text:
I understand—I really do—why a lot of people raised to be a man are seeking a gendered sense of self that is separate and distinct from all that has been called out lately as toxic masculinity. These days a penised person* would have to be really clueless not to notice all the manhood-proving behaviors that have been critiqued as hazardous to well-being (one’s own and others’). However much that penised person accepts the mounting critique of standard-issue masculinity, he might reasonably be wondering what manhood-authenticating behaviors are exempt from it: What are the ways to “act like a man” that definitively keep one from being confused with “men behaving badly”? Or, put more personally: What exactly does one do nowadays to inhabit a male-positive gendered identity that feels—and is—worthy of respect (by oneself and others)?

At the same time—as if in an alternate universe—there are legions of people raised to be a man who have been exposed to the criticism of masculinity but are rejecting and resisting the critique with all their might, almost at a cellular level, the way a body’s immune system generates antibodies to fend off an invading infection. For these penised people, criticism of any masculinity is experienced as an attack on all masculinity. Simmering resentment, eruptive anger, and backlash are but a few symptoms of their abreaction. What’s going on inside—where they feel their authentic “This is who I am”—is a life-and-death struggle against what they perceive portends personal annihilation.

For the sake of clarity, I’ll name these two characterizations Reformers and Conservers. Of course these are not the only segments of the penised population. But I’m going to assume they are both prominent enough that most readers will recognize them in broad outline. And I’m going to assume, further, that most readers place some sort of valuation on these two personas. _One is better than the other,_ most readers are probably thinking. _One is Good Guy and one is Bad Guy._ And no matter whether you believe that Reformers are the real good guys or Conservers are the real good guys, what will likely be on your mind is that one does a superior job of “doing masculinity” while the other does an inferior job.

Notice how the better-than/worse-than categorization scheme comes mentally into play? It kicks in like a habit whenever one’s acculturated higher cortex is presented with any question having to do with manhood. The brain has been conditioned since childhood to perceive the social gender identity manhood through a lens of better than/worse than. It’s how we all learned to experience the identity, and it’s how we all know to recognize “who’s the man there.” It’s also how some of us embody credible manhood if and when we can, and it’s what all of us try to keep safe from if and when we can’t. Because this interior superior/inferior typology is intractably linked to interactional cognition of the gender identity manhood, it’s no wonder that neither Resisters nor Conservers get round to thinking about the template very critically.

But we must do that. We actually must. Our lives depend upon it.

For reasons implicit in my opening paragraph about Reformers, the notion of “healthy masculinity” has caught on in many circles the past few years. People convene about it, organize and workshop about it, tweet and blog about it, and in general work conscientiously at making the concept mean something viable and valuable that will fill an emptiness in Reformers’ lives—the yawning void left when, beginning a few decades ago, “He acts just like a man” began to shift from laudatory to derogatory.

Conservers, of course, don’t think there’s anything unwell about masculinity at all. And they definitely believe that masculinity ought not be impugned—as, in truth, it is—by the expression “healthy masculinity.” Imagine how a patient in a cancer ward would feel if a newly enlightened roommate began rejoicing about having _healthy_ cancer. Probably offended. Maybe pissed off. Similarly a Conserver will never be persuaded that the masculinity he aspires to and embodies is _un_healthy, or an affliction of some sort. Instead, the Conserver will regard the innuendo of “healthy masculinity” as itself a form of life-threatening attack.

Now, call me crazy, but I don’t see much long-term promise in talking only to Reformers or only to Conservers. And I certainly see no advantage in sending a message—“healthy masculinity”—that is sure to exacerbate the gender anxiety of anyone who doesn’t believe that subscribing to analog masculinity somehow makes a person sick. Shutting off communications with Conservers from the get-go by talking of “healthy and unhealthy masculinity” is at best vain and counterproductive and at worst inflammatory. Numerically Conservers represent a lot of penised people; they probably represent more than Reformers, who are still a minority inside the Conserver-dominant culture. But besides being a triggering turnoff to Conservers, there’s an even bigger problem with talking of “healthy masculinity”: It’s based on a well-meaning but ultimately faulty premise. It’s not the right fix for the problem. It’s actually a “cure” that reinvigorates a “disease.”

Many folks of goodwill want whatever’s wrong with the social gender identity manhood to be fixed comprehensively. Their hope is that the fix will avert all those male-gender-identity flare-ups that are well known to cause collateral damage. They want to live in a world where there is no need to be afraid of someone simply because they were born penised and socialized to be a man. In short, they want more harmony among human beings than we are presently accustomed to on the planet.

But here’s the rub: Any movement or campaign to remedy manhood cannot itself replicate the better-than/lesser-than oneupsmanship upon which—inside everyone’s head—manhood is definitionally predicated. Every time our acculturated brains want to identify certain penised people who are “doing masculinity” superiorly, we are reactivating the same mental scripts that were imprinted in us when we watched, or participated in, our earliest mano-a-mano fights. Someone was the victor. Someone was the loser. That was the way we learned the meaning of “manhood.” And that winner/loser, dominant/subordinate definitional prototype does not just vanish into thin air.

Instead we have to figure out a way to retrain brains, and reframe what the problem is precisely. To explain what I mean, I’m going to digress a bit and talk about what’s known as bystander-intervention training.

Basically bystander-intervention training is a program to equip penised people with communication skills, empathy, emotional intelligence, relational tactics, and a sense of personal agency to intervene when they see another penised person about to commit a sexual assault. Bystander-intervention training is widely regarded as one of the most effective means of primary sexual-assault prevention in social situations such as bars and parties where there are likely to be observers.

A big part of the program is teaching trainees (who tend to be Reformers) how to address one or several other penised people (often but not always Conservers) in a way that will effectively interrupt a probable assault-in-progress, create an exit option for a probable victim, and—here’s the tricky part—not precipitate a cockfight with the probable perp.

There are many worthy aspects of bystander-intervention training but the one I want to focus on is this: _It is practice acting out of one’s moral agency without trying to prove one’s manhood._ This is a discipline that is learnable, replicable, and rememberable. One reason a trainee knows the discipline is important is that he knows darn well what will happen if he _does_ try to prove his manhood in such a situation: The contretemps will turn to combat of one sort or another, because the very act of trying to demonstrate one’s own manhood vis-à-vis another penised person will fuel the other person’s manhood-demonstrating responses (which are fired up already, as evidenced by the sexual-assault-in-progress).

And when a trainee overcomes his own anticipatory dread of what might happen to him if he intervenes—when in real life he actually does step up and say or do something that interrupts what might have ended harmfully—he learns another powerful lesson: “I did that. I said that. I stopped that.” Put another way: “I acted out of my own moral agency and I can take personal responsibility for the consequence of that action.”

Of course, those words are not literally what runs through the ex-bystander’s mind. But there’s a distinct experience captured in that moment. It’s the experience of acting out of one’s conscience and being who one _is._

I submit that when we connect the dots of moments like that—real-time instances of embodied ethics and accountability—a new picture of the problem will emerge alongside a new recognition of the solution.

Learning how to act out of one’s moral agency with consistency—how to tap into one’s capacity for ethical choice-making in a way that other people can come to _expect_ one to do—is not a gendered behavior (it doesn’t come with any particular plumbing), nor is it a gendering behavior (it doesn’t make someone more anything except more human).

Another digression.

Ever notice how frequently the words “Real men don’t…” appear in male-pattern-violence** prevention campaigns? “Real men don’t buy girls.” “Real men don’t hit women.” “Real men don’t rape.” The list goes on. “Real men don’t…” has become a Reformers’ mantra. (No pun intended.)

But there are three problems with “Real men don’t…” The first is that the trope conceals and obscures the actual dynamic between manhood-proving and male-pattern violence. Men rape _in order to_ experience themselves as real men. Men hit women _in order to_ show they are the man there. Men buy prostituted women and children _in order to_ get off like a real man—the payoff promised and promoted by pornography. (And that’s the functional purpose of the so-called money shot: to show a penised person ejaculating in circumstances that authenticate him as a real man.)

The second problem with “Real men don’t…” follows from the first: It is a meaningless message to the audience it is intended to reach. Announcing that “real men” don’t commit male-pattern violence is utterly unpersuasive to anyone for whom doing male-pattern violence makes him feel like a “real man.”

And the third problem with “Real men don’t…” is that while it preaches to the Reformer choir, it sends an unhelpful message. It keeps moral choice-making locked into gender identity rather than allowing it to express moral identity. It keeps “who I am here and now” inside the straightjacket of “I am nobody if not a man.” Moreover, by evoking the construct real manhood, “Real men don’t…” retriggers and reifies the anxiety that pervaded every penised person’s upbringing: “Am I a real-enough boy?” “Am I real-enough man?” “How can I convince myself and others?”

That last problem with “Real men don’t…” points to the fundamental problem with the idea of “healthy masculinity.” Talk about “healthy masculinity” sounds good—at least to the ears of Reformers and people who wish to love them. It offers individual respite from the incessant headlines about men’s crimes against women and other men; it functions as a feel-good exemption from being implicated. It helps one belong to a tribe of other “healthy masculinity” devotees—a comfortable camaraderie in which one can feel safe from all those perilous challenges to one’s manhood elsewhere.

And yet the idea of “healthy masculinity” does not liberate conscience from gender. “Healthy masculinity” keeps conscience gendered. And it’s not.

Conscience is human. Human only. And only human.
_John Stoltenberg has explored the distinction between gender identity and moral identity in two books: “_Refusing to Be a Man: Essays on Sex and Justice“ _and “_The End of Manhood: Parables on Sex and Selfhood“ _His new novel,_ GONERZ, _projects a radical feminist vision into a post-apocalyptic future. John conceived and creative-directed the acclaimed_ _“My strength is not for hurting”_ _sexual-assault-prevention media campaign, and he continues his communications- and cause-consulting work through_ _media2change__. He tweets at @JohnStoltenberg and @media2change._

_Two notes on usage:
_

_* I began using the term “penised person” in_ The End of Manhood _in order to keep clear that so-called anatomical sex is merely a trait (like eye or hair color), not a ground of being._

_** And I use the term “male-pattern violence” instead of the more common (but less precise) “gender-based violence.”_

[Meghan Murphy]
Meghan Murphy

Founder & Editor

Meghan Murphy is a freelance writer and journalist. She has been podcasting and writing about feminism since 2010 and has published work in numerous national and international publications, including The Spectator, UnHerd, the CBC, New Statesman, Vice, Al Jazeera, The Globe and Mail, and more. Meghan completed a Masters degree in the department of Gender, Sexuality and Women’s Studies at Simon Fraser University in 2012 and lives in Vancouver, B.C. with her dog.

question: What does the author say about the terminology she uses in the article?

answer: The author says she uses the term 'penised person' in order to keep clear that anatomical sex is merely a trait, like eyes or hair color. She uses the term 'male-pattern violence' instead of the less precise term 'gender-based violence'.

question: What does the article say about Meghan Murphy?

answer: Meghan Murphy is the author of the article. She is a freelance writer and journalist from  Vancouver, B.C. She has been podcasting and writing about feminism since 2010 and has published work in numerous national and international publications. completed a Master's degree in the department of Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies at Simon Fraser University in 2012.

question: What does the article say about the difference between Reformers and Conservers?

answer: The author uses the term 'Reformers' to refer to 'penised persons' that accept the mounting critique of standard-issue masculinity, and the term 'Conservers' to refer to those who reject and resist the critique. For them, criticism of any masculinity is experienced as an attack on all masculinity. Conservers don’t think there’s anything unwell about masculinity at all. Numerically Conservers represent more than Reformers, who are still a minority inside the Conserver-dominant culture.

question: What does the article say about the environment?


split: test

text:
Via Twitter Helena Jeret-Mäe asked this question: “What are your criteria for professionalism for testers in CDT community?”. Later via Email she updated her question to: _“So the updated version of my question is what are the heuristics for recognizing professional testers in your opinion? I changed “criteria” to heuristics… it’s less categorical. And I’ll leave the term “professionalism” up to you as well – I don’t know exactly what you meant by it.”_

In my talk “How to become a great tester” at ContextCopenhagen last January I talked about testers and their skills. I said that most testers don’t know what they’re doing and can’t explain effectively what value they add. I have seen many testers who use the same approach over and over again. If I ask them to name test techniques, they can only name a few. If I ask them to explain techniques to me or show how they work, I get no answers. I find that shocking and I cannot understand why testers who call themselves professionals know so little about their craft and do not study their craft.

That is why I make a distinction between professional testers (of which I think there are only few) and testers by profession. Of course I know and understand that there will always be people who have a 9 to 5 mentality, do not read books or blogs and only want to do courses when the boss pays for them. I accept that reality, but that doesn’t mean I want to work with them!

Let me now answer the questions asked, have done enough ranting for now…

PROFESSIONALISM is what it means to be a professional and what is expected of them. Professional testing is complex and diverse and has several dimensions: knowledge, skills, experience, attitude, ethics and values. I wrote a blog post “What makes a good tester?” in 2011 on this topic and I have a broader view on this topic now although everything I wrote then still counts. In my earlier blog posts I didn’t mention values and ethics and I now think they are extremely important. James Bach writes about them in his blog post “Thoughts Toward The Ethics of Testing”. A great practical example of ethics and values is Rapid Testing. Look at the “the premises of Rapid Testing” and “the themes of Rapid Testing” both can be found in the slides of Rapid Software Testing.

[]

It is hard to recognize professional testers. Every tester is unique and brings different characteristics to the table. Every project is different too and to be successful in finding the right professional tester for your project different characteristics may be important. There are many characteristics to be considered so to be able to recognize professional testers heuristics can be used. Heuristics are fallible methods for solving a problem or making a decision, shortcuts to reduce complex problem or rules of thumb. They are used to determine good enough feasible solutions for difficult problems within reasonable time. On Wikipedia I found this definition: “_Heuristics are experience-based techniques for problem solving, learning, and discovery that give a solution that is not guaranteed to be optimal. Where the exhaustive search is impractical, heuristic methods are used to speed up the process of finding a satisfactory solution via mental shortcuts to ease the cognitive load of making a decision._”

My HEURISTICS FOR RECOGNIZING PROFESSIONAL TESTERS:

1) THEY HAVE A PARADIGM OF WHAT TESTING IS AND THEY CAN EXPLAIN THEIR APPROACH IN ANY GIVEN SITUATION.
Professional testers can explain what testing is, what value they add and how they would test in a specific situation.

2) THEY REALLY LOVE WHAT THEY DO AND ARE PASSIONATE ABOUT THEIR CRAFT.
Testing is difficult and to be successful, testers needs to be persistent in learning and in their work. Passion helps them to be become real professionals. Watch this video where Steve Jobs talks about passion

3) THEY CONSIDER CONTEXT FIRST AND CONTINUOUSLY.
To be effective testers need to choose testing objectives, techniques and by looking first to the details of the specific situation. They recognize that there are no best practices but only good practices in a given context.

4) THEY CONSIDER TESTING AS A HUMAN ACTIVITY TO SOLVE A COMPLEX AND DIFFICULT PROBLEM THAT REQUIRES A LOT OF SKILL.
Testers recognize testing is not a technical profession. Testing has many aspects of social science since software is built for humans by humans.

5) THEY KNOW THAT SOFTWARE DEVELOPMENT AND TESTING IS A TEAM SPORT.
Collaboration is the key in becoming more effective and efficient in testing. Software development is a team sport: people, working together, are the most important part of any project’s context. A great tester knows how to work with developers and other stakeholders in any situation.

6) THEY KNOW THAT THINGS CAN BE DIFFERENT.
Professional testers use heuristics, practice critical thinking and are empirical. They know that time to test is limited, systems are becoming increasingly complex and thinking of everything is hard. Therefore heuristics are a very helpful “tool” for testers. They also know that biases and logical fallacies can fool them. They practice critical thinking to deal confidently and thoughtfully with difficult and complex situations. Testers have to accept and deal with ambiguity, situational specific results and partial answers.

7) THEY ASK QUESTIONS BEFORE DOING ANYTHING.
Testing depends on many things and what is the context of the stuff I am looking at? What is the information we need to find? What is the testing mission? Giving a tester an exercise in an interview can easily test this. If he or she starts working on it or gives you an answer without asking questions, this tells you something.

8) THEY USE DIVERSIFIED APPROACHES.
There is no approach or technique that will find all kinds of bugs or fulfil all test goals. Different bugs are found using different techniques. In order to be able to do this, testers need to know many techniques and approaches. This demands training, practice and some more practice.

9) THEY KNOW THAT ESTIMATION IS MORE LIKE NEGOTIATION.
Have a look at some blog post by Michael Bolton:

-   Test project estimation rapid way
-   Test estimation is really negotiation
-   Why is testing taking so long
-   Project estimation and black swans

10) THEY USE TEST CASES AND TEST DOCUMENTATION WISELY.
The context determines what test documentation you should make and what kind of documentation is useful. Quite recently a great (and long) article by James Bach and Aaron Hodder was published in Testing Trapeze “Test cases are not testing: Toward a culture of test performance”. Also Fiona Charles has written some interesting stuff about test documentation in her article the Breaking the Tyranny of Form.

11) THEY CONTINUOUSLY STUDY THEIR CRAFT SERIOUSLY, PRACTICE A LOT AND PRACTICE “DELIBERATE PRACTICE”.
Deliberate practice is a structured activity with the goal of improving performance. According to K. Anders Ericsson, there are four essential components of deliberate practice. It must be intentional, aimed at improving performance, designed for your current skill level, combined with immediate feedback and repetitious.

12) THEY REFUSE TO DO BAD WORK, NEVER FAKE AND HAVE THE COURAGE TO TELL THEIR CLIENTS AND THE PEOPLE THEY WORK ABOUT THEIR ETHICS AND VALUES.
Testing is often underestimated and many believe “everybody can test”. I have experienced project managers who tell me how to do my work. Professional testers know how to push back and are able to explain why they do what they do.

13) THEY ARE CURIOUS AND LIKE TO LEARN NEW THINGS.
Testers find pleasure in finding things out. A good read is the curious behaviour by Guy Mason: “_a curious mind is one that could be described as an active, engaged and inquisitive mind. Such a mind frequently seeks out new information, enjoys discovering what there is to discover and enjoys the process that comes along with this goal.“_

14) THEY COULD HAVE ANY OF THE IMPORTANT INTERPERSONAL SKILLS mentioned in the list below. As stated earlier it depends on the context which skills are most important.

-   Writing skills (like reporting, note taking and concise messages)
-   Communication skills (many different like listening, story telling, presentation, saying no, verbal reporting, arguing and negotiating)
-   Social and emotional skills (like empathy, inspiring, networking, conflict management and consulting)
-   Problem solving skills
-   Decision making skills
-   Coaching and teaching skills
-   Being proactive and assertive

15) THEY HAVE EXCELLENT TESTING SKILLS:

-   Thinking skills (critical, lateral, creative, systems thinking)
-   Analytical skills
-   Modelling
-   Risk analysis
-   Planning and estimation
-   Applying many test techniques
-   Exploring
-   Designing experiments
-   Observation

Have a look at the Exploratory Testing Dynamics in the RST appendices where several lists of skills are listed.

16) THEY HAVE SUFFICIENT TECHNICAL SKILLS.
There are many technical skills a tester needs like being able to use tooling, coding skills or willingness to learn what they need to know about the technical structure of the application they are testing. Test automation skills like scripting and SQL skills to work with databases, being able to configure and install software, knowledge and skills to work with the platform the system under test is on (Windows, Linux, Mobile, etc.).

[]

This list is probably not complete. It is very well possible that I have made some mistakes. So please let me know if you have any contributions or improvements. Also: being a professional doesn’t mean you are an expert on all mentioned skills. Have a look at the Dreyfus model to learn more about expert level. A real professional knows what he or she can do and when to ask for help. They do not fear to learn and they are not afraid to make mistakes. I guess that would be the 17th heuristic in the list.

BTW: I googled “code of ethics software testing” and found the ISTQB Code of Ethics for test professionals. I wonder if people who pass the exam know about these AND more important practice them… What about you?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MORE INFORMATION

Some more posts that discuss great testers:

-   Becoming a world class tester
-   What makes a good software tester?
-   10 Things you can do to become a better tester
-   What makes a good tester?
-   10 features a perfect software tester should have

And last but not least: have a look at the Testers syllabus by James Bach. An awesome document which lists many important skills and areas of knowledge. It inspired me read about and study different areas.

question: What does the article say about mistakes people make about testers?

answer: People assume anyone can do testing, which is implied to be the most common mistake. Furthermore, the author makes a distinction between professional testers and testers by profession, that is, able and willing testers vs. those who have day jobs testing software. The author prefers and praises the former.

question: Summarize the skills professional testers should have according to the author.

answer: As an overview, the author says professional testers are intelligent, curious, and knowledgeable in their craft. They have decent social and communication skills and are aware that software development is a social process. Most importantly, professional testers approach any given situation with full consideration of the context, with knowledge of what they'll do and why. They use many different approaches as the needs arise, improving themselves both by experience and deliberate practice.


text:
Alan washed his pale face under cold crispy water that flowed out of the dingy bathroom sink. The bathroom smelled of sweet lavender and cigarettes. While not a pleasant combination this scent is the only scent Alan knew and and the only scent he ever wanted to know.
Alan grabbed a towel that was hanging from the dusty towel holder and dried off his face. He then grabbed his wedding ring from the bathroom counter and slipped it on his finger. Alan glanced in the mirror as he was just about to walk out of the bathroom. The quick glance lured him in and Alan found himself standing in front of the mirror studying his reflection.
It was obvious he needed sleep. The dark purple circles under his eyes gave him an unforgettable look of sickness matched with his pale complexion. His soft blue eyes seemed to fade into the rest of his face only becoming noticeable when they were bloodshot from crying. The dark brown curls that sat neatly on top of his head gave him a boyish look. Instead of 25 he looked 18. According to his wife, every attempt at growing facial hair to try to enhance his age was pity and only made him look homeless and dirty. The desire to please her was the only thing that had not been replaced with the sadness that she left behind so he was freshly shaven every day in hopes of her return.
After studying the man Alan no longer knew in the mirror he slowly slumped out of the bathroom into his bedroom. The bedroom was quiet and dark. A quick flip of the night stand lamp switch illuminated the room with a dark glow. Alan unhurriedly and thoughtfully walked around the room so careful as not to touch a single item. He wanted to preserve the room as it always has been. A messy yet organized room that could only be created by one person, but never recreated by another.
Alan slipped off his clothes in the usual spot that he always did and neatly put them into a laundry hamper he had just bought. As he made his way to the bed he switched off the light, careful not to bump anything on his way.
The bed smelled of fresh lavender. As Alan laid on his back to start the nightly routine of staring at the blank ceiling for hours he could feel the scent creeping its way into his lungs and eventually into his memories ever so easily. Nothing got to Alan more than this scent. As he laid in bed the flow of tears silently trickled down the sides of his burning cheeks and onto the white satin pillow. These eerie reminders of everything he once had always sent a flood of emotions through his fragile body.
As hours went by Alan gave up on waiting for the apartment door to open bringing in what once was the meaning of his life and now was the cause of his pain; he turned over and went to sleep.
	As the birds sang their morning songs outside the window the next morning little light was shed into the apartment through the tightly closed blinds. Alan turned over and looked at the clock facing towards him on the night stand. It read 9:37 a.m. This was too early to be awake. Especially since Alan’s days now only consisted of waiting.
	Alan got on his feet and quietly made his way to the shower as if not to disturb anyone in their sleep, a habit since he was always the first to be awake. Alan turned on the shower, took off his wedding ring which he set on the counter, and hopped in.
	The water felt cold and rigid running down Alan’s spine sending false feelings of refreshment through his body. After half an hour of standing silently in the shower letting the water turn his entirety into a weak and cold figure Alan decided it was time to wash his hair. He grabbed the light purple bottle of lavender shampoo and squeezed a small sized amount onto the palm of his hand, barely enough to wash his full head of hair. It was the last of the shampoo. Disregarding the full bottle of men’s shampoo that sat right next to the empty bottle of lavender shampoo, he washed his hair quickly and stepped out onto the cold tile. The empty bottle of shampoo meant that Alan had to make the rare occasion of leaving his apartment to go to the store.
	Alan got dressed carefully making sure not to disturb anything in his path while looking through dirty clothes, searching for an outfit that could pass as clean. He needed to do laundry.
	After a long search for a “clean” outfit Alan settled for jeans and an old t-shirt.
	Pacing back and forth he did not know whether or not the trip to the store was worth the risk of leaving his apartment. Alan found himself becoming anxious when he left his lonely sanctuary, worrying that at any moment his wife would return and Alan would miss his chance to see her again.
	Except this time Alan knew he had to go. He ran out of coffee two days ago and even though Alan didn’t have an appetite anymore he knew he needed to buy some food. Most importantly, Alan did not want the smell of the sweet, sweet lavender that he loved so dearly to fade from the apartment and escape his lungs. For that smell of lavender was the only thing Alan had left.
	Finally, after a long moment of debating himself Alan grabbed his wallet and started his short walk to the grocery store at the corner of the block. Before he left, however, Alan made sure to leave the door unlocked and cracked open just an inch to give his wife an inviting message, in case of her return. Alan wanted her to know he wasn’t mad about her leaving and that she could come back home where he needed her at any time.
	In the store Alan picked up the few essentials he thought he needed to last him a couple of weeks so that he would not have to venture out again for a while. Canned soup, bread, coffee, toilet paper and lavender shampoo filled the bottom of his cart as he walked up to the cash register to pay. A quick swipe of his credit card and Alan was on his way back home.
	As Alan approached the door to his apartment he noticed that it was now open a lot more than just an inch. His heart began to beat fast as he made quick steps towards his door. Excitement and adrenaline started to replace any sadness and anxiety that was once there. Alan flung open the door. Practically throwing the bags of goods he had just purchased at the store Alan looked around the room wildly. The living room was empty. Alan could feel the familiar burning of his cheeks approach as he ran to the kitchen only to find a room full of emptyness. As anger and disappointment was slowly rising inside of Alan he ran to the door of his bedroom. Before he opened the door Alan took a deep breath and squinted back the tears that were fighting to be set free. He opened the door to find his usual company named Loneliness attempting to eat away at everything in the room. Loneliness had a history of leaving nothing left, not even an ounce of hope.
	Out of a fit of rage Alan headed back towards the living room and punched the bare white wall. After a couple seconds of pure anger he collapsed on the floor and laid there absorbing all of the small details around him. The door gently swayed from the wind out in the hallway as Alan had realized that he had sent himself on an emotional roller coaster ride for nothing.
	As the door continued to sway gently back and forth, back and forth through the day and night, Alan let himself eventually fall asleep on the floor of his living room making no noise but an occasional whimper of sorrow.
	The next morning Alan woke to an uncomfortable feeling. The feeling of being watched. As he turned over on his stomach the light felt warm on his heavy body that was sprawled out on the wooden floor. Alan peered through the shining light looking for the entity that made him feel watched, knowing just what he would find.
	Sitting across from Alan on the reclining chair was Loneliness. Alan looked Loneliness dead in the sinister eyes. Loneliness did not just consist of loneliness, Loneliness consisted of anxiety, depression, fear and hate. This had not been the first time Loneliness had overstayed his welcome.
	As the two stared at each other with blank expressions Alan felt as if he was sinking deeper and deeper into the ground. A whole day went on with Alan not eating, crying, moving, or thinking. The two just existed with no purpose or meaning attached to their existence. As hours passed and the night grew longer. Alan decided it was finally time to give in.
	Alan slowly picked his stiff body up off of the floor. Paying no attention to Loneliness who had already consumed half of the living room he made his way to the kitchen. On the counter sat the phone that hadn’t been used in weeks, waiting for a phone call that would never go through. Alan picked up the now unfamiliar device in his hand and dialed.
	“Nancy, I’m sorry. I know you’re probably sleeping... Yes, it’s happening again. I’m sorry. Yes… I’m sorry. Okay, I’ll be here. Goodbye.”
	Alan took a seat on the kitchen floor and began to cry. His shoulders heaved up and down as he began to scream through the short gasps of breath that were barely escaping his dry lips. Alan’s realization of the situation began to set in as his neighbors called the cops due to the shrilling screams dancing down the apartment hallway making their routinely appearance.
	Although Alan was repeatedly told to let go he couldn’t. He repeatedly held onto the hope that always transformed itself into the monster that lead him to his insanity.
	The door shot open as Nancy came in to see Alan in his state of weakness.
	“Get up Alan.” She stated as she gently coaxed him into a chair.
	“How long have you been like this?” Nancy looked around the house. It looked the same as it usually did when she came over. Alan was back to his old antics.
	“I don’t know. I thought she was coming back. I’m sorry. I just thought she was coming back.” Alan whispered as he buried his head into his lap.
	It pained Nancy to see Alan this way. Ever since her sister had died Alan had had these occasional episodes of whatever it was that made him think her sister would return. No one was hurt by the loss more than Alan was. He had always said his love for her was undying. But he had taken that expression too seriously, she thought, as she looked down at the man who she no longer recognized.
	“Let’s go, Alan. Grab your things and we’ll go see Dr. Hoffman. She has been waiting for a visit from you. I called her. Let’s go.” She grabbed her bag and waited for Alan to get up. Without a single care for grabbing his belongings he walked to the door awaiting Nancy to follow.

	Three weeks later Alan opened the door to the apartment; returning from the mental institution. Not to his surprise the apartment was cleaned up, everything was not in its usual place. The apartment no longer smelled of lavender and cigarettes, instead it was replaced with the strong smell of bleach. Nancy always cleaned up the apartment when Alan was away. She didn’t think it was healthy for him to live in an environment that he tried so hard to preserve.
	Alan set down his belongings that he got from the mental institution at the foot of the door and started the interminable process of setting everything back just the way his wife had left it before she died. Undoing all of the hard work that Nancy did Alan carefully wandered around the apartment moving things to match the pictures that were engraved in his mind of what it used to look like when she was alive.
	After everything was back in its usual place Alan sprayed the last of his wife’s lavender perfume around the rooms. He inhaled the smell as if getting a high off the memories the scent brought to him.
	In his bedroom Alan laid on the left side of the bed. The right side was reserved for his wife. As Alan fiddled with the ring on his middle finger he began to doze off to sleep. While sleeping Alan heard the front door of his apartment creek open and shut quietly.
Soft familiar footsteps made their way to Alan’s bedroom and opened the door. Alan didn’t have to open his eyes, he knew who it was. As she got into the bed in her self proclaimed spot Alan felt like he could finally breathe again. A flood of relief made Alan’s body almost tingle as he turned on his side, careful not to open his eyes. “I’ve missed you,” he said as he dozed back off to sleep to the sweet smell of lavender and cigarettes.

title: [RF] Untitled

question: What is the main conflict of the story?

answer: Alan faces the internal conflict of his own depression and loneliness. He has a hard time completing daily tasks and self-care activities. The cause of his depressions seems to be the loss of his wife.

question: Who is Nancy?

answer: Nancy is the sister of Alan's deceased wife. She steps in as a caretaker for Alan when he cannot take care of himself.

question: What does Alan do for work?


text:
He wondered aimlessly. He didn’t think. Thinking took too much effort and the thoughts it created were not worth venturing down quite yet. He just walked because that was all he could do. His phone was in his pocket and he endured the cold while he waited for it to ring. The breeze ran down the street and bit and tore until it bit into his skin. He was not walking to anywhere in particular or for any other reason than to stall. The streets were deserted and the park by the lake contained nothing but the geese lagging behind on their journey south.

His mind trailed off. Where could she be? What could she be doing? When was the last time I saw? Does she even want to see me? Am I simply just wasting my time? No, no, no he thought, don’t let your mind wonder off. Thinking hurts too much. She cannot just be gone without a goodbye or a mere fare thee well.

Nine p.m. he said. We will go to the movies, and then have dinner. It would be wonderful. Reality versus expectations- they are never the same. He approached the pond and walked down the hill till he was on the middle of it. He sat down and looked out across. It was calm except for the ripples caused by the wind. The silence was the best part. Silence was a commodity he longed for. He felt his phone in his pocket and looked at the time, ten-thirty. No missed messages, no missed calls, not anything. He put it away and stared at the light on the other side of the lake. He wrapped his hands around himself and stuck them under his arms to stay warm and waited for a call.

Ten-forty-five. At ten-forty-five it finally arrives. The phone rings and he answers. Contempt, hate, rage, and longing coursed through him. He doesn’t speak immediately. Control is important, nothing good comes from impulse. “Hello my dear. Is it as I fear? Will I still see you here?”

“No my love, I am coming now. I’m sorry, I am sorry I took so long. The people I was with just kept rambling on and on, like loons, but don’t be mad, I will be beside you soon.”

A consolation time, being second, what else should one expect?  Don’t expect anything and you will never be disappointed he always said. “Okay then. It was your time, and never mine, but yours to spend. I just thought it was on you that I could depend.”

He let the cold slip in further. His ears went numb, then his cheeks, and then his toes. Finally he stood up and proceeded home. He opened the door and the warmth escaped out. The couch welcomed him, and hugged around him when he sat down. Eleven o’clock his phone said now. Better late than never he thought. Then twelve came around. Then one, and then finally his eyes fell shut and he gave up.

He woke up with hands running through his hair. Cold hands. He looked up and saw her. The smile crept across their faces as the stared. “Hello my love,” he said looking above, “why have you taken so long?”

“Because here dear, is not where I belong. You have known this for far too long. Yet I always must come along, to remind you. That I am always here. I am always there. A reminder to you that things only get colder and harder, but never darker”

“But my love you must explain. Why am I in so much pain? Why must you always delay?  I have love for you that cannot be swayed, but I would rather just end this masquerade. I would rather you just have always stayed.”

And one day soon. That will happen for you. Though it may hurt, I promise you will just simply awake. With my hand in your hair and a smile in which we both partake. And I won’t be cold. I will be something you can actually hold. And be far more than Lenore or some forgotten lore. I will be yours.”

And then she was gone. He felt his head. It was still cold. He checked his phone and saw no calls. No messages. Nothing at all. Nothing at all to ease his mind. So he lay there, just trying not to think .

title: He Tried Not to Think

question: Describe the scene around the pond.

answer: The man approaches the pond and walks down the hill until he is in the middle of it. He sits down and looks around, everything was calm except for the ripples in the pond created by the wind. He then looks at the light on the other side of the lake and wraps his hands around himself to remain warm.

question: Why does the woman feel like she doesn't belong here?

question: What questions arise in the man's mind when she doesn't call?

answer: The man wonders where she could be and what could she be doing? He also thinks about when was the last time he saw her and whether he was wasting his time waiting for her.


text:
The sun had disappeared behind the horizon leaving the bright lights of the city to shine like a beacon in the night. The stars in the dark sky were out shined by the lights and the sounds of nature were drowned by the cars and other city noises.

Loud music bounced against the muted yellow colored walls and out of the windows that were opened to keep the apartment from getting too stuffy in the summer weather. The apartment was relatively clean; the only place that was the dirtiest was the kitchen as the inhabitants of the small apartment had been gone all day. The dishes overflowed in the sink and the counters were dirty from all the meals prepared on it.

The music came from the bathroom as the inhabitants living in the apartment were getting ready to go out into the night for some fun that they had not gotten the chance to have in quite a while. The lights over the large bathroom mirror reflected brightly off the orange walls as a girl with black hair too short to do much but put a decorative pin it put on mascara while Sana scrolled on her phone while sitting on the toilet.

“So, let me get this straight,” the girl with the short hair began looking at the blonde in disbelief making Sana roll her eyes and look up from her phone at her. “A guy comes into the ice cream shop, gives you a fat wad of cash and his number, and you’re not even going to text him?”

“He was douche, there’s no way I’m trying to do anything with him or become his friend,” Sana replied shortly causing the girl to roll her eyes dramatically.

Another woman with long black hair walked in the bathroom wearing a blue cocktail dress holding a curling iron.

“Rachel, tell your friend that she’s being a weirdo,” the girl with the short black hair pleaded as Rachel plugged in the curling iron.

“What happened?” Rachel asked as she brushed her hair and looked to Sana.

“A douche gave me his number at work and she’s freaking out that I’m not going to text him,” she explained causing the black haired woman to giggle.

“Well, there’s no point in talking to someone you have no interest in,” she smiled as her younger sister, Devyn, groaned loudly.

“You both are weird,” she sighed taking the brush to begin brushing her hair and watched as her sister began to curl hers.

“I met someone weird today too,” Rachel said nonchalantly catching the attention of her two roommates who looked at each other questionably.

“Go on,” Sana pressed as she watched her friend bounce one of the curls in her hair in her hand before throwing it behind her shoulder.

“I got on the train after going to the store when I got off work and sat next to the guy. He was staring at me strangely before I bumped into him by accident and he pushed me away forcefully,” she explained while flipping another curl behind her shoulder.

“He must’ve had a bad day,” Sana suggested before she pursed her lips. “You guys are getting so dressed up, we’re just going to a bar.” Her clementine eyes looked at the blue cocktail dress and the floral romper her friends were wearing.

“You never know who you’re going to meet,” Rachel said as she unplugged the curling iron.

“You could meet your soulmate there,” Devyn smiled smugly at Sana who rolled her eyes and stood up.

“You two and your soulmate stuff,” she grumbled as she left the bathroom to go into her room to change out of her work clothes.

Her room was the cleanest out of them all and over looked a busy street in the city. It was hard for her to sleep sometimes because of how close the building was to the street and how much light peered in through her window even with the curtains closed. She walked to her closet and stared inside of it at the clothes hanging up. At first she was planning on just wearing jeans and a nice dress shirt but now that her friends were dressing up she could not help but think she had to dress up as well.

Maybe they were right about the soulmate thing, she thought as she grabbed a white off the shoulder sundress. She groaned at her thoughts as she put on the dress and a pair of heels and pushed them away as she brushed her hair. She did not feel like trying to make it fancy nor did she really have the time to along with putting on make up. When she looked in the mirror she was satisfied with how she looked and walked back to the bathroom in confidence.

Rachel and Devyn were giving themselves one last look over before they smiled at Sana, complimenting on how beautiful she looked.

 “You guys ready?”

“Yep!” Rachel flipped her curls behind her shoulders and skipped out of the bathroom followed by her sister.

Sana turned off all the lights in the apartment and followed her friends out on to the street with her purse. She walked beside them down the sidewalk yet she was quiet as they talked to each other, deep in thought. She could not stop thinking about what Devyn had said.

Could she really meet her soulmate at the bar? Was that stuff even real?

She shook her head to get a hold of herself as a man catcalled her from the sidewalk across the street, bringing her back to reality. She ignored the man and looked to her friends who were stopped in front of a bar that they had never seen before.

The orange neon sign read, ‘Demie’s’ and looking inside the windows it was easy to tell that the place was a hot spot.

“Let’s try it,” Rachel said as she grabbed the door handle and opened the door, walking in with her sister and Sana close behind.

There was a bell above the door that rung loudly and heads turned to see the trio walk in to the bar. Most of them went quiet but the jukebox in the corner of the bar still played on as Sana was the only one who seemed to notice the stare of the other patrons. One particular patron made her blood boil as a chill went down her spine when their eyes met.

She gripped the leather strap of her purse and glared at the grinning red eyed man before following her friend’s lead who sat down at an empty booth. She made sure her back was towards the man even though she could still feel his stare as the other patrons went back to their drinking and eating.

They did not sit there long before a tall man walked up them who gave them all a shock while he smiled warmly down at them.

“What can I get you three?”

title: [FN] Soulmates?

question: What is this story attempting to highlight?

answer: The variety of struggles 3 young women are going through when it comes to meeting their soulmate. The way men treat them is particularly prominent in the story, and suggests deeper thought on that topic.

question: Why is it some important for these young women to meet their 'soulmate'?

answer: It appears to be the thing the main character wants. She is heading to a bar and thinks it might be a possibility for her.

question: How does the story represent men?

answer: Not favorably. Most of the men in the tale are lecherous or creepy. The girls in the story seem to be used to this, but one man in the bar they go to makes Sana angry enough to glare at him.

question: Why do the women just seem to accept this behaviour?

answer: It appears they are used to it, which is possibly a comment on modern culture and the objectification of women.


text:
[Scarlett Johansson]

SCARLETT JOHANSSON is one of the few actors in Hollywood, male or female, that can get a film produced just on their name alone. If Johansson signs up for a film, and agrees to help produce it, then suddenly there are a ton of studios that are interested. It appears that’s the case with the film “RUB & TUG.” Without her involvement, the film seems to be falling apart.

A couple weeks ago, we found out that Johansson would star and produce in a biopic about Pittsburgh crime boss Dante Tex Gill. The film would have seen the actress play the part of a trans man who ran a ring of illicit massage parlors and a steroids empire in the ‘70s. However, the backlash came quick and hard, with LGBTQ actors, actresses, and groups coming out against her casting, calling it problematic. It didn’t help that she was teaming with director RUPERT SANDERS, who helmed the other controversial film starring Johansson, “GHOST IN THE SHELL.”

Johansson recently pulled out of the project, with a statement saying, “In light of recent ethical questions raised surrounding my casting as Dante Tex Gill, I have decided to respectfully withdraw my participation in the project.” And according to The Wrap, since her departure from the project, there’s no guarantee that the story will be told, at all.

The report says that it “doesn’t look good for the movie,” meaning the project might just die altogether without Johansson’s involvement. As sad as it is to see an interesting story like Gill’s not get the proper treatment, this shows that the actress’ name was the biggest selling factor. And yes, it would appear that Johansson did the right thing and pulled out of the film. However, in doing so, it appears that she doomed the entire production, for better or worse.

The Wrap says Sanders is still attached to direct, but without Johansson’s involvement, it’s likely not enough to move forward.

question: Why was the planned film "Rub & Tug" doomed without Scarlett Johansson's participation?

answer: Because of her name recognition and star power.

question: Why did LGBTQ groups criticize Johansson's planned portrayal of Pittsburgh crime boss Dante Tex Gill?

answer: Probably because Johansson is not a member of the LGBTQ community.


text:
(Title pending)

The parked looked rather desolate; the weather was oppressive. There weren't any children playing, no mother tending to their young; there was nothing captivating about it. However, I still remember how green the grass was, the laughter of the children, soccer moms walking their dogs, but mostly, I remember her. Her green eyes, her elegance, and the way her hips swayed to and fro when she walked. The way her long black hair would look when the wind picked up and the way I laughed whenever she dropped something.

Every day at 10 a.m., I would see her perched on the park bench reading a book or a magazine of some sort. She'd sit there for about an hour or two, and then she would leave without anyone turning their heads but mine. It was as if I was that creepy kid in your math class who'd always stare at you whenever you got up to sharpen your pencil. My eyes were locked onto her and disappointment would wash over me whenever I lost sight.

This routine continued for many months, and she hadn't noticed me for I had said not a single word. I was never going to, because I didn't want to ruin the perfect image I had of her. It was better to admire from afar. Better to be unseen than noticed I thought. But some nights I'd wish I said something to her, just one word like hi. Still I didn't. It was my fear of rejection and what is she thought I was weird or creepy? What if she noticed I stared at her? All of these questions running through my mind and I could've said something, but I didn't.

On those I walked back to my place to think. Once I got home, the pungent smell of cigarettes filled up my nostrils and for some odd reason, everything seemed pointless:  My life, my career as a writer, my love life, evens my cat's life. So, I just began to wallow in my self-pity until I fell asleep. It's better if I don't go tomorrow I thought to myself. I lacked the gumption to ever talk to her so why should I go? But that night I had a dream that she spoke to me - she sounded beautiful - and that's all I remember. I woke up and jumped out of bed, took a shower, and put on my best dress. Then, I continued to run to the park maybe the dream was a sign that she was going to be mine. I bumped into people. I might’ve bumped into an old lady, but I didn’t care.
After 20 minutes of people yelling at me and frantic running, I arrived at the park just after 10 a.m., and I saw her - she was the first person I noticed, but she wasn't alone.  She was with a man - most likely her husband - and two children. They all looked happy - no troubles in the world. It was a bittersweet moment because she looked so happy when I have always seen her look so forlorn. After standing there for two minutes, I walked away and at that moment, I felt my whole world fall apart - piece by piece.

On my walk home I wondered if there was any animosity brewing between them – maybe he cheated and she secretly hates him, or maybe they just look happy and they’re planning to get a divorce. An overwhelming sense of false hope came and went away when I knew all of it wasn’t true. She’ll be there tomorrow I thought. I know she will.

After that I never saw her again - she never sat on her bench or read a book or a magazine of some sort. I felt empty inside without the sight of her. And day after day I waited for her to come back. She never did and I came to terms with it. She wasn't coming I shouldn't worry if she ever does, but an emptiness still lingered in my heart. Then I had another dream that was edifying.

In my dream, I desperately looked for her, hoping to fill the emptiness in my heart, she had to be there. I finally noticed her, stunned by how beautiful she looked. She had a little black dress on with shoes that complemented it so very well. She had red lipstick on and she did her hair in a perfect little bun. Oh, how I wish you could've seen her. She looked beautiful. Then, she said, "it's only life, darling," then she leans in and plants a kiss on my lips. She was gone. I never dreamt of her again. She was out of my life; out of my head.

title: RF (Second short short, please leave suggestion on what I can do to improve)

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: The narrator is an unnamed man.

question: Where does the narrator see the woman?

answer: He sees the woman at a park.

question: Who is the man that the woman is with?

answer: The narrator assumes that the man is her husband

question: How does the narrator describe his dream of the woman?

answer: He describes it as edifying.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator notices a women every time he does to the park. He wants to talk to her but is scared of how she may perceive him. One night he has a dream that she spoke to him. He takes it as a sign to finally speak to her at the park, but is dismayed to see her the next day with a man and some children. After that, he never sees her again, and has a dream that brings him closure.


text:
“I don’t think you understand,” I said.

“I’m not sad, I’m not angry, I’m just… Done. I’ve lived, I’ve loved.” I sat atop the Highrise in which I lived, my loving wife beside me.

“But… I don’t want you to go,” She said.

“I’m not going,” I replied,

“I’ll be back.”

“You’re about to jump off a one-hundred story building, there’s no coming back from that!” *She’s angry,* I thought. *It’s a shame she doesn’t understand…*

“One-hundred and eighty-six years on this planet, is that not long enough? Please, let me go.” I said.

“Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you should end everything,” She yelled, tears streaming down her face. *I hate seeing you go through this,* I thought. *Maybe I’m being selfish…* **No**, no, that can’t be it. I’m not doing this for me…

“It’s not because I’m old,” I said.

“It’s because I’m finished. I’ve done everything, there’s nothing left for me here.” My wife did not reply. Her face was contorted with fear, anger, and yet... I sat calmly, at peace with my decision.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“May we meet again,” I said.  *I love you…*

Then I jumped.

title: [RF]The End of the End

question: Why does the narrator decide to end his life?

answer: It appears as though he feels in his 186 years of life he has done everything he wants to, and love isn't enough to keep him tethered to the mortal coil.

question: Why doesn't the narrator's wife want him to die?

answer: Presumably because she loves him and doesn't want to lose him.

question: Why does the narrator feel as though he'll be back?

answer: It is unclear, though the fact he has lived such a long time could indicate that there is such a thing as immortality.

question: Why did the narrator only think *I love you* rather than say it to his wife at the end?

answer: He claims he isn't killing himself for himself, so presumably he feels as though he is setting his wife free, given that, it is plausible that by not saying 'I love you' he is not giving her a reason to hold on to him emotionally for longer than necessary.


text:
The men's sprint event at the 2020 Summer Olympics is scheduled to take place on 4–6 August 2021 at the Izu Velodrome.[1] 30 cyclists from 18 nations are expected to compete.[2]

Background

This will be the 27th appearance of the event, which has been held at every Summer Olympics except 1904 and 1912. Great Britain has won the last three sprint competitions.

Qualification

A National Olympic Committee (NOC) could enter up to 2 qualified cyclists in the men's sprint. Qualification is entirely through the 2018–20 UCI nation rankings. The eight nations that qualify for the team sprint event may enter two cyclists each in the individual sprint (as well as the Keirin). The nations that qualify a cyclist through the Keirin rankings may also enter that cyclist in the sprint. Finally, seven places are allocated through the individual sprint rankings; these places must ensure that each of the five continents are represented.[3] Because qualification was complete by the end of the 2020 UCI Track Cycling World Championships on March 1, 2020 (the last event that contributed to the 2018–20 rankings), qualification was unaffected by the COVID-19 pandemic.

Competition format

For the first time since 2000, the sprint competition format is seeing significant changes. The number of main rounds is increasing from 5 to 6 and the number of repechages from 2 to 3. The competition begins, as usual, with a qualifying round of time trials (flying start 200 metres). The top 24 cyclists in the qualifying round (up from 18) qualify for match rounds. In each match round, the cyclists start side-by-side and must complete laps of the track (750 metres). The last 200 metres are timed. The match rounds are as follows.[4]

-   Round 1 pairs the 24 cyclists into 12 heats; the winner of each advances to round 2 while the loser goes to the first repechage.
-   The first repechage places the 12 cyclists into 4 heats of 3 cyclists each; the winner of each heat rejoins the round 1 winners in advancing to round 2 while the remaining cyclists are eliminated.
-   Round 2 pairs the 16 cyclists into 8 heats; the winner of each advances to the 1/8 finals while the loser goes to the second repechage.
-   The second repechage again has 4 heats, this time of 2 cyclists each; the winner of each rejoins the round 2 winners and advances to the 1/8 finals while the loser of each heat is eliminated.
-   The 1/8 finals pairs the 12 cyclists into 6 heats; the winner of each advances to the quarterfinals while the loser goes to the third repechage.
-   The third repechage has 2 heats of 3 cyclists each; the winner goes to the quarterfinals while all others are eliminated (the classification 9–12 race has been removed).
-   The quarterfinals begins best-two-of-three matches; the 8 cyclists are paired into 4 quarterfinals. The winner of two races in each quarterfinal goes to the semifinals, while the loser is placed in the classification 5–8 race.
-   The semifinals again uses best-two-of-three matches, with the 4 cyclists paired into 2 semifinals. The winner of each semifinal goes to the final, the loser goes to the bronze medal match.
-   The finals round includes the final, bronze medal match, and classification 5–8 race. The final and bronze medal match are one-on-one, best-two-of-three in format; the classification 5–8 race is a single race of 4 cyclists.

Schedule

All times are Japan Standard Time (UTC+9)

+-----------------------+-----------------------+-----------------------+
| Date                  | Time                  | Round                 |
+=======================+=======================+=======================+
| Wednesday, 4 August   | 15:30                 | QUALIFYING ROUND      |
| 2021                  |                       | ROUND 1               |
|                       |                       | FIRST REPECHAGE       |
|                       |                       | ROUND 2               |
|                       |                       | SECOND REPECHAGE      |
+-----------------------+-----------------------+-----------------------+
| Thursday, 5 August    | 15:30                 | 1/8 FINALS            |
| 2021                  |                       | THIRD REPECHAGE       |
|                       |                       | QUARTERFINALS         |
|                       |                       | THIRD REPECHAGE       |
|                       |                       | CLASSIFICATION 5–8    |
+-----------------------+-----------------------+-----------------------+
| Friday, 6 July 2021   | 15:30                 | SEMIFINALS            |
|                       |                       | BRONZE MEDAL MATCH    |
|                       |                       | FINAL                 |
+-----------------------+-----------------------+-----------------------+

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

title: Cycling at the 2020 Summer Olympics – Men's sprint

question: How many cyclists are scheduled to compete?

answer: 30 cyclists from 18 nations are expected compete in the event.

question: What are the qualification requirements for this event?

answer: Qualification is entirely through the 2018-20 UCI nation rankings. The eight nations that qualify for the team sprint event may enter two cyclists each in the individual sprint. The nations that qualify a cyclists through the Keirin rankings may also enter that cyclist in the sprint. Finally, seven places are allocated through the individual sprint rankings; these places must ensure that each of the five continents are represented.

question: What are the drug testing protocols for the event?


text:
He stared at the floor. He had nothing better to do. He could have picked up a magazine or disappeared into his cell phone, but he didn’t want to risk making eye contact with anyone. He wasn’t feeling up for idle chit\-chat.

The carpet was depressing and he was having trouble labeling its color. It was unmistakably gray, but not entirely. There was a subtle tinge of brown laid overtop, like some sort of gloomy overcoat. Embedded in the mysterious shade were thin, tan stripes that raced horizontally across the floor.

The carpet now has his attention. He continued to stare at it intently, determined to brand the gray with brownish hue.

As he moved his head closer he noticed the fibers were woven from a variety of colors like, red, blue, and yellow. But as he pulled his head back he no longer saw the colorful strands. Instead, the colors blended together into the murky, grayish\-brown he was having trouble classifying.

To pass the time he experimented with this nearsighted phenomenon by calculating how far he had to dip his head until the colored fibers became visible. After a few dips and withdraws, he determined he had to lower his head to about chest height before he could see anything but gray with a sad smear of brown.

It was at that moment he also realized how foolish he must have looked to the others in the room. Normal people were occupied with their Instagram feed or a 6\-month old issue of Consumer Digest.

Why couldn’t I just be normal, he thought. Why couldn’t I be anywhere, but here, he thought. He picked his head up and rearranged his shoulders.

Now he stared at the administrator who was seated behind a sliding glass window. The glass window was closed and the administrator had his head down. Thank God, he thought, no eye contact.

Behind the administrator was a large, Master Edwards clock. It sat high enough that even if the administer were to sit upright, the entire clock face would still be visible to anyone on the other side of the sliding glass. Whoever mounted the clock must have considered the possibility that the administrator could obstruct the view of the clock face while sitting upright and therefore placed it at the appropriate height. These were his thoughts while he waited.

“Mr. Blocker?”

He heard his name, but didn’t move. He maybe thought he’d only imagined someone calling his name and didn’t want to appear anxious, so he sat still.

“Mr. Blocker? Are you Mr. Blocker?” the attendant called out. She was standing in an open doorway in the far righthand corner of the room. She was looking directly at him. Finally, he made eye contact with someone.

“This way please.”

He rose to his feet and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. He took his first steps toward the door, feeling a bit defeated by the carpet. He was still unclear on its color.

The attendant lead him down a white corridor. The walls were white. The ceiling was white. The floor was white, linoleum tile. The lighting was soft, fluorescent white. He decided to stop focusing on the color white and let his mind drift to something more pleasant, the lining of his trouser pockets.

He’d always been quite satisfied with the navy suit he was wearing. The shoulders fit him perfectly. The taper of the legs was trimming and made him look taller. But the lining of the trouser pockets is what pleased him most. The lining was a soft silky material that felt fine and glossy when he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Right in here please”, the attendant directed. Her arm was outstretched, half of it inside of another room. This room was his room. This room was where he was supposed to go. He was sure of it. Not because the attendant declared it so, but because it felt right. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and entered.

In the middle of the room was a large desk. It appeared to be very old and extremely heavy. Probably oak, he thought. Behind the desk sat a man with wire\-frame glasses. The man was staring at a computer screen. The man was at least twice his age. He could see the glare of the screen almost entirely in the man’s glasses.

“Please Mr. Blocker. Have a seat.”

He did as he was told and took a seat in a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

“Mr. Blocker, we are going to have to make a very difficult decision today.”

He sat in his seat and listened.

“It’s my opinion that further treatments are not going improve your health.”

He extended his chin and began to nod his head. Not to appear as if he was listening, but to communicate that he understood the weight of the declaration the man in glasses had just made.

“You’ve been fighting this…we’ve been fighting this for almost ten years. After five surgeries and countless rounds of chemotherapy there has been only very little progress. Of course, we could continue treatment, but your quality of life would rapidly deteriorate and the burden of cost would fall entirely on your next of kin. I sincerely believe it would be best to begin getting your affairs in order. As of today, I would estimate that you may have only a few months left.”

He sat silently with his chin still pointed toward the man with glasses. He thought about his wife. He thought about his daughters and their children. He thought about his parents who had passed many, many years ago. He thought about the white corridor with the white ceiling, the white, linoleum tiles and the white, fluorescent lights. He thought about the lining of his trouser pockets. He thought about the carpet.

“Taupe!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Blocker. I don’t understand,” said the man with glasses.

“Gray mixed with a tinge of brown. Taupe.” he replied.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Instead he furrowed his brow, dipped his head, and regarded the taupe carpet with a newfound sense of familiarity and confidence.

He felt more comfortable now, having identified the mysterious color that had been eluding him. So, he lifted his hands to his face, covered his eyes with his sweat palms, and began to cry.

title: [RF] Taupe

question: What does the story say about how the narrator handles his impending death?

answer: He seems to be distracting himself from thinking about his illness or potential death. After learning that he has only months left to live, he's initially concerned about remembering the name of a color. Once his distraction is over, sadness overwhelms him.

question: What does the story say about mental illness?


text:
ARGENTINE AMERICANS ()[1][2][3][4] are Americans whose full or partial origin is in Argentina.

History

Until the 1970s, the Argentines that emigrated to the United States were included in the category of “Other”. Thus, the number of Argentines who emigrated to the United States up to that moment is unknown, due to the inexistence of statistics about the groups that formed that category..

In any case, it seems that the first Argentines who arrived in the United States did so during the 1950s and 1960s, seeking better economic conditions. Although, most of them had higher education (including many scientists). However, immigrants in the late 1970s arrived fleeing the political repression of the Dirty War.[5] They numbered 44,803 people.[6]

This new immigrant group had an educational level lower than earlier immigrants. The majority of Argentine immigrants headed to metropolitan areas, especially New York City, where 20 percent of them lived in the 1970s. In the 1980s, that percentage increased to just over 23 percent, and the 1990 U.S. Census recorded that New York City had 17,363 Argentine Americans and Los Angeles, 15,115.[7] Immigration to New York City was popular because of the existing Argentine and Italian communities, as many Argentines are of Italian origin. With the goal of helping its Argentine population, the government of the city created several organizations such as the Argentine-American Chamber of Commerce, which that established relations between Argentina and the United States. The 1990 U.S. Census recorded 92,563 Argentines, evidencing that nearly half of the Argentine immigrants arrived in the last two decades alone.[8]

After the nineties, Southern California and Florida became leading destinations for new immigrants from Argentina. According to the 2010 Census, out of the over 200 000 Argentine Americans recorded, it is estimated that Los Angeles and Miami have over 50 000 Argentine Americans each, followed by the New York area.[9]

Socioeconomics

The profile of the Argentine American population is generally similar to the overall U.S. population's. Among the key differences, however, is educational attainment. Argentine Americans exhibit a rate of 39.5% of holders of bachelor's, graduate, or professional degrees, contrasted with the 27.5% of the overall U.S. population. The difference is more marked among women: 40.2% for Argentine American females, and 26.7% for all U.S. females.[10] Another major difference is that 69.1% of Argentine Americans are immigrants, which contrasts sharply with 12.6% of the overall U.S. population.[11]

Demographics

[Alexis Bledel at the premiere of The Conspirator, Toronto International Film Festival 2010] The most noticeable Argentine American populations are in the metropolitan areas of Florida (mainly South Florida), Texas (mainly Houston and Dallas), California, Illinois, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Western Pennsylvania.

States

The 10 states with the largest population of Argentines (Source: 2010 Census):

1.  - 57,260 (0.3% of state population)

2.  - 44,410 (0.1% of state population)

3.  - 24,969 (0.1% of state population)

4.  - 14,272 (0.2% of state population)

5.  - 13,831 (0.1% of state population)

6.  - 6,263 (0.1% of state population)

7.  - 5,294 (less than 0.1% of state population)

8.  - 5,138 (0.1% of state population)

9.  - 4,639 (0.2% of state population)

10. - 4,273 (less than 0.1% of state population)

Cities

The 10 cities with the largest population of Argentines (Source: 2010 Census):

1.  New York, NY - 15,169 (0.2%)
2.  Los Angeles - 8,570 (0.2%)
3.  Miami, FL - 4,891 (1.2%)
4.  Miami Beach, FL - 4,030 (4.6%)
5.  Houston, TX - 2,440 (0.1%)
6.  Chicago, IL - 1,743 (0.1%)
7.  Hollywood, FL - 1,626 (1.2%)
8.  Aventura, FL - 1,579 (4.4%)
9.  San Diego, CA - 1,322 (0.1%)
10. Pembroke Pines, FL - 1,147 (0.7%)

Ethnic background

The ancestry of the majority of the population of Argentina is primarily of Italian and Spanish ancestry (see demographics of Argentina) with significant German, British, Irish, French, Mulatto, Mestizo, Slavic, and Semitic (Jewish and Arab) components. Minority have Amerindian ancestors (primarily Mapuche, Qulla, Wichí, and Toba),[12] Chinese ancestors, Indian/Indo-Caribbean ancestors, and other Asian ancestors.

Large communities

Only data for immigrant Argentine Americans are available. The twenty U.S. communities of 500 or more people which have the highest percentages of Argentine immigrants are:[13]

1.  Miami Beach, FL 4.4%
2.  Sunny Isles Beach, FL 4.1%
3.  Plantation Mobile Home Park, FL 4.0%
4.  Bay Harbor Islands, FL 3.5%
5.  North Bay Village, FL and Key Biscayne, FL 3.4%
6.  Deer Park, CA 3.3%
7.  Harbor Hills, NY 3.0%
8.  Surfside, FL 2.6%
9.  Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, FL 2.4%
10. Acton, CA 2.3%
11. Aventura, FL 2.1%
12. Islandia, NY and The Crossings, FL 2.0%
13. Thomaston, NY and Ojus, FL 1.9%
14. Doral, FL 1.8%
15. East Richmond Heights, CA 1.7%
16. Lebanon, IL 1.6%
17. Mayland-Pleasant Hill, TN 1.5%
18. Sunnyslope, CA, Herricks, NY, and La Habra Heights, CA 1.4%
19. Lawrenceville, NJ and Cutler, FL 1.3%
20. Gardiner, NY, Miami Shores, FL, Flower Hill, NY, and Groton Long Point, CT 1.2%

Culture

LITERATURE

-   Ariel Dorfman is a famous Argentine-American author and playwright. Dorfman is best known for his prolific academic criticism and fiction. His memoir _Heading South, Looking North: A Bilingual Journey (1998)_ best exemplifies his internal struggles in coming to terms with his multifaceted identity. Dorfman was born in Buenos Aires in 1942 and moved with his family to New York City at age five. At age fifteen he and his family moved to Chile and Dorfman lived there until he exiled himself to the United States after the fall of socialist president Salvador Allende in 1973. Dorfman is now a Professor of Literature and Professor of Latin American Studies at Duke University.[14]
-   Sergio Waisman, Author of the novel _Leaving_, originally published in Argentina as _Irse_. He is now Professor of Spanish and International Affairs, Affiliated Faculty of Judaic Studies at George Washington University.[15]

-   Fabian Nicieza, born in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He was four years old when his family moved to New Jersey. He attended Madison Central High School, from which he graduated in 1979, and later studied at Rutgers University. He is a writer and editor best known for his work on Marvel titles and the creator of Deadpool.

MEDIA

-   David Pakman, born in Buenos Aires, is the host of YouTube talk radio program The David Pakman Show, a multi-platform social-democratic politics and news talk show currently airing on television, radio, and the Internet. The show focuses on modern American politics and society, with frequent discussion of economics, science, religion in public life, culture, reason, gay rights, capital punishment and crime, policing, the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, North-American foreign policy, technology, and other topical issues. David occasionally speaks Spanish on the show, but the show is mostly presented in English.

[1] Evolución y Magia. El Camino del Hombre – Janis Roze

[2] Vuelve distinto y renovado

[3] Se inauguró en la ciudad de Miami la Avenida República Argentina – Semanario Argentino

[4] Un latino montando El Diablo en Anaheim – Hoy Los Angeles

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12] CELS - Informe 1998

[13]

[14]

[15]  Department of Romance, German & Slavic Languages & Literatures {{!}} The George Washington University|website=rgsll.columbian.gwu.edu|access-date=2019-04-19}}

title: Argentine Americans

question: What does the text say about education and Argentine Americans?

answer: In the 1950s and 1960s, the first Argentine immigrants to arrive in the United States often had higher education. Many were scientists. However, the immigrants in the late 1970s had an educational level lower than the prior group, probably due to their fleeing of the political repression of the Dirty War. Overall, the Argentine American population has a higher rate of educational attainment compared to the overall U.S. population. They have a rate of 39.5% of holders bachelor's, graduate, or professional degrees, contrasted with 27.5% of the overall U.S. population. The rate of Argentine American females who hold degrees is higher than the rate all  U.S. females.

question: Summarize everything from the 1970s.

answer: In 1973, there was the fall of the socialist president Salvador Allende. This is when Ariel Dorfman exiled himself to the United States. In the 1970s, 20% of Argentine immigrants headed to the metropolitan areas, especially New York. They also were no longer referred to as the "Other" category when they emigrated. In the late 1970s, around 44,803 Argentine immigrants arrived fleeing the political repression of the Dirty War. In 1979, writer Argentine immigrant Fabian Nicieza graduated high school.

question: What does the text say about David Pakman?

answer: David Pakman is an Argentine American immigrant born in Buenos Aires. He is currently the host of a YouTube talk radio program called The David Pakman Show. It's a multi-platform social-democratic politics and news talk show which focuses on American politics and society. David occasionally speaks Spanish on the show, but mostly presents in English.

question: Summarize everything that happened after 2010.


text:
*Hello, all. I posted this to /r/writing awhile back, but didn't get any comments on it, so I'm posting it here in the hopes of getting feedback. I'm a novice writer who's never been published, and I can take criticism so please be honest. Thanks*

All day the sun burned furiously hot, causing sweat, stench, and thirst to all those unlucky enough to be under its power. There would be no darkness tonight; the sun was not going to let a little thing like the post meridian tell it to stop shining, burning, and suffocating the denizens of Little Rock.

Before the Age turned, there had been a nightly darkness, or so people were told, but now, in the Dusk Age, day and night were separated by days and sometimes a full week.

Cammy often wondered what it must have been like to live in the Noon Age, when men had been able to predict not only when the sun would rise and fall, but the changing of the weather as well. The first people of the Dusk Age had arbitrarily carried over the static 60/60/24/365.25 time keeping system, longing for a return to the days of the Noon Age. The changes had been so subtle at first that the educated people of the Noon days chalked it up to a random aberration. When the changes became more pronounced, they investigated for any breaches or alterations in their systems. Then one day, the Age turned, everything broke, and nothing was ever the same.

“Don’t start crying again.” Jason, Cammy’s brother told her.

“Excuse me?” she answered. She hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen where she sat at their copper-top table, staring aimlessly out the one window the room was afforded.

“For a second there, you had that look on your face that you get before you cry. You know, that sour lemon/I’m about to fart-face?”

Granted, she had been about to cry over a loss she never experienced, but could still feel, and worse, she did know what face he meant—an oft discussed family trait—but she could not let him know that; she was supposed to be the strong one, and he wasn’t supposed to be so damn observant.

“Halve off!” she told him, raising her heart finger in a curse-implied salute.

“If I cut myself like the Dusky Downers do, who would be here to make sure you don’t drown mom in your tears?”

“Just leave me alone, Jason. Go back to your star maps and your penny women, and let me think.”

Knifing me in the back might be kinder than your constant disproval of the way I make money for us all; the money that buys your clothes, food, and the clean water you waste on tears.”

“Leave… me…”

“Maybe,” Jason started, pulling Cammy back into the chair she had begun to rise from “you can stop thinking of me as your baby brother for a second and let me tell you something?”

Nodding was the only response he got, but it was enough.

“Older men, men who have been studying the stars since before mom was in high school, are starting to formulate what comes next. There was the Dawn Age when men saw little more than spirits and gods in the workings of life and only just started to understand nature and their own natures. The only science they had beyond trial and error was star mapping, and they guided themselves through life with wonder, fantasies, and false emotions.”

“Perhaps,” Cammy interrupted, exasperated “you can stop being so full of yourself and remember that I went to school too and don’t need a history lesson: After the Dawn Age, there was the Noon Age,” she continued for him “when everyday dawned and dusked brightly, and by understanding and utilizing the sciences of Earth, men were able to reach beyond it, to not only map the stars, but to see them, visit them, collect them from, and understand the star’s individual sciences. Their potential was limitless, and they went forward at such a blinding pace that going backwards seemed so impossible, it was never given thought. Now,” she concluded “we are in the Dusk Age, scrabbling at the ground trying to pick up the pieces of the ages before so that we can survive in a world that is foreign, hostile, untamed, and has changed all the rules of its sciences. What little fragments we have left of the Noon age are mostly useless to us, and we have had to relearn many of the ways of the people of the Dawn Age to survive. Is that about right, Monsieur Genius?”

Quietly, and completely out of character, Jason nodded and shed a single tear.

“Really?” Cammy asked, flabbergasted and slamming her hands down on the table. All the times he had mocked her for crying about the death of the Noon age, something no one alive and not even their great-grandparents had been around for and yet, here he was crying, as if… “If this is just you playing some stupid game with me!” she erupted suddenly.

“Sit down,” Jason asked meekly “and let me tell you what’s next.”

The fear in his voice was more than enough to make her obey, but her nature was one of skepticism, so her mind was ready with a few pinches of salt for whatever he was about to say.

“Under all the talk of relearned sciences, new discoveries of edibles, and propulsion systems, there is a deep fear of the next Age. Think about it, Cammy, what comes after dusk? Night” he answered himself. “Our nights may either be full of sun or wholly absent of it, but in the Night Age, will there be any day? How will humanity survive without sunlight? We have already seen how the flora and fauna adapted to the changing of the Age, but humans, relying solely on their temporary sciences, were left blind-sided, and next time, forgive the pun, we’ll be left in the dark. We’ll be cold, blind, and helpless; so low down the food chain, worms may not wait until we’re corpses to start their feastings.”

“Very good, fear monger,” Cammy replied, keeping her skepticism forefront “but there was night in the Dawn Age, so why not dawn in the Night Age? And each age lasted for few millennia, while this one is only a few hundred years old, what’s the worry? Why did you cry?” The last was her real question, the only reason she was still having this discussion and had not just walked away from another of his wild—possibly just to mess with her—stories.

“What came before the Dawn Age?” he asked her in the stoic, marmoreal voice that was a much better display of his inner character. He provided his own answer in that same voice; “A Night Age” he told her. “One so deep and dark, that it was only vaguely remembered in the Noon Age. They had a different name for it, but it still confers the meaning; The Dark Ages. They also called that Noon Age the Golden Age, and thought nothing of the previous Dawn. More importantly, there was nothing of the Dusk. It is impossible to know if any of their sciences changed as they had only just begun to scratch the surface of science, and the stars stay constant, so their mapping is the same as ours, but changes occurred, Cam. From Dawn to Noon they gained knowledge, wealth, and dominance over the Earth, just like our more recently passed forefathers, and also just like them, Night fell and wiped it all away, but how? For us, we know that violent solar flares and the subsequent fission reactions in the atmosphere destroyed all the Noon Age’s technology, disrupted the laws of physics, and the biology of all living organisms on Earth—besides humanity—changed to adapt to the new environment, but what about in the Ages past? Did the Dusk before the Dark Ages pass so quickly that it did not bear mentioning? Did they not recognize its appearance? Is there even a Dusk Age or are we already experiencing the Night’s terrors? We don’t even know if we can really rely on any information that came before the Noon Age. It’s just all so, so…”

“X” Cammy told him when he started to cry again, pulling him into a hug. It was the way she told him that she understood and agreed; that she was his big sister and there was no shame in being worried. “X”. It was their slang for all will be well, because I love you and understand you: you are not alone.

“Zora” they said together as they heard the front door open and close. Their mother, the reason they had their own slang, was home, and they had to release their embrace and dry their tears before she got upset, and became useless for days.

“Anyone home?” she called out from the foyer. “I have dinner for my two happy children!”

title: Dawn of the Night Age (x-post from /r/writing)

question: In this story what has happened to the days and seasons on earth?

answer: No longer can the people depend on the changing of day to night at regular intervals. Sometimes days will pass before the sun rises or sets. At first the changes were subtle but now they are quite pronounced.

question: What does Jason think is the natural follow-on to the Dusk Age?

answer: Jason believes that the Night Age will follow. When this happens humans will be completely deprived of sunlight. They will be left in the dark and helpless.


text:
**Tradition**

The clock struck twelve.

I awoke.

I was alone.

I would forever be alone.

I got out of bed, my feet tentatively reaching for the floor.

One foot, another, toe by toe.

One has to be careful getting out of bed.

You never know just when the floor will disappear on you.

Really.

It’s happened to me before.

I slipped into my slippers, donned my housecoat. It would be another one of those days, apparently. The days that are filled with despair from the start. At least there would be no false hope this time. It had been too long to start hoping again.

Shuffling downstairs, I wondered: Would this be all there ever would be for me? Eternity, stuck in this prison? Had I no chance of escape?

No.

I did not.

But no matter. I was more or less used to it by now.

More or less.

In the kitchen, I opened the fridge, grabbed the milk and blueberries. I always enjoyed blueberries with my cereal. I snatched a bowl from the shelf behind me, Cheerios from the cupboard beside it. I poured the blueberries and Cheerios into the bowl simultaneously. It was tradition, after all. Then the milk. Always the milk last. Can’t break tradition. If people start breaking tradition, then their floors start falling away.

I took a spoon from the cutlery drawer, set it by the bowl, and headed towards the front door to bring in the morning paper. But she was there, visible just on the other side of the peephole. I could see her howling and screaming and crying. In my mind I could hear the words that were being formed a short distance away. A very short distance, and yet infinitely far. I wanted to open the door. I wanted to let her in. I wanted to hold her and caress her and love her more than anything in the world. But I couldn’t open the door now, not even to get the paper.

She was lost to me forever.

She was my wife.

Instead, I stared mournfully through the glass, knowing that this day would not be so simple after all. There would be hope. And it would be crushed.

She was not alone. My mother was there, and my father. My sister and brother. My aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. Everyone who still cared for me or loved me was standing just outside, just out of reach. I knew, and I could do nothing. I could not even tell them that I knew. I could not even tell them that I was here. They just had to guess. Guess and hope.

Knowing that there would be no paper today, I decided on some television instead. I turned away from the door, towards the living room. It had windows facing the front of my house. I could see the throng of people crowding around, growing ever larger. I shut the curtains. They would do no good now. It was too late. It had always been too late.

I switched on the TV, flicked to the news. I flicked to the news every morning. It was tradition. And, as tradition dictated, the same story was playing. Every morning the top news item was the same. In the papers, on the TV, even on the internet, it was the same. There had been a car crash. A man on his daily commute home from work had been blindsided by a drunk driver as he turned off the highway. The man’s car had fishtailed and flipped and struck a pole. The drunk driver’s had run off the road. The drunk driver died. The man did not. He was rushed to the nearest hospital, declared to be in critical condition. The doctors hoped he would wake up and make a full recovery. He hadn’t done either.

I turned off the news, switched to sports. It was the same game that had been playing for as long as I could remember. For as long as that man had been comatose the Blue Jays had been playing the Pirates in spring training baseball. It was a tradition, after all. I knew each play before it happened. The game was boring. I turned back to the news, and for the first time in a long time it was different.

I was shocked. I remembered the story of the man like it was my own. I could feel my fingers gripping the steering wheel as I was hit, vomit splashing into my face as the car was hurled into the pole, the pain spreading through my nervous system like cracks through marble. I could remember the dread, and then the hopelessness. I could remember the world going black as I gave up. I had relived this story through the news so many times I was convinced it was my own.

But it was gone. There was a new story today. They had finally given up on the unconscious man. They were going to let him die peacefully. There was a camera capturing the whole event. After all, this was a man who had captivated the nation, the world, the universe. His wife was clutching his hand, howling and screaming and crying. His mother and father stood next to his bed. So did his sister and brother, his aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. Everyone who still cared for him or loved him. His wife pulled the cord.

The screen went black.

title: My first short story, Tradition. Any feedback is much appreciated.

question: Summarize how the narrator got to his current position

answer: The narrator was in a motor accident. He was blindsided by a drunk driver. He has been in a coma ever since. Now his family, including his wife, mother, and father have given up hope that he will ever recover consciousness and have decided to switch off the machines that keep him alive.

question: What is the man's prison?

answer: The man is imprisoned in his body. He was in a major motor accident and has been in a coma ever since. He is aware of his family's presence but he chooses to shut them out.