Spitting Image Quotes

The fight unfolded like background noise. White noise. In the foreground, even with his ghastly pale face looking dead in my hands, my fingers clenching his ragged hair, all I could see was random images of Fang, not dead. Fang telling me stupid fart jokes from the dog crate next to mine at the school, trying to make me laugh. Fang asleep at Jeb's old house, and me jumping wildly on his bed to wake him up. Him pretending to be asleep. Me laughing when I "accidentally" kicked him where it counts. Him dumping me off the bed. Fang gagging on my first attempt at cooking dinner after Jeb disappeared. Him spitting out the mac and cheese. Me dumping the rest of the bowl on him in response. Fang on the beach, that first time he was badly injured. Me realizing how I felt about him. Fang kissing me. So close I couldn't even see his dark eyes anymore. The first time. The second time. The third. I could always remember each and every one of them. Would always remember them. Fang. Not. Dead.

From the shadows, the young heir to the throne came forward, his expression far older than his seven years. Wrath, son of Wrath, was, like Tohrment, the spitting image of his sire, but there the comparison between the two pairs ended. The regent king was sacred, not just to his parents, but to the race. This small male was the future, the leader to come...evidence that in spite of the affronts committed by the Lessening Society, the vampires would survive. And he was fearless. Whereas many a wee one had shrunk back behind a parent when facing a single Brother, the young Wrath stood his own, staring up at the males before him as if he knew, regardless of his tender age, that he would command the strong backs and fighting arms of those before him.

Surgeons are a singular brotherhood, Adam. To us, people aren't sacred beings crafted in the Almighty's image, no, people are joints of meat; diseased, leathery meat, yes, but meat ready for the skewer & the spit." He mimicked my usual voice, very well. "'But why *me*, Henry, are we not friends?' Well, Adam, even friends are made out of meat.

Princess Diana holds in the threshold for a second longer, checks over her shoulder that her Prince is out of earshot and whispers softly in my ear, ‘Sorry to leave early, though secretly I’m quite glad. It’s Spitting Image tonight, and I want to watch it in my room. They hate it of course. I absolutely adore it.

What do you mean? Why do you think you like them? That’s all you and I did together when you were little. Don’t you remember?” I. Don’t. Remember. I remember, It’s a sink-or-swim world, Noah. I remember, Act tough and you are tough. I remember every heart-stomping look of disappointment, of embarrassment, of bewilderment from him. I remember: If your twin sister wasn’t my spitting image I’d swear you came about from parthenogenesis. I remember the 49ers, the Miami Heat, the Giants, the World Cup. I do not remember Animal Planet.

My face may be the spitting image of his, but that’s not enough. I need to be proven for the village to accept me, for Father’s family to accept us. Once my blood runs pure, I’ll finally belong.

Jeremy was the spitting image of his father, Joe Strand, while Bianca was a miniature Luke.

You really are the spitting image of your father, you know,” he said to Jesse. “Rupert. It’s a pity you never knew him. I’m sure he would have been proud of you.

The winter solstice really knows how to put on a show; or maybe ...it was love in another individual perspective. A spitting image of one’s madness that love exist.

paithin- ... he is orn! mother peytin's son, come to lead us to safety!" zifnab- thats it! orn, favors his mother- roland- no, he doesnt. look! hes human! wouldnt mother whats- her - name's kid be and elf- wait! i know! he is one of the lords of thillia! come back to us, like the legend foretold! zifnab- that too! i dont know why i didnt recognize him. the spitting image of his father!

Disciples of Jesus do not mimic Jesus; we manifest him. We are personators of Christ, not impersonators. Christ’s presence in our lives is more “thereness” than “likeness,” more “withness” than “whatness.” Jesus made our creation in the imago Dei more “spit” than “image” (as in “spit ‘n’ image”).

My grandmother, more than any other woman, was the standard bearer of Gardnerian beauty. Known as “The Black Witch” by our enemies, she was one of the most powerful Gardnerian Mages ever. Intellectually brilliant, artistically gifted, stunningly beautiful and a ruthlessly effective commander of our military forces—she was all of these things. And I don’t just resemble her. I’m her absolute spitting image.

On an unseasonably warm day in early February, a little over a year after I left Vieques, I brought two new lives into the world: Isabel Milagros, who emerged with fair skin and a full head of light curls; and Charlotte Patrícia, who has Shiloh’s caramel skin, and is otherwise the spitting image of Paul as a baby. Both girls are healthy, preternaturally calm, and a source of joy that I can never adequately put into words.

All night I carpenter   A space for the thing I am given, A love   Of two wet eyes and a screech. White spit    Of indifference! The dark fruits revolve and fall.   The glass cracks across, The image   Flees and aborts like dropped mercury 

He said that for those who hadn't been to California, what it was most like was an enchanted island. The spitting image. Just like in the movies, but better. People live in houses, not apartment buildings, he said, and then he embarked on a comparison of houses (one-story, at most two-story), and four- or five-story buildings where the elevator is broken one day and out of order the next. The only way buildings compared favorably to houses was in terms of proximity. A neighborhood of buildings makes distances shorter, he said. Everything is closer. You can go walking to buy groceries or you can walk to your local tavern (here he winked at Reverend Foster), or the local church you belong to, or a museum. In other words, you don't need to drive. You don't even need a car. And here he recited a list of statistics on fatal car accidents in a county of Detroit and a county of Los Angeles. And that's even considering that cars are made in Detroit, he said, not Los Angeles.

And this is Gary, who I work with, and his partner, Louise. Then there’s Thomas and Cade who you’ve met already, and that’s Matt, Noah’s younger brother.” My eyes go wide as I realize that Matt is just a younger version of Noah. I mean seriously, a spitting image. It’s like he’s a mini Walking Dildo. Wait, that doesn’t sound quite right, does it? I bet there is nothing mini about any of the males in Noah’s family.

America today remembers its history through visual imagery. Film, print, and electronic media are very capital intensive, which means that most Americans are consumers, not producers, of the images through which they remember.

...this insolence was turned by the providence of God to a very different purpose; for the face of Christ, dishonoured by spitting and blows, has restored to us that image which had been disfigured, and almost effaced, by sin.

At first glance, it looked like the portrait of her family that hung in the Great Hall. But this painting had four people in it: the king, the queen, Elsa, and another little girl. The child was a few years younger than Elsa, and she was the spitting image of the king. She had wide-set blue eyes, bright red hair set in pigtails, and a sprinkle of freckles dotting her nose. She wore a pale green dress, and she was clutching Elsa's arm as if she might never let go.

James's hazel eyes were soft and yet commanding at the same time. Mia stared into their depths, losing herself in them, wondering how no one else saw it: Harry. Everyone always said that he was the spitting image of his father except the eyes; Lily's eyes, they always said. No. He's right there, Mia thought. The shape and the colour were all wrong, but she could see Harry kneeling in front of her in the visage of his father. All strength and sacrifice and boundless love.

But Peter just stood there gazing at her, mouth agape. Wendy looked down at herself; she hadn't even realized how heroic a pose she struck. From her shadow- which took this opportunity to actually behave- she realized how she appeared:powerful, strong... with a scandalously short tunic cinched around her waist and improvised leggings that showed a prodigious amount of her newly tanned skin. Her hair was down around her shoulders. She bet she was the spitting image of an Amazon, short a bow. "Gosh, Wendy, you sure look different from when I first saw you," Peter mumbled. Tinker Bell put her hands on her hips and started to jingle. "Well, I must be off," Wendy said quickly. "Bye!" And she took off into the air, like Nike, triumphant.

Furthermore, I refuse to be affected by these cheap theatrics!" She gestured to the boiling sky. "Gor!" Shelton covered his eyes with one hand. Dougal instantly went from mad to furious, and the clouds rumbled to life. Yet in that instant, he realized that this tiny little bit of a woman had just reduced centuries of a dramatic and secretive curse to "cheap theatrics." He didn't know whether to rage or laugh, but somehow, looking up into her amazing blue eyes, laughter was beginning to win. "Furthermore," she continued in high dudgeon, "I won't be cowed by a few damned drops of rain!" Shelton groaned loudly. "Law,here it comes now." But it didn't. Instead, a chuckle rippled through Dougal. Sophia appeared outraged. "Are you laughing at me?" "No,sweetheart. I'm laughing at us. We cannot even ride from the field to the house without racing. We're doomed to challenge each other forever,and if we don't have a care, my temper will try the two of us like sausages over a spit." Her lips quivered in response. "I don't particularly care for that image." "I haven't time for elegance, my love. It is getting ready to rain, so sausages are all you'll get.

Then it happens. His image appears again, skipping and scraping through the guy testifying. Web. Torn and broken. A face I'd previously only seen in the mirror. No projected back to me, because of me. And still he's smiling. Glommeting like a starfolk. Of course I've thought about every possible way to go back. To sneak away, hide, and wait. To apologize, or have him spit on my face. But I can't. I can't wonder what he's doing right now. And right now. And right now. I can't taste his cherry-candy lips, feel his heart pounding in my mouth. I can't. And I can't turn off the light switch he's flipped on inside me, no matter how hard I try. And I have tried. Tried so hard. But I can't. I know I'm not supposed to feel this way and I hate myself for it, but...I can't stop thinking about him- A jolt zings my thighs. I wince, but try not to flinch. I have to learn to live with this, because... Secret: I know now I can never be fixed.

She took one look at Alessandro and Bree and placed a hand on her chest. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Francesca, lass. Is that you?” And then she fainted. “Holy shit!” Bree rushed to the fallen nun's side, ignoring Sister McReady’s scowl of disapproval at her language. “Mommy! You killed da penguin lady!” Will cried out in surprise. Bree lightly slapped the old woman’s face and felt a rush of relief when the Mother Superior stirred. The last thing she needed on her conscience was a dead nun. The old woman’s blue eyes opened and anger filled them when her gaze shifted to Alessandro. “You. You spawn of the devil. Why don’t ye take yerself back where ye came from and leave our poor Francesca alone?” “Oh, Mother Superior, yer confused is all. Come now. On yer feet, mum,” Sister McReady said helping the old woman up. “Uh, I’m sorry. Sister. Francesca was my great aunt. My name is Bree.” “Bree? Jaysus but it’s a ridiculous resemblance it is,” the old woman panted, holding her chest. “And you?” She asked turning to Alessandro. “Of course yer not Adriano Dardano, of course but I’ll be a drunken fairy if yer not the spitting image of that demon of temptation, sent to corrupt our poor Francesca. Such a good girl she was,” Sister Brannigan murmured, tears filling her eyes. “Such a good girl.

Bronwyn is very much like myself, in both looks and temperament." "Then she likes to command and manipulate those around he," Ranulf interjected to prove he was listening. Laon sent him a slicing glance before answering. "Aye,and if you think me stubborn and relentless, you will rediscover the meaning if you and my eldest daughter ever disagree upon something.And prepare to lose,for even if you are right,she will wear you down until you find yourself acquiescing on the one point you swore never to concede," Laon cackled,obviously recalling one or two times in which she had bested him.Then his voice changed. "But I thank the Lord for her steadfastness and prudence. With my absence,I suspect all have been looking to her for guidance,and they were right to do so," he breathed softly. "Though no man would want her,she is strong in spirit and in mind and the only person I would trust to ensure her sisters are safe and well." "Which one is Eydthe?" "My middle child.She is small, but don't let that deceive you when you meet her.She inherited her Scottish grandmother's temper as well as her dark red hair.Of all of my daughters, her mind is the sharpest,but so is her tongue.It is my youngest,Lily,that I worry about the most when it comes to your men," Laon sighed. "She is the spitting image of her mother.Tall and slender with long dark raven hair and gray eyes,she snatches the soul of every man who looks upon her." And as if he could read Ranulf's mind,he added, "And her disposition is just as sweet.She sees only the good things in life and,as a consequence, brings joy wherever she goes." Ranulf conscientiously fought to refrain from showing his true reaction-nausea.

A scene will not be vivid if the writer gives too few details to stir and guide the reader's imagination; neither will it be vivid if the language the writer uses is abstract instead of concrete. If the writer says "creatures" instead of "snakes," if in an attempt to impress us with fancy talk he uses Latinate terms like "hostile maneuvers" instead of sharp Anglo-Saxon words like "thrash," "coil," "spit," "hiss," and "writhe," if instead of the desert's sand and rocks he speaks of the snakes' "inhospitable abode," the reader will hardly know what picture to conjure up on his mental screen. These two faults, insufficient detail and abstraction where what is needed is concrete detail, are common, in fact all but universal, in amateur writing. Another is the failure to run straight at the image; that is, the needless filtering of the image through some observing consciousness. The amateur writes: "Turning, she noticed two snakes fighting in among the rocks." Compare: "She turned. In among the rocks, two snakes were fighting." The phrase "two snakes were fighting" is more abstract than, say, "two snakes whipped and lashed, striking at each other." ...Generally speaking, though no laws are absolute in fiction, vividness urges that almost every occurrence of of such phrases as "she noticed" and "she saw" be suppressed in favor of direct presentation of the thing seen.

He closes his eyes. What does God see? Cromwell in the fifty-fourth year of his age, in all his weight and gravitas, his bulk wrapped in wool and fur? Or a mere flicker, an illusion, a spark beneath a shoe, a spit in the ocean, a feather in a desert, a wisp, a phantom, a needle in a haystack? If Henry is the mirror, he is the pale actor who sheds no lustre of his own, but spins in a reflected light. If the light moves he is gone. When I was in Italy, he thinks, I saw Virgins painted on every wall, I saw in every fresco the sponged blood-colour of Christ's robe. I saw the sinuous tempter that winds from a branch, and Adam's face as he was tempted. I saw that the serpent was a woman, and about her face were curls of silver-gilt; I saw her writhe about the green bough, saw it sway under her coils. I saw the lamentation of Heaven over Christ crucified, angels flying and crying at the same time. I saw torturers nimble as dancers hurling stones at St Stephen, and I saw the martyr's bored face as he waited for death. I saw a dead child cast in bronze, standing over its own corpse: and all these pictures, images, I took into myself, as some kind of prophecy or sign. But I have known men and women, better than me and closer to grace, who have meditated on every splinter of the cross, till they forget who and what they are, and observe the Saviour's blood, running in the soaked fibres of the wood. Till they believe themselves no longer captive to misfortune nor crime, nor in thrall to a useless sacrifice in an alien land. Till they see Christ's cross is the tree of life, and the truth breaks inside them, and they are saved. He sands his paper. Puts down his pen. I believe, but I do not believe enough. I said to Lambert, my prayers are with you, but in the end I only prayed for myself, that I might not suffer the same death.

Quote from "The Dish Keepers of Honest House" ....TO TWIST THE COLD is easy when its only water you want. Tapping of the toothbrush echoes into Ella's mind like footsteps clacking a cobbled street on a bitter, dry, cold morning. Her mind pushes through sleep her body craves. It catches her head falling into a warm, soft pillow. "Go back to bed," she tells herself. "You're still asleep," Ella mumbles, pushes the blanket off, and sits up. The urgency to move persuades her to keep routines. Water from the faucet runs through paste foam like a miniature waterfall. Ella rubs sleep-deprieved eyes, then the bridge of her nose and glances into the sink. Ella's eyes astutely fixate for one, brief millisecond. Water becomes the burgundy of soldiers exiting the drain. Her mouth drops in shock. The flow turns green. It is like the bubbling fungus of flockless, fishless, stagnating ponds. Within the iridescent glimmer of her thinking -- like a brain losing blood flow, Ella's focus is the flickering flashing of gray, white dust, coal-black shadows and crows lifting from the ground. A half minute or two trails off before her mind returns to reality. Ella grasps a toothbrush between thumb and index finger. She rests the outer palm against the sink's edge, breathes in and then exhales. Tension in the brow subsides, and her chest and shoulders drop; she sighs. Ella stares at pasty foam. It exits the drain as if in a race to clear the sink of negativity -- of all germs, slimy spit, the burgundy of imagined soldiers and oppressive plaque. GRASPING THE SILKY STRAND between her fingers, Ella tucks, pulls and slides the floss gently through her teeth. Her breath is an inch or so of the mirror. Inspections leave her demeanor more alert. Clouding steam of the image tugs her conscience. She gazes into silver glass. Bits of hair loosen from the bun piled at her head's posterior. What transforms is what she imagines. The mirror becomes a window. The window possesses her Soul and Spirit. These two become concerned -- much like they did when dishonest housekeepers disrupted Ella's world in another story. Before her is a glorious bird -- shining-dark-as-coal, shimmering in hues of purple-black and black-greens. It is likened unto The Raven in Edgar Allan Poe's most famous poem of 1845. Instead of interrupting a cold December night with tapping on a chamber door, it rests its claws in the decorative, carved handle of a backrest on a stiff dining chair. It projects an air of humor and concern. It moves its head to and fro while seeking a clearer understanding. Ella studies the bird. It is surrounded in lofty bends and stretches of leafless, acorn-less, nearly lifeless, oak trees. Like fingers and arms these branches reach below. [Perhaps they are reaching for us? Rest assured; if they had designs on us, I would be someplace else, writing about something more pleasant and less frightening. Of course, you would be asleep.] Balanced in the branches is a chair. It is from Ella's childhood home. The chair sways. Ella imagines modern-day pilgrims of a distant shore. Each step is as if Mother Nature will position them upright like dolls, blown from the stability of their plastic, flat, toe-less feet. These pilgrims take fate by the hand. LIFTING A TOWEL and patting her mouth and hands, Ella pulls the towel through the rack. She walks to the bedroom, sits and picks up the newspaper. Thumbing through pages that leave fingertips black, she reads headlines: "Former Dentist Guilty of Health Care Fraud." She flips the page, pinches the tip of her nose and brushes the edge of her chin -- smearing both with ink. In the middle fold directly affront her eyes is another headline: "Dentist Punished for Misconduct." She turns the page. There is yet another: "Dentist guilty of urinating in surgery sink and using contaminated dental instruments on patients." This world contains those who are simply insane! Every profession has those who stray from goals....

Nope. Look. The Raft is a media event. But in a much more profound, general sense than you can possibly imagine." "Huh?" "It's created by the media in that without the media, people wouldn't know it was here, Refus wouldn't come out and glom onto it the way they do. And it sustains the media. It creates a lot of information flow-movies, news reports - - you know." "So you're creating your own news event to make money off the information flow that it creates?" says the journalist, desperately trying to follow. His tone of voice says that this is all a waste of videotape. His weary attitude suggests that this is not the first time Rife has flown off on a bizarre tangent. "Partly. But that's only a very crude explanation. It really goes a lot deeper than that. You've probably heard the expression that the Industry feeds off of biomass, like a whale straining krill from the ocean." "I've heard the expression, yes." "That's my expression. I made it up. An expression like that is just like a virus, you know -- it's a piece of information -- data -- that spreads from one person to the next. Well, the function of the Raft is to bring more biomass. To renew America. Most countries are static, all they need to do is keep having babies. But America's like this big old clanking, smoking machine that just lumbers across the landscape scooping up and eating everything in sight. Leaves behind a trail of garbage a mile wide. Always needs more fuel... "Now I have a different perspective on it. America must look, to those poor little buggers down there, about the same as Crete looked to those poor Greek suckers. Except that there's no coercion involved. Those people down there give up their children willingly. Send them into the labyrinth by the millions to be eaten up. The Industry feeds on them and spits back images, sends out movies and TV programs, over my networks, images of wealth and exotic things beyond their wildest dreams, back to those people, and it gives them something to dream about, something to aspire to. And that is the function of the Raft. It's just a big old krill carrier." Finally the journalist gives up on being a journalist, just starts to slag L. Bob Rife openly. He's had it with this guy. "That's disgusting. I can't believe you can think about people that way." "Shit, boy, get down off your high horse. Nobody really gets eaten. It's just a figure of speech. They come here, they get decent jobs, find Christ, buy a Weber grill, and live happily ever after. What's wrong with that?

And the ladies dressed in red for my pain and with my pain latched onto my breath, clinging like the fetuses of scorpions in the deepest crook of my neck, the mothers in red who sucked out the last bit of heat that my barely beating heart could give me — I always had to learn on my own the steps you take to drink and eat and breathe, I was never taught to cry and now will never learn to do this, least of all from the great ladies latched onto the lining of my breath with reddish spit and floating veils of blood, my blood, mine alone, which I drew myself and which they drink from now after murdering the king whose body is listing in the river and who moves his eyes and smiles, though he’s dead and when you’re dead, you’re dead, for all the smiling you do, and the great ladies, the tragic ladies in red have murdered the one who is floating down the river and I stay behind like a hostage in their eternal custody. I want to die to the letter of the law of the commonplace, where we are assured that dying is the same as dreaming. The light, the forbidden wine, the vertigo. Who is it you write for? The ruins of an abandoned temple. If only celebration were possible. A mournful vision, splintered, of a garden of broken statues. Numb time, time like a glove upon a drum. The three who compete in me remain on a shifting point and we neither are nor is. My eyes used to find rest in humiliated, forsaken things. Nowadays I see with them; I’ve seen and approved of nothing. Seated at the bottom of a lake. She has lost her shadow, but not the desire to be, to lose. She is alone with her images. Dressed in red, and unseeing. Who has reached this place that no one ever reaches? The lord of those dead who are dressed in red. The man who is masked in a faceless face. The one who came for her takes her without him. Dressed in black, and seeing. The one who didn’t know how to die of love and so couldn’t learn a thing. She is sad because she is not there. There are words with hands; barely written, they search my heart. There are words condemned like the lilac in a tempest. There are words resembling some among the dead, and from these I prefer the ones that evoke the doll of some unhappy girl. Ward 18 when I think of occupational therapy I think of poking out my eyes in a house in ruin then eating them while thinking of all my years of continuous writing, 15 or 20 hours writing without a break, whetted by the demon of analogies, trying to configure my terrible wandering verbal matter, because — oh dear old Sigmund Freud — psychoanalytic science forgot its key somewhere: to open it opens but how to close the wound? for other imponderables lovelier than the smile of the Virgin of the Rocks the shadows strike blows the black shadows of the dead nothing but blows and there were cries nothing but blows

Long ago there was a little boy who lived in the wood with his father and his sister. One night, the three of them were out collecting firewood when they heard a low, delicate whimper. The father realised it was an injured animal and ordered the children to fetch water from the lake, whilst he followed the sound. Hours past but the father did not return. The children became fearful for their father’s safety and in their moment of fright, they disobeyed their father in order to find him. And find him they did. However, he was no longer the man he once was. Both his eyes were slit through their centre, oozing blood down the paleness of his face. His neck had been torn open. The entirety of his midsection was split but nothing, not one, single organ, seemed to be left within. Each limb still remained, however they had been dragged, with some exceptional force, in the opposite direction to which they were designed. The children screamed and ran, though the image of their father’s mangled corpse seemed to chase after them. They slept. Within the whisper of the wind came the sweet tune of a woman’s song. The little girl awoke to the feeling of happiness, security and motherly love that the song carried with it. She needed to find the woman it had come from. Leaving her brother, she took off into the wood to try and find the singer. The little boy quickly entered into a spit of panic when he found his sister missing. He didn’t know whether he should call out for her, look for her or wait. But waiting could mean the worst, he thought, and so he took off into the woods after her. He had searched everywhere, every dark corner and decrepit tree, before reaching the lake. The moon reflected off its black surface, which drew his attention to something bobbing within the ripples. It was a leg. When he caught sight of the foot, the boy fell to his knees. He recognised the shoe. It was his sister’s shoe; his sister’s leg. Soon enough, the other body parts came drifting to join the leg, forming a rough manifestation of what was once his sister’s living body. Firstly, there was a head facing down in the water, then arms seemingly blue under the moonlight, and lastly a torso coated in her favourite dress. He felt sick, lost, terrified to his very core. Just as thoughts of never being whole again began to pain his chest, the boy heard the snapping of a twig behind him. He dared to turn around but all he found was a small, black-furred wolf. The wolf approached him timidly, whining deep in its throat to say to the boy that he too was lonely and afraid. The boy put out his hand for the wolf to join him and they sat together. Perhaps he would be OK. Perhaps all that had happened had led to this; something new. He rustled the fur of his new friend, starting with its back then its ear before going under its snout. His hand touched something wet and sticky. He drew it from the wolf to get a better look, only to find a crimson substance now clinging to his small hands. Blood. The wolf turned on the boy as its eyes became a pale blue before thwack! He tore the boy’s face from his head…

January 29 I Want to Look Like Jesus …called according to his purpose…to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers.—Romans 8:28b-29 At a recent luncheon I introduced my daughter to several of the ladies. Their response was typical: one would say, “you look just like your mother!” the next, “the spitting image of your dad!” We chuckled over that, but it is true. She resembles both of us and, much as she hates to admit it, she even acts like one or the other of us at times. There is a strong family resemblance, some born of genetics, some she has picked up from just hanging around the two of us. Scripturally this is fascinating. When Jesus was born He took on the form of a man. He looked like you and me, so to speak. He walked and talked and ate and slept and felt pain and laughed and cried. Physically He was no different. His mannerisms, however, gave Him away. By the end of His days on earth, we knew we had seen God. In fact, we saw God behaving the way he wanted us to behave. What Adam messed up, Jesus graciously reinstated. Firstborn takes on new meaning in God terminology. So when God tells me in His word that He has a purpose for me, to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, I should bear a strong family resemblance to Jesus. To look like Jesus, I have to act like He would. And acting like Jesus comes from hanging around Jesus, studying His character, and imitating His ways. Of course when I look like Jesus, my hope is that others will see Jesus, not me!

Ashtart’s secondary purpose was to debase the image of Elohim in mankind through carnal intercourse with everything unnatural or inhuman. It would bring humanity down from its lofty heights of dominion over creation and suck them into the muck and slime. She so hated the Creator and wanted to spit in his face, that she inspired the hatred of all that was good and humanly beautiful in the name of “love.” The delicious irony was that she had created cities of hate masquerading as “Cities of Love.”   At the apex of all this sexual freedom was the ultimate goal of Ashtart: sexual congregation of humans with the gods. She wanted to eliminate all separation between gods and men. She invited select gods of Canaan – Molech, Dagon and Asherah – to join her in the covert activity of breeding with the daughters of men. But they were unwilling, out of fear of reprisal from Elohim. The Deluge judgment was still too vivid in their memories. So Ashtart cursed them and pursued her agenda alone, as she felt she always had to.

March 31 MORNING “With His stripes we are healed.” — Isaiah 53:5 PILATE delivered our Lord to the lictors to be scourged. The Roman scourge was a most dreadful instrument of torture. It was made of the sinews of oxen, and sharp bones were inter-twisted every here and there among the sinews; so that every time the lash came down these pieces of bone inflicted fearful laceration, and tore off the flesh from the bone. The Saviour was, no doubt, bound to the column, and thus beaten. He had been beaten before; but this of the Roman lictors was probably the most severe of His flagellations. My soul, stand here and weep over His poor stricken body. Believer in Jesus, can you gaze upon Him without tears, as He stands before you the mirror of agonizing love? He is at once fair as the lily for innocence, and red as the rose with the crimson of His own blood. As we feel the sure and blessed healing which His stripes have wrought in us, does not our heart melt at once with love and grief? If ever we have loved our Lord Jesus, surely we must feel that affection glowing now within our bosoms. “See how the patient Jesus stands, Insulted in His lowest case! Sinners have bound the Almighty’s hands, And spit in their Creator’s face.” “With thorns His temples gor’d and gash’d Send streams of blood from every part; His back’s with knotted scourges lash’d. But sharper scourges tear His heart.” We would fain go to our chambers and weep; but since our business calls us away, we will first pray our Beloved to print the image of His bleeding self upon the tablets of our hearts all the day, and at nightfall we will return to commune with Him, and sorrow that our sin should have cost Him so dear.

With his dark skin, hair, and eyes, coupled with his youth and a penchant for dressing casually, he was the spitting image of a suspected terrorist. He was the one they pulled out of the crowd to pick over everything: his belongings, his body, his passport, his boarding pass. Only once they had ascertained that he was in fact who he claimed to be – that his toothpaste was not some kind of explosive, that his coffee was drinkable, that his computer was not fitted with a bomb, that his business trip to London was not a ruse for a more nefarious plot – was he actually allowed to board a plane.

The conservative heretics were like all the others here in Dis: though they claimed to champion truth, in reality they loved something else more than truth—in this case, the comfort of their own smugness. It was a subtle form of idolatry, but idolatry nonetheless. Fancy that: feuding theological cousins—liberals and conservatives—the spitting image of each other, bedded down now side by side in flaming poetic justice.

He hated his niece with a passion. She was the spitting image of the man and he could barely force a smile when she was there.

need say was I need some time off. But she couldn’t do it. “The St. James house at half-past seven,” she repeated. “Got it, sir.” He rang off. Barbara hung up. She tried to plumb the depths of her feelings, to put a name to what was slowly washing through her veins. She wanted to call it shame. She knew it was liberation. She went to tell her father that they would need to reschedule his doctor’s appointment for another day. Kevin Whateley had not gone to the Royal Plantagenet, which was the pub next door to his cottage. Rather, he had walked along the embankment, past the triangular green where he and Matthew had once learned to operate their pair of remote-control planes, and had instead entered an older pub that stood on a spit of land reaching like a curled finger into the Thames. He’d chosen the Blue Dove deliberately. In the Royal Plantagenet—despite its proximity to his house—he might have forgotten for five minutes or so. But the Blue Dove would not allow him to do so. He sat at a table that overlooked the water. In spite of the night’s falling temperature, someone was out, night fishing from a boat, and lights bobbed periodically with the river’s movement. Kevin watched this, allowing his memory to fill with the image of Matthew running along that same dock, falling, damaging a knee, righting himself but not crying at all, even when the blood began to seep from the cut, even when the stitches were later put in. He was a brave little bloke, always had been. Kevin forced his eyes from the dock and fastened them on the mahogany table. Beer mats covered it, advertising Watney’s, Guinness, and Smith’s. Carefully, Kevin stacked them, restacked them, spread them out like cards, restacked them again. He felt how shallow his breathing was and knew that he needed to take in more air. But to breathe deeply was to lose his grip for an instant. He wouldn’t do that. For if he lost control, he didn’t know how he would get it back. So he did without air. He waited. He didn’t know if the man he sought would come into the pub this late on a Sunday night, mere minutes before closing. In fact, he didn’t even know if the man came here at all any longer. But years ago he’d been a regular customer, when Patsy worked long hours behind the bar, before she’d got her job in a South Kensington hotel. For Matthew’s sake, she had said when she’d taken on the

You think I didn’t

Well, tell him I stopped

sosie /sɔzi/ nm double • Paul est le ~ de son père | Paul is the spitting image of his father • c'est ton ~! | he/she's the spitting image of you!

In the far reaches of an infinite cosmos, there’s a galaxy that looks just like the Milky Way, with a solar system that’s the spitting image of ours, with a planet that’s a dead ringer for earth, with a house that’s indistinguishable from yours, inhabited by someone who looks just like you, who is right now reading this very book and imagining you, in a distant galaxy, just reaching the end of this sentence.

Fake Plastic Trees” by Radiohead. Everett just wanted to hear the last verse. He could circle the block one more time. Ever since he’d gotten the call, he’d been numb, his chest so frozen that he could barely breathe. His adoptive brothers,

from the bullies who were, unfortunately, his foster brothers. Worse, Clara would understand, but she wouldn’t understand.

waving his arms overhead. He put the Mustang

The Weed I dreamed that dead, and meditating, I lay upon a grave, or bed, (at least, some cold and close-built bower) In the cold heart, its final thought stood frozen, drawn immense and clear, stiff and idle as I was there; and we remained unchanged together for a year, a minute, an hour. Suddenly there was a motion, as startling, there, to every sense as an explosion. Then it dropped to an insistent, cautious creeping in the region of the heart, prodding me from desperate sleep. I raised my head. A slight young weed had pushed up through the heart and its green head was nodding on the breast. (All this was in the dark.) It grew an inch like a blade of grass; next, one leaf shot out of its side a twisting, waving flag, and then two leaves moved like a semaphore The stem grew thick. The nervous roots reached to each side; the graceful head changed its position mysteriously, since there was neither sun nor moon to catch its young attention. The rooted heart began to change (not beat) and then it spit apart and from it broke a flood of water. Two rivers glanced off from the sides, one to the right, one to the left, two rushing, half-clear streams, (the ribs made of them two cascades) which assuredly, smooth as glass, went off through the fine black grains of earth. The weed was almost swept away; it struggled with its leaves, lifting them fringed with heavy drops. A few drops fell upon my face and in my eyes, so I could see (or, in that black place, thought I saw) that each drop contained a light, a small, illuminated scene; the weed-deflected stream was made itself of racing images. (As if a river should carry all the scenes that it once reflected shut in its waters, and not floating on momentary surfaces.) The weed stood in the severed heart. "What are you doing there?" I asked. it lifted its head all dripping wet (with my own thoughts?) and answered then: "I grow," it said, "but to divide your heart again.

This guy is the spitting image of Lincoln," Giordino remarked conversationally. "That IS Abraham Lincoln," came Perlmutter's subdued voice from the doorway. He slowly sank to the deck, his back against the bulkhead, like a whale settling to the seabed. His eyes were locked on the corpse in the rocking chair as if hypnotically fixed. Pitt stared at Perlmutter with concern and obvious skepticism. "For a renowned historian, you've taken a wrong turn, haven't you?" Giordino knelt beside Perlmutter and offered him a drink from a water bottle. "The heat must be getting to you, big buddy." Perlmutter waved away the water. "God oh God, I couldn't bring myself to believe it. But Lincoln's Secretary of War, Edwin McMasters Stanton, DID reveal the truth in his secret papers." "What truth?" asked Pitt, curious. He hesitated, and then his voice came almost in a whisper. "Lincoln was not shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford's Theatre. That is him sitting in that rocking chair.

difficult. Nearly impossible, actually. He made mine vanish instantaneously. I’ve never heard of anyone capable of doing that.” “Guys, don’t worry about that yet,” Nicola said supportively. “I mean, we came here to get his attention, right? And we just did that. Now all we have to do is wait and see when he—” But before she could finish her sentence, the infamous Xavier appeared behind them. Aside from his golden cloak and somewhat messy hair, he was the spitting image of Zoltan. If it wasn’t for the fourteen-year age gap, you’d have thought they were twins. “You’re even weaker than I thought!” Xavier said loudly. “I can’t believe they sent you to Earth. You’re not capable of controlling the weather here!” As they had planned, Zoltan began taunting his evil brother. “Gimme a break,” he said. “I could’ve

When I closed my eyes and focused really hard, I could see her vaguely. Her hair was long and blond, just like mine, and she had blue eyes and light eyebrows and lashes, so light that sometimes they seemed to be non-existent. Her nose was small, and her lips were full. Her skin was as pale and translucent like the moon waxing in a dark ink sky. I knew I was the spitting image of her, and I didn’t feel like she was lost to me.

Scott has continued acting but now stars exclusively in gay pornography. Fortuitously he has grown into the spitting image of Richard Gere, so, has made a lucrative series of films that pay sodomichal homage to Gere's back catalogue. Gays of Heaven, Pretty Man, and An Orifice and a Gentlehand.

Your Highness? Prince Renaud?” This was the moment of truth. A look of confusion came over the man as he lay in her small bed, staring up at the cottage’s knotty pine ceiling. “How are you feeling?” “The pain is gone—I have to leave, I must—” He raised himself on his elbow. “Relax. Lie still for a while.” She caressed his arm. He stilled, staring at his healer with icy blue eyes. “Who are you? Some sort of witch? Where am I?” *He has Théodore’s face now that he’s grown. The spitting image of that devil. But his black hair—all mine. And yes, I knew he would use that word if he saw my powers…* “My name is Mathilde, Your Highness, and you’re in my cottage.” She blinked her tearing eyes and hardened her tone, speaking like a stern governess. “I saved you, that’s all I can say. You cannot escape justice from your brother if they find you alive. You didn’t succeed because I saved him as well.” “Half-brother, if you want to be precise! I’m the bastard whom no one cares a thing about!” A pained look of defeat crossed Renaud’s face. “Let me go!” He made a jerking move to raise himself from the small bed. Mathilde panicked. She clapped her hand on his forehead. “Dormez… go to sleep.” He slumped to a reclined position, his arm flopping to the side. His eyes glazed over and closed as he passed into a comatose slumber.

All the things I had hated for so long yet I couldn’t deny were now a part of me. I was his spitting image.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes as green as yours.” “They’re a Donovan family trait. All us kids have different hair colors, but we all have our father’s eyes. I’m the only one with my mom’s red hair. My oldest brother is the spitting image of my dad. My mom says it hurts to look at him.

There was something growing in me. Something far more than the festering hate that had begun too many years ago. This girl that sits obediently in the bath, awaiting her master's return was just an image, a picture in a book with no accompanying explanation. She sits in silence, she answers his questions and she succumbs his touches without complaint. But in the dark recesses of her mind something continues to thrive. Like a switch flipped it had changed her from the pathetic, frightened girl into a soulless demon playing a sickening game. Dragging him in with her acquiesce until she could chew him up and spit him out.

There was something growing in me. Something far more than the festering hate that had begun too many years ago. This girl that sits obediently in the bath, awaiting her master's return was just an image, a picture in a book with no accompanying explanation. She sits in silence, she answers his questions and she succumbs his touches without complaint. But in the dark recesses of her mind something continues to thrive. Like a switch flipped it had changed her from the pathetic, frightened girl into a soulless demon playing a sickening game. Dragging him in with her acquiesce until she could chew him up and spit him out. My mouth twitched involuntarily. A low panic started, my heart rate accelerating instantly, that pounding of rushing blood echoing in my ears. I sat still, concentrating on my mask. Isolating every single individual facial muscle I could find and shouting them down one by one. I had not had a slip up like this in a year. Wearing a mask so long it had changed from uncomfortable to normal.

He was the spitting image of her and though he carried the same virus that his mother did, Amir looked to be very well taken care of. Chey

The likeness, my dear!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Why you’re the spitting image of this naughty ‘Molly Mitchell’!

My good friend grows weary. Will we stop to rest soon?” “Yes.” “Your good friend is tired, too.” She glanced sideways at the stallion he rode, an almost exact replica of her own. “Can I ask something?” Hunter’s mouth lifted at one corner. “If I say no, you will be silent?” “Are you saying I talk too much?” Loretta hesitated, realizing it was true. Silence had been her prison for far too long. And while she had the chance, she hungered to learn all she could about him--to put her ghosts to rest. “I was just wondering, of these two horses, why did you choose that one as your good friend? Is he superior to this one in some way?” “Sup-ear-ee-or?” “Better.” “Not better. He has a crooked front hoof, like my good friend who is dead.” He paused and seemed to search for the right words. “He is his face on the water, no? How is it you say this?” Loretta leaned sideways to see the stallion’s tracks. His right front hoof left a notched-crescent print in the dust. “Reflection?” “Yes, he is his reflection.” “The spittin’ image of--What was your dead friend’s name?” “It is not to be spoken. He is dead, no? To say his name would not show respect. What is this to do with spit?” “It’s just a saying. When someone or something looks just like something else, it’s called a spittin’ image.

I was just wondering, of these two horses, why did you choose that one as your good friend? Is he superior to this one in some way?” “Sup-ear-ee-or?” “Better.” “Not better. He has a crooked front hoof, like my good friend who is dead.” He paused and seemed to search for the right words. “He is his face on the water, no? How is it you say this?” Loretta leaned sideways to see the stallion’s tracks. His right front hoof left a notched-crescent print in the dust. “Reflection?” “Yes, he is his reflection.” “The spittin’ image of--What was your dead friend’s name?” “It is not to be spoken. He is dead, no? To say his name would not show respect. What is this to do with spit?” “It’s just a saying. When someone or something looks just like something else, it’s called a spittin’ image. I don’t know why.” “You do not know, but you say the words? The words from your mouth say who you are, Blue Eyes. I make a lie; I am an easop, storyteller. I speak hate; my heart burns with hate. The People do not make talk if they do not know the words. If it is spoken, it must be. A man is what he speaks. This is not so with the tosi tivo?” Loretta shrugged and bit back a smile. “I seriously doubt I’ll become spit. It’s just something everyone says.” “You will learn the meaning of this spit image, no? And say it to me. When we meet again?

He is his face on the water, no? How is it you say this?” Loretta leaned sideways to see the stallion’s tracks. His right front hoof left a notched-crescent print in the dust. “Reflection?” “Yes, he is his reflection.” “The spittin’ image of--What was your dead friend’s name?” “It is not to be spoken. He is dead, no? To say his name would not show respect. What is this to do with spit?” “It’s just a saying. When someone or something looks just like something else, it’s called a spittin’ image.

What is this to do with spit?” “It’s just a saying. When someone or something looks just like something else, it’s called a spittin’ image. I don’t know why.” “You do not know, but you say the words? The words from your mouth say who you are, Blue Eyes. I make a lie; I am an easop, storyteller. I speak hate; my heart burns with hate. The People do not make talk if they do not know the words. If it is spoken, it must be. A man is what he speaks. This is not so with the tosi tivo?” Loretta shrugged and bit back a smile. “I seriously doubt I’ll become spit.

The spittin’ image of--What was your dead friend’s name?” “It is not to be spoken. He is dead, no? To say his name would not show respect. What is this to do with spit?” “It’s just a saying. When someone or something looks just like something else, it’s called a spittin’ image. I don’t know why.” “You do not know, but you say the words? The words from your mouth say who you are, Blue Eyes. I make a lie; I am an easop, storyteller. I speak hate; my heart burns with hate. The People do not make talk if they do not know the words. If it is spoken, it must be. A man is what he speaks. This is not so with the tosi tivo?” Loretta shrugged and bit back a smile. “I seriously doubt I’ll become spit. It’s just something everyone says.” “You will learn the meaning of this spit image, no? And say it to me. When we meet again?” Loretta tightened her hand on the reins. “Yes, if we meet again.” He glanced over at her, his expression suddenly solemn. “We walk backward in our footsteps, eh? Maybe you will walk forward a new way when we reach your wooden walls. You could be a little bit happy as my woman, no?” Loretta fixed her eyes on the horizon ahead of them. They were only a day and a half’s ride from her home. A day and a half from real clothes, a chance to wash her hair, to eat her own kind of food. Yes, he had been kind to her. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she’d even come to like him a little. But not enough to belong to him. Never that. “To be happy, I must be at my wooden walls,” she said shakily. “That’s my home and where my people are.” There was only tonight and tomorrow night to get through, and then she’d be home. Suvate. It was almost finished.

You will learn the meaning of this spit image, no? And say it to me. When we meet again?” Loretta tightened her hand on the reins. “Yes, if we meet again.” He glanced over at her, his expression suddenly solemn. “We walk backward in our footsteps, eh? Maybe you will walk forward a new way when we reach your wooden walls. You could be a little bit happy as my woman, no?

Reflection?” “Yes, he is his reflection.” “The spittin’ image of--What was your dead friend’s name?” “It is not to be spoken. He is dead, no? To say his name would not show respect. What is this to do with spit?

Sensing reprieve, grasping for it with eager disbelief, she lifted her lashes in confusion to see the same emotion reflected in his cobalt eyes. He began to tremble, as if the lance weighed a thousand pounds. And suddenly she knew that as much as he longed to murder her, a part of him couldn’t, wouldn’t throw the lance. It made no sense. She could see nothing but hatred written on his chiseled face. He had surely killed hundreds of times and would kill again. Slowly he lowered his arm and stared at her as if she had bested him in some way. Then, so quickly she couldn’t be sure she saw it, pain flashed across his face. “So you’re sweet?” His smile dripped ice. “We shall see, woman, we shall see.” He said “woman” as if he were spitting bile and slid his lance arrow to her chin. She had heard of women being disfigured by Indians and expected him to slash her as he outlined her mouth and the slope of her nose. Breathless fear brought moisture to her brow. Black spots danced, blurring her vision. She blinked and forced herself to focus on him. Laughter twinkled in his eyes. She realized that since he had decided not to kill her, he was, for some reason she couldn’t imagine, playing a hideous game, terrifying her to test her mettle. She caught hold of his lance and shoved it aside, lifting her head in defiance. Chuckling low in his chest, he leaned over his thigh, making a fist in her hair. His grip brought tears to her eyes. As he turned her face to study her, he said, “You have more courage than you have strength, Yellow Hair. It is not wise to fight when you cannot win.” Looking up at his carved features and the arrogant set of his mouth, she longed for the strength to jerk him off his horse. He wasn’t just taunting her, he was challenging her, mocking her. “You will yield. Look at me and know the face of your master. Remember it well.” Riding high on humiliation, Loretta forgot Amy, Aunt Rachel, everything. An image of her mother’s face flashed before her. Never, as long as she had life in her body, would she yield to him. She worked her parched mouth and spat. Nothing came out, but the message rang clear. “Nei mah-heepicut!” Releasing her, he struck her lightly on the arm. Wheeling his horse, he glanced toward the windows of the house and thumped his chest with a broad fist. “I claim her!

You may not have time, but it's never too late.

Fall in love with a girl where once your Facebook status is changed to 'relationship', It should never be touched again.

Life is like a chess game, you either checkmate or you get checkmated.

Do rich, Be simple.

Lievb your life to the fullest and before death, leave them a mark to show that you exist forever.

Believe in what you do, that's how you write your own fate.

In the far reaches of an infinite cosmos, there’s a galaxy that looks just like the Milky Way, with a solar system that’s the spitting image of ours, with a planet that’s a dead ringer for earth, with a house that’s indistinguishable from yours, inhabited by someone who looks just like you, who is right now reading this very book and imagining you, in a distant galaxy, just reaching the end of this sentence. And there’s not just one such copy. In an infinite universe, there are infinitely many. In some, your doppelgänger is now reading this sentence along with you. In others, he or she has skipped ahead, or feels in need of a snack and has put the book down. In others, he or she has, well, a less than felicitous disposition and is someone you’d rather not meet in a dark alley.

Well, people don’t call themselves, so calls between numbers indicate separate individuals. People who don’t like one another don’t talk for a long time. Just quick calls when they need to talk. Friends stay on the line for a long time. Single numbers that are connected to multiple names probably mean an alias. Somebody who carries one phone but goes by several names. Lets the calls go to voice mail, then figures out who they wanted and calls back. Or uses text so the voice isn’t a giveaway.

As if sensing weakness, Arthur said, his voice even softer, “I’m willing to forgive your transgression as long as you understand that this—this phase is over. You will not flaunt your… unnaturalness. I do not care what you do in the privacy of your bedroom, but you are to marry Cadogan’s girl.” To Ryan’s consternation, Jamie didn’t refuse immediately. “What a touching speech,” a familiar voice said. Tristan was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, a bored look on his face. But it was Arthur ’s expression that caught Ryan’s attention. Jamie’s dad paled, his eyes wide as he stared at Tristan. He looked as if he’d just seen a ghost. Tristan met Arthur ’s gaze. “What?” he said softly. “Do I look that much like her?” His forehead creasing, Ryan glanced between Arthur and Tristan before looking inquiringly at Jamie. Jamie shrugged with a confused frown. “Yeah, when I was a kid, I was told I was the spitting image of her,” Tristan said amiably. “Except for the eyes, of course.” His blue-green eyes were very cold, contrasting with his pleasant, nice smile. Those eyes were…Fucking hell. They were exactly like Arthur ’s, down to their frosty expression. Tristan was the same medium height and build as Arthur. Realizing where it was going, Ryan stepped closer to Jamie and touched his wrist. Jamie grabbed his hand and squeezed, looking between his father and Tristan. “Dad?

What do you need that for?” he asks about the Jack Daniel’s. “We might have to hit her over the head.” “Why are you smiling?” “Because this is a happy time,” I tell him honestly, even after I push aside the image of knocking Shannon unconscious with a bottle of JD. “This is fun. This is good. When this is all over, we’re going to have a baby.” He doesn’t look all that convinced, but he trots after me as we take our equipment into Shannon’s room. She’s sitting propped up on the bed with every pillow in my house behind her, blowing out air like a stalled locomotive. “You’re going to ruin my pillows,” I moan. “I’ll buy you new pillows,” she spits at me. “I’ll buy you a new bed. I’ll buy you a new fucking house.” “Watch your language,” I tell her. “There’s a little kid here.” “You think I care about a fucking little kid? Why is there a little kid here?” “Can we hit her yet?” Kenny asks. “Not yet.” Fanci

Did she say anything?” “No, but, dude. You—I think maybe . . . well, she . . .” He trailed off. “What, Mason? Spit it the fuck out.” He leaned closer. “Remember when we were in with Luis and his boys?” That was our first undercover; how was I supposed to forget anything about that time? “Yeah, Rach isn’t on crack.” “No, no. Not that. Do you remember the girls they’d pass around? Not the hookers,” he added before I could respond. “Yes,” I hissed, and looked at the shut door, then back to him. “Don’t tell me she—” “Kash, I’m sorry. But she’s acting just like they did. It’s already over ninety degrees and she’s shaking in sweats. She’s not sick, she looks like she’s just gotten out of a shower, and she freaked when we touched her. Think about it.” “No, no way.” I shook my head and took a few steps away from him. “Look, I know what she means to you,” he whispered, “but try to look past what you feel for her. Did you see how she was curling in on herself when you walked in? We’ve seen this enough times before to know what’s going on.” I raked my hands through my hair and tried to force the images out of my mind. “I’ll kill anyone that’s laid a finger on her.” Turning, I started storming out of his room, but he put a hand on my chest and pushed back. “Maybe I should be the one to handle this; you should go.” “The fuck I will!” I hissed, and smacked his arm away. “If what I think happened to her has happened, then she needs someone to comfort her and make her feel safe. You going in there already pissed off that someone may have raped her isn’t going to help her; you’re going to scare her more!” I swallowed back bile and took deep breaths through my nose. “When would this have even happened? Someone is always with her.” “No, we’re not, there’s days when Candice doesn’t get home for hours after we’ve already gone into work. Not including the days we have to go to the pol—bar . . . for meetings. It could have been at any time. But, Kash, we don’t know that it has happened yet. So let me handle this.” “No, you need to go. She means the world to me, not you. I need to be there for her.” “That’s exactly why it needs to be me!” he said, and I knew he was right but I didn’t care. “Mase. Go. Now.” “You’re going to—” “Go.” He

You allowed the girl to stay just long enough to ensure that Gareth would become enchanted with her — then, when he annoyed you, as he inevitably would, you sent her away. How very cruel, my friend!  To use the poor girl to punish your brother!  But no. That is not like you to be so heartless. Thus, I can only conclude that you are up to something, though what it could be, I have yet to fathom."  He shot Lucien a sideways glance. "Are you certain she's the one Charles was so smitten with?" Lucien was sitting back, smiling and idly watching the musicians. "Dead certain." "And the child?" "The spitting image of her father." "And yet you sent them away."  Fox shook his head. "What were you thinking of?" The duke turned his head, raising his brows in feigned surprise. "My dear Roger. You know me better than that. Do you think I would actually banish them?" "'Tis what your sister told me when I arrived." 'Ah, but 'tis what I want my sister to believe," he countered, smoothly. "And my two brothers — especially, Gareth."  He sipped his port, then swirled the liquid in the glass, studying it reflectively. "Besides, Roger, if you must know, I did not send the girl away — I merely made her feel so awkward that she had no desire to remain." "Is there a difference?" "But of course. She made the decision to leave, which means she maintains both her pride and a small modicum of respect, if not liking for me — which I may find useful at a future date. Gareth thinks I sent her away, which means he is perfectly furious with me. The result? She leaves, and he chases after her, which is exactly what I wanted him to do."  He chuckled. "Oh, to be a fly on the wall when he finds her and the two of them discover my hand in all this..." "Lucien, your eyes are gleaming with that cunning amusement that tells me you're up to something especially Machiavellian." "Is that so? Then I fear I must work harder at concealing the obvious." Fox gave him a shrewd look. "This is most confusing, as I'm sure you intend it to be. You know the child is Charles's and yet you will not acknowledge her ... and this after Charles expressly asked you to make her your ward?" "Really, Roger. There is no need to make the child my ward when Gareth, in all likelihood, will adopt her as his daughter." The barrister narrowed his eyes. "You have some superior, ulterior motive that evades us mere mortals." "But of course," Lucien murmured yet again, lifting his glass and idly sipping its dark liquid. "And perhaps you can explain it to this mere mortal?" "My dear Fox. It is quite simple, really. Drastic problems call for drastic solutions. By sending the girl away, I have set in motion my plan for Gareth's salvation. If things go as I expect, he will stay so furious with me that he will not only charge headlong to her rescue — but headlong into marriage with her." "Bloody hell!  Lucien, the girl's completely ill-suited for him!" "On the contrary. I have observed them together, Fox. They compliment each other perfectly. As for the girl, what she lacks in wealth and social standing she more than makes up for in courage, resolve, common sense, and maturity. Gareth, whether he knows it or not, needs someone just like her. It is my hope that she will — shall I say — reform him." Fox shook his head and bit into a fine piece of Cheshire. "You're taking a risk in assuming Gareth will even find her." "Oh, he'll find her. I have no doubt about that."  Lucien gestured for a footman, who promptly stepped forward and refilled his glass. "He's already half in love with her as it is. Gareth is nothing if not persistent." "Yes, and he is also given to rashness, poor judgment, and an unhealthy appetite for dissolute living." "Indeed. And that, my dear Fox, is exactly what I believe the girl will cure him of.

Do it, Zhian urges. Let me out, Zahra. Let me out. Listen to me first, I demand. There are jinn charmers out here—did you hear them? They are playing, filling the hills with their charms. You must not go near the humans, or we will both end up right back where we started. We could take them together, he replies. You and I—working as a team. We would be unstoppable! To that, I only send him an image of the lamp, and he curses. I quickly relay to him the deal I made with Nardukha. Zhian stews in his jar, his impatience hammering through my thoughts. When I finish, he spits, So do it! Let me out! I glance around, making sure we’re alone, then lift the jar high before dashing it against a rock. The pottery shatters, as does the charm that held Zhian captive inside. A burst of smoke fills the air, red and angry. It swells and thunders. “Quiet!” I hiss. “They’ll come!” I do not fear mortals! “Then you’re an idiot. If it weren’t for me, they’d still have you bottled up in their crypts.” My father would not allow it! Zhian swirls around me, his wind pulling at my hair and my black cloak. Dragon heads materialize in the smoke, snapping and hissing dangerously close to my face. He would burn their city for my sake! He would sink their ships and wreck their walls!

Anger is like spitting at your own image in the mirror

If any locals had seen the dark-robed group as they moved through the darkness they might well have felt the stirrings of fear. Monks – anonymous, rootless, untraceable – were able to commit atrocities with near impunity. ‘Our angels’ some Christians called them. Rubbish, said non-Christians. They were not angels but ignorant, boorish thugs, men in appearance only who ‘led the lives of swine, and openly did and allowed countless unspeakable crimes’. As the author Eunapius wrote with sardonic distaste: ‘in those days every man who wore a black robe and consented to behave in unseemly fashion in public, possessed the power of a tyrant, to such a pitch of virtue had the human race advanced!’ Even a wholeheartedly Christian emperor mutedly observed that ‘the monks commit many crimes’. And on that night, these monks were about to commit another. Shenoute’s target was not, this time, one of his monks but one of the wicked, godless pagans. In sermon after furious sermon Shenoute had turned his famously fiery prose on these people. Their hearts were ‘the nests of the spirits of wickedness’. If disturbed then these evil people would spit out poison. The Bible, Shenoute told his congregants, said that those who set up pagan images should be killed. As he put it in one particularly vigorous sermon, God wished His people to ‘remove the abominations from His presence’. The emperors, Shenoute thundered, had declared that the entire earth must be cleansed of perversions. No stone was to be left on top of any other stone of any pagan temple. Not one. In the entire earth.

Finally, in keeping with Islam’s perennial threat and primordial boast, they used Hagia Sophia and many other churches as “a stable for their horses,” which they fed from toppled altars turned into troughs. Indeed, lest the jihadi pedigree of the sack be missed, the invaders everywhere set to desecrating and mocking all vestiges of Christianity—a sort of “Islam was here.” Thus, “they paraded the [Hagia Sophia’s main] Crucifix in mocking procession through their camp, beating drums before it, crucifying the Christ again with spitting and blasphemies and curses. They placed a Turkish cap… upon His head, and jeeringly cried, ‘Behold the god of the Christians!’” They “gouged the eyes from the [embalmed] saints” and dumped their corpses “in the middle of the streets for swine and dogs to trample on… and the images of our Lord Jesus Christ and His Saints were burned or hacked to pieces.

When Kirsty wore an apron, no matter what colour, she always ended up the spitting image of a stout, pre-revolution, Russian peasant crone, as depicted in her year nine history book.

But for all that detailed scrutiny, if the universe is infinite there’s a breathtaking conclusion that has received relatively scant attention. In the far reaches of an infinite cosmos, there’s a galaxy that looks just like the Milky Way, with a solar system that’s the spitting image of ours, with a planet that’s a dead ringer for earth, with a house that’s indistinguishable from yours, inhabited by someone who looks just like you, who is right now reading this very book and imagining you, in a distant galaxy, just reaching the end of this sentence.

When she spoke, entire planets hushed to hear her words. People she had never heard of, and never -would- hear of, committed suicide at the thought that they were unworthy to share the universe with her. Obscure alien races knelt at her image and spit up, with appropriate ritual obeisance, offerings of the very best regurgitated fish-liver wine.

Jesus expressed an earthy, semiotic theology by materializing his message through various media, including images, stories, actions (stilled storms, healed limbs), and objects like spit, fig trees, bursting baskets, etc. He was a master semiotician. You might even say that Jesus’ ministry was more a semiotics ministry than a preaching, teaching, or healing ministry.

Christian writers applauded such destruction – and egged their rulers on to greater acts of violence. One gleefully observed that the Christian emperors now ‘spit in the faces of dead idols, trample on the lawless rites of demons, and laugh at the old lies’. An infamous early text instructed emperors to wash away this ‘filth’ and ‘take away, yes, calmly take away . . . the adornments of the temples. Let the fire of the mint or the blaze of the smelters melt them down.’ This was nothing to be ashamed of. The first Commandment could not have been clearer. ‘Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image,’ it said. ‘Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them,’ it continued, ‘nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.' The Greek and Roman temples, no matter how ancient or beautiful, were the homes of false gods and they had to be destroyed. This was not vandalism: it was God’s will. The good Christian had a duty to do nothing less.

[describing the Mahavamsa, 6th-century chronicle of Sri Lanka] The king Yasalakatissa, who had come to his title by killing his older brother during a watersports festival, had a gatekeeper named Subha. Subha was the spitting image of the king, and so Tasalakatissa draped Subha in royal regalia and seated him on the throne. Whole the courtiers clustered around the impostor and sang his praises, Yasalakatissa, having dressed as a gatekeeper and stationed himself at the door, shook with laughter at the ingenuity of his jape. Then one day Subha addressed the ministers while the king was laughing, 'Why does this gatekeeper laugh in my presence?' He had King Yasalakatissa killed. Subha then reigned six years. Even when the truth was later discovered, he retained his throne and became known as King Subha.