I Lava You Quotes

His chest, heaving harder this time. His words, almost gasping this time. “You destroy me.” I am falling to pieces in his arms. My fists are full of unlucky pennies and my heart is a jukebox demanding a few nickels and my head is flipping quarters heads or tails heads or tails heads or tails heads or tails “Juliette,” he says, and he mouths the name, barely speaking at all, and he’s pouring molten lava into my limbs and I never even knew I could melt straight to death. “I want you,” he says. He says “I want all of you. I want you inside and out and catching your breath and aching for me like I ache for you.” He says it like it’s a lit cigarette lodged in his throat, like he wants to dip me in warm honey and he says “It’s never been a secret. I’ve never tried to hide that from you. I’ve never pretended I wanted anything less.

When you jump off a cliff, is it better to land on jagged rocks or burning lava? I know this one. The answer is obvious: It doesn't matter where you land. You just jumped off a cliff.

You destroy me." "Juliette," he says and he mouths the name, barely speaking at all, and he's pouring molten lava into my limbs and I never even knew I could melt straight to death. "I want you," he says. He says "I want all of you. I want you inside and out and catching your breath and aching for me like I ache for you." He says it like it's a lit cigarette lodged in his throat, like he wants to dip me in warm honey and he says "It's never been a secret. I've never tried to hide that from you. I've never pretended I wanted anything less." "You-you said you wanted f-friendship-" "Yes," he says, he swallows, "I did. I do. I do want to be your friend. He nods and I register the slight movement in the air between us. "I want to be the friend you fall hopelessly in love with. The one you take into your arms and into your bed and into the private world you keep trapped in your head. I want to be that kind of friend," he says. "The one who will memorize the things you say as well as the shape of your lips when you say them. I want to know every curve, every freckle, every shiver of your body, Juliette-" "No," I gasp. "Don't-don't s-say that-" "I want to know where to touch you," he says. "I want to know how to touch you. I want to know how to convince you to design a smile just for me." I feel his chest rising, falling, up and down and up and down and "Yes," he says. "I do want to be your friend." He says "I want to be your best friend in the entire world." "I want so many things," he whispers. "I want your mind. Your strength. I want to be worth your time." His fingers graze the hem of my top and he says "I want this up." He tugs on the waist of my pants and says "I want these down." He touches the tips of his fingers to the sides of my body and says, "I want to feel your skin on fire. I want to feel your heart racing next to mine and I want to know it's racing because of me, because you want me. Because you never," he says, he breathes, "never want me to stop. I want every second. Every inch of you. I want all of it." And I drop dead, all over the floor. "Juliette." I can't understand why I can still hear him speaking because I'm dead, I'm already dead, I've died over and over and over again. He swallows, hard, his chest heaving, his words a breathless, shaky whisper when he says "I'm so-I'm so desperately in love with you-

There’s a word Trevor once told me about, one he learned from Buford, who served in the navy in Hawaii during the Korean War: kipuka. The piece of land that’s spared after a lava flow runs down the slope of a hill—an island formed from what survives the smallest apocalypse. Before the lava descended, scorching the moss along the hill, that piece of land was insignificant, just another scrap in an endless mass of green. Only by enduring does it earn its name. Lying on the mat with you, I cannot help but want us to be our own kipuka, our own aftermath, visible. But I know better.

Battlewinner spat out a shard of ice that sizzled into steam when it hit the lava. “You never wanted to be queen,” she rasped. “You’re a pathetic heir.” “I know I am,” Greatness said. “Being queen is awful.

This is why I’m not married,” Ranger said. “Women ask questions.” “Unh!” I said, smacking my forehead with the heel of my hand. “That’s not why you’re not married. You’re not married because you’re … impossible.” He dragged me to him and kissed me, and I felt the kiss travel like lava to my doo-dah. “I have some issues to resolve,” he said. No kidding. He gave my ponytail a playful tug and left.

As the floods of God Wash away sin city They say it was written In the page of the Lord But I was looking For that great jazz note That destroyed The walls of Jericho The winds of fear Whip away the sickness The messages on the tablet Was valium As the planets form That golden cross Lord I'll see you on The holy cross roads After all this time To believe in Jesus After all those drugs I thought I was Him After all my lying And a-crying And my suffering I ain't good enough I ain't clean enough To be Him The tribal wars Burning up the homeland The fuel of evil Is raining from the sky The sea of lava Flowing down the mountain The time will sleep Us sinners by Holy rollers roll Give generously now Pass the hubcap please Thank you Lord

"Whoaaaaa–AARRRGGGGGGGHHHH...shove two fingers down my throat and pull out my heart...to prove that you love meeee...!" Clutching her iPod, Nellie emerged from the hatch ad lurched towards them, like creature put together from spare parts–a motion that Dan and Amy recognized as dancing. Pulling out her earbuds, she raised her face to the sky and let the rain pelt her for a few seconds. "Whoo-hoo, that is better than a facial!" she cried, running to join Dan and Amy under the overhang. "Stick around," Dan said, "for a lava treatment.

Reader, do you remember that ridiculous movie Volcano, the one with Tommy Lee Jones? Do you remember how they stopped eruption in the middle of downtown Los Angeles? They diverted it with cement roadblocks and pointed fire hoses at it, and rerouted the lava to the ocean, and everything was fine? Sweet reader, that is not how lava works. Anyone can tell you that. Here is the truth: I keep waiting for my anger to go dormant, but it won’t. I keep waiting for someone to reroute my anger into the ocean, but no one can. My heart is closer to Dante’s Peak of Dante’s Peak. My anger dissolves grandmas in acid lakes and razes quaint Pacific Northwest towns with ash and asphyxiates jet engines with its grit. Lava keeps leaking down my slopes. You should have listened to the scientist. You should have evacuated earlier.

we met one strange summer in a regular tangle of sticky webs you had the air of angels sweet but I-- drowned with the damned spirits in lava oceans fearing your-- foreign static frequency and grey-green eyes (I swear they are even if you-- think otherwise): storms calm ones, calmer than my-- raging coals, empty and dead you speak of souls like you believe always an optimist in pessimistic skin of ivory and titanium mesh...

I think Skyblock at its core is the ultimate challenge in resource management. You spawn on a tiny island in an empty universe. All you have is a tree, some supplies and some dirt to stand on. You have to treasure EVERY dirt block, because if one falls into the void, there's no way to replace it and as you carefully navigate your absurd circumstance, you gain a new appreciation for the few things you have as you meticulously use them to their fullest effect. With nothing but some ice, lava and saplings you slowly transform this empty expanse into a world of your very own. Skyblock teaches us that no matter how ridiculous the odds may seem, within us resides the power to overcome these challenges and achieve something beautiful. That one day, we'll look back at where we started and be amazed by how far we've come.

When you talked to Bors for very long, you realized that he was slow, and if I had meant stupid I would have said that instead. Bors had a mind like a lava flow. It took a long time to get where it was going, but there was no stopping it. I quite liked him.

I'll save the sacking for later," he continues. "We can mimic the plays of our conjugal union in the privacy of my backyard. We can roll around on the lawn like animals and invent our own naughty games-Naked Leap Frog-Marshal May I-Hide the Peak-Red Light, Green Light District-Obstacle Intercourse-Hot Lava-Capture the Sector-Skyla Says-the possibilities are endless. Our throbbing loins will rep the victory. The entire scenario is, as you would say-made of win."~ Marshall

Take the pain and grow beauty...You know I've always loved volcanoes. I love how they spew searing, deadly lava that goes on to nurture the most beautiful landscapes on earth. It's from searing pain that the deepest beauty can sprout

You erased my famine, unpicked my anger Your energy charges my voice, it radiates my heart; Now I am alive with the ore of words pouring From my lips like molten lava glittering with joy.

You've been seduced with poetry? Wow. I'm envious. No guy's ever tried anything as classy as that on me." "If only you could visit the eighteenth century, Highvalley. You would learn what it is to be courted properly.

Greta is great, but he's a little...extremely...moody. Take my birthday last year. At the stroke of midnight, he appeared at my door. "I wrote this poem for you," he said, shoving a piece of crumpled paper into my hands. 'The world must burn. Lava exploding into faces. Their skeletons are screaming now. No survivors. - From Greta' "Oh...uh...wow..." I began. "Don't bother thanking me," he said. "I just wanted to comfort you for being one year closer to the grave. Of course, I failed miserably, because comfort doesn't exist in this universe.

One second he was kissing me as if I was as essential to him as oxygen, and the next it was over. He stepped away, looking haunted. "Did I do something wrong?" I touched my mouth, missing the heat of him. "No." He shook his head and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. I didn't want his hands in his pockets. I wanted them on me. "Why did you--?" "Not because I wanted to stop kissing you." He looked at my lips. My pulse sped up, but my blood felt like lava moving through my veins. "Timing. My timing sucks." Circumstances. Not because of me. I couldn't keep myself from grinning. "Why would you like to try this again then, another time?" "I'd very much like to try this again, another time." He grinned, but it carried a touch of sadness. "I'll give you a second to...fix your hair." "My hair?" "I'll give you a second to fix my hair. I mean, I'll give you a second while I go fix my hair." He let out a sigh. "I mean, I'll see you downstairs." He turned to walk out of the room, but unfortunately, he forgot to open the door first. I managed to hold in my laughter until he got it right.

She folded her arms and said, "No. We're done with the truth game. Ask me what you want to ask me, and I'll answer or not if I like. I'll ask you anything I want, and you'll answer or not if you like. No forfeit, no control, no balance. No more favors or deals or measuring shit. We'll either have a real, messy conversation, or you can get the hell out." He grew angry. She could feel it shifting through his energy, slow and sulfurous like slow-moving lava. She liked it. His anger felt satisfying. It meant he wasn't indifferent to her. So she pushed him harder. "Go on, go.

Stay sharp,” Carter told him, and with Bast and Khufu, we walked down the gangplank. Instead of pulling away, the ship simply sank into the boiling lava and disappeared. I scowled at Carter. “‘Stay sharp?’” “I thought it was funny.” “You’re hopeless.

The craft passed directly below Scathach and she released her grip and dropped onto the top of the vimana alongside Joan with enough force to send the larger craft plunging down. The French immortal laughed. "So nice of you-" "Don't you dare crack any dropping-in jokes," Scathach warned before her friend could finish. The vimana dipped and spun, but the two women had firm grips on the transparent dome and held on while the pilot tilted the craft,attempting to shake them off. "So long as he doesn't get too close to the lava," Scatty said, "we should be okay." At that moment the vimana dropped straight down, zooming dangerously close to the lava's sluggish bubbling surface. "I think he heard you," Joan said, coughing as the air became almost unbreathable.

I promise you that I want to do this more than anything else in the world," he said, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth." I have wanted to since you first returned, but I thought giving you time would be prudent." "And here I was, thinking you would have rather slept in a pool of lava than with me," I joked, but it wasn't enti false. I gave him a quick kiss in return. "We need to work on this whole talking to each other thing. We'd get a lot more done if we did." "Yes, we would" he said before capturing my lips once more.

Fireworks exploded to life overhead: Hercules killing the Nemean lion, Artemis chasing the boar, George Washington (who, by the way, was a son of Athena) crossing the Delaware. ‘Hey, Grover,’ I called. He turned at the edge of the woods. ‘Wherever you’re going – I hope they make good enchiladas.’ Grover grinned, and then he was gone, the trees closing around him. ‘We’ll see him again,’ Annabeth said. I tried to believe it. The fact that no searcher had ever come back in two thousand years… well, I decided not to think about that. Grover would be the first. He had to be. July passed. I spent my days devising new strategies for capture-the-flag and making alliances with the other cabins to keep the banner out of Ares’s hands. I got to the top of the climbing wall for the first time without getting scorched by lava. From time to time, I’d walk past the Big House, glance up at the attic windows and think about the Oracle. I tried to convince myself that its prophecy had come to completion. You shall go west, and face the god who has turned. Been there, done that – even though the traitor god had turned out to be Ares rather than Hades.

Rude is declaring the dating pool of New York City tainted just because you managed to pick four assholes in a row." My throat warms, a lump of lava sliding down it. "Don't tell me I hurt your feelings," I murmur. "You of all people should know," he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth, "we 'surly, monochromatic literary types' don't have those.

Okay, okay!” she said. “I get it, you love lava. Maybe we should call you Lavaboy.”  “Only if I get to call you Sharkgirl,” Jack stuck out his tongue.

I'm as quiet as a taut bow, and all for the sake of ignoring you, oh night of cardinal spaces, of torrential silence and lava.

Ninja beats pirate. Pirate beats ghost. Ghost beats zombie. Zombie beats most. Werewolf beats vampire. Vamp beats Imp. Imp beats fiend. Fiend beats wimp. Wizard beats cyrborg. Cyborg surely beats troll. Troll beats goblin. Goblin eats a hermit’s soul. Hermit beats child. Child beats wagon. Wagon beats moon snake. Moon snake beats dragon. Dragon beats hydra. Hydra beats sailor. Sailor beats teacher. Teacher beats tailor. Tailor beats sun worm. Sun worm beats clown. Clown beats robo-squid. Robo-squid beats town. Town fights jackals. Town will win. Town fights mummies. Town won’t fight again. Zookeeper beats hell hound. Hell hound beats giant. Giant beats accountant. Accountant beats client. Client beats frog. Frog beats himself. Knight beats Big Foot. Big Foot beats elf. Elf beats pixie. Pixie beats specter. Specter beats sea hag. Sea hag beats Hector. Hector beats serpent. Serpent beats rat. Rat beats Grandma. Grandma beats cat. Lava beats demon. Demon beats warlock. Warlock beats dinosaur. Dino beats Spock. Spock beats Lando. Lando beats Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon beats Jar-Jar. Jar-Jar beats none. Rock beats scissors. Scissors beat paper. Paper beats insect. Insect beats vapor. Wood Woman beats Tree Man. Tree Man beats the dark. The dark kills spider-fish. Spider-fish beats shark. You beat me. I beat a dentist. The dentist beats the barber. The barber is menaced. These are the rules, and never forget. Now hand over your money and place your bet.

Thank you, Obvious Warning Labels. Without you I might have stuck my kid in a washing machine, lit a match near an open gas line, used my hair dryer while sleeping, or, God forbid, not realized eggs may contain—wait for it—eggs. I have no idea how I ever function without you. (I almost ingested the contents of a lava lamp just yesterday, but your label made another quick save. God bless.)

You’re not ready to tell Poppy you love her, and that’s fine,” he calls after me. “You’re not ready to tell me either, and that’s also fine. God knows you’re not ready for a big happily ever after with commitment, and babies, and that chocolate lava cake in Aruba! But I’m gonna get you ready because I’m an insufferable fucking asshole who’s too Leo to function, and I love you, Lukas Novikov!

Is now a good time to tell you my dad’s fluent in four languages?” I went perfectly still, my hand tight around the oral wand and my face so hot I thought my head would split and spill lava. “Is…ah, Spanish…one of them?” I croaked. “Sí,” Mr. Moore answered. Once more the vent alarms blared in nuclear-meltdown mode. It took all I had not to kick Brody in the ribs when he fell to the floor in hysterics.

Niccolo Machiavelli folded his arms across his chest and looked at the alchemyst. “I always knew we would meet again,” he said in French. “Though I never imagined it would be in these circumstances,” he added with a smile. “I was certain I’d get you in Paris last Saturday.” He bowed, an old-fashioned courtly gesture as Perenelle joined her husband. “Mistress Perenelle, it seems we are forever destined to meet on islands.” “The last time we met you had poisoned my husband and attempted to kill me,” Perenelle reminded him, speaking in Italian. Over three thousand years previously, the Sorceress and the Italian had fought at the foot of Mount Etna in Sicily. Although Perenelle had defeated Machiavelli, the energies they unleashed caused the ancient volcano to erupt. Lava flowed for five weeks after the battle and destroyed ten villages. “Forgive me. I was younger then, and foolish. And you emerged the victor of the encounter. I carry the scars to this day.” “Let us try and not blow up this island,” she said with a smile. Then she stretched out her hand. “I saw you try to save me earlier. There is no longer any enmity between us.” Machiavelli took her fingers in his and bent over them. “Thank you. That pleases me.

Attention, God the Judge, God the Father, who Art in Heaven, give me one miracle, please. If You exist as I know You do, even if no one else in the world believes in You, please give me a brain tumor. Please tear my limbs from their sockets and let the backseat and my older sister be totally covered with blood. Please make me dumb and blind and deaf, please make me a martyr, please, dear heavenly Father. Tear my heart right from my chest. Drive spikes into my eyes and let hot lava shoot out of my mouth. Make me silent and thoroughly dead, but please hurry. Before we get home, before we reach the next stoplight, let the only sound be no sound, the silence of my death burning in the empty sky. If You are a mighty and true God, if You are not just a dream I have made up, please, before another hour, another minute passes, let the wire in my bra poke through my heart. Dear Lord, please, please, give me this one miracle. I have begged You every day, every evening, so please, let Your will be done, let Your will be done. Give me a gruesome death as fast as You possibly can. Thank you, God. Amen.

I failed you, Master,” said Wex, crouching down on one knee in front of the throne. “But I will make it up to you, I promise.” “Nah, she’ll probably just fail you again, I reckon,” said Carl. “Just throw her into the lava pit.

Kaderin hesitated, then told Emma, “He could possibly still be trapped behind a pit of boiling lava, guarded by a fire serpent.” Emma cried, “For two weeks? Can you please go get him? He’s my husband’s cousin and best friend!” “Are we using your tranq gun or ours?” Kaderin asked. “Emma, he’ll be in a killing rage after losing his mate—again.” “I know, but I’m just worried he might . . . he might take the opportunity to . . . you know.” “Okay, okay,” Kaderin said, then turned to Sebastian. “Can we go get Bowen sometime tonight? She’s worried he’ll dive in after the loss.” “Which would be tragic.” When Emma heard him and screeched, he grudgingly said, “No, he won’t do that. He’ll need to kill me first. Trust me, I know this.

Well, I like you. And I like your room." Logan wound his arms around me from behind, pulling my back against his chest. "Very much, on both accounts." "As much as I'd like to stay like this, my dad's going to come in here in about three seconds and ask us if we want soda or snacks," I groaned, "and if he sees us like this he's going to add castration to the menu." Logan dropped me from his hold as if I were made of lava—a bold statement considering he wielded fire demon power. He bolted to the opposite side of the room, settling in my pink beanbag chair with a textbook protectively over his crotch. He glanced warily at the door, his face pale. Sure enough, a minute later my dad poked his head in just to check and see if we needed anything. Then he made sure the door was as wide open as possible. And tested the lock. And studied the hinges, possibly contemplating removing the door from the frame. And then he left. Probably to go collect his award for Most Embarrassing Dad of All Time That Ever Existed in the History of Everything.

Wait,” Deathbringer said. “Just — remember that you’re your own dragon. You don’t have to do what you’re told. You can at least ask questions.” “So I can end up like you?” Flame snapped. “Behind bars, soon to be dumped into a pit of lava? That does sound like great advice.

Last Night’s Moon," “When will we next walk together under last night’s moon?” - Tu Fu March aspens, mist forest. Green rain pins down the sea, early evening cyanotype. Silver saltlines, weedy toques of low tide, pillow lava’s black spill indelible in the sand. Unbroken broken sea. — Rain sharpens marsh-hair birth-green of the spring firs. In the bog where the dead never disappear, where river birch drown, the surface strewn with reflection. This is the acid-soaked moss that eats bones, keeps flesh; the fermented ground where time stops and doesn’t; dissolves the skull, preserves the brain, wrinkled pearl in black mud. — In the autumn that made love necessary, we stood in rubber boots on the sphagnum raft and learned love is soil–stronger than peat or sea– melting what it holds. The past is not our own. Mole’s ribbon of earth, termite house, soaked sponge. It rises, keloids of rain on wood; spreads, milkweed galaxy, broken pod scattering the debris of attention. Where you are while your body is here, remembering in the cold spring afternoon. The past is a long bone. — Time is like the painter’s lie, no line around apple or along thigh, though the apple aches to its sweet edge, strains to its skin, the seam of density. Invisible line closest to touch. Lines of wet grass on my arm, your tongue’s wet line across my back. All the history in the bone-embedded hills of your body. Everything your mouth remembers. Your hands manipullate in the darkness, silver bromide of desire darkening skin with light. — Disoriented at great depths, confused by the noise of shipping routes, whales hover, small eyes squinting as they consult the magnetic map of the ocean floor. They strain, a thousand miles through cold channels; clicking thrums of distant loneliness bounce off seamounts and abyssal plains. They look up from perpetual dusk to rods of sunlight, a solar forest at the surface. Transfixed in the dark summer kitchen: feet bare on humid linoleum, cilia listening. Feral as the infrared aura of the snake’s prey, the bees’ pointillism, the infrasonic hum of the desert heard by the birds. The nighthawk spans the ceiling; swoops. Hot kitchen air vibrates. I look up to the pattern of stars under its wings.

Of course he enticed them!” “Well now,” said the sergeant, propping his bicycle carefully against one of our pumps. “This is a very hinterestin’ haccusation, very hinterestin’ indeed, because I hain’t never ’eard of nobody hen-ticin’ a pheasant across six miles of fields and open countryside. ’Ow do you think this hen-ticin’ was performed, Mr. ’Azell, if I may hask?” “Don’t ask me how he did it because I don’t know!” shouted Mr. Hazell. “But he’s done it all right! The proof is all around you! All my finest birds are sitting here in this dirty little filling station when they ought to be up in my own wood getting ready for the shoot!” The words poured out of Mr. Hazell’s mouth like hot lava from an erupting volcano. “Am I correct,” said Sergeant Samways, “am I habsolutely haccurate in thinkin’ that today is the day of your great shootin’ party, Mr. ’Azell?

Before the lava descended, scorching the moss along the hill, that piece of land was insignificant, just another scrap in an endless mass of green. Only by enduring does it earn its name. Lying on the mat with you, I cannot help but want us to be our own kipuka, our own aftermath, visible.

She wiggled beneath Sam but his hard, heavy body was impossible to move, and the more she squirmed, the harder a certain part of it seemed to get. "I thought you said no missionary," he whispered. "Oh my God," she raged, keeping her voice low. "Are you getting off on this?" "I'm a man. You're rubbing yourself all over me. What did you think was going to happen?" "I thought you were all about self-control." Something she seemed to be lacking at the moment. Fire licked between her thighs. And the heat... She felt like molten lava was running through her veins. "Not around you.

Azami shuddered, her lips trembling, and then she consumed him as aggressively and as honestly as he did her. He felt her inside of his mind, running like lava through his veins, wrapping around his heart and filling his very bones with her. “This is madness,” she whispered against his mouth when they both came up for air. Her dark eyes searched his face. Sam didn’t have any answers. He knew she was right. They might be on opposite sides in a deadly war, yet he couldn’t let her go. She fit with him. The world around them was out of sync, not the two of them. “I know,” he admitted as he rested his forehead against hers, looking into her eyes. “What are we going to do now?” A slow smile curved his mouth. “I really expected you to kill me so I wouldn’t have to figure that part out.” She blinked, her black fan of thick silky lashes fluttering as wildly as her heart. She moistened her lips. “You’re not getting off that easily.” Sam watched the dawning smile, the way her soft mouth curved and the warmth spread to her dark eyes with absolute fascination. “Well. Damn.

We went about our usual routines – combat practice, volleyball practice, archery practice, strawberry-picking practice (don’t ask), lava-wall-climbing practice … You’ll find we practise a lot here. We would have spent the evening in the usual way, too, with a campfire sing-along, if not for an offhand comment Nico di Angelo dropped at dinner. We were talking about what changes each of us would make if we ran the camp, and Nico said: ‘First thing I’d do is make sure the poor newbie demigods don’t have to suffer through the orientation film.’ All conversation stopped. ‘What orientation film?’ Will Solace asked. Nico looked puzzled. ‘You know …’ He glanced side to side, clearly uncomfortable with everybody watching him. Finally he cleared his throat and sang in a warbly voice to the tune of ‘The Hokey Cokey’: ‘It lets the demigods in! It shuts the monsters out! It keeps the half-bloods safe, but turns mortals all about! It’s Misty, and it’s magic, and it makes me want to shout: the border is all about!’ He punctuated the last line of the song with some half-hearted claps. We stared at him in stunned silence. ‘Nico.’ Will patted his boyfriend’s arm. ‘You’re scaring the other campers.’ ‘More than usual,’ Julia Feingold muttered

And there’s no holding back that lava flow. Like Mount Vesuvius, I blow. All the tears I’ve never cried, all the grief I never expressed, all the fury and the sorrow come pouring out until I’m sobbing like a very small girl, wailing while their hands stroke me and pet my head, while arms hold me solid and voices whisper, “Go ahead and cry; we’ve got you.” I’ve been so lonely for such a very long time. We’ve got you.

When I was a kid, I used to have these panic attacks thinking about how I could never be anyone else. I couldn't be my mom or my dad, and for my whole life, I'd have to walk around inside a body that kept me from ever truly knowing anyone else. It made me feel lonely, desolate, almost hopeless. When I told my parents about this, I expected them to know the feeling I was talking about, but they didn't. "That doesn't mean there's anything wrong with feeling that way, though, sweetie!" Mom insisted. "Who else do you think about being?" my dad said with his particular blunt fascination. The fear lessened, but the feeling never went away. Every once in a while, I'd roll it back out, poke at it. Wonder how I could ever stop feeling lonely when no one could ever know me all the way. When I could never peer into someone else's brain and see it all. And now I'm crying because reading this story makes me feel for the first time that I'm not in body. Like there's some bubble that stretches around me and Alex and makes it so we're just two different colored globs in a lava lamp, mixing freely, dancing around each other, unhindered. I'm crying because I'm relieved. Because I will never again feel as alone as I did during those long nights as a kid. As long as I have him, I will never be alone again.

I heard a few men in a restaurant talking about a bayou legend," Savannah said suddenly.She leaned ont he side of the boat,presenting him with an intriguing view of her tight jeans. They clung lovingly to every curve. Gregori moved, a flowing of his body, gliding silently, and his large frame was blanketing Savannah's, blocking out the captain's enticing view.Gregori leaned into her,his arms coming down on either side of the railing to imprison her against him. You are doing it again. His words brushed softly in her mind even as his warm breath teased the tendrils of hair at her neck. Savannah leaned back into him, fitting her bottom into the cradle of his hips. She was happy, free of the oppressive weight of the hunt,of death and violence. THere were only the two of them. Three, he reminded her,his teeth scraping her sensitive pulse.He could feel the answering surge of her blood, the molten lava spreading in his. My mother thinks my father is a cave man.I'm beginning to think you could give him a run for his money. Disrespectful little thing. "Which legend?There are so many," Beau said. "About an old alligator that lies in wait to eat hunting dogs and little children," Savannah said. Gregori tugged at her long braid so that she tilted her head back.His mouth brushed the line of her throat. I could be a hungry alligator, he offered softly.

Passing him with frightening speed, I see him sailing downward with his open parachute. “It won’t open!” “Pull harder!” Looking down, I estimate that at this speed it will only be a matter of seconds before I collide with the black lava rocks below. They rigged it! is all I can think. President Volkov won. I lost. I failed Gemma. I failed Nicholas. I failed myself. All of a sudden, someone rams into me from behind and hooks his arms and legs around my body. I look back and see Cory. “You’re crazy!” I scream as we spin out of control. “I know!” He smiles like he really is, but he feeds off of this kind of insanity. “Hold on!” The ground is so close and I can see the green grass and smell the scent of it mixed with the sulfur. He helps me turn around and I lock my arms around his thick shoulders, my legs around his firm hips. We’ll die together, and he doesn’t seem to care one bit. He really is insane!

Just the basalt surface, plenty of cold, hard lava. And cold air, well below the line,’ Ash informed them. ‘We’d need suits to handle the temperature even if the air were breathable. If there’s anything alive out there, it’s tough.’ Dallas looked resigned. ‘I suppose it was unreasonable to expect anything else. Hope springs eternal. There’s just enough of an atmosphere to make vision bad. I’d have preferred no air at all, but we didn’t design this rock.’ ‘You never know.’ Kane was being philosophical again. ‘Might be something else’s idea of paradise.

There’s a word Trevor once told me about, one he learned from Buford, who served in the navy in Hawaii during the Korean War: kipuka. The piece of land that’s spared after a lava flow runs down the slope of a hill—an island formed from what survives the smallest apocalypse. Before the lava descended, scorching the moss along the hill, that piece of land was insignificant, just another scrap in an endless mass of green. Only by enduring does it earn its name. Lying on the mat with you, I cannot help but want us to be our own kipuka, our own aftermath, visible.

Grover yelped. “Percy? Are you . . . um . . .” Crazy. Insane. Off my rocker. Probably. But I watched as Luke grasped the hilt. I stood before him—defenseless. He unlatched the side straps of his armor, exposing a small bit of his skin just under his left arm, a place that would be very hard to hit. With difficulty, he stabbed himself. It wasn’t a deep cut, but Luke howled. His eyes glowed like lava. The throne room shook, throwing me off my feet. An aura of energy surrounded Luke, growing brighter and brighter. I shut my eyes and felt a force like a nuclear explosion blister my skin and crack my lips.

How did he know my dad helped get me this job? Did someone in the office tell him? I mean, it’s not like I’m some spoiled, incompetent rich kid with zero work experience and mega connections. My dad’s just aCPA! But I’m not going to bother explaining that or anything else. Because right now, I’m halfway convinced a hole in my skull has blown right off and my brains are flowing out like molten lava. I think I might well and truly hate Porter Roth. “You know nothing about me or my family. And you’re a goddamn dickbag, you know that?” I say, so enraged that I don’t even care that a family of four is walking up to my window. I should have. And I should have noticed that I left the green switch turned on from the last pair of tickets I sold. But the family’s wide-eyed faces clue me in now. They’ve heard every nasty word. For one terrible moment, the booth spins around me. I apologize profusely, but the parents aren’t happy. At all. Why should they be? Oh God, is the wife wearing a crucifix pendant? What if these people are fundamentalists? Are these kids homeschooled? Did I just ruin them for life? Jesus fu—I mean, fiddlesticks. Are they going to ask to speak to Mr. Cavadini? Am I going to be fired? On my first day? What is my dad going to say?

Phoenix Blood There are only two things I am sure of in this world: the first is, one day, this life will come to its final destination in death The second: people will try to obliterate you, and believe me, even the ones that once promised you forever will betray you, it never fails to happen when love turns dark. Do yourself a favour when this happens; reclaim yourself from them. I know you have been taught to slice out your own heart, hand it over again and again to selfish hands, because it is all you have known since you were a child. You are an open wound looking for someone to cure you. And when they see that, they will scratch at it, steal your voice, thinking your magic will go with it, hoping your core swallows itself up. This is where you remember the lava of the volcano you come from, your ancestors were made from fire and it runs like hum that sings through your own vein-rivers of blood. You are not an open wound, they just want you to think you are. They have done this to every woman before you, yet women were made to endure; they become the earth, they adapt like water, they turn into diamonds to survive as who they are. This is how we become magic, we walk through fire and become more holy. They try to break us, we do not accept defeat. They try to devastate us, we still discover how to be happy. They banish us to the depths of hell, we just absorb and master the heat.

Funny thing about Gabby: you wouldn’t know it from looking at him, with his golden halo and platonic beauty, but the guy was something of a pack rat. He’d been collecting little odds and ends since at least the double-digit redshifts. The interior reality of Gabriel’s Magisterium burbled and shifted like convection currents in a star on the zaftig end of the main sequence. Because, I realized, that’s what they were. Dull dim light, from IR to X-ray, oozed past me like the wax in a million-mile lava lamp while carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen nuclei did little do-si-dos about my toes. Every bubble, every sizzle, every new nucleus, every photodissociation tagged something of interest to Gabriel. The heart of this star smelled of roses and musty libraries.

They are encumbered with secret pregnancies that never come to term. There are no terms, you don’t see. They drag their swollen brains about with them everywhere; hidden in pleats and drapes and cunning pouches; and the unbearable keep kicking, kicking under the dura mater. It is no bloody wonder they have headaches. Hold them to your ear, lumpy as they are, and pale; that roar you hear is the surge of the damned unspeakable being kept back. Stone will not dilate will not stretch will not tear— it shivers. Cleaves. Moves uneasily. At its core the burgundy lava simmers, making room. There are volcanoes at the bottom of the sea. Those pretty green things swaying are their false hair. Deliver us? Ram inward the forceps of the patriarchal paradigm and your infernal medicine and bring forth the ancient offspring with their missing mouths? I think not. Not bloody likely. (20th

Moira was out there somewhere. She was at large, or dead. What would she do? The thought of what she would do expanded till it filled the room. At any moment there might be a shattering explosion, the glass of the windows would fall inward, the doors would swing open. . . . Moira had power now, she’d been set loose, she’d set herself loose. She was now a loose woman. I think we found this frightening. Moira was like an elevator with open sides. She made us dizzy. Already we were losing the taste for freedom, already we were finding these walls secure. In the upper reaches of the atmosphere you’d come apart, you’d vaporize, there would be no pressure holding you together. Nevertheless Moira was our fantasy. We hugged her to us, she was with us in secret, a giggle; she was lava beneath the crust of daily life. In the light of Moira, the Aunts were less fearsome and more absurd. Their power had a flaw to it. They could be shanghaied in toilets. The audacity was what we liked.

hoped that would be the last time they would see that one. He blew out a breath. “I think I know why those goats ran right off the cliff into the lava.”  “Oh? Why?” Mom asked.  “Because they didn’t see the ewe-turn sign.” He wiggled his eyebrows.  “OH NO!” Kate groaned. “Not again!”  “Don’t mind me, I’m only kid-ding,” Dad said, wiggling his eyebrows even harder.  “Oh maaaaan,” Jack said. “Honey,” Mom said, “I don’t think the kids are interested in your jokes right now.”  “Okay, I’ll stop,” Dad said with a sigh. Mom patted him on the shoulder and Dad looked at her. “I would hate to butt heads with you over it.”  Jack and Kate both burst out laughing and Mom rolled her eyes. “Now kids, no butting in!” Dad said, pointing his finger at them. The kids laughed even harder and Mom chuckled too. Dad put his hands on his hips. “You have goat to be kidding me! I said NO butting in!”  The kids were laughing bigly now, and Mom had a big grin on her face. Their spirits had been lifted, even if only a little. Mom squeezed Dad’s hand. “I love you, honey.”  Dad squeezed hers back. “We already did the bee jokes, dear.” He winked.

DAYS ONE THROUGH SIX, ETC. You keep on asking me that – “Which day was the hardest?” Blockheads! They were all hard – And of course, since I’m omnipotent, they were all easy. It was Chaos, to begin with. Can you imagine Primeval Chaos? Of course you can’t. How long had it been swirling around out there? Forever. How long had I been there? Longer than that. It was a mess, that’s what it was. Chaos is Rocky. Fuzzy. Slippery. Prickly. As scraggly and obstreperous as the endless behind of an infinite jackass. Shove on it anywhere, it gives, then slips in behind you, like smog, like lava, like slag. I’m telling you, chaos is – chaotic. You see what I was up against. Who could make a world out of that muck? I could, that’s who – land from water, light from dark, and so on. It might seem like a piece of cake now that it’s done, but back then, without a blueprint, without a set of instructions, without a committee, could you have created a firmament? Of course there were bugs in the process, grit in the gears, blips, bloopers – bringing forth grass and trees on Day Three and not making sunlight until Day Four, that, I must say, wasn’t my best move. And making the animals and vegetables before there was any rain whatsoever – well, anyone can have a bad day. Even Adam, as it turned out, wasn’t such a great idea – those shifty eyes, the alibis, blaming things on his wife – I mean, it set a bad example. How could he expect that little toddler, Cain, to learn correct family values with a role model like him? And then there was the nasty squabble Over the beasts and birds. OK, I admit I told Adam to name them, but – Platypus? Aardvark? Hippopotamus? Let me make one thing perfectly clear – he didn’t get that gibberish from Me. No, I don’t need a planet to fall on Me, I know something about subtext. He did it to irritate Me, just plain spite – and did I need the aggravation? Well, as you know, things went from bad to worse, from begat to begat, father to son, the evil fruit of all that early bile. So next there was narcissism, then bigotry, then jealousy, rage, vengeance! And finally I realized, the spawn of Adam had become exactly like – Me. No Deity with any self-respect would tolerate that kind of competition, so what could I do? I killed them all, that’s what! Just as the Good Book says, I drowned man, woman, and child, like so many cats. Oh, I saved a few for restocking, Noah and his crew, the best of the lot, I thought. But now you’re back to your old tricks again, just about due for another good ducking, or maybe a giant barbecue. And I’m warning you, if I have to do it again, there won’t be any survivors, not even a cockroach! Then, for the first time since it was Primeval Chaos, the world will be perfect – nobody in it but Me.

Lava is best. It’d certainly help in this situation. WAIT, I HAVE SOME IN MY BACKPACK!” “NOOOO!” we all cried out. But of course, it was too late. The Head Admin emptied the bucket as we ran, and although it did a fantastic job in cooking the giant zombie, it also did a fantastic job in setting fire to the forest around us. “YOU DOLT!” I screamed, as we accelerated our speed, “DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU’VE DONE!?” “ALL HAIL THE LAVA GODS!” I’m starting to think he may have hit his head on the way down here. To prevent any further incidents, I grabbed a roll of duct tape and buried him in the stuff. “HAVE MERCY!” With the Head Admin unable to inflict any more trouble, I threw him over my shoulder and ran with the others to safety. And whilst I can’t say I enjoy fleeing for my life, being chased by boiling flames, I will say it did look quite pretty. Oh, and as a plus, it took out all the evil creatures following us. I guess that’s a bonus. “The lava gods are pleased,” the Head Admin grinned, before I stuck duct tape over his mouth as well. That would keep him quiet, I hoped to myself. “OVER THERE!” Dinnerbone shouted, pointing forward to what looked like a mountain. “IT’S A MOUNTAIN!” Charles cried. “A BEAUTIFUL MOUNTAIN!” Dr. Boom looked like he was going to cry out of happiness, “WE’RE SAVED!” “MMMMPHPHPHPHPH!” I could only assume the Head Admin was glad as well. I later found out he had a fear of mountains, and was begging to be left to the lava instead. Oh well.

Tub full, she stood back to regard the mound of ice. Already the heat of her home fought to melt it. A rap came again at the entrance, more like an impatient pounding, and she cursed. The clock showed her only a few minutes away from her torture. I need whoever it is to go away. She ran to the door and slid open the peek-a-boo slot. Familiar turquoise eyes peered back. “Little witch, little witch, let me come in,” he chanted in a gruff voice. A smile curled her lips. “Not by the wart on my chinny chin chin,” she replied. “And before you try huffing and puffing, Nefertiti herself spelled this door. So forget blowing it down.” “So open it then. I’ve got a lead I think on escapee number three.” A glance at the clock showed one minute left. “Um, I’m kind of in the middle of something. Can you come back in like half an hour?” “Why not just let me in and I’ll wait while you do your thing? I promise not to watch, unless you like an audience.” “I can’t. Please. Just go away. I promise I’ll let you in when you come back.” His eyes narrowed. “Open this door, Ysabel.” “No. Now go away. I’ll talk to you in half an hour.” She slammed the slot shut and only allowed herself a moment to lean against the door which shuddered as he hit it with a fist. She didn’t have time to deal with his frustration. The tickle in her toes started and she ran to the bathroom, dropping her robe as she moved. The fire erupted, and standing on the lava tile in her bathroom, she concentrated on breathing against the spiraling pain and flames. I mustn’t scream. Remy might still be there, listening. Why that mattered, she couldn’t have said, but it did help her focus for a short moment. But the punishment would not allow her respite. Flames licked up her frame, demolishing her thin underpants and she couldn’t help but scream as the agony tore through her body. Make it stop. Make it stop. Wishing, praying, pleading didn’t stop the torture. As the inferno consumed her, her ears roared with the snap of the fire and a glance in her mirror horrified her, for there she stood – a living pyre of fire. She closed her eyes against the brilliant heat, but that just seemed to amplify the pain. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall. Something clasped her and she moaned as she sensed more than saw Remy’s arms wrap around her waist. It had to be him. Who else was crazy enough to break down her door and interrupt? Forcing open her eyes, eyes that wanted to water but couldn’t as the heat dried up all moisture, she saw the flames, not picky about their choice her own nightmare, she knew enough to try and push him away with hands that glowed inferno bright. He wouldn’t budge, and he didn’t scream – just held her as the curse ran its course. Without being told, once the flames disappeared, he placed her in the ice bath, the shocking cold a welcome relief. Gasping from the pain, she couldn’t speak but remained aware of how he stroked her hair back from her face and how his arm rested around her shoulders, cradling her. “Oh, my poor little witch,” he murmured. “No wonder you’ve been hiding.” Teeth chattering as the cold penetrated her feverish limbs, she tried to reply. “Wh-what c-c-can I say? I’m h-h-hot.” -Remy & Ysabel

The story really is short. Nine pages, about a boy who was born with a pair of wings. All his life, people tell him that this means he should try to fly. He’s afraid to. When he finally does, jumps off a two-story roof, he falls. He breaks his legs and wings. He never gets them reset. As he recovers, the bone heals in its misshapen form. Finally, people stop telling him that he must’ve been born to fly. Finally, he’s happy. When Alex comes back out, I’m crying. He asks me what’s wrong. I say, “I don’t know. It just speaks to me.” He thinks I’m making a joke and chuckles along, but for once, I wasn’t referencing the gallery girl who tried to sell us a twenty-one-thousand-dollar bear sculpture. I was thinking about what Julian used to say about art. How it either makes you feel something or it doesn’t. When I read his story, I started crying for a reason I can’t totally explain, not even to Alex. When I was a kid, I used to have these panic attacks thinking about how I could never be anyone else. I couldn’t be my mom or my dad, and for my whole life, I’d have to walk around inside a body that kept me from ever truly knowing anyone else. It made me feel lonely, desolate, almost hopeless. When I told my parents about this, I expected them to know the feeling I was talking about, but they didn’t. “That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with feeling that way, though, sweetie!” Mom insisted. “Who else do you think about being?” my dad said with his particular blunt fascination. The fear lessened, but the feeling never went away. Every once in a while, I’d roll it back out, poke at it. Wonder how I could ever stop feeling lonely when no one could ever know me all the way. When I could never peer into someone else’s brain and see it all. And now I’m crying because reading this story makes me feel for the first time that I’m not in my body. Like there’s some bubble that stretches around me and Alex and makes it so we’re just two different colored globs in a lava lamp, mixing freely, dancing around each other, unhindered. I’m crying because I’m relieved. Because I will never again feel as alone as I did during those long nights as a kid. As long as I have him, I will never be alone again.

What a lovely day again; were it a new-made world, and made for a summer-house to the angels, and this morning the first of its throwing open to them, a fairer day could not dawn upon that world. Here's food for thought, had Ahab time to think; but Ahab never thinks; he only feels, feels, feels; that's tingling enough for mortal man! to think's audacity. God only has that right and privilege. Thinking is, or ought to be, a coolness and a calmness; and our poor hearts throb, and our poor brains beat too much for that. And yet, I've sometimes thought my brain was very calm—frozen calm, this old skull cracks so, like a glass in which the contents turned to ice, and shiver it. And still this hair is growing now; this moment growing, and heat must breed it; but no, it's like that sort of common grass that will grow anywhere, between the earthy clefts of Greenland ice or in Vesuvius lava. How the wild winds blow it; they whip it about me as the torn shreds of split sails lash the tossed ship they cling to. A vile wind that has no doubt blown ere this through prison corridors and cells, and wards of hospitals, and ventilated them, and now comes blowing hither as innocent as fleeces. Out upon it!—it's tainted. Were I the wind, I'd blow no more on such a wicked, miserable world. I'd crawl somewhere to a cave, and slink there. And yet, 'tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind! who ever conquered it? In every fight it has the last and bitterest blow. Run tilting at it, and you but run through it. Ha! a coward wind that strikes stark naked men, but will not stand to receive a single blow. Even Ahab is a braver thing—a nobler thing that that. Would now the wind but had a body; but all the things that most exasperate and outrage mortal man, all these things are bodiless, but only bodiless as objects, not as agents. There's a most special, a most cunning, oh, a most malicious difference! And yet, I say again, and swear it now, that there's something all glorious and gracious in the wind. These warm Trade Winds, at least, that in the clear heavens blow straight on, in strong and steadfast, vigorous mildness; and veer not from their mark, however the baser currents of the sea may turn and tack, and mightiest Mississippies of the land swift and swerve about, uncertain where to go at last. And by the eternal Poles! these same Trades that so directly blow my good ship on; these Trades, or something like them—something so unchangeable, and full as strong, blow my keeled soul along!

I head someone say once that passionate people live violent lives. At the time I didn't really get it but if what they meant was the way love waits in ambush traps your well trained sense of control and tortures you into a confession you'd just as soon not make I now understand.

That is righteous, blondie! Hey, we need to come up with superhero names. How about capes—and codpieces? Just think about the idea for now, chew it over for a bit, let me know,” he said. “Hey, do you guys ever hear . . . voices?” I groaned. “All the time. I thought I was going crazy.” “Duude,” he said in agreement. “And before the Flash, all kinds of freaky shit was happening to me. I started speaking this weird language. And stuff started transforming—but only in front of me. I saw my cat walking on the ceiling, saw lava coming out of a faucet. The worst? I was doing this girl, and suddenly she looked like my gym teacher!” He shuddered. And I’d thought I had it bad. Matthew and Finn had also suffered. “What’d your parents think?” I asked, wondering if Finn had gotten institutionalized too. “Dad couldn’t handle my ‘erratic behavior’ anymore, so he pawned me off on Mom. Same result. They were just about to break out the straitjacket—or, worse, military school—when she got the brilliant idea to ship me from Malibu to North Carolina to rough it with my redneck cousins.” So Matthew and I hadn’t been the only ones deemed “damaged” by our folks. It made sense, though. I wondered what Selena’s story was. “Yeah, Mom figured they’d toughen me up mentally,” Finn said. “I can’t even make this shit up. Mental health—through the chugging of Natty Light, the chasing of hot hick ass, and the killing of ducks and bucks.

I told her one of the few stories that she'd told me of myself as a child. We'd gone to a park by a lake. I was no older than two. Me, my father, and my mother. There was an enormous tree with branches so long and droopy that my father moved the picnic table from underneath it. He was always afraid of me getting crushed. My mother believed that kids had stronger bones than grownups. "There's more calcium in her forearm than in an entire dairy farm," she liked to say. That day, my mother had made roasted tomato and goat cheese sandwiches with salmon she'd smoked herself, and I ate, she said, double my weight of it. She was complimenting me when she said that. I always wondered if eating so much was my best way of complimenting her. The story went that all through lunch I kept pointing at a gaping hole in the tree, reaching for it, waving at it. My parents thought it was just that: a hole, one that had been filled with fall leaves, stiff and brown, by some kind of ferrety animal. But I wasn't satisfied with that explanation. I wouldn't give up. "What?" my father kept asking me. "What do you see?" I ate my sandwiches, drank my sparkling hibiscus drink, and refused to take my eyes off the hole. "It was as if you were flirting with it," my mother said, "the way you smiled and all." Finally, I squealed, "Butter fire!" Some honey upside-down cake went flying from my mouth. "Butter fire?" they asked me. "Butter fire?" "Butter fire!" I yelled, pointing, reaching, waving. They couldn't understand. There was nothing interesting about the leaves in the tree. They wondered if I'd seen a squirrel. "Chipmunk?" they asked. "Owl?" I shook my head fiercely. No. No. No. "Butter fire!" I screamed so loudly that I sent hundreds of the tightly packed monarchs that my parents had mistaken for leaves exploding in the air in an eruption of lava-colored flames. They went soaring wildly, first in a vibrating clump and then as tiny careening postage stamps, floating through the sky. They were proud of me that day, my parents. My father for my recognition of an animal so delicate and precious, and my mother because I'd used a food word, regardless of what I'd actually meant.

I have deepened, ingressed, interrupted my sunshine with my own subsistence-the laconic lava of cheer washed by a veneer of interesting gloom: not heavy, mind you, just a brushstroke, like a dab of nightsky at the rim of my day. The approach of evening when one must retreat and listen to all things happen.

I’d rather watch you do the backstroke in lava.

It wasn't that I was fat and retarded or crazy, angry, Jewish, or anything else. I just needed to get high. That's the secret no one tells you when you're a kid. That it feels fucking great. They tell you that you feel loopy and disoriented, but no one tells you that it crawls through your skin, filling in every place of deficit, every gaping crack where your humanity didn't fuse. The thick warm lava of euphoria fills in the crevices of your psyche, and you realize your soul was an electric blanket that hadn't been plugged in until just then. Parents and shrinks never tell you that you will forget all the reasons you had to hate yourself. They don't tell you that shit because then everybody will want to get high.

But what I will tell you is that some of the most extraordinary creations are born in terror. Wielded from molten black . . . if only the wielder is wise enough to see the lava for what it truly is.

The Spanish Spitfire. I hate that name. As though all latin women are nothing but a spark waiting to explode.” Lisette sympathized. “I know, but everything in Hollywood is labeled, manufactured, molded, sanitized, or fabricated for the public. Even Morty himself. Rue the day they completely forget about you. Why do you think I prefer to work behind the scenes?” “Yes, well, we all have secrets, don’t we? Even that little Marlo.” A devilish smile came to Catalina’s lips. “What do you mean?” Lisette asked, realizing there was a nugget of gold underneath Catalina’s lava—or perhaps just buried dynamite. It was her job to find out just how explosive information was before it went off.  “Nothing.” Her response was too nonchalant for Lisette’s comfort.  “What do you know, Catalina?

You’re coming home with me. We’re going to fight about whatever you want to fight about today, and then I’m going to fuck you and fill you with my come until you forget why you’re mad at me.” He practically growls the words right in front of everyone. What’s even more fucked up, is that his tone turns my insides to molten lava.

In Iceland—where roads will soon close after the first snowfalls, and life has to cling tenaciously to the windswept lava—I have learned something about keeping warm. Here on the deck of the Andrea in the outer reaches of the Atlantic, approaching a personal winter, I’m certain that the cold has healing powers that I don’t yet come close to understanding. After all, you apply ice to a joint after an awkward fall. Why not do the same to a life?

Is it . . . hard, being a goddess?” “It has its good days,” said Anoia. She stood with her cigarette arm cupped at the elbow by her other hand, holding the flaming, sparking thing close to her face. Now she took a sharp pull, raised her head, and blew a cloud of smoke out to join the smog on the ceiling. Sparks fell out of it like rain. “I haven’t been doing drawers long. I used to be a volcano goddess.” “Really?” said Tiffany. “I’d never have guessed.” “Oh, yes. It was good work, apart from the screaming,” said Anoia, and then added in a bitter tone of voice: “Ha! And the god of storms was always raining on my lava. That’s men for you, dear. They rain on your lava.

Lava crust," he said, voice hushed in wonder. "It's lava crust. The fire is burning within the creature's skin." "No wonder it's in pain," Machiavelli muttered. "You sound almost sorry for it," Dee snapped. "I never traded my humanity for my long life, Doctor. I've always remembered my roots." His voice hardened, turning contemptous. "You worked so hard to be like your Elder master that you've forgotten what it is like to feel human—to be human. And we humans"—he stressed the last word—"have the capacity to feel another creature's pain. It is what lifted the humani above the Elders, it is what made them great.

O pious of the heart, I am lost in a love, so great O pain the hidden secrets will become open debate. Shipwrecked we just float, O favorable wind arise, May we one more time gaze upon that familiar trait. Passage of time and the stars, are but what we fantasize For compassion and kindness, it is never too late. In the circle of wine and roses, nightingale’s song is prize With the aroma and the wine your senses satiate. O Thou compassionate one, life giver and the wise One day bestow thy grace upon this mendicant’s state. For peace of this world and the next, understand what I advise Magnanimity the lot of friends, and with foes try to relate. In the land of repute, our passage they will dispute If this will not suit, don’t stay mute, and transmute dictates of fate. When destitute and in need, let your love and passion breed Life’s alchemy, essence and seed, unimagined wealth shall create. If unruly with pride, with a candle’s zeal your flame will rise Beloved turns stone to lava, and molten wax manipulate. The Grail contains but wine, if only you realize Then the Kingdom of the world, at your feet prostrate. The good and wise Magi, forgivers of lives and lies Bearer bring good news, drunkards’ wine consecrate. With this wine stained robe, Hafiz would never disguise O untainted pure Master, exempt us from this fate

CONTIMENT’S END At the equinox when the earth was veiled in a late rain, wreathed with wet poppies, waiting spring, The ocean swelled for a far storm and beat its boundary, the ground-swell shook the beds of granite. I gazing at the boundaries of granite and spray, the established sea-marks, felt behind me Mountain and plain, the immense breadth of the continent, before me the mass and doubled stretch of water. I said: You yoke the Aleutian seal-rocks with the lava and coral sowings that flower the south, Over your flood the life that sought the sunrise faces ours that has followed the evening star. The long migrations meet across you and it is nothing to you, you have forgotten us, mother. You were much younger when we crawled out of the womb and lay in the sun’s eye on the tideline. It was long and long ago; we have grown proud since then and you have grown bitter; life retains Your mobile soft unquiet strength; and envies hardness, the insolent quietness of stone. The tides are in our veins, we still mirror the stars, life is your child, but there is in me Older and harder than life and more impartial, the eye that watched before there was an ocean. That watched you fill your beds out of the condensation of thin vapor and watched you change them, That saw you soft and violent wear your boundaries down, eat rock, shift places with the continents. Mother, though my song’s measure is like your surf-beat’s ancient rhythm I never learned it of you. Before there was any water there were tides of fire, both our tones flow from the older fountain.

No. And before you start all your matchmaking crap, we’re taking things slow. Like lava slow. There’s some things that need to be worked out—family stuff.” She rolled her eyes. “Where does hottie work?” I sighed, knowing what was coming. “He’s…a fireman.” Her mouth opened a full fifteen seconds before words escaped. “You’re killing me, Smalls!”  

Anjelica put her hand on her back. «Forged by the lava of your Kingdom, for you, your Majesty. Your swords.» «I don't want them.» Anjelica put a hand on the box. «Noboer,» uttered, and the box vanished. «Anyway, you can't hold them, your Majesty, since you are not Goddess yet. Only the Queen of the Underworld can touch these swords without being crushed by the weight of the Kingdom. You will have them when you will decide, your Majesty.»

Secret Minecraft Tricks 41-48 Who Turned Out The Lights -If you're in a room lit up only by lava, it's a good idea to place a few torches around before you extinguish it. The View Up Here Is Great -Tree houses are fun to build, but sometimes hard to find, be sure to remember their location. I Love Fishing -Since fish are unlimited in quantity, it's always a good time to go fishing. Just Like My Neighborhood -Watch out when you're killing zombie pigmen, whenever you attack one, you will find others will quickly close in, and gang up against you. Ouch, Ouch, Ouch! Hot Foot -When

The man’s arm finally snapped at the elbow and the dagger dropped, and now Solomon Saunders held the dagger, and it was the worst way in the world to kill or be killed, and he felt his stomach erupting and scalding lava spilling over and eating up his insides as he raised his arm and hesitated, and the other soldier grabbed at him, and then Solly came down with a vengeance, and he felt the steel tear ruthlessly into human flesh like it was a chicken, and back and down, and he didn’t hate this man beneath him. “I don’t hate you, goddamn your hari-kari soul!” And down and back, down and back, and hot tears flooding Solly’s cheeks and nausea in his nasty throat and down and back, the man’s chest was a dark bloody geyser gushing blood, his pleading eyes his desperate eyes. “I don’t hate you, Tojo, damn you. I don’t hate you! I don’t even know you—damn you!” The boyish soldier gave up the ghost just as Solly’s steam gave out and he fell forward on top of this very very dead young stranger from the islands of Japan, and all was peace and all was quiet, and brotherhood and all that crap, even as the battle raged around the lucky living bastards who were dying on the strip for freedom.

She yanked open the door, and her smile faded. The same Indian who had wanted to trade two horses for her was standing on the apple crate that served as a front step, his black hair dripping with water, his calico shirt so wet that his copper skin showed through in places. “No house!” he said. Lily was paralyzed for a moment. Here it was, she thought, the moment she’d been warned about. She was going to be scalped, or ravaged, or carried off to an Indian village. Maybe all three. She cast a desperate glance toward the shutgun, at the same time smiling broadly at the Indian. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but of course you can see that there is a house.” “Woman go away!” the Indian insisted. Lily’s heart was flailing in her throat like a bird trapped in a chimney, but she squared her shoulders and put out her chin. “I’m not going anywhere, you rude man,” she replied. “This is my land, and I have the papers to prove it!” The Indian spouted a flock of curses; Lily knew the words for what they were only because of their tone. She started to close the door. “If you’re going to be nasty,” she said, “you’ll just have to leave.” Undaunted, the red man pushed past Lily and strode right over to the stove. He got a cup from the shelf, filled it with coffee, and took a sip. He grimaced. “You got firewater?” he demanded. “Better with firewater.” Lily had never been so frightened or so angry in her life. With one hand to her bosom she edged toward the shotgun. “No firewater,” she said apologetically, “but there is a little sugar. There”—she pointed—“in the blue bowl.” When her unwanted guest turned around to look for the sugar, Lily lunged for the shotgun and cocked it. There was no shell in the chamber; she could only hope the Indian wouldn’t guess. “All right, you,” she said, narrowing her eyes and pointing the shotgun. “Get out of here right now. Just ride away and there won’t be any trouble.” The Indian stared at her for a moment, then had the audacity to burst out laughing. “The major’s right about you,” he said in perfectly clear English. “You are a hellcat.” Now it was Lily who stared, slowly lowering the shotgun. “So that’s why Caleb wasn’t alarmed that day when you and your friends rode up and made all that fuss about the land. He knows you.” “The name’s Charlie Fast Horse,” the man said, offering his hand. Lily’s blood was rushing to her head like lava flowing to the top of an erupting volcano. “Why, that polecat—that rounder—that son-of-a—” Charlie Fast Horse set his coffee aside and held out both hands in a plea for peace. “Calm down, now, Miss Lily,” he pleaded. “It was just a harmless little joke, after all.” “When I see that scoundrel again I’m going to peel off his hide!” Charlie was edging toward the door. “Lord knows I’d like to warm myself by your fire, Miss Lily, but I’ve got to be going. No, no—don’t plead with me to stay.” “Get out of here!” Lily screamed, and Charlie Fast Horse ran for his life. Obviously he didn’t know the shotgun wasn’t loaded. The

I don't care what you SAY you can do. I only care what you DO. You can't talk your way through Lava Falls.

mountain. “He’s toast!” said Zeus. “Typhon will never trouble us again!” But personally, I had my doubts. After what I’d just seen, I thought Typhon might find a way to escape. But to this day, he hasn’t. Nope, Typhon is still trapped under that mountain, raging and roaring. If you don’t believe me, go to Sicily yourself. Go to Mount Etna. You’ll see an enormous mountain belching smoke, fire, and molten lava. Who else could it be under there but Typhon?

Lo, each subculture has its own language, and verily I am not a parody. You don’t believe me? Get with the program, crackpot!

Gangsta Rap Made Me Do It" [Female Insert] Maestro!!! [Ice Cube] Blame me [Intro: Ice Cube] You niggas know my pyroclastic flow You niggas know my pyroclastic flow flow You niggas know my pyroclastic flow it's R-A-W, R-A-W [Ice Cube] You looking at the grand wizard, war lord vocal chord so vicious And I don't have to show riches to pull up pull off with some bad bitches And it ain't about chivalry It's about dope lyrics and delivery It's about my persona ain't nothing like a man that can do what he wanna Ain't nothing like man on that you knew on the corner See 'em come up and fuck up the owner See 'em throw up Westside California Nigga I'm hot as Phoenix Arizona I'm Utah I got multiple bitches It's a new law keep a hold of yo riches Dumb nigga don't spend it as soon as you get it And recognize I'm a captain and you a lieutenant [Chorus 1] I can say what I want to say ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I call you a nigga ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it I can act like an animal ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I eat you like a cannibal ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Ice Cube] I'm raw as a dirty needle Choke an eagle Just to feed all my people Lyrically I'm so lethal Plant thoughts in they mind just to defeat you Ice Cube is a saga y'all spit saliva And I spit lava I got the fearless flow Don't get near this ho If you sacred to go I keep it gangsta and why should change that fuck you all you motherfuckers trying to change rap But aren't you the same cat that sat back when they brought cocaine back I'm trying to get me a Maybach how you motherfuckers gonna tell me don't say that you the ones that we learned it from I heard nigga back in 1971 [Chorus 2] So if I act like a pimp ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I call you a nappy headed ho ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I shoot up your college ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I rob you of knowledge ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Ice Cube] Thank God when I bless the mic You finally get to hear the shit that you like A nigga talking bout real life so you can try to get this shit right Use your brain not your back use your brain not a gat It's a party not a jack (for real) Don't be scared of them people Walk up in there and show them that you equal (fuck them fuck them) Don't be material a nigga grew up on milk and cereal I never for got vaness and imperial Look at my life Ice Cube is a miracle It could be you if you was this lyrical It could be her if she was this spiritual Cause me and Allah go back like cronies I don't got to be fake cause he is my homie [Chorus 3] If I sell a little crack ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I die in Iraq ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I take you for granted ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I fuck up the planet ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Intro] [Ice Cube] Oh yeah and another thing For all ya niggas that don't do gangsta rap Don't get on TV talking about gangsta rap Cause 9 times at a 10 you don't know the fuck you talk about Talk about that bullshit rap you do Stay the fuck out of mine

Although you can not hear my thoughts, Sam, I imagine I’m talking to you. Prayers to the brother who abandoned me. The day after you left Labrador, my honey started flowing. Is my body weeping for your loss?

Der, die, das, dem, den, des. German’s six ways of saying ‘the’, like six sexual positions you never knew existed. Hey, I just sprung a boner.

Nether is eerily indifferent to us, for the most part. The landscape consists in ugly, vomit-colored bricks, and huge falls of lava descending from a black sky. Zombie pigmen patrol the Nether, but they take no interest in us (unless we attack, and then things get ugly fast). There are “ghasts” that resemble lighting fixtures from the 1970s, and they will shoot fire at us on sight, but they are easily killed. All told, the Nether has fewer features and is less dangerous than the Overworld. But it is creepy, and we feel very much out of place. This, I think, is the genius of the Nether. Had the creators made it more adventurous, it would be more familiar. The Nether, I think, is what the Overworld becomes, when irrigated by the Void.

When you jump off a cliff, is it better to land on jagged rocks or burning lava? I know this one. The answer is obvious: It doesn’t matter where you land. You just jumped off a cliff.

Our landscapes are marked by the presence of grand trees. And what are trees, but love stories written by terra firma in praise of all the heavens offer? There are hundreds of ways to scribe your love story to reach a Sublime Result. Just ask the oak. All 600 species. III. Our own story will not be written in chronological order. Love was never meant to keep you in your comfort zone. It was designed- to feed, challenge, grow, and sustain you. To fracture you gently, drown you in small increments. Continental drift you into Pure Consciousness. And I am learning: to have the patience of geologic processes. My blood turns to lava, my breath to ash, my love to eons, to measures of time and movement imperceptible at most moments.

I hate you," I whisper. I feel it in my gut, and I can't deny it. I can't ignore it. I'm so angry, so hurt, so consumed that the hate feels like lava, settling in the pit of my stomach. My world was a sunny sky before him, a pretty picture my mother drew for me, and he painted it all black with the truth, splattering it with red from the bloodshed. I hate it. I hate him. "I know," he says quietly. "You said you wouldn't… you said you meant it… but I know you do." "But I love you, too… I don't know how I still can. I hate you, but I still love you somehow. It's just… how can I feel both ways?" "Easily," he says. "The opposite of love isn't hate, Karissa. It's indifference. You're a passionate person, and love and hate… it's not a far stretch from one to the other. They both take passion, someone getting under your skin and consuming you. And I ate you alive, sweetheart. You never had a chance.

Dude, you’re stressing me out! What do I do? My walls are lava and my houseplants are walking around my apartment.” I glared at the potted palm that was currently laughing at me.

Annabeth knit her eyebrows. “We’ll have to talk to Tantalus, get approval for a quest. He’ll say no.” “Not if we tell him tonight at the campfire in front of everybody. The whole camp will hear. They’ll pressure him. He won’t be able to refuse.” “Maybe.” A little bit of hope crept into Annabeth’s voice. “We’d better get these dishes done. Hand me the lava spray gun, will you?” That night at the campfire, Apollo’s cabin led the sing-along. They tried to get everybody’s spirits up, but it wasn’t easy after that afternoon’s bird attack. We all sat around a semicircle of stone steps, singing halfheartedly and watching the bonfire blaze while the Apollo guys strummed their guitars and picked their lyres. We did all the standard camp numbers: “Down by the Aegean,” “I Am My Own Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandpa,” “This Land is Minos’s Land.” The bonfire was enchanted, so the louder you sang, the higher it rose, changing color and heat with the mood of the crowd. On a good night, I’d seen it twenty feet high, bright purple, and so hot the whole front row’s marshmallows burst into the flames. Tonight, the fire was only five feet high, barely warm, and the flames were the color of lint. Dionysus left early. After suffering through a few songs, he muttered something about how even pinochle with Chiron had been more exciting than this. Then he gave Tantalus a distasteful look and headed back toward the Big House. When the last song was over, Tantalus said, “Well, that was lovely!” He came forward with a toasted marshmallow on a stick and tried to pluck it off, real casual-like. But before he could touch it, the marshmallow flew off the stick. Tantalus made a wild grab, but the marshmallow committed suicide, diving into the flames. Tantalus turned back toward us, smiling coldly. “Now then! Some announcements about tomorrow’s schedule.” “Sir,” I said. Tantalus’s

But the real weak point in all of these arguments is simply that, for every reason people can come up with to dislike and reject monsters, there are an equal number of reasons to tolerate and accept them. And we know all of them by heart because we've heard them all before, as Frisk Dreemurr said earlier, when they were used against other human beings. Though having said that, there are also other reasons to like monsters, and I have a few of them right here.” The host on the screen reached down and started pulling objects out from underneath the news desk and placing them on top of it, while the audience started to laugh. “We have vanilla, chocolate, chocolate chip, fudge, caramel, butterscotch, cherry, wild mango, lava cake, actual lava not sure how that works, strawberry kiwi, watermelon, and pistachio.” The host picked up one of the items and showed it on screen, so that the logo of the smiling blue monster was easily visible. “And don't forget, when you're done eating the Nice Cream, you also have a message on the wrapper telling you something positive and reassuring. So if I could give a little advice to the anti-monster crowd out there, if you're still watching? Your competition has all these different flavors, and please note that 'Salty' is not one of them. Cornering that market is not the brilliant strategy you seem to think it is.

Radiometric Dating techniques are useful tools,” he agrees, “but they must be used carefully. The three common methods of Uranium-Lead, Potassium-Argon, or Rubidium-Strontium dating can produce results for a single rock sample that differ by hundreds of orders of magnitude. You may be familiar with tests of six-year-old lava from the Mt. St. Helena eruption that were erroneously determined to be more than 350,000 years old. Some were assumed to be more than two million years old.

Annnd my love lips just filled with lady lava. He releases my finger and leans back with a triumphantly smug look on his face. Whatever expression he sees on mine makes him chuckle darkly. “Whatever you do to me, I’ll match and raise you, Scratch. Remember that.” Gods, I hope that’s a promise.

Tears, glistening like crystals under the dazzle of bright lights, appeared on her almost lifeless eyes – eyes that have not yet dried up, despite the copious amount that had flowed through them over the years. When life gives you certain experiences, it creates in you a volcano of unending grief. All that you wish is for this volcano to erupt once, so violently and uncontrollably that it would eventually turn into an island of tranquillity amidst the unhappy seas of your heart. But in a world that loves to shackle even your tears, these dormant volcanoes erupt only in spurts, forcing from their depths an uncontrollable flow of molten lava, or at times milder geyser springs, in the rare silences of your private space.

Mom clicked her tongue. “Men and fire. You’re not letting lava pour all over the ground. That’s dangerous and a fire hazard. What if a poor animal wanders into it by accident?” Jack thought about it. “Okay, I know how to fix that.” “Sometimes I think you just like playing with lava,” Mom said with a shake of her head.

Lava crust," he said, voice hushed in wonder. "It's lava crust. The fire is burning within the creature's skin." "No wonder it's in pain," Machiavelli muttered. "You sound almost sorry for it," Dee snapped. "I never traded my humanity for my long life, Doctor. I've always remembered my roots." His voice hardened, turning contemptous. "You worked so hard to be like your Elder master that you've forgotten what it is like to feel human—to be human. And we humans"—he stressed the last word—"have the capacity to feel another creature's pain. It is what lifted the humani above the Elders, it is what made them great." —Michael Scott, The Magician

And you didn’t see anything else?” Keefe asked him. “You searched Foster’s mind for a while.” “Only a few minutes,” Fitz argued. Keefe grabbed Fitz’s wrist and pressed his fingers against the exposed skin. “Hate to break it to you, but I can tell you’re hiding something.” “Empaths,” Fitz grumbled. “Just keeping you honest. So spill. What did you see in the Mysterious Miss F.’s mind?” Fitz turned to Sophie, and even in the dim light she could see the red flush in his cheeks. “I might have seen some other stuff—but it wasn’t really thoughts. It was more like… feelings.” “Oh?” Keefe asked as Sophie’s stomach filled with bubbling lava. “Does that mean you—

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.

You reckless bastard," I said, my throat tight. The ground was thrown open into a fiery maw, out of which slowly emerged a curved set of obsidian horns. The horns were attached to a giant head, which was attached to a spiked torso that looked like it was made of muscles and lava. And Jerod stood there the whole time, hands outstretched and his face contorted in discomfort. "What the shit class demon is that?" Gavin asked. "I think... it's a behemoth," I said weakly. The thing rose from the ground, towering so high over anything in the shopping plaza that I was sure all of Seattle could see it. Demonic was a good descriptor. So was nightmare. So was Armageddon.