Slash Book Quotes

Why does everyone think a guy who prefers love to people is missing something in his life?

Reading, for me, is like this: consumptive, pleasing, calming, as much as edifying. It's how I feel after a good dinner. That's why I do it so often: It feels wonderful. The book is mind and I insert myself into it, cover it entire, ear my way through every last slash and dot. That's something you can do with a book, unlike television or movies or the Internet. You can eat it, or mark it, like a dog does on a hydrant.

These day's I like to imagine that if a man were to enter through the slash on the book's cover, as if it were a door, he could walk right into the heart of the Inferno.

guard. It is in this sense that I recommend the guard without a guard. Whatever the situation is, you hold the sword so that you can slash your opponent.

The essential is to think that anything you are doing has to become the occasion for slashing. You must examine this well.

Being frugal doesn’t mean slashing your spending or depriving yourself of things that you enjoy. It means knowing the value of a dollar and making every effort to spend it wisely.

To cut and to slash are two different things. Cutting, whatever form of cutting it is, is decisive, with a resolute spirit. Slashing is nothing more than touching the enemy. Even if you slash strongly, and even if the enemy dies instantly, it is slashing. When you cut, your spirit is resolved.

But the central branch of the Enoch Pratt Free Library was still a place of wonders to Tess, even if the book budget had been slashed and the hours cut. Her parents had made a lot of mistakes, a fact Tess compulsively shared on first dates, but she gave them credit for doing one thing right: Starting when she was eight, they gave her a library card and dropped her off at the downtown Pratt every Saturday while they shopped. Twenty-one years later, Tess still entered through the children's entrance on the side, pausing to toss a penny in the algae-coated fish pond, then climbing the stairs to the main hall. If she could be married here, she would.

My favorite books, love songs, movies, the ones that resonated with me, have kept me grieving long after I turned the last page, the notes faded out, or the credits rolled. Because of that, I believed it, because I made myself believe it, and I bred the most masochistic of romantic hearts, which resulted in my illness. When I lived this story, my own twisted fairy tale, it was unbeknownst to me at the time because I was young and naïve. I gave into temptation and fed that beating beast, which grew thirstier with every slash, every strike, every blow. That’s the novelty of fiction versus reality. You can’t re-live your own love story because, by the time you’ve realized you’re living it, it’s over. At least that was the case for me.

To guard yourself against thieves who slash open suitcases, rifle through bags and smash open boxes, one should strap the bags and lock them. The world at large knows that this shows wisdom. However, when a master thief comes, he simply picks up the suitcase, lifts the bag, carries off the box and runs away with them, his only concern being whether the straps and locks will hold! In such an instance, what seemed like wisdom on the part of the owner surely turns out to have been of use only to the master thief!

Tyrena did not laugh again but her smile slashed upward in a twist of green lips. “Martin, Martin, Martin,” she said, “the population of literate people has been declining steadily since Gutenberg’s day. By the twentieth century, less than two percent of the people in the so-called industrialized democracies read even one book a year. And that was before the smart machines, dataspheres, and user-friendly environments.

The thing, whatever it was - and no one was ever sure afterwards whether it was a dream or a fit or what - happened at that peculiar hour before dawn when human vitality is at its lowest ebb. The Blue Hour they sometimes call it, l'heure bleue - the ribbon of darkness between the false dawn and the true, always blacker than all the rest of the night has been before it. Criminals break down and confess at that hour; suicides nerve themselves for their attempts; mists swirl in the sky; and - according to the old books of the monks and the hermits - strange, unholy shapes brood over the sleeping rooftops. At any rate, it was at this hour that her screams shattered the stillness of that top-floor apartment overlooking the Pare Monceau. Curdling, razor-edged screams that slashed through the thick bedroom door. ("I'm Dangerous Tonight")

A scar, a slash; will live forever... Before you catch the chisel! Before engrave! Think! Think twice; until the death…

Long slash marks going down my spine, the raw marks breathing on its own with each exhale.

For instance, in one play the palace of Lord Hosokawa, in which was preserved the celebrated painting of Dharuma by Sesson, suddenly takes fire through the negligence of the samurai in charge. Resolved at all hazards to rescue the precious painting, he rushes into the burning building and seizes the kakemono, only to find all means of exit cut off by the flames. Thinking only of the picture, he slashes open his body with his sword, wraps his torn sleeve about the Sesson and plunges it into the gaping wound. The fire is at last extinguished. Among the smoking embers is found a half- consumed corpse, within which reposes the treasure uninjured by the fire. Horrible as such tales are, they illustrate the great value that we set upon a masterpiece, as well as the devotion of a trusted samurai.

For Ciaran!” yelled Assassin Wither. I was so shocked that he got in his first two blows before I could pull my netherite sword. I slashed at his chest and I hit him, but not too severely. He backed away as Abigail

Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather die than let cute dogs named after my favourite comedians slash authors slash Golden Globes hosts perish,’ replies a shredded firefighter who looks like a genetic mash-up of Idris Elba and danger.

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on in the world between the covers of books, such sandstorms and ice blasts of words, such slashing of humbug, and humbug too, such staggering peace, such enormous laughter, such and so many blinding bright lights breaking across the just-waking wits and splashing all over the pages in a million bits and pieces all of which all of which were words, words, words, and each of which were alive forever in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

She was glad she'd missed the river of corpses that must have filled the city streets during the initial phase of clean-up - wagon after wagon groaning beneath the weight of crushed bodies, white flesh seared by fire and slashed by sword, rat-gnawed and raven-pecked - men, women, and children.

To this day I carry that scratch the tiger gifted me upon the chest, a long, puckered slash that aches when it rains. The scar feels like ice on those days, which is why I tell you this story is true, and I tell it because my brother would have liked to have seen it on paper, since he liked his books very much. The story of the summer when the tiger came to the mountains and we were young.

Congress will raise taxes and/or slash promised Social Security benefits. Each year the situation will get worse since the number of retirees is predicted to increase relative to the number in the workforce paying taxes. In 1940, there were forty-two workers per retiree, in 1950 there were sixteen, today there are three, and in twenty or thirty years there will be two or fewer workers per retiree.

Get off! Get off me, ‘Felix sobbed, sounding like a little kid. Marco kicked at the sickos, slashing with his knife. It was no good, though— there were just too many of them — and he himself toppled over, landing on his friend and smothering him. ‘It’s all right Felix, ‘he said. ‘I’m with you. It’s all right. You’re not alone. ‘He felt for Felix’s hand held it tight, as more gym bunnies blocked out the light, swamping them.

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on in the world between the covers of books, such sandstorms and ice blasts of words, such slashing of humbug, and humbug too, such staggering peace, such enormous laughter, such and so many blinding bright lights breaking across the just-waking wits and splashing all over the pages in a million bits and pieces all of which were words, words, words, and each of which were alive forever in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

Gather close, and let us speak of nasty little shits. Oh, come now, we are no strangers to the vicious demons in placid disguises, innocent eyes so wide, hidden minds so dark. Does evil exist? Is it a force, some deadly possession that slips into the unwary? Is it a thing separate and thus subject to accusation and blame, distinct from the one it has used? Does it flit from soul to soul, weaving its diabolical scheme in all the unseen places, snarling into knots tremulous fears and appalling opportunity, stark terrors and brutal self-interest? Or is the dread word nothing more than a quaint and oh so convenient encapsulation of all those traits distinctly lacking moral context, a sweeping generalization embracing all things depraved and breath takingly cruel, a word to define that peculiar glint in the eye—the voyeur to one’s own delivery of horror, of pain and anguish and impossible grief? Give the demon crimson scales, slashing talons. Tentacles and dripping poison. Three eyes and six slithering tongues. As it crouches there in the soul, its latest abode in an eternal succession of abodes, may every god kneel in prayer. But really. Evil is nothing but a word, an objectification where no objectification is necessary. Cast aside this notion of some external agency as the source of inconceivable inhumanity—the sad truth is our possession of an innate proclivity towards indifference, towards deliberate denial of mercy, towards disengaging all that is moral within us. But if that is too dire, let’s call it evil. And paint it with fire and venom. There are extremities of behaviour that seem, at the time, perfectly natural, indeed reasonable. They are arrived at suddenly, or so it might seem, but if one looks the progression reveals itself, step by step, and that is a most sad truth.

Speculators, meanwhile, have seized control of the global economy and the levers of political power. They have weakened and emasculated governments to serve their lust for profit. They have turned the press into courtiers, corrupted the courts, and hollowed out public institutions, including universities. They peddle spurious ideologies—neoliberal economics and globalization—to justify their rapacious looting and greed. They create grotesque financial mechanisms, from usurious interest rates on loans to legalized accounting fraud, to plunge citizens into crippling forms of debt peonage. And they have been stealing staggering sums of public funds, such as the $65 billion of mortgage-backed securities and bonds, many of them toxic, that have been unloaded each month on the Federal Reserve in return for cash.21 They feed like parasites off of the state and the resources of the planet. Speculators at megabanks and investment firms such as Goldman Sachs are not, in a strict sense, capitalists. They do not make money from the means of production. Rather, they ignore or rewrite the law—ostensibly put in place to protect the weak from the powerful—to steal from everyone, including their own shareholders. They produce nothing. They make nothing. They only manipulate money. They are no different from the detested speculators who were hanged in the seventeenth century, when speculation was a capital offense. The obscenity of their wealth is matched by their utter lack of concern for the growing numbers of the destitute. In early 2014, the world’s 200 richest people made $13.9 billion, in one day, according to Bloomberg’s billionaires index.22 This hoarding of money by the elites, according to the ruling economic model, is supposed to make us all better off, but in fact the opposite happens when wealth is concentrated in the hands of a few individuals and corporations, as economist Thomas Piketty documents in his book Capital in the Twenty-First Century.23 The rest of us have little or no influence over how we are governed, and our wages stagnate or decline. Underemployment and unemployment become chronic. Social services, from welfare to Social Security, are slashed in the name of austerity. Government, in the hands of speculators, is a protection racket for corporations and a small group of oligarchs. And the longer we play by their rules the more impoverished and oppressed we become. Yet, like

Treat your to-read pile like a river, not a bucket To return to information overload: this means treating your "to read" pile like a river (a stream that flows past you, and from which you pluck a few choice items, here and there) instead of a bucket (which demands that you empty it). [ ...] Coming at life this way definitely entails tough choices. But it's liberating, too, as you slowly begin to grasp that you never had any other option. There's no point beating yourself up for failing to clear a backlog (of unread books, undone tasks, unrealized dreams) that it was always inherently unfeasible to clear in the first place. oliverburkeman dot com slash river

Fireheart sprang forward and burst through the curtain of lichen. Tigerclaw and Bluestar were writhing on the floor of the den. Bluestar’s claws scored again and again across Tigerclaw’s shoulder, but the deputy’s greater weight kept her pinned down in the soft sand. Tigerclaw’s fangs were buried in her throat, and his powerful claws raked her back. “Traitor!” Fireheart yowled. He flung himself at Tigerclaw, slashing at his eyes. The deputy reared back, forced to release his grip on Bluestar’s throat. Fireheart felt his claws rip through the deputy’s ear, spraying blood into the air. Bluestar scrambled to the side of the den, looking half stunned. Fireheart could not tell how badly hurt she was. Pain lanced through him as Tigerclaw gashed his side with a blow from his powerful hindpaws. Fireheart’s paws skidded in the sand and he lost his balance, hitting the ground with Tigerclaw on top of him. The deputy’s amber eyes blazed into his. “Mousedung!” he hissed. “I’ll flay you, Fireheart. I’ve waited a long time for this.” Fireheart summoned every scrap of skill and strength he possessed. He knew Tigerclaw could kill him, but in spite of that he felt strangely free. The lies and the need for deceit were over. The secrets—Bluestar’s and Tigerclaw’s—were all out in the open. There was only the clean danger of battle. He aimed a blow at Tigerclaw’s throat, but the deputy swung his head to one side and Fireheart’s claws scraped harmlessly through thick tabby fur. But the blow had loosened Tigerclaw’s grip on him. Fireheart rolled away, narrowly avoiding a killing bite to his neck. “Kittypet!” Tigerclaw taunted, flexing his haunches to pounce again. “Come and find out how a real warrior fights.” He threw himself at Fireheart, but at the last moment Fireheart darted aside. As Tigerclaw tried to turn in the narrow den, his paws slipped on a splash of blood and he crashed awkwardly onto one side. At once Fireheart saw his chance. His claws sliced down to open a gash in Tigerclaw’s belly. Blood welled up, soaking into the deputy’s fur. He let out a high-pitched caterwaul. Fireheart pounced on him, raking claws across his belly again, and fastening his teeth into Tigerclaw’s neck. The deputy struggled vainly to free himself, his thrashing growing weaker as the blood flowed. Fireheart let go of his neck, planting one paw on Tigerclaw’s outstretched foreleg, and the other on his chest. “Bluestar!” he called. “Help me hold him down!” Bluestar was crouching behind him in her moss-lined nest. Blood trickled down her forehead, but that did not alarm Fireheart as much as the look in her eyes. They were a vague, cloudy blue, and she stared horror-struck in front of her as if she was witnessing the destruction

Some thoughts, possessing a frightening kind of self-awareness, knew to hide deep beneath others, riding unseen the same currents, where they could grow unchallenged, unexposed by any horrified recognition. One could always sense them, of course, but that was not the same as slashing through all the obfuscation, revealing them bared to the harsh light and so seeing them wither into dust. The mind ran its own shell-game, ever amused at its own sleight of hand misdirection – in truth, this was how one tended to live, from moment to moment, with the endless exchange of denials and deference and quick winks in the mirror, even as inner proclamations and avowals thundered with false willpower and posturing conviction.

Come on, Bob, kill it!” “I’m trying, Tom. It won’t stop moving.” I looked at Wolf and whispered, “What do you think they are trying to kill?” Wolf shrugged. “Let’s go check it out.” We snuck forward until we could get a visual on what was happening. We saw that there were two large slimes and one baby slime. Judging by the way the large slimes were protecting the baby, I assumed it was their child rather than a random baby slime. The two players were slashing at the large slimes who were trying to defend themselves but failing. Eventually the players chopped the two large slimes into medium slimes, then into small slimes until they had finally killed all the pieces. That left the baby slime all alone. Bob and Tom looked at each other. “I think we should kill it,” said Tom. “Otherwise, it’s going to grow into an adult slime and try to get its revenge on us.” Where have I heard this story before? Bob laughed. “Slimes are stupid. It won’t be able to get revenge because it will be dead.” The players began to move forward to the baby slime. And that’s when something snapped in me. I was reminded of the night my parents sacrificed their lives for me. I couldn’t let this baby slime be killed. I jumped up and rushed to the players. Wolf shout-whispered, “No! Don’t do it!” I didn’t care. I ran up to the two players and without giving them a chance to surrender, mercilessly assassinated them. The baby slime looked at me with fear in its eyes and backed away, fearful that I would kill it too. But I didn’t. I put my sword back into my inventory and reached down and gently picked up the slime. “Can you talk?” I asked. The slime made cooing and booping noises, but apparently was too young to be able to speak yet. “I wish I could talk to you, Child. I would tell you that everything is going to be alright. I’ll be your new guardian.” Wolf arrived by my side a moment later. “It’s not part of the Way to kill players unless the killing falls under a specific rule or arises from self-defense.” I shot a look at Wolf. “I was defending the life of another. Is that not the same as self-defense?” “I guess, but it’s … hurrr … it’s a slime.” “Are you saying a slime has less right to be alive than us?” “I’m not saying that, but now that you mention it….” “Shut up. I’m taking charge of this child.” Wolf shook his head. “You realize that according to the Way, if you take the life of an orphan into your hands you have to protect it and see that it makes it to adulthood, just as I have with you.

The leader of the Red Guards stepped up to Nien Cheng. “We are the Red Guards. We have come to take revolutionary action against you!” Nien Cheng held up the copy of the Constitution and looked the leader in the eye. “It’s against the Constitution to enter a private house without a search warrant.” The man grabbed the Constitution out of Nien’s hand and threw it on the floor. “The Constitution is abolished. It was a document written by the Revisionists within the Communist Party. We recognize only the teachings of our Great Leader Chairman Mao.” One of the Red Guards took the stick he was carrying and smashed the mirror hanging over a wooden chest in the entryway. Another guard replaced the mirror with a blackboard that bore a quotation from Mao: “When the enemies with guns are annihilated, the enemies without guns still remain. We must not belittle these enemies.”2 With that, the young guards tore through the house, smashing furniture, dumping shelves of books onto the floor, slashing priceless paintings by Lin Fengmian and Qi Baishi. On a rampage, the eager students looted the closets and drawers, tearing most of Nien Cheng’s clothing and linens. They overturned the bed mattresses and hacked them to pieces. Then they smashed her music recordings. Pressing on, they found the food pantry and dumped flour, sugar, and canned goods onto the ravaged clothing. They broke several bottles of red wine, pouring it over the mess.

Just try, Tai-Pan, by God,” she said and glared back at him. He grabbed her swiftly and carried her, struggling, to the bed and flung up her robe and petticoats and gave her a smack on her buttocks that stung his hand and tossed her on the bed. He had never struck her before. May-may flew off the bed at him and viciously raked at his face with her long nails. A lantern crashed to the floor as Struan upended her again and resumed the spanking. She fought out of his grip, and her nails slashed at his eyes, missing by a fraction of an inch, and scoring his face. He caught her wrists and turned her over and tore off her robe and underclothes and smashed her bare buttocks with the flat of his hand. She fought back fiercely, shoving an elbow in his groin and clawing at his face again. Mustering all his strength, he pinned her to the bed, but she slipped her head free and sank her teeth into his forearm. He gasped from the pain and slashed her buttocks again with the flat of his free hand. She bit harder. “By God, you’ll never bite me again,” he said through clenched teeth. Her teeth sank deeper, but he deliberately did not pull his arm away. The pain made his eyes water, but he smashed May-may harder and harder and harder, always on her buttocks, until his hand hurt. At last she released her teeth. “Don’t—no more—please—please,” she whimpered, and wept into the pillow, defenseless. Struan caught his breath. “Now say you’re sorry for going out without permission.

I sucked on a blade of grass and watched the millwheel turn. I was lying on my stomach on the stream's opposite bank, my head propped in my hands. There was a tiny rainbow in the mist above the froth and boil at the foot of the waterfall, and an occasional droplet found its way to me. The steady splashing and the sound of the wheel drowned out all other noises in the wood. The mill was deserted today, and I contemplated it because I had not seen its like in ages. Watching the wheel and listening to the water were more than just relaxing. It was somewhat hypnotic. … My head nodding with each creak of the wheel, I forced everything else from my mind and set about remembering the necessary texture of the sand, its coloration, the temperature, the winds, the touch of salt in the air, the clouds... I slept then and I dreamed, but not of the place that I sought. I regarded a big roulette wheel, and we were all of us on it-my brothers, my sisters, myself, and others whom I knew or had known-rising and falling, each with his allotted section. We were all shouting for it to stop for us and wailing as we passed the top and headed down once more. The wheel had begun to slow and I was on the rise. A fair-haired youth hung upside down before me, shouting pleas and warnings that were drowned in the cacophony of voices. His face darkened, writhed, became a horrible thing to behold, and I slashed at the cord that bound his ankle and he fell from sight. The wheel slowed even more as I neared the top, and I saw Lorraine then. She was gesturing, beckoning frantically, and calling my name. I leaned toward her, seeing her clearly, wanting her, wanting to help her. But as the wheel continued its turning she passed from my sight. “Corwin!” I tried to ignore her cry, for I was almost to the top. It came again, but I tensed myself and prepared to spring upward. If it did not stop for me, I was going to try gimmicking the damned thing, even though falling off would mean my total ruin. I readied myself for the leap. Another click... “Corwin!” It receded, returned, faded, and I was looking toward the water wheel again with my name echoing in my ears and mingling, merging, fading into the sound of the stream. … It plunged for over a thousand feet: a mighty cataract that smote the gray river like an anvil. The currents were rapid and strong, bearing bubbles and flecks of foam a great distance before they finally dissolved. Across from us, perhaps half a mile distant, partly screened by rainbow and mist, like an island slapped by a Titan, a gigantic wheel slowly rotated, ponderous and gleaming. High overhead, enormous birds rode like drifting crucifixes the currents of the air. We stood there for a fairly long while. Conversation was impossible, which was just as well. After a time, when she turned from it to look at me, narrow-eyed, speculative, I nodded and gestured with my eyes toward the wood. Turning then, we made our way back in the direction from which we had come. Our return was the same process in reverse, and I managed it with greater ease. When conversation became possible once more, Dara still kept her silence, apparently realizing by then that I was a part of the process of change going on around us. It was not until we stood beside our own stream once more, watching the small mill wheel in its turning, that she spoke.

How I Turned a Troubled Company into a Personal Fortune. How to ________ This is a simple, straightforward headline structure that works with any desirable benefit. “How to” are two of the most powerful words you can use in a headline. Examples: How to Collect from Social Security at Any Age. How to Win Friends and Influence People. How to Improve Telemarketers' Productivity — for Just $19.95. Secrets Of ________ The word secrets works well in headlines. Examples: Secrets of a Madison Ave. Maverick — “Contrarian Advertising.” Secrets of Four Champion Golfers. Thousands (Hundreds, Millions) Now ________ Even Though They ________ This is a “plural” version of the very first structure demonstrated in this collection of winning headlines. Examples: Thousands Now Play Even Though They Have “Clumsy Fingers.” Two Million People Owe Their Health to This Idea Even Though They Laughed at It. 138,000 Members of Your Profession Receive a Check from Us Every Month Even Though They Once Threw This Letter into the Wastebasket Warning: ________ Warning is a powerful, attention-getting word and can usually work for a headline tied to any sales letter using a problem-solution copy theme. Examples: Warning: Two-Thirds of the Middle Managers in Your Industry Will Lose Their Jobs in the Next 36 Months. Warning: Your “Corporate Shield” May Be Made of Tissue Paper — 9 Ways You Can Be Held Personally Liable for Your Business's Debts, Losses, or Lawsuits Give Me ________ and I'll ________ This structure simplifies the gist of any sales message: a promise. It truly telegraphs your offer, and if your offer is clear and good, this may be your best strategy. Examples: Give Me 5 Days and I'll Give You a Magnetic Personality. Give Me Just 1 Hour a Day and I'll Have You Speaking French Like “Pierre” in 1 Month. Give Me a Chance to Ask Seven Questions and I'll Prove You Are Wasting a Small Fortune on Your Advertising. ________ ways to ________ This is just the “how to” headline enhanced with an intriguing specific number. Examples: 101 Ways to Increase New Patient Flow. 17 Ways to Slash Your Equipment Maintenance Costs. Many of these example headlines are classics from very successful books, advertisements, sales letters, and brochures, obtained from a number of research sources. Some are from my own sales letters. Some were created for this book.

WALKING WITH ANGELS IN THE COOL OF THE DAY A short time later I felt someone poke me hard in the left arm. I turned to see who it was, but there was no one there. At the time, I dismissed it and returned my attention to my thoughts. After a minute I was poked again, only this time the poke was accompanied with an audible voice! The Holy Spirit said, “I want to go for a walk with you in the cool of the day.” I jumped up totally flabbergasted. I quickly left the room and grabbed my coat, telling everyone that I was going for a walk in the “cool of the day.” It just happened to be minus 12 degrees Fahrenheit (or minus 24 Celsius)! The moment I walked out the door, the presence of the Holy Spirit fell upon me, and I began to weep again. The tears were starting to freeze on my cheeks, but I did not mind. God began to talk to me in an audible voice. I was walking through the streets of Botwood in the presence of the Holy Ghost. I could also sense that many angels were accompanying us. The angels were laughing and singing as we strolled along the snow-covered streets. It was about 8:00 A.M. The Holy Spirit led me along a road which was on the shore of the North Atlantic Ocean. For the first time since leaving the house, I began to notice that it was very cold. However, it was worth it to be in the presence of the Lord. I was directed to a small breezeway that leads out over the Bay of Exploits (this name truly proved to be quite prophetic) to a tiny island called Killick Island. As we were walking across the breezeway, the wind was whipping off the ocean at about 40 knots. Combined with the negative temperature, the wind was turning my skin numb, and my tears had crystallized into ice on my face and mustache. THE CITY OF REFUGE I said, “Holy Spirit, it is really cold out here, and my face is turning numb.” The Lord replied, “Do not fear; when we get onto this island, there will be a city of refuge.” I had no idea what a city of refuge was, but I hoped that it would be warm and safe. (See Numbers 35:25.) The winter’s day had turned even colder and grayer; there was no sun, and the dark gray sky was totally overcast. Snow was falling lightly, and being blown about by a brisk wind. As we walked onto Killick Island, it got even colder and windier. The Holy Spirit whispered to me, “Do not fear; the city of refuge is just up these steps, hidden in those fir trees.” When I ascended a few dozen steps, I saw a small stand of fir trees to the left. Just before I stepped into the middle of them, a shaft of brilliant bright light, a lone sunbeam, cracked the sky to illuminate the city of refuge. When I entered the little circle of fir trees, what the Holy Spirit had called a “city of refuge,” I encountered the manifest glory of God. Angels were everywhere. It was 8:50 A.M. As we entered, I walked through some kind of invisible barrier. Surprisingly, inside the city of refuge, the temperature was very pleasant, even warm. The bright beam of sunlight slashed into the cold, gray atmosphere. As this heavenly light hit the fresh snow, there appeared to be rainbows of colors that seemed to radiate from the trees, tickling my eyes. Suddenly, the Holy Spirit began to ask me questions. The Lord asked me to “describe what you are seeing.” Every color of the rainbow seemed to dance from the tiny snowflakes as they slowly drifted

The early years of the nineteen-eighties were a terrifying and desperate time to be alive. The world was entering a recession and governments slashed welfare budgets so they could treat themselves to a nice war every now and again. The United States and Soviet Union stockpiled ever more powerful weapons in a game of Thermonuclear Chicken. Duran Duran walked the Earth unopposed like some New Romantic behemoth.

we kept knocking them down. “Hold the line!” yelled Devlin. “We stop these monsters here!” “Sir, yes, sir!” yelled the guards, knights and gladiators. “Take this, you ugly monster!” yelled Justin the gladiator as he slashed a screeper’s legs clean off and it fell from the wall. As we held the line, I looked over beyond the wall and saw that the clone was gone. Maybe he poofed in the chain explosions, I thought. I also saw that there was no grass left out there. All the chain explosions had destroyed everything down to the bedrock. Then I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Haha! Come get some!” yelled Obsidian. “Obsidian! You’re here!” I said. “Of course, I’m here. I told you, this is my home, too!” “I wish your friends felt the same way.” “It’s okay, we don’t need them.” “We don’t?” “Naw, man! Cuz you got me!” He laughed as he punched a creeper in the face, and it flew from the wall. I laughed, too.

Every political leader says education is their #1 priority. Yet the relentless slashing of school budgets tells a truer story of the gap between talk and walk when it comes to school funding.

If they didn’t want the patients at the Undisclosed Ffirth Asylum command center slash patient processing facility to feel like prisoners, they were doing the world’s shittiest job.

The week wasn’t even over and on top of Sam and Emma getting dumped slash divorced, Zoey remembered Ben the janitor freshly divorcing his spouse and Christopher Grave breaking it off for the billionth time with none other than Anthony Bush, her first adult crush. Those two were probably going to go on and off like the Grand Slam anyway. The world was soon coming to a broken-hearted zombie apocalypse with the not-so-better halves roaming the Earth in search of the one meant to put an end to the misery, sales of self-help books going high, therapists’ agendas fully booked, and chick flicks gone out of the shelves of video rental stores—if there were any left post Netflix.

your interest is based on what is left on that loan.

Basic business accounting tells us that the purpose of an asset is to produce cash flow. The purpose of a liability is to buy an asset that produces cash flow. By that definition, your home is not an asset. “Oh but my home is appreciating in value,” you may say. To which we ask, “Can you pay your bills with that appreciation? Can you eat it? Do you plan to retire on that appreciation? What are you DOING with that appreciation?

If you have a liability for something that does not produce cash flow, you either sell that asset or pay off the liability.

The rich buy assets. The poor buy liabilities.

When you amortize a loan, you pay for interest and principal inside of a recurring payment as you pay that loan down to $0.

Also remember that the HELOC is paid back in simple interest rather than amortized interest.

Appreciation is a concept you use to make yourself feel better about an expensive liability.

He turned and raised his sword. The automatons followed. He slashed his sword. The automatons followed. “Do they tell stupid jokes like you do?” I asked. “Shut up.

I am an owl of low birth in the eyes of the world because I have had no proper upbringing." All the bluster was gone from Twilight's voice; even his feathers seemed to sag a bit and he appeared slightly smaller. "I have had no First Ceremonies, no First Insect, no First Fur-on-Meat ceremony. There is much I don't know." Soren was stunned. Twilight never admitted to not knowing anything. "But there is much I do know. I know light and shadow and everything in between. I know the life pulse in the throat of a bobcat and where to slash to break the blood pump that is the cat's heart. I know mountains and deserts and the creatures who fly and those who don't, but slither or crawl or leap. I know of all sorts of claws, as well as fangs and poisons that lock the talons and freeze the wings. I know the false horizon that comes in the heat of the summer when the air is thick with dew and confuses old owls so that they go yeep and fall. And I know all this, not because I was reared in a hollow lined with the down of my mother's breast, but because I was not. I was alone within minutes of my hatching. I can be alone. It is a special talent. And I can be alone again.

Mud of the gods, woman, what are you doing?’ Abrastal looked up. ‘What does it look as if I’m doing, Spax?’ Her fiery tresses lay heaped on the tent floor. She was wrapped in her blanket and as far as he could tell, naked underneath. He watched as she resumed slashing long lengths away with her knife. ‘I witness,’ he said, ‘the death of my lust.’ ‘Good. It’s about time. I was never going to bed you, Barghast.’ ‘Not the point. It was the desire I took so much pleasure in.’ ‘That’s pathetic.’ Spax shrugged. ‘I am an ugly man. This is how ugly men get through each damned day.’ ‘You’ve been bedding my daughter.’ ‘She only does it to infuriate you, Highness.’ Abrastal paused with her knife, looked up at him. ‘And has it succeeded?’ Grinning, Spax said, ‘So I tell her every night. All about your rants, your foaming mouth, your outrage and fury.’ ‘Ugly and clever, a deadly combination in any man.

How are your arms?” She didn’t mean anything by it, but guilt still slashed through me. I’d been luckier than most.

Hit it where the armor isn’t!” Jack tried his best not to roll his eyes. “Hippo Eats a Watermelon!” he screamed, bringing both of his blades into a pincer attack at the sides of the zombie, flashing it red twice. The zombie slashed inexpertly, and Jack blocked with one blade, slashing into it again with another. “This zombie is weak! Hah!” He slashed again, and the zombie fell to the ground in a poof of smoke, dropping the sword it was carrying.

Um! Little help!” Ricardo yelled as he struck his zombie foe again, and again doing no damage. “Oh! Right.” Jack equipped the wakizashi and charged in to attack. “Razor Shaves the Dolphin!” He slashed out with the wakizashi at the zombies head, scoring a critical hit. “Sweet!” “Would you cool it with the dumb names?” Ricardo struck the zombie, hitting it in the arm and flashing it red. “Dolphins don’t even have hair!” “You should try it, it’s really fun,” Jack said. The zombie was trapped between a sword and a sharp place as the two boys bounced it back and forth between their swords. Jack scored another critical hit with the wakizashi and it poofed, dropping its armor to the ground. Jack snatched it up, looking at it. Iron Dō-maru 6 armor 8 armor vs. bludgeoning attacks “Hey, shouldn’t I get the armor if you got the sword?” Ricardo asked.

Clear enough in Last Words—the book given to me by the museum manager. They were all so proud to die. They knew when it was coming [and] what it was for. Strange walking in the footsteps, too, copying de Valera’s letter to Mother Gonzaga31 (he has been told he is to be shot). This is beginning to feel like something I just have to hand myself over to—it will take care of itself. Hidden forces are very strong. I’m sitting in his cell, writing a letter to Michael Collins, the dust filling the slash of sunlight. That glimpse of a changing sky must have meant everything.

Jeremiah 51:1–6 (NLT): This is what the Lord says: “I will stir up a destroyer against Babylon and the people of Babylonia. Foreigners will come and winnow her, blowing her away as chaff. They will come from every side to rise against her in her day of trouble. Don’t let the archers put on their armor or draw their bows. Don’t spare even her best soldiers! Let her army be completely destroyed. They will fall dead in the land of the Babylonians, slashed to death in her streets. For the Lord of Heaven’s Armies has not abandoned Israel and Judah. He is still their God, even though their land was filled with sin against the Holy One of Israel.” Flee from Babylon! Save yourselves! Don’t get trapped in her punishment! It is the Lord’s time for vengeance; he will repay her in full.

The truth, as Sam finally explained it: He and Xavier went to meet Cathy. Sam went to her car, and they began arguing. Xavier heard Cathy begin to scream and he went to pull Sam away, assuming he had gotten physical. He didn’t realize Sam had a knife and was stabbing her. Xavier accidentally cut his hand trying to pull Sam off her. Cathy got away, but Sam chased after her, and cut her face and her head. Xavier helped Sam put Cathy into the trunk, where Sam cut her wrists and neck, sealing her fate. Just like I had argued. Going back to the example of our two cowboys, the initial flurry of knife wounds could have been a second-degree murder. But the throat slash and cuts on the wrists made it a pure, cold-blooded first-degree offense. They drove to the hospital lot and parked, and left the car.

Tell my beloved James I ended mine afterlife in defence of noble friends,” Villiers wheezes, then frowns, looking down at the slashes in his doublet. He pats at the wound. Realizing the cuts don’t go deeper than the fabric, he rights himself. “Oh, tis but a scratch.

The mere thought that she was alone and surrounded by books gave her a near-sensuous thrill. As she looked around her room, dark escaper for the slash of light near her lamp, and saw the vague outlines of her books, she asked herself 'Have I not the whole world?

His brother never untied a knot when he could slash it in two with his sword.

He was already about to catch a cold in this storm; the water seeped through the many gashes of his shirt, and no matter how he tried to avoid it, the rain managed to drench him. As he walked across this field, his movement stunted due to his injury, he heard a hissing sound behind him. When he turned around, he saw the familiar dead stare of the Creeper. Immediately, he unsheathed his sword, a crude steel blade that he had forged in a hurry. He began slashing at it with ferocity, screaming as he did. The Creeper fell down, disappearing in a puff of smoke. Creepers were commonplace, but this one caused his patience to fall apart. What was wrong with him? The

I highly recommend Marci Alboher’s One Person/ Multiple Careers. It includes lots of practical strategies for living the slash. Malcom Gladwell is also a constant source of inspiration for me. In his book Outliers, Gladwell proposes that there are three criteria for meaningful work—complexity, autonomy, and a relationship between effort and reward—and that these can often be found in creative work.2 These criteria absolutely fit with what cultivating meaningful work means in the context of the Wholehearted journey. Last, I think everyone should read Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist3—I try to read it at least once a year. It’s a powerful way of seeing the connections between our gifts, our spirituality, and our work (slashed or not) and how they come together to create meaning in our lives.

Moving to stand between his spread knees, she began washing his face with gentle strokes of the cloth over his smooth, tan brow. His eyes drifted closed, and she took the opportunity to drink in his stunning masculinity. Cinnamon-colored beard stubbled his strong jaw since he hadn’t shaved in more than a day. His nose was straight and broad and slightly reddened by the sun. Between his proud cheekbones and slashing eyebrows, a shade darker than his dark-blond hair, he looked every bit as intimidating as she’d first found him at Berringer’s field. Except now, she wasn’t afraid. Now, he was hers. Tentative wonder filled her chest. She set down the cloth and, starting at the tips, began combing her fingers through the wind-blown tangles falling around his face. The prolific number of split ends didn’t detract from the beauty of his majestic mane. In fact, they leant his soft locks a roughness that reminded her of the way his warrior exterior disguised the core of vulnerability he hid from the world. What she wouldn’t give to see his hair washed and combed properly, to have those strands skate over the bare skin of her stomach, her breasts. She sighed. She was a goner for Darcy.

You listen to me, Soph,” I growled, but took a breath, taking it down a notch. I lifted her face with a crooked finger under her chin, wanting nothing more than to kiss her trembling mouth and make everything bad in her life go away for good. But life didn’t work that way, did it? You couldn’t think happy thoughts and fly away to Neverland. And you couldn’t kiss girls and have everything in their life that was wrong be right. If only. But I was apparently doing something right, because that lip…it wasn’t trembling quite as much anymore. And her eyes? They begged me to save her. “You were slashed when I found you, remember? And now, you have some scars.” Her face crumpled and she tried to move it away from my hand, but I brought it back to face me. I wrapped my free hand around her back, right against the part of her I was speaking of, and brought her against me. I put my mouth against her ear. “What is a life without scars? Scars come in all forms and we all have them. Some deeper than others, some more than others, some harsher than others. Your scars are yours, Soph, and you earned them,” I said harshly, my lips touching the rim of her ear. “It felt like sh—awful going through what you did, but the point is you did it. You. No one else. And no one else could have but you. And your scars are beautiful because of who you are and what you did to earn them. Don’t ever be ashamed of them. As for you being a plague? If that’s so, then please, infect me. Because I want everything you’ve got to give me.” I

Then the boulder that kept the beast from reaching Claude and Cory disappeared in a puff of smoke. The last thing they heard was a gale of raucous laughter filling their ears as the grizzly pounced on them with all its fury and began to maul, slash, and tear them to ribbons with toothy delight.

She’d read countless fantasy novels where the heroine was a chosen one, picked from all others to save the world, normally wearing a chainmail bikini as she hacked and slashed her way to slay the dark lord, or banish the demon back to hell. Offhand, she couldn’t recall any novel where the chosen one had simply been a case of mistaken identity. And in the books where there was no tinge of destiny, the heroine was almost always supremely competent. What was she going to do? Impress Shadye by her masterful grasp of role-playing games, creative writing, and wasting time browsing the internet and reading web-comics? She didn’t even have a homicidal rabbit with a switchblade on her side.

I stepped back, grabbing Liam’s arm as he stared in shock. “We need to go. Now!” I snapped. “What is this?” “Death. And only one person has power over it.” Ava’s and Geraldo’s heads snapped back, their broken jaws opening obscenely wide. Only one creature had enough control over the dead to keep a celestial bound to their flesh, and I knew it was too late. A hollow howl echoed out of their throats, filling the mausoleum and calling their master forward. The ghastly wail was piercing, and I covered my ears. Liam winced, and I saw the brief flash of silver as he slashed his silver blade through Geraldo’s neck. His head bounced and rolled on the ground, but his body stayed upright. I pulled on Liam’s arm. “That won’t work. They’re already dead, and what’s controlling them is only using them as a beacon.

Forested ruins Before gold-streaked slashes Entwined in poison

At that moment the griefer jumped out from inside a chest and yelled, “Not everywhere!” and then he slashed at Harold, killing him! I saw a little piece of raw chicken meat floating where Harold had been only a moment earlier. His drop.

Slash. Squeal, squeal. Run . . . run . . . run. Slash, slash. Squeal . . . Pork chops.

Mara wished for a storm, for the clap and slash of the splitting sky. She wished for something to break, to change, to be undone - so that it could all be over; so that she could go up onto the cliff and be still forever. But until then - she reached for her latest book, ready to read and unread another death.

Milton said once, poetically, that whoever murders a book, murders a man. Psychologists would mostly agree that that is symbolically true. Destroying a book, like the psychotic behavior of slashing a photograph, expresses rage at the person who wrote the book or the person in the photo. One cannot help wondering, at this point, about those who burned the books of Dr. Reich or conspired to suppress the books of Dr. Velikovsky.

All this strange ender royalty discussion was making me a little woozy. Cheers? Rallying cries? This wasn’t a game of Quidditch; this was surfing. It was all about style and slashing moves and throwing lots of spray, not “2-4-6-8 who do we appreciate”-type stuff. Sheesh!

A Performing Asset is an asset that pays you every month like a business you own or invest in, or a piece of real estate that you can rent out. Wealthy people invest in Performing Assets for cash flow. The rest invest in liabilities for just the opposite. When all of your cash is sunk into a non-Performing Asset such as a mortgage, there is no wealth building. There is only treading water.

were hundreds of wither skeletons staring at him with murderous intent. “And what might that be?” the general bellowed. He removed his serrated obsidian sword from its scabbard and slashed it through the air to emphasize his question. The blaze sighed, as though the general’s ostentatious display were the most boring thing he’d ever seen. “I’ve been instructed to give the message to Queen Nebula only. If you do not wish me to deliver the message, I will return to Emperor Nar, and then the battle will begin and your inevitable conquest will follow.” The general was not intimidated by the blaze’s threats, but he did know Queen Nebula might want to hear this message. He turned to Bent Neck, who was standing nearby. “What say you? Should we allow the blaze to deliver the message?” Bent Neck considered the question and then scratched his chin with a finger bone. “I’d say we should. I will have the blaze muzzled so that he may deliver the message without us fearing a fireball attack against our most noble, powerful, and illustrious Queen.” The general grunted. “I would prefer to make this blaze poof, but you are the Queen’s advisor and know her mind the best of any of us. If you think it’s important, we will do it.” The general turned back toward the blaze. “You may cross the bridge. Alone.” The blaze said nothing but floated forward and crossed the bridge. When he arrived on the other side, he was met by four royal guards who also would have preferred to transform the blaze into a puff of smoke, but Bent Neck insisted that his life be preserved.

When authors write, who do they describe: themselves, characters or the readers? But, characters cannot be the characters, because in every book the main character is writer slash author. Because they went through it before they wrote it." She finished wiping her mouth with napkin a d dropped her tissue beside her plate.

If we will render the our browser, we will be witness to a horizontal line, thanks to the self-closing element of the hr tag. Note that the the element has no closing tag, only one tag. And instead of a forward slash before the hr, we have it after the hr.

About “Arresting the Shadow” (一、陰をおさゆると云) “Arresting the shadow” (yin) means to carefully observe your enemy in order to know if his mind is overly engaged and where it is lacking. Pointing your sword when his mind is preoccupied and diverting his attention, then arresting the shadow of the area that is lacking will upset his rhythm and victory will be for the taking. Even so, it is crucial that you do not leave your mind on the shadow and forget to strike. You must work this out.22 (19) About “Shifting the Shadow” (一、影を動かすと云事) This shadow is that of yang. When the enemy pulls his sword back and assumes a front-on stance,23 suppress his sword with your mind and make your body empty. As soon the enemy encroaches, unleash with your sword. This will surely make him move. When he does, it is easy to win. This method did not exist before. Do not allow the mind to become fixed as you strike at protruding parts of his body. Ponder this carefully.24 (20) About “Detaching the Bowstring” (一、弦をはづすと云事) “Detaching the bowstring” is employed when your mind and the enemy’s are tightly connected [with a bowstring]. In such a situation, you must promptly detach [the string] with your body, sword, legs and mind. Detaching is most effective when the enemy least expects it. This should be explored. (21) About the “Small Comb” Teaching (一、小櫛のおしへの事) The spirit of the “small comb” is to untangle knots. Hold a comb in your mind and use it to slash threads in the enemy’s web of entanglement. Entangling with threads and pulling strings are similar. Pulling is stronger, however, as entanglement is a tactic executed with a weaker mind. This should be considered judiciously.

Raziel gripped the beast’s razor-sharp beak in one hand, slamming it to the earth and stepping on its throat, returning to the beasts above as he crushed it underneath his boot. Burning black ichor splashed across his face, but the stinging pain only made him fight harder. He roared and slashed out again and again, claws and feathers flicking about his face in a vile whirlwind.

Nesta ate until she couldn't fit another morsel into her body, helping herself to thirds of the soup. The House seemed more than happy to oblige her, and had even offered her a slice of double-chocolate cake to finish. 'Is this Cassian-approved?' She picked up the fork and smiled at the moist, gleaming cake. 'It certainly isn't,' he said from the doorway, and Nesta whirled, scowling. He nodded toward the cake. 'But eat up.' She put down the fork. 'What do you want?' Cassian surveyed the family library. 'Why are you eating in here?' 'Isn't it obvious?' His grin was a slash of white. 'The only thing that's obvious is that you're talking to yourself.' 'I'm talking to the House. Which is a considerable step up from talking to you.' 'It doesn't talk back.' 'Exactly.' He snorted. 'I walked into that one.' He stalked across the room, eyeing the cake she still didn't touch. 'Are you really... talking to the House?' 'Don't you talk to it?' 'No.' 'It listens to me,' she insisted. 'Of course it does. It's enchanted.' 'It even brought food down to the library unasked.' His brows rose. 'Why?' 'I don't know how your faerie magic works.' 'Did you... do anything to make it act that way?' 'If you're taking a page from Devlon's book and asking if I did any witchcraft, the answer is no.' Cassian chuckled. 'That's not what I meant, but fine. The House likes you. Congratulations.' She growled, and he leaned over to pick up the fork. She went stiff at his closeness, but he said nothing as he took a bite of the cake. He let out a hum of pleasure that traveled along her bones. And then took another bite. 'That's supposed to be mine,' she groused, peering up at him as he continued to eat. 'Then take it from me,' he said.

The Ballad of Mac the Knife Fair in Soho. The beggars are begging, the thieves are stealing, the whores are whoring. A ballad singer sings a ballad. See the shark with teeth like razors. All can read his open face. And Macheath has got a knife, but Not in such an obvious place. See the shark, how red his fins are As he slashes at his prey. Mac the Knife wears white kid gloves which Give the minimum away.

The last thing he remembered what sharing his longing for a normal life, expressing feelings that had risen from the deepest part of him as if the blade that had slashed across his back had opened more than just skin.

By banning books, you manifest yourself as an arrogant hypocrite rather than a hero. Book censorship slashes the arteries of free expression, a heinous act that is fundamentally un-American.

Plants do not bleed when slashed, can't scream when burned. They can't write a message in a book. They need someone to do it for them.

Many people born into modest circumstances have risen to great heights because they could educate themselves for free, and stay out of trouble, at the public library. To cite one example, Tom Bradley, the son of a sharecropper, learned enough at the local library as a boy to join the Los Angeles Police Department. He rose to become its highest ranking black officer in 1958 when he made lieutenant. Bradley went on to be mayor for two decades. But today library hours, as well as budgets to buy books, have been slashed in Los Angeles, Detroit, Baltimore, and other cities, yet there is plenty of money to give away to sports-team owners.

Harvest Bread Bread is the quintessential harvest food. Its civilizing influence trails beer. It is almost a cultural universal. Europeans have bread loaves, Mexicans and some Central and South American countries have tortillas, the southern United States has corn bread, India and Pakistan have naan—the varieties, shapes, and forms bread comes in is infinite, as is the artistry in creating it. Ingredients: ¾ cup warm water 1 package active dry yeast 1 teaspoon salt 1½ tablespoons sugar 1 tablespoon vegetable shortening ½ cup milk 3 heaping cups all-purpose flour 1 stick softened butter Preheat oven to 375°F. In a large bowl, add the warm water. Slowly stir in the dry yeast. Continue to stir until the yeast dissolves. Add salt, sugar, shortening, and milk to the bowl. Stir well. Mix in the first 2 cups of flour. If needed, begin adding more flour, one tablespoon at a time, until the dough chases the spoon around the bowl. You do not need to use up all the flour called for in this recipe, or you may need more flour than is called for. The amounts vary depending on many factors, including weather, which is why most bread recipes only give an approximate amount of flour needed. Turn the dough out onto a floured board and knead it, adding small spoonfuls of flour as needed, until the dough is soft and smooth, not sticky to the touch. Use the softened butter to butter a bowl and a bread pan. Put the dough in the buttered bowl, and turn the dough over to grease all sides evenly. Cover and let rise in a warm spot for 1 hour. Punch down dough. Turn out onto floured board and knead again. Form dough into a loaf and set it in the buttered bread pan. Cover and let rise for about 30 minutes. Before baking, score the dough by cutting three slashes across the top with a sharp knife. Then, put it in oven and bake for about 45 minutes or until golden brown. Turn the bread out of the pan, and let it cool on a rack or a clean dishtowel.

Situations of imperial duress might be measured by the force embodied in it and the frequency by which it is applied, by the limits on endurance and the refusals it produces in its wake. Duress as I conceive it is a relationship of actualized and anticipated violence. It bears on those who are its perpetrators, produces anxieties, and expanding definitions of insecurities that are its effect, a demolition project that is eminently modern, and as Franz Fanon conceived it, a form of power that slashes a scar across a social fabric that differentially affects us all.

Very nice, Ravenpaw,” Tigerclaw praised the apprentice, his purr rich with amusement. “I can’t wait to fight RiverClan,” Ravenpaw meowed happily, his tail slashing with excitement. “The best way to learn to be a warrior is to be in a real battle!

Scars" They tell how it was, and how time came along, and how it happened again and again. They tell the slant life takes when it turns and slashes your face as a friend. Any wound is real. In church a woman lets the sun find her cheek, and we see the lesson: there are years in that book; there are sorrows a choir can't reach when they sing. Rows of children lift their faces of promise, places where the scars will be. William Stafford, Americans’ Favorite Poems edited by Maggie Dietz and Robert Pinsky (W. W. Norton & Company; 1st edition, November 1, 1999)

I blocked with my shield! I slashed with my sword! But that just meant I turned each medium-sized killer cube into a bunch of even smaller ones! Soon there was a whole swarm of mini-cubes jumping, and flaming, and burning me! AAARRRGGGH! That’s when I slipped into crazy-berserker mode! I hacked! I chopped! I sliced and diced! I slashed anything that moved! Sometimes I even hit two or three cubes with one swing! I was a raging fighting machine! It was awesome! Until I heard a loud, angry SQUEEEEEAL!

saw Assassin Wither remove a strange glowing red sword from his inventory and slash at Abigail’s

Zeus turned the sky black, commanding dozens of explosive lightning strikes that filled the plain with ear-splitting thunder and sent thick smoke curling into the air from the fires left in their stead. Poseidon drove his glowing trident into the ground, opening gaping rifts that swallowed everyone in their path. Ares mercilessly wielded his sword, slashing through human after human, leaving his hands and armour dripping with blood. Athena whirled her spear around, skewering anyone who came too close. Apollo’s hands glowed, sunlight bursting from his outstretched palms, blinding and scorching everyone within twenty feet. Artemis fired off arrows while commanding an army of ferocious beasts that used their pointed teeth and enormous talons to maim and kill their victims. Aphrodite bewitched males with pink mist she blew from her mouth, forcing them to turn on their allies. And Hera threw crackling white fireballs, incinerating the humans they collided with.

impossibly thin link with the Grey Swords. Each one had fallen to Anomander Rake, and this knowledge alone was sufficient, for it burned like acid, it stung like shame. They wore their masks, and as they fought, the painted slashes, the sigils of rank, began to fade, worn away by the fires of chaos, until upon each warrior the mask gleamed pure. As if here, within the world of this sword, some power could yield to greater truths. Here, Dragnipur seemed to say, you are all equal.

A score of Seguleh, all that remained of the Second’s forces, formed one impossibly thin link with the Grey Swords. Each one had fallen to Anomander Rake, and this knowledge alone was sufficient, for it burned like acid, it stung like shame. They wore their masks, and as they fought, the painted slashes, the sigils of rank, began to fade, worn away by the fires of chaos, until upon each warrior the mask gleamed pure. As if here, within the world of this sword, some power could yield to greater truths. Here, Dragnipur seemed to say, you are all equal.

Giants in Jeans Sonnet 75 Nonduality comes from wholeness, Wholeness rises when sectarianism is slashed. Sectarianism fails when we fall in love, Not with one person but the whole world. When the stranger becomes family, Politicians will lose their job. When love overwhelms all rigidity, Arms dealers will mourn and sob. When diplomacy keeps the world divided, Reliance on institutions goes through the roof. The best way to sustain profits of war, Is to keep people infected with the nationalist flu. Enough with this barbarianism of sovereignty! Step up and shout, the whole world is my family!

This book is for all you Whorror Babies who’ve asked your partner to buy a Ghostface mask for… reasons. I see you boo. I got you.

make it out of Sunflower Gulch?” I asked. “It’s a long story. Right now, how do you feel about going out there in jockey formation and killing all of those husks?” I smiled. I slashed the air with the sword that Otis had given me. “I’d  feel great about it.” I hopped on Harold’s back and we rushed back into the fray. About half the soldiers were already dead due to the good work of Otis, Sandy, and the baby drowned, but Cassius was still alive. He yelled toward the front of the zombified piglin palace. “Send out some soldiers! Are you not my allies?” To my surprise, several dozen soldiers rushed out of the fortress and turned on me and the rest of the jockeys. Cassius took the lead and said, “Push them into that corridor from which they came! We

down at unseeing eyes in a sheet-white face, dark hair tangled like a veil. The deep slashes at the corners of the mouth created the brutal parody of a smile. Gripping its shoulders, he lifted the prepared torso out – severed at the hips, drained of blood, cleansed and ready. He placed it down, memorizing the exact pose in his mind, the scene he needed to recreate, paying homage to a brutal killer whose name nobody had ever known. He positioned the torso. Crossed the arms over the face – with difficulty, because they were cold, and not limp. Rigor mortis was already setting in. Then, he pulled out the other bag, working

Wait a damn minute. Now I’m all for slashing fucking tires. Bleaching clothes, but you’re talking about committing a felony. What do you want us to do?

Damien, are these … freckles?” Lifting my head, I glanced at the three dots slashed across the base of my finger and shrugged. “Guess so. Why?” Clo’s face lit up in what had to be the most breathtaking smile I’d ever seen as she slapped her left hand on top of mine. There, on her ring finger, darker than all the other freckles on her hand, were three dots, just like mine. “I read about this in one of Darby Donovan’s books.” She beamed. “It means we’re soulmates, bonded for eternity.