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Most of these messages tend to originate from their former lovers who cannot sustain breakups. Besides, the victim might be a recipient of malicious activities of a stalker, who wants to get attention. Boys are the ones who are mostly involved in spreading such malicious messages while the victims comprise of both genders. Moreover, the cyber bullying incidences is common in all the races.

One of the social platforms that is common with cyber bullying is facebook with nearly one million teens undergoing the ordeal last year Bullying statistics. Unfortunately, most of the teens that undergo cyber bullying never report such incidents to their parents.

Some of the victims tend to ignore such vices while some may seek revenge. Moreover, the law enforcers are less likely to know of such cases because the teens never report. At the same time, most of the victims seem to suffer silently and never prefer reporting the events to the authorities.

During such scenarios, some of the students who witness the malicious activities tend to defend the victim and criticize the aggressor.

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On the other hand, others avoid such situations and ignore any malicious statements because they fear the aggressor might in turn attack them. Unfortunately, some of the students who witness such incidences tend to join and attack the victim by exposing more information that is personal Willard Therefore, apart from the main aggressor, more people often propagate the act instead of criticizing the vice.

Some of the perpetrators cite various reasons for their actions. Some undertake such vices just to make fun or to embarrass the victims. Apart from embarrassing the victims, some want to be mean or to revenge for a certain past action Cyber bullying Research Center. Most of them agree that it is easier to bully someone online than direct confrontation.

Most of them tend to hide their identity by using fake accounts. This gives the victim a hard time to identify the aggressor. By hiding their identity, they tend to get away with the crime easily. However, in certain cases the IP address of the perpetrator can be located. See other essay samples Cyber bullying has adverse effects on both the victim and the perpetrators because of the trauma and shame associated with the vice.

When the victims report such cases on the administration of the social platform, they will terminate the account involved in the vice.

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Moreover, the offenders and their parents might face charges for the cyber bullying crime. Besides, in extreme cases when the perpetrator had sent nude photos, then he or she might be included in the legal documents as a sex offender. In extreme cases, they even contemplate committing suicide, as they cannot withstand the shame of their nude and sexually suggestive images being exposed to the public Agatston, Kowalski et al Unfortunately, the US do not have any federal laws that fully considers cyber bullying as a criminal offence.

However, a number of non-profit organizations are lobbying for the parliament to enact such legislations. In other states, that do not have statues that criminalize the offense, they have other decrees that can be instrumental in such circumstances.

For instance, in some states electronic harassment and stalking laws are beneficial in charging the aggressors for their crimes. In other states, student harassment statutes give schools authority to expel students that are involved in such incidences. On the other hand, intimidation and harassment laws are also instrumental in convicting the perpetrators in some states.

In response to cyber bullying, a number of organizations have come up to stop the spread of the vice. One of them includes End to Cyber Bullying, a non-profit organization that has been instrumental in curbing the malicious activities.

Such organizations tend to sensitize the public of the common forms of cyber bullying. Moreover, they often lobby the parliament to enact legislations that curb the crime End to Cyber Bullying Organization. Another organization is the Stomp out Bullying that is on the forefront in campaigning against cyber bullying. They visit schools to carry out educative sessions that concern the vice.

In addition, they have created t-shirts and wristbands that sensitize the public on the dangers of cyber bullying Stomp out Bullying. Conclusion The vice seem to escalate because once someone is cyber bullied, he or she opt for revenge. Hence, the cycle continues, as the victim becomes the aggressor and the former perpetrator becomes the victim. Therefore, for the vice to end it is the obligation of schools to inform the students of the dangers associated with the cyber bullying.

On the other hand, the schools should teach the students on the dangers of seeking revenge by incorporating etiquette lessons in the curriculum. Instead, they should opt for other ways to solve conflicts. The school should establish policies that will curb the spread of the cyber bullying cases. Available at bullying. In response, they should follow up to ensure that each student comply with the strict legislations.

In cases, where the victim receives malicious messages in the cell phone, they should save such messages as evidence. When the messages persist, the best way to handle the issue is by changing the phone number. Dissertation editing price We have provided below various essay on Rabindranath Tagore in order to help students. Now-a-days, essays writing are common strategy followed by the teachers in the schools and colleges in order to enhance the skill and knowledge of students about any topic. All the Rabindranath Tagore essay are written using very simple words under various words limit according to the need and requirement of students.

Students can select any of the essays given below: of May in at Jorasanka, Kolkata. He took his education at home under private teachers for various subjects. He is still a famous poet as he wrote thousands of poems, short stories, songs, essays, dramas, etc. Both, he and his works are famous all around the world. Rabindranath Tagore was a great poet, patriot, philosopher, humanist, and painter. He was born in Jorasanka, Calcutta on 7 child of his parents however different from others.

He got his proper education and knowledge about various subjects at home by the private teachers. He was very young when started writing poems, some of them were published in the periodicals. He went to England for his higher education but was not satisfied by the traditional system of education there. This school later became a college and then a university Visva-Bharati. He was also awarded with Knighthood by the British Crown however he returned as a mark of protest against massacre in Jallianwalabagh.

Rabindranath Tagore was a great Indian poet and the youngest son of his parents. He was a leader of Brahmo Samaj in nineteenth-century, Bengal. He took his early education at home however higher education in England. He went to England at his seventeen for his formal schooling however could not complete. His interest and close touch with the common humanity draw his attention towards the country to do some social reforms.

Then he started a school at Santiniketan where he followed the Upanishadic ideals of education. He also involved himself in the Indian nationalist movement and followed his own non-sentimental and visionary ways.

His immense love towards the country was seen when he returned the honor given by British Government in as a protest against British policies in the country. He was a good writer and get success in writing in his native Bengal.

Besides poetries, he was also famous in writing dance dramas, musical dramas, essays, travel diaries, autobiographies, etc. Rabindranath Tagore was also known as Rabindranath Thakur and more popularly as Gurudev.

He was a great Indian poet who has given many famous writings to the country. Now, he is well known all over the world as a greatest Indian poets and writers of all ages. He developed the interest of writing poems in his early age. He was also a painter, a philosopher, a patriot, an educationist, a novelist, a singer, an essayist, a story writer, and a constructive worker.

His great writings in the form of novels and short stories indicate his wisdom, deep experience and understanding about human character. He was the first Indian and first Asian to get this award. He was the founder of Vishwabharati University at Santiniketan in His great writings still inspire and encourage people of the country.

His parents were Maharishi Debendranath father and Sharda Devi mother. He was very much interested in writing poem from his childhood. Together with being a great poet, he was also a humanist, patriot, painter, novelist, story-writer, educationist and philosopher. He was a cultural ambassador for the country who spread the knowledge of Indian culture all around the world.

He was a talented and genius child of his time who did great works. He was like a rising sun in the field of poem writing.

He had shown well the mental and moral spirit of the people through his writings in poem or stories forms. He was full of sorrow because of the massacre tragedy at Jalianwala Bagh in which many innocent people including women and children were killed on 13 of April in at Amritsar by the General Dyer and his soldiers. He was a great poet however a patriot too who always believed in oneness of life and its expression. Through his writings, he tried his best to bring people much closer to unite them in order to maintain the love, peace, and brotherhood.

He had described well about love and harmony through his poetry and stories. His whole life also provides the clear view of love and harmony to each other. He took his early education at home under private teachers and never attended school however went to England for higher studies. He started writing poems at his early age of eight. His poetry was published under the pseudonym Bhanushingho Sun Lion when he was just sixteen. He went to England in to study law however returned India before completing to pursue the career as a poet and writer.

He translated his work Geetanjali into English during the long sea journey to England. He was awarded with the Nobel Prize for literature within the year his Geetanjali was published. He has mentioned the mysticism and sentimental beauty of Indian culture in his writing for which a non-westerner was honored with prestigious award first time.

Together with being a renowned poet, he was also a genius, writer, novelist, visual artist, composer, playwright, and a philosopher. He knew well how to command over language while writing poem or stories. He was a good philosopher through which he influenced a huge range of Indian people during the freedom struggle.

His contribution towards the Indian literature is very vast and unforgettable. His creative writings, whether in the form of poem or stories, are unchallenged even today. Perhaps he was the first who bridge the gap between west and east through his effective writings.

Another composition of him was Puravi in which he mentioned Evening Songs and Morning Songs under many subjects like social, moral, cultural, religious, political, etc. Manasi was written by him in in which he collected some social and poetical poems.

Most of his writings were based on the life of people of Bengal. Another writing named Galpaguccha was a collection of stories based on the poverty, backwardness, and illiteracy of the Indian people. He was very religious and spiritual man which helped him a lot in the days of crisis. He was a great educationist thus he founded an abode of peace, a unique university named Santiniketan. Creative writing fiction exercises Baseball Almanac is pleased to present an interesting essay written by Michael Aubrecht who shares with us a look at our national pastime during a time when baseball might have been one of the only saving graces America knew.

We truly hope you enjoy this Pinstripe Press article. It received its baptism in the bloody days of our Nation's direst danger.

It had its early evolution when soldiers, North and South, were striving to forget their foes by cultivating, through this grand game, fraternal friendship with comrades in arms. It is a game which is peculiarly suited to the American temperament and disposition;. Therefore, it somehow seems fitting that the origins of modern baseball can be traced back to a divided America, when the country was in the midst of a great Civil War. Despite the political and social grievances that resulted in the separation of the North and South, both sides shared some common interests, such as playing baseball.

Although a primitive form of baseball was somewhat popular in larger communities on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line, it did not achieve widespread popularity until after the start of the war.

For instance, both officers and enlisted men played side by side and soldiers earned their places on the team because of their athletic talents, not their military rank or social standing. Both Union and Confederate officers endorsed baseball as a much-needed morale builder that also provided both mental and physical conditioning.

After long details at camp, it eased the boredom and created a team spirit among the men. Some soldiers actually took baseball equipment to war with them. When proper equipment was not available they often improvised with fence posts, barrel staves or tree branches for bats and yarn or rag-wrapped walnuts or lumps of cork for balls.

The benefits of playing while at war went far beyond fitness, as often the camaraderie displayed on the baseball diamond translated into a teamwork mentality on the battlefield. Many times, soldiers would write of these games in the letters sent home, as they were much more pleasant to recall than the hardship of battle. Nothing in his personal writings corroborates this story, which was originally put forward by an elderly Civil War veteran, Abner Graves, who served under him.

The report of musketry is heard but a very little distance from us. In , he was stationed at the garrison in Charleston harbor. Doubleday was an graduate of West Point graduating with A. It is said that it was Doubleday, then an artillery officer, who aimed the first Fort Sumter guns in response to the Confederate bombardment that initiated the war.

Doubleday commanded a division of the 1st Corps at Sharpsburg and Fredericksburg, as well as at Gettysburg, where he assumed command of the 1st Corps after the fall of General John E. He also drew up guidelines for punctuality, designated the use of an umpire, determined that three strikes constituted an out, and that there would be three outs per side each inning.

He was drawn by the Gold Rush and stories of adventures in the West. Along the way, he taught the game to Native Americans and mountain men he encountered, spreading interest in the fledgling sport west of the Mississippi.

To his credit, the general is said to have always demurred on assertions by others that he was the founder of the national game. Some historians believe that he helped to organize contests in camp, possibly prior to the Battle of Chancellorsville. At the time of the engagement in early May, some years ago, Doubleday was in command of the 3rd Division, 1st Corps.

According to sources at the Fredericksburg and Spotsylvania National Military Park, Doubleday was in the area from the summer of through the Battle of Fredericksburg in December, and the Battle of Chancellorsville in May of Perhaps a more realistic accolade would credit him with the promotion of the exercise as opposed to the invention of it. She was no better than a female Jack the Ripper.

Killing someone was crossing her mind far too often of late.

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Even if it was, they could only hang her once. But of course, since it was three against one, he would have to at least fine all of you a large sum. A hundred at best. His teeth reminded her of piano keys, almost every other one black. No fathers. No brothers. No husbands. After a few years, reasons why we never should have married seemed to pop up daily. More like a lottery. Each man only gets one chance, an equal chance for a wife. So long as he has the money in hand to pay your fine.

Someone terrible! Someone dishonest. Make sure you both agree on a few rules. A liar. A drunk. A confessed killer. The old man was right.

Why was she worried about such a stupid plan? No man in his right mind would step forward and be willing not only to pay the fine for her, but to marry her. She might as well practice choking. No man had stepped up to ask for her hand when it was free. No one would step forward now. Francis had known all her strengths. The way she was organized. The way she liked to cook and take care of little details.

No one spoke to him. No one would admit to knowing him in daylight, much less after dark. But money had a way of friendlying some folks up. Only they never said what it was, and he never asked.

Only a few handed over letters or notes they wanted presented to the future wife, should their name be drawn. When Carter finally reached the front, the sheriff looked at him and shook his head.

He never answered. He moved to the side, to wait with the other idiots who thought finding a wife would be as easy as paying a fine.

There was no doubt to whom the old man referred. Carter fought down a growl. A few hours ago the idea of getting married never crossed his mind. Maybe once in a while when a man dreams, but never in the light of day. Never in the real world where Carter forced himself to stay most of the time. Once in a while some man would go back East and return with a wife.

Willard would weigh it light, as he had for ten years, and price it low like always. Willard usually stood on the loading dock and talked while Carter worked. The old storekeeper liked to run through the happenings of the town, adding his own comments along the way. In truth, Carter had only been half listening when Willard told him about the three women who wandered into town claiming to be murderers.

Imagine that. Carter glanced up from the unloading, which was all the encouragement Willard needed. The third is old, maybe twenty-five. She makes him want to be better than he knows he is by nature. A woman would spend some of that credit you keep building in my store. Whenever Carter came to town, he always had his order written down.

Tell her anything you like. Tell her what you expect. What you want. He could imagine all three women pulling his name from the hat and putting it back at the first sight of him. Sheriff Riley appeared in his office doorway. He carefully sat two lanterns on barrels on his porch, straightened to official statue, and called a name out through the night.

The lottery had begun. A tall man dressed in black materialized from the steady downpour. He wore a long greatcoat and a hat pulled low against the weather. Without a word he walked into the office. The crowd was silent. He might not be so lucky a second time. But Carter hesitated. The stranger in black stepped out of the office.

His greatcoat was now wrapped around the thin frame of a woman whose hair looked almost white in the shadowy light. As they reached the edge of the porch and the curtain of rain, the tall man swept her into his arms and carried her to a waiting buggy. A moment before she disappeared into the folds of the two-seater, the young woman glanced back at the sheriff.

Everyone watched, ready to help her if she only asked. This had been a mistake. And if the women were frail and died on him, folks in this town would only talk more. But before he could reach the sheriff, Riley called another name. Carter hung back. One more and Carter could go home without having to say a word. His chances of not being chosen were good. There had to be at least forty names still in the hat. An old man, with a bowed back, limped through the crowd toward the porch.

Even in the rain, Carter could see that his hands were knotted and twisted. When several of the waiting commented, the man turned around to face the gathering. A few had fought in the War Between the States, others as Rangers along the border, and someone to come home to, even a wife a man had never met, might be a reason for staying alive.

The old man followed Riley into the office. Again the crowd waited in silence, as though on church pews at a wedding. They might not be able to see or hear anything, but they all knew what went on inside. A woman was agreeing to marry. A young girl finally appeared in the doorway. She smiled and nodded at the men as she lifted her left hand.

The Courtesan's Wager

Her new father-in-law joined her. He offered her his arm as he tried his best to straighten slightly. With a trembling hand, he held a lantern before him. The girl placed her hand on his arm, then turned back to the doorway. She was tall, very tall for a woman. Her black hair was tied behind her head in a knot, and her eyes were the green of full summer.

While the other men waved good luck to the girl, the woman in the doorway stared directly at Carter. He saw no fear in her eyes, and wondered if she saw none in his. If the angel and the girl worried him, this one sent panic dancing along his spine. He should have pulled his name. This one was old enough and smart enough to know what she wanted in a man.

Without opening it, she handed her choice to the Riley. Carter noticed the sheriff glance his direction a fraction of a second before he unfolded the slip of paper. Riley thumbed through the letters and handed Bailee a brown paper sack.

Carter knew.

His fingers moved silently, nervously at his side. As everyone waited, Bailee turned toward the light and read his note.

The men were silent. Bailee nodded once at the sheriff. Some shouted, a few swore. Most headed toward the saloons. The woman the sheriff called Miss Bailee searched the crowd for a moment, her eyes full of question.

She knew he was the one, he had to be.

By Jodi Thomas

He was the only man standing in the rain, not leaving. She just stared at him with those deep green eyes. He stepped onto the porch, all muddy, hairy, six feet of him, almost expecting her to scream and run inside. She bit her bottom lip before continuing.

I think I killed a man, but they are having trouble finding his body. Looking at her now, he decided she should have had a poem or something grand like Keats or Shelley would have written, not one line scratched on a paper sack. Her long slender fingers brushed across the calluses. He had the hands of a hardworking rancher. Hers were those of a lady. Thunder shook the building suddenly, as though a stampede were just beyond the door. But all he would have felt if a hundred buffalo flattened the building was her fingers resting in his hand.

He closed his fingers in a gentle grip as Riley quickly read the necessary words. The time for questions or proclamations had ended. The rain pounded on the roof so hard the sheriff had to shout, ordering them where to sign. Has she changed her mind? So you better be good to her. The woman was a confessed murderer. Yet the sheriff warned him. Carter nodded, unsure what that would be.

The lazy deputy groaned, but lifted the two small bags. When Deputy Wheeler was gone, she turned back to face Carter. Carter released her hand, feeling foolish for keeping it so long. He watched the sheriff, checked the rain at the window, glanced at his feet. Anything to avoid her watchful eyes. When he did look at her, his fears were grounded.

She stared right at him again. He knew without question that his new wife was a woman of order. Everything right and proper. Before he could think of what to do, the woman stood on her tiptoes and touched her lips to his. In fact, she probably thought he turned to stone. Carter just stood in the center of the tiny office and watched her. She seemed to have no hint of how she affected him with her slight touch.

After all, stranger things had happened—a woman had just kissed him. Old Willard, over at the general store, says sometimes he gets in two or three books a month that Carter orders.

Wonder what a man would do with so many books in such a short time? Bailee tried again. He can talk? Had been for days. The cabin was freezing inside and without food or supplies of any kind. He was half dead himself from cold and lack of food.

There was no time to ask questions. Carter McKoy waited for her in the rain, and he was taking her to the very ranch where his parents were killed. Without a word she stepped into the downpour and took his hand. He helped her onto the bare-board seat of his work wagon.

The rain washed the town to muddy brown, and the few lights were blurred into hazy dullness. Bailee huddled into her coat, feeling as if this place had somehow swallowed her, and she would be forever trapped in monotones, without color, without true form, without life.

They rode past the few businesses. Two saloons, a questionable hotel, and several little stores with fronts that looked as if they might tumble in a good wind. The tinny sound of piano music clanged in the air like a cheap wind chime. Laughter, hollow and forced, crackled through the night sharp as dry lightning. Glad she was leaving this town, Bailee tried not to think about where she was going.

Without turning her head, she glanced at the man beside her. He was tall, but his coat concealed his width.

His hair could have been brown, or black, but for certain it was long and wet. He held the reins in big solid hands that wore no gloves. To his credit, he drove better than most. Carter showed no sign of hearing her above the storm.

Bailee settled back, trying not to touch him as the wagon rocked. Did her destination matter? She was already soaked, and she had nowhere else to go. This was her fate. She thought of adding a few amendments to the request, but knew it was too late. In her mind she composed a letter to her father, knowing there was no need to ever write the words, for he would refuse to open any mail from her. But in her thoughts, she wrote: Killed another man, this one not so much by accident.

My sentence was for life, not in prison, but in marriage. Bailee closed her eyes and pushed thoughts of her father aside. He was her only relative, yet his last words to her were that she was dead to him. There was no looking back, she told herself. It was time to look forward. She glanced once more at the man who had just become her next of kin. Carter stared straight ahead. He must have gone mad for a day, like someone given opium.

Luckily, he suffered another blow during an argument with his not-so-willing bride, and recovered. The idea of marriage had sounded good to Carter this afternoon, and the fine he paid seemed a fair price.

He ventured a quick glance. To his surprise, she looked as frightened as he felt. When his leg brushed against hers, he could feel her shivering even through the wool of his trousers. He tried to tell himself that no one forced her to marry him. If marrying him was her best choice, what had been the alternative? He liked his aloneness. Among the few men in town he dealt with, he knew where he stood.

Fighting down a growl of frustration, Carter reached behind the bench and pulled out a tarpaulin he had used to cover the peaches that morning. He draped the stiff material over them both, cocooning them together.

He had opened his arm to cover them, and now he left it resting hesitantly across her shoulders. She shivered for a few minutes more, then stopped as the space they shared grew warmer. Carter wanted to pull away, telling himself he needed both hands to drive, but in truth the horses knew the way as well as he did.

With the storm clamoring and the horses splashing through the mud, he could hear little. The night was so black they might have been moving through a river of ink, but he could feel her breathe. And the feel of her against his side made all else minuscule. He felt as if he gripped a sparrow, all feathers and hollow bones. In truth, all they could see of the place came in flashes of light muted by the rain. He offered to help her down, but she seemed determined to manage on her own.

He grabbed both her bags with one hand and hurried to open the door for her. Except for a few thin rays of watery light drifting through the windows by the kitchen, the house was dark. To its solid credit, the large room held warmth from a long dead fire and a silence from the storm that Carter always found comforting. His father had built the house, and Carter had been grown before he realized the fine workmanship that had gone into its design and building.

He set her bags down just inside the door to the bedroom, the only other room in the house. Crossing through the blackness of the large living area to the fireplace, he kindled a blaze to life. When he finally turned around to face her, his new wife had disappeared. But then he saw the closed door leading to the bedroom and knew she was very much a reality.

If she ever came out. There was work that had to be done. Carter crossed the room in long strides and opened the front door. The cold wind was almost a relief. Carter stepped into the rain. From the shadows of the darkened bedroom, Bailee watched Carter step off the porch and head toward the wagon.

She felt her way to a table and found a candle and matches. The light formed a tight circle around her, allowing little view of the room, but lending enough comfort to steady her hand. She moved slowly, trying to see through the darkness to what would be her new home.

The bed was made in best company fashion with a hand-crocheted coverlet. She crossed the room in baby steps. Everything seemed in order. An ivory-colored washbasin and pitcher. An embroidered lace cover over the nightstand. Music boxes carefully positioned along a ladder of tiny shelves climbing either side of the mirror.

Every item in its place. The order and care surprised her. Too much in order, Bailee thought as she tested the pitcher. She opened the nearest music box. It was unwound. When she ran her hand across the bedcover, a thin layer of dust clung to her damp fingers. No one lived here.

Maybe not since the murders happened. Bailee could almost see a small boy curled between the bodies of his parents in the shadowy room. He must have been so frightened, so alone. She set the candle down and tugged off her wet clothes one layer at a time. For a moment she hesitated, thinking she should redress, but her other good dress was damp. Only her gown and robe, tucked away in the bottom of her bag, were dry. This was her home now and a woman could walk around her own house in a robe if no company were present.

He was her husband. He opened the door and stood watching her for a minute before he thought to close the door and step inside. He lifted the bolt and twisted a lock. Bailee watched him, also.

He pulled off his coat and hung it on a peg by the door. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick beneath the thin layer of his shirt. Nervously he toyed with an apple on the table before setting it aside on a small shelf by the door. There seemed nothing soft about him. Nothing of the little boy remained. Except, she thought, the silence. His simple politeness gave her great comfort. A man who waited for a woman to be seated was probably not the type to beat his wife.

Or at least she hoped not. Talk to him, she thought as she placed one slice on a plate and passed it to him. Just talk to him. There had been no jams or preserves, so she guessed he must like his bread plain. She opted for skipping that part and hoped he was smart enough to fill in the blanks. She finished pouring his coffee and looked up at him, proud of herself for setting the rules. Winter blue.

The color of a cold night sky. But at least he was willing to allow her some time. The first sound the husband heard from his wife was a scream of terror.

One month, she thought. One month to learn not to scream. Bailee laughed to herself. No man had ever attacked her, and she doubted one would start now.

She was more the type men asked to accompany their mothers to the church socials than the woman they tried to lure into the shadows for a stolen kiss. She glanced up at Carter. He must think her a complete fool for laughing. The one left. When she tried to pull it away, he held tight until she met his gaze. Slowly she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Bailee closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Finally, maybe for a while she could stop running. By marrying him, she had taken a first step toward something rather than away. At least this Carter McKoy would wait a month for her. Bailee opened her eyes and looked at the stranger before her. Her husband. He finished his coffee before banking the fire, then walked the perimeter of the large room, as he did every night, checking locks and bolts. He stopped at her door. Logic told him her windows were bolted, but before walking away, he fought a habit of almost twenty years to check.

The windows were locked, he reminded himself. He forced himself to step away.

He put his cup in the washtub. The action reminded him of a little girl playing with a tea set. He thought of telling her not to waste the bread.

She seemed on such a mission as she cut and served it to him. For all he knew, she might be performing some kind of wifely ritual. She was the first woman to cross the threshold since the doctor and Sheriff Riley carried his mother out years ago. Before he could think of something appropriate, she started setting rules down as to where they should sleep. A month, he thought. He could hardly expect her to join him in his room the first night.

Carter walked to a corner where the flooring changed slightly in color. He slid a rug aside and lifted a trapdoor that had been invisible a moment before. Extra supplies lined the rough shelves. Potatoes, squash, and other vegetables were stored in bins cushioned with sand. With a touch, he shifted a few planks on the cellar wall and turned into a narrow hallway, tapping the overhead door frame as he passed.

The planks rocked back in place erasing all light as he moved farther into the passage, tapping his way along well-known beams. The bolted doors and windows and the storm would keep him safe from intruders tonight. The passage widened into the first of his private rooms. His footsteps silenced as he stepped onto a rug.

Otherwise, where would all the children come from? Once the breeding was over, she could go back to the upstairs room if she liked. He had no idea how long bedding a woman would take. He figured he had the basics of the act down, but there were probably things he should say or do before he started.

A girl with painted lips, and breasts pushing out of her dress, grabbed his hand and tried to pull him upstairs. Her breath fouled the rose smell. Rubbing against his coat caused part of her dress to slip off her shoulder, and he saw the brown sweat-stained cotton of her undergarment. Ran away from the only family in town who offered him a good home.

Half price to the dim-witted. The smells of too many unwashed bodies and cheap whiskey closed in around him. Suddenly he moved. With all the force of a wounded bear, he plowed a wide row through the saloon and out the door, not stopping until he reached his wagon.

At least, it had been until tonight. Carter crossed the blackness of his study. He loved the silence of his underground rooms. The faint odor of earth enriched the air and the smell of books welcomed him. No room was ever clean enough to pass her inspection, so most nights he was pulled from bed to redo chores. On weekends they rented him out to the blacksmith to work from dawn to dusk for money he never saw. On school days Carter was allowed to sit in the back of the classroom and watch and learn and read.

There was no reason to stay. On the way he devised a plan to make his home forever safe. The preacher came by the next day, yelling for him to show himself. Carter hid. A week later the sheriff left a box of food on the porch. By then Carter had dug a hiding place no one could find. He knew his parents had a balance at the general store, so he began leaving notes for supplies at the crossroads.

Other ranchers would pick up the note nailed to a fence post and marked General Store. Sometimes the old man would bring them out himself, adding extra items to increase the order. Books were a slow mover at the store. They were often packed in with the food. Sheriff Riley would ride out now and then, but Carter was never around. Once in a while the sheriff would sit on the porch and talk about how Carter should come back. SlideShare Explore Search You. Submit Search.

The Texan's Wager

Successfully reported this slideshow. We use your LinkedIn profile and activity data to personalize ads and to show you more relevant ads. You can change your ad preferences anytime. Upcoming SlideShare. Like this presentation? Why not share! An annual anal Embed Size px. Start on. Show related SlideShares at end.Her father had turned his back, and she knew, no matter what, she could never return home.

Throughout Indian history there has been a strong sex typing of roles concerning work done by male or female children. Francis had known all her strengths. He must think her a complete fool for laughing. Many of these contests were attended by thousands of spectators and often made front-page news equal to the war reports from the field.

He took his education at home under private teachers for various subjects. I swear, as long as I live, my house will be yours. He translated his work Geetanjali into English during the long sea journey to England.