Of course the people in the metro didn't see a thing!... what a joke! petrified ratlets! but they'll still come out to refute me! make claims!... that nothing got bombed!... squished! powdered! that the firmament was calm, and me, I imagined the whole thing! chrysanthemums, sprays, roses! why, there's no more any such thing as sky-hooking shrapnel than there is anal ice cream! it's all in my mind! hallucinations and bullshit! what a crook! but I repeat and reassert! shrapnel and fiery lace stretched from one end of the horizon to the other! with lots of glow-worms mixed in... and dancing purple fireflies...
He's probably somewhere right now eating a Big-N-Tasty. The man has a coffee pot, a microwave, AND a mini refrigerator in his classrooom. If you plan on having a conversation with him, I suggest you do it over the phone. Otherwise, you'll need a motorcycle helmet just to avoid the Snickers shrapnel flying from his mouth!
There's something wonderfully exciting about the quiet sing song of an aeroplane overhead with all the guns in creation lighting out at it, and searchlights feeling their way across the sky like antennae, and the earth shaking snort of the bombs and the whimper of shrapnel pieces when they come down to patter on the roof.
John Dos Passos
In the pause that followed, Shane understood why people said their hearts broke. She always thought it was a weak metaphor of strong emotion. She could feel each bit of shrapnel from her heart stab at her stomach and lungs. Her knees gave out beneath her as she heard the voice tell her what she already knew in her fragments of cardiac tissue.
If that's how it all started, then we might as well face the fact that what's left out there is a great deal of shrapnel and a whole bunch of cinders (one of which is, fortunately, still hot enough and close enough to be good for tanning). Trying to find some sense and order in this mess may be as futile as trying to ... reconstruct the economy of Iowa from a bowl of popcorn. [On searching for evidence of the Big Bang.]
Accidents happen, whether they're car accidents, friendly fire, drug overdoses. Accidents happen, and they're tragic. It's like a bomb that goes off and pieces of shrapnel rip into the flesh of the family. It's the families that need the compassion, because everywhere they walk, every day, someone reminds them of their loss.
I held my hand out. 'Give me a grenade.' Andrea pulled open her backpack and slid a grenade into my palm. 'Wait until they start shooting the Jeep. Boom comes first, shrapnel flies second. Count to ten before you run in there. And don't blow the device up.' 'Yes, Mother. It's not my first time.' 'That's the thanks I get for trying to keep you alive, Your Highness.
If you are a twin, you watch yourself live two lives-yours and hers. It's constant comparison. I am never as good as the bad I wanted her to be. I was the only soldier I needed. We couldn't haven known what splitting would mean. Time speeds past fast, scattering like shrapnel, and is quiet as cobwebs. We wait for the ambush. Sister will find out first; she'll be my living memory. She will be the body left standing.
Strike against war, for without you no battles can be fought! Strike against manufacturing shrapnel and gas bombs and all other tools of murder! Strike against preparedness that means death and misery to millions of human beings! Be not dumb, obedient slaves in an army of destruction! Be heroes in an army of construction!
Between his dueling and military career, Jackson had been shot so many times that scholars says he "rattled like a bag of marbles" when he walked as a result of all of the never-removed bullets taking up residence in his body. The pieces of shrapnel he carries around like internal medals of honor are about ten times larger than your balls and infinity times as armored.
NAMES CARVED INTO GRANITE CIVILIANS USED AS PAWNS IN A DEMON'S POWER GAMES. BUILDINGS CRUMBLE, PLANES FALL, BLOWN OUT OF THE SKY. SHRAPNEL FROM A CAR BOMB TAKES THE LIVES OF ALL WHO WERE NEAR. TERROR TACTICS DESIGNED TO SPREAD DISORDER AND FEAR. POTENTIAL MILITARY TARGETS ARE LEFT UNTOUCHED BY THE COWARDS WHO INSTEAD KILL UNCONNECTED INNOCENTS. TO THE LEVEL OF THE ANTAGONISTS. AN INANE FUTILITY THAT ONLY COMPOUND THE WRONG. HATRED THAT ERASES SENSE FUELS RIVALRY INTO AN ESCAPE OF ATROCITY AFTER ATROCITY. WITHOUT AN END. POTENTIAL MILITARY TARGETS ARE LEFT UNTOUCHED BY THE COWARDS WHO INSTEAD KILL UNCONNECTED INNOCENTS. CIVILIANS USED AS PAWNS IN A DEMONS POWER GAMES. BUILDINGS CRUMBLE, PLANES FALL, BLOWN OUT OF THE SKY. SHRAPNEL FROM A CAR BOMB TAKES THE LIVES OF ALL WHO WERE NEAR. TERROR TACTICS DESIGNED TO SPREAD DISORDER AND FEAR. THE NAMES CARVED INTO GRANITE ARE REVEALED AS THE SNOW IS BRUSHED AWAY. FINGERTIPS TRACE ACROSS THEM. MEMORIES ARE ALL THAT REMAIN.
When the invasion began, the British public was called upon to 'support' troops sent illegally and undemocratically to kill people with whom we had no quarrel. 'The ultimate test of our professionalism' is how Commander McKendrick describes an unprovoked attack on a nation with no submarines, no navy and no air force, and now with no clean water and no electricity and, in many hospitals, no anaesthetic with which to amputate small limbs shredded by shrapnel. I have seen elsewhere how this is done, with a gag in the patient's mouth.
Every morning, I get up, get out of bed, and get on my knees and thank God for waking up in America ... (She is) the light of the world ... A nation of heroes ... The real stars are wearing body armor on top of their battle dress uniforms in 130 degree heat and they do not have stunt doubles to come in for them when the going gets rough and the bullets and the shrapnel start flying. They are the real stars, fighting terrorism and trying to free a nation.
Thinking has a quiet skin. But I feel the and of things inside it. Blue hills most gentle in calm light, then stretches of assail And ransack. Such tangles of charred wreckage, shrapnel-bits Singling and singeing where they fall. I feel the stumbling gait of what I am, The quiet uproar of undone, how to be hidden is a tempting, violent thing- Each thought breaking always in another. All the unlawful elsewheres rushing in.
A big slice of the strange, a zap to the synaptic net, the shock of unending Otherness moistened with meaning, special stinks, grace notes, blaring daylight that illuminated without instructing. A marathon that addicted. To wake up from cold sleep and go into that, fresh from the gewgaws and flashy bubble gum of techno-Earth, was - well, a consummation requiring digestion. She could see that Redwing worried at this, could not let it go. Neither could she. Vexing thoughts came, flying strange and fragrant through her mind, but they were not problems, no. They were the shrapnel you carried, buried deep, wounds from meeting the strange.
There was nothing green left; artillery had denuded and scarred every inch of ground. Tiny flares glowed and disappeared. Shrapnel burst with bluish white puffs. Jets of flamethrowers flickered and here and there new explosions stirred up the rubble. While I watched, an American observation plane droned over the Japanese lines, spotting targets for the U.S. warships lying offshore. Suddenly the little plane was hit by flak and disintegrated. The carnage below continued without pause. Here I was safe, but tomorrow I would be there. In that instant I realized that the worst thing that could happen to me was about to happen to me.
His friends told him that nobody was interested in his goddam soul unless it was the priest and he managed to answer that no priest taking orders from no pope was going to tamper with his soul. They told him he didn't have any soul and left for the brothel. He took a long time to believe them because he wanted to believe them. All he wanted was to believe them and get rid of it once and for all, and he saw opportunity here to get rid of it without corruption, to be converted to nothing instead of to evil. The army sent him halfway around the world and forgot him. He was wounded and they remembered him long enough to take the shrapnel out of his chest - they said they took it out but they never showed it to him and he felt it still in there, rusted, and poisoning him - and then they sent him to another desert and forgot him again. He had all the time he could want to study his soul in and assure himself that it was not there. When he was thoroughly convinced, he saw that this was something that he had always known.
Bloomsbury lost Fry, in 1934, and Lytton Strachey before him, in January 1932, to early deaths. The loss of Strachey was compounded by Carrington's suicide just two months after, in March. Another old friend, Ka Cox, died of a heart attack in 1938. But the death, in 1937, of Woolf 's nephew Julian, in the Spanish Civil War, was perhaps the bitterest blow. Vanessa found her sister her only comfort: 'I couldn't get on at all if it weren't for you' (VWB2 203). Julian, a radical thinker and aspiring writer, campaigned all his life against war, but he had to be dissuaded by his family from joining the International Brigade to fight Franco. Instead he worked as an ambulance driver, a role that did not prevent his death from shrapnel wounds. Woolf 's Three Guineas, she wrote to his mother, was written 'as an argument with him
He was just a small church parson when the war broke out, and he Looked and dressed and acted like all parsons that we see. He wore the cleric's broadcloth and he hooked his vest behind. But he had a man's religion and he had a stong man's mind. And he heard the call to duty, and he quit his church and went. And he bravely tramped right with 'em every- where the boys were sent. He put aside his broadcloth and he put the khaki on; Said he'd come to be a soldier and was going to live like one. Then he'd refereed the prize fights that the boys pulled off at night, And if no one else was handy he'd put on the gloves and fight. He wasn't there a fortnight ere he saw the sol- diers' needs, And he said: "I'm done with preaching; this is now the time for deeds." He learned the sound of shrapnel, he could tell the size of shell From the shriek it make above him, and he knew just where it fell. In the front line trench he laboured, and he knew the feel of mud, And he didn't run from danger and he wasn't scared of blood. He wrote letters for the wounded, and he cheered them with his jokes, And he never made a visit without passing round the smokes. Then one day a bullet got him, as he knelt be- side a lad Who was "going west" right speedy, and they both seemed mighty glad, 'Cause he held the boy's hand tighter, and he smiled and whispered low, "Now you needn't fear the journey; over there with you I'll go." And they both passed out together, arm in arm I think they went. He had kept his vow to follow everywhere the boys were sent.
Edgar A. Guest
Dear Mary Duende, It's freezing here in the trenches, but loneliness is colder than any hyperthermia. Gunshots and shrapnel have become my companions. But life is better now than it was when I was at the law firm. How are our children? Does Pierre still spend his days roaming the countryside collecting cattle skulls? Maybe one day people will see the value of making soup bowls out of skulls. Pay no attention to the blood smears on this letter, for it is neither mine, nor any other human. We had to sacrifice our sheep to gain some ground. The blood kind of looks like spaghetti sauce in the light of the setting sun, but I wish it tasted as good as your spaghetti sauce. I'm sorry I slept with your sister. I didn't realize she was an invalid. Even though her hair smelled like horse entrails, I still should have refrained myself. I have no hobbies now, so I've taken up biting my fingernails as I ponder life's many psychological constructs. I have enclosed some of yesterday's fingernails, so you could put them in your brassiere and think of me as they scratch your bosom the way I used to do in jealousy when you were nursing Pierre. The Germans are shooting at us again, so I'd better close here. I send my love in the form of a bloody sock off my left foot. Think of me as you huff it. I miss the way your hair smelled as it would fall across my face. When are you going to send me some more clippings and glue, so I might attach it to my forehead? It brings me great luck in combat. With Love, Lorca Duende
1. I told you that I was a roadway of potholes, not safe to cross. You said nothing, showed up in my driveway wearing roller-skates. 2. The first time I asked you on a date, after you hung up, I held the air between our phones against my ear and whispered, 'You will fall in love with me. Then, just months later, you will fall out. I will pretend the entire time that I don't know it's coming.' 3. Once, I got naked and danced around your bedroom, awkward and safe. You did the same. We held each other without hesitation and flailed lovely. This was vulnerability foreplay. 4. The last eight times I told you I loved you, they sounded like apologies. 5. You recorded me a CD of you repeating, 'You are beautiful.' I listened to it until I no longer thought in my own voice. 6. Into the half-empty phone line, I whispered, 'We will wake up believing the worst in each other. We will spit shrapnel at each other's hearts. The bruises will lodge somewhere we don't know how to look for and I will still pretend I don't know its coming.' 7. You photographed my eyebrow shapes and turned them into flashcards: mood on one side, correct response on the other. You studied them until you knew when to stay silent. 8. I bought you an entire bakery so that we could eat nothing but breakfast for a week. Breakfast, untainted by the day ahead, was when we still smiled at each other as if we meant it. 9. I whispered, 'I will latch on like a deadbolt to a door and tell you it is only because I want to protect you. Really, I'm afraid that without you I mean nothing.' 10. I gave you a bouquet of plane tickets so I could practice the feeling of watching you leave. 11. I picked you up from the airport limping. In your absence, I'd forgotten how to walk. When I collapsed at your feet, you refused to look at me until I learned to stand up without your help. 12. Too scared to move, I stared while you set fire to your apartment - its walls decaying beyond repair, roaches invading the corpse of your bedroom. You tossed all the faulty appliances through the smoke out your window, screaming that you couldn't handle choking on one more thing that wouldn't just fix himself. 13. I whispered, 'We will each weed through the last year and try to spot the moment we began breaking. We will repel sprint away from each other. Your voice will take months to drain out from my ears. You will throw away your notebook of tally marks from each time you wondered if I was worth the work. The invisible bruises will finally surface and I will still pretend that I didn't know it was coming.' 14. The entire time, I was only pretending that I knew it was coming.