Sparklers Quotes

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.

Some men you know are Southern before they ever say a word," Julia said as she and Emily watched Sawyer's progress, helpless, almost as if they couldn't look away. "They remind you of something good--picnics or carrying sparklers around at night. Southern men will hold doors open for you, they'll hold you after you yell at them, and they'll hold on to their pride no matter what. Be careful what they tell you, though. They have a way of making you believe anything, because they say it that way.

He smiled. "You’re into me, I can tell." "I’m not into you," I said hotly. Hotly, because as soon as the words left my lips, sparklers erupted on top of my head. Hudson looked at them, and a grin spread across his face. The baby cooed and reached out, trying to grab the flaring light. Hudson moved farther away. "Don’t touch. Just look at Mommy’s pretty liar hat." He was enjoying this way too much. "Okay," I said. "Maybe I like you a little." The sparklers dimmed, but didn’t go out. Hudson raised an eyebrow. "All right," I said, nervously eyeing the area to make sure no one saw us. "I’m into you." The sparklers died, but I didn’t wait around for more commentary. I headed to the inn. Behind me I heard Hudson still talking to the baby. "Yes, we like Mommy’s flaming hairdo, don’t we?

The fireworks continued to burn and spread all over the school that afternoon. Though they caused plenty of disruption, the other teachers did not seem to mind them very much. "Dear, dear," said Professor McGonagall sardonically, as one of the dragons soared around her classroom, emitting loud bangs and exhaling flame. "Miss Brown, would you mind running along to the headmistress and informing her that we have an escaped firework in our classroom?" "Thank you so much, Professor!" said Professor Flitwick in his squeaky little voice. "I could have got rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but I wasn't sure whether I had the authority..." Beaming, he closed the classroom door in Umbridge's snarling face.

Ratthi sent me a glyph of a Preservation party sparkler exploding. I didn’t say anything. (I know I get pissed off when humans don’t acknowledge my work, but why is too much acknowledgment also upsetting? Sentience sucks.)

Some thoughts were too big to accept all at once. She shoved this one frantically to the back of her mind before it could crack her wide open, but traces of it still lingered—like the ghost of a sparkler after you’d waved it through the air. Bright and dangerous and not-really-there.

The tallest slugger touched my forehead, and I ignited like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. Shards of dazzling light rippled under my skin. I was the constellation Grus. The Trifid Nebula. I was the Big Bang, expanding endlessly through time and space forever. "I thought I was dying. That I was going to expire on a cold slab, trapped inside an UFO, my body filled with every light that had ever existed. I couldn't imagine a better way to die.

hearth fire—they’re solid and stable and cozy and nourishing. She had other examples—a bonfire relationship, a sparkler—that one was for a one-night

Like a child joyfully waving a sparkler, the fairy godmother crisscrossed her wand, and the sturdy orange pumpkin exploded into an elegant gold coach supported by delicate wheels.

If someone tells you they love turkey smothered with cranberry sauce, that they love it more than anything else in the world, you might spend the day roasting that someone a turkey and smothering it with cranberry sauce. If that same someone then takes one little bite and says, 'That'll be all, thank you,' you'll likely go red in the face and hurl both these turkeys our the nearest window because clearly, this person never loved turkey smothered with cranberry sauce in the first place. Little bites are never enough when you love something. When you love something, you want it all. That's how it works. And that's how it was for Archer. Archer didn't want a little taste of adventure with a side of leftover discoveries. Archer wanted the whole turkey and he wanted it stuffed with enough salts and spices to turn his taste buds into sparklers.

Today Means Amen Dear you, whoever you are, however you got here, this is exactly where you are supposed to be. This moment has waited its whole life for you. This moment is your lover and you are a soldier. Come home, baby, it's over. You don't need to suffer anymore. Dear you, this moment is your surprise party. You are both hiding in the dark and walking through the door. This moment is a hallelujah. This moment is your permission slip to finally open that love letter you've been hiding from yourself, the one you wrote when you were little when you still danced like a sparkler at dusk. Do you remember the moment you realized they were watching? When you became ashamed of how much light you were holding? When you first learned how to unlove yourself? Dear you, the word today means amen in every language. Today, we made it. Today, I'm going to love you. Today, I'm going to love myself. Today, the boxcutter will rust in the garbage. The noose will forget how to hold you, today, today-- Dear you, and I have always meant you, nothing would be the same if you did not exist. You, whose voice is someone's favorite voice, someone's favorite face to wake up to. Nothing would be the same if you did not exist. You, the teacher, the starter's gun, the lantern in the night who offers not a way home, but the courage to travel farther into the dark. You, the lover, who worships the taste of her body, who is the largest tree ring in his heart, who does not let fear ration your love. You, the friend, the sacred chorus of how can I help. You, who have felt more numb than holy, more cracked than mosaic. Who have known the tiles of a bathroom by heart, who have forgotten what makes you worth it. You, the forgiven, the forgiver, who belongs right here in this moment. You, this clump of cells, this happy explosion that happened to start breathing, and by the grace of whatever is up there, you got here. You made it this whole way: through the nights that swallowed you whole, the mornings that arrived in pieces. The scabs, the gravel, the doubt, the hurt, the hurt, the hurt is over. Today, you made it. You made it. You made it here.

sparklers out in front of her. Staring at them, she thought: These are all I have. I do not have the wide, bright beacon of some solid old lighthouse, guiding ships safely home, past the jagged rocks. I only have these little glimmers that flicker and then go out. Let me see my daughter like my mother could never see me. Let her see me, too.

Fragments of energy sizzled against my skin where he touched me, like sparks that shoot from a sparkler you played with as a kid.

My heart feels zested. Finely shredded and ready to add to cake batter. It doesn’t hurt, because it’s not there anymore. Like the angel’s chest, with her empty heart hole—but without the sparkler.

[In an interview when asked about becoming a fantasy creature] You know, it might be fun to be Sanguinarius Meyerii (better known as “sparklers”). They have all of the vampire superpowers and almost none of the weaknesses: no burning up in sunlight, no vulnerability to garlic, etc. As for my demise, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Once I get this kind of power, I’m planning to live forever. It’s the only way I’ll catch up on my reading!

Your career has another five years, maybe, she says, if you’re lucky. According to who? I ask. According to every actress who’s come before you. So I turn my focus to every actress coming after me. I

Two days later, he left for Yorkshire, and I prepared for what I'd come to think of as my "field trip" with Archer. Calling it that seemed safer and more business-like than "meeting" or, God forbid, "assignation." Still, I spent most of the day in my room by myself because I was afraid Jenna or Cal would be able to tell something was up with me. I was so nervous that I was shooting off tiny flashes of magic like a sparkler. I didn't even attempt to sleep, and I thought three a.m. would never come. Finally, at 2:30, I threw on a black T-shirt and some cargo pants, hoping that was an appropriate ensemble for meeting one's former crush who had turned out to be one's mortal enemy.

Of course Americans celebrate Independence Day as opposed to Yorktown Day. Who wants to barbecue a hot dog and ponder how we owe our independence to the French navy? Who wants to twirl sparklers and dwell on how the French government’s expenditures in America contributed to the bankruptcy that sparked the French Revolution that would send Rochambeau to prison, Lafayette into exile (then prison), and our benefactor His Most Christian Majesty Louis XVI to the guillotine.

In the beginning, the earth was without form, and void and the darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And god said, 'Let there be light.' and there was light. Only, it wasn't good light. Bob created fireworks, sparklers and neon tubes that circled the globe like weird tangled rainbows. He dabbled with bugs that blinked and abstract creatures whose heads lit up and cast long overlapping shadows. There were mile-high candles and mountains of fairy lights. For an hour or so, earth was lit by enormous crystal chandeliers. Bob thought his creations were cool. They were cool, but they didn't work

I always saw my life like a sparkler on Fourth of July - better in theory than delivery.

There was something about him that glistened, something warm that churned and billowed about, like a smoke cloud filled with sparklers.

We light the sparklers Parth found in the garage, and we write our names in the dark, impermanent but all the brighter and more blazing for it.

I just walked ten miles in the pitch dark for you. I could get eaten by a bear. I WOULD get eaten by a bear for you. Voluntarily. My lips are softening. Little fizzes are going off in my chest like sparklers. I bought all your pictures like a stalker but I don’t care and you can’t have them back. There are dots, but I interrupt them. Why? He replies immediately. You know why.

Lord Decimus. 'Mrs Merdle is. Mr Sparkler is, too. In fact,' said Mr Merdle, 'I rather believe that one of the young ladies has made an impression on Edmund Sparkler. He is susceptible, and—I—think—the conquest—' Here Mr Merdle stopped, and looked at the table-cloth, as he usually did when he found himself observed or listened to. Bar was uncommonly pleased to find that the Merdle

Not a dandelion in sight here, the lawns are picked clean. I long for one, just one, rubbishy and insolently random and hard to get rid of and perennially yellow as the sun. Cheerful and plebeian, shining for all alike. Rings, we would make from them, and crowns and necklaces, stains from the bitter milk on our fingers. Or I'd hold one under her chin: Do you like butter? Smelling them, she'd get pollen on her nose. Or was that buttercups? Or gone to seed: I can see her, running across the lawn, that lawn there just in front of me, at two, three years old, waving one like a sparkler, a small wand of white fire, the air filling with tiny parachutes. Blow, and you tell the time. All that time, blowing away in the summer breeze. It was daisies for love though, and we did that too. ***

Harry could still hear the distant bangs of escaped firecrackers when he and Ron went up to bed an hour later, and as he got undressed a sparkler floated past the tower, still resolutely spelling out the word

I don't want to live without the sparklers, the brightness. Without that feeling of lying flat on the ground, pressed down with barely any blood or breathing and barely even any bones. What good is living without that? Only TV and TV and TV.

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

There was no big falling-out; she just stopped answering her phone. Our friendship just kind of fizzled, like a sparkler burning down to your fingers. By the time you realize you were being burned, it was too late—the damage done, the spark already extinguished.

I smell something strangely familiar and unmistakable, a strong burned metal smell, like the smell of sparklers on the Fourth of July. Objects that have been exposed to the vacuum of space have this unique smell on them, like the smell of welding—the smell of space.

If we were in his book, our hands would leave trails of light like sparklers through the sky, glowing against the night; they would crackle and fizz with magic. But we aren't, so they're just mildly clammy and soundtracked by someone throwing up against a lamp post on the promenade (loudly).

the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old,

Dear men in Congress, You think banning birth control is conservative progress? You think sanctioning my ovaries won’t bring me to violence? How about I tell you what to do with your caucus? It is now illegal to think about me topless. To keep your lotion where your socks is. To refer to powerful women as monsters like those jocks at Fox did.

No one should have to look back to see the bright future ahead of them.

The cloak coupled with a black leather vest made me suitably menacing. All that was missing was a giant neon sign with rotating sparklers proclaiming HARD CASE. LINE TO GET YOUR ASS KICKED FORMS TO THE RIGHT. A wide smile stretched Raphael’s lips. “If you laugh, I’ll kill you,” I told him. “Why the rifle? Everybody knows you can’t shoot.” Who were these everybodies and would they like to stand in front of me, preferably within ten feet, so I could discuss this issue in greater detail? “I can shoot just fine.” I just missed eighty percent of the time. With the gun anyway. I did better with a crossbow and even better with the knife. “Do you know the runes on your sword are nonsense?” “Yes, but they look mysterious.

the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.

And to me, they gave a helmet of invisibility. Sometimes my gift was called the "cap" of invisibility. Seriously? Caps are what baseball players wear. Caps are cute. Caps are silly. The king of the underworld does not wear a "cap". It's a helmet, people. You wouldn't call Poseidon's trident a "shrimp fork," would you? Or Zeus's lightning bolts, "sparklers"? So don't let me hear you say "cap." Furthermore, I don't want to hear anything about some wizard-boy's "Cloak of Invisibility," either. Mine came first.

You’re too trusting. You ever think maybe I didn’t stop by just to light sparklers for the kid?” “Then why did you come?” His deep voice reverberated, making her shiver. “Maybe I want to see if I can light you up, too.” Her heart thumped. She twisted her hands together in her lap. “Are you talking about...?” “Sex. Yeah.” She wrenched her head to glance at the upstairs windows, as if their words could somehow penetrate her son’s curtained, closed and darkened bedroom. “Well, I’m not,” she said crossly. “I don’t talk about sex.” “Okay. Why don’t we do it instead?

In St. Patrick Town, we find the stubborn, sprightly residents all awake--the leprechaun I spoke to days before still in search of his lost pot of gold in the glen, rain clouds heavy in the distance, and rainbows gleaming above the treetops. In Valentine's Town, Queen Ruby is bustling through the streets, making sure the chocolatiers are busy crafting their confections of black velvet truffles and cherry macaroons, trying to make up for lost time, while her cupids still flock through town, wild and restless. The rabbits have resumed painting their pastel eggs in Easter Town. The townsfolk in Fourth of July Town are testing new rainbow sparklers and fireworks that explode in the formation of a queen's crown, in honor of the Pumpkin Queen who saved them all from a life of dreamless sleep. In Thanksgiving Town, everyone is preparing for the feast in the coming season, and the elves in Christmas Town have resumed assembling presents and baking powdered-sugar gingerbread cookies. And in Halloween Town, we have just enough time to finish preparations for the holiday: cobwebs woven together, pumpkins carved, and black tar-wax candles lit.

Hey - Duggie! Duggie! Duggie!" He came running up to me, sparkler in hand. I felt like sticking one on him, the cheeky bastard. Nobody called me Duggie. He held the sparkler up in front of my face and said, "Wait. Wait." I was already waiting. What else was there to do? "Here you are," he said. "Look! What's this?" At that precise moment, his sparkler fizzled out. I didn't say anything, so he supplied the answer himself. "The death of the socialist dream," he said. He giggled like a little maniac, and stared at me for a second or two before running off, and in that time I saw exactly the same thing I'd seen in Stubbs's eyes the day before. The same triumphalism, the same excitement, not because something new was being created, but because something was being destroyed. I thought about Phillip and his stupid rock symphony and I swear that my eyes pricked with tears. This ludicrous attempt to squeeze the history of the countless millennia into half an hour's worth of crappy riffs and chord changes suddenly seemed no more Quixotic than all the things my dad and his colleagues had been working towards for so long. A national health service, free to everyone who needed it. Redistribution of wealth through taxation. Equality of opportunity. Beautiful ideas, Dad, noble aspirations, just as there was the kernel of something beautiful in Philip's musical hodge-podge. But it was never going to happen. If there had ever been a time when it might have happened, that time was slipping away. The moment had passed. Goodbye to all that. Easy to be clever with hindsight, I know, but I was right, wasn't I? Look back on that night from the perspective of now, the closing weeks of the closing century of our second millennium - if the calendar of some esoteric and fast-disappearing religious sect counts for anything any more - and you have to admit that I was right. And so was Benjamin's brother, the little bastard, with his sparkler and his horrible grin and that nasty gleam of incipient victory in his twelve-year-old eyes. Goodbye to all that, he was saying. He'd worked it out already. He knew what the future held in store.

I always thought falling in love would feel like an endless summer. Warm and whimsical, sugar-sweet sherbet and sparklers lighting the sky. But it was autumn now, and the world was still beautiful, and it all reminded me of her. I rested my head on her back and thought yes, hearing her laugh felt like jumping into a lake on the first day of summer vacation. But it also felt like this, like being wrapped in a the navy glow of a fall evening with golden leaves beneath our feet. It felt like an angel in a fresh layer of snow and a text message saying all schools were closed. Being around her felt like the opening of a tree bud after a long winter's sleep, and I wondered if that was what love *really* was. A four-season delight." -Avery

I’m the same as them now, Pa. Look at me, look at my color.” “I don’t like it,” he grumbled. “Those that can’t see past a folk’s skin color have a hard difference in them. There’s a fire in that difference. And when they see you, they’ll still see a Blue. No city drug’s gonna change small minds, what they think about peculiarity. For them like-minded folks, there is no redemption for our kind. Stay put where you belong, Cussy.” Two young’uns raced past me, brushing my skirts. I recognized one of them as Winnie’s student. He stopped and turned back to me, waving a handful of sparklers. “Book Woman, looka here.” The boy raised the fireworks higher. “It’s July 3, and these are for me! I’m eight today, and Pa says all these fireworks are for

Couldn't I come along with you? I've been trapped inside for days now and I need some sunshine and exercise. If you're really busy today, maybe I could hhelp. It's not as if I'm a greenhorn who'd get in your way." "This isn't a good idea, Freckles, and you know it." The feisty redhead grinned. "I admit I'm somewhat ignorant on the subject, but I've never heard of doing "it" on the back of a horse." A roguish grin dangled from the corner of his mouth. "Sweetheart, you'd be surprised where...Never mind." Though he'd tried to sound gruff, Willow detected a slight wavering in his determination. "I'll promise not to attack your body, if that's what you're worried about." She started laughing. Moving closer, she backed him against the door. Then tilting her head, she hit him full force with her big blue-green sparklers. Her lips parted in a very seductive, very naughty smile. "Please, just a short ride?" She toyed with the edge of his black leather vest, the backs of her fingers sliding up and down his chest. Rider sucked in a gulp of air. "Dammit, woman,what's Mrs. Brigham been teaching you? Stop that!" He batted her hand away, laughing despite himself. He was beaten and he knew it. "Well?" She smiled slyly. He grasped her arms and set her away to a safer distance. "All right, all right. I give up. I'll take you for a ride." When her face lit up,he raised a cautioning finger and hastened to add, "On one condition. You have to keep yours hands to yourself. No touching!" "Yes! I promise!" Willow threw herself into his arms and pulled his face close for a brisk buss on the cheek. Then she sprang free and skipped past him to the door. "I kow, no touching. That was just a thank you. Hurry up, I'm all ready to go." Following in her wake, Rider groaned, "Yeah,so am I-in more ways than one." "What did you say?" she called back. "I said you were a little flirt!" She gave him an innocent smile over her shoulder and sprinted off to saddle Sugar.

Close to midnight, I gather up Kitty and the puppy and the sparklers. We put on heavy coats and I make Kitty wear a hat. “Should we put a hat on Jamie too?” she asks me. “He doesn’t need one,” I tell her. “He’s already got on a fur coat.” The stars are out by the dozen; they look like faraway gems. We’re so lucky to live by the mountains the way we do. You just feel closer to the stars. To heaven. I light up sparklers for each of us, and Kitty starts dancing around the snow making a ring of fire with hers. She’s trying to coax Jamie to jump through but he isn’t having it. Al he wants to do is pee around the yard. It’s lucky we have a fence, or I bet he’d pee his way down this whole block. Josh’s bedroom light is on. I see him in the window just as he opens it and calls out, “Song girls!” Kitty hollers, “Wanna light a sparkler?” “Maybe next year,” Josh calls back. I look up at him and wave my sparkler, and he smiles, and there’s just this feeling of all rightness between us. One way or another, Josh will be in our lives. And I’m certain, I’m so suddenly certain that everything is exactly the way it’s supposed to be, that I don’t have to be so afraid of good-bye, because good-bye doesn’t have to be forever. When I’m back in my room in my flannel nightgown, I get out my special flowy pen and my good thick stationery, and I start to write. Not a good-bye letter. Just a plain old love letter. Dear Peter…

It was not difficult to find. One floor down, pandemonium reigned. Somebody (and Harry had a very shrewd idea who) had set off what seemed to be an enormous crate of enchanted fireworks. Dragons comprised entirely of green and gold sparks were soaring up and down the corridors, emitting loud fiery blasts and bangs as they went; shocking-pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter were whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying saucers; rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars were ricocheting off the walls; sparklers were writing swear words in midair of their own accord; firecrackers were exploding like mines everywhere Harry looked, and instead of burning themselves out, fading from sight or fizzling to a halt, these pyrotechnical miracles seemed to be gaining in energy and momentum the longer he watched. Filch and Umbridge were standing, apparently transfixed in horror, halfway down the stairs. As Harry watched, one of the larger Catherine wheels seemed to decide that what it needed was more room to manoeuvre; it whirled towards Umbridge and Filch with a sinister ‘wheeeeeeeeee’. They both yelled with fright and ducked, and it soared straight out of the window behind them and off across the grounds. Meanwhile, several of the dragons and a large purple bat that was smoking ominously took advantage of the open door at the end of the corridor to escape towards the second floor. ‘Hurry, Filch, hurry!’ shrieked Umbridge, ‘they’ll be all over the school unless we do something – Stupefy!’ A jet of red light shot out of the end of her wand and hit one of the rockets. Instead of freezing in midair, it exploded with such force that it blasted a hole in a painting of a soppy-looking witch in the middle of a meadow; she ran for it just in time, reappearing seconds

That night, Marjan dreamt of Mehregan. The original day of thanksgiving, the holiday is celebrated during the autumn equinox in Iran. A fabulous excuse for a dinner party, something that Persians the world over have a penchant for, Mehregan is also a challenge to the forces of darkness, which if left unheeded will encroach even on the brightest of flames. Bonfires and sparklers glitter in the evening skies on this night, and in homes across the country, everyone is reminded of their blessings by the smell of roasting 'ajil', a mixture of dried fruit, salty pumpkin seeds, and roasted nuts. Handfuls are showered on the poor and needy on Mehregan, with a prayer that the coming year will find them fed and showered with the love of friends and family. In Iran, it was Marjan's favorite holiday. She even preferred it to the bigger and brasher New Year's celebrations in March, anticipating the festivities months in advance. The preparations would begin as early as July, when she and the family gardener, Baba Pirooz, gathered fruit from the plum, apricot, and pear trees behind their house. Along with the green pomegranate bush, the fruit trees ran the length of the half-acre garden. Four trees deep and rustling with green and burgundy canopies, the fattened orchard always reminded Marjan of the bejeweled bushes in the story of Aladdin, the boy with the magic lamp. It was sometimes hard to believe that their home was in the middle of a teeming city and not closer to the Alborz mountains, which looked down on Tehran from loftier heights. After the fruit had been plucked and washed, it would be laid out to dry in the sun. Over the years, Marjan had paid close attention to her mother's drying technique, noting how the fruit was sliced in perfect halves and dipped in a light sugar water to help speed up the wrinkling. Once dried, it would be stored in terra-cotta canisters so vast that they could easily have hidden both both young Marjan and Bahar. And indeed, when empty the canisters had served this purpose during their hide-and-seek games.

This is a sparkling wine produced in Spain through the traditional method, or secondary fermentation in the bottle. This sparkler is produced in specific areas of Spain made up of several regions: 63 municipalities in the province of Barcelona; 52 from Tarragona; 12 in Lleida; 5 in Girona; 18 from Rioja; as well as other municipalities from Álava, Badajoz, Navarra, Valencia and Zaragoza. In order to produce a cava, local and exported grape varieties are used. White varieties include: Macabeo (Viura), Xarel-lo, Parellada, Subirat (Malvasía Riojana) and Chardonnay. Red varieties include: Red Grenache, Monastrell, Trepat and Pinot Noir. The main cava producing region is Catalonia. When you refer to the cava with its corresponding article, it usually makes reference to the cellar where the wine has been aged.

Your eyes flash like Fourth-of-July sparklers, headlights on a mountain road, sparks in a short-circuited toaster.

When you find a skull in the woods, do you leave it alone because it disturbs you or do you leave it alone because of what's living inside?

Sonnet for Thunder Lovers and Primary Colors” When Sweet Nothings Just Don’t Cut It You’re more than soda fizz, than sparklers lit for kids at play, than fireflies’ flit in sky. You spin around my heart and up my thigh with the whistle and boom of a bottle rocket. Baby, those other jugglers’ gigolo tricks— magician’s spell and mime’s unspoken sigh— don’t turn my head, don’t catch my ear or eye, but your mercury rolls in my hip pocket. Some women like the subtle hints, require a pastel touch, a whispered cry and blush, but not me; I am all hyperbole. Your howls of red, your strokes of green sapphire, your cayenne kiss, serrano pepper rush from lip to nape of knee will do for me. from Rattle #12, Winter 1999. Tribute to Latino/Chicano Poets

What about thermite?" Baldwin asked as they crouched behind a rock. "Thermite?" she echoed. "You need to watch Mythbusters. The source of all knowledge ... well, at least the sort my parents won't let me have." Baldwin grinned. "If you mix rust, aluminum oxide, and a sparkler, it makes a sort of modern Greek fire. Completely and utterly inappropriate for us - or even most adults to make or use.

All of the parents and children, waiting in Christchurch park for the firework display to start, how disappointed they’ll be. Their sparklers will fizzle out, they’ll be cold.

Our friendship just kind of fizzled, like a sparkler burning down to your fingers. By the time you realize you were being burned, it was too late - the damage done, the spark already extinguished.

Thank you so much, Professor!” said Professor Flitwick in his squeaky little voice. “I could have got rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but I wasn’t sure whether I had the authority . . .

I'm not sure what I imagined, but I thought the lapis sash of a mallard's wing meant joy was everyone's destiny. that it was tucked in if only you knew how to look, how to route salt to the side of your tongue, bitter to the back. I preened in the gloss of black ice. Our vows lassoed the night sky--tried to-- each word a flint-dipped sparkler, a nest of lightning or a thrashing fuse. Wasn't that love? Not the way violins are made, maple soaked, warped, planted till sound bloats wood's ancient fissures. Not like the bow slow-combed, pale horsehair secured, capped in wax. when you begin to hate a man, his stunt fingers swell with fat. His red face sweats strawberry rot. Like a stuck pig, the door, if locked, brays and grunts at his boot-strike, shoulder-strike. The town is small, but it's his. You dial, wanting someone to marvel with you, to witness that cheap bolt as it holds. To fix the cornered nuthatch three-quarters dead, still resisting in the cat's mouth, still dreaming of flight.

There is nothing as powerful to the human psyche as the mental image educed by viewing a magnificent vista. We comprehend the paltriest of our bodies whenever a single person travels across an open desert or an immense prairie, stands on top of a mountain range, walks in the sand in front of a furious sea, or lies on their back and takes in the magnificence of the misty span of the Milky Way. Each act of magnification places us in touch with the finiteness and irrelevance of our trifling personhood. We can only view the broad expanse of the desert and steppe, the sheerness of a mountaintop, the immensity of the sea, and the immeasurable vastness of the galaxy with an overpowering sense of both horror and awe as their grand span transcends human scale. The overpowering physicality of these vistas stands as a testament to their cold indifference to the mortality of humankind. The sheer immensity of nature’s breadth beseeches us to consider the unthinkable: we are transient beings. We are mortal; we are mere sparklers burning fitfully until our spurting light completely fizzles out.

Bruce watched her nose sniff at the side of the friend’s head, her tongue like a worm, searching for a way in.

Her quiet hands, filling up boxes, inviting all the silence to finally leave the room.

In the mirror I see only the time-lapsed weather patterns of 1964.

We interrupt this program for breaking news: Has anyone seen this nobody?

The way she could turn in to her camera close-up like life depended on her.

I draw a door on the floor and tell him, This is where dad used to take me for dinner.

She looked up and out and jumped into the stars, into the famous valley of light.

Not a speaking role.

But when I turn up the volume on the TV no laugh track is playing.

It’s that drunk bitch in the Thirty-second Street bar.

It stayed like that: a rosy ring of jailed blood that came to the barred window and never left.

I’ll be the girl they say pink things to, so weightless she arrives by ghost.

They say it looked like a big flower had sprung in the place where I shot myself dead, just like those ribbon pigtails clung onto either side of your head.

It was like that.

Never lived.

small cake, sparklers erupting, and the number five drawn on in red atop the white icing.

Hessians!” Bruno gaped in astonishment at the offering. “Aw, you shouldn’t give them sparklers to a cove like me!

He smiled, and it was like a million sparklers went off at once, a million little flashes of light in the depths of his eyes. The shine of him, the glow. He was incandescent. Wondrous. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. I was so, so fucked.

As we age, it’s hard to recapture the recklessness of youth, when new ideas flew off us like light from a pinwheel sparkler. But we more than compensate for this with the ideas we do generate, and with our hard-earned wisdom about how to capture and, more importantly, connect those ideas. When I was young I understood very little about the value of a spine to a piece; I wasted time and energy by moving blindly in many directions, when a clearer understanding of spine would have kept me on the path I wanted. I’ve learned so much more about my own preferences. I know that my best work comes out of my creative DNA that seeks to reconcile the competing forces of zoe and bios. I’ve grown more efficient in my efforts; I’ve seen enough dead ends to know when an enticing trail will get me nowhere. And I’ve learned to see continuity in all I do.

Fuck, it makes my heart dance in my chest. Happiness. Pure happiness. His eyes glitter like Fourth of July sparklers, his smile stretching from ear to ear. I did that.

On what he was like as a trainee, V remembered himself less as a person who did his best unconditionally and more as someone who had to "like" something to do it. He needed, therefore, the leisure to recharge and take stock just as much as he needed practice to improve. He referred to this as "the adolescence of the mind," which could be interpreted as the determination to attain personal happiness over material "success." I tell myself a lot that I will become a better person. But I think I have to become happy myself first or somehow receive a kind of energy in order to take a step closer to becoming that better person. It's the same when I'm inspired. In the beginning of the pandemic, when our entire schedule was canceled and we could rest a bit, I suddenly had this craving to see the ocean at night. So I went with an old school friend to Sokcho in the middle of the night. We lit sparklers, recorded the sound of the ocean, and tried writing songs over the recordings of the night waves. Seeing the ocean at night when I really wanted to see it as opposed to when I really didn't was incredibly different. When my heart is satisfied this way, I take note of the emotions that come to me and write them down.

Sheldon Soleskin is a fucking human sparkler.

Alexander said as soon as it got cold, they would leave. September came and it was still warm; he liked that. Better still, not only was Tatiana making them a little money, she was drinking some sparkling wine, some Bisol Brut, for which she developed a bit of a taste. After work, she would sit with Anthony, have bread and cheese, and a glass of sparkler. She closed the winery, counted the money, played with the boy, waited for Alexander to finish work, and sipped her drink. By the time they drove to the B&B, had dinner, chocolate cake, more wine, a bath, put Anthony to bed, and she fell down onto the goose down covers, arms flung above her head, Tatiana was so bubbled up, so pliant, so agreeable to all his relentless frenzies, and so ceaselessly and supernally orgasmic that Alexander would not have been a mortal man if he allowed anything to come between his wife and her Bisol Brut. Who would do a crazy thing like quit to go into dry country? This country was flowing with foaming wine, and that is just how they both liked it. He started whispering to her again, night by night, little by little. Tania . . . you want to know what drives me insane? Yes, darling, please tell me. Please whisper to me. When you sit up straight like this with your hands on your lap, and your breasts are pushed together, and your pink nipples are nice and soft. I lose my breath when your nipples are like that. The trouble is, as soon as I see you looking at me, the nipples stop being nice and soft. Yes, they are quite shameful, he whispers, his breath lost, his mouth on them. But your hard nipples also drive me completely insane, so it’s all good, Tatia. It’s all very very good. Anthony was segregated from them by an accordion room partition. A certain privacy was achieved, and after a few nights of the boy not being woken up, they got bolder; Alexander did unbelievable things to Tatiana that made her sparkler-fueled moaning so extravagant that he had to invent and devise whole new ways of sustaining his usually impeccable command over his own release. Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything you want, Tania. Tell me. What can I do—for you? Anything, darling . . . anything you want, you do . . . There was nothing Gulag about their consuming love in that enchanted bed by the window, the bed that was a quilted down island with four posters and a canopy, with pillows so big and covers so thick . . . and afterward he lay drenched and she lay breathless, and she murmured into his chest that she should like a soft big bed like this forever, so comforted was she and so very pleased with him. Once she asked in a breath, Isn’t this better than being on top of the hard stove in Lazarevo? Alexander knew she wanted him to say yes, and he did, but he didn’t mean it, and though she wanted him to say it, he knew she didn’t want him to mean it either. Could anything come close to crimson Lazarevo where, having been nearly dead, without champagne or wine or bread or a bed, without work or food or Anthony or any future other than the wall and the blindfold, they somehow managed for one brief moon to live in thrall sublime? They had been so isolated, and in their memories they still remained near the Ural Mountains, in frozen Leningrad, in the woods of Luga when they had been fused and fevered, utterly doomed, utterly alone. And yet!—look at her tremulous light— as if in a dream—in America—in fragrant wine country, flute full of champagne, in a white quilted bed, her breath, her breasts on him, her lips on his face, her arms in rhapsody around him are so comforting, so true—and so real.

Gonna start calling you Grace.” She lifted her chin. “You saying I’m clumsy?” Wade shrugged. “Saying you’ve been here two minutes, and you’ve already dropped a sparkler and tripped over your own feet— unless that was on purpose.” Abigail frowned. Wade cringed. Now why’d he have to go and say that? “Why would I—” Her lips pursed. “I did not trip on purpose. I was mortified, if you must know.” “Makes no difference to me.” Wade wiped his boot on the grass and got resituated. “If I were interested in Dylan, I’d go out with him—he’s asked more than once, you know.” A twinge of jealousy flared. He didn’t know Dylan had pursued that hard. “Like I said, no difference to me.” Abigail frowned and looked away. He’d done it now. Managed to take things a couple levels past awkward. He really had a way with ladies. Stretching his legs in front of him, he looked skyward. The display could start anytime now. Anytime. Was he really so incapable of making conversation with a woman? So out of practice? He shooed a mosquito from his face. Who was he kidding? It wasn’t just any woman. It was Abigail, daggonit. She did something to him that didn’t need doing. If she’d just keep her distance and stick to her job, everything would be just dandy. But no, every time he turned around, there she was.

Do you think it’ll get even hotter?” Felix asked. “I know you don’t particularly like the heat, but . . . it’d be nice for the kids.” Franza shrugged, wishing herself away, to Lapland or the Arctic Ocean. There were lights there, iridescent lights, far out on the ice. Will-o’-the-wisps with white halos, hissing and fizzing like sparklers, only brighter. And more dangerous. They were ghost lights, and if you walked toward them you would disappear. Franza wanted that sometimes on days like today. To disappear as if she had never existed. Just for a few moments. Into the ghost lights and away.

She is like a sparkler you cannot stop watching and want to touch so badly.

This is the film I could finally get cast in.

I’m told they buried they body with the garter belt still on.

The world might end in an explosion that made the Big Bang seem like a holiday sparkler.

I looked on in wonder, at seeing the magnificent sculptor at work when it noticed me, taking my cubic ship between its colossal fingers. Its giant wrist turned one way, then the other as its machine-driven eyes focused upon my darkling configuration. At that point I freely presented myself in humanoid form, stepping out of my ship, and with my mysterious abilities I levitated before him, offering my companionship. But it treated me like an insect, flicking me away with a giant fingertip. As I came to rest, stopping before another giant statue the other side of the hall—between which there lied a bottomless rift—a strange sensation ran through my mid-section, and as it did, launched from my ship was a bright sparkler. A fuzzy feeling I felt as it shot toward the giant being. As it touched the fingertip that hit me, it dissipated into nothingness… leaving the giant with half a severed finger and oozing from it a strange type of cosmic energy. A second bright sparkler quickly emerged from my ship, which seemingly communicated with the giant gaining control over its awareness. Once done, the celestial giant bowed before me, and carried on with its work.

Sometimes I'm a flame. Sometimes I'm a sparkler. Sometimes I'm a firework. But every time, I shine.

During the first year I tried to write like an intellectual, until I realized, that's not me. So I abandoned the intellectual facade, and became unapologetically human in my writing, and I haven't looked back since. The tone of 'In Search of Divinity' was so different that I even thought of publishing by a pseudonym. Today I am glad that I did not change my name, for the different new tone was the true voice of mine. Monkey see, monkey imitate - Human challenge is to find yourself. Once you do, that's when you start to glow, Synthetic sparklers only drag you to descent.

Monkey see, monkey imitate - Human challenge is to find yourself. Once you do, that's when you start to glow, Synthetic sparklers only drag you to descent.

A curl falls over his eye just after he's said this, turning the moment into a Hollywood shot that completely mocks me. A small set of fireworks - only a sparkler, I swear - goes off beneath my breastbone, because he is so goddamn pretty.

You were really upset the other night. I know you were trying to put on a brave face, but it was obvious Darcy hurt you. Worse than you let on. Now “You were really upset the other night. I know you were trying to put on a brave face, but it was obvious Darcy hurt you. Worse than you let on. Now you’re agreeing to fake a relationship with her? Because of your family? Elle, if they can’t see how amazing you are . . . this isn’t worth it.” Elle ground the toe of her boot into the rug, tracing the singe mark in the paisley pattern from the Birthday Sparkler Incident of 2017. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she admitted. The lump inside her throat grew, forcing her to swallow to keep her voice from cracking. “I’m just tired of falling short, Mar.” Margot’s face crumpled. “Elle—” She jerked her chin and sniffed hard, blinking away the film of tears blurring her vision. She smiled and shrugged. “If I can get my family to take me seriously about one thing, see that I have my life together in a way that makes sense to them, maybe they’ll come around to the rest.” Margot shook her head. “So you’re throwing in the towel? You’re going to be like Lydia now? Dating the sorts of people your parents want and shrinking yourself down to be palatable to people who don’t get you? Who don’t even try?” No. God no. Elle wasn’t going to actually compromise who she was or how she lived her life. No, this was a blip on Elle’s radar, a pit stop, a means to an end. Elle wasn’t settling. She just wanted her parents to be proud of her for who she was. If she had to speak their language for a brief bit of time, what was the harm? “No way. This is fake. I just want them to understand I’m not the letdown they think I am. Maybe hearing how awesome I am from someone else, someone like Darcy who’s the sort of person who satisfies their whole nine-to-five I’m a serious adult vibe, will help.” Margot stuck out her tongue, eyes rolling. “Boring, you mean?” Elle shrugged. “Besides, it’s cuffing season and Lydia’s got a boyfriend. Jane’s got Gabe and Daniel has Mike and I’m just—Elle. I’m not exactly jazzed about spending another holiday alone as the black sheep of the family.” “Just Elle is pretty great.” Margot smiled. “But I get it. I mean, I might not be in your shoes, but I understand where you’re coming from. I just want you to remember that you deserve someone you don’t have to fake it with.” Both her brows rose. “And I mean that in all ways.” Elle cracked a smile. “Thanks.

The food was beautiful. But when those sparklers burned out, I was still sitting there. Without you.

As a manager, you have the potential to create a fire—passion—in others, but to do this, first, we have to create a spark. Think of the Fourth of July. People gather to watch the sky light up with beautiful fireworks. It’s fun watching a child gaze into the dark sky to see it light up with a spectrum of colors. And how much fun are sparklers, right? From sparklers to rockets, fireworks have one thing in common—they start with a spark. They are ignited! This spark allows each firework to leave the ground and explode, and thereby create joy for all those watching. Sometimes fireworks are beautiful, but if not done correctly they can just fizzle out. Consider yourself a pyro-technician of people. A pyro-technician is the person responsible for the safe storage, handling, and functioning of fireworks and some explosives. As managers, you are in charge of the safe storage, handling, and functioning of the people you supervise. The fireworks you see will be displayed in your employee’s attitudes. When an employee is fizzling out, we call this burnout and it can happen to any employee, even yourself. You need to be able to recognize it.

Because you’re like a sparkler goin’ off, spittin’ shit everywhere and burnin’ everything you touch.

The mixture of displeasure and relief is so overpowering my mind. I knew that I would pick to have that pleasure if he kept being so passionate and felt right. I look down the tunneling hallway my eyes feel like kaleidoscopes, yet I can figure there are kids with sparklers and the firecrackers the sounds are going off within all the colors I see. He has to hold me with my back against the walls or I am sure I would fall, I see Justen feeling the left of a rail of the stairs, walking over the entryway into their room feather down that hallway, up above me, me like they’re going to slip away any second, and share the rest of the night cuddling in bed. Is tonight the night I follow him to his room and crawl in with him, or isn’t tonight the night, maybe hold back until tomorrow? That kept running through my head. Tonight, or tomorrow? Tomorrow I’ll wake up and be the same, regardless if I am in his bed or not. This earth will look the same, and everything will feel and taste and smell the same. What am I rushing it for, he’s going to love me the same if not more is, I hold out? Maybe play that three-date rule. My throat gets taut, just thinking about what we could be doing right now, also I have to think about what Ray and Justen are doing, and my eyes start to tingle in ire, and all I can think at that moment is that it’s all Ray’s fault, that my sis has gone home broken-hearted. Yet I don’t want her spending the night here anyway, with him of all boys. It’s funny how you can go from love to hate in seconds. Half an hour later the party starts to wind down. Inside, everyone is just about passed out, at this point, I need to find a place to crash too. Then I thought, should I, or shouldn’t I? My sis is one of those shy ones around cute boys, and those are the ones you have to worry about because they are freaks between the sheets. I can see that somebody pulled the drooping icicle lights off the wall there getting crouched on by the others passing by. They are getting tangled up in my feet, as I move. There twanging and shorting out from the broken blabs, in sparks lighting up the grime corners, like cups and broken beer bottles. You have to be careful like I see a lot of girls with flip-flops on or barefoot running around not a good idea. I think that I’m feeling better now until I move away from the walls, but I’m starting to feel more like the girl I should be around all my friends. ‘There’s always tomorrow,’ Jenny walked up to me and said before going up to her bed when I told her about Ray, yet she seemed not suppressed and I ran the phrase over and over in my head like a chant: There’s always tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. So that is what I went with thinking… I am going to be with him tomorrow night. I see myself in the ornate hall mirror in the makeup that I replayed, thinking- ‘God Marcel loves this face.’ Every time I put on makeup it reminds me of my mom, I used to watch me bowed over her vanity, getting ready for dates with my father-daughter dates-and it calms me down.

the foil on the ends glinting like each braid was a Fourth of July sparkler.

She looked down at the diamond sparkler and everything it represented—home, hearth, husband, family. She should want this, but the truth was she was up to her ears in home, hearth, and family. The only new addition would be husband.

But Charlie is more than a trip. She’s a sparkler, firecracker, a fistful of gun powder. Marco is my calm, Mom is my home, Nana is my conscience, but Charlie is my wide-open sky, my free-dancing, stargazing wild rumpus.

I’ll bet their wives let their cats go out hunting at night like premonitions of future sons.