Furious 6 Quotes

Alec looked down at the shattered pieces in disbelief. “You BROKE my PHONE.” Jace shrugged. “Guys don’t let other guys keep calling other guys. Okay, that came out wrong. Friends don’t let friends keep calling their exes and hanging up. Seriously. You have to stop.” Alec looked furious. “So you broke my brand new phone? Thanks a lot.” Jace smiled serenely and lay back on the grass. “You’re welcome.

She was singed, bleeding, bruised, and furiously alive.

Not much had changed at Magnus’s since the first time Jace had been there. Jace used an open rune to get through the front door and took the stairs, buzzing Magnus’s apartment bell. It was safer that way because Magnus could be playing video games naked or really anything. Magnus yanked the door open, looking furious. He was wearing a black silk dressing gown, his feet were bare, his dark hair was tangled, “What are you doing here?” “My,” said Jace, “You’re so unwelcoming.” “That’s because you’re not welcome.” “I thought we were friends,” said Jace. “No, you’re Alec’s friend, Alec was my boyfriend so I had to put up with you. But now he’s not my boyfriend so I don’t have to put up with you.” “I think you should get back together with Alec,” said Jace. Magnus looked at him, “And why is that?

I would be consumed by you,' she said, and blinked her eyes furiously when she felt them fill with tears. 'You would sap all the energy and all the joy from me. You would put out all the fire of my vitality.' 'Give me a chance to fan the flames of that fire,' he said, 'and to nurture your joy.

I should’ve been furious, but for some reason I wasn’t. Maybe because I knew he was telling the truth. Maybe because Voron left me just like that, without the much-needed explanations. Maybe because things I had learned about him since his death had made me doubt everything he’d ever said to me. Whatever the case, I felt only a hollow, crushing sadness. How touching. I understood my adoptive father’s killer. Maybe after this was over, Hugh’s head and I could sing “Kumbaya” together by the fire.

Angeline made a few more attempts to break away, but when it became clear she couldn't, those around us began whistling and cheering. A few moments later, that dark and furious look vanished from Angeline's face, replaced by resignation. I eyed her warily, not about to let down my guard. "Fine," she said. "I guess it's okay. Go ahead." "Huh? What's okay?" I demanded. "It's okay if you marry my brother." (Next chapter) "It's not funny!" "You're right,"agreed Sydney, laughing hysterically. "It's not funny. It's hilarious.

I’ve known since I crowned you in my car. Just don’t ever forget you were my queen first.” He yanked me forward and his mouth met mine, his kiss urgent and furious and I couldn’t help but give in to it for two whole seconds. I felt urged toward him as if by the stars themselves and I remembered what it was like to have him as my will was broken down inch by inch.

I'd formed the call, the light was rushing toward me. It came from every direction, from a millions stars, from sun still hidden below the horizon. It came with relentless speed and furious intent. •chapter 6, page 102

Riley?” “Go away.” He’d heard Brenna enter, had decided to ignore her. But Brenna had never been easily dissuaded. “Drew said you’re not sleeping well- that you were up most of last night.” He went through a vicious series of moves and ended a foot from her, breath calm, eyes furious. “Drew has a big fucking mouth.” “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.” She grinned, but there was worry in those magnificent eyes she’d turned from a scar to a badge of courage. “Riley, is this… I…” Scowling, he closed the distance between them to cup her cheek. “It’s not about you.” Her hurt haunted him, but he wasn’t going to put that weight on her back. That was his cross to bear. “I’m not sleeping well because I want sex.” Her mouth dropped open. Then she went bright red. “Too. Much. Information!

He couldn't stand by and do nothing. Something inside him had been let out of its cage, and it wouldn't go back in until he'd made the world pay for hurting Cassandra. When he thought of what she might be feeling, how frightened and furious and wounded she must be... a strange and terrible emotion twisted all through him. He wanted Cassandra in his arms. He wanted to shield her from all this damned ugliness.

Roman couldn’t look away. Watching his thick cock fucking such an angelic, innocent face seemed beyond filthy and wrong. Despite the tears in his eyes as Roman’s cock choked him, the boy was hard, his slim fingers working furiously on his own erection. An angel and a whore. “Such

If a single look could kill, he’d have been a dead heap at her furious feet.

The fact he was still furious about sleeping with a married woman spoke of higher morals than she possessed.

FURIOUS FAVOR I wonder if David would be allowed in our churches today. In most cases, when a church member has an affair, he is shunned at best or mistreated at worst—even if he repents. But David doesn’t just have an affair. He lusts, covets, fornicates, lies, and gets another man hammered. Then he tries to keep his dirty little secrets by murdering the husband of the woman he “loves.” I doubt I’ve met anyone as sinful as David. Have you? He breaks half of the Ten Commandments in a single episode. And he doesn’t repent until he’s caught. But when Nathan shoves his prophetic finger into David’s chest and rebukes him, David falls to his knees and admits his guilt. And right then, at that moment, God rips open the heavens to reach down and touch David’s soul with stubborn delight. God eagerly forgives David for his sin, and all of it is buried at the bottom of the sea, never to be remembered again. There is no hiccup in God’s furious favor toward David. So why do repentant sinners still bear the stigma of “adulterer,” “divorced,” or “addict” in our churches today? It’s one thing if they don’t repent. But quite often we shun repentant sinners, like Jeffrey Dahmer, whose crimes we just can’t forget. “He’s the former addict.” “That’s the divorced mom.” “Here comes the guy who slept with the church secretary.” For some reason we love to define people by the sin in their lives—even past sin in their lives—rather than by the grace that forgave it. It’s no wonder that David pens the last sentence in Psalm 23: “Surely goodness and mercy shall [hunt me down] all the days of my life” (Ps. 23:6).

We are easily tempted to disdain an ambition which we have failed to fulfill or which we have satisfied and outgrown. And we suppose such disdain inherent even in people whom we did not know at the time. Perhaps if we could go back down the years, we would find these people ravaged, more furiously than anyone, by those same faults which they have managed so completely to hide or overcome that we consider them incapable not only of ever having been affected themselves but even of ever excusing them in others, since we assume that they are unable to imagine them.

overwhelmed. Ready to crack. They’re expected to not just keep the wheels on the bus but construct the bloody thing, too. Then drive it. And wash it. And change the oil. I don’t know how they don’t just randomly start punching people. I would. What do they get fer their trouble? Ignored. What bollocks. I hear it all the time. Do it all, do it perfectly, and your reward is to be ignored. Is it any wonder they all feel, deep down, like they are failing? It makes me bloody furious. I tell these women all the time, I say, ‘Love, you just need to burn it all to the ground.

1. You are constantly second-guessing yourself. 2. You ask yourself, “Am I too sensitive?” a dozen times a day. 3. You often feel confused and even crazy at work. 4. You’re always apologizing to your mother, father, boyfriend, boss. 5. You wonder frequently if you are a “good enough” girlfriend/wife/employee/friend/daughter. 6. You can’t understand why, with so many apparently good things in your life, you aren’t happier. 7. You buy clothes for yourself, furnishings for your apartment, or other personal purchases with your partner in mind, thinking about what he would like instead of what would make you feel great. 8. You frequently make excuses for your partner’s behavior to friends and family. 9. You find yourself withholding information from friends and family so you don’t have to explain or make excuses. 10. You know something is terribly wrong, but you can never quite express what it is, even to yourself. 11. You start lying to avoid the put-downs and reality twists. 12. You have trouble making simple decisions. 13. You think twice before bringing up certain seemingly innocent topics of conversation. 14. Before your partner comes home, you run through a checklist in your head to anticipate anything you might have done wrong that day. 15. You have the sense that you used to be a very different person—more confident, more fun-loving, more relaxed. 16. You start speaking to your husband through his secretary so you don’t have to tell him things you’re afraid might upset him. 17. You feel as though you can’t do anything right. 18. Your kids begin trying to protect you from your partner. 19. You find yourself furious with people you’ve always gotten along with before. 20. You feel hopeless and joyless.

All night the fighting had been furious, with no let-up. Fur and Freedom Fighters had battled against flaming shafts with their bare paws and sand. Four lay dead and three wounded. Smoke-grimed and bleary-eyed, they had plucked burning arrows from the wood, strung them on their bows and returned them to stick blazing in the gates of Marshank. The javelin supply was depleted, one shaft being retained for each creature in the event that paw-to-paw combat would be their final stand. There were still plenty of rocks to sling, Keyla and Tullgrew taking charge of the slingers whilst Ballaw managed a frugal breakfast. The hare sat wearily against one of the sandbanks that had been shorn up either side of the cart, Rowanoak slumped beside him. Both were singed and smoke-grimed. Rowanoak drank half her water, passing the rest on to Brome, who distributed it among the wounded. The badger wiped a sandy paw across her scorched muzzle. ‘Well, Ballaw De Quincewold, what’s to report?’ The irrepressible hare wiped dust from his half-scone ration and looked up at the sky. ‘Report? Er, nothin’ much really, except that it looks like being another nice sunny day, wot!’ A flaming arrow extinguished itself in the sand close by Rowanoak. She tossed it on to a pile of other shafts waiting to be shot. ‘A nice day indeed. D’you think we’ll be around to see the sunset?’ Without waiting for an answer, she continued, ‘I wonder if that owl – Boldred, wasn’t it – I wonder if she ever managed to get through to this Martin the Warrior creature.’ Ballaw picked dried blood from a wound on his narrow chest. ‘Doesn’t look like it, does it? No, old Rowan me badger oak, I think the stage is all ours and it’ll be our duty to give the best performance we can before the curtain falls for the last time.

A five-year-old could have told us as much,” sneered Snape. “The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard’s spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard’s bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth . . . and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent.” “Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we’re trying to tell them apart!” said Ron. “When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we’re going to be having a shufti to see if it’s solid, aren’t we, we’re not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?’” There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class. “Another ten points from Gryffindor,” said Snape. “I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room.” “No!” whispered Hermione, grabbing Harry’s arm as he opened his mouth furiously. “There’s no point, you’ll just end up in detention again, leave it!” “Now open your books to page two hundred and

My sleep cycle is a bit more elaborate. The seven stages of sleep (according to my body) STAGE 1: You take the maximum dose of sleeping pills, but they don’t work at all and then you glare at their smug bottles at three a.m., whispering, “You lying bastards.” STAGE 2: You fall asleep for eight minutes and you have that dream where you’ve missed a semester of classes and don’t know where you’re supposed to be and when you wake up you realize that even in sleep you’re fucking your life up. STAGE 3: You close your eyes for just a minute but never lose consciousness and then you open your eyes and realize it’s been hours since you closed your eyes and you feel like you’ve lost time and were probably abducted by aliens. STAGE 4: This is the sleep that you miss because you’re too busy looking up “Symptoms of Alien Abduction” on your phone. STAGE 5: This is the deep REM sleep that recharges you completely and doesn’t actually exist but is made up by other people to taunt you. STAGE 6: You hover in a state of half sleep when you’re trying to stay under but someone is touching your nose and you think it’s a dream but now someone is touching your mouth and you open your eyes and your cat’s face is an inch from yours and he’s like, “BOOP. I got your nose.” STAGE 7: You finally fall into the deep sleep you desperately need. Sadly, this sleep only comes after you’re supposed to be awake, and you feel guilty about getting it because you should have been up hours ago but you’ve been up all night and now your arms are missing.

I made an appointment with a sleep doctor, who explained that during the sleep study people would be watching me sleep and monitoring my brain waves to see how I reacted during the four stages of sleep. I'd explain those stages if I could spell all the complicated words but they basically range from "Wide awake" to "Just barely not dead." My sleep cycle is a bit more elaborate. The seven stages of sleep (according to my body) STAGE 1: You take the maximum dose of sleeping pills, but they don't work at all and then you glare at their smug bottles at three a.m., whispering, "You lying bastards." STAGE 2: You fall asleep for eight minutes and you have that dream where you've missed a semester of classes and don't know where you're supposed to be and when you wake up you realize that even in your sleep you're fucking your life up. STAGE 3: You close your eyes for just a minute but never lose consciousness and then you open your eyes and realize it's been hours since you closed your eyes and you feel like you've lost time and were probably abducted by aliens. STAGE 4: This is the sleep that you miss because you're too busy looking up "Symptoms of Alien Abduction" on your phone. STAGE 5: This is the deep REM sleep that recharges you completely and doesn't actually exist but is made up by other people to taunt you. STAGE 6: You hover in a state of half sleep when you're trying to stay under but someone is touching your nose and you think it's a dream but now someone is touching your mouth and you open your eyes and your cat's face is an inch from yours and he's like, "BOOP. I got your nose." STAGE 7: You finally fall into the deep sleep you desperately need. Sadly, this sleep only comes after you're suppose to be awake, and you feel guilty about getting it because you should have been up hours ago but you've been up all night and now your arms are missing. I suspected that the only stage of sleep I'd have during the sleep study would be the sleep you don't get because strangers are watching you.

A Twig to Rest On This is what the LORD says: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, a nd you will find rest for your souls.” JEREMIAH 6:16 NIV The day was so long and stressful that Tracey didn’t get out to her front porch until late at night to water her flowers. Recent days had been so unusually hot and dry in the Midwest, draining both Tracey and her once-luscious hanging petunia baskets into a weary state. She breathed a calming sigh to be out in the cool of the evening, hearing a few last birds coo while the crickets took the next singing shift. But as she reached up to water one thirsty pot, something fluttered furiously out through the stream of water. Frightened, Tracey jumped back and tried to determine what it was. The small creature flew directly into a rose of sharon bush next to the porch, where Tracey could now see it was a baby sparrow. Maybe it’s injured, she thought, as it fell asleep on the tiny twig, swaying with the gentle breeze of the night. In the morning she found the bird still resting in the same place and slowly approached it. The sparrow flew off with strength into the sunshine. Lord, thank You for giving me the rest I need along the journey. Just like You do for the tiny sparrow, so much more You do for me. Amen.

Though some tongues just love the taste of gossip, those who follow Jesus have better uses for language than that. Don’t talk dirty or silly. That kind of talk doesn’t fit our style. Thanksgiving is our dialect. 5 You can be sure that using people or religion or things just for what you can get out of them—the usual variations on idolatry—will get you nowhere, and certainly nowhere near the kingdom of Christ, the kingdom of God. 6-7 Don’t let yourselves get taken in by religious smooth talk. God gets furious with people who are full of religious sales talk but want nothing to do with him. Don’t even hang around people like that.

The next few days went by in a sweat-stained blur, and not just because summer had really hit and turned the heat up a notch. Dexter was in a true dither, an all-time, all-star, all-out tizzy of near panic. I was jumpy, distracted, unable to focus on anything except the thought that someone I didn’t know was coming my way to do Something I couldn’t possibly prepare for. I had to be watchful, ready for anything—but how? What? Where would it come from, and when? How could I know what to do when I didn’t know when, why, and to whom I would do it? And yet, I had to be ready for it every moment of every day, waking and sleeping. It was an impossible task, and it had all my wheels spinning furiously without actually moving me anywhere but deeper into a funk. In my feverish paranoia, every step I heard was Him, sneaking up behind me with bad intentions and a Louisville Slugger. Even

Mothers never seem to feel like they are doing enough, do they? They tell me these stories, and I always think, the poor cratur! They juggle a million things at once, seems like. They’re always overwhelmed. Ready to crack. They’re expected to not just keep the wheels on the bus but construct the bloody thing, too. Then drive it. And wash it. And change the oil. I don’t know how they don’t just randomly start punching people. I would. What do they get fer their trouble? Ignored. What bollocks. I hear it all the time. Do it all, do it perfectly, and your reward is to be ignored. Is it any wonder they all feel, deep down, like they are failing? It makes me bloody furious. I tell these women all the time, I say, ‘Love,

Story 6: Ferrari In 1948, a peasant farmer started a business making tractors. Within five years this man – Ferruccio – was one of the richest men in Italy. He amassed a fine collection of cars – Alfa Romeos, Maseratis, Lancias – but his heart belonged to his Ferraris, of which he owned six. Just one thing bothered him: all of his Ferraris had clutch problems. One day in his workshop he discovered why: the clutch in his Ferraris was the same part he used in his tractors. Ferruccio complained to Enzo Ferrari, who replied: “Ferruccio, you may be able to drive a tractor but you will never be able to handle a Ferrari properly.” Ferruccio was furious. He vowed to make a car worthy of beating a Ferrari. And as it happens, that’s exactly what he did. He took his revenge by creating one of the most powerful, well renowned cars in the world. The farmer’s full name: Ferruccio Lamborghini. How to use this story This story works well any time you’re working on a goal that some people doubt can be achieved. It’s good for encouraging your audience to dig deep and prove the doubters wrong!

People such as Larry Summers and the technocrats at the IMF may have been furious at the Russian government for being so arrogant, but they knew a disorderly sovereign default in Russia would be catastrophic, and at the last minute the United States threw its weight behind a huge bailout package. On July 20 the IMF and World Bank stepped in with $22.6 billion, immediately releasing the first tranche of $4.8 billion.

the anti-political correctness types are really just trying to enforce their own standards of acceptable discourse and are furious at their inability to do so (6/5/2020 on Twitter)

What did you tell Cornichet?" he asked suddenly. .."Nothing." "I assume they only just started on you." She didn't reply. "What did they want to know?" "What right do you have to take me prisoner?" she countered. "I'm no enemy of the English. I help the partisans, not the French." "As long as there's some profit in it for you, as I understand it," he said, his voice a whip crack in the dim hovel. "Don't pretend to patriotic loyalty..." "And just what business is it of yours?" she demanded furiously..."I've done you no harm. I don't interfere with the English army. You trample all over i> my country, behaving like God-given conquering heroes. All complacence and pomposity-" ..."The blood of Englishmen has watered this damnable peninsula for four interminable years, doing the work of your countrymen, trying to save you and your country from Napoleon's heel. I have lost more friends than I can count in the interests of your miserable land, and you speak against those men at your peril. Do you understand that?" ..."The English have their own reasons for being here," she retorted...England couldn't survive if Napoleon held Spain and Portugal. He'd close their ports to English trading, and you'd all starve to death." They both knew she spoke the unvarnished truth.... 1

What did you tell Cornichet?" he asked suddenly. .."Nothing." "I assume they only just started on you." She didn't reply. "What did they want to know?" "What right do you have to take me prisoner?" she countered. "I'm no enemy of the English. I help the partisans, not the French." "As long as there's some profit in it for you, as I understand it," he said, his voice a whip crack in the dim hovel. "Don't pretend to patriotic loyalty..." "And just what business is it of yours?" she demanded furiously..."I've done you no harm. I don't interfere with the English army. You trample all over< i> my country, behaving like God-given conquering heroes. All complacence and pomposity-" ..."The blood of Englishmen has watered this damnable peninsula for four interminable years, doing the work of your countrymen, trying to save you and your country from Napoleon's heel. I have lost more friends than I can count in the interests of your miserable land, and you speak against those men at your peril. Do you understand that?" ..."The English have their own reasons for being here," she retorted...England couldn't survive if Napoleon held Spain and Portugal. He'd close their ports to English trading, and you'd all starve to death." They both knew she spoke the unvarnished truth....

It is only after you have had a nine-month pregnancy, laboured to get the child out, fed it, cared for it, sat with it until 3 a.m., risen with it at 6 a.m., swooned with love for it, and been moved to furious tears by it that you really understand just how important it is for a child to be wanted. And how motherhood is a game you must enter with as much energy, goodwill and happiness as possible. And the most important thing of all, of course, is to be wanted, desired and cared for by a reasonably sane, stable mother.

[Within the context of discussing anti-abortionists and the "socially acceptable" reasons for getting one.] It is only after you have had a nine-month pregnancy, laboured to get the child out, fed it, cared for it, sat with it until 3 a.m., risen with it at 6 a.m., swooned with love for it, and been moved to furious tears by it that you really understand just how important it is for a child to be wanted. And how motherhood is a game you must enter with as much energy, goodwill and happiness as possible. And the most important thing of all, of course, is to be wanted, desired and cared for by a reasonably sane, stable mother.

On the 5th of October, in pouring rain, some 6,000 working women, fishwives, cleaners, marketstall holders, and prostitutes, marched on Versailles. Their ostensible reason was a rumor that at a welcome banquet given for the Flanders Regiment, newly arrived at the palace, the tricolor cockade had been trampled underfoot (...) armed with scythes, pikes, and any other weapons they could lay their hands on, they marched straight to the National Assembly, shouting their slogans and screaming for bread (...) In the early hours of the next day, the king and queen were awakened by furious shouts of, "mort à la femme Autrichienne", death to the Austrian woman.

Mukohda’s cooking... it really was good......” Alonzo muttered, and all of them nodded furiously. “So you’ve tasted his cooking, too? It’s wonderful, isn’t it~?” After that, for some reason, they left me out and just talked about my food by themselves.

Mothers never seem to feel like they are doing enough, do they? They tell me these stories, and I always think, the poor cratur! They juggle a million things at once, seems like. They’re always overwhelmed. Ready to crack. They’re expected to not just keep the wheels on the bus but construct the bloody thing, too. Then drive it. And wash it. And change the oil. I don’t know how they don’t just randomly start punching people. I would. What do they get fer their trouble? Ignored. What bollocks. I hear it all the time. Do it all, do it perfectly, and your reward is to be ignored. Is it any wonder they all feel, deep down, like they are failing? It makes me bloody furious. I tell these women all the time, I say, ‘Love, you just need to burn it all to the ground.’ They always laugh. They don’t take me seriously.

said that’s enough, Kevin,” Mam shouted, coming to stand between us. “I don’t care how surprised or upset you are, don’t you ever speak to your sister—or any woman, for that matter—like that again. You were raised, not dragged up.” “Yeah, and so was she,” he countered defensively. “But apparently only one of us got the memo.” “That’s not fair,” Mam replied, tone thick with emotion. “You don’t understand what your sister is going through.” “No, because I actually happen to possess a brain between my ears,” he agreed, furious. “Unlike this idiot.” “Kevin!” “Jesus, I always knew you weren’t the brightest crayon in the box, but this?” my brother accused, eyes narrowed in challenge. “Getting pregnant while you’re still in school? Off a fucking scumbag like Joey Lynch? Wow, talk about scraping the barrel by mixing your genes with his. That poor fucking kid’s going to come out with a cocaine habit and the IQ of a gummy bear!

Isaiah 34:1–3, 6a, 6c (HCSB): You nations, come here and listen; you peoples, pay attention! Let the earth hear, and all that fills it, the world and all that comes from it. The Lord is angry with all the nations—furious with all their armies. He will set them apart for destruction, giving them over to slaughter. Their slain will be thrown out, and the stench of their corpses will rise; the mountains will flow with their blood. . . . When My sword has drunk its fill in the heavens, it will then come down on Edom and on the people I have set apart for destruction. The Lord’s sword is covered with blood. . . . For the Lord has a sacrifice in Bozrah, a great slaughter in the land of Edom.

the wheels on the bus but construct the bloody thing, too. Then drive it. And wash it. And change the oil. I don’t know how they don’t just randomly start punching people. I would. What do they get fer their trouble? Ignored. What bollocks. I hear it all the time. Do it all, do it perfectly, and your reward is to be ignored. Is it any wonder they all feel, deep down, like they are failing? It makes me bloody furious. I tell these women all the time, I say, ‘Love, you just need to burn it all to the ground.’ They always laugh. They don’t take me seriously.

One minute I’m so fucking furious at the decision she made to keep Avery from me. Hell, to keep herself from me. The next, I want to hold her just like this. To step up, be the bigger man, and reassure her that we’ll get through all this somehow.

Have you spoken with your sister lately? She has been running quite an extensive campaign with The Daily Solaria insisting that you are still planning to claim the throne together. Care to comment?” Portia asked hopefully and I wished I could scream at her and tell her the truth, that my father was a monster, that he was using the shadows to control Tory, that he used dark magic daily, that he was allied with the Nymphs, that he planned on taking over the kingdom and destroying anyone who stood in his way. But I just stood there, my features schooled, my heart pounding out of rhythm. “Oh, I’m not running for the throne anymore,” Tory said simply and my heart scrunched up in my chest. She reached out to run her hand up and down Father’s arm. “I’ve found my true place now.” Portia blinked furiously and Mom carefully kept her serene expression in place, but there was a dark horror behind her eyes. “By the stars, so you are officially renouncing your claim to the throne of Solaria?” Portia asked, dollar signs flashing in her eyes at being the first to get the scoop on this. Hell no. Don’t do this, Tory. “Absolutely,” Tory said with a weirdly empty smile.

A clunk sounded as his cell door unlocked and two large men strode in wearing the uniforms of the King’s Taskforce. “Hey look, it’s the princess fucker,” one of them sneered and a growl built in my throat. “You’re on trial again, you power shamed piece of shit,” the other one said, smiling cruelly. “My bet’s on the King showing no mercy. You’d better say goodbye forever just in case.” They lunged at Orion, dragging him to his feet and his hand was ripped from mine. He tried to fight, throwing furious punches, but without magic, they quickly tied his hands with a vine and hauled him to the door. One of them slammed their knuckles into his gut, making him snarl and my breathing stuttered. “Wait!” I cried as panic tore at my heart with sharp claws. “Take me too! Take me with him!” They started laughing, ignoring me as Orion turned his head to meet my gaze with an agonised expression as they dragged him away. I started screaming his name with a raw desperation, because I had a horrible, heart-breaking feeling it was the last time I was ever going to see him.

It’s better for me that I can’t throw myself into Sebastian’s arms because he’s already cringing away from me with a repulsed expression on his face. “Don’t touch me,” he says through lips as white as chalk. His expression is unlike anything I’ve seen before—furious and disgusted. Like he fucking loathes me. It’s so unlike how Sebastian usually looks at me that I can only blink up at him in confusion, wondering how this man who was willing to go to the ends of the earth for me just days ago could now regard me like shit on the bottom of his shoe.

Chaol did not think. He did not marvel at the sensation of being so high. At the weight of his body, the sway of it as he took that staggering step. There was only Yrene, and her hand on the doorknob, and the tears in her furious, lovely eyes. The most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

In her passionate and meticulously argued book The Change, Australian feminist writer Germaine Greer suggests that society’s aversion to menopausal women is, more than anything, “the result of our intolerance for the expression of female anger.”5 But why do we find women’s rage so unacceptable, so threatening? It is for sure an attitude which is deeply embedded in the culture. Several studies conducted over the past few decades have reported that men who express anger are perceived to be strong, decisive, and powerful, while women who express the same emotion are perceived to be difficult, overemotional, irrational, shrill, and unfeminine. Anger, it seems, doesn’t fit at all with our cultural image of femininity, and so must be thoroughly suppressed whenever it is presumptuous enough to surface. One of the saddest findings of these studies is that this narrative is so deeply ingrained that it even exists among women — and we internalize it from an early age. Soraya Chemaly, American author of Rage Becomes Her: The Power of Women’s Anger, writes: Studies show that by the time most children are toddlers they already associate angry expressions with male faces … Girls and women, on the other hand, are subtly encouraged to put anger and other “negative” emotions aside, as unfeminine. Studies show that girls are frequently discouraged from even recognising their own anger, from talking about negative feelings, or being demanding in ways that focus on their own needs. Girls are encouraged to smile more, use their “nice” voices and sublimate how they themselves may feel in deference to the comfort of others. Suppressed, repressed, diverted and ignored anger is now understood as a factor in many “women’s illnesses,” including various forms of disordered eating, autoimmune diseases, chronic fatigue and pain.6 We hide our anger by refusing even to use the word — instead of saying we’re utterly furious, we talk about being “annoyed,” “upset,” or “irritated.” We take refuge in sarcasm, we nurse grudges, or we simply withdraw. And as a consequence of these actions and attitudes, anger is an emotion that, more often than not, makes women feel powerless — not just because we’ve been made to feel as if we’re not allowed to express it, but, accordingly, because we’ve never learned healthy ways to express it.

He was dismayed to find that his English—despite years of mandatory instruction in school, months of private lessons with a Bible studies PhD from Exeter visiting Israel to research Christ, repeated encounters with every episode of every season of Sex and the City (subtitled), sporadic encounters with Fast & Furious 1–6 (undubbed), and an aborted reading of the collected works of Sherlock Holmes (abridged)—sucked.

Axel hugged his head and rode him furiously. The car rocked and shook as Clint’s arms curled around Axel’s fevered body and cinched tight—and then they really began to fuck.    

In 2014, a disturbing study was released by political scientists at Old Dominion University. Their work showed that a significant percentage of foreign nationals residing in the United States, whether lawfully or unlawfully present, were registered to vote in US elections—and that a significant number of them actually have voted in recent years—6.4 percent in 2008 and 2.2 percent in 2010. That is enough to have swayed election outcomes in some states: “there is reason to believe non-citizen voting changed one state’s Electoral College votes in 2008, delivering North Carolina to Obama, and that non-citizen votes have also led to Democratic victories in congressional races including a critical 2008 Senate race [in Minnesota] that delivered for Democrats a 60-vote filibuster-proof majority in the Senate.” It is, of course, illegal for noncitizens to vote in federal and state elections. But this study suggests that hundreds of thousands of illegal votes may have been cast in the United States in every federal election.11 If this study’s results are accurate, the implications are startling. We have Obamacare because of election fraud. We have the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act because of election fraud. We have Solyndra—the alternative energy company that collapsed leaving taxpayers liable for $535 million in federal loan guarantees—because of election fraud. Without the election fraud that helped put Obama and his allies in office, there’d be no lawless amnesty for illegal aliens, no Operation Fast and Furious, no Obama IRS assault on Americans. This shows that no American can take his or her vote for granted. There is a real chance that your vote can be cancelled out by an illegal vote cast by legal or illegal aliens.

Instead of Punishment 1. EXPRESS YOUR FEELINGS STRONGLY—WITHOUT ATTACKING CHARACTER. “I’m furious that my new saw was left outside to rust in the rain!” 2. STATE YOUR EXPECTATIONS. “I expect my tools to be returned after they’ve been borrowed.” 3. SHOW THE CHILD HOW TO MAKE AMENDS. “What this saw needs now is a little steel wool and a lot of elbow grease.” 4. OFFER A CHOICE. “You can borrow my tools and return them or you can give up the privilege of using them. You decide.” 5. TAKE ACTION. Child: “Why is the toolbox locked?” Father: “You tell me why.” 6. PROBLEM-SOLVE. “What can we work out so that you can use my tools when you need them, and so that I’ll be sure they’re there when I need them?

We began with a warning that we must be careful not to read the book of Acts as a strict rule book for church planting. Yet our secular, urbanized, global world today is strikingly like the Greco-Roman world in certain ways. For the first time in fifteen hundred years, there are multiple, vital, religious faith communities and options (including true paganism) in every society. Traditional, secular, and pagan worldviews and communities are living side by side. Once again, cities are the influential cultural centers, just as they were in the Greco-Roman world. During the Pax Romana, cities became furiously multiethnic and globally connected. Since we are living in an Acts-like world again rather than the earlier context of Christendom, church planting will necessarily be as central a strategy for reaching our world as it was for reaching previous generations. Ultimately, though, we don’t look to Paul to teach us about church planting, but to Jesus himself. Jesus is the ultimate church planter. He builds his church (Matt 16:18), and he does so effectively, because hell itself will not prevail against it. He raises up leaders and gives them the keys to the kingdom (Matt 16:19). He establishes his converts on the word of the confessing apostle, Peter — that is, on the word of God (Matt 16:18). When we plant the church, we participate in God’s work, for if we have any success at all, it is because “God made it grow.” Thus, “neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow” (1 Cor 3:6–7).

wall against his back, then frowned as he heard a creaking sound coming from somewhere close by. He was about to investigate, when the house was plunged into darkness once again. * * * Ryan swung his car through the gates and was forced to reduce his speed along the narrow driveway, for which Phillips was eternally grateful. They followed the road over the little stone bridge next to the Archimedes screw and heard the water bubbling furiously through its crushing blades as they passed. They rounded a bend and the house materialised through the trees, its windows flaming brightly against the inky blue-black sky. “It doesn’t look real, does it?” Phillips said, his eyes trained on the perfect backdrop. “It’s not going to disappear before your eyes,” Ryan muttered. Then, in a moment of extreme irony, that is exactly what happened. The two men looked on in shock as the house seemed to disappear, its walls blending with the colour of the night sky and the trees surrounding it. CHAPTER 30 “What the hell?” Martin Henderson swore beneath his breath as the lights went out. He stepped away from the wall to begin feeling his way towards the doorway but the house was pitch black and he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. The circuit had blown again, he thought, which was hardly surprising when a couple of old crackpots insisted on living like Victorian throwbacks rather than relying on the National Grid like the rest of the known world. The sooner he could get away from here, the better. His fingers brushed against the architrave on the doorway and he began to retrace his steps using the wall as a guide, no longer concerned about keeping his meeting at nine o’clock. He only hoped the other person was having as much trouble as he was, finding their way through the maze of rooms in the old house. When his fingers touched nothing but air, he realised he’d reached the turning to lead him back into the small hallway outside the bedrooms and the morning room, and the lift shaft was somewhere over his left shoulder. Blind without any light source, Henderson’s other senses were heightened considerably. He shivered as he stepped in front of the doors to the lift shaft, feeling an icy breath of wind brush against his cheeks. His brain was slow to compute the fact and he did not realise the implication until it was too late. The doors were open. The figure stepped out in front of him, barely making a creak against the floorboards but it was enough to alert him to the presence of another. “For The Valiant,” they whispered. Two firm hands came up to thrust against his chest and

Professor Slughorn,” wheezed Filch, his jowls aquiver and the maniacal light of mischief-detection in his bulging eyes, “I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?” Malfoy pulled himself free of Filch’s grip, looking furious. “All right, I wasn’t invited!” he said angrily. “I was trying to gate-crash, happy?” “No, I’m not!” said Filch, a statement at complete odds with the glee on his face. “You’re in trouble, you are! Didn’t the headmaster say that nighttime prowling’s out, unless you’ve got permission, didn’t he, eh?” “That’s all right, Argus, that’s all right,” said Slughorn, waving a hand. “It’s Christmas, and it’s not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we’ll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco.

Dane and Marco and the boys all fled the stage but I was still playing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’. I tried different interesting arrangments. Mozart’s twelve variations and Elton John style. Even Billy Joel/‘Piano Man’-ish. Then I had a brainstorm and thumped it out like Jerry Lee Lewis, with my feet on the keys and everything, and that seemed to confuse the guy waving the gun. Anyway he didn’t shot me. By now I was really getting into ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’, actually getting the old flash while I played it over and over, I don’t know how many times, and I sort of hypnotised myself. I was in a trance. People had thrown every available bottle and can and busted seat at me. Now they started on the fire extinguishers, and they were frothing and spurting and rolling around on the stage. Even the over-roided security joined in, and the bouncers were throwing stuff at me, too. I didn’t care. I was in a daze. I felt bulletproof and above it all, and when I eventually finished I stood in front of the redwood crucifix with my arms out, covered in fire-extinguisher foam like a snowman, and bowed to the audience. And then for some insane reason I pushed over the crucifix, which was difficult because it was heavy and splintery, and it cut my hands so I was bleeding everywhere, and I deliberately rubbed the blood all over my face. Then I put my foot on the crucifix, like a big-game hunter with his kill, like Ernest Hemingway with a dead lion, and raised my bloody fist in victory. And there was a sort of roar then, a deep roar lie a squadron of B-47s. And I passed out on the stage. I came to with someone furiously screaming. An amazing octave range, about five – from an F1 to B flat 6. It was your mother standing over me like a tigress, waving a broken seat, and preventing the Texans from rushing the stage and stomping me to death, they were wary of this wild, high-pitched little chick and backed off. As I stumbled back to the dressing-room, Tania was yelling that she wished the oil-rig guy had shot me, and this was the end, she’d really had it. And the record-company people were just staring at me open-mouthed like I was a lunatic. And outside, our tour bus had been set on fire, and there were no extinguishers left, and the police and fire brigade got involved, on the side of the Texans, and there was suddenly a visa problem. So that was it for Spider Flower in America. And for your mother and me, as it turned out.

said Ron. “When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we’re going to be having a shufti to see if it’s solid, aren’t we, we’re not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?’” There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class. “Another ten points from Gryffindor,” said Snape. “I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room.” “No!” whispered Hermione, grabbing Harry’s arm as he opened his mouth furiously. “There’s no point, you’ll just end up in detention again, leave it!

She wiggled and worked her bottom, rubbing her pubic hair against his stomach until he could delay no longer. He'd been wanting to make love to her all day, and it was all he could do to keep from exploding before he'd done all he could to give her the full measure of his abilities. "We have all night," he whispered, needing to apologize in advance for his eagerness, and vowing to give her everything he was capable of before dawn, "but I must have you now, Evelyn. I must." "I want you, too. I thought of nothing else all day. I can't wait any longer." Their eyes locked on each other as he rose on one arm and reached down wit the other hand to guide his way to her damp, primed opening. With a groan he slid some two inches into her, then withdrew and returned for the full onslaught of his passions. She implored him to drive deeper by cupping his buttocks in her hands and gyrating her hips as he drew in and out with unstoppable lust. "Open wider," he growled, and she readily obeyed, throwing her head back on the pillows and gasping with hungry desire. He rose on one arm again and dipped his face to suck furiously on one of her breasts, while the friction below sent an excruciating fire through his body.

the ancient British tradition of pointless interdepartmental rivalry, MI6 (responsible for intelligence overseas) still did not inform MI5 (responsible for counterespionage in the UK) of Pujol’s existence. Only a chance conversation between Tar Robertson and an MI6 officer from Lisbon alerted B1A to what was going on. Even then, MI6 was unwilling to allow Pujol to join the Double Cross team. “I do not see why I should get agents and have them pinched by you” was, according to Guy Liddell, the attitude taken by MI6’s head of counterintelligence. “The whole thing is so narrow and petty that it really makes me quite furious,” wrote Liddell.