What happened to Willy's Mum?

She ran away (this is possible)

She ate food and had more children

How to be a Whale like Willy

Write simple RCQ for this story: Finding Cal September 25 Dear Diary, It took Dad a long time to decide. He finally made up his mind. Dad came to my room tonight. He said I could get a dog! But it has to be a small or medium-sized dog. We will go to the animal shelter tomorrow. September 26 Dear Diary, Wow! There are so many different dogs at the shelter. There are big and little dogs. Some have soft fur and some have wiry hair. Dad and I walked to one dog's cage. The tag said the dog's name was Cal. One quick glance at the cute dog, and I knew he was for me. Dad said, "Look, Jake! Look at how Cal stares at you." It was true! His eyes were wide open. He was looking right at me. We put Cal on a leash and took him to a fenced yard. Cal smiled and stared at me. Cal wanted to play. In minutes he learned the proper, or correct, way to sit. He could walk on a leash nicely, too. I patted him on the head, and he licked my hand. Dad said, "I see a real connection between you and Cal." I agreed. We already had a good relationship. Soon we were on our way home. Cal was nervous so I tried to make him feel better. I scratched his ears, and he liked it. October 10 Dear Diary, It has been a while since I have written. Cal has learned many new tricks like how to roll over. I have learned from Cal, too. Cal walks with Dad and me to school every day. Each night, Dad reads me a story. Cal lies next to me. I would not trade him for any other dog. I will keep him because our friendship is very special. Finding Cal was worth the wait!

What is Electric Force? Electric force is just one of many types of forces in the world of physics. Forces are how and why things move, and can be explained by Newton's Laws of Motion. On the smallest scale, electric force is the resulting interaction between two charged particles. These charges can be either positive or negative. Larger objects can be charged by having an abundance of either of these particles, and therefore can create an electric force on a larger scale. Electric force is the reason why hair will sometimes stand up on its own and is also why we have electricity, allowing us to live in the modern world with lights and technology. Even out in nature electric force is present, as electric force causes lightning to strike. Electric force is fundamental to our everyday way of living. Reviewing Newton's Laws of Motion Newton's Laws of motion are the basic principles or ground rules that are applied all across physics. They describe how objects move and can be used to describe the interaction of charges. They are the following: An object in motion will stay in motion unless an external force is applied The force exerted on an object is equal to the mass times the acceleration of the object. ( ) Every force has an equal and opposite force Newton's laws explain how and why charged particles move. Since there is a force involved (e.g. electric force), particles will move around, which is explained by the first law. The second law describes how acceleration of charges can be calculated once the electric force is known. The third law explains how attractive and repulsive forces between charged objects are equal and opposite. Electric Force Examples and Types of Charge As previously mentioned, there are only two types of charges; positive and negative. Two like charges will repel (or move away from) each other, and two opposite charges will attract (or move towards) each other. In other words, two positive or two negative charges will repel, while a positive and a negative charge will attract. Opposite charges will attract while like charges will repel. Attraction versus Repelling Forces Notice how the forces acting upon each other are equal and opposite, as Newton's third law states. Both charges are exerting forces onto each other. Charges in Atoms An atom is made up of three types of particles; protons, neutrons, and electrons. Protons have a positive charge, neutrons have no charge, and electrons have a negative charge. There are no positive or negative charges smaller than protons and electrons. Objects on a larger scale result in an overall positive or negative charged due to an uneven distribution of protons to electrons. An atom consisting of more protons than electrons would be considered positive, and an atom with more electrons than protons would be considered negative. Protons are held close to the nucleus and are tightly bound to an atom, so it's difficult for protons to escape an atom. Electrons, on the other hand, are much further away from the nucleus of an atom. This makes it much easier for them to be removed from an atom. Electrons can leave or join atoms, making them positive or negative depending on the amount of protons. Similarly, for the bigger picture, overall materials and objects with more electrons than protons would be considered negative, and vice versa. Electric Force Examples Hair standing up: When hair is brushed, the hairbrush can strip electrons from hair strands, resulting in the hair being positively charged. This addition of electrons to the hairbrush in turn makes the hairbrush negatively charged. Since the hair is now positively charged, and like forces repel, hair strands will move away from each other, resulting in the hair standing up. Current electricity: All of our everyday technology is powered through current electricity, which is the consistent flow of electrons through conductive materials. This flow is caused by the electric force, as the electrons flow from a negative source to a positive source. Lightning: During a storm, it is common for an abundance of electrons to build up on the bottom of a cloud, making that part of the cloud negatively charged. Positive charges in the ground start to gather on the surface or even on tall objects such as trees as they are attracted towards the negatively charged undersides of clouds. Lightning strikes as a result of these charges becoming extremely built up. Lightning is caused by electric force Lightning Electric Force Equation: Coulomb's Law The magnitude of the electric force, or the amount of force in which objects repel or attract, depends on the distance between the two charged objects and the amount of charge each object carries. The electric force is stronger the closer together the two charges are, and weaker as the two charges move apart. Electric force is also stronger with more charge, and weaker with less charge. This effect on electric force is predictable, and is known as Coulomb's Law. It can be calculated using a mathematical equation, and the resulting magnitude of electric force is measured in Newtons. Coulomb's Law Electric force can be calculated using the following equation known as Coulomb's Law: In this equation, F is the electric force measured in newtons, K is a constant known as the electrostatic constant, and are charges one and two measured in coulombs, and is the radial distance in meters between the two charges. Since the distance is squared and on the denominator, the electric force drops off exponentially as charges move away from each other. This means that the Electric force is inversely proportional to distance. As charges move away from each other, the electric force between them gets smaller and smaller, until the force is negligible. The amount of charges are in the numerator of this equation, making the magnitude of the force larger with more charge. This means that the force is directly proportional to the amount of charge. When the charges are smaller, the amount of force will be smaller. When there is a lot of charge, the force will be much greater. When calculating the electric force using Coulomb's law, the resulting answer only gives the magnitude of the force and not the direction. In order to know the direction, you must know the types of charges. Once again, like forces repel, and unlike forces attract. It helps to draw a visual representation, or a free-body diagram, of the charges and forces acting upon them in order to understand the resulting force direction. Electric Field versus Electric Force An electric field is a direct result of an electric force. Its pure definition is electric force per unit charge, and can be thought of as a mapping of the force vectors. An electric field is present anytime there is an electric force. Therefore, when there are two or more charged particles, there is a surrounding electric field. The direction of the electric field is the direction a positive charge would flow if it were placed within the field. The electric field moves out from a positive charge and goes into a negative charge. Particles with unlike charges move towards each other, and their corresponding electric field lines move out from the positive charge and into the negative charge. The strength of the force at any given point can be seen through the spacing of the electric field lines. The electric force is strongest where the electric field lines are closest together, and weaker as these lines move apart. Like Coulomb's law expresses, electric field lines show how the electric force is strongest with a minimum distance between the two charges. Unlike charges will result in a repelling force, and the resulting electric field is a visual representation of this effect. Electric fields of two positive charges have the electric field moving out away from both of them. As with two negative charges, the field lines move in towards each negative. Lesson Summary An electric force is created when there are two or more charged particles or objects. These charges can be either positive or negative. Like charges will attract (move towards each other) while unlike charges will repel (move away from each other). As Newton's third law suggests, the forces acting upon each other are both equal and opposite. Electrons and protons within an atom are the two smallest types of charges there are. Electrons carry a negative charge while protons carry a positive charge. Electrons can be easily removed or added to atoms, making the overall charge positive or negative. Objects with more electrons than protons are negatively charged. Electric force is strengthened with increased charge and a shorter distance between the charges. This effect is known as Coulomb's law and can be calculated with the Coulomb's law equation. The magnitude of the force is measured in Newtons, and the direction can be determined by knowing whether the charges are attracting or repelling each other. An electric field is present wherever there is an electric force. The direction of this electric field is the direction a positive charge would flow if it where to be dropped in the field, which is from the positive to the negative.

“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.”

Make a multiple choice quiz for my year 8 science students based on the science in this transcript from a video: 3°C 0:04 It can be the difference between snow and sleet 0:08 Wearing a jacket or not 0:11 In your day-to-day life, it may not seem significant 0:15 But 3°C of global warming would be catastrophic 0:20 Heatwaves, droughts, extreme precipitation, even fire 0:25 3°C of warming is really disastrous 0:28 The scary thing is, the world is well on its way there 0:32 Since the industrial revolution, the Earth has warmed between 1.1°C and 1.3°C 0:40 This is a problem that babies you pass in the street will have to live with 0:46 Children born today... 0:47 ...are up to seven times more likely to face extreme weather than their grandparents 0:52 If global temperatures do rise by 3°C... 0:55 ...what would their world look like? Climate change is already having devastating effects 1:03 Rising sea levels 1:05 Desertification 1:07 Hollywood has always enjoyed imagining the end of the world 1:11 While blockbusters like this are clearly fiction... 1:14 ...this film will show the scenario we all face... 1:17 ...unless more drastic measures are taken to stop burning fossil fuels 1:30 In some parts of the world the effects of inaction are already clear 1:35 The slums of Bangladesh’s capital are filling up with climate migrants 1:41 Minara comes from Bhola District, an area in southern Bangladesh 1:46 There, like many other parts of the country... 1:49 ...rivers swollen by heavier rain and melting Himalayan glaciers... 1:53 ...are washing away people’s homes 1:56 Many, like her, have lost everything 2:00 Our home in Bhola had endless amounts of land 2:03 There was lots of space for farming, we had a spacious house 2:08 There were different types of fruits, vegetation and trees growing at home 2:12 We used to eat the fruit from our own trees 2:18 I can’t eat them now because they don't exist anymore 2:21 Since the river flooded for the third time, I had to flee to Dhaka 2:26 Life was much better back home 2:29 It was unbearable to live through, truly intolerable 2:33 We didn’t have the time to save anything at all 2:38 1.1°C to 1.3°C of global warming has already transformed Minara’s life 2:45 It’s one of the reasons why so many migrants like her... 2:47 ...are moving to the city each year... 2:50 ...nearly 400,000 according to the last estimate 2:53 And climate models show there could be much worse to come How climate modelling works 3:02 Climate scientist Joeri Rogelj... 3:04 ...has spent the last ten years modelling future climate scenarios... 3:08 ...for the United Nations 3:10 The models we use to carry out this exercise... 3:13 ...really represent the state of the art... 3:15 ...of our current knowledge of climate change and where we are heading 3:19 Joeri’s projections use data collected by hundreds of scientists around the world 3:26 Here this is the 3°C level... 3:28 ...and so there is at least a one-in-four chance that under current policies... 3:32 ...we would hit 3°C by the end of the century 3:36 This is just one of the scenarios Joeri looks at 3:40 Another one imagines that all policy promises are kept 3:44 The most optimistic assumes that all promises have been kept... 3:47 ...and net-zero targets are met 3:50 Where our best estimate ends up around 2°C at the end of the century... 3:54 ...there is still a one-in-20 chance that we end up with 3°C instead 3:59 One would not be entering a plane if there is a one-in-20 chance... 4:03 ...that the plane will crash Nowhere is safe from global warming 4:07 A rise of 3°C would affect everyone 4:10 Even wealthy cities in rich countries wouldn’t be immune to the consequences 4:15 European capitals like Paris and Berlin... 4:18 ...would bake under more extreme heatwaves 4:22 Frequent storm-surges in New York could turn parts of the city desolate 4:27 In many ways, cities magnify, intensify climate events 4:33 Cities are hotter than the places around them... 4:36 ...they tend to be more vulnerable to flooding 4:39 And you can get a really bad event in a city in a way that you can’t in the countryside 4:46 And because of their denser populations... 4:49 ...disasters in a city affect far more people 4:52 Some cities might be badly prepared for the changes coming 4:56 But they have the means to adapt 4:59 Cities tend to be wealthier than surrounding places 5:03 They have a lot of amenities 5:05 A city that has taken seriously the risks of a 3°C world... 5:08 …wouldn’t necessarily be a worse place to be in a 3°C world 5:12 But a city that hasn’t prepared for these sort of eventualities... 5:16 ...that might be a really nasty place The impact of prolonged droughts 5:20 So far, many developed cities have got off lightly... 5:24 ...but some rural parts of the world are suffering disproportionately 5:29 Smallholders—small-scale farmers—are particularly vulnerable to climate change 5:35 And there are over 600 million around the world 5:38 Smallholders with farms under two hectares... 5:40 ...produce around a third of the global food supply 5:46 Central America’s “Dry Corridor”... 5:48 ...supports a mix of smallholdings and medium-sized farms 5:53 Sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean Sea... 5:56 ...the area is prone to droughts 6:08 Israel Ramírez Rivera is a smallholder in Guatemala 6:12 Here, climate change is making the dry seasons longer, and more severe 6:18 This is the biggest ear of maize that this plot could deliver 6:23 He depends on his crops of corn and beans 6:26 But they’re getting harder to grow 6:30 The surrounding mountains... 6:32 ...used to provide us with native food... 6:38 ...and now that isn’t an option anymore... 6:41 ...due to climate change and its effects 6:46 Nearly two-thirds of the smallholders in the Dry Corridor now live in poverty 6:52 The impact of all of this for us... 6:59 ...malnutrition among children 7:03 We’ve lost a few 7:07 For my crops especially, the midsummer heat is harder than before 7:16 The plant dries up and can’t provide us... 7:19 ...with the necessary food provision 7:24 Severe droughts in Central America... 7:26 ...are now four times more likely than they were last century 7:30 Many families from here have gone to the States 7:37 The economic despair and debts... 7:44 ...have pushed many people from this community to do this journey 7:53 Migration from Guatemala to the United States has quadrupled since 1990 7:59 Not all of this has been due to climate change 8:02 But longer droughts would force even more to move 8:05 In a 3°C world, annual rainfall in this region... 8:09 ...could drop by up to 14% 8:12 At 3°C, over a quarter of the world’s population... 8:16 ...could endure extreme droughts for at least a month of the year 8:19 Northern Africa could see droughts that last for years at a time Rising sea levels, storm surges and flooding 8:24 But for some, too much water will be the problem 8:29 10% of the world’s population lives on a coastline... 8:32 ...that’s less than 10 metres above sea level 8:35 For these coastal inhabitants, a 3°C world would spell disaster 8:40 By 2100, global sea levels could have climbed by half a metre from 2005 levels 8:46 Low-lying cities like Lagos would be especially vulnerable... 8:49 ...with up to up to a third of the population displaced 8:54 And in Fiji, rising waters are already upending lives 9:04 You can see the graveyard there, it’s all under water now... 9:08 ...due to this rising sea level and climate change 9:15 The village of Togoru in Fiji is being swallowed by the sea 9:19 Barney Dunn, the village headman, has seen over half the village disappear 9:24 Relatives’ houses have been abandoned, and family graves are now under water 9:29 We have been asked by the government to relocate... 9:32 ...but no one wants to relocate... 9:34 ...because we have our great-great-grandparents down there in the sea 9:39 This is the place we’ve been brought up in 9:41 ...it’s not easy to leave 9:44 Past attempts to build a seawall haven’t worked 9:48 But Barney sees building a new one as the village’s only hope 9:52 If they do that, maybe we can save whatever is left 9:56 But if we don’t have the seawall, then it will be keep eroding and time will come... 10:01 ...maybe in ten,15 years, Togoru will be all eroded 10:05 Rising seas also mean storms cause more floods 10:11 And many more countries could suffer 10:14 The Philippines and Myanmar are just two countries... 10:17 ...that will also see an increase in storm surges in a 3°C world 10:21 To escape, many will move… 10:24 …often, to urban areas Extreme heat and wet-bulb temperatures 10:27 Half the world’s population already lives in cities... 10:31 ...almost a third in slums 10:36 For them, a 3°C world could be deadly 10:40 Minara has moved to Dhaka to escape the impact of climate change 10:44 But life could get even worse for her 10:47 I’m struggling a lot nowadays 10:49 The heat during the day is unbearable 10:52 Even late at night it doesn’t cool down 10:57 The heat is getting more intense every day 10:59 I mean, it’s going to get much worse 11:03 I can barely survive it now, how will I live through it in the future? 11:08 Dhaka is getting hotter 11:11 In the last 20 years the average daytime temperature... 11:13 ...has crept up by nearly half a degree 11:17 Days that approach 40°C are now being reported 11:20 And high so-called wet-bulb temperatures are on the rise 11:26 A wet-bulb temperature is a measure of heat and humidity 11:30 Humans cool themselves by sweating… 11:32 But in these conditions, when relative humidity is near 100%... 11:36 ...sweat doesn’t evaporate well 11:38 So people can’t cool down… 11:41 ...even if given unlimited shade and water 11:45 At a high wet-bulb temperature, the body can’t lose heat... 11:49 ...and so it gets hotter and hotter... 11:51 ...and the body is designed to work at a given temperature 11:53 And if it gets too hot inside, you will die 11:58 The human limit for wet-bulb temperatures is 35°C... 12:02 ...around skin temperature 12:04 Dhaka will have a much higher chance... 12:05 ...of reaching dangerous wet-bulb temperatures... 12:07 ...if global warming reaches 3°C 12:12 You can’t really adapt to that 12:14 You have to get out. If the temperature is so high that you can’t work... 12:20 ...can’t do hard manual labour outside for significant parts of the year... 12:25 ...then many places will become functionally no longer part of the economy 12:33 Jacobabad in Pakistan, and Ras al Khaimah, in the United Arab Emirates... 12:37 ...have already recorded deadly wet-bulb temperatures 12:40 More of the tropics and the Persian Gulf... 12:43 ...as well as parts of Mexico and the south-eastern United States... 12:47 ...could all get to this threshold by the end of the century 12:50 Climate modelling might show us the weather Increased migration and conflict 12:52 But it doesn’t show us its other effects on society 12:56 Established migration patterns could change 12:59 Climate disasters may exacerbate reasons people cross borders 13:03 Within countries, more people will move to cities 13:07 In a 3°C world, tens of millions of people a year... 13:10 ...could be displaced by disasters made worse by climate change 13:15 When people are displaced by climate... 13:18 …they may well go to cities... 13:19 ...because cities are the places that attract people from the countryside already 13:25 A lot of people who can get to the developed world... 13:28 ...not least because the developed world tends to be less hot, will give that a go 13:35 As migration around the world increases... 13:38 ...there could be more competition for fewer resources 13:42 Water—already a highly contested resource—will be a focal point 13:47 Turkey’s new Ilisu dam has reduced the flow of water into Iraq 13:53 China lays claim to rivers vital to India and Pakistan 13:57 The prospect of a water-conflict makes people very uneasy 14:03 How national tensions would exacerbate those sorts of reactions... 14:08 ...in a 3°C world... 14:09 ...is the sort of thing that no one should really want to find out 14:14 I think you’d have to be incredibly sanguine... 14:16 ...not to think that the sort of climate extremes that we talk about... 14:19 ...in a 3°C world wouldn’t lead some places... 14:22 ...to the brink of societal collapse 14:25 Those lucky enough to escape unrest... Adaptation and mitigation are crucial 14:28 ...would still have to adapt to a radically different world 14:32 People can adapt to climate change in all sorts of ways, one of the most obvious ones... 14:37 ...is air conditioning 14:39 But other ways to adapt at a local or regional level... 14:42 ...I mean, one of the most obvious is diversifying agriculture 14:47 There are physical things you can do, like seawalls 14:52 The fact that people can adapt and that adaptation will reduce suffering... 14:57 ...doesn’t mean that it will eliminate suffering 15:00 Suffering is built into this whole process of heating up the planet 15:06 Adaptation will only get the world so far 15:09 The best way to deal with a 3°C world... 15:12 ...is not to go to a 3°C world 15:14 And that’s why increasing efforts on mitigation are important 15:17 It’s why working towards negative emissions... 15:20 ...that could bring down the temperature after it peaks are important 15:25 Once you get to a 3°C world, you are in real bad global trouble 15:33 The scale of change needed... 15:35 ...and the slow progress of governments so far... 15:38 ...means 3°C of warming is uncomfortably likely unless more is done 15:44 Despite existing pledges, greenhouse-gas emissions... 15:48 ...are still set to rise by 16% from 2010 levels by 2030 15:54 The need to act has never been clearer 15:57 There’s still time to reduce emissions, so that a 3°C world remains fiction... 16:02 ...rather than becoming fact

Broken windows are covered. Floorboards are patched and doors screwed back on. The road that was ruined by German tanks is shovelled and raked smooth. Boot-shaped bruises turn yellow then fade and disappear. Flowers grow and spread across the ugly German footprints stomped into garden beds. The village looks pretty once more. School stops for the summer and everyone is put to work on the kolkhoz, the village farm. Women and big boys begin harvesting the barley crops in the outer fields. The biggest girls milk the cows, morning and night, and keep the barns clean. Old Nikolay mends ploughs, horse harnesses, pitchforks and scythes in his workshop. Anna Pushinka teaches Yelena and her friends how to get the honey from the beehives that are scattered through the orchards. I am in charge of collecting eggs. My friends Olga and Nina help. Olga and Nina are five, a year younger than me. They are twins and look exactly alike, except Nina’s nose is a little bit crooked from when she fell out of bed and squashed it sideways on the floor. The hens, ducks and geese wander free in the summer, so collecting eggs is like a treasure hunt and takes hours. Catching the hens for their daily hugs takes even longer, but I think it’s important because hugs make everyone happy and happy hens lay bigger eggs. Olga says I’m the best hen-hugger in all of Russia. Nina says I’ll be the best cow-hugger, too, when my arms grow longer. But good hugs have nothing to do with the size of your arms. It’s all to do with the size of your heart. When we are done with the hens, Olga, Nina and I can spend the rest of the day doing whatever we like. We climb the apricot trees, chase squirrels, lie in the meadow marvelling at how hot Ushanka’s black fur becomes in the sunshine, make daisy chains and race little boats of bark in the stream. I teach Olga and Nina the alphabet and we use charcoal to write our letters and our names all over the village – on doors and walls and the freshly cut ends of firewood. In between, I practise my knots. In case the German princemonsters return. I slip into Old Nikolay’s workshop and tie knots in the harnesses hanging on the walls. I wander into gardens where the washing is hung out to dry and tie knots in the laces on pants and smocks. I creep up behind Anna Pushinka and tie knots in her apron strings. I find baling twine in the hay shed and tie my own ankles together. I do such a good job of these last knots that I can’t get them undone. I have to jump all the way to Olga and Nina’s house and ask them to cut me free with their mama’s knife. At the end of each day, Ushanka and I run out into the distant barley fields to meet Mama. This is my favourite part of the day, because Mama always shouts, ‘Little Rabbit!’ and smothers my head with kisses. And as we walk home, we sing. Everyone – women, big boys and me. I love to sing. Almost as much as I love to be kissed by Mama. Sometimes one of the boys, Mikhail, has his balalaika with him. He takes the instrument out from beneath the sheaves of barley piled high on the wagon and plays music. We sing about forests and orchards and people who find their true love. As we walk home, arm in arm, my heart fills with happiness and my belly swells with pride that I am allowed to sing along with the big boys. And I can almost forget about the German prince-monsters and their lies about Russia and their big ugly boots. Almost. But today, when Mikhail reaches for his balalaika, I see other things hiding beneath the barley sheaves. Three of the mamas rush forward and cover them up, but it’s too late. I know they are there. I’ve already seen them. Rifles. Lots of rifles. Mikhail hugs his balalaika to his chest and blushes. ‘So play!’ cries Mama, her voice oddly loud and high. ‘Let’s play Sasha’s favourite song, “The Little Birch Tree”.’ So Mikhail plays and everyone sings about the lovely birch tree with its curly leaves and the branches that will be turned into silver flutes. They sing too quickly, too loudly, and as they sing and walk, they cast nervous sideways glances at me. ‘It’s alright,’ I say, when the song comes to an end. ‘I didn’t see the rifles.’ Mama nods and smiles, and I know it was the right thing to say. But I did see the rifles. And I think about Yelena wanting to get lots of guns and dynamite for the Partisans so they can shoot the Germans and blow them into thousands of tiny pieces, and Mama looking as though she agreed, and I know this is what the mamas and the big boys are doing. As well as harvesting, they are helping the Partisans. Three days later, I wake before dawn and I am all alone. Yelena is always here beside me when I wake. But not this morning. I climb down from our bed above the stove. Mama is filling a cloth sack with bread. She ties it closed with a piece of string and hands it to Yelena. ‘Stay out of sight,’ says Mama. ‘And don’t return until after dark.’ ‘Where’s she going?’ I ask. ‘Nowhere,’ snaps Mama. ‘Then why does she need all that bread?’ I ask. ‘There’s nothing left for us.’ Mama baked four loaves last night and she has stuffed them all into the sack. Yelena opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Mama shoves her out the door and sends her on the way to nowhere. Mama turns and stares at me, her blue, blue cornflower eyes wide with worry. ‘I know,’ I say, flopping down on the bench. ‘I didn’t see any bread.’ Mama sits beside me and takes my hand. ‘And . . .?’ she prods, obviously waiting for more. I puzzle for a while, then say, ‘And I don’t have a sister called Yelena.’ Mama laughs, softly and with a little bit of sadness around the edges. ‘Sweet Little Rabbit! You do have a sister called Yelena.’ ‘I do?’ I ask, now confused. ‘I haven’t seen the rifles or the bread, but I have seen Yelena?’ ‘Yes.’ Mama smiles and the magic makes me smile, too. And I am glad that Yelena is real because I love her very much. ‘Yelena is real,’ Mama explains, ‘but she does not carry sacks of bread into the forest for the Partisans.’ ‘Of course not!’ I shout, slapping my forehead. ‘Because there is no bread!’ Mama laughs loudly now, with not a hint of sadness. She hugs me, pressing me against her warm, loving heart, covering my head with kisses. ‘Clever Little Rabbit,’ she murmurs, and then, in barely a whisper, ‘Your papa would be so proud.’ When I wake the next morning, Yelena is sleeping beside me, her mouth open, her braided hair unravelling. Mama is serving kasha to a strange woman seated at our table. I crawl down from above the stove and slide along the bench beside her. I stare at her pants, her tunic, the rope she is using as a belt and her big boots. She’s dressed like a man! And there’s a rifle leaning against the wall near the door. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Sasha.’ The woman doesn’t reply. She just shovels down her kasha. I line my four wooden bears along the table in front of her bowl and say, ‘These are my bears: Big Bear, Medium Bear, Little Bear and Even Littler Bear.’ ‘Hello, Sasha. Hello, bears.’ She smiles but she doesn’t tell me her name. ‘Why are you dressed like a man?’ I ask, tugging at the sleeve of her tunic. ‘Because men’s clothes make it easier to run and climb and crawl and shoot,’ she says. ‘You’re a Partisan!’ I gasp. ‘But she’s not real,’ says Mama, placing a bowl of kasha before me. ‘Is the kasha real?’ I ask. Mama laughs. ‘Yes, Little Rabbit.’ I’m glad the food is real, because I’m hungry. But I’m disappointed that the woman is not real. I was going to ask if I could use her rope-belt to tie her ankles together. For practice. But if she’s not real, then the rope and her ankles aren’t either. The woman finishes her kasha, hangs her rifle over her shoulder, kisses Mama on the cheek then slips out the door. I run to the window to watch her leave, but by the time I get there, she’s gone. Vanished. ‘Because she’s not real,’ I whisper. A week later, Mama and I are working in the garden. We sing as we weed between the flowers and pluck caterpillars from the vegetables. Anna Pushinka is picking strawberries in her garden and wanders over. ‘Taste these,’ she says, holding out the basket. Mama reaches in and takes out a fat strawberry and a tiny piece of folded paper. The strawberry goes into her mouth, the paper into her pocket. ‘What’s on the paper?’ I ask. ‘Paper?’ Anna Pushinka replies with a wave of her hand. ‘Goodness, Sasha! Who has money for paper? These are lean times. We must choose between paper for writing and noodles for our soup. And I always choose noodles.’ She chuckles and I know the paper is yet another thing that is not real. That night, Mama slips the paper to Yelena, but she drops it on the floor. I pick it up for her, and I see that there are tiny words and numbers written all over it. I wish I could read better. I’m desperate to know what it says. Or rather, what it doesn’t say, because it’s not real. Later, when Mama has tucked us into our bed above the stove and Ushanka has wrapped herself around the top of my head, I ask Yelena, ‘What’s on the paper?’ ‘What paper?’ says Yelena. ‘The paper that isn’t real,’ I reply. Yelena stares at me, nibbling her lip, then whispers, ‘A message for the Partisans. Stuff about where the Germans have their headquarters and when their trains are travelling and where they store their ammunition.’ ‘Why?’ ‘So the Partisans can blow them up.’ Yelena grabs my arm. ‘But don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.’ ‘What’s a secret?’ I ask. ‘The message.’ ‘What message?’ I say, my eyes wide. Yelena laughs. ‘Good boy, Sasha.’ My belly swells with pride. I know how to play this game. ‘How are your knots coming along?’ asks Yelena. ‘Good! Yesterday, I crept into the dairy and tied knots in the apron strings of all the girls who were milking and only one of them noticed. Today, I tied Olga’s ankles together with Mama’s embroidery thread and just now, while you were taking a bath, I tied the sleeves of your blouse together in an enormous knot.’ Yelena rolls her eyes, then says, ‘I’ll see if I can find you some rope for practising.’ ‘Practising what?’ I ask. ‘Your knots,’ she says. ‘What knots?’ Yelena, my big sister who is twelve and always serious t

Dynamics. Dynamics in music refers to how loud or soft is the music. It is that simple! But, because musicians and composers like to make things interesting, and sometimes difficult, there are lots of different musical terms that can be used to describe what the dynamics are in a piece of music. Usually, the music terms used to describe dynamics are called “Italian terms”. Many, many years ago, when music in the Western European tradition started to become systematized, it was decided that all musical information written on the musical score would be in a common language – Italian. Dynamics in Music Definitions In the chart you can see all the basic dynamics terms commonly used in music today. Essentially, dynamics fall into two main categories – loud or soft. The dynamic music definitions will go from the softest to the loudest Italian terms. In real life, music that is performed very, very soft or “pianississimo” would be almost at a whisper. Whereas music performed very, very loudly or “fortississimo” would be music that is deafening and as loud as possible for the instrument or ensemble as a whole. Pianississimo – very, very soft Pianissimo – very soft Piano – soft Mezzo piano – a little soft Mezzo forte – a little loud Forte – loud Fortissimo – very loud Fortissimo – very, very loud

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