What is the primary benefit of using Instantly 2.0?

Infinitely scaling outreach campaigns

Using a single email account for campaigns

Which feature of Instantly allows users to scale their outreach efforts?

Automated social media integration

What is the purpose of the tech filters in Instantly's platform?

To precisely target ideal prospects

To manage social media accounts

Which technology is NOT mentioned as an example in Video 3?

Automated social media integration

How does Instantly's tech filter help in outreach campaigns?

By targeting users of specific technologies

By managing multiple social media accounts

What is one of the examples given in Video 3 for using tech filters?

Targeting users of CRM solutions like HubSpot

Creating video content for YouTube

Designing infographics for marketing

Instantly 2.0 - Find Leads & Launch Campaigns In 60 Seconds

“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.”

A BAD CASE OF THE STRIPES By David Shannon Parts(18): Camilla Narrator 1 Narrator 2 Narrator 3 Narrator 4 Mr. Harms Mother Father Dr. Bumble Old Woman Environmental Therapist Dr. Grop Dr. Gourd Dr. Sponge Mr. Mellon Dr. Cricket Dr. Young <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Narrator 1: A BAD CASE OF THE STRIPES By David Shannon Narrator 2: Camilla Cream loved lima beans. But she never ate them. Narrator 3: All of her friends hated lima beans, and she wanted to fit in. Camilla always worried about what other people thought of her. Narrator 4: Today she was fretting even more than usual. It was the very first day of school, and she couldn't decide what to wear. There were so many people to impress! Narrator 1: She tried on forty-two outfits, but none seemed quite right. She put on a pretty red dress and looked in the mirror. Then she screamed. Narrator 2: Her mother ran into the room, and she screamed, too. Mother: "Oh my heavens! You're completely covered with stripes!" Narrator 3: she cried. This was certainly true. Camilla was striped from head to toe. She looked like a rainbow. Narrator 4: Mrs. Cream felt Camilla's forehead. Mother: "Do you feel all right?" Narrator 1: she asked. Camilla: "I feel fine, but just look at me!" Narrator 2: Camilla answered. Mother: "You get back in bed this instant. You're not going to school today." Narrator 3: her mother ordered. Camilla was relieved. She didn't want to miss the first day of school, but she was afraid of what the other kids would say. And she had no idea what to wear with those crazy stripes. Narrator 4: That afternoon, Dr. Bumble came to examine Camilla. Dr. Bumble: "Most extraordinary! I've never seen anything like it! Are you having any coughing, sneezing, runny nose, aches, pains, chills, hot flashes, dizziness, drowsiness, shortness of breath, or uncontrollable twitching?" Narrator 1: he asked. Camilla: "No, I feel fine." Narrator 2: Camilla told him. Dr. Bumble: "Well then, I don't see any reason why she shouldn't go to school tomorrow. Here's some ointment that should help clear up those stripes in a few days. If it doesn't, you know where to reach me." Narrator 3: Dr. Bumble said, turning to Mrs. Cream. And off he went. Narrator 4: The next day was a disaster. Everyone at school laughed at Camilla. They called her "Camilla Crayon" and "Night of the Living Lollipop." Narrator 1: She tried her best to act as if everything were normal, but when the class said the Pledge of Allegiance, her stripes turned red, white, and blue, and she broke out in stars! Narrator 2: The other kids thought this was great. One yelled out, Narrator 3: "Let's see some purple polka dots!" Narrator 4: Sure enough, Camilla turned all purple polka-dotty. Someone else shouted, Narrator 1: "Checkerboard!" Narrator 4: and a pattern of squares covered her skin. Soon everyone was calling out different shapes and colors, and poor Camilla was changing faster than you can change channels on a T.V. Narrator 2: That night, Mr. Harms, the school principal, called. Mr. Harms: "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cream, I'm going to have to ask you to keep Camilla home from school. She's just too much of a distraction, and I've been getting phone calls from the other parents. They're afraid those stripes may be contagious." Narrator 3: he said. Camilla was so embarrassed. She couldn't believe that two days ago everyone liked her. Now, nobody wanted to be in the same room with her. Narrator 1: Her father tried to make her feel better. Father: "Is there anything I can get you, sweetheart?" Narrator 2: he asked. Camilla: "No, thank you," Narrator 3: sighed Camilla. What she really wanted was a nice plate of lima beans, but she had been laughed at enough for one day. Dr. Bumble: "Hmm, well, yes, I see. I think I'd better bring in the Specialists. We'll be right over.” Narrator 4: said Dr. Bumble to Mr. Cream on the phone. About an hour later, Dr. Bumble arrived with four people in long white coats. He introduced them to the Creams. Dr. Bumble: "This is Dr. Grop, Dr. Sponge, Dr. Cricket, and Dr. Young." Narrator 1: Then the Specialists went to work on Camilla. They squeezed and jabbed, tapped and tested. It was very uncomfortable. Dr. Grop: "Well, it's not the mumps." Dr. Sponge: "Or the measles." Dr. Cricket:"Definitely not chicken pox." Dr. Young: "Or sunburn." Narrator 2: replied the Specialists. Specialists:"Try these. Take one of each before bed." Narrator 4: said the specialists. They each handed her a bottle filled with different colored pills. Then they filed out the front door followed by Dr. Bumble. Narrator 1: That night, Camilla took her medicine. It was awful. Narrator 2: When she woke up the next morning, she did feel different, but when she got dressed, her clothes didn't fit right. She looked in the mirror, and there, staring back at her, was a giant, multi-colored pill with a face on it. Narrator 3: Dr. Bumble rushed over as soon as Mrs. Cream called. But this time, instead of the Specialists, he brought the Experts. Narrator 4: Dr. Gourd and Mr. Mellon were the finest scientific minds in the land. Once again, Camilla was poked and prodded, looked at and listened to. Narrator 1: The Experts wrote down lots of numbers. Then they huddled together and whispered. Dr. Gourd finally spoke. Dr. Gourd: "It might be a virus," Narrator 2: he announced with authority. Suddenly, fuzzy little virus balls appeared all over Camilla. Mr. Mellon: "Or possibly some form of bacteria," Narrator 3: said Mr. Mellon. Out popped squiggly little bacteria tails. Dr. Gourd: "Or it could be a fungus," Narrator 4: added Dr. Gourd. Instantly, Camilla was covered with different colored fungus blotches. The experts looked at Camilla, then each other. Experts: "We need to go over these numbers again back at the lab. We’ll call you when we know something," Narrator 1: said the Experts. But the Experts didn't have a clue, much less a cure. Narrator 2: By now, the T.V. news had found out about Camilla. Reporters from every channel were outside her house, telling the story of "The Bizarre Case of the Incredible Changing Kid." Narrator 3: Soon a huge crowd was camped out on the front lawn. Narrator 4: The Creams were swamped with all kinds of remedies from psychologists, allergists, herbalists, nutritionists, psychics, an old medicine man, a guru, and even a veterinarian. Narrator 1: Each so-called cure only added to poor Camilla's strange appearance until it was hard to even recognize her. She sprouted roots and berries and crystals and feathers and a long furry tail. But nothing worked. Narrator 2: One day, a woman who called herself an Environmental Therapist claimed she could cure Camilla. She said, Environmental Therapist: "Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and become one with your room." Camilla: "I wish you hadn't said that," Narrator 3: Camilla groaned. Slowly, she started to melt into the walls of her room. Her bed became her mouth, her nose was a dresser, and two paintings were her eyes. The therapist screamed and ran from the house. Mother: "What are we going to do? It just keeps getting worse and worse!" Narrator 4: cried Mrs. Cream. She began to sob. Narrator 1: At that moment, Mr. Cream heard a quiet little knock at the front door. He opened it, and there stood an old woman who was just as plump and sweet as a strawberry. Old Woman: "Excuse me, but I think I can help." Narrator 2: she said brightly. Narrator 3: She went into Camilla's room and looked around. Old Woman: "My goodness, what we have here is a bad case of the stripes. One of the worst I've ever seen!" Narrator 4: she said with a shake of her head. She pulled a container of small green beans from her bag. She said, Old Woman: "Here. These might do the trick." Mother: "Are those magic beans?" Narrator 1: asked Mrs. Cream. The old woman replied, Old Woman: "Oh my, no, there's no such thing. These are just plain old lima beans. I'll bet you'd like some, wouldn't you?" Narrator 2: she asked Camilla. Camilla wanted a big, heaping plateful of lima beans more than just about anything, but she was still afraid to admit it. She said, Camilla: "Yuck! No one likes lima beans, especially me!" Old Woman: "Oh, dear, I guess I was wrong about you." Narrator 3: said the old woman sadly. She put the beans back in her bag and started toward the door. Narrator 4: Camilla watched the old woman walk away. Those beans would taste so good. And being laughed at for eating them was nothing, compared to what she'd been going through. She finally couldn't stand it. Camilla: "Wait! The truth is...I really love lima beans." Narrator 1: she cried. The old woman smiled, popping a handful of beans into Camilla's mouth, and said, Old Woman: "I thought so." Camilla: "Mmmmmmm," Narrator 2: said Camilla. Suddenly the branches, feathers, and squiggly tails began to disappear.Then the whole room swirled around. When it stopped, there stood Camilla, and everything was back to normal. Camilla: "I'm cured!" Narrator 3: she shouted. The old woman said, Old Woman: "Yes, I knew the real you was in there somewhere." Narrator 4: She patted Camilla on the head and went outside and vanished into the crowd. Narrator 1: Afterward, Camilla wasn't quite the same. Narrator 2: Some of the kids at school said she was weird, but she didn't care a bit. Narrator 3: She ate all the lima beans she wanted, and she never had even a touch of stripes again.

Span 2 CH 2 Instant Check: Vocab en contexto

2 Grade 5 Kenji Computer Lesson 2 Safe and Smart Instant Messaging

Bataille de Marignan, l'affrontement du 13 novembre. Craignant le départ des dernières troupes des Confédérés sans livrer bataille contre les Français, le cardinal Schiner choisit de provoquer la bataille par la ruse devant Milan. Il envoya, avec la complicité secrète de certains capitaines suisses dont Winkelried (à ne pas confondre avec Arnold Winkelried), la garde ducale et des cavaliers pontificaux provoquer la cavalerie française. Le jeudi 13 septembre 1515, aussitôt le combat engagé, les cavaliers du pape revinrent appeler les troupes suisses à l'aide. Celles-ci, avec Schiner à leur tête, se mirent immédiatement en route et sortirent de la ville de Milan pour affronter l'ennemi. Une fois hors de la ville et constatant la tromperieN 2, La Trémoille et de Fleuranges s'étant repliés après la légère escarmouche, de Winkelried soi-disant en grand danger se reposant en toute quiétude, après un moment de confusion, on décida néanmoins de poursuivre. Les hommes se jetèrent à genoux pour prier le Seigneur suivant l'usage de leurs pères et se mirent en marche20,21,22. Le combat s'engagea. Les Confédérés durent faire face au feu de l'artillerie française ainsi qu'aux cavaliers commandés par Bourbon, Guise et Gaillards qui les attaquaient par le flanc. Le premier choc avait complètement enfoncé la première ligne de l'armée française qui se reforme soutenue par la cavalerie, elle-même confrontée aux difficultés du terrain et aux piques suisses. François Ier, en personne à la tête de la cavalerie et des lansquenets allemands, ordonna une attaque généralisée contre les Suisses. Un combat furieux s'engagea pendant lequel tomba Jacques, fils aîné de Jean IV d'Amboise, François du Bourbon, le fils du général Trivulcese se fit capturer, et le chevalier sans peur Bayard évita de justesse la mort. Ce dernier se battit avec grande bravoure mais fut finalement contraint de ramper le long des fossés pour sortir du champ de bataille. Le corps à corps sanglant entre belligérants se poursuivit jusqu'en soirée et dans l'obscurité croissante. À la disparition de la lune vers 23 heures, la nuit noire ne permettant plus de distinguer amis et ennemis, tambours et trompettes sonnèrent le ralliement après six heures de luttes ininterrompues. Après quelques instants d'hésitations, contre l'avis de Schiner, les Confédérés décidèrent de tenir leur position, légèrement en leur faveur, plutôt que de retourner sur Milan, malgré le froid et la faim. Ainsi s'acheva la première journée de la bataille23,24. Dans l'obscurité, la confusion sur le terrain était grande. On raconta que le roi de France avait passé la nuit appuyé contre une pièce de canon à 50 toises d'un bataillon suisse22(environ 90 mètres).

To the Lakota, and other indigenous people on North America's Great Plains, the bison was an essential part of their culture ( expressed in the quote on the previous page). The bison provided meat for nutrition, a hide for clothing and shelter, bones for tools, and fat for soap. The bison was also central to their religious beliefs. So, when European settlers hunted the bison nearly to extinction, Lakota culture suffered. Culture is central to a society and the identity of its people, as well as its continued existence. Therefore, geographers study culture as a way to understand similarities and differences among societies across the world, and in some cases, to help preserve these societies. Analyzing Culture All of a group's learned behaviors, actions, beliefs, and objects are a part of culture. It is a visible force seen in a group's actions, possessions, and influence on the landscape. For example, in a large city you can see people working in offices, factories, and stores, and living in high-rise apartments or suburban homes. You might observe them attending movies, concerts, or sporting events. Culture is also an invisible force guiding people through shared belief systems, customs, and traditions. Culture is learned, in that it develops through experiences, and not merely transmitted through genetics. For example, many people in the United States have developed a strong sense of competitiveness in school and business, and believe that hard work is a key to success. These types of elements, visible and invisible, are cultural traits. A series of interrelated traits make up a cultural complex, such as the process of steps and acceptable behaviors related to greeting a person in different cultures. A single cultural artifact, such as an automobile, may represent many different values, beliefs, behaviors and traditions and be representative of a cultural complex. Since culture is learned there are many ways that one generation passes its culture to the next. Children and adults learn traits three ways: • imitation, as when learning a language by repeating sounds or behaviors from a person or television • informal instruction, as when a parent reminds a child to say "please" • formal instruction, as when students learn history in school 132 HUMAN GEOGRAPHY: AP" EDITION CULTURAL COMPLEX OF THE AUTOMOBILE The automobile provides much more than just transportation, as it reflects many values that are central to American culture. Origins of Culture The area in which a unique culture or a specific trait develops is a culture hearth. Classical Greece was a culture hearth for democracy more than 2,000 years ago. New York City was a culture hearth for rap music in the 1970s. Geographers study how cultures develop in hearths and diffuse-or spread-to other places. Geographers also study taboos, behaviors heavily discouraged by a culture. For example, many cultures have taboos against eating certain foods, such as pork or insects. What is considered taboo changes over time. In the United States, marriages between Protestants and Catholics were once taboo, but they are not widely opposed now. Traditional, Folk, and Indigenous Cultures With the beginning of the Industrial Revolution in the late 18th century, modern transportation and communication connected people as never before and led to extensive cultural mixing, especially as cities have grown. The world prior to this time was very different; however, remnants of the past are still evident in our modern cultures. Traditional, folk, and indigenous cultures share some important characteristics and are often grouped together, but they do have some subtle differences. Traditional Culture Recently, the meanings of traditional, folk, and indigenous culture have begun to merge, causing geographers to debate when each should be used. Increasingly, the term traditional culture is used to encompass all three cultural designations. All three types share the function of passing down long-held beliefs, values, and practices and are generally resistant to rapid changes in their culture. Folk Culture The beliefs and practices of small, homogenous groups of people, often living in rural areas that are relatively isolated and slow to change, are known as folk cultures. Like all cultures, they demonstrate the diverse ways that people have adapted to a physical environment. For example, people around the world learned to make shelters out of available resources, whether 3.1: INTRODUCTION TO CULTURE 133 it was snow or mud bricks or wood. However, people used similar resources such as wood differently. In Scandinavia, people used trees to build cabins. In the American Midwest, people processed trees into boards, built a frame, and attached the boards to it. Many traits of folk culture continue today. Corn was first grown in Mexico around 10,000 years ago, and it is still grown there today. While many elements of folk culture exist side by side with modern culture, there are people whose societies have changed little, if at all, from long ago. These people practice traditional cultures, those which have not been affected by modern technology or influences. They often live in remote regions, such as some small tribes in the Amazon rainforest, and have scant knowledge of the outside world. As the lines continue blurring between cultural designations, the Amish of Pennsylvania are often referenced as both folk and traditional culture. Indigenous Culture When members of an ethnic group reside in their ancestral lands, and typically possess unique cultural traits, such as speaking their own exclusive language, they are considered an indigenous culture. Some indigenous peoples have been displaced from their native lands, but still practice their indigenous culture. Native Americans in the United States, such as the Navajo, have kept indigenous cultural practices. First Nations of Canada, such as the Inuit, have also retained their indigenous culture. Globalization and Popular Culture As a result of the Industrial Revolution, improvements in transportation and communication have shortened the time required for movement, trade, or other forms of interaction between two places. This development, known as space-time compression (see Topics 1.4 and 3.6), has accelerated culture change around the world. In 1817, a freight shipment from Cincinnati needed 52 days to reach New York City. By 1850, because of canals and railroads, it took half that long. And by 1852, it took only 7 days. Today, an airplane flight takes only a few hours, and digital information takes seconds or less. Similar change has occurred on the global scale. People travel freely across the world in a matter of hours, and communication has advanced to a point where people share information instantaneously across the globe. The increased global interaction has had a profound impact on cultures, from spreading English across the world to instant sharing of news, events and music. Globalization specifically refers to the increased integration of the world economy since the 1970s. The process of intensified interaction among peoples, governments, and companies of different countries around the globe has had profound impacts on culture. The culture of the United States is intertwined with globalization. Through the influence of its corporations, Hollywood movies, and government, the United States exerts widespread influence in other countries. But other countries also shape American culture. For example, in 2019, the National Basketball Association included players from 38 countries or territories. When cultural traits- such as clothing, music, movies, and types of 134 HUMAN GEOGRAPHY: AP. EDITION businesses-spread quickly over a large area and are adopted by various groups, they become part of popular culture. Elements of popular culture often begin in urban areas and diffuse quickly through globalization processes such as the media and Internet. These elements can quickly be adopted worldwide, making them part of global culture. People around the world follow European soccer, Indian Bollywood movies, and Japanese animation known as anime. With people in many nations wearing similar clothes, listening to similar music, and eating similar food, popular cultural traits often promote uniformity in beliefs, values, and the cultural landscape across many places The cultural landscape, also known as the built environment (see Topic 3.2), is the modification of the environment by a group and is a visible reflection of that group's cultural beliefs and values. Traditional Culture to Popular Culture Popular culture emphasizes trying what is new rather than preserving what is traditional. Many people, especially older generations or those who follow a folk culture, openly resist the adoption of popular cultural traits. They do this by preserving traditional languages, religions, values, and foods. While older generations often resist the adoption of popular culture, they seldom are successful in keeping their traditional cultures from changing, especially among the young people of their society. One clash between popular and traditional culture is occurring in Brazil. As the population expands to the interior of the rain forest, many indigenous cultures, like the Yanamamo tribe, have more contact with outside groups. Remaining isolated by the forest is becoming increasingly difficult as many young people from the indigenous cultures become exposed to popular culture and begin to integrate into the larger Brazilian society. As the young people leave their communities, they are more likely to accept popular culture at the expense of their indigenous cultural heritage, which threatens the very existence of their folk culture. Traditional culture typically exhibits horizontal diversity, meaning each traditional culture has its own customs and language that makes it distinct from other culture groups. Yet, people people within each group are usually homogeneous, or very similar to each other. By contrast, popular culture typically exhibits vertical diversity, meaning that modern urban societies are usually heterogeneous, or exhibiting differences, within the society and usually contain numerous multiethnic neighborhoods. However, on a global scale popular cultures are relatively similar with the same type of malls, shops, fast food, and clothing. Urban global culture centers are not identical, yet, global cities often do not have as much horizontal diversity across space as folk cultures. 3.1: INTRODUCTION TO CULTURE 135 COMPARING TRADITIONAL AND POPULAR CULTURE Trait Traditional Culture Popular or Global Culture Society • Rural and isolated location • Urban and connected location • Homogeneous and • Diverse and multiethnic indigenous population population • Most people speak an • Many people speak a global indigenous or ethnic local language such as English or language Arabic • Horizontal diversity • Vertical diversity Social • Emphasis on community and • Emphasis on individualism and Structure conformity making choices • Families live close to each • Dispersed families other • Weakly defined gender roles • Well-defined gender roles Diffusion • Relatively slow and limited • Relatively rapid and extensive • Primarily through relocation • Often hierarchical • Oral traditions and stories • Social media and mass media Buildings and • Materials produced locally, • Materials produced in distant Housing such as stone or grass factories, such as steel or glass • Built by community or owner • Built by a business • Similar style for community • Variety of architectural styles • Different between cultures • Similar between cities • Traditional architecture • Postmodern / contemporary architecture Food • Locally produced • Often imported • Choices limited by tradition • Wide range of choice • Prepared by the family or • Purchased in restaurants community Spatial Focus • Local and regional • National and global Artifacts, Mentifacts, and Sociofacts Whether a cultural attribute is considered traditional, folk, indigenous, or popular in nature, it is valuable to differentiate between elements of culture that can be seen and those that can not. There are artifacts that comprise the material culture, which consists of tangible things, or those that can be experienced by the senses. Art, clothing, food, music, sports, and housing types are all tangible elements of culture. Another element of the study of artifacts is understanding the techniques to use or build a specific artifact. Artifacts can be unique to a particular culture, or can be shared. For example, people of all cultures need to communicate through language, yet there are many groups that possess languages unique to their culture. The ability to read, write and understand the English language is an artifact of importance for much of popular global culture. 136 HUMAN GEOGRAPHY: AP" EDITION Mentifacts comprise a group's nonmaterial culture and consist ofintangible concepts, or those not having a physical presence. Beliefs, values, practices, and aesthetics (pleasing in appearance) determine what a cultural group views as acceptable and desirable. Mentifacts can also be unique or shared. People of many cultures possess an belief in one or many deities, and often the deities are unique to that culture. The belief in a god is a mentifact-the religious building or symbols are artifacts. Cultural groups also possess sociofacts, which are the ways people organize their society and relate to one another. Taken altogether, people tend to see the whole of their culture as greater than the sum of its individual parts. Sociofacts are embodied through families, governments, sports teams, religious organizations, education systems, and other social constructs. As with artifacts and mentifacts, sociofacts may also be unique or similar to other societies. Families are the foundations of most societies, yet what constitutes the structure of a family may vary widely between cultural groups. For example, Western cultures tend to view the nuclear family, consisting of the parents and their children as the basic family unit. By contrast, in many Western African cultures the norm is the extended family, consisting of several generations and other family members such as cousins living under one roof.

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