Benefits Of Tibicos Mushroom

still believe

The wasp took a few laps to anything flying at the pleasure red oilcloth. Ernestine
frowned without looking up, and made a small gesture irritated with his left hand while his right hand pushed his glasses a little higher on his nose thin and long. Ignoring this warning, the wasp already operates a scholarly approach of sugar. Ernestine, still without a glance towards bold, seized the small cover oblong, while the insect already drunk with the smell of sugar, rested on the white parallelepipeds, she buried a sharp movement and precise . We now hear
small humming furiously, finally looked Ernestine sugar, looking upset. Should we leave asphyxiation take its course? Ernestine did not feel able to fully assume its place in the hierarchy of species. She took the sugar bowl in his hands, and while holding the lid closed carefully, walked to the kitchen door, which was still open for those hot days of June. At the time of releasing the animal, she had a hesitation wasp, infuriated by the anguish of captivity, was likely to turn against it and prick it with rage.
When she finally decided to loosen the sugar bowl, with a thousand precautions, she realized that the roar had ceased, the wasp was dead. The little striped body, curled up, looked like a tiny trash. With a sigh, Ernestine retraced his steps and threw the entire contents of sugar in the trash. She rinsed the pan, placed it on the rack, and returned to his crossword.
In powder, ten letters.

It seems that the whole animal world today had scores to settle with her. While attempting to gather his thoughts, the howling sounds of Mina in the yard. Ernestine gave a deep sigh, and resigned, went back to the door, she opened wide. Chartreuse pussy on the stone wall, surrounded by a swarm of admirers hairy, jerking in postures unambiguous; she accompanied her erotic dance in a series of screams, growls and hoarse mewing, certainly delightful to the ears feline but absoluent unbearable for the rest of the neighborhood.
New dilemma; disperse large brush strokes of the pack, and confine Mina? She could not resign himself to surgery, however benign, which would rid the cat of its invasive heat. So far, she had always been to place the many offshoots of Mina, among the children and grandchildren of her friends and neighbors, but every year the sarabande resumed, and lasted until sometimes an entire week. Mina was not one of those cats that will satisfy their discrete Vice away, hiding their shame for the woods and vacant lots; Ernestine, watching, thinking of these couples and teenagers seeking asylum from sexuality emerging within the home. Was it, towards Mina, also guilty of an unfortunate lax parenting? Ernestine smiled, noting that the tour had its absurd reflection. She approached the wall, bolted Mina, the pack at his heels.
Spinning on the road, the throng meowing forced Simone, who arrived on his bicycle to swerve. She put one foot on the sidewalk and began to bend down to pick oranges which had rolled down, rushed out of the cage she had affixed to the luggage rack. Ernestine
rushed to his aid.
"Do not worry, okay, it's not the first time cats that I knit in the legs! This dirt
Mina is still in heat.
Well, it's natural, right? You do not do operate!
I know, Simone, I know ...
I had you brought oranges Angel brought me twelve kilograms yesterday, I do not know what to do!
Thank you, you are very nice, you take the coffee at least?
course, if I do not mind ...
As if the visits could disturb me! "

The two women moved into the kitchen, a little piece of fresh home of Ernestine. The light of early summer, golden, silky, penetrated by the half-open door. Ernestine began to heat water, and put sugar in the sugar bowl, which was now dry. As she was leaving the coffee pot in the fridge, Simone asked him
"So, always in your crossword?
What do you want my dear, we must take care! And then it moves me a little brain, it requires me ... Coffee, how you want it?
Not too loud, say it is already late! After I'm not going to sleep, and Angel will still say that I move like a bullet.
It's true, he has never had a problem falling asleep! Even in math class!
Especially in math class ! "

In a past that seemed so far away already, Angel and Simone were two schoolchildren and Ernestine, a teacher from the village, responsible for a single class that had seen a parade on its benches all families in the area. Before Angel and Simone, there were parents: Francis and Matilda, Toussaint and Joseph. Ernestine felt she had trained two generations of residents. She had seen the installation of new families, the departure of the former, she noted the gradual replacement of cotton shirts and dresses with ruffles by uniformed schoolchildren worldwide to any country: the inevitable T-shirt and pants of jeans Fashion was more or less blue, more or less worn, more or less wide ... She had accepted with equanimity the changes of clothing, which were not accompanied in his eyes a real transformation of those who claimed. Students were still students, rowdy, talkative, undisciplined dreamers, null spelling, unbearable and endearing. She had seen the following reforms: reform methods, curriculum reform, reform of the vocabulary - it was a bit surprised to learn, some years before her retirement, she was no longer a teacher but "professor schools. Why not after all ... Ernestine did not attach much importance to such details.

After his retirement, Ernestine had returned to his home town, thirty miles from the village where she had worked. It was not uncommon for former students, who had kept with her friendships, come visit him. Like Simone today, the villagers never came empty-handed as it is true that small gifts neighborhood, garden vegetables, jams and pastries household, fragrant herbs gathered yesterday in the bush nearby, play a leading role sociability in the province. Ernestine was not left out, always at the bottom of a kitchen cupboard a box of chocolates and biscuits to accompany the fresh coffee served to its visitors. If the evening approached, a small liquor was proposed, it was customary to refuse the first time, then drink it slowly, dipping a biscuit like a sponge that absorbed the powerful liquid.

Simone had filed his straw hat on a chair, and now turned his coffee with a gesture applied. The small white porcelain cup, which was exquisitely graceful shape obsolete, would make a curious posed no satellite dish on the oilcloth with red squares.
"And your family? Everyone OK?
Pascal works well, you know! You'd be surprised to see her books!
Knowing his mother, I am not surprised at all ... You were the first anywhere, if I remember correctly.
Oh, me ... I learned everything by heart, I was a needy. Pascal is very intelligent, he reads everything that comes to hand. And it raises many questions.
Angel was also very clever. If he had wanted to work, he did what he wanted.
He was especially smart to invent dirty tricks! How can you do not blame him, all he showed you?
My God, in forty years I have seen more! And I must admit it had some humor ... You were especially
the patience of a sheep! "

Ernestine laughed, and closed his eyes a moment. She opened them again, straightening his glasses that had slipped back on his nose and asked:
"And Jerome?
Jerome's fine, I left it to Mom for the day.
It must be thrilled!
Do you think it makes the goat! He would walk on his hands. To return to Pascal ... "

Simone stopped and remained open mouth, looking a bit stupid. It seemed she did not know about. Ernestine was not surprised; Simone child had the habit of interrupting when embarking on a complex argument, either before reciting a lesson, like a runner who interrupts his momentum to better measure the barrier and assess his chances.

"Yes, there is still something I want to ask you with Pascal.
Go ahead, I'm listening. If I can advise you, I will.
I know you will, Ernestine. I confess that I do not know where to start ... Here, his mistress of this year I said it several times was really, really, really talented ...
And she suggests you make him skip a class, right?
If it was only that! To tell you everything, she told me that Pascal was gifted, and he had to change schools.
Really?
Yes. There is an institute in Marseilles, a sort of school for the gifted. They did play the piano, painting, and they follow a curriculum tailored to their level.
I see ... They park them, like little monsters, we must not mix with normal children ...
It's not really how she presented it to me!
Yes but that's how Pascal risk of life. "

Simone paused and mentally weighed the award of Ernestine. She lifted her chin and smiled.
"Your response does not surprise me. I had somewhat the same. But Angel is not our opinion.
Very well! But what does he think so, your dear husband?
Ange ... You know, when he began to think, we do not really know where this is going.
is the least we can say!
He put himself in the head that Pascal would become like him, if he was not in this school. A dunce.
I see ... "The memories

cascade effect before the eyes Ernestine. A small boy smiling, charming, absolutely unbearable and wildly endearing. Small rodents hidden in pockets and removed at the appropriate time under the noses of terrified girls, fighting, and their cortege of black eye and bloody nose, the pews covered with crushed mine who smeared a black indelible pants. The tears and cries too, who got on the other end of town when they had to sign the school reports ... And much later, some a little more serious mischief, failure at school, dropping out, the recovery stress of the family farm after CAP past without enthusiasm.
Angel, gifted child? Rolled by an institution unable to keep pace? Maybe.

"But Pascal, it seems, not all the same behavioral problems as his father. He stands well, he takes pleasure in working ... Angel
think it can not last. He may be right.
If you agree with your husband, why do you come to me for advice?
I want your opinion before making a decision, because ...
Yes?
Actually, there's a money problem. "

Ernestine took off his glasses and wiped the corner of her cotton blouse - a gesture that reflected a home discomfort. Behind the humanist, revolutionary and ambitious social project ...

"Let me guess ... The institute is private.
Yes. And registration fees are not cheap.
No trading system?
No, we're informed.
And how is it that the teacher Pascal was able to advise you that? It
we had not really recommended, it is Angel who asked himself after the interview with this lady. She, rather wanted to send him to Paris, in a similar box, but public.
In Paris? A boy of eight years?
Yes, Marseille, it would be better, you understand.
Simone, since you came to ask me my opinion, I'll give it. You're asking for serious trouble if you get into this crazy project. Because he is delusional, both morally and financially. Pascal must remain in a normal environment with children his age and his environment. If you send it there, Angel and you kill and you will probably lose.
So, we advise against you? I do not recommend
, I forbid! And that's the old lady who speaks! "Simone

sipped a sip of coffee, looking bored.

"You never could make you obey Angel.
But you, though.
This time, it will not, Ernestine. He wants to sell the vineyard.
What nonsense! "

silence settled a little heavy between the two women, broken by the cooing of a dove haunting placed on the roof. Simone emptied his cup, saucer and rested on the rose.

"Ernestine, thank you for the coffee and everything else. Even though I know it will not lead to much, I'll talk to Angel tonight.
Feel free ironing, come when you want. The door is open.
I know. See you soon. "The silhouette

a little round Simone disappeared behind the block, on his rickety bicycle, hat asked the devil on the top of the skull. Ernestine, standing in the doorway, wiping his glasses.
She was wrong when she imagined that parents and children remained the same, identical in the kaleidoscopes of fashion. The time was well over, when the kids away from any categorization grew at their own pace. Oh, it was not of those who lament the memory of an idealized past, often pure fantasy maintained by a nauseating nostalgia. No child could boast of having taken place in a golden age and if toddlers were freer fifty years ago, mostly because the absence of any prospect of escape from their parents forbade them to project their desires on social emancipation. The talented little workman does not escape to the factory the day of his fourteen years, the small peasant learned from books to better reflect the sale of eggs, and the son of a pharmacist, stupid crying, left victorious College sticking out his chest under his velvet jacket.
But the undeniable progress that was access to education for all, was it that a whole generation of parents avid sacrifice him and their young ? And alertness, the smoothness, the speed of a child become "skills" to grow in value, release capital for the word? What ever replace the special school football games, the boys of the neighborhood, swimming after school and all those pleasures that have always been the spice of the childhood?

She sat down, picked up his newspaper, and let his eyes wander in the empty moments. Then, a specific act, she scored in the boxes of the game, a dry writing, the word Escampette.

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Bitter Mother's Day

Each year, the last Sunday of May, all school France to recite compliments praising the sweet tenderness, kindness, caring eternal "moms." They then offer some nice gifts makeshift classroom under the watchful eye of the teacher, according to the image of Epinal in force in our country.
The good mother, the very one described by the so-called praise, must accept these gifts with delight. Are they not offered by small loved ones, the sweet treasures that she loves so much? Since its inception, the festival celebrates mothers and motherhood much less triumphant than the all-powerful dictatorship of the child on his mother. Dictatorship gladly granted by the latter, you might say, but this tyranny, which is expressed by the apprehension of the child as the sole focus, and only worry ultimate prize of a lifetime, it is weakened for be accepted?
Mother's Day is a ritual for this reason impossible to refuse. Deviate returns to opt for a simple contemporary imagery that values caring mother and willing, happy in his disposition - which ranks all those who would propose an alternative representation of motherhood in the ranks of "Bad mothers". That only a few minutes pondering: what mother, if not an unnatural mother, her child may explain that the poem transforms the presiding genius in the home, and that the iron provided by the family meeting, away from the bridge, humiliate and maintain in a narrow domestic world and overwhelming? How do you explain to young toddlers conditioned by advertising, regimented by the institutions that masquerade under the annual hides - badly - the specter of recurrent natalist propaganda, who dreams of repopulating France knock on his belly, which glorifies the housewife and stigmatizes those who work? Being a mother is not necessarily the best role of a lifetime, and certainly not the only one? "You're going to hurt him," it makes it so fun "and these phrases are small, every year, often uttered that famous Sunday, stifle any hint of rebellion against the party who did is not for everyone.
But children are here as mere tools, manipulators because manipulated. This is of course for adults who perpetuate this scam that this speech should go. Unfortunately, all turn a deaf ear. It may well protest, the "mom" smothered in flowers, there is nobody to listen. But have you ever sought advice from mothers to "do their party?

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Paul Carbone fell from the train. His body rolls down the embankment, the skirts of his jacket floating give the appearance of a strange beetle gray. A tense arm on his stomach, just above the liver, the red hand of his own blood, and on hand, a black hole with regular borders, where death comes to surprise in the dampness of a night train Paris-Nice. Now his corpse defiled ground and scratched by brambles lies a few meters from the railway, in a pitiful and miserable little pile. * * *



She opens her eyes, and removes a specific act that the speaker crackles at the bottom of his right ear. A low whistle discomfort listening to the song, and parasite flow of images, one after another, just rhythm to his pleasant drowsiness. She turns off the equipment on his knee, leans over, opens his briefcase and pulls out a packet of copies of students, some of which are already daubed with red. She goes to work.

The train enters the station, mechanically modulated voice resonates in the car to announce the arrest. She gets up, puts on his coat, grabs her bag and down the train.

The cold slap, it brings the edges of his collar, not the press. The coffee there, the hot lights, the hiss of the percolator. A hazelnut croissant, the bus arrives in twenty minutes. On the counter, the tiny girl of the boss, sitting, chewing a sandwich with a contemplative air. She has a flower name, Capucine. Mine crumpled, smell delicious sleepy little girl, still steeped in dreams.

The bus slows down, stops at the gate of the school. It snowed yesterday, a cold moisture soaks the ground, his boots sinking. She climbed breathing hard the path to the building it will occupy today. It has six hours of classes to give Monday is a big day. She returns to her mentally schedule, number of rooms, students' names, the texts it should be photocopied. Will she have enough money to borrow some coffee? She knows that she drinks a little too much, it is certainly not very good. It recognizes a student who is waiting, standing in front of the building's entrance, perhaps the arrival of a friend. She smiled, hoping she does not greet, she did not want to talk.

The warmth of the staff room fell on her shoulders, the piece that sizzles the hum of conversations scheduled for the copier can not interrupt. She approaches the large rectangular machine, made his choice, the mechanism snaps into a small metallic noise and can get a few moments later the cup filled with hot liquid, to taste unpleasant, but still comforting . It tries to avoid his colleagues, wants to preserve this last bubble of silence before the big show - because just now, immediately, it will keep them, attract them to her, seduce them, again and again ...

The first bell rings in the hallway. She hurries to the end of drinking his coffee, throw the cup into the trash, adjusts his bag on his shoulder and headed for the stairs. Waterspouts of students rushed to the classroom, she has the impression of being grazed by a cyclone disheveled and screaming. She retains her sternly, trying to preserve his dignity - to an arrival faculty, not to show the anguish that still captures the giddiness that hugs his heart at the door, then they are massed there, smiling, cheeky, kind, if disturbing ... The second ring barely covers the hubbub, we're at it, the game can resume.

What Does Yeduc Contain?

Preamble The decision time

The spooler runs the Web
blasts if tenuous, and bites
hearts, O impatience
What choice? Dying safe
In the quiet days oppressive equal
Or live
Calling the infinite seas trembling vibrato,
When the spooler its tangled foliage
And that wire is no longer
What nodes where the heart surrenders .