Legend Rip Quotes

My heart is ripped open, shredded, leaking blood. I can't let him leave like this. We've been through to much to turn into strangers.

Cupid is anything but cute. As for handing our hearts, he’s more likely to rip them out. (Julian) But he can make people fall in love. (Selena) No. What he offers is an illusion. No power from above can make one human love another. Love comes from within the heart. (Julian)

Fine, but I’m not ripping the head off a voodoo chicken or drinking anything disgusting. (Grace)

Do it, and I’ll rip your heart out and feed it to your friend. (Julian)

I gazed at the monster and couldn't rip my gaze away. He was... beautifully twisted.

This revolution was a legend in the making. The kind of tale that sprawled out long before me and far beyond my reach. The sort of epic that was told over and over to explain how the world was never the same after this handful of people lived and fought and won or died trying. And after it happened, the story seemed somehow inevitable. Like the world was waiting to be changed, needing to be saved, and the players in the tale were all plucked out of their lives and moved into places exactly where they needed to be, like pieces on a board, just to make this story come true. But it was wilder and more terrifying and intoxicating, and more uncertain, than I’d ever thought. And I could be part of it. If I wanted to. It was getting way too late to rip myself out of this story now, or to rip it out of me. “Where

Ma’am, we’ve met your mother,” Rip claimed, from his well-chosen spot at the rear of the pack. “If she becomes agitated there’s a good chance we will all run screaming from the room.

Aah, woodpecker! Help!” Cedar shouted. “Woodpecker! Girl made of wood! Not a good combo!” “I’ll help you!” Hunter cried. “Here we go,” Cupid said, rubbing her hands together. “It’s shirt-ripping time.” Sure enough, Hunter ripped off his shirt and posed. Invisible horns played a heroic fanfare. Hunter lifted his ax and chased the woodpecker. Which was chasing Cedar. “Aah, ax!” Cedar said, still running. “A woodpecker! And an ax! Aah!

Other dragons are bastards. I moved out of my mother's cave after my mother tried to rip my guts out. Granted, I had tried to steal her Tiara of Clairvoyance.

Da problem with today’s songwriters is, dey’re just ripping off what I did years ago. “Send In da Clowns”? I wrote da same tune back in 1910 under the title “Send Up Some Towels.

My Heart is ripped open, shredded, leaking blood. I can't let him leave like this

The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple and scarlet.

Myths are different than fairy tales or legends. Legends are stories based in history and are more or less true. Myths, on the other hand, are stories containing a deeper truth—stories that transcend time. If you were to travel the world, you would find myths that are remarkably similar to one another—stories of heroes fighting the darkness with the light.

Just when I think you can’t get any creeper, you astounded me by reaching a whole new plateau. What did you do to yourself? You’re twitching like a meth head.” “Went into the kitchen. Consumed any products that claimed to boost energy. Ate a bowl of those disgusting brown rinds.” “Rinds? That’s coffee, dumbass. You’re supposed to brew it.” Rip rambled on as if she hadn’t spoken, which—judging by his herky-jerky gestures—he might not have been aware she had. “Then I drank your last three of those products involving some sort of red bovine, followed by half a dozen vials that claim to bestow energy for an allotted period of time. Every part of me tingles. Quite honestly, I think I could fly if the moment required it.

He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through,

he loved his daughter better even than his pipe,

You, sir,” Irv interrupted, his satchel thumping to the ground at his feet, “are just bothered you were not the first to find acceptable employ. Mostly because, as the women that keep company with you can attest, the only services you provide pay in salves and a burning sensation over the chamber pot.” Rip’s brow rose in mock shock. “How lewd a claim! Lewd … with the faintest hint of accuracy.

Crack some ribs or crush a skull, Stuff down hearts ’til he is full, Rip paws and tails off any poor seabeast, Lock your cabin doors this night, Shake with terror, quake with fright, For the Bogle may invite you to his feast!

The Congregating of Stars They often meet in mountain lakes, No matter how remote, no matter how deep Down and far they must stream to arrive, Navigating between the steep, vertical piles Of broken limestone and chert, through shattered Trees and dry bushes bent low by winter, Across ravines cut by roaring avalanches Of boulders and ripping ice. Silently, the stars have assembled On the surface of this lost lake tonight, Arranged themselves to match the patterns They maintain in the highest spheres Of the surrounding sky. And they continue on, passing through The smooth, black countenance of the lake, Through that mirror of themselves, down through The icy waters to touch the perfect bottom Stillness of the invisible life and death existing In the nether of those depths. Sky-bound- yet touching every needle In the torn and sturdy forest, every stone, Sharp, cracked along the ragged shore- the stars Appear the same as in ancient human ages On the currents of the old seas and the darkened Trails of desert dunes, Orion’s belt the same As it shone in Galileo’s eyes, Polaris certain above The sails of every mariner’s voyage. An echoing Light from the Magi’s star, that beacon, might even Be shining on this lake tonight, unrecognized. The stars are congregating, perhaps in celebration, passing through their own names and legends, through fogs, airs, and thunders, the vapors of winter frost and summer pollens. They are ancestors of transfiguration, intimate with all the eyes of the night. What can they know?

So. I’m just going to rip off the Band-Aid.” Dallas Colter pulls his hands out of his jacket pockets and claps them together definitively. “Diego is breaking up with you.” I’m sorry. What? “Excuse me?” “I said, Diego is breaking up with--” I hold my freezing-cold hand in the air. “No, I heard you. I just…” I start to laugh. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.

But if there was a pleasure in all this while snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood-fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did be eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window!

When you lived in the human world, you had legends of the dread beasts and faeries who would slaughter you if they ever breached the wall, didn’t you? Things that slithered through open windows to drink the blood of children? Things that were so wicked, so cruel there was no hope against their evil?” The hair on her neck rose. “Yes.” Those stories had always unnerved and petrified her. “They were based on truth. Based on ancient, near-primordial beings who existed here before the High Fae split into courts, before the High Lords. Some call them the First Gods. They were beings with almost no physical form, but a keen, vicious intelligence. Humans and Fae alike were their prey. Most were hunted and driven into hiding or imprisonment ages ago. But some remained, lurking in forgotten corners of the land.” He swallowed another mouthful. “When I was nearing three hundred years old, one of them appeared again, crawling out of the roots of a mountain. Before he went into the Prison and confinement weakened him, Lanthys could turn into wind and rip the air from your lungs, or turn into rain and drown you on dry land; he could peel your skin from your body with a few movements. He never revealed his true form, but when I faced him, he chose to appear as swirling mist. He fathered a race of faeries that still plague us, who thrived under Amarantha’s reign—the Bogge. But the Bogge are lesser, mere shadows compared to Lanthys. If there is such a thing as evil incarnate, it is him. He has no mercy, no sense of right or wrong. There is him, and there is everyone else, and we are all his prey. His methods of killing are creative and slow. He feasts on fear and pain as much as the flesh itself.” Her blood chilled. “How did you trap such a thing?” Cassian tapped a spot on his neck where a scar slashed beneath his ear. “I quickly learned I could never beat him in combat or magic. Still have the scar here to prove it.” Cassian smiled faintly. “So I used his arrogance against him. Flattered and taunted him into trapping himself in a mirror bound with ash wood. I bet him the mirror would contain him—and Lanthys bet wrong. He got out of the mirror, of course, but by that time, I’d dumped his miserable self into the Prison.

The two strangers exchanged surprised glances. “The old language,” said the shimmering dragon, awkwardly and slowly, as if pulling the words from his memory bit by bit. “You do know it!” Clearsight said, hope darting through her veins. “Some little,” he said. “Much old.” He smiled again. The green dragon said something in their own language and nodded at the ocean. The other answered and they spoke for a few moments. If they had been a pair of NightWings, Clearsight would have guessed they were arguing, but their tone was so peaceful that she couldn’t really tell. “The old language” . . . I wonder if their continent and ours had more contact in the past. Maybe we will again in the future. I could teach them all Dragon, especially if some of them already know it. That way if any more Pyrrhians ever come this way, they could communicate. It was hard to imagine other dragons making the journey she’d just made, though. It was so far, and depended on finding those small islands in such a vast sea. But maybe she could help with that. Not soon, though. Not while I feel any temptation to wake Darkstalker. I can’t go back to Pyrrhia until I’ve forgotten him. So, probably never. “Whyer you here down?” the gold-pink dragon asked her. “There’s a really bad storm coming,” she said as clearly as she could. “Very bad.” He spread his wings and looked up, smiling into the raindrops. “See that,” he said with a shrug. “No.” She shook her head. “I see.” She pointed to her head. “I see the future. Tomorrow and tomorrow and the next day. I see all the days. This storm kills many dragons.” She waved her talons at the dripping forest around them. “Rips up many many trees.” Both dragons were frowning now. “Treeharm?” growled the green dragon. “Twigheartlots splinterfall?” “But you can save them,” Clearsight pressed on. The visions were crowding into her head; she was running out of time. She couldn’t be diplomatic and patient any longer. “We have to move everyone. All dragons, far far far inland, as far as they can fly, right now. And wait there until the storm is over.” She turned to the metallic dragon, her talons clasped together. “Please save them.” The moment teetered, two paths waveringly possible. Finally the shimmering dragon nodded. “Move all. We will do.” He said something in their language to the green dragon,

Everything smelled of dust trapped in light, cracked leather and wayward dreams. Breathing in and out through her nose, Tella looked down at the Map of All. It had transformed once they'd entered the library. It now revealed an entire kingdom made of books that could either have been a book lover's nightmare or their wish come true. There was a Broken Spine Castle, an Unread River, a Ravine of Ripped Pages, a Poetry Valley, a set of Novel Mountains, and then finally, the Ruscica and Books for Advanced Imaginations. The most direct route to this room was through an area referred to as The Zoo. Tella wondered if it would have books in cages, but The Zoo didn't even have bookshelves. The books all roamed freely in this room as they clung together to take the shapes of different animals. Tella spied bookish rhinos, paper-mache elephants and very tall giraffes that milled about in an oddly peaceful silence. The elephant sniffed at Tella with its leathery-grey trunk of books, while a paper bunny made of loose pages noiselessly hopped after Legend. The bunny continued to follow as they left The Zoo and reached The Reading Chamber, where books formed couches and chairs and one massive throne.

Rip picked that moment to make his appearance, floating through a wall with a pained grimace. “The conductor was reading a magazine called Jugs, which I thought would be filled with antique relics. It was not.

Actually,” Rip interjected, cautiously stepping out onto the stoop. “It’s Dutch for Rainbow; a name that breeds fear in the hearts of no one. Maybe shorten it to Regen? That’s slightly better.

phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness;

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.

In his devouring mind's eye he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and Nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild-ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for on no country had the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, her oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad, deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine;—no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery.

As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends.

I fear I must warn you, if that ladle finds it's way to her lips, we will be revisited by my lunch," Ichabod stated without the slightest hint of a jest. "And mine will provide it company," Rip seconded.

Wha dah heck? Rip! I can'h feel mah face! Wha's happein?" "I... I don't know!" His entire body tensed, his limbs rigid as he struggled with the decision to help her or run screaming from the house. The cup slipped from Ireland's fingers and crashed to the floor, water exploding everywhere. "Oh, Gawd!" I fink ih's happenin'! I'm urning inwho dah howseman!" With frantic hands, Ireland slapped at her face and head. "I can'h feel mah head! Run, Rip! Run!

Brom ground his teeth together, glaring down at Rip as if he were a bug that needed to be squashed under foot. "I would not ask a woman for her opinion any more than I would ask which of my steer would like to be this weekend's roast." "Clearly, his new age thinking is what drew Katrina to him," Rip muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Eleanora's toothless mouth worked furiously, grinding her lips over gums, as she glared Irv's way. "I do not like him," She muttered to Rosa out of the corner of her frown. "He is cheeky." "Hear that?" Rip grinned, making no attempts to hide his visible amusement at Irv's expense. "You are cheeky.

RIP Sir Alfredo Di Stefano. I will never forget each of the shared moments with such a football legend.

the storm hit the back of the house. The roof was torn off instantly, and the walls smashed in. The whole building was ripped out of the ground and folded over onto itself. Josh saw the open doorway close around his mother like a mouth, swallowing her out of sight, and then the whole building was blown apart into pieces and snatched away on the wind.

Before, he could feel her emotions, but now she could feel his. Even though he’d taken both her pain and her sorrow, that wasn’t what he was feeling now. He felt desire. Desperation. Lust. Obsession. He wanted her. She was all he wanted. All he thought about. She felt it in the way the kiss began to shift from reckless and hungry to languorous and savoring, as if he’d considered this for a very long time and now he was acting out all the things he’d imagined. A faraway place that Tella tried to ignore told her this was all a great mistake – Jacks wasn’t really the one she wanted, Legend was. No matter what he did, or what he was, it would always be Legend. Maybe she could never actually have him, but she wanted him. If she was going to kiss one of the villains, she wanted it to be Legend, not Jacks. She needed to push Jacks away. But Legend never touched her anymore. Even if Legend had been there, he might not have held her, let alone kiss her. And it felt so good to be kissed, to be cherished and touched. To feel desire instead of pain. The sorrow was almost gone, and the kiss grew more intense. Or maybe now that Tella was no longer feeling crushing despair or seeing death, she could truly feel the entire kiss, and every inch of Jacks’s body as it pressed against hers. But even in her muddled state, Tella knew she couldn’t let it continue. She ripped her bleeding hand free of Jacks’s and ended the kiss. Jacks made no attempt stop her. But he made no further effort to move away. They were both on their sides, chests pressed together, legs all tangled. The pain and the sorrow and the hurt were gone. But so was all of her strength. She was boneless. Empty. There were splatters of blood all over her dress and her hands, and all over him. Something intimate, beyond the physical, had just passed between them. Red tracks ran down his cheeks, ghosts of tears he’d cried for her. She should have tried to leave. But her body was exhausted. And she liked the way it felt when Jacks wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to his cool chest as if he wanted her to stay. After she regained her strength, she would go back to hating him. All she cared about now was that the pain was gone. ‘Thank you, Jacks.’ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I’m not sure I did you a favor, my love.

Where did she come from?” The brooch he’d given her—such a small gift, for a monster who had once dwelled here. “I don’t know. Though there are legends that claim when the world was born, there were … rips in the fabric of the realms. That in the chaos of Forming, creatures from other worlds could walk through one of those rips and enter another world. But the rips closed at will, and the creatures could become trapped, with no way home.

Though there are legends that claim when the world was born, there were … rips in the fabric of the realms. That in the chaos of Forming, creatures from other worlds could walk through one of those rips and enter another world. But the rips closed at will, and the creatures could become trapped, with no way home.

I don’t know. Though there are legends that claim when the world was born, there were … rips in the fabric of the realms. That in the chaos of Forming, creatures from other worlds could walk through one of those rips and enter another world. But the rips closed at will, and the creatures could become trapped, with no way home.

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country, until age and good living had disabled him from doing anything more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place; so, having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations on my neighbors.

When Hans started to interview the people in town in the 1980s, no one seemed to remember anything. Everyone was 'working in the fields,' 'out of town,' or otherwise busy when someone switched off the town's main fuse one night and the Jews' windows were smashed with stones under cover of darkness; when the Jews were forced to submerge in the water; when the short circuit ripped through the synagogue; and when 'the people were loaded onto a lorry and brought to an unknown place.' Over time, fragmentary stories, photographs, and documents rose back to the surface like bloated corpses. Memories turned into legends, and sometimes, legends turned into memories.

It’s a classic scam.” “Classic or classless?” Hardison said. “Ripping off old people for the simple crime of trusting you doesn’t seem like much of a challenge.” “Aren’t we a little out of this guy’s league?” Parker said, blunt as ever. “The man’s out to rob these comic-book legends of the last things they want to get rid of,” Hardison said. “They gave the world some of its finest heroes. Saving them’s the least we can do.

He led the USFL with 28 sacks for 199 yards lost (both professional football records), but also led in manic mayhem. Early on during training camp, Corker—nicknamed Sack Man—gathered the team in a circle and guided the Panthers in prayer. “He started praying like a Baptist black preacher,” said Dave Tipton, a defensive tackle, “and I thought, Wow, Corker must walk with the Lord.” Not quite. Blessed with the world’s largest penis, Corker never shied away from showing it off to fellow Panthers. “The biggest johnson in the USFL,” said Matt Braswell, the team’s center. “We had women reporters come into the locker room, and Corker would position himself so he was in full view of any females. He had this vat of Nivea skin cream, and he would just make sure to completely rub it and moisturize it.” Corker operated on a clock that required only two to three hours of sleep per night, and was powered by the dual fuels of alcohol and cocaine. He kept a gun in his car’s glove compartment, missed as many meetings as he attended, and proudly pasted his pay stubs to his locker, so that teammates could marvel at the money he was being docked. Once, Hebert drove with Corker from Pontiac to Detroit for a promotional appearance. It was snowing outside, the roads were slippery—“and Corker was driving, smoking one joint after another,” said Hebert. “We both walked in reeking of pot.” In a USFL urban legend that actually checks out, Corker was once found naked on the ice at Joe Louis Arena in the early-morning hours. He had passed out, and spent so much time on the cold surface that some of his skin had to be ripped off. “That,” said Bentley, “surprised none of us.

Apple smiled at Hunter. And then—yes—she batted her eyelashes. He put a fist on his hip. “Of course! I—” “But no shirt-ripping, if you please,” Raven said. “Just the chopping.

salivating wolf was in hot pursuit of Lizzie Hearts, who kept shouting, “Off with its head! Off with its head!” “I’ll help you!” Hunter rushed toward Lizzie Hearts, pausing first to rip off his shirt, place his fists on his hips, and strike a bold pose. Out of nowhere, trumpets played a heroic fanfare. “Oh!” Cupid said in surprise. The winged, pink-haired girl had transferred to the school just that year. “I didn’t realize there would be so much trumpeting and tearing of shirts at Ever After High.” “Hunter does that,” Raven whispered to Cupid. “The shirt thing. We’re not really sure why.