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How Technology Has Changed The Classroom - 1107 Words

Technology in the Classroom Over the last two decades technology has changed the way we see the world, however education fell short. Because of lack of funding, educators chose to not incorporate technology into the educational environment until much later. Only now, in early 2015 are schools truly beginning to introduce the â€Å"Digital Classroom†. The â€Å"Digital Classroom† is the 21st century s classroom and Jeremy Posey, a mathematics coordinator and NMSI expert, says it best â€Å"To begin with, let’s define technology in the classroom. Technology can be defined as any tool that can be used to help promote human learning, including – but not limited to – calculators, tablets (such as an iPad), Smart Boards, video cameras, digital cameras, MP3 players, Portable Digital Assistants (PDAs), and, of course, the computer. These are all innovations that have helped countless people during regular daily activities, but they can also have a profound impact on classroom learning† (â€Å"Huneycutt, Technology in the Classroom: The Benefits of Blended Learning, NMS†) Teachers and Students are equipped with technology and software (ex: Tablets and Laptops/NoteBooks, Grade Analytics, Digital Methods of Turning Assignments In, and environments to Communicate and collaborate). Using these combined technologies the possibilities are endless. Teachers are discovering new methods to educate, and students are discovering new ways to learn. Technology helps to improve all aspects of educationShow MoreRelatedHow Technology Has Changed Our Classroom1532 Words   |  7 PagesHow to Teach in the Modern Classroom If you were to ask people today what it takes to teach students most would say that all it takes is putting students in classroom, make them take notes, give them a test, and viola the students have learned the subject. That is simply not true. Teaching in the modern classroom requires the use of new technology, and teaching methods. As well as understanding how students today act, standards that teachers have to follow, and Technology For many teachersRead MoreHow Technology Has Changed Our Classroom Essay1992 Words   |  8 PagesIntroduction. New technologies in the classroom are a cutting-edge field of study in contemporary history. Education is now going digital. With the creation of online software for students, the lessons learned in the classroom have shown more efficiency and has made a big contribution to higher literacy rates for students. Not so many years ago, the internet was limited both in what it could do and in who used it. Today, most teachers have not only been exposed to the internet but also have accessRead MoreHow Technology Has Changed Our Classroom1202 Words   |  5 Pageslearned a little bit. I discovered how technology was changing the way students are taught in the classroom; I figured out how to approach the algorithm of multiplication from a variety of angles to accommodate different learning styles; I learned how to spend four hours labouring over a 30-minute lesson plan to introd uce a picture book to a group of Grade two students. All useful, though not all necessary. Not once, however, did my course group have a lesson on how to create a harmonious atmosphereRead MoreHow Technology Has Changed Our Classroom1299 Words   |  6 Pagescomputer in the 1980’s, technology has become a big part in the way teachers interact with their classes. As the availability of new technologies become more rapidly available a teacher’s role in the classroom changes to a facilitator or moderator. More and more information is being put on line each day, student’s have access to a whole new source of information that was not available to students in previous times. With this being said, should technology be used in today’s classrooms? According to aRead MoreSocial Change And The 21st Century Classroom1464 Words   |  6 Pagesglobalisation, social change and technology, which are driving changes in education, with a variety of positive and negative impacts on teaching and learning in the 21st Century. With ongoing changes in teaching practices, which in turn changes the attitudes of today’s teachers and learners. A 21st century classroom is a productive environment where the teachers are the facilitators of the students learning. There are many characteristics however, which segregate a 21st century classroom from that of previousRead MoreThe Definition Of Technology From Www1377 Words   |  6 Pages The definition of technology from www.dictionary.com says, â€Å"the branch of knowledge that deals with the creation and use of technical means and their interrelation with life, society, and the environment, drawing upon such subjects as industrial arts, engineering, applied science, and pure science.â⠂¬  Technology is both technology and science and are closely related but they are different in so many ways. Science explains the natural world while technology develops and explains the human-made worldRead MoreTechnology in the American Classroom1154 Words   |  5 Pages Technology has dramatically influenced our modern day culture in several ways; we now operate completely different compared to the past. In fact, it can be shown in many tasks that we very rarely complete a simple operation without the use of technology. For example, washing dishes, heating food, doing our homework, and even communication are all examples of how technology has evolved simple tasks. Even furthermore, technology has changed the way education has been taught and received in AmericanRead MoreThe, The Great Growling Engine Of Change - Technology Essay955 Words   |  4 Pageschange – technology†. Looking at the past decade, it is hard to argue with Toffler’s statement because the changes in technology have changed the lives of many. However, educational changes have been slow in comparison. The slowness of integrating technology in education is due to several reasons. According to Joanna Tudor (2015), one concern is the amount of data collection that technology in schools allows and what is done with that information (p. 291). With technology always changing, how areRead MoreImpact Of Technology On Society1007 Words   |  5 Pagesof technology in our society There is no doubt that technology has been bettering the way that we learn and makes it more enjoyable and easier than ever. No more fear from going to school early, meet teachers and waste time looking for books on large library shelves. Nowadays with the modern technology people save time, money and energy. They can do a vast number of important things in brief time, with a simple click even while staying in their beds. Of course, not everything about technology isRead MoreA Brief Note On Flipped Classroom And The Classroom1552 Words   |  7 PagesFlipped Classroom With the technology that is available for everyone to use today the priorities of what needs to be taught in the classroom has changed. Information is readily available for everyone to utilize at anytime. Students nowadays can ask Siri or Google about anything they want to know. Because of this, what students should be taught and the way that this teaching should be conducted should change. Students today need to be taught to critically think about things and be able to collaborate

Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Free Essays

string(17) " by a side door\." After that I was mostly in the zone. I came out a few times when that scratched-out scrap of genealogy fell from inside one of my old steno books, for instance but those interludes were brief. In a way it was like my dream of Mattie, Jo, and Sara; in a way it was like the terrible fever I’d had as a child, when I’d almost died of the measles; mostly it was like nothing but itself. We will write a custom essay sample on Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX or any similar topic only for you Order Now It was just the zone. I was feeling it. I wish to God I hadn’t been. George came over, herding the man in the blue mask ahead of him. George was limping now, and badly. I could smell hot oil and gasoline and burning tires. ‘Is she dead?’ George asked. ‘Mattie?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘John?’ ‘Don’t know,’ I said, and then John twitched and groaned. He was alive, but there was a lot of blood. ‘Mike, listen,’ George began, but before he could say more, a terrible liquid screaming began from the burning car in the ditch. It was the driver. He was cooking in there. The shooter started to turn that way, and George raised his gun. ‘Move and I’ll kill you.’ ‘You can’t let him die like that,’ the shooter said from behind his mask. ‘You couldn’t let a dog die like that.’ ‘He’s dead already,’ George said. ‘You couldn’t get within ten feet of that car unless you were in an asbestos suit.’ He reeled on his feet. His face was as white as the spot of whipped cream I’d wiped off the end of Ki’s nose. The shooter made as if to go for him and George brought the gun up higher. ‘The next time you move, don’t stop,’ George said, ‘because I won’t. Guaranteed. Now take that mask off.’ ‘No.’ ‘I’m done fucking with you, Jesse. Say hello to God.’ George pulled back the hammer of his revolver. The shooter said, ‘Jesus Christ,’ and yanked off his mask. It was George Footman. Not much surprise there. From behind him, the driver gave one more shriek from within the Ford fireball and then was silent. Smoke rose in black billows. More thunder roared. ‘Mike, go inside and find something to tie him with,’ George Kennedy said. ‘I can hold him another minute two, if I have to but I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. Look for strapping tape. That shit would hold Houdini.’ Footman stood where he was, looking from Kennedy to me and back to Kennedy again. Then he peered down at Highway 68, which was eerily deserted. Or perhaps it wasn’t so eerie, at that the coming storms had been well forecast. The tourists and summer folk would be under cover. As for the locals . . . The locals were . . . sort of listening. That was at least close. The minister was speaking about Royce Merrill, a life which had been long and fruitful, a man who had served his country in peace and in war, but the old-timers weren’t listening to him. They were listening to us, the way they had once gathered around the pickle barrel at the Lakeview General and listened to prizefights on the radio. Bill Dean was holding Yvette’s wrist so tightly his fingernails were white. He was hurting her . . . but she wasn’t complaining. She wanted him to hold onto her. Why? ‘Mike!’ George’s voice was perceptibly weaker. ‘Please, man, help me. This guy is dangerous.’ ‘Let me go,’ Footman said. ‘You’d better, don’t you think?’ ‘In your wettest dreams, motherfuck,’ George said. I got up, went past the pot with the key underneath, went up the cement-block steps. Lightning exploded across the sky, followed by a bellow of thunder. Inside, Rommie was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. His face was even whiter than George’s. ‘Kid’s okay,’ he said, forcing the words. ‘But she looks like waking up . . . I can’t walk anymore. My ankle’s totally fucked.’ I moved for the telephone. ‘Don’t bother,’ Rommie said. His voice was harsh and trembling. ‘Tried it. Dead. Storm must already have hit some of the other towns. Killed some of the equipment. Christ, I never had anything hurt like this in my life.’ I went to the drawers in the kitchen and began yanking them open one by one, looking for strapping tape, looking for clothesline, looking for any damned thing. If Kennedy passed out from blood-loss while I was in here, the other George would take his gun, kill him, and then kill John as he lay unconscious on the smoldering grass. With them taken care of, he’d come in here and shoot Rommie and me. He’d finish with Kyra. ‘No he won’t,’ I said. ‘He’ll leave her alive.’ And that might be even worse. Silverware in the first drawer. Sandwich bags, garbage bags, and neatly banded stacks of grocery-store coupons in the second. Oven mitts and potholders in the third ‘Mike, where’s my Mattie?’ I turned, as guilty as a man who has been caught mixing illegal drugs. Kyra stood at the living-room end of the hall with her hair falling around her sleep-flushed cheeks and her scrunchy hung over one wrist like a bracelet. Her eyes were wide and panicky. It wasn’t the shots that had awakened her, probably not even her mother’s scream. I had wakened her. My thoughts had wakened her. In the instant I realized it I tried to shield them somehow, but I was too late. She had read me about Devore well enough to tell me not to think about sad stuff, and now she read what had happened to her mother before I could keep her out of my mind. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes widened. She shrieked as if her hand had been caught in a vise and ran for the door. ‘No, Kyra, no!’ I sprinted across the kitchen, almost tripping over Rommie (he looked at me with the dim incomprehension of someone who is no longer completely conscious), and grabbed her just in time. As I did, I saw Buddy Jellison leaving Grace Baptist by a side door. You read "Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX" in category "Essay examples" Two of the men he had been smoking with went with him. Now I understood why Bill was holding so tightly to Yvette, and loved him for it loved both of them. Something wanted him to go with Buddy and the others . . . but Bill wasn’t going. Kyra struggled in my arms, making big convulsive thrusts at the door, gasping in breath and then screaming it out again. ‘Let me go, want to see Mommy, let me go, want to see Mommy, let me go ‘ I called her name with the only voice I knew she would really hear, the one I could use only with her. She relaxed in my arms little by little, and turned to me. Her eyes were huge and confused and shining with tears. She looked at me a moment longer and then seemed to understand that she mustn’t go out. I put her down. She just stood there a moment, then backed up until her bottom was against the dishwasher. She slid down its smooth white front to the floor. Then she began to wail the most awful sounds of grief I have ever heard. She understood completely, you see. I had to show her enough to keep her inside, I had to . . . and because we were in the zone together, I could. Buddy and his friends were in a pickup truck headed this way. BAMM CONSTRUCTION, it said on the side. ‘Mike!’ George cried. He sounded panicky. ‘You got to hurry!’ ‘Hold on!’ I called back. ‘Hold on, George!’ Mattie and the others had started stacking picnic things beside the sink, but I’m almost positive that the stretch of Formica counter above the drawers had been clean and bare when I hurried after Kyra. Not now. The yellow sugar cannister had been overturned. Written in the spilled sugar was this: ‘No shit,’ I muttered, and checked the remaining drawers. No tape, no rope. Not even a lousy set of handcuffs, and in most well-equipped kitchens you can count on finding three or four. Then I had an idea and looked in the cabinet under the sink. When I went back out, our George was swaying on his feet and Footman was looking at him with a kind of predatory concentration. ‘Did you get some tape?’ George Kennedy asked. ‘No, something better,’ I said. ‘Tell me, Footman, who actually paid you? Devore or Whitmore? Or don’t you know?’ ‘Fuck you,’ he said. I had my right hand behind my back. Now I pointed down the hill with my left one and endeavored to look surprised. ‘What the hell’s Osgood doing? Tell him to go away!’ Footman looked in that direction it was instinctive and I hit him in the back of the head with the Craftsman hammer I’d found in the toolbox under Mattie’s sink. The sound was horrible, the spray of blood erupting from the flying hair was horrible, but worst of all was the feeling of the skull giving way a spongy collapse that came right up the handle and into my fingers. He went down like a sandbag, and I dropped the hammer, gagging. ‘Okay,’ George said. ‘A little ugly, but probably the best thing you could have done under . . . under the . . . ‘ He didn’t go down like Footman it was slower and more controlled, almost graceful but he was just as out. I picked up the revolver, looked at it, then threw it into the woods across the road. A gun was nothing for me to have right now; it could only get me into more trouble. A couple of other men had also left the church; a carful of ladies in black dresses and veils, as well. I had to hurry on even faster. I unbuckled George’s pants and pulled them down. The bullet which had taken him in the leg had torn into his thigh, but the wound looked as if it was clotting. John’s upper arm was a different story it was still pumping out blood in frightening quantities. I yanked his belt free and cinched it around his arm as tightly as I could. Then I slapped him across the face. His eyes opened and stared at me with a bleary lack of recognition. ‘Open your mouth, John!’ He only stared at me. I leaned down until our noses were almost touching and screamed, ‘OPEN YOUR MOUTH! DO IT NOW!’ He opened it like a kid when the nurse tells him just say aahh. I stuck the end of the belt between his teeth. ‘Close!’ He closed. ‘Now hold it,’ I said. ‘Even if you pass out, hold it.’ I didn’t have time to see if he was paying attention. I got to my feet and looked up as the whole world went glare-blue. For a second it was like being inside a neon sign. There was a black suspended river up there, roiling and coiling like a basket of snakes. I had never seen such a baleful sky. I dashed up the cement-block steps and into the trailer again. Rom-mie had slumped forward onto the table with his face in his folded arms. He would have looked like a kindergartner taking a timeout if not for the broken salad bowl and the bits of lettuce in his hair. Kyra still sat with her back to the dishwasher, weeping hysterically. I picked her up and realized that she had wet herself. ‘We have to go now, Ki.’ ‘I want Mattie! I want Mommy! I want my Mattie, make her stop being hurt! Make her stop being dead!’ I hurried across the trailer. On the way to the door I passed the end-table with the Mary Higgins Clark novel on it. I noticed the tangle of hair ribbons again ribbons perhaps tried on before the party and then discarded in favor of the scrunchy. They were white with bright red edges. Pretty. I picked them up without stopping, stuffed them into a pants pocket, then switched Ki to my other arm. ‘I want Mattie! I want Mommy! Make her come back!’ She swatted at me, trying to make me stop, then began to buck and kick in my arms again. She drummed her fists on the side of my head. ‘Put me down! Land me! Land me!’ ‘No, Kyra.’ ‘Put me down! Land me! Land me! PUT ME DOWN!’ I was losing her. Then, as we came out onto the top step, she abruptly stopped struggling. ‘Give me Stricken! I want Stricken!’ At first I had no idea what she was talking about, but when I looked where she was pointing I understood. Lying on the walk not far from the pot with the key underneath it was the stuffed toy from Ki’s Happy Meal. Strickland had put in a fair amount of outside playtime from the look of him the light-gray fur was now dark-gray with dust but if the toy would calm her, I wanted her to have it. This was no time to worry about dirt and germs. ‘I’ll give you Strickland if you promise to close your eyes and not open them until I tell you. Will you promise?’ ‘I promise,’ she said. She was trembling in my arms, and great globular tears the kind you expect to see in fairy-tale books, never in real life rose in her eyes and went spilling down her cheeks. I could smell burning grass and charred beefsteak. For one terrible moment I thought I was going to vomit, and then I got it under control. Ki closed her eyes. Two more tears fell from them and onto my arm. They were hot. She held out one hand, groping. I went down the steps, got the dog, then hesitated. First the ribbons, now the dog. The ribbons were probably okay, but it seemed wrong to give her the dog and let her bring it along. It seemed wrong but . . . It’s gray, Irish, the UFO voice whispered. You don’t need to worry about it because it’s gray. The stuffed toy in your dream was black. I didn’t know exactly what the voice was talking about and had no time to care. I put the stuffed dog in Kyra’s open hand. She held it up to her face and kissed the dusty fur, her eyes still closed. ‘Maybe Stricken can make Mommy better, Mike. Stricken a magic dog.’ ‘Just keep your eyes closed. Don’t open them until I say.’ She put her face against my neck. I carried her across the yard and to my car that way. I put her on the passenger side of the front seat. She lay down with her arms over her head and the dirty stuffed dog clutched in one pudgy hand. I told her to stay just like that, lying down on the seat. She made no outward sign that she heard me, but I knew that she did. We had to hurry because the old-timers were coming. The old-timers wanted this business over, wanted this river to run into the sea. And there was only one place we could go, only one place where we might be safe, and that was Sara Laughs. But there was something I had to do first. I kept a blanket in the trunk, old but clean. I took it out, walked across the yard, and shook it down over Mattie Devore. The hump it made as it settled around her was pitifully slight. I looked around and saw John staring at me. His eyes were glassy with shock, but I thought maybe he was coming back. The belt was still clamped in his teeth; he looked like a junkie preparing to shoot up. ‘Iss ant eee,’ he said This can’t be. I knew exactly how he felt. ‘There’ll be help here in just a few minutes. Hang in there. I have to go.’ ‘Go air?’ I didn’t answer. There wasn’t time. I stopped and took George Kennedy’s pulse. Slow but strong. Beside him, Footman was deep in unconsciousness, but muttering thickly. Nowhere near dead. It takes a lot to kill a daddy. The jerky wind blew the smoke from the overturned car in my direction, and now I could smell cooking flesh as well as barbecued steak. My stomach clenched again. I ran to the Chevy, dropped behind the wheel, and backed out of the driveway. I took one more look at the blanket-covered body, at the three knocked-over men, at the trailer with the line of black bulletholes wavering down its side and its door standing open. John was up on his good elbow, the end of the belt still clamped in his teeth, looking at me with uncomprehending eyes. Lightning flashed so brilliantly I tried to shield my eyes from it, although by the time my hand was up, the flash had gone and the day was as dark as late dusk. ‘Stay down, Ki,’ I said. ‘Just like you are.’ ‘I can’t hear you,’ she said in a voice so hoarse and choked with tears that I could barely make out the words. ‘Ki’s takin a nap wif Stricken.’ ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Good.’ I drove past the burning Ford and down to the foot of the hill, where I stopped at the rusty bullet-pocked stop-sign. I looked right and saw the pickup truck parked on the shoulder. BAMM CONSTRUCTION on the side. Three men crowded together in the cab, watching me. The one by the passenger window was Buddy Jellison; I could tell him by his hat. Very slowly and deliberately, I raised my right hand and gave them the finger. None of them responded and their stony faces didn’t change, but the pickup began to roll slowly toward me. I turned lift onto 68, heading for Sara Laughs under a black sky. Two miles from where Lane Forty-two branches off the highway and winds west to the lake, there stood an old abandoned barn upon which one could still make out faded letters reading DONCASTER DAIRY. As we approached it, the whole eastern side of the sky lit up in a purple-white blister. I cried out, and the Chevy’s horn honked by itself, I’m almost positive. A thorn of lightning grew from the bottom of that light-blister and struck the barn. For a moment it was still completely there, glowing like something radioactive, and then it spewed itself in all directions. I have never seen anything even remotely like it outside of a movie theater. The thunderclap which followed was like a bombshell. Kyra screamed and slid onto the floor on the passenger side of the car with her hands clapped to her ears. She still clutched the little stuffed dog in one of them. A minute later I topped Sugar Ridge. Lane Forty-two splits left from the highway at the bottom of the ridge’s north slope. From the top I could see a wide swath of TR-90 woods and fields and barns and farms, even a darkling gleam from the lake. The sky was as black as coal dust, flashing almost constantly with internal lightnings. The air had a clear ochre glow. Every breath I took tasted like the shavings in a tinderbox. The topography beyond the ridge stood out with a surreal clarity I cannot forget. That sense of mystery swarmed my heart and mind, that sense of the world as thin skin over unknowable bones and gulfs. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw that the pickup truck had been joined by two other cars, one with a V-plate that means the vehicle is registered to a combat veteran of the armed services. When I slowed down, they slowed down. When I sped up, they sped up. I doubted they would follow us any farther once I turned onto Lane Forty-two, however. ‘Ki? Are you okay?’ ‘Sleepun,’ she said from the footwell. ‘Okay,’ I said, and started down the hill. I could just see the red bicycle reflectors marking my turn onto Forty-two when it began to hail great big chunks of white ice that fell out of the sky, drummed on the roof like heavy fingers, and bounced off the hood. They began to heap in the gutter where my windshield wipers hid. ‘What’s happening?’ Kyra cried. ‘It’s just hail,’ I said. ‘It can’t hurt us.’ This was barely out of my mouth when a hailstone the size of a small lemon struck my side of the windshield and then bounced high into the air again, leaving a white II mark from which a number of short cracks radiated. Were John and George Kennedy lying helpless out in this? I turned my mind in that direction, but could sense nothing. When I made the left onto Lane Forty-two, it was hailing almost too hard to see. The wheelruts were heaped with ice. The white faded out under the trees, though. I headed for that cover, flipping on my headlights as I went. They cut bright cones through the pelting hail. As we went into the trees, that purple-white blister glowed again, and my rearview mirror went too bright to look at. There was a rending, crackling crash. Kyra screamed again. I looked around and saw a huge old spruce toppling slowly across the lane, its ragged stump on fire. It carried the electrical lines with it. Blocked in, I thought. This end, probably the other end, too. We’re here. For better or for worse, we’re here. The trees grew over Lane Forty-two in a canopy except for where the road passed beside Tidwell’s Meadow. The sound of the hail in the woods was an immense splintery rattle. Trees were splintering, of course; it was the most damaging hail ever to fall in that part of the world, and although it spent itself in fifteen minutes, that was long enough to ruin a season’s worth of crops. Lightning flashed above us. I looked up and saw a large orange fireball being chased by a smaller one. They ran through the trees to our left, setting fire to some of the high branches. We came briefly into the clear at Tidwell’s Meadow, and as we did the hail changed to torrential rain. I could not have continued driving if we hadn’t run back into the woods almost immediately, and as it was the canopy provided just enough cover so I could creep along, hunched over the wheel and peering into the silver curtain falling through the fan of my headlights. Thunder boomed constantly, and now the wind began to rise, rushing through the trees like a contentious voice. Ahead of me, a leaf-heavy branch dropped into the road. I ran over it and listened to it thunk and scrape and roll against the Chevy’s undercarriage. Please, nothing bigger, I thought . . . or maybe I was praying. Please let me get to the house. Please let us get to the house. By the time I reached the driveway the wind was howling a hurricane. The writhing trees and pelting rain made the entire world seem on the verge of wavering into insubstantial gruel. The driveway’s slope had turned into a river, but I nosed the Chevy down it with no hesitation we couldn’t stay out here; if a big tree fell on the car, we’d be crushed like bugs in a Dixie cup. I knew better than to use the brakes the car would have heeled sideways and perhaps have been swept right down the slope toward the lake, rolling over and over as it went. Instead I dropped the transmission into low range, toed two notches into the emergency brake, and let the engine pull us down with the rain sheeting against the windshield and turning the log bulk of the house into a phantom. Incredibly, some of the lights were still on, shining like bathysphere portholes in nine feet of water. The generator was working, then . . . at least for the time being. Lightning threw a lance across the lake, green-blue fire illuminating a black well of water with its surface lashed into surging whitecaps. One of the hundred-year-old pines which had stood to the left of the railroad-tie steps now lay with half its length in the water. Somewhere behind us another tree went over with a vast crash. Kyra covered her ears. ‘It’s all right, honey,’ I said. ‘We’re here, we made it.’ I turned off the engine and killed the lights. Without them I could see little; almost all the day had gone out of the day. I tried to open my door and at first couldn’t. I pushed harder and it not only opened, it was ripped right out of my hand. I got out and in a brilliant stroke of lightning saw Kyra crawling across the seat toward me, her face white with panic, her eyes huge and brimming with terror. My door swung back and hit me in the ass hard enough to hurt. I ignored it, gathered Ki into my arms, and turned with her. Cold rain drenched us both in an instant. Except it really wasn’t like rain at all; it was like stepping under a waterfall. ‘My doggy!’ Ki shrieked. Shriek or not, I could hardly hear her. I could see her face, though, and her empty hands. ‘Stricken! I drop Stricken!’ I looked around and yes, there he was, floating down the macadam of the driveway and past the stoop. A little farther on, the rushing water spilled off the paving and down the slope; if Strickland went with the flow, he’d probably end up in the woods somewhere. Or all the way down to the lake. ‘Stricken!’ Ki sobbed. ‘My DOGGY!’ Suddenly nothing mattered to either of us but that stupid stuffed toy. I chased down the driveway after it with Ki in my arms, oblivious of the rain and wind and brilliant flashes of lightning. And yet it was going to beat me to the slope the water in which it was caught was running too fast for me to catch up. What snagged it at the edge of the paving was a trio of sunflowers waving wildly in the wind. They looked like God-transported worshippers at a revival meeting: Yes, Jeesus! Thankya Lawd! They also looked familiar. It was of course impossible that they should be the same three sunflowers which had been growing up through the boards of the stoop in my dream (and in the photograph Bill Dean had taken before I came back), and yet it was them; beyond doubt it was them. Three sunflowers like the three weird sisters in Macbeth, three sunflowers with faces like searchlights. I had come back to Sara Laughs; I was in the zone; I had returned to my dream and this time it had possessed me. ‘Stricken!’ Ki bending and thrashing in my arms, both of us too slippery for safety. ‘Please, Mike, please!’ Thunder exploded overhead like a basket of nitro. We both screamed. I dropped to one knee and snatched up the little stuffed dog. Kyra clutched it, covered it with frantic kisses. I lurched to my feet as another thunderclap sounded, this one seeming to run through the air like some crazy liquid bullwhip. I looked at the sunflowers, and they seemed to look back at me Hello, Irish, it’s been a long time, what do you say? Then, resettling Ki in my arms as well as I could, I turned and slogged for the house. It wasn’t easy; the water in the driveway was now ankle-deep and full of melting hailstones. A branch flew past us and landed pretty much where I’d knelt to pick up Strickland. There was a crash and a series of thuds as a bigger branch struck the roof and went rolling down it. I ran onto the back stoop, half-expecting the Shape to come rushing out to greet us, raising its baggy not-arms in gruesome good fellowship, but there was no Shape. There was only the storm, and that was enough. Ki was clutching the dog tightly, and I saw with no surprise at all that its wetting, combined with the dirt from all those hours of outside play, had turned Strickland black. It was what I had seen in my dream after all. Too late now. There was nowhere else to go, no other shelter from the storm. I opened the door and brought Kyra Devore inside Sara Laughs. The central portion of Sara the heart of the house had stood for almost a hundred years and had seen its share of storms. The one that fell on the lakes region that July afternoon might have been the worst of them, but I knew as soon as we were inside, both of us gasping like people who have narrowly escaped drowning, that it would almost certainly withstand this one as well. The log walls were so thick it was almost like stepping into some sort of vault. The storm’s crash and bash became a noisy drone punctuated by thunderclaps and the occasional loud thud of a branch falling on the roof. Somewhere in the basement, I guess a door had come loose and was clapping back and forth. It sounded like a starter’s pistol. The kitchen window had been broken by the topple of a small tree. Its needly tip poked in over the stove, making shadows on the counter and the stove-burners as it swayed. I thought of breaking it off and decided not to. At least it was plugging the hole. I carried Ki into the living room and we looked out at the lake, black water prinked up in surreal points under a black sky. Lightning flashed almost constantly, revealing a ring of woods that danced and swayed in a frenzy all around the lake. As solid as the house was, it was groaning deeply within itself as the wind pummelled it and tried to push it down the hill. There was a soft, steady chiming. Kyra lifted her head from my shoulder and looked around. ‘You have a moose,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s Bunter.’ ‘Does he bite?’ ‘No, honey, he can’t bite. He’s like a . . . like a doll, I suppose.’ ‘Why is his bell ringing?’ ‘He’s glad we’re here. He’s glad we made it.’ I saw her want to be happy, and then I saw her realizing that Mattie wasn’t here to be happy with. I saw the idea that Mattie would never be here to be happy with glimmer in her mind . . . and felt her push it away. Over our heads something huge crashed down on the roof, the lights flickered, and Ki began to weep again. ‘No, honey,’ I said, and began to walk with her. ‘No, honey, no, Ki, don’t. Don’t, honey, don’t.’ ‘I want my mommy! I want my Mattie!’ I walked her the way I think you’re supposed to walk babies who have colic. She understood too much for a three-year-old, and her suffering was consequently more terrible than any three-year-old should have to bear. So I held her in my arms and walked her, her shorts damp with urine and rainwater under my hands, her arms fever-hot around my neck, her cheeks slathered with snot and tears, her hair a soaked clump from our brief dash through the downpour, her breath acetone, her toy a strangulated black clump that sent dirty water trickling over her knuckles. I walked her. Back and forth we went through Sara’s living room, back and forth through dim light thrown by the overhead and one lamp. Generator light is never quite steady, never quite still it seems to breathe and sigh. Back and forth through the ceaseless low chiming of Bunter’s bell, like music from that world we sometimes touch but never really see. Back and forth beneath the sound of the storm. I think I sang to her and I know I touched her with my mind and we went deeper and deeper into that zone together. Above us the clouds ran and the rain pelted, dousing the fires the lightning had started in the woods. The house groaned and the air eddied with gusts coming in through the broken kitchen window, but through it all there was a feeling of rueful safety. A feeling of coming home. At last her tears began to taper off. She lay with her cheek and the weight of her heavy head on my shoulder, and when we passed the lakeside windows I could see her eyes looking out into the silver-dark storm, wide and unblinking. Carrying her was a tall man with thinning hair. I realized I could see the dining-room table right through us. Our reflections are ghosts already, I thought. ‘Ki? Can you eat something?’ ‘Not hung’y.’ ‘Can you drink a glass of milk?’ ‘No, cocoa. I cold.’ ‘Yes, of course you are. And I have cocoa.’ I tried to put her down and she held on with panicky tightness, scrambling against me with her plump little thighs. I hoisted her back up again, this time settling her against my hip, and she subsided. ‘Who’s here?’ she asked. She had begun to shiver. ‘Who’s here ‘sides us?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘There’s a boy,’ she said. ‘I saw him there.’ She pointed Strickland toward the sliding glass door which gave on the deck (all the chairs out there had been overturned and thrown into the corners; one of the set was missing, apparently blown right over the rail). ‘He was black like on that funny show me and Mattie watch. There are other black people, too. A lady in a big hat. A man in blue pants. The rest are hard to see. But they watch. They watch us. Don’t you see them?’ ‘They can’t hurt us.’ ‘Are you sure? Are you, are you?’ I didn’t answer. I found a box of Swiss Miss hiding behind the flour cannister, tore open one of the packets, and dumped it into a cup. Thunder exploded overhead. Ki jumped in my arms and let out a long, miserable wail. I hugged her, kissed her cheek. ‘Don’t put me down, Mike, I scared.’ ‘I won’t put you down. You’re my good girl.’ ‘I scared of the boy and the blue-pants man and the lady. I think it’s the lady who wore Mattie’s dress. Are they ghosties?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Are they bad, like the men who chased us at the fair? Are they?’ ‘I don’t really know, Ki, and that’s the truth.’ ‘But we’ll find out.’ ‘Huh?’ ‘That’s what you thought. â€Å"But we’ll find out. â€Å"‘ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I guess that’s what I was thinking. Something like that.’ I took her down to the master bedroom while the water heated in the kettle, thinking there had to be something left of Jo’s I could pop her into, but all of the drawers in Jo’s bureau were empty. So was her side of the closet. I stood Ki on the big double bed where I had not so much as taken a nap since coming back, took off her clothes, carried her into the bathroom, and wrapped her in a bathtowel. She hugged it around herself, shaking and blue-lipped. I used another one to dry her hair as best I could. During all of this, she never let go of the stuffed dog, which was now beginning to bleed stuffing from its seams. I opened the medicine cabinet, pawed through it, and found what I was looking for on the top shelf: the Benadryl Jo had kept around for her ragweed allergy. I thought of checking the expiration date on the bottom of the box, then almost laughed out loud. What difference did that make? I stood Ki on the closed toilet seat and let her hold on around my neck while I stripped the childproof backing from four of the little pink-and-white caplets. Then I rinsed out the tooth-glass and filled it with cold water. While I was doing this I saw movement in the bathroom mirror, which reflected the doorway and the master bedroom beyond. I told myself that I was only seeing the shadows of windblown trees. I offered the caplets to Ki. She reached for them, then hesitated. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘It’s medicine.’ ‘What kind?’ she asked. Her small hand was still poised over the little cluster of caplets. ‘Sadness medicine,’ I said. ‘Can you swallow pills, Ki?’ ‘Sure. I taught myself when I was two.’ She hesitated a moment longer looking at me and looking into me, I think, ascertaining that I was telling her something I really believed. What she saw or felt must have satisfied her, because she took the caplets and put them in her mouth, one after another. She swallowed them with little birdie-sips from the glass, then said: ‘I still feel sad, Mike.’ ‘It takes awhile for them to work.’ I rummaged in my shirt drawer and found an old Harley-Davidson tee that had shrunk. It was still miles too big for her, but when I tied a knot in one side it made a kind of sarong that kept slipping off one of her shoulders. It was almost cute. I carry a comb in my back pocket. I took it out and combed her hair back from her forehead and her temples. She was starting to look put together again, but there was still something missing. Something that was connected in my mind with Royce Merrill. That was crazy, though . . . wasn’t it? ‘Mike? What cane? What cane are you thinking about it?’ Then it came to me. ‘A candy cane,’ I said. ‘The kind with stripes.’ From my pocket I took the two white ribbons. Their red edges looked almost raw in the uncertain light. ‘Like these.’ I tied her hair back in two little ponytails. Now she had her ribbons; she had her black dog; the sunflowers had relocated a few feet north, but they were there. Everything was more or less the way it was supposed to be. Thunder blasted, somewhere close a tree fell, and the lights went out. After five seconds of dark-gray shadows, they came on again. I carried Ki back to the kitchen, and when we passed the cellar door, something laughed behind it. I heard it; Ki did, too. I could see it in her eyes. ‘Take care of me,’ she said. ‘Take care of me cause I’m just a little guy. You promised.’ ‘I will.’ ‘I love you, Mike.’ ‘I love you, too, Ki.’ The kettle was huffing. I filled the cup to the halfway mark with hot water, then topped it up with milk, cooling it off and making it richer. I took Kyra over to the couch. As we passed the dining-room table I glanced at the IBM typewriter and at the manuscript with the cross-word-puzzle book lying on top of it. Those things looked vaguely foolish and somehow sad, like gadgets that never worked very well and now do not work at all. Lightning lit up the entire sky, scouring the room with purple light. In that glare the laboring trees looked like screaming fingers, and as the light raced across the sliding glass door to the deck I saw a woman standing behind us, by the woodstove. She was indeed wearing a straw hat, with a brim the size of a cartwheel. ‘What do you mean, the river is almost in the sea?’ Ki asked. I sat down and handed her the cup. ‘Drink that up.’ ‘Why did the men hurt my mommy? Didn’t they want her to have a good time?’ ‘I guess not,’ I said. I began to cry. I held her on my lap, wiping away the tears with the backs of my hands. ‘You should have taken some sad-pills, too,’ Ki said. She held out her cocoa. Her hair ribbons, which I had tied in big sloppy bows, bobbed. ‘Here. Drink some.’ I drank some. From the north end of the house came another grinding, crackling crash. The low rumble of the generator stuttered and the house went gray again. Shadows raced across Ki’s small face. ‘Hold on,’ I told her. ‘Try not to be scared. Maybe the lights will come back.’ A moment later they did, although now I could hear a hoarse, uneven note in the gennie’s roar and the flicker of the lights was much more noticeable. ‘Tell me a story,’ she said. ‘Tell me about Cinderbell.’ ‘Cinderella.’ ‘Yeah, her.’ ‘All right, but storyguys get paid.’ I pursed my lips and made sipping sounds. She held the cup out. The cocoa was sweet and good. The sensation of being watched was heavy and not sweet at all, but let them watch. Let them watch while they could. ‘There was this pretty girl named Cinderella ‘ ‘Once upon a time! That’s how it starts! That’s how they all start!’ ‘That’s right, I forgot. Once upon a time there was this pretty girl named Cinderella, who had two mean stepsisters. Their names were . . . do you remember?’ ‘Tammy Faye and Vanna.’ ‘Yeah, the Queens of Hairspray. And they made Cinderella do all the really unpleasant chores, like sweeping out the fireplace and cleaning up the dogpoop in the back yard. Now it just so happened that the noted rock band Oasis was going to play a gig at the palace, and although all the girls had been invited . . . ‘ I got as far as the part about the fairy godmother catching the mice and turning them into a Mercedes limousine before the Benadryl took effect. It really was a medicine for sadness; when I looked down, Ki was fast asleep in the crook of my arm with her cocoa cup listing radically to port. I plucked it from her fingers and put it on the coffee-table, then brushed her drying hair off her forehead. ‘Ki?’ Nothing. She’d gone to the land of Noddy-Blinky. It probably helped that her afternoon nap had ended almost before it got started. I picked her up and carried her down to the north bedroom, her feet bouncing limply in the air and the hem of the Harley shirt flipping around her knees. I put her on the bed and pulled the duvet up to her chin. Thunder boomed like artillery fire, but she didn’t even stir. Exhaustion, grief, Benadryl . . . they had taken her deep, taken her beyond ghosts and sorrow, and that was good. I bent over and kissed her cheek, which had finally begun to cool. ‘I’ll take care of you,’ I said. ‘I promised, and I will.’ As if hearing me, Ki turned on her side, put the hand holding Strickland under her jaw, and made a soft sighing sound. Her lashes were dark soot against her cheeks, in startling contrast to her light hair. Looking at her I felt myself swept by love, shaken by it the way one is shaken by a sickness. Take care of me, I’m just a little guy. ‘I will, Ki-bird,’ I said. I went into the bathroom and began filling the tub, as I had once filled it in my sleep. She would sleep through it all if I could get enough warm water before the generator quit entirely. I wished I had a bath-toy to give her in case she did wake up, something like Wilhelm the Spouting Whale, but she’d have her dog, and she probably wouldn’t wake up, anyway. No freezing baptism under a handpump for Kyra. I was not cruel, and I was not crazy. I had only disposable razors in the medicine cabinet, no good for the other job ahead of me. Not efficient enough. But one of the kitchen steak knives would do. If I filled the washbasin with water that was really hot, I wouldn’t even feel it. A letter T on each arm, the top bar drawn across the wrists For a moment I came out of the zone. A voice my own speaking as some combination of Jo and Mattie screamed: What are you thinking about? Oh Mike, what in God’s name are you thinking about? Then the thunder boomed, the lights flickered, and the rain began to pour down again, driven by the wind. I went back into that place where everything was clear, my course indisputable. Let it all end the sorrow, the hurt, the fear. I didn’t want to think anymore about how Mattie had danced with her toes on the Frisbee as if it were a spotlight. I didn’t want to be there when Kyra woke up, didn’t want to see the misery fill her eyes. I didn’t want to get through the night ahead, the day that was coming beyond it, or the day that was coming after that. They were all cars on the same old mystery train. Life was a sickness. I was going to give her a nice warm bath and cure her of it. I raised my arms. In the medicine cabinet mirror a murky figure a Shape raised its own in a kind of jocular greeting. It was me. It had been me all along, and that was all right. That was just fine. I dropped to one knee and checked the water. It was coming in nice and warm. Good. Even if the generator quit now, it would be fine. The tub was an old one, a deep one. As I walked down to the kitchen to get the knife, I thought about climbing in with her after I had finished cutting my wrists in the hotter water of the basin. No, I decided. It might be misinterpreted by the people who would come here later on, people with nasty minds and nastier assumptions. The ones who’d come when the storm was over and the trees across the road cleared away. No, after her bath I would dry her and put her back in bed with Strickland in her hand. I’d sit across the room from her, in the rocking chair by the bedroom windows. I would spread some towels in my lap to keep as much of the blood off my pants as I could, and eventually I would go to sleep, too. Bunter’s bell was still ringing. Much louder now. It was getting on my nerves, and if it kept on that way it might even wake the baby. I decided to pull it down and silence it for good. I crossed the room, and as I did a strong gust of air blew past me. It wasn’t a draft from the broken kitchen window; this was that warm subway-air again. It blew the Tough Stuff crossword book onto the floor, but the paperweight on the manuscript kept the loose pages from following. As I looked in that direction, Bunter’s bell fell silent. A voice sighed across the dim room. Words I couldn’t make out. And what did they matter? What did one more manifestation one more blast of hot air from the Great Beyond matter? Thunder rolled and the sigh came again. This time, as the generator died and the lights went out, plunging the room into gray shadow, I got one word in the clear: Nineteen. I turned on my heels, making a nearly complete circle. I finished up looking across the shadowy room at the manuscript of My Childhood Friend. Suddenly the light broke. Understanding arrived. Not the crossword book. Not the phone book, either. My book. My manuscript. I crossed to it, vaguely aware that the water had stopped running into the tub in the north-wing bathroom. When the generator died, the pump had quit. That was all right, it would be plenty deep enough already. And warm. I would give Kyra her bath, but first there was something I had to do. I had to go down nineteen, and after that I just might have to go down ninety-two. And I could. I had completed just over a hundred and twenty pages of manuscript, so I could. I grabbed the battery-powered lantern from the top of the cabinet where I still kept several hundred actual vinyl records, clicked it on, and set it on the table. It cast a white circle of radiance on the manuscript in the gloom of that afternoon it was as bright as a spotlight. On page nineteen of My Childhood Friend, Tiffi Taylor the call-girl who had re-invented herself as Regina Whiting was sitting in her studio with Andy Drake, reliving the day that John Sanborn (the alias under which John Shackleford had been getting by) saved her three-year-old daughter, Karen. This is the passage I read as the thunder boomed and the rain slashed against the sliding door giving on the deck: FRIEND, by Noonan/Pg. 19 over that way, I was sure of it,’ she said, ‘but when I couldn’t see her anywhere, I went to look in the hot tub.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘What I saw made me feel like screaming, Andy Karen was underwater. All that was out was her hand . . . the nails were turning purple. After that . . . I guess I dived in, but I don’t remember; I was zoned out. Everything from then on is like a dream where stuff runs together in your mind. The yard-guy Sanborn shoved me aside and dived. His foot hit me in the throat and I couldn’t swallow for a week. He yanked up on Karen’s arm. I thought he’d pull it off her damn shoulder, but he got her. He got her.’ In the gloom, Drake saw she was weeping. ‘God. Oh God, I thought she was dead. I was sure she was.’ I knew at once, but laid my steno pad along the left margin of the manuscript so I could see it better. Reading down, as you’d read a vertical crossword-puzzle answer, the first letter of each line spelled the message which had been there almost since I began the book: owls undEr stud O Then, allowing for the indent next-to-last line from the bottom: owls undEr studIO Bill Dean, my caretaker, is sitting behind the wheel of his truck. He has accomplished his two purposes in coming here welcoming me back to the TR and warning me off Mattie Devore. Now he’s ready to go. He smiles at me, displaying those big false teeth, those Roebuckers. ‘If you get a chance, you ought to look for the owls,’ he tells me. I ask him what Jo would have wanted with a couple of plastic owls and he replies that they keep the crows from shitting up the woodwork. I accept that, I have other things to think about, but still . . . ‘It was like she’d come down to do that errand special,’ he says. It never crosses my mind not then, at least that in Indian folklore, owls have another purpose: they are said to keep evil spirits away. If Jo knew that plastic owls would scare the crows off, she would have known that. It was just the sort of information she picked up and tucked away. My inquisitive wife. My brilliant scatterbrain. Thunder rolled. Lightning ate at the clouds like spills of bright acid. I stood by the dining-room table with the manuscript in my unsteady hands. ‘Christ, Jo,’ I whispered. ‘What did you find out?’ And why didn’t you tell me? But I thought I knew the answer to that. She hadn’t told me because I was somehow like Max Devore; his great-grandfather and my own had shit in the same pit. It didn’t make any sense, but there it was. And she hadn’t told her own brother, either. I took a weird kind of comfort from that. I began to leaf through the manuscript, my skin crawling. Andy Drake rarely frowned in Michael Noonan’s My Childhood Friend. He scowled instead, because there’s an owl in every scowl. Before coming to Florida, John Shackleford had been living in Studio City, California. Drake’s first meeting with Regina Whiting occurred in her studio. Ray Garraty’s last-known address was the Studio Apartments in Key Largo. Regina Whiting’s best friend was Steffie Underwood. Steffi’s husband was Towle Underwood there was a good one, two for the price of one. Owls under studio. It was everywhere, on every page, just like the K-names in the telephone book. A kind of monument, this one built I was sure of it not by Sara Tidwell but by Johanna Arlen Noonan. My wife passing messages behind the guard’s back, praying with all her considerable heart that I would see and understand. On page ninety-two Shackleford was talking to Drake in the prison visitors’ room sitting with his wrists between his knees, looking down at the chain running between his ankles, refusing to make eye-contact with Drake. FRIEND, by Noonan/Pg. 92 only thing I got to say. Anything else, fuck, what good would it do? Life’s a game, and I lost. You want me to tell you that I yanked some little kid out of the water, pulled her up, got her motor going again? I did, but not because I’m a hero or a saint . . . ‘ There was more but no need to read it. The message, owls under studio, ran down the margin just as it had on page nineteen. As it probably did on any number of other pages as well. I remembered how deliriously happy I had been to discover that the block had been dissolved and I could write again. It had been dissolved all right, but not because I’d finally beaten it or found a way around it. Jo had dissolved it. Jo had beaten it, and my continued career as a writer of second-rate thrillers had been the least of her concerns when she did it. As I stood there in the flicker-flash of lightning, feeling my unseen guests swirl around me in the unsteady air, I remembered Mrs. Moran, my first-grade teacher. When your efforts to replicate the smooth curves of the Palmer Method alphabet on the blackboard began to flag and waver, she would put her large competent hand over yours and help you. So had Jo helped me. I riffled through the manuscript and saw the key words everywhere, sometimes placed so you could actually read them stacked on different lines, one above the other. How hard she had tried to tell me this . . . and I had no intention of doing anything else until I found out why. I dropped the manuscript back on the table, but before I could re-anchor it, a furious gust of freezing air blew past me, lifting the pages and scattering them everywhere in a cyclone. If that force could have ripped them to shreds, I’m sure that it would have. No! it cried as I grabbed the lantern’s handle. No, finish the job! Wind blew around my face in chill gusts it was as if someone I couldn’t quite see was standing right in front of me and breathing in my face, retreating as I moved forward, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf outside the houses of the three little pigs. I hung the lantern over my arm, held my hands out in front of me, and clapped them together sharply. The cold puffs in my face ceased. There was now only the random swirling air coming in through the partially plugged kitchen window. ‘She’s sleeping,’ I said to what I knew was still there, silently watching. ‘There’s time.’ I went out the back door and the wind took me at once, making me stagger sideways, almost knocking me over. And in the wavering trees I saw green faces, the faces of the dead. Devore’s was there, and Royce’s, and Son Tidwell’s. Most of all I saw Sara’s. Everywhere Sara. No! Go back! You don’t need no truck with no owls, sugar! Go back! Finish the job! Do what you came for! ‘I don’t know what I came for,’ I said. ‘And until I find out, I’m not doing anything.’ The wind screamed as if in offense, and a huge branch split off the pine standing to the right of the house. It fell on top of my Chevrolet in a spray of water, denting the roof before rolling off on my side. Clapping my hands out here would be every bit as useful as King Canute commanding the tide to turn. This was her world, not mine . . . and only the edge of it, at that. Every step closer to The Street and the lake would bring me closer to that world’s heart, where time was thin and spirits ruled. Oh dear God, what had happened to cause this? The path to Jo’s studio had turned into a creek. I got a dozen steps down it before a rock turned under my foot and I fell heavily on my side. Lightning zigged across the sky, there was the crack of another breaking branch, and then something was falling toward me. I put my hands up to shield my face and rolled to the right, off the path. The branch splashed to the ground just behind me, and I tumbled halfway down a slope that was slick with soaked needles. At last I was able to pull myself to my feet. The branch on the path was even bigger than the one which had landed on the roof of the car. If it had struck me, it likely would have bashed in my skull. Go back! A hissing, spiteful wind through the trees. Finish it! The slobbering, guttural voice of the lake slamming into the rocks and the bank below The Street. Mind your business! That was the very house itself, groaning on its foundations. Mind your business and let me mind mine! But Kyra was my business. Kyra was my daughter. I picked up the lantern. The housing was cracked but the bulb glowed bright and steady that was one for the home team. Bent over against the howling wind, hand raised to ward off more falling branches, I slipped and stumbled my way down the hill to my dead wife’s studio. How to cite Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX, Essay examples

History of the Flamenco Dance Essay Example For Students

History of the Flamenco Dance Essay Flamenco has been a form of art, passion, and rhythm for many centuries in the Spanish culture. Originating in Andalucia, this erotic dance has captured the traditional essence as legends get passed down through swift arm movements and smooth hip swaying. Through the years this special dance has transformed from a primitive, simple storytelling form to a sensual, complex dance style. Deriving from the gypsies, Moorish, Andalusians, and Jews, the Flamenco is extremely culture oriented. Due to all of these different cultures contributing to the dance, it has a very unique style and art form. Through provocative movements and swift arm gestures, the dancers of the Flamenco are able to tell a story passed down from generations. The importance of the Flamenco dance roots from within a melting pot of cultures that joined together in the form of art, movement, and music. Flamenco dance, or baile, is a dancer’s outward expression of his/her most profound emotions. The dance isn’t considered a technical performance, but more a way to express duende, a passion or feeling felt in flamenco. Flamenco has many characteristics that make up its evolutionary charisma. There are 4 main types of flamenco styles. The first is Jondo/grande, which is the deep profound flamenco. This kind is the â€Å"serious† style and is often compared to Blues music. It is a very interpretive style of dance, and is often times one of the hardest to interpret. With its intense duende and deep rhythmic movements, Jondo is not about mastering technique, but mastering the dancer’s emotions. Another type of Flamenco, which is less intense, is Flamenco intermedio. This is just a less difficult version than flamenco Jondo, and the movements are more swift and simple. It can have an oriental cast to the music, and is a less profound meaning than Flamenco Jondo. Flamenco chico, is the lightest of these three. It is a dance about lighter, more relatable subjects such as love, humor, and happiness. The tango is a form of chico Flamenco, as well as alegrias and bulerias. It has more sensuous but fast movements, and loud shouting and stomping. The last type is a more diverse form. Popular Flamenco is a combination of all three types of Flamenco, and is the least pure form. This dance is recognized as the commercialism form, and has barely any emotional involvement within the movements. This Flamenco is for audiences who go to see a dance show, without needing the emotional attachment involved. All four of these Flamenco styles exemplifies just how culturally unique the flamenco dance really is, and how emotionally investing it can become. In order to become a professional Flamenco dancer, the dancers have to pick the commercialism style route or the emotional flamenco styles; jondo, intermedio, or chico. Dancers are called bailores or bailoras. If the bailores pick the commercial route, they are sacrificing pure emotion and art for more money. Other dancers, who feel a loyaltly to the pure form of dance and conveying passion through this dance, will choose between the remaining three styles and have a more artistic career. These dances dig deep into the emotional soul. Using arms, hands, fingers, shoulders, and hips the female dancers convey their emotional outpour through the curving, flowing movements of their bodies. The men, on the other hand, have less movement with their bodies, but rather accentuate the woman’s movements by their close proximity and steady gaze on the woman’s eyes and body the entire dance. A couple-dance usually conveys usually a story of love or heartbreak. The woman is able to express her love, passion, and confidence, while the man looks hungrily at her, mirroring her movements with masculinity and possessiveness. The two together create a very strong, intimate image in which the audience can feel the partnership as well as the story between them. One of the most famous Flamenco dancers in history is Carmen Amaya. She was considered â€Å"the greatest Spanish gypsy dancer of her generation† with extreme passion and a fiery personality. Amaya started dancing when she was five years old, accompanied by her father on the guitar. .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 , .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .postImageUrl , .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 , .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7:hover , .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7:visited , .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7:active { border:0!important; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7:active , .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7 .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .u515ab3675b4566b2090ba7e56049bbe7:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: The Indians were the main focus of the history of EssayShe would dance in front of waterfront taverns in Barcelona, and soon after danced her first Flamenco in Granada. One of Amaya’s performances had even bewitched a man named Sabicas, who soon became a famous Flamenco guitarist that accompanied her while she danced. Together they recorded Queen of the Gypsies and Flamenco! Amaya danced one of her first big performances on stage in Paris, in 1929, next to Spanish dancer Raquel Meller. After this she was offered to dance in Buenos Aires, and it was there that a theater was named after her for her amazing dancing skills. She was so highly praised, that S. Hurok signe d her and brought her to New York City. In 1936 she claimed her residence in the United States and took it by storm. Acting in several films, including Romeo and Juliet, and Los Tarantos, all which were highly recognized in box offices. She also performed in the white house for Franklin Roosevelt in 1944, and Harry S. Truman in 1953. Amaya led the pathway for female performers, inspiring many to dance with confidence and passion from the soul. A very famous male dancer, who spread the appeal of masculine flamenco dancing throughout history, was Vicente Escudero. Previous to World War II, Vicente’s shows were very successful. He was well known for his austerity and his confident male expression, which landed him in films as well. Together men and female throughout history shaped this dance to become something very unique. Although there are only 4 types of this dance, each man and woman expresses this dance from their very own raw emotion, making each dance routine unique and unlike any other type of dance. Men and women, like their dancing in the Flamenco, share very different costumes. The women, who are known for their emotional output and raw expression, wear long dresses with layered, colorful skirts. These skirts are called bata de cola, and they traditionally weighed 10 pounds. As the generations passed, the skirt became lighter due to more swift movements. The women usually also wear a mantan, which is a colorful, fringed shawl around their wait to accentuate their hip movements. The men, like their masculine, simple movements in the dance, wear black fitted pants and a traditionally white top with a black small jacket or vest. Both the men and women wear shoes with nails drilled in the heels so that when they stomp, the noise can be a lot louder and dramatic. Fans and castanets are props that can also add to the dramatic effect of the dance. The outfits exemplify the colorful, exotic theme of the Flamenco dance and it’s dancers. The Flamenco dance is a very diverse, unique dance that has many cultures involved. Passed down from generations, what one was a primal dance full of movements and stomping, evolved into a beautiful, emotional story telling opportunity in which dancers put fourth their innermost feelings. The Flamenco has been an emotional outlet for dancers and musicians. It is not only a dance, but an art form, a commercialistic attraction, a story, and a passion. All these characteristics summarize what the flamenco means to many. What can be a dance can also be an expression of a love story, a heartbreak, or just some lighthearted humor. Flamenco is an escape for both the audience and the dancers. With the swift hand movements and erotic hip swaying, one can be captivated by the emotional tale of a bailoras. The importance of the Flamenco dance is one that can be summed up through a mixture of cultures and their stories, in which we can join the journey of these generations.

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This case study describes the transformation of the Androscoggin Mill from an object of public opprobrium and conflict to a showcase for environmental management. the late 1980s, an 18- month strike had embittered workers and townspeople and left the mill 's reputation in tatters compliance was expanded to include aggressive pollution prevention efforts that led to cooperative projects with theMaineDepartment of Environmental Protection, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, and stakeholder groups. Themill's approach in the 1990s evolved further to essentially follow principles of industrial ecology. From 1965, when it was built, until 1986, International Paper's (IP's) Androscoggin Mill, lo- cated on the Androscoggin River in Jay, Maine, was a typical large pulp and paper operation. expansion. Against this backdrop, the next decade saw a profound change in how the mill was managed; its relationship to its workers, the Jay community, regulators, and other stakeholders; and its environmental performance. the company's efforts matured in the 1990s on into the 2000s. environmental quality team" in 1992 to identify pollution prevention opportunitie

Carpal tunnul syndrome essays

Carpal tunnul syndrome essays Carpal Tunnel Syndrome Caused By the Use of Computers Now that we are almost into the twenty first century it is becoming clear how our world has evolved technologically. Most of the technology which we have experienced is based on or related to computers. Computers have been successful tools in making our lives much easier. unfortunately, there has been a dramatic rise of repetitive Strain Injuries in the last six years, one of which is Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. It was in the last six years that computers began to take over our communication systems, which are what we thrive on, therefore more people have been using computers and using them more consistently than seen in the past. Fortunately, Repetitive Strain Injuries (RSI) are nothing fetal, so it is highly unlikely that technology will be reversed because of them, however more technological advancement might be difficult if something is not done to treat RSI and Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Carpal Tunnel Syndrome (CTS) is a common type of RSI. CTS is a condition that effects the hands and wrists. The condition occurs by pressure being put on the median nerve where is travels to the hand through a gap called the carpal tunnel. This gap lies under the transverse carpal ligament, which is located at the front of the wrist. The median nerve is what carries sensory and motor information form the thumb and fingers to the muscles in the hand. The pressure that is placed on the median nerve is what causes the nerve damage. This causes the numbing, tingling, burning pain in the wrist, hand and fingers. Though it has been proven that repetitive stress on the hands and wrist is what leads to Carpal Tunnel Syndrome there are also other contributes to the condition. The other factors that can contribute to CTS are, pregnancy, thyroid disease, and oral contraceptives, or anything that causes fibers to swell in the tunnel area. Poor posture, when typing, puts...

American Government - Research Paper Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1500 words

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Critical Reflection Journal Teaching Towards Article

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Brand Equity And The Market Mix Marketing Essay

Brand Equity And The Market Mix Marketing Essay Introduction Marketers rack their brains to compose the variable ingredients to construct their stunning recipesconceptual frameworks, which are made up of the marketing mix, in an effort to deliver the differentiated products or services that can outshine their competitors. Currently few companies could afford to set aside the marketing mix and audaciously break into the market. Having a birds eye view of those prominent companies evolutionary histories , namely Coca Cola, Nike, Fuji, and Virgin, their iconic brands, one of their success indicators, work hand in hand with creative and effective execution of the marketing mix. The Marketing Mix McCarthy (1960, pp.7-8) first put forward classification of four basic ingredients: product, place, price and promotion. With the progression of time, dimensions of the marketing mix have been nourishing, as ideas of personnel promotions, storage facilities, display and so forth have been presented successively (Lipson and Darling, 1971:p.17; Borden, 1975:pp.72-75). The Four Ps of the marketing mix have been prostrated as the cornerstone or convincing paradigm in the business practice, thanks to their well-known validity (Grà ¶nroos , 1989: pp.52-60, Grà ¶nroos,1994: p.5). However, over preoccupation with the marketing mix would possibly isolate marketers from customers owing to its dependence on mass marketing ,which indicates that customers are the superficial numbers for the marketers and marketers may loose touch with the real customers(Grà ¶nroos,1994: p.4). Furthermore, acting as the simplified remedy for the marketing problem, the marketing mix paradigm makes the seller occupy the dominant position and the buyer inferior standing, which can hardly apply to the marketing of service (Grà ¶nroos, 1994: p.6). The burgeoning service industry gave birth to the relationship marketing (Gummesson, 1991: pp.60-67). Establishment and fulfilment of promise play a pivotal role in the relationship marketing, which nurtures the quality interaction between marketer and customer (Reichheld et al., 1990: pp. 105-111). Despite these drawbacks of the marketing mix, the effective orchestration of its elements is proven to be applicable to attain the set objectives under many circumstances. (Baker, 2007:p.329). The aim of this essay is to elaborate on the contribution the marketing mix makes to an organizations brand equity through in-depth analysis of the outstanding paragon, Yum! Brands, China Division. Brand Equity Aaker(1991,1996:p.103) once indicated that connotation of brand equity is multifaceted, which consists of brand loyalty, brand awareness, perceived quality, brand associations and other proprietary brand assets. The name of product is deeply imprinted with the value conferred by the brand equity (Yoo et al., 2000:p.197). Thus, the brand enjoying relatively high brand equity more probably wins customers positive and strong association (Yoo et al., 2000:p.196). In terms of the functionality of brand equity, it enriches brand alternatives, enhances the preference to pay the premium prices, intensifies the marketing communication effectiveness as well as the brand licensing opportunities and strengthens capabilities towards the marketing competition and price fluctuation (Keller, 1993:pp.4-8; Simon and Sullivan, 1993:pp.28-37; Smith, 1992:pp.13-16; Yoo et al., 2000:p.196). An unparalleled brand, as the intangible asset, consists of such features as name, design, symbol which indentifies the product of a particular organisation that has a lasting differential advantage (Doyle, 1999:p.292). At the first mention of fast food, Chinese people would instantly shortlist a bundle of names with KFC topping on their lists, due to its immense brand power. According to the ranking of 50 Best Chinese Quick-Service Companies in 2009, Yum! Brands, China Division with the annual profits of  ¿Ã‚ ¡2.88b and strong momentum of expanding its business empire in Chinas second and third tier cities, surpassing another tycoon McDonalds, ranked the first, thanks to its two household brands, KFC and Pizza Hut (Anonymous, 2010). In compliance with Yum! Brands global vision to define global company that feeds the world, Yum! Brands, China Division is also committed to creating traditional Chinese quick-service restaurant chain, East Dawning, which is targeted specially at those diehards of traditional Chinese food (Novak, 2009) .Furthermore, China Division became one of the stakeholders of Little Sheep, a popular Chinese hot pot concept, with 27% proportion of share in 2009 (Novak,2009).The ab ove efforts imply China Divisions ambition to develop diversified customer bases and make it elastic towards its competitors challenges. In 2009, the four brands synergistically contributes to its operating profits growth of 25% in China (Anonymous, 2009).What underpins their astounding performances is its China Divisions superb mastery of the marketing mix. Brand Equity and the Marketing Mix According to Yoo et al. (2000:p.196), if marketing effort could give rise to more favourable behaviour towards the branded products than the unbranded ones, positive relationship between marketing effort and brand equity would be established. Yoo et al. (2000:p.198) also suggest that creation and exploitation of the marketing mix is decisive in shaping dimensions of brand equity. For instance, Yum!Brands China Division successfully introduced the casual dining category Pizza Hut and KFC Home Service, making its products available around the clock whenever customer places an order(Anonymous,2008). Such intense distribution enables consumers to perceive more value for the two brands, subsequently resulting in the increased customer satisfaction and brand loyalty (Yoo et al., 2000:p.199). Given that the marketing mix encompasses many elements, this essay primarily selects four perspectives: product, price, servicescapes, promotion tactics to demonstrate the intertwining relationship between application of the marketing mix and formation of brand equity. Product Henry Ford (1908) once commented A market is never saturated with a good product, but it is very quickly saturated with a bad one. (Anonymous, 2006). Instead of technically importing its international menu and faithfully sticking to its cash cows such as New Orleans Roasted Burgers, Extra-tasty Crispy Burgers, Popcorn Chicken, and Pepperoni Lover, China Division has made considerable adaptation and innovation on its menu to cater to Chinese peoples tastes and flavour. Some specialties that could never appear on other countries KFC menus are Dragon Twister, and Beef Wrap with the Sichuan Sauce to name just a few(Anonynmous,2007). Additionally, the freshness and nutrients of the food are under the stringent supervision (Anonymous, 2010). From KFCs official website, customer can be informed of products accurate composition of nutrition (Anonymous, 2009). Therefore, products are procured in a transparent manner, winning trust and loyalty from customers and generating repeat buyers. Besides, its menu changes with the alteration of seasons and emergence of events and holidays. Pizza Hut Casual Dining Restaurant recently put forward 22 new courses before the upcoming autumn (Anonymous, 2010). This summer, KFC witnessed enormous profits made by its activity of watching World Cup and winning prizes through purchasing the bucket (Anonymous, 2010). In addition to its constant development of tangible products, Pizza Hut puts out a unique and added-value service, party-hosting. It would be in charge of preparing a theme party from the scratch, including designing and organizing (Anonymous, 2008).This move vindicates Millers et al. view (1998:pp.19-25) that shopping should not be considered as a mere product acquisition but a part of social relationship which provides their social identity. Guanxi or social networking plays an important role in Chinese society (Eric Tsang, 1998:p.64). Party occasion is an ideal opportunity to accommodate such need. Pizza Huts enticing se rvice could spare people from worrying about the trivialities of throwing party and promote its products and brand value in the meantime. All moves carried out by Chinese division perfectly coincide with Yum! Brands philosophy-feed the world, both physically and mentally. Price Yoo et al. (2000:p.200) once commented that price promotion in the form of special sales, media-distributed coupons, package coupons, and rebates would undermine brand equity in spite of the short-term returns. Subsequently, sales promotion could be easily emulated by the competitors (Aaker, 1991). Worse still, an inferior brand image could be displayed through the sales promotion (Yoo et al., 2000:p.200). However, KFC, Pizza Hut and East Dawnings pricing strategies just run counter to the above theories. Every day, over three kinds of KFC food are on sale and coupons can be easily downloaded from its official website (Anonymous, 2008). As for Pizza Hut Casual Dining Restaurant, it recently put forward business set meal of  ¿Ã‚ ¡2.8 to attract those office workers with limited coffee break and keen on the balanced diet(Anonymous,2010). Such deed has now been warmly received by the target customers. The reason behind their consistent low pricing strategy rightly conforms to the status quo of Chinese fast food industry where consumers are price-sensitive and major consumption segment is student and young people with finite disposable money (Anderson et al., 1998:pp.152-162).The theory proposed by Avlonitis (1980) appropriately backs up Yums pricing strategy that selling convenience goods should employ heavy advertising and competitive pricing policy to achieve product differentiation. As a consequence, one of the effective ways to appeal to Chinese people who are bombarded with hundreds of fast food alternatives is the competitive pricing strategy. Simon H. (1989:p.319) pointed out that sale effect of a price change shows up more quickly compared with other tactics, namely advertising. KFC and Pizza Hut have already benefited from this strategy and cultivated their respective regular customer base, as KFC targets at the mass consumers and Pizza Hut Casual Dining Restaurant is pos itioned as the refined business dining restaurant (Anonymous, 2008). Their varied price ranges are set accordingly, making China Division more flexible to the pricing competition. Servicecapes Servicescapes refer to the physical settings of the point of sale, which involve three dimensions: ambient conditions, spatial layout and functionality and signs, symbols, and artefacts (Bitner, 1992: pp.66-67). These would influence not only the first impression on customers but also employee satisfaction, productivity and motivation (Becker, 1981). KFC, Pizza Hut and East Dawning spare no effort to do the furnishing at their own points of sale in accordance with their respective bands images. As for KFC, warm bright yellow and red intrigue the customers appetite and lower personalized counter intends to make employees intimately interact with children (Cai, 1998). As to Pizza Hut, elegant oil paintings and sedate brown tables and wallpaper make customer feel serene in the cities forests of concrete(Cai, 1998). The consumer would be embraced with soft Chinese music and traditional Chinese table sets at East Dawning (Cai, 1998).Such highly identified decoration vividly exemplifies three different brands focuses. It would be no surprise to see the heavy customer traffic in those restaurants (Yoo et al., 2000: p.199). Good-image stores do invite more attention, contacts and visits from the prospective customers. Furthermore, positive word -of-mouth propaganda can come into being (Rao and Monroe, 1989:pp.351-356). Promotion Tactics Advertising spending accounts for substantial investment for KFC and Pizza Hut, as the money channelled for advertising exerts positive impact on brand equity and perspectives (Cobb-Walgren et al., 1995). Besides, advertising would be conducive to generating favourable impression on brand equity, increasing brand awareness and creating strong brand associations (Shimp, 1997:pp.25-35). Although people would feel annoyed by interruption of commercials of KFCs bucket and Pizza Huts Super Supreme when appreciating films, the intensely repetitive advertising would make KFC or Pizza Hut automatically top on their personal fast food alternatives when they are starved(Anonymous,2008). Subsequently, such habitual choice could elevate their brand equity (Hauser and Werfeldt, 1990:pp.398-404). Besides advertising, KFC is also adept at making the most of sponsorship to enhance its brand equity, such as organizing national three-player basketball contest in conjunction with Chinese Basketball Association (Anonymous, 2004 ),which vividly showcases its dynamic brand image, and working in partnership with 2010 Shanghai World Exposition, (Wuyu,2009). Its old enemy McDonalds has never made foray in such field. However, the sponsorship does make a difference. For example, Fuji committed$7 million in sponsoring the 1984 Los Angeles Olympic Games, which just received refusal of sponsorship from Kodak (Desmond, 1997). According to Desmond (27 October, 1997), Fuji landed 50,000 new distributor outlets thanks to its sponsorship. Such marketing investment generated the enviable returns (Desmond, 1997). It is difficult to make accurate estimation on KFC economic returns from its sponsorship, but elevated social impact and subsequent enhanced brand value could be figured out. Additionally , China Division has been identified as the corporate with distinct social responsibility through doing Hunger Relief Programme with Chinese Children Fund and setting up fund for supporting the natural disaster relief and the financially-challenged students to further education (Anonymous, 2006). All these contribute to reputable brand image of Yum! Brands China Division. Discussion Besides the above classical 4Ps, other elements of the marketing mix such as packaging and personal selling jointly nourish China Divisions brand marvel. The package as the forefront of brand strategy would communicate the value of convenience, environmental consciousness, Conclusion Relationships between the selected the marketing mix and brand equity have been excavated in this essay. Particular attention has been drawn to four aspects of marketing efforts made by Yum! Brands China Division. The establishment and enrichment of brand equity is achieved by thorough execution of the marketing mix. It is through fully capitalizing on the variable parts of marketing strategy accompanied with the utilization and exploitation of brand resources that brand owner can probably withstand the acid test and enjoy the everlasting prosperity.

Is there truly any justice in the novel The Stranger, written by Albert

Is there truly any justice in the novel The Stranger, written by Albert Camus? Is there truly any justice in the novel The Stranger, written by Albert Camus? This is a question that naturally protrudes throughout the novel, as it is not abundantly clear what Meursault, the protagonist, was, in fact, put on trial for. At the beginning of the second part of the narrative, it is understood that he is put on trial for the murder of an Arab; however, it later comes to our attention that the murder was not the primary reason of his trial, and perhaps not even an essential one for that matter. The fact remains that Meursault was undoubtedly put on trial, not for the murder committed, but for being the way he was: unemotional through the eyes of society, which was represented by the jury. To the reader it seems only natural that one should be put on trial, not for their personality, but for the harmful acts that one may commit to another person. Therefore, the idea is strongly implanted in the novel, as well as the mind of the reader, that Meursault was put on trial for murder. Nevertheless, throughout the course of the novel, it becomes apparent that he was, as a matter of fact, not put on trial for the murder of the Arab, but instead, for acting in such a stoic manner. Being the honest, straightforward man he was, he answered all questions in that same conduct. Once Meursault had been appointed a lawyer, his lawyer inquired over the events of Maman's funeral. Meursault responded rather coldly when his lawyer had asked him if he had felt any sadness that day, saying that he "probably did love Maman, but that didn't mean anything. At one time or another all normal people have wished their loved ones dead." (... ...!"(p. 96) This is a rather profound statement that affects not only the characters in the novel, but the reader as well, rather intensely. Thus, it becomes palpable that society, in other words, the jury attempted to fabricate and impose rational explanations for Meursault's irrational actions. The fact that he was so straightforward and onest was disruptive and threatening to their society as they were not accustomed to it, and therefore, they saw no meaning, which would consequently create chaos in their orderly lives. Meursault appears to do as he pleases, when he pleases, and therefore, follows no pattern throughout his life, hence, society becomes threatened by him, which ultimately leads to his execution. Bibliography 1. Camus, Albert: The Stranger. Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, 1988. The Faade of the Trial: Meusault's "TRUE" Accusation