Fire And Gasoline Quotes

Travis took a step, but America pointed her finger at him. "So help me God, Travis! If you try to stop her, I will douse you with gasoline and light you on fire while you sleep!

Getting involved with Jameson would just be throwing gasoline on the fire." "And what a lovely fire it would be,

So we get a plan," I said. "Any suggestions?" "Blow up the building," Kincaid said without looking up. "That works good for vampires. Then soak what's left in gasoline. Set it on fire. Then blow it all up again." "For future reference, I was sort of hoping for a suggestion that didn't sound like it came from that Bolshevik Muppet with all the dynamite.

She had discovered that the most effective method of keeping the fear at bay was to fantasize about something that gave her a feeling of strength. She closed her eyes and conjured up the smell of gasoline.

In my biology class, we'd talked about the definition of life: to be classified as a living creature, a thing needs to eat, breathe, reproduce, and grow. Dogs do, rocks don't, trees do, plastic doesn't. Fire, by that definition, is vibrantly alive. It eats everything from wood to flesh, excreting the waste as ash, and it breathes air just like a human, taking in oxygen and emitting carbon. Fire grows, and as it spreads, it creates new fires that spread out and make new fires of their own. Fire drinks gasoline and excretes cinders, it fights for territory, it loves and hates. Sometimes when I watch people trudging through their daily routines, I think that fire is more alive than we are–brighter, hotter, more sure of itself and where it wants to go. Fire doesn't settle; fire doesn't tolerate; fire doesn't 'get by.' Fire does. Fire is.

She saw him drenched with gasoline. She could actually feel the box of matches in her hand.

All right, the pendulum isn’t working. Sometimes you need an accelerant to help it.” – Death “Like gasoline?” – Nick “Yes, Nick. We’re going to set the book and your pendulum on fire and then use them ’cause we’re just that intelligent.” – Death

Ronan, I think you need to tell them, too.” Ronan’s expression, if anything, was betrayed. This was wearying; Gansey could see precisely the argument that it was heaving towards. Adam would shoot something cool and truthful over the bow, Ronan would fire back a profanity cannon, Adam would drip gasoline in the path of the projectile, and then everything would be on fire for hours.

It is a violation of human rights when babies are denied food, or drowned, or suffocated, or their spines broken, simply because they are born girls. It is a violation of human rights when women and girls are sold into the slavery of prostitution. It is a violation of human rights when women are doused with gasoline, set on fire and burned to death because their marriage dowries are deemed too small. It is a violation of human rights when individual women are raped in their own communities and when thousands of women are subjected to rape as a tactic or prize of war. It is a violation of human rights when a leading cause of death worldwide among women ages 14 to 44 is the violence they are subjected to in their own homes. It is a violation of human rights when young girls are brutalized by the painful and degrading practice of genital mutilation. It is a violation of human rights when women are denied the right to plan their own families, and that includes being forced to have abortions or being sterilized against their will. If there is one message that echoes forth from this conference, it is that human rights are women's rights - and women's rights are human rights. Let us not forget that among those rights are the right to speak freely - and the right to be heard. [From 'Women's Rights Are Human Rights' Speech Beijing, China: 5 September 1995]

Gansey could see precisely the argument that it was heaving toward. Adam would shoot something cool and truthful over the bow, Ronan would fire back a profanity cannon, Adam would drip gasoline in the path of the projectile, and then everything would be on fire for hours.

The fire that had been raging inside her ever since she met him, ever since she left him, was now having gasoline thrown on top of it--by the gallon.

We girls. Afraid of the wrong things, at the wrong times. Afraid of a burned face, when outside, outside waiting for you are fires you cannot imagine. Men, holding matches up to your gasoline eyes. Flames, flames all around you, licking at your just-born breasts, your just-bled body. And infernos. Infernos as wide as the world. Waiting to impoverish you, make you ash, and even the wind, even the wind. Even the wind, my dear, she thought, watching you burn, willing it, passing over you, and through you. Scattering you, because you are a girl, and because you are ash.

So help me God, Travis! If you try to stop her, I will douse you with gasoline and light you on fire while you sleep!

I met my match with you.” “Match made in heaven.” “Or hell. Depends on who you ask.” “You,” he says. “I’m asking you.” “I’d say a bit of both, then. We were fire and gasoline. We burned hot for a long time.” “Past tense.” “What?” “You said that in the past tense.” “Guess I’m used to talking about us that way.

The answer was: yes. But it wasn’t entirely their fault. The Chinese had built the pit, gathered the wood, and lit the match, but it was the foreigners who had come in and poured gasoline upon every surface, letting Shanghai rage into an untamable forest fire of debauchery.

When you kiss me, Gwyneth, I feel I’m losing touch with the ground. I don’t know how you do it or where you learnt the trick of it. If it was from a film, well, we just have to go and see it together.” He stopped for a moment. “What I really want to say is, when you kiss me, all I want is to feel you and hold you in my arms. Hell, I’m so in love with you that it feels like someone had emptied a can of gasoline somewhere inside me and set fire to it! But right now, we can’t . . . we have to keep a cool head. Or one of us, anyway.” The look he gave me finally put an end to my doubts. “Gwenny, all this terrifies me. Without you, there’d be no sense in my life anymore . . . I’d want to die if anything happened to you.

Every bedroom was empty except for the smell of gasoline and a small crackling fire set directly in the middle of each bed, as if a demented Girl Scout had been camping there.

God, I could live in this moment of anticipation forever. This moment when desire burns so bright that it could incinerate every rule & condition, if we just added a splash more gasoline to the fire. In this moment, there is no aftermath, no coming back to our senses. The only way out is to give in. Fuck the consequences.

The riot had taken on a beauty of its own now. Arcs of gasoline fire under the crescent moon. Crimson tracer in mystical parabolas. Phosphorescence from the barrels of plastic bullet guns. A distant yelling like that of men below decks in a torpedoed prison ship. The scarlet whoosh of Molotovs intersecting with exacting surfaces. Helicopters everywhere: their spotlights finding one another like lovers in the Afterlife. And all this through a lens of oleaginous Belfast rain.

...There is nothing Jake wouldn´t do for his wife, and even less he wouldn´t do for the syndicate.” Including kill me and torture my sister. The thought of damning someone else to the hell I was living in made me want to light my own hair on fire and take a bath in gasoline.

The willingness to take a beating: That’s how you can tell you’re dealing with a man of substance. A man like that doesn’t linger on the sidelines throwing gasoline on someone else’s fire; and he doesn’t go home unscathed. He presents himself front and center, undaunted, prepared to stand his ground until he can’t stand at all.

We were gasoline poured onto fire. With you I burned twice as high and hot. This is why you and I could never have stayed together. We would have consumed each other until there was nothing left.

I hate her with the fury of gasoline set on fire. I burn for Jenessa, who deserves better than this, better than some screwed-up, drug-addicted mother, better than this chaos that always seems to find us, rubbin' off on us like some horrible rash.

We’re oil and water. Chalk and cheese. Snow and sun. Equally, though, we’re fire and gasoline, burning matches and fireworks, kindling wood and a bonfire. We’re opposite but explosive. Opposite but unhealthy. Opposite and possibly a little bit toxic. A lot toxic, because the man riles me up like no other.

You’re a survivor. Voron put you on the edge of that cliff again and again until he conditioned you to claw onto life. You’ll do whatever you have to do to survive, and I’m your only chance of getting out. At first you’ll balk, but with every passing hour my offer will look better and better. You’ll convince yourself that dying will accomplish nothing and you should at least go out with a bang. You’ll tell yourself that you’re accepting my offer just so you can stick that broken sword into my chest and feel it cut through my heart. Even if you die afterward, the fact that I’ll stop breathing makes your death mean something. So you’ll call me. And you’ll try to kill me. Except you’ve gone three days without food, and that body . . .” He tilted his head and looked me over slowly. “That body burns through calories like fire goes through gasoline. You’re running out of reserves. I can put you down with one hit.” “You’re right about the sword. You broke mine. I owe you one.” He tapped his naked chest over his heart. “This is the spot. Give it a shot, Kate. Let’s see what happens.

You and I are inevitable, and you know it. We always have been. Gasoline and fire, remember?

I am done being delicate. As a girl, I was taught to be sweet, to be dainty, to fold into myself until I was nothing more than crumpled paper. This is my unfolding. I will use gunpowder to set my makeup and gasoline as my perfume. Next time you try to burn me at the stake, I will burn back. I will start a fire you cannot control.

Under the best of circumstances, middle school is a sixth-circle-of-hell situation, sandwiched somewhere between flaming tombs and flesh-eating harpies. It's the kind of situation that doesn't need gasoline on the fire, especially when said gasoline comes in the form of your older brother murdering the older sister of the third-most popular girl in school.

The smell by now was indescribable, a compound of burnt aging automobile stinks and the natural odors of death and blood—sweet as garbage, acrid as gasoline, the smell of a thousand rubber tires rolled in batshit and then set on fire.

I’m a lot of things – crass, stubborn, brutally honest, egotistical – but one thing I am not, is careless. I know my boundaries, and I never cross them. In a business where lines can be easily blurred, those boundaries are outlined in black Sharpie, traced in gasoline, then set the fuck on fire, ensuring that no one even gets close enough to inhale the fumes of temptation. Yet, here I am, touching, tempting, tasting the limits. Begging to get burned by an angel with a halo of fire.

The stuff smelled nasty: like gasoline and dirty socks mixed with something sweet. Kind of like Buckley’s cough syrup.

There were no sparks, just a gasoline fire burning through the dark

I never gave you a chance to set fire to the dry tinder of my heart did it myself doused myself in gasoline, went searching for a match I found it in her a familiar beast of whiskey and jealousy

Have you ever wanted to learn Geometry, Calculus, Physics, German, and the mystical teachings of Orafoura? Well, now you can! Just not with this book. Well, except for the mystical bit. This book is guaranteed to cost you, or your money back. If there is ever a book that deserves to be burned, this is it. And while you are lighting a fire, why don't you also set your imagination ablaze? You can start by taking a gasoline shower and sprinting naked through Flint, Michigan. Or Phoenix. After all, the only way you'll ever be able to reach your true potential is with a stepladder and a stretch.

No matter how hard she tried to concentrate on something else- pass the time and to distract her situation she was in- The fear came trickling out. It however like a cloud of gas around her threatening to penetrate her pores and poison her. She had discovered that the most affective way of keeping the fear of day was to fantasize that something that gave her a feeling of strength. She closed her eyes and conjured up the smell of gasoline.

What fools we all are. We girls. Afraid of the wrong things, at the wrong times. Afraid of a burdened face, when outside, outside waiting for you are fires you cannot imagine. Men, holding matches up to your gasoline eyes. Flames, flames all around you, licking at your just-born breasts, your just-bled body. And infernos. Infernos as wide as the world. Waiting to impoverish you, make you ash, and even the wind, even the wind. Even the wind, my dear, she thought, watching you burn, willing it, passing over you, and through you. Scattering you, because you are a girl, and because you are ash.

Outside, overgrown grass lapped dew on Ronan’s boots, and mist curled around the tyres of the charcoal BMW. The sky over Monmouth Manufacturing was the colour of a muddy lake. It was cold, but Ronan’s gasoline heart was firing. He settled into the car, letting it become his skin. The night air was still coiled beneath the seats and lurking in the door pockets; he shivered as he tethered his raven to the seat belt fastener in the passenger seat. Not the fanciest setup, but effective for keeping a corvid from flapping around one’s sports car. Chainsaw bit him, but not as hard as the early morning cold.

A picnic. Imagine: a forest, a country road, a meadow. A car pulls off the road into the meadow and unloads young men, bottles, picnic baskets, girls, transistor radios, cameras … A fire is lit, tents are pitched, music is played. And in the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that were watching the whole night in horror crawl out of their shelters. And what do they see? An oil spill, a gasoline puddle, old spark plugs and oil filters strewn about … Scattered rags, burnt-out bulbs, someone has dropped a monkey wrench. The wheels have tracked mud from some godforsaken swamp … and, of course, there are the remains of the campfire, apple cores, candy wrappers, tins, bottles, someone’s handkerchief, someone’s penknife, old ragged newspapers, coins, wilted flowers from another meadow …” “I get it,” said Noonan. “A roadside picnic.

Generally, a mood will run its course in an inteligent man; if a woman doesn't puncture it prematurely, the man will puncture it himself. He will regain his senses somewhere along the way; he will say, "Now wait, we had better think about this." That is, if his wife hasn't said five minutes before, "Now, dear, don't you think we had better think about this?" Because then he won't, of course. If a woman is needling, it is doubly hard for a man to come out of a mood. That intensifies it. A man is really in a kind of travail when he is in a mood. He needs help, not needling, but feminine help. He probably won't thank you for it, but inside he will be awfully grateful. When a woman has to deal with a man in a mood, she generally does the wrong thing. She generally gets her animus out, that nasty thing, and says, "Now, look, this is utter nonsense, stop it. We don't need any more fishline leader." That is just throwing gasoline on the fire. There will be an anima-animus exchange, and all will be lost. The two are in the right hand and in the left hand of the goddess Maya, and you might as well give up for the afternoon. There is, however, a point of genius that a woman can bring forth if she is capable of it and willing to do it. If she will become more feminine than the mood attacking the man , she can dispel it for him. But this is a very, very difficult thing for a woman to do. Her automatic response is to let out the sword of the animus and start hacking away. But if a woman can be patient with a man and not critical, but represent for him a true feminine quality, then, as soon as his sanity is sufficiently back for him to comprehend such subtleties, he will likely come out of his mood. A wife can help a great deal if she will function from her feminine side in this way. She has to have a mature feminity to do this, a femininity that is strong enough to stand in the face of this spurious femininity the man is producing.

I love you, Little Bird. You're the gasoline to my fire.

Xander is the fire and I’m the gasoline waiting to burn. He’s the ocean in his eyes and all I want to do is drown. Maybe never return. It’ll be worth it

The air smells like gasoline. The air smells like fire. I

You need to calm down.' Saying this to a man who may already be fired up is like adding gasoline to the fire.

This year had been one for the books. And by that, Jason meant a book that got doused in gasoline, set on fire, and kicked over a cliff.

I’m on fire, and he’s the extinguisher. But then again, maybe he’s the gasoline.

Although upon reflection, Jole wasn’t sure of the advisability of introducing a keen young officer to Vorkosigan notions of initiative. Metaphors about fighting fire with gasoline rose to his mind.

Exactly. They dumped gasoline all over the gym and set fire to it. When no one was there training, luckily,” Olympia says. “How can you be so sure it was them?” “They called me at home to let me know.

The Christian approach begins with a different analysis of the situation. We believe that, as badly wounded as persons may be, the resulting self-absorption of the human heart was not caused by the mistreatment. It was only magnified and shaped by it. Their mistreatment poured gasoline on the fire, and the flame and smoke now choke them, but their self-centeredness already existed prior to their woundedness. Therefore, if you do nothing but urge people to “look out for number one,” you will be setting them up for future failure in any relationship, especially marriage. This is not to say that wounded people don’t need great gentleness, tender treatment, affirmation, and patience. It is just that this is not the whole story. Both people crippled by inferiority feelings and those who have superiority complexes are centered on themselves, obsessed with how they look and how they are being perceived and treated. It would be easy to help someone out of an inferiority complex into a superiority complex and leave them no better furnished to live life well.

What fools we all are. We girls. Afraid of the wrong things, at the wrong times. Afraid of a burned face, when outside, outside waiting for you are fires you cannot imagine. Men, holding matches up to your gasoline eyes.

the people who could author the mechanized death of our ghettos, the mass rape of private prisons, then engineer their own forgetting, must inevitably plunder much more. This is not a belief in prophecy but in the seductiveness of cheap gasoline. Once, the Dream’s parameters were caged by technology and by the limits of horsepower and wind. But the Dreamers have improved themselves, and the damming of seas for voltage, the extraction of coal, the transmuting of oil into food, have enabled an expansion in plunder with no known precedent. And this revolution has freed the Dreamers to plunder not just the bodies of humans but the body of the Earth itself. The Earth is not our creation. It has no respect for us. It has no use for us. And its vengeance is not the fire in the cities but the fire in the sky. Something more fierce than Marcus Garvey is riding on the whirlwind. Something more awful than all our African ancestors is rising with the seas. The two phenomena are known to each other. It was the cotton that passed through our chained hands that inaugurated this age. It is the flight from us that sent them sprawling into the subdivided woods. And the methods of transport through these new subdivisions, across the sprawl, is the automobile, the noose around the neck of the earth, and ultimately, the Dreamers themselves.

Nox is leaning against a tree trunk, a cigarette in his mouth. He makes use of wipes to clean his hands. I walk to him and seize his wrist, raising it to my nose. A blend of gasoline and mint. "What did you do?" "Played with fire.

Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I filled the void with the truth that fills my chest to the brim. What would happen if I opened my mouth and told them both. I wonder what kind of gasoline that would pour over the fire between us.

The key to spring cleaning is to be ruthless! Throw out anything and everything you never use. (Or that may be incriminating. Burn, if necessary, but remember—if using gasoline, those fires should be contained in a non-flammable container.)

We curl like circus animals. Our tails slimly licking the golden hoops of a deep-throated fire. You, flâneur. I, machinist. Together the metallic linger of mornings cusped on deboning knives & the odor of gasoline rising from the floorboards

I'll say that for all the good things, all the great things, the super wow things it can do, the heart is kind of an asshole. The strongest feelings we have are never when things are stable, never when things are solid, never when we can handle things. The sharpest feelings are when things are either super good or super bad, as if the heart only ever wants to add gasoline to a fire. And the heart has all the subtlety of a freight train. It's going to hit you, and it's going to hit you hard.

The day before, they had started eating the saltwater-damaged bread. The bread, which they had carefully dried in the sun, now contained all the salt of seawater but not, of course, the water. Already severely dehydrated, the men were, in effect, pouring gasoline on the fire of their thirsts—forcing their kidneys to extract additional fluid from their bodies to excrete the salt. They were beginning to suffer from a condition known as hypernatremia, in which an excessive amount of sodium can bring on convulsions.

Most shocking of all, a long-standing dispute between the city’s taxi drivers and a local car service called Murray Hill Limousine Service over the right to pick up passengers from the airport exploded into violence, as if the two sides were warring principalities in medieval Europe. The taxi drivers descended on Murray Hill with gasoline bombs. Murray Hill’s security guards opened fire. The taxi drivers then set a bus on fire and sent it crashing through the locked doors of the Murray Hill garage. This is CANADA we’re talking about.

It is more than ‘backlash politics.’ It is orchestrated backlash politics. Campaigns made choices, set fires, and even poured on the gasoline if accelerant was needed, which is why the passage of time has not, in fact extinguished, such prejudice. It is kept aflame as long as it is stoked.

Years ago, I used to tell new leaders I hired that every person in our organization walked around with two buckets. One bucket contained water, and the other gasoline. As leaders, they would continually come across small fires, and they could pour water or gasoline on a fire. It was their choice.

You heard me. Let someone else send you to your blaze of glory. You're a speck, man. You're nothing. You're not worth the bullet or the mark on my soul for taking you out." You trying to piss me off again, Patrick?" He removed Campbell Rawson from his shoulder and held him aloft. I tilted my wrist so the cylinder fell into my palm, shrugged. "You're a joke, Gerry. I'm just calling it like I see it." That so?" Absolutely." I met his hard eyes with my own. "And you'll be replaced, just like everything else, in maybe a week, tops. Some other dumb, sick shit will come along and kill some people and he'll be all over the papers, and all over Hard Copy and you'll be yesterday's news. Your fifteen minutes are up, Gerry. And they've passed without impact." They'll remember this," Gerry said. "Believe me." Gerry clamped back on the trigger. When he met my finger, he looked at me and then clamped down so hard that my finger broke. I depressed the trigger on the one-shot and nothing happened. Gerry shrieked louder, and the razor came out of my flesh, then swung back immediately, and I clenched my eyes shut and depressed the trigger frantically three times. And Gerry's hand exploded. And so did mine. The razor hit the ice by my knee as I dropped the one shot and fire roared up the electrical tape and gasoline on Gerry's arm and caught the wisps of Danielle's hair. Gerry threw his head back and opened his mouth wide and bellowed in ecstasy. I grabbed the razor, could barely feel it because the nerves in my hand seemed to have stopped working. I slashed into the electric tape at the end of the shotgun barrel, and Danielle dropped away toward the ice and rolled her head into the frozen sand. My broken finger came back out of the shotgun and Gerry swung the barrels toward my head. The twin shotgun bores arced through the darkness like eyes without mercy or soul, and I raised my head to meet them, and Gerry's wail filled my ears as the fire licked at his neck. Good-bye, I thought. Everyone. It's been nice. Oscar's first two shots entered the back of Gerry's head and exited through the center of his forehead and a third punched into his back. The shotgun jerked upward in Gerry's flaming arm and then the shots came from the front, several at once, and Gerry spun like a marionette and pitched toward the ground. The shotgun boomed twice and punched holes through the ice in front of him as he fell. He landed on his knees and, for a moment, I wasn't sure if he was dead or not. His rusty hair was afire and his head lolled to the left as one eye disappeared in flames but the other shimmered at me through waves of heat, and an amused derision shone in the pupil. Patrick, the eye said through the gathering smoke, you still know nothing. Oscar rose up on the other side of Gerry's corpse, Campbell Rawson clutched tight to his massive chest as it rose and fell with great heaving breaths. The sight of it-something so soft and gentle in the arms of something so thick and mountaineous-made me laugh. Oscar came out of the darkness toward me, stepped around Gerry's burning body, and I felt the waves of heat rise toward me as the circle of gasoline around Gerry caught fire. Burn, I thought. Burn. God help me, but burn. Just after Oscar stepped over the outer edge of the circle, it erupted in yellow flame, and I found myself laughing harder as he looked at it, not remotely impressed. I felt cool lips smack against my ear, and by the time I looked her way, Danielle was already past me, rushing to take her child from Oscar. His huge shadow loomed over me as he approached, and I looked up at him and he held the look for a long moment. How you doing, Patrick?" he said and smiled broadly. And, behind him, Gerry burned on the ice. And everything was so goddamned funny for some reason, even though I knew it wasn't. I knew it wasn't. I did. But I was still laughing when they put me in the ambulance.

There is a strong mind-body connection so depression and anxiety are important cofactors for pain. They don't cause it but they are accelerants. Think of whatever causes your pain as the match that started a fire. Depression and anxiety are fuel on that fire. It is hard to put out a fire when someone is dousing it with gasoline.

Sometime after midnight, another band of soldiers broke into the tiny chapel in the Imperial Park which had become Rasputin’s tomb and exhumed the coffin. They took it to a clearing in the forest, pried off the lid and, using sticks to avoid touching the putrefying corpse, lifted what remained of Rasputin onto a pile of pine logs. The body and logs were drenched with gasoline and set on fire. For more than six hours, the body burned while an icy wind howled through the clearing and clouds of pungent smoke rose from the pyre. Along with the soldiers, a group of peasants gathered, silent and afraid, to watch through the night as the final scene of this baleful drama was played. It had happened as Rasputin once predicted: he would be killed and his body not left in peace, but burned, with his ashes scattered to the winds.

She swung around, her hair flying about her like wildfire. Fire. The fireplace. She reached in with all the power Todd had taught her to exercise and grasped as much as she could. She imagined gasoline spilling onto the logs, leaving trails of burning kerosene around the room. In her mind bright orange and red exploded in dazzling sparks. The oxygen seemed to thicken and swell around her. Then the entire room was alight with flame.

March 9–10, 1945, 334 B-29 aircraft dropped tons of jellied gasoline—napalm—and high explosives on Tokyo. The resulting firestorm killed an estimated 100,000 people and completely burned out 15.8 square miles of the city. The fire-bombing raids continued and by July 1945, all but five of Japan’s major cities had been razed and hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians had been killed. This was total warfare, an attack aimed at the destruction of a nation, not just its military targets.

Burn me. Pour gasoline over me and set my body on fire. Burn me at the stake like a witch. Wrap me in garbage bags and toss me in the incinerator. I'll turn into dioxin and make my way into your lungs. Stroke my face lightly with a razor blade and suck the blood that comes seeping out. Lap it up like a cat. I want to be covered in blood. I'll cry out in the end and weep for fear of leaving this world without ever once discovering the me inside me, the ugly something inside me. The foul scent of burning hair. The heat.

What happened next was a blur. I sat down at the table. Jess was somewhere nearby, but my vision clouded her out. There were Tostitos on the table. There was a candle on the table. I said hi to Drew, and started talking to him, but there were also other girls at the table, and I guess I wanted more attention. I picked up a chip, held it in the flame of the candle to see if it would light on fire, and, when it didn’t, I put the black and smoky remnant into my mouth, and I swallowed it. I wish I could say that I understood what I was doing. I wish I could say that I was or am secretly a fire-eater, and that after this little fake-out, I pulled out a baton, covered it in gasoline, lit it on fire, and swallowed the flame to rapturous applause. Instead, I just established myself pretty firmly as the weird girl at the party she wasn’t invited to who inexplicably tried to light a chip on fire and then ate it. I know Drew saw it. I know he was intrigued, though I’m fairly sure it was not in the way I intended. He certainly didn’t seem to suddenly view me as a tough and mysterious vixen with a dark past and a one-way ticket out of this town.

Years ago, I used to tell new leaders I hired that every person in our organization walked around with two buckets. One bucket contained water, and the other gasoline. As leaders, they would continually come across small fires, and they could pour water or gasoline on a fire. It was their choice. When you choose the water bucket and represent your boss positively, he will appreciate it. That will be especially true when the “fire” you encounter is about your boss. Anytime people work for someone who can’t or won’t lead, there is grumbling. Don’t pour gas on it. Pour water.

mesmerizing -- gold, red, orange, black -- the colors of the dragons that had promised so much: prosperity, love, good health, a second chance, a new start. The fire began to pop, the small sounds lost in the constant boom of firecrackers going off in the streets of San Francisco in celebration of the Chinese New Year. No one would notice another noise, another spark of light, until it was too late. In the confusion of the smoke and the crowds, the dragons and the box they guarded would disappear. No one would ever know what had really happened. The flame reached the end of the gasoline-soaked rope and suddenly burst forth in a flash of intense, deadly heat. More explosions followed as the fire caught the cardboard boxes holding precious inventory and jumped toward the basement ceiling. A questioning cry came from somewhere, followed by the sound of footsteps running down the halls of the building that had once been their sanctuary, their dream for the future, where the treasures of the past were turned into cold, hard cash. The cost of betrayal would be high. They would be brothers no more. But then, their ties had never been of blood, only of friendship --

What fools we all are. We girls. Afraid of the wrong things, at the wrong times. Afraid of a burned face, when outside, outside waiting for you are fires you cannot imagine. Men, holding matches up to your gasoline eyes. Flames, flames all around you, licking at your just-born breasts, your just-bled body. And infernos. Infernos as wide as the world. Waiting to impoverish you, make you ash, and even the wind, even the wind. Even the wind, my dear, she thought, watching you burn, willing it, passing over you, and through you. Scattering you, because you are a girl, and because you are ash.

Neil Josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag. He didn't want the nicotine, he wanted the acrid smoke that reminded him of his mother. If he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire. It was at once revolting and comforting, and it sent a sick shudder down the spine. [...] He glanced up at the sky, but the stars where washed out behind the glare of stadium lights. He wondered - not for the first time - if his mother was looking down at him. He hoped not. She'd beat him to hell and back if she saw him sitting around, moping like this.

Trying to live and love, With a heart that can't be broken, Is like trying to see the light with eyes that can't be opened. Yeah, we both carry baggage, We picked up on our way, so if you love me do it gently, And I will do the same. We may shine, we may shatter, We may be picking up the pieces here on after, We are fragile, we are human, We are shaped by the light we let through us, We break fast, cause we are glass. Cause we are glass. I'll let you look inside me, through the stains and through the cracks, And in the darkness of this moment, You see the good and bad. But try not to judge me, 'cause we've walked down different paths, But it brought us here together, so I won't take that back. We may shine, we may shatter, We may be picking up the pieces here on after, We are fragile, we are human, We are shaped by the light we let through us, We break fast, cause we are glass. We might be oil and water, this could be a big mistake, We might burn like gasoline and fire, It's a chance we'll have to take. We may shine, we may shatter, We may be picking up the pieces here on after, We are fragile, we are human, And we are shaped by the light we let through us, We break fast, cause we are glass. We are glass.

It was because of this that she had allowed herself to sleep in, and now it was half past twelve and she was standing on the tree lawn in her robe and a pair of her son Trip’s tennis shoes, watching their house burn to the ground. When she had awoken to the shrill scream of the smoke detector, she ran from room to room looking for him, for Lexie, for Moody. It struck her that she had not looked for Izzy, as if she had known already that Izzy was to blame. Every bedroom was empty except for the smell of gasoline and a small crackling fire set directly in the middle of each bed, as if a demented Girl Scout had been camping there.

I just didn’t realize until this moment that Oakley and I were so poisonous together. I thought we were happy and in love. Two broken pieces of the same soul. But maybe we weren’t? Maybe we were fire and gasoline instead. Maybe what we felt for each other was a lethal addiction. And the only way to save ourselves from total destruction is to quit each other. Broken Kingdom Page 83 It’s obvious he loves his son. And even though a parent’s love is a foreign concept to me given my own father was an absentee parent for most of my life…I do have two brothers who would do anything to protect me from harm. I just didn’t realize until this moment that Oakley and I were so poisonous together. I thought we were happy and in love. Two broken pieces of the same soul. But maybe we weren’t? Maybe we were fire and gasoline instead. Maybe what we felt for each other was a lethal addiction. And the only way to save ourselves from total destruction is to quit each other. Maybe that’s why my mother made me promise her I’d never fall in love. Because she knew all along what it could do to a person. The way it could annihilate you until there was nothing left but a barren, hollow spot where your heart used to be. And that death was a fate far better than a love you were forbidden to have.

Engine knock became a serious problem around 1913, when the increasing demand for gasoline led oil refiners to maintain volume by distilling more crude into the product, lowering its octane further.23 Engineers believed that engine knock was the result of premature ignition of the fuel—that compression alone was the problem. No one knew for sure, because it was difficult to know what was going on inside the cylinders of an operating engine firing at thousands of revolutions per minute. If the gasoline-powered internal combustion engine was to serve as the predominant power source for the automobile, its fuel and engine-design problems needed to be addressed.

Make a List (or lists) • Make a list of all the things that you can look at and think: Why did we even bother to move that the last time? Now will be your last and best chance to give or throw away unwanted items until your next move (5-7 years on average). Give unwanted clothes, furniture, kitchen items, etc. to a charity that allows you to use your donation as a tax write-off. Yard sales are another option. • Make a list (and/or get one online) of household hazardous materials. These are common items in your home that are not or might not be safe to transport: flammables like propane tanks (even empty ones), gasoline or kerosene, aerosols or compressed gases (hair spray, spray paint), cleaning fluids in plastic containers (bleach, ammonia) and pesticides (bug spray) and herbicides (weed killer) and caustics like lye or pool acid. There is more likely to be damage caused by leakage of cleaning fluids-- like bleach--than there is by damage caused by a violent explosion or fire in your truck. The problem lies in the fact that any leaking fluid is going to drip its way to the floor and spread out--even in the short time span of your move and more so if you are going up and down hills. Aerosols can explode in the summer heat as can propane BBQ tanks. Gasoline from lawnmowers and pesticide vapors expand in the heat and can permeate everything in the truck. Plastic containers that have been opened can expand and contract with a change in temperature and altitude and crack.

Not getting sufficient sleep when fighting a battle against cancer can be likened to pouring gasoline on an already aggressive fire. That may sound alarmist, but the scientific evidence linking sleep disruption and cancer is now so damning that the World Health Organization has officially classified nighttime shift work as a “probable carcinogen.

President Trump is pouring gasoline onto the fire of George Floyd.

Do you want to be the ones handing out the gasoline cans? Or the ones trying to put out the fire?

But because this isn’t a fucking Nancy Drew novel, this is what happens instead: The flames rip up the cord like it was dipped in gasoline, singing my hand. I drop the cord, which swings back to the curtain. Then that curtain ignites like it’s paper. Liquid fire roars up to the ceiling in an instant.

There is a different feeling, to be clicking along at a gripping pace while starting up the internals, kind of like the pre-start of a rocket launch protocol, the rapid intake and exhalation of the crisp morning air is an igniter. The actual process of the run is giving my mind the time it needs to get started, and the oxygen-rich blood pumping into my brain is like gasoline on a grass fire. By the time I am headed home, my brain is already filled with energy, awake and afire with the sheer joy of life. Oh, and endorphins. Those are good, too.

This is the fire. We’re in it. JFK and Obama led us to the rainbow; Trump forced us into the fire. And then he poured gasoline on it. If only he had responded sooner and more intelligently to the pandemic. If only he’d been an unaffected opportunist instead of a slumlord on steroids. If only he’d never taken out full-page newspaper ads calling for the deaths of innocent Black men. If only he had or had not made a thousand choices that resulted in a critical dearth of leadership at a moment when leadership was desperately needed. If he’d set an example of competent

forced us into the fire. And then he poured gasoline on

If you want an effective incendiary, something that is sticky is much more effective than something that is not sticky, because it actually adheres to whatever it is transferring its radiation energy into. And that’s why napalm is so effective. If the jelled material is too soft or too weak, then it won’t actually deliver a very large amount of radiation to whatever it’s sticking to. You can think of a Molotov cocktail that’s filled up with gasoline, exploding and delivering gasoline. It can burn somebody or something quite terribly, but the fire will go out relatively quickly. Whereas by contrast, if napalm is thrown on something, it will stick to it.

We have seen how giving vast amounts of fake (inflated) money to unethical corporations and banks is like throwing gasoline on a smoldering and deadly fire.

The police report stated that Avery took a cat, poured gas and oil on it, threw it in a bonfire, and then watched it burn until it died. A friend who was present at the time told police that the cat jumped out of the fire, and Avery caught it and poured more gasoline on it before the animal died.

Bryce walked calmly to the hidden supply closet. Pulled out a red plastic container. And dumped the entire gallon of gasoline on the Governor’s dismembered corpse. “Holy fuck,” Ruhn whispered, over and over. “Holy fuck.” The rest of the room didn’t so much as breathe too loudly. Even Sandriel had no words as Bryce grabbed a pack of matches from a drawer in her desk. She struck one, and tossed it onto the Governor’s body. Flames erupted. The fireproofing enchantments on the art around her shimmered. There would be no chance of salvation. Of healing. Not for Micah. Not after what he had done to Danika Fendyr. To the Pack of Devils. And Lehabah. Bryce stared at the fire, her face still splattered with the Archangel’s blood. And finally, she lifted her eyes. Right to the camera. To the world watching. Vengeance incarnate. Wrath’s bruised heart. She would bow for no one. Hunt’s lightning sang at the sight of that brutal, beautiful face. Time sped up, the flames devouring Micah’s body, crisping his wings to cinders. They spat him out as ashes. Sirens wailed outside the gallery as the Auxiliary pulled up at last. Bryce slammed the front door shut as the first of the Fae units and wolf packs appeared. No one, not even Sandriel, spoke a word as Bryce took out the vacuum from the supply closet. And erased the last trace of Micah from the world.

We don't need any more gasoline on the fire." "I know that's what you prefer, but sometimes you just need to light the match, you know? Kaboom.

she was what had been missing. Now, I felt like I was on fire, and she was both the water and the gasoline.

More than 100K active users OR serial founder(s) with past exits OR more than 10K paying customers. Whenever possible, I want to pour gasoline on the fire, not start the fire.

after we have successfully diagnosed our ailment, for a time we continue to create suffering for ourselves. We pour gasoline on the fire through our words, thoughts, and deeds and often don’t even realize it.

You see her?” I point at her. “That is what your money will get you, so go and bid.” “And have you throw gasoline on another one of my cars? No, thank you. You might actually be gaslighting me right now,” he suggests with an arched eyebrow. I try to hide my smile, because it was a lot of fun setting his car on fire.

Hang around people who pour water on the fires of your fears, and throw gasoline on the passions of your dreams.

I love you, Little Bird. You’re the gasoline to my fire. I never would have let you go, and the others wouldn’t have either. They are idiots if they thought they could. Ready for round two?” Oh shit.

Oh, I don't drink. There's enough going on in my head without throwing gasoline on the fire.

I look around and see little fires everywhere, burning away at peoples’ joy. Am I the match or the gasoline?

She’s got fire, fire that doesn’t need an Aurelian to keep alight. It’ll burn until the day she dies. I want to pour gasoline on it and watch her burn up the universe.

The Red Caps seem to like her,” he observed. “Who?” “The Red Caps.” “No, they seem to like who?” “Whom.” Patrick sighed. “They seem to like whom?” “Lindsay.” “Ah!” Patrick slapped his knees with his hands. “Yes. They do. You know why? Because she is a female who does not ignore them. That’s a Red Cap’s kryptonite.” Ben pondered this for a moment. “That sounds like my kryptonite,” he said. “It’s all men’s kryptonite,” Pat admitted. “If it looks like a woman, and smells like a woman, and talks like a woman, and is a woman, we like getting attention from it.” “Until we get too much attention from it,” Ben added. “Yes. There’s a fine line there. Not many women can walk it.” “I should date a tightrope walker,” Ben mused. “That would be stupid hot.” “Are you sure you’re not thinking about a contortionist?” Patrick asked, squinting into the fire. “That’s the hot kind of circus performer. Tightrope walkers are just regular people who can walk a straight line. They’re like sober versions of me. But contortionists! Ooo-wee!” “What do you think it would be like to date a fire eater?” Ben asked. “Do you think she would taste like gasoline?” Patrick squinted at his friend. “Why would she taste like gasoline?” “Because that’s what they put in their mouths. To spit fire.” “Wow, no, that is extremely wrong. Extremely wrong. Gasoline is definitely not what they use.” “Yes, it is,” Ben insisted. “It’s flammable.” “Yes, it is flammable. Highly flammable. If they put gasoline in their mouths and spit it onto fire, their heads would literally explode. They use paraffin.” “How do you know that?” “How do I know that?” he frowned. “Oh! I learned it!

Just Say Yes” by Snow Patrol “Don’t Deserve You” by Plumb “Gasoline” by Halsey “Jesus Christ” by Brand New “The Resolution” by Jack’s Mannequin “Brick” by Ben Folds Five “True Colors” by Ane Brun “Windows” by AWOLNATION “Love Story” by Yelawolf “I See Fire” by Jasmine Thompson

cover the twenty-five in sacks soaked in gasoline. Then they set fire to them. Shrieking, transformed into human torches, some managed to put out the flames by rolling on the ground but were left with terrible burns. Those who threw themselves into the river like flaming meteors drowned. Macedo, Loaysa, and Velarde finished off the wounded with their revolvers.

The book explains – and, perhaps more importantly, photographically illustrates – death of human beings by all sorts of means. Gunshot, knife, bludgeon, stomping, strangulation, automobile collisions and auto-pedestrian strikes, death by fire, and more are thoroughly covered. When opposing counsel says of your opponent, “He only had a knife (or stick, or bottle)”… “He was unarmed!”… ”He was just driving his car!”…”He was only standing there with an ordinary can of gasoline and an ordinary Zippo lighter!”… …I would like you to be able to honestly say, “Counselor, in that moment I knew what he could do to me. My mind flashed back to pictures I had seen of someone stabbed/clubbed/stomped/run over/burned to death. I pictured my mother or my spouse having to identify me looking like that on a slab in the morgue, and I knew I had to stop him.” There