Lighter Flame Quotes

I was only kidding about the hundred," she says. oh," I say, "what will it cost me?" she lights her cigarette with my lighter and looks at me through the flame: her eyes tell me. look," I say, "I don't think I can ever pay that price again.

I believe it was Shakespeare, or possibly Howard Cosell, who first observed that marriage is very much like a birthday candle, in that 'the flames of passion burn brightest when the wick of intimacy is first ignited by the disposable butane lighter of physical attraction, but sooner or later the heat of familiarity causes the wax of boredom to drip all over the vanilla frosting of novelty and the shredded coconut of romance.' I could not have phrased it better myself.

I’m reminded of Orville Tethington, inventor of the world’s first steam-powered fog machine. He’s also the guy who, after the Germans invented the flame thrower in WWI, decided to counteract it with his own creation, the candle thrower. The candle thrower was only battle tested once, and after fifteen minutes the war zone was littered with lit candles. Upon returning home after the war, some of the soldiers suffered such extreme and bizarre cases of PTSD that anytime a civilian lit a match or used their lighter, the soldiers would hit the ground and start singing “Happy Birthday.

Stepping back, Anika smiled at her prisoners and clicked open the Zippo. Its flame hopped to life. Wasting no time, she underhand-tossed the lighter through the air. It hit the middle of its target, and the banner exploded into flames. 

Many years ago, when I used to smoke, my lighter was often easier to find than my scissors. If I couldn't find the scissors, or was feeling too lazy to get up, I used the lighter to burn the yarn in one place to break it. Other than the smell, this worked fairly well. Later, when I found my scissors, I would cut off the little charred bits. One day, I was knitting a cotton facecloth and needed to cut the end. I flicked my lighter, expecting to singe the one spot, thus breaking the yarn. I will remember that cotton is highly flammable, and that the knitting Fates punish laziness. I will also remember that a flaming facecloth can be extinguished with a cup of coffee...in a pinch.

Fred had trocharised a bloated cow and the farmer had been so impressed by the pent up gas hissing from the abdomen that Fred had got carried away and applied his cigarette lighter to the canula. A roaring sheet of flame had swept on to some straw bales and burned the byre to the ground.

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.

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.

Howdy, ma'am. You always talk to yourself?” Velia glanced up into bright eyes, as blue as the flame on a cigarette lighter, belonging to a man standing in front of her desk wearing a cowboy hat tipped back on his head.

My dad got me my first bow for Christmas, when I was ten. But he took it away before New Year’s.” “Did you shoot someone?” “He caught me soaking arrows in lighter fluid. I just really, really wanted to shoot a flaming arrow at something. It didn’t matter what. Still do. I feel like that would complete me: to see a burning arrow go thwock into something and set it afire. I suppose it’s how men feel when they imagine sinking balls-deep into the perfect piece of ass. I just want one sexy little thwock.” John

THUNDERCLAN LEADER FIRESTAR—ginger tom with a flame-coloured pelt DEPUTY GREYSTRIPE—long-haired grey tom MEDICINE CAT CINDERPELT—dark grey she-cat APPRENTICE, LEAFPAW WARRIORS (toms, and she-cats without kits)   MOUSEFUR—small dusky brown she-cat APPRENTICE, SPIDERPAW   DUSTPELT—dark brown tabby tom APPRENTICE, SQUIRRELPAW   SANDSTORM—pale ginger she-cat APPRENTICE, SORRELPAW   CLOUDTAIL—long-haired white tom   BRACKENFUR—golden brown tabby tom APPRENTICE, WHITEPAW   THORNCLAW—golden brown tabby tom APPRENTICE, SHREWPAW   BRIGHTHEART—white she-cat with ginger patches   BRAMBLECLAW—dark brown tabby tom with amber eyes   ASHFUR—pale grey (with darker flecks) tom, dark blue eyes   RAINWHISKER—dark grey tom with blue eyes   SOOTFUR—lighter grey tom with amber eyes APPRENTICES (more than six moons old, in training to become warriors)   SORRELPAW—tortoiseshell and white shecat with amber eyes   SQUIRRELPAW—dark ginger she-cat with green eyes   LEAFPAW—light brown tabby she-cat with amber eyes and white paws   SPIDERPAW—long-limbed black tom with brown underbelly and amber eyes   SHREWPAW—small dark brown tom with amber eyes   WHITEPAW—white she-cat with green eyes QUEENS (she-cats expecting or nursing kits)   GOLDENFLOWER—pale ginger coat, the oldest nursery queen

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.

You know, we still have like, half an hour down here. Seems a shame to waste it.” I poked him in the ribs, and he gave an exaggerated wince. “No way, dude. My days of cellar, mill, and dungeon lovin’ are over. Go castle or go home.” “Fair enough,” he said as we interlaced our fingers and headed for the stairs. “But does it have to be a real castle, or would one of those inflatable bouncy things work?” I laughed. “Oh, inflatable castles are totally out of-“ I skidded to a stop on the first step, causing Archer to bump into me. “What the heck is that?” I asked, pointing to a dark stain in the nearest corner. “Okay, number one question you don’t want to hear in a creepy cellar,” Archer sad, but I ignored him and stepped off the staircase. The stain bled out from underneath the stone wall, covering maybe a foot of the dirt floor. It looked black and vaguely…sticky. I swallowed my disgust as I knelt down and gingerly touched the blob with one finger. Archer crouched down next to me and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a lighter, and after a few tries, a wavering flame sprung up. We studied my fingertip in the dim glow. “So that’s-“ “It’s blood, yeah,” I said, not taking my eyes off my hand. “Scary.” “I was gonna go with vile, but scary works.” Archer fished in his pockets again, and this time he produced a paper napkin. I took it from him and gave Lady Macbeth a run for her money in the hand-scrubbing department. But even as I attempted to remove a layer of skin from my finger, something was bugging me. I mean, something other than the fact that I’d just touched a puddle of blood. “Check the other corners,” I told Archer. He stood up and moved across the room. I stayed where I was, trying to remember that afternoon Dad and I had sat with the Thorne family grimoire. We’d looked at dozens of spells, but there had been one- “There’s blood in every corner,” Archer called from the other side of the cellar. “Or at least that’s what I’m guessing it is. Unlike some people, I don’t have the urge to go sticking my fingers in it.

THE COUNCIL WAS NOTHING LIKE Jason imagined. For one thing, it was in the Big House rec room, around a Ping-Pong table, and one of the satyrs was serving nachos and sodas. Somebody had brought Seymour the leopard head in from the living room and hung him on the wall. Every once in a while, a counselor would toss him a Snausage. Jason looked around the room and tried to remember everyone’s name. Thankfully, Leo and Piper were sitting next to him—it was their first meeting as senior counselors. Clarisse, leader of the Ares cabin, had her boots on the table, but nobody seemed to care. Clovis from Hypnos cabin was snoring in the corner while Butch from Iris cabin was seeing how many pencils he could fit in Clovis’s nostrils. Travis Stoll from Hermes was holding a lighter under a Ping-Pong ball to see if it would burn, and Will Solace from Apollo was absently wrapping and unwrapping an Ace bandage around his wrist. The counselor from Hecate cabin, Lou Ellen something-or-other, was playing “got-your-nose” with Miranda Gardiner from Demeter, except that Lou Ellen really had magically disconnected Miranda’s nose, and Miranda was trying to get it back. Jason had hoped Thalia would show. She’d promised, after all—but she was nowhere to be seen. Chiron had told him not to worry about it. Thalia often got sidetracked fighting monsters or running quests for Artemis, and she would probably arrive soon. But still, Jason worried. Rachel Dare, the oracle, sat next to Chiron at the head of the table. She was wearing her Clarion Academy school uniform dress, which seemed a bit odd, but she smiled at Jason. Annabeth didn’t look so relaxed. She wore armor over her camp clothes, with her knife at her side and her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. As soon as Jason walked in, she fixed him with an expectant look, as if she were trying to extract information out of him by sheer willpower. “Let’s come to order,” Chiron said. “Lou Ellen, please give Miranda her nose back. Travis, if you’d kindly extinguish the flaming Ping-Pong ball, and Butch, I think twenty pencils is really too many for any human nostril. Thank you. Now, as you can see, Jason, Piper, and Leo have returned successfully…more or less. Some of you have heard parts of their story, but I will let them fill you in.” Everyone looked at Jason. He cleared his throat and began the story. Piper and Leo chimed in from time to time, filling in the details he forgot. It only took a few minutes, but it seemed like longer with everyone watching him. The silence was heavy, and for so many ADHD demigods to sit still listening for that long, Jason knew the story must have sounded pretty wild. He ended with Hera’s visit right before the meeting.

A brisk wind spiralled down Camden street kicking up debris, causing Jerry Morgan to retreat further into the doorway of Larkins the Bookmaker. He covered the flame from his lighter with his chapped hand. Inhaled and coughed, a deep rasp, the sort of chesty wheeze that came from forty years of smoking his first drag at thirteen years old.

She picked up her third Martini and looked at it. Then very slowly, in three swallows, she drank it down. She put down the glass and took a Parliament out of the box beside her plate and bent towards the flame of Bond’s lighter. The valley between her breasts opened for him. She looked up at him through the smoke of her cigarette, and suddenly her eyes widened and then slowly narrowed again. ‘I like you,’ they said. ‘All is possible between us. But don’t be impatient. And be kind. I don’t want to be hurt any more.

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.

The soft autumn sunshine of hazy gold lay on the streets, but there was a nip, a sharpness in the air that put an electric sparkle into everything. The solid world was really lighter than it looked. There was a covert brilliance ready to dart forth into swift-rushing flame. He felt the throbbing sheen and rustle on the golden light, and his heart sang with joy above the heavy streets and pavements. He was aware of a point of view that almost denied weight to inert matter, making the dead mass of the universe alive and dancing. The nip and sparkle in the air interpenetrated all these fixed and heavy things, these laborious structures, these rigid forms, dissolving them into flowing, everychanging patterns of fluid loveliness. He saw them again as powder, the parks and roads blown everywhere, the pavements lifted, the wall wide open to the sky. The solid earth became transparent, flooded with light and air. It seemed etherialized. It spread great golden wings towards the blazing sun and limitless sky. Air knew no fixed and rigid forms. Societies, of course, were only cages. He saw the huge cage of the earth blow open. Humanity flew out at last…

I met an angel on the rubbish dump. The light from the flames flickered on the bamboo walls and the straw roof, like the wings of other angels from the hut there emerged a tremulous stream of white, vegetal smoke. Silence took possession of the house, but it was not the silken silence of sweet peaceful nights, whose nocturnal carbon-paper makes copies of happy dreams, lighter than the thoughts of flowers, less metallic than water. April nights in the tropics are like the widows of the warm days of March - dark, cold, dishevelled and sad. The meaning of happiness or despair can only be understood by those who have spelt it out in their minds beforehand, bitten a tear-soaked handkerchief, torn it to shreds with their teeth.

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.

Auric Colors and Their Meanings. Ÿ Black: represents hatred, malice, revenge, and similar feelings. Ÿ Gray: of a bright shade, represents selfishness. Ÿ Gray: of a peculiar shade (almost that of a corpse) , represents fear and terror. Ÿ Gray: of a dark shade, represents depression and melancholy. Ÿ Green: of a dirty shade, represents jealousy. If much anger is mingled with the jealousy, it will appear as red flashes on the green background. Ÿ Green: of almost a slate color shade, represents low deceit. Ÿ Green: of a peculiar bright shade, represents tolerance to the opinions and beliefs of others, easy adjustment to changing conditions, adaptability, tact, politeness, worldly wisdom, etc., and qualities which some might possibly consider "refined deceit." Ÿ Red: of a shade resembling the dull flame when it bursts out of a burning building, mingled with the smoke, represents sensuality and the animal passions. Ÿ Red: seen in the shape of bright red flashes resembling the lightning flash in shape, indicates anger. These are usually shown on a black background in the case of anger arising from hatred or malice, but in cases of anger arising from jealousy they appear on a greenish background. Anger arising from indignation or defense of a supposed "right," lacks these backgrounds, and usually shows as red flashes independent of a background. Ÿ Blue: of a dark shade, represents religious thought, emotion, and feeling. This color, however, varies in clearness according to the degree of unselfishness manifest in the religious conception. The shades and degrees of clearness vary from a dull indigo to Ÿ Crimson: represents love, varying in shade according to the character of the passion. A gross sensual love will be a dull and heavy crimson, while one mixed with higher feelings will appear in lighter and more pleasing shades. A very high form of love shows a color almost approaching a beautiful rose color. Ÿ Brown: of a reddish tinge, represents avarice and greed. Ÿ Orange: of a bright shade, represents pride and ambition. Ÿ Yellow: in its various shades, represents intellectual power. If the intellect contents itself with things of a low order, the shade is a dark, dull yellow; and as the field of the intellect rises to higher levels, the color grows brighter and clearer, a beautiful golden yellow betokening great intellectual attainment, broad and brilliant reasoning, etc. a beautiful rich violet, the latter representing the highest religious feeling. § Light Blue: of a peculiarly clear and luminous shade, represents spirituality. Some of the higher degrees of spirituality observed in ordinary mankind show themselves in this shade of blue filled with luminous bright points, sparkling and twinkling like stars on a clear winter night.

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

Carolina pulled the letter out of her pocket and held the corner to the open flame of a lighter before tossing the burning letter into the air. We lay down on the runway, holding hands. The flame burned white, then extinguished. The ashes slowly fell to the ground, drifting onto our clothes, our faces, our deaf ears, our silent tongues.

Why are you friends with those girls anyway?" His face glows orange in the flame of his lighter. "Same reason I am, I suppose." He laughs sardonically. "They're fit, aren't they? Nice to look at? Popular?" He inhales deeply then blows smoke at the sky. "Superficial bullshit. None of us is immune. It's pervasive, the sickness at the heart of our society." He stoops over the bin, and for a second I think he might vomit, but then he reappears with something held delicately between his thumb and forefinger. It's a brown half-eaten apple that he spins like a globe. "There is something rotten at the core of our world. Something broken at the heart of everything, on every level. Think about it. The planet - broken. Society- broken." Henry points at the apple, roughly where the United Kingdom might be. "And us---" he glances at me "---the individuals, two little specks of nothing in all this madness..." "Broken?" Mr Goldfish guesses, filling the long, strange silence. "Totally and utterly screwed." - ppg 237+238

The teenager brought us a small white plate with a square slab of white cheese doused in a clear liquor. He used a lighter and after several tries flames leapt up, surely singeing the hair on his fingers, then died down to a cool, stovetop blue before going out, leaving the cheese prettily browned and crisp. I wrote, Saganaki---scary but fun. "Oh!" I said. "I forgot about the booze, Charlotte. That was insensitive of me." "It's all burned off," she said. "Besides, if I'm going to blow thirty-two years of sobriety and get drunk, it won't be on flaming Greek cheese!" We scooped it onto warm, puffy pita bread. "If I closed my eyes, I could be in Patmos right now," said Belinda. A bowl of cunning little meatballs appeared with its snow-white yogurt and fish-egg dip. Another plate held three plump, golden triangular spinach pies.

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?

had done what he had asked. He had crawled into this tunnel, waiting to jump back out: ‘Surprise!’ Except surprise had come rushing at him, no warning, sending something sharp into the side of his skull. Oscar had sent him to his death. Beyond him and nearer the tunnel entrance, the weighty sound of earth and rocks tumbling made Oscar’s heart thump. The whole tunnel was unstable and, if he didn’t move fast, he could become the next dead body crushed in this narrow tomb. A fizzing sound and the torchlight died. Oscar whimpered. There were no thoughts, only an urge to run, which was impossible, so he decided to crawl with such speed that he was certain he left bits of skin behind from his palms and knees. There had been something clutched in Leo’s fist and Oscar knew he needed it so he pressed his lips together and edged his hand out in the dark until he touched cold flesh. The rubbery shock of lifeless fingers made him grit his teeth as he prised out the thing held in their grasp. A lighter. By its flame, he made his way back to the hidden cove. Chapter 50 Oscar, ten years ago. The rest of the night was a broken-legged bird, limping and slow. Oscar sat in the boat in the cove, too scared to leave, too scared to stay. He didn’t know how much time had gone by when the lights on the water disappeared and a quiet fell once more. Those words kept looping in his head, a piece of string that tied itself around his brain and pulled tight. Dead, dead, dead, dead. The slapping waves smacked against the side of

You can smash a snow globe with a ball-peen hammer and be disappointed that the glass is actually plastic and the snow actually ground-up Styrofoam. • You can laminate anything by winding it in plastic wrap before a five-minute tumble on Cotton in the dryer. • You can microwave a lightbulb for nearly twenty beautiful seconds as it turns in there like a pink comet before it finally goes supernova. • You can safely remove your Helmet and whack your head repeatedly on the drywall, weaving an orange velvet into your vision, before you manage to leave a dent. • You can cover a wall dent by hanging a masterpiece over it and claiming that you need the work at eye level to properly appreciate it. • You can simulate immortality by sticking a rubberhandled flathead screwdriver directly into the outlet and only trip a breaker. • You can ride the laundry basket down the carpeted stairs like a mine cart four times until it catches and ejects you to the bottom, where you strike your elbow and it swells red as a hot-water bottle. • You can safely light the fluff on your sweatpants with a barbecue lighter and send flame rolling over your legs like poured blue water, leaving a crispy black stubble. • You can halt a fan if you thrust your hand into the blades bravely—only when you hesitate will your knuckles be rapped. • You can stick the chilly steel tube of the vacuum to your belly and generate a hideous yet painless bruise, and these pulsating circles when placed carefully can form an Olympic symbol that lasts well into a second week. Of course his mother’s catching wind of any of

Rummaging in his pocket, he can’t feel his packet of cigarettes. He snorts, shaking his head. "Would you like one of mine?" says a man’s voice behind him. Andrea turns around and a man with dark hair and a thin face stands before him with a silver cigarette case open. He has elegant sunglasses that cover his eyes like a headband. "You won’t find these in the store." His lips hint at a smile. "Key." "Dorian?" Andrea asks, a lump in his throat. He nods and his chin is tickled by a gray, linen scarf. "You can call me Ian," he says, putting one in his mouth. Andrea takes a cigarette. It’s white, just like Ian’s sweatshirt. "Thank you." He holds out the lighter with the flame already high. Andrea moves closer to light up and, feeling trapped, takes the first drag. "Andrea," Ian calls him by his name. "It’s a pleasure to meet you." He holds out his spotless, thin hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Ian." He shakes it firmly. "Are

Dad is up at first light. To birdsong he cannot identify, or maybe it's a frog. He nods to a sentry and leaves the camp. He makes his way to a small rise of higher ground above the bend in the river. A low white mist hangs over the surface as if tethered by strands of invisible silk. He wants a minute to himself; he squints through the mist to the inimical horizon, judges it safe enough to light his pipe. From his breast pocket he fishes out his packet of baccy. Hovers his nose over the sweet odour of the soft brown leaves. He pulls out a few strands, packs them lightly into his pipe's bowl. Then flicks the lid of his lighter and spins the wheel. A blue flame sways as the smell of lighter fuel momentarily overpowers the sweetness of the tobacco. He fills his cheeks with the pungent smoke. Crouched on this haunches, he watches tails of vapour rise and disappear. A warm easterly stipples the surface of the river. A noise from behind him makes his heart skip a beat as two large wings soar over him, like sails, woosh, woosh, slow and beautiful. Reminding him there is still another world. He watches the bird until it melts into the trees on the horizon. for one brief moment, he is wholly astonished at who and where he is.

You’re beautiful, too. I mean, you’re hot,” I blurted out. “But I always knew you would be.” My eyes widened as I realized what just streamed out of my mouth, and his grin turned into a smile. “Oh my God, I did not just say...any of that out loud.” “You did.” “Ugh.” Tipping his head back, he laughed deeply. And he laughed like he had in those rare instances when something truly amused him. He did so with a freedom I’d envied. I started to place my hands over my flaming face, but he caught my wrists, holding them between us. His eyes were lighter, dancing. “I can pretend you didn’t say that if that makes you feel better,” he suggested. Oh yes, that would be fabulous. I nodded. “I won’t forget it, though.

Love is dead And we are each to blame When we took lighters over wild flame.

Especially when driving uphill, the lighter the car, the faster it would go. To save a few pounds, some Porsche racers had aluminum fuel tanks that would easily split open in a crash, engulfing the car in flames. By Piëch’s account, four Porsche racers died during his time as head of the racing program, but none because of his designs.

When I was ten we moved seven miles outside the city, out past the Christmas-tree farms and the hiking trails of Spencer Butte Park to a house in the woods. It sat on nearly five acres of land, where flocks of wild turkeys roamed picking for insects in the grass and my dad could drive his riding mower in the nude if he wanted to, shielded by thousands of ponderosa pines, no neighbors for miles. Out back, there was a clearing where my mother grew rhododendrons and kept the lawn kempt. Beyond it the land gave way to sloping hills of stiff grass and red clay. There was a man-made pond filled with muddy water and soft silt, and salamanders and frogs to chase after, catch, and release. Blackberry bramble grew wild and in the early summer, during the burning season, my father would take to it with a large pair of gardening shears and clear new pathways between the trees to form a circuit he could round on his dirt bike. Once a month he’d ignite the burn piles he’d gathered, letting me squeeze the lighter fluid onto their bases, and we’d admire his handiwork as the six-foot bonfires went up in flames.

Where is she now?” Sasa demanded, flame warming—paling to a lighter hue. “That is why we came to talk to you,” Bryce said. “We don’t know where she is.” “You … lost our queen?” Sasa said softly.

Sasha sleeps as Richard and his companions goof around, play fighting. Sleeps as Richard’s cousin Lloyd bounds up and down the aisle flirting with a girl up front. Sleeps as Richard surreptitiously flicks a lighter and touches it to the hem of that gauzy white skirt. Wait. In a moment, Sasha will wake inside a ball of flame and begin to scream. In a moment, everything will be set in motion. Taken by ambulance to a San Francisco burn unit, Sasha will spend the next three and a half weeks undergoing multiple surgeries to treat second- and third-degree burns running from calf to thigh. Arrested at school the following day, Richard will be charged with two felonies, each with a hate-crime clause that will add time to his sentence if he is convicted. Citing the severity of the crime, the district attorney will charge him as an adult, stripping him of the protections normally given to juveniles. Before the week is out, he will be facing the possibility of life imprisonment. But none of that has happened yet. For now, both teenagers are just taking the bus home from school. Surely it’s not too late to stop things from going wrong. There must be some way to wake Sasha. Divert Richard. Get the driver to stop the bus. There must be something you can do.

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.

My fingers itch to grab my lighter, to burn his house down with him in it until I hear his screams. Fuck, I can almost taste the fear, feel the flames licking me—my cock hardens in my trousers at the image.

Right in the middle of a Stevie Wonder concert, right in the middle of this musical trance, this electronic night with thousands in the stadium, a night worthy of Metropolis with the thousands of cerebro-motor slaves gyrating to the rhythm of synthesizers and all the lighter flames serving as a luminous ovation - a new ritual worthy of the catacombs - I feel a total coldness, complete indifference to this faked music, without the slightest melodic phrase, music of a pitiless technicity. Everything is both visceral and coded at the same time. A strictly regulated release, a cold ceremonial, very far in human terms from its own musical savagery, which is merely that of technology. Only the visual impact remains, the spectacle of the crowd and its phYSical idolatry, particularly as the idol is blind and directs the whole thing with his dead eyes, exiled from the world and its tumult, but absorbing it all like an animal. The same air of sacredness as with Borges. The same translucidity of the blind, who enjoy the benefits of the silence of light and therefore of blackmail by lucidity. But modern idolatry is not easily accepted; the bodies stay clenched. Technicity wins out over frenzy in the new metropolitan nights. Growing old is not the approach of a biological term. It is the ever lengthening spiral which distances you from the physical and intellectual openness of your youth. Eventually, the spiral becomes so long that all chance of return is lost. The parabola becomes eccentric, and the peak of one's life-curve gets lost in space. Simultaneously the echo of pleasures in time becomes shorter. One ceases to find pleasure in pleasure. Things live on in nostalgia, and their echo becomes that of a previous life. This is the second mirror phase, and the beginning of the third age.

Rankin lit a cigarette with a handsome gold lighter, stared into the flame for a moment as if it might provide a clue to the origins of the explosion, and then said, ‘What do you think,

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.

Debriding: Deeply imbedded, visible debris not removed by irrigation may be removed carefully with forceps (tweezers) sterilized by either boiling or with an open flame, such as a match or lighter. Carbon (the black stuff) left on forceps after holding them in an open flame is sterile. Removal of visible debris from a wound and/or dead skin from around a wound is called debridement. When the protective layers of the epidermis are opened, the superficial dermal cells dry out and die. These dead cells, together with serum, the watery portion of blood that seeps from the wound, form the familiar eschar (scab). Although wounds heal beneath scabs, the application of occlusive wound dressings, after thorough cleaning, prevents the formation of an eschar by keeping the dermis moist with fluids from the patient’s body, speeding the growth of new skin and wound healing. After closing and/or dressing a deep wound on an extremity, immobilization by splinting reduces lymphatic flow and the spread of microorganisms. Elevation of the extremity decreases swelling. Both measures reduce the likelihood of wound complications and should be employed whenever possible. Prophylactic antibiotics are not indicated for most wounds. Many authorities would recommend antibiotics for wounds involving tendons, particularly of the hand, bones, or joint spaces, as well as for wounds heavily contaminated with saliva, feces, or soil containing large amounts of organic material. If antibiotics are used, they should be started as soon as possible after the injury, and a broad-spectrum agent should be chosen. Antibiotics require a prescription, and a physician should be consulted well before you start a wilderness trip. Follow the physician’s instructions precisely when using antibiotics. Note: Antibiotics should never be considered a substitute for a vigorous wound cleaning.

1 It was early December. The streets of Milan glistened with Christmas decorations, with people coming and going carefree, carrying elegant shopping bags. It was past eight, and several minutes earlier I had closed behind me the door of Passerella, the modelling agency I ran. I had let my assistant, Giovanni, file the photos of the new faces we had initially chosen for Dante’s summer collection. He was an up-and-coming designer. The minute I walked down Monte Napoleone, one of the city’s most commercial streets, the chilly air forced me to wrap up well in my brand new light green coat. An original piece of cashmere, the five letters embossed on its lapel making it even more precious in that cold weather. My fingers contentedly groped for the word “Prada” before I stuck my hand into its warm pocket, while clutching my favourite handbag tight. A huge red ostrich Hermes where you could find cosmetics, scarves, and accessories, which I could use throughout the day, giving a different twist to my appearance. I wanted to walk a little bit to let off steam. My job may have been pleasant as it had to do with the world’s most beautiful creatures, men and women, but it wasn’t without its tensions. Models went to and fro, trade representatives looking for new faces, endless castings, phone calls, text messages, tailors, photographers, reports from my secretary and assistants—a rowdy disorder! I had already left the building where my job was, and I was going past another two entrances of nearby premises, when my leg caught on something. I instantly thought of my brand new Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’d only put them on for the second time, and they were now falling victim to the rough surface of a cardboard box, where a homeless man slept, at the entrance of a building. My eyes sparked as I checked if my high heels were damaged. On the face of it, they were intact. But that wasn’t enough for me. I found a lighter, and tried to check their red leather in the dim light. Why should the same thing happen over and over again every time I buy new shoes? I wondered and walked on, cursing. Why had that bloke chosen that specific spot to sleep, and why had I headed for his damn cardboard box! As I held my lighter, my angry gaze fell on the man who was covered with an impermeable piece of nylon, and carried on sleeping. He looked so vulnerable out in the cold that I didn’t dare rouse him from his sleep. After all, how could I hold him responsible in this state? I quickened my gait. Bella was waiting for me to start our night out with a drink and supper at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the imposing arcade with a dome made of glass, its ambience warm and romantic. Bella’s office was nearby, and that meeting place was convenient for both of us. That’s where we made up our minds about how to spend the night.I walked several metres down the road, but something made me stop short. I wanted to have a second look at that man. I retraced my steps. He was a young man who, despite his state, seemed so out of place. His unkempt hair and unshaven face didn’t let me see anything else but his profile, which reminded of an ancient Greek statue, with pronounced cheekbones and a chiselled nose. This second time, he must have sensed me over him. The man’s body budged, and he eyed me without making me out, dazzled by the lighter flame. As soon as I realised what I had done, I took to my heels. What had made me go back? Maybe, the sense of guilt I felt inside my warm Prada coat, maybe, the compassion I had to show as Christmas was just around the corner. All I knew was that a small bell jingled within, and I obeyed it. I walked faster, as if to escape from every thought. As I left, I stuck my hand in my bag, and got hold of my mobile. My secretary’s voice on the other end of the line sounded heavy and imposing. Giovanni wasn’t the embodiment of “macho” man, but he had all it takes to be the perfect male. Having chosen to quit modelling, he still looked gorgeous at the age of

I met someone. I think I’m in love. She’s tiny and cute. You would like her. I told her all about you. She’s…” Here, he lights a cigarette. I hear the all-too-familiar sound of his lighter over the phone. The blue-green flame. “She really puts me at ease. It’s different than when I’m with you. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I had a problem with you. Not at all. It’s just that, with her, I never feel anxious about what I’m supposed to do next. I could never cheat on someone like her.

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.