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This Journal is the Property of: the last of his kind…
The eighth of August The year is unknown As a testament to what was the greatest of civilizations, I chronicle my last days. To what end, I know not, for all capable of reading my prose have long since passed. The compulsion to keep record of the duties only I have been steadfast enough to fulfill supersedes the logic. Let this be the last document of mankind and, by default, the greatest. I long for things, as all men do –or have in the past. The sound of autumn leaves breaking beneath my feet as I walk through the forest trying to find peace for my perpetually active mind. The smell of flowers in early spring. Food. Good food painstakingly prepared to stimulate every gland in my mouth. Sound. Not of the air or water or land as it falls away but the sound of voices, laughter, song. Yet I would trade all this for one day with my family. My wife. My daughters. I remain in an unending state of sorrow to honor them. There is no higher moral cause nor fear of death that keeps me –binds me to this place. Honor –and not that which is noble but that which is pure and uniquely human. With that, my duties await. Should I survive, you may hear from me again.
The ninth of August, The year is unknown To converse. Lost so long ago was this gift –this reprieve from the menial tasks that consume us all. By fate or chance, I unearthed these empty pages and have been holding this pen longer than I care to recall in hopes of finding something, anything to which I may adhere its ink. Let us sit for an imaginary moment and enjoy the aroma of a warm cup of tea beneath each of our noses. With the scent comes a heightened awareness –a sense of comfort and a feeling of excitement for not only the flavor that will soon be passing over our lips, but for the conversation that will pass between us. Long has it been since I've had this opportunity. The soft, overstuffed cushion so daintily tied to the cast iron chair upon which I sit dreamily comforts my posterior that has only felt the cold hard ground for longer than I care to remember. The warm fire kneads my shoulders as I lean into its warming embrace, lulled by the hiss of the damp log. I take a breath, as my eyes drink in the gray stone floor. The grout lines ebb and flow like rainwater searching for its path down a hill. Then, like a call to arms in this silent room of ours, the first words are spoken. The possibilities are limitless. Weather, cloud formations, the insect climbing the wicker brush beside the lug pole. Then, without the slightest bit of consideration, the duty that motivates me to remain alive beckons. Should I survive, you may hear from me again.
The Tenth of August, The year is unknown As is my existence, time to reflect, dream or even mourn is but a blink. Duty, duty….always calling, distracting –all good things considering the reality I would have to face otherwise. Now, I am hell-bent on continuing this conversation for my mind requires a reprieve before I go mad. So, where were we? Ah, yes. Our imaginary tearoom pondering the subject of said conversation. Let us imagine we are discussing our children as if they are simply at school rather than the reality fate has chosen for them. I have three daughters. The youngest is five, the eldest is fourteen and in the middle is my ten-year-old. My eldest, Arya, is a sight to behold. Beauty has graced this child since the day of her birth. She grew quickly in mind and body –too quickly in my opinion, yet her sharp wit enabled her to prosper simply by willpower –a gift we all wish for. My middle, Anne, has enough energy for a village. It is a rare moment to find her standing still. My baby…my god, my baby is gone. They're all gone. Not a day passes that I don't long to join them. But, as I've noted, my job here is not quite complete. I take a sip of tea. The temperature is just right. Earl Grey. A fine choice indeed. I believe I detect a hint of jasmine as well. The night before last, I had the misfortune of injuring myself. I thought little of it at the time but now I see it has begun to redden and swell. Two indications of bad things to come. As my task is not complete, I cannot welcome the infection as I would otherwise. I must go in search of medicine. A most dangerous and often fatal task (as many who've preceded me, including my dear wife –a story for another time, can attest). The warmth of my cup sooths my arthritic fingers as I twist the fine china, clinking the handle on my wedding band with every revolution. The fireplace cracks, waking the sleeping bloodhound from dreams of rabbits and whistlepigs. Preparations for travel must be made. Should I survive, you may hear from me again.
The eleventh of August, The year is unknown I am beginning to feel the effects of my injury. I sweat despite the cold and my focus is not as sharp as I'd like. As I passed through the darkened tunnels that lead toward my destination, I thought about what I would like the reader to take from the discovery of this journal and how they would interpret what I've written. What would they think of me? Brilliant? Disturbed? Insane? A leader? A coward? A hero? A murderer? What then? What should I record for…for no one and everyone? I sat back in my black iron chair, turned and gazed into the fire. That wet log still hissed defiantly as the flames ate away at it. I am close. Close to the last place I found a cure yet I dare not move without the darkness to shield my ambulation. I throb with each written word and pray the sun will fall from the sky faster this day than the last. And why not? Why wouldn't the cosmos acquiesce my one simple request? It had turned its back on so many others. Alas, I fear I cannot will it to hear my plea and comply. Arya, if she were here in my stead, the stars would part like curtains had she asked. My love, my beauty. I must move or your honor will be lost –and that compels me more than the horrors along the road. Should I survive, you may hear from me again.
The twelfth day of August, The year remains unknown After making it to what was once a storehouse for injury remedies, I quickly discovered it had long been depleted of anything useful. Quite sure I'd been followed, I had no choice but to move on after a brief search. A full moon did not bode well for my nocturnal travels. I can feel my temperature steadily increasing as time passes I must conf
The thirteenth day of August, The year is unknown Sa d t e Lo 184.108.40.206.4
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The fourteenth day of August, The year remains unknown By the gods I have managed to pass beyond my fever induced stupor that should, by all rights, have taken my life. I do not recall my previous entry, writing it, that is. It makes little sense in meaning or context and the numbers have no discernable relevance. I find myself in a sanctuary of sorts, but am unsure where among the lands of the north it is situated. I woke to find myself cleaned, fed and clothed yet I cannot recall a single memory of what transpired from my last entry on the twelfth day until now. My journal, I found neatly situated on a polished wooden table beside the bed upon which I woke. Imagine, a bed! If only I could recall laying my head on the pillow and enjoying the night's sleep –a comfort that has eluded me for over a decade. The pen with which I write appears to be full of ink where previously I was concerned that the ink would run dry. The room tickled memories long past with a hint of familiarity. Having no urge to find food or relief, I strode into the hall outside the room only to find more rooms lining the hall identical to the room I exited. I followed this seemingly endless hall with its limitless supply of identical rooms until it opened into a courtyard. Snow covered the ground and was lightly falling yet I did not feel the chill nor could I see my breath. My slightly worn boots left no tracks as I crossed the courtyard toward the stone archway on the opposite side. As I neared the archway –seeing no sign of life or even inhabitance, I felt an urge to move quickly and so proceeded. Opposite the arch was a solid stone wall. To the left of my position was a stairway (likewise hewn from stone) descending into darkness. Here is where I sit, upon a stone bench conveniently located just across from the stair as if this place knew I would pause before continuing on. I am gripped with such a fear of the darkness below. Considering all that I have seen, the extent of my horror is inexplicable. I cannot turn back for something beyond my understanding compels me to move on. Despite that compulsion, my fear will not allow me to
continue. Looking back through the archway, I see that the snow has stopped falling and appears to be melting. I can nearly make out the gray stone that was just moments ago blanketed in white. I can see through the archway yet something in my mind tells me I may not pass through again. The bench, the stairs…those terrible escorts into something beyond fear or reason. Beyond the bench is an alcove –empty save a gas lantern that hangs from a chain in the center. I do no fear this alcove yet see no reason to explore what is obviously a fruitless task. So, I sit nervously twitching my right leg and casting my eyes from archway to alcove to stairs. Now is a fine opportunity to visit my tearoom and begin a new conversation. If this were the last entry and I was fortunate enough to pass this along to my children, an impossibility, I am well aware – but we have delved into this fictitious discussion and I hope to be able to indulge the question. To my dear children –the loves of my life, the lights in my day, the stars in the darkest of nights. You already know how much I love you. I've said it as often as possible during your all too brief time together in this world. I believe the question best asked is what would I like to pass on? I believe one lesson that may be taken from my daily actions is simply persistence –never give up. Endure. Grab hold of what you believe and see it through to the end. Will it be hard? Yes. If it isn't, then perhaps you haven't gone as far as you need. Second, love fearlessly. Will you be hurt? Yes. But such is life when it comes to life and a loveless life is a life –but one without the greatest experience it has to offer. Loving someone requires patience, resolve, fortitude and the willingness to compromise. Let go the small battles in exchange for a more peaceful life together. Revel in your partner's victories even if they come at your own defeat. Noise; an echo? Something at the bottom of the stairs? A terror in the depths beckoning me forth? The bloodhound stands, scratches –extending his front paws and arching its back. He then circles the hearthrug three times before laying back by the fire. Frozen by fear, I wait.
The fifteenth of August, The year is unknown Time passed as I sat on the cold stone pondering the whyfor's and the whithertoo's of my dilemma. As I waited, watching the moon rise through the archway, I felt need for nothing. Neither food nor water nor other want associated with being human. The steps continue to beckon while my fear pushes me away. The alcove has gained interest albeit the only interesting thing in my purgatory. I believe I shall take the few steps necessary to reach my desired destination. My only concern is that I must pass the stairs in order to reach the alcove. I realize the irrationality of my fear. Un founded, unjustified, yet the fear remains. Compiling this fear is the knowledge that with each word I write, not only am I more of a coward, but also more of a disappointment to those I've sworn to honor by completing my task. I stand. My legs are surprisingly limber despite being seated for such an extended period. In fact, the pains throughout my body that have ailed me on a consistent basis for as long as I can remember seem to be gone. The moonlit courtyard through the archway is now snow free. I turn and look at the gas lantern hanging in the middle of the alcove. It sways slightly –or perhaps the shadows cast from the flickering light of the burning gas feigns movement. Despite avoiding direct eye contact with the stair, I can feel it burning into my periphery as I take a step closer –like stepping down a hall with a roaring fire on one side except rather than heat, it emits a sense of emptiness. I quickly retreat to my bench and take a seat. The falling of water droplets echo from some cavernous hall deep within the earth. My breathing, my heart are both rapidly concussing yet my hands remain still. After several calming breaths, my vital processes come under control. The moon brightens over the courtyard emitting an eerie red glow upon the stone. I glance back at the alcove accidentally catching a glimpse of the stair. Does it emit its own light? By gods, the horror. Have I imagined it or is it real? Do I dare glance again to confirm if my eyes are playing
tricks on me? I have little choice. Slowly, I scan the alcove hoping something of interest will catch my attention. Nothing. My heart rate increases as my head slowly turns in the direction of the stair. Out of the corner of my eye, I discern a lightening of the stone surrounding the descent. My breathing increases. I closed my eyes, gripping the stone bench with my free hand. Into the tea shop I quickly went-retreated would be a more suitable word. Outside, the afternoon sun shone on the cobbled street. The flowers in the window box stretch to reach past the shadow of the building and into the late-day rays. A couple sits in the corner of the room having a severe discussion. The man, at least thirty years her senior, appears at ease compared to the woman. I smell pastries cooking in the small wood oven –some sort of berry by the smell of them. Drip, drip, drip echoed from below. My very bones shook from inside my flesh. I stood, resolute, determined to take action. Should I survive, you shall hear from me again. Mere minutes have passed. My chest pains from the beating of my heart. I sit now in the alcove, a pool of vomit splayed in front of me. The breathing has slowed along with my heart rate yet the pain in my chest remains. The acidic taste will not clear from my mouth despite repetitive attempts to spit the remnants onto the ground. I just regained sight having blacked out as I entered the alcove. I'm embarrassed to report, my pants are also out of sorts –dampened from the evacuation of my bladder. I remember sprinting toward the alcove. As I passed the stair, I felt such a surge of energy-negative energy, which pulled my life force from my body toward the darkness. The energy, along with my ability to ambulate rushed away allowing only momentum to carry me forward into the alcove where I fell to the floor in a heap. It did not take long to regain my vision and here I lay, a pathetic excuse of a man yet somehow still driven to honor those whom I love. Leaning my head out around the edge of the alcove peering down the corridor, I notice the sun begins to rise. East obviously sits opposite the archway for the golden shadowless outline spilt across the stone floor. I stand. The moisture sticks my pants to my leg. Something inside me pulls me forward. I try to fight
against it but am powerless. Fear causes my body to tremble with each step. I fight against the pull but find I am no longer in control of my movements. I reached the stair and fought to close my eyes. Cowardly as it appears, I have little choice, as fear was the emotion –the only emotion I could manifest. A sound –a terrible sound echoed from the depths before all went dark.
The seventeenth day of August, The year remains unknown I woke to find myself in my childhood bedroom. Clean dressed and fed once again, all without my reckoning. Only this journal delineates this room between my actual childhood living space. I stood feeling refreshed and marveling at the recreation. Down to the last detail, the color and texture of the carpet, the toys scattered on the floor, even the drawing I created as a toddler on the closet door were there in perfect exactness. The fear that consumed me has passed leaving a foreboding sense in my gut. I moved quickly to the door and passed through into another familiar space –my tearoom. It was dawn outside the front window. The shadows of sunrise stretched from the lampposts as well as the long stems of the flowers. The bloodhound that usually adorned the hearthrug was nowhere to be found. The cups on the nearest table sat empty, each cup's bottom lined with damp leaves. The fire had long since burned out. Every so often a wisp of smoke rose from the ashes. In reviewing my previous entry, I am perplexed. Unable to discern any meaning, I must move on in my observations. No others occupied the room save the old man seen previously in a heated discussion with a younger woman. He sat silently in the corner staring off into space. The cup held between his wrinkled hands steamed, releasing the most intoxicating smell. For reasons I cannot comprehend, I recalled the events surrounding the death of my wife. She was the second to fall at the hands of the darkness. We had recently lost our eldest daughter, Arya in a manner that parents should never have to experience –no do I have any inclination to recall at the moment. My wife, Leah, had fallen into a state of depression from which I thought she'd never recover. At the time we had sought refuge in the bowels of an ancient city. Daylight was s commodity most of us could not enjoy. We had managed to find several other families along with a handful of
individuals. The young and the healthy would make trips to the surface for food and equipment. They returned only fifty percent of the time. Leah was staring listlessly into the fire as she did every evening. A concussion shook the tunnel in the not far distance. Immediately, Anne and my baby and Sophie were clinging to my legs. Smoke began to fill the far tunnel and I knew our time in this place was over. I picked up our emergency bag – always packed, always ready, and moved for the exit tunnel. I screamed for Leah. She did not budge from her seat by the fire. I could hear screams. We need to go now, I said to my wife. She turned to me, not even glancing at her screaming children. Her face was expressionless, her eyes, vacant. In that moment, I knew this was the end for us. Another sound echoed in the distance followed by more screams. She turned her head back to the fire ignoring her daughter's pleas. Other families had left or were running past. A woman fell dead just feet from where we stood, her skin bubbling like a rolling boil of water in a pot. I picked up the girls and ran for the exit while they continued to cry out to their mother. I looked back the moment before I turned the corner. Leah was still staring into the cooking fire as the smoke and flame engulfed the entire cavern. The children wailed long after we reached the safety of our next destination. The old man still sat in the corner quietly sipping his tea. Exhausted, I returned to my childhood bedroom and slept. I had a feeling the old man would be there, still sipping his tea, upon my return.
The seventeenth day of August The year is unknown Once again I woke in my childhood bedroom without want or need to linger, I moved trough the doorway and into my tearoom. As I suspected, the quiet old man was still in the corner –this time puffing on an ornate hand-carved wooden pipe. For the first time, he broke his gaze into infinity and looked in my direction. He smiled. The chair, previously occupied by the woman with whom he'd been fervently conversing sat empty. A steaming cup of tea rested just across from the old man's own teacup on the small circular table. The chair sat slightly withdrawn from the table. The man gave the slightest of nods directing me to the seat. I sat. We looked at each other. I studied his face. It had seen at least twice the number of winters as I one minute and in the next, three times. What hair remained on his head was white along with the beard on his face. He wore strange clothes –perfect clothes. No wrinkles, stains or holes. As I studied, my mind began to fall away. My last memory of our meeting was the bloodhound making its way to our table and resting his chin on the old man's lap. Not a word was exchanged.
The eighteenth day of August The year remains unknown I woke in my bed –my childhood bed once again and quickly made my way through the doorway intent on speaking with this man who had invaded my imaginary room. He was there, of course, feeding the dog a piece of biscuit as if we had left off exactly where I had recalled from the previous day –as if I had not woken from my bed a moment ago. He smiled and nodded, just as before. The chair was pulled away from the table, just as before. Outside it was snowing. Hard. I sat. A warm cup of tea rested in front of me. I felt obligated to sip what had been prepared and lifted the warmed mug as the steam made its way to my nostrils. My God, how intoxicating. My head spun once more and I recall nothing after.
The nineteenth day of August The year is unknown Again, I woke in my childhood bed. Rather than rushing out the door, I chronicled all that I could remember from the past few days. When I was satisfied, I slowly made my way into the tearoom. There, once more, was the old man. Today he was neither feeding the hound nor puffing on his pipe. He was reading. So engrossed in his book, the old man did not bother lifting his head as I drew near. As I sat, I realized the book the old man held to his nose was this very journal. More than a little irritated, I demanded it back. After a moment, he lowered my journal and smiled. Immediately my frustration melted away. He then lifted my journal and continued to read. I looked outside. It was sunny. People were walking hither and thither taking little notice of my quaint little tearoom. So engaged in the goings on of the folk outside, the old man had to clear his throat to redirect my attention. My journal was nowhere to be seen. The old man's hands lay perfectly flat upon the stone tabletop. Jeweled rings adorned the first and second fingers on both metacarpi. The fire cracked sending sparks out onto the hearth. My head spun as I followed the spark closest to me. It seemed to dip and rise as if on an air current. The last thing I recall is this spark making its way up into the bowl of the old man's pipe.
The twenty-first day of August (corrected) The year is unknown Yet again I woke to find myself somehow returned to my childhood bed. Once again I updated my journal and moved quickly through the doorway. He was there, of course, sitting in that same corner seat. This time inspecting two tea tins. He looked up briefly before returning to his analysis. I cautiously made my way to the table. When it became apparent he was not going to interrupt his study, I took it upon myself to sit in the opposite chair, which was, of course, pulled away from the table in enticing fashion. The old man lifted a tall rectangular tin, removed the lid and inhaled. A grin spread across his face. Even from where I sat, I could make out the intoxicating fragrance. He repeated the process with the other, shorter, round tin. The scent was distinctly different yet no less seductive. He replaced the lid and finally looked up at me. I find it particularly vexing to decide between the Chinese dian hong an India's Darjeeling. Both, when harvested at the proper time of year, are absolutely fantastic. Do you have a preference? He asked casually. Of all the questions I expected him to ask, this wasn't in the realm of candidates for an introductory inquiry. The old man held his gaze making it apparent he was not continuing the conversation until the question was answered. I have to admit, I said, I've never had a Chinese. You've never had dian hong? A tragedy to say the least. It's decided then, we will share the Chinese. He raised his finger as if getting someone's attention. I turned, looking behind the counter. Nobody was there. Turning back to the man, I noticed in place of the tins were two cups and a steaming pot of tea between them. Shall I? He asked already lifting the pot and filling the cups. I was about to ask him how on earth he'd managed to do that so quickly when he spoke again. I must insist that you take your tea as nature intended –without all that nonsense . So many have gotten into the habit of infesting their tea with these impurities. Milk, sugar, honey, blasphemy! He lifted his cup
and waited for me to do the same. As I lifted, the aroma wound through my nostrils sending every scent gland into a state of orgasmic euphoria. The old man smiled once again and moved his cup to his lips. He drank slowly. I did the same. The taste was of soft caramel –sweet, a combination of flavors I recall from my youth. The golden buds offered very little astringency. Perfection in a cup. I lifted my eyes –The old man was studying my expression. Clears away the worries of a lifetime in a single swallow, he said in his deep buttery voice. I nodded and sipped again, feeling the warmth course down my throat into my core and out my extremities. Never had I felt such a sensation. Not a word was spoken as we finished our cups. The old man refilled both, steepled his fingers and exhaled sending his moustache away from his lips with a burst of air. I am certain you have questions you'd like to ask just as I am certain that I have much to tell you. This is a process that must be handled with the utmost care. We must now proceed with measured caution and pacing. Now, a courtesy we have so rudely bypassed; allow me to introduce myself, he said. My name is Akil Karanis, the old man said with a smile. A strange name no doubt but somehow fitting for this strange man. I presume you have already reasoned that I am well aware of who you are, he said. I hadn't time at all to think about much of anything let alone the thoughts of the old man in my imaginary tearoom but I presume it made sense that this man, being a part of my mind's creation, would be familiar so I nodded. Very good, he said excitedly. You may call me Akil. I nodded again. He lifted his cup and slowly sipped. His eyes were a dark purple –a color I'd never seen before. They had a far away look to them as he drank. Now, he said, lowering his cup. To business. Indeed, I replied. What is it you came to see me about? He asked. I was perplexed. I certainly had not called this meeting yet I suppose if it was taking place in my tearoom that thusly must be a manifestation of my own creation, it was only logical that he was correct. Are you one of them? I asked like a fool grasping at the first question I could think of. I'm not entirely sure what you
mean, he replied. Are you an Alverist? I asked. He looked at me quizzically for a moment then replied. Oh, yes Alverist. I apologize. I so seldom hear the phrase, I'd forgotten the intent. He paused looking out the window as a cluster of dry leaves blew past on a late autumn breeze. No, sir, he said, I am not an Alverist. Then what are you? I replied. A man. A guide. Nothing more, he said. My pardon, Mr. Karanis, but you are far from an ordinary man, I said. Am I? He asked. I am a clever man, I suppose. I believe I understand what you think I am, which in part is correct and similarly incorrect. I am here as your guide, Sir, and at this moment we have but one destination, he said. Where? I asked. Down the black stair, he replied as fear gripped me and drug me into blackness.
The twenty-sixth day of August The year remains unknown I woke in the same room I found myself in eleven days prior. A small parchment calendar had been tacked to the wall with this date circled…almost as if someone were trying to tell me my entry dates were off. I quickly brought my journal up to date then proceeded out the door and down the hall. There I turned into the very same courtyard I'd cross so many days prior. Rather than being snow covered, the stone was clear and dry. Beautiful assortments of flowers grew from raised stone beds around the perimeter. In the center, sat a large stone table. Rather than the drab gray of the rest of the stone, the table was black and polished to a fine, reflective finish. Upon the table sat a feast the likes of which I'd never laid eyes upon. Foods, most of them unfamiliar, were arranged in an artistic fashion that when viewed from afar, would be called a masterpiece to the eye. My stomach growled and I moved to close in on the table. I glanced at the archway in the far corner of the courtyard as I neared the table but would not allow my appetite to be unsatiated –even by that which I feared above all things in this place. Steam rose from the baked goods and caught in the light breeze sending the smells in my direction. I quickened my pace but seemed unable to close the gap. My mouth watered and again my stomach reminded me of its need. I moved even faster until I broke into a run yet despite my best efforts, could not draw closer. Exhausted, I sat, put my head in my hands hoping the dizziness from the exertion would pass, my breathing would slow and the need to cry out would move along. I'm afraid you'll not reach that which you desire in the manner you are currently attempting, said a deep, buttery voice. The only voice I'd heard in as long as I can remember. The voice of Akil Karanis. He stood just under the archway across the courtyard yet based upon the volume of his voice, he could have been beside me. He quickly made his way in my direction stopping to cut himself a thin sliver of cake. He put
the entire piece in his mouth, wiped the crumbs from his beard and continued in my direction. A fine creation, I must say, said Akil. I stood, feeling dizzy as I did so. The old man put a hand on my shoulder. Perhaps you should take a seat, you are not looking well, he said. I sat. The warm stone felt comforting against my thighs. After a moment, I looked up at the old man standing over me whose posture suggested anything but that of an old man. Is this your doing? Another attempt to wear me town? To break my will? I asked. Goodness no, he said sitting beside me. I am as in control of this environment as you. I'm afraid this gateway was constructed long before y time. He gently stroked the white hair of his beard. Why, I asked, does it appear that both you and this gateway, as you call it, appear to be aligned in goal and intent? I am here as your guide, sir, and my purpose is to aide you on your journey, which happens to be along the same path as this gateway's passage, however that is where the similarities end. What lurks in the darkness of the stair? I asked. Why must I go there and what is this overwhelming fear I feel whence I simply gaze down into the darkness? This place, this gateway was designed to find in you, that which you fear most and project it down those stairs. Not in reality, you see but in your mind, said Akil. The creator of this place was a master of mind manipulation –the master, in fact, who all others have built upon his foundational discoveries and created the very discipline. You see, when I pass through that threshold, I view something entirely different, he said. I have not even crossed the threshold yet I become paralyzed at the mere sight of it. Paralyzed by fear, I said. And what is fear? Akil asked, removing his pipe from a pocket deep within his traveling cloak, simply a state of mind. Indeed, I replied, if it were only that simple. If only, the old man said, stuffing his pipe with some kind of leaf. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together an inch or two above the bowl while muttering something I couldn't quite hear. Smoke began to rise from the bowl and he puffed quickly, his cheeks pulling in and out like a child's impression of a fish. Satisfied that it was well lit, Akil turned his attention back on me.
He could tell by the way I looked at him I had something on my mind. Speak up, sir, he said. The only counsel we keep here, we keep together –willingly or not, I daresay. You are an Alverist, I said. I recall recently having this discussion, perhaps you've forgotten? He studied my face for a spell, then in a moment of revelation, he spoke again. I see, he said. I apologize for not picking up upon this sooner. You are under the impression that all who have my abilities are Alverists, which is a fair assessment from your perspective. I say without hesitation that you would not be alive if that were accurate. Fortunately there exist those with my abilities who are not Alverists –although our numbers have been dwindling of late. As Akil finished his sentence a deep rumble sounded from the stone archway. It grew to such a roar that food began to fall from the table. The old man looked at me with a smile and over the noise said, we shall speak again. The light dimmed until blackness consumed my world.
The twenty-eighth day of August The year remains unknown All was the same as my previous entry until I reached the courtyard. Rain fell hard and fast onto the gloomy stone paths. The stone table no longer sat and beckoned in the center of the yard yet my hunger persists. I moved toward the archway for no other reason than it was simply the only way to go. I saw neither hide nor hare of the man I'd conversed with previously. Rather than a sense of foreboding as I drew close, I felt only indifference. Allowing the feeling to consume my senses –because the alternative is markedly worse, I moved toward the black stair. For the first time, the lantern hanging in the alcove was lit. The flickering of the flames cast eerie shadows down the corridor. Still, I felt nothing. I stepped down into the darkness yet somehow, just enough light shone to allow me to continue without fear of falling. The stairs twisted as they changed from rectangles to pies. Down I went increasing my pace as I continued until I noticed my breathing was labored. Consciously, I slowed my pace. The minutes passed like sticky sweet sap rolling off the branch of an evergreen. Down I went. As time passed, I began to fear the descent would never end. Finally, the steps leveled and where the stone footing once was, a dirt floor took its place. The smothering walls that brushed my shoulders during my downward travel opened to infinity and I found myself in a forest. I continued on the dirt path because somehow, I knew I should. Overhead was not sky but the same blackness of the stair. Trees, intermittent at first soon created thick curtains on either side of the trail. The perfectly smooth ground became tangled with roods and littered with deadfall as the small trees transitioned into giants as if by design. After a short distance, rock and stone joined the branches and leaves forcing me to slow my pace. Overhead remained black as pitch preventing me from seeing even the tops of the trees. The elevation began to turn upward slowing progress even more. Not wanting to look behind and unable to see but a few paces ahead, I climbed on now using my hands to pull myself
along due to the elevation. The path brightened as it leveled and the obstructions littering my road lessened. My feeling of despair, which had consumed me when the trail pitched up, dwindled as a sense of optimism took over. The darkness above had transitioned to gray and I found myself increasing pace until I was jogging effortlessly toward a hopeful end to my travels. Then, it was there. Blocking my path with its sense of inviting respite sat a small cabin. It had a green oval door and white smoke rose from its chimney. Sided with bark-covered timbers and wreathed in flowering bushes, the welcoming site sent relief flushing through my system. The green oval door stood slightly ajar. Was it like that when I arrived or had it opened as my attention focused elsewhere? A slight breeze bent the smoke trickling from the chimney and sent it in my direction along with the smell of cooking food. My mouth filled with saliva and unconsciously, I moved toward the door. The air stilled as I stood within arms length. I paused for just a moment as I stretched out my arm, reaching for the knob. As I did so, the door pulled open and in the threshold, stood Akil Karanis. He guided me to a cot in the corner of the cabin. With each step, I felt the energy drain from my body until finally, I was fast asleep.
The nineth day of September The year is unknown I slowly opened my eyes for fear I would see the blue painted walls of my childhood bedroom once again. I was relieved when the roughly hewn timbers of the cabin ceiling came into focus. I slowly sat and slid my feet over the side of the bed, looking around the room. On the inside, it appeared much larger than the outside suggested. The floors were neither dirt nor wood planks but marble. In fact, I struggled to find a single seam suggesting it consisted of one very large piece of marble. The room was bright despite having only two small windows both of which revealed the dreary weather outside. On the far wall was the fireplace -large enough to walk inside and constructed of polished river rock stacked floor to ceiling. Inside a fire burned over which the lug pole suspended an iron pot that was beginning to simmer. The room smelled not of cooking food but of freshly cut flowers. Opposite my cot was a very large, ornate trunk. Carved on the sides was an inscription in a language with which I was unfamiliar. The knob, still centered in the round green door, creaked as it turned, drawing my attention away from the trunk. I stiffened although I knew it could only be one personand indeed it was. Akil Karanis stooped as he made his way through the circular doorway. He smiled as he entered, his pipe hanging from his mouth and a bunch of cut flowers in his hand. When he saw that I was awake, he mumbled something and quickly set the flowers on a shelf by the door. I see that you have finally risen, he said. Never have I known someone to sleep for such a duration. How long have I been aslumber? I asked. Nearly ten days, he replied. Impossible, I thought reaching for my chin to scratch an itch. Yet when I contacted it, I knew he told the truth simply from the growth. Akil smiled and sat in the wooden rocking chair by the fire. So, he said, hovering his hand over the bowl of his pipe and muttering something, which brought its contents aflame, I assume you're well rested then. I nodded. Very good, he said.
Your journey was a long one. Perhaps the longest of any I've guided to this place. I stood and stretched allowing the blood to flow to my stiff muscles. Akil extended his hand, said something that sounded like 'freskatu' and turned his palm upward. A pink ball of light rose from his palm and hovered there for a moment before he coaxed it in my direction. Too stunned to swat the strange orb of light away, I watched as it impacted my chest. Immediately, I felt a sense of clarity. The stiffness in my body seemed to drain out through my skin and my muscles felt limber and strong. I looked at Akil with a dumbfounded expression, I'm sure. After all you've seen, I find it intriguing that you still find my abilities novel, he said. I'm afraid it may take some time for my sense of wonder to wane, I said. He turned and stirred the ladle inside the iron pot. Your journey, you'll be happy to know, is at its midway point. I'd express some form of relief if I were aware of the end point, I said. Akil turned and gave me a most curious expression. Fascinating, he said. He stood, walked to me and gently put his hand on my forehead. Of that day, I remember no more.
The tenth day of September The year remains unknown I woke to a most curious sound. A metallic noise of some sort echoed through the window, which stood slightly ajar. Akil was nowhere to be seen as I surveyed the single-room cabin. The fire had long burnt out and the fresh cut flowers lay dry and shriveled on the shelf where the old man had placed them. On the trunk, neatly folded, was a set of clothes. Beside them on the floor sat a pair of worn leather boots. Assuming they were for me, I dressed –intent on investigating the sound outside. Feeling neither hunger nor need for relief, I turned the knob centered in the round, green, wood-planked door and stepped outside. Expecting to see the worn narrow path directly in front of me, I was surprised to see a meadow full of wildflowers and wreathed in rhododendron, yet no sign of the path at all. All nature of insects flew from flower to flower in the early morning sun . Despite the beauty of the scene, the metallic grinding noise compelled me onward. I moved around the cabin, brushing against the blue flowers of the bushes along the siding. The noise grew louder as I turned the first corner yet nothing came into view save the stone exterior of the chimney and a few split logs lying at its base. Around the rear of the cabin a small pond covered in green lily pads occupied the center of a small clearing. On a bench, turning a grinding wheel with his left hand and holding a dagger against the stone with his right, sat Akil Karanis. He was humming a song while looking into the forest of small paper-barked trees that surrounded the clearing as if he could see something of intense interest. Looking in the same direction, I saw only the white and brown of the curling bark. I moved closer, careful not to step on the low growing flowers that bordered the brick path. When I was within arm's length, Akil turned with a start. His welcoming smile was infectious and soon we were grinning at each other like fools. I wasn't expecting you so soon, he finally said. How does one expect another who is already in their presence? I queried. A fair question, my friend. He stopped turning the wheel, lifted
the blade and ran his finger along the edge. What happened to me yesterday? Why did you render me unconscious? Akil's brow furrowed at the word unconscious. It was a simple sleeping incantation, nothing more, he said. You see, a normal body such as yours is not suited to make the journey in as short a time as is required. Likewise, he said, holding up a finger, preventing me from interrupting, an untrained mind must be given rations of information simply because a deluge of truth would render one inane for days. So, for the moment, you require only the knowledge I am willing to impart and must otherwise rest both mind and body. You will need both strength and fortitude of mind to complete the second half of your trek. Do you understand? He asked. Truly I did not and I suppose my expression revealed my lack of comprehension. I have swept you away from the only world you know, he said. That alone is often too much for a man to bare yet you have borne it and borne it well. Now, we must discuss what is to come. And what does come next? I asked. You must remain here, in this place, for forty days. On the forty-first day, I shall return and we will move on. What must I do in all that time? I asked having not stayed in one place for that duration in as long as I can remember. Do you see where the clearing meets the trees? I nodded. You must not cross into the forest. It is strictly forbidden. By whom? I asked. Akil slowly stood. By this place, he said, extending his arms and turning. The sun glistened off his hairless crown. I don't understand, I replied. Nor do I expect you to, he said. I shall return every fifth day with supplies, food and information. Between my visits it is up to you to decide what to do with the time that is left to you. Porridge simmers over the fire as we speak. There is a well on the far side of the cabin among the high grasses. The trunk, you no doubt noticed, contains tools I believe you will find most useful and informative. Akil stretched, his joints popped as his muscles contracted. I must take my leave, I'm afraid. You must eat, rest and heal. Take heed of my warning. Stay out of the forest. He began walking in that very direction. I kept pace at his side. Where will you go? I asked. You don't think you're the only one I must tend to, do you? He asked, stopping at the edge of the
clearing. I hadn't given it much thought, I replied. I give you leave to think on whatever it is you believe you must, Akil said, stepping into the forest –immediately disappearing beneath the darkness of the canopy. I was alone. Tempted to plunge into the forest after him, yet leery of his warning, I turned and headed across the clearing toward the cabin. As I passed the sharpening wheel, I noticed Akil had set the blade on the wooden stool. I picked it up. It felt light in my hand –too light. I touched the blade, deciding a dirk this light couldn't possibly be sharp yet the moment my finger contacted the edge, I pulled my hand away in pain. Blood ran down my finger as I inspected the wound. My print was cleaved apart revealing the bone beneath. I quickly wrapped my finger in the bottom of my tunic to stay the bleeding and continued my walk around the cabin and inside the circular green door. The instant I crossed the threshold, the throbbing ceased. I unwrapped my finger and to my amazement, upon closer inspection, saw the wound had closed and the bleeding come to a halt. I carefully placed the dirk on the shelf beside the door, not noticing the dried flowers upon which it rested and moved toward the fireplace where my meal stewed inside the black steel pot. Of this day, there is nothing more to report.
Published on Oct 25, 2011
A creative outlet for yours truly -nothing more


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This is a story. It's not necessarily true. I could be true. But, there is no written evidence that it is true, so...it's probably fiction.
I intend it as fiction. But isn't all fiction based in reality, somehow? Even science fiction? And horror stories?
Let us begin...
Once upon a time, about 30,000 years ago they say, wolves became dogs. It's unclear without further investigation how wolves came to be known as "dogs" rather than merely tame wolves, but let's not worry about the nomenclature for now.
In our story, a wolf lived on the edges of a small gathering of humans. At some point, the humans - let us not judge them, this is so long ago, they cannot be held accountable - "killed a female wolf and then brought home her pups. Recent studies on silver foxes suggest that when the most docile pups are kept and cared for, it takes just 10 generations of breeding for morphological changes to take effect."
The pups were raised for work. Not fun. Not companionship. Not love and affection.
The humans saw opportunity. The pups from the wolves (this had to be happening in more places than just our little human gathering, don't you think?) over time, became used to being included in hunts, travel, and other household activities. To my mind, in our story, the animals began to appreciate the good life they had with these two-legged, hairless beasts. And the hairless beasts had to appreciate having a creature about that could keep other animals at bay, be used as pack animals to carry items from a hunt, and more. The relationship was symbiotic, as most history tells us.
Over time, the wolves with the tamer, more approachable personalities...became dogs. As they showed their willingness to be submission to the humans, they also likely wormed their way into the home and hearth, from outside the cave door (we are being rather loose with our terms, you understand). And as that happened, I suspect the attraction from the younger folks in the group gradually moved from seeing these animals as merely worker-bees, to seeing them as companions.
Continue reading "How Did it Happen? The Domestication of Dogs" »

subset: commoncrawl


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The pocket tee is flawlessly executed by Monitaly as a part of their spring 2014 offering. The shirt comes constructed from a domestically knitted 30/1 combed cotton and features a patchwork left chest pocket with contrasting print fabric falling on the neck seam taping and split side seam trim.
If a size is not listed, it is sold out.
Monitaly Patchwork Pocket Tee Heather Grey


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I want the first ten girls be honest I would like to know from 1 to 100 lol how I look thanks
Most Helpful Girl
I agree with Jeweliet, you are around an 8/10, but that's the maximum score for me. It's the personality that can ever give anyone more than that, which means you're actually up pretty high already. Why don't you smile on the picture? That would make you way more attractive imo.00|00|0
I will next picture I put on lol thanks x


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Publisher: Oxford University Press (Total: 370 journals)
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Contemporary Women's Writing
[SJR: 0.111] [H-I: 3] [11 followers] Follow
Hybrid journal (It can contain Open Access articles)
ISSN (Print) 1754-1484 - ISSN (Online) 1754-1476
Published by Oxford University Press [370 journals]
- Ruth Rendell and Barbara Vine – Family Matters
- Authors: Peters F.
First page: 31
Abstract: AbstractThis article traces themes and preoccupations that work across Ruth Rendell's work, writing both as Rendell and also as Barbara Vine. It investigates the ways in which the use of a pseudonym allows her to delve deeper into areas that she also explores as Rendell – the dysfunctional family and heredity, both in relation to physical disease and the fruitless search for origins, the latter discussed by her through the lens of Freudian psychoanalysis.
PubDate: 2017-01-21
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw029
- Authors: Peters F.
- Notes on contributors
- First page: 135
Abstract: Ruth Heholt is Senior Lecturer in English at Falmouth University. Her research interests lie with the supernatural, the Gothic and crime fiction. She is co-editor of Haunted Landscapes: Super-Nature and the Environment (2017) and has edited a critical edition of Catherine Crowe's 1847 novel The Story of Lilly Dawson. She is currently editing a collection entitled Gothic Britain with Professor William Hughes. She is founding editor of Revenant: Critical and Creative Studies of the Supernatural: www.revenantjournal.com.
PubDate: 2017-03-16
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpx003
- First page: 135
- Ruth Rendell Special Issue: Introduction
- Authors: Heholt R; Peters F, Wisker G.
First page: 1
Abstract: On 2 May 2015, one of Britain's best-loved authors Ruth Rendell died. Rendell has very often been described (alongside P. D. James) as the "Queen of Crime," and despite her dislike of the term, it has been applied to Rendell countless times.11 Massively popular and with worldwide sales of approximately 20 million (amazon.com), Rendell routinely topped the bestseller lists. Yet despite the fact that Rendell is a "queen of crime" and a worldwide bestselling author, the 2010 Wiley Blackwell Companion to Crime Fiction does not mention her anywhere in its entire 573 pages, and this is not an unusual state of affairs. Charles Rzepka, in the otherwise excellent book Detective Fiction, affords Rendell one slight mention (228), whereas Peter Messent in The Crime Fiction Handbook names her just twice in lists that include other crime writers (34, 62). The mainstream media and the reading public have valued Rendell for decades, but academic critics do not seem to respect her in the same way, and she is often passed over in the academic discussion of crime fiction. The guest editors of this special issue believe that Ruth Rendell is one of the most important contemporary women writers of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and this special issue both celebrates and critically responds to her work.
PubDate: 2016-12-15
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw045
- Authors: Heholt R; Peters F, Wisker G.
- "Watch the Words Fall onto Paper in a Tangled Code": The Functions of
Writing and Reading in Three Novels by Ruth Rendell
- Authors: Miller J.
First page: 12
Abstract: AbstractIt is axiomatic that crime fiction is not considered "literary" and is excluded from prestigious and mainstream literary prizes. Although Ruth Rendell's later "standalone" and Barbara Vine novels have often been successful in gaining specific crime fiction awards, her Chief Detective Inspector Wexford series have been passed over in this regard, and it was only with the beginning of the Vine publications that her work was considered to take a literary turn. In response to this misapprehension, her early writing has received comparatively little attention, even within the still limited range of Rendell scholarship. This should be surprising as, beginning with the first Wexford, From Doon with Death in 1964, her work, whether writing as Rendell or Vine, is without exception comprised of layers of narrative complexity, literary references, and textual mosaics. This article, through its analysis of Rendell's first three novels, From Doon with Death, To Fear a Painted Devil, and Vanity Dies Hard, will explore the centrality of texts and textuality within her work, from the minutiae and range of texts that form her mosaic of clues, to the centrality of the acts of reading and writing, but most importantly to the revelation of the extent that the novels are steeped in literary knowledge and understanding, and the extent to which Rendell's readers should equal that knowledge and understanding to fully engage with the narrative process.
PubDate: 2016-11-19
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw033
- Authors: Miller J.
- Domestic Fracturing in Ruth Rendell's Early Stand-Alone Novels
- Authors: Kungl CT.
First page: 48
Abstract: AbstractThis essay examines Ruth Rendell's early stand-alone fiction: Vanity Dies Hard (1965) and The Secret House of Death (1968), focusing on the ways Rendell complicates the detective fiction plotline when she transfers the "main character" status onto her female protagonists. The fact that they are ineffectual as detectives is made more powerful by setting: Rendell places these criminal acts in the home, which in earlier female detective fiction is presented as a source of power for women, but which in Rendell's early fiction is a site of unrest. Using insights from feminist geographers of space, who examine the interplay of gender and physical environment, illuminates how the characters' situations undermine the supposed safety of the domestic sphere. In questioning the country home and the suburban household as seats of domesticity and familial harmony, Rendell highlights the lingering difficulties women have of conceiving of themselves outside of male-created paradigms of femininity. She draws upon not just early women's detective fiction but gothic and sensation fiction, too, each of which emphasizes the home and women's roles in either the protection of or subversion of that traditional female sphere. In these early stand-alone novels, Rendell destabilizes the ways in which both the home and the women in it are constructed. Though these novels have received scant critical attention, they show that from the outset, Rendell's concern has not necessarily been for the detective story as much as it has been for the psychological nuances of her female characters.
PubDate: 2016-09-14
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw027
- Authors: Kungl CT.
- Houses of Death: Ruth Rendell's Domestic Gothic and the Emptying Out
of Romance
- Authors: Wisker G.
First page: 66
Abstract: AbstractA blackened, burned dress hangs limply in an upstairs wardrobe in a dusty, deserted house in the Fens in Ruth Rendell's The Brimstone Wedding (1996). This dress, like the airless, loveless, and love-lost houses in both The Brimstone Wedding and The Secret House of Death (1968) serves as a reminder of false romantic promises, the emptying out of desire into the mundane, the dangers and betrayals both of passion and of the everyday domestic. This is Rendell's domestic Gothic at its best. In both Rendell and her alias Barbara Vine's more psychological thrillers, the twin comforts of romance and a safe home and family give way to disturbance, discomfort, disease, and disruption. Romance is treacherous and betrayed. However passionate, stolen, turbulent, and filled with promise, it slips away at a single deceptive act or through the repetitive, mundane everyday. Its worst outcomes are cruelty following the end of love or the equally destructive, mind-numbingly banal winding down into lovelessness. Clandestine love nests are cleared out and shuttered up; suburban family life is devalued. Each is prone to absences, deceit, and death. Much of Rendell's domestic Gothic has echoes of Daphne du Maurier's earlier influential genre-shifting romantic crime Gothic Rebecca (1938), and this novel's haunting of our reading of Rendell's texts underpins the discussion of The Brimstone Wedding and The Secret House of Death. Both use strategies of women's crime entwined with romantic domestic Gothic to undermine thoroughly investment in romantic love, domestic bliss, and the security of the family home.
PubDate: 2016-10-03
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw030
- Authors: Wisker G.
- Ambivalent Ghosts: The Manifestation of the Supernatural in Ruth
Rendell's Fiction
- Authors: Heholt R.
First page: 85
Abstract: AbstractThis article examines the supernatural in Ruth Rendell's fiction. Rendell was fascinated by the supernatural and returned to it throughout her writing career. The essay begins by looking at the manifestation of ghosts as a symptom of domestic entrapment. These ghosts are an extension of women's curtailed and claustrophobic lives. It then explores the depiction of mediums and soothsayers, which, although allowing more agency for women, still leaves unresolved slippages between the real and the not real. The article ends by looking at Rendell's haunted men, arguing that there is a relatively conventional expansion of the imagination for men who become aware of the possibility of the supernatural. The article argues that the gender divide apparent in Rendell's depiction of ghost seeing and occult practices provides the critique of conventional gender roles and expectations that is so much a part of all her work. However, the role the supernatural plays in her fiction goes further and expresses an apparent doubt that Rendell feels about the actual materiality of ghosts and the efficacy of occult practices. Rendell's treatment of the supernatural is insistently ambivalent. This essay argues that for someone who states so clearly, "I don't, of course, believe in ghosts" ("Ruth Rendell reads"), Rendell surprisingly refuses to dismiss them.
PubDate: 2016-09-23
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw031
- Authors: Heholt R.
- Realistic Man, Fantasy Policeman: The Longevity of Ruth Rendell's
Reginald Wexford
- Authors: Schnabel J.
First page: 102
Abstract: Ruth Rendell first introduced Chief Inspector Reginald Wexford in From Doon with Death in 1964; we last see him forty-nine years later in No Man's Nightingale (2013). Rendell develops the protagonist in her detective series, which includes twenty-four novels and five short stories, by adapting the conventions and tropes of the detective and police procedural genres set forth by her predecessors, such as Georges Simenon, Dorothy Sayers, and Ed McBain. However, while her detectives operate within the framework of the fictional Kingsmarkham police department, Rendell does not stifle Wexford with mundane bureaucratic constraints. Instead, she focuses on presenting a realistic man with idiosyncrasies, shortcomings, and fears, as well as a character who adapts to the changing social and cultural environment alongside the reading public. Rendell has called Wexford "a fantasy policeman in a fantasy world," using investigative methods which do not always adhere to standard police procedures (Salwak 87). As a result, forensic details are also largely missing from her narratives, which often lack in-depth descriptions of autopsies, lab processes, and coroner's reports found in other contemporary crime novels and popular television programs. She said, "The wonder is that thousands of readers (including policemen!) seem to like it this way" (87). Thousands is an understatement; Rendell's worldwide sales figures are currently estimated at 20 million (Penguin UK), a testament to her creations' longevity and popularity with readers even after her death in 2015.
PubDate: 2016-12-22
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw044
- Authors: Schnabel J.
- Ruth Rendell: An Appreciation
- Authors: Wilson A.
First page: 121
Abstract: Ruth Rendell was born Ruth Barbara Grasemann on 17 February 1930 in South Woodford, Essex, to a Swedish-Danish mother, Ebba, and an English father, Arthur. When I interviewed her a few years ago for the Independent on Sunday, she told me "I think they married because they were totally innocent, especially my father," elaborating:
PubDate: 2016-11-22
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw038
- Authors: Wilson A.
- Women and Domestic Space in Contemporary Gothic Narratives: The House as
- Authors: Phelps C.
First page: 126
Abstract: Ng, Andrew Hock Soon. Women and Domestic Space in Contemporary Gothic Narratives: The House as Subject. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Print. $23.95. Hardback.
PubDate: 2016-04-04
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw008
- Authors: Phelps C.
- Herta Müller: Politics and Aesthetics
- Authors: Marven L.
First page: 127
Abstract: Brandt, Bettina and Valentina Glajar. Herta Müller: Politics and Aesthetics. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2013. Print. $40. Paperback.
PubDate: 2016-08-16
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw024
- Authors: Marven L.
- Jean Rhys: Twenty-First-Century Approaches
- Authors: O'Shea J.
First page: 129
Abstract: Johnson, Erica L. and Patricia Moran, eds. Jean Rhys: Twenty-First-Century Approaches. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2015. Print. £70. Hardback.
PubDate: 2016-11-19
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw032
- Authors: O'Shea J.
- Depression: A Public Feeling
- Authors: Marinkova M.
First page: 131
Abstract: Cvetkovich, Ann. Depression: A Public Feeling. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2012. Print. $23.95. Paperback.
PubDate: 2016-11-19
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw035
- Authors: Marinkova M.
- Mapping British Women Writers' Urban Imaginaries: Space, Self and
- Authors: Robertson L.
First page: 133
Abstract: Mapping British Women Writers' Urban Imaginaries: Space, Self and Spirituality. Arina Cirstea. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Print. pp. 227. £58.00. Hardback.
PubDate: 2016-09-29
DOI: 10.1093/cww/vpw026
- Authors: Robertson L.


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The popular "One Piece" OchaTomo series is back with a new lineup of pirates! These cute little mini figures measure about 4cm tall, and will hang from your cup to keep you company at home or in the office!
Please note that these are trading items and are individually sealed and randomly packed in boxes of 6 by the manufacturer before shipment to HobbyLink Japan. As a result, we are unable to honor requests for individual or specific items, nor can we promise you which one(s) you will receive in a box. Please order only if you are willing to accept any combination of the possible types.
This item is expected to be released on or about 09/30. We will accept additional orders at that time if supplies are sufficient.


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Intercessory Missionaries
We believe that in the same way as full time missionaries are called to preach the gospel, God is calling missionaries of intercession. A House of Prayer is a place, where people with a special calling for prayer are welcomed, trained and appointed. Just as Anna (Lk 2,36-37) spent her whole time preparing the Lord´s way by praying and fasting, we believe the Lord will raise up Annas again to prepare both revival and awakening in Europe, as well as the very Second Coming of Christ.
An intercessory missionary at the House of Prayer, Augsburg prays 25 hours per week, 17 hours are scheduled for practical work. Every intercessory missionary lives 100% by faith, raising support from donators.
At this time Augsburg House of Prayer has around 20 full-time House of Prayer Missionaries.
A strong community of "GebetshausPartner" - "House of Prayer Partners" helps to fund both the House of Prayer as well as individual missionaries.


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Providing real estate services ranging from residential sales, property management to commercial real estate sales and lease, First National Real Estate Brad Hollingsworth can help you with all your real estate needs.
At First National Real Estate Brad Hollingsworth, you will always be treated as our top priority.
Our commitment - We Put You First - says it all. Whether you are buying, selling or renting real estate you will always be treated as our top priority. The First National Real Estate network exists specifically to deliver on this promise.
By choosing First National Real Estate, you will be selecting professionals who understand your priorities and is backed by industry leading marketing systems, technologies and quality standards.


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Gautam Ghosh's blog on how social media and technology and online communities are impacting organizations, people, careers and learning. Some focus on Social Recruiting, Social HR, Social Learning and Social Recognition.
Jun 10, 2004
HR people crack the glass ceiling at BPO cos.
Well I am not talking about the usually understood contexts of glass ceilings as applied to minorities in the corporate workplace.
Instead, I am referring to the functional glass ceiling. For years, accounting, sales, marketing and finance people were usually the first choices to lead businesses as CEOs. Most people who had spent their careers in a support function like HR had to be content with a job like Director HR in the corporate ladder. The only route that was open to them to actually head businesses were in niche industries like HR consulting outfits.
No longer.
In India at least I see a rash of HR honchos who've made it to the corner office, and interestingly its in the people intensive BPO industry. There are several reasons for this but lets take a look at the people:
- Sujit Bakshi of vCustomer
- Aadesh Goyal of Hughes' BPO unit
- Bhaskar Das of Sutherland Technologies
- Prashant Sankaran of Digital Contact Centre (a part of HP)
- Vinoo Thimayya of Honeywell's BPO
I am sure there are others in the non-BPO industry too ( I know of Dr. Ajoy Kumar who briefly headed Cummins Deisel Sales & Service after a stint as GM HR of the Tata Group, but then he wasn't a career HR person). And a lot of CEOs have done some stints in HR.
Coming specifically to the case of HR people heading BPO operations, I have the following theories:
- BPO work is quite content-free and the essential skill required for a leader is people management skills, where HR people are the assets
- When BPO organizations mushroomed in India there were not too many top leaders available and with the reason given above HR directors were given the chance
What do you think?
Posted by Gautam Ghosh at 09:51
Labels: HR Issues
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1) Rock or Bust
2) Shoot to Thrill
3) Hell Ain't a Bad Place to Be
4) Back in Black
5) Play Ball
6) Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
7) Thunderstruck
8) High Voltage
9) Rock and Roll Train
10) Hells Bells
11) Baptism by Fire
12) You Shook Me All Night Long
13) Sin City
14) Shot Down in Flames
15) Have a Drink on Me
17) Whole Lotta Rosie
18) Let There Be Rock
19) Highway to Hell
20) For Those About to Rock
It's raining during the whole Show.
Brian says something like "This is for Malcolm Young" during High Voltage
Problems with Rosie, the doll is not moving her hand during the song, just a few times near the end.
Brian has microfone problems during Highway to hell.
Brian says "We salute you Munich, we salute you Deutschland, we salute you Bavaria" during For those about to rock.
Set List, Notes thanks to zoin.


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A few days ago I wrote about how to structure version details in MongoDB. In this and subsequent articles I'm going to present a Java based approach to working with that revision data. I have published all this work as an open source repository on github. Feel free to fork it: https://github.com/dwatrous/mongodb-revision-objects Design Decisions To […]Read more


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According to one estimate, a 500 square foot New York City urban farming plot can produce enough locally grown produce to supply the majority of an average sized restaurant's produce needs for weeks on end.
In fact, the production potential of urban farming is not quite a secret – many of the produce items shipped to restaurants today that travel over one thousand miles from "farm to table" can also be grown on a rooftop urban garden across the street.
However what is less known to many is one of the major factors holding back urban farming operations in our cities today; this limitation ironically has nothing to do with the production potential of an urban farm, the variety of crops that can be grown locally, or the people operating the farms.
What is the major limiting factor?
It turns out that a common issue for many urban growers is that they simply cannot find consistent buyers of their produce. Plain and simple, supply and demand. This is clearly not a sustainable situation.
What is the solution to this problem? How can we jumpstart the market for our urban fresh food suppliers and provide more value to the food industry and, of course, the food consumer?
The key lies in restaurants. It should come as no surprise that restaurants are a huge market for consumption of urban farmed food.
Fortunately, on this front, there is reason for optimism. Some restaurants are buying local, and increasingly so in the last decade. A number of local ingredients in restaurant menus in an aggregate, according to market research firm Mintel , increased by 73% in the time span between 2009 and 2013 in the United States.
But there is still a long way to go as far as restaurant adaption of local ingredients. A google search of "farm to table restaurants New York City" returns 1.6% as many results as a google search for "New York City restaurants". Local food incorporation is clearly not fully adapted in restaurants, or anywhere close. So what is holding chefs and restaurant managers back?
One leading factor may just be a lack of awareness. Restaurants who are not utilizing locally sourced goods have many reasons to do so, they may just not know of them. With this in mind, here are 3 reasons why restaurant owners and chefs should have started using local ingredients yesterday:
The market is larger than you think: 81% of aquaponic urban farming operations in the world are located in the United States. This same market will be a 1$ billion dollar market in 2020. What does that mean for restaurant owners? A vast array of options to choose from as far as commodity, price point, and services competing to provide the best product.
Fresher produce is proven to be healthier: Because urban or locally farmed produce has less distance to travel in the supply chain, it can be harvested at a later stage of ripeness, meaning healthier foods that are richer in nutrients. Result? A healthier dining experience and (likely) better-tasting food for customers.
It's beneficial to the environment: According to urban agriculture blog Urban Vine Co urban farming and local food production are correlated not only with healthier local economies but also greater socioeconomic diversity and even less neighborhood crime. For a restaurant trying to build its brand and differentiate from competitors over the long-haul, these types of long-term community investments, enabled by local food patronage, are worth serious consideration.
Post written by Pat Flynn, CMO at Hazel Technologies, at Hazel Technologies, we develop biodegradable products that provide unprecedented control of produce freshness, preventing extensive waste in the food supply chain and increasing shelf life for distributors, restaurants, and grocery chains. Find out more at Hazel Technologies.


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|Property type
|Minimum Stay
|2 nights
The chalet has two bedrooms each sleeping two people. Downstairs is open plan with kitchen and lounge area, including TV and DVD player. Property is accessed via a short but quite steep path but once accomplished you will be rewarded with wonderful sea and country views. Outside is a large table with seating for eight. All rooms except shower room have electric fires. Rent includes electricity. Parking place is allocated. Dogs are not allowed on site,
My name is Bryan Johnson. I have had a successful small retail business in Oxford for about 25 years.
I have owned the chalet in Freshwater East for ten years and enjoyed many happy holidays there.
I am reluctantly letting it to help meet the bills.
If am sure you will have a wonderful time.
Freshwater East is located in beautiful countryside within the only coastal National Park in UK.
The sandy, sheltered beach is only a few minutes walk away.
Many other beaches can be reached with a short drive
including Barafundle, Manorbier and Broadhaven. Some are administered by The National Trust.
Many activities are available such as walking, bird spotting, fishing and water sports.
There are castles and islands to be visited.
Stackpole quay with it's tea room and Bosherton Lily Pools are a must see.
Locally, there is on site a club selling food and drink (opening hours vary). The Freshwater Inn is nearby and serves good food. The vilage of Lamphey is two miles away and boasts a number of fine restaurants.
Historic Pembroke is only four miles away with an impressive Norman Cas
The chalet is reached by a short but quite steep path and may not be suitable for everyone.
However once accomplished you will be rewarded with glorious views of the beach and panoramic countryside.
There is a large terrace to the front with an eight seater table with parasol.
No dogs are allowed on site. ,.
The chalet is really a two storey little house. It is clean and tidy with all you need for a holiday home. The bedrooms are a bit small but the beds were comfy and the bathroom was ok but no bath just a shower. The beach is within a 5 minute walk and you get a great view of it from the front of the Chalet. It is ideally placed between Tenby and Pembroke. Perfect for a relaxing holiday in Pembrokeshire.
Brilliant location 2 mins walk to the beach and access to the coastal trails. Coming from Australia it was a novelty to see a beach set amongst the Welsh fields and we really enjoyed our stay. The landscape is divine and the views from the cabin are beautiful and the area is really tranquil. The cabin itself is cosy, well heated and functional. Easy to access the keys, there is a pub within the holiday park, but not much else which was fine as we were happy to largely self cater. The only hiccup was that I assumed linens provided included bath towels, which it oddly doesn't.
The property was ideal. Clean and fully functional. The location is great, just across the road to beautiful Freshwater East beach. Only a short drive to Pembroke and a little further to Tenby which the children loved and it far exceed my expectations. Wild and natural, not unlike North Cornwall but without the mass of people and the price expectations that come with it. Truly memorable and I've come back with hundreds of great photos.
When we first arrived and opened the door there was a really strong unpleasant smell, the smell was confined to the downstairs area and no end of air freshener or door openings got rid of this odour.
The mattresses really need to be upgraded, you can feel every spring which led to a fairly restless nights sleep.
The plinth under the Fridge was also hanging off.
On a positive the view from the chalet was magnificent over the bay.
The current condition of the Chalet does not warrant the cost per night but with a bit of upgrading and decorating then this would be an ideal holiday location.
Clean well laid out property. I thought it was a chalet but was an end terrace property.
Bedrooms very small could not shut main bedroom door as bed in way.
Not impressed with site the shop was poorly stocked every where looked very dated.
Good location, the place was clean and tidy as well was the site. Lovely views from the patio over the bay. Very friendly and helpful in the clubhouse and shop.
The surrounding area is very beautiful and natural and is protected within the National Parks.
The safe and sandy beach of Freshwater East is a short walk and The Longhouse is on site providing food, drink, shop and equipment for sea activities,
There are many other beaches nearby varying in character from the tranquil Barafundle to the rugged, wild and windswept Freshwater West. Don't miss either!
Walking is very popular with the coast path at hand and the lily ponds at Bosherton nearby.
Fine restaurants are to be found in the two nearest villages of Lamphey and Stackpole, and the pub at the top of the hill, The Freshwater is cheerful and well worth a visit.
The attractive town of Tenby with it's three beaches is a must see,
and you can take a boat ride to Caldey Island with it's working monastery if you wish.
Shopping can be found at the pretty town of Pembroke with it's Norman castle (open daily) and Pembroke Dock. From here you can drive over the toll-bridge to the capital of the county Haverford
West. Just past the toll-bridge is the marina of Neyland built by Brunel and worth a visit!
These are just a few ideas, With the wealth of Castles, Historic houses, Gardens, Beaches and Islands to explore you will not run out of things to do!
|Rental Period
|Minimum Price
|Additional Nights
|Weekend Night
|Event Price
My Standard Rate
2 night minimum stay
for 2 nights
|No additional mandatory fees
Booking Notes:
Please e-mail for enquiries and bookings. 10% deposit required and full payment six weeks prior to occupation.
Changeover Day:
Change over is on Saturday. Outgoing by 10 am. Incoming after 3 pm.
Notes on prices:
Weekly bookings from Saturdays.


text:
Senex Energy Limited has delivered further success as part of its 30+ well drilling program for 2013/14, with Acrasia-6 extending the productive life of Acrasia oil field in the north east of South Australia's Cooper-Eromanga Basin.
Acrasia-6 is a deviated appraisal well located approximately 300 metres south of Acrasia-1, which has produced from the mid Tinchoo Formation since 2002. The appraisal well was designed to assess the extent of the Acrasia Hutton Sandstone oil accumulation, produce unswept oil in the Birkhead, Poolowanna and Tinchoo sandstone reservoirs, and evaluate the potential of the Arrabury Formation.
Senex Energy Limited
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Cavewomen Costumes
|Though they may not be the first thing women think of when it comes to choosing Halloween costumes, women's cavewoman costumes can be the perfect way to go. These are great whether a woman is fun loving or wild at heart, whether she's looking for a sexy costume or one that is flattering to a fuller figure. These costumes are sure to be fun, and are certain to fulfill all of a woman's requirements for a costume.
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This is apparently what happens when a fantasy baseball position feels like it's been wronged. We're less than a week through the season, and the second-base position is on fire. Entering Monday's games, second basemen comprised three of the top five spots among the home run leaders and five of the top 11 spots on the Player Rater. And those who had selected Rickie Weeks, Ian Kinsler, Howard Kendrick and Brian Roberts were feeling really, really smart.
Alas, while second base does appear stronger than originally thought -- certainly in comparison to shortstop, which through five days of games had been outhomered by its middle infield counterparts 21 to four -- fantasy owners should reel in expectations a bit. I mean, the Angels' Kendrick has three home runs already but has never hit more than three home runs in any month of his career. The Orioles' Roberts once hit eight home runs in April 2005, but then hit 10 the rest of the season. I presume his balky back is feeling good today, but take the under on his first 20-homer season.
Second base is looking pretty good, but I thought I'd point out players at that position who remain a bit too ignored -- even in standard leagues -- but offer promise.
Mike Aviles, Kansas City Royals: I like that Aviles is leading off and that he's running, two things I expect to continue. Yes, Aviles entered Tuesday hitting all of .214 and with only one walk, but wouldn't it be just a bit too easy for me to recommend someone off to a better start, such as Neil Walker? I do like Walker, but Aviles has staying power and a career .298 batting average with potential for double-digit power (and definitely speed). I'd invest.
Will Rhymes, Detroit Tigers: I've discussed him recently so I won't belabor the point too much, but I saw the weekend games against the New York Yankees, and Rhymes is hardly overwhelmed at the plate. In fact, he hit the ball hard, but mainly at fielders, the entire series. Then Rhymes hit a pair of singles and stole a base Monday. This is a scrappy player who will be owned in most standard leagues at some point this season. I'd rather own Rhymes than Tsuyoshi Nishioka, for example.
Freddy Sanchez, San Francisco Giants: He's off to a nice start, with seven hits through four games, and it's not fluky. He is swinging the bat well and appears healthy for the first time in a while. Sanchez doesn't offer much power or speed, but even with a painful shoulder injury last season, he hit .292 with seven home runs in 111 games. He's the second-base version of Philadelphia Phillies third baseman Placido Polanco; if healthy, expect a .300 batting average and plenty of runs scored.
Other second-base notes: Maicer Izturis is the second-most-added second baseman in ESPN leagues, and I could see as many as 20 stolen bases with health and opportunity, but neither is assured. Izturis has played a game at three different infield spots already. If he hits, he will play. ... Caught Danny Espinosa of the Washington Nationals the other day, and he reminds me a bit of Sean Rodriguez when he hits right-handed; he misses a lot of pitches. Espinosa can hit for power and run, and he's 4-for-9 with a pair of doubles, but I doubt he hits better than .250. ... I've got Blake DeWitt in a league that counts walks, but I'm thinking I'll need to look elsewhere soon. Then again, he hits left-handed and he's better than Darwin Barney and Jeff Baker, so I'm not seeing why DeWitt has been squeezed out by the Chicago Cubs. ... Why drop Ty Wigginton after two Colorado Rockies games? He did start one of them. He'll get 400 at-bats and hit his 15 home runs.


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Dimitris posted on the forum topic How to make pages like Groups, Forums, members and updates only accessible to members? in the group How-To and Troubleshooting: 7 years ago
@pcwriter the link http://pastebin.com/mpizkJXq does not working
Dimitris posted on the forum topic members only pages. in the group Creating & Extending: 7 years ago
i also want a solution. Nothing works to me.
Dimitris joined the group Creating & Extending 7 years ago
Δημήτρης posted on the forum topic How to make a private community? in the group How-To and Troubleshooting: 7 years ago
Hello , i am using the RANDY CANDY theme and it has no "functions.php" file.
Anyway , i paste the code that Travel_Junkie gave in "fuctions.php" file
that is located is "/bp-themes/bp-default" folder , but still I see no change.
Please help , I am desperate… Sorry for the bad English , I am Greek.
Δημήτρης joined the group How-To and Troubleshooting 7 years ago
@meetsos active 9 months ago


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Ginnie was rescued from smith county and was born to a feral litter. At around 10 weeks old she was trapped and brought into a foster home with her siblings. She has made the least progress out of the 3 and is still very scared but coming around slowly. She should be in a home with another domesticated cat so that she can fully rehabilitate and have a chance at a normal happy life.
Ginnie, Domestic Short Hair has been shared from Shelter Exchange.
Thank You!
Your message has been sent to County Roads Rescue.
You'll receive a copy, too, at to help you keep track of which pets you've inquired about, and which shelters and rescues you've emailed.
NOTE: Some shelters have physical locations you can visit; some of these shelters may only have pets for a limited time, so please do not wait for a reply—just go visit the shelter! Other organizations are rescue groups run by busy volunteers who may take a while to reply. You can find information about the shelter or rescue group caring for this pet, and their adoption procedures, on the pet's details page on Adopt-a-Pet.com.