#also the 'five elements named after her all of which are extraordinarily difficult' thing is 100% in her favour | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonlightchess · 3 years ago

Text

a brief interlude in which a young mortician finally meets his patron saint.

(Diaphanous).

Around five years old, when he first started hearing them. Soft, muted weeping echoing lightly through the cavernous halls just beyond his bedroom door, and by ten he was accustomed to sliding out of bed, yawning, padding to his doorway to step out into the endlessly shadowed maw veining through the upstairs of his family’s home. The moaning creak of the floorboards was easily avoidable if you knew where to slide your feet, which by then he did, and he’d whisper into the dark: “You’re okay. It’s all over now, but stay as long as you need to. You’ll be getting along when you’re ready.” And even then, there was something profoundly tender and melancholy wrapping itself around little Theodore like an aura, to which the ghosts usually responded favorably. On occasion, they’d even slip into his bedroom after he climbed back into bed, gently tugging his duvet over him in thanks.

Sixteen, and Pere introduced him to the family business in the most definitive sense yet, bringing him down into the embalming room. There, he was shown how to drain the bodies, to sew their gums securely closed, to carefully apply powders and lotions to suggest sleep despite death. Pere helped him to remove the heart and lungs of a corpse in the preparation process of the old fashion, despite it having fallen out of favor in more recent years. Bellefontaine, Louisiana, lingered a decade or two behind much of the nation, in every way from embalming practices to racial sensitivity, both topics having already been addressed with young Theodore. “A person is a person, deserving of respect and love and dignity regardless of their skin, wealth, or any other such thing that the ignorant might think defines them,” Theodore senior had informed his small son firmly, long ago, meeting his midnight-blue eyes that were so solemn and sympathetic even then. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Pere.” Theodore had not understood, not entirely, back then. But at sixteen, hunched over the dead body of a local bait shop owner whose wife made the softest, sweetest beignets he’d ever tasted, clarity rose sharp and bitter. “Monsieur Dumonde,” had escaped him before he could swallow the words in the interest of professionalism. “I knew him. Used to buy worms from him when the boys wanted to go fishing, but it’s been so long. I didn’t know he was sick.”

“Everyone dies, ti-Theodore,” and he’d been in love with the way his name rolled from his father’s tongue in a thicker cajun accent than his own - tee-tay-oh-doure, Theodore junior. It was enormously soothing, even now as he considered shaving Monsieur Dumonde’s thick mustache away for his funeral - but in the end, he placed the straight razor back onto his father’s table of sharp tools, aware that his decision had been a test. “No. We leave the mustache, he always had one when he was alive. He used to tug on it and laugh at our homemade fishing poles whenever we went into his shop. His mustache was a part of him, and it’s important that we send him to the next with as much of the man he was intact as we can.” He’d been a little nervous, meeting the dusk-colored eyes that he’d inherited from his beloved father, holding his breath.

“Good boy,” and he’d exhaled. “There are many who would have shaved him, cut his hair, put on some strange new clothes he never would have chosen himself. But you, my sweet and quiet boy, you understand.”

Mere had been a dancer, once. Ballet had been her life, her identity, until a careless would-be principal prince had stumbled into her leap - during a rehearsal no less, she’d been denied even the dignity of a grand disaster to end her career in the middle of a soaringly tragic performance - and her ankle had snapped, had never healed properly. She limped a touch even then, bringing sweet tea out to their wraparound porch thick with creeping ivy and heavy flowers bursting open at random, studding the lush green like jewels in a necklace, where her teenage son sat cross-legged on a battered loveseat long since dragged out to face the elements of the swampland. Together, they would count the darting fireflies, tiny pinpricks of golden light waging a valiant war against the encroaching southern dark. “I was beautiful once,” she’d said to him. “They all used to come watch me dance, in the city.”

“You’re still beautiful, Mere.”

She’d only sighed, slipping a hand into the pocket of her pea-green silk skirt to retrieve a shot bottle of bourbon, hoarded from the liquor store in town, and poured it into her tea.

They were both gone now, six, seven years proper. He’d prepared their bodies, and in death all of his mother’s pain and longing had been exposed to him with the first incision into her cold and rigid flesh for the draining, sixty-two years of ballet and resentment filling up the glass reservoir of the tubing’s end, dark red. She’d always done up her soft, honey-colored hair into elaborate braids, draped over one shoulder or both or trailing down her back or even wound up into a twisted crown if she was in a happier mood than usual. Theodore had sat beside her, holding her stiff milky hand with his own and with the other, scrolling through youtube tutorials on how to create the perfect fishtail braid until he was confident.

Pere had gone five years after, the light in him having drained out as clear and real as every fluid in his wife’s body had eventually found its way into the belly of their aspirator in the basement. Pneumonia had taken his mother - she’d always had a poor and fragile immune system - but his father had been just shy of seventy and to this day, at thirty-two years old, Theodore had never been offered a satisfying cause of death for him. “Just his time, sug,” a nurse in powder blue scrubs had tried, patting his hand soothingly and because this was the south, “I’ll be praying for y’all - well, just you I suppose. Oh lord, you’re the only Bissonette left now, ain’tcha?”

He was. They’d left the entire mortuary to him, and with it all the responsibilities of being the local mortician and funeral director at such a tender age, and his head had at first swum dizzily with all the pressure and expectations. Theodore senior and his wife Lisette had been fixtures of their country community, familiar and comforting, always there whenever someone had passed on to arrange flowers and platters of cold cuts, to deliver gentle words to cushion the grief. They’d been known, trusted, but Theodore junior, well. Ti-Theodore Bissonette, so young to be running the whole house himself, and the folk of Bellefontaine just weren’t sure. Until the death of little Suzette Marchande.

Hit by a car, she’d been, some hideous beast driving drunk through the winding access road circling their little cajun town and pointed out toward Nola proper. He was in prison now, but Suzette remained dead, and in his huge, capable hands Theodore had poured every bit of his father’s knowledge and sensitivity into that girl. He’d dressed her in yellow, one of her own dresses supplied by her mother, but he’d also remembered that she’d loved frogs. She’d catch them in the swamp and hold them in both hands, laughing at their croaky sounds, but then she’d carefully deposit them onto some leaf somewhere. “They got big ones, in the jungle. The Amazon,” he remembered her saying when the Bissonettes had run into she and her parents in town once, years ago. “Big as cars, they are. I’m gonna go there someday and study ‘em.”

So he’d bought sparkly little green frog clips for her hair online, pinning it back from her freckled face. Her favorite stuffed froggie, named Monsieur Ourauron, Mister Ribbitt, had been lost in the crash, but he’d found one in the Amazon - or at least on amazon - that looked largely the same. When her parents had seen her during the open-casket service, they’d wept and clutched his hands, thanking him in a babbling blend of French, English and grief. That day had declared the end of one life and the beginning of another, as little Suzette had been delivered unto whatever waited after, but thirty-year-old ti-tay-oh-doure had been manifest and confirmed.

There was something to be said for how tall he was. He would have thought some would find it intimidating, difficult to relate to considering that he was six-seven or perhaps a touch over, impossibly long limbs and a hawkish nose, soft mouth borne of his Mere and his father’s nearly indigo eyes the color of a sky five minutes before the moonrise. His was soft, floppy, peanut-brown hair and a quiet timbre resonating in his voice that was immediately associated with the unthreatening sense of calm authority that his father had once carried around easy as an old sweater. Theodore would take care of everything, Bellefontaine knew. They’d be left free to grieve their lost, because he was here with his huge hands and endless legs and fleeting smile.

He lived alone, now. There had been flings, lovers, Audrey from Nola with her autumn-brown skin and fox-gold eyes, elegant and sure, but she hadn’t stayed long. “This place is charming, but you can’t actually expect to stay here all your life, can you?” she’d told him once, after the sex, the two of them naked and wrapped around each other in his sprawling bed with a gentle breeze from outside floating through his open window. She didn’t understand, and neither did the men, not even sweet Peter with his auburn curls and dimples.

“You’re all alone out here, doesn’t it get boring? Lonely? My god, you live in a mortuary.” His shiver had been all that Theodore had needed to kiss him tenderly and send him on his way. His father had been extraordinarily lucky to find Mere, he knew - so few understood, the nature of a curator of death. The ancient contract they’d signed, the tradition they’d inherited. It was sacred but horrifying to most, because everyone wanted the convenience of their holy order at the end of all things, but no one actually wanted to have to think about dying. About the fact that literally all of them, rich or poor, pious or skeptical, afraid or unafraid, was going to die. The repulsion, he understood, was instinctive, and he’d only made his lovers breakfast in the morning and never called any of them back.

Some of the ghosts never left, as it was, and there were mornings in which he’d make his way into the kitchen to find his black tea already steaming, his chair already pulled away from the table. Some of them had found their peace here with him, and so he’d leave his cello out on occasion so that they could pluck the strings or plink a few keys on his mother’s old baby grand in the living room. He was happy too, his natural introversion leaving him largely content in his solitary life. There were those who sought comfort in his touch after the funerals of their loved ones, holding onto his hands a beat too long as he bade them goodbye, meeting his eyes meaningfully, but he always released them to the hazy swamp air outside. They were hurting, vulnerable, and he was a gentleman.

It rained the night the stranger arrived, or stormed rather - Theodore’s lights had been flickering throughout the manor all night. He’d collected candles and charged his phone, but his power had soldiered on even as the thunder crashed and jagged needles of lightning slashed open the churning charcoal sky outside. He’d yanked open the heavy oak door in response to some insistent knocking, only to find a man roughly his age standing there on the porch. He was oddly untouched by the rain despite no car present behind him, moon-pale, spilled-ink hair thick and soft over limpid, silver-mirror eyes, colorless as a deep-sea creature’s, slicing through the dark.

“Saints alive, are you lost? Are you all right?” The man, he didn’t know personally, but a truth and clarity rolled from him like steam off the swamp, and he felt enormously familiar somehow.

“I wouldn’t say lost, no. May I come in?” His voice, soft and polite, still clear and steady over the storm.

“Yes, forgive me. Please.” He stepped aside, watching him enter, translucent eyes sweeping over the yawning, shadowed maw of the grand old manor’s entryway. “Who are you? I’m sorry, but I’m not taking in any bodies until morning.”

“I understand. Terribly sorry to intrude upon your evening like this, but you and I, we have a matter to discuss.” His accent was not local, nor was it unfamiliar. It felt like a forgotten dream, abruptly remembered, an old song once loved playing on the radio years later.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, Sir. Have you been to one of my funerals?”

“Sweet Theodore, I have been to all of them.”

“I don’t understand.”

The stranger clasped his hands behind his back, idle as a museum patron, gazing thoughtfully up to the enormous and heavily framed oil paintings of Bissonettes past lining the walls of the entryway. “It’s my fault for allowing myself to become so fond of you, but you’ve never really understood just how rare a person you are, have you Theodore? I shouldn’t have come here, but I had no choice. I couldn’t let you leave here tonight, that tree would have rendered your car to a smoking wreck and your body to worse. And you, sweet Theodore, you deserve so much better. After all the respect and care and compassion you have shown so unfailingly to myself and my vocation over the years - I’ve come to love you, and you deserve a soft and quiet end. So much sweeter than the one planned for you, I had to make sure you didn’t die in that crash. I had to come here, on this night. For all your kindness, tonight I will be kind to you.”

Drunk, perhaps. Some sauced-up tourist stumbling through the bayou after a bar crawl, but - this far from the city proper? “I’m afraid that you’re still losing me, will you please tell me who you are?”

He turned then, colorless gaze meeting Theodore’s, an echo of sorrow in his faint smile.

“You know who I am.”

In the end, it was true. He supposed at least a part of him had known from the moment he’d opened the door.

“I do. I didn’t think I’d meet you this young in life, but I’m pleased to find you a gentleman, Sir. I can only hope that in the time you’ve allowed me, I’ve done you proud.”

“You and your whole dear family. You don’t know how much I owe you, all of you. You would have lingered, in pain, on life support, for months. It was unbearable, unacceptable. Not you, not my Theodore who has served me so gently and so diligently for so much of your life.”

“I suppose it’s time, then.” He was not afraid. Death, he knew. He’d existed out here in a kind of stasis for years, honoring his patron saint, the man standing before him in a soft black sweater and reaching out to slip an arm through his.

“It is. But I think the storm is winding to a close, and the mists are always so lovely. Why don’t we go see.”

Nodding, Theodore allowed himself to be led to the door, turning briefly to look back just one last time into his beautiful old house, his shrine to a softer death than most knew existed. He’d always done his best, to make the transition as easy as possible for those on their way to some other place, and now it was time to go.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not for you, no.” The stranger opened the door then, and Theodore couldn’t be sure that the new world laid before him looked the same to both of them, but he smiled at what he saw.

“You were right. It’s beautiful.”

The house and the ghosts left wandering its halls signed in unison with the departure of their beloved Theodore, but the rain had slowed and the moon had risen and they were patient enough to wait a while. Someone would come, someone as warm and bright as him, someone who would take care of them as tenderly as he had, some new Theodore born. In the end, after all, nothing ever really died, and daylight was coming on soon, sure as a promise.

#writeblr #writing #my writing #fantasy #death #louisiana #i'm still feeling shy about my writing but i'm completely obsessed with this character right now #just a little something i hope y'all like it

16 notes · View notes

straykatfish · 5 years ago

Text

Where can you see Banksy, Damien Hurst, Grayson Perry, Sir Peter Blake, Bob Dylan, Ronnie Wood, and Billy Connolly originals within a few yards of each other in right-on-the-street galleries? Yesterday*, a friend and I went to Brighton.

*Yesterday is now several weeks ago, life having got between me and this write-up.

Castle Fine Art Gallery

Castle Fine Art is right slap bang in the middle of Brighton near The Lanes, and my goodness I had not expected to see so many originals by ‘names’ from both art and show business. First though were these metal sculptures, each of them different and but one based on the Michelangelo painting ‘Creation of Adam’ c. 1511. By Dan Lane, this one – Modern Relic Arms | Creation of Man – is intricately embellished and looks like the metal or burnished leather of protective armoury. They seem almost wearable.

I found these less attractive, rather saccharine in fact.

I am not really a fan of celebrity-based art, so much of it seems essentially derivative and harking back to those Marilyn Monroe prints by Andy Warhol. Those were nearly sixty years ago, these feel like 21st century children dressed in the same clothes as their great grandparents. There were plenty of them so presumably they sell.

I have no idea what this represents – the ascent of man atop a corkscrew? The title is Devolution and so I am assuming a reference to the impact of alcohol. Perhaps the final figure, swigging from the bottle, is about to fall off the edge.

These are also by Nic Joly who seems to be a statements man. I was interested at first in the ‘shop window’ presentation – the piece of art sitting on a platform behind glass as though it would be taken out and wrapped separately for sale. It’s usually the little item in the window you buy, not the shop or its window.

Astonishingly, these are by Bob Dylan who took to illustrating his own songs. Seeing these first, I rather wished he hadn’t. The paintings, on an adjacent wall, I thought were redemptive.

I am a sucker for some drama in colour, and I’m coming to realise that I also favour broad horizons and associated horizontals in landscapes. I believe this comes from watching The Bridge where the production values ran to extraordinarily cinematographic visuals.

This painting is full of difficult perspectives and planes – the foreground is more or less straight on, the bridge runs from a high close left to a low distant right, and the clouds head very slightly along the other diagonal. So much trouble to get into, making those convincing.

And here’s another with all kinds of tilts and diagonals, all of them ending in a focal point behind the white building which is the only element (almost) straight on vertical and horizontal.

I hadn’t noticed at the time but Dylan must really have a thing about bridges. This one links two tall and intimidating buildings made less so by being quite jauntily coloured.

Sometimes when I look at something, my first thought is that it’s a cheap shot – fur coat and no knickers, as the phrase went in my northern upbringing. It meant all show with nothing substantial underneath although it sometimes seemed to have a more literal application. This is one of those; an original-ish idea with an original-ish execution, and a wholly unoriginal message. Even the artist’s name is a cover – Alex Echo? Really?

These, on the left, are by Paul Kenton who uses an aluminium base for his work – something that was a bit of a theme in a number of other galleries. Aluminium is this season’s go-to support which suggests that using it next year may not be a good move. As for these, again the magpie in me was attracted to the colours while my inner beginner artist fretted over the perspectives I struggle with.

The gallery was very accomodating with regard to photographing their exhibition. The only exclusion was Ronnie Wood’s work, Wood having placed that constraint in the contract. When I asked out of curiosity why that was, the reason seemed to be related to the layers in the works that would not photograph well by visitors, especially through glass, and looking carefully at these elements, I could see his point. There are patches and squares in the mix, textures and scrubbings of colour that would not resolve easily under the casual lens. I don’t know how he made the images and neither did the person I asked. I also don’t know how to judge them. I liked them but are they ‘good’? And by what standard? Would they have achieved prominence if Ronnie Wood had never been a Rolling Stone? Big questions.

Kellie Miller Gallery

No photography was allowed in this gallery, other than of the 3D (ceramic) pieces which I didn’t find very interesting.

There were some intriguing pieces which appeared to be digital/photographic although the artist had said they were neither. There were no clues as to what the artist’s method might be but if I were to set an anchor point, it would be the colours, size, and orientation of the Kenton pieces above. These are far less direct though; with elements emerging from shadows and shapes resolving only on close inspection. There is a hint of collage but no real indication of that additional slight depth or texture. Perhaps he made these items physically and then printed them so that all the tiny bumps were ironed out. I realise now, too late, that being unable to take a photo means I should take a note, at least of the artist’s name, and I didn’t. When I go back to a new exhibition, I will remind myself that notes were what we made before we made Facebook posts.

The exhibits in a nearby gallery were very varied with some, I thought, verging on the amateur. I’m aware of taking a judgmental stance here that has an unedifying strand of superior attitude beneath it. It requires some thought to recognise that, like fiction, it’s possible to recognise something of quality (although how I judge that is a mystery to me) that I may not like, and to like something that I regard as being targeted at ‘the popular market’. Snobbery? Maybe, but creative products are all judged and the measures we use differ according to our understanding, experience, and motivations. As with Ronnie Wood’s work, I wonder if some accrue value because they have a name while other – better? – works are passed over due to their lack of profile.

These pieces seemed to me to be appealing to a less savvy – some might argue, a less easily fooled – audience. Wall pictures in nice colours that could seem sophisticated. That said, I would be delighted to have something hanging in there because I can be as hypocritical as anyone else with a product to shift.

Art Republic

Art Republic is a different matter altogether and without knowing whose work was on show, I immediately felt that here, quality took precedence. The Brighton branch is in Bond Street which is again in the Lanes, and just inside the doors were original pieces by Banksy, Peter Blake, Damien Hirst, and Grayson Perry. This is a street. In a town centre. You just walk in. To say I was taken aback is putting it mildly.

Peter Blake, I think, and while it’s easy to dismiss as ‘just’ alphabet bricks in primary colours, these are designed bricks carefully assembled and mounted in an impactful array. I gather they could be purchased separately.

I have no idea who made these but the first struck me for its Hockney-ish colours and subject matter, it’s 1960s Hollywood gloss, and the feel it has of an advert for the aspirational lifestyle. Americans had walk-in fridges before we had fridges at all, we saw them in TV shows while we kept our milk, butter, and cheese in a larder under cloth covers. These were different worlds.

The one beneath is striking for very different reasons – the metallic appearance of the dogs, the stark singular images on the dark ground, the lead of one being held by the other. But look, the one whose lead is being held als has hold of it, and her ears are up, she looks assertive and in control. The other, still holding the far end of the lead, has her ears down and seems to be considering whether or not she has the power over the other dog that she’d imagined. But their coat patterns are flowers; are the dogs are decorative? Statement dogs left to look after each other?

These were being unwrapped when we visited and even though I was given permission to take a photograph them, I decided on an angular shot to defeat plagiarists. This artist – and here we are again, anonymous due to my note-taking deficiencies – places modernistic features in classical style so here are people who seem to come from a film poster but with Brighton pier in the background and cherubic forms in the sky. He also adds dabs of gold colour onto the prints as a final touch. Here, it’s highlighting chips being stolen by Brighton’s ubiquitous and opinionated sea gulls.

Top: Grayson Perry’s detailed, line-based, ambiguous naked figure in a domestic setting full of clutter. It’s like a cartoon; one of those where you have to find the five baskets or ten pieces of fruit. I’m not certain, but it may have become one of the tapestries he produced for a TV documentary a while ago.

By Ian Davenport, this attracted me because it seemed to be taking the mick out of Hirst spots. I have no idea if that’s true, but I like to think there was a subversive plot afoot here. I also like the randomness of the drips and dribbles, to me far preferable to Hirst’s dotted regularity.

Joe Webb’s Transmission shows two lads, looking like young Bowies, using the tin-can-and-string method of communication so many of us thought we’d invented as 1950s kids. Who knew that within our lifetimes we would be watching men walk on the moon and, right now, the Mars 2020 rover being built and live-streamed from NASA’s clean room. This image makes that point, I think.

I asked the gallery staff about this and the use by the artist of Banksy’s images in this piece which is actually an expanded folding card. It seems he, Patrick Hughes, knew or worked with a mentor to the group known now as the Young British Artists (YBAs) at Goldsmiths college, who then approached Banksy for permission. I should have asked then if anyone could confirm Banksy is male. There can be no better disguise than everyday sexism – who pays any attention to a woman scoping out suitable walls to paint on?

Damien Hirst: in contrast to his spots and dots but clearly along similar lines, this depiction of drugs – pills and capsules – all in black and sitting on glass shelves as if they were shoes on display in a shop seems to point to a commodifying of illness. As a piece of imagery, I think the perspectives and tilted lines, the effect making the mirrored images more prominent lower in the picture and doubling the quantity of pills, has a dramatic effect. I was drawn to it without knowing whose it was, which tells me something about judgment and the internal wrestling that goes on for me about quality versus market price. I saw quality here before I saw market value in a name.

What to say about Soozy Lipsey’s Dead Mice Bunch! For me it was an antidote to some of the more saccharine floral images I had seen in galleries elsewhere, and as a bonus has a skillful combination of line, texture, and a simple limited palette. I might have been tempted to buy that.

Yep, that’s our man – or woman!

By Euan Roberts, I’m really not sure what this is about but it seems to be saying something about being simultaneously trapped and not in need of assistance – the moon waving not drowning? Who knows, but it has the clean look of a postcard you might write a cryptic message on the back of and send to a knowing friend.

Peter Blake reprising his Sgt Pepper format. At the top is BBC1, and the bottom BBC2. They look like a point in time of popular programming.

Unfortunately, even with zoom I can’t make out the name of the artist but in fact what had intrigued me was the application of colour: the scratches and runs held together by one or two precise marks that contain them. When I can’t get these colours myself, it’s helpful to know that some, like Klimt, use gold leaf.

Magnus Gjoen: The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape. These look like a form of applique but the artist doesn’t give his technique away. There’s the Victoriana/modern warfare juxtaposition and also, as the title suggests, the knowledge we all have that big money often drives wars. If you are a maker of arms, they will please you when another power likes the look and buys them from you.

I think the card on these top pieces reads Dan Hillier. Photographic, Pythonesque, surreal, with striking diagonals of negative space. I don’t know if they’re drawn, or if they are whether they’re physical or digital but there is an intricacy of pattern and the two together make a separate composition. You would have to have both.

There were other galleries but none that offered the qualities of the ones I have described here. There are many more; Brighton has modern and traditional within walking distance of each other and interspersed with as many coffee shops and restaurants as you can manage. My plan is to visit Kellie Miller and Art Republic again soon, plus some of the ones we didn’t have time for, including the Pavilion which I last visited ‘back when god were a lad’.

Brighton of course, is a gallery in itself.

Footnote: at every gallery I asked about their photography policy before looking at any of the exhibits. Without exception, they were accommodating and clear. Only one had an exclusion and that was on the artist’s instruction.

Brighton galleries Where can you see Banksy, Damien Hurst, Grayson Perry, Sir Peter Blake, Bob Dylan, Ronnie Wood, and Billy Connolly originals within a few yards of each other in right-on-the-street galleries?

#Art Republic #brighton

0 notes

angelofdirewolves · 7 years ago

Text

Underneath the Stars Part 4

Rating: M

Word Count: 2194

Art by @sagelynaive

The first few days were, as Keith would later reflect, surprisingly not as awkward as they could have been. It seemed that the other Paladins and the Alteans were either able to forget or ignore the fact that Keith had lied to them as long as he’d known them and that Jenny was related to Zarkon.

Things settled into a pattern, where in the morning Jenny, Pidge, Hunk, and Coran when he couldn’t be spared from Castle-Ship repairs, would head down to the Green Lion’s Hanger. It had essentially become Pidge’s lab since the day that the five Paladins had arrived on the ship, and it served all of them as such now.

They were working on combining the BLIP tech that had come standard with the Castle, with the map of the universe (complete with Galra occupied planets), with a DNA scanner, and were dabbling in Pidge’s Galra finder program, in an attempt to engineer something that could help them narrow down Aoife’s location from all the disparate places it could be. From what Keith and Lance could tell from looking in at the four of them from across the hanger, it seemed to be going decently well.

Keith and Lance were decidedly at loose ends for the majority of the time, and Lance wouldn’t put up with more time spent in the training deck after almost three months of Keith and Allura, fighting nuts that they were, being in charge.

Keith, in turn, was absolutely not putting up with Lance’s attempts at humor without a buffer, and as both Shiro and Allura were occupied with catching Shiro up with everything that had happened when he had been gone and with planning the liberation of the universe, the two of them weren’t inclined to humor the two loose end’s bickering.

So the Blue and Very-Relieved-To-Be-Red-Again Paladins wound up sharing the Green Hangar with the Science Squad (Lance’s term, not Keith’s.)

All eight of them would reconvene for dinner, which was invariably the goo, because Hunk couldn’t leave the project long enough to cook, and everyone else simply refused to eat Coran’s cooking. Dinner would consist of a discussion of what had been managed that day, and then they would spilt up for the evening. Pidge would trail Shiro wherever he went after dinner, Allura and Coran would occasionally join them, but would more frequently head off in their own direction.

Hunk and Lance, as Keith had been repeatedly informed by Lance, would then head off for “Bro time. Inviolable and sacrosanct.” Keith suspected this meant Hunk was listening to Lance complain about Keith, and then Lance listening to Hunk complain about the problems in their projects.

As for Jenny and Keith, they settled back into their routine from whenever they had managed to snatch any free time, despite the five year gap between the two of their experiences.

They would find a place to sit, a couch, one of their beds, or just a pleasant corner of a hallway and sit down together, splitting the laptop between them and watch an episode or two of one of Amanda’s favorite TV shows, or listen to some of her music, or read a chapter of Lord of the Rings for the thousandth time. It was the only book she had on there, because it was her work laptop that had been brought with her, and she could have audio or video on there to play in the background while working, but having reading material was more frowned upon. Still Amanda had kept Lord of the Rings, well and Sansúkh, but that was more an extension of the book than anything else. The two of them had grown up with that book, and all three of them had picked pseudonyms from it.

Ancalagon for Aoife in invocation of the dragon’s and its master’s fate, Angmar for Keith in protest at being the only man aboard their ship, and Glaurung for Jenny to pick a dragon’s name like her mother did, and in the bitter irony of his nickname.

More often than not, the next morning would find the pair asleep, collapsed into each other in a way that Keith was sure would be described as a “puppy pile” if any of the others saw it, the same way they’d so often slept as kids. Considering how much everything had changed, it was a relief that at least this much stayed the same. That they were still close enough that they could sleep coiled up next to each other, and sleep peacefully at that.

Keith slept better next to Jenny than he had slept in the months Shiro had been gone, and he was fairly convinced that she slept better than when she’d been alone too.

Although Keith would later be relieved at how normal the others had taken the introduction of Jenny to their company, it didn’t mean that there weren’t moments of complication and tension.

Take, for example, what had happened the first time Jenny was offered food offhand by Hunk on the way to the Hanger-lab. The ensuing panic attack on Jenny’s part had taken Keith a while to soothe, especially when Hunk and Pidge were staring at her as if she’d lost her mind.

It takes Keith dozens of reassurances that the food is freely given, that there are no strings that are given along with the food, that they can share the food if that will make her feel better. (It’s only a small serving because it was intended as a snack to tide one over until dinner. Keith heads her off again before dinner and explains again that there is no trap accompanying the food, that she doesn’t need to fear, that it’s not like so many times they’d run into those who would give seemingly freely and then take more that could be given in return. She spends the entire dinner picking off his plate anyway, too scared to take her own.)

So, Keith is still extraordinarily tense when Allura speaks up at dinner the third day after Shiro’s return.

“Your mother,” she says, looking up from her tablet to direct her words at Jenny as the Galra girl picks at the plate before her. “You mentioned that she took medication that she no longer had access too. Do you happen to know what it is? Or was?” She finishes after a moment. “If it was entered in the Castle’s systems, we should be able to replicate it. Replication of medical materiel was well within the range of the Castle’s abilities at full power, and the infirmary has maintained less damage than most of the ship has amidst all the various attacks, so we should be able to have some of her medicine on hand once we locate her.”

It takes Keith’s brain a few seconds longer than Jenny’s to process that, because her face goes from confused and slightly concerned to elated by the time that Allura’s speech is finished. “The base medicine is two parts Dalexial juice, to one part serotonin, to one part alprazolam.”

That’s enough for Keith’s brain to go into hyperdrive and realize that there’s a possibility that Aoife can come back to them, and to get her the medicine she needs to be stable. He watches Allura with wide eyes as she types into the tablet, looking through the Castle’s systems for the components.

“Well, the serotonin and the alprazolam are entered into our systems, but the, the Dalexial juice, I’m not sure if I spelled it right. It’s saying that it’s not there, but it could be a mistake on the spelling rather than a lack of presence.” The princess passes the tablet over to Keith who enters it into the search function Allura’d had it open to, fighting to keep the others from seeing how his hands are trembling.

The search brings up no results. They don’t have it.

He passes it back to Allura and shakes his head. He can feel the happy energy leaving Jenny from next to him as she speaks, “Well, at least you have the serotonin and alprazolam. The better supplements typically had one or the other, so the fact that you have both is going to be an undeniable improvement.” He can hear her fighting to put the best possible spin on it.

It doesn’t work. The serotonin and the alprazolam are important elements yes, but the Dalexial was the thing that tied them both together and made them fit with Aoife’s peculiar science experiment of a brain. It also happened to be the most expensive element, because Dalexial fruit only grew on its small native planet and any attempt to make it grow elsewhere just killed the seedlings.

The only reason that Aoife had been able to get so much of it as a kid was that she was the princess of a universe spanning empire. As a refuge from the Galra empire, she hadn’t been able to get her hands on it at all.

“How difficult is this Dalexial to get?” Shiro asked. “It’s not as if travel time would be much of an issue with the teludav.”

“Very.” Keith replies, word dead in his mouth.

“It only grows on one planet, deep in Galra territory. It’s prohibitively expensive and spoils too fast to be shipped outside of the Empire.” Jenny’s evidently decided that the forced cheeriness isn’t something that she can maintain.

“The serotonin and alprazolam will help Aoife. The Dalexial is just a bonus.” Keith knows that his voice is unconvincing, but right now, he needs them to drop this topic. Aoife will have help, but it’ll still be imperfect. Just like everything else in their lives.

Hunk provides a welcome distraction.

“Allura, you said that the Castle can replicate medical materiel. Would that extend to something like blood for transfusions, or would that be outside that scope?”

Allura’s face screws up thinking, and she turns to Coran, “I believe transfusions would be possible. There’d need to be some prerequisites, the species being registered in the databanks, and possibly a DNA sample. Coran, would you know any better?”

Coran pulled at his moustache, “I believe that if the DNA was available to the Castle, then it would be able to replicate a person’s blood for a transfusion if the cryopods weren’t working.”

Hunk smiles, the cat with a canary smile that Keith hasn’t seen since Olkarion. “If that would work, then I think that solves some of the problems that we,” gesturing to the science squad, “Were having.”

Pidge sits up straight from where she’d been slumped over her food goo. “That would, wouldn’t it.” At everyone else’s blank looks she looks over the rims of her glasses like they’re being idiots. It’s an unsurprisingly familiar expression.

“One of the only problems we were having, and why we were dabbling with the Galra finder at all, was that because we didn’t have an exact sample of Aoife’s DNA, we were going to have to take a sample from Jenny and use the scanner to find all the people with DNA commonalities in the universe. When we use it to find Matt and my Dad, it won’t be as much of a problem, because there’s only four places that’d have people with DNA overlap. Where I am, where Matt is, where Dad is, and whole bunch where Earth is.” She pauses for a few moments, to sip at her space juice.

“But because Aoife has so many different species blended into her DNA, there would be a possibility of several thousand matches, depending on how much DNA commonality that she shared with Jenny and with other people of other species. So we’d have to use some algorithm to pare down the search results.”

“But,” Hunk takes over for the Green Paladin, who now looks slightly winded. “If we could have the Castle generate a blood sample from Aoife, a perfect 100% match, then we could run it through the scanner as it is, and we’d only get two results. Right here, and wherever Aoife is.”

“Grandmother had all her work on the laptop that Mama left with me.” Jenny says, breathless with renewed excitement. “She created Mama’s DNA strand on it, and we didn’t touch any of Grandmother’s work stuff, only her media files. It should still be on there, and we can enter that into the Castle.”

“And the Castle’s able to generate a blood sample from that.” Coran finishes for Jenny, before all of the science squad make to stand up and get started immediately.

Allura halts them and bids them all to finish their dinner first. “It wouldn’t do,” she reprimands, “for you all to work yourselves to exhaustion. Finish eating, and then you may head to make a blood sample with the Castle’s systems.”

If Keith knows Jenny and the rest at all, he can tell that the after-dinner period is going to just be more work and no rest. Leaving him to spend more time with Lance when the other teen hasn’t been allowed a chance to vent about Keith’s ‘annoying mullet.’

Spit. This will not end well.

PREV - current - NEXT

1 note · View note

rebelthroughreading-blog · 6 years ago

Text

The Color of Earth by Kim Dong Hwa

Young Ehwa is beginning to learn about her body and sexuality as she ages and develops through the seasons.

Quick Information

price: $11.83

number of pages: 320

ISBN: 978-1596434585

publisher and date: First Second; First American Edition 2009

author’s website: https://us.macmillan.com/author/donghwakim/

genre: juvenile fiction, graphic novel

main subjects: coming of age, mothers and daughters, love

Plot

As young Ehwa moves through her life, she slowly but surely begins to see the blossoming woman she will become when she is older. As she ages and develops, with the help of her mother and her neighbors, she begins to learn about her body and feelings, exploring the beauty of nature and sexuality. As her story progresses, her mother, a widow who owns the local tavern, too deals with the issues of sexuality as she is a single woman who never remarried after the death of her husband. Searching for love, she and her daughter grow together preparing for a day when both may be women ready for new love.

Who’s reading it?

Written on a 9-12 grade level, the same ages would be interested in the story.

Why did I read it?

Anime and manga are highly influential and appealing genres in art mediums. Young adults who do not read anything read manga, because they watched one anime or the other and were infatuated. There is something about the art style and stories that captures the attention of many readers. In the manga style, The Color of Earth offered a slow-paced, coming of age story that could only be told through the gentle glide of a picture journey. The art was gorgeous and the message powerful, which made it hard to ignore.

Evaluation

Ehwa’s story is a coming of age tale unlike others. Instead of learning about herself and growing up in that she no longer is childish, the readers see the side of her that comes from her literal body development. She does not just mature in mind but in body as well. She sees things readers may not expect her to understand at such a young age, and though a bit frightening, is a powerful story element when considering who she is and who she will be in her future.

As the story begins, Ehwa is only nine years old. She is innocent, unaware, and confused. She sees her friends, two boys, in a peeing contest to see who has the longer range. When they see her, they talk of their gochoos, the nicer way of talking about their privates, and their sizes. Ehwa does not understand why her two neighbors have one and she does not, and upset that she is deformed, runs home in the rain. She asks her mother, and her mother explains that only boys have those and women have something far more valuable and secret that they can never share until they are ready. As the years go by, Ehwa experiences new things that make her question herself and her life, she comes home in the rain, and inquires of her new knowledge to her mother who always concedes to Ehwa’s curiosity and corrects and elaborates her daughter’s thoughts. Always, Ehwa finds the rain, and always, Ehwa grows more into a woman. The rain is only one of many of the imagery uses throughout the story.

Ehwa is still a child throughout the entire book. Though she is developing into a woman, she still makes childish mistakes and chooses her actions through childish logic. She tells white lies about her purpose of being somewhere and is embarrassed and unsure of what to do when caught. She sneaks a peak at Bongsoon’s privates when offered to her despite knowing it is wrong, because she cannot help herself but to do so. In order to become a woman, she must first pass through the phase of being a child. So often, books go straight from one stage to the other and forget that the journey is long and continuous.

Ehwa’s mother, a widowed tavern owner, has not remarried or found love since the death of her husband. Many of the neighboring men go to the tavern regularly and tease her relentlessly for the single life that she leads, wishing loudly that they could sleep with her or at least with anyone who is not their wives. She always ignores them but remains content to know that they are wrong about her. She does, however, find love in a traveling salesman who is an artist as well. He makes her happy despite only being around every so often and never staying long. Ehwa sees her mother’s longing for him, and wishes that the Picture Man, as she has named him, would stay longer to keep her mother happier. Only a few years after having begun her journey through her sexuality does she understand the feelings for which her mother has for the Picture Man.

Despite being a translation, the words are beautifully chosen. Each create a picture in the mind resembling the softness of flowers and gentle breezes. Ehwa’s journey is not hectic or crazy but a steady-moving stream with occasional bumps but nothing extraordinarily unruly. She flows from one scene to the next like a poem. Her words too reflect the poetic nature of her life. Her mother is wise as is the Picture Man. Each time they speak, they speak truths that will help Ehwa with her life as she develops into a young lady. She listens carefully, understands as much as she is able with her knowledge capabilities, and learns through others.

The Issues

sexual content and suggestion

The entire book is centered on numerous sexual suggestions and explicit sexual content. The first panel of the first page are two beetles having sex. Within the first few pages, two boys not only pee out in the open where Ehwa can see them but the art shows their penises. Ehwa often looks at herself, something that the readers too see. The readers see her mother naked several times and once when beginning an amorous evening with the Picture Man. When the children are older, a girl shows a boy her private area several times. At another point, one boy is openly masturbating in front of Ehwa and chases after her as he propositions her to do the same as the other girl and show him her “persimmon seed.”

So why should we read it?

Ehwa learns at an appropriate pace for her. She does not have one journey set over the course of a few days, weeks, or even a year. Instead, the book takes place over five years. She slowly learns what she needs to know in order to keep living her life without being held back by important information about herself that she does not yet understand. She has to see her mother’s naked body in order to understand her own. She has to see others’ transgressions and indecent behavior in order to truly comprehend the gravity of the situation. She uses what she sees to learn about the world for the better. She can only learn by taking in all of this information, the same as all young adults.

How can we use it?

This book answers so many questions that young girls have about their ever-changing bodies. This is an alternative to The Body Book that no teen wants to read anyway. Reading something like this that makes the changes seem beautiful as opposed to gross and ugly can help young adults come to terms with what is happening to their bodies and their minds. Budding sexuality can be difficult to handle with the surge of hormones, confusing and often contradicting thoughts, and the literal pain of life surging to recreate itself inside someone who is not prepared. The illustrations add to the perception of natural and beautiful. Every picture shows the juxtaposition of a beautiful girl with the beautiful nature around her. She is always compared to the flowers and plants that bring life to the world.

Booktalk Ideas

Ehwa and her mother are extremely close. They often speak on intimate terms about their sexuality as Ehwa grows. Does her mother ever explain too much for such young ears? Does she not explain enough and potentially is causing her inevitable trouble?

Ehwa is compared to flowers the majority of the book. Other things compared to flowers are women’s sexuality, Spring, and the young monk’s bald head and gray clothes. What do all of these things have in common? What is different? Why would the monk also be compared to flowers when everything else is feminine in nature?

What else can I read?

Spring Awakening by Frank Wedekind

Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan

Awards and Lists

YALSA’s Great Graphic Novels for Teens list in 2010

TLA’s Maverick Graphic Novels List

Booklist’s Top 10 Graphic Novels for Youth

Professional Reviews

Francisca Goldsmith (2009), Booklist - http://go.galegroup.com.libaccess.sjlibrary.org/ps/i.do?&id=GALE|A202484443&v=2.1&u=csusj&it=r&p=LitRC&sw=w

Karen Coats (2009), Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books - https://muse-jhu-edu.libaccess.sjlibrary.org/article/266208

#kim dong hwa #young adult #coming of age #graphic novel #comic #sexuality #women #developing #mothers and daughters #love #self love #korea #manga #YA #female #female main character

0 notes

webpostingpro-blog · 8 years ago

Text

New Post has been published on Webpostingpro

New Post has been published on https://webpostingpro.com/ipl-2017-fantasy-tips-updated-srh-vs-gl-and-mi-vs-kkr-2/

IPL 2017 Fantasy Tips (updated): SRH vs GL and MI vs KKR

With Mustafizur Rahman nevertheless not available for selection, the Sunrisers Hyderabad have genuinely no purpose to exchange their playing XI. The controversial picks – Moises Henriques, Ben Slicing, and Rashid Khan – all did greater than sufficient to justify their spot. The Lions, however, confirmed why I stated they are a bottom 4 crew this yr.

The first-class they might do is drop considered one of their distant places bats – most probably, James Roy – for James Faulkner/Andrew Tye, which isn’t always going to have tons of an impact, either. As referred to inside the preceding Lions’ article, their remote places bats are extraordinarily prone to exceptional spin bowling, which changed into proved via Kuldeep Yadav at Rajkot. It could be worse had they hung on to one of the many possibilities that Raina provided and Sunil Narine been his usual self. Sunrisers have an equally capable bowling attack to exploit this weakness.

If Rashid Khan receives his length right these days, the game might be over very quickly for the Suresh Raina-led aspect. Bhuvneshwar Kumar’s new ball skill could be a threat, too. Upload Ashish Nehra, Bipul Sharma, Moises Henriques and Ben Cutting to it, you will have as desirable an aid cast as you may ask for.Myth Elements: Shikhar Dhawan, Moises Henriques, and Yuvraj Singh – all regarded in good touch inside the suit in opposition to RCB, however, you can’t deliver all of them, can you? Henriques is if he’s one of the five most important bowling options, but by using the looks of it, he sincerely isn’t. With Rohit Sharma suffering for shape

Robin Uthappa’s demotion, Ambati Rayudu’s injury and the unavailability of Indian batsmen like Murali Vijay and Virat Kohli, Dhawan and Yuvraj come again into contention. Between the two, Dhawan is both less expensive and bats better up the order, so I’ve determined to go with him. This in shape, in particular, ought to provide huge returns, given how badly the Lions bowled towards KKR.Rashid Khan’s leg-spin will be too much to handle for the Lions, and therefore I convey him in as nicely. The best Lions’ player who’s well worth selecting is Suresh Raina, however, I will carry him to his subsequent sport and he wasn’t precisely at ease in opposition to the Knight Riders both

IPL Laser Therapy: Learn the Pros and Cons of IPL Laser Therapy

Without question lasers and various light-emitting devices can help reduce signs of aging and fade symptoms of sun damage. With so many IPL laser processes available, understanding the fundamentals about each is crucial to making the fine decision to your worries.ipl laser treatment

A Complex Subject matter

The topic of lasers, intense pulse mild (IPL), or different varieties of pores and skin resurfacing is Complex. If you’ve been doing your homework, you’ve got probably determined a middle of complicated, technical information that is tough to decipher. Determining which IPL laser or mild treatment to get may be further Complex by way of entrepreneurs making unrealistic claims and promises. So, it is important to find a dermatologist who’s clean about the pros and cons and about the enhancements you could expect to peer.

Two Styles of strategies

Lasers and IPL laser remedies are both ablative or non-ablative. Non-ablative treatments goal the decrease layers of pores and skin, at the same time as ablative treatments target both the floor and the lower layers of pores and skin. The system you pick out depends on the effects you’re searching out and what kind of threat you’re willing to take.

Ablative lasers can:

Make a good sized distinction in the appearance of wrinkles, significantly fade pores and skin discolorations, erase years of sun harm by replacing broken skin with healthier pores and skin. Risks from ablative procedures include:

Swelling, scabbing, oozing, bleeding, flaking, redness, large inflammation that calls for an extended time to heal, and long-time period pores and skin discoloration and scarring. After ablative laser treatment, the pores and skin oozes, bleeds, and crusts. It takes approximately Two weeks earlier than you will look even vaguely ordinary. In case you chose an ablative treatment, observe post-op care commands cautiously. Inconsistency or incomplete care can cause infection, postpone restoration, and increase inflammation.

Non-ablative resurfacing inclusive of IPL laser therapy has none of the facet outcomes associated with ablative resurfacing. But, it doesn’t produce the same dramatic outcomes as ablative resurfacing does. And a couple of remedies are required for the maximum important final results. The gain for non-ablative resurfacing is its minimum downtime.

Non-ablative lasers can:

Dispose of a few pores and skin discolorations, improve and potentially remove redness, enhance minor wrinkles and first-class lines, and stimulate collagen manufacturing after repeated remedies. Risks from non-ablative approaches encompass:

Why Transforming IAM To CIAM Is An Asymptotic Fantasy

It has been greater than 1/2 a decade due to the fact that people are looking to understand the principles of IAM and cIAM. There is very less consciousness about identification control and it is able to be hard to apprehend the difference between eIAM (agency identification and get right of entry to control) and cIAM (customer identity and access management). It’s been quite a long term in view that people are looking to clean the difference among eIAM and cIAM, however, all efforts appeared worthless. So, let’s make things clearer and permit’s be on the same grounds. The writing at the wall is formidable and clean.

“It is difficult to transform eIAM to cIAM”

Do you need to recognize why? There are a few data which I’m going to display however before that permit’s brush up a few identity management concepts.

Identity: Described

Anything which enables to identify yourself in a bodily world can be termed as identity. Typically, government Id cards are used for satisfying the cause. As a result, an identity card is issued for the reason of allowing a few privileged get admission to a rightful character and it can be utilized in diverse segments of society.

Digital identity: Defined

Virtual identity is your on-line reputation. It enables to discover yourself as someone in the real world. someone may additionally have multiple Virtual identities in keeping with his or her needs. however, Virtual identities are most effective entertained for a particular website or a community because of this that a Gmail e-mail deal with can only be recognized in Google community. Subsequently, a Virtual identity (a person) receives approval to get entry to the internet site. This is how a website plays the authentication process.

Get admission to Described

When you get internal a premises to utilize its sources, It’s miles known as gaining get right of entry to. Furthermore, the sensitivity of information decides the degree of permission provided. So, public information are is straightforward to access inclusive of facts on websites at the same time as non-public messages which include emails want special authorization (that is referred to as login). Ana hit login is the proof for the validation of someone.

Introduction to agency identification and access control

Enterprise identification gets entry to and management is a technology which is utilized in the organization for inner employees, contractors, and companions. The procedure consists of offering identities, authenticating identities and then imparting them get right of entry to sources. As the name implies, the era is concentrated to internal personnel and other participants associated with an agency. The generation focuses on the security aspects in an agency along with restricting sources to in-house personnel, supplying get admission to personnel and other contributors consistent with their profile and helping them to collaborate to work with each other. Subsequently, corporation IAM promotes security in an agency.

Introduction to patron identification and get right of entry to management

Purchaser identity management essentially concentrates on cease-users. They may be intended for clients that are absolutely constructed on one of a kind structure i.E. purchaser centered. Many different elements are added to cIAM to make it capable of dealing with actual-time challenges. It follows the perfect balance between assembly wishes of purchasers and perspectives of an enterprise. allow’s discuss those views in short to get extra insight about cIAM.

IPL 4 Match Report: Kolkata Knight Riders Vs Deccan Chargers

Match performed on April eleven, 2011

Venue: Eden Gardens, Kolkata

Toss gained by means of KKR, who elected to bat

First Innings (KKR):

Strength Play Overs (1-6):

Kallis persisted his true shape from wherein he left off towards CSK within the beginning sport. At the stop of six overs, KKR had been forty nine/0, with Kallis on 29, and his beginning partner Bisla on 18. DC used Steyn in a 2-over spell and the South African pacer changed into unlucky when Bisla was dropped in his 2nd over via Ishant Sharma at third guy. However that hazard apart, KKR seemed solid.kkr private equity

1/2-manner Mark:

After 10 overs, KKR had reached sixty five/1, having misplaced Bisla LBW to Mishra for 19. Ojha changed into also bowling properly, and among the spinners, they’d conceded simply 15 runs in four overs. Gambhir’s fanatics could have been relieved to see the batsman walking in at variety 3. Gambhir had dropped himself down the order against CSK, a decision that arguably fees KKR a sport they should have otherwise gained.

Fifteen Over Level:

KKR had reached 118/2, having lost Kallis in Duminy’s first over for a strong fifty-three. With Gambhir on 18 off 11 balls and Tiwary, continuing his amazing shape from the CSK recreation, on 21 off thirteen balls, KKR had constructed a platform to launch the final assault.

Slog Overs (sixteen – 20):

Mishra bowled brilliantly to disregard Gambhir within the 17th over and that delivered Yusuf Pathan to the crease. Pathan did no longer disappoint his fans and plundered 10 runs in Steyn’s next over that fee DC 15 runs. However, Steyn had the last snigger when he brushed off Pathan off the final ball of the innings.

0 notes

webpostingpro-blog · 8 years ago

Text

New Post has been published on Webpostingpro

New Post has been published on https://webpostingpro.com/ipl-2017-fantasy-tips-updated-srh-vs-gl-and-mi-vs-kkr-2/

IPL 2017 Fantasy Tips (updated): SRH vs GL and MI vs KKR

IPL Laser Therapy: Learn the Pros and Cons of IPL Laser Therapy

A Complex Subject matter

Two Styles of strategies

Ablative lasers can:

Non-ablative lasers can:

Why Transforming IAM To CIAM Is An Asymptotic Fantasy

“It is difficult to transform eIAM to cIAM”

Do you need to recognize why? There are a few data which I’m going to display however before that permit’s brush up a few identity management concepts.

Identity: Described

Digital identity: Defined

Get admission to Described

Introduction to agency identification and access control

Introduction to patron identification and get right of entry to management

IPL 4 Match Report: Kolkata Knight Riders Vs Deccan Chargers

Match performed on April eleven, 2011

Venue: Eden Gardens, Kolkata

Toss gained by means of KKR, who elected to bat

First Innings (KKR):

Strength Play Overs (1-6):

1/2-manner Mark:

Fifteen Over Level:

Slog Overs (sixteen – 20):

0 notes