Civil War History using textbook, Ordeal by Fire, The Civil War and Essay

Civil War History using textbook, Ordeal by Fire, The Civil War and Reconstruction by James Hogue and James McPherson - Essay Example Secondly, the Union had a massive advantage in terms of resources. The South’s industrial output could not match that of New York alone, let alone the entire Industrial output of the North. Most of the heavy industries were concentrated in the North, including coal, iron, and woolen production, machine shops, and shipyards. In addition, the Union had far better infrastructure with several times the mileage of well-surfaced roads and canals, and twice the density of railroads. Shipping was a monopoly of Union vessels, and the South had only a handful of shipyards (Beringer, 1988). The third major factor was poor economic management. The Confederacy failed to export its stockpile of cotton at the start of the war before the Union blockade came into full effect. The revenues from exporting this cotton would have provided a sound financial base for undertaking a more effective war effort. Instead, the cotton was stockpiled or burnt. Moreover, the Confederate government chose to pr int money instead of levying high taxes on its citizens. This resulted in rampant inflation: prices increased 100-fold during the course of the war, devastating the economy and wiping out the savings of southerners. In contrast, the Union financed the war from bonds and taxation, maintaining a sound economy conducive for an effective war effort (Farmer, 2013). Q2 Reconstruction after the American Civil War entailed three major issues: the Social Problem, the Political Problem, and the Constitutional Problem. The policies and strategies adopted by President Andrew Johnson and the Radical Republicans after him were only partly successful. Johnson took up a soft stance towards Reconstruction. He solved the Political Problem and the Constitutional Problem, leaving the Social Problem to persist. Johnson unveiled his Reconstruction Plan in which each Southern state would be allowed back into the Union and has its war debts cancelled, if it withdraws its right of secession and swears alleg iance to the Union. He supported the rights of states at the expense of a strong federal government, resolving the Constitutional Problem. As a result, this ‘forgiveness’ policy was successful at incorporating the South back into the Union. Johnson failed to solve the Social Problem regarding slaves by failing to address their issues regarding land acquisition and voting rights. He denied former slaves the right to vote because he believed the South should be managed by white men only (Peacock, 2003). The Radical Republicans solved all the three problems for a short period following the election of Ulysses S. Grant to the presidency in 1868. They introduced the 15th Amendment, which granted African Americans the right to vote as well as protection under the law. They passed the Reconstruction Act of 1867 which granted African Americans all rights of citizenship enabling them access to education, land, public office and equal opportunities, leading to rise in their socio -economic status. The Enforcement Act gave the Grant government power to enforce the Reconstruction Act. As a result, the Southern states lost the right to oversee Reconstruction, which the Federal government took over. However, most of these gains were lost since Reconstruction governments in the South created bitter opposition among Southerners with their harsh measures. Northerners were also growing tired of Reconstruction due

Waiting for Godot and Dumbwaiter Comparison

Waiting for Godot and Dumbwaiter Comparison Among the best plays which can be compared to one another in different ways are Waiting for Godot written by Samuel Beckett and The Dumb Waiter written by Harold Pinter. One of the common elements the two plays share is the waiting factor which leads the few characters of both plays to do many absurd activities to fill the passing of time. Pinter has used many of the characteristics of Waiting for Godot in his own play showing the absurdity of the world through an absurd waiting for someone or something that never arrives. In this short essay these two plays are compared focusing on the waiting factor shared by the two. Examples are also provided from both plays in a comparison table on page 8 to 11, on the factors that result to the absurdity. Plots The plot in Waiting for Godot is a desert with a tree in the middle and the characters come to the scene at the beginning and leave at the end of each day. The scene is one location and it doesnt change throughout the play. This resembles the small world we are living at and it means we are all trapped in a cage like prisoners that we either cannot leave or are afraid to do so as a result the only thing we do is to wait for someone dominant and powerful to help us who never arrives so the waiting goes on. Plot in The Dumbwaiter is a basement room with two beds, flat against the back wall, a serving hatch, closed, between the beds. Also a door to the kitchen and lavatory, left and a door to a passage, right. Many of Pinters plays, as in Samuel Becketts Waiting for Godot, take place in one location. The single location again takes on the form of a prison for the characters, a space from which they either cannot leave or are afraid to do so. Rather than bore the audience with lack of variation, the repetitive actions that come along with the single space generally constitute one of Pinters (and Becketts) main themes. The environment also assumes attributes beyond its scope. The serving hatch, for instance, becomes a symbolic channel to a higher power, or God, whom Ben fears, while the bathroom develops into a place of mundane repetition for Gus. The basement also functions as part of the mystery and betrayal of the Dumb Waiter. It makes us to think who owns the building? Is it still a ca fà ©? Is Wilson inside? (4) American Heritage Britannica concise Encyclopedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harold_Pinter http://www.eng.fju.edu.tw/iacd_2003S/c_pm_lit/dumbwaiter.htm Characters Waiting for Godot has five characters as Estragon, Vladimir, Pozzo, Lucky and a messenger boy. The Dumbwaiter has two characters named Gus and Ben. As with Godot, in The Dumbwaiter the two characters are one dominant, one submissive, who share the amount of letters and syllables in their names (although Pinters Gus and Ben are simpler names-and simpler characters-than Becketts Vladimir and Estragon). Guss difficulty in putting on his shoe corresponds to a similar problem with a boot in Becketts play. In both plays, moreover, the characters have been stranded in one place with an unclear purpose, at least from the audiences perspective (1). In both plays, characters have not got any good communication. In Waiting for Godot plot is static. There is a lot of repetition, stability and progress. In The Dumb Waiter dialogues are non-sense of conversation. We see the scene as a room is his view of world. It is identical with Becketts view of the world. The world is going down, the drain. We see the toilet which smells very bad, dirty. And the feet of Vladimir and the breath of Estragon are stinky (2). In Waiting for Godot, the two characters are not satisfied and they both are waiting but in The Dumbwaiter, Ben is hopeful and satisfied with the world which is the room, while Gus is questioning everything and is not satisfied. Figure of Power (the Godlike) Pinters opinion of god is the man upstairs. He is the boss. He is the ruler, master. He is the figure of power. He comes with them and leaves. He doesnt get in touch. It could be anytime. This is direct influence of Beckett on Pinter with the idea of Godot who lives somewhere else nearby. In both plays the Godlike character is away and uses messengers to contact the characters on the scene. In Waiting for Godot, Beckett uses a boy as the messenger with the difference that in The Dumbwaiter Pinter uses the dumbwaiter as the messenger for Wilson (the figure of power). Central Action (Theme) Like a lot of theaters of the absurd, both plays are tragic and comic in nature. The plays are therefore referred to as a tragicomedy, or black comedy. As the very titles of the plays reveals their central action, in both of them people are waiting. And the major theme is the act of waiting for someone or something that never arrives. Because they have nothing to do in the meantime, time is a dreaded barrier, a test of their ability to endure (3). Because they repeat the same actions every day, time is cyclical. And time loses meaning when the actions of one day have no relevance or certainty on the next. http://www.archive.org/stream/pinteracriticale007278mbp/pinteracriticale007278mbp_djvu.txt http://www.soundofevil.com/ingilizce-hikaye-roman-kitap/14138-waiting-godot-amp-dumb-waiter-amp-end-game-samuel-beckett-harold-ingilizce-kitap-ozeti.html http://www.shmoop.com/waiting-for-godot/time-theme.html The Waiting In both plays the people are waiting for off-stage characters who exercise a powerful, god-like influence over the on-stage characters. No acceptable path existed for them to end their waiting and, therefore, they were forced to wait. Through this, the play showed that there are things for which one must wait and that no amount of initiative will end this waiting (1). Their situation, then, is that of people waiting for nothing much, in a universe that has nothing much to offer. As they wait, and we watch, we learn something about how man behaves under such circumstances. We see them devising, with diminishing success, games to play to pass the time; we see them try again and again to understand the unintelligible; we see them discuss committing suicide, but never without finding an excuse to put it off; we see them cling to each other for company while continually bickering and talking about how much better off they would be apart (specially in Becketts). Time Time in both plays is a dreaded barrier, a test for their abilities to endure. It is also cyclical and loses meaning when actions of one day have no relevance or certainty on the next. We see in Waiting for Godot that the characters even cannot tell the time of the year or the day. And also in The Dumbwaiter the room does not have a window so they guess the time and there are no words of a watch or looking at a clock in the play. Ben intentionally does not remember the emotional subjects and the times they spend together before or a fun they had and when Gus brings them up Ben tells him not to talk or asks him to do something or changes the subject so nothing stop him from what Wilson has asked him to do which is murdering Gus which happens at the end of the play. The time factor has relation to the next part which is Repetition as it is well explained as follows. And as Velissariou indicates: When reality is not measured by time and is not limited by spatial boundaries but lies in a n infinite time and an abstract space, then words can never be definite about a meaning which must perpetually elude them. (2) Repetition The repetition in the plays provides further evidence of the unimportance of time for Vladimir and Estragon and also for Ben and Gus. Both acts are identical excluding a few small deviations. With one day after another being basically the same during their wait, it is no wonder that Vladimir and Estragon had trouble telling one day from the next and that they had trouble remembering what happened during each day. Because of this lack of significant change, time had no meaning for them, and therein lays the larger theme that these scenes help to convey. If the day before was meaningless and if most of the periods before this were meaningless, time itself was meaningless for them as well. As Estragon said at the beginning of the second day in reference to that day, For me its over and done with, no matter what happens, which suggested his own realization of the meaninglessness of that day and of time itself. An example of a clearly cyclical pattern in Waiting for Godot that well introduces the repetition is when Estragon sings a song as follows: A dog came in the kitchen And stole a crust of bread, Then cook up with a ladle And beat him till he was dead. Then all the dogs came running And dug the dog a tomb And wrote upon the tombstone For the eyes of dogs to come: A dog came in the kitchen . . . . Questions while Waiting Estragon: (anxious). And we? Where do we come in? Estragons question is left unanswered by Vladimir. Note that these questions seem to bring pain or anxiety to Estragon. Beckett conveys a universal message that pondering the impossible questions that arise from waiting, cause pain, anxiety, inactivity and destroy people from within. Note that both Vladimir and Estragon ponder suicide, by hanging themselves from the tree, but are unable to act through to anxiety, as Estragon states, Dont lets do anything. Its safer (1). And also in the case of The Dumbwaiter whenever Gus tries to bring up something emotional, and to ask questions, Ben refuses to speak with him. This disconnection is the essence of their relationship. They do not speak with, but to each other. Silences and Pauses Both plays are filled with silences and pauses during the waiting. In theater of the absurd silences and pauses have three different applications. Either the characters are in a state of shock, or they are making time pass or they are hiding information from one another. Silences and pauses do carry meaning in these kinds of plays as if they are the same as using words to convey meaning. In Waiting for Godot, the silences are as a result of not having much to do trying to pass time until Godot comes and also lack of good communication. In the Dumbwaiter, silences and pauses are as a result of hiding information from Gus who will be the victim of the day at the end of the play when Ben shots him and the secrets are revealed. It is worth to mention Velissarious point of silences in Waiting for Godot here as: The silences in the play effectively Becket the terms an audience might adopt in order to understand them; the meaning is communicated by the intervals between words. In Didi and Gogos dialogue about the dead voices the silences are evenly distributed, atomizing the exchange into fragments of cross-talk. The empty stage is filled for a moment with the presence of dead people, worn out voices, fragmented whispers, murmurs and rustlings, and this sudden proliferation of the thoughts, speech, and noises of dead people suffocates Didi and Gogo because they themselves are emblematic of that dead humanity. Beckett stages the sounds of silence, the other side of language, and Didi and Gogo, in their yearning for authenticity, aspire to the point of overlap, to the zero, to the point where all difference is obliterated. It is a form of death-wish. The dead voices are heard inside their silences talking of the past, of dreams and hopes; presence is once again commensurate with absence. (1) Universality of the Waiting As human beings were all clinging to the hope of some kind of salvation, some kind of Godot to come and save us from our intolerable suffering, our poverty, our disease, our boredom, our quiet desperation (2) or a kind of Wilson to instruct us through our life. This hoping, this waiting, removes us from the potentially liberating awareness that the moment were actually suspended in, this moment between birth and death that glows so briefly, is ultimately more important than any vague better future we might desire. Life is a lengthy period of waiting, during which the passage of time has little importance. Each day the characters wait for the savior, and, if he doesnt come that day they will continue to wait. The amount of time that they had already spent doing this and the amount of time that would do so in the future is unknown, but neither is important because time is meaningless for them. Each day they would continue to wait for the unknown savior until he either came or time ended through their death. Sum up The plays confront the absurdity of existence and challenge us to figure out who we are and what were doing here. In this random universe, where everything who lives and who dies, whos up and whos down, is a matter of pure chance, and the odds arent necessarily in our favor, what do we do? Whats our purpose? The Dumbwaiter shows the same waiting as in Waiting for Godot with the difference that there is a more violent atmosphere which gives the sense of deceiving and murder. So Waiting for Godot and the Dumbwaiter are plays about waiting, about the repetition, the meaninglessness, the absurdity of waiting, of feeling (and being) suspended in time instead of moving forward in a meaningful direction and for the possibility of a better future that we are not quite fully convinced will ever arrive. You can find the comparison table with examples provided based on the factors mentioned above from the two plays as follows: EXAMPLES Factors Waiting for Godot Repeating actions VLADIMIR: Theres man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet. ( He takes off his hat again, peers inside it, feels about inside it, knocks on the crown, blows into it, puts it on again.) POZZO: (He puts the pipe in his pocket, takes out a little vaporiser and sprays his throat, puts back the vaporiser in his pocket, clears his throat, spits, takes out the vaporiser again, sprays his throat again, puts back the vaporiser in his pocket.) Repeating words Nothing to be done ESTRAGON: Why doesnt he put down his bags? POZZO: I too would be happy to meet him. The more people I meet the happier I become. From the meanest creature one departs wiser, richer, more conscious of ones blessings. Even you . . . (he looks at them ostentatiously in turn to make it clear they are both meant) . . . even you, who knows, will have added to my store. ESTRAGON: Why doesnt he put down  his bags? Killing Time VLADIMIR: That passed the time. ESTRAGON: It would have passed in  any case. VLADIMIR: Yes, but not so rapidly. VLADIMIR: Shall I tell it to you? ESTRAGON: No. VLADIMIR: Itll pass the time. (Pause.) Two thieves, crucified at the same time as our Saviour. Silence POZZO: (Silence.) Its the nicotine, one absorbs it in spite of ones precautions. (Sighs.) You know how it is. (Silence.) But perhaps you dont smoke? Yes? No? Its of no importance. (Silence.) But how am I to sit down now, without affectation, now that I have risen? Without appearing to -how shall I say- without appearing to falter. (To Vladimir.) I beg your pardon? (Silence.) Perhaps you didnt speak? (Silence.) Its of no importance. Giving irrelevant answers to the other person POZZO: True. (He sits down. To Estragon.) What is your name? ESTRAGON: Adam. POZZO: (who hasnt listened). Ah yes! The night. (He raises his head.) But be a little more attentive, for pitys sake, otherwise well never get anywhere. Not knowing the time the Godlike comes or sends message He said Saturday. (Pause.) I think. ESTRAGON: You think. VLADIMIR: I must have made a note of it. (He fumbles in his pockets, bursting with miscellaneous rubbish.) ESTRAGON: (very insidious). But what Saturday? And is it Saturday? Is it not rather Sunday? (Pause.) Or Monday? (Pause.) Or Friday? VLADIMIR: (looking wildly about him, as though the date was inscribed in the landscape). Its not possible! ESTRAGON: Or Thursday? Got used to waiting VLADIMIR: No further need to worry. ESTRAGON: Simply wait. VLADIMIR: Were used to it. Not doing what they say they would ESTRAGON: Well, shall we go? VLADIMIR: Yes, lets go. (They do not move). ESTRAGON: Then adieu. POZZO: Adieu. VLADIMIR: Adieu. POZZO: Adieu. (Silence. No one moves). VLADIMIR: (to Estragon). Give him his hat. ESTRAGON: Me! After what he did to me! Neve! VLADIMIR: Ill give it to him. (He does not move). Being promised that the master will come BOY: (in a rush). Mr. Godot told me to tell you he wont come this evening but surely tomorrow. Not remembering (or not wanting to Remember) the past Vladimir mentioned the time that he and Estragon had spent in Macon country picking grapes. Estragon did not remember this period, and even Vladimir has trouble remembering details of their time there, such as the name of the man for whom they worked. They couldnt remember the day before or even if it was the same place they were waiting for Godot Not knowing the time POZZO: What time is it? VLADIMIR: (inspecting the sky). Seven oclock . . . eight oclock . . . ESTRAGON: That depends what time of year it is. POZZO: Is it evening?

Essay --

Bullying is a very negative action and creates major problems in our society. Nothing good ever comes out of bullying someone. It can however change someone’s life forever. It actually does ruin many lives both of the bully and of the victim. The bully if caught and punished will then have a criminal record for the rest of their life. Unless they get psychological help, they will probably end up being a repeat offender. The victim often becomes depressed, withdrawn and often times either commits suicide or becomes a bully themselves. Bullying is more than just a part of growing up. It is a very violent form of aggressive behavior. Anti-bullying Laws will never completely solve the problem; only mask it temporarily until everyone starts working together to stop the root of this cruel behavior. Adults know that this behavior is wrong but many time don’t know when or if they should step in and do something. The important thing to remember when deciding to step in is how the adult feels about taking control of the situation versus how the victim might feel about having a parent or elder stick up for them. Sometimes the victim feels that elder involvement may make the situation even worse. They often feel the only way to solve the problem is to handle it themselves. Anti-bullying laws are being enacted in almost every state in the U.S. However, they are not being enforced and are nowhere near strong enough to identify and make the abuser stop or continue to repeat his/her actions again on someone else or even sometime the same victim they began with. Only 44 of our 50 states currently have anti-bullying laws in place. Ohio does have a law in place and is found in the Ohio Revised Code, section 3313.666. The law prohib... ...r high and high school which needs to be stopped. In one of the journals I was researching on this topic it stated that this type of behavior stems from many different things, life at home, poverty, depression. And that stopping those symptoms at a young age will help prevent these troubled kids from doing these acts. Of course you do not see these bad of events going on in the younger schools but when they start young like in elementary school what they think and do only gets worst with age. That’s why I wrote this paper in order to open not only the eyes of parents but as well as anyone that is ever around kids at all. And also to not only help the victims but also the offenders, it’s not always their fault. And lastly to stand up for a good cause such as this and help pass the laws against bullying to not only prevent it but in hopes of stopping it all together.

The “Now” Wedding Final Project

Running Head: WOW Wedding Final Project The â€Å"NOW† Wedding Final Project by A Paper Presented in Partial Fulfillment Of the Requirements of MGMT505 Project Management Fundamentals November 2008 The â€Å"NOW† Wedding Lauren and Conner announced on December 31st that they were going to be married on January 21st. Conner had been notified that he was being deployed with the National Guard on January 30th. Lauren and Conner wanted to have a week for a honeymoon before the deployment. Lauren wanted to have a spectacular wedding and accomplish everything that needed to be accomplished so that everyone could attend and everything would be perfect.There was a tremendous amount of planning, organizing and tasks that needed to be accomplished for the â€Å"NOW† wedding to take place on time, in budget and for it to be perfectly memorable for everyone, especially Lauren and Conner. For Lauren to have the wedding that she dreamed of there were numerous tasks that needed to be accomplished immediately. The first task that needed to be accomplished was to secure the church and reception hall, until the address of the wedding is determined and secured the invitations could not be sent out.The invitations needed to be sent out a week before the couple decided to have the wedding to make sure that everyone could be there, however that was not an option. Dresses had to be made and altered as well as securing the wedding decorations, caterer and wedding party members. The major constraint the wedding couple faced was the time constraint, trying to pull all of the elements together in order to create the perfect wedding would have been difficult at best. The critical path is very tight and there could be no room for mistakes, misunderstandings, or delays.The resources required for this project were mainly people and money. The more people helping to bring all the elements together, the quicker everything could get done. The financial resources, controlled by the brides father, were necessary to move up the processing time especially where the brides dress was concerned. Figure 1. 1 utilizes a Gantt Chart to show the timeframe of the project to include sequencing of sub tasks: Fig 1. 1 [pic] The costs associated with the project are as follows: [pic] This risks for the budget are the following items:Maid of Honor Travel$1000. 00 Airfrieght 20. 00 Seamstress 240. 00 Invitation Incentive 20. 00 Invitations Help 40. 00 Possible Budget Overruns$1320. 00 The following fishbone diagram details all the current risks for the project: [pic] The method of tracking the progress of the â€Å"NOW† Wedding will be the Stop Light Chart, it is a very simple method of tracking what has been completed and what has yet to be started. Following is the Stop Light Chart which would be used at the beginning of the project: [pic] The â€Å"NOW† Wedding Case Study QuestionsPart A [pic] Creating the wedding schedule as outlined in the text it sh ows that the planning for the wedding should have occurred at least a month before it did. We would reduce the time it takes of the mother of the bride to put together the guest list by utilizing all available resources (manning) having all attendants present to create the list and a comprehensive address list (thereby minimizing the risk of one person having all this information). Invitations must be ordered on the 2nd of January with the guest list completed on the 1st.While the invitations are at print, the dresses would be designed on the 3rd with the materials being ordered immediately. The creation of a work flow chart would list out all of the tasks that must be completed assigning individual tasks to individual members of the wedding party. The budget needs to be set immediately and using the budget form above the wedding party has created the master list of objectives and goals. Utilizing the stop light will keep the project on track with constant updates as to the progress on each item.The Maid of Honor needs to be brought in immediately to participate in the planning and execution and to have measurements taken on sight to avoid the risk of the dresses not being made correctly. Part B There would be no conflict caused by the Chairman of the Vestry Committee not reducing the notice period from 14 to 7 days and I would not have recommended using the extra funds to reduce the notice period as the requirement for 14 days notice has been met by depositing the funds to secure the room on the 1st of January. Since the Wedding is scheduled for the 21st of January, there is no need to reduce the notice period.If the project were started on January 1, the Mother getting the flu would not have impacted the guest list completion as it would have been completed by January 2. Since this is the first stage of the entire project, the suggestions would have been made that the mother, bride and all of the attendants get together the night of the 1st and make a comple te list. It is not until this list is completed that any plans can be made including ordering the invitations, cakes, catering, etc†¦ Since the invitations would have been ordered on the 2nd of January, the Bride would have had an xtra few days in the delivery of the invitations. The extra day for print would be compensated for by reducing the addressing phase and rather than asking for paid part-time help, there would be another get together on the night of the 9th to get all of the invitations addressed thereby reducing the number of days down to one. When the material and lace were lost in transit then the recommendation would be to have the Bride cancel the order, receive the funds back from the lost order and take all bridesmaids and Maid of Honor to a local bridal store and purchase dresses.With a three day shipping time on dresses there would still be time to have fittings and alterations done. The lace can be replaced locally and fitted while waiting for the dresses to be delivered. ———————– Gantt Chart Invitations Guest List Budget Maid of Honor Location Dresses Well Defined Budget Responsible Party Complete list created Created ASAP Ordered Promptly Addressed & Mailed Design Pattern Ordered & Delivered Secure in Advance Address for Invitations Travel Arrangements Long Distance Dress

The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove Chapter 4~5

Four Estelle Boyet As September's promise wound down, a strange unrest came over the people of Pine Cove, due in no small part to the fact that many of them were going into withdrawal from their medications. It didn't happen all at once – the streets were not full of middle-class junkies rocking and sweating and begging for a fix – but slowly as the autumn days became shorter. And as far as they knew (because Val Riordan had called every one of them), they were experiencing the onset of a mild seasonal syndrome, sort of like spring fever. Call it autumn malaise. The nature of the medications kept the symptoms spread out over the next few weeks. Prozac and some of the older antidepressants took almost a month to leave the system, so those people slipped into the fray more slowly than those on Zoloft or Paxil or Wellbutrin, which was flushed from the system in only a day or two, leaving the deprived with symptoms re-sembling a low-grade flu, then a scattered disorientation akin to a temporary case of attention deficit disorder, and, in some, a rebound of depression that dropped on them like a smoky curtain. One of the first to feel the effects was Estelle Boyet, a local artist, successful and semifamous for her seascapes and idealized paintings of Pine Cove shore life. Her prescription had run out a day before Dr. Val had replaced the supply with sugar pills, so she was already in the midst of withdrawal when she took the first dose of the placebo. Estelle was sixty, a stout, vital woman who wore brightly colored caftans and let her long gray hair fly around her shoulders as she moved through life with an energy and determination that inspired envy from women half her age. For thirty years she had been a teacher in the decaying and increas-ingly dangerous Los Angeles Unified School District, teaching eighth graders the difference between acrylics and oils, a brush and a pallet knife, Dali and Degas, and using her job and her marriage as a justification for never producing any art herself. She had married right out of art school: Joe Boyet, a promising young businessman, the only man she had ever loved and only the third she had ever slept with. When Joe had died eight years ago, she had nearly lost her mind. She tried to throw herself into her teaching, hoping that by inspiring the children she might find some reason to go on herself. In the face of the escalating violence in her school, she resigned herself to wearing a bullet-proof vest under her artist smocks and even brought in some paintball guns to try to gain the pupils' interest, but the latter only backfired into several incidents of drive-by abstract expressionism, and soon she received death threats for not allowing students to fashion crack pipes in ceramics class. Her students – children living in a hyperadult world where play-ground disputes were settled with 9 mms – eventually drove her out of teaching. Estelle lost her last reason to go on. The school psychologist re-ferred her to a psych iatrist, who put her on antidepressants and recommen-ded immediate retirement and relocation. Estelle moved to Pine Cove, where she began to paint and where she fell under the wing of Dr. Valerie Riordan. No wonder then that Estelle's painting had taken a dark turn over the last few weeks. She painted the ocean. Every day. Waves and spray, rocks and serpentine strands of kelp on the beach, otters and seals and pelicans and gulls. Her canvases sold in the local gal-leries as fast as she could paint them. But lately the inner light at the heart of her waves, titanium white and aquamarine, had taken on a dark shadow. Every beach scene spoke of desolation and dead fish. She dreamed of le-viathan shadows stalking her under the waves and she woke shivering and afraid. It was getting more difficult to get her paints and easel to the shore each day. The open ocean and the blank canvas were just too fright-ening. Joe is gone, she thought. I have no career and no friends and I produce nothing but kitschy seascapes as flat and soulless as a velvet Elvis. I'm afraid of everything. Val Riordan had called her, insisting that she come to a group therapy session for widows, but Estelle had said no. Instead, one evening, after finishing a tormented painting of a beached dolphin, she left her brushes to harden with acrylic and headed downtown – anywhere where she didn't have to look at this shit she'd been calling art. She ended up at the Head of the Slug Saloon – the first bar she'd set foot in since college. The Slug was full of Blues and smoke and people chasing shots and running from sadness. If they'd been dogs, they would have all been in the yard eating grass and trying to yak up whatever was making them feel so lousy. Not a bone gnawed, not a ball chased – all tails went unwagged. Oh, life is a fast cat, a short leash, a flea in that place where you just can't scratch. It was dog sad in there, and Catfish Jefferson was the designated howler. The moon was in his eye and he was singing up the sum of human suffering in A-minor, while he worked that bottleneck slide on the National guitar until it sounded like a slow wind through heartstrings. He was grinning. Of the hundred or so people in the Slug, half were experiencing some sort of withdrawal from their medications. There was a self-pity contingent at the bar, staring into their drinks and rocking back and forth to the Delta rhythms. At the tables, the more social of the de-pressed were whining and slurring their problems into each other's ears and occasionally trading hugs or curses. Over by the pool table stood the agitated and the aggressive, the people looking for someone to blame. These were mostly men, and Theophilus Crowe was keeping an eye on them from his spot at the bar. Since the death of Bess Leander, there had been a fight in the Slug almost every night. In addition, there were more pukers, more screamers, more criers, and more unwanted advances stifled with slaps. Theo had been very busy. So had Mavis Sand. Mavis was happy about it. Estelle came through the doors in her paint-spattered overalls and Shetland sweater, her hair pulled back in a long gray braid. Just inside, she paused as the music and the smoke washed over her. Some Mexican laborers were standing there in a group, drinking Budweisers, and one of them whistled at her. â€Å"I'm an old lady,† Estelle said. â€Å"Shame on you.† She pushed her way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a white wine. Mavis served it in a plastic beer cup. (She was serving everything in plastic lately. Evidently, the Blues made people want to break glass – on each other.) â€Å"Busy?† Estelle said, although she had nothing to compare it to. â€Å"The Blues sure packs 'em in,† Mavis said. â€Å"I don't much care for the Blues,† said Estelle. â€Å"I enjoy Classical music.† â€Å"Three bucks,† said Mavis. She took Estelle's money and moved to the other end of the bar. Estelle felt as if she'd been slapped in the face. â€Å"Don't mind Mavis,† a man's voice said. â€Å"She's always cranky.† Estelle looked up, caught a shirt button, then looked up farther to find Theo's smile. She had never met the constable, but she knew who he was. â€Å"I don't even know why I came in here. I'm not a drinker.† â€Å"Something going around,† Theo said. â€Å"I think maybe we're going to have a stormy winter or something. People are coming out of the woodwork.† They exchanged introductions and Theo complimented Estelle on her paintings, which he'd seen in the local galleries. Estelle dismissed the compliment. â€Å"This seems like a strange place to find the constable,† Estelle said. Theo showed her the cell phone on his belt. â€Å"Base of operations,† he said. â€Å"Most of the trouble has been starting in here anyway. If I'm here already, I can stop it before it escalates.† â€Å"Very conscientious of you.† â€Å"No, I'm just lazy,† Theo said. â€Å"And tired. In the last three weeks I've been called to five domestic disputes, ten fights, two people who barricaded themselves in the bathroom and threatened suicide, a guy who was going house to house knocking the heads off garden gnomes with a sledgehammer, and a woman who tried to take her husband's eye out with a spoon.† â€Å"Oh my. Sounds like one day in the life of an L.A. cop.† â€Å"This isn't L.A.,† Theo said. â€Å"I don't mean to complain, but I'm not really prepared for a crime wave.† â€Å"And there's nowhere left to run,† Estelle said. â€Å"Pardon?† â€Å"People come here to run away from conflict, don't you think? Come to a small town to get out of the violence and the competition in the city. If you can't handle it here, there's nowhere else to go. You might as well give up.† â€Å"Well, that's a little cynical. I thought artists were supposed to be idealists.† â€Å"Scratch a cynic and you'll find a disappointed romantic,† Estelle said. â€Å"That's you?† Theo asked. â€Å"A disappointed romantic?† â€Å"The only man I ever loved died.† â€Å"I'm sorry,† Theo said. â€Å"Me too.† She drained her cup of wine. â€Å"Easy on that, Estelle. It doesn't help.† â€Å"I'm not a drinker. I just had to get out of the house.† There was some shouting over by the pool table. â€Å"My presence is required,† Theo said. â€Å"Excuse me.† He made his way through the crowd to where two men were squaring off to fight. Estelle signaled Mavis for a refill and turned to watch Theo try to make peace. Catfish Jefferson sang a sad song about a mean old woman doing him wrong. That's me, Estelle thought. A mean old worthless woman. Self-medication was working by midnight. Most of the customers at the Slug had given in and started clapping and wailing along with Catfish's Blues. Quite a few had given up and gone home. By closing time, there were only five people left in the Slug and Mavis was cackling over a drawer full of money. Catfish Jefferson put down his National steel guitar and picked up the two-gallon pickle jar that held his tips. Dollar bills spilled over the top, change skated in the bottom, and here and there in the middle fives and tens struggled for air. There was even a twenty down there, and Catfish dug in after it like a kid going for a Cracker Jack prize. He carried the jar to the bar and plopped down next to Estelle, who was gloriously, eloquently crocked. â€Å"Hey, baby,† Catfish said. â€Å"You like the Blues?† Estelle searched the air for the source of the question, as if it might have come from a moth spiraling around one of the lights behind the bar. Her gaze finally settled on the Bluesman and she said, â€Å"You're very good. I was going to leave, but I liked the music.† â€Å"Well, you done stayed now,† Catfish said. â€Å"Look at this.† He shook the money jar. â€Å"I got me upward o' two hundred dollar here, and that mean old woman owe me least that much too. What you say we take a pint and my guitar and go down to the beach, have us a party?† â€Å"I'd better get home,† Estelle said. â€Å"I have to paint in the morning.† â€Å"You a painter? I never knowed me a painter. What you say we go down to the beach and watch us a sunrise?† â€Å"Wrong coast,† Estelle said. â€Å"The sun comes up over the mountains.† Catfish laughed. â€Å"See, you done saved me a heap of waiting already. Let's you and me go down to the beach.† â€Å"No, I can't.† â€Å"It 'cause I'm Black, ain't it?† â€Å"No.† â€Å"‘Cause I'm old, right?† â€Å"No.† â€Å"‘Cause I'm bald. You don't like old bald men, right?† â€Å"No!† Estelle said. â€Å"‘Cause I'm a musician. You heard we irresponsible?† â€Å"No.† â€Å"‘Cause I'm hung like a bull, right?† â€Å"No!† Estelle said. Catfish laughed again. â€Å"Well, you wouldn't mind spreadin that one around town just the same, would you?† â€Å"How would I know how you're hung?† â€Å"Well,† Catfish said, pausing and grinning, â€Å"you could go to the beach with me.† â€Å"You are a nasty and persistent old man, aren't you, Mr. Jefferson?† Estelle asked. Catfish bowed his shining head, â€Å"I truly am, miss. I truly am nasty and persistent. And I am too old to be trouble. I admits it.† He held out a long, thin hand. â€Å"Let's have us a party on the beach.† Estelle felt like she'd just been bamboozled by the devil. Something smooth and vibrant under that gritty old down-home shuck. Was this the dark shadow her paintings kept finding in the surf? She took his hand. â€Å"Let's go to the beach.† â€Å"Ha!† Catfish said. Mavis pulled a Louisville Slugger from behind the bar and held it out to Estelle. â€Å"Here, you wanna borrow this?† They found a niche in the rocks that sheltered them from the wind. Catfish dumped sand from his wing tips and shook his socks out before laying them out to dry. â€Å"That was a sneaky old wave.† â€Å"I told you to take off your shoes,† Estelle said. She was more amused than she felt she had a right to be. A few sips from Catfish's pint had kept the cheap white wine from going sour in her stomach. She was warm, despite the chill wind. Catfish, on the other hand, looked miserable. â€Å"Never did like the ocean much,† Catfish said. â€Å"Too many sneaky things down there. Give a man the creeps, that's what it does.† â€Å"If you don't like the ocean, then why did you ask me to come to the beach?† â€Å"The tall man said you like to paint pictures of the beach.† â€Å"Lately, the ocean's been giving me a bit of the creeps too. My paintings have gone dark.† Catfish wiped sand from between his toes with a long finger. â€Å"You think you can paint the Blues?† â€Å"You ever seen Van Gogh?† Catfish looked out to sea. A three-quarter moon was pooling like mercury out there. â€Å"Van Gogh†¦Van Gogh†¦fiddle player outta St. Louis?† â€Å"That's him,† Estelle said. Catfish snatched the pint out of her hand and grinned. â€Å"Girl, you drink a man's liquor and lie to him too. I know who Vincent Van Gogh is.† Estelle couldn't remember the last time she'd been called a girl, but she was pretty sure she hadn't liked hearing it as much as she did now. She said, â€Å"Who's lying now? Girl?† â€Å"You know, under that big sweater and them overalls, they might be a girl. Then again, I could be wrong.† â€Å"You'll never know.† â€Å"I won't? Now that is some sad stuff there.† He picked up his guitar, which had been leaning on a rock, and began playing softly, using the surf as a backbeat. He sang about wet shoes, running low on liquor, and a wind that chilled right to the bone. Estelle closed her eyes and swayed to the music. She realized that this was the first time she'd felt good in weeks. He stopped abruptly. â€Å"I'll be damned. Look at that.† Estelle opened her eyes and looked toward the waterline where Catfish was pointing. Some fish had run up on the beach and were flopping around in the sand. â€Å"You ever see anything like that?† Estelle shook her head. More fish were coming out of the surf. Beyond the breakers, the water was boiling with fish jumping and thrashing. A wave rose up as if being pushed from underneath. â€Å"There's something moving out there.† Catfish picked up his shoes. â€Å"We gots to go.† Estelle didn't even think of protesting. â€Å"Yes. Now.† She thought about the huge shadows that kept appearing under the waves in her paintings. She grabbed Catfish's shoes, jumped off the rock, and started down the beach to the stairs that led up to a bluff where Catfish's station wagon waited. â€Å"Come on.† â€Å"I'm comin'.† Catfish spidered down the rock and stepped after her. At the car, both of them winded and leaning on the fenders, Catfish was digging in his pocket for the keys when they heard the roar. The roar of a thousand phlegmy lions – equal amounts of wetness, fury, and volume. Estelle felt her ribs vibrate with the noise. â€Å"Jesus! What was that?† â€Å"Get in the car, girl.† Estelle climbed into the station wagon. Catfish was already fumbling the key into the ignition. The car fired up and he threw it into drive, kicking up gravel as he pulled away. â€Å"Wait, your shoes are on the roof.† â€Å"He can have them,† Catfish said. â€Å"They better than the ones he ate last time.† â€Å"He? What the hell was that? You know what that was?† â€Å"I'll tell you soon as I'm done havin this heart attack.† Five The Sea Beast The great Sea Beast paused in his pursuit of the delicious radioactive aroma and sent a subsonic message out to a gray whale passing several miles ahead of him. Roughly translated, it said, â€Å"Hey, baby, how's about you and I eat a few plankton and do the wild thing.† The gray whale continued her relentless swim south and replied with a subsonic thrum that translated, â€Å"I know who you are. Stay away from me.† The Sea Beast swam on. During his journey he had eaten a basking shark, a few dolphins, and several hundred tuna. His focus had changed from food to sex. As he approached the California coast, the radioactive scent began to diminish to almost nothing. The leak at the power plant had been discovered and fixed. He found himself less than a mile offshore with a belly full of shark – and no memory of why he'd left his volcanic nest. But there was a buzz reaching his predator's senses from shore, the listless re-solve of prey that has given up: depression. Warm-blooded food, dolphins, and whales sent off the same signal sometimes. A large school of food was just asking to be eaten, right near the edge of the sea. He stopped out past the surf line and came to the surface in the middle of a kelp bed, his massive head breaking though strands of kelp like a zombie pickup truck breaking sod as it rises from the grave. Then he heard it. A hated sound. The sound of an enemy. It had been half a century since the Sea Beast had left the water, and land was not his natural domain, but his instinct to attack overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation. He threw back his head, shaking the great purple gills that stood out on his neck like trees, and blew the water from his vestigial lungs. Breath burned down his cavernous throat for the first time in fifty years and came out in a horrendous roar of pain and anger. Three of the protective ocular membranes slid back from his eyes like electric car windows. allow-ing him to see in the bitter air. He thrashed his tail, pumped his great webbed feet, and torpedoed toward the shore. Gabe It had been almost ten years since Gabe Fenton had dissected a dog, but now, at three o'clock in the morning, he was thinking seriously about taking a scalpel to Skinner, his three-year-old Labrador retriever, who was deep in the throes of a psychotic barking fit. Skinner had been banished to the porch that afternoon, after he had taken a roll in a dead seagull and refused to go into the surf or get near the hose to be washed off. To Skinner, dead bird was the smell of romance. Gabe crawled out of bed and padded to the door in his boxers, scooping up a hiking boot along the way. He was a biologist, held a Ph.D. in animal behavior from Stanford, so it was with great academic credibility that he opened the door and winged the boot at his dog, following it with the behavior-reinforcing command of: â€Å"Skinner, shut the fuck up!† Skinner paused in his barking fit long enough to duck under the flying L. L. Bean, then, true to his breeding, retrieved it from the washbasin that he used as a water dish and brought it back to the doorway where Gabe stood. Skinner set the soggy boot at the biologist's feet. Gabe closed the door in Skinner's face. Jealous, Skinner thought. No wonder he can't get any females, smelling like fabric softener and soap. The Food Guy wouldn't be so cranky if he'd get out and sniff some butts. (Skinner always thought of Gabe as â€Å"the Food Guy.†) Then, after a quick sniff to confirm that he was, indeed, the Don Juan of all dogs, Skinner resumed his barking fit. Doesn't he get it, Skinner thought, there's something dangerous coming. Danger, Food Guy, danger! Inside, Gabe Fenton glanced at the computer screen in his living room as he returned to bed. A thousand tiny green dots were working their way, en masse, across the map of the Pine Cove area. He stopped and rubbed his eyes. It wasn't possible. Gabe went to the computer and typed in a command. The map of the area reappeared in wider scale. Still, the dots were all moving in a line. He zoomed the map to only a few square miles, the dots were still on the move. Each green dot on the map represented a rat that Gabe had live-trapped, injected with a microchip, and released into the wild. Their location was tracked and plotted by satellite. Every rat in a ten-square-mile area was moving east, away from the coast. Rats did not behave that way. Gabe ran the data backward, looking at the rodents' movements over the last few hours. The exodus had started abruptly, only two hours ago, and already most of the rats had moved over a mile inland. They were running full-tilt and going far beyond their normal range. Rats are sprinters, not long-distance runners. Something was up. Gabe hit a key and a tiny green number appeared next to each of the dots. Each chip was unique, and each rat could be identified like airplanes on the screen of an air traffic controller. Rat 363 hadn't moved outside of a two-meter range for five days. Gabe had assumed that she had either given birth or was ill. Now 363 was half a mile from her normal territory. Anomalies are both the bane and bread of researchers. Gabe was excited by the data, but at the same time it made him anxious. An anomaly like this could lead to a discovery, or make him look like a total fool. He cross-checked the data three different ways, then tapped into the weather station on the roof. Nothing was happening in the way of weather, all changes in barometric pressure, humidity, wind, and temperature were well within normal ranges. He looked out the window: a low fog was settling on the shore, totally normal. He could just make out the lighthouse a hundred yards away. It had been shut down for twenty years, used only as a weather station and as a base for biological research. He grabbed a blanket off of his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders against the chill, then returned to his desk. The green dots were still moving. He dialed the number for JPL in Pasadena. Skinner was still barking outside. â€Å"Skinner, shut the fuck up!† Gabe shouted just as the automated answering service put him through to the seismology lab. A woman answered. She sounded young, probably an intern. â€Å"Excuse me?† she said. â€Å"Sorry, I was yelling at my dog. Yes, hello, this is Dr. Gabe Fenton at the research station in Pine Cove, just wondering if you have any seismic activity in my area.† â€Å"Pine Cove? Can I get a longitude and latitude?† Gabe gave it to her. â€Å"I think I'm looking for something offshore.† â€Å"Nothing. Minor tremor centered at Parkfield yesterday at 9 A.M. Point zero-five-three. You wouldn't even be able to feel it. Have you picked something up on your instruments?† â€Å"I don't have seismographic instruments. That's why I called you. This is a biological research and weather station.† â€Å"I'm sorry, Doctor, I didn't know. I'm new here. Did you feel something?† â€Å"No. My rats are moving.† As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't. â€Å"Pardon me?† â€Å"Never mind, I was just checking. I'm having some anomalous behavior in some specimens. If you pick up anything in the next few days, could you call me?† He gave her his number. â€Å"You think your rats are predicting an earthquake, Doctor?† â€Å"I didn't say that.† â€Å"You should know that there's no concrete data on animals predicting seismic activity.† â€Å"I know that, but I'm trying to eliminate all the possibilities.† â€Å"Did it occur to you that your dog might be scaring them?† â€Å"I'll factor that in,† Gabe said. â€Å"Thank you for your time.† He hung up, feeling stupid. Nothing seismic or meteorological, and a call to the highway patrol confirmed that there were no chemical spills or fires. He had to confirm the data. Perhaps something was wrong with the satellite signal. The only way to find out was to take out his portable antenna and track the rats in the field. He dressed quickly and headed out to his truck. â€Å"Skinner, you want to go for a ride?† Skinner wagged his tail and made a beeline for the truck. About time, he thought. You need to get away from the shore, Food Guy, right now. Inside the house, ten green dots were moving away from the others toward the shore. The Sea Beast The Sea Beast crawled up the beach, roaring as his legs took the full weight of his body and the undertow sucked at his haunches. The urgency of killing his enemy had diminished now and hunger was upon him in re-sponse to the effort of moving out of the ocean. An organ at the base of his brain that had disappeared from other species when man's only living an-cestors were tree shrews produced an electric signal to call food. There were many prey here, that same organ sensed. The Sea Beast came to the fifty-foot cliff that bordered the beach, reared back on his tail, and pulled himself up with his forelegs. He was a hundred feet long, nose to tail, and stood twenty-five feet tall with his broad neck extended to its full height. His rear feet were wide and webbed, his front talonlike, with a thumb that opposed three curved claws for grasping and killing prey. On the dry grass above the beach, some of the prey he had called already waited. Raccoons, ground squirrels, a few skunks, a fox, and two cats ca-vorted on the grass – some copulated, others dug at fleas with blissful abandon, others just rolled on their backs as if overcome by a fit of joy. The Sea Beast swept them into his great maw with a flick of his tongue, crunching a few bones on the way down, but swallowing most whole. He belched and savored the skunky bouquet, his jaws smacking together like two wet mattresses, and a flash of neon color ran across his flanks with the pleasure. He moved over the bluff, across the Coast Highway, and into the sleeping town. The streets were deserted, lights off in all the businesses on Cypress Street. A low fog splashed against the pseudo-Tudor half-timbered buildings and formed green coronas around the streetlights. Above it all, the red Texaco sign shone like a beacon. The Sea Beast changed the color of his skin to the same smoky gray as the fog and moved down the center of the street looking like a serpentine cloud. He followed a low rumbling sound coming from under the red beacon, broke out of the fog, and there he saw her. She purred, taunting and teasing him from the front of the deserted Texaco station. That come-hither rumble. That low, sexy growl. Those silver flanks reflecting fog and the red Texaco sign called to him, begged him to mount her. The Sea Beast flashed a rainbow of color down his sides to display his magnificent maleness. He fanned the gill trees on his neck, sending bands of color and light into their branches. The Sea Beast sent her a signal, which roughly translated into: â€Å"Hey, baby, haven't seen you around before.† She sat there, purring, playing coy, but he knew she wanted him. She had short black legs, a stumpy tail, and smelled as if she may have recently eaten a trawler, but those magnificent silver flanks were too much to resist. The Sea Beast turned himself silver as well, to make her feel a little more comfortable, then reared up on his hind legs and displayed his aroused member. No response, just that shy purring. He took it as an invitation and moved across the parking lot to mount the fuel truck. Estelle Estelle placed a mug of tea in front of Catfish, then sat down across the table from him with her own. Catfish sipped the tea and grimaced, then pulled the pint from his back pocket and unscrewed the cap. Estelle caught his hand before he could pour. â€Å"You have some explaining to do first, Mr. Bluesman.† Estelle was more than a little rattled. When they were only half a mile away from the beach, she had been overtaken by a sudden urge to return and had fought Catfish for control of the car. It was crazy behavior. It frightened her as much as the thing at the beach had, and when they got to her house she immediately took a Zoloft, even though she'd already had her dose for the day. â€Å"Leave me be, woman. I said I'd tell you. I needs me some nerve medicine.† Estelle released his hand. â€Å"What was that at the beach?† Catfish splashed some whiskey into Estelle's tea first, then into his own. He grinned, â€Å"You see my name wasn't always Catfish. I was born with the name of Meriwether Jefferson. Catfish come on me sometime later.† â€Å"Christ, Catfish, I'm sixty years old. Am I going to live long enough to hear the end of this story? What in the hell was out in the water tonight?† She was definitely not herself, swearing like this. â€Å"You wanna know or not?† Estelle sipped her tea. â€Å"Sorry, go ahead.†