Jasmine Mans Quotes

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I met a girl who holds me like she is fighting for me in her sleep. If you ever decide to age, love, invite me. I’ll retire my bones to make you tea, and read you poetry.
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
A man was speaking, so I stopped listening.
Jasmine Mas (Blood of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #1))
Rationally, it didn’t matter, and I was a bad bitch who didn’t need a man. Irrationally, I was a woman who just wanted to get railed and told I was pretty.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Fae (Cruel Shifterverse, #2))
But if you take off your clothes, I’m sure I can get them dry.” My eyes went wide. “Are you trying tog et my naked?” His silvery gaze met mine. “Do you really need me to answer that?” A hot, sweet flush stole across my cheeks. When he was like this—open, flirty, and downright sexy—I was at my lamest. I wasn’t used to this side of him. I don’t think I ever would be, and there was something thrilling in that. But I stared at him, caught between the images playing out in my head and the very real man standing before me.
Jennifer L. Armentrout (Apollyon (Covenant, #4))
I was a woman and I couldn't speak with the voice of a man, because it was not my voice - not true and not my own. But there was more to it than that. By writing in a woman's voice I wanted to say that a woman, too, is a human being. To say that we, too, have the right to breathe, to cry out, and to sing.
Jasmin Darznik (Song of a Captive Bird)
Some women are like roses Ohh how beautiful you blossom Yet have too many thorns to ever be held.
Jasmine Mans (Chalk Outlines of Snow Angels)
Cinderella walked on broken glass Anurora let a whole lifetime pass Belle fell in love with a hideous beast Jasmine married a common thief Ariel walked on land for love Snow White barely escaped a knife because Rapunzel has to find a new dream Tiana kissed her prince and turned green Mulan left to be a man Pocahontas stayed to save her land It's all about the smiles and tears; because love means facing your biggest fears
Holly Miller
I know trauma uses silence as a survival mechanism.
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
How do I describe the feeling that envelopes my being when he is near? It is like a cocoon of warmth and peace, but beneath that there is a deep longing, a hunger that one kiss would not be able to satisfy, one kiss would only make the hunger greater. But oh, how I long for that kiss, a kiss that might never come. Being close to him does things to me, makes me feel things I never knew existed, makes me want things I have never wanted before. I have never desired to know a man's body before I met Ariston. I wonder if he knows that I desire him in such a way, that I not only want to know his body, but that I want him to know mine. There is a part of me that would not care if he loves me or not if I could just have one beautiful, passionate night with him, while the rest of me knows that one night would never be enough.
Jasmine Dubroff
But how long must she sing in the darkness until she is at last allowed out into the light of day?
Unica Zürn (The Man of Jasmine & Other Texts)
I know grace and mercy was raised by the same single mother.
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
I want to love you like Sunday morning cartoons over soggy cereal.
Jasmine Mans (Chalk Outlines of Snow Angels)
I’ve spent so long being afraid of love, because the last time I was in love, the man I loved only loved one part of me, but not all of me, and I thought love meant having to sacrifice a part of yourself. But then I was with you, and you loved every part of me, even the parts I don’t like. And that scared me more, because I thought there must be some trick and that I couldn’t let myself believe it or I’d fall into the trap. But finally I realized it wasn’t a trap.
Jasmine Guillory (The Proposal (The Wedding Date, #2))
She was the royal princess. She had to start acting like one. She had to stop talking about being trapped, about being handed over from one man to another. She had to start acting. She had to start being the hero.
Liz Braswell (A Whole New World)
Momma prays like she’s talking over God, and if God were to talk back she wouldn’t even hear Him.
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
One person cannot change the world. But one person can strike terror into multitudes. —Robert Evans Any demon is capable of cruelty, but only an angel is majestic enough to rain down vengeance for the innocent. —Marcus Evans Little eyes see. Little eyes learn. Be a good example for all the little eyes watching you. They’re everywhere. —Jasmine Evans The wicked can fake nobility, just as the damned can fake innocence. But only the truth will rise from the ashes when we all start to burn. —Victoria Evans A wise man knows when the war is lost, and will understand retreat is the only way to save lives. A foolish man will condemn all his followers to death because of his pride. —Robert Evans If hatred didn’t exist, love wouldn’t either, for one is formed by the other. I love and hate this town. —Marcus Evans I believe the souls of the wrongfully persecuted often haunt our world, bringing the same grief they feel from beyond the grave. —Jasmine Evans Never mock or harm the passionate, for they are the fiercest with their wrath. —Victoria Evans
S.T. Abby (Mindf*ck Series (Mindf*ck, #1-5))
Jasmine believes in a prophecy that says she is destined to love a man named Josh Toby. Okay, fine. He could believe that. Hell, he had friends who believed carbohydrates were the work of the devil. True love made sense at least.
Diana Holquist (Sexiest Man Alive (Make Me a Match, #2))
The crux of the problem was another man had pinned me against the wall and told me he owned me. Sure, a large part of me thought it was hot. But as Aran had eloquently said, “You know what is hotter? Respect.” T-shirt slogan material.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Beasts (Cruel Shifterverse, #3))
Man. He felt almost guilty about the condoms in his wallet. A guy wasn't supposed to lust after Beaver Cleaver's mom.
Jasmine Haynes (Somebody's Ex (The Jackson Brothers, #2))
The day I died, I didn't tell my body.
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
Die Freiheit von der Hoffnung ist die vollkommene Freiheit. The freedom of the hope is complete freedom.
Unica Zürn (The Man of Jasmine & Other Texts)
Crazy are women labeled crazy when you feel like their rage outweighs the evidence of their pain?
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
At least I hadn’t been born a man; that would really suck… although, my penis would be huge.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Gods (Cruel Shifterverse #6))
Jasmine did trust easily, and look where it had gotten her. She could see now it was a direct response to feeling ignored and misunderstood by her parents and siblings. It was why she’d readily given her heart to every semi-attractive man who’d even shown her an ounce of attention. She sought her parents’ love by securing romantic relationships, because in her family, that was what made you a success. But that wasn’t healthy. And trust wasn’t meant to be given in one lump sum. It was earned, little by little.
Alexis Daria (You Had Me at Hola (Primas of Power, #1))
When he actually comes, he brings her a book containing white paper, as if it were a sign of her salvation, and she reads a dedication--something about people who have lost hope but start to swim in the whiteness of these leaves and perhaps find a new beginning with their first pen stroke.
Unica Zürn (The Man of Jasmine & Other Texts)
It’s the small touches a woman brings to a man’s home, like the matching throw pillows on the couch or the faint whiff of jasmine from the diffuser on the bookshelf, that every other woman notices the second she walks through the front door.
Ashley Elston (First Lie Wins)
The feminine urge to try and fix a sinfully handsome but rude man was real and highly inconvenient.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Fae (Cruel Shifterverse, #2))
What terrible shame overcomes me when I discover the male or female in myself!
Unica Zürn (The Man of Jasmine & Other Texts)
Are women labeled crazy when you feel like their rage outweighs the evidence of their pain?
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
As far as I was concerned, he didn't deserve anyone's respect. First, he was a man.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Gods (Cruel Shifterverse, #6))
There was nothing more satisfying than a grown man crying.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Gods (Cruel Shifterverse, #6))
No offense, man, but don’t be such a fucking idiot. I’ve seen the way you look at this girl. I’ve never seen you look at anyone or anything like you look at her. And you’re just going to throw all of that away for some bullshit reason? Because you’re too scared for something real?
Jasmine Guillory (The Wedding Date (The Wedding Date, #1))
Large shapes — like wings — float up to her, opening and closing — gently at first — until they slowly fill the room and she has the impression that she is in the presence of apparitions which are not at all related to this world. None of her acquaintances has ever mentioned similar apparitions to her. These beings — she can not describe them in any other way, reveal that they have the clear and frightening intention of encircling her. They exude a feeling of dissipation, of annihilation, and her forgotten childhood fear of the horrible and inexplicable returns to her. Whenever these birdless, greyish-black wings fly up too close to her, she raises her hand in a sudden anxiety and fends them off. They retreat for a moment into the background of the dark room, then approach once again, and slowly she gets used to this strange presence until she notices that the wings are insubstantial and can fly straight through her upright body, as if she herself had become bodiless. This both entrances and appalls her. Looking at them carefully, these creatures have in fact nothing terrifying about them — they lack eyes and faces, and they radiate an enormous dignity, an uncanny seriousness, something very noble.
Unica Zürn (The Man of Jasmine & Other Texts)
Don't think a woman can fully understand the power a man feels when he takes." (Witt Long)
Jasmine Haynes (Vengeance to the Max (Max Starr, #5))
Does black girl magic really mean, "look at how black girl hasn't died yet" and when she does die, what does she become, human?
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
Pac-Man Maybe Pac-Man, is a story about all the endings you can stomach in a lifetime,
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
Ein Buch in der Hand kann ein echter Rettungsanker sein - wenn die See des Lebens zu rau ist, klammert man sich an Geschichten und lässt sich von ihnen in Sicherheit bringen.
Jasmin Schreiber (Marianengraben)
I blame my father for things he cannot control. I blame my father for things he can control but chooses not to.
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
How good I would feel if I could be something that called itself neither man nor woman.
Unica Zürn (The Man of Jasmine & Other Texts)
You belong to me. Every thought, every smile, every breath you take, every inch of you belongs to me. I’d destroy the male population if it meant that I’d be the only man who crosses your mind.
Jasmine Rov
Buck got walloped by flying fists and Budweiser bottles, and at one point a man costumed as Lady Gaga attempted to rip the beard from his chin. The man was surprisingly strong, and wore just enough jasmine perfume to be distracting.
Carl Hiaasen (Razor Girl (Andrew Yancy, #2))
I said we’re cool,” I repeat, but I misjudged the distance between my lips and Summer’s ear. The two collide, and I feel a shiver run up her frame. I shiver too, because my mouth is way too close to hers. She smells like heaven, some fascinating combo of flowers and jasmine and vanilla and—sandalwood, maybe? A man could get high on that fragrance. And don’t get me started on her dress. White, strapless, short. So short it barely grazes her lower thighs. God fucking help me. I quickly straighten up before I do something stupid, like kiss her. Instead, I take a huge gulp of my beer. Only it goes down the wrong pipe, and I start coughing like it’s the eighteenth century and I’m a tuberculosis patient. Smooth move.
Elle Kennedy (The Chase (Briar U, #1))
I’ve avoided marriage. I’ll never willingly beget children with a man. And what is more monstrous than that? To be inherently, by your nature, unable to serve your purpose? To want, simply because you want, to love simply for the sake of love?
Tasha Suri (The Jasmine Throne (The Burning Kingdoms, #1))
And, I know you did not give me permission to but I already started asking God about you. I told Him if He doesn’t mind I’d like to make it to heaven before you do. To run your bathwater, to make you a plate, to turn the TV to your favorite channel, and turn it off, and make you believe you left it that way. And I vow to never open the door for a scent other than yours, and I promise to always remember your scent, and that we’ll laugh at everything that hurt when we were humans, like when we were poor, when we slept on our bedroom floor on Leslie Street, when we only had water and grilled cheese, the moment you said, “baby, I may not have any money, but I got a soft spot, and a melody, and a pair of arms that can rock you to sleep so, what, you thinking about taking a chance on me?
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
A man who has the attentions of an attractive royal princess should probably keep his eyes to himself." "I'm just kidding, Morgiana. I really only have eyes for Jasmine," he said seriously. Then: "No offense." "None was ever taken. You're too skinny for my liking, anyway. Put some meat on your bones and then we'll talk.
Liz Braswell (A Whole New World)
I turned my face to the east and the first star that shimmered on the horizon. He held my hand, and it was the hand of the man I had married, lost and found again in the Badiyat ash-Sham, the fabled land of camels and caravans that lies just beyond the walls of the city of jasmine. To live with him would be a very great adventure indeed.
Deanna Raybourn (City of Jasmine)
Romance is part of our female DNA. If you don’t believe me, think back on the Disney movies they started feeding us at the ripe old age of two. Although humorous supporting characters helped advance the plotlines, each and every one essentially involved a girl, a guy, and a happy ending: Belle, Ariel, Jasmine, Snow White, they’re all just looking for a good man!
Jordan Christy (How to Be a Hepburn in a Hilton World: The Art of Living with Style, Class, and Grace)
There is no man in any grove, in any forest, curtained behind the tents of some travelling circus, beyond the thunder of any waterfall – no man waiting for me. I would give anything for this to be true, for me to be like those girls who lie to their parents to spend afternoons in faraway fields with their hair spread on their lovers’ chests. But no one has ever thought me worthy of too long a glance.
Sharanya Manivannan (The Queen of Jasmine Country)
Todd wrapped his arm around her. They stood together in silent awe, watching the sunset. All Christy could think of was how this was what she had always wanted, to be held in Todd's arms as well as in his heart. Just as the last golden drop of sun melted into the ocean, Christy closed her eyes and drew in a deep draught of the sea air. "Did you know," Todd said softly, "that the setting sun looks so huge from the island of Papua New Guinea that it almost looks like you're on another planet? I've seen pictures." Then, as had happened with her reflection in her cup of tea and in her disturbing dream, Christy heard those two piercing words, "Let go." She knew what she had to do. Turning to face Todd, she said, "Pictures aren't enough for you, Todd. You have to go." "I will. Someday. Lord willing," he said casually. "Don't you see, Todd? The Lord is willing. This is your 'someday.' Your opportunity to go on the mission field is now. You have to go." Their eyes locked in silent communion. "God has been telling me something, Todd. He's been telling me to let you go. I don't want to, but I need to obey Him." Todd paused. "Maybe I should tell them I can only go for the summer. That way I'll only be gone a few months. A few weeks, really. We'll be back together in the fall." Christy shook her head. "It can't be like that, Todd. You have to go for as long as God tells you to go. And as long as I've known you, God has been telling you to go. His mark is on your life, Todd. It's obvious. You need to obey Him." "Kilikina," Todd said, grasping Christy by the shoulders, "do you realize what you're saying? If I go, I may never come back." "I know." Christy's reply was barely a whisper. She reached for the bracelet on her right wrist and released the lock. Then taking Todd's hand, she placed the "Forever" bracelet in his palm and closed his fingers around it. "Todd," she whispered, forcing the words out, "the Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you and give you His peace. And may you always love Jesus more than anything else. Even more than me." Todd crumbled to the sand like a man who had been run through with a sword. Burying his face in his hands, he wept. Christy stood on wobbly legs. What have I done? Oh, Father God, why do I have to let him go? Slowly lowering her quivering body to the sand beside Todd, Christy cried until all she could taste was the salty tears on her lips. They drove the rest of the way home in silence. A thick mantle hung over them, entwining them even in their separation. To Christy it seemed like a bad dream. Someone else had let go of Todd. Not her! He wasn't really going to go. They pulled into Christy's driveway, and Todd turned off the motor. Without saying anything, he got out of Gus and came around to Christy's side to open the door for her. She stepped down and waited while he grabbed her luggage from the backseat. They walked to the front door. Todd stopped her under the trellis of wildly fragrant white jasmine. With tears in his eyes, he said in a hoarse voice, "I'm keeping this." He lifted his hand to reveal the "Forever" bracelet looped between his fingers. "If God ever brings us together again in this world, I'm putting this back on your wrist, and that time, my Kilikina, it will stay on forever." He stared at her through blurry eyes for a long minute, and then without a hug, a kiss, or even a good-bye, Todd turned to go. He walked away and never looked back.
Robin Jones Gunn (Sweet Dreams (Christy Miller, #11))
I will always be the other woman. I disappear for a time like the moon in daylight, then rise at night all mother-of-pearl so that a man’s upturned face, watching, will have reflected on it the milk of longing. And though he may leave, memory will perfect me. One day the light may fall in a certain way on Penelope’s hair, and he will pause wildly… but when she turns, it will only be his wife, to whom white sheets simply mean laundry— even Nausikaä in her silly braids thought more washing linen than of him, preferring Odysseus clean and oiled to that briny, unkempt lion I would choose. Let Dido and her kind leap from cliffs for love. My men will moan and dream of me for years… desire and need become the same animal in the silken dark. To be the other woman is to be a season that is always about to end, when the air is flowered with jasmine and peach, and the weather day after day is flawless, and the forecast is hurricane.
Linda Pastan (The Imperfect Paradise)
I’ll drag you back on the ice if I have to, Jasmine. I swear on my life.” Something about his words made me shake on the inside. Maybe it was the conviction. Maybe it was the anger. The passion. The reality that he wasn’t leaving me any room to not do what he said. Mostly though, it was something else completely. I loved him. I loved this man so much that losing him was going to break my cold, dead heart into so many pieces I was just going to have to stick them in the same box I kept my dreams and carry it around with me forever
Mariana Zapata (From Lukov with Love)
You-You,” the blockhead man sputtered like he hadn’t expected me to agree with him. You could practically see his last two brain cells trying to function. With a few fortifying breaths, he regained his unwell energy. “I don’t care what you agree with. You don’t belong here, and I am going to make sure the realm knows it. You heretic women and your campaign to replace men in battle—it’s disgusting. I won’t allow you to poison the female minds of this realm.” I gave him a thumbs-up and a big smile. “Good luck with that. It seems like you’re in a real healthy place mentally.” I was going to go off on a mental limb and guess that this man had never had sex.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Fae (Cruel Shifterverse, #2))
What my dad did was wrong, awful, inexcusable, but maybe there's still hope for him. Maybe if he can get the help he needs, they'll be able to resurrect the man who taught me about Bach's toccata and slept in the chair in my room when I was afraid of the dark. And if there's still hope for my dad, there has to still be hope for me. Mabe it's true that he and I have the same blag slug inside of us, but it's up to me to conquer it. I owe that to my dad. I owe that to myself. [....] I make a promise to myself: /I will be stronger than my sadness./ I will do my best to become the girl from Roman's drawing. The girl with the bright eyes. The girl with hope.
Jasmine Warga (My Heart and Other Black Holes)
Urgent Story" When the oracle said, ‘If you keep pigeons you will never lose home.’ I kept pigeons. They flicked their red eyes over me, a deft trampling of that humanly proud distance by which remaining aloof in it’s own fullness. I administered crumbs, broke sky with them like breaking the lemon-light of the soul's amnesia for what It wants but will neither take nor truh let go. How it revived me, to release them! And at that moment of flight to disavow the imprint, to tear their compass, out by the roots of some green meadow they might fly over on the way to an immaculate freedom, meadow in which a woman has taken off her blouse, then taken off the man's flannel shirt in their sky-drenched arc of one, then the other above each other's eyelids is a branding of daylight, the interior of its black ambush in which two joys lame the earth a while with heat and cloudwork under wing-beats. Then she was quiet with him. And he with her. The world hummed with crickets, with bees nudging the lupins. It is like that when the earth counts its riches—noisy with desire even when desire has strengthened our bodies and moved us into the soak of harmony. Her nipples in sunlight have crossed his palm wind-sweet with savor and the rest is so knelt before that when they stand upright the flight-cloud of my tamed birds shapes an arm too short for praise. Oracle, my dovecot is an over and over nearer to myself when its black eyes are empty. But by nightfall I am dark before dark if one bird is missing. Dove left open by love in a meadow, Dove commanding me not to know where it sank into the almost-night—for you I will learn to play the concertina, to write poems full of hateful jasmine and longing, to keep the dead alive, to sicken at the least separation. Dove, for whose sake I will never reach home.
Tess Gallagher (My Black Horse: New & Selected Poems)
He was walking down a narrow street in Beirut, Lebanon, the air thick with the smell of Arabic coffee and grilled chicken. It was midday, and he was sweating badly beneath his flannel shirt. The so-called South Lebanon conflict, the Israeli occupation, which had begun in 1982 and would last until 2000, was in its fifth year. The small white Fiat came screeching around the corner with four masked men inside. His cover was that of an aid worker from Chicago and he wasn’t strapped. But now he wished he had a weapon, if only to have the option of ending it before they took him. He knew what that would mean. The torture first, followed by the years of solitary. Then his corpse would be lifted from the trunk of a car and thrown into a drainage ditch. By the time it was found, the insects would’ve had a feast and his mother would have nightmares, because the authorities would not allow her to see his face when they flew his body home. He didn’t run, because the only place to run was back the way he’d come, and a second vehicle had already stopped halfway through a three-point turn, all but blocking off the street. They exited the Fiat fast. He was fit and trained, but he knew they’d only make it worse for him in the close confines of the car if he fought them. There was a time for that and a time for raising your hands, he’d learned. He took an instep hard in the groin, and a cosh over the back of his head as he doubled over. He blacked out then. The makeshift cell Hezbollah had kept him in in Lebanon was a bare concrete room, three metres square, without windows or artificial light. The door was wooden, reinforced with iron strips. When they first dragged him there, he lay in the filth that other men had made. They left him naked, his wrists and ankles chained. He was gagged with rag and tape. They had broken his nose and split his lips. Each day they fed him on half-rancid scraps like he’d seen people toss to skinny dogs. He drank only tepid water. Occasionally, he heard the muted sound of children laughing, and smelt a faint waft of jasmine. And then he could not say for certain how long he had been there; a month, maybe two. But his muscles had wasted and he ached in every joint. After they had said their morning prayers, they liked to hang him upside down and beat the soles of his feet with sand-filled lengths of rubber hose. His chest was burned with foul-smelling cigarettes. When he was stubborn, they lay him bound in a narrow structure shaped like a grow tunnel in a dusty courtyard. The fierce sun blazed upon the corrugated iron for hours, and he would pass out with the heat. When he woke up, he had blisters on his skin, and was riddled with sand fly and red ant bites. The duo were good at what they did. He guessed the one with the grey beard had honed his skills on Jewish conscripts over many years, the younger one on his own hapless people, perhaps. They looked to him like father and son. They took him to the edge of consciousness before easing off and bringing him back with buckets of fetid water. Then they rubbed jagged salt into the fresh wounds to make him moan with pain. They asked the same question over and over until it sounded like a perverse mantra. “Who is The Mandarin? His name? Who is The Mandarin?” He took to trying to remember what he looked like, the architecture of his own face beneath the scruffy beard that now covered it, and found himself flinching at the slightest sound. They had peeled back his defences with a shrewdness and deliberation that had both surprised and terrified him. By the time they freed him, he was a different man.  
Gary Haynes (State of Honour)
Benjamin Munro was his name. She mouthed the syllables silently, Benjamin James Munro, twenty-six years old, late of London. He had no dependents, was a hard worker, a man not given to baseless talk. He'd been born in Sussex and grown up in the Far East, the son of archaeologists. He liked green tea, the scent of jasmine, and hot days that built towards rain. He hadn't told her all of that. He wasn't one of those pompous men who bassooned on about himself and his achievements as if a girl were just a pretty-enough face between a pair of willing ears. Instead, she'd listened and observed and gleaned, and, when the opportunity presented, crept inside the storehouse to check the head gardener's employment book. Alice had always fancied herself a sleuth, and sure enough, pinned behind a page of Mr. Harris's careful planting notes, she'd found Benjamin Munro's application. The letter itself had been brief, written in a hand Mother would have deplored, and Alice had scanned the whole, memorizing the bits, thrilling at the way the words gave depth and color to the image she'd created and been keeping for herself, like a flower pressed between pages. Like the flower he'd given her just last month. "Look, Alice"- the stem had been green and fragile in his broad, strong hand- "the first gardenia of the season.
Kate Morton (The Lake House)
The thunder howled and the rain splashed, the leaves played with the breeze and the lightning flashed, and the tigress growled at last. She looked here and she looked there, she hadn't seen so much rain anywhere, a desire suddenly came in her heart, a mad longing that had to start, she felt deep love in the rain, looking at her cubs all over again But two years ago she had been wounded, By cowardly men who wanted her grounded, They were afraid of her power, they wanted to capture her and to enslave her in their tower They laid traps and they waited in the trees, The jungle was full of birds and the bees, The tigress was out hunting for meat, her cubs awaiting in the cave for their treat There was something missing in the air, the fragrance of jasmine was not there, The tigress looked up into the trees and saw the men's faces painted in grease, She challenged them looking into their eyes, And saw fear, fright , and faces full of lies! She roared with all her might, This was her land, She had all the right! The cowardly men crouching behind the trees, Fired their guns in twos and threes, The brave Tigress looked them in the eye, She was the fire and she was the sky, Indomitable force, invincible power, She was the Tigress, The Queen in her Empire None of the bullets could break her Spirit, Only one could graze her right leg a bit, She roared with all her heart's might, For she was the Queen for all to sight! The guns emptied and no more bullets to shoot, The cowardly men jumped from the trees and ran away in two hoots! The Tigress laughed and loudly roared, For she was the power and her Spirit soared She is the Tigress inside every Woman, She has the Power to defeat any Man, Love her and she would love you back, Respect her and she would respect you back, Dare to harm her and she would defeat you till the Last!
Avijeet Das
You... are not a very nice old man!!!
Jasmine Jones (Enchanted)
That’s the great thing about L.A. No matter who you are, you fit in, because no one fits in, so everyone is in the same boat. And it gets more that way each day. Now it’s whites who are odd man out.
Denise Hamilton (The Jasmine Trade (Eve Diamond Mystery #1))
Theme It's a sunny weekday in early May and after a ham sandwich and a cold bottle of beer on the brick terrace, I am consumed by the wish to add something to one of the ancient themes– youth dancing with his eyes closed, for example, in the shadows of corruption and death, or the rise and fall of illustrious men strapped to the turning wheel of mischance and disaster. There is a slight breeze, just enough to bend the yellow tulips on their stems, but that hardly helps me echo the longing for immortality despite the roaring juggernaut of time, or the painful motif of Nature's cyclial return versus man's blind rush to the grave. I could loosen my shirt and lie down in the soft grass, sweet now after its first cutting, but that would not produce a record of the pursuit of the moth of eternal beauty or the despondency that attends the eventual dribble of the once gurgling fountain of creativity. So, as far as great topics go, that seems to leave only the fall from exuberant maturity into sudden, headlong decline– a subject that fills me with silence and leaves me with no choice but to spend the rest of the day sniffing the jasmine vine and surrendering to the ivory goverance of the piano by picking out with my index finger the melody notes of "Easy to Love," a song in which Cole Porter expresses, with put-on nonchalance, the hopelessness of a love brimming with desire and a hunger for affection, but met only and always with frosty disregard.
Billy Collins (The Trouble With Poetry - And Other Poems)
Sure, it had been twelve years, but when a man spent nearly every day of three years inside of you, he will never forget your face. “Jasmine...
Jessica N. Watkins (Secrets of a Side Bitch 4)
Could he leave all that? Could he ever really leave India? Would he ever be anything but an alien in any other country? With his head here, his heart in India and his skin set on fire by the gaze of strangers, could he ever leave forever the smell of woodsmoke and jasmine on a winter's night? The stars, often so many of them that there seemed a rainfall of light. And the night itself spread like a dark blue wanton. Dawn and the sun rising like an explosion of softness. A hundred ruins weeping silently amidst the thunder and dust of everyday life. The sheer bliss of being home, of walking the streets amidst littered scraps of humanity, amidst cows and garbage, yet totally content at being home, being where you belonged, where no man looked at you twice on the streets in question.
Anurag Mathur (The Inscrutable Americans)
Tell me, sweetheart, what do you love best in the world right now?” Ayaana deflected: “Pate.” Delaksha said, “I never made it there. A pity.” Nioreg asked, “What’s to love?” The ideal of home, which distance amplified. Ayaana tuned into a vision of home as if she were a home-comer. Her face softened as she clothed her island in her mother’s scents and the Almighty’s stars. In Ayaana’s grammar, her listeners glimpsed Muhidin and Munira, witnessed the surge of Pate’s moonlit seas from a sand dune and smelled a jasmine infused night. Ayaana’s Pate was an antidote to desecrated worlds, so that when Ayaana finished her remembering, there was silence. She picked her chopsticks as the ocean whooshed answerless questions. Nioreg’s tough-man mask slipped. “Miss Ayaana, we shall visit your home, yes?” Delaksha took Ayaana’s hands. “Don’t let the world change you.” Delaksha was addressing both Ayaana and Pate.
Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor (The Dragonfly Sea: A novel)
You Are My Spring Joy Where does life seek eternity? Not in daily struggles or toil, but in that endearing destiny, Where thoughts, pursuits, likings all merge to create a happy existence, Where happiness leaps from every act and every substance. Just like spring flowers that spread joy, To all alike: a woman, a man, a little girl and a young boy, They live for moments very brief, Yet they always manage to delight the heart immersed in grief. They last for a day or moments few, With a promise that next year they shall bloom anew, Leaving behind sweet memories and hopes profound, And even in a moment of existence they live in eternity that time’s snares can not confound. Similarly my love Irma, your smiles, your beauty nourish my existence, You, your love, your endless beauty are what I need for sustenance, My eternity lies in you, and only you, Eternity will be virtueless if it is not spent thinking about you and loving you. I seek thee with all my senses and my mind and heart, From me the reflections of your beauty never depart, And I lie wrapped in them day and night, Without the glimpse of your beautiful smile I cannot establish the brightness in any form of light. Perhaps someday the sun may not rise, And the Moon may not shine , to me it shall be no surprise, But for me living without loving you is not possible, As for the Moon to shine without the Sun is impossible. So let us be like the Sun and the moonshine, Where both exist to create the life giving sunshine and the romantic moonshine, You be a daffodil, winter jasmine, iris, primrose and be merry and always sing, And I promise, I will always be the unfailing Spring, just your Spring!
Javid Ahmad Tak (They Loved in 2075!)
The room is a hundred shades of white. The enormous desk is the color of sand dollar beer foam with a plush cotton eggshell chair behind it. To its side, a tall shaving cream topped Swiss coffee lamp with a mozzarella sour cream lampshade. Official certificates the color of chalky whitecaps in limestone glacier frames hang on the frosted beluga whale wall. The wall is covered with rice powder cloud bookcases, full of books the color of moonstone jasmine, opal daffodil, quartz daisy, and polar bear hibiscus. The books are being tended by a man with his back to me, dressed in a milky, baking soda suit in seagull bone shoes, riding a rolling ladder the color of marshmallow tofu glue.
GLEN NESBITT (BREAK OUT OF HEAVEN)
I’ve mumbled between your thighs, and made up languages while inside of you
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
In a privately printed work entitled Paneros, author Norman Douglas cautions his readers against putting their trust . . . in Arabian skink, in Roman goose-fat or Roman goose tongues, in the Arplan of China . . . in spicy culinary dishes, erongoe root, or the brains of lovemaking sparrows . . . in pine nuts, the blood of bats mingled with asses’ milk, root of valerian, dried salamander, cyclamen, menstrual fluid of man or beast, tulip bulbs, fat of camel’s hump, parsnips, hyssop, gall of children, salted crocodile, the aquamarine stone, pollen of date palm, the pounded tooth of a corpse, wings of bees, jasmine, turtles’ eggs, applications of henna, brayed crickets, or spiders or ants, garlic, the genitals of hedgehogs, Siberian iris, rhinoceros horn, the blood of slaughtered animals, artichokes, honey compounded with camel’s milk, oil of champak, liquid gold, swallows’ hearts, vineyard snails, fennel-juice, certain bones of the toad, sulphurous waters and other aquae amatrices, skirret-tubers or stag’s horn crushed to powder: aphrodisiacs all, and all impostures.
Lawrence Block (Eros & Capricorn: A Cross-Cultural Survey of Sexual Attitudes and Techniques)
was no man’s princess. However, I was a whore. Being a slut wasn’t a title, it was a lifestyle.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Devils (Cruel Shifterverse #5))
A slight smile curved the corners of Genevieve's lips as she lay back into the perfumed water. What would it be like to live her days in this exotic setting? To never again have to whistle down a taxi, make a mad rush for the subway or try to eat a sandwich at her desk in between telephone calls? What would it be like to awake when she chose? To sun and swim, to have someone draw her bath and prepare her for the evening to come? What would it be like to be sent for by a man like Ali Ben Hari, to go silently down the long corridors to his chambers? To have him come to hers at night, when the air was scented with orange blossoms and jasmine?
Barbara Faith (Lord Of The Desert)
If u date a man in de streets, he neva be your man, for his heart lies within de streets dat he serves daily....
Jasmine Ciera (Down for Love: A Real Thug's Love Story)
When Guru Nanak reached Multan, the local pirs, or holy men, gave him a bowl of milk which was full to the brim indicating that the town was already full of holy men and that it did not have space for another. The Guru took a jasmine flower and put it on the bowl of milk. The flower floated, without the milk spilling over. The traditional interpretation of this is that Guru Nanak had shown that one more man of God would only add to the fragrance of the garden. However, it can also be seen as saying that the milk of knowledge, if contained in a bowl, can go bad whereas the fragrance of knowledge, unfettered in any way, spreads far and wide.
Roopinder Singh (Guru Nanak: His Life & Teachings)
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake, a pasty Syrian with a few words of English or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne always preoccupied with her dull dead lover: she has all the photographs and his letters tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink. All this takes place in a stink of jasmin. But there are the streets dedicated to sleep stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries do not disturb their application to slumber all day, scattered on the pavement like rags afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women offering their children brown-paper breasts dry and twisted, elongated like the skull, Holbein's signature. But his stained white town is something in accordance with mundane conventions- Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare with the cabman, links herself so with the somnambulists and legless beggars: it is all one, all as you have heard. But by a day's travelling you reach a new world the vegetation is of iron dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery the metal brambles have no flowers or berries and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions clinging to the ground, a man with no head has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
Keith Douglas
Jasmine hurried along the Grand Canal, dodging a group of diehard revelers, glancing back over her shoulder for the hundredth time. She couldn't see Gabe Cannon anywhere. Her teenage fantasy man was hunting her brother. She sure hadn't seen that coming. Freaking surreal. He looked just as good as when she'd first met him at that airport and had fallen instantly in love over pizza and chips. One of those unavoidable pitfalls of life, really. He'd been more handsome than any of her pop idols, and her teenage emotions had been just begging for an outlet. She cringed in embarrassment when she thought of all the melodramatic drivel she'd written about him in her high school diary.
Dana Marton (Guardian Agent (Agents Under Fire #1))
She cupped her hand, caught the gleaming flow of water and drank again. Royce did the same. She was right, he had never tasted water more satisfying. When he had drunk, he took a deep breath and felt his lungs fill with the mingled scent of lemons and jasmine, the perfume he already knew, for it clung to her skin. That satiny smooth skin. Would it feel cool to his touch as it had earlier or would she be warm now here in the cradle of the earth? He had to know. His fingers brushed over the curve of her cheek, lingered…Her lashes drifted down, so long and soft, up again, and he found himself gazing into fathomless eyes. “Royce-“ “Hush,” he said and gathered her to him. She was slim and strong in his arms, her body molding to his. Her lips parted, accepting the hard thrust of his tongue as he tasted her deeply. He wanted to go slowly, knew he should, and found the effort entirely beyond him. He had waited so long…not mere weeks but lifetimes it seemed…time without beginning or end, stretching out endlessly yet coming finally to this moment. Surely, he was not alone in believing they had been coming to this moment since that fog-draped morning in London when he first set eyes on her? Her hands were on his shirt, pulling it loose. Shock roared through him. He had not expected this. She was gently reared, a virgin, he had thought to go very slowly-heaven help him-always mindful of her innocence. But her passion seemed to match his own and she was fire in his arms, in his hands, in his dreams. “Sweet heaven,” she said, gasping softly. “I want you so much!” Somewhere on the planet there was a man who could withstand such words from a beautiful woman in his arms. Of course, that poor fellow was a eunuch, which absolutely did not bear thinking about. Royce groaned in relief, offered thanks to any and all deities who might feel they were due, and lowered her gently to the ground. Far in the back of his mind, he knew what he was doing was momentous. Kassandra was as far from a casual encounter as it was possible for a woman to be. He knew that and accepted it. Indeed, the depth of his feeling for her transformed pleasure into something vastly more.
Josie Litton (Kingdom Of Moonlight (Akora, #2))
But this month is all about CITY OF JASMINE which I hope you already have in your hot little hands. My favorite review snippet? KIRKUS REVIEWS said it’s “part screwball comedy”. I can’t tell you how much time I spent with Carole Lombard and William Powell and Irene Dunne when I was writing it. I adore the 30s comedies for their light-hearted take on relationships and adventure—and the glamorous settings and occasional dash of intrigue only heighten the magic. (Did you know that Nicholas Brisbane from my Lady Julia series was named for THE THIN MAN’s Nick Charles? And apologies to Dashiell Hammett, but I fell in love with the film long before I read the book and appreciated how much it had been lightened in the adaptation!) So when you’re reading CITY OF JASMINE, give some thought to who you’d like to see playing Evie and Gabriel—I’d love to hear who you’d cast in your own production.
Deanna Raybourn
And Jasmine, royal princess and daughter of the sultan..." the little old religious man trailed off, confused. "I'm sorry, daughter. I don't remember all of your names. Rose of Agrabah? Twice Great-Granddaughter of Elisheba the Wise?" "I think it was Elisheba," Jasmine said thoughtfully.
Liz Braswell (A Whole New World)
We have to stop, Genevieve. Did your brothers tell you to apply perfume to your breasts?” He didn’t realize the extent of his non sequitur until he beheld the confusion in her eyes. “They did not.” “Your scent is stronger here.” He nuzzled her throat. “Jasmine and insanity.” A lovely combination. Her pulse raced at the base of her throat, matching the throbbing behind his falls. “Genevieve.” He swallowed and tried again. “Your nightgown sports a number of bows, my dear.” She smoothed her hands back through his hair, a caress that rippled over his skull, down his spine, and went right, straight to his bollocks. “Elijah, what—?” He untied the first bow with his teeth, mostly in the hope that, because teeth were not as dexterous as fingers, some sanity might return between bows number one and six. “Never, ever put the bows on your nightgown or your chemise in the front,” he warned as he undid bows two and three in a similar fashion. “A man can take only so much temptation.” He
Grace Burrowes (Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait (The Duke's Daughters, #5; Windham, #8))
But mostly Aladdin thought about Princess Jasmine. If he had never met her, he wouldn't have been thrown into prison by the royal guards, he wouldn't have fallen in with the crazy, oil old man, and he wouldn't be there now, trying to dig himself out of a black, suffocating pit in the middle of the desert. And still he wouldn't have changed a thing. He thought about her eyes when she was looking into his. He thought about her eyes when she had seen the beggar children. He had witnessed the single moment she began to comprehend the world he lived in. He replayed the graceful skill with which she handled her tiny silver dagger. He thought about her descending from the sky at the end of her pole vault like a warrior angel. Thinking about all that made him forget that his fingers were rubbed raw and the inside of his mouth felt like the sand he dug through.
Liz Braswell (A Whole New World)
But mostly Aladdin thought about Princess Jasmine. If he had never met her, he wouldn't have been thrown into prison by the royal guards, he wouldn't have fallen in with the crazy, evil old man, and he wouldn't be there now, trying to dig himself out of a black, suffocating pit in the middle of the desert. And still he wouldn't have changed a thing. He thought about her eyes when she was looking into his. He thought about her eyes when she had seen the beggar children. He had witnessed the single moment she began to comprehend the world he lived in. He replayed the graceful skill with which she handled her tiny silver dagger. He thought about her descending from the sky at the end of her pole vault like a warrior angel. Thinking about all that made him forget that his fingers were rubbed raw and the inside of his mouth felt like the sand he dug through.
Liz Braswell (A Whole New World)
I am a man, I want to change the world! … no, not a “want.” I NEED to! This sacred fire in my soul, it can’t be wasted; that I know. Which role is mine? Those men in charge – what monsters! And what fools! “To serve all parties” – not for me; but what am I to do? My secret terror: when I’m gone, no one will notice…
Dr. Jasmine (Love, Demystified)
Last time I took a man seriously, I lost my will to live.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Devils (Cruel Shifterverse, #5))
He always said the same thing to her in her dreams, so I knew what to tell Brittany to put on the invitation. I just didn’t think she would go so far as to making it look like the question mark was written in blood. That was a bit much considering all of this was real to Jasmine even though it wasn’t real to anyone else.
Linette King (Truth or Dare: The last man standing)
I have syphilis,” she states, and I choke on the water in my mouth. He smiles at her. “No, you don’t.” She rolls her eyes and rips her arm from his hold, stomping off with a bleach blonde following her. She must belong to Cross because he also follows them, finding an open space at the bar to order drinks away from us. “Man, you must have really fucked up for her to choose an STD over your dick.” Bones laughs, finding too much joy in their exchange. Even Titan can’t hide his laughter, and Nite smiles.
Shantel Tessier (Madness (L.O.R.D.S., #6))
Objectively, the man was sexy as hell. Subjectively, after the events in the Fae Games, he had the personality of a schizophrenic rock. But you couldn’t argue—the man had a presence.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Fae (Cruel Shifterverse, #2))
Rationally, it didn't matter, and I was a bad bitch who didn't need a man. Irrationally, I was a woman who wanted to get railed and told I was pretty.
Jasmine Mas (Psycho Shifters (Cruel Shifterverse, #1))
When they tell the Black girl she can’t play mermaid ask them, what their people know about holding their breath underwater.
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
Being beautiful and opinionated does not give any man the right to your body, or to be angry that someone else is sharing it instead.
Jasmine Walt (Dragon's Blood (The Dragon's Gift Trilogy #2))
A mother breastfeeds her son through a metal fence, while his father holds the back of his head on the other side. she pushes her right breast through a square, until her nipple pokes out of the male-female barrier, meeting the lips of her baby. the baby reaches for her hand and other body parts, the parts that belonged, usually, to him before the cages this baby, eyes closed, breast in mouth, reaches just far enough for him to know her as mother, but not enough to know this as his country
Jasmine Mans (Black Girl, Call Home)
Jafar,” She looks away. “How can this ever work?” I reach across the table and take her hand. The touch does little to steady me. There’s no convenient map of our path forward. Jasmine might trust me with her body, but she doesn’t trust me with her heart. If I was a better man, I’d respect that. I wouldn’t push her. I’d seduce her slowly until I’m the only one she can imagine herself with. I don’t know how to do that shit. I can play cultured with the best of them, but the man that emerges whenever I get my hands on her is the true me. Rough. Possessive. Unexpectedly tender at times. I can’t force her to trust me, so I’ll have to wait her out. It’s the only option. I stand and tug her to her feet. “It will work because it’s us.” “I truly wish I could believe that.” “You don’t have to believe it, baby girl. I’ll believe enough for both of us.
Katee Robert (Desperate Measures (Wicked Villains, #1))
Caitlin, I proposed to you at Disneyland, the Happiest Place on Earth, because I knew that marrying you would make me the Happiest Man on Earth. “You are every Disney princess wrapped up into one woman: “You have Snow White’s gentle compassion for others; “Cinderella’s strength to overcome hard times and emerge as the belle of the ball; “Ariel’s wit and feistiness; “Princess Jasmine’s flashing dark eyes; “The gorgeous tumbling hair of Rapunzel; “The adventurous spirit of Pocahontas; “And Belle’s ability to see the beauty in this Beast.
John Stamos (If You Would Have Told Me)
He's easily outshining both princes out there." "That's not hard to do," Jasmine quipped. "A man doesn't always need things like a title or a fortune, anyway," Aladdin said, exchanging a knowing glance with Jasmine. "I learned that in a roundabout way.
Alexandra Monir (Realm of Wonders (The Queen’s Council, #3))
Especially because you have the most important quality of a sultana, at least in my mind." "And what is that?" Jasmine asked, mentally running through the key words from her coronation vows. Noble descent, innate worth, wisdom, justice. "Your kindness," Nadia answered. "The fact that you don't look down on anyone. I know of no other princess or noble lady who would treat a handmaiden as a close friend, or choose a man of Aladdin's background as a future husband. You see beyond rank, and I know that will make you a beloved sultana." She smiled. "Sultana of the people's hearts.
Alexandra Monir (Realm of Wonders (The Queen’s Council, #3))
And you’re telling me that exact man—whom you compared all other men to—is outside right now hanging out with those damned goats?” I drop my mascara and look at myself in the mirror, realizing what Stephie is saying. “And Jasmine.” “Oh yeah. I didn’t mean to leave out the fucking donkey.
Brynne Asher (Gifts (The Killers, #3))
You Are My Spring Joy Where does life seek eternity? Not in daily struggles or toil, but in that endearing destiny, Where thoughts, pursuits, likings all merge to create a happy existence, Where happiness leaps from every act and every substance. Just like spring flowers that spread joy, To all alike: a woman, a man, a little girl and a young boy, They live for moments very brief, Yet they always manage to delight the heart immersed in grief. They last for a day or moments few, With a promise that next year they shall bloom anew, Leaving behind sweet memories and hopes profound, And even in a moment of existence they live in eternity that time’s snares can not confound. Similarly my love Irma, your smiles, your beauty nourish my existence, You, your love, your endless beauty are what I need for sustenance, My eternity lies in you, and only you, Eternity will be virtueless if it is not spent thinking about you and loving you. I seek thee with all my senses and my mind and heart, From me the reflections of your beauty never depart, And I lie wrapped in them day and night, Without the glimpse of your beautiful smile I cannot establish the brightness in any form of light. Perhaps someday the sun may not rise, And the Moon may not shine , to me it shall be no surprise, But for me living without loving you is not possible, As for the Moon to shine without the Sun is impossible. So let us be like the Sun and the moonshine, Where both exist to create the life giving sunshine and the romantic moonshine, Let you be the the daffodils, winter jasmine, iris, primrose ,and be merry and sing, And I will always be the unfailing Spring, just your Spring!
Javid Ahmad Tak
Gabrielle, my dear, my sweet, my flower, I, the King of Romance, have come for you!” The person who had appeared was wearing a white tuxedo that was different from everyone else’s plaid pants and blazer combination. He had bright blond hair that was slicked back. His eyes were blue. Gabrielle had seen him numerous times already, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember his name. The blond man walked up the stairs toward her, his hand extended in a grand gesture. “My love, you are the only one whose beauty can captivate me so. Please, allow me, the King of Love, the sweep you off your feet!” The blond knelt before Gabrielle and took her hand in his. He stared into her eyes. Why was he staring into her eyes so hard? It looked like he was trying to drill holes through her with his gaze. Creepy. Gabrielle responded to this man the same way she had done every time he appeared. “Who are you again?” The reaction around the room was instant. The whole class burst out laughing. Ryoko and Serah were the worst perpetrators, bent over the table and howling with laughter as they were, but even Kazekiri was snickering into her hand while trying to look stern. Gabrielle just smiled. She didn’t really know what was so funny. “W-why is it that you can never remember my name?” The blond cried out. “I’m Jameson de Truante, the most handsome man in this entire school. I am so handsome that people often call me the King of Good Looks.” “Hmm…” Gabrielle crossed her arms. That’s right. This boy was Jasmine’s older brother, wasn’t he? She remembered now. However… “I’m sorry, but you’re nowhere near as handsome as Alex.” “Hurk!” Jameson jerked backwards as though he’d been shot through the heart with something, though all this did was cause him to lose his balance. With a loud squawk that reminded her of an Angelisian parocetian (a lizard found on Angelisia that sounded like a parrot), he rolled down the stairs, bounced along the floor, and hit the stage with a harsh thud. And there he lay, insensate to the world around him. “Oh! That was rich!” Ryoko continued to laugh. “He keeps… keeps making passes at you… and you… you can’t even remember his name!! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!” “Serves the jerk right,” Serah added. Kazekiri sighed. “I normally would not approve of such behavior, but Jameson has always been a problem child, so I will let this slide once.” “Um, thank you?” Gabrielle said, not quite sure if she should be grateful or not. “Don’t worry,” Selene said upon seeing her confused look. “You might not understand right now, but you did a very good thing.” “Oh.” Gabrielle paused, and then beamed brightly at her friend. “Okay!” Class eventually settled down, though Jameson remained lying on the floor. Students chatted about this and that. Gabrielle engaged in her own conversation with her friends, discussing the possibility of going to sing karaoke this weekend. Of course, she invited Kazekiri to come as well, to which the young woman replied that she would think about it. Gabrielle hoped that meant she would come. It wasn’t long before the students were forced to settle down as their teacher came in and barked at them. Their homeroom teacher, a stern-looking man with neatly combed gray hair named Mr. Sanchez, took one look at Jameson, sighed, and then said, “Does anyone want to explain why Mr. Truante is lying unconscious on the floor?
Brandon Varnell (A Most Unlikely Hero, Vol. 6 (A Most Unlikely Hero, #6))
Each glare demanding an apology an explanation for something I did not do. That afternoon, I walk home from school because we do not have play practice and I notice a man who is standing on the corner waiting for the bus. I give him a small smile, but he does not smile back. I look down at the ground, ready to be on my way, when I hear the shoes pounding on the pavement behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see that the man is following me. My heart jumps up in my chest, and it hammers furiously. Go back to where you came from, he says. We don’t want you here.
Jasmine Warga (Other Words for Home)
and for a moment I freeze, unsure I actually heard what I heard. I want to say something to make this man understand that he has no reason to be afraid of me, to hate me, but all I manage to do is walk away. The ringing in my ears stays for a little while, dulling from a sharp scream to a softer echo. I walk up the hill toward what is now my home. That’s when I hear a familiar voice. Jude!
Jasmine Warga (Other Words for Home)
It is hard to find a monologue, it is hard to find a place where my favorite actresses are allowed to speak without a man interrupting them before their full thought has been spoken.
Jasmine Warga (Other Words for Home)
I have just taught Soli to make borscht! Yesterday I bought beets with big, glossy leaves still caked with wet soil. Naneh washed them in the tub until her arthritis flared, but she's promised to make dolmas with the leaves. After we closed Soli tucked the beets under coals and roasted them all night. When I woke up I smelled caramel and winter and smoke. It made me so hungry, I peeled a hot, slippery one for breakfast and licked the ashes and charred juices off with my burnt fingertips. Noor, bruised from betrayal, remembered borscht, remembered stirring sour cream into the broth and making pink paisley shapes with the tip of her spoon, always surprised by the first tangy taste, each time anticipating sweetness. Her mother had called it a soup for the brokenhearted. She marveled at her father's enthusiasm for borscht, when for thirty years each day had been a struggle. Another man would've untied his apron long ago and left the country for a softer life, but not Zod. He would not walk away from his courtyard with its turquoise fountain and rose-colored tables beneath the shade of giant mulberry trees, nor the gazebo, now overgrown with jasmine, where an orchestra once played and his wife sang into the summer nights.
Donia Bijan (The Last Days of Café Leila)
He was there for you, Jasmin. The man was damn near pulsing with need, and it was all aimed at you. I’m pretty sure he would have taken you right there, pressed up against those massive windows if Albert and I hadn’t been present.
Megan Handsy (Rescue Me: Book 2 of the Whitechapel Series)