Flashlight Love Quotes

She wants to know if I love her, that's all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet.

If you have never spent whole afternoons with burning ears and rumpled hair, forgetting the world around you over a book, forgetting cold and hunger-- If you have never read secretly under the bedclothes with a flashlight, because your father or mother or some other well-meaning person has switched off the lamp on the plausible ground that it was time to sleep because you had to get up so early-- If you have never wept bitter tears because a wonderful story has come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless-- If such things have not been part of your own experience, you probably won't understand what Bastian did next.

Love is like a portable lamp/sex toy. The world calls those flashlights, but I’m much more romantic.

For a while I thought I was the dragon. I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was the princess, cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle, young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with confidence but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess, while I’m out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire, and getting stabbed to death. Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal. You still get to be the hero. You get magic gloves! A fish that talks! You get eyes like flashlights!

I am a reader, a flashlight-under-the-covers, carries-a-book-everywhere-I-go​, don't-look-at-my-Amazon-bill. I choose purses based on whether I can cram a paperback into them, and my books are the first items I pack into a suitcase. I am the person who family and friends call when they need a book recommendation or cannot remember who wrote Heidi. My identity as a person is so entwined with my love of reading and books that I cannot separate the two.

Once upon a time, there was a boy. He lived in a village that no longer exists, on the edge of a field that no longer exists, where everything was discovered and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword. A pebble could be a diamond. A tree was a castle. Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a house across the field from a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was the Queen and he was the King. In the autumn light, her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls. When the sky grew dark, they parted with leaves in their hair. Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. When they were ten he asked her to marry him. When they were eleven he kissed her for the first time. When they were thirteen they got into a fight and for three weeks they didn't talk. When they were fifteen she showed him the scar on her left breast. Their love was a secret they told no one. He promised her he would never love another girl as long as he lived. "What if I die?" she asked. "Even then," he said. For her sixteenth birthday, he gave her an English dictionary and together they learned the words. "What's this?" he'd ask, tracing his index finger around her ankle and she'd look it up. "And this?" he'd ask, kissing her elbow. "Elbow! What kind of word is that?" and then he'd lick it, making her giggle. "What about this," he asked, touching the soft skin behind her ear. "I don't know," she said, turning off the flashlight and rolling over, with a sigh, onto her back. When they were seventeen they made love for the first time, on a bed of straw in a shed. Later-when things happened that they could never have imagined-she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?

Sometimes I wonder if she knows, I wonder in my Nothingest moments if she's testing me, if she types nonsense all day long, or types nothing at all, just to see what I'll do in response, she wants to know if I love her, that's all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet.

Look,” he says, “whenever I’m here, it feels like the walls are closing in on me. I love my family, I do. But I’ve spent fifteen years coming home as rarely as possible because it’s fucking lonely to feel like you don’t fit somewhere. I never wanted to run this store. I never wanted this town. And whenever I’m here it’s all I think about. I get so fucking claustrophobic from it all. “Not from them. But from feeling like I don’t know how to be myself here. From—getting in my head about who I’m supposed to be, or all the ways I haven’t turned out how they wanted me to. And then you showed up.” His eyes flare, flashlights racing over the dark, searching. “And I could finally breathe.

You know sometimes when I walk into your room with a flashlight or a candle?' I nodded. 'Well, love is like that. Light doesn't have to announce it's way into a room or ask the darkness to leave. It just is. It walks ahead of you, and the darkness rolls back like a tide.' She waved her hand across the room. 'It has to 'cause darkness can't be where light is.

You’ve lived and learned that timing is everything. Time is precious. Your birthright is happiness, love, peace, and joy. As you travel the road of life, you now know when to pay attention. You now know your worth, and as you walk down the path without fear, you are learning more and more about yourself than you have ever known. No matter how old you are—you are learning the fundamentals of life forces that will help guide you along the way. You are learning that there’s no need for a flashlight because the love you have for yourself is shining so brightly that everyone notices as you walk past them.

How about you get on my back? So in a way you’re not being carried – you’re riding me.” I paused and then winked. Kat stared. “What?” I laughed, and her eyes immediately narrowed. “You should see yourself right now. Like a kitten – that’s what I keep telling you. Your hackles are raised.” Her eyes rolled as she shuffled behind me. “You should conserve your energy and stop talking.” “Ouch.” “You’ll get over it.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “Besides, you could be knocked down a peg or two.” ... “Baby, I’m so far up the ladder there aren’t any pegs under me to be knocked down.” “Wow”, she said. “That’s a new one.” “You loved it.” .. “Hold on, Kitten. I’m going to start to glow just a little, and we’re going to go fast.” “I like when you glow. It’s like having my own personal flashlight.” I grinned. “Glad I can be of assistance.” She patted my chest. “Giddy up.

He realized that all men were like this; that each person was to himself one alone. One oneness, a unit in a society, but always afraid. Like here, standing. If he should scream, if he should holler for help, would it matter? Blackness could come swiftly, swallowing; in one titanically freezing moment all would be concluded. Long before dawn, long before police with flashlights might probe the dark, disturbed pathway, long before men with trembling brains could rustle down the pebbles to his help. Even if they were within five hundred yards of him now, and help certainly was, in three seconds a dark tide could rise to take all ten years from him and— The essential impact of life’s loneliness crushed his beginning-to-tremble body. Mother was alone, too. She could not look to the sanctity of marriage, the protection of her family’s love, she could not look to the United States Constitution or the City Police, she could not look anywhere, in this very instant, save into her heart, and there she would find nothing but uncontrollable repugnance and a will to fear. In this instant it was an individual problem seeking an individual solution. He must accept being alone and work on from there.

The year was 1987, but it might as well have been the Summer of Love: I was twenty, had hair down to my shoulders, and was dressed like an Indian rickshaw driver. For those charged with enforcing our nation’s drug laws, it would have been only prudent to subject my luggage to special scrutiny. Happily, I had nothing to hide. “Where are you coming from?” the officer asked, glancing skeptically at my backpack. “India, Nepal, Thailand…” I said. “Did you take any drugs while you were over there?” As it happens, I had. The temptation to lie was obvious—why speak to a customs officer about my recent drug use? But there was no real reason not to tell the truth, apart from the risk that it would lead to an even more thorough search of my luggage (and perhaps of my person) than had already commenced. “Yes,” I said. The officer stopped searching my bag and looked up. “Which drugs did you take? “I smoked pot a few times… And I tried opium in India.” “Opium?” “Yes.” “Opium or heroin? “It was opium.” “You don’t hear much about opium these days.” “I know. It was the first time I’d ever tried it.” “Are you carrying any drugs with you now?” “No.” The officer eyed me warily for a moment and then returned to searching my bag. Given the nature of our conversation, I reconciled myself to being there for a very long time. I was, therefore, as patient as a tree. Which was a good thing, because the officer was now examining my belongings as though any one item—a toothbrush, a book, a flashlight, a bit of nylon cord—might reveal the deepest secrets of the universe. “What is opium like?” he asked after a time. And I told him. In fact, over the next ten minutes, I told this lawman almost everything I knew about the use of mind-altering substances. Eventually he completed his search and closed my luggage. One thing was perfectly obvious at the end of our encounter: We both felt very good about it.

Awareness is a flashlight that gives us a choice.

why he's grown but, just a boy in the head shine a flashlight on the monster under the bed of any gal who's ever loved him now she gonna know some real dread

The Qur’an is a divine map, a flashlight in the dark night, a compass that leads us back to the home we left so long ago.

We shone flashlights through our fingers to convince ourselves that we're made of blood.

Love is the darkness that shines in our hearts. I bought you a flashlight. It’s broken, so you know I care.


You are the king of all the fears that ruled my life, a man of ferocity and passion and balls to the wall determination and endless, boyish enthusiasm. You crack the soul of life open in your palms and drink your fill. A man like that needs a queen by his side,” I murmured, repeating my excuse for our breakup back to him in a way that had his eyes clicking to life like flashlights. “And I’m that queen. I will match your ferocity. I will exceed your passion and challenge your balls to the wall determination. I will see your boyish enthusiasm and raise you my newborn love for life. I will stand beside my biker King and be his rough-and-tumble Queen, even if it takes me the next ten years to convince you to take me back.

For a good ten minutes or so we stand there with the flashlight burning the grave with light. The whole time, I'm trying to guess where and exactly how he died and, more to the point, realizing that poor old Milla's been without him for sixty-years. I can tell. No other man has entered her life. Not the way her Jimmy did. She's been waiting sixty years for Jimmy to come back. And now he has.

Every morning, before breakfast, and before I come here, your mother and I go to the guest room, the animals follow us, I thumb through the blank pages and gesture laughter, and gesture tears, if she asks why I'm laughing or crying about, I tap my finger on the page, and if she asks, "Why?" I press her hand against her heart, and then against my heart, or I touch her forefinger to the mirror, or touch it, quickly, against the hotplate, sometimes I wonder if she knows, I wonder in my Nothingness moments if she's testing me, if she types nonsense all day long, or if she types nothing at all, just to see what I'll do in response, she wants to know if I love her, that's all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet (...)

But I was at the threshold of understanding what Shirley had meant about my not being an accident of history. Or rather: either all of us are accidents of history or none of us are. One sperm, one egg, one moment. An interruption—a ringing phone, a knock on the door, a flashlight through the car window—a single second one way or the other and the result would be an entirely different human being. Mine was just more complicated, an accident involving vials, syringes, contracts, and secrets.

I had forgotten how disconcerting intimacy can be, how rare and how devastating the potential for loss that's inherent in it. The old adage is that -intimacy- means 'Into me I see'--deeply, with a flashlight--and believe me, we're not trying to avoid seeing the lovely and selfless aspects of ourselves. It's not even the unlikable qualities--narcissism, fraudulence, envy. It's the really disgusting, uncooked-egg parts of us--wanting people to fail, using people, holding on to resentments, our sense of entitlement.

Look around. There’s no shortage of people hungry for a moment of connection. There’s always someone who could use a little assistance. A little attention. A little comfort. A little love. Next time you catch yourself feeling like a fraud, check yourself. Chances are, you’re shining your flashlight on yourself rather than directing it where it can make its greatest impact—caring for others.

I am not even safe in my pink bedroom anymore! Plus, I know that my teddy cannot help me out either, yet I hold on to it, for he knows all my secrets. I know she has put her dirty little long fingers in my mouth, and I have sucked on it not knowing what it was, and she has gotten on top of me too…! I just know it. Yet, I always feel so drowsy, when I hear them calling for me, like- I have been drugged up… I wonder if I have been? Yet- how…? It is like she has stood over my bed, and said- ‘Boo!’ When I was asleep, she would flashlight like it was beaming in my eyes with a flashlight, and she said… ‘It’s me- my love! I am going to sleep with you tonight!’ What choice do I have? It is either do- it, or face their wrath at school, yet I was so looped… I did not know if I was dreaming or not.

She’s here, Diana. Our little Tabby is here. Safe and sound.“ Diana lifted her lashes and looked up at Colby. He was on his knees between her legs, holding his daughter in Brandon’s denim jacket. In the glare of the flashlight Brandon held, she could see the brilliant expression of triumph and happiness in her husband’s eyes. “I love you, Diana.“ “I love you, Colby.“ Diana relaxed. This time, she thought, Colby wasn’t just practicing. This time he meant it.

Pippin marveled at the vastness of the collection. How many stories did the pages of all these books hold? But not only that, what stories did the books themselves tell? Who had held these volumes? Who had loved them, hidden under a sheet, flashlight in hand, to read them into the wee hours of the morning, or screeched from a shocking twist? Imaginary people came to life through the words on the page. Book boyfriends, best friends, worlds in which people wanted to live

Books had always been a comfort to her. More than comfort. There were times when reading came close to an addiction. When things had been tough at home, Harriet’s solution had been to remove herself from life and disappear. She’d chosen to be invisible. Sometimes physically, by hiding under the table, but sometimes psychologically by diving into a literary world unlike her own. As a child she’d liked to sink into the pages and lose herself for hours at a time. When she was reading, she didn’t just leave her own life behind, she stepped into someone else’s. There were times when she’d read for hours without noticing the passage of time or the onset of darkness. When it grew too dark to read, she simply switched on her flashlight and read under the covers so that she didn’t disturb her sister, who was sleeping in the next bed. At school, she carried her book around. When things were difficult, the weight of her bag would comfort her. It helped just to know the book was there, waiting for her. At various points in the day she’d feel the edges bump against her thigh, reminding her of its existence. It was like having a friend close by, telling her I’m still here and we can spend time together later. Even now, more than a decade on from that difficult time of her life, she found herself instinctively reaching for a book when she was stressed. Comfort was different things to different people. To some it was a bar of chocolate or a glass of wine, a run in the park or coffee with a friend. To Harriet, it was a book.

She doesn't respect me. She doesn't even love me, for God's sake. Basically--in the last analysis--I don't love her any more, either. I don't know. I do and I don't. It varies. It fluctuates. Christ! Every time I get all set to put my foot down, we have dinner out, for some reason, and I meet her somewhere and she comes in with these goddam white gloves on or something. I don't know. Or I start thinking about the first time we drove up to New Haven for the Princeton game. We had a flat right after we got off the Parkway, and it was cold as hell, and she held the flashlight while I fixed the goddam thing--You know what I mean. I don't know. Or I start thinking about--Christ, it's embarrassing--I start thinking about this goddam poem I sent her when we first started goin' around together. 'Rose my color is. and white, Pretty mouth and green my eyes.' Christ, it's embarrassing--it used to remind me of her. She doesn't have green eyes--she has eyes like goddam sea shells, for Chrissake--but it reminded me anyway ... I don't know.

In Memory of My Feelings" My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets. He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals. My quietness has a number of naked selves, so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons and have murder in their heart! though in winter they are warm as roses, in the desert taste of chilled anisette. At times, withdrawn, I rise into the cool skies and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification of my colleagues, the mountains. Manfred climbs to my nape, speaks, but I do not hear him, I'm too blue. An elephant takes up his trumpet, money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror across shoulder blades. A gun is "fired." One of me rushes to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes, and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt's lust, definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs of earth. So many of my transparencies could not resist the race! Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets, a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth, the imperceptible moan of covered breathing, love of the serpent! I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud and animal death whips out its flashlight, whistling and slipping the glove off the trigger hand. The serpent's eyes redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth! My transparent selves flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing without panic, with a certain justice of response and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa.

Occasionally a dim light flashed in town, and this was the sheriff making his rounds with a weak flashlight and mumbling to himself in the jungle night. Then I saw his light jiggling toward us and heard his footfalls coming soft on the mats of sand and vegetation. He stopped and flashed the car. I sat up and looked at him. In a quivering, almost querulous, and extremely tender voice he said, “Dormiendo?” indicating Dean in the road. I knew this meant “sleep.” “Si, dormiendo.” “Bueno, bueno,” he said to himself and with reluctance and sadness turned away and went back to his lonely rounds. Such lovely policemen God hath never wrought in America. No suspicions, no fuss, no bother: he was the guardian of the sleeping town, period.

During my time at Eton, I led regular nighttime adventures, and word spread. I even thought about charging to take people on trips. I remember one where we tried to cross the whole town of Eton in the old sewers. I had found an old grill under a bridge that led into these four-foot-high old brick pipes, running under the streets. It took a little nerve to probe into these in the pitch black with no idea where the hell they were leading you; and they stank. I took a pack of playing cards and a flashlight, and I would jam cards into the brickwork every ten paces to mark my way. Eventually I found a manhole cover that lifted up, and it brought us out in the little lane right outside the headmaster’s private house. I loved that. “All crap flows from here,” I remember us joking at that time.

The pieces of Cholly's life could become coherent only in the head of a musician. Only those who talk their talk through the gold of curved metal, or in the touch of black-and-white rectangles and taut skins and strings echoing from wooden corridors, could give true form to his life. Only they would know how to connect the heart of a red watermelon to the asafetida bag to the muscadine to the flashlight on his behind to the fists of money to the lemonade in a Mason jar to a man called Blue and come up with what all of that meant in joy, in pain, in anger, in love, and give it its final and pervading ache of freedom. Only a musician would sense, know, without even knowing that he knew that Cholly was free. Dangerously free. Free to feel whatever he felt--fear, guilt, shame, love, grief, pity. Free to be tender or violent, to whistle or weep.

I don’t like stories. I like moments. I like night better than day, moon better than sun, and here-and-now better than any sometime-later. I also like birds, mushrooms, the blues, peacock feathers, black cats, blue-eyed people, heraldry, astrology, criminal stories with lots of blood, and ancient epic poems where human heads can hold conversations with former friends and generally have a great time for years after they’ve been cut off. I like good food and good drink, sitting in a hot bath and lounging in a snowbank, wearing everything I own at once, and having everything I need close at hand. I like speed and that special ache in the pit of the stomach when you accelerate to the point of no return. I like to frighten and to be frightened, to amuse and to confound. I like writing on the walls so that no one can guess who did it, and drawing so that no one can guess what it is. I like doing my writing using a ladder or not using it, with a spray can or squeezing the paint from a tube. I like painting with a brush, with a sponge, and with my fingers. I like drawing the outline first and then filling it in completely, so that there’s no empty space left. I like letters as big as myself, but I like very small ones as well. I like directing those who read them here and there by means of arrows, to other places where I also wrote something, but I also like to leave false trails and false signs. I like to tell fortunes with runes, bones, beans, lentils, and I Ching. Hot climates I like in the books and movies; in real life, rain and wind. Generally rain is what I like most of all. Spring rain, summer rain, autumn rain. Any rain, anytime. I like rereading things I’ve read a hundred times over. I like the sound of the harmonica, provided I’m the one playing it. I like lots of pockets, and clothes so worn that they become a kind of second skin instead of something that can be taken off. I like guardian amulets, but specific ones, so that each is responsible for something separate, not the all-inclusive kind. I like drying nettles and garlic and then adding them to anything and everything. I like covering my fingers with rubber cement and then peeling it off in front of everybody. I like sunglasses. Masks, umbrellas, old carved furniture, copper basins, checkered tablecloths, walnut shells, walnuts themselves, wicker chairs, yellowed postcards, gramophones, beads, the faces on triceratopses, yellow dandelions that are orange in the middle, melting snowmen whose carrot noses have fallen off, secret passages, fire-evacuation-route placards; I like fretting when in line at the doctor’s office, and screaming all of a sudden so that everyone around feels bad, and putting my arm or leg on someone when asleep, and scratching mosquito bites, and predicting the weather, keeping small objects behind my ears, receiving letters, playing solitaire, smoking someone else’s cigarettes, and rummaging in old papers and photographs. I like finding something lost so long ago that I’ve forgotten why I needed it in the first place. I like being really loved and being everyone’s last hope, I like my own hands—they are beautiful, I like driving somewhere in the dark using a flashlight, and turning something into something completely different, gluing and attaching things to each other and then being amazed that it actually worked. I like preparing things both edible and not, mixing drinks, tastes, and scents, curing friends of the hiccups by scaring them. There’s an awful lot of stuff I like.

Did It Ever Occur to You That Maybe You’re Falling in Love? BY AILISH HOPPER We buried the problem. We planted a tree over the problem. We regretted our actions toward the problem. We declined to comment on the problem. We carved a memorial to the problem, dedicated it. Forgot our handkerchief. We removed all “unnatural” ingredients, handcrafted a locally-grown tincture for the problem. But nobody bought it. We freshly-laundered, bleached, deodorized the problem. We built a wall around the problem, tagged it with pictures of children, birds in trees. We renamed the problem, and denounced those who used the old name. We wrote a law for the problem, but it died in committee. We drove the problem out with loud noises from homemade instruments. We marched, leafleted, sang hymns, linked arms with the problem, got dragged to jail, got spat on by the problem and let out. We elected an official who Finally Gets the problem. … We watched carefully for the problem, but our flashlight died. We had dreams of the problem. In which we could no longer recognize ourselves. We reformed. We transformed. Turned over a new leaf. Turned a corner, found ourselves near a scent that somehow reminded us of the problem, In ways we could never Put into words. That Little I-can’t-explain-it That makes it hard to think. That Rings like a siren inside.

Outside the rooms, Sam pointed to a small opening in a wall beneath a set of stairs with CELLULE DES RECALCITRANTS written over the top of it. This is where they kept the slaves who resisted, Momar translated for me. It was too dark to tell what it looked like. I turned on my phone's flashlight, bent down, and scooted inside. The stone seemed to almost absorb the light, so it still felt dark inside the shallow cavern. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. They did not. I hugged my knees close to my chest as I sat inside. The joints in my knees and ankles cracked. Dirt fell from the wall where I touched it. It was impossible to feel as if the walls weren't closing in on me. I thought of people being held here, how they might barely have been able to see their hands in front of their faces. How they would have been able to taste the salt water that hung in the air without seeing any of the ocean. I thought of all the times I had heard, 'But why didn't they fight back?' when slavery was discussed in my classes. I thought of the bell at plantations like the Whitney, which had been rung to tell the enslaved people to gather round and watch one of their loved ones being lashed until the bled. I thought of the rooms at Angola's Red Hat cell block, how the smallness of those spaces had closed in on me. The cramped cavern might have been where the lessons on first resistance had taken place in a person's earliest days of enslavement. Where spirits and bodies had been broken.

Raphael pulled out a paperback and handed it to me. The cover, done back in the time when computer-aided imagine manipulation had risen to the level of art, featured an impossibly handsome man, leaning forward, one foot in a huge black boot resting on the carcass of some monstrous sea creature. His hair flowed down to his shoulders in a mane of white gold, in stark contrast to his tanned skin and the rakish black patch hiding his left eye. His white, translucent shirt hung open, revealing abs of steel and a massive, perfectly carved chest graced by erect nipples. His muscled thighs strained the fabric of his pants, which were unbuttoned and sat loosely on his narrow hips, a touch of a strategically positioned shadow hinting at the world’s biggest boner. The cover proclaimed in loud golden letters: The Privateer’s Virgin Mistress, by Lorna Sterling. “Novel number four for Andrea’s collection?” I guessed. Raphael nodded and took the book from my hands. “I’ve got the other one Andrea wanted, too. Can you explain something to me?” Oh boy. “I can try.” He tapped the book on his leather-covered knee. “The pirate actually holds this chick’s brother for ransom, so she’ll sleep with him. These men, they aren’t real men. They’re pseudo-bad guys just waiting for the love of a ‘good’ woman.” “You actually read the books?” He gave me a chiding glance. “Of course I read the books. It’s all pirates and the women they steal, apparently so they can enjoy lots of sex and have somebody to run their lives.” Wow. He must’ve had to hide under his blanket with a flashlight so nobody would question his manliness. Either he really was in love with Andrea or he had a terminal case of lust. “These guys, they’re all bad and aggressive as shit, and everybody wets themselves when they walk by, and then they meet some girl and suddenly they’re not uber-alphas; they are just misunderstood little boys who want to talk about their feelings.” “Is there a point to this dissertation?” He faced me. “I can’t be that. If that’s what she wants, then I shouldn’t even bother.” I sighed. “Do you have a costume kink? French maid, nurse . . .” “Catholic school girl.” Bingo. “You wouldn’t mind Andrea wearing a Catholic school uniform, would you?” “No, I wouldn’t.” His eyes glazed over and he slipped off to some faraway place. I snapped my fingers. “Raphael! Focus.” He blinked at me. “I’m guessing—and this is just a wild stab in the dark—that Andrea might not mind if once in a while you dressed up as a pirate. But I wouldn’t advise holding her relatives for ransom nookie. She might shoot you in the head. Several times. With silver bullets.

The spirit of religion hates women. It oppresses women whereever it can. It treats women the same, whether it be in the mosque, or in some churches. Well, I AM going to show the enemy how much I love My precious daughters, and I will cause My Power to rest heavily on those of My daughters who were most heavily oppressed, and the enemy will be like a man who chases a lion into a cave, and, reaching for a flashlight, sees the lion turn around in the last seconds of his life. That man is better off than any evil spirit who harmed one of My daughters. For this is the season where wrongs are made right. THIS IS THE SEASON WHERE THE ENEMY LEARNS TO FEAR THOSE WHO BEAR MY NAME.

It didn't help that Oscar showed up in my dreams constantly...I kept telling him to get actual, that he'd died, and he'd say, No no, honey, you got it all wrong. Oh, man, look at my hand. And I'd look at his hand that he held out, and I'd grab it, reaching out in dreamtime, doubting him, and it was there all right, but the touch of it, the tight tough skin exactly like Oscar's, would startle me with terror and love, and I'd wake up by myself in my apartment in the dark like a flashlight you've just switched on, with the traffic moving on the street outside the window and the headlights lighting the ceiling, and this big broken hole in me that Oscar had left behind, by dying.

Flashed Junk Mind When we were young souls On the junk-yard Now we are stunned minds Full of junk-goods But I feel your heartbeat Just like mine I feel your heartbeat All the time And we were bound to the citylife Flashlights when we're falling into the night Focused on what you feel Just when you were calling her love that day And we were bound to the citylife Flashlights when we're falling into the night Focused on what you feel Just when you were calling her love that day When we were young souls On the junk-yard Now we are stunned minds Full of junk-goods But I feel your heartbeat Just like mine I feel your heartbeat All the time And we were bound to the citylife Flashlights when we're falling into the night Focused on what you feel Just when you were calling her love that day And we were bound to the citylife Flashlights when we're falling into the night Focused on what you feel Just when you were calling her love that day And we were bound to the citylife Flashlights when we're falling into the night Focused on what you feel Just when you were calling her love that day And we were bound to the citylife Flashlights when we're falling into the night Focused on what you feel Just when you were calling her love that day

He'll walk into any room I'm sitting in, turn the lights down and walk out. He throws away everything I need. He starts a fight the day of every party. He takes off his shirt to poop. He insists on adjusting the color on the television when I'm trying to watch something — and I don't care about the color. He washes dark clothes with towels so all the nice black things are covered in lint. He notices when I'm low on windshield wiper fluid and refills me. He makes me coffee every morning and cooks practically every dinner. He gets nervous when he can't fix what I'm upset about. He loves animals so much it causes him pain. He'll run to the store at the drop of a hat. When my friend asked me what marriage was maybe I should have said marriage is when he's in the garage building me a new TV cabinet and I'm holding the flashlight while he looks for a drill bit. That would have been a better answer.

Our foam pads inside our sleeping bag, I situated water bottles beside our respective heads. Next to my water, I placed my upside-down sunhat, and inside that, my LED flashlight, 1200 mg of ibuprofen, urinary funnel, antiseptic wipe, watch, and sunglasses to put on the next morning. I arranged my camp slippers—mere inner soles with net on top—for getting up in the middle of the night, so I wouldn’t step barefooted on snakes or thorns.

The Americans didn’t understand the value of honor and respect in an Arab culture. Young American soldiers, many of whom had never traveled abroad before, much less to a Muslim country, didn’t realize that a basic familiarity with Arab culture might help their cause. During night patrols, fresh-faced Americans in their late teens and early twenties would stop cars jam-packed with Iraqi family members—men, women, and children—shine their flashlights into the cars, and scream, “Get the fuck out of the car!” Armed to the teeth, they busted into private homes late in the night, pushing the men to the floor, screaming in their faces in English, and zip-tying their wrists while questioning them—often without interpreters and while the children stood, terrified, in the doorway. They would shine their flashlights on women in nightgowns, unveiled, track their dirty boots through people’s homes, soil their carpets and their dignity. For an Arab man, foreigners seeing his wife uncovered brought shame and dishonor to the family, and it merited revenge.

I kneeled about eight feet from the scene and photographed, shocked by what I was witnessing. What happened to “liberating the Iraqis”? I was waiting for one of the soldiers to step in and stop the madness when I noticed an old woman in an abaya in the right corner of my frame. She was about sixty years old. She raised a propane tank over her head and smashed it on a crouching soldier’s neck. I kept shooting. No one even noticed me. The Americans didn’t understand the value of honor and respect in an Arab culture. Young American soldiers, many of whom had never traveled abroad before, much less to a Muslim country, didn’t realize that a basic familiarity with Arab culture might help their cause. During night patrols, fresh-faced Americans in their late teens and early twenties would stop cars jam-packed with Iraqi family members—men, women, and children—shine their flashlights into the cars, and scream, “Get the fuck out of the car!” Armed to the teeth, they busted into private homes late in the night, pushing the men to the floor, screaming in their faces in English, and zip-tying their wrists while questioning them—often without interpreters and while the children stood, terrified, in the doorway. They would shine their flashlights on women in nightgowns, unveiled, track their dirty boots through people’s homes, soil their carpets and their dignity. For an Arab man, foreigners seeing his wife uncovered brought shame and dishonor to the family, and it merited revenge.

the value of honor and respect in an Arab culture. Young American soldiers, many of whom had never traveled abroad before, much less to a Muslim country, didn’t realize that a basic familiarity with Arab culture might help their cause. During night patrols, fresh-faced Americans in their late teens and early twenties would stop cars jam-packed with Iraqi family members—men, women, and children—shine their flashlights into the cars, and scream, “Get the fuck out of the car!” Armed to the teeth, they busted into private homes late in the night, pushing the men to the floor, screaming in their faces in English, and zip-tying their wrists while questioning them—often without interpreters and while the children stood, terrified, in the doorway. They would shine their flashlights on women in nightgowns, unveiled, track their dirty boots through people’s homes, soil their carpets and their dignity. For an Arab man, foreigners seeing his wife uncovered brought shame and dishonor to the family, and it merited revenge.

their belts – or at least Leo thought they were weapons. Then the Boreads switched them on, and Leo realized they were flashlights with orange cones, like the ones traffic controller guys use on a runway. Cal and Zethes turned and swooped towards the hotel’s tower. Leo turned to his friends. ‘I love these guys. Follow them?’ Jason and Piper didn’t look eager. ‘I guess,’ Jason decided. ‘We’re here now. But I wonder why Boreas hasn’t been kind to visitors.’ ‘Pfft, he just hasn’t met us.’ Leo whistled. ‘Festus, after those flashlights!’ As they got closer, Leo worried they’d crash into the tower. The Boreads made right for the green gabled peak and didn’t slow down. Then a section of the slanted roof slid open, revealing an entrance easily wide enough for Festus. The top and bottom were lined with icicles like jagged teeth. ‘This cannot be good,’ Jason muttered, but Leo spurred the dragon downward, and they swooped in after the Boreads. They landed in what must have been the penthouse suite, but the place had been hit by a flash freeze. The entry hall had vaulted ceilings forty feet high, huge draped windows and lush oriental carpets. A staircase at the back of the room led up to another equally massive hall, and more corridors branched off to the left and right. But the ice made the room’s beauty a little frightening.

I'll never stop acknowledging the pain of others, because empathy is the flashlight leading us toward wholeness and healing. If we ignore those in our world and our neighborhoods who are in pain, we will ignore our own healing. We suffocate our own hope, because we are connected to each other. Waging peace is believing that the best for another person is the best for myself, my country, and my world.

Dani froze, craning her head to the right, where the noise had come from. She clicked off the flashlight. She bit down on the urge to call, “hello?” into the dark. That was how people died in horror movies. And if someone else was creeping around in the library, she didn’t want them to know where she was.

I had another Eye of Ender, AND an Ender Pearl! There was also a good-sized pile of mismatched odds and ends. I knew what some of the stuff was, but a lot of it was still a complete mystery. I lugged everything outside anyway, and packed it all up. Only this time packing wasn’t the tiniest bit of an issue because I used... DUN-DA-DA-DUH... Llama power! (Yep, I just chucked it all into the chests the llamas were so kindly carrying for me!) Then I spent the whole rest of the day searching every square inch of every last room in the entire Tower. (With a red flashlight too!) I didn’t find any secret rooms. But I did find one more pile of Blaze powder. (Yay!) It was hiding in the potion stand! I didn’t need any potions, so I took it out, and packed it up! Whew! All that looting—ahem, I mean packing—has wiped me out. I’d love to get some sleep, but I need more Ender Pearls to go with all my new Blaze powder. And I know for a fact that they won’t collect themselves!

Soldier, you ready to head out?" "Yes, sir." "Flashlight? Pocket knife? Compass?" "Check." "Clean white shirt? Success loves preparation. You never know when a clean shirt will be needed.

But before the air could burst from my lungs, the wind git knocked out of me. Oomph! I fell to the ground, my skirt falling softly over my head. Mirabella had intercepted my eye-cry for help. She'd chewed through her restraints and tackled me from behind, barking at unseen cougars, trying to shield me with her tiny body. "Caramba!" Sister Maria squealed, dropping the flashlight. The music ground to a halt. And I have never loved someone so much, before or since, as I loved my littlest sister at that moment. I wanted to roll over and lick her ears, I wanted to kill a dozen spotted fawns and let her eat first.

Love makes you an anthropologist of your own life. What are these ceremonies and why should we take part in them? What is this language we have got backed up into on long worst fire nights like a bad translation? It is important to keep recording the dialect forms, tracking the idioms. Yes there is a violence in it…. A dialect will sound like your own language to you, only despoiled somehow, hung up by the tail. Late at night I sit in the truck transcribing my notes by flashlight, tape quality is poor. There is a nucleus of terms I never get right. (Pleasure).

You’re doing that wrong.” Boyd was kneeling on the back stoop of the Peaceful Slumber Funeral Parlor, fiddling with the doorknob with one hand and holding his flashlight with the other.  He slanted her an unappreciative glower.  “I’ve been picking locks since I was five.” “Then, you’ve been doing it wrong for the last twenty-six years.” “Do you want to try this?”  He gestured towards the door. Mabel brightened.  “Yes, actually…” “Too bad.  I got here first.”  He smirked at her and went back to his wrongheaded ways.

But five million dollars was being spent by the office of Morale Conditioning on the People’s Opera Company, which traveled through the country, giving free performances to people who, on one meal a day, could not afford the energy to walk to the opera house. Seven million dollars had been granted to a psychologist in charge of a project to solve the world crisis by research into the nature of brother-love. Ten million dollars had been granted to the manufacturer of a new electronic cigarette lighter—but there were no cigarettes in the shops of the country. There were flashlights on the market, but no batteries; there were radios, but no tubes; there were cameras, but no film. The production of airplanes had been declared “temporarily suspended.” Air travel for private purposes had been forbidden, and reserved exclusively for missions of “public need.” An industrialist traveling to save his factory was not considered as publicly needed and could not get aboard a plane; an official traveling to collect taxes was and could.

10 Items People Forget To Pack When Moving Into A New Home Moving into a new home with your family is the world’s happiest thing. In the excitement of shifting from an old house to a new one, people often forget some of the most obvious and essential items. In this article, I am listing down the 10 most essential items people forget to buy or pack when moving into a new home. Let’s get started. 10 Items People Forget To Pack When Moving Into A New Home 1. Smart Door Lock – This should be your number one priority especially if you have kids and pets. Buy the best smart door lock to keep your loved ones safe. 2. Laundry Basket – Yes, one of the most obvious things that you forgot to pack. This is the last thing that comes to mind when packing, and sometimes it’s completely missed. 3. Extra Bulb – Always keep an extra bulb with you even if all the bulbs in your new home are working fine. You never know when you might need one. 4. Drapes & Curtains – This will help you keep your windows covered if you do not want neighbors peeping inside your home. 5. Extension Cord – Not all your electronic appliances will have long cords. It’s best to have an extension cord handy so that you do not struggle to operate your home and kitchen appliances. 6. Ladder – Reaching your attic or storage space to store your belongings will be easy if you have a ladder with you. 7. Home Cleaning Essentials – Some areas of your home might need cleaning as soon as you shift, especially your living room where you will first gather all your packed stuff to starting arranging them in their correct places. This is when you will need cleaning supplies so that your new home doesn’t look dirty. 8. Wardrobe Hanger – The wardrobe hanger will help you arrange your clothes in a neat manner and will take less space so that you can accommodate more. 9. Kitchen Linens – If you love to walk into a clean kitchen this is a must-have item and you should not forget to pack these. 10. Flashlight – You never know when you might have to use a flashlight so it’s best to have one or two of these handy.

I came up with a plan to catch the monster. I thought that the monster might be coming into my bedroom at night. Was he coming into my bedroom every night? I was going to try and find out. That night, when I went to bed, I put on my Spiderman pyjamas and got out my flashlight and a bunch of my favorite comics. When I turned the light out, I turned the flashlight on and started reading. I loved reading my comics and I knew they would help the time pass quickly. My plan, of course, was to stay up as long as possible and see if I could catch

Hold a flashlight on the street and it brightens your way, but hold it smack right into your eyes and you see nothing - the same is with intellect - too much intellect takes away your humanity.

The old adage is that intimacy means “Into me I see”—deeply, with a flashlight—and believe me, we’re not trying to avoid seeing the lovely and selfless aspects of ourselves. It’s not even the unlikable qualities—narcissism, fraudulence, envy. It’s the really disgusting, uncooked-egg parts of us—wanting people to fail, using people, holding on to resentments, our sense of entitlement.

HEY, BILLY! IS THAT A FLASHLIGHT IN YOUR POCKET, OR DO YOU JUST LOVE THE GAME?

This story is dedicated to all of you who love reading as much as I do. To all of you who dive into a good book for pleasure, enlightenment, or escape. To all of you who started your reading journey with a flashlight under the covers and still love the crackle of the spine of a new book or the distinct aroma of an old one. To all of you who find meaning, value, and purpose in the written word. You are my kindred spirits.

Set yourself free. Let yourself go on a journey of love. Take notes. Be present. Experience. learn. Love and laugh, and cry when you need to. Rest when you’re tired. Take a flashlight to help you see in the dark. But most of all, take yourself and go. Go on your journey of joy.

Lost boys, broken boys, dishonest boys, unavailable boys…I’ve spent way too much time in my life chasing after the wrong guys. Guys who didn’t know or love themselves enough to ever possibly know or love me. Guys who were so hopelessly, desperately lost they used parts of my soul as bread crumbs to try and find their way back. Guys who were drowning in their own lives and grasping for a life raft. But you know what happens to girls who allow themselves to become life rafts? They sink themselves. They get dragged into whirling, swirling cesspools of drama and chaos and dysfunction. They start to mistake mirages for the real deal. They start to question why they seem to never be ENOUGH. So the next time a lost boy tries to take your hand and lead you down his path of confusion, politely say no. Or even impolitely say no. But say no. You are not a life raft, you are not a compass, you are not bread crumbs, you are not a flashlight, you are not a Band-Aid, and you are not a stop along the way as he attempts to “find himself.” You are a destination. A whole, complete person who deserves another whole, complete person. You are wonderfully, beautifully ENOUGH. Too enough for someone who can’t see what he has standing right in front of his face. Maybe you’re saying, “Hey, I’m a little lost right now, too.” And that’s okay. But find your own way. Chart your own course. And never use another human being and their feelings and emotions as your GPS. Never look to another person to rescue you. Rescue yourself. Then you won’t even attract the lost boys anymore. You’ll attract the found ones.