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Thank You Notes
Quiz by Tonya Jones
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Thank You Note Gr.2MAY 1: "Thank you" note expressions & some information on the Thanksgiving holiday in the U.S. Billy gets lost. Billy is a puppy. He lives in a big house with a blue roof. He loves to play fetch with Emmy. Emmy throws the ball. Billy chases it. Then, Billy sees Cat. He drops the ball and chases Cat. Cat runs down the street, and Billy chases him. Emmy cries, “Come back, Billy.” Cat runs through a farm, and Billy chases him. Cat runs into the forest, and Billy chases him. Cat climbs up a tree. Billy turns to go home. He cannot see the big house with a blue roof.“ Oh, no, I am lost,” Billy says. Billy runs down a path. He sees Fox. “How can I get home?” he asks Fox. “I have never been out of the forest,” says Fox. “Ask Cow in the farmer’s field,” Fox says. Billy runs to the farmer’s field. Billy says to Cow, “I am lost. “Do you know the way to my house?” Billy asks. “I have never been off the farm,” says Cow. “Ask Owl,” Cow says. Billy goes to Owl in the barn. “Please wake up, Owl,” says Billy. “I need your help,” he says. “I am lost!” he cries. “Do you know a big house with a blue roof?” Billy asks. “Yes, I do,” Owl says. Owl flies, and Billy chases her. Then, Billy sees Emmy at the big house with a blue roof. “Thank you, Owl,” says Billy. Create an interactive "fill the gaps" quiz in seconds - complete with a 'Hall of Fame'! Instructions: 1. Edit the title of this quiz (above) to something appropriate. 2. COPY and PASTE your text into this box (TIP - plain text for best results, to avoid formatting glitches), and edit it as you wish. 3. DOUBLE-CLICK any word to turn it into a 'gap'. 4. To put the word back, simply double-click the gap again or drag the word from the top of the screen to the correct gap. 5. When you are finished, click 'save' to turn your work into an interactive quiz for your students - complete with a Leaderboard so you can see how quickly they finished! Note: When you save your work, you will provide a password which will allow you to edit the quiz again later. Alexa and Brittany were best friends. They’d known each other since Brittany moved next door in 2nd grade. They hung out almost every day after school… when they were getting along, that is. They were very different people. Alexa did great with her school work, read a lot of books, and took ballet classes. Brittany, on the other hand, would rather play soccer, chat with other kids at school, and rarely sat still for long enough to finish reading a chapter of a book. Often, Alexa and Brittany would play together at the park across the street. They’d play on the equipment, play tag with a group of neighborhood kids, or play soccer. If it was raining outside, they’d go in one of their houses to make crafts, play video games, or do their nails. Some days they could spend hours together without a single problem, but other days they just could not agree on what to do. “Come on, let’s play on the equipment. We’ve played soccer for the last three days!” Alexa said. “They just cut the grass, I love playing soccer when the grass is nice and short. I don’t want to play on the equipment,” Brittany replied. “We always do what you want to do Brittany, it’s my turn to choose.” Alexa was getting frustrated. “Fine, go play on the equipment by yourself, I’m playing soccer, ” Brittany shouted. Grade 5 Reading Comprehension Worksheet Reading and Math for K-5 © www.k5learning.com Alexa left. She was fuming. When she got home, she realized she still had Brittany’s notebook. Well, I’m not giving it back today. I’m too mad at her. Alexa thought. The next day at school, their teacher asked for their notebooks. Brittany didn’t have hers, and asked Mrs. Stone if she could bring it in tomorrow instead. Mrs. Stone let us have one late assignment a month, but Brittany had already used hers. Brittany looked upset, and walked quietly back to her desk. Alexa was having an internal conflict. She knew she should tell Mrs. Stone that she had the notebook, but she was still mad at Brittany for not compromising with her at the park yesterday. When it was time for lunch, Alexa hung back to talk with Mrs. Stone. “Mrs. Stone, I have Brittany’s notebook. I should have said something earlier, but Alexa and I had a problem yesterday, and I’m still mad at her. Would you be able to help us solve our problem?” Alexa asked. “Thank you for being honest, Alexa. I’m sure Brittany will appreciate that you gave me her notebook when you could have made her get another late mark instead. I’m glad you asked for help solving the problem. It’s really hard to solve a problem by yourself when you’re still feeling upset, so this is a good solution.” At recess, Mrs. Stone sat and talked with the girls. They each revealed that they get frustrated with the other person a lot because they don’t always want to do the same things, but they real ized that they never really solved their problem. One of them just always went home. Mrs. Stone helped them realize that maybe they didn’t have to play together every day to be best friends. They decided to just play together a couple times a week, and take turns picking the activity. Alexa and Brittany were hopeful that this would solve a lot of the arguments they’d been having lately!Stages in the Sale of a Property Stage 1 – Getting to Instruction • Initial contact with the vendor: need to check the following: type of property, contact details of vendor, address of property/Eircode and purpose of the contact - sale or valuation? If a sale, does the vendor need a quick sale? Qualify the lead i.e. is the vendor buying another property? If an investment property, is the tenant in situ? Check if there is a folio number available and confirm the ownership of the property. Schedule the viewing. • Pre-viewing: Set up a file & record all info from initial contact on CRM system. Check the Property Price Register to help get a general idea of property valuation (subject to viewing, helps to display knowledge of area/market and set expectations for the vendor). Nature of property may affect pricing e.g. starter home vs. larger property with vendor seeking to downsize. Consideration for comparables may include similar/same location, size and condition of property, availability and type of parking, layout of property, plot size, orientation of garden, extensions undertaken etc. Nature of market conditions, state of wider economy, cost of capital and availability of credit may also be factors. • Appraisal/viewing: Bring an advertising pack/sales & marketing brochures. Walk through property with client, note nice features/selling points for the brochure, let the client talk about upgrades/specific features of the property. It is very important to listen to the vendor and build rapport. Confirm property details e.g. condition and layout, plot size, orientation of garden. Check for certificates of compliance for any extensions, planning permissions for conversions, right of way if applicable etc. Check if a BER available/provide details for approved assessors. Demonstrate your/the practice’s professional expertise, justify why you should get the instruction, discuss recent local sales and give your potential valuation. Discuss the sales fee, marketing fee and any additional charges e.g. professional photography, drone footage, virtual tours (walkthrough video, Matterport etc.) Ask how the vendor heard about you/your practice and why are they considering you for the sale. Where appropriate offer advice to help vendor increase potential sales price. (If possible, leave with signed Property Services Agreement/Letter of Engagement.) Thank you, send/email market appraisal, any queries/questions do get in touch and let the vendor know that we’ll be in touch in coming days. • Post appraisal – letter sent that pm/next morning with market appraisal; diary note to follow up. Check that market appraisal letter received and check for questions. If did not get sale, find out why not/debrief. If get the sale, email confirmation of instruction. Once PSRA sent and LOE returned signed = stage 2. Other details required – ID, proof of address, proof of ownership/title, solicitor details, BER certificate (refer to assessor if not available). All these should be uploaded to CRM. Stage 2 – Getting to ‘Sale Agreed’ Set up appointment to measure & photograph, note any special features e.g., upgraded kitchen, south-facing garden. Provide ideas for improving sales potential (declutter, painting, tidy garden etc. Check if has vendor potential buyers in mind already e.g., relations, friends, other parties interested. Seek vendor approval for photos/text of brochure. Check for access (tenants in situ/working from home etc) and confirm viewing times. If given a key for viewings – tag it! Check alarm codes & whether a sign is allowed on the property. Bring to market – upload to all websites e.g., daft/my home, in house websites and create window display. Match the property against your internal database of potential purchasers /CRM system. Set up appointments for viewings on CRM or arrange for open viewings. Confirm viewings with vendor & purchaser. Turn on lights, open windows, secure valuables, leave out brochures & business cards, bring viewings sheets to keep record of attendees. Introduce yourself and get attendee details. Let people view the property and address any questions. Point out key features. Record questions to be answered and any feedback from viewers. Ask are they selling property? Let viewers know of offers already received. Lock up/alarm property/close windows. Provide vendor with feedback on viewings - number of viewers / questions raised/overall reaction to property. Offers should be confirmed in writing & upload to on CRM/ offers will be input by bidders onto online bidding platforms ‘Proof of funds’ required for offers in some practices. Successful bidder will be chosen by vendor, who might want quick sale/no chain or prefer the highest bidder. Booking deposit will be sought from successful bidder. The amount varies by practice but must cover fees. Sales Advice Notice/letter should be sent to both solicitors (and may be cc’d to vendor/buyer or notify both that SAN have gone out). Booking deposit receipt should be issued. The BER certificate and report should go to the solicitor. Send requests for docs/info to successful bidder including steps they need to take to progress sale e.g., organise the bank valuation and/or schedule the survey. Once the deposit is paid the property is Sale Agreed, inform other bidders, and update all websites/sales board etc. Stage 3 – Getting to closing Access should be organised for the bank valuation/survey. Stay in touch with both solicitors ‘contract-chasing’ i.e., check when contracts are issued, signed and queries answered. Legal searches undertaken by the solicitors may include checking boundaries, land registry, title, rights of way, compliance certs etc. When contracts are signed 10% purchase price/booking deposit should be sent to the vendor’s solicitor. Once all queries satisfied = drawdown of mortgage/funding, house/life insurance in place. Title deeds will be requested once contract is signed. Decide final closing date. Check that the property taxes have been paid. Check that vendor has vacated the property. When vacant, conduct the final walkthrough and take final readings (MPRNs ). Check with solicitor if the drawn down funds h, and once received the solicitor gives authorisation to the estate agent to release the keys. The agent will do up invoice, send the balance of funds to solicitor and provide gift to purchaser. Finally remove sign, mark as sold on CRM, seek testimonials, upload to social media and close a/c on CRM The following days are a jumble of gunfire, digging, gobbled food, soldiers running in and out of the forest in small groups, distant explosions, stray shells, bandaged heads and unexpected lulls. On the very first day, before dawn, I am ordered into one of the newly dug trenches. I huddle there, squeezing my magic buttons and singing songs to the dog. When the fighting stops, the dog disappears, but a new companion takes his place. A strange little soldier crawls along the trench toward me. ‘Private Sasha!’ he cries. ‘I’ve been looking for you all day long!’ He’s old, like a grandfather, a dedushka. He has a black patch over one eye, a tape measure around his neck and a row of pins threaded into his sleeve. Hanging from his belt is the most enormous pair of scissors I have ever seen and I wonder if he uses them as a weapon. He doesn’t tell me his name, so in my head he becomes Dedushka. Dedushka squats, cups his hand to his ear, peers over the top of the trench and smiles. ‘It’s safe to be upright . . . for now.’ He helps me to my feet, dusts me off and commands me to stand as tall and straight as I can. Then he measures me. Everything from head to toe – even my toes! He writes numbers in a little notebook, strings his tape measure back around his neck, salutes and hurries away. It’s all very strange, and I wonder if Dedushka has been bumped on the head during the battle and is now a little bit muddled. I should have given him a hug before he left. I chase after him but stop when I’m hit by a shovelful of flying dirt. Sleepy Bear is digging a cave! ‘Are you going to hibernate?’ I ask. Sleepy Bear chuckles. ‘No, although that would be wonderful! I could do with a lo-o-o-ong sleep.’ He sighs and closes his eyes. He doesn’t open them again and I realise that he has gone to sleep. Standing up! I shake his arm, and he opens his eyes and keeps talking. ‘No, I’m not hibernating. I’m digging a little nook where I can sleep and eat. I’ll hang up my raincape as a door that can open and close so it feels just like a real home . . . except for the lice . . . and the bad smells . . . and the bombs that make the walls shake and crumble.’ He points further along the trench to where other soldiers are digging. ‘We’re all making little houses in the ground.’ ‘Like rabbits and moles,’ I say. Sleepy Bear chuckles. ‘Yes! And soldiers who need to hide from German bullets and bombs.’ He stops digging to roll a cigarette. ‘Should I be making a house?’ I ask. ‘I want to hide from German bullets and bombs, too.’ Sleepy Bear flops to the ground, lights his cigarette, closes his eyes and takes a deep puff. I wait for him to answer, but, instead, he begins to snore! I poke him in the side. He snorts and he murmurs, ‘I think someone has already built you a house, Sasha. Keep going along this beautiful village street and you are sure to find it.’ He falls asleep once more. I kiss his dusty cheek and whisper, ‘Thank you, Sleepy Bear.’ A little way along, I see Cook in a cloud of smoke. He has lit a fire, right here in the middle of the trench, and is stirring a cauldron full of kasha. He squats as he stirs. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. ‘Cooking supper, of course!’ he cries. ‘But why are you doing it here?’ Cook points his spoon at the ground above the trenches. ‘Because if I do it up there, my pot will be filled with holes from German bullets and all of the kasha will leak out onto the ground. It’s bad enough that our supplies can’t get through German lines and there’s nothing to cook but buckwheat for kasha. But if we lost the kasha, too . . .’ ‘Hungry soldiers,’ I say. Cook nods. ‘And grumpy!’ ‘Like Boris!’ I gasp. ‘Even worse,’ warns Cook. I picture the kasha pot full of bullet holes. And then I realise that if the kasha pot were full of holes, then Cook would be, too. I wrap my arms around Cook’s neck and say, ‘I think this is a very good place for cooking our supper.’ I kiss his smoky cheek and run along. At the end of the trench, I find the biggest hole of all. It’s wide and deep and as busy as a beehive in a blossom tree. Above, a group of soldiers is rolling logs into place for a roof, while below, typewriters rattle and pencils scratch and papers flutter and voices crackle out of five different radios. Their words tangle together to tell a strange wartime fairy tale about German guns and a loving father called Stalin and a Red Army regiment that is lost in the deep, dark forest and a wicked beast called Hitler and a delivery of vegetables that was hit by a bomb and blown into a million tiny pieces too small even to make soup. In the middle of it all, wrestling with a rumpled map, his rifle still slung over his shoulder, is Major Scruff. ‘Major Scruff!’ I run and jump into his arms. ‘Is this our new home?’ ‘Yes, Sasha. I suppose it is.’ ‘Is it safe from German bullets and bombs?’ I ask. He stares at me. ‘Were you scared in the trenches today, Sasha?’ ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I had magic buttons and a dog and some songs to sing. Were you scared in the forest, Major Scruff?’ ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Poor Major Scruff!’ I press my hand against his cheek. The dark, rough stubble is grubby with grit and his eyelids are taking a long time to open after every blink. ‘You need a shave and a nap!’ I scold. He chuckles. ‘I am too tired to shave and too busy to nap.’ I scrunch my nose while I consider his problem. ‘I know!’ I cry. ‘You nap and I will shave your whiskers. That will be two jobs tumbled into one!’ And so that’s what we do. Major Scruff slumps into a chair and snoozes while I lather his face with soapy water and shave his whiskers. The soap suds travel from his face, up into his hair and down the front of his uniform, and I have to shave his jaw and chin three times because I keep missing bits, but I finally get it all done. I am just wiping his cheeks dry when the dog appears. He licks my hand, then stretches up and licks soap suds from Major Scruff’s ear. Major Scruff wakes with a start. He feels his newly shaved face and cries, ‘Wonderful, Sasha! I feel smooth, clean, rested and ready for action.’ He ruffles my hair. ‘We must do this again tomorrow. Although next time, you might wake me with a gentle shake of the shoulder instead of licking my ear.’ “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.” What is an official invitation letter? The companies write a letter of invitation-business when they host business visitors from abroad or from the same region or country. The business visitors can be investors; potential buyers may be conference visitors, business partners, employees of any company, or mere individuals who come for training at the company’s facilities. If a company is inviting any visitor, a representative of that company must write the letter. Also, the firms must have some specific people who would sign the invitation letters. These letters are very much precise, only containing the necessary information. The invitation letter should state the name of the business organization they represent and their relationship to the host (e.g., distributor, regional sales reps, etc.). The letter should articulate the planned dates of travel, and must be formatted professionally. What is a personal invitation letter? A Personal invitation letter is a letter one writes to invite people to a party or a social gathering at a very personal level. It is a formal request asking for the person’s presence at the event that is going to take place. All the relevant details regarding the event like the reason, date, time and venue and the dress code, if any, must be provided in the invitation letters. This will keep the guests informed, and they will feel happy to attend the event. The style and tone of the letter would depend upon the relationship between the sender and receiver. Through the letter, you should be able to make the receiver feel that you highly value his/her presence at the party or the event. A personal invitation letter can be written to invite a person to a birthday party, wedding, conference, meeting, dinner, etc. Before writing the letter, make sure you have a list of people whom you would like to invite to the party or the event. How to Write an Invitation Letter Writing an invitation letter becomes easy and swift once you get through the tips and the format of the invitation letter provided below. Usually block, semi-block or a modified block format is used for official invitation letters. The important aspects of any invitation letters are date, time, salutations and closing. For more advice refer to the tips provided. Tips for Invitation Letter Writing ● Organize the Matter – Before you draft an invitation letter ensure that you have all the required material. This material refers to a list of the people to be invited, sequential order of the events, timings of the events, special guest, official documents, photocopies and any other required item. Some items may also need to be attached along with the letter, keep them alongside. Refer to these as and when required. All the relevant documents will help you in drafting the letter. ● Drafting – You don’t just write a letter straightway and post it. It has to be reviewed and finalized. One of these processes is drafting. Drafting ensures that your mistakes and their rectification aren’t passed on to the invitation itself. Make all the mistakes in the draft itself. Drafting an invitation letter is important as sometimes we may make mistakes that we are not able to see but they are visible to others. One may require a draft to be approved by seniors before it is finalized. A second opinion from a friend or peer etc. may be required as well to determine certain things. ● Politeness – You don’t need to be told that you have to use polite language while writing an invitation letter, why would you be rude when sending an invitation? True, but you have to remind yourself of certain manners and etiquettes required of an invitation. Your invitation is your initiative, not the recipients so you need to be gracious. Always begin the letter with a welcome note instead of straightforward information of the invitation. Words of respect and gratitude are symbols of courtesy and politeness, always expressing your gratitude in the beginning and the end of the letter. ● Positive Tone – The gesture of welcome and gratitude themselves are positive points of an invitation letter. Apart from these, gestures of appreciation and anticipation are other positive points which can persuade a guest to attend the event. When you show your appreciation and anticipation towards the recipient through your words, it is an acknowledgement of his importance and thereby a positive approach. Towards this effect two tenses are used within the invitation letter, the present and the future. The present tense conveys information about the event and the future tense conveys an anticipated presence of the guest. ● Offer Assistance – An invitation being the responsibility of the sender, the assistance to the recipient by default becomes a responsibility of the host. The more facilities you provide the better the chances of someone’s attendance. You can offer pick up and drop services, accommodation, meals, provide them contact numbers in case you are not present at the venue and other required assistance. Relevant facts like date, time and venue of the event in the beginning itself is itself assisting. These assistances encourage a positive response from the invitees. ● Special Instructions – Some occasions require special instructions for the guests. These instructions can be: 1. Dress code 2. Road or route map 3. Purpose of the occasion – birthday, honor, anniversary etc. 4. Return gift 5. Response or confirmation to the invitation 6. Attire and items required for the guest to bring 7. No eatables allowed 8. Entrance only by invitation 9. 2 people per pass 10. No weapons allowed ● Length of the Matter – A simple invitation letter will only contain only the relevant facts. A simple invitation letter features an introduction which allows the sender to introduce themselves and or the organization they represent. A simple background of the individual or company is enough. Though invitations are meant to be concise and straightforward, it isn’t necessary. You can vary the length as per your need and requirement. Wedding and party invitation letters are not lengthy as compared to visit and certain personal invitation letters. ● Using Letterhead – As a rule official Invitation letters require a letterhead. Letterhead represents the sender and its inclusion is authority established. If you have a pre printed letterhead then use that. Personal Invitation letters don’t require letterheads and one can use it as per one’s desire. ● Gesture of Appreciation – Next, the appreciation for the guest to attend an activity or event must be shown. This can be completed with a formal note, stating that you look forward to seeing the individual at the event. ● Don’t forget the Enclosure – Some requests require certain documents to be attached; these can be the photocopies of documents like agreements, hard copies of email received, earlier correspondence, receipts, warranty etc. Keep original copies of all your letters, faxes, e-mails, and other related documents. ● Closing the Letter – Start the letter with Gratitude and end it with the same. It is a professional and social courtesy. At the end of your last paragraph is written, a complimentary close of the likes of ‘Sincerely’, ‘Thank you’, ‘Truly’ is essential. Close the letter by restating your appreciation and gratitude. ● Proofreading – Check for - awkward phrases, grammatical errors, incomplete sentences and spelling mistakes. Fix them with appropriate punctuation and remove dull or lifeless sentences and replace them with clever phrasing, poetry or a themed approach. This is the final step; the draft will be reviewed and revised before it acquires a proper form. Read it aloud to yourself to figure out mistakes which are missed out in writing. ● Inform in Advance – Invitation letters need to be sent in advance. Try to send the invitation letter two weeks or more in advance. The recipient needs to know in advance so that they can adjust their schedules, book tickets or make other arrangements which are essential.