I stared at Roger and tried to look tough. I read once that you can scare away a charging bear if you wave your arms and look big. But I figured I’d just look like a terrified idiot having an arm seizure. “Hey, Chief,” Roger said. “You want to hear a joke?” “Sure,” I said. “Did you know that Indians are living proof that niggers fuck buffalo?” I felt like Roger had kicked me in the face. That was the most racist thing I’d ever heard in my life. Roger and his friends were laughing like crazy. I hated them. And I knew I had to do something big. I couldn’t let them get away with that shit. I wasn’t just defending myself. I was defending Indians, black people, and buffalo. So I punched Roger in the face. He wasn’t laughing when he landed on his ass. And he wasn’t laughing when his nose bled like red fireworks. I struck some fake karate pose because I figured Roger’s gang was going to attack me for bloodying their leader. But they just stared at me. They were shocked. “You punched me,” Roger said. His voice was thick with blood. “I can’t believe you punched me.” He sounded insulted. He sounded like his poor little feelings had been hurt. I couldn’t believe it. He acted like he was the one who’d been wronged. “You’re an animal,” he said. I felt brave all of a sudden.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  It was sinister. Lurking. It kept you awake at night, gnawing on your insides, turning your mind into a distillery of fear. Fear trumps good sense. I wasn’t ready to go back to the hospital; it was the last place I was really afraid, but I had to because cancer was eating at my body. The tests and scans started around noon. My first consult was with Dr. Akela, an oncologist Isaac went to medical school with. She was Polynesian and so strikingly beautiful my mouth hung open when she walked in. I could smell fruit on her skin; it reminded me of the bowl Isaac kept filling on my counter. I expelled the smell from my nostrils and breathed through my mouth. She spoke about chemotherapy. Her eyes had a heart and I was under the impression that she was an oncologist because she cared. I hated people who cared. They were prying and nosy and made me feel less human because I didn’t care. After Dr. Akela, I saw a radiation oncologist, and then a plastic surgeon who pressured me to make an appointment to see a grief counselor. I saw Isaac in between each appointment, each scan. He was on his rounds, but he came to walk me to my next appointment. It was awkward. Though each time his white coat emerged, I became a little more familiar with him. It was a weird form of brand recognition—Isaac the Good. His hair was brown, his eyes were deep-set, the bridge of his nose was wide and crooked, but the most telling part of him was his shoulders. They moved first, then the rest of his body followed. I had a tumor on my right breast. Stage II cancer. I was a candidate for a lumpectomy with radiation. Isaac found me in the cafeteria sipping on a cup of coffee, staring out the window. He slid into the chair across from me and watched me watch the rain. “Where is your family, Senna?” Such a hard question. “I have a father in Texas, but we’re not close.” “Friends?” I looked at him. Was he kidding? He had spent every night for a month in my house and my telephone hadn’t rung once. “I don’t have any.” I left off the haven’t you figured that out yet ? bit. Dr. Asterholder shifted in his seat like the topic made him uncomfortable, and then, as an afterthought, folded his hands over the crumbs on the tabletop. “You’re going to need a support system. You can’t do this alone.” “Well what would you suggest I do? Import a family?” He continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “There might be more than one surgery. Sometimes, even after radiation and chemotherapy, the cancer comes back…” “I’m having a double mastectomy.

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

  When I sought to guide the conversation to the subject which he had desired to discuss, he told me to wait yet a little, he said he feared we might be observed, it did not seem to him we were in a safe enough place; very gradually, without my perceiving it, we approached the four trees to which I had been so cruelly bound long ago. Upon seeing the place, a quiver ran through me: all the horror of my fate rose up before my eyes, and fancy whether my terror was not doubled when I caught sight of the preparations which had been made in that horrible place. Ropes hung from one of the trees; huge mastiffs were leashed to each of the other three and seemed to be waiting for nothing but me in order to fall to sating the hunger announced by their gaping foam-flecked jaws; one of the Count's favorites guarded them. Whereupon the perfidious creature ceased to employ all but the very foulest epithets. "Scum," quoth he, "do you recognize that bush whence I dragged you like a wild beast only to spare a life you deserved to lose? Do you recognize these trees unto which I threatened to lash you were you ever to give me cause to repent my kindness ? Why did you agree to perform the task I demanded, if you intended to betray me to my aunt? and how could you imagine it was virtue you served by imperiling the freedom of him to whom you owe all your happiness? By necessity placed between two crimes, why have you chosen the more abominable?" "Alas ! I did not choose the less..." "But you should have refused," the Count continued, in his rage seizing one of my arms and shaking me furiously, "yes, certainly, refused, and not consented to betray me." Then Monsieur de Bressac told me how he had gone about the interception of Madame's messages, and how the suspicion had been born which had led him to decide to stop them.

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

  And it was not long before I perceived that it was only thus du Harpin acquired his wealth. Above us there lodged a solitary individual of considerable means who was the owner of some handsome jewels, and whose belongings, whether because of their proximity or because they had passed through my master's hands, were very well known to him; I often heard him express regrets to his wife over the loss of a certain gold box worth fifty or sixty louis, which article would infallibly have remained his, said he, had he proceeded with greater cleverness. In order to console himself for the sale of the said box, the good Monsieur du Harpin projected its theft, and it was to me he entrusted the execution of his plan. After having delivered a long speech upon the indifference of robbery, upon, indeed, its usefulness in the world, since it maintains a sort of equilibrium which totally confounds the inequality of property; upon the infrequence of punishment, since out of every twenty thieves it could be proven that not above two dies on the gallows; after having demonstrated to me, with an erudition of which I had not dreamt Monsieur du Harpin capable, that theft was honored throughout Greece, that several races yet acknowledge it, favor it, and reward it for a bold deed simultaneously giving proof of courage and skill (two virtues indispensable to a warlike nation), after having, in a word, exalted his personal influence which would extricate me from all embarrassments in the event I should be detected, Monsieur du Harpin tendered me two lock picks, one to open the neighbor's front door, the other his secretary within which lay the box in question; incessantly he enjoined me to get him this box and, in return for so important a service, I could expect, for two years, to receive an additional crown. "Oh Monsieur!" I exclaimed, shuddering at his proposal, "is it possible a master dare thus corrupt his domestic ! What prevents me from turning against you the weapons you put into my hands? Du Harpin, much confused, fell back on a lame subterfuge; what he was doing, said he, was being done with the simple intention of testing me; how fortunate that I had resisted this temptation, he added... how I should have been doomed had I succumbed, etc.

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

  You'd never imagine how useful this dear thing was to me during my latest enterprise at Grenoble; you, Monseigneur, have had the kindness to accept my expression of gratitude, and, I pray you, repay what I owe her with interest." The opaque ambiguity of these phrases, what Dubois had said to me upon entering, the species of gentleman with whom I had to do, this other girl whose forthcoming appearance had been announced, all this instantly troubled my imagination to a degree it would be difficult to describe. A cold sweat seeped from my pores and I was about to fall in a swoon Ä 'twas at that instant this man's projects finally became clear to me. He calls me to him, begins with two or three kisses whereby our mouths are obliged to unite; he seeks my tongue, finds and sucks it and his, running deep into my throat, seems to be pumping the very breath from my lungs. He has me bend my head upon his chest, he lifts my hair and closely observes the nape of my neck. "Oh, 'tis delicious!" he cries, squeezing it vigorously; "I've never seen one so nicely attached; 'twill be divine to make it jump free." This last remark confirmed all my intimations; I saw very clearly I was once again in the clutches of one of those libertines moved by cruel passions, whose most cherished delights consist in enjoying the agonies or the death of the luckless victims procured them by money; I observed I was in danger of losing my life. And then a knock at the door; Dubois leaves and an instant later ushers in the young Lyonnaise she had mentioned shortly before. I'll now try to sketch the two personages in whose company you are going to see me for a while. The Monseigneur, whose name and estate T never discovered, was, as I told you, a man of forty years, slender, indeed slight of frame, but vigorously constituted, sinewy, with his muscles almost constantly tensed, powerful biceps showing upon arms that were covered with a growth of thick black hair; everything about him proclaimed strength and good health; his face was animated, his gaze ardent, his eyes small, black, and wicked, there were splendid white teeth in his mouth, and liveliness in his every feature; his height was above average, and this man's amatory goad, which I was to have but too frequent occasion to see and feel, was roughly a foot long and above eight inches around. This incisive, nervous, constantly alerted and oozing instrument, ribboned with great purple veins that rendered its aspect still more formidable, was levitated throughout the seance, which lasted five or six hours; never once did it sink or falter. I had never before or since found a more hirsute man: he resembled those fauns described in fables.

• From Manhunt (2022)

  Robbie’s body sang with waves of adrenaline and cold, numbing sickness. A few steps to his left lay the body of one of Zia’s people, a pretty girl in her mid-twenties, long black hair fallen across her expressionless face. One of the guards had shot her twice from the moving golf cart before Zia got her. Now the firefight had come down to patience and the exploitation of minuscule errors. It wasn’t so different from shooting men. You just had to decide they didn’t matter. You went away from your body; used it, like you’d use a can opener, to complete a direct and specific task. The corridor was silent for a while, except for the fading echoes of gunshots and the quiet growl of the idling golf cart. He and Fran had ridden in one of those things on their first day in the Screw. Fran had taken his hand in the back seat, her thumb stroking his palm, a little smile on her face. Maybe it was the same cart. Maybe the women in it had smiled at each other, had held hands as they drove through this bizarre little SkyMall dictatorship. I’m no better than they are. I ate their food, I followed their rules, I swam in their Olympic standard pool. One night he and Fran had even gone to see Love Actually in the little movie theater, making out in the back while Hugh Grant stammered and sweated. It’s an accident I’m even on the right side of this shit. I would have sat and twiddled my thumbs while they sold Beth to a chain gang. “Throw your weapons out,” Zia shouted from her place beside the bulkhead opposite Robbie’s. “Walk out one by one and we’ll make sure you get a share from storage. No one else has to fucking die over nothing.” “You’re sealed in,” someone shouted back after a short pause. “You didn’t see the blast doors come down, genius? Not to mention without Sophie you won’t even be able to get into storage. You’d need that little brat’s palm print and eyeball, and she’s locked away thirty feet under us.” Robbie kept his eye to the rifle’s scope, forcing himself to keep his breathing slow and even. He tried to think of it like he was playing GoldenEye in Jesse’s basement, just a low-poly Pierce Brosnan avatar scooting through a maze of vents and corridors. “Yeah,” said Zia, grinning. “We’re working on that, too.” At the crack in the bathroom door, Indi watched over Mariana’s head as Mackenzie came out of the bedroom, prowling on all fours with his head low to the ground. He made a sound like a hungry dog, a hoarse, plaintive whine that trailed off into a cavernous yawn.

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

  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. And then I got depressed because that meant Randy was meaner than the meanest bully. There was proof. And that meant I was in big trouble. So I was terrified to go to school the next day. But I did. And everybody was talking about Randy’s punch, even the high schoolers. I sat at my desk and shook with fear. And then Randy walked into the classroom and sat beside me. He said, “What’s your name?” I wanted to run.