For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and never would be again. But the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. It smoldered, and then the fire went out. It was my eighteenth birthday.
I was real happy with the way we responded after falling behind early. We've really done that all year long. We haven't gotten down on ourselves when we've fallen behind. I think we answered their goal with one of our own about a minute and a half later. Once we got that first goal, it kind of ignited a fire for us the rest of the night.
The essential ingredients of these struggles for justice are human beings who, if only for a moment, if only while beset with fears, step out of line and do "something", however small. And even the smallest, most unheroic of acts adds to the store of kindling that may be ignited by some surprising circumstance into tumultuous change.
Can one be passionate about the just, the ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit no labor in its cause? I don't think so. All summations have a beginning, all effect has a story, all kindness beings with the sown seed. Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of light is the crossroads of - indolence, or action. Be ignited or be gone.
Fury ignited behind my breastbone , a hot glow like coals blooming into something sharp and dangerous. It was the same old crap- someone thinking they can push you around because you're young, because you're helpless. You had to just sit there and take it because you were under a certain number , because you weren't a real person yet; you could be picked up and dropped like a toy, left behind or thrown away...
Lili St. Crow
The only way I have ever understood, broken free, emerged, healed, forgiven, flourished, and grown powerful is by asking the hardest questions and then living into the answers through opening up to my own terror and transmuting it into creativity. I have gotten nowhere by retreating into hand-me-down sureties or resisting the tensions that truth ignited.
Sue Monk Kidd
The inextinguishable lesbian spark. You've surely heard about it? The one that was first ignited at Lesbos, because Sappho was so sad every time a young woman left the academy that she wrote her a poem. Fancy being sad because someone leaves! Perverted, that's what I call it. Don't you?
When her gaze landed upon his lips, he scooted closer and brushed his mouth over hers. Fire ignited low in his belly and desire coursed through his veins. No doubt, his John Thomas was doing all the thinking; he knew he should listen to the head between his shoulders, the one telling him this was a mistake, but the one between his legs was more insistent.
All my life, I have been surrounded by the track. The week I was born, Dad took me to training. I do recall at some stage being pushed around in a pram on a track. I have a lot of inspiration from him. To see him carrying the Sydney Olympic torch really ignited my dream. As a coach, he knows the in and outs of race walking and technique.
United have spent all season commemorating the 50th anniversary of Busby's decision to defy the Football League and take the club on a tragic and triumphant journey into Europe, but no orchestrated event could conjure the celebrations ignited by last night's outstanding obliteration of Roma or deliver a more fitting tribute.
The industrial real estate market completed one of its strongest demand cycles in history as several factors ignited the fire. For projects coming on line in 2005, record-low interest rates during the design phase 12 to 18 months prior provided additional incentive for development and absorption.
Now it's clear to me, I haven't understood as well as I should, the cracks on the ground we stood. A blast ignited through ballot boxes by the choices of unsuspecting and innocent Nigerians has rippled across the country and has torn the curtain open to set the stage for these cracks to grow into magnified quakes now swallowing us up.' - Dami K.
In my experience, copy editors, like the stalwart staff I've worked with and learned from in my 34 years at 'TIME,' are linguistic conservatives - the keepers of the flame ignited by the Strunk-White 'Elements of Style,' published in full in 1957 and chosen by 'TIME' as one of the 100 most influential nonfiction books of the past century.
Jackson couldn't bear to see Allie like this. He pulled her to him and, dropping his mouth to hers, kissed her. She leaned into him, letting him draw her even closer as the kiss deepened. Fireworks lit the night, booming in a blaze of glittering light before going dark again. Desire ignited his blood. He wanted Allie like he'd never wanted anyone or anything before.
The notion of political correctness has ignited controversy across the land. And although the movement arises from the laudable desire to sweep away the debris of racism and sexism and hatred it replaces old prejudices with new one. It declares certain topics off-limits, certain expressions off-limits, even certain gestures off-limits. What began as a crusade for civility has soured into a cause of conflict and even censorship.
George H. W. Bush
You said that if... " He trailed off, his expression hesitant and oddly defiant. "You said if I kissed you again without your permission, you'd slit my throat. Is that still the case?" Surprise jolted through her, but somehow she managed to keep her voice steady. "Yes. It is." He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips. His touch was so gentle it ignited a spark of fear. "Then I guess I'll ask permission." He paused. "Can I kiss you?"... "No." she burst out, shoving his hand away. "You can't.
Intuition is the wisdom formed by feeling and instinct - a gift of knowing without reasoning... Belief is ignited by hope and supported by facts and evidence - it builds alignment and creates confidence. Belief is what sets energy in motion and creates the success that breeds more success.
I believe it was Shakespeare, or possibly Howard Cosell, who first observed that marriage is very much like a birthday candle, in that 'the flames of passion burn brightest when the wick of intimacy is first ignited by the disposable butane lighter of physical attraction, but sooner or later the heat of familiarity causes the wax of boredom to drip all over the vanilla frosting of novelty and the shredded coconut of romance.' I could not have phrased it better myself.
What ignited the rocket that sent you up into the vast regions of comedy, and why? I would say, for me, that philosophical treatise about having black beginnings and wanting love to compensate for that, wanting audiences and wanting attention - I say, "Au contraire." Completely opposite. I want the continuation of my mother's incredible love and attention to me.
They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.
A move of the Spirit of God is coming to the Catholic Church. The youth in particular will be ignited with a fresh fire of zeal and passion for Christ and His Gospel. A radical company of Believers will arise in the Catholic Church during this move, and they will release a flow of God's love and truth into the nations.
Vampires do breathe, by the way, but their chests don't move like humans'. Have you ever lain in the arms of your sweetheart and tried to match your breathing to his, or hers? You do it automatically. Your brain only gets involved if your body is having trouble. Fortunately there was nothing about this situation that was like being in the arms of a sweetheart except that I was leaning against someone's naked chest. I could no more have breathed with him than I could have ignited gasoline and shot exhaust out my butt because I was sitting in the passenger seat of a car.
Spirituality is an inner fire, a mystical sustenance that feeds our souls. The mystical journey drives us into ourselves, to a sacred flame at our center. The purpose of the religious experience is to develop the eyes by which we see this inner flame, and our capacity to live its mystery. In its presence, we are warmed and ignited. When too far from the blaze, we are cold and spiritually lifeless. We are less than human without that heat. Our connection to God is life itself.
Seth laughed when he saw me. "Hey," I said, poking him with my foot, "be nice." "I think this is the first time I've ever seen you look anything less than... " He paused, playing with word choice. "Well-planned." "Why, you silver-tongued romantic devil. That is the look I usually go for. Other women go for sexy or chic or beautiful. But me? Well-planned all the way." "You know what I mean. Besides, unplanned isn't a bad look for you. Not bad at all." His voice sounded deliciously low and dangerous, and something ignited between us as we held each other's eyes.
I'M SYMPATHETIC, because I wasn't there so I don't know exactly what happened. Maybe Darren Wilson acted within his rights and duty as an officer of the law and killed Michael Brown in self defense like any of us would in the circumstance. Now he has to fear the backlash against himself and his loved ones when he was only doing his job. What a horrible thing to endure. OR maybe he provoked Michael and ignited the series of events that led to him eventually murdering the young man to prove a point.
My environmentalism reared its head around the age of ten when I inexplicably become obsessed with littering. For some reason I considered it my personal responsibility to pick up litter wherever I found it and yell at anyone I saw contributing to the problem (much to the horror of my mother). I was a ten-year-old on a mission to clean up the streets! But it was years later when I became a mother myself that concern for my kids' future really ignited my passion and set me on my course. Once I started reading and educating myself, there was no turning back.
I am inundated with feeling. I feel like a pinball machine on tilt. All the buzzers are ringing, lights are flashing, and I am about to fry my circuits. Nothing is coming in, and nothing is going out. I feel electrified. The wires ignited, sparked, and fizzled. I want it all to slow down. I go right to the water to douse my flame. I immerse myself in the hot water. I want to wash the smells off my body. I can smell Isabella's hair, her breath, and her child vaginal scent. My hair smells of smoke, and I want to wash Francis off me.
Holly A. Smith
Still want you?' I repeated quietly. 'Phoenix. I have wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you. Since the fire of our magic ignited when we touched for the first time, ' I pulled him gently to his feet, making him face me. 'You are my soul mate, Phoenix. You are it. You are my home, my heart. Literally, the other half of my soul.' I gripped him by his lapels. 'You are written into my DNA and you ask if I still want you.' I let him go and smiled. 'The answer is, and always will be, yes.' He kissed me fiercely, pressing me into his body. I ignored the twinge of my knife wound and kissed him back as I felt the fire in my soul begin to awaken once again.
The delight of the Torah is ignited by an inner awareness. A man begins to sense the great tapestry of each letter and point. Every concept and content, every notion and idea, of every spiritual movement, of every vibration, intellectual and emotional, from the immediate and general to the distant and detailed, from matters lofty, spiritual, and ethical according to their outward profile, to matters practical, obligatory, seemingly frightening, and forceful, and at the same time complex and full of content and great mental exertion - all together become known by a supernal holy awareness.
Abraham Isaac Kook
When God introduced man to the angels, Satan became the first racist. Satan belonged to a race of beings called angels, man to a new race of beings called humans. In Satan's mind, angels, particularly he himself, were far greater than mankind simply by design. In other words, Satan determined himself to superior to man based on immutable physical characteristics; therefore, he should not bow to man, man should bow to him. Although disobedience precipitated his fall, the concept of racial superiority ignited Satan's rebellion.
Amir Clayton Powell
It had seemed entirely sensible at the time. A simple way to test the truth of her claim that she had lain with de Villiers. To show her that lying to him was useless. To make a point. Instead, he had ignited a desire that burned him like none he had ever felt before. He had expected Lady Laurien d'Amboise to be a timid little convent mouse. Quiet and passive and pliant. Easily manageable. Instead she was outspoken and strong-willed... and stunning in a way he could not even describe. An innocent beauty caught up in a deadly game that was none of her making... Malcolm rose to leave, chuckling. "And what is there to laugh about?" Darach gave his jovial friend a dour look. Malcolm stopped just long enough to do his best imitation of Darach. "'Simple. Kidnap one French lass, hold her for a fortnight, and return her to de Villiers after he meets our demands. Perfectly simple.
I don't want to say it, I truly don't, but if you've gone this far I suppose it's obvious that what was ignited when I loved you continues to burn. But that's of small importance to you now, and that's how it should be. Everything is in its place. The past rests, breathing faintly in the darkness. It no longer holds me as it used to; now I must reach back to touch it. It is night and I am alone and there is still time, a moment more. I am standing on a long black stage, with a circle of light on me, which is my love for you, enduring. I have escaped-or have been expelled-from eternity and am back in time. But I step out once more to sing this aria, this confession, this testament without end. My arms open wide, not to embrace you but to embrace the world, the mystery we are caught in. There is no orchestra, no audience; it is an empty theater in the middle of the night and all the clocks in the world are ticking. And now for this last time, Jade, I don't mind, or even ask if it is madness: I see your face, I see you, you; I see you in every seat.
It was a lone tree burning on the desert. A heraldic tree that the passing storm had left afire. The solitary pilgrim drawn up before it had traveled far to be here and he knelt in the hot sand and held his numbed hands out while all about in that circle attended companies of lesser auxiliaries routed forth into the inordinate day, small owls that crouched silently and stood from foot to foot and tarantulas and solpugas and vinegarroons and the vicious mygale spiders and beaded lizards with mouths black as a chowdog's, deadly to man, and the little desert basilisks that jet blood from their eyes and the small sandvipers like seemly gods, silent and the same, in Jeda, in Babylon. A constellation of ignited eyes that edged the ring of light all bound in a precarious truce before this torch whose brightness had set back the stars in their sockets.
Years and years ago, there was a production of The Tempest, out of doors, at an Oxford college on a lawn, which was the stage, and the lawn went back towards the lake in the grounds of the college, and the play began in natural light. But as it developed, and as it became time for Ariel to say his farewell to the world of The Tempest, the evening had started to close in and there was some artificial lighting coming on. And as Ariel uttered his last speech, he turned and he ran across the grass, and he got to the edge of the lake and he just kept running across the top of the water - the producer having thoughtfully provided a kind of walkway an inch beneath the water. And you could see and you could hear the plish, plash as he ran away from you across the top of the lake, until the gloom enveloped him and he disappeared from your view. And as he did so, from the further shore, a firework rocket was ignited, and it went whoosh into the air, and high up there it burst into lots of sparks, and all the sparks went out, and he had gone. When you look up the stage directions, it says, 'Exit Ariel.
Have you ever known DEATH? Its creatures crawl amidst the lost soul you live wondering if ever they will survive off the bloodthirsty desires of your midnight screams. Shuuush. Can you hear the voices in your head? I listen as I hear them calling you. I sneak a peak up the stairs with just a mere candle gently lit @ the far off end to the hallway ... are you there? I hear foot prints ... perhaps the logs making witches cackling is all it is? There is no comfort to the lost. No settling to the fire ignited through their veins. Have you not rejoiced in the victory from your burning haunts? Sadness prevails and I loathe sadness. It eats at your bones like a sick little parasite. Stop the madness I plead. Cut its very existence out like the heart of a filthy swine. DEATH be to this demon madness. DEATH I say. Sleep sweetly for the addiction to aliveness comforts your weakened brokenness. [the torturous journey one plays in the outside lines of addiction ... as if experienced in the type of rock thrown down for it's victory. HOP SCOTCH. have we erased the sidewalk chalk?]
MA - Moon Angell
I am Cinna's bird, ignited, flying frantically to escape something inescapable. The feathers of flame that grow from my body. Beating my wings only fans the blaze. I consume myself, but to no end. Finally, my wings begin to falter, I lose height, and gravity pulls me into a foamy sea the color of Finnick's eyes. I float on my back, which continues to burn beneath the water, but the agony quiets to pain. When I am adrift and unable to navigate, that's when they come. The dead. The ones I loved fly as birds in the open sky above me. Soaring, weaving, calling to me to join them. I want so badly to follow them, but the seawater saturates my wings, making it impossible to lift them. The ones I hated have taken to the water, horrible scaled things that tear my salty flesh with needle teeth. Biting again and again. Dragging me beneath the surface. The small white bird tinged in pink dives down, buries her claws in my chest, and tries to keep me afloat. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" But the ones I hated are winning, and if she clings to me, she'll be lost as well. "Prim, let go!" And finally she does.
Hardly had Juana had time to get settled when there was a clatter in the courtyard. The night sprang into excitement; instructions were shouted, torches brought. And suddenly the doors burst open; suddenly Philip - hot, handsome, disheveled - strode in. Philip was blond and sturdy; the gunpowder-train of Juana's emotions, long and dark and twisting, exploded at last. Philip's eyes must have seen, if nothing else, a girl in virginal flush, a young body of sixteen. He could hardly endure the formal presentations of the nobles. As soon as they were ended, he did what is generally referred to as commanding the nearest cleric to marry them on the spot. This person, however - the Spaniard don Diego Villaescusa, Dean of Jaen - it was not in Philip's power to order about. But the fact that it must have been Juana who gave the command only serves to underline the mutuality of their haste and hunger. The Dean did as he was bidden; the ignited youngsters kneeled; Philip hurried Juana out. In a room on the rez de chaussee overlooking the turbulent river they tore off their clothes. Someone had managed to get a gilded crucifix nailed on the ceiling above the bed - surely one of the unnoticed ornaments (and, as things turned out, one of the most inappropriate) ever put up.
The travelers emerged into a spacious square. In the middle of this square were several dozen people on a wooden bandstand like in a public park. They were the members of a band, each of them as different from one another as their instruments. Some of them looked round at the approaching column. Then a grey-haired man in a colorful cloak called out and they reached for their instruments. There was a burst of something like cheeky, timid bird-song and the air - air that had been torn apart by the barbed wire and the howl of sirens, that stank of oily fumes and garbage - was filled with music. It was like a warm summer cloud-burst ignited by the sun, flashing as it crashed down to earth. People in camps, people in prisons, people who have escaped from prison, people going to their death, know the extraordinary power of music. No one else can experience music in quite the same way. What music resurrects in the soul of a man about to die is neither hope nor thought, but simply the blind, heart-breaking miracle of life itself. A sob passed down the column. Everything seemed transformed, everything had come together; everything scattered and fragmented -home, peace, the journey, the rumble of wheels, thirst, terror, the city rising out of the mist, the wan red dawn - fused together, not into a memory or a picture but into the blind, fierce ache of life itself. Here, in the glow of the gas ovens, people knew that life was more than happiness - it was also grief. And freedom was both painful and difficult; it was life itself. Music had the power to express the last turmoil of a soul in whose blind depths every experience, every moment of joy and grief, had fused with this misty morning, this glow hanging over their heads. Or perhaps it wasn't like that at all. Perhaps music was just the key to a man's feelings, not what filled him at this terrible moment, but the key that unlocked his innermost core. In the same way, a child's song can appear to make an old man cry. But it isn't the song itself he cries over; the song is simply a key to something in his soul.
Siberian Plains January 1st, 2020, 2:15 AM Georgy was out for a late night stroll. A drifter, who was close to death, it was difficult to find adequate nutrition, when you were homeless. He didn't have any family, was an orphan raised by a nun in an Omsk church. He didn't believe in a God, which made him a disappointment in the eyes of those who raised him. How could he, when he was abandoned so cruelly? What God would allow that to happen? What God would allow a boy to be tossed away by his parents, left to die on the street? He'd tried to integrate into society, but everyone pissed him off. He tried to work, and was fired for being drunk on the job. He was drunk right now. He might be dying of malnutrition, but he would do it drunk! Georgy heard a strange noise, looked into the night sky, and gasped. There were people flying. He rubbed his eyes, and looked again. People still hovered above him, high up there. Did they already have jet packs invented? Was he that out of the loop? They looked to be wearing something, which billowed as they moved. Some were red, others blue, green, a few yellow. All except the figure in front, who wore one of many different colors, which flapped about. The strange thing was that they all stood upright as they moved forward. How did that work? 'Welcome to death, ' The Man whispered in his ear. Georgy flew, screaming, into the sky. A horrible burn ignited his flesh, as if fire ants burrowed out of his insides. When he looked down he noticed his body, sprawled about on the snowy ground. He felt himself pulled towards the group of flying, robed, masked people. He circled around them, and realized movement was out of his control. He stopped screaming and tried to speak to one of them. Speech was difficult, but he managed after a few false starts of simple sounds. 'Where are we going?' Georgy asked a red-robed individual. 'To kill the unworthy, and bring about the Age of the Shaman, ' the red-robed figure replied. 'Oh, is that all?' Georgy said. 'You will pay for your insolence, ' the red-robed figure warned him. In a second, it felt like his whole being was engulfed in flames. Georgy screamed, the pain unbearable. 'Twenty hours of that should shut you up, ' the red-robed figure said.
Sean M. Thompson