Storm Is Brewing Quotes

There's always another storm. It's the way the world works. Snowstorms, rainstorms, windstorms, sandstorms, and firestorms. Some are fierce and others are small. You have to deal with each one separately, but you need to keep an eye on whats brewing for tomorrow.

Whatever storm was brewing, I'd find it and fight it. If it was the price of being with Curran, then I would pay it. He was worth it.

Trust me. A storm is brewing inside this cool cat now. She'll gradually break down and you'll see what's behind the clouds.

Beautiful people tend to be ugly, ugly people tend to be beautiful, storms tend to brew below a person’s cool, calm exterior, and tremendously happy people tend to be overcompensating for their own grief. Nothing is ever really what it seems.

A storm was brewing. The wind has picked up and a mass of purple clouds was coming in from the West. It felt good to have my hair whipping around my head. I thought it might feel good to have hail beat down on me. Sometimes storms outside are the only relief for storms inside...

We love with all our heart but we also keep our heart light and pliable. It has space. It breathes. It waits on life to give instructions. It sings with sweetness when the winds are soft and warm. It stands with calm patience when the storm is brewing. It lets go when endings have left their irrefutable mark. It moves. It heals. It hopes.

Today we hear a lot of songs about love, and the mention of the big love thing on the way. You know what I would do? I would buy a gun and bar my door because I would know there is a storm of hypocrisy brewing.

Madness is not for everyone, but Maurice's proved the thunderbolt that dispels the clouds. The storm had been working up not for three days as he supposed, but for six years. It had brewed in the insecurities of being where no eye pierces, his surroundings had thickened it. It had burst and he had not died. The brilliancy of day was around him, he stood upon the mountain range that overshadows youth, he saw.

Sometimes emotions surge so strongly that words will never do them justice. So I sit here and stare at a blank page while storms brew inside me.

A storm is brewing It's raining ice But the robins are singing Their April song

I knew then that I'd been right. I had felt something changing between us in the weeks before my death—slow and steady—but just hadn't wanted to admit it. A distance had been brewing, all chilly and gray. I'd chosen to sit and watch the storm clouds gather instead of running for cover at the first hint of rain. And I had paid the price for waiting. Because the storm became a hurricane.

It seems what people try to represent on the outside very rarely mirrors their inside. Beautiful people tend to be ugly, ugly people tend to be beautiful, storms tend to brew below a person’s cool, calm exterior, and tremendously happy people tend to be overcompensating for their own grief. Nothing is ever really what it seems.

There was a tempest brewing in his eyes that I wasn’t sure I would survive if I stayed in his gaze too long. But he told me with his sure hold that I could trust him and not to run before I’d given him a chance to show him what it was like to ride out the storm.

As Toppers rose from her seat on a sofa to meet him, Storm realized that he was looking at an architectural marvel. She weighed less than a hundred pounds and was under five feet tall, but she was so top-heavy that Storm wondered how she kept herself from tumbling facedown when she reached out to shake his hand.

She wasn't quite sure what had happened that night. She hadn't seen this storm brewing on the horizon. The King of Ragtime was a hurricane, and somehow she'd forgotten to close one of her windows. She'd have to be more careful, next time.

A storm began to brew within Faith. "Why no, Mr Waite. I have only just begun.

I assure you I have zero interest in commiserating with you. I wouldn’t understand your demons any more than you would understand my personal circle of hell.” Her sad eyes flicked back to mine. “Then what do you want?” I sucked in a deep breath that did nothing to calm the eternal storm brewing within me. “Just a little company in the darkness. No questions. No judgments. No faking it.

This, he thought, must be how dogs feel in those quiet moments before the earthquake hits, when they alone know the devastation of what's coming. When they alone know that everything is about to change.

Edges I am a child throwing rocks into the stream. Challenging the rushing water. Raising my fist and daring fate to do it worst. I am a dancer in the waves of the ocean. Swaying in time with the tide. Pirouetting, the current my only friend. I am the sun, rising across the canyon Ascending, and shinning down. Giving the illusion of perception and motion. I am thoughts like a rolling river. Water cascading over the rocks of my soul. Shaping, forming, conforming. I am the peace of the rain forest. Basking in solitude Tranquil, serene, transfixing angles. Reflecting from within. Dripping and dropping. Shaking it off. I am the dust of the galaxy. Yearning to know itself. I am the wind. Wandering. Searching. A storm brewing from within.

The house was cozy, with a fire burning in every fireplace. The familiar scents of tea brewing in the samovar and Maman's warmed cherry brandy smelled like love to me.

That time, in third grade, with the help of Mrs. Callahan, my ESL teacher, I read the first book that I loved, a children's book called Thunder Cake by Patricia Polacco. In the story, when a girl and her grandmother spot a storm brewing on the green horizon, instead of shuttering the windows or nailing boards on the doors, they set out to bake a cake. I was unmoored by this act, its precarious yet bold refusal of common sense. As Mrs. Calahan stood behind me, her mouth at my ear, I was pulled deeper into the current of language. The story unfurled, its storm rolled in as she spoke, then rolled in once more as I repeated the words. To bake a cake in the eye of a storm; to feed yourself sugar on the cusp of danger.

Tell me you doona want this. Tell me that ye didna feel this storm brewing between us since the very first day we met. That a part of ye didna know that this was an inevitability. I knew from the first time I saw ye that it was my destiny to claim ye here in the mists. And ye must take me, Mena... all of me. Make demands of yer own. Lay claim to the pleasure I'm willing to offer ye.

We love with all our heart, in every way that we can love but the heart is not burdened. We learn to keep it light and pliable. It has space. It breathes. It waits on Life to give instructions. It sings with sweetness when the winds are soft and warm. It stands with calm patience when the storm is brewing. It lets go when death and seeming endings have left their irrefutable mark. It moves. It heals. It hopes. It allows Life to be lived in the safe, fertile, and still inner space where it grows stronger and more compelling every day.

Wisdom in Pain.-In pain there is as much wisdom as in pleasure: like the latter it is one of the best self-preservatives of a species. Were it not so, pain would long ago have been done away with ; that it is hurtful is no argument against it, for to be hurtful is its very essence. In pain I hear the commanding call of the ship's captain : " Take in sail!" " Man," the bold seafarer, must have learned to set his sails in a thousand different ways, otherwise he could not have sailed long, for the ocean would soon have swallowed him up. We must also know how to live with reduced energy : as soon as pain gives its precautionary signal, it is time to reduce the speed-some great danger, some storm, is approaching, and we do well to "catch" as little wind as possible.-It is true that there are men who, on the approach of severe pain, hear the very opposite call of command, and never appear more proud, more martial, or more happy than when the storm is brewing; indeed, pain itself provides them with their supreme moments! These are the heroic men, the great pain-bringers of mankind: those few and rare ones who need just the same apology as pain generally,-and verily, it should not be denied them! They are forces of the greatest importance for preserving and advancing the species, be it only because they are opposed to smug ease, and do not conceal their disgust at this kind of happiness.

September 10, 2001. A storm is brewing in New York City. A clash is about to begin. Tempers will soon rise as historical conquests and slights are remembered and renewed on the eve of this fight between ancient and embittered foes. Yes, the Boston Red Sox are playing the New York Yankees.

Have you ever seen fishermen when a storm is brewing on a great river? I have seen them many a time. In the face of a storm one group of fishermen will muster all their forces, encourage their fellows and boldly put out to meet the storm: 'Cheer up, lads, hold tight to the tiller, cut the waves, we'll pull her through!' But there is another type of fishermen - those who, on sensing a storm, lose heart, begin to snivel and demoralise their own ranks: 'What a misfortune, a storm is brewing; lie down, boys, in the bottom of the boat, shut your eyes; let's hope she'll make the shore somehow.

He is the storm that brews in the depths of my soul.

It’s a hot night; the air feels damp, like there’s a storm brewing.

Our course was already set, our love a sweeping storm that would brew for years before raging.

I chew my bottom lip, urging myself to step up to the plate and tell Dorian how I really feel. “I feel like you’re…doing something to me. Changing me, in a way. The day I met you, it’s like, the earth shifted. Every bit of doubt and reluctance instantly dissolves whenever you’re around me. Things make sense that ordinarily wouldn’t. I don’t fully understand it so it’s incredibly difficult for me to even try to explain it to you. But I know something happened. I know what I felt.” Dorian’s eyes darken a fraction, the makings of a dark storm brewing behind crystal blue. “You’re overthinking it.” “Am I? Or am I not thinking about it enough?” For several heated moments, we stare at each other, both our expressions guarded and defensive. He has secrets, just like I do. But while we may be hell bent on safeguarding the most secluded spaces of our psyches, the devastatingly strong attraction between us keeps penetrating the rouse. In our most intimate moments, he can’t hide from me and I can’t hide from him. And I don’t want to, though I know it’s extremely stupid of me to feel that way.

Green, green, the lights glow green Happy is our gracious queen Blue, blue the lights glow blue A vicious storm nearby does brew Red, red the lights glow red Beware the dangers up ahead.

He was working fast, yet thinking went slow enough. He knew why now. He knew now that thinking went slow and smooth with calculation, as oil is spread slowly upon a surface above a brewing storm.

Everyone has the chance to become dangerous. If the right weather patterns are created, if the right feelings are invoked...feelings of injustice. Jealousy. Feelings of being owed something they believe they have a right to have. To...collect. We all have it in us to become a danger, either to others or to ourselves. It's only a matter if the right clouds are brewing. Certain clouds will create a storm.

Quiet is a means of God’s grace. Within it, God shows us our inner poverty and misguided ambitions. He has waited patiently with a quiet heart while we’ve brewed our lives into storm and froth constantly interrupting him. Now

No matter how forced the behavior is, he is trying, and in that I find solace, a steady certainty that even in the middle of the brewing storm, he will be my anchor. I once feared that he would take me under; now I don’t even mind if he does.

The ragged curtains were reaching out across the room and the foot of the bed was soaked with rain. She got up and closed the window to protect her from the storm outside. However, there was no protection from the storm that was always brewing in her mind.

What then are the benefits of being mentally flexible? Imagine a storm brewing. Intense winds are blowing hard. Stiff trees are breaking under the pressure while softer more flexible trees are bending and will rise again when the strong winds subside. Now turn this image onto human beings. People who are narrow minded, opinionated, stubborn and bullheaded are more likely to crack under pressure than people who take up a more flexible attitude towards life. It is the difference between bending and breaking under pressure.

The Goblin King’s face darkened. “What is wrong with you, Elisabeth?” I lifted my eyes to his. “There is nothing wrong with me.” “There is.” He shifted in his seat, and although there was an endless array of food and feast between us, he was too close. A storm was brewing behind those mismatched eyes, and the air between us crackled with electricity. “You’re not the Elisabeth I remember. I thought that if you—that if you became my—” He cut himself off abruptly. “This,” he said, gesturing to the space between us, “is not what I was hoping for.” “People grow up, mein Herr,” I said shortly. “They change.” He gave me a hard look. “Evidently.” He stared at me for a beat longer before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, resting his feet on the table. “Ah, well, my mistake. Time passes differently Underground than in the world above. Mere moments for me, several years and a lifetime ago for you, apparently.” 

The Body As Braille” He tells me “your back is so beautiful.” He traces my spine with his hand. I’m burning like the white ring around the moon. “A witch’s moon,” dijo mi abuela. The schools call it “a reflection of ice crystals.” It’s a storm brewing in the cauldron of the sky. I’m in love but won’t tell him if it’s omens or ice.

There's a storm brewing." "You mean the weather, right?" Ash shook his head slowly as his senses tingled. No, there was something coming for them. He could feel it. Dark and deadly, it wanted a piece of him. "Don't worry, Sota. I'll keep you dry." But even as he said the words, he knew the truth. He wasn't her haven. She was his, and so long as he had her by his side, he could face anything. "Bring the rain," he whispered," bring the rain.

The others must’ve felt it too. The tension in the mess hall was like an electrical storm brewing, which was totally possible, considering Percy’s and Jason’s powers. In an awkward moment, the two boys tried to sit in the same chair at the head of the table. Sparks literally flew from Jason’s hands. After a brief silent standoff, like they were both thinking, Seriously, dude?, they ceded the chair to Annabeth and sat at opposite sides of the table.

For many years, a family of ospreys lived in a large nest near my summer home in Maine. Each season, I carefully observed their rituals and habits. In mid-April, the parents would arrive, having spent the winter in South America, and lay eggs. In early June, the eggs hatched. The babies slowly grew, as the father brought fish back to the nest, and in early to mid August were large enough to make their first flight. My wife and I recorded all of these comings and goings with cameras and in a notebook. We wrote down the number of chicks each year, usually one or two but sometimes three. We noted when the chicks first began flapping their wings, usually a couple of weeks before flying from the nest. We memorized the different chirps the parents made for danger, for hunger, for the arrival of food. After several years of cataloguing such data, we felt that we knew these ospreys. We could predict the sounds the birds would make in different situations, their flight patterns, their behavior when a storm was brewing. Reading our “osprey journals” on a winter’s night, we felt a sense of pride and satisfaction. We had carefully studied and documented a small part of the universe. Then, one August afternoon, the two baby ospreys of that season took flight for the first time as I stood on the circular deck of my house watching the nest. All summer long, they had watched me on that deck as I watched them. To them, it must have looked like I was in my nest just as they were in theirs. On this particular afternoon, their maiden flight, they did a loop of my house and then headed straight at me with tremendous speed. My immediate impulse was to run for cover, since they could have ripped me apart with their powerful talons. But something held me to my ground. When they were within twenty feet of me, they suddenly veered upward and away. But before that dazzling and frightening vertical climb, for about half a second we made eye contact. Words cannot convey what was exchanged between us in that instant. It was a look of connectedness, of mutual respect, of recognition that we shared the same land. After they were gone, I found that I was shaking, and in tears. To this day, I do not understand what happened in that half second. But it was one of the most profound moments of my life.

And while the most desperate hours of the men within the Perimeter were passing, a second battle had been raging in their rear, back in the continental United States. When American soldiers went into action, it had become customary to provide them with a free issue of candy, cigarettes—and beer. In the places American troops fought, there were rarely any handy taverns or supermarkets. Reported to the home front, the “beer issue” rapidly became a national controversy. Temperance, church, and various civic groups bombarded the Pentagon and Congress with howls of protest against the corruption of American youth. One legislator, himself a man who took a brew now and then, tried a flanking attack against the complainers, saying on the floor of the House, “Water in Korea is more deadly than bullets!” But no one either polled the troops for their opinion or said openly that a man who was old enough to kill and be killed was also old enough to have a beer if he wanted it. Unable to shake the habit of acquiescence, the Army leaders bowed to the storm of public wrath. On 12 September the day the 3rd Battalion, 7th Cavalry, lost half its strength securing Hill 314, Far East Command cut off its beer ration. The troops could still buy beer, but only when and if the PX caught up with them.

Do you know what the expression ‘running amok’ means?” “‘Running amok?’ Yes, I think I do… a kind of intoxication affecting the Malays…” “It’s more than intoxication… it’s madness, a sort of human rabies, an attack of murderous, pointless monomania that bears no comparison with ordinary alcohol poisoning. I’ve studied several cases myself during my time in the East—it’s easy to be very wise and objective about other people—but I was never able to uncover the terrible secret of its origin. It may have something to do with the climate, the sultry, oppressive atmosphere that weighs on the nervous system like a storm until it suddenly breaks… well then, this is how it goes: a Malay, an ordinary, good-natured man, sits drinking his brew, impassive, indifferent, apathetic… just as I was sitting in my room… when suddenly he leaps to his feet, snatches his dagger and runs out into the street, going straight ahead of him, always straight ahead, with no idea of any destination. With his kris he strikes down anything that crosses his path, man or beast, and this murderous frenzy makes him even more deranged. He froths at the mouth as he runs, he howls like a lunatic… but he still runs and runs and runs, he doesn’t look right, he doesn’t look left, he just runs on screaming shrilly, brandishing his bloodstained kris as he forges straight ahead in that dreadful way. The people of the villages know that no power can halt a man running amok, so they shout warnings ahead when they see him coming—‘Amok! Amok!’—and everyone flees… but he runs on without hearing, without seeing, striking down anything he meets… until he is either shot dead like a mad dog or collapses of his own accord, still frothing at the mouth…

They made it to Cyra’s room. She dropped Akos at the edge of her bed, then stormed around the room, gathering towels, ice, painkiller. Frantically, tears running down her face. The room still smelled malty from the potion he’d brewed earlier. “Cyra. Did she tell him anything?” “No. She’s a good liar,” she replied as she fought to uncork the vial of painkiller with trembling hands. “You’ll never be safe again. You know that? Neither of us will.” She got the stopper out, and touched it to his mouth, though he could easily have grabbed it himself. He didn’t point that out, just parted his lips to swallow it. “I was never safe. You were never safe.” He didn’t understand why she was so rattled. It wasn’t like Ryzek doing something terrible was a new thing. “I don’t understand why he made a point to use me--” Her legs brushed his as she came to stand between his knees. They were almost the same height this way, with him perched on her high bed. And she was close, like she sometimes was when they fought, laughing in his face because she’d knocked him down, but that was different. Completely different. She wasn’t laughing. She smelled familiar, like the herbs she burned to clear the room of food smells, like the spray she used in her hair to smooth its tangles. She brought a hand to his shoulder, than trailed trembling fingers along his collarbone, down his sternum. Pressed a gentle hand to his chest. Didn’t look at his face. “You,” she whispered, “are the only person he could possibly hold over me now.” She touched his chin to steady it as she kissed him. Her mouth was warm, and wet with tears. Her teeth scored his bottom lip as she pulled away. Akos didn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he could remember how. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I won’t do that again.” She backed away, and shut herself in the bathroom.

Finally, her emotions must be tempered, must brew like a storm too high in the atmosphere to be felt on earth. She must never cry until the moment her grief surpasses what any mortal being can bear. Then she will weep—and open up the fissure to our world.

There’s always a storm brewing in my mind, sometimes it rains, sometimes it pours; but always my imagination needs to be released.

You don't have to walk with me. I know the way now." Her voice seemed empty, but he knew there must be a storm of feelings brewing inside her. "Maybe I'd like to walk with you." Laughing without humor she replied, "I think you want to make sure I don't blubber all over myself on the way there." Sebastian didn't respond. "I'm fine now." "I don't think you are. I think you're on the Edge." She whipped around, coming to an abrupt stop. "Why do you care? I don't understand you! Why don't you just leave me alone?" Sebastian didn't know what to say. He himself couldn't understand why he felt such a pull toward her. He was constantly trying to keep his distance, trying not to care. He didn't care. Did he? For a moment, as she looked at him expectantly, Sebastian pondered how best to respond. He decided to go with the truth. "I feel...protective of you. I shouldn't, but I do. I just want you to be safe. Happy." He paused. "And I want to find the person who hurt you, and rip out his god**** throat.

Tipping her head back, he bracketed her face. “Death and the deuce, but I love you, Billy girl.” He kissed her again. She pressed herself against him. Neither noticed the rain, only the storm that brewed inside them.

be her friend, if she would let him. He gulped in a deep breath of the evening air and flopped into Pop’s wooden rocking chair. It smelled as if rain was coming, and with the oppressing heat they’d been having lately, the land could surely use a good dousing. A short time later, a streak of lightning shot across the sky, followed by a thunderous roar that shook the whole house. “Jah, a summer storm’s definitely coming,” he murmured. “Guess I’d best be getting to bed, or I’ll be tempted to sit out here and watch it all night.” Noah had enjoyed watching thunderstorms ever since he was a boy. Something fascinated him about the way lightning zigzagged across the sky as the rain pelted the earth. It made Noah realize the awesomeness of God’s power. Everything on earth was under the Master’s hand, and Noah never ceased to marvel at the majesty of it all. He rose from his chair just as the rain started to fall. It fell lightly at first but soon began to pummel the ground. He gazed up at the dismal, gray sky. “Keep us all safe this night, Lord.” Faith shuddered and pulled the sides of her pillow around her ears as she tried to drown out the sound of the storm brewing outside her bedroom window. She’d been afraid of storms since

was as charged as if a storm were brewing. It was a storm, she told herself, and one her father had seen gathering for years. Still, it humbled her to watch an old captain like Tenira announce that he would call the first bolt down on himself.

Up ahead, people are shouting about white shirts and the death of their Queen's protector. Angry voices, ready for a riot. The storm is brewing. The battle pieces are being aligned. A little girl hurries past, pressing whisper sheets into each of their hands before dashing on. The political parties are already at work. Soon the godfather of the slum will have his own people down in the alleys inciting violence.

I've always been one to love a good storm The warmth of the air when a storm is brewing The look of the clouds when they come rolling in The rushing of the wind past my ears The feeling of rain falling on my skin The sound of thunder and the flash of lightning The warmth you feel when the sun finally comes out and life is calm again How fast it can come and go I guess that's why I loved you so much

Elizabeth Kindelmann shared that Jesus said the following to her in a thundering voice, “Before the difficult times are upon you, prepare yourselves for the vocation I have called you to by renewed tenacity and a firm decision. You must not be lazy, uninterested, and indifferent because the great storm is brewing just ahead. Its gusts will carry away indifferent souls consumed by laziness.

Watch for ways to help your children learn to be still and calm at times and find the deep-ocean peacefulness within their hub. From there they’ll be better able to survive the storms brewing within them from moment to moment, and they’ll have a better chance of thriving—emotionally, psychologically, socially—as they grow toward adulthood.

Honus took out his healing kit, and set a pot of water to boil. “When the water’s ready,” he said, “I’ll tend your wound.”   Yim touched the cut on her chin. “Is it bad?”   Honus peered at it in the firelight. “No, but you’ll have a scar.”   Yim smiled wryly. “I’m catching up with your collection.”   “I’m keeping apace with you,” replied Honus.   For the first time, Yim noticed that Honus’s shirtsleeve was torn and blood-soaked. She gasped. “Honus! Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”   “I didn’t wish to trouble you. Besides, it’s not deep.” He rolled up his right sleeve to reveal a bloody gash on his forearm.   When the water boiled, Honus poured some into a wooden bowl and added powder from a vial in his healing kit. After cleaning the blood from Yim’s face, he wetted a cloth with the solution in the bowl. “This will sting,” he said.   “I remember,” replied Yim. She winced as the solution foamed inside her cut. Glimpsing the concern in Honus’s eyes, she tried to hide her pain. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m glad that’s over.”   Honus cleaned the gash on his arm with the same solution, then asked, “Would you stitch my wound closed? I’d rather not do it left-handed.”   “I’ll try,” said Yim, “but I’ve never done the like before.”   “It’s not hard, and I’m certain your dainty fingers will do finer work than Theodus’s thick ones ever managed.”   “Before you malign his stitching, you should compare it to mine,” said Yim. “As a girl, I was more adept with goats than needlework.”   “Then pretend I’m a goat.”   Honus took out a curved needle and a strand of gut from his kit and dipped them in the cleansin g solution. He declined Yim’s suggestion to prepare a brew for his pain, stating he wanted to stay alert. When Yim nervously sewed his wound, he was absolutely stoic. He guided her stitching calmly, tensing only slightly each time the needle pierced his flesh. The only evidence of his pain was the deep breath he took when Yim was done. Honus gazed at his stitches and smiled. “You underestimate your skill.”   “I’m glad you’re so easily pleased,” Yim replied. “The woman who raised me would’ve made me tear out the seam and restitch it.”   Honus winced. “Let’s talk of food, instead,” he said quickly. “Perhaps this would be a good night to have that cheese we were saving.”   “To celebrate our new scars?’   “To celebrate we’re both alive.

The Cave 91a DNA virus experiment was based on CRISPR technology. The plan was to evolve a virus that could spread easily and mostly harmlessly but be trained to kill a single person. For most, it would seem like the common flu. For the one unlucky person it was designed for, a runaway cytokine storm would brew in their lungs, the inflammation impossible to treat, until they drowned in lethal mucous.

Tell me this,” he called out. “Anything, Quentin. Just get me out of this cage.” “The ledger. Did you speak of that?” The man’s head shook. “Not a word. Nothing. They seized UBS records and never mentioned the ledger.” “Is it safe?” “Where we keep it. Always. Just you and me. We’re the only ones who know.” He believed him. Not a word had so far been mentioned of the ledger, which relieved some of his anxiety. But not all. The storms he was about to face would be far worse than the squall he spotted brewing off to the east. The entire weight of the U.S. intelligence community, along with the Internal Revenue Service and the Justice Department, was bearing down upon him. Not unlike what his ancestors had faced when kings, queens, and presidents dispatched whole navies to hunt down the sloops and hang their captains.

Augment?” Julia said, with an edge to her voice that Finn found familiar. Damn, I wish I could see her. He was just now realizing how much he relied on facial expressions and body language. It would be nice to see the storm brewing in Julia’s eyes before she stabbed him to death. That would at least give him a chance to run away…

It was in the Soak that the lethal drink, harm, was brewed, known as the Red Witch, the Blood Stealer. Harm was one of the primary reasons the highbreds went to the Soak. It could be purchased easily enough from the back cupboards of fashionable city taverns, but somehow consuming the stuff in the cradle of its creation was more decadent, more dangerous. Under its consciousness-altering effects, a young bravo could be robbed or even murdered by a sly Soak whore.

With Storm, the backyard wasn’t just the backyard. It was an enchanted forest and a medieval battlefield and a haunted fortress. We spent our days building faerie traps under the oak tree and collecting ingredients for witches’ brews. Being with Storm was everything, and I wanted to be just like her. Our days were filled with make-believe and magic,

If we do not strike now,” Nehemia went on, “then whatever he is brewing will only grow more powerful. And then we will be beyond any chance of hope.” “There is no hope,” Celaena said. “There is no hope in standing against him. Not now, not ever.” That was a truth she’d slowly been realizing. If Nehemia and Elena were right about this mysterious power source, then how could they ever overthrow him? “And I will not be a part of whatever plan you have. I will not help you get yourself killed, and bring down even more innocent people in the process.” “You will not help because all you care about is yourself.” “And so what if I do?” Celaena splayed her arms. “So what if I want to spend the rest of my life in peace?” “There can never be any peace—not while he reigns. When you said you weren’t killing the men on his list, I thought you were finally taking a step toward making a stand. I thought that when the time came, I could count on you to help me start planning. I didn’t realize that you were doing it just to keep your own conscience clean!” Celaena began storming toward the door. Nehemia clicked her tongue. “I didn’t realize that you’re just a coward.” Celaena looked over her shoulder. “Say that again.” Nehemia didn’t flinch. “You’re a coward. You are nothing more than a coward.” Celaena’s fingers clenched into fists. “When your people are lying dead around you,” she hissed, “don’t come crying to me.” She didn’t give the princess the chance to reply before she stalked out of the room, Fleetfoot close on her heels.

The sound of sporadic gunfire echoing through the narrow streets of Dublin sounded to ten-year-old Patrick Murphy like the rolling thunder from a summer storm brewing somewhere in the distance. Patrick peered around

These are our loneliest moments. Yet every time we survive such a storm, we grow a little. Without storms like these, I would not be who I am today. But I rarely hear such a storm coming until it is already upon me. It seems to appear without warning, as though treading silently on silk slippers. I know it must have been brewing a long time, simmering in my own thoughts and mental formations, but when such a frenzied hurricane strikes, nothing outside can help. I am battered and torn apart, and I am also saved.

Where Storms Nest by Stewart Stafford Time's arrow has left its quiver, And mortal men denied a sliver, Of sweet-faced solace or settled debt, Surrendering all to sweeping death. Beware the vixen with the perished pup, Of merciless slight and sacrilegious sup, Of mother's milk and witches' brew, Curdling infamy and death's-head stew. The trap is sprung, the rider unseated, A mourning procession for the defeated, A great wrong sits on the anointed throne, She is Queen Bee and you, but a drone. From a spider's web veil, she does regard, Hateful glances from black heart's shard, Envenomed nature of poisonous Man, The scorpion's strike of a foul plan. After seeking power and blood and lust, Remorse a late guest to a dagger's thrust, The vulture shrieks to the globe's outer rim, That Man's ambition is a Hell to him. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

My fingers gripped tightly around the pulsing vibrant stone that seemed to hold the world of swirling storms within its glass-like surface. Minatare bolts of cerulean lightning struck across it as deep murky clouds brewed deeply at its core.

Darling child of my sister, do you know what hells I had to travel? What horrors I've seen?" Jin asked with a false sense of calm that did nothing to hide the brewing storm.

A storm was brewing in his heart, with rain and hail and mad winds.

about things beyond my ken, like the preacher coming or a storm brewing or the rooster croaking, Pa’s jaw muscles would quiver as Ma praised Jesus, calling it the gift of second sight just like her aunt Beulah, who talked to the birds. S

She’s like a storm you can see from a distance. I always know something’s brewing with her, but she doesn’t ever get close enough to feel the rain.

When a man’s dreams live past the horizon of the sea, his soul dies a little each day he spends upon land and each mile he moves farther inland until ultimately one day he is nothing but a shell, empty and dead inside. Like a shell, you can hear the sound of the ocean if you hold it close enough to your ear and truly listen. In the sound of the ocean, you can find a man’s purpose and in his purpose you will find the meaning of his life. If you love this man, you’ll bring him back to the sea and set him free. If you greedily wish to showcase this man like a trophy on your windowsill, he may shine for you at times. Perhaps even your friends will comment how wonderful he is, but trust that a storm is brewing within. Each one of his stares into the distance is foretelling of a voyage of freedom to come. When this storm ultimately hits, it will take all that you have to survive and more likely than not, you’ll be separated in its gales.

The great stirrer of sea storms! These days the only thing he wants to do is brew his mead. He’s always been a brewer, but lately it’s ridiculous. He spends all his time at the hops shop, or going on brewery tours with his buddies. And don’t get me started on the flannel shirt, rolled-up skinny jeans, glasses, and the way he trims his beard. He’s always talking about microbrews. He has a cauldron a mile wide! How can he microbrew?

Where Christian, Muslim, Sikh 'n Jew, sit and share a cup of stew, Where Buddhist, Atheist, Jain, Hindu, live and laugh as one life crew, There beyond, where sentience lets no storm to brew, Out of the fossil, into the fervor, I shall meet you.

End of Fear (Sonnet 1172) Where the end of fear ends all barrier, Where biases no longer run amok, Where end of assumption sets forth ascension, Where heritage no more wreaks havoc, Where the head is without bent, and the heart is never skint, Where the spine is without dent, and the eyes are without squint, Where Christian, Muslim, Sikh 'n Jew, sit and share a cup of stew, Where Buddhist, Atheist, Jain, Hindu, live and laugh as one life crew, There beyond, where sentience lets no storm to brew, Out of the fossil, into the fervor, I shall meet you.

Aelin said to Fenrys, “We’ll only invite him to Orynth on holidays.” “So he can ruin the festivities?” Fenrys scowled. “I, for one, cherish my holidays. I don’t need a misanthrope raining on them.” Gods above. Lorcan cut Rowan a look, but the warrior-prince was watching his queen carefully. As if he knew precisely what manner of storm brewed beneath her skin. Aelin waved a hand. “Fine, fine. You won’t try to kill Lorcan for what happened in Eyllwe, and in exchange, we won’t invite him to anything.” Her grin was nothing short of wicked.

For twenty seconds, there was smoke coming out of my ears. In earlier years, my first reaction would have been to want to physically hurt such a person. Instead I took a few deep breaths and then gave myself some empathy for the hurt, fear, and rage that were stirring inside me. I attended to my feelings. I stayed conscious that my anger wasn’t coming from my fellow passenger nor the statement he had just made. His comment had triggered off a volcano inside of me, but I knew that my anger and profound fear came from a far deeper source than those words he had just uttered. I sat back and simply allowed the violent thoughts to play themselves out. I even enjoyed the image of actually grabbing his head and smashing it. Giving myself this empathy enabled me to then focus my attention on the humanness behind his message, after which the first words out of my mouth were, “Are you feeling … ?” I tried to empathize with him, to hear his pain. Why? Because I wanted to see the beauty in him, and I wanted for him to fully apprehend what I had experienced when he made his remark. I knew I wouldn’t receive that kind of understanding if there were a storm brewing inside of him. My intention was to connect with him and show a respectful empathy for the life energy in him that was behind the comment. My experience told me that if I were able to empathize, then he would be able to hear me in return. It would not be easy, but he would be able to.

At least he has Petty, bald and clean-shaven, sitting in the corner in one of the comfy chairs reading The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway; next to him is a cup of the coffee Books always has brewing. It probably isn’t the greatest idea to let a homeless man hang out in your store, but Petty keeps to himself and keeps himself reasonably presentable, and, really, how could Books turn away a guy who served two tours in Desert Storm and gave up so much for his country, not least of which was his sanity?

Just as quickly, Bowen’s hand landed on his wrist, a storm brewing in his eyes as he ordered, “Don’t fucking touch her again.” Oh shit, was my first thought. My second was ohhhh shit, complete with a silent moan and some serious nipple tingling, but I figured I should defuse the situation before orgasming.

In the shadows, I stand, weary and worn, The caretaker, the listener, always reborn. A silent sentinel, unnoticed and unseen, Bearing the weight of a world so keen. I'm tired of checking, of always being near, Yet no one looks closer, no one draws near. Behind the smiles, a storm quietly brews, A symphony of sorrows, an anthem of blues. Miserable echoes within, an unsung song, Yet my facade is flawless, a charade so strong. I yearn for appreciation, a simple embrace, For someone to see me, to know my true face. In this labyrinth of caring, I'm lost, it seems, A ship adrift, adrift in uncharted dreams. All I ever craved was a moment to shine, To be seen and valued, a treasure in kind.

Then, without warning, their romance would rekindle. Like a storm blowing in from the sea: a flurry of early breakfasts and shared sunrises, steaming cups of something hot Johanna had learned to brew,

Hunt asked, “You really have to moderate petty fights like that?” Ruhn ran a hand down the hilt of the Starsword. “Why not?” “You’re a prince.” “I don’t understand why you make that sound like an insult,” Ruhn growled. Hunt said, “Why not do … bigger shit?” Bryce answered for him. “Because his daddy is scared of him.” Ruhn shot her a warning look. “He outranks me power-wise and title-wise.” “And yet he made sure to get you under his thumb as early as possible—as if you were some sort of animal to be tamed.” She said the words mildly, but Ruhn tensed. “It was going well,” Ruhn said tightly, “until you came along.” Hunt braced himself for the brewing storm. Bryce said, “He was alive the last time a Starborn Prince appeared, you know. You ever ask what happened to him? Why he died before he made the Drop?” Ruhn paled. “Don’t be stupid. That was an accident during his Ordeal.” Hunt kept his face neutral, but Bryce just leaned back in her chair. “If you say so.” “You still believe this shit you tried to sell me as a kid?” She crossed her arms. “I wanted your eyes open to what he really is before it was too late for you, too.” Ruhn blinked, but straightened, shaking his head as he rose from the table. “Trust me, Bryce, I’ve known for a while what he is. I had to fucking live with him.” Ruhn nodded toward the messy table. “If I hear anything new about the Horn or this synthetic healing magic, I’ll let you know.” He met Hunt’s stare and added, “Be careful.” Hunt gave him a half smile that told the prince he knew exactly what that be careful was about. And didn’t give a shit.

It stands across a gentle slope up from the main house, separated by a glade of trees through which the sun rises into our windows every morning; and the sun sets, through those same trees, in the evenings into the windows of the second place. Those windows go from the floor to the ceiling, so that the huge horizontal bar of the marsh and its drama – its sweeping passages of colour and light, the brewing of its distant storms, the great drifts of seabirds that float or settle over its pelt in white flecks, the sea that sometimes lies roaring at the very furthest line of the horizon in a boiling white foam and sometimes advances gleaming and silent until it has covered everything in a glassy sheet of water – seem to be right there in the room with you.

The tranquility at the shore Deceptively masks The depth of the core Every ripple has a story to tell Under the layers of the eye’s attraction Is a brewing storm unwilling to quell The heart is a walking hurricane Trapped between serenity and rage Stationed assets await their train.

There’s always another storm. It’s the way the world works. Snowstorms, rainstorms, wind-storms, sandstorms and firestorms. Some are fierce and others are small. You have to deal with each one separately, but you need to always keep an eye on what’s brewing for tomorrow

and I tried not to shiver thinking of the storm brewing in my mother.

Spring weather is turbulent. Every afternoon for a fortnight a gang of bruise-coloured clouds grumbling with their brew slunk up to the massy black stone of the tor. After a face-off of pops and hisses the clouds slunk south, to burst into storm on the horizon.

You need to let me go, Dmitri, and move on. I am not going to marry you.” “I will have you.” Such conviction, and he’d brought some muscle to try and prove his statement. A pair of brutes exited the car. Dmitri’s order of, “Don’t hurt her,” made her tsk aloud. Please. If he thought to subdue her, he should have brought more guys. As the one gorilla— and seriously, despite his obvious humanity, she had to wonder at his ancestry— grabbed for her arm, she sidestepped, causing him to snare only air. She, on the other hand, didn’t miss. Her foot swung out and cracked goon number one in the knee. He let out a yelp of pain, but before she could take him out fully, the second guy lunged for her. She ducked under his grasping hands and thrust, her fist connecting with his diaphragm. He gasped for breath. She took no mercy and kneed him in the groin, just as goon number one made his next move. With a tinkle of bells, the door to the coffee shop opened, and a very calm-sounding Leo said, “Lay a finger on her, and I will rip your arm off and beat you with it.” As threats went, it was adorable. Especially since, given his size and mien, Leo probably could. The idiot didn’t listen. The thug went to grab Meena’s arm, and curiosity made her let him instead of breaking his fingers. Why exert herself when Pookie seemed determined to come to her rescue? While outwardly he appeared cool and composed, a wild storm brewed in his eyes as Leo growled, “I said don’t touch.” Crack. Yup. There was one guy who wouldn’t be touching anything with that arm for a while, and he’d probably end up hoarse with the way he was screaming. Pussy. In the distance, sirens wailed to life, and it didn’t take Dmitri’s barked, “Get in the car, you idiots,” for the thugs to realize their attempt at a coerced kidnapping had failed. Meena didn’t bother watching the car speed off, not when she had something much more important to attend to. Like a man who thought she needed saving. How her dad would laugh when he heard about it. Her sister, Teena, would sigh about how romantic it was. Her mom, on the other hand, would chastise Meena for causing chaos once again. Turning to Leo, who wore a formidable glower, she threw herself at him. Apparently, he half expected it because his arms opened wide, and he caught her— without even a tiny stagger! She latched her legs around his waist, draped her arms around his neck, and exclaimed, “Pookie, you were awesome. You saved me from those big, bad men. You’re like a knight in Under Armour.” Not entirely true. He wore a plain black Fruit of the Loom T-shirt. But she could totally picture him in one of those form-fitting tees that Under Armour specialized in that would mold his perfect chest. On second thought, given how it would show off his impressive musculature, perhaps she should leave his wardrobe alone. No use taunting the female public with what they couldn’t have. It would also mean less blood for her to rinse if they dared to touch. “I’d hardly say I saved you. You seemed to be doing all right on your own.” She planted a big smooch on his lips and declared him, “My hero.

My feet led me down the steps of the porch and within seconds I was soaked from head to toe, becoming a part of the dark storm that was brewing. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to escape. I needed to run. I

There’s a storm brewing - I can feel it - but it’s got nothing to do with the weather.’ - The Nor'easter - Shaun Young, Book #2

The world was like a brewing heavy storm.

His face had grown dark, except for the reflection of the red fire in his eyes. The house, too, seemed to have filled with shadow, as if a storm was brewing outside. Jim’s eyes beamed red from the shadows. Why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he helping his son?

I was a dangerous force to be reckoned with; a storm that had been brewing for far too long.

Did you miss me?” he asks in that husky voice, the tone reminding me of a brewing storm, the instant before the first crack of thunder.

always knew when there was a storm brewing at home. I could always sense it. It was like a sixth sense of some kind, warning me and alerting my body to danger and pain.

The same color as the sky when the sun disappeared behind the clouds and a storm brewed on the horizon.

Maturity is choosing empathy over anger. It's the ability to see beyond the hurt and understand the storm brewing within the other person.