It's me, you fool. Who do you think it is? I'm coming in.' He was already naked. She turned away from him as he slipped in by her side but he caught her in his arms and felt her body thaw his belly and thighs. That was all, just to lie there listening to the breathing and the silence and feel the warmth colour his belly and thighs and head. She never wore clothes in bed. They were naked and the warmth run out of her. He wanted to laugh, because it was such a marvelous discovery to make, this warmth. She was hissing like a snake. 'No, it's wrong.' She went on hissing. She brought an elbow back smartly and struck him in the paunch. She seemed all elbows, shoulder blades and heels. It was like trying to make love to a dough-mixing machine. She wanted it, didn't she, otherwise why all this hissing and moaning?
Some languages are musical in themselves, so that it is pleasant to hear any one read or converse in them, even though we do not understand a word that we hear.... Others are full of growling, snarling, hissing sounds, as though wild beasts and serpents had first taught the people to speak.
I take a few breaths to calm myself, step back, and lift Buttercup by the scruff of the neck. "I should've drowned you when I had the chance." His ears flatten and he raises a paw. I hiss before he gets a chance, which seems to annoy him a little, since he considers hissing his own personal sound of contempt.
An eye can threaten like a loaded and levelled gun, or it can insult like hissing or kicking; or, in its altered mood, by beams of kindness, it can make the heart dance for joy. ... One of the most wonderful things in nature is a glance of the eye; it transcends speech; it is the bodily symbol of identity.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
After that there was silence for a while, only the sound of the shovel biting into the earth and the hissing splatter of the loose dirt. They stood him up, his back to the well. In the dark, desperate sky, just above the scalloped line the treetops made, three stars formed a pleading little constellation. No one looked at them, no one cared. This was the time for death, not the time for mercy. ("The Number's Up")
Shadowhunter.' The creature on the left spoke in a hissing whisper. 'We did not know of you in this situation.' Isabelle raised a delicate eyebrow. 'And what situation would that be?' The second subjugate pointed a long gray finger at Simon. The nail on the end of it was yellowed and sharp. 'We have dealings with the Daylighter.' 'No, you don't, ' Simon said. 'I have no idea who you are. Never seen you before.
Every day, streets papered with more and more for. Reward, reward, reward. Reward for information. If you see something, say something. A paper town, a paper world: paper rustling in the airm whispering to me, hissing out a message of posion and jealousy. If you know something, do something. I'm sorry, Lena.
Well, look who's on my front porch, " he said, speaking Empire with this odd hissing accent. "A murderer and a cross-dressing pirate." I looked down at my clothes, ripped and shredded and covered in mud and sand and dried blood. I'd forgotten I was dressed like a boy. "So are you here to kill me or to rob me?" the man said. "I generally don't find it useful to glow when undertaking acts of subterfuge, but then, I'm just a wizard
Cassandra Rose Clarke
Um, there's a girl meeting her friend,' he went on. 'Her friend is giving her an ice-cream cone. Oh-it's dripping. Huh. It, uh, dripped on her...chest.' Iggy drew in a hissing breath. It's gonna stain for sure,' the Gasman said. 'That's chocolate.' Hmm,' Fang said, watching, the girl dab at her chest with a paper napkin.
You don't become an 'artist' unless you've got something missing somewhere. Blaise Pascal called it a God-shaped hole. Everyone's got one but some are blacker and wider than others. It's a feeling of being abandoned,cut adrift in space and time-sometimes following the loss of a loved one. You can never completely fill that hole-you can try with songs,family,faith and by living a full life...but when things are silent, you can still hear the hissing of what's missing.
You should make her call you 'Miss Georgina,'" added Hugh with a mocking southern drawl. "Or at least 'ma'am.'" Niphon's presence and Jerome's lecture had put me in a grouchy mood. "I'm not doing any mentoring. She's so gungho to take on the world's male population, she doesn't even need me." The three men exchanged more smirks. Cody made some hissing and meowing sounds, scratching at the air. "This isn't funny," I said. "Sure it is," said Cody.
Your skin is prickly from fatigue and pain and there is a hissing in your ears. Time passes and the pills are taking hold like a glowing white planet coming into view. A reverse eclipse. And you watch with your eyes closed. The white planet is half exposed, it grips your heart in its light and seems to be pulling you forward and now you feel that you are falling. You are awake but dreaming. "The earth is not beautiful but the universe is," you say.
The magic in that country was so thick and tenacious that it settled over the land like chalk-dust and over floors and shelves like slightly sticky plaster-dust. (Housecleaners in that country earned unusually good wages.) If you lived in that country, you had to de-scale your kettle of its encrustation of magic at least once a week, because if you didn't, you might find yourself pouring hissing snakes or pond slime into your teapot instead of water.
Portia followed after, a smirk on her face, and Syc hissed as he passed. Donegan waited till they were gone, then swung round to Gracious. "He hissed at me." "He hissed at you." "Should I hiss back?" "It's a bit late." "He could still hear." "Not unless you run after him." "Do you think I should?" "Probably not." "I think I should." "It'd be a bit weird." "You might be right." Donegan pursed his lips, then shook his fist at the doorway. "That showed him, " said Gracious. Donegan nodded. "He'll think twice about hissing at me again.
Ow!" Aideen suddenly hollered which earned a bark from my bedroom. "Go back asleep you fat shite!" Aideen shouted when I swiped the antiseptic wipe over a small cut above her eye. I hissed at her, "Leave him alone, he isn't fat. He just has a thick coat!" Aideen laughed through her hissing. "Yeah, a thick coat of blubber." I gave her a firm look. "Don't slag me baby when I'm cleanin' you up. Me finger might slip and jam into your eye.
Heavily and hypnotically,with her soul flattening itself back like the ears of a hissing cat,Kizzy leaned in and drank of Jack Husk's full,moist mouth,and his red,red lips were hungry against hers,drinking her in return.Their eyes closed.Fingers clutched at collars and hair,at the picnic blanket,at the grass.And as they sank down,pinning their shadows beneath them,the horizon tipped on its side,and slowly,thickly,hour by hour,the day spilled out and ebbed away. It was Kizzy's first kiss, and maybe it was her last, and it was delicious.
But now, our daily monkeyshines are such, our preoccupations are so low, our language has be come so debased, the words so blunted and damaged, we've said such stupid and dull things, the the higher beings hear only babbling and grunting and TV commercials - the dog-food level of things. This says nothing to them. What pleasure can these higher beings take in this kind of materialism, devoid of higher thought or poetry? As a result, all that we can hear in sleep is matter creaking and hissing and washing, the rustling of plants, and air conditioning. So we are incomprehensible to the higher beings. They can't influence us and they themselves suffer a corresponding privation.
Stare at him, " said Ghost. "They won't bite you if you keep staring at them." Steve backed away. "They bite?" Not really. They hiss at you, mostly. The only time geese are ever dangerous is when you happen to be standing on the edge of a cliff. I heard about a guy that almost got killed that way." By geese?" Yeah, there was a whole flock of them coming after him. All hissing and cackling and stabbing at his ankles with their big ol' beaks. He didn't know you had to stare them right in the eye, and he panicked. They backed him right over a fifty-foot cliff." So how come he didn't die?" This guy had wings, " said Ghost. "He flew away.
Poppy Z. Brite
In the great meteor shower of August, the Perseid, I wail all day for the shooting stars I miss. They're out there showering down, committing hari-kiri in a flame of fatal attraction, and hissing perhaps into the ocean. But at dawn what looks like a blue dome clamps down over me like a lid on a pot. The stars and planets could smash and I'd never know. Only a piece of ashen moon occasionally climbs up or down the inside of the dome, and our local star without surcease explodes on our heads. We have really only that one light, one source for all power, and yet we must turn away from it by universal decree. Nobody here on the planet seems aware of that strange, powerful taboo, that we all walk about carefully averting our faces, this way and that, lest our eyes be blasted forever.
The magic in that country was so thick and tenacious that it settled over the land like chalk-dust and over floors and shelves like sticky plaster-dust. (House-cleaners in that country earned unusually good wages.) If you lived in that country, you had to de-scale your kettle of its encrustation of magic at least once a week, because if you didn't, you might find yourself pouring hissing snakes or pond slime into your teapot instead of water. (It didn't have to be anything scary or unpleasant, especially in a cheerful household - magic tended to reflect the atmosphere of the place in which it found itself - but if you want a cup of tea, a cup of lavender-and-gold pansies or ivory thimbles is unsatisfactory.)
Would to God we were all Christians who profess to be Christians, and that we lived up to what we profess. Then would the Christian shine forth 'clear as the sun, fair as the moon, ' and what besides-why, 'amazing as an army with banners'! A consistent Church is an amazing Church-an honest, upright Church would shake the world! The tramp of godly men is the tramp of heroes; these are the thundering legions that sweep everything before them. The men that are what they profess to be, hate the semblance of a lie-whatever shape it wears-and would sooner die than do that which is dishonest, or that which would be degrading to the glory of a Heaven-born race, and to the honor of Him by whose name they have been called! O Christians! You will be the world's contempt; you will be their despising, and hissing unless you live for one objective!
Charles Haddon Spurgeon
SHE MADE IT STUMBLING IN OVER HER BAGGAGE TAKING IT ALL ON BOARD SHE COULDN'T TAKE MUCH MORE BUT IT'S UNDER CONTROL WHERE SHE CAN KEEP AN EYE AND HOLD YOU DON'T EVER WANT TO LOSE IT IN TRANSIT FIND YOUR SEAT FISH OUT YOUR WALKMAN, KATE FIND YOUR BREATH AGAIN YOU'VE HAD TO RUN ALL THE WAY TO THE GATE TO BARELY MAKE IT WHAT IS IT THAT YOU CAN'T SETTLE BACK THERE THAT YOU SETTLE SO FAR BACK IN YOUR CHAIR? BUCKLED UP BUCKLING UNDER UNDER SUNGLASSES THEY'RE TO PREVENT THIS SIGHT NOT FOR PROTECTION FOR NOW AND NOT FOR BRISBANE A TISSUE BALLED IN A FIST HEADPHONES HISSING AWAY IN YOUR EARS A CRACKLING ASCENT, LOUD AND OVER THE ENGINES THE INERTIA ISN'T NURSING BRACED TO ARMS NOT AT ALL EMBRACING COULD THIS MOMENTUM OVER ROB YOU OF YOUR WEIGHT? AT LEAST YOU'VE GOT KINESIS' BLESSING AND THE HEAVENS TO THANK YOU'RE FURTHER AWAY WHAT IS IT THAT YOU CAN'T SETTLE DOWN THERE THAT YOU CAN'T SETTLE DOWN WHILE YOU'RE UP HERE? MIGHT THIS ENDING HARD NOT CALM DOWN EASIER IN JUST AN HOUR'N A HALF?
My motto? Don't trust someone who is just as cagey as yourself." "What kind of detective are you?' 'A lousy one and proud of it. I write, remember?' She looked down at her hand and laughed. 'Berretta doesn't make lighters.' "Why I was a writer! My life revolved around fiction. I could make something up" "She looked down at her hand and laughed. 'Berretta doesn't make lighters.' "So they're not Tolstoy, they're a little shorter... Okay, okay a lot. Go ahead, read my mystery series anyway." "A detective has their boundaries especially me. So mine shifted occasionally... okay a lot" 'Beat it, Buster. My temper and this mace have a hair trigger.' 'Interference could be lethal.' I got right up in his face, hissing, 'Don't push me, I'm hormonal.' I'm not really a lousy detective, just rough around the edges.
Peggy A. Edelheit
It was gentler here, softer, its seethe the quietest of whispers, as if, in deference to a drawing room, it had quite deliberately put on its 'manners'; it kept itself out of sight, obliterated itself, but distinctly with an air of saying, 'Ah, but just wait! Wait till we are alone together! Then I will begin to tell you something new! Something white! something cold! something sleepy! something of cease, and peace, and the long bright curve of space! Tell them to go away. Banish them. Refuse to speak. Leave them, go upstairs to your room, turn out the light and get into bed - I will go with you, I will be waiting for you, I will tell you a better story than Little Kay of the Skates, or The Snow Ghost - I will surround your bed, I will close the windows, pile a deep drift against the door, so that none will ever again be able to enter. Speak to them!... ' It seemed as if the little hissing voice came from a slow white spiral of falling flakes in the corner by the front window - but he could not be sure. ("Silent Snow, Secret Snow")
The worst fear of the race yes, the world suddenly transformed into a senseless nightmare, horrible dissolution of things. Nothing compares, even oblivion is a sweet dream. You understand why, of course. Why this peculiar threat. These brooding psyches, all the busy minds everywhere. I hear them buzzing like flies in the blackness. I see them as glow worms flitting in the blackness. They are struggling, straining every second to keep the sky above them, to keep the sun in the sky, to keep the dead in the earth-to keep all things, so to speak, where they belong. What an undertaking! What a crushing task! Is it any wonder that they are all tempted by a universal vice, that in some dark street of the mind a single voice whispers to one and all, softly hissing, and says: 'Lay down your burden.' Then thoughts begin to drift, a mystical magnetism pulls them this way and that, faces start to change, shadows speak... sooner or later the sky comes down, melting like wax. But as you know, everything has not yet been lost: absolute terror has proved its security against this fate. Is it any wonder that these beings carry on the struggle at whatever cost?
But clouds bellied out in the sultry heat, the sky cracked open with a crimson gash, spewed flame-and the ancient forest began to smoke. By morning there was a mass of booming, fiery tongues, a hissing, crashing, howling all around, half the sky black with smoke, and the bloodied sun just barely visible. And what can little men do with their spades, ditches, and pails? The forest is no more, it was devoured by fire: stumps and ash. Perhaps illimitable fields will be plowed here one day, perhaps some new, unheard-of wheat will ripen here and men from Arkansas with shaven faces will weigh in their palms the heavy golden grain. Or perhaps a city will grow up-alive with ringing sound and motion, all stone and crystal and iron-and winged men will come here flying over seas and mountains from all ends of the world. But never again the forest, never again the blue winter silence and the golden silence of summer. And only the tellers of tales will speak in many-colored patterned words about what had been, about wolves and bears and stately green-coated century-old grandfathers, about old Russia; they will speak about all this to us who have seen it with our own eyes ten years - a hundred years! - ago, and to those others, the winged ones, who will come in a hundred years to listen and to marvel at it all as at a fairy tale. ("In Old Russia")
I've heard that when you're in a life-or-death situation, like a car accident or a gunfight, all your senses shoot up to almost superhuman level, everything slows down, and you're hyper-aware of what's happening around you. As the shuttle careens toward the earth, the exact opposite is true for me. Everything silences, even the screams and shouts from the people on the other side of the metal door, the crashes that I pray aren't bodies, the hissing of rockets, Elder's cursing, my pounding heartbeat. I feel nothing-not the seat belt biting into my flesh, not my clenching jaw, nothing. My whole body is numb. Scent and taste disappear. The only thing about my body that works is my eyes, and they are filled with the image before them. The ground seems to leap up at us as we hurtle toward it. Through the blurry image of the world below us, I see the outline of land-a continent. And at once, my heart lurches with the desire to know this world, to make it our home. My eyes drink up the image of the planet-and my stomach sinks with the knowledge that this is a coastline I've never seen before. I could spin a globe of Earth around and still be able to recognize the way Spain and Portugal reach into the Atlantic, the curve of the Gulf of Mexico, the pointy end of India. But this continent-it dips and curves in ways I don't recognize, swirls into an unknown sea, creating peninsulas in shapes I do not know, scattering out islands in a pattern I cannot connect. And it's not until I see this that I realize: this world may one day become our home, but it will never be the home I left behind.
What are you doing following me around the back streets of London, you little idiot?' Will demanded, giving her arm a light shake. Cecily's eyes narrowed. 'This morning it was cariad (note: Welsh endearment, like 'darling' or 'love'), now it's idiot.' 'Oh, you're using a Glamour rune. There's one thing to declare, you are not afraid of anything when you live in the country. But this is London.' 'I'm not afraid of London, ' Cecily said defiantly. Will leaned closer, almost hissing in her ear and said something very complicated in Welsh She laughed. 'No, it wouldn't do you any good to tell me to go home. You are my brother, and I want to go with you.' Will blinked at her words. You are my brother, and I want to go with you. It was the sort of thing he was used to hearing Jem say. Although Cecily was unlike Jem in every other conceivable possible way, she did share one quality with him. Stubbornness. When Cecily said she wanted something, it did not express an idle desire, but an iron determination. 'Do you even care where I'm going?' he said. 'What if I were going to hell?' 'I've always wanted to see hell, ' Cecily said. 'Doesn't everyone?' 'Most of us spend our time trying to stay out of it, Cecily. I'm going to an ifrit den, if you must know, to purchase drugs from vile, dissolute criminals. They may clap eyes on you, and decide to sell you.' 'Wouldn't you stop them?' 'I suppose it would depend on whether they cut me a part of the profit.' She shook her head. 'Jem is your parabatai, ' she said. 'He is your brother, given to you by the Clave, but I am your sister by blood. Why would you do anything for him, but you only want me to go home?' 'How do you know the drugs are for Jem?' Will said. 'I'm not an idiot, Will.' 'No, more's the pity. Jem- Jem is like the better part of me. I would not expect you to understand. I owe him. I owe him this.' 'So what am I?' Cecily said. Will exhaled, too desperate to check himself. 'You are my weakness.' 'And Tessa is your heart, ' she said, not angrily, but thoughtfully. 'I am not fooled. As I told you, I'm not an idiot. And more's the pity for you, although I suppose we all want things we can't have.' 'Oh, ' said Will, 'and what do you want?' 'I want you to come home.' A strand of black hair was stuck to her cheek by the dampness, and Will fought the urge to pull her cloak closer about her, to make her safe as he had when she was a child. 'The Institute is my home, ' Will sighed, and leaned his head against the stone wall. 'I can't stand out her arguing with you all evening, Cecily. If you're determined to follow me into hell, I can't stop you.' 'Finally, ' she said provingly. 'You've seen sense. I knew you would, you're related to me.' Will fought the urge to shake her. 'Are you ready?' She nodded, and he raised his hand to knock on the door.
Like the most of you, I was raised among people who knew - who were certain. They did not reason or investigate. They had no doubts. They knew that they had the truth. In their creed there was no guess - no perhaps. They had a revelation from God. They knew the beginning of things. They knew that God commenced to create one Monday morning, four thousand and four years before Christ. They knew that in the eternity - back of that morning, he had done nothing. They knew that it took him six days to make the earth - all plants, all animals, all life, and all the globes that wheel in space. They knew exactly what he did each day and when he rested. They knew the origin, the cause of evil, of all crime, of all disease and death. At the same time they knew that God created man in his own image and was perfectly satisfied with his work... They knew all about the Flood - knew that God, with the exception of eight, drowned all his children - the old and young - the bowed patriarch and the dimpled babe - the young man and the merry maiden - the loving mother and the laughing child - because his mercy endureth forever. They knew too, that he drowned the beasts and birds - everything that walked or crawled or flew - because his loving kindness is over all his works. They knew that God, for the purpose of civilizing his children, had devoured some with earthquakes, destroyed some with storms of fire, killed some with his lightnings, millions with famine, with pestilence, and sacrificed countless thousands upon the fields of war. They knew that it was necessary to believe these things and to love God. They knew that there could be no salvation except by faith, and through the atoning blood of Jesus Christ. Then I asked myself the question: Is there a supernatural power - an arbitrary mind - an enthroned God - a supreme will that sways the tides and currents of the world - to which all causes bow? I do not deny. I do not know - but I do not believe. I believe that the natural is supreme - that from the infinite chain no link can be lost or broken - that there is no supernatural power that can answer prayer - no power that worship can persuade or change - no power that cares for man. Is there a God? I do not know. Is man immortal? I do not know. One thing I do know, and that is, that neither hope, nor fear, belief, nor denial, can change the fact. It is as it is, and it will be as it must be. We can be as honest as we are ignorant. If we are, when asked what is beyond the horizon of the known, we must say that we do not know. We can tell the truth, and we can enjoy the blessed freedom that the brave have won. We can destroy the monsters of superstition, the hissing snakes of ignorance and fear. We can drive from our minds the frightful things that tear and wound with beak and fang. We can civilize our fellow-men. We can fill our lives with generous deeds, with loving words, with art and song, and all the ecstasies of love. We can flood our years with sunshine - with the divine climate of kindness, and we can drain to the last drop the golden cup of joy.
Robert G. Ingersoll
It was getting difficult to see exactly what was going on in the pool and a fourth officer jumped in as one came up with the unconscious form of the first cop. While others pulled the half-drowned man from the pool, three more wrestled Skorzeny to the surface and dragged him to the steps at the shallow end of the pool. He wasn't struggling any longer. Nor was he breathing with any apparent difficulty. The biggest of the three cops later admitted to punching him as hard as he could in the stomach and Skorzey doubled over. Another half-dragged him, still on his feet, shirt torn, jacket ripped, out of the pool and put a handcuff on his left wrist. Skorzeny pulled his arm away from the cop and, suddenly straightening, elbow-jabbed him in the gut, sending him sprawling and rolling back into the pool. Skorzeny turned toward the back fence and was now between the pool and a small palm tree. Before him were two advancing officers, pistols leveled. Behind him two more circled the pool. Skorzeny lunged forward and all fired simultaneously. The noise was deafening. Lights in neighboring houses began to go on. Skorzeny's body twitched and bucked as the heavy slugs ripped through his body. His forward momentum carried him into the officers ahead of him and he half-crawled, half-staggered to the southeast corner of the yard where another gate was set into the fiberglass fencing. Two more officers, across the pool, cut loose with their pistols, emptying them into this writing body which danced like a puppet. Another cop fired two shots from his pump-action shotgun and Skorzeny was lifted clean off his feet and slammed against the gate, sagging to the ground. En masse from both ends of the pool they advanced, when he gave out with a terrible hissing snarl and started to rise once more. All movement ceased as the cops, to a man, stood frozen in their tracks. Skorzeny stood there like some hideous caricature, his shredding clothing and skin hanging like limp rags from his scarecrow form. His flesh was ripped in several places and he was oozing something that looked like watered-down blood. It was pinkish and transparent. He stood there like a living nightmare. Then he straightened and raised his fist with the cuff still dangling from it like a charm bracelet. 'Fools!' he shrieked. 'You can't kill me. You can't even hurt me.' Overhead, the copter hovered, the copilot giving a blow-by-blow description of the fight over the radio. The police on the ground were paralyzed. Nearly thirty shots had been fired (the bullets later tallied in reports turned in by the participating officers) and their quarry was still as strong as ever. He'd been hit repeatedly in the head and legs, so a bulletproof vest wasn't the answer. And at distances sometimes as little as five feet, they could hardly have missed. They'd seen him hit. They stood frozen in an eerie tableau as the still roiling pool water threw weird reflections all over the yard. Then Skorzeny did the most frightening thing of all. He smiled. A red-rimmed, hideous grin revealing fangs that 'would have done justice to a Doberman Pinscher.