Swamp Witch Quotes

In the swamp the alligators drifted like patches of bad-assed water.

What gave it away? When she loaded me bound and gagged into the back of her truck? Or when she actually said. "I'm ready to kill you and throw your body inn the swamp? "Hey for a while there, it looked like you were going to talk your way out of it. I didn't want to interfere.

I’m giving up. I should just accept that I’m never having sex again. I’m canceling my bikini-wax appointments. Just gonna let the forest reclaim the land, succumb to my inner swamp witch.

To say it was a dark and stormy night would be a gross understatement. It was colder than witch's kiss, wetter than a spring swamp, and blacker than a tax collector's heart. A sane man would have been curled up in front of a fire with a cup of mulled wine and a good boo-, ah, a willing wench.

From the trees around the clearing the snakes and birds watched silently. In the swamp the alligators drifted like patches of bad-assed water.

You knuckle-dragging swamp cunt, stop throwing fireballs at me!” While she didn’t plan to do anything fancy with her hair anytime soon, she would still like it to be on her head and not burnt, thank you very much." - Julian, Deadlocked Desires

Practically everywhere the central point of these festivals lay in exuberant sexual licence, which swamped all family life and its venerable traditions; the most savage bestialities of nature were unleashed, including that atrocious amalgam of lust and cruelty which has always seemed to me the true witch’s broth.12

We reject capitalism because it is abusive. Because it’s a system that argues: as long as the oligarchy is profiting, no atrocity is too grave, no violation too gross. Slavery, genocide, atomic war, swamps drained, forests burned, animals brought to extinction. Nothing is out of bounds and there are always plenty of reasons why it has to be this way… free market, forked tongue.

The island and its women loom large in the dreams of local folks, who sometimes wake up sweating from visions of witches in black (though the island women never wore black) or of crows watchful in treetops, or of swamp streams bubbling up through the floorboards of their houses. It is said the island, where healing waters percolate to the surface, was a place where women shared one another's dreams, a place where women did what they wanted.

Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farm-house where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination : the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hill-side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that har- binger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token.

he was shot by a Union soldier. Captain Zachary Degaud. That was one hundred and forty seven years ago, in 1865. It was cold comfort that the civil war had ended shortly thereafter. Actually, it was like a punch in the face. Today was his one hundred and seventieth birthday and he sat at the bar, in a dive posing as a respectable restaurant in the small southern town of Ashburton, Louisiana. The hole in the swamp where he was born a puny human being. But, the sun was shining, the liquor flowing and he was undead. Another binge drinking vampire, with an unremarkable story in the midst of the murky swampland of the South. Edward, Louis, Armand, Lestat. If these vampires existed, he hadn't met them. “Happy birthday, brother.” A man slapped him on the shoulder and sat on the neighboring

Zac was twenty-three when he died. He was a Captain in the Confederate army until he was shot by a Union soldier. Captain Zachary Degaud. That was one hundred and forty seven years ago, in 1865. It was cold comfort that the civil war had ended shortly thereafter. Actually, it was like a punch in the face. Today was his one hundred and seventieth birthday and he sat at the bar, in a dive posing as a respectable restaurant in the small southern town of Ashburton, Louisiana. The hole in the swamp where he was born a puny human being. But, the sun was shining, the liquor flowing and he was undead. Another binge drinking vampire, with an unremarkable story in the midst of the murky swampland of the South. Edward, Louis, Armand, Lestat. If these vampires existed, he hadn't met them. “Happy birthday, brother.” A man slapped him on the shoulder and sat on the neighboring

A rising tide of desire threatened to swamp her like a tidal wave, washing away fear and doubt and leaving behind it the knowledge that in her topsy turvy life, she was certain of only one thing: she wanted this man, right now, and she'd deal with the consequences later.... "I want to make love to you," he said, his voice low and thrumming through her veins as if it were a music only she could hear.

Quadlings consider to fight," said Turtle Heart. "Because they think this is only the start. When the builders to test the soil and to sift water, they to learn of things Quadlings are smart for ever, but Quadlings to keep still." "Things you know?" "Turtle Heart to speak of rubies," he said with a great sigh. "Rubies under the water. Red as pigeon blood. Engineers to say: Red corundum in bands of crystalline limestone under swamp. Quadlings to say: the blood of Oz." "Like the red glass you make?" said Melena. "Ruby glass to come by adding gold chloride," said Turtle Heart. "But Quadling Country to sit atop real deposits of real rubies. And the news is sure to go to the Emerald City with the builders. What to follow is horror upon horror." "How do you know?" snapped Melena. "To look in glass," said Turtle Heart, pointing to the roundel he had made as a toy for Elphaba, "is to see the future, in blood and rubies." "I don't believe in seeing the future. That smacks of the pleasure faith," said Flex fiercely. "The fatalism of the Time Dragon. Pfaah. No, the Unnamed God has an unnamed history for us, and prophecy is merely guesswork and fear." "Fear and guesswork is enough to make Turtle Heart to leave Quadling Country, then," said the Quadling glassblower without apology. "Quadlings do not to call their religion a pleasure faith, but they to listen to signs and to watch for messages. As the water to run red with rubies it will run with the blood of Quadlings.

She'd grown up hearing about epic battles between Guardians and demons, of legendary Wardens and their brave fight to keep the nocturnis at bay. To her, it all had the air of fairy tales, history through the lens of the Brothers Grimm. She listened to the tales the same way she listened to Beowulf, and had the same expectation of ever featuring in one of those famous battles as of facing Grendel's mother in a Scandinavian swamp. Yet here she was, not just fighting the forces of evil but somehow tied to her very own Guardian, acting for all intents and purposes like the Warden she had once dreamed of becoming.

I’m never having sex again. I’m canceling my bikini-wax appointments. Just gonna let the forest reclaim the land, succumb to my inner swamp witch.

I don’t know what happened.” He chuckles. “I’ll tell you what happened. I dazzled the swamp witch with my dick, she fell under a sleeping spell, and the real you woke up for the first time in centuries.

But that was before he’d done what he did in the square: he’d turned Sydney into a Slime and ditched her in a pool of water in the exploded half of the city. Then he’d pocketed the remaining Vex wings and lied to the Mayor, told him that PAUL’S POTIONS—the shop where he had purchased that final potion ingredient—had already been turned to swamp when he arrived. He had prevented the brewing of Miss Witch’s Slime-speak potion. As such, he had prevented the repair of the command block. By extension, he had delayed the de-swampification of Fortune City, and Sydney the Silent along with it. And therefore, he had stopped Sydney from being able to present King Reginald her stack of charged Creeper heads. Steve had won.

While journeying through a swamp biome a short while later, Dave and his friends were captured by a witch named Dotty. She put them to sleep by sneaking poison into their food, and then they woke up in cages in a bedrock castle in the mountains. Herobrine was there, surrounded by witches. Herobrine wanted Dave to tell him the secret to finding end portals, and threatened to kill him and his friends. Dave was going to tell Herobrine what he wanted to know, but then he heard the voice of his grandmother in his head, telling him not to tell Herobrine anything. Dave was very confused, having not seen his grandmother since he was a child. He knew she was a witch, though,

Our knowledge is held not in a computer chip but in the living, thinking organism of the planet, in the bodies of plants and animals and stones and roots and rain. When “Man,” colonizer and castle-dweller, enters the swamp, he dies. But the swamp teems with life. A watery world, navigable only by boat, the shores of the swamp are constantly shifting with the tides. Our swamp represents the unconscious, the lizard brain, the root system that expands infinitely beneath the surface of the water. It’s the undifferentiated place from which all forms emerge.

Our knowledge is held not in a computer chip but in the living, thinking organism of the planet, in the bodies of plants and animals and stones and roots and rain. When “Man,” colonizer and castle-dweller, enters the swamp, he dies. But the swamp teems with life. A watery world, navigable only by boat, the shores of the swamp are constantly shifting with the tides. Our swamp represents the unconscious, the lizard brain, the root system that expands infinitely beneath the surface of the water. It’s the undifferentiated place from which all forms emerge.

how we met.” Roary pulled a cooked apple out of her—apparently cavernous—pocket. She munched on it. “You guys saved us from the witch. It was awesome.” Jess shuddered, getting into the spirit of her story. “The swamp was huge and soggy and mucky and full of snakes and birds and the moon and quiet. But there’s not much good building material in swamps. Not like orchards or mountains. Not for what I like to make, anyway.

The hut was warm—almost too hot—after the coolness of the swamp. It was a single round room, and bookshelves covered every wall from floor to ceiling. The shelves were stuffed with books of all sizes, shapes, and colors. The windows flanking the door had benches in front of them with poofy pillows on top; the yellow glow Anya had seen from the outside came from hanging lanterns dangling on thin chains, casting light over the window seats.Anya tried to guess how many books had been crammed into this one room, but the only thing she could think was Every book in the world is here right now.

If you aren’t so happy with the way things are going and you want to start over, click this link to turn to page 2. You would be seriously crazy to let this old hag witch help you. Everyone knows that witches can’t be trusted. You learned that the first day you played Minecraft. Trust the witch! It’s funny how ridiculous the thought is. Still, you don’t want to upset her. You tell her ‘No thank you’ as politely as you possibly can, and you try to scoot around her because what you do need to do is get out of here. When she hears your answer, the smile slides from her face and a giant wrinkly frown appears. “No one says no to me!” she shrieks, and she lunges at you with her long fingernails extended. You jump back and grab the first potion you can get your hands on, and you throw it at her. You think it’s purple, but you don’t take the time to look. The second the potion hits the witch, she starts to melt, and she melts into a giant pool of goop right there on the porch of her hut. Well, that was easy. You set out on your way, leaving the witch hut far behind. You’re back in the swamp when the sun starts to set, and instantly, a zombie appears. It’s coming

Guilt and remorse threatened to swamp me but he’d been trying to kill me.

You've got your alien abduction. Bigfoot abduction. Men in black. Genie wish gone awry. Interdimensional portal. Cursed Mesopotamian tablet. Sewer monster. Lake monster. Sea monster. Swamp monster. Killer clowns. Time paradox. Cults—you've got death cults, demon cults, occult cults, new age cults, basically any kind of cult. Witches. The giant Pacific octopus. Trapped on a ghost ship. Possessed. Possessed by a ghost ship—could happen. Knocked unconscious by genetically engineered mushroom spores. Genetically modified insect swarm. Genetically modified alligator. Lots of potential in the genetically modified space overall, really. Fell in a vat of invisible paint. Stolen by time thieves. Shrink ray on the highest setting. Unexpected wicker man festival. Psychically scrubbed from memory so you forget them as soon as you aren't looking at them. Mole men. Lizard men. Giant carnivorous pitcher plant. Giant carnivorous catfish. Bears. Got lost in Finland. Went hiking. Trapped in a TV show. Trapped in a haunted painting. Trapped in a mirror. Trapped in a snow globe. Trees. Not sure how they'd be involved but I always feel like we underestimate them. Moth man. Time loop. Wild hunt. Tax fraud. I could keep going.

I say, “Too late, woman. I’ve already seen the swamp witch you’re trying to hide under that human skin suit you’re wearing.” “Excuse me?

Every mage knew of her legend. Ancient scrolls believed to be written by the Seraphim and Cherubim, also known as the Poetry of Angels, had been translated by High Priests to human language. Within the sacred text was a warning: Beware Amelia's hair of silk and predator's eyes, blacker than a moonless starless midnight sky. Seductive smile and flawless skin, concealing unholy demon living within.

Mist rolled through the swamp. And shadows moved with it, their shapes indistinct on this night when the difference between the living and the dead was only a matter of time.

Do you not know the stories?" asked Amelia. "Have you not listened to the tales? I am the Black Witch Queen who murdered her own husband and abandoned her only daughter. If I will do such things to my own family, imagine what I will do to you and yours.

We reject capitalism because it is abusive. Because it’s a system that argues: as long as the oligarchy is profiting, no atrocity is too grave, no violation too gross. Slavery, genocide, atomic war, swamps drained, forests burned, animals brought to extinction. Nothing is out of bounds and there are always plenty of reasons why it has to be this way…free market, forked tongue.

It does wonders for a soul. I only let the swamp woman survive because her hate was invigorating. I do like being hated, you know. And you do know. It’s a kind of respect. It shows you’re having an effect. It’s like a cold bath on a hot day. When stupid people find themselves powerless, when they fume in their futility, when they’re beaten and they’ve got nothing but that yawning in the acid pit of their stomachs—well, to be honest, it’s like a prayer. And the stories . . . to ride on stories . . . to borrow the strength of them . . . the comfort of them . . . to be in the hidden center of them . . . Can you understand that? The sheer pleasure of seeing the patterns repeat themselves? I’ve always loved a pattern.