text:
    Give us your energy Unah

Special thanks to the big cunt who inspired me to write this. There are things i dont like about this story but this will have to do. Anyone want more? i have more chapters planned.

The Unah’s light shined through the motherships screening panels as dawn began. The pristine, dazzling walls inside the mothership were enflamed in the violet and ultra-violet light of the Unah. Heirarch Athuro-en manifested in the dimensional gateway. With pale pinkish skin and eyes gleaming in excitement he walked towards the panels, absorbing the nutritious rays of electromagnetism. Athuro-en’s skin began to turn black from the absorption of the radiation. Cables flowing from his body, they would be dragging on the floor if they weren’t for them seeping out of existence. He fluffed his royal robes only known to a Heirarch and smiled with glee. How could he miss the climax of his most recent experiment? He and his crew have been documenting the Unah star system for a long time. The Heirarch gazing out across a burning star was soon joined by the rest of his crew. He called the members of the crew the “exemplars.” The Heirarch and the exemplars were the only known survivors of their ancient alien race known as the ARA’ghi. The name stood for Annihilation Resurgent Apparitions, and “ghi” meant “kind” in their language. The ARA’ghi were patiently awaiting the end of their journey which they had set out on 190 Kariox ago, which is approximately 1,866,243 earth years ago.

Pursuit of knowledge was part of the ARA’ghi’s life; it was their creed, their whole persona. <This lifestyle was the reason the ARA’ghi were able to achieve the level of intelligence that they possessed>. It was an exciting time for the Heirarch and the others aboard the mothership, called the Pillar of Exemplars. Their calculations predicted that the Unah would explode today and form a neutron star. This would be not be the first time the ARA’ghi would experience the creation of such an object in the universe. They had experienced something similar during their exile after the Great Ascent. Unah was the name the ARA’ghi gave to this particular star. It was an O spectral type, meaning it was a hypergiant and lived for a very short period of time, a 6,866,243 million years to be exact. It was now the end of a 1,866,243 year old expedition to explore how life evolves on planets revolving these energy intense stars.

To other less advanced species than that of the ARA’ghi dedicating 1.8 million years on the investigation of life around high radiation stars would seem like a waste of time. But not to the ARA’ghi; since the Great Ascent; they developed technology which allowed them to live for billions and under a great Heirarch: possibly trillions of years. A mere 1.8 million years was nothing to them. Their homeworld perished long ago, now the ARA’ghi were a species without a home. They only had their creed which they adopted from necessity and with it develop many new technologies. The documentation of life on the gas giant of the Unah star system was finalized, 1.8 million years of life exploration in the Unah solar system was coming to an end. All that was left is for the asseveration of their calculations. It was determined that the high radiation produced from type O stars was the worst possible place for the creation of the building blocks of life. As radiation above the violet part of the spectrum would ionize the bonds and rip any precursors to life apart. But they discovered it was an amazing place for a civilization of high intelligence and tech.

Technologies like the Dimension Manifestors, DM for short, which allowed the ARA’ghi to create new dimensions with slower time passage than the one in the base universe. They achieved this by the bending of spacetime with immense amounts of energy. In one of these dimensions a species could live its regular time span while outside the dimension a thousand years would pass, it is one of the ways the ARA’ghi live for as long as they do. Technology like the Electromagnetic Absorption Nanobots For Sustenance, or EMANFS also allowed them to reach heights they would otherwise have never been capable of. These nanobots are machines which act as pigments and protectors in each and every cell in the ARA’ghis body. They allow the absorption of UV, X-ray, gamma and Z-rays and convert them into energy, analogous to chloroform, it was the reason for the ARA’ghi skin turning black “Its time!” exclaimed Athuro-en. The exemplars were about to see the end of the Unah’s life and witness the end of their 1.8 million year expedition.

“Do we have all the Stellar Capture Drives ready?” asked Athuro-en. “We only await your command Heirarch.” yelled exemplar Liara. The hydrogen fuel all ran out and now the star imploded into itself! The Unah was now a collection of ions, largely helium and carbon nuclei floating in a vast sea of electrons. The electrons stopped the implosion; the Pauli Exclusion Principle was at work here. The ARA’ghi had a name for Pauli Exclusion Principle, “Frakuri.” The term was used for all fermions, the fractioned particles. The degenerate pressure of the electrons was high and it stopped the implosion but only for a bit, the mass of the star was too much, the gravity broke through the pressure. Now the electrons unable to occupy the same quantum state as per Pauli Exclusion Principle it was more energetically favourable for electrons to combine with the protons and become neutrons! “We’re detecting a high burst of neutrinos released!” yelled exemplar Oaurm. “This means the electron capture has been initiated” yelped Liara. The detectors were flashing with warnings of high energy photons and neutrinos; which the ARA’ghi had the technology to detect. “Double the EMANFS layer on the Pillar! Get ready to absorb the nova!” yelled Athuro-en. The mothership began to turn black, darker than most darks. The EMANFS began absorbing the electromagnetic energy that the star was emitting, generating a shield for all the energy for the imminent explosion. “Engage the Manifestors!” yelled Athuro-en as he stood proud ready for the explosion.

In the deep silence of space the star burst with a light brighter than the entire galaxy pouring out with contents among the stars. It was like an orchestra of God playing the most beautiful music of the stars, and the ARA’ghi front row seats to the astonishing concerto. They were witnessing the power and majesty of a stars death. Bursts of all forms of electromagnetism was being projectilled out into the vast abyss of space. Gamma-rays, X-rays, UV-rays, radio waves gushing out. Streams of Gold, Silver, Palladium Gadolium, Uranium, Einsteinium all flying outwards near the speed of light. A result of the lighter elements combining together to form the elements heavier than Iron. It made the Heirarch happy that all these heavier elements were being flung out into space. It would mean that they would be collected and packed into planets and possibly discovered by sentient beings on these new worlds; and perhaps start them off on the discovery of atomic physics.

The nova explosion was virtually instantaneous, really fast too fast for humans to notice for sure. But not the ARA’ghi. They were able to slow down their time perception by flying in all directions near the speed of light around the exploding Unah. For them the seconds long event was a tremendous and mesmerizing hour long masterpiece of the universe. The star shrunk in size to appear smaller than a white dwarf star, now only neutronium was present with little hints of proton and electron gases. Around them, the interstellar gas and radiation were flying outwards to forge new world.

“Quickly! Seal the star, now!” yelled the Heirarch. The three Core Capture Drives that were deployed before the nova explosion were essentially massive versions of the Dimension Manifestors that the Heirarch awoke from. The CCD’s surrounded the neutron star and began to bend the spacetime around it plunging the neutron star into a universe created to house it. “It’s in!” yelled exemplar Liara.. “Good work my fellow exemplars, you hold true to the title you hold!” exclaimed Athuro-en. “We couldn’t have done it without this powerful vessel my lord!” yelled exemplar Oaurm. “Please, how many times must I ask you. We are all as important to this vessel and our survival. We all stand as one. It is the reason we are here today. We all share a common creed! We just want to know more about the universe, and for all of us to achieve a personal betterment of ourselves. We are the exemplars of discovery, astonishment and self-fulfilment!” With the energies of the of the neutron star now contained in a easily accessible dimension the ARA’ghi were able to move onto their new quest for knowledge. The Heirarch slowly vanishing in his Dimensional Manifestor uttered “Begin protocol 250x77s” before completely evanescing from reality. The exemplars gave one last celebration before descending to their Manifestors. The Pillar engaged Warp Drive and they were off on their next adventure.

Thank you to /u/Mjolnir2000 for editing some of the first drafts

title: [SF] Short story i wrote cuz gf dumped me

question: What does the text say about the ARA'ghi race?

answer: The ARA'ghi were an ancient alien race where the Heirarch and exemplars were the only known survivors. Their name stood for the Annihilation Resurgent Apparitions kind. The ARA'ghi life revolved around the pursuit of knowledge which allowed them to achieve the level of intelligence they possessed. The ARA'ghi were a species without a home as their homeworld had perished long before. However, they had a unique capability of slowing down time and were able to experience seconds long events in hour-long mesmerizing masterpieces of the universe.


split: test

text:
 This article is more than 1 YEAR OLD

Mevan Babakar uses Twitter to find man whose gift brought her joy more than 20 years ago

[Mevan Babakar met her former aid worker Egbert]

Mevan Babakar met the aid worker Egbert on Tuesday and thanked him for his kindness after a successful Twitter campaign to track him down. Photograph: Supplied

A former child refugee who posted an online callout to track down a camp worker who gave her a bike has found and met the man whose generosity brought her joy.

Mevan Babakar, 29, lived in a refugee camp in the Netherlands after she and her parents fled the Gulf war in the 1990s. On Monday, she posted a photograph of the former camp worker on Twitter, and asked whether anyone could tell her his name.

“This man, who worked at a refugee camp near Zwolle in the Netherlands, out of the kindness of his own heart bought me a bike. My five-year-old heart exploded with joy,” she said.

The tweet was shared more than 7,000 times in 24 hours, leading her to find the man and other refugees he had helped.

Babakar, who now lives in London, thanked the man, whom she identified only as Egbert, in person on Tuesday evening. Egbert, who has been helping refugees since the 1990s, now lives in Germany.

“He was so happy to see me. He was proud that I’d become a strong and brave woman. He said that was his wish for me when I was small,” said Babakar.

[Mevan Babakar on her fifth birthday.]

Mevan Babakar on her fifth birthday. Photograph: Supplied
“I was really grateful that so many people had come together to make it happen. I was completely overwhelmed, and so was he. We had a shared moment where we both agreed that this was in fact crazy, but we were glad it was happening.”

She added: “He thought the bike was too small a gesture to make such a big fuss about but he’s really glad that it was the key to bringing us together again.”

Babakar said another camp worker, Sandra, whom she credits with helping her to use a computer for the first time, also got in touch after seeing the tweet. She said: “I’ve also had other refugees reach out to me and tell me that him and his wife helped them too. Their kindness has touched so many lives.”

[Mevan Babakar’s efforts to find Egbert paid off after her tweet featuring this photo of him was shared more than 7,000 times in 24 hours, leading her to find the aid worker.]

Mevan Babakar’s efforts to find Egbert paid off after her tweet featuring this photo of him was shared more than 7,000 times in 24 hours, leading her to find the aid worker. Photograph: Supplied
Babakar’s family, who are Kurdish, travelled through Turkey, Azerbaijan and Russia before spending a year at the camp near Zwolle between 1994 and 1995. They eventually moved to London, where they settled.

Gulala Rashid, Babakar’s mother, told the Dutch website Destentor that the man had gifted her daughter a “beautiful, red, shiny bike” after inviting the family for Christmas at his own home.

Babakar, a fact checker, is currently on a sabbatical from work while she retraces her refugee journey.

question: Summarize the efforts of Mevan Babakar in finding the aid worker who gifted her a bike more than 20 years ago.

answer:
Mevan Babakar is a fact-checker who is currently on sabbatical. She tries using her free time to find an aid worker who gifted her a red bike when she was around five years old. She posts the photo of the aid worker and shares it on Twitter. The post is shared more than 7000 times in 24 hours, leading Babakar to find the man who she calls Egbert.
Babakar and her parents fled the Gulf War in the 1990s, leading them to Zwolle where she met with Egbert who invited her parents over at Christmas and gave her a red bike, a gesture Babakar had never forgotten since. Babakar, currently living in London, thanks those who helped her track Egbert down.

question: What prompted Egbert to give Mevan Babakar a red bike?


text:
VÍCTOR EZEQUIEL BORDA BELZU (born June 12, 1970) is a Bolivian lawyer and politician . He was President of the Chamber of Deputies of Bolivia from January 2019 until his resignation on November 10, 2019 due to the political crisis in Bolivia.[1] He is a deputy for the 34th constituency of the Movement for Socialism in the Potosí Department.

Political career

Borda was born on June 12 , 1970 in the city of Potosí. He began his primary studies in 1976, leaving high school in his hometown in 1987.

He was part of the Constituent Assembly, executive of the University Confederation of Bolivia and the Local University Federation. He was head of the MAS bench in Deputies.

In January 2019 he was elected president of the Chamber of Deputies[2] for the period 2019-2020 replacing Gabriela Montaño.[3]

On April 9, he assumed the presidency of Bolivia on an interim basis for 24 hours when Evo Morales was visiting Asia.[4]

On November 9, 2019, a group of people in the city of Potosí set fire to his home.[5]

On November 10, 2019 he announced his resignation to the Presidency of the Chamber of Deputies after his brother was taken hostage “I am very sorry that my brother was taken hostage, please stop violence stop violence,” he said, urging that the life of his brother be respected, who would have been taken hostage in the city of Potosí.[6] He was replaced by Susana Rivero who on November 12 was a refugee at the Mexican embassy in La Paz but had not submitted her resignation.[7]

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title: Víctor Borda

question: When was Victor Ezequiel Borda Belzu born?

answer: June 12 1970.

question: What nationality does Victor Ezequiel Borda Belzu hold?

answer: Bolivian.

question: What does Victor Ezequiel Borda Belzu do?

answer: He is a lawyer and politician.

question: When did he resign from his position as President of the Chamber of Deputies of Bolivia?

answer: November 10, 2019.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: This article is about Victor Ezequiel Borda Belzu, a Bolivian lawyer and politician.


text:
I sensed a change in the barometric pressure before it hit. The merciless July heat tapered off as a welcome breeze lightly caressed my cheek. If a person stood in the shade for too long, they might have mistaken it for a perfect spring day. The birds were singing. It felt fantastic to be alive but it was a saccharine moment. An ugly storm was on the horizon.

Prior to that, I’d been sipping cool lemonade on the front porch in my Adirondack chair. I heard a distant thunderclap which threatened to quash the temperate afternoon fantasy. The approaching storm drifted closer and I wondered if it was cause for alarm. Living in ‘tornado alley’, it’s always in the back of my mind. The clouds turned dark purple and then an ugly shade of gray. Only in hindsight did I learn what terror it carried within.

Not wanting to get soaked, I went inside to avoid the upcoming cloud burst. No sooner than I had closed the door, heavy droplets started pinging the rooftop. The melodic tempo was soothing at first but as the intensity increased, its gentle rhythm was lost. Not only did the rain intensify, but the atmospheric theatrics took my breath away. Angry bolts of lightning menaced the sky. I was glad to be inside.

Then the hail came. First it was mixed with rain. It would’ve been easy to mistake it for just larger raindrops. Soon however, the ice pellets were the size of golf balls. They savagely pounded the roof. Then I heard my car windshield shatter from the merciless barrage. Even my house windows were not immune. They were under attack as the wind flung the frozen projectiles sideways at them.

A look out of my picture window brought a far worse sight. In the distance was the unmistakable shape of a deadly funnel. It slowly descended to the ground and started destroying everything in its wake. I judged it to be less than two miles away and closing fast. At that distance, I couldn’t outrun it and risked fleeing directly into it’s path, if it changed direction. I had to take cover at home and hope for the best.

The storm grew so ferocious I feared my house would collapse before the tornado even arrived. The walls shook and shuddered. The rising wail of a ‘train whistle’ filled the air. I opened up the windows since they would blow out if the inside wasn’t depressurized. I prepared for the inevitable. Death was on a collision course and nothing could stop it from happening. It slithered toward me as if to wipe away my entire existence. I strongly suspected it might do just that. A thousand bittersweet memories flooded my mind. The roar of the whirling wind drowned out my screams until the maelstrom arrived at my doorstep.

In the eye of the tornado I had a moment of clarity amid the chaos. I watched as debris flew by in a blur. I fully expected to see my roof fly off and the walls shred away. Instead, a pale column of smoke began to seep in through the open window. My fear was already at the limits of human endurance. I was too distracted about the immanent devastation to worry about a strange fog swirling around my home. That is, until it began to separate into distinctively humanoid shapes!

Before my disbelieving eyes, three faceless forms hovered and drifted around the room. The unexplained ‘wraiths’ almost seemed to be assessing the situation. Were they supernatural agents of death? Was the tornado a vehicle for them; or was the storm itself their physical manifestation? Whether they were angels or demons from Hell, I didn’t know. Obviously I tried to avoid drawing any attention to myself. I couldn’t imagine things getting worse than having to deal with a mindless twister but having three spirits officiate it upped the ante.

Regardless of my stealth, they knew I was there; cowering in the corner for a completely new reason. There was a brief hesitation among them as they descended upon me. I could hear shingles being torn from the roof but my sole focus was those three uninvited guests, hovering less than ten feet away. It was positively terrifying. I’ve never been a religious man but it was impossible to deny the supernatural event unfolding in my living room. The irony is that I didn’t expect to survive long enough to share my experience.

My three visitors were stationary for the moment. I felt their somber attention upon me but with no eyes, there was nowhere to focus my view. Their faceless gaze and ashen features chilled me to the bone. I sensed that I was being judged. To what degree or for what reasons, I had no idea. I did my best to project an air of innocence, good will and benevolence. How I came to be faced with not one, but two deadly trials in a single day, I couldn’t imagine.

In perhaps the most expressive form of non-verbal communication I had ever seen, the ethereal ‘judge’ to my left slowly turned a downy shade of virgin white. The full meaning of this gesture escaped me until the middle ‘judge’ also changed its translucent hue. To my great dismay, to that of a blackened lump of coal. Of the three overseers present, it appeared I had one vote for, and one vote against me in this macabre tornado court.

It seemed like an eternity until the final judgment was rendered. Slowly, the third otherworldly spirit took on the same light coloration as the first. The symbolic message I took from the proceeding was that I had been exonerated by a narrow majority vote. The three ‘judges’ drifted back into one unified pillar of smoke and left just as ‘it’ had come.

Outside, the tornado dissipated back to nothingness. The sky above cleared back to normal in a matter of minutes. With the exception of an obvious trail of destruction leading straight to my home, I could hardly believe it even happened. It was like a bad dream. I’m eternally thankful that the three storm judges were favorable to me.

title: [FN] ‘Judgement by three’

question: What is the setting of the story?

answer: The narrator is in their home. It is unclear where exactly their home is located.

question: What is the primary conflict of the story?

answer: A tornado approaches the narrator's house and destroys it. While it rages on, three figures appear before the narrator; the reason for their appearance is unknown.

question: Who are the figures that visit the narrator?

answer: It is not stated who they are; however, they seem to pass judgement on the narrator and let them live.


text:
Bishop STEPAN SUS (; born 7 October 1981) is a Ukrainian Greek Catholic hierarch as Titular Bishop of Zygris and Curial Bishop of Ukrainian Catholic Major Archeparchy of Kyiv–Galicia since 15 November 2019.

Life

[Fr. Stepan Sus is giving a press conference in the funds of the Sts Peter and Paul Garrison Church in Lviv in 2013] Bishop Sus was born in family of Yaroslav and Oksana (née Bodnar) Sus in Lviv, but grew up in the neighbouring village Chyshky in Pustomyty Raion. After graduation of the school education in Chyshky and the historical-philosophical lyceum run by the Order of Saint Basil the Great in Buchach, he joined the Theological Seminary in Lviv, simultaneously studying in the Ukrainian Catholic University (1999–2006).[1] After graduation he was ordained as priest on June 30, 2006.[2]

He continued his study in the University of Lviv with magister in the philosophy degree and in the Catholic University of Lublin with magister in the pastoral theology degree. During 2006–2011 he worked as a military chaplain in Lviv and from 2011 until his bishop's appointment in 2019 was parish priest in the Saints Peter and Paul Garrison Church in Lviv.[3]

On November 15, 2019, he was confirmed by Pope Francis as Curial Bishop of Ukrainian Catholic Major Archeparchy of Kyiv–Galicia, Ukraine and Titular Bishop of Zygris. He was consecrated as bishop by Major Archbishop Sviatoslav Shevchuk and other hierarchs of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church in the Cathedral of the Resurrection of Christ in Kyiv on 12 January 2020.[4]

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title: Stepan Sus

question: Who is Bishop Stepan Sus?

answer: Bishop Stepan Sus is a Ukrainian Greek Catholic hierarch.

question: When was consecrated as bishop?

answer: He was consecrated as bishop on January 12, 2020.

question: Where did he attend seminary?

answer: He attended the Theological Seminary in Lviv while simultaneously studying in the Ukrainian Catholic University.

question: Where was his first bishop's appointment?

answer: His first appointment as bishop was as parish priest in the Saints Peter and Paul Garrison Church in Lviv.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Bishop Stepan Sus is a Ukrainian Greek Catholic hierarch.


text:
_NOIRISME_ is one of the main political and cultural movements which developed in Haiti after the end of U.S occupation. It built off of the movement which called for greater incorporation of local, Haitian culture into social and political life. Advocates of Noirisme, otherwise known as the Noiristes, believed that the most basic problem in Haiti is the rule of a minority, mulatto ruling class that uses the state to oppress the black majority and to maintain power. The Noiristes played a prominent role in shaping Haitian politics following the left-wing overthrow of President Élie Lescot. Their influence ultimately culminated into the election of Dumarsais Estimé as president in 1946, and the election of François Duvalier as president in 1957. Noirisme was then used during the Duvalier era to maintain support and legitimacy during an era of heavy repression.

Background

In response to the occupation which lasted twenty years, intellectuals began to call for a return to local Haitian culture. Individuals such Jean Price-Mars criticized the elite for their embrace of French and European cultural practices, instead of facets of local culture such as Haitian Vodou and Haitian Creole. The repudiation of Western culture and interest in the country's historical and symbolic relationship with the African continent provided the Noiristes with a great influence.[1]

Three young men who were members of the emerging black middle-class, Louis Diaquoi, Lorimer Denis, and Francois Duvalier who were students under Price-Mars formed a small group called the Griots in 1932. After many discussions and gatherings, a quarately magazine titled _Les Griots_ was published in 1938 with the explicit aim of expanding the movement for the incorporation of local culture. The Noiristes believed that the mulatto elite were opposed to the interest of the black majority since they held and acted upon European cultural values which could not apply to Haiti. As a result, the Noiristes declared that they were unfit to govern. They also sought to ground the differences in culture in pseudo-scientific ideas of a specific African biology and psychology shared by the black diaspora.[2]

Because of this focus on culture and race above all else, the Noiristes frequently found themselves in conflict with left-wing groups such as the Haitian Communist Party(PCH), which lead the opposition against then president, Sténio Vincent. The PCH, adhering to the slogan “Color is nothing, Class is everything”, criticised the Noriste's emphasis on race as an attempt to obscure class and to manufacture further division in the country. In response, the Noiristes criticised the Communists in two ways: for their attempt to apply a European ideology which they believed was contrary to the African nature of Haitian society, and for their materialist outlooks which they believed to be contrary to the spiritual nature of Haitian society.

The government's repression of Haitian Communist and Socialist gave the Noiristes an opportunity to grow and expand out of the intellectual sphere. Events such as the Catholic Church's anti-superstition campaign against Voudou, and the brutal Parsley Massacre carried out by the Dominican government against the Haitians at the border had shaped the national consciousness along racial lines. Public discussions which argued the tenets of Noirisme became common, bringing high-profile individuals such as Daniel Fignolé into the movement. Also, a new appreciation for Haiti and folk culture by individuals of the black diaspora such as Aimé Césaire, Zora Neale Hurston, and C. L. R. James served to bolster and legitimize the Noiristes' perspective in the eyes of many. Although Noirisme was on its way to becoming mainstream, the ideology was not able to completely dominate the political sphere until the overthrow of President Élie Lescot in 1946.[3]

Mid-Twentieth Century Haitian Politics

The overthrow of Lescot led by left-wing Haitian students allowed for the growth of new political parties such as the Parti Populaire National(PPN) formed by the Noiristes. For a time, the PPN temporarily joined the left-wing groups which they had once opposed to form Front Revolutionnaire Haiten. However, this coalition to ensure the election of a radical government in the interest of all Haitians quickly fell apart. Tensions between groups continued to fester, with the Noiristes labelling the left-wing groups as defenders of mulatto rule while being labelled as a movement for the emerging black elite.

Nevertheless, the 1946 elections resulted in the election of moderate Noiriste, Dumarsais Estimé who wasted no time putting Norisime into practice. All major political offices such as the ambassador to Washington, were headed by educated black men, as opposed to the previous mulatto elite. Francois Duvalier was appointed as Director General of the National Public Health Service. Duvalier and Denis revived _Les Griots_ magazine to celebrate the Estime government as the realization of Noirisme in the political sphere, later publishing _Le probleme des classes a travers l'historie_ in 1948, which is considered a landmark work in Noiriste thought.[4] Art and music such as vodou-jazz began to explode in popularity, celebrating the new government which was seen as representative of the country's black majority.

But despite his popularity among the Haitian masses, Estime and the new government could not endure the pressure from the mulatto elite which still held considerable influence over the country's affairs. Neither could it endure the looming pressure from the United States Government which continued to watch the country's development in relation to its own interest. Paul Magloire became president after staging a military coup in 1950, marking a quick end to the first black government in Haiti. As a result, the attacks on Voudou religion and culture by the Catholic Church continued, both unhindered and unrestricted. Repression of the left resumed, as Magoloire believed that stability could only be achieved through crushing and silencing dissent. In 1956, Magolorie was forced to flee the country due to popular discontent, and the presidential seat was left vacant once again.

Duvalier Era (1957-1986)

As it did in 1946, Noirisme played a crucial part in the 1957 Haitian general election. Duvalier and Fignole, although both Noiristes, waged virulent campaigns against each other. Fignole was called accused of being a Communist while Duvalier was accused of aiming to create a dictatorship. Another candidate, Louis Déjoie, a member of the mulatto elite, was called a _colon moderne_, or a modern colonizer, while accusing the Noirstes of wanting to exterminate mulattos. Violence and unrest came to mark the election in 1957, continuing for a year until through methods of manipulation, terror, and appealing to the popular Estime presidency of the past, it became clear that Francois Duvalier would be the Hait's next president.[5]

At first, it seemed as if Duvalier's presidency would result in material gains for the black majority. The 1957 Constitution was the first to refer to Kreyol as a language, and provided it with basic protection under the law.[6] Duvalier also made sure to maintain communication with the Haitian peasantry, demonstrated support among the _hougans_, or the Voudou priests who were always in conflict with the Catholic Church. However, it was soon apparent that the promises of Noirisme, of a society in the interest of Haiti's black majority, would go unfulfilled. Culturally, European traditions and customs continued to dominate society and one's position was always linked to how well they accommodated to such a culture. Economically, concessions continued to be made to American businesses, and the life of the average Haitian in rural and urban areas remained relatively unchanged. Instead of being an era of social mobility for the Haitian masses as was the case during Estime's presidency, Duvalier's tenure became an era known for the violent repression of dissent and high pay and prestige for the new black elite.[7] When Francois Duvalier passed and his son Jean-Claude Duvalier was placed in power, this trend of favoring the elite at the expense of the masses only continued.

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title: Noirisme

question: What does the text say about Haitian cuisine?

question: What does the text say about Noirisme?

answer: Noirisme is one of the main political and cultural movements which developed in Haiti after the end of U.S. occupation. It built off of the movement that called for the greater incorporation of local Haitian culture into political and social life. Noirisme advocates known as Noiristes, believe that the most basic problem in Haiti is the rule of a minority - the mulatto ruling class - uses the state to oppress the black majority to maintain power. The Noiristes played a prominent role in shaping Haitian politics after President Élie Lescot was overthrown by the left wing. Noirisme influence culminated in the election of Dumarsais Estimé as president in 1946 and the election of François Duvalier as president in 1957. Noirisme was used by the Duvalier era to maintain power via repression.


text:
MATS HALLBERG (born 12 December 1964) is a retired Swedish professional golfer.

Hallberg turned professional in 1984 and played on the Swedish Tour before joining the European Tour in 1988. On the tour he had eight top-10 finishes, including third at the 1996 Scottish Open and the 1997 Volvo Scandinavian Masters, earning a total of €617,028.[1] His biggest success in a major came at the 1995 Open Championship where he shot a first round of 68 (−4), one stroke off the lead. John Daly eventually won at −6 after a playoff, and Hallberg finished tied for 68th along with Tiger Woods.[2]

Hallberg was in contention at the 1998 Volvo PGA Championship, the European tour's flagship event, held at Wentworth Club. Finding himself one stroke behind the leader, compatriot Michael Jonzon, after two rounds and one stroke behind leader Colin Montgomerie after three rounds, he finished with a round of 70 versus the Scotsman's 69 to end the tournament two strokes behind the triumphing Montgomerie.[3] The finish helped Hallberg reach a peak of 174 on the Official World Golf Ranking in 1998.[4]

Hallberg played intermittently on the Challenge Tour, winning three tournaments 1990–91. On the 1994 Challenge Tour he was runner up the Rolex Pro-Am, Ramlösa Open, Jämtland Open, and lost a playoff at Himmerland Open.[5]

After cutting back on his playing schedule, Hallberg became a broadcaster. In 2016 he joined C More Entertainment's European Tour coverage.[6]

Professional wins (4)

Challenge Tour wins (3)

+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+
| No.       | Date      | Tournamen | Winning   | Margin of | Runner(s) |
|           |           | t         | score     | victory   | -up       |
+===========+===========+===========+===========+===========+===========+
| 1         | 17 Jun    | Stiga     | −10       | 1 stroke  | Yngve     |
|           | 1990      | Open      | (70-68-68 |           | Nilsson   |
|           |           |           | =206)     |           |           |
+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+
| 2         | 2 Jun     | Jede Hot  | −3        | 2 strokes | Thomas    |
|           | 1991      | Cup Open  | (72-71-70 |           | Nilsson,  |
|           |           |           | =213)     |           | Olle      |
|           |           |           |           |           | Karlsson, |
|           |           |           |           |           |  Jan      |
|           |           |           |           |           | Tilmanis, |
|           |           |           |           |           | Fredrik   |
|           |           |           |           |           | C.        |
|           |           |           |           |           | Lundgren, |
|           |           |           |           |           |  Rubén    |
|           |           |           |           |           | Alvarez   |
+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+
| 3         | 16 Jun    | Stiga     | −7        | 2 strokes | Lars      |
|           | 1991      | Open (2)  | (68-69-72 |           | Bonnevier |
|           |           |           | =209)     |           | ,         |
|           |           |           |           |           | Magnus    |
|           |           |           |           |           | Jönsson   |
+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+-----------+

CHALLENGE TOUR PLAYOFF RECORD (0–1)

  No.   Year   Tournament        Opponent         Result
  ----- ------ ----------------- ---------------- ------------------------------------
  1     1994   Himmerland Open   Michael Archer   Lost to birdie on third extra hole

Other wins (1)

-   2009 Eskilstuna Open

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

title: Mats Hallberg

question: What does the text say about Hallberg's tournament performances?

answer: He played in many, starting with the 1984 Swedish Tour. He had eight top-10 finishes on tour, his best finishes being third at the 1996 Scottish Open and the 1997 Volvo Scandinavian Masters. In the 1998 Volvo PGA Championship, the flagship event of the European Tour, he finished two strokes behind the winning Montgomerie. He won three tournaments in 1990-91, and he was the runner-up in three events on the 1994 Challenge Tour.

question: What does the article say about tennis?


text:
Give the little drummer boy a decade or so and he'll give every pop star a run for thier money. On top of that, one would have to give him a drum set. For now, he had to settle with the drumsticks he had carved himself from the legs of a chair that someone had left outside with a sign saying: *free*. The Little Drummer boy took anything, anything at all, and turned it into a sound. The things he included in his orchestra, no one would have looked twice at, a brick on a wall, a lid on a metal trash can, a stray piece of paper. He was a conductor and the little alleyway he called home was his orchestra that no one looked twice at, no one wanted to see a little homeless boy do little homeless boy things.

Mae Lin woke up at two in the morning. Her mother was going to wake her up at six, but she refused to allow her mother to make her into something she wasn't: a prodigy. Since she could walk and talk, Mae Lin was forced to learn all there was to know about a violin. Her mother was determined to command and commit her child to a monotonous struggle to realize a dream that she (the mother) could not realize. Mrs. Lin was a talent at the violin, one that could put the greatest to shame, but she was never taken more seriously than the schoolgirl that could only play "Mary had a little lamb". She wanted to play in europe, or broadway, but never got farther from the talent show at her local community center, which she lost. Mae's mom knew she was simply too old and not pretty enough that no producer or talent scout would look twice at her. When she discovered she was with child, she swore to make sure that her daughter would realize the dream she had lost. As for Mae herself, she packed what she could into her school backpack and, for some reason, she took her violin as well. It was the only friend her mother allowed her to have, and if Mae was to run away from home and from her mother's legacy, she would need a friend to accompany her.

The old man woke up, he wasn't sure what time it was, so he looked at the note on his left: *Anton, I am you from yesterday ago reminding you that today is July the 22nd of 2015.* Anton stopped right there, the year was two-thousand and fifteen? that was impossible!  He was fairly certain he had graduated college only two weeks ago in nineteen seventy! He looked down at the note again: *I, or 'you' rather, whichever you prefer, have a disease that causes you to lose your memory after a certain amount of time. You will wake up every morning only to have forgotten everything that happened the day before. Around twelve noon, a woman from 'Greyson Family Therapy' will arrive. If she doesn't, call this number...*" He finished the note, and went to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror, seeing all the features of an old man, a wrinkled face, a receding hairline with grey spots of hair. He had no evidence to claim that this was a prank his roommates were playing. Having nothing better to do, he sat down in at his piano bench, and felt the cool ivory keys of his piano on his fingers. It seemed that, though his toothbrush, or the bed he awoke on were strangers to him, this piano, this instrument was familiar, in a way that he could not recall by memory alone. In a feat displaying the phenomenon known as muscle memory, he pressed a few keys in a rhythemic tune, and let himself get carried away.

**Later that night, around 8pm**

The Drummer Boy was walking on a street he had not walked before, he was tapping his drumsticks to anything he could take back home to his orchestra, a new sound to experience was a blessing to him. His ear pricked up, hearing a sound he had not encountered before. He turned the street corner and heard his blessing. The little drummer boy took a look at her from the street corner and heard her cry to the wind in a language he understood. He watched her play as he subconsciously felt her rhythm, he noted the tempo with which she spoke and started tapping his drumstick to the waterspout next to him. The cement on the sidewalk had a sound as well, and once more, he conducted an orchestra with only the things he could find on the sidewalk, though he made sure that the sound he was hearing from this girl stayed as it was. As far as the conductor was concerned, she was a necessity to the rhythm that he was trying to get out of his head.

Mae Lin wanted to take a bus out of the city, but she had no money to purchase a ticket. So, she tried to ask for some from people, but they all dismissed her. They all saw her clean clothes, her violin in tow, and thought she was just asking for the sake of asking. Eventually, someone wisened her up and said: "Are you good with your violin?" She nodded silently. "Well maybe you should try performing on the sidewalk for money, because kid, lemme tell you now: aint no one in the world going to give you money just cuz you ask." She understood and walked for a bit until she had found a street that seemed quiet enough, she didnt want a big audience because she did not want to perform in front of so many people, *I'll just get what I need and go,* she thought. So she held her friend and put bow to string. Only, she didn't have a paper in front of her, no sheet music to guide her. She then thought of how her mother was right, of how she was going to be nothing but a living failiure if she did not commit herself to practice. She was mad, and sad, and was filled with regret. She also remembered something else, in an instructional video her mother had forced her to watch, she recalled something he said: *"Once you have at least some idea of how notes can be put together on the violin, you can take whatever emotion you have inside you, and let that be the sheet music that guides you."* Keeping that in mind, she once again put bow to string, and feeling sad, she played a sad, lonely note, then she played the same note, but sharper. More music came out of her, she pushed and pulled her bow across the strings with every beat of her heart, having no idea for the money she obtained, she didnt care. She played a rhythm that she had been dying to get out of her body ever since she could walk and talk, it was her song of hurt, of anger, her regret for leaving her nest so early. But more importantly than all of that, it was her's, not Mozart's or her mother's, but it was her song. She heard something else too, it was a beat. A kid with sticks was tapping the things on the sidewalk around her, she didn't stop playing, her mother had trained her to play on regardless of distractions, but the beat this boy had brought did not distract her, in fact, it was like a duet. She played on with him. He was only making her emotion more complete. What made it even more complete, was the sound of a piano just a few stories up in the building behind her.

Anton was sitting down and writing a note for himself to read tomorrow morning when he noticed a commotion just outside his window. A girl was playing a violin while a boy tapped sticks to all the objects he could on the sidewalk, he spun around to tap the sidewalk, the drain pipe, all in the tempo that the girl was playing at. Anton had little in his life, at least little that was familiar, but to him this tune was something that was familiar yet strange at the same time. It called to him, it reminded him of the tragedy that he was subjected to, he was cursed with life he would have to live in twenty-four hour increments. He didn't like that nothing he would do in his time would matter to no one at all except someone who would inhabit his body the next day. *Well fuck that,* he thought. *I'm going to make the most of my life.* He violently pushed aside all the things that were near the window. He ran over to his piano and pushed the piano all the way to the window. He sat down at the bench and joined the young performers. His tune was crying out to the world, he would not let his fate to get the better of him. He would not let himself become a play-thing of the fates. He would not allow himself to let a 'disease' keep him from having the destiny he was entitled to. He would be robbed of life no more! He stopped playing. So did the girl and the boy in the street.

They had finished their song, and all the performers felt a weird mix of ecstasy and satisfaction when they stopped.

The little drummer boy approached the girl. He shook her hand and congratulated her on her performance. He then asked if he could meet her here to play again. He looked up a few stories but saw no visible trace of the sound that had joined their orchestra. After they spoke, he went with her.

Mae blushed at the homeless boy's request. She wasn't sure if she should meet him here, but she felt alive with him. More than she had with her mother. She wanted to take him home, but then realized, she had no home. She also realized that the reason she left in the first place, was because she had something she could say or do at home, but rather, she had to do it somewhere she could express her emotional outburst, without her mother telling her it was something that would not get her anywhere in her life. Now that she had done that, she had no reason not to return home, and she took the homeless boy with her.

Anton was a shy lad, he didn't look at the children down below, he didn't want to, or have to, so he didn't. He did however, watch them walk down the street together, holding hands as they walked. He smirked, smiled, and wished he could see the rest of their story. Anton kneeled down at his bed and prayed to god that, if nothing else, he would not forget this song that he had been so lucky to be a part of, and then an idea arose in his head. He went to the kitchen and scribbled out the note he was writing for himself earlier, it would be useless now. He wrote four words on the back of the paper. He then went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and pulled out the morphine the nurse had shown him was there when she was here earlier. He had a little bit of a seizure earlier that day and needed something for the pain. He laid down on his bed, filled the syringe with as much morphine as he could, and injected it into his arm. He would not wake up the next day, nor would some stranger inhabit his body. His nurse would show up and find the note, reading: **I WILL NOT FORGET.**

title: [RF] The Last Concerto

question: What does the story say about the qualities that make a good guitarist?

question: What does the story say about the Little Drummer Boy?

answer: The Little Drummer Boy is a homeless kid living in an alleyway. He carved his own drumsticks from the legs of an old chair and can turn anything - a brick wall, the lid of a metal trash can, and even a piece of paper - into musical instruments. He is always on the lookout for anything he could take back home to his alleyway orchestra and any new sound is a blessing to him. He can subconsciously feel the rhythm and note the tempo of the music he hears. Given a decade and a drum set, the Little Drummer Boy will give every pop star a run for their money.

question: What does the text say about Mae Lin?

answer: Mae Lin plays the violin, but it was forced on her by her mother, who was trying to turn Mae Lin into a prodigy. Since she could walk and talk, Mae Lin's mom forced her to learn all there was to know about a violin. She had to undergo a monotonous struggle just because her mom wanted to realize a dream she herself could not realize as a child who also played the violin. Mae Lin woke up at two in the morning to pack all the stuff she could carry in her school backpack and ran away from home. Her violin is the only friend she was allowed to have, so she takes it with her. She wanted to ride a bus to the city but didn't have any money. She tried to beg from strangers, but they ignored her because she didn't look poor. Someone tells Mae to play her violin as a street performer and some people might give her money. Mae Lin ends up playing a sad and lonely song that was straight from the heart. It was an original piece about her regret, hurt, and anger for leaving her nest so early.

question: What does the story say about Anton?

answer: Anton is an old man suffering from short-term memory loss. He forgets about what happened to him the day before when he wakes up each morning and has to leave notes for himself about his condition, the date, what happened the day before, and what he has to do. Even everyday items like his toothbrush or his bed were strangers to him. The only familiar thing is his piano. Years of playing and muscle memory allow Anton to lose himself in his music. He decides to make the most of his life and joins the young performers below, choosing not to let his fate get the better of him. He chooses not to let his disease keep him from having the destiny he was entitled to. Anton didn't want to forget the song he just played and decided to overdose on Morphine so he wouldn't wake up the next day.

question: Summarize the plot of the story.

answer: Three strangers from different backgrounds, circumstances, and age brackets come together for one magical street concerto. The music they played was a beautiful medley of violin, piano, and makeshift drums. The song was completely original and from the heart, full of sadness, regret, hurt, anger, loneliness, determination, and resilience. The Little Drummer Boy, a homeless kid who used anything that can produce a sound as instruments, played the drums. Mae Lin, a girl who was forced to learn the violin by her mother, came up with the original song. Anton, an old man who suffers from short-term memory loss, adds his skills piano skills. It's the trio's last concerto together because Mae Lin and the Drummer Boy failed to meet Anton, who was too shy to say hello. Anton also took his own life so he won't forget about the beautiful music he was part of.


text:
Below is a short story that I wrote some time ago. I am open to all comments and criticisms. I'm interested in your honest opinions. Thank you for taking the time to read it.

The sun rose over the barren ocean. Shades of orange reflected off the calm waves in the distance. The early morning mist could be felt, as fog still hovered lightly, blanketing the scene. A girl, a young girl stood, arms folded across her chest, leaning forward into the wind. She dared herself closer to the edge, where rock suddenly gave way to turbulent water repetitiously breaking in the alcove below. The thrill of physical danger made her forget the confusion inside. She held a map close to her chest that she now unrolled. She twisted it curiously until satisfied. “There you are!” She pointed with a childish delight out toward the ocean.

She sat, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, and observed it admiringly. There were words scrawled across the page, no rhythm, no pattern, just the heart of a young child. “Daddy,” she read aloud to the wind, “You are so far, but I wish you where here. I hope you are happy. I hope that you are well. Mommy says France is nice. I hope you think so. Come home soon. Love Lilly.”

She paused a moment before producing a glass bottle that was hidden away underneath her long skirt. She folded the paper, then rolled it and tucked it away in the bottle. Once again she checked the map, rotating her body as she turned the map. Then she gained her bearings, lifted the bottle above her head, and threw it with all her might. She watched as it flew off the edge of the cliff and landed in the water below. She again sat, as if waiting, staring anxiously out over the water.

Everything was different now. Her mom had said it was the war. “A big fight” she called it. “Your father, he’s a good man, and he wants to help.” She believed her mother, her father was a good man. But everything changed. The city, once robust, and thriving had since lost all life as one by one all the men left, each not wanting to be the last to go. 1944 would have been a good year, the garden grew, and the waters were abundant with lobsters and fish. But the war, the Great War, it ruined everything.

Her father had left on a cool November night which she recalled every night before bed. He packed everything into his green cylindrical duffel bag that he threw over his shoulder. He stood in the doorway dressed in the dark green army uniform that had become a national symbol. He shifted his weight back and forth as he tried to look causal, leaning against the frame of the door. He looked down for a long while without speaking. Then finally he said with forced conviction “It’ll be okay. I promise.” Then he left, his silhouette outline shrinking as he walked away with a slow reluctant stride.

“I want Daddy!” She demanded of the wind. The wind had no response, it instead settled to a silent serenity. The morning had progressed and the sun shone above the horizon. The light slowly crept closer to where the girl sat, legs crossed, still starring out over the ocean. She flinched as the light touched her bare foot and began to engulf her. She retreated to beneath a shallow alcove, shunning its touch.

The sun kept rising undeterred by the girl’s blatant displeasure for its appearance. She fought its every advance, retreating further and further as it came near. It crept along amber ground engulfing dirt, rock, and weeds in its path. The world stood illuminated before her, yet she sat alone in darkness. Every child hates change, and she could only bear to think of things as they used to be.

Like Mr. Carver, he used to own a store on the corner of Main Street and Parkwood Drive. He would stand, every day, leaning casually on the light pole outside the door eager to make small talk with any passer by.  He was short and overweight, but not so much that it distracted from his welcoming smile. He was always the first one to say good morning and the last to say good night. He left in October. Now his store, once lit and abundant with color, was covered with weather beaten boards, and the sign above the door had faded to a neutral red that blended with the wooden backing.

Mr. Bentmore, the local pharmacist was known by everyone. He was on a first name basis with the entire town. He was know for his vast knowledge, and was often consulted on things far more trivial than medicine. He was tall, with black hair and his signature brown cap that he wore at all times. His smaller build never lent him to heavy lifting, but he was determined and he did everything he set his mind to. He got the yellow slip of paper on a Saturday morning, and by Sunday the pharmacy closed. A permanent chain spanned the front doors of the store. He left that night without a word, with nothing but a green duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Then there was Mr. Brown, her first grade teacher. He was a good looking man, always well dressed in a tie that matched his hat of choice that morning. He was stern; serious about his job, but always had some extra time and some good stories after class for the students who preferred school to their home lives. She always liked him deep down; she wasn’t a regular but occasionally passed the afternoon drinking a cola with Mr. Brown. He left in December, one of the last to go.

The town had changed, not because of the emptiness of lacking population, but because of the gained burden of worry by those who still inhabited it. She noticed it everywhere, with everyone. Even young children know when things are terribly wrong. She noticed it the first night he left, the first night her mom slept alone in her bed. Her mother was a happy woman, but since that cool night in November things changed. Now she just cried. Late at night when she thought no one could hear, she sobbed. By day she was an empty smile, by night an inconsolable widow.

The girl now returned to her task at hand, she retrained her pained eyes on the sea, looking for a sign from its depths. “Lilly” spoke the wind, but she paid it no attention. “Lilly” it called, but she had no interest. “Lilly”, came the final call. “Its time to come home.” Her eyes remained transfixed, focused on the distant sea. Even a dark movement in the foreground, could not break the concentration.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. Coming here.” There was a long pause.

“Mommy? Do you know where dad is?”

Another long pause followed, her mother took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, blinking back tears. She joined her daughter under the alcove, sheltered in shade. She stared off into the distance, intentionally away from the young girl who sat beside her. She began slowly, stuttering with the uneven breathing of fighting tears. “It’s . . . it’s difficult to explain honey.”

“Why?”

“He’s in a better place now.”

“Its nice here, why doesn't he come home?”

“Because . . . he can’t”

“Why not? Doesn't he know we miss him.?”

“Yes honey, he knows that we miss him very much.”

“They why won’t he come home?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“What do you mean mommy?”

“He would come home if he could, but you know that war is a dangerous place. Your father, he’s a brave man.”

“So when’s he coming home.”

 “Sweetie . . . he’s not coming home.”

Their lines were broken and uneven, speaking through flowing tears. The young girl pulled her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms around them and gripping tightly. She began to rock slightly forward and back. Her mother stretched an arm in her direction, offering her a consoling hug. The young girl ignored the gesture, continuing to gaze into the distance, pleading with the sea.

“He’s never coming back?”

“He’s gone Lilly.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

As she said this, she reached into the pocket and produced a piece of folded paper. The paper was faded, and stained with dried tears. It had been opened and reopened many times before and the paper had begun to tear at the folds. While she did this, the young girl looked down, as a large wave crashed loudly below spraying a light mist, adding to the wet stains of tears on her shirt. Her mother finished gingerly unfolding the yellowed paper and read. She spoke from the paper, but also from memory, filling in words without pausing where a tear had smudged the ink.

“Dear Loving Family of Corporal Robert L. Harrison, I deeply regret to inform you that your husband has been killed in action. On June 30, 1944, Corporal Harrison gave his life while serving his country in combat. He died for his country during an offensive in France. His sacrifice will never be forgotten. He died in peace at 7:44 pm local time, his final moments he spent watching a sunset over Paris.”

title: A Sunset Over Paris

question: What does the story say about the protagonist's relationship with her father?

answer: The protagonist is a girl who writes a letter to her father who is in war. She loves him very much and misses him. Then she learns that her father has been killed in action. She is desperate. Her letter is never sent.

question: What does the story say about World War I?

question: What does the story say about the time the protagonist's father spent in war?

answer: Her father went to France on a cool November to fight in World War II. He was killed in action on June 30, 1944. He for his country during an offensive in France. He spent his final moments watching a sunset over Paris.

question: What does the story say about where Robert and his wife met?


text:
STEPHENS COUNTY is a county located in the U.S. state of Texas. As of the 2010 census, its population was 9,630.[1] Its county seat is Breckenridge.[2] The county was created in 1858 and organized in 1876.[3] It was originally named BUCHANAN COUNTY, after U.S. President James Buchanan, but was renamed in 1861 for Alexander H. Stephens, the vice president of the Confederate States of America.

Geography

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the county has a total area of , of which are land and (2.7%) are covered by water.[4]

Major highways

-   [] U.S. Highway 180
-   [] U.S. Highway 183
-   [] State Highway 67

Adjacent counties

-   Young County (north)
-   Palo Pinto County (east)
-   Eastland County (south)
-   Shackelford County (west)
-   Throckmorton County (northwest)

Demographics

As of the census[5] of 2000, 9,674 people, 3,661 households, and 2,591 families resided in the county. The population density was 11 people per square mile (4/km²). The 4,893 housing units averaged 6 per square mile (2/km²). The racial makeup of the county was 86.89% White, 2.92% Black or African American, 0.35% Native American, 0.29% Asian, 0.02% Pacific Islander, 8.15% from other races, and 1.39% from two or more races. About 14.66% of the population was Hispanic or Latino of any race.

Of the 3,661 households, 31.20% had children under the age of 18 living with them, 57.30% were married couples living together, 9.90% had a female householder with no husband present, and 29.20% were not families. Around 26.40% of all households were made up of individuals, and 13.70% had someone living alone who was 65 years of age or older. The average household size was 2.47 and the average family size was 2.96.

In the county, the population was distributed as 24.40% under the age of 18, 9.10% from 18 to 24, 25.60% from 25 to 44, 23.20% from 45 to 64, and 17.70% who were 65 years of age or older. The median age was 39 years. For every 100 females, there were 103.30 males. For every 100 females age 18 and over, there were 103.00 males.

The median income for a household in the county was $29,583, and for a family was $35,293. Males had a median income of $26,421 versus $21,280 for females. The per capita income for the county was $15,475. About 12.60% of families and 15.60% of the population were below the poverty line, including 22.60% of those under age 18 and 10.40% of those age 65 or over.

Communities

City

-   Breckenridge (county seat)

Unincorporated communities

-   Caddo
-   Eolian
-   Gunsight
-   Harpersville
-   Ivan
-   Necessity
-   Reach
-   Wayland

Ghost town

-   La Casa

Notable people

-   Jack Cox, businessman and politician
-   Rupert N. Richardson, historian and president of Hardin-Simmons University[6]

Politics

Stephens County is a powerfully Republican county. In 2016, the Democrat for president, Hillary Clinton, received just 10% of the county's vote. The last Democrat to win the county in a presidential election was southerner Jimmy Carter, and the last Democrat to receive over 1,000 votes in the county was southerner Bill Clinton. The Democrat who has come closest to 1,000 votes since then is southerner Al Gore, who got 81.1% of a thousand votes.[7]

  Year                               Republican                                  Democratic                                  Third parties
  ---------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- ----------------------------
  style=“text-align:center;” |2016   style=“text-align:center;” |87.4% _3,034_   style=“text-align:center;” |10.0% _348_     2.5% _88_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2012   style=“text-align:center;” |84.8% _2,892_   style=“text-align:center;” |13.9% _475_     1.3% _45_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2008   style=“text-align:center;” |81.4% _2,869_   style=“text-align:center;” |17.8% _626_     0.9% _31_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2004   style=“text-align:center;” |79.7% _2,803_   style=“text-align:center;” |20.0% _703_     0.4% _13_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2000   style=“text-align:center;” |73.7% _2,425_   style=“text-align:center;” |24.6% _811_     1.7% _55_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1996   style=“text-align:center;” |52.3% _1,714_   style=“text-align:center;” |37.2% _1,218_   10.6% _347_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1992   style=“text-align:center;” |41.9% _1,573_   style=“text-align:center;” |29.7% _1,115_   28.4% _1,068_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1988   style=“text-align:center;” |60.5% _2,342_   style=“text-align:center;” |39.2% _1,519_   0.3% _13_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1984   style=“text-align:center;” |73.3% _2,898_   style=“text-align:center;” |26.5% _1,046_   0.3% _11_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1980   style=“text-align:center;” |59.9% _2,161_   style=“text-align:center;” |38.0% _1,372_   2.1% _75_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1976   style=“text-align:center;” |47.3% _1,621_   style=“text-align:center;” |52.4% _1,796_   0.4% _12_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1972   style=“text-align:center;” |76.7% _2,259_   style=“text-align:center;” |23.0% _678_     0.2% _7_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1968   style=“text-align:center;” |42.2% _1,287_   style=“text-align:center;” |40.6% _1,239_   17.2% _525_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1964   style=“text-align:center;” |38.9% _1,119_   style=“text-align:center;” |61.0% _1,753_   0.1% _2_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1960   style=“text-align:center;” |54.9% _1,664_   style=“text-align:center;” |44.8% _1,357_   0.3% _8_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1956   style=“text-align:center;” |61.7% _1,832_   style=“text-align:center;” |37.9% _1,126_   0.4% _13_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1952   style=“text-align:center;” |60.6% _2,272_   style=“text-align:center;” |39.3% _1,471_   0.1% _4_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1948   style=“text-align:center;” |19.8% _572_     style=“text-align:center;” |73.8% _2,132_   6.4% _186_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1944   style=“text-align:center;” |7.7% _217_      style=“text-align:center;” |75.0% _2,104_   17.2% _483_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1940   style=“text-align:center;” |14.6% _471_     style=“text-align:center;” |85.3% _2,750_   0.1% _2_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1936   style=“text-align:center;” |22.1% _681_     style=“text-align:center;” |77.3% _2,380_   0.6% _19_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1932   style=“text-align:center;” |8.6% _256_      style=“text-align:center;” |90.4% _2,684_   1.0% _29_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1928   style=“text-align:center;” |60.6% _1,789_   style=“text-align:center;” |39.4% _1,163_   style="text-align:center;|
  style=“text-align:center;” |1924   style=“text-align:center;” |14.0% _372_     style=“text-align:center;” |82.1% _2,184_   4.0% _105_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1920   style=“text-align:center;” |16.7% _141_     style=“text-align:center;” |76.1% _643_     7.2% _61_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1916   style=“text-align:center;” |1.8% _12_       style=“text-align:center;” |83.3% _572_     15.0% _103_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1912   style=“text-align:center;” |1.9% _11_       style=“text-align:center;” |80.9% _462_     17.2% _98_

  : PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS RESULTS[8]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

title: Stephens County, Texas

question: What could the county be named if not Stephens County?

answer: The county could have still been known as Buchanan County.

question: Summarize the political situation of the county.

answer: The county is Republican. Hillary Clinton, a Democrat, received only 10% votes in 2016. The last Democrat to win the county was Jimmy Carter.

question: What are the various entry and exit points of the county?

answer: It may be implied that the entry and exit points of the county meet the U.S. Highway 180, Highway 183, and State Highway 67.


text:
It was his fortieth birthday. There was only one envelope in the mailbox. No cards, no emails, not even a slice of cake by mail. It was the mandatory donation form. Once you reach the age of forty, you are required to identify how your body will be used after death - it’s a sacred condition of citizenship. Two main options were on the form: donate your body to the necrophiles or to the cannibals. They also gave you the option to select both, but then you had to fill the supplemental form where you mark a diagram and give specifics instructions (within 400 characters, max). A recommended configuration is the right side for the cannibals, the left side for the necrophiles, eyes mixed use. Joe shrugged.

There was no consistent death date, but one was expected to die within a few years of the their fortieth birthday, if not earlier. There was no clear pattern. Some died at 43, some at 47. A few even lived to fifty. One man lived to sixty. There may have been a few seventies here and there. Eighty? Unlikely, but not impossible. Stranger things have happened. The state was likely behind it somehow.

But this was the man, the man named Joe. It was at this point in history he resolved to live to be 100 years old. It was not a decision made on mere whimsy. No, it was a decision that had taken him 40 years to make. The rest of his life started here, so he selected neither necrophiles nor cannibals. He turned to the page containing the diagram and drew a large red ‘X’ on it. Of the 400 characters he only required a few, and on the lines available he wrote the most powerful words he could conjure: "Don't touch.”

Joe shoved the form in the envelope and decided to get a Birthday Burrito. While people normally get free bus rides on their birthday, the bus driver chose to avoid eye contact when Joe asked for his free ride. Instead, he paid the requisite 50 millilitres of blood at the needle-till to board, walked past some pale 30-somethings and took a seat. The shuttered windows were covered in faded ads. Prominently displayed was the new teen fad: Die Young, Sexy, and Tasty. It was a euthanasia service targeted at 13 to 17 year olds, which made Joe sad. He thought to himself, how can you enjoy being with the ‘in’ crowd if you are dead? The bus came to an abrupt stop and Joe rolled out of the vehicle.

As Joe walked down the sidewalk, he passed a group of 13 to 17 year olds. When he passed them by, he overheard one of them. “I love to die young, sexy, and tasty. Forty? That’s selfish.” As a forty year old, Joe was now officially out of touch. He would never understand why this was cool.

He arrived at the burrito joint. It was a small, anonymous shack nestled between two burned-out buildings. Peculiar decorations painted the walls, with vectors and math problems that all had the same solution: binge eating. As Joe gently shut the door, a man pointed a sawed-off shotgun directly at Joe’s face. “It’s 10 o'clock, what are you doing here?” Joe didn’t reply with language, only the ultimate expression of hunger.

Joe pointed his finger to meal A, subset of X: Birthday Burrito. The host sighed. “We don’t have anything prepared yet, can you just sit down?” Joe complied, though he didn’t have to. As he sat down next to some corpses, he angrily thought to himself. He would never let himself become a corpse. An awkward silence ensued.

“This is our destiny: to be one with flavour. A flavour so intense it can unify the necrophiles and cannibals,” the chef softly spoke. Joe didn’t understand.

The chef produced a meat of mysterious origin while Joe sat idly by. He glanced over to the chef as he prepared the Birthday Burrito. He worked vigorously, imbued with an unparalleled passion. His sweat dropped into the sauce and soon he went silent. His eyes glazed over as he continued preparing the meal. Any identity he may have previously had was dead. When the burrito was finished, he handed it over to Joe. He had never tasted anything so good and he doubted he would ever again.

When the last of the burrito slinked down his throat, Joe tearfully asked, “Sir, how did you craft such a work of perfection?”

The man replied. “I did not craft anything. I simply allowed God to use me as a vessel. It is with his guidance that our work be done.”

Joe looked down at his own hands and thought if God ever tries to use him he’ll fucking kill him. He clenched his fists and, without paying, barged through the door into the outside world. The host knew not to interfere - this was a man determined to live 100 years.

Further down the street, Joe laid on the damp ground. Exhausted. Humbled. Nothing could bother him, until something bothered him. A small, soft man in a suit prodded him with a cane. He was accompanied by a scantily clad hunk. “Good day, I hope all is well on this beautifully foggy late morning. My name is George Shigu, but you can call me Mr. George Shigu. I am a representative of the Department of Organic Recycling. This is my gorgeous executive assistant, Hans Maffew.” George broke out of his monotone voice with a swoon but quickly regained a boring composure. “At any rate, we know that you recently ordered a Birthday Burrito. This was within 24 hours of receiving the mandatory donation form. Six hours, forty-two minutes according to our analytics.”

George knelt down closer, still occasionally prodding Joe. “Joe... Joseph… forty-year-old Joseph. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are...”, George smiled, “trying to live 100 years.” Joe confidently nodded, too exhausted to speak. “Very well. Hans, darling, please escort our special friend to the car.” Joe felt a hypodermic needle in his arm and everything faded to black.

Joe awoke in an unfamiliar place. Dim light traced the edges of the walls enclosing him in a cell. He was in a bed. Across from him laid another man in another bed, a very old man. The sound of George’s voice blared from an unknown corner. “So, you want to live to the big 1-0-0! In front of you is a man who is 99 years and 99 days old. Tomorrow he will be 100. If I were you I would listen to what he has to say. I cannot force you to do anything, Joe. But I can warn you: you must not live to be 100 years old, for your own good.”

The man across from him sat up and began to speak as if to no one in particular. “Hello again, Daniel. It's Peter. I'm old today.”

“Hello sir,” Joe said to the man.

“If I had to do it all over again I would've killed myself somewhere between 13 and 17 years of age. Well heck, it ain’t too late!”

“Sir, I admire your strength. You are an inspiration.”

“I became incontinent on this day 20 years ago. I should've killed myself before then. Well heck, it ain't too late!”

“Sir, please don't kill yourself, you're so close!”

“It ain't too late Lady D! It ain't too late to die like a little piggy! That's what I like.”

Hans entered the room with a handgun placed on an embroidered pillow. He placed it in Peter’s hand, stroking his wisps of hair compassionately. “Fucking kill yourself already you old bitch,” he said to the old man in his Bavarian accent.

“I’m the pizza pie,” said Peter before painting the wall with a Rorschach test of blood and brain.

George yelled “Next!”

A phone rang and Joe picked up. “It’s me, Elie. I served you the Birthday Burrito this morning. Because of this, you consider me to be your closest friend but this feeling is not mutual. Joe, you are being egocentric. An egocentric prick. An egocentric dog, I’d go as far as to say. Think about the society we have created, a world with no borders, no hunger, and ample sex for every man, woman, and corpse. What would cannibals and necrophiles do with a shitty 100 year old corpse? This is the question that none of my students could answer. When one tried, I shot her and am now no longer allowed to teach topology. Goodbye, fucker. Count me out of this entire friendship.” Elie hung up, their friendship apparently over.

George opened the cell door with his prodding cane and limped into the room. “Hans, you may leave, but please take that useless corpse out of here, sweetie.” Hans smiled. George grabbed a metal chair, dragged it over to Joe’s bedside with a metallic scrape, and tenderly placed his hand on his chest. “Joe, we cannot legally kill you. Our nation is based on the principles of solidarity, diversity, and accommodation. I swore an oath to uphold those values when I joined the Service. But I wanted to show you something: my pre-clearance mandatory donation form I filled out when I was 33. My body will first go to the cannibals. Then, my bones will go to the necrophiles - they can make use of every part of the body. But my heart...” George stopped and blushed. “My heart will go to Hans.” He held the form close to his chest.

“Do you understand?” George asked, some tears gently rolling down his cheeks and onto his medium-priced suit. “Do you see the beauty now?”

Joe thought silently for a moment, clearly moved. Touched. Prodded, even. All by a man he just met. He then loudly proclaimed, “The only beauty I see is me living to be 100 years old. Suck it, heart boy.”

George immediately revealed a revolver and pointed it at Joe, struggling with his feeble hands to maintain a straight shot. “Get out.” After a small pause, he sighed and continued. “Go through the cell door, head three doors down and take a left turn. The elevator will take you to the atrium and you can’t miss the exit. Remember to rate your client service experience at en-org-rec.worldgov/feedback. Thank you, have a wonderful day!”

“Oh. Okay, sorry about that Mr. George Shigu. Maybe I went a bit too far.”

“No problem, it happens to the best of us. Bye now.”

Joe checked the survey while waiting for the elevator. Extraction quality, 7. Guidance quality (objective), 7. Guidance quality (subjective), 3. Room atmosphere, 8. Agent quality, 8. Peter quality, 5. Perspective on a patriotic 40-50 year old death, 1. In the comment section, he wrote that the experience was good overall, not great, but he still is determined to live to be 100 years old. The elevator arrived as he tapped submit.

Five days passed. Joe nursed a normal burrito in his hand before sheathing it within his throat. The static that flared on the TV made way for a special newscast. There was a man who looked like Joe being monitored from outside. “Local man wants to be 100,” the lady began. The newscast turned to citizens on the street.

A frumpy woman provided the first comment. “Well I guess that’s why they call him ‘Knuckle-dragging’ Joe!” The crowd around her laughed, but Joe wasn’t laughing. This was his dream. Why would they ever desire to take it from him?

Joe slept, woke up, and ate burritos for 59 more years, and for 59 years he was utterly alone. Sometime during the 59th year of his mission he was approached by a man in a medium-priced suit. They shook hands and the stranger spoke. “Hello Joe, my name is Chrint Dringolt, and I'm from the Department of…”

“I know where you’re from, and I know why you're here, so let's get this over with.”

Chrint seemed surprised. “Very well then.” He produced a hypodermic needle from his pocket.

Joe awoke in a room, a room similar to the room from 59 years prior. In front of him was a woman who appeared to be 43 or 44 just beginning to wake up. A voice reached out from the darkness. “So! You want to live to see the big 1-0-0!” The woman became alert. “Across from you is a man. His name is Joe, and he is 99 years and 99 days old. Tomorrow he will be 100. I want you to listen to what he has to say. We cannot harm you and we cannot force you to take your own life, but you need to understand the delicate balance our society has achieved.”

Joe looked into her eyes and immediately knew what needed to be said. “Hello lady, I'm fucking old.” He smiled. “I have lived these last 59 years in total solitude. My joints ache, sometimes I pee dust, but mostly I pee blood.”

She spoke, her voice cracking. “I'm sorry to hear that Joe.”

Joe’s voice became more determined. “If I could do it all again I'd have killed myself between the ages of 13 and 17.”

“Don't say that,” she said, “you're so close!”

Joe continued. “There is no point in getting old. There’s no need to watch as your body decays. Everyone I might have cared about was donated long ago…” His thoughts turned to Elie. “You have to give up this foolish quest, Samantha.” He paused. “Chrint! It's time.” From a shadow emerged Chrint. In his hands was an embroidered pillow supporting a handgun. Joe picked up the gun and chambered it.

Chrint leaned forward, looking directly into Joe’s eyes. “Fucking die already you old cunt.”

As Joe lifted the revolver, the woman screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Don't do it Joe, we can both live to be 100! It doesn't have to-” Her sentence was cut short with the crack of the pistol.

Chrint collapsed to the floor, blood spilling from his skull. The woman looked at Joe, gun still in hand. “I knew you wouldn't do it! Now we can-”

A second shot erupted from the pistol. The woman fell back into the bed, part of her jaw embedded in the wall. Joe casually tossed the gun to the floor. “Fuck all of you, I'm living to be 200.”

title: [HM] Die Young, Sexy, and Tasty

question: Explain the twist in the tale.

answer: Although the people in Joe's world are expected to die in their 40s, Joe decides that he wants to live to 100. The authorities try to talk him out of it but he is determined. Just before his 100th birthday, they bring him a gun. He is expected to kill himself as others who have gone before him have. Instead, he kills his keeper and decides to live to 200.

question: What does the story tell us about birthdays and 40th birthdays in particular?

answer: People in this world get free bus rides on their birthdays. Though Joe's bus driver fails to do so. They can also enjoy a delicious birthday burrito, though for this, they must pay. On their 40th birthdays, citizens are expected to fill out a donation form that tells the authorities whether they are donating their bodies to the cannibals or the necrophiles.

question: Why is Joe taken to the 99-year-old man?

answer: George takes Joe to see Peter, who is 99 years and 99 days. Peter is expected to try and convince Joe that life after 40 is not worth living and that he should change his mind. At the end of the discussion, George gives Peter a gun and he shoots himself in the head.


text:
First Pet
(An unfinished short story by ChillistickCat)

We All Have Choices

We are under a bush at the foot of a ten foot high hill behind a large concrete sign.  Mother cat is talking to her kittens, who have just recently discovered their abilities to walk and explore, about the dangers of "street life" and "pet life".   She discusses all of the positive and negative tropes of both lives and tells her kittens they have a choice of which one they wish to live.  Unanimously all the kittens agree that street life, the life mother lived, is the one they want, accept Marko, who remains silent.  They all become quiet, including mother, in a silent stare at Marko.

Marko's Unplanned Rebellion

After the litter of kittens disperses to a shady section at the bottom of the hill, Marko makes his way, for the first time, to the top of the hill to a spot where mother cat said never to go as it is precisely the spot where a human can see them and take them.  Not heading his mothers words, he makes his way all the way up to see a vast grid of human houses.  He is in awe of the magnificence of the sight and gazes upon it, wondering what it would be like to be a pet.  He imagines all of the new things he would experience and what a human would be like.  He has seen humans before but never interacted with one.  Until he spots a little human girl in the house closest to the hill.

Just as Mother Warned

She makes direct eye contact with him then immediately points to him, to which two other humans, much larger than she, come into view.  The largest human begins to walk towards Marko.  He does not run away.  He sits and waits for them to come to him. Marko is in awe of how big the human gets as it gets closer and closer to him.  He notices things he has never noticed before, like noses and eyeglasses.  Then, just before he can turn around to look back at his family and mother, large hands embrace his whole body and he is lifted higher then he has ever been.  The motion winds him as he tries to scream for help, but no sound comes out.  Only the sound of the human saying, "Dont worry little guy, I wont hurt you".

The words mean nothing to him and he cries once more, this time letting out the loudest shriek he has ever made.  As soon as he gets his bearings inside the large human hands, he looks back to see if his mother heard him.  To his surprise, he sees a vacant hill, and with that he closes his eyes and cries out some more as the large hands place him into a dark box.

The Rise of A Pet

When he opens his eyes, Marko finds himself in an unfamiliar world.  He is still inside the box which is now on the floor of a bathroom that is brightly lit by florescent lights.  All he can see is the crack at the bottom of the white door and shadows that move about from the other side.  He exits the box and looks up to find an open window with a long white curtain draping to the floor.  He immediately runs to it and begins to frantically climb until he reaches the window sill.  From this vantage point he can see the hill where he was taken, then he looks down to see a 30 foot drop onto a concrete floor.  He sees a pool and other strange objects laid out about the patio.  He looks back to the hill and now sees his mother atop the hill timidly sniffing the air.

He lets out a loud screech, and his mothers ears perk up in his direction, but her eyes do not follow suit.  He continues screaming to no avail.  She then quickly jumps down the hill out of his sight.

 Marko tuns around to see the bathroom door has opened and standing in the doorway is the little girl.  She screams, " Mommy, Mommy, Kitty is trying to escape!" .  The child's mother then comes running into the bathroom, grabbing Marko, winding him again, and shuts the window closed.

Who is Going To Scoop The Cat Litter?

(work in process)

(work in process)

(work in process)

(work in process)

title: First Pet

question: How does Marko's opinions change about being a pet through the story?

answer: He seems interested in the concept. He's the only one of his litter that doesn't want to follow the life of his mother as a street cat. However, he's scared once the humans grab him. Sighting his mother for the first time after getting caught, he wants her to hear his cries to no avail. He tries but can't escape.

question: What does the story say about how streets cats and pet cats live?