beyondstories Steem Profile

@beyondstories

steemit.com/@beyondstories

VOTING POWER100.00%

DOWNVOTE POWER100.00%

RESOURCE CREDITS100.00%

REPUTATION PROGRESS0.00%

Net Worth

0.000USD

STEEM

0.000STEEM

SBD

0.000SBD

Effective Power

1.200SP

├── Own SP

0.000SP

└── Incoming DelegationsDeleg

+1.200SP

Detailed Balance

STEEM
balance	0.000STEEM	STEEM
market_balance	0.000STEEM	STEEM
savings_balance	0.000STEEM	STEEM
reward_steem_balance	0.000STEEM	STEEM
STEEM POWER
Own SP	0.000SP	SP
Delegated Out	0.000SP	SP
Delegation In	1.200SP	SP
Effective Power	1.200SP	SP
Reward SP (pending)	0.000SP	SP
SBD
sbd_balance	0.000SBD	SBD
sbd_conversions	0.000SBD	SBD
sbd_market_balance	0.000SBD	SBD
savings_sbd_balance	0.000SBD	SBD
reward_sbd_balance	0.000SBD	SBD

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  "balance": "0.000 STEEM",
  "savings_balance": "0.000 STEEM",
  "reward_steem_balance": "0.000 STEEM",
  "vesting_shares": "0.000000 VESTS",
  "delegated_vesting_shares": "0.000000 VESTS",
  "received_vesting_shares": "1953.311140 VESTS",
  "sbd_balance": "0.000 SBD",
  "savings_sbd_balance": "0.000 SBD",
  "reward_sbd_balance": "0.000 SBD",
  "conversions": []
}

Account Info

name	beyondstories
id	1328274
rank	1,500,060
reputation	27354636
created	2019-10-14T17:53:54
recovery_account	steem
proxy	None
post_count	3
comment_count	0
lifetime_vote_count	0
witnesses_voted_for	0
last_post	2019-10-22T07:13:30
last_root_post	2019-10-22T07:13:30
last_vote_time	1970-01-01T00:00:00
proxied_vsf_votes	0, 0, 0, 0
can_vote	1
voting_power	0
delayed_votes	0
balance	0.000 STEEM
savings_balance	0.000 STEEM
sbd_balance	0.000 SBD
savings_sbd_balance	0.000 SBD
vesting_shares	0.000000 VESTS
delegated_vesting_shares	0.000000 VESTS
received_vesting_shares	1953.311140 VESTS
reward_vesting_balance	0.000000 VESTS
vesting_balance	0.000 STEEM
vesting_withdraw_rate	0.000000 VESTS
next_vesting_withdrawal	1969-12-31T23:59:59
withdrawn	0
to_withdraw	0
withdraw_routes	0
savings_withdraw_requests	0
last_account_recovery	1970-01-01T00:00:00
reset_account	null
last_owner_update	1970-01-01T00:00:00
last_account_update	2019-10-21T18:06:24
mined	No
sbd_seconds	0
sbd_last_interest_payment	1970-01-01T00:00:00
savings_sbd_last_interest_payment	1970-01-01T00:00:00

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  "created": "2019-10-14T17:53:54",
  "mined": false,
  "recovery_account": "steem",
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  "comment_count": 0,
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  "balance": "0.000 STEEM",
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  "sbd_balance": "0.000 SBD",
  "sbd_seconds": "0",
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  "savings_sbd_last_interest_payment": "1970-01-01T00:00:00",
  "savings_withdraw_requests": 0,
  "reward_sbd_balance": "0.000 SBD",
  "reward_steem_balance": "0.000 STEEM",
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  "vesting_shares": "0.000000 VESTS",
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  "rank": 1500060
}

Withdraw Routes

Incoming	Outgoing
Empty	Empty

{
  "incoming": [],
  "outgoing": []
}

From Date

To Date

steemdelegated 1.200 SP to @beyondstories

2020/05/08 07:00:36 UTC

43,190,400|392cc95

delegator	steem
delegatee	beyondstories
vesting shares	1953.311140 VESTS
Transaction Info	Block #43190400/Trx 392cc95dee7fcb62c9d14c8238a56343714ae6b2

View Raw JSON Data

{
  "trx_id": "392cc95dee7fcb62c9d14c8238a56343714ae6b2",
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  "timestamp": "2020-05-08T07:00:36",
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    }
  ]
}

steemdelegated 6.033 SP to @beyondstories

2020/01/21 07:38:33 UTC

40,116,372|f1dee66

delegator	steem
delegatee	beyondstories
vesting shares	9824.733241 VESTS
Transaction Info	Block #40116372/Trx f1dee66f993dadd5ab3b9a6b7bf119364a561f57

View Raw JSON Data

{
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}

samibalochreplied to @beyondstories / pzt882

2019/10/23 04:24:09 UTC

37,525,384|b2902ae

parent author	beyondstories
parent permlink	brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit
author	samibaloch
permlink	pzt882
title
body	I read it. It's cool really great and motivational post . Keep it up
json metadata	{"app":"steemit/0.1"}
Transaction Info	Block #37525384/Trx b2902ae1aef17a5f2646ee106317f88b7dbb31ab

View Raw JSON Data

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      "title": "",
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samibalochupvoted (100.00%) @beyondstories / brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit

2019/10/23 04:20:54 UTC

37,525,319|1fc6825

voter	samibaloch
author	beyondstories
permlink	brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit
weight	10000 (100.00%)
Transaction Info	Block #37525319/Trx 1fc6825ae1e2fb8e2941cbfd1b5553c7010b7f76

View Raw JSON Data

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beyondstoriespublished a new post: brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit

2019/10/22 08:43:54 UTC

37,501,825|d504527

parent author
parent permlink	truth
author	beyondstories
permlink	brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit
title	You Can Create Your Own Future
body	<html> <p><br></p> <p><br></p> <p><strong>Peter Drucker wrote,</strong> “The very best way to predict the future is to create it.” Everyone wants to be happy, healthy, popular, prosperous and successful in whatever they do. But the only way for you to achieve and enjoy all that is possible for you is to <em>create your own future.</em> And the good news is that there have never been more opportunities, in more different areas, for you to fulfill your dreams and goals than there are today. Your chief aim in life should be to take full advantage of everything that your world has to offer.             </p> <p>There are basically two types of people in our world, the <em>active</em> and the <em>passive</em>. Only about 10% are proactive, and they are very much in the minority. They are however the movers and shakers in every area. They are the people who take their lives into their own hands, and <em>make</em> things happen. They accept complete responsibility for themselves and for results. They dare to go forward in the face of risk and uncertainty. When you decide to create your own future, you join this vital minority. You begin to push to the front of the line in your own life</p> <p> The majority of people tend to be passive in their responses and reactions to life. They constantly wish and hope that something good will happen to them. They buy lottery tickets, watch television endlessly and complain about their situations. They resent successful people but are not willing to make the efforts that others have made to achieve what they have achieved. They live their lives like a person waiting for a bus on a street where no busses go. </p> <p><img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQdWh8gX--pvfkQCm-HfaD39XkNKebHfo1MPQG4YcUJ33686lyD" width="487" height="629"/></p> <p><strong>Success Is Predictable</strong></p> <p><strong> </strong><em>“It is our duty as men and women to proceed as though the limits to our abilities do not exist.”</em> </p> <p>more than anything </p> <p>Go to one of the top people in your field and ask him or </p> <p>Take  events that have happened in your life </p> <ol> <li>then trace back to the various actions you took that contributed to </li> </ol> <p>Take one specific action immediately that can increase </p> <p><img src="https://www.google.com/search?client=ms-android-samsung&biw=360&bih=560&tbm=isch&sxsrf=ACYBGNSsMu-SeXF29Xk29-Fe6ZeBtpxxIQ%3A1571732631282&sa=1&q=create+your+own.future++qoutes&oq=create+your+own.future++qoutes&aqs=mobile-gws-lite..0l3#imgrc=Lk4CQnTbbi03-M&imgdii=3Cmv9LZTogNmjM"/>Action Exercises – what to do now:</p> <ol> <li>Develop your own personal definition of happiness. What sort of activities or conditions do you enjoy more than anything else?</li> <li>Go to one of the top people in your field and ask him or her</li> </ol> <p>for advice that will help you to be more successful.</p> <p><strong>Most People Are Lazy</strong></p> <p>Unfortunately, most people are lazy.  They do just as much as they have to do to avoid getting fired. They sometimes act as if they are entitled to a job, whether they do it well or not. Sustained affluence since World War II has created two or three generations of employees who have grown up with the idea that they can do a half job and get a full salary.</p> <p>Because of the dumbing down of our educational system, with diminished course work combined with social promotion, many people were able to coast from the first grade to the twelfth grade, and even through university, without working particularly hard to get a diploma or a degree.  When they enter the world of work, they simply continue doing what they have been doing for years.</p> <p><img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcT2v0WVLotdTOT1cpQBCUojWaogUbqoNypxc0as00Mj_7BiJz_7" width="764" height="401"/></p> <p><br></p> <p><strong>Create Your Own Reputation </strong></p> <p>Here’s a question for you.  Do you have a reputation for being one of the hardest and most efficient workers in your company?  Do people look up to you and respect you as one of the top people in your business?  Are you continually being given more and bigger assignments, more important responsibilities, and more opportunities for promotion than anyone else?  If the answer is “no,” isn’t it time for you to make a decision to “get serious” about your future?  Remember, this life is not a rehearsal for something else. The Law of Applied Effort  The Law of Applied Effort is a key luck factor.  It says, “Any goal, task or activity is amenable to the sustained effort of hard work.” </p> <p> There is very little that you cannot accomplish in life if you are willing to work at it long enough and hard enough, and to persist in the face of all obstacles and difficulties until you win through.  Hard, hard work is and has always been the key to great success.</p> <p><img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcRLVPakeNQa5DWdGFoEtO7GF-u_rL2mnXWsMLQW3HCI1qoIL9zw" width="225" height="225"/></p> <p><strong>"DON'T BE TIMID SQUEAMISH ABOUT YOUR ACTIONS.ALL LIFE IS AN EXPERIMENT"</strong></p> <p><strong>Plz Upvote and Support Because I Am Begginer.</strong></p> <p><br></p> </html>
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Transaction Info	Block #37501825/Trx d504527c706397c000ff88132651e0a435e3d488

View Raw JSON Data

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      "parent_permlink": "truth",
      "author": "beyondstories",
      "permlink": "brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit",
      "title": "You Can Create Your Own Future",
      "body": "<html>\n<p><br></p>\n<p><br></p>\n<p><strong>Peter Drucker wrote,</strong> “The very best way to predict the future is to create it.” Everyone wants to be happy, healthy, popular, prosperous and successful in whatever they do. But the only way for you to achieve and enjoy all that is possible for you is to <em>create your own future.</em> And the good news is that there have never been more opportunities, in more different areas, for you to fulfill your dreams and goals than there are today. Your chief aim in life should be to take full advantage of everything that your world has to offer.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</p>\n<p>There are basically two types of people in our world, the <em>active</em> and the <em>passive</em>. Only about 10% are proactive, and they are very much in the minority. They are however the movers and shakers in every area. They are the people who take their lives into their own hands, and <em>make</em> things happen. They accept complete responsibility for themselves and for results. They dare to go forward in the face of risk and uncertainty. When you decide to create your own future, you join this vital minority. You begin to push to the front of the line in your own life</p>\n<p>&nbsp;The majority of people tend to be passive in their responses and reactions to life. They constantly wish and hope that something good will happen to them. They buy lottery tickets, watch television endlessly and complain about their situations. They resent successful people but are not willing to make the efforts that others have made to achieve what they have achieved. They live their lives like a person waiting for a bus on a street where no busses go.&nbsp;</p>\n<p><img src=\"https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcQdWh8gX--pvfkQCm-HfaD39XkNKebHfo1MPQG4YcUJ33686lyD\" width=\"487\" height=\"629\"/></p>\n<p><strong>Success Is Predictable</strong></p>\n<p><strong>&nbsp;</strong><em>“It is our duty as men and women to proceed as though the limits to our abilities do not exist.”</em>&nbsp;</p>\n<p>more than anything&nbsp;</p>\n<p>Go to one of the top people in your field and ask him or&nbsp;</p>\n<p>Take &nbsp;events that have happened in your life&nbsp;</p>\n<ol>\n  <li>then trace back to the various actions you took that contributed to&nbsp;</li>\n</ol>\n<p>Take one specific action immediately that can increase&nbsp;</p>\n<p><img src=\"https://www.google.com/search?client=ms-android-samsung&amp;biw=360&amp;bih=560&amp;tbm=isch&amp;sxsrf=ACYBGNSsMu-SeXF29Xk29-Fe6ZeBtpxxIQ%3A1571732631282&amp;sa=1&amp;q=create+your+own.future++qoutes&amp;oq=create+your+own.future++qoutes&amp;aqs=mobile-gws-lite..0l3#imgrc=Lk4CQnTbbi03-M&amp;imgdii=3Cmv9LZTogNmjM\"/>Action Exercises – what to do now:</p>\n<ol>\n  <li>Develop your own personal definition of happiness. What sort of activities or conditions do you enjoy more than anything else?</li>\n  <li>Go to one of the top people in your field and ask him or her</li>\n</ol>\n<p>for advice that will help you to be more successful.</p>\n<p><strong>Most People Are Lazy</strong></p>\n<p>Unfortunately, most people are lazy.&nbsp; They do just as much as they have to do to avoid getting fired. They sometimes act as if they are entitled to a job, whether they do it well or not. Sustained affluence since World War II has created two or three generations of employees who have grown up with the idea that they can do a half job and get a full salary.</p>\n<p>Because of the dumbing down of our educational system, with diminished course work combined with social promotion, many people were able to coast from the first grade to the twelfth grade, and even through university, without working particularly hard to get a diploma or a degree.&nbsp; When they enter the world of work, they simply continue doing what they have been doing for years.</p>\n<p><img src=\"https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcT2v0WVLotdTOT1cpQBCUojWaogUbqoNypxc0as00Mj_7BiJz_7\" width=\"764\" height=\"401\"/></p>\n<p><br></p>\n<p><strong>Create Your Own Reputation&nbsp;</strong></p>\n<p>Here’s a question for you.&nbsp; Do you have a reputation for being one of the hardest and most efficient workers in your company?&nbsp; Do people look up to you and respect you as one of the top people in your business?&nbsp; Are you continually being given more and bigger assignments, more important responsibilities, and more opportunities for promotion than anyone else?&nbsp; If the answer is “no,” isn’t it time for you to make a decision to “get serious” about your future?&nbsp; Remember, this life is not a rehearsal for something else. The Law of Applied Effort&nbsp;&nbsp;The Law of Applied Effort is a key luck factor.&nbsp; It says, “Any goal, task or activity is amenable to the sustained effort of hard work.”&nbsp;</p>\n<p>&nbsp;There is very little that you cannot accomplish in life if you are willing to work at it long enough and hard enough, and to persist in the face of all obstacles and difficulties until you win through.&nbsp; Hard, hard work is and has always been the key to great success.</p>\n<p><img src=\"https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcRLVPakeNQa5DWdGFoEtO7GF-u_rL2mnXWsMLQW3HCI1qoIL9zw\" width=\"225\" height=\"225\"/></p>\n<p><strong>\"DON'T BE TIMID SQUEAMISH ABOUT YOUR ACTIONS.ALL LIFE IS AN EXPERIMENT\"</strong></p>\n<p><strong>Plz Upvote and Support Because I Am Begginer.</strong></p>\n<p><br></p>\n</html>",
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beyondstoriespublished a new post: brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit

2019/10/22 07:16:27 UTC

37,500,078|4b781b1

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title	Brutal Truths About Life No One Wants To Admit
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cheetahreplied to @beyondstories / cheetah-re-beyondstoriesbrutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit

2019/10/22 07:14:27 UTC

37,500,038|e9323c0

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body	Hi! I am a robot. I just upvoted you! I found similar content that readers might be interested in: https://www.inc.com/matthew-jones/20-brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit.html
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cheetahupvoted (0.08%) @beyondstories / brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit

2019/10/22 07:14:24 UTC

37,500,037|54ac342

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beyondstoriespublished a new post: brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit

2019/10/22 07:13:30 UTC

37,500,019|9a62e3f

parent author
parent permlink	truth
author	beyondstories
permlink	brutal-truths-about-life-no-one-wants-to-admit
title	Brutal Truths About Life No One Wants To Admit
body	<html> <p><strong>"Dream AS IF YOU'LL LIVE FOREVER"</strong></p> <p><strong> "LIVE AS IF YOU'LL DIE TOMORROW"</strong></p> <p>   <img src="https://bornrealist.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/dd1.jpg" width="1560" height="893"/></p> <p><em><strong>Here are brutal truths that every single person needs to hear.</strong></em></p> <p><strong>1. You're going to die and you have no idea when</strong>. </p> <p>Stop pretending that you're invincible. Acknowledge the fact of your own mortality, and then start structuring your life in a more meaningful way.</p> <p><strong>2. Everyone you love is going to die, and you don't know when.</strong> </p> <p>This truth may be saddening at first, but it also gives you permission to make amends with past difficulties and re-establish meaningful relationships with important figures in your life.</p> <p><strong>3. Your material wealth won't make you a better or happier person</strong>. </p> <p>Even if you're one of the lucky ones who achieves his or her materialistic dreams, money only amplifies that which was already present.</p> <p><strong>4. Your obsession with finding happiness is what prevents its attainment.</strong> </p> <p>Happiness is always present in your life--it's just a matter of connecting to it and allowing it to flow through you that's challenging.</p> <p><img src="https://i1.wp.com/www.freelancenuggets.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/20-somethings-life-lessons-1.png?fit=1024%2C512&ssl=1" width="1024" height="512"/></p> <p> <strong>5. Donating money does less than donating time. </strong></p> <p>Giving your time is a way to change your perception and create a memory for yourself and others that will last forever.</p> <p><strong> 6. You can't make everyone happy, and if you try, you'll lose yourself</strong>. </p> <p>Stop trying to please, and start respecting your values, principles, and autonomy. </p> <p><strong>7. You can't be perfect, and holding yourself to unrealistic standards creates suffering. </strong></p> <p>Many perfectionists have unrelenting inner critics that are full of so much rage and self-hate that it tears them apart inside. Fight back against that negative voice, amplify your intuition, and start challenging your unrealistic standards.. </p> <p><img src="http://thepowerofideas.ideapod.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/2nd.jpg"/><img src="http://www.quotehd.com/imagequotes/TopAuthors/tmb/eminem-musician-quote-the-truth-is-you-dont-know-what-is-going-to-happen-tomorrow.jpg"/><img src="http://www.quotehd.com/imagequotes/TopAuthors/tmb/eminem-musician-quote-the-truth-is-you-dont-know-what-is-going-to-happen-tomorrow.jpg"/></p> <p><strong>8. Your thoughts are less important than your feelings and your feelings need acknowledgment. </strong></p> <p>Intellectually thinking through your problems isn't as helpful as expressing the feelings that create your difficulties in the first place</p> <p><strong>9. Your actions speak louder than your words, so you need to hold yourself accountable.</strong></p> <p> Be responsible and take actions that increase positivity and love.</p> <p><strong>10. Your achievements and successes won't matter on your death bed.</strong> </p> <p>When your time has come to transition from this reality, you won't be thinking about that raise; you'll be thinking about the relationships you've made--so start acting accordingly. </p> <p><strong>11. Your talent means nothing without consistent effort and practice.</strong> </p> <p>Some of the most talented people in the world never move out from their parent's basement. 12. Now is the only time that matters, </p> <p><em><strong>so stop wasting it by ruminating on the past or planning the future.</strong></em><strong> </strong></p> <p>You can't control the past, and you can't predict the future, and trying to do so only removes you from the one thing you can control--the present. </p> <p><strong>12. Nobody cares how difficult your life is, and you are the author of your life's story. </strong></p> <p>Stop looking for people to give you sympathy and start creating the life story you want to read. </p> <p><strong>13. Your words are more important than your thoughts, so start inspiring people. </strong></p> <p>Words have the power to oppress, hurt, and shame, but they also have the power to liberate and inspire--start using them more wisely.</p> <p><strong>14. Investing in yourself isn't selfish. It's the most worthwhile thing you can do. </strong></p> <p>You have to put on your own gas mask to save the person sitting right next to you. </p> <p><strong>15. It's not what happens, it's how you react that matters</strong>. </p> <p>Train yourself to respond in a way that leads to better outcomes. 17. </p> <p><strong>16.You need to improve your relationships to have lasting happiness</strong>. </p> <p>Relationships have a greater impact on your wellbeing and happiness than your income or your occupation, so make sure you give your relationship the attention and work it deserves. </p> <p><strong>17. Pleasure is temporary and fleeting, so stop chasing fireworks and start building a constellation</strong>. </p> <p>Don't settle for an ego boost right now when you can delay gratification and experience deeper fulfillment. </p> <p><strong>18. Your ambition means nothing without execution--it's time to put in the work.</strong> </p> <p>If you want to change the world, then go out there and do it! </p> <p><strong>19. Time is your most valuable asset--you need to prioritize how you spend it.</strong> </p> <p>You have the power and responsibility to decide what you do with the time you have, so choose wisely.</p> <p><em><strong>• Lesson Of Life</strong></em> <img src="https://cdn4.geckoandfly.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/brutal-truth-life-01-830x467.jpg" width="830" height="467"/></p> <p><strong>"DONT BURN YOUR OPPERTUNITIES FOR A TEMPORARY COMFORT"</strong></p> </html>
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      "body": "<html>\n<p><strong>\"Dream AS IF YOU'LL LIVE FOREVER\"</strong></p>\n<p><strong>&nbsp;\"LIVE AS IF YOU'LL DIE TOMORROW\"</strong></p>\n<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<img src=\"https://bornrealist.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/dd1.jpg\" width=\"1560\" height=\"893\"/></p>\n<p><em><strong>Here are brutal truths that every single person needs to hear.</strong></em></p>\n<p><strong>1. You're going to die and you have no idea when</strong>.&nbsp;</p>\n<p>Stop pretending that you're invincible. Acknowledge the fact of your own mortality, and then start structuring your life in a more meaningful way.</p>\n<p><strong>2. Everyone you love is going to die, and you don't know when.</strong>&nbsp;</p>\n<p>This truth may be saddening at first, but it also gives you permission to make amends with past difficulties and re-establish meaningful relationships with important figures in your life.</p>\n<p><strong>3. 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Your thoughts are less important than your feelings and your feelings need acknowledgment.&nbsp;</strong></p>\n<p>Intellectually thinking through your problems isn't as helpful as expressing the feelings that create your difficulties in the first place</p>\n<p><strong>9. Your actions speak louder than your words, so you need to hold yourself accountable.</strong></p>\n<p>&nbsp;Be responsible and take actions that increase positivity and love.</p>\n<p><strong>10. Your achievements and successes won't matter on your death bed.</strong>&nbsp;</p>\n<p>When your time has come to transition from this reality, you won't be thinking about that raise; you'll be thinking about the relationships you've made--so start acting accordingly.&nbsp;</p>\n<p><strong>11. Your talent means nothing without consistent effort and practice.</strong>&nbsp;</p>\n<p>Some of the most talented people in the world never move out from their parent's basement. 12. 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beyondstoriesreplied to @moneyguruu / pzrh7w

2019/10/22 05:43:24 UTC

37,498,220|895dca4

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permlink	pzrh7w
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body	Hello i watched your videos in youtube ...i am much impressed by you i am new in steemit plz support and upvote sumit kapoor g....
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beyondstoriesupvoted (100.00%) @moneyguruu / coin-of-the-week-2-best-coins-which-can-blast-in-future-new-concept-you-will-love-for-sure

2019/10/22 05:41:03 UTC

37,498,173|f7f0bdf

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2019/10/22 05:40:51 UTC

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samibalochupvoted (100.00%) @beyondstories / what-remains-of-me-or-a-story-of-the-year-or-001

2019/10/22 02:27:24 UTC

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2019/10/21 18:06:24 UTC

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dblogbasicincomeupvoted (2.00%) @beyondstories / what-remains-of-me-or-a-story-of-the-year-or-001

2019/10/21 17:41:48 UTC

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gamedevlogupvoted (100.00%) @beyondstories / what-remains-of-me-or-a-story-of-the-year-or-001

2019/10/21 17:28:54 UTC

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beyondstoriespublished a new post: what-remains-of-me-or-a-story-of-the-year-or-001

2019/10/21 17:26:39 UTC

37,483,512|a455f97

parent author
parent permlink	story
author	beyondstories
permlink	what-remains-of-me-or-a-story-of-the-year-or-001
title	What Remains Of Me \| A Story of The Year \| #001
body	<html> <h2><strong>CHAPTER 1</strong></h2> <p><strong>         FEBRUARY 11, 1980</strong></p> <p><img src="https://www.ascrubslife.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/old-school-learning.jpg" width="600" height="335"/></p> <p>It was when <strong>Kelly Lund’s</strong> science teacher, <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong>, asked her the third question in a row that she wasn’t able to answer—the one about mitochondria—that Bellamy Marshall passed her a note. <strong>Kelly</strong> said “um” and swallowed hard to get her dry mouth working when she felt the balled-up paper hit her in the leg. She didn’t think note at first, though. She thought spitball.</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> got spitballed a lot. So often, in fact, that she’d once told her mom about it. “They throw spitballs at me,” she’d said. “They laugh at my clothes because they’re so cheap.”</p> <p>“Cheap?” <strong>Mom</strong> had said. “Your clothes cover you up where you should be covered, which is more than I can say about those other girls you go to school with. If you want to talk about cheap, <strong>Kelly</strong>. Those girls are what I call cheap.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> had made a secret vow never to talk to her mom about school again.</p> <p>So she didn’t look at the note when it hit her leg. She ignored it, the way she ignored all the spitballs, the way she ignored so much of what happened to her, in school and elsewhere. Ignore it and it will go away. It worked for most things that hurt, if not all.</p> <p><strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> said the thing about mitochondria again, <strong>Kelly</strong> trying to hang on to the words, to mold them into something that made a little bit of sense. But she couldn’t. She felt the sun pressing through the classroom windows and the itchiness of her cardigan sweater and the elastic of her peasant skirt cutting into skin—all of those things so much more real than the question.</p> <p>Everyone was watching her. She felt that too.</p> <p>“<strong>Miss Lund</strong>?” <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> said.</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> gazed at the floor. Her eyelids fluttered. She felt herself starting to escape . . . “<strong>Miss Lund</strong>.”</p> <p>For a few seconds, or maybe it was more, <strong>Kelly</strong> slipped into a dream—an actual dream of being seven years old and with her sister again, of sitting cross-legged on their bedroom floor, of sitting knee to knee with <strong>Catherine</strong>, staring as hard as she could into Catherine’s bottle green eyes.</p> <p>“Whoever moves first, dies.”</p> <p>“But . . . but . . . I don’t want to die, <strong>Catherine</strong>.”</p> <p><strong>Catherine </strong>places a hand on hers. It is warm and dry and calming. “Don’t be scared, <strong>Kelly</strong>. You know me. I always move first.”</p> <p>“<strong>Miss Lund</strong>! Am I keeping you awake?”</p> <p><strong>Kelly’s</strong> eyes flipped open. She heard herself say, “No. I’m falling asleep just fine.”</p> <p>Oh no . . .</p> <p>A strange silence fell over the room—an airless feeling. <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> blinked, his jaw tightening. <strong>Kelly </strong>knew she was supposed to say “I’m sorry,” and she started to, but before she could get the words out everyone started to laugh. It took <strong>Kelly </strong>a few moments to register that the kids were laughing with her, not at her. That never happened. Her heart beat faster. Her face warmed.</p> <p>“Good one,” said <strong>Pete Nichol</strong> behind her, <strong>Pete</strong> a champion spitball thrower who had never said anything directly to <strong>Kelly</strong> ever. <strong>Pete</strong>—tall and shining blond and rich too. The son of the producer of one of <strong>Kelly’s</strong> favorite TV shows, swimmers’ hair like white silk. <strong>Pete Nichol</strong> clapped <strong>Kelly</strong> on the back and <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> said, “<strong>Miss Lund</strong>. You are on detention,” and that made everyone laugh louder. Some even cheered.</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> turned and ventured a look back at the class and that’s when she saw the balled-up piece of paper on the floor next to her leg—not a spitball—and when she glanced up and toward the next row over, <strong>Bellamy Marshall</strong> was gesturing at the paper, her silver bracelets jangling.</p> <p>Read it, <strong>Bellamy</strong> mouthed.</p> <p><strong>Bellamy</strong> was new, the daughter of a famous actor named <strong>Sterling Marshall </strong>who’d been a big deal in the ’50s and ’60s and still kind of was. She’d started at Hollywood High after Christmas break, having been expelled from a fancy private school in Santa Monica for mysterious reasons. There was drama in that, high drama in the way <strong>Bellamy</strong> had shown up a week after school restarted, slipping into the back row of <strong>Mr. Hansen’s</strong> class, the very back row, though <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> had pointed at an empty seat in the front. <strong>Kelly</strong> had turned to look at this daring new girl in her bangle bracelets and designer jeans, her luxe leather jacket, <strong>Bellamy Marshall </strong>ignoring <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> and breathing through frosty parted lips, like a movie heroine on the run.</p> <p><strong>Bellamy</strong> had smiled at <strong>Kelly</strong> and <strong>Kelly</strong> had smiled back, wanting to be her friend but a little sad for knowing that it wasn’t possible. Not with this girl—this shining rich, leather jacketed girl who’d only smiled at <strong>Kelly </strong>because she didn’t know any better . . .</p> <p>That had been more than a month ago.</p> <p>Once <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> got everybody quiet, once he called on <strong>Phoebe Calloway</strong> in the front row and asked her the mitochondria question and <strong>Kelly</strong> felt reasonably invisible again, she kicked the piece of paper closer to her desk. She slipped it off the floor, unfolded it quietly.</p> <p><strong>PARTY AFTER SCHOOL. MY PLACE.</strong></p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> turned to <strong>Bellamy </strong>to make sure it wasn’t a joke. She wore a different leather jacket today—a brown bomber. She probably had a closet full of them, all real leather.</p> <p><strong>Bellamy mouthed</strong>, Well? And then she winked at <strong>Kelly.</strong> She didn’t look like someone who was joking.</p> <p>Yes, <strong>Kelly</strong> nodded, amazed at this moment. Amazed at this day.</p> <p><strong>IT WASN’T REALLY A PARTY. JUST BELLAMY, KELLY, TWO BOYS FROM</strong> the soccer team, and a tall, skinny twenty-three-year-old guy named <strong>Len</strong> with a pencilly mustache and a sandwich bag full to bursting with what he called “Humbolt’s finest.” They met up in the school parking lot, Len shaking the Baggie at <strong>Bellamy</strong> and <strong>grinning</strong>.</p> <p>The two boys piled into <strong>Len’s</strong> black Trans Am, while <strong>Kelly</strong> rode with <strong>Bellamy</strong> in her red VW Rabbit. They drove in the opposite direction from where <strong>Kelly</strong> lived, sped across Sunset Boulevard and past <strong>Barney’s Beanery</strong>, <strong>Bellamy</strong> swerving around slow drivers, sunglasses focused on the road, silver bangle bracelets slipping up and down her wrists as she steered. They drove up, up, up, into the hills, neither one of them talking, just listening to the radio, to The Knack’s “Good Girls Don’t”—a song <strong>Kelly</strong> had never liked, not until now.</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> had expected to be nervous when she got in the car, but <strong>Bellamy</strong> not talking to her felt like not getting called on in class. It put her at ease.</p> <p>“Hand me my cigs, would you?” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “They’re in my purse.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> picked <strong>Bellamy’s</strong> bag off the car floor—a Louis Vuitton. A lot of the girls at school had these. They called them “<strong>Louie Vouies</strong>” and treated them in such an offhand way, tossing them around like they were worth nothing, but <strong>Kelly</strong> knew better. Her mother had shown her one at I. <strong>Magnin</strong> once, tapping her nails on the price tag. “Who would spend this kind of money?” she had said. <strong>Kelly’s</strong> mother worked at I. <strong>Magnin</strong> behind the makeup counter. But even with her discount, she never bought anything there for <strong>Kelly</strong> or for herself. “It’s obscene,” she would say, about the prices, about the entire store. Kelly never replied. She found it beautiful.</p> <p>“Someday,” Mom would say, “I’ll get us out of this town.”</p> <p>Carefully, <strong>Kelly</strong> unzipped the bag. She plucked out a box of Marlboro Reds—Mom’s brand—and handed it to her.</p> <p>“You can have one too,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said.</p> <p>“Thanks.”</p> <p><strong>Bellamy</strong> lit one off the car lighter, then slipped it to Kelly without looking at her. The gesture made her feel as though they’d known each other for years. <strong>Bellamy</strong> rolled the windows down and <strong>Kelly</strong> blew a cloud of smoke into the warming air.</p> <p>“<strong>Len</strong> likes you,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said, “I can tell.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> felt her cheeks redden. “How do you know him?”</p> <p>She shrugged. “Just . . . around,” she said. “He can be a jerk but he’s always got good weed. And I love the smell of his car.”</p> <p>“Is he really twenty-three?”</p> <p>“Yep.”</p> <p>“Wow.”</p> <p>Through the windshield, the Hollywood sign loomed before them, making <strong>Kelly</strong> think of <strong>Catherine</strong>. It always did—how she used to brag about their view of it to anyone who’d listen. “You can see the sign from our apartment,” she’d say, leaning on the word sign as though she were talking about the <strong>Empire State Building</strong> or the <strong>Eiffel Tower</strong>, when the truth was, the Hollywood sign had been an eyesore back then—full of holes, crumbling into the hills, the first and third o’s missing almost entirely.</p> <p>“Who wants to see it?” <strong>Kelly</strong> would say to her. “It’s ugly.”</p> <p>“No it isn’t. It just needs fixing.”</p> <p><strong>Two years ago</strong>, a whole bunch of rich movie stars and politicians had taken interest in the rotting sign and rebuilt it. <strong>Alice Cooper</strong> had even donated his first o to replace the more destroyed of the two and declared himself Alice Coper for the rest of the year—something <strong>Catherine </strong>would have found funny if she’d still been alive . . .</p> <p>On the radio, The Knack was fading into Tom Petty—that song <strong>Kelly</strong> liked about a girl raised on promises. She took another drag off her Red and gazed out at <strong>Catherine’s </strong>sign—sparkling white in the sun, the letters whole and welcoming. Some things do wind up getting fixed.</p> <p>“You were killer today,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said.</p> <p>“Huh?”</p> <p>“In science! How did you get the balls to say that to <strong>Hansen</strong>?”</p> <p>“Oh,” <strong>Kelly</strong> said, remembering. “It uh . . . it just sort of came out, I guess.”</p> <p>“‘I’m falling asleep just fine . . .’” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “Man. That made my whole year. My whole life.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> took another drag off her cigarette, smiled a little. “I just had to say it,” she said. “He was being so annoying.”</p> <p><strong>Bellamy</strong> laughed—warm and contagious—and <strong>Kelly</strong> joined in. She tried to remember the last time she’d laughed at something that wasn’t on TV. It had to be back when <strong>Catherine</strong> was still alive, when they were still little kids. “<strong>Hansen’s</strong> face,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> gasped. “He was clenching his teeth so tight, I thought his eyes were going to pop out!” And <strong>Kelly</strong> laughed some more, <strong>Tom Petty</strong> singing about his American Girl, the whole car full of music.</p> <p>Finally, they caught their breath. <strong>Bellamy</strong> slowed down at a stoplight, braking smoothly. She was a good driver. <strong>Kelly</strong> couldn’t drive at all. She’d signed up for <strong>Driver’s Ed</strong>, but hadn’t made it to most of the classes. What was the point? Mom would never let her use the car anyway.</p> <p>“So,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “I guess they let you out early for a first offense?”</p> <p>“Huh?”x</p> <p>“You know. I expected you to be stuck in detention ’til sunset.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly’s</strong> mouth went dry. <strong>Miss Lund</strong>. You are on detention. <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> had used those words. She’d never been on detention before, woodwork kid that she was—one out of a mismatched set, the quiet twin, the dull one. Beyond bad grades, she’d never gotten into any type of trouble before today, never acted up, barely spoke. But here, this, her very first time and she’d . . . <strong>Mom</strong> will kill me. She turned to <strong>Bellamy</strong>, cheeks burning. “I didn’t go to detention,” she said. “I never checked in.”</p> <p><strong>Bellamy</strong> blinked her mascaraed eyes. “You’re serious?”</p> <p>“Yeah,” she said. “I forgot.”</p> <p>She turned back to the road as the light changed to green, her face cracking into a bright grin. “I think I’m falling in love with you, <strong>Kelly Lund</strong>,” she said.</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> grinned too. She couldn’t help herself.</p> <p><strong>WHEN THEY GOT TO BELLAMY’S HOUSE, THE BOYS WERE ALREADY</strong> waiting out in front. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Len said. He kept smiling at Kelly, a slippery smile.</p> <p>“Her name’s <strong>Kelly,</strong> not Sweetheart,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “Try and keep from drooling.”</p> <p>One of the soccer boys said, “Who cares about names? Let’s smoke.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> was only half-listening. She couldn’t stop gawking at <strong>Bellamy’s</strong> house. It was huge—an adobe palace with a gleaming red tile roof, balconies all around. They’d driven through a gate to get here, up a long, palm-lined driveway that slithered up the side of <strong>Mount Lee</strong>, <strong>Kelly’s </strong>ears clicking with each rising turn. It had made her heart pound, this drive, like traveling to another world.</p> <p>And it was another world, wasn’t it? The Bird Streets. That’s what this area of the Hollywood Hills was called, the roads named for birds and perched so high, driving them felt almost like flying. <strong>Bellamy</strong> lived on Blue Jay Way. (“Like the song,” <strong>Kelly</strong> had said back in the car. <strong>Bellamy </strong>had nodded. “I hate the Beatles.”)</p> <p><strong>Bellamy’s</strong> front door was made of polished, carved wood. A maid in a white uniform let them in and walked away quickly, eyes aimed at the floor. “Don’t let my little brother come upstairs, Flora,” <strong>Kelly</strong> said. But the maid didn’t seem to hear her.</p> <p><strong>Kelly </strong>saw a pink marble staircase, a crystal chandelier, huge windows, at least two stories high, overlooking the canyon. She bit her lip. She kept her eyes down like the maid, because she couldn’t look too hard at anything. She wanted to seem like someone who’d seen a place like this before.</p> <p><strong>Bellamy’s</strong> room was at the end of a long, carpeted hall. And as they all walked in, the two boys laughing about something that happened at practice the other day, <strong>Bellamy</strong> asking Len to show her the bag again, <strong>Kelly</strong> used every muscle in her body to keep her jaw from flapping open.</p> <p>There was a stereo with a tape deck and turntable, speakers tall as <strong>Kelly’s </strong>chin. There was a big TV, a vanity table with a huge mirror, a walk-in closet, door ajar to reveal rows of clothes, grouped by color. There was a record collection that filled an entire wall, a red leather couch, a zebra print throw rug that may very well have been real zebra. And best of all there was a king-size bed with a white puffy satin spread and dozens of throw pillows—the type of thing a princess would sleep on, or a queen. There was a framed movie poster over it—<strong>Saturday Night Fever</strong>. <strong>Kelly </strong>noticed a pen scrawl across <strong>John Travolta’s</strong> pants leg, and moved closer to it. <strong>Travolta’s</strong> autograph . . . with a note. For <strong>Bellamy,</strong> he’d written. Best wishes. <strong>Kelly</strong> stared at the looping script and had to touch it. She had to press her fingers to the glass, just to make sure it was real.</p> <p>“I hate disco but I still think John’s sexy,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “My dad knows him.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly’s</strong> hand flew back. She felt herself blushing.</p> <p><strong>Bellamy</strong> smiled at her. “I met him once.”</p> <p>“You did?”</p> <p>“I wanted to touch that chin dimple so bad.” She leaned in closer, dropped her voice to a whisper. “I wanted to put my tongue on it.”</p> <p>“Make it a fattie,” said one of the soccer boys. He was talking to <strong>Len</strong>, who was sitting on the edge of <strong>Bellamy’s </strong>princess bed, rolling a joint intently.</p> <p>“If this were my room,” <strong>Kelly</strong> said, “I’d never leave.”</p> <p><strong>Len</strong> said, “Few hits of this, you might not be able to.”</p> <p>“You want to spend the night?” said <strong>Bellamy</strong>. “My parents are in <strong>Switzerland</strong>, so it’s just me and the staff till Friday.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> swallowed. She hadn’t even called home, and she knew Mom wouldn’t approve. “Keep away from those Hollywood types,” <strong>Mom</strong> would always say—even though she’d sent her girls to Hollywood High, where the sports team was called the <strong>Sheiks</strong> after a movie character played by <strong>Rudolph Valentino</strong>. Nearly everyone at school was a Hollywood type in one way or another—what else would they be? Mom may as well have said to <strong>Kelly</strong> and <strong>Catherine</strong>, “Don’t make any friends,” <strong>Kelly </strong>following the rule, <strong>Catherine</strong> dying for breaking it. “My . . . my mom . . . I don’t think she . . .”</p> <p>“Hey, it’s cool,” <strong>Bellamy </strong>said. “Some other time, though, okay?”</p> <p>“Yeah, I’d love to.”</p> <p>“Lotsa nice red veins in this stuff,” Len was saying, the two boys oohing and aahing over it. They were both short and stocky with floppy hair and pink cheeks. <strong>Kelly </strong>didn’t know either one of them, and they didn’t seem like jocks at all. They reminded her more of two puppies from the same litter.</p> <p>“Ladies first,” said <strong>Len</strong>. He gave <strong>Kelly </strong>that slippery smile. <strong>Kelly</strong> nodded at <strong>Bellamy</strong>. “You can go first.”</p> <p><strong>Bellamy</strong> plucked the joint away from Len. She put it to her lips and pulled off it deeply.</p> <p><strong>Len </strong>said, “Bet you wish that spliff was my <strong>Johnson</strong>.” The soccer boys chuckled.</p> <p>She pursed her lips to keep the hit down. “The spliff’s bigger,” she said finally, smoke curling out of her mouth.</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> laughed.</p> <p>One of the soccer boys said, “Burn!”</p> <p>“Baby,” <strong>Len</strong> said. “You know that ain’t true.”</p> <p><strong>Bellamy</strong> rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed a little.</p> <p><strong>Kelly </strong>took a closer look at<strong> Len</strong>—the tight black T-shirt, the veiny arms, the thick belt buckle, shaped like a coiled rattlesnake. He seemed so old. She imagined <strong>Bellamy</strong> with him and the thought of it made her feel kind of strange, panicky . . .</p> <p>“Earth to <strong>Kelly</strong>.”<strong> Bellamy</strong> was holding the joint out to her.</p> <p>“Sorry.”</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> started to take it, when<strong> Bellamy</strong> pulled back. “Get out,” she said—not to <strong>Kelly</strong>, to <strong>Kelly’s</strong> left shoulder. When <strong>Kelly</strong> turned, she saw a skinny boy with <strong>Bellamy’s</strong> same black eyes standing in the doorway.</p> <p>“Hi,” <strong>Kelly </strong>said.</p> <p>The boy smiled at her. He wore a Star Wars T-shirt, spindly pale legs sticking out of white shorts. He couldn’t have been more than ten.</p> <p>“Don’t say hi to him. He’s Satan’s spawn.”</p> <p>The boy blew a raspberry. One of the soccer boys laughed, and <strong>Bellamy </strong>got up from the bed in a rush. She slammed the door in his face. Locked it. When she turned around, her face was an angry pink. “My brother Shane.” She said it to <strong>Kelly</strong> like a swear word. “I swear to God he won’t leave me alone.”</p> <p><strong>KELLY HAD TRIED POT ONCE, WITH CATHERINE. THEY’D BEEN THIRTEEN </strong>at the time and <strong>Catherine </strong>had brought it into their room along with their mom’s pink lighter. <strong>Kelly</strong> had asked where she’d gotten the stuff, but <strong>Catherine</strong> had refused to tell her. “Just try it,” <strong>Catherine</strong> had said.</p> <p>“What if I freak out?”</p> <p>“Would it kill you, <strong>Kelly</strong>? Would it kill you to freak out just one time in your entire life?”</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> had inhaled too hard and coughed it all up and felt nothing.</p> <p>This time, though, it had worked. At least <strong>Kelly</strong> thought it had. Her head felt soft and fuzzy, as though someone had rubbed lotion all over her brain.<strong> Bellamy </strong>had agreed to take the soccer boys home, seeing as they both lived nearby, and when <strong>Kelly </strong>had said good-bye to her, she’d seen her face in flashing frames.</p> <p><strong>Kelly</strong> had accepted a ride from Len—something she hadn’t thought very much about until now, but as she slipped into the front seat of the Trans Am, that panicky feeling flooded through her again. She found herself focusing too hard on each movement. The click of the lock echoed in her ears and the leather seats squeaked and clawed at her. <strong>Kelly</strong> felt Len’s syrupy gaze on her too, and when she turned a little, there was <strong>Len’s</strong> face. Close. <strong>God</strong>, he was so old.</p> <p>“Good stuff, huh?” His breath was hot and sticky. His eyes blurred into one.</p> <p>“Really good.”</p> <p><strong>Len’s</strong> hand slipped up under her peasant skirt and rested on her thigh. Her whole leg stiffened. The car did smell good, she thought—like warm leather and pine.</p> <p>He leaned in and kissed her, his mouth spongy and lax. His lips were too wet and the pencil mustache scratched at her nose. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and then just let it lay there on top of hers, slimy and sleeping.</p> <p>My first kiss. She hadn’t expected it to be like this. <strong>Catherine</strong> had once said her first kiss would feel like magic and she’d wanted to believe that. But then again, how was <strong>Kelly</strong> supposed to know what magic felt like? She closed her eyes, tried to relax. His mouth opened wider, so he was biting into her cheeks. What part of this was supposed to feel good? There had to be something. She tried running a hand through his greasy hair and he moaned, his wet lips vibrating.</p> <p>The weed made <strong>Kelly</strong> nervous. It was getting hard to breathe, but she didn’t want to pull away because she didn’t want to have to look at <strong>Len</strong>. She didn’t know what to say to him. Thanks? That was interesting?</p> <p>At one point, back at the house when the boys were laughing about something, <strong>Bellamy</strong> had set her head on <strong>Kelly’s</strong> shoulder. “I knew we’d be friends,” she had said. The memory of it relaxed her.</p> <p><strong>Len</strong> pulled away. <strong>Kelly’s</strong> mouth still tasted of him, a sour taste. “Better get you home,” he said. “Unless you want to stop somewhere first.”</p> <p>She didn’t want to stop somewhere with him. But she didn’t want to go home either. She heard herself say, “I don’t care.”</p> <p><strong>Len </strong>started up the car but kept his hand on her thigh. <strong>Kelly</strong> closed her eyes and leaned back, <strong>Bellamy’s</strong> voice from this afternoon still in her head, making the hand feel lighter.</p> <p>“You’re like me.” <strong>Bellamy </strong>had said it into <strong>Kelly’s</strong> ear, in a soft, pressing whisper she could feel more than hear. “You have secrets.”</p> <pre><code><strong>CHAPTER 2 will be posted soon.</strong></code></pre> <p><br></p> <h1><strong>We'll make it together if we support each other. I NEED YOUR SUPPORT BECAUSE IT's MY BEGINNING. BIG THANKS.</strong></h1> <h1><strong>HIT UPVOTE</strong></h1> </html>
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Transaction Info	Block #37483512/Trx a455f97520dd2967e145ca383e3457531e305b03

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      "parent_permlink": "story",
      "author": "beyondstories",
      "permlink": "what-remains-of-me-or-a-story-of-the-year-or-001",
      "title": "What Remains Of Me | A Story of The Year | #001",
      "body": "<html>\n<h2><strong>CHAPTER 1</strong></h2>\n<p><strong>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;FEBRUARY 11, 1980</strong></p>\n<p><img src=\"https://www.ascrubslife.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/old-school-learning.jpg\" width=\"600\" height=\"335\"/></p>\n<p>It was when <strong>Kelly Lund’s</strong> science teacher, <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong>, asked her the third question in a row that she wasn’t able to answer—the one about mitochondria—that Bellamy Marshall passed her a note. <strong>Kelly</strong> said “um” and swallowed hard to get her dry mouth working when she felt the balled-up paper hit her in the leg. She didn’t think note at first, though. She thought spitball.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> got spitballed a lot. So often, in fact, that she’d once told her mom about it. “They throw spitballs at me,” she’d said. “They laugh at my clothes because they’re so cheap.”</p>\n<p>“Cheap?” <strong>Mom</strong> had said. “Your clothes cover you up where you should be covered, which is more than I can say about those other girls you go to school with. If you want to talk about cheap, <strong>Kelly</strong>. Those girls are what I call cheap.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> had made a secret vow never to talk to her mom about school again.</p>\n<p>So she didn’t look at the note when it hit her leg. She ignored it, the way she ignored all the spitballs, the way she ignored so much of what happened to her, in school and elsewhere. Ignore it and it will go away. It worked for most things that hurt, if not all.</p>\n<p><strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> said the thing about mitochondria again, <strong>Kelly</strong> trying to hang on to the words, to mold them into something that made a little bit of sense. But she couldn’t. She felt the sun pressing through the classroom windows and the itchiness of her cardigan sweater and the elastic of her peasant skirt cutting into skin—all of those things so much more real than the question.</p>\n<p>Everyone was watching her. She felt that too.</p>\n<p>“<strong>Miss Lund</strong>?” <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> said.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> gazed at the floor. Her eyelids fluttered. She felt herself starting to escape . . . “<strong>Miss Lund</strong>.”</p>\n<p>For a few seconds, or maybe it was more, <strong>Kelly</strong> slipped into a dream—an actual dream of being seven years old and with her sister again, of sitting cross-legged on their bedroom floor, of sitting knee to knee with <strong>Catherine</strong>, staring as hard as she could into Catherine’s bottle green eyes.</p>\n<p>“Whoever moves first, dies.”</p>\n<p>“But . . . but . . . I don’t want to die, <strong>Catherine</strong>.”</p>\n<p><strong>Catherine </strong>places a hand on hers. It is warm and dry and calming. “Don’t be scared, <strong>Kelly</strong>. You know me. I always move first.”</p>\n<p>“<strong>Miss Lund</strong>! Am I keeping you awake?”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly’s</strong> eyes flipped open. She heard herself say, “No. I’m falling asleep just fine.”</p>\n<p>Oh no . . .</p>\n<p>A strange silence fell over the room—an airless feeling. <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> blinked, his jaw tightening. <strong>Kelly </strong>knew she was supposed to say “I’m sorry,” and she started to, but before she could get the words out everyone started to laugh. It took <strong>Kelly </strong>a few moments to register that the kids were laughing with her, not at her. That never happened. Her heart beat faster. Her face warmed.</p>\n<p>“Good one,” said <strong>Pete Nichol</strong> behind her, <strong>Pete</strong> a champion spitball thrower who had never said anything directly to <strong>Kelly</strong> ever. <strong>Pete</strong>—tall and shining blond and rich too. The son of the producer of one of <strong>Kelly’s</strong> favorite TV shows, swimmers’ hair like white silk. <strong>Pete Nichol</strong> clapped <strong>Kelly</strong> on the back and <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> said, “<strong>Miss Lund</strong>. You are on detention,” and that made everyone laugh louder. Some even cheered.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> turned and ventured a look back at the class and that’s when she saw the balled-up piece of paper on the floor next to her leg—not a spitball—and when she glanced up and toward the next row over, <strong>Bellamy Marshall</strong> was gesturing at the paper, her silver bracelets jangling.</p>\n<p>Read it, <strong>Bellamy</strong> mouthed.</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy</strong> was new, the daughter of a famous actor named <strong>Sterling Marshall </strong>who’d been a big deal in the ’50s and ’60s and still kind of was. She’d started at Hollywood High after Christmas break, having been expelled from a fancy private school in Santa Monica for mysterious reasons. There was drama in that, high drama in the way <strong>Bellamy</strong> had shown up a week after school restarted, slipping into the back row of <strong>Mr. Hansen’s</strong> class, the very back row, though <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> had pointed at an empty seat in the front. <strong>Kelly</strong> had turned to look at this daring new girl in her bangle bracelets and designer jeans, her luxe leather jacket, <strong>Bellamy Marshall </strong>ignoring <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> and breathing through frosty parted lips, like a movie heroine on the run.</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy</strong> had smiled at <strong>Kelly</strong> and <strong>Kelly</strong> had smiled back, wanting to be her friend but a little sad for knowing that it wasn’t possible. Not with this girl—this shining rich, leather jacketed girl who’d only smiled at <strong>Kelly </strong>because she didn’t know any better . . .</p>\n<p>That had been more than a month ago.</p>\n<p>Once <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> got everybody quiet, once he called on <strong>Phoebe Calloway</strong> in the front row and asked her the mitochondria question and <strong>Kelly</strong> felt reasonably invisible again, she kicked the piece of paper closer to her desk. She slipped it off the floor, unfolded it quietly.</p>\n<p><strong>PARTY AFTER SCHOOL. MY PLACE.</strong></p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> turned to <strong>Bellamy </strong>to make sure it wasn’t a joke. She wore a different leather jacket today—a brown bomber. She probably had a closet full of them, all real leather.</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy mouthed</strong>, Well? And then she winked at <strong>Kelly.</strong> She didn’t look like someone who was joking.</p>\n<p>Yes, <strong>Kelly</strong> nodded, amazed at this moment. Amazed at this day.</p>\n<p><strong>IT WASN’T REALLY A PARTY. JUST BELLAMY, KELLY, TWO BOYS FROM</strong> the soccer team, and a tall, skinny twenty-three-year-old guy named <strong>Len</strong> with a pencilly mustache and a sandwich bag full to bursting with what he called “Humbolt’s finest.” They met up in the school parking lot, Len shaking the Baggie at <strong>Bellamy</strong> and <strong>grinning</strong>.</p>\n<p>The two boys piled into <strong>Len’s</strong> black Trans Am, while <strong>Kelly</strong> rode with <strong>Bellamy</strong> in her red VW Rabbit. They drove in the opposite direction from where <strong>Kelly</strong> lived, sped across Sunset Boulevard and past <strong>Barney’s Beanery</strong>, <strong>Bellamy</strong> swerving around slow drivers, sunglasses focused on the road, silver bangle bracelets slipping up and down her wrists as she steered. They drove up, up, up, into the hills, neither one of them talking, just listening to the radio, to The Knack’s “Good Girls Don’t”—a song <strong>Kelly</strong> had never liked, not until now.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> had expected to be nervous when she got in the car, but <strong>Bellamy</strong> not talking to her felt like not getting called on in class. It put her at ease.</p>\n<p>“Hand me my cigs, would you?” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “They’re in my purse.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> picked <strong>Bellamy’s</strong> bag off the car floor—a Louis Vuitton. A lot of the girls at school had these. They called them “<strong>Louie Vouies</strong>” and treated them in such an offhand way, tossing them around like they were worth nothing, but <strong>Kelly</strong> knew better. Her mother had shown her one at I. <strong>Magnin</strong> once, tapping her nails on the price tag. “Who would spend this kind of money?” she had said. <strong>Kelly’s</strong> mother worked at I. <strong>Magnin</strong> behind the makeup counter. But even with her discount, she never bought anything there for <strong>Kelly</strong> or for herself. “It’s obscene,” she would say, about the prices, about the entire store. Kelly never replied. She found it beautiful.</p>\n<p>“Someday,” Mom would say, “I’ll get us out of this town.”</p>\n<p>Carefully, <strong>Kelly</strong> unzipped the bag. She plucked out a box of Marlboro Reds—Mom’s brand—and handed it to her.</p>\n<p>“You can have one too,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said.</p>\n<p>“Thanks.”</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy</strong> lit one off the car lighter, then slipped it to Kelly without looking at her. The gesture made her feel as though they’d known each other for years. <strong>Bellamy</strong> rolled the windows down and <strong>Kelly</strong> blew a cloud of smoke into the warming air.</p>\n<p>“<strong>Len</strong> likes you,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said, “I can tell.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> felt her cheeks redden. “How do you know him?”</p>\n<p>She shrugged. “Just . . . around,” she said. “He can be a jerk but he’s always got good weed. And I love the smell of his car.”</p>\n<p>“Is he really twenty-three?”</p>\n<p>“Yep.”</p>\n<p>“Wow.”</p>\n<p>Through the windshield, the Hollywood sign loomed before them, making <strong>Kelly</strong> think of <strong>Catherine</strong>. It always did—how she used to brag about their view of it to anyone who’d listen. “You can see the sign from our apartment,” she’d say, leaning on the word sign as though she were talking about the <strong>Empire State Building</strong> or the <strong>Eiffel Tower</strong>, when the truth was, the Hollywood sign had been an eyesore back then—full of holes, crumbling into the hills, the first and third o’s missing almost entirely.</p>\n<p>“Who wants to see it?” <strong>Kelly</strong> would say to her. “It’s ugly.”</p>\n<p>“No it isn’t. It just needs fixing.”</p>\n<p><strong>Two years ago</strong>, a whole bunch of rich movie stars and politicians had taken interest in the rotting sign and rebuilt it. <strong>Alice Cooper</strong> had even donated his first o to replace the more destroyed of the two and declared himself Alice Coper for the rest of the year—something <strong>Catherine </strong>would have found funny if she’d still been alive . . .</p>\n<p>On the radio, The Knack was fading into Tom Petty—that song <strong>Kelly</strong> liked about a girl raised on promises. She took another drag off her Red and gazed out at <strong>Catherine’s </strong>sign—sparkling white in the sun, the letters whole and welcoming. Some things do wind up getting fixed.</p>\n<p>“You were killer today,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said.</p>\n<p>“Huh?”</p>\n<p>“In science! How did you get the balls to say that to <strong>Hansen</strong>?”</p>\n<p>“Oh,” <strong>Kelly</strong> said, remembering. “It uh . . . it just sort of came out, I guess.”</p>\n<p>“‘I’m falling asleep just fine . . .’” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “Man. That made my whole year. My whole life.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> took another drag off her cigarette, smiled a little. “I just had to say it,” she said. “He was being so annoying.”</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy</strong> laughed—warm and contagious—and <strong>Kelly</strong> joined in. She tried to remember the last time she’d laughed at something that wasn’t on TV. It had to be back when <strong>Catherine</strong> was still alive, when they were still little kids. “<strong>Hansen’s</strong> face,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> gasped. “He was clenching his teeth so tight, I thought his eyes were going to pop out!” And <strong>Kelly</strong> laughed some more, <strong>Tom Petty</strong> singing about his American Girl, the whole car full of music.</p>\n<p>Finally, they caught their breath. <strong>Bellamy</strong> slowed down at a stoplight, braking smoothly. She was a good driver. <strong>Kelly</strong> couldn’t drive at all. She’d signed up for <strong>Driver’s Ed</strong>, but hadn’t made it to most of the classes. What was the point? Mom would never let her use the car anyway.</p>\n<p>“So,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “I guess they let you out early for a first offense?”</p>\n<p>“Huh?”x</p>\n<p>“You know. I expected you to be stuck in detention ’til sunset.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly’s</strong> mouth went dry. <strong>Miss Lund</strong>. You are on detention. <strong>Mr. Hansen</strong> had used those words. She’d never been on detention before, woodwork kid that she was—one out of a mismatched set, the quiet twin, the dull one. Beyond bad grades, she’d never gotten into any type of trouble before today, never acted up, barely spoke. But here, this, her very first time and she’d . . . <strong>Mom</strong> will kill me. She turned to <strong>Bellamy</strong>, cheeks burning. “I didn’t go to detention,” she said. “I never checked in.”</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy</strong> blinked her mascaraed eyes. “You’re serious?”</p>\n<p>“Yeah,” she said. “I forgot.”</p>\n<p>She turned back to the road as the light changed to green, her face cracking into a bright grin. “I think I’m falling in love with you, <strong>Kelly Lund</strong>,” she said.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> grinned too. She couldn’t help herself.</p>\n<p><strong>WHEN THEY GOT TO BELLAMY’S HOUSE, THE BOYS WERE ALREADY</strong> waiting out in front. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Len said. He kept smiling at Kelly, a slippery smile.</p>\n<p>“Her name’s <strong>Kelly,</strong> not Sweetheart,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “Try and keep from drooling.”</p>\n<p>One of the soccer boys said, “Who cares about names? Let’s smoke.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> was only half-listening. She couldn’t stop gawking at <strong>Bellamy’s</strong> house. It was huge—an adobe palace with a gleaming red tile roof, balconies all around. They’d driven through a gate to get here, up a long, palm-lined driveway that slithered up the side of <strong>Mount Lee</strong>, <strong>Kelly’s </strong>ears clicking with each rising turn. It had made her heart pound, this drive, like traveling to another world.</p>\n<p>And it was another world, wasn’t it? The Bird Streets. That’s what this area of the Hollywood Hills was called, the roads named for birds and perched so high, driving them felt almost like flying. <strong>Bellamy</strong> lived on Blue Jay Way. (“Like the song,” <strong>Kelly</strong> had said back in the car. <strong>Bellamy </strong>had nodded. “I hate the Beatles.”)</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy’s</strong> front door was made of polished, carved wood. A maid in a white uniform let them in and walked away quickly, eyes aimed at the floor. “Don’t let my little brother come upstairs, Flora,” <strong>Kelly</strong> said. But the maid didn’t seem to hear her.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly </strong>saw a pink marble staircase, a crystal chandelier, huge windows, at least two stories high, overlooking the canyon. She bit her lip. She kept her eyes down like the maid, because she couldn’t look too hard at anything. She wanted to seem like someone who’d seen a place like this before.</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy’s</strong> room was at the end of a long, carpeted hall. And as they all walked in, the two boys laughing about something that happened at practice the other day, <strong>Bellamy</strong> asking Len to show her the bag again, <strong>Kelly</strong> used every muscle in her body to keep her jaw from flapping open.</p>\n<p>There was a stereo with a tape deck and turntable, speakers tall as <strong>Kelly’s </strong>chin. There was a big TV, a vanity table with a huge mirror, a walk-in closet, door ajar to reveal rows of clothes, grouped by color. There was a record collection that filled an entire wall, a red leather couch, a zebra print throw rug that may very well have been real zebra. And best of all there was a king-size bed with a white puffy satin spread and dozens of throw pillows—the type of thing a princess would sleep on, or a queen. There was a framed movie poster over it—<strong>Saturday Night Fever</strong>. <strong>Kelly </strong>noticed a pen scrawl across <strong>John Travolta’s</strong> pants leg, and moved closer to it. <strong>Travolta’s</strong> autograph . . . with a note. For <strong>Bellamy,</strong> he’d written. Best wishes. <strong>Kelly</strong> stared at the looping script and had to touch it. She had to press her fingers to the glass, just to make sure it was real.</p>\n<p>“I hate disco but I still think John’s sexy,” <strong>Bellamy</strong> said. “My dad knows him.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly’s</strong> hand flew back. She felt herself blushing.</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy</strong> smiled at her. “I met him once.”</p>\n<p>“You did?”</p>\n<p>“I wanted to touch that chin dimple so bad.” She leaned in closer, dropped her voice to a whisper. “I wanted to put my tongue on it.”</p>\n<p>“Make it a fattie,” said one of the soccer boys. He was talking to <strong>Len</strong>, who was sitting on the edge of <strong>Bellamy’s </strong>princess bed, rolling a joint intently.</p>\n<p>“If this were my room,” <strong>Kelly</strong> said, “I’d never leave.”</p>\n<p><strong>Len</strong> said, “Few hits of this, you might not be able to.”</p>\n<p>“You want to spend the night?” said <strong>Bellamy</strong>. “My parents are in <strong>Switzerland</strong>, so it’s just me and the staff till Friday.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> swallowed. She hadn’t even called home, and she knew Mom wouldn’t approve. “Keep away from those Hollywood types,” <strong>Mom</strong> would always say—even though she’d sent her girls to Hollywood High, where the sports team was called the <strong>Sheiks</strong> after a movie character played by <strong>Rudolph Valentino</strong>. Nearly everyone at school was a Hollywood type in one way or another—what else would they be? Mom may as well have said to <strong>Kelly</strong> and <strong>Catherine</strong>, “Don’t make any friends,” <strong>Kelly </strong>following the rule, <strong>Catherine</strong> dying for breaking it. “My . . . my mom . . . I don’t think she . . .”</p>\n<p>“Hey, it’s cool,” <strong>Bellamy </strong>said. “Some other time, though, okay?”</p>\n<p>“Yeah, I’d love to.”</p>\n<p>“Lotsa nice red veins in this stuff,” Len was saying, the two boys oohing and aahing over it. They were both short and stocky with floppy hair and pink cheeks. <strong>Kelly </strong>didn’t know either one of them, and they didn’t seem like jocks at all. They reminded her more of two puppies from the same litter.</p>\n<p>“Ladies first,” said <strong>Len</strong>. He gave <strong>Kelly </strong>that slippery smile. <strong>Kelly</strong> nodded at <strong>Bellamy</strong>. “You can go first.”</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy</strong> plucked the joint away from Len. She put it to her lips and pulled off it deeply.</p>\n<p><strong>Len </strong>said, “Bet you wish that spliff was my <strong>Johnson</strong>.” The soccer boys chuckled.</p>\n<p>She pursed her lips to keep the hit down. “The spliff’s bigger,” she said finally, smoke curling out of her mouth.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> laughed.</p>\n<p>One of the soccer boys said, “Burn!”</p>\n<p>“Baby,” <strong>Len</strong> said. “You know that ain’t true.”</p>\n<p><strong>Bellamy</strong> rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed a little.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly </strong>took a closer look at<strong> Len</strong>—the tight black T-shirt, the veiny arms, the thick belt buckle, shaped like a coiled rattlesnake. He seemed so old. She imagined <strong>Bellamy</strong> with him and the thought of it made her feel kind of strange, panicky . . .</p>\n<p>“Earth to <strong>Kelly</strong>.”<strong> Bellamy</strong> was holding the joint out to her.</p>\n<p>“Sorry.”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> started to take it, when<strong> Bellamy</strong> pulled back. “Get out,” she said—not to <strong>Kelly</strong>, to <strong>Kelly’s</strong> left shoulder. When <strong>Kelly</strong> turned, she saw a skinny boy with <strong>Bellamy’s</strong> same black eyes standing in the doorway.</p>\n<p>“Hi,” <strong>Kelly </strong>said.</p>\n<p>The boy smiled at her. He wore a Star Wars T-shirt, spindly pale legs sticking out of white shorts. He couldn’t have been more than ten.</p>\n<p>“Don’t say hi to him. He’s Satan’s spawn.”</p>\n<p>The boy blew a raspberry. One of the soccer boys laughed, and <strong>Bellamy </strong>got up from the bed in a rush. She slammed the door in his face. Locked it. When she turned around, her face was an angry pink. “My brother Shane.” She said it to <strong>Kelly</strong> like a swear word. “I swear to God he won’t leave me alone.”</p>\n<p><strong>KELLY HAD TRIED POT ONCE, WITH CATHERINE. THEY’D BEEN THIRTEEN </strong>at the time and <strong>Catherine </strong>had brought it into their room along with their mom’s pink lighter. <strong>Kelly</strong> had asked where she’d gotten the stuff, but <strong>Catherine</strong> had refused to tell her. “Just try it,” <strong>Catherine</strong> had said.</p>\n<p>“What if I freak out?”</p>\n<p>“Would it kill you, <strong>Kelly</strong>? Would it kill you to freak out just one time in your entire life?”</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> had inhaled too hard and coughed it all up and felt nothing.</p>\n<p>This time, though, it had worked. At least <strong>Kelly</strong> thought it had. Her head felt soft and fuzzy, as though someone had rubbed lotion all over her brain.<strong> Bellamy </strong>had agreed to take the soccer boys home, seeing as they both lived nearby, and when <strong>Kelly </strong>had said good-bye to her, she’d seen her face in flashing frames.</p>\n<p><strong>Kelly</strong> had accepted a ride from Len—something she hadn’t thought very much about until now, but as she slipped into the front seat of the Trans Am, that panicky feeling flooded through her again. She found herself focusing too hard on each movement. The click of the lock echoed in her ears and the leather seats squeaked and clawed at her. <strong>Kelly</strong> felt Len’s syrupy gaze on her too, and when she turned a little, there was <strong>Len’s</strong> face. Close. <strong>God</strong>, he was so old.</p>\n<p>“Good stuff, huh?” His breath was hot and sticky. His eyes blurred into one.</p>\n<p>“Really good.”</p>\n<p><strong>Len’s</strong> hand slipped up under her peasant skirt and rested on her thigh. Her whole leg stiffened. The car did smell good, she thought—like warm leather and pine.</p>\n<p>He leaned in and kissed her, his mouth spongy and lax. His lips were too wet and the pencil mustache scratched at her nose. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and then just let it lay there on top of hers, slimy and sleeping.</p>\n<p>My first kiss. She hadn’t expected it to be like this. <strong>Catherine</strong> had once said her first kiss would feel like magic and she’d wanted to believe that. But then again, how was <strong>Kelly</strong> supposed to know what magic felt like? She closed her eyes, tried to relax. His mouth opened wider, so he was biting into her cheeks. What part of this was supposed to feel good? There had to be something. She tried running a hand through his greasy hair and he moaned, his wet lips vibrating.</p>\n<p>The weed made <strong>Kelly</strong> nervous. It was getting hard to breathe, but she didn’t want to pull away because she didn’t want to have to look at <strong>Len</strong>. She didn’t know what to say to him. Thanks? That was interesting?</p>\n<p>At one point, back at the house when the boys were laughing about something, <strong>Bellamy</strong> had set her head on <strong>Kelly’s</strong> shoulder. “I knew we’d be friends,” she had said. The memory of it relaxed her.</p>\n<p><strong>Len</strong> pulled away. <strong>Kelly’s</strong> mouth still tasted of him, a sour taste. “Better get you home,” he said. “Unless you want to stop somewhere first.”</p>\n<p>She didn’t want to stop somewhere with him. But she didn’t want to go home either. She heard herself say, “I don’t care.”</p>\n<p><strong>Len </strong>started up the car but kept his hand on her thigh. <strong>Kelly</strong> closed her eyes and leaned back, <strong>Bellamy’s</strong> voice from this afternoon still in her head, making the hand feel lighter.</p>\n<p>“You’re like me.” <strong>Bellamy </strong>had said it into <strong>Kelly’s</strong> ear, in a soft, pressing whisper she could feel more than hear. “You have secrets.”</p>\n<pre><code><strong>CHAPTER 2 will be posted soon.</strong></code></pre>\n<p><br></p>\n<h1><strong>We'll make it together if we support each other. I NEED YOUR SUPPORT BECAUSE IT's MY BEGINNING. BIG THANKS.</strong></h1>\n<h1><strong>HIT UPVOTE</strong></h1>\n</html>",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"story\",\"novel\",\"filmmaking\",\"writing\",\"steemit\",\"art\",\"psychology\"],\"image\":[\"https://www.ascrubslife.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/old-school-learning.jpg\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"html\"}"
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}

steemdelegated 18.207 SP to @beyondstories

2019/10/14 19:05:51 UTC

37,284,301|7d04334

delegator	steem
delegatee	beyondstories
vesting shares	29648.355613 VESTS
Transaction Info	Block #37284301/Trx 7d0433438c724c19e10350796b4d03a681aff682

View Raw JSON Data

{
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steemdelegated 18.608 SP to @beyondstories

2019/10/14 17:53:54 UTC

37,282,864|9f8b6cf

delegator	steem
delegatee	beyondstories
vesting shares	30300.000000 VESTS
Transaction Info	Block #37282864/Trx 9f8b6cf3d70733580626dfa5d7cd26c2c5c4403e

View Raw JSON Data

{
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  "op": [
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      "vesting_shares": "30300.000000 VESTS"
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}

steemcreated a new account: @beyondstories

2019/10/14 17:53:54 UTC

37,282,864|9f8b6cf

creator	steem
new account name	beyondstories
owner	{"weight_threshold":1,"account_auths":[],"key_auths":[["STM7ExmC1v5u84N7HGFAMs2nBWHNkxUuaF3tYLi4HaffnH33S1Kij",1]]}
active	{"weight_threshold":1,"account_auths":[],"key_auths":[["STM8Fonu7VtMGQpzNzUwiDCDoLR2N2WvScuZr4byn1rZAY5w4vG1i",1]]}
posting	{"weight_threshold":1,"account_auths":[],"key_auths":[["STM6hhZV1wr5kxfdddudpaspWmZxxvkAzbr2M1mvnLacZv5zyczdF",1]]}
memo key	STM538usVacyPnUVu1RCdr9UEkU6JwjeSvP42vvs5ajFo3AzNxsbv
json metadata	{}
extensions	[]
Transaction Info	Block #37282864/Trx 9f8b6cf3d70733580626dfa5d7cd26c2c5c4403e

View Raw JSON Data

{
  "trx_id": "9f8b6cf3d70733580626dfa5d7cd26c2c5c4403e",
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  "op": [
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Manabar

Voting Power100.00%

Downvote Power100.00%

Resource Credits100.00%

Reputation Progress0.00%

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Account Metadata

POSTING JSON METADATA
None
JSON METADATA
profile	{"profile_image":"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmW3pnFxoki2apd8Hng7UGnLuRhFp13sfv81uuNpVXaajN/Beyond%20Stories.jpg"}

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Auth Keys

Owner

Single Signature

Public Keys

STM7ExmC1v5u84N7HGFAMs2nBWHNkxUuaF3tYLi4HaffnH33S1Kij1/1

Active

Single Signature

Public Keys

STM8Fonu7VtMGQpzNzUwiDCDoLR2N2WvScuZr4byn1rZAY5w4vG1i1/1

Posting

Single Signature

Public Keys

STM6hhZV1wr5kxfdddudpaspWmZxxvkAzbr2M1mvnLacZv5zyczdF1/1

Memo

STM538usVacyPnUVu1RCdr9UEkU6JwjeSvP42vvs5ajFo3AzNxsbv

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  "memo": "STM538usVacyPnUVu1RCdr9UEkU6JwjeSvP42vvs5ajFo3AzNxsbv"
}

Witness Votes

0 / 30

No active witness votes.

[]