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Always Yours, Bee Tour

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Memoir

Date Published: 3/2/21

Publisher: FinnStar Publishing

“There’s a guy. He was hit by a truck.”

On a rainy November day, Mia Hayes’ husband left for work on his Vespa. Normally, she would have driven him, but Mia was waiting on a phone call with an editor and didn’t have time.

She never saw that caring, loving version of her husband again.

The fallout from his accident–Mia’s guilt and her husband’s PTSD, memory loss, and depression–consumed their lives over the next five years as her laid-back husband changed into an angry man with few memories of their past. Desperate to hold her fragile family together, Mia ignored her own unraveling and plunged into bipolar depression.

As she searched for answers to unanswerable questions, Mia moved her family from San Francisco to Paris, France before landing in a leafy Washington, D.C. suburb where she tried to find a fresh start only to become embroiled in a scandal of her own making.

Through ups and downs, mental illness and bad decisions, Mia struggled with what it means to be a good wife and mother, whether saving her marriage was worth the pain, and understanding that healing is a personal journey.

Always Yours, Bee is a heartbreaking yet triumphant and brave look at a woman, a marriage, and a family falling apart and coming out stronger. Told with clarity and introspection, it captures the terror of losing the person closest to you—yourself.

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EXCERPT

Prologue

November 2004

Lemonade light filtered through the fog, casting a warm, golden tone across us as we watched Ryan run down the empty beach, a kite string clenched in his tiny fist.

November usually brought rain to San Francisco, but this particular day was clear, and we wanted to take advantage of the sun—even if it was chilly and damp out. Surfers bobbed off the coast, waiting for their ride, and gulls skittered along the shoreline. Later, after we ate our picnic lunch, we planned on exploring the tide pools.

James snapped a picture of Leo and me snuggled into a fleecy blanket. I waved him over to us, and he settled into the sand, his jean-clad leg touching mine. He tossed his arm over my shoulder and hugged me close.

“This is nice,” he said. Ryan had stopped running to inspect something on the beach, and Leo crawled off my lap into the sand. “But this is more fun.” James turned and tried to tickle me through my layers of bulky clothes.

We laughed and smiled and were so very happy.

That’s how I want to remember us.

Golden.

 

The Accident – Chapter 1

 

November 23rd, 2010

Why wasn’t my phone ringing? She said seven thirty.

Relentless late-November rain battered the trio of windows behind me. It was nearly eight in the morning, two days before Thanksgiving, and I sat in the tiny family room of my San Francisco flat trying not to envision every reason why my phone was silent. Had she realized I was a hack and changed her mind?

Relax, no one is ever on time.

I opened the well-worn notebook in my lap and studied the questions my husband, James, and I had excitedly crafted the night before. Earlier that year, I had signed with a New York literary agent, and now an editor wanted to talk to me. 

My writing had been squeezed in during sports practices and after the boys went to bed. James traveled frequently for work, and I often stayed up well past midnight to write despite long days of work, volunteering, and mothering.

I hadn’t mentioned my new passion to James until I received three offers of representation the day I submitted the manuscript to agents. He had been baffled that I had had time to write a full-length novel but not surprised that I had actually written a novel. As he put it, it was a very me thing to do.

I stared at my blank phone screen. Why hadn’t she called?

In an explosive burst of boy-noise, Ryan, my nine-year-old son, sprinted into the room and flopped on the end of the couch. His Catholic school uniform shirt was untucked, and his two blond cowlicks stuck straight up. I glanced at his feet. No socks or shoes.

“Can Grandma get me a bagel?” He gave me a hopeful, missing-tooth smile.

I set my notebook aside. “Did you ask Grandma?”

“She said if it was okay with you. I’ll even ask her to get one for Tate and Leo, too.”

I chuckled. “Do you really think Grandma would walk you all to school, get only you Boudin’s, and leave your brothers hungry?”

Ryan shrugged.

“Go finish getting ready, and if you have time, Grandma can get all of you bagels.”

Ryan leaped off the sofa and raced past James standing in the doorway of our family room.

“Hey! No hugs?” James called after Ryan. 

“Sorry!” Ryan threw his arms around James’s torso. “Love you!”

James rubbed the back of Ryan’s head. “I love you, too.”

Ryan broke free and his footsteps thundered down the stairs. “We can get bagels!”

Our front door slammed, followed by my in-laws’ door closing. They lived in the flat below and often helped care for the boys. My mother-in-law, Molly, worked at their Catholic school—the same one both she and James had attended.

I was immensely proud that my boys were the fifth generation of James’s family to live in our three-story house, and I planned on never leaving. James had grown up there and so had Molly, and now it was the boys’ turn. Molly and Joe, my father-in-law, lived in the second-level flat, and my family lived in the third level. The garage and a small in-law unit occupied the ground floor.

James’s family roots ran deep in San Francisco, a park was even named after them, and I wore it as part of my identity. We were the Doyles from 11th Avenue (even though we were now the Suttons), and that meant something in our small community.

Molly and Joe were good sports about allowing me to put my own stamp on the house, going along with whatever my current obsession was. When I said I wanted to be a modern homesteader and turn our deep backyard into an organic city farm with fruit trees, bees, and chickens, they didn’t blink, and they let James buy me a chicken coop for our anniversary.

No matter what my current obsession was—like starting an online shopping site, becoming a personal shopper, or taking on the task of revamping our school and church’s annual festival—James supported me. I was a whirlwind, and he was the calm hand that steadied the ship.

“I’ll call when I get to work. I want to know how everything goes.” James’s Chelsea boots clomped against the hardwood floor as he walked toward me. He wore dark jeans and a black leather bike jacket that showed off his trim figure, and the olive-green messenger bag I had given him for Christmas bounced off his hip. He hadn’t bothered to do his messy, brown hair because he’d fix it at work after he took off his motorcycle helmet. I teased him that he carried more beauty products in his bag than I did, but really, I gave him a hard time because he was more pulled together than me.

Unlike James, my days consisted of mom things like going to the park and dust-bustering Cheerios off the floor. I did, however, shower, dress, and do my makeup every day after running a 5K at 5 a.m. The other moms marveled that I always managed to look presentable with three kids under the age of ten. I’d laugh and say it was my secret weapon, Molly, but the truth was the thought of anyone seeing me less than perfect bothered me.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride? It’s pouring.” A mist of grayness swirled outside. Driving James meant I would have to take the call in the car, but I needed to offer. After all, he would have insisted on driving me.

“I’ll be fine.” James flashed a reassuring smile. “I don’t mind getting a little wet, and you need to focus.” Every day, James rode his cherry-red Vespa downtown. Taking Muni was an exhausting, smelly experience that took three times as long, and parking a scooter was cheaper than parking a car. It had been a great solution.

The rain had eased into a gentle sprinkle. Really, it was no more than the heavy fog that normally hung over the Richmond District. “We should get you a rain shield.”

“Probably.” James checked his phone’s weather app. “If I go now, I should be okay.”

“Are you positive you don’t want a ride?” I nervously tapped my notebook. Everything I had worked for was coming to fruition, and I didn’t want to mess it up.

“Positive.” James placed three kisses on my forehead–one for each of the boys. “You’re going to do great, Bee. Just be you. Everyone loves you.”

“But do they love my book?”

“The editor wouldn’t call you if she didn’t.” James playfully pat my cheek, cupping my face on the last tap. He lifted my chin and stared into my eyes. A sense of calm ran through me. “It’s going to be great, just like everything else you do.”

I loved making James proud. He worked hard for us, and even though he constantly told me my job of being a mother and wife was more important than his, I felt I should do more, contribute more, be more.

My phone rang, and I startled. James mouthed, “I love you.”

Unlike every other day, I didn’t sing out my normal, “Be good. Be careful. Don’t do bad things. I love you,” as he disappeared down the hallway. My phone was already to my ear.

The house shuttered when James slammed the front door.

I never saw that version of my husband again.

About the Author

Mia


Mia is a notorious eavesdropper who lives in Northern Virginia, outside Washington DC, with her husband, sons, two cats, and Harlow the Cavapoo.

She drinks too much green tea, loves traveling, and has mastered the art of procrastination cleaning.

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Eris Rising Tour

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Memoir
Date Published: September 1
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
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Warrior’s aren’t born, they are forged from the harsh experiences that shape them as they strive to defend what is sacred and true. And geniuses aren’t born either—or are they? Courtney Ramm would know, as she’s one of 229 offspring born from the controversial “Genius Sperm Bank”, a genetic experiment that existed in the 1980s and ‘90s. With a predisposition for “genius”, Courtney found herself driven toward success. Following her passion for dance, by the age of eight she was studying at the renowned School of American Ballet and soon thereafter, performing on New York’s greatest stages. At twenty-five years old, she acted upon a strong inner calling to start her own dance company—in Hawaii.
Moving across the globe from the concrete jungle of Manhattan to the tropical jungle in Hawaii, Courtney brought along her endless to-do lists and a strong determination to succeed. But one thing was missing from the picture-perfect life she had imagined: a perfect husband.
When she first locked eyes with Marcus at a spiritual gathering, she sensed something was off in the uncanny intensity of his stare. But she dove into a relationship anyway, not grasping the graveness and outright danger of the decision.
Eris Rising is a story of breaking deep karmic patterns, grappling with the calling of destiny, and changing long-held karma into mission. With the powerful feminine warrior spirit of Eris as inspiration, this memoir shows how it’s possible to move forward after life-altering “mistakes”, and recover the true “genius” within.
 

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Excerpt


I sat cross-legged on my twin-size bed across from CNN journalist Lisa Ling, who posed a question I’d never been asked before, at least not this bluntly.

“Are you a genius?”

In the past two decades of interviews and television appearances about my unusual and controversial conception, I had received your garden-variety questions about my life, beliefs, and upbringing. All pretty much the same. 

A typical question: “How did you do in school?”

My response: “I did very well. I always loved school.” 

I didn’t elaborate. My answers were simple and to the point. Perhaps I was trying to get the interview over with as quickly as possible since talking about myself and the “genius sperm” that made me was rather uncomfortable. 

Another common question: “What are your goals and dreams?”

With youthful hope and confidence, I’d say, “Keep dancing and choreographing professionally and one day to have my own well-known modern dance company.”

“Growing up, did you ever feel any pressure to succeed?” 

This question always landed in the interviews, and my answer was always the same.

“Never from the outside and definitely not from my parents. I always felt a strong inner drive to succeed and strive harder, particularly in dance but also in everything I do.”

Although I consider myself just about as normal as every other person, I was indeed created in a unique way—out of sheer necessity.

After seven years of trying to start a family, my dad’s infertility led my parents through a series of synchronistic events to find the Repository for Germinal Choice, otherwise known as the “Genius Sperm Bank.” Though it existed only for a short time, this elite sperm bank collected the “highest quality sperm” from Nobel Prize winners and other high achievers in hopes of creating exceptionally bright, talented human beings. A total of 229 children were born from this experiment, the majority of whom have kept their lives private. 

Not the Ramms.

My sister, Leandra, came first—outgoing, precocious, and adorable. Four years and two miscarriages later, on a hot mid-August day at Mount Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I was born, thanks to Donor Fuchsia. (The Repository kept all sperm donors confidential and color-coded to keep track. My mom’s two miscarriages were with Donor Coral, but Donor Fuchsia did the trick!) 

There I was, twenty-five years after the experiment of my conception, in my parents’ New York City apartment, sitting on a beautiful, antique bed passed down from my late grandmother, talking to CNN reporter Lisa Ling. Her question hung in the air, awaiting my response. 

I giggled nervously. Was I a genius? I didn’t know. I certainly didn’t feel any more genius than anyone else based on genes alone. What about my younger brother, Logan? He also came from the sperm bank but turned out to be autistic. Would that make him less of a genius than me, since he has what’s perceived as a disability? 

Despite being thrown off kilter by her question, I managed to respond.

“I really believe that there is genius in every person.”

By the time the show aired, I’d had a few more months to ponder what it meant to be a genius. Was the meaning confined to the most common definition, “a person who is exceptionally intelligent or creative, either generally or in some particular respect”? Or was it broader in scope so that every human being is a genius in his or her own right with gifts and talents waiting to be unearthed and cultivated from deep within?

The ancient origin of the word lends a different view. The Romans believed that all people had a guiding spirit that attended to them throughout their lives. Because this spirit was born with the person, it was called a “genius,” from the Latin verb gignere, meaning “to give birth or bring forth.” A person’s genius dictated their unique personality and disposition, and if someone had an outstanding talent or ability, the genius by their side was believed to be responsible for it.

With the Roman definition of genius in mind, I can only ascertain that about two years after that interview with Lisa Ling, my own personal attendant genius (my little genie, if you will) left my side. Amid a budding dance career, I found myself in a whirlwind romantic relationship, one that resembled a perfect Hawaiian sunset at the beginning, and somehow, only sixteen months later, resembled the aftermath of a Midwestern tornado—a stark, scary scene of desolate destruction. I had longed for a “perfect” husband. The person who appeared turned out to be too good to be true, a façade, but I couldn’t seem to let go. Yet as I devoted myself to my new partner, our relationship became unbalanced. Here was someone I trusted with my life who couldn’t care less about mine. In the end, my former partner endangered my and my children’s very existence.

The relationship was as intense as it was short-lived, leaving no facet of my previous reality in sight. I would have been happier to forget those sixteen months, to just move on with my life and restart my career as a dancer and choreographer, except it wasn’t that easy. Not only did a tremendous amount of healing need to take place, but now there were children involved. I was forced to crawl out from beneath the rubble and piece together what was left of my life. Perhaps it was in that rubble that my attendant spirit reappeared and helped me set foot on a long, arduous, yet ultimately transformative road to reclaim my life and spirit. This book is an account of my journey and a testament that you too can reclaim your life after unthinkable upheaval. 

About the Author

Born and raised in the heart of New York City, Courtney Ramm has followed her passion for dance since childhood, which led to a career as a professional dancer, choreographer, and teacher. She’s directed dance schools, performed, and taught all over the world, from Singapore to Thailand to Manhattan.
With her Master’s degree in Dance Education, Courtney has led wellness retreats in Hawaii, focusing on empowerment and transformation. Courtney is the founder and artistic director of RammDance, a non-profit dedicated to keeping the legacy of modern dance pioneer Isadora Duncan alive. She blends her love of dance with holistic healing, and is a certified Pilates instructor, Yoga teacher, Ayurvedic consultant, Theta healer, Master Detox Chef, and Reiki practitioner.
Alongside her focused training and career in dance, writing has always been one of Courtney’s passions. She knew she would write a book—although she never imagined her memoir would take such a twisted turn.
Courtney is a full-time single mama to two toddlers. Eris Rising is her first book.
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Counting Hope Tour

Follow Up to Hopey: From Commune to Corner Office.
Memoir, Business
Publisher: Hunter Street Press
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If you thought Hopey: From Commune to Corner Office was compelling, then Counting Hope will further inspire and challenge you.
In her memoir sequel, we follow Hope Mueller’s journey into adulthood as she unwittingly recreates the dark, chaotic world she was attempting to escape. As Hope finishes college, she digs herself out of drug addiction and abusive relationships to ensure her survival. She charges forward to build a better life for herself and her two daughters. Hope reveals the most intimate and painful events of her life while illustrating an unwavering motivation to improve her circumstances and discover her true worth.
Ultimately, Hope’s story shows how small, daily steps towards confidence propel us forward, even beyond our darkest hours, to a place of more joy, more purpose, more fulfillment. Written in heart-pounding flashbacks and encouraging looks forward, Counting Hope is an epic journey of liberation, empowerment, and eventual success.
About the Author
Hope Mueller is an author, inspirational speaker, and a successful executive. Hope lives in northern Illinois with her husband and actively parents her four daughters and grandson. She sits on multiple non-for-profit boards, and has launched a local scholarship fund. She is the chairman and president of a charitable organization being developed in 2019. Hope’s passions are found in promoting and developing leaders, youth STEM activities, and in-need community support and investment. Her early years were marked by her experiences within a hippie commune that shaped her approach and interaction with the world, and allows her to create order out of chaos.
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GenderQueer Tour

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Non-Fiction / Memoir / LGBTQ Coming-of-Age / Coming-out Story
Release Date: 3/16/2020
Publisher: Sunstone Press
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Derek is a girl. He wasn’t one of the boys as a kid. He admired, befriended, and socialized with the girls and always knew he was one of them, despite being male. That wasn’t always accepted or understood, but he didn’t care–he knew who he was. Now he’s a teenager and boys and girls are flirting and dating and his identity has become a lot more complicated: he’s attracted to the girls. The other girls. The female ones. This is Derek’s story, the story of a different kind of male hero–a genderqueer person’s tale. It follows Derek from his debut as an eighth grader in Los Alamos, New Mexico until his unorthodox coming out at the age of twenty-one on the University of New Mexico campus in Albuquerque. This century’s first decade saw many LGBT centers and services rebranding themselves as LGBTQ. The ”Q” in LGBTQ is a new addition. It represents other forms of ”queer” in an inclusive wave-of-the hand toward folks claiming to vary from conventional gender and orientation, such as genderqueer people. People who are affirmatively tolerant on gay, lesbian and transgender issues still ask ”Why do we need to add another letter to the acronym? Isn’t anyone who isn’t mainstream already covered by ‘gay’ or ‘lesbian’ or ‘bisexual’ or ‘trans’? I’m all in favor of people having the right to call themselves whatever they want, but seriously, do we need this term?” Derek’s tale testifies to the real-life relevance of that ”Q.” This is a genderqueer story before genderqueer was trending.
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Excerpt

I was in the house by myself and heard the doorbell chime. Denise Spears. “Umm, Jan isn’t here at the moment, but do you want to hang out for a while?” I asked, hoping she’d say yes.

“That’s okay because I actually came over to see you,” she explained, smiling at me. She came in and I closed the door, which latched with a resonant chunk in the quiet room. I was feeling pretty tongue-tied; I couldn’t think of anything clever to say. Denise looked a little nervous herself.

“I’m glad you came over. I like it when you’re here.” We hugged. After a couple moments I realized I should be acting like a host. Or at least not just staring happily at her and not saying anything. “Do you want anything, like to drink?”

“Not unless you want,” she replied.

Denise was smiling shyly, eyes down. She was wearing snug jeans shorts, with the legs rolled up to make cute little leg bands. I thought about how nice it would be to get my fingers inside that denim. This was maybe my big chance, if that’s what she had in mind. I wondered if she’d known that we’d have the place to ourselves when she’d decided to come over.

Maybe she did.

“I’ve been thinking about you and that hay ride,” she said, then blushed, “and, umm, you know.”

“I think about you too. And yeah…”

It wasn’t like how it was with Terri, who was always sort of challenging me to do stuff. I totally trusted Denise and I knew there was no risk that she was trying to set me up for embarrassment or humiliation. But somehow it felt serious and not like playing around the way it had been on the hayride or in Jan’s bedroom. “It was funny when Jan caught us on the floor that day,” I said, just to have something to say.

Denise chuckled. “I know, right? Like she couldn’t decide who to be mad at.”

I gestured to the living room couch, and we sat there, our backs to the big window.

Denise seemed fragile and somehow younger today and I was a lot more conscious of the age difference. It felt wrong somehow to try to start making out. As if she wanted me to like her and would therefore let me do things whether she wanted to or not. It hadn’t felt that way before, and maybe she was actually impatient for things to happen. But how it seemed was like we were both uncertain about what to do.

We kissed and held hands and talked on the couch for a half hour, then she said she’d better be heading home.

 

About the Author
Allan Hunter grew up partly in Valdosta GA and partly in Los Alamos NM and first attempted to come out as genderqueer in 1980, an endeavor made difficult by the fact that there was no such term for it in 1980.  He has used many words and phrases over the intervening years, including “sissy” and “coed feminist” and “straightbackwards”, but currently identifies as a “gender invert” which is a subtype of genderqueer, and colloquially refers to himself as a “male girl”.
He has lived in the greater New York City / Long Island region since 1984.  He came to the area in order to major in women’s studies and to discuss gender and related topics, and is the author of “Same Door, Different Closet:  A Heterosexual Sissy’s Coming-Out Party”  (published in the academic journal FEMINISM and PSYCHOLOGY in 1992).
“Same Door Different Closet” was reprinted twice in subsequent anthologies (Fem & Psych’s own special reader HETEROSEXUALITY in 1993, and Heasley & Crane’s SEXUAL LIVES: A READER ON THE THEORIES AND REALITIES OF HUMAN SEXUALITIES, McGraw-Hill 2002).  A second theory paper, “The Feminist Perspective in (and/or On) the Field of Sociology” was made available for credited distribution and was included in a compendium,  READINGS IN FEMINIST THEORY, Ed. S. M. Channa, Cosmo Publications.
GenderQueer is his first serious attempt to write for the market outside of the academic journal environment.
He is active in local and regional organizations where he speaks to small groups about gender issues. He has addressed college women’s studies groups, alternative-lifestyle social groups, and given talks at LGBT centers.
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EMERGING BUTTERFLY by Constance G. Jones – Cover Reveal

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EMERGING BUTTERFLY

by Constance G. Jones
Publication Date: January 30, 2020
Genres: Adult, Memoir, Family Trauma, Infertility, Dating and Relationships

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SYNOPSIS

On January 30, 2020 Constance G. Jones will release her memoir Emerging Butterfly detailing her childhood growing up in San Diego as one of 9 children battling the three demons in her household: alcohol, abuse, and absence. She survives the heartbreak of infertility, depression, and bad relationships to become an influential philanthropist, advocate and loving wife.

Survive the darkness of the cocoon and you will emerge into the light of day.

. . .

Raised in San Diego in the 1980s, Constance was born to be a Californian dreamer. The fourth of nine children in a poor, dysfunctional family, she grew up with three demons in her household: alcohol, abuse, and absence. She buried her dreams in the dark cocoon of her childhood. As a teenager, an accident upended her world and cursed her with epilepsy for the rest of her life.

Entering adulthood, Constance hoped she’d left the worst behind her. Instead, toxic relationships, misguided spiritual teachings, and close calls with death nearly broke her.
Constance discovered curses can hide blessings in their inner layers. Instead of breaking, she chose to break free, realizing her heart could sprout wings to take her in the direction of her wildest dreams…

In a mesmerizing memoir that is by turns heartbreaking and heartwarming, writer and philanthropist Constance Grays Jones retraces her precarious journey towards truth, love, community, and self-discovery. Tackling issues of epilepsy, depression, infertility, and family drama with refreshing sass, humor, and compassion, she reminds us that we are products of our past but also the creators of our purpose. Her inspiring story is a wakeup call for the soul, showcasing the tenacity of the human spirit, the pockets of sunlight in the darkest corners, and the transformational power of belief and love.

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ABOUT CONTANCE G. JONES

Constance G. Jones is a San Diego native, an avid reader, and a storyteller. She earned her Bachelor’s in Management and Organizational Communications from Point Loma Nazarene University and has since worked in administration, public relations, and career services; most recently, she serves as a site manager at Walmart Global eCommerce. In 2016, Constance founded Elevate Foundation with her husband Claude, driven by their personal mission to make an impact in their local community and inspire others to do the same. Emerging Butterfly: A Memoir is Constance’s debut book.

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