The cyclone had set the house down gently, very gently - for a cyclone-in the midst of a country of marvelous beauty. There were lovely patches of green sward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious fruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with rare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes. A little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between green banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl who had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies.
L. Frank Baum
And then I realize: this isn't dirty water falling from the sky. It is-literally-blood. I look up, and a droplet of blood splashes directly into my eye. I curse, rubbing my face, trying to get the blood out, but it's everywhere, it's like trying to dry off in the middle of the ocean. Shielding my face as best I can, I stare up into the sky. I am in the center of a cyclone. Giant white clouds swirl like a spiraling galaxy above me, the eye a tiny dark speck. The storm rages, throwing out bloody rain like punches, the wind so vicious it tears my clothes and cuts my skin. Representative Belles's mind is swirling with dark thoughts-bloody thoughts-and they have created the biggest storm I have ever seen. I have to stop the cyclone. I have to get him into a peaceful reverie, something that he can hold on to while I root around his brain, looking for answers. I focus all of my concentration on stopping the bloody rain. The drops come slower and slower. I take a deep breath, imagining the clouds breaking up, spinning into fluffy bits of cotton-candy like clouds. I don't open my eyes until the sounds of beating rain disappear and I can feel the warmth of the Mediterranean sun on my face.
I'm one of relatively few stage-trained actors who doesn't much like acting on stage. It feels kind of like riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, which I did when I was eight. When it was all over, I was glad I had done it, but most of the time when it was actually happening, I was just kind of hanging on for dear life.
For he had never heard anything like it-did not know such music existed in the world-and it was hard to believe that a man he knew could play it with his own two hands. There were parts of it like birdsong, and parts like rolling thunder and hard rain, and parts that glittered like fresh snow when the sun comes out and it's so cold the air takes your breath away. And parts were like a dust devil spinning past, or a cyclone on the horizon, and all of it cried out for words that he had only read in books and had never said aloud.
Mary Doria Russell
1212Forget what they told you. You are love child of a passionate affair between goddess and universe. You were born of a steamy forbidden heat and you were made for the cyclone of unadulterated wholeness. You are a daughter of delight. You are the unconstrained mother of all. A fierce warrior. A wicked priestess. Your roots twist into this earth. Your spirit rises in glorious asana. You let loose with the howl of the wilderness you've held tight all these years. You are the wild. Untethered. Gloriously free.
[Piper] rushed to get dressed. By the time she got up on deck, the others had already gathered-all hastily dressed except for Coach Hedge, who had pulled the night watch. Frank's Vancouver Winter Olympics shirt was inside out. Percy wore pajama pants and a bronze breastplate, which was an interesting fashion statement. Hazel's hair was all blown to one side as though she'd walked through a cyclone; and Leo had accidentally set himself on fire. His T-shirt was in charred tatters. His arms were smoking.
[Piper] rushed to get dressed. By the time she got up on deck, the others had already gathered""all hastily dressed except for Coach Hedge, who had pulled the night watch. Frank's Vancouver Winter Olympics shirt was inside out. Percy wore pajama pants and a bronze breastplate, which was an interesting fashion statement. Hazel's hair was all blown to one side as though she'd walked through a cyclone; and Leo had accidentally set himself on fire. His T-shirt was in charred tatters. His arms were smoking.
Most robotic vacuum cleaners don't see their environment, have little suction, and don't clean properly. They are gimmicks. We've been developing a unique 360 vision system that lets our robot see where it is, where it has been, and where it is yet to clean. Vision, combined with our high speed digital motor and cyclone technology, is the key to achieving a high performing robot vacuum - a genuine labor saving device.
One morning as I closed the cyclone-fence gate / to begin a slow drift / down to the cookhouse on foot / (because my truck wheels were glued / in deep mud once again), / I walked straight into / the waiting non-arms of a snake, / its tan beaded-bag skin / studded with black diamonds. Up it coiled to speak to me a eye level. / Imagine! that sleek finger / rising out of the land's palm / and coiling faster than a Hindu rope. / The thrill of a bull snake / startled in the morning / when the mesas lie pooled / in a custard of light / kept me bright than ball lightning all day. Praise leapt first to mind / before flight or danger, / praise that knows no half-truth, and pardons all.
BOBBY SAID, ""FUCK SPENDIN 50 ON A WHIP, BUY A CLIP"" MENTAL FLIP, GOT A THOUSAND TRACKS THOUGHT ON A CHIP SAID HE HAD MAD TOYS TO MAKE NOISE YOU SPLIT AND SEPARATE DRUMS LIKE ASTEROIDS THE CONCERNED PRODUCER SAMPLED THIS QUESTION HIT HIM WITH THE BEAT FOR THE ANSWER, WITH EXTRA COMPRESSION WHEN SOUND TRAVEL, IT QUICKLY GRAB YOU AND EQUALIZES THE PITCH UP, UNTIL IT HAVE YOU BUGGED OUT, TRYIN TO THINK YOU CAN MATCH THIS THE PORTRAIT'S TOO GRAPHIC PANARAMIC VIEW FOR YOU, STAMP WU THE FEATURE GOTHIC, THE OUTCOME WILL BE CATASTROPHIC WE WROTE BLOCK-TIC CHECKPOINTS ON YOUR NEXT JOINT AND WHO THE NIGGA YOU ANNOINT? 700 VOLTS ON THE TRACK TO SLAY MURDEROUS WORDPLAY DISPLAYED, FOR KILLIN CASCADES THROWIN BULLETS IN THE AIR TO TEST WIND AND WHICH WAY THE CYCLONE SPINS COUNTER ON CLOCKWISE, STILL CIVILIZED KILL SPIES ON THE WALL, THAT STILL FLIES ALL DIES
Thomas had no concept of time as he went through the Changing. It started much like his first memory of the Box-dark and cold. But this time he had no sensation of anything touching his feet or body. He floated in emptiness, stared into a void of black. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. It was as if someone had stolen his five senses, leaving him in a vacuum. Time stretched on. And on. Fear turned into curiosity, which turned into boredom. Finally, after an interminable wait, things began to change. A distant wind picked up, unfelt but heard. Then a swirling mist of whiteness appeared far in the distance-a spinning tornado of smoke that formed into a long funnel, stretching out until he could see neither the top nor the bottom of the white whirlwind. He felt the gales then, sucking into the cyclone so that it blew past him from behind, ripping at his clothes and hair like they were shredded flags caught in a storm. The tower of thick mist began to move toward him-or he was moving toward it, he couldn't tell-increasing its speed at an alarming rate. Where seconds before he'd been able to see the distinct form of the funnel, he now could see only a flat expanse of white. And then it consumed him; he felt his mind taken by the mist, felt memories flood into his thoughts. Everything else turned into pain.