text:
DUSMAN ABASSI SABUNI (died 2000) was a Ugandan military officer. Born in Lira, Uganda, he became an officer in the Uganda Army following the completion of his secondary schooling. After Colonel Idi Amin's 1971 military coup, Sabuni quickly rose through the ranks and was made brigadier general and Minister of Industry. Sabuni fled the country in 1979 after Amin's overthrow during the Uganda–Tanzania War, but was detained by Kenyan authorities and sent back to Uganda. Sources disagree on the details of his later life, though it is known that he served as important rebel leader in the 1990s.

Early life

Dusman Sabuni was born in Lira, Uganda.[1] He was ethnically Moru, and his father was a commissioner of police, also called Dusman Sabuni. He received his secondary education at Gulu High School and played on the institution's football team before graduating in 1967. In the 1970s he married and had three children.[2] He was a Muslim.

Military career

In 1968 Sabuni enrolled in the Uganda Army as an officer cadet. He underwent training in Moroto before being sent to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in the United Kingdom for further instruction.[3] In 1969 he partook in a three-month long paratrooper course at Malire Barracks in Kampala.[4] He was ultimately commissioned into the army as a second lieutenant. Sabuni still held the rank when Colonel Idi Amin launched a military coup in 1971. Shortly thereafter Sabuni was promoted to the rank of captain. He later attended a company commanders' course at the Kabamba School of Infantry. While there, he was promoted to major. Before he finished the course, he was promoted to lieutenant colonel and attached to Uganda Army headquarters. Shortly after taking up the post Sabuni was made colonel. Several months later he was made brigadier general and appointed Minister of Industry. He also underwent paratrooper training in Israel and for a time served as commander of the Paratroopers Military School in Lubiri.[5] In July 1976 he, in his capacity as Minister of Industry, led a delegation to Japan where they secured a deal with Honda to purchase vehicles for the Ugandan government.

In 1979 during the Uganda–Tanzania War a combined force of Tanzanian troops and Ugandan rebels invaded Uganda and approached the capital, Kampala. Amin fled the city and left Sabuni in charge of its defence. Kampala ultimately fell, and Sabuni fled to Kenya. The circumstances of his flight are disputed. According to his own testimony, he fled Kampala on 8 April 1979, and went to Mbale from where he and his family traveled to the border, crossing it on 10 April. Eyewitnesses claimed to have seen him in Mbale as late as 11 April, however, where he, Idi Amin, and other high-ranking officials allegedly plundered the African Textile Mills. Furthermore, Sabuni claimed that he stayed at Molo after his escape until being detained by Kenyan agents and sent to Kakamega,[6] whereas diplomat Madanjeet Singh stated that Sabuni was staying in Nairobi after fleeing Uganda. He was arrested by local authorities in May after being indicted by the Kampala chief magistrate for murder[7] and extradited back to Uganda on 16 June.[8]

Later life

Sources do not agree on Sabuni's fate after his return to Uganda. According to some reports, he was incarcerated at Luzira Prison by the Uganda National Liberation Front before starving to death in their custody in 1981.[9] His father was killed by UNLF troops in 1980. According journalist Anne Mugisa, Sabuni was released in Uganda but arrested and charged with breaking into and stealing from the African Textile Mills in Mbale.[10] He was ultimately acquitted on 17 December 1981,[11] and then moved back to Kenya, going to Mombasa and reportedly remarrying.[12] According to Sabuni's lawyer Joe Mayanja and journalist Innocent Kazooba, Sabuni was still in Luzira Prison when Yoweri Museveni came to power in Uganda and Museveni had him released.[13][14] Sabuni then fled to Zaire and then Saudi Arabia.[15] By 1990, he had joined a Ugandan rebel group operating in Zaire, the Former Uganda National Army (FUNA), and served as one its leaders alongside Isaac Lumago and Abdulatif Tiyua. Sabuni flew to Nairobi briefly in 1997 but, after being prevented by Kenyan authorities from leaving the premises of Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, he flew back to Saudi Arabia.[16] He later became chief of staff of the Allied Democratic Forces (ADF), a Ugandan Islamic fundamentalist rebel group, using the pseudonym “Al Hajji Osman”. He was replaced in 1998 after falling ill and being forced to retire to a hospital in Mombasa.[17] Ugandan military sources stated that he was leading a ADF subgroup, namely NALU, by 1999.[18]

According to journalist Yunusu Abbey, Sabuni died from a stroke in Mombasa in 1999 and was buried in the city.[19] According to Mugisa, he died there in 2000.[20]

Notes

Citations

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17]

[18]

[19]

[20]

title: Dusman Sabuni

question: What qualified Sabuni for the job as brigadier general?

answer: In 1968 Sabuni enrolled in the Uganda Army as an officer cadet. He was sent to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in the United Kingdom for further instruction. In 1969 he partook in a three-month-long paratrooper course at Malire Barracks in Kampala. He later attended a company commanders' course. He also underwent paratrooper training in Israel and for a time served as commander of the Paratroopers Military School in Lubiri.


split: test

text:
TEHRAN, Iran (AP) — Stay-at-home mom Maryam Alidadi used to lead a comfortable middle-class life. The 35-year-old and her husband, a mechanic, could afford a spacious rental apartment in a central neighborhood of Tehran, along with a car, occasional restaurant meals and holidays abroad.

Now they are barely hanging on, even after drastically cutting spending.

Like most Iranians, the family was hit hard by the collapse of the national currency, accelerating inflation and eroding wages — fallout from unprecedented US sanctions.

Get The Times of Israel's Daily Edition by email and never miss our top stories Free Sign Up

Perhaps most devastating for Iran’s large middle class has been the sharp spike in housing prices, more than double in a year. That has uprooted tenants and made home ownership unattainable for most.

[]

In this Saturday, July 6, 2019 photo, women walk on the shore of the Persian Gulf Martyrs’ Lake in Tehran, Iran (AP Photo/Ebrahim Noroozi)

The Alidadis sold their car and borrowed from friends and family to buy a smaller apartment in a less desirable area on the outskirts of Tehran — in hindsight a smart move, since they’ve been priced out of their old neighborhood by now.

“Right now, this is the most difficult period ever,” said Alidadi’s 58-year-old mother, Shahla Allahverdi, reflecting on the Islamic Republic’s 40-year history as she shared a park bench with her daughter.

Iranians worry about the future as tensions between Iran and the West continue to rise.

The escalation — triggered by the Trump administration’s withdrawal last year from Iran’s 2015 nuclear deal with world powers — seems unstoppable, and European mediators trying to defuse the situation keep coming up short.

The showdown between Washington and Tehran has upended the lives of Iranians as they try to survive on less. A bride borrowed a wedding dress because she couldn’t afford to buy or even rent one. More newlyweds move in with their families to save money. Visa requests are up at foreign embassies, with young Iranians eager to leave.

[]

In this July 3, 2019 photo, a worker adjusts a display of wedding dresses in downtown Tehran, Iran (AP Photo/Ebrahim Noroozi)

Some wonder how far Washington is willing to push its “maximum pressure” campaign.

The Trump administration says the sanctions are aimed at getting Iran to renegotiate the nuclear deal, which offered sanctions relief in exchange for curbs on Iran’s nuclear program.

Washington denies its ultimate aim is to end the rule of Shiite Muslim clerics — though John Bolton, an architect of the pressure campaign, called for regime change before he became Trump’s national security adviser.

Some say Washington’s actions appear to have strengthened the paramilitary Revolutionary Guard and other hard-liners at the expense of President Hassan Rouhani, once the nuclear deal’s most prominent champion.

The Guard has been able to deepen its role in the economy, domestic politics and foreign policy under the guise of security, said Ellie Geranmayeh, a senior fellow at the European Council on Foreign Relations.

Despite the economic upheaval, there have only been sporadic protests.

[]

A group of protesters chant slogans at the main gate of old grand bazaar in Tehran, Iran, Monday, June 25, 2018. Protesters in the Iranian capital swarmed its historic Grand Bazaar on Monday, news agencies reported, and forced shopkeepers to close their stalls in apparent anger over the Islamic Republic’s troubled economy, months after similar demonstrations rocked the country. (Iranian Labor News Agency via AP)

Iran analyst Adnan Tabatabai said he believes Iranians are “reluctant to take their grievances to the street” for now, amid fear of further chaos and pushback by the authorities.

The economy contracted by 4.9% from March 2018 to March 2019. It is expected to shrink by an additional 5.5% in the year ending March 2020, according to Iranian figures. The official inflation rate has risen to 35%, up from 23.8% in the March 2018 to March 2019 period.

The housing and construction sector, which makes up about one-quarter of the economy and is the top destination for savings and investments, has been thrown out of balance.

Property owners are reluctant to sell and landlords are sharply raising rents because of the currency collapse, said Ali Dadpay, a finance professor at the University of Dallas. He said an estimated 490,000 homes stand empty in and around the capital, including more than 40,000 units added this year.

At the same time, construction lags far behind the need of 1.2 million new homes a year nationwide, said Hesam Oghabaei, deputy head of the Tehran association of real estate agents. He said about 25% of Tehran’s residents live in rented apartments, and the vast majority cannot afford the price increases.

The Peyman family — elderly parents and eight adult children — own a 110 square meter (1,180 square feet) apartment in Tehran’s District 12, a poor area plagued by drug addiction and other social problems. More than a decade ago, the Peymans rented the apartment, and used the extra income to move to a nicer area.

Now they are back in District 12, renovating the old apartment after being squeezed out of the good neighborhood by a rent hike.

[]

In this July 6, 2019 photo, a woman walks in District 12, a poor area plagued by drug addiction and other social problems, in Tehran, Iran (AP Photo/Ebrahim Noroozi)

“We have to come here because we have no other choice,” said the patriarch, Moslem, 65. Four unmarried children will live with him and his wife. Across-the-board price increases put marriage out of reach.

One of Tehran’s newest areas, District 22, is under construction on the northwestern edge of the city. It consists of apartment high-rises and shopping malls arranged around an artificial lake called Chitgar.

Maryam Alidadi and her husband bought an 82-square-meter (880 square feet) apartment here in December, downsizing by a third from their rented home in a more affluent area.

“Our standard of living has dropped considerably,” she said, adding that she now regrets having quit her government job four years ago when her son Rami was born.

[]

This July 6, 2019 photo shows residential towers in District 22, that consists of apartment high-rises and shopping malls arranged around an artificial lake called Chitgar, under construction on the northwestern edge of Tehran, Iran (AP Photo/Ebrahim Noroozi)

The US sanctions have proven particularly devastating for Iran’s large middle class, said Dadpay, the finance professor. “This is the economic class that depends on the global economy, depends on their skillsets, and most of them are earning fixed incomes,” he said.

The economic freefall could shape Iran’s domestic politics, with parliament elections in February posing the first test. Middle class voters have traditionally favored reformist candidates but might sit out voting because of a lack of alternatives, inadvertently boosting hard-liners.

Pro-reform politicians who favor a greater opening to the West are closely linked to the nuclear deal.

With the deal faltering, the hard-liners, including the Revolutionary Guard, are becoming more entrenched, said Geranmayeh, the analyst.

The Guard, she said, “is going to be a force to be reckoned with for many years to come.”

question: Summarize Maryam Alidadi's family's  financial situation.

answer: Maryam Alidadi's family's financial situation has changed quite a bit.  In Tehran, initially, the family was quite well off and could afford a spacious rental apartment.  Now, they are barely hanging in there. Iranians were hit hard by the collapse of the national currency. The Alidadis had to sell their car and borrow from friend and family.

question: What was the tension point that impacted the Iranians the most?

answer: The tension point that impacted the Iranians the most was when tensions about the future relationships between Iran and the West started. This escalation was triggered by the Trump administration with its withdrawal from Iran's 2015 nuclear deal with world powers. This showdown between then impacted Iranians a lot, forcing them to survive on less.

question: How does the future for the Iranians look?


text:
Hello All: I'm looking for general feedback. Are there confusing, boring, or awkward passages? Are the characters compelling? Are there scenes that I should decompact?

I haven't written much prose, and all the help would be appreciated and reciprocated.

A Lost Week
by Andrew Milewski

Avery pulled his comforter tight. The comforter, wrapping around his shoulder, hugged his ears with warmth. His naked ankles shook. His toe joints hardened. In his primordial consciousness, Avery bent his knees and pulled into himself. He thought, though not in words. His hands meandered over his knees, up his fat, hairy thighs that had a cover of goose bumps and red-eyed pimples. There was a need to urinate, and Avery’s hands pushed the tips of his fingers against the base of his penis. It swelled.

At that moment, the warm light was pushing through the venetian blinds, and a white iphone on the floor was counting its last minutes before it would start up with Vivaldi’s Autumn. Avery crooked his spine to the left. He reached for his phone, and finding it just out of reach, collapsed and gave in to his imagination. He thought of Amelia, the girl in his art history class. She had pale cheeks and a thick-lipped smile. She must also have breasts with deep crimson areolas. The boy tented the bed sheets between his bent knees.

The violin began to pull. There was a stinging wetness dripping down from Avery’s fingers. Seventy seconds. The song died down. With winded inhales, he breathed deep and ugly. Only when the strings began again did the boy move towards the sink at the other end of his dorm. “Let there be light,” he said. He turned his cheek so that the void could nod approvingly. Yes, that was a funny reference. He hit the switch; his eyes recoiled from the pain first light brings. Avery washed his hands, and he started the shower in the connecting room.

In the shower, each drop of water was a small needle. Amelia came back, and Avery resigned her to an unimportant lust. This unimportance dominated his mind, the way a tragedy dominates its victim. The water continued its assault, and the boy foamed the shampoo in his hand. His mind rambled, and he applied the soapy water to his hair. Avery thought of clever things to say to Amelia. Perhaps, he would put his macbook in front of his head. I’m a surrealist painting, he might say. Water ran down his shaggy Jew fro, over the back of his thighs, kissing his Achilles’ tendon goodbye. Cici n’est pas un joke.

“I’m a biology/ psychology, double major,” he might say. “I study the body and the soul.” Avery chuckled as he pulled the three-blade razor across his chin. Then blood, small stinging blood. A patch of shadow missed under the cheek. Avery didn’t invent this witticism about the body and the soul. His thesis advisor, the grey bearded Platonist had squandered the words. Avery didn’t like to think he was stealing the joke, just being ecological. Avery stepped out of the white-tiled bathroom and got ready for the day. This was Monday.

On Tuesday, Avery had forgotten to close his blinds, and the sun marched in wearing the grey uniform of a rainy day. Then Vivaldi started. He failed to hear that Avery’s abnormal psychology class was not until two. The dead composer played on, brash and boxy. Seventy seconds. Avery slid his hand under his bed shirt, and stroked the pitiable chest hair that grew in disconnected brambles. In minutes, his round shoulders hunched forward, and Avery twisted his neck and bent it toward the computer. There was a browser with three tabs: “pennsylvania casual encounters cl…”, “Existentialism – Wikipedia,…”, “Facebook”. Center sky now, the sun refracted itself in the apartment windows. Avery spent the next several hours looking at funny images overlaid with text, and listening to thirty-second sound bites, and reading theological internet forums about whether or not there was a god.

To get to the bank just down the hill from his dorm, Avery pulled out his red and white bicycle. It was a cheap fixed-gear rider, too small really for Avery’s mountain-like body. There was a crunch to the plane tree leaves no one ever bothered to rake together. Avery’s bicycle ran over their green bodies and smashed them against the broken cement sidewalk. The plane leaves and the way the wind stung his eyes were the only things Avery’s mind could grab. Before he knew it, he was downtown, at the bank, on his bike, and back to the university student center, ordering a Starbuck’s coffee, sitting down at an office desk. The administrative assistant, had reminded him that the work-study check was issued yesterday. “You should cash it before five-thirty,” she said. “I got it yesterday,” He replied. He added, “thanks”.

Then, a pot-bellied Jesuit with a grey forked bird and think smoky glasses came out. Avery did not know his name; he was the new vice president of student ministries. The Jesuit laughed. He said Avery’s name as a way to get the boy’s attention. “I need you to make sixty copies of this passage for tonight’s bible study,” he said. “Sure,” Avery said. Between the cacophony of the copier, Avery heard the Jesuit strumming his guitar. When Avery brought the papers into the Jesuit, Avery focused on the inane details of his office: the mounted sea-bass, the byzantine icon, stacks of thick red liturgy books. The Jesuit didn’t have his collar on, and his guitar rested awkward against his thick, hairy arms. He strummed the chords to the Beatles “Come Together”.

The Jesuit looked up. He stopped on what would have been the word “monkey-finger”. Avery said, “I’ve been thinking of joining the Jesuits”. It was a stupid thing to say, and, before he had said it, Avery regretted the words.

The Jesuit let out a long word, as if a teakettle were letting out steam. “Rea-a-ally-y”. And then a question mark. And then an under breath chuckle. “Well we can talk about it,” the Jesuit said. He leaned his guitar to the side of his desk and opened a meeting book. “How does Thursday work? Eleven a.m.?” “Sure”. “Good”. Avery was not there, and his words were not his own.

When on Wednesday Avery woke up and was in the shower before Vivaldi, he was elated. Avery emerged from his shower shaking the moisture from his body and leaving pools of dirty water around his room. He sat undressed at his computer, erased his laptop’s internet history, and deleted a folder on his desktop titled “new folder”, which had been filled with his up-to-then favorite dirty and obscene files. He had not known what he’d been thinking. “I will go to the meeting tomorrow,” he said. He emphasized the word “will”. Then he said, “and I will see if I can get something going with Amelia”.

Avery confessed the plan to woo Amelia. Standing in the take-out pizza place, in front of his friends, he had actually used the word “woo”. He got the idea from watching “Much Ado” that morning, as he got ready for the day. It was the version with Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh, and though Avery’s friends didn’t know his allusion, they played along. “Oh, yonder virgin needth some courage I think,” said the tall friend with the ginger beard. He laughed afterword, shaking the case of Blue Moon between his arms. “Verily,” said Avery, who handed money to the woman at the counter.

A shorter friend then pushed in front of the beer case. “Well, best of luck tomorrow, dude. Is she mildly attractive,” the friend asked. “Oh the mildest,” Avery replied. “But I’ll see if she has a vaguely attractive friend for you”. “Well,” the short friend replied,” that’s tomorrow. Tonight, let’s game. Wanna Lol?” “Sure”, Avery replied, “But I can’t stay up too late. Got a meeting in the a.m.”

What preceded Thursday morning could be seen in empty pizza boxes and the scattered Blue Moon bottles. The bottles reflected a brown light into Avery’s eyes. Although Avery was conscious, he waited for the alarm. One minute, maybe five. Maybe twenty. Until he didn’t play. Where was Vivaldi? He was dead. Avery’s white iPhone smiled, a dark black smile. Avery pushed the screen, harder and harder. There was nothing. Moving to the MacBook didn’t help, as that was also dead. After several long undetermined periods of time, the phone was plugged in. It came on and the black screen flashed with light, stating 10:55. No way to get to the Jesuit’s office, and Avery was glad.

Avery was not glad that he had to explain his absence. He thought about his excuse, as he scanned through pornographic websites featuring college girls, Asian babes, and naughty shemales. I’ll tell the truth, Avery thought. The truth is the best lie. Skipping my psychology class. Next one is at three. Amelia will be there. I’ve got to do this. Avery wasted his time by lifting a ten-pound weight around and listening to an audiobook, a poor, static filled rendition of Moby Dick. “Hitherto, in descriptively treating of the Sperm Whale, I have chiefly dwelt upon the marvels of his outer aspect; or separately and in detail upon his outer aspect,” the narrator read and continued.

The sun was over the hills from just outside Hyland Hall. Avery could feel evening’s coolness in his hardened fingers. He thought about the ways he could fuck up, repeated the words to make sure they were right: “Amelia, a couple of my friends are going to this house tonight.” As he said the words, Avery loosened and retightened the cap on his one-liter bottle of Diet Coke. The elevator was taking forever, and Avery watched as the red 4 became a 3, and a 2. Before it became a 1, Amelia was standing beside him. She had headphones connected to her Android. Avery could hear the bass of her music. She didn’t look at him, and he continued to move his eyes so as not to stay on her.

In the elevator, she removed her headphones. “Hey,” Avery began. “Hey back,” Amelia said. “What do you think about the midterms,” Avery asked. “Piece of cake, just re-watch Metropolis and make sure you know the Futurists,” Amelia said, and she went on “But hey! Do you know when the trip to MoMa is?” “Oh, not ‘til next month. I can remind you on Facebook,” Avery said, “Actually, I was think--” “Great! What’s your name?” Amelia asked. She had her Android out and was about to add him. Avery’s loud voice dropped. “Oh…” Avery said, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll add you.” “Great, I’m Amelia Brooks”. “I know,” Avery said.

Later that night, Avery did not go out. He texted his friends with: “didn’t work.. didnt even no my name”. The short one responded: “did u ask her out tho”. Avery did not respond, nor did he add Amelia Brooks on Facebook. Rather, he glared at her Facebook and thought that not adding her was a punishment. He knew that it wasn’t, that she wouldn’t even notice, but he liked to think that. Avery had a bottle of Blue Moon in his right hand. He drank hard from it and slammed it down to show himself that he was angry. His email flashed one new message, which read. “Father Kevin Montgomery. S. J. … Missed Our Meeting Today… and delete”, Avery said.

Avery opened a new tab to Craigslist, turned to casual encounters, where people go to find anonymous sexual partners. Though Avery never dared reply to someone’s posting, tonight he had the rare mixture of self-pity and intoxication, which was just enough to do something stupid. One user posted “T girl wants someone to play”. Inside the posting were the words “generous men only”, and Avery knew what that meant.

Friday afternoon, after class, Avery waited outside the mall parking lot. He leaned coolly against the stair railing and ran clammy hands over the bills. Fifty. One hundred. One fifty. Two. Two fifty. Two fifty for an hour. Avery feared he wouldn’t need nearly that long. Every passer-by could be this transsexual hooker. Although the email had an attachment, her photograph was too dark, probably taken on a cheap camera. “Avery,” the prostitute said, an odd timbre in her voice.

They walked along the broken city sidewalks, Avery crushing the weeds that grew in cracks. “I’ve never done this before,” Avery said. “That’s okay”, she said, “You a college student?” “Yeah.” “I finished four years ago,” she smiled, “I couldn’t find a job. The joys of being a philosophy major,” the prostitute said. “Avery smiled back. “I’m a psychology/biology double major. I study the body and the soul.”

The couple entered the small hotel room. A brown, out-of-fashion air conditioner droned in the background. This was the Red Carpet Inn, and Avery remembered that a friend Avery had made at church camp called it “the smelly, Indian hotel”. Avery smiled nervously. The hooker smiled back. With a confident gesture, she directed him to a chair on the opposite side of the room. The prostitute turned her back and unbuttoned her striped blouse, which fell to the floor and revealed a black bra. Avery tapped the arms of the chair with the tips of his finger. Walking over to the chair, the prostitute bent down. Avery moved his clumsy hands up and down her waist. He closed his eyes and felt her large hands undo his jeans and move into his boxers. He opened his eyes and saw that her closed eyes. She used her mouth to open his, while first moving her fingers up and down the length of Avery’s penis.

Avery choked a little as he began to speak, the prostitute’s bottom lip in between his. “I-- I forgot to give you the money,” he said. “No you didn’t,” she said. “Are you sure,” he said, grabbing her hand to stop the stroking. Too late. The prostitute raised the hand and closed her fingers around the globule of semen. I’m sorry was the only thing Avery knew to say. “Don’t worry,” she said and went to wash it in the bathroom sink.

Avery looked at her walk away. Her back was an ugly pale, spotted with freckles. Deep lines of red ran where her bra had clutched too tight. As she washed, her elbows bent her hoary arms into half diamonds. The diamonds covered her back from which inky trees sprung up. They lowered their roots to the base of her waist, and Italian letters rested above the leaves and tattoo branches. The prostitute turned back around and lay on the bed next to Avery.

“What’s on your back”,” Avery asked. She said, in perfect Italian, “It says, ‘Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita’.”

“What’s it mean,” Avery asked. “It’s from Dante”, she said, “Look it up.” She closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Avery sighed.

“Uhg! At least it’s Saturday tomorrow,” the prostitute said. “The Jewish Sabbath. A new week,” Avery said. “Are you Jewish,” she asked. “My grandmother is,” Avery replied.

title: A Lost Week [warning: adult content, sexual themes] about 2,500 words

question: Summarize Avery and Amelia's relationship.

answer: Avery and Amelia are classmates in art history. Avery thinks of her all the time, imagining how he can woo her. On his way to class, he plans on inviting Amelia to hang out with him and his friends in the evening. When he has a chance to have a small friendly talk with her in the elevator, he feels discouraged because Amelia doesn't even know his name.

question: Summarize Avery's education.

answer: Avery is a university student, a psychology/biology double major. He is a working student, and he helps Father Kevin Montgomery, a Jesuit, with paperwork in his office, in which he receives a work-study check.

question: What does the text say about Avery wanting to be a Jesuit?

answer: As a working student in university, Avery helps Father Kevin Montgomery in his office. Avery told the Jesuit that he is thinking of joining the Jesuit. He regrets saying it as he really doesn't mean it, but he agrees to meet with the Jesuit on Thursday at 11 a.m. However, he's not able to show up to the scheduled meeting as he oversleeps and his alarm doesn't go off.

question: What does that text say about Avery's morning wake-up alarm?

answer: Every morning, Avery relies on his 70-second Vivaldi’s Autumn wake-up alarm on his iPhone. However, on the day he's supposed to meet with Father Kevin Montgomery, his phone's dead, so there's no alarm to wake him. He's glad he can't go to the meeting.

question: What does the text say Avery's parents?


text:
From the long lush valley below, Miranda hears footsteps steadily increasing in volume and intensity. Her many travels over the years has taught Miranda a great deal, and the perils in them has heightened her senses and awareness enough to hear the stranger from a great distance. His distance has been steadily decreasing for the last few days though, despite Mirandas efforts and long runs throughout the nights.

His old wooden staff is buzzing with increasing intensity for each step he takes, and he doesn't seem to tire or pause for even a moment. The only wielders of such magic, are either bounty hunters, assassins from the mage guild or great mages said to have lived a long time ago. He must be sent from the mage guild, for why else would any wielder of magic seek her out with such ferociousness?

The tracking has been going on for days, forcing Miranda to cover her tracks and flee up into the great peaks of mount Mazra. Any time she covers her tracks, the stranger halts and starts chanting in an unknown language, then continues directly towards Miranda with an increased vigor and speed. It is as though the wind whispers into his ear her every move.

Miranda has observed him from a distance, as she's trying to catch her breath in the cold winds of Mazra. All these years of running about has given her great stamina, and the ability to track and hunt any animal for days without resting. This has proven invaluable to her these last few days, as without these skills the stranger would have caught up with her days ago and no doubt rendered her into a pile of ash steadily disappearing from the strong winds of the mountain.

The rumors of the wielding of fire from the mages in the mage guild has not been exaggerated, as she has seen the effects of this up close. Not a single body remains of the rebels that fought the mage guild, they've all been rendered to ash and smoke an scattered throughout the kingdom.

Her outspoken nature and short temper has brought her into trouble before, but never into anything she couldn't fight or talk her way out of. Maybe she shouldn't have interfered with the guilds actions of killing all the black crows and black cats in the kingdom, but her empathy for animals had made this impossible at that time. And the apprentice mage that tried to kill these innocent animals deserved any single one of the arrows impaling him she thought.

She could hear his chanting now, the air is vibrating from the sound of his voice, and the dust is unsettling behind her in a great cloud. How could he have gotten so close so fast?, why is he after her?, and would her friends ever know what happened here?

The mountains seems to quiver by the sound of his chants, small pebbles seems to loosen from above and rain down in increasing amounts. Even the bigger boulders seem to come loose and threaten her safe passage. Suddenly a great chunk of the mountain comes loose and makes her passage way a dead end forcing her to turn around and face her tracker.

She could hear him around the corner, the chants becoming ever more powerful and the air around her vibrating with an incredible force. Instinctively she draws her trusty bow aiming for the sound of his voice, as the dust renders it impossible for her to see beyond the tip of her arrow.

Any second now any of the rocks above could come crashing down on her, rendering her unconscious and defenseless. And there is not a thing she can do to prevent this from happening, as she is trapped here in this dead end with the stranger right around the corner.

"SHOW YOURSELF!, COME CLOSER SO I CAN PUT AN ARROW IN HER SKULL", she heard herself yell furiously with a great tremble in her voice. Her hearth is pumping out adrenaline through her system, and she could feel her temper coming into play.

Suddenly the dust blows away as the loud chanting stops and there's a figure but 20 feet directly in front of her, staring at her from beneath his worn hood. She lets loose the readied arrow on her bow which hurls towards the cloaked figure at an incredible velocity.

The arrow splits in to two pieces right down the middle only feet away from the strangers chest, without him moving as much as a muscle or chanting a single word. He seems to be able to wield powerful defensive magic with the use of his mere thoughts.

Miranda quickly draws another arrow and fires it at the stranger, only for it to stop in the middle of the air, then slowly descent to the ground.

"Congratulations", the stranger voiced. "Congratulations on your 15th winter among the living". "I see you have improved your archery since last time I saw you"

Miranda looked perplexed, she didn't expect these words from a strangers mouth.
Who was this stranger? Was he not there for the sole purpose of ending her?

"You may not recognize me, but I recognize you. I've followed you for days trying to keep up with your speed, and tracking you where no tracks can be found.
It's not been easy, but with the right kind of persuasion and the power of magic, I've finally caught up with you", the stranger uttered.

"Who, who are you?", Miranda asked still breathless from the pursuit.

"I am Prodigiosus, the heir of your uncle, the force from the south, I command the winds and earth to do my bidding" the stranger pronounced. "I've been observing your progress since you were a child, forever keeping a watchful eye on you and those who have sworn to destroy you"

"I'm here to join my forces with you in your fight against the mage guild, You'll need the powers of a mage by your side to be able to fight them", Prodigiosus said.

"I have no fight with the mage guild, it's all just a misunderstanding", Miranda uttered.

"What they are doing goes against your very nature, and they have been gaining power for these last years, soon beyond their own control. They're slaughtering the black cats and crows because of the fear that they might be spies from the witches of the south. Cruelty of this sort because of such a primitive emotion is unworthy of any wizard, it goes to show that the mages have lost control of themselves and their emotions." Prodigiosus said.

Prodigiosus and Miranda spent the night talking about the mage guild in front of a campfire that seemed to appear from thin air.
Before Prodigiosus stood up and said:

"My presence is required elsewhere Miranda, I've been absent for too long. But know that my powers will always be by your side, the wind will always be in your back and guiding your arrows towards your enemies. It will always reveal their scent while cloaking yours, and it will always whisper the right words in your ear when you need them the most."

Suddenly the winds started to pick up, and created a wall of dust between Miranda and the stranger, as soon as he disappeared from sight the winds quieted down and the dust wall vanished from sight. He was nowhere to be found despite Mirandas best efforts.

After some hours rest and warmth near the campfire, she thought about the great journey that lie ahead of her, and realized that it had just started.

title: My cousin turns 15 today, thought I'd write her a story about her roleplay character and post it on her wall. :)

question: Describe the main characters.

answer:
Miranda is outspoken, athletic, and acts out of empathy.
Prodigiosus is a mysterious mage.

question: What is Miranda's goal?

answer: To survive, initially, and then to stand against the mage guild in defence of the animals they've been killing.

question: Explain the relationship between Miranda and Prodigiosus.

answer: Prodigiosus is the heir of Miranda's uncle [her cousin?] and has been watching over her her whole life, though Miranda is only now meeting him for the first time.

question: Where does Prodigiosus have to go?

answer: He doesn't specify, he just says he's needed elsewhere.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Miranda runs from a mysterious mage in pursuit, only to discover it is her uncle's heir, Prodigiosus, who offers his support of her fight against the mage guilt, who have been killing animals out of superstition.


text:
A little introduction to this writing: The year is 1997. You have to realize that this year was significant as how we contacted our friends. We were at the start of the mobile generation. People my age, 16 at the time, did not have mobile phones unless their parents were rich, mine weren’t and even if they were, my friends didn’t have mobile phones. So to contact friends you would call to their house and ask their parents if they are present. If not, you would probably have to search for them at spots they might be at.

----------

It's the last Friday evening of summer holiday. I had received my student travel card (free travel in public transport) earlier that day and even though I hadn’t planned anything that evening, I decide to catch a train and try to find my friends who live in a city nearby. I grab my bike, light up a spliff and head of to the train station. At this time of evening, there aren't much people at the station. I'm glad because smoking weed makes me paranoid sometimes. It makes me feel as if people are staring.

As I enter the train, the sun has already set and the absence of most of the moon, because of the time of the month, makes it darker than usual. As the train starts to leave I get the sudden urge to get out. Is it the weed that drives me or some outside force? I don’t know why but I lost the interest of visiting my friends that evening. So I get out at the next station and head for the platform for the return train. I’m the only one there.

As I light a cigarette and just sit there with not much to distract me other than my thoughts, I notice a girl is passing me by. A beautiful girl with long black curly hair and large dark eyes. I can see that she has been crying, because of the red and puffy eyes. She looks middle-eastern to me. Young, probably just a little older than me. She is wearing a white summer dress. Not tight but it outlines her butcheeks by the way she is standing. Her back shows just enough skin and my teenage hormones are starting to rage. I can only imagine the things I want to do to her before I awaken from my thoughts. I hear the rumbling of the train and see the girl standing on the edge of the platform, about 60 feet away from me. It’s dark, but the lanterns shine bright enough for me to see that her shoulders are shaking a bit. I hear a faint cry. I realize what is about to take place.
I need to act. I do not want to see her organs all over the place, nor do I want to be stuck there for hours. There is nothing heroic about this, I am just thinking about my own interests. Might she even go down on me? My hormones still rage. I walk to her, she hasn’t noticed me yet. She jumps on the tracks.

At this point my focus shifts. I hear no sound but see everything so clear. Because of the bright lights of the incoming train I can’t estimate the distance but it looks like I can make it. My heart skips a beat. I jump on the tracks and pick her up as if she weighs nothing. The fabric of her dress is so thin it feels like I am toughing her skin. I don't want to let go, I want to keep my hands on her. So soft. I lift her on the platform and jump on there just in time as I feel the warm summer wind of the passing train. It was too close. Sound returns and I hear the ear deafening sound of shrieking brakes on the train. The girl is crying frantically. She speaks English with a thick accent: “I don’t want to live, I don’t want to live, why, why?”. I realize I can’t help her. What do I know of her problems? I’m just a 16 year old horny boy with a pretty easy life. I don’t understand her pain. I decide to hug her, my hands on her waist. She feels warm. The only reason she doesn't feel my excitement against her belly is because she is in shock. The train engineer is suddenly standing behind me and asks "Do you need help?" I let go as I realize he is talking to her. He walks to the girl. She clearly doesn’t want to be helped and runs off. The engineer turns to me: “Thanks. I don’t know what else to say, just thanks.” I realize why. I can see his eyes are watery and just say: “No problem, mind if I get in?” I ask because this is the intercity that isn’t supposed to stop at this train station. He doesn’t mind. I get in the (nearly empty) train and after a minute the train conductor joins me. He sits down and stays silent for half a minute as he looks at me. He thanks me for preventing a ruined weekend. His daughter is going to celebrate her 4th birthday. He wanted me to know that. I don't understand why he tells me. He hands me a flyer about how to contact some -help after trauma- center. I throw it away, I don’t need help.

Fast forward 3 weeks. School has started. It’s a new school for me by the way. We are having lunch and a class mate is telling me about her aunt, who saw a few weeks before that, from her home, how some guy selflessly saved a girl from getting run over by a train on that station. I said nothing while my hormones started to rage again.

note: I don't write. I have never written anything other than this and will probably never write again. Besides my mother, who doesn't live anymore I never told anyone so I decided to write it down.
Also, English isn't my native language so I will blame any mistake/error/grammatical flaw to that.
Lastly, I have never heard about the girl again. I sometimes wonder if she tried again, why she was crying and didn't want to live. I hope she is happy.

title: [NF] Selfishly

question: Summarize the mood of this text.

answer: The mood of this text is quite observing. The way the narrator notices all the details of the girl passing by and describes the hormones they feel when looking at her, gives the reader a great description of what to imagine. The narrator goes through many feelings, such as lust, to panic, and then to relief, and these emotions play into the mood of the text.

question: Summarize the feelings of the train conductor.

answer: The train conductor is thankful of the narrator for saving the girl. He thanked him specifically for preventing a ruined weekend as it was his girls 4th birthday. The conductor also took some time to soak in the events of what had happened. The conductor, then, hands the narrator a flyer to contact some trauma help.

question: Do you think the narrator would ask the classmate to meet their aunt or tell them how he was the guy who selflessly saved her?


text:
Barefoot Balmoral

It was raining so I stayed behind. I didn’t need to cross for any dumplings. Instead I took perch under some shelter and watched the Balmoral bustle.

This was the first time I had experienced it sober. I watched people dart through dark puddles like a hesitant dance and couples sway gently in their patience for food. This place was central Auckland’s China town, and it knew it too. Without a cigarette in my hand or a thought on my mind, stray observation occupied my time.

I tried not to hold stares with anyone and although there were some dark characters about, I wasn’t afraid of catching their gaze. After a few failed leads, something popped up just under my vision as I stared at the old building headers - a shorter man, tucked deeply into his trench coat, swiftly wove through the stream of oncoming traffic.

With head heavy and feet bare, he weaved cautiously through the bustling foot traffic, nearing towards me on Wirimu’s corner. His practised movements kept him safe from the infamous right turn onto Dominion Road, which leaves most pedestrians at the whims of impatient drivers.

He started crossing. He took the long way around a car waiting to turn, as if he didn’t want to be seen by headlights. Or maybe he had been witness to a Dominion Road right turn crash before and wanted to avoid any chance of a second viewing.

He stepped onto sheltered footpath and then turned around at me.
I held a stare this time.
For an uncomfortable three seconds we locked eyes. He knew I had been watching him.
I turned away to ignore the sight of him but I turned away into some sort of guilt.
I really needed a cigarette to distract me. I tried to go back to people watching.
I saw people but observed no-one.

The dumplings were taking their time.

After a moment, I noticed the Barefoot man take a seat on Balmoral’s floor, next to the Dumpling shop’s entrance. Slouching deeper into his trench coat for warmth and protection, he set up a bowl between his worn feet. It was emptier than a kids coke can. I wanted to help; I needed to absolve my guilt.

It had to cross now.

I made to and started to cross the road. With my mind distracted on how to approach the seated man, I walked straight into a puddle. My 5 dollar K-mart shoes no match for Balmorals reservoir-like potholes.
I neared the barefoot man and without thinking, kicked my shoe off to measure up his fit. He was a little quiet about it. Maybe he was just being cautious. I couldn’t tell as I had never been in his shoes before.

Sensing his hesitance, I assured him I didn’t need the shoes and told him they were only 5 dollars.

In hindsight I think that might have been rude but he eventually came around, flattening his feet to compare the fit.

He was two sizes too big. I guess he wouldn’t be in my shoes either.

I didn’t want to leave him empty handed/footed. Remembering how giving sock sizes were, I began to roll them off and told him I didn’t need them. I didn’t want to say much else. I didn’t even want thanks.

I walked away and sat down on a power box next to the dumpling shop, facing the other way now. Guilt was replaced by questioning. I internalised. I knew the world was not forgiving and the streets of Balmoral were no exception, but I needed to know why. I got lost in myself.

A tear formed and fell onto my shoe of all places. I hated that moment.

These dumplings were starting to anger me. I sat impatient. I wanted to meet the dumplings back at the car. I kept fiddling in my pockets hastily and found a lazy tenner. I wished it was only a five. I thought if I had bought a couple dumplings, then that would have given me a 5 in change. But I didn’t need a couple dumplings or a 5er. The tenner was his.

I dried my shoes and begun a new weave back past the man. I didn’t want to look at him. I did though. He hadn’t even put my socks on. A quick thought of ungratefulness came to mind, but it was dismissed by the fact it was raining. Everyone knows wet socks are worse than wet feet.

I quickly leaned down with blue paper in hand and shoved it between his joined knees where his head was balancing.

“Good luck,” I said, before turning and walking away without waiting for a response. I didn’t want to think much more of that for the rest of the night. Arriving home to dabble in a friend’s dumplings and a brew or two to intoxicate me from my sobering experience, I couldn’t get the Barefoot man out of my head. I started driving the long way to town now. The right turners can thanks me later. I don’t want to go back to Balmoral for a while.

Not until he forgives.

I did not want to discuss what I had felt that night with many.
The idea of sympathizing and enlightening friends on the overlooked idea of homelessness doesn’t stimulate most minds. What graciousness we have.
It saddens me sometimes.

I was told by the dumpling purchaser who witnessed my charity that the Barefoot man treated the tenner with a prayer of some sort - a genuine reaction, not hazed by drunkenness or ignorance. That he had raised his head from slump to grapple the note like it cared for him, like it forgave him. I’m glad I didn’t see his surprise. I might have wet my shoe again.

Back to work.

The days that followed were shaded by thoughts of his past. Oh how I wished to know his circumstances; his entire exhausted and worn weave. Only then would I have felt comfortable judging.

Judging, pfft.  Like I’m fit for that
Maybe then I would feel comfortable helping. After all, I couldn’t even look him in the eyes for more than 3 seconds. Every time I thought about it, there was only one conclusion I could reach: the system was fucked.

“The systems fucked” was the most common reply.
I got sick of internalising so I voiced the event to some workmates.
I embraced myself for some standard replies, maybe a couple thought provoking theories, or a similar event to have in common with.
My expectations were met minimally. It was ok though. I wasn’t planning on changing the world in my smoko anyway.

It was a long Friday. But I was used to doing overtime now. I needed the extra money and my extra socks weren’t going to pay for themselves. Jumping in my tired old Nissan, I started heading home. The Auckland traffic was...well...anyways.

I usually turn left on the Mt Eden – Balmoral intersection, but I knew just beyond was the Dominion – Balmoral intersection. The idea of a detour flirted in my head - would I see Barefoot man in the daylight still wandering Balmorals walls?

I doubted it, opting to continue on my normal weave.

Weave -
to form by combining various elements or details into a connected whole.

Driving home, I distractedly heard Mrs Rickard on the radio with a news update; something about a body being found somewhere in Balmoral. Without giving it much thought, I swapped the station to find some tunes. The news piece missed its first opportunity to join my weave. I carried on home.

An eventful weekend had come and passed including my exercising of my democratic rights at my first protest. I enjoyed it immensely. There’s something about standing up for what is right, that writing about what is right will never have over it. The allure of activism was strong.

Sunday finally rolled around and I found myself back scrolling through news headers.
My eyes were caught instantly. Sitting upright from my slouch, I started to drift the mouse over the link. At that point I remembered faintly hearing something about this on the radio before. I clicked the link.

The weave had started.

‘Police appeal for help over death of homeless man in Balmoral’.

I stared at the title while revisiting the Balmoral event in my head.

What had the homeless man done within two weeks that lead him to death?
Surely he didn’t die of starvation?
Wait, I don’t even know if it was the Barefoot man.
Breathing heavily, I continued scrolling down to find more.

A picture appeared of a man. It was him. It was definitely him in the picture. I stared at his eyes for 3 minutes without scrolling away. No guilt to hide in, no discomfort to confide in. Just the bruised face of the Barefoot man I had lent a hand to.

I couldn’t help but feel like my charity had helped in his death. Imaginary scenes rolled over in my minds revisit of Balmoral. Maybe another homeless man had a fight with him for his Tenner. Waves of regret began to roll over me.

I wished I had never observed his bare feet.
I wished I had cigarettes in me at the time.
I wished I was contempt at looking at Balmorals architecture.
I wished I didn’t have a tenner on me.
I wished I didn’t care.

I continued scrolling down.

“Police urge the public to share the picture of Justin Turner on social network sites

Detectives investigating the murder of 49 year-old Maqbool Hussain in Balmoral last week are continuing to appeal for public assistance to help them locate a person of interest.

Mr Hussain’s body was found by relatives in his temporary squat on Monday and police say he died a violent death.”

Wait a minute.

I stopped reading to a startling realization.

The picture on the page is of the Barefoot man. The article states the name of the Barefoot man is Justin Turner.
Justin has a warrant for his arrest into the brutal murder of another homeless man.
I had given money to a possible murderer.

I felt sick. I felt disgusted. I felt betrayed by my own self. All my energy I had put into this man, all the wasted thoughts and he could turn out to be a murderer. I hated this thought the most of all.

My very foundation thoughts on the homeless were shaking. After striking up a weave of compassion two weeks earlier on the brick and mortar foundations of Balmoral, I needed something to sew up gaping hole of confusion. I needed stability.

I needed a thought so strong that I could disregard all previous thoughts, and hold this one true.  Like a physicist trying to create a theory to govern all, I tried to make my own. Something to account for the need of unforgiving Balmoral nights, the need for sympathy from the more fortunate onto the less, and the need for a homeless man’s death, the passing of another human life.

Wait, what need?
There was no need.
No need for a man to die a gruesome death.
No need for a man to have no home.
No need for a paper note to hold so much value.
No need for Balmorals ignorance.
No need for dumplings.
No need for shoes.

So I guess if there are no needs to be met, then there would have been no need to have met
the Barefoot  man.

title: THE BAREFOOT MAN

question: What does the story say about the narrator's shifting feelings concerning the barefoot man?

answer: At first, the narrator ignores the barefoot man. This causes him to feel guilt, and he decides to help the man out. When he believes that the barefoot man has been murdered, he blames himself and regrets his act of charity. He then realizes the barefoot man was actually a murderer and feels bad that he gave money to a murderer.

question: What does the story say about how the barefoot man ended up homeless?

question: What does the story say about guilt?

answer: The narrator initially feels guilty about not helping the barefoot man and decides to help in order to absolve his guilt. When he believes the barefoot man was murdered, he feels guilty for possibly having caused it. Then he learns the homeless man is a murderer and feels guilty for having aided a murderer. At the end of the story he decides that there is no need for anything, which presumably absolves him of his guilt.


text:
If you were to ask me to name my favorite color, I would, without hesitation, say “grey.” You see, if colors could speak, he would have the most to say. Because sadly, my dear friend grey is only a placeholder. For, at some point in my life, my favorite color was red.

I was sitting in my local coffee shop, sipping Chai and watching the crowd of customers seep through the doors, inside from the cold winter snow that still felt so odd to a native Californian. As I sat, watching, I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder, and a soft voice ask, “do you mind if I sit across from you?”

“Of course not,” I replied.  “But let me warn you, I’m feeling talkative today.”

And so, she sat across from me, and her appearance struck me with awe; she was gorgeous. The observer of the small things in life, I immediately noticed her cherry red lipstick, and the stain it had made on the white lid of her cup. Little did I know that she would leave the same impression on me, I the canvas, she the artist. We made small talk, no topic more profound than our wishes for the weather. However, I did learn her name: Catherine.

Eventually I excused myself and went on my way to my nine-to-five. At that time, I was enrolled at Stanford University, pursuing a degree in architectural engineering.  Through my undergraduate program, I had gained an internship at a local home design business. It was mostly record keeping and information management, like any internship, but I would occasionally get to watch the architects do their work.

All-in-all, my life was going just the way I had hoped. I was pleasantly well off, considering that I was just starting my first year as a graduate. I had my own one bedroom apartment in downtown San Jose, along with my trusty Chevy Silverado.

During the next few weeks, I went to the my usual coffee shop, drank my usual chai, watched the usual customers. Every now and then I’d see Catherine and her red lipstick. She’d sit across from me and we would partake in the usual small talk. As time progressed, I grew more used to her long, brown hair, her tendency to rabble, and how she would apologize when it happened.

The next week, four weeks after we had met, we went out to dinner. I wore a pair of black slacks and a grey dress shirt. She wore a short, red dress that matched her cherry-red lipstick. When I took her home that night, she parted happily, staining my cheek. See,  many people believe that Heaven is enclosed by a golden gate, leading into a splendid whiteness. However, it is now my assumption that, while the gates may still be golden, the trinity sits on red thrones. This was the beginning of our beautiful, but tragically short lived relationship.

Around this time, my life had changed dramatically. As a result of the recent increase in property price, my employer was forced to cut people from their payroll. I was, unfortunately, one of those people. Between paying for gas, rent, and the basic necessities of living, I was struggling to make ends meet. This, along with my history of chronic depression, threw me into a downward spiral of despair. If there was ever a time that I needed a companion, someone to talk to and confide in, that time was now.

To put it plainly, Catherine was my saviour. She was my second coming of Christ, my salvation. If religion is the opium of the people, she was my heroin. I, sadly, grew dependent, and as my condition worsened, I could see a physical strain that she persisted to keep at the wayside. She was stronger than me, more stable, my rock.

After a year of dating, we decided to move in together, to test the waters. At this time, we learned countless things about each other. She learned that I was quite disorganized, and that I would often stay up late just to wake up early in the morning. I learned that she was a fantastic cook, which, to me, wasn’t too surprising, as I had taken up a diet of Ramen Noodles and microwave pizzas. I also learned that she wasn’t hesitant to cry, as I would often waken to her sniffles. This was one of the most surprising things I found out about her, as she was never anything but happy when we would go out.

That summer, we decided to go on our first road trip. Excitedly, we packed our suitcases into the back of my old truck, and drove to Seattle for the week. At this point, she learned another thing about me - I had terrible motion sickness. Throughout the course of our drive, which we somehow accomplished in two days, I had to pull over eight times. Due to this, we spent most of our time in Seattle visiting restaurants and shops that were within walking distance of our hotel. To this rule, we made one exception.

On our last night in Seattle, we decided to get reservations for the restaurant on the top of the Space Needle. Coincidentally, for nostalgia’s sake, we wore the same attire that we had worn on our first date. The stars shone above us, her features being exemplified in the pouring moonlight. She was beautiful. Little did she know that, in my pocket, I carried a small diamond ring, purchased with money that I had mustered up over the course of the last few months.

And so, in the night air, witnessed by the patrons at the needle and God himself, I got down on my knee. Never the aficionado of speech, I blushed and, holding my breath, brought forth the small box, accompanied with a single line we’ve all heard.

“Will you marry me?”

Nodding her head and holding back tears, she took the small box from my hands. She whispered a simple “Yes”,  and, her hands shaken removed the ring from its prison. However, I suppose the trembling of her hands didn’t help her in the act of sliding the ring onto her finger. She dropped it. She covered her mouth, an exclamatory “Oh!” breaking from her lips as one of the staff stepped on the ring, producing a crunch loud enough that it was only seconded by my breaking heart. Then, it was an unhappy accident. Now, I believe it may have been a sign.

The next day, both for wanting of our sunny home and the fixing of the broken ring, we left our hotel. We left Seattle early in the morning, hoping to drive as far as we could. While on the road, it began to rain. This, coupled with the darkening sky, made my occasional stops an extreme nuisance. My fiance and I had a small argument, she telling me that it would have been wise to take something before we had left the hotel. For the next hour or so, we were silent, a silence which, unknown to us, would never be broken.

My truck was quite old at this point, at approximately fifteen years old, I had often worried that the airbags wouldn’t function. As it turns out, my cause for concern was justified.

As the downpour of rain increased, road conditions became increasingly worse. This, coupled with the longevity of our drive, and my heated attitude, led me to not notice the headlights in front of me. An oncoming truck in my lane.

Unfortunately for me, my airbag deployed. Unfortunately for Catherine, hers did not. It was at this point that I learned that the only red deeper than that of her lipstick was the tone of her blood. Her head had hit the dashboard, bouncing off of the hard surface and into the passenger side window.

When the paramedics arrived, there was not much they were able to do; she had suffered a brain hemorrhage  due to the force of impact.

The police later told me that the driver of the truck in front of us had been had been drunk. However, I have never shaken the feeling that I had caused my lover’s death. Maybe it was due to my inability to stop the accident, but the more I worried about it, the more I realized that it was due to my stubbornness in conceding fault.

Over the course of the next month, I was reduced to a hermit, only leaving my apartment in order to buy food. The next semester, I failed every class that I had signed up for, ruining my chance to ever become an architect like I had always wanted. The revelation that I had single-handedly ruined my life only worsened my downward spiral into the current state of depression I now find myself in. I didn’t have the income to pay for a therapist or to buy antidepressants, so I was forced to trudge through my daily life, hating myself for every mistake I had ever made.

Today, for the first time in about two months, I decided to go out. Peace hasn’t come to me, and I doubt it ever will, but I can not continue my life as it is going now. When I went out, it was raining; it had been doing so for the past few days. It matters not to me, however, for all I see is grey, all I ever feel is cold. As I walk, I can’t help but think about the humility of the human race. We are the passengers of an overly large atom of dust,  flying endlessly into the void and emptiness of space, with no destination in particular. And so, I went back to my apartment complex, and, looking upwards, decided that it would do me well to gain a bit of perspective. I ride the elevator to the twelfth story, from there proceeding up the stairs out onto the roof.

The wind, of all things, was the first thing I noticed. Wanting to see the street from such a height, I stepped onto the brick railing that separated the roof from the seeming nothingness of air. One step, and I would plummet to my death. The rain, helped by the growling wind, felt like icy needles piercing my skin. I watched the seemingly endless amount of black and grey umbrellas scurry around like ants. How small we are. From the distance, I was able to clearly make out a vibrant, red umbrella, separated from the crowds of greys and blacks. My heart leaped as my mind was brought to my dear’s red lips, the stains they left on my skin. She seemed so close, just an arms reach away. Just one step, and I could touch her, feel her again. So, like my heart, I leap.

title: [RF] Red - Criticism welcome!

question: Describe the narrator's attraction to the color red.

answer: One day, the narrator was at the local coffee shop when a gorgeous woman entered and requested to sit across from him. Instantly, he noticed the color of her lipstick, red, and the stain it left on her cup. He learned that the gorgeous woman's name was Catherine. After their first encounter, he began to see more and more of Catherine wearing the same red lipstick, which left a pleasant impression on him the first day they met, and as time went by, he became accustomed to everything about her. A month after meeting, they went out on their first date, and she wore a short, red dress with the same cherry red lipstick to match. After their dinner date, she left him with a lipstick stain on his cheek.

question: What does the story say about the narrator's life before meeting Catherine?

answer: The narrator was a student of Stanford University, studying architectural engineering. At the same time, his undergraduate program gave him an internship opportunity at a local home design business. His job was to keep records and manage information; but, he would occasionally watch architects work. His life, in general, was pleasant. He rented a one-bedroom apartment downtown San Jose and drove a Chevy Silverado.

question: Why did the narrator blame himself for the accident that resulted in Catherine's death?

answer: The narrator and Catherine had traveled to Seattle for a road trip for a week. On their way back home, he and Catherine got into an argument. What happened was, it began to rain heavily, and the stops resulting from the narrator's motion sickness became a nuisance for them. Catherine argued that it would've been wise if they had taken something before leaving the hotel, but the narrator was too stubborn to apologize, and their journey continued in silence. His state of mind didn't help him notice the headlights from an oncoming truck on time. The vehicle collided with his, and the narrator survived because his airbag deployed, but Catherine wasn't so lucky. By the time the paramedics arrived, there wasn't much they could do to save her. She had suffered a brain hemorrhage due to the force of the impact. The more the narrator thought about the accident and how he could have prevented it, the more he realized that his stubbornness to concede fault kept him in the state of mind that prevented him from thinking straight while driving.

question: Describe the story's twist ending.

answer: After the tragic death of his fiance, the narrator's life declined drastically. He started failing all his classes in school, ruining his chances of ever becoming an architect. He only left his apartment whenever he needed to buy food. The narrator became depressed and couldn't afford to purchase antidepressants or see a therapist to help his pitiful situation. He then began to hate his life for every mistake he ever made. One day, the narrator stepped outside his apartment for the first time in two months and realized he couldn't continue living his life the way it was. He went up the twelfth story of his apartment complex and looked down at the sea of people walking the streets with black and grey umbrellas. Suddenly, he spotted a bright red umbrella, just like the color of Catherine's lipstick. Seeing that color of umbrella beckoned him to leap from the roof of the building to his death.

question: What was the negative sign that showed the narrator and Catherine wouldn't end up together?

answer: The narrator and Catherine went on a one-week trip to Seattle. On the last day, he and Catherine decided to get reservations for the restaurant atop the Space Needle. During their dinner, the narrator proposed to Catherine with a diamond ring he managed to afford. Excitedly, Catherine accepted but could not slide the ring in her trembling finger. The ring dropped to the floor, and unfortunately, one of the restaurant staff accidentally stepped on the ring and broke it. The broken ring and their desire to go home set them on their journey back home, which sadly resulted in a ghastly accident that led to Catherine's untimely death.

question: What did the narrator and Catherine learn about each other when they began living together?

answer: After one year of dating, the narrator and Catherine decided to move in together. While cohabiting together, the narrator learned that Catherine is a wonderful cook. Catherine realized that the narrator is disorganized and likes to stay up late at night and wake up early in the morning. The narrator also learned that, surprisingly, Catherine often cries, which usually wakes him. He was amazed by this fact because he noticed that she was always happy whenever they went out.


text:
[image]

By Keith Idec

Errol Spence Jr.’s fight Saturday night is more about where than who.

The unbeaten IBF welterweight champion is such a huge favorite against unknown mandatory challenger Carlos Ocampo that if Spence loses, it’ll be an upset of epic proportions. The 22-year-old Ocampo is unbeaten, but he has defeated a very low level of opposition since making his pro debut in July 2012 and hasn’t fought outside of his native Mexico.

Bovada, an online sports book, considers this such a mismatch, it lists Spence as an astounding 100-1 favorite over Ocampo.

Ocampo’s complete anonymity makes the expected turnout for Spence’s hometown fight all the more impressive. An anticipated capacity crowd of roughly 15,000 will pack Ford Center at The Star, the Dallas Cowboys’ training center, for the card headlined by the Spence-Ocampo match in Frisco, Texas (Showtime; 9 p.m. ET/6 p.m. PT).

A proud Spence spoke during a press conference Thursday about his hometown area’s response to his first fight there since he became a 147-pound champion last year. He has been asking adviser Al Haymon for a fight in the Dallas area for quite some time, and this is why.

“Dallas already is a boxing town,” Spence said. “Just not enough boxing comes here. I can be the star who has annual fights and bring the city out like we’re doing Saturday night. I’m gonna prove we’re a boxing city in Dallas and that Texas is a boxing state, period. I do this for the whole state.”

Dallas’ sustainability as a boxing city is debatable, but Spence proved by selling out a 15,000-seat venue against an anonymous, overmatched opponent that one of the best boxers in the sport also is one of its few draws in the United States.

You barely need two hands to count those, thus this must be considered a positive development in a star-starved sport.

Tickets to the Spence-Ocampo card were priced reasonably, but due to the demand ringside tickets were going for as much as $700 apiece Thursday night on SeatGeek.com, the official ticket-seller of the Cowboys.

Whatever those tickets fetch, Spence still is almost exclusively responsible for selling approximately 15,000 tickets for this card. Comping tickets, a common practice among promoters, won’t be necessary Saturday night.

[errol-spence (3)_8]

Spence’s sellout Saturday night obviously doesn’t mean he is as big a draw in America as Canelo Alvarez or Gennady Golovkin.

Mexico’s Alvarez has drawn crowds of 51,000, 39,247 and 31,588 to three separate stadiums in Spence’s native Texas over the past five years. Kazakhstan’s Golovkin, who’ll fight Alvarez again at a sold-out T-Mobile Arena in Las Vegas on September 15, has sold out Madison Square Garden and packed The Forum in Inglewood, California.

This does mean Spence is a bona fide ticket-seller in his home area, like Terence Crawford and Jose Ramirez, both promoted by Bob Arum’s Top Rank Inc.

Crawford, the welterweight champion most boxing fans want Spence to fight, has drawn crowds of at least 10,943 for four fights in his native Omaha, Nebraska, and one fight in nearby Lincoln since June 2014. Ramirez, of Avenal, California, helped lure a crowd of 13,838 to Save Mart Center in nearby Fresno for his last fight there November 11, and expects a comparable crowd for his July 7 bout there against Danny O’Connor.

Crawford and Spence are elite-level talents, among the top 10, pound-for-pound, in the sport. Ramirez isn’t as good as either of those fighters, yet there’s no denying that the unbeaten WBC super lightweight champion is an established ticket-seller.

The announced attendance for Spence’s last fight, a technical knockout of Lamont Peterson on January 20 at Barclays Center in Brooklyn, was 12,107. That’s a successful figure as well, particularly since neither Spence nor Peterson is from New York.

Drawing this type of crowd in his home area, however, is more special to Spence, who’s from DeSoto, Texas, another Dallas suburb.

“I think this is gonna be electrifying,” Spence said during a conference call Tuesday. “I think it’s gonna be a great atmosphere and, you know, a very lively crowd. It’s gonna be a great event. I’m a hometown guy and they get to see one of their hometown boxers fight, and not just somewhere out of state. But I think it’s gonna be lively. It’s gonna be a great crowd. It’s gonna be a great atmosphere and great energy all around.”

This was what Spence wanted to experience once he traveled to Sheffield, England, last May for his title shot against Kell Brook. A crowd of roughly 27,000 filled Bramall Lane, a soccer stadium in Brook’s hometown, and watched Spence knock out Brook in the 11th round to win the IBF welterweight title.

“I can’t waiting to be fighting in front of my hometown crowd, 15,000 fans,” Spence said. “You know, it’s gonna be great. I hope Carlos Ocampo comes to fight and [we can] give the crowd a fan-friendly fight. So I’m in shape, I’m ready, I’m training very hard for this fight. I can’t wait to put on a great performance.”

Ocampo (22-0, 13 KOs) views this as a pressure-packed situation for Spence (23-0, 20 KOs) because the 28-year-old champion is defending his title against a huge underdog, in front of his hometown fans. Spence disagrees.

“I always have pressure to perform and look impressive,” Spence said. “I mean, since I’ve turned pro I’ve been in the spotlight. All of my fights have been on TV and I always expect to look good and perform. I don’t think anything tops the pressure that I had going overseas to fight Kell Brook. So I’ve been dealing with pressure since I’ve been fighting and, you know, this is just another fight for me.”

That said, the success of this event provides evidence of something Spence believed all along about his ability to draw crowds in the Dallas area.

“It’s very satisfying because this is my home state,” Spence said. “This is where I started and just to see my core fans, you know, to appreciate me enough to come out and spend their time and their money to come watch me fight, that’s great. It shows a lot of my hard work – that blood, sweat and tears – paid off. And I feel like that’s the ultimate gratification, to be at home and to sell out at home and have people come out and support you, and it be a great event.”

_Keith Idec is a senior writer/columnist for BoxingScene.com. He can be reached on Twitter @Idecboxing._

question: What does the article say about ticket sales for the welterweight championship

answer: 15,000 people have bought tickets taking the stadium to capacity. The price of tickets started at a reasonable price. Because of demand the ringside seats now cost $700 each. Spence is the drawcard for the match. Comping tickets among promoters won't be necessary for this match.


text:
(IP) Up in Smoke

In the mirrored, colorful surface of the portal, there was a blue, sunny sky, with grassy valleys and mountains painted in every color he could imagine; after all these years, after all of his sacrifices, he’d found it. No more would he be living in this world, cold and gray and drained of life, though the universe had seen fit to put him here.

That wasn’t to say that his formative years in this world, clouded by toxic lavender clouds of smoke, were miserable. Indeed, there had been times that he’d been happy. But there was something inside of him, a deep, yawning void that was just not satisfied, even after he’d reaped the love and support that his family had shown him, a mere echo now that they were gone.

For a short, terrifying moment, he was transported back to the moment that had caused their deaths, drowning him in the fear and rage that had driven him to this in the first place—

*Three sharp, rapid knocks on the door. A beat of silence.*

*Then they kicked down the door, dark beacons of death and order and the king’s elite force, The Reaper’s Hand, fanning out like smoke and just as insubstantial, rictus grins showing behind their masks.*

*His wife, standing by the fire, stirring a stew, and his son at her feet, babbling happily.*

*“Maximillian Garvey, you have been charged by the King for treason,” The biggest, hulking guard said, his voice garbled behind his mask.*

*“The sentence for treason is death.”*

*Before the executioner had even finished his decree, his cronies had snatched up his poor wife and child; two quick swipes of the blade and Jazira fell to the floor, blood pouring from the gaping slash in her throat.*

*The only thing he remembered hearing was his own desperate, wrathful shrieks; he sounded like an injured animal. But he could see them, feel them, laughing at his agony, frenzied with bloodlust at their kill; after all, that was why the King employed them.*

*And then, to add insult to injury, they’d taken his boy, ‘to insure his future good behavior’.*

He quickly snapped himself out of the vision; that was the past and it needed to stay there. But that didn’t stop his body from remembering: the iron tang of her blood, hanging in the air as if to emphasize his own personal horror, his throat tightening so much he couldn’t breathe, invisible iron bars wrapped around his chest.

And to think, to this day, he didn’t know just what happened to his only child.

If he hadn’t had control of his temper by now, he would’ve struck the portal, destroyed his whole life’s work; he clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

He couldn’t waste all of this work, all of these years spent chasing what more people thought of as a pipe dream.

Now, he could escape, start over in a new world, where no one lived under a mad monarch’s thumb. He could leave the ghosts that haunted him in this faded husk of a world.

He did a final check of his supplies: food, clothing, as much money as he could scrape together, what he could afford to take from his lab, pictures of his wife and son, and finally, a vial of something so black it looked like the mad scientist had managed to bottle a starless night.

He was leaving at last, and good riddance. He stepped through the mirror and once he was on the other side, his back faded into the mountainous distance, and the door closed, becoming a normal mirror once more.

He’d made sure to lock the door to his crumbling tenement; more than one person had died for his secrets, and he hadn’t known, even when he’d made his choice, if his conscience could take any more blood spilled in his name.

No one ever saw Maximillian Garvey again, not even his son, when he’d returned from a childhood spent as an adopted prince, now a man.

Perhaps his father was nothing more than a mere dream.

\*\*

title: (FN) Up in Smoke

question: How did the man's family die?

answer: The man's family was killed by the king's elite forces.

question: Does the king's elite force kill the man?

answer: No, the forces kill Maximillian's wife (Jazira).

question: Why was Maximillian charged with treason?

answer: This information is not mentioned.

question: Where does Maximillian go?

answer: Maximillian leaves the kingdom once and for all. He steps inside the mirror and reaches on the other side of the portal.

question: Write a ~7 sentence summary.

answer:
Maximillian had finally found the portal. He would no more have to live in this world where his wife was killed. For a moment he recollects how he was charged with treason and the king's forces had come home. They had killed Jazira and taken his son away.

Maximillian snaps back to reality and enters the mirror. He was finally on the other side, his back faded and the door closed becoming a normal mirror again.

Nobody saw Garvey again, not even his son who spent his childhood as an adopted prince.


text:
 He told me that I could leave my umbrella inside; he didn't mind if
the floor got a little wet. I wrapped it up and leaned it against a
small cabinet. He took my coat and went to the closet to hang it, and
I sat down at his coffee table. Martin always liked talking at his
coffee table, I never understood why because the seats were so low and
didn't offer much thigh support which bothered me. But he liked them,
maybe because he was short. But he wasn't that short.

        Martin hadn't fidgeted in a while but today he was a little fidgety.
I noticed because he almost dropped my coat and he stuttered twice in
one sentence. He only stutters every few now. It used to be a lot
worse; he used to stutter almost every word sometimes. It took him a
while but he got better. It was something to do with his paranoia
problems or something, we didn't talk about it much and I paid only
polite attention, but his doctor gave him pills and some treatment or
something and now he's better.

        He came back from the closet and his eyes flicked around the room. He
was nervous about something, I could tell. People always tell me I'm
good with finding emotions. He sat down and adjusted his glasses. He
cracked his knuckles and asked me if I wanted coffee, tea, anything to
drink. I asked if he had cranberry juice and he said yes he did. He
came back a minute later, a glass of cranberry juice for me and a beer
for himself. I asked him to pour a bit in my juice and he did. He
sipped it up fast.

        I said that he looked terrible and he said that he knew. I asked why,
taking a gulp from the juice. I was awful thirsty. Rain always does
that to me. He took a deep breath and leaned forward a bit, putting
his elbows on his knees. He couldn't lean back because the chairs for
the coffee table had no backs. He said that he had a case of the
nerves and I told him that I noticed and asked him what was wrong.
Quickly snatching up his drink, he took a swig, swallowing it at the
same time as drinking it. Then he looked at me with sort of said eyes
and started telling his story.

        "I was cleaning up after dinner and all that stuff, washing dishes,
you know. Cup, plate, putting things back in the fridge," he paused,
"right?" as though he was trying to confirm with me what really
happened. Of course, I didn't know because I wasn't there but I nodded
and agreed with him, just to keep him going.

        "So I went to my bedroom to make sure I didn't leave any glasses
there or anything that needed to be washed." Martin always liked to
drink milk before sleeping. He used to tell me that it gives you good
dreams. I never believed him; I don't like milk; it gives me
stomachaches. "So I'm looking for any cups and things and I happen to
look out the window, just real casual-like, you know." He was
searching me for reassuring again. I nodded the same way as I did
before. Then I shifted in my seat because it was uncomfortable and I
thought the room was getting a little hot. I never liked heat.

        "And there's that window, across a bit from mine, we're both on the
second floor so our flats are—you get the idea." I did. "So, I look
there real casual-like and the light's on in the other window and I
see two people in there." I nodded and made an interested face. The
air was thick and rather bothersome. "And one's a girl, maybe like
eighteen—twenty so or something, couldn't tell. Other's a man, and—"
He drank more of his beer, once again letting it pour directly down
his throat as it entered. He had a bad case of nerves, easy to tell,
but now it was getting irritating more that anything.

        "He's dressed up that man, all black. Can't see his face that's black
too and no hat just his head was black I think he was wearing one of
them caps that cover all your face cept your mouth an' eyes, that
kind." He was talking faster now, stuttering more and more. I adjusted
myself again and considered telling him that he should probably turn
the heater down but then decided maybe it wasn't the best time.

        "And he was…" A look of despair poured from his eyes. "Beating her.
Hitting her hard and she…she tried to fight back…a-a-and he did things
violated her that." Martin's words were poor excuses for sentences now
and he was losing himself in his own story. I loosened my collar
because it was getting real itchy and bothersome. I had the urge to
get up and turn down the heat myself but I didn't. It didn't seem
right. Instead I told him to calm down, because by now he seemed to be
almost half-weeping or something. He nodded and snorted and took
another drink of his beer.

        "He hit her until…until she fell past my viewing…under the sill and
the man leaned down…and then he stood back up…" He took a deep breath.
"And I just stood there, staring, and then…" This seemed to be the
hard part for him. My mind wandered. I felt like I'd heard this story
before; it didn't interest me now. "He looked at me. He stared right
into my eyes…and I couldn't look away, I couldn't, and he just kept
staring and then he pointed to me, then…" Martin paused for a moment
and just stared. I brought myself back long enough to tell him to
continue. Someone once told me there's nothing worse than not letting
someone finish their story. "…and and and he put his hand to his ear
in a phone motion then shook his finger no or else he made a motion or
else he's slit my throat…then…then he leaned down and took her away I
think…or something…" Martin looked at me and his eyes pleaded with me.

        I cleared my throat and wiped my forehead. It was slightly sweaty.
The room was too damn hot and I wanted to at least open a window or
something, anything to cool it down. I held my feelings off for a
moment to look at Martin. He was very distressed, I could tell, and he
was waiting for me to say something. I said that I hoped he called the
cops, but he quickly shook his head and shuddered. He said that the
man would kill him if he did and I asked him how would the man know?
And he told me that the man might have his ways and he had no
intention of testing them. So I asked him if he wanted me to call the
cops for him and he said what good would that do. I told him then
maybe this man couldn't track him down or something. He just said that
it was pointless and he'd figure out some way to get him eventually.

        Then I started getting frustrated and I said what good am I then
anyway? It was true because it seemed like I couldn't help so I was
pointless and it made me a little angry that I had to drive all the
way here just to hear this.  But he gave me a real sad look and I was
pretty much forced to take it. Then he said that he just needed
someone to talk to and I was always good with reading people's
emotions and helping them with troubles so I was the first guy he
called. That made me feel kind of good because I like to be helpful to
people, even if I don't particularly care about what they're talking
about.

        The air was really getting to me so I stood up and then said that I'd
better be going I have an appointment. He nodded slowly like he
understood and said something about it being too bad I could only stay
for a bit. I told him at least for the little time I was hear I could
help him and he agreed. He told me to wait and he'll get my coat. He
came back a minute later and this time he handled it fine and I
noticed his stuttering was less so I guess me coming over did some
good. I took the coat back and I put it on. It felt real heavy.

        I was leaving so I wanted to give him a last piece of advice. It felt
customary. I told him to find a pay phone a bit away and call the
police and tell them that you saw a man dressed in black kill a girl,
wrap her in some blue curtains—I told him to make sure to remember the
details, blue, black, all the colors were important—and dragged her
away. Then he gave me a funny look and told me that he hadn't said
anything about curtains. The room was really hot and I just wanted to
leave but now he still wanted to talk which made me a bit angry. And I
realized I'd slipped and I tried to get up and mumbled something about
a lucky guess but I knew that I couldn't get back up this time.

        My coat was heavy and it was hot and I really wanted to open the door
to let at least a bit of breeze in but I couldn't because even with
the silencer it's best to have as little noise as possible. I relieved
my coat of some of its heavy and I quickly apologized to Martin before
shooting him in the chest. I didn't want to shoot his head because it
might have gotten blood on the walls and cleaning blood off walls is a
lot harder than cleaning it off of the floor. After he died I opened
the door and let some breeze in which felt really nice because the
room was so hot. I looked outside. The rain had stopped. I was glad
because I really hate driving in the rain.

title: [MS] Hot Hands

question: Summarize the circumstances surrounding why the narrator killed Martin?

answer: Martin was killed because he would be able to connect the narrator to the murder. The dialogue somewhat implies the possibility that the narrator has not planned on killing Martin, but was forced to do so after accidentally mentioning the curtains. It is likely that the narrator is also the man in black, though it may be possible that he is simply related to the murder.

question: Summarize why the man in black attacked the girl?