Liquid Escape Quotes

Here is a moment of extravagant beauty: I drink it liquid from the shells of my hands and almost all of it runs sparkling through my fingers: but beauty is like that, it is a fraction of a second, quickness of a flash and then immediately it escapes.

It wouldn't have mattered if they were scratches or not," he says, his voice like liquid. "I was bitten during the escape from the house." My limbs go weak, everything inside me folding in collapsing on itself. "I was already dead," he says, opening his eyes.

There was nothing to tempt me from the choice of desserts, so I opted instead for a coffee, which was bitter and lukewarm. Naturally, I had been about to pour it all over myself but, just in time, had read the warning printed on the paper cup, alerting me to the fact that hot liquids can cause injury. A lucky escape, Eleanor! I said to myself, laughing quietly. I began to suspect that Mr. McDonald was a very foolish man indeed, although, judging from the undiminished queue, a wealthy one.

This is what it means to be alone: everyone is connected to everyone else, their bodies are a bright liquid life flowing around you, sharing a single heart that drives them to move all together. If the shark comes they will all escape, and leave you to be eaten.

I am his tomb. The earth is nothing. Dead. Staves and orchards issue from my mouth. His. Perfume my chest, which is wide, wide open. A greengage plum swells his silence. The bees escape from his eyes, from his sockets where the liquid pupils have flowed from under the flaccid eyelids. To eat a youngster shot on the barricades, to devour a young hero, is no easy thing. We all love the sun. My mouth is bloody. So are my fingers. I tore the flesh to shreds with my teeth. Corpses do not usually bleed. His did.

globalization is the last failed hope that, somewhere, there still exists a land where one can escape and find happiness. Or the last failed hope that, somewhere, there still exists a land different from yours in terms of being able to oppose the sense of meaninglessness, the loss of criteria and, ultimately, moral blindness and the loss of sensitivity.

En cuanto al poder, se aleja a toda vela de la calle y del mercado, de las asambleas y de los parlamentos, de los gobiernos locales y de los nacionales, más allá del alcance del control de los ciudadanos, hacia la extraterritorialidad de las redes electrónicas. En la actualidad, los principios estratégicos favoritos de los que tienen el poder son el escape, la evasión y la retirada, y su estado ideal es la invisibilidad.

Another tear rolled slowly down her cheek, like liquid pain escaping from her broken heart.

Only by forgetting this primitive world of metaphor can one live with any repose, security, and consistency: only by means of the petrification and coagulation of a mass of images which originally streamed from the primal faculty of human imagination like a fiery liquid, only in the invincible faith that this sun, this window, this table is a truth in itself, in short, only by forgetting that he himself is an artistically creating subject, does man live with any repose, security, and consistency. If but for an instant he could escape from the prison walls of this faith, his "self consciousness" would be immediately destroyed.

The worst continued to worsen. What looked one day like the end proved on the next day to have been only the beginning. Nothing could have been more ingeniously designed to maximize the suffering, and also to insure that as few people as possible escape the common misfortune. The fortunate speculator who had funds to answer the first margin call presently got another and equally urgent one, and if he met that there would still be another. In the end all the money he had was extracted from him and lost. The man with the smart money, who was safely out of the market when the first crash came, naturally went back in to pick up bargains. The bargains then suffered a ruinous fall. Even the man who waited for volume of trading to return to normal and saw Wall Street become as placid as a produce market, and who then bought common stocks would see their value drop to a third or a fourth of the purchase price in the next 24 months. The Coolidge bull market was a remarkable phenomenon. The ruthlessness of its liquidation was, in its own way, equally remarkable.

Vodka was a liquid cultural yardstick, an eighty-proof vehicle of escape from the socialist daily grind.

The sexual eagle exults he will gild the earth once more his descending wing his ascending wing sways imperceptibly the sleeves of the peppermint and all the water's adorable undress Days are counted so clearly that the mirror has yielded to a froth of fronds of the sky i see but one star now around us there is only the milk describing its dizzy ellipsis from which sometimes soft intuition with pupils of eyed agate rises to poke its umbrella tip in the mud of the electric light then great reaches cast anchor stretch out in the depths of my closed eyes icebergs radiating the customs of all the worlds yet to come bron from a fragment of you fragment unkown and iced on the wing your existence the giant bouquet escaping fr4om my arms is badly tied it didgs out walls unrolls the stairs of houses loses its leaves in the show windows of the street to gether the news i am always leaving to gather the news the newspaper is glass today and if letters no longer arrive it's that the train has been consumed the great incision of the emerald which gaave birth to the foliage is scarred for always the sawdust of blinding snow and the quarries of flesh are sounding along on the first shelf reversed on this shelf i take the impression of death and life to the liquid air

the minds of the preoccupied, as if harnessed in a yoke, cannot turn round and look behind them. So their lives vanish into an abyss; and just as it is no use pouring any amount of liquid into a container without a bottom to catch and hold it, so it does not matter how much time we are given if there is nowhere for it to settle; it escapes through the cracks and holes of the mind.

Bubbles froth around his thrashing figure, escaping to the safety of the surface, only to find sudden death once their thin film of liquid ruptures allowing the air to escape the hollow globules. Yet, more form and rush up; a spuming herd of suicidal fizz.

When every link to the outside world is severed, time has no meaning. It ceases to exist other than as a dull memory, a vague recollection of what a minute used to be, an hour, a day. Sealed up tight so far beneath the ground, every single second was stretched out almost to infinity—each one a vast and empty abyss where time used to reign, an ageless aeon barren of significance and consequence. When every scrap of light and sound has been taken away, reality has no meaning. It too ceases to exist, for what is reality other than the cumulation of senses—images witnessed by our own eyes and the noises that enter through our ears? But when all those senses are starved, then the real world fades away like the last frantic gasp of a television program when the set is switched off. And when reality goes, sanity has no reason. How can your ability to behave in a normal and rational way still exist when nothing normal or rational remains? As soon as reality breaks, as soon as we are separated from the physical world, the cracks begin to appear in our minds. And through them seeps the madness that has always been there, flowing into your skull like a liquid nightmare.

He poured, properly this time, even a little heavy. The dark liquid looked black in the glass, and she had to restrain herself from gulping it. Fresh tobacco. Black currants. God, it was so good. She kept it in her mouth for a count of ten before she swallowed. If there was any magic in this world that was not magic, it was wine. She smelled wet hay from a tumbledown field in Tuscany in the early morning, after the sky turned light, but before the sun burned off the dew. It reminded her of somewhere else too, a place she’d never seen, let alone smelled—someplace green and unspoiled and far away, which she knew well even though she’d never been there, just as it knew her well. She felt its pull on her, as she always had. But for the moment she let its name escape her.

He was on his second plate of steaming-hot kidney pie by the time his chewing slowed. And that's when he heard it. The faintest sounds escaping her room, sweeping across the antechamber, and sliding under the door to him. The sounds of bathing. A splash. A trickle. A faint series of drips. It all added up to torture. Pure, liquid torture. He pushed his plate away, propped his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands with a groan. Even plugging his ears didn't help. When he closed his eyes, he could picture her. Naked in a shallow tub. Her feet dangling over the lip at one end, and her head reclined against the other. And all that water embracing her with heat, lapping at her nakedness, pouring over her most secret curves and furrows. He was immediately, startlingly hard.

She was only twenty-three, not even a quarter of a century old.She had spent the last five years living exclusively in the human world. Now her wild nature was calling to her. Gregori was touching something untamed in her, something to which she had forbidden herself access. Something wild and unhibited and incredibly sensuous. Savannah looked up at his dark, handsome face. It was so male. So carnal. So powerful. Gregori. The Dark One. Just looking at him made her go weak with need. One glance from his slashing silver eyes could bring a rush of liquid heat, fire racing through her.She became soft and pliant. She became his. Gregori's palm cupped her face. "Whatever you are thinking is making you fear me,Savannah," he said softly. "Stop it." "You're making me into something I'm not," she whispered. "You are Carpathian, my lifemate. You are Savannah Dubrinsky. I cannot take any of those things from you. I do not want a puppet, or a different woman. I want you as you are." His voice was soft and compelling. He lifted her in his arms,carried her to his bed and tucked the covers around her. The storm lashed at the windows and whistled against the walls. Gregori wove the safeguards in preparation for their sleep. Savannah as exhausted, her eyes already trying to close. Then he slipped into the bed and gathered her into his arms. "I would never change anything about you,ma patite, not even your nasty little temper." She settled against his body as if she was made for it.He felt the brush of her lips against his chest and the last sigh of air as it escaped from her lungs. Gregori lay awake for a long time, watching as the dawn crept forward, pushing away the night. One wave of his hand closed and locked the heavy shutters over the windows. Still he lay awake, holding Savannah close. Because he had always known he was dangerous, he had feared for mortals and immortals alike at his hand. But somehow,perhaps naively, he had thought that once he was bound to his lifemate, he would become tamer, more domesticated. His fingers bunched in her hair. But Savannah made him wild. She made him far more dangerous than he had ever been. Before Savannah, he had had no emotions. He had killed when it necessary because it was necessary. He had feared nothing because he loved nothing and had nothing to lose. Now he had everything to lose.And so he was more dangerous.For no one, nothing, would ever threaten Savannah and live.

When I remembered Stefan first coming for me, it wasn't a man in a black mask or a crazy guy shoving Three Musketeers bars at me as he tried to convince me I was his brother. I remembered an ocean, dark as a universe without stars-black with guilt, despair, rage, violence, self loathing. All I could see was his hand reaching out of the water; the rest of him was buried in a liquid Hell he couldn't escape

Only by means of the petrification and coagulation of a mass of images which originally streamed from the primal faculty of human imagination like a fiery liquid, only in the invincible faith that this sun, this window, this table is a truth in itself, in short, only by forgetting that he himself is an artistically creating subject, does man live with any repose, security, and consistency. If but for an instant he could escape from the prison walls of this faith, his "self consciousness" would be immediately destroyed. It is even a difficult thing for him to admit to himself that the insect or the bird perceives an entirely different world from the one that man does, and that the question of which of these perceptions of the world is the more correct one is quite meaningless, for this would have to have been decided previously in accordance with the criterion of the correct perception, which means, in accordance with a criterion which is not available.

It is the mind which is tranquil and free from care which can roam through all the stages of its life: the minds of the preoccupied, as if harnessed in a yoke, cannot turn round and look behind them. So their lives vanish into an abyss; and just as it is no use pouring any amount of liquid into a container without a bottom to catch and hold it, so it does not matter how much time we are given if there is nowhere for it to settle; it escapes through the cracks and holes of the mind.

A high-pitched sound, like steam escaping from a kettle whistles through the dark room. But nobody’s making tea. We both turn toward the source of the eerie noise. A weak stream of unearthly light seeps through the window near the corner of the room and pours onto the floor. Its consistency seems to lie somewhere between a liquid and a solid, like mercury, only blue. Out of the gleaming, wobbly puddle, a phosphorescent vapor rises up. The ghost we thought was Daniel materializes and looms over us for two seconds before he lunges and wraps his hands around Wyatt’s neck.

My intention, this time, was to transfer a play to the screen while keeping its theatrical character. It was in some senses a matter of walking, invisibly, around the stage and catching the different aspects and nuances in the play, the urgency and the facial expressions that escape a spectator who cannot follow them in detail from a seat in the stalls. Apart from that, I had noticed how effective a play becomes when you have a bird's-eye view from it, for example from the flies, that is to say from the viewpoint of a voyeur. The Audience is enclosed with the characters in a room lacking its fourth wall and listens to them on equal terms, without the element of my story conferred on scenes of intimacy by the whimsical shape of a keyhole.” “L'aigle à deux têtes is not History. It is a story, an invented story lived out by imaginary heroes, and I should never have dared venture into the realistic world of cinema without being able to rely on the help of Christian Bérard. He has a genius for situating whatever he touches, for giving it a depth in time and space and an appearance of truth that are literally inimitable.” (...) “A drama of this kind would be unacceptable, and almost impossible to tell, unless it was interpreted by superb actors who could instill grandeur and life into it. Edwige Feuillère and Jean Marais, applauded evening after evening in their parts in the play, surpass themselves on the screen and give of themselves, as I suggested above, everything that they cannot give us on the stage.” “George Auric's music and the Strauss waltzes at the krantz ball make up the liquid in this drama of love and death is immersed.” (...) “In L'aigle à deux têtes, I wanted to make a theatrical film.” (...) “I know the faults of the film, but unfortunately the expense of the medium and the constraints of time that it imposes on us, prevent us from correcting our faults, Cinematography costs too much.” (...) “In Les parents terribles (1948), what I determined to do was the opposite of what I did in L'aigle à deux têtes; to de-theatricalize a play, to film it in chronological order and to catch the characters by surprise from the indiscreet angle of the camera. In short, I wanted to watch a family through the keyhole instead of observing its life from a seat in the stalls.

All of the combat was stirring up the magic. It filled the air like steam. But that wasn’t all. There was magic in the trampled grass of the courtyard, in trees surrounding the fort like sentinels, and in the moon and starlight streaming down from the sky. It was all swirling down into the courtyard and down into the earth. There was more magic available than Raziel could have possibly taken in. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. Raziel drew in everything he could, pulling magic from every direction. It was like trying to continuously inhale without exhaling. He burst into sweat as his whole body began to burn with the effort of containing the magic. The air around him was swirling, turbulent and constantly shifting directions. Soon it felt like his veins were filled with liquid fire and thunder pounded in his head. When he couldn’t take anymore, he began to force the energy up his shoulder and down his arm into his right hand. Everywhere the magic left felt like it was freezing, but his arm felt like it was being dipped in molten metal. Raziel opened his eyes to find his hand engulfed in a blazing ball of blue light. Hoeru was transfixed by it. There were a few gremlin bodies on the ground nearby, but they weren’t attacking anymore. They were running from the light Raziel held.

She leaned over and the table and reached for the discarded dice, depositing them in a small leather dice box. As she straightened, she felt Sebastian's hand skim gently over her corseted back, and the hairs on her nape lifted in response. "The hour is late," he said, his tone far softer than the one he had used with Cam. "You should go to bed---you must be exhausted after all you've done today." "I haven't done all that much." She shrugged uneasily, and his hand made another slow, unnerving pass along her spine. "Oh yes, you have. You're pushing yourself a bit too hard, pet. You need to rest." She shook her head, finding it difficult to think clearly when he was touching her. "I've been glad of the chance to work a bit," she managed to say. "It keeps me from dwelling on...on..." "Yes, I know. That's why I've allowed it." His long fingers curved around the back of her neck. Her breath shortened as the warmth of his hand transferred to her skin. "You need to go to bed," he continued, his own breathing not quite steady as he eased her closer. His gaze drifted slowly from her face to the round outline of her breasts, and back again, and a low, humorless laugh escaped him. "And I need to go there with you, damn it. But since I can't... Come here." "Why?" she asked, even as he secured her against the edge of the table and let his legs intrude amid the folds of her skirts. "I want to torture you a little." Evie stared at him with round eyes, while her heart pumped liquid fire through her veins. "When you---" She had to clear her throat and try again. "When you use the word 'torture,' I'm sure you mean it in a figurative sense." He shook his head, his eyes filled with light smoke. "Literal, I'm afraid." "What?" "My love," he said gently, I hope you didn't assume that the next three months of suffering was to be one-sided? Put your hands on me." "Wh-where?" "Anywhere.

His eyes flickered with amusement, reflecting sunlight and shade. The rough beard on his chin gave him a wild, dangerous look. Stiffly, she lifted herself onto her toes, bracing a hand against his shoulders. He was steel beneath her grasp. Did he have to watch her so intently? She closed her eyes. It was the only way she would have the courage to do this. Still he waited. It would be a brief meeting of lips. Nothing to be afraid of. If only her heart would remember to keep beating. Holding her breath, she let her lips brush over his. It was the first time she’d ever kissed a man and her mind raced with it. She hardly had a sense of his mouth at all, though the shock of the single touch rushed like liquid fire to her toes. Her part of the bargain was fulfilled. It could be done and over right then. Recklessly, after a moment’s hesitation, she touched her lips once again to him. This time she lingered, exploring the feel of him little by little. His mouth was warm and smooth and wonderful, all of it new and unexpected. He still hadn’t moved, even though her knees threatened to crumble and her heart beat like a thunder drum. Finally he responded with the barest hint of pressure. The warmth of his breath mingled with hers. Without thinking, she let her fingers dig into the sleek muscle of his arms. A low, husky sound rumbled in his throat before he wrapped his arms around her. Heaven and earth. She hadn’t been kissing him at all. The thin ribbon of resistance uncoiled within her as he took control of the kiss. His stubble scraped against her mouth, raking a raw path of sensation through her. She could do nothing but melt against him, clutching the front of his tunic to stay on her feet. A delicious heat radiated from him. His hands sank low against the small of her back to draw her close as he teased her mouth open. His breath mingled with hers for one anguished second before his tongue slipped past her lips to taste her in a slow, indulgent caress. A sigh of surrender escaped from her lips, a sound she hadn’t imagined she was capable of uttering. His hands slipped from her abruptly and she opened her eyes to see his gaze fixed on her. ‘Well,’ he breathed, ‘you do honour your bets.’ Though he no longer touched her, it was as if the kiss hadn’t ended. He was still so close, filling every sense and thought. She stumbled as she tried to step away and he caught her, a knowing smile playing over his mouth. Her balance was impeccable. She never lost her footing like that, just standing there. His grip tightened briefly before he let her go. Even that tiny, innocent touch filled her with renewed longing. In a daze, she bent to pick up her fallen swords. Her pulse throbbed as if she had run a li without stopping. In her head she was still running, flying fast. ‘Now that our bargain is settled…’ she began hoarsely ‘…we should be going.’ To her horror her hands would not stop shaking. Brushing past him, she gathered up her knapsack and slung it over her shoulder. ‘You said the next town was hours from here?’ He collected his sword while a slow grin spread over his face. She couldn’t look at him without conjuring the feel and the taste of him. Head down, she ploughed through the tall grass. ‘A good match,’ she attempted. He caught up to her easily with his long stride. ‘Yes, quite good,’ he replied, the tone rife with meaning. Her cheeks burned hot as she forced her gaze on the road ahead. She could barely tell day from night, couldn’t give her own name if asked. She had to get home and denounce Li Tao. Warn her father. She had thought of nothing else since her escape, until this blue-eyed barbarian had appeared. It was fortunate they were parting when they reached town. When he wasn’t looking she pressed her fingers over her lips, which were still swollen from that first kiss. She was outmatched, much more outmatched than when they had crossed swords.

she was. Julie Hubbard tried to speak but the thick cloth around her mouth prevented any movement of her dry, cracked lips. Only a thin whimper in the blackness could escape briefly before the sound died in the tiny cavity in which she lay. She moved her tongue and felt the cold liquid fill her mouth. Water. Cool, thirst-quenching, life-prolonging. She gulped it down, moving her tongue again to cover the small tube sticking through the cloth, knowing instinctively that this

Plasma escapes containment to displace great gulps of dirt and air. It turns running men and women into gray puffs of instant cinder, then blows them into dust with howling wind. A thick layer of surface sand ripples into moving sheets of gooey glass that flow stickily down flattened dunes, pooling into molten lakes at the bottom. Rolling sheets engulf craters and ruins, encasing scalded bones of dead armor and bits of wrecked trench works. More liquid glass captures screaming fighters inside hardening silicate globes. a man’s or woman’s last moment of life and pain and final scream trapped in clear, golden glass sarcophagi. They’ll cool later, lying atop the desert like huge, ancient insects locked in Triassic amber. They’ll be the most prized of all Amasian death-glass, illegal but kept anyway in secret private collections.

When we are man and wife you will do as I say. You will never speak of this again!” Samuel came forward and loomed over her, his thick breath clouding the air in front of her face. “When you are mine, you will obey me.” “I will not be your wife. I refuse to marry a man who is dishonest.” “I have never been dishonest with you.” Fresh malice boiled in Eliza’s belly. “You said you would not harm Thomas if I promised to return here and marry you, did you not?” “I did.” “So why did you tell Donaldson to burn Thomas’s property after we were married? I refuse to be your wife, since you have rescinded on our agreement.” A monster unleashed before her. Samuel shoved Eliza against Father’s rows of books, their hard covers stabbing into her back just as Samuel’s eyes stabbed into her chest. “If you do not marry me, not only will his house burn, but Thomas will as well.” Eliza’s blood escaped her face and she braced herself as the room twisted around her. “You wouldn’t.” Samuel’s eyes narrowed into small black slits. “I would.” Her bones wanted to crack under the weight of his words and her voice refused to work, but somehow she found her ability to speak. “If I find that you have done anything to him after we are married I will do everything in my power to leave you, make no mistake.” Samuel relaxed his numbing grip, a wicked laugh rumbling in his chest. “You can’t leave me, Eliza. Not after everything I’ve done for you.” “I can, and I will!” Samuel roared and without warning slapped her across the face, causing her to tumble sideways. She hit Father’s chair and landed in a rough heap on the floor. He rushed to her, panic lighting his features, as if it had been someone else who had struck her. “Eliza, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Are you hurt?” A trickle of warm liquid ran down her cheek. He tried to touch her face, but she slapped his hand away. “Don’t you dare touch me.” His face drained of all color and he sputtered as he spoke, his voice quiet. “I’m so sorry, Eliza, I—” “Thomas would have never dreamed of hitting me, Samuel.” She straightened to her full height, breathing in deep heaves. “He lets me speak my mind and ask questions. He believes that what I think matters. He loves me!” Samuel lowered his brow and his tone rumbled in his chest as he shook her shoulders. “You will never speak of Thomas again. Today we will be married, and you will be mine forever and you will love me! As far as you are concerned, Thomas never existed.” The finality of his statement sluiced over her, causing her knees to buckle. She gripped the row of books behind her to steady her stance. “So be it, Samuel Martin,” she said, filling her voice with razors. “But know this, there is only one man that I will ever love—dead or alive. And it will never be you!

Every thought in his head disappeared the moment Vivien appeared and a collective sigh of admiration escaped the servants. She made her way downstairs unescorted, wearing a glimmering bronze gown that swirled around her hips and legs as if it were liquid metal. No other color could have brought out the richness of her hair or the peaches and cream of her complexion half so well. The low, scooped bodice pushed the mounds of her breasts up and together in a display that literally made Grant's mouth water. Swallowing hard, he stared at her while the brandy snifter wobbled precariously in his fingers. He was hardly aware of Kellow tactfully removing it from his unsteady grasp. The short, full sleeves exposed the curves of Vivien's shoulders, while her arms were encased in full-length white gloves. A French silk scarf of bronze trimmed in gold was draped loosely around her elbows. The only ornamentation on the gown was a stomacher of woven gold and bronze, cinched just above her small waist.

Knowing what he wanted, he went after it with single-minded intensity, until a hoarse moan ripped from her and she arched toward him, her body jerking with every pass of his tongue. His, at last. Hunter rose over her, his gaze riveted to her flushed face and dazed blue eyes. Skimming his breeches down his hips, he undressed quickly and took off his medicine pouch. Then, positioning himself over her, he seized her hips and drew her toward him. Carefully and with a slowness that was agonizing for him, he pressed himself into her. As he feared, the passage was tight, so tight that he nearly pulled back. His guts clenched, and a tremor crawled up his spine. There wasn’t any way he could spare her pain this first time. She was a slightly built woman, narrow of hip. He was not a small man. Sweat sprang to his brow. She was as ready as he could get her. If he didn’t take her now, he never would. Setting his jaw, Hunter eased farther into her, filled with self-loathing because, even now, though he knew how much he was about to hurt her, fire flared in his belly and his body ached for release. Her eyes widened at the pain, and the color washed from her lips. When he met with the resistance of her maidenhead, he hesitated, then drove forward in one smooth thrust, sheathing himself in liquid heat. She screamed--a shrill, broken cry that cut through him. The next instant she scrambled to escape. Hunter quickly blanketed her body with his and captured her flailing arms. “Toquet, it is well, little one. It is finished, eh?” She panted, tossing her head. “It h-hurts!” “It will pass,” he assured her huskily. “It will pass. It is a promise I make for you.” She went rigid when he began to move within her, her small face drawing tight. Tears sprang to Hunter’s eyes when she reached up to hug his neck, clinging to him even though he was the one hurting her. He had asked her to trust him this one last time. And she had.

This is how you break down the wall: Start with two beings. They can be human if you like, but that's hardly a prerequisite. All that matters is that they know how to talk among themselves. Separate them. Let them see each other, let them speak. Perhaps a window between their cages. Perhaps an audio feed. Let them practice the art of conversation in their own chosen way. Hurt them. It may take a while to figure out how. Some may shrink from fire, others from toxic gas or liquid. Some creatures may be invulnerable to blowtorches and grenades, but shriek in terror at the threat of ultrasonic sound. You have to experiment; and when you discover just the right stimulus, the optimum balance between pain and injury, you must inflict it without the remorse. You leave them an escape hatch, of course. That's the very point of the exercise: give one of your subjects the means to end the pain, but give the other the information required to use it. To one you might present a single shape, while showing the other a whole selection. The pain will stop when the being with the menu chooses the item its partner has seen. So let the games begin. Watch your subjects squirm. If—when—they trip the off switch, you'll know at least some of the information they exchanged; and if you record everything that passed between them, you'll start to get some idea of how they exchanged it. When they solve one puzzle, give them a new one. Mix things up. Switch their roles. See how they do at circles versus squares. Try them out on factorials and Fibonnaccis. Continue until Rosetta Stone results. This is how you communicate with a fellow intelligence: you hurt it, and keep on hurting it, until you can distinguish the speech from the screams.

the crematorium personnel were known as the Sonderkommando, which means, merely, kommandos assigned to special work. They were well fed and given civilian clothes. They were never permitted to leave the grounds of the crematorium, and every four months, when they had learned too much about the place for their own good, they were liquidated. Till now such had been the fate of every Sonderkommando since the founding of the KZ; this explains why no one had ever escaped to tell the world what had been taking place inside these grim walls for the past several years.

Where there is no grave, we are condemned to go on mourning. Or we become like animals and don't mourn at all. (I know that even some animals mourn). By a grave I don't necessarily mean a place in a cemetery, but surely clear knowledge about the death of someone you have known. For my mother, there was never a day on which she could be sure that the two, her husband and the boy, had not escaped. Hope was like a limited quantity of liquid which gradually evaporates.

A few years ago a corrective report announced that people had misinterpreted the first report. Humans needed a total of sixty-four ounces of liquid a day, but they did not have to drink that amount from a glass. It actually all could come from food. And coffee and tea counted. Studies showed that these caffeinated beverages didn’t deplete the body’s liquids after all. Why, in the midst of this epidemic of grown-ups toting and constantly nursing from water bottles decorated with various company logos, has no one asked how our mothers and fathers and our grandparents, and the entire human race for tens of thousands of years before, escaped mass annihilation by dehydration because high-impact polycarbonate plastic bottles filled with “spring water” hadn’t been invented yet? Our modern minds believed what putative “science” and old wives’ tales in magazines told us and overrode the wisdom of our bodies. WHEN

When the critical temperature is passed, the liquid has been converted directly into a permanent gas without discontinuity. The jelly has had no way of 'knowing' that the liquid within its meshes has become a gas. All that remains is to allow the gas to escape, and there is left behind a coherent aeorogel of unchanged volume.

Now, on August 9, 2151, just six days short of Mercury’s fearsome perihelion, a bloated Sun three times the diameter of the one seen from Earth crawls towards its searing noon. The day has lasted over nine hundred hours from sunrise, baking the surface of Mercury to temperatures that would turn many metals to pools of shimmering liquid. There is no air in Mercury’s jet-black sky to carry the heat away to cooler climes; the atmosphere escaped into space long ago, forced away by the intense heat and silent solar wind. The

Beef & Butternut Squash Stew 6 Servings   Ingredients: 2 tablespoons olive or vegetable oil 1 pound beef stew meat, cut into 1-inch cubes 1/4 cup of flour 3 carrots, chopped 1 onion, coarsely chopped 2 cloves garlic, minced 4 cups beef stock 1 (14.5-ounce) can whole tomatoes, crushed with your hands or a potato masher 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce (optional) 2 bay leaves 1 teaspoon dried thyme 1 small butternut squash, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes 1 cup frozen or canned peas 1 teaspoon salt and, plus extra 1/2 teaspoon pepper, plus extra   Directions: 1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. 2. Heat oil over medium-high heat in a Dutch oven, or large skillet. While the oil is heating, blot the beef cubes with a paper towel to remove the moisture (this will allow them to get nice and brown in the pan). Next, season the beef cubes with 1 teaspoon of salt, and 1/2 teaspoon of pepper. Toss the seasoned beef cubes with the flour, and then brown the beef in the hot oil. 3. Remove the browned beef from the pot with a slotted spoon, and set aside on a plate. In the same pot, cook the carrots, onion and garlic over medium heat until they have a little color (about 10 minutes,) 4. If you used a Dutch oven to brown the meat and vegetables, go ahead and return the beef to the Dutch oven and toss with the vegetables. If you browned the meat and vegetables skillet, transfer everything to an oven-proof pot or casserole dish. 5. Add the beef stock, crushed tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, bay leaves and thyme to the pot. Cover tightly and put into the oven for 90 minutes. 6. Remove from the oven and add the butternut squash. You will want the meat and vegetables to be submerged in liquid, so add a little more water or stock to the pot if needed. Give everything a stir, and cover, this time leaving the lid slightly ajar so that the steam can escape. Return to the oven for another 60 minutes, or until beef and squash are tender. 7. Remove from the oven and stir the peas into the hot stew. Allow the stew to cool for about 15 minutes before serving. Add salt and pepper, to taste.

What do you want that couldn’t wait until the morning?” Arik asked as he led the way inside. The Pride’s king headed to the bar he’d had installed in the corner of his living room. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from a shelf. He poured them each a generous dollop. “I want permission to go after the Northern Lakes Pack.” “Am I going to regret asking why?” “They’re threatening Arabella.” “Who’s that?” “Jeoff’s sister.” Arik tossed back the fiery liquid before asking with a frown, “Why the fuck would I let you start a war over Jeoff’s sister?” “Because those pricks attacked us on home turf.” A snort escape Arik. “Ah yes, that puny attempt at a kidnapping. You caused quite a stir with your antics. Part of your stunt even made it onto YouTube before we could squash it. I had to have our PR department spin a Twitter thread on how it was part of a scene being taped for a movie.” “You can’t blame me for that. I had to stop them.” He did, but what he didn’t tell Arik was he’d never once thought of the repercussions of his actions. He saw Arabella in danger and had to go to her rescue. Bystanders and witnesses be damned. “I can see why you’d feel like you had to act. I mean, they made you look silly by catching you off guard like that, but, next time, could you be a little more discreet?” “No.” Why lie? The reply took his leader aback. “What do you mean no? Discretion is a fact of life. One girl isn’t worth drawing undue attention to ourselves.” “One girl might not be, but my mate is.” Want to stop conversation dead? Drop a bombshell. “Close your mouth, Arik, before you catch flies.” Only Arik’s mate could hope to tease him like that and get away with it. Dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, Kira emerged from the bedroom and perched on a barstool. “Did you hear what he said?” a still astonished Arik demanded. “Yes. He’s fallen victim to the love bug. I think it’s cute.” “I would have said impossible,” Arik muttered. “You and me both, old friend. But, the fact of the matter is, I’m like ninety-nine percent sure that Arabella is supposed to be mine.” “And the one percent that isn’t sure?” “Is going to get eaten by my lion.

Kane, how are you so fucking tight…" Avery pistoned his hips, driving Kane into the edge of the vanity with each snap of his hips. The moment was perfect, too perfect. Kane reared back, arching his body, and met Avery thrust for thrust. "You've been…ah…bottoming the last few times," Kane groaned. Avery closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. His husband always did that when he concentrated on holding his load. Kane kept his eyes open, looking at their reflection in the mirror. He loved watching Avery make love to him. "Keep going." Kane lifted his dress shirt up and over his head. He tossed it across the top of the toilet and began stroking himself. He was close, very close, and Avery never stopped pounding away at his ass. He tightened his grip, desperately wanting to come, but trying hard to keep it at bay. "Feel good?" Avery's voice was deep, breathy. "Yeah," was the only thing he could manage at the moment. "So good. Fuck, Kane, I could do this all night." "Avery…yes." Kane strained to hold back his orgasm. He rolled his hips then pushed back, grinding against Avery, taking him deep inside. Avery responded just like Kane imagined he would—his lover's eyes opened, and shot straight to their reflection in the mirror, meeting his. Avery's heated gaze pierced Kane to the core. "Come for me," Kane whispered. "You're so beautiful. You're mine. You're always mine." Avery's eyes stayed locked on his. Avery gripped Kane's hips tightly and bucked harder, nailing his spot over and over. Fire surged through Kane's veins. "Come with me!" "Now!" Kane loosened his tight grip on the sink to stroke himself faster, dropping his head down on to the counter as his body tensed and his ass contracted hard around Avery. His release jetted from his body, painting the cabinet and floor with ribbons of white, taking his breath, and buckling his knees with pleasure. He was barely conscious of missing the slacks pooled around his shoes. He closed his eyes as loud moans escaped his lips. He savored every second of Avery's pulsing cock filling him with liquid heat from the inside out.

QUINOA SALAD 6-8 servings (recipe can be doubled. Makes a great workday lunch over arugula and/or spinach—protein, vegetables, vitamins, fiber, AND low-calorie!) 1 c. uncooked quinoa, rinsed very well and drained (the soapy substance tastes bitter if you don’t rinse it off) Vegetable or chicken broth, if desired 1/2 c. chopped green onions, white and pale green parts only (about 2 bunches) ¾ c. chopped fresh parsley 3-4 Tbsp. chopped fresh mint, to taste (optional) 1 clove minced garlic 1 c. grape or cherry tomatoes, cut in halves or quarters ½ cucumber, chopped ½ cup diced red or yellow pepper 1 can black beans, rinsed and drained (optional) ½ tsp. salt, or to taste (less if you are cooking quinoa in a salted broth) ¼ tsp. pepper, or to taste 3-4 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil 3-4 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice (1-2 lemons) Cook the quinoa as directed on package—normally about 15 minutes. If it is well rinsed, use about 1-3/4 cups water, or vegetable or chicken broth, for 1 cup of quinoa. It is done when the quinoa sprouts little curly “tails.” If all liquid is not absorbed, strain it to remove the liquid. Chill the cooked quinoa if possible; add vegetables and herbs (and beans, if using). Whisk olive oil, lemon juice, salt & pepper in a bowl with a fork until well blended. Add to salad and mix thoroughly. Taste & correct salt & pepper. Chill salad if possible; the flavors will blend as it sits. Other vegetable/herb choices: carrots, zucchini, cilantro (instead of mint).

chip, a credit card, a small hypodermic needle and syringe, some duct tape, and a tiny capsule of brown liquid. Pocketing the items, he exited the bathroom and darted down the hall to guard station 7. Just as Glinn had predicted: of the five guards on duty, four had responded to the escape call, leaving the lone commanding guard at the console, surrounded by a wall of live video feeds. The man was shouting orders into a microphone and punching up feed after feed, frantically searching for the loose inmates. An overwhelming response had been mobilized to deal with the mass escape attempt. Based on the guard’s excited chatter, already one of the inmates had been run down and recaptured.

ANTONY REMEMBERED Val’s kids being taken away, one after the other. Mikey, Barry, Lily. Lily was the last to go. She was only a few years older than Antony, but when he screwed his eyes up tight and tried to remember her face, he couldn’t. He remembered the nickname she’d given him though: Spug. Because he loved birds so much. Her scratchy voice, full of wires and string. Her screams before she started to fit, that cacophony of vowels and white noise. Little Spuggy. Sparrow boy. Lily. Feral fitting girl. The pissy smell of her. He remembered how terrifying it was seeing her hurly-burly. That unmistakeable sound, a liquid hollow sound, of a human skull hitting the concrete. Her body churning, shambling, gyrating – how life would take a sudden detour. Like there was some enormous struggle going on inside her body and she always lost the fight. She didn’t have epilepsy; it had her. — Little Spug. The day she was taken away. The jealousy he felt. Lily had escaped.

The danger of an administrative return to an extralegal regime becomes particularly concrete when one recognizes the potential for evasion. Administrative law evades not only the law but also its institutions, processes, and rights. The central evasion is the end run around acts of Congress and the judgments of the courts by substituting executive edicts. This suggests that there can be an alternative system of law, which is not quite law, but that nonetheless can be enforced against the public. As if this were not enough, the evasion also gets around the Constitution’s institutions and processes. For example, when the executive makes regulations, it claims to escape the constitutional requirements for the election of lawmakers, for bicameralism, for deliberation, for publication of legislative journals, and for a veto. Similarly, when the executive adjudicates disputes, it claims to sidestep most of the requirements about judicial independence, due process, grand juries, petit juries, and judicial warrants and orders. The judicial evasion is particularly troubling when one realizes that it escapes almost all of the procedural rights guaranteed by the Constitution. Recognizing at least the due process problem, courts and commentators sometimes suggest that administrative adjudication is subject to a lesser, administrative version of due process. It remains unclear, however, how a fraction of a right can substitute for the whole, or how the due process of administrative power in an administrative tribunal can substitute for the due process of law in a court. This is like a substitution of water for whisky, and the fact that both are liquid does not hide the evasion.

The washing up liquid smells of sweeties. It tells me that it is ginger and peach. It smells of something we should still be eating. This seems wrong: it should smell of something after, whatever it is that comes after.

Taking a deep breath and whispering a silent prayer for steady hands, she made the incision on his forearm. Not daring to meet his gaze, she retrieved the fresh vial of Anthony’s blood along with a dropper. “That appears to be blood,” Rafe commented, though he sounded more perplexed than disturbed. “It is,” she said agreeably and began dripping the ruby liquid into the incision. Immediately the cut began to knit back together. Rafe placed his good hand on her shoulder, squeezing it with almost enough pressure to hurt. “Whose blood is it?” “Anthony’s,” she whispered, worry curling in her stomach at his intent gaze. Had she caused him harm? Her alarm deepened when he froze for what seemed to be an eternity. “Cristo,” he breathed at last. “I should have considered something so simple.” Suddenly, he went rigid, eyes widening. “Dios mío!” Cassandra placed her hand on his. “Did I hurt you? I swear, I did not intend—” “Hurt me?” A harsh burst of laughter escaped his lips. It was a rusty sound, as if long disused. “I can feel it! Hell, I can move it. Look!” Sure enough, the tip of his ring finger was bending back and forth. This time, it didn’t twitch. This time, it moved with purpose. Not only that, but the scarring had diminished slightly where she’d cut him. “Saint Jude.” Triumph swelled in her breast. “It worked!” Gleefully,

Often Khaster heard noises in the night he could not identify. They were the sounds made by animals, but had a human resonance to them. Sometimes gouts of light would spurt into the sky-red, turquoise, gold-and some moments later thunder would come, but from beneath the earth rather than the heavens. Strange smells, bitter yet musky and sweet, would occasionally come in through an open window to haunt a room. Khaster knew that the priest-mages of Madragore employed a regiment of alchemists who worked in a shuttered citadel on the east of the city. Its huge domed roof, which was covered in flaky verdigis scales rose up from an area of factories and tanning shops. Stories leaked out of the citadel along with the fumes. Creatures were made there, homunculi, golems, beasts of war. Sometimes the creatures escaped or were let out to roam the city by their keepers. That accounted for the strange nocturnal noises. But perhaps these were only stories after all. Perhaps the citadel hid secrets of a more mundane yet brutal nature. Prisoners could be interrogated there, tortured with corrosive steams. The alchemists made killing perfumes for use on the battlefield. Khaster had heard tales of a liquid that when released into the air corroded all the flesh from anyone who smelled its delicate aroma. The alchemists made weapons; if not magical beasts, then mordant potions and poisons. They had to test them on someone.

The dark clouds hung over them as well, draining the life from the room and letting mourning enter, a pain we weren’t accustomed to. A pain we’d been separated from for a long time. Pain that escaped my eyes in the form of liquid. The pain of death.

Reptile eggs are easily damaged. The parchment in which they are wrapped — which allows adults to breed away from open water — is not wholly impervious. In a dry atmosphere, it would allow so much liquid to escape that the contents of the egg would desiccate, and the embryo die. The eggs are also killed if they overheat or are seriously chilled. All lizards, therefore, take great care about where they place their eggs. Many species of monitors bury them at the end of long tunnels. Some, however, including the perentie, have discovered a way of providing their eggs with an environment that remains at exactly the same temperature and humidity whatever the weather-and without any effort whatsoever on the part of the females. They lay their eggs inside a termite nest.

That’s crazy! We can’t go the way of—” “Since when has human history been anything else?” asks the woman with the camera on her shoulder—Donna, being some sort of public archivist, is in Sirhan’s estimate likely to be of use to him. “Remember what we found in the DMZ?” “The DMZ?” Sirhan asks, momentarily confused. “After we went through the router,” Pierre says grimly. “You tell him, love.” He looks at Amber. Sirhan, watching him, feels it fall into place at that moment, a sense that he’s stepped into an alternate universe, one where the woman who might have been his mother isn’t, where black is white, his kindly grandmother is the wicked witch of the west, and his feckless grandfather is a farsighted visionary. “We uploaded via the router,” Amber says, and looks confused for a moment. “There’s a network on the other side of it. We were told it was FTL, instantaneous, but I’m not so sure now. I think it’s something more complicated, like a lightspeed network, parts of which are threaded through wormholes that make it look FTL from our perspective. Anyway, Matrioshka brains, the end product of a technological singularity—they’re bandwidth-limited. Sooner or later the posthuman descendants evolve Economics 2.0, or 3.0, or something else, and it, uh, eats the original conscious instigators. Or uses them as currency or something. The end result we found is a howling wilderness of degenerate data, fractally compressed, postconscious processes running slower and slower as they trade storage space for processing power. We were”—she licks her lips—“lucky to escape with our minds. We only did it because of a friend. It’s like the main sequence in stellar evolution; once a G-type star starts burning helium and expands into a red giant, it’s ‘game over’ for life in what used to be its liquid-water zone.

Sir, please lie down. I’m not finished.” He grabs for me—one hand closing on my wrist, the other pawing at my dress and neck. His mouth presses against my face. Panic tears at me. “Your Highness.” I push him away. “I want to know what you taste like. If being born with color changes the way you feel.” He rips one of my skirts and tries to untie my waist-sash. “You must all be different. I visited one of your sisters. The white-haired one—Edelweiss, yes, that was it—and she was lovely.” I scream out. His hands find their way under my skirts. We knock into the trays, scattering Belle-products across the floor. “I like screaming.” He hisses at me like an animal. I kick him and escape to the opposite side of the treatment table. He jumps at me again and presses me against the wall. He kisses my neck and smells my hair. I reach for the tools in my belt, grab a metal smoothing rod, and stab him with it. The rod pierces his belly. He grunts, but still pushes forward, trying to sandwich me between his body and the treatment table. I shove the rod in harder and finally make the space to slip away. “Get back here!” he bellows. “Just one kiss.” He yanks the rod out of his flesh and tosses it aside, like it’s nothing more than a splinter. He chases me around the table and catches me by the waist. I use my arcana to call the Belle-roses in the teapot back to their younger forms. They surge; the teapot explodes. The porcelain shatters. Liquid splatters all over, and he flinches as the hot droplets sting his back. I uncoil the flowers, stretching out their petals and stems. They bloom into thorny chains that I use to press Prince Alfred’s arms and legs against the wall. He fights against the restraints. “I like you. You’re feisty,” he says. Blood trickles down his arms and legs. I push the thorns deeper into his skin, then let a vine hook around his neck. He makes a kissing noise at me.

The year before, at an evening party, he had heard a piece of music played on the piano and violin. At first he had appreciated only the material quality of the sounds which those instruments secreted. And it had been a source of keen pleasure when, below the delicate line of the violin-part, slender but robust, compact and commanding, he had suddenly become aware of the mass of the piano-part beginning to surge upward in plashing waves of sound, multiform but indivisible, smooth yet restless, like the deep blue tumult of the sea, silvered and charmed into a minor key by the moonlight. But then at a certain moment, without being able to distinguish any clear outline, or to give a name to what was pleasing him, suddenly enraptured, he had tried to grasp the phrase or harmony—he did not know which—that had just been played and that had opened and expanded his soul, as the fragrance of certain roses, wafted upon the moist air of evening, has the power of dilating one's nostrils. Perhaps it was owing to his own ignorance of music that he had received so confused an impression, one that are nonetheless the only purely musical impressions, limited in their extent, entirely original, and irreducible to any other kind. An impression of this order, vanishing in an instant, is, so to speak, an impression sine materia. Doubtless the notes which we hear at such moments tend to spread out before our eyes over surfaces of varying dimensions, to trace arabesques, to give us the sensation of breadth or tenuity, stability or caprice. But the notes themselves have vanished before these sensations have developed sufficiently to escape submersion under those which the succeeding or even simultaneous notes have already begun to awaken in us. And this impression would continue to envelop in its liquidity, its ceaseless overlapping, the motifs which from time to time emerge, barely discernible, to plunge again and disappear and drown, recognised only by the particular kind of pleasure which they instill, impossible to describe, to recollect, to name, ineffable—did not our memory, like a labourer who toils at the laying down of firm foundations beneath the tumult of the waves, by fashioning for us facsimiles of those fugitive phrases, did not enable us to compare and to contrast them with those that follow. And so, scarcely had the exquisite sensation which Swann had experienced died away, before his memory had furnished him with an immediate transcript, sketchy, it is true, and provisional, which he had been able to glance at while the piece continued, so that, when the same impression suddenly returned, it was no longer impossible to grasp. He could picture to himself its extent, its symmetrical arrangement, its notation, its expressive value; he had before him something that was no longer pure music, but rather design, architecture, thought, and which allowed the actual music to be recalled. This time he had distinguished quite clearly a phrase which emerged for a few moments above the waves of sound. It had at once suggested to him a world of inexpressible delights, of whose existence, before hearing it, he had never dreamed, into which he felt that nothing else could initiate him; and he had been filled with love for it, as with a new and strange desire.

The only cooking oils you should ever use are refined coconut oil or butter or ghee. No canola oil, corn oil, grapeseed oil, soy oil, safflower oil, sunflower oil, or others that are liquid at room temperature.

As they moved on he was offered some STP, a powerful hallucinogenic which had become infamous after five thousand high-dosage tablets had been given away weeks earlier at the Summer Solstice Celebration in Golden Gate Park. The delayed onset of its effects meant a number of users had taken extra hits and ended up in hospital.302 Harrison declined the STP, but his response was seen as a snub. ‘I could see all the spotty youths,’ he recalled, ‘but I was seeing them from a twisted angle. It was like the manifestation of a scene from an Hieronymus Bosch painting, getting bigger and bigger, fish with heads, faces like vacuum cleaners coming out of shop doorways… They were handing me things – like a big Indian pipe with feathers on it, and books and incense – and trying to give me drugs. I remember saying to one guy: “No thanks, I don’t want it.” And then I heard his whining voice saying, “Hey, man – you put me down.” It was terrible. We walked quicker and quicker through the park and in the end we jumped in the limo, said, “Let’s get out of here,” and drove back to the airport.’303 The crowd began to grow hostile as they returned to the limousine, and those outside began rocking the vehicle as their faces pressed against the windows. The narrow escape increased Harrison’s resolve to move away from LSD. ‘That was the turning point for me – that’s when I went right off the whole drug cult and stopped taking the dreaded lysergic acid. I had some in a little bottle – it was liquid. I put it under a microscope, and it looked like bits of old rope. I thought that I couldn’t put that into my brain any more.

Then his hand cupped hers, drawing her fingers to his neck. The softest velvet bumped against her fingers, gently fluttered the moment she touched them. “My gills?” he repeated, his voice deeper than before. She took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut a little harder, and explored. Just like with the shark, he gave her an opportunity to face something that made her feel uncomfortable, and she was going to take that opportunity. From afar, his gills looked like they were similar to a lionfish. All spines and spikes and likely full of poisonous liquid that would make her writhe in agony. But they weren’t like that at all. They were soft. They slid through her fingers and seemed to touch her back with the slightest of movements. She could feel him exhaling. The warm air that escaped through his gills was so much warmer than the air of the surgical room. “This doesn’t hurt you?” she asked. “If you yanked on them, yes, it would hurt.” His tone was twisted, like he was holding himself back from something. “But it feels nice when you touch them.” “Oh.” Did she want it to feel nice?