Beaten And Bruised Quotes

He is lying on dirty straw. He has been beaten so many times, his body is one bloodied bruise; he is filthy, he is hideous, he is a sinner and he is utterly unloved. At any moment, at any instant, he will be put on a train in his shackles and taken through Cerberus's mouth to Hades for the rest of his wretched life. And it is at that precise moment that the light shines from the door of his dark cell #7, and in front of him Tatiana stands, tiny, determined, disbelieving, having returned for him. Having abandoned the infant boy who needs her most to go find the broken beast who needs her most. She stands mutely in front of him and doesn't see the blood, doesn't see the filth, sees only the man, and then he knows; he is not cast out. He is loved.

I know after all the awful places you've had to go, it's hard to imagine how good heaven can be, but I've seen it, and no words can describe it...It's worth it all. We've both lost a parent, we've been beaten and bruised, and we've done through hell together. I even died. And I can tell you...giving up everything to serve God is worth it all.

Purple is such a twisted, complex color - it conveys the passion of red, the sadness of blue, the depravity of black. Purple is neither happy nor sad. It is pain and despair but longing, too - fiery desire, beaten and bruised but struggling onward, determined to overcome, to move forward rather than retreat.

Her love for him closed within her like a fist. Nervous, bruised. She despised it. Wasn’t it the love of a beaten animal, slinking back to its master? Yet here was the truth: she missed her father.

She'd taken home more bruises than usual, and the man she'd beaten to unconsciousness... not her problem.

It would have been nice if we could have lived our lives without taking any wrong turns. But such a thing isn't possible. We still stumble...we lose our way, we make mistakes and yet little by little, one step at a time we keep on walking forward. With our own two feet... even if we get beaten and bruised along the way we'll eventually reach something. We'll eventually reach someone. Until then we'll keep wishing. So... let's start walking.

This bruising is required before conversion that so the Spirit may make way for himself into the heart by levelling all proud, high thoughts, and that we may understand ourselves to be what indeed we are by nature. We love to wander from ourselves and to be strangers at home, till God bruises us by one cross or other, and then we `begin to think', and come home to ourselves with the prodigal (Luke 15:17). It is a very hard thing to bring a dull and an evasive heart to cry with feeling for mercy. Our hearts, like criminals, until they be beaten from all evasions, never cry for the mercy of the judge.

Stand like a beaten anvil. It is the part of a good athlete to be bruised and to prevail.

It was clear to her now, Happiness was a seductive illusion. No one as fucked up as her deserved one drop of joy. But oh god was it delicious when it fell into her lap for a little while. (Such a pretty face) she muses (with such a bruised and battered soul). When the dawn of a promise fades into the dusk of reality, all that remains is the nightmare. Sweet, sweet loneliness. Shadows come to play and prey on her beaten mind. Her lovely little dreams of poison.

He hadn’t hit her in several years, but when you’ve been beaten you never forget it. The bruises go away but the scars remain, deep, hidden, raw. You stay beaten. It takes a real coward to beat a woman.

Purple is such a twisted, complex color—it conveys the passion of red, the sadness of blue, the depravity of black. Purple is neither happy nor sad. It is pain and despair but longing, too—fiery desire, beaten and bruised but struggling onward, determined to overcome, to move forward rather than retreat.

CHURCH is like a hospital. It’s where people who are sick, broken, bruised, beaten, and battered with life because of sin and unrighteousness come for help. It’s okay if you are here and don’t have all your life together. If you had all your life together, you wouldn’t need to be here. However, hospitals do not tolerate sick people hanging around who don’t want to get better. No doctor is going to keep fooling with a patient

bad for me. I thought I’d made a huge mistake at the time, but I don’t anymore. I would rather be the person who steps in front of a whole gang to defend someone and gets beaten up for it than the person who watches from a safe hiding. There were times I hid, and I think the shame hurts more than the bruises would have.

At some point, to counter the list of the dead, I had begun keeping my own list of the living. It was something I noticed Len Fenerman did too. When he was off duty he would note the young girls and elderly women and every other female in the rainbow in between and count them among the things that sustained him. The young girl in the mall whose pale legs had grown too long for her now too-young dress and who had an aching vulnerability that went straight to both Len's and my own heart. Elderly women, wobbling with walkers, who insisted on dyeing their hair unnatural versions of the colors they had in youth. Middle-aged single mothers racing around in grocery stores while their children pulled bags of candy off the shelves. When I saw them, I took count. Living, breathing women. Sometimes I saw the wounded- those who had been beaten by husbands or raped by strangers, children raped by their fathers- and I would wish to intervene somehow. Len saw these wounded women all the time. They were regulars at the station, but even when he went somewhere outside his jurisdiction he could sense them when they came near. The wife in that bait-'n'-tackle shop had no bruises on her face but cowered like a dog and spoke in apologetic whispers. The girl he saw walk the road each time he went upstate to visit his sisters. As the years passed she'd grown leaner, the fat from her cheeks had drained, and sorrow had loaded her eyes in a way that made them hang heavy and hopeless inside her mallowed skin. When she was not there it worried him. When she was there it both depressed and revived him. ~Len Fenerman on stepping back/letting go/giving up pgs 271-272

It would have been nice if we could have lived our lives without taking any wrong turns. But such a thing isn’t possible. We fall, we stumble...we lose our way, we make mistakes. And yet, little by little...one step at a time...we keep on walking forward with our own two feet. Even if we get beaten and bruised along the way, we’ll eventually reach something. We’ll eventually reach someone. Until then, we’ll keep wishing. So...let’s start walking.

Closing his eyes, he thought about the bruise on Adam’s face, with its spreading, soft edges, and the hard red mark over his nose. He imagined coming here one day and finding that Adam wasn’t here, but in the hospital, or worse, that Adam was here, but that something important had been beaten out of him. Even imagining it made him feel sick.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. The true neighbor will risk his position, his prestige, and even his life for the welfare of others. In dangerous valleys and hazardous pathways, he will lift some bruised and beaten brother to a higher and more noble life.

My image of “a Communist” was not a Soviet bureaucrat but my friend Leon’s father, a cabdriver who came home from work bruised and bloody one day, beaten up by his employer’s goons (yes, that word was soon part of my vocabulary) for trying to organize his fellow cabdrivers into a union.

We’ve got our way of dealing fairly with our enemies, and God has his. Our way involves retaliation and punishment; his way involves forgiveness. Our way involves equal justice; his way involves disproportionate grace. Our way is to make someone pay with blood; his way is to bleed. Even when Jesus hung on the cross, when God had been insulted to the highest degree imaginable, left naked, humiliated, beaten, and bruised, he said, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.

Hatred always leaves a stain on the veil. But sometimes the hatred isn’t your own. Sometimes you’re chained, and the hatred beaten into you is another man’s, grown in a different heart, and it takes longer than a fading bruise to forget.

Sisters of the torn shirts. Sisters of the chase around the desk, casting couch, hotel room, file cabinet. Sisters dragging shattered dreams, bruised hopes, ambitions abandoned in the dirt. Sisters fishing one by one in the lake of shame. Hooks baited with fear always come back empty. Truth dawns slow when you've been beaten and lied to, but it burns hard and bright once it wakes. Sisters, drop everything. Walk away from the lake, leaning on each other's shoulders when you need the support. Feel the contractions of another truth ready to be born. Shame turned inside out is rage.

Well, are we demigods or merely clay? Is success still attendant on desert? Is this, we live on, heaven and the final state, Or earth which means probation to the end? Why claim escape from man's predestined lot Of being beaten and baffled?—God's decree, In which I, bowing bruised head, acquiesce.

I watched myself slowly get up to leave. I watched myself start walking. I watched myself thump down the stairs and turn the handle of the front door, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands. I watched myself get into my car and turn it on, and back out of Cole's driveway and drive home. And I watched myself come home and go up to my bedroom and shut the door. I watched myself pull off my clothes and step into pajamas, all in the dark, and curl up in bed and stare at the ceiling, the tears leaking into my ears, the scene replaying on the blades of the ceiling fan. But it was like watching myself from the end of a long, black tunnel. The poor girl on the other end-she was bruised and confused and beaten, and I felt sorry for her. Whoever she was.

Domestic abuse is not just the bruise, black eyes of a woman who has been beaten. It's the small cuts that occur daily from which their life eventually bleeds out. It is the isolation they endure and the words that, one by one, strip away human dignity. It's the intimidation of continual threats to take away the children or to leave the victim in the streets. It's power and control over another human being.

He was the meekest and lowliest of all the sons of men, yet he spoke of coming on the clouds of heaven with the glory of God. He was so austere that evil spirits and demons cried out in terror at his coming, yet he was so genial and winsome and approachable that the children loved to play with him, and the little ones nestled in his arms. His presence at the innocent gaiety of a village wedding was like the presence of sunshine. No one was half so compassionate to sinners, yet no one ever spoke such red hot scorching words about sin. A bruised reed he would not break, his whole life was love, yet on one occasion he demanded of the Pharisees how they ever expected to escape the damnation of Hell. He was a dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions, yet for sheer stark realism He has all of our stark realists soundly beaten. He was a servant of all, washing the disciples feet, yet masterfully He strode into the temple, and the hucksters and moneychangers fell over one another to get away from the mad rush and the fire they saw blazing in His eyes. He saved others, yet at the last Himself He did not save. There is nothing in history like the union of contrasts which confronts us in the gospels. The mystery of Jesus is the mystery of divine personality.

I know it's rough. My husband tried to kill himself to save the pack, you know. And earlier today, he faced down a fae he knew nothing about -- and some of the fae are forces of nature." "My wife was going to fight him" explained Adam. "I had to protect him from that." I laughed. "You know what Jesse's mother would have done if the feds came and took the pack while she was my wife?" he asked. "Filed for divorce," I hypothesized. It was his turn to laugh. "Point to you. And then she would go to everyone she knew and tell them how awful her life was, how people expected too much of her. Do you know what my second wife did?" "Got beaten up and ran in circles mostly while you saved yourself," I told him. "She cared for the pack that was left," he said. "She got my child to safety. She got word to Bran -- who sent help. She stepped between my child and those who would harm her." I snorted. "Sounds like a paragon." "She saved my life and gave me strength to save the rest of the pack." He heaved a sigh and pulled back so he could look at me. "And I have this urge to turn you over my knee and bruise your butt so that you do exactly what my first wife did." I narrowed my eyes at him. "You ever lay a hand of me and you better never go to sleep again.

I felt my heart skip a beat, just one, but it was enough that I took notice. It was nice to know that the poor thing wasn't too wounded to get up and try again. It had been beaten, bruised, and bloodied, broken in two and wrapped up again, but it was still there, still thumping away for one more chance at that perfect kiss, that perfect person that could take the darkness and the bad memories and the anger and push it all away again, bring out the sun and light up my soul.

Who is this Servant? The Christian church has since its very beginning understood this to be Jesus Christ himself (Acts 8:32–33) and in Matthew 12:20, it is said that Jesus will not break the bruised reed or snuff out the dying candle. It means Jesus Christ the servant is attracted to hopeless cases. He cares for the fragile. He loves people who are beaten and battered and bruised. They may not show it on the outside, but inside they are dying. Jesus sees all the way into the heart and he knows what to do. The Lord binds up the brokenhearted and heals our wounds (Ps 147:3; Isa 61:1).

I did not so much look like a woman who had spent the past three weeks backpacking in there wilderness as I did like a woman who had been the victim I have a violent and bizarre crime. Bruises that arranged in color from yellow to black lined my arms and legs, my back and rump, as if I've been beaten with sticks. My hips and shoulders we are covered with blisters and rashes, inflamed welts and dark scabs where my skin had broken open from being chafed by my pack. Beneath the bruises and wounds and dirt I could see new ridges of muscle, my flat taught in places that has recently been soft.

What did you do that for?” I asked curiously. “What?” he said, straightening up and wiping his face on his sleeve. He felt the split lip gingerly, wincing slightly. “Offer to take that girl’s punishment for her. Do you know her?” I felt a certain diffidence about asking, but I really wanted to know what lay behind that quixotic gesture. “I ken who she is. Havena spoken to her, though.” “Then why did you do it?” He shrugged, a movement that also made him wince. “It would have shamed the lass, to be beaten in Hall. Easier for me.” “Easier?” I echoed incredulously, looking at his smashed face. He was probing his bruised ribs experimentally with his free hand, but looked up and gave me a one-sided grin. “Aye. She’s verra young. She would ha’ been shamed before everyone as knows her, and it would take a long time to get over it. I’m sore, but no really damaged; I’ll get over it in a day or two.” “But why you?” I asked. He looked as though he thought this an odd question. “Why not me?” he said. Why not? I wanted to say. Because you didn’t know her, she was nothing to you. Because you were already hurt. Because it takes something rather special in the way of guts to stand up in front of a crowd and let someone hit you in the face, no matter what your motive.

Then he said something about how L.A. is dust and exhaust and the hot, dry wind that sets your nerves on edge and pushes fire up the hillsides in ragged lines like tears in the paper that separates us from hell, and it’s towering clouds of smoke, and it’s sunshine that won’t let up and cool ocean fog that gets unrolled at night over the whole basin like a clean white hospital sheet and peeled back again in the morning. It’s a crescent moon in a sky bruised green after the sunset has beaten the shit out of it. It’s a lazy hammock moon rising over power lines, over the skeletal silhouettes of pylons, over shaggy cypress trees and the spiky black lionfish shapes of palm-tree crowns on too-skinny trunks. It’s the Big One that’s coming to turn the city to rubble and set the rubble on fire but not today, hopefully not today. It’s the obviousness of pointing out that the freeway looks like a ruby bracelet stretched alongside a diamond one, looks like a river of lava flowing counter to a river of champagne bubbles. People talk about the sprawl, and, yeah, the city is a drunk, laughing bitch sprawled across the flats in a spangled dress, legs kicked up the canyons, skirt spread over the hills, and she’s shimmering, vibrating, ticklish with light. Don’t buy a star map. Don’t go driving around gawking because you’re already there, man. You’re in it. It’s all one big map of the stars.

For me, that translated into fund-raising. I knew that I could and I would raise any amount of money to get that job done. Fund-raising to end hunger wasn’t just a job or a fad or a political statement for me. It was an expression of my own soulful commitment, and as such, I could only do it in a way that would call on people to reconnect with their own higher calling, or soulful longing, to be the kind of people they wanted to be, the kind of difference they wanted to make, and see how they could express that with their money. So rather than feeling that fund-raising was a matter of twisting arms for a donation or playing on emotions to manipulate money from contributors, it became for me an arena in which I was able to create an opportunity for people to engage in their greatness. It was in this soul-searching dimension of fund-raising, in these intimate conversations, that I discovered deep wounds and conflicts in the way people related to their money. Many people felt they had sold out and become someone they didn’t like anymore. Some were forcing themselves to do work that wasn’t meaningful. Many felt enslaved by their experience of being overtaxed by their government, or felt beaten down by their boss or by the burden of running a family business or employing others. Their relationship with money was dead—or, more accurately, dread—and there was hurt there. There was resentment. There were painful compromises, a kind of rawness. People were bruised and battered there. Not everyone, but many people were very unsettled and uncomfortable and just not their best selves in their relationship with money. They felt little or no freedom with money, no matter how much they had. This lackluster relationship with money wasn’t for lack of expert advice or practical tips. Money-management strategies were plentiful, but the concept of personal transformation was a stranger there. What became clear was that when people were able to align their money with their deepest, most soulful interests and commitments, their relationship with money became a place where profound and lasting transformation could occur.

bruised, a battered internal condition that figuratively showed on the outside. Like someone had beaten her within an inch of her life in some ingenious way that left no marks.

He had beaten her savagely after Gaunt’s first visit, and the bruises had not yet faded. Her cheek was purplish in colour, and her  left eye was still slightly swollen. She did not mind, however. ‘You know I only do it because I love you, don’t you baby?’ he had said afterwards. ‘I just can’t control myself; I love you so bad.

I would rather be the person who steps in front of a whole gang to defend someone and gets beaten up for it than the person who watches from a safe hiding. There were times I hid, and I think the shame hurts more than the bruises would have.

I'll bet you think my favorite color is red, don't you? Well, close. It's purple. Purple is such a twisted, complex color--it conveys the passion of red, the sadness of blue, the depravity of black. Purple is neither happy nor sad. It is pain and despair but longing, too--fiery desire, beaten and bruised but struggling onward, determined to overcome, to move forward rather than retreat.

Decide now to enter heaven one day from a life of fullness and walking in depth of revelation of his love, instead of crawling over the line beaten and bruised and discouraged.

destined to be. Time is a membrane, a connective tissue, and it can be bruised. Time can’t heal all wounds: Time is all wounds. Only love and forgiveness heal all wounds. Hatred always leaves a stain on the veil. But sometimes the hatred isn’t your own. Sometimes you’re chained, and the hatred beaten into you is another man’s, grown in a different heart, and it takes longer than a fading bruise to forget. Even if we find a way, some day, to weave the strands of love and faith we find along the way, a blemish always remains on the skin of what can’t be forgotten: the yesterday that stares back at you, when you look at a closed door.

My dearest Mother, you stood before the Cross of your Son adoring His bruised and beaten body.  This was the same body that had come forth into the world from your own sacred womb.  Now this Child of yours was once again stripped bare in your sight.  But as you gazed at Him, once again, you saw what you had seen every day of His life.  You saw God in the flesh. My dear Mother, pray for me that I may always see the dignity of others not on account of what they have or what they accomplish, but on account of who they are.  Help me to see all people as sons and daughters of our loving God in Heaven.

I saw Jesus, my beautiful Jesus, and He was kneeling against what looked like a tree stump—battered, broken, bruised, beaten, bloody. I saw the enemy on one side accusing me, and on the other side I saw a man with a whip. The enemy would look at me and throw his accusation at me. Then Jesus, my beautiful Jesus, would receive a lashing of the whip across His back. He would cry out and then decree the truth about who I was. For every accusation of the enemy against me, Jesus took it upon Himself and decreed truth over me—the truth of who I was in Him. I watched as this went on, over and over and over again. His blood, His precious blood was being shed for me as He declared truth over me.

A fucking cop.” “What do you have against cops, man? They protect and serve,” Doug argued. “Yeah they serve and protect other people, not people like me.” “What do you mean, people like you?” Furi pushed his fists into his eyes and winced at the memories. “When I was first beaten by Patrick. He’d cracked two ribs, busted my lip and given me a black eye. I had other bruises on my legs and back from being kicked repeatedly. All because that motherfucker thought it would make him a man. After sex he had to do something to feel like he was in control. I got myself to the hospital and after I was released I took a cab to the police station. I was going to file a restraining order against Patrick. But the cops, they, they ...” Doug noticed Furi was shaking and scooted closer to put his arm around him. “Shhh. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.” Doug rubbed soothing circles on Furi’s shoulder. Furi nuzzled in close to Doug and was immediately calmed by the contact with his friend. “It’s fine. The cops there wouldn’t help me. It was because I was gay, I know it was. They looked at me with disgust on their faces. Cops are fucking homophobic as hell. There I was, all banged up, begging for help but all they were concerned about was my sexual preference. The bruises meant nothing. Like they felt I deserved it.

The stories were about the bodies of actual women living underneath the cover story of American culture, which meant that their bodies were cut and bruised and blushed and mascaraed and beaten and beautified and tortured and adored and killed and desired and silenced and screaming. I

They tell me I must bruise The rose’s leaf, Ere I can keep and use Its fragrance brief. They tell me I must break The skylark’s heart, Ere her cage song will make The silence start. They tell me love must bleed, And friendship weep, Ere in my deepest need I touch that deep. Must it be always so With precious things? Must they be bruised and go With beaten wings? Ah, yes! by crushing days, By caging nights, by scar Of thorn and stony ways, These blessings are!

It was November of 1987. I remember because it was nine years after the first one.” Dahmer hung his head as he continued. “It was the day before Thanksgiving. I met him at Club 219. I already told Pat about it. He was really nice looking and we both got drunk; I took him to the hotel and gave him the mixture of sleeping pills and rum, but I don’t remember anything after that. I swear. When I woke up, he was dead. There were bruises all over his face and chest. My arms were all sore, and black and blue. I must have beaten him to death in an alcoholic blackout or else I gave him too much of the sleeping potion, I don’t know. All I know is that he was dead. “The story about the suitcase is true. I put him in the fruit cellar in Grandma’s basement and waited for my family to leave after the holiday. It all came back to me quickly. Just like when I was a kid. I severed the flesh from the bones and inspected the inside viscera. It was sexually exciting and I masturbated several times while disposing of the body. I placed the severed flesh and bones into several double-wrapped plastic bags and dropped them into the trash barrels behind Grandma’s house. It was so easy. The garbage men came and took all the evidence away: nothing was ever said, no one ever knew. I had gotten away with murder for the second time.

Lily Anderson before she fell to her death three stories down was raped by the sisters, they forced her into acts that most cannot even imagine, or maybe you just do not want to. All the same, I saw everything anyway, and I truly know what it feels, like to be in that state of affairs. If she did not want to engage in all of those activities, they would beat the crap out of her. Lily would always show up with fresh bruises, but she always made up excuses. Conversely, I always knew who did it, but she did not say much about it. She wore them well, and she did not like to tell, mainly because she had- fear. The fear is the alternate drive to stopping anyone from doing anything. Oh yes, fear can break a person, fear can drive a person to drastic solutions or conclusions. Fear can drive some nonsense, and fear can make you brilliant. The fear does it all. Yes, fear is a death sentence, one way or another. Either you fear living, or you fear dying. Fear comes down to a simple choice actually; do I want to live, or when and where do I want to die? Who or what is going to be the cause, and will anybody care afterward, this, or do they now? That is the fear we have when the eyes are upon us, and the spirit lives to talk to us. Lily, had no choice, she either had to do what the sisters wanted… or be beaten with an inch of life, either way, she always ended up with markings on her body. I believe that if things would have pressed on like that, for her she would have lost her mind, yet some say she did? Like I said- time within the hellhole is a slow time, where anybody finds anything to keep their mind busy. Some draw! Some have sex! Some have sports and clubs! Someone like me has nothing to them, and yet I have it all. I know I can do anything, because I have so many god-gifted talents, and just because I am not like you, does not mean I cannot do the unimaginable. (Alliances) So, the question is why do we make groupings? Why do we classify people according to how they will look, speak, or the way they act? Why do we put people in classes regarding what other people think, why do we? These are some of the activities, which some do to keep their mind sharp, and the others have to pay the price. What is your thing? There are some, which cut class for recreational reasons.

We’re the most powerful Fae in this kingdom!” Tory shouted, her voice filled with power as it was amplified by Orion’s magic and her hair swirling around her in a wild breeze, making her look fierce as hell. “And we may have been hurt, beaten, bruised, drowned.” She glared down at the Heirs. “But we’re never going to stay down.” The Heirs shared anxious looks and my heart swelled as I met Orion’s gaze, his eyes brimming with pride. I loved him fiercely in that moment. Truly. Madly. Always. “So we intend to claim our rightful place in the kingdom!” I announced. “Bring on the press, the photoshoots, the interviews, we’re ready to step out and be the real princesses that we are.” Tory caught my hand and I lifted her arm into the air on instinct. “We’re going to fight for our throne!” she cried. “And we’re going to win it!” I finished.

Kids Riding Tornados The Wizard of Oz is a famous movie that was made in 1939. Dorothy is the girl who is the main character and in the story, she is picked up by a tornado and carried off to the fictional land of Oz. A few years later, in 1955, a 9-year-old really did go for a ride in a tornado! But first she rode a horse. There’s not a whole lot around Bowdle, South Dakota. It’s a very rural part of the state. Sharon Weron was 9 years old and riding a horse home from a neighbor’s house. Her mom was following in her car and saw everything. Just as Sharon and her horse reached their house, the tornado was on them. They had very little warning. Sharon’s mom saw the tornado pick up her daughter (and horse), spin them around wildly, and carry them away. Sharon was wearing a blue shirt so her mom was looking for that in the tornado and could see her spinning. The tornado carried them around 1,000 feet, over several fences, and dumped Sharon in a ditch. She was wearing a leather jacket and pulled that up around her head during her flight. There was hail and all kinds of debris flying around inside the tornado with her. Sharon’s hands were badly bruised from being hit by the hail and who knows what else. She remembered hitting the ground and grabbing the grass so that she wouldn’t get sucked up again. As she looked around, she found her horse. He was just standing there not far from her. Both were a little beaten up but okay. That’s crazy, right? Their story got picked up by newspapers and spread all over the world. Reporters had no reason to doubt the story. As unbelievable as it seems, it still holds up as credible. Sharon’s ride was also witnessed by neighbors. The Guinness book of world records listed Sharon’s ride as the furthest anyone had ever ridden in a tornado until 2006. It’s remarkable that both Sharon and her horse lived through such a terrifying experience. That has to be the craziest horse story in the history of the world!

I see slime as our world's most triumphant substance; slowly slime is covering the earth, more of it made every day—more whiny people, more filthy thoughts, crummy plans, cruddy things, contemptible actions—multiplying like evil spores (we were told to be fruitful, not to trash the place); so that now there are more artifacts and less art, more that is tame, little that is wild, more people, fewer species, more things, less world, more of the disappointment we all know so well, the defeats which devour us, the hours we spend with our heads buried in our books, blinding our eyes with used up words, while the misspending of our loins leads to more lives and less life—just thing (we members of the better species) what divine sparks we might have played at being, and come and gone with spirit; instead, around us, as before, nobodies are killing nobodies for nothing—oh yes, we know it, what failures we all are; but don't blame me for it, don't take your anger and resentment out on me only because I took the villain's part for once and tried to understand him; have you ever thought what the theater of life would be like if there were no villains, or, if villains are so villainous—so hateful, so reprehensible, to be avoided at all cost—why there are so many of them prospering among us; oh, sure, we love to thing victim, weep victim, mourn the murdered, pity the robbed, comfort the bereft, while villains get our sympathy only if their villainy demonstrates how they, poor things, have been victimized; and how we adore the bruises of the beaten, with whom, of course, we identify; but what of the beater's calluses, the beater's weary arms? since he, you see, for one brief moment, perhaps, is getting his own back, turning the tables, making a statement, and it says, that statement, it says: now I can produce pain, not merely receive it; no I can say I hate you in your helpless ear; now I can feel in my fingers the only justice I shall ever know, the vibration of my blows.

Antispanking laws would solve a nagging problem for Child Protective Service agencies nationwide: to wit, the criticism that current child abuse and neglect laws discriminate against the poor-that, in fact, definitions of neglect and abuse are often synonomous with definitions of poverty. A prohibition on spanking would be nondiscriminatory; it would "tie the hands," so to speak, of haves and have-nots alike. After all, the typical Fortune 500 CEO has probably never beaten his children in ways that produced bruises on their bodies; nevertheless, he has probably spanked them. Antispanking laws would mean that he would be no less vulnerable to the forced "interventions" of Child Protective Services workers than an unemployed single mother of three living hand-to-mouth in a slum tenement.

My ship, myself, whose course to love doth bend, Sore beaten doth her mast of comfort spend; Her cable, reason, breaks from anchor, hope; Fancy, her tackling, torn away doth fly; Ruin, the wind, hath blown her from her scope; Bruised with waves of care, but broken is On rock, despair, the burial of my bliss.

Don't break the fight of marriage couple. The couple will be making love after the fight. You will be beaten and bruised with physical, emotional and mental abuse.

Don't break the fight of a married couple. The couple will be making love after the fight. You will be beaten and bruised with physical, emotional and mental abuse.

Perhaps you enjoy being beaten," she replied, with a nod at his bruised face. "Perhaps I wish I could be," he said, with more honesty than he'd intended. Blodeuyn stared at him for a few heartbeats and Fane let out a breath. He was used to speaking with double-edged words, to using truths as both shield and weapon. Humans did not speak in such a manner - they either lied or they didn't.

My heart is full of it. Love for Bexley. For Sasha and Channing. For myself. I have been beaten, bruised, and broken. Raped and left for dead. But I’m still here. I’m still standing. And Bexley’s right; I have too much to live for. Too much to fight for.

still couldn’t get Tina’s face out of my mind. Although she was in pain, she still wore a vengeful smile on her red lips. It was as if she had already tasted the future and it was sweet. The bruises and the raccoon eye reminded me so much of my own war that I had been facing for the past eight years. Even though she had been beaten, I could still tell that she was a beautiful woman. Her hair was long and filled with curls that had the look of silk. I tried to sleep in my bed. While I tossed and turned, the conversation we had just kept playing over and over again like a broken record. I could still hear her voice as if she were in the room. What did she mean by Chris being Mike’s boy toy? Sometimes I wish that I would have been raised in the city instead of on a farm. I just didn’t understand so many things. Was she going to get her husband to kill Mike when he got out of jail? What about my kids?

Turning from the dressing table, Cass went to her armoire. Inside, behind all of the neatly folded gowns, was the picture of her that Falco had painted. She pulled it out and carried it over to her bed. As she sat beside it, her fingers tracing the paint’s uneven texture, her heart remembered each moment of the night the painting had been started. The girl on the canvas was a stranger. She looked young and innocent. Delirious with joy. Her eyes were filled with light. “Those were the days, weren’t they?” That voice. Could it be? With her heart trembling and her breath lodged in her throat like a stone, Cass lifted her eyes. It was. “Falco,” she breathed. His bruises from being beaten at de Gradi’s workshop had healed. He looked a little thinner than Cass had remembered, but otherwise the same as the day they had met. Smiling fondly down at the painting, he said, “I’m glad that you kept it.” “How did you--” “Get inside?” He spun around once, and Cass realized he was wearing the blue-and-silver livery of the Querini estate. “You act as if I’ve never done this before.

Happily fucking ever after didn't happen for people like us. We were bruised, beaten, lost. But I was going to make her feel like she could get lost forever with me.

It was not like her to lose her senses. The ability to drift was beaten from her long ago. But Sorasa drifted now, pacing the beach. She did not hear the shift of sand, or the heavy scuff of boots over the loose stones. There was only the wind. Until a strand of gold blew across her vision, joined by a warm unyielding palm against her shoulder. Her body jolted as she turned, nose to nose with Domacridhan of Iona. His green eyes glittered, his mouth open as he shouted something again, his voice swallowed up by the droning in her own head. “Sorasa.” It came to her slowly, as if through deep water. Her own name, over and over again. She could only stare back into the verdant green, lost in the fields of his eyes. In her chest, her heart stumbled. She expected her body to follow. Instead, her fist closed and her knuckles met cheekbone. Dom was good enough to turn his head, letting the blow glance off. Begrudgingly, Sorasa knew he had spared her a broken hand on top of everything else. “How dare you,” she forced out, trembling. Whatever concern he wore burned away in an instant. “How dare I what? Save your life?” he snarled, letting her go Sorasa swayed without his support. She clenched her own jaw, fighting to maintain her balance lest she fall to pieces entirely. “Is that another Amhara lesson?” he raged on, throwing up both arms. “When given the choice between death or indignity, choose death?!” Hissing, Sorasa looked back to the spot where she woke up. Heat crept up her face as she realized her body left a trail through the sand when he dragged her up from the tide line. A blind man would have noticed it. But not Sorasa in her fury and grief. “Oh,” was all she could manage. Her mouth flapped open, her mind spinning. Only the truth came, and that was far too embarrassing. “I did not see. I—” Her head throbbed again and she pressed a hand to her temple, wincing away from his stern glare. “I will feel better if you sit,” Dom said stiffly. Despite the pain, Sorasa loosed a growl. She wanted to stand just to spite him, but thought better of it. With a huff, she sank, cross-legged on the cool sand. Dom was quick to follow, almost blurring. It made her head spin again. “So you saved me from the shipwreck just to abandon me here?” Sorasa muttered as Dom opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t blame you. Time is of the essence now. A wounded mortal will only slow you down.” She expected him to bluster and lie. Instead, his brow furrowed, lines creasing between his still vivid eyes. The light off the ocean suited him. “Are you? Wounded?” he asked gently, his gaze raking over her. His focus snagged on her temple, and the gash there. “Anywhere else, I mean?” For the first time since she woke, Sorasa tried to still herself. Her breath slowed as she assessed herself, feeling her own body from toes to scalp. As her awareness traveled, she noted every blooming bruise and cut, every dull ache and shooting pain. Bruises ribs. A sprained wrist. Her tongue flicked in her mouth. Scowling, she spit out a broken tooth. “No, I’m not wounded,” she said aloud. Dom’s desperate smile broke wide. He went slack against the sand for an instant, falling back on his elbows to tip his face to the sky. His eyes fluttered shut only for a moment. Sorasa knew his gods were too far. He had said so himself. The gods of Glorian could not hear their children in this realm. Even so, Sorasa saw it on his face. Dom prayed anyway. In his gratitude or anger, she did not know. “Good,” he finally said, sitting back up.