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Falling for the ghost of you pdf

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Falling for the Ghost of You - Kindle edition by Nicole Christie. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like. 37 discussion posts. Gisbelle said: This thread is for the discussion on Falling for the Ghost of You by Nicole cafein.pro you include spoilers in. The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Canterville Ghost, by Oscar Wilde . quite understand Mr. Otis's last observation, "and if you don't mind a ghost in the house , it they reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.

Life hasn't been super kind to Ghost - the kids at school make fun of him because he's poor and he carries around the weight of his father's betrayal. The next message is from an hour later, his voice guttural and slow, twanging words out. It's Newbery reading time, so I picked this up - and color me impressed. The second thing I did was to write this review. I clutch the pilot chute. My stomach hurts, a cramping I haven't felt since I first went cold turkey, four years ago. Then one day he spots a track warm-up and takes an instant dislike to the albino kid in the expensive tracksuit.

Booklist, starred review. School Library Connection, starred review. Chicago Tribune. Publishers Weekly, starred review. And here is what that voice says: Jewell Parker Rhodes School Zone. Ghost Boys Twelve-year-old Jerome is shot by a police officer who mistakes his toy gun for a real threat.

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Listen on Audible. Get Ghost Boys. Autographed Hardcover Want to own an autographed hardcover copy of Ghost Boys? An instant New York Times bestseller. An instant IndieBoud bestseller. A Publisher's Weekly Best Seller. Her father is a litigator for Dowling Industrial. We start on a small single-engine Cessna whose air tastes like aluminum and petrol. Our bench rattles and dips; the engine sputters. Beyond the door is a roaring radiance.

While we're waiting to be flagged out, Erica eyes her static line and says, "Here we go. At 12, feet a jump doesn't even feel like falling; it's more like being at the center of a cold explosion.

You can see the curvature of the planet, the spherical surface that tugs you down. I watch her body tumble, bright-red jumpsuit, limbs arched back in perfect form. She shrinks and breaks into white clouds, and I lose her. My arms go straight at my sides and I dive. At about miles an hour I see her canopy, a ruffled red square below me.

My cheeks billow with wind. On the ground she can't stop smiling, looking up at what we traversed. She cheers and laughs and suggests we go do some shots. I explain that it's just the adrenaline rush, and that I don't drink. May's air is thick and heavy, trapped under this purple vapor we're enduring. At night I worry. Surveying the park grounds, I wonder who's out there, watching for me.

Erica has told me about the Web site: Bird Man of St. There's a picture on it of a fanged black bird with burning eyes, along with message boards and testimonials from people who have seen me. You can order a T-shirt. Skydiving doesn't compare to BASE.

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Out of a plane you're too high and have no real sense of the bottom. Mu , the void, is not so immediate; you can't even glimpse it, and gravity's embrace is more like a hug than a violent thrall. I press my hands against the glass and ponder the fall, and the dream life of a sleeping city seems awfully far away as my reflection looks back in the window and parallel light beams shine up from the arch's base like a Zen ladder.

Five jumps later Erica tells me that her mother is an artist who gives lessons at their home, and who lost her left breast to cancer three years ago. We're eating ice cream, walking in the mall, because she wanted to get new shoes. She says, "You know, I was really hoping you were some undiscovered animal, like a ghost-bird.

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She shrugs and licks her cone, swinging her bag from Foot Locker. There's always stuff we don't know about. Once, in the s, in Texas, there was a series of sightings of a black bird as big as a city, perched on the moon. I love that. She wipes caramel off her lip with a finger that she licks while grinning at me, and my chi thrums against my abdomen as if I've swallowed a tiny bomb. Her school lets out for the summer, so we start diving more. Three times a week.

Evening sets in as we walk off the airfield. She says her father is working long hours now. At first I'm embarrassed, because I don't have any furniture in my apartment, and my bed is a bamboo mat with a single thin blanket. In fading light from the window the fuzz on her chest and stomach is lucent and blonde.

Sweat gathers in a salty pool at her navel. Her skin is darker than Mabel's, and she weighs less. A certain anxiety dissipates as we progress. The touching is fine. As I remembered, but different. I tell her about jumping off Bethel Bridge, in Cypress Park. I don't mention my perverse curiosity that cold morning, the clear idea I had, as I dangled my foot off the bridge, to hold on to the bundled chute the whole way down and never release it from my hand. I shrug and feign sleepiness.

I don't mention the night four years ago when I bought Mabel half a gram of heroin and she passed out and slipped under the bath water we were going to share when I got home. I want to explain that I'm not just some thrill-seeker—that the arch is the nexus of civilization and wilderness, and there I inhabit a space between spaces, where city and forest are separated by a perfect geometry of solid steel. But we don't talk, and when I close my eyes, burning scarlet fissures erupt and crack the perfect symmetry of my Blue Triangle.

Her mother, Carol, has hair the same color as Erica's, but much shorter.

She asks me what working for the Park Service is like and looks at me softly when I explain myself as a nature lover. Erica is quiet. When she looks at her mother, they don't make eye contact for long, and I find some similarities in their faces. Carol asks me about my hobbies and has a distant look in her eyes. Her voice seems to tremble when she speaks; she absently fingers an earring, as if she's worried about something but doesn't want to trouble anyone.

I remember that she lost a breast when she was ill. A garden in their back yard is elaborate and well pruned. A tiny creek burbles through it. I take a deep breath and confess, "I don't want you to do this. Her mouth opens, but before she can answer I say, "It's too dangerous," and I reach for her hand. She crosses her arms and steps back. What are you talking about? It's too soon and it's too dangerous. I don't want anything to happen to you. The little creek sloshes between us.

Forget it. I'm going. She leads me to her bedroom, where her equipment is sprawled on the floor. It's an Ace canopy and a Perigee II container. But I'm asking you to. Whether you do this for me or not. But I trust you. I rotate the Perigee II on the floor, harness down, and stow the break lines solemnly. It is grim business. I divide the line groups and run the slider up toward the canopy, observing that the leading edge of the canopy is hanging at my knees while the trailing edge faces away from me.

She sits on the bed, watching over my shoulder. The room smells like her, like a young, living girl: I work the fabric between the line groups to the outside of the lines, and continue flaking it that way for all sections of the canopy.

It's like folding an accordion. The idea is to keep all the line-attachment points toward the center of the packjob, with the fabric folded to the outside. The bed squeaks behind me, and her fingertips rub the back of my head.

I carefully redefine my previous folds. I bring the center of the trailing edge up and hold it under my thumb. Next I dress the tail and fold it around itself. I stow the lines in the tail pocket and place the canopy into the container. Then I breathe.

We sleep apart this night, and I spend two hours in a straight-backed lotus position, mentally defining my circle of power, trying to reconstruct my Blue Triangle. The very beginning of sunrise. False dawn after the moon vanishes. By now the gases in the air have finally begun to settle, so although the sky is a fairly normal indigo, a thick fog under the Bethel Bridge is opalescent, sparkling with pinks and purples.

She wears loose black pants and a tank top, with the Perigee hunched on her back, pads on her knees, her hair tucked under a helmet. I've got my gear on too. We both look down at the fog, which twinkles and undulates beneath the bridge. Pine trees and shrubbery are hushed; everything exists under a thin, obfuscating coat of colored air that sifts between us. She's taking quick, shallow breaths and can't stop looking down.

Her eyes are panicked, and remind me of her mother's. Then, when I see that similarity, I understand what it is between us, what must have drawn her to me and why we're really out here. If you think this will keep you from being afraid—it won't.

Ghost-Birds

The fear doesn't stop. It never does. She looks confused and shakes her head. I don't—I never said that. Background noises rise: The trestle begins to rumble from far-off automobiles. Atop the railing she grips her pilot chute, her knuckles white. She glances at me and fakes a smile. I'll see you at the bottom. I rush to the rail and look down. No, listen, I want to say. What we think is a gesture of freedom, see, is a symptom of our cage.

But she's gone. I can't see beyond the mist, already closing the hole she made, and I climb on top of the railing. Before human beings a deep river lived here, carrying tons of life between oceans. Now fog below the bridge conceals only a pebbled canyon of cool, dry stone. A garden under purple gas. Rocks thump against my feet as I stick the landing. At the bottom she's on her knees, the canopy flapping around her.

My chute trails like a black flag.

We're small among giant ferns and ivy growing inside the jagged walls of this chasm. I lift her and start undoing her harness. She's shaking. She reaches around my back to undo mine. A tear streaks behind her goggles. She says she thought she was going to die. The straps slide down, and I feel the dead drag of my own chute drop away.

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I buy a gel-filled mattress that promises to conform to the contours of my spine. I buy cotton sheets. Erica brings me more pillows than anyone could ever need. I change my schedule so that I'm working only three graveyard shifts. Erica wants me to teach her martial arts, so I use my empty living room to show her what aikido I know.

All the kokyu nage body throws end up with us wrestling and then getting pretty dirty on the carpet. At work I still appreciate the view, but when I contemplate Mu and the bushi's goal of joining the void, my feet feel heavy. There's a nervous rumble in my stomach and slight vertigo as I gaze down from my office window. Concerning my relationship with gravity: I start to wonder if it even exists, since "gravity," after all, is just one name assigned to a particular phenomenon.

I ponder isolation as the governing physics of this universe: Planets and moons form, and people stick to them because something in the cosmos is trying to keep itself company. Below the arch a slight lilac tinting of air is all that remains of the once heavy cloud that distorted our skies these past two months.

Dowling Industrial ended up settling with the EPA for five million dollars and a new system of air vents that could suck the eyes out of your head. The lobby at Green Grove is antiseptic in a deceitful way. The rosy wallpaper and carpet are okay, but the plants are plastic, and Muzak plays at a hushed volume.

Teschmaucher, the head nurse, approaches me sympathetically. The nurses at Green Grove wear light-blue uniforms with navy aprons, and they smell like nurses, like Ivory soap and rubbing alcohol.

She takes my arm as she escorts me past the smiling elderly, who gaze up as if I might be someone they once loved. My father's room is an eight-by-fifteen space with beige walls and a salmon-colored carpet.

Two tall chairs form a V to the left of the television, which sits on a standard wooden dresser. A bookshelf stands against one wall, with pictures of my mother and me and his own parents, a Bible, and some flowers. His bed is made in military style, the sheets so tight that you could bounce change off them. He made his bed like that my entire life, and I wonder if certain things never go away, actions that feel so right they can never be unlearned, no matter what else you forget.

He sits in a rocking chair, wearing his robe and pajamas, staring out the window at the far side of the room. He turns from the window and looks up at me. My father's face is a lost expanse of wrinkled flesh and liver spots; he has a still noble jaw and a white crew cut thinning at the crown. His blue eyes search the space where we stand. He smiles slowly and nods.

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His hand, dry, stretched taut, reaches out and takes mine. He turns back to the window and inspects the bucolic, parklike area that exists at the heart of Green Grove's compound.

Teschmaucher and I exchange glances, and then my father touches my hand. I crouch beside him and stare out the window.

I put my arm around him. He turns back to the window and then again looks at me. His eyes blaze with sudden joy. Where have you been? On the way to the lobby Ms. Teschmaucher says that this deterioration will continue and I shouldn't let myself feel hurt by his inability to remember me. I don't feel hurt. He's the one who's having everything gradually peeled from him, his identity falling away, years dropping like skin being shed in preparation for a new spring.

As I pull away from the building, I glimpse my father standing at his window, inspecting the grass, and I have a sudden vision of Mu claiming him, its bright void drawing him closer with the deftest and most sinister grasp, taking everything he ever was into its light. A time when I find a brochure for Bridge Day among Erica's textbooks.

She walks back into her room wearing a black tank top and jeans, her hair tied back and her cheeks slightly sunken. She's lost weight.

She shrugs and starts picking things up, moving loose clothes around and stuffing them into drawers. She looks at me and plops on her bed, throwing an arm over her eyes. I was thinking about it. She keeps her arm over her eyes. Not changing position, with one hand she uses a remote control to turn on her stereo.

The Pixies start playing too loud for conversation. That night I toss and turn on my new, obscenely comfortable mattress. My thoughts center on a girl's body falling through space, on a chute that opens a split second too late to slow her fall. Her body breaks on rocks and stone, the canopy drifting delicately down upon her.

People crowd around, and when that shroud is pulled away, the face I see is Mabel's. My stomach hurts, a cramping I haven't felt since I first went cold turkey, four years ago. It's a time of transition, when the eyes of summer close and autumn begins. Because she asked me to, I pack Erica's chute in preparation for Bridge Day. Then I explain that we can't see each other anymore. That's meant to goad me, but in my mind I am a perfect Blue Triangle, and my heart is the steady, slow lapping of waves on an inner shore.

Erica puts her hands on her hips and stares with mock disgust. I'm not going to be, like, some mad BASE jumper. I mean, look who's talking. What's your problem? My Triangle holds. I am three lines of perfect order, beating with a cool sapphire glow. I don't expect her to understand the logic. She calls me a coward. She says that I'm the one who's afraid. I turn to leave, and she says I'm like an addict: I can't deal with life so I insulate myself with habit and ideas.

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She says I'm a Frankenstein of Eastern philosophy. I don't turn around, because I can't think of anything else to say.