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(After the Dust Settled) Shep Greenfield is a plague rider. When his parents disappeared after an attack on their home, he agreed to deliver medicine for the sinister Doctor St. John. But the pills he makes are the only hope people have, now that the doomsday plague, nightpox, has hit Wisconsin.
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leondumoulin.nl: Plague Riders (After the Dust Settled) (): Gabriel Goodman: Books

Watt return from injury, a complete overhaul in Indianapolis and an apparent juggernaut in Jacksonville. Remember, Vrabel has not yet been the head coach for a full week. So, with the events of the past month behind them, will things begin to settle down around the Tennessee Titans? No, nor should we anticipate things at St. Thomas Sports Park relaxing for quite some time. The year NFL veteran commanded the attention of the room from the moment he swaggered in until the minute he was done fielding questions.

His honesty and thoughtfulness was refreshing and abrupt in its nature; each question Vrabel was asked was digested and answered without immediately launching into coaching cliches and platitudes as we are accustomed. The attentiveness with which he responded put the media on notice that we had all better bring our best because Vrabel certainly intends to bring his.

Too often we see cowardice plague individuals at the highest levels of sport, whether it be in coaching or management. This fear of the unknown or refusal to change simply for the sake of changing infects the decisiveness of those who feel less secure in their position. Between Vrabel and Robinson, there is a note of unpredictability and confidence, earned or not, that one cannot help but notice; a genuine sense that whatever the future holds, it will be brash in nature and that this newly formed duo will attack it head on. Whether Robinson made the correct gamble in moving on from Mularkey and whether Vrabel pans out as his new hire are largely irrelevant for the moment.

What is hugely relevant, for the moment, is the Tennessee Titans organization, from top to bottom. And, while a good deal of the fan base treats any excitement around this team with warranted skepticism, the resolve Robinson shows in his decision-making and the zeal with which Vrabel appears to approach his new job promises that the Tennessee Titans will do anything but settle. Is it football season yet?!

TitanUp pic. You must be logged in to post a comment. Holy hell, does that feel like a lifetime ago. Think again, say the Titans. Comments Leave a Reply Cancel reply You must be logged in to post a comment. We played softball and kickball together, and acted and spoke through other children who were eager to deliver messages. I had copied a series of these secondhand love statements into my tiny leopard-print diary, which had a golden lock.

The key was hidden in the hollow knob of my bedstead.

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Also, I had written the name of my beloved, in blood from a scratched mosquito bite, along the inner wall of my closet. His name held for me the sacred resonance of those Old Testament words written in fire by an invisible hand. Mene , mene , tekel , upharsin. I could not say his name aloud. I locked the bathroom door, controlled the hot water with my toe, and, since I had nothing else to do, decided to advance my name-writing total by several thousand. As I wrote, I found places on myself that changed and warmed in response to the repetition of those letters, and without an idea in the world what I was doing I gave myself successive alphabetical orgasms so shocking in their intensity and delicacy that the mayonnaise must have melted off my head.

I then stopped writing on myself. Ash Wednesday passed, and I was reminded that I was made of dust only and would return to dust as soon as life was done with me. My body, inscribed everywhere with the holy name Merlin Koppin I can say it now , was only a temporary surface, soon to crumble like a leaf. As always, we entered the Lenten season aware that our hunger for sweets or salted pretzels or whatever we had given up was only a phantom craving. The hunger of the spirit alone was real. It was Palm Sunday before my father happened to come home from an errand and rest his hand on the hot surface of the television and then fix us with the foxlike suspicion that his students surely dreaded.

He got the truth out of us quickly. The girl who would become my great-grandmother had fallen behind the other women in the field, because she was too shy to knot up her skirts. Her name was Junesse, and she, too, was twelve years old. The trick, she found, was to walk very slowly so that the birds had time to move politely aside instead of starting upward.

Junesse wore a long white Communion dress made of layers of filmy muslin. She had insisted on wearing this dress, and the aunt who cared for her had given in but had promised to beat her if she returned with a rip or a stain. But now, finding herself alone with the felled candelabra-bearer, she perhaps forced their fate in the world by kneeling in a patch of bird slime to revive him, and then sealed it by using her sash to blot away the wash of blood from his forehead, where the bird had wounded him.

And there she was!

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Mooshum paused in his story. His hands opened and the hundreds of wrinkles in his face folded into a mask of unsurpassable happiness. Her black hair was tied with a white ribbon. Her white dress had a bodice embroidered with white flower petals and white leaves. The Devil came and went in them at will.


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Of course, Junesse Malaterre was innocent, but she was also sharp of mind. Her last name, which came down to us from some French voyageur , refers to the cleft furrows of godless rock, the barren valleys, striped outcrops, and mazelike configurations of rose, gray, tan, and purple stone that characterize the Badlands of North Dakota. To this place Mooshum and Junesse eventually made their way. There was always a moment of silence among the three of us as the scene played out.

Mooshum saw what he described. Or perhaps he saw that, after a whirl of experience and a minor car accident, he, too, would settle into the dull happiness of routine with his insurance-claims adjuster. As for me, I saw two beings—the boy shaken, frowning, the girl in white kneeling over him pressing the sash of her dress to the wound on his head, stanching the flow of blood.

Most important, I saw their dark, mutual gaze. The Holy Spirit hovered between them. Her sash reddened. His blood defied gravity and flowed up her arm. Then her mouth opened. Did they kiss? They ran away together, Mooshum said, before either had thought to ask what the other was called.


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And then they decided not to have names for a while—all that mattered was that they had escaped, slipped their knots, cut the harnesses that their relatives had tightened. Mooshum fled the sanctified future that his brother had picked out for him. The two children in white clothes melted into the wall of birds.

Their robes soon became as dark as the soil, and so they blended into the earth as they made their way along the edges of fields, through open country, to where the farmable land stopped and the ground split open and the beautifully abraded knobs and canyons of the Badlands began. Although it took them several years to physically consummate their feelings Mooshum hinted at this but never came right out and said it , they were in love.

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And they were survivors. They knew how to make a fire from scratch, and for the first few days they were able to live on the roasted meat of doves. They snared rabbits, and begged what they could from isolated homesteads. On the Monday that we braided our blessed palms in school, braces were put on my teeth.

Unlike now, when every other child undergoes some sort of orthodonture, braces were rare then.