Wrought Iron Fence Quotes

Richard has informed me he is shopping for his white picket fence. I'm happy behind my black wrought iron fence. The one with the pointy spikes on top. White never really was my color.

Reading, because we control it, is adaptable to our needs and rhythms. We are free to indulge our subjective associative impulse; the term I coin for this is deep reading: the slow and meditative possession of a book. We don't just read the words, we dream our lives in their vicinity. The printed page becomes a kind of wrought-iron fence we crawl through, returning, once we have wandered, to the very place we started.

The Lowe family had always been the undisputed villains of their town’s ancient, bloodstained story, and no one understood that better than the Lowe brothers. The family lived on an isolated estate of centuries-worn stone, swatched in moss and shadowed in weeping trees. On mischief nights, children from Ilvernath sometimes crept up to its towering wrought iron fence, daring their friends to touch the padlock chained around the gate—the one engraved with a scythe. Grins like goblins, the children murmured, because children in Ilvernath loved fairy tales—especially real ones. Pale as plague and silent as spirits. They’ll tear your throat out and drink your soul. All these tales were deserved.

Child detective Noah Edward was standing in front of his new home. It was an old-fashioned building made of brick. It had a tall, spiky wrought iron fence. There was a billboard attached to the side of the fence. It read “Richard Seddon’s Home for Vulnerable Children.

The towering tents are striped in white and black, no golds and crimsons to be seen. No colour at all, save for the neighbouring trees and grass of the surrounding fields. Black-and-white stripes on grey sky; countless tents of varying shapes and sizes, with an elaborate wrought-iron fence encasing them in a colourless world. Even what little ground is visible from outside is black or white, painted or powdered, or treated with some other circus trick.

The Foundry grounds were surrounded by a twenty-five foot wrought iron fence and Lazlo sniffed when he saw it.   "That thing might look impressive to tourists," he said, "but it wouldn't keep out a fly, let alone a…"   Lazlo trailed off as a large black gorecrow approached the fence. The bird flew high enough to pass over the bars, but the instant it crossed the fence's perimeter, there was a blue flash and the bird burst into flames and plummeted to the ground.   "Like I said, Baron's got himself a hell of a security system,

The family lived on an isolated estate of centuries-worn stone, swathed in moss and shadowed in weeping trees. On mischief nights, children from Ilvernath sometimes crept up to its towering wrought iron fence, daring their friends to touch the padlock chained around the gate—the one engraved with a scythe. Grins like goblins, the children murmured, because children in Ilvernath loved fairy tales—especially real ones. Pale as plague and silent as spirits. They’ll tear your throat out and drink your soul. All these tales were deserved.

The family lived on an isolated estate of centuries-worn stone, swatched in moss and shadowed in weeping trees. On mischief nights, children from Ilvernath sometimes crept up to its towering wrought iron fence, daring their friends to touch the padlock chained around the gate—the one engraved with a scythe. Grins like goblins, the children murmured, because children in Ilvernath loved fairy tales—especially real ones. Pale as plague and silent as spirits. They’ll tear your throat out and drink your soul. All these tales were deserved.

Everywhere I traveled I saw this death space in action, and I felt what it means to be held. At Ruriden columbarium in Japan, I was held by a sphere of Buddhas glowing soft blue and purple. At the cemetery in Mexico, I was held by a single wrought-iron fence in the light of tens of thousands of flickering amber candles. At the open-air pyre in Colorado, I was held within the elegant bamboo walls, which kept mourners safe as the flames shot high. There was magic to each of these places. There was grief, unimaginable grief. But in that grief there was no shame. These were places to meet despair face to face and say, 'I see you waiting there. And I feel you, strongly. But you do not demean me.

Academia is an odd place. Stately buildings and ivy, wrought iron fences, and libraries fragrant with the smell of old books. Young people scurry to and from class, fresh, energetic, and naive. But in the long halls and narrow offices, those who work there fester in the dark like overeducated viral agents. Wet-eyed professors with obscure, irrelevant specialties and inferiority complexes browbeat students. Administrators, buffeted by faculty contempt and general inefficiency, sink into venal scheming. Any college campus is a circus, complete with color, entertainment, and the occasional glimpse of something really amazing. At Dorian University, the circus had a large number of clowns and a truly impressive freak show.

And then we would hear the life-giving words passed back along the aisles in French, Polish, Russian, Czech, back into Dutch. They were little previews of heaven, these evenings beneath the lightbulb. I would think of Haarlem, each substantial church set behind its wrought-iron fence and its barrier of doctrine. And I would know again that in darkness God’s truth shines most clear.

The days became for Christina endless preparation. Ceaseless winds tore through her massing battle ranks, the grey cold sun above marking the timeless date. With skies of blue and cloud overhead, driving, uncompromising time stood still, lingering, as if giving Christina precious eons to perfect her shaving straight razor cuts of mind and sword. She worked alone now, forging the essence of herself in the policies and ways of hammer and anvil, pounding away with the classic, living Japanese blade. Her deft hands spun dervishly, wroughting out the iron of her will, fashioning a blade-mind remade unto her. --Brickley, The Lady and the Samurai

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41: 10 NIV Nadin Khoury was thirteen years old, five foot two, and weighed, soaking wet, probably a hundred pounds. His attackers were larger and outnumbered him seven to one. For thirty minutes they hit, kicked, and beat him. He never stood a chance. They dragged him through the snow, stuffed him into a tree, and suspended him on a seven-foot wrought-iron fence. Khoury survived the attack and would have likely faced a few more except for the folly of one of the bullies. He filmed the pile-on and posted it on YouTube. The troublemakers landed in jail, and the story reached the papers. A staffer at the nationwide morning show The View read the account and invited Khoury to appear on the broadcast. As the video of the assault played, his lower lip quivered. As the video ended, the curtain opened, and three huge men walked out, members of the Philadelphia Eagles football team. Khoury, a rabid fan, turned and smiled. One was All-Pro receiver DeSean Jackson. Jackson took a seat close to the boy and promised him, “Anytime you need us, I got two linemen right here.” Then, in full view of every bully in America, he gave the boy his cell phone number. 16 Who wouldn’t want that type of protection? You’ve got it . . . from the Son of God himself.

The museum park used to be surrounded by a great wrought-iron fence with spikes. They took it down when someone jumped off the roof and landed on it. They had to cut out a piece of fence, you see. The spikes had gone clear through the fellow’s gut. It was one of those A.B.D.s finally giving up. A.B.D.? It means “All But Dissertation.” The museum is full of them, graduate students who are incapable of finishing their dissertations. They stay on for years, living off grants, examining specimens, gathering data, wandering about the halls.

The cemetery fence is wrought iron, am I right? Why do you think cemeteries have been putting wrought iron around the outside for hundreds of years? That’s like

Richard has informed me he’s shopping for his white picket fence. I’m happy behind my black wrought-iron fence. The one with the pointy spikes on top. White never really was my color.

At the end of the avenue, a large villa was set back from the road with a surrounding fence covered in hessian. This was ‘The Vatican’, the secret headquarters of the Department of National Security and Order – ZAPU’s spy agency. It made for a more discreet location for a rendezvous than Zimbabwe House, ZAPU’s headquarters in the city, which was believed to be under constant surveillance by the Zambian authorities and perhaps others. The Vatican was an anonymous-looking four-bedroom villa, but several sentries were positioned just behind the wrought-iron front gates. As the car drew in, one of the guards called through their arrival on a radio set.

Undoubtedly, you are overwrought from re-wroughting hand-wrought iron out right. But I think in time you will iron things out for yourself. Stay holstered and strapped to your side. It is said, ‘when genius matures it goes into hixibn’–“hiding.” You will know of this wisdom one day. --Thomas Kannon Sword Master, The Lady and the Samurai

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Well, forgive me for trying to introduce you to a nice, handsome man who owns his own business and once rescued a sheep from a barbed wire fence.’ I glared at her across the wrought iron table. ‘It’s on Instagram,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ll send you the link. It’s got over a million views.

A number of the wrought-iron fences that encircled the courtyards and gardens of the homes were painted the color of gold on their European-inspired spikes and finials.

And then beyond them, farther north, were the whites, in a dreamland accessible only by the Chicago L, and even at that a place you glimpsed momentarily—redbrick houses, wrought-iron fences, tree-lined streets—then left, swallowed by the subway if you were on the Douglas-Park B, or forced to watch it all fade from view if you rode the elevated Ravenswood A.

The black wrought iron fence caught my attention. There are supernatural teachings that state that wrought iron is reputed to hold spirits inside the area where the fence is built. Ghosts need energy to manifest, and iron, as a conductor of electricity, will ground the ghost when it comes into contact with the iron. Wrought iron fences around cemeteries were used in this capacity: they worked as a barrier to keep unwanted spirits beyond the fence and also to contain spirits that reside inside the fenced area.

Richardson ran on a parallel course beside Adams Street, but despite their proximity, the two streets were worlds apart. Richardson, on its path west toward the school, was lined with humble vistas of shoe repair shops and hardware supply stores, but as the street arched slowly toward the river, the porches of regal mansions blossomed in perfect rows behind wrought iron fences. The hum of Main Street quickly faded as magnolias unfurled over manicured lawns.

Zach's eyes flash with light, caught by the peculiar greenness of early summer grass and the strobe effect of sun through wrought-iron fencing and trees. He kicks at dust and gravel with his unlaced desert boots, cricket spikes slung around his neck by the laces, his tread lazy and ostentatious, full of close-of-play sensuality.

I’m thinking of the bear that appeared to me last Friday morning, at the wrought-iron fence of the Parsonage next door. His face is as clear to me now as it was then: scarred and questioning, yet also burdened by some knowledge he wished to impart. At once both mystical and mortal, he carried more than anything an aura of death. Did my mother just fulfill his silent prophecy?

I know you said you’re not a white picket fence girl. But what about a spiked wrought-iron gate girl?” Onyx reached into his pocket and dangled keys in front of my nose. “I hear it’s haunted.” Ames snickered. “It’s certainly about to be.” “Don’t tease me,” I chided. “Are you guys saying…” Wolfgang squeezed my ribs from behind and gruffed into my ear. “It’s ours, little one.

And then we came to a stop in front of a large yellow Victorian house that sat, so stately, between two brick buildings, like a misplaced Lego piece, overgrown with ivy and bluebells and honeysuckle. The Daffodil Inn looked exactly how I'd imagined. The bed-and-breakfast was fresh and bright, the dentils all painted across the edging on the roof, the corbels replaced, the sawn spandrils and turned spandrils all given proper attention. The bay window was set with a stained-glass daffodil, the same one that encrusted the window in the front door. Around the inn, encasing it like a lovely cage, was a wrought-iron fence overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle that bled into the rose garden that surrounded the house.

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course it was wrought iron. The stuff isn’t even attractive—it’s like the bold type equivalent of a chain-link fence, all bulky and aggressive and unnecessarily prone to rust—but something deep in humanity’s genetic makeup remembers that the fae are out there, roaming the night, and that sometimes when we get bored, whole villages can disappear. So they deny we ever existed out loud, and they quietly ornament their homes and gardens with as much iron as they can yank out of the hills. They’re still working at keeping us out.

On my left, a cemetery edged in a weathered wrought iron fence. I think there were more than two hundred headstones. More dead than living. Nice.

Do you think your dad—” “Not yet, and no. But the sheriff and some state troopers were over. I heard some stuff. They think the body’s been in there at least ten or fifteen years.” Excited as she was by all the action, it also made her sad. “Can you believe that? Not knowing where your kid has been for the last fifteen years. Not knowing if she’s still alive or dead.” When Laura Lynn and Marcus exchanged a look, she frowned. “What?” “Do you know how many kids die around here? Or go missing?” When Mandy shook her head, Marcus continued. “A lot. Like, a lot a lot.” “How?” she asked. “Why?” “Lots of reasons,” Laura Lynn said. “Cancer. Running away. Murder. There are lots of stories like that. Kids going crazy and sent to insane asylums.” Marcus sat straighter in his chair. “I don’t believe all of them. Jake used to try to freak me out by telling me if I didn’t clean my room, all the kids from the mental hospital would escape and eat me alive.” He glanced to the side and shook his head. “What an asshat.” “Who’s Jake?” Mandy asked. “My older brother. He’s in college now.” Marcus started in on his sandwich, talking through a mouthful of food. “But he said his friend’s brother died that way. Some rare disease or something. Totally incurable.” “That’s pretty weird,” Mandy said. “Maybe that’s what happened to the girl in the septic tank,” Laura Lynn offered. “Maybe she went crazy and fell in.” “And what?” Marcus asked. “Her parents just closed it up and forgot about her? I doubt it.” “Then it was probably murder,” Mandy said. Another thrill went through her, but a twinge of fear followed this one. “We should look into it. Do our own investigation.” Laura Lynn and Marcus both looked down at their plates. Marcus was the first to answer. “I don’t know about that.” “What?” Mandy felt confused. She had figured at least Marcus would be into the idea, even if Laura Lynn wasn’t. “Aren’t you a computer genius? You could help me solve the case! We’d be heroes.” “It’s not worth it.” When he looked up again, he was deadly serious. “A lot of people have gone missing over the years, Mandy. Not just kids. It’s better to just keep your head down. Don’t cause any trouble.” Mandy blanched. When she looked at Laura Lynn for support, she saw her friend nodding in agreement. Mandy sat back in her chair with a huff, the turkey and cheese sandwich untouched. So much for showing Bear she could take care of herself by solving this on her own. 9 Bear pulled his truck next to McKinnon’s cruiser and put it in park. He hopped out and met her around the side of her car. “A graveyard? This is about to get real interesting, or real weird.” “Let’s hope it gets interesting,” McKinnon said. The slam of her door echoed through the surrounding trees, and the two of them trudged their way up a set of steps to the cemetery. Bear had passed it a few times as he’d driven around town. It was the biggest within a twenty-mile radius, but it wasn’t huge. The gravestones were crammed near each other, filling the entire plot of land to the brim. There was a short wrought-iron fence around the perimeter and a plaque that read “April Meadows Cemetery” in block letters. A few trees were scattered around, along with a couple of larger headstones, but most of the markers were small and modest. The paths were skinny and winding, as though they had been an afterthought. “What’re we doing here?” Bear

Thou goest home this night to thy home of winter, To thy home of autumn, of spring, and of summer; Thou goest home this night to thy perpetual home, To thine eternal bed, to thine eternal slumber. Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow, Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow, Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow, Sleep, thou beloved, in the Rock of the fold. The shade of death lies upon thy face, beloved, But the Jesus of grace has His hand round about thee; In nearness to the Trinity farewell to thy pains, Christ stands before thee and peace is in His mind. Jenny, Ian, Fergus, and Marsali joined in, murmuring the final verse with him. Sleep, O sleep in the calm of all calm, Sleep, O sleep in the guidance of guidance, Sleep, O sleep in the love of all loves, Sleep, O beloved, in the Lord of life, Sleep, O beloved, in the God of life! It wasn’t until we turned to go that I saw William. He was standing just outside the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the burying ground, tall and somber in a dark cloak, the wind stirring the dark tail of his hair. He was holding the reins of a very large mare with a back as broad as a barn door. As

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Stop.” She turned her face away. Slipping out from between him and the wall, Cass walked along a path of stepping-stones toward a bronze fountain at the back of the garden. Beyond the fountain was a wrought-iron fence, and beyond the fence was an alley. She rested one hand on the iron bars, feeling a bit like the caged bird Falco had once accused her of being. He took her hand and led her back to the edge of the fountain, where she sat. Sitting beside her, he pressed his leg against her hip. “What is it?” he asked. “We came out here to talk, remember?” she said. “We can talk later.” He squeezed her hand, his fingers massaging the middle of her palm. Mannaggia. Why did every single touch have to make her want things? “When you’re not dressed like that,” he added.

contingent of soldiers with you.” Almost opening his mouth in protest, Killian seemed to think the better of it. “Yes, Madam.” He glanced quickly at Talis and the others. “Shouldn’t our guests come as well? The priests should cleanse them of…of any defilement that may have possessed them on their long voyage.” The Madam frowned. “I suppose that is true. The priests must perform their rites. Go on, now.” Talis wondered what kind of rites they practiced here on the island. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. He glanced at Rikar who shook his head slightly in a gesture of disapproval. They followed the twins out of the palace with a group of soldiers leading them north along the gardens until they turned east along the wall. Talis snuck a look at the looming outer walls. So close to freedom, if only the Madam hadn’t sent so many soldiers to mind them. But he couldn’t leave without finding his sword. The way opened up to a park surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Inside, they reached a stand of mangroves. Small wooden temples dotted the interior, with hundreds of strands of white rope stretched from branch to temple roof. White flags with ancient script in gold ink adorned the ropes. Talis recognized some of the characters: death, mountains, volcano, sky, chaos.  “Lieutenant,” Killian said. “Summon the priests, then be on your way. We can manage things ourselves from here on.

I stare up at the wrought iron fence. It took losing all that I held dear for me to learn a valuable lesson: only when everything is gone are you truly free.