It was one of those decisions that shouldn't have been so easy to get so wrong. Go on your own or take the half wasted waif. She was wearing denim hotpants with a pink vest top, and was hanging off his arm, more for stability than closeness, so he propped her up against the wall next to the counter and reached inside his coat pocket for his badge. It was definitely his badge, he clearly remembered stealing it two years before whilst in California.
You pathetic humans! It escapes me how you endure any trial long enough even to breed, yet here you are. And why do your kind persist at all? Because every now and then—once a century, perhaps—ONE of you understands this: Death is what you accept only when you have spent all that you are—to the very last drop of your sweat and blood—in order to save what you love. That, son of Koronolan, is what a hero, a true warrior, would do.
Some justice, though did not deal with kindheartedness or good feeling toward others. No, justice had a darker side, a gray area where it mingled alongside vengeance, and only the wise and pure of heart were able to tell the two apart. That kind of justice was swift. It was only called upon afer mercy and morals fail. It was the darkest form of goodness known to anyone, even the gods, and required only the strongest, most daring men to bring about.
She could have rambled with all the fervor of a woman who had loved one entity for longer than most races live, and with the inviolable, unquestioned certainty found in dementia. There were references dated and sealed with meticulous care which she would have enthusiastically opened with the mirth of one proclaiming a lifetime of honors and awards. But that singular event was freshly disturbed; its pores still drifted on the faint zephyr of remembrance.
Many readers simply can't stomach fantasy. They immediately picture elves with broadswords or mighty-thewed barbarians with battle axes, seeking the bejeweled Coronet of Obeisance ... (But) the best fantasies pull aside the velvet curtain of mere appearance. ... In most instances, fantasy ultimately returns us to our own now re-enchanted world, reminding us that it is neither prosaic nor meaningless, and that how we live and what we do truly matters.
Didn’t your mom teach you to not creep up on a girl in a hearse?” I snapped even though I knew my situation wasn’t normal at all, and no mom taught their kid that.He chuckled lightly as he stared at me, humour in his eyes. “No. Actually missed out on that one. But then again, I thought you would’ve noticed me, with me having stood here for the past…” he stared at his non-existent watch, “… three minutes.
Of all the questions we leave unanswered the one that comes back to haunt us the most is :"What if…" What if I'd married my college sweetheart? What if I had the good sense not to? What if I had been born in this job market? What if... What if I'd planned a little less? What if I'd lived a little more? What if I'd chucked it all and started my own company? 'What ifs' are never idle fantasy. These are our hopes, dreams and desires
Faris turned on him. "Why choose to wear black today, of all days? I know why I'm in black. Why are you? Mourning?He looked startled. "One does not wear mourning for a servant."You still don't understand, do you? He was not my servant."He regarded her anger, aghast. "What then? What else could he be?Her empty hands shook as she held them out to him. Her voice shook as she replied, "Glove to my hand." Slowly she closed her fists. "Everything.
The fantastic in literature doesn't exist as a challenge to what is probable, but only there where it can be increased to a challenge of reason itself: the fantastic in literature consists, when all has been said, essentially in showing the world as opaque, as inaccessible to reason on principle. This happens when Piranesi in his imagined prisons depicts a world peopled by other beings than those for which it was created. ("On the Fantastic in Literature")
As an artist, i live in fantasy and flirt with reality. I'm an emotional magician of sorts. I paint my feelings onto the abstract canvas of a waking dream. I suspend my concepts in the ether's of otherworldly realms. This is the way my existence has always been. I am untethered, a traveler between worlds. I sinuously slip in and out of the real and surreal, until, they are one and the same. I do not like being shackled or chained, to the physical plane.
My Manager forced me to put my beetle in my own ear, a clear waste and an act that gave me nightmares: of a burning city through which giant carnivorous lizards prowled, eating survivors off of balconies. In one particularly vivid moment, I stood on a ledge as the jaws closed in, heat-swept, and tinged with the smell of rotting flesh. Beetles intended for the tough, tight minds of children should not be used by adults. We still remember a kinder, gentler world.
There are more than straight good and evil, aye, even more than law or disorders or fence-sittin'. There's prejudice, whimsey, affection, superstition, habit, upbringing, alliance, pride, society, morals, animosity, preference, values, religon, circumstance, humor, perversity, honor, vengeance, jealousy, frustration...hundreds o' factors, from the past and in every present moment, as decides what some one person'll do in an individious situation.
He takes my face in his hands and presses his lips against mine – a tender, beautiful kiss – the kiss I’ve waited for forever. He quickly pulls his shirt over his head and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of his muscular body and smooth skin. He pushes Ordinary gently to the bottom of the bunk and climbs in next to me. Wrapping his arms around me, he lays his head next to mine. At last, we sleep.' ...from Notes on a Rebellion
The mouse began to shift and Kammy marvelled at the sight. Soon a second boy stood before her. She hardly noticed Eric appear beside him.He was dressed much like Eric, though his shirt hung looser on his slimmer frame. His hair was a fluffy, chocolate mess. He was taller than Eric and he glared between them both before his eyes came to rest fully on Kammy. The first thing she noticed was the purple bruise on his cheek. The second was how bright his blue eyes were.
Awareness is our true self; it’s what we are. So we don’t have to try to develop awareness; we simply need to notice how we block awareness, with our thoughts, our fantasies, our opinions, and our judgments. We’re either in awareness, which is our natural state, or we’re doing something else. The mark of mature students is that most of the time, they don’t do something else. They’re just here, living their life. Nothing special.
