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This property has been sold.Search for Available Property.
Beautiful three bedroom three bathroom brick home well suited for entertaining or for large family gatherings located across from the ninth fairway of the City Of Giddings Municipal Golf Course in Giddings, Texas. This home features a formal living area with large sitting area and room to accommodate two grand pianos, a formal dining room with fireplace, vaulted ceiling and seating capacity of twelve, an open kitchen/den/breakfast area great for conversation or television before, during or after meals, a formal master bedroom/bathroom complete with private sitting area, earth stove on brick hearth, built-in book shelves and storage, private courtyard and large walk-in closet. Other features of this home include recently replaced carpet and tile floor covering, a covered patio for outdoor entertaining, a storage building, an in ground automatic sprinkler system and a two car garage with additional space for work area.
From the intersection of Hwy 290 & Hwy 77 in downtown Giddings, Texas travel East on Hwy 290 for 2.3 miles to CR 226 (Red light at seed lab). Turn Right on CR 226 and travel south for 2.5 miles to CR 227 (Giddings Golf Course). Turn Left on CR 227 traveling in front of Golf Course/Club House (90 degree turn to right in front of club house then continue up the 9th fairway on left to subject property on Right side of CR 227 across from & 9th Fairway near Tee Box.
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NOTE: The information contained herein is provided as general information only and has been obtained from sources deemed reliable. It is provided without any guaranty, warranty or representation, expressed or implied, made by Lands of America, or any related entity, as to the accuracy or completeness of the information. The information is presented subject to errors, omissions, change of price or conditions, prior sale or withdrawal without notice. Prospective purchasers should make their own investigations, projections and conclusions concerning the information.


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The Daewoo Shipbuilding and Marine Engineering (DSME) yard in South Korea has ordered a total of 54 Wärtsilä dual fuel engines to power 172,600 cbm icebreaking LNG carriers being built for use in arctic conditions to serve the Yamal LNG project in Northern Russia.
The ships will be owned by one joint venture between Teekay LNG Partners of Canada and China LNG Shipping (CLNG), and another joint venture between China Shipping LNG Investment Co.,Ltd. (CSLNG) and Japan based Mitsui O.S.K. The order for engines was placed with Wärtsilä's Korean joint venture company, Wärtsilä Hyundai Engine Co., (WHEC) in October.
The Wärtsilä machinery is capable of operating on liquefied natural gas (LNG), heavy fuel oil (HFO), or low-viscosity marine diesel oil (MDO) but LNG will be the main type of fuel to be used. When operating in arctic waters the engines will be operating in ambient temperatures of as much as minus 50 degrees Celsius on LNG carriers breaking through ice more than two metres thick, in operating modes that allow dramatic variations in engine load within a limited period of time. Wärtsilä's ability to meet these demanding design criteria was a key factor in the award of this contract.
Wärtsilä Corporation
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Schlumberger has announced an agreement to acquire a majority (51%) equity interest in Eurasia Drilling Company Limited.
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subset: commoncrawl


text:
Volleyball Topped by Temple, 3-1
Colonials Drop Seventh Straight in Series With Owls
Oct. 5, 2002
WASHINGTON, DC - Temple junior Xu Yun smashed 26 kills and hit .468 to lead Temple past GW, 28-30, 30-24, 30-15, 30-25, in an Atlantic 10 clash Saturday afternoon at Smith Center. It marked the Colonials' seventh straight loss to the Owls spanning the last four seasons.
Juniors Ruth Lazzari (Seal Beach, CA/Connelly) and Sarah Hokom (Caldwell, ID/Caldwell) paced the Colonials with 13 kills each. Hokom added a team-high 17 digs for her seventh straight double-double in the one-hour, 52-minute match on Parents and Alumni Weekend.
Temple (13-5, 5-0 A-10) hit .249 as a team with 68 kills compared to .045 for GW (43 kills).
After a pair of classic battles in games one and two, the third game was closely contested early before a sharp momentum shift occurred in favor of the Owls. With Temple clinging to an 12-10 lead, the Owls' Yamit Haba chased down a deflected attack well beyond the endline and kicked the ball back over her head. Her teammates converted the miraculous save into a kill and Temple cruised to a 30-15 victory.
GW last defeated the Owls on November 14, 1998 but still leads the all-time series, 31-23.
GW (10-7, 2-2) hosts Georgetown in a local non-conference rivalry Tuesday at 7:00 p.m. at Smith Center. Georgetown is coached by former GW standout Liu Li.
More Headlines
Volleyball's Osuchukwu and Brown Honored with Postseason Awards
Senior duo honored on All-Conference Second Team and All-Academic Team, respectively
Volleyball Rallies for #RevRivalry and Senior Day Win
Colonials erase 2-0 deficit to deliver Ault's 100th win
Volleyball Falls at Rhode Island, 3-1
Osuchukwu Totals 11 Blocks; Colonials Visit Fordham on Sunday
Volleyball Hosts Senior Day and #RevRivalry on Saturday
Colonials to honor senior quartet prior to regular-season finale
Volleyball Concludes Road Schedule at Fordham
Rams Top Colonials, 3-1
Volleyball Set for Final Road Swing
Colonials still in playoff hunt as they visit Rhode Island and Fordham this weekend
@GW_Volleyball's Streak Snapped in Five-Set Loss to Duquesne
Osuchukwu and Moor Combine to Hit .534 with 33 Kills
@GW_Volleyball Sweeps La Salle for Third Straight Win
Clark and Moor Post 10 Kills Each; Colonials Host Duquesne on Saturday Night


text:
|By Protorazor
|More from Protorazor
|"Fire is life... not just destruction."
|— Part of the Sun Warrior philosophy imparted by the Sun Warrior chief to Aang in The Firebending Masters.
|Regrets Of A Fire Lord
|Chapter information
|Written by
|Release date
16 May, 2011
|Last chapter
I was on a dragon, seeing the whole temple burn. I can hear people, screaming for their lives. I can see children, dead and burning. I can see my soldiers, some of them are celebrating this "victory". Most of them, however, are dead. For me, it was anything but victory. The Avatar has escaped. Then, I saw my parents, also riding a dragon. My father told me this, " Sozin, are you proud of your accomplishment? You killed thousands of people so that, your so called prosperity can spread. Shame on you!". Guilt is eating me. I'm guilty.
I woke up, crying. I knew I did something wrong. I killed, I slaughtered, for self gain. I walked into my balcony, to see my son, Azulon, staring at the sky.
"Father, when will we burn the Earth Kingdom" asked my son.
I was speechless, I had not realized that my son has been turned into a cold-blooded man.
What have I done to my son! I have turned him into a monster!
I'm guilty.
And guilt...
eats you alive.
"Fire Lord Sozin, I congratulate you for your stunning victory. You wiped out the Air Nomads," said General Tao Lee.
"Thank you, general, but I failed to find and kill the Avatar."
Silence filled the room. I have not told them that.
"Then we must find him, my Lord," said Admiral Yuyan Shi.
"YOU THINK I HAVEN'T THOUGHT OF THAT ALREADY!!!!" I shouted, my frustration rising.
"Sorry, my Lord. I did not meant that as insult," said Yuyan Shi.
I quickly left the War Room, Let them plot the next move, I don't care! I briskly walked to the Messenger's Room. I retrieved my messenger hawk, Arrow, and I returned to my room. I took some paper and ink, then I began to write.
Captain Odai Gyashi,
I order you to gather the Elite Firebender Team. Do this as soon as you receive this letter. Do not fail me, captain.
Fire Lord Sozin
I quickly put the short letter into Arrow's holder. The bird immediately flew away. I walked back to War Room, and silence returned in the said room.
"I am leaving immediately after this meeting. I will personally hunt down the Avatar!" I shouted, " Azulon, my son, you shall take command of my armies until my return. Do you accept your task?"
"Yes father," answered my son.
I am now on a ship, with my chosen soldiers. Our task is to find the Avatar, and we must go all over the world for that to be possible.
I regret my decision to start this war. Forgive me Roku, forgive me. And for my son, I cannot change his attitude. The best I can do for him is capture and kill the Avatar, so that my son will have a stable, if bloody, reign.
I regret.
My second next fanon will talk about a soldier that fought in The War. And his name will be familiar.
See more
For the collective works of the author, go here.


text:
Mobile development
Ngân sách tối thiểu $50000 USD
I need a mobile site. I would like it designed and built.
52 freelancer đang chào giá trung bình $53320 cho công việc này
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We are a London (Shoreditch) based web development studio. Please get in touch to discuss further. Following are some of our recent projects; https://postlater.co/ A social media post scheduler and manager Thêm
Hi there, Kindly provide some more details on your website so that we can get the idea about the main goals and the purpose of the website. Once we have all the list of the features and their significance then we wo Thêm


text:
Vladimir Build Guide by Wolf Ramus
Not Updated For Current Season
This guide has not yet been updated for the current season. Please keep this in mind while reading. You can see the most recently updated guides on the browse guides page.
Vladimir Build
Ability Sequence
Not Updated For Current Season
The masteries shown here are not yet updated for the current season, the guide author needs to set up the new masteries. As such, they will be different than the masteries you see in-game.
Take Golems first, that way when you go for red solo, you can use the stun to further kite damage, and once you've reached level 6 and have all four abilities, you can use the power of omnipresince to gank whatever lane you think could be easily pressured. Remember to save w's early game for escapes, and mid-late game (once you have cinderhulk, and rabadon's) you will be able to tank all save turrets and dish-out massive damage.


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PIKO celebrated the upcoming release of their new BR 118 diesel locomotive with a "Roll Out" event for selected members of the press.
The press release is available in German only, but you'll find a nice selection of photos at the bottom of the page: piko.de – Roll Out: Gartenbahn Diesellok BR 118 #37570 [DE].
The BR 118 will be released next month, and will cost € 450,00 (MSRP).
Source: PIKO


text:
Occidental Petroleum Corporation says that at year-end 2014, the company's preliminary worldwide proved reserves totaled 2.82 billion barrels of oil equivalent (BOE) compared to 2.74 billion BOE at the end of 2013, restated to exclude California Resources Corporation. In 2014, the company had proved reserve additions from all sources of 380 million BOE, compared to production of 218 million BOE, for a production replacement ratio of 174 percent.
The preliminary domestic proved reserves totaled 1.78 billion BOE compared to 1.67 billion BOE at the end of 2013. In 2014, the domestic operations had proved reserve additions from all sources of 308 million BOE, compared to production of 116 million BOE, for a production replacement ratio of 266 percent.
"We are pleased to have replaced 174 percent of our 2014 production largely through improved recovery and extensions and discoveries. Over the last three years, we replaced 169 percent of our production. Our 2014 program resulted in apparent finding and development costs of $16.89 per BOE. For the last three-year period, our finding and development costs averaged about $18.66 per BOE including revisions," said Stephen I. Chazen, President and Chief Executive Officer.
Occidental Petroleum Corporation
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text:
From October 21, 2016 2:00 pm until October 21, 2016 5:00 pm
9th Annual
View photos from 2016 Trick or Treat Here!
Friday October 21, 2-5pm
STARTING LOCATION: Lesher Center for the Arts, 1601 N. Civic Drive
Calling all goblins, superheroes, princesses & witches!
You're invited to creep through downtown collecting Halloween
treats from participating businesses while you visit booths and businesses.
WCD encourages participants to be eco-friendly...
Please bring your own favorite candy bag!
San Francisco Creamery Company
Walnut Creek Library Foundation
Walnut Creek Pediatric Dentistry
Wax Parlor and Skin Care
Woodhouse Day Spa
Begin your afternoon of fun at the starting location to pick up a
map of participating businesses between 2:00pm-4:30pm.
Children 10 & under must be accompanied by an adult.
Convenient parking available at the following city parking garages:
1625 Locust St. (next door to the Lesher Center)
1350 Locust St. (between Mt. Diablo Blvd. & Cypress St.)
Metered Parking throughout Downtown Walnut Creek
We look forward to welcoming you to this whimsical & ghoulish event!
Special note: Broadway Plaza has their own Trick-or-Treat event that takes place on October 31st.
Participating Business/Sponsor forms:
Registration & Sponsor Form


text:
The Korean Peninsular is divided between north and south, making Korea one of the only divided country in the world.
Korea has four distinct seasons, with each offering unique and beautiful landscapes. In the spring, forsythia, cherry blossom, azalea and many other flowers are in full bloom; in the summer, people travel in numbers to the coasts to enjoy their vacation on the beach; in the fall, the mountains put on a fascinating coat of crimson leaves; and in the winter, the land is covered with snow.
The capital of Korea is Seoul, and the government is led by Park Geun-hye, elected in 2013 as the first woman president of the country.
The Korean economy is driven by the manufacturing and exports including ships, automobiles, mobile phones, PCs, TVs, and other electronics to countries all around the world. Korea has enjoyed rapid economic growth thanks in large part to its export-focused strategy. In 2012, Korea's GDP was USD$1.16 trillion based on IMB statistics. Today, the nation boasts the 15th largest economy in the world. Recently, Korean dramas and movies are also widely exported thanks to the popularity of Korean pop culture. K-pop stars are also active on the world stage.
The Korean population reached 51 million as of May 2013 (based on the statistics of the Ministry of Security and Public Administration), with a large proportion living in major metropolitan areas. To disperse the population to regions outside the metropolitan cities, the Korean government is relocating many government organizations to locations outside of Seoul, with the process set to be completed in 2014.
|Official Name
|Republic of Korea (South Korea)
|Capital City
|33°~43° N latitude & 124°~131° E longitude (Entire Korean Peninsula)
|99,720 (South Korea)
|51 million (2013)
Continental and monsoonal climate characterized by four distinct seasons
|Economic Status
|Time Zone
|1 hour faster than Malaysia (GMT+9)
|Monetary Unit
|Korean Won (₩)
|Exchange Rate
|RM1 = ₩293.05, U$1 = 1,236.25 (as of Feb 2016)
|Units of Measure
|Metric system
|On the right
|Leading Companies
|Samsung Electronics, Hyundai-Kia Motors, POSCO, LG Electronics, etc.
| - New Year's Day : 1 Jan
- Seollal : 8-10 Feb
- Samiljeol (Independence Movement Day) : 1 Mar
- Children's Day : 5 May
- Buddha's Birthday (8 April of the lunar calendar) : 14 May
- Hyeonchungil (Memorial Day) : 6 Jun
- Gwangbokjeol (National Liberation Day) : 15 Aug
- Chuseok, Autumn Harvest Day (15 Aug. of the lunar calendar) : 14-16 Sep
- Gaecheonjeol (National Foundation Day) : 3 Oct
- Hangeullal (Korean Alphabet Day) : 9 Oct
- Christmas : 25 Dec


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Mustad Classic O' Shaughnessy Stainless Steel Forged Hooks - 100 Count
Owner All Purpose SSW with Cutting Point
Owner Saltwater Mutu Light Circle Hooks
Eagle Claw Classic Nickel 2X Long Shank Hooks - 2/0 - 100 Count
Eagle Claw 4x Lazer Sharp Black Treble Hooks - 50 Pack
Eagle Claw 4x Lazer Sharp Treble Hooks - 50 Pack
Sea Striker Pier/Bridge Gaff - 14/0 - Weight Mustad Hook
Gamakatsu Round 26 Jighead - 500411- 1/8-Ounce - 5-Count
For tips from the pros, fishing reports, free classes, sales, and more!
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text:
I'm staring at another bad hand in another losing round of Canasta with my wife, and I can't remember if I cut the deck. The memory is buried somewhere in my beer-soaked brain, but all I see when I try to find it is Priscilla shuffling those worn out Bicycles in her fancy bridge style that sounds like dead leaves blowing across a cold November road.
She knows I hate that racket, but she does it anyway because it's part of her "winning ritual," as she calls it. Fourteen bridge shuffles. Always fourteen, because "thirteen is unlucky and fifteen is too many," she once explained, as if seven, ten, or twelve weren't enough.
Ordinarily, she'd slap the shuffled deck in front of me to cut before handing us each fifteen cards, flicking them out in a blur like someone who'd missed her calling as a Vegas dealer, but I somehow missed that part on this last deal. I look over at her now, the score pen tucked behind her ear, her shoulders square, the corner of her mouth tucked into her trademark devilish smirk revealing a dimple that was never there when she smiled out of happiness or good will, and something clicks into place. She had asked me to get up and stir the stew as she shuffled a couple minutes ago, and my cards were waiting for me when I sat back down. I'm pretty sure I didn't cut the deck.
Still, maybe I'm wrong. I'm on my sixth beer and feeling pretty sour. I'm also not thinking so much about playing cards right now. Instead, I'm thinking that if she wins this next hand, I'm going to kill her. And I don't mean it in a playful way either. I have murder on my mind for the first time in forty years of marriage, and it doesn't trouble me a bit. The idea of choking her or bashing in her self-righteous skull is dancing in my head like Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse.
She flips over the top card on that uncut deck, revealing the two of clubs. A wild card. That means the pile is locked to anyone who wants to pick it up, unless either of us has a pair of whatever's on top. Of course, I never have that magic pair when I need it, but Priscilla always does. I can't see her hand to know for sure, but it's how the game always goes once the cards are in someone's favor. And when it comes to Canasta, the cards are always in Priscilla's favor.
"Look at it this way, Bernard," she says as she fans out her cards, sorting them with her nimble fingers and her gimlet eye. "I need a hundred and twenty points to go down. You got a better chance than me to pick that up." She tries to soften the blow, but all the while that dimple in her smirk grows deeper and I know my takedown is imminent. Meanwhile my heart's pounding in my eardrums to the beat of the ticking grandfather clock in the front sitting room.
My cards are shit. Small junk, no wild cards to help me out. I'm already over two thousand points behind, and there's little use in playing anymore, but she'd gloat all damn night if I bowed out early. If I play till she breaks five thousand, she'll drop the smirk sometime after dinner. Then we'll watch 60 Minutes—Priscilla loves that damn show—and head up to bed. And if she's in a good mood, which she always is when she wins, she'll probably even put out a little. This has been our routine so long, I can hardly remember a Sunday when I wasn't holding these cards in my hand.
Tonight is different, though. Maybe it's the beer talking in my head, or that damn smirk of hers, or that bridge shuffle echoing between my ears like the fleshy wings of a busy bat colony, but my dust is up and I'm pretty sure there isn't going to be any 60 Minutes or humping tonight.
It's only after she draws her second red three, one of those "death by a thousand cuts" moves that always makes me hate this damn game, that I decide to confront the issue blaring in my mind like the horn of a semi truck. "Did I cut the cards?"
Priscilla glances up from her cards and then back down again. "Yes, of course."
She's lying. You don't spend forty years with someone and not pick up on the little tells. The flick of an eyelash can betray an entire affair, and her clipped "yes, of course" just exposed her disappointment over being busted.
"I'm not so sure I did," I say.
She heaves a sigh, like I'm a whiny toddler instead of her husband. "Oh Bernard, if it'll make you feel better, we can re-deal the hand I guess. But I was just about to go out. Don't you want to get this over with and have dinner?"
A bitter taste enters my mouth. "So you admit you didn't have me cut the deck then?"
"Can't you remember cutting the deck, or is the Budweiser making your brain foggy?" She's going for the insults, hoping to distract me. It's a typical Priscilla technique when she doesn't want to admit she's wrong. But I'm not having it tonight.
"You're the dealer, Priss. You're supposed to make sure the cards are cut before you hand them out."
She rolls her eyes. "It hardly matters, does it? We're almost done here. Let's just play this out and eat our dinner."
That's easy for her to say. She's winning. She's always winning. But I know if the tables were turned and she was down after a misdeal, she'd be screaming for a do-over. I'm fed up with her attitude. I'm fed up with losing. It wasn't just when we played cards either. She was the same way when we argued over politics or when she twisted my arm to go to mass at St. Mark's every Sunday. Priscilla's always keen on beating me down to get her way.
"Since you didn't see me cut the cards, and since I don't remember cutting the cards, I think you ought to re-deal them then," I tell her. "What you got there is a bad hand."
Her cheeks flush red and I know she's pissed off. "It's just like you to turn into a real foo-head when you're getting beat." Foo-head. A classic Priscilla-ism, that. She folds her cards and slaps them down on the table hard enough to rattle the flamingo-shaped salt and pepper shakers. "Would it make your behind feel less chapped if you shuffled them then?" She shoves her cards at me. Several of them sail off the edge and onto the floor. I notice three wild cards in the bunch. One of the jokers stares up at me with malice painted on its face. I can see why she's mad, but I feel nothing but satisfaction as I collect the cards.
"Fine, I'll deal. But I ain't gonna wait all night to eat dinner either. We can eat and play."
"Isn't that just typical? Throwing off the game and our whole evening because you're losing."
I ignore her dig and go to the cupboard to grab a bowl. They're the heavy crockery kind. Ugly as hell too, the color of overripe cantaloupe. Priscilla's choice, of course, only she calls it "sunset coral." They're part of a set with teal coffee mugs and yellow dinner plates. We live in central Iowa, but everything in this house says we live in a Florida Keys flea market. "I don't plan on throwing any game. I just want to play fair. And I'm hungry."
She sighs again. Oh God, that sigh of hers. If she did it any harder, she'd spit up a hairball. "I can't believe this. We'd both be having a peaceful dinner right now if you weren't such a damn baby. Pour some into the tureen while you're up. Might as well bring enough for us both."
I slop a mess of stew into the big tureen sitting beside the pot. Priscilla always insists on using her fancy serving dishes, even when it's just the two of us. To me it's just another thing to wash. The stew looks like dog food with a few pieces of carrot and potato floating in it, and it's probably heavy on the salt. One time I asked her to go easy on the seasoning as it aggravates my acid reflux. She went to the bathroom and came back with a bottle of Pepcid and said, "Good cooking won't take a backseat to your picky digestive system, Bernard."
With the tureen, bowls, and silverware on the table, I grab a loaf of bread, a tub of margarine, and another beer out of the fridge before I sit back down.
As I deal the cards, I wonder if I should've just let her keep that bad hand. The game would be over, and we'd be eating ice cream in front of the TV. But I was bothered. Maybe she didn't set out to cheat, but she lied to me when I asked about the deck. She lied. And now I see this nasty creature crouched inside her that I didn't notice before. It's petulant and dishonest, and I can't un-see it now no matter how hard I try.
I shuffle the cards and after she cuts them I deal out fifteen a piece. She fans out her hand and her trademark smirk all of a sudden becomes a frown, then a pout. My hand, by contrast, is the best I've had the whole game. Hell, in months. The joker's face that had earlier been grinning at me from the carpet is now sitting next to two others, along with five queens and a few other pairs. It's a concealed hand. I could go out now and be up a few points and take her down a few pegs while I'm at it, but I decide to draw it out a little longer so I can close the gap some more.
Over the next few turns, I pick up two more queens from the draw pile, which is almost enough for a natural canasta—seven pretty ladies all in a row. All of it hinges on whether I can draw that seventh queen or whether Priscilla discards one. Meanwhile, she hasn't put down anything, and she's huffing and groaning with every draw.
"I suppose you're feeling pretty good about yourself now." She glares at me with icy blues that snuff out any remaining warmth between us. It reminds me of what my Granny said when she always used to kicked my butt at Gin Rummy: there ain't no such thing as two friends playing cards. And right now, with a stare that could freeze over Lake Erie, Priscilla is no friend of mine.
Each card I pick up is the right one, and I wallow in her sighs and complaints. After one draw, she even punches the table, and I have to swallow an urge to giggle. My poker face is a whole lot better than hers. But then she draws one more card and that goddamn dimple comes back. I feel a cold, black pit open up in my gut and my heart drops right into it.
"So sorry to do this, Bernard." The sweetness of her tone is about as artificial as the pink packets of stuff she likes in her tea. She lays down a natural canasta of jacks along with the rest of her hand in a meld of aces, tens, and wild cards. And then she puts her final card, the queen of diamonds, on the discard pile. It looks like a bloody dagger.
Right then I feel a tectonic shift in our marriage. "It doesn't matter how the deck is cut, I guess," she says with a whimsical lilt to her voice. Her eyes fill in the rest: I beat you, Bernard. I'll always beat you. The only reason I play this game with you is because I like you better when you're emasculated and broken. Your balls never could produce me a child, but they fit perfectly in my hand.
Seconds tick away as we stare each other down across the table. No one moves to count scores or dish stew out of the tureen. My six queens still sit in my hand waiting to be joined with their long lost sister on the discard pile, but now they and the wild cards have become my enemies, subtracting themselves from my already paltry score in a final blow to my whimpering ego. And those queens, they're trembling with my rage. "You evil cunt."
Priscilla's eyes widen with shock and her jaw drops into a perfect O. "What did you say?"
"I said you're an evil cunt." I never swore in such a way in all our years together, much less to her, but now the words slide from my mouth as if with practiced ease.
Priscilla gasps. "Bernard! What has gotten into you? It's just a game!"
She looks genuinely hurt, and is that fear I see in her eyes? Yeah, maybe just a little. Like someone who realizes she might have teased a hungry dog just a little too much. I should stop, but my fury has me in its grip and it has no intention of letting me go yet.
"It's just a game, is it?" My voice raises another octave and I stand up, the legs of the chair scraping against the tile. She leans back as if pushed by invisible hands. "It's always just a game when you're winning. Only you don't know how to just win, do you? You have to… to assert yourself as better." I round the table toward her and she struggles to back up her chair, but it's fetching up against the buffet behind her. At some point during the game, I must have moved the table back against her, as if subconsciously I had planned to block her in the whole time. In her fear, which is no longer just a hint around her eyes, but now a boldly painted rictus, she keeps knocking back against the teakwood instead of pushing the table forward.
"Bernie, stop this. You're scaring me!"
It's exactly what I want her to be. "You tried to cheat, you bitch. Just admit it. You probably stacked the deck when my back was turned."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Her voice cracks on the shrill high note.
My fist crashes on the table, making the dishes and silverware jump and shiver. The stack of cards with the queen of diamonds on top falls over. "Shut up! You had me get up to stir the goddamn stew just hoping I'd forget about cutting the deck, and when I came back to the table, you'd already dealt them out. You think I'm too stupid to notice you cheating?"
Priscilla is shaking her head in convulsive little jerks. "Bernie, you've gone crazy. I have never cheated you. Never!" Tears begin to spill down her cheeks, taking streaks of her mascara with them. But the tears aren't soothing my rage. I only get madder.
I arch over her like a bogeyman. "You lied to me and I can tell. So goddamn sanctimonious. Always trying to beat me down and bust my balls, thinking I'll just keep going along with it. You push, push, push." I poke her hard in the shoulder every time I say that word and I savor each accompanying wince on her face. "But you pushed me too far this time, Prissy. Dumb ol' Bernie ain't as dumb as you think."
The rapid rise and fall of her chest signals oncoming panic. Her eyes dart around and then her arm flashes out to snatch something from the table. I look over and see the silver butter knife, which I'd brought to the table to spread margarine on the bread, gleaming in the chandelier's light. "You get away from me right now, or I'm going to use this."
Her threat is genuine enough, but her weapon is so absurd it makes me laugh. "That's a nice knife you got there. What're you going to do, cover me in Country Crock?"
She grits her teeth and next I hear a meaty thunk. My head jerks down to see the butter knife standing erect between the first and second knuckles of my left hand, its tip buried in my flesh. There is less blood than I would expect, and for a minute both of us stare at it like it's some kind of novelty hand from a gag shop. But then I finally register the pain and the truth of it—I've been stabbed, by God!—and I scream.
Before I lose my nerve, I grab the knife handle and pull. Blood wells up in the ragged gash and spills over in little rivulets. My fingers feel like they've been shoved through with rusty nails, but I resist bending them. Priscilla pushes back the table and stumbles out of her chair, scooting out of my reach, as if my touch would burn right through her. "I'm sorry, Bernie! I'm so sorry! I wasn't even thinking. You're just scaring me so badly!"
I know I should relent now before this gets worse than either of us can imagine. Any sane and reasonable man would have backed off long before the butter knife incident, but I'm not behind the wheel anymore, and I realize that the same ugliness I'd seen in Priscilla earlier must also be living in me. I dive across the table and snag her by the shoulder of her green "lucky" cardigan with the shamrock buttons. She yelps, trying to wrench it out of my grip, but I have her with my unhurt hand, which also happens to be the stronger one.
I work my way around the end of the table until I'm on the same side as her and grab hold of her from behind, one arm wrapped around her neck and the other around her arms in a half bear hug. She struggles to pull free as I try to choke her, but I can't quite get the angle right because she's digging her chin into my forearm. I scan the table for something I can knock her over the head with instead. One of the "sunset coral" bowls seems the best option until I spy the tureen of beef stew and have a better idea. With my hurt hand, I reach out and lift the lid. Steam thick with the smell of bay leaf and thyme fills my nose. My sanity knows what a grotesque sideshow this is turning into, but it just sits back horrified and fascinated.
I grab her hair and shove her face toward the steaming pool of stew. "Bernie no! What are you doing oh my Go—!" Her final syllable is more of a burble as I press down on the back of her head with both hands to submerge her face and hold her there.
"Eat it! Eat your goddamn slop!" I scream, not recognizing my own voice.
She thrashes around, but I press my weight against her, sandwiching her against the table like I'm trying to do her from behind. I learn something in those sixty or so seconds it takes to drown my wife in her over-seasoned beef stew, and that is anyone who's on the verge of suffocation will do whatever it takes to keep breathing. They exhibit superhuman strength as their bodies dump a gallon of adrenaline into their bloodstreams. I have to ride Priscilla like a cowboy trying to break a wild horse, pinning her down as she bucks her hips and arches her back to throw me off. I hear the sound of ripping cloth and realize the arms of my shirt are tearing at the shoulder seams, and I can smell the stink of my exertions wafting out. The tureen slides around on the table with her struggles and some of the stew gravy sloshes out and down the sides, but I hold her head steady because I want her dead even more than she wants to live. I guess that's the equation behind every successful murder.
Finally, she stops bucking and her body gives one final shudder. I imagine that's the moment the stew fills her lungs, though I don't know exactly how these things work. Either way, I count to a hundred and twenty. Only a Navy Seal could hold in a breath that long.
Once I'm sure she's dead, I remove my hands and step away. Her limp body sags to the floor, her chin overturning the tureen as she goes. Brackish meat gravy with a dull confetti of carrot, potato, and herbs floods the table, running down the vinyl tablecloth in a wide stream that looks like diarrhea. My stab wound doesn't even hurt now, probably from my own glut of adrenaline that's making my eyes bulge.
The enormity of what just happened doesn't hit home until I look at Priscilla's face, which is puffed and brown-black with stew and asphyxiation. My gorge rises, burning my throat with soured beer, but I swallow it back. She looks like some kind of racist caricature. But Priscilla had been no racist. She'd been an elitist bitch, a dyed-in-the-wool bleeding heart liberal. Then it occurs to me that she and I would never argue about politics again. I wouldn't have to hear about how I should vote for her guy, and then suffer her disdain when I didn't. Along with breathing, cooking, and playing Canasta, Priscilla would never vote again.
Part of me—the snickering demon that took pleasure in holding my wife's head in a pot of stew as she thrashed for her next breath—is enjoying this. But the human part of me, the coward that stood aside and watched with horror as I drowned the woman with whom I sometimes shared cheese and crackers in bed, is screaming. And the screams echo through the two-story brick house we bought brand new in 1972 intending to fill with kids that never came due my low sperm count. I suppose that alone should have proven we weren't very compatible, but I'd loved her and she'd loved me. And I killed her over a bad hand of cards, like some Old West outlaw, but with none of the honor or flair.
I can't exactly call the police and report an accidental beef stew drowning. Even if I clean her up, they'd want to do an autopsy, and thyme-flavored brown sauce in the lungs and throat isn't what any coroner would call natural causes. Stashing her somewhere until I can think up a plan seems the best option.
After putting the cards and score pad on the buffet and carrying the tureen and other dishes to the sink, I remove the soiled tablecloth and spread it next to Priscilla's body. I wrap her up tight and tuck in the end close to her head. Her feet, clad in her favorite white Keds, still stick out, but that's fine. It's her face I want to hide.
The basement is the best place to put her. Though the thought of her dead body anywhere in the house gives me the chills, it's cool, dark, and out of the way. I sling her over my shoulder and carry her down the steep, creaky stairs she'd been on me to replace for years, sweating buckets under the strain. She was always petite, but I remember reading somewhere that dead people are damn heavy.
There's a storage cabinet under the stairs, and I prop her up in there on a couple cases of bottled water. Closing the cabinet, I stop cold when a white rectangle on the floor catches the corner of my eye. It's the queen of diamonds, its corner covered with a dollop of stew gravy. It must have stuck to the tablecloth. I don't want to touch it—the card's presence here just seems wrong, or rather too right—but I pick it up so I can put it with the others.
The dining room is a mess—streaks of stew on the tile, a crooked table, an overturned chair—but no one would ever guess a murder had taken place here. First, I go to the bathroom and inspect my hand. The wound between the knuckles hurts like hell, but it has clotted at least. That I can still feel and move my fingers must mean nothing important was severed. I dab it with some antibiotic ointment from the first aid kit and wrap it with gauze before moving on with the rest of the clean-up.
As I mop the floor and wipe up the spatters of stew from the walls, I think of what happens next. What would a real murderer do? Cleaning his tracks, thinking of a good burial site. Maybe I can create the illusion of a man whose wife up and left him after forty years, and in the morning I'll pack her clothes and other things in some suitcases and make them disappear too. There wouldn't be a note, though. They have handwriting experts for that. There's also the question of money. Cops will wonder why she hasn't used her bank card since disappearing, but I guess any decent defense attorney could find an argument around that. "Can't have a murder without a body, so I have to hide her good," I say to the empty room. My voice is steely and cold.
I pull another tablecloth out of the buffet and spread its white lace across the table. It had been my mother's and Priscilla had hated it, referring to anything that looked traditional as dowdy. I think it looks the way a dining room table in Iowa should look. Opening another drawer in the buffet, I pull out the heavy brass candlesticks that had also been Mom's. I can already see Priscilla spinning in her as-yet-determined grave.
That last thought is overwhelming enough that I decide to sleep on it a bit. Deciding against the beer in the fridge, I go for the good stuff in the cabinet above: a bottle of Basil Hayden's. Before I leave the dining room, I dig the queen of diamonds out of my pocket and place it on the table.
I dream of Priscilla beckoning to me from a shroud of rotting silk and jerk awake just before she can touch me. Her side of the bed is still cold and made up, as if waiting for her to turn down the covers and slide in beside me. It isn't until I turn over and hear the half-empty bottle of bourbon slosh by my side that I remember why that will never happen. My head is as heavy as a cinderblock, and my tongue feels like a bloated lizard in my mouth.
I can't escape the feeling that something brought me up through all those layers of liquor and bad dreams. A sound of some kind. I'm not sure what it is until I sit up and hear it again: a fluttering rasp that makes my stomach clench and my bowels turn to water. My skin prickles in a million tiny bumps. It's the sound of Priscilla's bridge shuffle.
Or, my mind tries to convince me, just a trick of the wind outside. But one glance out the window into the still September night convinces me that just isn't so. I swing my legs out of the bed and stand up, swallowing back the taste of sour bourbon as my stomach knots into a noose.
In the bathroom, I empty my bladder first and notice Priscilla's white terrycloth bathrobe hanging from the door hook. It doesn't know she's dead. As far as the robe is concerned, its owner will step out of the shower later this morning and shrug it over her still-wet shoulders before moving over to her vanity table near the linen closet, where all her creams, powders, and perfumes are lined up like soldiers awaiting orders. Now it's not dread I feel over the act of killing Priscilla. I'm grieving over the loss of my wife. I want her back, smirk and all, and I can feel a painful lump rising in the back of my throat that I push away with a swig of water from the tap.
The sound comes again as I wipe my hands on the flamingo hand towels. That goddamn rustling sound, the one I hated most in the world. I race over to the bureau and open the top drawer. Beneath my folded t-shirts is a Glock automatic pistol. I slide in a fresh magazine and then flick off the safety. I've never pointed it at anything other than a paper target, but its weight feels right in my hand. I'm ready to face whatever's coming.
The shuffle of the cards comes again as I cross the threshold of the bedroom and step onto the landing. With each step I take down, I hear the flapping of the Bicycles echoing off the dining room walls as they have every Sunday with few exceptions for the last forty years. We even played on our wedding night and the first night we spent together in this house, sleeping on the living room floor because the movers were a day late with our things. Thinking back, I can mark almost every momentous occasion between Priscilla and me with a deck of cards. And we always walked away from each game we played without a scuffle. Maybe a little irritated, sure, but we never came to blows. I don't know what made tonight so different. It's like the tightrope of our marriage carried us over an abyss and, so near the end, we just slipped.
"Into a vat of beef stew," I mutter to myself as I reach the foot of the stairs. The shuffling sound stops. I'm too scared to look around the corner into the dining room to see if my dead wife is sitting in her chair again, her swollen, oxygen-deprived face coated in dried beef gravy, with chunks of carrots and potato in her matted hair.
I stand and listen for any noise. Another shuffle of cards, perhaps. Or the rattle of beef stew in her throat. But I only hear the regular tick of the grandfather clock in the front sitting room. Sighing, I realize Priscilla is just as dead as she was when I wrapped her up in the tablecloth and stuffed her into the closet under the basement stairs, where she's now growing stiff atop the cases of Poland Spring. The sound of the shuffling cards must have come from my fevered brain. Looking at the loaded Glock in my hand, I think of how easy it would be to end it all either before I go crazy or before I get caught. I'd just need to write a note explaining everything. And maybe call 9-1-1 first so the cops will find us before one of our neighbors does. Dying was not on my agenda for the day, but neither was murder. Funny how life can turn on a dime like that.
I round the corner and creep toward the dining room, which is just as I'd left it. My mother's candlesticks and tablecloth gleam in the bluish-white moonlight and the only other object on the table is the last thing I left on it before heading upstairs: the queen of diamonds. The one with the smudge of beef gravy on the corner, like an accusation.
I reach out my finger and touch the card. A thump comes from somewhere below me. In the basement. Placing the gun on the table, I go over to the buffet and gather the remaining cards and the score pad. I give the cards another shuffle. Not a bridge shuffle, though. I never could do those.
Another thud from down there, followed by the slap of the door under the stairs flying open. Soon she'll be heading back up here. I realize now there are fourteen stairs leading up from the basement. Fourteen stairs for fourteen shuffles. It's as if she always knew.
We have a game to finish, my wife and I. The score is definitely in her favor, but maybe I still have a chance. I glance at the gun sitting here on the table, and I'm not sure if I have the courage to use it just yet. But maybe when I see her face again, and the whites of her staring eyes contrasting with her black-brown face, I will.
Behind me, I hear the basement door swing open and hit the wall. My nostrils fill again with the smell of thyme and bay, and I shiver at the icy draft that follows it. I place the shuffled deck down on Priscilla's side of the table so she can cut them. There won't be any forgetting this time.


text: Today, on this very first episode of 65bits, we mention the upgrades to our website, talk about consoles and the Wii, we talk about Zuning and its rocky start that may or may not challenge iPod's supremacy, we hit SITEX and even manage to see Japanese demon stories played out! Creative's fair is also going on until Christmassy! And lastly we talk about Microsoft's Windows Vista and Office 2007.


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text:
Today, Representative Steven Horsford (NV-4) released the following statement in honor of Michael Brown, Jr.:
"My thoughts and prayers are with the family and friends of Michael Brown, Jr. He was tragically taken from them, and America is in mourning. Today was about remembering a young man who had his whole life ahead of him. It was an incredibly powerful service in which a city, and a nation, came together as one to stand for justice. We will use our faith to overcome the pain we feel now, and use our energy to ensure that justice prevails for Michael Brown Jr. and his family. I am proud that we have such strong and passionate leaders from across the country that rallied attention here in St. Louis and Ferguson, Missouri."
Source: http://horsford.house.gov/media-center/press-releases/horsford-statement-following-michael-browns-funeral


text:
The New York Times
The Wasted Vigilby Nadeem Aslam
In The Wasted Vigil, Nadeem Aslam, the award-winning author of Maps for Lost Lovers, brilliantly knits together five seemingly unconnected lives to create a luminous story set in contemporary Afghanistan.There's Marcus, an English expat who was married to an outspoken Afghani doctor; David, a former American spy; Lara, from St. Petersburg, looking for traces of her brother, a Russian soldier who disappeared years before; Casa, a young Afghani whose hatred of the Americans has plunged him into the blinding depths of zealotry; and James, an American Special Forces soldier. Aslamreveals the intertwining paths that these characters have traveled, constructing a timely and intimate portrait of the complex ties that bind us and the wars that continue to tear us apart.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Editorial Reviews
The New York Times
Kiriyama-winner Aslam (Maps for Lost Lovers) takes an ambitious and moving look at the human cost of Afghanistan's war-torn reality. Marcus, a British doctor, lives near Jalalabad and quietly mourns the loss of his Afghan wife, their grown daughter and his hand to the Taliban and tribal warring. His houseguests includes Lara, a Russian woman searching for the truth about her soldier brother's disappearance, and David, a formerly zealous CIA operative whose love for Marcus's murdered daughter binds him to the older man as they search for her missing son. There's a tremendous tension in the first half of the book as the connections between the characters and the country are built up, and Aslam exploits the setup perfectly when a cast of younger characters-a fervent jihadi, a charismatic but arrogant American soldier, a rebellious local schoolteacher-arrive at the house and bring danger with them. Lyrical but not overwritten, the novel creates an unflinchingly clear picture of a country whose history of strife is still being written. (Sept.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
—Boston Globe
"Extraordinary. . . . Aslam's determination to gaze resolutely at the darkest side of our many cold and hot wars is what gives The Wasted Vigil its depth and power."
—Pankaj Mishra, The New York Review of Books
"Unflinching. . . . [Aslam] seeks to reveal the psyche not just of one rural village or one immigrant community but of Britain, the Soviet Union, the United States and Afghanistan. The revelations throughout are artful."
—New York Times Book Review
"Heartbreaking. . . . Important. . . . This novel deserves as wide an audience as the recent bestseller The Kite Runner."
—The Oregonian
"The power of Aslam's novel lives in the explosive adjacency of brutality and love, the poison of fanaticism diluted by the perfume of Persian lilacs."
—O, The Oprah magazine
"Unforgettable. . . . Tragic and beautifully written. Aslam is a major writer."
—A. S. Byatt
"Even more beautifully written than his much-acclaimed Maps for Lost Lovers."
—Financial Times
"Remarkable for being at once topical and timeless—a complex and layered vision of contemporary Afghanistan. . . . Like Michael Ondaatje before him, Aslam has a way of breathing life into larger historical and political backdrops with sensual details and lush interior lives. The Wasted Vigil shimmers with moments of poetic beauty and seems destined, like The English Patient, to become a classic of modern, globalized literature."
—Time Out New York
"A searing, multifaceted novel. . . . You might think that there is a particular specter haunting Afghanistan in these early years of the 21st century—the Taliban—but in Aslam's penetrating view, there are multiple forces at work there."
—San Francisco Chronicle
"Both lyrical and sharp. . . . It's a bold task to attempt to point out the similarities between a Muslim fundamentalist's zeal and an American CIA agent's righteous view of his job, yet, amid a sweeping story about love, Aslam does exactly this with considerable poise."
—The Christian Science Monitor
"Stunning. . . . In this epic of a novel, Nadeem Aslam's narrative takes in the explosive realities of Afghanistan. He navigates this minefield with sharp reflexes and a rare poise. . . . Beautiful and brutal."
—Mohammed Hanif, Independent (UK)
"Ambitious and luminous. . . . Reminds us that fiction can do things that mere reportage can't. . . . Aslam does not simply appropriate a few headlines for easy currency. He has immersed himself in a country and a culture and drawn upon art, mythology and history to provide an involving and morally complex tale of the ruthless betrayals and the queasy compromises that are made by nations and individuals alike."
—The Sunday Times (London)
"At its core, The Wasted Vigil is not a book about Afghanistan, but of love. . . . Aslam's Afghanistan is both beautiful and fraught with danger, with stunning images and landscapes that bring his characters' world to life, all of it rich with symbolism."
—Charleston City Paper
"What the reader finds, in Aslam's exquisitely written, gripping narrative, is that although war destroys lives and shatters families, and people are capable of the greatest brutality, love and humanity still survive."
—Daily Mail (London)
"The softly gleaming beauty of Aslam's prose is immediately reminiscent of Michael Ondaatje, and the moral clarity of his concerns heralds a brave new voice in the mold of Salman Rushdie."
—St. Petersburg Times
"Spellbinding—a beautifully drawn web of the fragile connections of trust, misunderstanding, memory, sacrifice, and, against the odds, love, that people who have lost everything else in the deadly stupidity of war must live and die by. Nadeem Aslam is a master of words and arresting images. . . . The sheer, astonishing loveliness of this novel's language fills the reader with hope that the transformative power of beauty can, somehow, still save the day."
—The Times (London)
"Piercing. . . . There isn't enough beauty in the world, but isn't it true that a work of art can be too beautiful? Aren't there depths of suffering and barbarity that demand that the writer rein in the verbal glory? Nadeem Aslam doesn't think so, as he proves with his astonishing new novel."
—The Observer (London)
"Enthralling. . . . The Wasted Vigil is a delicate work of art, a tapestry, which connects people in a mesmerizing story of loss, memory and pain, but where humanity and love and its fragility emerge out of the debris."
—New Statesman (London)
Product Details
- 9780307270269
- Publisher:
- Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
- Publication date:
- 09/09/2008
- Sold by:
- Random House
- Format:
- NOOK Book
- Sales rank:
- 750,370
- File size:
Read an Excerpt
The Great BuddhaHer mind is a haunted house.The woman named Lara looks up at an imagined noise. Folding away the letter she has been rereading, she moves towards the window with its high view of the garden. Out there the dawn sky is filling up with light though a few of last night's stars are still visible.She turns after a while and crosses over to the circular mirror leaning against the far wall. Bringing it to the centre of the room she places it face up on the floor, gently, soundlessly, a kindness towards her host who is asleep in an adjoining room. In the mirror she ignores her own image, examining the reflection of the ceiling instead, lit by the pale early light.The mirror is large—if it was water she could dive and disappear into it without touching the sides. On the wide ceiling are hundreds of books, each held in place by an iron nail hammered through it. A spike driven through the pages of history, a spike through the pages of love, a spike through the sacred. Kneeling on the dusty floor at the mirror's edge she tries to read the titles. The words are reversed but that is easier than looking up for entire minutes would be.There is no sound except her own slow breathing and, from outside, the breeze trailing its rippling robes through the overgrown garden.She slides the mirror along the floor as though visiting another section of a library.The books are all up there, the large ones as well as those that are no thicker than the walls of the human heart. Occasionally one of them falls by itself in an interior because its hold has weakened, or it may be brought down when desired with the judicious tapping of a bamboo pole.A native of the faraway St. Petersburg, what a long journey she has made to be here, this land that Alexander the Great had passed through on his unicorn, an area of fabled orchards and thick mulberry forests, of pomegranates that appear in the border decorations of Persian manuscripts written one thousand years ago.Her host's name is Marcus Caldwell, an Englishman who has spent most of his life here in Afghanistan, having married an Afghan woman. He is seventy years old and his white beard and deliberate movements recall a prophet, a prophet in wreckage. She hasn't been here for many days so there is hesitancy in her still regarding Marcus's missing left hand. The skin cup he could make with the palms of his hands is broken in half. She had asked late one evening, delicately, but he seemed unwilling to be drawn on the subject. In any case no explanations are needed in this country. It would be no surprise if the trees and vines of Afghanistan suspended their growth one day, fearful that if their roots were to lengthen they might come into contact with a landmine buried near by.She lifts her hand to her face and inhales the scent of sandalwood deposited onto the fingers by the mirror's frame. The wood of a living sandal tree has no fragrance, Marcus said the other day, the perfume materialising only after the cutting down.Like the soul vacating the body after death, she thinks.•Marcus is aware of her presence regardless of where she is in the house. She fell ill almost immediately upon arrival four days ago, succumbing to the various exhaustions of her journey towards him, and he has cared for her since then, having been utterly alone before that for many months. From the descriptions she had been given of him, she said out of her fever the first afternoon, she had expected an ascetic dressed in bark and leaf and accompanied by a deer of the wilderness.She said that a quarter of a century ago her brother had entered Afghanistan as a soldier with the Soviet Army, and that he was one of the ones who never returned home. She has visited Afghanistan twice before in the intervening decades but there has neither been proof of life nor of death, until perhaps now. She is here this time because she has learnt that Marcus's daughter might have known the young Soviet man.He told her his daughter, Zameen, was no longer alive."Did she ever mention anything?" she asked."She was taken from this house in 1980, when she was seventeen years old. I never saw her again.""Did anyone else?""She died in 1986, I believe. She had become a mother by then—a little boy who disappeared around the time she died. She and an American man were in love, and I know all this from him."This was on the first day. She then drifted into a long sleep.From the various plants in the garden he derived an ointment for the deeply bruised base of her neck, the skin there almost black above the right shoulder, as though some of the world's darkness had attempted to enter her there. He wished pomegranates were in season as their liquid is a great antiseptic. When the bus broke down during the journey, she said, all passengers had disembarked and she had found herself falling asleep on a verge. There then came three blows to her body with a tyre iron in quick succession, the disbelief and pain making her cry out. She was lying down with her feet pointed towards the west, towards the adored city of Mecca a thousand miles away, a disrespect she was unaware of, and one of the passengers had taken it upon himself to correct and punish her.Her real mistake was to have chosen to travel swaddled up like the women from this country, thinking it would be safer. Perhaps if her face had been somewhat exposed, the colour of her hair visible, she would have been forgiven as a foreigner. Everyone, on the other hand, had the right to make an example of an unwise Afghan woman, even a boy young enough to be her son.Marcus opens a book. The early morning light is entering at a low angle from the window. The fibres of the page throw their elongated shadows across the words, so much so that they make the text difficult to read. He tilts the page to make it catch the light evenly, the texture of the paper disappearing.Within the pages he finds a small pressed leaf, perfect but for a flake missing at the centre as though chewed off by a silkworm. The hole runs all the way through the pages also, where he had pulled out the iron nail to gain access to the words.He has given her only the purest water when she has been thirsty. This country has always been a hub of things moving from one point of the compass to another, religion and myth, works of art, caravans of bundled Chinese silk flowing past camels loaded with glass from ancient Rome or pearls from the Gulf. The ogre whose activities created one of Afghanistan's deserts was slain by Aristotle. And now Comanche helicopters bring sizeable crates of bottled water for America's Special Forces teams that are operating in the region, the hunt for terrorists continuing out there. Caches of this water are unloaded at various agreed locations in the hills and deserts, but two winters ago a consignment must have broken its netting—it fell from the sky and came apart in an explosion close to Marcus's house, a blast at whose core lay water not fire, the noise bringing him to the window to find the side of the house dripping wet and hundreds of the gleaming transparent bottles floating on the lake in front of the house. A moment later another roped bundle landed on the lake and sank out of sight. Perhaps it broke up and released the bottles, or did it catch on something down there and is still being held? Water buried inside water. He skimmed many of the bottles from the surface before they could disperse and found others over the coming days and weeks, split or whole, scattered in the long grasses of his neglected orchard.He lowers his pale blue eyes to the book.It is a poet's diwan, the most noble of matters, dealt with in the most noble of words. As always the first two pages of verse are enclosed within illuminated borders, an intricate embroidery in ink. Last night she had clipped his fingernails, which he normally just files off on any available abrasive surface. When she leaves she should take a volume from the impaled library. Perhaps everyone who comes here should be given one so that no matter where they are in the world they can recognise each other. Kin. A fellowship of wounds. They are intensely solitary here. The house stands on the edge of a small lake; and though damaged in the wars, it still conveys the impression of being finely carved, the impression of being weightless. At the back is the half-circle formed by the overgrown garden and orchard. Shifting zones of birdsong, of scent. A path lined with Persian lilac trees curves away out of sight, the branches still hung with last year's berries, avoided by birds as they are toxic.The ground begins to rise back there gradually until it reaches the sky. The broad chalk line of permanent snow up there, thirteen thousand feet high, is the mighty range of mountains containing the cave labyrinths of Tora Bora.At the front of the house, a mile along the edge of the lake, is the village that takes its name from the lake. Usha. Teardrop. Thirty miles farther is the city of Jalalabad. Because Lara is Russian, Marcus's immediate fear regarding her illness was that she had been fed a poison during the hours she had spent waiting for him in Usha, her country having precipitated much of present-day Afghanistan's destruction by invading in 1979.•In the darkness soon after four a.m. one night, Lara had got out of bed. Accompanied by candlelight she went into the various rooms of the house, moving under that sheath of books, needing movement after the countless hours of being still. She avoided the room where Marcus was but entered others, looking, enclosed within the sphere of yellow light from the flame in her hand. Somewhere very far away a muezzin had begun the call to the prayers of dawn, defined by Islam as the moment when a black thread can just be distinguished from a white one without artificial light.When enough light began to enter the house, she placed mirrors on the floor to look at the books overhead, though not all of them had been nailed with the titles facing out, and any number of them were in languages she did not possess.Some years ago, at a point when the Taliban could have raided the house any day, Marcus's wife had nailed the books overhead in these rooms and corridors. Original thought was heresy to the Taliban and they would have burned the books. And this was the only way that suggested itself to the woman, she whose mental deterioration was complete by then, to save them, to put them out of harm's reach.Lara imagined stretching a fishing net at waist level, imagined going to the room directly above and banging her feet until all the books were dislodged and caught without further harm in the net. Marcus said the deep rumble of the B52s had shaken loose every book from one side of a corridor when Tora Bora began to be bombed day and night up there in 2001. The intermittent rain in the whole house had intensified during those weeks in fact.The Englishman said he had bought the house more than forty years ago, just before he married his wife, Qatrina, who like him was a doctor. "I used to say she brought me Afghanistan in her dowry," he said. The house was built by an old master calligrapher and painter in the last years of the nineteenth century. He belonged to what was almost the final generation of Muslim artists to be trained in the style of the incomparable Bihzad. When the six-roomed building was complete, the master—who had painted images on the walls of each room—brought to it the woman he wished to make his companion for life. Beginning on the ground floor, each of the first five rooms was dedicated to one of the five senses, and as the courtship slowly progressed over the following weeks, the couple went from one to the next:The first was dedicated to the sense of sight, and on the walls, among other things, Subha in a dancerly gesture presented her eye to a rogue in the forest.Allah created through the spoken word, read the inscription above the door that led to the interior about hearing. Here the walls showed singers and musical gatherings, a lute with a songbird sitting on its neck—teaching perhaps, perhaps learning.From there they moved to the faculty of smell, where angels bent down towards the feet of humans, to ascertain from the odour whether these feet had ever walked towards a mosque. Others leaned towards bellies, to check for fasting during the holy month of Ramadan.In the room about the sense of touch, there was a likeness of Muhammad with his hand plunged in a jar. He was someone who would not shake hands with women, so in order to make a pact he would put his hand in a vessel containing water and withdraw it, and then the woman would put her hand into the water.Then it was on to taste, and from that room they ascended to the highest place in the house: it contained and combined all that had gone before—an interior dedicated to love, the ultimate human wonder, and that was where she said yes.The imagery was there on the walls still but, out of the fear of the Ta- liban, all depictions of the living things had been smeared with mud by Marcus. Even an ant on a pebble had been daubed. It was as though all life had been returned to dust. Consolation of a kind could be had from the fact that most of the rest of the images had survived—the inanimate things, the trees and the skies, the streams. And since the demise of the Ta- liban, Marcus had begun slowly to remove the swirled covering of mud. The highest room stands completely revealed now.Marcus took Lara to one corner and pointed to the foliage painted there. When she looked closely she saw that a chameleon was sitting perfectly camouflaged on a leaf. She leaned closer to that lovely fiction and touched it. "The Taliban would even burn a treasured family letter because the stamp showed a butterfly," said Marcus. "But I missed this, and so did they."Roaming the house at night, her shadow trembling in accordance with the candle flame, Lara had entered the topmost room. The walls were originally a delicate faded gold, painted with scenes of lovers either in an embrace or travelling towards each other through forest and meadow. They were badly damaged by bullets. When the Taliban came to the house they had proceeded to annihilate anything they considered un-Islamic within it. What they had heard about this room had enraged them the most. This they wanted to blow up, even though the lovers had been made to disappear behind a veil of earth by Marcus.Lara's eyes moved across the shattered skin of the walls, the candle picking up hints of gold here and there. This country was one of the greatest tragedies of the age. Torn to pieces by the many hands of war, by the various hatreds and failings of the world. Two million deaths over the past quarter-century. Several of the lovers on the walls were on their own because of the obliterating impact of the bullets—nothing but a gash or a terrible ripping away where the corresponding man or woman used to be. A shredded limb, a lost eye.A sound originating in one of the other rooms startled her where she stood, her heart speeding up at the possibilities.It was not a thief, she reassured herself, nor a Taliban fighter looking for somewhere to hide. Nor an Arab, Pakistani, Uzbek, Chechen, Indonesian terrorist—seed sprouted from the blood-soaked soil of Muslim countries. On the run since the autumn of 2001, al-Qaeda appeared to be regrouping, to kidnap foreigners, organise suicide bombings, and behead those it deemed traitors, those it suspected of informing the Americans."What fool drew this?" the Tsar had demanded to know of a fortress that a student at the Academy of Military Engineering in St. Petersburg had drawn inadvertently without doors. The young man was Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Lara wished this house was similarly devoid of entrances as she slowly moved along the corridor, the drops of molten wax sliding down the side of the red candle in her hand.No one came near the house, Marcus had told her, because the area around the lake is said to contain the djinn. Lake wind, mountain wind, orchard wind collide in the vicinity, but to the Muslims the air is also lastingly alive with the good and bad invisible tribes of the universe. If that was not sufficient, a ghost said to be that of his daughter, Zameen, had appeared in one of the rooms the day the Taliban came here, the apparition putting them to flight.After the sound, she was aware of the completeness of the night's silence.Perhaps Marcus, fumbling, had dropped an object. The word "lame" described what happened when a foot or leg became damaged or was missing, but she could think of no specific term for when an arm or hand became unavailable, though the body was just as out of balance.She entered a room and stopped when she saw the book that had detached itself from the ceiling and fallen with the thump she had heard. The disturbed dust of the floor was still in movement around the book.She picked it up and, setting the candle down, wrested out the nail. Opening the book on the floor she began to read, sitting chin-on-knee beside it.Tell the earth-thievesTo plant no more orchards of deathBeneath this star of oursOr the fruit will eat them up.•In the garden Marcus opens his eyes, feeling as though someone has drawn near and blocked his sunlight, but there is no one. Letters and messages, and visits, are received from the departed. And so occasionally, and for a fraction of a second, it is not strange to expect such a thing from those who have died. It lasts the shortest of durations and then the mind recalls the facts, remembers that some absences are more absolute than others.It was in the darkness of the night, in 1980, that the band of Soviet soldiers had broken into the house to pick up Zameen. The cold touch of a gun at his temple was what awoke Marcus. The darkness was cross-hatched with the silver beams of several flashlights. Qatrina, beside him, came out of her sleep on hearing his sounds of confusion. In those initial moments of perplexity she thought this might be a repeat of what had happened the previous week, when a patient was brought to the house in the middle of the night, the victim of a Soviet chemical weapon from the day before, his body already rotting when he was discovered in a field an hour after the attack, his fingers still looped with the rosary he had been holding. He must have been in unimaginable pain, and though he couldn't speak the stare from him was so strong it verged on sound.The couple were not allowed to switch on the light but there appeared to be about ten soldiers. From their voices Marcus could tell they were in their teens or early twenties. He wondered if they were deserters, frightened young boys running away from the Soviet Army, running away from the Soviet Union. People from East Germany, even from as far away as Cuba, came to Kabul and then defected to the West. His mind was jolted out of this consideration when they asked for his daughter by name.Qatrina's grip on his forearm tightened. There had been reports of Soviet soldiers landing their helicopter to abduct a girl and flying away with her, parents or lovers following the trail of her clothing across the landscape and finally coming across her naked bone-punctured body, where she had been thrown out of the helicopter after the men had been sated.Two of the soldiers could speak a broken Pashto and they were asking for Zameen and would give no explanation as to how they knew her or why they had come for her. There followed moments of rancour and violence towards Marcus and Qatrina. The men had searched the house before waking them, and had been unable to locate the girl.A soldier stayed with them while the others spread out through the house once again, their voices low: it was a time of war and they always had to be alert to the possible presence of rebels near by. Some were searching the garden and the orchard, others Marcus's perfume factory which stood beyond the garden, a voice drifting up now and then. There was great urgency in them, and Marcus thought of the night the previous year when the Soviet Army had entered Kabul, the Spetsnaz commandos running through the corridors of the Presidential Palace looking for the president, whom they immediately put to death when they found him.Marcus and Qatrina managed to engage the Pashto-speaking soldier in a conversation."Your daughter is sympathetic to the insurgency. Her name is on the list we have been given by an insider.""There must be some mistake," Marcus said through the cut mouth."Then where is she at this hour? We are here as part of a big operation in Usha tonight, to capture those who attacked the school earlier this month. We'll make them pay for the twenty-seven lives we lost."The sun was beginning to rise outside when someone came in and said Zameen had been apprehended.The lapis lazuli of their land was always desired by the world, brushed by Cleopatra onto her eyelids, employed by Michelangelo to paint the blues on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and, from the look of certain sections of the sky above Marcus and Qatrina as they came out into the garden, it could have been Afghanistan's heights that were mined for lapis lazuli, not its depths.The couple searched their surroundings and then went into Usha, trying to understand what had happened.Hours later, as dusk began to fall, Qatrina stood beside an acacia tree, holding with both hands the clothesline tied around the trunk. Marcus thought it was for balance, but then saw that the section of the rope between her hands was tinted indigo, where one of Zameen's dresses had once seeped colour into it, the dress she must have been wearing when they captured her because it was missing from her room.He led her back to the house, the perfume from the acacia clinging to her. The djinn were supposed to live in the scent of acacia blossom, making themselves visible only to the young in order to entrap them in otherworldly love.
From the Hardcover edition.
Meet the Author
Nadeem Aslam is the author of two previous novels, both of which were long-listed for the Man Booker Prize: Maps for Lost Lovers, winner of the Kiriyama Prize and a New York Times Notable Book, and Season of the Rainbirds. He is also the recipient of a Lannan Literary Fellowship. Born in Pakistan, he now lives in England.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Vintage Photo Editor and Sharer
Don't wait until the next family reunion to share all those great old photos. Use your smartphone's camera to take individual pictures of them and this app will do the rest. First it improves the clarity and color of your vintage pics. Then it automatically sends electronic copies to its site, 1000memories.com, so you can share them virtually with relatives and friends.
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Swiss designer Dafi Kühne has been boldly breaking the rules of letterpress for years. Check out his latest book True Type.
Fluid Wood Type
Photo-Lettering catalogs, like this one from the early 1960s, are a source of reinvigorated vintage type design that cannot help but bring a smile to the eye.
Experiments in Hand-Lettering: A Creative Exploration
Hand-Lettering Experiments – Textures is the latest workshop from HOW Design University and Type Camp. As a fun, creative way to exercise creativity and typography, this workshop will inspire you in your latest type projects. Integrate textures and analog designs into your work today. This workshop is currently in session and is open until...
Google Noto: A Typeface That's Preserving History
Today is the last day for Early Bird entries to Print's Typography & Lettering Awards! Don't miss your chance to be featured among the greats in Print magazine! Enter today. Google and Monotype are making history. The two partnered together to create Noto: a typeface five years in the making. The new face can be used across...
A Quick Guide to Type Anatomy
Ever want to design lettering that causes eyes to glaze over in amazement, such as the letterings of Jessica Hische or Louise Fili? The first step is to learn the basic letterforms. From HOW Design University's course with Type Camp, Letterform Design, we grabbed some useful diagrams on type anatomy. Letterform Design covers how to design...
Tips and Techniques for Adjusting Type in InDesign
Tactfully kerning letters to the appropriate places and ensuring that the lines of text are at the perfect leading size for easy legibility are tasks that we typography nerds revel in and get lost in. We obsess over the microscopic details of alignment and placement. Fortunately for us, InDesign has useful features to make...
Culture+Typography: Ghost Signs
Nikki Villagomez showcases the typography of ghost signs in this excerpt from her book, Culture + Typography.
The Midas Touch: A Typographic Poster by Lesli Ink
What started out as a holiday greeting turned into an award-winning typographic poster design. View Lesli Ink's hand-drawn golden typography.
Skull Art: When Death Covered the Newsstand
Michael Dooley explores Popular Skullture: The Skull Motif in Pulps, Paperbacks, and Comics, a book dedicated to vintage skull art.
4 Strategic Customized Fonts and Typefaces
When approaching the ideation process for brand identity and logo design, one of the most crucial considerations is the typeface selection. What will be of the best use — serif, sans serif, decorative or script? A typeface infuses your design with emotion and meaning, defining your brand's identity in every medium, from packaging and editorial...


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Jon Stewart is the new best-paid host of a late-night show, receiving $25-30 million a year, according to TV Guide's latest rankings of the highest paid stars. Stewart bests other late-night hosts Jay Leno and David Letterman ($20 million each) and Jimmy Kimmel ($10 million). There is only one person in television who makes more than Stewart (at least for people in front of the camera). It's not anyone starring in a drama or sitcom, nor is it a top news anchor.
It's Judge Judy.
Yes, Judy "don't pee on my leg and call me it's raining" Sheindlin makes about double that of Stewart at $47 million every year, according to TV Guide. Judge Judy, the apparent queen of daytime television (Katie Couric places second in that category at a measly $10 million per year), has monetized sassiness like no one before her. Judge Judy remains the first and by far the most successful celebrity judge. Her show/courtroom managed to form a hybrid of courtroom drama and talk show human interest drama.
Some other interesting nuggets from TV Guide's list of highest-paid stars:
Ashton Kutcher is the best-paid actor in a comedy at $750,000 an episode of Two and a Half Men, and that's three times the next person on the list, Jason Segal of How I Met Your Mother. TV Guide anticipates that the stars of the Big Bang Theory will rocket up the list once they negotiate new contracts.
The highest paid reality show star is…Howard Stern! The America's Got Talent host rakes in $15 million, triple that of American Idol's Keith Urban, who is next on the list.
NBC's Matt Lauer is the only news anchor to bring in anything close to his $22-25 million each year. He is followed by MSNBC's Rachel Maddow ($7 million) and Fox News' Megyn Kelly ($6 million).
Lastly, you'll be glad to know that it still pays to be RuPaul. The biggest name in drag queens brings in $50,000 for each episode of RuPaul's Drag Race, a show I have never heard of, but I'm glad that it exists.


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Atif Aslam with Inteha Hogayi Intezar ki MP3
Weekends with Mahira.
Atif Aslam - Inteha Hogayi - Wembley Arena Live!!! MP3
Summer Beats 2008 - Wembley Arena The point where he broke many many hearts (including mine!).. who is she??
Atif Aslam with Inteha Hogayi Intezar ki(part 2) MP3
Superbly sung by Atif Aslam in Weekends with Mahira.
Inteha Ho Gayi Intezaar Ki Sharaabi Guitar Cover | Vineet Chobisa | Project Khidki - Lyrics Video MP3
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Inteha Ho Gayi Intezaar Ki.
Inteha Ho Gayi Intezaar Ki - Kishore Kumar - Asha Bhosle - Sharaabi [1984] MP3
Sharaabi [1984] stars Amitabh Bachchan, Jaya Prada, Pran, Om Prakash, Bharat Bhushan and Ranjeet. Directed by Prakash Mehra and the music was given by ...
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Inteha Ho Gayi - Atif Aslam - Sharaabi [Live - Acoustic] MP3
Songs: - Inteha Ho Gayi [Sharaabi] Watch the FULL video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mlmWW4bThs The Band "LPC" (Literate Pakistani Corporation) ...
Inteha Ho Gayi Intezaar Ki Aayi Na Kuchh Khabar Mere Yaar Ki MP3
Sharaabi is a 1984 Indian Hindi movie produced and directed by Prakash Mehra. This was Prakash Mehra's last hit and sixth in a row with Amitabh, the other ...
Inteha Ho Gayi | Reprised Version (2013) | The Bartender - B Seventy | Official Video MP3
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Director David Mackenzie may not be a household name but the English filmmaker has been quiety turning out some truly impressive features in recent years, including Starred Up and the criminally underrated sci-fi romance Perfect Sense.
His latest sees him stepping up to the big leagues with an A-list cast where he'll hopefully get the attention he's long deserved.
Here's the trailer for Hell or High Water featuring Chris Pine, Ben Foster and Jeff Bridges
That's a brilliantly made trailer and while there are certainly generic elements we have no doubt Mackenzie will bring out new depth and plenty of emotion from the setup.
The larger budget also lets him play with some action set pieces and a whole lot more bullets than we've seen in his career so far. Bridges is perfectly cast and Foster is ideally placed opposite Pine as the brother with a criminal past.
We're very excited about this, and think you should be too.
The film gets its world premiere at the Cannes film festival on the 16th of May, 2016 and will hopefully be out in these waters soon.


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Product details
Providing quick and efficient heat distribution for maximum comfort, this powerful Bionaire BCH001 Digital Ceramic Heater is perfect for small to medium-sized rooms. The two heat settings, plus fan-only option, give full versatility through the seasons while the digital controls with LED display are easy to use. The digital thermostat allows you to set your perfect level of comfort, and for convenience, a 12 hour timer feature means you can set the heater to turn off after a set amount of time. The optional frost guard feature automatically switches on when the temperature drops below 5°C. With a sleek, contemporary gloss black & silver design, this Bionaire Ceramic Heater compliments any room and features a carry handle for easy transit between rooms.
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About the Book
The Doctor and Rose face off against unseen foes who can manipulate time and free will, altering the past itself. The Time Lord and his companion have to deal with Daleks, Sontarans, Cybermen, and the scariest foe ever, everyday life before meeting the unseen aggressors taunting them. An All new Doctor Who Adventure!
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About the Creator
I love Doctor Who. Simple as that. I've written some fan fics and want to use Blurb to publish them. IF you're a fan of the Doctor, check out my work. Be forewarned; so far, it's all David Tennant. No Matt Smith. Maybe a Christopher Eccleston someday, or a Tom Baker. But for now, just David Tennant.
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High Country Pronghorn 8x10 acrylic $950
painting by artist Peter Mathios
10 in X 8 in (25.4 cm X 20.3 cm)
This painting is already sold. However, I may have other paintings available.
More Paintings by Peter Mathios
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acrylic animal country day high mathios painting peter mathios peters pronghorn small
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text: To get from Busto Arsizio to Vibo Valentia by train you can catch one of the 13 trains that everyday travel between these two cities. The first train to Vibo Valentia leaves from Busto Arsizio at 06:04 and the last train departs at 23:17. The trip by train from Busto Arsizio to Vibo Valentia last on average 06:12 travelling with high-speed trains (Frecciarossa or Italotreno) If you choose a local train the trip lasts on average 09:51 hours. For your trip from Busto Arsizio to Vibo Valentia by train you can choose to leave from one of Busto Arsizio main stations: Busto Arsizio, Milano Porta Garibaldi, Milano Centrale On Wanderio you can compare all schedules, fares and railway companies to Vibo Valentia and book the best itinerary starting from Busto Arsizio.