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Inspiration from the National Portrait Gallery
One of the best things about Washington D.C. is its public art museums. There are about a dozen or so world class galleries where you are allowed to take photos and use the work in your own art, because after all, we the people own the paintings. Excited by the possibilities of deep learning and how well style transfer was working, the kids and I went to the National Portrait Gallery. for some inspiration.
One of the first things that occurred to us was a little inception like. What would happen if we applied style transfer to a portrait using itself as the source image. It didn't turn out that well, but here are a couple of those anyways.
While this was idea of a dead end, the next idea that came to us was a little more promising. Looking at the successes and failures of the style transfers we had already performed, we started noticing that when the context and composition of the paintings matched, the algorithm was a lot more successful artistically. This is of course obvious in hindsight, but we are still working to understand what is happening in the deep neural networks, and anything that can reveal anythign about that is interesting to us.
So the idea we had, which was fun to test out, was to try and apply the style of a painting to a photo that matched the painting's composition. We selected two famous paintings from the National Portrait Gallery to attempt this, de Kooning's JFK and Degas's Portrait of Miss Cassatt. We used JFK on a photo of Dante with a tie on. We also had my mother pose best she can to resemble how Cassatt was seated in her portrait. We then let the deep neaural net do its work. The following are the results. Photo's courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery.
Farideh likes how her portrait came out, as do we, but its interesting that this only goes to further demonstrate that there is so much more to a painting than just its style, texture, and color. So what did we learn. Well we knew it already but we need to figure out how to deal with texture and context better. | English | NL | 345038072c9e5ad9b5700155203a88fb407e9daa30cfe054b0836456e084cc5c |
I went shopping for my supplies (A4 paper box - 'borrowed' from school, 4 mouse traps, masking tape and a knife/scissors) and found that they no longer sell those old school mouse traps with the wooden base and the metal springs! They now sell these fancy contraptions that you can stick your finger in and not risk it being chopped off. This made me happy as I knew I didn't have to worry too much about filling in an incident report on a Friday afternoon because a Year 12 student has lost a finger during my lesson! It only took me about half an hour to create, with the longest time being spent on cutting the holes at the front of the box.
So this is what the finished product looked like:
This drove a discussion on Tay Sachs. Not many of the students had heard of the disease, so I used the data projector to show them photos of children with the disease and read through some stories that I found online. This gave them a very brief introduction into the disease. I then posed the question, 'If you had a child with Tay Sachs (or any other debilitating disease that was passed on through genetics) would you have more children?'. Being Year 12 students, this led to some good conversation about genetic screening and the use of genetic counselling.
It was then time to pick our volunteer, who would be the first person to have a go at the 'Predictor'. We sent her outside and I opened the box and showed the rest of the class what was inside. I made them believe that the volunteer would be putting her finger inside one of the openings to see whether the trap would go off. It was explained that if the trap went off, their child would be born with the disease and if not their child would be healthy.
When our volunteer returned and was told what she was going to do, and everyone reacted accordingly! Of course I wasn't going to make her put her finger in the trap (safe traps or not - I'm not that sadistic!) so I handed her a paddle pop stick. She chose her box and we recorded whether or not the trap went off. Then we went through all students in the class and I re-set a trap for each student and we recorded our data. We achieved a result of 3 'yes' to 13 'no' and by doing our mathematics calculated that the percentage was approximately 23%. This was pretty spot on considering we had a small sample size and we achieved our 25%, which is in fact the chances of a healthy couple have a child with Tay Sachs.
This helped us end the lesson with an introductory discussion about recessive and dominant traits and how the percentage chance of many genetic traits being passed on from one generation to the next is dependent on these different types of genes and the chance is 'reset' with each generation.
I think once we get into actually looking at the inheritance of different traits this introductory lesson will help them out a bit and I'm sure I will get the 'Predictor' out again to explore the possibilities of passing on other traits! | English | NL | 3f5c06716ae9732d615102ba0e9adacafa6d77e47ce90436b0ea8c9ad82dd356 |
Colossians & Philemonby Mike Raiter
Paul now gives his third and final warning against listening to those who try to disqualify believers because of beliefs or behaviours that the gospel does not condemn.
Essentially he says, “Do not let anyone . . . disqualify you” (v. 18). Or make you feel inferior. Or make you feel like you are missing out and not really part of God’s people. The particular problems Paul is addressing are a little hard to tie down. There were some critics who wanted to disqualify the Colossians because of, literally, lacking in “humilities”. Of course, humility is a wonderful virtue (see Colossians 3:12), but there is also a false kind of humility. This comes from the kind of people who deny themselves things and then make you feel guilty because you do not. It is fine for you to fast or decide to give half of your income to world missionary work, but do not disqualify me on that basis because I have made other choices.
Paul then talks about the worship of angels. This may refer to some who claimed to have enjoyed dreams and visions in which they saw things that only the angels in worship have seen. Such people, then and now, go into great detail about what they have seen. Sadly, they then arrogantly make the rest of us feel inferior because we have not experienced the same. Paul is not against dreams and visions—he had both—but he did not disqualify others who had not experienced those things.
In verse 19, Paul turns the tables on the disqualifiers. They were trying to disqualify others by their judgemental attitudes when, in fact, they were the ones out of touch and in spiritual danger. They had begun to put more confidence in their own dreams, visions, and experiences than in the Lord Jesus and all He has done for us.
Sadly, it is all too common to hear Christians advocating a super spirituality, such as: just claim this promise, or pray this prayer, or complete this course, and spiritual riches undreamed of will be yours. Paul says we should not be fooled
by them. Stay with Christ; stay with His body.
Have other Christians ever insisted that you need to have had a similar experience of God as them, or claimed you are missing out? How should we respond to such people?
Are there times when you have felt unworthy as a Christian? What comfort and challenge does the teaching of Colossians bring at such moments? | English | NL | 5e9de973512b8775077fb36711bdbbf05a57342cea59412953b3a5cbc89859e6 |
While the Butoh itself goes without saying, the theater was spectacular. At Lotus Cabaret Shy, located in Minami Aoyama right beside the metro station of Gaienmae, I thought to go see the Butoh performance under the exaggerated title of “Hinagata 7, Explosion of NEON or NEANT” of the Butoh artist Ko Murobushi.
Of course, the spectacularity of the theater was only beginning of the deep impressions I had in regards to Butoh. The initiation for assisting in Ko Murobushi's plans started at the entrance of the theater.
The flyer I had in my hand had “The Opening of Shy” written on it, so I had imagined the opening of a pretty little cabaret theater, but my expectations were splendidly betrayed. It was located in the basement of a multi-tenant building, and of course, and there was nothing stylish that made it lobby-like.
What was called a landing was a narrow space that (felt ashamed to call landing) barely caught one's attention. Right beside it was the entrance door, and a reception desk just managed to fit on the landing. Moreover, the door was an iron door.
When the iron door was finally opened, beyond was an extremely sudden flight of concrete stairs. Taking care not to slip and fall, when I descended the flight of stairs, I was met with a dead end. The concrete walls were left bare, and that narrow corner that resembled a storehouse was the theater.
There were thirty reserved seats which certainly made it narrow, though they were merely white sheets spread out on the floor.
When one sat down in the seat, or rather, floor, a white curtain hung before one's eyes. The space felt small and it was like being locked up in something like a prison. When I thought the man at the reception just might be the jailer, I gradually came to understand that he was the gatekeeper to hell. In other words, this was the inside of a tomb.
It is said that, at the graveyard, humans interact with eternity. Just short of thirty patrons, we were led by Murobushi, and as we wondered what we would be meeting and what was beyond the white curtain, all of a sudden, it went black. From there was the start of what was called Butoh. At any rate, it was an admirable drection.
As the name says, the underground graveyard was everlasting darkness, and before long, between the white curtain and the white floor, the figure of a person crouched down rose to the surface. The resident mummy within the grave, its face wrapped in white bandages and kimono worn backwards, crouched there with something like a red obi over its head, weakly wriggling.The trembling became movement, and this man whose eyes were taken from him stood up soon after; this action may have perhaps been expressing the awakening in the realm of the underworld. And what this awakening brought with it at the same time was agony. This endless movement on top of the small, square stage between the white curtain and the white floor may have been hinting at the fact that this man was never to be set free from the place that is this very spot. The curtain behind him came to look increasingly overbearing and it was indeed suffocating. Resounding from beginning to end, the sound filled the interior of the narrow graveyard entirely, and until the sound came to grow so high that it pierced the ears, the man held his ears. It could be seen that this man's agony had already become near madness, but Murobushi's agony and madness were forcing an almost unbelievable kind of self-torment on us.
However, when Murobushi defyingly cast aside the overbearing white cutain behind him and a pale, transparent light shone from beyond the curtain, we felt an indescribable kind of catharsis.
Of course, white bandages were still wrapped around the artist's face, and the awakening and agony of the man whose eyes were taken from him continued.
Soon after, he disappeared into the refrigerator that was behind the stage, and the stage was wrapped in darkness. The darkness continued on for a while, and just as comical sounds came from within it, donning the white clothing of a young girl, Murobushi came moving along to the music. The man with his shaven head rolled back the whites of his eyes and, from the neck, removed the head piece of the costume of the young girl that looked like a wedding dress. This movement along to the comical rhythm was quite grotesque and humorous.
As I watched this humorous and grotesque dance, I was reminded of Margaret in Velazquez's “Les Meninas.” The refreshing impression this man's reappearance gave was most certainly for the purpose of a vivid transition from a nature of tragedy into a nature of comedy.
As the liberation from this point onwards was relished, fire traveled along the concrete wall. When Murobushi made the fire flare up at the back of the stage, the narrow interior of the grave was engulfed in fire, enveloped in raging flames. We recoiled for a moment, and Murobushi, passing the agony of the awakening and finally reaching the joy of life, freely manipulated the fire and transformed into that of the carnal under the concept “Sebi! To stand in the most beautiful flame of that anatomy and place of death.”
Sending back the death of language to the awakening of the carnal body, the artist endlessly slices away at the carnal body. With his performance from the awakening to manipulating the fire and becoming “a man who can overcome man,” Murobushi's carnal body that sliced away at the carnal released a consistent, metaphysical brilliance, and it was a beautiful and deeply moving performance. | English | NL | fc395283f45b34ece559e5228ab179c4132ae155562e6d88c39af5f6d521face |
What would a SQL query be (for Data Explorer), that reveals questions that are deserving of answers (i.e quality answers that would yield bounty-rewards) ? I did trawl through the "Unanswered questions" page, but many of these are theoretical-type questions from 5 years prior; which nobody really can answer.
But there must be some good questions, from within a month or two; where the asker maybe doesn't have the reputation to give out their own bounty.
I feel that bounties may be used for rewarding good questions, that perhaps don't have any good answers yet either (so, the query maybe can check the upvote/downvotes of existing answers ). It's not only that a question has no answers, but that even those with answers have good answers.
May we please have such query (or page that highlights these questions) ? thanks | English | NL | 6b97507515a1c771f9387457ee6bf2bb0ea488fba0ecfee7a581622b71b3133c |
In the novel Beautiful Creatures, authors Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl created a world of youthful romance, intense drama and supernatural beings. The book became a nationwide bestseller and started a franchise that has now spawned two successful sequels, with a fourth novel arriving in bookstores this fall. The original book is also being adapted into a major motion picture starring Jeremy Irons, Margo Martindale and Alice Englert.
In the middle of May, Screen Rant visited one of the movie sets down in Louisiana. Before we had a chance to talk to the stars of the film, we explored the setting of one of the most important locations in the book and watched as a pivotal scene was filmed outside.
The book tells the story of Ethan Wate (played in the film by Alden Ehrenreich), a teenager struggling with a normal life in the small town of Gatlin, South Carolina. As the story begins, he dreams about a mysterious young girl coming into his life. Ethan's world is changed forever when the woman from those dreams - the strangely appealing Lena Duchaness (Alice Englert) - arrives in town. As he learns more about Lena, he realizes that her family is full of supernatural secrets, and that she is more powerful than he could have ever imagined.
When Lena arrives in town, she moves in with her strange and reclusive uncle, Macon Ravenwood (Jeremy Irons) at Ravenwood Manor, the haunted mansion in town. While in Louisiana, we got a chance to see the house that is serving as the Ravenwood Manor in the film. Like in the book, the home was desolate and stood on the outskirts of town, with vines wrapped around its aged exterior. Covered in moss, the "Ravenwood Manor" on set looked as creepy and unwelcoming as the book described. We were told by the crew that the home was built in the 1830s, but the filmmakers aged the already-large mansion to make it look even older. We were also told that the house was only used for the exterior scenes, while the interior scenes were filmed elsewhere.
If the house was something to see, so was the scene taking place in the backyard. In the shadow of the old home was a dance floor where the filming of one of the story's most pivotal scenes was taking place. In the scene, Lena - who has only recently understood her supernatural powers - is forced to choose how she wants to use those powers, surrounded by her loved ones and friends.
With dozens of actors circling around in elaborate costumes, my fellow journalists and I watched as the scene unfolded, with the actors being surrounded by a large film crew. Some of the costumes used in the sequence had a Gothic cold feel to them, while others featured bursts of color and facial accessories, like those that we saw in The Hunger Games earlier this year.
Although the sun was boiling hot that day, the cast of the film used fans to keep themselves cool with the heavy - and sometimes tight - costumes they wore. After scenes were shot, some of the actors retreated to their seats underneath nearby tents, to watch their scenes play back on small monitors. Jeremy Irons, for one, always seemed to wander back to the screen after a scene was shot to see how it looked.
The set visit lasted only a few hours, but we saw how the filmmakers transformed an older building into a haunted house and how they filmed a dance scene under the hot sun. On the set, we also had a chance to chat with a few of the main actors in the film including, Emmy Rossum, Margo Martindale, Alice Englert and Alden Ehrenreich. Stay tuned to Screen Rant for those interviews.
Beautiful Creatures arrives in theaters on February 13th, 2013. | English | NL | f5f6c3c563eddf23183fd66fe4dbe02afae1cfc4b4cab6023e26de1df3bc956c |
Koolasuchus is a really cool name for a very cool animal. Koolasuchus was only discovered as recently as 1990, although fossil fragments, later identified as belonging to Koolasuchus, were found in the late 70s and 80s. These first fossils were found in Victoria, Australia by paleontologist Leslie Kool and geologist Mike Cleeland, and the species was names after Kool in 1997, meaning “Kool’s Crocodile”. The full name is Koolasuchus cleelandi, named for both of the scientists who discovered them. They lived about 110 million years ago, during the Cretaceous period. Although there were not actually crocodiles, they were about the size and weight of one, and most likely led a similar lifestyle. With one major exception: the area of Southern Australia that they lived in have been much closer to the South Pole and quite colder than the climates of modern-day crocodiles and alligators. Scientists think that they could have hibernated during the coldest parts of the year to survive.
It is likely that Koolasuchus would have hunted like an alligator, moving into freshwater rivers and streams to find fish and shellfish. In the water, Koolasuchus would have been fast and agile, but on land, they would have been quite slow and lumbering and would have posed no threat to others living in the area, even though they were 15 feet long and weighed as much as 1,000 pounds. Partial skull fragments have revealed that Koolasuchus’ head was large and rather flat, with a wide mouth. This distinctly separates them from crocodiles and alligators, because they lacked that long, pointed snout. As far as I can tell, no complete skeleton of Koolasuchus has been discovered. Partial skull fragments and ribs as well as vertebrae give us hints as to what this animal looked like and how it lived.
When the climate began to warm, however, Koolasuchus found it difficult to survive, not directly because of the changing temperatures but because of competition. At this time, crocodiles began to move into the area and they were more equipped to hunt, out-competing Koolasuchus. Crocodilians were common throughout the world at that point, but none had lived as far South as modern-day Southern Australia, probably because of the cooler temperatures. Although crocodiles would eventually triumph once and for all in the warmer climates, in areas which would drift further South and become colder, crocodiles couldn’t survive but the hibernating Koolasuchus could. This theory that the Koolasuchus hibernated would explain why they lived for little longer and how they survived in those colder areas until they finally went extinct.
It is interesting to note something that we talk about in this blog on occassion and that is the value of using fossils and our present knowledge of living animals to understand extinct species. We can’t know for sure whether or not Koolasuchus hibernated, what they looked like, and what they ate. Scientists can make educated guesses that get adjusted and changed with new fossil finds. That is one of the things that make fossil discoveries so interesting. It adds to our understanding or at times completely changes our understanding of long-gone animals.
I hope you found this information interesting. If you have a comment or a question, or a request for a future topic, please leave it down below in a comment. We publish a new blog every Tuesday and Friday, so we hope to see you back here again soon! Thank you for reading and until next time, goodbye!
The post contains affiliate links for which we earn a referral. We thank you for your support. | English | NL | bddd5dd5f157cac4680e30072ad847acfb056414442cf4ed9575568b6e5a1d32 |
BBC News: The book that influenced all others.
Samuel Johnson, born 300 years ago this week, wrote one of the most important books in the English language. So what made his dictionary so special? "Dictionaries", said Samuel Johnson, "are like watches: the worst is better than none, and the best cannot be expected to go quite true." It may not have achieved perfection, but Samuel Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language, published in 1755, is generally regarded as one of the most important works of scholarship in the English language.
Such was its authority that it remained the most pre-eminent of its kind for more than 170 years, until the advent of the Oxford English Dictionary in 1928. Johnson introduced a literary quality to lexicography that remains an influence to this day. Remarkably, during the nine years it took him to complete his work, his wife Elizabeth, known as Tetty, died and he suffered increasing bouts of depression that had afflicted him throughout his life.
So glad the article mentions Blackadder episode about the dictionary (Blackadder the Third, Ink and Incapability), though the BBC is wrong, it was Edmund’s novel, not Baldrick’s. Johnson’s dictionary has a lot of his opinions in the definitions, and he had quotes for each of the 40,000 words included. In 2005, the Oxford English Dictionary had 301,100 main entries.
Delenn: Ivanova sent me to find you. She said you haven’t been sleeping, you have hardly been eating; she said that you have been, in her words, "carrying on cranky." I looked up the word "cranky." It said "grouchy." I looked up "grouchy," it said "crotchety." No wonder you have such an eccentric culture: none of your words have their own meaning! You have to look up one word to understand another. It never ends.
John Sheridan: [not paying attention] Something here doesn’t make sense.
Delenn: That is what I thought when I came across "crotchety." This cannot be a real word, I said.
Babylon 5, season 3, episode "And the Rock Cried Out, No Hiding Place" | English | NL | dee9e597dd83079b3eaf42e64952b976f623967534b4c6d62c757cc2ea0e3698 |
As with many family-owned businesses in America, Gonzalez Furniture started with a humble beginning. Our founder, Jorge Gonzalez, Sr., was born in China, Nuevo Leon, Mexico and later met his wife, Melinda, in Reynosa. Having earned a managerial position in a furniture store at the young age of 12, Melinda formed a strong background in the industry that later helped Jorge build his company.
Having worked many odd jobs in his youth in Chicago and Houston, Jorge brought Melinda to the latter city where their family grew. Following the Vietnam War, Jorge worked for Kingwood Products where he helped build dining room furniture. Always the entrepreneur, Jorge began purchasing second-hand furniture, repaired them and resold them at flea markets. Following the passing of Jorge’s boss in 1979, Jorge purchased as much furniture as he could at the company auction.
After relocating to southern Texas to be near loved ones, the Gonzalez family began selling off the furniture at weekend flea markets. Before long, they found new suppliers and began selling at flea markets across the Rio Grande Valley. Jorge knew that he would need his own location to help him keep up with the demand for his products. He acted as contractor to the construction of a 10,000 square-foot building – the first for Gonzalez Furniture. In 1996, a 25,000 square-foot building was built and a 42,000 square-foot location followed in 2004 in Brownsville.
In the years following, Gonzalez Furniture took off faster than ever before, quickly becoming a household name. The company has come to be known as one that treats customers fairly and with respect. Today, both Jorge and Melinda still oversee the company’s operations along with the assistance of their four children, Jorge, Jr., twins Jaime and Joel, and daughter Neldy – along with 65 employees, each doing their part to continue making Gonzalez Furniture a respectable name and company in the Valley. | English | NL | 96201f2d7d120e9390175a0e888508d4d76a1358df10826f0e62efbf562aeee0 |
One woman’s vision and passion has led to this remarkable undertaking. She is Alice Sayo and she is truly a hero to her people in all respects. Born into a large Maasai family, Alice was the 11th of 12 children. After her father died, she appeared destined for an early marriage, but the efforts of her mother and an older brother enabled her to go to school and follow a different path. She graduated from high school in Kenya and from University in England. Her dream, ever since the miraculous change in her own life, has been to allow other Maasai girls the same opportunity. She has worked tirelessly to gain support for the cause of the girlchild in Narok, Kenya, as a school principal, community outreach educator, and as sponsor for several poor Maasai girls attending secondary school.
In 2011, Alice was chosen as a participant in the International Leaders in Education program, a teacher exchange program sponsored by IREX and the US State Dept. While attending the College of Education at James Madison University, in Harrisonburg, VA, Alice shared her dream with faculty, students, and community members. Nasaruni Academy for Maasai Girls is the result of her vision to provide primary education to girls in the Narok area. She lives with her husband, Bishop Moses Sayo, and their three children in Narok where she continues as a public high school principal while also Director of Nasaruni Academy.
Nasaruni Academy © 2015 | English | NL | c792aeb966766c4cc01d534ad907cf06b81fb66efd7835b711bce1e52e22c4cc |
Understanding the Supernatural Gifts from God
By: David Martin
I want you to expect the supernatural to operate in your life. We have listed the twenty-one gifts of the Spirit, and now we want to examine the nine operational gifts in more detail. These nine gifts are broken into three different categories. First, the three power gifts, namely the gift of faith, the working of miracles, and then the gifts of healing. Then we have the revelation gifts, or revelatory gifts. These are word of wisdom, word of knowledge and discerning of Spirits. The third category is called the utterance or the vocal gifts. These include tongues, the interpretation of tongues and prophecy.
Let’s begin with the power gifts, starting with the gift of faith. My definition of this gift: the ability to believe beyond your own level of faith. You will generally move from faith to another one of the gifts of the Spirit. Its purpose is to pave the way for the operation of another gift, giving you the ability to operate in the supernatural. As an example, Peter got out of the boat and walked on water. The operation of the gift of the faith was that he had trusted in the word that Yeshua spoke, “Come!” We think of Peter walking on the water, but really it wasn’t walking on the water as much as he was walking with faith and the word of Yeshua by the gift of faith. It gave Peter the unction to get out of the boat. More likely, the working of miracles was the supernatural flow that allowed him to walk in that dimension, walking on the water. It is the gift of faith that most believers are going to need to raise the dead, at least until you have acquired a degree of experience with it.
Let’s also look at examples of what it is not. For example, it is not related to saving faith. Everyone has a measure of faith per se, and that faith is what you need to accept Yeshua as your savior. It is not what we might call ordinary faith. Ordinary faith as we see from the word of God, says, “Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God” (Rom. 10:17). So the more you hear the word of God, the more you are going to grow in faith and trust and confidence in God, but that operation of faith is quite different. The gift of faith is an unction that comes on you for a moment and after that moment is gone, the gift of faith is gone.
What we want is to have our ordinary faith increase, so that we expect the gift of faith and the operation of the miraculous. Some examples of faith include what Moses did when he went into Pharaoh’s court. There were different elements there too. We see the working of miracles as Moses did things like putting his hand inside his garment, then bringing it out and it was leprous; or putting his staff down and it becomes a serpent. There was the operation of faith when he lifted up his staff and stretched out his hand to set the stage for the splitting of the Red Sea. I believe that quite frequently the gift of faith is preceded by a word from God: a word of wisdom, or a word of knowledge, along with an unction of the Holy Spirit. Often God gives you a small piece of information, and it could well be this small piece of information gives you the unction we see in Moses’case. God basically said, “Moses, what are you fretting about? Do something here.” And God told him, “Lift your staff, put your hands over the water,” and when he did that the Red Sea parted. Another example of the gift of faith is a stepping out to do something beyond your established level of faith. Like Joshua marching around Jericho seven times and leading the people, quite possibly represents a gift of faith. I heard someone say the real miracle was to keep that many people quiet for seven days! Another example that could be a gift of faith is David and Goliath—that unction for David to rise up and take on the giant, not even being concerned about it. That’s the unique thing about the gift of faith, that when this comes upon you, you are ready to go and do, no questions asked. It is the Spirit of God, that confidence working in you and through you. Another example is Yeshua walking on the sea. Whether or not Yeshua needed the gift of faith, we don’t know, but certainly it was outside of the norm of something He would do. I honestly think Yeshua probably walked in not only the gifts of the Spirit, but the operation of the fullness of the Spirit and the seven spirits of God. I really believe we’re coming into something that’s even going to take us past Pentecost into the fullness of the Spirit.
Another example with Peter is when he comes to the Temple. The beggar is there, begging for alms and what does Peter say? “Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have I give, in the name of Yeshua, rise up and walk!” And the man just jumped up, leaping, walking and praising God. For most people that would indicate the operation of the gift of faith. Another example would be Paul, with Eutychus. Paul is preaching at midnight and Eutychus falls out out of the window down to the ground. By all appearances he is dead, and Paul goes over and speaks life into him. Everyone is happy because he was raised from the dead.
From my personal life, I will give you a couple of examples. My mother died from cancer that was tumorous. It grew very rapidly; she was a believer but I think in her case there was a fear that was hindering the operation of the Spirit. When she died, I had a very busy schedule and it was devastating to have the devil take her out. Everyone was telling me, “Dave, just take some time off.” The day after the funeral I went right back into my schedule of ministry, and two or three days after the funeral, there was a lady that had the same problem. I prayed a good prayer of faith, believing God for the healing, but nothing happened. No change that I could see. But on the inside of me there was this surge that said, “Don’t give up. Don’t let the devil have a victory here.” I prayed again, and nothing happened. But there was such an unction on the inside of me. I just knew I had the victory even though I wasn’t seeing the victory, the lady wasn’t seeing the victory. All of a sudden the power of God hit her and the tumor just totally disappeared. It was a shocking moment! A gift of faith gave me the unction to fight.
One of my favorite stories demonstrates the working of miracles. I was in South Africa on a medical mission with a surgeon. She had asked me to mentor her on the operation of the supernatural because she was seeing people healed by surgery, but she wanted to see more of the miraculous. I encountered a lady that they were rolling into this convent/medical clinic in a wheelbarrow. I don’t know what the problem was, because I met her before the doctors got to her. She was in excruciating pain and couldn’t walk. The woman had been through some domestic violence and had fallen. Possibly it was a broken back. I got down on the floor and ministered to her that through the blood of Yeshua she was healed. I related the story about Peter and James at the Gate Beautiful and said, “In the name of Yeshua, rise up and walk.” And there was an unction! The doctor attending her stopped me because you don’t tell people with a broken back to get up and walk. So the doctor, my friend, is trying to stop me, saying “No, you can’t do that!” and I said, “Yes we can.” And faith rose up on the inside of me and she got up out of the wheelbarrow. Her first step or two, she was in pain, but I just stood alongside her and said, “In the name of Yeshua, you are healed.” For a few seconds she was walking in pain, and then the power of God hit her. She was completely healed. My doctor friend did an exam and the lady was completely healed. She left pushing the wheelbarrow. Later that night the doctor got filled with the Holy Spirit, and God opened the door for that whole convent. I was able to minister because of that miracle to forty nuns and over a couple of days they all got baptized in the Holy Ghost.
One of the things you are going to see as you step out is that miracles provoke people to jealousy, as the Bible says. They witness the reality of a miracle working God, and they want it. Here’s another example of the working of miracles: I was doing a meeting in Rwanda or Burundi. We were the first ministry ever that the United Nations allowed into the U.N. refugee camps to do campaigns. God moved miraculously. The fifth camp we were going into, people were dying, one per minute, from cholera, dysentery, malaria, machete wounds, and there was a lot of killing happening even in the camps while we were there. The militia came to us and said, “We don’t want you here.” We said, “We’ve got a letter from the president of the country. We have a letter from the head of U.N. refugee relief, so we’ll do this last meeting and we’ll be gone.” They said, “You don’t understand, if you value your life, leave!” And we said, “We do value our lives, but we’re going to stay.” All this was happening through my interpreters. They had 120 Africans; I had like five or six Americans on my team. And they started stoning our team! But there was like a supernatural shield. One person was hit, but no one was injured, no vehicle was damaged, and we all left safely. The next day, 100 Red Cross workers came with me and all 100 were under supernatural protection. I knew God had said, “Go there!”
Again, faith begins where the will of God is known. When you know God’s will then you are going to be in a place to receive the supernatural, naturally.
Now, let’s move into the working of miracles. This is my definition—doing the miraculous, something awesome as a sign or a wonder. Some years ago I would say the working of miracles is God overriding the laws of nature. But we have to remember God never breaks a law. He always works within His laws of creation. What happens is He allows us to operate in a level that we may not understand but it is a realm in the Spirit that is natural to Him. When we’re operating in miracles, we’re just really functioning in God’s realm. As I said earlier, quantum physics shows how we affect the world that we’re living in by what’s in our heart, and we literally call things into being that are not. But it is a natural realm for God. Working of miracles seemingly defies the laws of nature, but in reality the miracles are functioning within the ability of God.
Sometimes we say, “Well, that was a miracle,” but it may differ from the working of miracles. For example, looking at the development of a baby in the womb, you can’t help but say, “That’s the miracle of birth.” That is a natural miracle. Creation is miraculous in its design, but the working of miracles is an intervention by God through you, by the power of the Holy Spirit to do something outside of the bounds of your understanding, but within the laws of creation. My experience has been that it usually has an instantaneous manifestation. It is going to have a right now, “Ahhh, I can see it.” Sometimes when people get healed, whether you can see it or not, that healing can also have a miraculous edge, which causes it to be instantaneous. When a body part is made supernaturally, it is an example of a creative miracle. Once I was praying for a lady in a prison who had her finger shot off. She was there for armed robbery, and she had came forward for headaches because she had been shot in the course of the robbery. Some of the shrapnel was still in her head. They couldn’t take it out because of the proximity to the brain. So she had constant, serious headaches. When she came forward for the pain, I prayed and she was healed. As far as we could tell, the pain was all gone. She was one of probably twenty or thirty people in this prayer line. I was still praying for the others as she went back to her seat, but all of a sudden we hear this screaming—joyful screaming. There was an incredible commotion because when she got back to her seat she realized the missing finger was back! God literally created it from the first knuckle up! That’s what happens with the workings of miracles. It is creative, and it is usually instantaneous.
Right now, I’m going to believe God for a release of miracle power. By the power of the Holy Spirit that’s in me and flowing out of me, I pray that it is going to activate within you the gifts of the Holy Spirit. Especially an activation of the gifts of healing. | English | NL | f4aae2b8606fee6a4e83f658e28c3eaf1fc22edf1fda5d362f3a380843034858 |
Person in the Uk Army’s Irish Guards who have became the very first Irish-born person to become killed within the Iraq battle. His funeral was the 1st funeral kept in the Republic of Ireland to feature uniformed English military employees since 1922. He was raised within the Irish suburb of Ballyfermot and became a member of the Irish Guards in 1997 at age group 23. He was interviewed about his encounters within the English Army for the air Telefis Eireann documentary series Accurate Lives simply five weeks before his loss of life. He was the oldest of five siblings. He and Local American soldier Lori Piestewa had been both killed within the Iraq Battle in 2003. | English | NL | 8fc67afb63eac426d80946402eedd701b38a82672c18aee4b865a76f2c177c2a |
Anna Saylor knows just how to fix her sexy husband Grey’s new swearing problem… She bets him he can’t stop. The stakes are high. Every time he says a dirty word, he has to use that dirty mouth to bring her pleasure. Anna’s sure she’ll make her point and have a memorable day in the process. Grey’s determined to prove her wrong. In a competition this sexy, everyone wins. Who says married life is boring?
Anna Saylor sighed with delight in her king-sized bed as she stretched her arms above her head and slid her toes down to the bottom of the cool, white sheets. The rising sun brightened the plantation shutters over the windows, and birds sang merrily outside, but she snuggled back into her pillow.
Ah, Saturday. The most wonderful day of the week. It was even more wonderful on a three-day Memorial Day weekend.
Her spring recitals were finally over. Though she was thankful her dance school was doing so well, she could definitely use the summer off to let her tired body recover. And to let her ears recover from classes of enthusiastic beginning tappers.
She turned lazily to her side, pushed her long hair behind her ear, and studied her husband, Grey, as he lay next to her. His short, golden hair was tousled from sleep and his eyes still closed. Deep, even breaths lifted his muscular torso, bared to the waist by the sheets. His arms were flung out to his sides, and Anna shifted until she lay half-draped upon his hard body, her head resting on his biceps.
He stirred, and she glanced up into his sky-colored eyes.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” she murmured.
“Morning.” Grey looked back at her with a sleepy grin.
Anna’s heart thumped happily, and she snuggled more deeply against her husband. “I’m glad we get to spend this weekend together. We’ve been so busy lately, I feel like I hardly see you.”
“I know.” He brought his hand up and stroked her hair as he dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head.
She ran her hand slowly across his hard chest, purposefully grazing one small, flat nipple, which hardened at her touch. She loved how his body always responded to hers. “Thank goodness recitals are over with.”
“They were awesome,” he said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “All five shows.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” She tickled his side, and he flinched.
“Hey, none of that now.” He leaned down and kissed her. “I should get serious props for all the flowers I gave you after every damn curtain call.”
“Props given. Thank you. You are an awesome husband.”
“You bet your ass, I am. That was some serious romantic shit there, babe.”
“You are an amazing guy, no argument.” And he was. It was why she had married him, after all. He was funny, and sexy, and supportive, and romantic. But since he’d been working with a different construction crew, she had seen one change in him she didn’t like at all. She frowned and poked him teasingly in the chin with her index finger. “You know, you’ve developed a serious potty mouth since you started this new job.”
He frowned down at her. “I have not.”
“Oh, yeah?” She raised one eyebrow. “I bet you can’t go even an hour without cursing.”
He gave her a cocky grin. “Bet I can.”
That dimple in his left cheek that she found so sexy gave her a deliciously wicked idea, and she grinned. Grey’s competitive nature alternately amused and incensed her. He never turned down a bet. In fact, a bet was how they’d ended up married. Today she decided to use his competitiveness to her advantage. To her full advantage. “Care to make a friendly wager on it?”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Name the terms.”
“Every time you curse today, you have to make me orgasm, but without having an orgasm yourself. Dirty sex talk doesn’t count, just plain cursing. As they say, you’ll put your money where your mouth is.” She smirked. “Figuratively and literally.”
He smirked back. “What about when I win?” | English | NL | b7256a8e904cb960dd5cf875ec1bc5604b572d37c683ce639ec866091f8e0fbf |
By Ari Marmell
Thief’s Covenant is the first of 4 novels in the Widdershins series and is a high fantasy young adult novel. Don't let the classification fool you, however, as the novel is highly enjoyable for adults as well. The overall plot of the book is well laid out and offers enough twists to keep you guessing, but is still easy enough to follow. It is intelligently written and offers up enough wit and humor to be amusing for all readers.
The setting takes place in the fictional city of Davillon, which is a feudal city made up of landowners as the governing body, and the church. The church is the representation of all 147 Gods of the Hallowed Pact and a religious system based off the Greek system of patron gods for cities, families, guilds and personal. The main aspects discussed within the book would be the city guard, the church, the Flippant Witch, and the finders guild. The reader will become very familiar with these locations and the organizational structures for which they operate under.
Our main character is Adrienne Satti, who goes by many names, but is predominantly known as the thief Widdershins. She has a very in depth backstory, going from a young girl to an orphan, then being adopted into a prestigious family, only to have it all crumble around her. The tragedies that strike her are also what lead us to where she is now, with a God, Olgun, residing inside her. Olgun is a God not of the Hallowed Pact, so not much is known of him. Olgun has the power to enhance Widdershins abilities and grant small amounts of luck for her to be successful in whatever trickery she is hoping to accomplish. She is a member of the Finders Guild, which is the public term for thieves guild, which is patroned by the Shrouded God and overseen by the Shrouded Lord. Widdershins has few friends within the guild, and most would be happy to see her removed in one way or another. She has a wit and tongue that is sharp and really has nothing to hold it back. She is also very oblivious to some things that the reader may not be.
The cast of characters is diverse and well developed for a young adult novel. They all have different personalities and backgrounds and have that feeling of being whole characters rather than just a person involved in plot. You will love them, you will hate them, you will cry. You will get attached to the people in this story and want to learn more about them and their lives. The relationships that are built between the characters are complex and enjoyable to read.
For those that are interested, the book does pass the Bechdel Test, with several female characters who do talk with each other about something other than men. This test is personally not something I rate media on in general, but is a good starting point for character development.
The overall plot is well presented to the reader, with enough twists for it to not be predictable. The beginning of the book establishes the backstory and relationship of all the characters, with the plot weaving through the setup. Widdershins finds herself in the center of a dark and sinister plot that ties beautifully to her past. Not even Olgun can see what is coming, which is terrifying and refreshing to have a God who has limits on their abilities. It makes for a much more interesting story when the main character has to struggle through a problem, even if she does have help.
One of the things that was a bit of a distraction was how much things jumped around with back story. The reasoning makes sense, as the jumps occurred in places where it was relevant to the plot, which kept that information fresh in the mind as the story moved forward. As a reader, it was something I was not used too, so sometimes I would lose where I was in the story it was. It was not something that made me want to stop reading, and to other readers this may not be a problem. I would assume that because this book setup the whole overarching plot and the character backgrounds, that this occurs more frequently in book one, and will drop off in the future books of the series.
Overall I would highly recommend this series. I enjoyed the story and characters and grew rather fond of them over the course of the book. I look forward to reading the rest of the series and watching as the characters grow over time. The book is available in hard or soft cover, in PDF format, and as an audio book from Graphic Audio. | English | NL | 158251aac4dd766ddb02fec97857e3913955a52db2fc0ab7fecd10b39bfe79da |
We had a very good supper night in Coatbridge this week. We began with tea, coffee, soft drinks with a selection of home baking and doughnuts. We then had a short service which Carol began with a time of singing. This was followed with a lovely duet from Mark and Laura and an up to date testimony from John. Carol then brought the word from 2 Corinthians 1:8,9. It was a short, but very powerful word, all about relying upon our God who is more than able to bring us through difficult circumstances. We then sang Amazing Grace before closing with prayer. It was a fantastic evening with a real sense of the happiness and victory of God. | English | NL | 324a93d024996a19547fcce0d48cb9a77651c39ed10d39147174baa91e96f3f1 |
Remember This When You’re Waiting Endlessly, or It Feels Like It
Waiting for suffering to end and relief to come would be so much easier if we knew the end date. If someone delivered the message, “You just have to hold on for x more days, and then your prayers are going to be answered,” most of us would muster up the courage and grit to wait it out faithfully. But that’s rarely what waiting endlessly looks like.
Waiting endlessly is more like a dense cloud where we lack clarity and hope feels slippery and hard to grasp. Numbing out becomes incredibly tempting because what we really want to do is scream, “I just can’t stand this.” Taking matters into our own hands becomes equally tempting, and dependence on God feels risky. We’re told to trust Him in the storm, and that can be easier said than done. Actually, it’s always easier said than done.
I’m coming through a season of waiting endlessly that I pray I don’t need to repeat. Never have I felt less in control and never have I been more desperate to fix things and speed up the process of healing. There were so many moments when I wanted to give up–when it took everything I had to hold on to a shred of hope, believing against all evidence that God was present in that very moment and He was at work.
The perspective of these circumstances caused me to look at a passage in Exodus 24 with totally new eyes. Prior to these verses, Moses had led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt. God had brought them to Mount Sinai where He was about to give them the Ten Commandments, which were to help them learn how to live as beloved children instead of as slaves.
In preparation for this monumental shift, Moses and a band of key leaders were taken aside by God. On the side of the mountain, “they saw the God of Israel. Under his feet there was something like a pavement of sapphire stone, like the very heaven for clearness…they beheld God.” (Ex. 24:10,11). This had to have been the most mind-blowing spiritual experience. You would think it would have been seared in their memories forever. How could they ever question whether or not God was real? They had seen Him.
Then God called Moses to come closer, leaving the leaders behind, beckoning him further up the mountain. Moses delegated his authority to his brother Aaron and Hur, and obeyed God. These two men had been critical support to Moses during a battle the Israelites faced with the Amalekites. During that battle, Moses, Aaron and Hur climbed to the top of a hill. As long as Moses’ hands were raised up, Israel had the better of the fight, but when he let his hands rest, the Amalekites were stronger. We read in Exodus 17:12 that Moses’ hands grew tired, so Aaron and Hur took a rock and put it under him. At the same time, they supported his hands, one on one side and one on the other, so his hands remained steady. And the Israelites won the battle. These were faithful friends.
Picking up again in Exodus 24, “Now the appearance of the glory of the Lord was like a devouring fire on the top of the mountain in the sight of the people of Israel. Moses entered the cloud, and went up on the mountain. Moses was on the mountain for forty days and forty nights.” (Exodus 24:17-18)
Picture what this must have been like–how terrifying it had to have been for Moses to enter into a cloud that looked like a devouring fire, all by himself. What was that experience like? Was it purifying? Overwhelming? How would it feel to have God reveal to you the new marching orders on how everyone was to live, to receive the Ten Commandments, in the middle of a dense cloud of God’s presence?
This passage makes me think of a journey my heroic husband has been on, one I have been secretly calling his SELAH. SELAH is a word found in the Bible that’s hard to define. Some scholars say it indicates a change in rhythm, a pause, a moment to stop and reflect. I like that definition and think it’s an apt description of times in our lives when we have something of a “before and after” moment. We stop and reflect, we are changed, and then journey forward, stronger and healthier.
It began with his prayer asking God to grow him in humility and closeness to Him. He prayed this quietly, and without fuss, with no idea what was just around the corner. A short time later, stress in his life increased and peaked, catapulting him into a season that certainly felt like and appeared to be a devouring fire. Was the suffering an answer to his prayer for greater spiritual growth? I don’t know. Perhaps. But it lasted, in its intensity, exactly forty days. For forty days, to the day, we had no idea what things would look like on the other side. We wondered if we would get there. His suffering was acute and isolating. The days and nights were filled with unrelenting waves of anxiety. Debilitating fear made his heart and mind pound constantly. A dark night of the soul filled him with spiritual doubts and that made everything even harder. The combination of very little sleep, no diagnosis, and no clear end date was overwhelming. While there is no question that his agony was the greater, it was also incredibly hard to stand by his side –unable to fix things or bring relief. When we deeply love someone, watching him or her suffer is its own form of anguish.
Waiting endlessly is more like a dense cloud where we lack clarity and hope feels slippery and hard to grasp. Numbing out becomes incredibly tempting because what we really want to do is scream, “I just can’t stand this.”
The thought occurred to me that as Moses walked through something that must have been frightening, he hoped that the vision the leaders had received of God would help them stay faithful in his absence. As he stood in the firestorm, being refined as a leader, preparing to lead his people to a life of true freedom, He was counting on Aaron and Hur to stay faithful and to keep everyone’s focus on God. He needed them to wait well–to not lose hope–to not give in to the temptation to take matters into their own hands. God was at work, even if they couldn’t see evidence of it through the dense cloud. They just needed to hold steady.
Maybe they could have done it for six days. Most of us can endure anything if it just lasts a week. But forty days? That’s a long time. It proved too much. Aaron and Hur forgot the vision of God, caved in to the people’s complaints, and created and worshipped a golden calf instead. They took matters into their own hands because after such a long wait, it felt like God was not going to come through.
How long are we willing to wait?
My friends, God always shows up. And not just at some remote time far in the future. He is at work now–right in this very moment that feels hopeless– in this current set of circumstances that seems without end. During the endless waiting, our job is to remember. When has He come through for you in the past? Dwell on this. Remember that our God is unchanging and He will rescue again.
Hold steady and rebuke the lie that says, “It’s all up to me.” The truth is, we have an all-powerful Rescuer who never leaves our side. Reject the lie that says, “Things will never change.” The darkest hour is the hour before dawn. Wait faithfully. The light will come.
The very thing that we think will destroy us can be what strengthens and heals us. Suffering brings all sorts of long-buried things to the surface. Sometimes it’s the only way God can get to those deep places in our hearts to set us free.
The psalmist wrote, “I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” (Psalm 27:13) I pray you would not lose heart, and would remain steadfast as the storm rages. God is in the waiting. He is at work. You will see His goodness unfold.
With love and prayers,
Founder and Chief Purpose Officer
Walking with Purpose | English | NL | ce7821b5b890a84c9bef47457a2b2937a5cb573f87a55f98c0b0f902e10bb900 |
Traces of Goethe
1999 was the “Goethe Year” in Germany. Accordingly, the fall season in 1998 began with a musical project dedicated to what the man left behind – his work, his life, and the places which played key roles in these. We drew inspiration from Goethe’s house in Weimar; during a tour of it, we noticed how he split his various activities across several rooms and stored his archive and collections in cabinets with many drawers. We graphically translated the rooms, cabinets, and drawers into frames, boxes, and lines. Using the two spot colors dark green and lilac/red, we created a spectrum of different duotones that also referenced the color diversity in Goethe’s house. We chose Emigre Filosofia as the font for its classical look. | English | NL | ead1307cac005a8414ea0e75847d1e801b326ccddff112fbbd73e7f524cc962f |
Warning: May or may not be based on true events.
We went upstairs. My best friend has been having trouble with a couple of boys. She doesn’t know which one she is in love with. We’ve been working with each other’s energy for a while now. I know something is wrong, but until I see, I can’t tell.My upstairs is slightly in the state of disarray, but she never notices anyway. We sit on the couch and I turn something on the tv absent-mindedly. “So, what’s bugging you?”
“I don’t know which one I love, and I don’t know which one I want to leave.”
“Well just clear your mind, and let’s try to figure out what’s going on in the inside.” I tell her. I’ve never tried to go in this far before. I was going to read her inner self and try to figure out how to fix this. I had only read people’s kind of history and why they acted the way they are before. I would love or hate someone just by meeting them, but I’ve never fully looked inside at their self, their soul. I grabbed her hand and we could both feel the tingle. The slight increase in energy around our hands. It felt like the air became warmer around certain spots, and we could move it. It’s so interesting.
I thought of tiny tendrils of my energy go from my hand into, and around, hers. Our energies were syncing, I could tell she was trying to clear her mind. Let all the emotions go and just think of herself. Who she was. I’m not one for visualizing, something began to come into focus. Something else I should mention is the fact that I align with Earth and she goes with Air primarily, fire being my second and water hers. Somehow in my mind, I am upside down. A deep brown rock is under my feet and I’m somehow standing upside down. How I know this is my friend is below me, standing upright as well. At this point I also notice that we were in the eye of a tornado. There was no wind, but you could see the currents swirling around us.
She reached up with what was supposed to be her hand. Instead as it came towards me, the skin began to break in between the middle and ring finger. Blood seeped and oozed out of the wound and she continued to try to reach for me. The hand snapped and twitched apart as it rose to me. Splitting right down the middle through her forearm. Before I could grab on, she pushed me out with a gust of wind. We never did it again.
“You didn’t even let me try to help. I think I could have mended you.”
“I know, I just couldn’t stand it anymore. It was so weird.”
“You’re telling me. You didn’t have a bloody, split in half hand coming at you.”
“Maybe not, but it was my hand after all.”
“True. Did this help at all?”
“I think I know who I’m going to choose.”
“Good. Hopefully now you can heal.”
“Yeah, same. Thank you.”
“Anytime. Oh, I might have somehow, kind of, bound our souls together when I was in there. so yeah, if you feel something weird, I’m probably in pain somewhere.”
“Yeah, or me too.”
“Oh god, I better not get your cravings.”
“Hey, at least you won’t have the pains.”
“True. If you ever need me, I’m always here. Remember that.”
“I know.” We continued to hold hands and watched whatever show was on. I actually did get her food cravings in that time of the month… | English | NL | c42e8b1e5aeac68b338a6d60ef92f00bd3ba8ecf1c9b7a30ccc84b6b4b1c7eda |
The Teatro Olimpico ('Olympic Theatre') was constructed in 1580-1585. The theatre was the final design by the Italian Renaissance architect Andrea Palladio and was not completed until after his death. The trompe-l'œil onstage scenery, designed by Vincenzo Scamozzi, to give the appearance of long streets receding to a distant horizon, was installed in 1585 for the very first performance held in the theatre, and is the oldest surviving stage set still in existence. The full Roman-style scaenae frons back screen across the stage is made from wood and stucco imitating marble. It was the home of the Accademia Olimpica, which was founded there in 1555.
The Teatro Olimpico is one of only three Renaissance theatres remaining in existence. It is still used several times a year.
Since 1994, the Teatro Olimpico, together with other Palladian buildings in and around Vicenza, has been part of the UNESCO World Heritage Site City of Vicenza and the Palladian Villas of the Veneto.References:
The Baths of Caracalla were the second largest Roman public baths, or thermae, in Rome. It was built between AD 212 and 217, during the reigns of Septimius Severus and Caracalla. They would have had to install over 2,000t of material every day for six years in order to complete it in this time.
The baths remained in use until the 6th century when the complex was taken by the Ostrogoths during the Gothic War, at which time the hydraulic installations were destroyed. The bath was free and open to the public. The earthquake of 847 destroyed much of the building, along with many other Roman structures.
The building was heated by a hypocaust, a system of burning coal and wood underneath the ground to heat water provided by a dedicated aqueduct. It was in use up to the 19th century. The Aqua Antoniniana aqueduct, a branch of the earlier Aqua Marcia, by Caracalla was specifically built to serve the baths. It was most likely reconstructed by Garbrecht and Manderscheid to its current place.
In the 19th and early 20th century, the design of the baths was used as the inspiration for several modern structures, including St George's Hall in Liverpool and the original Pennsylvania Station in New York City. At the 1960 Summer Olympics, the venue hosted the gymnastics events. | English | NL | 69c3dd89737ccca217cc6f24c7cde30961670b0d7f9fc2229b9ca3eb78025b65 |
The Source of Today's HGH
HGH (human growth hormone) was discovered in the 1920's. It was first used in children in 1958 where it helped those with stunted growth due to pituitary deficiency to grow more normally.
Up until the 1980's its only source was from the brains of cadavers, mostly from Africa. It would take thousands of dead brain cells to obtain a few drops of growth hormone to treat the children who suffered with pituitary insufficiency. The children received their doses by injection, which was the only effective route of administration.
Although many children were benefiting from the injections of growth hormone it was soon discovered that many of the children were acquiring a form of mad cow disease known as "Creutzfeldt-Jakob" disease (CJD) from the HGH they were taking. Cadaver sourced growth hormone was removed from the market when this became known.
Once the cadaver growth hormone was removed from the market there was no source for those who needed it. It had been so helpful to the children with stunted growth and so a new source was very much needed. The United States set out to have human growth hormone be produced synthetically. Since HGH is a protein which is made up of 191 amino acids it would be a very difficult task since every amino acid had to first be identified.
In 1985 Congress passed the "Orphan Drug Act" as a financial incentive for pharmaceutical companies to develop drugs that would be needed by fewer than 200,000 persons. If a company would agree to develop a certain drug they would be given exclusivity for 7 years and so no one else would be allowed to compete in their market during that period.
Around this time genetic engineering with its gene splicing was invented. This new technology allowed scientists to clone the proteins that make up the human body. Scientists could now more easily identify the exact DNA sequence for a particular protein. Once cloned, the bacteria E. coli would be used to turn out an endless supply of the drug.
In 1985 Genentech introduced the 2nd recombinant DNA drug ever produced and it was brand named Protropin. It was almost identical to the DNA chain of human growth hormone made by the pituitary gland of humans except that its code sequence was off by one amino acid. The researchers felt sure that this slight variation in the code would not affect the performance of Protropin however it left the doorway open for other pharmaceutical companies to compete.
Eli Lily's Humatrope
In 1986 Eli Lily, a company based in Indianapolis succeeded in making a human growth hormone product that contained all 191 amino acids and was 100% identical to the growth hormone made by the pituitary gland of the human body. They brand named their product Humatrope. They also sought protection for their new drug through the Orphan Drug Act and so a court battle ensued between the two companies. In the end Genentech agreed to license its process patents to Eli Lily for about $145 million. After the battle the decision was that both companies would be able to produce and distribute their drug and all other companies would be kept out of the US market.
Legal Battles Over HGH
Once the court battle between Genentech and Eli Lily had ended each company began to distribute their products for use in children. Although it was not in writing these companies and the FDA seemed to have an understanding that the products would only be used in children to treat growth hormone deficiency.
With one year's supply of either product costing each patient $14,000 to $30,000 per year Genentech and Eli Lily soon made about $175 million just by selling their products for use in children. This was an enormous amount of money but with the clinical studies that were being done on adults it soon became clear that the real potential of human growth hormone lay in what it could do to fight aging and how it could help various health conditions in adults.
By 1995 their time of exclusivity under the Orphan Drug Act had run out and in 1996 the FDA approved the use of human growth hormone in adults with certain health conditions. At that time several European and Asian pharmaceutical companies were ready and waiting to enter the U.S. market.
There are now several different brand named HGH products as well as various generic products, called Somatropin, which are available by prescription in the U.S. The increase in competition, especially from the Asian market, has driven the prices down, however today HGH injections remain among the most expensive medications available.
Is HGH Safe?
Legitimate synthetically made (recombinant) human growth hormone does not put the patient at risk for Creutzfeldt Jacob disease because it is not sourced from humans or animals. However, there are fake HGH injection products on the market and their safety cannot be assured.
Prior to the 1980's human growth hormone was obtained from the brains of cadavers, however cadaver HGH was found to be causing Creutzfeldt Jakob Disease in the children who were taking it and so the FDA pulled it off the market.
Since HGH was so important for the children with stunted growth a replacement was needed.
Two pharmaceutical companies, Genentech and Eli Lily, went to work to reproduce HGH synthetically. Both companies came out with their own versions of recombinant HGH, Genentech was first in 1985 with their Protropin, and Eli Lily followed in 1986 with their Humatrope.
Today all legal human growth hormone in the United States is recombinant (synthetic), so it does not carry the risks of Creutzfeldt Jakob Disease. | English | NL | 55a45219eb0164cd7c4666a71325ccc6be7d074ece4a43a9c639d3fabbbc5a4c |
Ray Charles, whose musical genius is celebrated this evening as he receives the Songwriters’ Hall of Fame1993 Lifetime Achievement Award, has, in the course of his 47 years as a professional musician, become a musical legend, one of the outstanding Figures to play a key role in the musical history of the latter half of the 20th century.
And not a thing (save his extraordinary talent) was given to him, as he set out poor, blind and black, a son of the poverty-stricken, segregated rural South.
From the humblest of beginnings, Ray Charles (born in Albany, Georgia on September 23, 1950) is now honored by a Star on Hollywood Boulevard’s renowned Walk of Fame, and among a multitude of achievements, his rendition of “America the Beautiful,” perceived by many as our “second national anthem” has enhanced his image.
While many artists of his stature tend to take on an “elder statesman” kind of presence, Ray Charles simply goes on and on, making recordings (his latest is titled “My World,” on Warner Bros. Records) and more friends wherever he performs live.
Ray Charles Robinson, at age three months, during the height of the great Depression, moved with his parents across the border from Albany, GA, to the town of Greenville, Florida. When he was seven, the youngster lost his sight and later qualified for a charity scholarship to attend the Florida Sate School for the Deaf and Blind in St. Augustine.
Here, he learned Braille and typing and also became a skilled basket weaver.
He was also given the opportunity to develop his interest in music into a
legitimate skill. He became intrigued by mathematics and its correlation to music. He learned to compose and arrange music in his head, telling out the parts, one by one. When his mother died during his late teen years, he left St. Augustine to take to the road and the long quest for musical acceptance and stardom began in earnest.
Years of dues-paying, the price most successful musicians have to pay, followed for the teenager. While some successes were achieved in Florida, bigger moves began to take shape when a friend pointed him to the “farthest point in the continental U.S. from Florida,” Seattle, Washington, and upon arrival there,
he soon became a minor celebrity in local clubs.
From Seattle, it was an easy jump southward to Los Angeles, where the now Ray Charles (he dropped his last name, Robinson, in deference to “Sugar” Ray Robinson) cut his first professional recording. Somewhat later, he had his first major hit, “I Gotta Woman,” In the years to follow, record hits came, one
after the other as he achieved national, and then international fame.
Along the way, Ray Charles became extremely adept at bringing his rhythm and blues and his jazz stylings into the broad pop mainstream, a unique gift which many performers spend a lifetime not achieving. Ray Charles has enjoyed major acceptance in the country music field as well. An outstanding example of this was his long-lasting hit recording of “Georgia on My Mind,” which, in 1979, was approved as the official song of The State of Georgia, with Ray Charles singing his version on the floor of the State Capital.
In January 1986, Charles was one of the original group of inductees in The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and he has also been inducted into the Rhythm and Blues and The Playboy Jazz Halls of Fame. Five years ago, he received the Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Academy of Recording Arts and
Sciences, with the presentation made on the 1988 Grammy Awards Show on CBS-TV.
In December 1986, Charles was one of the recipients of the Kennedy Center Honors. He has twice been honored by the government of France, most recently becoming a Commander of Fine Arts and Letters of the French Republic. Among his many performances for U.S. Presidents and foreign heads of state was
his recent participation in the inaugural festivities honoring President Clinton. Additionally, the past few years have increased his exposure to the American public with his award winning series of commercials for Diet Pepsi. “I’ll keep making my music as long as there’s anyone who wants to hear me,” he explains, as he sets about getting ready for another half century of supreme music making. | English | NL | e700abdf794f22e90d9c51c175d96793aa3c2780967e8a2b96a0debba4e9573f |
I will never forget the feeling I felt when I was 9 years old and discovered porn for the first time. It was a feeling like I had never felt before. Without anyone telling me, I instantly knew I needed to hide. I felt so much guilt. And I swore to myself, right then and there, that I would never do that again. I was insistent to myself that it was behind me, and that I wouldn’t have to feel that guilt ever again…
Until I looked for it again just a week later…
What followed from that was over a decade-long battle that consumed my mind, my heart, and my soul. It was awful and disgusting. But it was also discouraging and overwhelming. I wanted out…but I didn’t. I wanted to be free, but I kept going back.
And so I thought that if I just beat myself up enough – if I just punished myself – every time I acted out, I would eventually convince myself to stop and, in the process, right my wrongs. I wouldn’t have to feel as bad about confessing, knowing I had already begun to atone for what I had done.
My repeated – and intense – experiences with sin, guilt, and shame reminded me a lot of a character in the Bible. I was drawn to a particular character in the Easter story who I resonated with a lot. And I hate how much I resonated with him.
It was one of Jesus’ disciples named Judas.
Judas, the one who embezzled money from the disciples’ offering.
Judas, the one who found an economic opportunity at the expense of his best friends.
Judas, the one who led the Roman army to the Garden to arrest Jesus.
I resonated with Judas, the one who betrayed the sinless Son of God. But I related with him primarily because of how he dealt with the overwhelming guilt of his sin, after he did it.
Check out this scene from Matthew 27:
“When morning came, all the chief priests and the elders of the people took counsel against Jesus to put him to death.And they bound him and led him away and delivered him over to Pilate the governor. Then when Judas, his betrayer, saw that Jesus was condemned, he changed his mind and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders,saying, ‘I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.’ They said, ‘What is that to us? See to it yourself.’ And throwing down the pieces of silver into the temple, he departed, and he went and hanged himself.
But the chief priests, taking the pieces of silver, said, ‘It is not lawful to put them into the treasury, since it is blood money.’ So they took counsel and bought with them the potter’s field as a burial place for strangers.Therefore that field has been called the Field of Blood to this day.“
It’s so terribly ironic that in an attempt to atone for his own sins – sins for which he was neither capable nor worthy of atoning – Judas hanged himself and died merely hours after Jesus hung and died…FOR THE VERY SAME THING! And this is what I had been trying to every time I beat myself up for my own sins.
Just like Judas, I attempted to pay for the very same sins that Jesus had just paid for. Judas beat himself up over the very same guilt Jesus was whipped, beaten, and mocked for. Judas tried to do what Jesus HAD ALREADY DONE!
But you know what’s sadder still?
Every day, people are still destroying themselves because they think that their mess is to heavy to handle…when there is a Savior who is literally stretching out his arms to eternally handle it, once and for all. And the irony is that in an attempt to atone for our sins, we are neither capable nor worthy of paying back an infinite debt, the true consequence of our sins.
But all the while, Jesus is right there saying, “I already took care of that! There’s a better way. Trust me with your mess. Give me your brokenness. Watch me atone and redeem every part of you.” But because we don’t want to trust God and give over the control of our lives, we hang ourselves on our own pride and fear.
This is so unnecessary. There is a Savior.
When I began to allow his perfect grace to cover everything I’ve ever done, I found a new freedom and confidence that blew me away. It wasn’t connected to my performance, but to Jesus’ payment. It was an enthusiasm that oozed out of the grace that began to have center-stage in my heart and in my mind. And because of that, I now walk with an astonishing confidence.
I don’t walk with confidence in life because I have lived in perfection. I don’t possess a childlike enthusiasm because I’ve atoned for my own sin and shame. I walk in total confidence and freedom because Jesus did what I could never do. I carry a freedom and enthusiasm because my life has been atoned for by the blood of Jesus, and because of that, my relationship with God has been restored! I have joy, not because of my astonishing success, but because of Jesus atoning sacrifice.
Trust him today with your mess. Trust him today with your fear. Let him cover your sin. Let him remove your shame.
And then live. Really live. Live with total joy! | English | NL | b27a5e99e3e378a0e07f3aa680d5011ed4fc0d22188f22b69dc334970b95254d |
Noticing a deck of cards on the counter, she paused.
Gray, noticing it in June 1845 (Zool.
Upon noticing Jackson, the dog dropped to all fours and approached him slowly.
The price of a pig was twice, and that of an ox six times as great as that of a sheep. Regarding the prices of commodities other than live-stock we have little definite information, though an approximate estimate may be made of the value of arms. It is worth noticing that we often hear of payments in gold and silver vessels in place of money.
He glanced at her, noticing for the first time that she was worn out. | English | NL | 3ba84e642fc9a30745a0a8da043faa07f183da5fa0ed04ac93879efcc22bd51f |
Philip Haas (1808 - c. 186?) was a German-American daguerreotypist and lithographer active in the mid-19th century. Haas was born in Germany but emigrated to the United States in 1834, rapidly establishing himself as a lithographer and printer in Washington D. C. Between 1834 and 1840 he received several government printing contracts from the U.S. Navy and other offices. Around 1840 he may have traveled to Paris to study the newly invented daguerreotype photo system. His earliest known daguerreotype is dated March of 1843. With his 1843 portrait of president John Quincy Adams, Haas is credited with being the first to transfer a daguerreotype directly to lithographic stone. He relocated to New York City in 1944, opening a daguerreotype gallery on Broadway, which he ran to about 1860. In 1860, at the outbreak of the American Civil War, Haas enlisted with First New York Engineers and was sent to South Carolina. He may have lied about his age, as he was 53 at the time, too old for enlisted service. Taking advantage of his daguerreotyping skills, Haas, produced several important photographs, including images of the U.S.S. New Ironsides in action. Poor health and an end to the war led him to retired on May 25, 1863. The date of his death is unknown. | English | NL | 1ac987c28c5fb8e884ede04584b2bd3219cef0f5a9db3d67e52ef47b2eb2fbf2 |
Kayda 10: There's No Place Like Poe (Part 4)
A Whateley Academy Adventure
Kayda 10 - There's No Place Like Poe
ElrodW and E.E. Nalley
Monday, September 10 - Pre-Dawn
Dream Space of the Ptesanwi
Energy crackled up around Debra as she wiped her lip with the back of her hand. With a gesture, energy flowed out and slammed into the girl I thought was my friend Lanie, knocking her at least 30 feet away. The force of the concussive blast would've killed a normal woman, but Lanie only back-flipped and at the top of her arc released an arrow that struck Debra in the throat.
I ran screaming to the redhead, "Stop! Stop! Why are you ...?" I couldn't continue because the banshee had grabbed the back of my head and covered my mouth with a searing kiss; that only enraged Debra as she pulled the arrow from her throat.
"You bitch!" Debbie coughed and choked around her regenerating throat. "Is this how you keep your word? You swore you wouldn't take her!"
"You can't take what isn't defended!" Lanie shot back, bringing up her bow and losing another arrow. This one would have embedded itself in Debra's eye had I not frantically juggled her arm at the last moment. As it was, the arrow tore through Debra's cheek, ripping her flesh before it bounced off cheekbone and clipped her ear. Lanie only laughed and kissed me again . "Patience, my amorous pet, I'll be with you shortly," she purred as she ran loosening another arrow at Debra, this one embedding in her left shoulder.
"You're her friend!" I screamed at Lanie, confused as to why she was acting like a berserker.
Cornflower snatched the arrow from her shoulder in a shower of blood, muscle and gristle as her face contorted in pain and rage. A ring of Lakota people had formed around the two combatants, warriors nervously gripping weapons, but respecting what appeared to be a duel of equal combatants honorably given and accepted.
"I'll kill you!" screamed Debra as she charged at the banshee, but Lanie only dropped her bow, neatly dodged the over-committed haymaker Cornflower threw, grabbed her by the wrist, and pulled her into the knee she lifted wrapping the other girl around her leg. In her rage, Debra had gotten sloppy, and it showed as Lanie outfought her. The breath was painfully expelled from the blonde's body as the banshee locked up her arm in an arm bar, drew her dagger with her spare hand and held it to the girl's throat.
"You're beaten!" Lanie hissed in to Debra's ear. "Submit, and I'll give you mercy ...!"
Despite the arm bar, Debra was able to get her hand onto my friend's arm and fling her away. "Never!" she shouted, her energy field crackling around her.
The two women circled each other as Lanie flipped the blade to her left hand; with the blade pointing out of the grip she could slash or stab with equal ease. The girl ran her tongue down the blade center, an evil grin on her face. "Look death in the face then," she taunted, "and say goodbye to my new lover before I send you to perdition."
"Stop it!" I screamed as I interposed myself between the two women, holding out my arms in a desperate attempt to keep the combatants apart. "I'm not a prize to be fought over!"
"Then why are you jealous of the time I spend with Tansy?" Lanie demanded. "Why did you tell her you loved me? That you were jealous of my time with her? That you desperately craved, even needed¸ someone fighting for you - just like you've always wanted someone to show that you were wanted?"
Blood drained from my face as my words came back to haunt me. "I didn't mean ... She said she wouldn't ..."
Debra reared back from the rage she had just felt at her old friend. "Kayda? Is ... Is this true?"
The hurt expression on Debra's face nearly broke my heart. "Yes ... No ...!" I stammered. "I'm alone! Don't you see? Just like always! Would you really love me if I hadn't accidentally bound us together?"
"How many times do I have to answer this before you believe me?" Debra shouted. "Yes! I love you! Not because you healed me, not because you bound us together by accident, I love you because of who you are! And yes, I will fight for you!"
"So I mean nothing to you?" the banshee demanded.
My face crunched up in torment. "That's not fair! I do love you! You're my soul sister ... but you ... you forgot stuff you'd planned with me! You were ignoring me!"
"Was I ignoring you when you ran off and I called after you? Was I ignoring you when I invited you to spend time with me and Tansy? This battle is your choosing! So choose! Her, or me, or stand aside and let us settle it ourselves!"
A tear rolled down Debra's face. "Do you want to be with her?"
I sank to her knees and began to sob. "I ... I love you Debra! I swear to God I do, but Lanie is like my sister ...!" Debra walked over to me and sank down to her knees.
"You have to realize, Kayda, that she has a right to find her own happiness. You can't be jealous of that! Do you think she would go through this if she didn't love you?" Sobbing uncontrollably, I shook my head. Debra gathered me into her arms and kissed my head. "Then you have to trust her in that love, that no matter who else she shares her heart with. Part of that heart will always belong to you! And that no matter what happens or where I go, I will always love you, and fight for you, and come for you!"
A howl of grief slipped out, and I buried my face in Debra's bosom. Gently stroking my hair, Debra looked up at her adversary and asked softly, "Are we done here, or does there need to be more blood?"
Lanie sheathed her dagger and nodded. "I yield my claim. She is yours."
"Was this really necessary?" Debra demanded indignantly. I feared that she was going to be furious at me for causing this scene.
Lanie picked up her bow and regarded Debra. With a wry smile, she nodded at me. "Ask her," she replied softly, and then walked from the village, her head held high.
Debra held me close, making me feel secure in her love. "Kayda?" she asked after my sobbing lessened a bit.
"I ... I'm sorry," I blubbered. "I ... I've never ... I always ... have been left out. No-one except Mom and Dad ... really ever wanted me around. Even Grandma betrayed me!" I closed my eyes and buried my head in her shoulder. "I ... I've never had a best friend, and ...."
"And you were terrified of losing her?" Debra asked sagely.
"You're ... in Sioux Falls, and I'm at Whateley," I tried to explain; it was tough to find words that fit my thoughts and feelings. "I ... it was like ... in school - when all the kids I thought were my friends weren't really! I ... I was losing my best friend, and ... and ... and I didn't know ...."
"Kayda, this isn't your hometown or your old school," Debra reminded me before kissing my head once more. "You've got some self-confidence and self-image issues that you have to work through."
I looked up into her soft blue eyes, wondering what she was trying to tell me and a bit afraid of saying anything. Was she about to dump me because I was so damaged? Was she telling me she couldn't deal with my insecurities anymore?
"It's not healthy. I want you to talk to a counselor at school about it." She smiled at me. "I know from personal experience how helpful it can be to talk to them. Dr. Bellows is a very good counselor."
My head burrowed into her shoulder again, my eyes fearing to meet hers. "I'm sorry," I sobbed, "that I'm such a mess. I ... I don't know why you put up with me!"
Debra lifted my chin and kissed me deeply, sending a shiver of pleasure and caring and love through me that pushed away some of my negative feelings. "Because you're sweet and caring and loving, and you make me feel wanted and loved," she answered with a smile. "How could I not do the same for you?"
Monday, September 10 - Pre-Dawn
Near Kayda's Village, Dream Space of the Ptesanwi
Mrs. Horton was becoming concerned as the hours stretched out and still Laneth had not yet returned from her assignment in the village below. This didn't exactly surprised the house parent; being alive was a powerful motivator, perhaps the most powerful of all motivators. By separating that portion of Elaine's soul, Mrs. Horton had taken a serious gamble, and it now appeared that the dice were beginning to roll against her. She needed to collect Laneth and reintegrate her into Elaine's before something serious happened. At the same time, she noticed Elaine's fraught glances down into the village where Debra was still encouraging Kayda.
"Elaine, dear, why don't you go and wake up Kayda?"
The redhead looked confused as she finally pulled her gaze from the village below where Debra was bringing Kayda back into their teepee. "Should Ah?" she asked softly.
Mrs. Horton smiled and nodded reassurance at the young girl. "I'm sure the two of you have a lot to discuss," Mrs. Horton observed.
"But, what about Laneth?"
Mrs. Horton forced a smile she didn't feel. "Oh not to worry," she said as confidently as she could. "I'll wait for her, and will get the two of you integrated together again in the morning. Now, wake up," she commanded. Elaine faded away as her body awoke to the command that the Druidess had given her. Mrs. Horton stood from where she had been crouched, overlooking the encampment. With Kayda being awoken by Elaine, the villagers should take much less notice of her, but there was always a risk. Keeping her wand at the ready, she began to walk down the hillside as stealthily as she could, nowhere near matching the stealth Laneth had shown. Halfway down to the village, a pair of shapes emerged from the darkness, merging from some other dream realm to this one. Recognizing the student and his spirit, she lowered her wand and strode over, surprising them.
"Mr. Cody," she greeted coolly. "Kodiak. What brings the two of you here?"
The senior emeritus startled, but his spirit was nonplussed and bowed his head in greeting. "Mrs. Horton?" Wyatt exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"I asked you first," the house parent replied with a smile, causing the large bear to chuckle.
Some nights ago I became aware of coyote tracking inside the wards of the school, the Kodiak replied as he raised his head and deliberately sniffed the air. The boy and I have been tracking him every night since, trying to discover who the trickster is playing tricks on. He's been here, and recently.
A shudder went down Mrs. Horton spine as suddenly a great many things made sense. "I believe he's attacking Kayda," Mrs. Horton declared somberly. "Although attacking may not be the right word. More like deceiving her. Please stay here and make sure this dream space stays secure against him."
"What are you going to do?" Wyatt asked, but the house parent was already fading away having forced her body to wake up.
In the real world, Mrs. Horton rose from her bed and walked quickly to her third bedroom and its working circle. Taking her wand from the case, Mrs. Horton began to chant. Time slipped by and the sweat poured from her brow, but despite having a lock of the Pict's hair from the astral body she had created when she summoned the spirit into the circle the first day, the spirit of the Pict warrior refused to return to her circle, which could only mean one thing. As sirens began to blare outside a cold feeling washed down the back of Mrs. Horton spine and she realized the worst-case scenario was coming true.
Monday, September 10 - Pre-Dawn
The Realm of Dreams, Dream Space of the Ptesanwi
Laneth didn't bother collecting her arrows as she walked from the camp. She had walked enough hills in Tír na nÓg to know there was no point to it. If she needed arrows she would have them. But as the cries of the girl Kayda lessened in the distance, her own lips burned in remembrance of the kisses she had bestowed on the brown skinned young woman. Both the Druidess Horton as well as the girl who was both her descendent and herself had tried to explain the bond to her, but until she had experienced it firsthand Laneth had discounted it. These were a soft people to her eye, their lives eased by miraculous devices and palatial homes, but she marveled at the power of her daughter-self.
Her chest hurt from the blast of energy the witch Debra had struck her with, and battle bruises were no stranger to the banshee, but as a warrior she also had enough training in the healing arts to know that the blow should've killed her outright. She had reveled in the strength her limbs had strangely gained by being separated from the body of her current life. Some part of her mind whispered strange words, mutation, exemplar, and avatar. She had fought the spirit- ridden before and knew that the Bear spirit her daughter-self bonded to was formidable indeed. She paused again and turned back to look at the blonde witch still comforting the girl they had fought over.
"You feel it too?" Laneth looked down to see a dog like creature sitting next to her, tongue hanging out in following her gaze into the camp. "She is beautiful, isn't she?"
Laneth turned and started walking again, unfazed by a talking dog appearing next to her. It was, after all, Tír na nÓg and stranger things happened here. The dog got up and began to trot after her, bowing down before her once it passed. "Forgive my impertinence, Laneth, chieftain's daughter of Morlock, banshee, one is honored to be in your presence." The dog stood and sat back down on its haunches. "For as long as one can remain in such an honored presence."
The banshee stopped and considered the animal before her. "You know me, spirit, but I've no knowledge of you."
The dog grinned once more. "No one of importance to royalties such as yourself," Coyote replied. "Even Royal slaves rate higher than this humble servant ..."
Laneth eyes narrowed. "Who do you call slave, humble servant?" she demanded.
Reality blurred in a nauseating kaleidoscope of color whirling until it settled and Laneth found herself once more at the edge of the village of Morlock, the smell of the North Sea heavy in the air along with smoking meat and fish; the smells of home. "Royalty," Coyote replied in a subtle tone. "Chieftain's daughter, hearth and home; but this is but a dream. We both know what happened to this place."
The air shimmered and Morlock was ablaze. The stench of burning heather and human flesh sick in the air, and in the harbor below the four dragon-headed long boats that had brought death to walk through Morlock tonight. Laneth saw herself, topless, having run from the bed, raining arrows on the Vikings that were raiding her village. "So unfair," Coyote replied as he sat next to the startled banshee. "That your husband had taken in the daughter of your rapists and vowed to raise it as his own? You haven't had, what? Three months since her birth?"
"Six," whispered Laneth. "I would have given him children," she declared.
"You had already!" Coyote told her as once more Laneth saw her life end by a Viking sword thrust through her belly. Watched herself walk down the blade, shoving it deeper into her body to get close enough to shove her dagger into the eye of her murderer. "You were pregnant with a son too ...!"
Coyote yipped in surprise and pain as the banshee collected a large handful of the scruff of his neck and held her knife to his throat. "Don't trifle with me, foolish spirit! I'm wise to your ways ...!"
"How am I the fool?" Coyote asked as once more reality shimmered and they stood on the window of an impossibly tall building in an impossibly large city. "I did not use you for someone else's ends!" Through the window Laneth saw her barter with the sorceress that had woken her from her life sleep in her new host in a casting circle assisted by a demon possessed witch, saw the sorceress promise her life freedom and vengeance in exchange for bidding. "Do you have life?" the trickster spirit demanded.
"My present self dreams of me, I walk in Tír na nÓg while she sleeps ..."
"But you live at their beck and call," Coyote reminded her. "They call up the chieftain's daughter like a chambermaid when they want her skill and even now you go to be bottled back up until they need you again. How is that freedom?"
"And what freedom can you offer?" she demanded. "Now I am that Smith, and while she may be timid to my taste she has my spirit! And the Norman Princess to bury her face between her legs, and a warrior any banshee would be proud to bear his children."
"All very true," Coyote conceded. "And we both know your present self desperately struggles to wake up and remember being who you are."
"What of it?" she demanded.
"What if I woke her?" Coyote replied. "There's nothing they could do to stop that, there's nothing they could do to undo it. You would be Lannie and Laneth, awake to your true self and remembering all of the love and joy your present self enjoys. Her power would be your power ..."
Laneth reared back, stunned by the prospect the spirit was promising her. As she did so reality shimmered again and she saw the bedroom of her present self's betrothed. "You think to tempt me with her betrothed? You think because he belongs in the stud house that I ..."
"Look closer ..." Coyote urged her. Laneth turned back to see the bedroom shimmer to a familiar space, the bed she had shared with her husband, and tucked under the fur her daughter and Wyatt Cody were sleeping.
"Domnall ...?" she whispered, astonished.
"And we are all connected to each other," Coyote sang. "In a circle, in a hoop that never ends ..."
Laneth snatched her bow tight, her face a twisted mask of fury as a dog crouched down with its tail tucked between his legs. "Liar!" she shouted, drawing the arrow as tight as the string would allow so that it would kill instantly. "You tempt me with images of my dead husband, you tempt me with stealing my own life from myself! Do you think me without honor?"
Coyote weaved back and forth tracked by the arrow in her bow, his eyes intense and blazing. "Who has not been honest with you?" he demanded. "All that I have shown you is true! All that I offer is true! And all that I ask is your wisdom and guidance to your soul sister! Show her how to lead, chieftain's daughter! Put her at the head of the Council I call, and I will give back to you all that cruel fate has taken away!"
"What guarantee have I you'll keep your word?" she hissed in rage.
Coyote's grin was wide. "Let me give you a little taste, to show I speak the truth!"
Monday, September 10, 2007 - Pre-Dawn
Room 211, Poe Cottage, Whateley Academy
The soft but insistent knock on my door slowly penetrated into my sleep-addled brain, so I pried my eyes open. It was still very dark outside, which meant it was a most unreasonable hour for someone to be awakening me.
Even as I debated whether to answer the door, the sound of the lock mechanism activating surprised me; instinctively, I reached for my protective charm. The door opened, and silhouetted in the frame against the soft emergency lighting in the hall was a tall girl, judging from the curves and hair. I was curious but cautious as I considered activating my charm.
"Kayda?" I recognized Lanie's voice instantly.
"What ... are you doing up at," I glanced at the clock on my desk, "four in the morning? And in my room?"
"We need to talk," Lanie said, her voice resounding with concern.
I glanced at Chou, who was still soundly sleeping - or playing 'possum. "Now?"
"Mah room, so we don't wake Chou?" Lanie insisted. She took my hand and practically pulled me to my feet, then led me to her room. Not knowing what else to do, and having a lot of questions myself, I followed her, and was surprised when she shut the door behind me and wrapped me in an almost-smothering hug.
After a confusing but very intense kiss, we broke apart. "Ah'm sorry," she said, and in her eyes, I could see that she was truly contrite. "Ah didn't mean to make you think that Ah didn't care for you anymore."
"It's okay ...." I started to say.
"No, it's not okay!" Lanie shot back softly. "Tansy told me some of what you'd experienced, and ...."
"What?" I exclaimed in surprise and a flash of anger, my jaw hanging open. "She ... she had no right ...!"
"She was trying to help," Lanie explained, putting her hand delicately on my cheek. "She wanted to make sure Ah never hurt you, even by accident. Ah ... kind of pressed her on the issue, too," she added. "Ah needed to know ... that you and Ah have different expectations about sex."
I opened my mouth to speak, but she put her finger across my lips. "Shhh. Let me finish. Ah didn't know how much you'd been hurt through your life, or how lonely you'd been, or not having a lot of friends. Ah didn't know that, to you, sex is closer to love than to just physical attraction. It's different for me."
I just looked up into her eyes, wondering where she was going with her explanation. I was actually afraid to say anything for fear it might be misconstrued.
"When Ah first saw you, Ah was very attracted to you physically. You shouldn't doubt how attractive you are. Ah wanted to jump you if Ah got a chance, and Ah was lookin' for a chance - until Ah found out you were in a relationship with Deb." She smiled. "Ah thought that was pretty clear at the hot-tub party."
I thought back to that event; she was pretty clear that she'd been checking me out even before we talked - that could only have been physical attraction. I had to admit that I was very attracted to her as well. But after spending time talking and getting to know each other, the attraction was something different, something ... almost like our souls were touching.
She watched my face as I blushed a bit at the memories, and she smiled. "Ah love Tansy - as a friend. As a very good friend. But that's different from how Ah feel about you. Ah ... Ah love you ... as more than a friend, more than a sister." It was her turn to blush a bit. "If it wasn't for Deb and Wyatt, Ah could see mahself in a long-term relationship with you. Ah can't say the same about Tansy - at least not right now. Maybe someday," she added, "but not now."
A pang of guilt assailed me almost instantly. "I'm sorry, too," I said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt you by avoiding you. I ... I was just ...."
Lanie put her finger across my lips. "Shhh. Ah know." Then she kissed me again. "Apology accepted."
"One thing puzzles me, though," I said. "What was all that in dream space about?"
If the lights had been on, I'm sure I would have seen her face turn the same color as her hair. "We - Mrs. Horton, Tansy, and Ah - were concerned at how depressed you were getting."
"So you staged that?" I asked, doe-eyed.
"Yeah," Lanie admitted. "We wanted you to know that you are attractive, that people would fight for you."
I stiffened a bit. "So ... Debra ..."
Lanie shook her head vigorously. "No," she cut me off. "She didn't know."
"But ... what if she'd have lost?" I stammered. "What if she hadn't fought for me?" The possibilities of being rejected by my love hit me like a sledge-hammer.
"She wouldn't have lost," Lanie said, and even though I couldn't see her face in the dim light, I could practically hear her smiling. "We made sure of that. And after spending time with you two in Sioux Falls," she added, "do you think there's any chance she wouldn't have fought for you?" She swept me into another warm, comforting hug.
After basking in her love for a few moments, something occurred to me. Without taking my head off her chest, I asked, "In the dream-world, that wasn't you, was it?"
I felt her tense just a bit. "No," she finally admitted. "It was ... an ancestral spirit that's part of me, the Pict warrior. How did you know?"
"Easy," I said with a smile. "She didn't have your charming Southern accent. She sounded more Irish."
"Kayda," Lanie said, holding me back slightly, "Ah don't want you to ever doubt that no matter what, Ah love you as more than a sister. As a soul-sister. As someone who stole a piece of mah heart. And Ah'll never stop loving you, even though we have others in our lives."
She tilted her head forward almost imperceptibly, and I instinctively knew why. As my eyes drifted shut, I lifted my lips toward hers, toward a deep, passionate, loving kiss that reassured me that my feelings toward Lanie were reciprocated. That she was my best friend - and much, much more.
I felt ashamed that I could have doubted her.
Monday, September 10 - Pre-Dawn
Outside the Network Operations Center, between Laird Hall and Range Six
Whateley Academy held the distinction of being one of the most mystically warded places in North America. There were few facilities or buildings with better protections against magic, astral intrusions, and other supernatural phenomena, most of them belonging to government facilities. But with every complex system, there were always chinks in the armor. In this particular instance, it was the most stereotypical of such weaknesses - the incompatibility of technology and sorcery. The Academy boasted a state-of-the-art network and telecommunication system, connected to the Internet through fiber-optic OC 48 bundles that would be the envy of any startup Internet service provider. The nexus of all of this technology was a small, innocuous Network Operations Center, or NOC as it was referred to. It was here that all the telecommunications, all of the network traffic for the servers, and all of the connections of the campus wide Wi-Fi from its cell tower converged to a single point to the buried fiber-optic trunk that then left the school by the shortest path underground.
The electromagnetic interference created such ripples in the local astral space in the wards that protected the school, it was here that the campus was weakest magically. The mages knew of this weakness, so it was one of the most patrolled areas of the campus, covered by thirty separate cameras that looked from the visual spectrum to the ultraviolet to the infrared. Guards patrolled every five minutes, all in an effort to keep the school safe from those that would attack it from the magical realm. But despite the protections, a vortex of energy flared for a brief second on the concrete in the parking lot just in front of the building, directly over the switching equipment of the fiber network where the wards were exactly weakest. And after the vortex flared, a slip of a girl lay on the concrete, unconscious.
This did not go unnoticed.
An alarm was immediately sounded in the security offices of Kane Hall and four separate squads of guards dispatched to intercept the possible threat. It was only dumb luck that the first person to arrive at the girl was third platoon's officer Gary Trews. Officer Trews found what he took to be a student, collapsed on her side, but breathing regularly. A check of the multi-computer on his wrist told him this particular student did not have her ID on her as it picked up no RFID signal. Muttering to himself he picked up the girl's hand and pressed her thumb against the reader of the unit.
The unit spilled out a complete record of the student in question, her ID number, cottage assignment, name and links to everything the school knew about her. Shaking his head, Trews grabbed ahold of the girl's shoulder and shook her. "Hey," he growled at her. "Wake up, sleepy head!" As she began to stir, the officer's patience dwindled. He picked up the intensity of the shaking and raised his voice, "Hey! Wake up!"
Her unnaturally green eyes snapped open, and faster than the guard could follow, the flat of her hand shot out and struck him in the throat. Trews was knocked over backwards, gasping and gurgling as he held his bruised throat while the girl rolled her feet. "Where am I?" she demanded, looking around in a desperate attempt to gain her bearings.
"You bitch!" Trews croaked while still holding his throat. Coughing and choking, he added, "You damn near broke my neck!" The girl staggered over to him, becoming more stable on her feet with each passing second, brushed aside his feeble attempt to grab her and snatched the ASP baton from its holder on his belt. In amazement, she stared at the device in her hand as comprehension seemed to dawn behind her eyes. Trews frantically grabbed at the microphone of the radio on his shoulder epaulets with his free hand. "Echo Fifteen to Central. Code 7, code 1! Repeat…!"
But the officer could not continue as the girls snapped the ASP open with an expert flick of her wrist and struck him sharply across the temple with it, knocking him unconscious. The blare of sirens began to sound across the campus as vehicles responded to the officer's call of distress. The girl ran to the barrel shaped building closest to her, which seemed to be between the two closest sources of sirens. Arriving to find the door made of glass, she marveled for a moment, then pulled its handle finding it locked. Once again she froze as some new part of her brain stepped to the forefront and analyzed her problem. Looking at her thumb, she saw another reader next to the door similar to the one that had been on the guard's wrist. She pressed her thumb against it and was rewarded with a click of the lock disengaging. She pulled the door again and it opened easily allowing her to dart inside.
She rounded the corner in the atrium, desperate to get out of sight of the responding defenders, seeing a heavy wooden door decorated with the pictogram that appeared to be a woman wearing a ridiculously flared skirt. In here the floor changed from the fabric that lined the atrium she had just fled to some kind of stone she was unfamiliar with. It was obviously a privy, with ridiculously expensive walls made of metal for privacy and a line of basins, but the most amazing thing was at the basin wall was the most perfect mirror she had ever seen. In it, the young woman saw herself cleaner than she had ever been in her life wearing a short tunic that highlighted her figure and was embossed with words in a language she was amazed she could read that read 'Beam me up Scotty, there's no intelligent life down here!' A pair of blue canvas trousers of a type she'd never seen before and the most comfortable shoes she'd worn completed her attire.
But it was her face that caught her attention most. A good ten years was missing from the face she remembered looking back at her from streams and silver mirrors; the two scars she'd caught on her first battlefield had also vanished. She pulled the tunic over her head to find her breasts contained in the strangest looking garment she'd ever seen. More importantly, most of her tattoos were missing except for the knotworks around her biceps that increased her strength and the wreath around her navel that warned her of hostile magic which were still present.
The girl pinched herself and marveled at the feeling of pain. "I'm alive," she whispered. She looked at the telescopic club in her hand and once more the strange feeling reached out and around the device. Somehow she knew it was designed primarily for pain compliance and not as a weapon of war. It was a watchman's billy club, not a Warriors war club. She shoved the point hard onto the stone floor to unlock it and the device collapsed back into itself returning from 2 feet to 6 inches. She slipped the handle in the back pocket of the trousers and pulled the black tunic back on as some part of her knew she would attract attention to herself without it. Her heart began to thunder in her chest with excitement. "I'm alive!" she repeated.
The dog from Tír na nÓg appeared in the mirror. "Of course you're alive," he told her with a wry smile. "I am a spirit of my word. Though you may not stay that way if they catch you…"
A memory whispered across Laneth's mind of a weapon her current self had made and its location in the tunnels below her feet. Without further comment to the spirit, she ran out of the bathroom and to the closest door that would lead her to a stairwell into the tunnels.
Monday, September 10, 2007 - Morning
Room 211, Poe Cottage, Whateley Academy
"Morning!" I said cheerfully as soon as Chou came back from her morning Tai Chi. I'd just gotten back from my very-early discussion with Lanie, discovering that my roommate had gone for her exercise. "And it looks like it's going to be a really nice morning, too!"
Chou looked warily at me as she put Destiny's Wave in its stand so she could shower. "Who are you, and what have you done with my roommate?"
"I'm trying to confuse people," I giggled. "Today, I'm going to be cheery and bubbly-happy!"
"You weren't here when I got up," she said. "Is there a problem?"
"Nope," I said with a grin. "Not anymore."
"Okay," Chou sat down like a counselor preparing for a long session. "Spill. You didn't go to dinner, Tansy brought you home very late and half-asleep, and you were having a long ... talk ... with Elaine this morning. What's up?"
I turned my chair away from my desk and sat down. "I ... had some issues to work through. Tansy helped me."
Chou's jaw dropped. "Wait. Tansy helped you?" I nodded. "Tansy Walcutt? Ayla's nemesis? The Don's sidekick? The bitch of the Alphas? THAT Tansy?"
"She had ... an epiphany," I explained. "Something made her realize she was a total bitch, and she decided she needed to fix herself. Anyway, that's not important," I continued. "She ... well, it's complicated. She and Lanie and I ..."
"Ooooh - this is going to get good, isn't it?" Chou chortled with glee.
"No," I sighed heavily. "There's nothing like ... well, I can't quite say that. Not after last spring. But ... but I had an issue with being without friends, and it seemed like Tansy was taking Lanie away as my best friend, and ... well, I had to get over that."
"So Tansy told you to spend some private time with Lanie? Did she arrange your little midnight rendezvous with our RA?" Chou teased me.
"It was nothing like that," I rolled my eyes at her. "The three of us had some misunderstandings that we had to work out. Lanie woke me up real early so we could talk privately."
"You have a dirty mind! Molly is corrupting you!"
"Details, girl! Details!"
I shrugged. "Lanie and I talked things over, and then we kissed, and then I came back here."
"So what's up with you and Tansy? Are you three now a happy ... trio?"
"Says the one who knows how a three-way relationship works!" I shot back. "But ... no, it's not like that. We figured out that we all need each other. It's ... it's complicated."
"Do you get Elaine on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, Tansy gets her Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and you have a three-way on Sunday?"
"You're not going to give it a rest, are you?"
My roommate laughed, shaking her head. "Wait until Molly finds out about this!" When I goggled at her in alarm, she laughed even more. "Gotcha!" She stood and began to slip off her gi. "You're meeting the Ghost Walkers to go over your sim, aren't you? Well, you can tell me and Molly more after breakfast!"
Monday, September 10, 2007 - Breakfast
Crystal Hall, Whateley Academy
"Is that trouble?" Evvie worried, watching Tansy and Lanie walking determinedly toward the Ghost Walkers' table.
"Probably not," I said easily, smiling at the approaching girls.
Evvie shot me a questioning look. "Are you sure? Because everyone in Poe knows that things have been kind of tense between you and Lanie."
"And that somehow Tansy is in the middle of things," Naomi added.
I turned to gawk at her in disbelief for a moment. "Sheesh," I said, shaking my head. "Doesn't anyone have a life?"
Naomi grinned. "You know gossip is the cottage's favorite sport!"
"Not just Poe," Laurie said with a smile. She glanced around conspiratorially to see if anyone was listening. "Rumor in Dickinson is that you and Lanie had a falling-out when she insisted that Wyatt join you in a 3-way relationship, and that she replaced you with Tansy after converting her to being bi!"
"What?!?" I practically screeched. "Are you kidding? Some people actually think that?"
Laurie nodded sheepishly. "Actually, that's one of the tame versions."
"Tame version of what?" Tansy asked as she and Lanie stopped behind me, close enough to hear. "Salacious rumors and gossip, I presume?" she added with a chuckle.
Lanie shook her head, smiling and chuckling in disbelief. "Like Ah give two shits what kind of nonsense other people are sayin'."
Tansy reached over my shoulder and picked up my tray. "Come on," she said, smiling pleasantly. "You're having breakfast with us."
"But ...." I sputtered. "We've got to talk about a paper ... from our last sim!"
"Gonna have a discussion about time-share?" Evvie whispered to me, loud enough that Tansy and Naomi most likely overheard, but not others. I blushed beet-red at her comment, but Lanie, who had also overheard, replied like a mature, responsible RA - with a raspberry.
As we walked, I became quite conscious of the number of heads that were tracking us. "You know people are staring, and probably talking," I whispered to Lanie.
"Someone has to give them grist for the rumor-mill," Tansy chuckled. "Just think of all the guys watching us who are having rather salacious thoughts all day long and are going to go to bed with a bad case of blue balls!"
The mental imagery of boys squirming in frustration, of them looking like they were almost physically ill, of them desperately talking to girlfriends or friends who were girls - all in the hope of getting some relief from sudden intense arousal, was easy for me to conjure; I'd been in that position a few times, and I knew how torturous it was. I couldn't help but chuckle softly. When Lanie shot me a questioning glance, I grinned at her. "I'll explain later." Very deliberately, I slipped my arm around her waist. And since I was between Tansy and Lanie and I was feeling a little mischievous, I slipped my other arm around Tansy's waist, drawing the two girls closer to me. I didn't have to be psychic to notice the huge uptick in both curiosity and sexual frustration among the boys.
I was rather surprised when we didn't go to the Alpha table on the third level, but went to the second level's quiet table behind the waterfall, which already had two trays - no doubt Lanie's and Tansy's. I was even more surprised when Wyatt came with his tray, gave Lanie a quick kiss, and then headed upstairs. "What gives?" I asked, quite curious.
Lanie glanced at Tansy, and in that glance, I could see hints of some conspiracy. "We thought we should have a little 'girl time'," Tansy replied. "And what was that huggy stuff while we were walking here?"
"Well, I figured if they're going to talk, we might as well make it juicy," I said with a wicked grin. "Plus," I glanced around to see if anyone was listening in, "giving guys blue balls? Yeah, I'm down for that - and you know why!"
"Think we'll have a field trip today?" Lanie asked as we all dug into our plates. Lanie and I attacked the food with gusto, and while Tansy ate relatively quickly, there was style and grace about her every move.
Tansy noticed me glancing at her and raised a questioning eyebrow. "Habit," I said, looking a little embarrassed at the messy forkful of eggs and sausage I had just picked up. Seeing their curiosity was piqued, I smiled. "Years on the farm - eat fast between chores, especially when there's field work."
Tansy frowned - no doubt my lack of grace offended her sensibilities. "You know," she glanced around to be certain the conversation would remain private, "for those with circumstances like yours, it probably wouldn't hurt if they had a special remedial lessons on feminine grace and charm - things you missed, like fashion, makeup, and so forth."
Lanie nodded. "We know about Reach and Jobe - and there could be more. Ah think Ah'll talk with Mrs. Horton about that idea."
"Of course, the classes would need to be secret," I interjected, "for obvious reasons."
"True," Lanie commented.
"Anyway, a field trip? Probably not today, but I'd expect Mrs. Carson to spring one on us soon." I glanced between the two. "Now what's going on? You didn't drag me over here to talk about fashion and rumors."
"No," Tansy admitted with smile that radiated confidence. "The three of us need to figure out a few things. Like making sure one or the other of us doesn't monopolize Lanie's time," she added with a wry upturn to the corners of her mouth. "Since I'm learning a few things about gadgeteering from Lanie ...."
Lanie perked up. "And since Mrs. Carson told me Ah need to tutor you so you can catch up in your gadgeteering, it'd work out if the three of us can work together in mah lab."
"And since I'm not a gearhead," Tansy continued, "I need to make sure that I don't take time away from the two of you fooling around under your cars."
I gawked at her, and then I glanced at Lanie as her poor choice of wording hit me. I couldn't help but snicker, and Lanie had also caught the double-entendre. In moments, we were near tears with laughter.
"You know what I meant!" Tansy protested with a slight frown before she, too, succumbed to a few chuckles.
"Shall we have a 'Gadget Girls' Night' tonight?" Lanie asked when we'd settled down a bit.
I shook my head. "Can't. Ghost Walkers have a sim tonight. After class, though, I'm going to spend some time working in the lab trying to solve the passivation issue." I noticed that Tansy was trying to seem interested, while Lanie definitely was. "Ayla said as soon as I solve that, it's patentable."
"Go for two patents," Lanie replied easily. Seeing my puzzled expression, she smiled. "You can patent the material, and you can patent the process to passivate and strengthen the surface. The process might be applicable to other materials," she added by way of explanation, "so having a separate patent doubles income potential."
"I hadn't thought of that."
"It's a little trick Ayla taught me," Lanie explained.
At the mention of Ayla's name, I saw a flicker of something - regret maybe? - on Tansy's features. One eyebrow arched as I quickly scanned her features for some clue.
Tansy noticed. "That's another stop on the Tansy Apology Tour I made." She shook her head sadly. "While she ...."
"He," Lanie and I interrupted simultaneously.
"Despite outward appearances, Ayla still thinks of himself as 'he'." Seeing Tansy's puzzled look, Lanie continued. "Everyone knows - or should know - about Ayla's transexed BIT. He still has his equipment, and he prefers to be called 'he'."
"Oh. I didn't know that. I just assumed that, because of the body and name, Ayla went by 'she'." Tansy sighed. It was one more thing she might have done to offend the Goodkind. "Anyway, he let me apologize, but it was pretty obvious that he didn't accept my apology. Honestly, I don't know if he will ever be able to accept it, given some of what I've done." After a wistful moment, she shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs and forced a smile. "That's my problem. Let's talk about what we're doing this week."
That opened the door to a long discussion of our plans, and it seemed like mine was the worst schedule by far. I had three sims Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings, plus a meeting of The Nations on Thursday after my sim, and runway practice and a photo shoot with Venus Inc. Tuesday before my sim. After classes, I had to split my time between extra tutoring with Mr. Two Knives and Chou, and working in the labs. Amidst that whole mess, I had to fit in homework, probably tutoring Ayla. At least my work-study was in third period instead of after classes, so I had some free time.
We did plan some time where Lanie and I could work on our cars, some gadget-girls time for the three of us, and we decided to sneak in some horseback riding Wednesday after classes, which made me quite happy; I loved riding my horse, and it'd be fun to share the time. And Lanie was going to book time Saturday or Sunday morning for some sailing in the simulator. I knew we couldn't plan all of our time, but it was reassuring that Lanie and Tansy recognized that I needed solo time with Lanie as well as time with both of them.
Monday, September 10, 2007 - Evening
Arena 99, Whateley Academy
The Ghost Walkers huddled together in a dense office-zoned area of the city a couple of blocks from the museum which was being robbed of artifacts. The police had cordoned off the area, and were relying on us to take down the crooks - with no loss of civilian life.
"What have we got?" Evvie asked, beating me to the question. Harrier had just landed after doing an overflight. He'd gotten some of the color-change paint from Lanie, and had infused it in his training suit, so he blended into the sky a lot better, giving him some stealth.
"I can't tell what's going on inside," Harrier reported. "There's nothing moving inside the police perimeter. It looks like they've got two armored trucks for transport, disguised as money carriers."
"Kayda?" Addy asked simply.
"I couldn't get inside," I reported, frustrated. I'd used my ghost-walking spell to attempt to reconnoiter inside the museum. "They've got the doors barricaded, and at least two guards at each. It looks like they've got booby-traps on the doors, too, so I couldn't power my way through. Any idea how many hostages?"
A rough-looking police sergeant spoke up. "Our best estimate is fifty to sixty."
I grimaced, shaking my head slightly. "What do they want? It can't be money! Artwork? Artifacts? Is there maybe something powered in there, Sergeant O'Malley?" I about choked on the name - this was playing to stereotypes so badly I had to give Gunny crap about it - if we won.
"Well, now, lass," he said in a thick Irish brogue, "they opened a display this week," he dug a very old-fashioned small notebook out of his pocket and flipped through a few pages. "Schliemann's Troy."
"Troy?" Alicia asked, surprised. "Trojan artifacts?"
"Probably. Or Greek" Naomi replied as she dug out a hardened tablet computer. "I'll see if there's anything of interest on the website." A moment later, she looked up. "Nothing that stands out as powered or mystic artifacts. Some gold coins and statues."
"That doesn't make sense," Laurie said disgustedly. "It'd be easier to rob a bank."
"Any contact with the perps, Sergeant?"
"No. They've not said anything. If it weren't for the alarm, we wouldn't have known there was a crime in progress."
"Have you accessed the security cameras?" Naomi asked the Irish policeman. Leave it to her to think of something related to cameras - it was her gadgeteering focus, after all.
"No," the burly sergeant admitted. "We haven't been able to get the camera feeds."
Naomi rolled her eyes, then dug into a belt pouch. "Kayda, can I borrow your charm? Or can you give me ghost-walking spell?"
Three minutes later, she was back, and she plugged another gadget into the tablet. Instantly, the display showed a camera feed. She began to cycle through the different cameras.
"Mon dieu!" Addy groaned. "Tell me that Gunny didn't have Jericho consult on those costumes!" They were awful - alternating-direction blocks of brown and black stripes - no doubt to induce nausea either through the colors or the pattern - and indicative of some kind of themed gang. "Oh, good grief!" she exclaimed when one of the villains turned toward the camera and we could see a large moose-head and antlers on his chest.
"Oh, 'tis the Mighty Moose gang!" the sergeant exclaimed in shock. "We've been tryin' t' catch them for months! They're a dangerous group!"
"Not a herd?" Evvie chuckled, eliciting a frown from the sergeant.
"If I must look at villains, will vomit," RPG said with disgust. "Will just shoot them instead."
I nodded, then watched the rest of the security camera feeds with the team. After we had an idea of where the gang was, I looked around at the team. "Thoughts?"
"Harrier flies top cover, RPG breaches through a wall from the rear while you and Evvie go in two other entrances, with your shield?" Alicia held the tablet so we could all see. "The display is on the first floor, in this area," she pointed to a part of the building floor plan. "
"You don't, by chance, have a mass sleep spell? Or a sleep gas bomb?" Naomi asked hopefully. When I shook my head, she shrugged. "Guess we have to do this the hard way, then."
We split up. RPG was going to breach, and Addy would dash in after him, using her speed. Evvie and Laurie would go through an emergency exit door, with Laurie trailing to look for civilian casualties. Naomi and Alicia, with my charm, would breach another door, while I went in the building's final exit.
"Check." "Ready." "We're set." "I've got top cover."
I took a breath to steady my nerves. "In five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... GO!"
On the mark, protected by a combination ghost-walking and shield spell, I darted toward the entrance. It had been barricaded from the inside, but I shattered the glass with a couple of well-directed tomahawk blows and then vaulted over what appeared to be a reception desk which had been pushed against the opening.
Two mooks reacted to the intrusion at the sound of the shattering glass, but they had nowhere to aim. That didn't hinder one of them - he simply started blasting toward the door with an old-fashioned Tommy gun. The bullets ricocheted harmlessly from my shield, and then my tomahawk found its mark - splitting his jaw by a vicious upward cut. His compatriot got a good sidekick, and a hard thump on his skull from the butt-end of my other tomahawk put him down for the count.
A blast and other gunfire let me know that the other breaching teams had entered the building, and almost as one, we converged from different directions on the gallery of the Trojan artifacts.
The chief villain, and it could be none other than the chief, turned away from working on some kind of hardened display case, grabbing a pair of hostages. "Stand down, or these hostages die!" he snarled, pulling himself erect in a gesture of bravado and machismo. Though attired like the others, he had no moose insignia on his chest; rather, he had a cowl of furry red with some kind of gold-colored appendages - it looked like a four-year-old's cross between the winged helmet of Hermes and a moose-antlered beanie.
It was too late to stop Evvie's brutal attack on one of his goons, but the others pulled up short as the remaining seven or eight henchmen also grabbed hostages as human shields.
"Oh, good God!" Naomi sighed, shaking her head. "It was Jericho doing the costumes!"
"Silence, fools!" the man roared. "Who dares to tangle with," he struck what he supposed was a villainous pose, "the Mighty Moose?" He glared at us a moment, and then dismissed us with a wave. "It won't matter! In a moment, when the acid eats through the duraglass shield, I shall have the Lost Spheres of Agamemnon!"
Laurie looked toward the display case he stood near. "Those? Those plain-looking glass balls?" Standing ready in case one of the mooks decided to attack, she shook her head. "Those look like overgrown marbles, if you ask me! Look - the one on the left looks like an aggie and the one on the right is a cats-eye!"
"What?" Alicia exclaimed. "You mean we're fighting some nutjob because some old dead geezer lost his marbles?" As they spoke, I was creeping around to try to get behind the Moose.
The armored glass case chose that moment to give way, and the Mad Moose turned from responding to snatch the two spheres - about seven centimeters in diameter, from their felt-lined display stands. "It's too late! Now I, the Mighty Moose, possess Agamemnon's Balls!" As he clutched them, they glowed slightly. "Behold the spheres of power! Now I alone will have the power!"
"Another megalomaniac!" Evvie sighed. "Can I take him down, Kayda?"
"Kneel before the Mighty Moose and his power balls!" the man roared at us.
"Ah don't know," Alicia said, shaking her head. "They look like mah grandmama's gallstones if y' ask me!"
"Do you mean we are fighting for oversized gallstones?" Addy asked with a disgusted look. "Yuck!"
"Silence!" the Moose roared, raising the two glass spheres which began to crackle with power. "Non-believers! Now you shall taste the power of Agamemnon's Balls!"
Evvie groaned again. "Dude, do you have ANY idea how bad that sounds?" She was trying to buy me a bit more time.
"Quit playing with your balls! There's children present!" The Cajun girl shielded Vasiliy's innocent eyes.
As he raised the two power-charged crystals together, I saw my opportunity. With a Lakota war cry to distract people, I slashed one goon across the throat while my other tomahawk buried itself in the skull of another. Even as I struck, I'd already mentally discarded the tomahawk embedded in the skull, knowing it'd take precious moments to pull it free. Instead, in a smooth move I'd practiced under the guidance of Mister Two Knives I released the handle and drew my knife for an attack on the villain.
I lowered my shoulder, just as I'd done many times in football practice, and hit the Moose in the chest, while my tomahawk swept up in a cut at his wrist. Startled by the combined attack, he dropped one of the balls, and Addy, darting in from the side, scooped it into her hands even before it hit the floor; she'd used my attack to swoop in to try to get the balls.
I noticed that my tomahawk hadn't cut the villain at all. "Brick!" I called out in surprise to warn my teammates.
RPG hit one of the guards with a very small blast, which burned a hole through his chest before he could manage to harm the hostage he held, while Alicia's focused power dropped two other goons. Evvie launched herself, taking two gunshots in her PK field before slugging two more hench-critters into unconsciousness.
The Moose was stunned, but unhurt. Seeing that the odds were turning, he clutched the other stone tightly. "Fools! You shall never capture the Mighty Moose! And I swear, I'll be back for the other one!" With that, he launched himself toward the ceiling and burst through it.
"Adrian, he's going airborne!" Evvie shouted into the comm gear while Laurie tended to a wounded hostage and Naomi, Addy, and Alicia finished off the goons. Addy ran about madly, dazzling the remaining three henchmen, who couldn't draw a bead on her as she darted in and out among them, and as they tried to track the zooming girl, the other two smacked them down.
Seeing that our teammates had the hostage situation and goons under control, Evvie, RPG, and I dashed outside in time to see Adrian dive on the Moose, only to bounce off harmlessly. Almost immediately, RPG began to shoot bursts at the moving villain, while I watched helplessly.
"Evvie! Dive bomb?" Adrian asked frantically in his comm gear as he regained stability.
Adrian dove in a near-perfect stoop toward the ground, spreading and arresting his mad descent just before he hit the ground so that he landed with picture-perfect style, while RPG's bursts were making the Moose turn in circles to avoid being hit. No sooner had Evvie leaped on Adrian's back than he zoomed skyward once more.
What happened next is impossible to accurately describe; you really had to be there. RPG's 'triple-A' bursts, lighting the sky like fireworks, had tumbled the Moose a couple of times, slowing him, and he'd guided the Moose to turn a 180, which the villain may not have even realized. Meanwhile, out of his eyesight, Adrian and Evvie soared high above the Moose, and then, tipping down, Adrian screamed into a very steep dive. Vasiliy changed his aim slightly, and used his airbursts to keep the Moose flying mostly straight.
Evvie released herself from Adrian's back only a few meters above the Moose, and using her arms and legs to steer herself, she smacked hard into the Mighty Moose, spreading just before impact so she could grab onto the villain.
The impact and odd center of gravity caused the Moose to tumble badly, and without much altitude to work with, he came down to the ground - hard, with Evvie clinging to his back. It took Evvie a second to shake off the impact, while the Moose was slower - so slow that Sergeant O'Malley and his team dashed in and cuffed him with brick handcuffs.
The Mighty Moose glared at us as the police hoisted him to his feet and began to man-handle him into a car, but we barely noticed as we high-fived each other. It hadn't been pretty, but it had been fun, and more importantly, we'd won.
"I would have gotten away with it," the Mighty Moose screamed aloud as he was forced into the back seat of the car, "if it hadn't been for those meddling kids!"
Arena 99 Briefing Room, Whateley Academy
Gunny just glared at us and shook his head, muttering under his breath, as we grinned and chuckled. It had been a fun simulation, but Gunny wasn't impressed in the slightest. Then we were surprised when Hank entered in the Mighty Moose costume and sat down, grinning.
Needless to say, we all got reamed by Gunny for our performance, even Hank, but that didn't spoil his silly grin. After being threatened by Gunny that we were going to face a Kobayashi Maru scenario sooner or later, we all walked out.
"Hank, you know that was some of the worst monologuing I've ever heard!" Evvie chuckled. "Balls of power, indeed!"
"You've got a dirty mind!" Adrian laughed. "You know that, don't you?"
Hank blushed. "I ... I got carried away."
Even Gunny's warning couldn't spoil our good mood at having won, no matter how unconventionally or how much homework Gunny gave us. We were in such a happy mood that we detoured to "Sweet Dreams" where I bought dessert and fresh ice cream for everyone, and I was in such a good mood that I didn't really protest when Hank had five bowls of ice cream, or when he got a couple of servings as take-out to share with Lily.
Tuesday September 11th - Pre-Dawn
Near the Triumph of Engineering Display, BroadWay Tunnel, Whateley Academy
It went against Laneth's nature to hide, but the banshee knew the difference between when to be bold and when to attack from stealth. She had spent a restless day avoiding people in the extensive tunnels below the school and a just-as-uncomfortable night dodging security. Her belly was complaining about its emptiness but she finally had found herself in front of a glass and metal display case.
In her memory, the memories that she shared with her current host, she marveled at the very concept of a motion picture. The tale of a bard, no matter how fantastic, could somehow be made and then shown. It was lazy in a way, because it did not require the audience to use their imagination, everything was put forward in front of them, but that made it seem like even more powerful magic! To watch a knight battle a Dragon in perfect safety but to be thrilled and terrified just the same made for an interesting juxtaposition. It inspired the imagination precisely because it didn't use it.
And one of these moving tales, told nearly two generations ago, had so inspired the apprentice Smiths that had come through the school that emulating its weapon had become something of a rite of passage for them. Every year the designs were pitted against each other while the Masters who instructed them graded the work and sat in judgment as to who had come closest to creating a fictional weapon; the most magical of magic swords.
Laneth knew that her hostess had built one in her first year at this place, knew that it had been judged the third-best of the year's efforts of which her daughter self was justifiably proud. The banshee removed the ASP from her back pocket and snapped it open in preparation of opening the display case in a very permanent fashion. Before she could do so, yet again the mongrel from Tír na nÓg appeared once more in the glass, grinning his sly grin. "My goodness!" the dog observed. "We are considering rash things. You know, the weapons in this case are more dangerous to the wielder then they are to the target."
The banshee frowned. "I know how to use a sword," she protested, but the dog only growled.
"This isn't a sword, girl," he scolded her. "This is trying to grab a lightning bolt, and just as dangerous! But, I can provide you with something far more to your liking and sensibilities…"
Laneth angrily put her fists on her hips. "You've been so forthcoming so far! Without agreement or warning you fling me from Tír na nÓg back into the real world in a body ten years younger… How did you do that…?"
The dog's expression was cagey. "The revelation of wonders are but one of my many talents. The body you wear is identical to the body of your daughter self, the only difference between the two of you is the binding of the spirit Grizzly, though while you live now, that body I have made for you is not permanent. So, do you like being alive? Will you accept my offer?"
"What happens to my daughter?"
The dog's eyes narrowed. "Your daughter died the better part of 1000 years ago. Just like you did. Let us be clear - the body called Elaine Nalley possesses one soul, you. And as you have ridden the wheel of life over and over you acquire different names and different memories of these different lives, but the only you we are talking about is you. So the you who lives now and calls herself in Elaine, merges with you and you remember being Elaine and all of her memories, and you remember being Laneth and all of her memories."
"Is that is so, then why are there two of me now?" she demanded, but the dog rolled his eyes.
"I could lecture for an hour over the metaphysics and deep magics involved and still you would be as ignorant then as you are now." Coyote replied nonchalantly looking away and back sidelong at the Pict girl. "But neither of us have that kind of time to waste. I have reanimated you and gave you a new body but that is not a permanent thing. This is The Foreigner's creation and while many of us can bend His rules, none of us may break them. So, for three days you will walk the world of men once more - one of which you have spent down here. That leaves you two to accomplish what you must in order to remain awake and alive. To do that you must convince your current self to bond back with you on your terms, and not the terms of her teachers. That is, she must kiss you. Not just any kiss, the kiss of true acceptance. If she does, I have restored to you life and will restore the rest of that which fate has taken from you. All I ask is that you must guide your soul sister and teacher to lead."
"What if I don't do that?" Laneth asked. "What if she doesn't kiss me?"
The ears on the dog rotated backwards. "Well, it's not as if the world will end. Oh, well for you it will. Laneth, daughter of Joan, died on a Viking sword in 784 CE. Her bones were laid to rest and rot to this very day in the hills above what was Morlock and is now the town of Montrose. And when the soul energy that had been Laneth, daughter of Joan, was reborn on the wheel of life, it should have forgotten being Laneth, daughter of Joan. The fact that it did not was a defect a defect that can be corrected."
"What is your name, spirit?" she demanded. "A being as evil as you must have been equally infamous name…!"
Coyote bared his fangs. "I have many names, Pict daughter, none of which would mean anything to you. But I am a creature of my word and that which I have promised I will fulfill. All you must do is rejoin with yourself. And to aid you on that quest, look behind you." Laneth turned to see the catwalk high up on the wall of the tunnel leading into a second tunnel away from this larger one. "In your current self's private room around the corner, you will find weapons more to your liking, and more importantly, less dangerous to both of you." Coyote vanished from the display plate glass, leaving a confused Laneth behind. She thought hard for a moment, before she turned and mounted the stairs up to the second level.
There she found the door labeled Loophole and another of the thumb readers next to it, which obligingly open the door for her. Inside she saw many devices that made no sense to her, but most importantly she saw one that she remembered very well. On a manikin in the corner was the red armored clothing that had been bound to both her soul and her current self, the armored clothing the sorceress had named Wicked. And with the clothing was the strange and powerful bow and the exotic, practically magical arrows that did far more than kill.
Laneth thought only for a moment before she peeled off the tunic she had been wearing and began to strip the manikin of the armor.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007 - Morning
Schuster Hall, Whateley Academy
Nervously, I opened the frosted-glass-paned door into the administration suite, glancing inside. I had no idea why I'd been called out of class, and given my reputation from the spring term, I got a lot of looks from my fellow students when the announcement came over the PA that I was to report to Mrs. Carson's office.
Elaine Claire noticed me peeking. "Come in, Kayda," she said in a friendly tone. Of course, unless a student was accused of a felony, she'd be polite and nice, so that didn't set my mind at ease in the slightest. "Have a seat. Mrs. Carson will be with you in a moment."
I stole a glance toward Ms. Hartford's desk, and the peculiar look she was giving me - a mixture of a haughty glare and an amused smirk - only made me more nervous as I sat down, wondering exactly why I'd been summoned. I didn't recall having done anything flagrantly wrong, at least not nearly on the scale of the spring term's events.
Not more than two minutes passed - two very long minutes of me pondering my fate for an as-yet-undisclosed offense - before the door to the executive conference room opened. "Come in, please," Mrs. Carson said, and I saw some expression that gave me hope that I wasn't in trouble. Not too much, anyway.
Following her in, I paused at the doorway, gawking. It wasn't unusual for Mr. Lodgeman to be involved in my woes and troubles, since he was Native American, sponsor of The Nations, and a shaman who occasionally helped me with shaman magic. Nor was I surprised that Mr. Two Knives was present, since he was my primary martial arts tutor. What really caught my attention wasn't even the presence of three men and a woman in very formal business attire, or the old Lakota man sitting next to my tutor. What really got my attention was the fact that Chief Dan Bear Claws sat at the table between Mr. Two Knives and the woman in the suit. I couldn't help but stiffen involuntarily; he'd been involved with Grandma Little Doe - Gray Skies - in trying to chase me out of Whateley the previous spring, a scheme that had nearly resulted in my death several times.
Chief Dan rose, looking embarrassed and contrite at the same time. "Cante waste nape ciyuzapo, Kayda," he said formally.
"Wakan Tanka kici un," I replied formally, almost sternly as I eyed him suspiciously.
Mr. Two Knives and the old man rose and half-bowed toward me. "Greetings, Ptesanwi," the old man said. "Cante waste nape ciyuzapo. I am Charles Whitetail, chief of the Oglala." He smiled warmly, as if delighted to meet me. "I was in the hospital when you visited our tribe, so I didn't have the pleasure of meeting you personally this summer," he apologized.
"I must beg your forgiveness for my involvement with your ... with Gray Skies," Mr. Bear Claws said, switching to Lakota. "I ... allowed pride and greed to cloud my judgement. She was a much stronger shaman than I realized."
"Many people underestimated her," I found myself saying without even thinking.
"I will not make that mistake again," he said somberly. "I would like to atone for my mistakes by helping the Ptesanwi, if you would permit it. But I understand if you would rather not let me help."
Chief Whitetail and Mr. Two Knives looked at me. "It is our way," Whitetail said gently. "When an offender has been punished, the People will treat him as if he'd never committed the offense," he reminded me.
I stared at Chief Whitetail and Mr. Two Knives for a moment, then looked long and hard at Chief Bear Claws, before I finally nodded. "Okay." Though it was difficult, considering what he'd been party to putting me through, I walked over to Chief Bear Claws and gave him a traditional handshake, an act a little different from a normal European-American handshake.
Mrs. Carson shot me a small nod of approval. "Now that that's out of the way, can we begin?"
Of the suits, one was older, seriously balding, and thin, giving him a stern, hawk-like appearance. The second man was about Dad's age, and his face was very carefully schooled, as if incapable of any expression of emotion. The third was slightly younger, but he scrutinized me with a huge frown. The woman was almost unreadable, but from her short, very unfeminine hair and unflattering glasses, my first guess was that she was probably a bitch. Though they tried hard not to show it, three of the four were very confused that these two old chiefs were deferential to a mere high-school girl.
Perplexed by the situation. I looked at Mrs. Carson. "What's ... what's this about?"
"We want you to represent the Seven Council Fire in dealing with the government," Chief Whitetail said bluntly, getting right to the point. To say that I was stunned would have been a serious understatement. "You are the Ptesanwi. You have already shown your courage and your wisdom and your concern for your People."
"It is foretold that the Ptesanwi will bring prosperity back to the People," Chief Bear Claws added. "You could best help us dealing with," he shifted back to Lakota, "the untrustworthy white men in the government."
The old hawk-faced man frowned deeply at their words. "This is highly irregular! The Bureau of Indian Affairs is the official representative of the Nations to the government!"
"Your policies do not help the People prosper," Chief Whitetail said sternly. "Your assistance keeps the people dependent on the government. You do not allow the People to make their own decisions, to control their own lands, to build their own industries. Everything we do must have the approval of the BIA."
"We are tired of being treated thusly," Bear Claws added gruffly.
"This is highly irregular," the woman practically spat. "We have agreements with ..."
"Which have been repeatedly broken," Chief Whitetail growled.
Mrs. Carson stood abruptly, leaning forward on her fingertips on the tabletop, her command presence more than asserting itself. "Enough!" She glared at the BIA bureaucrats and then at the two chiefs. "While she's here, I have the same responsibility and authority for Kayda's well-being as her parents, and I agreed to this discussion with the expectation that it wouldn't degenerate into bitter accusations." She glanced around the table using her glare-of-supreme-authority, which I was only too familiar with. It was actually interesting to not be on the receiving end.
"Mrs. Carson," Chief Whitetail spoke somewhat contritely while he kept giving the stinkeye to the bureaucrats, "I apologize for my outburst. But I hope you can understand why we might be skeptical of the government."
"We have the interests of the Native American peoples at heart," the woman said brusquely, her demeanor and the deference of the men making it clear that she was the top-ranking bureaucrat in the room.
"We haven't heard Kayda's view on the subject," Charlie Lodgeman said with a small knowing smile. "What do you think of Chief Whitetail's suggestion?"
All of the people turned to me, and the hostility from the BIA officials was oppressive. "What do I think?" I asked, trying to come up with an answer. "You want me, a sixteen-year-old girl, to represent the Seven Council Fires, to represent the Lakota People, to the federal bureaucracy?" I snorted in disbelief. "Sure, sounds peachy! I'll give it ago - tilting against the windmill of the impersonal federal monstrosity of stupid policies and special interests! Of course, I don't have any experience, so I'd probably make a total hash of it, but what the hell? Can't be worse than it is, can it?"
"Kayda," Mrs. Carson cautioned me with a single word.
"But ... Wakan Tanka ...." Chief Bear Claws started to say in protest.
I shot him a warning glance to shut him up, and he got the message. "I can't do that! I don't know enough!"
"You can help the People!" Chief Whitetail protested.
The BIA bureaucrat smiled smugly, and I noticed. For some reason, her demeanor pissed me off. "That doesn't mean that I approve of your bureaucracy," I snapped at her. "You sit around in your Washington DC palaces, formulating one-size-fits-all policies that you think will apply equally to the swamps of the Seminoles to the woods of the Iroquois, from the deserts of the Hopi and Navajo to the prairies of the Lakota and Cheyenne. You make rules as if you're tending to children instead of a proud, independent people - and you never stop to see if they're even working because you're too busy building your bureaucratic empires!"
"Kayda!" Mrs. Carson's warning was for me.
"I'm sorry if I'm speak my mind," I apologized to the headmistress, "but you asked for my opinion. I've seen the results of too many bad policies from inept bureaucrats who don't seem to care about helping the people who suffer under their incompetent rules!"
For over an hour, the Chiefs argued with the bureaucrats, recounting past broken promises and bad treatment of the Lakota, while the bureaucrats countered - unconvincingly - that they had the budget and the authority to help out the People, which was in everyone's interest. Through all that, I tried to stay out of the conversation, which was difficult considering that the two Chiefs kept asking for my opinion. And I was trying my best to duck what the tribes wanted from me, and I was perplexed at the strange looks I was getting from Mrs. Carson and Mr. Lodgeman, and at why they were letting the conversation go on for so long.
"You won't represent the tribes?" the two Chiefs finally asked, somewhat astonished that I'd pass on this responsibility. "We have petitions from every chief from every tribe. The People want you to represent the Lakota - and not just here, but the Canadian First Nations as well!"
I read the disappointment in their expression, the feeling that I was letting down not just them, but all of the People. "But ... but I ... I don't know how! I wouldn't want to mess it all up, to make things worse for the People."
"Even as a symbolic leader?" Mr. Two Knives offered hopefully.
"Maybe," I said, wincing, "maybe I ... I could do that. Be a symbol of hope for the People - for now."
"And give the advice of ...?" Chief Bear Claws didn't have so say another word to get his meaning across. He no doubt hoped that with I would at least listen to proposals and offer advice, with Wakan Tanka's word as part of the advice.
"Um, maybe? I mean, I'm not ... I don't have ... I don't understand ... politics," I spat the distasteful word. "I don't know how I'd be any help with that stuff."
"But you do understand what the People need. At least she does!" Chief Whitetail countered in protest, trying to persuade me.
I winced; I really didn't want to mention Wakan Tanka in front of these DC bureaucrats; somehow, though, I think they suspected something, as their eyebrows all lifted with curiosity, but two of them seemed to have a knowing look about them. That made me very nervous - if they knew about Wakan Tanka, they might get some idea to try to use me to control the People. I'd have to be on guard against that. "I ... I suppose I could consult her for any policies and stuff."
Mrs. Carson and Mr. Lodgeman nodded. "I think you have your answer," she said to the two chiefs. "Kayda is wise enough to know you're asking too much of her."
I saw the smug looks on the bureaucrats, and it pissed me off - a lot. "Don't get complacent," I snapped at them. "I know the tribes need to build their political power, to seek connections to keep pressure on you guys. It is the Ptesanwi's wish that all the Nations unite for their common good." Their eyes bulged slightly; they knew that if the People united as I'd just stated, it would be a political force that would be hard for them or their handlers in the executive or legislative branches to resist.
There wasn't much more to discuss, so Mrs. Carson called for Elaine Claire to show the BIA agents and the chiefs out. Which left me with her, Mr. Lodgeman, and Mr. Two Knives - and me expecting trouble for being so snarky to the government.
"Well?" Mrs. Carson began, one eyebrow cocked questioningly.
I gulped nervously. "I ... I'm sorry," I began. "I didn't mean to be so ... blunt and rude, but ... but I've seen what the BIA has done for the Lakota - and all tribes. They're ... they're ...."
"Incompetent?" Mr. Two Knives said with a smile.
"Dad says that all bureaucrats care about is their jobs and their little empires," I explained cautiously. "That if they solved the problems they've been given, they'd be out of jobs, so they really, deep-down, don't care about solving them. And that's the problem with the BIA."
"Your dad is pretty sharp," Mrs. Carson said with a chuckle.
I noticed something in all their expressions. "You ... you all knew what I'd say, didn't you?"
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Carson practically beamed. "I suspect the chiefs thought that your connection with your tribe would have persuaded you, but after watching you for the past several months, we knew that you would realize how daunting a task it would be for you to get involved in politics."
"But you do realize that as a figurehead, you'll probably be traveling quite a bit, and attending a lot of tribal events," Mr. Lodgeman cautioned me. I gulped at that - I hadn't considered that angle.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007 - After Lunch
Office of the Headmistress, Shuster Hall, Whateley Academy
"God damn it, Bella!"
The headmistress's hand came down on her desk with the volume of a shot gun blast. The house mother of Poe cottage winced as her boss vented her tightly controlled anger. "Six months! Six months of dancing around the Mages' Code of Ethics like a Flamenco dancer and not exactly lie and make certain enough of the truth is left out by omission to prevent a dangerous obsession from becoming reality! Six months that you've undone in a single weekend over something as trivial as a lover's spat! What do you have to say for yourself?" the headmistress demanded.
Mrs. Carson blinked in surprise. "Oh dear?" she demanded. "Oh dear? That is your answer to the destruction of six months of work?"
Bella Horton swallowed and raised her chin with dignity. "No, Mrs. Carson that is not my answer to the destruction of six months' work. That is a cry of concern."
Mrs. Carson crossed her arms over her blouse and frowned. "Concern of what?"
"Concern, Mrs. Carson, that you haven't read my full report."
"And how do you know that?" the headmistress demanded.
Mrs. Horton sighed and turned her head to meet her boss' fearsome gaze. "Because if you had read my complete report, Mrs. Carson, you would be swearing at me like a Drill Instructor. And since you maintain your legendary composure, I am very certain that you haven't read the whole report."
Wearing the most puzzled look on her face that Bella Horton had ever seen, Mrs. Carson stood from where she had been leaning against her desk and circled behind it. She called up the document on her computer and quickly began to read. Within seconds her eyes widened and the glasses everyone knew she did not need slipped off her nose.
"Oh ... Fuck" she breathed. She turned and once more fixed her gaze on Mrs. Horton, her face flush with tightly contained anger. "What ... Were ... You ... Thinking?!" She demanded. Elizabeth shot to her feet and stormed around the desk angrily gesturing at the office behind the wall and chair Mrs. Horton sat in. "Under my very nose, my assistant is actively recruiting into an international criminal cabal one of the students that gives me the most recurring nightmares, and not only have you revealed that I have all but lied to her about the source of her dangerous fascination, but then you call the creature up in a casting circle and let the two of them converse ...!"
Mrs. Horton raised her chin a moment and folded her hands neatly in her lap. "If you are that disappointed with my judgment I can have my letter of resignation on your desk within the hour ..."
"That's not very damned funny!" Carson snarled, storming over to her window and looking out over the fixer's patio. "As if I would let you off that easy!" she added over her shoulder. After a moment of contemplating the view out the window she turned back into her office and demanded, "You got me into this mess. What is your recommendation? How do I get out of it?"
Bella looked away. "You don't want my recommendation ..."
"I need you to be serious," Carson snapped returning to her desk. "I can't just ..."
"You asked for my recommendation and you have it! Bring the girl in here, have the decency to look her in the eye and tell her the truth! You allowed Amelia to alter her combat final knowing Lifeline would react the way she did!
"I'm not a clairvoyant," she started. "I had no way of knowing ..."
Bella Horton shot to her feet. "Don't lie to me, Elizabeth Carson!" she shouted." You knew damned well how terrified Maggie Finson was of Elaine's spirit. Did you know she would swear a blood oath? I don't hold that against you, but you knew it be the end of their friendship! Don't you whine to me about Amelia Hartford and the game she's playing in this school! If she does anything on this campus you're not aware of, I'll eat my hat!"
Carson sighed, shook her head, and forced a smile at her long-time friend and one of her confidants. "You don't have a hat, Bella ..."
Horton sniffed in disdain. "I'll borrow that witch hat from Eliza Grimes." Still her anger cooled and she returned Carson's smile. "What can I say? I'm a traditionalist ..."
Elizabeth sighed and retrieved her glasses from where they had fallen on the floor, placing them on the desk. "You really think I should call her in here and ...?"
"Yes," the house parent replied. "What's more, I'll be here with you, to vouch that you're finally being honest with the girl and that what you're saying is so."
Carson closed her eyes, taking a very deep breath through her nose as she slowly shook her head in frustration and concern. "Set it up," she ordered as she slowly exhaled.
"I'll be happy to," Bella replied. She stood and sighed heavily. "But you still haven't finished the report."
Carson's head shot up, the expression somewhere between fear and anger on her face. "There's more?" she demanded.
"Laneth," Bella replied. "They haven't found her yet."
Tuesday, September 11, 2007 - After Classes
Behind Holbrook Arena - Whateley Academy
"See how it's done?" Mr. Two Knives asked as he reined his horse to a stop in front of Chou and me. Unlike last spring, he had his own horse this fall - a handsome chestnut stallion that was a hand taller than Summer. He held a lance in his hand, the tip pointing skyward. It wasn't a war lance; the one Mr. Two Knives held was adorned with feathers and colored banding, more like a ceremonial lance. In combat, such adornment would impede a warrior's use of the weapon. But Mr. Two Knives wielded it with such extraordinary skill and dexterity that the decorations didn't hinder him at all.
Chou and I sat atop our horses, each holding a lance aloft. "Sure - it's that easy," I said, trying not to sound too sarcastic.
The target was a man-sized dummy set on a pole; our goal, as he'd just demonstrated for the fifth time, was to charge on horseback, thrusting the lance tip into the target, then pulling it back before the lance was ripped from our grasp or we were unhorsed.
"Do you feel like Lancelot yet?" Chou asked with a grin.
"Not so much," I replied. My first attempt had been clumsy - I'd only nicked the target before the lance was ripped from my hands. The second try wasn't much better, except that I ended up on my backside on the ground. My third try skewered the target, but I lost the lance when it embedded too deeply into what would have been the opponent's chest.
"Okay, give it another try." He gestured for me to go.
Reluctantly, I nudged Summer, and she trotted quickly toward the target. Unlike Mr. Two Knives, I was not going to try spearing it from a full gallop. Falling once was once too often. Even at just a trot, though, the target seemed to be coming at me quickly, and I fought to keep the tip balanced and on target as Summer and I bobbed up and down with her motion. "Relax your wrist and elbow!" Mr. Two Knives called from the sidelines. "Don't fight it - let inertia work for you!"
I tried to follow his advice, but even at a trot, I was moving toward the target too quickly to adjust my grip. Just as I neared the dummy, I thrust the heavy lance forward, then immediately pulled back to free the lance. Of course, I missed the timing, so the blow was only a glancing one, and I nearly lost the lance in the process.
I pulled Summer to a halt beside Mr. Two Knives while Chou made an attack. I know I should have watched her, but I couldn't help looking at Molly, who was sitting next to Danny and excitedly talking about something. From the expression on his face, the subject of discussion was probably Wondercute; all we'd heard on the second floor of Poe was Jade enthusiastically trying to recruit Danny.
He'd been bullied a few times, which wasn't surprising, given how bishi he looked, but Wondercute had bailed him out on two occasions, seriously thumping a couple of the freshies who were slow learners.
"They'll learn not to mess with the power of Cute!" I heard Molly said gleefully. "Just like Jericho and Razor did last year!" I couldn't help but roll my eyes at how blatantly she was trying to recruit him. Danny looked quite dismayed as he listened; he'd seen the tape of Wondercute's combat final, evidence of just how crazy the girls could be. And he'd overheard me regaling the Sioux Falls League and Deb with even more stories of the team in the simulators and on campus.
Chou glanced at me with a gleeful expression. "He's doomed," she proclaimed. "You know that, don't you?"
"I'm not sure. Angel and Ros have taken a serious interest in him, so they might be able to save him from that fate," I mused.
"Not a chance. Even they're terrified of getting on the wrong side of Cute!" she laughed. "Better get going - it's your turn!"
"You better not laugh - again!"
"We'll see. Depends on whether you fall or not." She shot me a wicked look as she waggled her eyebrows.
After a few more tries with the lances, Mr. Two Knives switched to hand-to-hand combat; today, his goal was primarily to evaluate Danny's ability so he could customize a training regimen for my brother. I called up my shield, which we already knew could stop anything Danny or Wihinape could throw at it.
Then we sparred some, with me just parrying his attacks. In his normal male form, he wasn't very impressive - yet. He had the potential to be very quick; in testing in Sioux Falls, they'd measured his agility and reflexes as being far beyond that of a baseline human, but he was untrained, and he telegraphed his punches and kicks, so I didn't even need my shield to protect me.
Much to the delight of Molly, who was a kitten lover, Mr. Two Knives had Danny shift to Kitty-Boy form. "Oooohhh!" she squealed excitedly. "Bunny and Jade would love this!"
"So would Lindsay and Misty," Chou added. "But I think you make Anna nervous!"
"Anna?" Danny was curious about Chou's comment.
"Avatar, with the spirit of Zica," I informed him. "She'll probably be very nervous around you."
"But Lindsay and Misty will be cool," Chou shot back.
The horrified look on Danny's face was precious. Before anyone could object, Wihinape manifested in her cat-girl form. "I sensed that some here had the spirit of Zica," the spirit being channeled spoke, but I doubted that Molly and Chou could tell the difference, even though I knew from experience that it was no longer Danny speaking. "There are many interesting spirits near here. Are they all bound to students?"
"Anna has the spirit of Zica," I answered.
"You will arrange a meeting in dream-space, Ptesanwi," Wihinape commanded. "She must understand that we are no threat to her spirit or her friends, so that we may come to an accord if my host is to spend time with those girls."
Danny shifted back to Kitty-Boy form. "I hate it when she does that," he grumbled. "And who said I'm going to spend time with Wondercute?"
"You do want us to help stop all those mean boys, don't you?" Molly asked with a friendly smile. "The power of Cute will protect you! Even Razorback won't tangle with us!"
"And I think Clover, Mischief, Pally, and Abra really like you, too!" Chou giggled.
"You might as well give up now," I said with a smile. "You know they're not going to quit!"
"And I bet Venus Inc. would like to have you model, too!" Molly said enthusiastically. "Hank models for them sometimes, you know, so you wouldn't be alone."
"And that's not even counting Amelie!" I added. Danny goggled at me, so I nodded with a knowing smile.
"Amelie was asking about you the other day. I think she's interested. Of course, there's always Ros, and Angel, or ...." Danny's astonishment turned into a grimace.
"Can we get back to training?" Mr. Two Knives asked with an amused chuckle. "That is why we're here, isn't it?"
"Sorry," we all said simultaneously.
As Kitty Boy, Danny wasn't any quicker than his base form, nor stronger. Next, Mr. Two Knives had Wihinape manifest. Danny was still rather clumsy in combat, even though his reflexes had been measured as significantly faster in the cat-girl form, and his strength was in the range of high Exemplar-2. Still, he was untrained and not used to the form.
Finally, Mr. Two Knives tested his cougar form. To say that was a disappointment was an understatement. "I thought that form fought better." Danny looked a little hurt and confused by the comment; he was obviously unhappy that he hadn't done better.
"Danny, let Wihinape have control," I suggested.
"Let the cougar run free."
We tried again, and this time, the mountain lion was positively vicious; without my shield, even with my enhanced speed and training, I think she would have shredded me. Wihinape was very experienced, and it showed. Finally we finished for the afternoon, and Mr. Two Knives rode his horse, leading Chou's and mine, to the corrals.
"You can shift back now," I said to Danny.
Looking uneasily at Chou and Molly, Danny shifted back to the Winihape form, but since he'd been in cougar form, his clothes were in the ground, so the cat-girl was stark naked. Even turning his back to them, we knew that Danny was thoroughly blushing as he scrambled to get some clothes on, while Chou smiled at him, and Molly gazed on his female form with a mixture of envy and amusement. After he'd gotten his clothes on, which were ill-fitting on the Wihinape form, he shifted back to normal.
"You're going to need to spar with someone like Ayla or Hank or Mule," I suggested as we walked back. "Someone who can handle your claws if you go full-out Wihinape."
"Only if I let her be in control," Danny said glumly. "If I'm in control, I suck at fighting."
"You'll get better," Molly chuckled. "We all started the same way you did."
"Yeah," Chou added. "That's why you're in basic martial arts."
"With the evil midget," I snickered. "And Mr. Two Knives is a thorough tutor."
As we walked through the quad, a couple of the idiot bully-boys snickered. "There goes Poe's gay-boy," Buster said with a sneer. A couple of his friends laughed.
"You won't be laughing when you have to face Wondercute," Molly snapped. "Unless you want to be found tied up in pink ribbons with squirrel bites from head to toe!"
At the mention of the squirrels, Buster blanched a little bit, but he didn't back down. "We don't like your kind around here! Why don't you take your fairy ass back home so you aren't stinking up the whole campus?"
Danny started to shift, no doubt to fight, or at least look more defensive, but I put my hand on his shoulder as he shifted into Wihinape form. The guys' eyes bugged out at the shapely cat-woman who'd taken Danny's place. "Don't," I cautioned Danny.
"I think you're just jealous because all the girls think he's cute," Chou said to the boys with a smirk. "He's got more girls who want to cuddle with him than you could even dream of!"
"Just 'cuz girls like pet kittens," one of the guys sneered.
"Well, now," I said with a knowing smile, "how would you like it if Wondercute found out that you'd been harassing him?"
All of them glared at us, but they slowly turned away when a roving security patrol noticed us and started walking our way, no doubt curious about the gathering, since Buster - a known bully - was involved. Seeing them leave without any fights or other trouble, the officers went back to their usual patrol route.
"You know," I observed wistfully, "you might really want to think about joining Wondercute. If I remember, Misty and Lindsay are still available, so you might get a girlfriend out of the deal, too!" I could hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth. "They have a reputation that would help you avoid a lot of trouble."
"But Wihinape can fight!" Danny protested, a worried frown on his face.
"And you already know what kind of trouble you can get into. Do you want a UV armband?" Chou asked somberly, which made Danny pale and gulp nervously. "I hate to encourage them, but Kayda's probably right."
Danny sulked the rest of the way back to Poe, which meant he probably figured we were right with the advice. And he didn't like the idea. Molly, though seemed to be energized by the thought of Danny in Wondercute.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007 - After Classes
Kirby Hall, Whateley Academy
Charlie Lodgeman's office in Kirby was small; Ms. Grimes, Mr. Lodgeman, and I almost filled it. I hadn't realized he had an office here; I thought his only on-campus space was in Schuster. Thinking about it, though, it made sense, since he was a shaman and he would most likely have been the resident expert on shamanic magic.
And that was my dilemma. According to the traditions of my tribe, shaman magic was positive and healing. Supposedly, it could be used offensively - after all, Chief Bear Claws reported that my grandmother had used a shaman curse to cause his heart attack - but I could find nothing in tribal literature about that, nor could I locate anything in the other libraries. Further, when I'd asked Hazel Two Bears if there was any such literature in the libraries at HPARC or in the Crazy Horse Native American College and Cultural Center, she got very evasive, which led me to the conclusion that there was something, but that it was considered 'forbidden knowledge'.
"You want to learn some offensive spells?" Ms. Grimes asked, only an inkling of surprise showing on her face.
I nodded cautiously. "I can do defensive spells," I noted, "like my shield and Ghost Walking. But ... most of the magic-track students have magic which is ... more suited for combat."
Mr. Lodgeman cocked an eyebrow. "Are you planning on getting in fights?"
I cringed at the way he'd asked about my desire. "Um, Sensei Ito and Sensei Tolman said that if you have to fight, you're supposed to hit fast ..."
"Hit first, and hit hard," Mr. Lodgeman finished with a smile. "Good point."
"It's ... like the Boy Scouts' motto - be prepared," I added to emphasize my point. "Are there offensive spells and magic in shamanism?" I asked hopefully.
Mr. Lodgeman shot Ms. Grimes a concerned glance, possibly thinking I wouldn't notice, and then he smiled. "Shamanism is about healing - both the body and the spirit."
"But ... Grey Skies used some kind of shaman magic to hurt Chief Bear Claws," I protested. "At least that's what he claimed."
The two exchanged yet another concerned look. "There may be," Ms. Grimes said carefully, "but it's ... considered very dark magic."
"It's not something you should study," Mr. Lodgeman said with a frown. "It's ... like the ... like the dark side of the Force," he explained carefully. "It's addictive, like a drug. Once you start using it, it makes you want to use it more. It'd be far better to learn how to cast spells from the more mainstream magic traditions. And there are probably ways to use the defensive magic in more offensive ways."
"I don't understand."
"Okay, let's take Lancer as an example," Ms. Grimes said as she suppressed a small smile, grateful to change the subject, I thought. "Lancer has a PK field. Is that offensive?"
"No," I replied, frowning. "It's ... it’s a defensive field."
"And yet, Lancer knows how to use it offensively. He can focus it into a thin, razor-sharp edge. In fact, it's sharper than a razor - he can use it with paper to make a devastating weapon. An offensive weapon."
"But ..." I was confused. "I don't have a PK field."
"No, but you do have a shield spell," Mr. Lodgeman said, smiling. "Have you tried to manipulate your shield?"
"No," I started, but then I paused. "I did combine it with my Ghost-Walking spell, and made it more form-fitting." I couldn't help but cringe at the memories. "I got tired of being bounced around like a ping-pong ball."
"Okay," Ms. Grimes smiled, "so you can change the shield. How much can you manipulate it? Can you make it expand? In real-time?"
"How fast?" Mr. Lodgeman immediately caught on to Ms. Grimes' train of thought. "Could you expand it nearly instantly, so it pushed an opponent away very rapidly?"
A light dawned. "I don't know." I knew I was going to have to try it. And if it didn't work as it was, I was already starting to think of how to modify it.
"Can you focus its expansion in one point - so it'd be like a fist? Or even a spear or sword?"
"I never thought about that."
"I'll talk to Sensei Ito and Mr. Two Knives - I think they'll agree that you need to exercise your defensive magic and learn to use it in unexpected ways," Mr. Lodgeman said.
"And ... maybe ...," I began cautiously, "the exercises that students with PK powers do - in powers lab - maybe they can help me?"
The two teachers smiled as they nodded. "When Fey joined you fighting the snake demon, what was her most effective offensive spell?" Ms. Grimes asked.
Okay, so everyone in the faculty seemed to know the details of that summertime bit of excitement. "Um," I had to think a bit, "her ... her sunlight spell." Another lightbulb went on. "So ... sometimes a simple non-combat spell can be the best, right?" The smiles of Mr. Lodgeman and Ms. Grimes let me know that I'd gotten their point.
"How did Fey's offensive spells work out against the snake demon?"
I thought back to the battle - it had seemed like her powerful Sidhe magic hit a huge damping field and they fizzled; snakey was unaffected. Only her indirect attack - the sunlight that Snakey was sensitive to - had harmed him. And then I realized that they were being a little too much like Sensei Ito.
"And the spells that the ... that Clover and her friends have been teaching you - you can probably find offensive uses for those," Ms. Grimes agreed. "If you're giving them your tea, you might as well get something useful, right?"
"Please schedule a meeting with me or Mrs. Chulkris once a week to review your progress in magic," Ms. Grimes directed. Great - more tutoring.
"And I'll work into your schedule with Mr. Two Knives for working on your shaman magic. Molly and Chou still train with you?" I simply nodded. "I think that Molly might benefit from some varied magic training as well."
"Okay." There was no need for further discussion, and I could tell that they weren't going anywhere near the topic of offensive shaman magic. Maybe the library had something that could take advantage of my natural shaman magic. It couldn't hurt to look.
Wednesday September 12th 2007 - After Classes
On the path to Poe cottage - Whateley Academy
I was walking alone toward Poe, looking forward to relaxing a few minutes by myself. Like I often did, I was reading a book as I walked, and only peripherally aware of the earth and air spirits. Where I was on campus, there were seldom any disturbances, and besides I had my charm which I could invoke in case of trouble.
Startling me, a tall figure stepped out onto the path a few feet in front of me. "Kayda," she called out firmly. She wore an armored costume, with a face mask which was lowered around her neck so I could see her face.
I recognized her, and grinned. "Lanie! What are you ..." I stepped toward her to give my soul-sister a hug, and to satisfy my curiosity about what the heck she was doing here attired like she was.
"I mean you no harm, but don't run. I am…"
I felt the color drained from my face. "…Not Lanie," I gasped. "Oh God, you're that Pict banshee…!" Instantly and reflexively, my hand reached up towards my shield charm, but faster than I could follow, the banshee had snap-drawn an arrow and had it nocked.
"Put your hand down, slowly," the Pict girl ordered. "I will not harm you unless you give me cause. I would speak with you as an equal, after which you are free to go."
I looked at the sun glinting off the stainless steel of the serrated triple blades of the hunting arrow I was staring at, knew the amount of damage it could cause if it struck me, and wondered if I could get my charm in my hand and invoke the spell before the arrow could be loosed and strike me. I didn't doubt for a moment that the banshee would hit me at this range and my estimation of my ability to get the spell up before being seriously or mortally wounded was equally grim.
Slowly, so as not to startle the girl into shooting me, I lowered my hand away from the charm to my side. "You know I'm a shaman, and I don't need to move or speak to cast a spell."
The Pict girl removed the arrow from the bow and returned it to the quiver. "I gave you my word I would not harm you without cause and I meant it," the banshee replied. "Will you honor our truce?"
After a long moment of consideration, I slowly nodded. "What do you want to talk about?" I demanded. "And how are you in the real world? You're a spirit, a part of Lanie! How could you be real?"
The banshee made a gesture and led the way off the trail into a copse of trees. In the privacy of them she sat down and gestured for me to do so as well. As I settled in the grass, the Pict girl's belly rumbled loudly. Cocking my head to one side, I asked her, "Are you hungry? When was the last time you ate?"
The banshee shrugged. "I was cast back into the realm of men three mornings ago, and I have not eaten since."
"You can't go three days without eating!" I protested.
The banshee laughed a hollow laugh. "You are a soft, fat people," she replied. "This is not the first time I have had to go days without eating."
I put my books down slowly so as not to alarm the girl. "That may be, but we won't speak until you've had something to eat. You're a part of my soul-sister, and I owe you that much." I hoped she'd take my word. "I'll go get you something. You have my word that I will return - alone."
The banshee nodded slowly and made a gesture at the compound bow by her side. "Woe to anyone with you if you break your word," she cautioned ominously. "This bow is practically magic and will kill from a fearsome distance."
I nodded in understanding, and then dashed to the cottage. In the kitchen, there were many vending machines different from those in the rest of the cottage. Because the school understood the unique needs of energizers, the machines were stocked with actual dinners and full MREs. I had no idea what a banshee would like, since her customary food would have been rather bland, but then again, since she seemed to have some of Lanie's memories, maybe not. I grabbed a brick of mild cheddar cheese, a quarter loaf of French bread, and a couple of beef stew MREs.
Fortunately, no-one saw me, or if they did, they didn't ask any questions, so I trotted back to the copse of trees. As I expected, the banshee was waiting bow in hand. Seeing I was alone, she put it down.
"Start with these," I suggested, handing her the bread and cheese. I was about to explain the MRE packaging, but the Pict girl froze for a moment, staring at them, then she opened the plastic pouches as if she'd been dealing with them all her life. Realization dawned on me. "You ... you have Lanie's ... my soul-sister's ... power!" I said, jaw hanging in surprise.
The banshee looked up, her mouth full of cheese and bread. "If by that you mean do I have some magic spell that explains this world to me, the answer is yes."
I pressed the little button that activated the chemical heater that was embedded between the layers of the pouch of the stew. "Lanie special power was that she understands systems, any system. I… I cost her that power when I bound her spirit to her."
"You're a powerful sorceress indeed if you can create spirit-ridden!" the redhead complemented her with her mouth full. I took the spoon off the pouch and peeled it open before passing it across.
"Be careful, it's hot." I watched the other girl nod and tuck into the stew with a vengeance, obviously not caring how warm it was. "What is your name?"
The banshee sat up a bit straighter. "I am Laneth, daughter of Joan, chieftain's daughter of Morlock, banshee. You are Kayda of the clan Franks, lover of my daughter-self. You're awfully dark skinned for a Frank. I have fought them, and Saxons too," she added, as if that would impress or intimidate me.
I smiled and shook my head. "I'm not Frankish," I replied with a chuckle, though some of my ancestors were from France. "I'm mostly Native American, of the Lakota tribe." I looked long and hard at her. "Why do you want to talk to me?" I asked the question which had been nagging at me since she drew her bow on me.
She tore off another hunk of bread and chewed thoughtfully. “I know no-one else but my other-self, and I require your assistance,” Laneth said bluntly. “Since the Druidess Horton summoned me and commanded me to fight your mate, I have thought much about how to approach you. I needed to talk to you alone,” she added with a tone that seemed to indicate that she’d been prepared to use violence if necessary – perhaps even kidnapping me.
“But … why don’t you simply talk to Lanie? You’re part of her. You belong with her!”
“I cannot risk her rejecting me,” Laneth replied through a mouthful of cheese and bread. Her eyes were steel, conveying the seriousness of her quest. “So, Kayda of the Lakota tribe, what is it of you that interests a mangy dog spirit of Tír na nÓg?"
My eyes narrowed and the corners of my lips turned down in a scowl. "What was that phrase you used? I don't speak that language."
"Tír na nÓg?" Laneth asked. "It is a land of perpetual youth, home of the Sidhe and the Unseelie, some call it the March of Dreams..."
"Ah, the dream realm!" I replied. "Where you fought Debra?" The banshee nodded. My face clouded over and I became angry. "Why did you do that?!"
"Was I unclear?" Laneth demanded. "Because my daughter-self and I, now that I've seen you, desired you." I felt my skin flush as I blushed. "I do not normally take orders from others, but I was compelled to do so, or face oblivion by the Druidess Horton. But this is unimportant. What interest is it the dog holds in you, that he would offer me a bargain?"
"Dog?" I asked, perplexed. "What dog?"
"He would not give me his name," Laneth said. "The dog threw me into the real world, and he does take an inordinate interest in you and desires that I tutelage you in leadership so that you may lead your people and some Council he is calling."
My eyes blinked in surprise. "Are you talking about Coyote?"
Laneth rolled her eyes. "Now I must plead that your word means nothing."
"Sorry, of course it means nothing to you. Coyotes are native to North America." I whispered a few words of magic, and a transparent illusion spell appeared between us. "Is this the creature you saw?" The banshee nodded which caused me to lean forward intently. "Tell me everything he has said to you …!"
To Be Continued | English | NL | c50c656ded0f08d242842f8b440f84de3bbbb0d20f03668bdcfe0d4a324f1ae5 |
Stanrick Looked out at the line of watchtowers as the moon hung high in the cloudless sky. Although the night was still young the snow made the world as bright as day there was little to no movement in the night and the sound of a lone ocarina played filling the night. Smoke hung low from his pipe and no soul moved outside the out post. It had been mouths since the humans had left for some other adventure and deep inside he wished that he could go with them and see the world that they spoke of. He pulled the cloke in tight and took a long draw of his pipe.
“Any thing out there?” Stanrick turn to greet Yawn as he came up the watchtower.
“No, not even the wind.” He passed his pipe to Yawn and went back to the view.
“I found two more from the village dead in the pines today… fell through the ice and froze to death.” Stanrick just nodded. “Haven’t seen you in the tavern in town lately. Don’t tell me you have been here the whole time.” Yawn passed the pipe back and Stanrick took a draw. “Rill didn’t tell me to leave.” The words were low like the smoke coming out of his mouth. “Still you at least come down to eat don’t you?” Stanrick shook his head no. “don’t even leave when someone else is on watch but most like the company with things as quiet as the have been.”
The two watch out across the snow covered field and the ocarina song was all they heard.
It was this way for quite some time till Yawn spoke up again. “Why?” But Stanrick just looked out as the trees. “I mean why don’t you go to town?” Stanrick passed the pipe. “3 months… 3 months and not a single Mordok attack. Have you seen any signs on your patrols?” Yawn looked out dumbfounded. It had been 3 mouths since the shaman had attacked with an army of Mordok and now he had not drawn blood. And for some reason the only one that knew was Stanrick who the village thought went nuts after the events that had happened. After all it was winter the attacks did slow up every year at this time, and mostly every one else was worried about food. But to not see the obvious was strange. “What if I get down and they come back?” Stanrick smiled his teeth glistened in the moonlight. The two laughed at the thought that if it was as simple as keeping one ulven in one place and the village never need fear again.
“So that’s not why you’re up here… why then?” Stanrick took the pipe back and he took another long draw. “I have been thinking we owe the Graytide a little pay back for what happened. The village needs food. And if you head that way there is a Graytide camp 3 days away.” He had been thinking about this along time. “Your Crazy! We would freeze or starve! And if not there must be 30 or more of them and Gia knows I would go just to see you rip them a new one but that would start a war! And no one else would go with you! What would Rill do if she heard you were thinking about this?” Stanrick went to the ladder. “Lets find out.”
Stanrick had jumped down the later landing on the frozen ground with a thud nearly scaring Magrat to death. The green Syndar had took up residents in side the walls of the out post and did more then her fair share of work with out her tracking abilities it would be safe to say that many more would have starved. She dropped the bowl of soup she had been bringing up to Stanrick. At the sight of his eyes in the moonlight. The ground was harder then he recalled but his legs worked fine. He made his way to the fire to warm his hands. Rill was not inside the walls but he expected her soon for she had went to the back of the out post to get more wood. The Ocarina had stopped and the young ulven got to his feet. Stanrick had a reputation as a lone wolf before he took Yawn under his wing. “Your down from there?” Stanrick glared at the stupid question. “And seeing its your turn at guard duty you better get up there, AND NO SLEEPING!” the young one ran up the ladder and took up his post. Stanrick warmed his body and watched the flames dance. His mind had been troubled for dreams of walking dead that Magrat had told stories of. For a syndar He liked her, and even tolerated her as he kept watch at night. But the dreams bothered him. Magrat walked over to the fire. “I thought you were never coming down what is on your mind?” she handed him a drinking horn with mead. He took a gulp and wiped his mouth “Graytides. For too long they have been causing problems. I think its time to remind them that you can’t hurt some one under our protection. So I plan to go to the nearest camp and remind of their place.” She had spent quite some time talking to the Grumpy Ulven and felt she knew a little about him so this did take her by surprise. “Are you sure that Really what you want to do?” Some how she felt she could talk him down from this bull headed plan.
But he was not going to back down from this his mind was made up after the Mordok attacked in mass and the other events of that day Stanrick had been Shoved from his post and the anger was more then he cared to put up with he garbed a number of weapons and took off down the trail with Yawn on his trail the 2 ran half a day before they found a gray tide from the hunting party who was giving aid to the Syndar that had shoved him to the ground this could have been the end of it and the 2 would have went home but the hunting party had been more then the 3 that had came to the outpost for the next 4 days the 2 long fangs chased Graytieds back to there camp. The 2 never talked about what happened out in the forest but when they returned Stanrick had a helmet he didn’t leave with.
“Want to come with? I’m sure your skills would be put to use.” The fact that an ulven who for the most part won’t trust other Ulven let alone Humans or Syndar would even suggest this brought a strange pride to Magrat, “No… I can’t I don’t want to start a war.”
Stanrick shrugged “oh it’s going on right now I just plan to strike them before they attack us in the spring. With or with out Rill’s permission” the fire danced in his green eyes.
“No, you WONT!” Stanrick bowed his head and grumbled. Somehow the scolding had taken the fire out of his words. And now he felt like a pup, he knew this wouldn’t fly it was not the Ulven way. “You will not drop to their level! If they want to turn back on honor then the great wolf will deal with them. We are all children of Gaia and that includes the graytide.” He glanced at the watchtower and wished he had stayed put. “I know that we a warriors and that I have to send many to fight and die, but is your life worth so little that you would risk it for a cause that the great wolf would not hear your name?!?” somehow Yawn and Magrat had slinked away from the fire and took the pipes with them. “And what of Yawn? You know he would just fallow you not concerned of what happens he is still young and you should be showing him the path not teaching him bad habits!” this went on for quite some time and would have continued if it wasn’t for the fire going low, and Rill remembering what she was doing before she put Stanrick in his pace. This gave him the chance to slink away knowing full well that if he went now that he may lose his pack and family to pride. He went out the gate and plopped down in the snow. Much had happened and yet he was not part of it. He longed to fight along side with Harlok and Kargon. He stared at the moon as it started to set to the East the sky stated to burn red as the sun would soon rise. He needed sleep and so he did… his eyes closed and he drifted off to a land of dream as he lay in the snow.
It was dark and the grass was covered with dried blood Stanrick looked out over the valley of fallen humans, syndar, and ulvens, he turned to look behind him. A large tent with the flap open had a table with a map. A man in gold armor had been keeping council with others. Some faces he knew others he didn’t, there were banners flapping in the wind.
One man walked out he had heavy plate armor with a blue handprint. “Thank you for keeping your end of the deal now if you excuse me I have some bees to attend to.” The man smiled and walked off. Stanrick turn to the valley of death. The bodies stated to move coming his way he drew his sword, and joined in a charge but all around was death soon he was standing on top of a pile of bodies but more kept coming he started to be over run. “Be not afraid for I know your name.”
He woke in a cold sweet. But not in the snow he was by the fire it was dark again.
“Please Stanrick think before you act I lost too many to the cold.” Rill had covered him in a blanket. Her and Magrat were sitting by the fire. Rill needed to give stanrick a propose in all the year she knew him he had been loyal and she feared that his acting up may have been her fault, if he was acting up would others? “We need supplies I want you and Yawn to see if you can hunt up food. There is a village about 2 days away normally they send food but as of late they have not. See if they can spare anything.” Stanrick sat up this would most likely a better use of his time then what he wanted to do. Without Mordok attacks and the Graytide in winter camp he was just eating food that was not there and this would most likely get his mind off revenge.
“Yes, my lady it would be an honor.” He still felt shame for the foolish acts of the last day. “Then Gaia watch you.” This put her worries to rest if he had been truly ready to disobey he would have strait out said that no honor was in this task. But his head was back on strait and he knew that food was needed if the outpost would make it the rest of the winter.
It only took about 15 minutes to walk up the road to the village that over looked the outpost. And even though 3 ulven had just walked down the road just hours before. The snow had blown over their tracks. Stanrick was nervous this was the first time he had returned to the village since the incident. After running in to the Garytieds 3 months ago the 2 Ulven had spent 4 days nearly bathing in the blood of what ever got in their way. They stunk of death and their tunics stained dark red. The village was in shock when Stanrick brought a sack full of Mordok heads.
Yawn had got off with just a week staying at the outpost. Stanrick spent that week in the stocks the others in the village started rumors that Rill had favored him for one reason or an other. After she let him out he went to the outpost and only left to run the watch line every other day. Once the snow fell he went up on the platform and stayed till 2 days ago. On that platform he ate he slept and was the only place he talked to anyone. But now he was stepping foot in to the village the moment of nervousness was gone.
2 children were grappling in the village green. But once they looked up they stopped and ran off in to a near house and hide. Clearly some one was using him as a “what not to do” To the children of the village. Yawn Pointed to the mead hall. “Lets get a pint before we go on our trip.” Stanrick looked at the Mead hall. “Yeah we can do that.” The 2 walked into the mead hall only a few Ulven were inside before the incident Stanrick was held in high regard but now he lost honor with members of the pack namely the 3 sitting at the back Table.
“So if it ain’t the Syndar lover, make any green half breeds as of late?” this was the first time that Norgoth had enough mead in him to say anything. “No.” Stanrick Sat down at the bar and began to drink his mead. “Stanson did you think you could just walk in here? I’m running village patrol and you can just run to Rill to save you.” And with that the pint of mead was gone. “Have a nice day Norgoth I have real thing to do then fight a self proclaimed village parole.” Stanrick went out the door and out to the village green. “You think you are so important but your not! Your nothing!”
By now the whole village was out side seeing what the commotion was about. “DUEL ME!” Stanrick stopped in his tracks. “Your drunk that would have no honor.” Norgoth smashed his mug on the ground. “You have no honor mix breeder! Fight me!!!” one of the elders walked up to Stanrick ready to over see the fight. “No” Norgoth Jump at Stanrick knife drawn but was tacked by 2 warriors and grappled to the ground.
“ENOUGH!” shouted the elder. “Take Norgoth to the stocks and let him sit till he burns off the rage from all that mead.” The elder walked back to Stanrick “ Son most others would have snapped after claims like you put up with. That shows that you have much restraint. True warriors only fight when they need too not because they want to. I know were you are going and why, no others offered to do what you 2 are going to do the Great Wolf will know your deeds. Gaia be with you.”
With elders blessing and a belling from the village Stanrick and Yawn went off to the village of spruce grove.
The two had been on the road for hours traveling into the night and now the sun had come back around. They had been making good time and had already passed the half waypoint. This was as good of a place as any to rest. It was a high point on the road and over looked the surrounding area. Yawn opened his bag and pulled out a sack of tobacco. “Only two pounds each? That won’t last 3 days!” Stanrick looked over the horizon before lighting up his own pipe. “You smoke to much.” He laughed at the thought the two had been know to fight while smoking away at their pipes a skill that not many could handle. “So before we left the elder said something to you… what was it?” Stanrick turned to face the young Ulven. “While we are out to find out what happened to our supplies we also are to keep an eye out for the bastards they have an idol that in the wrong hands may or may not be dangerous…” he knew it was but didn’t want to get yawn concerned. His younger companion had grown rather fond of ‘the tall red Gollum’ and if he knew that he might have to fight the bastards then who knows what he would do. “What if they don’t want us to have it?” Stanrick took a draw on the pipe. “We take it by force. If we even see them.” Yawn nodded a little. “Well that would be a shame. I don’t hate them. After all they did clean out a good chunk of swamp.” Stanrick nodded “lets get going I want to put another 3 hours behind us before we rest.” The two picked up there bags and went off twoards spruce grove.
Another hour had passed and Stanrick thought about everything the elder had told him. He didn’t tell every thing to yawn. He left out the fact that the Priestess was planning to invite Magrat in to the village to hold council. She would be the first non-ulven to set foot in the village. Some of the ulven there had only heard about humans and syndar. This was a great honor, one that he felt she deserved. The elder asked if Stanrick trusted any other humans or syndar. The bastards had come to mind but unless they willingly handed over the idol with out any force needed he could not vouch for them. Humans bothered him greatly after all a number of them had tried to over take the outpost and had been almost wiped off gaia’s green earth if not for some saving grace that they crawled out of the outpost and regrouped. He had seen humans do foolish thing run into the pines at night with out a plan bring children out into the wilds. Yes it was hard to trust any of them and even after all the bastards had done the fact that they turn and ran from their homes. Why should they stand and fight for his.
As he was thinking about this he smelt it… broken Iron an odd smell that with out fire meant one thing to Stanrick. Blood. It was coming from down the road. The two sprinted around the bend in the road. And there was the source the snow was stained with blood and a number of bodies mostly Ulven lay in the snow a few humans had been with them and what ever they had was taken. “So I believe this is why we have not received any supplies.” Stanrick sniffed the air. “One is alive.” He went over to a man who lay face down in the snow. He had a number of arrows in his back. The two helped him sit up.
“What happened human?” Stanrick asked. The man looked around. “I thought I was going to die here… we were taking supplies to the Onsallas outpost… we thought that the outpost had been getting shipments but the last group that went had one survived who made it back to the village. The Bandits use a trail that takes 2 hours off the journey to the village they must have a camp on the trail I believe they must have at lest 20 of them hiding out that way…” he stated to cough up blood. “Your longfangs right? I heard about you…. I was hoping to see the outpost I hear stories of your pack and wanted to help out the pack that keeps back the Mordok….” Yawn looked at the prints in the snow leading off down a rough trail. Stanrick pulled out a small vial. “Here take this and make peace with your gods, this will ease your passing.”
It had taken some time to get the bodies together and prepare them for the funeral rights but to leave the bodies would be insulting to their names. One of the humans had a book with him he told the story of what lead to this blood bath how one man had ran away from the fight a week before. Some of the bodies where the ones from that party. The book had names even deeds listed. “You understand all them markings?” asked Yawn.
“Enough to know he was studying our ways. I think he wrote all of this in hopes of finding the lost Ulven and send them on to the Great Wolf….” He was a bout to light the pier when he heard the footsteps of someone coming from the direction of the out post. “Someone is coming.”
Stanrick was taking painstakingly care to prepare the bodies ever wound was rapped and every arrow removed in tacked so as not to leave the heads in the bodies. The bodies where then wrapped the best he could with the rags that had been left behind. He took a number of small stones and said a blessing over them, then placed them on the harts on heads of the dead. “What’s that for again?” asked the green syndar. Magrat had been fallowing the two since they left the village with out Stanrick and yawn around she didn’t feel right. And although she had seen a few ulven funerals this was the most she had seen in one place. 8 ulven and 3 humans 3 of the ulven were from the first group judging from the rot. “This will mark the heart and mind, when we burn the bodies part of the sprit will stay with Gaia. So it will become the rocks and ash. The rest goes on to the great wolf.” He placed the rock and Yawn helped him put the bodies on the pile of wood the two had gathered. “Will it burn hot enough? That wood looks still green.” Yawn laughed a little. “Clearly you forget, Stanrick made this…. It will burn.” The last body was in place and Stanrick pulled out a flint from his pouch and struck it the flame took and soon the whole pier was a blasé.
They tended the fire and Stanrick took tales from the book that he had found so the great wolf would know the deeds that the warrior had done. Magrat had pulled out her hookah and the 3 of them smoked and sang songs till the sun set. Then Stanrick went to the pile of arrows 73 of them that he had removed and split them between him self his brother and the Syndar. “Now we will return them to they who theas belong.” The fire was high now and the smoke would be seen miles around Stanrick hope this would cover them as they went down the side trail to the bandits camp. Hopefully they would think it was a wild fire and be concerned of their camp not. Not an attack.
The 3 moved swiftly in the night and the smoke covered the moon. Torch light cold bee seen in the distance and yelling could be heard. 3 men ran past them.
“Hurry we will need to see how far the fire is from camp!” said one of the men as they ran past paying no heed to the 3 in the woods. “How could this start? Mordok?” they continued on their way.
The camp was small, only a dozen men. Far less then Stanrick expected, and only a few keeping watch. This raid would be quick. Stanrick knocked his Bow and took aim.
FWAP! His arrow hit true. FWAP! FWAP! And the watchmen fell Yawn drew his Mace and Stanrick his Sword. The two went in to the camp and began to cut down the men that had been talking by the camp fire not a scream escaped their mouths arrows flew from magrats bow Striking down the guards on the other side of the camp. Then almost as soon as it started it was over. “Get supplies we camp here tonight. Yawn you have first watch the others will be back soon.”
Magrat was glad to see Stanrick in a better mood then what she had been use to. At the out post it took some time for him to open up. Now he treated her like she was one of them she sat by the fire listening to his story. “Wait… You Fought Yawns father when he was courting his mother? He never told me that.” Stanrick smiled “Why should he? We share the same mother. He is her last pup; all but I have gone to meet the great wolf. I was the oldest, but mother grows old I can not let her youngest pass till he gets his fangs.” He checked the fish that was frying in the fire the bandits had food, weapons furs wine and mead. All taken from the supplies that were meant for the longfangs. Tonight they would eat well and rest before moving on to Spruce Grove.
Yawn made a hoot telling Stanrick that the others were returning. “Its us Mekihal the fire was just the ulven burning the dead, get every one ready we might get them on the other side! All was left was ash get the boss!” Stanrick put up his hood as did Magrat and they turned so the fire was to their back. “Did you hear me? Lets go! Wait where is every one?”
Stanrick pulled his sword. “Dead and soon you will join them.
The three took turns keeping watch through the night and when the morning came they took all they could and burned the camp. Spruce Grove was only a few hours away and they reached the village around 2. After talking to a number of people Stanrick Figured out that the bastards had been this way with Kragon they gave him the idol and went off their own way. This was a good sign and he would be glad to report once he got back home. They spent little time in spruce grove just enough to tell the elders that the road was clear again then started Back to Onsallas outpost. Stanrick didn’t talk much heading back, and they only stopped to put a marker where they had held the funeral. The snow was melting and soon the road opened to show the outpost in the valley below. “Come, they will be waiting for you.” Stanrick said to Magrat as they walk down the winding trail. | English | NL | d92b3c9ea3c8b6076929281d7cf3f1a90966108a76989a53c15dadabe3d2f53b |
Yellow Bird ~ A Short Story by Allen Kopp
Lonnie awoke to the smell of cooking food. When he got out of bed and went into the kitchen, mother turned from the stove and smiled at him. She was wearing her red silk dress with the white buttons instead of the usual old chenille bathrobe.
“Sit down and have some bacon and eggs,” she said.
“Why are you so dressed up?” he asked.
“Eat your breakfast while it’s hot.”
While he ate, she sat across from him and drank coffee and smoked her cigarettes.
“What are you going to do today?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Read comics and watch some TV, I guess.”
“Don’t you think you should get outside and get some exercise and fresh air?”
“I might ride my bike to the park.”
“Don’t you have anybody to go with?” she said. “Isn’t it more fun with friends?”
“Sure. Is anything wrong? You’re acting funny.”
“We need to have a little talk.”
“Do you remember my friend Tony? You met him once when we were having lunch downtown.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
She looked down at her hand holding the cigarette. “Well, he and I are going away together this morning. He’s coming by to pick me up.”
“Going away? What do you mean, going away? Where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Will you be back in time for supper?”
“Does father know?”
“I wrote him a letter. He’ll read it when he gets home from work.”
He looked at her searchingly, as if her face might reveal something her voice wasn’t saying.
“So, when will you be back? Next week sometime?”
“I don’t think so, honey.”
“I think it’s time for father and me to go our separate ways. I’m going to file for divorce so I can marry Tony.”
“Can’t I go with you?”
“Father and I discussed it and we decided it would be better for you to go on living here. Father wants you to stay with him.”
“I’d rather be with you, though.”
“Don’t you want to keep going to the same school you’ve gone to since kindergarten?”
“I don’t care if I go to school or not.”
She laughed and flattened her cigarette out in the ashtray. “You don’t mean that,” she said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Now, I need you to be a good boy and not a difficult boy. This is hard enough as it is.”
“But why can’t I go with you, wherever you’re going?”
“See, that’s the thing. Tony and I are going to be unsettled for a while. I don’t know where I’ll be while I’m waiting for my divorce.”
“Can’t you stay here while you’re waiting for your divorce?”
“It doesn’t work that way, honey. One of us has to leave and it has to be me.”
“Is it something I did?”
“Of course not! I don’t ever want you to think that.”
“Is it something father did?”
“No, it isn’t anything father did, either. It’s grownup stuff. I wouldn’t know how to explain it to you if I could. When you’re older, you’ll understand better.”
“But why Tony?”
“Because I love him and I believe he loves me. He’s the man I should have married in the first place.”
“Then why did you marry father?”
“I was young and I didn’t know him very well.”
“So, is that what grownup people normally do?”
In a little while there was a honk out front. Mother went into the bedroom and came out carrying her suitcase and the jacket that went with the red dress.
“I want you to come out on the porch and see me off,” she said, taking Lonnie by the hand.
Tony had parked his shiny blue car at the curb. When he saw mother and Lonnie come out of the house, he got out of his car and smiled and waved. He was wearing a coat and tie like church. He stood beside the car smiling, looking like a picture in a movie magazine.
Mother let go of Lonnie’s hand on the porch and bent over so that her face was close to his. She didn’t have to bend very far because he was almost as tall as she was.
“Everything will be all right,” she said with what she thought was a reassuring smile. “I just need to get away.”
“But for how long?” he asked. He was about to cry but didn’t want to with Tony looking on.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know that, either. I’ll call you just as soon as we get to where we’re going and we can talk on the phone. I’ll know more then.”
He nodded his head and looked away.
She opened her purse and took out some money and put it in his fist. “Here’s a little mad money,” she said. “Buy yourself something special. Something impractical.”
She laughed for no special reason then and gave Lonnie a kiss on the cheek and held him for a few seconds in a squeeze and when she let go of him she ran to Tony like a schoolgirl.
On any other day, Lonnie would love having the house to himself, but with mother leaving unexpectedly it felt lonely and empty. He tried watching TV but wasn’t used to watching during the daytime and wasn’t interested in any of the shows that were on, so he took mother’s advice and rode his bike to the park.
He saw some people he knew but didn’t speak to them; he didn’t want to have to talk to anybody. He went to the most secluded part of the park near the war memorial and sat under a tree. It was so quiet and breezy that he almost went to sleep and ants started crawling on him, so he got up and went back home.
He hoped mother would somehow be there, having changed her mind and forcing Tony to bring her back, but everything was just as he left it. He ate some leftover fried chicken for lunch and wondered how to spend the rest of the day.
When father came home from work at the usual time, he found the letter from mother on the kitchen table. He unfolded the letter and pulled out a chair and sat down and read it.
“Did she tell you about this?” father asked Lonnie.
“A little,” Lonnie said. He shrugged and opened the refrigerator door to see what they would have for supper.
“Did you see what’s-his-name?”
“You mean Tony? Yeah, I saw him.”
“I have grounds for divorce now,” father said. “She ran off with her lover.”
“She said she’d call.”
“I don’t know what to think about a mother who abandons her only child.”
“It’s all right with me,” Lonnie said, “if it’s what she wants.”
“When she calls, tell her I’m going to see a lawyer to start divorce proceedings.”
“I think that’s what she wants, anyway.”
“I hope she rots in hell.”
In August for his fourteenth birthday, Lonnie received a large bird cage with a yellow parakeet inside, delivered by a white truck that pulled up out in front of the house with a screech of brakes. It was a most unusual and unexpected gift. Mother wrote on the card: Thought you could use a pet. Much love, as always.
He didn’t know how to take care of a parakeet so he walked downtown and bought a book on the subject and a couple of different kinds of birdseed that the woman in the store said any bird would like. If he won’t eat none of it, the woman said, bring it back and we’ll try something else.
In the attic was an old birdcage stand with a hook. Lonnie had seen it before but never knew what it was for. He was surprised somebody hadn’t thrown it out long ago, but he was glad now they didn’t. Everything eventually has its purpose if you wait long enough.
He named the bird Toppy. It didn’t mean anything; it just seemed like a good name for a bird. Toppy hopped around inside his cage, sang little musical trills, drank water, ate birdseed and pooped aplenty. He seemed happy enough.
Lonnie hoped every day that mother would come home, but he knew it was an unrealistic hope. In the real world, mothers didn’t return home after running off with another man. It didn’t even happen in the movies.
Everybody thought father would get married again after the divorce, but he liked being single, he said. When marriage-minded ladies called to invite him over for a home-cooked Sunday dinner, he told Lonnie to tell them he was in Moscow or in the hospital for a lung operation.
He got an old woman, a Mrs. Farinelli, to come in two or three days a week and clean the bathroom and the kitchen, wash the clothes, shop, and usually cook a little food. She had a son on death row in prison and another son who was a priest. He paid her money in cash so she wouldn’t have to pay income tax on it. She was neat and quiet and never complained.
Mother called Lonnie a couple of different times when she knew father was still at work. When Lonnie asked where she was, she said they were still moving around, still unsettled. She sounded distant, preoccupied, not the mother he remembered. He believed at last that she didn’t care for him and was trying to phase him out of her life because she had a whole new life now.
Summer ended and Lonnie started ninth grade. He mostly didn’t like school—he never had from the very beginning—but he knew he had to make decent grades and get through to the end; there was no other choice anymore. Only dopes and losers quit high school.
A couple of times, on his way to and from school, he thought he saw mother in passing cars, but he knew later it couldn’t have been her. She would have at least waved to him.
On Christmas and birthdays, he always received cards from her with money in them. He couldn’t send a card to her in return because he didn’t have her address, but he knew that’s the way she wanted it.
As the months and years went by, he stopped thinking so much about her. He stopped thinking long ago that she would return and father would forgive her and everything would be just as it was.
Lonnie and father never had much to say to each other. They had occasional arguments and disagreements but for the most part they stayed out of each other’s way and got along as well as any father and son living alone in a house had a right to.
Toppy lived inside his cage and thrived and seemed happy. Lonnie sometimes felt sorry for him because he lived in such a small space and didn’t have the company of other birds. He thought about opening the window and letting him fly away, but he knew the world would be too much for Toppy and he wouldn’t survive on his own for very long.
Lonnie came to the end of high school and was glad for that that phase of his life to be over. Father dressed up in his one blue suit and came to the graduation ceremony by himself and sat toward the back of the auditorium surrounded by strangers. Lonnie thought several times about mother and wished she could be there to see him get his diploma.
He didn’t care to go on to college, at least not right away; he had had enough of school for a while. He thought vaguely that one day he would get married and have children of his own, but he was in no hurry and didn’t much care one way or another. He didn’t like the idea of having a marriage that would one day end in divorce.
A few weeks after graduation, he got a job in a hardware and paint store. He didn’t like it very much, but he got used to it and after a year or so he got a promotion and a raise in pay. He moved into sales and found it more to his liking than working at a counter and answering questions from customers.
As for mother, Lonnie didn’t hear from her again after the card he received on his nineteenth birthday. He didn’t know where she lived or if she was alive or dead. The best thing he could do, he told himself, was to stop thinking and wondering about her.
The years went by and Lonnie found himself at age twenty-one. He still lived with father in the house he grew up in. He went to work every day, as did father, and the two of them went their separate ways and lived their separate lives.
On a Friday morning in October father collapsed soon after arriving at work. He was rushed to the hospital, where he died two hours later. He had an enlarged heart and had smoked cigarettes, a lot of them, since he was thirteen. He was forty-seven.
The funeral was well-attended, despite a steady downpour. Relations of father’s that Lonnie had never seen before came from out of town, with stories of father when he was a child. The company father worked for sent an impressive arrangement of flowers. Father’s boss and a couple of his coworkers came and introduced themselves to Lonnie, slapped him on the shoulder, expressed their condolences, and told him what a great guy father was.
At the gravesite the rain kept up. Lonnie wore a raincoat and an old man’s hat he found in the closet and used a borrowed umbrella to keep himself dry. The minister droned a few words and the casket began its slow descent into the earth, indicating that the service was concluded it was time for everybody to go home.
As the crowd was dispersing and Lonnie was about to make his getaway, a woman emerged from the crowd and approached him. She was wearing a long coat, dark glasses, and a scarf wound around her head like a refugee. It wasn’t until she came toward him, stopped and smiled that he knew it was mother.
“You’re all grown up now,” she said.
He looked at her, feeling almost nothing. He brought the umbrella down in front of his face to keep her from looking at him, sidestepped, and sprinted for his car as fast as he could before she had a chance to come after him.
At home, he felt a tremendous sense of relief now that the funeral was over and all those people had gone away. He was truly alone now, for the first time in his life, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with himself. The house was his now and there would be some insurance money after the funeral expenses were paid. He was a family of one, a free agent. He might never return to his job at the paint and wallpaper store.
He went into his bedroom and closed the door and took Toppy out his cage and lay on his back on the bed, holding the bird on his chest. Toppy tried his wings a couple of times as if confused at being out of the cage and then settled down and nestled on Lonnie’s sternum contentedly. His little eyes blinked and he looked with what seemed like comprehension right into the eyes of the only human person he had ever known.
“Don’t ever leave me,” Lonnie said. “Please don’t ever leave me.”
Copyright © 2019 by Allen Kopp | English | NL | efed9065e1565b273360b8c5572c9e1f23c24c660ed90cb507f8976fa802c699 |
Darryl has been a practicing attorney since 1998 and is licensed to practice in Louisiana and Florida. He has extensive jury trial experience as lead counsel in civil and criminal jury trials. He has also served as counsel at the appellate level in reported cases out of Florida’s Third District Court of Appeal. Darryl has previously practiced in the areas of commercial litigation, criminal law, administrative law and family law and is a former Court-Appointed Public Defender for Miami-Dade County, Florida.
Darryl is a graduate of St. Thomas University School of Law, located in Miami, Florida, where he received his law degree in 1998. At St. Thomas, he was awarded a Dean’s Merit Scholarship and served in a leadership role as Student Government Senator and was a member of the Peter T. Fay Inns of Court. Darryl is also a graduate of Louisiana State University, where he received a bachelor’s degree in 1994.
Darryl is a native of Southeast Louisiana. After living and working in South Florida for thirteen years, he returned with his children to his Louisiana roots, in 2008, and now lives and works in New Orleans. He began working at Morris Bart in 2011, where he serves as Of Counsel Attorney.
- B.A., Louisiana State University
- J.D., St. Thomas University School of Law
Professional Affiliations & Memberships
- Louisiana State Bar Association
- The Florida Bar
Admitted to Practice | English | NL | 502c9eb2ac7b52e47160c2f0b8f93f2a492cef15f142ee257d2a0169248f300f |
owner of Beechgrove had had wide experience of boys of their age and disposition. The minute they appeared at his gate he made savagely threatening gestures with either syringe or spade and they fled incontinently down the road. These episodes kept alive William's interest in criminology.
" I bet you anything," he said, " that that bucket he puts his squirt into is full of poison. Bet you anything he killed hundreds of folks that way. Squirting them with poison out of a bucket like that. He looks jus' the sort that would squirt poison at people. I bet he's got poison on his spade, too. D'you remember the man in ' The Mystery of the Odd Glove' what had poison in his garden forks ? To me he looks just that sort of man. If we hadn't run away quick we'd 've been dead now. An' the police would've come along and found us dead an' took for granted we'd died natural 'cause of being so stupid. Jolly good thing we c'n run. Bet you we shouldn't be alive now if we couldn't."
" But why should he want to kill us, William ? ' said Henry the practical.
" Why not ! " said William. " A murderer's gotter be murderin' someone or else he isn't a murderer, is he ? You get sort of fond of it same as you do of anythin' else. Football or cricket or draughts or collectin' stamps. When you've murdered one person you want to go on an' murder another. You keep thinkin' out better ways of murd'rin' people an' then nacherally you want to try 'em on someone. I bet he'd jus' thought out that way of squirtin' poison at someone an' wanted to try it on us jus' to see if it acted all right. Of course he may've got a real reason. He may've found out that one of us is goin' to come into a lot of money what we don't know anythin' about yet an' he may be the next heir though none of us know him 'cause of everyone thinkin' his father was drowned in a shipwreck. It was like that in ' The Mystery of | English | NL | 623f129a22705bcd34087dfb486e91cf79020ec32afc5d02a48df08188b78e0d |
A list of messages that cover First and Second Timothy which were preached in Bristol Bible Chapel in 2017.
Christians, hearing the phrase “obedience to the Word of God” might be quick to assume that this is a call to obey what the Word of God has to say. They’ll hear the words and think that there is some command, or some passage of the Bible, that is not being obeyed and this is […]
I had preached through the book of Colossians by focusing on how Paul reorients our thinking with a renewed focus on Christ and God’s Gospel. MP3’s after the jump. | English | NL | fc68497c8a55f074b5aadb0aca441f94381e548f8875323c8f79052b64063c7e |
In 1933, twelve days after the apparitions at Beauraing ended, Our Lady appeared again fifty miles away in Banneux, Belgium. Banneux is a small, poor farming village that wasn’t even big enough to appear on a map. Mariette Beco was an 11-year-old girl who came from a poor family. Her father had given up belief in God, and while they were raised Catholic, they did not place much importance on Him in their home. Mariette was notorious for not doing well in catechism classes, and stopped going before she made her First Communion.
On the evening of January 15, 1933, Mariette was watching out the front window of her home waiting for her brother. All of a sudden she saw a Lady standing outside, surrounded by a bright light, wearing a white gown and blue sash. She called her mother, who at first didn’t believe her, and then suggested it was a witch. Our Lady motioned for Mariette to go outside, but her mother ordered her to lock the door. The Lady disappeared, and when her brother got home he had the same negative reaction as her mother.
Mariette sat at the window the next few nights without any sign of the Lady. She returned to catechism class that week, much to the surprise of the priest. He asked her why she had come, and she told him about the apparition. He didn’t belittle her, but told her to pray for guidance. Later that night, she ran outside of the house as if pushed by a force, and fell to her knees in the front yard. Our Lady appeared to her, and beckoned her to a spring nearby. Her father witnessed the entire episode, and called the parish priest that night to convert!
Our Lady appeared to Mariette a number of more times, telling her the spring was for all the nations to bring comfort to the sick and calling herself “the Virgin of the Poor.” People in the town made fun of Mariette, calling her St. Bernadette. Others thought she was influenced by the recent apparitions in Beauraing. Our Lady continued to ask Mariette to pray very much, and she received her First Communion. During one apparition she told Mariette, “Believe in me and I will believe in you.” After the apparitions ended, immediate fruits were seen in the town in the forms of miraculous healings and conversions, including in her once apathetic family. A church was built and people still go to the spring seeking healing.
Our Lady introduces herself in this apparition as the Virgin of the Poor. She is always close to the poor, especially poor children, wanting to scoop them up into her mother’s arms and relieve their suffering. While Our Lady knew physical poverty on this earth, I wonder if she also was referring to spiritual poverty in this statement. Mariette came from a family of both types. Those of us who come from families that doubt our faith, or even outwardly criticize it, know this cross and can relate. Our Church currently is seeing a trend of spiritually poor families, who don’t believe in God and barely make time for church. Let us pray to the Virgin of the Poor to bring these families back together in faith, with the healing spring of her grace. She also shows us that there is still hope for those “problem” kids (and parents) in CCD classes!
Lastly, Our Lady spoke such important words when she said to Mariette, “Believe in me, and I will believe in you.” For those of us who don’t feel the comfort of our families supporting our faith, Our Lady is always here to believe in us. For those of us who don’t know our identity or our purpose in life, or have low self-esteem, Our Lady believes in us. She believes in every single one of us and is there to guide us along the way as the best of mothers. All we have to do is believe in her, and turn to her.
How does it change/strengthen your heartto know that Our Lady believes in you? | English | NL | 701be3899f8ae956885284f99a53871354294ad1b0de435304cc795860c8c2a2 |
New American Standard Bible
Ministry of the Twelve
1And He called the twelve together, and gave them power and authority over all the demons and to heal diseases. 2And He sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to perform healing. 3And He said to them, Take nothing for your journey, neither a staff, nor a bag, nor bread, nor money; and do not even have two tunics apiece. 4Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that city. 5And as for those who do not receive you, as you go out from that city, shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. 6Departing, they began going throughout the villages, preaching the gospel and healing everywhere.
7Now Herod the tetrarch heard of all that was happening; and he was greatly perplexed, because it was said by some that John had risen from the dead, 8and by some that Elijah had appeared, and by others that one of the prophets of old had risen again. 9Herod said, I myself had John beheaded; but who is this man about whom I hear such things? And he kept trying to see Him.
10When the apostles returned, they gave an account to Him of all that they had done. Taking them with Him, He withdrew by Himself to a city called Bethsaida. 11But the crowds were aware of this and followed Him; and welcoming them, He began speaking to them about the kingdom of God and curing those who had need of healing.
Five Thousand Fed
12Now the day was ending, and the twelve came and said to Him, Send the crowd away, that they may go into the surrounding villages and countryside and find lodging and get something to eat; for here we are in a desolate place. 13But He said to them, You give them something to eat! And they said, We have no more than five loaves and two fish, unless perhaps we go and buy food for all these people. 14(For there were about five thousand men.) And He said to His disciples, Have them sit down to eat in groups of about fifty each. 15They did so, and had them all sit down. 16Then He took the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven, He blessed them, and broke them, and kept giving them to the disciples to set before the people. 17And they all ate and were satisfied; and the broken pieces which they had left over were picked up, twelve baskets full.
18And it happened that while He was praying alone, the disciples were with Him, and He questioned them, saying, Who do the people say that I am? 19They answered and said, John the Baptist, and others say Elijah; but others, that one of the prophets of old has risen again. 20And He said to them, But who do you say that I am? And Peter answered and said, The Christ of God. 21But He warned them and instructed them not to tell this to anyone, 22saying, The Son of Man must suffer many things and be rejected by the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed and be raised up on the third day.
23And He was saying to them all, If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross daily and follow Me. 24For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake, he is the one who will save it. 25For what is a man profited if he gains the whole world, and loses or forfeits himself? 26For whoever is ashamed of Me and My words, the Son of Man will be ashamed of him when He comes in His glory, and the glory of the Father and of the holy angels. 27But I say to you truthfully, there are some of those standing here who will not taste death until they see the kingdom of God.
28Some eight days after these sayings, He took along Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. 29And while He was praying, the appearance of His face became different, and His clothing became white and gleaming. 30And behold, two men were talking with Him; and they were Moses and Elijah, 31who, appearing in glory, were speaking of His departure which He was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. 32Now Peter and his companions had been overcome with sleep; but when they were fully awake, they saw His glory and the two men standing with Him. 33And as these were leaving Him, Peter said to Jesus, Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three tabernacles: one for You, and one for Moses, and one for Elijahnot realizing what he was saying. 34While he was saying this, a cloud formed and began to overshadow them; and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 35Then a voice came out of the cloud, saying, This is My Son, My Chosen One; listen to Him! 36And when the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent, and reported to no one in those days any of the things which they had seen.
37On the next day, when they came down from the mountain, a large crowd met Him. 38And a man from the crowd shouted, saying, Teacher, I beg You to look at my son, for he is my only boy, 39and a spirit seizes him, and he suddenly screams, and it throws him into a convulsion with foaming at the mouth; and only with difficulty does it leave him, mauling him as it leaves. 40I begged Your disciples to cast it out, and they could not. 41And Jesus answered and said, You unbelieving and perverted generation, how long shall I be with you and put up with you? Bring your son here. 42While he was still approaching, the demon slammed him to the ground and threw him into a convulsion. But Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit, and healed the boy and gave him back to his father. 43And they were all amazed at the greatness of God.
But while everyone was marveling at all that He was doing, He said to His disciples, 44Let these words sink into your ears; for the Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men. 45But they did not understand this statement, and it was concealed from them so that they would not perceive it; and they were afraid to ask Him about this statement.
The Test of Greatness
46An argument started among them as to which of them might be the greatest. 47But Jesus, knowing what they were thinking in their heart, took a child and stood him by His side, 48and said to them, Whoever receives this child in My name receives Me, and whoever receives Me receives Him who sent Me; for the one who is least among all of you, this is the one who is great.
49John answered and said, Master, we saw someone casting out demons in Your name; and we tried to prevent him because he does not follow along with us. 50But Jesus said to him, Do not hinder him; for he who is not against you is for you.
51When the days were approaching for His ascension, He was determined to go to Jerusalem; 52and He sent messengers on ahead of Him, and they went and entered a village of the Samaritans to make arrangements for Him. 53But they did not receive Him, because He was traveling toward Jerusalem. 54When His disciples James and John saw this, they said, Lord, do You want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them? 55But He turned and rebuked them, [and said, You do not know what kind of spirit you are of; 56for the Son of Man did not come to destroy mens lives, but to save them.] And they went on to another village.
57As they were going along the road, someone said to Him, I will follow You wherever You go. 58And Jesus said to him, The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head. 59And He said to another, Follow Me. But he said, Lord, permit me first to go and bury my father. 60But He said to him, Allow the dead to bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim everywhere the kingdom of God. 61Another also said, I will follow You, Lord; but first permit me to say good-bye to those at home. 62But Jesus said to him, No one, after putting his hand to the plow and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God. | English | NL | cb87f55f431c2fd78037f93f1229f84dca8c7d8becc8ec50007e252cfcbf7b54 |
hogwarts AU with werewolf Feuilly? yes. okay. it’s very angsty and not very shippy. Sorry.
The morning after a full moon always felt like the continuation of the nightmare of the past day rather than a break from it. As if he wasn’t quite awake yet, not quite human-shaped again. Even if, in the last two years, Feuilly had usually found himself on a plush mattress, his head propped on a pillow, fresh sheet around his body, he was always sore, bruised, an so hurt and detached from his body it was as if he’d woken up in someone else’s bones.
It wasn’t far from the truth. His body had been broken down into pieces and rebuilt into something else’s, and even though, afterwards, when the worst was over, he looked more or less like the boy that he had been before, his body wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. It could never be again.
Chocking on a sob that bubbled in his (his) throat, Feuilly took a deep breath – or attempted to.
A sharp, stabbing pain to his chest brought tears to his eyes and down his cheeks.
“You have broken ribs,” a deep, soft voice floated through the agony. Enjolras. “Take it easy. We bandaged them but they’re not fixed yet.”
Feuilly became aware of a cold cloth on his forehead; he reached out an arm that didn’t-quite-feel-like-his to touch it, but the pain once again spiked, and he cried out.
“Take it easy,” Enjolras repeated. Feuilly focused on his voice, the perfectly formed vowels of his southern accent. “Valjean had to stay at the school overnight so Cosette has gone to find a healer. I’m – sorry. You were hurt more than usu- than we anticipated.”
“What happened?” He said as the spasms receeded. Even though the day was overcast as it usually was in Scotland this time of the year, Feuilly didn’t have the strength to open his eyes yet, the light in the room too brutal.
He heard Enjolras take a small breath, and Feuilly was thankful – Enjolras valued honesty and truth immensely, and his warmth was almost reassuring. His voice was compassionate, but never pitying.
“We don’t know. We found you a little further than usual this morning. It looked like you had a rough night.”
The euphemism would have made Feuilly laugh, if he could.
“Yeah,” he swallowed. He tasted blood at the back of his throat. “I don’t… I don’t remember any of it.”
The voice that came out between his lips sounded so small, so raspy. It didn’t belong to him, it didn’t.
“I know,” Enjolras said. He took Feuilly’s hand – the one place Feuilly didn’t feel bruised and sore and raw – and squeezed it gently.
Enjolras didn’t care much for empty words, so he said nothing. For five, ten, fifteen minutes – or seconds. Time slowed down when you were in so much pain, but it gave Feuilly enough time to tentatively breathe again. Inhale, exhale. The bandaged around his broken ribs were tight. Inhale, exhale. His head swam. He couldn’t remember anything. Enjolras’ hand was cool around his. Feuilly’s body had never ran hot before; was this new? Or did he have a fever? What else had irreparably changed?
He couldn’t remember anything. Had he hurt someone else? Was this why this morning was so different?
“Would it help,” Enjolras began tentatively, and finally blinking, Feuilly saw him bite his lip, face drawn and pale, as if he hadn’t slept. “If I told you it wasn’t you? Whatever happened, whatever might happen- ” and once again, Feuilly appreciated Enjolras’ honesty, his clear vision, knowing how useless it was to pretend the risk of Feuilly hurting someone wasn’t terrifyingly real. “It’s not you.”
Feuilly swallowed again, the taste of blood making him nauseous and dizzy.
It wasn’t him. He could move his toes, could open his eyes and see his friend sitting beside him, feel the broken ribs and the bruises and the cuts.
But it wasn’t his body anymore.
What did that make him?
“No,” he whispered. “It doesn’t help. I know it sounds good but. Sorry. It doesn’t help.”
Enjolras nodded gravely. Maybe Feuilly would share with him someday, even if he didn’t fully understand – and Feuilly wished Enjolras never understood. Maybe someday, he would find the words to explain, the energy, the strength.
But for now, he focused on Enjolras’ hand around his, and tried to sleep until Cosette arrived with the healer.
“Ah, Monsieur Mabeuf,” said Cosette gently as she entered the room of the old man, who was staring at the wall, morose. When he looked up at her, frowning as if he was trying to remember who she was, she felt her heart clench. “It’s so warm in this room, Monsieur. Wouldn’t you like to get a bit of fresh air with me in the garden?”
“The garden,” repeated Monsieur Mabeuf, his eyes suddenly slightly brighter.
“Yes.” Cosette smiled. “Éponine mentionned to me that you had a fondness for flowers. I happen to have a lot of them, and i’ve neglected to see them for a long time now.”
“It’s no good to do that,” said Monsieur Mabeuf, shaking his head. “Flowers, they need care, and love. I had the book for you – i had, i had a lot of books…” His voice trailed off. He sighed. “I don’t know if I can move much, my lady. I am quite tired. Old men should not, perhaps, survive two bullets in the chest.”
“I won’t insist if you are too tired of course,” said Cosette carefully, moving in to rest a gentle hand on his frail shoulder. “But I would love to hear your advice, and i’ll be honest with you, it’ll be nice to have company to keep my mind off Marius’s sickness…”
“Oh,” said Mabeuf, startling. “You’re Marius’s lady. I thought – i was told you never left his side these days.”
Cosette’s cheeks turned dark, but she did not falter.
“Marius is well-cared for while I am absent,” she told Mabeuf. “He is with his friend Monsieur Courfeyrac, whom I think you know. Still, I can’t help feeling a bit agitated, as you understand. All signs point to him getting better, and yet -”
There was no pretense in the way her voice shook at the idea that Marius might truly never wake up. The thought horrified her still, and being far from him did not help her ease her worries. But the emotion seemed to do the trick at last. Mabeuf awkwardly patted her hand.
“There, there,” he said softly. “If an old man like me could get out of this barricade, I’m sure Marius can only do so too. He’s a brave boy, like his father. Help me out of his chair. We’ll go see your flowers now. Truly, flowers are more fragile than young men, we have to make sure they’re doing well.”
“ – In conclusion,” finished Enjolras at last, continuing to
look at Feuilly with almost painful sincerity, “I wish to convey my deep
respect for you as a man, as a friend, for friendship and loyalty and the work
we are all engaged in together, but most especially your part of it.”
Feuilly tried to sift through the several minutes of
impassioned speechmaking he’d just sat through, on everything from the nature
of friendship to the brightness of the future, with a detour through a puzzling
metaphor involving ploughshares and goats. “I’m not quite sure,” he said,
carefully, “but are you saying you want to kiss me?”
Enjolras managed to flush slightly red without changing his
earnest and sincere expression in the least. “If that is what you would wish,
but I have the utmost respect for you and your choices regardless and would
continue in any –”
Feuilly decided to kiss him before the goats made another
I’m not writing anything at the moment, so Les Mis is as good as any! I’m. So rusty, though, what a throwback this fandom is.
Courfeyrac pays him no heed, throwing clothes into a satchel with ill-disguised rage. He shoves past Enjolras to his desk, sweeping all the papers into the bag with one fell swoop.
If Enjolras couldn’t already tell that something was very, very wrong, the fact that Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to care about the fact that ink is rapidly spreading all over his favorite linen shirt, staining the insides of his bag.
“Go away, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac snaps. “I don’t have time for revolutionary business.” He spins around, snatches an errant sheaf of papers off the floor and shoves it into Enjolras’s chest, making him stumble backwards. “Here. Your maps.”
“Courfeyrac, stop.” Enjolras snaps his arm forward before Courfeyrac can rush off again. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Courfeyrac is livid, his normally sunny face twisted into a snarl. “You don’t care,” he hisses. “You don’t care, nobody cares, just leave.”
“No.” He tightens the fingers around Courfeyrac’s list.
“Do you honestly think I care for nothing but politics?” Enjolras asks quietly. “That I’d do anything for my beloved Patria and nothing at all for my beloved friend?”
Courfeyrac sags in his grip, and Enjolras leads him to sink into the chaise, wordless. He waits.
“It’s my family,” Courfeyrac whispers, licking his dry lips. “There’s trouble.”
“You have to leave.”
Courfeyrac nods. “I’m sorry.”
“Well.” Enjolras looks at him solemnly. “I will do my best to throw documents into the fireplace in a fit of dramatics while you are gone.”
Courfeyrac bursts into laughter, and the room brims with sunshine.
If the word had been said with Obi-Wan’s usual irreverence, Anakin wouldn’t have stopped. The day had been long, and he was tired down to his bones. And somewhere under the exhaustion, there was the fear that the darkness stretching out before him would swallow him, would devour the best of him.
So he stayed.
Obi-Wan was afraid. Anakin could feel the fear coming off of him in palpable waves, rolling and roiling over him the nearer he walked to where Obi-Wan was seated in the shadows.
“Can’t you feel it?” Obi-Wan asked. His voice was trembling, and when Anakin stood in front of him and gripped his shoulder, he found that his body was shivering, too.
“Feel what?” Anakin asked. But he knew. Of course he did.
The end. Of everything. Of the Republic, of the Jedi.
His fingers dug down into Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and when Obi-Wan pressed his face against his stomach, Anakin closed his eyes and moved his fingers to the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck.
“The dark,” Obi-Wan whispered, arms wrapping around Anakin’s waist and breath hot and fast against his stomach.
Yes, he felt it.
Nothing had ever been more intimate with him than the dark.
Not even Obi-Wan, when his lips pressed where his breath had touched.
And in that moment, Obi-Wan knew that Anakin loved him.
Not as a brother loved his brother, or a friend loved his friend, no – Anakin loved him as he loved Padme, deeply and wildly and passionately. It scared Obi-Wan, not because of its intensity or its heat, but because of how immensely he enjoyed the way Anakin cared for him. It should have been a burden, it should have made him recoil, should have made him warn his former Padawan to tread lightly where attachment and affection and want were concerned.
But instead, it only made Obi-Wan warm, to look into Anakin’s eyes, to look into the eyes of the boy he had trained and the man that he called friend and brother, and to know that he loved him enough to throw aside his entire future in the Order. That Anakin would die for him was not surprising – Obi-Wan had witnessed his short-sightedness before, and on more than one occasion had been on the receiving end of his misguided heroism – but what was surprising was that Anakin had chosen to live for him too.
Leaving was for the best, Obi-Wan knew that. Ending the war was far more important than whatever painful, beautiful love existed in Anakin’s eyes when they watched him. It would do both of them good to be apart from one another, to let the stars separate them and know that they were strong enough to survive without one another. Attachment was forbidden for a reason, it clouded the senses and confused the mind, and the sooner Anakin realized that, the better.
He stopped, sure that when he turned around Anakin would have that same damnable look in his eyes, that cut him to the quick and made Obi-Wan feel that he could never survive so far from him. Stars, Anakin would look half-starved for him, and Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to not sate his hunger.
His eyes, while needing, weren’t at all primal with hunger when Obi-Wan faced him. They were soft, pained, and Obi-Wan had to keep himself from reaching out to him.
“May the Force be with you, Master,” Anakin said.
There was a goodbye in his voice. Not only because Obi-Wan was leaving. He felt it, and there was nothing he could do but nod and smile, to wish him the same.
There was something else, hidden under his words, buried beneath his farewell.
Something like ‘I love you.’ | English | NL | a962ca5cd1db7940fbe9c617810fefb7a34ca5d6a83bd9311d5643c029da3690 |
The carrot family is a diverse one with many species, some very common and others, as you might expect, very rare. One of the first of the family to flower each year is alexanders (Smyrnium olusatrum) which can flower from March onwards until June.
The 'umbels' (ie carrot family) are named as such because of their 'umbrella' shaped flower heads and they can be difficult to tell apart but alexanders is easy because it has a pale green flower head where as most of the family are white, cream or yellow. It also has large glossy leaves which is unusual in the carrot family. It is a stout and robust plant and cannot be missed, it is quite an imposing plant.
Alexanders is a fairly local plant confined to coastal regions Britain and I had not seen it until we moved here to Dorset where it is plentiful near the coast. It quite often grows in hedgerows and on banks inland but hardly more than five miles from the sea.
I have no idea where it gets its name. It is really a native of the Mediterranean region but may have been introduced to Britain, possibly by the Romans, as a food crop similar to celery but that has long since stopped. Apparently it is much savoured by horses hence its other common name of horse parsley so may be their is a connection with Alexander the Great and his horse? | English | NL | 485a4871e4135a44a6060bf2bb7e7e96b89390ce4e992dcc16993a8c8d0cf0cc |
What man ever openly apologizes for slander? It is not so much a feeling of slander as it is that of a massive lie, a misdeed not only to the slandered but also to those manipulated in the process. He has made them all, every one, his enemies, thereupon he is so overwhelmed with guilt that he will deny it until his grave.
How is it that some celebrities, whom the average person would believe to have all the popularity a human being could want, still admit to feeling lonely? It is quite naive to assume that popularity is the remedy for loneliness. Loneliness does not necessarily equal physical solitude, it is the inability to be oneself and rightfully represented as oneself. | English | NL | 1be02f4b433c8078120120ba793900200a4b69ae0efaea754ce5c8a219cee532 |
The Ties That Bind.
She walked along the tracks, the sun shimmering in the distance where the heat was radiating so much that everything seemed to be distorted, including the train station up ahead.
The tears rained down her face, smudging mascara, and putting rivulets within her makeup. The sobbing had stopped long ago, before she’d even reached the tracks. She was probably not even aware that still she cried.
Reaching the station she clambered up onto the platform and wandered over to the ladies toilets where she went in and washed all of her makeup off. Looking in the mirror she whispered to herself, “so what did you expect? Really? That he would profess his undying love for you, drop to his knees and propose?” Realising that this train of thought was not going to do anything other than realise another bout of crying, Boe washed her face once again, and drying it on the paper towels provided, straightened herself up, collected her suitcase and left the room.
Walking up to the ticket machine, she purchased one ticket – a one way ticket back to the city. The very last place on earth she wished to go. Moving over to the timetable on the wall Boe worked out that she had less than twenty minutes to wait before the next train would whisk her away from the town where she had never been any happier.
Boe walked over to one of the bench seats currently in the shade that looked out over the stations platform, and across the tracks. The view was so pretty. The station oversaw the main part of town. The part she thought, that was the prettiest. All the store fronts with their timbered board walks and pretty lace work in a myriad of soft pastel colours. Planter boxes in windows and baskets of flowers hanging from porches. It was such a beautiful town, and she couldn’t believe that she wanted to get as far away from it as possible.
It was Sunday though, so for the most part the stores were all closed, and the traffic was minimal. Sundays in Longview was always relaxed. Most people took off for the lake with families and friends at this time of the year. Swimming, boating and picnicking being the main past-times. Boe was so going to miss those times, especially with Luc.
She’d passed by the store and dropped a letter in through the letterbox telling her boss that she had to leave town suddenly, and that she wouldn’t be in on Wednesday like she usually was. Lucky for her she was only on casual wages – she didn’t have to wait and put in two weeks notice.
Once she got into the city, and home to her Mamma’s place, she would contact Janie and let her bestie know what had happened, where she was and that she was going to be okay. She knew she would be. She’d managed on her own before, she would again, at least this time she wouldn’t be alone for long.
Hearing a train in the distance she looked up and along the track, so she didn’t see him when he walked onto the platform through the station gate. Nor did she see the relief that crossed his face when he saw her still sitting there. Slowly he walked over to where she was, and sat down beside her on the bench. That’s when startled, she turned to face him. Before she could form any thought, let alone say a word, he took one of her hands in his and said, “forgive me Boetica. I didn’t think. I just reacted, and reacted badly at that. Please believe me when I say I love you, and I hope you will forgive me. That you will stay, and never ever leave me again.”
Boe looked into his eyes. They were warm and brown liquid pools of sorrow. He truly was sorry, she could see that but, “How can I? Why should I for that matter.” A spark of anger flashing across her face.
“It was wrong of me to react the way I did, and I can never undo the damage I did by leaving. But I hope you’ll give me the chance to try. When I came home after coming to my senses, and discovered you had packed and gone… a large part of me wanted to just curl up and die, and I realised that my heart is tied to you irrevocably, and that there is no way in the world I could ever live without you. Besides,” he said as, still clasping her hand he slid down onto the floor of the platform, and on bended knee said, “if you leave, I won’t get a chance to tell you every day how much I love you, or how sorry I am for screwing things up so badly. Marry me Boe, keep me bound to you forever. Allow me to love you and our baby the way I should, the way you deserve. Marry me, please.”
“Yes,” was all she said. Radiant now, a smile lit her face, because she knew that this was the right path for all of them. She knew it in her heart. | English | NL | 511a0d1a86f75558619c0803f1c62b8d87fcaaec5f1a3c3f9e23c8045542a34b |
The first human child to be born on Mars is coming to earth. In a plan decades in the making, members of the first Earth-to-Mars colonizing mission are due to return. Their ship has been programmed since its construction to make the return journey after twenty-five years, arriving on this exact date.
Contact had been maintained for some time after the departure, but the difficulties of distance and failing equipment eventually lowered the curtain between us, and only faith remained. Debate raged; they had died and would never return, they had gone rogue to found their own anarchist country, the Russians/Koreans/Mexicans/Chinese/etc. had taken over the colony, the theories were ceaseless. But in a quiet, interior way, we had all settled into hoping, hoping they would return, whole, sane, bearing mind-numbing charts of data, and knowing, knowing in our hearts that they had died, with vast swathes of space between their bodies and home.
And so the day is upon us.
I am in a huge building, sprawling halls and white rooms like a hospital, part of the team dedicated to receiving the travellers should they arrive. There is preparation, anticipation, cleanliness and certainty of protocol.
And a door opens, and hell arrives.
She is alone, she is the only one, and though we know she should be grown her face is still a child’s face, peering desperate through the window of her helmet, swollen with fear and anger and making sounds, sounds like words, like the babbling of a baby or a stroke victim but screaming her attempts at speech so loud, so loud, somehow through all walls and skulls and piercing into us. And in a flash we know; they had all died, but this child kept living, a scavenger alone on Martian soil, mutated and deranged, building a world in the dust and the nothing, seeing no one but the memories of a child and whatever mysteries the planet held, perhaps some strange life came to her, or from her, for this was not quite human, and did not understand how she had come to be torn from her home, and she was lashing out like a hurt dog with no master. She stumbled around a corner, reaching for me, and her straight black hair was sticking to her cheeks and I could feel madness blossoming in all the bodies around me. This was a brain-sickness running rampant, spreading at the speed of sound. I ran. I ran. Long hallways, locked doors, shimmying out of windows. But the world outside was no better; madness had everyone in its grip, and I had to find a way to be, like her, utterly alone. | English | NL | 0e9b7fd6331c2ffdc3fbbcf3713305b2b3cae4ed8fa29b9af56077d31a54a981 |
In the late 1940s, Davis moved to Honolulu, Hawaii, where he ran a small business. He also became involved in local labor issues, where his actions were tracked by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI). Davis died in 1987 in Hawaii.
Frank Marshall (born 1985) is a South African photographer mostly concerned with portraiture and the photography of music and known for his work on portraying heavy metalsubculture in Botswana. He is represented by Rooke Gallery, Johannesburg, South Africa.
Life and career
Frank Marshall was born on 30 July 1985 in Nelspruit, Mpumalanga, South Africa as the child of an Irish father and a South African mother. He grew up in Kroonstad, Free State and Pretoria, Gauteng. As a teenager Marshall started to show interest in hard rock and heavy metal music, mostly influenced by established American bands.
After finishing high school Marshall started his studies of photography at Tshwane University of Technology in Pretoria in 2007. In 2010 he obtained his Bachelor of Technology degree in photography from Tshwane University. For his final year thesis Marshall portrayed people of Botswana's heavy metal subculture and put the images together in his exhibition "Renegades". For his work on "Renegades" he was nominated as one of ten finalists of the SonyWorld Photography Awards Student Focus Competition. He was the first South African to reach the finals of the renowned photography competition. As a finalist he was allowed to take part in the World Photography Festival at Somerset House, London and to attend talks, lectures and master classes held by distinguished photographers and World Photographic Academy members.
He was accepted for a Master's degree programme in photography at Tshwane University but quit University to start working as a photographer. | English | NL | c40fa20feaf1b188c5b54a498ec2e69604479614cfb88708ea6c05c783e092b4 |
What follows are documents from Maria Vasilyevna Yevstafyeva’s (born Leonova) personal archive.
Maria Vasilyevna was born on June 16, 1917, in the village of Noglovo, Sebezhsky uyezd, Vitebskaya gubernia (now Sebezhsky rayon, Pskov oblast). She lived there for 92 years, by which time she was the village’s last living resident, and had to move in with her daughter, in the village of Ostrovki, which is 100 kilometers east of Noglovo. Maria Vasilyevna lives there to this day, and is the oldest person in Ostrovki, which has about 150 residents.
I, Maria Vasilyevna Yevstafyeva, was born in 1917, in the village of Noglovo, of the Stalinsky Village Soviet of Sebezhsky rayon, into a peasant family. From my youth until 1939 I worked in the kolkhoz named for Kalinin. Then, until 1941, I worked in the Borisenki post office, in the telephone operators section.
The war began. They did not succeed in evacuating me. It was impossible to leave communications lines intact. But by the time communications were cut off, it was too late; the Germans had us surrounded. So I stayed in occupied territory with my relatives and my husband’s mother.
When the partisans from the Latvian brigade, led by Commissar Samson, arrived in our village, I collaborated with them. Because I communicated with the partisans, the Germans shot my husband’s mother and my own mother. My husband did not return from the war. My father died. My three brothers also did not return from the war, and my sister and her two daughters were shot by the Germans near Velikiye Luki. My sister’s husband was caught – he was a partisan and the Germans strung him up.
13 January 1995
In response to your query:
Your sister and her daughters Valya and Tanya were in fact shot in October. They were buried in the cemetery in Gubany. The husband of your sister, Ivan Prokhorovich, was captured and hung.
List of those shot by the Germans in the war:
Leonova, Irina Trofimovna, born 1879. Shot 16 April 1944.
Leonova, Natalya Vasilyevna, born 1911.
Leonova, Tatyana Filippovna, six years old.
Leonova, Valentina Ivanovna, four years old.
Shot in 1941, in February.
The husband of this family, Ivan Kuretkov, was hung in Velikiye Luki, 1941.
Nikitina, Pelageya Nikiforovna [mother-in-law] was shot by the Germans in 1944, on April 16.
Abramenkova, Anna Moiseyevna, shot 16 April 1944.
[Appendix to autobiography. Handwritten by Yevstafyeva, M.V., undated]
Greetings, dear Maria Vasilyevna!
Yes, it was your sister Natasha and her two daughters who were shot by the fascists in the village of Gubany in early October 1941. I was 19 at the time and had to witness this horror. Your sister was shot for being the wife of a partisan.
Ten people were shot in Gubany: your sister and her two daughters, the wife of the village council chairman and her son, the wife of the kolkhoz chairman and her two children, two young boys who had escaped encirclement. It was an utter horror. Local residents buried all those who were shot in a single mass grave.
4 June 1971
This certificate is given to the citizen of Sebezhsky rayon [illegible] village council, village of [illegible], Maria Vasilyevna Leonova, to verify that, from May 1943 to July 1944, she aided the first detachment of the Latvian Partisan Brigade with labor and food. Certified with my signature:
Commissar of the First Detachment of the Latvian Partisan Brigade Rikter
Head of the Detachment Burtsev
19 September 1944
Yevstafyeva, M.B., born 1917, from December 1942 to July 1944 was a member of Samson’s Latvian Partisan Brigade and the Fourth Kalinin Partisan Brigade. As a communications agent, she exhibited bravery and courage in the battle against the fascist invaders, provided assistance to the detachment in the acquisition of ammunition, and gave valuable information about the movement of enemy troops and garrisons. She personally participated in battles and shot two fascists with her submachine gun.
Director of the Oblast Center for Documents
5 April 1994
Russian Life is a 29-year-young, award-winning publishing house that creates a bimonthly magazine, books, maps, and other products for Russophiles the world over.
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Montpelier VT 05601-0567 | English | NL | a552313d27a0a5259cb3ccba2ca88557cbc7032a1fd30c537329fe9438783c54 |
Earlier this week I was reading a 1997 piece by Eddie Dean–“Stalking Hinkley.”* In the article, Dean describes the relative ease of visiting Hinckley at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital (for the Criminally Insane). Dean mentions, in passing, that Ezra Pound was incarcerated in St. Elizabeth’s after he had a breakdown as a result of being held in a cage in Italy. This caught my interest, especially in a week with headlines like: “Senate Wants the Military to Lock You Up Without Trial” and “Ceding Liberty to Terror.”
Ezra Pound, player in the early modernist poetry club, fan of Hitler, fascist and anti-Semite, was charged with treason in 1943. His crime: accepting the request (and the cash) of the Italian government to make regular radio broadcasts attacking the U.S. and FDR. When the war ended, Italian partisans captured Pound and delivered him to the U.S. forces in Italy. There is pretty much full agreement that Pound was indeed treasonous, and also an unrepentant jerk.
Pound was delivered to Army Intelligence in Italy, and was interrogated by the FBI. During the interrogation, he did himself no favors by calling Hitler “a saint,” praising Mussolini, and offering to help Truman negotiate peace with Japan. When the interrogation was finished, Pound was delivered to the U.S. Army Disciplinary Training Center (DTC) in Pisa, which included a prison for soldiers being court-martialled.
While at the DTC (in May 1945), Pound spent 3 weeks in an outdoor steel cage (as shown in the photo to the left). His belt and shoelaces were confiscated (per standard procedure), and he was kept in isolation. Courtesy of the Internet, we have the temperature records for Pisa during Pound’s cage time. The highest daytime temperature recorded was 87 degrees Fahrenheit, the low was 48 degrees Fahrenheit. Not deadly temperatures, but a bit extreme for a poet in a cage.
The top of the cage was covered with tarpaper for shade, and Pound was given a few blankets. Apparently, Pound suffered most from the heat, dust and ceaseless glare; if you have spent time in the Mediterranean, you probably recognize those as accurate and real concerns. After a week or so, Pound’s physical and mental state became increasingly fragile. After three weeks he was removed to a tent and provided with a cot and a few other comforts, including reading material. During this incarceration Pound wrote a draft of The Pisan Cantos. The discovery of a few stanzas written on toilet paper suggest that he started writing while still in his cage.
Pound was taken from Pisa to Washington D.C., where he was found to be “unsound” and not competent to stand trial for treason. Pound remained was sent to St. Elizabeth’s, where he stayed for 12 years. At that point the indictment was dismissed, and Pound returned to Italy, where he lived as a recluse until his death in 1972. | English | NL | 0ec82dfc3395659cdee74aca9a182e3791cdcd1668f8a6e49f08354bbf2f25fe |
10 stories of people having supernatural experiences after dying and then coming back to life.
Lives of Alcyone
Alcyone was the name given to J. Krishnamurti in a series of articles published in The Theosophist, commencing in April 1910. These articles purported to describe the previous lives of Krishnamurti as clairvoyantly investigated by Charles Leadbeater and appeared under the title Rents in the Veil of Time. They were subsequently published in book form entitled Lives of Alcyone.
The Lives ranged in time from 22,662 BCE to 624 CE and successively introduced larger numbers of contemporaries who, in the main, were currently members of the Theosophical Society (TS). This led to a certain amount of friction between those who were included and those who were not. Annie BESANT appeared in all the Lives under the name of Heracles; Leadbeater as Sirius; Nitya, Krishnamurti’s brother, as Mizar. | English | NL | 2cdfabb7edc2fa90431b1c450b0e3036e679b5e7e41b2af7f6c34a505ad6fb36 |
Philosophy is asking the big questions. But if they are already answered by the State or by the nearest priest, why the effort? From the great dynasties of Sumer and Egypt, the explanation of the world had been given by the king-gods. Life was inexorably hard and painful, and man should rather turn his attention to the other world, to the afterlife. This greatest of all evasions of man was not an invention of Christianity – just remember the pyramids, those gigantic tombs. Better to bow, pray and beg than to try to understand and explain the world. It was in 6th century B.C. Greece that it all changed, and that began with Thales.
Greece had not developed in a typical way. The strong monarchy of bygone days had given way to much freer cities in politics and tolerant in religion. In addition, Greece and its colonies in Asia Minor (now Turkey), were at the intersection between Europe, Asia, and Africa, a strategic position for the development of trade. And in trade, what matters is if you pay well, not if you and I believe in the same god.
The Greek gods were also different, almost as human as you and me, full of virtues, but also vices. They were more like older brothers than omnipotent and omniscient masters. It wouldn’t be a sin to think a little about the world, and in case of any offense, it would suffice to kill a pig and offer it to Bacchus with enough wine.
With such freedom, Greece became rich, and some citizens obtained that gift so important for free thought: time.
But what did they think about? Two things intrigued them: change and multiplicity. Change encompassed almost everything from birth to aging, from falling leaves to furious storms. Multiplicity was another facet of change: Why were there so many different things?
They came to reason that there should be one “stuff” underlying everything — after all, we live in one single universe. To this day we don’t know what that stuff is, but we have gone very far. And it was Thales who started the process.
Born in Miletus, a Greek colony-city that swarmed with trade in Ionia, Asia Minor, he was the first to seek the one in the many. That meant looking for similarities among different things — the foundation for rational explanations. Noting that water turned into ice and steam, and also into earth (Miletus stood in a river delta, and deltas are nothing but deposited sediments, that is, “water that turns into earth”), and seeing its importance for life, he proposed that water would be the “primeval matter”, that which integrated everything and provided a natural explanation for change and multiplicity.
His answer is obviously wrong, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he asked the right questions and searched for the correct category of answers. This is how science works: seeking principles and laws that govern phenomena by observing the natural world.
And that also came with Thales. | English | NL | 89450bd8290b974a35848452383c6ed3f04919b3a8999cd1daf4d3c8080b7d19 |
On the next day, when they had come down from the mountain, a great crowd met him. And behold, a man from the crowd cried out, “Teacher, I beg you to look at my son, for he is my only child. And behold, a spirit seizes him, and he suddenly cries out. It convulses him so that he foams at the mouth, and shatters him, and will hardly leave him. And I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not.” Jesus answered, “O faithless and twisted generation, how long am I to be with you and bear with you? Bring your son here.” While he was coming, the demon threw him to the ground and convulsed him. But Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit and healed the boy, and gave him back to his father. And all were astonished at the majesty of God.
But while they were all marveling at everything he was doing, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let these words sink into your ears: The Son of Man is about to be delivered into the hands of men.” But they did not understand this saying, and it was concealed from them, so that they might not perceive it. And they were afraid to ask him about this saying.
Two things; one, it would soon be up to them to carry the burden of the message, to be the light, the means God would use to bring His message of faith and hope to mankind. These men were placed in a unique position in God’s plan for mankind. Two, after the experience on the mountain and now his statement of impending betrayal, they do not speak of it, nor do they ask about any of what has been said and done. Curious for a group of men who often displayed behavior that was impulsive and full of the desire to know what others could not grasp.
Today’s generation is no different, a perverse, unbelieving generation as one translation puts it. Today’s believers can still be guilty of playing the part of the ostrich; head in the sand and not desiring to know the truth in the Word.
God said, “Listen to Him”; and Jesus said, ” Listen carefully to what I am about to tell you.” The questions remain; do we desire to know, are we listening? Let these words sink into your ears, Jesus talks to us about betrayal, are we surprised that His message today is still despised in many places? It did not stop Him. He continued to the cross for us, for mankind, for any who would receive. Can we do any less? Adversity will not stop our desire to know Him and our determination to continue the work of God, the spread of His message. We will rise above the adversity we face each day and show His love to those who cross our paths. | English | NL | 152129ff206f2ee0e414a8427d038a6b01814f1270f9f351c534fde3061c789a |
Acts 11 New Revised Standard Version (NRSV)
Peter’s Report to the Church at Jerusalem
11 Now the apostles and the believers[a] who were in Judea heard that the Gentiles had also accepted the word of God. 2 So when Peter went up to Jerusalem, the circumcised believers[b] criticized him, 3 saying, “Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?” 4 Then Peter began to explain it to them, step by step, saying, 5 “I was in the city of Joppa praying, and in a trance I saw a vision. There was something like a large sheet coming down from heaven, being lowered by its four corners; and it came close to me. 6 As I looked at it closely I saw four-footed animals, beasts of prey, reptiles, and birds of the air. 7 I also heard a voice saying to me, ‘Get up, Peter; kill and eat.’ 8 But I replied, ‘By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.’ 9 But a second time the voice answered from heaven, ‘What God has made clean, you must not call profane.’ 10 This happened three times; then everything was pulled up again to heaven. 11 At that very moment three men, sent to me from Caesarea, arrived at the house where we were. 12 The Spirit told me to go with them and not to make a distinction between them and us.[c] These six brothers also accompanied me, and we entered the man’s house. 13 He told us how he had seen the angel standing in his house and saying, ‘Send to Joppa and bring Simon, who is called Peter; 14 he will give you a message by which you and your entire household will be saved.’ 15 And as I began to speak, the Holy Spirit fell upon them just as it had upon us at the beginning. 16 And I remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said, ‘John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.’ 17 If then God gave them the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?” 18 When they heard this, they were silenced. And they praised God, saying, “Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life.”
The Church in Antioch
19 Now those who were scattered because of the persecution that took place over Stephen traveled as far as Phoenicia, Cyprus, and Antioch, and they spoke the word to no one except Jews. 20 But among them were some men of Cyprus and Cyrene who, on coming to Antioch, spoke to the Hellenists[d] also, proclaiming the Lord Jesus. 21 The hand of the Lord was with them, and a great number became believers and turned to the Lord. 22 News of this came to the ears of the church in Jerusalem, and they sent Barnabas to Antioch. 23 When he came and saw the grace of God, he rejoiced, and he exhorted them all to remain faithful to the Lord with steadfast devotion; 24 for he was a good man, full of the Holy Spirit and of faith. And a great many people were brought to the Lord. 25 Then Barnabas went to Tarsus to look for Saul, 26 and when he had found him, he brought him to Antioch. So it was that for an entire year they met with[e] the church and taught a great many people, and it was in Antioch that the disciples were first called “Christians.”
27 At that time prophets came down from Jerusalem to Antioch. 28 One of them named Agabus stood up and predicted by the Spirit that there would be a severe famine over all the world; and this took place during the reign of Claudius. 29 The disciples determined that according to their ability, each would send relief to the believers[f] living in Judea; 30 this they did, sending it to the elders by Barnabas and Saul. | English | NL | 26522846ec4af601188d9c38a58dd6df55c3b94ff9d348067a4619c347dfa972 |
No one ever saw the couple that lived in the old house at the end of the street, but every year they put out an amazing Halloween display. And they gave out the best candy. Despite all the effort they put into decorating, though, they always wore the same costumes: just simple white sheets over their heads to be basic ghosts. Everything else about their would-be haunted house was perfect, so no held the rather uninspired costumes against them. Indeed, the house was the highlight of the holiday.
This year had been no different. Jack-O-Lanterns were displayed in every downstairs window. Ghosts and demons – incredibly life-like – peered out of upstairs windows. The porch was covered in cobwebs, and the lawn was covered in a mist, allowing only hints of the beasts that seemed to roam the yard.
Inside, however, the spirit of the season was rather absent.
“I hate this time of year,” he complained. “All this work, and for what?”
“You know very well for what,” she chided. “People appreciate the house. Doing this pacifies them into leaving us alone the rest of the year. Do you want people coming by all the time?”
“No!” The terror is his voice was obvious. “That would be worse.”
“Exactly. This gives us the peace and quiet we enjoy the rest of the time.”
“But the kids frighten me.”
“I know. Still, one night a year is better than the alternative. You can manage.”
Just then, the doorbell rang.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just put on your sheet…”
“I know, I know.”
He stood up from the chair, walked over to the door, and grabbed the sheet from the coat rack. He threw it over his head before opening the door and placing candy in each child’s bag. Just the sight of them scared him, and he barely heard their thanks. He replaced the sheet and slumped back down into the chair.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“It was horrible. You didn’t see them.”
She sighed but said nothing more. He would be disagreeable all night, just like every year.
The doorbell rang again.
“I can get this one,” she offered.
He waved her down. “No, you’ve already done so much. I’ll get it.”
Picking pieces out of the bowl near the door, he opened it find another group. As he went to place the candy in their bags, one of them let out a scream of terror. They all ran from the house.
The sudden shriek made his blood freeze, and he slammed the door closed. He wanted to run and hide.
She came into the entry way from the living room. “What was that?”
Trembling, he managed to say, “I don’t know. They screamed and ran. I told you I hate this. We never decorated and gave out candy while we were…”
“You didn’t put on your sheet.”
“You forgot your sheet. All they saw was floating candy. Of course they got scared.”
He looked down and realized she was right.
“Don’t worry. They probably just thought it was a trick. I’m sure no one will think there are actual ghosts here.”
“What if they do?”
“They won’t. Just be sure to wear the sheet next time.” | English | NL | 3153fc12855de45287d700f5b7660ba3c2361d288bd9b9f4b422c714532f56ef |
We hear a lot of different phrases when it comes to the dating world.
“Hey that dude was totally eyeing you up!”
“Did you see how he was checking you out?”
“Oh that guy was totally all over you!”
And most of them are totally understandable. We get exactly what they mean, because there is nothing cryptic about them. They mean what they mean and usually no more than that. However, there are some terms and phrases that can be cause for confusion. They may be a little more cryptic than the usual. They could have various different meanings and not always mean the same thing.
“He was on your case!”
“Did you see that guy giving you a side eye?”
“He was sizing you up for sure!”
Yes, when a guy sizes you up it can make your head spin. That is because it is not a commonly used phrase anymore. However, it still holds a great meaning and has a lot to do with how guys look at us when they first meet us!
So what does it mean when a guy sizes you up?
The technical definition to sizing up is pretty simple.
It tends to mean a guy is appraising you. He is trying to get an idea of what you are like. What your physique is like and/or what your personality is like. He just wants to get and picture in his head of what you are like all around. But there is so much more to it than we initially think!
What do we mean by that? Keep reading to find out now!
Ways He Is Sizing You Up:
So surely you get the general idea of what sizing up means and all, but you might be wondering just what exactly he is sizing up about you. Here are a few different ways he might be doing this to you!
The way you act: A guy will start sizing you up and take mental notes about your personality. The way you act around him is huge when he is trying to get an idea of who you are as a whole. He is going to pay attention to things like your sense of humor, how positive you seem (or negative), what you pay attention to, etc. When he figures all of that out is when he will decide whether or not he likes who you are persona wise.
The way you dress: Yes, a huge thing a guy is paying attention to when he first starts sizing you up is your sense of style. It doesn’t seem like it, but we tend to date with and hang out with people that have similar styles to us. Or have at least styles that we find appeasing. He is going to pay attention to the way you wear your hair, the clothes you are wearing and, yes, even your accessories. We might not assume guys pay attention to those types of things, but they do. Unless he is one of those rare guys who just doesn’t give a crap. Which can be possible, but it is not very common.
How you treat others: When we meet someone that seems interesting, one of the biggest factors in deciding whether or not we like them is how they seem to treat other people around them. So he is going to pay close attention and size you up when you talk and interact with other people. He wants to know whether or not you come off as nice or rude.
Your makeup: Unfortunately a lot of guys are very picky about makeup. Weird, right? Bet you never thought about that! But they totally are. Some can actually be quite judgemental about it. Men tend to have specific boundaries with makeup. Some don’t mind a lot of makeup and some really do. It all depends, but you can be sure he is sizing up that about you along with various other things.
Your body: Of course everyone sizes up another person’s physique. He is going to take notice about superficial things like the build of your body, your weight, your chest (predictable), your eyes, lips and many other things about the way that you look.
Your body language: Not only will he be paying attention to the way that your body looks, but he is also going to be looking out for the body language you speak with. This is what is going to help him decide if he wants to pursuit you as a friend or as something more than just a friend. He is going to keep an eye out for signs that you are flirting with him or the signs that you want him to keep distance. Body language is a huge part of how we first communicate with somebody that we meet. So, yes, you can be sure he will be sizing that up as well. | English | NL | 765ff290f85ee8c28ecc08187c052e50c23a5a278c3eaf052f3d315881a2833e |
Why ugly men believe pretty women are interested in them
SOME men can get by on a wink and a smile -- but those with less chiselled features make up for it with misguided optimism about their own appearance.
The study could help explain the mystery of why so many men think women are interested in them when they are not, a study claims.
Some men are able to snare a partner far more attractive than them through relentless persistence and overblown belief in their own sex appeal.
Scientists think this may be down to an evolutionary trait which tricks men into overestimating the value of their looks to prevent them from missing a mating opportunity.
This over-confidence causes them to try their luck with a greater number of women because they are less likely to see them as unattainable.
The study, published in the Psychological Science journal, could help explain the mystery of why so many men think women are interested in them when in fact they are not, researchers said.
Making moves on a greater number of women, some of whom are better-looking than them, raises the men's risk of an embarrassing knock-back but also reduces the chance of missing out on a partner.
Only the most attractive men do not have an inflated view of their desirability -- likely because they are so good looking they do not need to, according to an experiment by US-based Williams College psychologists.
Dr Carin Perilloux, who led the study, said: "There are two ways you can make an error as a man.
"Either you think, 'Oh, wow, that woman's really interested in me' and it turns out she's not. There's some cost to that, such as embarrassment or a blow to your reputation.
"The other error: she's interested, and he totally misses out. He misses out on a mating opportunity. That's a huge cost in terms of reproductive success."
Researchers put 96 male and 103 female students through an exercise where participants spent three minutes talking to each other.
Before the exercise started they were asked to rate their own attractiveness, and after each chat with a potential partner, they ranked that person's appearance and how sexually interested they believed the person was.
The experiment showed that men who mistakenly believed they were attractive were more likely to overestimate how interested women were in them.
The researchers wrote: "Essentially, men who rated themselves high on attractiveness were more likely to over-perceive women's interest. The more attractive they actually were to women, however, the more likely they were to under-perceive."
The study also suggested that women underestimate how interested men are in them, possibly to help deflect unwanted sexual interest or accusations of promiscuity. | English | NL | 69c180c6ba21ec7bf5992e71ae7470c079ec58ccdfedfc8d86a1a0d840967066 |
Kids from a Wellington Puna Reo were starry-eyed with Youth Minister Peeni Henare, who took time to share stories with them and celebrate Matariki.
Henare shared the story of Rāwheiao and how Matariki turned him into the eel for Ngāpuhi.
“He was a hungry lizard who ate all the iwi’s kumara, so the iwi sought help from Matariki,” Henare says.
Ngā Kākāno’s Kerehi Grace (Ngāti Toa) says “they had to chop off his arms and legs!”
Henare’s says four of the stars each took one of Rāwheiao’s limbs to stop him in his tracks, but he still ate the kumara. The stars realised they had to work together so they prayed and Rāwheiao was turned into an eel.
Henare, 100-percent dedicated to his story telling craft, dramatized each limb lost and finished up by wriggling on the floor.
Lucas Penno (Ngāpuhi) says “I’ve seen an eel before. He was funny, he was wriggling around like squirmy worm.”
The story is a tip to Henare’s Moerewa ties, a place which he refers to as “Tunatown”
“That’s how the eel came to Ngāti Hine. Thank you Matariki” | English | NL | 8ecc3fff565b19f3d093655200e2a05620acf3f62018062b52e1867bad172308 |
|For other uses, see Jerry (disambiguation)|
- "Welcome home."
"Thank you, sir."
"I gotta go down right now but you smoke as much as you like."
- ―Jerry and Frank Castle
- "You serve?"
"Nam, Third Marine Division."
"God damn right."
- ―Frank Castle and Jerry
Trouble in New York
Meeting Frank Castle
One night, Jerry heard noises on the roof of his apartment building, and went to investigate, expecting to find kids partying. Instead, he found a man who called himself Frank, a veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Frank said he was simply up on the roof to smoke. Jerry sympathized, since his own wife had made him quit smoking. He assumed the man was the brother of his neighbor, and told him he could stay and smoke as long as he liked.
Later, Jerry emerged from his apartment when he heard fighting outside. He was confronted by bikers from the Dogs of Hell fighting against Daredevil. Daredevil held a gun to the bikers which he had taken from Jimmy the Bear, ordering them to drop their weapons, and telling Jerry to go back inside his apartment and lock the door. Jerry was concerned about Daredevil, but Daredevil assured him that he was good.
Murdered by the Hand
Jerry was on a list of people whom Daredevil had either saved or put away, compiled by the New York City Police Department. When this list fell into the hands of the Hand, Jerry was abducted along with nineteen other people on the list. He was transported on a school bus along with the other hostages. When Tyler struck Karen Page on the face, Jerry furiously came to her defense. In retribution, Tyler shot and killed him.
- In New York's Finest, Jerry and Frank Castle have a chat about their military carriers. While Castle served in Iraq and Afghanistan, Jerry talks about his military service in the Vietnam War. This is a reference to the original Punisher from the comics, who served in Vietnam as well before his backstory was updated in recent times. | English | NL | 62bb0c8a68696cef214a8e2860bcd4f4221077fee7df143c3c06ea799a55e290 |
Submarines were among the important new technologies that came to the fore during WWI. Although work on submarines had been underway for decades, it was the first time they were really influential. Technology had reached a point where hostile nations could deploy reliable fighting submarines.
German Submarines: The U-Boats
Germany led the way in submarine technology and production. Germany’s large, long-range submarines were known as U-boats, a term derived from the word Unterseeboot, meaning “submarine boat.” Two other classes of submarines, UB-boats, and UC-boats, were also used. They were smaller vessels and did not have as good a range. They were used mostly in coastal waters.
One of the most remarkable features of the German submarine force was its pace of growth. The first German submarine entered service in 1906. 30 were available when war broke out in 1914. By the end of the war, another 350 had been in service, with up to 61 at sea at any one time.
One of the best decisions made by the German manufacturers was to stick with a limited number of designs. Instead of varying the U-boats, they built large numbers following similar templates. They were easier to manufacture and simplified crew training.
The U and UB-boats were equipped with torpedoes and guns, and their role was to harass Allied shipping. The U-boats operated far out in the oceans as Germany tried to cut off Allied supply lines, and destroy their opponents’ ability to wage war.
The UC-boats were used to lay mines in the Baltic, Black Sea, English Channel, and Mediterranean. The first of them, UC-1, was itself probably sunk by a mine off the Belgian coast.
As well as combat vessels, the Germans experimented with using submarines to carry cargo. The first of its type, the Deutschland, sailed to the then-neutral USA in 1916 to trade for war materials. It was as much a propaganda mission as a practical one, proving what Germany could achieve. However, it was evident that U-boats were more valuable as combatants than as traders, and the ships were converted into fighting submarines.
Although not as well equipped as the Germans, all the principal Allied nations at the start of the war had submarines. The French had 123, by far the largest group. The Russians had 41. The Italians had 25. The British had 57, but 40 of them were suitable only to serve around the coast.
Most of the Allied nations had problems with their submarines. The French submarines at the start of the war were old and unreliable. Most of the Italian boats were limited to short-range missions. The Russian vessels were outdated, and they relied on German engines to build more modern submarines – not an option when they were fighting the Germans.
None of those nations went in for building submarines to the same extent as the Germans although the British were close. They had 137 submarines by the end of the war, with 78 more under construction and 54 lost in action.
Some of the British submarines were sent to the Baltic to support the Russians. There, they attacked German vessels carrying Swedish ore, cutting down Germany’s vital war supplies. They also sank several warships. In March 1918, when Germany and Russia made peace, the Russians were to hand their submarines over to the Germans. Instead, their crews scuttled them.
British submarines also played a part in the Mediterranean, where they attacked Turkish supply, transport, and combat ships.
During the course of the war, the British tried a new type of submarine, the huge K-class boats. They were intended to serve alongside surface warships. However, they were slow to submerge and almost impossible to spot once they were underwater. Those drawbacks led to collisions and the accidental loss of five of the 17 K-class boats. They were never an effective weapon.
In response to the new threat, steps were taken to develop anti-submarine weapons. The British took the lead, due to the threat to their shipping from U-boats.
The weapons ships already had were useful against surfaced submarines but could not hit them under water. New weapons were therefore required. Electronically detonated explosives called sweeps were dragged behind ships but needed to be very close to a submarine to be effective. Depth charges, bombs designed to explode underwater, were produced in 1915 and widely available from 1917.
The development of hydrophones, equipment to listen for submarine engines, allowed depth charges to be targeted better. But submarines could often avoid detection by remaining silent and deep in the ocean.
The introduction of convoys in April 1917 let ships protect each other and led to more U-boats being sunk. Before then, some ships towed submarines with a telephone connection behind them, so when a U-boat attacked the Allied submarine was ready to counter-attack.
More passive ways of fighting submarines were also developed. Q-ships were British vessels disguised as merchants but with hidden weapons, which lured surfaced U-boats into an ambush.
Zig-zag sailing patterns and camouflage paint helped ships to survive sailing through submarine-infested waters.
The Allies used barriers known as barrages to prevent German submarines from getting to their ports. The three largest barrages were in the English Channel; between Norway and the Orkney Islands in the North Sea, and in the Strait of Otranto.
The barrages consisted of mines, nets, and surface boats. The nets were designed to be dragged along by any submarine that got caught in them. A submarine would either have to surface to get rid of the net or drag it around identifying its presence. Either way, it made a U-boat visible and so vulnerable to attack.
The barrages helped to limit German activity, at one point denying access to U-boats in the English Channel for 12 months. Ultimately, it was the convoy system that took a real toll on the German submariners, although U-boats remained the most powerful submarine force right up to the war’s end.
Ian Westwell (2008), World War I | English | NL | fc0326efaa67768036cf180dab8ad459e6b4f91e36c2636507765e457c951164 |
I move amendment No. 1:—
In page 3, line 38, to delete the words "and wholly situate within the State".
These few simple words would, perhaps, appear to some Senators to be rather insignificant and not to hold much meaning. But the truth about it is, so far as I am concerned anyhow, that they are probably the most vital words in this whole Bill. They are words about which I am most intimately concerned and the effect of their presence in the section will largely vitiate the possibilities of good there are in this whole measure for myself and many others in a considerable area of this State.
It is necessary, perhaps, in order that the House may understand the position, to put before it what the effect of these few words will be. There is here a definition of what a drainage district is, and the definition is that it is wholly situate within the State. We had this to a certain extent on the Second Reading, and the Parliamentary Secretary devoted a fair portion of his speech to the problem. I am not satisfied that this Bill should pass without this amendment being accepted and inserted by the House, and I will give my reasons as fully and impartially as I can.
If the Bill should pass in its present form, it means that it will not operate in the greater portion of the County Cavan, in a considerable area in Monaghan, Leitrim, portion of Roscommon, portion of Longford, and portion of Donegal—I do not know about Sligo. In other words, because we have a drainage district which is situate partly within this State and partly outside the State, because we have Partition of the country, we are asked in this House to agree to a further partitioning. That is exactly what this proposition will mean. Naturally, any group of our citizens who must be concerned about the effects of legislation and about their future well-being, cannot feel happy about their exclusion from the benefits which ought to flow from any measure which passes through the Oireachtas, and I have no doubt that many of the people in the counties which I have mentioned will be considerably perturbed when they realise what the Oireachtas has done, if this Bill passes in its present form. I am not prepared to subscribe to that and I will ask the House to agree with me.
As I understand it, we have a drainage district in County Cavan which includes Loughs Gowna, Oughter and Erne. The Erne flows into Fermanagh and reaches the sea in Donegal. The Erne and Lough Gowna are joined in County Cavan by water which comes down from Monaghan and this flows on until it reaches the lakes in Fermanagh. At another point we have another drainage system included in the Ballinamore and Ballyconnell district—the Ballinamore and Ballyconnell canal. This canal starts somewhere on the borders of Roscommon and it drains South Leitrim. The history of this canal is interesting. It was constructed between 1846 and 1859 at a cost of practically £250,000. It was constructed for drainage and navigational purposes. The history of the canal would indicate that it was useless for navigational purposes. The extraordinary thing about it is that ratepayers along that canal who have never had any constructional work done on it or, in fact, any maintenance work since it was constructed nearly a century ago, are paying some sort of a maintenance rate to-day. All the law in connection with the maintenance of that drainage district is terribly complicated. Nobody in the area seems to know what are the rights of the riparian owners.
The proposition is that this Bill, which aims at straightening out and codifying all the drainage law, will exclude all these areas. I have been informed that the catchment of these areas is greater than the Shannon catchment and it would be interesting if the Parliamentary Secretary would give us some information upon that point. It will give the House some idea of what we are being asked to do. Why is this proposition being made? We debated this matter on the Second Reading. I can see the Parliamentary Secretary's point of view. His reason is apparently based on the report of the commission on which, we take it, this Bill has been founded. I will read the reference by the commission to this drainage district. Here is what they say:—
"Watersheds extending into Northern Ireland, or having their outlets in northern rivers present a special problem. The Lough and River Erne system is the most important of these. The outfall of the Erne system is at Belleek where there are four sluice gates, two in Northern Ireland and two in Éire. The levels of the lakes are fixed by statute but the system is inadequate to provide proper drainage for the large catchment area involved. Very costly works on that part of the River Erne which connects the Upper Lough with the Lower would be required to provide an efficient discharge. This portion of the river is wholly in Northern Ireland. The absence of proper outfall facilities, however, affects schemes situated wholly in Éire.
The same problem arises, but to a much smaller extent, in the case of rivers flowing into Éire from Northern Ireland.
While we fully realise the desirability of improving the conditions in drainage areas extending into Northern Ireland, we feel that in present circumstances the drainage difficulties in these areas can be solved satisfactorily and comprehensively only by agreement between the two Governments on the works which should be undertaken, the apportionment of the cost and the future proposals for maintenance."
I am not disagreeing with the point of view of the commission and I am not disagreeing with the Parliamentary Secretary's point of view when he urges that the drainage problem in that district can be best solved by a comprehensive scheme agreed upon between the two Governments. That is my view; I agree that would be the best way to do it.
On the Second Reading debate here the Parliamentary Secretary dealt with this matter at some length and he indicated that already the officials of the two Governments concerned had presented a joint report. The sum and substance of what he said was that they had presented four different propositions to the Northern Government. The Northern Government presented the report and the estimates to the Drainage Advisory Committee which, in turn—in Northern Ireland this was —rejected all four propositions and estimates and then he went on:—
"I am merely going over that ground to show the House that this is a problem which we are advised cannot be tackled unless we can ensure co-operative effort by both Governments. I have also given that explanation to show that efforts have been made in the past unsuccessfully to find a solution. What the future will hold in that regard is something which I am not in a position to deal with now."
Let us take that picture. We have not been idle on this side. We have had our officials working with the officials of the Northern Government. They have made a joint report and presented that to the Northern Government. They passed it on to a drainage commission and, if you please, that drainage commission has had the hardihood to reject all four reports. It is not that there is not an intense drainage problem in the Six Counties. Bad as we are on our portion of the Erne, they are much worse on the lower reaches. I have seen that district and the losses there are really appalling. How the people there can have patience with their Government and their Government's attitude is beyond me but people who are accustomed to flooding have a really marvellous patience and Christian fortitude to a degree that it is difficult to explain or to define.
The Parliamentary Secretary is asking us in this Bill to agree that this vast area of our own is to be excluded from this Bill. Why? Because we cannot get agreement with the people on the other side on a drainage scheme for our own area, we are not to bring this area within the terms of the Bill before the House. In other words, we are to subscribe to the position that we have not sovereignty over our own territory in a particular area because we cannot get agreement with the people on the other side to co-operate with us. I do not think we should be asked to subscribe to that proposition. There are other considerations which must be taken into account. Before the Parliamentary Secretary was appointed to his present post a very considerable drainage scheme was carried out in portion of this district. A sum of £88,000 was spent in draining portion of the area. I am not going to comment unfavourably on that. I have very little experience of drainage, except in so far as it causes flooding, but in a way it was a strange scheme. It was contrary to what the Parliamentary Secretary is asking the House to agree to now because it was done in the middle of a scheme. If Senators had a map of Ireland before them, they would understand how Longford, away towards the north and west of Leinster, is at the source of this drainage district. The drainage area then extends to portion of Cavan through the waters of the Gowna and Lough Oughter. While the upper reaches of the river were left untouched the drainage was commenced in the middle and came on until it reached the town of Belturbet. It ceased at the bridge in Belturbet, which is three miles off the Border at Fermanagh.
The original estimate for this work was, I think, somewhere in the region of £66,000—the Parliamentary Secretary will correct me if I am wrong— but the engineers made a miscalculation, because the final figures showed that the scheme actually cost something around £88,000. It was, therefore, possible to go in and spend £88,000 on a drainage area that was part of the district to which I am referring. No one is going to suggest, least of all the Parliamentary Secretary, who, I think, can claim a good deal of credit for getting that scheme put through, that the scheme did not do much good, and I am not going to make any such suggestion. I was in the same district 20 years ago, but I did not get very far in promoting the work. The Parliamentary Secretary got much further than I did, and, as a result, considerable improvements were made in that whole district. It is true, however, that a good deal of the constructional work done then was done at a season when it was not possible to work efficiently or effectively. It was done at a period of high flooding, some of it towards the winter season. The net result was that although this money was expended, a portion of the district in which the drainage was carried out needs further drainage work immediately to make the work on which the original money was expended an efficient job.
My interpretation of the section as it stands is that there will be no power under this Bill to go in and carry out the improvements in that whole area which are absolutely essential if the work on which so much money has been expended is to have any permanent benefit. In addition considerable sums of money have been expended in this area under the Land Improvement Scheme and more water is now flowing down to the main arteries than was the case a few years ago, so that from every point of view there is the greatest necessity for including the area in the terms of the Bill in order that the benefits that will come to other districts may not be denied to us.
Again, look at it from the tactical point of view and this is the last point I shall make at this stage. We made several propositions, apparently jointly with the engineers across the Border, to the people in the Six Counties with regard to getting a comprehensive drainage scheme for this area, but they have not accepted the propositions that were made. Are we just to sit down and do nothing until we get agreement from these people? Are the people in Cavan, Longford, Monaghan, Leitrim and Donegal to be excluded from the terms of this legislation until the people across the Border are prepared to subscribe to the plans we make? My view about it is that I feel that, although drainage is very essential across the Border in Fermanagh, even more essential than in the upper reaches of the river, it is going to be difficult to get the political Parties there to join with us.
Their joining with us would be a clear demonstration that there are problems that will have to disregard the existence of the Border and that there are circumstances which demand a joint effort on the part of the people on both sides of it. We know what these people are like. They are entrenched there and they are going to hang on to the last. The very last thing they will do will be to commit themselves politically to any act that will be a recognition of the fact that they can work with us, that there are things about which we do agree and that there is a joint effort which it is possible for us to make. Because I feel that this will be a continuing attitude on the part of the people over there, I would ask the House and the Parliamentary Secretary, who must be as aware of that aspect of the problem as I am, to agree to the inclusion of this area within the terms of the Bill. It will not be incumbent on the commissioners to start to-morrow or within 12 months to do constructional work over that whole area, but at least we shall have the power, if we are dealing with people who are impossible, to go in and do constructional work within our own area. I believe that the people in this area, when they will see what is being done elsewhere, will resent being excluded from the terms of this Bill.
I put it to the Parliamentary Secretary himself that the very last thing he should do is to take this decisive step, which is a demonstration that there is no hope of getting the people beyond to join with us. We should not put ourselves in a position in which it will be impossible for us to do constructional work within our own State. In the last analysis if these people are not ready to join with us, clean out the water across in their territory and come to an agreement as to how the costs are going to be apportioned for that cleaning, let us at least go ahead in our own rivers. Let the water flow away from us at least and if it will flow out on them, in the last analysis it will not be our fault. I would ask the Parliamentary Secretary to consider this very seriously. The proposal as embodied in the Bill, in my view, represents a step that it would be very unwise for this House to take.
This is a matter that was not discussed in the other House at all. I am at a certain disadvantage in discussing it, because, beyond what the Parliamentary Secretary has told the House, I have not been able to consider other circumstances which ought to weigh, but if I am asked to decide as between the point of view that we can have no scheme of drainage without a comprehensive scheme for the whole area, that we must await agreement on that scheme before we are to enact any legislation and that we are to exclude certain parts of the State from the terms of the Bill, and the point of view that we should have the power within our own legislation to do this job of work, I shall decide for the latter. We will be in a much stronger position, and the Parliamentary Secretary and the people who work behind him will be in a much better position, to deal with the other people. It is very easy for us who are the common people down the country who want rivers cleaned to make those across the Border understand that, if they do not get busy on securing their Government's agreement on a joint effort, our Government will utilise the powers which the Oireachtas has given, our rivers will be cleaned and they will have to take the consequences. I ask the House and the Parliamentary Secretary to accept the amendment. | English | NL | 96f46258d694e0b343250e90a86b3c8260a9edba4ca97897857e59cb923d779f |
JOE LANE was larger than life. His thrilling, erratic performances as a jazz singer contributed to this impression, as did his eccentricity, gravelly voice and a rumoured fling with Ava Gardner. Above all there was an overriding zest for life - lived on Joe "Bebop" Lane's terms.
Bebop, the complex jazz initiated in the 1940s by Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach and others, occupied Lane's name and the centre of his life. He was among the first Australians to perform the new music.
The pianist Chuck Yates rates Lane the finest bebop singer he ever heard, his best improvised choruses of scat singing being fantasias of melodic invention, delivered with no inhibition. Lane's imagination was the only limit, and the relationship of his melodies to a song's chords was a matter of good ears rather than a formal knowledge of harmony.
Keith Lane was born in Marrickville, and grew up in Sydney's inner suburbs the oldest of four children of Alexander Lane, a travelling salesman, and Dorothy.
In the liner notes to the only album released under his own name, The Arrival (1996), Lane says he was already singing and scatting as a child. By 13 he was singing Frank Sinatra songs in talent quests.
In 1944 he first heard Parker, and the impact was pivotal. When Roach performed in Sydney in 1994 Lane attended a function held in the great drummer's honour. He shuffled into a circle of people around Roach and presented him with two 1940s records on which the drummer had played. Roach was astonished to see these treasures after 50 years and those assembled assumed Lane wanted them autographed. But they were a gift, from Lane to one of his heroes.
For Lane the material world and money were secondary to music and food. At the end of World War II he went off herding sheep in an effort to evade conscription, but his mother revealed his whereabouts.
When he was discharged from the army in 1948 he sang in various clubs around Sydney, and the bebop he preached made him a magnet for young musicians of successive generations - such as Bernie McGann in the 1950s and, later, James Morrison.
He had assorted day jobs, including door-to-door salesman and Father Christmas, and was very accident-prone; he was reportedly once run over by an ambulance.
Lane also dabbled with drums. He would drag them onto buses to travel to gigs, and hitchhiked to Melbourne with them, flagging down a car with the drums out of sight, then announcing he had "a few parcels".
Lane encountered Ava Gardner in Melbourne when she was making On the Beach (1959). As John Pochee tells it, Gardner visited a coffee lounge where Lane and Pochee were performing. She loved the music, and when it concluded, told the hotel manager to fetch alcohol and cigarettes. They all headed to Lane's house - known as Muttering Lodge - for an all-night party and jam. Pochee says the story of a romantic fling between Lane and Gardner is a myth.
Lane moved to Auckland in 1968 and ran his own club. He resettled in Sydney in the '70s, and performed for many years at the Criterion Hotel, where Peter Allen once joined him on stage. Among his final performances, he sang in the Opera House Concert Hall with the Australian Art Orchestra in Sandy Evans's Charlie Parker tribute, Testimony.
In 2003 Lane suffered a stroke. He was paralysed down his right side and unable to speak. He could, however, sing. Musicians gathered fortnightly at the nursing home for Lane to let rip joyously over the accompaniment. He died of another stroke. He never married and leaves his brothers, John and Ron.
Lane said in those liner notes: "Music is about getting away from your doubts, imposed by other people's discontent." On those terms he was massively successful. | English | NL | d38aeec67ef8a230beccf788ca87838f163e261497d13c3d485da67f22737bfd |
The toll of 122 homicides – which includes cases of murder and manslaughter – includes 71 fatal stabbings and 14 shootings.
Here are the details and victims of London’s knife crime surge in 2018.
1. Steve Frank Navaez-Jara, 20 , was stabbed on New Year’s Day in Islington. His family said they “pray to God that Steve’s death brings knife crime to an end”.
2. Elizabeta Lacatusu, 44, was stabbed in Redbridge, east London, on 3 January. In June, Geanu Armeanu, her former partner, was jailed for 28 years for murder.
3. Vijaykumar Patel, 49, died on 6 January after being attacked outside a shop in Mill Hill, north London.
4. Daniel Frederick, 34, died after being stabbed in Hackney on 8 January in an unprovoked attack.
5. Harry Uzoka, 25. Model killed after being stabbed in the heart in Shepherd’s Bush on 11 January.
6. Yaya Mbye, 26, died in hospital after being stabbed in Stoke Newington on 28 January.
7. Lily-Mai Saint George , 11 weeks, was found dead in Haringey on 31 January. Police investigated her death as murder and arrested two people in April.
8. Khader Saleh, 25, was stabbed at Wormwood Scrubs prison on 31 January. The 25-year-old’s brother described him as “a young man trying to move on in his life”.
9. Sayed Azim Khan, 49, was found dead in Ilford Cemetery on 2 February having suffered extensive head injuries. He had last been seen at his home address on 24 January in Thamesmead.
10. Hassan Ozcan, 19, died from multiple stab wounds in Barking, east London, on 3 February.
11. Kwabena Nelson, 23, a youth worker from Tottenham, died after being stabbed on 3 February. In August, 21-year-old Neron Quartey was found guilty of murder and sentenced to a minimum of 26 years in prison.
12. Juan Olmos Saca, 39, died on 4 February after being stabbed in the chest in Peckham on the 29 January. He spent a week in hospital, but never recovered from his injuries.
13. Hannah Leonard, 55, was stabbed in a flat in Camden on 8 February and died from her injuries.
14. Alfie Lamb, 3, was found unresponsive at his home in Croydon and died three days later in hospital. In May, police charged three people in connection with his death.
15. Sabri Chibani, 19, was stabbed in the chest in Streatham, south London, on 11 February.
16. Bulent Kabala, 41, was London’s first shooting victim of 2018. He was shot in Barnet on 12 February and died at the scene.
17. Saeeda Hussain, 54, was stabbed at an address in Ilford on 13 February, and died from her injuries.
18. Lord Promise Nkenda, 17, was stabbed in Canning Town, east London, on Valentine’s Day.
19. Mark Smith, 48, was found unconscious at an address in Waltham Forest, east London, on 15 February and pronounced dead a short time later. A 38-year old woman has been charged with murder.
20. Lewis Blackman, 19, from Camden, was stabbed in the early hours of 18 February after attending a party in Kensington.
21. Rotimi Oshibanjo, 26, was stabbed in Southall, west London, on 19 February and died from his injuries.
22. Sadiq Mohammed, 20, died after being stabbed in Camden on 20 February.
23. Abdikarim Hassan, 17, died in Camden after being stabbed on 20 February, hours after Sadiq Mohammed. The pair were among five victims attacked by a group of men between 20:15 and 22:15 GMT.
24. Jozef Boci, 30, suffered serious head injuries after being attacked on the street in Greenwich. Mr Boci, who was from Albania but living in Catford, was taken to hospital after the attack on 17 February, but died on 24 February.
25. Amir Ellouzi, 24 , from Victoria, was shot in Westminster on 20 February and died one week later.
26. Christopher Beaumont, 42, was stabbed to death by his brother at his mother’s house in Hammersmith on 1 March. Stephen Blake, 32, pleaded guilty to manslaughter and was later sentenced to indefinite detention under the Mental Health Act.
27. Laura Figueira, 47, was found dead at her home in Twickenham on 5 March with stab wounds. Later the same day, her husband and two young sons were discovered at the foot of cliffs in East Sussex, all three having died from multiple injuries consistent with falling from a height.
28. Kelva Smith, 20, died after being stabbed in the abdomen in Croydon. His aunt said London’s issue with knife crime was “out of control”.
29. Kelvin Odunuyi, 19, was shot outside a cinema in Wood Green on 8 March.
30. Michael Boyle, 44 died from a single stab wound to the chest. He was attacked on 25 February and died in hospital on 10 March.
31. Julian Joseph, 36, died in hospital after being attacked on a bus in New Cross on 12 March and suffering a serious head injury.
32. Nikolai Glushkov, 68, a Russian businessman. He was found dead at his home in south-west London having been strangled. His death came a week after the poisonings of former Russian spy Sergei Skripal and his daughter in Salisbury.
33. Joseph William-Torres, 20, was shot dead in a car in Walthamstow on 14 March. A 15-year-old boy was later charged with his murder.
34. Lyndon Davis, 18, was stabbed to death in Chadwell Heath on 14 March.
35. Naomi Hersi, 36, was found with stab wounds at a hotel near Heathrow Airport on 16 March. She was pronounced dead 30 minutes later.
36. Russell Jones, 23, died after suffering from stab injuries and a gunshot wound in Enfield on 17 March.
37. Tyrone Silcott, 41, died after being stabbed in Hackney on 18 March.
38. Balbir Johal, 48, was admitted to hospital with stab wounds after being attacked in Southall on 19 March. He died shortly afterwards. One man was later convicted of his murder, another of manslaughter.
39. Jermaine Kevin Johnson, 41, was stabbed in Waltham Forest, east London, on 19 March.
40. Beniamin Pieknyi, 21, was found with stab wounds at Stratford shopping centre on 20 March. He was pronounced dead at the scene.
41. Abraham Badru, 26, was shot dead in Dalston, north-east London, on 25 March. His family described him as a “beautiful soul” who “hated confrontation”.
42. David Potter, 50, was found dead inside a house in Tooting High Street on 26 March. He had suffered stab injuries.
43. Wieskaw Kopcynski, 59, died in hospital on 27 March, two days after being assaulted at his home in Barking, east London.
44. Malachi Brooks, 21, was found stabbed in Surrey Lane, Battersea, on 28 March. He was pronounced dead at the scene. Three men were later convicted of arson after a car used by his attackers was set alight, destroying any possible DNA evidence. No-one has been charged over his death.
45. Reece Tshoma, 23, was stabbed in Plumstead, south-east London, on 29 March.
46. Leyla Mtumwa, 36, was found with stab wounds in Haringey on 30 March and died from her injuries. In October Kema Salum, 39, was sentenced to 23 years in prison for her murder.
47. Ourania Lambrou, 80, died in hospital after being assaulted on the street by Harry Goodwin-Sims, 29. He was jailed for six years for her manslaughter in September.
48. Devoy Stapleton, 20, was stabbed in Wandsworth, south London on 1 April.
49. Tanesha Melbourne-Blake, 17, died in a drive-by shooting in Tottenham on 2 April. Friends described her as a “very loveable little girl in the community”.
50. Amaan Shakoor, 16, was shot in Walthamstow on 2 April and died a day later in hospital.
51. Henry Vincent, 38, was stabbed at a house in Lewisham on 4 April, reportedly while burgling the property. The 38-year-old was found collapsed in the street and died from his injuries a few hours later in hospital.
52. Babatunde Akintayo Awofeso, 53 , was pronounced dead at a bookmakers in Upper Clapton, north London, on 4 April following reports of an altercation with another man.
53. Israel Ogunsola, 18, was stabbed to death in Hackney on 4 April. Police were alerted by a motorist and performed first aid, but the teenager died at the scene.
54. John Maclean, 35, was stabbed at a property in the Isle of Dogs area. Paramedics were called, but he died at the scene.
55. Natasha Hill, 18, was found with multiple head injuries in the early hours of 15 April. She was pronounced dead at the scene in Abbey Wood.
56. Raul Chiriac, 26, was stabbed to death by his girlfriend Simone Fergus, 34, on 15 April at their home in Colindale, north London. She was later convicted of his manslaughter.
57. Samantha Clarke, 38 , was stabbed to death in Brixton on 15 April.
58. Sami Sihom, 18, was stabbed in Forest Gate, east London at about 22:50 BST on 16 April and died about 30 minutes later. He was reportedly on his way home from watching a West Ham game.
59. John Woodward, 47, a builder, was found dead in Hatton Garden with serious head injuries. It was initially thought that he had suffered an accident, but police later opened a murder inquiry.
60. Aaron Springett, 32, was found collapsed after a street fight in Morden, south London, on 19 April. He was taken to hospital but died a day later. In November, Joseph Ankrah, 31, was sentenced to seven years in prison for his manslaughter.
61. Kwasi Anim-Boadu, 20, was found dead with stab wounds in Roth Walk, Finsbury Park, on 21 April.
62. Leon Maxwell, 38, was shot on 1 May near to Queensbury underground station in north-west London. He died from his injuries at the scene.
63. Rhyhiem Ainsworth-Barton, 18, was killed in a fatal shooting in Kennington on 5 May. He died from his injuries at the scene.
64. Onees Khatoon, 71, was killed by her 51-year-old son on 13 May in the home they shared in Hayes, south London.
65. Gerry Gaffney, 46, a lighting technician, was stabbed in Vassall Road, Camberwell on 14 May.
66. Osman Shidane, 20, was stabbed on 15 May in Ruislip. He died in hospital from his injuries three days later.
67. Rosina Coleman, 85, was found dead at an address in Ashmour Gardens, Romford, on 15 May. Paul Prause, a 65-year-old handyman, was later arrested and charged with her murder.
68. Abdulrahman Nassor Juma, 23, known to his friends as Mani, was killed in Barking on 17 May. Police tried to save him before the paramedics arrived, but he was pronounced dead at the scene due to his stab injuries.
69. Arunesh Thangarajah, 28, was stabbed in Mitcham, south London, and died on 20 May.
70. Sophie Cavanagh, 31, was found dead at an address in Chatterton Road, Bromley, on 20 May. Her estranged husband was later charged with murder.
71. Marcel Campbell, 30, from Haringey was stabbed to death on Upper Street in Islington on 21 May.
72. A 61-year-old woman died after suffering head injuries in an incident in Islington on 24 May. Police have not named her. A 95-year-old man was later arrested on suspicion of murder.
73. Bethany-Maria Beales, 22, was found dead at the foot of 36-storey Heron Building on Moor Lane, Moorgate, on 26 May. She had suffered injuries “consistent with a fall from height”, City of London Police said. A man and a woman were later arrested in connection with the case.
74. Andra Hilitanu, 28, was found stabbed to death at a property in Neasden on 1 June.
75. Mark Fontaine, 41, a delivery driver, was fatally stabbed in Kensington on 5 June. A 14-year-old boy was later charged with his murder.
76. Edmond Jonuzi, 35, was found with serious stab wounds near Turnpike Lane underground station in north London on 9 June. He died at the scene.
77. Gitana Matukeviciene, 50, was found dead at a property in Dagenham on 9 June having suffered from a range of injuries. A man has been charged with her murder.
78. Joshua Boadu, 23, who was known as “SJ”, was found with stab wounds at an address in Southwark on 11 June. He died from his injuries. A man has been charged with murder.
79. Mark Tremain, 52, spent several weeks in hospital in a critical condition after police were called to reports of men fighting in Lambeth. He died on 14 June from a head injury.
80. Matthew Thomas, 39, a scaffolder, was found dead with unexplained injuries at a flat in Pimlico, central London. A man and a woman were arrested at the scene.
81. Gita Suri, 56, was found in the rear garden of a house in Tunnel Avenue, Greenwich, on Saturday 23 June. She had suffered stab injuries.
82. Jordan Douherty, 15, was stabbed to death in Romford, east London, on 23 June during a fight involving about 100 youths.
83. Ishak Tacine, 20, was stabbed to death in Edmonton, north London on 27 June.
84. Shuren Ma, 72, died shortly after police attended reports of a disturbance at an address in Woolwich on 1 July. A man in his 70s was also found at the scene with stab injuries.
85. Janek Brackonecki, 57, was found seriously injured in a car park near Leytonstone High Road in east London on 7 July. He died at the scene.
86. Katrina Makunova, 17, was stabbed on 12 July in Camberwell. The teenager died from a wound to her chest.
87. Latwaan Griffiths, 18, was found by police on Denmark Road in Lambeth having suffered stab injuries on 26 July. He died the following day.
88. Sheila Thomas, 69, was found dead at an address on Casino Avenue in Herne Hill, south London on 31 July.
89. Sidique Kamara, 23, a drill rapper known as Incognito, was found dead by police in Camberwell on 1 August. He had been stabbed.
90. A 50-year-old woman, died in a house fire on Valentines Way, Dagenham, on 2 August. Police have not named her. A man was later charged with murder and arson with intent to endanger life.
91. Malik Chattun, 22, was stabbed in Kingston upon Thames on 5 August during a brawl reportedly involving 10 people.
92. Joel Urhie, 7, died after an arson attack at his home in Deptford, south-east London, on 7 July. Joel’s mother said he was was the “sweetest most caring little boy you could ever meet”.
93. Simonne Samantha Kerr, 31, was stabbed to death in Wandsworth on 15 August. A nurse, she had appeared on Britain’s Got Talent in an NHS choir.
94. Joseph Cullimore, 42, was stabbed to death in Chingford, east London, on 17 August.
95. Leroy Junior Edwards, 66, was stabbed to death in Catford, south-east London, on 18 August.
96. Gary Amer, 63, was stabbed to death at a property in Walworth, south-east London, on 19 August.
97. Kaltoun Saleh, 43, died in hospital on 21 August as a result of a fire at a property in Islington on 5 July.
98. Caroline Harrison, 73, died in a house fire in Teddington on 22 August. Police began a murder investigation after tests revealed she had been attacked before her death.
99. Shevaun Sorrell, 22, was found unresponsive in Creek Road, Deptford at 23:45 BST on 25 August. Ambulance crews found he had suffered stab injuries, but he died in hospital an hour later.
100. Abdi Ali, 18, was found in the loft of an address in Enfield on 27 August, having gone missing in December last year. He had died from a blunt force trauma to the head and stab wounds to the chest.
101. Celia Levitt, 68, was killed at a residential address in Bromley on 31 August. Her death was as a result of compression to the neck, police said.
102. Ismail Tanrikulu, 22, was shot dead in Tottenham Cemetery on 3 September.
103. Memunatu Warne, 46, died after a suspected arson attack at a property on 6 September in Woolwich.
104. Ali Al Har, 25, was stabbed to death in Islington on 18 September
105. Kanagusabi Ramathan, 76, was found dead at a residential address in Newham on 21 September.
106. Elyon Poku, 20, was stabbed during a party in Stamford Hill. He died in the early hours of 22 September as a result of his injuries.
107. Guled Farah, 19, was shot and killed in Walthamstow on 22 September. His friends drove him to hospital, but he died less than an hour after police were called.
108. Sandra Zmijan, 32, was found dead in a garden in Hayes, west London, on 24 September. Police disclosed that she had died after being hit repeatedly by a heavy blunt object.
109. Hashim Abdalla Ali, 22, was found in a car in Hillingdon with a gunshot wound on 11 October and pronounced dead at the scene.
110. Moses Mayele, 23, was stabbed yards away from his home in Hainault on 12 October.
111. Ian Tomlin, 46, was murdered in Battersea on 17 October. He died from a blunt force trauma to his head.
112. Nazia Ali, 25 , from Bow, was found dead at a residential address in Tower Hamlets on 22 October.
113. Ethan Nedd-Bruce, 18, died on the street in Greenwich on 22 October. He was stabbed and shot, and it was the latter that led to his death.
114. Sheiku Adams, 49, died after falling from a third floor flat in Camden on 25 October. Three people were charged with his manslaughter on 7 November.
115. Martin Welsh, 47, was stabbed at a residential address in Hendon, north London, on 28 October. He was pronounced dead at the scene. A woman has been charged with his murder.
116. Rocky Djelal, 38, was fatally stabbed in Southwark Park on 31 October. His family said he was “a father who was idolised by his daughter, a brother who was loved dearly and an uncle, nephew and friend who was loved and respected”.
117. Jay Hughes, 15, from Bellingham, south-east London, died of a single stab wound to the heart after he was attacked in the street on 1 November.
118. Malcolm Mide-Madariola, 17, was stabbed outside Clapham South underground station in the middle of the afternoon on 2 November. The teenager from Peckham, who was a student at a college in Clapham, was taken to hospital, but died from his injuries.
119. Ayodeji Habeeb Azeez, 22, was found on Samos Road in Anerley, south London, at lunchtime on 4 November with stab wounds. He died at the scene 30 minutes later.
120. John Ogunjobi, 16, was found with fatal injuries on Greenleaf Close, Tulse Hill, south London at 22:53 on 5 November. Police were called to reports of gunshots, but found him collapsed on the street with stab injuries. | English | NL | 876cf75d3d38a14b27fa7380ad970cee7e8e6620b32d007456b4b68da1fcc603 |
Over the past twenty years I have written innumerable articles and recorded over one hundred hours of video explaining what the Dramatica is , how to use it and even how it works, but I have never made a concerted effort to describe why it works.
Understanding the difference between “how” and “why” is both a subtle endeavor and a crucial one. For the “how” just deals with the nuts and bolts of Dramatica’s model of story structure, but the “why” describes the reasons behind the form and elements of that model. In other words, rather than trying to teach Dramatica for what it is, perhaps the best way to learn Dramatica is to understand why it is as it is.
To this end, I considered where to begin. What concepts should I start with? Perhaps an overview of the “big picture” view of the model or maybe with elements that most closely connect with more traditional approaches to story structure. And then, the obvious slapped me upside the head: I should begin my explanation right where Chris Huntley and I began our exploration so many years ago.
At that time, we knew virtually nothing about how stories worked and came to the problem with fresh and ignorant eyes. We dabbled in structure for a couple of months, then put it away for ten years before returning to it again, but this time in a nearly four year full-time effort. Each day posed new questions about the elements and forces that drove the underlying framework of stories. We struggled to make sense of what we saw, to grasp why it should be that way, and then to conceive of some manner of documenting it, modeling it, fashioning a function system that described, measured, and predicted it.
Still, I realized that the focus of this approach should not be to create a documentary of our efforts but rather to create an idealized path of discovery inspired by the steps we took but refined and guided by our current understandings having finished our journey and having arrived at the comprehensive perspective we enjoy today.
And so, while I will refer to the questions we asked and the answers that were ultimately revealed, the purpose of this initial article and its successive siblings is to seek the essence of story structure in its pure form, both by its nature and by the natural laws under which it self-organizes. With this as our direction and destination, let us begin our journey….
To set the stage. In 1979 and on into 1980 Chris Huntley, Mark Sawicki and I wrote and produced a feature motion picture. We had all met at the University of Southern California in the Cinema department. I had left before completing my degree and was working in the industry. Chris and Mark were still attending when we began. The result was a modest horror movie called “The Strangeness” which, while something of an accomplishment for a budget of thirty thousand dollars, suffered from some rather glaring story problems.
Shortly after its completion, Chris and I decided to write the script for our next effort. But before we did, we thought we should seek to understand what was actually wrong with our previous story so as not to repeat the same mistakes in the new one. To that end, we reviewed our characters and plot. Though we could clearly feel that it was sometimes diverging from some unseen track or dramatic river channel, it was far more a sense of something wrong than a true grasp of what was wrong.
So, we went back over our notes from writing classes we had taken while at the university. What we soon discovered was that every instructor had their own vague notion of story structure, but in terms of anything truly definitive, they were all lacking. The best they had to offer were specific tips, tricks and techniques for story development which they had derived from many years of personal trial and error. In short, our instructors were as clueless as we were.
That being the case, we briefly considered studying the writings of famous investigators of the nature of story – folks such as Joseph Campbell and even Aristotle, not to mention a number of contemporaries who were proselytizing their own brands. But before taking such steps, we determined that if our instructors (who were already familiar with these systems and explanations) had no clear answers, then perhaps it might be better to approach the subject untainted by the conclusions of others. Though we might waste our time re-inventing the wheel, we argued, we also would have the best chance of uncovering something new in places everyone else “knew better” than to look. And so, we met in a small one-room studio “granny house” in the backyard of the home I was renting to ponder the unknown and seek some better grip on the mechanics of story than we had so far encountered.
In regard to our movie’s story, we sensed that our plot, while not excessively clever, wasn’t too far off “the mark” – whatever that was. But when it came to characters, though we had an interesting assortment of personalities, there was something false about the way they acted and interacted with each other. No fault of the actors – we could clearly see that in some cases parts of their scripted personalities seemed to be missing, while in other cases their conversations and actions seemed unmotivated, untrue or inconsistent.
Now we come to the first “why” we asked -“Why do characters ring true in some stories and ring false in others?” We gave it some thought, but try as we may, we could not fathom what was wrong, we could only sense it. So, we attacked the other side of our question and decided to look at really successful characters in other stories that were in a similar genre to ours. It was our assumption that perhaps we might solve our problems by measuring our characters against the template of characters that worked.
To this end, we decided to first investigate the characters in what wast the most popular film of our time: the original Star Wars movie (now called “Episode IV – A New Hope). As a first step, we listed the principal characters – the ones who seemed to be central to the forces that drove the story – the ones the story seemed to revolve around.
Our initial list included the following: Luke Skywalker, Obi Wan Kenobi, Darth Vader, Han Solo, Princess Leia, Chewbacca, C3PO and R2-D2. In our writing classes we had been taught about the Protagonist and the Antagonist – two archetypes that we were told must be present in every story. It made sense to us, so we figured we’d look over our list and identify the Protagonist and Antagonist, which seemed a pretty easy task with something as melodramatic as Star Wars.
It seemed pretty obvious to us and the rest of the movie-going world that Luke was the Protagonist and Darth the “over-the-top” villain. For now, let’s go with that, as it was our initial understanding though it later proved to be massively incorrect in regard to Darth. Turning our attention to the other principal characters in our list, we wondered if the fact that there was a Protagonist and Antagonist in every story might indicate that there were also other character types that must, or at least commonly exist in stories.
As we had not read historical explanations of archetypes, we had no grounding from which to begin our considerations, so we simply set about trying to ascertain the “essence” of each character. In my notes from a writing class I took from Professor Irwin Blacker, he proposed the concept that every character in a screenplay should be a “one hundred percent” character, meaning that each character should embody some essential human quality so that all that it thought or did was exemplary of that quality. For example, one character might be 100% “hate” while another was 100% “hope.” In this way, Blacker explained, we are able to examine the value and flaws of all our own shared traits.
With this small thread as our guide, we sought to label each of the characters in Star Wars as to that quintessential quality they represented and explored. Beginning we those we knew, Protagonist represented our drive to achieve a goal at all costs. Antagonist represented our drive to prevent that effort from succeeding – an enemy with an agenda in total opposition to that goal. Now, this didn’t quite ring true to us, even then, for the Protagonist was for something (destroying the empire) but the Antagonist wasn’t so much trying to prevent the empire from being destroyed as to destroy the rebel alliance. In other words, they were both protagonists, weren’t they? What was the difference? What different human qualities did they represent?
For a moment we thought maybe it is as simple as Hero and Villain – that the Protagonist was just a good guy while the Antagonist was a bad guy. But that also didn’t hold up since there were many characters who represented the quality of “goodness” and quite a few who represented “badness.” So, we left that one unresolved for a while and moved on to other characters figuring that just identifying Luke and Vader as Protagonist and Antagonist was sufficient for now and we could work out their specific qualities later more easily, perhaps, once we discovered what the other characters’ 100% qualities were.
Obi Wan, for example, appeared to be a mentor, teacher, or protector. But this confused us, as those labels didn’t really describe human qualities so much as the jobs he did. Han Solo, on the on hand, was pretty much a cut and dried skeptic. He didn’t believe in the force, didn’t believe in the rebel’s cause, and was only out for himself. So skepticism and perhaps selfishness were in his potential trail list.
Around this time we began to suspect that perhaps not all characters were 100% but might be fifty/fifty such as Han might be half skepticism and half selfishness. If so, then things were a bit more complicated than we had been led to believe. (If we had only know JUST how much more complicated, we would likely have given up right then and there and taken jobs in some other industry where we had some natural talent!)
We strove on, however, and considered the other principal characters. Chewbacca seemed to be all emotionally driven and wild, in contrast to Princess Leia who was the “ice-princess” – pretty much devoid of emotion and also the opposite of wild: staid and controlled as the two hairballs on the side of her head. Perhaps we were onto something here. Just as Protagonist and Antagonist were opposites, maybe Chewbacca and Leia were also opposites. But who was Han’s mirror image? Well, it had to be Obi Wan or one of the droids, C3PO or R2-D2.
It might be Obi Wan. After all, he believed in the force and Han didn’t. And the two of them argued a lot, so it made a certain amount of sense. Yet they didn’t particularly seem a balanced pair. And then there were the droids. What quality did each represent? And though they bickered, were they really in opposition? For that matter, did characters always have to be in opposition? Did each character need a mirror image opponent who exemplified the opposite human quality, such as greed and generosity or kindness and meanness? And finally, did all human qualities have an opposite one, or did the human mind itself have “orphan” qualities that stood alone, without opposition. In short, is there symmetry in stories; is there symmetry in the mind?
Well these questions were clearly too tough for us to answer, so we put aside characters for a bit to focus on plot instead. And here we also made some progress. One of the first things we discovered was something we called the “rule of threes.” This notion was that when you had two characters in opposition, they would meet three times in a story: First, to introduce their conflict, second to engage in conflict and part with no clear winner, third to have it out in a battle royal until only one remains alive, or in power, or simply just left standing.
After trying out the rule of threes we discovered that opposing characters might meet more than three times if their relationship and/or opposition was extremely powerful or complicated, but they had to meet “at least” three times or there would be a plot hole. So we revised our rule to so state.
And then we hit a brick wall. We couldn’t get a step farther in understanding plot and couldn’t see anything new in characters. After a few hapless days, Chris wisely suggested we simply hadn’t had enough life experience to crack this nut, so we should put it aside for a few years until we did and then revisit it. I agreed, and we turned our attention to that second screenplay which, when completed, contained most of the same problems as our first script and even some new ones we hadn’t had before. While interesting, we kinda figured that our time trying to understand story structure was wasted. And so it lay for almost ten years while Chris and I went on to our individual careers in the business.
That’s the end of this first installment in “Why Dramatica Works.” It illustrates how structure is not easy to see and, prior to Dramatica, was more an intuitive endeavor than an intellectual one. Now I may have gotten a few incidental facts out of order or perhaps ahead of where we actually were at the time, but give me a little slack – it was almost a third of a century ago. The important thing is noting the questions that arose: Is there a fixed structure to stories, or at least a fixed set of dramatic building blocks? Do things have to be in opposition (is there symmetry)? Do characters represent jobs or human qualities or both, and which is best used to identify them? If there are other archetypes beside Protagonist and Antagonist, what are they, and do they have to be in all stories or just CAN be in any story? And finally, are there rules of plot that determine how things will come into conflict, how conflicts will resolve, and the order in which events should or even must happen?
In the next installment we’ll come back ten years later in 1991 when we once more picked up the quest which, within six months, had turned into a full-time effort lasting three more years and become (so far) a twenty year career of finding new ways to explain and employ the Dramatica model of story structure we ultimately designed. | English | NL | 2da4080b3036306897dba2b617bf621bc4ae998cbdfe04b6d1bbbceeb27f019b |
The last nine years of Epstein’s life were a period of public works and portraits of the famous. He began to receive a large volume of commissions, and sculpted a number of eminent men.In 1950 he was commissioned to sculpt a 13 feet tall statue of the Madonna and Child for the Covent of the Holy Child Jesus in Cavendish Square. The following year the life size bronze Youth Advancing was displayed at the Festival of Britain and Lazarus was exhibited at Battersea Park. He also modelled portraits of T.S. Eliot and W. Somerset Maugham, and travelled to Philadelphia.
The trip to Philadelphia was to discuss a commission. This commission, called Social Consciousness, was the only large scale project that Epstein ever carried out in his native country. Epstein produced five huge bronze figures which were to form part of the Ellen Phillips Samuel Memorial. The Memorial was a series of symbolic bronzes and carvings designed to represent the history of America. In spite of the intended sale of the project, Epstein’s figures were too expansive to complement the other sculptures in the project and they were eventually moved to a terrace outside the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
In 1952 the Arts Council organised a retrospective of Epstein’s work, which was held at the Tate. The following year Epstein refused an offer of membership to the Royal Society of Sculptors. The Society had not backed him when he needed support during the British Medical Association building controversy in 1908, and had refused him membership shortly afterwards. However, Epstein did accept an honorary doctorate from Oxford.
Epstein received two further commissions in 1953; Christ in Majesty for Llandaff Cathedral and Field Marshall Smuts for Parliament Square. This was also the year in which the Cavendish Square Madonna and Child was unveiled, and Epstein modelled Bertrand Russell.
At some point in 1954 Epstein received a letter in a brown envelope which he nearly didn’t open because he thought it was a tax bill. The letter was in fact an offer of a knighthood, which Epstein received from the Queen Mother. He also began work on Liverpool Resurgent for the John Lewis department store in Liverpool.
Theodore and Esther Garman, two of his three children with Kathleen Garman, died in 1954. Theo died during an attempt to hospitalise him for treatment for recurrent mental illness, and Esther was so distraught at the the death of her brother that she committed suicide shortly afterwards.
Epstein and Kathleen Garman were married at a private ceremony in 1955 and travelled to Philadelphia for the unveiling of Social Consciousness. Epstein was then commissioned to create the Trades Union Congress War Memorial in London and St Michael and the Devil for Coventry Cathedral. In 1956 Liverpool Resurgent and Field Marshall Smuts were unveiled and Epstein received another commission, for a memorial to William Blake in Westminster Abbey.
Christ in Majesty and William Blake were unveiled in 1957. Epstein was too ill to attend the unveiling of the TUC War Memorial in 1958, but recovered sufficiently to model Princess Margaret later that year, and begin work on his last commission, the Bowater House Group.
Epstein completed two pieces of work in his final year. He modelled a posthumous portrait of David Lloyd George for the House of Parliament and finished the Bowater House Group on the day of his death. He died on 19th August 1959 at home at Hyde Park Gate. The memorial service was held at St Paul’s Cathedral and he was buried in Putney Vale Cemetery. | English | NL | 5e325bf5b5e907f20b83f2f15b72c8b1cf105cefde6191d666b1d957b1689ba7 |
Dan couldn’t say he enjoyed his life much. Living in the middle of Phoenix was the closest thing to a hell on earth he could think of. Already, in just February, the temperature was almost ninety. He groaned while thinking about how the summer was going to be.
Add to this the miles and miles it took just to leave the track home suburbia behind him. It required a fifty mile drive just to see a plot of land without a house or business planted on it, not that he had time to head out into nature much. Dan worked full time, pushed himself through a master’s program, while helping care for his aging mother, who always acted like she was doing him the favor. Any little fragments of spare time he ever had were always eaten up by his school work.
After pushing back a long strand of dark hair, he sighed while lighting up a smoke. Even though his long work day was finished, he still had three hours of live classes and a forty minute commute home.
He took a long drag and then almost hit a car that suddenly slowed from sixty to twenty in front of him. He was just able to slam on the breaks in time, but as he watched, the car started to roll into another lane where a passing SUZ hit it full on. Both cars began to spin out of control and it was all Dan could do to remain clear of the explosion of glass and twisted metal.
Not knowing what else to do, he pulled over into the break down lane, but he almost didn’t make it as more cars went out of control and collisions occurred both before and behind him.
“What the hell,” he said aloud as he pulled over as far as the lane would allow. He saw a few other motorists trying to do the same thing, but those proved to be the exceptions. The majority of the vehicles plowed into each other. He had never seen such destruction outside of a disaster movie.
Looking around he saw other people scrambling out of their cars and looking as confused as he was, but he turned his attention to those still on the road. A woman’s car coasted to a stop not far from him. Despite the risk, he rushed over to her ride.
Upon reaching the passenger window, he saw that she appeared to be unconscious. He banged on the window, but she didn’t move. He was banging again when one of the people on the side of the road yelled out a warning. Dan jumped back just in time to avoid a semi that raced out of control into the stalled car, which held the sleeping woman.
Feeling like his heart had just leapt out of his mouth, he stumbled back to the break down lane. Everywhere broken and burning cars filled the highway. He spotted more vehicles that had avoided the mayhem, but just stayed where they were. From the distance he could see several of them had drivers that appeared to be unconscious or sleeping.
Taking in the drivers there seemed to be no difference between them and the people on the side of the road. Both men and women stood there in fear. Both old and young were affected and yet also immune.
“Must be some poisonous gas or something,” a man in his sixties yelled.
“Then why didn’t it affect us?” A young man in shorts with a sleeve full of tattoos asked.
A woman on the edge of panicking clutched a young boy in her arms. “Whatever it is has affected my son, what should I do?’
Dan joined the other two men, near the mother. The older man looked over the boy and concluded, “He looks like he’s breathing normally. He just seems to be asleep.”
“But he won’t wake up.”
“Neither will anyone else,” Dan said and then joined the others as they ducked down due to another giant explosion.
The older man straightened up. “The only thing we know for sure is that we’re in a shitload of trouble. | English | NL | 8933d5d209298cd5faf7b30ad7846dc5714903028c72dd311d151a840edce243 |
Chad Everett, a ruggedly handsome actor who played young Dr. Joe Gannon on the TV drama “Medical Center,” has died. He was 75.
Everett died Tuesday at his home in the Los Angeles area after battling lung cancer, his daughter Katherine Thorp told the Associated Press. Everett’s wife of 45 years, actress Shelby Grant, died of an aneurysm in June 2011 at 74.
Although Everett had a range of TV and movie roles over a career that began in the early 1960s, he made a lasting impression as Dr. Gannon on “Medical Center.” The dramatic series aired on CBS from 1969 to 1976 and followed the personal and professional lives of the staff at a teaching hospital in Los Angeles.
“Understatement is apparently a highly salable commodity on TV,” a Washington Post reporter wrote in a 1975 article on male stardom. “Chad Everett, a big city type, seldom stoops to histrionics as he lethargically makes his rounds on ‘Medical Center.’ ”
Everett arrived in Hollywood from the Midwest. He was born Raymond Lee Cramton in South Bend, Ind., on June 11, 1937, and grew up in Dearborn, Mich., where his father was a race car driver and racing mechanic. He studied drama at Wayne State University in Detroit.
“I went into acting because I’m easily bored,” Everett told The Times in 1966, several years after he had changed his name for professional reasons. “I had tried — in my own juvenile way — music, football, business with my father. All of them bored me. Acting seemed to give vent to a lot of different feelings.”
He landed jobs on episodic TV shows beginning in 1961 and then won a featured role on the TV western “The Dakotas” in 1963.
He signed a contract with MGM in 1964 and appeared in “Made in Paris” with Ann-Margret and “The Singing Nun” with Debbie Reynolds in 1966.
Everett worked steadily in television before and after “Medical Center,” appearing as a regular in “Hagen,” “The Rousters,” “McKenna,” “Melrose Place,” “Manhattan, AZ” and as recently as last year on “Chemistry,” a USA network drama.
His movie roles included parts in “Airplane II: The Sequel” (1982), the 1998 remake of"Psycho"and “Mulholland Dr.” (2001).
Everett was taken to court three times by actress Sheila Scott, who claimed he was the father of her son Dale, who was born in 1973. The long-running paternity dispute ended in 1981 when a Los Angeles County Superior Court jury ruled in favor of Everett, who steadfastly denied the claims.
In addition to Thorp, he is survived by his other daughter, Shannon Everett, and six grandchildren. | English | NL | 90d7c46de1a2a67b3e14cc33da0e9dfbfd298aeb57f5651cd91ff0624fafe00d |
The Joy of Painting in Oil
I remember the first time I smelled turpentine and oil paint. I was probably three. It’s one of my first memories. My father, Jim Logan was a house painter, his company, Logan for Painting, was the oldest painting company in the state of Maine. So I kind of have the love of oil paint and painting in my DNA.
Dad’s smell was intoxicating to me. His soft flannel shirts, with his sleeves rolled up, splatters of paint in his hair and on his dark, tanned skin, had the aroma of oil paint saturated in his pores. My Father used to play color matching games with me using his color books from Benjamin Moore and have me try to paint the color myself. Color was part of our sharing and a special vocabulary between us.
So, when I first encountered the medium of oil painting in the Arts Department at the University of Maine, I had deep connections with paternal love and familiarity.
My arts education was back in the time of “ Do whatever you want” and learning how to paint was not as important and being free and liberal in what you painted. So, I struggled with learning how to control it as a medium, got frustrated and turned to oil pastel, which I did for at least 15 years out of college. I did paint in oils but not with commitment, lacking the formal education of the medium that I needed.
Years past, I taught art, raised children and had some shows, opened art stores, galleries, etc. but it hasn’t been until recent years that I have become infatuated with painting in oil and had the good education that I so needed. I could always draw but learning how to paint, especially in oils is it’s own category.
I had a great teacher and mentor, artist- Ron Frontin, who answered many questions and brought many more. Ron’s approach was to begin with black and white, monochromatic studies of bricks and simple shapes. To learn the basics of moving the paint and brush work before adding the complexity of color. Then we would continue in the “brick yard” with simple color studies of bricks in various light.
The palette of colors that he suggest is basically a warm and cool of each color, 5 or so neutrals, some quinacridones and phthalo’s for synthetic color, and good amounts of whites, and constructed around as a rainbow. His idea is to get to know your colors, place them always in the same place so you go to that with motor memory. His arrangement is piled high with years of colors, stretching rainbow piles about his big, artist palette. Ron, is a colorist, his work embedded with layers of woven colors and is stunning. I am very lucky to have him as a teacher and friend.
I use a variety of paint. Windsor Newton, artist grade, mostly. I sometimes look on Ebay for a lot sale. It is often a great way of buying the 150 ml. tubes. I have found that using artist grade, rather than student grade is worth paying the price difference, as the student grade paints are slick with more oil/ pigment ratio and the artist grade containing more pigment, which means sometimes I do use a medium to loosen the paint a bit. I also prefer to paint on Belgian Linen. It is pricey but I find that the quality of the detail I can paint on it and it is so much more satisfying. I also like to gesso or acrylic medium a piece of Stonehenge Drawing heavy drawing paper and then paint with oils on it. It feels great. I then get the sheets hot pressed to a piece of gator board, and varnish it and it makes it frame ready.
The use of brushes, the cleaning and care of brushes is something that I can also thank my Father for. He used to show me how to clean his brushes everyday and leave them conditioned and in top condition for the next day’s work. I like using Jack Richeson Linseed Brush Cleaner for my brushes. I clean at the end of every session and have had brushes for years. I like to paint with filberts, chinese bristle in 4’s, 6’s, 8’s and then sables. I do use larger brushes but tend to keep a smaller one on hand for painting throughout.
I only used turpentine to clean between colors. I hardly ever dilute my paint with it, other than my first layer of imprimatura painting which is the thin, first layer of drawing, composing on the canvas. The idea of painting thick over thin is important to remember as the paint will crack if it is painted to thin over a thick layer.
I hope that something you read might inspire you to paint today. I do it with joy as often as possible. | English | NL | 3e926f6f1918a86043bb152fc48d272c5c10cbfd10b65cb766bbfe3bb6f1dd3b |
Portitor has horrendus aguas et
flumina servat terribili squalore Charon( . . . ).
Aeneidos, VI, 298-299)
On the few occasions when he received a letter he always did the same thing: he would wait to open it until early evening, after he finished dinner. Dinner is perhaps exaggerating; in fact a piece of bread with ham, a glass of red wine, and cheese with a slice of quince jelly was all there usually was to his solitary meal. He considered that for an older man who lived alone that was more than sufficient. Until a short time before, the voice of the radio had accompanied his meals, but that old artifact also had been added to the sizeable list of objects in his life that had ceased to interest him. Every now and then, Paddy, one of his nephews, would pay him a visit to make sure that he was doing all right and would sometimes succeed in persuading him to leave the island.
That morning he had received a package in the mail and despite the fact that this was unusual, he gave not the first thought to opening it before the accustomed moment. He had taken a look at the return address and, as he had suspected, the package came from Ireland.
It was addressed to Timothy O’Connor, that is to say, to him, although he was Timoteo. Sinéad, as had his previous correspondent Oona, always ignored the Argentine version of his name.
Jack White’s Cross Road
Co. Wicklow, IRELAND
Mrs. Sinéad O’Reilly was his last and only link with Ireland and virtually with the entire external reality. And despite their correspondence having lasted for more than forty years, including the exchange of a few photos, he had never met her (nor would he). It was for this reason that in truth he was never quite sure of whom it was that he was corresponding with. He knew, however, that Mrs. O’Reilly was the granddaughter of a first cousin of his mother who had died (God rest her soul), leaving him with the job of preserving that distant connection and, in time, with her descendants, an epistolary relationship that maintained his ties with the Green Isle, the land of his ancestors. And since Timoteo—the youngest of seven brothers—had always been easygoing by nature, the arrangement had continued unbroken. The fact that he was a dutiful son was attested to by his never having been married.
Outside, the wind howled mournfully.
He drank off the last of the wine and glanced over at the shelf where he had left the package. He sat quietly for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. Then his gaze shifted to the yellowing walls surrounding him, invaded by dampness and hung with photographs of persons long dead. He stood up and went over to the package that awaited him. He ran his fingers over the Irish stamps and smiled to himself at the handwriting of his distant and unknown relative, which had gradually become less firm and controlled over the years. Whose death would it be that would put an end to this ridiculous correspondence? Would someone else step in if she were the first to go? On the other hand, if he went first he understood that that would be the end of the ritual.
He picked up the penknife and began to cut the twine that secured the package. As he did so, his eyes glanced about the room and came to rest on the old “Concertola” with its large listening horn. That old record player that had provided him with so many moments of occasional happiness was now condemned to silence as the result of a decision he had taken. On its turntable lay, perhaps forever, the last record he had listened to years before, the one that had “Galway Bay,” a song that he had first heard in a movie from some time back in the Fifties, possibly The Quiet Man . . . a film by John Ford, although the version he had was sung by John McCormack or Bing Crosby . . . He didn’t remember exactly . . . He did recall that he hadn’t gotten up the nerve to invite Dina, the girl who worked with him at the Armour Packing House in Buenos Aires, to see it with him, and for that reason he had gone to the theater alone. What was sure was that he knew the song by heart and some of the lines would drift back to him occasionally, as they did now.
And if there is going to be a life hereafter
And somehow I am sure there's going to be,
I will ask my God to let me make my heaven
In that dear land across the Irish sea
The song by Arthur Colahan expressed something obscure that he could not completely grasp but that was rooted deep within him and the truth was that if there were to be another life after this one, he would ask God to let him spend it in far-off Ireland—a symbolical and sentimental desire, although perhaps unjustified because he had never set foot on Irish soil. But this fact was likely the very cause for that yearning. He smiled and coughed briefly to disperse the image and returned his attention to the package. Unwrapped, it contained a letter and beneath it a medium-sized box. The letter described to him trivial events that for Sinéad held great importance. At the end came a greeting on his birthday that explained the reason for the gift enclosed. The last lines were standard sentiments, “Hoping that when this reaches you you’re in good health, write soon, affectionately, Sinead.” Now he really was feeling curious. When he removed the top of the box, he saw that wooden cutouts, encased in straw stuffing, had been placed around the object to protect it from rough handling. He had no idea what the gift was. At first he was confused and it took him a moment or two before he realized that it was an artfully fashioned imitation of an ancient hourglass. He was touched by the movement of the enclosed sand. Itching sensations in his forearms and upper arms interrupted this emotion. It turned out that countless small spiders were spreading out over his skin in a kind of exotic dance. He brushed them off with his hands and as they fell to the floor he stepped on them repeatedly. As he did this, he noticed the straw stuffing that he had tossed on the floor: that was where the aggressive little insects had emerged from. He crushed them all and gathered them up in a dustpan, which he emptied into the garbage bin, thus putting an end to the incident. He turned back to the gift. As he toyed with the shifting sand, his gaze lifted to the large clock that hung on the wall; it was midnight. He realized that time had slipped by as he entertained himself with Sinéad’s present. He also noticed that he was beginning to sweat. He set the hourglass aside. He touched his brow and found it damp; a vein on his temple had become swollen. He felt ill and, now experiencing lightheadedness, decided to stay seated right there, next to the cheese parings and the now empty wine glass. When he placed his hands on the table he saw that the age spots on his skin were surrounded by a trail of red blotches that stretched up his arms and that resembled mosquito bites, but whose size was far larger than is usual with that insect. Suddenly, he remembered the swarm of spiders and that was sufficient. Now he began to feel worse. He didn’t want to think, or he wasn’t able to. In spite of what was happening, he decided that the best thing was to go to bed; in the morning it would all have passed. Because of his increasing weakness, it was hard for him to stand up, much less reach for the hourglass, which for some strange reason he wanted to take with him. But after a few attempts, he was able to get up. He reached the doorway to his room. Before going in, he managed with some difficulty to turn out the lamp in the kitchen. He felt his way to the night table and lit the bedside lamp, setting the anachronistic hourglass down beside it. Seated on the bed, he opened the night table drawer and reached for the two coins that for several years he had kept there, ever since he had started to realize the dizzying passage of time, and at a time when small gratifying daily habits began to replace medications. The routine of the coins was a kind of tradition, a symbolic inheritance that he did not really comprehend and that no one had ever explained to him, one that he had never made an effort to understand. But there they were and he felt now that he should make used of them. Committed as he was to his daily routine, he nevertheless omitted the last trip to the bathroom, dispensed with pajamas and, still fully dressed, lay down. Without knowing the reasons for doing so, he took the two coins and in keeping with the ritual placed them over his weary eyes. The hoped-for darkness was not complete so he decided to turn off the bedside lamp, which he managed to do with some difficulty and not without knocking over the hourglass that Sinéad had sent him from Ireland. In the now full blackness he heard the sound of the glass shattering and also, he thought, the whisper of the sand as it spread out over the floor. “How strange,” he thought. How strange. And it truly was, because after sensing that the coins had disappeared, he opened his eyes and faced a violet-shaded firmament crowded with planets and stars. That new sky stretched out over an immense desert on which he was lying, not alone but alongside the person who had removed the coins and who now motioned to him to follow his lead. As they began to walk the grains of sand seemed to be caressing their bare feet. He advanced as if some other being were in charge of his movement. He also felt that his arms were reaching out to embrace something and that he was an abstraction, a part of some separate whole. Soon he found himself standing next to the other person on a riverbank where a boat was waiting for him. The guide indicated that he should get into it, and, perhaps because it appeared to be shaped like a coffin, he thought that he should lie down. This he did while his companion, standing at the prow, began to row across the waters. If time actually existed, he was unable to calculate just when his boat began to encounter many others, all of which seemed to have the shape of cradles. He was unable to determine who occupied those small crafts. In spite of the darkness, a murmuring sound let him know that he was approaching the other bank. The ferryman confirmed this by reaching over to help him to stand. When his feet touched the other territory, which similarly consisted of sand, the single land where all civilizations and all cultures merge again and again, his boat and guide disappeared. What he could see were some faces among that murmuring throng. Among them he recognized his farming grandparents, the old lady who had prepared him for First Communion, Miss Caroline Mosca, the teacher who had taught him to read and write . . . Dina Near, the woman he had secretly loved as a youth during his long-lost years as an office clerk . . . old friends, women he thought he had forgotten forever . . . all these and many more, now lost amid beings of all sorts, were those who directly or indirectly had had some contact with him during his passage through life. Every one of them was there and though they looked at him none spoke. Not sure whether or not they were able to talk, neither did he feel the need to speak. Those who had apparently come forward to receive him now stepped aside for him to continue on his path. Soon the multitudes were left behind and this encouraged him to look toward what lay in the space before him; this led, in turn, to his discovery that it was impossible to define the limits of that new territory and at the same time allowed him to perceive a faint, indistinct glow, far ahead to the left. Without any conscious reason for doing so, he moved in that direction. After a short time (time?) he found he was a short distance (distance?) from the source of light. It was a section of a building that was very familiar to him that had the shape of a box set down on the desert. There were no windows but the door stood half open and it was from the room’s interior that the light that had attracted him was emanating. When he approached the door, he saw a man and a woman who were looking at him. They were obviously his parents. They were watching him silently and their expressions were a mixture of fear and surprise. They moved to one side, allowing him to enter the single room. He stepped in and what he encountered was the body of an elderly man, who looked identical to him, his own exact image. From his bed he was staring inquisitively at him, intently scrutinizing him. He stepped forward. As he approached the body his feet trod on broken glass. He touched the dying man on the forehead and was suddenly overwhelmed by an indescribable sense of finality and union, overpowering and complete.
Accompanied by the police officers who had broken down the door, Paddy saw that, consumed by decay, the body of his uncle that lay on the bed resembled nothing more than an old suit, soiled and abandoned. What stood out were the still intact eyes, wide open as if in surprise over the nature of death.
Translation of “Las dos monedas.” Copyright Juan José Delaney. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2010 by Donald A. Yates. All rights reserved. | English | NL | c74a278f55e3295674a9890de78105877d4beff5289ce0b8de8d3f9a3ce52f46 |
Post by Graveyardbride on Dec 13, 2018 20:03:30 GMT -5
For Sale: The Most Haunted House in Joliet
If you’re interested in owning a lovely old 5-bedroom, 2-bath, 3,280-square-foot, Romanesque Revival-style home, this may be the house for you. Built in 1897 by noted architect Frank Shaver Allen, the limestone block and shingle dwelling at 608 Morgan Street boasts an unusually large turret, arched entrance and still has its original hardwood floors and woodwork. Though the residence will require a little (perhaps a lot) of TLC, it is easily the most-impressive home in the neighborhood, standing on a large, elevated lot nine steps above the sidewalk. It is hoped someone will rescue the historic property and restore it to its former glory. It can be yours for a mere $84,900.
Frank Shaver “F.S.” Allen, born in 1860 in Galesburg, Illinois, was a renowned architect in his home state, California and other locations. In the late 19th century, his preferred style seemed to be Richardsonian Romanesque, but he also designed in other styles. Some of his most notable public buildings are Kenosha High School, Sioux City Central High School, Lincoln High School (Racine, Wisconsin), and San Diego High School in California. Among the private homes he designed in Joliet are the Marcus Krakar residence at 225 N. Hickory Street, and the Patrick C. Haley mansion at 17 S. Center Street, both in the Romanesque style. Allen was also an Egyptologist and avid collector of fine art.
Allen’s first wife, Mary Hendries, died in childbirth in 1895 and never lived in the Morgan Street house. The widower remarried and he and his second wife and five children, as well as a succession of nannies and servants, remained in the home until 1904. At that time, Allen, 44-years-old and wishing to broaden his horizons, relocated to California, where he continued designing schools, other public buildings and private homes, one of which is the Craftsmen-style residence at 1100 New York Drive in Altadena. He was as popular in the west as he had been in Illinois and was instrumental in founding the Tournament of Roses Parade, of which he served as grand marshal in 1906.
Then a young boy disappeared for a period of time and when it was discovered the lad had been in the company of Mr. Allen, the architect fell from grace with a resounding thud. There were allegations of moral corruption, but somehow, the architect managed to avoid charges. According to some reports, there was at least one other incident in which the husband and father of five was accused, or at least suspected, of a crime against nature. By 1920, he was divorced, had closed his architectural firm and was listed as a salesman of sound machines.
Ghosts. According to Haunted Rooms, the house is one of the 10 most haunted locations in Illinois. The supernatural activity first came to light in the 1970s when a reporter heard the family living in the home at the time had reported seeing at least three apparitions: that of an elderly lady, a nanny and a little boy. The family’s young son allegedly had several encounters with the spirit child, whom he claimed wanted a playmate. The living inhabitants also complained of doors slamming of their own accord, disembodied voices and screams, and shadowy figures. Though such activity would be enough to scare off most buyers, Steve Roake, a realtor handling the listing, said the home’s reputation has actually generated interest among those with an interest in the paranormal.
Some wonder if the strange occurrences could be the result of a haunting by Allen himself, who returns to the house in spirit form to a more pleasant time before his reputation was ruined and he was shunned by society.
Sources: Joseph Horsey, The Patch, April 4, 2017; Trulia; P. Seth Magosky," Shocking News," Living History, November 13, 2009; Susan Z, "Haunted Houses are Hot Real Estate," 7th Sense Stories, April 29, 2017; and Lisa Roppolo, "Haunted Joliet: A Guide to the City's Most Haunted Locations," Exemplore, September 12, 2016. | English | NL | 6cb1af239e2a349c78851486ccc6180257d06e12dd097221ba9122eec61cdb6e |
Gaige let himself into the house, removed his over-sized sunglasses, and tossed them on the small stand in the foyer. He wouldn’t need to hide his eyes until his freakaziod father got home in a few hours. Then again, he rarely saw his dad as the man always ensconced himself in his “office” when he wasn’t on his spaceship or where ever the hell he went.
Gaige wandered into the dining room, headed for a gleaming red apple nestled in a fruit basket on the table. He paused, mid-reach, catching his reflection in the polished wood. The red spot in my eye—shit.
During the soccer match two nights ago, not only did he score multiple goals, but took a kick to the side of the head. He wondered if he’d ruptured a blood vessel that leaked into his eye. He gingerly tapped his bruised cheek, dropped his soccer ball and stepped to the mirror that hung heavy, stately, on the dining room wall.
His mom hated that mirror. Said it reminded her of pretense and bullshit, and only served to reflect her sorry marriage. Gaige had been her respite from the world. Before she died, she’d been at every soccer match, cheering him on while his father probably didn’t know his son even played the sport.
He moved closer to the reflective glass. Shit, he mused, is that red spot glowing? He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Maybe it’s a concussion.
He bit into his apple, thoughtfully. It gave a satisfying snap as juice squirted onto his face. He ran a hand across his mouth then wiped his palm on his shorts. His bare chest was still sweaty from practice. He liked the muscles starting to bulge in chiseled, hard-edged power. He flexed his arm and stared at the reflection of his rock solid biceps and solid chest. Tonight I give all this to Emily. We’re finally going to do it. He’d have to keep his sunglasses on, pretend to be a badass, though. No need to elicit pity over my eye.
He snagged the soccer ball between his feet and dribbled along the hallway toward his bedroom. Taking another bite of apple, it slipped from his fingers and he flailed forward trying to catch it. In the process, the ball went airborne down the hall, bounced off the wall, hitting his father’s office door, pushing it further open and disappearing inside. Shit.
He hurried in hoping like hell nothing was broken. Standing in the middle of the bedroom-turned-home office, his pulse pounded. His father assured him if he ever went past the door, he’d wish for death after he finished punishing him.
If his mother hated the dining room mirror, she’d despised his office. “Nothing but evil secrets in that room,” he’d heard her say.
Gaige took a moment to look around. It appeared more like a tactical war room than an office. What the hell does he do in here? A massive table stood in the center of the room. The back wall held an array of monitors showing maps of Earth and news feeds from around the globe.
It made him think of a long ago cartoon he watched on rerun, Pinky and the Brain. “Gee, dad, what do you want to do tonight?” he said, mimicking the show. “The same thing we do every night, son—try to take over the world!” he said in a lower voice, pretending to be his father as the Brain. He heaved a grunt.
One monitor showed a strange, bleak, yellow, red, and brown landscape. Looked like a dying alien world in a sci-fi flick. My father’s home planet? Gaige wondered. Under the monitors, the bedroom’s original closet was filled with junk. He set his apple on the desk and stuck his head in for a peek. Sounds erupted from the front door as his father and several others stomped into the house.
Shit! What the hell’s he doing home so early? His heart hammered, both from his breach into his father’s forbidden domain and the sight of four disgusting male Deltarcs entering the dining room that he spied through the wide-open office door. Fuck. Another meeting of the High Council of Deltarc, freaks of the planet. I’m in trouble, big time.
The males dredged down the hallway.
Gaige flew for the slatted closet, barely closing it before his father appeared in the doorway, the other males behind him. Through the narrow slits in the sliding closet panel, he watched his father pause, staring at the entrance to his lair, his face becoming ugly. His eyes lifted to the desk where Gaige left his apple.
Sweat burst from Gaige’s forehead and neck. Shit, shit, shit. I’m going to be in so much fucking trouble.
A smile bloomed on his dad’s face as he resumed his human role as a bank executive. “Can I get you anything? A cocktail, perhaps? Beer, wine, bourbon?”
The men agreed on bourbon and Gaige’s father poured hefty slugs into thick crystal glasses. They solemnly lifted their drinks in a toast and tossed back swallows.
A ding rang out, indicating his father just received an email. His dad turned to the monitor resting on the desk, while Gaige squinted at the screen, trying to make out what the reading pane said.
Lyrica Dupond, he read, is being transported to a new cryo-facility. Her condition worsens.
How can a dead woman’s condition worsen? Gaige thought, an icy chill forming along his head and spine.
His father frowned as he read.
We’ve tried various treatments without effect. We’re sending her to one last facility, still in a state of cryo-preservation.
What? My mother isn’t dead? She’s been cryo-preserved? He thought his father drained her dead from his “nightly feedings,” and he despised him for it—as in murderous hate, like a viper living in his gut. The wood slats in front of his face reflected a slight red glow while the rage in his belly grew molten hot.
His dad shut the laptop, and rapped on it with his knuckles before sitting, his back to Gaige.
“Bad news?” one of the males asked.
“Nothing that compromises the mission.” His father tried to divert the conversation.
“Speaking of missions, how’s your son? Any signs of his Deltarc spore?”
Gaige watched his father stiffen, his shoulders rising. “Not yet. He still takes after his mother.” He practically spit the word out like a poison seed.
“Seers say the time for Red Rex has come.”
Red Rex? What the hell is that? Gaige thought, struggling to keep it together.
“Legend says the mightiest of Deltarcs will fall to his progeny, a blood hex. Thus begins the rise and reign of the savior Red Rex.”
His father placed both hands, palms down, on the table and let out a vicious, angry squeal, sounding more like a wild boar than human.
The males’ eyes grew wide and they sat very, very still.
Gaige clamped his hand over his mouth, trying to keep from vomiting.
“Gentlemen,” his father said in a more conciliatory voice. “Since when did you believe in fantasy? That legend has been applied to every new ruler in Deltarc history. That story’s nothing but mythology, I assure you. Do you honestly think my whelp of a son is stronger than you, Chax?” He lifted a finger in one of the male’s directions.
The male smiled nervously and shook his head.
“Or me? Honestly. You’re like hens sometimes.” He lifted his glass to his lips. “I’m about to become the supreme warrior general.”
The what? Gaige thought. Loud murmurs and “hear, hear” cheers and shouts of assent followed his father’s declaration.
“Let me prove it. Let’s skip the tactical meeting. It’s time to force his transformation,” his father said. He pressed a few buttons on a funky looking mobile phone. “Sylvia? Remember what I asked you to set up?” He paused. “We’re ready now. No. I said right fucking now.” His father disconnected the communication device and said, “I’ve arranged it. We’ll breed him to a pure she-male.”
Prickles of fear washed along his scalp. Breed me? Like a fucking stallion? Hell, no. The only one who gets my virginity is Emily. Tonight, if I can wing it.
“Have you noticed anything unusual, my lord?” one of the males asked his father.
My lord? Gaige wrapped his arms tightly in front of his bare chest. Since when do people call him my lord?
“Why, yes, his lovely teenage hormones have finally kicked in. He’s ogling a female from his school, but hasn’t fucked her yet as far as I can discern. I’m damn tired of waiting. He’s been slow to mature but I’ve noticed him behaving oddly. I think we’ll have a warrior minion on our hands.” His father smacked his lips.
Gaige’s head began to swim and the freakish compulsions he’d been feeling lately—disturbing, bizarre cravings, like he wanted to consume his girlfriend, not merely lose his virginity to her. He thought he might faint, blowing his cover.
“We know the male transformation has to be forced—we’ve all experienced it. But breed him?” another said.
“Our race is dwindling. We came here to feed and grow strong again. However, with all the she-males miscarrying, we might still become extinct if we don’t figure out what’s happening. We force the transformation and see what he’s made of.
“So far, he’s taken after his mother. But he may have more of our kind in him than we think. And we breed him to as many she-males as possible and use them to find a cure for the stillborns—he’s young and virile and his seed is no doubt superior.
“Then—if he fails to prove useful or he turns out to be some sort of fucking mutant, we snuff out his lights.” His father lifted his glass and drained it into his throat. “Gentlemen?” he said, standing, stepping to the liquor cabinet and lifting the decanter of bourbon. “Who wants a refill?”
Gaige felt weak and shaky, like his legs were going to give out. My father wants to snuff out my lights? What kind of father says that shit?
As the alcohol hit the males’ bodies and they began to relax, their true Deltarc appearances began to emerge. Gaige had never actually seen it happen—he’d only caught his father unawares after he’d transformed. His lip curled in disgust as the men’s human forms blurred and they became short, stocky, beast-like creatures with yellow and red skin, horns protruding from their skulls.
His father portrayed himself as a handsome Italian playboy businessman and now looked the ugliest of the bunch, if such a thing were possible. He shrank in stature, legs bowed, and skin glistened. His tongue slid over his lips, then darted out to snag a crumb from the floor, like a monster frog.
“Fuck me,” Gaige whispered, his stomach churning in revulsion. He put his hand on his stomach in an attempt to quell the queasy feeling. He’d never witnessed his father’s real tongue. He glanced at the small glowing tattoos on the males’ faces—all identical to his father’s. The outline of a star with a circle and a triangle inside stood as the symbol for the “supra-celestial” or “diamond body,” an invisible channel of energy supposedly surrounding every being—every superior being, his father told him once. All the big-wig, muckety-mucks in the organization wore them, distinguishing themselves from their lessors.
His father finished his second drink and rapped his knuckles on the meeting table. “Okay, let’s do this. I’ll meet you there in about a half hour. After that, I’ll need a good long feeding. I’ve never found anyone as sweet as my empathic wife’s delta brain waves.”
Gaige watched his father shudder—he actually shivered with longing. Bile bubbled into Gaige’s throat. That’s what he thought of my mother? Nothing but a feeding station?
“Not many humans have delta brain waves as good as an empath’s, and there are not many empaths on this planet. How are you sustaining?” a male asked.
“I’ve had nothing but thetas and alpha waves,” his father grumbled. “A fellow can’t live long on those.”
Another commented, “Have you heard the latest? Our scientists are getting closer to creating a drug to put humans into a deeper sleep through a process called cryopreservation.”
A wicked little smile played along the edges of his father’s face. “Yes, I know. Who do you think started and funded this revolutionary idea three years ago? Well, my wife started it,” his chuckle drove through Gaige’s core, “but she had little choice in the decision. She’s being experimented on as we speak. Permanent delta. Endless supplies. Think of it,” he said dreamily. “Our kind…” He pulled a disgusted face. “No more she-males wide awake, chattering like monkeys. Only the release and the feeding, no conversation.”
The males grunted like pigs, making Gaige’s eyebrows knit together.
His father rapped his knuckles yet again, with his signature “tap, tap” move. “We’re adjourned. Let the transformation commence.” He smiled broadly, glancing at the closet.
Fuck! Gaige thought. I’m screwed. After they exited the office, he swiftly, quietly slipped from his father’s lair, apple and ball in hand, and hustled to his bedroom in the back on the next floor.
He grabbed a duffle bag from the closet and shoved in t-shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear. Then swiped the only picture of his mom from the bedside table and stuffed it between the clothes.
“Gaige? Would you come out here, son?”
Gaige froze. He couldn’t go out the front door without confronting his father. He crept toward the windowsill, and gently pried it open.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” his father said.
Gaige didn’t turn. Instead, he tossed the duffle to the grass, two stories down.
“Found an apple in my office,” his father said in casual conversation.
“Did you?” Gaige said and flung his leg over the sill. “I hope you choke on it.”
“Where you headed?” His dad’s voice came normal, no big deal, but Gaige felt chilled to the bone.
“Away from here. I’m done living in what you call a home,” he called without looking at his father. “You and your freakish kind can play among yourselves.”
The most sinister laugh he’d ever heard left his father’s throat. “Oh, son, how quickly you forget. Genes are genes, boy. Mine are strong.”
“Yeah, well you can fucking drown in them,” Gaige said, swinging his other leg out the window. He looked down at the side yard, thinking how little he’d miss this place. He started to push off to freedom when his father’s tongue noosed around his neck, wrenching him up and over the sill, to slam him against the solid hardwood floor, unconscious.
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The first lines that I’m choosing to comment on are the first stanza of the poem: “Because I could not stop for Death / He kindly stopped for me / The Carriage held but just Ourselves / And Immortality.” She is describing how you cannot control when you die. How death comes when it wants to. Carriages are meant to carry people. What could the carriage represent? These lines make me question what if we had time to stop for Death, would Death still come to us? The poem answers this question by showing us that Death will patiently wait for us if we have time for him.
Another one of the intriguing comments was from the line: “We passed the School, where Children strove.” The children could represent the living. How there are still people that are alive. Death has not come for them yet. They are still “striving,” aka living. This poem makes me wonder why death doesn’t come for everybody? The poem does in some ways answer it. The poet says that death comes for everybody; it may not be your timing as yet, but it does come. And no one sees it coming.
The poem “Because I could not stop for Death” makes me question why death is described as a gentle and patient man while it is really a very dreadful thing. The poem answers this by the speaker being kind of ecstatic to be going to the afterlife. It seems as if the speaker was ready to pass on. “Were toward Eternity –” the last line in the poem is an example of this. At first, my idea of this poem was that the speaker didn’t want to pass on yet, that they still had things to fulfill, but it changed to the idea that the speaker wanted to pass on but never had the time to pass on, so thankfully for them, Death came along and carried the speaker toward eternity.Tags: Harvest Collegiate High School | English | NL | b7d95b872dfa984b4990b3109f6aa4a31b97a779d614cb9b779afbff8ed6c119 |
Wednesday, 12/ 17/14
In pu Gospel Matthew gave us a list of the ancestors of Joseph and Mary, and it differs greatly from the list that St. Luke gives us.
Matthew did not mean for it to be taken as an accurate account. He did not try to make the figures fit. He wrote that there were just fourteen generations for the eight hundred years tine span between Jacob and David; the just fourteen generations in the time span between David and the captivity; and fourteen generations for the six hundred year time span between the captivity and Joseph.
For understanding Matthew’s account we need to know what moved him to write it. Let me explain. After the destruction of Jerusalem in the year 70 A.D. the surviving Pharisees began reshaping Judaism. They began to say that since the religion no longer had its temple the essential core of being Jewish had to be observing Kosher.
With that, they turned against Christians who neglected Kosher to eat with pagans. Further, they were saying the Jesus who the Christians worshipped, was not a true Jew, since he mixed with pagans. | English | NL | 15a47d053eb186ded4e95d1484eeeb2b3ceafabfe20b2d1be9793843f28a016e |
About Mrs. Eicoff
Mrs. Tania Eicoff received her B.A. and M.A. from Brooklyn College where she was elected to Phi Beta Kappa. She continued her studies at Middlebury College and at the City University of New York. She is licensed to teach English and E.S.L. and has taught both subjects. Mrs. Eicoff has taken 15 trips to France with her students and also organized an exchange program for 12 years with a high school in Normandy. At St. Joseph Hill Academy, she moderates the French Club and Trasbusters.
"Madame", as she is known to her students, has been teaching for as long as she is married and counts both as blessings in her life! | English | NL | a8c7a365d0ade845a1fbf139edea1f0820d061096a85ce18f74cf21e0f787641 |
The search was continued by European explorers and missionaries as they traveled through China. During the 3rd Crusade, John of Joinville, the chief chronicler for Louis IX of France, wrote of two envoys where were sent to Kuyuk Khan, bearing with them a chapel..
Nestorian missionaries converted the Keraits, along with the Naiman and Merkit tribes, early in the 11th century. These Asian Christians became very different theologically from their counterparts in the West, and were perceived as a mythical cult. From this perception grew the fantastical legend of Prester John. | English | NL | 7d21ba9acaccf10ef662357fa95f3f4912788e69fdef558c31fb84a2d689a917 |
We regret to announce the passing of Robert Louis Gravelle at the age of 73 years, on March 1, 2010, at Hospice House in Vernon, BC. Bob will be lovingly remembered by his wife and soul-mate of 15 years, Sue; his children, Rika Gravelle, Jeanette (John) Burgher, and Martin (Jennifer) Gravelle; and his grandchildren, Joel, Daniel, and Claire Burgher, Marc Gravelle, and Dillon Chicoski. Bob will also be dearly missed by his two brothers, Phil (Betty) Favreau, and Jean (Claire) Gravel; two sisters, Claire (Richard) Malcolm, and Claudette Gravelle; and their families. Bob was predeceased by his parents, Jeanette and Lionel, and his first wife, Emma.
Bob was born on November 12, 1936, and grew up in Ottawa, ON. He joined the Canadian Army at age 16, where he learned English as a second language, gained self-discipline, and became a skilled Armourer. After his Honorable Release in 1957, he engaged in various enterprises until his mid-30s when he returned to academe. He graduated as a Biomedical Electronics Technologist in 1974, and went to work as a “Biomed” in the Radiology Dept. of Ottawa General Hospital. In 1979 he relocated to North Vancouver and taught Biomedical Electronics at BCIT in Burnaby for three years. Several consulting projects also took him to Saudi Arabia and Cameroon, experiences which left an indelible impression upon him – he never forgot how fortunate he was to be a Canadian. Bob moved to Vernon in 1984, where he supervised the Biomedical Engineering Dept. at Vernon Jubilee Hospital until 1997.
After his retirement, Bob became Chief Cook while Sue continued working full-time, and he put his heart and soul into renovating their home. He was blessed with frequent drop-in visits from his many friends, who came for coffee and conversation, but who were always available to lend a hand with the renovation project of the day. Bob repaid their generosity in kind, by keeping their computers operating at peak performance.
He will be forever missed and remembered for his witty sense of humour, his culinary skills, his ability to fix anything, and his love for his family and friends.
At his request, Bob was cremated and no funeral was held. A private remembrance will be held at a future date. Special thanks go to Dr. Gilhooly and Gloria; to the wonderful nurses, care aides, occupational and physiotherapists with Community Care Health Services who provided home support for over six months (we couldn’t have done it without them!); and to the compassionate staff of Hospice House who made Bob’s last days comfortable. Those wishing to do so may make donations in Bob’s memory to North Okanagan Hospice Society, 3506 – 27th Avenue, Vernon, BC V1T 1S4, or to the Canadian Cancer Society, #104, 3402 – 27th Avenue, Vernon, BC V1T 1S1. | English | NL | d3c38ece6a2aefcb2ab66376df11f74c762607e7007b463cfad5fd5e13e05232 |
Yesterday, I went to see the movie The Hangover. Not a movie I would normally see, but the theatre had a half-off deal and the movie had consistently been getting better ratings than just about anything else that was out at the time. There is a character in The Hangover named Allen (Alan?), who is the adult brother of the bride yet who is still treated like a kid by his family. The groom and his two best friends bring Allen along on their ill-fated trip to Las Vegas, but before they leave, the soon-to-be father-in-law warns the groom not to let Allen drink or gamble.
(warning – there may be spoilers ahead!)
Allen stands out from the group of four in the way that he acts. As the movie progresses, the others question whether he is “all there” and remark that he is a child in an adult’s body. He seems to constantly get the group into weird troubles, yet the other guys can’t help liking him anyway. Toward the end of the movie, the group of friends is in a tight spot for money. Allen proposes that they get the money quick by counting cards in blackjack. One of the characters had remarked in the beginning that such a method only worked if you’re “really smart.” With Allen’s help, though, the team won big in Vegas, attracting the attention of the casino guards. It was at this point that my boyfriend and I remarked to each other that Allen couldn’t possibly be just another guy. In Bringing Down the House (link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bringing_Down_the_House_(book) ), it took an entire team of card counters to increase winnings by about 2% only. We thought that maybe Allen was autistic. He seemed to have some of the symptoms – social awkwardness and autistic savantism.
If you have seen The Hangover, what do you think of the portrayal of Allen? Do you think the character is meant to be autistic? | English | NL | e4f748c86dfb3c88f70c19729efc758fccc7f0a73e8d28d0ec57a45eee85811d |
In the last blog post we saw the humanity of Jesus, but the Bible also teaches that Jesus as God is both fully man and also fully God or fully divine in one person. Even though no one has fully comprehended this doctrine, there are a substantial number of verses in the Bible that point to this.
In the first few centuries, and even today, there have been many errors as to what this exactly means.Was he really just God and looked like a man as Apollinaris taught? Or possibly he was really two distinct persons entirely but in one body as Nestorian said? The last major error in the church was called Monophysitism, which says that Jesus did have one nature, but it was just a mixture of divine and human, with the divine being much more powerful.
The church in 451 AD responded with what is called the Chalcedonian Creed:
“We, then, following the holy Fathers, all with one consent, teach men to confess one and the same Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, the same perfect in Godhead and also perfect in manhood; truly God and truly man, of a reasonable [rational] soul and body; consubstantial [co-essential] with the Father according to the Godhead, and consubstantial with us according to the Manhood; in all things like unto us, without sin; begotten before all ages of the Father according to the Godhead, and in these latter days, for us and for our salvation, born of the Virgin Mary, the Mother of God, according to the Manhood; one and the same Christ, Son, Lord, Only begotten, to be acknowledged in two natures, inconfusedly, unchangeably, indivisibly, inseparably; the distinction of natures being by no means taken away by the unity, but rather the property of each nature being preserved, and concurring in one Person and one Subsistence, not parted or divided into two persons, but one and the same Son, and only begotten, God the Word, the Lord Jesus Christ; as the prophets from the beginning [have declared] concerning him, and the Lord Jesus Christ himself has taught us, and the Creed of the holy Fathers has handed down to us.”
This creed basically states that Jesus is in fact truly God and truly man in one person and also one of the three members of the Trinity. The reason why Jesus being both completely man and also completely God is so crucial is because this is the only means of us gaining our salvation. Jesus, in being completely man, has conquered every temptation that we have or will ever go through and thus is now able to mediate for us in heaven because he knows exactly what it is like to be human. On the other side, Jesus being completely God is necessary, because each of us is guilty of sin that bears an eternal consequence. Only an eternal being, Jesus Christ, could suffer the punishment for sin and take our guilt upon himself when he was crucified on the cross.
This was an incredible act of humility for the Creator of all things to come to earth as a baby and go through the pain and sorrow that we all experience each day because of sin. This is also known as the Kenosis theory, which comes from Philippians 2.6-8, which states, “who, though he [Jesus] was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” This incredible verse states that Jesus gave up his privilege in heaven, but not any of his attributes, to become a man just like us.
Thank God this week that even though he is the Creator and Sustainer of the universe he humbled himself by becoming a man so that we could have the opportunity to have eternal life through him. | English | NL | 602d366c89a618db0144e12427d5c9d8fdc814b5cf7d9ac8e3facf1817c53072 |
PDSI was selected as the prime contractor for the Forest Lodge Boathouse project, which consisted of the removal and replacement of the existing elevator and windows, lifting the existing boathouse from its structure and replacing it on top of the new foundation. This was accomplished by using a sunken barge system which utilized the buoyancy of the barges to lift the structure from its existing foundation. Wood piling was installed to strengthen the integrity of the foundation. PDSI and its engineers re-designed the foundation system from the original plans and specs as a cost savings to the Forest Service. Site grading for new access road and landscaping was also performed. PDSI self-performed all carpentry and was the lead on the project. The project was completed on schedule with no injuries. | English | NL | 41da3ec3b554ad60edaaea969d911149f05902e3e1e19a8b38df9588aca1e4a3 |
The career of Marcel Lefebvre (1905-1991) began like a star in the ascendant: as a seminarian in Rome (1923-1930) he earned doctorates in philosophy and theology from the Gregorian University; after he was ordained a priest at the age of just 24 by the future Cardinal Lienart, he began his ministry as the second assistant priest at a working class parish but then changed direction and became a religious and a missionary with the Spiritans.
After entering the Congregation of the Holy Ghost (1932), he was sent to Africa, to Gabon, where he remained for 13 years: first as rector of a seminary, but then as head of various mission posts in the bush, such as Lambarene, where he made contact with Dr. Albert Schweitzer.
But in the aftermath of the war he was called back to France to direct the Spiritan scholasticate in Mortain (1945-1947), deep in the heart of Normandy.
Nevertheless, Pope Pius XII reassigned him to Africa as Apostolic Vicar (1947), then as first Archbishop of Dakar (1955), in Senegal. As of 1948, the pope appointed him his apostolic delegate for French-speaking Africa (Morocco, French West Africa, French Equatorial Africa and Madagascar).
After the death of Pius XII (1958), John XXIII put an end to his African duties, both diplomatic and pastoral, and appointed him bishop of the little Diocese of Tulle, in France (1962). But Marcel Lefebvre remained there only six months, since he was soon elected Superior General of the Congregation of the Holy Ghost (1962-1968), which at that time had more than 5,000 members. Meanwhile, John XXIII appointed him Assistant at the Papal Throne and member of the Central Preparatory Commission for Vatican Council II.
Archbishop Lefebvre participated actively in Vatican II as a Council Father (1962-1965). He distinguished himself by organizing a group of Fathers who were determined to counteract the leaders of the liberal wing.
In 1968 he left office as superior general, preferring to submit his resignation rather than to support destructive reforms of religious life in his congregation. He was retired at the age of 63, but the following year he founded in Fribourg, Switzerland, an international seminary and then a priestly society which, although approved by the local ordinary, became a sign of contradiction. Paul VI later said of him: “Archbishop Lefebvre is the cross of my pontificate.”
After the Vatican sanctions against his priestly society (1975) and against him personally (1976), his work would have to live—it seemed—on the periphery of the Church. And yet the “forbidden Mass” that he celebrated in Lille in August 1976, attended by 10,000 laity, had enormous repercussions throughout the world. It popularized the “Iron Bishop”, the intrepid defender of the traditional Mass who opposed the reforms that were all over the map in the Church, emptying novitiates, seminaries and parish churches.
In 1988 he ensured that his work of restoring the Catholic priesthood would continue by consecrating four bishops in Econe, even though Pope John Paul II had forbidden it. For that act he incurred the gravest of all ecclesiastical sanctions, which he deemed unjust, like all the previous attempts that were aimed exclusively at forcing him to abandon the good fight of the Faith, in the name of a misunderstood obedience.
He died in Martigny, Switzerland, on March 25, 1991, in profound peace, proud “to have handed on what I had received,” alluding to the words of St. Paul (1 Cor. 15:3) which he had engraved on his tombstone.
What is the common thread running through the life of this non-conformist prelate who claimed never to have acted impulsively on the basis of his personal ideas? What is the force that impelled that obedient Roman Catholic churchman—Roman in mind and heart—to confront and contradict two popes? What is the unifying theme of his turbulent career? What sort of faith did that man have, who cited love for God, love for Jesus Christ and love for the Church as his reasons for taking such serious steps? Instead of considering him as the “rebel bishop”, should we not see him as a man led and guided by a providential plan for a salvific work? | English | NL | f17ea1385fb784e4e74034316c2f14291e7543041050fdcecb6d8a0e1e7233ff |
Edwin Louis “Buster” Remmert, 100, passed away peacefully March 4, 2019.
Buster was born on April 30, 1918, in Sealy, Texas, to parents William and Clara (Billig) Remmert. He was baptized into the Christian faith on June 2, 1918 and was confirmed as a youth. Buster was a life-long Lutheran who walked with Christ on a daily basis. He was a member of Trinity Lutheran Church and was active with the mission plant of LifeBridge Community Church in Sealy. Buster served the church as an elder, council member, and member of the choir. Further, he shared his gift as a woodworker and constructed several projects for use in the church.
Buster was raised on the Remmert farm in Sealy, one of five children and many cousins. He attended Sealy High School and later graduated from Blinn Jr. College. He proudly served his country as an airplane mechanic in the U.S. Army Air Force during World War II.
Edwin married Estelle Jeanette Abel on Feb. 1, 1946. They made their home in Sealy where they raised two daughters, Terrine and Debbie.
The family owned and operated “Community Hatchery” in Sealy for many years. Buster also worked for Cameron Iron Works in the Tools & Supplies Department retiring after over 25 years of service.
He enjoyed the challenge of constructing new items and repairing the old. There was never a project that he was afraid to tackle. Buster was also a committed gardener, raising fruits and vegetables for family and neighbors.
Besides working hard, Estelle and Buster also liked to have fun. They enjoyed camping, boating and fishing at Lake Somerville with family and friends. They made several trips across the United States in their RV. They also loved to play dominoes with family and friends including various domino groups.
Buster possessed a quiet and gentle spirit, loved people, and cherished his family. His faith in Christ was constant and unwavering.
Edwin was preceded in death by his wife of 72 years, Estelle Remmert. He was also preceded in death by his parents, William and Clara Remmert, brothers Otto, Alphonse, Gerhardt and sister Lou Vena. Buster is survived by daughter Terrie Wintz and her husband, Carl, of Sealy; daughter Debbie Fait and her husband, Robert, of Sealy; grandchildren Nicole Schorp and her husband, Will, of Houston, David Fait of Midland and Amanda Fait of Sealy; and great-grandchildren Marshall and Michael Schorp of Houston.
Visitation was held at the Knesek Brothers Chapel (Hwy. 36) on Wednesday, March 6, from 5 to 7 p.m. The funeral service was at the Knesek Chapel on Thursday, March 7, at 10 a.m. with Pastor Dale Leland and Pastor Scott Heitshusen officiating. Pallbearers include: Alan Boehm, Johnny Busse, David Fait, Will Schorp, Carl Sebesta, and Terrell Stamnitz. Burial will follow at the Sealy Cemetery.
Memorials may be given to LifeBridge Community Church, Trinity Lutheran Church or a charity of your choice.
Funeral arrangements were under the directions of Knesek Bros. Funeral Chapels located at 876 Fourth St., Sealy, Texas 77474, 979-885-3535, www.knesekfuneralhome.com. | English | NL | 404ce04eedbf1bf4478a9970e0195af11d6d0be07dd61366354eb7db468ade8f |
Have you ever seen a child that was in the foster care system for years that was longing for a family to one day take them in and a loving couple or single parent brought them in their home to make them their own? This is exactly what God does when someone becomes a Christian, he adopts them into his very own family. The doctrine of adoption is simply when God makes us part of his family.
This is probably the greatest benefit to being a Christian because we inherit all of the benefits of being in God family. This blessing comes from placing your faith in Jesus, and is a separate act apart from regeneration or justification. John 1.12 says, “But to all who did receive him [Jesus], who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God”.
Being a child of God brings a plethora of blessings in this life and in the one to come. One of them being that we can relate to God as a good and loving father. The apostle Paul writes, “For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, Abba! Father!” When Jesus taught his disciples to pray, he even directed them to pray to God as their own Father. This means that God will take care of our needs and loves to give us good gifts including the Holy Spirit, who leads and guide us.
And like any good parent, this also means that God disciplines his children when they continually err into sin because he loves them and wants to see them live a joy filled life. This is not sadistic child abuse but a loving father correcting the children he loves.
Being adopted as sons and daughters also means that we receive the full inheritance of eternal life as well as being able to relate to fell Christians as brothers and sisters in God’s family who will all be reunited one day. And the amazing thing about being adopted into his family is once you are his you cannot be un-adopted and never have to worry about being kicked out of God’s family, no matter the sin. | English | NL | 9e05a8216954025a2b67353a759b6fdc5d27df74c54e0e904646551fff2c15ea |
Sarah Shoemaker is the author of the new novel Mr. Rochester, which recounts the story of Jane Eyre from Rochester's point of view. A former university librarian, Shoemaker lives in northern Michigan.
Q: How did you come up with the idea of telling the story of Jane Eyre from Mr. Rochester's perspective?
A: My book group was discussing Jane Eyre, and eventually got around to talking about the Mr. Rochester character, the sometimes dark and angry, and sometimes pleasant or even playful man with whom Jane falls in love.
Who is this guy? we wondered. How are we supposed to understand him? What did Charlotte Bronte intend us to think about him?
One of us said, “People occasionally make mistakes in love; maybe Jane did that.” Another responded, “Not Jane. She’s too intelligent, too independent to fall in love with someone she couldn’t respect.” There must be something about him that we are not seeing, someone said.
I began thinking that it was too bad that no one had written a book about Rochester, so that we could better understand where he was coming from. And then I thought, I ought to write that book. I ought to write Rochester’s backstory. By the time I returned home that day, I had challenged myself to write Rochester’s story.
It was much later, only a month before Mr. Rochester’s publication, that I ran across a quote from Toni Morrison: “If there is a book that you really want to read but no one has written it yet, then you must write it.”
Q: What did you see as the right balance between Charlotte Bronte's original story and your own inventions?
A: My intent was to write Rochester’s full story, from his earliest memories to the approximate time that Jane Eyre ends. Since Rochester is nearly 20 years older than Jane, that means that the story of his life before Jane takes more space in the book than his life with Jane does.
I used everything I could find about him that Bronte tells us in Jane Eyre (which is more than a casual reader might think) and then filled in with my own inventions.
My intention, of course, was to show the development of his character. I wanted it to be his story, and so I wasn’t thinking so much of a balance as I was in exploring his character and the events of his life that shaped it, in order to help the reader (and myself) understand him more fully.
Q: Did you need to do any research to write the novel?
A: Lots. Lots and lots. I began by re-reading Jane Eyre, underlining, writing in the margins and using color-coded Post-Its to mark things I thought I might want to go back to.
Then I read another Bronte novel, Shirley, from which I took the idea of Luddites attacking a mill. I went on from there to other contemporary novels, looking for language, rhythms, terms, descriptions, expressions, trying to immerse myself in early 19th century England.
From there I read a multitude of books, papers, journal articles about subjects and issues with which I needed to acquaint myself. All in all, I read all or parts of 60 books, plus several journal and internet articles.
Q: What accounts for the ongoing fascination with Jane Eyre, and has the book always been a favorite of yours?
A: I think that the mystery of Mr. Rochester himself has a lot to do with the ongoing fascination with Jane Eyre---there is so much to wonder about him.
And then, Jane herself is a very fascinating character: she is intelligent, independent, with a strong moral compass. Why does she fall in love with him? These two together are a pair about whom readers have wondered for years and years, because Bronte has left us so much to wonder about.
Q: What are you working on now?
A: I’m still quite tied up in events and writings having to do with Mr. Rochester. I do have an idea, but I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet.
Q: Anything else we should know?
A: I thought that much of the difficulty between Jane and Mr. Rochester lay in their very different social positions. Of course we know those differences existed, but readers of Jane Eyre often fail to fully realize the difficulties that those differences present to the two of them.
He cannot be seen to be romancing her, for it would appear to be a case of the master of the house taking advantage of an underling. She cannot be forward in her feelings for him, as it could so easily be misunderstood---and she is too proud to shame herself in that way.
Much of his energy (in my thinking) is spent on trying to get her past that reticence to finally in some way declare herself (which he thinks must come first), and he almost doesn’t succeed. Those scenes, as Charlotte Bronte wrote them, are marvels.
--Interview with Deborah Kalb | English | NL | 630e36b2aa14876b95f5a4a780c49925d2267fa41af0d28eb9effeec69bf4175 |
Some athletes require many years of performances to attain stardom and some athletes and coaches reach it quickly. "Mox" Engler was one of the latter group - in fact he didn't even wait until he was 20 to take his claim to fame. Akron has produced several high school teams won state basketball championships, but not prior to 1929. Just one year out of St. Mary High School, "Mox" was elected coach by the 1928-29 Crusaders basketball team. St. Mary won 12 of 15 regular season games and with three more wins got to Columbus for the Class B playoffs. Although trailing 20-8 at the half in its first game, St. Mary came back to defeat Marysville, 31-28. In the championship game against Bluffton, who had won 28 straight, the inevitable happened, little St. Mary High School edged Bluffton, 28-26, to give Akron its first state title. The 19-year old coach was a legend in his time. He went on to coach the team for two more years but St. Mary was ineligible for tourney play because the coach was not a teacher. The remainder of his coaching days were limited to the City AA League, but his effort in 1928-29 was never surpassed. | English | NL | bb3685f2fb237b3bb566f974d2939be991e94e16d457a4c59035d247e990abfa |
Actor Roy Dotrice passed away at his London home. A family statement said he “died peacefully on Monday October 16 in his London home surrounded by family, including his three daughters, grandchildren and great-grandson“.
Dotrice served a member of Britain’s Royal Air Force during World War II. His plane behind enemy lines and he spent the rest of the war as a POW. It was during this time he discovered his love of theater, performing in plays for other prisoners.
His long list of theater, television and movie credits earned him a Tony award and a Bafta for best actor as Albert Haddock in the BBC adaptation of AP Herbert’s Misleading Cases.
Dotrice provided the narration for all of the audiobooks in Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series. He currently holds the Guinness World Record for the most characters voiced in a single audiobook, for tackling a whopping 224 characters in Martin’s first ASOIAF novel, A Game of Thrones, which runs 33 hours and 36 minutes long in its narrated form.
He was married to wife Kay for 60 years, until her death in 2007. Dotrice was 94 at the time of his death.
Home of a family of podcasts such covering everything from comics to tv/movies, popculture, science fiction and more | English | NL | 75c34869acfef5c781c31121584e2614c16644ca20b5d181e00a9735bdfd88a4 |
THE EINSTEIN GENE AND THE HOUDINI SYNDROME
Serious, by Robert L. Crowe, 2011
A winner of the Library of Congress Award for Children’s Literature gives his views on reading and education.
Duration8 - 10 minutes
Product Id: #407
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An excerpt …
(from the middle of the speech)
One of the most difficult processes to handle is that of rejections. I won’t dwell on the topic because I don't think grown men should cry in public. I had always heard that once you had a book published, you had an 'in" with the publisher. I had heard that. My publisher had not heard that. So I developed a psychological crutch and I stole the name from an Emily Dickinson poem called “Hope is a Thing with Feathers.” I call mine, "Hope is in the mail." I submit 4 or 5 manuscripts at the same time and when I get one back rejected, I send it off again before I receive the other rejections. It’s a great system if you can avoid a disastrous Friday when they all show up rejected on the same day.
What then is the secret to publishing? If it isn't inherited and it isn't magic, then it must be luck. Well …I believe in luck. Luck is certainly a factor … but it is always against those who rely upon it solely for success. The old adage is true … the harder you work, the luckier you get.
I'm often asked what authors influenced me as a writer. The answer is swift and definite: Ernest Hemingway and William Shakespeare. When I was a junior in high school, I had to give a book report. I waited until the day before the book report was due and I blitzed the library in search to scrawniest book I could find, checked it out, took it home and read it. It was Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea." The other author was Shakespeare. A teacher in high school gave me “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare” and I read it ... and I read it over and over. If you were to study my writings ... which wouldn't take very long, you probably wouldn't recognize Hemingway and Shakespeare. But of course I'm talking about the exposure to great literature and its effect upon young people.
There is no doubt that the greatest influences in my life were teachers. There were many caring teachers but it was in junior high that I realize that someone else cared about me and what happened to me. I found that I started to work to please my teacher as well. This teacher was able to help me find an area of success. The great teachers always seem to find time to do that.
No reviews have been written for this product. | English | NL | fe9594ea8610b3670a6c7968f67dc8ca5e54737dd073e5f01c0b5975cf15d8eb |
Now when the king lived in his house and the Lord had given him rest from all his surrounding enemies, the king said to Nathan the prophet, “See now, I dwell in a house of cedar, but the ark of God dwells in a tent.” (2 Samuel 7:1-2)
Today we are going to look at the story of a godly man with a good heart and a great idea. David had it in his heart to do something great for God. But the good thing he wanted to do was not given to him. That opportunity was given to someone else.
It’s a story that speaks directly to something all of us will experience. What do you do when God closes the door on something good that you wanted to do for him?
You had a great idea. Good and godly people encouraged you to pursue it. You felt sure that this would be for the glory of God. But it didn’t work out. As if that was not hard enough, now someone else is doing what you hoped to do. And it is difficult for you when you see that God is blessing it and they are having great success in doing it.
You train for a particular career, but after all you have invested in training, the door into what you wanted to pursue does not open for you. You asked God to open the way, but for some reason that you can’t explain, the door remains closed.
As years pass, you find yourself looking back wistfully on what might have been. When you were younger, you had hopes and dreams. You wonder: Why did God close the door on good things that were in my heart? You wanted to marry or have children. You wanted to reach a certain place in your career, or gain a place on a particular team, or succeed in some area of ministry. It happened for others, but it did not happen for you.
We are looking today at one of the toughest challenges a Christian can face—when God closes the door on something good you hoped to do for him.
Now when the king lived in his house and the LORD had given him rest from all his surrounding enemies… (2 Samuel 7:1)
David had been blessed. As he looked at what the Lord had done for him, God’s grace overwhelmed him. This man, who began life as a shepherd, the youngest brother, despised by his siblings, was now the king. How kind God has been to him!
He lived in a comfortable home that had been built for him by Hiram the king of Tyre, who, no doubt, was trying to curry his favor by sending the best cedar wood, along with carpenters and masons, as a gift (2 Samuel 5:11). David was enjoying a time of rest from his enemies.
Notice, the enemies were not gone. They were still “surrounding.” If you look at 2 Samuel 8 and 10, you will see that there were more battles that David would yet have to fight, but at this point in the story, there was some respite from the activity of his enemies.
As soon as there was a breather from all the conflict, David wanted to do something for the Lord: “God has done so much for me. What can I now do for God?”
Here we have the story of how David had it in his heart to build a temple for God, but God said ‘No,’ and gave that privilege to David’s son, Solomon, instead.
Why Did God Say, ‘No’?
Why would God close a door for David that he opened a generation later for someone else? We don’t find it easy to live with the mystery of God’s providence, so we go looking for a reason. Perhaps David did something wrong. Was pride the problem? Was David presumptuous? But nothing of that sort is stated in the Bible.
This is important, because when God closes the door on something good that you wanted to do for him, your first instinct may also be to say, “I must have done something wrong.” You may feel that God somehow has it in for you, and that he never really loved you.
1. The right concern
The king said to Nathan the prophet, “See now, I dwell in a house of cedar, but the ark of God dwells in a tent.” (2 Samuel 7:2)
That was a right concern. David has a comfortable life—a house of cedar! He looks at how much has been spent on his own comfort, then he looks at what he has given to God and he says to himself: I have been investing a great deal in myself and in my own comfort, it’s time I used the resources God has given me to invest in the work of God.
That is what is going on in his heart and mind.
The process David goes through of comparing the comfort of his life with the work of God that is yet to be done in the world is exactly right. This was the same argument used by the prophet Haggai when God’s people returned to Jerusalem in the time of Nehemiah: “Is it a time for you yourselves to dwell in your paneled houses, while [God’s] house lies in ruins? (Haggai 1:4). God has called us to advance the work of his kingdom in the world.
Can your conscience live with what you give to God in the light of what you spend on yourself? That is a right concern. David couldn’t live with it: “God has given me significant resources, and it is time for me to use them in a way that will honor him.”
2. The right goal
People who are looking for something that David did wrong, might say, “Well, putting up a great building was surely not the right way for David to invest his money. After all, God does not live in a house made with human hands” (Acts 7:48f, Isaiah 66:1f).
But God blessed Solomon with the privilege of building the temple, and the glory of the Lord came down and filled the temple. So when God says, “Go and tell my servant David, ‘Thus says the Lord: Would you build me a house to dwell in?’” (2 Samuel 7:5), the emphasis here is on the word you.
The point is not that God does not want a temple to be built. It is simply that David will not be the one to do it. Someone else will do it. Why not David? Because David’s son “shall build a house for my name” (2 Samuel 7:13).
3. The right heart
People who are looking to find some fault in David might say, “David wanted his own name on the temple.” But that cannot be the case, for this reason: God commends David for having this desire, which clearly indicates that David’s desire and his motive were good. “But the LORD said to David my father, ‘Whereas it was in your heart to build a house for my name, you did well that it was in your heart’” (1 Kings 8:18).
Man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart (1 Samuel 16:7). When God looked at the desire in David’s heart to build the temple, he saw something good, and he commended David for it!
4. The right process.
The king said to Nathan the prophet, “See now, I dwell in a house of cedar, but the ark of God dwells in a tent” (2 Samuel 7:2).
David sought wise counsel from Nathan the prophet, a man who, like David, walked with God. He tells Nathan his concern, and Nathan says, “Go, do all that is in your heart, for the Lord is with you” (2 Samuel 7:3). What could possibly be wrong with what David wants to do? Nothing! So David’s wise counselor says, “Go for it!”
But then the same night, no doubt to Nathan’s complete astonishment, God speaks, and he says, ‘No!’ And the door closes on something good that David wanted to do for God.
I am so glad that this story is in the Bible. It speaks to the times in your life and mine when we set our hearts on doing something good, and for some reason the way does not open. And you are left wondering, Why did God close the door?
Why was David not allowed to do this, especially when Solomon was? Why did God give a blessing, an opportunity that you desired, to someone else and not to you? We are not told. “The secret things belong to the LORD.” (Deuteronomy 29:29)
The one thing we do know is that God had a different plan for David. It wasn’t the plan he thought. It wasn’t the plan that he wanted. But it was the plan God had for him. It is worth remembering that building is something you do in a time of peace. Grand projects have to be put on hold in times of war.
David wanted to be a king who ruled in times of peace. As soon as he had respite from the demands of battling his enemies, he said, “Well, now I can build a house for God!” But David was not given that blessing. Instead, he was called to lead the way in one battle after another. You see that in 2 Samuel 8 and 10, and in the conflict with Absalom that followed.
David would spend years in battles that had to be fought for the protection of God’s people.
Notice the future tense in what God says,
- “I will appoint a place for my people Israel… so that they may dwell in their own place and be disturbed no more” (2 Samuel 7:10).
- “And violent men shall afflict them no more…” (2 Samuel 7:10).
- “I will give you rest from all your enemies” (2 Samuel 7:11).
The rest David enjoyed (2 Samuel 7:11) was only a temporary respite. There were more battles to be fought, and this was God’s calling on David’s life. He was the one who would fight the battles to make God’s people secure.
Solomon would be the one who got to be king in times of peace. When all the enemies were subdued, peace would reign, and Solomon would build the temple. That could not have been easy for David. David did all the hard work, and Solomon reaped the blessing of what David had sown!
So David had the right concern, the right goal, the right heart, and the right process, and yet God closed the door on what David wanted to do for him! God had something else for David. It was not what he would have chosen, but it was what God was calling him to do.
How will David respond when what is in his heart is not God’s plan for him? How will you respond when what is in your heart is not in God’s plan for you?
Two things stand out from this story: When God says ‘No,’ your faith will be tested. And when God says ‘No,’ his promise is sure.
When God Says ‘No,’ Your Faith Will Be Tested
1. How well do you love God?
The first calling of God on your life as a Christian is to love him with all of your heart, all of your mind, and all of your strength. If it is really true that you want to do something for God, your love for the Lord will remain the same whether you get to do it or not.
Early on in our marriage, Karen and I went out shopping. I wanted to get her a gift. She asked me, “Why are we doing this? I don’t need anything. It’s not Christmas, my birthday, Mother’s Day, or Valentine’s Day.” I said, “We are doing it just for the joy of it.”
She came up with a wonderful phrase for it. She said, “Is it just a buck shee?” “Buck shee” is a British phrase that simply means “something extra”—something you want to give, not because of any particular occasion, but just because you want to do it.
So suppose Karen and I go shopping for a buck shee, and I find a necklace that I like, and I say, “I’d like to get this for you.”
She says, “No, if you are giving me a gift, I have something else in mind.”
Suppose I then say, “But this is what I want to give you.”
She says, “No, it’s really not what I want,” and I say, “But I insist!”
At that point I am no longer acting in love. Something has twisted the original desire to give a gift for the joy of the one to whom it is given. Love says, “I want to give you a gift. I have this idea, but if you want something different. I want to give what pleases you.”
David wants to do something for God, “Lord, this is what I want to do for you.” He has the right concern, the right idea, the right motive and the right process. But God wants something different for him.
And David gives us a marvelous example here. He really loves God, and so he says, “Lord, you choose what I will give to you. I wanted to build a temple for your glory but if you want something different from me, then I want to give to you whatever pleases you.”
Maybe the life to which God has called you is not the life you wanted to offer to him, but if you really love him, you will gladly give whatever he asks of you. David did not get the blessing of building the temple. But God had something else for him to do. Even though it was not what David wanted, it was the best thing that he could offer to God. Whatever the disappointments of your life, God has something for you to do.
God’s ‘No’ to David building the temple was part of God’s ‘Yes’ to the great contribution of David’s life, which was to establish peace by subduing the enemies of God’s people. Solomon could not have built the temple if David had not defeated the enemies and established peace. David could not have defeated the enemies and established peace if his time and energy had been taken up in building a temple.
What to you may be a great disappointment, may open the way to some other work that God may be calling you to do. That work may not be what you would have chosen, but if you really love the Lord, you will find peace in following the path that he has mapped out for you.
2. How well do you love others?
The second calling of God on the life of a Christian is to love your neighbor as yourself. That would mean loving your friend, your sister, or your brother, as much as you love yourself.
None of us are there yet, but one day, when God’s work of grace is complete in all of us, we will have as much joy in a blessing bestowed on someone else as we would have had if it had been given to us.
- Imagine a soccer team in which you had you as much joy in someone else scoring a goal as you would have done if you had scored the goal yourself!
- Imagine a music program in which everyone rejoices in the success of the person who was given the solo part, as much as they would have done if that part had been given to them.
- Imagine a city in which pastors and leaders have as much joy in God’s blessing on another church or ministry as they would have had if the same blessing had been given to their own.
That would mean no envy, and no jealousy – gone forever that horrible plague of “Why him or her and not me?” That’s where we will be when God’s work of grace in us is complete. Growth in love means moving in that direction.
If building the temple really is for the glory of God, it shouldn’t make that much difference to David who builds it. To God be the glory! David would have had great joy in building a temple, but his joy was no less when that honor was given to his own son.
David is a wonderful example of what God’s grace can do. He is tested and he shines in 2 Samuel 7. He is a marvelous example of what is possible for the person who really loves God and really loves others.
3. How well do you understand grace?
Grace is all about what God does for us—what he has done, what he is doing now, and what he will do for us through Jesus Christ. Grace means that all of God’s kindness to us and all of God’s gifts to us are given freely. They are not earned. It is not a response to what we have done. It is not a reward for the investment that we have made in his kingdom.
These verses that start out with what David wanted to do for God, end up overflowing with God’s grace toward David.
What God has done in the past
“I took you from the pasture, from following the sheep, that you should be prince over my people Israel.” (2 Samuel 7:8)
God stepped into David’s life and took him from the shepherd he was to the king he became: “In case you ever forget, David, I took you from the fields and I brought you into the situation of my favor, in which you now enjoy.”
Christian brother or sister, God has stepped into your life. He has laid hold of you and made you his own. In Jesus Christ, you are a son or daughter of God. You did nothing to deserve this. That’s grace!
What God is doing right now
“I have been with you wherever you went and have cut off all your enemies from before you.” (2 Samuel 7:9)
God was with David at every step of the journey, including the times of his greatest disappointments. And—Christian brother or sister—God is with you. In all you face and all you endure, God says to you, “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5)! That is God’s promise to you. God sticks with us, even when we are at our worst—that’s grace! And that grace is yours in Jesus Christ.
What God will do in the future
“I will make for you a great name, like the name of the great ones of the earth.” (2 Samuel 7:9)
“David, who you are and what will come from your life is safe in the hands of God. You don’t need to fret about an opportunity that didn’t work out for you. Your name will rest, not on what you accomplish for God, but on what God in Christ has done and will do for you!”
Brother, sister, for all eternity, who you are and what you will be will rest on Jesus Christ and all that he has done for you. That’s grace. And understanding grace takes the sting out of disappointment!
Do you see what God is saying? “David, you are in the very center of my grace. Don’t worry about that door that I closed. David, make sure that your joy lies not in what you hope to do for me, but in what I have done, what I am doing, and what I will do for you.”
Where to Find Your Joy
In the Gospels, we read about an occasion when Jesus’ disciples had been sent out on a mission. Remarkable things happened: People were healed, demons were cast out, and lives were transformed. When the disciples came back, they were full of joy and said, “Lord, even the demons are subject to us in your name!” (Luke 10:17).
Jesus said in reply, “Do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven” (Luke 10:20). In other words, “Don’t find your joy in what you are doing for Jesus. Find your joy in what Jesus does for you.” Otherwise you will be distraught when disappointment comes and he closes a door that you hoped would be open.
The importance of these words came home to me through the biography of Martyn Lloyd Jones, who many regard as the greatest preacher of the 20th century. God gave him remarkable gifts and widespread influence around the world.
His friend and biographer, Iain Murray, visited him in the last days of his life, when he was no longer able to preach, had little strength, and was restricted to a routine of hospital visits and receiving a few friends.
“Our greatest danger,” said Lloyd Jones, “is to live upon activity. The ultimate test of a preacher is what he feels like when he cannot preach”. That’s not just true of preachers! It is true for all of us when we are no longer able to do what we once did.
Then Lloyd Jones quoted these words of Jesus: “Do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven” (Luke 10:20).
When you know what it cost the Savior for your name to be written in heaven, for your sins to be forgiven, and for your eternal future to be secured, you will find great joy in what he has done for you, irrespective of what you may or may not get to do for him. | English | NL | d211ff00ba4fbb5bc537d1d1ddad7c88434c94d7cc20dd325a7aec2f7b89e4a5 |
We began today’s session by exploring the contrast between the position of student and the position of teacher. We created individual freeze frames that we typically associated with a student and a teacher. For example, a student freeze frame might be staring vacantly out of a window, or drawing in a book or throwing something across a classroom. The teacher freeze frame might have been writing on the board or looking sternly at a student, and so on. From this we developed the dichotomy between the two by getting into pairs and doing our freeze frames, slowly transitioning between student and teacher. When one person was the student, the other would take on the position of teacher and visa versa. We did this repetitively and very slowly, which, in turn, highlighted our freeze frames and thus drew attention to what we were trying to illustrate and it also, I felt, showed a growth between starting off a student and then becoming a position of authority/an adult.
Today’s session also proved to be very educational – very fitting to the theme of ‘Primary’; we got into groups of three, one observer, one teacher and one student. The teacher had to teach something to the student that they thought they could clearly demonstrate. In my group, I was the student and my teacher was teaching me how to count to ten in Chinese… to begin with I was panicking… how was I going to get my head around this one?
After a lot of patience on the teachers’ behalf’s we all watched each group, from quadratic equations to dance routines, every one had been taught something or other! We found in our group that singing through one to ten was the best way to learn as, typically, lyrics tend to be easier to memorise! From the teacher’s point of view, we deciphered that patience was key!
Next, we split into two larger groups and each group was given a typical school-day structure written down from the perspective of a current school student! As one person from the group read out the timetable, the rest of us had to act out what was being said, having a different place for each activity, for example assembly would be in one area and dance class somewhere completely contrasting. It was a very humorous task that provided us all with lots of laughs; especially, I think, because when it is read by an adult it almost pokes fun at the school day! We all truly enjoyed it. | English | NL | f90a174ef1d6b116f07d9072db38230bd51fadcf7f86d0ac3e62443e88118c7a |
It was one of those unseasonably warm days in early January when the butterfly flitted onto my shoulder. Those sixty degree days must have caused it to emerge prematurely, I thought. Still it was strange, and I gently extended my finger for the creature to climb onto, marveling at its delicacy as it did so. The butterfly perched on my finger as I examined it, realizing to my amazement that it was not organic! As the tiny insect fluttered its wings, I saw that the wings were a polymer-type material, and I could see microgears meshing as the articulated legs moved. Traces of microcircuitry could be seen running along the minuscule body. As if aware that its true nature had been detected, the butterfly flew away, and I saw it no longer.
The technology that could create such a thing was still in the process of being created, and for what purpose had such an extraordinary thing, complex but delicate, been designed? Apparently it had been devised just because its creator could do so, and he or she had engineered it for the joy of creating it. Such a person lived in this time, yet ahead of it. In all of human experience there had only been a handful of such individuals.
As a student of history, I knew that in the Hellenistic Age of Greece, there had lived an extraordinary man who demonstrated a knowledge of mechanics, hydraulics, and other technologies that was many centuries ahead of its time. So great were this man’s capabilities that his understandings would not be approached until the Renaissance, and even then imperfectly so. The great Leonardo DaVinci, himself a genius, could not get one of his predecessor’s machines to function, although in the present day they would, as Leonardo had incorrectly used square rather than pointed teeth in a gear design. What if this remarkable intelligence had somehow managed to engineer around the problem of death, so that his consciousness in this world survived his physical body? And what if that individual had continued to learn, grow, and evolve beyond a single human lifespan?
A few miles away, a most extraordinary butterfly flew through an open window. Servomechanisms hummed and whirred as the consciousness of Archimedes smoothly extended his robotic arm to provide a roost for his returning winged creation…and a positronic brain turned to ponder other marvels that it was even then just conceiving… | English | NL | a8ee95dff04f47d30d0959c53f786bd214c36da82443e199fb0854ec7c4d1173 |
Sind became much larger than an average child due to the experiments done on him at Punk Hazard. His head is rather big and not very proportionate to his body. He has blonde hair (blue in the manga), that is unkempt and goes over his ears, he also has blonde colored eyebrows (blue in the manga). He wore a sleeveless shirt with shorts, until Kin'emon gave all the children jackets. His jacket was light colored, with a dark colored hood, and fur at the end of the sleeves.
In a photograph held by his father, he can been seen at his normal size, which was that of an average child.
When deprived of the drug NHC10, Sind became very aggressive, brutally punching Luffy into part of the building. Otherwise, he is a normal timid child, as he was scared of Kin'emon's severed head.
When not under the effects of the drug, Sind is a boy with high hopes, as he had reassured Mocha near the beginning of being taken from his home, believing that they would be better soon and be able to go home quickly. He has also stated that he wanted to be a pirate at the age of 20, getting very excited for it.
Abilities and PowersEdit
At some point, he was taken from his father after being told he was sick and would be made healthy again. He was taken to Punk Hazard where he stayed until the Straw Hats' arrival.
Punk Hazard ArcEdit
When the Straw Hats arrived at Punk Hazard, he begged the pirates along with the other children to save them. After being freed, he succumbed to the withdrawal symptoms of NHC10, which he and the other children were fed regularly in candy form. Eventually, Sind became very aggressive, punching Luffy through some pipes. Sind, along with the other children went on a rampage until Usopp managed to knock the children out using the sleeping gas, leaving the Straw Hats no choice but to chain the children up for their own safety.
Sind was then seen breaking out of their chains attacking Nami and Usopp due to the effects of NHC10 and then going back to Caesar for more "candy" with the other children.
Later, when the Straw Hats had infiltrated Caesar's lab, Mocha and Chopper kept the wild kids from going to the Biscuits Room. When Sind and the kids finally advanced, they chased Mocha, who had taken all the candy, and attacked Chopper in his Monster Point. They soon reached the Biscuits Room and overrun Robin's Mil Fleur technique in their run. Mocha ran on and the kids follow soon after, while being chased by Robin, Nami and Chopper. They eventually cornered Mocha and attacked her, trying to take the candy from her hands. However, Mocha ate the whole batch and Sind, among others, got mad and attacked her. Soon after, the Marines arrived and subdued Sind and the other kids, for Chopper to sedate them. Sind was quickly put to sleep.
After he woke up from his sleep, he ran with Nami, Robin, Sanji, the G-5 Marines and the other children to the exit of the Building R. Soon after Law cut the entire laboratory, the gas, Shinokuni started to seep in which scared him along with the other kids. At the same time, the group joined up with Zoro and Tashigi who came running towards them and continued to run to the exit.
The group eventually reached the exit and joined up with Luffy and his group. Soon after that, Law and Smoker reached the exit with a cart that Law meant to use for escaping the laboratory. When the rest of the children, Straw Hat pirates, Caesar’s subordinates and G-5 Marines reached the exit, the survivors started escaping from the crumbling laboratory.
While everyone was escaping through the tunnel, they heard an explosion coming from Building D. The explosion caused the corridor to collapse. Law noted that if the tunnel is part of the mountain that if it collapses they will be buried alive. But they eventually reached the exit safely due to the actions of Zoro and Luffy. Upon breaking through the exit and reaching the outside world, Sind noticed the Franky Shogun along with the other kids and the G-5 Marines. He reacted to it just like Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper (except for the female children).
After Caesar Clown, Buffalo and Baby 5 were captured, Sind was seen along with the other kids after having the medicine in their bodies removed by Law. They state their concern about Mocha's well being, but Chopper assures them of her safety by saying she will wake up soon. Then, they ask where Nami is and ask if she will take her home. Tashigi enters the room however, stating that the marines will take care of them now, much to their disliking. Soon after, Sind and the others are seen gathering around the food Sanji made with bowls in their hand and drooling mouths. Not long after that, all the survivors start a party together.
When the party came to an end, Sind and the other kids were escorted by the G-5 Marines on to the tanker. While the Straw Hat pirates were preparing to leave as well, Nami said to Chopper that Vegapunk was going to help cure the kids from the effects of the candy. As they began to leave, the Marines put up Marine banners to prevent Sind and the others from seeing the Straw Hat pirates while saying that the marines are justice and pirates are scum. Sind and the other kids still wanted to see the Straw Hat pirates and told the Marines to move. The Marines responded to them by pointing their rifles at them saying that only bad kids want to see pirates.
However the kids insisted that the Straw Hat pirates tried to save them even though they knew nothing about them. Sind also said that even though nobody ever came to the island, they did come. However, the Marines kept insisting that pirates are always evil and that they are justice. Tashigi then interrupts them and said they are a disgrace. The G-5 Marines told her that if they did not bad mouth the pirates, they would come to respect them. Finally the Marines gave in and let Sind and the other kids say their goodbyes. They also stated that they would become pirates too when they grow up, regardless of the disapproval of the G-5 Marines gave them.
While traveling with the G-5 Marines, Tashigi informed the children that they will see Dr. Vegapunk in a few days. | English | NL | 850243f77a437fcdc3138f772c6a0bd9ee04a1c59d2043a4cb9c137401e9584f |
A story inspired by the works of H.P. Lovecraft.
I tell you, it was not like anything I’ve experienced before. I’m quite used to unnatural sights, unnameable diseases and horrid disfigurations. The field of biology and being an apprentice biologist has left me many visuals on my retinas, but none like the ones I have experienced with him.
During my education towards becoming a certified biologist, I worked together with a curious man. Steven Pinley was a man of genius. His intellect rose above all peers, he towered over all us students and even over some of our professors. He often went to professors after class to discuss the matter newly learned, ask questions which left professors dumbfounded and often found discrepancies in the lessons. He peeked the interest of many.
Often we sat besides one another, as we took a liking to each other quickly after us meeting. We could talk for hours about the subjects of biology and the theories discussed in the lessons. We could dream of our futures and dreams as biologists, experimenting with instruments most modern on subjects delivered to our operating tables. We could hardly wait, a state of mind and certain motivation which manifested itself quickly.
Pinley was an even-tempered man, he looked composed, well dressed and had a calm collected face only an intellectual can have. His small, peering eyes hid a bright shimmer behind long, dark eyelashes. His slim nose drooped down his face to a small moustache and thin lips. Above his gaze were slim eyebrows and smooth, dark hair. Slim was a word which described him impeccably.
I got used to his punctuality, fifteen minutes early to every class and appointment, and was able to play into it by being early also, which enabled us to have talks before lessons and be seated next to each other, as we got used to. One day, in our fanatic yearnings of our applying of learned information, we conceived a plan. As Pinley was so ahead of our class, and me, being so much next to him, arriving at the same intellectual level, yet always some distance behind him, he noted that we, together, had the required knowledge to start experimenting preemptively. We had had some classes on experimenting and necropsy, and Pinley felt that that experience, together with our books was enough to start some work of our own.
The next weekend we started devising our plan. We thought that a good start would be to find ourselves a remote place to work in peace, without any disturbances. Behind our home town there was the small town of Westhorpe, a settlement of old, which was at one half of the periphery lined with dense woods, with a few land roads cutting through the opaque forestry. The other half was divided into two: one side was a cliff descending into a lake, the other half was a field with more citified roads leading in- and out of Westhorpe, connecting it to the major city of Kingsham, where our university was located.
In the woods there were some old logger’s houses up for rent, which we could afford through our scholarships, provided by our education for our excellent performance in the first year. We devised we’d rent one of the old houses, where we could set up shop and work on our first experiments of our own.
My goal with this plan, a goal Steven did not share with me, was to impress the teachers at the University to receive some royalty to further explore biology of our own. Steven had other ideas, but was never so keen of explaining them to me, even after we had paid our first month rent of the house. We could anonymously buy an old, discarded table from one of the biological institutes connected to the University, and some electrical lamps from an electrical store in Kingsham. With this we could erect a laboratory of our own, and we could light the place for some hours if the sun was low or the leafage was particularly dense. But God! How I curse the day I decided to proceed this plan further than just dreaming of it! | English | NL | 44f53c852effa94fa7b12526a82639cc8cfee9e11b8b691818091ab19f54a5c3 |
“In the jungle the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight!”
He stood there in front of me and for the first time I saw what was hidden underneath that shirt. This man was quite unconventional in his approach to charming a woman that’s for certain but when it came to his physique I can proudly say wow! He had a real six pack not those fake ones most guys we know have.
“Simba and then? How am I the dessert?”
I asked him and I could not help but smile because it was funny and sweet at the same time. Who says that really?
“I don’t know you tell me!”
He asked me smiling back.
“What happened to the no sex before marriage stuff you once said to me?”
I asked him sarcastically.
“After I said that you didn’t talk to me for two weeks. I looked like a complete and utter idiot for saying so yup, lesson learned”
“What lesson is that?”
I asked him.
“Its important to you meaning it’s important to me.”
He responded in what probably the cheesiest response he could give me. For a man with a body like his and the success he had achieved it was a bit disappointing to see that at this moment he was unsure of himself.
“You should not always do thing just to please a woman. I find that a lot of the times things work better for you if you do things that impress you. If it’s me you want then why must you change who you are just to impress me? Down the line don’t you think you will change your mind and hate me for having changed your core values?”
I asked him. He chuckled and said,
“It seems like you are trying to deny me now and I am a bit stuck here. I was told by many people that I was not accommodating enough of other people’s viewpoints so here I am doing so. I am always in charge and bossing people around if you know what I mean and I think with you I want to be at your mercy!”
He said sweetly and he knelt down before me. I was confused for a moment as I was not sure exactly what he was saying.
“Are you saying you want to be my slave sexually or in the relationship?”
I asked him teasing him but also very curious. If as a woman you have never wanted to be in control or dominant over your man then you really are part of the reason why women will never be on top both figuratively and literally. It excited me and even the thought alone was enough to give me a wet spot.
“I am saying I want you to be in charge if we end up together completely and I will do your bidding.”
Remember I was wearing his shirt. I stood up and walked to the kitchen to wash my hands for no apparent reason. He stood up and I turned around and snapped,
“Who said you could stand up?”
He looked confused but immediately kneeled right back down. Oh my heavens oh sweet heaven what was happening here. I had read some many Cosmo magazines as part of my emancipation but to have my very own Christian Gray, where I was Christian was something I had never in a million years thought would happen.
“I am sorry I did not realize that you wanted me to stay down here!”
He said calmly. Make no mistake about it his calm tone under the situation was so unnerving I did not know what to do. Why was he willing to put himself through all this just for me? Was there more to this than I was seeing.
“Where can I find your ties?”
I asked him. I have a kinky side too ok and I have read enough things like I said to know what to do in a situation like this.
He asked me.
“Yes your ties!”
He told me that they were in a drawer in his bedroom. I walked up to his bedroom and for a guy this man was supper neat. He would never survive my clutter. I took three ties from the drawer and I walked back to where he was still kneeling. For a boss at work he followed instructions well. I would not have stayed on the floor that long that’s for sure.
“You can stand up now.”
He did as he was told and he stood up and walked towards me.
“No, take that chair and put it over there!”
I told him pointing to a wide arm chair that was in the corner next to a lamp. He did as he was told and as he walked to it he said,
“You are very kinky wow!”
Of which I responded,
“Did I ask you to comment?”
He did not respond and just put the chair where he was told. I liked this a lot, a man who actually listens. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to give a man commandments which they actually follow as they are told to do them?
“Sit down on this chair and put your arms on the sides!”
I told him. I was not really shouting but my voice was stern enough in spite of me wanting to burst out laughing. This was funny and because I had never actually done this before it was also actually awkward. When he sat down I walked towards him slowly opening the buttons of my shirt (his shirt the one I had borrowed). I was still wearing a bra and matching panties (thank God I had chosen to match today and it was my red underwear at that). This was the first time he had ever seen me naked and I so him take a deep breath and heard him breathe out.
“You are beautiful!”
He said to me. Cliché but flattering. I did not say thank you. I came and I straddled him on that chair. I trusted my instincts that it would not break because that would be embarrassing for sure and fortunately for me it held firm. My boobs were literally on his face and he was breathing heavy.
“Can I touch?”
I responded harshly. I took his ties and tied his hands on the sides of the armchair loose enough to allow him to move. I was getting good at this. With him restrained I stood up and I took of the shirt I was wearing completely and my bra allowing my ladies to come out in the open fully.
“How long have you planned this? Wow!”
He said to me. I did not want him to talk and he kept insisting. I chose to ignore him this time as I took the other tie, the remaining one. I walked sensually (or at least I tried) towards him. I should have played music but I had none.
“You should have brought two how you going to tie both my legs down?”
He asked me. I put my finger on my lips to signal this motor mouth to keep quiet and he listened. Who said the tie was for that? I was actually very horny now. I took the tie and I walked to him and only now did he discover what the tie was for, it was a blind fold.
“But I want to see…”
He protested as I went behind him and covered his eyes with it.
Was my response. He was mine now and at my mercy. He kept on moving his head from side to side trying to anticipate my next move. I liked the power. This is where a woman like me belongs, on top. I pulled down his pants and now he was completely naked though sitting down. His dick, yes I call it a dick because it was a monster stood proudly in front of me for the first. Men from the North summer had come indeed!
“You are blessed!”
I whispered to him in his ear.
He responded and I think he knew immediately what I meant. Men with big dicks are never scared to show their pride in their members!
“You will not be fucking me tonight…”
I whispered to him and his body tensed up in a slight panic!
He pleaded. He was so turned on this dude. I went to the table where we were having dinner. He had ice there in a small ice bucket. I took it. I went to the kitchen were earlier on I had seen a brand new feather duster. Its head was still in its plastic. I pulled out one feather. I also took a few things I needed and went back to him. He was still looking from side to side trying to anticipate my coming.
I took the ice I had brought and placed it on his throbbing member. It was so unexpected for him he took a sharp intake of breathe and his body tensed up.
He groaned as ice tends to have that effect. I rubbed his dick with it for about thirty seconds and when his dick was about to deflate I immediately replaced it with my mouth. The extreme changes of temperature and the unexpected nature of it sent his body into sexy convulsions as he tried to readjust his body wiggled. As soon as his dick got hard again I would replace my tongue with the ice.
“Where did you learn how to do that?”
He asked me in his moment of pleasure. I ignored. With my free hand I took the feather and gently ran it on his tummy chest neck then ears. Its sensation is like an insect walking on you. Normally you would jump because it’s freaky but in this situation with your heightened senses it is tickly as hell especially on the ear. I took my ice to his nipples (mans nipples are often just as sensitive as a woman’s) and with my very soft feather I tickled his inner left ear whilst my mouth was nibbling on his right ear!
“Ah Lungi what are you doing to me?”
He squirmed and wiggled under his restraints.
I felt his body tense up and note I was not even touching him.
What the fuck?
That was easy!
I was so disappointed as I still wanted to play with my shiny new toy!
He was going to sleep on that chair in those restraints until he learns to act right!
Michael Nkululeko Maphoto (fb)
Thank you for reading my letter. A friend referred me here to ask for help. I am grateful.
I have been dating my fiancé for three years now and we were a very happy sexual couple. We go everywhere together and we have sex all the time. I am emphasizing this to show that my fiancé has a huge sexual appetite. I am 31 she is 28. We both work decent jobs and moved in together. I gave her a ring 5 months ago and we are doing lobola in December. She is still on contraceptives as we want a child in the marriage. Anyway my fiancé has a very kinky side, she likes porn and we always experiment with what we see. It was all fun and good until she wanted us to try sex with another couple. At first I thought she was joking because no couple would ever want to do that. I told her to make it happen and told her I don’t do prostitutes. It was meant to be an impossible task but within a week of me saying that she came with a friend of hers that I know and her boyfriend. She had found a willing couple so fast. I was suspicious. It just didn’t feel right as I felt they were familiar because they were too comfortable. As I started to ask her questions as to why them and so on I discovered that during our relationship she had been having threesomes with them. I had never cheated on her and it hurt knowing that she was sleeping around. She could see I was hurt and that started pulling us apart. Imagine knowing your fiancé is someone else’s scuftin.
I am not sure what to do? I love this woman but can I trust her. I already doubt myself that I can satisfy her alone because of her appetite. I am now angry and jealous of what she was doing when I was so busy being loyal.
What should I do about this situation? | English | NL | db4b1de6cf2dce685456ff6a7b52c7b7de4dd8d1154c80416779ee1101b9347a |
Vijay Eswaran,the CEO and the founder of QI Group, was born in 1960 in Penang, Malaysia. He graduated with a degree in Social-Economics in the University Of London in 1984. Just like any other person with a success story, he began from a low ground. After graduation, he did some odd jobs for a living in Europe for a year. He also worked on construction sites in Belgium, did grape-plucking in France and cab driving in London. Learn more about Vijay Eswaran: http://philanthropies.org/vijay-eswaran-2/
While still in the United Kingdom, he was introduced to Binary System Marketing. This led to him obtaining a qualification from CIMA. He later got himself an MBA from the University Of Southern Illinois in 1986. Vijay became a part-time worker for Synaptics in the United States while still involving himself in Multilevel Marketing.
Cosway Group approached him as it planned to launch its Phillipines branch. That was a call for him, and he began looking into Multilevel Marketing earnestly.
Vijay Eswaran returned to Today, it is the QI Group, which is involved with businesses such as travels, media, wellness, telecommunications, luxury products, corporate investments, and training.QI Group has its offices in Malaysia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Singapore and ten more countries in a subsidiary of companies.
Vijay Eswaran is also a speaker and author. He has spoken in many business forums and managements in India and World Economic Forums. He published his first book known as “Sphere of Silence” in 2005. His second book, “In the Thinking Zone,” was released in 2008. In 2010, he launched his third book, “18 Stepping Stones.” His fourth book, “Wings of Thought” was published in 2011.
Vijay has taken initiatives in community development through mentorship, and he has made donations to charity individuals and organizations. He has received several awards such as the New Global Indian Award, business excellence in New York and also an award in Forbes Asia’s 50 richest, at number 25. | English | NL | da0a9de1e5997479e2074af368c52d58265e2e406319612d58b82a2fceef9ed2 |
All our answers lie in dreams…
Charlotte “Chickie ” Coates is a modern woman in her mid-forties. Independent, she’s never been married. Although caring and loving, she’s never had children. She doesn’t have time for a steady boyfriend, which is okay with her. The men she dates are all over the age of seventy and nothing more than friends and corporate confidantes, anyway.
She’s a still-beautiful ex-supermodel who does seem to have everything else. She’s the CEO and owner of a billion-dollar empire that’s made her one of the richest, most powerful businesswomen in the world.
You’d think that spiritual things don’t matter to her. Wrong. Her entire childhood was shaped by the trusted power of the unseen and the metaphysical. Her grandmother was the personal stenographer for the greatest psychic medium of all time: Edgar Cayce. Chickie’s been raised and surrounded by spiritual women all her life.
And that life is about to change in astounding ways.
The recent death of her Aunt Gladys has brought Chickie to beautiful Mackinac Island, Michigan, a place steeped in times gone by where peaceful souls and mischievous spirits still linger together. With one innocent ferry ride across Lake Huron, Chickie goes from New York City town cars and taxis to horse-drawn carriages and prophetic dreams that magically transform everyone she meets—most of all, Chickie herself.
There’s something strange about Aunt Gladys’s island mansion, and it’s borne of some mystical energy and producing amazing prophecy that seeps into Chickie the minute she steps inside.
But mystery is not the only thing Chickie is destined to greet. Love waits. Love beckons. Love keeps its own magical promise.
And even though Chickie doesn’t want to get swept away by a man who’s fourteen years her junior named Benjamin Carlisle, and she doesn’t want to fall in love with his two children, Georgie and Grace, and she really doesn’t want to inherit a Golden Retriever named, “Amber”… destiny has already made up its mind.
In this scene, Chickie is introduced to the three of them for the first time by the island doctor, the rascally Norman Beaney, on the front lawn of Aunt Gladys’s home…
Chickie’s jaw dropped and every speck of saliva in her mouth dried up. Everything faded, blurred. Everything except him. It was like he’d stepped through a portal from another dimension and took form before her very eyes.
It took a lot of man to make her look twice, so this was a historic event.
He should have come bounding into this scene riding a big black horse, his mane of flowing dark hair swishing in slow motion on the wind. Chickie shook her head and blinked, but the real scene didn’t change. The children’s father all but strutted his way toward them. He was reaching inside the small cooler he carried, not even noticing them yet. He knew how to move, she’d give him that, with a natural grace and a smoldering style every photographer she’d ever known desired in a male supermodel.
He was a vision to behold. Loose-hipped, long, and rock-solid. He was tall, several inches over six feet, which in reality made him too big to be a model. He was wearing a ratty old black tank top that revealed his buffed arms and wide shoulders, his sun-browned skin glistening with beads of perspiration and what looked like flecks of white paint. His jeans were old and frayed, with holes not at the knees like any self-respecting scruffy jeans should be, but over the shin of one leg, and up on his thigh on the other. He moved fluidly, forcefully, long strides and masculine muscle carrying him forward.
But it was his hair. That hair didn’t belong on some common laborer on some innocent northern Michigan island. It flowed over his shoulders and down his back in dark sable waves like a romantic rake, a sensuous libertine, a pagan god of some hedonistic kingdom. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to look like, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
He wasn’t watching where he was going, and he stepped in a hole. He stopped whistling with an “oops.” Instead of cursing the childish perpetrators, though, he laughed, and then he looked up, straight into her eyes. He halted, his smile disappearing like a splash of brilliant sunlight that had been attacked by a cumulus cloud. Then in one sweep, his eyes licked their way up her entire body. She felt the moistness of his recognition, and somehow she knew it was a familiarity that would go beyond what was being born right now. How odd that her long-dormant intuition and spiritual nature should leap awake at this moment, but then she felt the chill of the Michigan breeze whisk through her and remembered where she was: on the turf of her aunt’s holy ground. She blurted out what had been her first thought when she’d seen him. “If it isn’t Fabio.”
Beaney guffawed and smacked her with optimistic force on the shoulder. “Good one, missy. Hi, Benjy.”
“Hi Doc,” he replied.
“Who’s Fabio?” Grace asked her dad.
“He’s a figment of a million women’s imaginations.”
“What’s a figment?”
“A fantasy sported by delusional females.”
“Hey…” started Chickie.
Grace broke in. “His name is Benjamin, but a lot of people just call him Benjy.” She took Chickie’s hand. “Dad, look. Aunt Chickie.”
Chickie and Benjamin said it together:
“I’m not really your aunt.”
“She’s not really your aunt.”
“Well, neither was Gladys, but we called her aunt,” Grace pointed out.
“Good point,” said Beaney. “Come on, everybody.” He grabbed Chickie’s arm and led her over while the kids scrambled ahead with the dog. “Our long-awaited Charlotte has finally arrived, Benjy.”
Since he just stood there, she stuck out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He pulled out a plastic carton with the straw attached and handed it to Grace, then he gripped Chickie’s hand and squeezed. “Charlotte.”
“Call me Chickie, please.” His hand was hot in the palm and cold at his fingertips, his grip sure and bold. He was a study in contrasts.
“Call me Benjamin.” He let go and reached in for another juice carton, then dropped the cooler on the grass, all without breaking eye contact. Georgie pulled on his arm when he didn’t hand him his drink.
“Daddy, juice, please.”
Benjamin looked down at his son. “Oh. Sorry, buddy.” He detached the straw, then ripped the covering off with his straight white teeth and spit it into the cooler. Plunging the straw into the carton, he handed it over. “Here you go.” He went back to Chickie and did an even more thorough scan this time, from her stylish navy flats, up her mile-long legs, past her still-narrow waist, over those—Holy God—still-young-looking breasts, up the milky arch of an unwrinkled neck, and then on to the banquet of delicious features that hit him square in the gut, just like he’d been afraid they would do. Amazing, since she was dressed like an uptight CEO—in a high-end couture number from the Bluesuits Collection, if he wasn’t mistaken, or maybe it was one of her own designs—but he was sure of it. She was trouble. Big trouble. There was a blemish on her check. It was the only mark of normality on an otherwise blessed landscape. And her hair. It was longer than his and ten times as lush. His heart gave one great leap of lust and burst into the air on one of his infamous smiles. “Gladys was right.”
Chickie let out a breath and fought for more. That smile of his was sucking the spirit right out of her body. “About what?”
“You are almost as tall as me.”
“Does that surprise you?”
His grin grew. “Not hardly.” Reaching into his back pocket, he brought out a bottle of Guinness. He twisted the cap off and took a contemplative drink. “Disappointed?”
“Not hardly,” she tossed back.
Benjamin laughed. “She’s funny, Beaney.” He thrust the bottle in her hand while tossing the top down into the cooler. “Here, you look parched.”
Chickie studied the bottle and then thought, why not? Taking a long, slow drink, she lowered her eyelashes and gave him the come-hither look she’d perfected when she’d been eighteen and doing it for European photographers. His pupils dilated, and then it hit her: what in the world was she doing? He must be a decade younger than she was—she took in his kids—and married, for heaven’s sakes, and apparently reliving his teenage years by flirting, verbal sparring, and sporting wild hairdos. Not wanting to deal with him like this any more, she looked up the front steps to the house and more grief flooded her. “Aunt Gladys.” Blindly, she handed him back his bottle and covered her lips with her fingers. It was really true: Aunt Gladys was actually gone.
Noticing her impending meltdown, Benjamin set the beer bottle in the cooler. “Listen, kids, while you help Beaney take the horses back to the stable, I’m going to help Aunt Chickie get settled.”
“Yes, boys and girls, let’s get to it, shall we?” Beaney said, taking Georgie’s hand.
“Come on,” Benjamin murmured, cupping her elbow. “I’ll show you in.” He started walking her up the steps. “Take Amber with you, too,” he said to Grace.
“Okay, Daddy. Come on, Amber, let’s go for a ride.” She and the dog ran to the carriage and clambered up on the seat, but Georgie pulled away and followed his father up the stairs.
She looked down.
He patted her thigh. “Don’t worry. Aunt Gladys is watching over us. Daddy says.”
Chickie’s smile had never felt sadder. “Thank you, Georgie. I’ll try to remember that.”
“Go on with Beaney now, honey,” Benjamin murmured. He met Chickie’s gleaming eyes, so close to him now. She was an astonishingly beautiful woman, something else Gladys had been right about. “I loved her, too,” he stated simply, his eyes starting to shine in spite of his will to contain any and all emotion in front of this woman.
She nodded, not wanting to speak. He was even younger than she’d first thought. No deep lines around his dreamy brown eyes, the lashes thick and dark. No sagging skin at his jaw line, just a supple roundness that made him seem boyishly romantic. And his body wasn’t one that wore the march of time yet. It was hard-looking and smelled like fertile, earthy air. Compared to the older men she’d always dated, this guy was foreign and entirely new. When they came to the door, he reached into his pocket and took out a key. It turned easily in the keyhole. “You have your own key?” she asked.
Benjamin studied it in his hand, surprised by her question. “Of course.” At her look of cautious civility, he frowned. “Gladys and I were good friends. I watched out for her, took care of the little odds and ends around here. By the way,” he added, “I noticed that loose shutter. I’ll fix it as soon as I can.”
Chickie was starting to wonder just what all this so-called closeness was really about. She straightened her shoulders, her raw emotions back under control. He was probably worried about losing out on the income. “Thank you. Please bill me for any expenses, or did Aunt Gladys have an account you use?” If it were possible, he grew five indignant inches in height.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Oh, wasn’t he righteous all of a sudden? “I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land.”
Benjamin stepped closer. She stepped back. “Well, if you ask me, Charlotte, you’re doing a lousy job.” He shoved the leaded stained-glass windowed door open so it banged into the wall, then he grabbed her hand, slapped the key in her palm, and without waiting for her to go first, he sauntered inside the sun porch like he owned the place. Yanking one of Grace’s hair ties out of his pocket, he pulled his hair into a ponytail. Thank God he was getting it cut later today because it was driving him crazy. He faced her, spitting out his words like a march to war instead of as a simple explanation. “This was one of her favorite parts of the house. She told me when she couldn’t sleep or she needed to figure out some puzzling notion, she never failed to find comfort out here.”
Chickie stepped into a wide slash of sunlight burning across the white-painted wooden floor. It was an enormous porch, with large-paned windows that gleamed, offering a crystal-clear view of the Straits of Mackinac that was spectacular. She watched with growing amusement as he boldly took control and opened a side window and let in a crisp breeze that still managed to surprise her by its stark purity. The furniture was white wicker with thick royal blue cushions on the chairs. A white wicker birdcage hung in the corner, empty. Thank God, she hadn’t inherited another pet. There were a couple Tiffany lamps on wrought iron end tables, and next to the wall was a curious piece facing the water: a dark green velvet couch. It was backless and a very simple design. “How odd,” she murmured and went over to it.
She leaned over and pushed down a couple times. The fabric on the long tufted cushion was faded where bodies had rested many times over the years. There was a dip in the middle to confirm that. “This daybed doesn’t fit in with the rest of everything out here.” She sat down on it and sank into softness and ageless time. It was comfortable, but totally out of place. “Maybe it had some sentimental value,” she mused.
Benjamin was tired. Remembering he was filthy, he grabbed a folded afghan and placed it on the couch before he sank down beside her.
“Your wife has taught you well.” Chickie remarked.
He frowned over at her. “What?”
She waved her hand at the blanket. “Not to get anything dirty with outside grime.”
“Oh.” Chickie swiped at remnants of dog gunk. “I’m sorry.”
Benjamin leaned his forearms on his thighs. “Don’t be.”
“For the children then.”
He rubbed his hands over his eyes and sighed. “Yeah, for them, certainly. But we do all right.”
He sat up straight and turned back. “You do?”
“You have adorable, lovely children.”
Benjamin smiled. His fine-hewn instincts told him she was being sincere. Maybe she wasn’t so unapproachable after all. “Thanks. It’s nice that you noticed.” His smile faded. “I didn’t help Gladys for the money.”
“I know that, and I’m sorry I made such an accusation. I’m just overwhelmed by losing her.” She looked at the key in her hand, then placed it on the cushion between them and slid it toward him. “You can have this back.”
Benjamin studied it for a couple seconds. He could tell she wasn’t wholly comfortable giving him access to what was now hers. He slid it back. “Keep it. I have to get used to the fact everything’s changed.” He stood and towered over her. She’d definitely broken past his fortified barrier and was swiftly moving in to more vulnerable territory. He felt the pull of her in his heart, in his gut…lower. He’d been expecting it. “Gladys told me…”
Chickie looked up, way up. And the daybed beneath her seemed to vibrate, but then she realized it was an awakening from a deeper place somewhere inside her. “What did she tell you?” He only shook his head and then went over and opened another window. Chickie looked for something to focus on and noticed the wrapped present on the end table. “What’s this?” She reached over and got it. Checking the small attached card, she saw her name, written in her aunt’s handwriting. “For me?”
He looked over. “I found it up in her room. She was always giving people presents. She gave me one just before she died.” How she’d known the name of his favorite poet should have surprised him, but it hadn’t. He thought of something else he figured Chickie should know. “I think you’re going to find letters addressed to you all over the house in there.”
She gazed up with wide eyes. “Really? Did she tell you that, too?”
He shook his head. “I found one in the main parlor, and I have a feeling there are more. And while I have no proof of this, I also believe Gladys knew for several months her time was drawing near.” He stuck his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans. “Why don’t you open it?”
“Okay.” She ripped open the paper and found a worn but in-excellent-condition book of poetry. She turned it over in her hands, then opened it to where there was a feminine Victorian book mark. She put her fingers to her lips. “He’s my favorite.”
He took the book from her. It matched the one he’d received.
“Yeats,” she explained, “an Irish poet who was a prominent figure in twentieth century literature.”
Benjamin almost tossed it back in her face. She thought he was too stupid to know on his own. “Is that so?” He handed it back. “It’s a first edition, I bet.” Just like his copy.
Chickie checked. “It is.” She hugged it to her chest, then realized he probably thought she was hopelessly old and out of style. Oh, who cared what he thought? And maybe she was condemning him without a trial, but she stood, wanting him gone so she could change her clothes and regroup. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit me.”
At her curt dismissal, he decided she was a pain after all. Why did she make him feel like an uncultured, dimwitted fool? The hell with this. He did have work to finish. “You’re right,” he said, marching for the door.
Chickie thought of something. “Wait, Benjamin.”
He turned, all but stamping his scuffed, uncouth work shoe. “Yeah?”
“Do you by any chance know Mr. Carlisle?”
He slowly walked back to her. “Who?”
“Mr. Carlisle. The older gentleman who owns the infamous Melisande Hotel.”
Benjamin had just known it. She was a typical big-city gold digger, looking for the deepest stake on the island—and she thought he was nothing more than the local handyman. “Of course. Everyone knows the old codger.” She totally missed his sarcastic tone.
Benjamin grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d agree with that assessment. As for old Mr. Carlisle, go to his dining room for dinner tonight. He reserves a table there in Gladys’s name. She ate there almost every evening. He’ll extend the same courtesy to you, I’m sure. If you’re lucky, he’ll stop by your table, and you can check him out yourself.”
Chickie wasn’t certain, but that gleam in his eyes seemed to have an evil intent to it. “Are you leveling with me?”
Benjamin shook his head. “You’re some piece of work. Figure it out yourself.” He headed outside as she sank onto the daybed again and picked up that stupid key. Just to be contrary, he stuck his head back in. “Hey, Chickie Baby.” When she looked over, with great relish he quoted one of his favorite poetic lines: “I bring you with reverent hands the books of my numberless dreams.” | English | NL | 9986e1d12edfe4788f5388f0e2056698100a7c14489a205ac16698fb3ff0cd93 |
The fear of the darkness of a child in his room is so strong that is embodied in a being. Mr. Shadow is the Lord of the Shadows, able to absorb the colors and raise the shadows. The only way to recover his light is from darkness. An old cat-shaped bunker where he keeps his toys, is the gateway between the two worlds. | English | NL | fc2075ebb1ea620349cc80ef2ef46df9808aba31713c66141d6c772d5527b71c |
This used to happen to me quite often when I was younger, but lately I have had “different” experiences. To start with, I would like to say that this is all true. Everything I write here is fact, and you don’t have to believe me.
The first time I remember anything happening was when I was about 3 or 4 years old. My parents had guests over and they were sitting outside in the lapa (a type of grass-roofed patio type thing we have in South Africa) and I was playing in the living room. While I was playing with my Legos, the lights started to dim (this was before dimmer switches) and I got a strong feeling of nausea. Naturally I was freaked out; so I bolted for the back door and out onto the porch.
Right at the edge of the porch I came to a sudden halt as something landed on my face. I don’t remember seeing anything at all, as in everything went black, but I could feel though; it felt like the legs of a large spider (maybe a huge daddy long-legs) were moving around on my face. For those of you unfamiliar with it, the daddy long-legs is a tiny spider with very long and thin legs. This sensation was accompanied by the inability to move at all.
The little legs found my lips, and forced my mouth open with a gentle but undeniable force, and I felt the legs moving into my mouth and throat. Suddenly the legs were gone and my body kept on running to my mom as if it hadn’t just been frozen. Strangely though, I was calm by the time I reached my mother, and I merely started playing with the dogs while the adults talked.
After this time I started having a recurring nightmare:
I was sitting alone in the middle of my parents’ bed, but the room was far bigger than I could remember. The feeling of blind panic and nausea would hit me just before a large leopard stalked in through the door (only this “leopard’s” limbs were all wrong, too long and too muscular; with no tail and a strange elongated head). This creature would calmly walk toward me, and as it neared I would fade into a different scene; my body was no longer there, but I was aware of a serenely calm line, and I took comfort in its simple beauty. The problem was that the more I wanted the line to remain calm, the more it would freak out; until all I could see and feel was a chaotic storm of fear and madness. I would wake screaming, and my parents would come running. This happened almost every night up to when I was 13.
While this was going on, I remember that one night while lying in my bed I was awakened by a strange presence. My eyes opened quickly and I saw a small creature standing by my bed; it had my hand held in one of its little hands; stroking it with the other. This creature was covered in thick brown fur, and built like a tiny human. Short claws sprouted from its fingers, and its face was made up of a wide mouth, no nose and two very large eyes (deep green eyes). It noticed that I had awakened, and proceeded to pull at me; trying to pull me from my bed. I screamed in terror and panic as I fought back until I heard the heavy footsteps of my father rushing to my room. The creature bolted into the shadows as my father came into the room.
I believe this was a tokoloshe (a creature that lives in Africa, like a mischievous or malevolent spirit that can apparently only be seen by children).
The dreams stopped on my thirteenth birthday (I remember it was to the day), and I started to regain a sort of normal sleeping pattern. This was until the “experiences” started some months later. I would wake in the dead of night; drenched in a cold sweat and with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. This would be followed by the sound of my bedroom door opening and the sensation of someone light coming to sit on me as I lay there. I always slept facing the wall, and when this started happening I lacked the courage to open my eyes; much less turn around. This “experience” would last for a few minutes before the presence would get up and leave. I would immediately feel its absence and switch on my bedside lamp to look at the spot where I felt it; it had left the spot of my duvet smooth (like the mark you make from sitting on a made up bed).
I remember it becoming a very frequent event, and I tried to rationalize it; so I decided that it must be my guardian angel (I was religious at the time). The visitations came to a climax one night when I woke to the sound of my door opening in the night, and the presence returned to its perch atop me, but this night it was followed in by something big. This thing walked through my room, and its footsteps sounded like trees falling down. My father was a big guy, but I knew the weight behind the sound of his footsteps, and this was easily three to four times heavier. This thing stomped to my closet, pulled one of its doors off the hinges and proceeded to scatter all my clothes across my room before stomping back out of the room. My “angel” followed it out of the room, and I fell asleep crying into my pillow (I was a tough kid, but this had rocked me to the core).
The next day I demanded to be taken to see a priest, and my mother found a priest that had apparently had experience in dealing with demons. The priest and I talked for a while, and eventually it came to the topic of my “angel”; I told him what happened and how it would make me feel, and he told me that it was no angel.
Angels do not go out of their way to scare you.
He then prayed for me, and taught me how to bless my room and said that if they returned again, I should command them to leave. That night I got my chance; my door opened as usual, and the being came to its perch. I mustered what courage I could and told it (in a weak and trembling voice) to be gone and never return. I felt it turn atop me as if to obverse what was going on, and I felt my courage grow (it had responded to me, and I felt stronger). I repeated my command with more steel in my voice, and I could feel the being get off me. That’s when I sat up and shouted at it to leave me alone once and for all; it left quickly, and I was sitting alone in my room until one of my parents came in to ask if I was ok. I was better than ok, I was victorious and free!
For several nights after I had banished my “angel” I could hear a mournful singing coming from the hall outside of my room. Bolstered by my recent victory I strutted from my room and stood in the hallway listening. The song was beautiful, but to this day I have heard nothing more mournful. The darkness seemed deeper at the end of the hall, and I felt my resolve weaken as it grew to swallow more and more of the hallway. I turned and ran to the other end of the hallway (my parents’ bedroom) and burst in just as the darkness engulfed the whole hall. The singing was much closer now, but it was unable to follow through the doorway.
I woke my father and told him someone was in the house; he got his gun and went to investigate. The darkness had stopped singing when I started waking my father. I went with him out into the house, and the darkness retreated as we approached. Naturally he found no signs of people in the house apart from us.
That was the last time I saw or heard my “angel”.
Since then fresh terrors have visited me, and even attacked friends of mine.
I still fear the dark though; I know my “angel” waits just at the edges of my control, just waiting to get a chance to return. | English | NL | 12de624260424d04fc6fbc88e2f5662e0f127eef679db07ea2eed4baf6976441 |
Although Marx is not often acknowledged as such, he remains Western music's single most influential theorist, as the person who gave Sonata Form its name and codified its elements. Above a certain level of proficiency, there is not a single musician in the Western Classical tradition who does not know Sonata Form: they know Marx's legacy, if not his name.Further awareness of Marx as a man is especially important. The naming of Sonata form, and the discussion of its elements, was invested with convictions about music that Marx was among the very first to hold, and which we continue to value: for instance, that a composer's formal choices are not made just by convention, but with intention, and that the way in which a work unfolds is itself meaningful; or that music of any era reflects the aesthetic priorities of its age. Those convictions, in turn, spring from Marx's vigorous intellectual engagement with the world around him, its thinkers, its writers, and its politics. This translation provides a unique opportunity to read Marx in his own words.His Recollections from My Life were published in 1865, Marx's last book to appear during his lifetime, and have not been republished either in the German original, nor in any translation. Our translation with annotation and commentary will make available to English-readers this important view of music in Germany during the time of Beethoven, Mendelssohn and other familiar names from the concert hall. | English | NL | f63fbc031b85f7d1f087b74b32b02b65e8845f52e656564fd27d7cdaa83463cf |
It can be said that over the years, the Welsh have acquired a rather unfair reputation for being excessively morbid. This sweeping generalization is not helped by the sheer volume of stories and superstitions concerning omens of doom and portents of death that still thrive in the country, though to a much lesser extent than they did only a few hundred years ago. One of the most alluring of these myths is that of the Cyoeraeth (or Cyhyraeth) which, when translated into English simply means ‘the wailing.’ This creature was once deemed one of the most horrible of all supernatural beings. More often than not, the victim could only hear its pitiful moaning at a distance. If the moans of the Cyoeraeth were heard resonating along a street, it was taken to mean that more than one person was getting their card stamped, and if heard near the sea, it denoted a fatal shipwreck was in the offing. Those even less fortunate than to hear the Cyoeraeth could come face to face with it. The creature could be either male or female, and is described as having wild, dishevelled hair, black pointed teeth, long withered arms, and possessing a shriek that could turn blood to ice. Death was said to follow in its wake, though very rarely for the witness himself. Usually, a close friend or family member would be claimed instead.
View from Pennard Castle. 'Hag of the Mist' sighted in the area.
A close relative of the Cyoeraeth is the Gwrach y Rhibyn (Hag of the Mist), an even more terrifying Welsh version of the Irish banshee, which is also said to forecast death or misfortune. The Gwrach y Rhibyn takes the form of a repulsive old hag with piercing black eyes and a long flowing cape, and is said to only appear to those of 'true Welsh' pedigree. Some have seen her with a huge set of leathery, featherless wings, which she uses to beat against the doors and windows of the stricken. The entity is said to frequent many locations in Wales, notably Caerphilly Castle, where it was spotted by multiple witnesses in the second half of the 18th century. Other famous haunts include Beaupre Castle near Cowbridge, St. Donat’s castle in Glamorgan, and Pennard Castle in the Gower. A typical tale concerns a man by the name of Meurig ap Tomos, who lived in or near Caergwrle in Flintshire, and met a Gwrach y Rhibyn one evening in 1868 as he travelled home from a pub. Three times on his journey, he thought he heard the howl of a dog, although at no point did he see the hound. Suddenly, he heard a strange heavy flapping noise coming from above and there was a terrifying scream as something dropped out of the sky and landed next to him. Then, in a sight that must have haunted his dreams for years, the Gwrach y Rhibyn began crawling toward him on all fours, crooning softly. When dawn broke, the man was found by some farm workers babbling incoherently. They took him to a nearby Rectory where his health deteriorated rapidly. Within three months he was dead, the Gwrach y Rhibyn’s prophesy apparently fulfilled.
'Hag of the Mist' sighted at St Donat's Castle, south Wales.
The Deryn Corph or Corpse Bird, is rarely heard of, and even more seldom seen. Some claimed that it was very large, black and threatening, others said that it was a medium sized bird with no feathers or wings, while still others maintained that it was completely invisible. The Deryn Corph was said to manifest itself and beat it’s wings on the locked doors and windows of the ailing, sometimes calling “dewch, dewch! (Come, come!). Interestingly, many poltergeist cases involve what is commonly described as the sound of invisible wings fluttering and beating against doors and windows. Also indicative of poltergeist activity are strange sequences of tapping, knocking or clicking emanating from an untraceable source. The noises are believed to be most commonly heard prior to a death, and are widely known among old Welsh families as the Tolaeth.
One notable instance of the Tolaeth in action comes from Maesteg, and was related in the excellent book Haunted Wales: A Guide to Welsh Ghostlore, by Richard Holland (2011). One evening, a collier was relaxing at home when he heard what sounded like a group of people approach the door, then barge into the sitting room with a series of bangs and crashes. Although he could see nothing, the collier described the room as being 'full of people.' The very next day, another collier who lived at the house was killed by a fall in the pit. His body was brought back to the house by a group of men, the noises they made perfectly corresponding to the phantom sounds of the night before.
Probably due to the hazardous nature of their work, miners were great believers in portents, believing them to be well-meant warnings, and frequently downed tools if they felt they were in any danger. A dove spotted anywhere near a mine was thought to be a sure sign of impending doom, as was the sight of a crow circling above. Mysterious tapping or knocking sounds heard underground were also considered bad omens. These tappings were said to be made by the Coblynau (Mine Goblins) or Nocars (Knockers). Interestingly, this phenomenon occurs worldwide. In north America the culprits are known as Tommyknockers, and formed the basis of a Stephen King novel of the same name.
Morfa Colliery near Swansea was always regarded as an unlucky and dangerous pit to work. On Sunday March 9th 1890, a huge white bird was seen to settle on the winding gear. At around noon the very same day a horrific underground explosion claimed 87 lives. In the weeks following the disaster, stories of many other omens, some witnessed by dozens of miners at once, began to emerge. The sounds of phantom roof falls were heard, along with other strange noises and agonizing screams. Ghostly apparitions of long dead colleagues were seen, and the sickly sweet stench of roses or lilies inexplicably rose from the bowels of the pit. There was also a mass exodus of rats in the days preceding the accident. Miners believed rats would desert a doomed mine the same way sailors believed the creatures would desert a sinking ship. Most troubling of all, many of the miners wives and family complained of seeing or hearing the Red Dogs of Morfa, a local name for what is collectively known as the Cŵn Annwn, or Welsh Hell Hounds, which have a very distinguished history in Welsh folklore.
The aftermath of a Welsh colliery disaster.
These beasts were once thought to be the ghosts of dead animals or witch’s familiars, but over time they have become known as something much more substantial, possibly guardians of some kind as they appear to be very territorial. They can prowl during the daytime as well as the night, with dusk or twilight the usual times (the borderlines separating darkness and light) alone, or in small groups. They are sometimes dripping with water or blood, other times bone dry, but are invariably pure black with blazing red eyes. The Cŵn Annwn seek out those who are destined to die within the next year, even going so far as invading that poor person’s house and ransacking it room by room until they find their victim.
Another form of ghostly black dog sometimes encountered by the unwary traveller in Wales is the Gwyllgi, or Dog of Darkness. Though very similar in appearance to the Cŵn Annwn, the Gwyllgi is invariably seen alone, often on stretches of road. It is recognizable by its shaggy coat, mesmerizing red eyes, and sheer size. This phantom is also taken as a death omen, and is known by different names throughout Britain. It is said that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used the black dog legends as inspiration for The Hound of the Baskervilles.Welsh miners were great believers in the canwyll corff (corpse candle). The people living the coastal regions of South Wales especially lived in fear of encountering the dreaded phenomena on land, sea, or underground, as it was also believed to be a foretelling of imminent death. They appeared as single lights or in clusters, their size and brightness relative to the age or size of the victim, and followed the exact path the subsequent funeral procession would take. If the doomed person was female, the light usually had a bluish hue, if male it was often red. Sometimes, grinning skulls or the features of the victim could be seen in their shimmering light, and it was strongly advised that bystanders get out of their way, as they possessed the ability to bowl a man over or even kill him outright.
In the south of Clwyd, a man was returning to his home in Melin-y-Wig one night when he noticed before him a little light bobbing playfully in the road. At first he thought it was a lantern, but as he drew closer he realised that there was no one carrying it. The man followed the light, and was alarmed to see it turn into the lane leading to his house. In a panic he ran past it, and slammed the door shut behind him. The light, however, simply passed through the wooden door and hovered about on the ceiling for a few moments, directly beneath a certain servant’s bedchamber. The next morning, the servant was found to have died suddenly during the night.
Llantwit Major town hall, south Wales.
Some legends are more localised. In the old university town of Llantwit Major, the passing bell is said to toll without the help of human hands when a death in the parish is imminent. The bell will ring out over, or in the direction of, a house where someone will soon die. Blaenporth in Cardiganshire is also noted for the passing bell signalling a death in the locality. It is often said that if you peer through the windows of certain village churches on specific dates, you will see the spirits of those who will die in the coming year manifested in the pews.
Yet another portent popular in Welsh folklore are phantom funerals. Generally speaking, the witness would see a ghostly funeral procession which would foretell the death of a loved one, with the procession taking the same route as the actual funeral. However, it was believed that if one was allowed a peek in the casket, he or she would see their own dead body inside and death would inevitably follow soon after. The following abridged account, taken from The Book Of South Wales by Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall (1861) is typical:
‘Some years ago, the then occupier of Holloway farm had a pretty servant girl, with whom the man of the rector of Penally fell in love: he used to steal out in the night-time to visit her. One night, coming home, he had passed the turn of the road leading from Holloway to Penally, when, to his astonishment, he saw a funeral coming along the road towards the church, and recognised several of his neighbours among those who carried the coffin. They came on noiselessly, and he stood close against the hedge to let the funeral pass; but the bearers jostled so rudely against him that they hurt and bruised him severely. Considerably ‘shaken’ in every way, he saught his chamber, and in the morning was so ill, from the beating he had received, that he entreated his master to come to him, which he did, but placed no faith whatever in the man’s story, saying that he must have been drinking and fighting. When the man was able to leave his bed, the master yielded to his entreaties: yet no trace of the funeral could be found. Only a week or two had passed since 'the parson's man’ had seen the spirit funeral, and the worthy farmer of Holloway farm lay dead in his long-loved home! The clergyman heard, with much astonishment, the names of the ‘bearers’: they were the same who had been named by his servant as having borne the coffin the night he had been so severely buffeted! But the most extraordinary circumstance remains to be told: the night before the funeral was of such intense frost, that the snow was frozen over field and hedge-row – the bearers missed the road – passed unwittingly over the hedge at the exact spot the servant had pointed out to his master, as that where he had seen the midnight funeral pass – made the same detour in the field, and returned to the high road precisely at the place he had pointed out.'
About The Author
New Tredegar-born C.M. Saunders began writing in 1997, his early fiction appearing in several small-press titles. Following the publication of his first book, Into the Dragon's Lair – A Supernatural History of Wales (2003) , he worked extensively in the freelance market, contributing to over fifty international publications including Fortean Times , Loaded , Record Collector , Nuts . In addition, he has written several novellas and had over thirty short stories published in various magazines, ezines and anthologies. He taught English and creative writing in China for five years, before settling in London where he works as a writer and editor in the sport, fitness and men's lifestyle sectors. He is represented by Media Bitch literary agency. | English | NL | 745ca71ec96b47ec472f0c47643155663e259d1b8975f92d622c0dc346df6fc5 |
I’ve written over 40 books (actually, hundreds if you count the ones I’ve written that haven’t been published) and the writing of each one has been different. But Sage Cookson’s Sweet Escape is the first book in my first ever series and, as such, I was keenly aware as I wrote it of how different writing the first book in a series is from writing a stand alone story.
- Firstly, before I could write story number one I had to have a strong premise for the whole series: strong enough to cover at least four distinct stories (since that was the number specified in the initial contract). I needed a premise that would give my characters opportunity to experience conflicts (problems) which would be varied but revolve around the same characters. I came up with the idea of a girl whose parents were television chefs, since that would allow me to use varied locations and scenarios.
- Secondly, I had to plan my characters. Every story needs characters, but again, in a series, I had to plan not just the main characters – Sage, her parents, and her best friend Lucy – but also minor characters. In the first book I decided there would be two ‘baddies’ and I had to decide if they would be recurrent characters and whether they would be bumbling baddies or really nasty. This would set the tone for the rest of the series and was really important. In the end I decided my baddies would be not comic-book bumbling, but still a bit silly rather than horribly bad.
- Thirdly, I needed to consider the level of self-containment. Some series must be read in the order of release to make sense, with each title leaving the reader on a cliff-hanger so that they want to read the next book to find out what happens next. Others are so self-contained that each book stands completely alone, and there is no need to read one to understand the others. I decided I wanted to sit somewhere between those two extremes: I want each story to be resolved so that a reader is left satisfied, and I also want a reader who picks up book 2 or 3 or 4 not to feel lost. But, at the same time, I want my characters to develop over the series. So, the books are sequential, but after Sage Cookson’s Sweet Escape, each book will include enough mention of back-story that a reader isn’t left confused, without those earlier stories being ruined for a reader who wants to go back and read them out of order.
I am still working on the series, and the exciting news is that there will be at least six books in all. And, as I write each book I think back over these three points, and continue to learn more and more about series writing. I hope Sage Cookson won’t be the only series I write in my career. | English | NL | dfde59fe555b3695e3380a0d6c004cbf698e773d923e7e950abc68e4a9b9d055 |
The old road was too familiar. Even at night, in the rain, he remembered each curve of the road as it descended softly into the valley, twisting and turning quickly, but never too steep. He had to keep blowing on his hands. The heat wasn’t working. In the cold autumn rain, he should have known to wear gloves. Should have.
He passed a shadow of the large painted rock—a place they had spent so much time sitting on, listening to the sounds of the woods. From the top of the rock you could see the pond, but just barely. His clothing fit too crisply. This area was made for old hoodies, hand-me-down jeans, and not knowing anything about fit.
There were many old recordings in his head of their conversations—soft tones near the water after the fireworks, days in the too-bright sun wandering around fields with no clear direction, sitting on that painted rock (the whole front had a painted scarecrow lifting up his hay-covered arms, scaring more toddlers than crows) as the sun would set, knowing that he would have too far to walk back, knowing he would be in trouble, but not being able to pull away from that view. But what would they sound like now? Would their voices be deeper, raspier, worn? Or would locking eyes be like going back those many years, and would they once again be kids preparing to leave the area? They had seen each other afterward, so why did this feel different than those other times?
You know why, the voice in his head said as he approached the tough-to-see left turn that would lead down the windy road. Eventually, the cement road would turn into a dirt road, and then he would drive on the grass in front of the house, because there was no driveway. But that was in a couple minutes. He breathed on his hands again, still wondering what they would sound like while talking, and tried to spy the tough turn while also attempting to convince the voice in his head that he shouldn’t just miss it on purpose. It would be an easy thing: “sorry, I couldn’t remember the path. My phone died. I got lost. It’s been too long.”
It was a very reasonable excuse. Why not take it? What was to be gained? Would they both sit on the rock again, watching the sunset? Unlikely. But there it was, that tricky turn marked by the same blighted tree that had covered the old sign for years and years. He turned on the left blinker and pressed the brake. | English | NL | a697a245140f49424465dfb8eb554e5e1353a7e6360c9cc60fecf87004e3a84e |
Accounting, tax and financial advice in relationship breakdowns
While we cannot as family lawyers provide accounting, tax, and financial advice to our clients either as part of their property settlement agreement or for their post-separation circumstances, we recognise that they very often require such advice.
We seek such advice from our client’s financial advisors or other advisors to ensure that any agreement reached as a result of the breakdown of a relationship is financially sound, tax effective, and that business (as well as personal) assets are dealt with appropriately. This is a very specialised area of family law that requires assistance from experts in this field.
Last week we had the pleasure of hosting a small gathering of such experts at our office. These were the people from Crowe Howarth (business advisors and accountants) and we were reminded of the importance of obtaining advice from experts in the appropriate field when it comes to dealing with the financial aspects of a relationship breakdown.
We are often pleasantly surprised at the restructuring and/or tax opportunities that can present for our clients from having such experts involved in our clients’ case from an early stage.
We look forward to continuing to work with the team at Crowe Howarth in providing beneficial outcomes for our mutual clients. | English | NL | bee9bc02f0490a544c087d57d9d7242b86645854ceac7ffa4a4a321ebe12a1ab |
From Uig, A Hebridean Parish, by HA Moisley and the Geographical Field Group, 1960.
The crofting population of Uig started the second half of the nineteenth century with far less land than had been occupied by their forebears fifty years before, and, although famine, clearance and emigration had slightly reduced the population between 1841 and 1861 (from 3828 to 3630) thereafter it again increased, reaching 4600 in 1891. Rising agricultural prices after 1850 favoured farmers and crofters alike but, whilst the farmers prospered, the crofters merely multiplied, thus in effect reducing the land available to each family.
In 14 townships recorded in the 1850 sketchbook the 273 holdings at that date had become 402 by about 1890, to which should be added a considerable number of cottars and squatters, many of them keeping stock and some sharing the rent of the crofts on which they had built their cottages. Detailed comparison of the rentals for the two dates shows that the increase had come about in two ways: firstly, it appears that, from time to time, where a new rent ledge was being made up, the factor would record separately cottars who actually shared the rent of the croft and, secondly, he would recognise and enter some of the squatters who had obtained rent-free (and illegal) holdings by enclosing and reclaiming from the common. The latter were added to the souming of the townships according to the rent put upon them. In Brenish, for instance, the total rental rose from £82, for 38 tenants in 1850, to £104, for 52 tenants in 1890.
The recognition of squatters, usually at £1 to £2 per annum, led to the small increases in the total rental. For the rest, the increasing numbers were caused by subdivision. Only in a few cases does the proprietor seem to have actively encourage land reclamation by crofters. On 17 April 1850, four of the family which had been cleared out of Reef were allowed to settle on the Callanish common near the Breasclete boundary. Their rent was fixed at 15/- per acre for five years, thereafter increasing 1/- per annum until it reached 29/- per acre. Forty years later these crofts had been subdivided, and two others added, and rent reached £13.19/-. Again, when Brenish was lotted in the spring of 1850, ten new lots were marked out and the rental is annotated “there are ten young men starting… these lots as soon as the season commences.” This appears to have been too optimistic; few, if any, of the new lost were ever broken in.
The farms, by contrast, prospered and the proprietor was able to share that prosperity by increasing the rents [of the farms]: Mealista from £90 in the 1840s to £130 in the 1870s, Ardroil from £100 to £255 (latterly including Carnish), Timsgarry from £78 to £108 and Linshader £250 to £425. It is worth noting that the rental charged for the newly cleared farm of Carnish [before being added to Ardroil] was £55, being £20 less than had been paid by the crofters. Thus is cannot be said that the latter were evicted purely in order to obtain more rent. The proprietor must have been taking a long-term view, looking for land improvement rather than immediate gain. By the 1870s the farm rentals had increased by 55%, those of the croftng townships by only 15%. And the latter often remained unpaid.
Thus, while the farmers prospered, the tenants became crowded in their townships which were correspondingly less and less able to support their increased numbers. The crofts became so reduced that in an average year the produce of the land might keep a crofter and his family for only six months; for the rest he had to find other means of support. Fortunately, after the hungry years of the 1840s, fishing provided just this.
Starting in 1851, an annual migration began, first to Caithness and later to the whole east coast of Scotland and Englad. By the 1880s, not only were most of the able-bodied young men following the herring as hired men on east-coast boats, but many of the women-folk, who had learned gutting, packing and kippering from English girls brought to Stornoway for the purposes, were also earning. This was summer work, and fitted well between seed-time and harvest. In the winter, small local open boats worked longlines for white fish which were dried and slated for local curers are they still are today on the Norwegian coast.
Between the 1850s and 1880s there was a ‘condition of plenty’ in Lewis ‘which would not have been credited by those who judged of the condition of the people by the external aspect or sanitary arrangement of their dwellings.”¹ It was this ‘condition of plenty’ which encouraged the people to stay at home, to subdivide their crofts, and to live on the proceeds of paid labour rather than on the produce of the croft. The process of subdivision ceased only when economic conditions became less favourable and emigrations began to exceed natural increase.
¹Report on the Condition of the Cottar Population in the Lewis, 1888. | English | NL | b4cf9aa4706921becdb40aa0aef3a187a65382f9e711d076905662d3fbcb7236 |
James Brian Jacques was born June 15, 1939. He is an English author, best known for his Redwall series of novels, as well as the Tribes of Redwall and Castaways of the Flying Dutchman series. He also completed two collections of short stories entitled The Ribbajack & Other Curious Yarns and Seven Strange and Ghostly Tales. Jacques showed a knack for writing at an early age. At age ten, he was given an assignment of writing a story about animals, and he wrote about a bird that cleaned a crocodile's teeth. His teacher could not believe that anyone could write that well when they were only 10 years old. He was called a liar for refusing to say he copied the story. He had always loved to write, but it was only then that he realized he had a talent for writing.
He attended St. John's private school until the age of 15 when he left school. His book Redwall was written for the children of the Royal Wavertree School for the Blind, whom he refers to as his "special friends". He first met them when he delivered milk there as a truck driver. He began to spend time with the children and eventually began to write stories for them. This accounts for the very descriptive style of the novel and the ones to follow.
His work gained acclaim when Alan Durband, a friend (who also taught Paul McCartney and George Harrison), showed it to his (Durband's) own publisher without telling Jacques. Durband told his publishers: "This is the finest children's tale I've ever read and you'd be foolish not to publish it." Soon after, Jacques was summoned to London to meet with the publishers, who gave him a contract to write the next five books in the series. Jacques has said that the characters in his stories are based on people he has encountered. He based Gonff, the self-proclaimed "Prince of Mousethieves," on himself when he was a young boy hanging around the docks of Liverpool. Mariel is based on his granddaughter. Constance the Badgermum is based on his grandmother. Other characters are a combination of many of the people he has met in his travels. His novels have sold more than twenty million copies worldwide and have been published in twenty-eight languages. | English | NL | 482e7934dc1a19ab865cb2c79e80e0e8b6e31c9d0c5b4ca8fc91f38aa9c0863d |
This is actually a fairly difficult question to answer, because the answer is entirely dependent on a number of variables. What decade of the Tudor period are we talking about? How are you defining "gentry"? And where in England does this "gentry" live?In very general terms, education for boys and men of the gentry (defined as non-aristocratic persons without noble title and with an annual income of less than a few hundred pounds per year) was very limited at the beginning of the Tudor period and significantly more extensive at the end. Remember that at the beginning of the century, perhaps only about 15% of the population could read and write. Education was also more readily available and of a higher quality in urban areas and the south and east, less so in the north and west and in rural areas. And it could cost a great deal of money: hiring a tutor in a northern rural area with few other educational opportunities might cost twenty or so pounds per year. That was a lot of money to a family making only 100 pounds per year ... itself a substantial income.Of those who were educated, reading came first, writing later or not at all. English was the principal language, of course. Those who really wanted "to get ahead" also learned Latin, if there was a Latin tutor available. Some learned French, but it was not considered essential. In addition to basic grammar, a boy might also learn some rhetoric and formal logic. The truly well educated went on to learn basic mathematics and geometry, plus the rudiments of philosophy and astronomy, as well as music. If he was lucky enough, and if his family was wealthy enough or if he had a wealthy patron, he might "go up" to one of the universities, Oxford or Cambridge. There he would study philosophy, theology, or law. At university, one might also study Greek and other languages.For girls, especially gentry girls, education was usually limited to learning some very basic reading. Girls often did not learn to write. Nor did they usually learn logic, rhetoric, or math and geometry. Instead, they learned "the domestic arts," such as household management, sewing and weaving, embroidery, and perhaps a little music. Girls did not attend university in England until the 19th century. Gentry girls seldom learned foreign languages.But again, this is all very general, and circumstances could vary depending on the family's location, income, and ambition.
There is a book, Medieval Schools by Nicholas Orme, that has some information pertinent to your query about French language instruction."By the second half of the fifteenth century French had largely disappeared for administrative [government] purposes, and its chief learners had probably shrunk to the nobility, gentry and merchants. Members of the first two groups still learnt it as a cultural accomplishment in order to read French literature or converse with French people, and those of the third group because of their business links with francophone regions. Henry VIII and his elder brother Arthur had a French tutor ... who was a native of France and their sisters (and other aristocratic girls) appear to have studied the language ... Lesser people are likely to have continued to acquire it from specialised teachers or by using treatises ..."Orme notes that two "French for Dummies" book were published in the late 1490s; William Caxton published a "phrase book in parallel columns, French and English," and printers Richard Pynson and Wynkyn de Worde issued A Gode Boke to Lerne to Speke French. "By 1500, French was the language of a foreign country ... but it remained the most obvious foreign language for English people to learn, and held on to a secure if limited base among the wealthy and commercial ranks of society." As a result, there continued to be a market for French primers. In 1523, John Palsgrave, the prebend of St. Paul's, made a deal with Pynson for "Another indenture for printing 750 copies of 'Lesclarcissement de la lange Francoys,' containing three sundry books, wherein is showed how the said tongue should be pronounced in reading and speaking, and also such grammatical rules as concern the perfection of the said tongue; with two vocabulists, one beginning with English nouns and verbs expounded in French, and a general vocabulist containing all the words of the French tongue expounded in English ..." (Letters & Papers)
Elizabeth of York asked Isabella of Castile to make sure Catherine of Aragon learned to speak French before coming to England, as that was the language spoken at the English court -- but I've never seen any real evidence that Tudor-era courtiers conversed mainly in French. Perhaps Henry VII was comfortable in that language since he spent many years in Brittany; Elizabeth of York was instructed carefully in French when she was engaged to the Dauphin of France. So what she might have meant was that French was a reasonable middle way for Catherine to communicate with her new in-laws and the upper classes, since Spanish was apparently not widely known in England and foreigners could not be expected to learn English (although Catherine did, and acquired striking facility).Sir Thomas Boleyn's rise to favor seems to have come about partly through his proficiency in French. I think he may be a good example of a "gentry" boy carefully taught French both by the book but more importantly by sojourns abroad, through the connections of his merchant father and on repeated missions to France. His aristocratic brother-in-law Norfolk, by contrast, seems to have learned his French only by book, and an antiquated book at that -- while on an embassy in France he wrote a letter complaining that while he is speaking French, no one else in the country appears to do so. Sir Thomas Boleyn made sure his daughters (and possibly his son, but we don't have any records) got the foreign-language-immersion experience by placing them at the French and Burgundian courts.Cromwell, from a much lower walk of life than Sir Thomas, spoke French fluently, which helped immensely in his diplomatic encounters with Chapuys and others. He learned it on the hoof rather than by formal instruction, having traveled in Europe through his youth, possibly at one point as a mercenary soldier on the French side in Italy. Unlike Sir Thomas, he seems to have preferred a book-learning approach to French for his son Gregory, with apparently three tutors or crammers focused on the task at one point. Throughout Letters & Papers there are references to people being able or not able to speak French, particularly in reference to diplomatic missions, suggesting that it is a valued accomplishment, one that made sense for an ambitious gentry family to pursue for their children. The Regent Mary of Hungary demanded an English envoy who could speak French, for example; Stephen Vaughan, Cromwell's agent, wrote to his master saying that he wanted to learn French but Palsgrave refused to lend him the book; the French ambassador Marillac complains that the king is sending someone to France who "speaks French badly, as one who has never been out of England ..." and in 1540, explaining how the executed Cromwell's offices will be distributed, reports snarkily, "For affairs of justice they have deputed the Chancellor who, among other virtues, can speak neither French nor Latin" (as much law and legal procedure was in Latin and old French); the Lisle letters are full of young Master James' odyssey with the French tongue and his longing to acquire the "esprit" of a Frenchman in discussion with the natives.
Post a Comment | English | NL | c7a3010e29be1f138f216aba50873975142b336f0194ecefb3e5bc95a72f3052 |
Dragon-Marked War God - Chapter 775
The Overlord of the Four Domains
Freedom King sucked in a breath of cold air when he felt Jiang Chen's gaze. It was like the eyes of the god of death that would send someone to hell with just one look.
Freedom King knew that he was dead this time. There was no one in the heavens nor hell that could save him. Given Jiang Chen's temper, he wouldn't get a second chance to survive. Now, even the person that he had relied on the most , Nan Bei Chao, had died. He was afraid that he, who was below Fifth Grade Minor Saint, would easily be slaughtered in front of Jiang Chen.
’’Jiang...Jiang Chen, don't kill me. I'm willing to listen to your commands.’’
He could feel his soul shivering as Jiang Chen approached. He was a respected master of Freedom Palace, a mighty Fourth Grade Minor Saint during the normal days but today, he had lost the usual demeanor in his word.
There was no human that was not afraid of dying. If a person had high status or cultivation grade, he would know better than anyone that death was so frightening as it would take away all their efforts and glory.
’’I'll give you a chance to tell me why you can't die.’’
Jiang Chen's tone was as cold as the god of death.
The scene in the sky was getting more and more exciting. A man who was roughly twenty years old, who stood before over a hundred of Minor Saints, making everyone shiver until they couldn't speak properly, let alone having the courage to defy him.
The death of the Minor Saints just now had given them an understanding that they weren't going to be the youth's opponent. He was like a real war god that had snatched away all their chances of resisting. However, they could also feel a hope of surviving from him. Jiang Chen's gaze was obvious enough, to tell them that the matter only involved the experts of the three major powers of Mysterious Domain due to the conflict between them. The other experts from the other three large domains kept their silence, knowing that they didn't even have the right to speak. Their fate had already fallen on Jiang Chen. Despite Jiang Chen killing their sect masters and many of their comrades, their thoughts for revenge had already lost the courage to resurface.
Freedom King was pleased in his heart when Jiang Chen required a reason. This was his chance!
’’Jiang Chen, you have killed so many of my people but I won't settle the score with you. Furthermore, it was Nan Bei Chao who wanted to rule Mysterious Domain, it wasn't me. You should know how powerful Nan Bei Chao was and how defenseless I was in front of him. If you don't kill me today, I will without a doubt follow your orders. Furthermore, from now on, the entire Mysterious Domain, no, the four large domains belong to you.’’
Freedom King quickly answered. He pushed the blame on the dead Nan Bei Chao.
Unfortunately, as his words dropped, Jiang Chen's sharp claw had ruthlessly pierced through his body, crushing his heart. The blood flowed and trickled through the blood-red claw, making the scene look gloomy and terrifying.
Freedom King could hardly raise his head while his vital force was fading. He looked at Jiang Chen in disbelief. He thought that he had gotten the chance to live but he was killed the moment he finished his sentences.
’’Your reason is enough to make you die hundreds of time. You are far worse than Nan Bei Chao. Although Nan Bei Chao and I are enemies, I admire him from the bottom of my heart, because a person who has pride rooted in him, would never beg for his life, even if he is facing death. Furthermore, your reason is inferior. Have you never thought about this day to come the moment you all want to kill me? Do you have any idea how much blood will be shed if the formation is broken? Furthermore, I am sure that if I were to fall into your hands, I won't have such a swift death as yours. Thus, giving you a quick death is considered a merciful act.’’
As he finished, a wave of destructive force suddenly channeled through his dragon claw to Freedom King. In the next moment, Freedom King's body was torn into pieces. An overlord of a major power had died so quickly.
The people who had been watching Jiang Chen's means of killing had grown numb and accustomed to this kind of bloody scene. There were only two people who had their expressions changed, they were Tan Zhen Tian and Skyhill Daoist. They knew that they were next after the death of Freedom King.
Sure enough, a blessing wasn't a misfortune and a destined misfortune couldn't be avoided. Jiang Chen came before the two of them.
’’What else do you two want to say?’’
Jiang Chen asked, his voice cold.
The two of them looked at each other in the eye and saw their despair and helplessness. They knew that they were fated to meet their end. There was no turning back.
’’Jiang Chen, if you want to kill us, then do it now. I hope that after killing me, you will show mercy to my Tan family.’’
Tan Zhen Tian said loudly with certain harsh tone.
’’Jiang Chen, I know that I will die for sure. But, I hope that you won't trouble my disciples. Give them a chance to survive.’’
Skyhill Daoist said.
’’You two aren't bad. You have the resolute attitude of an overlord and consideration towards others. You are right, I will never let you live. However, after killing the both of you, Tan Family and Skyhill School will fall into Nebula Sect's control and, worry not, I will not kill the innocent.’’
Jiang Chen finished his word. Then, his large palm waved and killed Tan Zhen Tian and Skyhill Daoist. The both of them didn't show any sign of resistance before they died. This was because that they knew that it was pointless to resist.
The remaining alive Minor Saints of Tan Family watched as Jiang Chen killed Tan Zhen Tian. They let out a cry of anguish and stared at Jiang Chen with hatred.
Jiang Chen frowned and his murderous intent was ignited. Tan Family was different from Freedom Palace and Skyhill School as the bloodline of Tan Family flowed through them. Thus, their hatred towards Jiang Chen would be much stronger than the other two major powers.
Without saying any word, Jiang Chen struck out with five sharp lights to kill the five remaining Minor Saints of Tan Family. Although these Minor Saints posed no major threat towards him, they would become the root of a major problem or threat in the future. He did not want to see another incident happening as his enemies would forever be his enemies. He couldn't show mercy to any of them. If he was as temperamental as he was in his past life, he wouldn't leave one person here alive.
The remaining Minor Saints of Freedom Palace and Skyhill School were so frightened that they shivered. Jiang Chen was truly a terrifying being who was like a supreme or bloodthirsty devil king.
However, he had only shot them a glance. Jiang Chen had imprinted a great shadow in their hearts that they wouldn't be able to wipe off for the rest of their lives. It was impossible for them to fight him. As a matter of fact, they were no threat to him at all.
’’All of you here should die, but I won't continue to kill. From today onwards, you all should go back to your sect and re-organize. You will have to obey Nebula Sect's arrangement and orders, and have to provide different resources.’’
Jiang Chen removed the human-dragon from and returned his original state - a handsome youth in white clothes. His gesture exuded some kind of inexplicable dominance making it really hard for someone new to relate him to the ruthless war god.
All the Minor Saints gave a sigh of relief after hearing his words. No matter what happened, their lives were the most important one. Some were exchanging glances with each other and sighed again. What had been hundred and fifty had been reduced to ninety plus Minor Saints. Today would be the day that the most Minor Saints had fallen in the history of the four large domains. All the four domains had suffered major losses because of this and no one knew how long it would take for these major powers to rebuild its empire.
Jiang Chen's words had also relieved Dan King and Nebula Kidd. If all of those Minor Saints were killed, it would bring major shock to the entirety of the divine Continent. In fact, the death of over sixty Minor Saints was an unprecedented incident in the history of the continent. They were afraid that it would also shock the ancient families of the Pure Land.
The major powers of the four large domains were no longer firm. However, it was the exact opposite for Nebula Sect. They'd risen greatly from their original strength. This war had brought major benefits and advantages to the sect. Jiang Chen's killings had allowed the sect to obtain roughly forty Minor Saint weapons. This fact alone could terrify anyone.
Also, Nebula Sect would become the only overlord of Mysterious Domain and also the ruler of the other three large domains. All major powers would need to present gifts every year and provide the disciples of Nebula Sect any resources they required. Furthermore, none shall defy their orders.
The land of Nebula Sect had been stained with plenty of saint blood, causing the mountain to change dramatically and some saint Qi started to linger in the air.. Nebula Mountain would, from now on, become a precious mountain. Adding in the almost unlimited cultivation resources Nebula Sect had and the amazing cultivation art and combat techniques that was brought back by Jiang Chen from Death Mountain, Nebula Sect now possessed the greatest resources for cultivation in the entirety of divine Continent except for, of course, the families of Pure Land.
Jiang Chen was confident that one day Nebula Sect would become one of the eight large families of Pure Land.
’’Yes, Young Master Jiang. We will completely obey Nebula Sect's will and follow your lead!’’
A Minor Saint expert said loudly. He was the first to express his willingness.
Later, all the Minor Saints followed his actions. They all said it out loud that they would become Jiang Chen's follower, including the Minor Saints of Freedom Palace and Skyhill School. They knew that their era was over and it wouldn't come back. Now, a new era was born and the leader of the new era was Jiang Chen. He would continue to become stronger and stronger. Besides submitting themselves to him, there was no other way unless they die. | English | NL | be202bc171ebbe99ffa246ea3c8328857e9bbca8fc95244bdeeb02b3fb0db398 |
Harold Krebs, the main hero of the Soldier’s Home by Ernest Hemingway, came back home from the war and now it is the rugged period of his life when it is impossible for him to fit the current society. Hemingway explains the reason why. He suggests that it is so, because Harold came back later than the other soldiers, who already told a lot of stories about the war. Harold does not want to lie like the most of the other soldiers, who want to seem to be better, but sometimes he must just support them. Nevertheless Hemingway shows only the top of the iceberg. Honestly it is a problem with deep roots. The whole generation of soldier who participated in the war is named as a lost generation. Harold spent many years on the battlefield. He used to be a hero, who fought when he had to. He ate and drank when it was told him. He went to bed at the military order. He did not use to decide for himself. He was pulled out from ordinary life, and during his absence the world has changed. Furthermore he has changed too. He does not need a job or a wife. It seems that he has no more feelings because war stole them all and tempered his soul. He cut his life adrift. At the same time the society cannot accept his lifestyle because everyone lives and needs him to assimilate.
Buy The Hero and the Misfit – Two Tempered Souls essay paper online
Flannery O’Connor in A Good Man Is Hard To Find wrote about the Misfit, another victim of circumstances. He blames himself, but he does not exclude the false of the society. Despite the fact that he does not remember what he did wrong, he went through the punishment which ruined all his principles and moral nature and made his soul cold and adamant: now to take somebody’s life is just nothing for him. It brings him no pleasure and no disappointment. A long time ago he used to be a gospel singer. However nowadays he does not accept Jesus because he does not have enough faith. He needs evidences, as he did not see the raising of Him. The Misfit compares himself with Jesus because they both were punished for what they have not done. He blames Jesus that He broke off the balance. And after the Misfit’s experience he is trying to find the sense of life and his own place in the world. Instead of this he cannot find anything even a real pleasure in life. | English | NL | 11f18b2cb25c48cfa2cd93c3ad0b33d44cb918999c2d823fb4f4902e0272fe28 |
When I first moved to Moloka'i I was invited to watch, and photograph, the preparation of the Hawiian Imu, honoring the late Walter Meyer's life. If you have ever been to Hawaii, you may have experienced a Hawaiian lu'au (feast). The main part of the lu'au menu is the kalua pig. Pigs are cooked in an underground pit for hours, when they are removed from the imu, the steamed pork literally falls off the bone. It is then shredded and served with other traditional foods for group meals, festivities, or religious ceremonies. I wanted to share with you what I witnessed, the Hawaiian art of cooking in an imu. First of all, it was a man's thing, there were no women invited. I am not sure why that was, but it must be a tradition in Hawaii for the men to prepare the imu. I was amazed at how all of these men, at least 20, worked in unison during this procedure. It was like watching a ballet. Obviously they had done this many times before.
|The Imu pit with blazing hot lava rocks|
Since the cooking process requires steam and not dry heat, green plant materials were needed to create steam. Banana stumps, ti leaves, honohono grass, banana leaves, and coconut palm leaves were gathered. Smashed banana stumps were laid directly over the hot rocks to prevent the food from being scorched and to create steam for cooking. A second layer of ti leaves were added to add flavor as the meal cooked.
The pigs were then placed on top of the ti leaves. Then a third layer of ti leaves were added followed by banana leaves, and wet burlap bags. After that, the burlap bags were covered with dirt and the whole thing was whetted down with water, creating a mud cap over the imu, preventing any steam from escaping. Estimating the time it takes to cook the food depends on the heat of the imu, the thickness of the vegetation, the kind of food, and the mass of the food. A large whole pig, in a good hot imu, may take from 6 to 8 hours of steaming time. This kind of cooking takes years of experience, there is no need for a meat thermometer here.
When the cooking was done, the dirt was removed revealing the steaming burlap bags. The covering material was removed, being careful to avoid getting any dirt into the imu. Then the hot steamed pigs were removed. Two men would grab the hot chicken wire and lift the pigs out of the hot imu and place them on large tables.
The chicken wire was then taken off and the kalua pig meat was picked. and placed in insulated boxes. The meat was then taken to a luau, at a different location, for consumption. Some of the meat was reserved for the workers meal. While the pigs were cooking, more dishes were being prepared for the workers meal. Woks, grills and large pots were set up to cook shrimp, rice, steak, and various pig parts. There was plenty of beer to go around all day. It was something I will always remember.
|Preparing the vegetables to go into the Imu|
|Cleaning the pork|
|Everything is used, even the heads|
|Filling the pigs cavities with hot lava rocks|
|Wrapping the pigs with chicken wire|
|Covering the pit with vegetation|
|The pigs are ready to be moved to the Imu|
|Moving the pigs to the Imu|
|The pigs were then placed on top of ti leaves|
|Covering the Imu with banana leaves|
|Then covering the vegetation with wet burlap bags|
|Covering everything with a layer of dirt|
|Wetting down the dirt to form a cap over the Imu|
|After 8 hours, removing the dirt and vegetation|
|The pigs are cooked and removed from the Imu|
|It took 4 men to remove each steamed pig|
|Removing the chicken wire|
|Picking the meat from the bones| | English | NL | cb4f89aa85dae7ae3886ea68df4a9f6dcb969c517abb42633ed050afcf77529f |
Disclosure: I do not practice or align myself with any religion. I have in the past, I no longer do. This blog is not about what I do or don’t believe.
I’ve never known when someone would come into my life and make a difference. There have been many, both good and bad. Many have shaped who and what I’ve become. Such influential encounters have happened more times than I can remember. One of those people is the subject of today’s Frat Friday blog.
I’ve never met this man. He was accidently killed in 1968 during my sophomore year in college. At that time, I had never heard of him, and if I had, I would’ve had no interest in him, his life, or his outlook. I discovered Thomas Merton in the late 90s, almost 30 years after his death. I was inspired and intrigued by his autobiography, The Seven Story Mountain, published in 1948. Through his writing, I met the right person at the right time.
Thomas Merton was one of the most prolific spiritual writers of the 20th Century, a Cistercian Monk, and a mystic. In 1915, he was born in France of a New Zealander father and American Quaker mother, both artists. His mother died in 1921 and he was raised by her family. Merton wrote and published more than 60 books, mostly on spirituality, social justice, and pacifism. He wrote many essays and reviews. Another 30 (or so) of his works were published posthumously and many other of his writings have been released to the public.
What impressed me about this man was his complexity, his courage, and what I see as his wisdom. His life journey and the decisions he made will likely prevent him from ever being canonized a saint by the Catholic Church. Yet those foibles are exactly what attracted me to him twenty years ago, and continue to influence my thinking. The man was a real person – a human being who behaved like one. If they did make him a saint, I think he would be among the most human of that group.
In the early 1940s, Merton went to a Trappist Monastery in Kentucky, knocked on the door, and told whoever answered that he wanted to be one of them. Trappist Monks are strict aesthetics and followers of the Order of Saint Benedict. Merton chose this life and lived it until his death. The Frank Sinatra song, I Did It My Way, comes to mind despite the obedience pledge of Trappists.
Beginning about 1937 during his conversion to Catholicism, Merton was fascinated by what he learned about the eastern religions. From then on, he studied Buddhism, Taoism, Hinduism, Jainism, and Sufism.
His primary interest was in Zen, particularly as it applied to Christianity, from his point of view. Within limits, Merton supported interfaith understanding. He pioneered dialogue with the likes of the Dalai Lama, the Japanese writer D.T. Suzuki, the Thai Buddhist monk Buddhadasa, and the Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh. Many of Merton’s books on Zen Buddhism and Taoism are still in print.
“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” ~ Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island
My favorite description of him was by Paul Hendrickson in the Washington Post on December 22, 1998: “Thomas Merton: that bohemian and poet and extreme sensualist, lover of jazz, prolific man, traveler of the new idea. A 20th-century prophet and mystic. Not a theologian so much as a kind of freelance spiritual thinker.”
While I can’t honestly say that Merton makes as much of a difference in my life today, he did at a time when he was the right person with the right thinking. He had prepared for me, fifty years before I needed it. I am not sure exactly what it is that still holds my admiration for and curiosity about him, but I suspect it is how he lived within his human condition. | English | NL | b96e22afd8d0001e05100a05186f1fc24679cab021bda3b9c08ff2a7908ff811 |
Should I Leave or Stay?
Marissa sat at the bar staring at her half empty glass of red wine. She loved red wine and right now it was the only thing that was keeping her sane during this time of indecisiveness. It was 10 pm on Wednesday night and she was out way beyond her curfew.
“Damn! I should have waited until the weekend,” she thought, taking another sip from the glass. Her eyes followed as she swirled the wine glass around in circles before taking another swig of it.
Marissa didn’t socialize much at all but when she did it was relaxing and soothing to her soul. The live jazz band was playing softly in the background. The calming atmosphere, and being able to sit alone debating in her head whether to leave Lamont was as good as it gets. Today however, she was sick of the debate. Marissa swallowed one last gulp of wine before reaching inside her clutch bag and pulling out some cash to pay her tab. She knew that she had better head out before Lamont, her celebrity athlete husband got home. Lamont played NBA and his nights never ended early, except on the weekends. His weekend hours often extended to 8 in the morning. “What a joke that was,” she thought smirking as she picked up her clutch purse to leave. Marissa swooped her hair behind her ear from her face as she looked down to close her purse.
Lamont did not approve of Marissa being at any bar sipping on anything, especially this bar. He had actually forbid her from “going out”. They had words about her being here at her little get-a-way jazz spot Chaise Lounge which he referred to as the pick up bar. So she knew she had better make her exit to avoid him slipping up on her.
She fingered come here seductively to Anthony the bartender and owner. He smiled and walked over to her to collect the money.
“Thanks Marissa. It is always my pleasure to see you. Don’t stay away so long,” Anthony said smiling. Anthony was tall, light complexioned, sexy and buffed with no visable body fat. Although he was bar tending, he dressed with swag and smelled so clean and fresh. His walk, talk and mannerisms were beyond sexy and he owned the club. It was hard for any woman not to lust after him. The women, who came to the bar, came especially to see Anthony but he never gave any of them the time of day. They flirted, left their cell numbers on napkins and nearly took their size DD’s out right at the bar on the counter but it didn’t seem to faze him. He ignored all except for Marissa. He was always a gentleman and treated Marissa with the highest level of respect. Marissa could tell that if she were not married to Lamont, Anthony would try to court her. “Hell, she would date his fine self,” she thought watching him fill two glasses at a time with beer. Marissa stood up and smoothed her hands down over her orange fitted dress.
“See you soon Anthony.” She took out a twenty-dollar bill and her valet ticket and walked towards the door.
“Aw man!” she said approaching the door. Anthony hadn’t validated her ticket. Marissa walked back as Anthony stood in one spot looking at Marissa from her Jimmy Choo stilettos, up her perfectly waxed legs, hips, waist, breast and then to her face. He looked at the soft locks of curls that fell on her shoulders and shook his head back and forth.
“Damn!” he whispered.
“I forgot to get my ticket validated,” she said breathing heavily.
“Here you are,” Anthony said stamping the ticket never moving his eyes from Marissa’s eyes. His hand touched hers sending chills through her body.
“Thank you,” Marissa said, being careful not to flirt with him. She turned and walked away.
She dare not turn back toward Anthony. She knew he was still watching her.
Marissa sat down in the driver’s seat of her 2015 Mercedes Benz S65 AMG Coupe. It was her peace gift after a six-week extensive marital counseling session. They were there all because Lamont had cheated again. Except this time, there was a baby as a result of his cheating. This was the ninth affair and second baby, that she knew about. Only God knew how many more times she didn’t know about. It made her sick to her stomach every time she thought about the pain his cheating caused her.
“No married woman with kids has any business sitting up at a bar,” was his notorious comeback line. He used that one fault of hers in every argument they had as if it were comparable to his reckless and irresponsible infidelity. However, this was the life she chose. ‘Twelve Years a Slave’ could have easily been the title of her life with Lamont. She was imprisoned in her marriage. She wiped her tears and shook her head at the thought of losing her boys if she left Lamont. Marissa was beginning to hyperventilate. She cried harder wishing her parents were still alive. Although she had a law degree Lamont reminded her often that without him, she had and was nothing.
Marissa nervously pressed the garage door button. She drove inside and ran towards the ringing telephone. Her heart raced, but she tried to compose her fear of missing the call.
She answered in the knick of time.
“Hello?” She answered panting.
“You had better be home,” Lamont snapped. “Just calling to say, I won’t be home tonight.”
Marissa buried her wet face in her hands. She weighed her sanity, lack of affection, emotional stress, loneliness, social restrictions and his infidelity to how life would be without him.
“I’ll be gone,” she said bravely.
Lamont began yelling. But she didn’t care. She hung up the phone. | English | NL | 8689c03ba5f972da47abfc16203b81b8e727e6db931a9fc38ed98f0e8921b7b6 |
TL;DR: The Longbourn estate is ‘entailed’ to male heirs only, whereas Rosings is not.
Austen sets out the financial situation of the Bennets in detail:
Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. [Chapter 7]
Mr. Bennet’s main asset was thus an estate of land at Longbourn, which generated an income of £2,000 a year by renting it out to tenant farmers. The estate was ‘entailed’, meaning that in law Mr. Bennet was a ‘tenant in tail’: he could make use of the estate while he was alive, but he was not allowed not sell the land, and he could not dispose of the estate in his will. Instead the estate would pass at his death to the next male heir in line of the landowner who originally created the entail. Since Mr. Bennet had no male heirs, the estate would pass to his cousin Mr. Collins (except in remote circumstances, such as Mrs. Bennet dying, Mr. Bennet marrying again and having a son).
The entail only covers the Longbourn estate, and does not include Mr. Bennet’s other property, and so if he had been more prudent, he could have saved money out of his income from the estate in order to support his family after his death:
Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. [Chapter 50]
However, he did not do this, because his plan for providing for his family was to ‘cut off’ (or ‘bar’) the entail:
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means be provided for.
Lacking a son, he was apparently unable to carry out this plan:
Five daughters successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving.
Austen does not give explicit details of the legal and financial situation of the de Bourgh family, but there are some clues. First, we learn that Lady Catherine de Bourgh is a widow and her daughter Anne is the “heiress of Rosings”:
[Mrs. Bennet] “I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”
[Mr. Collins] “She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than many girls.” [Chapter 14]
It seems that Rosings is not entailed:
[Lady Catherine] “Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family.” [Chapter 29]
We can therefore guess that Sir Lewis de Bourgh disposed of Rosings in his will, either by leaving the whole estate to his widow, or else by giving his widow a life interest, with the estate reverting to their daughter on Lady Catherine’s death.
Entails were widely considered unjust (especially by owners of entailed estates who wished to raise money by selling off parts of the land), and were effectively abolished by §176 of the Law of Property Act 1925.
How realistic is Austen’s portrayal of the legal situation?
Black’s Law Dictionary explains how the entail could have been barred:
barring of entail. The freeing of an estate from the limitations imposed by an entail and permitting its free disposition. This was anciently [that is, prior to the Fines and Recoveries Act 1833] done by means of a fine or common recovery.
So why did Mr. Bennet believe that, lacking a son, he was unable to bar the entail, given that the procedure of common recovery was available to him? Some legal scholars think that Austen’s account of the legal situation of the Bennets was not realistic on this point. According to Peter Appel:
At the time that Austen wrote, it would have been extremely unlikely that a landed family like the Bennets would have used the entailment standing alone as the legal means of keeping Longbourn within the family. More likely, they would have used a device known as the strict settlement. It was also extremely rare (although not impossible) that a strict settlement would have been arranged to cut off close relations like the Bennet daughters. If the restriction on Longbourn was an entailment standing alone—which would have in all likelihood cut off any provision for the Bennet daughters—then the current life tenant (i.e., Mr. Bennet) could have ‘barred the entail’. This term means that Mr. Bennet could have stopped the property from going to Mr. Collins through a fairly simple legal proceeding. After that, he could have left it to whomever he wished: Jane, the eldest daughter; Elizabeth, his clear favorite; or all five of his daughters in whatever shares he chose.
Peter A. Appel (2013), ‘A Funhouse Mirror of Law: The Entailment in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice’, Georgia Journal of International and Comparative Law 41, p. 609.
What are we to make of this discrepancy? There are various possibilities:
Austen was using dramatic licence to exaggerate the legal predicament of the Bennet family.
The characters’ descriptions of the entail were somewhat loose or inaccurate (as might be expected, since they are not lawyers) and in fact Mr. Bennet was not the tenant in tail of Longbourn, but only had a life interest in the estate, and so common recovery was not available to him. This situation could have arisen if Mr. Bennet’s grandfather had owned the estate in fee simple, and if Mr. Bennet had been living at his grandfather’s death. Then his grandfather, in his will, could have given life interests to both Mr. Bennet’s father and Mr. Bennet, with the remainder left in fee tail male. (This would be a form of ‘strict settlement’ as discussed above.)
Austen was using the discrepancy to comment on the character of Mr. Bennet:
Nevertheless, the more intriguing scenario for contemplating the relationship between law and society is if both Austen and her readers knew that an entail in England could be barred. If this were the case, two interrelated implications immediately leap forth. First, the character of Mr. Bennet must be reread. This point is probably of more interest to Austen scholars and fans. Most readers generally sympathize with Mr. Bennet because he is largely surrounded by folly, because he is witty, and because he favors Elizabeth, the heroine, and recognizes her intelligence. These features—especially that he can find intelligence in a woman, and particularly in the early nineteenth century—are attractive to a modem audience. They make him seem urbane and progressive. A Mr. Bennet who could, but did not, provide for his daughters, however, becomes a much less appealing character. Why would Mr. Bennet not disentail the property if he could? Perhaps it was simply not done, or not an option to a family of the social class or status ofthe Bennets.
Answers to questions raised in comments
Why were entails created? The purpose was to maintain the concentration of power and wealth (as embodied in an estate of land) by preventing it from being sold off or divided up among many heirs.
Why were entails so often restricted to male heirs? No doubt there was a substantial degree of sexism involved, but additionally, prior to the Married Women’s Property Act 1870, a woman in England lost control over her property after marriage: she could not sell, lease, or mortgage her estate without her husband’s consent. For the landowner creating the entail, this risk of loss of control could be avoided by specifying that only male heirs could inherit.
What about the family name? A landowner who was concerned about the preservation of his surname could require, when creating an entail, that a male heir succeeding via a female line must adopt his surname. For example, Jane Austen’s own brother Edward changed his surname to Knight as a condition of inheriting the estate of his relative Catherine Knight. Perhaps the ancestor of Mr. Bennet who created the Longbourn entail was not so concerned; alternatively, Mr. Collins may be required to change his name, but this is not mentioned in the novel. | English | NL | ce923d6e5d16d2113c09554e46b3ce567d6ac044ebee0c574faf55cda788ec0c |
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