#lots and lots of little drawings in the border i encourage you to zoom in and look around :)

[marbirds]

A wizard and his cats

#wizardcore #cats #illustration #fairytale #wizards #my art #lots and lots of little drawings in the border i encourage you to zoom in and look around :) #ill probably color this later but uhh for my fellow simple lined art enjoyers #marbirds

[bountyofbeads]

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/14/magazine/music-black-culture-appropriation.html

I'd encourage all of you to read -- actually read -- the reported essays in the #1619project. If these ideas or facts are new to you, if they upset you or make you uncomfortable, if they challenge your idea of America, ask yourself: why?

For centuries, black music, forged in bondage, has been the sound of complete artistic freedom. No wonder everybody is always stealing it.

By Wesley Morris | August 14, 2019 | New York Times | Posted August 18, 2019 7:52 PM ET |

I’ve got a friend who’s an incurable Pandora guy, and one Saturday while we were making dinner, he found a station called Yacht Rock. “A tongue-in-cheek name for the breezy sounds of late ’70s/early ’80s soft rock” is Pandora’s definition, accompanied by an exhortation to “put on your Dockers, pull up a deck chair and relax.” With a single exception, the passengers aboard the yacht were all dudes. With two exceptions, they were all white. But as the hours passed and dozens of songs accrued, the sound gravitated toward a familiar quality that I couldn’t give language to but could practically taste: an earnest Christian yearning that would reach, for a moment, into Baptist rawness, into a known warmth. I had to laugh — not because as a category Yacht Rock is absurd, but because what I tasted in that absurdity was black.

I started putting each track under investigation. Which artists would saunter up to the racial border? And which could do their sauntering without violating it? I could hear degrees of blackness in the choir-loft certitude of Doobie Brothers-era Michael McDonald on “What a Fool Believes”; in the rubber-band soul of Steely Dan’s “Do It Again”; in the malt-liquor misery of Ace’s “How Long” and the toy-boat wistfulness of Little River Band’s “Reminiscing.”

Then Kenny Loggins’s “This Is It”arrived and took things far beyond the line. “This Is It” was a hit in 1979 and has the requisite smoothness to keep the yacht rocking. But Loggins delivers the lyrics in a desperate stage whisper, like someone determined to make the kind of love that doesn’t wake the baby. What bowls you over is the intensity of his yearning — teary in the verses, snarling during the chorus. He sounds as if he’s baring it all yet begging to wring himself out even more.

Playing black-music detective that day, I laughed out of bafflement and embarrassment and exhilaration. It’s the conflation of pride and chagrin I’ve always felt anytime a white person inhabits blackness with gusto. It’s: You have to hand it to her. It’s: Go, white boy. Go, white boy. Go. But it’s also: Here we go again. The problem is rich. If blackness can draw all of this ornate literariness out of Steely Dan and all this psychotic origami out of Eminem; if it can make Teena Marie sing everything — “Square Biz,” “Revolution,”“Portuguese Love,” “Lovergirl” — like she knows her way around a pack of Newports; if it can turn the chorus of Carly Simon’s “You Belong to Me” into a gospel hymn; if it can animate the swagger in the sardonic vulnerabilities of Amy Winehouse; if it can surface as unexpectedly as it does in the angelic angst of a singer as seemingly green as Ben Platt; if it’s the reason Nu Shooz’s “I Can’t Wait”remains the whitest jam at the blackest parties, then it’s proof of how deeply it matters to the music of being alive in America, alive to America.

It’s proof, too, that American music has been fated to thrive in an elaborate tangle almost from the beginning. Americans have made a political investment in a myth of racial separateness, the idea that art forms can be either “white” or “black” in character when aspects of many are at least both. The purity that separation struggles to maintain? This country’s music is an advertisement for 400 years of the opposite: centuries of “amalgamation” and “miscegenation” as they long ago called it, of all manner of interracial collaboration conducted with dismaying ranges of consent.

“White,” “Western,” “classical” music is the overarching basis for lots of American pop songs. Chromatic-chord harmony, clean timbre of voice and instrument: These are the ingredients for some of the hugely singable harmonies of the Beatles, the Eagles, Simon and Fleetwood Mac, something choral, “pure,” largely ungrained. Black music is a completely different story. It brims with call and response, layers of syncopation and this rougher element called “noise,” unique sounds that arise from the particular hue and timbre of an instrument — Little Richard’s woos and knuckled keyboard zooms. The dusky heat of Miles Davis’s trumpeting. Patti LaBelle’s emotional police siren. DMX’s scorched-earth bark. The visceral stank of Etta James, Aretha Franklin, live-in-concert Whitney Houston and Prince on electric guitar.

But there’s something even more fundamental, too. My friend Delvyn Case, a musician who teaches at Wheaton College, explained in an email that improvisation is one of the most crucial elements in what we think of as black music: “The raising of individual creativity/expression to the highest place within the aesthetic world of a song.” Without improvisation, a listener is seduced into the composition of the song itself and not the distorting or deviating elements that noise creates. Particular to black American music is the architecture to create a means by which singers and musicians can be completely free, free in the only way that would have been possible on a plantation: through art, through music — music no one “composed” (because enslaved people were denied literacy), music born of feeling, of play, of exhaustion, of hope.

What you’re hearing in black music is a miracle of sound, an experience that can really happen only once — not just melisma, glissandi, the rasp of a sax, breakbeats or sampling but the mood or inspiration from which those moments arise. The attempt to rerecord it seems, if you think about it, like a fool’s errand. You’re not capturing the arrangement of notes, per se. You’re catching the spirit.

And the spirit travels from host to host, racially indiscriminate about where it settles, selective only about who can withstand being possessed by it. The rockin’ backwoods blues so bewitched Elvis Presley that he believed he’d been called by blackness. Chuck Berry sculpted rock ’n’ roll with uproarious guitar riffs and lascivious winks at whiteness. Mick Jagger and Robert Plant and Steve Winwood and Janis Joplin and the Beatles jumped, jived and wailed the black blues. Tina Turner wrested it all back, tripling the octane in some of their songs. Since the 1830s, the historian Ann Douglas writes in “Terrible Honesty,” her history of popular culture in the 1920s, “American entertainment, whatever the state of American society, has always been integrated, if only by theft and parody.” What we’ve been dealing with ever since is more than a catchall word like “appropriation” can approximate. The truth is more bounteous and more spiritual than that, more confused. That confusion is the DNA of the American sound.

It’s in the wink-wink costume funk of Beck’s “Midnite Vultures” from 1999, an album whose kicky nonsense deprecations circle back to the popular culture of 150 years earlier. It’s in the dead-serious, nostalgic dance-floor schmaltz of Bruno Mars. It’s in what we once called “blue-eyed soul,” a term I’ve never known what to do with, because its most convincing practitioners — the Bee-Gees, Michael McDonald, Hall & Oates, Simply Red, George Michael, Taylor Dayne, Lisa Stansfield, Adele — never winked at black people, so black people rarely batted an eyelash. Flaws and all, these are homeowners as opposed to renters. No matter what, though, a kind of gentrification tends to set in, underscoring that black people have often been rendered unnecessary to attempt blackness. Take Billboard’s Top 10 songs of 2013: It’s mostly nonblack artists strongly identified with black music, for real and for kicks: Robin Thicke, Miley Cyrus, Justin Timberlake, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, the dude who made “The Harlem Shake.”

Sometimes all the inexorable mixing leaves me longing for something with roots that no one can rip all the way out. This is to say that when we’re talking about black music, we’re talking about horns, drums, keyboards and guitars doing the unthinkable together. We’re also talking about what the borrowers and collaborators don’t want to or can’t lift — centuries of weight, of atrocity we’ve never sufficiently worked through, the blackness you know is beyond theft because it’s too real, too rich, too heavy to steal.

Blackness was on the move before my ancestors were legally free to be. It was on the move before my ancestors even knew what they had. It was on the move because white people were moving it. And the white person most frequently identified as its prime mover is Thomas Dartmouth Rice, a New Yorker who performed as T.D. Rice and, in acclaim, was lusted after as “Daddy” Rice, “the negro par excellence.” Rice was a minstrel, which by the 1830s, when his stardom was at its most refulgent, meant he painted his face with burned cork to approximate those of the enslaved black people he was imitating.

In 1830, Rice was a nobody actor in his early 20s, touring with a theater company in Cincinnati (or Louisville; historians don’t know for sure), when, the story goes, he saw a decrepit, possibly disfigured old black man singing while grooming a horse on the property of a white man whose last name was Crow. On went the light bulb. Rice took in the tune and the movements but failed, it seems, to take down the old man’s name. So in his song based on the horse groomer, he renamed him: “Weel about and turn about jus so/Ebery time I weel about, I jump Jim Crow.” And just like that, Rice had invented the fellow who would become the mascot for two centuries of legalized racism.

That night, Rice made himself up to look like the old black man — or something like him, because Rice’s get-up most likely concocted skin blacker than any actual black person’s and a gibberish dialect meant to imply black speech. Rice had turned the old man’s melody and hobbled movements into a song-and-dance routine that no white audience had ever experienced before. What they saw caused a permanent sensation. He reportedly won 20 encores.

Rice repeated the act again, night after night, for audiences so profoundly rocked that he was frequently mobbed duringperformances. Across the Ohio River, not an arduous distance from all that adulation, was Boone County, Ky., whose population would have been largely enslaved Africans. As they were being worked, sometimes to death, white people, desperate with anticipation, were paying to see them depicted at play.

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Other performers came and conquered, particularly the Virginia Minstrels, who exploded in 1843, burned brightly then burned out after only months. In their wake, P.T. Barnum made a habit of booking other troupes for his American Museum; when he was short on performers, he blacked up himself. By the 1840s, minstrel acts were taking over concert halls, doing wildly clamored-for residencies in Boston, New York and Philadelphia.

A blackface minstrel would sing, dance, play music, give speeches and cut up for white audiences, almost exclusively in the North, at least initially. Blackface was used for mock operas and political monologues (they called them stump speeches), skits, gender parodies and dances. Before the minstrel show gave it a reliable home, blackface was the entertainment between acts of conventional plays. Its stars were the Elvis, the Beatles, the ’NSync of the 19th century. The performers were beloved and so, especially, were their songs.

During minstrelsy’s heyday, white songwriters like Stephen Foster wrote the tunes that minstrels sang, tunes we continue to sing. Edwin Pearce Christy’s group the Christy Minstrels formed a band — banjo, fiddle, bone castanets, tambourine — that would lay the groundwork for American popular music, from bluegrass to Motown. Some of these instruments had come from Africa; on a plantation, the banjo’s body would have been a desiccated gourd. In “Doo-Dah!” his book on Foster’s work and life, Ken Emerson writes that the fiddle and banjo were paired for the melody, while the bones “chattered” and the tambourine “thumped and jingled a beat that is still heard ’round the world.”

But the sounds made with these instruments could be only imagined as black, because the first wave of minstrels were Northerners who’d never been meaningfully South. They played Irish melodies and used Western choral harmonies, not the proto-gospel call-and-response music that would make life on a plantation that much more bearable. Black artists were on the scene, like the pioneer bandleader Frank Johnsonand the borderline-mythical Old Corn Meal, who started as a street vendor and wound up the first black man to perform, as himself, on a white New Orleans stage. His stuff was copied by George Nichols, who took up blackface after a start in plain-old clowning. Yet as often as not, blackface minstrelsy tethered black people and black life to white musical structures, like the polka, which was having a moment in 1848. The mixing was already well underway: Europe plus slavery plus the circus, times harmony, comedy and drama, equals Americana.

And the muses for so many of the songs were enslaved Americans, people the songwriters had never met, whose enslavement they rarely opposed and instead sentimentalized. Foster’s minstrel-show staple “Old Uncle Ned,” for instance, warmly if disrespectfully eulogizes the enslaved the way you might a salaried worker or an uncle:

Den lay down de shubble and de hoe,

Hang up de fiddle and de bow:

No more hard work for poor Old Ned —

He’s gone whar de good Niggas go,

No more hard work for poor Old Ned —

He’s gone whar de good Niggas go.

Such an affectionate showcase for poor old (enslaved, soon-to-be-dead) Uncle Ned was as essential as “air,” in the white critic Bayard Taylor’s 1850 assessment; songs like this were the “true expressions of the more popular side of the national character,” a force that follows “the American in all its emigrations, colonizations and conquests, as certainly as the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving Day.” He’s not wrong. Minstrelsy’s peak stretched from the 1840s to the 1870s, years when the country was as its most violently and legislatively ambivalent about slavery and Negroes; years that included the Civil War and Reconstruction, the ferocious rhetorical ascent of Frederick Douglass, John Brown’s botched instigation of a black insurrection at Harpers Ferry and the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

Minstrelsy’s ascent also coincided with the publication, in 1852, of “Uncle Tom's Cabin,” a polarizing landmark that minstrels adapted for the stage, arguing for and, in simply remaining faithful to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel, against slavery. These adaptations, known as U.T.C.s, took over the art form until the end of the Civil War. Perhaps minstrelsy’s popularity could be (generously) read as the urge to escape a reckoning. But a good time predicated upon the presentation of other humans as stupid, docile, dangerous with lust and enamored of their bondage? It was an escape into slavery’s fun house.

What blackface minstrelsy gave the country during this period was an entertainment of skill, ribaldry and polemics. But it also lent racism a stage upon which existential fear could become jubilation, contempt could become fantasy. Paradoxically, its dehumanizing bent let white audiences feel more human. They could experience loathing as desire, contempt as adoration, repulsion as lust. They could weep for overworked Uncle Ned as surely as they could ignore his lashed back or his body as it swung from a tree.

But where did this leave a black performer? If blackface was the country’s cultural juggernaut, who would pay Negroes money to perform as themselves? When they were hired, it was only in a pinch. Once, P.T. Barnum needed a replacement for John Diamond, his star white minstrel. In a New York City dance hall, Barnum found a boy, who, it was reported at the time, could outdo Diamond (and Diamond was good). The boy, of course, was genuinely black. And his being actually black would have rendered him an outrageous blight on a white consumer’s narrow presumptions. As Thomas Low Nichols would write in his 1864 compendium, “Forty Years of American Life,” “There was not an audience in America that would not have resented, in a very energetic fashion, the insult of being asked to look at the dancing of a real negro.” So Barnum “greased the little ‘nigger’s’ face and rubbed it over with a new blacking of burned cork, painted his thick lips vermilion, put on a woolly wig over his tight curled locks and brought him out as ‘the champion nigger-dancer of the world.’ ” This child might have been William Henry Lane, whose stage name was Juba. And, as Juba, Lane was persuasive enough that Barnum could pass him off as a white person in blackface. He ceased being a real black boy in order to become Barnum’s minstrel Pinocchio.

After the Civil War, black performers had taken up minstrelsy, too, corking themselves, for both white and black audiences — with a straight face or a wink, depending on who was looking. Black troupes invented important new dances with blue-ribbon names (the buck-and-wing, the Virginia essence, the stop-time). But these were unhappy innovations. Custom obligated black performers to fulfill an audience’s expectations, expectations that white performers had established. A black minstrel was impersonating the impersonation of himself. Think, for a moment, about the talent required to pull that off. According to Henry T. Sampson’s book, “Blacks in Blackface,” there were no sets or effects, so the black blackface minstrel show was “a developer of ability because the artist was placed on his own.” How’s that for being twice as good? Yet that no-frills excellence could curdle into an entirely other, utterly degrading double consciousness, one that predates, predicts and probably informs W.E.B. DuBois’s more self-consciously dignified rendering.

American popular culture was doomed to cycles not only of questioned ownership, challenged authenticity, dubious propriety and legitimate cultural self-preservation but also to the prison of black respectability, which, with brutal irony, could itself entail a kind of appropriation. It meant comportment in a manner that seemed less black and more white. It meant the appearance of refinement and polish. It meant the cognitive dissonance of, say, Nat King Cole’s being very black and sounding — to white America, anyway, with his frictionless baritone and diction as crisp as a hospital corner — suitably white. He was perfect for radio, yet when he got a TV show of his own, it was abruptly canceled, his brown skin being too much for even the black and white of a 1955 television set. There was, perhaps, not a white audience in America, particularly in the South, that would not have resented, in a very energetic fashion, the insult of being asked to look at the majestic singing of a real Negro.

The modern conundrum of the black performer’s seeming respectable, among black people, began, in part, as a problem of white blackface minstrels’ disrespectful blackness. Frederick Douglass wrote that they were “the filthy scum of white society.” It’s that scum that’s given us pause over everybody from Bert Williams and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson to Flavor Flav and Kanye West. Is their blackness an act? Is the act under white control? Just this year, Harold E. Doley Jr., an affluent black Republican in his 70s, was quoted in The Times lamenting West and his alignment with Donald Trump as a “bad and embarrassing minstrel show” that “served to only drive black people away from the G.O.P.”

But it’s from that scum that a robust, post-minstrel black American theater sprung as a new, black audience hungered for actual, uncorked black people. Without that scum, I’m not sure we get an event as shatteringly epochal as the reign of Motown Records. Motown was a full-scale integration of Western, classical orchestral ideas (strings, horns, woodwinds) with the instincts of both the black church (rhythm sections, gospel harmonies, hand claps) and juke joint Saturday nights (rhythm sections, guitars, vigor). Pure yet “noisy.” Black men in Armani. Black women in ball gowns. Stables of black writers, producers and musicians. Backup singers solving social equations with geometric choreography. And just in time for the hegemony of the American teenager.

Even now it feels like an assault on the music made a hundred years before it. Motown specialized in love songs. But its stars, those songs and their performance of them were declarations of war on the insults of the past and present. The scratchy piccolo at the start of a Four Tops hitwas, in its way, a raised fist. Respectability wasn’t a problem with Motown; respectability was its point. How radically optimistic a feat of antiminstrelsy, for it’s as glamorous a blackness as this country has ever mass-produced and devoured.

The proliferation of black music across the planet — the proliferation, in so many senses, of being black — constitutes a magnificent joke on American racism. It also confirms the attraction that someone like Rice had to that black man grooming the horse. But something about that desire warps and perverts its source, lampoons and cheapens it even in adoration. Loving black culture has never meant loving black people, too. Loving black culture risks loving the life out of it.

And yet doesn’t that attraction make sense? This is the music of a people who have survived, who not only won't stop but also can’t be stopped. Music by a people whose major innovations — jazz, funk, hip-hop — have been about progress, about the future, about getting as far away from nostalgia as time will allow, music that’s thought deeply about the allure of outer space and robotics, music whose promise and possibility, whose rawness, humor and carnality call out to everybody — to other black people, to kids in working class England and middle-class Indonesia. If freedom's ringing, who on Earth wouldn't also want to rock the bell?

In 1845, J.K. Kennard, a critic for the newspaper The Knickerbocker, hyperventilated about the blackening of America. Except he was talking about blackface minstrels doing the blackening. Nonetheless, Kennard could see things for what they were:

“Who are our true rulers? The negro poets, to be sure! Do they not set the fashion, and give laws to the public taste? Let one of them, in the swamps of Carolina, compose a new song, and it no sooner reaches the ear of a white amateur, than it is written down, amended, (that is, almost spoilt,) printed, and then put upon a course of rapid dissemination, to cease only with the utmost bounds of Anglo-Saxondom, perhaps of the world.”

What a panicked clairvoyant! The fear of black culture — or “black culture” — was more than a fear of black people themselves. It was an anxiety over white obsolescence. Kennard’s anxiety over black influence sounds as ambivalent as Lorde’s, when, all the way from her native New Zealand, she tsk-ed rap culture’s extravagance on “Royals,”her hit from 2013, while recognizing, both in the song’s hip-hop production and its appetite for a particular sort of blackness, that maybe she’s too far gone:

Every song’s like gold teeth, Grey Goose, trippin’ in the bathroom

Bloodstains, ball gowns, trashin’ the hotel room

We don’t care, we’re driving Cadillacs in our dreams

But everybody’s like Cristal, Maybach, diamonds on your timepiece

Jet planes, islands, tigers on a gold leash

We don’t care, we aren’t caught up in your love affair

Beneath Kennard’s warnings must have lurked an awareness that his white brethren had already fallen under this spell of blackness, that nothing would stop its spread to teenage girls in 21st-century Auckland, that the men who “infest our promenades and our concert halls like a colony of beetles” (as a contemporary of Kennard’s put it) weren’t black people at all but white people just like him — beetles and, eventually, Beatles. Our first most original art form arose from our original sin, and some white people have always been worried that the primacy of black music would be a kind of karmic punishment for that sin. The work has been to free this country from paranoia’s bondage, to truly embrace the amplitude of integration. I don’t know how we’re doing.

Last spring, “Old Town Road,” a silly, drowsy ditty by the Atlanta songwriter Lil Nas X, was essentially banished from country radio. Lil Nas sounds black, as does the trap beat he’s droning over. But there’s definitely a twang to him that goes with the opening bars of faint banjo and Lil Nas’s lil’ cowboy fantasy. The song snowballed into a phenomenon. All kinds of people — cops, soldiers, dozens of dapper black promgoers — posted dances to it on YouTube and TikTok. Then a crazy thing happened. It charted — not just on Billboard’s Hot 100 singles chart, either. In April, it showed up on both its Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs chart and its Hot Country Songs chart. A first. And, for now at least, a last.

The gatekeepers of country radio  refused to play the song; they didn’t explain why. Then, Billboard determined that the song failed to “embrace enough elements of today’s country music to chart in its current version.” This doesn’t warrant translation, but let’s be thorough, anyway: The song is too black for certain white people.

But by that point it had already captured the nation’s imagination and tapped into the confused thrill of integrated culture. A black kid hadn’t really merged white music with black, he’d just taken up the American birthright of cultural synthesis. The mixing feels historical. Here, for instance, in the song’s sample of a Nine Inch Nails track is a banjo, the musical spine of the minstrel era. Perhaps Lil Nas was too American. Other country artists of the genre seemed to sense this. White singers recorded pretty tributes in support, and one, Billy Ray Cyrus, performed his on a remix with Lil Nas X himself.

The newer version lays Cyrus’s casual grit alongside Lil Nas’s lackadaisical wonder. It’s been No.1 on Billboard’s all-genre Hot 100 singles chart since April, setting a record. And the bottomless glee over the whole thing makes me laugh, too — not in a surprised, yacht-rock way but as proof of what a fine mess this place is. One person's sign of progress remains another’s symbol of encroachment.  Screw the history. Get off my land.

Four hundred years ago, more than 20 kidnapped Africans arrived in Virginia. They were put to work and put through hell. Twenty became millions, and some of those people found — somehow — deliverance in the power of music. Lil Nas X has descended from those millions and appears to be a believer in deliverance. The verses of his song flirt with Western kitsch, what young black internetters branded, with adorable idiosyncrasy and a deep sense of history, the “yee-haw agenda.” But once the song reaches its chorus (“I’m gonna take my horse to the Old Town Road, and ride til I can’t no more”), I don’t hear a kid in an outfit. I hear a cry of ancestry. He’s a westward-bound refugee; he’s an Exoduster. And Cyrus is down for the ride. Musically, they both know: This land is their land.

Wesley Morris is a staff writer for the magazine, a critic at large for The New York Times and a co-host of the podcast “Still Processing.” He was awarded the 2012 Pulitzer Prize for criticism.

Source photograph of Beyoncé: Kevin Mazur/Getty Images; Holiday: Paul Hoeffler/Redferns, via Getty Images; Turner: Gai Terrell/Redferns, via Getty Images; Richards: Chris Walter/WireImage, via Getty Images; Lamar: Bennett Raglin/Getty Images

#archives #music #must reads #african american history #american history #history #arts and entertainment #entertainment #entertainers #news #latest news #trending news #hip hop news source #1619 #1619project

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Littleton Public Schools is a premier college district located a few miles south of downtown Denver. LPS is the only school district within the Denver metro area to receive the Colorado Department of Education’s highest accreditation rating all seven years it has been offered. And with a historical past of close neighborhood ties, LPS has passed every bond election delivered to a vote. Larimer County is likely one of the 64 counties within the US state of Colorado.

Larimer County contains the Fort Collins, CO Metropolitan Statistical Area. The county is located at the northern finish of the Front Range, at the edge of the Colorado Eastern Plains alongside the border with Wyoming. Bagels is an American bagel and coffee chain that serves scrumptious meals produced from the freshest and most interesting ingredients. This respected bagel shop provides guests with freshly baked bagels, breakfast sandwiches, espresso, lunch sandwiches, and a lot extra.

Both Carrie L. Gomez and Yari Figueroa are the creative administrators and co-homeowners behind the powerhouse group at SCY Pictures. Shop on your Lone Tree vacation presents while supporting a great cause with Pearl Street Lights, a candle firm based by Kerry Humphrey.

What are the 12 characteristics of successful entrepreneurs?

The 12 Characteristics of Successful Entrepreneurs 1. They take what they do seriously.

2. They make it all about the customer.

3. They make the big decisions carefully.

4. They aren’t scared of the road less traveled.

5. They harness technology.

6. They invest in themselves.

7. They are constantly learning.

8. They’re not afraid of risks.

More items•

In addition to both frequent and rare houseplants, you’ll also find lovely pottery, handmade decor items, houseplant-associated instruments, accessories, gift gadgets and extra. Fig + Yarrow was born in 2010 when proprietor and apothecary artisan Brandy Monique turned a senior class project right into a model of well being and sweetness products which are utterly rooted in nature. You’ll find a wide range of natural skin merchandise on their online shop, together with cleansers, masks, serums, toners and extra. Plus, 10 percent of all sales at Fig + Yarrow go to the Rumi Foundation, which distributes donations to non-profit organizations devoted to animal, human and environmental wellbeing.

CHI is a nonprofit, faith-primarily based health system formed in 1996 through the consolidation of three Catholic health techniques. The firm was formerly known as New World Restaurant Group Inc. and adjusted its name to Einstein Noah Restaurant Group, Inc. in May 2007. Einstein Noah Restaurant Group, Inc. wad based in 1992 and relies in Lakewood, Colorado. Delivering ‘Low Fares Done Right’ is the driving philosophy of Frontier Airlines. Headquartered in Denver, Colorado, this American low-price provider has been recognized as the eighth largest business airline in the United States.

Beyond the perks, staff rave in regards to the office culture and the CEO. Not solely that, it’s one of many top corporations headquartered in Denver. The workplace culture focuses on development, innovation, and empowerment. And not only that, they make a unbelievable product – Zoom is broadly considered top-of-the-line software program corporations in denver. As considered one of hte most successful companies in downtown Denver, you possibly can expect an inclusive office tradition, paid day without work to volunteer, and free monetary advice.

It’s not stunning that we’ve seen a steady influx of corporations shifting to Denver and others increasing their presence. Here’s a look at a number of of the latest standouts so far into 2020. Part of the Mile High City’s enchantment contains its high variety of people 25 years and older having a bachelor’s degree , massive number of millennials, and the lure of the outside lifestyle. Please be happy to contact us for a list of some of our shoppers who will enthusiastically attest to our expertise and outstanding IT service, or try the shopper testimonials we have gathered on our website.

Whether you’re keen on the outdoors, need to discover the mountains, or enjoy cultural activities, Colorado can provide all of it. Before shifting, you additionally want to think about your budget and some of the cheaper cities to stay, work and play in Colorado. Find all of the transport options for your journey from Denver Airport to Denver Marriott Tech Center, Greenwood Village right right here. Rome2rio shows up to date schedules, route maps, journey instances and estimated fares from related transport operators, making certain you can also make an informed decision about which possibility will suit you finest.

I used to ship Meals on Wheels in Athmar Park, Valverde and Barnum. Not an area to walk round in, however there may be little to no industrial development there, so no must be in the ‘hood except you live there . One of the key takeaways for me was that are fairly a few extra assaults per capita in Lodo than any of the neighborhoods that individuals typically contemplate ghetto.

E2 was based in 1988 to ship environmentally targeted providers associated to water and wastewater. Since then, the agency has grown and broadly diversified to provide engineering, environmental consulting, oil and gasoline pipeline engineering, infrastructure operations, and remediation-associated providers. Gevo, Inc. is a renewable chemicals and superior biofuels firm headquartered in unincorporated Douglas County, Colorado in the Denver-Aurora metropolitan space. The firm develops bio-primarily based alternatives to petroleum-based merchandise utilizing a combination of biotechnology and classical chemistry.

P2 Reporting brings collectively knowledge from all areas of the business to permit for cross-functional evaluation and collaboration. P2 supplies a comprehensive vary of upstream oil and gas software. At FirstBank, they’re lucky to have the financial stability, outstanding staff, and the best customers they could ask for. Ever since, they’ve maintained a robust commitment to comfort, friendly and intelligent customer support, and loyalty to their staff.

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Best photo editing software for beginners to blur an image

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As best photo editing software for beginners soon as we taking a photograph from a normal radius, it's tempting to zoom in on existent specific you are trying to record. As an alternative, try get very near to your topic, apart from it's a wild animal, in that case we would certainly encourage keeping your range or make the photograph in a particular area, and also plant it after. Best photo editing software for beginners carries out have some of the functions is actually known for, which comes very helpful when you've decided on you have actually like to make an effort your give on something extra trendy than print series of pictures and clone stamp. Best photo editing software for beginners may also import screenshots from video, besides distinct data. As well as when you're experiencing a bit lazy or even it is actually simply ordinary unaware regarding just how to use several of the devices, a wizard can easily support you modification the basics just like lights, focus, color, and turning of pictures. For them who like their photos in other screen editions, the software aids you perfectly come up with images to create a scenic picture. And also if it is actually opportunity to show off your digital photography capabilities, you can choose among the image program concept layouts to promptly print all of them in a particular dimension. Helpful hints about flip a photo with the best photo editing software for beginners free download and uncomplicated photo editing software for PC and experts to professional saturate a photo. Best photo editing software for beginners for pros and edit pictures software to invert images and draw in photos. Download here free this best photo editing software for beginners for fast and intelligent rotate an image.

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This best photo editing software for beginners is most ideal for excited students along with a bunch of time in their hands to amount out the also technological components that would frighten 1st chance image customizing users. It likewise comes geared up with a full circle scenery plan. More than likely the gleaming gem in the strategy would certainly be the stunning skin layer influence, which evens as well as receives rid of red areas out your complexion. Whereas there is actually no automatic different colors fix option somewhat important to fixing the lousy lighting most digital online video cams catch, there are actually still the regular attributes of change the size of an image. Among the most well-known misinterpreted parts of digital photography is what happens after you make the photo shot in fact modifying your picture. That is the moment where you edit the images you have actually taken, to produce the end product. Modifying your pictures is the equivalent of the room dark from the time long period of time earlier. We are most likely to be covering some ideas for modifying your pictures, from the basics like photos contrast as well as cutting out a part of a photo, through a lot more difficult activities. The crop appliance permits you to transform the size of your photo, and additionally to alter the aspect proportion. As an example, you can crop an image from a rectangle-shaped form to a round shape. There are lots of reasons you would certainly intend to crop, consisting of for publishing in different layouts and aspect ratios. Contrasted to the original, I have chopped the photo with photo editing software to remove the lightning part of the middle of the picture as well as reassembled utilizing the rule of fourths. It makes the lightning bolt more the emphasis of photo shot. When taking the image, you might wonder why I didn't just make up properly. Well, in this situation, I was actually performing a long exposure photo shot without needing a cam stand, so had actually the cam balanced on the side of the sidewalk for security. That quite limited my ability to flawlessly frame the moment, so I simply photoshoot wider, recognizing I had to be able to crop the photo shot appropriately right after the fact. In this both instances, cropping is really simple as well as it is just involves you picking the cut out item and after that choosing the area you want to keep with your PC mouse. You apply the adjustments and also your brand-new cropped picture is ready to go.

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Whenever the horizon line in a photo is not even level, one of my own casual inconveniences in photography is. In some cases whenever we are captured up in the moment, this essential rule is forgotten however the bright side is that editing and enhancing your shots with the photo editing software to make them grade is additionally very simple. Stabilizing the camera within the side of the boat dock meant that the picture was uneven this is notably noticeable to the eye when the picture has a plainly specified horizon line, like the ocean. The leveling device is part of the crop technique, and you may simply rotate the photograph to suit. When you utilize the degree gadget, a grate can turn up to aid you get the alignment appropriate. Leveling an image is a really basic task this will certainly take simply a couple of ticking, causing a much extra aesthetically wowing image. From time to time while we take a photo, parts of the shot can end up being actually brighter than we want. We refer to the gloomy areas of the image as darkness, and the bright areas of the picture as highlights. Compare is actually regarding highlighting the difference in between the light fixture and dark components of the picture. Enhancing the comparison of a picture can considerably improve the visible effect that has, by making the boundaries in between these light and dark sections more clear. Color adjusting is another vital item related to the photo editing software. You are able to adjust photograph color scheme in every type of methods, starting with altering the total warmness of the photo such as exactly how yellow and blue it shows up, to independently changing the tone as well as interpenetration of specific color schemes inside of an image. We only desire to cover a few extremely helpful color variations you can use to create your pictures simply a little extra visually amazing. The best means in order to readjust the different colors of a picture is with the color tone tool from the best photo editing software for beginners. That adjusts the visual aspect of every shade in a picture to produce it basically condensed. Similar to many modify, the key is definitely to get an effective harmony excessive shading the images often tends to look rather unusual. Shading images can be very useful, and also of course black as well as white is an excellent option for almost all kind of situations, particularly, snapshots, and also particular landscape pictures. More helpful hints about saturate a picture with the best photo editing software for beginners free download and simple to use photo editing software for PC to cut photos and comfortable brightening change. Best photo editing software for beginners or edit a photo software to invert a photo and color mode. Download best photo editing software for beginners for experts or edit image software to scale photos and color mode.

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Often there certainly will be a thing within a photo that you totally do definitely not wish to exist, like an undesirable furuncle on somebody's face. This is very simple to get rid of in all the significant photo editing software. It is usually uncomplicated to remove any items directly out of a photography however the best photo editing software for beginners does work best on unique, smaller objects that are generally surrounded by the same color schemes. This is because the heal device has to replace the location you desire to remove with another thing, and also this functions ideal when it has an area nearby that looks comparable. For instance, a dark spot on a face is surrounded by a whole lot of similarly tinted skin, so the heal tool can easily determine what to change the pimple based on the bordering area. This specific is normally for the photo editing software has to switch the spot you like to get rid of together with another thing besides, and also that runs finest when it gets an area near that looks much the same. Best photo editing software for beginners has actually become quite intricate and also helpful and it is possible to adjust photograph and so they end up being absolutely different from the initial. There actually are lots of photo editing software and plenty of methods of accomplishing the same or similar final results. My intent very most for many pictures I upload procedure is usually to help make them look being normal as actually possible. I have no doubt this is a super point to make a beginning, also in case you intend to go on as well as create more unique looking photos. Coloration array at an image is one of the main priorities. Your eyes have the ability to typically see a wider series of coloration than your cam possibly make. The significance of image modifying is the act of adjusting a photo, put simply. But that is oversimplifying a subject that is very problematic. You can commonly execute simple picture modifying strategies such as photos sepia relatively easily and swiftly however complicated methods as well as digital modifying may need photo editing software as well as more skill. Best photo editing software for beginners is a helper which anyone can easily use to control and also improve images. Since images include a raising variety of uses, increased companies are finding techniques to reuse images and also utilize them on multiple media. Download now this photo editing software download for novice and professionals with a lot of awesome functions and professional photo editing software for Computer to edit images and functional insert cliparts in photos. Best photo editing software for beginners or editing photo software to invert an image and photo contrast. Download this photo editing software for speedy and smart cut images.

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[threeorphanpilgrimage]

Chapter 59 - Firestorm

Clementine tensed up as she heard another loud rumble off in the distance. It had been the third time this afternoon and she still found it unsettling. Dim clouds canvassed the entire sky, but it still looked too early to rain, but the sounds of thunder far off in the distance suggested that would change soon. It was a little warmer today, but not much, and the constant bursts of cool wind kept causing the girl to shiver as she tried to keep watch from on top of the Brave.

The overpass they were parked on kept them out of reach of most walkers, and the thunder in the distance seemed to be drawing what few there were left further away. Using the telescope to scan the nearby area, she saw a few walkers moving south through the heart of yet another small and abandoned town off the interstate. Other walkers, possibly too rotted to hear far off noises anymore, remained in place, simply waiting for a victim.

The dead had been growing more common as they had moved west across the region, yet food and supplies were as scarce as ever. Even though they were few and far, Clem couldn't help feeling nervous at just the sight of the walkers below her, and found herself worrying about the ones she couldn't see. Even with her raincoat on, the presence of the dead was unnerving for the girl, a constant reminder that death was always only a single mistake away.

"Patty? Anthony?" said Sarah into her radio. "Are you two okay?"

Clem looked over at the older girl, who was sitting next to her on top of the RV, her atlas spread out on her lap.

"We're fine Sarah," assured Patty over the radio. "We just arrived. The map may say this is an airport, but really it's just a single runway. I have my doubts you could land one plane here, let alone five."

"Really?" asked a disappointed Sarah. "Dammit…" Sarah crossed out a town on her atlas. Peeking down at the map, Clem herself felt discouraged by the series of black marks that spanned the entire state of Louisiana.

"I don't know why we're still bothering with these tiny podunk towns," said Anthony. "As if salvation is gonna be in bumfuck Louisiana."

"Actually this town is in Texas," informed Sarah as she started flipping through the pages of her atlas. "We crossed the border when we crossed that river a few miles before we got here, we're in Orange, Texas."

"God, I really hope the answer to my prayers isn't in Texas," said Patty. "That's the kind of thing that would give me an existential crisis."

"Well if it is, it's not here in goddamn 'Orange' Texas and its shitty one runway airport," grumbled Anthony. "What kind of idiot names a town Orange? And then what kind of idiots waste time thinking they'll find jack shit in a town called Orange? We should just go to Houston already, that's the next big town west of here."

"It's because it's the next big town we're checking the stuff along the way," said Sarah. "We might find out something about Houston if we check these towns around it first."

"We just went into New Orleans, and that worked out." Clem cringed upon hearing that. Looking at Sarah, she seemed bothered by that comment as well. An awkward silence lingered for few seconds before they heard a voice on the radio again.

"And besides," Patty said. "Houston is a lot bigger than New Orleans."

"How big could it be?" asked Anthony.

"New Orleans has—or had—about three-hundred thousand people in it according to to the atlas," informed Sarah. "There were over two million in Houston."

Another few seconds of silence followed. "Okay, that's pretty big," admitted Anthony.

"It's bigger than anywhere any of us have been since shit fell apart," said Patty. "Even Miami only had about a fifth as many people as Houston, and shit wasn't exactly great there either. And it's over twice the size of Jacksonville, Florida, which the girls told me was so tore up they couldn't even get into it."

"How many people did you say used to live in Savannah?" Clem whispered to Sarah.

"I think the atlas said a little over a hundred-thousand?" Hearing that made Clem cringe as she realized Houston could be equivalent to twenty Savannahs. That thought alone made Clementine feel sick, and another even louder rumble in the distance just made her feel even worse.

"Jesus that sounded close," reported Patty over the radio. "Even closer than the last one."

"I want to know where the hell the lightning that's making those noises is," said Anthony. "You think we'd be able to see it by now."

"Well we're not waiting for it," announced Patty. "You two hang tight, we'll be back in a few minutes, and then all four of us can drive out to somewhere secluded to wait out the rain that's coming."

"Got it. We'll be waiting for you." Clem folded up their telescope while Sarah used the ladder to climb back down to the road. This was the third airport they had checked today, and they were still no closer to a solution. Moving to the edge of the RV, Clem noticed Sarah looked discouraged as she took the telescope Clem passed down to her. "Are you okay?"

"I guess," said the older girl as she adjusted her grip on the telescope. "It's just, it's been almost a week now and we still haven't found anything, and before long we'll have to check another big city—the biggest city we've seen yet—and it just feels like…"

"I know," consoled Clem. "It feels like we'll never find anything."

"Or if we do, it won't be good," sighed Sarah. "I should get back inside and make sure Omid doesn't need anything."

"Maybe tomorrow will be better." Clem's words of encouragement seemed to do nothing to lift Sarah's spirits as she shuffled away. Finding no comfort out in the cold, Clem climbed down herself. She was going to head into the Brave when she heard something off in the distance. It wasn't thunder or anything that loud this time, but it was still distinct. Turning out to look over town, Clem could tell what direction the noise was coming from but not what it was. It sounded almost like a bee buzzing around, but too loud and distant.

After listening closely for a few seconds, Clementine realized it was an engine she was hearing. Her first thought was she was hearing Anthony's truck in the distance. It seemed too soon for that, but Patty had said that the airport wasn't far and they'd be right back. But as the noise of a running engine drew closer with every passing second, Clem realized it didn't sound like a truck at all. Panic begin to creep into the girl's thoughts as she felt her feet moving backwards without even thinking. A thunderous cracking erupted across the area and the girl spun around and tried to flee.

"Whoa, Clem," said Sarah as Clem ran head first into her friend. "What's wrong?"

"Do you hear that?" asked Clem.

"The thunder, yeah I—"

"Not that, I heard an engine before that," said Clem.

"I didn't hear any…" Sarah suddenly became very quiet. The older girl's eyes widened and she moved past Clem to the edge of the overpass. The engine noise was back and louder than ever now. Looking out on the road below them, Clem felt a chill shoot up her spine as something burst into view.

"That's… that's not Anthony's truck…" Clem watched in stunned silence as a silver luxury car came into view on the road south of the overpass. It was barreling towards them incredibly fast and Clem felt as if she couldn't look away. At the rate it was going, it would zoom right under the overpass they were standing on in seconds. The girl felt a twisted tinge of relief as the car swerved suddenly to avoid hitting a walker that had stumbled in front of it. The vehicle skidded across the road, it brakes screeching loudly as it tried to correct its course, then jumped the curb and violently slammed into a utility pole.

"Oh God!" exclaimed Sarah as the pair continued to watch the car with great interest. It had crashed about three blocks from the overpass the girls were standing on and was now making churning noises as whoever was in it was clearly trying to start it again. Clem used this opportunity to grab her binoculars while the car was stationary and quickly found it in her sights.

Seeing it better, she noticed the car's paint was stained with odd black marks that looked like burns, and the front windshield was covered in some kind of gray soot. The driver's side door suddenly burst open, only to hastily slam closed again as a walker tried to lunge at whoever was inside. Putting her binoculars down, Clem saw more walkers were stumbling towards the car, throwing their rotten bodies against the vehicle and pounding on the windshield with their arms.

"They're going to kill whoever's in there." Clem looked over to see a wide-eyed Sarah staring back at her. "We gotta do something!"

"Right." Clem pulled her gun from its holster. She couldn't possibly hit the walkers from this distance with it, so she aimed it into the sky instead. She pulled the trigger twice for a couple of quick shots and waited for the walkers to start moving, but they didn't. Only a lone one near the overpass turned around, the rest of the corpses kept closing in on the lone car to join the ones that were already pounding on it. Even from the overpass, Clem could hear the annoying racket of walkers banging on metal and it occurred to the girl that they couldn't hear the gunshots over the noise they were making.

"We need to get closer," said Sarah, having reached the same conclusion.

"I don't know, if—"

"Clementine! We can't just let them die."

"Right," said Clem, already feeling ashamed for her hesitation. "Let's go." The pair hurried back into the Brave; Sarah wasted no time starting the vehicle while Clem hurried towards the closet

"Be careful," warned Clem. "If you see a lot of walkers, like in Titusville, you—"

"I'll get us out of here," promised Sarah as she shifted the Brave into drive. "But there's not that many right now."

"Not that we can see…"

Clementine pulled the closet door open and looked at the machine gun, rifle, and automatic rifle stacked against the corner. Thinking it would make the loudest and most noise of the three, Clem grabbed the automatic rifle. The girl hurried over to the cupboards and retrieved the gun's magazine along with the belt clip that held spare magazines for her pistol. Just as she equipped them, she felt the Brave slow to a stop and heard a loud blaring sound. Turning her head, Clem could see Sarah was leaning on the steering wheel to sound the horn.

"Some of them are heading towards us," reported Sarah. "But not all of them, we—"

"We'll just need to kill them all, because whoever is in that car won't have a raincoat like us," concluded Clem as she threw the rifle over her shoulder, which felt awkward on her back. "They already know we're here, so I might as well just shoot them. If I climb on top of the Brave, they won't be able to reach me and I can just take my time."

"And if more show up I can just drive us away," concluded Sarah.

"Just give me a warning when you do so I can grab onto something first," said Clem as she headed towards the door.

"Hang on, I'll pull us over to a spot further away so you've got more time to get to the ladder on the back."

Clem kept her eyes glued to the door as she heard the Brave's motor start. The breaks squeaking, the engine roaring, every little noise sounded louder than ever, tying the girl's stomach into knots as she felt herself moving with the RV. Part of Clem was telling herself that gunning down walkers on an open street for the benefit of a stranger was a stupid risk, but the rest of her was thinking about all the times she had nearly been eaten alive only to be spared that fate by someone who cared more about others than themselves.

"Okay, go!" Clem already had her hand on the doorknob when Sarah said go. She threw open the door with one hand and pulled her pistol in the other. Just outside was a parking lot leading up to a quaint brick office building advertising tax returns in the windows. Leaning out to make sure there were no walkers just out of sight, Clem leapt outside and slammed the door shut behind her. The girl then raced as fast as she could and rounded the back of the Brave in mere seconds.

Now behind the vehicle, Clem spotted some walkers clumsily chasing after the Brave from the direction of the overpass. Still well out of arm's reach, Clem took aim and put down the nearest corpse with a single well-placed shot to the head. The girl then turned and hurried up the ladder, not wanting to be on the street when the other walkers closed the gap. Scaling the ladder, Clem briefly stopped and looked through the back window. She could see Omid standing in his crib, looking around in confusion. The girl felt a sharp pang of guilt for not being there to comfort him, but then forced herself to keep climbing.

Reaching the top of the Brave, Clem immediately turned around to find another walker had nearly closed the distance from the overpass. A bullet to the head however made sure it would never complete that unremarkable journey. Checking the left side of the vehicle, Clem found another walker already pounding on the RV. Shooting straight down from the roof made its head an easy target and the corpse was dispatched with ease.

"Clem," spoke Sarah. "There's—"

"I'm on it." Clem headed straight to the front of the RV next and found two more walkers banging against the vehicle’s grill. Clem made a couple of loud bangs herself, silencing the meddlesome cadavers for good.

"There's still a lot of them attacking the car," said Sarah, clearly worried. "I think they've broken one of its windows."

Clem saw the silver car in the distance, still stuck to the utility pole. There were at least five walkers still beating on it, one of which was trying to force itself head first through a large break on the driver's side window. Clem nearly jumped as she heard the Brave's horn again, it sounding much louder outside than it did in.

The girl watched as a couple of the walkers abandoned the car, but not all of them, and certainly not the one still trying to climb in through the broken window. She holstered her pistol and removed the rifle from her back. Clem located a switch and flicked it from 'SAFE' to 'AUTO'. The girl knelt down and braced the rifle against her shoulder, preparing herself to strike. Clem initially took aim at one the walkers attacking the car, but then realized the shots might go through the windshield and hit whoever was inside, so she aimed to the right of the walker instead, hoping the gun was louder than the Brave's horn.

Clem pulled the trigger and immediately felt a series of sudden painful kicks against her shoulder and stinging blows against her right hand. She tried letting go of the trigger as the rifle bucked upwards and out of her grip but it was too late. The gun slipped from her hands, tumbled over the side of the Brave, and plummeted onto the pavement below.

"Clem?" called Sarah. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she assured, barely able to hear her friend's voice over the horrible ringing in her ears. "I just dropped the rifle."

"It worked though, look."

Clem saw the last few walkers, including the one at the car's window, had finally abandoned the vehicle and were heading towards the Brave, which Sarah was honking the horn for again to keep their attention. Looking down, she saw a couple had already reached their RV and were pounding against the windshield. Clem pulled her pistol and quickly put them down, then remained vigilant as more walkers started lurching towards their position.

The walkers were scattered and kept reaching the RV only a few at a time, much to Clem's relief. She shot the closest walkers on one side, then would check another side and repeat the process there, then kept moving until she checked every side, then would start over. It became fairly monotonous before long, with every check revealing a couple more walkers closing the distance that needed to be shot before changing sides to find the same thing all over again. After eliminating a couple more walkers near the back, Clem's gun clicked when tried to kill the last one behind the RV.

The girl quickly ejected the empty magazine and stuffed it in her pocket. Trying to remove a spare from her belt proved more difficult than she thought, having to fumble with the clip that secured them for a few seconds, then wasting a few more seconds finally finding her grip on the magazine before quickly slamming it into her gun. She cycled the pistol then shot the remaining walker, only to return to the front to find four more that needed killing.

"I'm going to pull forward," warned Sarah as Clem shot the last walker directly in front of the RV. "Their bodies are starting to stack up and it's going to be harder to drive away if we wait."

"Do it." Clem holstered her gun and laid down so she could grip the edge of the Brave as it slowly lurched forward. There were a couple of sickening pops as they moved, but then the familiar squeak of the brakes sounded and Clem stood up. Immediately the girl spotted a couple more walkers she was obliged to deliver free bullets to, and then she found herself repeating her routine from a few seconds ago. This trend continued for a few minutes longer until Clem finally killed what appeared to be the last of the walkers in the immediate area.

Sarah pulled the vehicle forward again over a few bodies, then parked again, putting the Brave a mere block away from the silver car still clinging to the base of a utility pole. Not seeing any walkers nearby, Clem removed her binoculars and surveyed her surroundings for any stragglers in the distance, but found none.

It was eerily quiet now, and the only thing of interest in sight was the silver car. Looking closely, Clem discovered the windows were all tinted, making it impossible to see through the glass from this side. She could also see the vehicle's windshield was cracked and smeared with bits of rotten flesh left from walkers who had literally broken their arms against it. The window on the driver's side of the vehicle had been partially broken open, but enough of the glass remained to block Clementine's view.

"Clem? Do you see any more lurkers?"

"No," reported Clem as she did one final check of the area.

"Okay, so, what do we do now?" asked Sarah.

"I… I'm not sure." Clem moved the binoculars up to her face to study the broken vehicle a little more, then made her decision. "I'm going to check out the car."

"Are you sure?" asked Sarah. "You killed the lurkers, and—"

"More might come," concluded Clem. "And whoever is inside would get eaten because they don't know how to get past them, which would mean we did all this for nothing."

"Well, yeah," concluded Sarah. "But…"

"I thought you wanted to help."

"I do, but… I don't want you to get hurt either." Clem could hear Sarah sigh over the radio. "Let me just check on Omid, then I'll get my rifle and come with you."

"Okay."

Clem clipped her radio back to her belt but hesitated to draw her pistol. Now that the danger had passed, the girl had become all too aware of how incredibly sore her hands had become. She couldn't ever remember firing that many shots in such a short period of time and found herself wishing she wouldn't have to shoot anymore today, but knew there was a good chance she would.

Reluctantly, Clementine ignored the pain in her hand and removed her gun from its holster. She noticed it felt lighter than usual, then realized it was probably nearly out of bullets again. Clem swapped the magazine out for the last spare she had, hoping she wouldn't actually need to use it. Moving down the ladder, Clem spotted the automatic rifle she dropped earlier was just sitting on the road about ten feet behind where the RV was parked now.

After confirming the rifle still had bullets left, Clem located the safety. She moved the switch from 'AUTO' to the 'SEMI' setting in the middle, hoping that would make it only shoot one bullet at a time. Thinking it would be more intimidating than her pistol, Clem kept the rifle in her hands as she headed for the Brave's door.

Sarah emerged from the Brave shortly after, a rifle now gripped in her own hands. She closed the door, locked it, and then placed the keys in her pocket. The pair looked at each other for a moment, then started moving towards the car. Clem kept a watchful eye out for walkers. They had made a lot of noise, and the dead move slowly, so more could be on their way this very moment. But she couldn't focus for long on what may be out there as they closed in on the car that was right in front of them.

The girls kept their rifles gripped in their hands, but kept the barrels aimed at the ground, not wanting to appear threatening to whoever they were rescuing. Clem felt herself growing tenser as they moved in closer to the car. She could still hear a ringing sound leftover from all the gunfire pounding against her eardrums a minute ago, and with every step it seemed to be getting louder somehow. Just this horrible ringing getting louder and louder until it was all the girl could hear anymore.

"Stay back!" The words punctured the ringing like a shot itself, bringing a trembling Clem to an immediate halt as her finger seem to instinctively seek out her gun's trigger. "Who are you with?" Hearing the voice again sounded almost as harsh as hearing it the first time, but this time Clem could detect a hint of fear in what was clearly a man's voice. "Marines? Army? Navy?" Listening to him speak, Clem noticed the man had what sounded like a mix of two different accents, neither of which she recognized. "Well? Who… who are you people?"

"I'm Sarah," the older girl finally yelled back, clearly nervous herself. "She's Clementine. You looked like you needed help."

"You're… you're just children." Something in the way the man said children irritated Clementine, as if he was relieved now because he thought they could never be any threat to him.

"We just killed all the walkers attacking you," stated Clementine with as much authority as she could. "We told you who we are; who are you?"

"Why do you want to know?" asked the man. "What do you want?"

"We just want to help. Are you hurt?" Clem found herself inching forward as Sarah spoke. "You didn't get bitten by a lurker just now did you?" By moving towards her right, Clem found herself gradually getting a better view through the opening in the busted window on the driver's side of the car. "Because if you did, that's really—"

"That's close enough!" Clem froze again as she could clearly see the top of someone's head briefly moving in the opening. "I didn't ask for your help, just leave me alone!" The fear in the man's voice was more noticeable now than before, and Clem suddenly realized she had raised her rifle without thinking about it. "Please, I'm begging you, just leave… leave me alone." Hearing someone begging for mercy was a completely alien experience for Clem; it made her feel sick.

"We're not going to hurt you," promised Clem as she lowered her rifle. Finding the pain in her hands growing the longer she carried this heavy weapon, Clem switched the safety back on and threw the rifle over her shoulder. "You're not going to hurt us, are you?"

"Why would I do that?" asked the man, sounding genuinely confused.

"I don't know," said Clem. "We don't know even know who you are."

"Maybe you could come out and talk to us?" suggested Sarah as she surveyed the area. "There aren't any lurkers in the area."

"All right," said the man, still clearly afraid. "Please don't shoot."

"We won't."

Clem felt her hand moving to her pistol as she saw the car door slowly creak open, but resisted the urge to draw it. She felt nervous as she saw someone move past the door, only for her apprehension to evaporate upon finally seeing who they were speaking to. The man was older than they would have thought, his hair gray and his frightened face creased by wrinkles. He wore a blue jacket covered in soot and the glasses on his eyes highlighted his scared dark eyes as he raised his gloved hands over his head.

"You can put your hands down," assured Clem in an apologetic tone.

"Does… does that work?" The man pointed at the RV.

"Why do you want to know?" asked Clem, making no effort to conceal her suspicion.

"We need to get out of here," insisted the man in a desperate voice. "We need to leave, right…" The man stopped suddenly as he looked to his right. Following his line of sight, Clementine saw a familiar old red truck with a camper attached to its bed barreling towards them. It skidded to a sudden stop and out came its occupants in a flash.

"Don't move!" ordered Patty as she raised her shotgun, prompting the man to raise his hands again.

"Well well, whatta we got here?" asked Anthony with a certain eagerness as he brandished his baseball bat.

"Patty, Anthony, stop!" ordered Sarah.

"Are you—"

"We're okay," assured Clem. "We were just helping…" Clem turned to the man as she realized she didn't even know his name.

"Sin."

"What?" asked Patty.

"My name is Sin," said the man a little louder, sounding annoyed at having to repeat himself.

"For real?" asked Anthony with a chuckle.

"Yes, for real," said Sin in a derisive tone. "If you people are willing to help me, then we should leave, right away."

"Why?" asked Patty.

"It's not safe here. If your vehicles work, we should head east until—"

"East?" asked Sarah.

"We've been heading west because there's nothing left east," said Clem.

"Only death awaits you if you go west," spoke Sin in an ominous tone.

"Why?" asked Patty.

"Just trust me, we—"

"Trust you?" repeated Anthony. "We just met you, and you're literally named Sin." A loud rumble suddenly erupted in the distance.

"Shit, the rain's coming," said Patty. "We—"

"That isn't thunder!" exclaimed Sin, appearing more anxious now than he did a moment ago.

"Then what is it?" asked Anthony.

A noticeably annoyed Sin spun around in place, looking for something, then gestured to a water tower just a short walk away from where his car had crashed. "There," he said. "Go up there, and you can see what it is."

"Is this a joke?" asked Anthony. "We go up there and you—"

"I'll go myself." Sin slammed the door to his car shut, then stood there oddly quiet for a moment before turning around. "If one of you stays here and watch my car, I'll go up that tower and show you why none of us want to go west."

"Protect your car? Are—"

"Shut up Anthony," ordered Patty as she approached Clem and Sarah. "What do you two think?"

"He sounded really scared when he came out of his car," informed Clem.

"And he crashed it because he was driving really fast," added Sarah. "Like he was trying to get away from something."

"And you two came down here to rescue him?" asked Patty.

"Yeah, pretty much," said Sarah.

"We really didn't want to leave someone to die," said Clem.

"All right, well if you guys already did the hard stuff, I guess the least I can do is go for a walk… or climb I guess with this guy, see what he's talking about." Patty turned away from the girls and approached Sin. "All right, I'll go with you, but we need to do this quick."

"I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary," assured Sin as he looked at his car again. "And you'll make sure nothing gets to my… car?"

"You're really worried about your damn car," noted Anthony. "You—"

"We'll make sure," promised Clementine.

"All right then." Sin looked at Patty. "Come, let's hurry." Patty threw her shotgun over her shoulder and started running towards the water tower while Clem moved in closer to the car.

"Well like hell if I'm staying here with my thumbs up my ass," groaned Anthony. "You two can watch a car, I want to see what's so damn important we have to take a trip up a fucking water tower just to see it."

Before Clem could say anything, Anthony took off running towards the water tower, which Sin and Patty were already climbing. The young girl briefly looked around, suspicious of more walkers, but she didn't find any. She looked over at the water tower again to find Anthony had just reached the ladder. Looking at Sin's car momentarily just caused the girl to look over at the water tower again and wish she was over there instead.

"You want to check it out too." Clem looked at Sarah, who had clearly already devised the girl's intents. "Just do me a favor and take my camera, that way I can see… whatever it is you see up there."

"Okay."

Sarah gave Clem the keys to the Brave. "And check on Omid real quick while you're at it."

"Sure thing." The girl hurried back into the RV as fast as she could. She unloaded and stored the rifle before sprinting into the bedroom.

"Kem-men," greeted Omid with a smile.

"Hey there OJ," said Clem as she moved to the dresser to collect Sarah's camera. "You doing okay? All that noise isn't bothering you is it?"

"Dah-bah-dee-dah," said Omid, sounding less enthusiastic now.

"You're such a brave boy, we just need you to stay put a little bit longer, okay?" Clem checked the counter on the back of the device that indicated how many pictures it had left. "I'll be right back."

"Kem-men!" pleaded Omid as she headed for the door.

"I know OJ, but…" Clem remembered the camera in her hands, then got an idea. She held it out as far as she could and pressed the button. A bright flash caused her to briefly see spots, then the camera ejected a photo. "Here, why don't you hang onto this?" said Clem as she offered the boy the picture. "That way I can be here with you while I'm out there too."

The toddler seemed reluctant to take the photo at first, but then the image of Clementine slowly begin to fade in and the picture immediately became fascinating for Omid's young mind. As the boy awed at the photo now in his hands, Clem quietly headed out of the room, then hurried back out the door. She locked the Brave, then rushed back to Sarah.

"Be careful," said Sarah as she took the keys back.

"You too." Clem hurried towards the water tower, equally curious and nervous about what there was to find. She looped the camera's strap around her neck, then started climbing as fast as she could. Her hands were still sore, but not so much they were slowing her down. This didn't appear to be particularly tall for a water tower, but then even a short water tower was pretty long climb. Half way up, Clem made the mistake of looking down, and felt her stomach drop as she briefly pictured herself falling the fifty feet back to the ground.

The girl forced herself to face forward and stare at the metal rungs in front of her. It took a few moments to muster the nerve to resume climbing, but Clem continued her ascent, moving more slowly as she gripped the ladder as tightly as she could. The wind picked up as she continued her climb, with a strong gust sending another shiver down her spine while also pushing with just enough force that it felt like it was trying to shove Clementine off the ladder.

The girl soldiered on, ignoring the cold, the wind, and the pain in her hands as she climbed even higher. She could hear the others talking now, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Realizing she must be nearing the top, Clem hurried and shortly afterwards found herself emerging onto a small walkway that ran around the water reservoir, along with a handrail that Clementine was grateful for. Following the sound of the other's voices, she found herself close enough to hear their conversation now.

"Jesus Christ…" awed Patty.

"Let me see dammit," said Anthony. "I didn't bring my binoculars."

"You see now why we need to leave?" asked Sin.

"Why?" Everyone looked at Clem in response to her question as she inched in behind the group, who had all gathered near the handrail just a few feet away from the ladder.

"If you're here does that mean there's only one of you left protecting my car?" asked Sin in an irritated voice.

"Hey man, I don't think you have to worry about anyone stealing it; it's a wreck after all," mocked Anthony.

"That's not…" Sin eyed Anthony with contempt.

"Clem, look at this," said Patty as she waved the girl to come closer to the rail. "Out there, where the sky is the darkest, you see that?"

"See what?" asked Clem as she removed her binoculars from her belt.

"The darkest clouds over there aren't clouds." Clem followed the blackest clouds she could find on the horizon. They did look unusually dark, even for rain clouds, and scanning them carefully, Clem noticed something unusual.

"You see it, don't you?" asked Patty. "It's not clouds, it's—"

"Smoke," Clem realized as she followed the dark trail connecting the clouds to somewhere out of sight past the horizon. "But… there's so much of it."

"Sin was telling us it's—"

"A refinery," he announced. "Up in flames."

"Refinery? But…" An earth-shattering rumbling filled the air and Clem watched in shock as a pillar of fire erupted on the horizon. It shot right out of the ground and arched upwards like a massive flaming limb clothed in black smoke reaching into the darkened sky.

"Okay, I saw that one, even without binoculars," said Anthony, sounding uncharacteristically unsettled. "Jesus Christ, I thought that didn't sound like thunder earlier."

"Holy shit…" spoke Patty in a quiet voice.

"It's just going to get worse," warned Sin in an anxious voice. "They won't be able to contain the fire, it'll just keep spreading until every distillery and tank is burning, sending literally tons of chemicals and heavy metals into to the atmosphere, which will eventually come back to the ground in the form of acid rain, and that's assuming the the weather isn't right for it to turn into a literal firestorm."

"What the hell do you mean by firestorm?" asked a frightened Patty.

"Wait, back up, who the hell is they?" asked Anthony.

"Why is it on fire?" asked Clem. "What happened?"

"Please, if we could just go somewhere—anywhere away from here, I'll tell you whatever you want," pleaded Sin. "But we must leave."

"Yeah I… I think that's a good idea," spoke Patty with a stutter. "Come on everybody." She and Sin headed for the ladder while Anthony took a step forward for a better look.

"God damn…" he said in awe as he watched the plumes of smoke on the horizon. "That is one hell of a fire." The young man watched the distant flames for a few moments longer, then headed for the ladder, leaving Clem alone now.

Not wanting to stay much longer herself, the girl grabbed the camera hanging around her neck and raised it to take a picture of the disaster unfolding in front of her. Stopping to place the photo and camera in her backpack, Clem couldn't help but take one last look at the horror in the distance. Staring directly into the smoldering flames rising over the horizon, the girl could swear she could feel the heat coming off of them.

After putting her backpack on, Clem hurried towards the ladder, eager to return to the ground. Going down was much easier than coming up, and before she knew it she had arrived back on the grass where everyone was waiting on her. Patty merely tilted her head in the direction of the road and everyone started walking.

"I can try getting your car started," offered Patty as they headed away from the water tower. "But if I can't fix the problem in a few minutes you're just gonna have to ditch it and ride with us."

"It'd be better just to forget the car and leave with you right now," insisted Sin. "We shouldn't stay out here any longer than we need to be."

"Well if you feel that way, then why the hell did you ask us to guard the damn car in the first place?" asked an annoyed Anthony.

"It's not the car itself that I was worried about," said Sin as they crossed back into the street.

"What then?" asked Clem. "Is there something inside?"

"Um… not something."

Patty's words prompted Clem to look away from Sin. Just ahead of them she could see Sarah sitting on the curb next to Sin's car, along with a dark-haired boy. He was about the same height as Sarah, was carrying a bag in his arms, and had a forlorn look on his thin face. Turning to the others, he immediately looked at Sin.

"I'm… I'm sorry," said the boy in a pitiful tone as he looked away. "I… I just really had to go to the bathroom."

"It's okay," Sarah told Sin. "I let him use ours."

Sin turned to the others, his face an odd mix of irritation and exhaustion. "This is my grandson, Jet."

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