Claw Nails Quotes

Be a lady? Forget it. Ladies don't last a day in the real word. No one's a lady anymore. Why do you think we get our claws polished?

Grace," he whispered as he slid his fingers over my swollen lips. "I want to be inside you so damn bad right now. But when I do that, I want to hear you scream my fucking name as you claw your nails down my back.

Fight back, Laia. For Darin. For Izzi. For every Scholar this beast has abused. Fight. A scream bursts from me, and I claw at Marcus’s face, but a punch to my stomach takes the wind out of my lungs. I double over, retching, and his knee comer up into my forehead. The hallway spins, and I drop to my knees. Then I hear him laughting, a sadistic chuckle that stokes my defiance. Sluggishly, I throw myself at his legs. It won’t be like before, like during the raid when I let that Mask drag me about my own house like some dead thing. This time, I’ll fight. Tooth and nail, I’ll fight.

Life is a balance. We tend to forget that as we go blithely from day to day. We eat and drink and sleep and assume that we will always rise up the next day, that meals and rest will always replenish us. Injuries we expect to heal, and pain to lessen as times goes by. Even when we are faced with wounds that heal more slowly, with pain that lessens by day only to return in full force at nightfall, even when sleep does not leave us rested, we still expect that somehow tomorrow all will come back into balance and that we will go on. At some point, the exquisite balance has tipped, and despite all our flailing efforts, we begin the slow fall from the body that maintains itself to the body that struggles, nails clawing, to cling to what it used to be.

The silences after his last gasp were sung together by a blackbird. I lay there, my eyes unable to close. His were unable to open. I listed the places where I hurt, and how much. My loins felt ripped. Something inside had torn. There were seven places on my body where he had sunk his fangs into my skin and bitten. He'd dug his nails into my neck, and twisted my head to one side, and clawed my face. I hadn't made a noise. He had made all the noise for both of us. Had it hurt him?

I carried salt in my pockets. I pried nails out of the floorboards. I built a world where no one could keep up with me. I made a myth out of myself in my youth and spent the rest of my life trying to claw my way back.

The small gargoyle had gone entirely white to match the ceiling, and only the rims of his ears, his long clawlike nails, and a thick stripe down his whip-like tail were still gray. He was crawling along the ceiling like a bat, wings held to make sharp angles and claws extended. It just about broke my creepy meter.

His hand was a claw, sharp enough to open her. She would be like all the others—Ruta Badowski, in her broken dancing shoes. Tommy Duffy, still with the dirt of his last baseball game under his nails. Gabriel Johnson, taken on the best day of his life. Or even Mary White, holding out for a future that never arrived. She’d be like all those beautiful, shining boys marching off to war, rifles at their hips and promises on their lips to their best girls that they’d be home in time for Christmas, the excitement of the game showing in their bright faces. They’d come home men, heroes with adventures to tell about, how they’d walloped the enemy and put the world right side up again, funneled it into neat lines of yes and no. Black and white. Right and wrong. Here and there. Us and them. Instead, they had died tangled in barbed wire in Flanders, hollowed by influenza along the Western Front, blown apart in no-man’s-land, writhing in trenches with those smiles still in place, courtesy of the phosgene, chlorine, or mustard gas. Some had come home shell-shocked and blinking, hands shaking, mumbling to themselves, following orders in some private war still taking place in their minds. Or, like James, they’d simply vanished, relegated to history books no one bothered to read, medals put in cupboards kept closed. Just a bunch of chess pieces moved about by unseen hands in a universe bored with itself.

His eyes were cold steel, his mouth fixed in a hard line. "I like my face the way it is," he said icily. "You scar it with your nails as you did my chest and I swear I will give you equal scars. Think about that, Sam, before you use your claws again." Tears sprang to her eyes. "You're cruel, Hank. You leave me nothing." "And what did you leave me when you stole my heart?" he asked softly. She stared back at him, searching his eyes, seeing only naked honesty.

It's a physical sickness. Etienne. How much I love him. I love Etienne. I love it when he cocks an eyebrow whenever I say something he finds clever or amusing. I love listening to his boots clomp across my bedroom ceiling. I love that the accent over his first name is called an acute accent, and that he has a cute accent. I love that. I love sitting beside him in physics. Brushing against him during lands. His messy handwriting on our worksheets. I love handing him his backpack when class is over,because then my fingers smell like him for the next ten minutes. And when Amanda says something lame, and he seeks me out to exchange an eye roll-I love that,too. I love his boyish laugh and his wrinkled shirts and his ridiculous knitted hat. I love his large brown eyes,and the way he bites his nails,and I love his hair so much I could die. There's only one thing I don't love about him. Her. If I didn't like Ellie before,it's nothing compared to how I feel now. It doesn't matter that I can count how many times we've met on one hand. It's that first image, that's what I can't shake. Under the streeplamp. Her fingers in his hair. Anytime I'm alone, my mind wanders back to that night. I take it further. She touches his chest. I take it further.His bedroom.He slips off her dress,their lips lock, their bodies press,and-oh my God-my temperature rises,and my stomach is sick. I fantasize about their breakup. How he could hurt her,and she could hurt him,and of all the ways I could hurt her back. I want to grab her Parisian-styled hair and yank it so hard it rips from her skull. I want to sink my claws into her eyeballs and scrape. It turns out I am not a nice person. Etienne and I rarely discussed her before, but she's completely taboo now. Which tortures me, because since we've gotten back from winter break, they seem to be having problems again. Like an obsessed stalker,I tally the evenings he spend with me versus the evening he spends with her. I'm winning.

That's why she keeps her nails long, she says, to be able to scratch and claw.

Good, Reia. Is this what you wanted? For me to fuck you until you wet my cock with your orgasm?” “Yes!” she cried, her legs kicking out as she continued to milk him with blunt nails clawing.

You've won," Jack said softly. He looked at Mimi with such fiery hatred that she almost cowered at his words. But she was no weakling. She was Azrael, and Azrael did not cower, not even to Abbadon. "I've won nothing," Mimi replied coldly. "Please remember that almost all of the Elders are dead, that the Dark Prince is ascendant, and what is left of the Conclave is being led by a broken man who used to be the strongest of us all. And yet all you seem to care about, my darling, is that you no longer get to play with your little love toy." Instead of answering her, Jack flew across the room and slapped her hard across the face, sending her crashing to the floor. But before he could wield another blow, Mimi leaped up and slammed him against the window, knocking him completely out of breath. "Is this what you want?" she hissed as she lifted him up by his shirt collar, his face turning a ghastly shade of red. "Don't let me destroy you," he sneered. "Just try, my sweet." Jack twisted out of her grasp and flipped her over, kicking her down the length of the room. She sprung up with her hands clenched, her nails sharp as claws, and fangs bared. They met halfway in the air, and Jack put a hand on her throat and began to squeeze. But she scratched at his eyes and wrenched her body so that she was rolling on top of him, her sword at his throat, with the upper hand. SUBMIT. Mimi sent. NEVER.

In village games, players with hands tied behind them competed to kill a cat nailed to a post by battering it to death with their heads, at the risk of cheeks ripped open or eyes scratched out by the frantic animal’s claws. Trumpets enhanced the excitement.

It [the magic]’s there in the secret lives of girls, most of all. The way we smile and straighten our hair. We do magic every single day. We have to. Paint your nails silver and your heart sort of turns silver, too. Your claws and bones and teeth are steel.

Violence pervaded their entertainment as well. Tuchman describes two of the popular sports of the time: “Players with hands tied behind them competed to kill a cat nailed to a post by battering it to death with their heads, at the risk of cheeks ripped open or eyes scratched out by the frantic animal’s claws....

Nos contra mundum, Claws,” she told him. She wondered whether she could teach him to say this. But first he must learn to say “Nevermore”. If she were given any money for Christmas, she planned to spend it on lengths of purple taffeta which she would nail to her walls as a start to redesigning the room in the manner of Edgar Allan Poe.

Cold, I was, like snow, like ivory. I thought "He will not touch me", but he did. He kissed my stone-cool lips. I lay still as though I’d died. He stayed. He thumbed my marbled eyes. He spoke - blunt endearments, what he’d do and how. His words were terrible. My ears were sculpture, stone-deaf shells. I heard the sea. I drowned him out. I heard him shout. He brought me presents, polished pebbles, little bells. I didn’t blink, was dumb. He brought me pearls and necklaces and rings. He called them girly things. He ran his clammy hands along my limbs. I didn’t shrink, played statue, shtum. He let his fingers sink into my flesh, he squeezed, he pressed. I would not bruise. He looked for marks, for purple hearts, for inky stars, for smudgy clues. His nails were claws. I showed no scratch, no scrape, no scar. He propped me up on pillows, jawed all night. My heart was ice, was glass. His voice was gravel, hoarse. He talked white black. So I changed tack, grew warm, like candle wax, kissed back, was soft, was pliable, began to moan, got hot, got wild, arched, coiled, writhed, begged for his child, and at the climax screamed my head off - all an act. And haven’t seen him since. Simple as that

My nails clawed against the smooth tiles as I pushed up onto my hands and knees. I rose unsteadily to my feet. Speed is my ally. Breathe. In and out. Focus. Time is my power.

Players with hands tied behind them competed to kill a cat nailed to a post by battering it to death with their heads, at the risk of cheeks ripped open or eyes scratched out by the frantic animal’s claws....

Orleon trembled with rage, his face matching his burgundy surcoat. He had no skill in hiding his emotions, and Erica knew exactly why. He is a man. His emotions are not considered a burden or a weakness. Not like mine, which I must keep hidden, so men might feel a little less threatened and a little more strong. Her fingers curled until she felt her own nails dig into her palms. Part of her wanted to claw Orleon’s red face right of and give him a mask to wear all the time, as she had to.

I claw at Jude’s shoulders, desperate for more. And more. “Those fucking nails,” Jude hisses, breaking the kiss to glare at me. He grabs my wrist and hauls it above my head, careful not to knock his splint. “Let’s tie her up,” he says. “So, we can abuse her holes in peace.

I was not some pampered, cloistered Emperor’s get. I had clawed my way tooth and nail to this position, defying my father and teaching myself his magic. I was Lin, and I was Emperor. “Riya has an interesting way of greeting guests, Sai,” I said, my voice even. “Honored ones in particular.

My nails claw at the mattress. My cries carve the walls, but I cannot stop, I can only grapple blindly for nothing, nothing to hold on to, I am spinning, I have lost my footing, this will never stop, this is the last thing I am going to feel, I will carry this with me and nothing else nothing else nothing else—

Scrambling to his feet, he saw Amber in her vampire gown rushing toward him. He felt her long nails rip down his cheek as he sidestepped and swung the bat with all his might. Her pale face exploded as the side of her head caved in from the blow. He saw the fury in her remaining eye as she struggled to her feet with her bloody claws groping. A vicious downward swipe took out the other eye, and she crumpled in a bloody heap at his feet. With his adrenalin flowing like a river through his sinews, he caught the first wolf in midair with a bone crushing upward thrust as the beast’s gnashing grisly teeth opened to grip his throat in a death lock. When he looked down at the wolf’s battered head, he saw the open eyes of his son Kyle staring up at him. The horror of the son’s face startled him awake. The forest and the monsters had disappeared. He found himself in the upstairs hall of his home on Loving Forest Court amid the twisted, battered remains of his wife and children still swinging the bloody, baseball bat.

Some people don’t care about the truth—they only care about being right. Even when the evidence is irrefutable, these same mud-butts will fight tooth and nail to defend their position. They will claw, accuse, condemn, ignore and outright lie…so long as they do not have to admit, accept or apologize. All I can say is, I’m sorry. Those people do exist.

It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you,” said I, parting his thick and long uncut locks; “for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a ‘faux air’ of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles’ feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds’ claws or not, I have not yet noticed.

He’ll never in his lifetime be able to fuck you the way you crave. He couldn’t dream of sending those pretty little whiskey eyes to the back of your head like I’ve seen. He can’t make you scream for mercy, tear apart blankets between your teeth, claw flesh open beneath your nails, or beg like a whore in heat for some sort of saving the way you do when your stepbrother is inside of you.

Slowly, however, her lips curled again, her jaw locking open, baring her teeth with too much gum in a wrenching scream. The bloodcurdling sound ringing through his ears while her nails clawed at her chest, hands violently digging through the soft connective tissue and tearing it to ribbons, blood gushed thick and black over the pink of her dress, painting it red. It was then that Henry saw that there was something terrible inside her, attempting to break its way out. It shattered the marrow of her ribs and slithered from her belly, melting away from her, into a grotesque creature with razor-sharp canines and claws drenched in blood. Her screaming becoming louder, Henry was sure his eardrums were about to burst, and he was caught in a state of paralysis, stuck watching her tear herself apart until all that was left of her was this monstrosity.

The Doctor closed his eyes as the razor claws reached out through the rain, waiting for the killer blow. It never came. He opened one eye cautiously. The creature was staring at its claws, turning them this way and that. It looked down at the Doctor. ‘I think I chipped a nail.’ The Doctor blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘A nail. Look.’ It held out a claw. ‘And that head. Do you think it’s going to be fattening? You never know with foreign food, do you?

Uh… not sure buying the entire store for that boy is good, Chace. If he’s living on the street, the rest of the homeless population in Carnal will fall on him like vultures,” I remarked. Then he turned to me. “Got one homeless guy in town, darlin’. He calls himself Outlaw Al. He celebrated his seven hundredth birthday this year and looks it. You talk to him, he’ll swear he was the one who shot Billy the Kid. Every feral cat in Carnal will claw you soon as look at you but of any day or night, one or a dozen of ‘em will be curled into Al like he’s their Momma. He has two teeth. And I don’t see good things for his dental future since Shambles and Sunny built a small lean-to behind La-La Land so he’ll have some protection from exposure. He was much obliged for this effort. Moved in while Shambles was still hammering in the nails. He mostly stays there except when it’s his time to howl at the moon. And Shambles gives him baked goods he doesn’t sell. I think our kid’ll be good.

Some people get hit by a tidal wave, dig in their nails and hold on; they stay focused on the positive, keep visualizing the way through till it opens up in front of them. Some lose hold. Broke can lead people to places they would never have imagined. It can nudge a law-abiding citizen onto that blurred crumbling edge where a dozen kinds of crime feel like they’re only an arm’s reach away. It can scour away at a lifetime of mild, peaceful decency until all that’s left is teeth and claws and terror.

Ding! Lady Elizabeth Figgles. Her father’s a viscount and a member of Parliament, and she’s also Sam Berkinshire’s—an old schoolmate and one of my dearest friends—girlfriend. “Elizabeth? What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Sam?” “Sam can go fucking die.” She looks right at the camera. “Are you getting this? You can go fucking die, Sam! I hope your prick gets caught in a wood chipper, you cheating bastard!” “He cheated on you? Sam?” Sam’s a great guy. The kind of guy even really good guys want to be more like. He makes Abraham Lincoln look like a lying shit. “Your face right now, that’s exactly how I looked when I found out—but a hell of a lot angrier. I found receipts, knickers that weren’t mine, rubbers. Faithless, worthless son of a bitch.” She bangs the table and her nails are long enough to double as claws. “Now I want Sam to see what it feels like. So I’m going to fuck you. On television. A lot. Hopefully live. You’d better rest up, Henry. I brought lube—a whole bucket of it.” Wow. Ding!

Then shouts from the direction of the doorway. I started to black out, kneeing him in the crotch to no effect and clawing in panic at his hands, the flesh sloughing off under my nails. Then suddenly he straightened, and looked toward the door. Schubert came charging through, his service revolver raised. Two more officers came right behind. He whirled away from them as if to hide his ruined face. But he didn't hide it from me! He looked at me with what passed for a fixed and hideous grin, although it might have been the death rictus of his facial muscles. His voice was like a tinny rasp, hollow and unreal. "When the world starts to chew itself up alive, and spits out its own guts... be it on your conscience, Mr. Kolchak!" He staggered away. Schubert was yelling for me to stop him. I made a grab for his coat but it came off in my hand. The acid. He bolted for what had been an outside window, now boarded up, and smashed through it. We could hear his wail all the way down. And a distant, echoing clatter of falling wood... and glass... and bones.

I've never seen a Jade in full feral mode before. Candy's nails have curved out into thick claws. Her eyes are red slit pupils in a sea of black ice. Her lips and tongue are as black as her eyes. Her mouth has a slightly different shape. Like she has a few more teeth or the ones she has are wider and sharper than before. A mouthful of pretty white shark's teeth. She's the most beautiful thing I've seen in eleven years. I want to have monster babies with her right here and now. But something explodes, someone screams, and I remember my other friends and the end of the world.

THE COUGHBALL of an owl is a packed lump of everything the bird can’t digest—bones, fur, teeth, claws, and nails. An owl tears apart its catch, gulps it down whole, and nourishes itself on blood and flesh. The residue, the undissolvable, fuses. In the small, light, solid pellet, the frail skull of a finch, femur of a mouse, cleft necklace of vertebrae, seed-fine teeth, gray gopher and rabbit fur. A perfect compression of being. What is the essence, the soul? my Jesuit teachers used to ask of their students. What is the irreducible? I answer, what the owl pukes. That is also the story—what is left after the events in all their juices and chaos are reduced to the essence. The story— all that time does not digest.

Imagine you are tied to a chair with your hands tightly bound behind you, preventing you from covering your ears. Before you is a giant chalkboard. A woman enters the room. Her fingernails are long, hard, and ready for attack. You follow her with your eyes as she saunters to the chalkboard and raises her hand to make a claw. She looks at you with a blank stare as she digs her fingernails into the chalkboard and drags downward. As the harsh sound hits your ears, you squeeze your eyes shut in an instinctive yet vain effort to shut out the noise, but the absence of sight only magnifies the vile sound. Your ears have become hypersensitive, and you feel an unpleasant chill shoot through your body down to the toes of your feet. Finally, the sound stops as she removes her nails from the board, and a wave of relief passes over you. But the reprieve is short-lived. Again, the nails dig into the board and screech all the way down. The process repeats itself several times, and each time she stops dragging, you think it has ended for good, but soon she starts all over again. You frantically call out to her and ask her why she is doing this. You wonder what you have done to earn this perpetual torture. But she only looks back at your with a blank, almost quizzical stare, and that is when you realize that she is unaware of the pain she is causing. You feel the hopelessness pass over you. You squirm to free yourself from the chair, but it's no use. This is your life now, listening to this terribly unpleasant sound with no way to stop it. Sometimes she leaves, but she always comes back to repeat the scene, oblivious to the torture she creates.

His massive hand gripped the closet doorknob, dagger now angled at his side. “Come out, little Crochan,” he crooned. Silent as death, Manon slid up behind him. The fool didn’t even know she was there until she brought her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Wrong kind of witch.” The man whirled, slamming into the closet door. He raised the dagger between them, his chest heaving. Manon merely smiled, her silver-white hair glinting in the moonlight. He noticed the shut door then, drawing in breath to shout. But Manon smiled broader, and a row of dagger-sharp iron teeth pushed from the slits high in her gums, snapping down like armor. The man started, hitting the door behind him again, eyes so wide that white shone all around them. His dagger clattered on the floorboards. And then, just to really make him soil his pants, she flicked her wrists in the air between them. The iron claws shot over her nails in a stinging, gleaming flash.

Just try, Tai-Pan, by God,” she said and glared back at him. He grabbed her swiftly and carried her, struggling, to the bed and flung up her robe and petticoats and gave her a smack on her buttocks that stung his hand and tossed her on the bed. He had never struck her before. May-may flew off the bed at him and viciously raked at his face with her long nails. A lantern crashed to the floor as Struan upended her again and resumed the spanking. She fought out of his grip, and her nails slashed at his eyes, missing by a fraction of an inch, and scoring his face. He caught her wrists and turned her over and tore off her robe and underclothes and smashed her bare buttocks with the flat of his hand. She fought back fiercely, shoving an elbow in his groin and clawing at his face again. Mustering all his strength, he pinned her to the bed, but she slipped her head free and sank her teeth into his forearm. He gasped from the pain and slashed her buttocks again with the flat of his free hand. She bit harder. “By God, you’ll never bite me again,” he said through clenched teeth. Her teeth sank deeper, but he deliberately did not pull his arm away. The pain made his eyes water, but he smashed May-may harder and harder and harder, always on her buttocks, until his hand hurt. At last she released her teeth. “Don’t—no more—please—please,” she whimpered, and wept into the pillow, defenseless. Struan caught his breath. “Now say you’re sorry for going out without permission.

Say you want me.” His mouth moved over her throat, closed over her aching breast. Every strong pull sent an answering rush of liquid heat. “You know I do.” She pressed him to her, wound a leg around his. She could barely breathe with her need, clawing at him to get closer, to crawl inside the shelter of his body, his mind, to feel his body in hers, taking possession as he was meant to, to feel his mouth at her breast, dragging her further into his world. “All of it,” he said hoarsely, his fingers probing the nest of tiny curls, stroking, caressing. “Mate with me my way.” She moved in a kind of anguish against his hand. “Yes, Mikhail.” She was frantic for release, frantic to relieve him. She was consumed with the same red haze, not separating love from lust or hunger from need. She was on fire, hurting, aching, body and mind, even her soul in torment, not knowing where his wild, uninhibited emotions left off and hers began. Mikhail lifted her easily with his enormous strength, slid her slowly, erotically down his clenching belly until she was pressed against the broad head of his raging erection. Her heat seared him, beckoned. Raven’s arms slid around his neck, her legs around his hips, opening for him. Slowly he lowered her body over his, impaled her on the thick length of fire so that she surrounded him with such a moist, tight sheath he shuddered, somewhere beyond mere pleasure, a kind of erotic heaven and hell. Her nails dug into his shoulders. “Stop, Mikhail. You’re too big this way.” Alarm spread across her face. “Relax, little one. We belong together, our bodies were made for one another.” He slid in farther, began to move in a long, slow rhythm, his hands caressing, soothing. He shifted his shoulders so that he could see her face, his body claiming hers with deep, sure, possessive strokes. Without conscious thought, the words formed in his mind. Te avio päläfertiilam--You are my lifemate.

She slipped into the shadows and waited, like a she-wolf, for her quarry. Bay caught her breath when Owen Blackthorne stepped into the cool night air. He was close enough to touch. His shaggy black hair looked rumpled, as though he’d shoved both hands through it in agitation. When he started to move off the porch, Bay reached out and grasped his sleeve. A second later she was slammed back against the wall, a powerful male hand at her throat choking her. She could feel the heat of him, the solid maleness of him. And panicked. She clawed at Owen’s flesh with her nails and drove her knee upward toward his genitals. Her thrust her upraised knee aside, and the full weight of his over-six-foot frame shoved hard against her from shoulders to thighs. Bay froze, staring up at him in mute horror. Her body trembled in shock. She tried to speak, but there was no air to be had beneath the crushing pressure of his grip on her throat. “What the hell . . .?” He released her throat and grabbed her arms to yank her into the narrow stream of light from the kitchen doorway. She gasped a breath of air, coughed, then gasped another, pressing a shaky hand to her injured throat. She wrenched to free herself, but he let her go without a struggle and took a wary step back. She rubbed her arms where he’d held her, wishing she’d approached him more directly. “What are you doing out here, Mizz Creed?” His voice was clipped but controlled. The violence she’d felt in his touch was still there in his eyes, which glittered with hostility. “It’s Dr. Creed,” she rasped, glaring back at him. He lifted a black brow. “Well, Dr. Creed.” She opened her mouth to say I need your help. But the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing wrong with her voice. She just hated the thought of asking a Blackthorne for anything. “I haven’t got all night,” he said. “There’s an emergency at the barn—” “Ruby’s foal has already been delivered safely,” she said. “I made up that story because I wanted to speak privately with you.

They could not speak. To be in Alexander’s arms, to smell him, to hear his breathing, his voice again… Shh, shh, he was still whispering and holding her, pulling off her hat, her hairnet, her hairpins, letting her black hair fall down. His hands were in it. His eyes were closed. Perhaps he was imagining her hair was not black but blonde again. The way Alexander was touching her now, she could tell that he was blind and had not yet learned to see—he was holding her in that impossible choke that had to do not quite with love or passion, but somehow with both and with neither. The embrace wasn’t an alloy, it was a conflagration of anguish and bitter relief and fear. Tatiana could tell Alexander would like to have spoken more, but he couldn’t, and so he sat on the hay with his legs open, while she kneeled in front of him, folded into his arms, and every once in a while from his shuddering body would come a Shh, shh… Not for her. Not for Tatiana. For himself. Continuing to hold her, Alexander lowered her onto the straw. His trembling limbs surrounded her. Tatiana was barely breathing, her own body convulsing. To rage, to quell— They didn’t know what to do—to undress? To stay clothed? She couldn’t move, nor want to. His lips were on her neck, her clavicles, he was clawing at her, ripping open her tunic, baring her breasts to his desperate gasping mouth. She wanted to whisper his name, to moan maybe. Tears kept trickling down her temples. He removed from himself and her only what was necessary. He didn’t so much enter her as break her open. Her mouth remained in a mute screaming O, her hands clutched him, not close enough, and through the whisper of grief, through the cry of desire, Tatiana felt that Alexander, in his complete abandon, was making love to her as if he were being pulled from the cross to which he was still attached by nails. His gripping her, his ferocious, unremitting movement was so intense that Tatiana felt consciousness yield to— Oh my God, Shura, please…she mouthed inaudibly. But it could not be any other way. Violent release came for Alexander at the expense of Tatiana’s momentary lapse of reason, as she cried out, her pleas carrying through the barn, to the basin, to the river, to the sky. He remained on top of her without moving, without pulling away. His body was shaking. He couldn’t be any closer. She held him closer still…And then… Shh, shh. That wasn’t Alexander. That was Tatiana. They both fell asleep. Still they hadn’t spoken.

Christopher’s attention was brought back abruptly to the little wild thing he had caught. In a frenzied effort to gain her release, she clawed his face with raking nails and sought to tear the hair from his head with grasping fists. He was hard pressed to defend himself until he caught the flailing arms firmly in his grasp and pressed them down, using his greater weight to subdue the Lady Saxton. Erienne was trapped, held firmly in the middle of the dusty road. Her outraged struggles had loosened her hair and disarranged her clothes to the point that her modesty was savaged. Her coat had come open in the scuffle, and their shirts were twisted awry, leaving her bosom bare against a hard chest. The meager pair of breeches made her increasingly aware of the growing pressure against her loins. She was pinned almost face to face with her captor, and even though the visage was shadowed, she could hardly miss the fact of his identity or the half-leering grin that taunted her. “Christopher! You beast! Let me go!” Angrily she struggled but could not influence him with her prowess. His teeth gleamed in the dark as his grin widened. “Nay, madam. Not until you vow to control your passion. I fear before too long I would be somewhat frayed by your zealous attention.” “I shall turn that statement back to you, sir!” she retorted. He responded with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “I was rather enjoying the moment.” “So I noticed!” she quipped before she thought, then bit her lip, hoping he might mistake her meaning. He didn’t. He was most aware of the effect her meagerly clad body had on him, and he replied with laughter in his voice. “Though you may choose to fault my passions, madam, they’re quite honestly aroused.” “Aye!” she agreed jeeringly. “By every twitching skirt that saunters by!” “I swear, ’tis not a skirt that attracts me now.” Holding her wrists clasped in one hand, he moved his hand down along her flank and replied in a thoughtful tone, “ ’Tis more like a pair of boy’s breeches. What? Has my ambush yielded me a stable boy?” Erienne’s indignation found new fuel that he could so casually fondle her, as if he had a perfect right. “Get off, you… you… ass!” It was the most damaging insult she could think of at the moment. “Get off me!” “An ass, you say?” he mocked. “Madam, may I point out that asses are to be ridden, and at the moment you are bearing my weight. Now, I know women are made to bear— usually their husbands or the seed they plant— but I would not suggest that you have the shape or looks even approaching an ass.” She ground her teeth in growing impatience at his wont to turn the simplest comment into an exercise of his wit. She could not bear the bold feel of him against her another moment. “Will you get off me?!” “Certainly, my sweet.” He complied as if her every wish was his command. Lifting her to her feet, he solicitously dusted her backside. -Erienne & Christopher

Lark wrapped an arm around me and started to speak until Bailey’s startled voice interrupted us. A huge football player had her pinned against the wall and she was yelling for him to back off. Instead, he crowded her more while playing with her blonde hair. “Hey!” I yelled as Lark and I rushed over. Six four and wide shouldered, the guy was wasted and angry at the interruption. “Fuck off, bitches,” he muttered. Bailey clawed at his neck, but he had her pinned in a weird way, so she couldn’t get any leverage. While I was ready to jump on him in a weak attempt to save my friend, someone shoved the football player off Bailey. I hadn’t even seen the guy appear, but he stood between Bailey and the pissed jerk. “Fuck off, man,” the asshole said. “She’s mine.” “Nick,” Bailey mumbled, looking ready to cry. “He humped my leg. Crush his skull, will ya?” Nick frowned at Bailey who was leaning on him now. The football player was an inch or two bigger than Nick and outweighed him by probably fifty pounds. Feeling the fight would be short, the asshole reached for Bailey’s arm and Nick nailed the guy in the face. To my shock, the giant asshole collapsed on the ground. “My hero,” Bailey said, looking ready to puke. She caressed Nick’s biceps and asked, “Do you work out?” Running his hands through his dark wavy hair, Nick laughed. “You’re so wasted.” “And you’re like the Energizer Bunny,” she cooed. “My bro said you took a punch, yet kept on ticking.” Nick started to speak then heard the asshole’s friends riled up. I was too drunk to know if everything happened really quickly or if my brain just took awhile to catch up. The guys rushed Nick who dodged most of them and hit another. The room emptied out except for Nick, the guys, and us. I grabbed a beer bottle and threw it at one of the guys shoving Nick. When the bottle hit him in the back, the bastard glared at me. “You want to fight, bitch?” “Leave her alone,” Nick said, kicking one guy into the jerk looking to hit me. As impressive as Nick was against six guys, he was just one guy against six. A losing bet, he took a shot to the face then the gut. Lark grabbed a folding chair and went WWE on one guy. I was tossing beers in the roundabout direction of the other guys. Yet, Bailey was the one who ended the fight by pulling out a gun. “Back the fuck off or I’ll burn this motherfucking house to the ground!” she screamed then fired at a lamp. Everyone stopped and stared at her. When she noticed me wide-eyed, Bailey frowned. “Too much?” Grinning, I followed Lark to the door. Nick followed us while the assholes seemed ready to piss themselves. Well, except for an idiot who looked ready to go for Bailey’s gun. "Dude,” Nick muttered, “that’s Bailey Fucking Johansson. Unless you want to end up in a shallow grave, back the fuck off.” “What he said!” Bailey yelled, waving her gun around before I hurried her out of the door. The cold air sobered up Bailey enough for her to return the gun to her purse. She was still drunk enough to laugh hysterically as we reached the SUV. “Did you see me kill that lamp?” “You did good,” I said, groggy as my adrenaline shifted to nausea and the alcohol threatened to come back up on me. Nick walked us to the SUV. “Next time, you might want to wave the gun around before you get drunk and dance.” “Don’t tell me what to do,” Bailey growled, crawling into the backseat. Then, realizing he saved her, she crawled back to face him. “You were so brave. I should totally get you off as a thank you." “Maybe another time,” he said, laughing as she batted her eyes at him. “Are you guys safe to drive?” Lark nodded. “I’m sober enough to remember everything tomorrow. Trust me that there’ll be mocking.

I watched him work. He retied several knots in quick succession. Once he was satisfied that it was safe, he could take into consideration the film crew and me. He explained to me what we were going to do. The object would be to get the crocodile out of the trap. We needed it completely unencumbered to be able to move it to a new location. The mesh trap was tangled in the croc’s teeth and claws. We needed to carefully untangle it. As we approached the croc, my adrenaline surged. I could feel my fingertips tingling, and my mouth went dry. Steve positioned the camera crew so they could have the best vantage point without risk of getting nailed. Then he turned to me. “Right,” he said. “You jump on its head and I’ll get the net off.” Um…what? I thought surely I’d misunderstood. “Right,” Steve shouted. “Now!” So I jumped on the crocodile’s head.

Pike approached the man from behind. He shifted left or right just enough to stay in the man’s blind spot, moving so quickly that he was outside the office one moment and across the lot in the next, watching the key go in the lock, seeing the door open— Pike hooked his left arm under the man’s chin, and lifted. He closed his arm on the man’s throat and squeezed as hard as he could, shoving the man into the room as he brought out the Kimber, using the man as a shield. Pike expected more men, but the room was empty. A single room and a bath. Pike toed the door closed, still holding the man. The drapes were open, so Pike could see no one was in the parking lot and no one had stirred from the office. The man kicked and thrashed, but Pike held him up and off balance with a knee. The man punched backwards, clawed at Pike’s arm, and made a gurgling sound. He was a strong man in very good shape. His nails cut into Pike’s skin. Pike slipped his free arm across the back of the man’s neck and pushed the man’s throat into the crook of his elbow. Pike squeezed and pushed and held it. The thrashing slowed. The man stopped kicking. His body went limp.

He Compels" Excerpt from the “Regent Saga” up in coming series. Nails digging in like talons cutting into the flesh of his prey; he dragged his claws across the rough sawn timbers. Only digging in deeper into the wooden beams for which he hung from high in the ceiling, above this great chamber of his coven. Maxwell then reached out from the depths of his mind; to explore the memories and as well the most secretive desires of his newly turned Queen Regent’s mind. He deeply enjoyed these new experiences with her; to be able to tease her desires by his powers over her thoughts tantalizing her imagination; how he molded her will to his wants and needs. His hunger to taste of her only growing as each minute passed by, until those minutes became hour after hour of sweet torment. He yearned for the way she did his bidding without any knowledge of her surroundings or those that may or may not have seen her.

It was the constancy of it, the unending-ness. She felt crowded and edgy and half-crazy; every time she turned around there was someone standing too close to her, speaking too loudly, needing something. Mom, have you seen my sweatshirt? Mom, can we have chicken with mashed potatoes for dinner? Mama, do you know where my phone charger went? Sorry, Mrs. D., but we’re out of toilet paper on the fourth floor. Every request, no matter how polite, clawed at her with sharp nails. Every breath of air in the house felt stale and flat, like it had already been in and out of someone else’s lungs; every surface she touched felt sticky. And she knew, from her friends, that she wasn’t the only woman feeling that way. They were all trying to do too much, for too many people, in too little space, trying to manage their jobs and their kids’ schooling, the meals and the housework and their working-from-home partners or spouses while they clung to sanity with their fingernails.

He had just lifted a finger to his lips when a massive shape materialized from the darkness, glinting as it stepped into the sunlight. Emeline gaped up at it. A silver sharp-toothed snout emerged first, elegant nostrils sniffing the air. The snout alone was roughly the size of Emeline's hatchback. The rest of a head emerged, revealing filmy white eyes and gray tufts where ears should be. Was this... Claw? If so, he was definitely awake. His massive paws were tufted too and tipped in sharp nails, reminding Emeline of a lion. But his wings were like that of a snowy owl, tucked primly against his sides. Feathers and scales rippled over his body, the color of silver coins. A watchdog, Hawthorne had said. More like a watchdragon.

Dance with the Devil [Verse] Dancin' with the devil in the moonlight starlit mess Demons in my closet never gave me any rest High and low and then lower still hit the ground so hard Had to claw my way out back to life from the dark [Verse 2] Disappointed mother tears in dad's eyes deep Friends turned to shadows had no one to keep Hidin' from the truth scared of what I'd see Had to lose it all just to find me [Chorus] Rise from the ashes 'gainst the dark night's howl Every scar a story every pain a growl Digging my nails through the dirt and stone Reckoning the ghost of the life I know [Bridge] Lost myself lost my way in the foggy deep Found nothin' but regret every night of sleep Pledge to the horizon promises in blue Chasing better days ripping through [Verse 3] Country road callin' heartbeats lead the way Breath of fresh freedom in the light of day Undone sins behind stepped into the new Grit in the voice but a fire in the view [Chorus] Rise from the ashes 'gainst the dark night's howl Every scar a story every pain a growl Digging my nails through the dirt and stone Reckoning the ghost of the life I know

Never in all my wildest dreams did I take you for a foursome. With triplets, no less!” She leans back and grins at me. “You’ve officially earned your claws. Not the cougar kind, of course. You’re far too young for that. But you get honorary claws just for being the only hen in a whole house full of cocks. I’m so proud,” she says melodramatically, covering her mouth with her hands. I know she’s just teasing when she winks at me over her polished nails.

But Paul knew that his sin was nailed to the cross, and the hammer of God’s mercy has no claw.

Deep inside me, something began to tighten. Too deep. That deep. Oh Jesus. Oh no. Please, please don’t let Sebastian Pryce own the one cock that can reach The Spot. But he did. The tip of Sebastian’s cock was hitting The Spot, territory uncharted, unknown, unreachable by all prior cock owners who’d attempted to scale the surrounding heights. This couldn’t be. No! No! No! “Yes, yes, yes,” I breathed against his neck, my entire lower body seizing up, my nails clawing at his skin. Fucking hell, Sebastian…you’re so amazing and generous and hard and deep and fuck—“Oh God, you’re perfect. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!

Nails that claw by a beautiful mind. A pretty face can leave you blind - Poem 'Small Pain' from 'The B Word: The B in LBGTQ Poetry'.

This isn’t a good time.” “No shit,” Shane said, sarcasm clear. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down on the chair opposite Mitch’s desk. “What’d you do to my sister? She ran out of here without a word like a kicked puppy.” Mitch took a slug of scotch, his stomach twisting. She was gone. Panic clawed at him with sharp nails. He took a deep breath. She’d be at home. His home. Shane scrubbed the stubble lining his jaw. “Turns out that five minutes can do some damage after all.” “How

Nails can be varnished, But they also claw. (Ongles peuvent être vernis, - Mais ils griffent aussi.)

The next thing that happened was a shock to everyone. Rose attacked the younger of the two. She full-on attacked him. Her teeth ripped into his neck, her nails clawed into his skin, and she took him to the ground. The momentary chaos gave Cage a chance to hit the other guy, holding the gun, in the face with his elbow. We all scrambled to get back to the truck at that point. Cage picked up the gun and pointed it at the others standing on the side of the road. We had to walk past Rose’s victim. She was proudly standing with her foot on his chest, knowing that she had brought him down. Cage yelled at the girl from the gas station, who was frozen in fear, and she, finally, snapped to attention and ran towards the truck. “That could have been really bad.” Trent took the driver’s seat this time and took off towards the camp again. Cage hung his head out the window as we drove off. “You just got infected, buddy, have a nice day!

Scott squeaked approval, stayed her, and went to his car. Maggie sensed something was wrong by the change in his gait. She desperately wanted to follow, but Scott had stayed her. She obeyed, but whimpered anxiously when he crawled under the car. Maggie saw him tense, and the frantic way he scrambled to his feet, and heard the strain in his voice when he spoke to the woman. Then the woman shouted, and Scott ran to the street. His smell reached her, and was ripe with the thorny scents of danger and fear. Maggie trembled and quivered. Scott’s fear poured into her. Danger. Threat. Maggie broke from her stay, and ran to him. His thundering heart filled her with fury. Protect Scott. Defend. Scott pulled her close, but his closeness did not comfort her. His fear screamed they were in danger. She bunched and coiled, and tried to pull free to find the threat, but Scott held her close. Her huge ears swiveled and tipped, seeking their enemy. She sniffed frantically, searching the air, but found only Scott’s fear. His fear was enough. Scott was hers. Maggie growled, low and deep in her massive chest, a primal warning to whatever might hear. This pack was hers. The fur on her back and shoulders bristled like wire, and her nails raked the asphalt like claws. A danger she couldn’t see or smell or hear was coming, but a fire passed down from a hundred thousand past generations prepared her. Maggie knew what she needed to know. Hunt. Attack. Pull the threat down with her fangs, and destroy it. Maggie didn’t need to know anything else. Nothing else mattered.

He felt her long nails rip down his cheek as he sidestepped and swung the bat with all his might. Her pale face exploded as the side of her head caved in from the blow. He saw the fury in her remaining eye as she struggled to her feet with her bloody claws groping. A vicious downward swipe took out the other eye, and she crumpled in a bloody heap at his feet. With his adrenalin flowing like a river through his sinews, he caught the first wolf in midair with a bone crushing upward thrust as the beast’s gnashing grisly teeth opened to grip his throat in a death lock. When he looked down at the wolf’s battered head, he saw the open eyes of his son Kyle staring up at him.

When the only thing she wanted was for him not to show her some of that notorious respect. For him to throw himself on top of her and suffocate her in his stench of a macho in heat. For him to rip off her clothes, strip her bare, leave her as naked as an ill-used virgin. Because this was the only kind of respect she had known in her life, the paternal poke that had split open her sissy-boy faggot ass until it bled. And with that respectful scar she had learned to live, as one learns to live with a clawed hand, stroking it, taming its fierceness, smoothing down its sharp nails, growing accustomed to its violent blows, learning to enjoy its sexual scratch as the only possible expression of affection.

I had to claw back into the world, dig in no matter if my nails cracked and bled, hold on with everything I had.

Come out, White-Eyes,” the voice called. “I bring gifts, not bloodshed.” Henry, wearing nothing but his pants and the bandages Aunt Rachel had wrapped around his chest the night before, hopped on one foot as he dragged on a boot. By the time he reached the window, he had both boots on, laces flapping. Rachel gave him a rifle. He threw open the shutter and jerked down the skin, shoving the barrel out the opening. “What brings you here?” “The woman. I bring many horses in trade.” Loretta ran to the left window, throwing back the shutters and unfastening the membrane to peek out. The Comanche turned to meet her gaze, his dark eyes expressionless, penetrating, all the more luminous from the black graphite that outlined them. Her hands tightened on the rough sill, nails digging the wood. He looked magnificent. Even she had to admit that. Savage, frightening…but strangely beautiful. Eagle feathers waved from the crown of his head, the painted tips pointed downward, the quills fastened in the slender braid that hung in front of his left ear. His cream-colored hunting shirt enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, the chest decorated with intricate beadwork, painted animal claws, and white strips of fur. He wore two necklaces, one of bear claws, the other a flat stone medallion, both strung on strips of rawhide. His buckskin breeches were tucked into knee-high moccasins. Her gaze shifted to the strings of riderless ponies behind him. She couldn’t believe their number. Thirty? Possibly forty? Beyond the animals were at least sixty half-naked warriors on horseback. Loretta wondered why Hunter had come fully clothed in all his finery with wolf rings painted around his eyes. The others wore no shirts or feathers, and their faces were bare. “I come for the woman,” the Comanche repeated, never taking his gaze from her. “And I bring my finest horses to console her father for his loss. Fifty, all trained to ride.” His black sidestepped and whinnied. The Indian swayed easily with his mount. “Send me the woman, and have no fear. She will come to no harm walking in my footsteps, for I am strong and swift. She will never feel hunger, for I am a fine hunter. My lodge will shelter her from the winter rain, and my buffalo robes will shield her from the cold. I have spoken it.

Life is a balance. We tend to forget that as we go blithely from day to day. We eat and drink and sleep and assume that we will always rise up the next day, that meals and rest will always replenish us. Injuries we expect to heal, and pain to lessen as times go by. Even when we are faced with wounds that heal more slowly, with pain that lessens by day only to return in full force at nightfall, even when sleep does not leave us rested, we still expect that somehow tomorrow all will come back into balance and that we will go on. At some point, the exquisite balances has tipped, and despite all our flailing efforts, we begin the slow fall from the body that maintains itself to the body that struggles, nails clawing, to cling to what it used to be.

Besides, my little mate, I think it’s sexy.” “Sexy?” I stared up at him, bewildered. “You’re not worried?” “No, but you should be worried.” “W-why?” “Because if you don’t make it home by the time I catch you, then I’m going to fuck you where I find you, mate.” A low growl escaped his throat as his nails lengthened into claws. “So, you’d better start running.

Her nails claw up my back to try to find traction, and I get an elbow to the side of the head. My cock twitches with the urge to pin her down and force her into submission.

I crawled into bed and wished I had someone I could hurt, so I could feel the way I did after stabbing Syd. Settling for myself, I squeezed a pillow to my chest, digging my nails into my forearm. “Be sorry!” I hissed. I continued to claw at my skin and clench my jaw, willing remorse with all my might. I can’t remember how long I tried, only that I was desperate and furious once I finally gave up. Exhausted, I collapsed back into the bed. I looked at my arm. It was bleeding.

My hand around her throat. Her nails clawing at my skin. Her whimpers and pleas as I edged her toward insanity before I fucked the fight right out of her.

also remembers much blood as the flagstone dropped and squashed my finger and I raced to the sink indoors, where it flowed and flowed. And then there were stitches. The result over the years —mustn’t exaggerate—may well have affected my guitar playing, because it really flattened out the finger for pick work. It could have something to do with the sound. I’ve got this extra grip. Also, when I’m fingerpicking it gives me a bit more of a claw, because a chunk came out. So it’s flat and it’s also more pointed, which comes in handy occasionally. And the nail never grew back again properly, it’s sort of bent.

It doesn't matter how deep you bury it. It will always find its way back, clawing its way up to the surface with splintered, dirt-lined nails, ravenous for whatever part of your mind you'll let it have.

Warmth licked at my skin, and the stringent spiced peppery scent swept over me. I was on my hands and knees, the same position I was in when I was clawing for purchase, trying like hell to keep Dareus from sending me to the demon realm. My fingers throbbed, a few nails torn.

There are some additional unmeasurable and unstated requirements to be a lexicographer. First and foremost, you must be possessed of something called "sprachgefühl," a German word we've stolen into English that means "a feeling for language." Sprachgefühl is a slippery eel, the odd buzzing in your brain that tells you that "planting the lettuce" and "planting misinformation" are different uses of "plant," the eye twitch that tells you that "plans to demo the store" refers not to a friendly instructional stroll on how to shop but to a little exuberance with the sledgehammer. Not everyone has sprachgefühl, and you don't know if you are possessed of it until you are knee-deep in the English language, trying your best to navigate the mucky swamp of it. I use "possessed of" advisedly: YOU will never HAVE sprachgefühl, but rather sprachgefühl will have YOU, like a Teutonic imp that settles itself at the base of your skull and hammers at your head every time you read something like "crispy-fried rice" on a menu. The imp will dig its nails into your brain, and instead of ordering take-out Chinese, you will be frozen at the take-out counter, wondering if "crispy-fried rice" refers to plain rice that has been flash fried or to the dish known as "fried rice" but perhaps prepared in a new and exciting way. 'That hyphen,' you think, 'could just be slapdash misuse or...' And your Teutonic imp giggles and squeezes its claws a little harder.

Claws grow at different rates depending on the kitten. Once every week or every other week is a good schedule. A good time to trim kitten nails is when she is relaxed, and cuddled for a nap on your lap. It’s a great idea to get Kitty used to having her paws handled, so she won’t be startled when you need to trim her nails. Pet her paws, and handle them gently, several times a week—not just when you plan to snip claws.

The iron claws shot over her nails in a stinging, gleaming flash.

His arm tightens again as he grunts, “Heavy.” This bastard. I’m still terrified, but his shitty comment is enough to spur me out of this frozen state. I claw at the hand over my mouth. My filed short nails barely even scratch his skin. “Knock that off.” He gives me a little shake. “I like ’em heavy.

The Brazilians have a great phrase for this. In Portuguese, a person who has the ability to hang in and not give up has garra. Garra means “claws.” What imagery! A person with garra has claws that burrow into the side of the cliff and keep him from falling. So do the saved. They may get close to the edge; they may even stumble and slide. But they will dig their nails into the rock of God and hang on. Jesus gives you this assurance. Hang on. He’ll make sure you get home.

You begin to bore me. I think we need to move this along. You’re just prolonging the inevitable. Now that I have you, there is no escape. I won’t grant you mercy. I’ll laugh as you cry and revel in every scream bursting from your pretty lips. Now be a good girl and open for me.” “Fuck you,” I spit vehemently. My eyes widen as he holds a hand up, and those short black nails lengthen into curved claws.

I need your wisdom, Athena. What is happening between myself and the girl next door?” The raccoon replies by pressing a sharp claw, a nail like a dagger, right to my heart. Touché.

Are we kin to autumn rains? Do we rise in mists from wetland moors? Do twighlight fogs seem similar? Do we prowl or run or lope? Are we shadows on a ruined wall? Are we dusts shaken in sneezes from angel tombstones with broken wings? Do we hover or fly or writhe in October ectoplasms? Are we footsteps heard to waken us and bump our skulls on nailed-shut lids? Are we batwing heartbeats held in claw or hand or teeth?

Warm, buttery sunlight through the leaves, setting them glowing like rubies and citrines. The damp, earthen scent of rotting things beneath the leaves and roots she lay upon. Had been thrown and left upon. Everything hurt. Everything. She couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but watch the sun drift through the rich canopy far overhead, listen to the wind between the silvery trunks. And the centre of that pain, radiating outward like living fire with each uneven, rasping breath... Light, steady steps crunched on the leaves. Six sets. A border guard, a patrol. Help. Someone to help- A male voice, foreign and deep, swore. Then went silent. Went silent as a single pair of steps approached. She couldn't turn her head, couldn't bear the agony. Could do nothing but inhale each wet, shuddering breath. 'Don't touch her.' Those steps stopped. It was not a warning to protect her. Defend her. She knew the voice that spoke. Had dreaded hearing it. She felt him approach now. Felt each reverberation in the leaves, the moss, the roots. As if the very land shuddered before him. 'No one touches her,' he said. Eris. 'The moment we do, she's our responsibility.' Cold, unfeeling words. 'But- but they nailed a-' 'No one touches her.' Nailed. They had spiked nails into her. Had pinned her down as she screamed, pinned her down as she roared at them, then begged them. And then they had taken out those long, brutal iron nails. And the hammer. Three of them. Three strikes of the hammer, drowned out by her screaming, by the pain. She began shaking, hating it as much as she'd hated the begging. Her body bellowed in agony, those nails in her abdomen relentless. A pale, beautiful face appeared above her, blocking out the jewel-like leaves above. Unmoved. Impassive. 'I take it you do not wish to live here, Morrigan.' She would rather die here, bleed out here. She would rather die and return- return as something wicked and cruel, and shred them all apart. He must have read it in her eyes. A small smile curved her lips. 'I thought so.' Eris straightened, turning. Her fingers curled in the leaves and loamy soil. She wished she could grow claws- grow claws as Rhys could- and rip out that pale throat. But that was not her gift. Her gift... her gift had left her here. Broken and bleeding. Eris took a step away. Someone behind him blurted, 'We can't just leave her to-' 'We can, and we will,' Eris said simply, his pace unfaltering as he strode away. 'She chose to sully herself; her family chose to deal with her like garbage. I have already told them my decision in this matter.' A long pause, crueller than the rest. 'And I am not in the habit of fucking Illyrian leftovers.' She couldn't stop it, then. The tears that slid out, hot and burning. Alone. They would leave her alone here. Her friends did not know where she had gone. She barely knew where she was. 'But-' That dissenting voice cut in again. 'Move out.' There was no dissension after that. And when their steps faded away, then vanished, the silence returned. The sun and the wind and the leaves. The blood and the iron and the soil beneath her nails. The pain.

Every nail, claw-scale and spur, every spike and welt on the hand of that heathen brute was like barbed steel.

He barely listened, clawing at his arms under his long-sleeved shirt. He hadn’t been scratching his arms for months, since he had met the Salgados, but now he couldn’t seem to stop. He concentrated on the feel of his nails raking the soft underside of his arm, peeling the skin away again and again. The pain was like an anchor, but instead of helping him stay afloat it was pulling him under. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He looked up and his reflection stared back at him, bloodless and lost. He was trying to wash away the dots of blood all over his arms, but instead stood numbly, rubbing incessantly at the lines of red. The colour looked alien within the relentless white of the school bathroom. “Damien,

I can see the whiteness of my breath a little in the kitchen air. I find a reassurance in how I can see it. I put my hand on Mrs. Tagus's fist of a hand on my cold kitchen table. The skin of the knuckles of Mrs. Tagus is drawn tight and dry, and when she unfists the first to let me comfort the hand I feel the skin crinkle like paper. Me: unfortunately also skin like paper. I look at our two hands. If my late Sandra were here with us this night I would say, to her only, things concerning oldness, coldness, trouble with stairs, paper-dry skin with brown sprinkles and yellowed nails, how it seems to Labov we get old like animals. We get claws, the shape of our face is the shape of our skull, our lips retreat back from big teeth like we're beginning to snarl. Sharp, snarling, old: who should wonder at how nobody cares if I hurt, except another snarler?

Most of them had silicone behinds that remained stiff and never jiggled. Their jaws were sunken in from starving themselves on the latest fad diet. Lips puffed out like clowns. Fake nails that stuck to their fingertips like claws. Their speech matched a gold digger’s drawl—giggling at the appropriate times and gasps of awe at any rich man’s accomplishments.

You bastard!” I yelled. I’ve never been much of a fighter before—okay, I’ve always been a big wimp, I admit it—but I jumped on the guy’s back and sank my fangs into his neck from behind. He let loose with a high-pitched wail and forgot all about Victor as he tried to dislodge me. “It bit me! It bit me!” he screamed, sounding more like a little girl than a big tough werewolf. He spun in circles until I was dizzy, trying to get me off him. I bit him again even though his blood tasted oily and disgusting on my tongue. I sank my fangs in deep and snarled in his ear. Honestly, I hardly knew myself. Where was Taylor, the shy little girl who never stood up to bullies? Where was the doormat Celeste had stepped on for so many years? She was gone. In her place was a wild woman—a woman who cared enough to fight for her man. I’m a vampire, I reminded myself as I clawed Brass Knuckles in the face, taking grim satisfaction at the feeling of my nails sinking into his flesh. I can take these bastards!

When you were trying to get away from yourself, you gravitated to the loud and obnoxious, to the extremes, to the reckless, because it forced you to scramble and hang on with your clawing nails to cliffs of your own self-invention.

Knotweed by Rosa Jamali I've turned to an annual plant, shielded and armed, from the genus of hollyhocks and broad leaves Whole five-thousand-year history is turning over my head It was the moment that you were buried with no shroud And I'm the weeds and icicles of this land, … Had been climbing over the flames, it was a black ladder, burning my sole feet It was the moment that I had chopped my heart, you had sucked my blood in that woundless bowl Had been growing like a wildflower, had been living for millions of years In Syriac over my body: Nail-shaped herbs had written some letters. I'm the genius of thorns with wounded heels of thousands of miles travelling in the oasis My blistered feet, weary and my parched lips Shattered by the mountain ranges I had been fighting with my claws My roots are extended with the fluent liquid in the vessels Lilacs had grown over my arms and now I've turned to the ivy as if burning in the fire I left my name on the land I stepped, … And who's this weeping human child, lamenting two thousand years in my arms? Still weeping? ! Always weeping? ! I've been raising this child for six thousand years I've grown this Persian hero to send him to the battlefield Breastfed him And he has grown out of my eyes This extreme light which has blinded me… (TRANSLATED From original Persian to English by the Poet)

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m a wimp. I admit it. But it hit me, just now, what a good person you are. How noble you are. You’re down-to-earth and likable. I see it everywhere you go. Me? Yeah, not so much. People fear me, even if they don’t know what I am. Those who do? Yeah, then they really fear me. “So I sit here looking at you, thinking what a wonderful person you are, and it hits me right between the eyes. I need you like I need blood to survive. I need you to survive. I didn’t believe I could fall this fast for somebody, even though I know about the mate-draw thing. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll damn sure fight to keep—” There was a blur of movement, and I found myself flat on my back, both of my arms held above my head. I stared at Remi. Whoa. “You love me? You tell me that while I am spread out and helpless?” “Um, not looking too helpless now.” “I ought to shake you senseless. No, I ought to chain you down and beat your ass, then shake you senseless. And what was that rot you were spewing about me being so good and you being so not? Do not put me up on some damn pedestal. I’m not perfect. I’m as far from perfect as I can get. I’m no better than you, you fanged fucker.” “Fanged fucker?” I snorted, then got serious. “Look, I—” Remi released my wrists and put a finger to my lips… a finger with a nice sharp claw on the end. Well, hell. I found myself looking into the brightly glowing electric-blue eyes of his cat “I love you too. I don’t care what you’ve done in your past. Also don’t care about whatever you’ve done to survive. You are all I care about. “When that asshole stabbed you, I thought I lost you. I thought I lost everything. Yes, what I feel hit me quickly, and the intensity sometimes scares me, but I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep you. I’ll also gladly kick your ass when I think you need reminding.” I hiked an eyebrow at him. “You’ll try to kick my ass.” “No, I will.” Remi rubbed his cheek against mine, then sat up. “Together we can handle anything.” I caressed that strong jawline of his. “You love me?” “I love you. In fact, I love you more.” “Not too sure of that.” My world finally settled in place around me. He was right. Together we could handle anything. “I love you too.” “Good. Now that we’ve got that straightened out, let’s go take a shower. I, ah… yeah.” Remi pulled me up off the bed. “To the shower we go.” Laughing, I followed him. I had every intention of helping him get totally and intimately clean, then taking his ass back to bed.

When you were trying to get away from yourself, you gravitated to the loud and obnoxious, to the extremes, to the reckless, because it forced you to scramble and hang on with your clawing nails to cliffs of your own self invention.

Dagenham was also the place where I hospitalised my dad for the first time while doing DIY. I was five and Dad had stupidly given me a large claw hammer to drive a nail into a piece of timber. His last words to me were, ‘When I nod my head hit it.’ He nods his head and I bludgeon him

She was just about to run out through the gates, surprised but pleased to see them open, when a man dropped to the ground right in front of her. A soft screech escaped her as she stumbled back a step, even as she frantically looked around in a vain attempt to see where he had come from. “Greetings, lass,” the man said in a deep, rough voice. “Ye probably dinnae remember me. I am Raibeart. I drove your wee bonnie cart back here after we saved ye from those thieving swine.” “Ah, weel, I thank ye. Now, if ye will just excuse me,” she tried to dart around him, but the man swiftly put himself in her path. “Now, ye dinnae really want to go out there. Tis dark, aye? Too dangerous for such a wee lass.” “Ye arenae going to let me leave, are ye?” She cursed when he shook his head. “The laird wants ye to stay here.” “I dinnae care what he wants. He isnae my laird. He isnae my kinsmon, either.” Bridget could feel panic clawing at her insides and struggled to push it aside. “I wish to go to my cousin’s and none of ye have the right to stop me.” She felt a light touch upon her shoulder. Blindly, she turned and struck out, raking her nails across the face of the man who stood behind her. As her fingernails scored soft flesh the feeling pulled her free of the tight grasp fear had upon her. She looked in horror at the bloody furrows she had left upon Jankyn’s cheek. He touched a hand to the cuts as he stared at her, his gaze holding more intense consideration than shock. Mumbling a heartfelt apology, Bridget pulled a square of daintily embroidered linen from a pocket in the lining of her cloak. However, by the time she reached toward Jankyn, intending to clean the blood from his wounds, there was no need for such care. “Your wounds appear to be closing,” she whispered. “Aye. They were only shallow cuts,” he said. “Ye have verra sharp nails, lass.” Keeping his gaze fixed upon her face, he slowly licked the blood from his fingers. “Oh, it needed only that.” Bridget closed her eyes, took a deep breath to calm herself, then scowled at Jankyn. “That was a strange thing to do, lass,” murmured Raibeart as he moved to stand beside her. It was, but Bridget would never admit it. “Nay, it wasnae. I felt a touch and thought I was in danger. Jankyn also crept up behind me when I was feeling agitated.” She abruptly made a dash for the gate, not surprised when both men quickly appeared to block her way. “That could become verra annoying.” “E’en

Expressive speech does not simply choose a sign for an already defined signification, as one goes to look for a hammer in order to drive a nail or for a claw to pull it out. It gropes around a significative intention which is not guided by any text, and which is precisely in the process of writing the text. If we want to do justice to expressive speech, we must evoke some of the other expressions which might have taken its place and were rejected, and we must feel the way in which they might have touched and shaken the chain of language in another manner and the extent to which this particular expression was really the only possible one if that signification was to come into the world. In short, we must consider speech before it is spoken, the background of silence which does not cease to surround it and without which it would say nothing. Or to put the matter another way, we must uncover the threads of silence that speech is mixed together with.

There was a gate, and eternity lay beyond its black archway. But not for her. No, there would be no Afterworld for her. The gods had built another coffin, this time crafting it of that dark, glimmering stone. Stone her fire could never melt. Never pierce. The only way to escape was to become it—dissolve into it like sea-foam on a beach. Every breath was thinner than the previous one. They had not put any holes in this coffin. Beyond her confines, she knew a second coffin sat beside hers. Knew, because the muffled screams within still reached her here. Two princesses, one golden and one silver. One young and one ancient. Both the cost of sealing that gate to eternity. The air would run out soon. She’d already lost too much of it in her frantic clawing at the stone. Her fingertips pulsed where she’d broken nails and skin. Those female screams became quieter. She should accept it, embrace it. Only when she did would the lid open. The air was so hot, so precious. She could not get out, could not get out—