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Seller Image. Georgey's Menagerie. The Lion Mrs. Madeline Leslie Published by Andrew F. Create a Want Tell us what you're looking for and once a match is found, we'll inform you by e-mail. Create a Want BookSleuth Can't remember the title or the author of a book? I thought she had been happy— that last night on the farmhouse rooftop, where we stared into the depths of the spiraling stars as we feigned sleep to buy more time. It was so easy to forget that everyone has to go home eventually. The blood seeps out and stains the Earth with its pain.
I wonder if you tripped and fell if it would be headfirst, denting the skull. And I stare out into the setting sun, urging the tears to come, to for just once feel something. Memories, that through ignorance, I was unable to hold on to. And even now, so close, I am still 8, miles and two years away, and the distance is insurmountable. I should have been able to stop the car in time.
I should have been there to catch her when she fell. Just like a hit-and-run, I turn around and drive away. What is school what is it Fragmentation is a gift and so are socks. Tender Buttons on a not so tender shirt Why tender What tenderer When tenderful Buttons with potatoes and a piece of coffee. You come on like creaking floorboards in an empty house or the stroke of ethereal fingers down my spine. You arise in the form of a friend who holds my love in an upturned palm, squeezes too tight, crushes it. I hide it well, behind the disguise of smiling eyes; they smile back, unaware. You have all the influence of a conspiracy freak, but your plague of doubt still infects my thoughts.
Everybody lies is your constant reminder. You lean against dead wood walls and stare down the world like its come too close, lips pulled back over rotted teeth in a sickening sneer. Innocence is foreign to you, alien and impossible. Your chains and shackles spill thick like pitch and tar, pooling in the pitted surface of your barred realm, and people conspire in whispers from behind the backs of hands. I want to find your heart, to crush it beneath my boot, to leave you behind, mangled, broken, and never look back. Summer Love: a Cento By Siri Yelamanchili Summer and sentences trickle red blossoms of geraniums, where July is hot with sand and orange.
You are sugar dissolving in water; your fingers so many songs. Through the silver pores of a screen door, outside, the sky spirals in a pink. Faith is in small things, she says. That voice, of a southern dawn and the only heat, like lightning: electric. Sources: [Simone Muench poems]. Nine year-old Scarlet Brown spent a Tuesday evening feeling lonely, lost, and pitifully small.
She huddled in the corner of her tiny bedroom, knees clasped to her chest, and listened as her angry parents shouted and screamed and hurled insults at each other across an apartment that had only moments ago been filled with laughter and the sound of clinking glasses. Her parents battled over an incident involving Mrs. Brown and one of her male dinner guests, completely oblivious to their small daughter curled up in her room who had silently begun to cry.
Little Scarlet had overheard many fights like this one, late at night when her parents believed themselves to be in privacy. Scarlet was in that unfortunate stage of childhood where she was nearly invisible, both to her parents and to the neighbors who so carelessly and contemptuously picked apart the Brown family. That particular night, unfortunately, was an example of the latter, and she listened with anxiety and growing fear as her beloved Mother and her dear Father continued to tear relentlessly into each other, for these nightly debates did not always end peacefully. She thought back to the days when things were different.
When her Mother and Father smiled when they thought no one was watching. She thought back to when she was their most treasured possession, back when they still noticed when she walked into a room. Scarlet used to dream of happy endings. In the early days, when shouting and screaming was still something that belonged to other families, Scarlet would watch her parents laugh together and dream of the day when she would be Mother too. She dreamed of her own house and a flowered apron for cooking, and little children that looked like her dolls to tuck into bed.
She no longer wanted her house or her apron. She feared the day of becoming a mother. She hated the sweetness gone sour that clogged up the very air that she breathed and filled her home with discontent. Mother and Father did not laugh together anymore. She became invisible in the corner.
The dreams she once cherished lay broken in her heart like the angry words she overheard in the dark. As she cried behind a closed door, she remembered the days before her dreams came crashing down around her, and left her shattered, alone, on her bedroom floor. Do you know that feeling of putting on a new pair of socks?
You tear them out of the packaging and slip them onto your feet. But you realize that from this point on your socks will never feel this way again. They will go many places, only to be washed as an attempt to restore them to their untouched, comforting state. Each time you put them on you will be disappointed as you sink closer to the earth again. They will wear down until your heel rests on your shoes and the last threads holding that hole in the sock together fall apart. Dirt has taken up permanent residence within the stitches and has tinted their color.
There once was a room full of plants, banana shrubs six feet high, and shrubs at my feet. My favorite was the one that closed its ferns when anyone came near. Just the filigree of breath against its cilia, and it sealed itself off. Open, it was so intriguing, willful, that it enticed me to itself; but when it brought its green fingers up to cover its face I could not pick it out from the others. Up high, I take her under er my wing beneath the sheath of bright ht plumage, shielding her face from the wind, snow, and rain that fluster the tips of the wingfeathers. In her youth she feels a weight against her, crushed between two walls, gasping for breath, unable to dream a way out.
Away from the bitter, biting air she finds warmth and security and learns only about the world in which she lay encapsulated. She lives unexposed to the talons of the great squash-orange hawk, to the damp dark nights trapped within a hollow oak. Her wings are weakly, withering unexposed to the color outside. I become her mentor, her mother; all that she knows I have taught her.
She is aware of everything around her, which accumulates to nothing, but the gray down of my wing. There exists a growing cavity, soon filled by a malignant despair, mal that creeps into her somehow. A terminal condition, seeping in.
Allow her a life of privilege. One that I never had. And so there begins a brooding discontentment, a growing unease that colors her entire world graybrown, souring the sweet taste of her youth. Her wings grow heavy, disheartened, unable to continue flying, succumbing to the wind above. From under my wing she sinks slowly, y powerless when faced with storms, ms, from which I saved her. Is she not thankful? Nothing else seems possible to her.
Her life limited to what she has already seen. She looks around at that moment, t, feeling the harsh whip of the wind, nd, creating a brief flurry of feathers,, An independent joy. Soon stopped by the small thud of her feet, body, and wings hitting the ground. I shoot you. He shoots you.
Catalog Record: The bear | HathiTrust Digital Library
We all take aim and fire. You feel the plunge of bullets as they sink into your skin, Warping your mind into chaos. Your hands begin to shake, Your knees quiver. Turn away, Run! Fear roots you to the spot. The bullets within your flesh writhe, Making you want to squirm As you stand there, Helpless.
Harriette Baker (Aunt Hattie; Madeline Leslie) - Series
There are too many! Overpowering, Plummeting at you from all directions. She shoots you. And as each sliver of metal strikes, They drip back out, Sliding down your skin Like a viscous liquid And dropping to the floor With a clang. Now you grasp the Pain of Sweating Bullets. Leave, forget your prolonged endeavors, End your immortal hold: I move to a last cycle. Sammy was a juice box. Or at least he pretended to be. Almost always, she would say yes. He would then reach into his Spiderman backpack, look up at the girl, and spit at her through his straw. He was a second grade fool, who had but one thing that could make his heart pump faster than Speed Racer taking 1st prize.
Mary Madison, the sweet little girl who lived three houses down and across the street, was the one of his desire. Sam never spat on her, which was all he thought she needed to notice to get her hooked. He told Sammy stories about the poor souls who fell victim to cooties, and who they would lie for weeks in bed with nothing to eat but broccoli. He would eat all of the broccoli on earth for Mary. In class he sat only one seat away from her! Those days were the best.
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But no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, the fact that he spat on girls was too disgusting for her. Mary always ran from Sammy, and he always kept right behind her. He needed to stop being a juice box. So he finally decided to pay attention to the next psychiatrist his parents had gotten him. There had been many, but none ever helped. And none ever stayed long. Weebly was a tall, thin man. He had glasses that made his eyes look huge. They made him look even more like a weasel than he already did. Although Sammy never cared for psychiatrists, he thought he might as well listen for the sake of his princess.
The Weasel man put a recorder on the table.
I just pretend. Her name is Mary. Well hereth the problem young man. Think of fear like a fire. The more fuel you give it, the bigger it geth, and the more power it hath. After two days of being a human instead of a juice box, and not spitting on anybody, he finally went up to her. She smacked him, and it was all too much for him.
He passed out. When he awoke he smelled cough syrup and an old person. He thought what the psychiatrist had told him would work, but it was a failure. Weebly did get one thing right. If he was just going to be scared that Mary would never accept him, it would never happen. He needed to boy up and figure out how to get to her. The only problem was that he liked being a juice box. But he had to move on. Everyday after school, he would spend hours formulating plans, only to end up crumpling each sheet of paper into a ball and throwing it into the garbage can, like he saw on television.
In school, rather than focus on the lesson, he would keep looking over at Mary and focus on his plan. He finally came up with a plan. He would ask her if she wanted some juice, and then actually give her a juice box. So he went up to her the next day before school. Sam ran off. He ran home. He cried and cried, until all of the water in his tear ducts had soaked into his pillow. After, his throat was sore and there were no tears left to cry; he just kept punching his pillow. It was all over. She hated him, and he knew there was nothing else he could do.
Both of his parents were at work, so he just sat until they got home. He slowly made his way to school the next day. He went to the wall right outside the second grade door, and sat against the wall with his head down. Two minutes later he heard a thump next to him. A juice box was resting there.
Aunt Hattie's Library for Girls [by "Aunt Hattie"]
He quickly looked up to see Little Mary Madison walking away. At recess that day she walked up to him. I could have had any one of you. I could have commanded that green net to capture a brother or a sister of yours. I chose you. The big one. Your scaled stomach swollen, eyes bulging, tail in a plume behind you. A streak of orange weaving in between your stagnant orange subjects. You were the King of the tank. You deserved a kingdom. The finest castle was placed atop pebbles. You were the lone ruler of your aquatic abode. You were laid to rest two short days into your reign.
Poured down the porcelain portal, your last swim through the whirlpool of the river Styx. In those two days, I could have spared a glance into your glass universe. You were the ill-starred monarch of my choosing who I paid for but paid no attention to. But who could regret to have once been in the presence of a King?
Rebirth By Elizabeth Deneen Face it. Maybe happiness is a little more pure against a backdrop of mud. Maybe the stars really are the brightest on the blackest of nights, and food does taste sweeter to those who are starving. Maybe the extra appreciation of the warmth of the sun on your skin justifies the weeks and weeks of cold. Not all the time- that would be ridiculous- but at least some of the time.
When he closed his eyes and listened to the whir of the film reel, his toes felt like they were floating in the middle of the ocean. It was as if, bone by bone, his body disassembled itself and crept away from the little dark room at the top of the theater.
Then, when George opened his eyes to turn off the projector, they would race home and snap back into place before he could see that they were gone. But he knew his feet went on trips with his ankles, scurrying to exotic places by the sea. He knew his shins and thighs were in cahoots, waiting for the next opportunity to escape him, the same way he knew when his girlfriend was about to leave. George could sense these things. Today, there was a teenage couple in the back row, also getting to know each other.
He scanned the theater below, hoping to find a more interesting story amongst the lice-infested chairs and heads. It was Wednesday, and slow. George always resisted working these shows, filled with the generic tales of the elderly and children. They seemed to be the same, both at a stage in life where they could neither chew food nor walk very far. There was nothing for George to film. He was pretty sure it was illegal, but so were half the activities that took place in a theater.
George had recorded everything from indecent exposure to underage drinking. The cool dark crept around George as he watched it all take place, engulfing everything around him until all he could see was the lens of his camera. George could see the reflection of a figure in the open doorway, hand frantically searching the wall for a switch. George squinted into the light, blinded. But he could tell by the panicked gasps coming from the shadow that it was Linda. The sooner George could get her out of his room, the better.
She looked George in the eye, maintaining at least three feet of distance between them. Ever since their breakup, Linda had been perfectly professional. A lot of things can happen in a movie theater. He inched the door shut behind him and lowered his voice. If only he could document everything. They had been in his basement after a pleasant date. She had gushed about his interest in documentaries and gushed about wanting to see his work. George had decided to show Linda the films of people in the theater, his snapshot of life.
Finally, she had torn her eyes off the screen and looked at him.
She eyed him differently after that, like a liability. George knew then, it was over. Linda was staring at him. Are you listening? George nodded. A painting was commissioned and exhibited at the Royal Academy by Landseer, this was a great honor and propelled Van Amburgh into an international celebrity.
He died a wealthy man with his name still being used some years later, the domineering attitude he portrayed left him as one of the great " Lion Kings". Staffordshire Van Amburgh figure group Circa depicting his act of wild cats with a standing lamb at his feet. Right Lloyd of Shelton lions circa , the shredding decoration has a lamb at rest within the lions mane. Their little faces just picked out in-between the lions paws.
It shows Van Amburgh relaxing amongst his wild cats with the lamb staying close by his chest. The crowds gaze in amazement through the bars of the cage. Amburgh wearing Roman attire with his shield displayed on the cage wall. A Lion Queen with her wild cat performance. Staffordshire Victorian Pottery Circa This reproduction poster is available to purchase on the net. Female animal tamers were a novelty and George Wombell had two famous nieces who both had this attribute.
Nellie Chapmen who retired unscathed and Ellen Bright who reportedly struck her animal with a whip, it took offence and grabbed her by the throat. She was dead before help could reach her, the inquest into her death said she was killed by a male tiger whilst performing in a den. The affair lead to the banning of female tamers leaving "The Lion Kings" alone to carry on with their acts. The inexpensive Victorian broadsheets that told these tales were not always reliably accurate sometimes inventing actual events, notwithstanding a headline featuring four deaths Wombwell nor the keepers were reprimanded.
A story appeared in the local Birmingham Mail July headed " The day a man-eating lion roamed Birmingham". An escaped lion had hid in the sewers of Aston in , luckily no one was hurt and he was recaptured. Bostock carried their part of the family business forward until the early 20th century. George Wombwell died in , he was buried in Highgate cemetery under a large memorial statue of his lion Nero and there's an early taxidermy lion exhibit called "Wallace" housed at Saffron Walden Museum, Essex.
This wonderful pair of exotic animals were sold at Bonhams. Although heavily restored they still impressed myself and others at the sale. Staffordshire pottery photos from R.