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i had hoped.
Telling people in my life about this trip typically illicted one of two responses: 'How wonderful! Now's the time to do it–no kids or mortgage?! Post pictures because I'll be living vicariously through you.' or 'hmm, alright. That's neat. Don't drink the water!'
This juxtaposition is appropriate, as I feel like a pendulum swinging one way or another all of the time. I know that this experience is not one to take for granted (not unlike my very spoiled west coast living-humidity WHAT). We worked hard for it, but the ability to work in the first place or have something like a parent's home to return to afterward is no small blessing. It's almost #blessing status (for shame).
And yet the truth still rings that of course, traveling or not, working or not, in a relationship or not– real life is still real life. We are flying by the seat of our pants like it's our job (because it is), never knowing what's on the other side of the flight, bus ride, street, meal, or hostel booking; the possibility of inopportune bowel movements, being stranded without a dollar or lick of the native language, coming back to our hostel in the middle of a rainstorm only to find water cascading down the interior walls (to name a few) are always imminent.
Wherever you go, there you are.
There I was in Seattle with a stressful job and good friends. Here I am in Malaysia, eating the most decadent meats and vegetables from hawker stalls, encountering such humbling generosity from strangers, and cursing humidity and my human sweat glands after about 30 seconds of being outside. Wherever I go, here I am.
It is staggering to me how quickly things can change lately: namely, moods, circumstances, and general beliefs about the world. All are negatively correlated with the heat, certainly, but I think it cuts deeper than that. I think that this trip is trying because of the lacking of all of the things that kept me afloat when I looked in the mirror and felt unkind to myself, or when Austin and I would fight and feel stuck, or when I felt rejected by friends or family. There's not a lot by way of comfort these days–we're budget bunnies with a few backpacks– and this raw, stripped identity without makeup, a wardrobe, television, an office, a smartphone, or community is one that deep down, I had hoped I would find. Without the ability to work out or shop to feel beautiful, or distract myself with endless notifications, newsfeeds, or sitcoms to feel disconnected, here I am: human and okay. Human and in one moment, taking picture after picture of cute monkeys eating grapes from a comfortable 20 feet away, and in the next having a panic attack because one is walking toward me. Human and amazed at all of the things and places and people we've gotten to know and see so far, while also needing frequent breaks punctuated by folk music and banana consumption.
I am so grateful for the space that this journey has created, even three weeks in. I am glad (typically in hindsight, mind you) for the invitation to not be able to plan or foresee more than a few hours into the future, to never quite know where I'll land. Be it a leaking hostel, or the back of a pickup truck driving through the most beautiful terrain, or at the helm of a motorbike, or crying from exhaustion on a mountain top, or a Malaysian host's scented bedroom, or on a bed of plywood and undeserved grace–I am taken care of. We are taken care of. There is abundance and generosity that feels so unexpected, and in this rythm of the world's give and take, there is rest. Glory be.
Perhaps the real traveling mercies may be what I can show myself: what I can let myself off the hook for, what I can let be difficult, what ideal I can let go of. I am not alone in the fact that I have always been my worst critic; the beliefs in my heart that I am a project to be molded and perfected are loud and pervasive. Glimpses of the debunking of those voices feel like a cold shower (in the best possible way), they feel like relief that's been a long time coming. Glimpses of a self that's more free than before, that's kinder to myself than before– what a gift.
Some logistics and pictures for those (my parents) who are interested: The past 3ish weeks have been spent in Bangkok, Myanmar (mostly in Yangon), Chiang Mai, Pai, and Mae Hong Son. Right now we're in Kuala Lumpur for a few days before heading to Bali until the end of the month. Hooray!
And because I don't have access to a computer to put pictures in the 'travel' section, here are a few.
The quintessential Thai elephant experience. A story for another time.
Chiang Mai
Waterfall in Pai.
Breakfast with Htoo Lweah and family in Nai Soi.
Swedagon Pagoda in Yangon, Burma.


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If living environmentally-friendly is important to you, Miami/Dade County real estate in Aventura is the place for you! Committed to going green, the city of Aventura is certified by the Florida Green Builders Coalition, it's currently a Silver-Certified Green Local Government. Conveniently located along the Intracoastal Waterway in northeast Miami/Dade County, Aventura is close to two major South Florida airports and two of the largest, most popular seaports in the world.
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Copyright ©2019Realty Times®. All Rights Reserved

subset: commoncrawl


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Adam Lee
Adam started learning the clarinet at primary school with Rachel Considine. He joined the high achieving North Ayrshire Schools' Senior Concert Band where he met Matthew Chinn and with much encouragement and support from both him and his clarinet teacher, he successfully auditioned for the Junior Conservatoire at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland, where he studied for two years with Alison Waller.
During his time at the Junior Conservatoire, Adam won the 2016/17 Gilbert Innes Woodwind Prize and was one of three people selected as a concerto soloist to perform with the Junior Conservatoire Symphony Orchestra. He has also enjoyed successes at many local, regional and national events, including the Ayrshire Music Festival where he was the first person to win the Elizabeth McNair Trophy for Best Overall Instrumental Performance three years in a row.
Adam was a member of the West of Scotland Schools' Symphony Orchestra in 2017 and was selected as their concerto soloist, performing Malcolm Arnold's Clarinet Concerto No. 2. He was also a member of the National Youth Orchestra of Scotland Symphony Orchestra the same year, performing in top performance venues across Scotland, including the Usher Hall, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall and Perth Concert Hall.
In 2017, Adam successfully auditioned for a place on the BMus course at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland, where he studies with John Cushing. He was also awarded a Robertson Trust Scholarship to support his studies. In February 2018, Adam won a Yamaha Music Foundation of Europe Clarinet Scholarship, being one of seven people selected from Conservatoires across the U.K. to perform in the live final at the Royal Northern College of Music, Manchester.
How the Award Helped
Adam's award allowed him to purchase a new A clarinet and attend the National Youth Orchestra of Scotland Symphony Orchestra, helping him pursue his ambition of performing both as a soloist and in professional orchestras.
Juniors Concerto – Adam performing with the Junior Conservatoire Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Jean-Claude Picard.
West Orchestra Concerto – Adam performing with the West of Scotland Schools' Symphony Orchestra, conducted by James Lowe.
Yamaha Scholarship – Pictured with Heather Nicoll, Head of Woodwind at Royal Conservatoire of Scotland, after winning a Yamaha Music Foundation of Europe Clarinet Scholarship.


text: HomeOutfits By Style TypesClassy ChicVest Styling Tricks: Uber-Cool Ways to Wear Vest This Fall Doesn't it feel weird to head out the door without any outerwear? Whatever the weather is, your OOTD wouldn't look complete without a cool leather jacket or even a peacoat. Since the weather doesn't call for a coat-coat just yet, we're here to give you an idea on how to top off your ensembles with one classic outerwear option – vest. We aren't talking about those puffers but something handy is essential very soon, though. Think of it as one of Kylie Jenner's must-have vests that you see on her very often. Here are some ideas on how you should wear this sleeveless outerwear especially this fall. Purchase it here You can pair it with a classic turtleneck, jeans, leather boots and a semi-structured vest that will look amazing for fall. Purchase it here Sport a business-casual outfit by choosing a feminine-colored vest to go with your black and white work ensemble. Purchase it here You will definitely find a vest that seems similar to a trench vest and don't worry, especially if you got it on a sale. You can wear it under a tight bodycon paired with boots just to add to that cool and casual spin on your usual cool look. Purchase it here Give your crop top and jeans a bit of upgrade by layering it over a crisp blazer vest. Complete your look with classic sunglasses, watch and a pendant necklace. Purchase it here Fur vests are bulky so you should keep your outfit underneath clean and sleek. You can easily pair your fur vest with a black long-sleeved top, black jeans and black leather boots. Purchase it here Turn your moto vest into a casual, monochromatic suit for a chic and edgy ensemble for the day. Purchase it here If you're not sure about what the weather will be, choose a sweater vest. Wear it with boyfriend jeans, a sleek blazer and suede boots. Purchase it here Add length to your outfit for the day with a sleeveless duster. It's the perfect coat to match with your wide trousers and turtleneck top. Purchase it here Sport a sweater on sweater number by adding a long sweater paired with a long-sleeved tee with denim jeans and high heels. This is the perfect look when the weather starts to get chilly. Purchase it here When it's neither sunny nor too cold, sport a chambray shirt with a mini skirt, tights, ankle boots and a beanie for the perfect fall weekend look.


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Contemporary Romance, 2000
This story is more of a woman's recovery from a broken marriage than a love story. Driving Lessons starts off a bit shakily, but gets into the swing of it soon after, making it a really satisfying read. And unlike many stories of the same ilk, it never dives into soap opera territory.
Charlene Darnell has just been dumped by her husband Joey. She now has to face a life without a husband for the first time in twenty-one years, and she wonders if it is all because of her. Where did she go wrong? Or is it he? When she gets out of her self-pity party, however, she has to start living anew, like getting a job and holding her family of three kids together. How she gets there and finds a new love in the form of Mason MacCoy, the long-waiting admirer.
Now, I really can't describe the many things that happen to Charlene or her family – it will be giving away most of the delightful aspects of this story, and readers (and the author) might want to lynch me for that. But I will say that I adore Charlene, who tries so hard to be strong. Then there's Mason, who surely gives all those men who have pined for so long a good name. Adding to the warmth are some real and wonderful secondary characters: Raine from Lost Highways, Daddy Winston and his platonic harem of absent-minded old ladies (and his rose-war with a neighbor!), and of course, the three kids.
Driving Lessons is a warm tale of family, strength, and starting life anew. I must admit the first few chapters where all Charlene does is to weep, weep, weep are pretty irritating, but when Charlene straightens up her act, she shines. The warm and gentle humor permeating the graceful prose only heightens its charm.
And when I find myself smiling when Charlene finally sits behind a car wheel for the first time in her life, I knew it: this story is what I need.


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- KAU Recruitment 2016
- Post – Teaching Assistant Posts
- Salary – Rs. 35000/- (Per Month)
- Walk-in Interview Date – 30 Jan, 2016 at 9.30 am
- Location – Kerala
Kerala Agricultural University (KAU) has released an employment notification regarding Teaching Assistant for well qualified candidates holding the required eligibility criteria on its website hhtp://www.kau.in. Applicants hoping to grab a job at KAU can proceed to apply for this recruitment after matching their eligibility criteria listed here. The place of the job will be Kerala. For specific details like age limit, pay scale, eligibility criteria read the detailed information below.
|Post Name
|No. of Post
|Age Limit
|Pay Scale
|Required Qualification
|Teaching Assistant
|Not Specified Posts
|As per KAU rules years
|Rs. 35000/- (Per Month)
|MSc in Soil Science and Agricultural Chemistry/Soil Physics.
Selection criteria : – Mode of selection of the candidates will be Walk in Interview.
- Mode of Application :- offline
How to Apply :-Aspirants who wish to appear for the interview should attend the interview on 30-01-2016 at with his copies of Bio-Data, important certificates which are being asked and passport size photographs as written in the Notification
Important Dates:
- Walk-in Interview Date – 30-01-2016 at 9.30 am
Detailed Information:-
- Detailed Advertisement here – Click here for KAU Advertisement
- Apply Online link here – Click here for KAU Apply Online
Official Website : http://www.kau.in


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I Thought Ponyo Was Hentai, What Gives?
By Dorito Man An excerpt from our latest release, The Fake News Issue!
I work hard. People in my life understand this, So get this. I get home late, and my weirdo roommate, he tells me he has just the thing to cheer me up. I get want to grab a nice cold one from the fridge and crawl into bed, but I can't, because there he is. Standing in the way. I can feel the condensation meeting my fingers. I crave it. I am thinking about this and my eyes are just about to glaze over when he pull out this blu-ray. I don't know where it came from, and I don't want to know. He's really into that anime shit, and I've promised him I'd check some out, but honestly, I'm scared. I don't have the time for big 2D jigglage. I have a girlfriend I'm too tired to talk to, okay? I'm too old for cartoon boobs that refuse to follow Newtonian physics, where the nipple can be fully penetrated by a large manhood. This time was different, though. I could tell that he wouldn't leave me alone unless I gave Ponyo a shot.
I was ready. Taking a cursory glance at the blu-ray case, I saw a little girl, and I saw fish. That's all I managed to see, and I thought to myself, ain't this illegal? I know what this anime business is about. Seeing the ocean life on the cover only confirmed my biases about where this journey was headed. Knowing what he's into--Samurai Champloo (which I think is Japanese for coitus), Kingdom Hearts, Neon Genesis Evangellier (even jellier than what?), I got ready for the evening that I assumed he had planned for us. I got the baby oil ready and lathered the entire bottom half of my body like a hybrid of man and seal. My socks stayed on of course, to preserve heat.
It's to preserve heat.
I popped that bad boy in hiding behind 7 different proxies (which is what my roommate calls our blinds) so the POTUS couldn't spot me finna engage in some solid waifu lechery. From what I'd gathered by right wing people on twitter, though, the president loves anime--judging by his supporters avi's so I wasn't too worried, when I hit play. I see Disney's logo upfront, and I nearly cry. Have they stooped this low?
But here's the crazy thing.
Not a single nipple. Not one. Buddy, you could put a magnifying glass up against the screen and I promise you that wouldn't help find any nipples because there aren't any. No inhuman amounts of ejaculate being funneled into genitalia, no swelling of the gastrointestinal system without any sort of health related repercussions and not one, not one, slippery bad boy with suction cups for fingers. Tentacles, in case you didn't get it. The movie takes place in the sea, from what I had gathered, so that seemed like a given.
Instead, what I did get was beautiful handpainted scenery, mindblowing cinematography of a breathtaking scope, and a renewed sense of purpose, with a sense that the world isn't as cold as I make it out to be living this day to day life I call a mediocre waste of time and breath. When my roommate said that the film had strong female characters, I assumed he was judging by the amount of newtons worth of force their little buttholes could negotiate. I now realize that he was referring to the depth of their character, which is--in a way--far more important. This film made me want to call my girlfriend.
The tale of a little-girl-fish thing helping her newfound family find love, is exactly what I would expect of Disney. I didn't even get an erection. How fucking cool is that?
Apparently Hayao Miyazaki has a long history of making wonderous pictures that explore relatable themes, in ways that we are too busy down at the mill to consider. How was I supposed to know that Howl was the name of the protagonist of Howl's Moving Castle, instead of just a description of the sounds buttstuff creates?
How the fuck was I supposed to know Ponyo wasn't hentai?
Japanese, check.
Female protagonist, check.
That's about all I got. You hear that, you think hentai. This was not that. 0/10 hentai, 10/10 film.
I owe my roommate an apology. Not just for shunning all of his recommendations prior, but for begrudgingly stripping nude in his presence. Tomorrow, I might even check out Spirited Away! Look, was I a little disappointed when I learned that Tina Fey hadn't in fact lended her voice to a piece of animated pornography? Sure. Sure as I've got toes on my feets.
I do not have toes on my feet. But seeing her out of character, in the role of a caring mother just trying to make sure her family can get by under the weight of the judgement of others made me consider how I'd been treating the mother of my own children, whom I have been separated from, for just so long. And that's great. There is no other result that I would prefer to come from laying slick on a trashbag tarp of my own preparation. That's just grand.
This has been kind of nice actually. I feel as though the power of friendship is actually pretty important. Ponyo taught me that. Maybe there are things in life more important than playing five hand poker with the baloney pony.
Ah who am I kiddin? I'm gonna go crack open a cold one and watch some busty beauties get shafted by failed government experiments. Consensually.
Dorito Man 48 signing off. See you later space cowboy.


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CoreNet Global New England Chapter recently engaged our team to produce a suite of videos for their awards ceremony on November 1, 2016 at the InterContinental Boston. Among the videos we produced was this piece on CoreNet's Young Leaders program, which we filmed onsite at Iron Mountain, Thermo Fisher, and Shave Media's studio in Allston. We were excited to watch this video play on the big screens last Tuesday as we filmed coverage of CoreNet's Red Carpet, which our team is editing now. Our colleagues at CoreNet were terrific partners throughout the entire project, and did a fantastic job organizing the production.
Celebrating Hill House's 50th Anniversary
For fifty years, Boston's Hill House has provided "your backyard in the city" for generations of residents in the historic Beacon Hill neighborhood, offering a diverse selection of programs for children of all ages and their families.
To mark this special anniversary, Hill House engaged our team to create a video that would tell their story to online viewers and the audience at their 50th Anniversary Gala. Over the course of a day we filmed interviews with Hill House members and supporters, as well as day-in-the-life footage of Hill House families participating in a wide range of activities, from outdoor athletics to indoor arts and crafts.
For interviews, we used two Canon C100s, one locked down, and the other on a Kessler Slider with the Parallax System. We shot action footage with a combination of those cameras and a Sony FS5 on a MoVi rig.
We enjoyed working with Hill House on their video, and wish them the best as they continue to enrich family life in the Boston community.
New video for Prince Lobel
We recent completed a new video for Prince Lobel, highlighting the Boston law firm's continuing commitment to diversity.
New video for HubSpot for Startups
This summer we worked with HubSpot, the innovators behind Inbound Marketing, to create a quick video that introduces their new program HubSpot for Startups. Over the course of a day we filmed the HubSpot for Startups team at work, along with a variety of scenes throughout HubSpot's headquarters in Cambridge, MA. We also stopped over at Drift, another innovative software development company based in Cambridge, for some additional filming.
Debut Video for 15-40 Connection
We have just finished our first in a series of video for 15-40 Connection, a cancer self-awareness nonprofit organization. 15-40 Connection's mission is to empower people by showing them how to spot the first warning signs of cancer, and dramatically increase their chances of survival.
We shot the interview footage several months ago at an event held by 15-40 Connection at the offices of Applied Interactive in Worcester, MA, using a two-person crew with two Canon C100s, a slate-colored heavy cloth backdrop, and 3-point lighting. For the hair light, we mounted an LED panel on a stand placed behind and above the backdrop. We also used a roaming camera on a slider for b roll of the event, for use in later videos.
Over the course of the event, we filmed interviews conducted by the 15-40 Connection team with a diverse group of cancer survivors, all of whom are now thankfully in good health. The speakers told us about their lives before cancer, the nature of their symptoms, how they were diagnosed and treated, and what they would tell their younger selves knowing what they know now.
We strongly encourage anyone in the 15-40 age range to visit 15-40.org and take a moment to read through the potentially-lifesaving information on the website.
Filming Interviews and B Roll at Acentech in Cambridge MA
Today we continued filming interviews and b roll footage for a case-study video that will highlight an exciting service provided by Acentech: the Remote Monitoring of Noise and Vibration. So far we've filmed at several locations in the Greater Boston area, Western Massachusetts, and New Haven, CT.
Today's video shoot was at Acentech's Cambridge office, where we used two Canon C100 cinema cameras - locked down for multicam interviews, and stabilized with several setups for action and detail shots. Working with Acentech is always fun, and we look forward to reviewing the footage and beginning the edit.
Filming at AONE's Annual Meeting in Ft. Worth
Today we wrap our week of filming at the Annual Meeting of the American Organization of Nurse Executives in Ft. Worth, Texas. 2016 marks our 5th year providing video coverage for AONE's Annual Meeting, and this year we have included event photography coverage as well.
During our time at the Annual Meeting, we filmed dozens of interviews - some of which we edited onsite to be aired on the big screen later in the week. We also shot ample footage for videos that we will produce after the event, including a sizzle reel that features highlights of the meeting, interview-based segments for various departments' social media streams, and a series of "Thought Leader" videos captured on the big stage. Our onsite photographer Ken Marcou took headshots of the AONE team, close-up product shots of awards for the big screen, and event coverage photos that preserved essential moments of the meeting.
Leading up to the meeting and throughout the week we worked side-by-side with AONE's stellar team to ensure that we captured the right content using the highest possible production value. Through meticulous scheduling, the AONE team enabled us to film and photograph a wide array of valuable media.
Since our first engagement with AONE, during the spring of 2012, we have traveled together to destinations across the country, including Denver, Orlando, Phoenix, and New Orleans. And this past February we had the pleasure of visiting and filming at AONE's office in Chicago. We look forward to future adventures with AONE!
Filming at the DogWatch Dealer Meeting in Orlando
This week we filmed at the DogWatch Dealer Meeting in Orlando, capturing highlights of the event and shooting videos for the websites of individual Dealers across the United States, Canada, and several overseas locations like Thailand, Australia, and Trinidad and Tobago. We filmed the Dealer videos as interviews against a solid white background, using soft-boxes to light the background, and LED panels to light the speakers.
In addition to over 30 Dealer video interviews, we filmed at all the major talks and presentations, including the Awards Dinner, breakout sessions, and a special trip to Disney Springs, just down the road from the Dealer Meeting.
And throughout the meeting, we enjoyed the relative warmth of Florida, and some close encounters with the exotic, like this Red and Green Macaw "Merlot":
Filming with AONE in New Orleans
We were delighted to travel with AONE this week to New Orleans to film video clips for their Year End Review and upcoming Annual Meeting in Ft. Worth. Because the speakers were addressing the viewer directly, we did a single-camera set up and used an iPad-based teleprompter with some on-the-spot text edits.
Back in LA
We're back in LA, filming a comprehensive series of videos with celebrated Penguin Random House author Dean Koontz. This setup included a locked-down Canon C100 and 5Dmkiii, a wireless lavalier mic, and several softbox lights (that travel surprisingly well) to counteract the powerful California sun. Working with Dean and our colleagues at Penguin Random House was a pleasure, and the interview covered a wide range of topics, from Dean's early writing inspirations to his latest novel.
While in town, we visited some of our favorite spots, and took in the sunset over the ocean.


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I used to love the occult. I got into the occult because of my mother. She was not a religious, churchgoing woman, but worshiped angels and was one to become easily pulled into conspiracy theories, new age thinking, and the like. I had been groomed to be a follower of the occult from the beginning. If I were to share with my mom some of the occult things I experienced in my later adult years, she would have believed me, understood, and would have encouraged me to go deeper.
Not long after she died, I felt a strong affinity toward to the occult. I missed her TERRIBLY, and so I would practice what I now know to be Necromancy. And even though I knew what it said in the Bible about the afterlife, I chose to ignore it because my desire to see or interact with my mom once again was so strong that I was willing to believe in almost ANYTHING. I even remember having a psychic friend who would give me messages from who she believed to be my mom. I also remember meeting a psychic friend online who I ended up talking to on the phone, and because we became good friends, ended up giving me free readings…even though she regularly charged folks to get readings from her. She was heavily into Reiki healing.
I used to have dreams about my mom coming to me to interact with me. I remember one very vivid dream was a dream where she was surrounded by bees (she was allergic to bees), and she was sorta like floating in mid-air and said to me, "See? I'm alright." After that occurrence, I yearned to interact with "her" more and more, to the point where I started looking forward to going to sleep. Talk about demonic influence, now that I look back at it! Lol. During that time, I was heavily into meditation, automatic writing, and of course, necromancy…probably fortune telling, as well. I had a lot of difficulty dealing with my mom's death, and so the occult was my comfort…choosing to believe a LIE that she was "watching over me," or regularly communicating with me. I also used to watch those psychic shows with well-known psychic-mediums like Sylvia Browne, John Edward, and Lisa Williams, and would watch those paranormal investigation shows that they would always show on tv. My next step was to attend a live show. Everything I did or cared about was related to the occult. I also bought or borrowed a few books.
Next thing I know, I started becoming more aware of spiritual beings in my presence, and would even see things as well as have a spirit pull me from a laying position to a sitting position in my bed….all because I was mourning my mother. I will ALWAYS love my mother. But the enemy used her life AND death to lure me into the occult. We have to realize that our earthly families are JUST THAT…EARTHLY. What matters MOST is the spiritual. The enemy knows that our earthly families can be a weakness for us, so naturally that's who he will use to challenge our beliefs. We have to realize that NONE of this can come with us. I love my children, my family, but if they are not of the elect, I WILL NOT see them again after this earthly life. Now can YOU bring YOURSELF to THAT conclusion? How does that make you feel? If you TRULY love and/or want God, yes it will shock you, but you will be able to see the big picture and come to terms with that, knowing which is MOST IMPORTANT.
"For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" (Mark 8:36, KJV)
Are you trying to save your life here on earth? Or are you willing to let it go for the sake of Christ?
I hope this helps someone out there.
If you are struggling with wanting to communicate with dead loved ones, then this post is for YOU. You need to know that communicating with dead loved ones is NECROMANCY, and COMPLETELY AGAINST THE GOSPEL OF JESUS CHRIST. Here in Rescue, we can help you deal with the pull that the occult may have on you, through your mourning of a loved one's passing. Let us help you learn the TRUTH, according to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. DO NOT submit to the occult because you are hurting. It will not lead you to anything good…no matter how comforting the spirits may seem. They are not your friend, and do not care about you. If this sounds like YOU, you need to know that FALLEN ANGELS ARE SCAMMING YOU!!! CONTACT US. We are here. You can either email us at firstname.lastname@example.com or call us at 1-888-818-1117 to schedule an appointment for spiritual mentoring or counseling.


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No products
New product
For people who love to spend time outdoors, choosing this Malibu Outdoor Patio Wood Garden Armchair will not only make the garden or patio look more elegant, but they will also provide a comfortable way to enjoy parties and have fun!
Product dimensions:
56 x 61 x 86 (cm)
This product is no longer in stock
Availability date:
Made from 100% Eucalyptus - a very durable Hardwood, this item can stand up to all kinds of changes in the weather. The pores of the Eucalyptus is very dense
Decorative back, slatted and contoured seat, with armrests
No cushion or pillows included
1 year warranty against manufacturing defects
Fast and easy to assemble
Made from Eucalyptus Hardwood
Natural Wood Finish


text:
right here, write now
Conference News
2018 Writers Competition Winners
First Place. Her Wenatchee childhood encouraged in CHRISTINA JONES a love of reading and writing stories. As an adult she hesitated to share her work publically, but the satisfaction she gained from writing online editorials prompted her to develop her skills and gave her the confidence to submit her work in other arenas. She said it seemed fitting to begin with this competition in the city where she first discovered and practiced story telling through the written word.
Old Souls
Like people used to, Abigail read a book on the subway. It was a little unusual, surrounded as she was by heads bent over electronic devices. But anyone who thought to look twice at a young woman reading an old book quickly wrote her off as another young, ironic hipster pretending to have an old soul on her way downtown from a crowded flat in Brooklyn.
As usual for a Monday morning, the subway was full of people on their way to jobs and schools. Abigail had procured her usual, coveted seat by the door early on, but groggy passengers still jostled her knees and stepped on her toes as they jockeyed for more comfortable positions.
A man in a suit standing in front of Abigail lost his balance as the train slowed and stepped hard on her foot. He cursed softly as he caught his balance again, earning a dirty look from a young mother behind him. Abigail put her book away and stood, brushing past them both.
Like every weekday morning, before heading to her office Abigail made a detour to Richard's alley. Richard himself was sitting at the front of the alley, head against the wall behind him, face to the sunlight falling in a wide sliver between skyscrapers.
"No, no Emma," Abigail heard him muttering as she approached, "that war's over now but they say there's another one. There are people flying things up in the sky – metal they tell me – metal! Can you believe it? In the sky!" Abigail stepped over his outstretched legs, pulled a newspaper out of her bag and laid it next to him. Then she sat on it. Richard quieted after a moment, turning his head and blinking curiously at his visitor.
Beneath grime and tangled hair, he had a smooth, clear face.
"Morning, Richard," Abigail said.
Richard smiled, "Abigail!" he said, "Emma and I were just talking about the things in the sky."
"Airplanes," Abigail said, "those are called airplanes, Richard. They've been around for about a hundred years now."
"Have they? I can never keep track of these new-fangled things they keep coming up with."
"You keep track of me, and I'm not much older than airplanes," Abigail pointed out.
"Yes but you're a person," Richard said, "I'm good at keeping track of people. I've kept track of Emma here for hundreds and hundreds of years."
He patted the sidewalk beside him tenderly, and Abigail watched his empty hand settle against the dirty cement.
"You're a good husband to her, Richard," Abigail said. Richard beamed.
"Would you like some of my coffee?" she asked, offering him the paper cup she held in one hand, "It's terrible. The shop put something called 'hemp' in it instead of milk."
Richard wrinkled his nose. "No, thank you. I just ate. Emma and I had pasta in Little Italy. I ate so much," he patted his stomach, "I don't think I'll ever eat again I'm so full."
"But this is just coffee," Abigail pointed out.
Richard blinked, "Yes," he said, "That's right. We had coffee too."
Abigail sighed and glanced away from him, down to the other end of the alley where a filthy twin-size mattress lay.
"How are you sleeping?" she asked Richard.
"Ah, dear," he said, his tone a little patronizing, "only the young sleep."
"You should sleep," Abigail insisted, "it would be good for you to sleep. You know I keep telling you, I've got a spare bedroom."
"Thank you, but we've got a fine house right here, don't we Emma?" Richard asked the air beside him.
Abigail nodded. "Alright," she said, and stood. She left the newspaper behind as she usually did, in vain hope that Richard would read it.
"I'd better be off to work," Abigail said. Richard squinted up at her, smiling.
"How old are you now, Abigail?" he asked.
"A hundred and fifty-six," Abigail told him, "How about you?"
Richard's smile faded. He reached out and held her hand. His grip was strong and hearty, but dirt and grime rimmed his fingernails.
"I stopped counting," he said, "Only the young count." his thumb moved gently against the back of Abigail's hand.
"Emma is always twenty-one," Richard continued, "she used to tell me sometimes she was sixty-three and leaving soon," he chuckled, shaking his head, "but no, no she's twenty-one and always here in our house with me."
He squeezed her fingers, "you're a smart girl," he said, "with your job and your… airplanes. Keeping close to all the changing, fading people. But not too close, I hope."
The shard of sunlight they'd been sitting in had been steadily narrowing, and now it flickered out as the sun passed fully behind a building. "That's right," Abigail said. She could feel Richard's wedding ring on his finger – the metal old and worn by age. It was a brittle and cold warning against her skin. "No one close enough to lose," she finished.
"Good girl," Richard said, and released her hand. He looked aside again, "Emma wants to have a baby," he said, "I told her it's not a good idea."
"That's smart," Abigail agreed, "Immortality is genetic afterall."
"Like madness," Richard sighed. His head fell back against the wall again. His eyes slipped closed. He whispered an old lullaby under his breath. Abigail stepped away from him, back into the flow of morning commuters.
"Bye, dad," she whispered.
As she walked Abigail checked her watch. She was still running early. She'd hardly slept the night before, woken up by strange dreams in the dark hours of the morning.
Abigail passed into another sliver of sunlight. She stopped, and a pedestrian who had been walking behind her cursed and bumped into her shoulder as he passed on her left. A woman carrying her child passed on Abigail's right. Others came behind them, a stream of humanity brushing against her and passing her by. Abigail waited until the sunlight flickered out again and carried on.
[Judges said: "I find it fascinating that every line can be interpreted another way." "…poetically metaphoric…Ambiguity to the end." And "…an intelligent story that challenges readers to draw their own conclusions."]
Second Place. TAMIKO JORDAN has dreamed of writing something other than medical notes for years, and when she moved to Washington last year she knew it was time to stop dreaming and start writing. When she heard about WOTR on the radio, it seemed like a sign to get her stories out of her head and onto paper. She said "I'm thrilled to be part of the Wenatchee writing community and hopes to meet more writers in the coming years."
Blood Will Tell
Puyallup, 1982
"Happy New Year!" June called out, entering a house already filled with family, kids running amok and the TV blaring. Her date followed, staring at a table which held three white cakes topped with an orange.
"That's mochi, it's a Japanese thing," she laughed, pulling him inside. "Supposed to bring good luck." Her long dress rustled as she bent to kiss her mother. At seventy, Sachiko was a dried flower of a woman, her body a delicate husk topped with a shock of white hair and rheumy eyes. It broke June's heart.
"Hello, Mama," she kissed her papery cheek as a brittle hand gripped hers with surprising strength.
"Sumi took my angel to heaven. There wasn't enough blood for her," the old woman said. June nodded, fighting back tears. Ever since her dad's death her mom's dementia had only worsened.
She entered the kitchen where her older sister ladled fragrant broth into traditional ceramic bowls. Tradition ruled for Miyo. "Soup smells amazing." She hugged her sister from behind. "This is my boyfriend Dylan. He's a biology professor at UW."
Her sister turned, eyeing June's bohemian outfit disapprovingly. Her unmarried artist sister. "At least this one's employed," she said stiffly. Her oldest son Sinji brushed her aside.
"Don't be rude, Mother. Sorry, Dylan, she's been cooking nonstop since yesterday." He grinned at June. "Hey, Auntie, good to see you."
"How's college?"
"Loving it. Doing a paper on the camps. I just wish grandma could tell me what it was like."
Dylan's brow furrowed. "The internment camps?"
"Yes, I was born in the one here," June said. "Summer of 1942."
"I didn't realize there was a camp in Washington," he replied.
Sinji piped up, "It was called Camp Harmony, at the fairgrounds. Like a holding place before they shipped everyone to Idaho."
"You should ask your uncle, he remembers some. Where is he, anyway?" As if on cue, June's brother entered from the patio.
In age he was closer to Miyo, but in personality he'd always been closer to June. "The smoker's going," he reported as he ruffled June's hair. "Hey, Sis. Is this Dylan? I'm Eiji, it means the second born. My folks weren't that creative." Dylan laughed as they shook hands.
Miyo shouted at the kids to come eat so they all settled down at the table.
Conversation flowed over the meal in a pleasant cacophony. The kids attacked their food with singular concentration and then ran off again.
As the group quieted, Miyo drew in a breath. She'd been waiting.
"Mom's getting worse," she murmured. "Sometimes she sleeps all day."
"Yeah, she was going on about Sumi again," Eiji sighed. "Who's she talking about?"
"She said something about blood," June added.
"We had a blood drive at school," Sinji said from the sink as he washed up. "I'm type O, the universal donor."
"This whole family is type O." Eiji pointed at June, "except your auntie, she's AB, the weirdo amongst us."
June laughed, used to being the odd man out. Dylan's attention sharpened. "But that's not possible." He blurted out. Everyone turned to him.
"What?" June asked. The look on his face inexplicably filled her with dread.
Dylan gulped. "You can't be AB if your parents were both type O. It's biologically impossible. To be an AB both parents have to contribute either the A or the B".
"Oh yeah, we just studied this in genetics," Sinji rejoined the group. "The O is recessive so you have to have two of them to be a type O." He looked at June with wide eyes. "But that would mean…" he looked around for confirmation. "Grandma and Grandpa aren't your real parents," he said slowly. Dylan only nodded.
A shocked silence fell. June's head was buzzing as she rose and ran to the living room, the family close behind.
Her mother sat in her favorite chair, haloed by wintery sunlight. She looked up with a smile. "Sumi took my angel to heaven."
Tears streamed as June kneeled and took her mother's hand, willing her to have a moment of clarity. "Mama, who is Sumi?"
"My best friend in the camp," the old woman replied, a faraway look on her face. "Our husbands went to Idaho before us. She helped with the kids. Her family was gone. We went into labor on the same day."
"What happened?" June whispered.
"I pushed and pushed. My baby wouldn't come out. Then he was so blue and still, with the cord wrapped around his neck. They couldn't save him. He went to heaven."
June's heart thudded heavily in her chest. She had to know. "And Sumi?"
"She had a girl. But she kept bleeding. The doctors didn't have enough blood to give her." Sachiko's eyes filled and seemed to clear for a moment. "She went to heaven too. So they gave you to me. They said no one could know. There was no one else to take care of you. Then you were mine, my June."
June laid her head on her mother's lap, her world upside down. She'd always felt different from the rest of the family, was this why? She also grieved for her mother as a young woman. What must she have gone through, alone in the camp with three kids?
Miyo touched June's shoulder. Everyone had heard the confession. "She cried a lot after you were born," Miyo recalled. "Sometimes I had to feed you when she was too tired."
"Guess this explains why you're the only artist in the family." Eiji said, attempting some levity.
There was a weak laugh as the group struggled for full comprehension.
June gave Dylan a slight smile. The poor guy looked stricken. "I'm ok," she said, rising to embrace her siblings. "We're all going to be ok." They would figure it out somehow.
The three of them held each other tightly as Sachiko looked on with a peaceful smile. She sighed and closed her eyes. Now she could finally rest.
[Judges said: "A powerful reminder that things can go terribly wrong when we let fear guide our treatment of those we consider different," "…clearly-drawn characters and excellent compression of time to tell an important story " and "A simply-told tale with the dinner-table blood-typing a unique twist."]
Third Place. (writing as Melissa Gale), MELISSA CAMPBELL has been a competition judge. She is a paralegal who writes mostly erotic-sci-fi-romance and has been published in Flash! A Celebration of Short Fiction, with a short story being considered for The Masters Review. Melissa is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Emerald City Romance Writers, Write On The River, and "the best DAM writing group in the Valley," she said, "which sparks my inspiration and lovingly supports me."
Leon Loves Purple Too
The bee danced in a figure-eight on the back of her hand. Alicia smiled, delighted at her new friend's chosen bee-ballet. Lying belly down in the middle of the front flower patch she could smell the early purples around her. Her mom said this flower garden was her responsibility, and if she kept it weed-free she could choose the flowers that grew there – and Alicia Keene liked purple.
With her legs lazily kicking up from the knees, she grinned at her friend. "I'm so glad you're happy. It's nice to see you too. How are things at the hive? Is it scary being a soldier?" Alicia turned her hand so he could stay on top. Mom had just let them watch a show about bees on the Discovery Channel. Alicia knew the bees in the flowers were boys and they were soldiers, serving and protecting their hive, and that they'd die if they ever had to sting anyone. She studied her friend and leaned in closer. "What? Leon? Hi Leon. My name's Alicia. Alicia Marie Keene. Pleased to meet you."
"Leeeeeesha! Oh, there you are. What are you doing? Talking to those dumb bees again?" Henry sneered at her as he came around the corner of the house.
"Shut. Up. Henry. They're my friends. Don't be mean to them." Alicia moved her other hand over so the bee could dance on it.
"You're just a dumb baby. Maybe when you're nine years old like me you'll be smarter." Henry walked over to see her still turning her hand, the bee now drawing a circle in her palm.
"Yoooou're juuust jealousss." Alicia moved her hand away from Henry's sight. "They don't like you like they like me. They even listen to me."
"Don't be dumb. Bees don't talk." Henry moved around the other side, trying to see the bee in his sister's hand.
"Sure they do, dummy. You just don't know how to listen." Alicia extended her palm. "Hey, Leon. What's your favorite flower? How 'bouts you show Henry."
Henry swiped at a stalk of grass growing in the violets. The bee stopped turning its circles in Alicia's palm. He drifted up and over to the violets, sampling a sweet-as-candy blossom, and then gently back to Alicia's palm.
"See. They understand me and trust me. They know I'd never do anything to hurt them." Alicia held the bee at eye level and smiled at him. "Right, Leon?"
Henry threw the grass stem he'd been fidgeting with down at Alicia's hand. "Maybe they're just as stupid as you." The bee lifted up to avoid the grass, and then returned to his dance – this time walking in diagonal lines, making an "X" shape across her hand.
"You're not 'posed to say 'stupid,' Henry. If mom heard you you'd be in trouuuuble."
"Mom's not here, dummy. And you're not going to tell her or I'll go spray your hive with the hose!" Henry frowned down at her.
"They don't like you. That makes them smart right there!" Alicia bent and whispered to her friend. "Don't worry, Leon. I won't let him hurt you."
"Maybe I'll take the hose to them anyway. Get you to shut up about them for a while." Henry turned and took off at a trot across the lawn.
"Leon NO!" Alicia screamed as the bee launched itself from her hand and rocketed toward Henry.
She leapt to her feet to follow Leon, not noticing she was trampling the very violets he loved so much. Alicia opened her mouth to scream, but it twisted into a snarl and a low growl tore out of her throat.
"Leesha! Your EYES!" Henry screamed.
Henry looked back at his sister to see her standing with her arms reaching out to him, fingers twisted into claws, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
Alicia couldn't hear him. She was already far away, consumed by the instinct to protect her hive. Her fingers closed into fists as she raised her arms above her head. Tilting her face upward, the low growl turned into a howl.
"Leesha?" Henry's eyes were wide open. He couldn't blink, couldn't believe what was happening to his sister.
Her howl stopped abruptly as Alicia brought her arms together and clasped her hands over her head. Lowering them to her chest she leveled her unseeing gaze at her brother. Henry waited, but then took a few steps toward his sister when she began pacing in a figure-eight. As he neared her, he heard a low hum coming from her.
Alicia's eyes closed as she stopped and shook her head quickly back and forth, then continued pacing. The hum got louder as Henry hesitantly stepped toward her. Watching in disbelief as his little sister walked three steps and stopped, shaking her head like a dog trying to get off water, then took another three steps before stopping and shaking her head again.
"Leesha?" Henry asks in a high-pitched whisper.
Alicia stopped her dance in front of Henry, tilting her head and opening her eyes, again revealing only the whites. Henry heard the humming grow louder and turned, looking over his shoulder. The realization that the humming wasn't coming from from Alicia anymore registered just before the swarm of bees enveloped him. Alicia stopped her dance in front of Henry, tilting her head and opening her eyes, again revealing only the whites. Henry heard the humming grow louder and turned, looking over his shoulder. The realization that the humming wasn't coming from from Alicia anymore registered just before the swarm of bees enveloped him.
[Judges said: "A wide-eyed innocent start and a shocking reveal…" "Finely-tuned conversation between the kids.." "tension builds swiftly and surely.. 'a low growl tore out of her throat' was a superb line!" "If this was just a start I intend to read more!"]
First Place. Raised on an eastern Washington wheat and cattle ranch, R.D. LONGMEIER went on to study at Wenatchee Valley College, W.S.U. and Texas Tech University, and his occupations have included service in Vietnam as a U.S. Marine, high school Ag teacher, law enforcement officer and long-haul truck driver. Robert has retired to writing, including cowboy poetry, and is a past winner in this competition.
Wintertime Blues
It was snowing, and bitterly cold—the worst winter in a decade. Driving was a nightmare. I'd been running loads out of International Falls, Minnesota, while my partner vacationed. He'd flown to Arizona vowing not to return to this "iced-over hell hole" until springtime daffodils were in bloom. Me? I hadn't seen a glimmer of sunshine since the beginning of winter. All of this gloom had taken its toll. I called my wife for some cheering up, but for trivial reasons, our conversation ended on a sour note, followed by silence—icy, heart-throbbing silence.
Angry storm clouds persisted. I continued west, across the Red River, into North Dakota. A steady ribbon of packed snow and ice, with intermittent fog, stretched out before me. The day wore on. Famished and low on fuel, I exited the freeway the moment I spotted a truck stop. Wiper blades pushed away frost and sleet as my forty-ton tractor-trailer rolled down the off-ramp into an ice-covered parking lot. When I came to a stop, a transient advanced toward me. I'd never seen such despair and wretchedness in any one human being. He stood outside my door like a stray dog, shivering, hoping for a handout. I had a feeling I was in for a real tearjerker.
"I'm broke down and stranded with a starving family," he cried out. "I'm trying to get to Denver where there might be a job waiting. Can you help out? Can you spare a few dollars?" he pleaded.
I wasn't born yesterday. Truck stop vagrants use well-crafted "poor me" verbiage to fund their drug or alcohol addictions; only the gullible fall prey to their scam games. Nevertheless, to hasten his leaving, I poked a buck down at him. With meekness and humility, he uttered a faint "thank you." I watched as he trudged through the snow and ice, then disappeared.
I threw on a heavy coat and headed up to the restaurant. Soft music, spirited conversation, and a tinge of cigarette smoke filled the air. I sunk down into a booth and ordered a "number two": steak and eggs; a mountain of hash browns; and coffee. Such respite from all the toil and misery was satisfying, but short-lived. Duty called the minute I finished. First on the agenda was finding a road report. Travel conditions out on the bleak western horizon remained a mystery. I paid my tab, then stepped out into the bitter wind.
After refueling, I slowly made my way back across the slippery driveway, and returned to the building to where the cashier was located. That same grimy bum working the parking lot was now in there. This time, he wasn't alone. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed what I was about to witness. He was sharing what little food he could afford with a wife and child. Each was soiled, ragged, and probably half-starved. I could only guess what all they might have been through.
Hard times come to all; each must bear their own burden. Me? I'd been plagued by blizzard driving conditions—one blinding snow storm after the next—almost daily. I was a thousand miles from home, and gone the entire winter; my body, mind, and spirit had grown cold and numb. Burdens? I bore the burdens of fifty men!
All this self-pity was getting me nowhere. I needed to resume my trip ASAP, without further delay. The weather had raised havoc with my schedule; at a minimum, I needed to drive as far as Glendive, Montana, before day's end, a distance of more than three hundred miles. My engine purred like a kitten, all four hundred fifty horses. Eighteen restless wheels eagerly waited, ready to roll at a moment's notice. I grabbed first gear; then I slowly shifted back into neutral. That cold, hungry beggar and his family—his haunting voice echoed and danced in my head, playing and replaying repeatedly: "stranded . . . broke down . . . starving family . . ."
I felt stupid, just sitting there. A quarter of a million dollars' worth of cargo and equipment remained parked, idle, collecting rust, and going nowhere while I pondered my next move. . . . Finally, I killed the engine. With a blanket in hand, I returned to the restaurant and extracted one hundred forty dollars from an ATM machine. I laid it all out on the beggar's table—seven crisp, new Jackson bills—along with the blanket.
The beggar was in a state of utter disbelief, and slow to respond. "Take 'em, they're yours," I commanded, pointing down at the stack of twenties, "They're yours," I repeated.
The man's wife looked at me with eyes penetrating, yet kind. Then she glanced out through the window at all the misery and chaos. "It's feeling warmer already," she declared. I saw a few tears.
The child reacted with the zeal and keenness that only a seven-year-old boy could. "Now can I have some pancakes with syrup, Daddy?" he asked.
Three radiant smiles, one from each of them, illuminated the entire room. We shook hands, and I wished them well as we parted company. They warmed my heart. Nothing seemed quite the same after that. I whispered a prayer for them as I made my way back to the truck. Returning to the highway, I gazed into the silvery clouds. Gone was their bleakness and fury, or so it seemed. In a couple of hours, I was running on bare pavement. The fog had lifted, and blue skies were beginning to appear far off to the west.
By the time I had crossed into Montana, nightfall had already set in. The stars were out, millions of them. Lots of sunshine was in the forecast. I hadn't felt this much joy in months. Fresh, new hope had come to the man who had begged to feed his family. I too had been begging . . . to feed my soul.
[Judges said: #1 "Time and place become important characters here." "It builds a relationship between the reader and the narrator from the start…" "Skilled at wordsmithing " " … A blend of no-nonsense humor and poignant reflection."]
Second Place. MARGO HORNBACK had a unique start to her writing career. First she wanted to be a horse; then she wanted to write stories about horses. She held a variety of jobs, and her culminating career was as a Claim Examiner for the Department of Labor, which she describes this way: "I read folks' stories, and made decisions, hopefully in their favor, when possible. Thanks for considering my story and finding in my favor."
Sands of Time
Jim Reeves. That's the answer. "Yes, it always whispers to me, of the days of long ago…" It's on the public airwaves now, a show you can maybe only hear on a Fairbanks Saturday night, in 2000. Just me and Jim Reeves in a twilit room, about 3 am. A small personal mystery resolves.
Mom had a restaurant up the highway from Skykomish, where, after she'd been a single woman with two young daughters to support, a log-truck driver heard the news, stopped for coffee, and quickly won her battered heart. In the short months we lived as a new blended family at the River Bend Restaurant, we had a family invitation to the B___ home. Mr. B___ worked for the Forest Service; he oversaw a logging show, wherever they were clear-cutting that summer of 1953. Between the log-truck driver and the timber manager, some acquaintance was struck.
The B___s had a lot of children, or it seemed so to me. My sister and I had been, 'til then, living with our grandparents on their Illinois farm, or else as free as farmyard chickens in our own company. We rambled along mostly by ourselves mostly unencumbered by adult oversight for a year, and I for one was happy that way.
But at the B___ house, there were more boys and girls than I'd ever seen, a tribe to which I did not belong. We sat down at large table, and shared a meal. It might have been the first family table I had attended, since leaving the farm two years earlier. After, we were turned loose to our own devices. If allowed, I would have stayed at the table with Mom to see what was up.
No, I was banished, then subsumed into a raucous group of strangers. It was rowdy, they were loud. They played wildly, very different from our sisterly wandering. We were used to benign neglect, of a sort no parent today understands. Mom had to work, or we would starve. We were expected to return home periodically, roughly at meal times and for bed, when she might have a break to take us upstairs to the apartment, and tuck us in. In between we traveled through a crescent of forest that existed within the curve of the wild river and the straight edge of Highway
In 1953 big rigs still flew by on Highway 2 from Canada to Seattle, at 1000'elevation, through the Cascade Mountains. Constrained only by natural caution, it's still a source of wonder that we were not drowned, lost in undergrowth over our heads, kidnapped, squished on the road like a succession of pets, or simply forgotten by our mother in the press of restaurant business. In this new social setting, the B___ kids seemed unsafe at any speed, with rules only they understood. I lost track of my own sister, something I had never before allowed.
Seven children under the age of 10 were on a bunk bed, bouncing high enough to hit our heads on the ceiling. One child was pushed, elbowed, or simply fell off. All the way to the floor, in a smooth displacement of air felt rather than heard, he went. His head hit the wood floor with a DANGER sound! Momentary quiet ensued, followed by resumption of shouts when the fallen child was ambulatory. Scared, I left the games, though my sister wouldn't come. For the first time I remember, I left her there, where I didn't feel she was safe. It was her or me.
I found the living room, where time stopped in a way that remained mysterious for 45 years. The room was empty of people, but there was a light in the corner by a window, and another light on a bookcase; there sat a phonograph. I'd seen one before at my Auntie's in a big cabinet, but at OUR house, WE had a Wurlitzer jukebox. Mom gave us quarters marked with her bright red fingernail polish, and we could pick any songs we wanted to hear. It is true pot-luck to give money for the jukebox, to a child who cannot read!
A record went around on the turntable, making a familiar sound that today's children won't recognize or understand: a needle on blank grooves. Tonight, in Fairbanks, I can see the dark room and pools of light, I can hear the shouts from the hall bedroom. Now I think forward to the later years: dark nights to come, the stepfather striding through a living room with an apron on and a butcher knife in his hand, looking for my mother, cold hatred curling his lip; the police finally on the front porch, and me: huddled and invisible to my mom's traumatized gaze. Tonight, I understand that the adults had left us kids alone to live or die, and gone downtown to the bars, while I began to learn of loss.
But on that one night, the living room was a refuge and it held nothing but the lights, the phonograph, and the record, revolving with its tic, tic, tic.
I picked up the needle and moved it to the outside ring of the record, where I knew the Wurlitzer started every time. Suddenly it was story time. A deep, mellifluous voice told of cowboys and miners, treasure hidden, revealed, only to be lost again under shifting, whispering sands, and no one able to hold fast against them. I was transfixed by the gentle voice, the rotation of the record, the peace I had found in chaos, and by the images of loss the words suggested there in that mountain darkness.
[Judges said: "Beautifully wrapped in context," "a poignant moment to describe the chaos of another family and your struggling one," "…it conveyed what could be a heavy subject with a light touch" and "powerful images of complicated childhood experiences that make us feel hope for their survival."]
Third Place. During the four decades he practiced internal medicine, JOHN GALLINIS discovered that the beliefs of each individual absolutely affect the outcome of their illnesses. He has spoken about that to groups but says his wife, Terri, has also "nagged, no… encouraged, me to write my stories for many years." He said he finally started two years ago, and after some procrastination he submitted this story the day of the competition deadline.
Crackers and Cheese
As a young doctor 40 years ago, I learned the importance of the mind-body connection one night in an emergency room of a small rural hospital during a life and death confrontation.
I took report from the off-duty physician and introduced myself to the night nurse. She was middle aged, a bit tough, and not at all shy or insecure around doctors. She had likely seen and done more in emergency departments for longer than I had been alive, and any physician would be wise to accept her counsel.
After treating several patients with various minor infirmities, I took a break for a late sandwich and retreated to the on-call doctor's room. At 2 a.m. the phone rang, and I was summoned to take care of a gentleman complaining of heartburn. The call room had become hot and stuffy, so I was actually relieved to return to the emergency department where the cold air helped to fortify me for what came next.
Mister Smith appeared ten years older than his stated age of 45 and was sweating profusely. He sat on the end of the examination table wearing a rumpled white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and collar unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He informed me that after his tavern closed he had been munching on crackers and cheese.
"The crackers must have stuck in my throat, Doc. Just give me something to ease the pain, and I'll be on my way. I have to clean my bar before tomorrow's crowd."
Most patients seen in the E.R. have elevated blood pressure readings, but this man's pressures were higher than expected. When I reported this he became irritated.
"My doctor prescribed blood pressure medicine, but I ran out of it months ago. I felt fine, so I stopped taking it," he replied with impatience.
A package of Marlboro cigarettes peeked out from his shirt pocket. I launched into a lecture on smoking and the link to heart disease and hypertension, and he became more annoyed.
"My doctor said I should stop smoking, but it's not that easy. Just give me something for the damn heartburn, Doc. I need to finish cleaning my tavern. I have to work for a living…not like you fancy doctors," he barked.
I persuaded the exasperated barkeep to stay long enough for blood tests and an electrocardiogram which confirmed my suspicions. He was having a heart attack which he believed was heartburn.
Just then the man's wife rushed in from the parking lot. I was anxious to avoid any additional agitation, and I wanted to enlist her support to convince her husband to follow my directives.
"Your husband needs to stay in the hospital for additional tests, but he remains adamant about leaving," I told her. "Can you help convince him to stay?"
"I'll talk to him," she said and turned towards her husband.
"Damn it! Listen to the doctor!" she scolded.
With this, he became very agitated and jumped off the exam table. He ripped the EKG electrodes off his chest, arms, and legs, and attempted to remove the IV line. Apparently, no persuading would convince him to stay.
"I came here because I believed you could help with the crackers stuck in my throat. I am not staying in this hospital!" he snapped.
"Sir," I said firmly, "You are having a heart attack, and if you walk out of this hospital now, the only way that you are coming back is dead. Do you understand me?"
I convinced him that what he had believed was just "heartburn" was now going to kill him. Within seconds, all the color drained from the man's face, his eyes glazed over and rolled up behind his eyelids, and he collapsed to the floor.
The night nurse and I had not previously worked together, but we had performed the resuscitation drill many times with other medical personnel. It was like a well-choreographed dance in which each participant carries out a specific role to accomplish a common goal.
We lifted the patient back onto the exam table. I pressed the defibrillator's "quick-look" paddles to the man's chest and checked the monitor. It displayed an erratic, squiggling, green line, which gave me palpitations. It revealed ventricular fibrillation: a heart rhythm irregularity which, without immediate intervention or the benefit of heart-lung bypass, invariably results in death.
The tiny exam room was crowded, yet it was so quiet you could hear the defibrillator's faint electrical whine as the capacitors were charged to 200 Joules. The whine soon changed to a quickening "Peep, Peep, Peep," signifying the charge was complete.
"Clear," I yelled and delivered the jolt through the paddles to the man's chest.
"POOM." As the shock was delivered, his pectoral muscles contracted violently and he rose slightly above the exam table. For a long moment the screen was blank as the electronics rebooted following the discharge. When the screen refreshed, the erratic telltale squiggles returned. His heart had not responded.
"Increase the settings to 300 Joules. Stand clear!"
"Whine. Peep, Peep, Peep…POOM."
We watched the screen and waited. After a few moments which seemed like an eternity, the bouncing green dot came back to life and marched steadily across the screen. The familiar EKG pattern revealed that the additional discharge had successfully cardioverted his erratic heart. The nurse and I shared a look of relief, and I was never so thankful to see the return of normal rhythm.
He was transported to the ICU, and I comforted his distraught wife. Soon, the cardiologist arrived and assumed care. He recovered fully was discharged to home in one week and returned to tending his pub.
A belief is the acceptance of a fact as real or true without immediate personal knowledge. The Belief System powers the Healing System through the mind-body connection. A young doctor learned a valuable lesson that night in a rural E.R.
[Judges said: "The mind-body connection is dramatically displayed …" "Pacing is excellent with the gripping drama of the emergency room unfolding…" and " Judicious use of pitch-perfect, realistic dialogue and characters quickly-realized with sparseness of detail." ]Conference News. Posted on May 1, 2018.
2018 Chelsea Cain High School Writers Competition Winners
Competition Winner
Dagan Anderson, who is a sophomore in Jennifer Robichaux's English class at Eastmont High School (for which this story was originally written) has composed dozens of first pages of novels and over the past few years has focused on other artistic pursuits, mainly drawing and animation, but also poetry and songwriting. Dagan said, "Music is a big part of my writing experience…poetry is just prose with a hidden music… I have immense respect for talented lyricists."
The air was crisp and tasted like the beginning of summer. A stout walnut tree stood in the centre of a hidden park, roots extending deep into the ground. Despite the state of disrepair and its secluded location, the park had a fair number of regular visitors, all of whom held the tree in good regard and took frequent advantage of its shade and fruits. In return, the visitors serviced the park: raking fallen leaves, fixing fences, and tossing grass seed into the trodden areas. The tree greatly appreciated the company and assistance, and continued to grow and produce many walnuts, which were some of the sweetest around. In the end, everyone was satisfied.
Over time, the tree had invited many different plants into the park to grow by its side. The companionship was always welcome, and welcomed most gratefully, in fact. There was plenty of soil to share. (Not every companion was able to stay, though; some plants didn't fare too well in the soil, or in the sunlight, or in the temperature. Some plants aren't suited for certain parks, perhaps.) However, the visitor at its base now was of a different nature. A sort of humorous-looking plant, indeed, with brown-dusted, leathery caps topping off each tough little stalk. It must have been developing for a while, considering the number of capped fellows littering the ground, but gone unnoticed until now. Taking into account the benign appearance, however, the tree figured that no harm could come of associating.
The foreigner (called Honey, as the tree came to know,) had a poor relationship with the parkgoers. Some of them distrusted the appearance, relating it to other plants of similar stature. However, the tree had great appreciation for Honey; as it continued to spread across the ground at the foot of the tree, it would clear the layer of leaves and unclaimed walnuts littered all along. In return the tree would leave for it a moist, shaded haven, in which it prospered. It was an ideal relationship, mutually beneficial, flawless.
Only for a time, though.
As Honey continued to draw itself closer, its funny, capped little fruits began to develop at the base of the tree's trunk. I have more than enough of myself to share, the tree would muse upon noticing this. I'm here to sacrifice for this friend that I love! And for a good time they coexisted like this, with Honey continuing to encroach farther upwards. After that time, however, things started deteriorating quickly.
One day, without reason, the tree felt a strong ache beneath its tough bark. It was such a sudden change, and not seeing any sort of physical damage, it was left baffled as to what could have brought it on. Perhaps I've been caring poorly for myself, it considered. This period of confusion lasted for a short while, and over that time the ache continued to eat away, leaving the tree very tired. Its leaves began to wither, and its walnuts stopped fruiting. Less and less of the parkgoers who had always collected them continued to stop by, seeing nothing to gain out of the trip. It became a very lonely time. But Honey remained closer than ever, now reaching halfway up the trunk. Slowly, the realization came upon the tree that… Perhaps it was Honey that was causing the pain? The pain had never come upon it until the tan-capped foreigners had made their home. The tree didn't understand how that could be, though, since things had been going so well up until then. It didn't make any sense, and the questioning only made the pain worse.
Regardless of what the answer was, it was too late.
After a long time spent away, one of the park frequenters returned. He took note of how the park had begun to fall apart: the molding fences and wilted hedges, dry soil and patchy grass. Then his attention fell to the tree. Its branches had warped over all this time, its stature shrunken and bare. It was a painful sight for the man to see. Coming closer, he was taken aback; the whole trunk had been covered by dozens of mushrooms. That's got to be why, the man remarked to himself, and tore a few off to get a closer look. But no matter how many mushrooms he removed, there was no undoing the damage beneath the bark. The man tried to think of something else he could do. This was surely not the end of his friend, a strong, reliable tree that had always provided so much… And then he recalled something he'd once heard. The man took out his pocket knife and began to hack away at one of the sturdier branches. Considering its size, he knew he couldn't saw through it all at once, but over the course of a few days it was finally downed with a great snap. Hoisting it off the ground, the man slung the branch over his shoulder and made off for another park. In this park lay a trunk from a recently felled tree, and the man figured, perhaps…
It was a completely different atmosphere in the new park, the tree noticed as its recovery progressed. Despite being somewhat bare, it was more home than the former had been in a long time. The walnut branch had been eased into a crack in a fresh oak stump, a surrogate mother of sorts, that allowed the tree to regrow what it had lost. It became healthier, and the man stood by its side, slowly helping it to make the park a more lovely place to be. As all of this went on, former park-frequenters caught wind of the happenings, and began to make appearances in anticipation of the first new walnut crop. After many years, with all of their support and tending, the tree gave them exactly that; and despite what it had lost, it still produced the sweetest fruits that anyone had ever seen.
[ For "Honey," which immediately placed high, the judges commented on the allegorical, lyrical style, one untypical of young fiction writers. It was "captivating and well-crafted," "flowed like a well-known fable" and had "a unique point of view." They saw the story as a metaphor and appreciated the upbeat ending.]
Honorable Mention.
Morgan Rosentrater is a full time Running Start Student from East Wenatchee. She said that early on she attempted writing novels but discovered that the short story format is more satisfying, and "Most times I'll spend up to two months debating a story idea in my head before I actually write it down." Morgan said she often writes, whether on the computer or her phone, in the company of her cat, Pepper.
She Left With the Twelve O'Clock Train
She had told my father we were going grocery shopping. She had not told him we were going to the train station.
The smell of roasting chestnuts was making me hungry as my mother and I sat patiently on a wooden bench in the chilly autumn air. The train station was a small structure that consisted of an entrance with two ticket booths, a departure and arrival time board, and a covered area to sit underneath that would only protect you from the rain. At this time of the year, the station was always bustling, just like it was today, with people visiting family for the holidays.
"What time is it?" I'd ask. It made me wish that Daddy had let me continue at school instead of keeping my mother and me locked away at home. When I left school, my teacher had just started teaching us how to read a clock. Maybe I'd ask if I could go back.
I never did.
"It is 11:23," she spoke quietly in a way to not draw attention. "We are waiting for a nice man to come so he can accompany us onto the twelve o'clock train."
I nodded my head and swung my feet back and forth impatiently. "I thought Daddy said you weren't supposed to talk to other men?" I cocked my head and examined her reaction.
She smiled sadly and ran her hand through the golden locks of my hair. "Your father is a very mean man," she informed me. "While he is nice to you, that does not mean he is nice to me. We are taking the train so we can be safe from him." She sighed and unfolded her newspaper. Monday November 3rd, 1953.
My mother was worried about something. I could tell by the way she kept glancing at the entrance to the train station as time passed.
"If we leave will I be able to go to school again?" She didn't answer me. Her eyes were glued to a man who had entered. I tugged the sleeve of her long paisley dress. "Is that the nice man we're waiting for?"
She snapped out of her daze and shook her head sorrowfully. "No," she murmured, "he is not. We need not worry, I'm sure Mr. Edmunds will be here shortly." My mother pulled a handkerchief out her purse and dabbed the corners of her eyes.
With nothing to do I set my focus on a pigeon who was hopping his way about the station pecking at dropped food and whatever waiting passengers would throw his way. We became friends quickly and I decided to name him Chomp because of how hungry he was. I was hungry too, because when Daddy was angry, he would only let us eat when he was home for dinner.
Without speaking, my mother stood up suddenly, her face completely despondent as the clock chimed. Glancing around the station I couldn't help but notice there was no nice man who had come to accompany us.
In the distance, I could hear the whistle of the train coming. The whistle became louder and louder as it got closer causing Chomp to get startled and fly into a well groomed man wearing a long blue jacket. The man swatted at Chomp in annoyance before looking up and dropping his suitcase. A look of horror crossed his face and he pushed his way towards the tracks.
I turned my head enough to just barely see my mother jump onto the cold metal rails only to be taken away by the 12:00 o'clock train that barreled through the station.
The man in the blue jacket dropped to his knees and let out a devastated cry. He seemed like such a nice man.
[Judges said that "She left With the 12:00 Train" showed excellent control of the child's point of view, had a strong dramatic arc, and was "O'Henry-ish" in its plot. The realism was believable and authentic. They especially liked the "spare description" and "effective dialogue."]
Honorable Mention.
Logan Reinier is a senior at Entiat Middle High School, where his English teacher is Nancy Coolidge. He won a similar commendation in last year's competition and has attended WOTR workshops. Logan says he has been a storyteller his whole life but has concentrated on writing short stories for the last few years. Though he likes all genre, he especially enjoys fantasy and science fiction and plans to pursue writing as a career.
The Drearwood Thieves
The rustling in the bushes drew a silence over the group. Edder sat shaking on his stump. Just his luck, he had joined the thieves that would die in Drearwood.
The bushes moved again, prompting Varn to draw his blade. "Who goes there?" He said, walking toward the bushes.
From the brush, emerged a shorter, stouter, and hairier man. Buttoning up his pants, he looked up toward the group. "Oh… I'm sorry, did I startle you?" He said, looking around. A wave of relief washed over the group.
"Gods be damned boy, I nearly ruined my breeches!" Dorrick said, the fat on his face bouncing as he did.
"Again, I offer my apology." The Halfling held his arms out to his sides bowing a little. "Would you mind if I joined you? I'd be willing to share what wine I carry."
"Sure," Dorrick said reluctantly.
Sitting down, the Halfling pulled out a wine skin and took a sip. "Now answer me honestly. You guys thought I was the nameless creature that lives here in the Drearwood, right?" The kid looked down. "Well, there's no shame in it! Most locals believe in it."
"Are you saying you don't?" Edder asked with a shaky voice.
"Listen, kid," the Halfling said before taking a sip and handing the wine skin to Varn. "I'm a storyteller by trade. We never believe the tales we tell."
"Poppycock!" Dorrick yelled, spitting out the food he had in his mouth.
"If a bard is afraid of his own tales, how can he expect to be able to finish the story or play the crowd for a reaction? Telling a story to a crowd isn't unlike playing an instrument." The Halfling paused and took his wine back, taking another sip. "However, I am far more interested in the story of how you three ended up in the middle of the most decrepit forest in all the world?" He began to eye the group.
"We're traders. Grain traders." Varn said, motioning to the sacks lying against a tree. "We are taking Drearwood as a shortcut."
The Halfling's eyes widened. "Grain traders, huh?… in the middle of this forest…" he took another sip. "If I had to guess, I'd say there is grain in those sacks, but that is not what you trade. There are no trading post on the south end of Driarwood. There is however… Thieves cove." Varn drew his sword, the curved blade hissing as he did. "And for people who believe in the nameless creature in these woods, I'd have to assume whatever it is you are smuggling is quite valuable. My guess would be on gems or gold."
Varn started to lunge at the Halfling before stopping with his sword overhead.
"I got to scare you twice tonight. Made the whole journey worth it." The Halfling said laughing. "I've seen you before at Thieves Cove, you knobs! And quite frankly I'm hurt you don't recognize me."
Dorrick began to laugh, his jowls bouncing up and down. "Yes, of course. I thought I knew you. Hard to see you in the dark." He said. Varn put away his sword.
"I recognize you two, but not the kid." The halfling said, wiping tears from under his eye.
"Ahhh, I found him on the street. Just hired help." He said, taking another bite of the chicken leg in his hand.
The kid watched him the whole time. It was torture to have to cook the meat and then watch someone else eat it. "Do you think… I could have some?" he asked Dorrick.
Dorrick grunted, throwing the meat on the ground in front of the kid. "You're lucky kid; I'm full," he said laughing.
Picking up the meat, he began to brush the dirt and twigs off. It was better than most of what he'd eaten in his life. He wasn't about to complain.
"Tell me about the creature in these woods?" The kid asked the bard.
"You don't know the tales?" the halfling asked.
"I know rumors," he said taking a bite, spitting out the twigs that he had missed.
"Well the story goes that it preys on the wicked and greedy that travel through these woods. They say it takes the form of anyone it devours and perfectly imitates how they look and sound."
"What does it look like… naturally?"
"I've heard some say giant wings, others red eyes. Generic monster stuff." The Halfling paused and looked into the kid's eyes. "It's just a story kid, trust me, you have nothing to fear."
The kid looked down at what remained of the chicken leg and started sucking any remnant of food off the bone.
"Hey kid!" Varn said in a rough voice. "We need more water."
The kid stood up and grabbed the bucket. Starting toward the river, he thought about what the bard had said. Reaching the river, he dipped the bucket into the water, when suddenly his body went tense. Screams echoed through the woods. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. They were just messing with him. All he had to do is walk back and see that they are completely fine.
He emerged from the bushes to find only blood and viscera. Looking around he saw what remained of the group, except the Halfling. Perhaps he had been eaten whole. Looking up he saw it.
The creature indeed had wings, tattered and torn. Its skin was black and hairless. On the top of its head where a row of horns forming a crown. It turned toward him, slurping the flesh that hung from its lip into its mouth. A grin grew on its face. "You're lucky, kid" It growled, throwing down Dorrick's head. "I'm full…" it said, flying off into the trees.
He did indeed consider himself lucky.
["Drearwood Thieves" was an immediately engrossing mix of realism and fantasy, said the judges. They felt the writer showed good control of the story with the compact, contained setting and it had "punchy dialogue," was suspenseful, and had clearly defined characters.]Conference News. Posted on April 26, 2018.
An Important Message about our Conference
An Open Letter to Local Writers
Dear fellow writers, friends and WOTR members,
Here in 2018, Write On The River's twelfth year serving local writers, the board of directors has made some major changes to our programs. Some of you have joined us for our new offerings: a summer garden party, the fall writing retreat, the first of our intensive Saturday workshops, and our monthly meetings, now called Writers Meeting Writers. And there is more to come.
We have suspended the annual conference, however. Some of you have been understandably distressed about that. As the founder of Write On The River, I share your disappointment. We have loved being able to bring a writers' conference to Wenatchee, and we cherish the experiences we have shared with local writers throughout the years. Some of you who have helped with our conferences know how labor-intensive it is. Combined with the year-round programming offerings, we found that our volunteers just could not continue to devote the time needed for such an intensive annual enterprise.
Typically, work on the conference began in August and we pushed hard through the year to carry it off. While we had several committed volunteers, along with board members, we often found ourselves overwhelmed with the work load. Board member turnover, WOTR members' busy lives, and the relentless need for marketing, fundraising, and presenter recruitment have brought us to the conclusion that we lack the volunteer base for a writing event of this size. We continue to make our need for volunteers known, such as we did with the board's message to the attendees of the 2017 conference.
We have also experienced a decline in conference attendance. As a result, some years have been financially difficult. Although we take heart from the contributions of those who are paying members, and despite best efforts in promoting our organization, our membership is not growing. Appeals for donations come from so many organizations; it has been difficult to gain enough donors and members for the conference to remain financially viable.
Still, the board is determined to find the right mix of programming that meets our local writing community's needs. Through surveys, we've heard from you that you'd like opportunities to write together, make writing contacts, and continue to work with talented teachers on a range of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Check out the WOTR website for the offerings we've devised to better meet your
needs this year.
My dream when I moved to Wenatchee was to have a first-class writing conference for North CentralWashington. We've loved doing it and still hope that in a future year the conference will return. Dreams are worth pursuing. We hope that if you share that dream, you'll help us shape and create it.
With best wishes in the writing life,
Kay Kenyon
Conference News, Upcoming Events. Posted on March 12, 2018.


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*Disclaimer: This is my blog and I therefore talk about whatever I want to talk about. However, weight is a sensitive topic, so those who are triggered by such talk should please avoid today's post. Thanks!
That said, here's the deal. I'm frustrated. Seriously, stinkingly frustrated. The Look Alike is 5 weeks old, and I've lost a little over 30 lbs according to my in-law's scale. Hopefully the scale at my midwife's office will be a little more forgiving on Friday. Anyhow, it's no great secret that I've got quite a bit of weight to lose. QUITE a bit. Like 25-30% of my current weight to get into my recommended weight range.
I HATE being this big. It's frustrating and painful, and no one will tell you you're overweight when you weigh what I weigh because I'm not visibly obese, though I'm technically obese according to my BMI. Suffice it to say that people who are 5'2″ should never be over 200 lbs, no matter the circumstance (the circumstance being pregnancy in this situation).
I'm kind of at an impasse. I worry some that I worry about weight, having been eating disordered, off and on, for about eight years. Perhaps being overly concerned with going back there keeps the weight on. Perhaps it's something else entirely. I like to think it's because I love food, but doesn't everybody love food?
Maturity, I think that's it. I have yet to develop a maturity about the situation, and that's compounded by the fact that I grew up having to hide food and getting told I was eating too much. Wait, then I was eating too little. Sigh. I have no idea what it the "right" thing anymore.
So I've been studying some about how God would have us eat, just from the Scriptures, not anyone's book about the topic. And I do think I'm on the right track. But if I can't lose weight doing this, I wonder if I'll keep it up.


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Category Archives: IRCTC Launches SMS/USSD based Mobile Bookings !!!
IRCTC Launches SMS/USSD based Mobile Bookings !!!
|Railway e-ticket now on mobile
Advantages of booking IRCTC tickets via mobile
1. USSD based booking through Airtel*
Booking Flow
2. SMS based booking through 139*
Booking Flow
3. SMS based booking through 5676714*
Booking Flow
4. SMS based booking through BSNL*
User should have the following:
|E-ticketing through IRCTC website, www.irctc.co.in, has revolutionized the way the common man deals with the railways and has been the biggest success story of e-governance in India. Taking this further, keeping an eye on growing mobile phone market in India, IRCTC now launched two other modes of ticket booking through SMS and USSD… and you don`t need an Internet connection in your mobile for this.
So, next time you book a rail ticket, take out your mobile.
|* The services will not be available between 0800-1200 hrs. However, the ticket can still be booked using mobile through IRCTC main site www.irctc.co.in