#m

It reminds him of a tale the elder monks told him once, when he was a youngster: the Last Ride of the Tiger Tickler. There was, according to fiction, a man who came upon an untended tiger cub. He took it home and raised it, and, when it was fully grown, he took to riding into town on its back. He steered the beast with a silk handkerchief: he’d lean forward and flick the tiger’s left or right ear to make it turn, or brush its nose to make it start or stop. Of course, the tiger, brought up on milk and honey lapped from a bowl held in the kind man’s hands, didn’t know any better, so he went along with it. Disregarding the tiresome details of the tale, when the Tiger Tickler mistakenly rides into town on a different tiger, who despite similar build and markings has a radically different opinion as to the rightful place of mankind (namely in, not on), everybody gets eaten up. ↗

— David Whiteland

#home

They stopped and bowed their heads close together as the revelers ate and danced and celebrated around the glow of the fire. Darkness was falling over Lilyvale, the pink horizon a glorious and unusual marvel. Lily and James hardly noticed, lost as they were in the preciousness of the moment. "Lily mine," James whispered. "We're finally home. ↗

— Annabel Joseph

#james #lily #lily-mine #home

From the vantage of a mid-1970's consensus that regarded the United States as having entered a post-Protestant era, the rise of a Religious Right dominated not only by Protestants but by fundamentalists was not the way the story was supposed to go. People like Jerry Falwell looked like party crashers who, rather than slikinking from bar to buffet in hopes of going unnoticed, demanded that the vegetarian, alcohol-imbibing hosts serve meat and tell the bartender to go home. ↗

— D.G. Hart

#political #religious-right #home

All I know is that the fear I have been battling all night is breaking down the door of my ignorance. As my feet slam down I feel not the hard, wet asphalt but the soft Persian rug that led to the staircase in my father’s home. In the glow of lightning the dancing trees are illuminated but I see my mother in the glow of candlelight, spinning, twirling, her hair fanned out behind her. It is falling over me, saturating my thoughts, and I cannot. I cannot let it in. ↗

— Gwenn Wright

#dance #gwenn-wright #midwest #mystery #saga

Certainly. Of course. That’s part of it. And always coming to school or when we’re going home, you’re to walk with me, when there ain’t anybody looking – and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because that’s the way you do when you’re engaged. ↗

— Mark Twain

#home

I'd been willing to kill for the people I loved for a very long time; now I had to start living for them. ↗

— Laurell K. Hamilton

#humor

About their wedding on a beach of Nantucket, after nearly 50 years together as a couple: "After years of being who we truly were only in the privacy of our homes or with a few friends, we were out in the world, under the sky, no longer pretending.” - Norman Sunshine, co-author, Double Life ↗

— Norman Sunshine

#double-life #gay-marriage #love-story #norman-sunshine #home

Mikolay had explored the big attic many times before, and he knew that his mummy misplaced boxes all the time. Ah, I,don’t really want a wand, um, that much. Can we go home now? “Please? begged Julia as she walked toward the door. But Mikolay grabbed her hand and whispered:Lets just see where the shadow is going and after that, we can go right home. Mikolay and Julia carefully moved closer and closer to the wall. ↗

— Magda M. Olchawska

#children-books #fairies #illustrated-books #kids #kids-books

Suddenly, the shadow disappeared through the wall! Maybe the shadow disappeared again.Can we please go back home now?I really don’t like it here & I’m scared! Julia pleaded. The shadow was standing by a very small cage, pointing its long, thin finger towards the floor. ↗

— Magda M. Olchawska

#children-books #fairies #illustrated-books #kids #kids-books

Every author really wants to have letters printed in the paper. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels. ↗

— P.G. Wodehouse

#writers #humor