Word: foreheads
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...next morning Awilda called Francisco Santana, a downstairs neighbor. "She was crying, 'I can't believe it, tell me it's not true,'" he says. When he arrived at her apartment, she showed him Elisa's motionless body. He put his hand to the child's cold forehead, pronounced her dead and spent the next two hours pleading with Awilda to call the police. When he finally called himself, he says, she ran to the apartment roof and had to be restrained from jumping. When the police arrived, she confessed to killing Elisa by throwing her against a concrete wall...
...football on the frozen turf and came to the table sweaty and in high spirits and kept our eyes open for flying food. My sister had good moves; you'd look away for an instant, and she'd flip her knife and park a pat of butter on your forehead. Nobody throws food at our table now, but in the giddiness of the festive moment, I have held a spoonful of cranberry for a moment and measured the distance to Uncle Earl, his gleaming head, like El Capitan, bent over the plate...
...skillful bull riding and a botched grocery-store robbery; and Terry Hawkins, a former butcher-shop employee who killed his supervisor with a hammer and went on to win this year's "Guts & Glory," an event in which contestants try to remove a poker chip taped to the forehead of an angry bull...
From his drab suburban birthplace in South London, Amis did well enough at his schooling to win a place at Oxford in 1941. From that point on, the old story should have followed without a hitch: lower-middle-class lad knuckles his forehead in gratitude and takes on the accent, manners and tastes of his social betters. Amis, however, whose education was interrupted by four years of service in the Royal Corps of Signals during World War II, returned to Oxford with no intention of kowtowing to the prevailing dogmas. He and his friend Philip Larkin, another scholarship...
...shame that our people fear the government?" he asked the Park Rapids audience. He wore a white Western shirt and new Wrangler jeans that arced below a belly well accustomed to butter, eggs and beef. His head bore the usual stigmata of a ranching life: pale baby-smooth forehead over a raw, wind-scrubbed face. He eyed the crowd a moment, then answered his rhetorical question: "That's tyranny...