Ciaran Quotes

Do you think it would be possible for anyone to love you if they could see every single thing you do?’ And I watch them cringe as though I’ve reached out and struck them. ‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘Imagine that everyone could see everything. Every secret, every base physical ejection, every category of porn you’ve ever looked at in a kind of coma when you’re numb to the normal stuff. Think about it all. Every moment of shame, of desperation – do you really think anyone could love you still? Anyone at all?’ 3 I remember what it was like when I first loved Ciaran, before he left me that first time at Christmas, when I’d miss him so much when he went anywhere.

I turned my face to the side and stared out my window. I was filled not only with misery about what he was saying, and his awareness of it, but also with shame at how squalidly I was wasting my short life. I was sitting in a car with someone who loved me more than life itself, and yet all I could think about was Ciaran. How impoverished my internal life had become, the scrabbling for a token of love from somebody who didn’t want to offer it.

I want to corrupt you, get dirty and rough with you because I know this sexy-as-hell body can take it.”--Ciaran Ross, Killer Curves

When you get down on your knees in front of me it won’t be out of gratitude. It’ll be because you want to be there.”--Ciaran Ross, Killer Curves

I am reminded, now, of Leonardo's advice to painters: You should fix your eyes, he says, on certain walls stained with damp. You will see in these the likenesses of divine landscapes, adorned with mountains, ruins, rocks, extensive plains; and you will see there battles and strange figures engaged in violent actions. For in such walls the same thing happens as in the sound of church bells, in whose reverberations you may find every word imaginable.

Ciaran broke the silence and spoke quietly. "She means naught to me." A tear fell down her cheek and she wiped it away. "It doesnae matter--truly," she whispered. He reached out and gently brushed her arms. When she closed her eyes to avoid his probing gaze, he raised her chin with his finger. "It matters to me," he said solemnly. He wiped her tears with his thumb. "I told her we were done when I returned to Glenorchy. She wasnae pleased. I didnae know she was there, Rosalia. She saw ye and Aisling and threw her body upon me." She could not help but smirk. "Her verra bare body, my laird." He paused for a moment, a spark of some identifiable emotion in his eyes. "I didnae notice, Rosalia. All I saw was ye.

Ravishment of this slender body in all ways possible before draining it of the life substance? Aren't you a pleasure hoarder, my dear?

I am alone against hordes I cannot stop nor let go I stand here in the long cold hours alone against every foe.

For Ciaran!” yelled Assassin Wither. I was so shocked that he got in his first two blows before I could pull my netherite sword. I slashed at his chest and I hit him, but not too severely. He backed away as Abigail

This flu thing’s out of control,” Grady said, pointing his fork at the TV. “There’s talk of them doing quarantines.” “Quarantines?” “Yeah, like going into towns where infection rates are high and locking the place down. That sort of thing.” Ciaran laughed. “You watch too much sci-fi, mate…

Just for a fleeting split second his mind let go of its desperate chant: Nobody can hear me here, and replaced it with a glorious, admirable, proud: Morituri te salutant.

Not all thoughts were shared. They concealed his lack of ability, but in any society no secret lasts forever – more so in a society of telepaths.

Later, he would ask later who Attila was. Now he only wanted Belial's kiss. His heat. His passion. A quick gallop. Frenzied eternity. Insanity multiplied. A perfect, mind-numbing, bone-shattering small death. He wanted it all. Now. Now. Now.

Out here, without the clouds of cigar smoke, there was nothing to compete with the scent of the rich wood panelling, the preparation of savory foods somewhere off in the house and, over that, the subtle sweetness of the more polite Argyll's cologne. It wasn't like the bottle I slipped under Charlie's pillow every Christmas Eve, not quite so familiar. This had a sweeter edge to it, the difference between flowers and berries.

He was talking animatedly to two senior ladies, dressed in enough finery to buy the average home, no doubt. He brought one of their hands to his mouth, and then her friend's. He was such a charmer. I was charmed from here. "He gets that from me," Feragal growled into my ear, leaving me to Ciaran, now making his way towards me. I watched him stride certainly all the way to where I waited for him. "Wow," he said, placing his hand at my waist, grazing his thumb over the detailing of the sash there. I was going to kiss Martha again when I got home. "I like your sporran." I grinned. "I like your everything," he countered, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "You look beautiful, Holly." And I was done for the night. I could spill food down myself, trip over, whatever. The look in Ciaran's eyes was what I'd most wanted from the evening, and I already had it. To tuck away and keep forever.

Good. Society as a whole cannot respect the individual. The ‘greater good’ of society, says there should be no place for the useless, the cripple who cannot work, the lazy, the mentally unstable, the genetically weak – the man who does not aid its running, or its ability to survive. It says the dead weight must be removed, or made to be useful. But if you say keep those alive, what you are saying is the survival of one, is more important than the ‘good’ of society – hence we don’t remove the useless, because most of society obviously does not know what’s ‘good’ for it... So, if we respect the individual, then one cannot abide by that theory of right and wrong.

Here is the riddle: a master craftsman produces an organism with a massive design flaw. Something is wrong with this picture. Unless, of course, it's not one organism. It's two organisms, one inside the other. Depression is not evolution's failure at crafting humans. It's evolution's success at crafting another organism which uses human suffering as nutrition. The master craftsman didn't fail. He succeeded twice.

busy with people getting off the boat, is it? It’s all one-way.’ Bee reached up to take the glass of whiskey Paddy was holding out to her. ‘I’ll be back,’ she said, but in her mind she was asking herself when. Captain Bob had secured a job as a captain, meeting the cargo ships and piloting them down the Mersey into the port of Liverpool, from where they had waited, out on the bar. He had already travelled to Liverpool and found them a house close to the docks. ‘It has a kitchen,’ he’d said to Bee. ‘The range is still there, but it was damaged in the war, and there’s a new gas cooker fitted next to it.’ Bee’s mouth had dropped. ‘A gas cooker? I have no idea how to use one of those. I’ll be sticking to the fire.’ Bob had just smiled at her indulgently. He understood why the traffic from Dublin was one-way. Bee would soon discover how quickly women who left the west coast of Ireland adapted from the life their ancestors had lived for hundreds of years to all the mod cons England and America had to offer. ‘Mammy!’ Ciaran shouted from the door. Bob and Bee swivelled round in their chairs as Ciaran came in, followed by Michael, who was carrying Finnbar in his arms and had Mary Kate at his side, holding his hand. ‘God love you, come here,’ said Bee to Mary Kate, who ran over to her and allowed her to pull her up onto her knee. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ Captain Bob and Michael exchanged

Canarsie.

diaper

Almost dead yesterday, maybe dead tomorrow, but alive, gloriously alive, today.

Those we love are never really lost to us, lad. They’re just out o’ our sight. ’Tis ourselves we mourn for, the loss we feel at no longer seeing them. But they’re there, watching over us . . . and they don’t blame us for the mistakes we’ve made.

I fell to my knees and sobbed for a minute straight. Emma knelt beside me, put her hand on my shoulder, and told me it would be all right. When I had recovered, I stood up and looked at his soul. “I can’t believe Ciaran captured you so many years ago.

If he couldn’t appreciate the passion and beauty in you than that’s his shame, not yours.”--Ciaran Ross, Killer Curves

He clawed at his white cloak attempting to wrap it tighter and clutched his knees to his chest. It was futile, it hardly mattered that he was clothed. The world made him naked. He bowed his head in submission, his hood pulled low, guarding his eyes against the stinging snow.

How lucky I have been that so much of my pain is from fearing the loss of what I already have, instead of suffering the absence entirely, as Ciaran did.

Ciaran smiled and patted my head like a dog. “Exactly. That’s why you were able to succeed where the rest of them failed.

Why London?

How do you pronounce Ciaran? I pronounce it Key-Are-On, but you can pronounce it however you would like.

Little Ciaran – also known as Ciarancito or Baby Ciaran, if you prefer

[Cu Chulainn will] spill the blood of everybody in the fort unless you act quickly and send the naked women out to meet him." ... "Bring on the naked women!" said Conchobar.

Shakespeare discovered that you can make anything shine. You can have riveting heroes and riveting villains. You can make a play about a protagonist who murders his wife in paranoid jealousy, and have that man not be a flat, one-note monster, but a profoundly tragic human. You can have an entire play about a man vacillating back and forth in indecision, and have that character tower above all theatre as the pinnacle lead role of any male actor’s career. You can have weird side-characters who just pop on for a moment, but strike absurdly poignant and moving emotional notes. And not because Shakespeare was so good at writing, but because he found something worth writing about. What breakthroughs lie undiscovered, just there, right there, right in front of us? Shakespeare was just trying to write an interesting play. Look at what he uncovered.

I thought of all the worry I had solicited in one way or another from Ciaran and from other men, with the food and the cutting and the crying and the sex, the whole great presentation of my rage and hurt, anger like a performance, anger at everything they'd done to me or hadn't bothered doing to me. I thought how full my life and my head had been for ever with these things, with the desperation to be loved by a man, with the idea that a man's adoration or need to fuck me would make all the bad parts of myself be quiet for ever. I'd thought that a man's love would make me so full up I'd never need to drink or eat or cut or do anything at all to my body ever again. I'd thought they'd take it over for me. But now here I was, right inside it, with nobody to say what happened next. What would I think about, now that I wasn't thinking about love or sex? That would be the next thing, trying to figure out what to fill up all that with. But that was all right. That would follow.

Ciaran’s gaze locks onto mine before he lifts me and takes me over the threshold, something he’s been doing for the past five years. I told him that the only time he needed to do that was right after the wedding, but he seems to think he should always be romantic and spontaneous. He told me that the only time a relationship goes downhill is when you don’t show the other person just how much you love them, and he plans to show me his love every day for the rest of his life. I may doubt many things in life, but I never doubt the fact that I’m the center of his universe, and he’s the center of mine.

unclear but violent desires of Ciaran and his minions, and the bizarre visitations by Pure Evil. By the time we finished, Marguerite was in shock. I couldn’t blame her; it sounded insane. Marguerite shook her head. “Like I said, I’m not sure I could get you back. I don’t know the first thing about interdimensional travel or digitizing humans or the singularity or … whatever it would take. But there is one thing I know I can do. I can give each of you a creative mode inventory.” “What does that mean?” I asked. “It means you will have full access to nearly every single item that exists in your world, even fully-crafted weapons and armor.” “Sick!” “If you can get back to the Nullite Monastery, KindHermione will be waiting there with three potions, one for each of you. When you drink the potion, it will insert some code which will activate the creative mode inventory for each of you. It will just take me a couple hours to write the code.” Nothing she said really made any sense to me. Potions? Inserting code? Whatever. But, if it did what she said it would do, it might give us a leg up on the executioner endermen and Ciaran. “Is there anything you can do about the hardcore mode?” said Emma, a hint of desperation in her voice. “Unless I had direct access to the code of the server, I don’t think there’s anything I can do about that. But … I can put a few totems of undying into each of your creative mode inventories.” “Totems of undying? What are those?” I said. “It’s an evoker drop. Normally, they only work for players, but I think I can make them work for villagers too. If you are holding the totem in one of your hands when you die, instead of dying you maintain one heart and get a regeneration effect for a brief period. So, if you are in a fight,

CIaran?

Although Ciaran was powerful, I knew we had weaknesses.

ears, the Noble Dark One disappeared. Ishan breathed a sigh of relief once the Noble Dark One was out of sight. “Aargh!” I shouted. “I thought he was cool. What an annoying jerk!” The Ender King stood and looked at the spot where the Noble Dark One had been standing a moment ago. “He is just obeying his master who, from what I can gather, is quite powerful and wise. Perhaps immortal. And so, I think jerk is far from the correct descriptive word.” I glared at the Ender King. “Seriously? He just bailed on us.” The Ender King raised an eyebrow. “Bailed?” “You know … hurrr … abandoned us. Do you know how quickly we could defeat the executioners and Ciaran if the Noble Dark One and his army joined us? Bro, it would be over faster than a zombie burns in the sun.” “Perhaps. Or, perhaps his master…. Does it have a name?” I shrugged. “Pure Evil, I guess. Essence of Evil? Something like that?” The Ender King twitched. “I don’t like any of those options. Anyway, if his master thinks you can handle it, then perhaps you can.” I ground my teeth together in frustration. “Whatever. I’m going back to sleep.” “Why don’t you sleep here? Do you have a bed in your inventory?” I nodded. “Good. We should probably stick together for the remainder of this journey.” The Ender King turned to Isahn. “You should get

One of those pesky Glitch Guardians, eh?” said Herobrine. “Any chance you know where their headquarters is? I’d like to pay them a … visit.” “Uh, nice try, but we couldn’t find it if we tried,” I said. “Now, get back to the Pickaxe of Resurrection and the Bow of Finality.” Herobrine sneered at me, but continued. “Anyway, I have never seen these alleged items, but assuming they exist and based on all the rumors I have heard about them, I think it is a distinct possibility they have at least some amberite in them. Although bows these days are made with wood, at the beginning of Minecraft, they could be made using metal, though this was discontinued because it was too easy for players to kill skeletons and wither skeletons. It wouldn’t be a surprise if someone upgraded a bow using amberite.” Suddenly, John pulled a netherite sword from his inventory and began stabbing Herobrine in the back. “Die! Ciaran is the only glitch!” he shouted. Herobrine slumped to the ground, screaming in pain.

So one TOTAL mix of stn and sv. Seriously! Ciaran!! You are stealing ideas and I know it!!!! You can deny it all you want but we all know it!!!!

I think a writer should always be surprised; and the more I write, the more it seems that the language itself, when explored with humility, is always deeper and more accurate than what the author thought he had in mind.