Word: flame
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1960-1969
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
Blossoms of Flame. For much of the day, it looked as if the race would not even get properly started. As the red Mercury Comet pace car, driven by Benson Ford, turned into the pits, the field surged across the starting line at 100 m.p.h. in neat rows of three. Suddenly, the careful symmetry became a tangle of junk. In what looked like a "dodgem" game, the track was filled with spinning, fishtailing, crashing racers. Axles and suspensions snapped, tires sailed through the air, spurts of flame from spilled fuel blossomed on the asphalt. Driver Arnie Knepper climbed from...
...copies of a strange and terrible poem she had written during her last sick slide toward suicide. Daddy was its title; its subject was her morbid love-hatred of her father; its style was as brutal as a truncheon. What is more, Daddy was merely the first jet of flame from a literary dragon who in the last months of her life breathed a burning river of bale across the literary landscape...
Another driver was injured when his car piled into the wall; Bob Veith narrowly escaped a barbecue when his MG Special blossomed into flame at 175 m.p.h. Everybody's target was A. J. Foyt's 1965 record qualifying average of 161.2 m.p.h. And before the week was over, seven drivers had beaten...
Architect Edward Durell Stone, 64, was beaming. His former flame had a glow in her eyes. "Goodbye, Maria. Good luck," Stone whispered dramatically in New York State Supreme Court. Thus the architect parted from his wife Maria Elena Torch Stone, 37, after eleven years of marriage, the last two of which had been filled with charges and countercharges of abandonment and adultery. Now she will have custody of their two children, about $55,000 a year in alimony and the $250,000 Manhattan town house, where she will settle down to complete a fictional account of her experiences in architecture...
...held a pleasant little party all right, but alack, the palace-controlled Soviet press had neither poetry nor prose to mark the event. To them, the king is dead. And when the old dictator lit a bonfire to celebrate, the heavens opened and the rains doused Nikita's flame...