Anna tried to write the repeating decimal 0.666... as a fraction and got \frac{1}{6} . What mistake did Anna make, and what is the correct fraction?

Anna incorrectly thought the repeating decimal meant 1/6 . The correct fraction is \frac{2}{3} .

Anna correctly wrote 0.666... as \frac{1}{6} . However, she forgot to account for the repetend properly.

The correct fraction is \frac{1}{2} .

Anna is correct; 0.666... equals \frac{1}{6} .

Michael wrote the repeating decimal 0.8181... as a fraction and obtained \frac{8}{9} . What mistake did Michael make, and what is the correct fraction?

Michael incorrectly simplified the periodic part incorrectly. The correct fraction is \frac{9}{11} .

Michael made no mistake; 0.8181... is indeed \frac{8}{9} .

The correct fraction is \frac{1}{8} .

Michael correctly wrote 0.8181... as a fraction, but he might have swapped the numerator and the denominator.

Jessica converted the repeating decimal 0.272727... to a fraction and got \frac{27}{100} . What mistake did Jessica make, and what is the correct fraction?

Jessica treated the repeating decimal as a non-repeating fraction. The correct fraction is \frac{3}{11} .

Jessica swapped the numerator and denominator, so the correct fraction is \frac{100}{27} .

Jessica is correct; 0.272727... equals \frac{27}{100} .

Jessica's fraction should have been \frac{27}{99} .

Tom converted the repeating decimal 1.333... to a fraction and got \frac{4}{3} . What mistake did Tom make, and what is the correct fraction?

Tom correctly expressed the repeating decimal as \frac{4}{3} ; there is no mistake.

Tom didn't simplify correctly. The fraction is actually \frac{3}{4} .

Tom should have used \frac{1}{3} instead.

Tom incorrectly simplified. The correct fraction is \frac{13}{10} .

Emily converted the repeating decimal 0.444... to a fraction and got \frac{4}{11} . What mistake did Emily make, and what is the correct fraction?

Emily incorrectly simplified the fraction. The correct fraction is \frac{4}{9} .

Emily should have had \frac{5}{11} instead.

The correct fraction should be \frac{2}{5} .

Emily correctly converted it, so \frac{4}{11} is correct.

David converted the repeating decimal 0.585858... to a fraction and got \frac{58}{99} . What mistake did David make, and what is the correct fraction?

David made no mistake; \frac{58}{99} is the correct fraction.

The correct fraction is \frac{5}{9} .

David incorrectly simplified; the correct fraction is \frac{58}{11} .

David should have gotten \frac{29}{50} .

Sarah converted the repeating decimal 2.777... to a fraction and obtained \frac{27}{10} . What mistake did Sarah make, and what is the correct fraction?

Sarah improperly represented the repeating part. The correct fraction is \frac{25}{9} .

The correct fraction is \frac{27}{11} .

Sarah is correct; \frac{27}{10} is the accurate fraction.

Sarah's correct fraction should have been \frac{7}{9} .

Write repeating decimals as a fraction- grade 8

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.

To understand melody in music, think about some music you’re familiar with. If you were asked to hum it, what would that sound like? The part of the music that you’d hum is the melody. It’s the main thread of sound that your brain tracks and holds onto when you’re listening to music. In vocal music, the melody is sung by the lead singer. Other vocalists can provide harmony and instruments can add accompaniment, but the melody is the star of the show.What are the characteristics of melody in music? How do you describe a melody in music? A melody needs to have two things. The first is a sequence of notes, or pitches, which range from high to low. The second is rhythm, which is the timing and duration of each note. These two simple elements can create an incredible variety of combinations. Even though a melody only consists of one note at a time, it can convey so much energy and emotion. Melodies can be fast and sparkly, like “The Flight of the Bumblebee.” They can be slow and majestic, like “Finlandia.” They might be sweeping and graceful, like a Strauss waltz. Or they can be fun and exciting, like your favorite pop tunes that you love to sing along with. Melodies often tell you a lot about where a piece of music comes from. It’s easy to recognize and identify melodies from different folk traditions such as the Japanese folk song “Sakura” or the Irish tune “Star of the County Down.” Learn how to play your favorite melodies on piano, and more! Sign up now. What is melody in music? Here are some examples. Here is the famous melody for the song “Lean on Me” written out on a staff. Notice the way that the notes move up, down, and then repeat. What is melody in music? Example of Lean On Me notes on treble staff. A melody all by itself is great, but music can be even more fun when there’s an accompaniment. Here are a few bars of “Lean on Me” with the accompaniment written out. As you listen to this song, notice how the accompaniment has a very similar rhythm and movement to the melody. Then there’s that one note in the bass line that comes along every measure with its own rhythm, which adds some extra energy and movement to the song. What makes a good melody? When you create a melody, there are four types of movement you can use: Repeat (same note) Step (up or down) Skip (up or down) Leap (up or down) Stepping and repeating are the most common types of melodic motion, and this makes a melody easier to sing. Most “hummable” tunes use steps and repeats almost exclusively. This kind of melody is called conjunct. Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” one of the most famous melodies of all time.Skips and leaps are generally more sparing in melodies, but when thoughtfully placed they can have a powerful emotional impact. Tunes with a lot of leaps are called disjunct. Listen to Sarah Brightman sing All I Ask of You from The Phantom of the Opera starting at 0:39. This is a very disjunct melody, and challenging to sing. Great melodies also incorporate patterns that blend unity, repetition, and contrast. Our ears love patterns, but they also love novelty and growth. A good melody incorporates all of these elements. For example, listen to John William’s “Princess Leia Theme.” Can you hear the repeated pattern in the melody that gradually moves higher as the theme progresses? Now listen to the way it changes and develops into something that fits with what came before but sounds new at the same time. This is some great melodic writing! Can melody exist without rhythm? There is no way for a melody to exist without rhythm. Even if your melody only has one note, that note has a duration, and that’s the rhythm. If your melody has two notes, how long those notes last and how much time passes between hearing them is also a rhythm. A melody in music can often be recognized even when it’s performed with different rhythms. This frequently happens in live performances of pop, rock, and jazz, in which singers typically improvise slight rhythmic differences with each performance. No two renditions are exactly the same, and this constant reinterpretation keeps the music fresh. How to make a melody for a song on piano Creating your own melodies on the piano is easy and fun! There are so many ways you can discover a melody all your own. Here are a few ideas. Get some inspiration from the world around you. What can you hear right now? A clock ticking? A bird song? A car passing by your house? See if you can find some notes on the piano that imitate the sounds you hear. Think of a feeling you’d like to put into a melody. What are some ways you could make a string of notes sound happy, sad, angry, or maybe just thoughtful. Choose a line from a poem you like, or write your own. Read it out loud and put some feeling into it. Did your voice rise and fall in pitch as you were reading? Now go to the piano, start on any note you like, and try to imitate what happened when you read. Go up when your voice naturally went up, go down when your voice naturally went down. How did that sound? Now you have the perfect melody to go with those words. Too many keys on the piano? The truth is, most melodies use only a limited number of different notes. Try creating a melody using only the black keys. These form what’s called a pentatonic scale. It’s used in a lot of folk music traditions around the world and can be a great place to start if you want to create your own melodies. Remember, when you create your melody, keep it simple. Use repeated notes and steps, but add a few skips to keep things interesting. One tip about leaps: when you do put in a big leap, try doubling back and filling in the empty space you leaped over. This keeps the melody self-contained and easier to sing. Also, see if you can use the same patterns of notes and rhythms to give the melody unity, but also change those patterns to give it variety. There is no right or wrong way to create your own music. Keep trying combinations of notes and rhythms until you find something that you like. How many bars and notes are in a melody? Many types of music tend to have a prescribed number of bars, or measures. This will vary widely between different genres, and creates an overall sense of musical structure. If you’re writing a pop song, a verse will usually have between eight and sixteen bars. The prechorus that follows often has just four bars, and this “foreshortening” creates a sense of acceleration, driving the listener toward the chorus. The number of notes can also vary widely. A melody in music needs at least two notes, and a long and complex one can have hundreds or even thousands of notes. What is a countermelody in music? How many melodies should a song have? A counter melody is a melodic line that interacts with the primary melody as an independent but supportive voice. A great example of this is the song “We Don’t Talk about Bruno.” Each character sings their own melody during the piece, but these melodies all combine at the end as countermelodies. This produces a musical texture known as counterpoint. The same thing happens in “One Day More” from Les Miserables. The different melodies are first sung separately, but end up being combined in a splendid, complex texture that leads the music to its thrilling conclusion. The difference between a countermelody and regular harmony is that harmony usually supports the rhythms of the melody. A countermelody will move more independently, with different rhythms from those of the melody, and will often sound “melodic” when sung or played all by itself. A melodic song should have one main melody. This is the part that the lead voice sings. It’s usually in the spotlight, and will be the most memorable part of the music. Anything else is either harmony, countermelody, or accompaniment. Does all music have to have a melody? A piece of music doesn’t have to have a melody. There are many different kinds of music without melody. For example, a lot of music played on percussion instruments won’t have a melody. Listen to this example of Tahitian drumming. This is some great music, exciting and fun to listen to, but you’d have a hard time humming it. It’s music, but it doesn’t have a melody. Rap music is another style of music where there doesn’t have to be a melody. In rap, words are chanted rather than sung. The performer will raise and lower the pitch of their voice for emphasis, but it’s the rhythm of the words that creates most of the music. Music can even lack any melody, at least in some sections. Listen to the opening chords of “Duel of the Fates.” This choral passage is all about harmony, with little rhythmic variance or sense of melody. But it makes an effective contrast with the next section, which is bustling with rapid instrumental melodies. In some pieces, there are multiple melodic lines but there is no one main melody. When music is made up of equally important countermelodies, it creates a contrapuntal texture. Baroque composer J.S. Bach was one of the greatest masters of this style, such as in his Little Fugue in G minor. It starts with a single melodic line, the subject, but then a countermelody is added, and then more and more until several melodic lines are playing together. It’s fun to listen to, but once all the countermelodies are playing together it becomes hard to decide which part to hum along with! You’ll also hear a lot of counterpoint in jazz music, in which the different instruments are all playing together and improvising their own melodies that combine to create a rich, thick musical texture. Experience the wonder of melody in music! Whether you’re humming your favorite tune, or creating a new song all your own, melody is a memorable, shareable part of music. Enrich your music experience by being aware of, listening for, and enjoying the melodies all around you.

She went by the name of Belisa Crepusculario, not because she had been baptized with that name or given it by her mother, but because she herself had searched until she found the poetry of "beauty" and "twilight" and cloaked herself in it. She made her living selling words. She journeyed through the country from the high cold mountains to the burning coasts, stopping at fairs and in markets where she set up four poles covered by a canvas awning under which she took refuge from the sun and rain to minister to her customers. She did not have to peddle her merchandise because from having wandered far and near, everyone knew who she was. Some people waited for her from one year to the next, and when she appeared in the village with her bundle beneath her arm, they would form a line in front of her stall. Her prices were fair. For five centavos she delivered verses from memory, for seven she improved the quality of dreams, for nine she wrote love letters, for twelve she invented insults for irreconcilable enemies. She also sold stories, not fantasies but long, true stories she recited at one telling, never skipping a word. This is how she carried news from one town to another. People paid her to add a line or two: our son was born, so-and-so died, our children got married, the crops burned in the field. Wherever she went a small crowd gathered around to listen as she began to speak, and that was how they learned about each others' doings, about distant relatives, about what was going on in the civil war. To anyone who paid her fifty centavos in trade, she gave the gift of a secret word to drive away melancholy. It was not the same word for everyone, naturally, because that would have been collective dece it. Each person received his or her own word, with the assurance that no one else would use it that way in this universe or the Beyond. Belisa Crepusculario had been born into a family so poor they did not even have names to give their children. She came into the world and grew up in an inhospitable land where some years the rains became avalanches of water that bore everything away before them and others when not a drop fell from the sky and the sun swelled to fill the horizon and the world became a desert. Until she was twelve, Belisa had no occupation or virtue other than having withstood hunger and the exhaustion of centuries. During one interminable drought, it fell to her to bury four younger brothers and sisters, when she realized that her turn was next, she decided to set out across the 2 plains in the direction of the sea, in hopes that she might trick death along the way. The land was eroded, split with deep cracks, strewn with rocks, fossils of trees and thorny bushes, and skeletons of animals bleached by the sun. From time to time she ran into families who, like her, were heading south, following the mirage of water. Some had begun the march carrying their belongings on their back or in small carts, but they could barely move their own bones, and after a while they had to abandon their possessions. They dragged themselves along painfully, their skin turned to lizard hide and their eyes burned by the reverberating glare. Belisa greeted them with a wave as she passed, but she did not stop, because she had no strength to waste in acts of compassion. Many people fell by the wayside, but she was so stubborn that she survived to cross through that hell and at long last reach the first trickles of water, fine, almost invisible threads that fed spindly vegetation and farther down widened into small streams and marshes. Belisa Crepusculario saved her life and in the process accidentally discovered writing. In a village near the coast, the wind blew a page of newspaper at her feet. She picked up the brittle yellow paper and stood a long while looking at it, unable to determine its purpose, until curiosity overcame her shyness. She walked over to a man who was washing his horse in the muddy pool where she had quenched her thirst. "What is this?" she asked. "The sports page of the newspaper," the man replied, concealing his surprise at her ignorance. The answer astounded the girl, but she did not want to seem rude, so she merely inquired about the significance of the fly tracks scattered across the page. "Those are words, child. Here it says that Fulgencio Barba knocked out El Negro Tiznao in the third round." That was the day Belisa Crepusculario found out that words make their way in the world without a master, and that anyone with a little cleverness can appropriate them and do business with them. She made a quick assessment of her situation and concluded that aside from becoming a prostitute or working as a servant in the kitchens of the rich there were few occupations she was qualified for. It seemed to her that selling words would be an honorable alternative. From that moment on, she worked at that profession, and was never tempted by any other. At the beginning, she offered her merchandise unaware that words could be written outside of newspapers. When she learned otherwise, she calculated the infinite possibilities of her trade and with her savings paid a priest twenty pesos to teach her to read and write, with her three 3 remaining coins she bought a dictionary. She poured over it from A to Z and then threw it into the sea, because it was not her intention to defraud her customers with packaged words. One August morning several years later, Belisa Crepusculario was sitting in her tent in the middle of a plaza, surrounded by the uproar of market day, selling legal arguments to an old man who had been trying for sixteen years to get his pension. Suddenly she heard yelling and thudding hoofbeats. She looked up from her writing and saw, first, a cloud of dust, and then a band of horsemen come galloping into the plaza. They were the Colonel's men, sent under orders of El Mulato, a giant known throughout the land for the speed of his knife and his loyalty to his chief. Both the Colonel and El Mulato had spent their lives fighting in the civil war, and their names were ineradicably linked to devastation and calamity. The rebels swept into town like a stampeding herd, wrapped in noise, bathed in sweat, and leaving a hurricane of fear in their trail. Chickens took wing, dogs ran for their lives, women and children scurried out of sight, until the only living soul left in the market was Belisa Crepusculario. She had never seen El Mulato and was surprised to see him walking toward her. "I'm looking for you," he shouted, pointing his coiled whip at her, even before the words were out, two men rushed her -- knocking over her canopy and shattering her inkwell -- bound her hand and foot, and threw her like a sea bag across the rump of El Mulato's mount. Then they thundered off toward the hills. Hours later, just as Belisa Crepusculario was near death, her heart ground to sand by the pounding of the horse, they stopped, and four strong hands set her down. She tried to stand on her feet and hold her head high, but her strength failed her and she slumped to the ground, sinking into a confused dream. She awakened several hours later to the murmur of night in the camp, but before she had time to sort out the sounds, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into the impatient glare of El Mulato, kneeling beside her. "Well, woman, at last you've come to," he said. To speed her to her senses, he tipped his canteen and offered her a sip of liquor laced with gunpowder. She demanded to know the reason for such rough treatment, and El Mulato explained that the Colonel needed her services. He allowed her to splash water on her face, and then led her to the far end of the camp where the most feared man in all the land was lazing in a hammock strung between two trees. She could not see his face, because he lay in the deceptive shadow of the leaves and the indelible shadow of all his years as a bandit, but she imagined from the way his 4 gigantic aide addressed him with such humility that he must have a very menacing expression. She was surprised by the Colonel's voice, as soft and well-modulated as a professor's. "Are you the woman who sells words?" he asked. "At your service," she stammered, peering into the dark and trying to see him better. The Colonel stood up, and turned straight toward her. She saw dark skin and the eyes of a ferocious puma, and she knew immediately that she was standing before the loneliest man in the world. "I want to be President," he announced. The Colonel was weary of riding across that godforsaken land, waging useless wars and suffering defeats that no subterfuge could transform into victories. For years he had been sleeping in the open air, bitten by mosquitoes, eating iguanas and snake soup, but those minor inconveniences were not why he wanted to change his destiny. What truly troubled him was the terror he saw in people's eyes. He longed to ride into a town beneath a triumphal arch with bright flags and flowers everywhere, he wanted to be cheered, and be given newly laid eggs and freshly baked bread. Men fled at the sight of him, children trembled, and women miscarried from fright, he had had enough, and so he had decided to become President. El Mulato had suggested that they ride to the capital, gallop up to the Palace, and take over the government, the way they had taken so many other things without anyone's permission. The Colonel, however, did not want to be just another tyrant, there had been enough of those before him and, besides, if he did that, he would never win people's hearts. It was his aspiration to win the popular vote in the December elections. "To do that, I have to talk like a candidate. Can you sell me the words for a speech?" the Colonel asked Belisa Crepusculario. She had accepted many assignments, but none like this. She did not dare refuse, fearing that El Mulato would shoot her between the eyes, or worse still, that the Colonel would burst into tears. There was more to it than that, however, she felt the urge to help him because she felt a throbbing warmth beneath her skin, a powerful desire to touch that man, to fondle him, to clasp him in her arms. All night and a good part of the following day, Belisa Crepusculario searched her repertory for words adequate for a presidential speech, closely watched by El Mulato, who could not take his eyes from her firm wanderer's legs and virginal breasts. She discarded harsh, cold words, words 5 that were too flowery, words worn from abuse, words that offered improbable promises, untruthful and confusing words, until all she had left were words sure to touch the minds of men and women's intuition. Calling upon the knowledge she had purchased from the priest for twenty pesos, she wrote the speech on a sheet of paper and then signaled El Mulato to untie the rope that bound her ankles to a tree. He led her once more to the Colonel, and again she felt the throbbing anxiety that had seized her when she first saw him. She handed him the paper and waited while he looked at it, holding it gingerly between thumbs and fingertips. "What the shit does this say," he asked finally. "Don't you know how to read?" "War's what I know," he replied. She read the speech aloud. She read it three times, so her client could engrave it on his memory. When she finished, she saw the emotion in the faces of the soldiers who had gathered round to listen, and saw that the Colonel's eyes glittered with enthusiasm, convinced that with those words the presidential chair would be his. "If after they've heard it three times, the boys are still standing there with their mouths hanging open, it must mean the thing's damn good, Colonel" was El Mulato's approval. "All right, woman. How much do I owe you?" the leader asked. "One peso, Colonel." "That's not much," he said, opening the pouch he wore at his belt, heavy with proceeds from the last foray. "The peso entitles you to a bonus. I'm going to give you two secret words," said Belisa Crepusculario. "What for?" She explained that for every fifty centavos a client paid, she gave him the gift of a word for his exclusive use. The Colonel shrugged. He had no interest at all in her offer, but he did not want to be impolite to someone who had served him so well. She walked slowly to the leather stool where he was sitting, and bent down to give him her gift. The man smelled the scent of a mountain cat issuing from the woman, a fiery heat radiating from her hips, he heard the terrible whisper of her hair, and a breath of sweetmint murmured into his ear the two secret words that were his alone. "They are yours, Colonel," she said as she stepped back. "You may use them as much as you 6 please." El Mulato accompanied Belisa to the roadside, his eyes as entreating as a stray dog's, but when he reached out to touch her, he was stopped by an avalanche of words he had never heard before; believing them to be an irrevocable curse, the flame of his desire was extinguished. During the months of September, October, and November the Colonel delivered his speech so many times that had it not been crafted from glowing and durable words it would have turned to ash as he spoke. He travelled up and down and across the country, riding into cities with a triumphal air, stopping in even the most forgotten villages where only the dump heap betrayed a human presence, to convince his fellow citizens to vote for him. While he spoke from a platform erected in the middle of the plaza, El Mulato and his men handed out sweets and painted his name on all the walls in gold frost. No one paid the least attention to those advertising ploys; they were dazzled by the clarity of the Colonel's proposals and the poetic lucidity of his arguments, infected by his powerful wish to right the wrongs of history, happy for the first time in their lives. When the Candidate had finished his speech, his soldiers would fire their pistols into the air and set off firecrackers, and when finally they rode off, they left behind a wake of hope that lingered for days on the air, like the splendid memory of a comet's tail. Soon the Colonel was the favorite. No one had ever witnessed such a phenomenon: a man who surfaced from the civil war, covered with scars and speaking like a professor, a man whose fame spread to every corner of the land and captured the nation's heart. The press focused their attention on him. Newspapermen came from far away to interview him and repeat his phrases, and the number of his followers and enemies continued to grow. "We're doing great, Colonel," said El Mulato, after twelve successful weeks of campaigning. But the Candidate did not hear. He was repeating his secret words, as he did more and more obsessively. He said them when he was mellow with nostalgia; he murmured them in his sleep; he carried them with him on horseback; he thought them before delivering his famous speech; and he caught himself savoring them in his leisure time. And every time he thought of those two words, he thought of Belisa Crepusculario, and his senses were inflamed with the memory of her feral scent, her fiery heat, the whisper of her hair, and her sweetmint breath in his ear, until he began to go around like a sleepwalker, and his men realized that he might die before he ever sat in the presidential chair. "What's got hold of you, Colonel," El Mulato asked so often that finally one day his chief broke 7 down and told him the source of his befuddlement: those two words that were buried like two daggers in his gut. "Tell me what they are and maybe they'll lose their magic," his faithful aide suggested. "I can't tell them, they're for me alone," the Colonel replied. Saddened by watching his chief decline like a man with a death sentence on his head, El Mulato slung his rifle over his shoulder and set out to find Belisa Crepusculario. He followed her trail through all that vast country, until he found her in a village in the far south, sitting under her tent reciting her rosary of news. He planted himself, spraddle-legged, before her, weapon in hand. "You! You're coming with me," he ordered. She had been waiting. She picked up her inkwell, folded the canvas of her small stall, arranged her shawl around her shoulders, and without a word took her place behind El Mulato's saddle. They did not exchange so much as a word in all the trip; El Mulato's desire for her had turned into rage, and only his fear of her tongue prevented his cutting her to shreds with his whip. Nor was he inclined to tell her that the Colonel was in a fog, and that a spell whispered into his ear had done what years of battle had not been able to do. Three days later they arrived at the encampment, and immediately, in view of all the troops, El Mulato led his prisoner before the Candidate. "I brought this witch here so you can give her back her words, Colonel," El Mulato said, pointing the barrel of his rifle at the woman's head. "And then she can give you back your manhood." The Colonel and Belisa Crepusculario stared at each other, measuring one another from a distance. The men knew then that their leader would never undo the witchcraft of those accursed words, because the whole world could see the voracious-puma eyes soften as the woman walked to him and took his hand in hers. Copyright © 1989 by Isabel Allende From The Stories of Eva Luna, Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden

“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.”

Recognize the Dangers Revealing personal data can lead to threats like identity theft, fraud, bullying, and blackmail. Example: If someone knows your bank details, they could steal your money. Task: Write down one way you could be harmed by sharing personal data. 1.Identity Theft Definition: Identity theft occurs when someone steals your personal information and uses it without your permission. This can include your name, Social Security number, or bank details. Example: If someone gets your Social Security number, they could open a credit card in your name and run up bills that you would have to pay.2.Fraud Definition: Fraud is when someone deceives another person to gain something of value, like money or personal information. This is often done through lies or tricks. Example: A person might call you pretending to be from your bank and tell you that you need to confirm your account details. If you give them your information, they may steal your money. 3. Bullying Definition: Bullying is when someone repeatedly hurts, threatens, or picks on another person. This can happen in person or online (cyberbullying). Example: If someone sends hurtful messages or spreads rumors about you on social media, that’s a form of bullying. 4. Blackmail Definition: Blackmail is when someone threatens to reveal harmful or embarrassing information about you unless you give them something they want, usually money or favors. Example: If someone takes a private photo of you and threatens to share it unless you pay them, that’s blackmail.

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.

France was ruled by an Absolute Monarch named King Louis XVI. Everyone in France belonged to one of three social classes called estates. The clergy were the First Estate; the nobles were in the Second Estate. These two estates were very wealthy and did not have to pay taxes. The Third Estate made up most of French society. The Third Estate paid heavy taxes and had few rights. Enlightenment ideas led many French people to question the way things were done. As life grew worse in France, demands for reforms increased. In 1789, King Louis XVI called the Estates General. The Estates General was a meeting of all 3 Estates. The Third Estate made up the National Assembly after their demands were ignored by the other Estates. The National Assembly voted to write a new constitution. The Declaration of the Rights of Man was a document that said all men have natural rights and be treated equally. In 1792, radicals took control of the Assembly. Their slogan was “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity”. The next year, King Louis XVI was executed by guillotine. This was the beginning of the Reign of Terror. The Reign of Terror was led by Maximilien Robespierre. Over 10,000 people were killed or jailed for not supporting the revolution. The Reign of Terror ended when Robespierre was executed. Napoleon took control in 1799. He organized a new government and put himself in charge with absolute power. Napoleon conquered most of Europe replacing monarchs with his friends and family. Napoleon’s empire began to crumble when he invaded Russia. Most of Napoleon’s army was lost during the long Russian winter.

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