#Indiana prefab homes

[leofletcher319]

The Benefits Of Investing In Maine Prefab Homes

Whether to invest in Maine prefab homes or the traditional site-built homes is a question that you may be asking yourself right now. Prefab homes, are also commonly known as modular homes, and they are houses that are designed and built in a factory before being transported to your land and positioned wherever you want it. The following are some of the reasons to consider these homes.

One of the things that you will love about the Maine kit homes is that they are cost effective. A prefab home will typically cost you about 15 to 20 percent the amount of money you would have spent on a traditional build. This is because of the accelerated construction, material efficiency as well as the limited waste.

Most of the prefab home manufacturers usually purchase large quantities of materials like rock, wood, and lumber, something that lowers the overall cost. The material, skilled labor as well as the assembly line process are central to one location. Depending on where you plan to build your home, there may be additional expenses if heating, plumbing, electricity and sewage are not already established. Remember that you are also responsible for the foundation.

Another advantage of Maine prefab homes is the peace of mind that comes with building them. The prefabrication process allows manufacturers to be able to sell the prefab homes for a set price. There are no budgets or on-site builders to worry about. You simply need to set your budget or price point, and it will never cost you more than the guaranteed price. You will not need to worry about missing builders, being over budget, and slow labor.

For more information on the benefits of investing in Maine prefab homes, visit our website at https://greenrpanel.com/

[wabashmfginc]

Mobile Houses For Sale In Vermont Find Manufactured Houses Vermont

After all of the paperwork are signed, the customer will need to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles or equivalent office and register the mobile house. If the house did not include land, it goes mobile trailer sales to be treated like some other transferrable or detachable asset which is roofed by the buyer’s native DMV office. This information explains the method in most States for the purchase and sale of a mobile home.

Requirements for paying the sales tax to the Indiana BMV or proving sales tax was already paid is outlined in the documentation necessities offered above. Single extensive mobile houses are single part houses starting from 400 sq ft to 1330 sqft. Single-wides provide a fast and inexpensive method of getting your dream residence without losing high quality of development.

Please do not hesitate to contact us when you have any questions or inquiries about our journey trailer inventory. You’ll discover all kinds of options to select from and further customizations to swimsuit your personal tastes. Our housing consultants at Bolton Homes can information mobile trailer sales you confidently by way of the process—and help you design your dream residence. Bolton Homes is a family owned and operated business—when you store with us, it’s our goal so that you can really feel like part of that household.

We begin with a Mercedes-Benz® or RAM ProMaster® Class B van, select one of the best safety and performance options, and outfit the cabin with each luxurious you have to really feel snug. Our touring coaches are built with unmatched quality, standout design, and a focus to detail. Shop new Airstream touring coaches to discover your right fit.

General Coach commenced production by constructing a 16’ “Beaver” journey trailer followed by the introduction of a 40 x 8 mobile home within the early 1960’s via to the 1970’s. Request a quote now and a WillScot professional will assist you to discover a mobile workplace or storage unit that most carefully fits your wants. For customers who prefer to own their very own house at a fantastic worth, we provide select units on the market. We love getting to know our prospects, and we worth mobile trailer sales the relationships we type with them—our mission is to ship one of the best service you’ll discover wherever. We’re able to go the extra mile to meet your needs and help you build and purchase the house of your desires. Our workers may even allow you to customise your new house to satisfy your preferences and budget, and guarantee it’s delivered, arrange, and put in promptly and correctly.

You are not required to use for title and license plates for trailers under three,000 pounds gross weight except used for rent or rental. Title and license plates are​ inspired for these vehicles that shall be used on roads outside the state of Wisconsin, as different states' registration laws may be totally different. A title and license plates are ​not required for collapsible tenting trailers at or less than 3,000 pounds gross weight except they're used for rent or rental.

View professionally curated hi-res photographs, 3D excursions, ground plans, and researched content material solely obtainable here. Manufactured and mobile properties higher than 45 ft long, except for fifth wheel, journey trailers or park model RV trailers, are exempt from registration. Modular homes are our same beautiful ground plans placed on a everlasting basis. Most folks suppose modular houses, or prefab properties, are just houses that look good. Actually, any of our multi-section home flooring plans could be constructed as a modular residence and will really look the identical. What changes is the code the home is built to and the material within the walls.

Prior to submitting every software, confirm that all required information is included. To apply on your manufactured house title, please visit any Indiana BMV license branch. Download the required paperwork checklist above to guarantee you have all required paperwork. (See applying for title and registration.) The transferable trailer plate ought to be applied for at the weight sufficient to cover the whole weight of the undercarriage plus the load.

They are often produced from a heavy rubber material and they are very resistant. Wine cannot be served at any temperature and you cannot cool it down using ice. For a mobile wine bar you'll need a wine cupboard where you can store the wine and maintain it in the right temperature that's between 15°C and 18°C for pink wines and between 5°C and 10°C for white wines.

[prefab-houses]

Reasons Behind The Popularity Of Maine Prefab Homes

So you have decided to become a homeowner in Maine. This is a very important step in your life, so you need to make sure you know how to navigate it well.  You can either go the traditional site-built homes, or you can opt for Maine prefab homes which seem to be attracting the attention of many people lately.

There are various reasons why prefab homes are being preferred these days. The first one is that they are better for the environment. Since these homes are constructed in one central place before they are assembled on site, workers can settle close to the factory and commute a short distance instead of traveling to a potentially distant site every day. This results into less CO2 emissions. Prefabricated homes are also better for the environment since fewer materials are used in their construction and because they disturb the site less compared to the conventional construction.

Another reason behind the popularity of Maine prefab homes is that they are healthier. Since materials on construction sites are subjected to rain and snow, they can get covered in nasty environmental toxins such as mold, mildew, and rust. Even though it is possible for materials to get affected by these toxins indoors, they are less likely to get affected.

Prebuilt homes are also better for remote locations. If you come from a remote region, a prebuilt structure is a good option because it is built in one central location and then delivered. This alleviates the difficulty in finding contractors willing to travel a long distance to build a home. You simply need to find a good manufacturer near you to build for the prefab home of your dreams.

For more reasons behind the popularity of Maine prefab homes, visit our website at https://greenrpanel.com

[drfate]

Dr. Fate: In the Dungeon of the Damned

An old school Dr. Fate novel by Rex F Dorgan

Chapter 1 – Salem Tower

The tall blond man stepped from the train onto the platform at Salem Station. It was only 5 p.m., but the sun had already moved behind the train-and-bus depot building, leaving the platform and track in shade. He glanced down the track at the tunnel from which he had just emerged, and then began the climb up the stairs, to street level, with the mob of commuters and tourists departing the train with him. It occurred to him that much of his life had been spent on journeys through various underworlds followed by ascents back into the light. He smiled and laughed quietly at himself; he really needed to curb his habit of finding portentous metaphors in every little activity.

He normally used much faster modes of transport, but today he felt like taking things at a slower, more human pace, especially after all the inhuman things he had witnessed recently while working on site in Iraq. He was returning home now, having stopped first to deliver a guest lecture about this expedition in the city of his birth – Cambridge, where he had spoken before a packed room at the Peabody Museum of Archaeology at Harvard. He now began the final, happiest part of his journey, back among the familiar vistas of his adopted hometown of many years, Salem, Massachusetts.

“Witch-haunted” Salem, as it was so often called, an epithet confirmed commercially, and somewhat comically, as he strolled down Washington Street on his way home. In every direction, the town was overrun with reminders of its claim to infamy. To his right was the Witch Dungeon Museum on Lynde Street and to his left the Salem Witch Museum off Church Street. There was the Witch House and the Gallows Hill Museum, the Witch Village and the Salem Wax Museum. There was even the Bewitched Sculpture in Lappin Park, depicting television’s favourite housewife-witch, which he spotted as he passed Essex Street.

But then he came to Front Street, which led to Charles Street and the Witch Trials Memorial, and the true, sombre reality of the town’s supernatural past asserted itself. If they only knew, the man thought to himself with morbid amusement as he glanced back toward the ridiculous Bewitched statue, if they only knew. Salem had in fact truly been haunted by dark witchcraft in its colonial past (and since), but it was not the work of the young women who had been accused, tried, and executed at the Witch Trials, but by some of the very men who had sat in judgment of them. Isn’t it always the case, the man thought to himself, that great evil resorts to even greater evil – the greatest evil – when it sacrifices innocents to bear the blame, and suffer the consequences, of its own dark deeds?

His grim reverie was broken by someone shouting at him.

“Kent Nelson!” A very old man teetered on a walker directly in front of the tall blond man, pointing at him and accosting him loudly.

“Yes?” the tall blond man asked, a little confused. The old man seemed vaguely familiar.

“You’re the spitting image! Of him. Kent Nelson, that is. Except for the beard, of course. Kent Nelson was a clean-cut man, he was. A gentleman.”

Kent Nelson understood now.

“My grandfather. I believe you’re thinking of my grandfather. ‘Kent Nelson’ is my name as well. I’m named for him, as was my father. Dad just never went by ‘Junior,’ and I don’t go by ‘the Third.’”

“Why, it’s like looking back in time when I look at you Mr Nelson! Or is it Dr Nelson, like him?”

Kent Nelson smiled. “Well, technically, I’m a doctor, too – but only a simple Ph.D. in Archaeology. Not a medical doctor like him. Although he had a Ph.D. in Archaeology, as well – and Physics, too!”

“Oh, I recall all about the archaeology! He was like Indiana Jones, he was! Better! The real McCoy. He was always in that bomber jacket and those khaki desert pants when we saw him walking these streets, and then later after the war always so smartly dressed, being a doctor and all, in his dark blue suit. Like the one you’re wearing now. And with a gold tie. Like yours. And his wife, what a beauty! We were all so smitten, you know, all us boys. What a face! And what a body!”

Kent Nelson smiled more broadly. “Yes, she was quite a looker, ol’ grandma. People tell me she was as pretty as Maureen O’Hara – and twice as feisty!” He and the old man shared a laugh.

“And you still do the digs? Like your gramps? Looking for pyramids and the like?”

“Yes. In fact, I’ve only just returned to the states on a mission in Northern Iraq, evaluating the damage done to the Ezida Temple – the Temple of Nabu – and the Nergal Gate – by ISIS. And trying to help the National Museum recover precious antiquities that were stolen in the wars from whatever black marketeers and crooked billionaires they made their way to.”

“Iraq? Worse than ever, I reckon?” the old man asked, arching an eyebrow in a manner that indicated a kind of general scepticism toward every story he’d heard about the place for the last two decades.

“Yes, in some ways worse than ever, sadly. The birthplace of Western civilization, and we’ve lost so much so quickly. The destruction of the Northwest Temple, the ‘mermen’ statues, much of Nimrud in fact…”

“No doubt, no doubt,” the old man grumbled.

“I flew into Logan and stayed in Boston for the night, and gave a talk at Harvard this afternoon to please my benefactors. A TED Talk, very au courant, I’m told. You’ve heard of them?”

The old man shrugged. Nelson chuckled. “Yeah, I hadn’t either before this one. My publicist,” he said, as if that explained everything. And it apparently did; the old man nodded knowingly. “But now I’m finally heading home – and I can’t wait to get there. It’s been too long!”

“Well I won’t keep you, then,” the old man said, shifting his walker to clear a path forward for the doctor. “No doubt you got a pretty wife of your own to run home to. It was a pleasure to meet you, young Mr – Dr – Nelson.”

“And it was a pleasure to meet you too, Mr...?”

“Moore. J.D. Moore.”

“A pleasure, Mr Moore.” Kent nodded his head in a slight bow toward the man and continued on his way. He remembered Mr Moore, all right. Or Little Jimmy Moore, as he had been called back then.

At Norman Street he turned right to head south to Margin Street, which led to Jefferson Avenue and the more prosaic part of his journey. Off the beaten tourist path, with architecture less enduring and much less quaint, he now entered a part of town that grew increasingly quotidian the farther south he travelled. He passed the Post Office, which sported a “ye olde” colonial brick façade on its otherwise prefab form, and then the police station, the red brick of which was even more utilitarian and bland. He passed parking lots and auto parts stores, and a nest of large, boxy buildings constructed primarily of sheet aluminium, which gave the impression of being the office-building equivalent of a mobile home park. He proceeded into an area where Jefferson Avenue was lined with old homes, some of which had businesses operating out of them. He stopped at one of these, a quaint little flower shop with the name “Rose Red and Snow Lily” hand-painted in a flowing script on a wooden sign above the porch.

He had known the shop’s proprietress, Eliza Grey, since the time he had first arrived in Salem, which seemed as if it were only yesterday – while at the same time, it seemed as if their acquaintance had spanned centuries. He supposed both impressions were true; he knew that for Lady Grey, as he called her with an odd mix of irony and respect and affection, it had seemed forever. Time, and the perception of it, was as personally relative as it was fleetingly elusive, even for him.

No sooner had the little bell atop the door jingled upon his entrance than he was greeted by a voice that was at once shrill and melodious, upper-crust British mixed with the sharp, flat edges acquired from too many years in Boston, “Kent Nelson! What a plez-zhah!” The old woman rushed over to him and hugged him, her head only reaching his belly. She released him and looked up, smiling. “And how is that lovely wife of yours?” she asked.

“When last we spoke, she was doing very well, thank you. But that was last night on a sketchy WhatsApp connection and we haven’t seen each other in weeks. I’m on my way back home now. In fact, she’s why I stopped in.”

“Well of course she is, dear! Who else would you ever be buying flowers for?”

“Oh, the occasional funeral – maybe my own if I don’t get moving a little faster,” Nelson quipped.

“Well, then – the usual?”

“You say that like I order them every day.”

“Every time I see you.”

“But what is that – every five years?”

“Three, four – but who’s counting?”

“Yes, two dozen of the Rosa Richardii.”

“The Rosa Sancta – the Holy Rose of Abyssinia?”

“The Holy Rose of the ancient Egyptians, too.”

“Oh, yes, that’s where you two met, isn’t it? Alexandria?”

Nelson smiled. “As well you know, Lady Grey.”

“And you only want two dozen? I hear that when you first met her, you bought out a vendor’s entire market stall and had her hotel room stuffed so full of them she couldn’t move without knocking over a bouquet. You might have asphyxiated her with perfume blooms.”

“I have no idea where you might have heard such a ridiculous slander, Lady Grey,” Nelson laughed.

“Oh, I heard it from the most trusted source, Dr Nelson, the beautiful woman herself.”

“Yes, only two dozen. I learned my lesson not to overdo my displays of affection. With flowers, anyway.”

The old woman laughed and pelted him in the chest with a large delphinium she had been holding. “You are ever a character, Dr Nelson,” she said as she assembled a pile of flowers from two different refrigerated cases.

“As are you, Lady Grey.”

The old woman placed the flowers on the counter, pecked daintily at her register, and announced a price that was clearly too low for the rare flowers that Nelson had picked up and organized into a bundle appropriate for carrying another mile or so.

He tossed a $100 bill on the counter and said, as he headed toward the door, “Thanks, Lady Grey. Wonderful seeing you again.”

“Stop by any time, Dr Nelson,” she said. “Always a plez-zhah dealing with a gentleman. And such a wicked handsome gentleman,” she added with an exaggerated South Boston accent, accompanied by a playful wink.

He laughed and turned to leave the store and saw his face reflected in the glass window of the shop door. He’d allowed crow’s feet to form at the corners of his deep blue eyes, and, mixed in with the gold that the desert sun had spun in his straw-coloured hair, there were here and there strands of silver, but he realized he had hardly changed in all the time Lady Grey had known him. Not bad for a man of 112, he thought to himself.

  Before long, he had come to a collection of four gambrel-roofed houses, two red, one blue, and one white, that struck him as a playful bit of coincidental Americana, and which served as a sign that the last leg of his journey lay before him. He turned onto Willson Street and followed it until it led to the entrance to the Highland Park golf course – or, as the purposely anachronistic green and gold wooden sign referred to it, “Olde Salem Greens.” This park was part of the larger green space known as Salem Woods, where his home was located.

As the sun started to set, he crossed the parking lot to a little asphalt trail that led into the park, then crossed the golf course until it ended and the trees began, where he picked up a narrow dirt hiking trail that continued on into the woods. As he walked through the remaining forest of an area once sacred to Native Americans, he passed what he had long known to be three sites of intense spiritual energy. Powerful guardians still watched over this patch of woodland from the higher planes, and they bowed, and the birch trees that sensed their presence likewise bowed, as be passed.

At last he came to the base of Monument Hill, the tallest point in the woods. From the top of this hill you could reliably see the smokestacks of the power plant in Salem to the northeast, but on a clear day looking due east you could see over Swampscott all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.

At the top of the hill there had once been an observation tower that had belonged to the Forestry Service and then to the local Boy Scouts. The tower had been mostly demolished by 1933, at which point a new owner had purchased the hill, and the land around it, from the town and built a large, two-tiered granite tower that one local wag had likened to a rook from God’s chess board. The tower had no windows and no doors; its builder, one Kent Nelson, had declared that it was not to be inhabited but was instead merely a monument to the town and to luminaries such as Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau, who had all reputedly derived spiritual sustenance, at one time or other in their lives, from visits to these woods. The town was perfectly fine with this construction, since the remains of the Boy Scout tower had been an eyesore, and this seemed to be a perfectly satisfactory memorial, along the lines of the obelisks that city fathers were forever erecting in plazas and traffic circles, but with a Northern European flavour that had greater appeal for the WASP city fathers of that era.

But whether because of or in spite of this tower’s vague function, the locals set about immediately creating legends about the tower and its alleged inhabitants. Ghosts, witches, the ghosts of witches, Mothman, aliens, vampires - even Bigfoot - had all allegedly been seen coming and going from this tower, which apparently could only be accessed by beings capable of passing through its walls as if they were mist.

Kent Nelson grinned and let out a quiet, satisfied sigh of excitement at seeing his home, then bounded up the hill until he stood by the tower wall that faced north, hidden from the view of the condos to the south and west of the woods. He raised his hand and touched the cool granite blocks of the tower wall, the tower he had built with his own hands, with his own craft. And then he walked right through the wall as if it were nothing more than mist.

  The world inside Salem Tower was not a place the untrained human mind could easily apprehend, much less comprehend. Here the laws of physics did not strictly apply. As in Faerie, the four dimensions of spacetime, and the rules governing it, were violated here in ways that could be literally maddening. But unlike Faerie, which grew more disturbing the longer one lingered there, the interior of Salem Tower was ordered, logical even, something a mere human could adjust to, given time (or a magical facsimile thereof) and an easy-going imagination. While its bowels were vast, covering an area that seemed enormous at first glance and never-ending to one attempting to traverse it, and while its many staircases and rooms were set at Escehrian odds with one another in defiance of gravity and three-dimensional causality, it still had a lived-in humanity about it that made it, over time, knowable and even comfortable to those who dwelt there. Bookcases filled with ancient volumes, odd but beautiful artworks and artifacts stood in hallways or sat on tabletops, Persian rugs of great size and greater value (but none of them – any longer – capable of flight) covered floors of ancient hand-hewn oak, maple, and ash, and stone archways and hallways were so captivatingly constructed that one could walk through them for hours and never feel fatigued, or see the same place twice. This fantastical homescape was where Kent Nelson and his beloved wife Inza Cramer had lived the better part of their lives.

But entering Salem Tower now, this is not what Kent Nelson saw.

He saw, instead, a scene that reminded him of the Coventry Blitz: splintered walls, broken staircases, carpets ripped to shreds and stained with something resembling viscous bloody ink that seemed to be spreading even now before his eyes, the loose leaves of books scattered everywhere, their gutted hardcover carcasses lying spread apart like dead soldiers on a field of slaughter. Statuettes and ancient musical instruments lay in pieces on the tables they had rested on, or on the floors they had fallen on.

And in his right hand, two dozen roses drooped, withered, shrivelled, turned a sickening ashen grey, and then flaked into dust before his eyes.

But while all this registered, none of it mattered. Only one concern came to mind.

“Inza!”

He rushed from room to room with inhuman speed. “Inza!” Up and down broken staircases. In and out of crumbling archways. In every room, it was the same. Devastation. Desolation. And no Inza. He knew without a doubt that whatever had come here, whatever had worked its evil will here, had made her a captive pawn in its deadly game.

He fell to one knee, head in one hand. He felt the closest thing to panic he had felt in years. It was not that his many years labouring in the supernatural had rendered him any less a natural being, or that his many journeys among the superhuman, the inhuman, the dead, the demonic, the angelic, and even the godly had left him in some way less capable of emotion. Or that his own superhuman powers rendered him any less human at his core. It was simply that his many years of training had taught him discipline and calm in the face of adversity, and his experience and triumphs had given him confidence facing the most powerful of foes. But being attacked like this in his own home, in his heretofore impregnable fortress, and to have had the one most dear to him apparently abducted, held hostage, or, the unthinkable, dead – this shook him as nothing in many years had. And… there was something else. A dark grey shadowy pall hung over everything – less substantial than mist, almost as if a kind of veil had been cast over his vision, or a scentless smoke were choking the very light. It seemed to instil in him – even in him! He considered, amazed – a kind of irrational fear. It reminded him of what the ancient Sumerians had called puluhtu, an almost physical dread of the divine, the twisted opposite of ni, the awe one experienced in the presence of melammu, the aura or garment making manifest the glory of a god.

“No! It can’t be!” he said to himself, but the thought caused him to spring up and race to his watchtower room, from which twelve “windows” – mystical mirrors, in fact - looked out onto various planes of existence from the windowless tower. As he expected, these were all cracked and filled with a hideous grey film. In the centre of the room, in a pile of shattered glass below the wrought-iron stand where it had nested in its centuries-old circular oak frame, was the remains of the Eye of Merlin, an orb that had been the scrying glass of the famous magician, given as a gift to his friend and peer after the two had defeated the chthonic demon trio of Abnegazar, Rath, and Ghast. What power on Earth was great enough to destroy this supremely potent magical engine? He gestured to the pile of broken glass and willed an unspoken command at the glistening shards. A flash of golden light, a radiance halfway between a blast of lightning and the glow of a saint’s halo, flew from his fingertips to the pile of glittery rubble. The light subsided; the pile of rubble remained.

Once again, he made the mystic healing gesture, but more forcefully this time, exerting himself with such grim determination that every muscle in his body tensed and strained. The pieces of glass slowly, ever so slowly, began to rise and reassemble into the shape of a crystal globe, but he could see black fracture lines where the shards joined, and realized that these dark lines represented a destructive force repelling the shards from each other, preventing an undoing of the globe’s destruction. He struggled with this force for several minutes, contesting with it, his raw will against this nameless, mindless force. At last the black lines faded and the orb seemed to settle into a restoration of its whole, intact state. Nelson let out a long sigh of relief. But no sooner had he done so than the black lines swiftly reappeared, seemed to quickly expand, and the globe shattered into a pile of shiny debris once more.

Nelson let out an angry epithet, then cast a summoning spell. His form was quickly enveloped in golden light until it became a blinding blur. When the light slowly faded, in Nelson’s place stood a form clothed in a golden cloak, gauntlets, boots; a blue body suit covering his body from his torso to his legs; a golden amulet on his chest, and on his head a golden helmet. This quiet, private man now stood revealed as a figure known around the world – and on many other worlds, as well – as the master mage and supreme sorcerer, Doctor Fate.

Something had declared war on him, and likely had also declared war on the entire world. Doctor Fate would answer it.

He gestured toward the broken globe again, but this time with his left hand; his right hand pressed the golden jewel set in the centre of the golden metallic disk on his chest: the Amulet of Anutu. The power of the greatest of the ancient gods, Anu, the Creator of All, the Lord of Heaven, transmitted through the sigil of his scion, Utu, god of the sun. He rarely used the amulet’s power; it was too great, too unwieldy for anything but the most extreme situation. But he knew such an occasion was upon him now. Power flowed into him from the wellsprings of creation itself, until he knew he could barely contain it. Dropping his right hand to his side, he expelled the tremendous force from himself through his outstretched left arm.

The tower shook and for a split second all the familiar reality of it seemed to blink into something else entirely; for a split second, time and space, even such as they were in the Salem Tower, were rendered entirely irrelevant. Everything was something entirely other. But then reality reasserted itself, as did the Eye of Merlin, for when Kent Nelson – Doctor Fate – had recovered his sense of reality, the globe was fully restored. Holding his breath for a few seconds, he let out a sigh of relief. The restoration spell held; the dark force had been completely expelled.

But at such a cost. Despite possessing superhuman strength and stamina, he was exhausted. But there was no time to rest. Inza’s life was at stake. Certainly, he knew that some unknown enemy was setting a trap, that he was the prey and she was the bait. But that hardly mattered. He would rescue Inza or, immortal or not, perish trying.

Taking a deep breath and concentrating, he muttered an invocation to the spirit of the Annunaki and a supplication to Anu, to Enlil and Enki, and to his former mentor, Nabu. Give me strength, and more, give me wisdom, he spoke in the ancient, forgotten, forbidden tongue of the original Ubaidian sorcerers. He then laid his palm over the Eye of Merlin and exerted his will upon the orb, directing it to locate Inza.

The globe seemed to come alive with a golden light that radiated from it as if it were a warm electric bulb, but this glow dimmed and lost its lustre until it was a smoggy yellow-grey, and inside the scrying glass grey mists swirled and grew darker, until they appeared to form a grim shape.

The shape became the shadow of a misshapen head, and then in an instant it resolved into a hideous face, one that clearly had once been human long ago, but had become so corrupted as to appear demonic. It was completed bald, and its pale, bluish-grey skin appeared to be ravaged by some disease that had left it pocked and mottled with dark pits and patches. Its ears were of differing sizes; one seemed to have been partially eaten. Its teeth were long and yellowish and appeared to have been purposely filed to points; its tongue was long and appeared to have been similarly altered by surgical means: it was forked, like that of a snake.

But the most disturbing aspect of this creature’s face was its eyes: the whites were a cirrhotic snot-yellow, the irises a chthonic fiery red.

It couldn’t be, Fate muttered to himself. The demonic face laughed as if to answer, But it is!

“Nergal!” Fate exclaimed. The word sounded half curse, half question. The creature laughed again.

“What have you done with Inza?” the distraught sorcerer demanded.

The face grinned widely, exposing all the pointed yellow spikes in its hideous mouth., then turned and gestured to the form of a woman, floating in the middle of the great hall of a stone temple. The image grew closer to him until he could see that it was Inza, stiff as a board, pale white, and dressed in sombre sheer black silks with a grey rose and a grey viper perched on her breast – in the manner of ritual sacrifice to a dark god.

“NO!” Fate shouted. But then the face appeared again. Its mocking laughter filled the orb, and evil emanated from it like the wicked gravity of a black hole, depleting all heavenly light in its vicinity. The black veins again appeared in the orb, and it threatened to shatter, but it held firm. A look of surprise appeared briefly on the hideous face, but then it just smiled again, and pointed again to the floating form of Inza. Then the view inside the globe seemed to scan the room, so that Fate would be certain where his beloved was being held captive. But he had known that room from the first second the face had ceased to fill up the entire orb. It had once been home to him, after all.

Then the face vanished completely, the darkness drained from the globe, and it was once again no more than a large crystal ball.

Fate shuddered. He was shaken by unreasoning fear, as if under the spell of the fear-inducing Mask of Medusa. He had faced some of the most powerful beings in the cosmos – Darkseid, the Anti-Monitor, Mordru, even the Spectre – and never felt fear like this. He knew it must be the primal power of the creature’s aura, powerful enough to induce extreme puluhtu, even in him. And for the first time in his life, Nelson – Fate – experienced the sensation of his life flashing before his eyes, his life compressed into an infinitely faceted, self-reflective crystal. Under pressure like the grip of a collapsing star, he saw his life reduced to an atom of time upon staring into the face of the god of death.

[rvpedia-blog]

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[nightmare-afton-cosplay]

Homebuilder With Vibrant Vision Brings Prefab Modern to Indianapolis

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Turn onto a street in the Cottage Home neighborhood of Indianapolis, and you might think you’ve wandered into a hipster colony on the West Coast. A group of prefab, ultramodern builds has made a colorful splash in a landscape filled with ranch-style homes.

The latest addition to the cluster of modernity—complete with pink door and turquoise siding—is on the market for $379,000. The home is the brainchild of Ursula David, president and founder of Indy Mod Homes.

David, who started her homebuilding company in 1993, had the foresight to purchase a group of lots in the up-and-coming downtown neighborhood during the recession of 2008.

David, who had been building traditional, large suburban homes for over a decade, wanted to change it up once the building market bounced back and was inspired by Dwell magazine.

“I was like, oh my god, I love prefab homes. I’m going to figure out how to do it,” the 66-year-old recalled.

She approached a mobile home factory in Indiana that offered to give prefab home construction a try, and had the first home built for herself in 2012.

“The house is built in a factory. Then it’s delivered to me in pieces on flat-bed trailers,” David says.

David says unlike dealing with a construction project outside in the elements, building on a factory floor has benefits: The materials are never rained on, the workers are safer, and less trash is generated.

Kitchen with Corian counters and laminate cabinets

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Mudroom and storage lockers

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One of the 2.5 baths

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Open living space

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But due to factory space constraints, the homes are smaller by design, no more than 2,600 square feet.

“I have them do as much as possible inside,” she says. The prefab is delivered with interior finishes and drywall. It also comes complete with sinks, cabinets, faucets, tile, and light fixtures, all previously selected by David.

Once the home is placed on the slab, the indoor build can be completed in about three to four weeks. The factory David uses is located about three hours from Indianapolis, and the home is delivered in pieces by trailer truck.

“I have a crane on site. We lift the boxes off the trailers, and set them on the foundation—and voila, we have an almost completed home,” David says.

It takes her crew about 45 days to wind up with a fully finished product—factoring in the addition of a foundation, siding, utilities, and landscaping.

For a Midwestern home buyer with a discerning eye, these prefabs are a welcome change. Plus, they aren’t cookie-cutter designs. Each prefab in the neighborhood was custom-designed for the client, with the help of an architect.

As for the home currently on the market, David built it on spec and she’s the one who picked the distinctive front door.

“I’ve built seven prefabs, and I’m getting ready to start another one. It’s worked out really great,” David adds. “It’s pretty fun, I have to say.”

The sense of fun is evident in the home for sale, apparent right at the front door. The 1,576-square-foot home has two bedrooms and 2.5 baths. The open plan includes a living and dining space, and a kitchen with sleek laminate cabinets, bar seating, and Corian counters. The kitchen and baths have tile flooring.

The rest of the house has wide-plank hardwood flooring. The exterior is cement board siding. Thoughtful details include mudroom lockers, an upstairs laundry, a master suite, and an open loft that could work as an office. Outside there’s a garage with extra storage.

“She’s really is a pioneer in our area, with respect to helping people understand the value of prefab,” says listing agent Zoe Moore, who is also David’s daughter. The two, who have teamed up in the past, already have plans to build and sell another Indy Mod home.

It’s David’s focus on every detail, from faucets to fixtures, that sets her homes apart, Moore notes.

“She is one single solitary woman who puts her heart and soul into the houses she builds, oriented toward the people who are living there. No two [homes] are alike, even though the main parts are prefab,” Moore adds.

We have to agree, it’s completely prefabulous.

The post Homebuilder With Vibrant Vision Brings Prefab Modern to Indianapolis appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

from https://www.realtor.com/news/unique-homes/indianapolis-prefab-modern/

[kylewinkler]

THE MOMS MACHINE.

What follows is a story I originally wrote many years ago. I’ve been trying to publish it in various venues for a long time. Perhaps too long. In a different form, it won second prize in a fiction contest with Indiana Review. But in this incarnation, no one wanted to take it. I guess I can see why. It’s a bit Spielbergian. Young protagonists. Dark. Awkward. Slightly not un-tropy enough. Yet maybe too tropy. In any case, I decided to post this on here for free since it’s at the end of its professional life. Enjoy. 

THE MOMS MACHINE

Will Nalin’s mother went to the bottom of the world. She never returned. Her company bought tiny handmade crafts from Chilean artists and sold them to distributing companies in the States. She was stabbed in the Aysen region while trying to negotiate for some baskets. Will Nalin was in preschool when she died.

#

At ten, Will had rings around his eyes. Dark sleepless circles. Baggy shirts. Ill-fitting pants.

The first thing he'd asked me after we introduced ourselves in science class was: “What do your parents do?”

“My mom works second shift in Recovery,” I said.

“Oh,” Will Nalin said. “My mom lives at the bottom of the world.” I didn’t understand what that meant until a little later.  

I did find out that Will learned backgammon at six and idly pried open old VCRs. He separated out parts in Tupperware.

The first time we hung out, Will and I found a discarded canister of mace in the lot behind his house.

Our parents saw no need to punish us. We’d found punishment in the canister.

#

I often fell homesick. I never spent the night when Will asked. But when I finally did, it made me wonder what Mrs. Nalin's presence would've been like. Mr. Nalin was tall, lithe, and stern; a less-than-big-time guy in a scientific research firm. He had long curly silver hair, pulled back when he worked on stained glass projects in the basement. He wasn’t old, but he'd gone prematurely gray in this robotic way, and he had a thick mustache to match. He wore linen pants with monochrome oxford shirts.

One late November night, after Mr. Nalin said good night to us and turned out the light, Will and I stayed up to watch the Junior Miss USA beauty pageant. The television in his room was a privilege. We reeled at the sight of sixteen-year-old girls pivoting on high heels, their thighs greased up in copper tones. Will told me to look between the legs, where they met. I was oblivious. He began to explain.  

Then Mr. Nalin burst in. Will and I huddled together on his bed, knees to chests in anticipation of young swimsuited girls. Mr. Nalin hauled us out. He’d handled me roughly a time or two, no more than a friend’s father was allowed. But this was adult anger on a level I’d never seen, nor ever wanted to again.  

He had us both under the armpits, his fingers digging in where flesh is most tender. It seemed like the natural way to manipulate small children: where the arm meets the body, like a lever or a latch. As if we would offer up the truth if he rattled it out of us by violent making.

We stood against the hallway wall in pajamas. Mr. Nalin asked what we were doing. He smelled like linseed and breath mints. Instinctively, I knew I was not supposed to answer. Answering wasn’t allowed for visitors, the irony not lost on me, considering Will had sort of a stutter and shy. He had pissed his corduroys during a classroom spelling bee a month back. I posed, silent, my hands folded. Will's chest heaved and wheezed. Mr. Nalin told him to shut up.

“Yes, sir,” Will said. His lips bent into an odd shape while his body was deciding whether to cry or not. He was never in control. Mr. Nalin yelled, Why had we boldly defied him? The man was speaking as if we'd caused bodily harm. Then I heard a word I didn’t know or understand the implications of. Flecks of spit gathered at the corners of his mouth.

“Were you two masturbating?” he asked.

Will Nalin couldn’t speak. His shoulders slumped. They answered for him.

“Were you masturbating together?” Mr. Nalin repeated. He seemed disappointed when he said it. I thought he might cry as well. His mustache faltered. I had no idea what he was asking. Will knew. Mr. Nalin was assumed much. Two boys, barely pre-teen, sleeping in bunk beds watching a teenage beauty pageant?

Mr. Nalin started the horrible question again when Will interrupted with a mumbled defense. But before he could say anything, Mr. Nalin reached back and slapped him full across the face with the palm of his hand. As if expecting it, Will’s face released everything. Water from eyes. Thick saliva from mouth. Snot from nose. The face was a sieve. The impact of Mr. Nalin’s harvesting shame deep from Will’s body.

My muscles locked. Mr. Nalin, too, worried the situation. Then he said, in a curt tone, that I needed to pack my things and go home.

#

It was a ten minute bike ride home. At night, the suburbs terrified. Elaborate, two-storied monstrosities, prefabs, all largely looming, with trimmed lawns, unlit houses lurking over the curbs. The road hummed under the tires. My hands, loose and rickety. I swerved, nervous-crying. When I got home, my mother let me in and put my bike away. She pulled me aside and brushed the hair from my eyes. She put my backpack on her back. I loved that.

“What happened, hun?” she asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” I said. How to form the past fifteen minutes into coherency? I knew her, though. She’d let me simmer.

Dad was cocktailing and futzing in the kitchen with the ice cube maker when he nosed in, asking what happened. Mr. Nalin had called in the interim and said that Will had been abusing privileges. I was sent home as punishment.

Why parents won’t believe their own children when they most should continues to baffle.

I told them outright that Mr. Nalin had hit Will in the face. Hard. They didn’t listen correctly. “What?” my father said. He was incredulous, partly from the drink. He was pouring corn syrup into a bowl of peanut butter for dessert. “I don’t think he would do something so stupid in front of another child.” My mom deferred to dad. I insisted. They thought I was defending Will’s bad behavior. They sent me to bed.

#

I’d realized hanging out with Will Nalin was a privilege to me, not the other way around. He was cleverer than other sixth graders and had a morose quality about him, which was brought out especially when he showed me how to play chess. I could never comprehend a knight's move. All the other pieces were intuitive in their possibilities, whereas the knight had this shifty L-shape to it that was out of line with the elegance of the game. We puppetted the pieces. He’d have the bishop tell me in a wizened English voice which move was admirable and which was abominable. He used those words exactly.

Unlike other kids our age who reveled in curse words like they’d been given an unwieldy gun or knife, Will used fuck and shit like tiny scalpels, making incisions in sentences that made them sound adept and grown-up. We were going to bypass adolescence and tunnel into the heavy light of foreign novels, wearing ties for no reason, and staying home nights to play chess. Will Nalin was teaching me to be an adult. Although, a version of adulthood I never met with.

I fretted for him; alone with a father. There was an iron business waiting for him. Was I guilty that I was safe and warm with two parents who loved me in excess?

I never spent another night at Will’s.  

#

Over Christmas, I didn’t phone him, scared to call and get Mr. Nalin instead. When school snagged us back in January, Will was missing. I asked our teacher where he was. She said she'd try to find out. Two days. No word from my teacher. Eventually, she realyed, in reluctance, that Will Nalin was now home-schooled.

Later, I biked to Will’s unannounced. That was the only way I could get him to see me. He needed to know he wasn’t alone.

I dumped the bike and knocked on the door. Heavy footfalls from inside. I steadied myself. Mr. Nalin answered with the blankest look, as if he’d never dragged me down a hallway by my ball and joint socket.

He held a purple piece of stained glass in his hand like a shiv. Seeing his face, stone-colored and sagging, I wondered what he was getting out of all this. I wondered if he felt remorseful.

“Can I help you,” he said.

I asked to speak with Will, please. He kept looking at me after I asked, like I would disappear if he willed it. There was a picture on a side wall of Mrs. Nalin. She was in the forefront of the photo with a green mountain behind her. Maybe it was Chile? Peru? She had brown hair and a round face. Sunglasses, colorful kerchief around the neck, sandals. Pictures of her populated the whole wall. Mr. Nalin called for Will and he ran from the back of the house.

He wasn’t enthused. Probably because now he would suffer the consequences of an uninvited friend. Because I’d reminded him, just by standing on his doorstep, of how isolated and terrible life was. An eleven year old boy, itching for company, adventure, activity. He had no outlet; he had no change of scenery. He was stuck.

Mr. Nalin stood back, giving us the semblance of privacy.

I learned then there was no privacy for children. That property had to be stolen.

Will asked what I wanted. He still ate animal crackers. He bit the head off a lion, chewing, listening.

“I know you’re not at school anymore and wanted to see how you were.”

Will turned to his father who leaned on the staircase, perusing mail. He continued in a whisper, “I’m home-schooled now. It’s okay. I watch television during lunch, if I finish on time. Dad teaches me how to make stained glass stuff. That’s kinda cool.”

He looked and sounded placid. It was all I had to go on.

“Want to hang out?” I asked.

“Depends how much work I get done. We may go fishing. Write down your phone number again. I’ll call you this weekend, if I can. I’ve got something to show you.”

He handed me graph paper and a pencil, and I wrote my number. Before he shut the door, I asked him if he was okay. He nodded his head; then the finality of the door’s bolt clicking. Their lawn lay fulsome and immaculate. I pictured Mr. Nalin an obsessive who made Will cut it with the push-mower, even though I knew they had a rider. I picked up the bike and ticked it along next to me.

#

Halfway home, I passed a woman in jeans with no shoes. Her feet were cut up. Shirt untucked. She had long black hair and dragged a leash and collar with no animal. I heard her crying softly. Then crying turned to static. The leather leash scraggled around, popping on the cracks. Her face was hard to discern. I remember thick hair, the solidest part of her. I didn’t intervene. Adolescent diplomacy skills were nascent at best.  

#

January snow fell. I read a hundred page book on Albert Einstein. I wrote a report. February melted. Hot coffee smells stained my clothes.

Weeks went by with no contact from Will Nalin. The personal hazy enclave we shared together receded.

Came a Saturday morning early in March. I was talking with my dad on the couch when Will Nalin called and asked to meet him in the undeveloped lot behind his house. Dad was slouched deep in the cushions with a mug, wiping milkfoam from his upper lip.

“When can we meet this Will?” he asked. I fabricated lies about Will navigating a busy Boy Scout schedule. He shrugged. “Put a coat on,” he said.

I met Will in the unruly lot. Their house was on the edge of this burgeoning subdivision. A small creek snuck through the field. For a moment, the dark haired woman in jeans from weeks before was stationed next to him with her hair crawling around. I edged my palms over the wessel grass that grew abundantly in the lot. The smell tinged with a sharp, sweet odor. Dry grass cracked underfoot.

It wasn’t the woman. Just a sapling bending toward him. Will’s house was almost out of sight.

Antsy to display the surprise, we hopped the creek where wooden pallets spread out and a large brown tarpaulin covered it all, lumpy underneath. We shucked it off. Cardboard boxes duct-taped to one another. Simple moving boxes. Nine of them. The shape was analogous to a crossword from above. Behind the boxes were sycamores and aspens that went on till the light died and your eyesight quit. It was a perfect setting.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Did you tell your parents?” he asked.

I lied.

“Good. Cause if my dad ever found out then I would be...If he finds out about this,” he said, pointing to the boxes, “Then I’ll really get it.” I pictured Will, his arms and chest the color of a black apple. “There’s a box downstairs next to the workbench that's full of pictures. My dad's glued tons of them to the wall. There’re letters she wrote and some clothes are in another box. A little say his father was only the way he was because Will’s mom died. And it was getting worse. He was calm the whole time he told me this. Will looked gaunt.

“I’m going to make a new mom,” Will said. I didn’t understand. “The machine,” he said, pointing. “I’ve got the plans. I drew them.” Labyrinthine and unintelligible schematics and numbers scattering pages and pages of his father’s graph paper. The handwriting fussed around. I handed them back. I thought I heard someone coming through the grass and sticks behind us. No one. Will Nalin’s eyes were sunk and hard-looking since I’d last seen him. The skin jaundiced over months. His hair faded into blonde. Strands were going white. “Can you help me finish it?” he asked. The pallets were from a loading dock. He’d stolen them. Dragged them through the woods. Wasn’t like him to do that.

“The boxes are from the basement,” he said. They smelled like basement. The whole structure was growing soft in the corners from damp. The whole scene had the scent of a beast just dead, decaying rapidly in a small space. We stood there. I asked if he felt like we were being watched. Will cleared stray leaves off the machine.

“Probably,” he said. I felt the tender area in my armpits ache. Will Nalin wasn’t crazy. He was my friend. I knew if I were him, I would need someone on the outside to keep me in check. I would help, knowing the end of that endeavor wouldn’t be tidy, that one or both of us would end up hurt, broken, bleeding.

#

Machines weren’t solely made of metal, I learned. Will had researched all that next week when he wasn’t busy laboring over history tests his father poured onto him. The Nalins had a collection of anatomy books. One was called The Human Machinery. The cover depicted an unsexed human with an engine in the chest and belts spinning. We thought that was great. A machine could be flesh, bone, blood.

The whole plan ran like this: Will would sneak out when he could. On the days that he worked on the machine, he would put a stuffed owl on his window sill. I would ride by after school and check the status. We’d meet in the lot, and I’d help Will build the machine.

The first order of business was to decide what made mother. We needed essence. How did you distill motherhood? Will said the biggest problem would be that he couldn’t exactly recreate his mom. What we’d create would be a version of the original. Mrs. Nalin as interpreted second-hand. Since Mr. Nalin worked downstairs all the time, he was sure to notice the box with her stuff had been riffled. Will had already taken the lock of hair.

“The starting point,” he said.

Will said I needed to collect. “Anyone with a mom will do,” he said.

I stared at him. “That’s everyone.”

“Then we have a lot to choose from.”  

He appeared hale when he mused about the machine. He spoke with confidence, and we would often take small breaks to play a game of chess on a travel board with magnetic pieces. Work consisted of Will inside the machine, odd clicking noises and abrasive sounds emitting from the boxes; and myself keeping a watch out for his father, clearing more plantlife—ferns, piles of fallen lumber, piles of stone—for the ever-growing machine.

He’d be in there for long periods of time. I talked to the boxes, told stories, because there was no one to communicate with while Will was inside; and when Will exited, he hadn’t heard a word. He never let me inside the machine. He said only he could enter the machine. Of course, I was curious. I never dared enter in case he caught me.

#

Heading home one evening, I noticed long dark threads in the gutters between my house and Will’s. Long strands, like wires in a computer or a Halloween wig. The threads easily distanced whole blocks. Some went longer, down into the thin sewer drains.

Complaining, my father groaned, saying it was algae.

#

Leslie Singer lived two houses down. She showed me her mom’s compact one afternoon on the bus.

“Isn’t it great?” she asked.

I had no idea what the circular thing was, until I saw her use it. She kept it in her tiny purse, a small patent leather square with a metal clasp. Her mom was letting her borrow all of it. She was so proud.

I saw it as perfect item for the machine. Nothing, at the time seemed more motherly than a compact. When Leslie wasn’t paying attention, I slid the compact into my bookbag.  

#

Outside the Nalin's house, in the rain, I saw the owl and trudged through waist-high weeds and marshy mud where Will waited. I handed him the compact.

The plan now had definition. “Eye,” he said. His smile disappeared. “Thank you,” he said. I awaited the next order. Will’s face was ready to dispense bad news. “You should go now,” he said. “This part is hard and I can’t have anyone around.”

I was affronted. I asked why I couldn’t stay.

“Because this is the work, my work. This is my part. You did yours.”

“If this is going to be like this, then…”

“This is how it will be,” he said. “Are you going to help?”

Will Nalin held the compact down at his side as if it had always been his. His eyes still sunken and hard, but when he looked at me they were different. They were grateful.

“Shit,” I said. “Yes, I’ll help.”

#

Much later, we sat on the creek bed, the machine in front of us, gaining ground, telescoping back into the woods, into undeveloped plots. There was a large rock maybe one hundred yards deep from where we sat. In the past two weeks, the machine slunk almost halfway to that rock.

Will had been busy.  

I asked Will what he’d done with Leslie Singer’s mother’s compact. He said it was hidden somewhere safe; I shouldn’t worry. He said he’d let me know when he fed it to the machine.

I turned to see it again. The machine had changed.

Did Will spray Pledge on it or laquer it?

No, why.

Because it looked shiny. Did he add boxes?

No.

He was lying. It was larger, I was sure.

The behemoth intertangling of boxy limbs, winding in and out of tree shoots and saplings, dead leaves and moss and plant matter, and squinting from far away it resembled a creature lying in wait. If I spent a lot of time near it, I began to hear a croaking sound like old ropes and boards on a seafaring ship. Often when Will was inside.

That month, Will began lying to his father about where he was spending the tiny amount of free time he had. Mr. Nalin spent his time at home, working on projects and teaching Will. To justify his absences, Will told his father he’d joined a junior college’s chess club, impressing them with preternatural talent. Mr. Nalin allowed few things. One was chess or backgammon-related activities.

#

Will contacted kids using my name. Small numbers of listless middle schoolers brought him items every afternoon for a week while late winter-early spring trickled on. The donaters claimed the articles reminded them of their moms.

A framed picture of a beach with a pastel sunset, dusty. Electric bills, overdue. Bag of peanuts. Sweatpants. Unsmoked cigarettes. Hairbrush. Yarn, never used. Reading glasses, scratch on right lens. Dictionary, certain words marked in red ink. Coffee mug, chipped.

Will, the posturer, told these kids that he was filming a movie and needed props. They would be returned promptly. He offered some kids money.

He revealed his own personal additions to me: gloves with soft lining; a broken bottle; a brick from a nearby construction site; a hunting knife; oversized ceramic and jade chess pieces; a heating blanket; a 1920s Art Deco cigarette lighter; poems cut from periodicals; shavings of balsa wood.

#

My parents were over at the Singers’ house for a barbecue one balmy night in early April. It was late. I was supposed to be asleep, but I was reading The Human Machinery. I hid it under my bed. Will had marked the pertinent pages.  

Maybe I wasn’t adult yet. I studied the diagrams—I didn’t even know which way parts fit inside a girl’s body—then moved onto other, more intelligible pictures. A baby in a womb. To think I had been that small dodged logic. I wondered if my mother was amazed at seeing something that had once been inside of her walking around her house, much larger, and hungry.

I read about pregnancy and motherhood. Breast-feeding and infancy. I read that children can die if they aren’t touched by human hands. I read we are born with reflexes that save our lives.

The woman with the dark hair I’d seen in the middle of the street four months before appeared to me in my mind. Her feet were slit open from heel to toe. Dirt and sand gritty in the wound. Then I heard the back door to our house swing open. My mother was crying. I switched off the desk lamp and shut my door to a crack, listening. My mother’s sobbing was muffled.

I went to hug my mom who had stopped crying by now. She wasn’t the one that needed help. My father sat at the kitchen table. His head in his hands, foot tapping. I asked what happened. My mother looked at me for the first time in my life with direct trust, as if, with the information she was about to hand over, I would be vaulted into the next level of maturation.

Could she trust me with something hard?

“Valeria,” my dad said, pleadingly. “He’s old enough.”

Sirens moaned up the street. My mother told me that Leslie’s mom had been enucleated.

“He’s not a nurse, Val.” I didn’t need to know the word.

“Eye,” I said.

My mother nodded and began crying all over again. My father began grinding lots of coffee beans.

#

They never found Mrs. Singer’s eye. She’d complained of migraines all that week to her family. Blurred vision occasionally. She missed a day of work. She laid on the couch, took Excedrin. Nothing worked. She figured it’d pass. And the night of the barbecue, it did.

A group of neighborhood adults sat around a patio table, eating. Mrs. Singer didn’t have much of an appetite. There were cocktails, cigarettes, maybe a joint. Leslie’s mom excused herself and returned clammy. She complained of pains in her skull. She drank water and listened to the conversation. She got up again to use the restroom.

No one knew how long she’d been passed out on the tub, head jerked back, with blood funneling into her mouth and down her neck from the hole in her head. My mother went in to check on her and screamed.

Quiet hissing escaped the hole. Mr. Singer rushed in, picked her up and took her to the couch. Red was everywhere, dripping into the tub drain, on the bottom of neighbors' sandals.

I’ve learned the body doesn’t wait around for you to make decisions or approvals. It takes what it wants, when it wants. The eye was gone. My mother kept asking my father where the eye went. As if it was capable of growing legs and leaving Ms. Singer’s head of its own accord from boredom or spite.  

#

Will Nalin shut me out. I let it happen because he’d cultivated a sense of power over me. My pity for him soured into ignorant compliance. I pleaded to know how the machine worked and he hushed me and started talking about how great the machine would be when it was finished.

There was no we. It was all him. What was I doing to help out?

“If it wasn’t for you, I never would’ve had the idea to create the machine or to have the bravery to continue,” he said.

“How did I help create the idea? I never came up with this. This is nothing I would ever think up.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked.

He told me to watch the machine while he went to the house. He held me in a gaze for a beat, as if sizing me up.

I decided I was going to crawl inside the machine.

It was now a stretching mass like a multi-fingered hand. It was moldering and collapsed from the outside. What was so terrible about this heap of shit? There was nothing particularly magical about anything we were doing. I'd sussed out the fakery of Santa and the Easter Bunny early on. How was my rational mind being lured into believing what was occurring here?  

I approached the machine and there was a slit like an orifice cut into one box facing Will's house. It was an entrance. I parted the cardboard which didn’t fall away. It was dark and smelled like the underside of a pile of leaves. Inside, there were long tunnels of boxes where there appeared little seepages of light where seams weren’t fully connected. The sound of a motor churned on and on inside. Coming near and then far. There was no sign of Mrs. Singer’s compact. I crawled until I noticed I could sit up straight without hitting my head. There were sections where I stood up, fully extending my legs. I jumped up to touch the ceiling but it was too high.

I don’t know how long I was in there. Time outpaced me. It lagged behind or hurtled forward. I crawled back out the machine mouth and heard the rustling of feet in the field and a woman’s voice mixed in with Will’s. He said my name. Parting through the tall grass, he was alone.

“Found,” he said.

I’d never been afraid of Will Nalin, but in that moment he was up there with his father, who I hadn’t seen since the day I rode over to make sure he was alright. I stood up. I wiped off the crumbs of the earth. A fleeting image of the woman was walking away toward the house. She had the long dark hair, jeans. Will said hello to me as if we were meeting for the first time. He was holding a flashlight and a leather bag.

“I told you not to go in there,” he said. He looked disappointed, like his father on that first awful night. “What did you see?” I told him a lie, I told him I saw the compact. I told him something happened to Mrs. Singer that he needed to know. I hated confrontation.

He said he knew about Mrs. Singer and wasn’t it great? It meant the machine worked. He was expressionless. As if the muscles needed to emote had been severed deep inside. I wanted to ask about him and his father, if things had gotten worse.

“Is your father still…” I let it hang there. At this, he cocked his head.

“My father?” he asked. “What makes you think I have a father?”

He set the items in his hands down, and interlaced his fingers. He sighed. He was more grown up now than I had ever seen him. It wasn’t a place I wanted to get to. I didn’t feel a clamoring to be so old anymore. I could wait my turn.

“I’m sorry. You’re going to have to go and never come back. I have a lot to do and little time to do it.”

I stepped forward and asked where the stuff from the store was. And the kids who’d helped. He bit his lip and nodded. Will Nalin walked over to the machine and put a hand on it as if to sooth it or check for a pulse. “I like machines,” he said. “We’re all machines. Moms are machines. Dads. Wonderful.” He started to scratch his fingernails into the top of the machine. The material came off under his nail like dead skin. He put a clutch of fingers in his mouth.

I ran out of the field. When I got home, I immediately burnt the borrowed anatomy book page by page with fireplace matches. I didn’t want any part of Will Nalin around me.

My parents grounded me for messing with fire.  

#

The flu moved into my body the next day like a heavy atmosphere. April was for illness. I shivered and sweat or vomited into a plastic bucket used to wash the car. My parents fought about taking me to the ER. I was dehydrated. Every time I cramped into terrible shapes, and they were on the verge of starting the car, I recovered enough for them to give up the idea.

What I remember about that span of time was that Will, in some form, visited me. He came late at night and sat on the end of my bed. The twin bed mattress would depress with a boy’s weight, but there would be no one there. Will talked to the wall, spinning stories about his mother. How she and Mr. Nalin met while they were both in Ireland on Fulbright scholarships.

He did the voices of his father and mother. Mr. Nalin met Will’s mom in a pub on the island of Inishmore during a day trip. He was so taken with her, he bought her a purple Aran sweater. She gave him her bag of salt and vinegar crisps as a joke. They fell in love.

I would try to call out for my parents when Will came, but my throat would close up. My voice evaporated. If my mom or dad checked on me, Will disappeared and carried on with his anecdote as soon as they closed the door.

In the middle of that week, at the nadir of illness, I heard my mom talking to another woman out in the living room. I shouldn’t have, but I got out of bed to spy with weak legs. It was the long-haired woman. This time she wore a gray dress, a white belt, her hair pulled into a pony tail. She was holding a mug of something hot between her hands. I could see the steam rising to meet her face. Her hair was black as the corners of my room at night and just as depthless. She put her hand in it once to shake out the tail and it was deep. You could lose a hand in there. The two laughed and carried on, and then she turned, slowly. Where she sat, she had a direct view down the hall to my door. I collapsed when she saw me and my mother came rushing at the sound. She asked me to wake up. Say your name. Do you know where you are? She carried me back to bed and tucked me in even though I was burning like a car parked in the summer sun.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked.

“No one,” she said, surprised. “I’ve been balancing the checkbook, honey. Now hush. Get some sleep. I’ll be back with Tylenol and some water. Don’t get up.”

I told her I heard and saw a woman with her. They were drinking hot chocolate. My mother, a sweet woman with strong hands, who’d probably seen so much hallucinating in her time that she was well past the point of finding it amusing, told me that I was dreaming and that I needed rest or I would get worse and have to go to the ER. Her necklace glinted. She had a mole on her collarbone.

And that would be bad, she added. She stood in the doorway. I could only see her silhouette. She began to cry and her voice took on that strained quality. I was too exhausted to argue with her. I slept.

In the morning, I thought of Will and what he was doing. What else had he collected and what had he put into the machine? I was over my previous unbelief. If I could, I would’ve gotten out of bed and biked to the creek and burnt down that collection of boxes, with Will inside.

#

All over town parts of moms were vanishing. Middle-aged women were popping up in hospitals with perfectly cauterized wounds, limbs missing, vital functions dropping, organs absent, as if they'd never been in the body in the first place. My father was reading the newspaper the night before I returned to school, the week before spring break. He was eating a grilled cheese sandwich and his fingerprints stained the paper, making it transparent in places.

“It’s a virus,” he said. He was trying not to startle my mother, but I'd heard him on the phone with a friend admitting he was scared shitless. He didn't want his wife to end up dead.

“Not a virus,” my mom said from the couch. She was under a blanket staring at the TV, which was turned off. The screen had a vapid quality to it when it was off, horribly brown-grey. It reflected your outline in shadow. “If anyone should be alarmed, Carlos, it should be me, right?”

“The news just wants to scare you,” my dad said. “Don’t listen to that crap.”

“Only affecting women, mostly between mid-twenties to forties. They’re all mothers, they say.”

“They, they, they,” my dad mimicked. “You need to relax, Valeria.”

My mom turned to me when he finished saying this. Her eyes were red-rimmed and raw. In the week while I was sick, ten of her close friends had lost body parts in mysterious circumstances. She waved me over and hugged me. As I held her, I wanted to tell her everything about Will and the machine. But part of me knew how freakish and improbable it sounded, and yet here it was a month and a half since Will started on the machine and people were fatally wounded and some women were dying.

How could this be happening?

Admission should’ve been a simple act. It wasn’t. I didn't want the reality of facing my actions.

“Maybe I won’t go to work tomorrow,” Mom said. “I’ll call in sick or take a personal day.”

“Good idea,” Dad said. He put the paper down and wiped his fingers on his pajama pants. “While he’s at school, we can go rent a boat and spend time on the lake. Get away from everyone.” My mom was lifted slightly by the plan. While I returned to subtracting fractions and diagramming sentences for predicates, they would be enjoying the first real pleasant day of spring.

#

The first day back to school after the flu was tense but uneventful. I kept seeing bony and haggard kids like Will Nalin. I excused myself mid-morning to use the bathroom and was in the hallway, alone. I kept waiting for Will to walk up next to me at the urinal or in the adjacent stall, just his cordovan loafers visible. I smelled wood shavings and hot solder from his father’s workshop on everything that morning: my coat, my notebooks, the fountain water.

A glassy female voice rang down the hall. Returning to the classroom, I saw the long-haired woman that’d been in my house talking to my geography teacher at her desk. I couldn’t walk in there with that woman standing there. With her slim face, her sharp nose, long mouth. Her ears were hid; I’d never seen them. And her eyes had usually been shut. I stepped back into the hall and thought about it.

The walk home was thirty minutes. I fumbled with the key and lock, made a bowl of instant oatmeal for lunch. No one administrative was looking for me. The microwave dinged and I set the bowl on the table. I stared out the back window onto the street. Up it came a growing dot. It was Will Nalin furiously pedaling a small girl’s bike. His knees hit the bike frame. Streamers came off the handlebars. He was heading to my house. He had a courier bag over his shoulder and he was sobbing up the walkway.

“Please, let me in! I know you’re in there.”

“Why should I?” I yelled back.

“My dad found the machine.”

Through a window by the door, I saw he had a bloody nose. Was part of his ear torn off? He was heaving and pathetic like a dog thrown from a speeding truck. This was insane. I couldn’t let Will stand out there. I unlocked the door and let him in.

Blood spattered all over him. He asked for a glass of water and thanked me ten times for it. He drank it in one go, soaking the front of his shirt. It had chess pieces in descending order of size screen-printed on the front. I told him I liked his shirt. He nodded. He was different, his eyes unsunk, his face and demeanor yielding. He smelled like sweat and candy.

“You’ve got to reverse what’s happened,” I said.

“Can I use your phone?” he cut in. “I’m going to call my uncle. I can’t live with my dad anymore,” he said. “I’m done. The machine is through. I disassembled it, trashed it.”

“What about all the stuff that you put inside? Are you going to give it back to the people who gave it to you?”

Will laughed in a tired way.

“Can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. Serious. I can’t get that stuff back anymore. It’s gone, disappeared.” He opened his hands like a magician after a trick.

“What about your plan? Your mother? You’re not going to be able to have one now.” I realized this was the last thing I should’ve been worried about when so many other kids were in danger of losing theirs. Even then, Will had me in some secret pocket. His eyes became excited.

“You didn’t believe what I was doing anyway,” he said.

“I never said that.”

“No, but I could tell you thought I was stupid.”

“Maybe at first…” I said.

“Hmm,” was all he said. Again, there was a weight he had over me. “How about the phone?” he asked after a moment.

“Of course.” I pointed to the one hanging on the kitchen wall.

“I’d kind of like some privacy,” he said.

I remembered how we used to steal what privacy we could. I wouldn’t make him do that.

“Yeah,” I said, “The other one’s in the bedroom. Last door on the right.”

He walked off and I wondered what would become of all the women who were maimed. One woman’s liver disappeared. Another, her kidneys. She would have to be on dialysis at thirty-one. And what about Mr. Nalin? Didn’t someone need to suffer the consequence for all that had happened? Why not him?

I heard Will talking to someone in back, then a click. He returned. He looked relieved. He said his uncle was going to pick him up.

“Oh, well you can wait here, then,” I said.

“No, he’s going to pick me up at my place.”

I assumed his father was in the city; I was glad to hear it. But I was still worried about him returning to that horrible house. I considered asking about our friendship, but knew that in this moment, I was as guilty as Will for what had happened. I saw him out and he biked away as fast as he'd arrived. With some sort of weary resolution, I realized how hungry I was.

I put Will's water glass in the sink and bit my thumbnail. The taste was sweet like sugar. I pulled my hand back and saw it was covered in red. There was blood all on my hand, in my mouth. Spitting up, I saw Will's glass was wrapped in a bloody handprint. The blood must have come off the glass into my hand like spun sugar. But I knew blood was not sweet, it was iron-like and dried quickly. Will rode over here in the wind and his blood was still wet? The blood was sticky, like corn syrup, and it took me a minute to thread it all together.

I thought about the last fifteen minutes. Why had Will needed to use my phone if his dad was in the city? I ran to my parents bedroom. My mom’s side of the closet was open and hangers were in a pile, fiddled with; blouses and pants were wadded. Her dresser drawers were all yanked open. Her undergarments strewn over the floor.

I went to the phone and hit redial. Time and temperature. I felt a noxious gas filling my body. I couldn’t call my mom or dad.

They were in the middle of a lake somewhere.

I rode my bike to Will’s, hoping to catch him. I pounded the door to try and get Mr. Nalin. There was such a mess inside, I had to shoulder my way past the door. A bird flew out by my head. No one had cleaned in weeks, maybe months. I hadn’t stepped foot in that house since Mr. Nalin hit Will.

The air reeked of rotten food, feces, like the inside of a wild animal’s den. Potted plants browned and crumpled. The sofa was flipped over. Doors hung on their hinges. I couldn’t see the floor through layers of trash and debris. I called Will’s name, but knew he would be with the machine.

Running through the vacant lot, I crushed small sprung up wildflowers. I felt light, my feet strong. Black-eyed susan, bersia, and thigh-high wessel grass. Soon I wasn’t running, wasn’t even flying. Everything was wet from rain, and in the distance that pale, sharp woman with the dark hair that didn’t want to end, that kept falling down all around you till you couldn’t see, didn’t want to see, didn’t care.

THE END

[brettseaton]

Geek Estate Labs is Open for Business

When people ask what I do, I generally say “real estate technology consulting.” However, if you consider real estate tech to be anything that relates to buying, selling, renting, or home ownership…well, that could mean virtually anything.

The new Geek Estate Labs landing page is meant to provide more clarity on how we serve startups and enterprises. Most of our services fall into two buckets:

Content strategy and copywriting, for clients such as CREtech, Fifth Wall, CityBldr, and Remarkably. A couple examples: Amazon’s Plant Prefab Investment a Boon for Modular Industry and Coworking Sector is Ripe with Opportunity.

Product design & development, for Imprev, Horizon, and a range of companies from early stage startups to Fortune 500 clients.

In short, we write the best content for the most innovative companies and produce gorgeous products designed with expertise gleaned from 10+ years in the industry.

As part of the website redesign, we’ve added two new team members to the Geek Estate team: Will Moyer and Rory Reiff.

I’ve had the good fortune to know and work with incredible designers over the years. Will and I originally met in Thailand in 2012, later co-founded a private home sharing app, and have worked on numerous freelance projects over the past 5 years (most recently a project for Imprev). We both became close friends with Rory in Santiago, Chile, while in Start-Up Chile. Rory & Will have been collaborating on design/development ever since, partnered on Zoe, and are now the design arm of Geek Estate Labs.

Will is a designer and front-end developer with a keen eye for beautiful pixels and typography. He designed both travel apps I’ve worked on, Oh Hey World and Horizon. Additionally, he’s the author of Writing For The Web, about modern tools and workflows for writers.

He is originally from rural Pennsylvania, attended Bucknell, lived abroad for 10 years, and now resides in Denver.

Rory is a designer of iOS, Android, and web apps for both small startups and Fortune 500 companies. He co-founded Fleck, growing it to over 180k users worldwide with investments from PIE and Wieden + Kennedy, and with recognition from Apple, Wired, and FastCoDesign.

He is originally from Los Angeles, attended Indiana University, lived in Medellin for several years, and recently relocated to San Diego.

Collectively, they are the talent behind the new Geek Estate Labs landing page.

Whether you’re looking for gorgeous product design or the best in class writing, we’re here to propel you to the next level.

Learn More

The post Geek Estate Labs is Open for Business appeared first on GeekEstate Blog.

Geek Estate Labs is Open for Business syndicated from https://oicrealestate.wordpress.com/

[cathrynstreich]

Geek Estate Labs is Open for Business

When people ask what I do, I generally say “real estate technology consulting.” However, if you consider real estate tech to be anything that relates to buying, selling, renting, or home ownership…well, that could mean virtually anything.

The new Geek Estate Labs landing page is meant to provide more clarity on how we serve startups and enterprises. Most of our services fall into two buckets:

Content strategy and copywriting, for clients such as CREtech, Fifth Wall, CityBldr, and Remarkably. A couple examples: Amazon’s Plant Prefab Investment a Boon for Modular Industry and Coworking Sector is Ripe with Opportunity.

Product design & development, for Imprev, Horizon, and a range of companies from early stage startups to Fortune 500 clients.

In short, we write the best content for the most innovative companies and produce gorgeous products designed with expertise gleaned from 10+ years in the industry.

As part of the website redesign, we’ve added two new team members to the Geek Estate team: Will Moyer and Rory Reiff.

I’ve had the good fortune to know and work with incredible designers over the years. Will and I originally met in Thailand in 2012 and we later co-founded a private home sharing app. We both became close friends with Roy in Santiago, Chile, while in Start-Up Chile. Rory & Will have been collaborating on design/development ever since, and Will & I have worked on numerous freelance projects over the past 5 years. Will and Rory partnered on Zoe and are now the design arm of Geek Estate Labs.

Will is a designer and front-end developer with a keen eye for beautiful pixels and typography. He designed both travel apps I’ve worked on, Oh Hey World and Horizon. Additionally, he’s the author of Writing For The Web, about modern tools and workflows for writers.

Originally from rural Pennsylvania, attended Bucknell, lived abroad for 10 years, and now resides in Denver.

Rory is a designer of iOS, Android, and web apps for both small startups and Fortune 500 companies. He co-founded Fleck, growing it to over 180k users worldwide with investments from PIE and Wieden + Kennedy, and with recognition from Apple, Wired, and FastCoDesign.

Originally from Los Angeles, attended Indiana University, lived in Medellin for several years, and recently relocated to San Diego.

Collectively, they are the talent behind the new Geek Estate Labs landing page.

Whether you’re looking for gorgeous product design or the best in class writing, we’re here to propel you to the next level.

Learn More

The post Geek Estate Labs is Open for Business appeared first on GeekEstate Blog.

Geek Estate Labs is Open for Business published first on https://thegardenresidences.tumblr.com/

[clarencevancleave]

Geek Estate Labs is Open for Business

When people ask what I do, I generally say “real estate technology consulting.” However, if you consider real estate tech to be anything that relates to buying, selling, renting, or home ownership…well, that could mean virtually anything.

The new Geek Estate Labs landing page is meant to provide more clarity on how we serve startups and enterprises. Most of our services fall into two buckets:

Content strategy and copywriting, for clients such as CREtech, Fifth Wall, CityBldr, and Remarkably. A couple examples: Amazon’s Plant Prefab Investment a Boon for Modular Industry and Coworking Sector is Ripe with Opportunity.

Product design & development, for Imprev, Horizon, and a range of companies from early stage startups to Fortune 500 clients.

In short, we write the best content for the most innovative companies and produce gorgeous products designed with expertise gleaned from 10+ years in the industry.

As part of the website redesign, we’ve added two new team members to the Geek Estate team: Will Moyer and Rory Reiff.

I’ve had the good fortune to know and work with incredible designers over the years. Will and I originally met in Thailand in 2012 and we later co-founded a private home sharing app. We both became close friends with Roy in Santiago, Chile, while in Start-Up Chile. Rory & Will have been collaborating on design/development ever since, and Will & I have worked on numerous freelance projects over the past 5 years. Will and Rory partnered on Zoe and are now the design arm of Geek Estate Labs.

Will is a designer and front-end developer with a keen eye for beautiful pixels and typography. He designed both travel apps I’ve worked on, Oh Hey World and Horizon. Additionally, he’s the author of Writing For The Web, about modern tools and workflows for writers.

He is originally from rural Pennsylvania, attended Bucknell, lived abroad for 10 years, and now resides in Denver.

Rory is a designer of iOS, Android, and web apps for both small startups and Fortune 500 companies. He co-founded Fleck, growing it to over 180k users worldwide with investments from PIE and Wieden + Kennedy, and with recognition from Apple, Wired, and FastCoDesign.

He is originally from Los Angeles, attended Indiana University, lived in Medellin for several years, and recently relocated to San Diego.

Collectively, they are the talent behind the new Geek Estate Labs landing page.

Whether you’re looking for gorgeous product design or the best in class writing, we’re here to propel you to the next level.

Learn More

The post Geek Estate Labs is Open for Business appeared first on GeekEstate Blog.

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[leofletcher319]

The Advantages of Investing in Florida Prefab Homes

Investing in Florida prefab homes may be a step in the right direction if you are looking to become a homeowner. A prefab home is also called a modular home, and some people tend to mistake it for a mobile home. Prefab homes and mobile homes are quite different in design, quality, construction, and costs.

One of the advantages of prefab homes Florida is the quick and efficient set-up that they feature. One of the advantages of using a prefab house over a traditional one is its fast construction time. Since all parts of a prefab home come from premade sections, workers simply need to assemble them at your desired location.

Another good thing is that the sections of a prefab home do not take long to create. They are made in a factory setting where the climate is controlled, and workflows are made to be highly efficient. This makes it possible for prefab home sections to be completed in a matter of weeks, and this timeframe even factors in delays such as inspections and troubleshooting.

Since the Florida prefab homes are delivered to you when partially constructed, it only takes fewer days of work on-site, something that leads to other benefits. There are fewer chances for construction to be affected by delays, sickness, or bad weather.

Another advantage of prefab homes Florida is the affordable and transparent pricing. It is generally less expensive to build a prefab than it is to build a traditional home. Part of this cost savings has to do with the labor that is needed to set it up. As already mentioned earlier, it takes less time to finish building a prefabricated home, which means fewer days you have to pay for labor. You can also use a smaller team, something that can save you money in wages.

For more information on the advantages of investing in Florida prefab homes, visit our website at https://greenrpanel.com/

[homedevises]

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[gepbroker1-blog]

Pinnacle Group

GREGORY E. PERKINS OF the Pinnacle Group closes two properties for $6,500,000.00  located within .5mi of each other in in Portage IN within the outlying area of the Chicago MSA. The properties are at the southern tip of Lake Michigan, 12 miles east of Gary IN, and 40 miles southeast of Chicago.  Both assets are located right off exit 23 of route I-90, Indiana Toll Road.  The properties are considered a walk-up style apartment community.

6025 Canden is comprised of 48 units with four 2 story 12 unit buildings.  These buildings were built in 1980 and have masonry bearing walls, concrete slab floors, with a brick facade.  The 48 units are all 1,000 2 bedrooms and 1 bathroom units. One of the existing units is currently used as an office, but will be converted back to a rentable unit by the borrower. The remaining 7 down units will undergo a full renovation upon the borrowers acquisition of the asset.

2400 Dixie has 52 total units with approximately 42,000 sq ft of total apartment type ares. There are 4 buildings that were built in 1980 and 1976 that have wood bearing walls, prefab roof, with a brick facade and metal siding. There are currently 19 one-bedroom one-bathroom units that are 650 sq ft. The remaining 33 units are 905 sq ft two-bedroom one-bath apartments.

The properties are located near many retailers along primary commercial thoroughfares such as Willowcreek Road, Central Avenue and Route 6. The major retail development in the neighborhood consists of various freestanding big box retailers along Route 6. Some of the local retailer sare Menard’s, Lowe’s, Sears, Wal-mart, Kmart, GNC, Family Dollar, Hallmarks, and Starbuck’s  The most notable retail development serving Northwest Indiana is Westfield South Lake Shopping Center located at the intersection of US-30 and Interstate 65 in the city of Merrillville This 1.3 million square feet regional mall is anchored by multiple national chains including Macy’s, Sears, JC Penny, Dick’s Sporting Goods and a Kohl’s department store.

Portage Hospital Campus is located on Willowcreek road, south of the Route 6 intersection, near the retail shopping district. The campus provides emergency services, outpatient laboratory and diagnostic imaging, including MRI and CT. The facility also houses offices for primary care physicians and specialists.

The properties are close to primary highway access to the subject neighborhood is provided by Interstate Expressway 80 and Interstate Expressway 94. The subject neighborhood is serviced by a full-interchange onto Interstate-80 at the intersection of Willowcreek Road. Further north, Interstate 94 is also accessible via Crisman Road. Both Interstates 94 and 80 provide access to the city of Chicago CBD and Interstate 294 which extends throughout suburban Chicago to the Illinois/Wisconsin border.

Portage 52 Pinnacle Inspection:

On April 30th and May 1st, 2018, Pinnacle Partners performed a due diligence inspection at Portage 52 Apartments, an apartment complex located at 6021-6055 Canden Ave. & 6021-6121 McCasland Ave Portage IN 46368 herein referred to as the "Subject". The Subject was reportedly constructed in 1972 and consists of 13 two story structures approximately 3600 sqft, each. Each building contains four apartments. There are two apartments on each floor and are mixed from one bedroom one bath and two bedroom and one full bath, living room, and kitchen with dining area. The Subject is situated on six separate lots, totaling 3+ acres of land in a developed area known as Portage and is surrounded by developed land consisting of single family homes, apartment communities, school and commercial properties. The actually number of units is 51, one unit was converted into a laundry room.

Based on observation of site improvements, building exteriors, and 16 of unit interiors were inspected, two were in good condition, and fourteen were down units needed complete rehab. The Subject was in fair-good condition overall and exhibited minimal wear and tear normal for its age and usage. The Subject appeared to have been adequately maintained over the years. No items of deferred maintenance were observed on the exterior. Refer to individual sections of this report for information regarding observed items of concern. Please note that some of these items may be considered potential life/safety issues affecting persons residing, visiting or performing services at the Subject, and as such should be addressed and corrected on a priority basis. The buildings appear to be structurally adequate with no obvious evidence of major structural failures, differential settlement, or significant soil erosion.

[gillespialfredoe01806ld]

Homebuilder With Vibrant Vision Brings Prefab Modern to Indianapolis

realtor.com

Turn onto a street in the Cottage Home neighborhood of Indianapolis, and you might think you’ve wandered into a hipster colony on the West Coast. A group of prefab, ultramodern builds has made a colorful splash in a landscape filled with ranch-style homes.

The latest addition to the cluster of modernity—complete with pink door and turquoise siding—is on the market for $379,000. The home is the brainchild of Ursula David, president and founder of Indy Mod Homes.

David, who started her homebuilding company in 1993, had the foresight to purchase a group of lots in the up-and-coming downtown neighborhood during the recession of 2008.

David, who had been building traditional, large suburban homes for over a decade, wanted to change it up once the building market bounced back and was inspired by Dwell magazine.

“I was like, oh my god, I love prefab homes. I’m going to figure out how to do it,” the 66-year-old recalled.

She approached a mobile home factory in Indiana that offered to give prefab home construction a try, and had the first home built for herself in 2012.

“The house is built in a factory. Then it’s delivered to me in pieces on flat-bed trailers,” David says.

David says unlike dealing with a construction project outside in the elements, building on a factory floor has benefits: The materials are never rained on, the workers are safer, and less trash is generated.

Kitchen with Corian counters and laminate cabinets

realtor.com

Mudroom and storage lockers

realtor.com

One of the 2.5 baths

realtor.com

Open living space

realtor.com

But due to factory space constraints, the homes are smaller by design, no more than 2,600 square feet.

“I have them do as much as possible inside,” she says. The prefab is delivered with interior finishes and drywall. It also comes complete with sinks, cabinets, faucets, tile, and light fixtures, all previously selected by David.

Once the home is placed on the slab, the indoor build can be completed in about three to four weeks. The factory David uses is located about three hours from Indianapolis, and the home is delivered in pieces by trailer truck.

“I have a crane on site. We lift the boxes off the trailers, and set them on the foundation—and voila, we have an almost completed home,” David says.

It takes her crew about 45 days to wind up with a fully finished product—factoring in the addition of a foundation, siding, utilities, and landscaping.

For a Midwestern home buyer with a discerning eye, these prefabs are a welcome change. Plus, they aren’t cookie-cutter designs. Each prefab in the neighborhood was custom-designed for the client, with the help of an architect.

As for the home currently on the market, David built it on spec and she’s the one who picked the distinctive front door.

“I’ve built seven prefabs, and I’m getting ready to start another one. It’s worked out really great,” David adds. “It’s pretty fun, I have to say.”

The sense of fun is evident in the home for sale, apparent right at the front door. The 1,576-square-foot home has two bedrooms and 2.5 baths. The open plan includes a living and dining space, and a kitchen with sleek laminate cabinets, bar seating, and Corian counters. The kitchen and baths have tile flooring.

The rest of the house has wide-plank hardwood flooring. The exterior is cement board siding. Thoughtful details include mudroom lockers, an upstairs laundry, a master suite, and an open loft that could work as an office. Outside there’s a garage with extra storage.

“She’s really is a pioneer in our area, with respect to helping people understand the value of prefab,” says listing agent Zoe Moore, who is also David’s daughter. The two, who have teamed up in the past, already have plans to build and sell another Indy Mod home.

It’s David’s focus on every detail, from faucets to fixtures, that sets her homes apart, Moore notes.

“She is one single solitary woman who puts her heart and soul into the houses she builds, oriented toward the people who are living there. No two [homes] are alike, even though the main parts are prefab,” Moore adds.

We have to agree, it’s completely prefabulous.

The post Homebuilder With Vibrant Vision Brings Prefab Modern to Indianapolis appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

from DIYS http://ift.tt/2GwOXJt

[halsteadproperty]

Montauk’s best beach house is in a trailer park

As seen in the New York Post

By Lauren Steussy

It’s hard to imagine high-powered NYC real estate broker Louise Phillips Forbes falling for a vacation retreat in a trailer park. But Louise, her husband Christopher and their two kids — all avid surfers — are currently reveling in their fourth summer at mobile-home oasis Montauk Shores.

Here, at the easternmost edge of the Long Island enclave, the Forbes’ 1,100-square-foot prefabricated digs are nestled among 200-odd other residences, with the Atlantic Ocean just minutes away. The Forbes and their neighbors watch out for each others’ children, who roam freely through the rows of retro crash pads in between jaunts riding the waves. No one locks their doors.

“It’s a step back in time,” says Louise, 54, who works for Halstead Property.

“When we eat, people just show up. We’ll have homemade pizza and, all of a sudden, I’ll have 12 kids sitting at my table. We’ve never had a TV. We just hang out, walk on the beach, roast hot dogs and have bonfires. This is what it used to be like 40 years ago — you didn’t need much.”

Louise learned to surf recently, after Christopher, a 56-year-old tech entrepreneur, and sons Douglas, 13, and Kenneth, 11, took up the sport. Now it’s an obsession that has come to dominate not only her rigorous exercise regimen but also the décor of the family’s ipe wood-paneled haven. Think ocean-themed works collected from local artists, a sprawling couch that acts as a splayed-out beach towel and a multicolored surfboard hanging from the wall.

The foursome’s journey to their beachy hideaway started years ago. Based in Bridgehampton — and the Upper West Side the rest of the year, which is still the case — they would drive out to Ditch Plains Beach near the park to surf. They fantasized about living in the park itself, even if it meant downsizing.

“We came to realize it was a lovely community of people, all really socioeconomically diverse,” Christopher says.

But patience was required to nab a place of their own just for part of the season.

“It took us three years to penetrate getting a rental,” Louise says. “It was all word of mouth [then].” Then, in 2013, Christopher found a three-week opening at one of the park’s older trailers on Craigslist for $6,000.

While Douglas and Kenneth ran off to befriend the other kids, their parents dealt with rundown conditions and black mold, then added new appliances and clean linens.

The close quarters reminded Louise of her own childhood; one summer, her family piled into an RV and drove from her native Tennessee to California.

“We decided to embrace it,” she says. “Because this was more about just being together.”

In the summer of 2014, a coveted Montauk Shores lot went on the market. The couple seized the opportunity, buying it for about $567,000.

Because new homes basically have to be wheeled in — any stationary residences are grandfathered in — the Forbes purchased a double-wide prefab for about $200,000 from Indiana-based Hi-Tech Housing.

They could simply raise up the prefab structure as a precaution against flooding. It was also easier to customize and decorate a ready-made home than a trailer. So Louise turned to interior designer friend Cortney Novogratz for help.

Louise and Novogratz bonded over functional solutions for families. Take the beds in the boys’ shared room, which are Ikea trundles Novogratz wrapped in soft fabric to avoid accidental injuries while roughhousing.

Despite the home’s cookie-cutter origins, there are personal touches everywhere.

Groovy wallpaper with hand-drawn waves lines the hallway, which is blanketed in natural light from the open kitchen. On the walls, there are collages of surfing journal pages by Montauk-based artist Tony Caramanico. In the same vein, a Massimo Vitali aerial photograph of a beach, bright and sun-drenched, holds pride of place in the master bedroom.

A similar photograph by Debby Hymowitz greets Douglas and Kenneth when they wake up in their shared nook across the hall. There, a bookshelf houses a throwback lava lamp and a stack of antique Surfer’s Journal magazines. Mounted above their beds is a decorative surfboard, while flanking them are framed photographs of waves. “It’s what I want my boys to feel — calm, ferocious, fun,” Louise says.

She calls the spacious kitchen with vaulted ceilings “the nucleus of this house.” Lucy bar stools from Bend Goods are padded with polyurethane cushions — the same material wetsuits are made of. “I spend my days saying, ‘Get off the couch, you’re wet!’ But I don’t have to say that anymore,” Louise says. “We can just focus on having as many meals as possible together.”

Other custom touches reflect Louise’s joyful — sometimes rule-breaking — nature. She loved the porous, matte underside of a black granite countertop more than its shiny surface, so she had the slab honed and installed upside down in the kitchen.

Popping out of the black counter and white cabinets is a bright orange Big Chill stove with a $3,795 price tag, one of a few indulgences in the otherwise minimal home. Other splurges, and favorites of Christopher’s, are the two giant Flos pendant lights by Marcel Wanders that descend over the island. Imported from Italy, the $2,500-per-piece fixtures are lined with an intricate etching that looks like it could be porcelain — “quite expensive, if you ask me, for a trailer,” Louise jokes.

Outside on the deck, orange upholstery pops in front of an ocean view. On winter days when the waves are as tall as 12 feet, the family can see them break from the couches. The table nearby has extra bench seating to accommodate the many last-minute guests.

The part of the surf shack Christopher and Louise love most isn’t their own design but rather the tight-knit community at Montauk Shores. Everyone congregates by the shared pool, a few short blocks from the Forbes’ plot. There’s also free breakfast on summer weekends at a clubhouse, where neighbors also gather for potlucks and yard sales.

Their boys run with a pack — the East End’s very own “Lord of the Flies.” It’s rare freedom that the city-dwelling Forbes family can appreciate.

“All the kids here can bike to town, go surfing or swimming, basically do their own thing,” Christopher says. “Kids don’t have that in a large urban center, that independence to run around and just be kids.”

All four of them are dreading fall, which brings a return to Manhattan and less time hanging ten. “We don’t like to talk about that now,” Louise says. “This is our paradise.”

To read the full article online, click here. 

[leofletcher319]

Reasons Why You Should Invest In New Hampshire Prefab Homes

If you are planning to build a new home in New Hampshire, you should consider prefab homes. Most people mistake prefab homes for mobile homes, but they are not the same. They are quite different by design, quality and cost.  The following are some of the reasons why these homes might be a great option for you if you are looking to become a homeowner.

First of all, New Hampshire prefab homes can last as long as traditionally-built homes.  According to the Corporation for Enterprise Development, modern modular home last nearly as long as the traditionally-constructed homes built under modern construction standard. They are just as dependable and sturdy as most other homes built in recent years.

Another reason why you should consider prefab homes is that they are energy efficient. Prefabs that are built with today’s technological advancements are not just as energy efficient as many site-built homes, but they are often more energy efficient compared to similar traditionally-built homes. What this means is that owners of modern prefab homes can enjoy lower than average gas, electric, as well as alternative heating fuel bills every month.

Last but not least, New Hampshire prefab homes are environmentally friendly to build. These homes are built inside humidity and temperature controlled facilities instead of outside in the elements. For this reason, they require less protection and produce less construction waste while they are being built. As a matter of fact, prefabs produce 35 to 40 percent less waste compared to site-built homes during construction. This definitely plays a huge role in why they cost so much less to build compared to other types of homes.

For more reasons why you should invest in New Hampshire prefab homes, visit our website at https://greenrpanel.com/