text:
WAR PORN

by
Nocomus Columbus

Fort Leavenworth, Present Day

	He sits alone.  Waiting for them to come.  I will die today.  A gift of perpetual sleep.  The crime.  Murdering a murderer, and murdering a friend that got in his way.  No tears were shed for the murderer, but he was an important man nonetheless.  He had secrets.  Secrets of high-value.

	The isolated man performs a ritual.  A ritual that gives him tranquility, when tranquility is absent.  Rolling up his left sleeve, he looks at the writing on his arm.  Black ink.  REDEMPTION

	The right arm.  SALVATION

Northern Iraq, Spring, 2004



	Spence places the ordinary disc in the DVD player.   A morning rite for the twenty-year old Private.  No talks with god.  No asking for favors.  He hears the loud speaker.  The call to prayer.  Far from comforting.  Some men like to clean weapons when starting the day.  Some phone their wives or girlfriends, which makes the absence more difficult.  Vulnerability on both ends of the phone line. A few, hard men, hide in the dark, concealed in shadow, waiting for an opportunity.



	Spence watches movies.  His daily sacrament.  You would think that ritual is nonexistent in a place like this.

	Ritual is all you have.  It’s the only thing that keeps you sane.  The only thing that reminds you you’re still human.  If not human, then what else?  Some fucking shell.  You’re not a killer.  That’s what they try to turn you into.  Unsuccessfully.  Ritual, the umbilical cord connecting you to your former self.  Don’t be fooled. You are something else. Fragmentally human.  If you don’t die, someday, you’ll wish you had. Congratulations, you have PTSD!



	Goddamn, this thing takes forever to load.  A girl appears on screen wearing a black Hijab. This is different.  She speaks Arabic. Spence watches. He shakes his head in disapproval.  Is she getting naked or what?

	The girl is moves off camera.  A man appears.  Jesus. I know him.  They’ve never met in person.  The high-value target.  The man looks into the camera and speaks “You took from me, two things. Now, I take two from you.”

	The screen goes black.  Music plays.  Spence knows the song.  He’s heard it before.  In other videos.  The Martyr’s song.  A white room.  Two hooded figures kneel on the floor.  The high-value target appears on screen again.  He walks over and stands just behind the two kneeling men.  He places a hand on the hood of the first kneeling man.  He places a hand on the second kneeling man’s hood.  He removes the hoods.

	“No!” Spence says to himself.  The Private reaches out and touches the DVD player’s screen.  The film takes a sinister turn.


	“What. The. Fuck.”

	Spence’s hand trembles.  He rips the power cord from the outlet, located on the wall of the bunker.  The bunker that has become his living quarter.  The DVD continues to play.

	“Jesus Christ!”

	He grabs the DVD player and throws it against the wall.  The movie stops.  I’m gonna be sick.  He moves toward the bunker’s exit, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the way out. He’s seen horror.  He’s lived it.  Confusion. What is this? This horror that I have witnessed.
I’m fucking losing it.


	“You look like shit.  You okay?”  Sergeant Lew studies him with eyes like a concerned father.

	“No.”

	Taking his time, Sergeant Lew pulls a pack of smokes from the camouflaged pocket on his shirt.  An off brand cigarette Spence never heard of until he joined Sergeant Lew’s team.  Cheap, old-man cigarettes. Sergeant Lew says he smokes them because that’s what happens after you get divorced, and you have to give the fat, lazy, bitch half your paycheck.  A thought that amuses Spence.

	The Private thinks highly of his salt and pepper haired leader. The two have been through a lot.  Spence feels like he is dead. He’s got a pulse, air moves in and out of his body, he eats, he gets an occasional hard-on, but he feels dead.  The loss of redemption wounded Spence.  The loss of salvation finished him off.



	“I’m worried about you man.”  Sergeant Lew says, taking a drag of his cigarette.  “You’re losing weight.”

	The private says nothing.  A blank stare.

	“Talk to me Spence.  Listen, I know it’s hard.  It’s killing me too.  I’m telling you though, we’re gonna find them.”

	Spence takes a drag of his cigarette and shakes his head.

	“We won’t find them.”

	“C’mon.  Don’t say that.”

	“WEEEEE! WIIIILLLLLLLL! NOOOOOOTTTT! FIIINNNNND THEM!”

	“You can’t say that.”

	“Yes I can.  We won’t find them because they’re fucking dead.  The bastard killed them.  I WATCHED it.”

Northern Iraq, Winter, 2003



	“Attention!”  An order shouted in a voice that could wake the comatose.  Four men stood like stone in front of a larger formation of stone men.  Men bearing screaming eagle patches on shoulders.  Why do the eagles scream?  In unison, the men drop arms to their sides. A tight mechanistic motion.  Boot heels are brought together. Four men, strangers just a year ago. Brothers now. War does that.

	A general addressed the formation.  An unnecessarily lengthy speech.  They always are.  The four men in front are awarded medals. Meaningless. Medals for killing the sons of a monster.  History is lost over time.  The evil man’s deeds will be forgotten.  The four awardees will search for him.  He will be found.

	Sweat dripped down Spence’s forehead.  At least I’m still hydrated enough to sweat.  Will this fucker ever stop talking?  The private turned his head slightly.  Just enough to get a glimpse his of three companions.



	Sergeant Lew.  A short, overweight man. Stubble resided on his cheeks.  Unprofessional in the eyes of the military.  Fuck them.  He was the oldest of the four men, early 40’s.   A brilliant man.  He held a master’s degree in history, a subject he could talk about for hours upon end. Spence had learned more about history from that man in six months, than he’d learned in his entire life. Maybe if my high school teachers let me smoke in class, I wouldn’t have skipped so much.
	Sergeant Lew, the complete opposite of your typical NCO, Non-Commissioned Officer.  The establishment frowned on him.  They don’t appreciate those that buck the system.  Sergeant Lew, an underachiever in life. Who isn’t?  He should have been a history professor at some state college.

	Before the deployment, Sergeant Lew took his team of four to a small bar.  He said he had one goal.  He didn’t care about medals.  He didn’t care about promotions.  He didn’t care about any of that.  All he wanted to do, was bring his three men home in one piece.



	Standing to Sergeant Lew’s left was Hobbs.  He was the laughter.  The one that kept the atmosphere light.  Living, breathing, redemption for a world gone to hell.  Tall and thin, handsome but not arrogant.  When shit went down he was all business.  Afterwards the smile would appear, followed by jokes.  Bell would shake his head, and call Hobbs a knucklehead.  Hobbs was the only one that could make Bell smile.  Hobbs light didn’t last.  Another casualty of war.  Gradually the light faded, until there was nothing left except a small flicker.  The flicker didn’t last either.  It went away forever. Buried with the evil man’s boy whom he gave the gift of perpetual sleep to.

Give and ye shall receive.



	The last man Spence looked upon was the one that meant the most to him.  Sergeant Bell.  Quiet.  Spiritual.  Strong.  When Private Spence first met Bell, he was distrustful of the man for two reasons; he didn’t drink, and he was black.  For the entirety of his young life, Spence lived in fear.  The Army was his attempt to escape that fear.  After joining, Spence felt lost, isolated.  Sergeant Bell reached out to Spence.  He could sense his pain.  After that, Spence no longer lived in fear.  Sergeant Bell was his Salvation.



	Two months after the ceremony, Hobbs and Bell were gone.  Missing in action.  The group of four became the group of two.  The old man and the scared young man were on their own.

Northern Iraq, The End of Summer, 2004



	“Spence.  We got the bastard.  That street vendor you bought the DVD from.  He gave him up.”, Sergeant Lew says.  A tired man.

	“Where is he?”

	“Here, in the detention center.”

	“I’m going to see him.”

	“I don’t think that’s a good idea brother.”

	“You’re not stopping me.”



	The cell is empty except for a table, a chair, and a man.  Spence closes the door. He places a bag on the table.  He looks at the hooded man sitting motionless in a chair.  Hands chained to feet, feet chained to floor.     I can do this.  He lifts the man’s hood.

	“Did you get my gift?”  The man asks.

	“I did.”

	The Private walks over to the table.  He removes an item from the bag.  A video camera.

	The chained man looks at the tattoo on his left forearm.  He looks at the tattoo on his right forearm.  The names of his sons.

###

title: "WAR PORN" (1,500 words) The slim version.

question: What does the text say about the life of Nocomus Columbus?

question: Summarize the role of ritual in the text.

answer: In the text, ritual plays the role of sanity-keeper for deployed military personnel. Some call their significant other every morning, some clean their guns. The narrator watches DVDs. The narrator describes these rituals as the things that keep soldiers feeling human and grounded in something.

question: What does the story say about redemption?

answer: The text indicates that the narrator has killed a man, an enemy, while deployed in the military. The man had his sons' names tattooed on his arms and one of them was named Redemption. Redemption is also mentioned in reference to the narrator's fellow soldier, Hobbs, whose humor and vitality felt redemptive to the narrator in such a terrible context. It is the loss of any sense of redemption that wounds the narrator.


split: test

text:
[]
Thursday

Mar 28, 2019 at 4:48 PM

Gaston County’s getting tougher on people with violent dogs.

As of this week, owners of dogs that attack people or pets could be forced to maintain at least $100,000 in liability insurance — but police say that’s not an automatic penalty.

Gaston County Police Capt. Reid Rollins, who oversees Animal Care and Enforcement officers, said the insurance requirement and other penalties would be applied on an individual basis.

“These things are not going to be automatically attached,” Rollins said. “It’s going to be case-specific when we go through investigations and hearings on the dangerous dogs.”

Such insurance would benefit anyone “who suffers damages, injury or death” caused by the dog.

In order for a dog to be deemed dangerous in Gaston County, it has to inflict a serious bite on a person, kill or severely injure away from the dog owner’s property, or approach someone “in a terrorizing manner” away from the dog owner’s property. Rollins said that last category is rarely used, and that serious bites are considered ones that break bones, lacerate skin, require hospitalization or cosmetic surgery.

Gastonia Township Commissioner Tom Keigher sponsored the resolution to bolster the ordinance, which was approved on a second reading.

A push to strengthen the ordinance came last year after a small dog named Buster was killed by larger roaming dogs in Gastonia’s Gardner Park neighborhood. Several residents from the neighborhood came to a Board of Commissioners meeting in October and asked for stronger rules — the owner of the offending dogs had previously been cited by Animal Care and Enforcement.

“It very well could have been toddlers — little kids — out there in the street that couldn’t fend for themselves,” Keigher said earlier this year. “... There are so many people that probably shouldn’t have animals. They are irresponsible, and these new actions are aimed at basically making owners more responsible for their animals.”

As the ordinance was previously written, Animal Care and Enforcement could place restrictions on owners of dangerous dogs, such as requiring the owner to keep the animal fenced and posting a “beware of dog” sign on their property. Owners can also be required to spay or neuter the dog and told to keep it on a muzzle when off their property. Animal Care and Enforcement also has the ability to impound the dog until the owner meets those requirements.

That’s all still in effect, but with the new rules, someone whose dog is deemed dangerous by Animal Care and Enforcement must comply within 30 days or the animal will be impounded at the owner’s expense.

“If the owner fails to pay for the impoundment fees or complete the ordered preventative measures within the allotted time, the animal may be impounded and disposed of by Gaston County to include options of adoption, rescue, euthanasia, or any other measure deemed appropriate by the county,” reads a change to the ordinance.

Owners of dogs that have been declared dangerous can appeal the designation to the Animal Care and Enforcement Advisory Board.

Even though the county has the authority to euthanize dangerous dogs, Rollins said staff tries to get the animals re-housed through rescue groups.

“Euthanasia is the last resort for us,” Rollins said, adding that rate of euthanasia was about 16 percent for all animals taken to the shelter. “That’s something we try to be very self-conscious about. Typically, that is for sick or injured animals.”

No breed-specific regulation has been introduced in Gaston County. Rollins says any type of dog can be deemed dangerous.

“A lot of these cases are pretty egregious,” Rollins said. “They’ve either killed an animal or created a pretty serious bite for a citizen. That’s where typically the ‘dangerous dog’ label is getting used.”

You can reach Dashiell Coleman at 704-869-1819 or on Twitter @DashiellColeman

question: Summarize Gaston county's action on dogs.

answer: Gaston county has started bringing in regulations for people with dogs that are violent. Those owners whose dogs attack pets and other people will be forced to keep liability insurance of at least $100,000. However, the penalty won't be automatic and would be decided on an individual basis depending on the investigations and hearings about the dangerous dogs. The insurance has been introduced so that it can benefit anyone who suffers damages, injury, or death due to the dogs. It was introduced after a small dog, called Buster, was killed by larger roaming dogs.

question: Summarize the previous ordinance from Animal Care and Enforcement.

answer: The previously-written ordinance by Animal Care and Enforcement could put restrictions on the owners of dangerous dogs. Some of these restrictions include the owner being required to keep the dog fenced and putting up a "beware of dog" sign on the property. The owners would also be required to spay or neuter the dogs or keep a muzzle on them when they're off the property. Lastly, Animal Care and Enforcement can impound the dog until the owner meets the requirements. This would happen if the owner doesn't comply with the requirements within 30 days.

question: Summarize how the owners should groom their dogs.


text:
He awoke in the forest, though this was the limit of his knowledge. As the ragged looking man woke up in the middle of the far stretching wilderness, he found himself amiss in the falling leaves and trees of the stretching landscape. When he came to, he realized he had no memory of who he was or how he had gotten here. With any kind of memories blank, he soon came upon seeing if he was alone. “Hello!” he shouted, hearing his voice echo off throughout the forest. After a few more times, he grew content that he was truly alone. He soon noticed that he seemed to be exhausted despite lying asleep for what he felt was quite awhile.  He turned and looked to find a table with various supplies on it. The table had a lighter, binoculars, duffle bag, survival knife, a pistol that he recognized as a .45 caliber M1911, a note, and some tight string and spears. He checked the clip in the gun, noticing it had no bullets in it. The note said “ Enjoy your desolace” it what appeared to be black ink. Confused by the note, he decided to save his questions and pack up what was apparently his equipment. In the miss of the chirping birds and swaying tree leaves feeling his ears, he heard the gentle hum of a stream. He decided to investigate this surprise.

Despite not having a memory of who he was, where he was, or how he got there, for some reason survival came naturally to him. He quickly used his spears to catch fish at the stream with enough ease that it surprised him. He found a suitable campsite between two boulders just next to the roaring currents of the stream. He gathered logs from within the forest, and made a fire with some of his excess spears. As he ate as twilight set into the sky, he tried to piece together the fragments of memories in his mind. One memory he remembered was walking down the bustling street of a city, though he did not know what city. He would cross the heavy traffic, making his way to large a building. This is where he assumed he worked. There was also the memory of a woman. While the relationship he had to this woman as well as her basic information were unknown to him, his memory of her was vivid. Long black hair, deep green eyes. Whenever he imaged her in his head he felt sadness. The last memory he had was walking in a dark and small apartment. As he approached the counter in the living room, his hands trembled as he reached out for a small brown jewelry box. Any memory beyond that was lost to him. As he lingered around the rocky area near the river, he took time to admire this odd location. The stretching trees that seemed to never end, the whisping birds overhead, the desolace of it all. Despite how lost he was in his mind, he wasn’t scared or worried at all. Perhaps not having any memories of who he was made his mind numb. It was if he came here on his own accord, a thought which intrigued him. However, to him the whole place felt disconnected, in a way that seemed like it wasn’t real. You could go to the Himalayas or Mount Everest and admire its scope and beauty, but he felt that you could still feel like it was grounded in reality. But with this place, with the lack of any people, made him feel uneasy. The silence of anything but the river and the wind brought him peace yet also worried him. Was any of this real? A dream perhaps? Even though he had knowledge of the world, he felt like he was a fragment. He had no memories, no life. A shell.

As he finished his meal, he looked up to the sky and discovered something odd. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it until now, though we was quite out of it. The sky still seemed to be in twilight. After all the time had gone by, at least three hours from his estimate, it stilled seemed that the time was still around six to seven o’clock. It should have been dark out by now. He decided that the only way to discover what this place is was was to venture out. As he gathered up his duffel bag on his shoulder and the rest of his gear, he looked at his reflection in the water of the river. It was the first time he had saw himself since he awoke. Long and mossy black hair, slight beard, it wasn’t like looking at himself. It was like looking at a stranger.

It didn’t seem to matter how far he walked, the forest seemed to never end. He was hoping to see something but trees, anything at all, but it seemed like it was never ending. After walking for about an hour, he caught his breath and sat by a nearby log. It still wasn’t dark, and the longer he wandered in this limitless expanse of land the more weary and lonely he became. Was there anyway out? He wanted to hear someone's voice, to know he wasn’t completely alone. He closed his eyes, thinking to himself this had to be a dream, hoping to wake from it. Suddenly, the coo of the cicadas and all the other creatures of the forest ceased, and his eyes snapped open. He could hear a voice whispering in his ears, a gentle yet mysterious wisp echoing silently. “Come” it said. That much he could make out. He began running and shouting towards where he heard it. “Wait!” he yelled desperately. “I’m here!”. He ran and ran, as if finding who it was would free him from this lonely and monotonous world. As he ran, the voice boomed louder. “Come!” it said. As he ran, he soon came across a clearing, as if the trees had made a way for him. The voice now seemed to cease, though this didn’t hasten his pursuit. Once he ran through it, what was on the other side caused him to stare in disbelief. He found himself on a great cliff, and before him was a seemingly never ending ocean. The stretching water reached out far beyond the cliff, and beyond in the distance was a great veil of fog. Small lights popped in out and mingled within the fog. He could hear roaring waves crashing against the cliff. He came dangerously close to the edge, his body flirting with falling off. He saw a small rock chip off and fall, watching as it slowly made its way to the bottom, until it was consumed. He closed his eyes again. “Should I jump” he thought. To him, this world surely couldn't be real. As he reached his foot out, he suddenly stopped himself and backtracked. Gasping, he realized how close he came to falling. As he looked on at the fog, the distant lights suddenly began spinning wildly. They then consumed the sky with their light, so much that he had to close his eyes. When he opened them, he found that it was daylight once again. The sun shined, and seagulls flew above. He was astonished, but it did nothing but confirm his suspicions. This did not take him off in the least. Now accepting the lack of reality, he went on his way, fearing what could lie ahead. For now he knew anything could happen now.

The cliff may have ended where he stood, but when he wandered off  to the left he found a clearing that lead him back into the forest. The ocean was a breathtaking sight, and he was saddened to find himself back within the never ending expanse of trees. The world around him now seemed to be more ever changing than solid truth. After seeing the lights change the very sky, he came to the conclusion that not everything was absolute. It could change within an instant. Walking down the path, he realized he had been here for at least eight hours. He was no longer hungry, tired, and was devoid of any physical feeling of pain (he had scraped his knee on a jagged rock earlier, though he felt nothing). Could it be that basic necessities were unneeded here? That pain and human frailty meant nothing? He was curious, and so he bravely took one of the spears from his duffel bag and put the point of it on the top of his hand. He closed his eyes, human instinct telling him to brace for pain. Though when he did it, he once again felt nothing. No blood was drawn. He did it a few more times, even trying to pierce his gut with the spear. When he did, no matter how hard he pushed, it wouldn't budge. It was as if his skin was made of stone. “To bad the pistol doesn’t have any ammo” he thought darkly. “That would really put it to the test”.

After a long trek, he eventually made it to another stream. A small water fall lied at the end, connected and dotted with large and jagged rocks. Since he no longer felt hunger for some reason, he assumed he had no need to eat. Though his sense of taste was still intact, as far as he could tell. He found a small rock to sit on, admiring the clear water as the sun reflected off of it. He watched as the bass swam under its surface, actually smiling as he admired the beauty of nature. He saw his smiling self in the crystal clear water, wondering just what type of person he was in, well, the world. Could it be this was all he has ever known? All he will know? Perhaps he was sent here, though for how long? In his pondering, he saw something that caught his eye. A large wooden door….. engraved on the largest rock. “That wasn’t there when I got here” he thought curiously. “Couldn't have been”. While he was caught off guard, after what he saw with the lights in the sky it didn’t throw him off. He had grown, even in his short time here, to accept the strange and questionable nature of this land. It had become almost like mirage of random and strange events, and anything happening now he would just grow to accept. He approached the door, realizing how silly all this was. He was about to enter a room within a rock, which was only about three feet wide and nine feet tall. When he opened it, he wasn’t even surprised to find a large and sprawling cave. Impossible, of course, but that was the nature of the neverending forest. The absurd was the norm. He closed the door, wiggling the knob to make sure he would not be locked within. The cave itself wasn’t big as he previously, perhaps a little bigger than the average living room. There was a small puddle in the middle of the cave, with dripping water from the top of the cave the only notable sound. The victorian era looking door at the end of the cave caught his eye, aswell as the figure lying on the floor. He gasped, and rushed over to help who ever this may be. For since the daylight returned, he had all but given hope on meeting any person here. He was glad his doubts had been proven wrong. When he approached, he noticed he was wearing the same clothes as him, and had a burlap sack over his face. “Hey, you alright?” he asked swiftly. Noticing no response, he removed the burlap sack. What he saw took the breath out of him. It was him, same face and all. He noticed he had blood coming from his mouth. He let out a rough cough, enough to wake him out of his shock and shake him. “Enjoying your stay?” he asked ruggedly. “I….. I don’t understand” he asked. “Are we one in the same?”. The man laid his head to the ground. “I…. am you…. and you…. are me” he said struggling. “Though who we are…. inside….. differs greatly”. “You…. sent yourself here, this world is you’res”. “This is what you wanted, not what…. I wanted” he struggled to breath as he forced out his final words. “Had… had to see…. the world you choose for yourself…… who you were.” He sighed, and coughed up more blood, his life fading. “I’m sorry…. but there is no escape from this world” “You are its sole occupant, forest has……. mind of its own.” “Will keep you here, path never ends, just makes more.” “He told me to tell you…. this… is your... damnation” “For taking away most precious gift”. “Who!” he yelled in dispiration. “Please, I have more to ask. “Sorry…. but…”, and in a slow but steady pace, the mans duplicate died.

He didn’t know much of what to think at this point, he had saw himself die right before his eyes. Not wanting to linger for longer, he went through the door to exit the cave. When he opened it, he was in the living room he remembered from his memories. He saw himself reaching for the jewelry box, just like in his memory. “Hey!” he shouted at himself. He yelled more, but he did not seem to be able to hear him. He reached out to touch him, but this seemed to have no effect either. His duplicate reached into the box and pulled out a gun, the same M1911 he carried in his duffle bag. He put the gun to his head, and, after some delay, pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed all over the floor, and the gun shot somehow produced a shockwave that tore apart the room. Frightened, he ducked under a table in front of the tv. Once the bustling tore apart the framework, he found himself at the river he first discovered, or at least thats where he seemed to be. Shaking and distraught, he quickly pulled out the M1911 in his duffle bag. “Its…. the same” he thought. “I killed myself?!”

“This is your world”

“Your Damnation”

title: [FN] What Lies Beneath

question: Why is the man walking through an endless forest?

answer: The man has committed suicide. He has chosen to die so this is his punishment and damnation. He will walk an endless forest for the rest of his days.

question: Does the man remember anything?

answer: The man has few memories but he remembers survival skills. He remembers walking down a busy street, making his way to a building where he may have worked. There was also the memory of a woman. While the relationship he had with this woman as well as her basic information were unknown to him, his memory of her was vivid. Long black hair, deep green eyes. The last memory he had was walking in a dark and small apartment. As he approached the counter in the living room, his hands trembled as he reached out for a small brown jewelry box.


text:
Imagine…a captivating barrage of flowers, dancing careful enough to follow the breeze. Red, yellow, green, all the colors, revolving each other like the planets and the sun, right in front of you. Would you reach out? Touch them? Rest your bones among their serenity, and pray to your God that they save your wounded soul? What if your God doesn’t answer? What if he simply shows his grin from the gorgeous skies, laughing at your pitiful begging? Would you risk crumpling those beautiful flowers for vengeance? Rip them from the ground? Would you simply release your energy to them, sighing as they wilt blissfully? Even death, at its most cruel, can be beautiful.  Even Gods, at their most righteous, can be horrifying.

I want to tell you a story. But not just any story, a story about us. You, me, the world, and the Gods. I want you to listen, I want you to feel what I’m feeling, in this peaceful moment of limbo I have before they judge me. There’s this awful, painful ache inside of my chest, and I can barely breathe, but what need do I have to breathe? I am surrounded by a captivating barrage of flowers, who, one by one, float away with the breeze. That is enough to sustain me. The others, however, they need your help. They need you to know about us, so that you can help them. I can’t tell you where they are, or how to find them, but I can leave you subtle clues amongst my story to assist you. Please, share our story as much as you can, in hopes that you may never join me here.

&#x200B;

*Regards,*

*Luna Stryver*

&#x200B;

Long ago, before you were born, there was but one race of people in Âme, known as Animans. The men were strong and elusive, thwarting every vast attempt of their enemies to destroy them. The women, quick witted and adaptive, could survive any climate or situation, hiding themselves in plain sight to aid their brethren. Together, they had the brains and strength to survive for centuries, and they did, until The Event. They called it arracheur d'âme, the soul snatcher. I can only recall part of what my mother read to me from my Grandmother’s diaries, but here is what I remember:

“Black fog covered the lands, brushing against the ground violently, translucent arms reaching out and picking citizens off one by one…you couldn’t even tell sometimes they were gone, because you didn’t know they were gone. Faces sunken, bones brittle and frail, irises dark like sin, it was horrifying…I remember my sister smiling at me, coming in to hug me, and before I could react, she fell to the ground. Her body decomposed there, nobody wanted to disturb her. It only took a day until all that was left of her was the golden daffodil pendant she wore on her chest.”

The men blamed the women, the women blamed the men, and the children blamed them both. It sounded petrifying, but my grandmother stood her ground. Her husband gathered her, my mother, and my uncle up into a car after the damage was done, and vowed that they would never return to Âme again. But, people change, and all things come to an end. My grandfather died of a heart attack about 4 years later, and, having nowhere to go, my grandmother returned my mother and uncle to Âme.

“Things were different there…I winced my eyes as I came upon a barrier dividing the outside world and Âme itself, and though ‘what’s going on?’” An officer, about 6 foot tall, tapped my window with his gun, ordering me to roll it down. I thought maybe I was trespassing on a crime scene, or maybe he would ask me to take a detour I’d missed, but instead he simply leaned into my car with a resigned look, and asked me a question. ‘let me see your wallet and phone.’ I questioned his demand, and he only shrugged, forcing his hand through the crack in my window. I obliged, and he nodded, returning to his car. I positioned my mirror to see through his windshield, and he attached my phone to some…device. I watched as he opened my wallet and counted my money, then he turned his attention towards his screen, all but throwing my wallet to the fishes. I saw as he nodded to the screen and unplugged my phone, retrieving my discarded wallet and stepping from the car. My children asked questions, but I only watched forward as he approached me again, handing me my belongings. ‘You can go that way.’ He pointed towards a dirt road, beaten and broken that lead to a place that I’d never seen. ‘That’s not where my home is.’ ‘It is now.’ He scoffed, slamming his gun against my car again before walking back to his own. I let out a heavy sigh and kept my comments to myself. Âme was my home, no matter where we stayed.”

That is when Âme, the way you know it, came to be. They sorted you by money, status, left or right. No color, no beauty, no sexuality, no persuasion. You didn’t get to choose whose side you were on anymore in Âme, Âme decided that for you. Our President, Carlyle Stryver, had split the town into two factions, The Regals and The Ties. Regals are upper class citizens that are rich, people that didn't earn their money, but were born with it. They don't often hold down hard working jobs, like my father does, but are rather lawyers, chairmen, or musicians and actors. The ones I've met are manipulative, so they will try and trick you. Ties are those who are less fortunate, the lowest class of citizens who either turn to crime or small, part time jobs to get by in life. My mother told me once that the reason they are called Ties is because Regals used to bind their legs and wrists together and throw stones at them for fun. That’s where they sorted my grandmother. She was once one of the strongest Animans, and now, she resides in a small home in a field of gorgeous flowers. You’ll have to ask her one day whether she thinks they won, or she did.

&#x200B;

title: [SF] What God Left Behind

question: Who are the Animans?

answer: The Animans are the one race of people that live in the land called Âme.

question: What is "The Event"?

answer: "The Event" was an occurrence that happened in Âme, where black fog covered the lands and a mysterious being picked off citizens one by one, causing their faces to sink and their bones to become brittle and frail.

question: Who is Carlyle Stryver?

answer: Carlyle Stryver is the President of the town, and split it into two factions: the Regals and the Ties.

question: Describe what happens between the officer and the narrator.

answer: The officer takes the narrator's phone and wallet and returns to his car with the items. The officer plugs the phone into a device. He then unplugs the phone and returns to the narrator's car. The officer then tells the narrator to go in a certain direction, stating that that is their home is, regardless of what the narrator thinks.


text:
Jeanne Ann Westveer was born in 1935. Jeanne married John Frederick Girard Rooks in 1960. She is the mother of my mother, making her my grandmother. When I’m writing this, my grandma is in the hospital, but she is supposed to go home tomorrow. Jeanne Ann Rooks is dying.

When I was eleven, my grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. Now, after eight years, she is a shell of the person she used to be. My grandma cannot function on her own. She is completely reliant on others to sustain her. This is of course not at all what Jeanne used to be. My grandma was an amazing pianist and singer. She played at her and my grandpa’s church for years until the disease hit. But, now she cannot.

Because of this, I know it’s time.

My brother and I used to go over to my grandparents’ house quite a bit. They had a lot of land and we would be outside for most of the time we spent there. I remember helping my grandma plant flowers around the outside of the house and getting stung by a bee. I remember my grandpa and grandma and I painting in the kitchen. I did my first oil painting when I was one years old at their house with their help. My grandma loved my love for the arts. We don’t talk about the arts anymore. We don’t talk at all really. I’ll tell her things going on in life and ask her if she’s comfortable.

Because of this, I know it’s time.

Only a few years ago, my grandma could still make words. When my grandpa and her came over dinner once, I helped her to the living room. As she struggled to walk she told me “I hate getting old.” While I think everyone would agree with that opinion for the most part, I think she meant it deeper. My whole life, my grandma was old. What wasn’t old was her mind. Until now that is.

Because of this, I know it’s time.

And I know I shouldn’t be sad about it. Life could only get worse for Jeanne. This is the right time. To want her to stay is selfish of me. After death, she’ll have a much better life. What makes it hard is remembering what she was like before the disease. The last few years I’ve only thought of my grandma as bed-ridden and limited. That’s how everyone saw her. I forgot about who she actually was. I forgot about her sitting at the piano and singing, and I forgot about the hundreds of peanut butter and jam sandwiches she made for me. I forgot about her setting up the Super Nintendo for my brother and I when we came over, or when she would grab me a nickel from the high cupboard so I could get a gumball from their machine.

Now, when I’m sitting at her bedside holding her hand, and seeing her slowly fade away, I know it’s time. But, I don’t want her to go.

Because death isn’t a romanticized experience like films make it out to be. It doesn’t bring families together in some grand fashion that ultimately ends up to be a necessary learning experience for everyone. Death is a final, drawn-out whimper.

Death brings a person’s life full circle, having them return to a state where they are helpless and confused, like a newborn.

Because of this I know it’s time. But, I don’t want her to go.

Not too long ago I had a dream about my grandma. I was sitting at her and my grandpa’s house next to her, while she sat silent in a chair like she has been for the last couple of years. I looked away, and when I did, she asked me some mundane question, almost as if we were mid-conversation. When I looked back she was fully awake, leaning out of her chair, Alzheimer’s free. I was so shocked and in awe, that I was afraid to ask how she did it, as I didn’t want even to mention the disease in fear of bringing it back. So I said, “Grandma, I haven’t seen you in years.” She smiled and we hugged, and my grandma said to me, “it’s been too long.”

title: [NF] As Is the Beginning, Is the End

question: Where is Jeanne's husband in this story?

question: What is the girl preparing for in this story?

answer: The girl is preparing to say goodbye to her grandmother. Her grandma is going to die. What is unclear in the story is whether the girl is going to assist her grandma in dying.


text:
RAHSAAN PATTERSON (born January 11, 1974) is an American singer and actor, best known for portraying “The Kid” on the 1980s television show _Kids Incorporated._

Career

1984: _Kids Incorporated_

After appearing in a school talent show in 1984, Patterson auditioned for the television show _Kids Incorporated_. He was cast as “The Kid”, and remained on the show for the next few years, appearing alongside such future stars as Fergie, Renee Sands, Martika, Mario Lopez and Shanice.

Music career

After _Kids Incorporated_, Patterson gained experience as a backup vocalist for several artists (including _Kids_ co-star Martika). Following his vocal contributions on Colour Club's self-titled album, as well as writing for other artists (his credits include Brandy's platinum Top 5 smash “Baby”, and Tevin Campbell's hit “Back to the World”).

1997–98: _Rahsaan Patterson_

Patterson signed with MCA Records in 1995. Collaborating with Keith Crouch and Jamey Jaz, among others, released his self-titled debut album on January 28, 1997. The album peaked at No. 48 on Billboard's Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums Chart.[1]

There were two singles released, “Stop By” and “Where You Are” peaked No. 53 on Billboard's Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs chart.

Receiving positive reviews from critics, the album failed to find a large audience (the single “Where You Are” did receive attention on R&B radio, and it appeared on the soundtrack to the 1996 _Bulletproof_). Patterson did, however, develop a loyal following both in the U.S. and abroad.

1999–2002: _Love in Stereo, SoundTracks_

Patterson went to work on his followup, _Love in Stereo_, with Jamey Jaz and new collaborators such as Van Hunt. When _Love in Stereo_ was released in late 1999 it received better reviews than its predecessor, although the mainstream overlooked it. The album peaked at #51 on _Billboard_s Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums Chart and two singles, “The Moment” and “Treat You Like A Queen” which peaked at no. 61 on _Billboard_s Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs. Rahsaan toured in support of _Stereo_ playing dates throughout U.S. and Europe.

Although Patterson and MCA parted ways, he remained busy, continuing to perform live, working as a session singer, and contributing to both soundtracks (_Brown Sugar_) and compilation albums (Steve Harvey's _Sign of Things to Come_), while working on his next album.

2004–08 _After Hours, Wines and Spirits_

Patterson's third album, _After Hours_ was released internationally in April 2004, garnering positive reviews. With the forming of his own label, _After Hours_ was released in the U.S. in late October. The album debuted at No. 65 on Billboard's Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart. The singles, “So Hot”, “April's Kiss” and “Forever Yours” were issued but failed to chart on Billboard. Further collaborative efforts followed.

Patterson's album, _Wines & Spirits_[2] (again featuring collaborations with Crouch and Jaz) was released September 24, 2007, and debuted at #42 on _Billboard_s Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums, his highest charted to date and No. 45 on Independent Albums Chart.[3] The singles released, “Stop Breaking My Heart” and “Feels Good” charted on Billboard's Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs both at no. 59 and the later no. 76. A close friend, R&B singer Ledisi, in which he's also featured on her album _Lost & Found_, explains the genius of Patterson as, “Rahsaan's greatest artistic strength is his ability to be overly honest in his recordings and in his live performances. If I had to sum him up in one word, I would call him 'uninhibited'.”[4]

In August 2008, Patterson released a Christmas album, _The Ultimate Gift_, by November Patterson won a BET J award for Underground Artist of the year.

In 2008, Patterson joined with Australian-born producer/multi-instrumentalist/songwriter Jarrad 'Jaz' Rogers and Copenhagen-based electro-soul songstress Ida Corr to form the London-based alternative soul/pop/funk trio SugaRush Beat Company, who released their self-titled album through RCA (UK) in the summer of 2008.[5]

2009–present: _Bleuphoria, Touring, New Album_

After the release of _Wines and Spirits_, Rahsaan resumed touring throughout the U.S. and overseas, and working with several recording artists'. On December 14, 2010 a new song was available on iTunes, “Easier Said Than Done”,[6] a slow funk groove aimed as the lead single from his new album. On February 12, 2011, he performed at B.B. King's Blues Club to a sold out crowd, the show received rave reviews.[7] Patterson continues to tour across the U.S. and also completing recording for his new soon to be released sixth studio album, scheduled for release this year. March 2011, after a concert in Ram's Head Tavern in Annapolis, MD, Patterson spoke about his album, _Bleuphoria_ during a brief interview for thesoulcialista.[8][9]

In 2019, Rahsaan released the new single “Sent from Heaven” and announced his new album _Heroes & Gods_ will release on May 17 that year.[10]

Personal life

Patterson is openly gay. In a 2008 discussion about being a gay artist with LGBT-centric network Logo, for example, he said that “For me, it's not about being 'the gay artist'; I'm an _artist_.”[11] In an interview with BET's Daily Voice, Patterson further clarified that “I've never been in the closet or hiding anything.”[12]

Discography

Studio albums

-   _Rahsaan Patterson_ (1997)
-   _Love in Stereo_ (1999)
-   _After Hours_ (2004)
-   _Wines & Spirits_ (2007)
-   _Bleuphoria_ (2011)
-   _Heroes & Gods_ (2019)

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11] 1

[12]

title: Rahsaan Patterson

question: How many albums did Patterson create?

answer: Patterson wrote six albums over a more than twenty year period. Their first album, Rahsaan Patterson, was released in 1997, and their last album, Heroes & Gods, was released in 2019.

question: Describe how Patterson's career began.

answer: Patterson joined the television show "Kids Incorporated" in 1984 after appearing in a school talent show. He was cast as "The Kid" and remained on the show for the next few years. He was then a backup vocalist for his co-star Martika for a few years and wrote for other artists. This lead to his debut with MCA records in 1995.


text:
DEPORTATION OF NORTH KOREANS BY THE SOUTH KOREAN GOVERNMENT refers to the involuntary and confidential removal of North Korean defectors by the Government of South Korea in November 2019.

Two North Korean fishermen suspected of killing 16 fellow fishermen[1] defected to South Korea on November 2, 2019.[2] The South Korean Government forcibly and secretly deported the North Koreans defectors on November 7, 2019.[3][4]

This was the first deportation of North Koreans by South Korean Government since the 1953 Korean Armistice Agreement[5][6]

Criticism

According to the Constitution of South Korea, North Korean defectors also have South Korea nationality; therefore according to South Korean law, they should have the right to receive fair trial. [7]

The South Korean Government has received criticism for the deportation due to the lack of supporting evidence, which was based on just three days of investigation.[8]

The Minister of Unification (Kim Yeon-chul), Minister of National Defense (Jeong Kyeong-doo), and Director of National Intelligence Service (Suh Hoon) were charged with dereliction of their duty, crime of abuse of official authority and aiding a murder at the prosecution on November 11, 2019 and later at the International Criminal Court [9] [10]

South Korea branch of Amnesty International announced that South Korean Government's deportation is in violation of international human rights norms on November 11, 2019[11]

Human Rights Watch announced that South Korean Government's deportation is in disregard of International Prohibition Against Torture on November 12, 2019[12]

Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights pointed out that South Korean Government's deportation is illegal under international law.[13]

[1] Deportation of North Koreans Suspected in 16 Deaths Raises Questions in South

[2] Press Releases: Regarding deportation of North Korean residents - South Korean Government (Ministry of Unification)

[3] 정부, '16명 해상 살해' 북한 20대 2명 강제추방

[4] 김연철 “北 선원, 죽더라도 돌아가겠다”.. 정성산 “살인자 누명 씌워 강제북송”

[5] South Korea deports North Korean fishermen suspected of mass killing at sea

[6] 美 인권전문가들 “北 주민 추방 조치, 韓 헌법·국제 협약 위반”

[7] 탈북자 강제북송, 위헌이자 위법이다

[8]

[9]

[10] 탈북민단체 “北 선원 추방한 정부, 국제형사재판소에 고발”

[11]

[12]

[13]

title: Deportation of North Koreans by the South Korean Government

question: Why did the two North Korean fishermen flee to South Korea?

answer: They were suspected of killing 16 fellow fishermen. Presumably, they fled to South Korea for a fair trial.

question: Why did South Korea deport the fishermen back to North Korea?

answer: The article doesn't mention the government's official reason.

question: Why was the deportation criticized heavily?

answer: The South Korean Constitution gives citizenship to North Koreans, giving them the right to a fair trial. The South Korean government's quick decision to deport the fishermen was criticized on human rights grounds as well as being illegal according to international law.

question: What charges were levied against the responsible officials?

answer: Dereliction of duty, abuse of official authority, and aiding a murder.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Two North Korean fishermen suspected of killing 16 fellow fishermen defected to South Korea on November 2, 2019. The South Korean Government forcibly and secretly deported the North Korean defectors on November 7, 2019. This was the first deportation since the 1953 Korean Armistice. The South Korean government's quick decision to deport the fishermen was criticized on human rights grounds as well as being illegal according to international law.


text:
The narrow, cobbled street, surrounded by tall stone walls, built by wiser men ages ago, ached history with smell, sound and sight. The turncoat walked heavy down that street, hands in pocket, heart racing.

He'd been trained in dark secrets, his wisdom was death and torture, espionage and deceit. Yet he felt nervous. Yet his heart kept a steady fast beat, faster than the time he had been strapped to a chair and his bones in his legs broken, and his ligaments torn, by an unnamed heavy set French man. Yet he wanted nothing more than to turn back with this heavy paper, the burden. It weighed a ton, like all the history books in the world had been pressed into this minute thing. If the turncoat would hand the paper over, history would burn and everything would have a blank slate. But that only meant he was to repeat history in a vacuum, without the echoes of wisdom from the mistakes, the horror and shortfalls of it. War beckons war beckons war. This heavy paper wanted to tear the leather jacket from the turncoat's shoulders.

Heavy steps up the cobbled street, small incline, wet from a previous rain. Up the street was a café. There, the turncoat would meet his handler. As was custom, he did not know his name, only a code; Bliak. He walked, slower now. He noticed a figure. He wasn't to notice that figure. That figure was not to be there.

The turncoat had sent out a message to a collegue. True, the collegue worked for the western nations, but in his line of work, all spies were collegues. The message was simple; we got the secret. The answer he got on his codex machine was a dot. Where? the unnamed spy was asking. The turncoat answered with a code. 12 letters, 12 numbers. No particular order. No readable word. Decipher this, and you might save the world.

The tock was ticking, five minutes to midnight.

There was no answer. He had to leave for the meeting.

The turncoat kept walking despite the sight of the figure. The figure raised a hand, as if to say: take my hand, lead me to sanctuary. What if this man turned out to be a bait? What if he was eastern? What if they'd figured it out, and wanted to off the turncoat before the westerners could find out. But what if it was a bait, but just so as to lead the turncoat in the right direction, effectively force him to hand the paper to his handler? What if they'd just destroy the paper anyway, because of the turncoat's message? Had the turncoat saved the world, but destroyed his own? Was that all worth it?

The turncoat thought of a man in deep Siberia. He'd built his own morse code machine and started to send out messages. In any occasion, it wouldn't have matter, because the man was in middle of nowhere, nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard. But it was not the man's surroundings that caught the attention of Kremlin, but the man himself. He'd helped build rockets, design warplanes. Now he'd fled to a town no one had heard of, barely with access to hot water and electricity, and he had a morse code machine in his hands? Even the one hundred or so townspeople of the shitty town he'd moved to never even heard of such a machine. Even more, they didn't really understand the point in sending out news from this town, as nothing of consequence happened in it. The turncoat remembered entering the town with dozen soldiers. He remembered that the dossier said the man had sent out messages of importance, high profile secrets to a western outpost in Alaska. He was a turncoat, and turncoats must die. The turncoat remembered tying him up, torturing him for information for two hours, and then firing a single bullet into the turncoat's face. He then remembered how he ordered the dozen soldiers to gather the townspeople and massacre them. He then remembered how he'd ordered the town to be bulldozed. He then remembered how he'd seen in files that the area had been turned into a rocket testing facility, and that the western nations shuddered at the possibilities. He remembered how the top brass thought that was brilliant and funny. The rocket testing facility was utterly useless. Too far from the nearest power plant. One hundred and something people had lost their lifes to a man who wanted to share information. True, nothing of consequence happened in that town, because to the world, that town was now more of the same nothing that shaped every other part of the frozen tundra.

The figure turned out to be a salesman, selling figurines of a long dead saint that had once roamed these cobbled streets. Heavy were the last steps, as the turncoat entered the café. His handler was there, dining on some exotic bread and tea. The turncoat dragged a chair and sat.

"You look miserable," the handler said.
"Of course, I miss home."
"No need to worry, you'll be home soon."
"There is no reason for that, I'll manage."
"No, there is a need. Your information has been exposed, no use for it now."
The turncoat tried to act surprised.
"Exposed? How?"
"A message was sent, someone trying to sell it before it was even in our hands."
The turncoat's message had only been an acknowledgement of the existance of the information, not what he wanted to do with it.
"That makes no sense."
"You're right, it does not. As far as I know, you're the only one who got a hold of that information, and your orders were to dispose of your source."
The turncoat shifted in his chair.
The handler continued, "You did take care of the source did you not?"
This was a dilemma the turncoat had never been in before. Should he admit that he did not indeed dispose of his source, or should he lie that he did, and therefore point all the guns in the world at him? Either way, the turncoat was done with this business, and in this business, there is no retirement.

A knew possibility popped into mind: as far as the turncoat was concerned, the handler had not informed any of the higher ups of the information, nor this meeting with the turncoat. The information was a small piece of paper. Some coordinates scribbled on a windowed paper by an engineer not two kilometers from this very café. The turncoat could swallow the paper, take out his pistol and fire it into the handler's face, just like he did with the man in Siberia not so long ago.
"Of course, if you'd taken care of the source, we wouldn't have found him in a whorehouse just hours after your little meeting, spending all the money we paid him for that information, now would we?" The handler's demeanor turned sour. He leaned in his chair, the weak frame of it creaking through the busy café. His hand firmly in a position to pick up a pistol himself. "Now if the source was picked up by our guys just hours after your meeting, and the message was sent out the morning after... this morning in fact, who is the real suspect here?"
"I wanted to draw the westerners out," the turncoat said.
"To spare lives?"
"Yes."
"To spare lives, we must end this war. To end this war, we must take those coordinates and bomb the place they represent. This will mean millions of lives lost, but it will spare even more millions."
"I will not sacrifice more innocent lives for this cause," the turncoat swore to his handler, and to himself.
"Our people have surrounded you. Even if you pull that pistol out and shoot me straight in the face, you will end up dead even before you are able to destroy that little fucking paper."
"This is not a negotiation," the turncoat declared, his hand now on the handle of the pistol. "I'll leave, I'll destroy the information, no one will get hurt, not us, not them."
"The war will rage on, people will get killed, or worse; live in fear for the rest of days."
"Absolutely."
"Now, isn't that sacrificing innocent lives?"
"Maybe liberty, not lives."
"Those peasants you massacred were of no consequence, don't think about them anymore. Don't let them weigh the scales of this decision," the handler argued.
"The decision has been made. Maybe one more sacrifice is all that is needed."
The turncoat pulled his pistol and fired upon the handler, hitting him in the chest, but not before the handler got a shot off into the turncoat's face.

He was still alive, sinking slowly into darkness. He could hear screams, sirens, and the other men trying to scramble for the information and a sign of life in the handler's eyes. Moments before, the turncoat had made his last sacrifice. He had always carried a little trinket the Research and Tecnhology department had given him: a little zippo lighter with an explosive charge, enough to turn a body into small bits and pieces and to burn the surrounding area to some extent. He'd set the charge, pulled the pin, and after three long seconds, the lighter exploded along with the piece of heavy paper and the turncoat himself.

In the eyes of history, this was a meaningless event, to no consequence for its existence, like an ant pondering the black mass in the sky, blotting out the sun, that turns out to be a boot on a man who decided to spare this one ant's life, this one day, and so the black mass recedes and the shadow is lifted from the ant.

When the event was over, time continued in a straight and orderly line and the world moved on.

title: [MS] The turncoat's message on existentialism

question: What was written in the paper?

answer: This information can't be found.

question: Who misses their home?

answer: The turncoat misses their home.

question: What was the reason behind carrying the zippo lighter?

answer: The zippo lighter would help turn a body into small bits and also burn the surrounding area to a certain extent.


text:
Joe sifted through the pigshit of what the "homed" deemed commerce. That's what he liked to call society’s favorites. The homed. He used it both in jest and in anger. No ranting at that moment, though; just a homeless Joe searching through trash for the gold of fools. It was a light day at the strip mall. He didn’t mind rooting around in dumpsters. There were interesting things to find every day. However, he did mind being seen doing it so he was grateful for the smaller crowd.

The winter sun casted long shadows on the alleyway. The midday air was cool but didn't chill. Every breeze took some of Joe’s sweat with it. Foraging was never easy, but it was always cheap. Joe liked cheap, obviously. The backpack he carried was his. It always had been; a lingering artifact of his former life. It was capacious enough to pack up everything he needed to vanish. However, he preferred to roam the streets with his backpack empty. He never knew what rewards he would find from a day’s work done well. A permanent resident of his loot sack was a small bottle of lemon juice. He loved finding lemon juice. It flavored the harsh city water. He used it when he rinsed his hands and dishes. "Good stuff, that." he'd always say.

His clothes were never an outfit as he was always wearing some new garbage. Earlier that week he found a kilt. A long kilt that ran to his shins. It wasn't plaid though. It was a charcoal denim. The left back pocket was missing with just an outline of the tailor's handiwork remaining. The wide and spacious front two pockets were useful. On each side of the the outer thighs were zippered storage pockets. In the left pocket is his phone, protected from the elements and turned off to conserve battery. He didn't like that it was a kilt. but it was very functional. He wondered if there were cargo kilts. If there were, these would be them. He decided to keep the kilt after suffering through some awful skinny jeans. The hunt was on for a shirt.

Joe's current shirt was a pale yellow when he found it; a nice button-down long sleeve. It had no buttons which he assumed was the reason for it being discarded. After some of his patented Joe-ing, the shirt had new buttons and he called it his own. It had become less pale over time. The streets had not been kind to it. The tank undershirt he wore beneath the long sleeve was fresh. Brand new. The bin behind the clothing store bore some fruit earlier that day. There was a short razor cut through the whole package of three. Joe swiped them since they were still plenty useful, he figured, and served to shield his torso from the aging yellow long-sleeve.

His pride and joy was his pair of army boots. There was nothing special about them, really. They just fit perfectly. He found them at a car accident. They looked almost brand new when he took them from the college kid driver. He figured the kid wouldn't need them anymore anyway. Once he rinsed off the blood in a gas station bathroom, they were his. They'd seen about two years of sun damage since then. The worn creases in the black leather have a bit of crumble to them having battled everything from rain to the police.

Whenever Joe was nervous he liked to adjust his beanie. He would palm the front and back with each hand and tweak it so it rested a new way on his head. This didn't actually make it more comfortable--just different. It was Joe’s way of telling the world that something has changed and he’s not sure what to do. The beanie was an overcast grey, made of wool. Not handmade, mind you. A real store-bought one long since forgotten by the original owner. Joe liked it for the embroidered “Run Like Hell” on the front and small Sony PlayStation logo stamped on the back.

He abandoned rummaging through the boxes and crates sitting outside the blue dumpster. It was his tradition to crack the seal on the dumpster last after making sure there was nothing else outside worth claiming. This accomplished two things. It kept inside anything foul that could be released. It also saved for last anything that might be best.

The gardening gloves he kept in the right zippered pocket on his kilt proved useful once again. With a gloved hand, he lifted one the two hinged black lids. The weight always surprised him. Joe’s grip fumbled and the lid slammed shut again. The air of the dumpster rushed past Joe’s face. His face turned sour.  This wine was definitely corked. Whenever there was a smell like that in an otherwise clean dumpster, it was never anything good. Joe waved a glove in front of his face to reset his concentration and questioned opening it up again.

Curiosity won. He adjusted his beanie and held a deep breath. A heave swung the lid all the way over. It came to rest against the back of the dumpster. It was a thunk that stunk. He moaned an, “Ugh, goddammit!” as he put a glove over his face to shield it from the debris. The other glove waved particulates away. He recognized the smell of life after the fire had burned out. Joe’s life was digging through the waste of the world. It was inevitable he would happen upon the wasted from time to time. Joe didn't need to look in but he did anyway.

The legs were clearly visible. Trousers. Maybe slacks. Joe didn't really know the difference. Men’s pants, for sure. They would have been blue, probably, a light blue, but had become red. There were only a few bits of the original white of the socks left. No shoes. Taken, he presumed. The socks were not torn but they weren't worth it either. He had good socks already. No sense taking bloody ones. A holster for something with more bulk than a gun, possibly a walkie talkie, hung empty up by the belt.

The barks of a distant dog reminded him to be hasty. A glance at the back pants’ pockets showed no signs of a wallet. Joe lamented the bloody mess. Such a shame to let decent pants go to waste. The rest of the body looked buried under a few layers of flattened cardboard box. Time’s up, he decided. He pocketed the gloves again after closing the the unfortunate man’s coffin. A squirt of lemon juice and some spit refreshed his hands.

---

Glen answered the back door when Joe knocked. Glen owned a post office. Well, not a real post office. It was an extension of the United States Postal Service, garage-type thing. One wall had 25 P.O. Boxes. Only 18 were subscribed to. Joe’s box 19. It used to be 13, but it moved up every time Glen got a new subscriber.  The wall across had shipping supplies. Days at the post office were often as slow as the mail. Glen named the business The Mailbox King and he lived upstairs with his wife, Win. Glen always joked that he, “Won Win over.” Joe would give a polite chuckle at that even though it had lost its luster over the years.

He had a system of trade with the family. Every once in a while Joe would need a shower, and maybe a meal. Every once in a while The Mailbox King needed some fixing. Joe happened to be handy; a real around-the-house type. The shop got serviced and Joe got to rinse and eat. Sometimes the food smelled worse than he did but he hadn’t died yet. Any food not rotting was worth not complaining about when hunger turned desperate. Joe never asked about doing laundry in their home. He wouldn’t want them to be mixing their clothing with the streets. He preferred to use a coin-op. People always had spare change at the Laundry Queen.

Glen once told Joe that, “Back in my home, Hong Kong, I have awful chinese accent too. My chinese, worse than...than english. I suck two time!” Joe knew he would like Glen after hearing that. “You smerr rike remon,” Glen mocked. “Remon juice!” Joe corrected with a grin. The two grabbed a hug and Glen invited him in. They enjoyed indulging in exaggeration from time to time.

“You know, you’re the only Asian Glen I’ve ever heard of,” Joe confessed. Glen’s face smeared with disbelief. “No way. There are ton of us. Mostly vietnamese though. You think of black. You ever see black Glen? No. No black Glen...” Joe cracked a tight laugh. He admired clever devils. He held up his mailbox key asking, “You mind?” and pointed to P.O. boxes on the public side of the counter. Joe preferred to pick up his mail after closing time so he didn’t have to see anyone who might know him from his homed life. Glen waved Joe through after lifting the hinged bit of countertop. A twist of the key and a hollow metal clank later, Joe had an envelope in his hand. “Pre-approved again!” Joe laughed. He tossed it to Glen who passed it to the shredder.

An awkward silence passed as the shredder went back to sleep. Joe lowered his smile, fading the wrinkles in his face. He gave words to the silence. “Phone?” he asked. Glen slid him the cordless. The dispatcher introduced herself as Candy but she was far from sweet. She met the news of a body in a dumpster with boredom. Joe gathered that it was probably not her first dumpster body. There were a lot of dumpsters in the city; a lot of people too. Glen’s face showed a quiet panic as Joe hung up the phone. “No worries, they’re coming,” he assured. “Not worry,” defended Glen, “I just not use to it.” Joe wet a small section of his undershirt with lemon juice then wiped the phone down before sliding it back across the counter.

Glen nodded at the kind gesture before returning to concern. “You should warn next time. Crazy. I thought you were call about your parents or something. Not dead…” Glen paused, searching for wandering ears, then whispered, “…not dead body! Nearly give me heart attack. From now on, bad news first. Okay? God, you lucky Win not here. She kill you.” “True words, Glen. Too true. You have my apologies. Bad news first.” Joe conceded. He filed that notion away for another time. “A good one to keep handy,” he thought. Glen closed with, “And you dress look ridiculous.” Joe laughed again. Looking down at his feet he supposed it did look a bit absurd.

---

Joe flicked his lighter to a second cigarette. He thought a fresh murder would hasten the police.  Cigarette lit, he played with the lighter. He loved his lighter. It was likely the only shiny thing he owned. He used to have a lot of shiny things. Of the things he kept, the lighter was the only thing he kept shiny. The novelty of it endeared it to him. It was shaped like a tubular cigar cutter with a hole in the middle. One end contained a cap, which would open to accept lighter fluid into the reservoir. The cap was engraved with the words NIMROD PIPELIGHTER. He didn’t know how old it was. Paps had it maybe 10 years before it was passed to Joe. Using it reminded him to try it on a pipe some time, like Paps did. Paps didn’t leave him any spare parts, though, hence the shine. He kept it protected in a small flashlight holster.

He sat patiently on the front steps of The Mailbox King. He appreciated the shop’s name. Glen’s last name was Qin, which sounds like King with a muffled ‘G’. This also meant that Win’s last name sounded like King. Joe never tired of that. He played at disappointment in his parents for not naming him something more amusing than Joseph. Joseph Turner. No fun could be had with that. He supposed he could marry a fancy lass named Burger. He figured a Burger would not find him appetizing. “No fun,” he thought, but laughed.

Joe would have waved a greeting to the guy across the street, but the guy wasn’t there that day. The guy was usually there selling newspapers. The older gentleman, early 70s, left newspaper by the front door of The Mailbox King. Joe would have been able to read instead of burning through cigarettes like fireworks. The guy started strong a few years ago but of late the oldest newsie was showing up less frequently. Still a fighter though. A man born fighting death to the bitter bareknuckle end. Joe decided to wave anyway. With a wave to no one, he thought, “Where do you go, old man?” to the tune of No Mercy’s hit single.

The lemonade Glen made was tasty but it hurt his teeth. There was mostly just ice left. He sprinkled lemon juice on the ice and put a few of the crushed chunks in his mouth to melt. He missed being able to crunch ice in his mouth. These days he had to take extra care of his teeth. The cigarettes didn’t help. It was not typical for him smoke in front of Glen’s place. Out of respect, he usually sat on the steps behind the building. But Candy told him to wait out front. So there he sat, lest she be soured. He wondered what she looked like. She sounded pretty enough. Probably around his age. A couple kids, too. Or, at least one. He didn’t remember hearing any playing with or tinking of rings while she typed his statement. But he did remember how bored she sounded. That was a boredom born of routine. His interest faded. Just in time, too. He fired up a third cigarette.
[sub]more later..

Joe recognized that distinct squeal of the police cruiser’s brakes. All the cruisers had it. Even the unmarked ones, like the only that pulled up. He liked to joke that it was the only thing TV got right about cop cars. Usually he’d get anxious when he heard that familiar slicing sound. Instead he was relieved. “Finally, Officer Slowbags,” he thought. He displayed his cigarette for the officer as she walked towards him. With a smirk he teased, “Took you three of these to get here!” He dropped the last of his cigarette into the plastic lemonade cup and let it grill on the ice. The sizzle amused him.

When she asked, “You Joe?” he looked at her badge. Numbers. Joe didn’t like cops. He believed they too often punished the good for the evil things wicked people did. The bad cops, anyway. They tarnished the brass. He knew some of the good ones. Two, to be exact. They believed as he did. “Yeah, but you don’t have to call me anything,” he replied. “I’m Detective Kate Benjamin,” she said. He nudged his cup into a trash can and jumped down the three steps. Upon landing he made sure to note that it was a dumb idea.

---

^more ^later...

title: [RF] Homeless Joe - Part 1

question: Describe the twist in the story.

answer: Homeless Joe is searching through the trash for food, clothes, or something useful. He notices a terrible smell coming from a dumpster. He knows that whenever there was a smell like that in an otherwise clean dumpster, it was never anything good. However, he is curious and decides to look inside and he finds a body.

question: What does the story say about Joe's clothes?

answer: Joe finds his clothes in garbage dumpsters. He finds a kilt and a shirt that is pale yellow with no buttons. Whenever Joe was nervous he likes to adjust his beanie. He has good socks.

question: What does the story say about Joe's family?


text:
They're reading the same websites, talking to each other, and killing the same targets. The lone wolves are actually a pack.

By David M. Perry , Mar 26, 2018

-   -   -   -   -   -

Police barricade the area surrounding the home of suspected Austin bomber Mark Anthony Conditt _in Pflugerville, Texas, _on March 21st, 2018.

(Photo: Drew Anthony Smith/Getty Images)

When Mark Conditt was a teenager, he participated in a club called Righteous Invasion of Truth. RIOT kids were homeschooled and religious, and spent their club time playing war games, practicing weapons skills, and reading the Bible. As a community college student in 2012, he wrote blogs against homosexuality and abortion. In 2018, he planted bombs in Austin, Texas, appearing to target African-American communities, then blew himself up as police closed in. The question isn't whether Conditt was a terrorist, but where was this terrorist radicalized? More important, who else is being radicalized in the same way, and what can we do about it?

It's easy to connect the dots after an attack. A radicalized white man commits murders. Investigators dive into his past. The dots emerge in the clarity of hindsight. In the interests of preventing future attacks, though, we need a clear understanding of how white terrorism works in this country. While not organized by some kind of hierarchical conspiracy or secret cabal, these discrete acts of violence are part of a systematic campaign to terrorize and divide Americans. What's worse, it's working.

We know where Elliot Rodger, the 2014 Isla Vista shooter, was radicalized. When the Southern Poverty Law Center published its report last month on "alt-right" violence, focusing on the many incidents in 2017, the SPLC began its account with the 2014 killings by Rodger, a student at the University of California–Santa Barbara. Based on Rodger's experiences in specific online fora, the SPLC has dubbed Rodger America's first "alt-right" killer. In his writings and videos, Rodger used misogynistic and racist tropes common in the worlds of "gamergate," a forum called PUAhate(Pick Up Artist Hate), and other online spaces where he could connect with like-minded men. No one ordered Rodger to kill people, but the valorization of targeted violence permeates those communities. He ultimately murdered seven people and wounded an additional 14. According to the SPLC, Rodger's violent acts were celebrated in various online communities, including by people who went on to kill in turn. The SPLC cites other misogynist killers, but also people like Dylann Roof, who murdered nine black citizens in a Charleston church. Roof's racism appears to have intensified as he spent more and more time on the Council of Conservative Citizens' website. More recently, a pro-Trump white supremacist killed two people at his school in New Mexico, after spending five years glorifying school shooters on alt-right websites.

In 2017, Michael Hari drove from Champaign, Illinois, to Bloomington, Minnesota, just outside the Twin Cities. There, he and two friends broke a window in a mosque and threw a pipe bomb in through the window. Hari ran a YouTube channel where you could watch him and his friends putting on ski masks and making terroristic proclamations about driving Muslims out of the country. It's not clear why they drove to Minnesota and targeted this specific mosque. Hari is also accused of attempting to bomb a woman's health clinic in Champaign. Writing for HuffPost, Christopher Mathias links Hari's organization to other anti-Muslim militias that are proliferating around the country, including The Crusaders, a group in Kansas City, Missouri, that plotted to blow up a mosque and apartment complex that housed immigrants from Somalia.

Then there are the Nazis. Atomwaffen, an explicitly neo-Nazi group, has been murdering people. ProPublica recently broke the story of the murder of a gay Jewish man by an Atomwaffen member, one of five recent murders associated with the terrorist organization. James Field, who murdered Heather Heyer in Charlottesville, idolized Adolf Hitler and the Nazis. He belonged to Vanguard USA, a neo-Nazi group that combines anti-black racism and anti-semitism. Nikolas Cruz, the shooter in Parkland, Florida, engaged in racist rants on Instagram and had swastikas on his ammo cases. Motherboard recently reported that, while YouTube removes ISIS-related material reasonably quickly, neo-Nazi material can linger on the site for months and years.

These terrorist strains overlap and entangle, as we see in the case of Jeremy Christian. Christian had no coherent simple ideology. He read credulously from alt-right websites, contemplated Nazism, and spent time connecting with "Odinist" groups that appropriate medieval Viking mythos to support a platform of toxic masculinity and racism. In May of 2017, Christian murdered two men and stabbed a third in Oregon after they tried to stop him from harassing two young women of color wearing head scarves.

These murders, mostly committed by white American men, reveal patterns, but they're not evidence of some kind of single, secret organization dedicated to committing white-supremacist violence. That tends to puzzle people, because our conception of terrorism is linked to Islam and people of color, but also to cell-based groups like al-Qaeda: When we think of terrorism, we look for secret leaders sending out commands and planning operations. That's just not the model in this case, so when these white men kill, the media, elected officials, and law enforcement respond by disavowing connections to terrorism. These disavowals reveal a basic racism surrounding the word "terrorism," although many officials and reporters just want to keep people from panicking.

But maybe it's time to panic a little, or at least understand that these incidents are connected and require an organized response from our politicians, law enforcement, and media. When hundreds of "lone wolves" are reading the same websites, talking to each other, consuming the same stories, picking up easily accessible weapons, and killing the same targets, they have become a pack.

-   -   -   -   -   -

question: What does the acronym RIOT stand for?

answer: RIOT stands for Righteous Invasion of Truth.

question: Is there a single source for all of these killers?

answer: No, these killers come from multiple sources.

question: Who published a report on alt-right violence, focusing on 2017?

answer: The Southern Poverty Law Center published a report on 2017's alt-right violence.

question: What is the author's closing statement?

answer: The author closes stating that these killers have been reading the same material in the same spaces and targeting the same people, they have effectively become a pack.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The author analyzes the most recent mass killing and compares it to those of the past. The author has found that many of these killings come from the same ideologies, and has concluded that these "lone wolf" killers have become a pack.


text:
For illegal robocallers, the goal isn't always getting you to answer. Sometimes, it's getting you to call back.

Every so often, your phone may ring once and then stop. If that happens to you, and you do not recognize the number, do not return the call. You may be the target of a "one-ring" phone scam.

One-ring calls may appear to be from phone numbers somewhere in the United States, including three initial digits that resemble U.S. area codes. But savvy scammers often use international numbers from regions that also begin with three-digit codes – for example, "232" goes to Sierra Leone and "809" goes to the Dominican Republic. Scammers may also use spoofing techniques to further mask the number in your caller ID display.

If you call back, you risk being connected to a phone number outside the U.S. As a result, you may wind up being charged a fee for connecting, along with significant per-minute fees for as long as they can keep you on the phone. These charges may show up on your bill as premium services, international calling, or toll-calling.

Variations of this scam rely on phony voice-mail messages urging you to call a number with an unfamiliar area code to "schedule a delivery" or to notify you about a "sick" relative.

How to avoid this scam

-   Don't answer or return any calls from numbers you don't recognize.
-   Before calling unfamiliar numbers, check to see if the area code is international.
-   If you do not make international calls, ask your phone company to block outgoing international calls on your line.
-   Always be cautious, even if a number appears authentic.

Filing a complaint with the FCC

If you are billed for a call you made as a result of this scam, first try to resolve the matter with your telephone company. If you are unable to resolve it directly, you can file a complaint with the FCC at no cost.

Filing a complaint with the Federal Trade Commission

If you feel that you are a victim of an international phone scam, you can file a complaint with the FTC.

Printable Version

'One Ring' Phone Scam (pdf)

question: Explain how a scam-call could be spotted...

answer: A clear sign of a possible scam call is the area code that shows up on the caller I.D. These calls can also leave voicemail which claim to have information on a scheduled delivery or a sick relative to bait you into calling back.

question: What kind of scams should the reader look out for?

answer: The article refers to a to 'one-ring' call which is simply a number calling you in order for you to call back and rake up international call charges on premium lines.

question: What should a person do if they fall victim to a scam call?

answer: Contact their phone company, if they are unable to help it's important to contact the FCC. It's also an option to contact the Federal Trade Commission.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: A page with information regarding what to look out for when it comes to scammers and their techniques.


text:
If authorizing war against ISIS were easy, Congress would have already done it.

If lawmakers weren't so afraid of the vote, the House and Senate might have authorized military action back in September 2013, when President Barack Obama's "red line" in Syria started looking more like the title of a Robin Thicke song. The sudden concern over Syrian President Bashar Assad's use of chemical weapons, which brought lawmakers back from their August recess a week early, just as quickly subsided when Obama announced that, on second thought, he was holding off on airstrikes. Congress -- maybe not collectively but at least mostly -- was relieved.

If voting on a so-called Authorization for Use of Military Force weren't so militarily and politically perilous, Congress might have done it in February, when Obama finally sent over a new AUMF to combat ISIS. GOP hawks promptly dismissed the draft authorization as too restrictive. Liberals lambasted it for not repealing the still-used 2001 AUMF that was passed in the days after 9/11. Congressional leaders shoved Obama's draft in a filing cabinet, satisfied to never speak of the damn thing again.

Lawmakers are too afraid of the consequences of authorizing a new war. At least, that's the opinion of lawmakers themselves when you ask why Congress hasn't voted on a new AUMF.

"No guts," says Texas Republican Rep. Randy Weber.

"Political timidity," says California Democrat Rep. Adam Schiff.

"Cowards," says Rep. Marcia Fudge (D-Ohio). "I'm ready to vote on it today, but the majority doesn't want to take a stand. They want to complain, and tear down, and talk about the president's policy. But they don't want to put forth a policy."

"They're just cowards," Fudge says. "Simple as that."

Simple as that. Cowards.

In conversations with more than 30 lawmakers, however, it's clear it isn't as simple that. Yes, lawmakers are scared to take the vote. Yes, they know that, among the thousands of procedural votes in a career, among the forgotten post office-naming bills and the ceremonial congressional gold medals, authorizing military action is one vote they -- and their constituents -- will remember.

But it goes beyond that. Most of the members who talked to The Huffington Post would be happy to vote on a new AUMF tomorrow -- as long as it's an AUMF they support.

And therein lies the real difficulty of getting a new war authorization. There are members who don't want to go on the record, but there's also a healthy number of lawmakers all too happy to tell you exactly where they stand and precisely what an AUMF should look like -- if you have 10 minutes now and maybe want to drop by the office later.

Indeed, it’s not hard to find lawmakers uncomfortable with using the 2001 AUMF in Syria. Some even go so far as to call it unconstitutional, though lawmakers generally find ways to avoid that particular word.

“Extraconstitutional” was what House Natural Resources Chairman Rob Bishop (R-Utah) called it. “Not sufficient,” was the description from Rep. Adam Smith (D-Wash.), the House Armed Services ranking Democrat. “Legally precarious,” says Schiff.

Ask Florida Democrat Alan Grayson -- with his three Harvard degrees -- whether current military actions in Syria are unconstitutional, and he’ll sigh. “Unless you believe the president has unilateral and unchecked powers under the commander-in-chief clause, the answer is yes,” he says, like it pains him.

Yet the prospect of Congress doing anything is a long shot. Partly because members are cowards, yes, but more because the distance between lawmakers is just too vast.

On one extreme are the hawks. You have Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.), who recently offered an AUMF with no restrictions on the president's ability to go after ISIS. If you liked the 2001 AUMF, which empowered the president to go after the perpetrators of 9/11, but is now being used to justify military operations in Syria 14 years later, then you're going to love Lindsey Graham's proposal.

[]
On Graham’s side -- as with most things -- is Senate Armed Services Chairman John McCain (R-Ariz.), who tells HuffPost that not only would any restriction on an AUMF be unreasonable, it would be unconstitutional.

"Congress should not be telling the commander-in-chief what to do," McCain says. "If we establish that precedent, he's no longer the commander-in-chief."

McCain continues: "I have a problem with any AUMF that is restricting the ability of the commander-in-chief to defend the nation -- I always have and I always will."

Aligning with McCain on the House side are members like Rep. Peter King (R-N.Y.), who tells HuffPost that, while he'd be glad to vote for a new AUMF, the president doesn't need it -- not because he has the 2001 authorization, but because the president inherently has war authority as the commander-in-chief.

"He has all the power," King says. And if Congress wants a say, King continues, members can always cut off the funding for military operations.

On the other side -- though maybe not quite as far from the center -- are a number of Democrats and conservative Republicans who think the current war authorizations, the 2001 AUMF and a 2002 authorization that allowed operations in Iraq, are, in the words of Rep. Mick Mulvaney (R-S.C.), "wholly inadequate."

Presented with King's belief that the president already has war powers, Mulvaney was perplexed.

"I'm pretty sure the Constitution says Congress declares war, but maybe Mr. King is reading a different Constitution than I am," he says.

[]
Mulvaney lays out three reasons why members have resisted voting on an AUMF. The first reason, which you'll hear from a lot of members who might not want to take the vote, is that the president hasn't laid out a strategy yet.

"I think that's probably fair, but not entirely determinative," Mulvaney says. "One of the things we could do, for example, is have hearings and call the administration in to tell us what their strategy is."

Lots of lawmakers cite the president’s lack of leadership on an AUMF as a key reason there hasn’t been a vote. In the words of North Carolina Republican Rep. George Holding, "He wants to dodge the bullet and duck the issue by trying to throw it to Congress and saying 'You come up with a plan.'"

And if you remind these lawmakers that Obama did submit an AUMF in February, they’ll remind you that a lot has changed since then. “That was February,” in the words of Holding.

The second reason Mulvaney supplies is that "our fingerprints would be all over any subsequent action."

Plenty of members offer some variation of that rationale. Rep. Walter Jones (R-N.C.) accuses House leadership of not wanting to have "any blood on their hands." Rep. Elijah Cummings (D-Md.) says that, if things go wrong, Republicans don't want to be blamed for it, which Randy Weber backs up by telling HuffPost that the discussions he's heard lead him to believe members expect Obama to fail in Syria. "And they don't want to own it," Weber says.

Mulvaney's last reason Congress doesn't want to vote on an AUMF was perhaps his most complex, but was again cited by a number of members: That, should Congress take up the AUMF debate, and should members fail to find agreement, it would undermine the military. Or, in Michigan Republican Rep. Justin Amash's telling, it would "shift the focus from the president's failed strategy to our own inability to get something through Congress."

That's not really a concern of Amash's; he's all for voting on a new AUMF. Mulvaney is, too. As are a number of other board members of the House Freedom Caucus. Rep. Matt Salmon (R-Ariz.) recently wrote a letter to Speaker Paul Ryan (R-Wis.) saying the House shouldn't leave for Christmas before taking up the AUMF debate.

While Congress almost certainly won’t meet that standard this week, the letter may be a signal that the HFC is preparing a more serious effort in the new year. Salmon says he's been telling Freedom Caucus Chairman Jim Jordan (R-Ohio) that the conservative group "should be pushing the spear on this thing," and Idaho Republican Raul Labrador, a key member of the faction, tells HuffPost that the Freedom Caucus already has been working on it.

"Within the next few months, I think we're going to see one,” Labrador says of an AUMF, offering that, in his professional opinion, the only reason Congress hasn’t already voted on one is because, "People in Congress have a hard time making hard decisions."

Whether the Freedom Caucus makes an AUMF vote an official position of the group -- and what members are willing to do to get it -- is the real question. Any single lawmaker truly motivated to get an AUMF vote could be a real pain in the ass.

In the Senate, one rogue member’s ability to grind the chamber to a halt is famous. In the House, a single lawmaker has similar gadfly tactics at his or her disposal, including offering motions to adjourn, a motion to vacate the chair, even forcing votes on impeaching the president -- if the member truly does think this war is unconstitutional. And if 40 members were behind the effort to get an AUMF vote, there’s an even fuller array of strategies, such as voting down rules for other bills. Should the Freedom Caucus push for an AUMF though, its members may not have to push too hard -- at least not with House leadership.

[]
One senior GOP aide said that Ryan has expressed support in meetings to make another attempt at an AUMF next year. Ryan's spokeswoman, AshLee Strong, tells HuffPost that, "If the president puts forward a strategy for defeating ISIS he’ll have a ready partner in the speaker."

At a Tuesday morning breakfast hosted by Politico, Ryan said he believes the president has the legal authority for Syria under the 2001 AUMF. "I do also believe it would be a good sign for American foreign policy to have a new one updating our AUMF to declare our mission with respect to ISIS," he said. "I think that would be good for putting America in an offensive posture."

Ryan continued that the question was, "can we write an AUMF the president will sign where he's not going to handcuff the next president, and can we get consensus on how to do that?"

On the Senate side, AUMF prospects are a little more bleak. Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) said last week that he didn't want to pass an AUMF that would constrain the next president, and that Obama clearly feels he already has authority to conduct operations against ISIS. Plus, McConnell's conversations with Democrats make him believe the only sort of AUMF they would support is one of "micromanagement."

Democrats are interested in an AUMF that places certain restrictions on the president. But the question is whether there's a critical mass of Democrats who could live with a broad authorization. Considering the starting point, where the president already apparently has unlimited authority, even another general AUMF updating that authority may find some support.

Last week, Schiff, the top Democrat on the House Intelligence Committee, proposed an AUMF that would repeal the 2001 and 2002 AUMFs and would replace them with an authorization to go after ISIS, al Qaeda and the Taliban for three years. While many Republicans will likely have a problem with an AUMF limited in duration, the broadness of the overall authority could be a signal that Democrats are willing to consider something that even the hawks could get behind. Still, Schiff's AUMF differs from a current bipartisan and bicameral proposal in that it allows Congress to vote on limiting the president's use of combat troops.

Many Republicans in Congress would almost certainly object to Schiff's plan. Even the White House might. But Schiff says his sense is there's a gathering mass of lawmakers interested in doing something.

Last week, after Obama again called on Congress to approve a new authorization, White House press secretary Josh Earnest fielded a question on whether the Obama administration would be working with Congress to produce a new AUMF. Earnest ducked that question, noting that the president had already sent Congress an AUMF and had dispatched his national security team to Capitol Hill to discuss why the legislation was important.

"In the face of all of that, Congress has done absolutely nothing other than criticize," Earnest said.

That's true, more or less. Plenty of Democrats -- even some Republicans -- were happy to call out the hypocrisy of Congress bashing Obama for executive overreach and then completely deferring to him on an ISIS policy. But the White House hasn't exactly pushed the AUMF issue as hard as it could. It's difficult, after all, to make the case that Congress is abdicating its responsibility when you're also arguing that you don't actually need a new AUMF.

"They're trying to have it both ways right now,” says Rep. Thomas Massie (R-Ky.) “I think they know the AUMFs that they're ostensibly operating under do not authorize what they're doing.”

The draft the White House sent to Congress in February wouldn't have repealed the 2001 authorization, though the president said he was open to ultimately doing just that. But whatever restrictions Congress places on a new AUMF, if it doesn't take away the 2001 authority to apparently combat any terrorist threat in the name of 9/11, it's not playing for keeps.

Of course, repealing the old AUMFs could be separate from agreeing to a new authorization. It’s just that Democrats see the AUMF conversation as the natural home for a discussion on repealing the old ones. So, with Democrats demanding a host of restrictions on the president's war authority in addition to a repeal of the current AUMFs, and with Republicans, by and large, insisting on no constraints whatsoever, what could actually pass?

Again, there are plenty of difficulties. Many members are too scared. Many others are unwilling to compromise. And the impetus for a new AUMF doesn't exist, not when the administration says it has all the authority it needs.

But things can change quickly in Congress. Another terrorist attack could completely flip the political reality. A new AUMF from the president could reignite the conversation, too. Even a stirring, let's-go-kick-some-ISIS-ass-I-SAID-LET'S-GO-KICK-SOME-ISIS-ASS speech from Paul Ryan might do the trick.

Until something changes, however, until the politics of a war vote improves or politicians stop caring about politics, the question isn’t why won’t Congress vote on an AUMF. It’s why would they?

_Jennifer Bendery contributed reporting._

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question: What does the text say about cowardice?

answer: The text refers to cowardice in relationship to the refusal or failure of the U.S. Congress to vote on a new Authorization for Use of Military Force (AUMF). The text implies that politicians find the move too politically risky and don't seem to want the weight of that on their political shoulders.

question: What does the text say about the House Freedom Caucus?

answer: The House Freedom Caucus is a group in the U.S. House of Representatives that is pushing for a vote on a new Authorization for the Use of Military Force (AUMF). One HFC member, Justin Amash, thinks it's been difficult to get a vote on a AUMF because it would draw attention away from the president and onto Congress's issues. The HFC seems to be preparing to formally push for the debate and vote on the AUMF.

question: What does the text say about Obama's total number of military-related executive orders?