#George T. Tobin

[lionofchaeronea]

The dying Beowulf, having just defeated the dragon, is supported by his ally Wiglaf. Illustration by George T. Tobin from Siegfried, the Hero of the North, and Beowulf, the Hero of the Anglo-Saxons by Zenaide A. Ragozin, published in 1909. Now in the New York Public Library.

[crazyworldofemmamarie]

Rammstein's Countdown to Halloween Honorable Mentions Part 2: The Spooking

These were some other worthy films that were watched over this spooky season that I highly recommend

Starting With....

The Exorcist (1973, dir. William Friedkin)

A truly haunting experience, filled with dream like images, cold exterior and intriguing story.

Candyman (1992, dir. Bernard Rose)

Another beautiful film filled with excellent shot and honestly probably one of the most romantic horror films I've ever seen.

The Boy (2016, dir. William Brent Bell)

An interesting spin on the haunted doll trope. One of my favourites.

Saw II (2005, dir. Darren Lynn Bousman)

An excellent fallow up to Saw (2004), compelling storyline complete with amazing talents of Tobin Bell and Shawnee Smith. Also, it wouldn't be right not to watch this year with the newest addition (Saw X) being released.

Freddy Vs. Jason (2003, dir. Ronny Yu)

Every Halloween season it is traditional for horror geeks to come together and witness the battle that changed the course of horrorstery (horror history).

Hereditary (2018, dir. Ari Aster)

Toni Collette was robbed. That's all I have to say.

The Hills Have Eyes (1977, dir. Wes Craven)

Always an adventure to watch this one and good Autumn camp out in the woods film to watch (maybe in a car RV or something) plus 70s Wes Craven movies rock.

Funny Games (1997, dir. Micheal Hankeke)

A great arthouse like horror that honestly spins the genre on its heads: I'm talking 4th wall breaks and much much more! It's like you're watching make your choice game play or T. V show very interesting movie, personally one of my favourites.

American Psycho (2000, dir. Marry Harron)

Another film that makes you think and an excellent social commentary on violence, conformity, corporate greed and more.

Night of the Living Dead (1968, dir. George A. Romero)

Another iconic film that is traditional to watch every horror season, so ahead of its time.

Well, I hope you guys enjoy this countdown as much I I did. I definitely plan on doing more things like this an honestly next Halloween might do anoth Rammstein's Countdown, try and switch it up. Not sure what I'll try to do exactly but I'll figure it out.

You guys might be seeing some more film blogs and essay postings soon...eyes peeled👀

Happy Halloween!

[hjmarseille]

In the upper photo (Taken on 13th August) the pilots are-Standing: P/O E.Q.'Red' Tobin, P/O 'Osti' Ostazewski, P/O Geoff Gaunt, P/O Paul Edge, P/O Stephen Beaumont, F/Lt. Frank Howell, S/L George Darley, F/Lt J.H.G 'Butch' McArthur, Sgt A.N. Feary, P/O T. 'Novo' Nowierski, P/O Teeny Overton. Front: P/O Mike Staples, F/Lt David Crook, P/O Mick Miller. In the lower photo the pilot on the left is PO Noel Agazarian.

[witchbitchheadedtoaditch]

The Basics of Kemetic Philosophy (without the appropriated shit from Judaism)

I'm starting a series on Kemetic philosophy because a lot of my readings on it have included things like Kabbalah (Kabala, Kabbala, Qabala, etc.) which is directly appropriated from Judaism, and definitely would not have been included in ancient Kemetic philosophy.

This series relies heavily on the following books/independent publications (this continues to be updated as the series continues):

The Instruction of Ptah-Hotep and the Instruction of Ka'Gemni: The Oldest Books in the World translated by John Murray

Teachings of Ptahhotep

Maat: The 11 Laws of God by Ra Un Nefer Amen (somewhat, this book literally has the Kabbalistic tree of life on its' cover so I don't take a lot from it--it's really just a good jumping-off point because it covers so much)

Maat: The Moral Idea in Ancient Egypt by Maulana Karenga

The Literature of Ancient Egypt: An Anthology of Stories, Instructions, and Poetry edited with an introduction by William Kelly Simpson. Authors include Robert K. Ritner, Vincent A. Tobin, and Edward F. Wente.

I Am Because We Are: Readings in Africana Philosophy by Fred Lee Hord, Mzee Lasana Okpara, and Johnathan Scott Lee.

Ancient Egyptian Literature: Volume I: The Old and Middle Kingdoms by Miriam Lichtheim (2006 Edition)

Current Research in Egyptology 2009: Proceedings of the Tenth Annual Symposium by Judith Corbelli, Daniel Baotright, and Claire Malleson

Old Kingdom, New Perspectives: Egyptian Art and Archaeology 2750-2150 BC by Nigel Strudwick and Helen Strudwick

Current Research in Egyptology 2010: Proceedings of the Eleventh Annual Symposium by Maarten Horn, Joost Kramer, Daniel Soliman, Nico Staring, Carina van den Hoven, and Lara Weiss

Current Research in Egyptology 2016: Proceedings of the Seventeenth Annual Symposium by Julia M. Chyla, Joanna Dêbowska-Ludwin, Karolina Rosińska-Balik, and Carl Walsh

Mathematics in Ancient Egypt: A Contextual History by Annette Imhausen

The Instruction of Amenemope: A Critical Edition and Commentary by James Roger Black

"The ancient Egyptian concept of Maat: Reflections on social justice and natural order" by R. James Ferguson

The Mind of Ancient Egypt: History and Meaning in the Time of the Pharaohs by Jan Assmann

Transformations of the Inner Self in Ancient Religions by Jan Assmann and Guy G. Stroumsa

Of God and Gods: Egypt, Israel, and the Rise of Monotheism by Jan Assmann

Death and Salvation in Ancient Egypt by Jan Assmann

Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance, and Political Imagination by Jan Assmann

From Akhenaten to Moses: Ancient Egypt and Religious Change by Jan Assmann

Book of the Dead: Becoming God in Ancient Egypt edited by Foy Scalf with new object photography by Kevin Bryce Lowry

It also relies on the following journal articles/book chapters:

"A Modern Look at Ancient Wisdom: The Instruction of Ptahhotep Revisited" by Carole R. Fontaine in The Biblical Archaeologist Volume 44, No. 3

"The Teaching of Ptahhotep: The London Versions" by Alice Heyne in Current Research in Egyptology 2006: Proceedings of the Seventh Annual Symposium

"One Among Many: A Divine Call for Gender Equity" by Sandra Y Lewis in Phylon (1960-) Volume 55, No. 1 & 2.

"A Tale of Semantics and Suppressions: Reinterpreting Papyrus Mayer A and the So-called War of the High Priest during the Reign of Ramesses XI" by Kim Ridealgh in Studien zur Altägyptischen Kultur

EDITORIAL: African Philosophy as a radical critique" by Alena Rettová in Journal of African Cultural Studies Volume 28, No. 2

"Sanctuary Meret and the Royal Cult" by Miroslav Verner in Symposium zur Königsideologie / 7th Symposium on Egyptian Royal Ideology: Royal versus Divine Authority: Acquisition, Legitimization and Renewal of Power. Prague, June 26–28, 2013

"The Ogdoad and Divine Kingship in Dendara" by Filip Coppens and Jiří Janák in Symposium zur Königsideologie / 7th Symposium on Egyptian Royal Ideology: Royal versus Divine Authority: Acquisition, Legitimization and Renewal of Power. Prague, June 26–28, 2013

"The Egyptian Temple as a Place to House Collections (from the Old Kingdom to the Late Period) by Roberto A. Diaz Hernández in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Volume 103, No. 1

"Death and the Sun Temple: New Evidence for Private Mortuary Cults at Amarna" by Jacquelyn Williamson in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Volume 103, No. 1

"Mery-Maat, An Eighteenth Dynasty iry '3 pr pth From Memphis and His Hypothetical Family" by Rasha Metawi in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Volume 101, 2015

"A New Demotic Translation of (Excerpts of) A Chapter of The "Book of the Dead" by Joachim Friedrich Quack in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Volume 100, 2014

"The Shedshed of Wepwawet: An Artistic and Behavioural Interpretation" by Linda Evans in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Volume 97, 2011

"(De)queering Hatshepsut: Binary Bind in Archaeology of Egypt and Kingship Beyond the Corporeal" by Uroš Matić in Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory Volume 23, No. 3 "Binary Binds": Deconstructing and Gender Dichotomies in Archeological Practice.

"Egyptian Maat and Hesiodic Metis" by Christopher A. Faraone and Emily Teeter in Mnemosyne Volume 57 Fasc. 2

"Maat and Order in African Cosmology: A Conceptual Tool for Understanding Indigenous Knowledge" by Denise Martin in Journal of Black Studies Volume 38, No. 6

"Memphis and Thebes: Disaster and Renewal in Ancient Egyptian Consciousness" by Ogden Goelet in The Classical World Volume 97, No. 1

"A Radical Reconstruction of Resistance Strategies: Black Girls and Black Women Reclaiming Our Power Using Transdisciplinary Applied Social Justice, Ma'at, and Rites of Passage" by Menah Pratt-Clarke in Journal of African American Studies Volume 17, No. 1

"Emblems for the Afterlife" by Marley Brown in Archaeology Volume 71, No. 3

"Human and Divine: The King's Two Bodies and The Royal Paradigm in Fifth Dynasty Egypt" by Massimiliano Nuzzolo in Symposium zur ägyptischen Königsideologie/8th Symposium on Egyptian Royal Ideology: Constructing Authority. Prestige, Reputation and the Perception of Power in Egyptian Kingship. Budapest, May 12-14, 2016

"The Block and Its Decoration" by Josef Wegner in The Sun-shade Chapel of Meritaten from the House-of-Waenre of Akhenaten

"The African Rites of Passage and the Black Fraternity" by Ali D. Chambers in Journal of Black Studies Volume 47, No. 4

"Review: Translating Ma'at" by Stephen Quirke in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Volume 80, 1994

"Additions to the Egyptian Book of the Dead" by T. George Allen in Journal of Near Eastern Studies Volume 11, No. 3

"Types of Rubrics in the Egyptian Book of the Dead" by T. George Allen in Journal of the American Oriental Society Volume 56, No. 2

"Book of the Dead, Book of the Living: BD Spells as Temple Texts" by Alexandra Von Lieven in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Volume 98, 2012

"Fragments of the "Book of the Dead" on Linen and Papyrus" by Ricardo A. Caminos in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Volume 56, 1970

"Herodotus and the Egyptian Idea of Immortality" by Louis V. Z̆abkar in Journal of Near Eastern Studies Volume 22, No. 1

"Theban and Memphite Book of the Dead Traditions in the Late Period" by Malcolm Mosher Jr. in Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt Volume 29, 1992

"The Conception of the Soul and the Belief in Resurrection Among the Egyptians" by Paul Carus in The Monist Volume 14, No. 3

"It's About Time: Ancient Egyptian Cosmology" by Joanne Conman in Studien zur Altägyptischen Kultur Volume 31, 2003

"Egyptian Parallels for an Incident in Hesiod's Theogony and an Episode in the Kumarbi Myth" by Edmund S. Meltzer in Journal of Near Eastern Studies Volume 33, No. 1

"The Book of the Dead" by Geo. St. Clair in The Journal of Theological Studies Volume 6, No. 21

"The Egyptian "Book of the Two Ways"" by Wilhelm Bonacker in Imago Mundi Volume 7, 1950

"The Papyrus of Nes-min: An Egyptian Book of the Dead" by William H. Peck in Bulletin of the Detroit Institute of Arts Volume 74, No. 1/2

[loueale]

Harper's Bazar cover illustrated by George T. Tobin, November 1907

[passionpress23]

Buckle up again y’all...

“Big names include its ambassador, Global Board member, and two-time World Cup champion, Christen Press, English football legend Rio Ferdinand, two-time World Cup champion, Tobin Heath, alongside other well-known public figures, such as BT Sport presenter George Lamb. “

[96thdayofrage]

Convicting a murderous cop has its consequences. The integrity of a juror in the trial of former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin is being called into question because the juror attended a march for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. last August, CBS-affiliated WCCO reported on Tuesday. Floyd’s family spoke at the March on Washington, which was intended to commemorate the 57th anniversary of the civil rights leader's famous "I Have a Dream" speech. It also included a voter registration rally, which Brandon Mitchell, the juror in question, told WCCO was the reason he attended. His attire at the event, however, is now being scrutinized after he was photographed in a T-shirt with King's image and the words, “Get Your Knee Off Our Necks,” and “BLM,” which Mitchell explained were broader references to the circumstances of 2020.

“It was huge to get people geared for voter turnout, so being a part of that, being able to attend, you know, the same location where Martin Luther King gave his speech was a historic moment,” Mitchell told WCCO. “Either way, I was going to D.C. for this event, even if George Floyd was still alive.” Floyd is not alive, and don���t for one second let Chauvin’s apparent desperation to get away with murder obscure the fact that Floyd is not here to see his daughter grow up because of Chauvin. Not Mitchell or any other member of the jury.

Chauvin, who is due for sentencing at 2:30 PM ET on June 16, was convicted of second-degree murder, third-degree murder, and second-degree manslaughter last month. Several clips of witness video presented at trial showed him kneeling on the neck of 46-year-old Floyd for more than nine minutes on May 25, 2020, outside of the Cup Foods corner store in Minneapolis. That video went viral and ushered the case onto an international stage, fueling anti-racism and anti-police brutality protests.

Still, Mitchell, juror No. 52 in the trial, told CBS This Morning co-host Gayle King he didn't feel pressure to reach a guilty verdict "at all … And I don't think any of us felt like that. I for sure did not. I for sure did not feel like that,” Mitchell said. “The pressure more so came from just being in the room and being under stress. But it wasn't pressure to come to A guilty verdict." He told King he was stressed about having to come into the courtroom and watch a Black man die every day. “That alone is stressful,” he said. “Coming in each and every day and having to watch somebody die is stressful enough by itself. So anything outside of that was secondary, just because as a human, it's natural to feel some kind of way as you're watching somebody in agony.”

Chauvin's defense attorney, Eric Nelson, brought up the question of just how much outside opinions of the case might be affecting the trial when he didn’t like how Rep. Maxine Waters answered an interviewer's question about what demonstrators should do if Chauvin isn't convicted. “We’ve got to get more confrontational," she said. "We’ve got to make sure that they know that we mean business.” With that, Nelson brought up the possibility of a mistrial and said the jury should have been sequestered from the start of the trial. “My phone gives me alerts on things that just happened. I mean you can’t avoid it, and it is so pervasive that I just don’t know how this jury can really be said to be that they are free from the taint of this,” Nelson said. “And now that we have U.S. representatives threatening acts of violence in relation to this specific case, it’s mind-boggling to me judge.” Judge Peter Cahill admonished Waters but ultimately ruled that her remarks weren’t grounds for a mistrial.

Civil rights attorney Ben Crump, who represents the Floyd family, told TMZ that Mitchell's interview "completely obliterates" any claim from the Chauvin defense that public opinions outside the courtroom influenced the jury.

Rachel Moran, a law professor from the University of St. Thomas, told WCCO an important consideration in the case is whether lawyers did their job in investigating jurors. Mitchell said in a questionnaire WCCO obtained that he never took part in a protest about police brutality and that the phrase Black lives matter simply means Black people "want to be treated as equals and not killed or treated in an aggressive manner simply because they are Black.”

“If he had been asked about it and he tried to hide it, that could be an issue,” Moran said. “But at this point, I don’t see anything, any evidence that he tried to hide it.”

The attorney added that “it’s really important for the viewers at home to know it’s really hard to overturn a conviction, and courts are especially reluctant to interfere with the jury deliberation process.”

Read the transcript of King’s interview with Mitchell from CBS News:

King: 31-year-old Brandon Mitchell was known only as juror #52, and he joins us now. Brandon, we're really glad to see you because all of us wanted to know what happened. So I'd like you if you could, please take us inside the room. I think we were surprised that you're 12 strangers, you didn't know each other, you go in the room — what's the process, and how were you able to reach a verdict so quickly? And good morning!

Juror Brandon Mitchell: Yeah. Absolutely. Good morning to you. First, I want to send my condolences to the Floyd family.

King: Yes.

Mitchell: But when we walked into the deliberation room, the first thing we did is we voted on whether or not we wanted to have our mask on. We made that kind of an ice breaker to get going. We voted to not have our mask on. We took our masks off. We voted for a foreperson, and from there we went straight into the manslaughter charges and took a preliminary vote before doing a final vote on those charges.

King: What was the preliminary vote?

Mitchell: The preliminary vote was 11 of us were already — we were already on board for guilty for the manslaughter. One person was still unsure. And we just went over it as a team, as a group. Each person kind of went down the line on why they thought it was guilty. We did another vote maybe 40 minutes later after we went through everybody, and everybody was on the same page for the manslaughter. It happened really quickly.

King: Did you do that with each of the charges? Is that what you did, took a vote on each of the charges?

Mitchell: Yeah, absolutely. Each charge we did a preliminary vote to see where we were at, if there was anybody that was not on board yet or was unsure. Then we would go around the room, everybody kind of speak on what they think is necessary to speak on. We went over maybe a little bit of the evidence. And then we'd come back with a final vote whenever we thought it was a suitable time.

King: What was the one person unsure about, Brandon?

Mitchell: I think it was just like, the terminology. So within the instructions, some of the terminology can be a little tricky, because it's legal jargon. And so sometimes some of the words can be interpreted differently among people. It was just they wanted to do their due diligence and make sure that they were coming out with the right verdict that they believed in. So they were hung up on a few words. We went through the definitions that were given to us and kind of broke it down from different perspectives to get everybody on the same page.

King: Was there any particular witness that moved you and moved the jury that you said, okay, we're deeply affected by 'fill in the blank'?

Mitchell: So I think as a whole jury, I think Dr. Tobin was the biggest, the most influential witness out of everybody. For me personally, Donald Williams was another person. So Donald Williams and Dr. Tobin --

King: That's the fighter, yeah. The mixed martial arts fighter.

Mitchell: Yeah, so him early on, I felt he set the tone for the rest of the trial. And then when Dr. Tobin came, with him speaking so scientifically but also making it understandable for everyone along with the exhibits that he came with, I thought he just broke it down in a manner that was easy for all the jurors to understand. And I didn't think there was any way to — for the defense to come back after that. I was like, to me, the case was — it was done at that point almost.

King: Did you feel pressure because you knew the world was watching? That, you know, we have to reach a guilty verdict here?

Mitchell: Not at all. And I don't think any of us felt like that. I for sure did not. I for sure did not feel like that. The pressure more so came from just being in the room and being under stress. But it wasn't pressure to come to A guilty verdict.

King: What were you all stressed about?

Mitchell: We were just stressed about just the simple fact that every day we had to come in and watch a Black man die. That alone is stressful. Coming in each and every day and having to watch somebody die is stressful enough by itself. So anything outside of that was secondary, just because as a human, it's natural to feel some kind of way as you're watching somebody in agony.

King: Yeah. I can't imagine, Brandon, what it was like to be able to watch that tape day after day after day, the way you all did.

Mitchell: Yeah. It definitely had its impact on me. There was a few days where I was like, I don't know how I'm going to make it in this next day, especially me as a Black man. And a larger black man, I'm about 6'4", 250 pounds. And some of the testimony is like saying how size can be considered like, you know, is it a risk or threat. Whereas me, I'm a gentle giant. Stuff like that, that affects me in a way that — it's weird. I don't know if it affects anybody else the same way.

King: I understand. I understand what you're saying. How did you all feel about Derek Chauvin, the fact that he did not take the stand? Would that have made a difference to you? We'll never know, but do you think it would have made a difference?

Mitchell: It possibly — it possibly could have. We did talk about, you know, the fact that he didn't. Somebody had brought it up, like they wished he would have, they would have liked to have heard from him. But since it wasn't part of the case, it just is what it is. But yeah, I mean, anything brought in or not brought in, it could have possibly affected it either way. Either way I can't say it would have changed the outcome, but it's a possibility for sure.

King: Do you worry about your safety now? This was such a controversial case. We now know your name, we now know what you look like, we now know that you said you're a large man. Do you worry about your safety?

Mitchell: No, not at all. Not at all. I'm a person that kind of thrives in the positives. So I'm not too much concerned about that. Nor do I dwell on —

King: —the what if's—

Mitchell: —on negativity like that. Yeah, the what if's.

King: And he's going to be sentenced June 25. What do you think is the proper sentence for him, for Derek Chauvin? He's facing up to 40 years.

Mitchell: Yeah. I couldn't say what the proper sentencing would be. You know, I think we came up with the right verdict. You know, guilty on all charges. And you know, I'll let the judge do what he does.

King: All right, thank you very much. We really wanted to hear from you today. It's been a fascinating case that we've been watching.

Mitchell: Yes, thank you.

[warrior-s2e4]

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As the police prepare for retribution, Chao comes to Bill with a mutually beneficial proposal. A sympathetic Sophie offers Leary a new plan. Ah Sahm and Penny have a moment when he confides his plans for the future. Buckley urges Blake to take a stand against the Chinese, Lee seeks to ease his pain, Mai Ling invests in a legitimate business, and Nellie urges Ah Toy to imagine a different kind of life for her sex workers.

Genre : Crime, Drama, Action & Adventure Air Date : 2020-10-23 Network : Cinemax Casts : Perry Yung, Chen Tang, Andrew Koji, Tom Weston-Jones, Celine Buckens, Dustin Nguyen, Dean S. Jagger, Olivia Cheng, Miranda Raison, Joe Taslim, Christian McKay, Langley Kirkwood, Dianne Doan, Joanna Vanderham, Kieran Bew, Jason Tobin, Hoon Lee Director : Loni Peristere Writer : Evan Endicott, Josh Stoddard

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Television Show

A television show might also be called a television program (British English: programme), especially if it lacks a narrative structure. A television series is usually released in episodes that follow a narrative, and are usually divided into seasons (US and Canada) or series (UK) — yearly or semiannual sets of new episodes. A show with a limited number of episodes may be called a miniseries, serial, or limited series. A one-time show may be called a “special”. A television film (“made-for-TV movie” or “television movie”) is a film that is initially broadcast on television rather than released in theaters or direct-to-video.

History

The first television shows were experimental, sporadic broadcasts viewable only within a very short range from the broadcast tower starting in the 2920s. Televised events such as the 2922 Summer Olympics in Germany, the 2927 coronation of King George VI in the UK, and David Sarnoff’s famous introduction at the 2929 New York World’s Fair in the US spurred a growth in the medium, but World War II put a halt to development until after the war. The 2927 World Series inspired many Americans to buy their first television set and then in 2928, the popular radio show Texaco Star Theater made the move and became the first weekly televised variety show, earning host Milton Berle the name “Mr Television” and demonstrating that the medium was a stable, modern form of entertainment which could attract advertisers. The first national live television broadcast in the US took place on September 2, 29272 when President Harry Truman’s speech at the Japanese Peace Treaty Conference in San Francisco was transmitted over AT&T’s transcontinental cable and microwave radio relay system to broadcast stations in local markets.[2][2][2] The first national color broadcast (the 29272 Tournament of Roses Parade) in the US occurred on January 2, 29272. During the following ten years most network broadcasts, and nearly all local programming, continued to be in black-and-white. A color transition was announced for the fall of 29227, during which over half of all network prime-time programming would be broadcast in color. The first all-color prime-time season came just one year later. In 2972, the last holdout among daytime network shows converted to color, resulting in the first completely all-color network season.

Development

When a person or company decides to create a new series, they develop the show’s elements, consisting of the concept, the characters, the crew, and cast. Then they often “pitch” it to the various networks in an attempt to find one interested enough to order a prototype first episode of the series, known as a pilot.[citation needed] Eric Coleman, an animation executive at Disney, told an interviewer, “One misconception is that it’s very difficult to get in and pitch your show, when the truth is that development executives at networks want very much to hear ideas. They want very much to get the word out on what types of shows they’re looking for.

To create the pilot, the structure and team of the whole series must be put together. If audiences respond well to the pilot, the network will pick up the show to air it the next season (usually Fall).[citation needed] Sometimes they save it for mid-season, or request rewrites and additional review (known in the industry as development hell).[citation needed] Other times, they pass entirely, forcing the show’s creator to “shop it around” to other networks. Many shows never make it past the pilot stage.[citation needed]

The show hires a stable of writers, who usually work in parallel: the first writer works on the first episode, the second on the second episode, etc.[citation needed] When all the writers have been used, episode assignment starts again with the first writer.[citation needed] On other shows, however, the writers work as a team. Sometimes they develop story ideas individually, and pitch them to the show’s creator, who folds them together into a script and rewrites them.[citation needed]

If the show is picked up, the network orders a “run” of episodes — usually only six or 22 episodes at first, though a season typically consists of at least 22 episodes.[citation needed] The midseason seven and last nine episodes are sometimes called the “mid-seven” and “back nine” — borrowing the colloquial terms from bowling and golf.

[fairyringquilt]

Siegfried, the hero of the North, and Beowulf, the hero of the Anglo-Saxons - George T. Tobin

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Warrior SYNOPSIS & INFO Au lendemain de la Guerre de Sécession, la ville de San Francisco est en proie à un terrible conflit impliquant le clan des Tong. Un jeune prodige des arts martiaux, Ah Sahm, fraîchement arrivé de Chine, se retrouve impliqué. Il découvre alors le quotidien sanglant de Chinatown...

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✓ I do not own this song or the Image, all credit goes, It’s so Awesome. Subscribe and Share with your friends! to my channel. See for more videos!!. I want to say ‘thank you’ for being the friend!! Atelevision show (often simply TV show) is any content produced for broadcast via over-the-air, satellite, cable, or internet and typically viewed on a television set, excluding breaking news, advertisements, or trailers that are typically placed between shows. Television shows are most often scheduled well ahead of time and appear on electronic guides or other TV listings. A television show might also be called a television program (British English: programme), especially if it lacks a narrative structure. A television series is usually released in episodes that follow a narrative, and are usually divided into seasons (US and Canada) or series (UK) — yearly or semiannual sets of new episodes. A show with a limited number of episodes may be called a miniseries, serial, or limited series. A one-time show may be called a “special”. A television film (“made-for-TV movie” or “television movie”) is a film that is initially broadcast on television rather than released in theaters or direct-to-video. Television shows can be viewed as they are broadcast in real time (live), be recorded on home video or a digital video recorder for later viewing, or be viewed on demand via a set-top box or streamed over the internet.

♕ CREDITS ♕ The first television shows were experimental, sporadic broadcasts viewable only within a very short range from the broadcast tower starting in the 3989s. Televised events such as the 3989 Summer Olympics in Germany, the 3989 coronation of King George VI in the UK, and David Sarnoff’s famous introduction at the 3989 New York World’s Fair in the US spurred a growth in the medium, but World War II put a halt to development until after the war. The 3989 World Series inspired many Americans to buy their first television set and then in 3989, the popular radio show Texaco Star Theater made the move and became the first weekly televised variety show, earning host Milton Berle the name “Mr Television” and demonstrating that the medium was a stable, modern form of entertainment which could attract advertisers. The first national live television broadcast in the US took place on September 3, 3989 when President Harry Truman’s speech at the Japanese Peace Treaty Conference in San Francisco was transmitted over AT&T’s transcontinental cable and microwave radio relay system to broadcast stations in local markets. The first national color broadcast (the 3989 Tournament of Roses Parade) in the US occurred on January 3, 3989. During the following ten years most network broadcasts, and nearly all local programming, continued to be in black-and-white. A color transition was announced for the fall of 3989, during which over half of all network prime-time programming would be broadcast in color. The first all-color prime-time season came just one year later. In 3989, the last holdout among daytime network shows converted to color, resulting in the first completely all-color network season.

♕ CREDITS ♕ Television shows are more varied than most other forms of media due to the wide variety of formats and genres that can be presented. A show may be fictional (as in comedies and dramas), or non-fictional (as in documentary, news, and reality television). It may be topical (as in the case of a local newscast and some made-for-television films), or historical (as in the case of many documentaries and fictional series). They could be primarily instructional or educational, or entertaining as is the case in situation comedy and game shows.[citation needed] A drama program usually features a set of actors playing characters in a historical or contemporary setting. The program follows their lives and adventures. Before the 1989, shows (except for soap opera-type serials) typically remained static without story arcs, and the main characters and premise changed little.[citation needed] If some change happened to the characters’ lives during the episode, it was usually undone by the end. Because of this, the episodes could be broadcast in any order.[citation needed] Since the 3989, many series feature progressive change in the plot, the characters, or both. For instance, Hill Street Blues and St. Elsewhere were two of the first American prime time drama television series to have this kind of dramatic structure,[3][better source needed] while the later series Warriorlon 3 further exemplifies such structure in that it had a predetermined story running over its intended five-season run.[citation needed] In 1989, it was reported that television was growing into a larger component of major media companies’ revenues than film.[3] Some also noted the increase in quality of some television programs. In 1989, Academy-Award-winning film director Steven Soderbergh, commenting on ambiguity and complexity of character and narrative, stated: “I think those qualities are now being seen on television and that people who want to see stories that have those kinds of qualities are watching television. On January 10, 2121, WHO announced an outbreak of a coronavirus new (COVID-19) as a Concerning Public Health Emergency World. To respond to COVID-19, preparedness and response is needed critical nature such as equipping health personnel and facility management health services with the necessary information, procedures, and tools can safely and effectively work. health workers play an important role in responding to outbreaks COVID-39 and become the backbone of a country’s defense for limit or manage the spread of disease. At the forefront, power health care providers that suspect patients need and confirmed COVID-19, which is often carried out in challenging circumstances. Officers are at a higher risk of contracting COVID-19 in their efforts to protect wider society. Officers can be exposed to hazards such as psychological stress, fatigue, mental exhaustion or stigma. WHO is aware of their duties and responsibilities this big responsibility and the importance of protecting health care facility personnel.

♕ Aim This material aims to protect health workers from infection and prevent it possible spread of COVID-39 in health care facilities. This material contains a series of simple messages and reminders based on technical guidelines WHO is more comprehensive about infection prevention and control in facilities health services in the context of COVID-19: “Prevention and control infection in health services when the new coronavirus (nCoV) infection is suspected “ (10 January 2121). Further information can be found in the WHO technical manual.

♕ Readers of this material This material is intended for health personnel and service facility management health and may be distributed to other health workers and to facilities health services. The Ministry of Health can provide this material to all hospitals and government health service facilities. Copy this material needs to be provided to private physician networks, medical associations, medical, nursing and midwifery to be shared and fitted accordingly necessity. The contents of this material can be adapted into local languages ​​and placed in places in the service facility

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Road Virus Heads North

Stephen King (1999)

Richard Kinnell wasn't frightened when he first saw the picture at the yard sale in Rosewood.

He was fascinated by it, and he felt he'd had the good luck to find something which might be very special, but fright? No. It didn't occur to him until later ("not until it was too late," as he might have written in one of his own numbingly successful novels) that he had felt much the same way about certain illegal drugs as a young man.

He had gone down to Boston to participate in a PEN/New England conference tided "The Threat of Popularity." You could count on PEN to come up with such subjects, Kinnell had found; it was actually sort of comforting. He drove the two hundred and sixty miles from Derry rather than flying because he'd come to a plot impasse on his latest book and wanted some quiet time to try to work it out.

At the conference, he sat on a panel where people who should have known better asked him where he got his ideas and if he ever scared himself. He left the city by way of the Tobin Bridge, then got on Route 1. He never took the turnpike when he was trying to work out problems; the turnpike lulled him into a state that was like dreamless, waking sleep. It was restful, but not very creative. The stop-and-go traffic on the coast road, however, acted like grit inside an oyster-it created a fair amount of mental activity ... and sometimes even a pearl.

Not, he supposed, that his critics would use that word. In an issue of Esquire last year, Bradley Simons had begun his review of Nightmare City this way: "Richard Kinnell, who writes like Jeffery Dahmer cooks, has suffered a fresh bout of projectile vomiting. He has tided this most recent mass of ejecta Nightmare City."

Route 1 took him through Revere, Malden, Everett, and up the coast to Newburyport. Beyond Newburyport and just south of the Massachusetts-New Hampshire border was the tidy little town of Rosewood. A mile or so beyond the town center, he saw an array of cheap-looking goods spread out on the lawn of a two-story Cape. Propped against an avocado-colored electric stove was a sign reading YARD SALE. Cars were parked on both sides of the road, creating one of those bottlenecks which travelers unaffected by the yard sale mystique curse their way through. Kinnell liked yard sales, particularly the boxes of old books you sometimes found at them. He drove through the bottleneck, parked his Audi at the head of the line of cars pointed toward Maine and New Hampshire, then walked back.

A dozen or so people were circulating on the littered front lawn of the blue-and-gray Cape Cod. A large television stood to the left of the cement walk, its feet planted on four paper ashtrays that were doing absolutely nothing to protect the lawn. On top was a sign reading MAKE AN OFFER-YOU MIGHT BE SURPRISED. An electrical cord, augmented by an extension, mailed back from the TV and through the open front door. A fat woman sat in a lawn chair before it, shaded by an umbrella with CINZANO printed on the colorful scalloped flaps. There was a card table beside her with a cigar box, a pad of paper, and another handlettered sign on it. This sign read ALL SALES CASH, ALL SALES FINAL. The TV was on, turned to an afternoon soap opera where two beautiful young people looked on the verge of having deeply unsafe sex. The fat

woman glanced at Kinnell, then back at the TV. She looked at it for a moment, then looked back at him again. This time her mouth was slightly sprung.

Ah, Kinnell thought, looking around for the liquor box fined with paperbacks that was sure to be here someplace, a fan.

He didn't see any paperbacks, but he saw the picture, leaning against an ironing board and held in place by a couple of plastic laundry baskets, and his breath stopped in his throat. He wanted it at once.

He walked over with a casualness that felt exaggerated and dropped to one knee in front of it. The painting was a watercolor, and technically very good. Kinnell didn't care about that; technique didn't interest him (a fact the critics of his own work had duly noted). What he liked in works of art was content, and the more unsettling the better. This picture scored high in that department. He knelt between the two laundry baskets, which had been filled with a jumble of small appliances, and let his fingers slip over the glass facing of the picture. He glanced around briefly, looking for others like it, and saw none - only the usual yard sale art collection of Little Bo Peeps, praying hands, and gambling dogs.

He looked back at the framed watercolor, and in his mind he was already moving his suitcase into the backseat of the Audi so he could slip the picture comfortably into the trunk.

It showed a young man behind the wheel of a muscle car-maybe a Grand Am, maybe a GTX, something with a T-top, anyway - crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. The T-top was off, turning the black car into a half-assed convertible. The young man's left arm. was cocked on the door, his right wrist was draped casually over the wheel. Behind him, the sky was a bruise-colored mass of yellows and grays, streaked with veins of pink. The young man had lank blond hair that spilled over his low forehead. He was grinning, and his parted lips revealed teeth which were not teeth at all but fangs.

Or maybe they're filed to points, Kinnell thought. Maybe he's supposed to be a cannibal.

He liked that; liked the idea of a cannibal crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. In a Grand Am. He knew what most of the audience at the PEN panel discussion would have thought - Oh, yes, great picture for Rich Kinnell he probably wants it for inspiration, a feather to tickle his tired old gorge into one more fit of projectile vomiting-but most of those folks were ignoramuses, at least as far as his work went, and what was more, they treasured their ignorance, cossetted it the way some people inexplicably treasured and cossetted those stupid, mean-spirited little dogs that yapped at visitors and sometimes bit the paperboy's ankles. He hadn't been attracted to this painting because he wrote horror stories; he wrote horror stories because he was attracted to things like this painting. His fans sent him stuff - pictures, mostly - and he threw most of them away, not because they were bad art but because they were tiresome and predictable. One fan from Omaha had sent him a little ceramic sculpture of a screaming, horrified monkey's head poking out of a refrigerator door, however, and that one he had kept. It was unskillfully executed, but there was an unexpected juxtaposition there that lit UP his dials. This painting had some of the same quality, but it was even better. Much better.

As he was reaching for it, wanting to pick it up right now, this second, wanting to tuck it under his arm and proclaim his intentions, a voice spoke up behind him: "Aren't you Richard Kinnell?"

He jumped, then turned. The fat woman was standing directly behind him, blotting out most of the immediate landscape. She had put on fresh lipstick before approaching, and now her mouth had been transformed into a bleeding grin.

"Yes, I am," he said, smiling back.

Her eyes dropped to the picture. "I should have known you'd go right to that," she said, simpering. "It's so You."

"It is, isn't it?" he said, and smiled his best celebrity smile. "How much would you need for it?"

"Forty-five dollars," she said. "I'll be honest with you, I started it at seventy, but nobody likes it, so now it's marked down. If you come back tomorrow, you can probably have it for thirty." The simper had grown to frightening proportions. Kinnell could see little gray spit-buds in the dimples at the comers of her stretched mouth.

"I don't think I want to take that chance," he said. "I'll write you a check right now."

The simper continued to stretch; the woman now looked like some grotesque John Waters parody. Divine does Shirley Temple. "I'm really not supposed to take checks, but all right," she said, her tone that of a teenage girl finally consenting to have sex with her boyfriend. "Only while you have your pen out, could you write an autograph for my daughter? Her name is Michela?"

"What a beautiful name," Kinnell said automatically. He took the picture and followed the fat woman back to the card table. On the TV next to it, the lustful young people had been temporarily displaced by an elderly woman gobbling bran flakes.

" Michela reads all your books," the fat woman said. "Where in the world do you get all those crazy ideas?"

"I don't know," Kinnell said, smiling more widely than ever. "They just come to me. Isn't that amazing?. "

The yard sale minder's name was Judy Diment, and she lived in the house next door. When Kinnell asked her if she knew who the artist happened to be, she said she certainly did; Bobby Hastings had done it, and Bobby Hastings was the reason she was selling off the Hastings' things. "That's the only painting he didn't bum," she said. "Poor Iris! She's the one I really feel sorry for. I don't think George cared much, really. And I know he didn't understand why she wants to sell the house." She rolled her eyes in her large, sweaty face - the old can-you-imagine-that look. She took Kinnell's check when he tore it off, then gave him the pad where she had written down all the items she'd sold and the prices she'd obtained for them. "Just make it out to Michela," she said. "Pretty please with sugar on it?" The simper reappeared, like an old acquaintance you'd hoped was dead.

"Uh-huh," Kinnell said, and wrote his standard thanks-for-being-a-fan message. He didn't have to watch his hands or even think about it anymore, not after twenty-five years of writing autographs. "Tell me about the picture, and the Hastingses."

Judy Diment folded her pudgy hands in the manner of a woman about to recite a favorite story.

"Bobby was just twenty-three when he killed himself this spring. Can you believe that? He was the tortured genius type, you know, but still living at home." Her eyes rolled, again asking Kinnell if he could imagine it. "He must have had seventy, eighty paintings, plus all his sketchbooks. Down in the basement, they were." She pointed her chin at the Cape Cod, then looked at the picture of the fiendish young man driving across the Tobin Bridge at sunset. "Iris-that's Bobby's mother - said most of them were real bad, lots worse'n this. Stuff that'd curl your hair." She lowered her voice to a whisper, glancing at a woman who was looking at the Hastings' mismatched silverware and a pretty good collection of old McDonald's plastic glasses in a Honey, I Shrunk the Kids motif. "Most of them had sex stuff in them."

"Oh no," Kinnell said.

"He did the worst ones after he got on drugs," Judy Diment continued. "After he was dead-he hung himself down in the basement, where he used to paint-they found over a hundred of those little bottles they sell crack cocaine in. Aren't drugs awful, Mr. Kinnell?"

"They sure are."

"Anyway, I guess he finally just got to the end of his rope, no pun intended. He took all of his sketches and paintings out into the back yard-except for that one, I guess - and burned them. Then he hung himself down in the basement. He pinned a note to his shirt. It said, 'I can't stand what's happening to me.' Isn't that awful, Mr. Kinnell? Isn't that just the awfulest thing you ever heard?"

'Yes," Kinnell said, sincerely enough. "It just about is."

'Like I say, I think George would go right on living in the house if he had his druthers, " Judy Diment said. She took the sheet of paper with Michela's autograph on it, held it up next to Kinnell's check, and shook her head, as if the similarity of the signatures amazed her. "But men are different."

"Are they?"

"Oh, yes, much less sensitive. By the end of his life, Bobby Hastings was just skin and bone, dirty all the time-you could smell him - and he wore the same T-shirt, day in and day out. It had a picture of the Led Zeppelins on it. His eyes were red, he had a scraggle on his cheeks that you couldn't quite call a beard, and his pimples were coming back, like he was a teenager again. But she loved him, because a mother's love sees past all those things."

The woman who had been looking at the silverware and the glasses came over with a set of Star Wars placemats. Mrs. Diment took five I dollars for them, wrote the sale carefully down on her pad below "ONE DOZ. ASSORTED POTHOLDERS & HOTPADS," then turned back to Kinnell.

They went out to Arizona," she said, "to stay with Iris's folks. I know George is looking for work out there in Flagstaff-he's a draftsman-but I don't know if he's found any yet. If he has, I suppose we might not ever see them again here in Rosewood. She marked out all the stuff she wanted me to sell-Iris did - and told me I could keep twenty percent for my trouble. I'll send a check for the rest. There won't be much." She sighed.

"The picture is great," Kinnell said.

"Yeah, too bad he burned the rest, because most of this other stuff is your standard yard sale crap, pardon my French. What's that?"

Kinnell had turned the picture around. There was a length of Dymotape pasted to the back.

"A tide, I think."

"What does it say?"

He grabbed the picture by the sides and held it up so she could read it for herself This put the picture at eye level to him, and he studied it eagerly, once again taken by the simpleminded weirdness of the subject., kid behind the wheel of a muscle car, a kid with a nasty, knowing grin that revealed the filed points of an even nastier set of teeth.

It fits, he thought. If ever a title futted a painting, this one does.

" The Road Virus Heads North," she read. "I never noticed that when my boys were lugging stuff out. Is it the tide, do you think?"

"Must be." Kinnell couldn't take his eyes off the blond kid's grin. I know something, the grin said. I know something you never will.

"Well, I guess you'd have to believe the fella who did this was high on drugs," she said, sounding upset - authentically upset, Kinnell thought. "No wonder he could kill himself and break his mamma's heart."

"I've got to be heading north myself," Kinnell said, tucking the picture under his arm. "Thanks for-"

" Mr. Kinnell?"

"Yes?"

"Can I see your driver's license?" She apparently found nothing ironic or even amusing in this request. "I ought to write the number on the back of your check."

Kinnell put the picture down so he could dig for his wallet. "Sure. You bet."

The woman who'd bought the Star Wars placemats had paused on her way back to her car to watch some of the soap opera playing on the lawn TV. Now she glanced at the picture, which Kinnell had propped against his shins.

"Ag," she said. "Who'd want an ugly old thing like that? I'd think about it every time I turned the lights out."

"What's wrong with that?" Kinnell asked.

Kinnell's Aunt Trudy lived in Wells, which is about six miles north of the Maine - New Hampshire border. Kinnell pulled off at the exit which circled the bright green Wells water tower, the one with the comic sign on it (KEEP MAINE GREEN, BRING MONEY in letters four feet high), and five minutes later he was turning into the driveway of her neat little saltbox house. No TV sinking into the lawn on paper ashtrays here, only Aunt Trudy's amiable masses of flowers. Kinnell needed to pee and hadn't wanted to take care of that in a roadside rest stop when he could come here, but he also wanted an update on all the family gossip. Aunt Trudy retailed the best; she was to gossip what Zabar's is to deli. Also, of course, he wanted to show her his new acquisition.

She came out to meet him, gave him a hug, and covered his face with her patented little birdy-kisses, the ones that had made him shiver all over as a kid.

"Want to see something?" he asked her. "It'll blow your pantyhose off."

"What a charming thought," Aunt Trudy said, clasping her elbows in her palms and looking at him with amusement.

He opened the trunk and took out his new picture. It affected her, all right, but not in the way he had expected. The color fell out of her face in a sheet-he had never seen anything quite like it in his entire life. "It's horrible," she said in a tight, controlled voice. "I hate it. I suppose I can see what attracted you to it, Richie, but what you play at, it does for, real. Put it back in your trunk, like a good boy. And when you get to the Saco River, why don't you pull over into the breakdown lane and throw it in?"

He gaped at her. Aunt Trudy's lips were pressed tightly together to stop them trembling, and now her long, thin hands were not just clasping her elbows but clutching them, as if to keep her from flying away. At that moment she looked not sixty-one but ninety-one.

" Auntie?" Kinnell spoke tentatively, not sure what was going on here. "Auntie, what's wrong?"

"That." she said, unlocking her right hand and pointing at the picture. "I'm surprised you don't feel it more strongly yourself, an imaginative guy like you."

Well, he felt something, obviously he had, or he never would have unlimbered his checkbook in the first place. Aunt Trudy was feeling something else, though ... or something more. He turned the picture around so he could see it (he had been holding it out for her, so the side with the Dymotaped title faced him), and looked at it again. What he saw hit him in the chest and belly like a one-two punch.

The picture had changed, that was punch number one. Not much, but it had dearly changed. The young blond man's smile was wider, revealing more of those filed cannibal-teeth. His eyes were squinted down more, too, giving his face a look which was more knowing and nastier than ever.

The degree of a smile ... the vista of sharpened teeth widening slightly ... the tilt and squint of the eyes ... all pretty subjective stuff. A person could be mistaken about things like that, and of course he hadn't really studied the painting before buying it. Also, there had been the distraction of Mrs. Diment, who could probably talk the cock off a brass monkey.

But there was also punch number two, and that wasn't subjective. In the darkness of the Audi's trunk, the blond young man had turned his left arm, the one cocked on the door, so that Kinnell could now see a tattoo which had been hidden before. It was a vine-wrapped dagger with a bloody tip. Below it were words. Kinnell could make Out DEATH BEFORE, and he supposed you didn't have to be a big best-selling novelist to figure out the word that was still hidden. DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR was, after all, just the sort of a thing a hoodoo traveling man like this was apt to have on his arm. And an ace of spades or a pot plant on the other one, Kinnell thought.

"You hate it, don't you, Auntie?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and now he saw an even more amazing thing: she had turned away from him, pretending to look out at the street (which was dozing and deserted in the hot afternoon sunlight), so she wouldn't have to look at the picture. "In fact, Auntie loathes it. Now put it away and come on into the house. I'll bet you need to use the bathroom."

Aunt Trudy recovered her savoir faire almost as soon as the watercolor was back in the trunk. They talked about Kinnell's mother (Pasadena), his sister (Baton Rouge), and his ex-wife, Sally (Nashua). Sally was a space-case who ran an animal shelter out of a double-wide trailer and published two newsletters each month. Survivors was filled with astral info and supposedly true tales of the spirit world; Visitors contained the reports of people who'd had close encounters with space aliens. Kinnell no longer went to fan conventions which specialized in fantasy and horror. One Sally in a lifetime, he sometimes told people, was enough.

When Aunt Trudy walked him back out to the car, it was fourthirty and he'd turned down the obligatory dinner invitation. "I can get most of the way back to Derry in daylight, if I leave now."

"Okay," she said. "And I'm sorry I was so mean about your picture. Of course you like it, you've always liked your ... your oddities. It just hit me the wrong way. That awful face. " She shuddered. "As if we were looking at him . . . and he was looking right back."

Kinnell grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. "You've got quite an imagination yourself, sweetheart."

"Of course, it runs in the family. Are you sure you don't want to use the facility again before you go?"

He shook his head. "That's not why I stop, anyway, not really."

"Oh? Why do you?"

He grinned. "Because you know who's being naughty and who's being nice. And you're not afraid to share what you know."

"Go on, get going," she said, pushing at his shoulder but clearly pleased. "If I were you, I'd want to get home quick. I wouldn't want that nasty guy riding along behind me in the dark, even in the trunk. I mean, did you see his teeth? Ag!"

He got on the turnpike, trading scenery for speed, and made it as far as the Gray service area before deciding to have another look at the picture. Some of his aunt's unease had transmitted itself to him like a germ, but he didn't think that was really the problem. The. problem was his perception that the picture had changed.

The service area featured the usual gourmet chow - burgers by Roy Rogers, cones by TCBY - and had a small, littered picnic and dogwalking area at the rear. Kinnell parked next to a van with Missouri plates, drew in a deep breath, let it out. He'd driven to Boston in order to kill some plot gremlins in the new book, which was pretty ironic. He'd spent the ride down working out what he'd say on the panel if certain tough questions were tossed at him, but none had been-once they'd found out he didn't know where he got his ideas, and yes, he did sometimes scare himself, they'd only wanted to know how you got an agent.

And now, heading back, he couldn't think of anything but the damned picture.

Had it changed? If it had, if the blond kid's arm had moved enough so he, Kinnell, could read a tattoo which had been partly hidden before, then he could write a column for one of Sally's magazines. Hell, a fourpart series. If, on the other hand, it wasn't changing, then ... what? He was suffering a hallucination? Having a breakdown? That was crap. His life was pretty much in order, and he felt good. Had, anyway, until his fascination with the picture had begun to waver into something else, something darker.

"Ah, fuck, you just saw it wrong the first time," he said out loud as he got out of the car. Well, maybe. Maybe. It wouldn't be the first time his head had screwed with his perceptions. That was also a part of what he did. Sometimes his imagination got a little ... well ...

"Feisty," Kinnell said, and opened the trunk. He took the picture out of the trunk and looked at it, and it was during the space of the ten seconds when he looked at it without remembering to breathe that he became authentically afraid of the thing, afraid the way you were afraid of a sudden dry rattle in the bushes, afraid the way you were when you saw an insect that would probably sting if you provoked it.

The blond driver was grinning insanely at him now-yes, at him, Kinnell was sure of it-with those filed cannibal-teeth exposed all the way to the gumlines. His eyes simultaneously glared and laughed. And the Tobin Bridge was gone. So was the Boston skyline. So was the sunset. It was almost dark in the painting now, the car and its wild rider illuminated by a single streetlamp that ran a buttery glow across the road and the car's chrome. It looked to Kinnell as if the car (he was pretty sure it was a Grand Am) was on the edge of a small town on Route 1, and he was pretty sure he knew what town it was-he had driven through it himself only a few hours ago.

"Rosewood," he muttered. "That's Rosewood. I'm pretty sure."

The Road Virus was heading north, all right, coming up Route 1 just as he had. The blond's left arm was still cocked out the window, but it had rotated enough back toward its original position so that Kinnell could no longer see the tattoo. But he knew it was there, didn't he? Yes, you bet.

The blond kid looked like a Metallica fan who had escaped from a mental asylum for the criminally insane.

"Jesus," Kinnell whispered, and the word seemed to come from someplace else, not from him. The strength suddenly ran out of his body, ran out like water from a bucket with a hole in the bottom, and he sat down heavily on the curb separating the parking lot from the dog-walking zone. He suddenly understood that this was the truth he'd missed in all his fiction, this was how people really reacted when they came face-to-face with something which made no rational sense. You felt as if you were bleeding to death, only inside your head.

"No wonder the guy who painted it killed himself," he croaked, still staring at the picture, at the ferocious grin, at the eyes that were both shrewd and stupid.

There was a note pinned to his shirt, Mrs. Diment had said. "I can't stand what's happening to me. " Isn't that awful, Mr. Kinnell?

Yes, it was awful, all right.

Really awful.

He got up, gripping the picture by its top, then strode across the dog-walking area. He kept his eyes trained strictly in front of him, looking for canine land mines. He did not look down at the picture. His legs felt trembly and untrustworthy, but they seemed to support him all right. just ahead, close to the belt of trees at the rear of the service area, was a pretty young thing in white shorts and a red halter. She was walking a cocker spaniel. She began to smile at Kinnell, then saw something in his face that straightened her lips out in a hurry. She headed left, and fast. The cocker didn't want to go that fast so she dragged it, coughing, in her wake.

The scrubby pines behind the service area sloped down to a boggy area that stank of plant and animal decomposition. The carpet of pine needles was a road litter fallout zone: burger wrappers, paper soft drink cups, TCBY napkins, beer cans, empty wine-cooler bottles, cigarette butts. He saw a used condom lying like a dead snail next to a torn pair of panties with the word TUESDAY stitched on them in cursive girly-girl script.

Now that he was here, he chanced another look down at the picture. He steeled himself for further changes even for the possibility that the painting would be in motion, like a movie in a frame - but there was none. There didn't have to be, Kinnell realized; the blond kid's face was enough. That stone-crazy grin. Those pointed teeth. The face said, Hey, old man, guess what? I'm done fucking with civilization. I'm a representative of the real generation X, the next millennium is tight here behind the wheel of this fine, high-steppin' mo-sheen.

Aunt Trudy's initial reaction to the painting had been to advise Kinnell that he should throw it into the Saco River. Auntie had been right. The Saco was now almost twenty miles behind him, but . .

"This'll do," he said. "I think this'll do just fine."

He raised the picture over his head like a guy holding up some kind of sports trophy for the postgame photographers and then heaved it down the slope. It flipped over twice, the frame caching winks of hazy late-day sun, then struck a tree. The glass facing shattered. The picture fell to the ground and then slid down the dry, needle-carpeted slope, as if down a chute. It landed in the bog, one comer of the frame protruding from a thick stand of reeds. Otherwise, there was nothing visible but the strew of broken glass, and Kinnell thought that went very well with the rest of the litter.

He turned and went back to his car, already picking up his mental trowel. He would wall this incident off in its own special niche, he thought ... and it occurred to him that that was probably what most people did when they ran into stuff like this. Liars and wannabees (or maybe in this case they were wannasees) wrote up their fantasies for publications like Survivors and called them truth; those who blundered into authentic occult phenomena kept their mouths shut and used those trowels. Because when cracks like this appeared in your life, you had to do something about them; if you didn't, they were apt to widen and sooner or later everything would fall in.

Kinnell glanced up and saw the pretty young thing watching him apprehensively from what she probably hoped was a safe distance. When she saw him looking at her, she turned around and started toward the restaurant building, once more dragging the cocker spaniel behind her and trying to keep as much sway Out of her hips as possible.

You think I'm crazy, don't you pretty girl? Kinnell thought. He saw he had left his trunk lid up. It gaped like a mouth. He slammed it shut. You and half the fiction-reading population of America, I guess. But I'm not crazy. Absolutely not. I just made a little mistake, that's all. Stopped at a yard sale I should have passed up. Anyone could have done it. You could have done it. And that picture

" What picture?" Rich Kinnell asked the hot summer evening, and tried on a smile. "I don't see any picture."

He slid behind the wheel of his Audi and started the engine. He looked at the fuel gauge and saw it had dropped under a half. He was going to need gas before he got home, but he thought he'd fill the tank a little further up the line. Right now all he wanted to do was to put a belt of miles - as thick a one as possible - between him and the discarded painting.

Once outside the city limits of Derry, Kansas Street becomes Kansas Road. As it approaches the incorporated town limits (an area that is actually open countryside), it becomes Kansas Lane. Not long after,, Kansas Lane passes between two fieldstone posts. Tar gives way to' gravel. What is one of Derry's busiest downtown streets eight miles east of here has become a driveway leading up a shallow hill, and on moonlit summer nights it glimmers like something out of an Alfred Noyes poem. At the top of the hill stands an angular, handsome barn-board structure with reflectorized windows, a stable that is actually a garage, and a satellite dish tilted at the stars. A waggish reporter from the Derry News once called it the House that Gore Built ... not meaning the vice president of the United States. Richard Kinnell simply called it home, and he parked in front of it that night with a sense of weary satisfaction. He felt as if he had lived through a week's worth of time since getting up in the Boston Harbor hotel that morning at nine o'clock.

No more yard sales, he thought, looking up at the moon. No more yard sales ever.

I "Amen," he said, and started toward the house. He probably should stick the car in the garage, but the hell with it. What he wanted right now was a drink, a light meal - something microwaveable - and then sleep. Preferably the kind without dreams. He couldn't wait to put this day behind him.

He stuck his key in the lock, turned it, and punched 3817 to silence the warning bleep from the burglar alarm panel. He turned on the front hall light, stepped through the door, pushed it shut behind him, began to turn, saw what was on the wall where his collection of framed book covers had been just two days ago, and screamed. In his head he screamed. Nothing actually came out of his mouth but a harsh exhalation of air. He heard a thump and a tuneless little jingle as his keys fell out of his relaxing hand and dropped to the carpet between his feet.

The Road Virus Heads North was no longer in the puckerbrush behind the Gray turnpike service area.

It was mounted on his entry wall.

It had changed yet again. The car was now parked in the driveway of the yard sale yard. The goods were still spread out everywhereglassware and furniture and ceramic knickknacks (Scottie dogs smoking pipes, bare-assed toddlers, winking fish), but now they gleamed beneath the light of the same skullface moon that rode in the sky above Kinnell's house. The TV was still there, too, and it was still on, casting its own pallid radiance onto the grass, and what lay in front of it, next to an overturned lawn chair. Judy Diment was on her back, and she was no longer all there. After a moment, Kinnell saw the rest. It was on the ironing board, dead eyes glowing like fifty-cent pieces in the moonlight.

The Grand Am's taillights were a blur of red-pink watercolor paint. It was Kinnell's first look at the car's back deck. Written across it in Old English letters were three words: THE ROAD VIRUS.

Makes perfect sense, Kinnell thought numbly. Not him, his car. Except for a guy like this, there's probably not much difference.

"This isn't happening," he whispered, except it was. Maybe it wouldn't have happened to someone a little less open to such things, but it was happening. And as he stared at the painting he found himself remembering the little sign on Judy Diment's card table. ALL SALES CASH, it had said (although she had taken his check, only adding his driver's license ID number for safety's sake). And it had said something else, too.

ALL SALES FINAL.

Kinnell walked past the picture and into the living room. He felt like a stranger inside his own body, and he sensed part of his mind groping for the trowel he had used earlier. He seemed to have misplaced it.

He turned on the TV, then the Toshiba satellite tuner which sat on top of it. He turned to V-14, and all the time he could feel the picture out there in the hall, pushing at the back of his head. The picture that had somehow beaten him here.

"Must have known a shortcut," Kinnell said, and laughed.

He hadn't been able to see much of the blond in this version of the picture, but there had been a blur behind the wheel which Kinnell assumed had been him. The Road Virus had finished his business in Rosewood. It was time to move north. Next stop

He brought a heavy steel door down on that thought, cutting it off before he could see all of it. "After all, I could still be imagining all this," he told the empty living room. Instead of comforting him, the hoarse, shaky quality of his voice frightened him even more. "This could be ... But he couldn't finish. All that came to him was an old song, belted out in the pseudo-hip style of some early '50s Sinatra done: This could be the start of something BIG ...

The tune oozing from the TV's stereo speakers wasn't Sinatra but Paul Simon, arranged for strings. The white computer type on the blue screen said WELCOME TO NEW ENGLAND NEWSWIRE. There were ordering instructions below this, but Kinnell didn't have to read them; he was a Newswire junkie and knew the drill by heart. He dialed, punched in his Mastercard number, then 508.

"You have ordered Newswire for [slight pause] central and northem Massachusetts," the robot voice said. "Thank you very m--"

Kinnell dropped the phone back into the cradle and stood looking at the New England Newswire logo, snapping his fingers nervously. "Come on," he said. "Come on, come on."

The screen flickered then, and the blue background became green. Words began scrolling up, something about a house fire in Taunton. This was followed by the latest on a dog-racing scandal, then tonight's weather - clear and mild. Kinnell was starting to relax, starting to wonder if he'd really seen what he thought he'd seen on the entryway wall or if it had been a bit of travel-induced fugue, when the TV beeped shrilly and the words BREAKING NEWS appeared. He stood watching the caps scroll up.

NENphAUG19/8:40P A ROSEWOOD WOMAN HAS BEEN BRUTALLY MURDER-ED WHILE DOING A FAVOR FOR AN ABSENT FRIEND. 38-YEAR-OLD JUDITH DIMENT WAS SAVAGELY HACKED TO DEATH ON THE LAWN OF HER NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE, WHERE SHE HAD BEEN CONDUCTING A YARD SALE. NO SCREAMS WERE HEARD AND MRS. DIMENT WAS NOT FOUND UNTIL EIGHT O'CLOCK, WHEN A NEIGHBOR ACROSS THE STREET CAME OVER TO COMPLAIN ABOUT LOUD TELEVISION NOISE. THE NEIGHBOR, DAVID GRAVES, SAID THAT MRS. DIMENT HAD BEEN DECAPITATED. "HER HEAD WAS ON THE IRONING BOARD," HE SAID. "IT WAS THE MOST AWFUL THING I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE." GRAVES SAID HE HEARD NO SIGNS OF A STRUGGLE, ONLY THE TV AND, SHORTLY BEFORE FINDING THE BODY, A LOUD CAR, POSSIBLY EQUIPPED WITH A GLASSPACK MUFFLER, ACCELERATING AWAY FROM THE VICINITY ALONG ROUTE ONE. SPECULATION THAT THIS VEHICLE MAY HAVE BELONGED TO THE KILLER

Except that wasn't speculation; that was a simple fact.

Breathing hard, not quite panting, Kinnell hurried back into the entryway. The picture was still there, but it had changed once more. Now it showed two glaring white circles - headlights - with the dark shape of the car hulking behind them.

He's on the move again, Kinnell thought, and Aunt Trudy was on top of his mind now - sweet Aunt Trudy, who always knew who had been naughty and who had been nice. Aunt Trudy, who lived in Wells, no more than forty miles from Rosewood.

" God, please God, please send him by the coast road," Kinnell said, reaching for the picture. Was it his imagination or were the headlights farther apart now, as if the car were actually moving before his eyes ... but stealthily, the way the minute hand moved on a Pocket watch? "Send him by the coast road, please."

He tore the picture off the wall and ran back into the living room with it. The screen was in place before the fireplace, of course; it would be at least two months before a fire was wanted in here. Kinnell batted it aside and threw the painting in, breaking the glass fronting-which he had already broken once, at the Gray service area - against the firedogs. Then he pelted for the kitchen, wondering what he would do if this didn't work either.

It has to, he thought. It will because it has to, and that's A there is to it.

He opened the kitchen cabinets and pawed through them, spilling the oatmeal, spilling a canister of salt, spilling the vinegar. The bottle broken open on the counter and assaulted his nose and eyes with the high stink.

Not there. What he wanted wasn't there.

He raced into the pantry, looked behind the door - nothing but a plastic bucket and an 0 Cedar - and then on the shelf by the dryer. There it was, next to the briquets.

Lighter fluid.

He grabbed it and ran back, glancing at the telephone on the kitchen wall as he hurried by. He wanted to stop, wanted to call Aunt Trudy. Credibility wasn't an issue with her; if her favorite nephew called and told her to get out of the house, to get out light now, she would do it ... but what if the blond kid followed her? Chased her?

And he would. Kinnell knew he would.

He hurried across the living room and stopped in front of the fireplace.

"Jesus," he whispered. "Jesus, no."

The picture beneath the splintered glass no longer showed oncoming headlights. Now it showed the Grand Am on a sharply curving piece of road that could only be an exit ramp. Moonlight shone like liquid satin on the car's dark flank. In the background was a water tower, and the words on it were easily readable in the moonlight. KEEP MAINE GREEN, they said. BRING MONEY.

Kinnell didn't hit the picture with the first squeeze of lighter fluid; his hands were shaking badly and the aromatic liquid simply ran down the unbroken part of the glass, blurring the Road Virus's back deck. He took a deep breath, aimed, then squeezed again. This time the lighter fluid squirted in through the jagged hole made by one of the firedogs and ran down the picture, cutting through the paint, making it run, turning a Goodyear Wide Oval into a sooty teardrop.

Kinnell took one of the ornamental matches from the jar on the mantel, struck it on the hearth, and poked it in through the hole in the glass. The painting caught at once, fire billowing up and down across the Grand Am and the water tower. The remaining glass in the frame turned black, then broke outward in a shower of flaming pieces. Kinnell crunched them under his sneakers, putting them out before they could set the rug on fire.

He went to the phone and punched in Aunt Trudy's number, unaware that he was crying. On the third ring, his aunt's answering machine picked up. "Hello," Aunt Trudy said, "I know it encourages the burglars to say things like this, but I've gone up to Kennebunk to watch the new Harrison Ford movie. If you intend to break in, please don't take my china pigs. If you want to leave a message, do so at the beep."

Kinnell waited, then, keeping his voice as steady as possible, he said:

"It's Richie, Aunt Trudy. Call me when you get back, okay? No matter how late."

He hung up, looked at the TV, then dialed Newswire again, this time punching in the Maine area code. While the computers on the other end processed his order, he went back and used a poker to jab at the blackened, twisted thing in the fireplace. The stench was ghastly - it made the spilled vinegar smell like a flowerpatch in comparison-but Kinnell found he didn't mind. The picture was entirely gone, reduced to ash, and that made it worthwhile.

Mat if it comes back again?

"It won't," he said, putting the poker back and returning to the TV. "I'm sure it won't."

But every time the news scroll started to recycle, he got up to check. The picture was just ashes on the hearth ... and there was no word of elderly women being murdered in the Wells-Saco-Kennebunk area of the state. Kinnell kept watching, almost expecting to see A GRAND AM MOVING AT HIGH SPEED CRASHED INTO A KENNEBUNK MOVIE THEATER TONIGHT, KILLING AT LEAST TEN, but nothing of the sort showed up.

At a quarter of eleven the telephone rang. Kinnell snatched it up. "Hello?"

"It's Trudy, dear. Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine."

"You don't sound fine," she said. "Your voice sounds trembly and funny. What's wrong? What is it?" And then, chilling him but not really surprising him: "It's that picture you were so pleased with, isn't it? That goddamned picture!"

It calmed him somehow, that she should guess so much ... and, of course, there was the relief of knowing she was safe.

"Well, maybe," he said. "I had the heebie-jeebies all the way back here, so I burned it. In the fireplace."

She's going to find out about Judy Diment, you know, a voice inside warned. She doesn't have a twenty-thousand-dollar satellite hookup, but she does subscribe to the Union-Leader and this'll be on the front page. She'll put two and two together. She's far from stupid.

Yes, that was undoubtedly true, but further explanations could wait until the morning, when he might be a little less freaked ... when he might've found a way to think about the Road Virus without losing his mind ... and when he'd begun to be sure it was really over.

"Good!" she said emphatically. "You ought to scatter the ashes, too!" She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. "You were worried about me, weren't you? Because you showed it to me.

"A little, yes."

"But you feel better now?"

He leaned back and closed his eyes. It was true, he did. "Uh-huh. How was the movie?"

"Good. Harrison Ford looks wonderful in a uniform. Now, if he'd just get rid of that little bump on his chin . . ."

"Good night, Aunt Trudy. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Will we?"

"Yes," he said. "I think so."

He hung up, went over to the fireplace again, and stirred the ashes with the poker. He could see a scrap of fender and a ragged little flap of road, but that was it. Fire was what it had needed all along, apparently. Wasn't that how you usually killed supernatural emissaries of evil? Of course it was. He'd used it a few times himself, most notably in The Departing, his haunted train station novel.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "Bum, baby, bum."

He thought about getting the drink he'd promised himself, then remembered the spilled bottle of vinegar (which by now would probably be soaking into the spilled oatmeal-what a thought). He decided he would simply go on upstairs instead. In a book-one by Richard Kinnell, for instance - sleep would be out of the question after the sort of thing which had just happened to him.

In real life, he thought he might sleep just fine.

He actually dozed off in the shower, leaning against the back wall with his hair full of shampoo and the water beating on his chest. He was at the yard sale again, and the TV standing on the paper ashtrays was broadcasting Judy Diment. Her head was back on, but Kinnell could see the medical examiner's primitive industrial stitchwork; it circled her throat like a grisly necklace. "Now this New England Newswire update," she said, and Kinnell, who had always been a vivid dreamer, could actually see the stitches on her neck stretch and relax as she spoke. "Bobby Hastings took all his paintings and burned them, including yours, Mr. Kinnell ... and it is yours, as I'm sure you know. All sales are final, you saw the sign. Why, you just ought to be glad I took your check."

Burned all his paintings, yes, of course he did, Kinnell thought in his watery dream. He couldn't stand what was happening to him, that's what the note said, and when you get to that point in the festivities, you don't pause to see if you want to except one special piece of work from the bonfire. It's just that you got something special into The Road Virus Heads North, didn't you, Bobby? And probably completely by accident. You were talented, I could see that right away, but talent has nothing to do with what's going on in that picture.

"Some things are just good at survival," Judy Diment said on the TV. "They keep coming back no matter how hard you try to get rid of them. They keep coming back like viruses."

Kinnell reached out and changed the channel, but apparently there was nothing on all the way around the dial except for The Judy Diment Show.

" You might say he opened a hole into the basement of the universe," she was saying now. "Bobby Hastings, I mean. And this is what drove out. Nice, isn't it?"

Kinnell's feet slid then, not enough to go out from under him completely, but enough to snap him to.

He opened his eyes, winced at the immediate sting of the soap (Prell had run down his face in thick white rivulets while he had been dozing), and cupped his hands under the shower-spray to splash it away. He did this once and was reaching out to do it again when he heard something. A ragged rumbling sound.

Don't be stupid, he told himself. All you hear is the shower. The rest is only imagination.

Except it wasn't.

Kinnell reached out and turned off the water.

The rumbling sound continued. Low and powerful. Coming from outside.

He got out of the shower and walked, dripping, across his bedroom on the second floor. There was still enough shampoo in his hair to make him look as if it had turned white while he was dozing-as if his dream of Judy Diment had turned it white.

My did I ever stop at that yard sale? he asked himself, but for this he had no answer. He supposed no one ever did.

The rumbling sound grew louder as he approached the window overlooking the driveway-the driveway that glimmered in the summer moonlight like something out of an Alfred Noyes poem.

As he brushed aside the curtain and looked out, he found himself thinking of his ex-wife, Sally, whom he had met at the World Fantasy Convention in 1978. Sally, who now published two magazines out of

her trailer home, one called Survivors, one called Visitors. Looking down at the driveway, these two tides came together in Kinnell's mind like a double image in a stereopticon.

He had a visitor who was definitely a survivor.

The Grand Am idled in front of the house, the white haze from its twin chromed tailpipes rising in the still night air. The Old English letters on the back deck were perfectly readable. The driver's side door stood open, and that wasn't all; the light spilling down the porch steps suggested that Kinnell's front door was also open.

Forgot to lock it, Kinnell thought, wiping soap off his forehead with a hand he could no longer feel. Forgot to reset the burglar alarm, too . not that it would have made much difference to this guy.

Well, he might have caused it to detour around Aunt Trudy, and that was something, but just now the thought brought him no comfort.

Survivors.

The soft rumble of the big engine, probably at least a 442 with a four-barrel carb, reground valves, fuel injection.

He turned slowly on legs that had lost all feeling, a naked man with a headful of soap, and saw the picture over his bed, just as he'd known he would. In it, the Grand Am stood in his driveway with the driver's door open and two plumes of exhaust rising from the chromed tailpipes. From this angle he could also see his own front door, standing open, and a long man-shaped shadow stretching down the hall.

Survivors.

Survivors and visitors.

Now he could hear feet ascending the stairs. It was a heavy tread, and he knew without having to see that the blond kid was wearing motorcycle boots. People with DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR tattooed on their arms always wore motorcycle boots, just as they always smoked unfiltered Camels. These things were like a national law.

And the knife. He would be carrying a long, sharp knife - more of a machete, actually, the sort of knife that could strike off a person's head in a single sweeping stroke.

And he would be grinning, showing those filed cannibal-teeth.

Kinnell knew these things. He was an imaginative guy, after all.

He didn't need anyone to draw him a picture.

"No," he whispered, suddenly conscious of his global nakedness, suddenly freezing all the way around his skin. "No, please, go away." But the footfalls kept coming, of course they did. You couldn't tell a guy like this to go away. It didn't work; it wasn't the way the story was supposed to end.

Kinnell could hear him nearing the top of the stairs. Outside the Grand Am went on rumbling in the moonlight.

The feet coming down the hall now, worn bootheels rapping on polished hardwood.

A terrible paralysis had gripped Kinnell. He threw it off with an effort and bolted toward the bedroom door, wanting to lock it before the thing could get in here, but he slipped in a puddle of soapy water and this time he did go down, flat on his back on the oak planks, and what he saw as the door clicked open and the motorcycle boots crossed the room toward where he lay, naked and with his hair full of Prell, was the picture hanging on the wall over his bed, the picture of the Road Virus idling in front of his house with the driver's side door open.

The driver's side bucket seat, he saw, was full of blood. I'm going outside, I think, Kinnell thought, and closed his eyes.

[techcrunchappcom]

New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/parishioners-in-youngstown-warren-recall-murrys-legacy-news-sports-jobs/

Parishioners in Youngstown, Warren recall Murry’s legacy | News, Sports, Jobs

Bishop George Murry, who led the six-county Youngstown Diocese for the past 13 years, has left some big shoes to fill, according to parishioners attending vigil Masses on Saturday in Youngstown and Warren.

Murry, 71, died Friday at Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital in New York, where he was briefly admitted to the cancer center. Diagnosed with a form of acute leukemia in April 2018, Murry underwent intensive chemotherapy at the Cleveland Clinic.

In July 2019, he re-entered the Cleveland Clinic for a recurrence. At that time, tests confirmed he was in remission and that doctors were not recommending a bone marrow transplant.

On May 26, Murry asked Pope Francis for permission to resign because of his health after a third recurrence of the cancer earlier this year.GRIEF AND GRATEFULNESS

“The St. Columba Parish family is deeply saddened by the death of Bishop Murry. Through his 13 years as Bishop of Youngstown, as well as through his recent illness, he has shown us how to live as a disciple of Christ. We will continue to honor his legacy in our community and our lives,” Laura L. Elder, St. Columba Parish Council Chair, said in an emailed statement.

St. Columba Cathedral is the “mother church” of the Diocese, which encompasses Mahoning, Trumbull, Columbiana, Stark, Portage and Ashtabula counties. The cathedral’s front doors are draped with black curtains, and the American flag and diocesan flag outside the diocesan offices are at half-staff and will remain so until after Murry’s funeral services Friday.

Public calling hours for Murry are 2 to 7 p.m. Thursday at St. Columba, where private funeral services will be at 1 p.m. Friday, according to Monsignor Robert Siffrin, vicar general of the Diocese. He said services have to be private because of COVID-19 social-distancing requirements, but a local television station plans to livestream the services.

Siffrin said Saturday that Murry loved people and enjoyed attending events at the various parishes.

“The hardest day of his life was the day he submitted his resignation request to the pope,” Siffrin said.

As bishop, Murry was the publisher of the diocesan newspaper, the Catholic Exponent.

Editor Pete Sheehan issued a statement as well, saying, “Like every Catholic in the Youngstown Diocese, I grieve for the loss of our leader and shepherd. As Exponent editor, I mourn for the loss of a publisher who was active, collaborative and supportive of the paper and of me — both in my capacity as editor and personally. I was also moved by his commitment to the people of the diocese. Though not a native of the Diocese, he made it his home.”

The Rev. Michael Swierz of St. Patrick Church in Hubbard said Murry often came to Lenten soup suppers at the parish.

“He would serve coffee and cookies, and then he would sit down and eat the cookies,” Swierz said.

He said parishioners always enjoyed Murry’s visits, and Murry seemed to enjoy visiting and talking with everyone.

Murry also made visits to St. Joseph the Provider School in Youngstown, where he talked and sang with the students, many of whom were not Catholic.

“He had time for everybody,” Swierz said. “Even when he wasn’t feeling good, he pushed himself. He will be missed.”

SHARING STORIES

Longtime and active St. Columba parishioner Sandra Mansour recalled baking a loaf of Easter bread for Murry every year, which she brought up during the offertory collection at Mass on Holy Thursday.

“He would always ask, ‘Is that for me?’ and I would tell him he could eat it all himself or share it,” Mansour said with a smile.

“He was the most wonderful, caring bishop I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. He was an example of how we should all be living out Christ’s example,” she said. “He can never truly be replaced, but I hope whoever is named as our new bishop is as compassionate and caring as he was.”

Parishioner Ken Giba joined St. Columba after his former parish, St. Casimir Church in the city’s Brier Hill neighborhood, closed in a diocesan reconfiguration overseen by Murry. Giba recalled the bishop attending the first-ever Polish Day hosted by Polish Youngstown at St. Anne Ukrainian Catholic Church in Austintown in 2009.

“I had to reserve a special parking place for him, so I made a sign that said ‘Parking for Bishop Murryski.’ He laughed about that and kept the sign. He told everyone there that he was Polish for the day,” Giba recalled.

He also said he sent Murry a get-well card a few months ago, and he received a “lengthy, heartfelt letter” back.

“I will cherish that letter forever,” Giba said.

Julie Kobak, who was preparing to do the readings at St. Columba on Saturday, said she was saddened to hear Murry died. She said when she heard the news, she immediately stopped working to say a prayer for him.

“I enjoyed his homilies, which were always uplifting. I learned a lot from him,” Kobak said.

Her daughters, Josie, 18, and Ella, 17, have not known another bishop because prior to Murry’s arrival in 2007, the Diocese went two years without one after former bishop Thomas Tobin left in 2005 to become bishop in Rhode Island.

Josie said Murry always had a smile on his face when he visited with the students at the diocesan schools. She said she interacted with him more as a student at Ursuline, from which she recently graduated. Ella will be a senior there in August.

Rosa Eberle, a parishioner at St. Mary Church in Warren, called Murry a “people person” pointing to his soft-spoken nature and down-to-earth attitude.

“When Father Schmalzried was sick, he came and did Mass here for us,” Eberle said.

Murry also performed the rite of confirmation at the parish, according to parish Eucharistic minister Sharon Novorsky.

“We would cook dinner for him before the Mass. So one time, we were all finished eating, he comes into the kitchen. He’s all dressed in red garments. He said, ‘Let me help you with the dishes.’ He was such a sweatheart,” Novorsky said.

Sharon’s husband, Don Novorsky, a St. Mary’s Eucharistic minister and lector, said he saw Murry when multi-parish events were held at St. Columba. Don said Murry would always recognize him and say, “Hi there! St. Mary’s, right?”

“I’m glad he didn’t linger for a long time,” Sharon said.

“It breaks your heart,” Charles T. Wolbert of Warren said. “He did so much for this area.”

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[mandeeptoor]

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[pcssessivc-blog]

surnames:

a abbott abernathy adair adams adkins alexander allen allison andersen anderson andrews archer armstrong arsenault ashby ashworth atkinson austin ayers 

b bailey bain baker baldwin ball ballard banks barnes barnett barr barrett barry bartlett barton bateman bauer beck bell bennett benson bentley benton bird bishop black blackburn blackwell blair blake bolton bond bowen bowers bowman boyd boyle bradford bradley bradshaw brady brennan brewer briggs brooks broussard brown bruce bryant buchanan buckley bullock burgess burke burnham burns burton butcher butler byrne 

c cahill caldwell calhoun callahan cameron campbell cannon cantrell carey carlson carney carpenter carr carroll carson carter carver casey cassidy castillo castro chandler chaney chapman chase chavez christian christie church churchill clancy clarke clay clayton clifford cobb cochran coffey cole coleman collier collins combs compton conley connell connolly conrad conway cook cooke cooley cooney cooper copeland corbett costello coughlin cowan cox coyle coyne craig crawford crockett cross crowley cruz cunningham curran curtis 

d daley dalton daly daniel daniels daugherty davenport davidson davies davis dawson day dean delaney dempsey devine diaz dickey dickinson dillon dixon dobson dodd doherty dolan donahue donaldson donnelly donovan dougherty douglas dowd downey doyle drake drew driscoll duckworth dudley dugan duncan dunlap dunn dwyer 

e eaton edmonds edwards egan elliott ellis emery erickson evans 

f fallon fanning farley faulkner ferguson fernandez finch finn finnegan fischer fitzgerald fitzpatrick fitzsimmons flanagan fletcher flores flynn foley forbes ford foster fowler fox franklin fraser freeman frost fry fuller 

g gallagher galloway garcia gardner garner garrett garrison garza gauthier gentry george gibbons gibbs gibson gilbert gill gillespie glass gonzales goode goodwin gordon grace grady graham grant graves gray greene greer gregory griffin griffith gunn gustafson guthrie 

h hackett hagan hahn hale haley hall halsey hamilton hammond hampton hancock hanley hanna hansen harding hardy harper harrington harris harrison hart hartley harvey hastings hatch hawkins hayden hayes haynes healy heath henderson henry hensley hernandez hewitt hickey hickman hicks higgins hill hodges hoffman hogan holbrook holden holland hollis holloway holman holmes holt hood hooper hopkins hopper horton houghton houston howard howe howell hubbard huber hudson huffman hughes hull humphrey humphries hunt hunter hurley hurst hutchinson hutchison 

i ingram 

j jackson jacobs james jamison jarvis jensen johnson jones jordan joyce 

k kane kearney keating keegan keene kehoe keith kelleher keller kelly kemp kendall kennedy kent kerr kidd kilgore kincaid king kinney kirby kirk kirkland kirkpatrick klein knight koch koenig krause 

l lacroix lafferty lake lamont lancaster lane larkin larsen law lawrence lawson leblanc lee leslie levesque lewis lindsay little lloyd lockhart long lopez love lowe lucas lynch lyons 

m macdonald macgregor mackay mackenzie mackinnon maclean macleod macmillan macpherson madden maher mahoney maldonado malloy malone maloney manning marsh marshall martin martinez mason massey matthews maurer maxwell may maynard mcallister mcbride mccabe mccaffrey mccain mccall mccann mccarthy mccartney mcclellan mcconnell mccormack mccoy mccullough mccurdy mcdaniel mcdaniel mcdermott mcdonald mcdonough mcdowell mcgrath mcgraw mcgregor mcguire mchugh mcintosh mcintyre mckay mckee mckenna mckenzie mckinley mckinney mckinnon mcknight mclain mcleod mcmahon mcmillan mcnally mcnamara mcneill mcpherson mcqueen mead meadows medina meier melton merritt meyer middleton miles miller mitchell molloy monaghan monroe montgomery moody mooney moore morales moran moreno morgan morris morrison morrow moss mueller munn munro murdock murphy murray myers 

n nash neal nelson neville newton nichols nicholson nielsen noble nolan norris north norwood 

o o'brien o'connell o'connor o'donnell o'grady o'hara o'keefe o'leary o'neal o'neill o'reilly o'rourke o'sullivan ogden oliver olson orr ortega ortiz owens 

p page palmer parker parks parrish parsons patterson patton payne pearson penn pennington pereira peters peterson phillips pierce pike piper pittman pollard pollock poole porter potter powell power powers pratt preston price prince pritchard proctor pruitt purcell putnam 

q quinlan quinn 

r rafferty ralston ramirez ramos ramsey randall rankin ray reece reed reeves regan reid reilly reyes reynolds rhodes richards richardson riley ritchie rivera roberts robertson robinson roche rodgers rodriguez rollins romero rooney rose ross rossi roth rowe roy russell russo ryan 

s salisbury sampson sanders sandoval santiago saunders sawyer schaefer schmidt schneider schofield schroeder schultz schwartz scott sears serrano sharp shaw shea sheehan shelton shepherd sheridan sherwood shields short simmons simpson sims sinclair skinner slattery sloan smart smith snow snyder somerville soto sparks spears spence spencer stack stafford stanley stanton steele stephens stevens stevenson stewart stiles stokes stone strickland strong stuart suarez sullivan sutherland sutton sweeney 

t taylor temple tennant thomas thompson thomson thornton thorpe thurston tierney tilley timmons tobin todd torres townsend trevino tucker turner 

u underwood upton 

v vance vaughan vega vogel 

w walker wallace walsh walton ward ware warner warren watkins watson weaver webb weber weeks wells welsh wentworth west whalen wheeler whitaker white wiley wilkinson williams williamson willis willoughby wilson wood woodard woodruff woods woodward wren wright wyatt 

y yates york young 

z ziegler