Blood Your Hands Quotes & Sayings

When the ships had lifted, they returned across the river to the silence of death. Then his grandfather told him, "Many fine things your father had planned for you: learning and useful work and a life of satisfaction and peace. Do you recall this?"
"Yes, Grandfather."
"The learning you shall have. You will learn patience and resource, the ability of your hands and your mind. You will have useful work: the destruction of evil men. What work could be more useful? This is Beyond; you will find that your work is never done - so therefore you may never know life of peace. However, I guarantee you ample satisfaction, for I will teach you to crave the blood of these men more than the flesh of woman."
The old man had been as good as his word. — Jack Vance

Cosca smiled up at the dragon, hands on hips. 'It certainly is a remarkable curiosity. A magnificent relic. But against what is already boiling across the plains? The legion of the dumb? The merchants and farmers and makers of trifles and filers of papers? The infinite tide of greedy little people?' He waved his hat towards the dragon. 'Such things as this are worthless as a cow against a swarm of ants. There will be no place in the world to come for the magical, the mysterious, the strange. They will come to your sacred places and build . . . tailors' shops. And dry-goods emporia. And lawyers' offices. They will make of them bland copies of everywhere else.' The old mercenary scratched thoughtfully at his rashy neck. 'You can wish it were not so. I wish it were not so. But it is so. I tire of lost causes. The time of men like me is passing. The time of men like you?' He wiped a little blood from under his fingernails. 'So long passed it might as well have never been. — Joe Abercrombie

Behold the Lord of Life nailed to a cross, with the thorn-crown about his brow, with bleeding head, and hands, and feet. What! can you look upon this miracle of miracles, the death of the Son of God, without feeling within your bosom a marvellous adoration that language never can express? And when you feel the blood applied to your conscience, and know that he has blotted out your sins, you are not a man unless you start from your knees and cry, Let the whole earth be filled with his glory; Amen, and Amen. — Charles Haddon Spurgeon

So what will happen to your consciousness [after you die]? *Your* consciousness, yours, not anyone else's. Well, what are *you*? There's the point. Let's try to find out. What is it about you that you have always known as yourself? What are you conscious of in yourself? Your kidneys? Your liver? Your blood vessels? No. However far back you go in your memory, it is always in some external, active manifestation of yourself that you come across your identity
in the work of your hands, in your family, in other people. And now listen carefully. You in others
this is your soul. This is what you are. This is what your consciousness has breathed and lived on and enjoyed throughout your life
your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what now? You have always been in others and you will remain in others. And what does it matter to you if later on that is called your memory? This will be you
the you that enters the future and becomes part of it. — Boris Pasternak

Have you seen your sin in light of the Law of God? Do you understand in your heart of hearts that if every secret sin is manifest on the Day of Wrath and if justice had its way, you would fall like lightning into hell? Have you fallen prostrate in the blood-soaked earth at the foot of the cross? Have you pictured Jesus Christ crucified? Have you seen the precious blood pouring from His hands and His feet, and cried, "For me He dies"? If you have, horror mingled with unspeakable gratitude will drive you to your knees, and you will whisper, "Oh, God, because You did that for me, I will do anything for You!" This zeal for God will produce in you a zeal for the lost. Remember that whispered prayer of surrender the next time you fear hollers at you as you hand someone a tract. — Ray Comfort

You cling so tightly to your purity, my lad! How terrified you are of sullying your hands. Well, go ahead then, stay pure! What good will it do, and why even bother coming here among us? Purity is a concept of fakirs and friars. But you, the intellectuals, the bourgeois anarchists, you invoke purity as your rationalization for doing nothing. Do nothing, don't move, wrap your arms tight around your body, put on your gloves. As for myself, my hands
are dirty. I have plunged my arms up to the elbows in excrement and blood. And what else should one do? Do you suppose that it is possible to govern
innocently? — Jean-Paul Sartre

I have heard Obama officials say more than once, 'You will have blood on your hands if you publish this story.' — Jill Abramson

If I die this instant will you be more content with the morning news? Will your coffee taste better? I am not your fate. I am not your government ... I am not your mother, not your father or your nightmare or your health. I am not a fence, not a wall. I am not the law or actuarial tables of your insurance broker. I am a woman with my guts loose in my hands, howling and it's not because I committed hari-kiri. I suggest either you cook me or sew me back up. I suggest you walk into my pain as into the breaking waves of an ocean of blood, and either we will climb out together and walk away. — Marge Piercy

Red blood is just so hard to clean up"
"You would know" I snap remembering Shade. "Because no matter how hard you try to hid it I see it all over your hands — Victoria Aveyard

Something was beyond wrong. Sebeck looked at the faces of the agents and police arrayed around him. There was abject hatred in their eyes. Burning anger. He knew that look. It was the look reserved for the vilest criminals. They were closing in from two directions - leaving a clear field of fire. Twenty or thirty heavily armed men. Sebeck glanced at Ross, who already had his hands on his head. "What the hell is going on, Jon?" "I don't know. But the Daemon's got something to do with it." "This is your last warning! Put your hands on your head, or we will open fire!" Sebeck felt his blood rising. He put his hands on the back of his head but looked to Ross. "Why are they looking at me?" "I don't know." The Feds hit Sebeck like linebackers. They — Daniel Suarez

He (Knox) handles the doctrines of election and justification as causes for bright joy in believers. 'Your imperfections shall have no power to damn you,' he writes to Mrs. Bowes, 'for Christ's perfection is reputed to be yours by faith, which you have in his blood.' 'God has received already at the hands of His only Son all that is due for our sins, and so cannot his justice require or crave any more of us, other satisfaction or recompense for our sins. — Iain Murray

You can't see anything from a car; you've got to get out of the goddamn contraption and walk, better yet crawl, on hands and knees, over the sandstone and through the thornbrush and cactus. When traces of blood begin to mark your trail, you'll see something, maybe. — Edward Abbey

If you find yourself in an interrogation room, you will probably do better if you have not spent a bit of time kneeling on a blood-soaked carpet. And it would be especially good if you didn't have any of that blood smeared on your clothing and your hands. I'm just saying. A word to the wise. — Victoria Abbott

Let me tell you about scared. Your heart is beating so hard I can feel it through your hands. There's so much blood and oxygen pumping through your brain it's like rocket fuel. Right now you could run faster and you can fight harder. You can jump higher than ever in your life and you are so alert it's like you can slow down time.
What's wrong with scared? Scared is a superpower! Your superpower! There is danger in this room. And guess what? It's you. Do you feel it? Do you think he feels it? Do you think he's scared? Nah. Loser! — Steven Moffat

One never thinks of China, but it is there all the time on the tips of your fingers and it makes your nose itchy; and long afterward, when you have forgotten almost what a firecracker smells like, you wake up one day with gold leaf choking you and the broken pieces of punk waft back their pungent odor and the bright red wrappers give you a nostalgia for a people and a soil you have never known, but which is in your blood, mysteriously there in your blood, like the sense of time or space, a fugitive, constant value to which you turn more and more as you get old, which you try to seize with your mind, but ineffectually, because in everything Chinese there is wisdom and mystery and you can never grasp it with two hands or with your mind but you must let it rub off, let it stick to your fingers, let it slowly infiltrate your veins. — Henry Miller

Both things are invisible But we Both are aware
I colored my self in your fragrance
And you colored your hands in my BLOOD — Mohammed Zaki Ansari

There are stories where you must wear out your iron shoes to right a wrong, where children are baked into pies, where jealousy cuts off hands and cuts out hearts. We forget, because the stories end with those ritual words - happily ever after - all the darkness, all the pain, all the effort that comes before. People say they want a fairy tale life, but what they really want is the part that happens off the page, after the oven has been escaped, after the clock strikes midnight. They want the part that doesn't come with glass slippers still stained with a stepsister's blood, or a lover blinded by an angry mother's thorns. If you live through a fairy tale, you don't make it through unscathed or unchanged. Hands — Kat Howard

Yes, the ugliness of humanity can destroy you, it can lead to your destruction, you can sabotage others unknowingly or self-sabotage yourself and in the end, you will learn to secretly despise yourself and despise others at the same time. People never talk about what comes with freedom. The price of freedom. The lives that were lost in the process of its beautiful acquisition. They do not seem to realise that in the wrong hands it was a commodity for generations. People were lynched for it. They were raped for it. Nasty things (instead people will say let us sign papers and treaties and draw up constitutions). The bits and pieces of history become the literally and figuratively the past. Change yourself and you will change the past's 'yolk of blood'. — Abigail George

It is well established among us that you may hold up your head in polite society with a public lie in your mouth or other people's money in your pocket or innocent blood on your hands, but not with dishwater on your hands or mud on your shoes. — Wendell Berry

Talking on a cell phone makes us four times as likely to have an accident - the same as a driver who has a blood alcohol content of .08 percent, which qualifies as intoxicated in most states. The risk is equal for drivers holding their phones to their ears and for those speaking through a hands-free device. In both cases, researchers suggest, the drivers generate mental images of the unseen person at the other end of the line, which conflicts with their capacity for spatial processing. "It's not that your hands aren't on the wheel," says David Strayer, the director of the Applied Cognition Laboratory at the University of Utah, "it's that your mind is not on the road. — Tony Schwartz

Will you, my countrymen, the descendants of these men, warmed by their blood, inheriting their language, and having the principles for which they struggled confided to your care, allow them to be violated in your hands? — Joseph Howe

The music glides between the pores of your skin to bubble through your veins in place of blood, and you can't help but clutch the mic with both trembling hands and let the song flow out of you like blood from a wound. In those moments, when the music has replaced everything and even awareness of your own body has faded, you can't breathe, can't do anything but let the song own you, let the performance rocket through you. There's no people, no problems in your life, no buzz of alcohol in your blood or pain in your heart. — Jasinda Wilder

When you spread forth your hands, I hide my eyes from you;
even though you make many prayers, I no longer listen; your hands are full of blood.
Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes;
cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression; defend the fatherless, plead for the widow.
Is that too little? — Martin Buber

Beware! Abstain from shedding blood without a valid cause. There is nothing more harmful than this which brings about one's ruin. The blood that is willfully shed shortens the life of a state. On the Day of Judgement it is this crime for which one will have to answer first. So, beware! Do not wish to build the strength of your state on blood for, it is this blood which ultimately weakens the state and passes it into other hands. Before me and my God no excuse for willful killing can be entertained. — Hazrat Ali Ibn Abu-Talib A.S

Excuse me? You're the one who was out to mislead me with your alluring bimbo slinkiness! What if I had believed your act last night? What if I had fallen deeply and madly in love with you? You would have had the blood of my love-sickness on your hands, Leila Folger. — Lani Wendt Young

Detective Inspector Carver took a picture from the breast pocket of his suit. He handed it to me. 'This is what you did, Michael. Take a good look. See if it jogs your memory.'
I gawped at the mutilated corpse of a naked young girl lying on a blood-soaked double bed. Her hands were bound to the brass headboard with duct tape. Blood covered her upper body, and her long blonde hair was streaked a murderous shade of red. One eye stared at the ceiling as if searching for salvation, the other, a bloody unrecognisable pulp, bore no relation to its sightless counterpart.
'Carla Marie Coombs. Twenty-one years of age. Do you recognise her, Michael? — Mark Tilbury

You taste like metal & blood,
kiss like a man's last gunshot.
I could find religion in your face.
Build a church in the palms of your hands. — Elisabeth Hewer

You have the blood of warriors in your veins. The kind of men who protect what is theirs and love without restraint. I want that love and I want you. (Gabrielle)
It's all yours. You're not getting much out of this deal since all I own is what I can carry in two hands. (Carlos)
Great. That means I get to decorate the house the way I want. (Gabrielle) — Sherrilyn Kenyon

There is a blood-red thunder all around you, a blinding light flashes from time to time, voices roar and cease, roar and cease, you are in the grip of an unknowable agony, it is in your shoulders, your arms, your hands, your breath, an intolerable labor- and, no, it is not at all like approaching an orgasm, an orgasm implying relief, even, sometimes, however desperately, implying the hope of love. Love and death are connected, but not in the place I was that day. — James Baldwin

That isn't why. She would have chosen him even if you'd had royal blood in your veins, even if you'd had the same blood as Kastor. You don't understand the way a mind like that thinks. I do. If I were Jokaste and a king maker, I'd have chosen Kastor over you too.'
'I suppose you are going to enjoy telling me why,' said Damen. He felt his hands curl into fists, heard the bitterness in his throat.
'Because a king maker would always choose the weaker man. The weaker the man, the easier he is to control. — C.S. Pacat

His breathing was heavy, and full of life. He shivered still, his hand finding Katty unsteady and unprepared of what was going to come next.
"I hurt you!" Nico said, his voice raised with worry.
"No, not at all, honey, my sweetest Master, but you have me, all of me, the wholeness of me and my darkness."
"You play with the devil dear." Nico sombered.
"No." Katty defiantly said. "You took my blood and it made me your slave, yet I love every minute of it."
"Tell me you love me Katty." He said, nearing her closer than close, mending the space between them with the threads of courage. "Tell me you have no fear, nor no weakness against me. Or no shame in loving me."
"I fear you not, my love." Katty sincerely committed. "I fear only that you will be taken away by the hands of the vampire hunter, and only then, will I fall. — Keira D. Skye

A star falls from the sky and into your hands. Then it seeps through your veins and swims inside your blood and becomes every part of you. And then you have to put it back into the sky. And it's the most painful thing you'll ever have to do and that you've ever done. But what's yours is yours. Whether it's up in the sky or here in your hands. And one day, it'll fall from the sky and hit you in the head real hard and that time, you won't have to put it back in the sky again. — C. JoyBell C.

I am not a noble, I do not have the blood of knights in me." Elissa squeezed his hands. "I am not asking for your blood, but your heart. — Brad Clark

You are either a pawn or a player. I am no one's tool. I am no one's pawn. I am a player. In the world of kill or be killed I'm a murderess. I will ripe out your throat with my bare hands and lick the blood from my fingers.-Lilith — Ashley Jeffery

Doesn't matter, does it?" said George. "They're just as dead. Their blood is on your hands." "They don't have blood." "Humans are only literal when they're ashamed of something. — Jack McDevitt

When you're the sane brother of a schizophrenic identical twin, the tricky thing about saving yourself is the blood it leaves on your hands
the little inconvenience of the look-alike corpse at your feet. And if you're into both survival of the fittest and being your brother's keeper
if you've promised your dying mother
then say so long to sleep and hello to the middle of the night. Grab a book or a beer. Get used to Letterman's gap-toothed smile of the absurd, or the view of the bedroom ceiling, or the indifference of random selection. Take it from a godless insomniac. Take it from the uncrazy twin
the guy who beat the biochemical rap. — Wally Lamb

Why do many believers insist on repeatedly pointing to the crimes of 20th century dictators who led officially atheistic societies as some sort of evidence of their god's existence? It makes no sense.
If the rivers of blood on Stalin's hands and Mao's hands, for example, are supposed to prove there is a god, then what do the oceans of blood on the hands of several thousand years' worth of religious kings, queens, presidents, popes, priests, generals, Crusadersm jihadists and tribal chiefs prove? It's not, of course, but if bodycount is somehow the measure of a god's likelihood of existence, then believers lose.
It is clear that humans are quite capable of killing with or without images of gods bouncing around in their heads. If anything, however, history suggests that the concept of gods makes the idea of massacring your fellow man (and women and children, too, of course) a lot easier to act upon. — Guy P. Harrison

George Bernard Shaw was right. He summed it all up when he said: "The secret of being miserable is to have the leisure to bother about whether you are happy or not." So don't bother to think about it! Spit on your hands and get busy. Your blood will start circulating; your mind will start ticking-and pretty soon this whole positive upsurge of life in your body will drive worry from your mind. Get busy. Keep busy. It's the cheapest kind of medicine there is on this earth-and one of the best. — Dale Carnegie

That's what you like in a girl: cute and sad, with enough disorders that you could count them to fall asleep. The kind you can show off at parties as the latest broken thing you fixed. Where will you hang your awards for loving someone who can't walk in a straight line without being supported? Is there room next to your collection of glasses you shattered by holding them too tightly? The blood on your hands does not make you a martyr. Do not curse when your hammers do nothing but scar her. Do not use your words to remind her that everybody else would have left by now. If she could speak, she would tell you: you think it's beautiful to love somebody as light as me but you don't know how heavy I had to be to become this empty. — Lora Mathis

Where nature with accustomed round Sweeps and garnishes the ground With kindly beauty, warm or cold Alternate seasons never old: Heathen, how furiously you rage, Cursing this blood and brimstone age, How furiously against your will You kill and kill again, and kill: All thought of peace behind you cast, Till like small boys with fear aghast, Each cries for God to understand, 'I could not help it, it was my hand. — Robert Graves

As Wessner struggled to his feet, he resembled a battlefield, for his clothing was in ribbons and his face and hands streaming blood. "I--I guess I got enough," he mumbled. "Oh, you do?" roared Freckles. "Well this ain't your say. You come on to me ground, lying about me Boss and intimatin' I'd stale from his very pockets. Now will you be standing up and taking your medicine like a man, or getting it poured down the throat of you like a baby? I ain't got enough! This is only just the beginning with me. Be looking out there!" He sprang against Wessner and sent him rolling. He attacked the unresisting figure and fought him until he lay limp and quiet and Freckles had no strength left to lift an arm. Then he arose and stepped back, gasping for breath. With his first lungful of air he shouted: "Time!" But the figure of Wessner lay motionless. — Gene Stratton-Porter

Heart as collapsed time, as a dug-up grave, as simple machine. Heart as big black bugs bleed blue blood. Heart as MI frozen as seen from airplane, everything still and white and beautiful. Heart as the Day the Music Died. Heart as love being made, as fucking, as a pleasantly haunted house. Heart as a dim memory of a dark room in which you're molded wetasscracked into a beanbag chair, fumbling for wetness. Come hither. Heart as a cunt's supposed to smell like tuna. Heart as the star of the sea. Heart as a pussy in permanent bloom. Heart as doxycycline. Heart as waxwings, as a fudge round, as the phone rings once and then stops. Heart as throw your hands in the air, throw your art at the stars, stutter and stare. Heart as a Stratocaster. Heart as Twin Reverb. Heart as I heart you so much. Heart as all that we thought we knew in the world disappears into vapor. Heart as the rest of your life times the weight of the world squared. — Bryan Charles

You drugged me," she repeated, her fingers wrapping around my neck, "with your skin, and your hands, and your mouth. You're in my veins. My blood." Her lips were a breath's width from mine, her wolf teeth bright. We teetered on the delirious brink of a kiss. "You poisoned me, and it feels so fucking good. I want more."
My breath came fast. "Will you do it with me?"
"Yeah, I will. I'll fuck this world up with you."
"Good girl," I said. "Let's be bad."
I tore off her clothes. I tore off every shred of resistance she still held. And I fucked her, wild and rough, animal, like the monsters we were. — Leah Raeder

Do what? Kill me? Then my blood would be on your hands - more than it already is - as well as that of your four dear friends. Because you, frater, are responsible for all this. You know it. You made me what I am." "I made you nothing." "Well said! Well said!" A dry, almost desiccated laugh came over the tiny speaker. Listening, — Douglas Preston

Stephen Herondale would have killed me if he'd ever met me. I would not have been safe living among people like you, or like him. I am the wife and mother of warriors who fought and died and never dishonored themselves as you have. I have worn gear, wielded blades, and slain demons, and all I wished was to overcome evil so that I could live and be happy with those I loved. I'd hoped I had made this a better, safer world for my children. Because of Valentine's Circle, the Herondale line, the line that was my son's children's children, is finished. That happened through you and your Circle and your husband. Stephen Herondale died with hate in his heart and the blood of my people on his hands. I can imagine no more horrible way for mine and Will's line to end. I will have to carry for the rest of my life the wound of what Valentine's Circle has done to me, and I will live forever. — Cassandra Clare

Taking into consideration all your loveliness
why can't you burn your bootsoles and your
draft card? How can you sit there saying yes
to war? You'll be a pauper when you die, sore
boy. Dead, while I still live at our addresss.
Oh my brother, why do you keep making plans
when I am at seizures of hearts and hands?
Come dance the dance, the Papa-Mama dance;
bring costumes from the suitcase pasted Ille de France,
the S.S. Gripsholm. Papa's London Harness case
he took abroad and kept i our attic laced
with old leather straps for storage and his
scholar's robes, black licorice - that metamorphosis
with it's crimson blood.
The Papa and Mama Dance — Anne Sexton

When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: the people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous and surly. They are like this because they can't tell good from evil. But I have seen the beauty of good, and the ugliness of evil, and have recognized that the wrongdoer has a nature related to my own - not of the same blood and birth, but the same mind, and possessing a share of the divine. And so none of them can hurt me. No one can implicate me in ugliness. Nor can I feel angry at my relative, or hate him. We were born to work together like feet, hands and eyes, like the two rows of teeth, upper and lower. To obstruct each other is unnatural. To feel anger at someone, to turn your back on him: these are unnatural. — Marcus Aurelius

Not now, old woman," I tossed over my shoulder coldly. "I need sleep."
Funny. You didn't seem to need so much a few days ago."
I felt the blood drain from my face. I wasn't ready for this confrontation. I might never be ready for it.

In fact, sleep was the last thing on your mind," he said tightly. He was angry. I could hear it in his voice. What was he angry about? I was the one who'd been through the emotional wringer.
My hands curled into fists, my breathing grew shallow. I trusted him no more today than I had two months ago. "Fucking was all you wanted. — Karen Marie Moning

Emerson abandoned irony for blunt and passionate speech.
'This war has been a monumental blunder from the start! Britain is not solely responsible, but by God, gentlemen, she must share the blame, and she will pay a heavy price: the best of her young men, future scholars and scientists and statesmen, and ordinary, decent men who might have led ordinary, decent lives. And how will it end, when you tire of your game of soldiers? A few boundaries redrawn, a few transitory political advantages, in exchange for an entire continent laid waste and a million graves! What I do may be of minor importance in the total accumulation of knowledge, but at least I don't have blood on my hands. — Elizabeth Peters

If you were dying ...
If you were sixteen and dying ...
If your blood was spilling out of you, calling to them, the creatures of the night, and you knew you were dying ...
If you saw their pale faces and the gleam of sharp teeth in the moonlight, and you felt your blood spilling warmly over your hands, and you knew beyond any doubt that you were dying ...
Wouldn't you say yes?
Yes, turn me.
Yes, I want to live.
Yes ... make me one of you. — Tamara Summers

It's a sweet setup, I'll admit. For all that the maids STILL show up each day with jumbo crucifixes, jumpy movements, and red eyes from crying over the short straw that drew them vampire duty.' Yesterday, she'd just stopped herself from raising her clenched hands above her head and chasing one of them around the room groaning, 'I vant to suck your blood. — Kresley Cole

You've got blood on your hands, asshole, and I'm your goddamned UV light. — S.A. Bouraleh

Tomorrow, in the fields of my kingdom, may you have a happy battle.
May your kingly hands be terrible in weaving the sword stuff.
May those opposing your sword become meat for the red swan.
May your many gods glut you with glory, may they glut you with blood.
Victorious may you be in the dawn, king who treads on Ireland.
Of your many days may none shine bright as tomorrow.
Because that day will be the last. I swear it to you, King Magnus.
For before its light is blotted, I shall vanquish you and blot you out, Magnus Barfod. — Jorge Luis Borges

I am in too great doubt to rule. To prepare or to let be? To prepare for war, which is yet only guessed: train craftsmen and tillers in the midst of peace for bloodspilling and battle: put iron in the hands of greedy captains who will love only conquest, and count the slain as their glory? Will they say to Eru: "At least your enemies were amongst them?" Or to fold hands, while friends die unjustly: let men live in blind peace, until the ravisher is at the gate? What then will they do: match naked hands against iron and die in vain, or flee leaving the cries of women behind them? Will they say to Eru: "At least I spilled no blood?"
Tar-Meneldur in Armenelos, Aldarion and Erendis: The Mariner's Wife — J.R.R. Tolkien

Fine! Whatever! Just be careful, my hands are still slippery with your blood. — Rich Burlew

And you just had to rush right over here to rub my face in it."
"Nope. I rushed right over here to slap your face in it."
"A rude but effective wake-up call," Laura commented and earned a shocked stare.
"I expected better from you."
"You shouldn't have." Hands brisk and competent, she affixed a shiny silver bow to the box. "If you don't want to tell us what happened between you and Josh,fine.But you can't expect us to sit around quietly while you mope."
"I have not been moping."
"We've been cleaning up the blood spilling out of your heart for weeks." Kate passed Laura her credit card. "Face it,pal, you're just no fun anymore."
"And that's all this friendship is about?Fun? I thought I might get a little support,a little sympathy, a little compassion."
"Sorry," Laura imprinted the card with a steady sweep. "Fresh out. — Nora Roberts

Odd to think that the piece of you I know best is already dead. The cells on the surface of your skin are thin and flat without the blood vessels or nerve endings. Dead cells, thickest on the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. — Jeanette Winterson

This isn't a courtroom, pal," I said to Nelson, "this is the gutter. No fancy robes, no platitudes engraved in marble, no brass railing dividing the sides. This is the streets and the alleys. this is the Chicago we really live in. Here justice isn't dispensed with a wooden gavel, it's taken with your bare hands. It may be Tubby's world, a part of it, but it's also August Jansen's world, and my world, and yours. Darrow's a great man but this work comes after the fact, after the real battles of life are fought. Lawyers and judges pick up the pieces after the dust settles. Their job is to make sense of what's happened, not make it happen. That occurs in the gutter where blood and bone and horse manure and coal dust and sweat and fear blend and roil. In the end you either have hope or sewage. It can go either way, but it goes on. — James Conroy

Damn it all to hell and back again, you know very well that was a setup. You bloody well know I couldn't put my hands on her."
"Yeah, yeah, sure, sure." Eve shrugged off her coat, tossed it aside. "I know a setup when I see it, and I know your face, ace. I didn't see desire on it, I saw annoyance."
"Is that so? Is that bloody well so? Well, if you knew it was just what it was, why did you sucker punch me?"
"Mostly?" She turned, cocked a hip. "Because you're a man."
Eyes narrowed on her face, he tried to stanch the blood with the back of his hand. "And do you have any sort of idea just how often I might expect your fist in my goddamn face because of my bleeding DNA? — J.D. Robb

You are not allowed to get lost unless I want to lose you. You aren't allowed to be found, unless it's me doing the finding. And the only way you're allowed to die is if I choose to kill you with my own hands. Your life doesn't belong to you anymore, and if I have to murder you tonight and paint the snow with your blood to make you understand that, I will. You are mine, Kingsley. End of discussion. — Tiffany Reisz

I really like the Glycolic Cleansing Pads because they're super easy. Sometimes it's annoying to scrub your face with your hands, but these are just little pads, so I like that. I also really like the Kale Fix Moisturizer and Dragon's Blood Fix Serum. The Dragon's Blood is good for priming before your makeup. — Kylie Jenner

Bending his head, Kai pressed his lips to her knuckles. The plating had no nerve endings, and yet the touch sent a tingle of electricity along her arm.
"Cinder?"
"Mm?"
He lifted his gaze. "Just to be clear, you're not using your mind powers on me right now, are you?"
She blinked. "Of course not."
"Just checking."
Then he slid his arms around her waist and kissed her.
Cinder gasped, pressing her palms against his chest. Kai pulled her closer.
Seconds later, her brain began registering all the new chemicals flooding her system. INCREASED LEVELS OF DOPAMINE AND ENDORPHINS, REDUCED AMOUNTS OF CORTISOL, ERRATIC PULSE, RISING BLOOD PRESSURE ...
Leaning into him, Cinder sent the messages away. Her hands tentatively made their way to his shoulders, before stringing around his neck. — Marissa Meyer

When you hold a graphic novel in your hands, you're holding artist blood made ink. — Molly Crabapple

You knew that if you survived that accident, there's no way I could ever leave you again. Not unless I want your blood on my hands. You're lucky your gamble paid off. Now you can do or say whatever you want, can't you. You've got me right where you've always wanted me.

You win. — Heather Demetrios

His voice, dark and velvety soft, intimate and yet cold: You have blood on your hands. — Jackie Morse Kessler

The Kissing Game goes like this, Shortcake. Press, retreat, tilt, breathe, repeat. Use your hands to angle just right. Loosen up until it's a slow, wet slide. Hear the drum of blood in your own ears? Survive on tiny puffs of air. Do not stop. Don't even think about it. Shudder a sigh, pull back, let your opponent catch you with lips or teeth and ease you back into something even deeper. Wetter. Feel your nerve endings crackle to life with each touch of tongue. Feel a new heaviness between your legs. The aim of the game is to do this for the rest of your life. Screw human civilization and all it entails. This elevator is home now. This is what we do now. Do not fucking stop. He — Sally Thorne

I vant to zuk your blood." He waved his black gloved hands above his head as he tried out his awful Transylvanian accent. "You vish," She replied. — J.L. Bryan

I'm scared of madmen with knives, and perverts hiding in alleys. I'm scared of
people, because they're shit. But etheric entities don't frighten me. They don't have
hands of flesh and blood. They can't fire a gun. The only way they can hurt you is
through fear, your own mind. You must know that. — Stephen Jones

Being a hangman requires you to take someone else's life based on someone else's judgment, and carry it out on someone else's schedule. The job does not provide the same satisfaction that an ordinary murderer gets from smashing a skull. It robs them of the fulfillment of plunging a knife into someone's throat. In the world of capital punishment, the prisoner's crimes have been sanitized by years of sitting on death row. By then, the execution is a cold and impersonal affair. There is prayer, a noose, and a few last words. The prisoner then experiences a sudden rush of blood to the head. At the end of it all, you have a broken neck and a dead body swinging from the end of a rope. That is it. You don't get to manhandle them with your own hands. That's why the brutes you mention will never be hired. So you see, Vaida, this is not a job for a murderer. It is a job for a humanitarian. — Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

Ruger's in there too. Hands covered in blood so they arrested him. He had to tackle your girl to get the gun away from her. She'd gone all Pulp Fiction on us, ready to defend you by killing all of us if she had to. Crouched over your body like Wonder Woman. Gives me a boner just thinking about it. — Joanna Wylde

He is a sodomite, and my sister is a whore, and perhaps a poisoner, and I am a whore. My uncle has been the falsest of friends, my father a time-server, my mother - God knows - some even say she had the king before the two of us! All of this you knew or you could have deduced. Now tell me, am I good enough for you? For I knew that you were a nobody and I came to find you all the same. If you want to rise to be a somebody in this court you will get blood or shit on your hands. I have had to learn this through a hard apprenticeship since I was a little girl. You can learn it now if you have the stomach." William — Philippa Gregory

Why do you wear gloves, Mister Brekker?"
Kaz raised a brow. "I'm sure you've heard the stories."
"Each more grotesque than the last."
Kaz had heard them, too. Brekker's hands were stained with blood. Brekker's hands were covered in scars. Brekker had claws and not fingers because he was part demon. Brekker's touch burned like brimstone - a single brush of his bare skin caused your flesh to wither and die.
"Pick one," Kaz said as he vanished into the night, thoughts already turning to thirty million kruge and the crew he'd need to help him get it. "They're all true enough. — Leigh Bardugo

Anand, look at the back of my hands. No hair. The sign of an advanced race, boy. And look at yours. No hair either. But you never know. With some of your mother's bad blood flowing in your veins you could wake up one morning and find yourself hairy like a monkey — V.S. Naipaul

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red." "My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended. — William Shakespeare

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours. — Anne Sexton

I'm a killer, Gabrielle." He snarled the words at her. "That's all you need to know. Is that what you want sliding into your bed every night, lass? Touching your body with hands that were soaked in blood minutes before? — Jessica Lee

No!" He recoiled. "You and I are finished."
"Son ... " I started.
But he rounded on me. "Do you think me so soft that calling me son might change my mind? How long did you sit on this information? Or am I to believe you only discovered it now? My mother's blood may stain another's hands, but Charles Lee is no less a monster, and all he does, he does by your command. — Oliver Bowden

Consider surgeons and their work. It's unthinkable to put your hands in the warm blood of another human's gut. Even with rubber gloves on. Who'd want to do that? But surgeons get over it. — Park Dietz

That's what it is. That's what my morning was like: all these real physical heavy positive vibrations, the soul of this tape. The fuzzy groove. The meaning of it all, if it has one: All love, all the time. Peace and happiness in every day. Peace and happiness with cow blood dripping from your hands, bright blood staining your fingerprints because you didn't glove up since you don't normally do prep work. Peace and happiness when you're making a list of everything that's wrong with the world and squinting your eyes tight trying to imagine your way out of it. Peace, peace, peace, happiness, happiness, happiness. — John Darnielle

[Olive's] left foot was bleeding through a wide swath of bandages onto the tarp it was resting on. The bowl next to her was full of blood.
Olive looked a little pale. "I don't think I should move," she said.
"What are you doing?" Roger shut the door behind him and stood with his back to it.
"I decided I might try to eat my toes," Olive said, closing her eyes. "But now that I've started, I don't think I should move."
Roger pushed himself off the wall and knelt down next to her. He unbuckled her silver belt and reached with it under her dress. He looped the belt around the top of her leg and tightened it. His hands were not shaking.
"Sit on the loose end," he said, pushing it under her. "I hope that works."
"You brought flowers," she said, blinking.
"Olive," he said. "You cut off your toes."
She looked down at the bowl. "Are they still toes?" she asked. — Amelia Gray

Neither the heart cut by a sliver of glass in a wasteland of thorns, nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes, could hold your waist in my hands when my heart lifts its oak trees toward your unbreakable thread of snow. Night sugar, spirit of crowns, redeemed human blood, your kisses banish me, and a surge of water with remnants of the sea strikes the silences that wait for you surrounding the worn-out chairs, wearing doors away. — Pablo Neruda

I see danger - awake! It's terrible, it's horrible, and it's almost here! This is why my spirit was sent to earth. This is the job God has given me. This is the job I must do, so my hands will be free of your blood. — Frank Bruno

There are wolves in these mountains," he said. "Some of my men have hunted them for skins. They will find you here tonight and at first they will only watch. As the cold makes you weak, they will come closer and begin to nuzzle your legs and hands. They'll scatter when you call out and move, but they won't go far and they'll come back with more courage. When they start to tear your flesh, when the smell of blood excites them, think of me then. — Conn Iggulden

and on the other side for lack of sun there is death perhaps
waiting for you in the uproar of a dazzling whirlwind with a thousand explosive arms
stretched toward you man flower passing from the seller's hands to
those of the lover and the loved
passing from the hand of one event to the other passive and sad parakeet
the teeth of doors are chattering and everything is done with
impatience to make you leave quickly
man amiable merchandise eyes open but tightly sealed
cough of waterfall rhythm projected in meridians and slices
globe spotted with mud with leprosy and blood
winter mounted on its pedestal of night poor night weak and sterile
draws the drapery of cloud over the cold menagerie
and holds in its hands as if to throw a ball
luminous number your head full of poetry — Tristan Tzara

Nightingale
Did I wound you, mutilate. Take away your voice. Did I cut something from you. Leave you locked in silence?
This is what you do: you sing. Every part of you. Your locks of hair sing, your eyes, your hands, your smile. If I listen closely I can even hear your blood.
Was I the one that took that away?
Go down to the water where we used to swim. Stand under the sky at dawn when the sky is streaked with blood. Open your mouth and shout our secret to the waves. The ocean will be your voice. You won't have to carry anything alone. Little Sister, my Spring, April. Little nightingale. Sant at the edge of the water. Your voice will come back to you. Maybe. If I am silent. — Francesca Lia Block

Thank you, 4:00 p.m., for being the time of day that thoroughly confuses me: post-homework and pre-dinner. I am already exhausted and fairly irritable. The children are losing their ever-loving minds, and husband is still tucked away in his sane office with all mental faculties intact and won't answer my SOS texts to hurry and come home or their blood is on your hands. Do I make a coffee? Or pour a glass of wine? Yours, Witching-Hour Survivor. — Jen Hatmaker

The Lost Girls

Nomad girls are Lost Ones too,
With leaves at foot and crown;
They too seek shelter in the tress,
Drink Red and Gold and Brown.

Their circlets made of steam and rain,
Their lashes powdered ash,
They're firelight, they're fox's kill,
They're blood and sweat and scratch.

Lost Boys fly forever, and crow the rising sun.
They play all day in Neverland, their laughter mermaid-spun.
But Lost Girls live underground:
They steal from hole to hole.
They drink the shadows, wear the night,
And paint their cheeks with coal.

And when the wind turns colder,
They split a doe and climb inside.
Still-warm sinew wraps their hands,
Dead muscle soaks the light.

You'll never tell what's girl, what's beast,
Once bloody fur's been trussed-
So think your happy thoughts, Lost Boy,
Wish on your Fairy Dust. — Lauren Bird Horowitz

All the blood spilled from her face, making the bruises grotesquely bright. "Oh God ... " She stumbled back, away from him, her hands flying to her mouth. "You killed him?" It was insulting and amusing that that was the first place her mind always seemed to go where Arlo and Killen were concerned. "And if I did?" He circled around her slowly, taking a sort of pleasure in her panic. She rounded on him. "Then you gave up a bit of your soul for someone who didn't deserve it. Yes, Arlo deserves to die. Yes, I imagined doing it myself a million times. But he has no right to taint any part of you with his ... his evil. — Airicka Phoenix

In that moment, I understand the way that the noblest yearning for duty and sacrifice can be mixed up with all that is savage and shameful, like in the Bible, where a just and merciful God tells you to kill everyone, kill the children, kill the livestock, kill John Polling, leave nothing alive to sully this pure and just world. Except when it's all done you find out that wasn't really God after all, just some politician, or maybe it was God, but he taps you on the shoulder and says, 'No, dude, that isn't what I meant,' and leaves you sitting in a Dairy Queen in Bothell with blood on your hands and no further orders ... — Stuart Archer Cohen

I liked the idea of marking the place where a life ends as opposed to the place a corpse is buried. And also the idea of leaving remains uncollected. It's bad enough being dead, but it's worse to have people see you dead, and to have living hands feel a dead you, jostle and dress you, push your stiffening arms into clean sleeves and cry over your blood-drained body. — Hilary Thayer Hamann

He possesses a noble heart, madame," replied the count, "and he has acted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his country; some contribute their talents, others their industry; these devote their blood, those their nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he remained with you, his life must have become a hateful burden, nor would he have participated in your griefs. He will increase in strength and honor by struggling with adversity, which he will convert into prosperity. Leave him to build up the future for you, and I venture to say you will confide it to safe hands. — Alexandre Dumas

Will bit at his lip. This was the last time Jem, as Jem, might ever touch him. The sharp memory went through him like a knife - of years of Jem's light tap on his shoulder, his hand reaching to help Will up when he fell, Jem holding him back when he was furious, Will's own hands on Jem's thin shoulders as Jem coughed blood into his shirt. Listen to me. I am leaving, but I am living. I will not be gone from you entirely, Will. When you fight now, I will be still by you. When you walk in the world, I will be the light at your side, the ground steady under your feet, the force that drives the sword in your hand. We are bound, beyond the oath. The Marks did not change that. The oath did not change that. It merely gave words to something that existed already. — Cassandra Clare

Do you need hope? Look at the tiny baby in a cow trough. See the adult's gentle hands blessing the children. Hear his words of invitation and see those hands pierced with spikes. Contemplate the blood-soaked mud. View the empty tomb and the folded grave clothes. See him rise physically to return to his Father, clothed in human flesh. Anticipate his return on the clouds and your eternal union and reign with him. Don't turn away from the hope of the gospel: Christ is utterly and eternally preeminent. You need this hope to face your day; don't look away to yourself or any other person. — Elyse M. Fitzpatrick

Every gift comes with a price." I frowned, and he grinned. "A kiss."
"Absolutely not!" But my blood raced, and I had to clench my hands in the grass to keep from touching him. "Don't you think it puts me at a disadvantage to not be able to see all this?"
"I'm one of the High Fae - we don't give anything without gaining something from it."
To my own surprise, I said, "Fine."
He blinked, probably expecting me to have fought a little harder. I hid my smile and sat up so that I faced him, our knees touching as we knelt in the grass.
"What about your part of the bargain?"
"What?"
He leaned closer, his smile turning wicked. "What about my kiss?"
I grabbed his fingers. "Here," I said, and slammed my mouth against the back of his hand. "There's your kiss. — Sarah J. Maas

Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. — Jeanette Winterson

Why does Paul spell it out, calling us to consider the width and breadth and depth and height of Christ's love? He is proposing a way to meditate and inviting us to do it. Let's take up his invitation. How wide is the love of God? Think of Isaiah 1:18: "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow." Scarlet is the color of blood. This was God's way of saying through Isaiah, "Even if you have killed somebody, even if you have blood-guilt, blood on your hands, my love is wide enough to enfold and embrace you. It doesn't matter who you are or what you have done. It doesn't matter if you have killed people. If Jesus Christ died on the cross so that you are saved by grace alone, then my love is infinitely wide. It is wide enough for you. — Timothy Keller

He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean. — Elizabeth Barrett Browning

When I close my eyes I see your face, only your face. Fire rains around us, lightning strikes, and the blood of those we love threatens to be spilled at every turn and yet all I can see is you. You are the touch I crave, the scent I want to drown in, and the air that gives me life. There is nothing that can captivate me as you do. No matter the beauty, the violence, or the intrigue, you are the only thing that holds my every thought, my utter devotion, and because of that, you will also hold my life in the palm of your hands." ~Decebel — Quinn Loftis

Too much - too tempting - to have my hands on it and not look at it. Quickly I slid it out, and almost immediately its glow enveloped me, something almost musical, an internal sweetness that was inexplicable beyond a deep, blood-rocking harmony of rightness, the way your heart beat slow and sure when you were with a person you felt safe with and loved. A power, a shine, came off it, a freshness like the morning light in my old bedroom in New York which was serene yet exhilarating, a light that rendered everything sharp-edged and yet more tender and lovely than it actually was, and lovelier still because it was part of the past, and irretrievable: wallpaper glowing, the old Rand McNally globe in half-shadow. — Donna Tartt

My home is your blood, your tongue, your laughter, your earth and hands, always your hands. — Gwen Calvo