Sentences with phrase «magical stories like»

Fans of magical stories like The Night Circus will flock to this ambitious debut.

Not exact matches

Christians arguing stories from their bible vs. scientific facts is like arguing about Santa's sleigh flying... sure it says it flies in the stories but the facts are that there is no Santa (sorry kids), there is no magic sleigh, and there are no magical reindeer to guide his sleigh tonight.

I'm not a Christian and care about the mysticism / spiritualism of the plot only as far as it advances the story (much like the mythology created by JRR Tolkien or the magical alternate - world created by JK Rowling).

Story and Photos by Paul Ross Rooster Mosaic Recipes: Ras el HanoutTunisian Carrot SaladMechouiaHarissaMerguez (Lamb Sausages) Le Biftek a la Carthage From deep within the souks of North Africa comes ras el hanout, a complex, elusive and thoroughly magical blend of spices that, like the region's celebrated mosaics, adds up to much more than the mere sum of its parts.

I told him she lives in a magical farmhouse in the Hudson Valley with her family and still writes terrific stories for kids (like this one and this one), and that she has a new beautiful book of poetry coming out about which I'm so excited.

So, while this isn't a typical christmas story, it is magical just like the magic of Christmas.

Make your bedroom the scenery of a magical night at home adding lamps shaped like stars, a lot of lights and making a canopy bed that will make you make a themed story night.

I love your Christmas story, it sounds like such magical times.

The story concerns a lonely 10 - year - old who discovers a broomstick in the woods, along with a magical flower, whose bluebell - like blooms can transform her into a powerful witch, one night at a time.

The game seems to be inspired from magical girl shows like Card Captor Sakura and Sailor Moon and seems to offer similar vibes with its story and gameplay.

Bob and Livy come to appreciate and love one another now while also feeling bittersweet about who they were then — and their fairy tale - like story proves that when friends get together, magical things can happen.

Starring two teenagers — a French girl and a German boy — on opposite sides of the war whose lives become intertwined in surprising ways, this magical, almost fable - like story is a sweeping saga.

It's a fable - like story set in a vaguely medieval world that is actually the near future — sounds complicated, but we have faith that this much - lauded writer will pull off something magical.

In this magical story about loneliness, ghosts, adventure, letting go, and true friendship, Liesl explains that she likes the word ineffable because it means «a feeling so big or vast that it could not be expressed in words.»

We write from our studios in Carpenter Country, a magical place that, like our stories, is unreal but not untrue.

The magical stories about authors penning their passionate stories AND finding success publishing are not common... like the lottery.

Through stories like this, you can easily reinforce the fascination with modern day reptiles and show how they link in the history of animal life back to those magical prehistoric times.

While this in itself is a bit of an overstatement (there is plenty of insightful travel journalism out there to offset the generic pap), Thompson proceeds with an accurate roundup of the elements that conspire to create bad travel writing: throw - away words like «hip,» «happening,» «sun - drenched,» «undiscovered,» and «magical»; imperative language that urges the reader to «do» this, «eat» that, «go» here; stories that depict tourism workers (taxi drivers, hotel clerks, bartenders) as «local color»; the fake narrative «raisons d'etre writers invent to justify their travels»; the untraveled writers and editors who assemble authoritative - sounding travel «roundups» from Internet research; the conflicts of interest that arise when writers fund their travels with industry - subsidized «comps»; publications running what is essentially the same story over and over again, never questioning stereotype assumptions about certain parts of the world.

Stories they will listen to like it is a magical fairytail or like it's the new Harry Potter movie I promise you, you will make so many incredible memories, that you can change others lifes with it.

It follows the story of an organ thief, Arianna, who encounters a Dragon (not like the Dragons you know) and decides to help him in exchange for a magical wish.

Matthew Burns at Magical Wasteland does not review Kane and Lynch, revealing instead: «The only reason I played it all the way through recently is because someone once told me he thought the anger and annoyance that this game evokes in you, the player, was a respectable achievement because that's, like, the whole point of the story — that these men are angry and annoyed and ultimately impotent in the face of the world even though they kill a lot of people.»

Like a collection of Angela Carter short stories brought to rich, brooding life, this fascinating work of magical realism is a moving exploration of family and death.

Magical realism thrives: it's like seeing a Gabriel García Márquez story come to life, with lions and people, orange and purple skins, vivid and extreme environments in which individuals clash and collide.

Just looking at the rocks covered with moss, or the lupin flowers creating an intricate pattern, or the steam venting out of hot springs in the distance makes you feel like you are in a magical story.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

They want to read the yellow underpants story, and there's something magical and mysterious that happens from telling it: you feel wobbly and shaky and like you'll be exposed as the gawky unloveable outsider that you are.