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Help & Support
Our customers are very important to us, and we want to make sure you have everything you need. Learn more about our shop's policies and ordering info below. If you can't find what you are looking for or need immediate assistance, please contact us via phone or email and we'll be happy to help!companyPolicyStatus: true
Policy Info
What is your Delivery Area?
Our shop locally serves the following cities and surrounding areas:
- Beverly Hills
- Los Angeles
Do you deliver to local hospitals?
- Ronald Reagan-UCLA Medical Center
- Santa Marta Hospital
- USC Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center & Hospital
- Ucla Medical Group
- Country Villa Westwood Health
- Barlow Respiratory Hospital
- Miracle Mile Medical Center
- Ucla West Washington
- L.A. Metropolitan Medical Ctr
- Promise Hospital of East LA
- White Memorial Medical Center
- Arroyo Seco Medical Group
- Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center
- First Medical Ctr
- Los Angeles Community Hospital
- Shriners Hospitals for Children - Los Angeles
- Kaiser Permanente Los Angeles Medical Center
- Kaiser Permanente West LA Medical Center
- Gateways Hospital and Mental Health Center
- Keck Hospital of USC
- Iris Cantor/UCLA Women's Health Center
- Good Samaritan Hospital
- Midway Hospital
- Ca Hospital Medical
- LAC + USC Medical Center
- Dr Paul Memorial Med Center
- California Rehabilitation Inst
- Cedars-Sinai Medical Center
- St. Vincent Medical Center
- Doctor Kim's Health Care
- Pacific Alliance Medical Ctr
- Crippled Children's Hospital
- Southern Ca Organ Preservation
- Orthopaedic Hospital
- Veterans Affairs Medical Ctr
- Kindred Hospital - Los Angeles
- La Wilshire Orthopedics
- Temple Community Hospital
- Cms
- Hollywood Community Hospital
- Century City Hospital
- Endo Care
- East Los Angeles Doctors Hosp.
- Hcs Computer
- Harvard Surgery Center
- 2500 Wilshire Boulevard LLC
- Echo Park Snf Hospital Inc
- Weingart House-Good Samaritan
If you do not see the hospital you are looking for, please give us a call at (424) 355-0053, we may be able to accommodate special requests.
Can you deliver to a funeral home?
- Natural Grace Funerals
- All Faiths Funeral Home
- House of Winston Funeral Servi
- Bagues & Sons Mortuary
- Harrison-Ross Mortuary
- Cedar Hill Mortuary
- Felipe Bagues Mortuary
- Forest Lawn - Hollywood Hills
- Optima Funeral Home
- Los Angeles Mortuary
- Los Angeles Funeral Service
- Funeraria Del Angel Lincoln Heights
- Evergreen Cemetery & Crematory
- Fukui Mortuary Inc
- Rachal's Funeral Home
- Spalding Mortuary
- Armstrong Family Malloy-Mitten Mortuary
- Home Of Peace Memorial Park
- Funeraria Latino Americana
- Simpson's Family Mortuary
- San Fernando Funeral Home
- Ashley-Grigsby Mortuary Inc
- John L Hill III
- Boyd Funeral Home
- Funeraria del Angel Mirabal Mo
- Sholom Chapels
- Callanan Mortuary
- Abbott & Hast Mortuary Funeral and Cremation
- Kubota Nikkei Mortuary
- Castaneda-Crollett Mortuary
- Agape Funeral Home
- Abbey Bat Kol
- Calvary Mortuary
- Calvery Cemetery
- Los Angeles Funeral Home
- Guerra Gutierrez Mortuary
- Oakdale Mortuary and Memorial
- Continental Funeral Home Los A
- Solomon's Mortuary
- South Los Angeles Mortuary Inc
- De Haven Funeral Home
- Wah Wing Sang Funeral Corporat
- Speedway Cash Advance
- Cunningham & O'Connor Mortuary
- Han Kook Mortuary
- Chung Wah Funeral Corp
- Hillside Memorial Park and Mor
- Hollywood Forever
- Rosedale Cemetery
- Mount Sinai Memorial Parks and Mortuaries
- Hobbs Williams Cooper Mortuary
- Angelus Funeral Home
- Groman Mortuary
- Pierce Brothers
- East Olympic Funeral Home
- Daehan Mortuary Services
- Pierce Brothers Westwood Villa Memorial Cemetery
If you do not see the funeral home you are looking for, please give us a call at (424) 355-0053, we may be able to accommodate special requests.
Do you deliver to nursing homes?
- Country Villa Rehab Ctr
- Country Villa South Nursing
- Huntington Healthcare Ctr
- Country Villa Los Seliz
- Country Villa Maple Health Ctr
- House Of Happiness
- Country Villa Wilshire Nursing
- Bastomski Isidor Rest Home
- Beacon Light Guest Home
- Santa Monica Pavillion
- Country Villa University Park
- Hyde Park Convalescent Hosp
- San Marino Home Nursing Svc
- Frederick I Hoskins Inc
- Country Villa Cheviot Garden
- Country Villa East Healthcare
- Maingate
- Temple Park Convalescent Hosp
- Ararat Convalescent Hospital
- Fountain Gardens Convalescent
- Windsor Healthcare
- Fountain View Sub-Acute & Nursing
- Longwood Manor Cnvlscnt Home
- Jones Residential Facility
- Skyline Health Care Ctr
- Granville Inn
- Brier Oak Terrace Care Ctr
- Kathy Manor Board & Care
- Solheim Lutheran Home
- Grand Park Convalescent Hosp
- Bonnie Brae Convalescent Hosp
- Garden Plaza Convalescent Hosp
- Sharon Care Ctr
- Beck Family Home
- Manchester Manor Convalescent
- Serrano Convalescent North
- Garden Crest Retirement
- Serrano Convalescent South
- Mid-Wilshire Convalescent Hosp
- McArthur Adult Day Health Care
- Meadowbrook Manor
- California Convalescent Ctr
- St Andrew Heath Care
- Burlington Convalescent Hosp
- Hardi Nursing Home Management
- Lakewood Manor North
- Stanford House Of Assisted Lvg
- Cambridge House Assisted Lvng
- Hancock Park Convalescent Hosp
- Kingsley Manor-Pacific Homes
- St John Of God Retirement-Care
- View Heights Convalescent Home
- View Park Convalescent Ctr
- Buena Ventura Convalescent
- Nursing Home Advocacy Project
- Brierwood Terrace La Cienega
- Keiro Nursing Home
- Broadview Christian Science
- Crenshaw Nursing Home
- Guardian Rehabilitation Hosp
- Kennedy Care Ctr
- Nazareth House
- Vernon Convalescent Hospital
- Culver West Convalescent Hosp
- Olympia Convalescent Hospital
- Orchard Gables
- Amberwood Convalescent Hosp
- Sunray East Convalescent Hosp
- College Vista Convalescent Hsp
- Progressive Home For-Elderly
- Commonwealth Royale
- Sycamore Park Convalescent
- Westside Health Care
- Virgil Convalescent Rehab
- Alliance Nurse Center Of Echo Park
- Sunnyview Convalescent Home
- Vista Del Sol Care Ctr
- Dunlap Sanitorium
- Alden Terrace Convalescent
- Parents Of Watts
- Alexandria Care Ctr
- Sun Mar Healthcare
- Ember Care Monte Vista Corp
- Western Convalescent Hospital
- Emerald Terrace Convalescent
- Westlake Convalescent Hospital
If you do not see the nursing home you are looking for, please give us a call at (424) 355-0053, we may be able to accommodate special requests.
Do you deliver to retirement communities?
- Freeman Villa
- Covenant Home For Seniors
- Fairmount Terrace Apartments
- Fernando Raudales
- Real Park Retirement Home
- Fairfax Senior Citizens Apt
- Fairmount Terrace
- Retirement Planning Svc
- Salvation Army
- Grandview Retirement Center
- Siejay Apartments
- Silverlake Home & Care
- Silverado Beverly Place Memory Care Community
- Garden Crest
- George Mc Donald Court
- Golden State Retirement Hotel
- Kings Road Apartments
- Kingsley Guest Home
- King Solomon Home
- Casa Telacu
- Palace Of Venice Board & Care
- Casa Serrano Apartments
- Kipling Residential Hotel
- Kilgore Manor
- Culpepper Homes
- Mount Zion Towers Inc
- Melrose Gardens
- Oxford Park Apartments
- Cheviot Hills Golden Manor
- Eva's Residential Care Faclity
- Quality Living Services Inc
- Polish Retirement Foundation
- Eagle Guest Home For The Aged
- Pico Plaza Apartment
- Castle Argyle Apartments
- Las Torres Senior Apartments
- Chinese Committee On Aging
- E Victor Villa
- Parkview Terrace Apartments
- Pilgrim Tower
- University Gardens
- Iola Brown Group Home
- Malinow & Silverman Mortuary
- Baldwin Villa Plaza
- MacArthur Park Tower
- Hollywoodland Apts
- Trustar Retirement
- Wilshire Christian Manor
- Little Tokyo Towers
- Meridian of Cheviot Hills
- Hollywood Knickerbocker Apts
- Appel's Guest Home
- Westwood Plaza
- Hollywood Elderly Care Inc
- Travel Inn
- Wilshire Vista Manor
- Wilton Wilshire Arms Apts
- Beverly Hills Retirement Hotel
- Jasmins Home Care
- Jessie L Terry Manor
- Beverly Hills Gardens
- Molokan Resident Ctr
- Blackburn Lodge
- Joseph Jackson Group Home
- Minami Apartments
- Keiro Retirement Home
- Mary Manor Family Circle
- Mc Clinton Home
- Iranian Jewish Senior Ctr
- Belmont Village Senior Living Hollywood Heights
- Maria Prima Residence
- Vagihol's Res Care Center Inc
- Hancock Gardens Apartments
- St Andrews Arms Apartment
- St John Of Kronstadt Memorial
- Hargroves Board & Care
- St Andrews Gardens
- City View Villa
- Villa Piedra Apartments
- Villa Poinsettia
- Van Nuys Apartments
- Vermont Knoll Retirement Ctr
- Highland Park Rest Home
- Garden Silver Town
- Sunshine Terrace Inc
- Angelus Plaza
- Talmadge Board & Care
- Vintage Westwood
- Westside Jewish Center Apts
- Hayworth Terrace Assisted Livi
- Allen's Residential Care Home
- Vermont Care Center
- Stovall Foundation
- Villa Stanley
- Helen's Guest Home
- Allview Luxury Living
- Vista Tower
- Alta Vista Gardens Res-Elderly
If you do not see the retirement community you are looking for, please give us a call at (424) 355-0053, we may be able to accommodate special requests.
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Privacy Policy / Security
What is your Privacy Policy
This privacy statement has been created in order to demonstrate our firm commitment to protecting customer privacy.
Information We Collect
If you open an account on our site or make a purchase, we need your contact information including your name, e-mail address and mailing address to complete your transaction. When you visit our website, we also collect some basic information that does not identify individual users. We use this information to determine our users demographics and interests, so that we can better understand and serve our users.
Cookies are small files which store certain information about your activity on the website and are stored on your computers hard drive. Our cookies do not contain any personally identifying information. We use cookies to let us know that you are a prior customer, so that you dont have to reenter information you gave us on your prior visits. Most web browsers automatically accept cookies, but most allow you to instruct your browser to prevent the use of cookies. However, if you disable cookies, you will not be able to use certain features of this website.
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When opening an account or making a purchase, you have an opportunity to opt-in or opt-out from receiving emails from us. If you opt-in to receive information from us, we may use your purchase history, contact information and other registration information to provide you with more relevant information and email content. We may send emails to our users regarding changes in our services or other information we believe will be of interest to our users. If you prefer not to receive these emails, you can send us an email with the subject line no emails or reply to our email with the subject line no emails.
If you send us personal correspondence, such as emails or letters, or if other users or third parties send us correspondence about your activities on our site, we may collect such information. We may use that information and other information that we obtain from your use of our site to resolve disputes, troubleshoot problems and enforce our agreement for Terms of Use.
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We may share your information with Teleflora and other reputable vendors for the purpose of sending out special offers via email and/ or in connection with the services provided by our site such as the delivery of flowers. Your information will not be shared for any other purpose and will be kept secured.
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Katharyn Howd Machan
See our photo gallery of alumni, faculty, and staff publications and recordings
Dissident artists find freedom of expression in Ithaca.
By Kerry Barger '11
In 2006, Irakli Kakabadze and his wife, Anna Dolidze, who was pregnant at the time, fled their home country of Georgia after receiving...
by Katharyn Howd Machan
He's fallen in love with her, the girl
who cannot meet the eyes of strangers.
From behind the counter where...

subset: commoncrawl


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This post is part of the Daily Dispatches project chronicling life in Nairobi, Kenya throughout the month of April.
ON THE 06:40am TO NAIROBI – We pull slowly out of Athi River station, leaving behind the run-down railroad shed that is now home to the Jesus Victory Center and a tinshack kindergarten.
Ahead, an hour-long commute, through the Athi plains once swarming with wildlife, beneath final approach to the international airport, through the smoggy iron roof slums and the industrial area, and into the heart of Nairobi.
"Ah, we love this thing," smiles Steve Nyahe, 40, a graphic designer, who like most aboard the train used to have to sit cramped in a 14-seat "matatu" minibus taxi to town, stalled in jams and pollution, for two hours or more.
"She keeps time, she takes me to work in less than one hour, she's cut my travel costs by 50 percent. Who can complain?"
The 6:40 a.m. from Athi River, 17 stops into Nairobi, is one of a raft of new peak time services to and from the city, more than doubling the total from 8 to 18 since March 1.
Passenger numbers have jumped 45 percent since then, to 716,922 last month, according to the privatized firm now running Kenya's railroads.
More than 2,300 of them use the Athi River service each day – the equivalent of more than 164 squeezed minibus taxis.
Onboard the 6:40 a.m., Patricia Wachira, a customer services executive for an agrochemicals company, sat reading her Bible, the early morning sun streaming through the windows.
"When I heard that they were bringing a train, I couldn't believe it," she says. "A neighbor told me it was true, when I first used this route, just a month ago, it was my first time to be on a train.
"It is so different from the matatu, it's comfortable, there's no hassle, no loud noise, no jams, no pollution. There was no way I could read my Bible on the matatu. I arrive at work fresh, and it's quicker. I have an extra hour in my day."
Beside her, Stella Vanessa, 21, and Tracy Nderitu, 22, colleagues at a real estate agency, shared a vanity mirror to apply their make up.
"It's great, that's all I need to say," said Nderitu. "We needed this thing very much, it's there in every other country, it was about time we had it here in Kenya. The only question is, why did they wait for so long?"
In fact, revolutionary as taking the train seems to these commuters, the rails they're riding on are older even than the country of Kenya itself. They are the reason Nairobi exists.
Way back in the late 19th century, ox-drawn wagons were used to ferry raw materials from the interior for export via to ships waiting at Kenya's coast.
Adventurous British businesses flourishing in neighboring Uganda successfully petitioned the parliament in London to build a rail line to speed up the 900-mile journey.
The equivalent of $394 million was allocated for the audacious project, which would include carving railroads up and down the sometimes 45° escarpments of the Rift Valley that slices through in Kenya's center.
Work started in 1896, and almost instantly hit disaster. At least 30 indentured Indian and African laborers had lost their lives to the infamous "Man-Eaters of Tsavo," a pair of male lions which attacked work camps. Hundreds died as engineers struggled to bridge ravines and negotiate the sharp gradients. Malaria cut down hundreds more.
What started as an expression of Britain's imperial might ended in near fiasco. Having failed even to reach the Ugandan border, construction stopped in western Kenya as costs spiraled past $729 million.
Winston Churchill, the British prime minister, later put a typically brave face on his description of the railroad construction as 'one of the finest expositions [of] the British art of 'muddling through'."
Opposition politicians at the time vehemently disagreed, labeling the project the "Lunatic Line."
But what was left behind, at least, was a link between the Indian Ocean and Kenya's interior. And, near the railroad's midpoint, Nairobi.
Kenya's capital exists only because engineers were forced to pause here, in an empty swampland named Nyrobe by Masai herdsmen, as they prepared their assault across the Rift Valley.
What started as a railhead, with workers camping under canvas, gave birth to today's still-growing city of four million people. From the city, Kenya itself grew, a country with borders, a currency, an administration.
Also born at the same time was a new concept. That an elite – initially the whites, later Kenya's own post-independence big men – was entitled to take from the powerless poor whatever was their whim.
To earn back some of their outlay, the British needed businesses here in their new colony, producing materials and goods to be carried down to the coast for export.
To do this, the government in London offered an acre of prime farmland, land used for millennia by Kenya's indigenous people, for a penny. Soon hundreds, then thousands, of British settlers arrived.
"If you really think about it, this railway is the source of all our problems," said Charles Owino, 51, reading his Daily Nation at Nairobi station.
"That land was the Africans'. They were forced out, they moved to into other tribes' lands and took over. That is the root cause of all election violence we see today, the fight over land. Even look where the clashes happen, they are in towns all along the railway line."
Back on the 6:40 a.m. from Athi River, we're starting to see evidence of the fallout from that entrenched, institutionalized, body politic of corruption.
We're passing through the slums that ring the city center. Tin shacks crowd muddy lanes. Smoke from charcoal cooking fires hazes the morning air. Ungainly marabou storks circle above chaotic dumpsites.
Millions today live here in these unplanned settlements, ignored by successive governments more concerned with lining their pockets than socially serving the worst-off in this stratified society.
The fate of the railroads, once Kenya's largest employer, once running scores of trains along 1,726 miles of track, mirrors the country's near-collapse under the rule of Daniel Arap Moi, the former president.
Today, fewer than 600 miles are operational, and decades of poor maintenance mean that maximum speeds are down to around 30 m.p.h. Derailments, sometimes fatal, are common. Some 90 percent of Kenya's freight, which should be the backbone of any rail system, is moved by road.
"You know the problem here was management," said one senior official with 20 years experience at Kenya Railways. "Of course if you are asked to steal money for somebody, you also steal some for yourself. This went all throughout the company. It has brought us to where we are today."
Where we are today is what keeps Fred Owino, Daniel Ongombe and Daniel Kamau busy.
Between them, the trio in charge of the locomotive workshop at Nairobi Train Station have 47 years of experience maintaining the giant General Electric 12-cylinder train engines, bolted together in the early 1970s in Erie, Pennsylvania.
When Daily Dispatches visited, Engine No. 9312 had just spent the night pulling a dozen carriages up from the coast. Within an hour, it was due out again, to the far side of Kenya at Malaba on the border with Uganda.
Kamau, working swiftly, greased the cylinder head. Ongombe, up in the cab, was checking engine pressure, his eyes scanning the spider's web of wires regulating the engine's scarce electronics.
"I can say that the best part of the job is finding a locomotive with very complicated problems, and fixing it ahead of time," says Owino, the shift foreman.
His 17-year-old son, raised around the railways, is studying hard to follow his father's footsteps into this workshop. "That will make me very, very proud," he beams. His smile then slips a little. "I can only hope that there is more advancement and he gets to work on a modern railways system. It's coming, I'm sure."
It's Brown M. Ondego's job to make that happen. He is executive chairman of Rift Valley Railways (RVR), the private firm which won the concession to upgrade the Kenyan and Ugandan rail network. He took over from the first management team, who struggled to bring any improvements.
"It was collapsing, it had literally failed," said Ondego, of his predecessors' approach.
"The management was not up to speed, and they failed to bring in capital to invest, and it means it was, and still is, a fairly dilapidated network."
Freight is his key focus, but an easy PR win for RVR was the commuter services. "We were not contractually obliged to take that up, but we did it basically because of the demand from the public," says Ondego. "I think with that and other moves on our part, you're starting to see a tremendous improvement."
As the 6:40 a.m. pulled in to Nairobi Station's Platform 2 a little over an hour after leaving Athi River, the swirl of commuters decanting out and filing towards the station exit would suggest Ondego and his team are doing something right.
Sharp-suited businesswomen, kids in school uniforms, young guys in low-slung jeans on smartphones and men in jackets and ties all swarmed off the train, leaving it empty save for the cleaners with their brushes and buckets.
Alongside RVR's promises of more commuter routes, more stations, refurbished engines and carriages, the government has drawn up plans for a light-rail system from Nairobi's suburbs to and around its center.
Easing access into this massively congested city, clearing some of its traffic bottlenecks, bringing goods here cheaper, all will springboard Nairobi's growth.
But glance back the other way, into the rail sidings, where long convoys of container cars stand idly, slowly rusting in the sun. Listen as the clang of hammer against iron drifts in from the workshop in the distance, where Fred Owino and his gang work on.
Easy fixes like the commuter lines are all very well and very welcomed. But Kenya's railways have a long climb ahead of them to reach the long-promised glorious new era.


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The Case for a Thermal Comfort Rating Metric
A version of this article appears in the Spring 2017 issue of Home Energy Magazine.
February 14, 2017
Energy efficiency has been a driving force in the home-building industry for decades. In recent years, the industry has increasingly adopted rating methods to measure a home's energy efficiency. RESNET has produced the HERS Index, and DOE has produced the Home Energy Score (HES). Both systems have demonstrated value as user-friendly metrics to predict and assess the energy performance of new and existing homes. In today's market, stakeholders are also recognizing that home performance extends beyond energy efficiency, and are seeking new ways to assess that performance. For example, DOE is teaming with Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory to develop a metric for indoor air quality performance. Several groups, including RESNET, are also focused on implementing a residential water efficiency rating. As ways to broaden residential performance ratings gain momentum, there is room for a metric that rates a home's ability to deliver thermal comfort. After all, a home is expected to be comfortable, and heating, cooling, and hot water are major drivers of both comfort and home energy use.
To read complete online articles, you need to sign up for an Online Subscription.
Once an order has been placed there is an automatic $10 processing fee that will be deducted with any cancellation.
The Home Energy Online articles are for personal use only and may not be printed for distribution. For permission to reprint, please send an e-mail to email@example.com.


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Zoya Ali
June 16, 2017
Published by
Zoya Ali
June 16, 2017
Hair Styles
65 Short Buttery Hairstyles And Haircuts For Thick Hair – Updated
65 Short Buttery Hairstyles And Haircuts For Thick Hair If you're gifted naturally with thick hair, you're the envy of so many women worldwide. You haven't
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text:
Last year, when the Large Hadron Collider shut down at the end of August, its detectors had recorded enough data to provide a suggestive bump in the data, hinting that the Higgs boson might be lurking somewhere around 125GeV. At the time, CERN's director indicated that the facility would do what it could to make sure it had a definitive answer on the question by the end of this year's run. And, over the winter, the people running the collider picked parameters that should get us there: a slight bump in energy and a high number of proton bunches circulating at once.
So far, it's all gone nicely according to plan. Last year, when proton collisions wrapped up in October, the ATLAS detector had recorded 5.25 inverse femtobarns of collisions. This year, halfway through June, ATLAS has already recorded over 5.5 inverse femtobarns. (It was below that number as of the last count, shown above, but there's been a long run of collisions already this morning.)
Something could still go wrong, perhaps even catastrophically wrong. But, if the machine continues on this pace, by the time it switches to lead ion collisions in the fall, it will have gathered as much data this year as the Tevatron did in decades of operation.


text:
Anthem Blue Cross and Blue Shield of California are the largest issuers of individual health insurance policies in the state.
Jeff Smith of Blue Shield said in order to keep its plans affordable next year, it negotiated with doctors and hospitals.
"What we did was look for what price point we felt was going to be affordable in the market, and really worked with each provider to sign a contract at these rates. And the rates were lower than what we paid them previously," says Smith.
Smith says lower payments for doctors and hospitals will be offset by a larger customer base.
But not all providers wanted the new arrangement.
Seventy five percent of Blue Shield's current hospitals and 50 percent of its doctors will be in next year's network.
But Smith says tens of thousands of doctors will still be available.
'We still have a very broad network," says Smith.
Darrel Ng of Anthem Blue Cross said its mix of participating hospitals and doctors next year will be "different."
"We sought to find providers who met quality benchmarks, but would be willing to work with us to provide an affordable product."
But Ng said it's hard to say how next year's roster of providers and their pay might compare to this year.


text:
Max knew that a bunk bed was the perfect structure to use when building an indoor fort. First of all, bunk beds have a roof, and a roof is essential if you're going to have an observation tower. And you need an observation tower if you're going to spot invading armies before they breach your walls and overtake your kingdom. Anyone without a bunk bed would have a much harder time maintaining a security perimeter, and if you can't do that you don't stand a chance.
Max had just done a quick survey of the area surrounding his bunk kingdom and was now down on the lower bunk, where he could be unseen and unknown. For a while, he thought about what his science teacher had been talking about earlier that day—that someday the sun would die. Mr. Malhotra had sensed that the mood in the class was darkening, that he'd scared his third graders, and had tried to brighten things: "What am I talking about? I'm being such a downer. Don't worry about the sun dying! You and everyone you know will be long gone by then!"
It was a very strange time in Max's life. The day before, his sister had tried, by proxy, to kill him. Her tobacco-chewing friends had chased him into his snow fort, and at the moment when he felt safest, in the cool white hollow, they had jumped on the roof, burying him. His sister had done nothing to help, and then had driven off with them, and to punish her, because she was no longer his sister, he'd doused her room with water. Buckets and buckets he'd emptied everywhere, in a furious, joyous process. It had been great, and felt so right, until his mother came home and found what he'd done. She was mad, Claire was mad, and so, tonight, the only person in the house who seemed to like him was his mom's chinless boyfriend, Gary, and even thinking that sent a shudder through him.
Max, tired of thinking in his brain, decided to think on paper, and so retrieved his journal from under the bed. His father had given him the journal shortly after he left—how long ago now? Three years?—and had, in white-out, written the words "WANT JOURNAL" on the cover. In this book his father had written as inscription and directive, "Write what you want. Every day, or as often as you can, write what you want. That way, whenever you're confused or rudderless, you can look to this book, and be reminded where you want to go and what you're looking for." His father had printed, by hand, three beginnings on every page.
Max found a pen and began:
I WANT Gary to fall into some kind of bottomless hole.
I WANT Claire to get her foot caught in a bear trap.
I WANT Claire's friends to die by flesh-eating tapeworms.
Then he stopped. His father had explained that the journal was for positive wants, not negative wants. When you wanted something negative, it didn't count, he said. A want should improve your life while improving the world, even if just a little bit.
So Max began again:
I WANT to get out of here.
I WANT to go to the moon or some other planet.
I WANT to find some unicorn DNA and then grow a bunch of them and teach them to impale Claire's friends with their horns.
Oh, well. He could erase it later. Just writing it felt good. But now he was sick of writing. He wanted to do something. But what did he want to do? This was the central question of this day and most days.
Max caught sight of his wolf suit hanging on the back of the closet door. He hadn't worn it in weeks. He'd gotten it for Christmas three years before, the last one with both his parents, and he'd immediately put it on, and kept it on for the rest of school break. It had been too big then, but his mom had pinned it and taped it to make it work until he grew into it.
Now he and it were the perfect size, and he wore it when he knew he was alone in the house and could wrestle the dog or jump and growl without anyone watching. Although the house was now full—his mother in the kitchen making dinner, Claire in the TV room pretending to do her homework, Gary on the couch in the living room—as Max stared at the wolf suit it seemed to be calling to him. It's time, it was saying to Max. He wasn't sure this was actually the right time to put it on, but then again he usually felt better wearing it. He felt faster, sleeker, more powerful.
On the other hand, he could stay in bed. He could stay in the fort, the red blanket casting a red light on everything inside. He could miss dinner and stay there all night. All weekend. He had some thinking to do, about this news about the sun expiring and the resulting void inhaling the earth, and he wanted to steer clear of Claire, who might yet want retribution, and he was angry at his mom, who seemed to forget for hours at a time that he existed. And any time he spent in his room was time he didn't have to spend with Gary.
So he had a choice. Would he stay behind the curtain and think about things, marinate in his own confusion, or would he put on his white fur suit and howl and scratch and make it known who was boss of this house and of all the world known and unknown?
"Arrrooooooo! "
The howling was a good start. Animals howl, he had been told, to declare their existence. Max, in his white wolf suit, stood at the top of the stairs and, using a rolled-up piece of construction paper as a megaphone, howled again, as loud as he could.
"Arrrooooooooooooo! "
When he was done, there was a long silence.
"Uh-oh," Gary finally said from the living room.
Ha! Max thought. Let Gary worry. Let everyone worry.
He pounded down the stairs, triumphant. "Who wants to get eaten?" he asked the house and the world.
"Not me," Claire said from the TV room.
Aha! Max decided. That only puts her higher on the menu!
He strode into the TV room. He lifted his claws up, growled, and sniffed at the air. He wanted to make sure that Claire and everyone knew this terrible fact: there was a bloodthirsty, brilliant, borderline-insane wolf in their midst.
Claire, seeing Max approach, rolled her eyes.
"You want me to kill something for you?" he asked.
Claire thought a moment, tapping her pencil against her lower teeth. She looked at Max, her eyes bright. "Yeah," she said. "Go kill the little man in the living room."
"Yeah," Max said, getting excited. "We'll cut his brains out and make him eat 'em! He'll have to think from his stomach!"
Claire gave Max a look she might give a three-headed cat. "Yeah, you go do that," she said.
Max left the room and found Gary lying on the couch in his work clothes, his frog eyes closed, his chin entirely receded into his neck. Max gritted his teeth and let out a low, simmering growl.
Gary opened his eyes and rubbed them.
"Uh, hey, Max. I'm baggin' a few after-work Z's. How goes it?"
Max looked at the floor. This was one of Gary's typical questions: Another day, huh? How goes it? No play for the playa, right? None of his questions had answers. Gary never seemed to say anything that meant anything at all.
"Cool suit," Gary said. "Maybe I'll get me one of those. What are you, like a rabbit or something?"
Max was about to leap upon Gary, to show him just what kind of animal he was—a wolf capable of tearing flesh from bone with a shake of his jaws—when Max's mom came into the room. She was carrying two glasses of blood-colored wine, and she handed one to Gary. Gary sat up, smiled his powerless smile, and clinked his glass against hers. "Cheers, little rabbit-dude," he said, raising his glass to Max.
Max's mom smiled at Max and then at Gary.
"Cheers, Maxie," she said, and growled playfully at him.
She picked up a dirty plate and hurried back toward the kitchen. "Claire!" she yelled. "I asked you to get your stuff off the table. It's almost dinner."
Max entered the kitchen with hisarms crossed, marching purposefully, like a general inspecting his troops. He sniffed loudly, assessing the kitchen's smells and waiting to be noticed.
His mother said nothing, so he brought a chair near the stove and stood on it. Now they were eye to eye.
"What is that? Is that food?" he asked, pointing down to something beige sitting numbly on a plate.
He got no answer.
"Mom, what is that?" he asked, now grabbing her arm.
"Pâté," she said.
Max snickered and moved on. Pâté was a regrettable name for an unfortunate food. It seemed to Max a good idea to get up from the chair and to leap onto the counter. Which he presently did.
Standing on the counter, he towered over everything and everyone. He was eleven feet tall.
"Oh, God," Max's mom said.
Max squatted down to inspect a package of frozen corn. "Frozen corn? What's wrong with real corn?" he demanded. He dropped the package loudly on the counter, where it made a wonderful clatter.
"Frozen corn is real," Max's mom said, barely taking notice. "Now get off the counter. And go tell your sister to get her stuff off the table."
Max didn't move. "CLAIRE GET YOUR STUFF OFF THE TABLE!" he yelled, more or less into his mom's face.
"Don't yell in my face!" she hissed. "And get off the counter."
Instead of getting off the counter, Max howled. The acoustics where he was, so close to the ceiling, were not great.
His mom stared at him like he was crazy. Which he was, because wolves are part crazy. "You know what?" she said. "You're too old to be on the counter, and you're too old to be wearing that costume."
Max crossed his arms and glared at her. "You're too old to be so short! And your makeup's smeared!"
"GeT DOWN from there!" she demanded.
"Woman, feed me!" he yelled. He didn't know where he'd come up with that phrase, but he liked it immediately.
"Get off the counter, Max!"
"I'll eat you up!" he growled, raising his arms.
"MAX! GET DOWN!" she yelled. She could be very loud when she wanted to be. For a second, he thought he should get off the counter, take off his suit, and eat his dinner quietly, because the truth was he was very hungry. But then he thought better of it, and howled again.
"Arrrooooooooo! "
At that, Max's mom lunged for him, but he was able to elude her grasp. He leaped over the sink and then back down onto the chair. She lunged again and missed. Max cackled. He really was fast! He jumped down, landed on the floor, and executed a perfect shoulder roll. Then he got up and fled from the kitchen, laughing hysterically.
When he turned around, though, he found that his mom was still chasing him. That was new. She rarely chased him this far. When they raced through the living room, Gary took notice of the escalating volume and urgency. He put down his glass of wine and got ready to intervene.
Then, in the front hall, a surprising and awful thing happened: Max's mom caught him.
"Max!" she gasped.
She had his arm firmly in her hand. She had long fingers, shockingly strong, and they dug into Max's biceps. In her hand, all his muscle and sinew turned to soup, and he didn't like it.
"What's wrong with you?" she screamed. "You see what you're doing to me?" Her voice was shrill, corkscrewed.
"No, you're doing things!" he countered, sounding meeker than he'd intended. To offset this sign of weakness, he thrashed around in her grip.
"There's no way you're eating dinner with us. Animal."
Now, because he was angry at having Gary in the house, and angry at having to eat pâté and frozen corn, and angry about having a witch for a sister, he growled and—the idea flooding him so quickly he couldn't resist—bit his mom's arm as hard as he could.
She screamed. She stepped back, holding her arm. Max had never bitten her before. He was scared. His mom was scared. They saw each other anew. Max turned to see Gary entering the foyer. He was clearly unsure what he was supposed to do.
"He bit me!" she spat.
Gary's eyes bulged. He turned to Max's mom. "You can't let him treat you this way!"
"He's not allowed to talk here!" Max yelled, pointing to the frog-eyed man.
Then Claire stormed into the hall. Seeing Claire and Gary and his mom, everyone looking at him like he was the problem, sent Max tumbling over the edge. He screamed as loud as he could, producing a sound between a howl and a battle cry.
"Why are you doing this to me?" his mom wailed. "This house is chaos with you in it!"
That was it. Max did not have to stand for this, any of this, all of this. He threw open the door and leaped down the porch and into the night.
T he air! The moon!
He felt pulled as if by an outgoing tide. The air and the moon together sang a furious and wonderful song: Come with us, wolf-boy! Let us drink the blood of the earth and gargle it with great aplomb! Max tore down the street, feeling free, knowing he was part of the wind. Come, Max! Come to the water and see! No one could tell that he was crying—he was running too fast.
Stupid Gary was following him, trying to run, huffing mightily. Max ran faster, almost flying, his hands grabbing at the air. When he looked over his shoulder again, he saw that Gary was losing ground. A moment later, the freckled little man pulled up lame—he was doubled over, holding his leg. Max kept running, and though his face was wet with tears, he grinned maniacally. He had won. He ran to the cul-de-sac, where the road ended and the trees began.
Max was free of home and mother and Gary and Claire; he had outwitted and outrun them all, but he was not ready to rest. He ran to the lean-to he'd built in the woods by the bay, and sat inside for a few seconds, but he was too alive to sit still. He got up and howled. Something about the wind and the configuration of the trees and outcroppings gave his voice more volume; his howl twisted and multiplied in the sky in the most satisfying way. He grabbed the biggest stick he could find and commenced hitting everything he could with it. He swung it around, he stabbed trees and rocks, he whacked branches and relieved them of their snowy burden.
This, he thought, was the only way he wanted to live. All he needed to do, sometime soon, was sneak back into the house and get some of his things—his knives, blankets and glue and rope, maybe some of his mom's matches. Then he would build a forest home, high in the trees, and become one with the woods and the animals, learn their languages and with them plot an overthrow of his home, beginning with the decapitation and devouring of Gary.
As he planned his new life, he heard a sound. It wasn't the wind and it wasn't the trees. It was a scraping, yearning sound. He paused, his nose twitching and his ears pricking up. It was like bone against bone, though there was a rhythm to it. He followed it toward the water, a hundred yards away. He jogged down the ravine and met the stream that led to the shore. He jumped from rock to rock until he saw the bay's black glass, cut through the middle by the reflection of the moon.
At the water's edge, amid the reeds and the softly lapping waves, he saw the source of the noise: a wooden sailboat of average size and painted white. It was tied to a tree and was rubbing against a half-submerged rock.
Max looked around to see if anyone was close. It seemed strange that a boat like this, a sturdy, viable boat, would be unoccupied. He had been coming to the bay for years and had never seen a boat like this, alone and without an owner. There was no sign of anyone nearby. The boat was his if he wanted it.
He stepped in. There was just a bit of water on the bottom, and when he checked the rudder and sail and boom everything seemed to be in working order.
If he wanted to, he could untie the boat and sail out into the bay. It would be even better than living out his days in the forest. He could sail away, as far as he liked. He might make it somewhere new, somewhere better, and if he didn't—if he drowned in the bay or the ocean beyond—then so be it. His horrible family would have to live forever with the guilt. Either option seemed good.
Max untied the boat from the tree, and pushed off. He righted the boat and aimed it toward the center of the bay. He unfurled the sail and steadied the boom. The wind was strong; in no time he was chopping through the bay's small waves.
He had sailed at night only once before, with his father, and even that had been unplanned. They'd gotten stuck out in the bay without wind, and hadn't brought a paddle. They'd passed the time naming every candy they could remember and playing hangman with a grease marker on the boat's floor. It occurred to Max that he didn't have any of the safety items his father insisted on—a life preserver, a paddle, a flare gun, a bailing vessel. The boat was empty but for Max.
And he was getting cold. By the time he reached the middle of the bay and the wind began to bite, he realized that it was December, and no more than forty degrees, and the farther out into the bay he ventured the colder it would get. When he'd been running and howling, he hadn't felt the rip of the winter wind, but now it cut through his fur—and his T-shirt and underwear—unimpeded.
He decided to sail not into the ocean but toward the city, where his father lived. This immediately seemed a better idea. He would sail downtown, dock with all the yachts, walk through the city until he found his father's apartment, and ring the bell.
Wow, he'd be surprised! He would be astounded and impressed, and they would live together from then on. All Max needed to do was sail north for a few hours and keep his eye on the dim glow of the city in the distance.
But the city seemed to be getting farther away, not closer. Max held the rudder steady, and the sail had a constant bellyful of wind, but as the hours passed the city grew smaller. According to the compass screwed onto the bow, Max was sailing directly for it, due north-northwest, and yet the city lights were growing fainter.
There was little Max could do. He knew he was sailing straight. He hoped that sometime in the night the bay would become rational again and the city would draw closer. He would have to tell his father about this strange elastic stretching of the bay! But soon the city was disappearing altogether. For a while, it was no more than a twinkle of dwindling lights, and shortly thereafter it was gone. There was no sign of land in any direction. Max didn't want to admit it to himself, but some part of him acknowledged that in all likelihood he'd left the bay and was now in the open sea.
Before Max was even tired, the moon had fallen through the water and the sun had risen to replace it. He'd sailed all night without sleep and was too bewildered to think about rest now. He continued sailing north-northwest, but even though it was daylight, he saw nothing. Not a fish, not a bird. The wind had slackened, and the sea grew broader and more interminable. By his rough calculations, he had to be at least seven million miles from where he cast off.
As the sun climbed higher, he was tired enough to sleep. He pulled in the sail, tied it to the mast, rigged the rudder so it would remain true, and fell asleep.
When he woke, it was already the next morning, the beginning of the longest day Max had ever known. In his boat, the straight line of ocean unbroken on any side, every minute was a day, one hour was longer than any life ever lived.
His mind ran out of things to think about. He thought of everything he'd ever thought of by midday and then could only start over. He named all of his classmates, dividing them into the ones he knew, the ones he tolerated, the ones he barely knew, and the ones he would punch in the head if he had the chance. He named all of his uncles and aunts. Uncles Stuart, Grant, Scotty, Wash, and Jeff; Aunts Isabelle, Paulina, Lucy, Juliet. Who was that last one, the one who played rugby? Theresa.
Max sailed in and out of days and nights. He endured blustery winds, cruel winds, chattering winds, and warm blanketing breezes. There were waves like dragons and waves like sparrows. There were occasional sightings of birds and fish and flies, but nothing that Max could reach or much less eat. There was rain, but mostly there was sun, the terribly unimaginative sun, doing the same things day in and day out. He loosened a nail on the boat's bench and removed it. He used it to count the hours (as close as he could approximate) as they passed, marking them on the bench as a prisoner would. On the outer rim of the boat, he carved his name as big as he could so that any fish or whales or passing ships would know who commanded this vessel: "MAX," it said.
T hen one day he saw something. A green blot on the horizon, no bigger than a caterpillar. Not trusting his eyes, he thought little of it. He went to sleep again.
When he awoke, the caterpillar had become an island. It towered over him—massive cliffs, green hills above.
By the time he reached the shore, it was night and the island had gone black. It was a good deal less welcoming now, as a silhouette against a gunmetal sky, but there was something high in the hills that beckoned him: an orange glow between the trees.
Max jumped into the water. He'd thought it would be at most waist-deep, but it was far deeper than that. His feet could not reach the bottom and he was quickly swallowed in the foam, the white. And the cold! The water was colder than he thought possible; it knocked the wind out of him.
He held the rope that held the boat, and tried to dog-paddle shoreward. He thought for a moment that he would have to let go of the rope, lest he drown. But just as his head dropped below the surface, and the boat tugged against his grip, his feet found the sand, and he stood.
Max dragged the boat onto the beach, placed a group of large stones around it, and tied its lead to the biggest tree he could find. He was tired and hungry and leaden; the weight of his fur when wet surprised him. He considered taking off his wolf suit, but he knew if he did he'd be even colder. The wind was bracing, and he knew that his only chance at warmth—and survival—would be to climb the cliffs and find his way to the fire he'd seen from the sea.
So this is what he did.
The cliffs were jagged but dependable. He climbed to the top in under an hour and rested at the summit. Looking back at the boat—he was easily two hundred feet up—he heard sounds coming from the island's interior: crunching and crashing, whooping and howling, the crackle of a gigantic fire. Only in his depleted and desperate state would Max have considered that his best option would be to run, stumble, and crawl through the densest and wildest kind of jungle toward the sounds of what seemed to be some kind of riot.
But this is what he did.
He walked for hours in the moonlight. He slashed his way through the undergrowth, ducking under grasping, luminescent ferns and slithering between barbed and crosshatched vines. He waded through narrow creeks and climbed over boulders covered with a red and delicate moss that clung to the stone like embroidery. The landscape was familiar—there were trees, there was dirt, there were rocks—but then very odd: the earth seemed to be striped in brown and yellow, like peanut butter and cinnamon at the first twirl of a mixing spoon. After some time, his fur, at least above his shins, was dry, and he was warmer, but he was so tired he was dreaming on his feet. Again and again, he would shudder awake and find that he'd been walking while asleep, always making his way toward the chaos in the center of the island.
Finally, when he reached the top of a long high hill, he saw the fire, huge and snapping at the black sky. Most of it was obscured by a giant boulder in his line of vision, but the fire's size was clear: it licked the surrounding trees orange and blotted out the stars above. It was intentional. It had a center and a purpose.
Then, movement. First, there was just a blur—some kind of creature shooting through the trees, a rushing shape silhouetted by the red fire beyond. It could have been a horse, he thought, but the animal seemed to be running upright, on two feet.
Max dropped to his knees, holding his breath.
Another shape darted between the trees. This one was the same size, but Max could have sworn he'd seen a beak. It seemed to Max's tired eyes that a giant rooster, twelve feet tall, had just run across his field of vision.
Max had half a mind to turn and flee—for what good could come of engaging beasts of that size near a fire of that strength?—but he couldn't leave just yet. The heat from the blaze had awakened him, and he had to know what was happening down there.
So he skulked forward. He wanted the warmth the fire promised, and he wanted whatever food might have been roasted on it, and he wanted more than anything else to find out just what was going on.
A hundred yards more and he knew.
Sort of. That is, he saw what he saw but couldn't believe any of it. He saw animals. Animals? Creatures of some kind. Huge and fast. He thought they might be oversized sorts of humans covered in fur, but they were bigger than that, hairier than that. They were ten or twelve feet tall, each four hundred pounds or more. Max knew his animal kingdom, but he had no name for these beasts. From behind, they resembled bears, but they were larger than bears, their heads far bigger. Even so, their movements were nimble, deft—they had the quickness of deer or small monkeys. And they all looked different, as humans do: one had a long broken horn on its nose; another had a wide flat face, stringy hair, and pleading eyes; another seemed like a cross between a boy and a goat. And another—
It had been a giant rooster. This was the weirdest one by far. Max slapped himself, making sure he was awake. He was awake, and there was a giant rooster before him, no more than twenty yards away in the full glow of the raging fire. It was at once comical—it looked like a giant man in a rooster suit—and powerful and menacing.
The rooster seemed frustrated, staring at another creature, of similar height and heft but with a different shape. This one had a mop of reddish hair and a leonine face, with a large horn, like a rhino's, extending from its nose. It looked female, if that was possible for such an ugly thing. She was in the middle of beating a large nest, resting on the ground, with a log.
And this seemed to be greatly upsetting the rooster.
Soon, Max could see a pattern to what the beasts were doing. It looked as if they'd come upon some kind of settlement, full of great round nests—each made of huge sticks and logs, and bigger than a car—and had decided to destroy them. They were systematically wrecking them all, like kids destroying sandcastles.
Max was about to turn and run the other way when he heard (could it be?) a word. There was, he was almost sure, a word: "Go!"
And just as he was repeating the sound in his mind, turning it over, analyzing it, the creature closest to him spoke a full sentence: "Is it twisted?"
Two of the creatures appeared to have fallen through the wall of a nest, and one was asking the other for help, assessing possible injuries to its spine.
"Yeah, it's kind of twisted," the other said.
Then the two gathered themselves up and ran off.
Max squatted down again, determined now to watch a bit longer, to try to figure out what was happening and why.
One creature seemed to be leading the melee. He had a big round face, sharp horns like a Viking's, and dark bags under his eyes. He was getting ready to run toward one of the nests when the rooster approached him and put his hand—it wasn't a wing; he seemed to have hands and claws—on his shoulder.
"Carol, can I speak to you for a second?"
"Not now, Douglas," the big one, Carol, said, and moved the rooster aside. Then Carol got a running start and barrelled into the nest, knocking it flat.
Max was astounded. Had that sentence just been uttered? These weren't grunting monsters. They spoke just like people. Gradually, Max realized that they were a kind of family.
Douglas, the rooster, seemed logical and even-tempered, and didn't appreciate the way that Carol was trying to amuse himself. Carol was the main instigator and the heartiest of the destroyers. He was the biggest, the strongest, the loudest. He had horizontal stripes on his torso like a kind of sweater, and his claws were huge and cleaver-sharp.
The creature with the horn and the red mop of hair was called Judith, and she had a sharp, poky voice and a harsh cackle for a laugh. Ira had a bulbous nose, and he seemed to be always close to Judith. Max guessed they might even be a couple. Ira had a sad sort of aura and poor posture. There was the goat-shaped one, Alexander, with a snarl for a face and pin-thin legs. He was just a little bigger than Max. And then there was a bull, whose name seemed to be the Bull. He was gigantic, maybe thirteen feet high, and seemed built entirely of muscle and stone. He hadn't said a word yet.
The beasts jumped from trees into the nests, they tossed each other into piles, they rolled boulders into the remains of the structures. It was just about the best mayhem Max had ever seen.
But soon there was a lull in the action. One by one, the beasts sat down, scratching themselves and nursing small wounds.
"I'm bored," one said.
"Me, too," said another.
"C'mon!" Carol roared. "Let's finish this!"
There was no answer from the rest of them. Ira sat down. Carol jogged over to him—they really were agile things, these creatures, Max thought.
"Ira," Carol said, "we're not done yet. The job isn't complete."
"But I'm so tired!" Ira said. "And uninspired."
"Hey, don't think you can rhyme your way out of this. Uninspired? How's that possible?" Carol turned to address the rest of the creatures. "C'mon, isn't this fun? Who's gonna really go crazy with me?"
No one responded. Carol jumped from beast to beast, trying to create some excitement. When he approached the rooster, Douglas said, "Carol, why are we doing this in the first place?"
A quick cloud came over Carol's face. His teeth—what must have been a hundred of them, each as big as Max's hand—were bared in something between a smile and a show of force. He ignored Douglas. "All I need to know now is if there's anyone on this island who's brave and creative and wild enough to help finish this job. Is there anyone up to it?"
No one responded.
Something clicked in Max. His thoughts lined up, his plan was orderly and clear: he needed to be that someone.
Max dashed down the hill and between the legs of Douglas and Ira, his face a knot of determination. The creatures towered over him, and outweighed him by thousands of pounds.
"Whoa, what's that?" Ira said, alarmed.
"Look at his little legs!" Judith squealed.
"What's he doing?" Douglas asked.
Max intended to show them. He took the largest stick he could swing and he began to hit everything he saw. He knocked over the remains of whatever nests still stood, he broke low-hanging branches from the trees, he screamed and howled.
The beasts cheered.
"See, that thing knows how to wreck stuff!" Carol said, his eyes aglow. "Let's do one together, little thing."
Together, Carol and Max picked up a long log and ran at a nest that had survived intact, laying waste to it. Max had never destroyed so much so well and so quickly. He followed Carol to one of the last nests, and he and Carol both lifted their sticks over their heads, preparing to crush it with simultaneous blows.
"Hey, new guy!" Judith snapped. "Don't touch that one."
Max hesitated.
"Don't lay a finger on it," she warned.
With a laugh, Carol kicked his immense foot into the structure, reducing it to splinters. "There," he said. "Not a finger."
Max had to laugh. That was pretty good. He watched as Carol, his comrade-in-arms, ran over to the other side of the clearing, looking for anything left standing.
Max looked, too. But as far as he could see there was nothing left to destroy. Max stood in the middle of a desolate plain. The nests were no more. He started to walk toward Carol, to celebrate the completeness of their wreckage, when Douglas appeared in front of Max, blocking his path.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"What? I'm just helping," Max said.
"Then why are you smashing our houses?"
"These are your houses?" This was news to Max. He'd assumed they were destroying some enemy encampment. "Why are you smashing them?"
"I'm not, actually. You're not very observant for someone swinging that big stick around."
Max dropped the stick.
"Wait," Alexander said, standing in the ruins, alone and teary-eyed, like a child lost at the mall. "Where will we sleep tonight?"
Suddenly, a realization seemed to spread among the beasts.
"I was trying to tell you all that," Douglas said.
"Well, don't blame me," Judith said.
"Why not?" Douglas said. "You were wrecking as much as anyone else. You wrecked everything but your own nest."
"Sure, but I didn't enjoy it," she said. "And, anyway, it wasn't my fault."
Douglas was shaking his head. "Then whose fault was it?"
Judith looked around for a moment, and her eyes settled, rather happily, on Max.
"The new guy!" she said. "He's the one who got everyone riled up. And you know what I say you do with a problem? Eat it."
"Yeah," Alexander said. "He's the problem!"
"What are you guys doing?" Ira asked.
"Oh, we were just gonna eat that," Judith said, pointing to Max, as if picking out a lobster at a restaurant.
"O.K.," Ira said, shrugging and beginning to drool.
Max was very quickly surrounded by the three of them, and soon Douglas and the Bull had joined the throng, and the air was very dark and warm with beast sweat. Max backed up until he found himself against a mess of sticks and mud where a home used to be. There was no escape.
"He looks tasty," Ira said.
"Does he?" Judith said. "I don't know. I'm thinking gamy."
"Gamy?" Douglas mused. "Really? I say succulent."
"He's an ugly bugger, though, isn't he?" Judith said.
"Close your eyes, then. I'll feed him to you," Ira said.
"Oh, that's so romantic!" she said.
"Hold on!" a voice yelled from across the camp. It was Carol. Max felt some relief, and yet the creatures were still closing in on him. Max could feel their hot wet breath on his face, he could see their enormous teeth, each incisor as big as his foot. Ira licked his lips. The Bull snorted, his hands reaching toward Max.
Max knew Carol couldn't save him in time. He had to save himself—somehow. He arched his back, and, with a voice that emerged far louder and more commanding than he had expected, he roared, "Be still!"
The beasts stopped. They stopped moving, stopped talking, stopped raising their arms to claw Max to death, stopped salivating. Max couldn't believe it. He didn't know what to do next.
"Why?" Judith said. "Why should we stop?"
This was a tricky question, Max knew. If he was about to bite into, say, a strawberry, and it told him to stop, he, too, would want a good explanation.
"Because . . . uh . . . because . . . ," he mumbled.
The beasts stared, waiting, blowing roughly through their nostrils. Max knew he had to come up with something immediately, and, to his surprise, he did. "Because," he said, "I heard about this one time that they weren't still, and they . . ."
"Who?" Judith said. "Who wasn't still?"
By this time Carol had arrived, standing behind the others.
"Um . . . the hammers," Max explained, making it up as he went along. "They were huge ones and they didn't know how to be still. They were crazy. They were always shaking and running around and they never stopped to see what was right in front of them. So this one time the hammers were storming down the mountainside and they couldn't even see that someone was coming up to help them. And you know what happened?"
The beasts, enthralled, shook their heads.
"They ran right over him and killed him," Max said.
There were a few gasps, but there were also a few sounds that said, "Well, what else would they do?"
"And the thing is," Max added, "he liked them. He was there to help."
"Who was he?" Douglas asked.
"Who was who?" Max said.
"The guy coming up the hill," Douglas said.
"He was . . ." And again Max fumbled in the velvet darkness of his mind and found, impossibly, a gem. "He was their king."
Carol stepped forward. "Do you like us?"
This was a tough question. Max wasn't sure that he liked any of them, given that they had been, moments earlier, about to devour his flesh and brains. But in the interest of self-preservation, and because he had liked them a lot when they were all breaking things, he said, "Yeah. I like you."
Ira cleared his throat and said, with a hope-filled catch in his voice, "Are you our king?"
Max had rarely had to do so much bluffing in his life. "Sure. Yeah," he said. "I think so."
A ripple of excitement spread through the beasts.
"Wow, he's the king," Ira said.
Douglas stepped forward, as if he'd just thought of a stumper of a question that might decide it all: "Were you king where you came from?"
Max was getting good at the fibbing, so this one was easy. "Yeah, I was," he said. "King Max. For twenty years."
A quick happy murmur rose from the creatures.
"Are you going to make this a better place?" Ira asked.
"Sure," Max said.
"Because it's screwed up, let me tell you," Judith blurted.
"Quiet, Judith," Carol said.
"Judith, of course he's here to fix everything," Douglas said. "Why else would a king be a king, and a king be here?" He turned to Max. "Right, King?"
"Uh, sure," Max said.
Carol smiled. "Well, that settles it, then. He's our king!"
They all moved in to hug Max.
"Sorry we were gonna eat you," Douglas said.
"We didn't know you were the king," Ira said.
"If we'd known you were the king, we almost definitely wouldn't have tried to eat you," Judith added, then laughed in a sudden, mirthless trill. She lowered her voice to a confessional tone. "We just got caught up in the moment."
Max was swept up and lifted high in the air and finally set down on the shoulders of the Bull. The Bull followed Carol into a cave under an enormous tree. Inside the cave, two torches illuminated a golden oval of a room.
The Bull put Max down and rooted around in a pile of rubble on the floor. He soon retrieved a sceptre, copper-colored and bejewelled, and gave it to Max. Max inspected it reverently. It was heavy, but not too heavy, with a hand-carved handle and a crystal orb at the top.
The Bull continued to dig through the rubble. Curious, Max peered around the Bull and saw that it wasn't a pile of sticks and rocks but a pile of what looked to be bones. They were yellowed and broken, the remains of maybe a dozen different creatures—twisted and spotted skulls and ribs in sizes and shapes Max had never seen in any book or museum.
"Aha!" Carol bellowed. "There it is."
Max looked up to see that the Bull had pulled a crown from the heap. It was golden, rough-hewn, and as the Bull turned to place the crown on Max's head Max pulled away.
"Wait," he said, pointing to the pile of bones. "Are those . . . other kings?"
The Bull glanced quickly at Carol with a look of mild concern.
"No, no!" Carol said, chuckling. "Those were there before we got here. We've never even seen them before."
Then Carol and the Bull did a quick jig atop the bones, reducing them to dust.
"See?" Carol said, grinning, his eyes nervous and alight. "Nothing to worry about. Just dust. You're the king. And nothing bad can happen to the king."
Max looked into Carol's eyes, each of them as big as a volleyball. They were the warmest brown and green.
"But what do I have to do?" Max asked.
"Do? Anything you want to do," Carol said.
"And what do you have to do?"
"Anything you want us to do," Carol said. He answered so quickly that Max was convinced.
"Then, O.K.," Max said.
He lowered his head to receive his crown. Carol gently placed it on Max's head. It was heavy, and the metal was cool on his forehead. But the crown fit, and Max smiled. Carol stood back and looked at him, nodding as if everything had finally fallen into place.
The Bull lifted Max and placed him back on his shoulders, and they made their way out of the cave to deafening cheers from the rest of the beasts. The Bull paraded Max around the forest as everyone whooped and danced in a very ugly—drool and mucus spraying left and right—but celebratory kind of way. After a few minutes, the Bull placed Max atop a grassy knoll, and the beasts gathered around, looking up at him expectantly. Max understood that he was supposed to say something, so he said the only thing he could think of:
"Let the wild rumpus begin!" ♦


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How to Use
The shaded areas represent Spanish settlement. The dashed lines show the boundaries of present-day states.
1. Santa Fe was the capital of the province of New Mexico. Chihuahua was the closest administrative and supply center. Based on the Map 1 scale, how far is it between Santa Fe and Chihuahua? How do you think this distance might have affected early settlers in New Mexico?
2. Identify New Mexico on Map 2 and then find the approximate location of Santa Fe. What route would you follow to get from Chihuahua to Santa Fe? How would you select a route from the northeastern United States? What obstacles would you be likely to encounter, based on the map?
* The maps on this screen have a resolution of 72 dots per inch (dpi), and therefore will print poorly. You can obtain a larger version of Map 1 and Map 2 but be aware that each file may take as much as 60 seconds to load with a 28.8K modem.


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The ionization degree of a plasma is given by the Saha equation, which depends on the temperature and the particle specific ionization energy. In thermal equilibrium, the relation between ionization and its electric potential is given by the Boltzmann relation.
It is common practice to induce a plasma via electric voltage (for example in Neon lamps), and there are also configurations with periodically applied electric fields, such as the dielectric barrier discharge.
From what I understand, the idea is to induce polarization and consequently electrical breakdown of the gas (how does this work?), and raise the temperature via an electrical arc (is this already the plamsa?).
My question is:
In artificially generated plasmas what is the quantitative relation between the applied electric field/voltage and the ionization?
I'd also be interested in the time dependence of the plasma on the applied field frequency.


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- Appropriate wind direction
Any of the selected wind directions match the wind direction of any selected sites.
The site has the same or higher level of stars.
If you don't want to take into consideration this personal rating, then leave the stars grey, or in case you have already chosen a value, then
delete it with !


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Nation-wide projects enrich humanities education, access, local and national programming
Today the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) announced $27.6 million dollars in grant awards and offers to 222 successful applicants. By offering diverse and competitive grant opportunities to teachers, scholars, and filmmakers as well as to museums, historical societies, and libraries, NEH strives to promote excellence in the humanities and increase the public's awareness of their vital role in our national life.
"The mission of the Endowment is to encourage lifelong learning in the humanities," said NEH Chairman Bruce Cole. "Each project receiving support today will further that mission by helping our nation's citizens gain insight to the ideas and events that inspire us all."
The funding announced today will help institutions improve and secure long-term support for their humanities programs and resources; enrich humanities education; support educators' professional development; and help scholars use digital tools to enhance scholarship and make humanities resources more accessible. Funding also will provide high-quality media, library, and museum programming for public audiences at local, national, and historic sites; and will support state humanities council programs exploring significant events and themes in American history.
This award cycle, institutions and individuals in 48 states, the District of Columbia, and three U.S. territories received support from NEH. A complete state-by-state listing of total grants and offers of matching funds is available below, along with a brief document describing the specific program areas and grant categories:
North Carolina to Wyoming and U.S. Territories
The NEH grants announced today come from three of the Endowment's major program areas—Challenge Grants, Education Programs, and Public Programs—as well as special grant programs offered through the new Office of Digital Humanities. Also awarded today are We the People Project Grants for State Humanities Councils offered through NEH's Federal/State Partnership. We the People grants help strengthen the teaching, study, and understanding of American history and culture.


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Lampropeltis calligaster
16-50 inches. Tan, brown or gray above with a row of dark brown to reddish, oblong or dumbbell-shaped spots down the back and a smaller series on each side; underside whitish with brown spotting; young snakes tend to be paler with more distinct spots than adults; color pattern may be darkened and vague in some adults; scales smooth and in 21-27 rows.
Prairie kingsnakes occur in open or semi-open habitats such as cropland, pastureland and dry woodland, but seem to spend much of their time in burrows. They lay from 4-21 eggs.
Pinelands of the Florida Parishes, and open, well-drained areas west of the Mississippi Valley and Atchafalaya Basin.


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ASU Melikian Center (Student)
STARTALK Russian Summer Camp at ASU
Grade Level(s)
- June 10, 2019 – June 28, 2019: (Face-to-face)
- Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ
Program Setting
Arizona State University (ASU) will provide an intensive, 3-week, 4.5-classroom-hour/day, non-residential program in elementary Russian for 28 participants in grades 9-12 from Central Arizona, bringing them from proficiency 0 to Novice Mid in speaking, listening, and reading. STARTALK participants will work in small groups in intensive sessions designed and provided by the STARTALK team on the campus of ASU and, by video conferencing, activity guides and host families of the concurrently running Russian language program in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, from ASU's Critical Languages Institute (CLI). Having STARTALK participants interact with CLI Russian students, in both domestic and abroad programs, is part of the larger strategy of academic mentoring intended to steer participants into the Central Arizona Russian Proficiency pipeline -- a network of high-school instructors and advisers, state university advisers and instructors, and CLI career and grant advisers who work one-on-one with participants to plot out pathways from STARTALK, to high-school Russian, to NSLI-Y, to college Russian and CLS or CLI, to summer and semester-long study abroad with NSEP, Fulbright, or private funding, with the goal of supporting participants through to advanced or superior levels of Russian by the time they receive their BA. Bringing together faculty and staff from Arizona school districts' Russian programs, ASU's Russian program, and ASU's summer intensive program at CLI, ASU's Russian STARTALK program will serve as a hub for Russian instruction and Russian study-abroad programs in Central Arizona and the southwest.
Contact(s)(480) 965-7705
Program Website


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Officer revives overdose victim with Narcan
SEASIDE HEIGHTS, N.J. -- A police officer here became the first to save a life under a pilot program equipping officers in Ocean County with Narcan, a drug that reverses the effects of opiates such as heroin.
Seaside Heights Officer Daniel Davis answered a 911 call early on April 6 from a distraught woman at the Dry Dock Motel who feared her friend might have overdosed on heroin.
Davis entered the room and found a 24-year-old man lying on the motel bed, face up. Davis felt for a pulse, and it was barely there. The man was breathing, but it was hard to tell, Davis said.
The man needed Narcan or he could die. Just a few days before, Davis had been trained to use the drug.
STORY:Heroin a growing threat across USA, police say
Another officer handed Davis the Narcan kit. As Davis was putting on the blue sterile gloves, he looked down at the man on the bed and thought, "This man is dying." His own adrenaline rushed in his veins as he went through the protocol and injected the liquid into each nostril.
Then, nothing. The course for administering the drug said to wait a few minutes between injections. As he prepared the next injection, an emergency medical team showed up. As the EMT reached for the victim's hand to check for a pulse, the man bolted awake. He was confused but alive.
New Jersey has been plagued in recent years by deaths caused by heroin and prescription drugs, and last year Ocean County became ground zero in the Jersey Shore region. Drug overdoses, many of them directly linked to heroin or prescription opiates, killed 112 people, more than double the year before, according to the Ocean County Prosecutor's Office.
So far this year 24 people have died, and 19 of them have been directly linked to heroin, according to the office.
"We may be at 25 if not for this Narcan," said prosecutor Joseph D. Coronato, who took office last year and made fighting the growing opiate crisis his top priority.
Earlier this month, Gov. Chris Christie announced a pilot program equipping police officers in Ocean County with Narcan, also known by its generic name of naloxone. Last May the governor signed the Overdose Prevention Act, which allowed for emergency personnel and close relatives to administer the antidote to an overdose victim, but it did not provide guidelines. The prosecutor's office in Ocean County drafted its own set of guidelines, which were approved by the attorney general, Coronato said.
All police departments in the county have since been trained to use Narcan, and within weeks every department will have the antidote, he said.
Narcan at least offers an overdose victim a chance to get clean after a brush with death, Coronato said. For a cost of roughly $20 for each dose of the nasal spray, it is well worth the effort, he said.
In Quincy, Mass., officers using Narcan have reversed 211 opiate overdoses since 2010, according to USA TODAY.
"If we can match that, we'll take it," said Al Della Fave, a spokesman for the Prosecutor's Office.
When Davis was trained on the use of Narcan, he had no idea it would be less than 72 hours before he had to put it to use. He says he is glad to have "another tool to save a life."
Bonafide and Racioppi also report for the Asbury Park (N.J.) Press.


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CAMBRIDGE, Mass. – Despite a late drive that put Becker College just outside of the redzone, MIT thwarted the scoring attempt and held on for a 21-13 victory in the inaugural meeting between both programs on Saturday. The Engineers recorded their second season-opening win in three years while the Hawks saw their ledger dip to 0-2.
Becker got off to a quick start as Johnattan Rivera connected on 28-yard pass from Billy Ramirez that put the Hawks on the MIT 36. Three straight runs from Paul Casmir resulted in first-and-goal at the MIT three-yard line. Justin Bailey capped off the drive with a quick plunge into the end zone, taking just 1:44 to complete the drive. On the ensuing extra-point attempt, the snap was bobbled, but Ramirez nearly hit Melvin Booker for a potential two-point conversion.
With two minutes remaining in the opening quarter, a 61-yard punt by Becker's Eric Glynn put the Engineers at their one-yard line. John Wenzel hooked up with Ben Hessels for a 10-yard grab, but the ball was fumbled and recovered by Tevin Loyd at the MIT 10. Casmir ran for six yards and was followed by a one-yard rush by Bailey. On the Hawks' final effort before the conclusion of the quarter, MIT's Peter Gilliland stopped Rivera with a one-yard loss. After switching ends, Trae Jacobs caught a four-yard toss from Ramirez for the touchdown. A Joseph Peralta extra-point extended the visitors' margin to 13-0.
Starting at their own 36, six consecutive runs by Marcel Sanchez put the Engineers at the Becker 33. A six-yard completion by Kyle Johnson to Nate Forbes was followed by a seven-yard toss to Sanchez on a fourth-and-one. Johnson then took off for the end zone for a 20-yard scramble as a Matthew Peterson extra-point narrowed the gap to 13-7 with 6:29 left in the half.
Both sides punted the ball on their next possessions until MIT's Derek Li forced and recovered a fumble at the MIT 45. Mike Fitzgerald hauled in a 30-yard pass from Johnson to put the hosts at the Becker 25. This was as close as the Cardinal and Gray would get as Jesse Fusco registered a 10-yard sack and Tyler Barnes posted a five-yard tackle for loss. With one second remaining, Sanchez mustered a 15-yard run before being stopped by Rafael Martinez and Shane Balestracci.
The third quarter was a scoreless affair until the Engineers began their second drive midway through the frame. Starting at their 24, Wenzel dashed for two yards before Sanchez recorded runs of seven, six, and four yards. Wenzel found Fitzgerald for a 24-yard catch and then Sanchez gained two yards to move MIT to the Becker 31. Ben Hessels broke free for a 27-yard run which was followed by a quarterback sneak by Wenzel that gained a yard. Hessels gobbled up the final three yards for the first touchdown of his intercollegiate career. Peterson's successful point after gave MIT a lead it would not relinquish.
Following five plays by the Hawks, a 38-yard punt by Glynn was downed at the MIT 15 and set up the Engineers for their final scoring drive with 59 seconds to in the third quarter. Sanchez notched runs of 28 and three yards as a defensive offsides penalty pushed MIT to the Becker 49 at the end of the period. Following the break, the tandem of Sanchez and Johnson traded carries with a 16-yard scamper by Johnson resulting in a touchdown.
Although the Hawks only generated six yards on their first drive of the final frame, Glynn's 55-yard punt pinned MIT back at its own six-yard line. A three-and-out netted only five yards and Gilliland's punt was downed at the MIT 37.
Ramirez began Becker's drive with a seven-yard run followed by back-to-back rushes from Casmir that put the Hawks at the 16-yard line. Two consecutive passes by Ramirez to Rivera resulted in first-and-goal at the MIT five. Casmir's first rushing bid was stopped at the line of scrimmage by Li and Jake Laux. He found success on his next try and gained two yards. Ramirez connected with Rivera but a tackle by Aaron Fittery resulted in a loss of two yards. On fourth-and-goal, Ramirez's feed to Curtis Ludden was broken-up by a diving Travis Wilmer in the end zone.
MIT ran 1:48 off the clock, gained 21 yards, and Gilliland's punt placed Becker at the MIT 49 with just under three minutes to play. Despite grabbing a pass from Ramirez, Ezequiel Torres was pushed back four yards on a tackle by Fittery. Taking to the air again, Ramirez connected with Ludden for a 13-yard reception. Facing a fourth-and-one, Becker went for it and converted on a 10-yard Casmir run that moved the ball to the MIT 30. Ramirez scampered four-yards and ran out-of-bounds to stop the clock. An incomplete pass was followed by a false start which put the Hawks back at the 31-yard line. Ramirez posted another four-yard dash that set up a fourth-and-seven with 1:09 left in the game. He then attempted a pass to Ludden, but it fell incomplete.
Sanchez led all rushers with 154 yards on 29 attempts as MIT gained 343 yards on the ground. Johnson tallied 53 yards passing, going 6-of-12 with one interception and one sack while Wenzel connected on three of his six passing attempts for 38 yards. Fitzgerald was the top receiver for the Engineers, racking up 54 yards on three catches as Forbes had three catches for 19 yards. Li collected nine tackles, one for loss, and two fumble recoveries. Kristopher Weaver totaled six tackles and an eight-yard sack as Rhys Borchert and Gilliland both contributed six tackles.
Ramirez finished with 12 completions on 23 passing attempts which netted 74 yards, threw one touchdown, and was sacked twice. Casmir compiled 55 yards on 23 rushing attempts as Rivera totaled seven catches for 54 yards. Glynn averaged 43.1 yards on his seven punts, with three dropping inside the MIT 20. Mike Carroll posted a team-high eight solo tackles and one assisted tackle. Jake Bateman chipped in six stops while Andrew Reid registered a 33-yard interception.
Both squads continue non-conference action on Saturday, Sept. 18. MIT will host Massachusetts Maritime Academy while Becker will make the trip to WPI.


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Big donors fear shakedown
The biggest Washington donors used to have a great excuse to keep their wallets closed when fundraisers came knocking: Sorry, I'm maxed out.
But a Supreme Court ruling swiped that line from them Wednesday when the justices tossed a rule that limited how much an individual can give to candidates, party committees and PACs.
Story Continued Below
Now, fundraisers hope donors, many of them lobbyists, will embrace their new legal right with gusto to give more across the board to candidates and party committees.
"I'm horrified, planning to de-list my phone number and destroy my email address," said Ken Kies, who, along with his wife, has bumped up against the federal political contribution limits. "What I was really hoping for is a ban on lobbyists making contributions entirely."
( Also on POLITICO: Supreme Court strikes down aggregate campaign giving limits)
While it's an open question how much new money will come in, it's certain some will — and insiders are eager to make sure it greases the Washington economy.
"I'm poor again as a result," joked Tony Podesta, a top lobbyist and major donor who is among the small number of K-Streeters who contribute nearly the maximum amount to candidates each election cycle. "The fundraising consultants are the only winner in today's decision."
Podesta said for those donors, the new rule "eliminates an excuse that people have to say I'm done for the cycle and I can't do anymore, which means that people who do max out will end up giving more money than they used to to candidates."
The Supreme Court decision Wednesday is the latest in a line of rulings that loosen campaign finance rules and embolden the consultant class. Lobbyists are hit up for donations from campaign staff and members of Congress all the time. Now, it could just get worse they fear.
( Read the Supreme Court opinion)
"We were already getting drained before, now it's another means to suck out more cash without any actual return on value," said one GOP lobbyist.
Roughly 600 donors maxed out on aggregate federal contributions during the 2012 election, according to data compiled by the Center for Responsive Politics. Of that total, about 160 were from Washington, Virginia, Maryland and New York — an indication that the decision could lead to more contributions from K Street and Wall Street.
Federal law had capped the total amount a single donor could give at $48,600 to candidate committees and $74,600 in contributions to PACs and party committees in each two-year cycle. Donors still can give only $5,200 per candidate and $32,400 to each party committee in the 2014 cycle.
Lobbyists argue they are already inundated by fundraising calls from lawmakers, email solicitations and events that fill their calendars for breakfasts, lunches and dinners in the run-up to the quarterly deadlines.
( Also on POLITICO: SCOTUS on money and politics: A reader's guide)
"For the lobbying community, it increases the cost of doing business," said David Rehr, a former association executive.
And the timing is particularly frustrating for some following the first-quarter filing deadline Monday.
"At this time in the cycle many lobbyists have hit or are quickly approaching the federal max," said David Thomas of Mehlman Vogel Castagnetti. "This decision is like getting to the end of the Marine Corps Marathon and being told you have to run it again."
On Capitol Hill the reaction was decidedly mixed with most Republicans cheering the decision.
( WATCH: Anna Palmer on 'Driving the Day')
Speaker John Boehner (R-Ohio) hailed the decision saying that "freedom of speech is being upheld," though not all Republicans were supportive of the result.
Sen. John McCain (R-Ariz.), author of a 2002 ban on soft-money contributions, said he "wasn't surprised" by the ruling, but warned that it would have negative long-term repercussions.
"There will be scandals because of this, I guarantee it," McCain warned.
( WATCH: Open Mike with political 'data scientist' Alex Lundry)
Sen. Angus King (I-Maine) wasted no time, introducing legislation Wednesday that would require all contributions of $1,000 or more be filed with the Federal Election Commission within 48 hours.


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Anna Williams
Active time: 30 min Start to finish: 1 3/4 hr
- Yield
- Makes about 32 petits fours
- For cookie base
- 1 cup all-purpose flour
- 2/3 cup packed dark brown sugar
- 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 7 oz fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (not unsweetened), finely chopped
- 1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
- 2 large eggs
- 2 teaspoons finely grated fresh orange zest
- For topping
- 1/2 cup chilled heavy cream
- 1 teaspoon sugar
- 4 navel orange segments, membranes discarded from each and fruit cut into 1/4-inch pieces
- Special Equipment
- 2 (12-inch-long) sheets of parchment paper; a 1 1/2-inch round fluted cookie cutter
- Make cookie base:
- Whisk together flour, brown sugar, cocoa powder, and salt in a bowl.
- Melt chocolate and butter in a metal bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water, stirring occasionally, until smooth. Remove bowl from heat and stir in eggs, zest, and flour mixture until just combined. (Dough will be soft.)
- Roll out dough between parchment sheets into an 8-inch round (1/2 inch thick). Transfer round (still in parchment) to a large baking sheet and chill until firm, at least 1 hour, or freeze at least 30 minutes.
- Preheat oven to 350°F.
- Remove top sheet of parchment paper and replace it loosely. Flip over paper-enclosed round and discard paper now on top. Cut out about 20 cookies with cookie cutter and arrange about 1 inch apart on a buttered large baking sheet. Reroll scraps between parchment sheets and cut out 12 more cookies (chill or freeze dough as needed if it becomes too soft to handle).
- Bake cookies in middle of oven until matte (dough will start out shiny and turn dull), about 10 minutes, then transfer with a spatula to a rack to cool completely. (Cookies will have a fudgy consistency.)
- Top cookies:
- Beat cream and sugar with an electric mixer until it just holds stiff peaks. Top each cookie with 1/2 teaspoon cream and a piece of orange.
Cooks' notes:
• Dough can be chilled, wrapped well in plastic wrap, up to 1 day or frozen up to 1 week. • Baked cookies (without topping) can be made 2 days ahead and kept in an airtight container at room temperature.
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Nutritional Info
- Calories99
- Carbohydrates13 g(4%)
- Fat5 g(8%)
- Protein1 g(3%)
- Saturated Fat3 g(16%)
- Sodium48 mg(2%)
- Polyunsaturated Fat0 g
- Fiber1 g(3%)
- Monounsaturated Fat2 g
- Cholesterol21 mg(7%)