Lighter Fire Quotes

She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, it's long blade gleaming as if he'd been secretly polishing and caring for it these months. And when she grasped the dagger, it's weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into her very core of her, and said, 'Fireheart'.

Yippee. I’ve been promoted from fire lighter to delivery boy. I’ll write a letter home to Mother. She’ll be so pleased.

I understand her immediately. She is an instigator, a fire starter, an accelerant of a human being, throwing herself into the middle of a crowd and lighting it up. She is fucking lighter fluid.

Fire         i   The morning you were made to leave she sat on the front steps, dress tucked between her thighs, a packet of Marlboro Lights near her bare feet, painting her nails until the polish curdled. Her mother phoned–   What do you mean he hit you? Your father hit me all the time but I never left him. He pays the bills and he comes home at night, what more do you want?   Later that night she picked the polish off with her front teeth until the bed you shared for seven years seemed speckled with glitter and blood.       ii   On the drive to the hotel, you remember “the funeral you went to as a little boy, double burial for a couple who burned to death in their bedroom. The wife had been visited by her husband’s lover, a young and beautiful woman who paraded her naked body in the couple’s kitchen, lifting her dress to expose breasts mottled with small fleshy marks, a back sucked and bruised, then dressed herself and walked out of the front door. The wife, waiting for her husband to come home, doused herself in lighter fluid. On his arrival she jumped on him, wrapping her legs around his torso. The husband, surprised at her sudden urge, carried his wife to the bedroom, where she straddled him on their bed, held his face against her chest and lit a match.       iii   A young man greets you in the elevator. He smiles like he has pennies hidden in his cheeks. You’re looking at his shoes when he says the rooms in this hotel are sweltering. Last night in bed I swear I thought my body was on fire.

Before I could reply, I saw his shadow disappear down the hall. I bent down in front of the vent and turned my head, coughing from the dark smoke. A small, red orange fire began to take form. In a flash I grabbed the can of lighter fluid that John had left and pulled it out from the vent.

And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.

I could see the widening of his pupils, and the pale blue fire of his irises. He'd told me my eyes would change too, would go lighter until they looked like amber. I couldn't imagine they'd be half as beautiful as his. He was gentle and self-deprecating and way tougher than people gave him credit for. And twin or not, he was even hotter than Quinn, in my humble opinion.

It's a poem about moths. But it's also a poem about psychopaths. I get it copied. And stick it in a frame. And now it glowers redoubtably above my desk:an entomological keepsake of the horizons of existence. And the brutal, star-crossed wisdom of those who seek them out. i was talking to a moth the other evening he was trying to break into an electric bulb and fry himself on the wires why do you fellows pull this stunt i asked him because it is the conventional thing for moths or why if that had been an uncovered candle instead of an electric light bulb you would now be a small unsightly cinder have you no sense plenty of it he answered but at times we get tired of using it we get bored with routine and crave beauty and excitement fire is beautiful and we know that if we get too close it will kill us but what does that matter it is better to be happy for a moment and be burned up with beauty than to live a long time and be bored all the while so we wad all our life up into one little roll and then we shoot the roll that is what life is for it is better to be part of beauty our attitude toward life is come easy go easy we are like human beings used to be before they became too civilized to enjoy themselves and before i could argue him out of his philosophy he went and immolated himself on a patent cigar lighter i do not agree with him myself i would rather have half the happiness and twice the longevity but at the same time i wish there was something i wanted as badly as he wanted to fry himself

I’m burning all the time. My pockets full of matches and lighters, the blue smoke crawling out like a skinny ghost from between my lips. My lungs on fire, the wings of them falling from the open sky.

Where'd you get that lighter?" she demanded. "Frida," Dan said, closing it. "She left it behind. Remember how she was always talking about outdoorsy stuff? She said she kept a water-resistant lighter on her at all times, in case she needed emergency fire." There was a short beat of silence in the dumpster. "Huh," said Dan. "Except probably now.

The card for the Santa Teresa cybercafe was a deepred, so red that it was hard to read what was printed on it. On the back, in a lighter red, was a map that showed exactly where the cafe was located. He asked the receptionist to translate the name of the place. The clerk laughed and said it was called Fire, Walk With Me.

You take your flashlight out on your walks, right?” Simon asked. “Depends on the moonlight.” “From now on, take it with you every night. When you’re out walking this way, you’ll pass the gazebo, where, chances are, I will be smoking.” “Then what?” “You can signal—say, three times if you want to take a walk with me. Twice if you want to walk alone. that way I’ll just let you walk on. It’ll be like a military code. No one gets hurt.” I laughed. “that’s silly and charming.” “I try. I can signal back with my cigarette lighter too,” Simon said, holding up the lighter and firing off three short bursts of flame. “So, like, if I see you first and I happen to not wish to talk to you, I can fire off two bursts and block you in your tracks.

Dear reader! It rests with you and me whether, in our two fields of action, similar things shall be or not. Let them be! We shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to see the ashes of our fires turn grey and cold.

In the next days it took little provocation for us to flick the flint of our Zippo lighters. Thatched roofs take the flame quickly, and on bad days the hamlets of Pinkville burned, taking our revenge in fire. It was good to walk from Pinkville and to see fire behind Alpha Company. It was good, just as pure hate is good.

Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud, but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hours just wanting to make it through the day. There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through and the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories, but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk tick tick tick me not making a sound and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind, but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine. This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways but you can not let it. I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness, thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire and I don't want to hurt myself anymore. I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again. It will always be spring again. And there will always be a new day.

Duke, you asshole. I want to go to a wedding about as much as I want to stick dynamite in my pussy, drink lighter fluid, and hump some flint.

I’m not your old lady,” I declared. He grinned and asked, “You aren’t?” “No,” I stated firmly. “In my tee, in my bed, after a night where my condom stash got lighter by three, lady. Beg to differ,” he replied.

What?” Ron bellowed furiously. “Four? You lousy, biased scumbag, you gave Krum ten!” But Harry didn’t care, he wouldn’t have cared if Karkaroff had given him zero; Ron’s indignation on his behalf was worth about a hundred points to him. He didn’t tell Ron this, of course, but his heart felt lighter than air as he turned to leave the enclosure. And it wasn’t just Ron . . . those weren’t only Gryffindors cheering in the crowd. When it had come to it, when they had seen what he was facing, most of the school had been on his side as well as Cedric’s. . . . He didn’t care about the Slytherins, he could stand whatever they threw at him now. “You’re tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!” said Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet them as they set off back toward the school.

How do the people around you react to the sparks of life? Are they fire lighters who blow things up, or firefighters who calm things down?

Let them be! We shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to see the ashes of our fires turn gray and cold.

Magic flowed from the earth into me, feeling like life itself. My breathing became easier and my muscles lighter. Everything felt more at peace, and my mind calmed.

If you don't have a lighter, how the hell do you light your fire?" I grinned. If only she knew.

And the moment she relinquished that stupid cliffside monstrosity and the tennis star that came with it, Nina Riva felt one hundred times lighter. There was finally enough air within her for a fire to ignite.

Become nothing... hurry .... dissolve ... end the fire ... Drown in the ocean of love... Disintegrate... Become like water No even lighter Ethereal Vapour Bellow across the hearts Embalm spirits Create Bliss.

She had last seen snow the day she’d left Winterfell. That was a lighter fall than this, she remembered. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me, and the snowball Arya tried to make kept coming apart in her hands. It hurt to remember how happy she had been that morning. Hullen had helped her mount, and she’d ridden out with the snowflakes swirling around her, off to see the great wide world. I thought my song was beginning that day, but it was almost done.

When I turned back around, they were both staring at me in shock. Specifically, they were staring at the lighter in my hand, two frozen dudes who appeared to be holding their collective breaths. “Oh, my God, would you two relax? My one fire was more than enough.

When I slip outside five minutes later, the sun is a white fire, reflecting off the snow so that the whole world is shining. The air is so cold and still, as I breathe it in, the icy freshness of it seems to loosen something in my soul. I feel lighter. Almost hopeful.

Standing at the foot of the grand staircase, Wrath finished prepping for the meeting with the glymera by drawing a Kevlar vest onto his shoulders. “It’s light.” “Weight doesn’t always do you better,” V said as he fired up a hand-rolled and snapped his gold lighter shut. “You sure about that.” “When it comes to bulletproof vests, I am.” Vishous exhaled, the smoke momentarily shading his face before it floated upward to the ornate ceiling. “But if it’ll make you feel better, we can strap a garage door on your chest. Or a car, for that matter.” -Wrath & Vishous

I want you to go out and buy yourself a lighter or a good box of matches. If they are matches, it is nice for them to be strike-anywhere matches. Those are the best kind. The lighter does not have to be a very nice one. In fact, it should be fairly nondescript, if possible. You will keep it in your pocket as a sort of token. Stick your hand in there now and then as you go around and remember: all the buildings that exist, all the grand structures of wealth and power, they remain standing because you permit them to remain. With this little lick of flame in your pocket, with this little gift of Prometheus, you can reduce everyone to a sort of grim equality. All those who ride on the high horse may be made to walk. Therefore, when you are at the bank and the bank manager speaks roughly to you, when you are denied entrance to a restaurant or other place of business, when you are made to work longer than you should need to, when you are driven out of your own little dwelling and made to live in the street, reach into your pocket, caress your own little vehicle of flame, and feel the comfort there. We shall set fires—and when we set them, we shall know why.

Identity, though, is a difficult matter to tease out, especially in a time of flux. How to tell a spaniel from a retriever when all dogs have become middle-sized and brown? Should we go by some arbitrary blood quantum wherein half makes an Indian and forty-nine percent makes something else? Certainly forty-nine percent does not a whiteman make, at least not by the laws then prevailing in our state and most others. Or do we go by the old ways, the clans and the mothers, blood degree be damned? Or by what language someone dreams in or prays in or curses in? Or whether they cook bean bread and still tell the tales of Spearfinger and Uktena by the winter fire and go to water when they’re sick? And what if they did all those things but were blond and square-headed as Norsemen? Or do we just hold a dry oak leaf to their cheeks and cull by whether they are darker or lighter?

I turn to Peter and say, “I can’t believe you did this.” “I baked that cake myself,” he brags. “Box, but still.” He takes off his jacket and pulls a lighter out of his jacket pocket and starts lighting the candles. Gabe pulls out a lit candle and helps him. Then Peter hops his butt on the table and sits down, his legs hanging off the edge. “Come on.” I look around. “Um…” That’s when I hear the opening notes of “If You Were Here” by the Thompson Twins. My hands fly to my cheeks. I can’t believe it. Peter’s recreating the end scene from Sixteen Candles, when Molly Ringwald and Jake Ryan sit on a table with a birthday cake in between them. When we watched the movie a few months ago, I said it was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen. And now he’s doing it for me. “Hurry up and get up there before all the candles melt, Lara Jean,” Chris calls out. Darrell and Gabe help hoist me onto the table, careful not to set my dress on fire. Peter says, “Okay, now you look at me adoringly, and I lean forward like this.” Chris comes forward and puffs out my skirt a bit. “Roll up your sleeve a little higher,” she instructs Peter, looking from her phone to us. Peter obeys, and she nods. “Looks good, looks good.” Then she runs back to her spot and starts to snap. It takes no effort on my part at all to look at Peter adoringly tonight. When I blow out the candles and make my wish, I wish that I will always feel for Peter the way I do right now.

ANA. Stop! [The trap stops]. THE DEVIL. You, Señora, cannot come this way. You will have an apotheosis. But you will be at the palace before us. ANA. That is not what I stopped you for. Tell me: where can I find the Superman? THE DEVIL. He is not yet created, Senora. THE STATUE. And never will be, probably. Let us proceed: the red fire will make me sneeze. [They descend]. ANA. Not yet created! Then my work is not yet done. [Crossing herself devoutly] I believe in the Life to Come. [Crying to the universe] A father! a father for the Superman! She vanishes into the void; and again there is nothing: all existence seems suspended infinitely. Then, vaguely, there is a live human voice crying somewhere. One sees, with a shock, a mountain peak shewing faintly against a lighter background. The sky has returned from afar; and we suddenly remember where we were.

With Tommy by his side but Anthony Jr. nowhere to be seen, Anthony cranks out an old 8mm projector, and soon choppy black- and-white images appear on the cream wall capturing a few snapshots from the canyon of their life—that tell nothing, and yet somehow everything. They watch old movies, from 1963, 1952, 1948, 1947—the older, the more raucous the children and parents becoming. This year, because Ingrid isn’t here, Anthony shows them something new. It’s from 1963. A birthday party, this one with happy sound, cake, unlit candles. Anthony is turning twenty. Tatiana is very pregnant with Janie. (“Mommy, look, that’s you in Grammy’s belly!” exclaims Vicky.) Harry toddling around, pursued loudly and relentlessly by Pasha—oh, how in 1999 six children love to see their fathers wild like them, how Mary and Amy love to see their precious husbands small. The delight in the den is abundant. Anthony sits on the patio, bare chested, in swimshorts, one leg draped over the other, playing his guitar, “playing Happy Birthday to myself,” he says now, except it’s not “Happy Birthday.” The joy dims slightly at the sight of their brother, their father so beautiful and whole he hurts their united hearts—and suddenly into the frame, in a mini-dress, walks a tall dark striking woman with endless legs and comes to stand close to Anthony. The camera remains on him because Anthony is singing, while she flicks on her lighter and ignites the candles on his cake; one by one she lights them as he strums his guitar and sings the number one hit of the day, falling into a burning “Ring of Fire ... ” The woman doesn’t look at Anthony, he doesn’t look at her, but in the frame you can see her bare thigh flush against the sole of his bare foot the whole time she lights his twenty candles plus one to grow on. And it burns, burns, burns . . . And when she is done, the camera—which never lies—catches just one microsecond of an exchanged glance before she walks away, just one gram of neutral matter exploding into an equivalent of 20,000 pounds of TNT. The reel ends. Next. The budding novelist Rebecca says, “Dad, who was that? Was that Grammy’s friend Vikki?” “Yes,” says Anthony. “That was Grammy’s friend Vikki.” Tak zhivya, bez radosti/bez muki/pomniu ya ushedshiye goda/i tvoi serebryannyiye ruki/v troike yeletevshey navsegda . . . So I live—remembering with sadness all the happy years now gone by, remembering your long and silver arms, forever in the troika that flew by . . . Back

Our final meeting was with the Ministry of Foreign Trade. As with all previous meetings, there were several rounds of long speeches, mainly by officials. Hayes was bored during the first round. By the third round he was suicidal. He started playing with the loose threads on the front of his polyester dress shirt. Suddenly he became annoyed with the threads. He took out his lighter. As the deputy minister of foreign trade was hailing us as worthy partners, he stopped and looked up to see that Hayes had set himself on fire.

Where I sat looking out the window one summer night from the fifth floor of our building, and the air was warm and sweet like it is now, and there were the low voices of young couples, their Converses and Air Force Ones tapping against each other on the fire escapes as they worked to make the body speak its other tongues, the sound of matches, or flames sparked from lighters the shape and shine of 9mms or Colt .45s, which was how we turned death into a joke, how we reduced fire to the size of cartoon raindrops, then sucked them through cigarillo tips, like myths.

She remembered something her father had told her as he knelt at the hearth one evening, building a fire. Holding up the cut end of a log, he showed her the rings inside, explaining that each one marked a year. Some were wider than others, depending on the weather, he said; they were lighter in winter and darker in summer. All of them fused together to give the tree its solid core. Maybe humans are like that, she thought. Maybe the moments that meant something to you and the people you've loved over the years are the rings Maybe what you thought you'd lost is still there, inside of you, giving you strength.

Most optimists are not born that way. They are created. When the world asked them to harden, they softened. When they experienced pain, they vowed not to give that pain to others. When they understood the lineage of trauma, they healed instead of continuing the pattern. Optimists are not people who have never had a hard day or a hard season or a collection of hard years. Optimists are those that have walked through the fire and decided that love, hope, resiliency, and compassion are lighter to carry. For most people, their optimism is hard-won. Fought for. An act of brave resistance in a harsh, demanding, chaotic world. ~ Jamie Varon

To Philip, intoxicated with the beauty of the scene, it seemed that it was the whole world which was spread before him, and he was eager to step down and enjoy it. He was free from degrading fears and free from prejudice. He could go his way without the intolerable dread of hell-fire. Suddenly he realised that he had lost also that burden of responsibility which made every action of his life a matter of urgent consequence. He could breathe more freely in a lighter air. He was responsible only to himself for the things he did. Freedom! He was his own master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he thanked God that he no longer believed in Him.

September 22d, when, upon coming on deck at seven bells in the morning, we found the other watch aloft throwing water upon the sails; and, looking astern, we saw a small clipper-built brig with a black hull heading directly after us. We went to work immediately, and put all the canvas upon the brig which we could get upon her, rigging out oars for extra studding-sail yards, and continued wetting down the sails by buckets of water whipped up to the mast-head, until about nine o’clock, when there came on a drizzling rain. The vessel continued in pursuit, changing her course as we changed ours, to keep before the wind. The captain, who watched her with his glass, said that she was armed, and full of men, and showed no colors. We continued running dead before the wind, knowing that we sailed better so, and that clippers are fastest on the wind. We had also another advantage. The wind was light, and we spread more canvas than she did, having royals and sky-sails fore and aft, and ten studding-sails; while she, being an hermaphrodite brig, had only a gaff topsail aft. Early in the morning she was overhauling us a little, but after the rain came on and the wind grew lighter, we began to leave her astern. All hands remained on deck throughout the day, and we got our fire-arms in order; but we were too few to have done anything with her, if she had proved to be what we feared. Fortunately there was no moon, and the night which followed was exceedingly dark, so that, by putting out all the

5236 rue St. Urbain The baby girl was a quick learner, having synthesized a full range of traits of both of her parents, the charming and the devious. Of all the toddlers in the neighbourhood, she was the first to learn to read and also the first to tear out the pages. Within months she mastered the grilling of the steaks and soon thereafter presented reasons to not grill the steaks. She was the first to promote a new visceral style of physical comedy as a means of reinvigorate the social potential of satire, and the first to declare the movement over. She appreciated the qualities of movement and speed, but also understood the necessity of slowness and leisure. She quickly learned the importance of ladders. She invented games with numerous chess-boards, matches and glasses of unfinished wine. Her parents, being both responsible and duplicitous people, came up with a plan to protect themselves, their apartment and belongings, while also providing an environment to encourage the open development of their daughter's obvious talents. They scheduled time off work, put on their pajamas and let the routines of the apartment go. They put their most cherished books right at her eye-level and gave her a chrome lighter. They blended the contents of the fridge and poured it into bowls they left on the floor. They took to napping in the living room, waking only to wipe their noses on the picture books and look blankly at the costumed characters on the TV shows. They made a fuss for their daughter's attention and cried when she wandered off; they bit or punched each other when she out of the room, and accused the other when she came in, looking frustrated. They made a mess of their pants when she drank too much, and let her figure out the fire extinguisher when their cigarettes set the blankets smoldering. They made her laugh with cute songs and then put clothes pins on the cat's tail. Eventually things found their rhythm. More than once the three of them found their faces waxened with tears, unable to decide if they had been crying, laughing, or if it had all been a reflex, like drooling. They took turns in the bath. Parents and children--it is odd when you trigger instinctive behaviour in either of them--like survival, like nurture. It's alright to test their capabilities, but they can hurt themselves if they go too far. It can be helpful to imagine them all gorging on their favourite food until their bellies ache. Fall came and the family went to school together.

But at nights we are stars. You are a star and I'm on the roof, you are a star and I'm eyes, you are a star and I'm lungs, lungs breathing in your air, the air that gets lighter upon spotting the sparkle, the air that gets lighter upon seeing you shine, the air that I write about every night, the one that sets my soul on fire and leaves it freezing cold. I could be a moon, well I could as well be The Sun if I wanted to, but I'd rather be here, I'd rather stay humane, it gives me a chance to feel your air wrapping its arms around me, I'd rather stay human because my eyes can only love dimmed lights, they can only stay underneath your lights, I'd rather save my own light for nights when this city is burning up and you have no choice but to stay invisible, I'd rather save enough light to find you then even when no one else can.

All at once, something wonderful happened, although at first, it seemed perfectly ordinary. A female goldfinch suddenly hove into view. She lighted weightlessly on the head of a bankside purple thistle and began emptying the seedcase, sowing the air with down. The lighted frame of my window filled. The down rose and spread in all directions, wafting over the dam’s waterfall and wavering between the tulip trunks and into the meadow. It vaulted towards the orchard in a puff; it hovered over the ripening pawpaw fruit and staggered up the steep faced terrace. It jerked, floated, rolled, veered, swayed. The thistle down faltered down toward the cottage and gusted clear to the woods; it rose and entered the shaggy arms of pecans. At last it strayed like snow, blind and sweet, into the pool of the creek upstream, and into the race of the creek over rocks down. It shuddered onto the tips of growing grasses, where it poised, light, still wracked by errant quivers. I was holding my breath. Is this where we live, I thought, in this place in this moment, with the air so light and wild? The same fixity that collapses stars and drives the mantis to devour her mate eased these creatures together before my eyes: the thick adept bill of the goldfinch, and the feathery coded down. How could anything be amiss? If I myself were lighter and frayed, I could ride these small winds, too, taking my chances, for the pleasure of being so purely played. The thistle is part of Adam’s curse. “Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.” A terrible curse: But does the goldfinch eat thorny sorrow with the thistle or do I? If this furling air is fallen, then the fall was happy indeed. If this creekside garden is sorrow, then I seek martyrdom. I was weightless; my bones were taut skins blown with buoyant gas; it seemed that if I inhaled too deeply, my shoulders and head would waft off. Alleluia.

CHASING THE NIGHT Trouble starts when I come around Everything’s painted red when I’m in town Light me up and watch me burn it down If you’re anointing a devil, I’ll take my crown Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire I’m already high and going higher Charging faster, ready to ignite Headed for disaster, chasing the night You turn wrong when you turn right White light at first sight Oh, you’re chasing the night But it’s a nightmare chasing you Life’s coming to me in flashes Wearing my bruises like badges Don’t know when I learned to play with matches Must want it all to end in ashes Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire I’m already high and going higher Charging faster, ready to ignite Headed for disaster, chasing the night You turn wrong when you turn right White light at first sight Oh, you’re chasing the night But it’s a nightmare chasing you Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire I’m already high and going higher Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire Look me in the eye and flick the lighter Oh, you’re chasing the night But it’s a nightmare, honey, chasing you

You ever hear about those wildfires near San Bernardino, back in 1999, they destroyed, like eighty homes and about ninety thousand acres?” I shrugged. Seemed like California was always on fire. “I was the kid who set that fire. Not on purpose. Or at least, I didn’t mean for it to get out of control.” “What?” “I was only a kid, twelve years old, and I wasn’t a firebug or anything, but I’d ended up with a lighter, a cigarette lighter, I can’t even remember why I had it, but I liked flicking it, you know, and I was hiking back in the hills behind my development, bored, and the trail was just, covered, with old grasses and stuff. And I was walking along, flicking the lighter, just seeing if I could get the tops of the weeds to catch, they had these fuzzy tips— “Foxtail.” “And I turned around, and … and they’d all caught on fire. There were about twenty mini-fires behind me, like torches. And it was during the Santa Anas, so the tops started blowing away, and they’d land and catch another patch on fire, and then blow another hundred feet. And then it wasn’t just small fires here and there. It was a big fire.” “That fast?” “Yeah, in just those seconds, it was a fire.

Darkness: I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd up, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

A voice: "All right, the lighter. Burn, Gioconda, burn..." A silhouette advances, a flash... They lit the lighter and set Gioconda on fire. The flames painted Gioconda red. She laughed with a smile that came from her heart. Gioconda burned laughing... Art, Shmart, Masterpiece, Shmasterpiece, And so On, And So Forth, Immortality, Eternity- H-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-Y... "HERE ENDS MY TALE'S CONTENDING, THE REST IS LIES UNENDING..." THE END

who cares that he and those Berger boys who make millions playing hockey now once tried to use fishing line, hair spray, and a lighter to make a ring of fire around the lake and told people it was a ritualistic exorcism to rid me of PMS—

The card for the Santa Teresa cybercafé was a deep red, so red that it was hard to read what was printed on it. On the back, in a lighter red, was a map that showed exactly where the café was located. He asked the receptionist to translate the name of the place. The clerk laughed and said it was called Fire, Walk With Me. “It sounds like the title of a David Lynch film,” said Fate. The clerk shrugged and said that all of Mexico was a collage of diverse and wide-ranging homages. “Every single thing in this country is an homage to everything in the world, even the things that haven’t happened yet,” he said.

Gentlemen, we must not allow this to happen if a man of color is accused in this town. Lynchings are occurring all over the country. A mania is spreading like the plague as white men try to come to grips with our presence among them. They fear us, and for good reason. We have more strength than they as we have been forged with the fire of the whip and chains. We must be worthy adversaries and hold our own in this struggle. That is the only way we survive as a race of men. Many among us fought in the war and returned as heroes, but our lighter-skinned counterparts still do not see us as men. Some of our fathers were born into a chained world where men were sold as cattle and herded in even less propitious circumstances into worlds they could not control. We owe it to them to take back our dignity and protect our world today as best we can. We cannot allow one more act of violence and injustice to be perpetrated upon us. We must head off any potential threat by show of force and unity,” Smitherman said.

The book explains – and, perhaps more importantly, photographically illustrates – death of human beings by all sorts of means. Gunshot, knife, bludgeon, stomping, strangulation, automobile collisions and auto-pedestrian strikes, death by fire, and more are thoroughly covered. When opposing counsel says of your opponent, “He only had a knife (or stick, or bottle)”… “He was unarmed!”… ”He was just driving his car!”…”He was only standing there with an ordinary can of gasoline and an ordinary Zippo lighter!”… …I would like you to be able to honestly say, “Counselor, in that moment I knew what he could do to me. My mind flashed back to pictures I had seen of someone stabbed/clubbed/stomped/run over/burned to death. I pictured my mother or my spouse having to identify me looking like that on a slab in the morgue, and I knew I had to stop him.” There

Did I test your patience, my father?” Many Horses seemed to ponder that question a moment. “I found myself short on patience the time you shot me in the thigh with your first bow and arrow. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t been standing behind you.” Hunter laughed softly. “You weren’t when I let fly with the arrow. If I remember, I turned around to ask you a question.” “Which I never did answer. I always thanked the Great Ones that you were only knee high. If you’d been much taller, your brothers and sister never would have been born.” He sniffed again, then grinned. “Come to think of it, Warrior was even more dangerous with his first rifle. Remember the time he accidentally fired through my lodge and shot a hole in your mother’s cooking pot? She was boiling rabbit. The water hit the fire and filled the place with so much smoke, I nearly choked to death before I got everyone outside to safety.” Hunter threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I remember you pulling that rabbit out of the pot and telling Warrior it was a perfect shot, right through the heart. Except, of course, that it was gutted. And would he practice on live targets from then on?” “Speaking of pits in plum pudding, do you remember your sister’s first attempt? Your grandfather broke off his only remaining tooth trying to eat it.” “And swallowed tooth, pit and all, so he wouldn’t embarrass her in front of Gray Horse, who had come to court her.” Hunter placed a hand over his aching midriff and sighed. “It is good I came, my father. You have the gift. Already my heart is lighter.

I lit myself on fire, Drew. I stole a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and stole a lighter, and I lit myself on fire.

Her hands, smooth as jade, seemed to be caressing not implements for making tea, but something softer, lighter, more cloudlike … like time. Yes, she was caressing time. Time turned malleable and meandered slowly, like the fog that drifted through the bamboo groves. This was another time. Here, the history of blood and fire had disappeared, and the world of everyday concerns retreated somewhere far away. All that was left were clouds, the bamboo grove, and the fragrance of tea. They had achieved wa kei sei jaku—harmony, respect, purity, and tranquility, the four principles of the Way of Tea.

I don’t know how many years had passed that I hadn’t thought about her. It was a few months after the death of my mother that her name came to me again. I was cleaning out her closet and dresser to donate some of her clothes to the Church. They always had clothes drives to give to some of the poorer people in the area. Better for someone else to have them than just hanging in a closet or in a drawer. At the bottom of one of her drawers, my eyes saw an envelope with my name on. Immediately, I recognized the handwriting on the envelope and for the first time in a long time, I could feel the tears flowing out of my eyes. This wasn’t no single tear drop cry. This was the big, fat, messy tears that come from memories flashing through your mind. Tiffany did write something to me and it was kept from me. I almost unintentionally crumpled the letter in my hand as the combination of hurt and rage took over me for a few moments. I went back to my bedroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. The letter had her North Carolina address on it. That letter would have been a way for us to stay in touch. For almost eight years, I had believed that she didn’t want to stay in contact with me. In that moment, I realized that the hurt I felt for being disregarded was unfounded and she was the one who had the right to feel forgotten. She must have believed that she meant little to me, like I thought she did of me. It’s weird how quickly your perspective can change when given new information. I held that letter in my shaking hands for a few minutes. I didn’t know what to do. Opening it seemed pointless to me. All it would do was rekindle feelings that I once had and couldn’t do anything about. After all those years, I couldn’t try and reconnect to her life. We both moved past each other and it wouldn’t be fair to her to come back. It wouldn’t make her feel good about herself to know that my parents hid that letter from me, like she was some horrible person that I needed to avoid. She may not even live at that address anymore. She undoubtedly moved away for college. I wasn’t in love with her anymore and I don’t know if she ever loved me, but if she did, I’m sure she didn’t anymore. I did the only thing that I felt was right. I went outside and lit a cigarette in the backyard. I took a deep inhale from my Camel full flavored filtered cigarette. I hadn’t converted to menthols, yet. I re-lit my lighter and put a corner of the letter into the flame until I was certain that it had caught fire. I held it in my hand watching the white of the envelope turn black under the blue and yellow flame. Once the envelope was about three quarters burned, I let it fall out of my hand and watched it float for a few moments before it hit the bottom concrete step where it continued to burn. It had all turned black and the carbonized paper started to break away from each other as I stamped out the embers with my sneaker. The wind carried away the pieces of carbon and the memory of her floated away from me. Watching those small burned pieces of paper scatter across my backyard made me realize that my childhood was over. I had nothing to show for it. All I had was myself. I didn’t even know why I was still living in my parent’s house after my mother died. There was nothing there for me. Life would only begin for me once I found something that mattered to me. Unfortunately for me, the only thing that mattered to me was words.

When we would stretch out and go long, when we got really loud and into it, the dancers would look at us uncomfortably and start glancing at the bartenders for help. But rather than putting an end to it, this one particular bartender, who had a glass eye, would add to the freakiness. He would pour lighter fluid all along the drainage ditch of the bar, pop his glass eye out of its socket, spin it on the bar top, and then set the whole damn thing on fire. From my perch on the drum riser, it looked like a curtain of flame with a madman’s eye spinning right through it. Everyone was like, “What the fuck is going on here?

He’s right. I’ve lived like a ghost. But even after everyone took turns in trying to blow out my fire, I somehow still managed to find a lighter. With that last bit of fight inside me, I wrote my novel. And look what has come of it. A psychopath in the skin of the most beautiful man I have ever seen. One who is torturing my husband as we speak. A bad man who murdered at least three men and was in the fucking mafia. And he wants me.

Part of self-improvement is saying no to good things to make more space for the type of work or opportunities that really get you fired up. Not settling for less is one of the most direct ways for you to embody the principle of self-love.

his silver lighter would be all I’d have to remind me of the man who lit my soul on fire.

Not On Drugs" Shiny, happy, see my world in new colours? Higher fire, fly my rocket through universe? I'm up with the kites in a dream so blue I live in the sky, you come here too I'm queen of the clouds, make my wish come true I sing to the night, let me sing to you Baby, listen please I'm not on drugs, I'm not on drugs, I'm just in love Baby, don't you see? I'm not on drugs, I'm not on drugs, I'm just in love You're high enough for me Lighter, brighter, pick the biggest stars I find And I'm trip, trip, tripping in my empire state of mind I'm up with the kites in a dream so blue I live in the sky, you can live here too I'm queen of the clouds, make my wish come true I sing to the night, let me sing to you Baby, listen please I'm not on drugs, I'm not on drugs, I'm just in love Baby, don't you see? I'm not on drugs, I'm not on drugs, I'm just in love You're high enough for me HIIIIGH! HIIIIGH! HIIIIGH! High HIIIIGH! You're high enough for me... Baby, listen please I'm not on drugs, I'm not on drugs, I'm just in love Baby, don't you see? I'm not on drugs, I'm not on drugs, I'm just in love You're high enough for me You're high enough for me You're high enough for me

I want them to come get us right now.” The little girl drew her mouth down in a pout. “I’m all dirty and hungry. I’m cold too.” “Poor little princess,” her brother mocked. “I’ve got something you can eat.” Kobie’s smile brightened before he dashed across the small clearing to retrieve his backpack. “Just how long are we going to be stuck here?” Wade demanded. He took a step toward the others who were gathered around the fire, then coughed as a wave of thick smoke hit him. “I have important business in Chicago.” “Oh yeah, real important,” Bryan sneered. “You’re just afraid your girlfriend might find someone else before you get back.” “Bryan!” Chelsea spoke in a warning voice. Wade took a step toward his son, his fists clenched and fury showing on his face. Web shifted his weight, prepared to intercede should Wade attempt to strike his son. “Look! M&Ms!” Kobie stepped between the combatants, waving a large package of the candy-coated chocolate pieces over his head, oblivious to the confrontation between Bryan and Wade. He hurried to Rachel’s side. “My grandma gave them to me, but you can have some.” “Perhaps you can share with everyone,” Shalise said. “I think we’re all hungry.” “And thirsty,” Emily added. “Don’t you think it’s ironic that we spent all that time and effort escaping water, and now we don’t have any to drink?” “Actually we do.” It was Cassie’s turn to retrieve her backpack. From its depths she produced a plastic bottle of water and three granola bars, which she quartered and passed around. The tiny squares of breakfast bars and a handful of candy were soon washed down with a squirt of water from the plastic bottle. Web listened for more planes as he munched on his share of the meager rations. Occasionally he caught the drone of the small plane that had flown over earlier, but it seemed to be concentrating its attention on the other side of the main canyon. He wished he could communicate with the sheriff or the pilot of that plane, but his radio and supplies had been left behind in his cruiser. He wouldn’t even have been able to light a fire last night if Bryan hadn’t slipped him a cigarette lighter when his mother wasn’t looking. Gage walked up beside him.“How bad is the slide?” the younger man asked. Web knew he was referring to the slide blocking the trail out of the canyon. “There’s no way we can cross it.” “And there’s no way a chopper can set down here.” Gage answered back, gesturing at the small clearing where they sat dwarfed by towering pines. “By now the water will have receded a great deal, but it will be days before we’ll be able to walk out.” Gage hadn’t heard Cassie approach, but he nodded his head at her words, acknowledging that her judgment was correct. “That means we’ve got to find a spot where the rescuers can reach us.” Gage stared thoughtfully at the steep mountain towering above them. “There is a place . . .” Gage paused and Web turned to him, anxious to hear what he might suggest that could possibly lead them out of this nightmare. CHAPTER 5 Shalise sat beside Chelsea Timmerman on one of the logs near the fire pit. They changed position each time a fickle breeze shifted the plume

He looked at her face and hesitated. He looked up at the canyon walls. Here on the sandbar, it was eerily quiet except for the tinkle of water over the rocks. A large bird made lazy soaring circles way up in the sky, almost invisible due to the angle of the sun. God forgive me, he thought. Then he touched Ranjit’s lighter to the small sheaf of dried grass and threw it on the pyre. He was surprised at the flash when it caught fire. It wouldn’t be long, he thought. I will move on, but I will never forget this place. (from The Sacrament of the Goddess)

They include conceptual artist and “environmental music” composer Annea Lockwood, who created a work entitled Piano Burning. Debuted in London in 1968, it requires the performer to select an upright piano in disrepair, put it in an open space with the lid closed, and set it on fire with a twist of paper doused in lighter fluid. (Optional balloons may be stapled to the piano.) “Play whatever pleases you for as long as you can,” she suggests. To which any responsible writer would add, please do not try this at home.

We're moving in a single file now. Myself and one hundred 'senselessly violent,' bloodthirsty insurgents. I looked around at the camp before we left. There are no signs that almost a hundred people had camped here, except for some ash where the fires had been. I cannot believe this army. As far as consumption goes, it has a lighter carbon footprint than any climate change evangelist.

The single eye of his machine collects the event: this fragile body, which, shed of clothes, is now like a dark sapling whipped about in the wind. The tire is flung around the boy. He is losing consciousness but revives with sudden panic when he is doused with petrol. From the distance, two traffic officers, the ones they call Yellow Fever, watch. The splashing liquid is lighter than water, it is fragrant, it drips off him, beads in his woolly hair. He glistens. The begging stops. He stops begging and he is not yet lit. The whites of his eyes are bright as lamps. And then only the last thing, which is soon supplied. The fire catches with a loud gust, and the crowd gasps and inches back. The boy dances furiously but, hemmed down by the tire, quickly goes prone, and still. The most vivid moment in the fire’s life passes, and its color dulls and fizzes out. The crowd, chattering and sighing, momentarily sated, melts away. The man with the digicam lowers his machine. He, too, disappears. Traffic quickly reconstitutes around the charred pile. The air smells of rubber, meat, and exhaust.

Your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. —Matthew 6:32 (KJV) How am I going to keep doing this, God?” I shot the prayer up under my breath. The stock market had been frenetic, and the global economy was stoking the fire. As an investment adviser, my job was to manage my clients’ savings as well as their expectations. While I love what I do, sometimes the stress of it all becomes overwhelming. As the closing bell rang, I decided to call it a day. At home, I was eager to spend a little time with our six-month-old baby girl. “Daddy’s got you, Mary Katherine!” I swooped my daughter up in the air and smiled as I looked into her bright hazel eyes. She cooed back at me with a big, toothless grin. I could feel my stress melt away as she giggled and squealed. Before long, her happy cheer turned into a fussy whine. I knew this meant “Daddy, I’m sleepy.” It was nap time. I fed her a bottle and gently patted her back until she burped. Then I rocked her for a bit, and soon she was sound asleep. “There are few things as peaceful as a sleeping baby,” I said to my wife, Corinne, as I walked into the kitchen. “So how was work?” she asked, sensing my weariness. “Stressful.” She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Brock, you just spent an hour taking great care of Mary Katherine. God has been taking care of you for forty years! Do you think He is going to stop now?” Suddenly, my burden felt a bit lighter. Daddy’s got you, Mary Katherine, I thought to myself, and my Father in heaven has me too. Father, sometimes even a grown-up needs a daddy. Thanks for being mine. —Brock Kidd Digging Deeper: Phil 4:19; 1 Jn 3:1

The Pikkians were the boat people from the land above the Dells, and it was true that they crossed the border sometimes to steal timber and even laborers from the Dellian north. But the men of Pikkia, though not all alike, tended to be big, and lighter-skinned than their Dellian neighbors—at any rate, not small and dark like the blue-eyed poacher had been. And Pikkians spoke with a distinctive throaty accent.

McNamara’s Pentagon was right on one point. The M-14 was not the best all-purpose rifle for what war had become, especially in a tropical delta or jungle. To compete against guerrillas armed with Kalashnikovs, the United States needed more firepower than the M-14 provided, and in a lighter rifle. It needed, in short, more lethality per pound, more ability to lay down suppressive fire, and more ammunition per combat load. It needed a rifle with which its soldiers would be mobile, quick, and deadly.

She gritted her teeth. “You have experience—you are needed here. You are the only person who can give the demi-Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.” And if the creatures devoured her body and soul, then she would not mind. She had earned that fate. For a long moment, he said nothing. But his brows narrowed slightly. “To whatever end?” She nodded. He had not needed to mention the massacres, had not needed to try to console her. He knew—he understood without her having to say a word—what it was like. Her magic thrummed in her blood, wanting out, wanting more. But it would wait—it had to wait until it was time. Until she had Narrok and his creatures in her sight. She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, its long blade gleaming as if he’d been secretly polishing and caring for it these months. And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.

All my children would be--” Hunter rolled his eyes. “Can you see me, surrounded by White Eyes?” “Ah, that is the trouble. She is a White Eyes.” Many Horses nodded and, in a teasing voice, said, “I don’t blame you there. No man could be proud of a son with white blood. He’d be weak and cowardly, a shame to any who claimed him.” Hunter froze and glanced up. The white blood in his own veins was an unspoken truth between him and his father. Never before had Many Horses alluded to it. Many Horses sniffed and rubbed the ash from his nose. “Of course, there are the rare exceptions. I suppose a man could raise a child of mixed blood and teach him to be one of the true People. It would take work, though.” The stiffness eased from Hunter’s shoulders. “Did I test your patience, my father?” Many Horses seemed to ponder that question a moment. “I found myself short on patience the time you shot me in the thigh with your first bow and arrow. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t been standing behind you.” Hunter laughed softly. “You weren’t when I let fly with the arrow. If I remember, I turned around to ask you a question.” “Which I never did answer. I always thanked the Great Ones that you were only knee high. If you’d been much taller, your brothers and sister never would have been born.” He sniffed again, then grinned. “Come to think of it, Warrior was even more dangerous with his first rifle. Remember the time he accidentally fired through my lodge and shot a hole in your mother’s cooking pot? She was boiling rabbit. The water hit the fire and filled the place with so much smoke, I nearly choked to death before I got everyone outside to safety.” Hunter threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I remember you pulling that rabbit out of the pot and telling Warrior it was a perfect shot, right through the heart. Except, of course, that it was gutted. And would he practice on live targets from then on?” “Speaking of pits in plum pudding, do you remember your sister’s first attempt? Your grandfather broke off his only remaining tooth trying to eat it.” “And swallowed tooth, pit and all, so he wouldn’t embarrass her in front of Gray Horse, who had come to court her.” Hunter placed a hand over his aching midriff and sighed. “It is good I came, my father. You have the gift. Already my heart is lighter.

Thai Royal Police were cracking down on a recent influx of drugs to the country and that the penalty for such a large quantity could be life imprisonment, or even the death penalty. On a lighter note the article did say no British citizens to date had actually been put to death by firing squad, so that was good, she supposed.

Her magic thrummed in her blood, wanting out, wanting more. But it would wait—it had to wait until it was time. Until she had Narrok and his creatures in her sight. She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, its long blade gleaming as if he’d been secretly polishing it and caring for it these months. And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.

You have experience—you are needed here. You are the only person who can give the demi-Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.” And if the creatures devoured her body and soul, then she would not mind. She had earned that fate. For a long moment, he said nothing. But his brows narrowed slightly. “To whatever end?” She nodded. He had not needed to mention the massacres, had not needed to try to console her. He knew—he understood without her having to say a word—what it was like. Her magic thrummed in her blood, wanting out, wanting more. But it would wait—it had to wait until it was time. Until she had Narrok and his creatures in her sight. She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, its long blade gleaming as if he’d been secretly polishing and caring for it these months. And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.

At ground zero, directly beneath the airburst, the temperature reached perhaps 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Everyone on the bridge was incinerated, and hundreds of fires were ignited. The blast wave flattened buildings, a firestorm engulfed the city, and a mushroom cloud rose almost ten miles into the sky. From the plane, Hiroshima looked like a roiling, bubbling sea of black smoke and fire. A small amount of fissile material was responsible for the devastation; 98.62 percent of the uranium in Little Boy was blown apart before it could become supercritical. Only 1.38 percent actually fissioned, and most of that uranium was transformed into dozens of lighter elements. About eighty thousand people were killed in Hiroshima and more than two thirds of the buildings were destroyed because 0.7 gram of uranium-235 was turned into pure energy. A dollar bill weighs more than that.

It wasn't until a burst of hot flame caressed my left hip that a tingling sensation, not unlike magic, crawled down my skin. Ryker gave a low chuckle. "Of course it's on your perfect ass." I craned my neck to see. Across my hip and indeed partially down my backside until it brushed the very top of the back of my leg, a pattern was revealed just a few shades darker than my skin. It was like having a lighter sort of henna painted across my hip in the design of scales. Dragon scales. "What is that?" I asked, startled. "The mark. My mark." Ryker mused. "The perfect match to my scale pattern, not repeated in any other dragon." Brushing my fingers over the skin, it didn't feel any different than it had before. It was just decorated now. My preferred black dresses would always cover it up, but my mind wandered to my closet and exactly what I owned that would show off a flash of scales at my hip. I needed to go shopping. "So, it was always there?" "Always," Ryker answered, a new sort of interest in his eyes. "How does your chest feel?" I rubbed a hand where the thrumming usually sat, but found it was gone. I had been so distracted by the process of being covered in fire and his taunting hands that didn't burn me that I hadn't noticed when it left. "I always knew I liked your ass," Ryker said. I frowned. "It's on my hip," I insisted. Ryker took one hand and smacked my left cheek, firmly on the mark. Immediately a delicious heat shot through it, running straight between my legs where I twitched in anticipation. Fuck. "What's the matter, Danica?" Ryker teased out my full name again, leaning down to meet my neck with a kiss.

The greatest lever that affects your mood is reaction. Reaction to not feeling good makes you feel worse. Reaction to disliking something pushes you into anger. Reaction creates the fire of a tumultuous mind and then continuously feeds that fire, making it hotter and all-encompassing.

Managing our reactions means being aware when a tough emotion has appeared and understanding that even if we have an initial reaction, we do not need to keep feeding that reaction. We can honor the fact that the emotion is there without fully becoming it. Instead of throwing more fire onto it, we focus on observing it and remind ourselves that this emotion will change, eventually, as all things do. The biggest asset to personal transformation is awareness.

The only way to put an end to the burning fire of fear is by thoroughly extinguishing it with truth. Dishonesty is the fear of truth. Dishonesty with yourself creates distance. The more lies you build up over time, the more you become a stranger to yourself. When you cannot accept your own truth, you are moving in the opposite direction of self-awareness. When lies suffuse your mind, life becomes opaque and the right actions you need to take to ease your inner tension become difficult to decipher. The lies you tell yourself will also manifest as a lack of depth in your relationships. A deep connection with another being is not possible if you are deeply disconnected from yourself.

Only it’s not Trevor. It’s the bear. Huge. Powerful, healthy, and strong. Every bit as big as I’d imagined. The bear swings its massive head from side to side and chuffs and takes a step toward my sister. I want to let it kill her for all she’s done. But I am not my sister. I point. “Behind you. The bear. It’s come back.” Diana smiles her disbelief. “I’m serious. Look.” She turns. The bear rears up on its hind legs and paws the air, then drops to all fours and chuffs. She shoots. It stands up on its hind legs and claws at its chest and roars. Drops to all fours and keeps coming. Diana shoots again. Still the bear keeps coming. I don’t understand. She killed White Bear with two well-placed shots from my Remington, yet multiple shots fired from a rifle that’s larger and more powerful won’t bring this bear down. I watch, utterly riveted, as the bear who should have been dead continues to run toward my sister. Its fur becomes lighter and lighter. Diana shoots again and again. Yet the bear keeps coming. By the time it leaps onto my sister and sinks its teeth into her throat, the bear is completely white. I cover my eyes. Wait for her scream. Instead, a raven calls. I open my eyes. The bear is not white. My sister is not dead. It’s an illusion. Another vision. A trick of the light. There’s only me, one very dead black bear, and my sister shooting like a madwoman into its carcass. I dive for Charlotte’s rifle without thinking and flatten myself behind her body and shoot. Diana falls. She doesn’t get up.

Blake smirked and flicked on his lighter, balancing a ball of fire on his palm. “What would I want with a life near the water?” he asked, the light reflecting dangerously in his eyes as he stepped closer to the siren. “Fire’s my element.

A method we developed to shock the muscle was “stripping.” In a normal weight training sequence, you do your first set with lighter weight and then work your way up. But in stripping, you do the reverse. For example, in preparation for London, I needed to bulk up my deltoids. So I’d do dumbbell presses, where you hold a dumbbell in each hand at shoulder height and then raise them up above your head. With stripping, I’d start at my top weight: six repetitions with 100-pound dumbbells. Put those down, take the 90-pound dumbbells and do six reps. And so on, all the way down the rack. By the time I reached the 40s, my shoulders would be on fire and six reps would feel like each arm was lifting 110 pounds, not 40. But before putting down the weights, I’d shock the deltoids further by doing lateral raises, lifting the 40s from hip level out to shoulder height. After that, my shoulder muscles would be so totally berserk that I did not know where to put my hands. It was agony to let them hang by my sides and impossible to lift them. All I could do was drape my arms on a table or a piece of equipment to relieve the excruciating pain. The deltoids were screaming from the unexpected sequence of sets. I’d shown them who was boss. Their only option now was to heal and grow.

Original Fire I watch my daughter build a fire not from a match or cigarette lighter but from the original elements, two sticks, a length of sinew, friction. She has formed a cup of juniper shreds, and when she spins out a black ember and breathes it to life she transfers the radiant pebble into the nest and breathes again. Sparks fly from her lips. A dove of flame bursts from between her hands. She speaks to the spark until the words catch and burn and I think, here is my daughter who is innocent of all things yet from whose lips the terrible and merciful flame flies out, the truth, the fire.

Lecia tells me that Harold allegedly propositioned some cowboy in the men’s room, and the guy had beaten the shit out of him. Which prompted Mother to draw—from her beaded bag—the pearl-handled revolver so small it could pass for a cigarette lighter. She held the cowboys at bay through the parking lot while she wrangled the pulp-faced Harold into her car. Once home, Mother poured herself a glass of milk and opened a tranquilizing package of ho-hos. Then she proceeded to tear Harold a new asshole—verbally speaking. He was bloody-nosed already, and stout as a prize pig, blubbering Mother was his soul mate till he corked off on the kitchen floor. Mother had sat on the counter stool, sipping at the milk and ratcheting up her pissed-off with every whisper sweep of the clock till it came to her Harold needed a piece of her mind. She’d pelted him with a pastry, then kicked him not very hard, she’d told Lecia, and mostly in his big fat ass. Then she got her pistol out again and fired it over Harold’s head, and he’d screamed himself awake. Somewhere in there, he’d pissed his pants. She couldn’t shift him off the kitchen floor, so she called to Tex, who hauled Harold to detox. She shot at him? I say. That’s exactly what I said. You shot at him? Lecia says. So embarrassing.

basic items to start a fire, purification tablets, a hunting knife that had tools inside the handle, a plastic bag that contained some bandages, a tarp, a flint match lighter, a whistle, a local map, a canteen for water, a small can of lighter fluid, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, a small hand-crank radio and some MREs.

None of it was good enough for James Watson. I want my daughter. And then, when we ride out of there, I want that place burning down behind me. You sound like a cowboy, Leander had scoffed, and it was then, as they'd crossed the state line, that they hit on a plan that appealed to the both of them. "Hose thieves," Watson said, with some satisfaction. Araminta coughed in the driver's seat, but offered no commentary. Leander had grown up taking riding lessons; James had insisted he'd worked as a trail guide in college. ("He had not," Watson said, "worked as a trail guide in college.") They'd stopped at a twenty-four-hour Walmart and changed from their formal wear into flannel shirts and Carhartts and hats to hide their faces. They bought bolt cutters, shovels, fertilizer, two long-handled lighters, and three twenty-five-packs of Saturn Missile Extremely Loud Fireworks. They'd paid for it all in cash. After parking the car in the woods, they'd approached the facility on foot. The "school" was protected by a twelve-food-high fence crowned with barbed wire. Luckily, it wasn't electrified; less luckily, it was surrounded a spot close enough to the stables for their purposes. Then James chose a spot a mile farther along, laid down both bags of fertilizer, and started a massive fire. At the same time, Leander cut a hole in the fence big enough for a palomino, ducked through, and set off his pack of fireworks. They sang like missiles into the sky as he made his way to the stables. James Watson went for his daughter. In short order, the school was surrounded by fire engines and police cars.

To make the wax figures and stick in the pins, it is silly, yes, it is childish, yes—but it does something useful too. You took the hate out of yourself and put it into that little figure. And with the pin and the fire you destroyed—not your stepmother—but the hate you bore her. Afterwards, even before you heard of her death, you felt cleansed, did you not—you felt lighter—happier?

I have never eaten fire, or put a lit flare on my tongue. I have never wrapped my lips around a BBQ lighter and clicked it on. I have never taken hot embers from the woodstove and sucked them like candy. But I cannot imagine how any of these acts could have burned more than sipping a teaspoon of this liquor. If hell has a shooter, it must surely be this booze.

cigarettes before climbing out onto the fire escape for her monthly ritual. With a shaky hand, she flicked her lighter to life and lit what she knew was a cancer stick. The alcohol and

I’ve never felt more ashamed of myself.” Another tear drops from her cheek. “It didn’t even register what he had said until his hand was down my pants, and he was… He was already done.” She tries to laugh, but it’s more like a wince. “He jerked himself off with two pumps and came on my leg. I’d never been more disgusted than I was in that moment. I told him that I thought he cared about me, but when he looked at me with sympathy, like he felt sorry for me for misunderstanding what this was, I snapped. I yelled at him to leave and that I never wanted to see him again. And he told me that he would always care about me, but he had to take the opportunity he was given.” “What the fuck does that mean?” I stand up, swatting at the mosquitos getting on my nerves, and remember I had left a lighter in the tackle box next to the stack of kindling. She smiles at me when I look up from starting the fire. “We were from a different class of people than the clients I was working for. His fiancée is the daughter of a pretty big name who runs a huge financial institution. What comes of his career and the lifestyle he wants was solely based on him marrying her. I was a coincidence or an inconvenience.” She rubs her hands along the tops of her thighs, working out what else she might want to share. “I thought he cared about me, and I’ve never felt so stupid in my entire life for getting that wrong.” My head hurts from gritting my teeth so fucking hard. My fists have balled up at my sides, eager to punch the next Phillip I meet right in the fucking ear. I swallow it all down, though, because she’s telling me something true, and it might be part of something I’ve been itching to understand. “How does that bring you here?” She clears her throat and waits a few seconds before responding. “I needed to leave.

I reverently took the weapon from Katia’s hands. When fired at full auto, I remembered thinking this thing was like a ranged chainsaw. It was lighter than I expected. It appeared to be made of gold, but it felt almost like plastic. It was inlaid with carvings of a vulture creature. I received a nasty notification the moment I touched it. Warning: You have a dick. “Thank you for the information,” I said to the ceiling as I examined the weapon’s properties.

A few years ago, we had a family reunion on the coast of Spain, where my brother was living at the time. At his invitation and expense, we had a wonderful evening at a fish restaurant. My brother, sitting beside me, put his arm around me as I studied the menu. Something began to smoke; I felt a light prick at my back, and suddenly I realized that with his cigarette lighter he had set my shirt on fire. I tore it off, and everyone was aghast, but the pair of us laughed loudly at the joke that didn’t seem funny to anyone else. Someone lent me a T-shirt for the rest of the evening, and the little sore patch of skin on my back was cooled with a splash of prosecco.

Vision is everything for a leader. It is utterly indispensable. Why? Because vision leads the leader. It paints the target. It sparks and fuels the fire within, and draws him forward. It is also the fire lighter for others who follow that leader. Show me a leader without vision, and I’ll show you someone who isn’t going anywhere. At best, he is traveling in circles.

David flicked at the lighter with a thumb, watching as the flame sparked into life, then threw it onto the puddle of flammable liquid. ​It ignited at once, the flames rushing through the area like a tsunami, bathing the six rapists and their young victims in fire. In the doorway David watched as they burned, mildly impressed that the men continued to thrust maniacally away at their screaming victims, seemingly oblivious to the flames even as their skin blackened and peeled back.