Compliment or Complement

41) cavort – v. dance around excitedly 42) censorious – adj. critical of others 43) circumlocution – n. using many words, particularly in an evasive way 44) circumscribe – v. restrict within limits 45) clamor – n. a loud and confused noise 46) clout – n. influence or power 47) cognizant – adj. having knowledge of 48) commensurate – adj. equal to 49) comparable – adj. similar to another thing 50) complement – v. add to or make complete

What is Historical Fiction? Historical fiction is stories set in the past. Yes, it sounds like a paradox or contradiction, but historical means factual elements and fiction means not real. However, there are things that we must pay attention to as people studying this genre. Historical fiction seeks to recreate the appearance of a time past, reconstructing characters, events, movements, ways of life, and the spirit of a bygone day. The time period--and its portrayal--is at the core of the story. Historical Fiction is written with a careful balance of research and creativity, they transport readers to another time and place—which can be real, imagined, or a combination of both. Many historical novels tell stories that involve actual historical figures or historical events within historical settings, though other elements such as persons or events might be fabricated. Historical fiction often presents actual events from the point of view of fictional people living in that time period. In some historical fiction, famous events appear from points of view not recorded in history, with fictional characters either observing or actively participating in these actual events. Historical figures are also often shown dealing with these events while depicting them in a way that has not been previously recorded. Other times, a historical event is used to complement a story's narrative, occurring in the background while characters deal with situations (personal or otherwise) wholly unrelated to that historical event. Sometimes, the names of people and places have been in some way altered. Historical fiction depicts settings that tend be real and drawn from history, and often contains actual historical persons, but the main characters tend to be fictional. Writers of stories in this genre, while penning fiction, attempt to capture the manners and social conditions of the persons or time(s) presented in the story, with due attention paid to period detail and fidelity. Historical fiction is found in books, magazines, art, television programming, film, theater, video games and other media. Writers of this genre are given artistic license in regard to presentation and subject matter, so long as it does not deviate in significant ways from established history. NOTE: When author’s include elements from one time period in another time period this is called Anachronism. For example, if one of the knights of the Round Table wore a wristwatch or a character during the Civil Rights era made a call using a cell phone.

New Trends in Agriculture Extension approaches Extension has been, and still is, under attack from a wide spectrum of politicians and economists over its cost and financing. As a result, Extension Systems have had to make changes, by restating the system’s mission, developing a new vision for the future, and formulating plans for the necessary transition to achieve the desired change. 1. Privatization of Agricultural Extension Service Privatization: Process of funding and delivering the extension services by private individual or organization is called Private Extension. Concept: Privatization of extension refers to services rendered in rural area & allied aspects of extension personnel working in private agencies or organization for which farmers are expected to pay a fee & it can be viewed as supplementary or alternative to public extension services (Sarvanan & Shivalinge 1980). Privatization approaches ➢ Share cropping system ➢ Village extension contract system ➢ Public extension through private delivery ➢ Service for vouchers Strengths of Private Extension System ➢ More demand - driven rather than supply – driven ➢ High quality of services in terms of satisfying information needs of clientele, trained manpower, sustained finances and resource allocation ➢ Provides for an information mix and choices available to farmers ➢ Enhanced efficiency of staff ➢ Assure continuous supply and quality agricultural products ➢ More effective because farmer can select an adviser who is the best able to help ➢ Healthy competition among service provider will lead to better quality and lower costs for service Weakness of Private Extension System ➢ Concentrate on area having favorable physical environment ➢ More face-to-face contacts (person oriented) ➢ Increased dependence of farmers and hence exploitation ➢ No education role ➢ Deprivation of small farmers ➢ Hamper the free flow of information 2. Cyber Extension or e-extension Concepts Cyber space: it is the imaginary or virtual space of computers connected with each other on Networks, across the Globe. Cyber extension: it means 'using the power of online networks, computer communications and digital interactive multimedia to facilitate dissemination of agriculture technology. Cyber Extension thus can be defined as the extension over cyber space. Important tools of cyber extension E-Mail, Telnet, File Transfer Protocol (FTP), Gopher, Archie and World Wide Web (WWW) Strengths of Cyber Extension ➢ Access to the astounding information and continuously available ➢ Information rich and instantaneously available of information ➢ Interactive communication ➢ The information is available from any point on the globe ➢ Communication is dynamic ➢ Cut steps from traditional process ➢ Save money, time and effort ➢ Multiplicity of purpose Issues and Concerns of Cyber Extension ➢ Lack of Reliable Telecom Infrastructure in Rural Areas ➢ Erratic or no Power Supply ➢ Lack of ICT Trained manpower (willing to serve) in Rural Areas ➢ Lack of content (locally relevant and in local languages) ➢ Lack of Information Services to Rural Clientele ➢ Low Purchasing power of the Rural communities ➢ Lack of Holistic Approaches ➢ Issues of Sustainability Application of cyber extension ➢ Village information shops Dr. M.S. SwaminathanResearch Foundation, Chennai ➢ Information villagers MANAGE in Ranga Reddy District in Andhra pradesh ➢ Gyandoot net initiative of District Dhar, Madhya Pradesh. ➢ Warna wired village of National Informatics Center (NIC) in Kolhapur- Sangli Districts of Maharashtra 3. Market-Led-Extension (MLE) Concepts Market: A congregation of prospective buyers & sellers with a common motive of trading a particular commodity. Extension: It is the spreading/reaching out to the mass Market-led-extension: Agriculture & economics coupled with extension is the perfect blend for reaching at the door steps of common man with the help of technology. Dimensions of market-led extension ➢ Marketing mix: A planned mix of the controllable elements of a product's marketing plan commonly termed as 4Ps: product, price, place, and promotion. These four elements are adjusted until the right combination is found that serves the needs of the product's customers, while generating optimum income. ➢ Marketing plan: A marketing plan is a comprehensive document that outlines a business and marketing efforts for the coming year. It describes business activities involved in accomplishing specific marketing objectives within a set time frame. A marketing plan also includes a description of the current marketing position of a business, a discussion of the target market and a description of the marketing mix that a business will use to achieve their marketing goals. ➢ Market Intelligence: It is the information relevant to a company’s markets, gathered and analyzed specifically for the purpose of accurate and confident decision making. Market intelligence includes the process of gathering data from the company’s external environment, whereas the business intelligence process is primarily based on internal recorded events – such as sales, shipments and purchases. ➢ Market oriented production ➢ Use of Technology Strengths of market-led extension ➢ SWOT analysis of the market ➢ Organization of Farmers’ Interest Groups (FIGs) ➢ Enhancing the interactive and communication skills of the farmers ➢ Establishing marketing and agro-processing linkages ➢ Advice on product planning ➢ Educating the farming community ➢ Direct marketing ➢ Acquiring complete market intelligence ➢ Publication of agricultural market information Production of video films of success stories ➢ Challenges to market-led extension ➢ Gigantic size of extension system ➢ Information technology Diverse conditions ➢ Market intelligence ➢ Reforms in agricultural extension system Government Initiatives ➢ Central warehousing Corporation-1965 ➢ MSP by Commission for Agricultural Cost and Price (CACP) ➢ Food Corporation of India ➢ Then some others as: Cotton Corporation of India (CCI), Jute Corporation of India (JCI), National Dairy Development Board (NDDB), Agriculture and Processed food Export Development Authority (APEDA) etc. 4. Farmer--Led-Extension (FLE) Farmer--led-extension is defined as 'the provision of training by farmers to farmers, often through the creation of a structure of farmer promoters and farmer trainers' (Scarborough et al., 1997). Philosophy and principles ➢ Farmers and local institutions (e.g. producer organizations or village leaders) should play a key role in selecting farmer-trainers and monitoring and evaluating them. This helps make the programmes more accountable to the community or groups that they serve. ➢ Farmer-trainers are ‘of the community’; they communicate in local languages and are more sensitive to local cultures, mannerisms, farming practices, and farmers’ needs. ➢ Farmer-trainers should be selected on the basis of their skills and interest in sharing information, not just on their farming expertise. ➢ Farmer-trainers need strong linkages with and support from development agents (whether government, non-government organization (NGO), or private), the people who train and backstop them. Farmer-trainers generally serve as a complement to existing extension systems, rather than being a substitute for them. ➢ Facilitating organizations and local institutions need to be proactive in ensuring that women as well as men become farmer-trainers. ➢ Simple and appropriate reference materials should be made available to the farmer trainers. Essential Elements of Farmer--led-extension ➢ The group ➢ The Field ➢ The Facilitator ➢ The curriculum ➢ Programme leader ➢ Financing Special features of Farmer--led-extension ➢ All learning is field based & it is primary venue for learning ➢ FLE group learning constantly over the experimentation period ➢ FLE promotes healthy decisions & quality decisions ➢ Farmers conduct their own field studies with comparisons or treatments ➢ Facilitates Farmer-to-Farmer communication ➢ Field staff serve as facilitators ➢ FLE is a unique way to educate farmers ➢ It is an effective platform for sharing of experiences and collectively solving agriculture related problems. 5. Expert system Expert system is an intelligent computer program that uses knowledge and inferences procedures to solve problems (Daniel Hunt, 1986). Objectives of developing expert system ➢ To enhance the performance of agricultural extension personnel and farmer ➢ To make farming more efficient and profitable ➢ To reduce the time required in solving the problems ➢ To maintain the expert system by continuously upgrading the database Advantages of expert system ➢ Solves critical problems by making logical deductions without taking much time ➢ It combines experimental and conventional knowledge with the reasoning skills of specialists ➢ To enhance the performance of average worker to the level of an expert Limitations of expert system ➢ Expensive computer program ➢ Mostly developed not in regional languages ➢ Requires AC power and internet connection all the time ➢ Complex software requires computer skilled personnel Modules of expert system in agriculture ➢ COMAX: Integrated crop management in cotton ➢ SOYEX: Soybean oil extraction expert system ➢ PLANT/ds: Diagnosis of soybean diseases ➢ MAIZE: Maize expert system for field crop management ➢ SEMAGI: Weed control decision making in sunflowers ➢ Rice Crop Doctor: Developed by National Institute of Agricultural Extension Management (MANAGE) Difference between conventional and expert system of extension Conventional Extension ➢ Universal approachability of same information is a problem ➢ Information is given whatever is available without considering needs and resources ➢ No Cost benefit analysis ➢ Information flow depends on availability of agent ➢ Require users to draw their own conclusion from facts Expert System of Extension ➢ Universal approachability of same information is possible ➢ Information is chosen based on their needs and resources ➢ Cost benefit analysis ➢ Information through Cyber Cafe at any place at any time ➢ Conclusion is drawn based on the decision given by the expert

“On this night, we share a roof protecting us from fleets of inequity. Our unification promises a better tomorrow. Those larger than myself, sitting on their marble thrones, sipping blood from cups composed of human skin and singing songs of so-called virtue, grow weaker each moment. Their caravans are revolting. There is hope yet. There is progress! Though tonight may mark a countdown, it is still a celebration. Look at all we have done, not just for Trials but for Palatium Infra as a whole. In four years, when I’m no longer Sovereignty, the Spoiled Purity and his people will continue to strive. So drink! Smoke! Crush up those exotic plants and snort them! We will not falter, weaken, or wane. Our influence is expanding, and somebody new opens their eyes every day. Even the Silbys of Aculeus have reached alarming potentials despite their embittered minds. So long as you relish in tonight, dance, and pray to your “dead” Gods, our revolution shall rise beyond the bounds of class, and when I’m only a commoner, we shall rise again beyond our brainwashed adversaries! Cheers, my people. Cheers!” Followers raised their cups. Some clinked theirs together. Others stood still and screamed breathlessly in agreement. I smiled with courtesy, then stepped off my platform. My voice still rang across the cellar. Speeches before were grander. Those displays were supposed to be emptying, and yet this one left me bloated, swollen tight. I watched as they popped the corks of their bottles and chanted in the name of Purity. Maybe the quality of my words wasn’t what mattered to them anyway, so long as I screamed loud enough. There’s no merit in attacking your people, a voice corrected me. “That’s right,” I said aloud. “Knox, my-my Sovereign!” squealed a nearby devotee, jittering as he stuffed his face with catered pastries. He was one I’d never seen before or had failed to remember. “Look what I’ve found! It’s wine, and not the shoddy Infran kind, either. Earth-made with good fruit! I don’t know how anyone managed to get their hands on this. Maybe some space travel mischief.” He giggled and held up a small glass bottle. “How neat.” “I want you to have it, Sir.” I nodded my head. “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Backing off into the midst of rowdy disciples, I clutched the bottle. What a waste of grapes. It could have been jam instead. Earthly food had a superior taste, ripe with delicate intricacies and nostalgia, but Palatium Infra had mastered the art of alcohol. Why waste your time with a drunkenness so sad and sickening? The booze of trash. Not many more followers approached me. The barren peroration must have upset them. My hands itched to submerge into my suit pockets, and my legs stood suddenly numb, wobbling. Four more years until I’m nothing. But tonight, you are nothing. “Shut up,” I told myself. Tightly packed together in the corner of the dwelling sat the Sibyls. A mound of writhing fabric and tones of skin made up their unified silhouette. I snapped the strap of the nearest gown, balancing on my hands and knees, waving the bottle before them. In their almost rodent nature, narrow noses prodded my way. Their dresses wrinkled and fell to their ankles. Knees dropped, and eyes widened. Many grumbled at me like hungry she-beasts. Those newer ones with faded curtains for hair, sunken eyes, and dirtied nails looked, hid their face, then sobbed. I imagined them in a pack together, fighting wildly against the Spoiled Purity in their rat decorum–biting down with square teeth laced with rabies. “I’ve got you all something,” I said. “Go back off to your pedestal and yap some more. We don’t want it.” A woman rose from the pile and spat. “You don’t even know what it is yet. It's Earth hooch, or more likely a near-flawless replica. I figured you girls would also like a chance to enjoy yourselves tonight.” “Your playmates have been harassing us since the moment you hung the banners and opened the cellar door.” The youngest, with a striking cyan mop upon her head, uncoiled from the mass. What was she now? 20, 21? We celebrated a birthday recently, I thought as she spun around me. “I remember something about a promise. Multiple promises, actually. Are you trying to bribe us into just shutting up and taking it? Because if another sticky, 40-year-old, Earth-born virgin gropes my shoulder, I’m going to have an aneurysm!” the girl continued. “Why not an Infran follower? Do you like it when they touch you?” I returned her accusing tone. “I’m sorry, sweet prophets, that you feel I’ve neglected my duties. I’ll keep a better eye out. Remember, you can always just holler if somebody is bothering you. And Anwen, friend, if I’ve ever tried to bribe you with anything, it was certainly the hair dye. I mean, look at you! Such handsomeness!” I exclaimed. The other Siblys began to encircle her, uttering compliments or even announcements of their envy. Anwen disappeared in a wink with flushed cheeks back into the mound. “I’ll just leave this here.” Smiling, I set down the bottle. ** “141, 143. . .” I counted each step as I trekked the staircase. There was no doubt I lost track somewhere. The ledges kept spawning under my feet, infinitely multiplying until I wasn’t moving at all–swallowing me up in a whirlpool of stone. My tie still hung around my neck, and my blazer remained tied around my hips as a skirt. Streaks of red dribbled off from the cavity in my chest. It was a gorgeous marking, sensual to my fingertips as I traced its edges. Purity, oh, Purity. Purity and his wings of burnt skin. Purity and his many faces. Purity the spoiled. Purity the mutilated. The Silbys did not bother waiting for me. On bare feet, they stormed up the stairs to their room. A trail of red, though in paint unlike mine, streamed after them. None looked remotely near me as they squeaked and gossiped intangibly. I saved them, those Infran broads, enlightened them. As much as they liked to deny it, spit at me, and bask in the thought of their victimhood, in this home, they stood empowered. You’ve done well, my thoughts affirmed, though in the manner of an insincere commentator rather than a hype man. Teeth grace in tile violin goes laundry paper when. It dissolved into an intruding drivel. I rubbed my head and sniveled. “Do you need help, Knox?” called a Silby. Fattened by my coddling, her shadow fell upon me from the doorway steps ahead. I attempted counting again. There must’ve been at least another hundred between me and her. “I’m hallucinating some,” I said, breathing deeply to suppress a burp as I struggled to recall her name. Two syllables. Typically Latin, though sometimes English. Drops of slobber leaked from my mouth. “I’m hallucinating some, Tybal. Do you like your name, Tybal? I would have named you something better. Ty-Tyballinia. No, we’d have to eliminate the ‘ball’ aspect. It sounds too crude.” “One foot in front of the other,” she said. So I walked. Mess greeted me at the doorway. Dirtied culinary obscured the dark wooden countertops, and the sink lay running. I approached the kitchen table, sat, and set my face down upon its cool wooden surface. Assaulting my nose was the smell of neglected flowers, like soil mixed with the kind of sweet cough medicine that would have left me gagging as a child. Open windows whispered songs of the twilight hour through the vessels of busy trolleys and shooting guns. My mouth strained to vomit, but there was nothing in my stomach to regurgitate except the petals of Stulto’s bloom, which came out effortlessly in little sputters. Teetering, I stood up and brushed disgorged plant parts off the tabletop. “Love,” I said as I slogged up yet another staircase. “Are you awake?” She said she’d wait. Somebody’s gotten her. No, she always misses movie night. That sleepyhead, I assured myself. There was a stirring amidst the manor’s cloak of dusk. Portraits of myself, my wife, and my daughter turned to face me as the hallway lights flickered, escaping their quartz frames to penetrate my ears with nonsense. The taxidermied heads of Infran creatures bared their teeth. I stopped to stare at my favorite, an adabactor with daunting spiked tusks poking out from its forehead. Its nose remained black and sharp, and its eyes wide with malice. “Where is my Spes, Adaba-boy? Is she sleepy?” There’s someone in the house. The sounds of the stirring rose along with my blood pressure. Footsteps orbited around me, drawing near and far and then near again, little dancers in the dark. The carpet immersed me in its mass of purples and blues, leaving my skin stained indigo and my vision abstracted. I toiled to reach the master bedroom across the aisle as it stretched out to me with bright lights and celestial howling, like a dove struggling in a pool of oil. Never again with Stulto’s bloom. Never again on what was already a bad night. My hand brushed the doorknob, and the high abruptly faded into only a persistent hum-buzz twirling around my brain. The portraits returned to their typical depression–Spes posing with her ax, Ari’s school photo, and myself in the cap I wore when addressing the military with the Verbis emblem embroidered in its center. All lifeless shots. Who were they for when they captured not the subject’s essence but only some fragment of their identity? They used to feel personal, not advertisements of some supposed characters. Servants, babysitters, and likewise civilian guests, I reminded myself, mustn’t forget whose home they’re in. Yet my body moved independently, taking Ari’s from its hook and laying it backward against the wall to hide her distant grin and tamed posture. It was time for new pictures. Sweet ones, real ones; time was ticking. I approached my own when the stirring began again. Groans and squeals erupted from the vents as if someone had set a pen of pigs loose in my crawlspace. No, not the crawlspace, my bedroom door. I turned the ruby knob. Underneath a blanket wrestled my two squealing piglets, their skins melting together beneath the layer of duvet. Fishnet leggings and manicured nails outstretched and scraped at the sheet beneath them. One raised its head, a salmon-colored man with sweat running down his forehead. Through the crack in the door, we met eyes, his Infran Dr. Sesuss nose flaring its narrow nostrils. No mark of the Spoiled Purity existed carved onto his naked body. My chest felt tight. I stepped back. I was suffocating. Spes emerged from the linens, her hair flowing down her back and her dark skin glistening in front of the bedroom window. She giggled and held the man, the blanket falling and revealing inches of her body I had not seen in months. “Darling,” whispered the rosy-faced man, “look.” He was unfathomably ugly and grotesquely young, with beady, lifeless pupils that dilated when he faced me. The excess flesh on his face sagged while he bit down on his thin lips. My wife faced me, gasped, and strained to cover herself. Suddenly, I was a stranger. A small child who had walked into his parents having sex. I unfurled the door completely. “Get out of my house,” I said. The man stayed in place. “Get out of my house,” I repeated. “Knox,” Spes began. Tears ran down her round cheeks. “Shut up!” I turned to the man, picking up a marble trophy from on top of my dresser. “Get out of my house! I’ll kill you!” “Knox!” Spes sobbed. “God damn it! I hate you! You barely look at me. Every day, there’s less passion. God, God, God, I don’t want to fuck a dead man!” she screamed, “You get out! Get! Get!” My hands wrapped tighter around the statue. That pig of a man was attached to her at the side, his face equipped with a scowl that challenged mine. He thought I was weak; frail like a decaying dementia-ridden senior. I imagined his skull bashed in, his scowl gone, and the feist and confidence in his face beaten into numbness. A new portrait was in order of such brutality, him as a splintered slab of wood, rashed and beaten, a carcass licking my boot. The churning in my brain had come back. Every wall shook. Clock faces came to life and rang in alarm. Indescribable noises caressed my eardrum before breaking into sorrowful weeps. Was it my own? I stared at Spes in motionless frenzy, clenched my teeth, and screamed like a siren. Passionless. What a lie! An excuse, more like. One that erased all my ventures, reducing me to a nobody. But I was not a nobody. I thought of my sect, my campaigns, my endurance through the political brutality of my empty hive-mind world–even my collection of literature, maps, and artifacts. I thought of daring nights alone with Spes when we were young, ravaging each other, two sardonic eggheads suddenly overcome with desire. The veins in my neck throbbed as I gasped for air. It was all I had. I threw the figurine at the man’s head. Eye shut, I heard the thud. A million singing voices of victory flooded out of the cracks in the floorboard. Proving myself a man to the woman I loved in a display of fervent violence was passion. I strained my ears for his cries, though I did not look yet. There had to be a pause, a moment of relief, where I stood tall as a skyscraper and seemingly fought to stay contained in front of my wife and her wounded, quivering paramour. Frantic footsteps rushed off the bed and past my side. I turned and grappled against myself to seize my wife’s shoulder. “Spes!” My eyelids lifted. Escaping was the man with that same numb expression in which I had imagined him. “You’re insane,” he said. I swiveled back towards the bed. With her curly locks flowing over her breasts and her limbs bent at her sides, Spes sat limp pressed against the headboard, her forehead bludgeoned and the statue resting on her stomach. Lips pursed and sweet, my Renaissance beauty reclined there in the guise of a squashed bug. But she was not dead. The desk ornament I flung was only the size of my shoe. Spes, that dramatist, may have been slightly hurt but was far from dead. She only wanted me to think she was to observe me at my most distraught, like a leech feeding on misery. “Get up.” Staggering toward the bed, I said. “You wanted passion? I showed you passion. ‘Shoved it right into your head. Of course, we both know who that gesture was meant for. . .” I fumbled to find my wit. Cold skin met my hands as I stroked her face, unable to resist checking her pulse, even though she was not dead. “I love you, Spes,” I said. Rain pelted against a nearby window. “Spes, please. Please.” No vibration answered my plea. I lifted my hand, sitting next to her now. Tears did not come. There was not any blood on the trophy, but when I picked it up, it felt to be now only a cruel instrument. It depicted a younger me in white marble, with my glasses and collared shirt being the only things painted. Both were in pink. It was a favorable color. I scrambled from the bed to vomit pure digestive bile on the rug. My stomach heaved. I ran my nails along every piece of myself I saw, a dog chasing my tail. As I slammed myself against walls and convulsed, my own heart grew ever louder in my chest. “Dad? I heard–” Ari’s slippered feet hammered across the floor. “Mom? Mom?” I kept my eyes on the storm. Silence fell. “She-She isn’t—your—.” Gasps interrupted every syllable she spoke. “You’re a murderer. Bad. Like they said,” she breathed, “ You beat her!” The words became mush, alphabet soup. Ari ran back down the hall. “My-My mom is dead. . . .Yes. . . Manor of the Trials Sovereignty. . .Ari Sorkin. . . I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me,” she said, presumably over the phone. It was all too fast. I crawled onto the windowsill, opened the glass, and let myself plummet into the alley below. Gusts of wind howled. The lack of motion or sensation informed me I had passed and again lived. Another Palatium Infra, another strange planet in which the celestial endowed rotting men with the opportunity to inhabit. Was this it? Was it all just an impossible limbo of galactic traveling? My surroundings were overwhelmingly gray, an abyss of clouds. Perhaps I had now met the real coming world, and my family and old friends lived here, ready to rush to my sides, lift me up, and jump for joy. Spes would be there. She would be enraged, but at least she’d be there. You are a bad man. You are a bad man. My eyelashes fluttered. There was a tugging sensation in my leg. The fog was wavering along with my ascendance. “No,” I yearned, trying to grip the clouds and stick them in place. “Stay with me.” But the peace was fleeting. I felt the cement under me and the moist garments clinging to my figure. My leg burned. Carefully, I craned my neck, only to observe the promenade as my surroundings. The most underwhelming of filth and danger, individually Infran. Forever my coming world. What a fool I was, having forgotten my blessing. Those idiot Gods could not tell the difference between assassination and self-infliction; a faulty insurance plan. The urge to cry at last set over me, and so I sat and wailed hot salvia into my palm, shielding my mouth to muffle the noise. Thunder echoed my hushed howling. Raindrops turned to pebbles. Under the ambiance of the stormy night, I could have sworn I heard troops stomping, guns cocking, and the chanting of my name. They had all been waiting for this. Billboards came to life, and I could only sit and spectate as the scenery flashed red. I inhaled fear and sobriety through runny nostrils. “Trials Sovereign Vsevolod “Knox” Sorkin is currently at large for the suspected homicide of Spes Sorkin, breaking the first term of the Sovereignty Charter. We now instruct you to report any sightings of the Earth-born, caucasian, roughly 195 centimeters tall, brown-haired, and brown-eyed man to your local Guard post. One can identify the suspected convict specifically by an occult tattoo of Purity’s Coronet on his lower back. No attempted execution or elongated punishment will take place until our Guards conduct an autopsy proving his guilt, per Life’s 1238 commandment. We cannot be sure when or if the Gods will revoke his blessing. Remember, when Gods frown upon strife, opt for a peaceful life. We permit all grieving festivities until Cagidus 4th. Good year!” towering buildings sang out in broadcast, repeating that same convoluted message quicker the instant it ended. Sometimes, the announcer spoke in Latin for the Infran children, other times in Chinese, Hindi, or Spanish to cater to those of irrelevant tongues. You aren’t a bad man. You are a stupid boy. Puddles sloshed. Somebody was approaching. I didn’t dare waste any remaining energy avoiding the Guards and their prodding blades. How did that phrase go? You dug your grave. Now lie in it. And so I embraced the cement. “Knox?” said the Guard. No, her tone was too sincere, and no authority would proceed in such a manner. There wasn’t confirmation on whether or not I was armed, and it wasn’t as if she could shoot me first. She was a partygoer, having just left from the cellar’s backdoor. I shooed her away with my hand. She hovered, and I discerned her shadow hesitating over my body. A man could not rot in peace. “Come on, get up! They’re after you!” Hands reached around my torso, struggling to handle my weight as they urged me onto my feet. That leg, the burning one, my right, trembled and bent unnaturally upon impact with the ground. The partygoer slung my arm over her shoulder, balancing me. My eyes caught a glimpse of a cyan mop. “Anwen?” I rasped, “hu-who let you out?” Keys jangled in her hands–my keys. “I escaped,” she said casually, coercing me to walk beside her. “Quicken your pace. I just heard somebody on your front porch. ‘You see that compost bin down the alley? We’re gonna burrow right down into the depth of that. If they open it and uncover us, I’ll be on top, and I can hide you and act like I’m just a homeless amica trying to take a nap.” With a tightening grip, she led me like livestock to the stinking crate. “I don’t understand, Anwen,” I said. “They’re going to torture and kill you, stupid. You know they’ve been wanting to, and you just handed the opportunity to them!” “I understand that.” It was becoming increasingly challenging to hide the fragility emerging in my voice. “You said you were escaping. Why stop and help your captor?” “What else could I do? Leave you there?” Attempts to shove my wounded body inside its mass of discarded fruits and vegetables began. She yanked down upon my head and submerged me in the fertilizer sea. The evidence grows indisputable, I thought as I stared at the abruptly humane Infran girl, diving in after me, that I belong here. “Damn me to hell! I’ve killed her! My love is dead!” an uncontrollable cry leaped from my mouth. “Shut up! Soon you’ll be, too, if you don’t quiet down.” The actual noise of the Guards darted past us: disorientated marching, guns clanking against each other, cluttered belts rattling, the Latin squawking. One paused to open the bin’s lid, though only rummaged through the surface layer of peat before carrying on. “What are they talking about? I struggle with my Latin,” I whispered. “The search, mainly.” Aggression remained firey in Anwen’s clenched jaw. Though she sat on top of me, there was a monumental distance between our rain-soaked forms. I curled up into a ball, ducked my head between my knees, and dreamt of Spes, ignoring the stench of spoiled food rising from every crevice of my dwelling. The next coming world was due to adopt me again as I forced sleep. I prayed for a canyon of fluffy haze, where I waltzed with pale memories but found nothing but the petrifying stillness of my mind. Killed and ran. Violent as a Guard just to prove a point and watch it backfire. Why would any heaven want to welcome me? I clung to the picture of Spes in my head like it was the last ember of an extinguished flame. “Did you mean to kill her?” Anwen interrogated. “Someone like you would immutably believe yes.” “And who is someone like me? You can’t even treat me like a person for a moment, can you?” grating drama decorated her words. “You know my opinions. I have not seen much of your or your breed’s faces besides that of cruelty and ignorance.” I retorted. “I just saved you! Does that make me cruel and ignorant?” “It makes you an idiot, which is another word for somebody ignorant.” “And why am I an idiot?” She asked. “Because you helping me does no good. Thank you anyhow. Now, do yourself a favor and scram.” As she bent her leg in anticipation, preparing to strike me on the forehead, I sensed an invisible withdrawal widening the gap between us. “You never answered my question,” Anwen took me by the end of my tattered tie suddenly and started her game of shepherd and sheep over again, pulling me back up to the crate’s exit. It appeared as a shining light at the end of a maze of rubbish and mold. “No. Of course not. Spes was my everything,” I sniffled. “I knew it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to hit us, let alone murder your wife. The girls and I always figured you were sensitive.” My heart rate quickened. Today was one of humbling and misery–one to pray a hail spike would fall from the sky as sharp as a needle, pierce into my eyelid, and lobotomize me. I wished I could have merely died or hit my head hard enough not to have to deal with it all. No, I wished I was Anwen with her snarky, careless glow and lack of depth in her eyes. As we emerged from the compost bin together, I fantasized about strangling her until her face turned purple, her weakening spirit no longer categorizing me as “sensitive”, but the thought could only remind me of wielding that trophy and the microscopic traces of my wife’s tender skin tainting it, which turned my guts inside out. “That’s why I think you could use a little help,” Anwen said, “It seems like you can’t walk, either. Your leg is all twisted up.” She undid one of her trim pigtails and handed me the band. “Take off your tie and put up your hair. ‘Will make you less recognizable. Then swallow your pride and stick with me.”

Compliment Vs. Complement

Compliment new staff at the office in English

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