<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> <html> <head><title>Studio Scordatura &#8226; A. R. Nyfors &#8226; Walk Out a Mean Free Path</title> <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=unicode"> <meta name="description" content="Consortium of Close-Knit Pacific NW Artists, Writers &amp; Musicians."> <meta name="keywords" content="Art, Fiction, Fine, Literature, Modern, Music, Non-Fiction, Photography, Post-Modern"> <meta name="author" content="Scott Aaron Stine"> <meta name="GENERATOR" content="MSHTML 6.00.6000.16825"> <script language="JavaScript" type="text/JavaScript"></script> <body bgcolor="#000000" link="midnightblue"> <style> body {background-image: url("http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/images/nyforsbackdrop.jpg"); background-position: 50% 0%; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-attachment: scrolled;} </style> <p> <!--SPACER--> <table width="600" height="160" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" align="center"> <tr> <td align="center" valign="top"> </td> </tr> </table> <p> <!--TABS--> <table width="600" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" align="center"> <tr> <td align="center" valign="top"> <a href="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/nyforscatalog.html"><img src="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/images/tabcatalogwhite.jpg" name="tabcatalogwhite.jpg" width="150" height="50" border="0"></a><a href="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/nyforshistory.html"><img src="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/images/tabhistoryblack.jpg" name="tabhistoryblack.jpg" width="150" height="50" border="0"></a><a href="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/nyforsupdates.html"><img src="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/images/tabupdatesblack.jpg" name="tabupdatesblack.jpg" width="150" height="50" border="0"></a><a href="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/nyforscontact.html"><img src="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/images/tabcontactblack.jpg" name="tabcontactblack.jpg" width="150" height="50" border="0"></a> </td> </tr> </table> <!--SUBTITLE--> <table width="600" height="50" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" align="center"> <tr> <td align="center" valign="top"> <img src="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/images/subheader.jpg" name="subheader.jpg" width="600" height="50" border="0"><p> </td> </tr> </table> <!--PAGE TITLE--> <p> <!--BODY DESCRIPTION--> <table width="600" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" align="center"> <tr> <td align="left" valign="top"> <font face="georgia" color="maroon" size="-1"> <div style=height:600px;width:600px;overflow:scroll;"> <center><font color="maroon"><b>Excerpt from</b></font> <font face="georgia" color="black"><b>Walk Out a Mean Free Path</b> (2005)</font></center><br> &#160;<p> <b> He decided to shut up. If either of them said another word, they were going to have a big fight. She decided the same thing, and turned on the radio. The strains of Elvis Costello's Alison filled the car. She looked out the window, away from him. His confusion from the night before returned, and he put his arm around her at a stoplight. <p> "It wasn't your music, Sean," Addy said softly, sorry she'd snapped at him. "He admires that." <p> "I am a coward," he said. "But I'd want to take you with me anyway today. You're the only one who'd understand. I guess I'm just jealous that you're so loyal to him that you won't even pretend to be my girlfriend for an afternoon." <p> Addy shook her head. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it. But I don't see that it would be better to have me be that than just a friend. Won't your family slam you for having a fat girlfriend?" <p> "Well, maybe...." Sean said, not having thought of that. "You'd be the first girl I ever brought home though. That might keep them on their best behavior." <p> "Even more if I'm only a friend." <p> He frowned, his eyebrows coming together, thinking about it. He knew that logically it made sense that way, and she was right, but he didn't want it that way. "No, let's do it my way," he said. <p> "They're your family," she agreed. <p> He didn't know the house the family had moved twice since the last Christmas. They crept up to it, looking at addresses, his arm around her. At last he recognized the car and pulled into a driveway. He held her hand as they went to the door, where he rang the bell. <p> Addy would have known the woman was his mother anywhere. She was tiny and birdlike, with red hair going gray piled high on her head. She was wearing a bright red dress and a little white apron with poinsettias embroidered all over the edges. She was carrying herself with the looseness of a drunk with just the right head on, in the middle of her few minutes of feeling great before she either got too sober or too drunk. She threw her arms around Sean. <p> "Baby!" she cried. "Oh, my Seanee, you came home!" <p> "Hi mom," he said, blushing and hugging her back. Then he stepped back from her. "Mom, this is Addy," he introduced her. Addy felt enormous. She towered over the woman and must have weighed twice what she did. The woman hugged her and leaned up to kiss her cheek. <p> "It's lovely to meet you dear, come on in. You're so dressed up!" <p> "We were in a friends' wedding," Sean explained. "Sorry." <p> The living room was barren and clean. Cheap 1960's furniture was spread thin to fill the room in a spindly fashion. There were a couple of framed religious prints on the walls, and a very old bowling trophy stood on top of the t.v., under a clock that was shaped like a gold sunburst. The heaviest piece of furniture was a green Naugahyde recliner opposite the television. Sitting in it was an aging man with an expanding waistline, his stockinged feet crossed in front of him. He was beefy, but not tall, with enormous forearms and a barrel chest. His short gray hair and huge, wrinkled, hard hands gave the first impression of a working man who was rapidly ending his working life. Then you noticed his bitter face, the corners of the mouth turned down in permanent cruelty. <p> "So you finally showed up," he grunted, before catching sight of Addy. He stood up for her. <p> "Hi, dad," Sean said. "Merry Christmas." <p> "Dear?" his wife said. "This is Addy. She's Sean's...." <p> Sean hesitated, his mouth open. "Girlfriend," he finally said. <p> His father shook hands with her, careful to do so with enough pressure to let her know that he could crush her hand if he chose to. Addy equally carefully made her hand as limp and soft as she could. She wasn't going to bait anyone with a mouth like that, at least not physically. <p> "Living together?" he asked knowingly to Sean. <p> "Yeah," Sean agreed, inexplicably to Addy. <p> "Thought so," his dad said. "Might be better that way. Easier to get rid of you find out you've made a mistake." There was something so prying about the way that he said it, as if expecting Sean to say something about their relationship both a defense and agreement open to his criticism that they both squirmed. If Sean defended it, Addy could tell he was the kind of guy who'd start asking when they planned to get married. If he agreed it was easier to split up, he'd start asking what was wrong and how long they figured to be together. Addy looked at Sean with nervous curiousity. <p> "Um," Sean said, the most non-committal sound Addy had ever heard from a human being. His father looked sharply at him, and ostentatiously rearranged the sections of newspaper that were resting on the arm of the chair before reseating himself. <p> "Have a seat," he waved at the uncomfortable looking, nubbly blue couch with insecure looking, tall wooden legs. <p> "Is Damon here?" Sean asked. <p> "He's in his room dear," his mother replied. "Why don't you see if he'd like to come out and join us for awhile?" <p> "Okay mom," Sean agreed, and disappeared in search of the right room, leaving Addy sitting in the living room watching the Rose Bowl with his father. <p> 'Thank God for television,' Addy thought. His father groaned over a catch that was called back as out of bounds. "Bad call," she said, companionably she thought. <p> "You know about football?" his father asked suspiciously. <p> "Only a little," she said. "I don't have enough time to watch much." <p> "What do you do?" he asked. "Waitress?" <p> "No. I write for magazines." <p> His head slowly turned and he looked at her, completely incredulous. <p> Sean stuck his head back in the room from an adjoining doorway. "Addy, come and meet my brother," he said. She fled to him, scooting past the sparse Christmas tree with nothing under it, surprised to find herself extremely unsettled. <p> Sean waited for her out of his father's line of sight. He was pale. <p> "You okay?" she asked. <p> He led her into another room. The room contained nothing but a bed and a dresser. There was nothing personal there, no pictures, no bits and pieces, no clothing in evidence. The room was as sterile as if it were in a hospital, without even the technical accouterments of that environment. It could have been a prison cell, but didn't have enough character. There was a young boy lying on the bed, half-sitting, half-slumped. He was staring off into nowhere, looking up at her uninterested. When she moved, she moved through his field of vision. He didn't even move his eyes to follow her. He couldn't have weighed more than 90 pounds. The bones of his wrists stuck out like skeleton joints. He looked up at her with the eyes of a concentration camp victim. Sean sat down on the bed next to him. Addy sat too. <p> "Addy, this is my brother Damon. Damon, this is my friend Addy," he said. <p> Damon just stared at her. She stared back. She didn't know what to say. <p> "Can I have a cigarette?" Addy asked, not sure how she was going to make it through the afternoon. He was making her pay her debt in spades, that was for sure. <p> "Yeah." He shook one out to her, lit it and one for himself. Damon stared at them. "Come on," Sean said, unaccountably antsy. "We don't want to spill any ashes in here. Things have gotten worse." <p> "Sean," she stopped him, her hand on his arm. "Were you....like this?" <p> "This thin?" he asked. "No. This way? No. I was different. I was always hurt, because I always fought. I had bars on my window." <p> He sat down next to Damon again, his face filled with unexpressed desperation and regret. He hugged the boy to him, his head down, face turned away from her. The boy was limp in his arms. <p> They went out to the kitchen, where his mom gave them each separate tiny ashtrays that felt as if they were made out of heavy tinfoil. One was gold and the other red. There was a nice dinner on, and Addy did what she could to help without intruding. His mom offered them drinks, and they both refused. Sean let her make them some coffee. She kept on with a stream of mindless, semi-drunken prattle about things she'd seen on television, retailing the entire plot of several television shows as if she knew the people and they were real. Neither of them said much in reply, but then, it wasn't required. <p> Addy felt a headache coming on and went to the living room to search her purse for an aspirin. Her bag was where she had left it, but his father had gone through it, she was sure of it. She picked it up and took it back to the kitchen with her, dumping it out on the kitchen table. Since she normally didn't carry one, it didn't have much in it and it didn't take long to discover that nothing was missing. She hoped that her press cards, four of them now, counting the Times, had given him pleasure. Sean watched her do it, and she could tell that he knew what she was doing, and why, and was humiliated. <p> She made a sympathetic face at him and shrugged. He looked almost disconsolate. As she went to get a cup of coffee to take her aspirin with, she stopped and put her hand on his shoulder. <p> "You okay, babe?" she asked him softly, imitating long-term couples she'd seen. She kissed him lightly on the forehead. <p> Sean looked overwhelmingly grateful for a moment. "I'm fine, doll." He put his arm around her hips and squeezed her, matching her acting. <p> "Now isn't that cute?" his mom asked. "I just think that young couples in love are so cute. Daddy, come and look at this," she called into the living room. <p> "Mom!" Sean protested. Addy was startled by the note of fear in his voice. <p> "No, now, I think it's cute. Daddy come and take a picture." <p> His father appeared in the doorway from the other room. Disturbing him had not been a good idea. He looked dangerous. "What?" he barked. <p> "Now, aren't they just cute?" Sean's mom simpered. "Get the camera and take a picture of them, do." <p> "Don't tell me what to do. So he's feeling up his doxy. So what?" <p> Addy snorted with laughter. "Doxy?" she hooted. This way of taking his father was apparently new to the family. They stared at her as if she were crazy. But as far as she was concerned, it was utterly ridiculous to let him stand there intimidating all of them. <p> His father stared at her for a second, then went back to the living room. "Addy!" Sean hissed, his mouth grim. She looked down at him, still sitting. "Don't you understand? It won't be you who gets it!" He shook her lightly by the arm. <p> She felt terrible. As soon as he said so she knew he was right, and cursed herself for a fool. Of course it would be his mother or his brother, later, who would suffer for her laughter. What could she do? She felt helpless. <p> "I'm sorry," she muttered. <p> He was furious at her, slammed out of the room in the direction of Damon's room. <p> "Now sweetie, don't worry. It's nothing, really it isn't," his mother said after him, vainly trying to jolly him out of it. "Now Addy, if you'd just help me get this on the table?" As they carried things into the dining room, she went on. "Sean always seems to think there's something bad going to happen. He's always been like that, just a worry wart, just since he was a little baby boy." She leaned over confidentially. "He and his father have just never understood each other, just not at all." <p> Sean and his father came out of the hall together a moment later. Sean looked sick. Addy knew the look of someone who had just been hit in the stomach. <p> "Hey, missy," his father said. "Tell me now, have you ever seen one of these?" He held out a nice little .38 semi-automatic pistol to her, a weapon undoubtedly chosen to scare her with it's sleek aura of danger. He had done a lot of customization to it, and without even getting it out of his hand, she was willing to bet there wasn't a serial number on it. Once more, despite how much she despised him, she had to admit that Dale had taught her a lot of useful stuff. After all, she'd had to do the routine cleaning and maintenance on his collection. She could field strip any gun she'd seen in military time, to Dale's exacting specifications, and she could hit the broadside of a barn in daylight with both eyes open. <p> "Sure," she said. She took it out of his hand, before he could protest, yanked the clip, checked the chamber, and test sighted it directly between his eyes, her feet planted properly and stance good. "You've done some nice work on it," she shrugged, noticing the sight was off. "But I bet it pulls to the left over thirty feet." She slid a fingertip over the place where the serial number would have been. "It's clean. You could get good money for it on the street. I prefer a revolver myself." She handed it back to him. <p> Sean's eyes were wide. His father's were narrowed with something deeper than astonishment, although that was there too. She saw the beginnings of a respect that made her sick to her stomach, but she knew that if she was going to make up for her former laughter, she had to give herself the right to laugh at him in his own eyes. Even then it might not work, but if she could let him win in the end, she thought, he'd feel great. He was that kind of petty asshole. She also knew that Sean had taken a blow for his brother. If he had done that, the least she could do was try and clean up her own mess. <p> "I'll be damned," he said. "I'll be damned. So you prefer a revolver, do you? Do your own ammo?" <p> She looked at him witheringly. "How else are you gonna get hollow-tips? Buy 'em in the store?" <p> "Well, you got a point there," he agreed, slowly. <p> "What else you got?" she asked. <p> The elder Morgan took her into his gun room. <p> Sean trailed along behind them, feeling like he was walking on eggshells. He didn't know what to make of Addy, only knew that she'd better not be faking. If she could get his father to like her, it would make everything okay. It would make everything come out all right. He followed her every move with his eyes, as she touched weapon after weapon knowingly. The talk grew exceedingly technical, and he couldn't follow it any more than she could follow the esoterica of guitars. He'd tightened his gut as much as he could, and hadn't responded with the blows that were in his fists, protected Damon for just once. Now she was fighting for all of them. He was amazed at her loyalty and her cunning. <p> Finally she found what she was looking for. There was a set of standard-issue army rifles. She challenged him to field strip and reassemble, blindfolded, after dinner; best three out of five. It was one gun nut's challenge to another, and she knew he wouldn't refuse. Besides, she had resorted to the low device of being moderately flirtatious with him, as though his collection had changed her opinion of him, as though acquaintance with him was raising her opinion of his son. It was, but not in the way that he thought. She was more impressed with Sean getting away from this family than ever. <p> His mother called them in to dinner. She fixed a small plate for Damon, with only soft foods on it, mutely appealing to his father for approval of the tiny meal. Approval was granted with a glance, and she left. Addy wondered if she had to feed the boy. From the length of time she was gone, she knew the answer: the mother came back immediately. It made Addy boil. Letting the bastard win was going to be difficult. <p> Sean's mother, although she never seemed to take a drink, was getting progressively drunker as the time wore on. Now that she was done cooking, the progression seemed to begin to happen faster. During the meal, conversation consisted of Addy and Morgan talking about guns and Mrs. Morgan interrupting with gushing silliness. Sean didn't say anything. At least this was better than the usual silent meal, with his mother crying and his father addressing the odd hyper-critical remark at him. He was no longer worried about Addy getting his father worked out of his discomfiture. He could see exactly what she was doing and knew that she'd carry it off. It had been a brilliant idea to bring her. <p> He tried to imagine Therese in this house, found himself imagining his mother and her clinging to each other in the kitchen, excluding him. He knew his father would despise Therese the way he despised his own wife. Addy was different. She was standing up to him, simply refusing to be frightened. Therese would have been scared to death. Sean looked over at Addy, saw that the hand holding her napkin in her lap next to him was shaking. She was scared too. <p> Suddenly he realized what it was about her that made her different. She got just as scared as everybody else did, but she refused to let being scared stop her from anything. She had loved Ty even though she'd known how it would end she hadn't let fear of the pain stop her. <p> "So what are you doing these days?" Mr. Morgan asked Sean suddenly. He was startled by having anything directed at him. <p> "Still music," he said. <p> "He make a living at that?" his father asked Addy, as if appealing to an authority. <p> "Yes. He's very good," Addy said. <p> "Really," Mr. Morgan nodded. "So how come you're driving that piece of shit car?" <p> "Most of the money's in the motorcycle," Sean answered. "We like that better, but you can't drive it in snow." <p> "A motorcycle! Oh, Sean, you don't ride a motorcycle do you?" his mother wailed. "You'll get killed, I just know you'll be killed." <p> "No he won't," Addy said flatly, pissed at Sean using her so thoroughly. <p> "So you support him, huh?" his father asked her. <p> "No one supports me," Sean answered. <p> "Let her answer. I'll believe whatever she tells me," he said, lifting his chin in Addy's direction. <p> "No one supports him," she said flatly. <p> Dinner ended as uncomfortably as it had begun. Addy was beginning to feel distinctly queasy. She wasn't sure if it was the food or the atmosphere, but her digestive system was reacting as if she was putting raw salmonella bacteria in it. <p> They watched the last quarter of the last bowl game that Mr. Morgan wanted to see, allowing their "dinner to settle" as he put it. Then he got the rifles out. Sean blindfolded her while his father did his own. Sean was going to time them. Addy had no idea how fast the man was. She figured to take her time on the first run, it had been awhile, and if she lost it, then she'd know how hard she had to push to win enough to keep it close. So she did it easy, lifting her hands and saying "Done!" before pushing off the blindfold. <p> His father was still only half-reassembled, struggling with the stock. <p> After beating him by a margin like that, there was no way to let him win any of them unless she dropped a piece. <p> "You ex-military?" he asked suspiciously. She decided that as long as Sean was borrowing her life so liberally, she could borrow Dale's. <p> "Army," she said. "Infantry." <p> "A ringer!" he laughed. "I been suckered!" <p> "Sorry, dad," Sean said, smiling. For a moment, Addy could see how much he wanted to love his father, how much he hated hating him; how much more he wanted his father to love him, to not be who he was. It was futile. The man was not a man, but a beast, and a mean beast at that. <p> "Oh hell, kid, don't be sorry. I guess if you can keep a woman like this one happy you don't have to be sorry about nothing. Army! I'll be damned." <p> They called off the rest of the contest, his father being convinced that he'd lose, and perfectly happy to admit himself "suckered" instead. As they said goodbye, Addy kissed his father's cheek and let him pat her ass, knowing that would leave him happy. If anyone was going to get beaten up she wasn't about to have it on her conscience. It also left Sean free to slip off and speak again to his brother, to say goodbye again. <p> Sean brought the car to life with a roar. It was already long since dark, almost seven o'clock. Four hours of hell. She let him get around the corner and half a block down the street. <p> "Sean, pull over," she said. <p> "What? Why?" he asked. <p> "Just do it, you prick," she grunted, holding her stomach. He pulled the car over just in time. She hung out the door, puking. When she'd done, she put a handful of clean snow in her mouth, swooshed it around and spat it out. Sean sat there, feeling guilty. "I'm sorry Addy," he apologized. "I didn't think anybody but me would feel it the way I do." <p> "What, do you think I'm dead or just dumb?" she yelled at him. "You are an absolute fucker, you know? You know about Dale!" <p> "But I needed you!" he protested, as if that explained everything. "You were great. That was the best Christmas ever at my folks." <p> "I feel dirty," she said. "That man had his hands all over my ass. I just whored for you Sean, you know? Well we're even now, I guess. I don't owe you anything anymore. Fucking pimp." She rummaged in her purse and found a breath mint, put it in her mouth. <p> Her elbow clunked on the harp in her jacket pocket, but she ignored it. She didn't want to give it to him any more. <p> "It's not about owing, Addy," he said after a minute. "That was just a joke earlier. It's about being friends. You think that didn't cost me, last night, watching you cry like that? You think that didn't hurt me?" <p> "Then why weren't you there when I woke up?" she accused. <p> He didn't know what to say. He didn't know why, except that it seemed like a good idea to be gone at the time. <p> "I thought you'd be embarrassed," he finally answered. "I thought you wouldn't want me there." <p> They rode in silence for awhile. There was more traffic than either of them had expected. The quality of the silence changed. Addy wasn't so mad at him anymore, and Sean didn't feel so guilty anymore. They arrived at her apartment. He parked the car and got out to walk her in. His tuxedo no longer felt stiff and new, it felt cheap and sleazy. She looked tired. His stomach hurt a bit, but not badly, not like usual. <p> For some reason, without even asking, he went into the apartment with her. <p> "I'm changing clothes," she said. "I think there's an old pair of Ty's jeans around here that'll fit you. Want them?" <p> "Sure," he said. "You don't have an extra sweatshirt or something do you?" <p> "Yeah, probably." <p> She hunted up some clothes for him and he went into the bathroom to change. She put on her regular jeans and a huge old sweater over a t-shirt, turning up the heat in the apartment, then brushed her teeth. He was waiting for her in the living room. He'd plugged the tree back in and turned on the radio. The place didn't seem empty the way it would have. He was holding a present in his hands, a small package. <p> "This is for you," he said awkwardly. <p> She got the one she'd wrapped for him out of her jacket and gave it to him without a word. <p> When she opened the wrapping, inside was a cassette. The box said "For Addy, who understands. Christmas, 1980." She looked up at him with a question in her eyes. <p> "I made it yesterday, while I was waiting for you to get home. Wait until I'm gone to play it, okay?" He looked unsure of himself. <p> "Open yours," she said. <p> He unwrapped it quickly. It had no words, no card, just the engraving along the sides of the battered harp. "Tell me about it," he said. <p> She told him the story. "I don't know why I want you to have it," she lied. "But it's right." <p> He was touched, feeling connected to her. He looked over at her, shy of contact with her after the night before. He didn't want to come near her sexually and after their day together, was afraid he would not be able to resist. <p> "I'd better go," he said. "Thank you." <p> "Thank you too," she answered, not trying to stop him. She wasn't sure how she felt about him anymore. Her mind and heart were full of Ty. She still ached with missing him. The day with Sean had been gothic in character. After meeting his family she wasn't sure that he would ever be able to have a normal relationship, and she didn't want, couldn't handle, any more weirdness. If he were just another guy whose sickness matched her own, she was going to give him a miss. She didn't want anyone but Ty anyway. She reached for the cross around her neck, brushed it with her fingertips, tracing it's outline. <p> "You're thinking of him," he said. "I'd better go." <p> "Yeah, you said that." <p> He pulled on his tuxedo jacket over the jeans and t-shirt she'd given him. She noticed that the jeans were the ones Ty had burned on the leg. 'Naturally,' she thought, 'he couldn't take those home. Not that Serena would ever notice or that he wouldn't be able to make an excuse. She'd believe anything he told her. Just that he'd feel guilty and that would betray him. Damn it, he really loves her.' She wished his jeans didn't fit Sean so well. She didn't like to think of them as being interchangeable, like assembly line men. But though they fit, the look was subtly different. The curve of Sean's thighs was stronger, the hips narrower. They weren't the same at all. She looked down at the floor. <p> "Well, 'bye," he said, picking up the rest of his suit. <p> "'Bye." <p> After he'd left, she put the tape on the deck and went in for a long soak in the bathtub. His father had made her feel like a doxy after all. She wanted his touch off of her, as quickly as possible. <p> continued...<p> </b></div> </font> </td> </tr> </table> <p> <!--ANNOUNCEMENT--> <table width="600" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" align="center"> <tr> <td align="center" valign="top"> <font face="arial" size="-1"><b>Complete texts for most of these works are available to editors and publishers upon request.</b></font><br> &#8194;<p> </td> </tr> </table> <!--BACK--> <table width="600" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" align="center"> <tr> <td align="left" valign="top"> <a href="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/index.htm"><img src="http://www.thetrashcollector.com/studioscordatura/images/sscompasslink.jpg" name="sscompasslink.jpg" width="300" height="100" border="0"></a><br> &#8194;</b><p> </td> </tr> </table> <!--COPYRIGHT--> <table width="600" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" align="center"> <tr> <td align="center" valign="top"> <font face="arial" size="1"> <hr width="600"> <b> This website &copy; 2010 by Studio Scordatura.<br> All text and art reproductions &copy; 2010 by the respective artists.<br> Please do not reproduce anything from this website without prior permission. 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