Drip Is Forever Quotes

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I can talk to fish!" Angel said happily, water dripping off her long, skinny body. "Ask one over for dinner," Fang said, joining us.
James Patterson (School's Out—Forever (Maximum Ride, #2))
The other Max looked at me, and her eyes narrowed. 'They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,' she said snidely. 'So I guess you're really sucking up.' 'Who are you?' I gasped, my eyes wide. 'You're an impostor!' 'No she isn't.' The little creepy one, Angel, turned to look at me. Her arm was still bleeding where Ari had bitten it. 'You are.' I swallowed my anger. Who did she think she was, her and her stupid dog? I gave a concerned smile. 'But Angel,' I said, sincerity dripping from my voice, 'how can you say that? You know who I am.' 'I think I'm Angel,' she said. 'And my dog isn't stupid. You're the stupid one, to think that you could fool us. I can read minds, you idiot.
James Patterson (School's Out—Forever (Maximum Ride, #2))
The hunt isn't sustaining me. It's flowing blood that I really crave. The sweet taste of red succulent liquid mixing with the salt of my beloved as it drips and dances on his flesh. To know that someone will ache for me as much as I hunger for him and eternally satiate each other. I want someone to satisfy my hunger forever.
Ellen Schreiber (Vampireville (Vampire Kisses, #3))
Addie, please." More tears dripped down her cheeks. "Don't be so hard." "Oh, please," I muttered...and that was as far as I got. 'You broke my heart' were the words that had risen to my mouth, but I couldn't say them. That was what you said to a boyfriend, a lover, not your best friend. She'd laugh. And I'd had enough of being laughed at. I'd worked hard to get to a place where it didn't happen anymore, where I didn't move through life like a walking target, where it was just me and my paints and brushes and my big empty bed every night. "You weren't a good friend," I said instead.
Jennifer Weiner (Best Friends Forever)
First, picture the forest. I want you to be its conscience, the eyes in the trees. The trees are columns of slick, brindled bark like muscular animals overgrown beyond all reason. Every space is filled with life: delicate, poisonous frogs war-painted like skeletons, clutched in copulation, secreting their precious eggs onto dripping leaves. Vines strangling their own kin in the everlasting wrestle for sunlight. The breathing of monkeys. A glide of snake belly on branch. A single-file army of ants biting a mammoth tree into uniform grains and hauling it down to the dark for their ravenous queen. And, in reply, a choir of seedlings arching their necks out of rotted tree stumps, sucking life out of death. This forest eats itself and lives forever.
Barbara Kingsolver (The Poisonwood Bible)
I'm not asking you for forever, Red," he murmured in that deep, husky voice that all but dripped sex. "But you'll give it to me anyway.
Tate James (Anarchy (Hades, #2))
Beehive" Within this black hive to-night There swarm a million bees; Bees passing in and out the moon, Bees escaping out the moon, Bees returning through the moon, Silver bees intently buzzing, Silver honey dripping from the swarm of bees. Earth is a waxen cell of the world comb, And I, a drone, Lying on my back, Lipping honey, Getting drunk with silver honey, Wish that I might fly out past the moon And curl forever in some far-off farmyard flower.
Jean Toomer
O’er the ache of mauve shores erotic winds billow long & deep … Her scent drips from the sky onto bare skin, bejeweling my senses — like a tapestry of blushing petals besieged in rhythms of passion. Whispers of untamed rapture beckons my lips as I descend into her gaze, unto the sea of bliss where I shall forever drown.
Arthur Crow
Eat your cadence Drip my head down your chin It’s so much more comfortable To watch the sun fall into the ocean Orange County license plates Say things that make no sense You are beautiful projected against purple You are everything wrapped in orange Yeah when you talk you lick my heart I taste you when I breathe The moon is a fingernail on the floor Your shadow goes to sleep with mine I love you forever and ever and Ever
Joshua Espinoza
The only furniture in the dank space was a flimsy cot. Water dripped steadily in one corner. A hole in the floor appeared to serve as a latrine. What most caught Kendra's eye were the messages scratched on the wall. She roamed the cell, reading the crudely inscribed phrases. "Seth rules! Welcome to Seth's House. Seth rocks! Seth was here. Now it's your turn. Seth Sorenson forever. Enjoy the food! If you're reading this, you can read. All roads lead to Seth. Is it still dripping? Seth haunts these halls. You're in a Turkish prison! Seth is the man! Use the meal mats as toilet paper." And so forth. Cold, hopeless, and alone, Kendra found herself giggling at the messages her brother had scrawled. He must have been so bored!
Brandon Mull (Keys to the Demon Prison (Fablehaven, #5))
The rain set early in tonight, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last l knew Porphyria worshiped me: surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string l wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And l untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said aword!
Robert Browning (Robert Browning's Poetry)
I want to fill you up,” I mumble against her mouth. “I want you so full of my cum, it drips out of you forever.” “Garrett,” she whimpers as I kiss her again. “I want to fuck you whenever I want and I want you to take that fucking IUD out so I can really pump you full, Mia.
Sara Cate (Eyes on Me (Salacious Players Club, #2))
Oh, God, I would give anything to change the past,” he gasped. “To make it so that the last thing you saw was not me walking away from you. In your memories I am forever one and twenty, and cocky, and sneering, and looking self-righteous. And I’ve changed, Beth,” he gasped, choking on a sob he could not hide. “I want so damn much for you to see how I’ve changed. To see me now. There are no lies in my eyes. No motives other than to show you that I am not the callous man I was. And that I love you…. I love you so damn much.” He was crying. The tears trickled unchecked down his cheeks, dripping onto his lips. She touched them, wiped them away, which only caused them to spill faster and harder.
Charlotte Featherstone (Temptation & Twilight (The Brethren Guardians, #3))
I'm walking walking walking to where the sun is setting. I'm looking at it and wanting to catch it in my hand and to be squeezing until color are dripping out from it forever. That way everywhere it is always dark and nobody is ever having to see any of the terrible thing that is happening in this world.
Uzodinma Iweala (Beasts of No Nation)
What she had forever seen as her calling -- this living apart and serving the greater good -- now felt more a curse. Her life had been taken from her. Squeezed into pulp. The juice of her efforts and sacrificed years had dripped down through a silo that, just forty levels below her, hardly knew and barely cared.
Hugh Howey (Proper Gauge (Wool, #2))
I watch the coffee drip, thinking of not just how fleeting time is but how the truly magical moments in our lives are the simplest, and how we let them pass without a thought. We foolishly believe that somehow they will all last forever, that destiny will not show up at our door unannounced and knock when we least expect it.
Viola Shipman (The Secret of Snow)
If only I could wipe out this me who's here, right here and right now. I seriously consider it. In this thick wall of trees, on this path that's not a path, if I stopped breathing, my consciousness would silently be buried in the darkness, every last drop of my dark violent blood dripping out, my DNA rotting among the weeds. Then my battle would be over. Otherwise, I'll eternally be murdering my father, violating my mother, violating my sister, lashing out at the world forever. I close my eyes and try to find my center.  
Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)
I think it was this: like most of us, he was carrying a misery in his soul. I don't say it to forgive what he done, [sic] only to say it as true as I can. He was a wrong-minded man, but inside- I swear this is true- he was always that little boy eating that fried-egg sandwich in that dark hallway while the steam pipe dripped water on his head. I don't ask you to excuse him, only to understand that there's people who don't have what others do, and sometimes they get hurtful in their hearts, and they puff themselves up and try all sorts of schemes to level the ground- to get the bricks and joints all plumb, Ray used to say. They take wrong turns, hit dead ends, and sometimes they never make their way back. ~Clare
Lee Martin (The Bright Forever)
Dread begins to inch in. No. Dread isn't one of those subtle emotions. It moves in and takes over, and then it drips and hands, like Spanish moss.
Deb Caletti (The Last Forever)
a smile in which malice tried to pass as friendly intent, in which amusement was in fact dripping venom.
Dean Koontz (Forever Odd (Odd Thomas, #2))
We danced forever, and not nearly long enough. Now that I faced him, I could touch him, too, rather than self-consciously drip through his fingers. I explored his back, fingertips discovering ridges of his spine, muscles, a place below his left shoulder blade that made him writhe, as if struggling not to laugh. I tickled him again, devouring the sensation of his chest against my cheek.
Jodi Meadows (Incarnate (Newsoul, #1))
People are always talking about it being their duty to find their way to their fellow men — to their neighbour, as they are forever saying with all the baseness of false sentiment — when in fact it is purely and simply a question of finding their way to themselves. Let each first find his way to himself! And since hardly anyone has yet found his way to himself, it is inconceivable that any of these unfortunate millions has ever found his way to another human being — or to his neighbour, as they say, dripping with self-deception.
Thomas Bernhard (Concrete)
Contemplating while barefoot on the grounds my father and grandfather walked, I saw my life clearly. With African sun nibbling on my dark skin and gentle winds soothing my foreboding, my past life and current responsibilities overwhelmed me occasionally. Abundant tears flowed freely. Dripping on my face and clothes. Travelling through the ancient roads created by my forefathers, grasslands, trees and anthills kept me company. A lonely journey. I knew that nothing remains the same, but ones past never changes. Even in the loneliness of my past, I accepted that you cannot effectively go forward without knowing how and where you started your journey. Even in that state of near dejection I was aware that my sojourn in foreign lands is not forever, but my lording of this beautiful land, my own Africa, where my spent body will finally rest someday, is for eternity. Nothing remains the same, but nothing ever changes. It depends on how you look at your life.
Fidelis O. Mkparu
Thinking back, ladies, looking back, gentlemen, thinking and looking back on my European tour, I feel a heavy sadness descend upon me. Of course, it is partly nostalgia, looking back at that younger me, bustling around Europe, having adventures and overcoming obstacles that, at the time, seemed so overwhelming, but now seem like just the building blocks of a harmless story. But here is the truth of nostalgia: we don’t feel it for who we were, but who we weren’t. We feel it for all the possibilities that were open to us, but that we didn’t take. Time is like wax, dripping from a candle flame. In the moment, it is molten and falling, with the capability to transform into any shape. Then the moment passes, and the wax hits the table top and solidifies into the shape it will always be. It becomes the past, a solid single record of what happened, still holding in its wild curves and contours the potential of every shape it could have held. It is impossible - no matter how blessed you are by luck or the government or some remote, invisible deity gently steering your life with hands made of moonlight and wind - it is impossible not to feel a little sad, looking at that bit of wax. That bit of the past. It is impossible not to think of all the wild forms that wax now will never take. The village, glimpsed from a train window, beautiful and impossible and impossibly beautiful on a mountaintop, and you wonder what it would be if you stepped off the train and walked up the trail to its quiet streets and lived there for the rest of your life. The beautiful face of that young man from Luftknarp, with his gaping mouth and ashy skin, last seen already half-turned away as you boarded the bus, already turning towards a future without you in it, where this thing between you that seemed so possible now already and forever never was. All variety of lost opportunity spied from the windows of public transportation, really. It can be overwhelming, this splattered, inert wax recording every turn not taken. ‘What’s the point?’ you ask. ’Why bother?’ you say. ’Oh, Cecil,’ you cry. ’Oh, Cecil.’ But then you remember - I remember! - that we are even now in another bit of molten wax. We are in a moment that is still falling, still volatile, and we will never be anywhere else. We will always be in that most dangerous, most exciting, most possible time of all: the Now. Where we never can know what shape the next moment will take. Stay tuned next for, well, let’s just find out together, shall we?
Cecil Baldwin
Down the pool they went until finally they were bunched and crowded against the end. And the feet and wildly plunging bodies followed them. A few frogs lost their heads and floundered among the feet and got through and these were saved. But the majority decided to leave this pool forever, to find a new home in a new country where this kind of thing didn’t happen. A wave of frantic, frustrated frogs, big ones, little ones, brown ones, green ones, men frogs and women frogs, a wave of them broke over the bank, crawled, leaped, scrambled. They clambered up the grass, they dutched at each other, little ones rode on big ones, And then — horror on horror — the flashlights found them. Two men gathered them like berries. The line came out of the water and closed in on their rear and gathered them like potatoes. Tens and fifties of them were flung into the gunny sacks, and the sacks filled with tired, frightened, and disillusioned frogs, with dripping whimpering frogs. Some got away, of course, and some had been saved in the pool. But never in frog history had such an execution taken place.
John Steinbeck (Cannery Row (Cannery Row, #1))
Just say it, she thought. Say what everyone in this bunker is thinking. Say what we all know to be true. The truth that we are all going to die down here, and death is the end. Nobody wakes up to a heaven or paradise. Your life will be gone. You will be gone. Forever. Uncover the truth. Tear off the bandages of delusion. Open your hearts and minds to the real world. We were doomed the day we were born. We lived and we will die and the only immortals are the people who did something worth remembering while they lived. My genetics are prime. I am pleasing to the eyes of man and machine. A dripping fountain of pleasure. Their organic sanctuary. And in time? Aging. Fading. Graying. What am I? Who am I? What makes me human? Emotions? My conscience? The soul is an old testament myth. No one shall ascend anywhere except into annihilation. The dust of earth and stars are the only eternals, she said.
C.J. Anderson (Enter Ruinland (Ruinland #1))
There was a knock on the bedroom door and Romeo stiffened. “What!” he yelled. “I hope no one’s naked, ‘cause I’m coming in!” Braeden hollered. A few seconds later, the door opened and he stepped inside. One of his hands covered his eyes. “Is it safe?” he asked. I giggled. “Is that a no for tacos?” Romeo shook his head and rolled his eyes. “We’re dressed, man.” Braeden dropped the hand over his eyes and he zeroed in on me. It took everything in me not to shrink back from embarrassment. He came across the carpeting and held out my glasses. “Here,” he said. “I figured you might need these.” Ah, that explained why everything still looked so blurry. I slid them on and smiled as my sight adjusted back to normal. I noticed Braeden was soaking wet. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “You have to be freezing!” I rushed around the room, pulling out clothes and socks and tossing them at Braeden’s feet. “Here! Put this stuff on.” “She’s giving away your clothes, man,” Braeden said to Romeo. “Chicks.” He sighed. Braeden shook his head. “You’re dripping on the carpet!” I reminded him. He laughed and went in the bathroom to get dressed. “Just leave your clothes with ours. I’ll wash them for you,” I yelled through the door. He laughed. “Laundry service? Damn! I’m moving in.” Romeo shook his head. I yawned. This entire day was catching up to me. Romeo frowned. “I’ll make everyone leave…” He began. “No!” I exclaimed. “This is your victory party! Go enjoy it. I’ll stay here.” He seemed torn on what to do. Braeden came out wearing Romeo’s clothes (they fit him pretty well) and ran his eyes over me in concern. “You okay?” I nodded. “Did you jump in the pool to get my glasses?” He nodded. “Actually, he jumped in the pool right after I did. In case I needed help towing you out.” Romeo corrected. I glanced at Braeden for confirmation. He shrugged. “What kind of brother would I be if I let you drown?” Without thought, I walked over and wrapped my arms around him. He seemed a little taken aback by my display of affection, but after a minute, he hugged me back. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Anytime, tutor girl.” His voice was soft and his arms tightened around me just slightly. For all his witty humor, sarcastic one-liners, and jokes, Braeden was a really good guy. “We need to teach you to swim.” He observed. I shuddered. “I know how to swim.” “Well, you sank to the bottom like an anchor,” he grumbled.
Cambria Hebert (#Hater (Hashtag, #2))
That was your forest. Where you hunted.” He came closer to the painting, gazing at the bleak, empty cold, the white and gray and brown and black. “This was your life,” he clarified. I was too mortified, too stunned, to reply. He walked to the next painting I’d left against the wall. Darkness and dense brown, flickers of ruby red and orange squeezing out between them. “Your cottage at night.” I tried to move, to tell him to stop looking at those ones and look at the others I’d laid out, but I couldn’t—couldn’t even breathe properly as he moved to the next painting. A tanned, sturdy male hand fisted in the hay, the pale pieces of it entwined among strands of brown coated with gold—my hair. My gut twisted. “The man you used to see—in your village.” He cocked his head again as he studied the picture, and a low growl slipped out. “While you made love.” He stepped back, looking at the row of pictures. “This is the only one with any brightness." Was that … jealousy? “It was the only escape I had.” Truth. I wouldn’t apologize for Isaac. Not when Tamlin had just been in the Great Rite. I didn’t hold that against him—but if he was going to be jealous of Isaac— Tamlin must have realized it, too, for he loosed a long, controlled breath before moving to the next painting. Tall shadows of men, bright red dripping off their fists, off their wooden clubs, hovering and filling the edges of the painting as they towered over the curled figure on the floor, the blood leaking from him, the leg at a wrong angle. Tamlin swore. “You were there when they wrecked your father’s leg.” “Someone had to beg them to stop.” Tamlin threw a too-knowing glance in my direction and turned to look at the rest of the paintings. There they were, all the wounds I’d slowly been leeching these few months. I blinked. A few months. Did my family believe that I would be forever away with this so-called dying aunt? At last, Tamlin looked at the painting of the glen and the starlight. He nodded in appreciation. But he pointed to the painting of the snow-veiled woods. “That one. I want that one.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
He renders himself so flat that many people pass by every day without ever seeing him. He does still have something of a voice left, true, and uses it to draw attention; but it is no different from a noise in a lamp or a stove, or the odd irregular dripping of water in a cave. And the world is so ordered that there are people who are forever passing by, their whole lives long, in that interval when he moves on, making less of a sound than anything else that moves, like the hand of a clock, like the shadow of the hand of a clock, like time itself.
Rainer Maria Rilke (The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge)
Now, in her satisfied exhaustion, with her hand resting on the white linen tablecloth, the touch of Ivan's fingertips, the candle dripping a slow thread of wax down its side, the glossy lid of the closed piano, Margaret feels that she can perceive the miraculous beauty of life itself, lived only once and then gone forever, the bloom of a perfect and impermanent flower, never to be retrieved. This is life, the experience, this is all there has ever been. To force this moment into contact with her ordinary existence only seems to reveal how constricting, how misshapen her ideas of life have been before.
Sally Rooney (Intermezzo)
The law of the LORD is perfect, [3]         reviving the soul;     the testimony of the LORD is sure,         making wise the simple;     8 the precepts of the LORD are right,         rejoicing the heart;     the commandment of the LORD is pure,         enlightening the eyes;     9 the fear of the LORD is clean,         enduring forever;     the rules [4] of the LORD are true,         and righteous altogether.     10 More to be desired are they than gold,         even much fine gold;     sweeter also than honey         and drippings of the honeycomb.     11 Moreover, by them is your servant warned;         in keeping them there is great reward.
Anonymous (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version (without Cross-References))
What rending pains were close at hand! Death! and what a death! worse than any other that is to be named! Water, be it cold or warm, that which buoys up blue icefields, or which bathes tropical coasts with currents of balmy bliss, is yet a gentle conqueror, kisses as it kills, and draws you down gently through darkening fathoms to its heart. Death at the sword is the festival of trumpet and bugle and banner, with glory ringing out around you and distant hearts thrilling through yours. No gnawing disease can bring such hideous end as this; for that is a fiend bred of your own flesh, and this — is it a fiend, this living lump of appetites? What dread comes with the thought of perishing in flames! but fire, let it leap and hiss never so hotly, is something too remote, too alien, to inspire us with such loathly horror as a wild beast; if it have a life, that life is too utterly beyond our comprehension. Fire is not half ourselves; as it devours, arouses neither hatred nor disgust; is not to be known by the strength of our lower natures let loose; does not drip our blood into our faces with foaming chaps, nor mouth nor slaver above us with vitality. Let us be ended by fire, and we are ashes, for the winds to bear, the leaves to cover; let us be ended by wild beasts, and the base, cursed thing howls with us forever through the forest.
Harriet Prescott Spofford
The first person in my line seemed to anticipate a fight. She brazenly looked at me and the big cross on my shirt and said, “I’m a witch.” I believed her. She was dressed in layers upon layers of black, with sleeves kind of coming to dripping points. There was a big pentagram on her chest. I smiled and asked her, “Would you like for me to pray for you?” She sort of raised her eyebrows and repeated, “But I’m a witch.” “I would love to pray for you,” I told her. She looked at me, puzzled this time. “You’re not afraid?” I had to smile again. “No.” She asked me again, “You’re not afraid at all?” “No, no,” I told her. “I love to pray for witches. As a matter of fact, I’ve been asking the Lord to send some witches my way so I could pray for them.
Robby Dawkins (Do What Jesus Did: A Real-Life Field Guide to Healing the Sick, Routing Demons and Changing Lives Forever)
He must have seen me out of the corner of his eye. He turned and grinned at me, and it was Joe, but it was Joe. So naturally, that's when I walked into the side of the house. The tomatoes in my hand crushed aghainst me. My head hit the wood siding and I thought, Oh shit. I stepped back from the house. Bits of tomato fell onto the grass/ Dammit. I felt my face flushing as I looked back at the Bennett brothers. They all stood there, watching me with a concerned expression on their faces/ "What the hell?" Carter asked. "You know there is a house there right? It's been there. Pretty much forever." "Uh," I said, my voice dripping lower. I could even stop it. " Hey. Guys. What's up? Just ...picking tomat3es." I crossed my arms over my chest and got tomato on the,. I went to lean against the house, but I was farther away tha n I thought and fell into the house." "What is even happening right now? Kelly asked.
T.J. Klune (Wolfsong (Green Creek, #1))
Years ago, when I used to wander of an evening from the fireside to the pleasant land of fairy-tales, I met a doughty knight and true. Many dangers had he overcome, in many lands had been; and all men knew him for a brave and well-tried knight, and one that knew not fear; except, maybe, upon such seasons when even a brave man might feel afraid and yet not be ashamed. Now, as this knight one day was pricking wearily along a toilsome road, his heart misgave him and was sore within him because of the trouble of the way. Rocks, dark and of a monstrous size, hung high above his head, and like enough it seemed unto the knight that they should fall and he lie low beneath them. Chasms there were on either side, and darksome caves wherein fierce robbers lived, and dragons, very terrible, whose jaws dripped blood. And upon the road there hung a darkness as of night. So it came over that good knight that he would no more press forward, but seek another road, less grievously beset with difficulty unto his gentle steed. But when in haste he turned and looked behind, much marveled our brave knight, for lo! of all the way that he had ridden there was naught for eye to see; but at his horse’s heels there yawned a mighty gulf, whereof no man might ever spy the bottom, so deep was that same gulf. Then when Sir Ghelent saw that of going back there was none, he prayed to good Saint Cuthbert, and setting spurs into his steed rode forward bravely and most joyously. And naught harmed him. There is no returning on the road of life. The frail bridge of time on which we tread sinks back into eternity at every step we take. The past is gone from us forever. It is gathered in and garnered.
Jerome K. Jerome (Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow (Illustrated Edition))
You can’t do that again, Josie. I don’t want you to take care of me. I know you did it because you do care….but don’t take my pride from me.” “Is pride more important than friendship?” I said sadly. “Yes!” Samuel’s voice was harsh and emphatic. “That is so ridiculous!” I threw my arms wide in frustration. “Josie! You are just a little girl! You don’t know how helpless and weak and stupid it made me feel to stand there while you arranged my life like I was some kind of charity case!” Samuel fisted his hands in his hair and growling, turned towards the door. “I am not a little girl! I haven’t been a little girl for years…forever! I don’t think like a little girl, I don’t act like a little girl. I don’t LOOK like a little girl, do I? Don’t you dare say I am a little girl!” I pounded down on the piano keys - playing a violent riff, reminiscent of Wagner himself. Now I knew what Sonja meant by letting out the beast! I wanted to throw something, or smash something, and scream at Samuel. He was so impossible! Such a stubborn, mule-headed jerk! I played hard for several minutes, and Samuel stood at the door, dumbfounded. Suddenly Samuel sat down beside me on the piano bench and put his hands over the top of mine, bringing the din to a halt. “I’m sorry, Josie,” Samuel said softly. I was crying, tears dripping down onto the keys, making them slippery. I was a terrible beast, not fierce at all - just a blubbering baby beast. Samuel seemed at a loss. He sat very still, his hands covering mine. Slowly, his hands rose to my face and gently wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Will you play something else?” He requested softly, his voice remorseful. “Will you play something for me....please?
Amy Harmon (Running Barefoot)
A long time ago, I collected the flower petals stained with my first blood; I thought there was something significant about that, there was importance in all the little moments of experience, because when you live forever, the first times matter. The first time you bleed, first time you cry — I don’t remember that — first time you see your wings, because new things defile you, purity chips away. your purity. nestled flowers in your belly, waiting to be picked. do you want innocence back? small and young smiles that make your eyes squint and cheeks flare the feeling of your face dripping down onto the grass, the painted walls you tore down, the roads you chipped away, they’ll eat away at you, the lingering feelings of a warm hand on your waist, the taps of your feet as you dance, the beats of your timbrel.’ ‘and now you are like Gods, sparkling brilliant with jewelry that worships you, and you’re splitting in order to create.’ ‘The tosses of your wet hair, the rushes of chariots speeding past, the holy, holy, holy lord god of hosts, the sweetness of a strawberry, knocks against the window by your head, the little tunes of your pipes, the cuts sliced into your fingers by uptight cacti fruits, the brisk scent of a sea crashing into the rocks, the sweat of wrestling, onions, cumin, parsley in a metal jug, mud clinging to your skin, a friendly mouth on your cheeks and forehead, chimes, chirps of chatter in the bazaar, amen, amen, amen, the plump fish rushing to take the bread you toss, scraping of a carpenter, the hiss of chalk, the wisps of clouds cradling you as you nap, the splashes of water in a hot pool, the picnic in a meadow, the pounding of feet that are chasing you, the velvet of petals rustling you awake, a giant water lily beneath you, the innocent kiss, the sprawl of the universe reflected in your eyes for the first time, the bloody wings that shred out of your back, the apples in orchards, a basket of stained flowers, excited chants of a colosseum audience, the heat of spinning and bouncing to drums and claps, the love braided into your hair, the trickles of a piano, smell of myrrh, the scratches of a spoon in a cup, the coarseness of a carpet, the stringed instruments and trumpets, the serene smile of not knowing, the sleeping angel, the delight of a creator, the amusement of gossip and rumors, the rumbling laughter between shy singing, the tangling of legs, squash, celery, carrot, and chayote, the swirled face paint, the warmth of honey in your tea, the timid face in the mirror, mahogany beams, the embrace of a bed of flowers, the taste of a grape as its fed to you, the lip smacks of an angel as you feed him a raspberry, the first dizziness of alcohol, the cool water and scent of natron and the scratch of the rock you beat your dirty clothes against, the strain of your arms, the columns of an entrance, the high ceilings of a dark cathedral, the boiling surface of bubbling stew, the burn of stained-glass, the little joyous jump you do seeing bread rise, the silky taste of olive oil, the lap of an angel humming as he embroiders a little fox into his tunic, the softness of browned feathers lulling you to sleep, the weight of a dozen blankets and pillows on your small bed, the proud smile on the other side of a window in a newly-finished building, the myrtle trees only you two know about, the palm of god as he fashions you from threads of copper, his praises, his love, his kiss to your hair, your father.
Rafael Nicolás (Angels Before Man)
Geraldine nodded and headed for Mrs. Armstrong's lawn. I felt sorry for her in her carrot pajamas, having no idea what was really going on. I followed the other girls and stood behind the shrubs. Mrs. Armstrong's house was ginormous. Her house was even bigger than Aunt Jeanie's. There was one light on upstairs. I figured that was the bedroom. The rest of the house was dark. Geraldine went to the far end of the yard and removed a can of spray paint from the bag. She shook it and began to spray. "She's such an idiot," Ava said, taking out her phone to record Geraldine's act of vandalism. "You guys are going to get her into so much trouble," I said. "So what?" Hannah replied. "She got us in trouble at the soup kitchen, it's not like she's ever going to become a Silver Rose anyway. She's totally wasting her time." Geraldine slowly made her way up and down the huge yard carefully spraying the grass. It would take her forever to complete it and there wasn't nearly enough spray paint. "Hey, guys!" Geraldine yelled from across the lawn. "How about I spray a rose in the grass? That would be cool, right?" I cringed. The light on upstairs meant the Armstrongs were still awake. Geraldine was about to get us all caught. "O-M-G," Hannah moaned. "Shhhh," Summer hissed, but Geraldine kept screaming at the top of her lungs. "Well, what do you guys think?" My heart dropped into my stomach as a light from downstairs clicked on. We ducked behind the hedges and froze. "Who's out there?" called a man's voice. I couldn't see him and I couldn't see Geraldine. I heard the door close and I peeked over the hedges. "He went back inside," I whispered, ducking back down. At that moment something went shk-shk-shk and Geraldine screamed. We all stood to see what was happening. Someone had turned the sprinklers on and Geraldine was getting soaked. The door flew open and I heard Mrs. Armstrong's voice followed by a dog's vicious barking. "Get 'em, Killer!" "Killer!" Ava screamed and we all took off running down the street with a soggy Geraldine trailing behind us. I was faster than all the other girls. I had no intentions of being gobbled up by a dog named Killer. We stopped running when we got to Ava's street and Killer was nowhere in sight. We walked back to the house at a normal pace. "So, did I prove myself to the sisterhood?" Geraldine asked. Hannah turned to her. "Are you kidding me? Your yelling woke them up, you moron. We got chased down the street by a dog because of you." Geraldine frowned and looked down at the ground. Hopefully what I had told her before about the girls not being her friends was starting to settle in. Inside all the other girls wanted to know what had happened. Ava was giving them the gory details when a knock on the door interrupted her. It was Mrs. Armstrong. She had on a black bathrobe and her hair was in curlers. I chuckled to myself because I was used to seeing her look absolutely perfect. We all sat on our sleeping bags looking as innocent as possible except for Geraldine who still stood awkwardly by the door, dripping wet. Mrs. Armstrong cleared her throat. "Someone has just vandalized my lawn with spray paint. Silver spray paint. Since I know it's a tradition for the Silver Roses to pull a prank on me on the night of the retreat, I'm going to assume it was one of you. More specifically, the one who's soaking wet right now." All eyes went to Geraldine. She looked at the ground and said nothing. What could she possibly say to defend herself? She even had silver spray paint on her fingers. Mrs. Armstrong looked her up and down. "Young lady, this is your second strike and that's two strikes too many. Your bid to become a Junior Silver Rose is for the second time hereby revoked." Geraldine's shoulders drooped, but most of the girls were smirking. This had been their plan all along and they had accomplished it.
Tiffany Nicole Smith (Bex Carter 1: Aunt Jeanie's Revenge (The Bex Carter Series))
Lily understood this feeling too; she knew it all too well, it is just one more thing that just keeps things building up and building up, until the end. I never realized at the time how bad the situation would become until I went through it myself. There is no meaning behind it, which is what gets me. Am I the only one or are there more girls in this hellhole like me, which I do not know about, maybe there is? The bullies harass, it is like they smell their victims or maybe they can smell and taste the blood dripping down from the gash, which they have caused from before, and then it is like you are a wounded animal on Serengeti they come in packs. Until you have nothing- nothing left… they lick up what is left of your body time and time over, afterward you have to get up and go on with the day, knowing that you have a decision to make. What decision would you make? I know what decision I will make! Like most people my age, I do not drink and drug my brain cells away. I am not senseless or slutty, ‘I feel that being romantic is not dead, and it does exist. You just need to be with the right people, which can show you what real expressions of love are!’ So, are you like me by believing that nothing will ever destroy hope or dreams? On the other hand, are you someone like the clan? Are you going to be praised in the eyes of the fire, or the eyes of the clouds? Just like fallen angels, the ones that have fear of not standing up for what is righteous. Why, because it is more fashionable to live a life of turpitude. If someone has the light of hope, someone is going to want to dampen the affection. Just like me- when you are single for too long people start thinking, that you are either committed to yourself or that you are a little bit crazy or gay etcetera. I know this… I am not crazy or gay or whatever is said; I just have someone that blocks me out constantly while destroying my reputation. Just think about it. All of you have grown up with the roomers, your parents believed those parents, I do not have parents to fight for me, and the rest is history. So, what she and her clan said becomes known, and that is what was implied to my image. Is it true? Hell no, start thinking for yourself people. Just because someone says, something about someone else does not mean that it is factual. Oh, I have tried to fix it… However, it is out of my control, little do you all know that the tower is what prevents everything from happening. It is not my choice; she knew that I was going to be the empress; instead, she made me out to be the fool. She knew that I was one of the brightest stars in the land, and she had to bring that to an end, that was the beginning of the end of holding anyone's hands anymore within the land. The friends and romances were in the retrograde I was dubbed unreachable, she made me a forbidden selection. I had no choice but to become the hermit in the dwelling of lost and lonely dreams. To look on the bright side, all this has made me a stronger, better, more creative productive person. You cannot stop me now; I will forever shine, and guide others so that they can shine as well. Remember you are the ones listening to slandering voices. My question is why do you listen? Get to know me, and then make your judgments. Yes, it is hard for me to even get things going because the eyes are always watching, and no I am not being paranoid this is part of my true reality. Sure, the opportunity might come knocking down my door, but can you trust them, is it a setup?
Marcel Ray Duriez (Nevaeh The Lusting Sapphire Blue Eyes)
As he sat up, he heard soft dripping sounds from the bathroom, little plips like water slipping over the edges of the tub and into the floor. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he realized where he‟d last heard that sound. His muscles tight with strain from his earlier exertions, he stood and walked warily toward the half open bathroom door and the tub beyond it. Slipping quietly past the door, he saw that the curtain was drawn, and again the shadowed figure lay behind it. One long, slim, leg dangled from the end of the tub, beads of water gliding down its length and off the polished toes. At the other end he saw a mass of auburn curls, matted deep red near the porcelain of the tub. It was the dream and the vision again, more real now, too strong to deny. Shaking, he moved toward the curtain, gagging on the sickly smell of rust and roses, feeling the thin nylon glide between thumb and palm as he pulled it back to reveal his darkest nightmare and deepest regret. He could see the crimson water now, blood bubbles gliding over its surface and clinging to the legs dangling over the tub‟s edge. When he‟d pulled the curtain completely away from the tub and around to its opposite side, he saw her face. Her eyes were closed and he saw that her lids were bruised and purple against the translucent paleness of her face, drained completely dead white under the makeup she‟d brushed on before she‟d died. Staggering by the sight of her, he knelt by the tub and extended one shaking hand to touch her cheek. It all seemed as if he‟d walked into a horror film and once again he needed to prove to his mind that this wasn‟t real. His hand shook as he lifted it nearer to her flesh, waiting for the corpse, the supposedly dead and buried to move. He touched his quivering fingers to her face, feeling its claylike reality. The sensation caused an immediate shudder of revulsion and he fought not to vomit. Even as the moment came, the sight of her moving in the water startled him and he jumped away from the tub. It wasn‟t an obvious movement at first, only soft breaths moving in and out of her nostrils, but then her chest rose and fell with it and he quaked, feeling unstable where he knelt on the floor. Her eyes opened next and he felt the blood fall out of his face, wanting to scream but too afraid he would cause her to take some action, to reach out and touch him, proving well and forever that he was indeed insane. Scream and you might as well slit your own throat. He swallowed the scream like a rock and stared as her eyes moved slowly in their sockets, locking on him. Slowly, as if she‟d lost control of her muscles, she rose from the tub and looked down at him, smiling. Blood water slid down her bare body, over her neck, down her back and the smooth ridges of her breasts, to slip slowly down her thighs and down over her calves. A puddle spread on the floor, and as it extended toward him he struggled to his feet, skittering away from it. As he watched it spread, he shivered, weak as he started to cry frantic, horrified tears. Breaking down, he looked back up at her face and slipped to the floor once more, his knees incapable of sustaining his own weight. The smile grew wider as she strode to his shivering form, thrown on his side and struggling to rise. The blood water seeped into his clothes, making him sick, a drop of it trickling along the lobe of his ear and into it. And then she leaned down, holding those dim, stained curls of auburn out of her face and tucking them behind her ear. Her lips parted, blue beneath the strong crimson red of her lipstick, and she spoke into his ear with the chill breath of the dead. His eyes grew wide and horrified as she spoke, the hair on his neck rising, sending a maddening shiver of fear through him. “I‟ve returned, Raven.” She whispered “And I want what is mine.” The last thing he saw before his mind, finally, thankfully, shut down was her face in front of his. They were pursed for a kiss.
Amanda M. Lyons
a maybe-prophecy?” Qibli went on. “I don’t think they’ll do that. Besides, Winter’s problem is urgent. We have to find his brother before Scarlet kills him, so I vote we do that now and deal with the impending apocalypse afterward.” “Me too,” Moon said. What in the world made these dragons think his problem was their problem? Finding Hailstorm was urgent to Winter, but it made no sense for any NOT-IceWings to get involved at all. Winter narrowed his eyes at Turtle, dripping forlornly into the puddles around his claws. It was easy to forget that the SeaWing was a royal prince as well — the son of Queen Coral. He never acted like royalty. Instead Turtle behaved as though he didn’t want to be noticed at all — mumbly, sticking to the background, agreeing to anything. Was he afraid of something? Or just boring? If an IceWing acted the way Turtle does, he’d be stuck in the Seventh Circle forever. Which meant Winter could get rid of him by applying the right pressure. “You should go back,” he said, making Turtle jump. “You don’t want to tramp around Pyrrhia looking for my deadly sister, who will kill you on sight, or my brother, who might do the same because, by the way, killing SeaWings was a specialty of his. Go keep an eye on Jade Mountain instead.” Turtle’s glow-in-the-dark scales flickered, illuminating his anxious face with pale greenish light. “But what if the mountain falls on me? Is it dangerous?” “Not as dangerous as following me,” Winter hissed. “It’s not going to fall on you, because we’re going to stop it,” Kinkajou said. “But don’t you want to stay with us?” “I can’t decide what sounds worse,” Turtle admitted.
Tui T. Sutherland (Winter Turning (Wings of Fire, #7))
Stories are the legends we tell ourselves while sitting around campfires early in the morning, steam rising in coils from coffee cups scented with wood smoke dripping fog wet beyond the rim of what we see; the creations of myths told and collective extrapolations remembered limited only by our vision. Yesterday and today blend and twine into one, only to be pulled apart as the dichotomy of their existence is merged. Spiraling ever outward their memories are carried on the winds, carried to the west, the south, over the edge of the world and back. The winds of spirits gone and of those yet to come. What we dream today, we dream tomorrow for their existence is the same. There is no contextual difference. No separate language. And so the winds that blow across the mountains and plains today commingle with those whose existence began before their stories were born, dancing as they do so through the night. A night of songs. A night of dreaming and distance. A night wherein the ghosts of everything commune as one, forever seeking dissolution from the boundaries of the civilized world beyond...
P Edmonds Young
Standing at a distance ( Part 1 ) I stand at a distance intermittently looking at her, Envying the Sun rays that bathe her from head to toe, While I from the distance keep looking at her, With longing eyes and my head slightly bent low, In the distance rainbow appears in the sky, And the rain drops kiss her skin, And I only glance at her by and by, With a deep desire to win, Her heart and her gaze of affection, I see the raindrop dripping down through her backbone, And oh my imagination and its dereliction, With the wish to be the lucky Sun that over her had shone, Before the daylight embraced her from everywhere, And it was just the light that covered her, And in this light she was everywhere, Now it was the light and her, and just her, While I stood in the distance waiting for my chance, Turning my head and ogling at her, Hoping she would smile someday, and I shall live my moment of romance, To be the sunshine and the raindrop always kissing her, And melt everywhere over her skin, And never to return to the light nor to this world, I shall now forever reside in this beauty’s eternal inn, Sometimes spreading over her skin, & often like the sun rays around her hair curled, But for now she is busy with the rain drops, the Sun, the Moon, I wonder if she even notices my presence, So I often wish the Sun and the Moon to set soon, So that she could somehow notice my presence, Alas the time too loves to love her, And when the Sun shines over her it seems to shine forever, And time remains there circling around her, And ah my pain to keep hoping in this moment that lasts forever, That she would someday acknowledge my smile, Nevertheless, I am happy as long as I can see her, I shall manage to walk a million mile, Just for that glimpse of her,
Javid Ahmad Tak
I’ve loved you every day. The more I fought it, the more I wanted you.” I clutched her arm, feeling blood dripping down it and I healed the wound with a curse as it rushed over her wrist, coating the bracelet there in red. “If I could meet you for the first time again, I’d do it all differently. I’d love you as you deserved to be loved from day one,” I gritted out as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of my blood and I prayed my words would reach her as I started to weaken. “I’d make sure you never felt alone, and we would have worked to find King together from the very beginning. I fucked up, angel. I’m not your equal, I’m not your mate. But I do love you with the entirety of my heart and there isn’t a force in this world which could change that. I just figured it out all too late and I’m sorry for how I treated you. I’m sorry I caused you pain. But I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. If I’m destined for someone else, let them wait forever, because I’m never going to leave your side, Elise.
Caroline Peckham (Warrior Fae (Ruthless Boys of the Zodiac, #5))
I walked to the painting on the easel. It was an impression, not a lifelike rendering. 'I wanted you to see this one,' I said, pointing to the smear of green and gold and silver and blue. 'It's for you. A gift. For everything you've done.' Heat flared in my cheeks, my neck, my ears, as he silently approached the painting. 'It's the glen- with the pool of starlight,' I said quickly. 'I know what it is,' he murmured, studying the painting. I backed away a step, unable to bear watching him look at it, wishing I hadn't brought him in here, blaming it on the wine I'd had at dinner, on the stupid dress. He examined the painting for a miserable eternity, then looked away- to the nearest painting leaning against the wall. My gut tightened. A hazy landscape of snow and skeletal trees and nothing else. It looked like.... like nothing, I supposed, to anyone but me. I opened my mouth to explain, wishing I'd turned the others away from view, but he spoke. 'That was your forest. Where you hunted.' He came close to the painting, gazing at the bleak, empty cold, the white and grey and brown and black. 'This was your life,' he clarified. I was too mortified, too stunned, to reply. He walked to the next painting I'd left against the wall. Darkness and dense brown, flickers of ruby red and orange squeezing between them. 'Your cottage at night.' I tried to move, to tell him to stop looking at those ones and look at the others I'd laid out, but I couldn't- couldn't even breathe properly as he moved to the next painting. A tanned, sturdy male hand fisted in the hay, the pale pieces of it entwined among strands of brown coated with gold- my hair. My gut twisted. 'The man you used to see- in your village.' He cocked his head again as he studied the picture, and a low growl slipped out. 'While you made love.' He stepped back, looking at the row of pictures. 'This is the only one with brightness.' Was that... jealousy? 'It was the only escape I had.' Truth. I wouldn't apologise for Issac. Not when Tamlin had just been in the Great Rite. I didn't hold that against him- but if he was going to be jealous of Issac- Tamlin must have realised it, too, for he loosed a long, controlled breath before moving to the next painting. Tall shadows of men, bright red dripping off their fists, off their wooden clubs, hovering and filling the edges of the painting as they towered over the curled figure on the floor, the blood leaking from him, the leg at a wrong angle. Tamlin swore. 'You were there when they wrecked your father's leg.' 'Someone had to beg them to stop.' Tamlin threw a too-knowing glance in my direction and turned to look at the rest of the paintings. There they were, all the wounds I'd slowly been leeching these few months. I blinked. A few months. Did my family believe that I would be forever away with this so-called dying aunt? At last, Tamlin looked at the painting of the glen and the starlight. He nodded in appreciation. But he pointed to the painting of the snow-veiled woods. 'That one. I want that one.' 'It's cold and melancholy,' I said, hiding my wince. 'It doesn't suit this place at all.' He went up to it, and the smile he gave me was more beautiful than any enchanted meadow or pool of stars. 'I want it nonetheless,' he said softly.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
I constantly craved being buried inside her dripping essence, but the passion and foreplay made the lovemaking spectacular.
Robbi Renee (Somebody's Forever (A Grown and Sexy Somebody Series Book 2))
I’m too close, I want this to last forever and would happily die here, but I need to come. To see it dripping from her bloody, wet cunt.
K.A. Knight (Den of Vipers)
Never in a million years would I have thought sex could be transformative, but that was before Luca. I knew deep in my bones, as I clung to his shoulders, water dripping from our quivering bodies, that my life would never be the same.
Jill Ramsower (Forever Lies (The Five Families #1))
The woman was sophisticated, gorgeous, and dripping with a surprising amount of innocence. That guileless innocence warred with her desire—she had clearly been torn—both drawn to and scared of me. She hadn’t let the fear win out. Most people, even when they had no clue who I was, withered in my presence. A part of Alessia had wanted to withdraw, to cower in a corner of the elevator and keep her eyes downcast, but she hadn’t. She stood tall, and even more intriguing, she had held my eyes. It was surprising how few women or men were capable of that feat.
Jill Ramsower (Forever Lies (The Five Families #1))
Intimacy took precedence over everything, including sex. I constantly craved being buried inside her dripping essence, but the passion and foreplay made the lovemaking spectacular.
Robbi Renee (Somebody's Forever (A Grown and Sexy Somebody Series Book 2))
Insufficient hope. Please deposit more faith to make a withdrawal. - Those dark feelings might not be so dark. They might actually mean something. They may be a flashing red warning: “Do that other thing.” Or “Don’t settle here forever.” - It’s okay to take a risk on your own, and dream big. - God endorses your dissatisfaction with the world’s self-concept package: “Large, with a side of self-doubt and a sprinkle of guilt". - Find the fire. Our twenties can be an anesthesia — they can numb us to pain and motivation. If we can stop the morphine drip of despondency, we will find that our unbearable existential angst is not a doom — it is the pain of depressurization, rising out of the depths.  - God does not expect you to be a Wall Street executive. God does not wish you were making six figures. God does not wish you had a happy-go-lucky personality. God does not wish you would just “Get yourself together already!” You can depend on Him for love, affirmation, affection, correction, a guiding hand, and His never-forsaking care. Breathe. - The possibilities for embarrassment and greatness exist in the same space. - Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that’s how we’ve got to live. Appreciate the moment, every loved one. here now.
Anonymous
The law of the LORD is perfect,           reviving the soul;       the decrees of the LORD are sure,           making wise the simple; 8 the precepts of the LORD are right,           rejoicing the heart;       the commandment of the LORD is clear,           enlightening the eyes; 9 the fear of the LORD is pure,           enduring forever;       the ordinances of the LORD are true           and righteous altogether. 10 More to be desired are they than gold,           even much fine gold;       sweeter also than honey,           and drippings of the honeycomb.
Anonymous (NRSV, The Daily Bible: Read, Meditate, and Pray Through the Entire Bible in 365 Days)
This wasn’t her room or her bed, and it sure as hell wasn’t her body. Tears welled and trickled slowly from eyes not her own. Then the pain started. Still, she couldn’t move. She could only endure. Terror clawed at her soul while dying nerves screamed. The attack became a frenzy of stabs and slices, snatching all thought away. Her body jerked and arched in a macabre dance. Black spots blurred her vision, and still the slaughter continued. Sam screamed. The terror was hers, but the cracked, broken voice was not. Confusion reigned as her mind grappled with reality. What was going on? Understanding crashed in on her. With it came despair and horror. She’d become a visitor in someone else’s nightmare. Locked inside a horrifying energy warp, she’d linked to this poor woman whose life dripped away from multiple gashes. Another psychic vision. The knife slashed down, impaling the woman’s abdomen, splitting her wide from ribcage to pelvis. Her agonized scream echoed on forever in Sam’s mind.
Dale Mayer (Tuesday's Child (Psychic Visions, #1))
The heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display his craftsmanship. Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make him known. They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never heard. Yet their message has gone throughout the earth, and their words to all the world. God has made a home in the heavens for the sun. It bursts forth like a radiant bridegroom after his wedding. It rejoices like a great athlete eager to run the race. The sun rises at one end of the heavens and follows its course to the other end. Nothing can hide from its heat. The instructions of the LORD are perfect, reviving the soul. The decrees of the LORD are trustworthy, making wise the simple. The commandments of the LORD are right, bringing joy to the heart. The commands of the LORD are clear, giving insight for living. Reverence for the LORD is pure, lasting forever. The laws of the LORD are true; each one is fair. They are more desirable than gold, even the finest gold. They are sweeter than honey, even honey dripping from the comb. They are a warning to your servant, a great reward for those who obey them. How can I know all the sins lurking in my heart? Cleanse me from these hidden faults. Keep your servant from deliberate sins! Don’t let them control me. Then I will be free of guilt and innocent of great sin. May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart    be pleasing to you, O LORD, my rock and my redeemer.
Anonymous
Rain Song ---last few verses Who drank death forever From the depths of the Gulf, from the ground of its silence, And in Iraq a thousand serpents drink the nectar From a flower the Euphrates has nourished with dew. I hear the echo Ringing in the Gulf: 'Rain . . . Drip, drop, the rain . . . Drip, drop.' In every drop of rain A red or yellow color buds from the seeds of flowers. Every tear wept by the hungry and naked people And every spilt drop of slaves' blood Is a smile aimed at a new dawn, A nipple turning rosy in an infant's lips In the young world of tomorrow, bringer of life. And still the rain pours down.
Badr Shākir Sayyāb
Heartache Fetish" Slip into my drink Sneak into my veins and knock me out cold Am I tripping are you bliss? Are we dreaming this? Don't wake me yet It's dripping from your lips And written on your wrists Can't be tamed [Hook] You're not in the room But you got me in a headlock Tied up Helpless Ready to be sacrificed and buried Love me, love me forever You force my spirit down your throat And leave me by the roadside, dying Pulled apart by your grace It leaves a burning taste And now I got my tongue-tied and tattooed [Hook] All that's left are my bones Dipped in gold Waiting to be sold To the first damn taker All that's left is your ghost And the fire burning up Your soul [Hook]
Young & Sick
Derek crouched down and studied the dirt again under the lantern light. “Something’s in there,” he whispered. “How do you know?” asked Nathan, hesitation filling his voice. “I can sense it,” answered Derek. Sam groaned, then did something surprising. Maybe he was sick of Derek always telling him what to do. Maybe it was because his feet hurt. Maybe he was tired of always getting scared for no reason. “This is stupid,” he yelled, grabbing the lantern. He pushed past Derek and Nathan. “There’s nothing out there. It’s just the shadows playing tricks on us. You probably didn’t even see the alligator come down here. We need to get the heck out of here before we get lost.” He stepped around the corner. “See!” he proclaimed, holding the lantern up high in front of him. Light streamed into an enormous, open room. It seemed to stretch on forever, like some hidden underground cavern. Water dripped from open cracks above them. Pillars of rock hung down from the ceiling. Derek’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my gosh...” Sam’s arm turned to stone, the lantern dangling from his hand like a light post. He couldn’t move a muscle, except for his eyes, which darted around the deep room of shadows. A wide pool of water lay in the middle of the space as if it had been filled by a hundred years of rainwater working its way underground. Lying all around the pool were alligators. Dozens of them.
Steven K. Smith (Secret of the Staircase (The Virginia Mysteries #4))
I’m right here, dear, and yes, I do most heartily disapprove of unmentionables being brought up in polite conversations, as you very well know,” Abigail said as she took that moment to breeze into the room. She stopped and beamed at Bram. “Unmentionables aside, though, aren’t you just a dear for taking such excellent care of my darling Lucetta when she was in distress and I was, er, unavailable?” Bram felt his lips begin to curl. “I have a feeling, Grandmother, that you were fully aware of the fact your darling Lucetta had absolutely nothing wrong with her and was simply putting to good use her acting abilities in order to spare you a confrontation with my mother.” Abigail stepped to his side, lifted her chin, and reached up to pat his cheek. “You’re a dear boy, with a chivalrous heart, even if you have yet to explain why you’re wearing this patch when you have no need of one.” Since he certainly wasn’t comfortable telling his grandmother the truth, he settled for summoning up a smile. “It’s difficult to explain.” “Is it now?” “Indeed, and since I do seem to be dripping all over the Aubusson rug, which is surprising since it seems like forever ago that I took those dips in the moat, I’m going to excuse myself and leave you to see after Miss Plum.” Beating
Jen Turano (Playing the Part (A Class of Their Own, #3))
Rain drips from the sky I hope it rains forever If that's what it takes to wash you away from me And when I'm clean I'll finally be free.
Jasmine Sandozz
Sloane pulled off Dex, gave his nipple a tweak, before he sat back on his heels. He slowly removed the dildo and replaced it with his cock. He buried himself inch by inch until he was settled against Dex’s ass. Taking hold of Dex’s legs, Sloane began to move, pumping into Dex, his groin slapping against Dex’s ass. The couch moved beneath them, but Dex held on tight as Sloane pounded into him. “Oh fuck! Oh God, oh God, oh fuck!” Dex cried out, his back arching up off the couch, his cock spurting come across his chest, with some landing on his neck and chin. Sloane bent over Dex, grabbing his shoulders, jerking Dex toward him as he drove into him. His hair fell over his face, sweat dripping down his neck as he fucked Dex wildly, his hips losing all rhythm. White heat spread through Sloane, exploding in front of his eyes as his orgasm barreled through him. His muscles tensed, and he pumped into Dex even harder as he spilled himself inside Dex’s hole. It seemed to go on forever, until Sloane was sore and collapsed on top of Dex. Sloane
Charlie Cochet (Smoke & Mirrors (THIRDS, #7))
Dread begins to inch in. No. Dread isn't one of those subtle emotions. It moves in and takes over, and then it drips and hangs, like Spanish moss.
Deb Caletti (The Last Forever)
To draw something is to try to capture it forever,” Jocelyn had said, sitting on the floor with a paintbrush dripping cadmium blue onto her jeans. “If you really love something, you never try to keep it the way it is forever. You have to let it be free to change.
Cassandra Clare (City of Ashes (The Mortal Instruments, #2))
pull the knife I gifted her from the strap on her thigh and flick the blade open with my wrist, she eyes it wearily as I line the blade up with her inner thigh. “Everything I’m made of demands you, Briony,” I explain, our chaotic breaths aligning as she swallows down her fears, eyeing my every move. “I am yours, and you are forever mine. Until the end of this life, then whatever life we live after that.” I remain lodged deep within her, our eyes focused on one another as if no one else in this universe exists. Fisting the blade, I cut through her perfect flesh. Her eyes wince slightly but don’t dare come off of mine. She trusts me in a way she shouldn’t trust anyone. With everything. Her jaw tightens as a light whimper of pain leaves her throat, and she lifts her chin more to meet mine. This is the sexiest I’ve ever seen her. Determined yet still questioning. Resilient yet slightly fearful. Emitting submission to me completely, yet knowing she’s entirely unstoppable in her own right. My cock swells to a rock inside her, twitching within her tight grip as I carve the upside down cross into her flesh, an arrow pointing towards myself at the tip. Her eyes finally peer down at the branding that’s now dripping blood down the soft flesh of her inner thigh. The wildest, most ferocious gaze emits from her blown pupils, passion straight from the soul. I turn the blade on myself, and she grips the handle, carving the same symbol into the flesh of my lower abdomen, oblivious to the pain as endorphins flood my mind.
Jescie Hall (That Sik Luv)
Stories are the legends we tell ourselves while sitting around campfires early in the morning, steam rising in coils from coffee cups scented with wood smoke dripping fog wet beyond the rim of what we see; the creations of myths told and collective extrapolations remembered limited only by our vision. Yesterday and today blend and twine into one, only to be pulled apart as the dichotomy of their existence is merged. Spiraling ever outward, their memories are carried on the winds, carried to the west, the south, over the edge of the world and back. The winds of spirits gone and of those yet to come. What we dream today, we dream tomorrow for their existence is the same. There is no contextual difference. No separate language. And so the winds that blow across the mountains and plains today commingle with those whose existence began before their stories were born, dancing as they do so through the night. A night of songs. A night of dreaming and distance. A night wherein the ghosts of everything commune as one, forever seeking dissolution from the boundaries of the civilized world beyond...
P. Edmonds Young (The Leaving Time)
forever. There were experiences she and Adam had shared that she was now the only person to remember (that night in Rome, that terrible restaurant, the waiter with the dripping nose; that summer morning they had swum in the ocean, off Cape Cod; the first time they had made love), private jokes to which only she knew the punch line.
Ellery Lloyd (The Club)
Everybody winters at one time or another; some winter over and over again. Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. Perhaps it results from an illness or life event such as bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from a humiliation or failure. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition and have temporary falling between two worlds. Some winterings creep upon us more slowly, accompanying the protracted death of a relationship, the gradual ratcheting up of caring responsibilities as our parents age, the drip-drip-drip of lost confidence. Some are appallingly sudden, like discovering one day that your skills are considered obsolete, the company you worked for has gone bankrupt, or your partner is in love with someone new. However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely, and deeply painful. Yet it’s also inevitable. We like to imagine that it’s possible for life to be one eternal summer and that we have uniquely failed to achieve that for ourselves. We dream of an equatorial habitat, forever close to the sun, an endless, unvarying high season. But life‘s not like that.
Katherine May (Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times)
He had to go because it takes both arms to hold up the world and you’re all bent over and can’t save anybody and while you’re holding it up everybody’s hating on everybody and the blood is dripping down all over you. He wanted to hold up the world and save it at the same time and it broke him.
Adira August (Forever (Hunt&Cam4Ever, #8))
I wander through the feria and greet my colleagues who are wandering as dreamily as I am. Dreamily× dreamily = a prison in literary heaven. Wandering. Wandering. The honor of poets: the chant we hear as a pallid judgment. I see young faces looking at the books on display and feeling for coins in the depths of pockets as dark as hope. 7 × 1 = 8, I say to myself as I glance out of the corner of my eye at the young readers and a formless image is superimposed on their remote little smiling faces as slowly as an iceberg. We all pass under the balcony where the letters A and E hang and their blood gushes down on us and stains us forever. But the balcony is pallid like us, and pallor never attacks pallor. At the same time, and I say this in my defense, the balcony wanders with us too. Elsewhere this is called mafia. I see an office, I see a computer running, I see a lonely hallway. Pallor× iceberg = a lonely hallway slowly peopled by our own fear, peopled with those who wander the feria of the hallway, looking not for any book but for some certainty to shore up the void of our certainties. Thus we interpret life at moments of the deepest desperation. Herds. Hangmen. The scalpel slices the bodies. A and E × Feria del Libro = other bodies; light as air, incandescent, as if last night my publisher had fucked me up the ass. Dying can seem satisfactory as a response, Blanchot would say. 31 × 31 = 961 good reasons. Yesterday we sacrificed a young South American writer on the town altar. As his blood dripped over the bas-relief of our ambitions I thought about my books and oblivion, and that, at last, made sense. A writer, we've established, shouldn't look like a writer. He should look like a banker, a rich kid who grows up without a care in the world, a mathematics professor, a prison official. Dendriform. Thus, paradoxically, we wander. Our arborescence × the balcony's pallor = the hallway of our triumph. How can young people, readers by antonomasia, not realize that we're liars? All one has to do is look at us! Our imposture is blazoned on our faces! And yet they don't realize, and we can recite with total impunity: 8, 5, 9, 8, 4, 15, 7. And we can wander and greet each other (I, at least, greet everyone, the juries and the hangmen, the benefactors and the students), and we can praise the faggot for his unbridled heterosexuality and the impotent man for his virility and the cuckold for his spotless honor. And no one moans: there is no anguish. Only our nocturnal silence when we crawl on all fours toward the fires that someone has lit for us at a mysterious hour and with incomprehensible finality. We're guided by fate, though we've left nothing to chance. A writer must resemble a censor, our elders told us, and we've followed that marvelous thought to its penultimate consequence. A writer must resemble a newspaper columnist. A writer must resemble a dwarf and MUST survive. If we didn't have to read too, our work would be a point suspended in nothingness, a mandala pared down to a minimum of meaning, our silence, our certainty of standing with one foot dangling on the far side of death. Fantasies. Fantasies. In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we're no more than castrated cats. Castrated cats wedded to cats with slit throats. Everything that begins as comedy ends as a cryptographic exercise.
Roberto Bolaño (The Savage Detectives)
Golden Gold Vine Part Two This miser did prize her, this golden gold vine. His smile would gleam at all of her shine. He gave her his all, so she’d answer his call. Rejoiced every inch that her length grew up tall. But soon she outgrew his garden, until, she then made her way into his house on the hill. She twisted and curled in every inch. No room to move, he was prodded and pinched. He shoved out his furniture to be left in the rain, abandoned front door, knocked out window panes. Every offering he made, she grew larger still. Her metallic glint covered each floorboard and sill. This miser hoarded every petal and thorn. Skin marred with scratches where sharp barbs had torn. When his hair was all gone, but he still wanted more, he gave up his nails, taking them, peel from core. He presented them all, onto stems he did pour. Not once did he ask, what’s it all for? Her flowers, so pretty, grew heavy with gold. Though his fingers too sore to take them to hold. So he split them away by the work of his teeth. Bit them from vine and hid them in sheaths. All gathered, so heavy, hundreds of blooms. All golden, these flowers, but he ran out of room. The old miser didn’t dare ever take some to town. If they knew of his treasure, they’d surely come ‘round. So spend them he never, and stayed home forever. Loved ones he severed, (he thought himself clever.) He murmured and pet, each golden rosette. Her vine he let twine, all while whispering, “mine.” But without reparation, she’d quickly go dim, so frantic, he’d cut, blade into limb. When his nails were all gone, from ten fingers and toes, he had to give up his ears and his nose. The blood that he spilt, he staunched with petals of guilt. But the drips of his red made the vine rightly fed. This miser bled freely so his wealth may yet grow. He let veins collapse, let his heartbeat go slow. Her vine slurped his life like nectar to birds, and he lay in the room, his body submerged. While she grew out of the house and over the hill, a contagion that caught every space up to fill. But he wanted still, he had to have more, so out plucked his eyes, sockets empty and sore. He had no room to sleep, and no eyes to weep, but from this golden gold vine, ever more would he seek. To be continued...
Raven Kennedy (Glint (The Plated Prisoner, #2))
...he thinks how he'd like to have a foot in his brain, a steel foot wearing a steel boot so he could kick pain and bitterness far away, each time they came he could kick away betrayal, and despair, and bad people, harsh people, the kind of people who cut love to their own size and not to the size of love itself, people who say I love on Monday and by Tuesday won't give you a second glance, say I can't live without you on Monday and by Tuesday say I can't stand you anymore, on Monday say we'll get through this together and by Tuesday say you have to stand on your own two feet, we all have to take responsibility for ourselves, on Monday say I want us to live together forever and by Tuesday say what do you mean I came into your life, fucked everything up, and now I’m leaving like nothing ever happened, what do you mean, I don’t understand – you think I misled you or something? – people who say you’re my forever person on Monday and by Tuesday say you’re getting too clingy, you’re asking too much, don’t text me anymore, don’t call, people who laugh with all their heart while yours drips blood, who watch TV calmly at night until they fall asleep without a care in the world, while you stare through the window at the darkness and feel that darkness swallowing you up, people who forget you overnight and spend their days and nights with friends in cafés and bars , while you remember everything – each moment, each word, each kiss, each night, each day – you remember each whisper, each cry, each embrace, each smile, each laugh, you remember, remember, remember, and you struggle, your hands dipped in blood, your heart soaked in blood, your eyes soaked in clear, crystalline blood, you struggle, every hour, every moment, every morning, every night, to eradicate everything you remember from your body and heart and mind, to uproot everything your body and heart and mind remember, you struggle to douse with blood the blaze that consumes you, you struggle not to remember, you struggle to forget the sweetness in those eyes that gazed into your eyes, the taste of that other mouth when it kissed yours, the smell of that other body tangled with yours, you struggle not to remember, to not remember. You struggle to learn to not remember.
Christos Ikonomou (Το καλό θα 'ρθει από τη θάλασσα)
His heart swelled with fondness for this young woman before him, at her ability not only to put up with his playfulness but to go along with it, even seeming to enjoy herself. He couldn't remember a time when any other person, much less a woman, had accepted him so readily for who he was and not who they expected him to be. As he gently lowered his hat onto her head, water dripped into her hair and down her face. But instead of making a fuss or being irritated, she lifted her face and beamed up at him as if he were her knight in shining armor.
Jody Hedlund (Together Forever (Orphan Train, #2))
Do you remember when you told me that you’d bought something ridiculously luxurious, and it was a mango?” he asks. “I was so fucking jealous of you. I wished that I could feel what that was like. I wanted to want something like that. I wanted to have that so badly.” I don’t have answers to any of his problems. I don’t even have solutions to mine. But this one thing? This, I can handle. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get some mangoes.” We pull off the freeway a few miles later and follow the computer’s directions to a little grocery store. Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting in a rest stop, cutting our mangoes to bits. “Here,” I tell him. “Trade me. Pretend you’re me. Let me tell you what it was like when I had that mango.” He shuts his eyes obligingly. “I didn’t have a lot of money,” I tell him. “And that meant one thing and one thing only—fried rice.” He smiles despite himself. “Kind of a stereotype, don’t you think?” “Whose stereotype? Rice is peasant food for more than half the world. It’s easy. It’s cheap. You can dress it up with a lot of other things. A little bit of onion, a bag of frozen carrots and peas. A carton of eggs. With enough rice, that can last you basically forever. It does for some people.” “It actually sounds good.” “If you have a decent underlying spice cabinet, you can break up the monotony a little. Fried rice with soy sauce one day. Spicy rice the next. And then curry rice. You can fool your tongue indefinitely. You can’t fool your body. You start craving.” He’s sitting on the picnic table, his eyes shut. “For me, the thing I start craving first is greens. Lettuce. Pea shoots. Anything that isn’t coming out of a bag of frozen veggies. And fruit. If you have an extra dollar or two, you buy apples and eat them in quarters, dividing them throughout the day.” I slide next to him on the table. The sun is warm around us. “But you get sick of apples, too, pretty soon. And so that’s where I want you to imagine yourself: sick to death of fried rice. No respite. No letting up. And then suddenly, one day, someone hands you a debit card and says, ‘Hey. Here’s fifteen thousand dollars.’ No, I’m not going to buy a stupid purse. I’m going to buy this.” I hold up a piece of mango to his lips. He opens his mouth and the fruit slides in. His lips close on my fingers like a kiss, and I can’t bring myself to draw away. He’s warmer than the sun, and I feel myself getting pulled in, closer and closer. “Oh, God.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “That’s so good.” I feed him another slice, golden and dripping juice. “That’s what it felt like,” I tell him. “Like there’s a deep-seated need, something in my bones, something missing. And then you take a bite and there’s an explosion of flavor, something bigger than just the taste buds screaming, yes, yes, this is what I need.” I hand him another piece of mango. He bites it in half, chews, and then takes the other half. “That’s what it felt like,” I say. “It felt like I’d been starving myself. Like I…” He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Like there was something I needed,” I say softly. “Something I’ve needed deep down. Something I’ve been denying myself because I can’t let myself want it.” My voice trails off. I’m not describing the taste of mango anymore. My whole body yearns for his. For this thing I’ve been denying myself. For physical affection. For our bodies joined. For his arms around me all night. It’s going to hurt when he walks away. But you know what? It’ll hurt more if he walks away and we leave things like this, desperate and wanting, incomplete. My voice drops. “It’s like there’s someone I’ve been denying myself. All this time.
Courtney Milan
Now, in her satisfied exhaustion, with her hand resting on the white linen tablecloth, the touch of Ivan's fingertips, the candle dripping a slow thread of wax down its side, the glossy closed lid of the piano, Margaret feels that she can perceive the miraculous beauty of life itself, lived only once and then gone forever, the bloom of a perfect and impermanent flower, never to be retrieved. This is life, the experience, this is all there has ever been. To force this moment into contact with her ordinary existence only seems to reveal how constricting, how misshapen her ideas of life have been before.
Sally Rooney (Intermezzo)