Horns For Hell Quotes

A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained wedding veil and some in headgear or cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses' ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse's whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.

Well, then, go you into hell? BEATRICE No, but to the gate; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here's no place for you maids:' so deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long.

Don't be an asshole" Rhage summed up the regurgitation with two words: "Kettle.Black." Fucking hell. "Did you guys plan that out?" "Yeah and if you don't fight us"- Hollywood bit down on the grape Tootsie Pop-"we'll do it again- only with the dance moves this time" "Spare me." "Fine.Unless you agree to home it,we WILL rock the dance moves." To prove the point ,the moron linked his palms behind his head and started doing something obscene with his hips. Which was backed up by a series of,"Uh-huh,uh-huh,ohhhh, yeeeeeeah,who's your daddy..." The others looked at Rhage like he'd grown a horn in the middle of his forehead. Nothing unusual there. And Tohr knew that, in spite of this ridiculous diversion,if he didn't cave,the lot of them would crawl so far up his ass,he'd be coughing up shitkickers. Rhage wheeled around,shoved out his butt,and started slapping his moneymaker like it was bread dough. "For the love of the Virgin Scribe,"Z muttered "put us out of this misery, and go the fuck home" Someone else chimed in, "You know, I never thought there were advantages to being blind..." "Or deaf" "Or mute," somebody added

No Fletcher. Wake up, boy. Those are the flames of Hell. Dermont dropped out of school, so that's where he's headed. See the little horns? -Ms. Quinn

If you were going to live in hell on earth, there was something to be said for being one of the devils.

God loves man, we are told, but love must be proved by facts, not reasons. If you were in a boat and did not save a drowning man, you would burn in Hell for certain; yet God, in His wisdom, feels no need to use His power to save anyone from a single moment of suffering, and in spite of his inaction He is celebrated and revered.

I leaned against my door, struggling to catch my breath, and thought that maybe hell wasn't a place at all, but a thing. A contagious thing. A thing that could creep up the steps, seep through the crack under my door, grow horns and sprout fire - smelling faintly like sulfur. A thing that could sink its tendrils inside and take root, coloring everything gray and distorting a smile into a sneer. And while i got dressed for the play, swatted at my back and kept running my hands over my stomach because I could feel it, I swear, I could feel it reaching for me, trying to grab hold.

Venus of Eryx, from her mountain throne, Saw Hades and clasped her swift-winged son, and said: 'Cupid, my child, my warrior, my power, Take those sure shafts with which you conquer all, And shoot your speedy arrows to the heart Of the great god to whom the last lot fell When the three realms were drawn. Your mastery Subdues the gods of heaven and even Jove, Subdues the ocean's deities and him, Even him, who rules the ocean's deities. Why should Hell lag behind? Why not there too Extend your mother's empire and your own....? Then Cupid, guided by his mother, opened His quiver of all his thousand arrows Selected one, the sharpest and the surest, The arrow most obedient to the bow, And bent the pliant horn against his knee And shot the barbed shaft deep in Pluto's heart.

For most of the hours of the day—and most of the months of the year—the sun had the town trapped deep in dust, far out in the chaparral flats, a heaven for snakes and horned toads, roadrunners and stinging lizards, but a hell for pigs and Tennesseans.

to whatever extent the Hell’s Angels may or may be latent sadomasochists or repressed homosexuals is to me--after nearly a year in the constant company of outlaw motorcyclists--almost entirely irrelevant. There are literary critics who insist that Ernest Hemingway was a tortured queer and that Mark Twain was haunted to the end of his days by a penchant for interracial buggery. It is a good way to stir up a tempest in the academic quarterlies, but it won’t change a word of what either man wrote, nor alter the impact of their work on the world they were writing about. Perhaps Manolete was a hoof fetishist, or suffered from terrible hemorrhoids as a result of long nights in Spanish horn parlors…but he was a great matador, and it is hard to see how any amount of Freudian theorizing can have the slightest effect on the reality of the thing he did best.

It’s important to understand that in the Third World most driving is done with the horn, or “Egyptian Brake Pedal,” as it is known. There is a precise and complicated etiquette of horn use. Honk your horn only under the following circumstances: 1. When anything blocks the road 2. When anything doesn’t. 3. When anything might. 4. At red lights 5. At green lights. 6. At all other times.

Is that what those things are?” she asked. “Around your wrists and neck? Marks?” “These?” He leaned forward, and the change in him was instant, the glowing eyes, the curling horns, the broadening of the shoulders. Without meaning to, Alex found herself scooting back in her chair. He was man and then monster in the space of a breath. The golden bands glowed at his wrists and throat. “Yeah,” she said, trying not to show her fear. “Those.” “These marks mean I am bound in service. Forever.” “To hell? To Golgarot?” He laughed then, the sound deep and cold, the thing at the bottom of the lake. “I’m bound to you, Stern. To the woman who brought me out of hell. I will serve you ’til the end of days.

SCARBOROUGH FAIR, or, THE LOVER'S PROMISE (Lucy:) Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Remember me to one who lives there Always he'll be a true love of mine Tell him I've made him a magical shirt Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Without any seam or needlework Always he'll be a true love of mine (Zach:) Tell her she's found me an acre of land Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Between the salt water and the sea strand That makes her a true love of mine Tell her she's plowed it with just a goat's horn Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme She's sowed it all over with one grain of corn Yes, she is a true love of mine And her daughter forever a daughter of mine (Together:) Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Remember us to all who live there Ours will be true love for all time

So I've been thinking. Do you believe there's a hell?" "Sure. Doesn't everybody?" "Well, what if this is hell, but we just don't know it?" "That's crazy. Hell is like lakes of fire, and there are devils with horns and pitchforks. here's none of those around here." "But what if hell's not really like that?" Grace asked. "Everyone says it's that way," I said. "I don't think Jesus every talked about fire and brimstone." "Then why do they teach us that at church?" "To scare us." "Why would they want to scare us?" "I don't know. I just don't think God wants us to do good things because we're scared. I think he wants us to do good things because we're good.

I've never stopped wanting to cross the equator, or touch an elk's horns, or sing Tosca or screw James Dean in a field of wheat. To hell with wisdom. They're all wrong: I'll never be through with my life.

He’s not a cashmere scarf, Mercy. He has horns.” “I have a birthmark shaped like Wisconsin.” “I’m leaving.

What's going on? A soul? Did you say, a soul? What the hell! Next thing you know we'll have cholera again. What did I tell you? [He tossed the thin one on his horns.] I told you so... we should operate on all of them, on the imagination. Extirpate the imagination. Surgery's the only answer... nothing but surgery...

Cairo was, and remains, an ugly, cement-colored, park-free city, dotted with a few bewildering, mind-expanding splendors that make the whole place manic and magical. There was always noise, dirt, and exhaust, the honking of horns and the screeching of brakes. My

hell never came into my dreamings except in the interesting shape it took in "Paradise Lost." After reading that, the devil was to me no horned and hoofed horror, but the beautiful shadowed archangel, and I always hoped that Jesus, my ideal Prince, would save him in the end.

Perhaps Manolete was a hoof fetishist, or suffered from terrible hemorrhoids as a result of long nights in Spanish horn parlors … but he was a great matador, and it is hard to see how any amount of Freudian theorizing can have the slightest effect on the reality of the thing he did best.

From the other side of the hill, two enormous black wings appeared through the mist. Then a pair of sharp, twisted horns. Slowly, Maleficent rose into the air, looking like a creature from hell. Behind her, there was only mist. No army of her own. No faeries or creatures. Just Maleficent.

when the cheese belongs to the mitten take the horns off the roller coaster

He famously observed that “anyone who can believe in multiple universes should have no problem believing in heaven or hell.”[432] We believe

You're the good twin? I'm not buying it. I can see the horns peeking out behind your halo.

Heaven is for the good, Earth is for the wicked, and Hell is for those who see them both but do nothing.

There is love there always, only sometimes bundled in angry grief. If he didn't love him, it would not hurt this much, would it?

What had done this to their bodies? What had turned them from something so pure to something to be ashamed of?

All of Heaven, all of Earth, knew that Michael and Lucifer had loved each other once. We are all living in the grave of their love.

He could not sit still, but got up, clutching the rifle in his sweaty hands. The good Lord God in heaven could damn his soul to hell if he didn't make an end of that red-tailed bastard tonight; and he, Nunnely Ballew, could be a man again, working his land and raising his family, instead of a piece of pore white trash getting drunk under the stars, and cursing the coming of daylight because every bone in his body ached for sleep. To hell with his loud brags and all the fine things he had said back yonder five years ago when Zing first got scent of King Devil. He'd thought then it was a red fox he had to catch, not a red devil.

Sue Annie sighed. “Child, th world cain't git along without doorsills to walk on; that's why th good God made women; but it's allus seemed to me that all women, when they die, they ought to go to heaven; they never have much down here but hell.

With the cross around his neck he could be his old self again, he could have it all back if he wanted it, but it wasn't worth having. If you were going to live in hell on earth, there was something to be said for being one of the devils. - Horns p.381

He's going to try to take Megan!" I shouted, fury filling me and spilling out in the form of the manifestation. I raced down the hill toward the crossroad, the pack of snarling, jingling, horned hell poodles streaming behind me. Dane and his hell-poodles

I knew it was my duty to my own legend to survive this trial. But I was still crippled by my own devices. Imagine me as a great fully-rigged man-of-war. Four masts, great bulwarks of oak and five score cannon. All my life I have sailed smooth seas and waters that parted for me by virtue of my own splendor. Never tested. Never riled. A tragic existence, if ever there was one. “But at long last: a storm! And when I met it I found my hull . . . rotten. My planks leaking brine, my cannon brittle, powder wet. I foundered upon the storm. Upon you, Darrow of Lykos.” He sighs. “And it was my own fault.” I war between wanting to punch him in the mouth and surrendering into my curiosity by letting him continue. He’s a strange man with a seductive presence. Even as an enemy, his flamboyance fascinated me. Purple capes in battle. A horned Minotaur helmet. Trumpets blaring to signal his advance, as if welcoming all challengers. He even broadcast opera as his men bombarded cities. After so much isolation, he’s delighting in imposing his narrative upon us. “My peril is thus: I am, and always have been, a man of great tastes. In a world replete with temptation, I found my spirit wayward and easy to distract. The idea of prison, that naked, metal world, crushed me. The first year, I was tormented. But then I remembered the voice of a fallen angel. ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, or a hell of heaven.’ I sought to make the deep not just my heaven, but my womb of rebirth. “I dissected the underlying mistakes which led to my incarceration and set upon an internal odyssey to remake myself. But—and you would know this, Reaper—long is the road up out of hell! I made arrangements for supplies. I toiled twenty hours a day. I reread the books of youth with the gravity of age. I perfected my body. My mind. Planks were replaced; new banks of cannon wrought in the fires of solitude. All for the next storm. “Now I see it is upon me and I sail before you the paragon of Apollonius au Valii-Rath. And I ask one question: for what purpose have you pulled me from the deep?” “Bloodyhell, did you memorize that?” Sevro mutters.

I was too scared to kill you. I had a gun. I bought it just to shoot you. But the closest I ever came to killing anyone with it was myself. I put it in my mouth one night to see how it tasted.…I was scared to do that, too. Not because I'm afraid I'll go to hell for committing suicide. It's because I'm afraid I won't go to hell…that there isn't a hell to go to. No heaven either. Just nothing. Mostly I think there emus be nothing after we die. Sometimes that seems like it would be a relief. Other times it's the most awful thing I can imagine.

And where does this leave God? God loves man, we are told, but love must be proved by facts, not reasons. If you were in a boat and did not save a drowning man, you would burn in Hell for certain; yet God, in His wisdom, feels no need to use His power to save anyone from a single moment of suffering, and in spite of his inaction He is celebrated and revered. Show me the moral logic in it. You can't. There is none. Only the devil operates with any reason, promising to punish those who would make earth itself Hell for those who dare to love and feel.

Hell is not demons with horns and hot pans! It is a world without the God. Without meaning, without hope, without love and freedom. Only existential sickness. Complete spiritual destruction, which will sooner or later be followed by physical destruction. As a species, we have no value.

Today, as I sit looking at the tarnished old brass morning-glory horn of May’s gramophone—as brassy as May herself—I wonder whether she ever saw any of the three motion pictures inspired by this small but significant part of her life. In a way it is painful to imagine her sitting in a movie theater, watching as a private hurt of hers was laid bare, even in fictionalized, literally “whitewashed” form … and with a happy ending that likely never graced her real life. But somehow I doubt she ever saw the movie, or was aware of the revenge Maugham had taken on her. Because if she had seen it, I can’t help but envision her sitting in the theater in a righteous lather, as the lights come up and the last frame of film fades from the screen. “Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle!” I hear her cry out, indignantly. “So where the hell is my piece of the take?” The “Sadie Thompson” I knew would have sued—and won.

A near half hour passed as Salvatore weaved his way through the winding tunnel, his steps slowing as he tilted back his head to sniff the air. The scent of cur was still strong, but he was beginning to pick up the distant scent of other curs, and…pure-blood. Female pureblood. Coming to a sharp halt, Salvatore savored the rich vanilla aroma that filled his senses. He loved the smell of women. Hell, he loved women. But this was different. It was intoxicating. “Cristo,” he breathed, his blood racing, an odd tightness coiling through his body, slowly draining his strength. Almost as if… No. It wasn’t possible. There hadn’t been a true Were mating for centuries. “Curs,” Levet said, moving to his side. “And a female pureblood.” “Si,” Salvatore muttered, distracted. “You think it’s a trap?” Salvatore swallowed a grim laugh. Hell, he hoped it was a trap. The alternative was enough to send any intelligent Were howling into the night. “There’s only one way to find out.” He moved forward, sensing the end of the tunnel just yards in front of him. “Salvatore?” Levet tugged on his pants. Salvatore shook him off. “What?” “You smell funny. Mon Dieu, are you…” With blinding speed, Salvatore grasped the gargoyle by one stunted horn and yanked him off his feet to glare into his ugly face. Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed the musky scent that clung to his skin. Merda. “One more word and you lose that tongue,” he snarled. “But…” “Do not screw with me.” “I do not intend to screw with anyone.” The gargoyle curled his lips in a mocking smile. “I am not the one in heat.

A moment out of time .lights whirling and spinning in a cotton candy universe .down a bottomless funnel roundly sectioned like a goat' s horn .a cornucopia that rose up cuculiform smooth and slick as a worm belly .endless nights that pealed ebony funeral bells .out of fog .out of weightlessness .suddenly total cellular knowledge .memory running backward .gibbering spastic blindness .a soundless owl of frenzy trapped in a cave of prisms .sand endlessly draining down .billows of forever .edges of the world as they splintered .foam rising drowning from inside .the smell of rust .rough green corners that burn .memory the gibbering spastic blind memory .seven rushing vacuums of nothing .yellow .pinpoints cast in amber straining and elongating running like live wax .chill fevers .overhead the odour of stop .this is the stopover before hell or heaven .this is limbo .trapped and doomed alone in a mist-eaten nowhere .a soundless screaming a soundless whirring a soundless spinning spinning spinning .spinning .spinning .spinning .spinning

It is said in those districts that not all the trains which run on the city’s tracks are listed in Metropolitan Transit’s compendious schedule. The residents will tell you that after midnight, on some nights, there will be other trains, trains whose cry is different, the bellow of some great beast fighting for its life. And if you watch those trains go past, behind those bright flickering windows you will see passengers unlike any passengers you have seen when riding the trains yourself: men with wings, women with horns, beast-headed children, fauns and dryads and green-skinned people more beautiful than words can describe. In 1893, a schoolteacher swore that she saw a unicorn; in 1934, a murderer turned himself into the police, weeping, saying that he saw his victims staring at him from a train as it howled past the station platform on which he stood. These are the seraphic trains. The stories say they run to Heaven, Hell, and Faërie. They are omens, but no one can agree on what they portend. And although you will never meet anyone who has seen or experienced it, there are persistent rumors, unkillable rumors, that sometimes, maybe once a century, maybe twice, a seraphic train will stop in its baying progress and open its doors for a mortal. Those who know the story of Thomas the Rhymer—and even some who don’t—insist that all these people, blest or damned as they may be, must be poets.

Sometimes I think that hell is two places: it's a place you end up, but it's also a place that you live before you get there. I don't know if the devil's got horns and a spear for a tail, but I don't think that's the point. The point is that hell is separate from love. If Lucifer knows anything, he knows that. And ever since Emma left, I'd known the same thing. It's a lonely, desolate place.

I called the Keep, introduced myself to the disembodied female voice on the phone, and asked for the Beast Lord. In less than fifteen seconds Curran came on the line. “I’m going into hiding with Jim.” The silence on the other side of the phone had a distinctly sinister undertone. Perhaps he thought that his kissing superpowers had derailed me. Fat chance. I would keep him from having to kill Derek. That was a burden he didn’t need. “I thought about this morning,” I said, doing my best to sound calm and reasonable. “I’ve instructed the super to change the locks. If I ever catch you in my apartment again, I will file a formal complaint. I’ve taken your food, under duress, but I did take it. You rescued me once or twice, and you’ve seen me near naked. I realize that you’re judging this situation by shapeshifter standards, and you expect me to fall on my back with my legs spread.” “Not necessarily.” His voice matched mine in calmness. “You can fall on your hands and knees if you prefer. Or against the wall. Or on the kitchen counter. I suppose I might let you be on top, if you make it worth my while.” I didn’t grind my teeth—he would’ve heard it. I had to be calm and reasonable. “My point is this: no.” “No?” “There will be no falling, no sex, no you and me.” “I wanted to kiss you when you were in your house. In Savannah.” Why the hell was my heart pounding? “And?” “You looked afraid. That wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for.” Be calm and reasonable. “You flatter yourself. You’re not that scary.” “After I kissed you this morning, you were afraid again. Right after you looked like you were about to melt.” Melt? “You’re scared there might be something there, between you and me.” Wow. I struggled to swallow that little tidbit. “Every time I think you’ve reached the limits of arrogance, you show me new heights. Truly, your egotism is like the Universe—ever expanding.” “You thought about dragging me into your bed this morning.” “I thought about stabbing you and running away screaming. You broke into my house without permission and slobbered all over me. You’re a damn lunatic! And don’t give me that line about smelling my desire; I know it’s bullshit.” “I didn’t need to smell you. I could tell by the dreamy look in your eyes and the way your tongue licked the inside of my mouth.” “Enjoy the memory,” I ground out. “That’s the last time it will ever happen.” “Go play your games with Jim. I’ll find you both when I need you.” Arrogant asshole. “I tell you what, if you find us before those three days run out, I’ll cook you a damn dinner and serve it to you naked.” “Is that a promise?” “Yes. Go fuck yourself.” I slammed the phone down. Well, then. That was perfectly reasonable. On the other side of the counter an older, heavyset man stared at me like I had sprouted horns. Glenda handed me the money I’d given her. “That was some conversation. It was worth ten bucks.

Are you hurt? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” “No, miss, just my pride.” He cast her a rueful smile. “Don’t fret yourself over it. I’m fine.” It was only when he caught Captain Horn’s assessing glance that he realized he was behaving more like a servant than a fiancé. As he slid his hand around Miss Willis’s waist, ignoring her startled expression, he noticed that the pirate watched them with interest. “Such a touching scene.” Captain Horn’s face wore a look of suspicion and muted anger. “And to think I never guessed until now the grand passion going on beneath my very nose.” “Like Miss Willis said, she chose me.” Peter thrust out his chest, affecting a protective stance . . . a little too late unfortunately. “She probably told you that she and I became friendly on the Chastity” It was the story both he and Miss Willis had agreed upon last night, though they knew some would find it less than convincing. Apparently the captain was one of them. “She did claim something like that.” Claim. Clearly the man didn’t believe either one of them. Then the scourge of the seas cast a low, lascivious, glance over Miss Willis, making her tremble beneath Petey’s arm. “She and I have also become quite ‘friendly’ in the past two days. Haven’t we, Sara?” Petey turned to her, surprised to find her blushing furiously. She cast a guilty look, then lowered her gaze to her hands. “I-I don’t know what you’re t-talking about.” “Of course not,” the captain ground out. “I should’ve expected a two-faced English lady like you to deny the truth about our ‘friendship.’ Well, you may deny it to me, and you may even deny it to this sailor of yours.” He lowered his voice to a threatening hum. “But you’ll have a hell of a hard time denying it to yourself.

You want to give it a look, Xeno is printing all the stuff the Prophet’s ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll let him get away with it, mind, I don’t know. But Xeno says, front page of every issue, that any wizard who’s against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry Potter their number-one priority.” “Hard to help a boy who’s vanished off the face of the earth,” said Dirk. “Listen, the fact that they haven’t caught him yet’s one hell of an achievement,” said Ted. “I’d take tips from him gladly; it’s what we’re trying to do, stay free, isn’t it?” “Yeah, well, you’ve got a point there,” said Dirk heavily. “With the whole of the Ministry and all their informers looking for him I’d have expected him to be caught by now. Mind, who’s to say they haven’t already caught and killed him without publicizing it?” “Ah, don’t say that, Dirk,” murmured Ted.

ODE TO A HAGGIS Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang’s my arm The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, You pin wad help to mend a mill In time o’need While thro’ your pores the dews distil Like amber bead His knife see Rustic-labour dight, An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reeking, rich! Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive Bethankit hums Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi’ perfect sconner, Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither’d rash His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He’ll mak it whissle; An’ legs, an’ arms an’ heads will sned, Like taps o’ thrissle Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care, An’ dish them out their bill o’fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r, Gie her a Haggis!

And where does this leave God? God loved man, we are told, but love must be proved by facts, not reasons. If you were in a boat and did not save a drowning man, you would burn in Hell for certain; yet God, in His wisdom, feels no need to use His power to save anyone from a single moment of suffering, and in spite of his inaction He is celebrated and revered. Show me the moral logic in it. You can't. There is none. Only the devil operates with any reason, promising to punish those who would make earth itself Hell for those who dare to love and feel.

What did he have, exactly? In his mind’s eye he saw a boy with a tartan bookbag running from the tough guys; he saw a boy who wore glasses, a thin boy with a pale face that had somehow seemed to scream Hit me! Go on and hit me! in some mysterious way to every passing bully. Here’s my lips! Mash them back against my teeth! Here’s my nose! Bloody it for sure and break it if you can! Box an ear so it swells up like a cauliflower! Split an eyebrow! Here’s my chin, go for the knockout button! Here are my eyes, so blue and so magnified behind these hateful, hateful glasses, these horn-rimmed specs one bow of which is held on with adhesive tape. Break the specs! Drive a shard of glass into one of these eyes and close it forever! What the hell!

It’s a famous bull, and when they see him on the road, the passersby marvel at his size. They admire him from a distance: with the bow of his horns, he could toss any man high in the air, like an arrow—if, indeed, he hasn’t already done so. As gentle as a lamb when it suits him, he can fly into sudden rages when he feels so inclined, and people standing near him never know what’s going to happen next. The angler is peering at him sideways, out of the corner of his eye. “If I try to run away,” he’s thinking, “the bull will catch up to me before I have time to get out of the meadow. If I throw myself into the river, I’ll drown because I can’t swim. If I lie down and pretend to be dead, they say he’ll just come over to sniff me and leave me alone. But can I be quite sure? And what if he doesn’t go away? How dreadful! Best thing is to pretend I’m not worried, even if I am.

I took my solo and beat hell out of the skins. Then Spoof swiped at his mouth and let go with a blast and moved it up into that squeal and stopped and started playing. It was all headwork. All new to us. New to anybody. I saw Sonny get a look on his face, and we sat still and listened while Spoof made love to that horn. Now like a scream, now like a laugh - now we're swinging in the trees, now the white men are coming, now we're in the boat and chains are hanging from our ankles and we're rowing, rowing - Spoof, what is it? - now we're sawing wood and picking cotton and serving up those cool cool drinks to the Colonel in his chair - Well, blow, man! - now we're free, and we're struttin' down Lenox Avenue and State & Madison and Pirate's Alley, laughing, crying - Who said free? - and we want to go back and we don't want to go back - Play it, Spoof! God, God, tell us all about it! Talk to us! - and we're sitting in a cellar with a comb wrapped up in paper, with a skin-barrel and a tinklebox - Don't stop, Spoof! Oh Lord, please don't stop! - and we're making something, something, what is it? Is it jazz? Why, yes, Lord, it's jazz. Thank you, sir, and thank you, sir, we finally got it, something that is ours, something great that belongs to us and to us alone, that we made, and that's why it's important and that's what it's all about and - Spoof! Spoof, you can;t stop now -- But it was over, middle of the trip. And there was Spoof standing there facing us and tears streaming out of those eyes and down over that coaldust face, and his body shaking and shaking. It's the first we ever saw that. It's the first we ever heard him cough, too - like a shotgun going off every two seconds, big raking sounds that tore up from the bottom of his belly and spilled out wet and loud. ("Black Country")

But there wasn’t much peace to be had on Southern California freeways during the morning rush hour. The pace alternated between brief intervals of violent acceleration, and total gridlock. He was navigating the I-5 and 805 merge—known euphemistically as the ‘Golden Triangle’—when a motorcyclist riding a blue Kawasaki ZX6 cut in front of him, passing so close to Derrick’s front bumper that he felt his body tense for collision. Somehow, it didn’t come. Still crossing the freeway on a reckless diagonal, the bike barely missed getting run over by a semi-truck in the far right lane. The truck driver blew his horn long and angrily. Without looking up, the cyclist raised his left fist and made the time-honored ‘bird’ gesture. Then, he darted down the off ramp, and sped away on the East 56 freeway. Derrick shook his head in amazement. “What the hell is wrong with people?” Not more than thirty seconds later, he passed an Amber Alert sign that read, “SHARE THE ROAD. LOOK TWICE FOR MOTORCYCLES.

Such a touching scene.” Captain Horn’s face wore a look of suspicion and muted anger. “And to think I never guessed until now the grand passion going on beneath my very nose.” “Like Miss Willis said, she chose me.” Peter thrust out his chest, affecting a protective stance…a little too late, unfortunately. “She probably told you that she and I became friendly on the Chastity.” It was the story both he and Miss Willis had agreed upon last night, though they’d known some would find it less than convincing. Apparently the captain was one of them. “She did claim something like that.” Claim. Clearly the man didn’t believe either of them. Then the scourge of the seas cast a slow, lascivious glance over Miss Willis, making her tremble beneath Petey’s arm. “She and I have also become quite ‘friendly’ in the past two days. Haven’t we, Sara?” Petey turned to her, surprised to find her blushing furiously. She cast him a guilty look, then lowered her gaze to her hands. “I-I don’t know what you’re t-talking about.” “Of course not,” the captain ground out. “I should’ve expected a two-faced English lady like you to deny the truth about our ‘friendship.’ Well, you may deny it to me, and you may even deny it to this sailor of yours.” He lowered his voice to a threatening hum. “But you’ll have a hell of a hard time denying it to yourself.

Willow leaned forward and laid her head next to his on the pillow. "Is it too late to say I'm sorry, and that I love you more than anything else in this world?" "Oh God,no,love." With his good arm, he reached for the back of her head and brought her lips to his. They kissed as if they'd never get enough of each other, because they knew they never would. When Rider finally released her mouth, he smiled rakishly and pulled her hand under the covers. Willow smiled when he laid her hand over his throbbing desire. "Hmmm, you are feeling better." "Almost well enough to start Mr. Happy on his baby-making lessons again," he said in a deep sexy baritone. "Ah,Rider?" "Yes,love?" He was pulling her down for another stirring kiss. "About those lessons?" "Hmmm, I'm anxious to start practicing again, too,love. But at the moment Mr. Happy is a lot stronger than the rest of me." "Oh,I know,but...Rider, Mr. Happy must have learned his lessons real fast." Rider stilled. "What do you mean?" "I mean that I think Mr. Happy cooked something up in the kitchen." Forgetting his shoulder, Willow's husband sat straight up in bed. He winced, then asked, "You mean you're...going to have a baby?" "Of course I'm going to have a baby, you beefwit. Did you think I was baking another damn pie?" "Yahoooo!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, and hugged her with his good arm. Six men, Juan included, plus two women came pouring into the room. "What in the hell is going on in here?" Owen grumbled in mock irritation. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Rider announced, "Owen, your daughter is about to make me a father and give you a second grandchild." "Oh,hell, I knew that." Nine people echoed, "You did?" "Hell, yes, all you gotta do is look at 'er face." Rider cocked his head and studied his wife's face. "She does have an extra glow about her, doesn't she?" "She sure does." Owen chuckled. "Her mama got the same glow with all five of her babies." "If I'm glowing, it's because all of you are staring at me like I just grew horns," Willow said, covering her flushed cheeks with her hands. "Dammit, I just thought of something," Owen said. "I s'pose this means I'll have to add another room to the house for when you come visiting." "Owen Vaughn," Miriam reprimanded, "stop that cursing. I swear every other word out of your mouth is a curse! I'm going to break you of that before your grandbabies get old enough to repeat that filth." "Break me of it?" Owen laughed and poked Nick in the ribs with his elbow. "Only one way for a woman to break a stallion, that's to ride 'im hard!" The man all guffawed loudly. Miriam's face turned ten shades of red. "Well,I never!" She turned on her heel and made an indignant exit.

A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained weddingveil and some in headgear of cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses’ ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse’s whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen’s faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.

A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained wedding veil and some in headgear or cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses' ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse's whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools. Oh my god, said the sergeant.

Two weeks ago my mountain of mail delivered forth a pipsqueak mouse of a letter from a well-known publishing house that wanted to reprint my story “The Fog Horn” in a high school reader. In my story, I had described a lighthouse as hav­ing, late at night, an illumination coming from it that was a “God-Light.” Looking up at it from the view-point of any sea-creature one would have felt that one was in “the Presence.” The editors had deleted “God-Light” and “in the Presence.” Some five years back, the editors of yet another anthology for school readers put together a volume with some 400 (count ‘em) short stories in it. How do you cram 400 short stories by Twain, Irving, Poe, Maupassant and Bierce into one book? Simplicity itself. Skin, debone, demarrow, scarify, melt, render down and destroy. Every adjective that counted, every verb that moved, every metaphor that weighed more than a mosquito—out! Every simile that would have made a sub-moron’s mouth twitch—gone! Any aside that explained the two-bit philosophy of a first-rate writer—lost! Every story, slenderized, starved, bluepenciled, leeched and bled white, resembled every other story. Twain read like Poe read like Shakespeare read like Dostoevsky read like—in the finale—Edgar Guest. Every word of more than three syllables had been ra­zored. Every image that demanded so much as one instant’s attention—shot dead. Do you begin to get the damned and incredible picture? How did I react to all of the above? By “firing” the whole lot. By sending rejection slips to each and every one. By ticketing the assembly of idiots to the far reaches of hell.

Too anxious to sit still, she stood in the stirrups to stretch her legs, then moved her bottom back and forth in the saddle until she found a comfortable spot to settle. She dallied her reins loosely around the saddle horn and reached up to unbutton the top two buttons of her blouse, then leaned over and shook the cotton cloth back and forth to cool herself. Her Stetson hat came off next. She settled it on the saddle horn, so what little breeze there was could reach the sweat on her nape. “What the hell kind of strip show are you putting on?” Bay nearly fell out of the saddle at Owen’s angry outburst. She jerked upright, knocking her hat off the horn and onto the ground. Her horse saw the shadow when it fell, figured it for a dangerous, horse-eating jackrabbit, and shied violently toward Owen’s mount. His horse took exception to being bumped and kicked out with both hooves, striking Bay’s horse in the rump, which grabbed for the reins, but they fell loose from the horn, and she was helpless to restrain her mount when he began to run helter-skelter down the canyon, sunfishing and crowhopping. Bay was thrown up onto her mount’s neck, where she held on for dear life. She heard Owen galloping behind her and knew it was only a matter of time before he caught up to her. But a narrow passage was coming up, and there wasn’t room for both her and her horse. She was going to be scraped off. Unless she jumped first. From her precious perch, Bay stared down at the rocky soil racing past her nose and thought of all the movies she’d seen where cowboys leaped from their horses and got up and walked away. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult. In a moment, when they reached that narrow passage, the choice was going to be taken from her. Bay closed her eyes and launched herself as far as she could from her horse’s flashing hooves. And landed like a sack of wet cement. She skidded for maybe two feet along the rocky bed of the canyon. On her face. And her right hip. And her left hand. When she stopped, she lay there stunned for a moment, then gave a shaky laugh. “Oh, that was not at all like it is in the movies.

The thick ropes of his control began to unravel. When she curled both arms around his neck, it seemed natural to place his around her waist and pick her up. She wrapped her legs around his hips, bringing herself in direct contact with his hard-on. It was paradise. It was pure torture. He swore. She broke the kiss and smiled at him. “So you find me annoying, but you still want me,” she whispered. “I don’t find you annoying.” He pushed against her crotch. “I don’t find you annoying, either.” He read the passion in her eyes and knew she was more than willing to take things to the next level. He glanced around, searching for a soft, private spot, only to realize they were out in the open and likely to be discovered any second. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t smart, and he didn’t have a condom with him. Phoebe deserved a whole lot better. “I want you,” he told her. She tightened her legs around him. “Me, too.” Color stained her cheeks. “I’ve never said that to a man before.” Zane realized he hadn’t told a woman, either. He’d shown her, but he’d never actually spoken the words. Phoebe was changing him in all kinds of ways. He wanted her with a desperation he’d never felt before. And yet… “We can’t,” he said gently, ignoring the hardness and the pain in his groin. “You deserve better than something hot and fast up against a tree.” She swallowed. “I’m not so sure about that.” “I am.” “Oh.” She sounded disappointed. Had she been anyone else, he would have said the hell with it and taken what she offered. But she was Phoebe. From behind them came the sound of a car horn honking, and then another. They couldn’t see anything through the trees, but they heard laughter drifting toward them as at least a couple of off-road vehicles drove slowly past. “Sounds like we have company,” he said. “We’re close to Stryker land. Guess they decided to say hi. You go on ahead. I need a few minutes.” When he pointed at the front of his jeans, she blushed. “Oh. I see your problem. Well, you could walk right behind me and no one would notice.” He chuckled. “I’ll wait it out. Go on.” “Okay.” She headed toward camp. Zane watched her go, taking in the sway of her hips and the wave she gave him right before she disappeared.

Owen Gingerich, has authored books defending God’s Universe (2006) and God’s Planet (2014). He famously observed that “anyone who can believe in multiple universes should have no problem believing in heaven or hell.”[432] We believe his comment frames the discussion of

A strange, deep roaring sound akin to a giant rusted train horn filled the air suddenly, shaking eyes and eardrums as it passed. Kedaya froze up in her place and appeared ill. She looked to the east and started walking backward. “I've heard that sound before. Let's not go that way, okay?” Ayohka swallowed her fear and grabbed Kedaya's shoulder. “What the hell was that?” Kedaya pushed away from Ayohka and shook her head. “Let's just say that big lizard is an absurd understatement, and I've got no idea how these Bukwas plan to deal with it without getting eaten.

My Order emerged,” he breathed and the terror in his voice told me all I needed to about what had happened. “You’re not a Dragon?” I asked, my own voice cracking with fear for him. Father would have been more than furious to discover that his son was anything other than a full blooded Dragon Shifter. It was a matter of pride and respect; he ridiculed families with mixed blood, he believed wholeheartedly in the superiority of our kind. One of his sons being anything other was totally unthinkable. Xavier shook his head slowly, trying to withdraw his hand from mine as footsteps sounded on the stairs behind me but I refused to release him. “It doesn’t change anything for me,” I growled. “You’re still my brother, I don’t care if you’re a Werewolf or a Vampire or a-” “So he told you, did he?” Father’s cold voice came from the doorway behind me and the hairs along the back of my neck stood to attention in warning. Xavier snatched his hand out of mine, blinking away the evidence of the tears which hadn’t even fallen. I stood before him, placing myself between him and Father. “It doesn’t matter,” I said firmly, though the simmering rage in my father’s eyes told a very different story. “I’m the oldest. I’m the first in line anyway, Xavier never wanted to challenge me for that role so-” “Yes, I still have my Heir but I’ve lost the spare. Did he tell you exactly what Order he is?” Father snarled, his eyes changing to their Dragon form and a trail of smoke leaving his nostrils. He was so angry about this that he was battling against the urge to shift. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him look so close to the edge before. “Not yet. But surely it’s not the end of the world if-” “Shift,” Father commanded, his gaze passing me to land on my brother. Xavier got out of his chair and backed up, shaking his head in panic. His skin looked odd though, like there was light shining from within it, trying to break free. “I told you, I’ll get control of it; I won’t shift ever,” he said anxiously. “No one will ever find out that I’m-” “SHIFT!” Father bellowed, using fear to force the change on him. Xavier cried out in panic as the light beneath his skin grew to a powerful glow and he bucked forward as his Order form took over. I backed up as his form changed, giving him room to become- “Fucking hell,” I breathed, my eyes widening in panic. “My thoughts precisely,” Father hissed venomously. Xavier had transformed into a lilac Pegasus complete with golden horn and rainbow patterned wings. His coat shone with glitter in the light of my magical orbs and his wide, horsey eyes looked back at us fearfully. I stared at him with my mouth hanging open, scrambling for something, anything to say. “I... didn’t know we had any recessive Pegasus genes in the bloodline...maybe he's linked to the constellation,” I muttered, unsure what else I could say. Father hated the weaker, more common Orders. He was a Dragon through and through; he loved power, invoking fear and breathing fire. A Pegasus was about as far as you could get to the opposite end of the Order spectrum. They were flying horses who pooped glitter, granted wishes and were... cute. Xavier hadn’t even been lucky enough to have a dark coloured coat, it was lilac. Lilac! (DARIUS POV)

Back in seventh grade, Sister Loretta used to say that even if hell was not the firepit with the horned demons and the pitchforks that the medievalists supposed, it was, make no mistake, a void. It was an eternal separation from love. What love? God’s love. Anyone’s love. All love.

How could I resist such horned alien hotness?” Garnet quipped. I couldn’t refute they were sexy as hell. Handsomeness seemed coded into their DNA because I’d never seen an ugly Dakonian. Or a short one. They were all over seven feet, with bronzed skin and the cutest damn horns poking out of their near-black hair.

A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tacked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained weddingveil and some in headgear of cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses' eats and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse's whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daublings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.

The Reality of the Damned “There can be people who have totally destroyed their desire for truth and readiness to love, people for whom everything has become a lie, people who have lived for hatred and have suppressed all love within themselves. This is a terrifying thought, but alarming profiles of this type can be seen in certain figures of our own history. In such people all would be beyond remedy and the destruction of good would be irrevocable: this is what we mean by the word hell.”194 —Pope Benedict XVI

188 In the Old Testament the word “hell” usually referred to sheol, or the abode of the dead. The Church teaches that after his Crucifixion, Christ preached to the spirits in sheol (1 Pet. 4:6), an event the Apostles’ Creed refers to as Christ’s “descent into hell.” Regarding this event, the Catechism clearly says, “Jesus did not descend into hell to deliver the damned, nor to destroy the hell of damnation, but to free the just who had gone before him” (CCC 633).

The horns blew, and Jesus came floating out of the damned sky like Magneto to save us all! How did you repay him? You shot him in the fucking face and he hit the ground! He hit that shit harder than Paul Walker driving through a Christmas tree farm! So, yes! Congratulations! You’re the Antichrist and your father was a psychic!

Jutari is from a race of aliens called “mesakkah” and I knew that my husband-to-be would be one, too. He’s a distant relative who escaped a prison planet, where he’s been for the last few years due to some messy alien war that ended badly. I don’t care that he’s a convict. That just means he’ll intimidate my neighbors. And because he’s mesakkah, I knew he’d be tall and blue and horned like Jutari, but…whoa.

Musk oxen meander down the frozen river valley, pawing at the snow to uncover last summer's plants. It's been a long winter, and their stomachs grumble. The grizzly bear is hungry, too. He's just emerged from his den, and he'll risk injury for a chance at fresh meat. The bear lollops toward the herd. The musk oxen run for it, but the drifts are deep and they sink into the snow. If they can't flee, they have to fight. The adults wheel, forming a ring around last year's young. The bear halts before the wall of horns, looking for an opening. Then one musk ox, a bull weighing almost as much as the bear, breaks formation to charge. The grizzly bolts: he'll search elsewhere for a meal. Danger passed, the musk oxen regain their calm. The young oxen, and the calves about to be born, are safe. The long night is nearly over. Light - and life - will soon return to the Arctic.

even if hell was not the firepit with the horned demons and the pitchforks that the medievalists supposed, it was, make no mistake, a void.

I am queer for my lover's body. Horehound is mescalinestrong. Dazzling as expensive fireworks. One taste of my Horehound's feast and I beg for his tendrils to twine around my genitals like how a bull is primed for a rodeo. I am ready to be ridden until I kneel on the dusty ground, horns to the dirt, begging to be tamed. Tame me, my sweet, my bitter Horehound. Make me grow unfettered around your body, as your namesake grows. Lie still; let my tongue function as fingertips, my senses of touch and taste meld. Let me be the cartographer of your body I know how to start: from your left nipple, closer to your heart, where the pump of blood heats that tit more than the other. A more flavourful place to begin, no? Let me suck, childhungry, until it spurts bitter on my tongue, pushing my mission to the hollow under your left arm, again warmer because of your pumping heart. I will nestle in your brush, press my mouth and nose close to your skin, follow the flow of your blood as a paper boat in a storm drain does, forcefully, involuntarily, to your left wrist, kiss your fingers as if they were a sacrament, read the lines in your palm. I will find the oases, the monuments, the dikes, the hells, the battlegrounds of your body so I will know where to hide when you love me or when you fury me.

In my father's house there were many mansions and they were all the same, labyrinthian interiors smelling of damp plaster and varnish, the dark hallways narrow, hung with sepia prints of places no one ever visited or would ever dream of visiting - Hong Kong, Abu Simbel, Nasirabad - a seemingly endless bolt of oriental carpet streaming down the stairs and flooding the rooms, its disconcerting flotsam bobbing up in isolated squares of sunlight, all those grimacing flowers, horned faces, toothless mouths flung to the nethermost nook and cranny, lapping here against a broom closet door, pooling there around an umbrella stand, puddling at last beneath a snarl of hair and dust.

It felt as if the world was spinning, as if hell was silencing and reigniting all at once. Everything he'd been holding back unleashed against me, and we were the night sky, the crashing thunderstorm of deadliest proportions. A holy and evil celebration of the worst and deadliest of loves. A love that died and came back to life. A love that found more pieces of herself in the Halloween Boys and danced with the devil in hell again. A love that stopped running and turned to the vices pursuing her and burned them alive. This moment alone with him, horn and bone, flame and mountain was everything.

Justice?”  Esmeralda repeated blankly.  “For Bad folk?” “Yes!  There should be a real place for us!  We shouldn’t just… judge people on what they look like and say that’s all they are.  Whether or not they have horns, shouldn’t make a difference in what kind of job they can get.”  She shook her head.  “That’s just stupid.  Don’t you think we can do better?  That we should all be equal?” Everyone stared at her like she really was insane. “Fucking hell…”  Marrok sounded awed.  “I knew there had to be something going on, but I didn’t put it together until now.”  He started laughing.  “You’re Good.

over the barrier and through the grass into fucking hell I go one lane silver car two lanes horns horns horns three lanes SEMI WHAT’S A FUCKING SEMI DOING ON THE FDR IT’S TOO TALL YOU STUPID UPSTATE HICK screaming four lanes GREEN TAXI screaming Smart Car hahaha cute five lanes moving truck six lanes and the blue Lexus actually brushes up against my clothes as it blares past screaming screaming screaming

But it was time to grow. It was time to be the evil woman with horns. The keeper of doors. The legend of Belladonia. The stories of Fenrir. The savior of Ash Grove. The queen of hell. “I am Mortala,” I said in a profound, echoing voice, stepping forward and addressing every snarl and hiss of darkness. “I am your reaper. I am death. I am the ruler of hell.

Everything he’d been holding back unleashed against me, and we were the night sky, the crashing thunderstorm of deadliest proportions. A holy and evil celebration of the worst and deadliest of loves. A love that died and came back to life. A love that found more pieces of herself in the Halloween Boys and danced with the devil in hell again. A love that stopped running and turned to the vices pursuing her and burned them alive. This moment alone with him, horn and bone, flame and mountain, was everything.

Light and smoke aside, all that remained on the sidewalk was a little red English bulldog. Other than the general doggish shape, that's where the similarities to any beast from this plane ended. "Ferdinand!" I cooed and rounded Ryker to scratch the creature between the stubby horns on its head. He was happy to see me, and he drooled out a little lava while shaking his two stubby tails. "What in the hell is that?" Ryker looked down at Ferdinand with disdain. "That has to be the most pathetic demon dog I've ever seen." "Shh, don't listen to the big mean man," I purred at Ferdie. "And you're the best demon dog, you're the best boy and I'm going to find you a cheeseburger later.

Have you guys ever heard of Wilma Pebbles?” “Is she a model? She sounds hot in a Flintstones kinda way.” “She’s an author.” “Oh. Does she model on the side?” “You’re an idiot. I never should’ve unblocked you.” “Your life would be so boring without me and you know it. It’d be like cardboard without glitter. Ice cream without sugar. Pizza without olives.” “WTF are you talking about?” “Guys, FOCUS And no, Wilma does NOT model on the side. But she wrote a book that sounds kinda interesting It’s called Triceratops and Threesomes.” “Like the dinosaur?” “Yeah. Apparently dinosaur erotica is a thing.” “What the hell have you been doing in London? Also, do you think triceratops fuck with their horns?” Noah Wilson left the conversation.

What did I want to say? I had been struggling to find the words that would sum up how I felt, but the right ones would not come. I wanted to say I loved her. That there would be a hole in my heart forever where she had once been. That she had scared the hell out of me, irritated me beyond belief, and I didn’t know how I could possibly face the weight of the magic that was now mine without her support, her strength, her churlishness. I felt my hand shaking, so I raised my glass. “To Mother,” I said.

The change in their attitude was not overt, but I still felt a chill in my heart as true friendship turned to mere politeness. All the same it hurt like hell to be rejected by the people of the city I loved, no matter how polite they were when building the walls between us.

How could the man I just left be so evil? When Frank was ten years old, his mother told him something about evil he never forgot. “The devil is not a red man with horns, a pitchfork, and a pointy tail. He is one of the most attractive persons you’ll ever meet. He’ll be the best liar you’ll ever encounter, and you’ll want to believe every word he says.

I feel like this is totally a moment for Perry and Dex, considering they’ve been to Hell and back (again, literally) and seem to understand each other on this basic, soulmate kind of level. I guess it’s kind of inspiring to see a couple such as Dawn and Sage still together, considering they seem to have gone through something similar. True love binds. Of course that makes me have a tiny pity party for myself, complete with festive hat, confetti, and party horn that makes a pathetic little toot, since I also seem to be damned with these afflictions and yet I’m still alone. Finding someone who understands me seems pretty much impossible. That

A car horn startled me. The taste of blood still filled my mouth, my body screamed in pain. I was losing my mind. What the hell was going on? “My name is Nathan Ryder. I’m sixteen. I’m in eleventh grade. This is Ashland, Oregon. It’s Friday, September 12th . . . ” I repeated the mantra until the tragic scene in that ancient Mayan pool receded and I was fully back in the present. I had lived through at least a hundred deaths since the “Outviews” began a year ago. I

Maybe he got me one of those two-necklace sets, the ones with the halved hearts, I thought, and he’ll wear one half and I’ll wear the other. I couldn’t exactly picture it, but Marlboro Man had never been above surprising me. Then again, we were walking toward a barn. Maybe it was a piece of furniture for the house we’d been working on--a love seat, perhaps. Oh, wouldn’t that be the most darling of wedding gifts? A love seat? I’ll bet it’s upholstered in cowhide, I thought, or maybe some old western brocade fabric. I’d always loved those fabrics in the old John Wayne movies. Maybe its legs are made of horns! It just had to be furniture. Maybe it was a new bed. A bed on which all the magic of the world would take place, where our children--whether one or six--would be conceived, where the prairie would ignite in an explosion of passion and lust, where… Or maybe it’s a puppy. Oh, yes! That has to be it, I told myself. It’s probably a puppy--a pug, even, in tribute to the first time I broke down and cried in front of him! Oh my gosh--he’s replacing Puggy Sue, I thought. He waited until we were close enough to the wedding, but he doesn’t want the pup to get any bigger before he gives it to me. Oh, Marlboro Man…you may have just zeroed in on what could possibly be the single most romantic thing you ever could have done for me. In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect love gift. A pug would be the perfect bridge between my old world and my new, a permanent and furry reminder of my old life on the golf course. As Marlboro Man slid open the huge barn doors and flipped on the enormous lights mounted to the beams, my heart began beating quickly. I couldn’t wait to smell its puppy breath.

Lureenie smiled, almost gaily. "Me, I don't want to last a long time. I think I'd like to go out like a cedar bush in a brush pile than wear out slow like a door sill." Sue Annie sighed. "Child, the world cain't git along without doorsills to walk on; that's why the good God made women; but it's allus seemed to me that all women, when they die they ought to go to heaven; they never had much down here but hell." "Aw, Sue Annie," Milly said,"men has their troubles too." Sue Annie spat into the fire. "Nothen hurts a man much; if it does, it kills him.

Crawl back to the desert, lo stregone," Tavio spat out. Literally. Twice. Then Tavio made a devil horn sign, which was pretty rich coming from a vampire in league with a demon.

Deeply ambivalent also is the image of fire in carnival. It is a fire that simultaneously destroys and renews the world. In European carnivals there was almost always a special structure (usually a vehicle adorned with all possible sorts of gaudy carnival trash) called "hell," and at the close of carnival this "hell" was triumphantly set on fire (sometimes this carnival "hell" was ambivalently linked with a horn of plenty). Characteristic is the ritual of "moccoli" in Roman carnival: each participant in the carnival carried a lighted candle ("a candle stub"), and each tried to put out another's candle with the cry "Sia ammazzato!" ("Death to thee!"). In his famous description of Roman carnival (in Italienische Reise)h Goethe, striving to uncover the deeper meaning behind carnival images, relates a profoundly symbolic little scene: during "moccoli" a boy puts out his father's candle with the cheerful carnival cry: "Sia ammazzato il Signore Padre!" [that is, "death to thee, Signor Father!"]

Its appearance was so numbingly horrific that she, unlike Whitney, was unable to scream; she tried, but her voice failed her. The darkness and rain mercifully concealed many details of the mutant form, but she had an impression of a massive and misshapen head, jaws that resembled a cross between those of a wolf and a crocodile, and an abundance of deadly teeth. Shirtless and shoeless, clad only in jeans, it was a few inches taller than Eric had been, and its spine curved up into hunched and deformed shoulders. There was an immense expanse of breastbone that looked as if it might be covered with horns or spines of some sort, and with rounded knobby excrescences. Long and strangely jointed arms hung almost to its knees. The hands were surely just like the hands of demons who, in the fiery depths of hell, cracked open human souls and ate the meat of them.

She couldn’t help it; she looked hungrily at his dessert-covered chest and abs. Like a woman starved and stranded at sea. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. But before she could reply, or attack and devour him, a boat horn sounded, making them both start. An amused voice carried the short distance across the water. “He surrenders, Kerry! Don’t make him walk the plank!” Kerry pulled back as if she’d been physically poked, swinging her gaze across the water to where another sailboat was passing by, getting ready to leave the harbor for the bay, sails fully unfurled. It was Jim Stein, with his wife, Carol, an older couple who were long-time friends of Fergus’s but well known to the whole McCrae clan. She felt her cheeks flaming in embarrassment and was grateful they were far enough away not to see the particulars of what was going on. Of course they could plainly see Cooper was shirtless, but she still had on the hoodie and fishing hat, so how inappropriately could they be behaving, right? If only they knew. Five more minutes and her old friends might have gotten a completely different eyeful. Hell, five more seconds.

She couldn’t help it; she looked hungrily at his dessert-covered chest and abs. Like a woman starved and stranded at sea. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. But before she could reply, or attack and devour him, a boat horn sounded, making them both start. An amused voice carried the short distance across the water. “He surrenders, Kerry! Don’t make him walk the plank!” Kerry pulled back as if she’d been physically poked, swinging her gaze across the water to where another sailboat was passing by, getting ready to leave the harbor for the bay, sails fully unfurled. It was Jim Stein, with his wife, Carol, an older couple who were long-time friends of Fergus’s but well known to the whole McCrae clan. She felt her cheeks flaming in embarrassment and was grateful they were far enough away not to see the particulars of what was going on. Of course they could plainly see Cooper was shirtless, but she still had on the hoodie and fishing hat, so how inappropriately could they be behaving, right? If only they knew. Five more minutes and her old friends might have gotten a completely different eyeful. Hell, five more seconds. She waved, flashed a thumbs-up, then waved again as they sailed on, leaving laughter in their wake. With her teeth still gritted in a smile, she said, “This will be all over the Cove five seconds after they get back. Sooner if they have radio signal.” She turned back to Cooper, who was grinning shamelessly, hands linked behind his head now, as if preparing for his plank walk. “Very funny,” she said, trying to ignore how the posture made his biceps flex and showed off the definition in his six-pack. She couldn’t help but note that some of the blueberries had slid all the way down to the waistband of his cargo shorts, leaving streaks of blue on his skin, like arrows pointing to where she should go to resume their little game. She realized she was staring when her eyes slid a little lower still and--she jerked her gaze back to his, realizing he’d made her blush again. She typically wasn’t much of a blusher either. But she didn’t usually find herself playing food Twister with a half-naked man. Rather than finding a mocking smile waiting for her, the curve of his lips was amused, maybe even a little affectionate. Like she was being cute or something. She’d show him cute. Then she met his eyes and saw there was nothing amused or even borderline condescending to be found there. Incendiary was the word that came to mind.

What’s wrong, Bluebell?” he asked, using both hands to play now. “I met this guy and I just wonder if he’ll be okay with me, you know, touching you and going to the opera and stuff?” “We are friends and your possessive boyfriend will need to accept how you are not his pet.” My gaze met Tyson’s and I’d be damned if he wasn’t jealous. While I shouldn’t have smiled, my mouth reacted quicker than my brain. “Yes, you and I have been friends for a very long time,” I said, still grinning despite my best ef-forts to stop. Sensing I was teasing him, Tyson lifted a dark brow and smirked. “You are no one’s possession.

They’ll have Donald Duck and Goofy and the gang on the wallpaper ready for the first arrival in the nursery, the boy who would be conker champion, and the signed baseball bat and mitt, and his granddad’s fighter plane suspended from the ceiling. And he’ll coach him in baseball, and Phineas in cricket, and Owain will teach him to fish, and later shoot. Phineas would be one godparent, he’d decided, and Annie and Owain, and Jasmine, and the Commander and Priny, and Miss Wyndham and John Beecher, and Tom Parr, there’ll be plenty to go round, enough new trees over the years. And they’ll grow up, their brood, like Jasmine’s and the Owens’, and there’ll be all the Hall and the grounds to chase each other round in, and the river to explore, and picnics on it, and trips to its hidden places, and all that English countryside, and the half that was in Wales, to play in. Humphrey clamped his cigar in his mouth, and scattered sheep feeding by a field gate with a couple more blasts on the horn, singing his way down Batch Valley.

My dad used to warn me that the devil doesn't have horns and a pitchfork, he'll appear as the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. He'll make you laugh. He'll make you feel good. You'll do things you never thought you would, but he'll tell you it's okay. And before you know it, you've sold your soul to him.

Who would walk through Hell naked?" she asked. Luce shrugged. "I do it all the time. Well, usually with the horns, the tail, the red skin...you know, the whole works. People seem to expect it on occasion. Keeps the other demons in order, but clothes would just spoil the effect..." from "Mel Goes to Hell

Periodically, all hell breaks loose in all these places simultaneously, and then we have a flap, or wave, of UFO sightings, apparitions, poltergeists, sudden inexplicable disappearances of animals and human beings, mysterious fires, and even a form of mass madness.

the demon of fear of events, with its fur bristling in anticipation of a caress; the demon of worldly piety, which lifts itself up by creeping like ivy; the demon of proud science, hiding its horns beneath a university mortarboard; the demon of quick-tempered strength that is incapable of enduring the least vexation; the demon of bad counsel, that tells you all the tricks by which to climb the rungs of hell; the demon of artificial intelligence, that believes that thought is perfected not in praise but in calculation; the demon of the wisdom of spirituality websites, which provide you with “well-being, interior freedom, harmony, and serenity in everyday life” by assuring you that you are the reincarnation of an empress and that your boss is only an illusion. Our Mary, who is neither a saint nor a virgin, had all it would take to succeed in high society. No such luck, or perhaps by the grace of God, whichever you prefer: there she was, deprived of the seven keys to success and commanded by the Risen Lord to relate an impossible story to a bunch of dullards. To

I’ve watched you come to school worn down year after year and no one ever say a word. I’ve watched your clothes get too small and your shoes get too thin, and nobody care. I’ve watched you try like hell to master shit in class and get halfway there and get no credit for doing your best. I’ve seen you get cocky during football season, and I’ve seen you withdraw when it’s over and you don’t fit in anymore. I’ve seen how much you need to be taken care of.

Joshua, and Caleb, we stand up to the infernal power operating just beyond the range of normal vision, it will yet be possible to illustrate the living dynamic against which the gates of hell cannot prevail.

They compass the world to make one disciple, “then make it twofold more a child of hell than they are themselves” (Matthew 23:15). These incredibly deceptive mummers seek institutional positions where they can nourish Christ

Early on, few people would have been more qualified than computer scientist Bill Joy to annunciate these dangers, or to outline the “hell scenario” that could unfold as a result of GRIN.