burned

The Loneliness of the Military HistorianConfess: it's my professionthat alarms you.This is why few people ask me to dinner,though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary.I wear dresses of sensible cutand unalarming shades of beige,I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's:no prophetess mane of mine,complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters.If I roll my eyes and mutter,if I clutch at my heart and scream in horrorlike a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene,I do it in private and nobody seesbut the bathroom mirror.In general I might agree with you:women should not contemplate war,should not weigh tactics impart

Remembering that only a few years ago men, women, and even children, were imprisoned, tortured and burned, for having expressed in an exceedingly mild and gentle way, the ideas entertained by me, I congratulate myself that calumny is now the pulpit's last resort. The old instruments of torture are kept only to gratify curiosity; the chains are rusting away, and the demolition of time has allowed even the dungeons of the Inquisition to be visited by light. The church, impotent and malicious, regrets, not the abuse, but the loss of her power, and seeks to hold by falsehood what she gained by cruelty and force, by fire and fear. Christianity cannot live in peace with any other form of faith. If that religion be true, there is but one savior, one inspired book, and but one little narrow grass-grown path that leads to heaven. Such a religion is necessarily uncompromising, unreasoning, aggressive and insolent. Christianity has held all other creeds and forms in infinite contempt, divided the world into enemies and friends, and verified the awful declaration of its founder__ declaration that wet with blood the sword he came to bring, and made the horizon of a thousand years lurid with the fagots' flames.

Everything that has ever been beautiful has been burned. Like you.

Sam sent me to give you a message, Edilio. He said, __ell Edilio I couldn__ kill the bugs.____he things that came out of Hunter?_ Howard asked.Taylor closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out and rolled down her cheeks. __es. The things that came out of Hunter. Sam shot them, you know, with his light. But they__e like, reflective or whatever. Anyway, it didn__ kill them.

Life isn't worth living if you're scared all the time. -Jordan

Not enough youths fighting windmills. And the old are fearful, jaded or dead. Do not ask me what to do. I am just as cowardly as you. And do not tell me it is enough to speak the truth; that it is bravery enough. Every mountain leveled to the ground, every forest burned, every man, woman, and child who lost their shanties to arsonist fires were defended to the heavens__ith words.

I write our names on the page.What of it, if the paper will be burned?I write our names in the sand.What of it, if the shore will be washed by waves?I write our names on trees that will be cutand benches that will be painted,but what of it?I will keep on writing our namesbecause in this world of ephemera, You and I are the only constant.

Oh for craps sake. You're not dying again, are you? It's seriously inconvenient when you do that." -Aphrodite

Girl Without HandsWalking through the ruinson your way to workthat do not look like ruinswith the sunlight pouring overthe seen worldlike hail or meltedsilver, that brightand magnificent, each leafand stone quickened and specific in it,and you can't hold it,you can't hold any of it. Distance surrounds you,marked out by the ends of your armswhen they are stretched to their fullest.You can go no farther than this,you think, walking forward,pushing the distance in front of youlike a metal cart on wheelswith its barriers and horizontals.Appearance melts away from you,the offices and pyramidson the horizon shimmer and cease.No one can enter that circleyou have made, that clean circleof dead space you have madeand stay inside,mourning because it is clean.Then there's the girl, in the white dress,meaning purity, or the failureto be any colour. She has no hands, it's true.The scream that happened to the airwhen they were taken offsurrounds her now like an aureoleof hot sand, of no sound.Everything has bled out of her.Only a girl like thiscan know what's happened to you.If she were here she wouldreach out her arms towardsyou now, and touch youwith her absent handsand you would feel nothing, but you would betouched all the same.

No, Kramisha, he's not black. He's a killer bird with evil for his Daddy.

Hunter__ dead,_ Taylor said without preamble. __t was these . . . these things. They came crawling up out of him and were eating him, oh God, I mean, it was like . . . I mean he was crying and Dekka prayed with him and he tried to fry his own brain just like he did with Harry only I guess it didn__ work, I guess he couldn__ do it, so Sam . . ._ She swallowed. __nyone have some water?___hat about Sam?_ Astrid demanded.__e did it for him. Sam. I mean, he . . . Hunter was, you know . . . so Sam._ She pantomimed raising her hands, like Sam, like he would do when using his power.Astrid closed her eyes and crossed herself.__est in peace,_ Edilio said and crossed himself as well.__am burned the boy?_ Howard asked. Then, bitterly sarcastic said, __eah, you all pray to Jesus. Because Jesus is really providing a lot of help here. Sounds to me like Sam was the one doing what had to be done.

I drag the body out into the snowdrifts, as far away from our shack as I can muster. I put her in a thicket of trees, where the green seems to still have a voice in the branches, and try not to think about the beasts that__l soon be gathering. There__ no way of burying her; the ground is a solid rock of ice beneath us.I kneel beside her and want desperately to weep. My throat tightens and my head aches. Everything hurts inside. But I have no way of releasing it. I__ locked up and hard as stone.____ sorry, Mamma,_ I whisper to the shell in front of me. I take her hand. It could belong to a glass doll. There__ no life there anymore. So I gather rocks, one by one, and set them over her, trying my best to protect her from the birds, the beasts, keep her safe as much as I can now. I pile the dark stones gently on her stomach, her arms, and over her face, until she becomes one with the mountain. I stand and study my work, feeling like the rocks are on me instead, then I leave the body for the forest and ice.

A fire, if it is large enough, is not easily contained. Sparks fly out, and the wind carries them in all directions. Like its brothers, the fire...in Mirusia__ heart spewed forth sparks, and, without her consciously realizing what was happening, they began to ignite that which had no reason to be burned.

She's fire...but she will not burn you. She knows all too well how it feels to live with ashes.

To carry a secret is to play with fire. Try to pass it on and you'd risk hurting someone else. Hold on to it and eventually you'd get burned.

Some peopleAre worthy of a bullet straightto the heart because that is wherecruelty evolves into evil.Somehumans aren't human at all,despite how they appear.Humanity is what lives insidepeople,harbored beneath skin, flesh,and bone.

In choosing a hypothesis there is no virtue in being timid. I clearly would have been burned at the stake in another age.

and everything burned in blue, everything a star