The Devil Wears Black Quotes

Hiraeth: a homesickness for a home you can’t return to or that never was.

And remember our flower rule: if it doesn’t make you grow or blossom—let it go.

After World War I, dozens of Negro soldiers had been lynched in the South, some of them still wearing their uniforms, and in the summer of 1946 the lynchings of black veterans resumed with a vengeance.

Bull. Fucking. Shit. He makes you comfortable.” “What’s wrong with comfortable?” “Comfortable would never set you on fire.” “Maybe I don’t want to burn.” “We all want to burn, Mad. It is dangerous, ergo, we want it.

I was just wondering if . . .” His eyes ran down my cleavage in the dress, and a smirk twisted his lips. Like he’d found his footing. I needed him to do that. Find his footing. Talk. “If?” I tried to keep my voice neutral. “If I could be the lucky bastard to destroy this masterpiece with my teeth while half-drunk and fully in love with you on your wedding night.

What is your objection to the clothes?” Sebastian asked, glancing at the gowns. “They’re black, aren’t they?” “Well, yes, but they’re not made of crepe.” “Do you want to wear crepe?” “Of course not— no one does. But if people saw me wearing anything else, there would be terrible gossip.” One of Sebastian’s brows arched. “Evie,” he said dryly, “you eloped against your family’s wishes, you married a notorious rake, and you’re living in a gaming club. How much more damned gossip do you think you could cause?

She smelled of flowers and coconut and my potential demise.

When the nights get cold, the memory of your ex burns hotter.

Cross my heart and hope to die." He put a hand on his chest mockingly. "At least our hopes are aligned.

Every decision you make has a reason. Think about it.

Since I found out being a pushover doesn’t equal being nice. Being strong is not only kind on myself—but on other people too.

The days after the funeral stuck together like pages in an unread book.

I didn’t know golden showers are your jam. I am happy to accommodate this.” “Chase!” she shrieked. “What? It’d save water. I’m just being an environmentalist.” Somehow I thought Greta Thunberg still wouldn’t approve.

Death is no longer an obscure idea. It is real and it is waiting, so you grab life by the balls. When you go through the horror of seeing someone you love die and still manage to wake up the next day to tie your shoelaces, to shove a tasteless breakfast down your throat, to breathe, you realize survival trumps tragedy. Always. It’s a primal instinct.

I bowed my head down, plastering my forehead to hers, breathing her in. I closed my eyes. We both knew there was not an ounce of romance in that moment. It was a pure this-planet-is-crazy-and-the-human-condition-is-trash moment. It was an end-of-the-world moment, and there wasn’t anywhere else I’d rather be.

Just what I need. My own personal shoulder devil, wearing black and smelling like the Garden of Eden.

Food is rarely about food,” he said. “It’s about comfort. It’s about sex. It’s about revenge and lust and anger. But food is never about food.

So tiny she couldn’t possibly count as an entire person. I technically only had half an ex-girlfriend. Just admit you had a fucking girlfriend, you full-size piece of shit.

For all Chase’s faults (and there were many; I could write a War and Peace–length book about all of them),

My hollow, aching heart that never quite recovered from losing her.

I looked at Madison like she was a piñata full of surprises and orgasms I wanted to burst. With my dick-shaped bat.

The devil didn’t have to drag me down to hell. I had come with him willingly.

What had I ever done to karma to deserve this lubeless ass fucking?

I did as I was told, smoothing my hand across the lush fabric of the Moonflower. I’d named the dress design after the white flower, which looked like a long dress midtwirl when it opened. But there was a catch that made me insist on the name—the moonflower only opened at night. It blossomed in the dark. Sven had said to call it something that reminded me of myself. Nothing reminded me of myself more than blossoming in the arms of darkness.

He’s fine,” I clipped. “So are you.” The driver grinned. “I’m going to smoke your eyes like beef jerky if you as much as look at her that way again,” Chase groaned. It was the first time he’d spoken since we’d gotten in the car.

I’d looked at postcollege Amber like a new, shiny, limited-edition car. She’d raised my stock and seemed like a good addition to my life at the time. I looked at Madison like she was a piñata full of surprises and 0rgasms I wanted to burst. With my dick-shaped bat.

Don’t be afraid of aging. As the saying goes, don’t be afraid of anything but fear itself. Find “your” perfume before you turn thirty. Wear it for the next thirty years. No one should ever see your gums when you talk or laugh. If you own only one sweater, make sure it’s cashmere. Wear a black bra under your white blouse, like two notes on a sheet of music. One must live with the opposite sex, not against them. Except when making love. Be unfaithful: cheat on your perfume, but only on cold days. Go to the theater, to museums, and to concerts as often as possible: it gives you a healthy glow. Be aware of your qualities and your faults. Cultivate them in private but don’t obsess. Make it look easy. Everything you do should seem effortless and graceful. Not too much makeup, too many colors, too many accessories …  Take a deep breath and keep it simple. Your look should always have one thing left undone—the devil is in the details. Be your own knight in shining armor. Cut your own hair or ask your sister to do it for you. Of course you know celebrity hairdressers, but only as friends. Always be fuckable: when standing in line at the bakery on a Sunday morning, buying champagne in the middle of the night, or even picking the kids up from school. You never know. Either go all gray or no gray hair. Salt and pepper is for the table.

Don’t shy away from the world. You will get hurt. You will hurt others, even if you don’t mean to. Pain is inevitable through life. But joy is too. So seize the day. Love hard. Get lots of sleep. Eat well. And remember our flower rule: if it doesn’t make you grow or blossom—let it go.

June 3, 1999 Dear Maddie, Fun fact of the day: The poppy has astonishingly flourished on battlefields, smashed by boots, tanks, and the first industrial war the world had ever seen. It is a token of remembrance in Britain. Poppies are strong, stubborn, and impossible to break. Be a poppy. Always. Love, Mom. x

Don't do it. Women are the devil, whether they marry you or jilt you. Do you realise that women wear black evening dresses that have to be hooked up in a hurry when you are late for the theatre, and that, out of sheer wanton malignity, the hooks and eyes on those dresses are also made black? Do you realise...?

He was wearing a purple cloak over his shoulders in a strange, foreign fashion, his arms folded inside it. His face was deathly pale, but as his great black eyes stared at me, a dagger seemed to pierce my heart. A feeling of horror ran through me, and quickly turning my face away, I summoned all my strength and continued speaking. But as though compelled by some magic force, I could not help looking over towards him again and again. He still stood there, impassive and motionless, his ghostly eyes fixed upon me. Something resembling bitter scorn and hatred lay on his high, furrowed brow and his drawn lips. The whole figure had a horrible, frightening air about it. It was... it was the mysterious painter from the Holy Linden. Cruel, icy fingers clutched at my heart. A fearful sweat on my forehead; my phrases stuck in my throat, and my speech became more and more incoherent. But the terrible stranger still leant silently against the pillar, his glassy eyes set unwaveringly on me.

Finish that thought, Mad. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be amusing,” he said tonelessly, plucking my toothbrush from the silver container by the sink and applying a generous amount of toothpaste onto it. “Conceited . . . arrogant . . . egotistical . . .” “Nah-ah. You don’t get to use synonyms. That’s cheating.” “Bastard!” I roared.

Dear Maddie, You are currently five, and very fond of the color yellow. In fact, yesterday you asked me if you could marry it. I hope you still wear it all the time. (I also hope you found someone a bit more suitable for marriage.) Fun fact of the day: When the Spanish explorers reached the Americas, they thought sunflowers were made of gold. The human brain is so imaginative! Stay creative, always. Love, Mom. x

I had to watch my uncle get strung up when I was a child,” she finally said after she returned from the faraway place in her mind. “The white man would only sell us the rotten fruit and vegetables from their bug-infested baskets. We had to collect that mess from the back of the store like we were a pack of wild mutts picking through garbage. My uncle had had enough of his apples having maggots crawling out of them, so he started farming his own vegetables for us to eat. The white man didn’t like that. Not. One. Bit. It’s amazing how their minds work. The way their minds work is the reason we call them devils because only a devil could think the way they do. They were mad about the loss of profit because they no longer had us buying the filthy rot they peddled. “My uncle produced such a high quality of fruits and vegetables that he had white folks coming to buy from him. It wasn’t too long after this started, those devils came in their white hoods and burned his garden to ash. Then they strung him up. We were forced to watch my uncle dangle from the neck while he pissed and shit himself. God will forgive my mouth saying it because he knows I only speak the truth. The evilness that resides inside the mind of those devils still exists in the minds of the ones who wear cop’s uniforms and judge’s robes. This is what our boys are up against. Our boys are at war! They freed us from our chains, so that they could lock us in their jails.

Without warning, a smooth voice spoke next to her ear- a woman's voice with an American accent. "You're nothing but a skinny, awkward child, just as he described. He's visited me since the wedding, you know. He and I have laughed together over your juvenile infatuation with him. You bore him senseless." Pandora turned and found herself confronted by Mrs. Nola Black. The woman was breathtaking, her features creamy-skinned and flawless, her eyes deep and dark under brows so perfectly groomed and delineated, they looked like thin strips of velvet. Although Mrs. Black was approximately the same height as Pandora, her figure was a remarkable hourglass shape, with a waist so small one could have buckled a cat's collar around it. "That's nothing but bitchful thinking," Pandora said calmly. "He hasn't visited you, or he would have told me." Mrs. Black was clearly "picking for a fight," as Winterborne would have put it. "He'll never be faithful to you. Everyone knows you're a peculiar girl who tricked him into marriage. He appreciates novelty, to be sure, but it will wear off, and then he'll send you packing to some remote country house." Pandora was filled with a confusing mixture of feelings. Jealousy, because this woman had known Gabriel intimately, and had meant something to him... and antagonism, but also a stirring of pity, because there was something wounded in the biting darkness of her eyes. Behind the stunning façade, she was a savagely unhappy woman. "I'm sure you think that's what I should fear," Pandora said, "but I actually don't worry about that at all. I didn't trick him, by the way." She paused before adding, "I'll admit to being peculiar. But he seems to like that.

Your enemies call it comeuppance and relish the details of a drug too fine, how long you must have dangled there beside yourself. In the middle distance of your twenty-ninth year, night split open like a fighter's bruised palm, a purple ripeness. Friends shook their heads. With you it was always the next attractive trouble, as if an arranged marriage had been made in a country of wing walkers, lion tamers, choirboys leaping from bellpulls into the high numb glitter, and you, born with the breath of wild on your tongue brash as gin. True, it was charming for a while. Your devil's balance, your debts. Then no one was laughing. Hypodermic needles and cash registers emptied themselves in your presence. Cars went head-on. Sympathy, old motor, ran out or we grew old, our tongues wearing little grooves in our mouths clucking disappointment. Michael, what pulled you up by upstart roots and set you packing, left the rest of us here, body-heavy on the edge of our pews. Over the reverend's lament we could still hear laughter, your mustache the angled black wings of a perfect crow. Later we taught ourselves the proper method for mourning haphazard life: salt, tequila, lemon. Drinking and drifting in your honor we barely felt a thing.

Six Thinking Hats: describes six different roles we play on teams and shows the benefits of each role. Each is represented by a different colored hat. Most people have one dominant hat color, with one or two other colors close behind. A person who is drawn to the facts and is very logical wears the white hat. A person most comfortable generating new ideas wears the green hat. A person who uses intuition to make decisions wears the red hat. A person who is very organized and process-oriented wears the blue hat. A "devil's advocate", who uncovers what won't work wears the black hat. A person eager to make everyone happy wears the yellow hat.

Dear Maddie, Fun fact: The dandelion flower opens up in the morning to greet the sun and closes in the evening to go to bed. It is the only flower to “grow old.” When you were younger, I took you to the park every day. Do you remember, Maddie? We used to look at dandelions and try to determine which ones would turn white and frail first. When they finally did, we’d pick them and blow them. They’d dance in the wind like snowflakes, and you’d chase them and laugh. I told you it was okay to pick up dandelions and blow on them, because we spread their seeds. Each dandelion that died was responsible for the birth of a dozen like it! There is a twisted, jagged beauty to the ending of life. It is a bittersweet reminder that it happened. Seize the moment. Every moment. Until we meet again. Love, Mom. x

Lucinda and Mr. Wiley were returning at last, and she ran to Lucinda, hastily stepping around the black horse, who laid his ears back evilly in warning. “Lucy!” she burst out while Lucinda waited calmly for Mr. Wiley to help her down. “Lucy! Disaster has struck.” “A moment, if you please, Elizabeth,” said the unflappable woman. “Whatever it is, it will surely wait until we’re inside and can be comfortable. I declare, I feel as if I were born atop this horse. You cannot imagine the time we had finding suitable servants…” Elizabeth scarcely heard the rest of what she was saying. In a torment of frantic helplessness she had to wait while Lucinda dismounted, limped into the house, and sat down upon the sofa. “Now then,” said Lucinda, flicking a speck of dust off her skirts, “what has happened?” Oblivious to the vicar, who was standing by the fireplace looking mystified and alarmed on her behalf, Elizabeth handed Lucinda the note. “Read this. It-it sounds as if he’s already accepted him.” As she read the brief missive Lucinda’s face turned an awful gray with two bright splotches of angry color standing out on her hollow cheeks. “He’d accept an offer from the devil,” Lucinda gritted wrathfully, “so long as he had a noble title and money. This shouldn’t come as a surprise.” “I was so certain I’d persuaded Belhaven that we couldn’t possibly suit!” Elizabeth almost wailed, twisting her blue skirt in her hands in her agitation. “I did everything, Lucy, everything I told you about, and more.” Agitation drove Elizabeth to her feet. “If we make haste, we can be home by the allotted time, and perhaps I can find a way to dissuade Uncle Julius.” Lucinda did not leap to her feet as Elizabeth did; she did not race for the stairs, dash into her room, and vent her helpless rage by slamming a door, as Elizabeth did. Her body rigid, Lucinda stood up very slowly and turned to the vicar. “Where is he?” she snapped. “Ian?” the vicar said distractedly, alarmed by her pallid color. “He’s gone hunting.” Deprived of her real prey, Lucinda unleashed her fury upon the hapless vicar instead. When she finished her tirade she hurled the crumpled note into the cold fireplace and said in a voice that shook with wrath, “When that spawn of Lucifer returns, you tell him that if he ever crosses my path, he’d better be wearing a suit of armor!” So saying, she marched upstairs.

She had not wanted to come, and now that she was there, she was still praying for deliverance. “Aunt Berta!” she said forcefully as the front door of the great, rambling house was swung open. The butler stepped aside, and footmen hurried forward. “Aunt Berta!” she said urgently, and in desperation Elizabeth reached for the maid’s tightly clenched eyelid. She pried it open and looked straight into a frightened brown orb. “Please do not do this to me, Berta. I’m counting on you to act like an aunt, not a timid mouse. They’re almost upon us.” Berta nodded, swallowed, and straightened in her seat, then she smoothed her black bombazine skirts. “How do I look?” Elizabeth whispered urgently. “Dreadful,” said Berta, eyeing the severe, high-necked black linen gown Elizabeth had carefully chosen to wear at this, her first meeting with the prospective husband whom Alexandra had described as a lecherous old roué. To add to her nunlike appearance, Elizabeth’s hair was scraped back off her face, pinned into a bun a la Lucida, and covered with a short veil. Around her neck she wore the only piece of “jewelry” she intended to wear for as long as she was here-a large, ugly iron crucifix she’d borrowed from the family chapel. “Completely dreadful, milady,” Berta added with more strength to her voice. Ever since Robert’s disappearance, Berta had elected to address Elizabeth as her mistress instead of in the more familiar ways she’d used before. “Excellent,” Elizabeth said with an encouraging smile. “So do you.” The footman opened the door and let down the steps, and Elizabeth went first, following by her “aunt.” She let Berta step forward, then she turned and looked up at Aaron, who was atop the coach. Her uncle had permitted her to take six servants from Havenhurst, and Elizabeth had chosen them with care. “Don’t forget,” she warned Aaron needlessly. “Gossip freely about me with any servant who’ll listen to you. You know what to say.” “Aye,” he said with a devilish grin. “We’ll tell them all what a skinny ogress you are-prim ‘n proper enough to scare the devil himself into leading a holy life.” Elizabeth nodded and reluctantly turned toward the house. Fate had dealt her this hand, and she had no choice but to play it out as best she could. With head held high and knees shaking violently she walked forward until she drew even with Berta. The butler stood in the doorway, studying Elizabeth with bold interest, giving her the incredible impression that he was actually trying to locate her breasts beneath the shapeless black gown she wore.

You look like a goddess,” he murmured as he raked his eyes down her form. And she melted into a puddle. “Thank you.” She tried to sound cool and sophisticated. “I much prefer wearing a gown that’s not too tight.” “Except where it should be.” He dropped his gaze pointedly to her bosom. The frank admiration in his eyes made her glad that she’d let Betty guide her choice for tonight. After that other scandalous gown, she’d been reluctant to wear anything low cut, but this one did look beautiful on her, even with its décolletage. Salmon had always been a good color for her, and the satin rouleaux trim made her feel pretty and elegant. “So it’s presentable enough for dinner with your family?” she asked. “They don’t even deserve to see you in it.” The low rumble of his voice made her breath catch in her throat. “I only wish that you and I could-“ “You do look lovely,” said another voice. Lord Gabriel came up from behind Oliver, dressed all in black as usual. A look of pure mischief crossed his face. “Sorry I’m late, Miss Butterfield, but thank you, brother, for keeping her company until I arrived.” Oliver glared at him. “What the devil do you mean?” “I’m taking the young lady down to dinner.” “That office should be left to her fiancé, don’t you think?” Oliver bit out. “Pretend fiancé. You have no real claim on her. And since you had her to yourself all day…” Lord Gabriel offered his arm. “Shall we, Miss Butterfield?” Maria hesitated, unsure what to do. But Oliver was a danger to her sanity, and his brother wasn’t. So she was better off with Lord Gabriel. “Thank you, sir,” she said, taking his arm. “Now just wait one blasted minute. You can’t-“ “What? Be friendly to our guest?” Lord Gabriel asked, his face a mask of innocence. “Really, old boy, I didn’t realize it mattered that much. But if it upsets you to see Miss Butterfield on the arm of another man, I’ll certainly yield the field.” Lord Gabriel’s words seemed to give Oliver pause. Glancing from Maria to his brother, he smiled, though it didn’t nearly reach his eyes. “No, it’s fine,” he said tightly. “Perfectly fine.” When they headed down the hall with Oliver following behind, Lord Gabriel flashed her a conspiratorial glance. She wasn’t sure what the conspiracy was, but since it seemed to irritate Oliver, she went along. The incident was only the first in a series that continued throughout the week. Whenever she and Oliver found themselves alone, even for a moment, one of his siblings popped up to offer some entertainment-a stroll in the gardens, a ride into Ealing, a game of loo. With each instance, Oliver grew more annoyed, for no reason that she could see. Unless… No, that was crazy.

He was wearing black, only the starched ruff relieving the deathliness of it—but the look on his face was amused, carefree, beauty and charm wiping out all the cruelty, his ruffled hair shining like floss against the horse's flank. He turned and saw me, and his eyes narrowed.

September 25, 2008

PRAISE FOR THE DEVIL WEARS BLACK “A deliciously seductive second chance romance novel.

The priest and his desires Not alone, but a lonely monastery priest, Resisting hard not to venture out and pursue the need for love and passion driven heist, Bound by his sanctum and religion, He tries not to give in to any seduction, Adam and Eve blamed the devil, The priest is baffled to decide who shall he blame for this evil, He rolls and turns restlessly in the bed of his desires, And every night after the Church service he deals with these raging fires, He is dressed in his black robe on the much anticipated Sunday mass, But he is distracted and sees passions and desires cast on peoples faces and even on mosaic glass, At the end of the service he serves all some fine and red wine, And when he stands face to face with a beautiful woman his inner self says “I wish you were mine!’” His Sunday night is spent in her curled hair locks, He is shackled to her beautiful face and desires that fasten around him like unbreakable locks, He often touches his cross that he wears always, Still his nights are restless and now it is so even during the sunny Spring days, He bows before the Altar and makes a solemn confession, “My Lord! her face and her overpowering beauty have become my obsession, Am I still worthy of worshipping you my God? For I have silently started worshiping this feeling of loving her and I do not feel odd, It is her thoughts that possess me even during my sermons, In her absence, not yours My Lord, everything presents itself like bad omens, To tame my wandering thoughts I refer to the Holy Book, But through it too peeps her face and her mesmerising look, I wonder if I shall quit clergy, And adopt this new synergy, I am drowning farther and farther in this mental eclipse, And I only want to think of her beautiful face, her warm skin and her red lips, Shall I forsake my black robe, My Lord, and not Thee? Or Forsake her and thereby my black robe and Thee? Because without her I do not feel anything that is a part of me, And without being me, how can I anything else be, Perhaps I am supposed to be a man of God but not a man, Never to fulfillmy own desires for I am busy fulfilling Your plan, So let me live with my state and the social taboo, While every night I place my desires in the coffin along with the happy morning cuckoo.” The Lord smiles at him, “It is your personal battle and it is grim, You desire her, her face, her charming ways, You think of her during nights and during the bountiful days, But you think of me too and that is enough for me to know, So seek her and kiss her grace, for then you shall better baptise in my glow, And before you fall too low, Rise to your calling and you shall reap as you shall sow, Whether you wear a black robe or her kisses, I shall judge you on how you made others feel with or without your kisses.” Said the Lord in His emphatic voice, And the priest stood up and made the right choice! To love the woman he loved and missed, And he felt something divine within him, whenever her deep beauty he kissed! Source of inspiration : The Thorn Birds 1983 Drama

The priest and his desires Not alone, but a lonely monastery priest, Resisting hard not to venture out and pursue the need for love and passion driven heist, Bound by his sanctum and religion, He tries hard not to give in to any form of seduction, Adam and Eve blamed the devil, The priest is baffled to decide who shall he blame for this evil? He rolls and turns restlessly in the bed of his desires, And every night after the Church service he deals with these raging fires, He is dressed in his black robe on the much anticipated Sunday mass, But he is distracted when he sees passions and desires cast on peoples faces and even on mosaic glass, At the end of the service he serves all some fine and red wine, And when he comes face to face with a beautiful woman, his inner self says “I wish you were mine!’” His Sunday night is spent in her curled hair locks, He is shackled to her beautiful face and desires that fasten around him like unbreakable locks, He often touches his cross that he wears always, Still his nights are restless and now it is so even during the sunny Spring days, He bows before the Altar and makes a solemn confession, “My Lord! her face and her overpowering beauty have become my obsession, Am I still worthy of worshipping you my God? For I have silently started worshiping this feeling of loving her and I do not feel odd, It is her thoughts that possess me even during my sermons, In her absence, not yours My Lord, everything presents itself like bad omens, To tame my wandering thoughts I refer to the Holy Book, But through it too peeps her face and her mesmerising look, I wonder if I shall quit clergy, And adopt this new synergy? I am drowning farther and farther in this mental eclipse, And I only want to think of her beautiful face, her warm skin and her red lips, Shall I forsake my black robe, My Lord, and not Thee? Or Forsake her and thereby my black robe and as well Thee? Because without her I do not feel anything that is a part of me, And without being me, how can I anything else be, Perhaps I am supposed to be a man of God but not a man, Never to fulfil my own desires for I am busy fulfilling Your plan, So let me live with my state and the social taboo, While every night I place my desires in the coffin along with the happy morning cuckoo.” The Lord smiles at him, “It is your personal battle and it is grim, You desire her, her face, her charming ways, You think of her during nights and during the bountiful days, But you think of me too and that is enough for me to know, So seek her and kiss her grace, for then you shall better baptise in my glow, And before you fall too low, Rise to your calling and you shall reap as you shall sow, Whether you wear a black robe or her kisses, I shall judge you on how you made others feel with or without your kisses.” Said the Lord in His emphatic voice, And the priest stood up and made the right choice! To love the woman he loved and missed, And he felt something divine within him, whenever her deep beauty he kissed! Source of inspiration : The Thorn Birds . 1983 Drama

Chère Maddie, Peux-tu rendre un service très bizarre à ta mère ? Le jour venu, épouse un homme qui te fera rire. Tu ne te doutes pas à quel point c'est important, jusqu'à ce que tu traverses une période sombre et que la seule chose qui peut l'égayer, c'est quelqu'un pour mettre un sourire sur ton visage.

No wonder his last name was Black. His heart certainly was.

I turned around and stumbled back home by foot, pressing my hand against my face, trying to breathe her in from the time she’d rubbed my fingers against her collarbone in the elevator. Her scent was gone.

I knew all too well that it was always too soon to say goodbye to a parent.

Being strong is not only kind on myself—but on other people too.

Looks like we found it." John said. "Where are we?" As far as Link could tell, there was nothing to find. John pointed up at the white signs at the intersection that read 61 and 49, and Liv checked her selonometer as if they weren't standing in the middle of nowhere. "Are those numbers supposed to mean something to us?" Floyd asked. "We're at the intersection of Highways 61 and 49 in Clarksdale, Mississippi," John said. Sampson shook his head. " I feel like an idiot. Any guitar player worth his strings knows about this place. It's where Robert Johnson made a deal with the Devil." Floyd's eyes widened. "Seriously? We're at the crossroads?" John nodded. "The one and only." Liv glanced at John. "I'm assuming this is an American thing?" He put his arm around her. "Yeah, sorry. It's an old rock and roll myth- at least as far as mortals are concerned. In the 1930s, a blues musician named Robert Johnson disappeared for a couple of weeks. According to the story, he brought his guitar right here to this crossroads-" Link jumped in. "Then he traded his soul to become the most famous blues guitarist in history." Sampson tugged on his leather pants, which weren't the best choice in the Mississippi heat. "Totally a fair trade, as far as I'm concerned." "Thought the same thing myself," a man's voice called out from behind them. Link wheeled around. A young man wearing a wrinkled white shirt, a black jacket, and a Panama hat stood on the side of the road with a three-legged black Labrador. There was a weariness in the man's eyes of someone much older. A battered guitar hung from a strap slung around his back.

Poppies are strong, stubborn, and impossible to break. Be a poppy. Always.

Don’t shy away from the world. You will get hurt. You will hurt others, even if you don’t mean to. Pain is inevitable through life. But joy is too. So seize the day. Love hard. Get lots of sleep. Eat well. And remember our flower rule: if it doesn’t make you grow or blossom—let it go. All my love, Mom. x

There is a twisted, jagged beauty to the ending of life. It is a bittersweet reminder that it happened. Seize the moment. Every moment. Until we meet again. Love, Mom. x

Dear Maddie, Fun fact of the day: The poppy has astonishingly flourished on battlefields, smashed by boots, tanks, and the first industrial war the world had ever seen. It is a token of remembrance in Britain. Poppies are strong, stubborn, and impossible to break. Be a poppy. Always. Love, Mom. x

You still seeing her (Maddie)?” “Platonically.” I spat out the word like it was profanity. It seemed acutely unfair to get shoved into the friend zone like a pair of dirty socks after I’d given her enough orgasms to light up a refinery. I shrugged as if I didn’t care. I did care. “Her funeral.

We’re all just pretending we know what we’re doing. Those of us who do it with a smile on our face just look like we’re enjoying it more.

Every decision you make has a reason.

Jealousy is like a fart. It stinks, we all have it, but it is best to keep it inside or release it when absolutely no one can see or hear us.

So, I did some illustrations." Turning the laptop around again, I explain each drawing as I click through them. I've drawn a couple of the most recent dishes and also ones from the most popular episodes of Lily's, Katherine's, and Nia's series---baba ghanoush and samosas from World on a Plate, Easy Peasy Split Pea Soup and Julia Child's Play Boeuf Bourguignon from Fuss-Free Foodie, and a baked Alaska and cannoli cheesecake from Piece of Cake. I've also done some minimalist illustrations of each of the Friends, highlighting their respective settings and personal style with mostly solid colors and basic shapes. Since Rajesh's show takes him to a lot of different restaurants around the country, I've drawn him with wavy black hair and brown skin, standing under a generic restaurant sign and wearing a graphic T-shirt and the green backpack he always carries on his travels. Seb and Aiden are side by side in the FoF studio, in their white and red aprons, respectively, and looking like the little culinary angel and devil on your shoulder. And I've depicted Katherine standing in one of the prep kitchens with her hands on her hips and her wild auburn hair piled in a bun atop her head. She's surrounded by plates of miscellaneous food and the yellow notepad she jots her recipes down on, using the most basic steps and terms, and then displays on camera at the end of each episode.

a real-life Gaston. “Easy on the eyes but begging to get thrown from a roof.

It devastated me. I don’t mind admitting it now, because I’m so over you I forgot how it even felt to be under you.” I barely took a breath before spewing more volcanic arson his way. “No, you’re not coming up. Whatever you have to say to me”—I pointed at the ground beneath me—“this is your stage.

In the Catholic world, it is well established that modesty is more than just a hemline, but we cannot ignore the elephant in the room either. Few Catholics have yet to understand what it truly means to dress appropriately for Mass; many people dress as if they just came back from the beach or just rolled out of bed. Then we have the few, yet the loud, Catholics who seemed to have made it their life’s duty to remind others, regardless of time, place, or charity, that, according to them, their particular outfit is “of the devil.” While at the same time, many more Catholics, men and women, have come to believe that the amount of clothing that we wear doesn’t matter, as long as we have love in our hearts. But neither of these ideologies seem to coincide with Church Tradition. What we Catholics need to ask ourselves is, “If how we dress, most especially in the Presence of the Blessed Sacrament, is as vitally important as the Church has always said until lately, how then is it suddenly not an issue?

That gap between reality and our dreams? That’s where life is tucked.

Saudi ambassador in 2011. Is this payback? I don’t know. So they can’t be ruled out. But the National Counterterrorism Center is working on the problem as we speak.” “Look, I’m meeting with the Director of National Intelligence. He’ll want some details. He’ll also want to know how this was possible. How could this happen?” “That’s what I intend to find out.” “Then again,” O’Donoghue said, shaking his head, “is it possible there’s a problem in our ranks?” Meyerstein saw where this was going. “I hear what you’re saying.” O’Donoghue shrugged. “Just playing devil’s advocate.” “I agree we can’t discount such a possibility.” The Director leaned back in his seat and stared at her. “I’m intrigued you think a foreign government might be behind this. What’s your rationale?” “Luntz’s area of expertise makes him valuable to any government. But the fact that he specifically asked to speak to the FBI so urgently makes me think something else is afoot—and that’s why they want to silence him.” O’Donoghue nodded. “Taken from right under our noses. Very audacious. And dangerous.” Meyerstein nodded. “Tell me more about Connelly. Was he new?” “Just a few months with us, sir. Was based in Seattle for a couple of years before being posted here.” “Married?” “Young wife, two kids.” O’Donoghue turned and stared out of his window over the Washington skyline. “I want the bastards who did this, Martha. You have whatever resources you want.” “Sir, my team will also be alive to the possibility another story is playing out. I’m of course talking about national security. We can’t rule that out.” Meyerstein got up out of her seat. “Oh, Martha?” he said. “Yes, sir?” “Let’s do this right. And let’s nail those responsible.” “Count on it, sir.” Meyerstein walked out of the office and took the elevator down two floors to where Roy Stamper was standing waiting for her, unsmiling. He was wearing his customary navy suit, white shirt, navy silk tie, and highly polished black leather shoes. He had been with the FBI since he was headhunted after graduating from Duke, coming top of his class at law school. They had both started training at the FBI’s academy at Quantico at the same time. He wasn’t a great mixer. Never had been. He was quiet, but unlike her errant husband, he was a great family man. Her own father, despite being a workaholic like her, was the same, trying to take time out of his punishing schedule to meet her mother for lunch or supper. Her father was devoted to her mother. He liked being with her. He liked being around her. They looked relaxed in each other’s company. Martha could see that. She’d never felt that with her own husband. He’d never wanted to share a glass of wine with her when

Hitler is still a historical figure, but he’s predominantly a placeholder for cognitive darkness; he’s the entity we use in the same way people once employed the devil. But the devil is no longer a villain in pop culture. The devil is sympathetic. He’s charming. If you’re making a movie about the devil, you cast Al Pacino. In the pop world, the devil is mostly depicted as a fair-minded gambler; if you’re a good enough musician, the devil will give you a golden fiddle and concede his defeat, allowing you to peacefully live the rest of your days in rural Georgia. There really isn’t “another category of radical evil.” That category has a population of one.

I felt bad for the flowers, squashed under Chase’s shoe. My heart had once suffered a similar experience.

She wore a pair of leather pants tighter than a condom

she was a dreadful drunk. On a scale of one to Charlie Sheen, she was a solid Mel Gibson.

She confused and infuriated me. The dazzling simplicity of her—of not doing something just because it didn’t feel right—was both refreshing and frustrating.

Maddie: Favorite channel? Chase: Is that a real question? Is there a right answer other than HBO? Maddie: Best way to start the day? Chase: You sitting on my face. Maddie: Thank you. Chase: For the riveting visual? Maddie: For reminding me why we broke up. Chase: Any-fucking-time. Maddie: I shouldn’t have gone to bed with a smile on my face, yet I did.

Fuck my life in the ass.

Layla, my childhood friend turned next-door neighbor, called him a real-life Gaston. “Easy on the eyes but begging to get thrown from a roof.

Slanted blue-gray eyes of a manga character. With that Greek-god bone structure that made you consider committing war crimes for a chance at running your teeth across his jaw like an animal.

He’d followed me everywhere, like a dark cloud with a bellyful of rain.

the new dent in my heart, the shape of his iron fist.

Whoever said flowers didn’t have faces obviously hadn’t seen them wilt.

Can you be any cockier?” I whipped my head around to scowl at him. “Yes, but then I’d have to wear a condom.

Sweetheart, you sang your carols in the pantry, Jacuzzi, three of the bedrooms, and the pool when we stayed here last Christmas. Your virtue couldn’t find its way back to your body with a map, a compass, and a GPS.

It’s not that I don’t suffer from the same symptoms as you—jealousy, heartache, insecurity. They’re the side effects of being alive, pretty much. But I learned a simple thing recently. That gap between reality and our dreams? That’s where life is tucked.

I slid into one of my black suits (why other colors existed was beyond me. Black was suitable for every occasion. The only exception I made was with gray sweatpants, because those were practically considered lingerie for men) and wandered out of the master bedroom. I descended down the three marble steps to the living room. Black, sleek chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and upholstered black leather couches and recliners filled the room. The three walls that weren’t floor-to-ceiling windows were bare, raw concrete. Everything about my place was dark, indulgent, and dangerous. An apartment carefully designed in the aesthetic of a modern douchebag.

These two had the sexual chemistry of a tampon and a ketchup stain together. I couldn’t fathom how she didn’t see it. Madison was fire, and Ethan was . . . what the fuck was he, anyway? Not water. Not earth. He was a shadow. A by-product of something else.

I wanted to pull Becky’s, Berta’s, and Mom’s guts out of their a-holes and make trendy scarves out of them.

I think I better head to bed. Who won?" I squinted at the board. It was blurry, the little pieces swimming around it like they were chasing one another. I hiccupped again. "Me?" "Actually, you owe me two thousand dollars and a house on Tennessee Avenue." Katie laughed, starting to remove the Scottie dog, top hat, and thimble from the board. I yawned, my eyes flickering shut as I took spontaneous one-second naps between blinks. Somewhere in the back of my head, I realized I was being a mess, not at all the brilliant, responsible fiancé Chase wanted me to be. Screw him. I owed him nothing. As long as his family was having fun. "I hope you like fixer-uppers and accept coupons, Katie, because I'm broke as all hell," I snorted out. "That's all right. It's just a game." Katie folded the board and tucked it back into the box as she hummed to herself. She was so agreeable and docile. The opposite of her older brother. Almost like he'd hogged every drop of ferociousness in their DNA pool before he was born. "Yeah, well, I'm flat-out broke in real life too." I snickered. Time to go to bed, Miss Hot Mess Express. I stood up on wobbly feet. My knees felt like jelly, and there was a strange pressure behind my eyes. Knowing I'd be coming face-to-face with Chase made me break out in hives. I'd tried to postpone our reunion as much as I could, hoping --praying, really--he'd fall asleep before I got back to the room. "Not for long." Lori laughed. I laughed too. Then paused. Then frowned. "Wait, how do you mean?" "Well"--Lori offered me a one-shouldered shrug, picking nonexistent lint from her dress pants as Katie put the Monopoly box away--"you're going to marry Chase, honey. And Chase is ... well endowed." Katie choked on her soda, while I used every ounce of my self-control in order to not break into giggles. "Oh, Lori, you have no idea,

Chase: I bet you're still thinking about that kiss. Maddie: I chugged bleach as soon as I got back to the office. It helped, a little.

Your horns are showing, Mr. Black." "That," I whispered into her mouth, catching her lower lip between my teeth and tugging, speaking low enough our audience couldn't hear, "is because for you, I'm always horny.

It’s rude to stare, but damn. Broad, tanned chest. Lickable abs. Powerful legs. And wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts and sneakers. If the devil sent temptation, this is what it would look like.

You probably fucked a priest and now your baby's going to be a monkey. And it won't get born with a silver spoon in its mouth, it'll be wearing a little black and white collar like so-" Little Mary jumps up and begins to dance around making hooh-hooh monkey sounds and putting her fingers to her neck. She's talented. She like the dark side, the devil version of her supersmart dad, Eddy.

Let one of us find their happiness. Because it is so painfully clear you don’t want to ever find yours.

If a black woman don’t do anything else, we are going to get us some degrees.

I was a miracle. Katie, a pleasant surprise. My mother had suffered from polycystic ovary syndrome, and the doctors said her chances of falling pregnant were pretty much nonexistent.

The Luciferian becomes slowly aware that they are alone and isolated in the world as the initiate is becoming ‘other’. Cain is uniquely ‘other’ in that he is at the very least an ‘outsider’ to the tribe, his witch blood and way of thinking becomes different from the others. The concept of the tribal god, Yahweh has no connection to Cain and his father and brother, Adam. The symbolic antinomian act of Cain killing Abel is the selfdetermined act of culling the former ‘clay’ of self, the conscious unaware ‘former’ symbol of who you were. Rather than Cain being some stained, tainted cast-off of Yahweh’s religious believers, he is restored as a symbol and metaphor of self-determined power and strength of Will. The traits of Cain are Luciferian: independent, determined, antinomian in instincts and both a master of his craft in both witchcraft and metals in the shape of ‘Tubal Cain”. In several different traditions of witchcraft, Cain is the second metallurgical artist or sorcerer; the Black Smith of the Forge who came after only Azazel who descended with the 200 Watchers upon Mount Hermon. Those who have heard the distant voices upon the winds, calling for you to seek the Devil’s Path and the pleasure of the Infernal Sabbat will enter the circle alone. In isolation from others the neophyte begins to forge the Luciferian Spirit, ignited and selfimmolated with the Black Flame. This is the gift of divine consciousness, given to us by our father who has many names: Azazel, Samael and Lucifer are but a few. The Adversary challenges us to strike down the common self, the mundane clay of Adam as the self before initiation. Luciferians soon wear and assimilate the Deific Mask of Cain, the metaphor of Infernal Union and the mediator between earth and spirit. The Black Flame ignited is that which consumes our former shell and now to walk the Left-Hand Path as both Daemon and Witch-born Nephilim. The Mask of Cain demands the killing of Abel, our Daemon calling for the offering of blood and an iron will to slay the vulgar clay of our former self. Recognize here is both metaphor and cipher, listen to your instincts towards the forbidden knowledge of your Daemon! Know that we bring to Disorder all that is Sacred, rejecting traditions many clings to in a desperate attempt of building selfidentity. The Shadow’d Ones of Azazel are aware of self, the possibilities and potential within the Circle of Self. The Gnosis of Cain is the Shedding of the Serpent’s Skin, to forge the Daemon from the Fires of Azazel and Qayin.

Madison Goldbloom, I wish you were touchable to me,” he said earnestly as the elevator doors slid shut on us in slow motion. “I wish that very, very much.

For a conclusion of this section related to the Witch’s God, we should say something about what is the most important figure in all of Balkan Witchcraft. There is no known data in ethnological literature, with the possible exception of the ethnologist Cajkanovic, when he talks about the Lame Daba (Devil) and Dabog, God’s opponent that originates from a dualistic heresy. Based on facts, we can conclude that is he is worth mention here. He is a mysterious nocturnal visitor, who above all is characterized by his external appearance. He shows up wearing a long, black mantle, and on his head he wears a black hat with a huge, wide brim that covers his face. It is interesting that almost all respondents agreed about his height, which is about 2.5 meters. He usually shows after midnight. Electrical appliances cease to run in his vicinity, as well as cars and other engines. His presence is very hard to withstand and “feeling in the air” is impossible to describe. You can meet him in both the physical and astral planes. They call him the “Man in black”.