#although. i have not been around for several weeks. and my current cognizance in response to these dumbfuck little kids completely failing

[iatrophilosophos]

I just want to go to sleep but instead these asshole kids are having simultaneous meltdowns and holy fuck it feels like the space between our eyes is melting

#columbine is utterly and completely convinced we are either going to die in a car crash on tuesday or get taken to crazy jail. #apotheosis thinks its likely and is still fucking throwing itself at this and i hate it for that #i am not particularly convinced #everyone is clawing apart me from the inside and wants to explode though. extremely fucking overwhelming #hard to not be extremely stressed just from like. a nervous system perspective #we had a decent run of being sble to drive long distance early this year but uh. #mostly several failed and incredibly miserable attempts st it since #so it is very hard to not expect it to go the same this time. #although. i have not been around for several weeks. and my current cognizance in response to these dumbfuck little kids completely failing #to be capable of coherent thought #does seem to be a positive sign in relation to healing somewhat from this summers bout of fun and sexy neurological problems.

[skvaderarts]

Apocrypha Chapter Four: Benevolence

Masterlist can be found Here! Thanks!

Chapter Four: Benevolence

Note: I loved talking to everyone and reading your comments! Thanks for the support! I feel loved and appreciated. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and all the ones to come.

A gentle breeze picked up as the group rounded the corner and approached the front steps of the house. V opened the door and watched as the children filed into the house, immediately calling out to Kyrie to inform her that they were home as they took off their shoes and headed up stairs to their shared bedroom. They presumably intended to continue playing, a fact that V found exhausting to even comprehend considering the fact that they had spent several hours at the park. He'd chock it up to youthful vigor, but he hadn't had that kind of energy as a child and he also didn't feel like making himself feel that old so early in the day.

Kyrie approached from the living room, yawning as she stretched and adjusted her posture. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes before greeting the children and then turning her attention to V. Her usual smile was present although, at least to him, she seemed to be waking up from a nap and not entirely cognizant yet. She yawned again before speaking.

"I really appreciate you taking them to the park for me today," She said, beaming from her restful sleep," I hope they didn't cause too much trouble."

V shook his head, contemplating the idea of a nap of his own. Just looking at her made him more tired than he already was. Curling up with a good book in the arm chair that sat near the window in the living room and reading until he nodded off sounded like a tempting proposition. "They were very well behaved, all things considered," He said shooting a placid glance in the direction of the stairs," It was my pleasure."

"That and you certainly needed a nap, didn't you" He thought to himself as she headed into the kitchen. Kyrie turned the eye off on the stove and removed the teapot that sat atop of it, setting it down on the counter next to the refrigerator. Apparently she had been awake a little longer than he'd originally guessed.

"Would you like a cup?" She asked as she grabbed down the container that the tea was housed inside of. V nodded once in polite, wordless conformation, unwilling to pass up the opportunity to warm up a little. He was always slightly cold as a general rule. Kyrie took down a second cup and placed a flavored tea bag inside of each of them before douching them each with an appropriate amount of hot water and allowing them to steep. V made a mental note to purchase a kettle whenever he finally decided to venture out on his own.

Drinking tea with Kyrie was something he found himself doing quite often as of late, and he had gradually become accustomed to it. While they didn't really have anything to converse over while sipping their drinks, they each enjoyed taking a moment to simply savor the silence around them. Having three children around at all times could be never shredding at times, so any period of extended silence that they could procure was a welcome change of pace for everyone who lived there.

As the two of them fixed their respective drinks and began to drink them, V thanked her. He had come to appreciate how kind and considerate she was, always taking into account the comfort and happiness of those around her. Nero was exceptionally lucky to have someone like her in his life, and he was grateful to know her by extension. He hadn't experienced very many occasions in his life where he had met someone he could definitively say was genuinely concerned about those around them. But he could tell she felt that way about everyone she lived with. It was unfamiliar but refreshing for him to be surrounded by so many people who actually cared about him.

"If it's not too much trouble, can I ask you to do something for me, please?" She asked tentatively, seemingly unsure of how he would respond to the request.

V glanced up at Kyrie, giving her a curious look. He hoped he hadn't done something to upset her. She didn't seem upset, but assuming he'd something undesirable was his natural state until proven otherwise."Yes, of course."

"Would you be willing to come to the orphanage with me to meet the other children?" She seemed almost embarrassed to make such a request of him as if she was acutely aware that she was asking him to do something she knew he wouldn't normally do," Kyle, Carlo, and Julio seem to adore you, so I thought the other children might too!"

He was slightly surprised by what she'd just asked of him. While it wasn't an unreasonable request, he couldn't help but feel instantly uncomfortable at the prospect of going to an orphanage and interacting with children. It reminded him of things that he'd buried deep anc chosen to forget. He suppressed the urge to squirm in response to the visceral level of discomfort that he felt and nodded slowly, almost as if he were telling himself yes instead of her. This was the only thing she'd ever really asked of him. He could do that.

"... Yes...I could entertain the prospect. When did you have in mind?" It only occurred to him that he didn't really have any plans to speak of aside from taking a nap and catching up on one of the books he'd been reading. Well, rereading. He hoped Nico had found something worth wild during their excursion that day. He was woefully bored of the literature he had on hand. The selection was quite limited. At this point, he was willing to take just about anything he could get his hands on. A dictionary would suffice!

I was hoping we could go today, if that would be alright" She said cheerfully, " They are going to start making dinner in about an hour and I was going to go help them out like I normally do this time of week! They need all the help they can get with so many little mouths to feed!"

V choked on his drink.

-~-

All things considered, it seemed like Nero and Nico would be arriving back at home just in time for dinner. While sunset was still an hour or so off, the ferry would be making port shortly, and they would be home within the next little while. It had been a productive day as far as they were considered, so now it was time to enjoy a hot meal and take a well earned rest.

"I'm surprised the boat didn't sink from all these damn books, Nico." Nero said nonchalantly, earning him a prompt but playful middle finger from his mechanic companion. He took it with a grain of salt, already expecting that kind of response. They had each become accustomed to one another's sense of humor a while ago.

Nero glanced out over the water, catching a glimpse of their newly found relic in the back of the van. She'd been examining V's cane ever since they had left Redgrave City, so it was currently leaning against the wall over by Nico's work table. He wasn't sure what she hoped to discover, but he was willing to admit that he was becoming more curious as time passed. Did she think it possessed some sort of magical properties or something like that? While it wasn't out of the realm of possibility, he didn't really know if he thought that was the case or not.

"So what's the deal with the cane again? Is it cursed or somethin'?" Nero asked as he turned his attention to the front of the van again. They would be docking momentarily.

Nico glanced back before turning forward again and adjusting her position in the seat again. "Hell if I know! It's V's, so who knows. I found some weak demonic power comin' off of it, but I can't really tell where it came from. Hell, I can't even tell what kinda metal it's made out of!"

Nero laughed to himself, internally acknowledging that it must drive a former gunsmith up the walls to not be able to identify a type of metal. But that fact only made the cane more interesting to him. Where had he gotten a cane from that wasn't made out of a regular type of metal? Was it composed of some sort of experimental alloy or something? Heck, did it come from the underworld? Was it a devilarm?!

While the last option seemed unlikely, he couldn't rule it out completely. It made him feel slightly more comfortable about her request to study it just a little longer before returning it to its former owner. A day or two didn't seem like an unreasonable proposition, but no longer than that. At least that's what he hoped. From what he could tell, V actually did use it to get around. He tended to pick a spot and stay in it for prolonged periods of time compared to the level of mobility he had illustrated that he was capable of back in Redgrave City. That could be for a number of reasons to be fair, especially considering that he had only been back about eight days and was more than likely still recovering from their fight at Fortuna Castle and his original resurrection. And for all he knew V might just operate on low power in a domestic setting, reserving his energy for more pressing matters such as fighting demons. He didn't seem ill or anything, so maybe worrying over him was actually detrimental? Nero couldn't say, but he did find it difficult not to worry about him from time to time. He felt almost compelled to do so. Maybe it was the fact that he knew that they were brothers now, or maybe it was what hand happened to Credo a few years back. Perhaps it was because of his much weaker disposition, or a combination of all three. He couldn't say for sure. But he also had to acknowledge that it wasn't necessarily a bad thing either. Maybe he just cared about him.

Nero blushed slightly at the concept. Not very visibly, but he could feel his face grow perceptively warmer regardless. It was so strange to him. He'd never been able to really understand or coexist very well with quiet people growing up. Even as an adult they still had a special way of getting under his skin and making him uncomfortable as a general rule. Not knowing what someone was thinking made him uneasy, especially when they were as unreadable as V was. To this day, he still had a litany of questions he needed answered about his newfound sibling, but he wasn't sure where to start. No one liked being probed, and the last thing he wanted to do was to come off as invasive and totally insensitive. There was never a simple course of action when it came to V. Or was there? Was he overthinking this whole thing? Maybe just asking him to talk to him about these sorts of things would go over better than he thought. After all, never starting was a sure fire way to never get anywhere.

It was decided, then. He would ask him something simple when they got home. Something that he'd always wanted to know from the moment that he'd met him.

… What the fuck was his first name?

He seemed to always introduce himself as the same thing, but he was genuinely curious. The last time he'd brought it up, V had drawn a firm line in the sand with a succulent "no" and totally abandoned the subject. But no one named their kid a one letter name, did they? That seemed totally unlikely to him. He didn't really expect a different answer this time around, but he was just curious. It didn't seem like something he'd get upset about. If anything, he figured that there was some crazy reason behind it that he'd probably get a good laugh out of when V wasn't around to hear it.

"So ya gonna keep spacing out or are ya gonna come in the house? Cause I wanna eat dinner." Nico said, interrupting the deluge of scatterbrained thoughts that he'd been lost in for- had it really been that long? They were home already?! Wow. That had felt pretty quick… Then again, spacing out tended to alter one's perception of the passage of time. At least they were home now.

"I'm coming already. Don't worry about it." Nero said as he opened the side door and slipped out onto the ground. The concrete pavement welcomed his boots with a low thud, confirming that he was indeed in his own garage again. Yea, he definitely needed a nap or something. It was crazy how fast they had gotten here. Nero hoped that Kyrie hadn't killed anyone in the process. Her driving was pretty awful after all.

Nero crossed the space between the van and the garage door (what little there was) and headed towards the door. He turned the knob and pushed it open, stepping inside. Nico followed closely behind him, passing the white haired devil hunter and taking off her shoes before heading towards the stairs as soon as they got inside. Kyrie called out to greet them from another room, seemingly on the second floor of the house from what he could tell. He couldn't tell from the smell what Kyrie had been cooking, but he immediately felt more hungry that he had a few seconds before.

A cursory examination of the first floor yielded the result that he was alone now, so he shrugged out of his coat and boots and headed into the kitchen to grab something to drink. He grabbed the first thing that his hand landed on (a picture of water) and poured himself a glass before taking a peak at whatever was in the oven. He still couldn't really tell, although it seemed like a much smaller dish than usual. Kyrie must've volunteered to help make dinner at the orphanage again. They had probably eaten dinner with the children and then she had headed home to throw something for him, Nico, and V in the oven. How considerate of her.

He cursed himself for his total lack of cooking skills. He'd love to help her out more with those sorts of things, but he wasn't really sure how. Keeping the kids entertained so she could have a moment of peace was his specialty. She did enough as far as he and everyone else was concerned. Anything they could do to help her out they did, no questions asked.

Nero finished his glass of water and stepped into the living room, intent on closing the curtains. Since it would be dark soon, he figured that it might be a good idea. While no one in town was probably stupid enough to try and break in or anything of the sort, he didn't need prying eyes viewing what they were up to in their private lives. This was a gossip fueled town full of religious folks, after all. The last thing he wanted to do was provide them with something to work off of.

Upon closing the curtains, he turned around and did a silent double take. How long had V been sitting there asleep in the corner of the room? The part devil in question had dozed off on the far end of the couch nearest to him, seemingly exhausted from what he could tell. He always had this look to him that gave away his current energy levels, though Nero couldn't pinpoint what it was if he were asked to. He could just tell. He was willing to guess that the children had probably worn him out as per usual. Carlo had shown an almost magnetic attraction to him that they all found collectively endearing, V included though he never vocalized this opinion. The little child shadowed him around the house at all hours, captivated by whatever he was doing, even when he wasn't doing anything at all. It was honestly quite funny. And when he wasn't doing that, he was begging V to read one of his little toddler books to him, a request that he generally obliged, though he was probably ready to hide that book somewhere that it could never be found due to repetition alone.

The younger white haired devil hunter slipped out of the room silently, remembering that he hadn't let the garage down or locked the door. An easy mistake to make. He made his way over to the door, slipping out of it quietly as to not wake V. While he wasn't exactly a light sleeper, he still felt the need to try not to disturb him. No one liked to be roused from a restful slumber. Upon closing the door, he headed over to the metal folding door and pulled it downward, being mindful to do so slowly so as no to make unnecessary noise. It wouldn't make sense to creep out here and then loudly drop the door. Once the latch was secure, he stood up and locked it, content with his handiwork. The van was locked, but he gave it a quick once over just to be completely sure before heading back into the house and locking the door behind himself.

Nero stepped back into the kitchen and repressed the urge to curse to himself as he caught sight of V, now awake and standing in front of the fridge drinking a glass of water of his own. Whatever had been in the oven was now sitting on the counter in front of them, cooling off so that it could be eaten. Nero wasn't sure how V managed to do that so quickly since he'd only been gone for a few minutes at most, but it had happened nonetheless.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to look at whatever this dish was and not try to eat it, so Nero decided to give into temptation and do so, reaching up into the cabinet to try and locate a dish. V watched him do so, contently sipping his drink with a thoughtful look on his face. Nero located the plate and grabbed a fork, carefully plating up a small portion of the antre to taste. While the smell alone testified to it's edibility, he was still cautious whenever he tried something new. Thankfully, he wasn't a very picky eater.

"You know, I've only been home like ten minutes and you've already scared the shit out of me twice, V," Nero said casually as he fanned the now plated food in an effort to make it cool off quicker," I don't understand how you move around so quietly. It's kinda freaky."

V smirked at the statement, shrugging slightly in response. He wasn't really sure what to say to that statement. He was just light on his feet, he supposed. Either that or Nero was used to him walking with his cane. "My cane made most of the noise."

Nero nodded, considering his statement as he tasted the food. He slowly chewed the mouthful of food, finding it more to his liking that he would have originally assumed considering that fact that it seemed to be made entirely out of vegetables. While he wasn't a picky eater, he didn't normally gravitate towards these sorts of dishes. What the hell was this? It was delicious!

"Do you have any idea what this is," Nero asked as he gestured towards the pan of food with a slight tilt of his head," It's pretty fucking good! Never had this before."

V tilted his head downward slightly, glancing away from him in an attempt to not make eye contact. He looked almost embarrassed for whatever reason. Or at least that was how it seemed to the younger of the two. Nero gave him a curious look, his interest piqued by V's sudden and odd shift in behavior. Before he could inquire as to what the problem was, V responded.

"It's Ratatouille. I'm… glad you like it." He suddenly looked as though he had been asked to speak publicly in front of a large audience, looking anywhere but directly at Nero.

A look of shock and disbelief danced across his face as Nero processed the fact that Kyrie hadn't cooked this. It had never occurred to him that V might actually know how to cook. Had he accidentally eaten something he wasn't supposed to? V seemed to catch onto his surprised demeanor, feeling the need to elaborate despite his own discomfort.

"Everyone else has already eaten, so that is for the both of you," He said almost sheepishly," I... didn't think to make anything to go with it. I apolo-"

Nero waived his fork at him, gesturing for him to stop. Was he going to apologize after he had done him a favor? V was truly something else sometimes. "No, no, this is great! Don't even start! Nico isn't getting any of this."

V smirked again, almost smiling as Nero used a fresh fork to dish more of the food into his plate. Either he was adamant that he actually liked it, or he was putting on a very convincing act. V wasn't going to think too hard about it and simply take his word for it. As for Nico not getting any… he worried for his younger brother's well being if he wasn't kidding.

Before he could say anything else, a loud ringing noise reverberated off of the walls from down the hallway. They both instantly recognized the sound of the phone ringing and stepped towards it, awkwardly almost waking into one another but unsure as to who was actually going to answer it. Each time one of them tried to step forward, the other did so as well, leading to an uncoordinated dance that went nowhere. Finally Kyrie came from the other end of the hall and picked up the phone, saving them from themselves and they looked on in utter embarrassment. Nero tried to pretend he wasn't there as V sipped on the last of his drink, trying to hide his awkwardness behind the clear glass.

She smiled and nodded as she greeted the caller before turning towards the two of them. "Oh, it's your father! He'd like to talk to you both about something! Isn't that wonderful?"

For the second time that day, V choked on his drink.

-~-

Thank you all for taking the time to read the latest chapter! I'll be back soon with another entry! Thanks a bunch and I hope to see you again on Friday for the newest installment! Take care and stay safe!

#Apocrypha #V'sApocrypha #Soliloquy #DMC #DMC5 #DMCV #Devil May Cry #Devil May Cry 5 #Devil May Cry V #V #Vitale #V Sparda #Vitale Sparda #V Dmc #Vitale DMC #Nero #Nero Sparda #Nero DMC

[saintofknifefights]

Losing My Religion

The wind whipped around him as he came to a stop behind Malcolm. He was severely underdressed for the current weather. The sky was light and the forecast called for snow, yet here was Malcolm Whitly, ten years old and wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. He was sitting in the sand, staring out into the dark water with a blank expression. Gil pulled his coat off and draped it over the boy before sitting in the sand beside him. He watched the water too. Maybe he could figure out what intrigued Malcolm so much about this place.

“You know, your mother is worried about you.” He glanced over at Malcolm, wondering if he had even heard him. The boy’s expression remained the same. “How did you get to Brooklyn, anyway?”

Gil knew he wouldn’t get a response. It had only been two months since Martin was arrested and Malcolm had shut down. Any attempt at communicating with him resulted in blank stares or, more often, no acknowledgement at all. His therapist said he needed to come out of it on his own, that the stress and trauma had probably caused it.

Despite only knowing him for a short time, Gil felt a paternal protectiveness for the boy. Only ten years old and already faced with so much. He didn’t think it was fair.

Gil took his eyes away from the crashing waves and studied Malcolm. His cheeks were red and his eyes were glassy from the burning wind. Gil’s coat dwarfed him, and he looked so much smaller than he already was. He looked so scared.

Gil didn’t notice it at first, but Malcolm was holding something. Gripped in a tight fist was a cross and some beads. Gil smiled when he recognized it; a rosary. Jackie had given it to him upon their first meeting, for safekeeping, she told Malcolm. Jackie didn’t mean for Malcolm to keep the cross safe, but for the cross to keep him safe.

“Hey, kid.” Gil put a hand on his arm. He snapped out of whatever daze he was stuck in and looked at the hand. Then he grabbed the coat and studied it, like he hadn’t seen one before and didn’t know where it came from. Gil guessed Malcolm didn’t know he was there.

When Malcolm’s eyes met his, he understood. The kid’s gaze was vacant, like he wasn’t even there. Suddenly, he jumped and tugged the coat tighter around his small frame. He clutched the rosary to his chest.

“Malcolm?” This time, Malcolm briefly glanced at him, at least recognizing he was being spoken to. “Kid, I need to take you home. You’re going to freeze.”

Gil didn’t wait for any kind of reply. He climbed to his feet, aging knees popping, and pulled the boy up. As he led him to the car, Gil was relieved to find Malcolm was at least cognizant. He’d have to mention this to Jessica, though. Gil thought it was rather alarming that Malcolm had seemed to dissociate long enough to somehow make it from his bed on the Upper East Side to a beach in Brooklyn. Luckily, he was only a few blocks away from Gil’s apartment and it hadn’t taken long to find him. The temperature had to be in the negatives and he didn’t want to think about what could have happened had he not found him in time.

Gil blasted the heat and glanced over at the shivering boy. As he pulled into the road, he was overcome with anger. Malcolm had done nothing to deserve this, none of the Whitlys had. According to Jessica, Malcolm idolized his father, and Martin couldn’t have been more deserving of it. What had gone wrong? What made Martin decide that killing people was better than being a father? Martin Whitly had done some awful things, and the punishment fell on his family. If you asked Gil, Martin got off easy. The little boy trembling in his passenger seat, too afraid to fall asleep, overburdened with his own emotions to the point where he couldn’t even speak, was paying for his father's sins.

By the time they got over the bridge, Malcolm was struggling to stay awake and when they pulled up in front of the house, he was out. Jessica stood at the entryway and made her way down the stairs as Gil climbed out of the car and walked to the passenger side.

“Oh, thank god.” She said, not sounding particularly thankful. Gil wondered if Jessica was always this closed off or if it was a trauma response. Regardless, this was her son, there should be more of a response. “Where did you find him?”

Gil sighed and leaned against the car door. “Brooklyn.” He said simply.

Jessica looked more confused than anything else. “Brooklyn? How did he manage that?”

Gil shrugged. “No idea. I still can’t get anything out of him.” Exhaustion hit him like a ton of bricks. It was five now, the sun would be rising soon and he had to be at work early. He turned and pulled on the door handle before he remembered something.

“Jessica...” he began, then stopped. He had no clue how to voice his concerns.

“Yes?” She prompted, an eyebrow raised. Her voice was both concerned and condescending at the same time and it grated on him.

“He sees a therapist, right?”

“For about a month now, why?”

Gil turned back to the sleeping boy, still slumped in his seat. He was so small. “I think he dissociated. I’ve seen it before, in trauma survivors.”

Jessica crossed her arms across her chest. “What does that mean?”

Gil felt the first few flakes of snow hit his face and he glanced upward. The sky was beautiful when it snowed, making the world look closed in and small. The snowfall silenced the city a bit, but it did little to comfort him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Let’s get him inside, we’ll figure the rest out later.”

Gil reached inside and gathered Malcolm in his arms. He made his way into the house and up the stairs. The house was surprisingly quiet at this hour, especially considering Jessica looked like she hadn’t slept at all, he wouldn’t figure she’d let the staff sleep.

Gil carefully maneuvered Malcolm through the doorway and was struck with just how normal the room was. A toy chest in the corner, filled to the brim with action figures and toy cars, posters from movies on the walls and some trinkets on a desk. Yeah, Malcolm was a child, but Gil never knew that version of him. He only knew this haunted one, that hadn’t spoken to him since they met, and had to be medicated to get through the day. Malcolm had, just recently, been a normal kid.

After making sure the boy was tucked in, he rose and turned to leave. Before he got to the door, he noticed a leather bound book that had been sloppily hidden under the bed. Gil checked to make sure Jessica wasn’t near then picked it up.

The book was rather small, with the initials M.W. stamped on the spine. Judging by the wear and tear, the book was old, so it likely wasn’t Malcolm’s. He felt a pang in his gut.

Gil reluctantly opened the book. On the first page was writing, so sloppy that he couldn’t decipher it if he tried. He flicked through the other pages, still having no luck. As he shut the book, something fell at his feet.

A photo.

He felt a bit guilty now. Although he couldn’t read what was written, this was something that belonged to Martin. It was something that was clearly treasured by the man, and now treasured by his son. If Malcolm had gone through the trouble of hiding it, it meant that he didn’t want it to be found. Yet, here he was, snooping through Malcolm’s things while he slept.

Gil shook his head and kneeled to pick up the photo. He intended to put it back and be on his way, but he froze. Martin Whitly’s face stared back at him, arm around Malcolm. They stood in a forest somewhere, a station wagon in the background. There was such joy in Martin’s eyes, Gil had a hard time believing it could be faked. He looked so happy, proud even, standing there next to his son. Gil looked closer and saw that the photo was dated a week before Martin’s arrest.

Gil exhaled. He was tired. He tucked the photo back into the book and slid it further under the bed. No one would see it unless they were looking for it. As he finally stood in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, he glanced back at Malcolm. He looked peaceful, relaxed. Gil gave the sleeping boy a small smile before heading off.

Malcolm was safe. Safe from serial killer fathers and his nightmares.

#prodigal son fox #prodigal son #i really hate mobile #malcolm bright #gil arroyo

[ayellowbirds]

After a brief hiatus due to a day in which i didn’t get any writing done, we’re on to the results of the ninth night of writing. 15,478 words so far! This one’s double-length, to make up for lost time.

i’m currently only able to work for 14 hours a week; donations to support this are welcome! Feel free to let me know when you’ve donated, I’ll see about including a tribute of some sort to you in the text of the story:

https://www.paypal.me/ayellowbirds

https://ko-fi.com/ayellowbirds

As always, keep track of the tag for updates!

(logo fonts are Bradley Gratis and Yiddishkeit Bold)

I really do appreciate everyone who reblogs or likes these posts. It’s been very encouraging to see this response, and i hope that i’m rewarding that interest with the kind of content you want to see!

Click the Read More to continue, or click here for the previous part, and here for the first part!

BACK TO THE PRESENT, WHICH IS COMPARATIVELY THE FUTURE

Belaset fully expected there to be heavy thumps against the door at her back as she held the door shut.

After all, there was a walking, evidently hungry dead person back there.

Also a very naked one, which was somehow much more unsettling than when she had been an inanimate body being loaded into a chest of solid ice. Belaset found herself wishing she had not kept to the habit of leaving behind the tachrichim. A little bit of linen, a little bit left to the imagination, and why was she thinking about the body’s state of dress when it was animated after being dead and rotting?

“I swear, Doc, this has never happened before,” she said, putting as much of herself against the door as possible.

There still hadn’t been any thumps, yet. But then, the corpse had let them leave the room in peace.

There were sounds of movement, though. Was it ransacking the room for weapons? Another way out?

“I don’t imagine that it has,” Menax replied. He was rooting around in a closet, and when he came out, he was carrying—a book?

“No offense intended, and I’m sure you know more than me about this kind of thing,” Belaset said, taking note of scratching sounds from the other side of the door, “but I have to figure that throwing a book at it won’t stop this thing.”

“I wasn’t counting on that, but who knows,” Menax replied, flipping pages and tracing his finger over the text. “We cannot resolve this situation without understanding what we are facing, and simply throwing everything in the kitchen at it will teach us nothing, especially as she appears to be cognizant.”

Belaset felt her eyes narrow at that, which had the added effect of bringing the book in the doctor’s hands into clearer focus. Unlike all the medical texts and broadsheets in the Stafroph, this had something on the cover in the Aleftav, the ancient alphabet of the people of the land.

Whether Belaset counted as a person of the land—perhaps ironically, as being a half-giant seemingly born out of the environment itself meant she was literally of the land—had come down to one thing, when she had first met her kohenet, and it had been decisive. For although she was wholly and stubbornly illiterate when it came to Icarian writing until recently, she could read the Aleftav with fluent comprehension without even realizing when she was reading something written in a language she did not speak.

Pára Djanim, written by hand on a plain white cover. To My Soul.

Menax’s hand was moving faster over the pages, mumbling words to himself. His eyes seemed about to bulge out of their sockets.

“What is—” Belaset began, and then felt a thump at her back.

“My family was from Ocoiti,” Menax said, mumbling something under his breath before continuing, “and I remembered my nona would always tell my nono stories about her adventures. When she traveled as a girl, she wrote in this book, for him to read when she returned, because his illness kept him from going with her—ah! Here!”

Another thump, and then another. Wait, was it a thump, or a knock?

Menax came over, showing Belaset some pages on which an old-fashioned cursive hand was matched with… well, fairly amateurish illustrations. This one showed a, well. Belaset supposed it was a hand? Sticking out of the ground? There was a square next to it, with some little circles on top, and Z’’L written on it. A grave, she guessed.

“In her travels, she met cousins who told stories about the powers from the old country, in the Original Land,” he explained, while Belaset felt something pushing under the door. Could a corpse kill you by poking you with its finger? She didn’t ask out loud, as Menax continued, “they told stories about sorcerers who would enslave you not only in life, but in death, and about heroes who rose after dying, again and again. The Icosans tried to learn this magic, but the gods denied it to them, because they did not recognize Icarian authority, and the Icarian god kept that power for their Emperor alone.”

Something rustled against Belast’s hand, which had been planted on the floor. A leaf? A dead, dry finger? She felt it slip into her grasp. Was it paper?

“The Icarians who tried to take this power,” Menax continued, now going into full lecture mode as if making a presentation to a classroom instead of standing in his kitchen while the living dead tried to escape his private study, “found themselves cursed by it, and became evil spirits, haints of the body instead of the soul. Nona said that the old word, the Original word, was ‘jumbee’. But Icosans being Icosans, they changed the pronunciation; it came to be that, when a dead person got up and walked around like that, they called it a ‘zombie’.”

Belaset lifted her hand up, and looked in her palm. A crumpled sheet of paper. On it, written in both Aleftav and Stafroph in a hurried fashion, were the words, “please, need food. Very confused”. She handed it to Menax, who looked at it, and nodded as though that had answered all his questions.

He walked back over to the cutting board, clapping the book shut. “I think that we have something like that, here. Some warping of magic of resurrection—that is why the body did not move until now, something delayed it and the, ah, ‘zombie’ rose in a flawed, partial manner.”

He returned with a wooden plate loaded with the remaining ananas rings.

In his other hand, was a tin salt shaker.

“I would like to offer our guest some hospitality,” he said, passing the shaker to Belaset. “If things do not go as planned, could you see about getting some of this into her mouth? Nona Simera found that the taste of pure salt should at least temporarily paralyze them.”

He then indicated the door.

“If you please?”

Belaset took a deep breath, and rose to her feet. Or rather, she shuffled forward so that she was kneeling in a way that did not block the door, not feeling like trying to stand up in the small space of Menax’s house. She would be the first to admit that she had no idea how it was she fit indoors in the first place, but she always felt claustrophobic trying to stand up straight when she did.

The salt shaker felt like a shot for a sling in her hand, the weight reassuring her. And if worse came to worst, she wasn’t exactly defenseless.

She’d heard of other half-giants, even met one once, when she went to the city. Where her body had unusually large legs compared to the rest of her, others seemed to be similarly disproportionate. She’d met that one whose hair grew to a volume several times that of the rest of his own body regardless of how it was cut. And she’d heard tell of a woman with great and curling talons in place of fingernails, and a boy with ears so large he could shelter a minyan under them. In general, other half-giants used these traits to achieve remarkable deeds.

So, Belaset had a lot of confidence in her ability to kick anything in existence out of her way.

She just wasn’t sure that she could do it without kicking down the walls of Menax’s house.

A FEW MONTHS AGO

“For this assignment, the four of you will be adopting identities that insert you into the popular culture of young people near the suburban campuses of the Imperial University at Palse Rjat,” Lieutenant Yslireb explained, reading from the official papers. “We have reason to suspect that anarchist cells have been using the entertainment venues of the student population as a base for recruitment, including the theatre near Fishtaykh, and the restaurants and coffeehouses there and in Mutneberg.”

He continued describing details of the area in a steady drone as V. looked through the supplies she had been given for the assignment—a disguise, personal effects for the new identity, and notes that she would be expected to memorize and destroy.

N. leaned over to look at her box, having already spread her own over the entirety of her personal space in their dormitory, from the top of her bunk to the surrounding floor. B. was taking pains not to step on any of it as she walked past to hand J. his own box, hefting the crate with ease that J. could not match. From his spot at the door to the “boys” bedroom, he suddenly doubled over trying to hold up the wooden box in the same one-handed manner his teammate had, before switching to both hands.

None of them had offered an explanation to Yslireb as to why V. had been in the girls’ room when he had arrived at that late hour with the details of their next mission, and the Lieutenant had no pressed the matter beyond a quirk of his upper lip that threatened to turn into a sneer.

That sneer manifested fully, now, as he read aloud the details of V.’s role.

“In light of the recent exemplary performance of V.” he said, giving the animal surname that V. could not abide, “in infiltrating the subversive culture at the Institute of Alienism by posing as a young man with profound sexual dysfunctions, the administration of the Corpse deems that he….”

V. tuned out most of Yslireb’s attempts to get a rise out of her. She’d found the mission at the Institute to be a good opportunity to explore herself and learn about new trends in the studies of sexuality and gender—and then direct the imperial forces to make arrests and seizures that didn’t target the people and information she had left out of her official reports. And while she’d kept quite a lot from her teammates, she’d also started to open up more about things she’d been feeling for longer than she could properly express them.

It felt good to get some of it off her chest, regardless of what Yslireb and those like him might think. Besides, her status as one of the Corpse kept rising with each new mission, and the officials trusted her with more and more vital intelligence. She hadn’t yet had an opportunity to ask, but she’ probably soon be within the top three. If not the Crown or the Brain, at least the Right Eye.

And once she got to the top, she’d have the status to be able to pick and choose missions, and maybe even retire to a peaceful life that left all of this behind, after a while. After all, hadn’t S. been able to even backtalk the instructors, ever since they first announced the rankings? And then he was given the ignominious surname of “Sherets”—a crawling, wriggling thing. His emblem was a worm. He might even have dropped down to the bottom five for all his attitude.

No, she’d been playing it smart. Not too eager to please so as to not invite too much responsibility, but enough to be seen as reliable. And she’d learned from all those incidents in her tween and teen years—learned the lesson the Captain had subtly tried to teach, that the key isn’t to not break the rules at all, but to not get caught. After all, the whole point of the Corpse was stealth and subterfuge, to protect the Empire’s interests by means of covert activity.

And now she was being assigned to take on a role that was so near to her true self, the deceit was that she was being deceitful about it in the first place.

Well, as long as nobody listened to Yslireb.

NOW—FOR A MOMENT, IF YOU PLEASE

She slipped the paper under the doorway, silently hoping this would work. She still didn’t understand what had happened, but she’d seen her reflection for a moment in a window, and since then had avoided rising up high enough for that.

She looked like she’d been dead for at least a day, if not longer. And her face and throat were damaged beyond what a living person could—

—A face she’d trusted, that had trusted her, screams of betrayal. Eyes turning dark, hair going white, face growing long. Disappearing into the woods, something shining in her teeth. She’d escaped, but—

—how had she gotten here, in this condition? What had happened to her retrieval by her rowmates, or, barring that, by another row in the Corpse? And her body was entirely naked. Everything was gone, including her emblem. But where had it—

—A face she knew, in the crowd. Someone she couldn’t stand. A few words whispered. A finger pointing, a cry of protest ignored. The ground, too cold and too hot beneath her. Light gone quickly, and then, in the silence, boots. A familiar voice, a hand reaching into her blouse, searching for something.

The thing that kept the magic that brought her back to life every time she had died, before.

She could make all kinds of guesses based on her education in magical theory and practice, about the long exposure of her body to the emblem and the repeated action of resurrection leaving some kind of partial impression of the magic on her body. It must have caused some kind of delayed half-resurrection, leaving her in this incomplete, decayed form.

She didn’t feel pain anymore, not since the initial shock, except as a dull full-body ache far less severe than things she had been trained to tolerate. Even the knife still stuck in her left hand was more noticeable just as a _pressure._ Far more noticeable, far less tolerable, was the horrible feeling of total emptiness. She had been hungry, thirsty, starving before. She’d died of dehydration that one time. But she’d never felt it nearly this bad, and it took all her self-control to not start chewing off bits of herself, or pieces of furniture.

She wasn’t sure if the process of decay had been arrested, but she hoped so. At the very least, her eyes seemed to be working at normal function, in spite of the horrible cloudy yellow color she had seen in the glass for a moment.

If she extended her awareness enough, trying to put herself out of the physical feelings and focus on the spiritual, she could feel a magical substance—something otherwise invisible and intangible—suffusing her body, concentrated on places where she ought not to have had any function. If she could have drawn a picture of it in that moment, there would have been a bright glow around each major muscle, and even more so at her throat and eyes, and then again in the pit of her stomach.

The pit, again.

ONCE MORE, A FEW MONTHS AGO

“What do you mean by that?” Yslireb asked, his usual distasteful expression replaced by something more confused.

He’d arrived at the pre-mission check-up to repeat more of the same needless things that he had already insisted on saying when he first delivered the assignment. As Eciurtal checked V.’s height and weight, she’d let slip some minor comment about wondering what her ranking was after all this time.

“Well, after the first announcement,” she said, looking at the way the scales bobbed while her weight shifted ever so slightly from one foot to the other, “I figured we’d have been told how we were doing, over the years.”

Silence.

That was not a good sign.

“You mean, you thought that—” Yslireb sounded like he was choking on his own tongue, “—after more than a decade! You’re asking now?”

As he lapsed into something halfway between hysterics and a coughing fit, V. very carefully turned to look at Eciurtal. The Chief Nurse had always been very sympathetic to them. Perhaps because she related to the unknowable ancestry of the orphan children of the Corpse. Now, her expression was almost heartbreakingly cold. A touch of pity, yes, but so steeled it was hard to find it there.

“The ranking is, it was,” she began, and then looked to Yslireb.

He managed to right himself, spittle hanging from his chin. “It’s _static,_ you idiot! His Imperial Majesty decided it one time, for the rest of your lives! It doesn’t change just because you do better!”

The world seemed to quiet around her, even Yslireb’s voice as he said something about the rankings being based on the Emperor’s impressions of them as children. That the time and attention he needed to devote to running a global empire wasn’t to be wasted on….

Well, she didn’t hear the rest, because for some reason, she was walking out of the medical wing. Yslireb was yelling something after her, interrupted by those cough-laughs. Eciurtal was saying something, too.

V. didn’t hear any of it, though.

All she could hear was a voice from many years before, telling her, “number four, the Pit of the Body, the Source of Vitality,” before moving on to the next child.

#yenne velt: dead names #my writing

[dippedanddripped]

In 2013, a series of provocative music videos competed for pop culture’s attention. There was Kim Kardashian’s bare breasts bouncing for Kanye West’s “Bound 2,” then Disney-alum Miley Cyrus scantily clad and swinging on a wrecking ball. But it was “Blurred Lines,” Robin Thicke’s comeback classic that was easily the most memorable. Not for Thicke’s own star power (or even the subsequent backlash regarding the song’s problematic concept of consent), but because of the sample-sized models strutting coquettishly around him.

Only one of the three made an instant impression. “Blurred Lines” created a sex symbol of bodacious beauty Emily Ratajkowski overnight, catapulting her to household status with Kate Upton-esque momentum. Naturally, the rumors and rumination about her body began right away. We’d all been hypnotized by the pendulum effect of her proportions, which just couldn’t be real. “Let’s just Google her measurements,” a friend suggested. When we uncovered the circumference of Ratajkowski's breasts, waist and hips (roughly 35”-24”-34” according to hotmodelsactress.com — a size two), the comparison began.

We didn’t know it then, but Ratajkowski’s body ascribed to what has long-been fashion’s “golden ratio.” A measuring tape should reveal breasts and hips sized no higher than 36 inches (preferably 34”), and a waist no higher than 25” (preferably 24”). The standard is believed to be implemented after WWII, when a fabric shortage meant designers relied on smaller bodies to optimize profitability.

Over the past decade, the industry has been at its most inclusive yet. Fashion has gradually become a little less sizeist, racist, ageist, even ableist (even if only with a healthy dose of tokenism to impress the digital gen). As such, many curve girls have become supermodels in their own right — an unthinkable prospect at the turn of the millennium. But while the desired height of women on the runway has grown in the meantime (5’9” upwards) and we’re seeing diverse body types in the mainstream for the first time, the sample size has barely fluctuated.

“There is a practical reason that most models are the same size, and that’s called a sample collection,” Tom Ford told WWD in 2018. “You make a sample collection [according to] a standardized selection of measurements for models… Whether we all decide to start making all of our clothes in the next size up, that’s a different thing. But there is practicality, there’s a reason models are a standard size.”

For women who are six feet to fit fashion’s standards, they would have to weigh in at a near-impossible 115 pounds, claims @shitmodelmgmt. The anonymous Instagram-anchored fashion industry watchdog made headlines several years ago when they offered an open call to models who’d been harassed by designers, photographers, agents and casting directors — eventually emboldening models enough to call out predatory celebrity photographers on their own). Now, she’s using her platform to confront a different injustice in the industry. After conducting a poll of 4000 models, 65 percent claimed to have developed eating disorders to adhere to sample size expectations. In response, SMGMT created a petition to raise the sample size from size zero through four, to six through eight. So far, 15,000 have signed.

“I wanted to see how many of my followers were naturally [sample] size, and the majority of them are not,” she writes on its homepage. “In order to cut down to the required measurements/weight, they are having to resort to unhealthy means like starving themselves, restrictive diets, overexercising and other ways that severely risk their health.”

Within the past week, the outcry over too-small samples has reached fever pitch. Stylist Francesca Burns, formerly Fashion Editor of i-D, took to Instagram to reveal she’d been on set with a “tiny” model (no bigger than a US size four), who could not do up a pair of Hedi Slimane Celine pants. None of the Celine looks the stylist had pulled fit the sample-sized model, which made Burns feel like “a creep.”

“This is so unacceptable,” Burns wrote. “It is fundamentally wrong to suggest that this is the norm. It isn’t. We also have a responsibility for those in our care on set and to make sure beauty standards are not limited to a size that is completely unrealistic for the majority... Things have to change in so many ways but how hard is it to size things up?”

Fashionista editor-in-chief Tyler McCall was one of many industry insiders to endorse Burns’ message. While she understands why production of a singular small size is both efficient and cost effective, she describes the standard as a “big stumble block for true inclusivity.”

“Those ‘standard’ measurements destroy girls at such a young age,” adds agent and casting director, Kevin Chung. “Weight loss pills, working out incessantly to the point they are physically and mentally unable to do their job. It's a shame, but it's also not their fault… We need to be more cognizant of different body types and not all bodies are able to achieve those measurements — and that is okay. [Models] shouldn’t have to alter measurements to fit an unattainable standard.”

When Lauren Graves was scouted by IMG in 2002, she was 13. Her younger years were dedicated to high fashion, although now she’s just as frequently hired for lifestyle/commercial, beauty, fit production and showroom modeling. The pressure of working in fashion at a young age meant she was “always hungry,” and she now only works with a range smaller, boutique agencies. While she entered the industry at size two to four, standing over 5’10”. After various eating disorders, now-recovered Graves’ wears a six or eight and models curve.

“When your dream is to model, you listen to your agencies when they say, ‘Hey listen, I need you to lose [X] pounds, you would be so much more marketable,” Lauren says. “Some girls are genetically very thin, but it's not common. I would say a large portion of the girls fitting these sizes are trying very hard to. For fashion, most agencies will tell you to lose weight anyway.”

Kevin agrees that those models are few and far between. “There are a handful of models who are naturally lean at 5’9”  to 5’11” — that's just genetics. But there are even more models who aren’t size zero through four and below 5’9.”

Dylan Wardwell is one such model. Although she faces other challenges in the industry as a trans woman, she is naturally a 5’10” size zero and has never been criticized for her size. Still, she knows plenty of models who aren’t allowed to work until they drop weight. For this reason, despite the potential repercussions for her own career, she acknowledges raising the sample size would be “the best thing” not only for the industry, but for society.

“It can’t be that hard to make a more inclusive show if brands put in the effort,” she says. “I think everyone likes to blame this standard on ‘the way it is’ instead of realizing we all as individuals contribute to this culture.”

“Being a fit model you get to work behind the scenes with production and design teams, and the change wouldn’t be hard,” Lauren adds. “They just haven’t done it.”

“It's a bit of a chicken-versus-egg,” echoes Tyler. “Designers will say they maintain sample sizes because those are the models they're given to work with, and casting directors will say they have to make sure models can fit the sample… we're talking size zero or even double zero, that's a hard target to hit for most grown women.”

Curve model Chloe Vero has walked the runway for Tommy Hilfiger and Rihanna’s Savage X Fenty, securing magazine covers and major campaigns. Vero is one of the “lucky ones,” a model who’s not straight-sized but remains in demand season after season. While Chloe’s grateful for her success, she still catches herself wondering what professional heights she might have reached if she were smaller.

“I have to remind myself that it is the lack of acceptance that is making me feel this way,” she says. “I’ve been on sets where I’m the only one who is my size working and everyone else is significantly smaller than me and that takes a toll on you mentally. Working on sets that reflect our day to day lives and how we interact with the world around us can allow for a safer and more comfortable space.”

With the exception of your waist being ten inches smaller than your hips (the clothing production standard across almost all sizes), curve modeling has very few mandates. This kind of forward trajectory, Lauren opines, can be credited to the lifestyle realm who capitalized on a missed marketing opportunity:  “A lot of commercial and indie brands are now working with models who represent the consumer because they’ve recognized the money that can be made off large portions of the population.”

When it comes to high fashion, Kevin can’t imagine petitions facilitating a palpable shift without support from the top down. “Until the people in power leave their current roles, we won’t see real change. Bigger people shouldn’t have to fight for clothing in their size range; designers should just have them because diversity should be inherent. People should not have to tell you to be more inclusive — that's inhumane.”

While she “doesn’t want to be a downer,” Tyler shares this sentiment. “There are so many players and so many moving parts in fashion with something like this that it would be almost impossible to get everyone on board. It's more a question of keeping the pressure on to see that representation, and supporting those who are getting it right.”

Dylan just wants a world in which she isn’t measured at castings — “If I fit the clothes, I fit the clothes” — whereas Chloe hopes the future might usher in the same opportunities for curve models as straight-sized. For his part, Kevin is ready to see fasting and diet pills made obsolete, and nutritionists as well as mental health counselors made accessible to models.

Any real change, Lauren says, will have to start and finish with designers. The narrative that clothes “fall better on slimmer figures,” or that “less fabric” or “small breasts” is easier to work with is perpetuated by those at the drawing board. Until they prioritize creating clothes for healthy bodies, we’ll all remain enslaved to measurements.

“They have an opportunity to break the mold they've always worked with, and make the clothes to fit a body — not that a body is forced to fit into,” she concludes. “Designers seem afraid of breaking the old mold, even though in my opinion, that’s what creativity is.”

#samples #models #stylist #streetwear blog #fashion blog #sample size

[damajority]

DaMajority Fresh Article http://www.damajority.com/prime-minister-dr-hon-timothy-harris-post-hurricane-maria-address/

Prime Minister Dr. the Hon. Timothy Harris’ Post-Hurricane Maria Address

Prime Minister Dr. the Hon. Timothy Harris’ Post-Hurricane Maria Address

September 23rd, 2017

Saturday, September 23, 2017 — My Fellow Citizens and Residents:

With courage and resilience, our Federation of St. Kitts and Nevis has braved two powerful Category 5 hurricanes, Irma and Maria, within a span of two weeks, and we have come out of them without sustaining eithercatastrophic damage or loss of life.  For this we give every praise, honour and glory to Almighty God.

My Government and I express our gratitude to the public for your heightened level of preparedness and cooperation. These undoubtedly helped to mitigate the damage caused by both Hurricanes Irma and Maria.For this, we again give thanks to Godwhose Divine Providencebrought us through.

On “National Clean-Up Day,” we saw the resilience of our people at work. Kittitians and Nevisians from all age groups and sectors of the population demonstrated our capacity to recover quickly as we coalesced around the common goal of returning our country to normalcy by participating in cleanup efforts on both individual and collective levels in our various communities.  This was an excellent example of patriotism at work – especially at a time when our usual Independence celebrations would have been overshadowed by the passage of Hurricane Maria.

My Government commends all those patriotic and involved citizens and residents who contributed to the National Clean-up, including our security forces and other essential service employees.  Our Police and Defence Force officers continue to render yeoman’s service, as well as our Fire and Rescue officers who work tirelessly to clear roads and assist homeowners.  I also commend the rapid response of our Ministry of Public Infrastructure, Utilities, et al. for their efforts to bring us back to a state of normalcy.  Commendations are also in order for our medical and health personnel, in particular those working in institutions such as our hospitals and The Cardin Home, who remained on the job from Monday through Wednesday to ensure that our sick, elderly and indigent citizens received the humanitarian care they so consistently need.  These workers would have sacrificed personal time with their families at a time when most of us were in our homes.  To all of these essential service employees we say a hearty “Thank You.” We commend that wonderful civic mindedness displayed by the numerous volunteers across St. Kitts and Nevis including the Hurricane shelter managers.

We have decided to incentivize and to provide a monetary reward for our essential services workers who went beyond the call of duty during and immediately after the hurricane.  Those workers to benefit are employed with:

The Police, Defence Force, Fire and Rescue Services

National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA)

Health Department

Public Works Department

Water Department

St. Kitts Electricity Company Ltd (SKELEC)

St. Christopher Air and Sea Ports Authority (SCASPA)

ZIZ Broadcasting Corporation

As I drove and walked the length and breadth of our beautiful Country, I was cognizant of the fact that although St. Kitts and Nevis was battered by the protracted storm, we were spared the tragedy that too often accompanies natural disasters.  It was indeed a privilege for me to have visited a number of sites and assist with the clean-up efforts.Doing so just one day after what was to be the highlight of our 34thIndependence Anniversary Celebrations was of particular symbolic importance to me.

As I reflected upon God’s never-ceasing grace and assisted in the rehabilitation of our Bay Road and Frigate Bay Strip by helping to shovel up debris along with the Minister of Public Infrastructure and employees of Public Works, the following did not escape me:

Born out of our Nation’s struggle for Independence was our majestic National Anthem, which recognizes God’s omnipresence especially during our moments of struggle.

A product of our Independence, too, is our visually appealing National Flag: with the green triangle at the top that pays homage to our fertile and verdant land –of which our forebears bequeathed stewardship to usas proud citizens and residents of this Federation.

Upon attaining Independence, we adopted “Country Above Self” as the motto of our Coat of Arms out of the recognition that vested in the future and fortunes of our great Country is the willingness of its people to place it above their own hopes, dreams and ambitions.  For it is through successful nation-building and patriotism that our collective and individual desires and aspirations can attain self-actualization.

There is no Mother Britain to which we can turn for help and consideration even in the face of adversity and disaster.

All we have is us, and it is to our own ingenuity, industry and discipline to which we must look to ameliorate our conditions and advance our agenda of progress and development.

Given the significance of Independence, the Cabinet after consultation with H.E. S W Tapley Seaton ouresteemed Governor General has decided to hold the commemorative Independence Parade, Toast to the Nation and the Independence Cocktail Reception on Saturday, October 7th, 2017.  More information will be provided. say that the 7th of October 2017 will be proclaimed a National Holiday.

Damage Assessment For Maria – EC $88.5 million and counting

The preliminary damage assessment reports for St. Kitts and Nevis are currently being finalized post-Hurricane Maria. Public sector infrastructure suffered significant damages. Some critical infrastructure such as our electricity and waters services, our road network at Old Road, our fisheries complex and the Irish Town Bay Road, the agricultural sector, our coastline and environment sustained serious damages. Our sporting facilities at Challengers and the Kim Collins Stadium also sustained damages. The Housing stock also suffered, as did several schools. Preliminary estimates put damage to the Federal Public sector at around EC $38.5 million and counting. That on Nevis has been put by the Nevis Island Administration (NIA) at EC $50 million for a total preliminary assessment of EC $88.5 millionin Public sector damages as a consequence of Hurricane Maria.

The Public sector received damages then of over $140 million (preliminary estimates) as a consequence of the two Hurricanes. It should be noted that so far, apart from insurance claims approved by CCRIF of US $2.29 million we are faced to carry this burden of recovery alone.

Assistance To Our Neighbours

Notwithstanding our own fiscal challenges of treating with our recovery efforts, Cabinet on Friday, September 22, 2017 approved some measure of monetary support to our neighbours:

Dominica $1million – additionally, we have declined EC $0.5m pledged by Dominica to us after Hurricane Irma. This sum was never received. We nonetheless thank Prime Minister Skerrit for his kind consideration.

British Virgin Islands  $0.5 million

Anguilla  $0.4 million

Antigua& Barbuda   $0.4 million

St. Maarten $0.2 million

I take this opportunity to pledge the support of the Government and people of St. Kitts and Nevis to the Commonwealth of Dominica. My Cabinet and I have reached out to Prime Minister Roosevelt Skerrit and his Government, and – as was extended to Anguilla and other islands that were previously impacted by Hurricane Irma – we have offered the use of the RLB International Airport as a staging platform for relief efforts into Dominica in the wake of Hurricane Maria.  In addition to this, all four hospitals on St. Kitts and Nevis will be made available should the need for health services be required.  Places will also be made available to accommodate displaced students in Dominica who are registered for upcoming CXC exams.  They will be offered free enrollment into our schools until their own high schools are ready to accommodate them.  Furthermore, our Federation will assist in the restoration of electricity supply to Dominica, and our Coast Guard vessels will assist with transportation where possible.

The Lord God has given the people and the Federation of St. Kitts and Nevis His boundless mercy and grace, and in return for His protection we offer ours, as well as compassion, to the least fortunate and the most vulnerable of our neighbours.   My Fellow Citizens and Residents, today it is they who are in grave need.  Tomorrow it could be us.  Let us not take our good fortune for granted. We are able to help because our fiscal situation is strong.My Cabinet renews its pledge to manage the economic and fiscal affairs well.

Concessions At Home

We understand that while we help those abroad we must help those at home who suffered, too.In this regard, my Government, in an effort to help our citizens and residents deal with their damages in an expedited manner, has offered the following:

Duty-free concessions on the purchase and/or importation of building materials to repair damages to residential properties.

The Programme will be initiated immediately and will continue for a period of six months until the end of March 2018.Applications should be made via the Ministry of Finance. Application Forms will be available early next week and can be collected at the Ministry ofFinance (Golden Rock), Treasury Department, Inland Revenue Department, NEMA or the Ministry of Finance Website www.mof.gov.kn.

For verification of the damage claimed by each Applicant, the Ministry of Finance will rely on the list prepared by NEMA. In cases where the damage was not reported to NEMA, the Building Inspectors at the Ministry of Sustainable Development and/or Public Works Department would be consulted to verify the information provided by the Applicant.

Residents who suffered damages to their property are therefore asked to contact their construction professionals to assist with preparing estimates of the materials to repair their property.  The Government is intent on helping to restore normalcy to the lives of all persons in the quickest time possible.  We also hope that the repairs would result in a much stronger and more resilient housing stock in the Federation.

In closing, I must remind our Citizens and Residents that we are still in the Hurricane Season. Please continue to heed the public advisories issued by the National Disaster Mitigation Council, the National Emergency Management Agency, the Met Office, the Ministry of Health and our other Government agencies during this very active 2017 Atlantic Hurricane Season.

May God continue to protect and bless our people.  May He continue to watch over us all.

I Thank You!

#Hurricane Maria #St. Kitts and Nevis