Sparkle Short Quotes

Technically, if a girl wants to sparkle she can put on glitter but I think the correct answer would be a smile because no one pays attention to your short when you have a nice smile on your face.

My child, I know you're not a child But I still see you running wild Between those flowering trees. Your sparkling dreams, your silver laugh Your wishes to the stars above Are just my memories. And in your eyes the ocean And in your eyes the sea The waters frozen over With your longing to be free. Yesterday you'd awoken To a world incredibly old. This is the age you are broken Or turned into gold. You had to kill this child, I know. To break the arrows and the bow To shed your skin and change. The trees are flowering no more There's blood upon the tiles floor This place is dark and strange. I see you standing in the storm Holding the curse of youth Each of you with your story Each of you with your truth. Some words will never be spoken Some stories will never be told. This is the age you are broken Or turned into gold. I didn't say the world was good. I hoped by now you understood Why I could never lie. I didn't promise you a thing. Don't ask my wintervoice for spring Just spread your wings and fly. Though in the hidden garden Down by the green green lane The plant of love grows next to The tree of hate and pain. So take my tears as a token. They'll keep you warm in the cold. This is the age you are broken Or turned into gold. You've lived too long among us To leave without a trace You've lived too short to understand A thing about this place. Some of you just sit there smoking And some are already sold. This is the age you are broken Or turned into gold. This is the age you are broken or turned into gold.

Crackers are short on sparkle.

Soon after the completion of his college course, his whole nature was kindled into one intense and passionate effervescence of romantic passion. His hour came,—the hour that comes only once; his star rose in the horizon,—that star that rises so often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams; and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure,—he saw and won the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the northern states, and they were affianced. He returned south to make arrangements for their marriage, when, most unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by mail, with a short note from her guardian, stating to him that ere this reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung to madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling the whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort. Too proud to supplicate or seek explanation, he threw himself at once into a whirl of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal letter was the accepted lover of the reigning belle of the season; and as soon as arrangements could be made, he became the husband of a fine figure, a pair of bright dark eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and, of course, everybody thought him a happy fellow. The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and entertaining a brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa, near Lake Pontchartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought to him in that well-remembered writing. It was handed to him while he was in full tide of gay and successful conversation, in a whole room-full of company. He turned deadly pale when he saw the writing, but still preserved his composure, and finished the playful warfare of badinage which he was at the moment carrying on with a lady opposite; and, a short time after, was missed from the circle. In his room,alone, he opened and read the letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from her, giving a long account of a persecution to which she had been exposed by her guardian's family, to lead her to unite herself with their son: and she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to arrive; how she had written time and again, till she became weary and doubtful; how her health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had discovered the whole fraud which had been practised on them both. The letter ended with expressions of hope and thankfulness, and professions of undying affection, which were more bitter than death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to her immediately: I have received yours,—but too late. I believed all I heard. I was desperate. I am married, and all is over. Only forget,—it is all that remains for either of us." And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St. Clare. But the real remained,—the real, like the flat, bare, oozy tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding boats and white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming waters, has gone down, and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare,—exceedingly real. Of course, in a novel, people's hearts break, and they die, and that is the end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we do not die when all that makes life bright dies to us.

When they reached their ship, Ed gazed out at the bay. It was black. The sky was black, but the bay was even blacker. It was a slick, oily blackness that glowed and reflected the moonlight like a black jewel. Ed saw the tiny specks of light around the edges of the bay where he knew ships must be docked, and at different points within the bay where vessels would be anchored. The lights were pale and sickly yellow when compared with the bright blue-white sparkle of the stars overhead, but the stars glinted hard as diamonds, cold as ice. Pg. 26.

Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in soutern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison?

What I will tell you, son of sons, is this: shortly, if not already, you will begin noticing the blackness inside us all. You will develop black secrets and commit black actions. You will be shocked at the insensitivities and transgressions you are capable of, yet you will be unable to stop them. And by the time you are thirty, your friends will all have black secrets, too, but it will be years before you learn exactly *what* their black secrets are. Life at that point will become like throwing a Frisbee in a graveyard; much of the pleasure of your dealings with your friends will stem from the contrast between your sparkling youth and the ink you now know lies at your feet. Later, as you get to be my age, you will see your friends begin to die, to lose their memories, to see their skins turn wrinkled and sick. You will see the effects of dark secrets making themslves know - via their minds and bodies and via the stories your friends - yes, Harmony, Gaia, Mei-lin, Davidson, and the rest - will begin telling you at three-thirty in the morning as you put iodine on their bruises, arrange for tetanus shots, dial 911, and listen to them cry. The only payback for all of this - for the conversion of their once-young hearts into tar - will be that you will love your friends more, even though they have made you see the universe as an emptier and scarier place - and they will love you more, too.

Marie supposedly is still queen of a land where you can see sparkling Christmas Forests everywhere as well as translucent Marzipan Castles - in short, the most splendid and most wondrous things, if you only have the right eyes to see them with.

There's a picture in When the Lights Go Down: A Short Illustrated History of Film of Alec Matto smoking in a chair in a room with a slice of light blaring over his head toward a screen we can't see. 'Alec Matto reviewing dailies for Where Has Julia Gone? (1947) in his private screening room.' Joan had to tell me what dailies are, it's when the director takes sometime in the evening, while smoking, to see all the footage that was filmed that day, maybe just one scene, a man opening a door over and over, a woman pointing out the window, pointing out the window, pointing out the window. That's dailies, and it took seven or eight matches on the roof over the garage for me to go over our breathless dailies that night, the nervous wait with the tickets in my hand, Lottie Carson heading north on those trains, kissing you, kissing you, the strange conversation in A-Post Novelties that had me all nerve-wracky after I talked to Al about it, even though he said he had no opinion. The matches were little he loves me, he loves me not, but then I saw right on the box that I had twenty-four, which would end the game at not, so I just let the small handful sparkle and puff for a bit, each one a thrill, a tiny delicious jolt for each part I remembered, until I burned my finger and went back in still thinking of all we did together.

Our northern summers, though, are versions Of southern winters, this is clear; And though we’re loath to cast aspersions, They seem to go before they’re here! The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled; The friendly sun less often sparkled; The days grew short and as they sped, The wood with mournful murmur shed Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered; The fields all lay in misty peace; The caravan of cackling geese Turned south; and all around there hovered The sombre season near at hand; November marched across the land.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess we’re going to a party.”Her mood suddenly lifts and she grins impishly. “What gave it away?”I eye her outfit and count down on my fingers.“Four things: leather shorts, pink highheels,knee high socks,and a sparkling top. ”She sticks out her hip and pops up her foot, striking a pose. “Come on, admit it,I look hot.”“You look like a—”She tosses a pillow at me.“Watch that dirty mouth of yours, Death Girl.

The Doctor put his finger to his lips and Martha nodded and followed him as quietly as she could. Wet leaves squelched under her feet. There was movement up ahead: two teenagers, a pale boy and a nervous girl, walked into a clearing. The sun broke through the clouds and the boy started to sparkle. Martha felt the Doctor’s eyes on her and she blushed. ‘Do not judge me.’ ‘Judging is for later,’ he said, and they continued on, giving the young lovers a wide berth.

Two against thirty two,” Niten said. “Good odds.” “I’ve never fought the Spartoi before,” Prometheus admitted. “I only know of them by their reputation—and it’s fearsome.” “We have an equal reputation,” Niten said. “Well, you do,” the Elder said. “I was never that much of a fighter. And after the fall of the island, I rarely took up weapons again.” “Fighting is a skill you never forget,” Niten said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “I fought my first duel when I was thirteen. I’ve been fighting ever since.” “But you are more than just a swordsman,” Prometheus said. “You are an artist, a sculptor and a writer.” “No man is ever just one thing,” Niten answered. His shoulder dropped and his short sword appeared in his left hand, water droplets sparkling from the blade. “But first and foremost, I was always a warrior.” He jabbed his sword into the fog and stirred it like liquid.

In writing short stories—as in writing novels—take one thing at a time. (For some writers, this advice I'm giving may apply best to a first draft; for others, it may hinder the flow at first but be useful when time for revision comes.) Treat a short passage of description as a complete unit and make that one small unit as perfect as you can; then turn to the next unit— a passage of dialogue, say—and make that as perfect as you can. Move to larger units, the individual scenes that together make up the plot, and work each scene until it sparkles.

TJ frowns; she can’t write about willing wind and water in the official report. Voicing elements is a rumor. However, she remembers what her grandmother said five decades ago when she was a child; (it was shortly after the war): “Anyone who trains hard can be a Grade A by the time they’re forty or fifty. But it takes decades more to become strong enough to voice one element.” “One element?” TJ asked. “Do you want to voice the entire universe then?” “Can’t I?” Grandmother didn’t answer, not directly anyway, as most great masters do. They never say you can’t do this or no one can do that or that thing is impossible just because they couldn’t do it, or because they hadn’t found it yet. True masters answer differently. Wisely. Like her grandmother answered that day. “Do you know why we evolve, Tirity?” “Because we’re supposed to?” TJ replied. “Yes. It’s in the grand design. We’re ‘supposed to’ evolve. Not just in body, but also in mind,” she said. “In time. You see, time is the key. If given infinite time, you can evolve your mind infinitely. But we live only for a hundred years or so.” “A hundred years is ‘only’?” “You’re so young, Tirity! But yes, it is little for a complete cognitive evolution. Most hard trainers can prolong it to a couple of hundred years. They even get to call the wind or grow a giant plant that could touch the clouds. But voicing everything in the universe? I think only God can do it, the God who created everything with only words. And if God created the world so that he could see how far the humans can evolve, then I’d say, yes, even a human could get godly power. Godlier than voicing one or two elements. If. Given. The. Time.” “How much time?” “More than thousands of years, maybe. Could even need millions, who knows? …” TJ smiles drily; she remembers how her eyes sparkled at the thought of becoming a goddess who could voice everything. She dreamed of flying in the air or walking in space. She thought of making her own garden full of giant flowers where only enormous butterflies would dance. Some days, when she played video games in VR, she even dreamed of voicing the thunder and lightning to join her wooden sword. She thought time could help her do it. But she didn’t know then, time only makes you grow up. Time steals your dreams. Time only turns you into an adult.

One solitary, pale, weary figure turned towards the new player and, giving him a look which dazzled and expired like a diamond's sparkle, said, 'He who says military does not say civilian, Monsieur le Ministre.

I feel as though I have a balloon filled with 4th of July sparklers that is ready to explode inside my chest I want to be a firework to live my life blindingly bright and sparkling and then to go out quickly to burn for a short time but very brightly

The sparkling smile became enormous. ‘Do you think she has a dagger there? Do you? Ask her, M. Francis? For,’ said the most noble and most powerful Princess Mary Stewart, Queen of Scotland, delving furiously under all the stiff red velvet, showing shift, hose and garters, shoes, knees and a long ribboned end of something recently torn loose, and emerging therefrom with a fist closed tight on an object short and hard and glittering, ‘for I have!’ And breathlessly, flinging back her head, with the little knife offered like a quill, ‘Try to stab me!’ she encouraged her visitor. There was a queer silence, during which the eyes of Oonagh O’Dwyer and her love of one night met and locked like magnet and iron. The child, waiting a moment, offered again, the ringing, joyful defiance still in her voice. ‘Try to stab me! … Go on, and I’ll kill you all dead!’ Her throat dry, Oonagh spoke. ‘Save your steel for those you trust. They are the ones who will carry your bier; the men who cannot hate, nor can they know love. Send away the cold servants.’ The red mouth had opened a little; the knife hung forgotten in her hand. ‘I would,’ said Mary, surprised. ‘But I do not know any.’ And, anxiously demonstrating her point, she caught Lymond by the hand.

It was beginning to get late in the afternoon. On the edge of the earth, the sun slowly diminished. An unexpected calmness dropped in the atmosphere. In one short life, this drama would end. And that would be the end of it all; those, who suffered the worst, were the ones most deluded by the notion that this life was forever. Oh, how calm? How peacefully the River Murma flowed today? A mere twitter of a bird in the heavy groves, the shepherd’s distant tune caught in the flute wafted through the air. There appeared to be no grimy crimes threatening such delightful sensations of undulated serenity. The night forest illuminated by fireflies everywhere. Lights sparkled, as they flew ubiquitous around the slim, tall trees and the heavy bushes of the blue forest.

Hazel eyes that sparkle with warmth draw me in, holding me captive. It's not only that he's attractive, with his short dark hair and his full, kissable lips. No, it's more than that. In his eyes, I see something I lack—empathy. I see everything I want to be, but cannot.

Had his room been facing west he would have noted the sparkling twenty-five-mile vista to the sea which looks almost like the Mediterranean. He would have noted how the streets of L.A. undulate over short hills as though a finger is poking the landscape from underneath. How laid over this crosshatch are streets meandering on the diagonal creating a multitude of ways to get from one place to another by traveling along the hypotenuse. These are the avenues of the tryst which enable Acting Student A to travel the eighteen miles across town to Acting Student B's garage apartment in nine minutes flat after a hot-blooded phone call at midnight. Had he been facing seaward on a balcony overlooking the city the writer might have heard drifting out of a tiny apartment window the optimistic voice of a shower singer imbued with the conviction that this is a place where it is possible to be happy.

Did THEY also hear those notes he heard in memories, that soared and dived and trilled and sparkled in mesmeric intervals with the familiar, “lu, lu, lu, lu,” that had soothed and comforted him? It transported him to fields of gold and peaceful days, peaceful nights when the only sound was the twitching of birds in the hedgerows.

Ildiko shuddered.  Her hope to never again see or eat the Kai’s most beloved and revolting delicacy had been in vain.  When Brishen informed her that the dish was one of Serovek’s favorites, she resigned herself to another culinary battle with her food and put the scarpatine on the menu.  She ordered roasted potatoes as well, much to the head cook’s disgust. When servants brought out the food and set it on the table, Brishen leaned close and whispered in her ear.  “Revenge, wife?” “Hardly,” she replied, keeping a wary eye on the pie closest to her.  The golden top crust, with its sprinkle of sparkling salt, pitched in a lazy undulation.  “But I’m starving, and I have no intention of filling up on that abomination.” Their guest of honor didn’t share their dislike of either food.  As deft as any Kai, Serovek made short work of the scarpatine and its whipping tail, cleaved open the shell with his knife and took a generous bite of the steaming gray meat. Ildiko’s stomach heaved.  She forgot her nausea when Serovek complimented her.  “An excellent choice to pair the scarpatine with the potato, Your Highness.  They are better together than apart.” Beside her, Brishen choked into his goblet.  He wiped his mouth with his sanap.  “What a waste of good scarpatine,” he muttered under his breath. What a waste of a nice potato, she thought.  However, the more she thought on Serovek’s remark, the more her amusement grew. “And what has you smiling so brightly?”  Brishen stared at her, his lambent eyes glowing nearly white in the hall’s torchlight. She glanced at Serovek, happily cleaning his plate and shooting the occasional glance at Anhuset nearby.  Brishen’s cousin refused to meet his gaze, but Ildiko had caught the woman watching the Beladine lord more than a few times during dinner. “That’s us, you know,” she said. “What is us?” “The scarpatine and the potato.  Better together than alone.  At least I think so.” One of Brishen’s eyebrows slid upward.  “I thought we were hag and dead eel.  I think I like those comparisons more.”  He shoved his barely-touched potato to the edge of his plate with his knife tip, upper lip curled in revulsion to reveal a gleaming white fang. Ildiko laughed and stabbed a piece of the potato off his plate.  She popped it into her mouth and chewed with gusto, eager to blunt the taste of scarpatine still lingering on her tongue.

Five minutes later, a young man walking rapidly in the opposite direction pulled up short and stopped in front of Sandra. He exclaimed blithely: “I say, what luck! I wondered if I’d ever see you again.” His tone was so delighted that she blushed just a little. He stooped to the dog. “What a jolly little fellow. What’s his name?” “MacTavish.” “Oh, very Scotch.

At the top was a delightful alpine heath with short golden-green grass and scads of beautiful pink and purple flowers that Alice decided not to study more closely. Even though at second glance it became obvious that the glorious sunlight wasn't sparkling off their dew but the petals themselves: each blossom was a jewel, or maybe glass, and chimed gently in the wind.

At first Alexander could not believe it was his Tania. He blinked and tried to refocus his eyes. She was walking around the table, gesturing, showing, leaning forward, bending over. At one point she straightened out and wiped her forehead. She was wearing a short-sleeved yellow peasant dress. She was barefoot, and her slender legs were exposed above her knee. Her bare arms were lightly tanned. Her blonde hair looked bleached by the sun and was parted into two shoulder-length braids tucked behind her ears. Even from a distance he could see the summer freckles on her nose. She was achingly beautiful. And alive. Alexander closed his eyes, then opened them again. She was still there, bending over the boy’s work. She said something, everyone laughed loudly, and Alexander watched as the boy’s arm touched Tatiana’s back. Tatiana smiled. Her white teeth sparkled like the rest of her. Alexander didn’t know what to do. She was alive, that was obvious. Then why hadn’t she written him? And where was Dasha? Alexander couldn’t very well continue to stand under a lilac tree. He went back out onto the main road, took a deep breath, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked toward the square, never taking his eyes off her braids. His heart was thundering in his chest, as if he were going into battle. Tatiana looked up, saw him, and covered her face with her hands. Alexander watched everyone get up and rush to her, the old ladies showing unexpected agility and speed. She pushed them all away, pushed the table away, pushed the bench away, and ran to him. Alexander was paralyzed by his emotion. He wanted to smile, but he thought any second he was going to fall to his knees and cry. He dropped all his gear, including his rifle. God, he thought, in a second I’m going to feel her. And that’s when he smiled. Tatiana sprang into his open arms, and Alexander, lifting her off her feet with the force of his embrace, couldn’t hug her tight enough, couldn’t breathe in enough of her. She flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his bearded cheek. Dry sobs racked her entire body. She was heavier than the last time he felt her in all her clothes as he lifted her into the Lake Ladoga truck. She, with her boots, her clothes, coats, and coverings, had not weighed what she weighed now. She smelled incredible. She smelled of soap and sunshine and caramelized sugar. She felt incredible. Holding her to him, Alexander rubbed his face into her braids, murmuring a few pointless words. “Shh, shh…come on, now, shh, Tatia. Please…” His voice broke. “Oh, Alexander,” Tatiana said softly into his neck. She was clutching the back of his head. “You’re alive. Thank God.” “Oh, Tatiana,” Alexander said, hugging her tighter, if that were possible, his arms swaddling her summer body. “You’re alive. Thank God.” His hands ran up to her neck and down to the small of her back. Her dress was made of very thin cotton. He could almost feel her skin through it. She felt very soft. Finally he let her feet touch the ground. Tatiana looked up at him. His hands remained around her little waist. He wasn’t letting go of her. Was she always this tiny, standing barefoot in front of him? “I like your beard,” Tatiana said, smiling shyly and touching his face. “I love your hair,” Alexander said, pulling on a braid and smiling back. “You’re messy…” He looked her over. “And you’re stunning.” He could not take his eyes off her glorious, eager, vivid lips. They were the color of July tomatoes— He bent to her—

Even if, at the moment, you can't sit down and do the gruntwork of stringing verbs and nouns together, you are writing. It is a way of seeing, a way of being. The world is not only the world, but your personal filing cabinet. You lodge details of the world in your sparkling nerve-library that spirals through your brain and coils down your arms and legs, collects in your belly and your sex. You write, even if you can't always "write." However, writers write. Active, not passive.

Your short understanding, your clipped mind, your hollow heart, will make more of mankind than it has the power to become. Make of a man what you will, yet he cannot be more than this I say to you, with the leave of all pure women: a human is conceived in sin, nourished with impure, unspeakable feculence in the maternal body, born naked and smeared like a beehive; a mass of refuse, a churn of filth, a dish for worms, a stinkhouse, a repulsive washtub, a rancid carcass, a mildewed crate, a bottomless sack, a perforated pocket, a bellows, a rapacious maw, a reeking flagon of urine, a malodorous pail, a deceptive marionette-show, a loamy robber’s den, an insatiably slaking trough, a painted delusion. Let recognise who will: every human created to completion has nine holes in his body; out of all these there flows such repellent filth that nothing could be more impure. You would never see human beauty, if you had the eyes of a lynx, and your gaze could penetrate to the innards; you would shudder at the sight. Strip the dressmaker’s colouring from the loveliest of ladies, and you will see a shameful puppet, a hastily withering flower, a sparkle of little durance and a soon decomposing clod of earth! Show me a handful of beauty of all the belles who lived a hundred years ago, excluding those painted on the wall, and you shall have the Kaiser’s crown! Let love flow away, let grief flow away! Let the Rhine run its course like other waters, you wise lad from Assville!

A paradisiacal lagoon lay below them. The water was an unbelievable, unreal turquoise, its surface so still that every feature of the bottom could be admired in magnified detail: colorful pebbles, bright red kelp, fish as pretty and colorful as the jungle birds. A waterfall on the far side fell softly from a height of at least twenty feet. A triple rainbow graced its frothy bottom. Large boulders stuck out of the water at seemingly random intervals, black and sun-warmed and extremely inviting, like they had been placed there on purpose by some ancient giant. And on these were the mermaids. Wendy gasped at their beauty. Their tails were all colors of the rainbow, somehow managing not to look tawdry or clownish. Deep royal blue, glittery emerald green, coral red, anemone purple. Slick and wet and as beautifully real as the salmon Wendy's father had once caught on holiday in Scotland. Shining and voluptuously alive. The mermaids were rather scandalously naked except for a few who wore carefully placed shells and starfish, although their hair did afford some measure of decorum as it trailed down their torsos. Their locks were long and thick and sinuous and mostly the same shades as their tails. Some had very tightly coiled curls, some had braids. Some had decorated their tresses with limpets and bright hibiscus flowers. Their "human" skins were familiar tones: dark brown to pale white, pink and beige and golden and everything in between. Their eyes were also familiar eye colors but strangely clear and flat. Either depthless or extremely shallow depending on how one stared. They sang, they brushed their hair, they played in the water. In short, they did everything mythical and magical mermaids were supposed to do, laughing and splashing as they did. "Oh!" Wendy whispered. "They're-" And then she stopped. Tinker Bell was giving her a funny look. An unhappy funny look. The mermaids were beautiful. Indescribably, perfectly beautiful. They glowed and were radiant and seemed to suck up every ray of sun and sparkle of water; Wendy found she had no interest looking anywhere else.

She sent Amelie to inform Maydrop that she donned an evening dress made of a heavy, supple olive green silk that gleamed under candlelight. It fell from the bodice, but rather than belling out, the silk was cut on the bias and hugged every curve of her body. The bodice was gathered under her breasts and trimmed with dark copper lace that glimmered with shiny black beads. and widened into short sleeves. Her hair was pulled straight back from her forehead without even a wisp floating at her ears, and she waved away the ruby necklace Amelie offered. She wanted no distraction from her face. She did, however, slide a sparkling ruby onto her right hand, a present she had given to herself when Ryburn Weavers made its first thousand guineas in profit. How better to remember that milestone than to wear a sizable percentage it on one's finger? Finally, Amelie drew out a small brush and skillfully applied a few strategic dabs of face paint. The last thing Theo wanted was to try to look conventionally feminine, but she'd discovered that a thin line of kohl made her eyes look deep and mysterious.

I jumped then. It seemed I heard a child laugh. My imagination, of course. And then, when I should have known better, I headed for the closet and the high and narrow door at the very back end and the steep and narrow dark stairs. A million times I’d ascended these stairs. A million times in the dark, without a candle, or a flashlight. Up into the dark, eerie, gigantic attic, and only when I was there did I feel around for the place where Chris and I had hidden our candles and matches. Still there. Time did stand still in this place. We’d had several candle holders, all of pewter with small handles to grasp. Holders we’d found in an old trunk along with boxes and boxes of short, stubby, clumsily made candles. We’d always presumed them to be homemade candles, for they had smelled so rank and old when they burned. My breath caught! Oh! It was the same! The paper flowers still dangled down, mobiles to sway in the drafts, and the giant flowers were still on the walls. Only all the colors had faded to indistinct gray—ghost flowers. The sparkling gem centers we’d glued on had loosened, and now only a few daisies had sequins, or gleaming stones, for centers. Carrie’s purple worm was there only now he too was a nothing color. Cory’s epileptic snail didn’t appear a bright, lopsided beach ball now, it was more a tepid, half-rotten squashy orange. The BEWARE signs Chris and I had painted in red were still on the walls, and the swings still dangled down from the attic rafters. Over near the record player was the barre Chris had fashioned, then nailed to the wall so I could practice my ballet positions. Even my outgrown costumes hung limply from nails, dozens of them with matching leotards and worn out pointe shoes, all faded and dusty, rotten smelling. As in an unhappy dream I was committed to, I drifted aimlessly toward the distant schoolroom, with the candelight flickering. Ghosts were unsettled, memories and specters followed me as things began to wake up, yawn and whisper. No, I told myself, it was only the floating panels of my long chiffon wings . . . that was all. The spotted rocking-horse loomed up, scary and threatening, and my hand rose to my throat as I held back a scream. The rusty red wagon seemed to move by unseen hands pushing it, so my eyes took flight to the blackboard where I’d printed my enigmatic farewell message to those who came in the future. How was I to know it would be me? We lived in the attic, Christopher, Cory, Carrie and me— Now there are only three. Behind the small desk that had been Cory’s I scrunched down, and tried to fit my legs under. I wanted to put myself into a deep reverie that would call up Cory’s spirit that would tell me where he lay.

Stopping just short of her mouth, he rasped, “Are you still engaged to Blakeborough?” Her gorgeous eyes narrowed. “My engagement didn’t stop you last night.” “It would now.” A coy smile broke over her lips, and she tightened her grip on his neck. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I am not.” With a growl of triumph, he kissed her once more. She was here. She was his. Nothing else mattered. Still kissing her, he jerked both sets of curtains closed. Then he tugged her onto his lap and began to tear at the fastenings of her pelisse-dress. He wanted to touch her, taste her…be inside her. He could think of naught else. “I take it that you mean to seduce me,” she murmured between kisses. “Yes.” Seduce her and marry her. And then seduce her again, as often as he could. “Well then, carry on.” So he did. He unfastened her clothes just enough to bare her breasts, then seized one in his mouth. God, she was perfect. His perfect jewel. She buried her hands in his hair to pull her into him, sighing and moaning as if she would die if he didn’t make love to her. Which was exactly how he felt. Working his hand up beneath her skirts and into the slit in her drawers, he found her so wet and hot that he nearly came right there. He slipped a finger inside her silky sweetness, and she gasped, then began to tug at his trouser buttons. “You’re all I want, Jane.” As he stroked her, he used his other hand to brush hers away so he could unfasten his own trouser buttons. “The only woman I ever cared about.” “You’re the only man Iever cared about.” She undulated against his fingers, begging for him with her body. “Why do you think…I waited for you so long?” “Not long enough, apparently,” he muttered, “or you wouldn’t have gotten yourself engaged to Blakeborough.” He tugged at her nipple with his teeth, then relished her cry of pleasure. “I only…did it because I was…tired of waiting.” She arched against his mouth. “Because you clearly weren’t…coming back for me.” “I was sure you hated me.” At last he got his trousers open. “You acted like you hated me still.” “I did.” Her breath was unsteady. “But only because…you tore us apart.” He shifted her to sit astride him. “And now?” Flashing him a provocative smile he would never have dreamed she had in her repertoire, she unbuttoned his drawers. “Do I look like I hate you?” His cock, so hard he thought it might erupt right there and embarrass him, sprang free. “You look like…like…” He paused to take in her lovely face with its flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and lush lips. Then he swept his gaze down to her breasts with their brazen tips, displayed so enticingly above the boned corset and her undone shift. He then dropped his eyes to the smooth thighs emerging from beneath her bunched-up skirts. Shoving the fabric higher, he exposed her dewy thatch of curls, and a shudder of anticipation shook him. “You look like an angel.” She uttered a breathy laugh. “A wanton, more like.” Taking his cock in her hand, she stroked it so wonderfully that he groaned. “Would an angel do this?

She stole surreptitious glances at Christopher, as she had been doing all evening, mesmerized by the sight of him. He was tawny and sun glazed, the candlelight finding threads of gold in his hair. The yellow glow struck sparkling glints in the new growth of bristle on his face. She was fascinated by the raw, restless masculinity beneath his quietness. She wanted to revel in him as one might dash out-of-doors in a storm, letting the elements have their way. Most of all she longed to talk with him…to pry each other open with words, share every thought and secret. “My sincere thanks for your hospitality,” Christopher finally said at the conclusion of the meal. “It was much needed.” “You must return soon,” Cam said, “especially to view the timber yard in operation. We have installed some innovations that you may want to use at Riverton someday.” “Thank you. I would like to see them.” Christopher looked directly at Beatrix. “Before I depart, Miss Hathaway, I wonder if you would introduce me to this notorious mule of yours?” His manner was relaxed…but his eyes were those of a predator. Beatrix’s mouth went dry. There would be no escaping him. That much was clear. He wanted answers. He would have them either now or later. “Now?” she asked wanly. “Tonight?” “If you don’t mind,” he said in a far too pleasant tone. “The barn is but a short walk from the house, is it not?” “Yes,” Beatrix said, rising from her chair. The men at the table stood obligingly. “Excuse us, please. I won’t be long.” “May I go with you?” Rye asked eagerly. “No, darling,” Amelia said, “it’s time for your bath.” “But why must I wash if I can’t see any dirt?” “Those of us who have a difficult time with godliness,” Amelia replied with a grin, “must settle for cleanliness.

I lie on the seashore, the sparkling flood blue-shimmering in my dreamy eyes; light breezes flutter in the distance; the thud of the waves, charging and breaking over in foam, beats thrillingly and drowsily upon the shore—or upon the ear? I cannot tell. The far and the near become blurred into one; outside and inside merge into one another. Nearer and nearer, friendlier, like a homecoming, sounds the thud of the waves; now, like a thundering pulse, they beat in my head, now they beat over my soul, wrapping it round, consuming it, while at the same time my soul floats out of me as a blue waste of waters. Outside and inside are one. The whole symphony of sensations fades away into one tone, all senses become one sense, which is one with feeling; the world expires in the soul and the soul dissolves in the world. Our little life is rounded by a great sleep. Sleep our cradle, sleep our grave, sleep our home, from which we go forth in the morning, returning again at evening; our life a short pilgrimage, the interval between emergence from original oneness and sinking back into it! Blue shimmers the infinite sea, where the jelly-fish dreams of that primeval existence to which our thoughts still filter down through aeons of memory. For every experience entails a change and a guarantee of life’s unity. At that moment when they are no longer blended together, when the experient lifts his head, still blind and dripping, from immersion in the stream of experience, from flowing away with the thing experienced; when man, amazed and estranged, detaches the change from himself and holds it before him as something alien—at that moment of estrangement the two sides of the experience are substantialized into subject and object, and at that moment consciousness is born.33

WHEN on the Magpies' Bridge I see The Hoar-frost King has cast His sparkling mantle, well I know The night is nearly past, Daylight approaches fast. The author of this verse was Governor of the Province of Koshu, and Viceroy of the more or less uncivilized northern and eastern parts of Japan; he died A.D. 785. There was a bridge or passageway in the Imperial Palace at Kyoto called the Magpies' Bridge, but there is also an allusion here to the old legend about the Weaver and Herdsman. It is said, that the Weaver (the star Vega) was a maiden, who dwelt on one side of the River of the Milky Way, and who was employed in making clothes for the Gods. But one day the Sun took pity upon her, and gave her in marriage to the Herdboy (the star Aquila), who lived on the other side of the river. But as the result of this was that the supply of clothes fell short, she was only permitted to visit her husband once a year, viz. on the seventh night of the seventh month; and on this night, it is said, the magpies in a dense flock form a bridge for her across the river. The hoar frost forms just before day breaks. The illustration shows the Herdboy crossing on the Bridge of Magpies to his bride. A Hundred Verses from Old Japan (The Hyakunin-isshu), tr. by William N. Porter, [1909],

After my parents died, it took me months before I could carry on a conversation with someone who had not known them, who expected me to be young and sparkling and untouched by grief.

Estonian students, sitting in a café, impervious to the sparkling weather out of doors, impervious to the far roar of the world. It would not be so bad, if the café had an atmosphere of its own, if it could encourage the growth of an Estonian Boheme, throughout these winter months. But it has nothing of the sort. It is only a shabby reproduction of that indescribably vacuous institution: the typical northern-European café, where heavy red draperies shut out the healthy light of day; where coffee and cake is served on little tables with sticky imitation-marble tops and paper-napkins, where bored traveling salesmen read the daily papers and look at the women; where women sit patiently, by themselves, hoping to appear mysterious and romantic through their anonymity, hoping someday to encounter the shadowy Prince Charming, as he is encountered in fiction magazines; where a second-rate orchestra scrapes out tunes to which nobody listens—in short, where there is not even the lure of intoxication and vice and despair, but only sickening pretension, dullness, boredom, and stale air.

After long minutes of quiet in which he thought she’d gone to sleep, Malina said, “Is it because I’m pregnant? Or too short?” She was asking about earlier. His heart clenched. “Nay, lass,” he said with a sigh. He tilted her chin up then, not for the kiss he longed to take from her, but to find the moist sparkle of her gaze in the darkness. “There isna a thing wrong with you. You are lovely as a lily in the morning mist. Any man would be proud to have you as his wife.” “Are you any man?” “Aye, lass. I’m as proud of you as I can be. Never doubt that.” “I suppose I can live with that,” she said with a wee smile. “If you won’t make love to me, then I’ll take your pride.” His heart stuttered and his cock jerked at her bold words. He hoped his plaid kept the bugger from bothering her. “I can live with it,” she pressed on, “but it would be easier for me if I knew the reason. Is it because I’m planning to leave you?” She said the last words so quietly he had to strain to hear her. Guilt lashed at him; she was desperate to understand why he didn’t want to bed her. He cupped her face, his hand covering her delicate cheek and jaw. His thumb stroked the swollen skin around her eye. It was tight and hot with healing. Malina was wounded because he’d failed to hide her box well enough. Her injury was his undoing. It tugged at his heart and made him willing to do anything to make it up to her.

My parents are worried about me, so they take me to a lady, so I can talk about my dragon. She says she knows about dragons like mine. I am hoping for a magic spell or a dragon slayer, with sword in hand. No such luck; just a tiny woman dressed in a short skirt with a lot of pleats and a fancy top with tons of sparkles. […] She looks me in the eye and for some reason I don't feel like I have to look away.

The brilliant execution which they presuppose in the performer has a double function: it restricts the practice of music to the expert, and it deludes the layman. In the case of the virtuoso-composers, the prototype of whom is Paganini; the dazzling style is intended above all to flabbergast the listener, but with the real masters the technical difficulty is merely the expression of an inner difficulty and complication. Both tendencies, the enlargement of the distance between the amateur and the virtuoso as well as the deepening of the gulf between lighter and more difficult music, lead to the dissolution of the classical genres. The virtuoso mode of writing inevitably atomizes the big, massive forms; the bravura piece is relatively short, sparkling, pointed. But the intrinsically difficult, individually differentiated style, based on the sublimation of thoughts and feelings, also promotes the dissolution of universally valid, stereotyped and long-winded forms.

And handsome Zorawar! No one feature made him so striking, though his eyes came close. From them came a passion, an honesty, a gentleness. He was handsome from the depth of his eyes to the tender expression of his voice. He was fetching from his generous opinions to the touch of his hand. His voice quickened when he sparkled with a new idea or when he was so enjoying one of Ayesha’s that he lost himself for a moment and quite forgot the mask he wore for others.

I will walk the path forever walked One steap ahead of you And one step behind I will choke in the dust of your passing And skirl more into your face It all tastes the same Even when you feign otherwise But here on the path forever walked The old will lie itself anew We can sigh like kings Like empresses on gift-carts Resplendent in imagined worth. I will walk the path forever walked Though my time is short As if the stars belong Cupped here in my hands Showering out these pleasures That so sparkle in the sun When down they drift settling flat To make this path forever walked Behind you behind me Between the step past, the step to come Look up look up once Before I am gone

Thirty minutes later, Chrysander escorted her out to the helipad, and as soon as the helicopter lifted off, he turned and strode back into the house. His anger and uncertainty evaporated when he entered the bedroom and found Marley sitting on the bed, wrapped only in a towel, her expression sad and distant. He knelt in front of her and touched her cheek. “What is it, agape mou? Are you all right?” She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Her beautiful blue eyes that had sparkled just a short time ago with laughter. He wanted them to sparkle again. He wanted that stolen moment at the pool back. Before Roslyn had arrived and given him news that could very well change everything between him and Marley. Again. “I’m in an impossible situation,” she confessed. His brow wrinkled in confusion. He didn’t like the sadness in her tone. The resignation. “What do you mean?” he asked softly as he trailed a finger down the silken curve of her cheek. She looked into his eyes. “I don’t like the way she has free rein in our lives. This is our home. We should be able to make love, have fun together, without fear of being caught in a compromising situation by a stranger. But if I voice this, if I say I don’t like her and I don’t want her here, it makes me a catty bitch. There is no way for me to come out the winner and every way for me to be the loser in this.

Sparkling lakes and rivers on Earth … pictures of Thierry riding his solar-powered yacht around the world. That sort of thing. All very attractive to a Moon girl.” “Did

BROOM PURIFICATION This basic purification with a broom can be done almost anytime and anywhere. Do not use a plastic or nylon-bristled broom. Find one with real straw bristles. Craft shops and farms open to the public sometimes sell handmade brooms. (For a personal touch, you can make one yourself following the directions in Chapter 7.) You can keep the broom you use for purification for that purpose alone, or use your regular housecleaning broom to purify. Here is how you should purify with a broom: 1. Stand in the middle of the room you intend to purify. Hold the broom in your hands. 2. Take three deep, slow breaths to calm yourself. 3. Begin to make a sweeping motion, sweeping the broom from your right to your left. Don’t actually touch the floor with the broom, but swing the broom an inch or so above it. It’s energy you’re sweeping, not the floor itself. 4. Turning to your left, slowly turn in place. This is a counterclockwise direction, which is traditionally associated with breaking up and banishing negative energy. Walk in a counterclockwise spiral around the room, sweeping just above the floor as you go. As you walk and sweep, visualize the energy of the room being stirred up by the motion of your broom, and any heavy spots being broken up and restored to the regular flow. See the energy being transformed from murky to bright and sparkling. 5. Sweep the entire room, gradually widening your counterclockwise spiral until you end at the door. 6. If you wish, you may end the purification with a short statement, such as: Bright and strong flows the energy through my home. This room is purified.

All visitors ashore!” shouted a steward. All visitors a—!” As the call to leave the Winschoten faded away in the distance, there was a hum of excitement on the ocean-going vessel. Bells were ringing and the ship’s horn was bellowing out short blasts. “Good-by! Tot ziens!” passengers called to those on the pier. Three attractive girls stood together, leaning on the rail and watching the people onshore, who were waving. One was Nancy Drew, a strawberry blond who had sparkling blue eyes. On her right stood pretty Bess Marvin, a slightly plump blond, while on her left was Bess’s cousin, a slender, athletic girl who enjoyed her boyish name, George Fayne. The three girls were about to sail from Rotterdam in Holland to New York City. Along with other passengers they waved and shouted good-by to those on the pier, although they knew no one.

Tunics are one of the most popular and versatile garments in fashion. They can be worn in a variety of ways to create different looks. Here are some tips on how to wear a tunic: Pair tunic tops for women with leggings or skinny jeans for a comfortable and stylish look. Wear a belt around your waist to define your figure and create an hourglass shape. Layer long tunics for women over a collared shirt or turtleneck for a chic and polished look. Add interest to your outfit with accessories such as statement necklaces, scarves, or belts. For a more casual look, pair a tunic with shorts or Capri pants. To dress up your outfit, wear heels or wedges with your tunic. How to Style a Tunic ? Tunics are a versatile and comfortable item of clothing that can be worn in a variety of ways. They are perfect for both casual and formal occasions, and can be styled to suit any taste. Here are some tips on how to style a tunic: -Pair your designer tunics online with leggings or skinny jeans for a casual look. -Wear it over a dress or skirt for a more formal outfit. -Layer it under a jacket or cardigan for extra warmth. Tunics For Women Fashion: A Guide to Using This All-Time Favorite Tunic Fashion is an all-time favorite for many women. Wearing one makes you feel light and confident all at once – the perfect combination! Tunics come in a variety of patterns, lengths, and sleeves, so there’s something for every woman no matter what your personal style might be. Tunic Lengths Tunic fashion is all about comfort and style. This all-time favorite can be dressed up or down, making it a versatile piece in your wardrobe. The key to finding the right tunic length is to know your body type and what looks best on you. Petite women should look for tunics that hit at the hip or above. This will prevent the tunic from overwhelming your small frame. If you’re tall, you can get away with long tunics for women length. Just make sure it doesn’t drag on the ground – no one wants to deal with that! If you’re pear-shaped, look for tunics that cinch at the waist to flatter your figure. A-line tunics are also a good option for this body type. And if you have an hourglass figure, show off your curves with a fitted tunic top. No matter what your body type, there’s a tunic length out there that will look great on you! What to Wear with a Tunic ? Assuming you want a guide on how to wear a tunic: Tunics for women are one of the most versatile, easy-to-wear items in any woman’s wardrobe. Whether you’re looking for something to wear to the office or on a casual weekend, a tunic can be dressed up or down to suit any occasion. But with so many different styles and silhouettes out there, it can be hard to know what to pair with your tunic. Here are a few tips on what to wear with a tunic dress for women, no matter what the occasion: For work: To give your tunic a more polished look for work, try pairing it with tailored trousers or a pencil skirt. Add a blazer for extra warmth and style points. And don’t forget the accessories! A great pair of earrings or a statement necklace can really elevate your look. For weekends: On weekends, you can afford to dress your girls tunic tops down a bit. Try pairing it with jeans or leggings for a comfortable, casual look. Slip on some flats or sneakers and you’re good to go! For evenings out: To dress up your tunic for an evening out, try pairing it with slim-fit pants or a skirt in a rich fabric like velvet or satin. Add heels and some sparkling jewelry to really make your outfit shine. How to Wear a Tunic ? -Accessorize with jewelry, scarves, or belts to personalize your look. What Types of Tunics are Available? Ladies tunic dresses come in a wide range of styles, from fitted to loose and flowing. They can be made from a variety of fabrics, including cotton, linen, Silk, and wool. You can find tunics in solid colors, patterns, and prints.

And the girls, Ned!” he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. “I swear, women lose all modesty in the heat. They swim naked in the river, right beneath the castle. Even in the streets, it’s too damn hot for wool or fur, so they go around in these short gowns, silk if they have the silver and cotton if not, but it’s all the same when they start sweating and the cloth sticks to their skin, they might as well be naked.” The king laughed happily.

We round the frangipani, coming face-to-face with two peacocks---one male, with magnificent iridescent plumage sparkling in royal blues, greens, and golden browns, not to mention the circular eyespots, his crown a crest of feathers resembling a helmet. The female, although beautiful, has drabber plumage and a short tail. Garrance beams as the large birds greet her like dogs. "Meet Yin and Yang," she says, and Juju rolls onto his back. "These two are the only ones who tolerate Juju and vice versa." "Maybe because they don't call him names," I say with a laugh, and Garrance joins me.

Are you decent?" "Depends who you ask." "You are not naked. I'm crushed." "It's chilly in here." "I could stoke the fire." "Believe me," she purred, "you do." He grinned at her jest, but Kate refused to blush and sent him a sultry, sparkling look. Mistresses, after all, could say that sort of thing. Then he swept into the room, bringing her breakfast on a tray like her very own cavaliere servente. "Hungry?" "For what?" she shot back. "My goodness," he drawled. "I've created a monster. I'm so pleased." She laughed as he set the large tray on the bed, then sauntered over to her at the window nook. At once, he leaned down, captured her face between his hands, and gave her a long, luscious kiss after their short separation. Though he had only been gone about twenty minutes, Kate had missed him desperately. She sighed with pleasure, caressing his arms, as Rohan slowly ended the kiss. "Done being sore yet, by chance?" he whispered with a wicked gleam in his pale eyes. "Almost." "Very well, replenish your strength.

Philip: I have vivid memories from those early volleyball training nights. Memories of looking under the (volleyball) net at this vivacious, sparkling, smiley-faced, bright-eyed vision of female sensuality dressed in her vest top and short shorts. I could not take my eyes off her, and my memory says she smiled at me every time she caught me looking at her. Was I flirting? If I was, it was not knowingly

Dear Daughter, Light up the night like the moonlight and sparkle like a star.

Out marched a woman carrying a plate. I didn't see what was on the plate at first, because I knew this woman. She was short and dark-haired, with rosy cheeks and shiny gold Converses that sparkled beneath the ceiling lights. I'd seen her wearing those same gold Converses on TV. My brain short-circuited a little as she kept on marching toward our table, and I saw what she was holding on her plate. It was some sort of twisted pastry with cherries and chocolate sauce forming... hearts all over the plate. And just one dainty fork. Oh. Oh no. She set the plate on our table with a wide smile. "I hear it's a special day for you, and I wanted to bring you this babka beignet on the house. Happy anniversary!" Oh my god. I couldn't believe I had to lie to Chef Sadie Rosen.

When the starry sky, a vista of open seas or a stained glass window shedding purple beams fascinate me, there is a cluster of meaning, of colors, of words, of caresses, there are light touches, scents, sighs, cadences that arise, shroud me, carry me away, and sweep me beyond the things that I see, hear, or think. The “sublime” object dissolves in the raptures of a bottomless memory. It is such a memory, which, from stopping point to stopping point, remembrance to remembrance, love to love, transfers that object to the refulgent point of the dazzlement in which I stray in order to be. As soon as I perceive it, as soon as I name it, the sublime triggers—it has always already triggered—a spree of perceptions and words that expands memory boundlessly. I then forget the point of departure and find myself removed to a secondary universe, set off from the one where “I” am—delight and loss. Not at all short of but always with and through perception and words, the sublime is a something added that expands us, overstrains us, and causes us to be both here, as dejects, and there, as others and sparkling. A divergence, an impossible bounding. Everything missed, joy—fascination.

It was surprisingly sunny for Swampshire. There were only two short hail showers, and frost coated the ground with a hoary sparkle.

In short, anyone headed to California had to be either highly motivated or highly desperate. Some were both. John Sutter had made it to California from Switzerland in 1839. Fleeing creditors and leaving his wife behind, Sutter had managed to curry favor with the Mexican authorities and started life anew with some land in northern California. From his base on the Rios de los Americanos—American River even before it became one—Sutter had looked to erect a sawmill. A few miles north of the base, Sutter’s hired overseer, James Marshall, had spotted an area that appeared to be the most suitable place. During a routine check of the construction, Marshall saw sparkles in the ground below the trickling water. His camp was notably startled but dismissed the small find of yellow, metallic flakes. After a few days, Marshall took his discovery downriver to his boss. After some investigation using scales and nitric acid, Sutter was convinced: It was gold.

Basically, when you are at an interval where your sword can strike the enemy, you should think that the enemy’s sword can also reach you.12 Forget your body when you are set to kill your opponent.13 Examine this carefully. (8) About Mindset (心持之事) One’s mind should neither dwindle nor be in an excited state. It must not be rueful nor afraid. It is straight and expansive, with one’s “heart of intent” faint and one’s “heart of perception” substantial. The mind is like water, able to respond aptly to changing situations. Water can be a sparkling hue of emerald green, it can be a single drop or a blue ocean. This should be carefully studied. (9) To Know the Upper, Middle and Lower Levels of Strategy (兵法上中下の位を知る事) Stances are adopted in combat, but a show of various sword positions in order to appear strong or fast is regarded as lower-level strategy. Further, refined-looking strategy, flaunting an array of techniques and rhythmical mastery to give the impression of beauty and magnificence, is regarded as middle level. Upper-level strategy looks neither strong nor weak, not irregular, not fast, not glorious and not bad. It looks broad, direct and serene. Examine this carefully.14 (10) About the “Cord-Measure” (いとかねと云事) Always hold a cord-measure in your mind. By holding the cord against each opponent to size him up, you will see his strengths, weaknesses, straightness, crookedness, and tense and relaxed points. With your mind’s measure, pull the cord, making it straight so that you can quantify the enemy’s heart. With this measure, you should be able to know the round, uneven, long, short, crooked or straight features of the enemy. This must be studied.

Strands of wormwork and the thin light of daytime stars sparkled as they reached for each other, but fell short and dropped instead to the ground. Little imaginary flowers, born of bruised hearts and silly hopes, blossomed for just a few brief moments, lifted in pairs like the wings of tiny moths, then sank home to the earth and died.

It starts before you can remember: you learn, as surely as you learn to walk and talk, the rules for being a girl. You are Princess. You are Daddy’s Little Girl. Are you ticklish? Give him a hug. You’re sweet, aren’t you? You’re a good little girl. You don’t remember those early days, but here’s what you do remember: You remember ballet class, the way your tummy stretched your pink leotard and your parents fretted over some future eating disorder, and then you were trying tap, or soccer, or what about a musical instrument? You remember “We just want you to be happy!” and you remember you said you were happy because you knew that’s what they wanted to hear. How long have you been saying what everyone else wants to hear? Time went on, and GIRLS CAN DO ANYTHING! So speak up, I can’t hear you! But also: Manners, young lady. A boy is bothering you at school? Stand up for yourself! A boy is bothering you at school? He’s just trying to get your attention. Do you like sparkles and unicorns and everything pink? Oh, that’s stupid now. Can you play in this game? Sorry, no girls allowed. Put a little color on your face. Shave your legs. Don’t wear too much makeup. Don’t wear short skirts. Don’t distract the boys by wearing bodysuits or spaghetti straps or kneesocks. Don’t distract the boys by having a body. Don’t distract the boys. Don’t be one of those girls who can’t eat pizza. You’re getting the milkshake too? Whoa. Have you gained weight? Don’t get so skinny your curves disappear. Don’t get so curvy you aren’t skinny. Don’t take up too much space. It’s just about your health. Be funny, but don’t hog the spotlight. Be smart, but you have a lot to learn. Don’t be a doormat, but God, don’t be bossy. Be chill. Be easygoing. Act like one of the guys. Don’t actually act like one of the guys. Be a feminist. Support the sisterhood. Wait, are you, like, gay? Maybe kiss a girl if he’s watching though—that’s hot. Put on a show. Don’t even think about putting on a show, that’s nasty. Don’t be easy. Don’t give it up. Don’t be a prude. Don’t be cold. Don’t put him in the friend zone. Don’t act desperate. Don’t let things go too far. Don’t give him the wrong idea. Don’t blame him for trying. Don’t walk alone at night. But calm down! Don’t worry so much. Smile! Remember, girl: It’s the best time in the history of the world to be you. You can do anything! You can do everything! You can be whatever you want to be! Just as long as you follow the rules. - Rules for Being a Girl

Jenny is a drop-dead dazzling girl in our halls. With her baby blues that make you weak, yet Just as gorgeous as she is on the outside she is twice as ugly on the inside. That is where her outstanding looks end, she has everything every other girl has, she just an average Jane at an average height like all the others most of the time in the winter wearing the same average-looking size seven blue jeans with the sparkles on the hip posits when it too cold to wear her short skirts, like everyone else. What she has more than the others been the ability of how to get what she wants when she wants it.

A short time later Frank swung up the graveled driveway leading to the Mortons’ farmhouse. Chet’s pretty, dark-haired sister Iola was seated on the front porch with her blond, brown-eyed friend Callie Shaw. Iola bounced up from the porch swing as the boys stepped from the car. “Hi!” she exclaimed. “Wait’ll you see the surprise Callie and I have to show you!” The girls’ eyes sparkled with excitement. Joe grinned at Iola, whom he considered very attractive. “Sounds pretty important.

the stars had been out in full force, scattering the midnight sky with sparkles. The moon had cast a silver glow over the mountains and meadows.

This was a beautiful spot. The meadow was hugged by towering evergreens, their bows dusted in white from last night’s storm. The snow was fluffy, blanketing the ground and sparkling beneath the sun. But the scenery paled in comparison to the man at my side.

It wasn’t her mana capacity that surprised me, though. It was abnormal, to be sure, but what had left me in awe was the sheer beauty of the spectacle. I could not explain why, but it was different from any blessing I had seen before. The blue light seemed to sparkle with life as though it were truly from the gods themselves.

My lord.” The air in her lungs was remarkably short. “You seek to flatter but you fall short of the mark.” “Do I?” he frowned. “But I speak honestly.” “I am not accustomed to such honesty, if honesty it is.” “Why not? Has no gentleman ever before admitted that you intrigue him?” “No.” This hurt, though she didn’t know why it should. “For no such gentleman has ever existed.” “He does now.” He smiled. It was the oddest thing, that smile, not like his charming grins but sincere, as though he were not in fact teasing her. He offered his arm. “Come now, intriguing lady, and offer your opinion on these bookends.” He drew her toward the shop window. “I cannot guess what sort of book my valet would like to read, but every man needs a pair of solid brass bookends. If Simms doesn’t use them for books, he might instead quash me over the head with them and be rid of me once and for all.” “Mm,” she managed. “You are that difficult a master?” His warm eyes sparkled. “Only when I haven’t the desire to please.” He lifted her hand and kissed her gloved fingertips. “Only then, your highness.” -Jacqueline & Cam

The Bancroft Peach Bellini 2 ripe peaches, seeded and diced 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice 1 teaspoon sugar 1 bottle chilled Prosecco sparkling wine Directions Place the peaches, lemon juice, and sugar in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade and process until smooth. Press the mixture through a sieve, and discard the peach solids in the sieve. Place two tablespoons of the peach puree into each champagne glass and fill with cold Prosecco. Serve immediately. Hawaiian BBQ Short Ribs 1 package pork spare ribs 4 tablespoons of your favorite brand of dry rib rub 1 cup light brown sugar 2 cups Welch’s Essentials Orange, Pineapple, Apple Juice Cocktail 1 16-ounce can chunked pineapple, with its juice 4 tablespoons light yellow mustard 1 cup Hawaiian BBQ sauce Directions Sprinkle both sides of the spare ribs with dry rib rub and light brown sugar.

With means, if more than a little diminished means, of his own Ethan had done what his father before him, likewise a lawyer, had done, and had once in days past counselled him to do before it was too late, before this might spell an irrevocable retirement. He made a Retreat. (To be sure he had not been bidden so far afield as had his father, who’d spent the last year of peace before the First World War as a legal adviser on international cotton law in Czarist Russia, whence he brought back to his young son in Wales, or so he announced, lifting it whole out of a mysterious deep-Christmas-smelling wooden box, a beautiful toy model of Moscow; a city of tiny magical gold domes, pumpkin- or Christmas-bell-shaped, sparkling with Christmas tinsel-scented snow, bright as new silver half-crowns, and of minuscule Byzantine chimes; and at whose miniature frozen street corners waited minute sleighs, in which Ethan had imagined years later lilliputian Tchitchikovs brooding, or corners where lurked snow-bound Raskolnikovs, their hands stayed from murder evermore: much later still he was to become unsure whether the city, sprouting with snow-freaked onions after all, was intended to be Moscow or St. Petersburg, for part of it seemed in memory built on little piles in the water, like Eridanus; the city coming out of the box he was certain was magic too—for he had never seen it again after that evening of his father’s return, in a strange astrakhan-collared coat and Russian fur cap—the box that was always to be associated also with his mother’s death, which had occurred shortly thereafter; the magic bulbar city going back into the magic scented box forever, and himself too afraid of his father to ask him about it later—though how beautiful for years to him was the word city, the carilloning word city in the Christmas hymn, Once in Royal David’s City, and the tumultuous angel-winged city that was Bunyan’s celestial city; beautiful, that was, until he saw a city—it was London—for the first time, sullen, in fog, and bloodshot as if with the fires of hell, and he had never to this day seen Moscow—so that while this remained in his memory as nearly the only kind action he could recall on the part of either of his parents, if not nearly the only happy memory of his entire childhood, he was constrained to believe the gift had actually been intended for someone else, probably for the son of one of his father’s clients: no, to be sure he hadn’t wandered as far afield as Moscow; nor had he, like his younger brother Gwyn, wanting to go to Newfoundland, set out, because he couldn’t find another ship, recklessly for Archangel; he had not gone into the desert nor to sea himself again or entered a monastery, and moreover he’d taken his wife with him; but retreat it was just the same.)

I am a whore in the bedroom but I’m pretty useless around the house and I can’t cook. Sorry, I’m not husband material at all.” I wink to show him I’m not serious about all this. Ali’s eyes sparkle. “I love you anyway, Liam Murphy. It’s not about sex or how good you are at making toast.” He laughs. “I love your sense of humour. I love your vulnerability. You always listen to me when I need to talk. I like how you make me feel better. Shall I go on?” I freeze. Boyfriend is one thing. I’m still scared by the declaration of love. I’m all these things to him? I had no idea! I want to run out of his house once again. My heart is thumping, from fright or excitement I can’t tell. But Ali’s not letting my rambling thoughts fester. He makes short shrift of his clothes ready for his brand of love making. Why has it taken me months to realise he is the one I want? The only one.

Wait," Connie said again. "A . . . what? Am I going to sparkle or something?" "God, no," said Irwin and I together.

SEVEN YEARS AGO… “You notice anything different about Ash?” my cousin Sawyer asked as he climbed up the tree to sit beside me on our favorite limb overlooking the lake. I shrugged, not sure how to answer his question. Sure, I’d noticed things about Ash lately. Like the way her eyes kind of sparkled when she laughed and how pretty her legs looked in shorts. But there was no way I was confessing those things to Sawyer. He’d tell Ash, and they’d both laugh their butts off. “No,” I replied, not looking at Sawyer for fear he’d be able to tell I was lying. “I heard Mom talking to Dad the other day, saying how you and me would start noticing Ash differently real soon. She said Ash was turning into a beauty, and things between the three of us would change. I don’t want things to change,” Sawyer said with a touch of concern in his voice. I couldn’t look at him. Instead I kept my eyes fixed on the lake. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Ash is Ash. Sure, she’s always been pretty, I guess, but that’s not what’s important. She can climb a tree faster than either of us, she baits her own hook, and she can fill up water balloons like a pro. The three of us have been best friends since preschool. That won’t change.” I chanced a glance at Sawyer. My speech sounded pretty convincing, even to me. Sawyer smiled and nodded. “You’re right. Who cares that she’s got hair like some kind of fairy princess? She’s Ash. Speaking of water balloons, could you two please stop sneaking out and throwing them at cars right outside my house at night? My parents are gonna catch y’all one of these days, and I won’t be able to get y’all outta trouble.” I grinned, thinking about Ash covering her mouth to silence her giggles last night when we’d snuck down there to fill up the balloons. That girl sure loved to break rules--almost as much as I did. “I heard my name.” Ash’s voice startled me. “You two better not still be making fun of me about this stupid bra Mama’s making me wear. I’ve had it with the jokes. I’ll break both your noses if it doesn’t stop.” She was standing at the bottom of the tree with a bucket of crickets in one hand and a fishing pole in the other. “Are we gonna fish or had y’all rather just stare down at me like I’ve grown another head?

inside. The heat that separates and tears you apart from your home, he thought. Would he make it back safe? Or even if he did make it back alive, would there even be a home to come back to? Downstairs, he caught sight of his mother packing food for his journey. He gazed at her face, memorizing every curve and line. He hoped she’d be all right. As if she knew what he was feeling, she reached out and hugged him and choked back the tears. “Nothing will keep us apart for long. You’ll come back to us, I feel it in my bones.” The weight of her words made him even sadder to leave. His father ambled down the hallway, carrying something wrapped in a red silk cloth. “I’ve something for you, son. I’d hope to give this to you when you came of age. It will prove valuable on your journey.” He handed him a sheathed short sword. Talis withdrew the sword and gaped at the red-tinged steel with ghost patterns and smoky lines running along the blade. A tremendous weight rushed up his arm from the sword as if imbued with some terrific power. His arm tensed and he winced. “This… this sword is for me?” Father was really giving him this treasure? The sheath was made of blackened leather and elaborate swirling patterns ran down the spine, with silver studs lining the edge. Talis gasped. It was immaculate. Why would Father give him such a priceless gift? He gazed at the ruby-studded hilt—a puma’s face with ruby eyes shaping the hilt’s edge. “It’s the finest sword in Naru.” Father narrowed his eyes at the expression on Talis' face. “What is it, what are you feeling?” “I’m not sure,” Talis stammered, fighting the power. “It’s so strong.” His father’s eyes sparkled. “You’re sensing the power within the sword—” “It’s magical?” What did his father know of such things? He was a man of commerce and trade. “The magical gift runs deep in our family history.” Father took the sword from Talis and raised it to the firelight. “This is no regular sword… it possesses great power. The red color is not from blood; there's fire magic within.” Fire magic… Master Viridian said his element was fire,

Cage gestured to my running leg. “Testing a new leg?” I shook my head. “Underwear.” His brow wrinkled and the guys behind him inched a bit closer, ears perked. “What?” Cage asked. “My favorite underwear has been discontinued. I’m trying a new brand and the best way to test them out is to go for a jog. I want to know before I buy ten pairs if they’re going to ride up on me. I’m not a thong girl. I don’t like anything shoved up my ass.” His cheeks turned red while taking a hard swallow. The fishing crew tried and failed to hide their chuckling. One of the guys slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll meet you out front.” He cleared his throat. “Our condolences on the ass news.” That sparked a new round of laughter as the guys piled onto the elevator. When the doors shut, Cage pursed his lips and sighed. “Thanks for that.” I shrugged. “What?” “What …” It’s possible his intention was to be serious or maybe upset, but he couldn’t finish his thought without rubbing his hand over his mouth to hide his smirk. “You don’t like ‘anything shoved up your ass.’ Really, Lake?” Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he shook his head. “So you’re big into fishing, huh?” “Don’t change the subject.” He narrowed his eyes at me. Too bad he still couldn’t keep a straight face. It would have given his case a lot more merit. Those were favorite moments of mine, when he was ninety percent sure my actions were an embarrassing side effect of my Sahara Desert humor, yet still ten percent holy-shit-she’s-serious. I loved that ten percent. I worked my ass off for that ten percent. “I’m sorry, what was the subject? Oh yeah, things I don’t like in my crack. Sounds like a Jeopardy category or a Family Feud survey. ‘Name something Lake Jones does not like up her crack. Underwear. Survey says? Ding ding ding … ninety-four people surveyed said underwear, the other six said cock. And I do believe those six lascivious idiots are downstairs waiting for you.” Cage observed me; it was never just a stare or a lingering look. His eyes narrowed a fraction, but never lost their sparkle. The wetting of his lips was always followed by biting them together like he refused to speak until he’d figured me out. And just before he spoke, his dimples surrendered to his impending grin. “I’m going to text you an address. Meet me there in three hours.” “What if I haven’t sorted through this underwear situation by then?” My head tilted to the side as my poker face slipped a bit, revealing my own impending grin. “Hmm …” He pulled me to him, his hands easing into the back of my running shorts. “Don’t fret over it,” he whispered before sucking my earlobe into his mouth. My lips parted, and eyes closed, as I held onto his biceps to keep my knees from buckling. “Panties are optional.” Three words and my knees buckled. Thankfully—not really thankful at all—he fisted the back of my new panties and yanked up. My hero? No. The wedgie was underway a few seconds before my knees gave out. I gasped. He smirked. “I think you should consider getting used to the idea—the feeling—of something in that sexy ass of yours.” Not much left me speechless, but my first non-brother-male-induced wedgie left me with cow eyes and a numb tongue. He winked just before the elevator doors shut.

Last night… last night was nothing short of amazing. The way she let me take control. The way she looked bare before me, her raven black hair falling down her back and her icy blue eyes wide, sparkling with need. Need for me.