Essay --

458 Russell Senate Office Building Washington DC, 20510 12/9/2013 Dear Senator Bennet, Being a senator of Colorado, and a representative of the people, you have the duty to listen to what people have to say. There are many concerns that should be taken more seriously than others and should be brought to the Senates attention. Most people are concerned about the unfair and convoluted income tax laws in our country that can be easily eliminated with the application of a flat tax on income. With the tax rate that is in effect right now, there are so many flaws and loop holes that the system is easily manipulated. The rich do not pay their fair share of taxes, because they have found ways to avoid them. The middle class looks for ways around paying taxes through things like tax breaks. And the poor ends up paying fewer taxes then what they wind up getting back in the end, giving them no incentive to make a lot of money. If a person works hard and gets a raise that will put him in a higher tax bracket, he could actually be making less money with the raise. Also, the government constantly looks for new ways to tax in order to pay for education, military, health care, and more. To consider what's right and what's wrong, compare sales tax and income tax. Say the sales tax in your state is 10%. Your "taxable amount" is the total of all that you purchase. You go to the store and by something for $20, you will pay 10%, or $2 tax. Say you buy 2 of the same thing, $40 total; you pay $4 in tax. Then you buy a candy bar for a $1, and use a dime to pay the tax. Nobody likes the 10% sales tax, but nobody complains they all paid their fair share. This is how flat tax works, everyone pays the same rate. If sales tax were like income tax, first, ... ... "This reform will decrease tax evasion, and encourage people to meet their obligations to the state." Flat tax has been proven many times over to be fair, and should be implemented. Simplifying the tax code is beneficial to people and government. So why are our litigators avoiding this solution? Please consider this proposal, it is what this country needs. Sincerely, Evan Hunchar Citations "Debating the Pros and Cons of a Flat Tax." US News. U.S.News & World Report, 03 May 2010. Web. 9 Dec. 2013. Mitchell, Daniel. "Eliminate Tax Brackets and Complicated Forms With a Flat Tax." US News. U.S.News & World Report, 12 Apr. 2010. Web. 8 Dec. 2013. "Tax Day 2011 -- We Need a Flat Tax More Than Ever." Fox News. FOX News Network, n.d. Web. 8 Dec. 2013. Ulbrich, Holley. "Flat Tax Is Class Warfare." US News. U.S.News & World Report, 12 Apr. 2010. Web. 9 Dec. 2013.

A Game of Thrones Chapter Sixty

Jon Are you well, Snow?† Lord Mormont asked, scowling. â€Å"Well,† his raven squawked. â€Å"Well.† â€Å"I am, my lord,† Jon lied . . . loudly, as if that could make it true. â€Å"And you?† Mormont frowned. â€Å"A dead man tried to kill me. How well could I be?† He scratched under his chin. His shaggy grey beard had been singed in the fire, and he'd hacked it off. The pale stubble of his new whiskers made him look old, disreputable, and grumpy. â€Å"You do not look well. How is your hand?† â€Å"Healing.† Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he'd felt nothing; the agony had come after. His cracked red skin oozed fluid, and fearsome blood blisters rose between his fingers, big as roaches. â€Å"The maester says I'll have scars, but otherwise the hand should be as good as it was before.† â€Å"A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you'll be wearing gloves often as not.† â€Å"As you say, my lord.† It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it. Maester Aemon had given him milk of the poppy, yet even so, the pain had been hideous. At first it had felt as if his hand were still aflame, burning day and night. Only plunging it into basins of snow and shaved ice gave any relief at all. Jon thanked the gods that no one but Ghost saw him writhing on his bed, whimpering from the pain. And when at last he did sleep, he dreamt, and that was even worse. In the dream, the corpse he fought had blue eyes, black hands, and his father's face, but he dared not tell Mormont that. â€Å"Dywen and Hake returned last night,† the Old Bear said. â€Å"They found no sign of your uncle, no more than the others did.† â€Å"I know.† Jon had dragged himself to the common hall to sup with his friends, and the failure of the rangers' search had been all the men had been talking of. â€Å"You know,† Mormont grumbled. â€Å"How is it that everyone knows everything around here?† He did not seem to expect an answer. â€Å"It would seem there were only the two of . . . of those creatures, whatever they were, I will not call them men. And thank the gods for that. Any more and . . . well, that doesn't bear thinking of. There will be more, though. I can feel it in these old bones of mine, and Maester Aemon agrees. The cold winds are rising. Summer is at an end, and a winter is coming such as this world has never seen.† Winter is coming. The Stark words had never sounded so grim or ominous to Jon as they did now. â€Å"My lord,† he asked hesitantly, â€Å"it's said there was a bird last night . . . â€Å" â€Å"There was. What of it?† â€Å"I had hoped for some word of my father.† â€Å"Father,† taunted the old raven, bobbing its head as it walked across Mormont's shoulders. â€Å"Father.† The Lord Commander reached up to pinch its beak shut, but the raven hopped up on his head, fluttered its wings, and flew across the chamber to light above a window. â€Å"Grief and noise,† Mormont grumbled. â€Å"That's all they're good for, ravens. Why I put up with that pestilential bird . . . if there was news of Lord Eddard, don't you think I would have sent for you? Bastard or no, you're still his blood. The message concerned Ser Barristan Selmy. It seems he's been removed from the Kingsguard. They gave his place to that black dog Clegane, and now Selmy's wanted for treason. The fools sent some watchmen to seize him, but he slew two of them and escaped.† Mormont snorted, leaving no doubt of his view of men who'd send gold cloaks against a knight as renowed as Barristan the Bold. â€Å"We have white shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne,† he said in disgust. The raven laughed shrilly. â€Å"Boy, boy, boy, boy.† Ser Barristan had been the Old Bear's best hope, Jon remembered; if he had fallen, what chance was there that Mormont's letter would be heeded? He curled his hand into a fist. Pain shot through his burned fingers. â€Å"What of my sisters?† â€Å"The message made no mention of Lord Eddard or the girls.† He gave an irritated shrug. â€Å"Perhaps they never got my letter. Aemon sent two copies, with his best birds, but who can say? More like, Pycelle did not deign to reply. It would not be the first time, nor the last. I fear we count for less than nothing in King's Landing. They tell us what they want us to know, and that's little enough.† And you tell me what you want me to know, and that's less, Jon thought resentfully. His brother Robb had called the banners and ridden south to war, yet no word of that had been breathed to him . . . save by Samwell Tarly, who'd read the letter to Maester Aemon and whispered its contents to Jon that night in secret, all the time saying how he shouldn't. Doubtless they thought his brother's war was none of his concern. It troubled him more than he could say. Robb was marching and he was not. No matter how often Jon told himself that his place was here now, with his new brothers on the Wall, he still felt craven. â€Å"Corn,† the raven was crying. â€Å"Corn, corn.† â€Å"Oh, be quiet,† the Old Bear told it. â€Å"Snow, how soon does Maester Aemon say you'll have use of that hand back?† â€Å"Soon,† Jon replied. â€Å"Good.† On the table between them, Lord Mormont laid a large sword in a black metal scabbard banded with silver. â€Å"Here. You'll be ready for this, then.† The raven flapped down and landed on the table, strutting toward the sword, head cocked curiously. Jon hesitated. He had no inkling what this meant. â€Å"My lord?† â€Å"The fire melted the silver off the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leather and old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now . . . you'd need a fire a hundred times as hot to harm the blade.† Mormont shoved the scabbard across the rough oak planks. â€Å"I had the rest made anew. Take it.† â€Å"Take it,† echoed his raven, preening. â€Å"Take it, take it.† Awkwardly, Jon took the sword in hand. His left hand; his bandaged right was still too raw and clumsy. Carefully he pulled it from its scabbard and raised it level with his eyes. The pommel was a hunk of pale stone weighted with lead to balance the long blade. It had been carved into the likeness of a snarling wolf's head, with chips of garnet set into the eyes. The grip was virgin leather, soft and black, as yet unstained by sweat or blood. The blade itself was a good half foot longer than those Jon was used to, tapered to thrust as well as slash, with three fullers deeply incised in the metal. Where Ice was a true two-handed greatsword, this was a hand-and-a-halfer, sometimes named a â€Å"bastard sword.† Yet the wolf sword actually seemed lighter than the blades he had wielded before. When Jon turned it sideways, he could see the ripples in the dark steel where the metal had been folded back on itself again and again. â€Å"This is Valyrian steel, my lord,† he said wonderingly. His father had let him handle Ice often enough; he knew the look, the feel. â€Å"It is,† the Old Bear told him. â€Å"It was my father's sword, and his father's before him. The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when I took the black.† He is giving me his son's sword. Jon could scarcely believe it. The blade was exquisitely balanced. The edges glimmered faintly as they kissed the light. â€Å"Your son—† â€Å"My son brought dishonor to House Mormont, but at least he had the grace to leave the sword behind when he fled. My sister returned it to my keeping, but the very sight of it reminded me of Jorah's shame, so I put it aside and thought no more of it until we found it in the ashes of my bedchamber. The original pommel was a bear's head, silver, yet so worn its features were all but indistinguishable. For you, I thought a white wolf more apt. One of our builders is a fair stonecarver.† When Jon had been Bran's age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father's life. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child's folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father's sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother's birthright? I have no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throb of pain deep under the skin. â€Å"My lord, you honor me, but—† â€Å"Spare me your but's, boy,† Lord Mormont interrupted. â€Å"I would not be sitting here were it not for you and that beast of yours. You fought bravely . . . and more to the point, you thought quickly. Fire! Yes, damn it. We ought to have known. We ought to have remembered. The Long Night has come before. Oh, eight thousand years is a good while, to be sure . . . yet if the Night's Watch does not remember, who will?† â€Å"Who will,† chimed the talkative raven. â€Å"Who will.† Truly, the gods had heard Jon's prayer that night; the fire had caught in the dead man's clothing and consumed him as if his flesh were candle wax and his bones old dry wood. Jon had only to close his eyes to see the thing staggering across the solar, crashing against the furniture and flailing at the flames. It was the face that haunted him most; surrounded by a nimbus of fire, hair blazing like straw, the dead flesh melting away and sloughing off its skull to reveal the gleam of bone beneath. Whatever demonic force moved Othor had been driven out by the flames; the twisted thing they had found in the ashes had been no more than cooked meat and charred bone. Yet in his nightmare he faced it again . . . and this time the burning corpse wore Lord Eddard's features. It was his father's skin that burst and blackened, his father's eyes that ran liquid down his cheeks like jellied tears. Jon did not understand why that should be or what it might mean, but it frightened him more than he could say. â€Å"A sword's small payment for a life,† Mormont concluded. â€Å"Take it, I'll hear no more of it, is that understood?† â€Å"Yes, my lord.† The soft leather gave beneath Jon's fingers, as if the sword were molding itself to his grip already. He knew he should be honored, and he was, and yet . . . He is not my father. The thought leapt unbidden to Jon's mind. Lord Eddard Stark is my father. I will not forget him, no matter how many swords they give me. Yet he could scarcely tell Lord Mormont that it was another man's sword he dreamt of . . . â€Å"I want no courtesies either,† Mormont said, â€Å"so thank me no thanks. Honor the steel with deeds, not words.† Jon nodded. â€Å"Does it have a name, my lord?† â€Å"It did, once. Longclaw, it was called.† â€Å"Claw,† the raven cried. â€Å"Claw.† â€Å"Longclaw is an apt name.† Jon tried a practice cut. He was clumsy and uncomfortable with his left hand, yet even so the steel seemed to flow through the air, as if it had a will of its own. â€Å"Wolves have claws, as much as bears.† The Old Bear seemed pleased by that. â€Å"I suppose they do. You'll want to wear that over the shoulder, I imagine. It's too long for the hip, at least until you've put on a few inches. And you'll need to work at your two-handed strikes as well. Ser Endrew can show you some moves, when your burns have healed.† â€Å"Ser Endrew?† Jon did not know the name. â€Å"Ser Endrew Tarth, a good man. He's on his way from the ShadowTower to assume the duties of master-at-arms. Ser Alliser Thorne left yestermorn for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.† Jon lowered the sword. â€Å"Why?† he said, stupidly. Mormont snorted. â€Å"Because I sent him, why do you think? He's bringing the hand your Ghost tore off the end of Jafer Flowers's wrist. I have commanded him to take ship to King's Landing and lay it before this boy king. That should get young Joffrey's attention, I'd think . . . and Ser Alliser's a knight, highborn, anointed, with old friends at court, altogether harder to ignore than a glorified crow.† â€Å"Crow.† Jon thought the raven sounded faintly indignant. â€Å"As well,† the Lord Commander continued, ignoring the bird's protest, â€Å"it puts a thousand leagues twixt him and you without it seeming a rebuke.† He jabbed a finger up at Jon's face. â€Å"And don't think this means I approve of that nonsense in the common hall. Valor makes up for a fair amount of folly, but you're not a boy anymore, however many years you've seen. That's a man's sword you have there, and it will take a man to wield her. I'll expect you to act the part, henceforth.† â€Å"Yes, my lord.† Jon slid the sword back into the silver-banded scabbard. If not the blade he would have chosen, it was nonetheless a noble gift, and freeing him from Alliser Thorne's malignance was nobler still. The Old Bear scratched at his chin. â€Å"I had forgotten how much a new beard itches,† he said. â€Å"Well, no help for that. Is that hand of yours healed enough to resume your duties?† â€Å"Yes, my lord.† â€Å"Good. The night will be cold, I'll want hot spice wine. Find me a flagon of red, not too sour, and don't skimp on the spices. And tell Hobb that if he sends me boiled mutton again I'm like to boil him. That last haunch was grey. Even the bird wouldn't touch it.† He stroked the raven's head with his thumb, and the bird made a contented quorking sound. â€Å"Away with you. I've work to do.† The guards smiled at him from their niches as he wound his way down the turret stair, carrying the sword in his good hand. â€Å"Sweet steel,† one man said. â€Å"You earned that, Snow,† another told him. Jon made himself smile back at them, but his heart was not in it. He knew he should be pleased, yet he did not feel it. His hand ached, and the taste of anger was in his mouth, though he could not have said who he was angry with or why. A half dozen of his friends were lurking outside when he left the King's Tower, where Lord Commander Mormont now made his residence. They'd hung a target on the granary doors, so they could seem to be honing their skills as archers, but he knew lurkers when he saw them. No sooner did he emerge than Pyp called out, â€Å"Well, come about, let's have a look.† â€Å"At what?† Jon said. Toad sidled close. â€Å"Your rosy butt cheeks, what else?† â€Å"The sword,† Grenn stated. â€Å"We want to see the sword.† Jon raked them with an accusing look. â€Å"You knew.† Pyp grinned. â€Å"We're not all as dumb as Grenn.† â€Å"You are so,† insisted Grenn. â€Å"You're dumber.† Halder gave an apologetic shrug. â€Å"I helped Pate carve the stone for the pommel,† the builder said, â€Å"and your friend Sam bought the garnets in Mole's Town.† â€Å"We knew even before that, though,† Grenn said. â€Å"Rudge has been helping Donal Noye in the forge. He was there when the Old Bear brought him the burnt blade.† â€Å"The sword!† Matt insisted. The others took up the chant. â€Å"The sword, the sword, the sword.† Jon unsheathed Longclaw and showed it to them, turning it this way and that so they could admire it. The bastard blade glittered in the pale sunlight, dark and deadly. â€Å"Valyrian steel,† he declared solemnly, trying to sound as pleased and proud as he ought to have felt. â€Å"I heard of a man who had a razor made of Valyrian steel,† declared Toad. â€Å"He cut his head off trying to shave.† Pyp grinned. â€Å"The Night's Watch is thousands of years old,† he said, â€Å"but I'll wager Lord Snow's the first brother ever honored for burning down the Lord Commander's Tower.† The others laughed, and even Jon had to smile. The fire he'd started had not, in truth, burned down that formidable stone tower, but it had done a fair job of gutting the interior of the top two floors, where the Old Bear had his chambers. No one seemed to mind that very much, since it had also destroyed Othor's murderous corpse. The other wight, the one-handed thing that had once been a ranger named Jafer Flowers, had also been destroyed, cut near to pieces by a dozen swords . . . but not before it had slain Ser Jaremy Rykker and four other men. Ser Jaremy had finished the job of hacking its head off, yet had died all the same when the headless corpse pulled his own dagger from its sheath and buried it in his bowels. Strength and courage did not avail much against foemen who would not fall because they were already dead; even arms and armor offered small protection. That grim thought soured Jon's fragile mood. â€Å"I need to see Hobb about the Old Bear's supper,† he announced brusquely, sliding Longclaw back into its scabbard. His friends meant well, but they did not understand. It was not their fault, truly; they had not had to face Othor, they had not seen the pale glow of those dead blue eyes, had not felt the cold of those dead black fingers. Nor did they know of the fighting in the riverlands. How could they hope to comprehend? He turned away from them abruptly and strode off, sullen. Pyp called after him, but Jon paid him no mind. They had moved him back to his old cell in tumbledown Hardin's Tower after the fire, and it was there he returned. Ghost was curled up asleep beside the door, but he lifted his head at the sound of Jon's boots. The direwolf's red eyes were darker than garnets and wiser than men. Jon knelt, scratched his ear, and showed him the pommel of the sword. â€Å"Look. It's you.† Ghost sniffed at his carved stone likeness and tried a lick. Jon smiled. â€Å"You're the one deserves an honor,† he told the wolf . . . and suddenly he found himself remembering how he'd found him, that day in the late summer snow. They had been riding off with the other pups, but Jon had heard a noise and turned back, and there he was, white fur almost invisible against the drifts. He was all alone, he thought, apart from the others in the litter. He was different, so they drove him out. â€Å"Jon?† He looked up. Samwell Tarly stood rocking nervously on his heels. His cheeks were red, and he was wrapped in a heavy fur cloak that made him look ready for hibernation. â€Å"Sam.† Jon stood. â€Å"What is it? Do you want to see the sword?† If the others had known, no doubt Sam did too. The fat boy shook his head. â€Å"I was heir to my father's blade once,† he said mournfully. â€Å"Heartsbane. Lord Randyll let me hold it a few times, but it always scared me. It was Valyrian steel, beautiful but so sharp I was afraid I'd hurt one of my sisters. Dickon will have it now.† He wiped sweaty hands on his cloak. â€Å"I ah . . . Maester Aemon wants to see you.† It was not time for his bandages to be changed. Jon frowned suspiciously. â€Å"Why?† he demanded. Sam looked miserable. That was answer enough. â€Å"You told him, didn't you?† Jon said angrily. â€Å"You told him that you told me.† â€Å"I . . . he . . . Jon, I didn't want to . . . he asked . . . I mean I think he knew, he sees things no one else sees . . . â€Å" â€Å"He's blind,† Jon pointed out forcefully, disgusted. â€Å"I can find the way myself.† He left Sam standing there, openmouthed and quivering. He found Maester Aemon up in the rookery, feeding the ravens. Clydas was with him, carrying a bucket of chopped meat as they shuffled from cage to cage. â€Å"Sam said you wanted me?† The maester nodded. â€Å"I did indeed. Clydas, give Jon the bucket. Perhaps he will be kind enough to assist me.† The hunched, pink-eyed brother handed Jon the bucket and scurried down the ladder. â€Å"Toss the meat into the cages,† Aemon instructed him. â€Å"The birds will do the rest. â€Å" Jon shifted the bucket to his right hand and thrust his left down into the bloody bits. The ravens began to scream noisily and fly at the bars, beating at the metal with night-black wings. The meat had been chopped into pieces no larger than a finger joint. He filled his fist and tossed the raw red morsels into the cage, and the squawking and squabbling grew hotter. Feathers flew as two of the larger birds fought over a choice piece. Quickly Jon grabbed a second handful and threw it in after the first. â€Å"Lord Mormont's raven likes fruit and corn.† â€Å"He is a rare bird,† the maester said. â€Å"Most ravens will eat grain, but they prefer flesh. It makes them strong, and I fear they relish the taste of blood. In that they are like men . . . and like men, not all ravens are alike.† Jon had nothing to say to that. He threw meat, wondering why he'd been summoned. No doubt the old man would tell him, in his own good time. Maester Aemon was not a man to be hurried. â€Å"Doves and pigeons can also be trained to carry messages,† the maester went on, â€Å"though the raven is a stronger flyer, larger, bolder, far more clever, better able to defend itself against hawks . . . yet ravens are black, and they eat the dead, so some godly men abhor them. Baelor the Blessed tried to replace all the ravens with doves, did you know?† The maester turned his white eyes on Jon, smiling. â€Å"The Night's Watch prefers ravens.† Jon's fingers were in the bucket, blood up to the wrist. â€Å"Dywen says the wildlings call us crows,† he said uncertainty. â€Å"The crow is the raven's poor cousin. They are both beggars in black, hated and misunderstood.† Jon wished he understood what they were talking about, and why. What did he care about ravens and doves? If the old man had something to say to him, why couldn't he just say it? â€Å"Jon, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives and father no children?† Maester Aemon asked. Jon shrugged. â€Å"No.† He scattered more meat. The fingers of his left hand were slimy with blood, and his right throbbed from the weight of the bucket. â€Å"So they will not love,† the old man answered, â€Å"for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty.† That did not sound right to Jon, yet he said nothing. The maester was a hundred years old, and a high officer of the Night's Watch; it was not his place to contradict him. The old man seemed to sense his doubts. â€Å"Tell me, Jon, if the day should ever come when your lord father must needs choose between honor on the one hand and those he loves on the other, what would he do?† Jon hesitated. He wanted to say that Lord Eddard would never dishonor himself, not even for love, yet inside a small sly voice whispered, He fathered a bastard, where was the honor in that? And your mother, what of his duty to her, he will not even say her name. â€Å"He would do whatever was right,† he said . . . ringingly, to make up for his hesitation. â€Å"No matter what.† â€Å"Then Lord Eddard is a man in ten thousand. Most of us are not so strong. What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms . . . or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. â€Å"The men who formed the Night's Watch knew that only their courage shielded the realm from the darkness to the north. They knew they must have no pided loyalties to weaken their resolve. So they vowed they would have no wives nor children. â€Å"Yet brothers they had, and sisters. Mothers who gave them birth, fathers who gave them names. They came from a hundred quarrelsome kingdoms, and they knew times may change, but men do not. So they pledged as well that the Night's Watch would take no part in the battles of the realms it guarded. â€Å"They kept their pledge. When Aegon slew Black Harren and claimed his kingdom, Harren's brother was Lord Commander on the Wall, with ten thousand swords to hand. He did not march. In the days when the Seven Kingdoms were seven kingdoms, not a generation passed that three or four of them were not at war. The Watch took no part. When the Andals crossed the narrow sea and swept away the kingdoms of the First Men, the sons of the fallen kings held true to their vows and remained at their posts. So it has always been, for years beyond counting. Such is the price of honor. â€Å"A craven can be as brave as any man, when there is nothing to fear. And we all do our duty, when there is no cost to it. How easy it seems then, to walk the path of honor. Yet soon or late in every man's life comes a day when it is not easy, a day when he must choose.† Some of the ravens were still eating, long stringy bits of meat dangling from their beaks. The rest seemed to be watching him. Jon could feel the weight of all those tiny black eyes. â€Å"And this is my day . . . is that what you're saying?† Maester Aemon turned his head and looked at him with those dead white eyes. It was as if he were seeing right into his heart. Jon felt naked and exposed. He took the bucket in both hands and flung the rest of the slops through the bars. Strings of meat and blood flew everywhere, scattering the ravens. They took to the air, shrieking wildly. The quicker birds snatched morsels on the wing and gulped them down greedily. Jon let the empty bucket clang to the floor. The old man laid a withered, spotted hand on his shoulder. â€Å"It hurts, boy,† he said softly. â€Å"Oh, yes. Choosing . . . it has always hurt. And always will. I know.† â€Å"You don't know,† Jon said bitterly. â€Å"No one knows. Even if I am his bastard, he's still my father . . . â€Å" Maester Aemon sighed. â€Å"Have you heard nothing I've told you, Jon? Do you think you are the first?† He shook his ancient head, a gesture weary beyond words. â€Å"Three times the gods saw fit to test my vows. Once when I was a boy, once in the fullness of my manhood, and once when I had grown old. By then my strength was fled, my eyes grown dim, yet that last choice was as cruel as the first. My ravens would bring the news from the south, words darker than their wings, the ruin of my House, the death of my kin, disgrace and desolation. What could I have done, old, blind, frail? I was helpless as a suckling babe, yet still it grieved me to sit forgotten as they cut down my brother's poor grandson, and his son, and even the little children . . . â€Å" Jon was shocked to see the shine of tears in the old man's eyes. â€Å"Who are you?† he asked quietly, almost in dread. A toothless smile quivered on the ancient lips. â€Å"Only a maester of the Citadel, bound in service to Castle Black and the Night's Watch. In my order, we put aside our house names when we take our vows and don the collar.† The old man touched the maester's chain that hung loosely around his thin, fleshless neck. â€Å"My father was Maekar, the First of his Name, and my brother Aegon reigned after him in my stead. My grandfather named me for Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, who was his uncle, or his father, depending on which tale you believe. Aemon, he called me . . . â€Å" â€Å"Aemon . . . Targaryen?† Jon could scarcely believe it. â€Å"Once,† the old man said. â€Å"Once. So you see, Jon, I do know . . . and knowing, I will not tell you stay or go. You must make that choice yourself, and live with it all the rest of your days. As I have.† His voice fell to a whisper. â€Å"As I have . . . â€Å"

Night World : Secret Vampire Chapter 3

All Poppy could think of was the pretty bald girl inthe gift shop. Cancer. â€Å"But-but they can do something about it, can'tthey?† she said, and even to her own ears her voice sounded very young. â€Å"I mean-if they had to, theycould take my pancreasout†¦.† â€Å"Oh, sweetheart, of course. â€Å"Poppy's mother took Poppy in her arms. â€Å"I promise you; if there's some thing wrong, we'll do anything and everything to fix it. I'd go to the ends of the earth to make you well. You knowthat. And at this point we aren't even sure that there issomething wrong. Dr. Franklin said that it's extremely rare for teenagers to get a tumor in the pancreas. Extremely rare. So let's not worry about things until we have to.† Poppy felt herself relax; the pit was covered again. But somewhere near her core she still felt cold. â€Å"I haveto call James.† Her mother nodded. â€Å"Just make it quick.† Poppy kept her fingers crossed as she dialedJames's apartment. Please be there, please be there, she thought. And for once, he was. He answered laconically, but as soon as he heard her voice, he said, â€Å"What's wrong?† â€Å"Nothing-well, everything. Maybe.† Poppy heardherself give a wild sort of laugh. It wasn't exactly alaugh. â€Å"What happened?† James said sharply. â€Å"Did youhave a fight with Cliff?† â€Å"No. Cliff's at the office. And I'm going into thehospital.† â€Å"Why?† â€Å"They think I might have cancer.† It was a tremendous relief to say it, a sort of emo tional release. Poppy laughed again. Silence on the other end of the line. â€Å"Hello?† â€Å"I'm here,† James said. Then he said, â€Å"I'm coming over.† â€Å"No, there's no point. I've got to leave in a minute.† She waited for him to say that he'd come and see her in the hospital, but he didn't. â€Å"James, would you do something for me? Wouldyou find out whatever you can about cancer in the pancreas? Just in case.† â€Å"Is that what they think you have?† â€Å"They don't know for sure. They're giving me some tests. I just hope they don't have to use any needles.† Another laugh, but inside she was reeling. She wished James would say something comforting.†I'll see what I can find on the Net.† His voice was unemotional, almost expressionless. â€Å"And then you can tell me later-they'll probablylet you call me at the hospital.† â€Å"Yeah.† â€Å"Okay, I have to go. My mom's waitin†Ã¢â‚¬ Take care of yourself.† Poppy hung up, feeling empty. Her mother wasstanding in the doorway.†Come on, Poppet. Let's go.† James sat very still, looking at the phone withoutseeing it. She was scared, and he couldn't help her. He'dnever been very good at inspirational small talk. It wasn't, he thought grimly, in his nature. To give comfort you had to have a comfortableview of the world. And James had seen too much of the world to have any illusions. He could deal with cold facts, though. Pushingaside a pile of assorted clutter, he turned on his lap top and dialed up the Internet. Within minutes he was using Gopher to search theNational Cancer Institute's CancerNet. The first file he found was listed as â€Å"Pancreatic cancer-Patient.†He scanned it. Stuff about what the pancreas did,stages of thedisease, treatments.Nothingtoo gruesome. Thenhewentinto â€Å"PancreaticcancerPhysician–a file meant for doctors. The first lineheld him paralyzed. Cancer of the exocrine pancreas is rarely curable. His eyes skimmed down the lines. Overall survival rate †¦ metastasis †¦ poor response to chemotherapy, ra diation therapy and surgery †¦ pain †¦ Pain. Poppy was brave, but facing constant painwould crush anyone. Especially when the outlook for the future was so bleak. He looked at the top of the article again. Overallsurvival rate less than three percent. If the cancer had spread, less than one percent. There must be more information. James wentsearching again and came up with several articles from newspapers and medical journals. They wereeven worse than the NCI file. The overwhelming majority of patients will die, and dieswiftly, experts say†¦. Pancreatic cancer is usually inoperable, rapid, and debilitatingly painful†¦. The averagesurvival if the cancer has spread can be three weeks tothree months†¦. Three weeks to three months. James stared at the laptop's screen. His chest andthroat felt tight; his vision was blurry. He tried to control it, telling himself that nothing was certain yet. Poppy was being tested, that didn't mean she had cancer. But the words rang hollow in his mind. He had known for some time that something was wrong with Poppy. Something was-disturbed-inside her.He'd sensed that the rhythms of her body wereslightly off; he could tell she was losing sleep. Andthe pain-he always knew when the pain was there.He just hadn't realized how serious it was. Poppy knows, too, he thought. Deep down, she knows that something very bad is going on, or she wouldn't have asked me to find this out. But whatdoes she expect me to do, walk in and tell her she's going to die in a few months? And am I supposed to stand around and watch it? His lips pulled back from his teeth slightly. Not anice smile, more of a savage grimace. He'd seen a lot of death in seventeen years. He knew the stages ofdying, knew the difference between the moment breathing stopped and the moment the brain turnedoff; knew the unmistakable ghostlike pallor of a freshcorpse. The way the eyeballs flattened out about five minutes after expiration. Now, that was a detail most people weren't familiar with. Five minutes after you die, your eyes go flat and filmy gray. And then your body starts to shrink. You actually get smaller. Poppy was so small already. He'd always been afraid of hurting her. She lookedso fragile, and he could hurt somebody much stronger if he wasn't careful. That was one reason hekept a certain distance between them. One reason. Not the main one. The other was something he couldn't put intowords, not even to himself. It brought him right up to the edge of the forbidden. To face rules that had been ingrained in him since birth. None of the Night People could fall in love with ahuman. The sentence for breaking the law was death. It didn't matter. He knew what he hadto do now.Where he had to go. Cold and precise, James loggedoff the Net. Hestood, picked up his sunglasses, slid them into place. Went out into the merciless June sunlight, slamminghis apartment door behind him. Poppy looked around the hospital room unhappily.There was nothing so awful about it, except that it was too cold, but †¦it was a hospital. That was thetruth behind thepretty pink-and-blue curtains and the dosed-circuit TV and the dinner menu decoratedwith cartoon characters. It was a place you didn't come unless you were Pretty Darn Sick. Oh, come on, she told herself. Cheerup a little.What happened to the power of Poppytive thinking? Where's Poppyanna when you need her? Where'sMary Poppy-ins? God, I'm even making myself gag, she thought. But she found herselfsmilingfaintly, with selfdeprecating humor if nothing else. And the nurses were nice here, and the bed wasextremely cool.Ithad a remote control on theside that bent it intoevery imaginable position. Her mother came in while shewas playing with it. â€Å"I got hold of Cliff; he'll be herelater. Meanwhile,I think you'd better change so you're ready for the tests.† Poppy looked at the blue-and-white striped seersucker hospital robe and felt a painful spasm that seemed to reach from her stomach to her back. And something in the deepest part of her said Please, not yet. I'll never be ready. James pulled his Integra into a parking space on Ferry Street near Stoneham. It wasn't a nice part of town. Tourists visiting Los Angeles avoided this area. The building was sagging and decrepit. Severalstores were vacant, with cardboard taped over broken windows. Graffiti covered the peeling paint on thecinder-block walls. Even the smog seemed to hang thicker here. Theair itself seemed yellow and cloying. Like a poisonous miasma, it darkened the brightest day and made everything look unreal and ominous. James walked around to the back of the building.There, among the freight entrances of the stores in front, was one door unmarked by graffiti. The signabove it had no words. Just a picture of a blackflower. A black iris. James knocked. The door opened two inches, anda skinny kid in a wrinkled T-shirt peered out with beady eyes. â€Å"It's me, Ulf,† James said, resisting the temptationto kick the door in. Werewolves, he thought. Why do they have to be so territorial? World. I don't want to break any laws. I just wanther well.† The slanted blue eyes were searching his face. â€Å"Areyou sure you haven't broken the laws already?† And when James looked determined not to understand this, she added in a lowered voice, â€Å"Are you sure you're not in love with her?† James made himself meet the probing gaze directly. He spoke softly and dangerously. â€Å"Don't say that unless you want a fight.† Gisele looked away. She played with her ring. Thecandle flame dwindled and died. â€Å"James, I've known you for a long time,† she saidwithout looking up. â€Å"I don't want to get you in trouble. I believe you when you say you haven't brokenany laws–but I think we'd both better forget this conversation. Just walk out now and I'll pretend itnever happened.† â€Å"And the spell?† â€Å"There's no such thing. And if there was, Iwouldn't help you. Just go.† James went.There was one other possibility that he couldthink of. He drove to Brentwood, to an area thatwas as different from the last as a diamond is fromcoal. He parked in a covered carport by a quaint adobe building with a fountain. Red and purplebougainvillaea climbed up the walls to the Spanishtile on the roof. Walking through an archway into a courtyard, hecame to an office with gold letters on the door. Jasper R. Rasmussen, Ph.D. His father was a psychologist. Before he could reach for the handle, the dooropened and a woman came out. She was like mostof his father's clients, forty-something, obviously rich, wearing a designer jogging suit and high-heeled sandals. She looked a little dazed and dreamy, and therewere two small, rapidly healing puncture wounds on her neck. James went into the office. There was a waitingroom, but no receptionist. Strains of Mozart came from the inner office. James knocked on the door. â€Å"Dad?† The door opened to reveal a handsome man withdark hair. He was wearing a perfectly tailored gray suit and a shirt with French cuffs. He had an aura of power and purpose. But not of warmth. He said, â€Å"What is it, James?† in the same voice he used for his clients: thoughtful, deliberate, confident. â€Å"Do you have a minute?† His father glanced at his Rolex. â€Å"As a matter offact, my next patient won't be here for half an hour.† â€Å"There's something I need to talk about.† His father looked at him keenly, then gestured to an overstuffed chair. James eased into it, but found himself pulling forward to sit on the edge. â€Å"What's on your mind?† James searched for the right words. Everything depended on whether he could make his father under stand. But what were the right words? At last hesettled for bluntness. â€Å"It's Poppy. She's been sick for a while, and nowthey think she has cancer.† Dr. Rasmussen looked surprised. â€Å"I'm sorry to hearthat.† But there was no sorrow in his voice. â€Å"And it's a bad cancer. It's incredibly painful andjust about one hundred percent incurable.† â€Å"That's a pity.† Again there was nothing but mildsurprise in his father's voice. And suddenly James knew where that came from. It wasn't surprise thatPoppy was sick; it was surprise that James had made a trip just to tell him this. â€Å"Dad, if she's got this cancer, she's dying. Doesn'tthat mean anything to you?† Dr. Rasmussen steepled his fingers and stared intothe ruddy gloss of his mahoganydesk. He spoke slowly and steadily. â€Å"James, we've been through this before. You know that your mother and I are worried about you getting too dose to Poppy. Too . . . attached †¦to her.† James felt a surge of cold rage. â€Å"Like I got tooattached to Miss Emma?† His father didn't blink. â€Å"Something like that.† James fought the pictures that wanted to form inhis mind. He couldn't think about Miss Emma now; he needed to be detached. That was the only way to convince his father. â€Å"Dad, what I'm trying to say is that I've knownPoppy just about all my life. She's useful to me.† â€Å"How? Not in the obvious way. You've never fedon her, have you?† James swallowed, feeling nauseated. Feed onPoppy? Use her like that? Even the thought of it made him sick. â€Å"Dad, she's my friend,† he said, abandoning anypretense of objectivity. â€Å"I can't just watch her suffer. I can't. I have to do something about it.† His father's face cleared. â€Å"I see.† James felt dizzy with astonished relief. â€Å"Youunderstand?† â€Å"James, at times one can't help a certain feeling of . . .compassion for humans. In general, I wouldn't encourage it-but you have known Poppya long while. You feel pity for her suffering. If youwant to make that suffering shorter, then, yes, Iunderstand.† The relief crashed down around James. He stared at his father for a few seconds, then said softly, â€Å"Mercy killing? I thought the Elders had put a banon deaths in this area.† â€Å"Just be reasonably discreet about it. As long as itseems to be natural, we'll all look the other way. There won't be any reason to call in the Elders.† There was a metallic taste in James's mouth. Hestood and laughed shortly. â€Å"Thanks, Dad. You've really helped a lot.† His father didn't seem to hear the sarcasm. â€Å"Gladto do it, James. By the way, how are things at the apartments?† â€Å"Fine,† James said emptily. â€Å"And at school?† â€Å"School's over, Dad,† James said, and let himselfout. In the courtyard he leaned against an adobe walland stared at the splashing water of the fountain. He was out of options. Out of hope. The laws ofthe Night World said so. If Poppy had the disease, she would die from it.

British and American Press

5. British and American Press Nearly 80% of all households in Britain buy a copy of one of the main national papers every day – the British are the third biggest newspaper readers. Newspaper publications are dominated by the national press. Non-national, local and regional papers, with significant circulations are published mostly in the evenings, when they don’t compete with national ones. â€Å"The Sunday papers† are mostly national, they sell slightly more copies and thicker.British â€Å"paper round† is organized to provide people with their morning papers delivered to their door by a teenager who gets up at around half-past five every day in order to earn a it of extra pocket money. There are 2 types of national papers: â€Å"broadsheets† or â€Å"quality papers† cater for the better educated readers, and â€Å"tabloids† sell to a much larger readership with more pictures than print. Broadsheets devote much space to politics and à ¢â‚¬Å"serious topics†, they are twice as large as tabloids which concentrate on â€Å"human interest stories† like sex and scandal and cover it in a simpler style of English.None of the big national newspaper â€Å"belongs† to a political party. However each paper has an idea of what kind of reader it is appealing and has a fairly predictable political outlook. If you go into any well-stocked newsagent’s in Britain, you will find rows and rows of magazines catering for almost every imaginable taste and specializing in almost every imaginable pastime. Among these publications there are a few weeklies dealing with news and current affairs, and they manage to achieve a circulation of more than a hundred thousand.The most influential British daily paper is THE TIMES. It was founded by John Walter in 1785 as THE DAILY UNIVERSAL REGISTER, then renamed THE TIMES in 1788. Was also called as THUDERER for its formidable editorials (was the 1st paper to employ foreig n correspondents). Its prestige raised due to marketing slogan TOP PEOPLE READ THE TIMES. Now is owned by the international press magnate Rupert Murdoch. Its published in London with a circulation of almost 450  000. American Press. Newspapers have declined in their influence and penetration into American households over the years.The U. S. does not have a national paper. Although the Times' primary audience has always been the people of New York City, the New York Times has gradually become the dominant national â€Å"newspaper of record. † With very few exceptions, all the newspapers in the U. S. are privately owned, either by large chains such as  Gannett  or  McClatchy, which own dozens or even hundreds of newspapers; by small chains that own a handful of papers; or in a situation that is increasingly rare, by individuals or families.Most general-purpose newspapers are either being printed one time a week, usually on Thursday or Friday, or are printed daily. Weekl y newspapers tend to have much smaller circulation and are more prevalent in rural communities or small towns. Major cities often have â€Å"alternative weeklies† to complement the mainstream daily paper(s), for example, New York City's  Village Voice  or Los Angeles'  L. A. Weekly, to name two of the best-known.Major cities may also support a local business journal, trade papers relating to local industries, and papers for local ethnic and social groups. Probably due to competition from other media, the number of daily newspapers in the U. S. has declined over the past half-centuryIn particular, the number of evening newspapers has fallen by almost one-half since 1970, while the number of morning editions and Sunday editions has grown.

Literature-Shakespeare Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1250 words

Literature-Shakespeare - Essay Example A woman who had declined to marry, almost certainly because she would lessen her own status and ability to rule by doing so, although her father’s various mishaps will also have had their influence. At the time most women were in a very restricted place in society, either under the control of their father’s or husbands, and unable to make decisions for themselves In many production of the play the parts of the queen of Athens and that of Titania are played by the same person – does Shakespeare therefore show them as reflecting different parts of the same character? .It should be remembered that it was not until the time of Charles II that women appeared legally on the English stage, so that these parts would have been played originally by young boys. The Plot This is a complex one involving 4 couples , Theseus , Duke of Athens and his bride to be , Hippolyta: Oberon and Titania the fairy king and queen: and two pairs of young people - Hermia and Lysander: Helena and Demetrius. After many tricks and turns, including of course the play within a play, love conquers all. At the beginning Theseus dominates his bride to be, reminding her of how he had wooed her, the queen of the Amazons, :- woo'd thee [Hippolyta] with my sword, And won thy love doing thee injuries; But I will wed thee in another key, With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling. (I.i.16-19) Hippolyta is therefore portrayed a conquered former enemy and apparently compliant. Is that how Shakespeare sees royal spouses or merely how he portrays them? He was born after the death of Henry VIII and Mary Tudor had died in his infancy so he had no personal experience to go on. . Hippolyta’s response is minimal, especially as they are interrupted by the entry of others. . He has conquered her by his physical strength. How much choice did she have in the matter? Would the audience understand erotic references in ‘sword’ and ‘injuries’ at a time when chastity in a bride was so prized? She merely discusses the short time left until the wedding. The rulers have had their quarrel and settled it as mature adults before the play begins. They have resolved their own differences. For the others though the action is all ahead of them and they do not have as much control over their own affairs as the rulers enjoy. Hippolyta does not appear again until near the end of the play ( Act iv) when she enters with her husband and Egeus. Theseus comes over as being very much in charge, giving orders to others. To Hippolyta, although he still tells her what is going to happen, he does address her as ‘Fair queen’. Her response is merely to reminisce. In Act v she disagrees with her husband - he thinks the lovers stories are mere fables, but she accepts them as being true witnesses ‘ More witnesses than fancy’s images. However this isn’t an argument really. By the end of the play Hippolyta seems merely world weary. She wants the rustic’s play to be over - Act V , scene 1, ‘I am a weary of this moon, would he but change’ and ‘I hope she will be brief.’ She criticizes ‘ His speech was like a tangled chain’ ‘ It is after all her wedding night. There are more important things to come than watching a silly and badly done play about thwarted lovers. Hermia The play is very much of its time . Rulers, if not Elizabeth I, did marry for political reasons. For others there was not much more choice. The idea of young people marrying because they were passionately in love was still an alien

Globalisation Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1500 words

Globalisation - Essay Example The opportunity hidden in globalisation has led to the development of globalisation. The first opportunity that globalisation provides us free trade facility and its resultant effect on the global economy (Milward, 2003, p.10). Free trade would lead to an increase in the trade which would increase the financial flows between various economies. Globalisation would result in an increase in free trade which would increase lateral financial flows and the redistributed capital would help to pull up the impoverished countries from their financial woes. The second opportunity provided by globalisation in development of a transnational framework which would help in the development of a smooth trade system. The origin of internationalisation of industry and commerce can derived from both macroeconomic approach and micro economic approach. The macro economics approach consists of expansion of firms' activities beyond the countries where they have their registered offices can be explained with the help of international division of labour theory and the huge circuits of capital. A micro economic approach deals with the theory of product life cycle and Dunning Eclectic Paradigm (Hansen, 2009, p.3). Nation’s now have less control over their individual industries and economies so the global network is assuming more control over the markets around the world. The global network must keep in mind the welfare of both the global community and the individual nations. Globalisation refers to the intensification of the relationship between various countries which has been set with the help of internationalisation. Foreign Direct Investment involves transfer of intangible or tangible assets from one country to another in order to generate wealth in that country through total or partial control over their assets (Sornarajah, 2010, p.8). Foreign Direct Investment is one of the key elements of the rapidly evolving international economy. This is also referred as globalisation. Fore ign Direct Investment helps to create a stable, long lasting and direct link between economies. Under a correct environmental policy the Foreign Direct Investment can serve as an important tool for the purpose of development of local enterprise. Foreign Direct Investment helps in economic development of the developing countries. The level of economic development is higher in the case of FDI than in licensing, franchising or exporting (Jones and Wren, 2006, p.9). Foreign Direct Investment infers when a group of companies or individuals of one country buy assets of another country (OECD, 2009, p.14). The acquisition of the assets happen when foreign companies or individuals to control the means of production as well as distribution. Example- a company in US can purchase a production facility in Australia. By acquiring the production facility in Australia, the corporation can control the entire production process from US. This would help to ensure the quality of the product. A foreign direct investor can have a varying amount of stake in the company invested by him. FDI indicates at least 10% ownership in a company which helps the investor to control the daily affairs of the company as compared to licensing, export and franchising where very control can be exerted (Cohen, 2007, p.38). Some countries have a cap on the equity investment in their country. FDI helps in generating economic growth for a country so it preferred over licensing, franchising and exporting (Neuhaus, 2006, p.42). People who buy stocks in the company own a part of the company and have the ability to control the affairs of the co

What is the significance of 'The Orphan' with reference to Charles Essay

What is the significance of 'The Orphan' with reference to Charles Dickens' David Copperfield, George Elliot's Daniel Deronda and Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre - Essay Example Many had lost only one parent, others were abandoned or neglected, perhaps for reasons of penury, and many were illegitimate and marginalized. Victorian times showed no compassion towards children who had no control over their parentage. (Banerjee ibid). Orphans were very often homeless and vulnerable, prey to criminals who used them for their own abusive purposes, turning innocent children into hardened thieves (Sadrin 1994). Those who were the hardiest managed to survive, ‘...hungry, roaming singly or in packs like young wolves, snatching, stealing, stone-throwing, destructive, brutish, and cruel when not merely hopeless and lost.’ (Roe 27) There were thousands, and they came into contact with most inhabitants of large British cities, so it was inevitable that they would enter the literature of the day. Authors such as Dickens, Eliot, and Brontà « were joined by Charles Kingsley, who wrote The Water Babies, Thomas Hughes, who wrote Tom Brown’s Schooldays, Mrs. Gaskell, who wrote John Halifax, Gentleman, and there is of course George Eliot’s other novel, Silas Marner, among many others. So much so, that even modern day works such as Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince give us hints of Victorian influence in characters such as Lord Voldemort, and Mrs. Cole, who seems to be modeled on Dickens’ Mrs. Thingummy in Oliver Twist, who was also an orphan and lived in an institution. (Washick 2009) Charles Dickens did not only use his own childhood as a background for David Copperfield, but described the whole pervasive atmosphere and environment which was London in his early experience and that of all its inhabitants of the time. Little Davy in the novel endures hardship and penury - not only his own, but that of others around him, because he had no father - and he takes it as a matter of course that he and his mother are treated badly. His whole personality is saturated with the rigors of practical ‘making-do’, which