Unlucky Girl Quotes

He was a boy, just a boy, when I was a very young girl. When I was sixteen, I made the discovery - love. All at once and much, much too completely. It was like you suddenly turned a blinding on something that had always been half in shadow, that's how it struck the world for me. But I was unlucky. Deluded.

Yesterday was my unlucky day. I pricked my right thumb with the blunt end of a big needle.

Any culture that raises men and boys to kill unlucky girls, rather than comfort them, is a culture that has managed to retard the growth of love. Such

Some little girls grow up with fathers who are decent, kind and tenderly nested by their daughter's heart. Other little girls grow up with no father at all, thus ignorant of good men and the not so good ones. The unluckiest of all little girls grow up with fathers who know how to make storms out of sunshine and blue skies. My mother was one such unlucky little girl and suffered the childhood you run away from. Except, if you have nowhere to run to

Russkie, promise me a simple thing?" Out of the blue when they had finished, after a mouthful from the mug. Dan seemed relaxed, leaning on his side. Resting back, savoring the taste, Vadim turned his head to look at Dan. Oh, that body. The effect it had on him, all the time, even when Dan wasn't there. Twelve months. "Promise what?" Sometimes, that kind of thing was about letters. Tell my girl I love her. Tell my mother I didn't suffer. Almost painful. Letters. Words that would hurt worse than the killing bullet. "Simple." Dan nodded, "if I'm unlucky, and if you find my body, will you bury it? Some rocks would do, I can't stand the thought of carrion's. As if that mattered, eh? I'd be fucking dead." Dan shrugged, tossed a grin towards the other, made light of an entirely far too heavy situation. He took the bottle once more, washing down the taste of death and decay, chasing away unbidden images. Vadim felt a shudder race over his skin. The thought of death chilled him to the bone, like a premonition. For a moment he saw himself stagger through enemy territory, looking for something that had been Dan. Minefields, snipers, fucking Hind hellfire. He might be able to track him. He might be able to guess where he had gone, where he had fallen. He had found the occasional pilot. But he had had help. Finding a dead man in a country full of dead people was more of a challenge. "I'll send you home," he murmured. Stay alive, he thought. Stay alive like you are now. I don't want to carry your rotting body to fucking Kabul and hand myself in to whatever bastard is your superior or handler there, but it must be Kabul. I can't hand myself over. But I will. Fuck you. He felt his face twitch, and turned away, breathing. "No, I have no home anymore." Dan's hand stopped Vadim from turning over fully. Fingers digging into the muscular thigh. "Not my brother's family. Nowhere to send the body to. Forget it." Grip tightening while he moved closer. Ignored the heat, the damned fan and its monotonous creaking, pressed his body behind the other. "You're as close to a fucking home as I get.

Why are you Ojo the Unlucky?" asked the tin man. "Because I was born on a Friday." "Friday is not unlucky," declared the Emperor. "It's just one of seven days. Do you suppose all the world becomes unlucky one-seventh of the time?" "It was the thirteenth day of the month," said Ojo. "Thirteen! Ah, that is indeed a lucky number," replied the Tin Woodman. "All my good luck seems to happen on the thirteenth. I suppose most people never notice the good luck that comes to them with the number 13, and yet if the least bit of bad luck falls on that day, they blame it to the number, and not to the proper cause.

Since I was a small girl, I have lived inside this cottage, shelted by its roof and walls. I have known of people suffering—I have not been blind to them in the way that privilege allows, the way my own husband and now my daughter are blind. It is a statement of fact and not a judgement to say Charlie and Ella’s minds aren’t oriented in that direction; in a way, it absolves them, whereas the unlucky have knocked on the door of my consciousness, they have emerged from the forest and knocked many times over the course of my life, and I have only occasionally allowed them entry. I’ve done more than nothing and much less than I could have. I have laid inside, beneath a quilt on a comfortable couch, in a kind of reverie, and when I heard the unlucky outside my cottage, sometimes I passed them coins or scraps of food, and sometimes I ignored them altogether; if I ignored them, they had no choice but to walk back into the woods, and when they grew weak or got lost or were circled by wolves, I pretended I couldn’t hear them calling my name.

When little boys and girls grow bigger and older, they should grow from the outside, leaving a little boy or girl in the middle....But some unlucky people grown older from inside and so grow old through and through.

it wasn't uncommon... that such a girl might die young, but this girl had stayed alive long enough to make her mark, to take up residence in his imagination. to haunt him. now, through her, he mourns and celebrates everything that life has denied him, all the beauty, all the magic. this is how it happens: the dead go away into their solitude, but the young dead stay with us, they color our dreams, they make us wonder about ourselves, that we should be so unlucky, or clumsy, or so downright ordinary as to carry on without them.

Little Girl Blue" Sit there, hmm, count your fingers. What else, what else is there to do ? Oh and I know how you feel, I know you feel that you're through. Oh wah wah ah sit there, hmm, count, Ah, count your little fingers, My unhappy oh little girl, little girl blue, yeah. Oh sit there, oh count those raindrops Oh, feel 'em falling down, oh honey all around you. Honey don't you know it's time, I feel it's time, Somebody told you 'cause you got to know That all you ever gonna have to count on Or gonna wanna lean on It's gonna feel just like those raindrops do When they're falling down, honey, all around you. Oh, I know you're unhappy. Oh sit there, ah go on, go on And count your fingers. I don't know what else, what else Honey have you got to do. And I know how you feel, And I know you ain't got no reason to go on And I know you feel that you must be through. Oh honey, go on and sit right back down, I want you to count, oh count your fingers, Ah my unhappy, my unlucky And my little, oh, girl blue. I know you're unhappy, Ooh ah, honey I know, Baby I know just how you feel.

I’m not saying it’s a biological thing. Society made it that way. A little boy cries about something, he gets yelled at by his parents. They tell him to man up. Unlucky sons with stupid parents are demeaned and called ugly names like faggot and punk. From the very beginning, boys are trained to not deal with their emotions. Girls on the other hand are free to be emotional.

I keep asking myself, whether one would have trouble in the long run, whoever one shared a house with. Or did we strike it extra unlucky? Are most people so selfish and stingy then? I think it’s all to the good to have learned a bit about human beings, but now I think I’ve learned enough. The war goes on just the same, whether or not we choose to quarrel, or long for freedom and fresh air, and so we should try to make the best of our stay here. Now I’m preaching, but I also believe that if I stay here for very long I shall grow into a dried-up old beanstalk. And I did so want to grow into a real young woman! Yours, Anne     Saturday,

It seems that in the kingdom of Heaven, the cosmic lottery works in reverse; in the kingdom of Heaven, all of our notions of the lucky and the unlucky, the blessed and the cursed, the haves and the have-nots, are turned upside down. In the kingdom of Heaven, the last will be first and the first will be last. In India, I realised that while the poor and oppressed certainly deserve my compassion and help, they do not need my pity. Widows and orphans and lepers and untouchables enjoy special access to the Gospel that I do not have. They benefit immediately from the Good News that freedom is found not in retribution but in forgiveness, that real power belongs not to the strong but to the merciful, that joy comes not from wealth but from generosity. The rest of us have to get used to the idea that we cannot purchase love or fight for peace or find happiness in high positions. Those of us who have never suffered are at a disadvantage because Jesus invites His followers to fellowship in His suffering. In fact, the first thing Jesus did in His sermon on the mount was to mess with our assumptions about the cosmic lottery. In Luke’s account, Jesus says, "Blessed are you who are poor for yours is the Kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. But woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort. Woe to you who are well-fed now, for you will go hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep.” (Luke 6:20-21; 24-25) It seems that the kingdom of God is made up of the least of these. To be present among them is to encounter what the Celtic saints called “thin spaces”, places or moments in time in which the veil separating heaven and earth, the spiritual and the material, becomes almost transparent. I’d like to think that I’m a part of this kingdom, even though my stuff and my comforts sometimes thicken the veil. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control – these are God things, and they are available to all, regardless of status or standing. Everything else is just extra, and extra can be a distraction. Extra lulls us into the complacency and tricks us into believing that we need more than we need. Extra makes it harder to distinguish between God things and just things.

It didn’t take me very much reading and skimming to discover that Tess had serious problems – much worse than mine. The most important thing in her life happened to her in the very first part of the book. She got taken advantage of, at night, in the woods, because she’d stupidly accepted a drive home with a jerk, and after that it was all downhill, one awful thing after another, turnips, dead babies, getting dumped by the man she loved, and then her tragic death at the end. (I peeked at the last three chapters.) Tess was evidently another of those unlucky pushovers, like the Last Duchess, and like Ophelia – we’d studied Hamlet earlier. These girls were all similar. They were too trusting, they found themselves in the hands of the wrong men, they weren’t up to things, they let themselves drift. They smiled too much. They were too eager to please. Then they got bumped off, one way or another. Nobody gave them any help. Why did we have to study these hapless, annoying, dumb-bunny girls? I wondered. Who chose the books and poems that would be on the curriculum? What use would they be in our future lives? What exactly were we supposed to be learning from them? Maybe Bill was right. Maybe the whole thing was a waste of time

There’s nothing inside. Only the scungilli shell. Dear girl—” saying it as phony as he knew how—“schlemihls know this and use it, because they know most girls need mystery, something romantic there. Because a girl knows her man would be only a bore if she found out everything there was to know. I know you’re thinking now: the poor boy, why does he put himself down like that. And I’m using this love that you still, poor stupe, think is two-way to come like this between your legs, like this, and take, never thinking how you feel, caring about whether you come only so I can think of myself as good enough to make you come . . .” So he talked, all the way through, till both had done and he rolled on his back to feel traditionally sad. “You have to grow up,” she finally said. “That’s all: my own unlucky boy, didn’t you ever think maybe ours is an act too? We’re older than you, we lived inside you once: the fifth rib, closest to the heart. We learned all about it then. After that it had to become our game to nourish a heart you all believe is hollow though we know different. Now you all live inside us, for nine months, and whenever you decide to come back after that.” He was snoring, for real. “Dear, how pompous I’m getting. Good night . . .” And she fell asleep to have cheerful, brightly colored, explicit dreams about sexual intercourse.

No, seriously," Mark continued. "Once you've been involved for a while, do your charity work in some third world toilet, they start letting you in on some of the bigger secrets to Responsivism, and how the knowledge will save you." "Go on," Juan said to indulge him. Murph might be flakey, but he had a topflight mind. "Ever heard of 'brane theory?" He'd already talked with Eric about it so only Stone didn't return a blank stare. "It's right up there with string theory as a way of unifying all four forces in the universe, something Einstein couldn't do. In a nutshell, it says our four-dimensional universe is a single membrane, and that there are others existing in higher orders of space. These are so close to ours that zero-point matter and energy can pass between them and that gravitation forces in our universe can leak out. It's all cutting-edge stuff." "I'll take your word for it," Cabrillo said. "Anyway, "brane theory started to get traction among theoreti cal physicists in the mid-nineties, and Lydell Cooper glommed on to it, too. He took it a step further, though. It wasn't just quantum particles passing in and out of our universe. He believed that an intelligence from another 'brane was affecting people here in our dimension. This intelligence, he said, shaped our day-to-day lives in ways we couldn't sense. It was the cause of all our suffering. Just before his death, Cooper started to teach techniques to limit this influence, ways to protect ourselves from the alien power." "And people bought this crap?" Max asked, sinking deeper into depression over his son. "Oh yeah. Think about it from their side for a second. It's not a believer's fault that he is unlucky or depressed or just plain stupid. His life is being messed with across dimensional membranes It's an alien influence that cost you that promotion or prevented you from dating the girl of your dreams. It's a cosmic force holding you back, not your own ineptitude. If you believe that, then you don't have to take responsibility for your life. And we all know nobody takes responsibility for himself anymore. Responsivism gives you a ready-made excuse for your poor life choices.

But the bed I made up for myself was sufficiently uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and I thought a good deal of what the unlucky Dutchman had told me.I was not so much puzzled by Blanche Stroeve’s action, for I saw in that merely the result of a physical appeal. I do not suppose she had ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object, as the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of the world recognizes its strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. It is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security, pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable vanity that women ascribe to its spiritual value. It is an emotion which is defenceless against passion. I suspected that Blanche Stroeve's violent dislike of Strickland had in it from the beginning a vague element of sexual attraction. Who am I that I should seek to unravel the mysterious intricacies of sex? Perhaps Stroeve's passion excited without satisfying that part of her nature, and she hated Strickland because she felt in him the power to give her what she needed.I think she was quite sincere when she struggled against her husband's desire to bring him into the studio; I think she was frightened of him, though she knew not why; and I remembered how she had foreseen disaster. I think in some curious way the horror which she felt for him was a transference of the horror which she felt for herself because he so strangely troubled her. His appearance was wild and uncouth; there was aloofiness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth; he was big and strong; he gave the impression of untamed passion; and perhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister element which had made me think of those wild beings of the world's early history when matter, retaining its early connection with the earth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own. lf he affected her at all. it was inevitable that she should love or hate him. She hated him. And then I fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick man moved her strangely. She raised his head to give him food, and it was heavy against her hand; when she had fed him she wiped his sensual mouth and his red beard.She washed his limbs; they were covered with thick hair; and when she dried his hands, even in his weakness they were strong and sinewy. His fingers were long; they were the capable, fashioning fingers of the artist; and I know not what troubling thoughts they excited in her. He slept very quietly, without movement, so that he might have been dead, and he was like some wild creature of the woods, resting after a long chase; and she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams. Did he dream of the nymph flying through the woods of Greece with the satyr in hot pursuit? She fled, swift of foot and desperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt his hot breath on her neck; and still she fled silently. and silently he pursued, and when at last he seized her was it terror that thrilled her heart or was it ecstasy? Blanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite. Perhaps she hated Strickland still, but she hungered for him, and everything that had made up her life till then became of no account. She ceased to be a woman, complex, kind, and petulant, considerate and thoughtless; she was a Maenad. She was desire.

And you, said Emily vigorously to her reflection in the mirror, aren’t a ghost, and had better not find yourself being treated as one. No dead woman’s shoes for you, my girl. A new life for you in this glorious sunshine. Love, living, fun, freedom… All the things poor unlucky Dolly lost so soon.

In that moment Baja felt something like a hammer blow to his chest. Everyone in those pockets of Air was Felsia to someone. Every life saved there filled someone else with relief and joy. Every life snuffed out was another Katowa, someone somewhere having their heart torn out. Baja could feel the detonator in his hands. The horrible click transferring to his palm as the button depressed. He could feel that terrible shockwave again as the landing pad vanished in fire. He could feel the horror replaced by fear. As some unlucky combinations of events up the shuttle too close to the blast and knocked it from the sky. He could feel all of it so clearly, it was as if it was happening right then, but more than that he felt sorrow. Someone had just tried to do the same thing to his baby girl, had tried to kill her. Not because he hated her, but because she was standing in the path of his political statement. Everyone who had dies on that shuttle had been a Felsia to someone, and with a click of a button he’s killed them. He hadn’t meant to; he’d been trying to save them. That was the little lie that he’d kept close to his heart for months now. But the truth was much worse. Some secret part of him had wanted the shuttle to die, had reveled watching it fall from the sky in flames, had wanted to punish the people trying to take his world away. Except that was a lie, too. The real truth, the truth beneath it all, was that he had wanted to spread his pain around to punish the universe for being a place where his little boy had been killed – to punish other people for being alike when his Katowa was dead. That part of him had watched the shuttle burn and thought now you know how it feels; now you know how I feel. But the people he’d hurt had just saved his daughter because they were the type of people who couldn’t let even their enemies die helpless. The first sob took him by surprise, nearly bending him double with its power. Then he was blind, his eyes filled with water, his throat closed like someone was choking him. He gasped for air, and every gasp turned into another loud sob. …He tried to speak, to reassure (Naomi), but when he tried, the only words he could say were, “I killed them.” He meant the governor and Coop and Kate and the RCE security team, but most of all Katowa. He’d killed his little boy over and over again every time he’d let someone else die to punish them for his son’s death. “I killed them.” “This time you saved them,” Naomi repeated. “These ones you saved.

they

Thirteen is a numerical paradox: lucky and unlucky at the same time.

about,

That’s my girl.

Right from the start we were an unlucky country.

I really feel like I should clarify your misassumption about our relationship. As in, we don’t have one. Will never have one. Will never happen.” Ha. The derisive snort didn’t come from Meena. His liger was the one who found his claims amusing. So did Meena. “Oh, Pookie, you are so adorable when you’re being stern. It makes me want to dive across this table, throw myself in your lap, and plant the biggest smooch on you.” The threat had him bracing for impact— and his dick hardening in anticipation. Alas, for once, she didn’t act. “Unlucky for you, given the last time I tried that, I collapsed the table, and my lunch companion flipped backward in his chair and ended up in the hospital with a concussion, I’ll refrain.” “I would have caught you.” Surely that wasn’t him encouraging her? A wicked smile curved her lips. “I know you would have. A man like you knows how to handle a girl like me.” -Leo & Meena

Between now and San Francisco, she had to deal with the girl. Chapter

I pray for her soul with genuine feeling. She was a terribly unlucky girl. Her father Warwick adored her and thought he would make her a duchess, and then thought he could make her husband a king. But instead of a handsome York king, her husband was a sulky younger son who turned his coat not once but twice. After she lost her first baby in the wild seas in the witches’ wind off Calais she had two more children, Margaret and Edward. Now they will have to manage without her. Margaret is a bright clever girl, but Edward is slow in understanding, perhaps even simple. God help both of them with George as their only parent. I send a letter expressing my sorrow, and the court wears mourning for her—the daughter of a great earl, and the wife of a royal duke.

Don’t get into a car with strangers,” Cooper said, sighing. “Don’t walk down dark alleys alone. It’s all pretty obvious, Chlo. Just don’t be stupid.” “Those girls weren’t stupid,” my mother snapped, her voice quiet but sharp. “They were unlucky. In the wrong place at the wrong time.

Spanish is the lovin’ tongue, Soft as music, light as spray. ’Twas a girl I learnt it from, Livin’ down Sonora way. I don’t look much like a lover, Yet I say her love words over, Often when I’m all alone— “Mi amor, mi corazon.” Nights when she knew where I’d ride, She would listen for my spurs, Throw the big door open wide, Raise them laughin’ eyes of hers. And my heart would nigh stop beatin' When I heard her tender greeting, Whispered soft for me alone— “Mi amor! mi corazon!” Moonlight in the patio, Old señora noddin’ near, Me and Juana talkin’ low So the Madre couldn’t hear— How those hours would go a-flyin’! And too soon I’d hear her sighin’ In her little sorry tone— “Adios, mi corazon!” But one time I had to fly For a foolish gamblin’ fight, And we said a swift goodbye In that black, unlucky night. When I’d loosed her arms from clingin’ With her words the hoofs kep’ ringin’ As I galloped north alone— “Adios, mi corazon!” Never seen her since that night. I kaint cross the Line, you know. She was Mex and I was white; Like as not, it’s better so. Yet I’ve always sort of missed her Since that last, wild night I kissed her, Left her heart and lost my own— “Adios, mi corazon!

This means,” she said, “that they can arrest anyone at any time for any reason. They have legalized their repression. It is against the law to oppose them in any way. But, Carolina, only the lucky ones are arrested under this law. Only the lucky ones have a trial.” We were talking in the dark after the girls went to bed. “What happens to the unlucky?” “What happens? They are disappeared. They become desaparecidos. We don’t know after that, unless the corpse is found, and even then we don’t know because they are, how do you say it? Beyond recognition.

The Temple of Artemis WHEN EOS ARRIVED AT HER usual spot in the sky Saturday morning, ready to bring forth the dawn, she looked up at Nyx and waved the notescroll her friend had given her. “Yes! I can come see your statue!” she shouted. Nyx flashed Eos a smile, already reeling in her cape. “Hooray!” she whooped. “I’m going home to sleep for a few hours and then Hades will give me a ride to the temple at Ephesus. He’s got four stallions to pull his chariot, which means his can go much faster than mine!” At the mention of Hades, Eos paled. A student at MOA, he was also godboy of the Underworld, where Nyx lived, and where mortals like Tithonus would go when they died. It was also where some unlucky immortals were imprisoned right now—those who had fought against Zeus in battle or defied him in some other way. As a matter of fact, her sad-mad-dad problem was all tied into the Underworld. Because one of those immortal prisoners was her dad, Hyperion, the god of light! “Hey! Eos! The dawn?” With a start, Eos realized Nyx had finished reeling in her entire cape and was ready to ride away.

Jaylynn has a halo of spikes and thorns over her head, which digs into her forehead, and the blood runs down her shadowy brown wavy wispy hair. Her eyes can glow the color of pink. ‘I call them Olivia Cooper eyes! You know, with the black teardrops!’ and her dark cherry black blood flows from them too, as we talk. I think I saw from time to time a black widow crawling on her, making webs on her body. (So- hair-raising.) Along with the markings of unlucky, thirteen were tattooed on her and chiseled into her chest. Other insignias are cataloging her, she has numbers on her marking her like a beast. She has the cereal barcode numbers of- (J-N-0069699611) on her left butt cheek, which glows lime green in the dark! You are nothing but a number along with your first and last initials when you are a dark angel. She can have fire readily available at her fingertips, sharp retracting claws. Along with withdrawing fangs and horns. She also has a very elaborate samurai-like sword with a curved blade. As well as, yes you guessed it! She can sparkle like many thousands of little reflective broken mirrors in the brilliant full moonlight. I never thought I would speak to a black angel, yet she is my little girl, how could I not? ‘To live is to be haunted, to die is to be unperturbed.’ I remember back when she was on the edge of fifteen, and my life was entertaining, pleasurable, and stimulating. Not at all like now; I remember her first days of high school everything seemed flawless, little did I know, that the tower's children had their children, and their evil spirits were passed down to the next demons in the circle of pain; his clan started torturing my little girl until her end. Just as there, mothers did with me. All my life I have tried to prove this story… but how do I write a story that seems so silly to other people that do not understand?

She and Holly had come into the bathroom together and they both opened their mouths in surprise. Casey jumped and then looked at me. My mind went blank. I thought no one ever used this bathroom. That’s what Casey had said. Or maybe today was our unlucky day. Casey and I looked at each other, then we looked at Ronnie and Holly. I had to think quickly on my feet. “You misheard, Ronnie,” I said, “she said we’re like twins. You know, because we look alike.” “That’s not what you said,” Holly said. “Ali’s right,” Casey said. “It’s what I meant. How would we be twins? We have different parents. I mean it is a coincidence that we look alike but that doesn’t mean anything.” Casey was rambling, but it seemed to work. The girls quickly lost interest and turned to the mirrors to fix their hair. They started talking among themselves about the fair on the weekend, while Casey and I slipped out the door. The first morning bell rang as we entered the hallway. “Wow! That was close!” Casey exclaimed. “I know. I really don’t want anyone to know about us being sisters until I tell my parents. I’m not sure how they’d find out from any of the kids at school but I’d feel better if I told them in case they do hear it from someone else.” “I totally get that,” Casey said. “I promise not to say anything to anyone. Let me know if you want me to come with you to talk to them, though. Like I said, I had such a great time with them this weekend. They really are lovely people. And they’re such great cooks!” I smiled. I was so lucky to have them in my life. But I was luckier to have a twin sister and a little brother now as well. I wished we could go home early and I could get this over with. But that wasn’t possible. I’d have to wait.

Getting a nickname is a very common thing in Australia, and when your friends honour you with one, you don’t have a choice; you have to accept it. I knew a guy at school who was super thin, so he scored the nickname ‘Skin’, for ‘skinny’. My mother’s name is Shirley, but Dad only called her ‘Girl’ and hardly ever said her real name. Either it was because she always looked so young and pretty, or he was playing it safe to avoid slipping up and calling her by a different woman’s name when he was drunk.